A dinner party

One day during induction one of the female volunteers called me over and said “This country can get a bit much at times. Sometimes we just meet for tea and female company”. It was like that day in a film about school days where the popular girls agree to let the glasses (and in this case ridiculous sunhat) wearing new girl into the clique.  Soon it became a gathering of European women, a weekly refuge from the male dominated environments we work and live in and a moment to stop looking out for every possible cultural faux pas.

As is the way with volunteers, women have come and gone from our little band but still, generally weekly and at least once a month, we try to meet up for a night of what has come to be known as European Women’s Forum. In our time we have pooled our resources to buy a bottle of wine or two, drunk tea and eaten biscuits while chatting into the small hours, shared files and photos across our hard drives. We had a Christmas party with treats sent by Helen, a returned EWF. We decorated a bar with posters and balloons for Janneke’s  leaving do. And this week two members, Nicola and Ellie, celebrated their birthdays plus I had a Christmas pudding that needed eating. So we had a dinner at my house.

Originally I thought, “I’ll just steam the pudding” then decided that was far too dull. Then I thought a light noodle soup would suffice. But no, my friends have long lamented the lack of a roast dinner so, though I can’t do that, I opted for a lemon chicken pot roast with cubed chips as roast potatoes.  We had no wine but everyone turned up having had tough days and wanted to share stories over tea and water so that was perfect. Ellie also came with cheese and biscuits and a box of frosting that was left over from her weekend birthday party. An excellent alternative to brandy butter, it was added to the menu.

I kept tasting the chicken and it was incredibly bitter. However, with a dash of mustard and sugar at the end it perked up. At that moment all the lights went out. We sat in the dark with candles and peered at our plates. We chatted about how much chicken should be eaten off the bone (most bones were picked clean), we shared stories of the day, and we swapped concerns and observations on our lives here. At least with no power you could see the blue flames licking up the burning pudding as I brought it in. By the end we had over eaten and talked for hours. Stresses were washed away with the dirty plates, and we knew more about each other. Birthdays were marked and friendship was marked too. I think everyone went away feeling happy and full. It was everything that our EWF is there for.

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

Happy New Year

If anything is a festival of ‘hoping the sun comes up tomorrow’ it is New Year. The date is merely the passage of time as we mark it. And it can be wonderful but it is also without a doubt the holiday that people complaint the most about. It’s expensive and ultimately a bit pointless for many people I know, freezing ankles and thighs in a wet or slushy city in the middle of the night with a full bus meaning an expensive taxi is the only option. I have never really been in that school, for starters I long ago realised that the pound payment for the cloakroom was a cheap price for a warm coat at the end of a night out in Manchester. And that there are much better ways to spend New Year.

My family, like many I know in the North of England, join Scotland in the tradition of first footing. At the end of the old year someone (or everyone) will leave the house, preferably by the back door. And the first foot in the front door after midnight will be by a person carrying a tray of symbols of things you wish for the home that year; coal for warmth, a candle for light, bread for food, money for, well, money, and whisky for good cheer. However, over the past years I have introduced this idea to a number of very blank looking friends. And this year was no exception.

For six months I have had the urge to cook Coq au Vin, so took the opportunity to invite fellow VSOs for dinner. As midnight approached we set up first footing and left the tray outside the house. We headed to the roof and watched the fireworks around the bay. We shared fizzy wine and grape juice with each other and my neighbours then headed inside and brought with us warmth (not hugely necessary), food (definitely necessary), light (even for a night or two would be nice), money (well, there is a volunteer allowance), and good cheer (fine, we have that sorted).  We sat up chatting and drinking red wine from cartons until after the call to morning prayer. I fell into bed, and, as I’d used the board from the base as a table extension, I promptly fell straight through and spent the next few hours in denial that I was at a seventy degree angle.

   

The next day is a big day for the Christian community here. Many of my church friends were amazed that I see it as a purely secular holiday and hadn’t spent the night in church. But Mathias wanted to take me to see the masquerades in Banjul the following day. In our new his-n-hers outfits we headed into the capital. The masquerades are run by hunting societies. There are a number of these and some do still go hunting. It’s a largely Christian tradition, so the hunting season closes for Lent. They also have displays in which they build costumes to represent their mastery over wild beasts, usually stuffed heads shipped from Europe and America as taxidermy goes out of fashion. The excitement seems to be in seeing new animals and there is a great honour in being the first person to wear a head. The competition element is who can get the most unusual head.

     

The streets of Banjul are crowded, have open gutters and are grey and dirty, with very few maintained road surfaces. The crowds on New Year’s Day were extreme, pushing the unwary into a sewer or over a kerb without fear, especially if a masquerade, kids setting off fire crackers or man waving a flare was in the way. We found friends who invited us for lunch, oysters which I normally skip on avoiding illness grounds.  We ten re-braved the crowds, watching a few strange apparitions wearing armour made of shells, an armadillo and horns topped with a headdress of a dead animal or horns wandering past dancing in white socks. There are three speeds of dance and the rest of the society beats drums and clappers or weaves around the masquerade, one with a pipe.  It is in a way interesting, like being a t a rush bearing and in a similar way to visiting a zoo in terms of people seeing exotic animals. I was the only person in the crowd near me to identify the polar bear.

But I was tired and seeing another stuffed animal head with a man dancing underneath it starts to wane after a few hours, as well as my legs starting to complain that they had already spent the night trying to climb a mattress so sitting would be good. Plus, trying to leave Banjul at night is, like on any new year, the fight for an overpriced taxi whilst wishing a night bus will pass. I watched the fireworks as we fought the crowd and waited for a taxi who thought D200 (about £4 but also about a day’s income for me) was a reasonable price for a seven mile journey. The fireworks were lovely. And then we went home, and found that I had put my bed back together. This time when I fell into it I didn’t fall through.

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.