Prayer

I sat an exam this morning. It is a long time since I have taken any written exam, so it was a bit of a shock to face three hours of essay writing under controlled conditions. This marks the end of a post-grad module I have been studying in Development Management, through the Open University in the UK. It has been a fascinating course, looking at the prospects for Global Development in the 21^st century. I have been able to learn about the effects of colonialism, the rise of industrial capitalism and liberal democracy, the impact of the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War, the influence of the World Bank, International Monetary Fund and OECD countries, the acceleration of globalisation, the relative importance of the state, the market and civil society in determining development policy; quite a lot of stuff.

I took Wednesday off, to study at home. But on Tuesday, before I left the office my colleagues gathered in our office to offer prayers for my exam. Now this is a thing that never happened in my previous job! Together we were six Muslims and two Christians, and the prayers were mainly said in Wolof and Arabic. I was touched by the sincerity and kindness of my colleagues.

Prayer is a significant part of life in The Gambia. Public occasions often start with both Muslim and Christian prayers. Work meetings and training programmes usually begin with prayer. Even when we meet as a group of three or four colleagues to work together, we sometimes pause for a silent moment of prayer before we begin. One saying for a Muslim believer is that Islam is closer to him or her than their jugular vein. Before praying, each one performs their ablutions, washing the face, head, ears, mouth, nose, hands and feet three times over, to become ritually clean. On the street and in the market you see people washing as prayer time approaches, with water poured from colourful plastic kettles.

Many pray five times per day at set times. One such time is two o’clock in the afternoon when virtually all the men (it is the men; women pray separately and sometimes slightly later) working in the Education Department go down to the mosque behind our building. Around town at these times, those that cannot make it to a mosque unroll their mat wherever they are, face east, and pray. The daily prayers follow a routine of standing, bowing, and kneeling down with the forehead touching the ground. There is something very humbling about praying with your knees on the hard ground and your face in the sand – I know because I have tried it. There is something very collective about praying all together – old men, young boys, fathers and sons, bosses and workers, directors, drivers and street traders, the whole community at the mosque, jeans and t-shirts alongside elegant tunics, traditional mbonet hats next to dreadlocks.

These regular prayers have set words. The two most frequently repeated phrases are Allahu Akbar (God is great) and La Illah Illa Lahu (No God but Allah).

So I hope I pass my exam. I have God is on my side, so I should be OK. (And Allah too thanks to my colleagues). I don’t suppose that any amount of prayer makes up for lack of study, but I have tried my best. I could have done more, I suppose. I could certainly have done less. So we will see. And in a couple of weeks the next module starts. Allahu Akbar.

Chicken and Eggs

I climbed into a minibus taxi this weekend. There were two of us sharing the front bench seat, alongside the driver. The other passenger, an elderly man, began punching me on the arm and muttering words in Jola. I thought that this perhaps was a different kind of local greeting, one that I had not encountered before. But he persisted with thumping me and became increasingly urgent in waving and gesturing, until I noticed that he was also pointing into the footwell. I looked down and my crime became clear as I realised that I was treading on his chicken.

Minibus taxis are cramped, and it is a squeeze to get in and out through the sliding door at the side. Passengers typically help each other by passing baggage in and out. This might be a bag or a box, a tub of vegetables to be sold at the market, sometimes a musical instrument like a drum or a kora, or most entertainingly a baby. Grimacing babies are handled roughly, swung by one arm from person to person. The rules of this game of pass-the-parcel seem to be that whoever is holding the baby when the vehicle begins to move has to hold the baby until the mother remembers to ask for it back, or until it is sick. Twice now a mother has sat in front or behind me and started to chat to other passengers, and I have managed to retain the baby for the whole journey. Mothers seem quite pleased to be rid of the responsibility for a short while, and baby is often intrigued to stare up at a white face, possibly for the first time. I am a little anxious about what happens if the mother gets out and I forget to return her baby.

The other day I accidentally bought some eggs. It was on my journey home from Jarreng a couple of weekends ago. The geli-geli stopped in Soma so we could find breakfast. There are no service stations here, but towns are well served by street vendors with drinks and food. You can have an omelette cooked at the roadside, or a cow sandwich, or any of a variety of local foods. Louise and I bought ñeebi (bean paste in bread) and sat at the wooden stall of a man serving tea. In fact better than that it was tea with Ovaltine in it, made with thick condensed milk – yummy! Three ladies sat across from us and were served first, bread with mayonnaise, and a mug of tea each. Using Wolof I asked for tea, pointing to the cups that the ladies were drinking from. This man was a Mandinka speaker so my Wolof was useless, and he thought I was pointing to the stack of cooked eggs he had in the centre of the table, so he took an egg and began peeling off the shell. No, I said, tea, and pointed again towards the woman. Ah, said the man as he took back the bread from this lady and chopped up the egg into the centre of the sandwich. Her eyes lit up; Abaraka Baki, she said, thank you very much! No, tea, please, I said, and foolishly pointed towards the next woman who was drinking at the time. So she also was given an egg for her sandwich. By this stage it seemed churlish not to buy another egg for the third lady. And after having accidentally bought three eggs and made three women very happy, Louise and I eventually received our sweet Ovaltine tea. But no egg.

Easter

I had my shoes mended again. I know I already wrote about this once before but if anything it was even more exciting this second time! A strap had detached on a pair of sandals. One small piece of leather around the connection was missing, so the ‘shoe doctor’ went off to search for leather, and successfully returned with half a lady’s boot. He cut a strip using a razor blade and sewed the repair into place. Then he made another repair for me, and finished the job by polishing both pairs. The shoes are like new (well, almost) so I paid well and bought him a box of attaya too. The shoe doctors work in a corner of the market next to the ladies who sell charcoal, and the ground is black with dust. I waited on a wooden bench, enjoying the opportunity to sit and watch, and enjoy the market environment. A boy came and sat next to me and chatted. It was clear where this conversation was going, and eventually he got to the point… he has a football team that needs a sponsor (this means, “will you buy us a football”). I do help various people in my neighbourhood, but not normally through chance meetings in the market, so I declined.

We have fuel shortages again and there are long queues at petrol stations. Last evening I passed the Castle garage near my house and saw not only a queue of cars, but a parallel queue of perhaps one hundred containers, belonging to people seeking fuel. (You get the same thing at water pumps. Some pumps only operate during restricted hours and women place their bottles, buckets and containers in a line, and return later in the day to fill them.) So at this petrol station a line of plastic containers snaked around the forecourt, five-litre engine-oil-type bottles of various kinds (there is no law here restricting the sort of container that can be used for storing or transporting fuel). This morning I was in a shared taxi and we called in at a garage where there was a long line of cars, and my heart sank because I thought we would be there a long time. However, we by-passed the queue, drove straight to a pump and filled immediately. I have no idea what gave us that special privilege, but I am becoming used to not understanding everything, and just accepting things for the way they are. It is not unusual to stop for petrol when you are in a taxi. Most vehicles drive round with very little in the tank. There are probably various reasons for this, but of course one of them is money. A taxi driver will not have a large surplus of cash in order to fill his whole tank – he will make enough money in a couple of hours to buy two or three litres just for the next couple of hours, and so will need to go to the garage several times per day. I had not realised what a luxury it was for me in the UK to fill my car with enough fuel for two weeks driving. And it is very much in the culture to cater only for today’s needs, and deal with tomorrow when we get there. So it is normal to pound rice every day, to go to the market every day, and not to make plans very far into the future. What is the point in planning for next week – by then anything might have happened. And sometimes, anything does.

Tonight is Gamo, the birthday of the Holy Prophet of Islam. (This makes the fuel shortages particularly bad timing, as many people want to travel back to their villages and celebrate with their families). This means that tomorrow will be a public holiday. And then we also take Good Friday and Easter Monday as holidays. This is a hangover from British colonial times, probably, but also because the Gambian people know when they are onto a good thing, and Easter weekend is not something to give up lightly, even if you are Muslim. Like all Muslim festivals, the date of Gamo moves with the Islamic year and is dependent on the lunar month. This year it happens to be right next to Easter (and Koriteh was just before Christmas). I guess one thing we have like this in the UK calendar is the variable date of Easter. I like the fact that Easter changes date, though no doubt there are some who are whinging about how early it is this year. But this early date gives an increased chance that the Easter bunnies will leave tracks in the snow, which will make it easier to locate those eggs. I think it is good to have a few quirky things going on in the calendar. Here, all Muslim festivals change date every year. Most of them are dependent on a sighting of the new moon, so the exact date may not be known until the night before. And then the President is prone to announcing extra holidays from time to time just because he is in a good mood.

Your favourite blog author has made a recent departure into newspaper writing. Follow this link if you would like to read my article in Baddow Life. And if that doesn’t work click here and then select Issue 19.

And follow this link to read more about my journey to Jarreng last weekend.

 

Early Morning

Where were you at seven o’clock this morning? I enjoyed a short walk through the slumbering market, along the beach, and back through the town. I arrived early at DoSBSE (Department of Education); normally I just start work but today I took the opportunity to investigate the neighbourhood without crowds of traders every step of the way. I headed first into the Albert Market. The market is not named after Eastenders, but after Queen Victoria’s husband. (There are a number of colonial-type names around Banjul, but they are increasingly being replaced with local names). It is a large and permanent market with hundreds of stalls selling foods (fruit, fish, meat, rice, groundnuts), clothes and fabric (imported and local), household bits, bootleg CDs and cassettes, carpentry tools and builders equipment; lots of stuff – it is a proper market.

During the day this place is heaving. It is difficult to move through the crowds, and it is easy to get lost in the labyrinth of little lanes. The Albert Market is a day-trip destination from the tourist hotels. Buses pull up at the side of the market and spew out pink people, inappropriately dressed in vests and shorts, swarming excitedly at the prospect of engaging in the activity that defines their days – buying things. After a moment to gather their thoughts, these tourists are swallowed up into the market and then are never seen again.

But this morning I was there early when the market was just waking up. I sauntered along the alleys, explored amongst the wooden stands, found my way further and further into the secret depths of this place. There was stock left overnight on some tables, covered with dark tarpaulins or canvas and bound down with ropes. Others were empty, awaiting the arrival of their owners bringing products to sell. One or two vendors had already started arranging candles, torches, towels, batteries, soap, mugs, … into neat geometric piles on top of shoddy wooden market stalls. The market stalls are made of rough wood; perhaps it is wood from pallets, pulled apart and banged back together with nails. School desks are made in the same way, roughly thrown together with little technique or style. This is a surprise to me because there are plenty of skilled craftsmen here. Along the road you see workshops selling beds and armchairs which are carefully made and finished. There are metal workers too, making secure doors, ornate gates, and seats to go inside minibuses. But for some reason school desks and benches are not given the same priority.

After a while I began to get concerned, as there did not seem to be a way out. The path on which I had entered the market had been hidden by elves, and the view around each corner looked the same as the place I had just left. Above my head, corrugate and draped fabric, set to shield the market from the sun, obscured my view of the sky, so it was not easy to get my bearings. I followed a rat for a while, thinking him to be a friend, but then he stopped, glanced at me over his shoulder, sniggered, and darted away through a small gap. Those stallholders that I passed had a glint in their eyes, knowing that I was yet another toubab lost in the intestines of Albert Market, and that later in the day I would be sold inside pies and my bones boiled down to make glue.

But then, mercifully, I spotted light at the end of a long alley. I headed that way, and popped out onto a lane leading to the beach. Hymns of joy welled up in my soul. With renewed confidence I marched onto the sand into the most beautiful light. This beach is on the East side of the peninsular and therefore faces East, up the River Gambia. The water was bathed in morning light, making the rippling water shine like mercury or metallic paint. The first ferry (Kanilai) was leaving Banjul. At the far bank, perhaps it is three miles away, I could see another ferry sailing out of Barra. Senegalese and Gambian fishing boats landed their catch onto the beach. Women stood with large plastic tubs, waiting for stocks to sell in the market. Seagulls circled, expecting scraps. A group of bad-tempered vultures waited a little further away, aloof. I ambled past all of this, enjoying the absence of hurry or urgency, the opportunity just to go slowly, to watch, listen and ponder.

I continued along the beach, past a pack of feral dogs, past palm trees, more boats, a warehouse, some housing built of wood and corrugate, several people washing in the shallows, and walked all the way to the ferry terminal. There I cut back to the road, passing a stand with a huge pile of fresh bread. I could not resist. I bought half a tapalapa (like a French baguette, but softer) with egg and mayonnaise for my breakfast. The stallholder prepared my sandwich and wrapped it for me in a piece of newspaper. It is quite normal to buy food wrapped in paper. Often the newspapers are Dutch or Scandinavian. But this was a page of job vacancies from the Milton Keynes News and dated 18 July 2007. Ship Shape needs a Hair Stylist. NAB Precision Tooling is recruiting a CNC Miller. Somebody else needs an experienced curtain maker. And a “prestigious town centre company” are looking for Brand Advocates, whatever they are. It is good to know there will be opportunities for me when I get home. At least there were a few last July. In Milton Keynes. The bitiko in my street also sells bread wrapped in paper. Occasionally I have paper to dispose of, so I take it to this shop. The man there is always amazingly grateful, as it will cost him a few dalasi to buy old Dutch newspapers from a merchant. Although my friend in the bitiko is happy, of course I am damaging the livelihood of the paper merchant. Everything is complicated.

I walked back through the town with my egg-mayo sandwich, to enjoy it with a cup of tea at work. The sun rose high in the sky. The day became hot and dusty. Banjul became noisy and busy. But I was happy that I had sneaked some quiet and contemplative minutes as the day began.

P.S. A number of volunteers here write blogs. You may be interested to read something my friend Louise wrote about her trip to the UK.

Guinea Pig

This morning I arrived in work but the whole place was locked; now that has never happened before. Since the New Year I have changed my transport arrangements and I have been arriving here earlier. This is because the NGO that provided my transport until now will no longer help VSO due to some childish dispute they are having. This morning I got here very early, and found the gates of the Ministry of Education bolted against me; there is probably some metaphor in this to do with access to education, but it is too early for my mind to make clever comments like that.

In the district where I live, the main highway to Banjul passes not far from my house. This is convenient in many ways, but the road gets very busy during the morning rush hour. Banjul is on an island, with only one road on and off, over Denton Bridge (see Satellite Photo). Few people own cars, so throughout the morning the highway is lined with people in need of transport to Banjul. They flag down NGO cars, they climb into the back of pickups and lorries, and sit on flatback trailers or on top of truckloads of gravel or wood or boxes or scrap metal or sacks of rice. And they crowd round the minibus taxis, fighting for the few remaining seats. And what humbles me about this is that many of these people have no guaranteed work when they arrive in Banjul; they are simply seeking daily work for a few dalasi, and may spend the day outside a warehouse or at the dock gates, waiting hopefully. So for me, to avoid the crushing and pushing and standing at the roadside for two or three hours, I must leave at 6:30am or wait until 10:30am. I have done both. This morning I travelled early. And eventually a cleaner took pity on me outside the gates and let me in.

Yesterday there was a lot of shooting in Banjul. Various army units were engaged in an impressive parade for some reason, which ended with a few many-gun salutes, which echoed through the Ministry offices as we are just over the road from the square. This country is relaxed and laid-back but it is not unusual to see army patrols with their big guns. Vehicles are regularly stopped to check passengers and papers. And when the president travels, his route is monitored by soldiers with rifles, and roads and junctions are closed whilst he sweeps through in a big black car, accompanied by armed outriders and an ambulance.

A new bunch of volunteers arrived recently, the February 08 cohort. This means I have now been here a year, and am now one of the longer-serving volunteers out here. A year has passed quickly – I still feel new, but when a newer colleague asks me for help or advice I confidently pretend that I know what I am doing.

It is a month since I last added to this blog, as I have been away to Guinea-Conakry. West Africa is very flat, but Guinea has mountains and lots of rain (over 4000mm per year). All this water means that the highlands of Guinea give rise to many of West Africa’s rivers, including the Gambia and Niger. Guinea has annual exports totalling one billion dollars. This sounds a lot (it is the amount the UK Ministry of Defence spends in one month), but Guinea’s foreign debt is four times bigger. Guinea’s poverty has perhaps been exacerbated by a series of political decisions that arguably have backfired. Guinea was the first African country to demand independence from France, and therefore benefited least from transition assistance offered to their other colonies. They experimented with a form of state socialism along Chinese lines, but then abandoned it. And now Guinea sits uncomfortably outside the common market and shared currency (the CFA) of French West Africa, and they retain their rapidly devaluing Guinean Franc.

To read about my recent break in Guinea, click here.

Finally, here is a picture of a Guinea Pig.

Strange Sightings

How would you move a pile of gravel from the ground up to the first floor of a building under construction? How would you do it if you had fifteen men to help? Would you have them form a chain and pass buckets from hand to hand? Would you install a pulley and haul the gravel up load by load? Would you build a ramp and use barrows? I recently watched fifteen men move a pile of gravel. They stood in a line facing the gravel adjacent to the incomplete building, and each man had a long-handled shovel. In a choreographed fashion they all dug into the pile and threw shovel-loads of gravel up to a concrete floor at a level above head height. The movement of all the men in the line was completely synchronised. It evoked thoughts of oarmen in a Roman trireme, or a bizarre form of industrial line dancing. The gravel was moved, effectively and fairly quickly.

 

Many jobs are very labour-intensive in this way, and there are always willing hands to help. When a lorry unloads rams or sacks of rice, or melons, there is no shortage of volunteers to carry the goods, eager to earn a few dalasi. At the market, boys wait with barrows and offer to carry for you. I have needed their services only once, when I exchanged my gas bottle at a store in Latrikunda. Many people earn their money this way, with casual daily work at the market, on construction sites, or at the docks. Not many have regular secure jobs; the majority are working when they can, for whoever will pay them.

 

Since I arrived, a large boat has been under construction in a compound not far from here. In December the time came to move the vessel to Denton Bridge. A huge metal trailer on six axles was constructed on site and the boat lifted on. The compound wall was demolished and the trailer was hauled slowly along the uneven road. After a few metres one set of wheels sheared off. The welder set to work and after two days the trailer moved again, onto the main highway. It was not long before the trailer broke again, this time blocking both lanes of the Banjul highway, requiring vehicles to find an alternative route through the bush. By the following morning the repair was complete and the boat was finally launched into the bolong.

     

 

And one more thing I saw last week, which caused me to look twice. It is common enough to encounter animals here. Chickens scratch in the sand in many compounds. There are packs of feral dogs, even in the capital Banjul. Donkeys pull carts, in town as much as in rural areas. Sheep and goats mingle on every corner, and can often be seen lashed to the roof of a passing minibus-taxi. But last week I saw for the first time an ox in the boot of a car. I have no picture to provide as evidence, but in the boot of a regular saloon car there stood a regular ox. I don’t know how they persuaded her to get in. I don’t know how they imagined they could get her out. What next? A camel on the ferry, perhaps? Oh yes, nearly forgot…there was also a camel on the ferry.

  

I owe thanks to a number of kind people who sent donations with my recent visitors. Thank you for (amongst other things) children’s books, tennis balls and footballs. I will distribute these things carefully and to deserving homes or schools. I am particularly impressed with the initiative of someone who confiscated leather footballs from rich kids at a posh school and sent them out here – nice one! (I will refrain from giving further details, for sake of preserving your anonymity!)

And finally for now, click on this link to read an extra piece about darkness, electricity and light.