THE Match

The atmosphere was palpable. Excitement ran through every vein of the 22 boys and 18 girls had been selected for the inter cluster football and rounders teams. Children had been ferried by tractor and trailer, full to the gunnels, since early morn, clutching strip and picnic lunches to be joined by parents, guardians and anyone else who happened to be around.

The sight was one to behold. Nearly 800 people had gathered at the uneven, sunbaked grounds that were to be the site for this event, held in Bakary’s honour, or so they would have you believe. A rumour had been circulated that he was to be the referee. How to loose friendships that had been formed over the year. Luckily an athletic looking man, fully equipped with tracksuit, trainers and whistle stepped into the breach.

 As we waited the girls designed a merry game of bashing a ball onto the roof and standing beneath the corrugate to catch whilst the boys were bantering about the dreaded game as only excited boys can. Head teachers looked calm and collected and chivied their pupils between sips of attaya and handshakes. A good feeling pervaded all.


It began late. Great excitement as someone had provided a new ball – a posh shiny leather one, but sadly no one had thought that it would need a pump as well as an adapter. Person after person attempted to variously tempt and force air through the tiny hole but to no avail. A child was sent to a different nearby school with the important task of finding the necessary equipment and returned on battered bike amidst cheers.


And so it was nearly five thirty rather than the allocated 4 o’clock slot that the teams moved to their mission. The girls in one area, stones as bases, tennis racket and ball at the ready, the boys on the pitch, four tall sticks beaten into the ground for goal posts, slightly older children grasping leaf sticks as linesmen.


At this point we separated, Pete to watch the football, and I the rounders.


It was a merry time, sticks were beaten onto old cans to drum the girls as they ran and screamed. Singing and dancing that would put American cheerleaders to shame for sheer exuberance and enthusiasm. Dust filled the air as bare feet stomped the ground and hands reached to grasp elusive catches. At one point a horse and cart drove across the pitch but no one batted an eyelid. It was hardly unusual.


Meanwhile back at the football the game went on. There was some skillful moves despite the lack of premiership grass. A croquet field it was not. Head teachers lost any semblance of calm and respectability, as they invaded the pitch with the rest of the crowd at each goal, berated the ref and rules and vehemently argued their corner of push or foul. The game went on. The ringers that had been brought in by one side had a clear advantage of being six inches taller and two years more experience which allowed even more shouting and high feeling to penetrate the ever decreasing visibility of the game amid the setting sun and dust fog.


It was a joyous occasion, an opportunity for children, parents and teachers to meet and shout and dance. As for health and safety – don’t even go there. 

A working day

Awoken by a gasp of expletives, the rivulets of icy water ran over Pete’s skinny legs as he emptied the jugs of water for his bucket shower, I snuggled back under the solitary sheet and planned the day in my mind.

Jarumeh Koto first, just across the river and then onto Jamali the small village in the bush along 5 kilometers of sandy track. Hmmmmm. Pete was driving so I could enjoy the scenery, the bush dying back to its ochre hues, monkeys, baboons, donkey carts and the familiar sight of roofs and smoke denoting a small encampment here and there.

Breakfast, boiled egg, toasted tapalapa and coffee, dress into faded dust encrusted trousers, shirt and well used hiking boots, (those people in VSO who suggested we should ‘dress tidy’ have clearly not been doing this job) and off we go.

The journey to the first school was uneventful, greetings, smiles and routine conversations as we wait for the ferry trip, salute the military at the checkpoint and a smooth trip along the tarmac. Our mission was simply to seek out the headmaster and discuss arrangements to organize sponsorship for a bright, engaging orphan student whose uncle cannot afford his school fees.

Travel outside the Gambia is difficult for those born here, visas nearly impossible to obtain, and unlike a UK passport the Gambian documentation doesn’t hold much weight with the authorities. The potential sponsors want him to have a visa so that, at a later date, he can travel to Europe. Does he have a birth certificate? Of course not. He’s not even exactly certain of the date he was born. He will need to visit the alekelo, or village chief, to get written confirmation, borrow his uncles bio metric ID card, (an incongruous piece of plastic amid the medieval tools and camp fires,) walk 5 kilometers to the island to visit the health centre for verification and have two passport photos taken in the small shack that promises photocopying, laminating and the like.

Firm handshakes, gratitude, promises of on going contact as we say our final goodbye.

Which path to take? There are several that lead off in the general direction the village but no signs to suggest which is the easiest or quickest. Pete picks one and we head out amid the scrub and sheep tracks that are the chosen route. Eventually we slew our way into the school grounds. Silence …..and then………toubab, toubab………and we have wreaked havoc, children standing in their classes, pushing hands through the mosaic windows. No one minds.

 

We visit the headmaster first and then onto a nursery class where Fatou teaches them letter sounds with rhymes and rhythm – signs that education is moving forward. She has 50 in her tiny classroom, little doots bedraggled in flimsy uniform but generally smiling and engaged. Onto year 6, dominated by girls as they have free education, whereas the boys have to pay a small sum in school fees. A return visit to fulfill my promise to show them photos of my family, pictures of snow gave rise to incredulity and a complete lack of comprehension. I understood why. The sun shines in the blue blue sky and even though I hear word of snow in Cardiff I can’t really believe it.

We are wanted. The children have their lunch of boiled rice which they eat as ‘foodbowl’ hunkered down in groups of 6 around stainless steel bowls, eating skillfully with their hands whilst we play games with 9 teachers under the mango tree. Simple parlour games like I spy, say a word with the ending letter of the previous one, change places if you are wearing blue. They are all new to them and, amid much laughter, an hour flies by. Time for our foodbowl, rice with chillies, which we eat, not so skillfully, before making our departure.

Back to the office where the Whole School Development plan course is in full swing. There is much ‘push and pull’ as they call discussion here, heated debate and misunderstanding which causes much merriment. I have got used to these apparent arguments, which always finish with good humour, a handshake and ‘brother’. By 7 we have finished the task in hand – a prototype plan, great in theory but ‘pie in the sky’ in reality. More foodbowl and then the ride back to our house. It seemed like a lifetime ago that we left.

Female equality????

Being female in The Gambia is a strange phenomenon. A constant struggle of house work, family life, work, gardening and making ends meet take place, alongside the banter and chatter at the well and mutual support from the other women around. Sharing everything (including husbands) is common place and, for a society which has so little, they take little care of things that are precious. The motorbike that I knocked over snapping the cable aroused the comment ‘oh I have two. The front brake still works’. At home that would have been an insurance claim for sure.



Being a white female is even stranger. I am neither fowl nor beast or maybe both. Accepted as an honoury man at work, my opinion is sought and acted upon, especially in the absence of Pete who is the default person to ask even when it is my area of expertise. I am usually the only woman in meetings of up to fifty. There will occasionally be another headmistress but typically it is me and the men. I think I get a much easier deal than some other VSO’s by dint of my age and having Pete about, both of which appear to make me more acceptable.


At home I feel there is an expectation that I will join in with the women but in truth my language skills, physical strength and will are not up to it. Ma starts at 6 everyday and works till midnight. Me? I need a snooze in the middle of the day when it gets hot. The other night I was talking to Phil and Pete whilst they did the washing up. I had cooked and that’s the deal here. Isotou, one of the new compound residents, a girl of sixteen came in for a chat. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Yes, she thought it was fair that they should take their part but no she could not see any Gambian man doing so.


Mulai makes me laugh. The first to recognize how hard the women work he tries his utmost to make their lot easier, organizing wells and committees for which they will be responsible. He will rush to help me if I go to get the water, carrying the heavy Gerry cans always most solicitous and yet wouldn’t dream of helping Ma although she will be carrying the shopping on her head at the same time.


This line of thought has come to mind today because it is Tobaski, or as we call it at home Big Eid, the Muslim celebration of sacrifice. Mulai, Seedy and mini Mulai have gone to the mosque with Pete, dressed in their finery. Ma and Ndella are cooking, cleaning and preparing the feast that the men will eat on their return. They have new clothes to put on later and may squeeze in a few visits to family but it is mainly the men who will rest and rejoice.

Mini Mulai

Yesterday evening, Sunday 14th November, something very Gambian occurred. Mulai, our landlord, knocked at our door to introduce us to a new family member and so it was that we first met Mulai Junior. a small boy, perhaps 6 or 7 looking completely overwhelmed. As you read on I urge you not to judge, after 10 months here I am just beginning to scratch the surface of the complexities that make up Gambian culture and if I have learned one thing it is – do not judge what you don’t understand.



Mulai (junior) comes from a village called Tabanani, some 10k over on the southern mainland. It is a poor, rural community completely dependent on subsistence farming as a means of eeking out a living. It seems the Mulau Junior’s family have been supported by Mulai Senior for some time, I don’t know how this first happened or why, I don’t think they are blood relatives. Anyway it transpires that MJ’s parents have decided to go to the coast to try and make a better living and so it was that MJ was “given” to Mulai Senior. I use the word “given” as that it is how it was explained to us. So, on a Sunday afternoon a small boy and his few belongings were delivered to Darboe Kunda where he will live as a family member for the foreseeable future. And that is that – he is immediately one of the family and at once is included in all activities around the compound.


And so back to our first meeting, Mulai and Mulai enter so that the little one can meet the toubabs. The boy looks in shock, left with a new family he now has to greet white people who he will hardly have seen before. With no English he looks nervous and unsure, and who can blame him? We offer him a glass of orange juice and he sips not seeming sure how to even drink in our presence. I just wanted to pick him up and hug him but I think that might have been the final straw for the lad so I refrained. Introductions complete he left, no doubt relieved that the encounter was over.


MJ’s future is actually quite bright. Whilst living with Mulai Senior he will go to school, learn English and be generally well looked after and cared for. Furthermore the continuous stream of volunteers who Mulai rents his house too will, no doubt, make sure his future is well provided for. Having said all of this, and having cautioned against judging, it’s hard not to wonder how the boy must be feeling. One can only try to imagine. And his parents – what must they be going through and what does it say about their plight that they are reduced to this. I could go on and on because I think the whole episode reveals much about the society and community that has come to be our home; I can only sympathise and admire them all at the same time.


Footnote: Mulai Junior was very cheery this morning and we spied him playing with our motorbikes and trying on our crash helmets, just what a little boy should be doing when he thinks no one is looking.

Pete's birthday

Yesterday, the 9th November, 55, I know it's hard to believe, and this was by birthday day. Awoke to presents, 2 mugs from fellow VSOs, home made flap jack from fellow VSO and a knock off DVD (Hell Boy, one of my favourites) from Hawa. Oh, and two packets of flying saucers and a card from Kath Owen in the UK and electronic birthday greetings from many friends at The Court School and at home – thank you all.


Work was meeting of local head teachers, 7 of them with myself and Mr.Leigh, Cluster Monitor who you should all know by now. The highlight was a stirring rendition of “Happy Birthday” which omitted all lyrics except those two words. Very moving, I wonder if anyone has had such a serenade before. The thing is they don't celebrate birthdays here, they know the year they were born and that's it. There is no general use of calendars, time is judged by the weather, rainy season, cool season etc. which is both charming and frustrating. Got back home, had a doze, as you do, and at 7pm set off for Bendulas, our local bar. WOW! They had laid tables with cloths, put out flowers and tied balloons, supplied by Hawa, from the trees. All lit by candlelight as there was a power cut it was a remarkable and moving scene. Greeted by Baks, my namesake and bar manager, I ordered 2 beers and said I understood they would not be cold because the power had been off all day. Not a bit of it, exclaiming that my happiness was his concern Baks miraculously produced cold beers all night – I have no idea how he managed this, what a man. Guests began to arrive, Phil, fellow VSO, Chris and Tara, volunteers with another charity and visiting the island for a week, colleagues from work and, wait for it...... The Chief of Police. I know not why or how since I have never met him before however Jibril, that being his name, was, of course, absolutely charming.


30 minutes later about a dozen of us by now were treated to an hour of drumming and singing arranged and paid for by the bar staff and colleagues from work. With countless mentions of my birthday and many wishes of more to come they drummed and danced furiously as only the Gambians know how. It is exhausting just watching. Inevitably I was coaxed up to dance, thankfully for all present the darkness hid my pathetic attempts to move in rhythm, a skill which has always eluded me. The show finished with a 20 minute singing of happy birthday in English, Spanish and French, I threw in Welsh just to be different and they immediately tried to repeat it – very surreal and one of those “where am I” moments when reality seems stranger than fiction. All of this took place whilst I was doing a very passable impression of Caerphilly's favourite son. For those of you now very puzzled let me inform you that Tommy Cooper, rubbish magician but genius comic was from Caerphilly and should you ever visit you will see his statue in the town centre. My likeness to said Tom was because I had decided to wear my best African clothes, in which I must say, I look very fetching. However as I was leaving the compound Mulai, my landlord, decided I needed a hat and so it was that Tommy Cooper was reborn. For those not old enough to know what I am talking about just find anyone over 40 and say “Tommy Cooper” they will smile, I promise they will, and probably say “just like that.” Go on try it and see.


And so the day came to a close, a memorable birthday for sure and I retired home for a final smoke and a glass of “Don Simon” a passable red wine that we can get on the island.


Happy, happy days. Where will we celebrate my 56th birthday – I wonder........

How to hold a pencil?

48 huge brown eyes looked at me, wide in wonderment. 24 children squatted around huge, pristine white rectangles of paper placed on the termite ridden, flaking concrete floor, each clutching a wax crayon like a precious gift. Silence as I bent down, showing them, group by group, how to make a mark. Expansive grins evolved from gentle bemused smiles as the red, blue, green, yellow and brown shapes appeared to decorate paper, which was to make the first wall display they had ever seen. Uncertain lines and baby scribble but what could one expect from a first attempt? A shriek. A snapped colour stick caused one small mite to dissolve into tears. My laughter reassured him and placing one half in each hand he continued with enthusiasm. Imagine reaching the age of five and six and never having held a pencil or crayon.



The teacher stood as mystified as his pupils. I found him, like a rabbit in headlights, terrified of the little creatures that he had been charged with educating. Moved from a higher grade he was clueless as to what to do or how to begin to get their attention. Attempts at reciting ‘Capital A, small a, capital B, small b,’ as he banged the blackboard with his stick had proved futile. Enter Hawa to throw his world into turmoil.

We spent a week together, learning nursery rhymes and games, talking of routines and curriculums, planning and schemes of work.

By Friday pictorial rules, a timetable and the children’s work were taped to the peeling walls. I sat and watched him take the class. It wasn’t perfect, (his answering the phone 4 times and leaving the room and children because he was hungry didn’t help, but in a culture where this is acceptable who can blame him?) The children sang, using strange sounding English words, alongside Mandinka, Fula and Wolof. They organized and played games we had taught them and they located the number 2 and letter ‘a’ on the blackboard. As for writing? Well give them a chance.

We were delighted to have our friend Maria to come and visit us last week.  The full on Gambian experience in 6 days, but this is her story.

Maria's blog

Well, I have no idea where to begin and don't think I will be able to express the over whelming journey and emotional roller coaster ride I've just experienced, all be it crushed into 6 days. It seemed so much longer and now such a long time ago.


I will start near the end when I began to write about my experience........



As my journey came to an end I sat on the bus ready for the 8 hour trip back to the city of Banjul, from the town of JJB the home of Bakary and Hawa, (Pete and Liz), B&H. Hawa sees me onto the bus, tells the driver where I am going and to make sure I'm safe. As I turn to walk down the aisle I have a feeling of unease, that feeling I felt that when I first arrived, the overwhelming culture shock and instant feeling of being different. I was the only Toubab (white person) on the bus, noticing as I walked through an array of bright colour clothing, head scarves and hats….the bold patterns of a mix of blue, orange, green, purple and gold. I tried to look casual and inconspicuous. I found a seat next to a woman and her daughter who looked around 5 years old. As quickly as the unsettled feeling came over me it was gone. Only the children stared at me. I found it quite funny for a moment, but then, as if being white wasn't enough for me to standout; I forgot myself completely and stood waving vigorously with both hands, blowing kisses out of the window as I let out my farewell to B&H. They were on the opposite side of where I was sitting so I had to stand up and lean over people; displaying a right emotional affair........I was completely engulfed in leaving the Walfords behind and for myself having to leave West Africa so soon.

On the journey, at the bus stops people trade through the narrow oblong window that sit on top of larger windows that do not open. Women walk around the bus with ‘ice’, plastic bags of flavoured slush, just like a slush puppy, bananas and various other things. Children are passed to strangers for the mother to have a break especially if the mother was standing up. (Attachments with children are very different there). They shared their food and chattered, and chattered. It seemed like they were talking to themselves when someone a few seats down would talk back. At one of the stops there was much excitement about plastic bucket containers filled with curdled milk which was being bought through the window. At one point a man passed through the isle holding a crying LIVE chicken from its feet. The biggest surprise is that the children were silent, for 8 hours on a busy bus. They didn't fuss or say a word. What would they ask for I guess?? So unlike the indulgent western way of entertaining and pacifying your children, the unsettled I'm bored, I'm hungry, how long, cries we are so used to hearing.


I realise that I don't think I can't tell this in a nut shell, there was so much to take in. I will attempt to be consistent but, for those of you that know me, I will undoubtedly flit from encounter to encounter.

I didn't think my adoration for the Walfords could get much bigger until I had a flavour of their life over the past 10 months. Reading their blog is one thing being here is quite another.

On arrival, back on the 22nd I could hardly contain myself jumping up and down to hurry the bus up, so I could get off and meet the Walfords. I ran to find them; it was very exciting and a wonderful reunion. We caught up on tales over food and drink and I laughed at the glee from them both in having basic things, a clean bedroom, a sink, in door tap, hot water and a sit down loo. Hawa was in love with her cheese, o cheese!!! and Baks for his Jack Daniels. It was funny. I could only appreciate the impact of this joy on my return.


Anyway, the next day was running around doing basic errands, bank, shops, pizza, and next hotel. Bakary and Hawa have only had three trips up to the city and although it is a bit of a treat they also have practical things to do when they are there.

As we left our first hotel, I was amused by the state of the transport and surprised that the cars could possibly manage to work.


Bakary seemed in his element of the greeting and bartering way of the Gambians, he relished in their friendliness and genuine desire to help. We hopped onto a jeep like car and as the driver struggled to start the car I noticed the ignition looked like it had been hotwired, hanging out of the socket by the coloured wires. Three other taxi drivers came along to push, but to no avail. We had to take another cab. This one was running yes but had its own unique interior design with no inside door panel and foam and frame haphazardly on display.


By the evening we were off to a little hotel off the beaten track. The taxi driver took us down some narrow sandy roads and we were dropped off at a junction of wider sandy desolate roads. We took as short walk straight ahead passed trees and compounds that are surrounded by crimped metal sheeting that make up most of the fencing, roofing and make shift gate ways. It was like walking through the ghetto. We turned into one of the compounds through the gates, wow there was a tiny little haven,, after a couple of minutes I had to walk back out into the street as everything had become so surreal. Being in Africa with the Walfords was one thing but didn't we just walk down a sandy road that felt like we were in the ghetto? As I walked outside to check myself and that it wasn't a dream Bakary followed. We walked a short distance to the corner where we were greeted by a boy around 10 years old standing with his bicycle upside down playing with his wheel and broken tyre. He explained how his bike was broken and used it for school and began the banter of which Baks was again in his element. Suddenly a few more locals migrated towards us and one guy called out, greeted Bakary by name and as a friend. They had met the last time they had come to the city.


(I tell you Baks wasn't wrong about these people and their genuine desire to help and become your friend).


We then proceeded to follow the man and the boy followed us down the road, in the opposite direction to the hotel, around the corner and into a compound where there was a celebration or as the Gambians call it a 'programme'. It was a naming ceremony where swarms of natives in their finest vibrate clothes come to pay their respects to a new born, women in one compound and men across the road in another, children hanging giggling around us ..''Toubab, toubab''.....and touching us. Baks, as casual as you like, greeting the father and then over to see the mother and baby of course. We then swiftly strolled back down the road and were sat back in our hotel before we knew it. I hardly had the chance to catch my breath it was all so surreal.


The next day we were already for our trip back to up to JJB where Hawa and Baks call home. Our taxi dropped us off in the ferry port market area, bustling to say the least. I must have looked as bemused as a bewildered child. Hawa kept a check on me as she did throughout my stay. We rushed through the market area and the ferry terminal to get a ticket and then waited…….and waited and waited... in the sweltering heat behind iron gates that separated the foot passengers from the transport. It still felt strange being the only white people but no one took much notice. Hawa laid back and practical as always was already trying to negotiate her way through the gates to sort out our ride once we were over the other side of the water.


Once our ferry finally came everybody ran, huddled together in a herd, we just had to stay close and run. Running for seats in the shade and just getting a seat is something; people are hanging and standing anywhere.


A 40 min crossing and a 4hr ride squashed in the back of an 8 seated car, another small water crossing (which is a regular route for them both) and we arrive at their island of JJB a short walk and we are home. We enter their compound which the Walfords share with a local family, Baks and Hawa are happy to be back. Hot, tired and dirty which is the way I will remain for the rest of my stay and the way the Walfords have become accustom to. I look around their two basic rooms turn to Hawa and say, DID YOU CRY WHEN YOU FIRST ARRIVED?!!! I was astonished by how basic it was, I felt for them, no wonder they were like little kids it the city. Wow!!!! Wow!!! Wow!!!


After a rest Hawa took me across to my room, luckily a small hotel/ shale type place directly across the sandy road. ...brown stained ceiling, a working wobbling fan that seemed as though it would fly off the ceiling at any moment, fitted directly next to the bare light bulb so gave a flashing light show, door handles fitted upside down, a trickling shower head that I had to hold, a sink where the water trickle out through the bottom onto the floor. I wanted to cry, this time for myself.... but at least I had an indoor tap and a sit down loo. What was I moaning for....?


It’s amazing how quickly things become normal and we can adjust and accept them. Baks and Hawa's home very quickly became cosy and relaxing. Honest!!!!.... and for me it was just for a few days for these two it is their way of life.


The next day we went on the motor bikes to the market and to see the island and meet the local people that had become friends or colleges of the B&. I hadn't been on a bike since I was in my teens. I was riding with Hawa and Baks had Mulai, his landlord, with him. We crossed the river on a small ferry and onto the empty dirt top road, long and deserted, some parts of the road had a new surface, but mainly dust and sand topped and bumpy. I soon relaxed. It was fun. I could see over Hawa’s shoulder, just fields and road. Occasionally I could see a cluster of thatched roofed round hut houses way out in the fields. How scary it must be to ride these roads alone every day? People would suddenly appear out from the fields where they'd come from surrounding villages, children coming home from or going to school carrying books, a boy with a donkey and cart, women coming from their day farming carrying the crops in baskets on their heads and then nothing. The roads were dead again. Some people hitched lifts from the odd car or van some disappeared into fields, or wondered off the main road onto the narrow slippery sandy tracks that lead to the villages and schools that H&B ride down every day and I was to ride down with Baks the next day.


The markets were a surprise, stalls crammed together selling fabric, fruit, veg, fish, old bicycle parts and tyres and all the tat 'made in china' that you can find all over the world. Broken watches, metal door hinges, in separate piles for people to rummage through. I tell you, it made me feel annoyed at our wasteful world of consumerism, if it’s broken just throw it away and buy a new one. Things and parts for things in the Gambia and, I’m sure, in so much of the world are used to the death. I can only liken the scene to my idea of a mix of Victorian time chaos and medieval living as you see it in the movies, with a random appearance of modernism all muddled up in hustle and bustle, the traders hissing at you as you walk past, just to get your attention of course!! And then there was the live stock section. Bakary likened it to the Wild West.


The ferry was too full on our return from the market so Hawa and I had to get a canoe like boat that meant our bike hanging over the edge and Baks and Mulai in another boat in an identical scene. They both hold on the other end of the bike so as it doesn’t fall in ... it was funny because it was unbelievable, but I did feel for them; sometimes after a long day out on trek to the school this is what they come home to. I don’t mean to be sexiest but double wow for Hawa. I felt for her. She can ride every day alone on desolate dusty narrow roads, never feel clean and then at the end of the day maybe have to get her motor bike hanging off the boat and hold it tight ... what a woman!!!! I was blown away.


The homes were mud or clay like huts with thatched roofs or concrete blocks, two rooms per family, (it was like a living historical medieval village.... and B&H live in a compound like this,) (Can you imagine?) The rooms were just used for sleeping, with people settled in groups usually with extended families that form the compound, which was shielded by stick fencing or, in the town or city, the metal sheeting.


In some places there was power, but it went off at certain times in the day and hasn't reached many of the villages.


The schools, THE SCHOOLS!!!! B&Hs reason for giving up their comforts and secure lives for the year their passion for teaching and to offer their support. As humble as ever they say they have had little to offer, but I witnessed how the community embraced them, appreciated their visits, the staff and children at the schools looked to them and valued their words, the relationships they had formed I can hardly believe this to be true.


The schools were a shock to say the least. I had to work hard to contain my emotions. The bare concrete blocks held around 4 class rooms, some just had one block while others had two or three that were built in a square. Inside there was a blackboard usually full with elaborate English texts which the children would copy into their tatty exercise books using their broken pencils. With the help of B&H some class rooms had began to develop little reading corners and areas where children could play shop and learn moths in a practical form. The school building itself was relative to the standard homes the natives were used to, so I got over that one (kind of) but the hour or so it takes for children to walk to school through the sweltering heat through fields and sandy tracks carrying their scruffy books, was humbling. Most of the staff lived away from their homes and loved ones. The store cupboard was a larger room that stored a pile of fire wood for burning, to cook the children’s’ lunch, along with some broken furniture; a far cry from our crammed store cupboards filled with unused exercise books, ring bind folders, pens, rubbers, etc... God the paper we waste.


The children seemed happy, giving us big beaming smiles; a few were shocked and curious. They touched us and pinched us laughing at our white skin. A few were scared and Baks made them cower and cry while he tried to approach them and play. It was very funny. Oh and they absolutely love the camera. It was a pleasurable day despite the continual culture shock that involved the primitive way of life and the profound state of poverty, yet the people were happy, humble, giving and so so grateful.


All the people I was introduced to were very welcoming. Their landlord gave me a gift that I can only see as a reflection of how much respect there is for both Bakary and Hawa.


The funniest bit, besides the children and cars, was when going to the market Baks had forgotten that he had his land lord with him on the back of his bike. They had stopped off to get the foot rest welded onto the bike. Baks arrived at the river crossing and looking behind him asked where Mulai was insisting that he must have just got off the bike. He had barely stopped and even protested when myself and Hawa said ‘you arrived alone’ ‘but I was talking to him.’ Baks restarted the bike and turned to find Mulai.... then we could see him running around the corner. It was hilarious.


I was quietly amused by Bakary’s new found word 'MAN' at the end of a sentence or a statement. No, he wasn’t trying to be a wanabe Rasta - again it was natural, it fitted, they fitted, they have both beautifully embraced the natives and their ways. How will they readjust? I can see Baks seeking out a new drinking haunt in the old Cardiff bay side.... and Hawa kissing every piece of furniture in their home. The hardest bits were the travelling, the heat, the never feeling clean and the damn mosquitoes ...


There is so much I have missed, I only hope it gives justice and credit to them, sharing my experiences and respect and love for Peter Liz and the strength they have, both individually and as a couple. I can only bow down to them. They have lasted their adventure and survived their challenge, have done some amazing work, taken on all the hardship and grown a love for the people. These last few weeks may be the hardest. They are so grateful for correspondence from home. The parcels and letters they get are a gift of joy and a pleasure. They miss their comforts and loved ones and are aching to see their children.


Pete and Liz, a pride and honour to know you, I can't thank you enough for letting me share a snap shot of your experience and for looking after me so so much....


with much love Maria xxxxxxx