Sen Regal, Indy and MJ

Just to get you in the mood, here's a link to the most popular Senegalese jingle of the moment.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hb3OOUC5KAE

Everytime I even mention it to Jeannet, one of the other volunteers, she actually laughs for about 3 minutes. I guess that means it's good. Also, as I sat down to write this, the song have a merry little Christmas came on, wierd but.... nice!

So bonjour again. This week has gone quickly without yeilding much time or energy to write about it. Here goes anyway. Following on from the evaluation week before, we've started covering areas which our project covers every year.
Firstly, medical visits for all the daaras, consisting of a short consultation for the sick kids, and then buying their prescriptions. Two days of hospital was followed by disinfection of said daaras, which involved driving around town at speed, on the sand roads, in the back of a pick up truck with 4 guys in boiler suits, trying to miss goats, the angry boss dude with full military gear on (?), stopping every 5 minutes for 1 guy with a ghostbuster pack to spray white smoke everywhere, sometimes too impatient to wait for the children to even get out, then speeding away as the kids fell out of the door with 'no permanent damage'. I missed out but that's the picture I got from Peter, the views expressed in this bla bla bla..... Definitely worthwhile as the rainy season is approaching, if a bit bewildering/scary.
Next up we played a game of football and went to a mat factory to check up on the going rate for mats, obviously. After we got a quote at one factory we got a little tour of the it, yep I asked, here's a couple of mildly interesting pics to boot. I didn't take many photos this week, will do better.
















































Other than that, this week has been a bit of a difficult one for team morale. Which had to happen sometime. We haven't fallen out or anything, just each shown signs of discontent. I only mention it for the fact that it's revealed some endearing character traits. If anyone's suffering from the heat or food; missing boyfriends/girlfriends; got a really, really sore knee; frustrated by Africa or discovered they have 7 British Pounds for the rest of the summer, someone is always on hand to help them out of it. And now we're all better and feeling positive for next week. Safe!
For me some small things started to annoy a little, and I'll highlight them now for their amusing triviality.

Firstly, being the centre of attention on any street is originally quaint, then disconcerting, then normal. It's mostly harmless and I've obviously experienced it elsewhere, but here it is everyone, sometimes they ask for money, not just obviously desperate people, but every now and again apparently well to do people take a chance. Understandably a white guy complaining about being identified as such won't get much mileage, but it's the assumption that I'm rich as a result which gripes. Even my clothes with holes in them won't convince anyone otherwise. Anyway, the most difficult part is that they're right, and to assume, as briefly as I did, that I am not rich is more probably the king of naiveties. This point was physically represented the other day when, after our football match, one of us went to get some coins to buy water for the kids, and had the misfortune to bring out a CFA10,000 note (about 13 Pounds) to get to the bottom. At that point about 15 Talibes buzzed towards the purse like flies around a freshly cut mango, and had to be shouted back, like someone might wave a towel over the fruit. Just a complete accident which showed the uncomfortable reality.

It was ten minutes serious thought on questions relating to said avarice, which is a little more serious thought than I can usually muster, before my thoughts naturally turned towards Indiana Jones. His attempts to resist avarice are examplary. His badassness is hidden by a modest, academic alter ego. Most people see the guy on the left, at his day job, studious, tweedy, uninteresting. Whereas the select few (usually cult-crazy, child-stealing Indians) see the guy below, a picture of fearful masculinity. Im not sure how this analogy works, or if it's even related, but the upshot is, firstly; that Indiana Jones is great, and secondly; that if I ever acquire a talent, some money, or arms like Indiana Jones, I'll endeavoor to hide it. Such were the workings of my mind on a (very very very) hot afternoon. Problem solved!

Since I'm on pop culture..... The headline 'Michael Joins Bob Marley' gives a pretty telling indication of the West African perspective on the former man's last event. A music video homage was well attended at my house last night, with much foot tapping and smiling. One of my brothers turned around after every two videos, just to say 'Michael', with scrunced up lips and a shake of the head. 7 year old Assan sat stuck to the floor with his mouth open, 1 metre from the TV, memories of a similar obsession made me much more sad than I had expected.

Managed to squeeze in a few shots around Dakar; ducking to get petrol, dirt and the barber where I got a dodgy designer beard.























































Yesterday we took a trip out of town to see some rural daaras which we may work with. More on that later, here are some pics below in the meantime.

OK, stream of conciousness over, I need bed. There's more than a few issues to be ironed out with the NGO this week so again, we'll be busy. But feeling positive and reckon I'll even slip in a couple extra more blog posts, so keep your eyes peeled. Night night.

First week and a bit

Good news and bad news: I'm not dead, and, well, I don't actually have any bad news. Bonus! I've been in Senegal for over a week now and have been kept pretty busy. So here's what I've been doing instead of replying to everybody's texts.

I arrived in Dakar the Saturday before last and it is the big dirty. Stepping off the plane brought a barrage of heat followed by an assault on the nasel passage which is pretty typical of this kind of city, anything less would have been dissapointing. Since then the city and country have slowly revealed some of their idiosyncracies, many more endearing than annoying, and will no doubt continue to do so.

The first part of last week was spent at the NGO we will be working with, ENDA Graf, acclimatising and finding our feet. We met the whole team at ENDA , visited central Dakar twice, learnt a bit of Wolof and about Senegalese culture and even found time to swim at the local beach (which we later found out is just about the most dangerous beach in the world, owing to it's unique combination of quicksand, riptides and presumably large prehistoric seamonsters. For people for whom the idea of driving on the right side of the road is open to interpretation, the Senegalese have universally shown a humourous fear of a beach which doesn't get deeper than 1 metre until you get 40 metres out. I think this is one of those endearing idiosyncracies, and probably owes more to the fact that hardly anyone can actually swim). Other than that, we discussed the successes and failures of last year's project and overall regained an appreciation how great a group we have, to blow our own trumpet (rootittoottoot), and we're still great even if I do use too much parentheses (woohoo!).

The problems with last year's project made us slightly apprehensive about, and well prepared for, our opening meeting with the NGO team and their top man, Moustapha. As it turned out, I think we were mutually impressed by lessons apparently learned and we left with an optimistic feeling about our project this year.

Wednesday was moving day. We were first introduced to our host families in our new neighbourhood, Guediwaye, a suburb 10km North of Dakar city centre, before being shown to our lodgings for the summer. Apart from some problems arising from the interpretation of 'Jill' as a boys name (with much ensuing laughter) and a forced adjustment to the arrangements, the whole thing went brilliantly and we are all very happy in our new homes.

My family consists of Daedi, a twenty something brother who I share my massive bed with; Ibrahima, another twenty something brother; Ibrahima's wife Hadi and their son Kherou (who is also the best looking 18 month old in the neighbourhood, which is quite a feat); the lovely mother who's name I've forgotten; two uncles (though one might be a cousin) and various other members and friends who saunter in and out. All in all it's a really great place to live, and the fact that the toilet is a hole and the shower a bucket makes it all the better, as I'm always keen to test myself away from some of the acquired sensibilities of life in the UK. I look forward to my morning shower with relish, the water is just cool enough to be refreshing after a hot night and warm enough to avert goose bumps. No fiddling with any dials for five minutes to get the right temperature while shivering in the cold bathroom (yep, the burden of choice now apparently extends to our shower temperatures). And what else does your mum ask when you call home, the food, wow. I naively anticipated an abstenious diet for the summer but have been consistently shocked with giant portions. With my family these are served up in a big communal dish which we all dig into with our (right) hands until scraped clean. If anything there has been too much to eat, this is made worse by consistent insistence that we eat more, with words not always enough, much tummy rubbing and face making are also needed to resist this aggressive hospitality. And weather, well, HOT.

Here are a few pictures from around the neighbourhood, I've been promised one with my family tonight.

On our first night in Guediwaye we were invited to a giant baptism. Not baptising a giant, a normal baby, but with lots of people all dressed up, a tent, dancers, drummers, a DJ, a TV crew and 100 kids climbing all over the new neighbourhood celebrities (read white people). Here's Marie overlooking the baptism party and Peter being accosted.

The next night my brother Daedi took us to a local wedding which was fantastically confusing. It was in a house crowded with people which Daedi had to push us through, all of whom were looking on from any elevated position available as some elder women spread some kind of grain over the bride's dress and shook it slowly off. Next the women pushed past the crowd with the bride in tow (towel over her head all the while) towards the bedroom, where the groom sat on a bed surrounded by yet more people, all screaming and shouting. We then met the elder men who all sat in the living room, doing the rounds and shaking hands. Nothing could prepare us for that and the looks of bewilderment on our faces definately amused the gathered crowd. Anyway, I had a great time, even if I didn't know what was going on. Ace. I think it has since emerged that this was the dowry ceremony, though this remains uncertain. We were then allowed to look at the beginnings of a Senegalese memorial service, 13 years after the guy had died, with all the Marabouts (priests/teachers/superheroes) due in attendance.

These episodes, combined with discussions we'd had with some ENDA staff, gave us an introduction to religion here. Unfortunately my 8gb allowance would not allow me to explain what I percieve to be the complexities of religious culture in Senegal. Certainly their existence is linked to the plight of the children we're here to work for, I suspect more detrimentally than positively.

This week we've started going round the daaras (religious schools and houses for begging children) that the NGO have marked out for us. Seeing these places hasn't been too shocking, as we all expected bad conditions to some degree, but sombre didn't do the first two justice, they were downright awful. There were 15 boys aged between 6 and 15 allocated to one tiny room, sleeping on mats which they wet anew everynight, in many cases in a scabies and tape worm induced terror. They wake up each morning only to beg for money on the streets, and then beg for their lunch in the neighbourhood. The two boys who weren't begging due to illness wore permanent expressionless faces. I just thought about my childhood and how absolutely wonderful it was in comparison and felt quite sad and angry. Anyway, I hope I can convey how affecting the reality of it is without exaggerating, we were all a bit quieter on our walk to the next ones.

Thankfully, after seeing 6 more daaras that day, it turned out the first two were by far the worst. The other daaras left us feeling optimistic about any difference we can make in our 8 weeks. Here are some pics of kids from the happier daaras.

Tomorrow we're meeting to figure out what exactly we'd like to do with our time and money. We've inherited activities and responsibilities from previous groups and will continue with them according to percieved priorities. But also hope to come up with some new ideas. I shall keep you in the loop.

Well I hope life wherever you are is great. I'll leave you with a picture of a child who seems to have acquired a halo, and that great African pictorial cliché of our quiet parly under a tree (yes, that IS a school on the left and it IS that slanted/about to fall over).

Via Morocco

Also on the way back from Cascades de Ouzoud, our driver took us to an interesting rock formation in his village in the middle Atlas. Children swam in a river which ran under a massive red arch. The taxi driver was really proud when he told me I could walk all the way under and round to the top again, so I duly did and got pooped on by the nesting birds, it was impressive nonetheless. All this was at no extra cost (I think the unwitting generosity of the man in the front seat might have helped, though I didn't realise it at the time), which seems to be a rarity in Morocco and made it all the better.

The next morning I stood at the arrivals gate in Marrakech airport among a group of Moroccan drivers, holding a sign of my own. It had an unsavoury adjective on it which made a few of the English speakers giggle before Scott strolled through in a daze, I don't know whether it was the sign or my face which told him I was there for him, I think the sign. That night we decided to have a crash introduction to Marrakech before shooting off to the coast. After exploring the souq a bit, we smoked an aishisha pipe and hit the food stalls in the square, pretty cheap and tasty even if the waiters literally fight over you. Later we thought we'd to find a pub or club for a few beers, and so the odyssey began. We walked 2km to the new town only to find a 'Mexican' live music venue where a Moroccan singer sang Mexican songs in Arabic and salsa danced, we left confused at this spectacle and the of 5 Pound bottles of beer. Finding absolutely nowhere else resembling a bar we jumped into a taxi and asked to be taken to a club. The driver stopped to ask a policeman the best way to go and we agreed a price of 25 Dirhams. On arrival he demanded 100. We argued whilst edging sideways out of the taxi and the driver lowered his price to 30 over 10 minutes of pretty repetitive negotiation in French. Then we approached the entrance of the club. The 5 very bored looking attendants at the door were willing to make a 'special exception' and allow me to go in with my sandals on. We suspected this was because they wanted our money as there was nobody else in the place. So, not wanting to be the guys standing in an empty club on the outskirts of town we decided to walk back to the city centre and our Riad. At least we got a few photos of the Koutibia Mosque on the walk home. Marrakech had tired us out, we were definately ready to move on to Essaouira.

Our bus got a flat tire down half way to the Atlantic coast and all of the men on the bus got off to give an opinion on its repair. Finally in Essaouira, we found a nice riad with a view of the sea and this kitten outside so were obviously optimistic about our stay.

Later we even found an alcohol shop, named just that: alcohol shop, which meant we could have a few beers on our terrace during the sunset, with an unhappy seagul for company.

We found Essaouira lived up to its surf town reputation, or even exceeded it. The omnipresence of drugs and alcohol was far more obvious than I've grown to expect in a Muslim country and was a bit surprising. that being said it still was a really nice, relaxed town and we did experience some genuine hospitality, being invited for tea by some young guys we had got talking to about football (what else), which was great.

After two nights in Essaouira we rented scooters from a suitably dodgy wheeler dealer and headed south along the coast, intending to explore the beaches and camp on one of them. We found a great beach, went for a swim, and were then forced to camp there when both scooters wouldn't start up again. Undettered, we set up camp among the dunes and collected firewood in preparation for a great night. The pictures speak for themselves.

Next up was a bit of desert. We didn't quite realise how far away it was and ended up in the Sahara after 9 hours in a bus over the Atlas and then a 4 wheel drive.

After a night camping in the moonlit desert we indulged in an afternoon by the pool in Ourzazate before heading back to Marrakech for our flights. We spent the night at the airport as we had arrived late. I don't think the guards approved so I had to prop myself up and sleep with my head down, closed eyes pointing at an open book on my lap, had them fooled I think. All in all a pretty good week, although more exploration of the Atlantic coast would have been good, maybe in September.

Via London and Morocco

Well, where to start. Hello from Senegal. I guess I'll begin with my elongated journey here and hope to be able to somehow get some photos up on this PC.

After a small goodbye celebration in Glasgow on Sunday night, I caught the 1pm train to London, sad to be leaving Jo for two months but with a lot to look forward to. I spent that night with Caitlin and the next morning did some last minute shopping for a decent stock of books and malaria tablets. Another goodbye, to Cait and Billy, was followed by my uncle Andrew and I being treated to a tour of Westminster Palace courtesy of Lyndsay Anne. The politicians having skulked off on recess hoping for some disaster to blow their thievery from the front pages, we had the place largely to ourselves. However we were just too late to get either of the chambers so made do with some subsidised pints off Guinness and arranged a return in September. Here's a pic of Andrew and I on the terrace by the Thames.

Andrew and I then espoused the brilliance of Toots and the Maytals to Lyndsay and her boyfriend Iain (another friend from school), until they decided to come to the gig. Anyway it was worth it, the show was great and Toots, who must be at least 60, was even better than expected. By that stage bed wasn't really an option with a 6 o'clock flight to catch so we all met up with Laura for a few more drinks and a bit of table football, great day.

The next day couldn't have been more different. I woke up with the thud of wheels on the Marrakechi tarmac, briefly wondering whether my early morning beers with some Rome bound Mancunians had been a dream or not. Away from the airport, the early morning sun woke me up properly and the sensory feast that is Marrakech blew any remaining cobwebs away. If anything the hustle and bustle was a bit too much so I decided to head out of town the next day, after watching the demise of my Mancunian friends in the Champions League Final, in a room full of dancing Moroccan Barça fans.

I arrived at the Cascades d'Ouzoud at about 3pm on the Thursday. I set up camp (literally) on a mud terrace beside the a the forested slope before venturing further down the stall and restaurant lined steps to have a look at the falls.

As you can see the falls themselves are quite photogenic and as pretty in reality, especially when the sun catches the spray to produce a rainbow which would place a pot of gold somewhere in the plunge pool. However, standing still to relax and appreciate the view was made more difficult by constant hassle from locals ( I say locals but these guys were more likely opportunistic hustlers attracted by the area's ability to attract tourists). Even if this can be forgotten with kind but persistent resistance, the omnipresent litter and grime made a more permanent impression on me. After a wee trek down river I left the next day, regretting the apparent demise of what must have once been a magical place, and my role as a tourist. Also, on the way back in a shared taxi, a late arriving Englishman in the front unwittingly agreed to pay 4 times the amount charged myself and two French girls in the back, the exploitation is seemingly mutual.

The next day I met my friend Scott at Marrakech airport, he had a week off from a busy RAF officer training schedule (making paper aeroplanes and taking elocution lessons) for a week of travelling in Morocco, a blog about which is next on my to do list.