Election Day

Thursday 24^th November was Election Day in Gambia. This meant a day off work with another to follow on the Friday, giving every Gambian adult the chance to travel back to their home town to cast their vote. Unfortunately it also meant no electricity throughout polling day. This conserved supplies so that ­­­sufficient was available through the  night for everyone to watch the results on TV.

Ellie decided, despite the holiday, she would still go into the library of a nearby school to continue sorting the stock but for Lucy and me, the day gave us the time to begin cleaning and packing up her house. Lucy has come to the end of her two year placement here and so there was much to do. Amongst other things we had to move the heavy furniture to make sure that the entire floor was scrubbed clean. Our only shock was a very decayed flat mouse! I scraped him up and dropped him in a rubbish bag. Lucy sorted the many materials she has been using to train teachers: pens, pencils, books etc. She will donate these to some of her schools. She also has a head teacher in mind for the parachute I brought out with me. His teacher in Early Years (called ECDs: Early Child Development) has become a very skilled practioner, despite the lack of resources and the children love playing with it.

Much of Lucy’s household equipment she began to give to her neighbours: VSO and Gambian. But knowing what to do with rubbish is quite a problem for us. There are no dustbin men here. Lucy put the unwanted things outside her door as in this way things just “disappear.”  There may be no refuse collection but there is efficient recycling!

While we were cleaning, Mr Fatti, our neighbour called in on us, on his way back from the polling station. He showed us the nail of the little finger on his left hand. It had been completely coloured with black indelible pen by officials to show he had voted. Mr Fatti explained that with such a high degree of illiteracy here, everyone casts their vote by marble. Each voter is given one before going alone into a room with three election boxes in the corner. The boxes bear the party colours and a photo of the leader. In this case, blue for Hamat Bah, yellow for Ousainou Darboe and green for President Yahya Jammeh. Votes are cast by dropping the marble down a narrow chute into the relevant sealed box. This rings a bell which signals the end of the process.

Lucy and I were interested in all that Mr Fatti told us. Meanwhile he was interested in the items outside Lucy’s door. He offered to give a good home to some and also to take the paper rubbish for her and burn it (and thus cremate the mouse!)

Later we went to another neighbour’s house to watch TV and see the results as they came in. It all looked rather familiar with four analysts on the couch with another standing; talking excitedly through a range of graphs that kept appearing on the computer screen behind him. By the time we went to bed it was clear that, as expected, the president would be the clear winner. In fact, when all the counting was done, his party received more than double the votes given to the other two put together.

President Jammeh explained in an interview that his country wanted “Peace and stability” above everything. Talking it all over with friends at work and in the neighbourhood I believe he is right. Almost no-one would jeopardise the peace.

The President’s Coming.

It’s Friday 18^th November and it has been another very busy week. The main focus has been a four day workshop with the national work force of Cluster Monitors, meeting together in our office hall and staying in the hostel we have here. Cluster Monitors act as permanent inspectors/ advisors to groups of about twelve schools.

Their meeting may well have been the subject of this blog but this has been superseded by presidential news.

The President, His Excellency Sheik Professor Doctor Colonel (rtd) Jammeh, has led The Gambia since 1994 and tours his country annually in June but another similar excursion had been arranged for the week just ending, as next week brings the national election.

Immediately the Cluster Monitors left us in the early afternoon of yesterday, their chairs were piled onto the back of a truck and taken off to a school in Soma. It was here last night that a political rally was held with the President himself taking part. Even though our compound (estate) lies on the outskirts of the town, the highly effective speaker system enabled us to feel as though we were there too. All through the evening and well into the night, we could hear speeches, music and the jubilation of the huge crowd.

 Afterwards the President and some of his staff stayed in the governor’s house in Mansa Konko, just a short walk from our office.  The main retinue of staff were hosted in a variety of locations elsewhere.

This explained the situation I found at work this morning. Several dozen people, dressed in green (the president’s party colour) were gathered around on the dry ground outside my office obviously preparing for the day. Some were chatting, others were brushing their teeth or hair (personal or attached Brazilian swathe) and a few were tending washing on a line put up between two conveniently spaced trees, just inside the main entrance. A large green bus was parked at the top of the drive with its bonnet open, receiving the attention of two men with oil cans. Sona, the secretary assisted by a friend, was cooking eggs, onions and meat patties to ensure that everyone started the day, well fed. After taking a few photos, I wandered into the main hall to look for Mamadi but instead found some late risers folding their sleeping mats. Not one was fazed when I walked in. Indeed the welcome was as though I had entered the house of old friends. Suddenly this relaxed atmosphere came to an abrupt end.

It was time to leave!

Washing was folded, bags were packed, farewells exchanged and within minutes the bus was full and reversing out of the drive. A late passenger appeared from the back of the building and ran out after it; his short legs indicating his panic. The driver halted the bus across the drive entrance and the man boarded. There was a brief moment’s tranquillity before commotion erupted.  People began pointing out of the window and shouting up and down the bus in Mandinka. The poor man who had only just got on the bus, had to get off again. He had forgotten the chicken!

When he reappeared for the second time the man was taking his time; a cardboard box tucked securely under his arm moved now and again due to the live feathered cargo, it contained.

At last they really were off.

So too were the Regional Director and Assistant Director, travelling in the director’s car, driven by his chauffer, Omar. Perhaps they were going to join the President at another rally or meeting later in the day. This left the rest of the office staff to wait by the main gates to see the Presidential entourage pass by sometime later. No one knew exactly when.

During the next few hours while we sat, Sohna provided us with breakfast and wonja juice as the sun rose high in the sky, taking the temperature with it. Bunya, the caretaker, brought us each a bag of ice which quickly melted, providing a welcome drink. We laughed and chatted, swapping places and seats but always trying to stay in the shade, necessary at noon even in mid November. Every now and again a teacher would arrive with a pupil, ready for tomorrow’s Hygiene workshop. They were welcomed and guided to their room by Ustas (an Islamic religious title, the Koranic equivalent of reverend) or Mamadi. But the main focus of our attentions throughout our wait was Maryama, office cleaner and assistant cook

Maryama is quite a character and staunch supporter of the President’s party. She was dressed in a traditional Gambian skirt and top made from bright green fabric, printed with the President’s picture and a slogan which declared that, as a patriotic African, she would die for him. However she felt that this was still insufficient. The outfit needed more green. And so she crossed the road to a beautiful tree to break off metre long leafy branches. With Sohna’s help she tied the branches around her waist with a length of fabric, attaching two more to the headscarf wound around her head so that they hung down like floppy verdant ears.

As pupils along the road practised their chants of welcome and a group of women rehearsed their drumming, Maryama danced in the dusty soil. Now and again she chased off fascinated little boys who were even more startled by her speed of movement than by her appearance. We laughed and I remembered another assistant cook “of character” from the past.

From time to time, the air seemed to herald the President’s passing and everyone would rush to the road side with Maryama rustling and bustling  alongside them. But no, the time was not yet! Several times this happened and I began to wonder if the entourage had taken another route.

Occasionally a truck laden with soldiers, wearing white cotton dust masks or a smart police bike would pass but these too were false dawns. And then around one o’clock we heard sirens and unmistakably it was the President’s cavalcade. Vehicle after vehicle sped by and in the middle was a black stretched Limousine. From somewhere came a whole delivery box filled with packets of sweet biscuits. The box landed open on the ground by Mr Choi’s feet and the packets spilled out. Everyone rushed for a portion of the bounty and I was surprised to see that Bunya, so slightly built, was soon cradling three! A small boy of around seven who had joined us earlier, also held one with glee, but it was quickly snatched from him. In fact all the packets were put back in the box to be fully accounted for. Once done by Maryama, the official sharing out could begin. Packets were distributed exclusively to office staff, so the little boy could only watch, sad and unseen.  Well not quite! Just as Lucy was given her packet, she spotted him and I saw her walk over.

The little boy went home happy.

I think President Jammeh will be returning to Kaneli, his home village equally content, this evening.

                 

Tabaski

On the eve of Tabaski I joined Sohna and her younger daughter, Amie, on a trip to the market. We set off from their home, which lies just behind mine and next to the Mosque, just after 11 in the morning and walked along the long sandy road that leads down to the NAWEC junction in Soma. The Market itself lies on the other side of the main street and because of an extraordinarily high volume and speed of the traffic we had to take great care crossing.  However this was as nothing compared to the bustle in the market. The pathways between the stalls are narrow: wide enough for only two lines of people to pass. With so many shoppers eager to buy their last few provisions for the Tabaski feast all movement came to a standstill at every corner and around the more popular biticos or stalls. Sohna, like every woman in her home town anywhere in the world, knew exactly where to get each of the things she needed. Mostly we bought vegetables and fruit. Amie positioned her mother’s basket on her head and despite her delicate frame, happily kept up the pace for the walk back.

On the way we called in on Sohna’s sister, Gas, who works in the local beauty salon. I watched a woman having her hair done by the shop owner, Maryama. The middle aged customer had already had her nails painted elaborately and had false eyelashes attached. She sat on the floor as Maryama wrestled to comb back and fix down her hair in readiness for an additional swathe of Brazilian hair. This is very popular here in Gambia. Hair pieces or full wigs are a usual part of the daily dress and add a very glamorous touch to their appearance.

After a while Sohna, Amie and I completed our journey home. We arrived to find that Sohna’s husband’s young apprentices had thoroughly washed the tethered Tabaski ram who stood gleaming white in one corner of the front garden. As we sat drinking cold water in the lounge, we suddenly realised it was Amie’s eighth birthday. In all the excitement of Tabaski this had nearly passed by un-noticed. It made me think of Chris back home who always values the marking of her Christmas day birthday each year.

The next day was Tabaski itself, Monday 7^th November and I arrived just after 10 a.m. with my vegetable knife in my bag as requested. The ram still stood where I’d last seen him the day before but Sohna was out, paying a brief call on a neighbour while husband, Ousman was at prayer in the Mosque. Gas, was still practicing her hairdressing skills, this time on a friend while Amie and older sister Isatu watched. It was obvious that Amie had been the morning’s first customer as my little shopping partner from the day before had been transformed into a tiny fashion mannequin.

A matter of minutes only passed before both Sohna and Ousman returned, followed almost immediately by a Senegalese man with a toddler daughter and a highly specialised skill.

As I sat on the front porch, pealing and slicing potatoes and onions, I became transfixed, watching the main business of the day. First Sohna’s best kitchen knife was sharpened on the stone front step while an axe style implement was used to break up a small area of the red sandy soil about midway along by the front fence. The Omo bright sparkling ram was led over to this spot and turned over onto his side before being untied. His protestations were mild, almost resigned as he was handled firmly but not roughly by three men: the Senegalese, Ousman and his main apprentice. The ram’s front and rear legs were held together in pairs and his neck was stretched as his head was pulled back. The knife was wielded with swift efficiency and soon the blood ran freely into the disturbed soil beneath. After the cut to sever the main artery, the ram’s head was twisted suddenly to stop any unnecessary suffering. His body juddered and twitched but was held secure by Ousman and the apprentice, still holding the legs down. This ancient ritual was then heightened by a touch of 21^st century life. Sohna’s mobile rang. Like all wives when their husbands are busy with a rather messy job around the house, she took the phone over and held it for him, enabling him to have the conversation without leaving the task in hand!

After some time, the ram’s tail was given a number of strong pulls which signalled the end of the first phase of preparing the meat for the meal. The body was taken over to the edge of the porch and tied up by the neck. This was not messy. There was no dripping of blood as there was none left to drip. The Senegalese man, watched patiently by his daughter and her doll, cut down through the ram’s underbelly skin. He rolled it back and cut it free from the membrane that held the internal organs in place. Cut by cut the entire fleece was removed and placed on the ground. This then served as a hygienic surface to place the joints and cuts as they were removed. Some of these were given away to neighbours. The ribs were jointed as they hung. Nothing of the ram was wasted save the completely inedible pieces and there seemed to be remarkably few of those. The apprentices washed out the intestines in the adjacent field to be added to the “good meat” pile. The face was stripped of skin before it too joined the tripe, lungs and heart in this pile.  The liver was large and rich. This was the first of the meat to be cooked, in oil with spice and onions. Sohna explained that as is the Islamic tradition her husband had been fasting since the day before. The liver would be the meat to break this fast. However, Ousman did not eat it alone and the dish of liver, onions and mustard was shared by all and tasted delicious. As I took my portion with the fingers of my right hand, I could not help but think that the animal from which it came had been alive not more than two hours before.

Sohna cooked skilfully with spices and herbs throughout the rest of the day, before and after the main meal which was eaten around 2.30 p.m. She cooks at the back of the main house in a separate room, joined to the main building by a sack-cloth canopy. In the centre of this building she makes a wood fire, around which are positioned small rocks to support the cooking pot. There is no table or work surface, and no sink either. In fact the water is fetched by the women of the house each morning from the compound nearby. Sohna followed an unspoken routine, cooking certain joints and meats in order, some for today and others to be dried for days to come. Eventually she served up the delicious Tabaski meal of spiced ram on a bed of couscous with pieces of carrot, topped by rounds of fried potatoes. Almost every other day of the year here, rice is the staple food but it is tradition for people from the Gambian Wolof tribe not to eat rice on Tabaski. Several meals, identical to ours, were sent round to neighbours in large food bowls, covered with another. These were delivered by Isatu; her glamorously coiffured head piled high with plates.

After clearing away the dishes and sweeping up it was time to sit and chat together. The children put on their best clothes and shoes to clatter and shimmer their way around the locality looking for Salibu. This is a small amount of cash, given as a treat to help them celebrate further with a trip to the local bitic. It reminded me of the November “Penny for the Guy” efforts of my younger brother Geoff, when he was a boy. Just as Isatu and Aime left us looking for Salibu, the neighbours’ children came to us looking for the same thing.

Before I went home for the night, I called on my compound caretaker and his family to spend some time chatting under the mango tree with them. While we sat, their youngest daughter had her hair done by her older sister, put on her new clothes and joined her friends in the hunt for Salibu.

Eventually I went home exhausted but certain that I had found a type of Salibu in the company of very generous friends who allowed me to share in Tabaski, a religious festival and a very special family day.

Before Tabaski

Unusually at 8a.m., the office is completely deserted this morning. It is Friday, 4^th November and the official last working day before Tabaski. The American tradition of Thanksgiving comes to mind. As there, here in The Gambia, the country is criss-crossed by generations of people travelling to get back to their hometown for the family gathering.  Everyone has suddenly uprooted and gone: by push bike, motor cycle, car, gelly or donkey cart. The actual timing of the festival varies across the country. In some areas it will be Sunday, in others Monday and will almost certainly extend beyond just one day. Looking around at the virtual ghost town that Mansa Konko has suddenly become, I would not be surprised if normal life were not regained for at least a full week.

All this apart, I do expect The Senior Education Officer, Musa, and the multi-talented secretary Sohna, to arrive within the hour, perhaps when the power is restored for the day; so I wait under the tree by the driveway. Musa works tirelessly; usually late into the night making good use of the electricity that powers his computer. Sohna, turns her hand to anything: typing, various computer programs, cooking, supplying the office staff daily with her home made soft drink called Wonja which is deliciously rich in vitamin C. Despite its fruity taste it is actually made from red leaves.

Sohna and Musa are fairly untypical of the Gambian education work force, because they live locally with their families. Once qualified, education personnel can be posted anywhere in the country to meet the need. They are billeted in extraordinarily basic digs. Many young women teachers also bring their very young children with them too. But Sohna and Musa live in Soma, in houses of their own choosing.

I am reflecting on a very busy time here at work. The office ran two, two-day workshops, with only one day between, starting last Saturday at 8a.m. This first meeting was for the 60 head teachers in the Lower River Region. As part of the schedule, I gave my first presentation and was relieved to have “broken the ice” (a very inappropriate metaphor for the Gambia!). I have come to the conclusion that Head teachers share the same characteristics, no matter where they come from. They are enthusiastic, passionate, argumentative and exhausted! My main work task here will be with them and on their behalf. So it was a pleasure to get to know each other well by the end of the second workshop.

During another presentation on Saturday, a very large and beautifully marked cricket jumped onto the table in front of me, alongside the speaker, the Assistant Director. As the deep male voice rang out, the cricket stood at the front edge of the table, bobbing up and down, bending its long graceful legs. He seemed to peer at the audience, glancing this way and that and, to all the world,appeared to be giving the address.  Often books from the past come to mind. On this occasion it was “James and the Giant Peach”

I was right, just before 9a.m. and even after such an exhausting fortnight my two colleagues, Sohna and Musa arrive. Time to start work………