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. 

Mandinka again

Pete and I had been sitting in the office with little to do.  We decided to improve our Mandinka so, using the Peace Corps handbook, we began.

I quote…………

“two little dickie birds – Tom, Dick and Harry”

“The two little birds.

Two little birds flew over,

My hand is at the anus of the one,

The other’s anus is at my hand”

“one, two

buckle my shoe.

three, four

knock at the door.

five six

pick up sticks.

seven eight

lay them straight.

nine ten

a big fat cock.”

“My uncle went in.

My uncle went in through an opening,

He grip the testicles of a male goat.

The goat went in.

The goat went in through an opening,

My uncle grip its testicles.”

I laughed till I cried and my Mandinka shows no improvement.

Phew! What a scorcher

It is my turn to write a blog so don't be expecting any of that flowery, sensitive, carefully observed prose that flows from Liz's keyboard. This will more like The Sun, not The Guardian.





THE SOUTH BANK FERRY:

Imagine a landing craft from any D Day war film you have seen, take away the engine and replace with a wire that you pull yourself across with. OK so far? Replace troops with goats, chickens, people, bikes and one or two cars and you pretty much have the picture. Oh, and by the way, the ferry also keels over at an alarming angle but as its being replaced by a bridge nobody has any intention of fixing it. On the plus side while you wait to board said landing craft you can buy 6 small bananas for 25p and watch the prisoners from the local prison toiling in the paddy fields, which, unkindly makes me feel better because it seems to make my lot seem better. How mean.






LODGES

Everybody is building a lodge (small hotels with huts/rooms). For reasons I cannot begin to fathom they seem to be convinced that they are about to swamped by tourists. Now unless you count Liz and I as Ancient Monuments the sights of JJB can be taken in in less than a day. There are already 4 or 5 lodges struggling to make ends meet (a bit like an arthritic snake) but that doesn't seem to deter them from building as many again. Its doomed from the off I fear but I don't have the heart to tell them.

THE CIGGIE AND EGG SHOP

The shop in our compound doesn't sell ciggies you can smoke or eggs. We have to walk 50 yards to the next shop where as we approach the man is already reaching for the Marlborough Red and the eggs. I wonder what he thinks of people whom seem to survive on an omlette and a puff.






Happy Days – I think.

Women in The Gambia

So I’m sitting in our wee living room in front of the fan, which is whizzing like Billy Ho, however he may whizz, reviewing the Easter weekend.  We’ve had friends to stay, Kate and Lucy.  Phil lives nearby on the island and he’s been here too.  It’s been great being able to talk freely, without worrying about greetings, language or political correctness.  We’ve laughed a lot. They are part of our little Gambian family.  It’s strange to think that we are so close, whereas, in Britain, we probably wouldn’t have spoken a word to each other.  Common experiences eh! 

Work is very slow for a variety of reasons and, not being the most patient of people, we want to get on with it.  Easter holidays now so schools are closed and the main people are out of the office for the week too.  We’re hoping that on their return we can have a review and really get things sorted – after all we’ve been here two months already, a sixth of our stay. 

Mulai our muscle packed, skinny landlord is brilliant.  He allows us to let off steam and then smiles sagely and says, “This is The Gambia” and then bustles around to introduce us to the right people and gets things going in whatever way he can. He’s embarrassed to be male for he reckons that it’s the women who do all the work while the men sit under the trees drinking attaya.  Apparently women account for 70 per cent of the economy on the island.

He called for us the other evening. Leading us out of our compound*, alongside our little house, across the gritty ground with goats rummaging amid rubbish and debris we came to a whole new area of African bush. Beautiful long tailed metallic blue birds flittered here and there as dragonflies darted back and for. Yellow headed, purple bodied, lizards scuttled through the dried grasses and over rocks.  We followed narrow twists and turns through limbs and fingers of wood, scratching legs and flip flop adorned feet, chatting amiably about work frustrations and lack of output.

At six the temperature drops a tad but ambling is still best. Half an hour later we spotted an oasis of green in the otherwise ochre landscape. An elderly woman with spindle legs and cataract eyes stood by the gaping hole of the concrete well, hauling up water with a makeshift bucket and lengths of knotted fabric reminiscent on the great escape.  Animated in her one toothed speech she explained that the badly built well was not deep enough to maintain a water flow hence the muddy sludge fifty foot down.  She and the other women need water to irrigate their onions, okra, sorrel and aubergines at least twice a day in this heat.  Their produce feed their compounds and any surplice sold in the market buys the rice.  Surrounded by termite-infested sticks, interwoven with others, the allotments are thriving by determination and hard hard work.

As VSO’s we have access to funding from the British High Commission to support small community projects.  Our predecessor used hers to build a bridge, allowing the women to cross to the rice fields in the rainy season, rather than swim or take a mile detour.  Mulai and the women’s co-operative are hoping for support to re-bore the well and build animal proof, permanent fencing.

We continued on our way to visit the funded gardens a mile away.  It was abuzz with activity and crops.  Bare breasted, muddy women and female children, babies tied to backs, drawing water to quench the parched land and crops, surrounded metal fencing and plentiful wells.  Chatter and smiles.  Plants flourishing with twice daily care and attention, misshapen tools from the middle ages and machetes used with lethal accuracy.  We watched, uplifted and yet exhausted, with incredulity, the energy and physical strength as containers of water were lifted onto heads over and over again.  The heat still radiated from the land as the sun faded in the sky as we wandered like gaggles of geese, back to town, laughing and joking.  Women in this part of the world do not have it easy.

*Everything is so different here.  A compound is a where a mini community live.  It may, unusually like ours, consist of one family but more likely, will comprise of the extended family in an array of accommodation.  Often fenced with pieces of corrugated iron nailed haphazardly together, feeding, childcare and general living are a joint responsibility.  Polygamy is common and men folk are often away with their other wives and children or elsewhere leaving the women to manage on a day-to-day basis.