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.

nursery

I went to the ECD on JJB, or nursery on the island yesterday.  Having ambled unhurriedly down the dusty track, sweat dripping, the cacophony of noise led the way.  Greeted like a long lost friend by staff, children and caretaker alike, the inevitable white plastic garden chair was procured from the locked resource cupboard.  I surveyed my surroundings.

Behind me the head’s cubbyhole, dark, gloomy and full of tatty handwritten papers and books that are becoming synonymous with all offices.  The inevitable well-thumbed visitors book is placed obviously for all to see and sign.  Woe betides the person who leaves without their signature, the heavens will surely open upon them.  Unmarked front covers of dust patina books lie in an unruly mess with no clues as to what essential documentation might lie therein.  Disorganised chaos abounds.

To my right I hear chanting of children rote learning numbers to ten.  The scruffy urchins of the street have scrubbed up well into smart uniformed beings, hair meticulously and imaginatively braided into sculptures and ornate forms like undersea corals.  The classroom is nearly bare, except for the puzzle balanced precariously.  None of the pieces move – the teacher has stuck them in the correct place.  A few sticks litter the classroom and I try not to use my imagination as to their use, pointers maybe, or a maths aid?  I fear not.  Corporal punishment is discouraged but still occurs.

In front of me are the babies, one having his ‘first day ab dabs’.  My white skin and smile distract him as he snuggles onto my lap and gently squeezes my arm and strokes my hair.  

These children like to dance, mimicking the Gambian way of bottom out and feet stomping, ample derriers are things to show off and be proud of here.

And then there is Basiro, a lad of two and a half, too young to be a pupil but relative of someone in the right place.  See, butter wouldn't melt.

They refer to him as stubborn.  I guess I would call him a tinker who has no guide lines.  He terrorises all in his path, hitting and smacking any passing body part, desperate for attention. Known throughout the town he struts around with no trousers and a protruding belly button, confident in his own being. Bit like Pete at home really!

Getting fuel

The intrepid explorers donned their reinforced jackets, once shiny black helmets now impregnated with sweat, dust and grime and blasted off down the road.  Like McGregor and Borman we zoomed along the kilometers of tarmac road, swerving round potholes, scrawny chicken, sheepy goats, goaty sheep and cheerful, waving rascals.  We were on a mission – to find fuel for our trusty steeds.

Bansang, the nearest place to buy petrol, situated on the South Bank, across the river, is a forty minute ride.  The end of the road came too soon.  We passed through the police check point and turned left onto the roller coaster of bumps, jolts and slides that mark the route.  Vibrating chins, stomachs and thighs, male parts jangling like clackers (so I’m informed), the road undulated unevenly passing rarely seen mounds laughingly called hills.  Occasionally the dust cloud of an approaching gelly gelly appeared, like a steam train on the horizon. The technique of ‘visor down, visor up’ became second nature, with exquisite timing, avoiding facefuls of grime whilst being pressure cooked for minimal time.

Surrounded by scrub, we passed donkey carts laden with varied cargos, urged to keep moving by their stick-wielding masters, small groups of round mud huts, carefully constructed termite mounds, thigh pumping cyclists and people walking, walking, walking.  We paused to allow a troupe of baboons stroll majestically across our path and watched large winged birds of prey and other elegant, unknown species circle and glide, effortlessly above us, wings glistening in the sunlight.  Monkeys chattered and leapt from tree to tree disturbing the lizard and minute life living therein. 

Arriving in town we were greeted by the now common sight of shacks and corrugated iron, of women beside the road, selling their wares, mangoes and onions this time.  Armed with a previous volunteers hand drawn street map we ventured onto the high street.  Stuttering along, avoiding all natural hazards we found our left hand turn.  “Oooooooo” thinks I, “that’s deep sand” and failing to find ‘the courage in my heart’ and accelerate, stopped dead in my tracks and stepped off.  No one did a thing.  Where were all the guardian angels rushing to my help?  An old woman in distress, bike on its side, engine gurgling, and where were they?  The cyclist continued pedaling, the children never faltered in their step.  Luckily my knight in shining armour, well, dust besmirched jeans, returned, manhandled the bike upright and we continued unhurt and undeterred.

Arriving at ‘Riders’, bikes of all sizes, shapes and colours rested like unkempt gravestones as an assemblage of overalled men sat and watched unimpressed.  Introductions all round, the fill man, boss man, boss boss man, security man, chief security man, driver, chief driver.  No rush.  Pull up a chair and chat.  Try to remember the new array of names and faces.  No move to fill our tanks or jerry cans.  More chat.  Main boss man is away so of course they didn’t know we were coming.  Eventually having filled up and signed our lives away we prepared to take our leave. 

Further up the hill and we turned into the hospital to meet up with two VSO physios.  Welcomed as only those with a common experience can be, we were offered tea.  Oh, my heart leapt.  Should have known better, they don’t have milk here either.  Bean hebbe for lunch, delicious French type bread filled generously with mixed fried beans.

The hospital was heaving, people everywhere, corridors and paths full of women breast feeding and waiting, patient and resigned.  I was taken into maternity. A bemused seventeen year old sat on the bed, in front of her, swaddled tight, two perfect doll-like girls born that day, weighing 1.5 and 1.6 kilos.  These babies are unusual I’m told.  It’s rare that twins survive birth.  A joyous day.

food

Well it’s Sunday morning and I think that we must be beginning to get used to the heat, or maybe it’s a false impression for there is a breeze today, a welcome release from the relentless sun.  I hadn’t anticipated longing for the cold and being able to snuggle up under a duvet.

So far I’ve been to the bitiko to buy bread and eggs – there were none - swept the dust and mopped the floor, got the water from the tap in the compound, filled buckets and shower and I still don’t need a sleep.  Amazing.

Another week has passed in a haze of heat and dust.  Little work has been done, although between us Pete and I must have doubled the output of the entire office, making teaching aids, display work and continuing on library cleaning and sorting. We hope for an improvement tomorrow as the schools are open again but this could be a little optimistic.  However the good (?) news is that our motorbike licenses should be through which means that we will be able to leave the island and pass through the many police and military check points.  I’m filled with dread at the prospect of driving on the sand and stones.  The back wheel spins and slides all over the place and gripping with the knees is all there is between me and the ground.  Further more, there is the prospect of getting lost.  There is a lack of signs and the helpful advice given is ‘follow the tracks with the most tyre marks’.  Even those who have lived here for ever can’t find their way so what chance have I?

Several people have asked about a subject very dear to my heart.  Food.  To begin, in 35 – 40 degrees my desire for sustenance has lessened somewhat.  Ice-cold water is a pre-requisite of every hour, sadly not always possible.

Gambians have different eating times.  Breakfast is mid morning and consists, usually, of a rice dish fully flavoured with fishy bone.  Lunch can be any time from half two till five and is a rice dish with wozzly meat.  Supper is in the evening and is a rice dish with either bony dried fish or wozzly meat.  Not a lot of variation on a fairly narrow theme one might feel.

Foodbowl is an interesting concept.  Served in a large stainless steel bowl, it is a communal affair.  Groups of up to eight people, divided into male and female if the numbers are big enough, hunker down around the bowl.  Using only the right hand everyone eats from the section in front, sharing choice bits by throwing them to someone else.  As soon as one has finished eating it’s important to move wordlessly away – it’s considered rude to watch others. 

The Gambians are generous folk and share what little they have.  Pete and I have taken the cowards way out and are vegetarian again.  Fish bone and rice was more than I could stomach and it makes an easy excuse without causing offence, even if they don’t understand these weird ‘toubabs’. 

Shopping in the market is an experience, a friendly and time- consuming one.  It assaults the nose with smells of fish, meat and peanuts.  Vegetables are seasonal and in very short supply.  Aubergine and tomato time.  We must have thought of every way of cooking them that involves one hob and not using much gas. 

We wanted difference and challenge - here it is.