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.

attaya making

Those of you who know Peter well will be aware of his love of gadgets.  In the absence of western technology his latest fad is making attaya, the Gambian green tea, otherwise known as gunpowder.  An elaborate process, perfected by intricate slight of hand it requires both the correct equipment and hand eye co-ordination.  The equipment is no problem.  Entrusted to Mulais’ capable hands they set off, on the motorbike, to the welding shop, an area in the back streets, where 6 or 7 youngsters hang out making an array of metal objects.  The order for the fire burner duly made, they then purchased a small metal teapot, 10 packets of gunpowder (one for each pot of tea), sugar, mint and shot glasses.

The fun bit begins.  First empty gunpowder leaves into the pot (which nearly fill it) and add 3 shot glasses of water.  Place on charcoal to boil.  Rip the attaya box into a piece appropriate for lifting the metal pot by the handle and then remove pot from heat to add lots and lots of sugar.  Replace on heat to dissolve.   This is Bakary writing now – the Atiyah expert. So I pour the tea from a great height, at least 6 inches into one of the shot glasses, then from shot glass to shot glass from the greatest height you dare, some goes into the glass, most misses, this amuses our host family no end. After 20 mins of this I have approx a thimbleful of tea to offer people – well worth the wait, it was delicious, so people said. I hope to be continuing this custom on my return – I know you can all hardly wait.

A change is as good as a rest

A strange array of fifteen men and women aged 24 to 65 sat around the table in the hotel lean to which, balanced on four distressingly rotting wooden pillars, waved to and fro in the wind over the sea crashing mercilessly against the rocks.  This was the venue of our VSO education workshop last week, an event in which volunteers from the Gambia meet, debate, thrash about ideas and eat delicious food.  Those ‘up country’ members can be easily spotted with refilled plated, mutterings of “mmmmmm butter” and visibly expanding waistlines. There’s no generalities to be made of our group, everyone individual with differing experiences, class, backgrounds, countries, coloured skin and reasons for being here indeed a veritable mishmash.

 A wicked break it felt like a holiday meeting our friends, drinking beer, eating cheesy meat pasties and shopping.  The biggest plus though did relate to work.  Having felt that we had achieved nothing the past two months we were asked to list what we had done.  We were mightily surprised by the length of ours and left the meeting feeling buoyed up and positive.

The journey home was another epic.  8 hours to travel 150 miles.  First catch the tin can taxi that chugged to the ferry port to discover only one was working.  An hours wait amid crowds of potential travellers, vendors touting their wares ranging from copy Barbie dolls through black hat thingies to homemade cakes.  Phil and I moved with the morass of humanity unable to stop or breathe whereas Pete’s was a slow take off.  We watched him crawl, rucksack like a snails shell, amid the final crush.  Standing room only as we swayed back and fore.  Disembarkation was more leisurely and a stumble through market stalls to find a ‘sept place’, supposedly the most comfortable transport.  Hmph. A beaten up non MOT’ed vehicle we were unlucky enough to be allocated the back seats.  It was friendly, knees and thighs touching, bums clenched we jolted from military stop to police check.  The final lap onto the ferry across to the island where we were welcomed back with cheerful shouts, cries of delight, hugs and handshakes.  It felt like home.

There has been much to laugh about.  How about the notice board in the heads office with Duty Roaster, or the Grade 9 exam paper,  Science is the study of a) roads and highways  b) weaving and texture or c)  animals and pants,  or the lesson plan, ‘activities for hard on experience.’  Just to highlight the Gambian experience read the book entitled Promoting English Language Teaching.  The introduction goes thus:  Continuing Professional development has helped many a professional to drag carts of professional obstacles along the multicoloured pathways of professional endeavours.

Now you know why my blogs are so weird.

NB.  Emails, letters and comments on the blog and flickr keeps our spirits high so please keep sending them however short.

CCM

The low moaning eventually penetrated the cacophony of chatter and gabble to stir attention to the cow in the midst of the education offices.  A strange sight to see, a cloven beast, cajoled to move through the carefully cleaned and tended sand eventually to be tethered by a tree.  “Domo” murmured the ever-helpful Caddy.  “Hmmm” say I knowingly, Mandinka eluding me yet again.

Next a machete wielding and corrugated iron carrying gentleman wanders past.  I turned to see the sharpened blade flying through the air and massive slabs of meat being thrown across the yard.  I chose not to look too carefully as dinner was bubbling in the three legged cauldrons over open fires, but delicious smells, the flock of vultures and the lone horn left abandoned told the story.

The region is in the midst of inspection. Wherever I am, in whatever part of the world, I cannot get away from the damned things. 125 big wigs have descended on the island wanting sustenance and shelter for 4 days. The office of no work has suddenly pulled out all the stops and constructed a dining hall and cafeteria in two weeks.  I jest not, from digging the foundations to laying the tablecloths in a mere few days. Job demarcation abandoned, senior education officers carry chairs, wash dishes, principal officers cut up lists of who will sleep where and post them on doors.  Food is stacked to the gunnels in the director’s office, onions, tinned chicken spam (???), tea, sugar and fizzy drinks.  The place is a hive of industry.

Our job?  Besides cleaning chairs, pasting banners and typing lists we are to take the minutes of the meeting and type the final report.

The inspection takes on an almost European flavour with meetings and discussions starting on time and running to an agenda.  Then the day of school visits, those poor embassies of education chosen by ballot, team leaders pulling names from a hat amid laughter and good humour for those who have far to travel.

And then there’s the firing squad.  Head teachers dragged in to answer for their misdoings in front of the entire committee, strapping Gambians turn to shrivelling wrecks as the Minister and Permanent Secretary blast questions at them and threaten to dock pay.  It has been known for tears to ensue.  And then after…….they are clapped on the back with “how are you brother?  How’s the family?”  Sometimes this country is beyond my comprehension.

It surprises me, and doubtless you, to know that I am a Very Important Person, indeed a veritable V.I.P.  Not only do I receive gold embossed thick velum envelopes with heavily crested invitations to The British High Commission parties but today I was greeted, by name (Hawa Darboe) by The Minister of Education.  How cool is that?

Bakary is back

 Bakary's back! So there will be no need for the dictionary – do you all know the words Liz uses?

"Until Philosophers are kings, or kings have the spirit of Philosophy, cities will never have rest from their troubles." 

Plato was very clever eh? I think this still holds true. The Gambia talks and strives mightily to “develop” but until the developed world takes a philosophical rather than a self-interested view then I fear the struggle has little chance of success. And how would that success be measured? Greater GDP, better roads, improved health system, a child centred education system. Many of these are unarguably desirable but still be careful what you wish for. Is anybody guaranteeing an increase in “happiness”? I think not.

For those still reading this I will move on to the bits we know you all like best – namely our misfortunes, adventures, escapades, call them what you will its those things that bring out the “schaudenfreude” in you. I probably spelt this wrong but I know my audience are an intelligent bunch. What would you like to read about first? I know, my impression of Usain Bolt! Invited to inspect a school library, an empty, filthy room, as the door is opened out come the rats – they run one way, I run the other. Much amusement amongst the locals of course – oh well I brightened their day, might be the biggest achievement this week.

Death on the Gambia or Death by sun stroke

I think the above are the sort of choices Hobson had in mind. On the wrong side of the river at 2pm the ferry decides to stop on the other side claiming the water level was too low. “It will just be a couple of hours”, I am told. Just a couple of hours in the blazing sun, no shade, water gone and exhaustion setting in. Then a chap points to a boat just like the ones you hire at Roath Park only with a tiny outboard. “You want to cross?” “Yes but I have my motorbike” “No problem boss.” The bike is manhandled into the boat, the front  wheel projecting forward over the bow. In I get with more people than can possibly fit and the obligatory goat. The river is now lapping at the sides of the boat which is alarmingly low in the water and we set off. Its only a 3 minute journey but you know how time flies when you're having fun – the opposite is true too! Still I survived and seems so far to be my motto “I survived.”

Funniest sight this week: Liz saw a cow (alive) on a roof rack of a gelli gelli, how you get it on or off I have no idea.