The long awaited rains

It begins with a sudden drop in temperature.  Oh the relief as the prickly heat and unsightly bumps begin to abate.  The harmattan picks up with a howl, testing the builders’ skills, banging doors and creaking joists. Then the light show.  Dry lightning, illuminates the skies in a myriad of colours from white through yellow and pink to a subtle mauve, making night disappear like an enhanced daylight photograph.  Next the crashing thunder, crackling irregular drum rolls resonate through the sky, assaulting our senses. Finally the rain crashes on the corrugated roof like a waterfall from heaven. 

Equidistant, deep divots form beneath the metal undulations as though the gardener is getting ready for bulb planting. Rivulets become streams as the onslaught continues.  The hot earth, baked dry by month upon month of sun, releases its warmth as it absorbs the moisture until it can absorb no more.  Puddles form, children dance, animals are washed and the world looses its yellowing, aging dust to reveal a beautiful assortment of freshly painted greens.  Shoots appear where no self-respecting plant could be expected to set down a root and the landscape changes over night.

It’s a magical time to be in The Gambia

Ten things that make me smile

1.    Children’s imagination.  This is not the land of Tomy or Fisher Price.  Instead we have the pull-along (an old gerry can, complete with cut section for storage, and rope from left over fabric from the tailors), the rocking horse (a springy tree branch), the music centre (any form of anything), hoola hoop (old bike tyre), climbing frame (metal structure to the water tower), slide (sloping drainage ditch with added water), swimming pool and diving board (jetty into river) added to space and relaxed parents.

2.    Transport.  This ranges from the luxury air conditioned 4 x 4 through the car and gelli to donkey and cart but my favourite has been an old woman towed in a wheel barrow attached to the back of a motor bike.

3.    Starlings.  Beautiful metallic purple blue wings glisten in the sun.

4.    Greetings.  There’s nothing quite like the welcome we receive in the schools that know us.  Shouts and squeals of delight from the children and warm handshakes from the adults.  Smiles all round.

5.    Food.  The delight of discovering something new in the market.  Yesterday Pete found carrots.  We held them, smelt them and mused over recipies before eventually making carrot and lentil Bolognese.  They were fantastic.

6.    Contact from home.  In all its’ forms is just amazing.  Emails are copied and pasted to read and digest later, letters re read and re read, comments on the blog or flickr noted and phone calls to our mobiles change the mood of the day.

7.    Lizards.  Amazing colours and patterns we know them so well they are getting personalities of their own.  The ‘jumpers’ in the pit latrine, so called because they startle as they bang their tails against the roof.  Then there’s the little fellow who lives under our fridge, occasionally popping out to grab an insect, the two behind the cupboard that copulate freely and noisily and of course there is ‘stubby’ who frequents the local bar, yellow headed, purple body and a stump where his yellow tail should be.

8.    Motorbike.  No I’m not a convert but it is great getting off.

9.    Animals.  Chickens, chicks, ducks, ducklings, sheep, lambs, goats, kids, donkeys, horses, foals, are all a daily part of life.  Free to wander wherever they get up to amazing tricks, look sweet or just generally make me laugh.  What’s a baby baboon called?

10.  Pete.  At the risk of being sloppy he is just amazing.

A Happy Hawa

So whilst Baks was up to his usual tricks I was bone juddering my way 55km along the dirt track to Kudang.  An hour and forty minutes later I arrived, not looking my most beautiful, at the Upper Basic School for a workshop.  Breakfast first, some sand covered dough with mashed sardines swallowed down (by some) with the strangest tea ever tasted.  Oh how my Dad would groan.  No tea pot and boiling water here.  Oh no.  Served in a plastic bucket the tepid ready over sugared liquid is transferred by dipped cups.

For the next few hours I found myself teaching twenty teachers how to sing Tommy Thumb, Here We go Round the Mango tree and how to tell children a story without using books.  I love the way all tunes and songs get ‘Africanized’ here, rhythms change for, of course, the beating drums pervade all. 

Workshop finished for the day, teachers waved off with their smiles and travelling money I walk to the village Lumo.  A bit like a farmers market most big villages have a lumo each week.  Palm leaves cover the makeshift shelters, so low that I stoop to peer at the small piles of onions, chillies and sorrel leaves which is all there is on offer this time of year.  Small children follow me, badgering me to buy an ice, a small plastic bag of frozen coloured water at D2.  I do.  It’s cold and wet and yummy. 

Behind the food are the stalls packed with multi-patterned fabrics in a myriad of hues and shades, cheap crazy coloured beads, scrubbing brushes, washers, talcum powder, children’s toys, oversized shoes, indeed everything you may or may not want (except chocolate and cheese and and and) all pervaded with the smell of slightly rotting smoked fish and plastic bags.

I negotiated material buying for a hand sewn skirt, my next project to distract me from the World Cup, and full of pride, ice and good humour trek my way back to my trusted steed for the bone juddering return home.

A good day for Hawa.

A good day for Baks

It all started as normal with a short journey to the office for an early morning chat and a cigarette. This is a familiar routine and not unlike home. Then, via one or two short stops at other schools, I arrive at my destination school some 15 km away. A joyous ride in the cool 30 degrees of the morning, the rains have dampened down the dirt roads so I no longer arrive orange. A big troop of baboons cross my path about half way – we eye each other cautiously as they scamper away to fade magically into the bush. The birds, with colours even I can see, whirl overhead and all is well, it's a good start.

I arrive at the school, customary warm welcome, hand shakes from those nearby and the double clasped hand gesture that is used to welcome you from a distance- its nice to wanted. Pre-arranged I venture into a Year 1 class to observe the lesson. Its simple enough, make a table of food likes and dislikes. Some pupils have books, some have pencils or stubs that once were pencils, some have both. I sit next to boy who was at a table on his own. I speak to him, no reply. I try again to be informed by the teacher that he cannot/does not speak. I help him with the work whilst circulating and helping others – all smiles and gratitude. The mute boy finishes his work and is very, very proud, I know, I could see it in his eyes. My eyes were close to filling with tears. Sentimental I know but there it is. Good day continues. Children are breaking now for breakfast and I ask the Head Teacher if I can buy a roll. He says “I will go for you.” He gets on push-bike to cycle a round 4 km to bring me back some food – no question of payment, Then he disappears to return with some tea to wash down my breakfast.

 

After this I spend time in the nursery casually interacting with the children, I get paid for this! Eventually time to leave for home, ride home via the new bridge so no waiting for the ferry in the hot sun. Drink a bottle of near ice cold squash and look forward to dinner. A good day for Baks.

A Tribute to Ed McBain!

It was hot, It was hot and humid, It was hot and humid and our clothes stuck to us like opposite poles of some climatic magnet. The air was heavy with moisture. Moisture you could touch and feel and see. It was hot. It was hot and humid and the creatures were preparing.

Dusk – still no hint of the explosion that was about to hit us.

Then around the naked light bulb, a poor man-made substitute for the burning sun, life, circling, busy, frantic life. And as each second passed more life. Someone had handed out invitations to the ugly bug ball and it was to be in our room. They all came. They all came,invited or gate-crashers the insects of the night flew and crawled

their way into our midst.

There followed carnage – death on a mass scale as all weapons were

brought to bear on the enemy. Aerosols of insecticide. Aerosols and

swats. Aerosols and swats and shoes. All lined up against the 6 legged

foe and for a time the result was in the balance. Then slowly the tide

turned in favour of humanity. Chemicals and brute force won through.

The occasional straggler arrived to meet a late doom. Serenity

returned. It was still hot. It was raining now, raining hard. A sky

made purple and pink by lightening flashes. The silence broken by

rolling thunder. It was to be a long storm. Coming from the east it

swept across the island over several hours.

It's morning now. Just corpses as a reminder of the battle. Just one

battle. The war may last 3 months. It is getting hot again. Hot and

humid......

OK – I know its a poor pastiche and if you haven't read Ed Mcbain

completely meaningless, however it just seemed appropriate so I hope

you enjoy reading it. Please post comments on the Blog if you get a

chance, we love to read them.

June 8th 2010 – Jajjangbureh, Central River Region, The Gambia,

West Africa.

The African Queen

“Oh yes please” we replied to an invitation from the Peace Corps.  A free dinner!  A double whammy as our gas bottle had, despite our miserliness, had spluttered it’s final gasp.  And so it was that we showered (?), put on the least smelly clothes in our possession and set off to cross the river to JJB camp.  It felt almost like being a tourist, phoning for the boat to come and collect us, anticipation of good food skitted round my tummy, a bit of civilisation, what delights would be in store?

Too hot to move fast we ambled to the landing stage in time to see checked shirted, hefty man gesticulate that he would be back and to wait.  Down the sandy track, bespattered with puddles, littered with assortments of fabric left by the bathers, to undertake a favourite Gambian pastime - waiting. The pathway was alive, multisized, multishaped and multicoloured insects weaved their way through the leaves, up walls, across feet and down tree trunks.  We mused at the jetty, a series of rotten planks that would no way hold our weight and yet used by diving boards by the local youths running and dive bombing each other, looking around to check our admiration before each move.

Ishmael returned, sporting bags of shopping and many apologies for the delay.  Avoiding the wooden suicide, we stone jumped, as deft and agile as lily pad hopping frogs, onto the boat, wobbling precariously with uneven weight.  A Heath Robinson contraption of wire and rope and we lurched into action.  Strange.  I could see our destination, prettily candle lit tables and chairs.  I could hear the low rumble of chatter and laughter.  I could smell onions cooking.  So where were we off to? 

My thoughts were soon to be answered as we approached a galleon in the middle of the river.  Understanding nothing of the bellows from craft to craft, thoughts of piracy or drug smuggling flitted through my mind.  We bobbed along side, rust coloured hands hauled on the steel rope to drag an anchor and, before we knew, our two boats were joined by wire, surely inevitable disaster pending.

Superglued together, we dosy doed back and fore, slowly moving beachward.  The prow glided over, heads ducked, we bumped and bashed and manoeuvred the African Queen, engines revving and bemoaning their fate till we were near enough for ropes to be thrown to land.  

The meal and company were excellent and the journey back stunning, pitch black star twinkling African skies.  There is nothing quite like it.

dedication

I skidded and slithered along the sandy track like a pro, amidst cries of ‘welcome welcome’ from a crawling line of children.  Shown the way by willing pointing fingers I eventually slowed to the wide, tooth rotting grin from the headmaster who’d asked for help last week.  Chief cook and bottle washer of the immaculately kept piece ground, he is in his second year of training.  It was exactly the senario I imagined all those months ago when I first heard we were coming to Africa.  Built in the bush the school has a two buildings, one unusable because of the biting insects that inhabit the plaster, the second a large concrete rectangle with sparse wooden benches and little else. 

There is, of course, no electricity but the ‘playground’ boasts a well and a thriving community garden tended by the women.  Both the tended beds and the school are free of charge for there is no money in the village.  Sargio, the kindly and enthusiastic head is passionate about education and the importance of nursery.  ‘It’s the foundation, Hawa, and the children leave here ready to learn.’  His excitement is infectious and the children respond to songs and learning – the best I’ve seen so far.  They even understand.

I arrived at breakfast time, when the children go home for food, for there are no facilities to feed them.   As they returned they took turns to shake my hand and tell me their names, speaking in clear English. Many shoeless and generally on the grubby side they were delightful.  We wrote in the sand, counted stones, drew pictures with mud and then into class.  I was mobbed by children wanting to sit next to me, one little dot, dressed in a pink party dress in my honour, sat on my lap whilst I sat, amazed.  Fifty children, aged between 2 and 7, learning colours and shapes, demonstrated with home made ‘teaching aids from local materials’ ie. recycled cardboard boxes and bags.  So okay there were a few crawling on the ground, and some were so taken with my skin they lost all concentration but wow, this man is gifted and truly cares and teaches the children against all the odds.

In The Gambia the government does not fund pre-school.  If parents don’t pay the teachers get nothing, hence the big class.  Sargio is supported by his family and has found Swiss sponsers to fund his course, which he attends in the holidays, but earns nothing.  He is certain the only way forward for his community is through education.  If he’s ill there is no school, but he proudly told me that he hasn’t had a day off in three years except one – the day he came and asked me for help.  Will I try to help?  You bet your bottom Dalasi.