What to do next

Over the past few years of my career questioning I have heard “find your passion and do that” or “do what you love and you’ll love what you do” many times. Yesterday it occurred to me that that was all very well but there is a) a question of money so it’s a pretty elitist mantra and b) it conflicts with my knowledge that once you start being paid for something you used to do, it loses its charm unless you are being paid. It also implies that you should only have one love and that it’s a waste of time if you are not making money from it. My instincts are more towards the polymath, the things I love include practising writing in different styles, arguing effectively on behalf of other people, sharing food and knowing how to host people, painting and experimenting with different media, and trying to find the elements I love in activities that are new.  I’d like to enjoy what I do at work, I know I need to see a social value and vocation in my work, but I don’t want to go home and have nothing else in my life that I love.

Before I came to The Gambia, a friend told me she thought I’d never come home, that I have found my vocation. That is partly true. One day I was sat in the back of a pick-up and suddenly I knew what I wanted to do next. But what I also found is that I need a new set of skills and training to add the value I want to add.  And so I will go back to university in September. However, the end of my placement is due in March. This gives me six months to fill.

A few weeks ago this question of what to do next was filling every waking moment.  Do I try to stay? Do I stay but with a different partner where my skills are more in line with their plans? Do I book a backpacking tour around the world? Do I get a job and save hard for the austerity of a student life?

I was asked to stay in my placement. A new manager started meaning there are much greater opportunities to make a change to the practices and performance of the institution. It was a tempting offer; my own space to live in, a hot country that I now know, a small income, nice friends, real work to do. But the life of a volunteer is a little like a stone falling through a lake. The ripples spread out into the partners and future, but for the stone you just quickly pass through and then rest on a muddy floor. All you can see is tiny changes close to you, not the wider change your work will lead to. The model works but, with a new partnership it is a frustrating experience to break the stagnant water. After  a lot of soul searching, it turns out that I am tired and would like the comforts of home for at least a few weeks. I turned down the offer to stay, in the knowledge that the ripples I started will still be moving when I’ve gone.

And so I decided what is could do best is to concentrate on leaving The Gambia well. Say goodbye to those I love here, spend time appreciating the many joys of this country, and take advantage of the time I have left. I can watch the sunset over a tropical ocean, I can drink a beer in a yard under a canopy thick with stars, I can dance to African music and laugh with children. When I get home I don’t know what I will do. I do know that my slippers are under a bed at my Mum’s house. And I do know that, at least for a short while, I have a comfortable bed there. When I am home, when I am truly finished in The Gambia, then I will decide how to fill my precious six-month break. Until then, my thoughts are on the opportunities in this moment, on finding what I love here in these last few weeks.

Gratitude in Gambia

Over the past few weeks I have noticed I am tallying what I won’t miss. I won’t miss the litter. I won’t miss the terrible roads. I won’t miss the begging taught to infants.  I am looking forward to a change of beer options, to being with old friends and family, to a reliable power supply, sprung mattress and showers at the temperature I choose.  And yet it has been said by the wise and seldom listened to that the key to happiness is gratitude.  Every moment is a gift, and within every moment is an opportunity to be grasped, with another one usually around the corner if you choose not to grasp it. And most moments are joyful, though there are moments of torment that still contain the opportunities to be brave, to tackle and injustice, to find a new path or to offer comfort. David Steindl –Rast makes this very point in his TED talk and it inspired me to stop counting negatives and to think, what am I grateful for?

When I left the UK, many of my friends were being given the gift of new life and a new family, I know of at least nine people who have children born within the last year. I however was given the gift of coming to The Gambia. And within that, like learning how to parent, are so many opportunities to be grateful for. Firstly is the people, regular readers will know of my friendships within the Gambian community, my choir friends, my friends of choir friends, my fellow VSOs. Some of these people I will never see again but we have shared some wonderful times this year. Through them I have learnt how to find a tasty liver or omelette butty late at night, what rice pudding with peanuts tastes like (nice), how to speak a language I didn’t even know existed two years ago. These people are wonderful. Those who I am friends with are kind hearted and generous, have huge concern and empathy and have shown me so much care. We have had joyful moments, on Friday as the sun set the power came back so we danced in Mardu’s house and laughed with each other.  I have looked at my watch at reggae festivals and realised it’s nearly five am and yet I still seem to be dancing in a field in heels and a summer dress, when at 11 I was falling asleep watching a concert. And just this morning the small children in my compound rushed to shake my hand as I left for work, well greeted for the day ahead.

Now it’s colder overnight every morning I choose whether or not to be brave and have a cool shower or to be nesh and wash in the evening. I can challenge myself to leave the house without cash and manage. The moments where there is no bread for breakfast have meant I learned to make Scotch pancakes and when there is I can be grateful for the cheerful bakery that opened on my own street to sell hot bread baguettes for 10p. I’m grateful for the head torch that means I can read and all the many VSOs who’ve left books in the office library which mean I’m never short of reading material. I have learned how to budget hard and how to stick to my limits without too much stress through living on the allowance. And to appreciate that, however hard I find it, like I was in the UK I’m still in the middle classes of this society and some people are struggling so much more and so much longer than I ever am.

When I started here it was a challenge to leave the house, knowing how many men on the street would bother me and not take “no, go away” for an answer. There’s an opportunity there too, to engage in conversation, some of which are pleasant, to learn to stand up for myself and not passively accept unwanted hassle. And so I am grateful for what I’ve learned even if I could do without so much practice of the new skills. The idea of a day without being bothered is still very appealing. And for every foolish man asking for my “nice name” there’s a woman selling breakfast butties, a child shaking hands, a stranger offering a lift in kindness, or a van that will wait for me as I walk in the hot sun to counteract them.

When I am home will I forget how much of a joy it is to have water not only at your beck and call but also at the temperature you want? Will I forget to be grateful or relieved every time I turn on a light switch? Will I pause outside my new workplace and be grateful that I know that I will not be molested or mauled or treated as a second class citizen because of my gender and age? Will I remember that poverty strips away the opportunities that people have, the opportunities they should be given in every moment, and that though those who are living in poverty might be able to be happy in a moment that their choices are so curtailed that their lives and dreams can never be fulfilled? Will I forget the pressure they feel to show that they are managing, that poverty is not stripping away their dignity and ability to treat their friends and family well? Will I forget the efforts made to hide the shame of poverty? And will I forget that these people who are my friends who I have had a wonderful life with?

Hungry for change

Two weeks ago Oxfam published an index about food. Specifically the data ranks countries in terms of the ability to get enough to eat. It covers having enough, affordability, food quality and diabetes and obesity. The data can be reached via this link: http://www.oxfam.org.uk/what-we-do/good-enough-to-eat

Gambia comes out badly. In the chart it is four sectors away from the bottom, with the affordability of food being the most challenging indicator. This is not surprising.  Gambia, particularly the rural areas rely on subsistence farming. Over sixty per cent of the population is below the overall poverty line, and forty per cent are below the food poverty line. The World Bank says that  “if income security were defined to mean a safety margin of more than 25 per cent above the poverty line, less than a quarter of the population could be classified as being in a non-precarious position.”[1]  There has been a hungry season in Gambia for many years, as food supplies are strictly rationed for the last two months of before the harvest and, in good years, that will see a family though. In bad years such as 2012 when the groundnut harvest failed and other crops had very low yields, this rationing is pushed to extremes with meals skipped and what is left being very small.

Here, women usually take responsibility for horticulture in gardens growing vegetables such as tomatoes, aubergine, cabbage, onions, potatoes and lettuce. They are also often responsible for growing rice and other grains. They are over fifty per cent of The Gambia’s agricultural labour force.  And last week I was able to learn about how they are trying to cope not only with hunger but also increase their economic and influencing power.

Mariama and Hajateneng told me about their women’s cooperatives; groups which work together to run project work, farm and tend communal garden. They told me that these gardens enhance their diets but also give them an income which means that their children can go to school. Without the efforts of the women, education for their children would not happen. Hajateneng showed me her group’s bank book, a vital savings plan in a community which would otherwise lack access to banking services and which makes sure they can sustain their gardens. Mariama told me about some training she’d attended in Dakar at which she bought seeds and transformed the way her village planted so that there is now food throughout the year, not just six months. It is such small actions that form development and show not only why it takes time but also why it is worth it.

These two women have a vision. They want all the women of their region, the most remote and often ignored region of the country, to form a federation of cooperatives. This will mean they can raise more funds, support projects with larger amounts and increase the food supply in their region. They hold themselves accountable and promote transparency, honesty and cooperation. They also said “we have learned about human rights and advocacy. So we know we need a bigger voice. When we are a federation the government and civil society will have to listen to us”.  With support and information these women and those who follow them can and will end hunger in the region. They don’t need leaders, in a very male dominated society they are leading themselves. They are inspirational.

Also Hajateneng said they need a taller fence on the orchard to stop the animals getting in. If anyone can help please let me know and I’ll pass on your details.

[1]http://web.worldbank.org/WBSITE/EXTERNAL/TOPICS/EXTPOVERTY/EXTPA/0,,contentMDK:20204377~menuPK:435735~pagePK:148956~piPK:216618~theSitePK:430367~isCURL:Y,00.html. Accessed 28.1.2014I

The last bin bags

On Sunday 29^th December I went into a local supermarket and bought a few essentials/essential luxuries. I had run out of fruit juice, butter and bin bags. I was also about to say goodbye to Mags until I get back to the UK, who was leaving with a picnic for the plane and about two kilos of churra gertes (peanut rice pudding). Mags is the person who encouraged me to buy toilet paper based on price per sheet rather than overall cost and unfortunately the tendency to stand for a long time trying to do what is pretty simple numeracy (I was always better at algebra) in shopping aisles has spread to other household goods. Bin bags in particular, which have the added quality complication of being strong enough to be carried 500 yards when full to the trash man.  As I picked up a roll of ten I thought, “OK, these are the last ones. I have about twelve weeks left, so the last couple of weeks we can manage with carrier bags.”

As Mags was sorting the last elements of packing I tried to distract myself. Her flight didn’t include a meal so I had made her some packing and, as we’d eaten a mountain of plasas (potato leaves, fish and oil) and rice, I pulled an afternoon tea together. We sat with coffee and the last of the stollen. I squeezed the rice pudding into her case, and then tried to fill a sad time. I thought I’d see when my bin bags would actually finish. And as I did so I realised they would see me out, I had nine weeks left not twelve.

Suddenly I was thrown in to the future, a blank space after March 7^th when my life in Gambia would be over. I would probably never see many of my friends here again, never know which children got through school and who dropped out, catch only brief glimpses of what happens to the place I work from minor news reports on occasions I bother to check certain websites.  And those are the big things, the mundane small things, the everyday, will never be known to me again. All those adaptations I have learnt, getting the bakers on my street to drop bread to my house as it’s not yet ready, automatically finding the firm part of sandy roads to walk on, trusting my instincts on when to accept a lift from a stranger and when to rudely ask them to leave me alone, when to tell someone my real name and when to make one up, walking everywhere, knowing that though I might want something complicated a boiled egg in a piece of bread from a local shop keeper will actually solve my hunger pains just as well.  

I came here to live, not as a tourist, a traveller or multi-national expat but as a volunteer, working in a Gambian organisation and making Gambian friends.  Still a fish out of water but perhaps getting close to becoming a grebe, able to dive into the water every now and then. But that is the point, my life will move on and I will leave this behind. I won’t be mourning the loss for years because I will be doing something else in those years. And so it is right to mourn it now, to know that these things will pass and that there is sadness in that passing, even if there is joy in the future, because now is the time I have to mourn. And apparently the focus of that mourning is not a person or an experience but instead that marker of weeks gone by, the humble bin bag. 

Care across the seas

For a while there I was seriously homesick in a crippling “but why would I go out of the house” way.  I was tired and fed up. I missed too many things, especially in October. The first weekend I was out enjoying the parish feast, but my heart was in Warrington enjoying my grandparent’s diamond wedding celebrations, though I was still wearing diamonds. The following week I had to deny any knowledge of the day because my good friend Hadders was marrying a man she met on a train and fell in love with. I wasn’t there and I couldn’t even look at the photos because it made me too sad. On top of that, the wedding present had died under the stress of humidity in its final stage and was lying like an overworked metaphor in pieces on my dining room table.   I fell over and my leg became painfully infected, my broken iPhone and a poor internet connection meant the messages from friends and family ran to a trickle. On top of that I spent twice my allowance on necessary things like concert uniforms, eating, parish feast dresses and

I tried to pick myself up. I prepared my Dad’s birthday present for early November then couldn’t muster the energy to post it, so it too lay in its envelope looking forlorn. But things and moods did start to shift. I eventually got someone to take my grandparents’ anniversary present to the post office. I had my leg cleaned and I got the dances to the choir concert under my belt. Asha, a returning volunteer nutritionist from Uganda, insisted on making me eat and I took the “prioritise good food” lesson to heart after I realised how much better I felt. I managed to get internet access for my sister Irene’s birthday and sent a picture of a monkey to her. Things were on the up and I was getting back on track. Not long until a sisterly visit, Christmas preparations and then not long at all till home time. I cheered up.

And was rewarded. After a long catch up with another friend comparing the challenges of ex-pat life I received a lovely parcel in the post. In side were essential items, tea, plasters, make up applicators, liquorice and a face mask. As well as some warm words and a card for my wall. On the same day a square card with familiar handwriting was delivered. My Gran had written to tell me about life. My Gran is a real story teller and has a very sardonic turn of phrase as well as an eye for the joy of everyday life. I laughed aloud reading about new babies, forecast rain, and getting Grandad in from the garden for dinner. It is this, the adventures and interest of everyday life that makes my eyes sparkle and my Gran has long known it. Thanks to you all. A warm word or odd picture or just a comment that something happened today, it may also have happened yesterday but it’s still interesting, is enough for me. And truly appreciated.