Shopping in Bamako

Just back from Mali work trip which I totally loved. It's rainy season there too, although they seem to be one of the only countries in the region that haven't been devastated by flooding. My image before going was of a dry,red, dusty place. Pretty much on a par with Burkina. What I did not expect, was that the capital, Bamako, is split across a huge river, the Niger, that travels all the way to Timbuktu.



I was staying in a hotel on one side, with my office on the other. Every morning I'd cross the river, past a huge, ornate building nestled on one side of the river bank which is going to be the new Parliament building if it ever gets finished. It's being funded by Gaddaffi whose mother is Malian apparently, so he pumps large sums of funding into the country each year.


Bamako has a relaxed, small-town feel. The sort of place you can feel at home in very quickly and where it's easy to just spend time bantering with people. To be honest I didn't see much of it though as work was a bit intense.


I arrived just after Independece day so there were Malian flags everywhere

I did manage to make it to the market on my last day though. One of my colleagues had given me the name of a shop that sells bazin the very colourful, shiny material that makes boubous which is really popular in Senegal but imported from Mali so much cheaper there (about £35 for the minimum 4metres you need, compared to about £70 in Dakar). I took a taxi there but he didn't really speak French and do I don't think he really understood me. Well, actually I know he didn't understand me as I definitely didn't end up where I wanted to be! Still, he did take me to a shop in the market with gorgeous wax material (the traditional West African patterned print). Wax is not so fashionable in Dakar so it's hard to get a good selection. I felt like a kid in a sweetie shop. There were no windows, just colourful material hanging in cuts of 6 yards; row upon row of material, covering every inch of the walls. So much choice. I only intended to buy one or two but an hour and a half later I left with a stack of 8 pagnes, probably weighing about 5kg, and a very light purse.

I then had to negotiate my way along the narrow market streets, sharing the way with battered taxis squeezing between the vendors' stalls. The ground had turned a deep, muddy red with the cars churning up the sandy floor. Squelching through the mud and trying to avoid the big, red puddles was not ideal in sandals. When will I learn? Still, I eventually made it to the bazin shop. Totally not what I was expecting. A really big room with a huge counter and only a few piles of coloured bazin in a glass cabinet behind the counter. A different world from the previous place. Along the counter, was a huge roll of white bazin which seemed to be the only thing selling. I asked why there were so few colours to choose from and was told that everyone buys the white material and then takes it to their own dyer (a bit like going to the tailor) where they have it dyed (and subsequently bashed with a big wooden mallet to make it shine) to the colour of choice. I opted for a classic dark blue and am very excited about having my first bazin boubou made for Tabaski (the second Eid - 2 months after end of Ramadan). Armed with bazin for me and half my office, and my huge stack of wax I eventually made it back to the hotel and by some miracle squeezed it all into my case. Good work.


I loved this statue which I passed every day on the way to work.

Oh the shame...

I have just got back from possibly the most cringeable evening I've had in the last 10 years. I don't know why I ever thought a dance class would be a good idea. I've never had any rhythm so why things would be any different with traditional African dance, I don't know.

There is a British intern in our regional office and she wanted to go and seemed like a fun idea. Oh god it was so painful though. I literally felt like my awkward 15 year old self again. We turned up at this big cultural centre and found ourselves in this open-air courtyard. There were a few people milling about and we asked if a dance class was happening and where we could change. By the time we'd faffed about finding toilets and getting changed, when we got back to the courtyard there were now about 20 people there.

20 extremely cool Senegalese people.

The men in baggy trousers, with dreadlocks and trendy t-shirst were setting up their drums in the centre and the women were just wandering about in leggings with mini skirts and revealing little tops. My friend and I on the other hand, were in tracksuits and t-shirts (mine was a particular classic one from work with some anti school violence message plastered across it). I can't begin to tell you how uncool we looked. It was so cringeable. We were the typical stereotype foreigners. We looked like such gimps and I haven't felt that out of place for years! I thought I was over all those feelings of being the geeky new girl wearing the wrong outfit, but clearly they can come back to haunt you!


We sat around for a while, waiting for the drumming to start. My friend tried to strike up a conversation with one of the guys (I, on the other hand became intensely interested in the small patch of concrete by my feet, hoping it would swallow me up). The conversation went something like:
'Hi, so is this the beginners' class?'
'Er, no, this is for the experts.'
'Oh, maybe we've made a mistake...'
'Oh know don't worry, you can just follow the steps. It's easy, if you can dance. You have danced before right?'


Knowing my dancing skills, I totally switched off at this point to avoid making myself feel even worse! Augustin, the teacher then came over and told us that one of the girls would take us through the steps while waiting for the rest of the group to arrive. So, there you have it. We had to get up and attempt this dance in the middle of the courtyard. IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. Cringe, cringe, cringe.


Although to be fair, after about 10 mins of jumping about, I pulled myself together, realised that it didn't really matter if I was crap and that I am not a 15 year old teenager that needs to be bothered about looking ridiculous. Then I actually started to enjoy it! It was hard work though - a mixture of moves that included ones suspiciously resembling star jumps and squats. It was like a full-on aerobics class. My thighs were screaming in agony by the end. I am never going to be able to walk down stairs tomorrow...


After we got the hang of the routine, the others practised a dance. Totally incredible. The way they could move and literally throw their bodies around was mesmerizing. And they moved so fast. The speed of the drum beat just kept increasing and the speed of their moves with it. We were asked to join in for the bit we had learnt. Well, it was so fast I could hardly recognise it as the same dance. An hour of practise and our little bit was over in minutes!

'So you've got over your complex!', the teacher said to me with a smile at the end. 'See you again on Thursday'.

So, provided I can walk by Thursday, looks like I'll be going back for more after all.

This time minus the tracksuit.

Wedding no. 2

With Nabou and Khadim; 2 of my neighbours

Saturday was a pretty busy really. I was at the baptism all day and then at home had just enough time to get changed to go to a wedding! One of the girls in my quartier got married a few months ago and had a traditional ceremony at the mosque followed by the legal bit at the town hall. Saturday was a follow up to this - the party element. Rather than do everything at once (cost playing a big role in this), people often have the party a bit later than the official ceremony.

This was almost like deja-vu. My neighbour Yvette again made the wedding cake, and we had a similar comedy mission of treipsing through the dark streets in a long line, each of us precariously balancing a cake in our hands. This time however, I was actually invited to the celebration. There is a local centre attached to a primary school and mosque that has an open-air area for hire. Everyone was sat on neatly lined plastic garden chairs. At the front were tables decorated in lots of fake flowers and netting, with the cake on one table and an increasingly large pile of presents on the other. The bride, Aisha, in another classic meringue number sat at the front and after a few speeches, proceeded to have her photo taken with every guest. While that was going on, we each had a plate of mini cakes and patisseries, followed by a plate of meat kebabs and other savoury snacks, then wedding cake and sugared almonds. Always so much good food here.

The cake made it in one piece...

The husband wasn't there as he was at work. I still don't fully understand the fake husband concept. Apparently, the husband doesn't want to be seen as centre of attention or to be seen to be making a huge fuss and lots of expense. Given that the ceremony with western style wedding dress and cake, is a relatively recent concept, it's not considered strange here that the husband doesn't come to this part; it really is the women's day. I think it's quite a Senegalese way of doing things, as my Cameroonian and Ivoirien neigbours are as puzzled by it as me.

After the mammoth photo session, Aisha threw the bouquet, and then it was pretty much over. None of the dancing that I had hoped for - unusual given the complete love of dancing here. Everything was finished by 11pm. Not quite what I was expecting, but it was very kind of Aisha to invite me and fun to be there with all my neighbours. The outfits were incredible though. Satin in the most luminous pinks and greens imaginable, covered in matching jewels. Photos just don't do it justice. Everyone looked SO glam.

Khadim and Ousmane who live opposite me looking v serious for once!

Baptism

A new colleague, Isseu, has started at Plan. She is lovely and even more excitingly lives opposite me! Small world. She invited me to a family baptism on Saturday. I wore my newly tailored outfit which is now my favourite wardrobe item after the cagoule. I went over to her house about 9.30 so we'd have enough time to get into town where the family live for the baptism at 10am. Here, the Imam comes to the house, says the baby's name into its right ear, recites some prayers and then tells the guests that the baby is called X (in this case, Mohammed) and declares the baby a Muslim. It's all over and done with in 10 minutes.
Apparently.
I didn't actually get to see any of this as Isseu's cousin to so long getting ready, we were an hour late and missed the whole thing! Oh well, made it in time for all the food which I think is the main attraction anyway.

The baby's dad is a doctor at the military hospital so they live in a kind of military barracks (but without any sense of it being part of the army). Arriving at the house, I passed the sheep that had already been slaughtered. Someone was washing away the blood into the drain, while someone else was getting to work skinning the sheep. There is something really special about the killing of the sheep. They are killed quickly and humanely, held by someone as their throat is slit. It's all over pretty quickly and is surprisingly unmessy (apart from during Tabaski, the religious festival where everyone is obliged to slaughter a sheep. In big families, this means killing several to have enough food for the extended family and it turns into a bit of a bloodbath). Pretty much the whole animal is used though and the meat is always delicious because it's so fresh. It used to make me feel queasy but now it's become so frequent as there is always some kind of celebration going on in my quartier, that I find it all fascinating.

The house was packed when we arrived - there must have been at least 75 guests -everyone in their best outfits with all the men in boubous and women with brightly coloured outfits with matching foulars (a type of headdress where people tie a piece of matching material around their head which looks amazing). Isseu had this gorgeous outfit on made from bazin, which is a typical material found here and in Mali. It's made of cotton and dyed in a vibrant colour. It's then beaten with a wooden mallet to make it shine - the best quality material reflects the light so well it almost glows when you catch it in the right light. I would love to have something made but it is really expensive. At least £50 for the material and then another £30 for the tailoring. Apparently people can pay in instalments. Contributing little by little each month until they finally have enought to take it home.

The day started with a bowl of Lakh. This is a bit like Thiakry, but the grains of millet are bigger, and the milk/yoghurt stuff is warm. We had it with honey, raisins and spices too. Like a big bowl of sugary porridge really. Yum. I did think I might pass out at one point though as, already sweating profusely in the heat, hot porridge almost tipped me over the edge!

After several hours of chatting to guests; listening to someone chanting prayers from the Qu'ran in the background; trying to avoid the man with the camera and enormous accompanying flashlight which made you feel like you'd stuck your head in an oven whenever it was pointed in your face; and playing with various kids (including adorable 2 year old triplets!); we finally ate lunch. Tcheboudienne (the usual rice and meat dish) which is one of my favourites. It was amazing going out to the backyard to see the whole cooking operation going on. There was a small fire erected, heating this huge couldron containing 35kg of rice! That is a LOT of rice. There was a whole team of women working on the meal, pounding the garlic and chili with a giant pestle and morter, barbecuing and boiling various bits of meat, and cutting a mountain of cucumbers to make the garnish. I have got to learn how to make this meal.

It was a really lovely day. I was made to feel so welcome and even had to make a speech on the family video. (I'm sure they will wonder who the random foreigner was when they look back at it but anyway...) It's essential here that the baptism happens a week after the baby is born. The mother had had a Caesarean and had only got out of hospital the day before. I can't imagine having a baby, leaving hospital and the next day hosting an enormous party. She looked exhausted. And in pain. Hopefully she was able to relax after everyone left.

Rainy season has finally arrived

I was on skype to a colleague the other night at work and could hear something outside getting louder and louder. It took me a while to realise what it was. Rain! First time it has rained in the 7 months I've been here. And it really rained. And the power went out - not a problem in the office as we have a generator, but trying to negotiate the flood-like puddles to hail a taxi in the pitch black and pouring rain was another issue. Note to self: remember that heavy rain and flip flops are not a good combo.

There are these open drains near my flat, that have been brimming with quite hideous stagnant water and rubbish. There have been people clearing them out for the past week, which is a relief because with all that rain it would have just flooded everywhere...

It makes me think of the poorer parts of Dakar though. There aren't really slums here, but the poorer neighbourhoods are built in an area that is basically an old riverbed. There was a period of about 20 years known as the great dry period, and because there was so little rain in that area people started to build houses there. The problem now is that as the rain increases, these areas become totally flooded. The area is really densely populated and there are challenges with sanitation and rubbish disposal at the best of times. I visited some children's clubs with work in January and there were still parts of the area that were flooded from the rainy season (3 months after end of the rains). It can get so bad in parts that the schools have to close for several months. The water that is left is so dirty and stagnant too; breeding ground for mosquitoes and other diseases, and yet there are kids playing all around. The government basically needs to invest in some kind of big canal drainage system to mitigate the flooding, but either lacks the means or the will to do anything.

Last night it rained again and was still pouring this morning. I have never seen the streets so empty. There was literally no one around, and practically no cars either. It is always such a hive of activity here; it was so weird to see it so empty. Clearly being caught in the rain is not popular here. I on the other had was quite happy splashing about in my cagoule. Have been waiting for an excuse to dig that out!

Back again

It felt totally normal coming back to Dakar after my UK trip, which is a good thing. Everything here just feels like normal life. Arriving at my flat there was no electricity which was a slight pain, but what's more annoying is that when the power goes off it somehow makes the water stop working too. Have been caught out enough times though so am now prepared with candles and bottles of water (and bleach as every few days this weird smell like something has died in the drains, emanates from every plug hole. It's quite grim).

This week has been good though. On Thursday my friend took me to a tailor. One of my colleagues bought me a lovely pagne (the colourful, patterned material) and I still hadn't got round to having anything made. Knowing how much my colleagues love it when I wear anything in African material, thought I would get a whole outfit made. There is some gorgeous material so have decided I need to get some more stuff made, especially as none of my trousers seem to fit me any more (i blame the rice). It was fun, although less fun when the tailor made some comedy remarks about the size of my hips, then my friend tried to make me feel better by telling me I was the shape of a Coca Cola bottle...

I spent Friday night with my neighbours across the street who I have got to know quite well. It's a big family: 2 sons and 7 daughters and 6 of them still live there. 2 of the daughters have young sons and Coumba, the girl I'm most friendly with got married last year. Her husband lives between Coumba's family's house and his family's house which is round the corner. That is something I notice so much here. There really doesn't seem to be the concept of immediate family privacy. You get married and move in with your in-laws and all live together until someday when you can afford to build a house. Even then though, your privacy is not guaranteed. Family members, distant cousins etc can come and stay for unspecified lengths of time and you always need to be prepared for unexpected visitors. Maybe it's different outside of Dakar, but given that it's so expensive to build a house or rent somewhere, here people have little choice but to stay with their parents.

Anyway, I spend a lot of time at their house, drinking Senegalese tea and trying various new foods. My latest favourite discovery is Thiakry - small grains of millet mixed with a kind of yoghurt and lots of sugar. Delicious. Then our usual routine is to go for a walk around midnight to get some air. It is stifling here at the moment, especially when it hasn't rained for a few days. So, there is a public open area in between two lanes of road near my house, with lots of benches. We tend to go and sit there and watch the world go by. There are always so many people out and about late at night - of all ages. I'm continually amazed by how safe Dakar feels. I would never sit on a park bench at 2am in London. There is such a sense of community though as most people who live in the quartier have grown up there so know pretty much everyone. I'm sure there is a link with the sense of safety and the lack of alcohol too. I never have that threatening feeling when you see a group of really pissed people leaving pubs at night and getting into fights. It just doesn't seem to happen here or at least not where I live. Speaking of safety though, there was an armed robbery last week in a pharmacy and someone was killed. This is obviously horrendous, but people were so outraged that the following today every pharmacy in Dakar closed for the day as a mark of respect and solidarity. Every pharmacy in the country's capital city. That only emphasised to me how rare that type of violent crime is here.

On a different note, you get the real sense too that children are brought up by the extended family rather than just their parents. If I think of my neighbours for example, the 2 boys aged 7 and 4 are around the whole family all the time and everyone cares for them and disciplines them. It's very common for children to live with other relatives, normally where they can get a better education. Last month I was doing an evaluation with some primary school children in the project. One of the girls, Yassine, was explaining to me that she lives with her grandma in the village while her parents live in Dakar, 4 hours away. She said the schools are terrible in the area she lives in so she spends the terms at her grandma's house so she can do better at school.
I asked another little boy to draw a picture while we were waiting for others to join the group. He drew a picture of a car and a house. When I asked him what about it, he explained the house was where his mum lived and the car was what he wished for so he could drive to see his mum, who again lived several hours away.

And at one of my friend's houses, her niece lives with them. Her dad is in the army in the US and her mum lives in another part of Dakar, not far away. When I asked why she didn't live with her mum, the matter of fact answer was that there is a busy road by her mum's house and the children play in the street and it's not safe. So the little girl lives with her aunt. So commonplace, yet so different from what I'm used to.

Lunch at the lodge

I managed to meet up with a friend who has been working out here for a few weeks. She has a car so we had the freedom to explore. I can’t get over how beautiful it is here. Coming from the dusty Sahel, everything here is so green and it’s not even rainy season.

We had a recommendation from another friend of a good day out. “Drive along the main road out of Harare for about half an hour and then you come to a big hill. You pay 2 dollars and then you can climb it”. We weren’t totally convinced by our friend’s directions, but sure enough, after a beautiful drive out of the city, we found the hill.

It was a strange rock formation covered in some kind of moss in pink and yellow. There were painted arrows on the ground so you couldn’t get lost. On the way up we saw ancient rock paintings of elephants, buffalo and other animals. Supposedly between 3,000 and 14,000 years old (not the most accurate of dating!). At the top, we had fun relaxing alongside huge balancing rocks. It was so incredibly peaceful. You could see for miles across the mountains and felt like we had the whole place to ourselves. It really is so beautiful here.

We then drove to a lodge. It felt very luxurious having a 4 course gourmet meal on the lawn looking onto long, golden grass around a watering hole with zebras and springbok wandering freely. I was SO excited to see zebras and we were able to walk around the park after dinner to get even closer (although not close enough!)

A world away from Dakar

Arriving around 11pm, the first thing that struck me was the emptiness (and the cold – it’s warm and sunny during the day but the temperature drops dramatically at night. Being in the Southern Hemisphere their winter is just starting). The streets were deserted and hardly a car on the road. Arrive in Dakar any time night/day and there is a perpetual manic-ness with traffic and people, people, people. Harare feels more like arriving in a sleepy suburb than a capital city.

Zimbabwe only became independent in 1980 and there are remnants of British-ness everywhere. Red post-boxes, breakfast fry-ups, driving on the left, and slightly old-fashioned English (‘hello, how may I serve you?’) spoken all around. It’s all a bit surreal. It feels like a British or even American town where time has stood still. They even have a Wimpy!

There are rows of shops with no-nonsense names: Hardware store, Good Times General Store, Butchery, Glen Forest Bakery. There is a small town centre and then the city seems to fade into one tree-lined suburb after another.

There are also numerous golf clubs, beautiful colonial houses and a railway that actually functions.

Will try and upload some photos when I get a chance.

Missionaries and leopard hunters

I like to think that I’m quite culturally sensitive and all that, but I found myself speechless on more than one occasion talking to fellow passengers on my 15 hour journey to Harare. A group of American missionaries, the youngest only 16, all in matching branded jackets with a logo of their church name plastered across a map of Africa, had flown Mississippi – Chicago – Washington – Dakar – Harare. They were travelling to a village where they planned to spend a week ‘living in the bush’ and converting people to Christianity.

‘These people have no hope. They are dying of HIV. We’re coming to tell them about Jesus – that’s the only hope they have’. True, the HIV rate here is 25% and life expectancy is under 40, but I had to really bite my tongue about a) whether this really was the most effective method to make an impact on the appalling health indicators, and b) how a bunch of young Americans could really convert people in a week with their 5 minute roleplay summary of the Bible and testimonies on why “we’ve taken an oath not to have sex before we’re married”.

They were all so earnest about their trip and clearly meant well, but the way they spoke about Zimbabweans as helpless, backward people that needed ‘saving’ – the job of college students who had never left the deep American South – made my skin crawl.

The other gang travelling all the way from Alabama to Zim, were on a leopard safari.
‘Ooh, that sounds fun!’ I ventured. ‘How does that work?’
‘Well, we’re hunting leopards. And buffalo if we’re lucky.’
‘Hunting, as in, killing?’
‘Sure thing’.
I must have looked considerably unimpressed as a guy continued to explain ‘Well, in America, we love our guns. We shoot deer at home, but here we get the real deal.’
‘I thought leopards were endangered?’
‘Oh no, it’s very sustainable. The leopards are bred for hunting’.
Oh I guess that makes it ok then. Rearing an endangered animal so it can be shot by a tourist as a holiday past-time. What could be wrong about that?

Zimbabwe bound

Getting up at 4am for a flight is fine if it's on time. Still sat at the airport at 9am when I really should be fast asleep on the plane is not so fine. Still, they did give us free breakfast and there is wireless so can't really complain.

Mugabe, cholera, insane inflation, rigged elections, political violence, food shortages.
I'm sure there's plenty more to Zimbabwe than all the negative press. I'm really intrigued about what it will be like and quite excited now I'm (almost) on my way. Spent 3 hours in the bank yesterday waiting to get some dollars to travel with. Mental note never to go to the bank at the end of the month again. There is a ticket system for queuing. My heart sank somewhat when I saw there were 68 people infront of me in the queue...

It takes 8.5 hours to fly from Dakar to JoBurg. South Africa is soooo far away!

On the road again

Am writing this in the car on the way back to Dakar. There’s not much to look at in the way of scenery and have done this journey so many times, thought I’d make use of the time! The land is really flat and dry and you can see for miles across barren shrubland with just the occasional Baobab tree to break the monotony. It’s hard to imagine but my colleague was telling me it used to be forest all along here but the trees have gradually been cut down for charcoal. Apparently the soil is still fertile but as the rains have become shorter and rarer in recent years, nothing much grows. You come across occasional patches of green where communities have erected an irrigation system, but other than that it’s pretty dusty and orange.

What else is there to see… this is the main road from the 2nd city (Thies) into Dakar so the road is dotted with frequent settlements – a mix of traditional huts and breeze block housing and plenty of semi-completed construction. Then there’s the rubbish. It’s almost as if black plastic bags are part of the landscape. Caught up in shrubs, attached to twigs, blowing across the edge of the road. A constant stream of non-biodegradable waste with nowhere to go. Every so often, at the edge of a village, you come across an open rubbish dump. The land turns from orange to multi-coloured as piles of plastic, tin and packaging are left to heap up. It’s a bit of a sorry site.

The other splash of colour on the otherwise dull landscape, is the site of women traders on the approach to a village. It’s mango season now so there are women everywhere in colourful pagnes with bowls of mangoes on their heads, and stall after stall lining the road selling the same fruit and veg.

Have just driven past an accident. An old estate peaugeot, known as a sept-place (1 seat in the front, 3 in the back and 3 in the boot), which is a popular type of public transport here for long distance journeys– more expensive than the bus but cheaper than a taxi, must have lost control and rolled off the side of the road and down a bank. It’s upside down and there’s a huge crowd around the car. People talk about dangers of malaria and getting sick from some strange tropical disease when you say you live in Africa but I def think road accidents are the biggest risk. The roads are in good condition here but people drive so fast, vehicles are overloaded with passengers squished into every available space and huge piles of luggage – everything from sheep to chairs, balanced precariously on the roof. Stark reminder of the dangers of travelling by road. I feel thankful that I can relax in my car from work.

We’re coming into the traffic hell that is the approach to Dakar. It can take 2 hours to move about 30km when traffic is really bad. One road in and out of the capital city is not the best example of urban planning. In between the cars that inch slowly along the jammed road, are gendarmes, whistle in mouth, with the nightmare job of controlling buses (with the conductor hanging out of the open back door), taxis, horse & carts and battered vehicles that look like they’ve come straight from a car graveyard. Then there’s the vendors, selling everything from tissues, newspapers, oranges, sunglasses, nuts, phonecards – who chase after you to grab their change as you buy something from out of your window and your car moves on.

The use of the horn takes on a whole new meaning here too. I’d estimate every 15 seconds our driver beeps and am at a loss most of the time as to what he’s beeping for.

Saly

My week of slightly surreal Senegal experiences is continuing. I’m spending a couple of days at a place called Saly, which is on the coast. It’s the country’s main tourist centre, known here as Senegal’s Riviera. We’re here for a proposal development workshop – it’s easier to bring everyone together from different offices around the country to work intensively from early in the morning till after midnight for a few days to get the project designed and written up.

The place we’re staying in is beautiful. Bougainvillea, frangipani and coconut trees surround the lush gardens of the mini villas. It’s so green compared to outside the resort; it feels more like the Caribbean than the Sahel. There is a peacock wandering round the outdoor restaurant and there are the most incredible birds everywhere, with black heads, red eyes and metallic turquoise bodies that glimmer in the sun. I normally freak if I’m anywhere near a bird but these are so far-removed from their minging pigeon relatives, even I can’t fail to be impressed!

It’s off-season so it’s pretty quiet. Apart from us, there’s a delegation of civil servants here for a workshop on good governance, and then there’s a big group of retired French people. Older French men in swimming trunks with their pot bellies wobbling as they play petanque on the lawn, and women (long past an acceptable topless bikini age), wandering around the pool, their skin the deepest of leathery tans. It’s quite a comedy sight! Still, I’m not complaining. There’s not many times in my life I’ve been checking budgets with sand between my toes, watching the sunset (and listening to Phil Collins pumping from the poolside bar!).

I went for a little walk along the beach today after lunch, while everyone else was praying. The sea is calm and an inviting turquoise blue, busy with a bizarre mix of traditional fishing pirogues, jet skis, swimming tourists, and a group of local boys washing a sheep. I was disappointed at the debris though. Where the sea should be lapping the golden sand, bits of dead fish, tree roots, beer cans and plastic bags line the edge. In such a fancy tourist resort I was surprised that the coast wasn’t spotless.

Chatting to one of the staff at the hotel and things became clearer, although even more worrying. With the sea rapidly eroding the land further up the coast (which people blame on climate change), one of the hotels was finding their part of the beach was starting to disappear into the sea, each year becoming smaller and smaller, which was discouraging tourists from coming to their resort. To combat the phenomenon the hotel paid for a sea wall to be dug deep into the sea-bed to change the direction of the tide so as to stop it taking the beach away. Fine as a concept in itself and had the desired effect for the hotel, but the effects of this meant that the beach at the resort next door was doubly affected by the erosion power of the sea and their beach started rapidly disappearing. They therefore paid for a similar wall to be dug on their patch.

Gradually, resort by resort followed the same pattern so that now all the resorts along this stretch of coast, have these walls. The hotel I’m in is the last one before the village.

6 months ago the beach at my hotel was 45m wide, with palm trees and space for 4 rows of sunloungers.

Now it’s about 4m wide.

The beach has simply disappeared into the sea, taking the coconut trees with it. It’s a pretty frightening concept. The change in the natural direction of the currents is also apparently what’s causing rubbish from elsewhere to be dragged in and washed up on the previously spotless beach.

The hotel I’m in has a tough choice. If they don’t build their own wall, the clientele will stop coming to their resort as there really is no beach anymore, and their livelihood will be lost. If they do build a wall, this will have a devastating effect on the village further along the coast, whose inhabitants don’t have the funds to build their own protective wall to save the small stretch of beach left, used for launching the village fishing boats.

It just highlighted to me how it's all very well talking about protecting the environment and effects of climate change, but when it comes down to decisions that affect your life in a major way (in this case, the hotel's decision to build a sea wall that will damage the environment - and the local village - but save their business), it's pretty hard to ask people to put the environment before themselves, even if there are negative consequences.

Cakes and soldiers

It’s strange, I’ve only been back in Dakar 4 days but even after 6 weeks in the UK, it feels like I never left. So far, so good. My flat is still in one piece (apart from lack of Internet); my colleagues were so welcoming (if a little too honest in their kindly-meant comments on how much I clearly ate while back home); sweet Senegalese tea is even better than I remembered; and summer is finally here, which, given that we are not that close to the equator, means brighter mornings and longer evenings – a bit like home really. Well, sort of.

I spent the weekend catching up with people and pottering about. My quartier has been a hive of activity all weekend with its own mini version of 4 Weddings and a Funeral.
Friday there was the funeral. I arrived home after the burial to find the whole street packed with people sitting and eating couscous, with more and more huge trays of food being carried out of one of my neighbour's houses. After several attempts at polite refusal, I accepted the invitiation of a group of elderly women to eat with them.

Saturday was a wedding. My neighbour made the wedding cake which somehow ended up in my fridge to look after (quite brave of her given my tendency to make any desserts in my vicinity disappear pretty quickly). Five round cakes in descending size, each with a hole in the centre and covered in cream, coconut flakes and green blobs of icing.


Sometimes things that seem so normal at the time would be so random if taken out of context... Picture 9pm on Saturday night, myself and 4 guests from the wedding each with an identical, cream cake in hand, traipsing down the stairs of my flat, out into the street, down an alleyway, across a dimly-lit road dodging taxis, stray dogs and potholes until we reached the reception, with Yvette, my neighbour, leading the way with a huge pole covered in tin foil in one hand and a plastic minature bride and groom in the other. Not the most risk-free way of getting a cake to a wedding!

The reception was outdoors and was packed, mainly with women in beautifully vibrant and intricate outfits, eating and dancing. Yvette proceeded to mount the cakes one by one onto this aluminium-covered pole which wobbled precariously with every gust of wind.


The bride, in a tasteful lacy meringue dress, with her eyebrows drawn on in purple pencil, stepped up to pose for the classic cake-cutting photo with (I presumed) her husband. I commented to a guest that they looked a lovely couple (thought it would be polite to make conversation as I'd been given a plate of food to join in the celebration).


‘Oh no, that’s not the groom’, the guest replied. ‘C’est le faux-mari’ (the fake husband).


Seeing my slightly bewildered look, the guest explained that often the groom doesn’t come to the party. He attends the ceremony but the party is more for the bride and her friends (hence the disproportionate number of female guests) and the groom waits at home for the celebrations to finish and the bride to return. That in itself didn’t seem that strange as I know weddings vary so much from culture to culture. What did seem a bit odd was that the bride was wearing a Western-style dress and attempting to follow a typically Western cake-cutting ceremony - a concept that to me, doesn't quite work unless you have both the bride and groom present...

Apart from weddings and funerals, I also went to the beach with my neighbours and their children. It’s not exactly paradise, but for a city beach, it does the job: clean, lots of shade from coconut trees and a view out onto Gorée, the old slave-trading island. (Best to focus on that rather than the industrial port to the right and the barbed wire of the French military camp behind!)

There was also an 'open-house' day at the French military camp, and seeing as it's next to the beach, we went along. Felt like I had stepped into another world. Surrounded by French soldiers in combats and hundreds of French families all enjoying what was basically like a school fete, with a tombola, BBQ and camel rides (instead of donkeys!). There are about 4 military bases in Dakar but no one seemed able to explain exactly what their purpose is. I think it's a historical thing and now the soldiers use the bases for training. My neigbours who are from Cote d'Ivoire were quite anti the whole French military base thing, particularly given their negative experience at home with the French army.

It's weird thinking there is this totally different reality going on behind the gates of the camp, that is so unlike the rest of Dakar. Good BBQ chicken though.

Market day

It's 3am and am still awake, thanks to the chanting outside. Fortunately it's the wkend. Not so much fun last wednesday when it was going on till 4am...
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I went on a little bus trip into town today to go to the big market. I have to be in the mood as it is unbelievably hectic. There is a section for everything, from look-a-like Colgate toothpaste, to second hand trainers (scrubbed with detergent to look as white as they can), to mountains of multi coloured plastic objects (kettles, bins, storage units, buckets), to stacks of brightly coloured material for making clothes. As well as the hundreds of stalls crammed together selling the same stuff (well in their section at least), you have people wandering around selling clothes hangers/sunglasses/nuts/newspapers/ batteries/Monopoly... pretty much anything you can think of and then a whole load more.










The opening section of Sandaga market is madness. Dakar's battered yellow taxis and beautifully decorated car rapides (deceptively hiding the appalling state the vehicles are in), weave their way in and out of two narrow lanes with stalls lining each side. Each market trader has a megaphone strung up on their stall and they announce over and over again what they're selling and how much for. Not dissimilar from the East End banter of the flower sellers at Colombia Road market back in Hackney, except this time you can't really work out what they're saying as all the voices merge together in one big and messy wall of sound. The voices are so quick and unintelligible, it reminds me of the commentators in horse racing in a bookies when they get over excited and talk so fast you can't understand!
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Sandaga market entrance


You have to barter for everything and I am perfecting my horrified face when someone first tells me the price. I quite enjoy the banter around agreeing on a price; even if I don't buy anything it can be fun just chatting to the traders. Only if I'm in the mood though. Otherwise, being followed around by someone intent on selling me tinsel in March, when all I want is some mugs, can be quite annoying.
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These are the icons of Dakar - yellow taxis and car rapides. The latter are quite fun - they stop anywhere, you just tap a coin on the roof to let the driver know you want to get off. Not the most comfortable of rides though and almost the same price as the slightly more up market Dakar Dem Dikk big blue buses.
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Back of a DDD bus


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Wandering around town I came across this advert for a night in a club where Youssou N'Dour was playing. 50,000 CFA for the entrance fee.
That's about £80.
Just to get in.

Dakar is strange like that, there is clearly a growing class (however small in relation to the population) who have a serious amount of money. The number of brand new 4x4s and Hummers you see driving round the city is quite extraordinary. And if you drive out to Les Almadies, the posh part of town, there is street after street of stunning villas. Feels strange seeing a huge billboard for the latest iphone, with a group of barefoot street children sitting underneath, begging. I know this is the reality of big cities the world over, but I haven't seen such stark differences in any other place in this region.

Birthday celebrations

A friend from work, Khady, invited me to celebrate her birthday. I finally got to understand how you make Thieboudienne, the national dish. Next stage is to attempt to cook it myself...

Stirring the onion sauce

Placing the meat on the rice mountain!

Finally ready! Delicious. This is what I eat (or variations of) every day at work. Yum.

We always eat from one big plate with spoons (makes cutting meat an interesting team challenge!) Very sociable though. Lunchtime in the office is my favourite part of the day. Meals are really social events here. Even if you walk past people eating together in the street, they will invite you to join them. No wonder i end up eating so much here....

Had a lovely day with Khady and her family and friends. Very relaxed. Such a lovely atmosphere being part of celebrations when the house is full of animated chat, small children running about and babies being passed back and forth. Khady, like 90% of the population, is Muslim, and doesn't drink, so it was fruit juice central. Am realising what a big role alcohol plays in British culture/socialising. I rarely drink here and if I do, it is just an occasional beer. Still amazes me how people can go out so late and come back around 6am on a weekend, totally sober. I didn't think it would bother me but I have to admit I have started fantasising about a glass of wine that doesn't come from a carton, and going for a night out in a pub...

Khady's adorable niece

After eating the delicious Thieb, we played scrabble. Love it. Then the girls invited me to a 'meeting' they were having about a small business they want to set up, making some kind of lingerie. They have each invested 25,000 (about £40) to buy the initial material they need to make the first pieces for sale. They started something similar before, but that was selling dried fish. Could have been successful but they decided it smelt too bad to continue!

Elections (again)

So, the elections passed peacefully. Heard on RFI (France's answer to BBC World Service) this morning that the results were officially approved today; landslide opposition victory as expected. Things have been calm this week but with everyone i've spoken to, from my colleagues to taxi men expecting some kind of big change and Wade to go. Will have to wait and see.

I keep hearing more and more stories of why people are fed up with the President and the way he spends Senegalese people's money. In 2002, it was well known that the boat taking passengers from Dakar to Casamance in the south of the country, was old and unsafe. The President declared he did not have the funds to replace it; and then went out and bought a private jet for his many jaunts abroad. Several weeks later the boat sank. It had a capacity of 550 but over 2000 people were on board; 64 survived. The tragedy was totally avoidable and people are still angry for the President's negligence. Victims' families were promised compensation. 7 years on and still no sign of it.

Thought I'd post some pics of the remnants of the campaign. Every available space seems to have been plastered with election posters, which are now slowly peeling away.

Campaigners have clearly been out in force with their paint. Most of the billboards for SOPI (the coalition incorporating the current ruling party) have red paint splattered over the face of the guy running for position in Dakar.

P

Elections

Every evening for the last 2 weeks, a convoy of cars (crammed with people hanging out of windows and sitting on the boot and the roof), has been travelling slowly past my office, behind a pick up truck with music blaring from speakers and someone on a megaphone shouting ferociously in Wolof. Behind the convoy is a string of people handing out leaflets, all in matching t-shirts with someone's face and a snappy slogan plastered across them.

This is local election time in Senegal; Dakar-style.

The current president, Abdullaye Wade or 'Le Vieux' (the old man) as he is known, is 85 and very unpopular. He won his second mandate in 2007 but this was hotly disputed. Normally when the election results are announced, people take to the streets spontaneously to celebrate. In 2007 for 3 days there was total silence. Even Wade himself did not mention the election results. It was as if he was waiting to see whether the public would come out and demonstrate against him and what was widely perceived as a rigged result. Senegal stayed calm however and Wade got himself another 7 years in power.

The population, already tired of him in 2007, have really had enough now. In my office, lunchtime chat invariably ends in heated political exchanges as people vent their frustration at his latest mess-up. Food prices have rocketed here as has the cost of petrol and gas, and although people recognise this is part of a global crisis, they do not accept Wade's unwillingness to do anything to support ordinary people, and the way he wastes money and removes people around him who do not agree with his policies. Lots of people have told me how Senegal used to be developing fast and a successful nation, but now it feels like it is falling behind.

Although the next presidential election is not till 2012, these local elections where people vote for their local mayor and the head of the region, are seen as an indication of the popularity of the President and his party. On Friday the papers were full of pictures of the President's son having stones thrown at him by an angry crowd as Wade wants to make his son the Mayor of the region of Dakar - a v influential position. People seem tired of his increasingly undemocratic ways and are ready for change.

So, today was election day and you could feel the sense of anticipation. Turnout for elections is high here. Streets were full of people with pink fingers. When you vote, you dip your little finger in bright pink dye to show that you have voted and to prevent people trying to vote more than once.

I was walking through an area known as Point E, which is where my office is based. Suddenly I heard sirens and the road was filled with police motorbikes and pick up trucks rammed with police in riot gear. Sandwiched between this heavily armed escort were 6 black Hummers, a black limo and 3 black Mercedes. The President and his son had arrived to vote.

I popped to a friend's house tonight and found him glued to the radio, as the results were drifting in from the different regions. They would announce the number of eligible voters in each local district; how many had actually voted; and then list the number of votes each party had won. District after district the result was the same: SOPI (the President's party) were losing, and not just slightly. They were being totally thrashed. Gana, my friend, could hardly contain his excitement and I found myself getting more and more nervous as I listened to the results and felt a flutter of excitement every time the opposition party came out on top. This is the second time in recent months I've been fascinated by foreign elections. Bizarre how I fail to get this enthusiastic about elections in my own country.

'This is a catastropy for Wade', Gana kept shouting. 'He can't ignore this. The people have spoken. They have turned their back on the President and are telling him loud and clear that they want change'. I've never seen Gana look so happy!

As they reached the results for Dakar, quartier after quartier was seized by the opposition - even Point E, where the President himself is from and where I saw him vote today, failed to be won by the current party.

The radio broadcasts in a mix of French and Wolof and suddenly there was a rapid announcement which I didn't understand but which made Gana jump up and start ranting.
'They are shutting the radio and tv stations' Gana explained. 'From tomorrow, all privatised radio and TV stations that haven't paid their advance will be forced to close'.

Apparently there are certain fees these stations have to pay. They are all usually late in paying, but then receive a bill reminder and at that stage they pay up. Yet the official broadcasting company suddenly announced that from tomorrow there would be no bill reminders; any company that is in arrears will have to shut down. Given that the media is broadcasting the election results direct into people's homes, which makes it much much harder for the results to be tampered with; and given the seeming opposition landslide victory which will naturally spark debates on the competence of the President, it is quite convenient that from tomorrow there will be nowhere for these debates to be held in public.

Just a coincidence? Hmm.

The radio broadcasters were threatening to ignore this government demand and open anyway. I asked Gana what would happen if they did: 'The police will come down hard on those that do open, but the public won't have it. Everyone is listening to the radio now. People won't stand for it. There will be demonstrations.'

We'll see what tomorrow brings. I'll be tuning in when I wake up, hoping to hear the radio on air and hoping for an official opposition victory. One thing for certain though, lunchtime in the office tomorrow will definitely be a lively affair!

"You're so fat!"

Got to love Senegalese flattery. This is what a colleague who I haven't seen in ages told me yesterday. 'You were thin when you arrived and now you are so fat!'. Er, thanks very much. Clearly I am enjoying the Senegalese national dish far too much - rice cooked in a bath of oil is deceptively fattening...



Anyway thought I would post some photos of where I live. It's Saturday night and am waiting to go out whilst trying to drown out the regular chanting outside with my own music. Last Saturday I didn't go out. Major error. The chanting went on till 4am so I hardly slept. Ear plugs are definitely on my list of things I wish I'd brought with me.





So this is my apartment block. Mine is the first floor balcony



My street! Always full of kids playing, especially on Saturdays. I can never get very far without a host of children shouting 'Toubab' (white person) and shaking my hand.


View from the roof.


At night, once the chanting stops, it;s silent apart from sheep bleating.



Had a good day today wandering around where I live. After months of feeling I had to wait to be invited to people's houses, have now realised that people just expect you to turn up - especially at meal times. Great news for me as it means I conveniently visit friend's houses just in time for food. Went to my downstair's neighbour's today.

The ground floor flat in my block has a little courtyard that my bedroom looks down onto. I hear various pounding, chopping and sizzling noises coming from the courtyard from about 7am, then the smell of cooking wafts up to my flat. Most people have a 'bonne', a young woman who prepares the meals and cleans. I always hear Rosalie, the girl who works downstairs, busy preparing food from about 7am. Today was rice with a sauce with meat, prawns, smoked fish and ochra. Even though i normally hate ochra, it was good. I found it a bit strange that everyone I know seems to have a 'bonne', but given that cooking takes at least 2 hours to prepare one meal, I now understand why.



This is at another neighbour's house. The family are from Cote d'Ivoire and are really kind to me, and their kids are adorable, altho every time they come over they seem to wreck something in the house.


This is my local shop. There are loads of these paintings everywhere in Dakar. They depict Maribouts, the religious leaders.



Making friends with the neighbours...




Mini bakery outside my flat; have never seen it open, although I think that's because I'm never up early enough.

Back in Dakar (eventually)

Rest of time in Ouaga involved lots of brochettes and beer at Ouaga Deux Gouts (genius name), a little maquis (street side open air bar) we found with a very friendly owner who even brought Clemmy and I some shea butter (beurre de Karite) that Burkina is famous for. Seeing as it was literally a plastic bag full of butter, wasn't the easiest thing for clem to transport home, so I ended up with two. Am going to have the softest skin ever!



Leaving Ouaga was slightly stressful. Turned up super early to the airport and was feeling very pleased with myself as for a once in my life was not running late and was at the front of a very long queue. Feeling smug didn't last very long when the check in woman told me 'You're not on the list of passengers'. 'Surely you're joking. I have my ticket here'. 'No, you're not on the list'. Patientez un peu'. Not that easy to be patient in a heaving airport with 2 suitcases and a giant bronze statue that i'd ended up buying in the village artisanal. Trying to leave the country at the end of Fespaco on prob their busiest day of the year was in hindsight not the best plan. I convinced myself that it would all be fine tho and i should stay calm and they would sort it out. Didn't exactly work out that way and no amount of sweet talking, ranting or tears would get me on that flight.


So after 2 extra days in ouaga, finally got another flight back to dakar. It was SO nice arriving back. It actually felt like coming home and I felt that real sense of familiarity -hearing Wolof, seeing the yellow taxis and the sea!



It's great flying into dakar in the day as you see the shape of the whole peninsula. Made me realise how built up dakar is too. Flying into Bamako in mali on the way to burkina and then landing into ouaga, it is just red earth and more red earth and you feel like you're landing in the middle of nowhere. Dakar has that real city feel.



Not sure how well it comes out in the photo but you get the idea!

You can see the style of buildings in dakar too - lots of flat roofs (like the one in my flat); great for hanging out washing in day and parties at night. Went to lots of Christmas/New year parties on people's roofs. Now it's too cold. Maybe when it starts to get hot again...



Got back to the flat. Everyone talks about the dust here. I now understand why. There was a thick layer or orange dust on my floor. Before i could do anything i had to sweep the whole flat. Don't know where it all comes from!

FESPACO!

My trip to Burkina fell at the same time as FESPACO film festival. Ouaga is not the most likely place for a film festival but cinema is huge here and every 2 years the city hosts Africa ’s largest film festival. I managed to make it to the opening and closing ceremonies without seeing a single film. Rubbish! The ceremonies were fun though.

Once we got in.

Wasn’t the most well organised event, and although I was with my friends who had media passes, we arrived just as the president did and after that it was impossible to get in via the press entrance.

By the time we resigned ourselves to having to go in the public way, the stadium was already getting packed and there was a moment when we were pushed through the entrance and the metal doors were rammed shut behind us on an increasingly agitated crowd, that I had a slight panic that there might be a stampede. Still, once in the stadium we clambered across others till we found space to sit down. It was only once we found seats that I realised what the cardboard on sale outside was for. The orange dust that is everywhere had not certainly not escaped the stadium and I resigned myself to having an orange bum!

Me and Clem in the stadium, relieved to be safely inside!

The women on the welcoming committee for the president and all the other important people had these matching Fespaco outfits.

Thousands of people were packed in to see a display of dancing, giant puppets, music and slightly random somersaulting gymnasts. The prize giving ceremony dragged on a bit (prob because the speakers didn’t work well so couldn’t really hear what was going on, and having missed all the films I didn’t know who was up for any awards!) Fun just people watching in the stadium though.

And trying all the different types of snacks on sale: fried plantain chips were my favourite; carrots and hard boiled eggs were among the more random offerings. Not my idea of the perfect snack in 40 degree heat…

Me and Clem with the prize giving going on in the background.

Worth the wait for the fireworks at the end though. The crowd went crazy!

Refreshing to see a more positive image of a country and continent that is generally portrayed in such a negative light. Just a shame the festival and the films don’t get wider coverage outside of Africa .

International Women's Day

8th March: International Women’s Day, is big here. As it falls on a Sunday this year, we celebrated it in the office today (Friday). All the women were invited to meet and reflect on women’s rights and the challenges women face at work. The country director invited thoughts from the female staff on what they find hard at work and what Plan can do to make life easier.

After a discussion of the difficulties of balancing work and child care, and women’s responsibility for cooking and cleaning, the team decided that next year men should be invited to the celebrations so they can better understand the challenges facing women and be part of the solution.

Then, to celebrate being women, we had cake :-)

This talk of the importance of women and their rights doesn't stop advertising and imagery that continues to portray women as inferior or the weaker sex, though. Like this advert for yamaha ...

Obamania!

Obama is huge here. Have seen loads of posters or Obama references, or painted pictures of him (like in this outdoor bar – sharing the hall of fame with Nelson Mandela, and Bob Marley!) One of my colleagues here also has 2 framed pictures on his desk – one of Mandela and one of Obama, with YES WE CAN typed at the bottom.

Obamania continues out here.

Strawberries and vultures

I’d never really put strawberries and Burkina Faso together, and kind of thought I’d imagined it when I drove past women selling small pink things by the side of the road. But apparently the missionaries introduced strawberries and grapes to Burkina and now they grow really well. Slightly random. Delicious find tho!

Burkina is hot hot hot. And orange. And dry. Everything I own has now turned orange, including my feet, and my lips are constantly cracked no matter how much I try and rescue them with magic 8 Hour Cream.

I’ve just got back from 3 days in the field visiting projects a few hours north of Ouaga. It’s been so interesting to get out of the capital and get an insight into rural life. Unlike Dakar where you sit in traffic for hours trying to get through all the suburbs until you finally escape the city, you only need to drive about 20mins outside Ouaga and it immediately feels really rural, with traditional mud brick houses and straw huts to store grain.

I always find it weird being on dead straight roads, prob because it’s so unlike Britain ! We drove for at least an hour on a tarmac road without turning one corner. The Harmattan (wind that blows from the Sahara ) that comes in Feb/March makes everything really hazy, almost foggy, so upfront the road disappeared quickly into the horizon and behind there was just a big cloud of orange dust from the car. We left the main road and drove for another hour or so on a dirt road that becomes impassable in rainy season. Apparently after the rains, crops grow and the whole place becomes green again. Right now I can’t imagine anything ever growing there. It’s so barren.

Once we reached Boulsa, the provincial ‘capital’ I realised why I couldn’t find it in my guidebook. With donkeys, dirt roads and few concrete buildings, it felt more like a big village than a town. Our projects are a further hour’s drive from Boulsa and you feel a million miles away even from Ouaga, let alone London .

The project I was visiting was a Water and Sanitation project which basically means lots of latrines and water pumps! It’s quite a complex process building a water pump as I’ve been finding out. First you have to stick electric cables in the ground to check the resistance to the current. If resistance is weak it means there’s likely to be water conducting the electricity. Then you drill a hole, sometimes 80m deep, to see if there really is water. The project staff were telling me it’s an amazing sight when the drilling takes place and the water suddenly shoots up out of the ground and the whole village erupts in cheers knowing that water has been found. Would love to be there for that. Finding water isn’t enough though. You then have to check the pressure and pump continuously for several hours to check the pressure stays consistent. Once you’re happy that there is enough water, you then have to send a sample to be checked for arsenic. It’s such a complicated process and in this region, there is only a 61% chance of finding drinkable water underground.

One of the water pumps we visited. Not the best picture but you get the idea!

On our last day while visiting another water pump we met an old man from the village. He told me that they used to use a well to fetch water but in recent years the water from there had started to get dirty. Apparently wells only have a certain amount of water. You have to dig much deeper underground to reach a permanent water source. He said that since they have been drinking the water from the pump, he’s noticed a lot less people complaining of stomach problems, especially children and fewer cases of diarrhoea. We chatted to him for quite a while in the searing heat until he invited us back to his home. There we met his wives and at least 15 children.

When we first turned up the women ran away, but then they came back laughing having changed their clothes as they said they were too scruffy to receive visitors! The kids took a big shine to us and to my camera, finding it hysterical to see themselves on the digital screen. We were invited to sit down under the straw shelter and eat peanuts. We were surrounded by hens and baby chicks, who kept pecking at my feet.. As we left, the old man gave me a live chicken as a present. Very humbling to see how grateful they were for the waterpump and how generous they were to me.

We carried on till we found what I guess was a little restaurant by the side of the road. Altho they didn’t actually have any food to sell us so not quite sure how it’s classified as a restaurant! Anyway we gave them our chicken and they killed it and cooked that. So we had a meal of grilled chicken and more grilled chicken.

Lunch! (chicken not child)

Slightly surreal eating lunch surrounded by a flock of vultures intent on devouring whatever was left on the bones that we threw away. Not the most relaxing meal given my total bird phobia! And I thought pigeons were bad. Fortunately (for us at least), half way through lunch a truck hit a goat on the road and I think that made the vultures’ day. We were just discussing how every animal has its uses and how vultures do the ‘cleaning’. The flock swarmed the road-kill and literally within 20 minutes the dead goat was nothing but a skeleton.

They are serious birds.

No wonder they freaked me out.