The Surprise Birthday

In the evening we had a surprise party for Owen. Our Program Coordinator had fabricated a ‘host home meeting’ with Owen and his counterpart to get them out of the house beforehand. When they finally came back, walked through the door, we turned on the lights and shouted ‘surprise!’ and I could tell from the flash of terror that momentarily crossed Owen’s face that we had indeed surprised him very much. There were balloons decorating the room and a high table with a beautiful pearl embellished table cloth, which I later learnt had once been his host mum’s wedding dress. We had fizzy drinks, gizzards (which I accept is chicken and asked no more), and an iced cake that had cost us almost £20 in English money. We played games and danced (except me because I have given up dancing). Recounting this makes it sound like a scene out of an Enid Blighton book. It didn’t feel that way at the time, but if I’m honest, perhaps it should have.

Fear nothing. Except snakes.

After one uneventful evening visiting a home of volunteers, I got back to my house where we encountered much excitement (relayed to me by the volunteers that were somehow in my house for unknown reasons) and this was because they had killed a snake. People were shaky, it must have been a big deal, everyone was surging with no-longer-necessary adrenaline. I was taken to see the body of this offensive viper and was amazed at how small and generally underwhelming it was (not that I said so). The theatrical performance continued as the boys proceeded to pick it up using a plank of wood and drop it in a bucket, then fill the bucket with paper and plastic, before setting fire to it. My housemate turned his back, warning me that the snake would come back to life so I should be careful and stay well away. Then when the fire was dying down, they put more fuel in and burnt it all over again! I understand that when it first appeared in the garden the UK volunteer present had been bundled indoors without an explanation and locked in...for her own safety. While the boys repeatedly set fire to the ashes of the snake, I sat on the veranda with the ladies and listened to one of the in country volunteers explain to me how through jewjew magic Ghanaians would send snakes to kill each other. This is what makes them so dangerous. It seems that if a snake has been bewitched even the non-biting type will kill you with one mouthful.

I don't believe in jewjew magic. And without it I'm still not sure how dangerous the local snake population would be.

How not to behave on a date

So I met up with Eli again last night (not that the first soiree was documented on this blog, it wasn't particularly story worthy). If you were to ask my ‘why?’, which you would be well entitled to do, I would not be able to give you a satisfactory answer, except for the fact that a second date tends to follow a first date and although I’m a bit more at ease now in Ghana, I don’t want to burn my bridges, just in case I need someone to talk to in the near future. Yes, it has got to the point where I agreed to go on a date just so that I would have someone to talk to for an evening. It's a lonely place! This is tragic! If there is one thing Eli is good at, it's talking. Actually, to be fair on him, last night he was rather good at listening too, and he had to be because I told him exactly what I thought about men, relationships and romance (for anyone not in the know, I unfortunately consider all of these things to be a great compromise). It occurred to me as I was about half way through my tirade that I may have accidentally struck a match under the metaphorical bridges that I had resolved not to burn. This was not, after all, what one usually considers to be acceptable date etiquette. To his credit, Eli took it well within his stride and we ended up making a deal that he would be a friend to me, as long as I kept an open mind and I should tell him if I did fall in love and want to get married to him. This was a deal I was happy to agree to and I shook his hand to confirm it with a great deal of happiness.

The place we had gone to this time was a bar in which I was told they served the coldest beer in town; 'a pretty good USP' you may be thinking. The walls were painted yellow and black and were topped with the most barbed wire I have ever witnessed to be protecting a pub. When our first beautifully cold drinks were brought to us (shandy, because Ghanaians apparently don't typically drink very much alcohol) I was pleased; but Eli was not impressed and asked the waiter where the properly cold ones were. Apparently there was no ‘properly cold’ shandy, and so once I’d finished my first drink a suitably temperate beer was brought. I couldn’t really see the difference myself, they all seemed quite cold, and indeed condensation was streaming off the bottles, down the sloped table and into my lap, which just goes to prove it.

Anyway, Eli was by now very tipsy, since he never intended to drink anything as intense as a beer. When the 4^th bottle was brought it had ice in it - Eureka! Now I know what the fuss is about! I can honestly say this was the coldest beer I’ve had in my life.

There comes a point, once a certain number of bottles have been consumed when one has to enquire about the location of the toilets in whichever establishment one is in. Eli went first and I watched him stagger off. I went second, feeling not at all equal to him in my inclination to stagger, and was shown to a rather disconcerting toilet block. The bright yellow walls were about shoulder high, there was no ceiling, and there appeared to be no toilet inside it. However, there was a urinal.

I have never in my life used a urinal and I didn’t feel inclined to start last night. For a start, I’m not particularly sure how I would approach the problem; which way it would be easier to face; or if I would have to stand on one leg. Usually in Ghana, ladies toilets are just an alleyway, giving you the privacy to squat on the ground, sometimes there is a gutter or a drain to aim for. Here there seemed to be nothing. The floor was made of wooden slats and I couldn’t tell if it incorporated a drainage system. I wondered what the ladies in this room were supposed to do and if any of them had been as confused as me, or if the answer was very obvious to the majority of visitors. Still, a couple of bottles of drink on an empty stomach does wonders to allay concerns such as this...

So there we have it. I went on a date in which I spouted anti-romantic venom and weed on the floor! Surprisingly, I can’t help but feel that it actually went better than the first date on which I behaved myself perfectly. If there’s a moral to this story then I dread to think what it is!

Boys! Boys! Boys!

As a result of following up on the friends that I made while bumbling about the village looking for someone to talk to in a state of acute boredom, I've now started to get a little more embedded in the community. The walk of loneliness may have been a tragic resort, but it actually turned out to be quite effective. Little did I know, that I would soon wish that a good fewer people, specifically men, would stop speaking to me!

Anyway, today I went with my friend Emmefah to visit her shop (actually I went to visit her mother to help cook ‘banana things’ but I was usurped and taken to the next village to join Emmefah in her shop). I know that she paints and so I was very disappointed when she opened the double locked blue metal doors to reveal the shop inside, selling wheel barrows and tins of paint.  It wasn’t the type of painting I had in mind. I'd visualised her own artwork. Owing to the metal walls and roof, it was also extremely hot so we sat, me on a wooden chair, her on a little stool, under the big tree on the opposite side of the road, where there was shade and a light breeze and we could keep an eye out for customers.

Before too long her brother came along and proposed to me. It occurs to me that if I were the type of person to flippantly accept marriage proposals, I would already have a husband by now. If I weren’t the type to flippantly accept marriage proposals, then there wouldn’t be much point in issuing them. He elaborated that I’d only be his wife in Ghana, then I could go home again and resume my English boyfriends. I was as polite as a person can be without expressing agreement and taught him to play rummy (since he said he’d like to take our honeymoon in Las Vegas). Unfortunately, the deck of cards I keep in my bag are a deck I picked up in a hostel; they’re Little Britain themed and all of the number 8s have a picture of a slim white man cross dressing as an obese, naked, black woman (with boobs so saggy that the nipples are out of shot, which I suppose is a good thing, but is not very flattering). The brother didn’t seem too phased.

Somewhere in the middle of this, a car drove passed and pulled over. The drier lent out of the window and started hissing (a widely recognised flag for attention, it’s the equivalent of shouting “hello there” or “excuse me”) it was a bit awkward so I turned to my would-be-fiancé and asked if he knew the guy. Then the driver shouted my name and I realised that the awkwardness was due to the fact that it was me who was supposed to be doing the greeting.  It intensified a bit when he asked if I recognised him and I didn’t. Turns out that 4 days ago at the swimming pool, he had come up to me at the end of the day as I left the changing rooms, he’d told me that he’d been watching me and he liked what he saw. Then he gave me his number. As he did so, another guy hovered at his elbow to also issue digits. I politely took both sets and promptly deleted them in order to not clog up my phone book with useless contacts that I was never going to use. So upon being caught I felt guilty, and I took his number again through the car window, sent him on his way and returned to my spot under the tree, where I very awkwardly asked the brother arbitrary questions about his family…but he was clearly still more concerned about the driver of the car trying to steal his would-be-bride.

Presently the brother left and Emmefah and I were deep in conversation. Then, much to my annoyance, the driver returned. Instead of calling to me, he called to her (‘what a player!’ I thought). It turns out that he was explaining himself to her and apologising for the way he had presented himself the first time. Then he came around the car and spoke to me. To my surprise he actually turned out to be very articulate and quite perceptive about what I thought of him (i.e. yet another pest who doesn’t know me and who gives me their number anyway for no good reason since). He talked about going for shandy (because a couple of bottles of beer would get him tipsy and he wouldn’t want me to be feeling tipsy as that wouldn’t be right) and dancing; also a trip to a fabric factory and his scheme to help the elderly. He promised that he wouldn’t be calling me all the time and clamouring for attention if I risked giving him my number. Also he promised that he would be very responsible because he wanted me to live a long, happy life and come back to visit Ghana in the future (which obviously couldn’t happen if he took the first opportunity he had to harm me). I came to quite like him. He seemed quite sincere, and most importantly very chatty (a quality I can’t seem to find in enough people!) then he gave us both company note books, tried to sell my friend a bank account, hopped back into his car and drove off. We giggled like little girls and agreed that he wasn’t so bad after all.

When I got home, nearly 12 hours later via a day at work, I told my elder host brother, Daniel, about my marriage proposal. I expected him to be surprised but frankly, he can’t believe that I haven’t got a boyfriend or some plan to get married. After all, a girl really should marry at about the age of 20 and he probably wouldn’t consider marrying anyone over the age of 25, and on that basis I've very nearly missed the opportunity to marry at all. We had a nice long chat about the nature of love and the point of it but he kept coming back to the fact that he couldn’t believe my indefinitely single status (which I personally quite like because I consider boyfriends to be a bit of a nuisance and I was the one to question what the point of love was - I mean, seriously, it does get in the way of a lot of rational decisions!). Daniel has now given me a shortlist of recommendations: 2 of them are my housemates, at least one isn't single and the other sounds like a nymphomaniac.

I laughed and said I’d need some time to properly consider them…I don't.

Making friends in Ghana

As has already been noted, I've been feeling quite lonely in Ghana. One of my solutions to this was to go for a walk and make friends with the people I bumped into.

One of the people I met was 'the lady at the bottom of the hill'. The first time we said hello, and the second time I invited myself in (the semi-detached is not the posh type, there are no fences keeping me off the square of mud outside the house that I’m going to call a yard) and asked to have a closer look at what she was doing. The truth was that I was bored and had time to kill, but for all the difference it makes, I was also genuinely interested because it had something to do with food. I watched and learnt as she showed me how she mashed plantain with banana with her hands (explaining kindly that I could also use a blender for this part if I preferred) then she mixed in some wheat flour and deep fried it in a vat of boiling oil that was next to her. She was making two types of things (and I can’t remember what either of them were called, however I did learn the word for delicious, which I retained instead: “Daveve”) the other one was similar but had egg in it and the four that was poured in was corn flour mixed with some spices. When I tried it, I can vouch for the fact that it certainly was, never before has a cakey thing been so very spicy! She vacated her chair and invited me in, but I’m sad to say that by this point, I no longer had time to kill and had to hurry off, but as I did so I was given a bag of deep fried cakey-things (her better selling variety too) all for free and promised that I would come back. I haven’t fulfilled this promise yet, and I should have, but I will go back and cook a batch for her. I hope benefiting from some close supervision.

It just goes to show, you can't make generalisations - not everyone is unfriendly!

The Walk of Lonliness

I’ve heard  staff before me say that Ghana is a lonely country. This is true to an extent. People here are not as friendly as I found them to be in Uganda or Kenya. I can see that a social support network would take longer to build up, something I’m acutely acutely aware of since I’ve got no host parents and my counterpart, Prince, lives in Ho and so has lots of friends who he’d rather be talking to.

I went for a walk on Sunday to see if I could encounter some of the local community myself. I'm surprised at how lonely it is here. I'm also surprised that I was ready to go out on a walk and befriend strangers...but there you go. It happened!

The first person who I met was called Winston. He leapt out of some bushes to say 'hello' and introduced himself. It soon became evident that he had smoked quite a lot of marijuana and was in a bit of an odd state. I wondered if, despite my lonely predicament, I might not do better to be a bit more picky about who I allowed to approach me. Still, it was nice to have a chat and then I was on my way.

I was walking up the next road feeling a bit more cheerful as I was enjoying the exercise, when I realised that a taxi was coming up behind me and appeared to be intent on running me over. Cars here swerve about on the roads to avoid the potholes, but this was different, it was quite a smooth dirt track and I had no doubt in my mind as to their malicious intent. If I’m honest, I can understand it. I do stand out a bit as a target being the only white person in the vicinity and I do represent approximately 300 years of oppression and, this being Ghana, also the slave trade. I eyed up the undergrowth and took a calculated leap into it just as the car came by. On reaching me it slowed and I could see (with my ankles in the shrubbery) that there was an amused driver and 2 ladies inside absolutely helpless with mirth. It had (apparently) been their intention from the outset to offer me a lift (which they proceeded to do) although on reflection I’m still surprised that there aren’t more Ghanaians around missing toes due to overzealous taxi drivers aiming to give potential passengers as short a journey to the car door as possible.

On my way back I met a man sat on a roof, he waved and said hello and asked if he could join me on the walk. I told him he’d be welcome to, and he seemed to be so surprised by my answer that he couldn’t comprehend it. Since he didn’t consider himself welcome to walk with me, he asked me for my number instead. If there’s one thing that’s always a bad idea in every country  of the world, including England, it’s giving strange men your number so I left him on the roof, waved, and walked away. 

Last of all I met a woman with 3 children, there’s nothing really to say about her, and she’s only notable because I liked her and since she invited me I’d like to go back to visit. I didn’t linger on my walk though as it was getting dark. Seeking out strangers in the daylight is one thing, but walking alone in the dark is quite another, and is much more dangerous here. Not even the local women walk about by themselves after dark here and so I’m sure it’s not a good idea for me to do so. Rather embarrassingly I can’t remember her name, but that doesn’t matter. In the daydream that I’ve already constructed, she knows someone with 2 spare rooms and will offer to be my new Ghanaian host mother. I might go back tomorrow morning instead of doing work related stuff. From past experience, the key to finding satisfaction and happiness when travelling has very probably got something to do with getting my fix of community integration, so with luck this’ll be the start of it.

Tonight I am the only one in the house. Everyone else is out at the football because Manchester United are playing Liverpool. As already noted, I just can't get excited about football - I've never been to Liverpool myself, so I cannot comprehend why so many Ghanaians are prepared to leave their homes to watch Liverpool kick a leather item around a field with 11 men who claim to represent the unified Manchester.
Unfortunately for me it seems that our resident cook is also out. I can’t go to get ingredients because a) there wouldn’t be anyone to lock the gate behind me b) it breaks every rule to wonder about alone after dark and c) because I don’t know where to go! I’m on the brink of improvising, a move that feels risky, since there are 3 food sources in the house: burnt beans stuck to the bottom of a pan in the kitchen, an unidentifiable thing in a pan in the fridge (which is troubling because without knowing what it’s meant to be, I can’t work out if it’s past it’s best) and some meat in a pan in the fridge (and again I can’t work out how old it is). None of these options seem like a very good idea! My host home here tend not to keep raw ingredients in stock, so making something from fresh isn’t an option either. Although I might send out an SOS to see if anyone can bring an egg to the house to facilitate an omelette. What a predicament!

I have a long way to go until I feel at home here.

Ghanaian Justice is so Unfair

This morning we went to the high court. Don't worry, none of my volunteers had got into trouble, we were just there to learn about the justice system.

It was a big room on the first floor (significant, as nearly every other building here is a bungalow). There was the Ghanaian crest above the judge’s chair mounted on a pink statement wall. Whereas visitors to the English high courts can expect to see a fraction of one case, quite amazingly we were treated to 10 cases in an hour.

Case 1: there was no lawyer and so the hearing was adjourned.

Case 2: this involved a chief. It was speculated that he was probably sewing someone over land rights. He was a marvellously fat man and looked as though someone with a tremendous budget has decided to dress as Genghis Khan. He had a blue hat, looking a bit like a footstool, a poncho, and boots that were leather on the inside and felt with stars on the outside, creating the impression from the majority of angles that his shoes didn’t match. Anyway, his lawyer was allegedly running late and so his case was postponed.

Case 3: The lawyer was present and he secured a postponement. Clever man.

Case 4: The plaintive was absent. Case postponed.

Case 5: A land dispute of some sort. “Where are your lawyers?” that classic question was addressed generally to everyone involved, “Our lawyer is in Accra” apparently they’re not feeling well. The other side’s lawyer made a similar excuse. Case adjourned.

Case 6: “The defendants are outside please I just saw them”. Without ever finding the defendants the discussion seemed to be continuing, but not in English (the official language of the court). I couldn’t quite work out what was going on. The judge and lawyers were talking together. Could it be that the people involved in the case were not to be separated from the audience and it was already happening? It’s certainly possible. It was initially hard to tell because they have air conditioning and ceiling fans making noise in the room as well as the windows open letting in noise from outside (it was an environmentalist's nightmare, but let's not dwell on that). I couldn’t actually hear clearly. But anyway, it seemed that the lawyers successfully secured an adjournment. On to case 7!

Case 7: “Where are your lawyers?” That favourite question rang out. “Please my lawyer says he has family commitments” and “Please my lawyer will not be present today. He says the case has already been adjourned by the court of appeal to 9^th November” What is this?! A Pre-adjourned case?! Someone else seems to be doing the work of the high court…

Case 8: I couldn’t work out what was going on here. The defendant has dropped the case? If you say so…

I began to think that it might save everyone a lot of time if we simply opened by asking if there were any lawyers on the premises and then if they could identify their clients. We could then proceed by hearing the cases of any lawyer who can claim a client. On the benches with the other volunteers, we were all starting to look at each other and wonder aloud (very quietly) what made lawyers turn up to court in the UK, I mean no one forces them to turn up, but I’m fairly sure that their reputation and that of their company requires it.

Case 9: Plaintive absent. Case adjourned.

Now I understand why people resort to ‘instant justice’ (i.e. catching someone red handed and setting them on fire) it’s much more timely.

Case 10: This seemed a bit more exciting because a prisoner was brought in with police guards. They called him ‘Yevu’ (white man) which seemed a bit unprofessional. He wasn’t wearing prison-esque clothes but green ‘Ghana print’. My initial assessment that this might be a more interesting case turned out to be right as this, it transpired, was a murder trial! Are the lawyers present? No? Oh well, said the judge, I’ve already written my statement and I’m going to read it anyway. The judge declared that there was absolutely no solid evidence against the man, so they couldn’t try him properly anyway. Apparently he had been seen arguing with the deceased over land shortly before the deceased was found to be dead in the bushes with a rope around his neck.  The judge seemed to think that suicide hadn’t yet been ruled out as a cause of death and so it was far from clear that there was any need to look for a murderer. Apparently this had occurred in March 2015 and the trial had already been adjourned several times, hence it’s lack of progress. This upset me because it means that a potentially innocent man had been held in jail for well over a year. Possibly the judge was thinking the same thing, as he told the man that he could have bail as long as 3 people would vouch for him that he wouldn’t run away. One of these 3 people had to have assets worth 50,000GHC (£10,000) that could be seized in the event that he failed to report to the police station to check in every Tuesday. I felt it unlikely that this poor accused gentleman could find 3 such people. After all, he was a foreigner, from across the border in Togo (where they speak French as a first language and white people are common). He wasn’t likely to have 3 wealthy Ghanaian friends, at least not to the tune of 50,000GHC.

I spoke to the judge afterwards and am very happy to say that he told me if this did turn out to be the case that he would change the terms of bail.

Actually it wasn’t just me that spoke to the judge, all of us crowded into his little office (air conditioned with the windows open as standard). We were invited to ask all we wanted, I recognise this as a rare privilege. I can’t imagine it happening in the UK (but then I can’t imagine any judge managing to clear their schedule of 10 cases in little over an hour either so this man did have time on his side).

He answered a lot of questions for us and also ranted about how corruption in the system meant that people who didn’t pay the right kind of lip service could be moved from courts in Accra (the capital) to less prestigious places. Since he himself had moved from the courts of Accra to be a judge here in Ho just earlier this month, I wondered if this complaint may be based on personal experience (but I didn’t dare ask!) He considered this to be quite corrupt.  Just as he said that sums of money went missing from court budgets so, for instance, there was to be money for buying computers for the courts in Accra, but it later transpired the purchasers bought second hand refurbished computers which were cheap and broke quickly. This, he explained, was why he was writing everything down himself long hand in the court room. Similarly, he said that his bungalow (provided by the legal system) was supposed to have running water, but it didn’t and if he wanted anything done he had to do it himself. Likewise, he pointed at the tomes on the bookshelf, and I could see that they were encyclopedias dated to the 1970s, the legal library wasn’t up to standard and he had to buy reference books himself. He has therefore created a little library at home at personal expense. Not only that but they couldn’t even put a lightbulb in his room, because the money wasn’t there, and so he had to open the curtains to get light. I couldn’t help but think that, while frustrating, these complaints paled into utter insignificance alongside the probably-innocent Togolese man we’d just witnessed who had been imprisoned for over a year because no evidence could be gathered to try him for murder. Now that’s something worth complaining about.

I asked (after spending a considerable amount of time working out how to tactfully phrase it) what he could do when someone offered him a bribe. Could he have that person arrested? Yes, said the judge, he could have the person arrested and people certainly had offered him bribes before. However, judges don’t like to attract too much attention to themselves, they don’t want to get misreported in the media and so for that reason, to protect themselves, all judges prefer to handle these things quietly and not to press charges. Hmmmmmm, I thought, and kept smiling. This man was quite charming but I feel like fear of media portrayal isn’t a good enough reason for judges to keep quiet…I can only conclude that legal libraries don’t furnish themselves!

I think, if you had a grudge against someone here, you could just accuse them of murder. It would be very simple; you wouldn’t need any real evidence. Safe in the knowledge that your victim would then be arrested, imprisoned for maybe a couple of years, and then if there was a court case to follow it would take years and even if they got bail your victim’s life would at best be restricted the conditions of it which would involve reporting to the local police station every Tuesday. I’ve made a mental note not to upset anyone!

If you think you have nothing in common with someone...LEARN!

If there's one person I could do with getting on well with in Ghana, it's Prince. He's my closest colleague, my Ghanaian counterpart, between the two of us we need to look after all the volunteers and we also need to live together. Preferably happily.

When I first met him, I was quite concerned that we would never bond. As inconveniences go this was massive! We seemed to have nothing in common. He likes football and has almost no other interests. He’s not fussy about how he gets involved with the sport whether it be playing it, watching it (TV or live), training for it or playing football video games. This is difficult for me because no matter how hard I try (and I have) I can't make myself care about whether 11 people who I don't even know have won the game they just played and even if I did care I still wouldn't want to indulge in the same sport for 2 consecutive weekends, let alone every day of every week, variety is the spice of life! (Or at least, the spice of my life).

Anyway, I decided that I would find some common ground by joining in his workout sessions in the mornings (he’s under the impression that if only I do the same amount of exercise as him I could have a 6 pack within a matter of weeks, as he does. He seems to have no idea that, for me at least, I'll need to loose some significant weight before you can see any 6 pack that may lurk underneath. For all I know, there might be one there already! This is a significant disconnect, since he’ll eat up to 4 meals a day if he can get his hands on it and carbohydrates are the done thing here). Despite my good intentions and the (admittedly questionable) incentive of my rippling 6 pack, I was soon getting bored of workouts in the morning. It’s not top of my list of home comforts before breakfast (actually I don’t have a list of things I like to do before breakfast, upon waking up, eating is the ONLY thing I'm interested in). However, since he was very good at exercise and I was very bad, I felt that it helped to even up our relationship since I was more confident in the classroom. As things have progressed and we’ve got to know each other better, things have got rapidly easier. He’s been teaching me Ewe (the local language); I’ve been teaching him to swim; he’s been teaching me to twerk (if only I was sure what twerking was I’m sure I’d learn much faster!), and he recently bought me home a giant slice of watermelon because he knows how much I’ve been missing my balanced British diet. He knows what my favourite local meal is (‘redred’) and we’re going to go for a run together tomorrow morning (at 6am because Ghanaians love getting up early, even on Sundays).

Part way through their first week in training, the volunteers were given 24 hours to go and do a challenge, so their teacher, Prince and I went off to a swimming pool at a local hotel. It was lovely; the hottest outdoor pool you've ever been in. The hotel was built on a hilltop, so from the poolside we could look back down over the town of Ho. Swimming was particularly nice because it’s so hot and humid here that no matter how much you sweat, it can’t evaporate fast enough to keep you cool or dry. Prince can’t swim so I set about teaching him: he has good arms, but not good legs, they sink. I tried to get him to float face up, on top of the water, at one point but there was abject panic. One thing he does like, is running races with me through the water, so that at least is one thing we can share. We’ve said I’m going to teach him to swim if he teaches me to dance. Personally I feel like I’ve got the more difficult task here, but maybe he feels the same.

On the following weekend we took the whole team back there to swim again. This was challenging for some, because Ghanaians typically can’t swim. True to this stereotype, only 1 of our Ghanaian team members could swim and even then his style was described by a non-swimmer to be “horrible”. He nearly drowned trying to win a bet that required him to swim a whole length (although 50GHC was on the line – that’s about £10, a lot of money!) I’m very happy to say that a quick thinking UK volunteer rescued him when it started to look like he was in trouble and his head went under at about 4/5 of the way there.

Prince obviously had the advantage of having had the one swimming lesson I'd already given him earlier that week. I’d been trying to teach him breast stroke – his arms were good but his legs were like windmills. It’s fair to say that he still couldn’t swim. The key barrier is that Prince sinks in water. I think that when you spend enough time in the pool, you develop a kind of instinct for what keeps you up, what moves you left, what speeds you about etc and so it’s an alien landscape to Prince, who hasn’t had the benefit of a lifetime of pool experiences. I’ve walked to and fro with him, holding him up to the surface so that he can practice doing widths, legs thrashing wildly. Then on Saturday we had a breakthrough. I am delighted to announce that Prince has now swam a width of the pool…UNDERWATER. This is perfect, because if you’re already underwater you can’t sink any further. He is like a little submarine! Breast stroke arms, kicking legs. At first it came about by accident when we were having a gliding competition but then we realised we were onto a good thing and practiced over and over. I was ecstatic. We’re going to work on surfacing and breathing next time, who knows, he may even be the first Ghanaian in the team to swim a length of the pool.

He'd better get busy with my dance lessons!

When am I too old to be afraid of the dark?

For the first week of my time here, all the volunteers and me are staying in a hostel. They've got dorms and I've got my own room but nevertheless I always sleep lightly when there are volunteers in the house. I'm like an anxious parent, ready to look after my little ones at a moments notice.

Last night I woke up at about 3am and saw a boy sitting in a plastic chair at the end of my bed. I thought he was a volunteer so I said hello but got no reply. Assuming he was asleep, I sat up and moved forwards to touch his arm in order to wake the figure, but when I did, I found that there was no one there. My hand touched air and I couldn't see him any more.

I was so disturbed by this that I couldn't go back to sleep. The room was hot, and the noises of the night in this new country were unfamiliar. I stayed awake imagining shadows until the room started lightening at 5am and I could see there were definitely no unexplained apparitions in it.

At that point, comforted by daylight, I remembered that I was a person with extremely poor eyesight, lying next to my glasses in the dark. It's very easy to imagine a chair is occupied when it isn't. I also remembered that sightings of ghosts are very rarely reported close to, in the day; which reflects the reduced need for over-imaginative fabrication to explain what people like me are seeing. Ultimately, my new Ghanaian home probably isn't haunted.

All the same, I don't want to turn out the lights tonight.

How to be Ghanaian...JUST DANCE!

I would say that I’m not 100% integrating myself in the household successfully because the one thing that you have to do here is get up really early in the morning in order to sweep floors. I’m not sure why this is but so far I’ve taken a fairly firm stance that I’ll sweep floors when I’m ready to sweep floors. Pat (our acting housekeeper and nominal house mum) wakes no later than 6:30 each day, sweeps floors, does domestic things, then naps until she’s ready to cook lunch and then naps again until it’s time to do more domestic things such as cook dinner – I just can't bring myself to sample this lifestyle! Today is my first day off in which to observe that this is her routine, so I think that maybe if the average day is less Saturday-ish she might also go to collage.

However, there are some things that I do rather well. Specifically: eat (but not spell) Fufu and Banku. The fact that I don’t require cutlery delights the household (and is a direct result of my training eating ugali in Kenya). I felt that my first go at Banku was absolutely filthy (it’s like eating mashed potato in thin soup but the soup has small shredded vegetables floating in it) but Prince (my housemate & colleague) told me I did it particularly well, which amazed me since I had orange soup stains on my forearms at the time.

Another thing that was a great success was doing my washing. Partly because foreigners learning to do it for the first time here don’t typically do it very well and partly because I took it out to the veranda, where my housemates Prince & Vincent were relaxing, and started to dance. Before I knew it, they’d leapt to their feet and also started dancing. Turns out this is a favourite pastime! It took me 2 hours to do my washing. By the end I was absolutely drenched. I suspect equal parts in sweat and soapy water. What a workout! Washing is actually a very good time to practice Ghanaian dancing. I’ve never given my legs much thought before, they usually operate on an ‘English default’ which is kind of like a transfer of weight from foot to foot but with preoccupied hands in soapy water, one has to focus a bit more on the feet. This is constructive because Ghanaian people don’t have a default and are quite creative with their legs. I’ve been learning a particular dance move, specific to Ghana, called the ‘Azunto’ which involves standing up and doing a motion with your hands that bears a surprisingly close resemblance to washing clothes (handy). Less handy is the fact that every few beats you have to stick one hand straight up in the air, which is quite disruptive to one’s rhythm. Every time I bent to pick up another item of clothing, I kept my legs straight, and shook my bum in the air, an absolute classic in Kenya, which delighted everyone. Although we had started early, I am not a fast washer and volunteers began to show up for their day’s worth of curriculum training, which takes place at my house. They looked on at these manic Ghanaian dancers with a sort of morbid curiosity. No one wanted to join in. But it didn’t matter, at least Prince, Vince and I had bonded as a family.

Too much of a good thing will give you flu

Applying for a Ghanaian visa has made me ill. Well, indirectly at least. The trouble is that they require me to travel all the way to London in order to submit a print out of the application form that I filled in on their website along with my passport. (There is an option to do this by post, but after seeing the level of organisation present in the Ugandan embassy I wanted to supervise the whereabouts of my important documents in person as much as possible). After travelling all the way to town, it would seem a bit rude to go home again and neglect the many wonderful people I happen to know are living there. Particularly considering that (by virtue of being granted a visa to Ghana) I know I won’t now be available to see them again for at least 3 months – that kind of ultimatum focuses the mind! As such, in the duration of 4 days I have been delighted to see old uni housemates, ex colleagues, current colleagues, a school friend, the sailing community, friends from Kenya, and Londoners from when I was a Londoner. It’s been intense!
Luckily for me (and my limited budget), I am now very easily pleased. Freshly returned from Uganda all I really want in life is to sit on a sofa with a cup of tea, talk to a friend and to go on walks. This begs the question though, how much of a good thing is too much? I have shin splints from all these relaxing walks! I veritably hobbled home from the station at the end of it all. I actually had to take a rest and sit down on someone’s garden wall. The trouble is that if you burn the candle at both ends, ever so occasionally the whole candle gets too hot and melts. Before I left London I sprawled on the sofa with the wonderful friends who hosted me, all of us wrapped in scarves, croaking, eating ice cream and oranges. If Ghana's high commissioner could see me now, he probably wouldn’t let me in!

Reverse Culture Shock

I was a bit surprised today to notice reverse culture shock. I was going for a jog (enjoying the cool mornings), listening to a podcast discussion on the value of democracy and found myself infuriated by the triviality of it all. There are many people without water, electricity, food or healthcare all over the world and yet someone has made a podcast in which they discuss why more young Britons don’t vote. It’s so unimportant! They would vote if they wanted to. The fact probably is that they live in comfortable enough societies and don’t really care.

The other thing that annoys me now is when people on the news complain about things like state pensions or school provisions. These are amazing things already! A free education – that’s a wonderful thing!! And yet what gets reported on the news is people complaining that they didn’t get their choice of school. They should try an exchange program to see what it’s like sending a child to school in Uganda. There they can watch their child do 12 years of schooling, paying money to send them to go to a government school, and still emerge unable to speak English (the country’s official language). Next to that our problems seem pretty small. If we’re going to live in a world where there are massive inequalities, the privileged half ought at least to appreciate it!

As I was thinking this I notice that someone (presumably the local council) had put down a new path in the field I was running in. I decided to follow it. It was very nice but potentially also a little unnecessary. Maybe someone could have taken that money and donated it to send 30 Ugandan children to school.

I trust this reverse culture shock will wear off soon. It doesn’t do to be so anxty.

My Ugandan Transformation and 'the Introduction'

Today at 7:30 am, my neighbour came round, flanked by my host mum and brother to see me put on a Gomez. I should at this point introduce the Gomez: it’s a traditional dress worn by women in East Africa. I actually think it predates the existence of Uganda as a country. It is long, has pointy shoulders, and a big bow around the waist. Although this sounds horrible, they are at least made from very nice material. I had blue one that felt like silk. When I was shown the neighbour's family collection and invited to choose one I couldn’t help but feel a little baffled as to how they got funded since the dresses are absolutely exquisite and the neighbour was of more modest means.

The reason We were planning to go to ‘an introduction’ later that day at which I would need to wear the Gomez but this early morning affair seemed to be more of a trial run, to see what happened. In all fairness, I’d tried on one yesterday too, so I kind of knew the drill. What was more troubling was the shoes that went with it. I seemed to be a little on the short side and so the most towering heals were dug out. In the end I settled on a pair of platforms. They seemed to be the best fit and they gave me the height, but at the same time I’ve never worn a pair of platforms outside a shoe shop before on the basis that I’m not safely mobile in them (let alone when there’s a long dress to trip over and an uneven road surface).

At this point in the day I actually had no idea what ‘an introduction’ entailed (so I won’t spoil the story for you by getting ahead of myself) but what I did know was that it was the time that the bridegroom met the bride’s parents for the first time. I figured it was pretty important that they get on.

Anyway, back to the day. I had planned to do a couple of jobs in town – I did ask if I was allowed to take the Gomez off in order to ride a bike in and this didn’t seem to be any problem at all provided I was back at 10am to get dressed. I therefore assumed, quite wrongly, that an introduction would be a lunch affair.

When I did dutifully present myself at just past the hour to visit Peace (my beautiful 23-year-old neighbour) we went out to make an advance payment on some transport to take us to the ceremony (this was fair enough as I wasn’t walking anywhere in the shoes that’d been lined up). At least, this was where I thought we were going but we actually ended up in a salon (the sort of salon with bare brick inside, bare mud outside, a corrugated roof and shoes removed on entry) where the owner greeted me with a disproportionate quantity of joy. There were laughter and hugs before I was seated and oil was worked through my hair by Peace, so that it was very soft, but also quite greasy. Then it was brushed, I gave them money for transport and I was sent on my way. It’s an odd sort of deal where a bus journey comes with an inclusive salon trip, but there we go.

Next stop was home where I was asked to retrieve my nail varnishes so that my nails could be done. By this time it was gone 12 and I was quite convinced that we were missing the ceremony. My host mum has a little shop outside our house and she often sits outside it on a wooden bench making mats. It often has the feel of a ‘women’s club’ as any number of local ladies can be found there, aged from 2-92. I’ve never seen a man sat there though, not even a toddler. Anyway, we joined the ladies on the benches, I took off my shoe, rested my foot on a convenient piece of brick and Peace painted my hands and toes. Then she sent me off to bathe (which was slightly impractical as the varnish hadn’t dried yet; also I’d already bathed once that day, but in a country where most people see deodorant as…well, a great unknown, such formalities must be observed). So I dutifully went off to get a shower, and tootled back down the track to Peace’s house to get dressed. I took with me my greatest asset: my mirror. We’ve bought it in the market and the ladies are always excited by it. Peace and her sisters were no exception and soon her eldest female sibling, Viola, was putting on my excessively pale foundation in the mirror while Peace’s mother (who is in her early 40s) was helping me get into my Gomez. Underneath the Gomez goes a large blanket, folded double, wrapped around the wearer, tied at the waist, and then folded down so that the waist has twice thickness of padding. This, I hoped, would give me a bit more of an African derriere. Next the Gomez goes over the top. It’s like a short-sleeved Japanese kaftan, but it fastens with just 2 buttons on the left breast. At this point there is about 2 meters of excess fabric that is pleated and held against the wearer with the help of an enormous belt which is tied to resemble a comedically sized bow which has come undone. I hope I’m describing all this well enough for you to imagine it.

After I was dressed up, it was the turn of the other girls. Peace put on a lovely yellow Gomez. It was a mild yellow with brighter detailing and looked gorgeous against her dark skin. Her younger sister (aged 20, not as beautiful as Peace, but with all the personality and more) put on a bright pink one. I enjoyed the fact that we were all in very different colours. It was very sweet seeing their mother help to dress them with the same love and affection she had shown me. It was Viola’s first time to wear a Gomez too, so she was quite excited. I really enjoyed the ‘girls are getting ready’ atmosphere and shared my make up around just as we did when we were 14. Peace put a French plait in my hair (which is still in now as it’s not something I get to model every day!) I felt like every aspect of my appearance had been spruced up ready for this ceremony. My dress, my shoes, my nails, my hair texture, my hair style, my makeup and my overall cleanliness. Eventually we were ready to go, so I put the shoes on and tried to negotiate the steps outside the bedroom door. Now, I should explain that these shoes were my host mama, she must have been a bit of a diva back in the day because they were silver spangly 1 inch platforms, with a suitably high heel to go with them. It’s the type of shoe I’ve never bought because when I’ve tried them on in shoe shops I’ve had to hold on to the shelving to stay upright. To don them now and have to walk down very steep steps (the first one is at least 2ft higher than the second) was challenging. Then, at the bottom of the steps was sun-baked hard mud; a difficult terrain because it’s shaped when the mud is wet and squishy and then sets hard in a lumpy pattern; a far cry from the shoe shop floor!

As we walked down the street we attracted a lot of attention. I only noticed it a shade or 2 more than usual, but the 2 sisters with me felt like A list celebrities (and well they should, when a girl’s spent the entire day getting ready, she deserves such a feeling). We sat ourselves down in a local house and waited for the car to come and pick us up. It was a mud floored but brick walled establishment. More and more women arrived, astonishingly no 2 were wearing the same colours and when the rainbow had been exhausted some polkadots showed up. I can only assume that this is simply fantastic coincidence, but it amazed me. Every woman who arrived remarked on how smart I looked in their traditional dress. I found it a bit hard to interact with the crowd since they were all speaking their local language (I’m not even sure which one – there are two locally!) but I had greater problems to worry about because (as I had predicted from the start) my current body temperature was somewhat hotter than the sun.

Eventually, after we’d sat in the house for the best part of an hour, a bus came to pick us up. It took us as far as a village water pump, where we got off, met more colourful women, and were presently assigned a new bus. It transpired that the reason for all the waiting and the reshuffling was that everyone had to be able to travel together so we would all arrive at once. The busses were gender segregated and just before we arrived, we all stopped again to wait for the latter vehicles to catch up. It sounds quite simple written down, but owing to the language barrier I had no idea what was going on at any point. When we arrived two queues were made, behind a decorative arch that would lead into the venue (which I shall introduce as a make-shift verandah lined courtyard. The verandah was made by gazebos filled with plastic chairs, they were arranged in a square shape so that there was clearing in the middle). The queues were sorted male and female, and much to my alarm the female queue was formed behind me. I wasn’t sure what I was meant to do with it, lead a conga? Then someone came to stand at the head of the 2 queues, I think he was fulfilling a compare role and presently Peace (who was standing directly behind me) whispered that he was telling the crowd I had come from the UK (true) and been in written correspondence with the family to ask if I could attend the ceremony (not true). After the speech I led the ladies to their seats (actually a very simple procedure) and was directed myself to sit down right next to the parents of the bride, a location I don’t think I very well deserved but at least I was on a plastic seat while they were on a sofa, which made things slightly better.

We watched a procession of people dance into the square, kneel in front of the parents of the bride, make some speeches (which I couldn’t understand a word of) and then dance off again. In between these, there were 2 men on opposite sides of the make-shift courtyard, each with microphones acting as compares. I think there was one representative from each family. I was perfectly happy not knowing what was going on until Peace lent over and whispered, “next they’re going to get you to talk”, I was a bit alarmed but sure I could manage to say the right words so I asked what sort of thing they wanted me to say. In response Peace just told me to try and keep calm, which unfortunately had the opposite effect, because I feared I would be required to give a speech to a couple of hundred people on an unknown subject. In the end I was passed the microphone but the compare closest to me and the other guy asked me a question in Luganda (or at least that’s the language I think it was in), Peace whispered an appropriate response in my ear, but since I didn’t know what either of them had said, I simply assumed he’d asked me how I was (it sounded a bit like he might have) and so I responded “wrunji” (I’m fine) and it must have been a good answer because he asked me another unintelligible question. To which I answered in English and told him I didn’t know what he was saying, which strangely enough amused the audience tremendously.

In the midst of all this there was a huge rainstorm. The show went on but someone held an umbrella over the bride and kept dabbing her dry with a tissue. Everyone sat watching was ok, as there were gazebos, unless they were in the front row or struggling to walk in platform heels in deep mud. Either of those scenarios could be problematic.

Just as I was sat back and beginning to think I could enjoy the show I was told that I’d be next required to go up and present the bride with a basket of flowers & fruit. I should tell her that they were from her husband-to-be and tell her what all the items in the basket represented. The problem is that it was expected that I would talk about the symbolism and colours of the items but I’m perfectly aware that colour imagery varies from country to country (in India they wear white at funerals). I had about 5 minutes to gaze and the basket and prepare this. When we went up, I took the microphone and explained that the flowers represented the way their love would grow and bloom, the Fanta was because her husband thought she was sweet, and the bananas were symbolic of the way that their marriage would bring fourth fruit in time. It seemed to go down well enough and, as Peace reminded me, only half the audience could understand me anyway.

Next we brought in the dowry items on our heads in baskets. The groom had everything delivered outside, including a soggy sofa set tied to the roof of a truck. I must have done 3 trips to and fro to pick these up from outside and lay them down in front of the bride’s family. I was worried that everyone would balance these baskets skillfully on their heads and I’d be the idiot holding on to the basket, but not so. Everyone was steadying their baskets with hands. It was a tricky task because there were low hanging power lines overhead, which were exactly the right height to knock off my basket, at least one hand was required to keep my long dress out of the mud, and if I’d had a 3^rd hand I’d have used it for balance as I was wearing the most challenging footwear of my life, while it was quite slippery underfoot.

With that the ceremony was over and we joined the queue for food. I was actually told on several occasions not to queue but to go to the front. Now I can see why I would get special treatment during the service: these people have rarely met a foreigner and here is one wearing their traditional dress; but there’s no need to get special treatment when it comes to queuing for food. I said as much and indeed repeated myself several times at intermittent stages because no one seemed to be able to fully comprehend my willingness to wait in line to eat, even though I did have white skin.

In time we were all given small mountains of food. We sat down on the arms of the sofa set (because the seats were too wet) and tucked in. The challenge was that there was no cutlery. I copied Viola who was quite skillfully eating it with her fingers. However, I didn’t feel equally skilled; it’s the transfer from hand to mouth that’s tricky and I felt a bit like a human vacuum cleaner inhaling it off my hands, simply hoping that my hands were clean (an abject impossibility, I hadn’t washed them since my midday shower and I had greeted countless people since then). Fortunately though I had a bit of flat bone on my plate that had come with some meat. I soon turned this into a makeshift spoon and was feeling rather pleased with myself until I heard a snatch of gleeful English over the loudspeakers “I like the way the muzungu eats”.

Next was the cutting and distribution of the cake. At this point I was shamelessly exploited by Viola to get extra cake. Every time a distributor came near she would wave and say that I hadn’t had any yet. In this way Viola and I both consumed 5 pieces each (luckily no piece is larger than 3cm squared and so that’s not gluttonous) and I hadn’t the heart to refuse (as I was holding out for a piece with icing – a rare treat if you chop an ordinary cake into enough small bits). It’s amazing what seems like a good idea when you’ve been missing all sorts of sweet treats for 6 weeks.

The HUGE party that wasn't

With a couple of weeks to go to our departure my host dad announced that he would hold a party in our honour, for all the volunteers and their host parents to say goodbye to us all.

As the time drew nearer his plans got ever more elaborate and I greatly doubted them. Apparently there was to be a priest to bless our air travel and a local council member. All of this in our dusty  back yard, I couldn’t imagine it.

On the day itself I turned up at 5pm and was absolutely amazed to find that there were a couple of hundred people in a marquee in my back yard. Where had they all come from?! I only live in a little village! They were all sat patiently on white plastic chairs, presumably awaiting my arrival. I hurried across the ‘stage’ in order to get to my bedroom door and put my bags down. Apparently everyone else had been told that the party would start at 2pm and so by their reckoning I was quite late, but not as late as my fellow volunteers, most of whom hadn’t arrived yet. No sooner had this message been conveyed than it started to rain. Heavily. Before I knew it ‘the party that wasn’t’ became ‘the party that was, in my bedroom’ as 100s of people scrambled to find somewhere to shelter – the marquee wouldn’t take all of them.

It was a bit awkward, hosting so many unknown people our bedroom, slightly wondering if anything would get stolen and cooking alive with the heat of so many bodies in so little space.

After about an hour of this the rain subsided, it was decided that there would be no more party, blessings, speeches, presents or dancing, just food. I helped to distribute this in a generally chaotic way (not chaotic due to my presence you understand, it just was). My host sister’s bedroom had been converted into a kitchen and it was like a Mary Poppins’ larder – I had no idea what we had available, but the food kept coming and I kept putting it on plates (my host dad was absolutely delighted that HIS white person would lower herself to the standard of a woman by helping to serve). When the plates ran out we reused those from people who had finished eating. It was a feast by anyone’s reckoning.

Once fed, the crowd melted away.

It was humbling to think that they would wait 5 hours and brave a rainstorm all for a free dinner.

The Markets of Kampala

When the volunteers had graduated from my care, I was left to my own devices and so I decided to visit the city of Kampala. It doesn’t particularly feel like a capital city. Key landmarks include the museum, a tiny national theatre, the hotel where the Queen once stayed and a big statue celebrating freedom that a man with a gun, clearly not sympathetic to Uganda’s young tourist trade, sternly told me not to take a photo of.

What really stands out in Kampala are the markets. The markets are amazing. It’s like every other marketplace in the world is trying to be more like Kampala. All the clothes there are second hand and so no two pieces are alike (imagine that Camden!) but store holders specialise so that one person will only stock shoes, their neighbor stocks trousers etc; in this way browsing is easy. Prices are cheep. There are also slightly indoor parts so that when it rains browsers can stay dry; you feel like you’re in a tall clothes-lined tunnel with shops coming off it, but it’s not like the slightly frightening catacombs of some marketplaces I’ve been to. If you ever get the chance, go! It’s like nowhere else I know!

Turns out my volunteers also spent 2 days in Kampala after leaving the placement…but they only saw nightclubs. #TravelFail

A Crash Course in Traditional Culture

On Saturday we went to a village where a ‘famous’ group of musicians lived. We sat in a big semi-circle on plastic chairs and they made a great entrance by entering from 3 corners of the field we were in – a new surround sound experience. Their music sounded a bit like that of a very collectivist community, whereby they all played their respective at once, at the expense of any kind of tune. If I were a less respectful and cultured individual I might be tempted to use the word ‘cocoffany’, but alas I can’t spell it.

As the ‘chief’ of the group I was required to come up and do some African dancing. The trouble was that this particular community had a traditional dance involving a lot of hip shaking. They can move their hips amazingly, very fast, in every direction and I can only move hips as though they are attached to two legs and a back.

At the end I was called up again out of my plastic seat, this time to receive a gift on behalf of the group. I was given a little whistle, which looked like a recorder (until it’s taken out of the player’s mouth and then you can see it has no mouth piece) and is referred to as a flute. I courteously blew it and made no noise at all. 

Happy Stories from Uganda: Eric the Vet

There was another one, a vet, that used to be like every other vet. In fact I remember his group of volunteers coming to a team brainstorm a few weeks back saying that they had no ideas; they couldn’t see how they would innovate this business to make it different from others. It's important to us that we don't simply promote copycat businesses but vets make sick animals well, you can’t change that fact (at least not without losing customers!) It was quite a challenge.

 At the time I remember comparing the traditional model of vets to private healthcare (i.e. you pay on a case by case basis when you get ill) and I suggested they try a more NHS-ish style business model whereby the customers pay a retainer to the vet every month, who receives money whether or not the animals are sick but then also comes out to the farm when needed and also does checkups so that preventative healthcare is possible. I didn’t hear any more from the group on this subject and, if I'm honest, I forgot all about it.

I was therefore fantastically surprised when one of the other pitching panels told me yesterday that the most impressive entrepreneur they’d seen was a vet called Eric who had secured 6 contracts with farms, doing checkups etc, making sure that animals didn't get sick, rather than just treating them once it was too late. He wanted money to buy new stocks of drugs for the animals and we decided to give him the full amount that he asked for.

Happy Stories from Uganda: Musa the Scale Maker

One guy we funded was a scales manufacturer (amusingly he wrote ‘made in Kenya’ on every scale so that he could sell it at a higher price). His workshop is in his mother’s house and he spends 15,000 shillings on hiring a drill for every set of scales that he makes but if we buy him one at 150,000 he’ll have broken even within 10 scales. He’s certainly not a wealthy man at the moment. I’ve had a look at his financial records; there’s a lot of money coming in and a lot of money going out. Ultimately though he wants to save up to go to university and study law. I’m not actually convinced that this is for the greater good because his business will take a hit and he almost certainly won’t utilise the qualification once he gets it (says the geography graduate!) I met a logistics student the other day who was planning to become a baker once she graduated – this isn’t an uncommon story. Quite the opposite. However, education is the key here - who knows what he may have the potential to go on and do. Also, he already employs a couple of other people and we hope that he'll be able to continue to provide more and more employment to other people here.

A workout at the Borehole

Today I had plans to visit the borehole. There hasn’t been water in our house for a week and all the Gerry cans are empty. I was quite looking forwards to this and set my alarm for 5:45am to be ready to go. Unfortunately my alarm clock decided (exercising more autonomy than the average machine should) to go off silently, and did this for at least half an hour before I noticed it. But it didn’t matter because the water was restored to our house overnight. Of all the timings! It’s ok though, I still got my trip. The thing about bore holes, as I soon learnt, is that you have to work incredibly hard to bring the water out of them. This didn’t register with me until I was half way through filling my first Gerry can. The guy who had been pumping water smiled at me and said I was doing it well but too slowly. He then took back control but when I saw the pace he set I wanted another go.  It is exhausting! With all this activity I may soon have the core strength of an oak tree! Happily after 3 cans filled (2 of which were half size ones) the locals were suitably impressed and I was sent on my way. This is a relief as I couldn’t have gone on for much longer.

Shower in a gerry can

As I write this I am terribly hot and sweaty. I could see my shiny reflection in my laptop screen while it booted – it’s a terrible sight! Emma and I have taken to going for pre breakfast runs on a morning (which, to be fair, necessitate a pre pre breakfast snack because neither of us can run on an empty stomach) hence the hot and sweaty sight. Today when we came back from our run, I jumped into the shower, only to find that there was no water there to accompany me. This was a terrible moment! It was only 8am but I’d already managed to work up a sweat and it was currently running off me in a rather disgusting fashion. Just as I was half way through a ‘baby wipe shower’ I was presented with a plastic basin and a Gerry can full of water. (I’m not 100% sure what the basin was for as I've been told that I'm supposed simply to tip the cold Gerry can full of water all over me). The most difficult part is washing your face, because I can’t lift the can with 1 hand (it's too big), there can be no dainty splashing of water onto the temples, instead there’s just a torrent poured straight into your face. I'd like to be the hardened traveller by now but I did let out an involuntary shriek when the cold water first washed over me, which amused the girls next door.