TravelStream™ news feed for member sweet2thlh on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/sweet2thlh en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Mon, 17 Mar 2008 07:44:53 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1204394160/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1204394160/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1204394160/tpod.html Mon, 17 Mar 2008 07:44:53 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

Gender divisions are strong in The Gambia. As a Muslim country, the Gambia combines both civil and Sharia law in a polygamous society where men can take up to 4 concurrent wives. Over recent years, there have been significant steps towards securing legal equality for Gambian women; for example, women can vote and there are women in high ranking positions within the government. In 2006 the National Assembly dropped exclusions to an international protocol they had signed, meaning that under Gambian law, FGM (female circumcision) is now banned, men and women have legal equality in marriage, and abortion is decriminalised. Other legal advances include prohibition of child marriage, improved access to land rights and the tightening up of violence laws.   But a change in legality doesn't automatically translate into a change in practice. FGM for example is a ritual that an estimated 60-90% of Gambian women have experienced yet even now it is technically illegal, continues to thrive whilst official powers decline to punish those involved in what is viewed as a cultural custom. Similarly when an incident of girl-child marriage or spousal violence occurs, there is often a reluctance to interfere in 'traditional' issues.  Many activities are also divided along gender lines. Cooking is a women's chore. Sewing amusingly (to me), is a male task. Men oversee livestock whilst women are responsible for the backbreaking cultivation of rice fields. The cynic among me would also list "productive labour" as a female activity whilst "sitting, drinking attaya and chewing the fat" as a male thing, but this would be somewhat of an unfair generalization.  Recently I broke the lock on my front door and needed it replaced. Simple task you might think - apparently not. Five times the locksmith has been now to "fix" it and 5 times I've been back with renewed pleas of desperation. Each time, his solution appears to be: rip out the lock, give it a bit of a shake, then nail it back in. By now my door has so many holes in it he's had to wedge bits of plywood into gaps just to get the handle to hang on. We are both stubbornly avoiding admitting the truth, that whatever the original problem may have been, the speedy proliferation of damage means that a new door is probably the only remaining thing that might possibly save it.  Today when I came back to my house, he was standing scratching his head, looking dejectedly at his nemesis. As I entered his line of vision, his whole face lit up with inspiration - he had figured out the problem... - Me! It was obvious; he explained with great solemnity, that I was opening it wrongly. "You women" he declared with some passion "you do not have the touch for these things. You are too gentle". I disagreed, pointing out that when the problem last occurred I had been with "a big strong man" and he couldn't open it either (ok, so it was actually my friend Evie, but she's Scottish and scary, and anything but gentle).  But he wasn't having any of it. I had clearly failed DoorOpening 101 and was in need of retraining. What followed next was an extended compulsory instruction session of him standing over me grimly chanting "key in, turn, key out" over and over whilst everyone else in my compound pissed themselves laughing. Much to my annoyance, the damn thing now works.  One giant leap for the women's lib movement in The Gambia...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1202666340/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1202666340/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1202666340/tpod.html Wed, 13 Feb 2008 13:04:39 -0500 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

This blog is getting a little out of sequence, but needs must... Just before I left to go to the UK I had a Christmas party. I like Christmas. Scratch that, I LOVE Christmas. I think it's a combination of the glitter, singing and mulled wine. Last year, my tree only came down in July because I moved house and that's around the same time I started humming carols. My friends don't quite understand the obsession, but are tactfully supportive, possibly in the quiet hope that the enthusiasm will eventually blow itself out.  Gambians mostly don't celebrate the event of Christmas itself, but it is still a national holiday and many will use the opportunity to drop in on their bible-bashing friends. As I wasn't going to be in The Gambia for the big day itself, I wanted to organize an event beforehand that all my friends, Gambian and non could come to. This wasn't as easy as it sounds.  Programmes I've been to here rarely seem to combine a genuine mix of the two. There are varied reasons for this perhaps, but one of the key causes is alcohol. As a rule (although there are obviously exceptions), Gambians do not drink. For a start it's prohibited by their religion. As one friend explained it to me: "We have to behave as if we are to be audited. God will be very angry with me if when I meet him he asks me 'where is your liver?' and I have to tell him 'I left it for beer'". Fair point I thought.  I am endlessly impressed every time I go to a Gambian programme and see the sort of merriment and epileptic-style dancing I would normally associate with Freshers Week, and yet everyone is stone-cold sober. Where's the security of being able to deny everything/claim memory-loss afterwards? For most Gambians, the idea that it's necessary to drink large quantities of a poison (that damages a person's ability to walk, talk and self-assess singing ability, not to mention the crippling next-day headache)  in order to enjoy oneself is rather perplexing. Some of them have told me that this kind of drunkenness has put them going off to Toubab events altogether.  So we were determined that this event was going to be a Proper Christmas Party. And it was. We had decorations, mince pies, presents, a tree, carols, even a recitation of "Twas the Night Before Xmas". A friend of mine offered to play Santa and we located a suit for him. He's not unattractive this boy, and thanks to a complete coincidence, every woman in the house happened to have business in the bedroom when he was changing into it. There was almost a scrum when he asked the crowd who wanted to sit on his knee.  Some of the children were terrified of Santa. They had never heard of the man and resented being forced to go anywhere near this strange toubab. On the other hand they each wanted a present and you could see the internal dilemma raging inside their heads as they eyed up the pile of gifts being guarded by the guy with the weird suit and bizarre facial hair. Eventually greed won through. But then I guess that's what Christmas is all about.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199824800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199824800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199824800/tpod.html Mon, 21 Jan 2008 15:49:44 -0500 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

So, for three weeks I was in the UK, the first time I have been back since I left in September 2006.  I had a wonderful time at home spending time with family and friends. I ran around like a headless chicken and didn't get to see everyone I would like to, or enough time with the people I did see. I was repeatedly touched at the efforts lots of people went to, to meet up with me despite the face I have been absent for the last 16 months, and have in the interim, let's face it, been a rubbish correspondent.  I did some really cool stuff. There were moments (when I was at a concert in the Millennium Dome for example, wandering around modern art exhibitions, or supping afternoon tea in front of a roaring fire in a stately home - that's RIGHT people, I AM a lady of culture and sophistication) that my mind would just splinter and I found it impossible to reconcile being there with being in The Gambia only a few days earlier.  Hot showers, proper milk, MTV, fresh mushrooms and constant electricity access helped ease the trauma.  I brought some lovely clothes over from the Gambia. Beautiful African prints, personally designed and turned into outfits for me by my own tailor. I did wear them whilst back in the UK - not that anyone saw them, because it was so frickin cold I had to wear 20 layers of clothes on top. Style be damned, my main concern was hyperthermia and I mostly staggered about in an eclectic collection of garments begged borrowed and stolen from my nearest and dearest. Exactly how peculiar I looked became apparent when I was sat on the steps of a luxurious hotel in Covent Garden (which thanks to a generous friend was my accommodation for the night) and someone came and pressed a pound coin into my hand. I was outraged, yes, but not enough to give back the money.  Being back was in some ways unsettling. Many things have changed whilst I have been away. My friends have bought houses, climbed career ladders, established nest eggs, got married, started families... I, on the other hand, have no permanence whatsoever. I freeload in a rented house, work in an absorbing but temporary job, have a group of friends who will one by one peel off back to their different corners of the world, I have about ten dalasis in my bank account, and I often don't feel much more than a child myself.  I love my life at the moment and actually quite like this feeling, of freedom and possibility. But I recognise that at some point it will probably have to come to an end. That most likely I will one day return home and start doing some of that proper grown-up stuff. God forbid. This is a mildly alarming reality and not one I'm ready to face just now. So to those of you that were asking "when are you coming back?", the answer is 'not just now'. Soon. It has nothing to do with how much I love and miss you guys back home, so please don't forget about me. I just have a few more sunsets to watch, and Wolof swear words to memorise and bumsters to wind up first...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199476440/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199476440/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1199476440/tpod.html Mon, 21 Jan 2008 15:39:06 -0500 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

In trying to make the most of my time, I've tried to use my vacations to travel around a bit and see different places.  Over the Christmas break I went to a very bizarre country. They spoke the same language as I did but much faster and with a comic range of accents. Despite having lots of space, people had built houses up into the sky so they were living one on top of the other. Yet there were hardly any people in these houses - cultural traditions require grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles to all separate themselves rather than living in one big family unit. And although this was one of the richest countries I have ever seen, there were some people who didn't have any place to call home and slept on the street.  People are permanently in a hurry, rushing around as if time is something to be economised rather than enjoyed and that you can somehow make more of it by never being idle. They plan everything they do in advance, and when they tell you a time for something, they actually mean that particular time and get most annoyed if you mistake it for a vague starting-point. Even the huge metal tubes that people use to speed around at thousands-of-miles-an-hour both under and over the ground have to keep to a timetable, rather than waiting to depart when they are full and everybody is ready.  Once people get to their destinations, they get straight down to business, without so much as even basic enquiries about the morning, the family, the work or the health of their peers. Everyone has these invisible boundaries which they call "personal space" and if you fail to spot them you could get a slap or a lawsuit. Privacy is highly valued and two people could live or work side by side with each other and not be involved in each other's lives! This means that all the houses in the whole country have to be numbered because otherwise you might not be able to find someone when their neighbours don't know them.  People seemed to be afraid of eating the same foods more than once in the same week. And eating itself was inherently complicated - everybody wants their own meal on their own plate so you have to predict exactly how much they want rather than letting everybody dig into one communal bowl and take as much as they need. Also, everyone seemed to be obsessed with alcohol. Some people were very for it, and other people were very against it, but they all seemed to think about it a lot. And as for drinking tea - in this society they have invented machines where you can just press a button and tea comes out, completely missing the point of the drink which is the social ritual of brewing it together.  There were many newspapers but confusingly, most people I met seemed relatively content rather than permanently worried about all the death and doom and destruction that filled the daily pages. Stranger still, the media was highly and openly critical of the government that the people themselves had voted in! No wonder people didn't take much notice.  It was a great trip to England, and I would definitely go back, but it must be a very odd place to live.                                       
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1194339660/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1194339660/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1194339660/tpod.html Tue, 06 Nov 2007 04:12:13 -0500 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

A recurring fear I had about coming to this country was that I would somehow screw up and find myself rotting in a West African jail. In a whole year of living here, I've thus far managed to evade incarceration, in fact I've managed to avoid going anywhere near the police. Until now. Last week my camera was stolen and my insurance company require a police report within 24 hours. Not overly hopeful on this point, being long accustomed to the speed at which things happen in The Gambia, off I trundled to my local police station for what turned out to be among the most entertaining few hours of my life. So I wander into the station and learn that in The Gambia, they have saved space and bricks by combining the police office and the holding cell into one room. Prisoners are held in an enormous metal cage in the middle of the room, whilst the policeman are squashed to the side, their desks propped up against the cage. It's clearly been a productive (or not?) day for pickpocketing because about 15 young lads are currently banged up in the cage. I got given a Gambian name "Isatu Jobarteh" when I first arrived in-country and that's mostly what I use now. It started as a useful way of fending off unwanted attention, developed into a way of helping me blend in and differentiate myself from tourists, and now I feel it's an established part of my identity. So much so in fact sometimes I fear I've developed a kind of cultural schizophrenia. Isatu is a friendly chatty neighbour who sings greetings at all she meets whilst walking down the street. Louise is still a stroppy wench who is best not crossed early in the morning. So I start filling out paperwork and automatically use the name Isatu, before I realize that my insurance company are unlikely to be impressed with this, and have to ask for a new form. The sergeant is himself distinctly unamused and highly suspicious of my explanation that I "filled the wrong name". Eyeing me up and down trying to decide whether I am a terrorist, fraudster, or just genuinely stupid, he makes me repeat my English name over and over in an attempt to catch me out. By the time he is satisfied that this is indeed my name, everyone in the room, inmates included, can pronounce and spell my name perfectly. Whilst I'm filling out the paperwork a passionate quarrel breaks out between a policeman and an inmate which soon turns into a free-for-all as everyone in the room joins in. My Wolof not being up to the challenge, I feel rather left out and am delighted when they notice and thoughtfully switch their argument to English for my benefit. Gambian police could clearly give English police a lesson or two on inclusiveness and inherent racism. Eventually I finish the paperwork and am informed that I must now head to another police station on the other side of town to sign an affidavit. "I can't do that here?" I meekly request. "Of course not!" they respond in astonishment. So off I go. On the back streets of Serrekunda I find the police station and am pleasantly surprised by the relatively party-like atmostphere. A senior policeman takes my details and goes off to type them up. This takes almost an hour and in the meantime I sit in the police courtyard in the sunshine, drinking Attaya, shooing away chickens and chatting with various policemen who all individually take the time to commiserate that People are Very Bad to Steal. I point out that it is such crime that is keeping them in a job and after considering this at length, we agree that Stealing is Fine So Long as You Get Caught. Eventually the senior policeman comes back with a piece of paper that looks like it was created by a ten year old with his "My First Stencilling Kit". Just so it looks completely official, he proudly plonks a big red sticker on the top. So do I get my report now? I ask, already relatively confident in the answer. Of course not - back I go to the first police station. I arrive in the station to the dubious honour of being enthusiastically welcomed back by the cellmates who launch a rousing chorus of "Louise, Louise, we missed you". Thrilled to now be on first-name terms with the criminal underworld of the country, I optimistically produce my affidavit and request my police report. "Oh but police reports, they are not easy" I am told "Sometimes they can take many months". "Surely not?" I reply wide eyed "Why, my good friend the Inspector General told me it could be done in a day..." This causes some discomfort and I am told to return in the evening. Which I do. And am now informed the typist only comes in at night. I must pay for two things - once for the report (paper doesn't grow on trees you know), and once for the coffee needed by the typist in order that he can stay awake to be able to produce my report. The policeman that relays this last bit of information does so with an utterly straight and solemn face which amuses me so much I willingly hand over the bribe. The next morning I return - no police report. That afternoon- same story. The following morning: ditto. This amusing little game goes on all week until I eventually lose my temper, get into a virulent loud argument with the station commander and end up snatching my paperwork out of his hands. Trembling with fear realising the stupidity of such behaviour, I decide in for a penny, in for a pound and loudly demand my bribe back. There's a tense moment where the pair of us are both waiting to see if he is going to have me beaten and shot, but then a wave of resignation appears to override him and to my palpable relief and surprise, he shrugs his shoulders and hands over the cash. I never did get my report...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1192546020/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1192546020/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1192546020/tpod.html Tue, 16 Oct 2007 10:58:51 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

My new place of work has a wonderful tradition. A mid-morning alfresco communal tea-break. At 10:30 each day, a playground-bell rings out around the office. Everybody downs tools and gathers outside under the shade of the large mango tree where the table has been set like the mad hatters tea party. For fifteen minutes everybody from the director down to the farm labourers, come together for a cuppa and a natter, to exchange greetings and gossip, and more often than not, instantly resolve any outstanding work matters. I've learned more about projects, staff, and issues in these mini-breaks than I have in any formal meeting. It's not the channel of communication that maybe I'm used to, but somehow it works. For the last month, this ritual has been a rather quieter affair with only the small number of toubabs and the rare Gambian Christian in attendance. Saturday was Koriteh - the festival marking the end of the holy month of Ramadan. For the last 30 days, Muslims (i.e. most Gambians) have been fulfilling specific religious observances. The most obvious of these is fasting - no food or liquid should pass one's lips from sunrise to sunset - hard enough to do anywhere but a particular challenge in sub-saharan Africa. One of the main reasons behind this sacrifice is to help followers feel sympathy for those less fortunate than themselves. In a country where the majority of people live in absolute poverty, I am in awe to see how committed people are to fulfilling this obligation. But it's not just about the diet. Ramadan is also about prayer, charity, self-reflection and spiritual cleansing. The devout are expected to refrain from listening to non-religious music, watching irreverent tv, losing their temper, engaging in gossip or sarcasm, or having impure thoughts. Being the culturally sensitive person I am, I completely forgot this last one when I came across an explicit shot of two Z-list celebrities in a magazine. Curious as to whether I was the only one who found such a graphic photo offensive, I turned to my Gambian friend for his opinion. After two weeks of enforced self-control, he clearly did not appreciate having naked pictures thrust into his face and he ran away from me. Very fast. Mortified, I then added insult to injury by chasing after him and attempting to make it up to him by offering him chocolate cake. I am extremely lucky Ramadan is also about forgiveness. Saturday was a sight to behold. Hundreds of people were out on the streets dressed in their new outfits, the scent of cooking eminated from every compound, music was pumping and children scampered everywhere hyped up on the pursuit of Salibou (basically the Gambian equivalent of trick or treating, only these kids aren't going to fobbed off with a couple of jelly sweets, they're going for the cold hard cash). I am mildly embarrassed that I slipped away from the Koriteh celebrations for two hours to watch the world cup rugby, but clearly it was the right decision because my presence enabled England to win. The practical upshot of all this festivity upon my office is that today for the first time in a month, everybody was back at the tea-table. Honestly it was like a long-lost reunion. We all conveniently forgot that we had actually seen each other on Friday (and every day before that) and concentrated on the unabashed joy at being able to bond over the teapot once more. Hearty handshakes and hugs all round. I loved it and it more than compensated for my slight resentment that us heathens would have to go back to sharing the biscuits.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1187274780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1187274780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1187274780/tpod.html Tue, 16 Oct 2007 10:35:35 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

So it's been almost a year since I arrived in The Gambia. As my VSO placement wound its way to a close, I've been doing a lot of reflecting on the last 12 months. I can't believe it's been a whole year since I was saying goodbye to friends and family, suffering countless inoculations, and trying to wrestle my luggage into one bag. Looking back at the forms I filled out to apply for VSO in the first place, I'm amused by some of the things I said I was hoping to achieve whilst here. But I have gained a lot out of the experience. Not necessarily what I was expecting to - I've made some great friends, both Gambian and other volunteers. - I've learned a lot from my placement, both new skills I've developed, and awareness of children's rights issues - For the first time in my life I possess a tan that did not come out of a bottle (and so lacks the orange streaks to which I'd become accustomed) - I've learned some Wolof and a smattering of Mandinka (far less than I should have done, if I had tried harder) - I've developed a tremendous respect for Islam, a religion I have now realised I knew little about - I learned more than I could explain about Gambian culture and the importance of relationships - I've become more relaxed when things don't work out the way I was expecting - I've had malaria and learned a humbling lesson about not taking health for granted - I managed to keep my Christmas tree up for 10 straight months without friends removing/desecrating/setting fire to it. It's not all been a bed of roses. There have been times when I have been sad, mad, bad, or all three. I've been homesick, I've been sick, I've been frustrated. I've been bored. I've been exhausted. I've been pissed off. I've been appalled. I've had moments where I've had enough and wanted to come home. I'm really glad that I didn't let any of this get the better of me. On my last day at CPA, my colleagues held an impromptu farewell ceremony. All of them were in the office at the same time (an almost unheard off occurrence) and took it in turns to say a couple of words about me and my work there. I was very embarrassed and very touched. Like any VSO assignment, my placement at CPA has not been without its challenges, but I've met some terrific people there, and I leave with admiration for what the organization is trying to accomplish. Incidentally, polite references to my "interesting music" featured in many of their comments. This is not the first time ex-colleagues have had made such comments, and I wonder if I will ever learn to become more thoughtful or at least develop some taste in this regard. My placement as a VSO has finished. But my time in The Gambia has not. I've recently been offered a job at an international development NGO that will allow me to work on projects running across The Gambia and parts of Senegal and therefore will be here for another year. I have doubts and concerns about taking it up, same as I would do for any big decision, not least because it means I'll be away from home for that much longer and will no longer have the support network of VSO behind me. But it will be challenge and I always like them. So fingers crossed...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1184579880/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1184579880/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1184579880/tpod.html Mon, 06 Aug 2007 06:26:11 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Toubakouta, Senegal

I have a confession to make. It's been burning a hole in my conscious like a guilty secret and I have to spill. Please don't judge me too harshly or let it change your opinion of who I am. I am very much afraid that I am in danger of becoming an Ornithologist. For years I've laughed at people who sought their excitement in something as tedious as birds. I can remember being infuriated by them in South Africa. Trailing through wildlife parks in the search of Big Game, we'd get all excited at seeing a vehicle ahead stopped to peer into the jungle, long-range lenses at the ready. Only to draw closer and realize the source of the drama was some tiny dull looking bird, indistinguishable from any of the other dull looking birds filling the skys. "Ornithologists, the Scourge of ordinary Game-Watching Folk" we growled to ourselves, sullenly turning back to our quest for lion. When I was first offered a placement in The Gambia, I admit I knew virtually nothing about the place, other than a hazy awareness that it was in West Africa. Scouring the net for further information, I quickly ascertained that the country was particularly famous for 2 things: i) sex tourism ii) birds. I've yet to meet anyone who openly admits to traveling here for the former, but no end of people have unsuccessfully attempted to enthuse me about the latter. Written up in the guidebooks as an "ecological crossroads" between Equatorial Africa and the Sahara., The Gambia apparently is a Mecca for boring people worldwide who flock here to coo over all things winged. Well I've managed to live here almost a year without managing to pay any attention to the flying rats. Even the attempts of my ever-hopeful father failed to incite an interest in his condescending eldest daughter. This was until a few weeks ago when I took a weekend break away with a friend who when it comes to birds, Knows His Stuff. My interest was piqued when we wandered by a lake and he drew my attention to a dazzling display of eccentric behaviour from what I now know to be a Western Reef Heron. My first impression was that this bird had clearly got hold of the bird-equivalent of LSD, spinning as he was running in ever-more-dizzying circles around his poor bewildered mate. Then it hit me. This was an attempt at Flirting! Now, I've seen some very amusing "lady-impressing" efforts in my time, inevitably destined to crash and burn as I cannot keep a straight face in such situations, but never have I witnessed such singlemindedness displayed by this bird as he attempted to sweep his lady friend off her feet with his RoadRunner impression. Perhaps out of pity, or possibly vertigo, his mate seemed to respond positively and soon the pair of them were locked in a schizophrenic ballet around the water. It wasn't until later that I realized I had been watching them in absolute fascination for a good twenty minutes. Mortified, I stumbled away. My friend with a knowing smile on his face, sensibly opted not to comment. For the three days we were wandering around Senegal he pointed out various feathered creatures as I feigned disinterest with decreasing success. By the time we returned to The Gambia, it was I who reached for the BirdBook to look up the species we'd seen. Since then, I haven't been able to shake it off. Even just walking down my street, I find myself stopping to ogle every flap in every tree. It's like a disease. Does anybody know of a cure?
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1181854860/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1181854860/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1181854860/tpod.html Thu, 12 Jul 2007 07:14:41 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

Recently I've been taking a hard and accusing look at the animal kingdom. When picturing Africa and Wildlife before I came, it was mostly quixotic images of Big Game that sprung to mind. Lions and Tigers and Bears. Oh My. It wasn't that I had expected a savannah view from my front window with herds of majestic wildbeast thundering across the horizon whilst lion cubs frolicked in the foreground for my amusement. Not exactly anyway, although the odd close encounter with a rampaging rhino wouldn't hurt. Trips upcountry have brought me closer-than-is-comfortable to hippos, crocodiles and baboons. But on a day to day basis my battles with nature's bounty tend to be with much smaller creatures. My house is the venue for an ongoing battle between the ant and cockroach populations, each ever-failing to gain an upper hand. I regularly get scolded by people in my compound for scampering around barefoot without paying heed to the other inhabitants, namely scorpions, snakes and blister-beetles (charming little bugs that spit burning acid). But in the last week, my attention has been focused on two particular pests; mosquitoes and lizards. Hostilities between mosquitoes and myself reached new heights last week when I developed malaria. This actually wasn't as bad as it sounds, mainly because I received medical attention so quickly. Other than the first evening which was possibly the least fun night of my life, once the meds kicked it, it was pretty much like a nasty dose of flu. I don't mean to treat it lightly, because Malaria is one of the world's biggest killers, but thanks to a perceptive and persistent friend (who ordered me to the clinic rather than going along with my inclination to "sleep it off") and once again the unfair but useful advantages of being a volunteer here, I was A-OK in no time. My main lesson from this incident was the revelation of the scheming and Machiavellian nature of mosquitoes. They observed my smug zealousness in anti-mosquito protection in my early days in The Gambia, slathering myself in so much repellent that I dripped a trail of poison behind me wherever I went. "It won't last" they cackled to themselves, "We can wait". And so they watched on as my enthusiasm for repellent dwindled first to "when it rains" to "when it's dark" to "when I remember to buy some". They gloated when I decided the advantages of sleeping under a mosquito net were outweighed by the disadvantages of being in a hot and sticky tomb-like contraption. The little b*stards rubbed their hairy hands with joy when I was adopted by a cat who mistook the netting covering my windows for an adventure-climbing frame and tore great holes in it which I failed to fix. And finally, when I lost my phone and with it, the recurring reminder to take my prophylactics (despite my enjoyment of the associated hallucinogenic dreams) for three weeks running, they decided their moment had come and enjoyed a great feast of my blood, in exchange for which they generously donated their own parasite-ridden fluids. Now older, wiser, if slightly weaker, I will not underestimate them again. My other sworn enemies at the moment are lizards. The outside walls of my house are home to a number of gheckos who laze away the days sunbathing on the walls, lolling their tails just out of reach of my increasingly frustrated cat. I've always found them rather cute with their oversized heads which they waggle with excitement before leaping on some poor unsuspecting fly. This affection expired with a bang in an incident of extreme embarrassment and panic earlier today.There I was, minding my own business on the toilet when I become aware of a splashing sound.. I ignored it as one does when one is still sleepy from an afternoon nap and has failed to check if the cubicle is already occupied. The splashing continued with vigor and as realization dawned, I froze in fear. After a quick reality assessment- no, I was neither dreaming, nor filming a Hitchcock horror movie, I became paralyzed with indecision. Visions of bloodthirsty water monsters floated before my eyes. Neither staying put, nor moving and possibly thereby angering the Toilet Beast seemed like a good idea. In the end I settled on hurling myself forward headfirst out of danger and into the doorframe (no easy maneuver when your trousers are binding your ankles together). First hurdle over, I crept nervously back towards the now eerily silent toilet bowl, brandishing a nearby bleach spray to defend myself. Just as I was psyching myself up to peer inside and thereby prove to myself I had imagined the whole thing, I came nose to nose with a terrified lizard making a list ditch (failed) attempt to hurl himself to freedom before plunging back into his white prison. It's difficult to know who screamed louder. Three hours, a dozen flushes and several slugs of whiskey later and my new companion and I were still unwilling co-residents. Neither of us were happy about the situation. Pleading phone calls to friends elicited only hysterical laughter. Finally a suggestion was made that poking a branch down there would enable the lizard to climb out to freedom. Willing to try anything at this stage, I gave it a go, much to the disgust of the lizard who pointedly ignored it. Great, now I had both a lizard and a stick stuck in my toilet. Finally in desperation, with both bladder and heart rate at breaking point, I was forced to close my eyes and praying loudly, thrust my hands in (protected only by a flimsy carrier bag) and seize the struggling soaking creature. Running wildly through my house I hurled it out of the door, whereupon it blinked a couple of times dazed, and was promptly pounced upon by the cat. I am seriously considering digging a pit latrine in my back yard.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1179166320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1179166320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/sweet2thlh/gambia2006/1179166320/tpod.html Mon, 14 May 2007 14:52:02 -0400 Survival of The Blondest

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Banjul, Gambia

My placement had a very slow start and for a while I wondered if my office had only requested a volunteer to have an extra person to contribute to the daily breakfast debate over the newspaper. There seemed little for me to get my teeth into and I spent most of my time getting to know my colleagues. I found this new work ethic very difficult to get used to. Communication and forward planning were the main barriers I had in my office. . My lowest point came when I came back to work after having been off the previous Friday. Monday morning I saunter off to my office, only to discover it has moved. "That's odd" I think to myself as I wait outside for the gate to be unlocked, "I'm not normally the first one here". Ten minutes later, my confusion is compounded by observing through the window that all the office furniture is similarly absent. Remembering vague allusions to a possible relocation sometime in the future, the penny drops and I deduce the truth: my office decided on Friday to move on Saturday. This is no small task and I later ascertain the abruptness of the move is linked to the non-payment of rent, and an (unfounded) reliance on the indulgence of the landlord, but for now, they've moved and forgotten to tell me. Unable to raise any of them on the phone, I am reduced to wandering aimlessly about the streets, peering in windows and calling out "CPA? Anyone seen CPA?" in a pitiful but hopeful small voice, much as you would do for a lost cat. Eventually I run into other bewildered colleagues doing the same and together we manage to track down our new workplace. Since then things have improved a million percent and I'm now involved in a range of CPA activities. Once a quarter, CPA organise a Children's Bantaba - a one day open forum run by and for children on issues that affect their welfare. Each Bantaba has a theme, previous themes have included child labour, or trafficking of children, this time it was to be the culture of silence that surrounds child sexual abuse. My highlight of the day was the opening street march. More than 100 proud children strutted their way for two miles along the streets, waving banners and distributing leaflets, whilst being led by the Gambian National Army Brass Band. Getting a bit distracted by the men in uniform I had to keep being shooed back to march with the children rather than the officers. At one point I found myself absent-mindedly chanting "Go Child Abuse...um hang on, that can't be right" Child sexual abuse is a very real issue in The Gambia - the situation is exacerbated by the tourist industry which encourages prostitution of children but it is far from being just a tourist issue. Levels of poverty make it easy to exploit children whose families may support their kids having a 'patron' if it is going to enable them to pay for school, or contribute to the family income. Combined with cultural notions of honour and the accepted practice of marrying off girls early (often to older, rich men) before they reach an age where they could risk fall pregnant out of wedlock, sexual exploitation of children is far from uncommon. Another related tradition is that of FGM (female genital mutilation) practised by all bar 1 of the tribes in The Gambia. Each village will usually have a female circumciser who is responsible for ensuring the girls of the community receive the custom which can have devastating effects on their health, sexual and reproductive rights. Today in the newspaper was a declaration by a group of several female circumcisers who after working with GAMCOTRAP, a partner of CAP, have taken an oath to "Drop The Knife", denounce FGM and instead promote the rights of women and children in The Gambia. There is a long way to go in abolishing FGM, but this is a very important first step in the right direction. Some of the issues CPA work on are quite difficult to deal with (like FGM) are quite difficult to deal with, but I'm happy to be working for an organisation that's trying to tackle them.
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