traval

Epilogue II: Volunteering

2010-04-01T07:56:00.000+01:00

The information book at a hostel in Pretoria is strewn with harsh admonishments regarding behavioural expectations, together with aggressively defensive explanations of the limited services on offer. I'm particulary drawn to the forthright missive on early departures, as I'm obliged to leave ahead of schedule for my voluntary placement in the suburbs of Johannesburg. The prospect of a confrontation with Tim, the gruff, foul-mouthed English owner does not appeal. I mention the 'safe house' I'm heading to and his face softens. 'No, we won't charge you. Actually, we give a discount to volunteers.'

I love this. Not the special treatment bestowed on me for volunteering but the extraordinary effect its mere mention can have on people. As I wrote seven months ago, its philospohy is unquestionably sound. Extend the discussion to practicalities, however, and I'll be first in the queue to offer criticisms. Volunteers are too often unprepared; likewise their host organisations. The planned work is disorganised, never finished or unnecessary. Money is misspent. Locals are deprived of work. Volunteers are completely unsuited to their placements. For many, the experience is so negative they vow never to do it again - and discourage others from such ventures. Sometimes, though, it works so well that all the promise is fulfilled; such was my Ethiopian experience.

My extended stay in Addis Ababa limited dramatically my opportunities for further voluntary work but it didn't prevent me from visiting other organisations that might benefit from volunteers. I think I now have sufficient knowledge of several such organisations across the continent. With this knowledge, I intend to start a service in the UK that will place volunteers in Africa. I hope to avoid the pitfalls above. I'll insist on accountability from the charities; I'll interview each candidate volunteer to identify their skills and gauge their suitability for the various oppurtunities; both sides will be obliged to report back on the experience, so that I can learn from the inevitable mistakes. Because this service will be free, I'll have the luxury of sometimes saying no; there will be no income to motivate me to make an imprudent placement.

It is going to take a little while for me to set up this service but if you know anyone who might be interested, please put them in touch. The scale of the operation will be very restricted as I will only be able to run it in my free time, outside of my real job. However, if I only make a handful of successful placements, I feel compelled to try: the theory of volunteering is too great to dismiss as impracticable.

Epilogue I: Africa

2010-03-28T09:23:00.002+01:00

Another car approaches, we reach out our arms and the driver waves in reply. Paul laughs. 'These white people are so funny. They pretend they think we're waving at them. Of course they know we want a lift but it's easier to pretend to misunderstand. The truth is they don't trust Africans.'

Lack of comprehension abounds in the Western world when it comes to the subject of Africa. As many an unsuspecting interlocutor will testify, I am easily riled by someone who passes judgement on a country - or worse, the entire continent - based on a news story running that week. Or one that ran in 1985. It pains me that I still feel it necessary to utter the words 'there is more to Africa than famine, corruption, conflict, AIDS and poverty.' I don't blame the media but I do point the finger at those who interpret this news as the be-all and end-all. Read of this continent in the newspaper or watch the TV reports and you'll never understand more than 1%.

If you want a different journalistic perspective on Africa, you could start by reading Ryszard Kapuściński, who spent decades here and has a wonderful appreciation of both the big picture and the details of daily life. Better yet, forget the Western perspective and read an African writer like Chinua Achebe. You'll soon realise that we learn very little from the media.

Better still, go. Stretch out on the roof of a local's house in Dogon Country, Mali and fall asleep under a night sky as brilliant as lightning hitting a glitterball. Marvel at the relics of Ethiopia's ancient civilisations, empires of whose existence most of us are entirely unaware. Climb Kilimanjaro and weep at sunrise. Be humbled by the world's last mountain gorillas, a charging elephant or a prowling lion. Above all, observe the people as they sing, dance eat and talk. Africa is the cradle of humanity and its inhabitants continue to have a great understanding of how to enjoy this human life - something many of us in the West often seem to forget. Or perhaps we choose to misunderstand.

Out there

2010-03-21T16:35:00.044Z

I'm lying awake in my tent in Chobe National Park, Botswana. The only other tent at the small campsite is that of my guide, Godfrey, a few metres away. During the course of the day, we've seen lions, hippos, crocodiles, elephants and numerous other less dangerous animals that aren't occupying my thoughts quite so starkly at this moment in time. The frequent howls of the hyenas are also quite distracting. I can't help but wonder at the various manners of death that lurk immediately outside the very thin layer of canvas.

And yet, I fall asleep with ease. Despite the hazards, it's the serenity and beauty of this place that wins the battle in my mind. The next day, I sit writing in the open air, surrounded by the lush and improbably-leaning acacia trees that provide a patchwork canopy to the campsite. The calls of at least ten species of bird are audible from every direction. The wind rustles the leaves above and every now and then, an animal will make its presence known: the snap of a branch by an elephant; the call of a baboon; an impala darting from the bush and disappearing just as fast. If I didn't have a flight to London in two weeks' time and an awful lot more to fit in before departure, I could sit here for days and just marvel.

Pressing on the following day, I reached this country's other wonder of nature, the Okavango Delta. We venture into this region by mukoro, a local version of a canoe that provides a similar waterway experience to a Cambridge punt; the small boat being propelled by the thrust of the guide's pole against the bed beneath the clear, shallow waters. A short journey through high reeds and bright flora under a perfect sunshine evokes a feeling of genuine escape from the world of people.

On the walking safari conducted on our destination island, this feeling is only reinforced. A small bloat of hippos in a tiny lake is the first sight and then, on the other side a vast open plain teeming with zebras and wildebeest. There's something far more satisfying in seeing such animals when on foot; there's a sense that we're not intruding in the same way a car does, that our vulnerability makes our observation juster. The behaviour of the zebras exemplifies this, as they boldly trot in our direction. I raised my camera to capture the scene, only for it to malfunction and switch itself off - it lies broken still in my rucksack.

Still, a guy I met whilst gorilla-tracking in Rwanda commented to me that his favourite moment of the day was when he remembered to lower the lens and just watch with his eyes. I endeavoured to banish my annoyance and take his advice. It worked. On who knows what whim, the zebras to my left embarked on a gallop across the vista, taking the wildebeest with them... an ostrich appeared from the undergrowth and joined the run. I have no photos but it's a perfect memory to take home with me.

The smoke that thunders

2010-03-14T09:49:00.001Z

I had my reservations about Victoria Falls, never being overly-excited by sights that are just that: things to see. Without accompanying activity, or education or further sensory stimulation. But then I saw them and I spent the next couple of hours trying to see them from as many angles as possible. The first glimpse is through a fram of lush African vegetation; a perfect picture-postcard but one that deceives, for the falls stretch far further than this view affords.

So, we continue across the 'knife' bridge in search of a wider perspective. Thought very clost the cascage, the bridge offers no view at all, as the water here is overwhelming. If one manages to turn one's gaze against the onslaught and toward the falls, it's met with only a sheet of sunlit spray - watery white noise. At the other side, I'm saturated and bemused that this soaking emanates not from rain as such, though whatever chaotic eddies generate the blankets of Zambezi river hurled upon us can be just as violent as a torrential downpour.

On the island on the other side, we're precariously perched in the jaws of the deluge. The water streams over the drop in front and flows either side of our sanctuary. Rainbows abound, thrown up everywhere by the abundant showers and perfect Zambian sunshine above. They arch through the valleys and flicker briefly across the paths we tread. The experience is wonderfully ethereal, as if we've been transported to an ultimate domain of Nature. Where her immensity is on full view, visual wonders appear on all sides and we, mere people, are utterly humbled.

Heartwarmer

2010-03-08T11:06:00.003Z

Malawi really is home to the loveliest people on the face of the earth, of those that I've encountered anyway. Yesterday morning, I walked through town to the bus station and was greeted countless times en rout. One more engaged in a little conversation and then, before we parted, mentioned he ran a curios store. I didn't bite and he said goodbye. No 'please come' or 'just look' - nothing. It was a delight. Later in the day, I encountered a couple more livelier vendors but they displayed none of the pushiness frequently encountered elsewhere.

The next day, I'm sitting on a swing in Lilongwe Wildlife Sanctuary. Monkeys are jumping from tree to tree overhead and my guide is cutting at the grass in the mid-distance. We've just finished the tour and a warm glowing feeling is compelling me to write. My train of thought embarked when Cheba (the guide) began explaining how much of the forest in the sanctuary is to be cut down. These species of tree is an Indian import but has proved to restrict the growth of other vegetation and plunder the soil of its nutrients. They'll be replaced with indigenous forest.

So, the land is cared for. The animals - in rehabilitation following their deliverance from zoos around the world - are cared for in impressively large enclosures, fed well and given medication. Those young and adaptable enough will be released back into their natural habitats in due course. Others, the old and the lame, will see out their days here.

This place only exists because of people's desire to care for animals. Sure, it's open to tourists like me, but my admission fee is a means, not an end. A very simple observation but one that made me smile. Plenty of such enterprises exist around the world, of course, but I can't think of anyone who could work for one with greater charm than a Malawian.

Members of the community

2010-03-04T12:52:00.000Z

There is a room in the Kigali Memorial Centre that displays clothing and other materials recovered from the mass graves of the 1994 genocide. In the second cabinet, I see the Superman duvet cover of my childhood. Instinctively, my eyes search for the accompanying pillow-case, into which my sister embroidered ALAN. Ignoring the laws of probability for a moment, I think it might actually be my duvet cover. There is no accompanying pillow-case.

Africa is full of Western goods, many second-hand donations. The influence of the Chinese is rocketing, their exported produce filling the shelves of the cities' shops. Of course, we in Europe consume Africa's coffee, fruit and cotton. In Ethiopia, the project director described volunteering as one of the positive facets of globalisation. I'd never looked at it like that before. The idea that our increasing knowledge of foreign lands, their accessibility and their experience of welcoming visitors had improved too the opportunities for volunteers.

In 1994, I was 13 and my religious education teacher was a radical young man named Mr Briggs. He spontaneously put a question to the class one day:

- Who knows what 'ethnic cleansing' is?

One boy put his hand up and despairing, Mr Briggs declared such a response 'a disgrace'. He was referring to the conflict in the Balkans. Though it is perhaps unfair to lay such burdens on young children, I'd argue that our awareness of or regard for the global community still falls disgracefully short of commercial globalisation. If the events of Rwanda in 1994 were to befall some other country that grows our cotton, fruit or coffee, it would still be displaced in a European conscience by a much smaller catastrophe that befell a different category of people. These are not people we know any better; they're not friends, colleagues or family. But they live in our country, or at least a bit nearer; or they look the same; or they speak the same language. They don't grow our coffee but there's an unwritten rule that says they deserve greater regard.

al vs the volcano

2010-03-04T12:35:00.001Z

It's the rainy season in Rwanda and though there are frequent spells of sunshine, I was unfortunate enough to climb Mount Bisoke (some 3,700m but the hike starts around 2,500) on a day of continual downpour. So, the paths I was treading were home to miniature streams and every step was an adventure in mud. The extra effort to drag my feet from the mire really stretched the muscles and after four hours of climbing, I was exhausted.

Alas, I couldn't even then enjoy the (apparently) magnificent view. The heavy cloud resident at the volcano's peak meant visibility was restricted to about ten metres. I couldn't even see the crater lake, let alone the countryside beyond. It was freezing cold and the rain and wind were incessant. I'm not sure from where my satisfaction stemmed. Certainly, my adversary feels no irk; nor did she revel in the defeat of the only other tourist in my party, who turned back halfway up. As I sit in my corner, with no view and physically destitute from the cold and wet, opposite me is only the absolute indifference of nature.

Two days later, I'm on the slopes again, this time to witness the real highlight of Parc National des Volcans: the mountain gorillas. After a couple of hours' walking, we leave our bags on the trail and plunge into the jungle in search of Umubano group. Unexpectedly soon, a tracker clears some undergrowth with his machete and there, lying full length on his front, grooming an infant, is the silverback. Photographs and video offer no preparation for the sheer enormity of these beasts. After a few minutes, he lumbers up, eats and transports his massive hulk to some other members of the group, who climb trees, kiss and tumble playfully.

This is certainly on of the most extravagant travelling activities I've ever undertaken. But 15% of my tourist dollar goes to the local community, which evidence suggests is funding a successful agricultural industry. And a significant proportion of the remainder goes to protecting the park itself and preserving the life of the gorillas, protecting them from poachers and continuing the research into their life. So, I'm happy with my hour observing these magnificent creatures... even if their languor and games suggest once more that my presence isn't of the slightest consequence.

Tears

2010-02-26T15:02:00.004Z

A tear appears in Roza's right eye and I'm lost. I'd expected some children to cry. When I first taught Yetanyet, I had to call an Ethiopian teacher to investigate her sobs after just five minutes of the lesson. 'Yetanyet? Don't worry; she cries all the time,' was his laconic analysis. Biniyam once passed 24 hours coming to me every 10 minutes, tearfully lamenting the state of his injured finger. Kalkidan spent much of Tuesday morning clinging to me in terror of being stung by a bee after such an attack induced yet more tears in Yabsera.

But not Roza. Roza is the most popular girl at the centre's school. She's the most athletic dancer; academically strong; she sings solos; acts in the drama. Though I've never had a clash through disciplinary problems or anything else, neither has she demonstrated any of the attachment to me discernible in the other kids. She preferred to talk to me in Amharic, laught at my lack of comprehension and skip away indifferently.

Her crying has broken me and I start to cry myself. My farewell party suddenly has the atmosphere of a funeral. Respite is found in cake and traditional dancing but when I conduct the choir for the last time, emotions run high again. On the drive home, I'm unable to speak, silently worrying about the fragility of my feelings with respect to these children. Do such bonds infer a deep-rooted insecurity, borne out of my failure to form such a strong connection with a woman? I eventually decide not, concluding - to paraphrase Scroobius Pip - thou shall not think that every man who cares for a child that is not his own has psychological problems. Some people are just nice.

Jutta had intended that the singing would be my swansong but I ask for five more minutes to say goodbye to each of the children individually. Roza has another surprise in store, as she embraces me... and won't let go. More tears. The part of me that died in Ghana in December has been reborn in Ethiopia over the past three months. Again I've left it behind but this time, so that I can look forward to my return.

Rant

2010-02-21T12:22:00.001Z

A visitor during the week offered a criticism of the work here; it's the second time I've heard of this particular objection, so I felt compelled to pick up my pen and offer a defence. When I first arrived and heard of this point, I merely disagreed - now I feel justified in being riled by the matter.

MCRC stands accused of providing 'luxury' to our its beneficiaries, not humanitarian aid. The argument goes that if we didn't provide the children with Western-style beds but let them sleep on mats on the floor (as an average Ethiopian does); if we hadn't installed a garden in one of the compounds; if we didn't send a proportion of the children to an external private school; then we would be able to use these reallocated funds to accept more children in the centre and thus offer rehabilitative therapy to a larger number of people.

There are circumstantial reasons that exempt the organisation of any misuse of money, the most basic being that the physical construction and furnishing of the two centres was funded privately by the founders and their personal associates. However, I'd like to put these aside and address the argument. First, I applaud those organisations that do provide basic humanitarian aid. The orphanage I volunteered at in Togo is one such example. Children who had nowhere else to turn are now fed and sheltered; the staff ensure that they attend the local government school. This is valuable work.

MCRC aims to care for traumatised individuals: children and their parents - I have listed some of the traumas suffered in earlier posts. Our work is rehabilitation through 'basic' care, education and therapy. The centre has been built as an environment in which these individuals can feel safe, relaxed, comfortable and dare I say it, happy. The approach is holistic: we believe these people only have a chance of overcoming their problems if all aspects of the programme are designed to help address them. They sleep comfortably; they're showered regularly; they wear donated clothes from abroad. A private school educates children who would gain nothing from being put in a government school, where there is simply not the capability to care for such individuals. And this is to say nothing of the fact that private school fees in Ethiopia are a tiny fraction of those in Europe - and still the standards are far below those of state schools in the West.

Next, I want to examine the idea of development itself. Can we really claim to be developing if we merely feed, clothe, shelter and provide substandard education to our beneficiaries? They would leave our centre alive but with no opportunity to better themselves or contribute to a 'developing' Ethiopia. As things stand, I see 80 kids and their parents making such extraordinary improvements that some of them will go on to making a huge difference to this country; all of them will improve it in some way.

Lastly, there's a discomfort with this kind of criticism, which I can't shake. Another visitor recently decided against buying a painting in one of the souvenir shops here in Addis, declaring the price (about $200) 'too much for Africa.' Now, maybe she hadn't carefully thought through her words and I shouldn't attack her personally but this kind of attitude is pervasive. Did she mean that she would have paid $200 if the painting was being sold by a European, that the artist here was too poor to 'deserve' such revenue? Should not the value of the painting not be intrinsic and unrelated to the artist selling it? And I don't just speak of sounvenir-shopping. One can't escape the feeling, when faced with the criticism cited above, that there still exists an attitude that some of the care we provide here is 'too good' for an Ethiopian.

Trial

2010-01-30T14:09:00.002Z

In the morning, I meet with Bete, my wingman as Lara would call him. It's more to find out what he plans to do today than to pass on wisdom or instruction but I think I'm entitled to some on-the-job learning. At the school, I feel a little torn: I was a teacher last week, a worker. Now I'm the (temporary) boss, I feel like I should be leading, delegating, improving. I sing with the kids and the opportunities to be the sensible voice of authority present themselves.

I have interviews cum counselling sessions with some children and some mothers. One, which I thought to be successful at the time, proves to be anything but, as the boy concerned is hospitalised later in the week and needs to be sedated. At lunchtimes, people come to me as I've often seen them do to Jutta. Asking for money, presenting new problems, updating old ones. I hold a meeting with the teachers to discuss the next fortnight, a period of holiday for the school that half of our children attend and thus a period of relative chaos for our school. On Saturday, we hold another 'community conversation'. I was concerned that the session's activity - a suggestion of mine - had fallen flat but I'm relieved to hear from Clara (German volunteer and wingwoman) that the conversation flowed after I'd departed for more individual meetings.

A potential donor fails to show up for an arranged meeting at the Hilton hotel. UNFPA - from whom we receive funds - are in touch to enquire who will attend a conference but with Jutta away, I cannot spare anyone. A father comes to complain that his children did not come home last weekend, so I go to the family home to explain this was under the instruction of the hospital doctors. The children all have severe health problems and exposure to a less healthy environment could be damaging. The family home is built from mud and wood. There is one bed for the parents; the bare earth for five children. During my visit, my eyes keep fixing on a sickly kitten on the ground, stuggling to eat what looks like a scrap of animal fat.

The cumulation of problems starts to provide me with some insight into Jutta's world. Suddenly, I'm the person who has to make the decisions. Everyone comes to me and I dispense instructions, money, solutions. And still, there are a hundred other things that I should be doing.

I find solace in the more routine activities. I take two successful singing classes; show the drama and dance students the ballroom scene from War and Peace (perhaps the only part of the film where Audrey Hepburn appears well-cast) and attend Meseret's dance lessons. This last activity is a always a wonder to behold and highlights the finest characteristics of these wonderful kids. They have so much potential and hopefully so much opportunity.

The deep end

2010-01-22T19:06:00.002Z

Due to unexpectedly large visas and accompanying stamps in West Africa, my passport was filled after the issue of my Ethiopian visa. I've been waiting for a new one for a month and finally collected it this morning. Three hours before my appointment with immigration for a visa that replaces that which expires today. Timely would be an understatement, not least because the project director and her husband fly to Germany this evening, leaving me to look after things in their absence. Legal occupation of the country is something of an imperative.

I feel a little apprehensive about the next few days but have faith in those around me. For now, I try to imitate those who have made this project the extraoridnary success that it is. On the way back from the Irish embassy, we stop at the hospital to collect the medical report on one of the project's mothers - recently attacked by her husband. As Bete goes to collect the papers, I stop in to see two of the children and try to raise a smile. Back in the car park, I see the mother in question sat on a bench under the dappled noontime shade. Following treatment for concussion and spinal injuries, she's been discharged. She smiles and greets me and I experience a wave of something ineffable. It's a joy to be alive.

Perspective

2010-01-14T19:43:00.000Z

On Saturday afternoons, the project holds a 'community conversation' for the mothers who participate in the programme. This week, they're divided into groups and spend the first half an hour or so completing jigsaw puzzles together. They've never done one before.

It's just an icebreaker for the week's principal activity: a seemingly rudimentary form of art therapy. Each woman was given a piece of paper with the instruction to draw on side something that represents happiness and on the other, sadness. One mother drew a tree, explaining that to her it showed protection: shade from the sun. I remember once reading in the Koran that heaven would be full of ample shade and mulling over how paradise varies, depending on your perspective. In the session, many of the happiness depictions are very simple: a home, a flower, a family.

On the reverses: a mother and child begging in the street, drowning children, blindness. One woman had drawn herself as a young girl to represent happiness - when explaining it, she emphasised the freedom she felt, the independence she enjoyed. She broke down as she described her image of sadness: herself as a mother, with a child to care for. Life has been a prison ever since. I can't judge her for I've seen how hard it can be here.

On Monday, we paid another visit to the Russian hospital, where there is usually at least one person from the project undergoing treatment. A six-year old boy with severe physical disabilities is one of the newest recruits. Most of the time, his condition leaves him sore to the touch and constantly in pain but he smiles broadly when we enter the room. When Jutta - the project director - first talked with him, she asked if he had any friends. His response: look at me, who would want to be my friend? She took him to the project and put the question to the other kids. A sea of raised hands fought off the misery for another day.

History lesson

2010-01-08T18:44:00.001Z

Ethiopia's historical tour began in Lalibela, another one of the world's sights that astounds with the achievements of humanity. It is the country's Jerusalem, near literally. The first king here set about constructing churches to replicate those found in the holy land - intending to ease the pilgrimage of the inhabitants of the horn of Africa. The churches are perhaps the pinnacle of rock-hewn architecture. One gazes at them and though full of admiration, becomes conscious that such marvels could only be achieved through extraordinary religious devotion in those who conceived them... and extraordinary oppression of those who laboured to build them.

The embarrassment of those who claim that Africa did not enjoy any great civilisations in history continues in Gonder, a pleasant town that boasts a beautiful royal compound. Here in the 17th and 18th centuries, a powerful kingdom flourished and constructed castles that provide evidence of the wealthy and bloody dynasty that once reigned therein. More greatness too can be found in Aksum, the most important city in the entire region of East Africa and Southern Arabia back in the 6th century.

From Gonder, a step into natural history and the Simien mountains. A thrilling three-day trekking experience in one of the most unusual landscapes I've ever encountered. Formed from volcanic eruptions, the range is full of weirdly-shaped isolated peaks that look as though they formed in a great struggle against their surroundings. Our trip concluded at the lookout point of Imet Gogo, almost 4,000m up and affording a magnificent 360 degree view over the vastness of this corner of Ethiopia - a seemingly endless stretch of smaller peaks reaching as far as the eye can see.

The landscape fascinates because it is not just a national park; thousands of people continue to live off the land here, indifferent to the (by no means numerous) tourists. What I believe to be Ethiopia's greatest plight is evident in every field we pass: another child working the land. Kids as young as four can be seen, stick in hand, herding the cattle or leading the mules. A huge percentage of the nation's youth will never have any formal education.

Video special

2009-12-27T11:43:00.001Z

For further explanation of the project I'm currently working for, please take a look at the following video.

An excellent summary of the work done by the programme, what this film cannot show is the progress made by all these children and their mothers. It doesn't show the poverty and hardship from where they came. For this, you'll have to take my word for it.

Season's greetings to all.

Only happy when it rains

2009-12-11T18:26:00.032Z

Heavy rain has fallen on Addis Ababa for two days. It has come unusually early and the local harvest is most certainly ruined. A sodden mother arrives at the house in the morning, one of many comings and goings. Her brother-in-law (and nextdoor neighbour) has punched her in the face after she complained of loud music disturbing her young child. He also broke her sister's teeth. Her husband is absent.

She is mother to one of 78 children cared for by the programme with which I currently work. Words really can't do it justice but its primary aim is rehabilitation. The children between them have suffered - and in some cases, continue to suffer - every misfortune: from destitution they come orphaned, sexually abused, physically abused, afflicted with HIV, tuberculosis, multiple sclerosis, paralysis. They are fed; some are housed. They are educated and far beyond a rudimentary curriculum: dance, art and music provide therapy to redress the traumas of the past.

The parents - predominantly mothers - too are included in the rehabilitation. The philosophy here is to maintain and strengthen the maternal bond when it is necessary to provide care for the children; as opposed to causing further emotional damage through severance. Thus, the mothers work for and participate in the project. Some are teachers; some work in small shop; others pick spices to supply the shop; or they clean; or they garden. They have their own dance therapy classes, literacy and numeracy lessons and a tailoring course.

All this is the brainchild and labour of love of Jutta, an extraordinary German woman. She started by taking kids off the street into her own home and through years of toil - and with the support of her Belgian husband - the project has grown to its current size. Still she keeps a number of the most needy in her home, where I also stay.

I'm teaching at the kindergarten in the mornings, singing with the older children in the afternoons, assisting with report-writing and generally helping where I can. To be frank, I'm mostly gazing in awe at the achievements of this project and those who make it happen. I'm surrounded by misery but the work done here is the epitome of inspiration. It's life-affirming stuff and I have already committed to extending my stay.

Return to Old Ayomah

2009-12-05T05:28:00.000Z

The easiest port of departure from West Africa in Accra, so before taking my flight to Ethiopia, I found myself back in Ghana after seven years. With a day to spare, I decided to take a trip back to the remote village where I first worked as a volunteer. Scraps of an account of the experience there can be found in the archive on this blog - written originally as diary entries and posted online later.

I was nervous about the trip. If the toilet blocks we worked on had indeed been completed (as promised) by the Ghanaian charity, it would hugely boost my faith in African voluntary work. A small organisation, VOLU would have demonstrated its commitment to the cause. Away from the watchful eyes of the paying white folk, it carried on the work. Because it believed in it.

On the other hand, I might find the two building sites as we left them. Perhaps overrun with seven years' worth of the jungle unbridled - no insignificance in the lush region of the Volta. There is no middle ground. This would be quite a devastating failure. There were nearly 30 of us internationals in Old Ayomah. There were Ghanaian volunteers too, in addition to local labourers. Work was intermittent but there were many days of genuine toil. To think it produced nothing is unbearable.

The nerves abated as I arrived at the village. Fond memories came flooding back. There was the little village bell, next to the slope where we collected stones. The short walk down the road brought to mind one of my favourite photographs: of Polly and Pippa walking together. There's something beautiful in the foreigner walking the red earth of Africa. Here is the school which we cleaned, the football field we cut and played upon.

I couldn't find the site at first. The buildings at the second site were unfamiliar but none appeared to be the toilet blocks. A local appeared and I asked him if he remembered when the whites came to work here seven years ago.

- Yes.
- Was the work finished?
- No. I can show you the site.

Even the efforts of nature appear minimal. I was overwhelmed by a sense of hopelessness. All that effort. What was I to say to this man who'd watched our motley crew arrive, work and leave two pits half-full of bricks redundant for seven years. A tiny part of my optimistic nature has died and is buried there now.

I know there are those who were on the project who will despair at my naivety for believing it could be otherwise; that VOLU would really see the work through, having already demonstrated great ineptness in the organisation of the camp. I am guilty of this but I like to assume innocence until proven otherwise.

I wouldn't yet yield to saying that particular adventure was futile, however. As my first experienc in sub-Saharan Africa, it has a profound influence on my life. I invite others who were there to comment on their own thoughts. Lastly, it's worth noting that - as any decent scientist will tell you - the negative result is often just as valuable.

Benin tourist brochure

2009-12-04T14:01:00.008Z

Abomey is a fantastic place to visit. A great number of the streets feature either a voodoo temple or an historical palace of the Dahomey kingdom. The official residence of the royal family now contains an excellent museum, chronicling their history. And what a lively and intriguing history this kingdom has, from infighting royal families to barbarous executions, from furious wars to widespread slavery. All featuring the common thread of acts committed in the name of Animism.

This still exists to a large extent. It's estimated that around half of the population still practise the religion. My guide Marc explained to me how a sacrificed animal is offered at the temples by someone wishing to cure an illness or seek godly favours. There then follows a procession of seven circuits of the building, concluding with ululations and dancing.

It was not so long ago that humans were offered as part of the sacrificial cermonies. Today, cows have substituted in for the more significant rites and lions and crocodiles are kept in captivity for the purposes of ensuring a gory ceremony for the gods.

The other victims of the kingdom where the slaves. This too makes for fascinating tourism in Benin. In the 17th century, the Tefian people fled to the country's largest lake to escape the slave traders, knowing that a Dahomey religious custom prevented their entering the water. The result - the village of Ganvie - still stands in the waters of Lake Nokome. Today, most of the buildings are built as they were then, with bamboo stilts rising a metre or two above the surface of the water.

In Ouidah, a primary trading port, the Point of No Return monument on the beach is another site to see. There is nothing artistically exceptional about the bas-relief depictions of the chained slaves and the arch itself seems poorly maintained. Still, the presence of a frame to this section of beach evokes the images of fear, confusion and hopelessness that represent one of the darkest periods of human history.

As a tourist, I was gripped by this country. I could easily have spent more time in Abomey, Ouidah and the numerous parts of the country I missed on this trip. There are beaches, a national park and I haven't even spent a night in the big cities. If you speak French and fancy a break from the norm, Benin should be top of your list.

On the big catwalk

2009-12-01T13:10:00.002Z

When it comes to sartorial matters, I've never been comfortable with the idea of going native. I eat African food; I listen to African music; I'll even engage in elaborate handshakes. Dressing like a local has always felt like a step too far. The other examples cited and most I can think of are either participatory in their nature or can be enjoyed in private.

To me, donning the indigenous attire becomes a little egoistic. It's making an individual statement: I'm one of you; I fit in here. Well, that's not strictly true. I still have my white skin, so I may as well stick with the outer layers too.

However, I don't know if I'm entirely convinced by this argument. I'm a reasonably conservative dresser back home. It might well be that my usual inhibitions endure here. I shun the bright colours of African fashion and use the reservations above as an excuse.

The wonderful Deh family of Lome have presented me with the opportunity for a trial. These people who have bestowed on me countless kindnesses have also bought me a leaving present: a tailored shirt of local style.

I've done my best to offer you some winning model poses, so it just remains for me to invite your comments. Be honest, be brutal. What's the verdict?

Project Review: Togo

2009-11-30T17:44:00.000Z

In the world of development, there exists a great deal of justified criticism. My projects are small and do not fall under the watchful eyes that scrutinise larger organisations. I choose the smaller ventures precisely because I think it's easier to avoid the pitfalls and thus the criticism from which large NGOs sometimes suffer. However, I'm not seeking to avoid criticism, so on this trip, I'm trying to offer some myself.

As has been recorded here, the intrinsic value of providing educational support to the children of the Renaissance Orphanage is very high indeed. Reducing the inequality of opportunity amongst the child population of the world is a cause I would happily support. Furthermore, I believe the value someone like me can bring is also substantial. Without an international volunteer, there is no one. A local replacement would require a salary; generally speaking, the people of Togo cannot afford to volunteer.

We delve into the greay area when we consider whether the expenses I paid to come here and my subsistence here could instead have been directed to a paid local replacement. Without doing the maths, it's feasible in the long term. However, development must also face practicalities. This idea of substituting the volunteer for the paid local relies on the existence of a continual stream of volunteers who would happily make such a substitution. This doesn't exist now but one of the benefits - with a truly enormous potential - of temporary voluntary placements is what can be achieved by the actions of the volunteer afterwards. If; through the efforts of those who have already been, the flow of volunteers can be increased, the goal of a paid replacement might be realised.

This objective also addresses one of the other reservations I hold about my placement in Lome - that of sustainability. Any teacher will tell you of the need for reinforcement of learned material, of repetition, of practice. Without continual support, the value of that taught by any volunteer will diminish with time.

Lastly, I ought not to shrink from criticising the centre itself. My concern here lies in the aggression occasionally exhibited by the staff towards the orphans. Sister Jocelyn seems a terrifying presence and no doubt it was with her authority that Martine, a bright and mischievous girl of 11, was severely beaten in my presence. I can only offer words of criticism to the staff. In the same way that I cannot avoid working for a Catholic orphanage (when I'm an advocate of a secular upbringing), I can't avoid working for organisations that maintain disciplinary poilicies I abhor. I can't refuse to teach children who are cared for in such institutions. It is hardly necessary for me to write that there are limits to what can be achieved by a volunteer.

The unplanned

2009-11-23T10:32:00.001Z

The end of the week at the orphanage and one of favourtie students asks me for some help just as I' about to leave. Incapable of refusing, it leaves my walk back to the road a mite hazardous because half an hour later, the paths are completely dark. Sister Jocelyn, the presiding nun at the centre, offers me a lift on her motorbike. I'm not enitrely comfortable in her company (for reasons to be explained at a later date) but happily, the short trip passes without awkwardness.

The ride aids my passage to an early night. At 5am on Saturday I depart for a weekend in the environs of Kpalime, a town as much of a tourist hotspot as Togo possesses - I count at least ten during the day's activities. Mr Akakpo accompanies me on the ascent of Mt Agou (the country's highest peak) and on a visit to spectacular waterfalls at Kplime.

The trip's highlight, however, is unplanned. At the family home, I meet my host's sister Beatrice. I say 'meet' but 'experience' would be more accurate. Here is one of these formidable women who explode into a room like a firework display. Attention is immediately focussed on her and the performance is relentless. I'm severly reprimanded for the brevity of my stay in Togo, informed that I must return for at least three months in order that she can find me a wife and persuaded to attend a family wedding the same evening.

The ceremony takes place in the Hotel Du Ville, in a spartan room decorated only with two balloons and a map of New Caledonia. It features prayers but appears to be civil in nature. The congregation applauds after each response from the couple, including when, given the option, the groom opts for the 'polygamous' form of marriage. The reception is at the Grand Hotel just out of town. Beatrice seats us at a table of three with our other companion from the household, Lewe. I'm feeling very uncomfortable, as there clearly not enough places for everyone... but a table is soon laid for the extra eight - I can't be the only crasher.

I'm soon put at ease by the bride (seen dancing with me here) and groom who - prompted by Beatrice - each come and thank me for attending. I assuage my internal guilt by leaving some money in place of the present I haven't had time to buy and thus, I'm free to enjoy the evening. It is on occasions such as this that the Togolese stake their claim for being the finest exponents of the joie de vivre. Singing, dancing, spontaneous speeches, bursts of applause and cheering.

a + x = b

2009-11-19T14:16:00.004Z

Linear equations in x, where x is not the subject of the equation. In the past ten minutes, I’ve worked through a couple of examples and attempted to impart some golden rules of algebra to my audience. Three teenage girls who requested a maths session today, having studied only English with me last week. I tease that this lesson will also be in English but immediately revert to French. For this reason, perhaps, I’m struggling to make a breakthrough.

The blackboard is set up every day by one of the kids. It rests freely on an easel, large enough to accommodate the little ones underneath. Teaching is frequently interrupted with a rattle of the frame, followed by the appearance of a grinning toddler – usually Daniel, who on day one ran from me screaming.

A beautiful evening approaches. Last night, the first rains of my stay in Togo battered the corrugated roof of my bedroom. Such clamour invariably evokes great comfort when one lies in bed, attentively listening to nature. It’s still truer in the tropics, where her ferocity is greater and visits here rare enough to amplify the novelty and generate nostalgia for earlier trips. Today, the atmosphere is cleansed and the walk to the orphanage from the road is enjoyed under a sky of perfect limpidity. To stem the flow of sweat afterwards, I teach in the shaded part of the courtyard.

One more example, a reference back to the theory and understanding dawns on two of three faces. They chatter away to the third in the local language and she too looks encouraged. I give them some exercises to complete on the board and they fight for the chalk, sulking when it’s not their turn. I’ve seen such enthusiasm in children before but they’ve always been much younger. I get the impression that the opportunity for educational support really is quite unique for those at the orphanage.

Renaissance

2009-11-13T12:12:00.001Z

On my first visit to the orphanage, I'm given a tour of the complex by one of the three women who work there - it's very short, as it's little more than a handful of dormitories and basic facilities set around a small courtyard. It houses 35 children, varying in age from 4 months to 18 years. Some of their parents are known to be dead. Others are known to have at least one living parent who could no longer cope. For most, it simply isn't known: these children were 'found' - too young to be able to offer any evidence of their origins.

I'm initially quite concerned as to what work I'll be doing, as it's hard to imagine what I can bring to this simple place. Then, the children are instructed to set up tables and benches for their homework. And I was left to help them. My knowledge of written French is good enough to assist with the work of the youngest. Maths tuition requires no great linguistic ability. The older children study English. There is plenty of marking to be done as none of the exercise books bore any evidence of a teacher's pen. I ask David, ten, how many pupils are in his class. There are 90.

So, I'm a private tutor to 25 or so schoolchildren, who given their circumstances probably deserve some support. Moreover, I'm a part-time babysitter. The facts above hadn't really registered with me until I'd worked for a couple of hours. How is it possible for 3 women to care 24/7 for 35 children? There are several who are too young to wash, dress or feed themselves. I suspect my presence is a relief to the women. When I'm there they can devote themselves to the little ones, as I monitor the makeshift outdoor classroom.

So, I don't just teach. I'm another conversational outlet for the kids. On the first day, I break up several fights between the boys and comfort more than one child after an outbreak of tears. I read stories from their books. Some are friendlier than others, some are shy. With the unruly, I can't help wonder how much their situation contributes to their misbehaviour. It's evident that, despite the best efforts of the women, there is usually not a guiding hand to check their indiscretions. But it seems presumptuous to speculate; the lives led by the orphans are quite beyond my comprehension.

Aller

2009-11-10T13:18:00.001Z

Seven years ago, when I was volunteering on a project in Ghana, a few of us from the group took a stroll a couple of kilometres east and illegally entered Togo. This time, I took the conventional route, got the stamp on my passport and have settled into life in the suburbs of the capital, Lomé.

And it's an immensely satisfying life, which I will enjoy for the next three weeks or so. Immediately, my principal contact here - Mr Akapo - filled me with confidence. He listened with great sympathy to my experience in Senegal and seemed genuinely interested in the objectives of my trip, offering to let me visit some other projects he is involved with over the border in Benin. Despite my broken French, we were able to spend the evening discussing these matters (and of course, a good deal of football - this being Africa) over some excellent brochettes and non-alcoholic Guinness.

The host family I have been introduced to is equally heartening. There are so many comings and goings each day that is hard to discern exactly who lives in the house but there are three siblings in their twenties, the eldest being my official hostess. She is mother to three boys and occupies herself with managing the household, preparing excellent meals for all three times a day - always followed by delicious fruit. I spend a lot of time chatting with her younger brother, who is still at university. Last night, I bonded with the youngest member of the household (Bobo, not yet 2) who on some childish whim, decided that only I could help him eat his yogurt.

Presiding over all is the indomitable matriach of the family, known to me only as Maman Togolaise. Physically and mentally, her presence dominates the sofa in the courtyard where all the important activities of the home take place - the cooking, the eating, the washing, the receiving of visitors. One such visitor arrived yesterday morning as I was enjoying my bread and jam. A teenage boy, he sheepishly approached Maman and she sent one of her grandsons to fetch a bag. From this was produced a hygienic glove followed by various other items which were employed in dressing a wound on the boy's hand. The work was performed with great care and delicacy, juxtaposing with her physique: arms broader than my chest, a Don King hairdo and a smile to cheer the soul from fifty paces. I learn later she is a retired nurse and midwife but still treats those in the community who pass by her door.

Each night, I retire to a simple room on the roof of the house, full of food and marvelling at the generosity and warmth emanating from all in the family. In advance of my class in the morning, I spend some time studying French. The other significant aspect of my time here is the voluntary work itself, the afternoons spent at an orphanage a little north of where I live. For the next entry...

Land of the Incorruptible

2009-11-03T14:31:00.000Z

On entering Burkina Faso, the border guard examines my passport and then queries as to whether Ireland is next to Germany. I guess he doesn't see many Irish pass through his checkpoint.

Indeed, this country isn't on many people's 'to visit' list. Poor, landlocked and not boasting anything as renowned as the sights of its neighbours, this is understandable. The capital, Ouagadougou, is certainly a more laid-black, relaxing experience than many African cities but there is little that is unique in its attractions. Step a short distance outside the centre of town and one quickly becomes lost in derelict wasteland, where the poverty is stark. My hotel room lay on the edge, as the view testifies.

The second city, Bobo-Dioulasso, is even more chilled. Its only real sight of interest to tourists is the mosque and surrounding 'old quarter' of town. Here, several games of football are played on the earthen fields, many with accompanying spectators; teenagers roam the streets in herds; women talk on corners; men recline in bars. A group of boys latch onto me and my wanderings, one showing me his tiny wooden football trophy, another holding my hand. Two more campaign for my support in an argument over whether a donkey is a horse. One asks for money. It is impossible to remain uncharmed by these confident, welcoming children. Earlier in the day, on a bus ride's market stop; I'd been as easily broken by a young girl selling rice cakes; her sales/comedy routine included references to 'lots of vitamins' and a special 'white man' price.

The people aside, it is outside the cities that Burkina displays its own charm. The region around Banfora in the southwest is home to Lac Tengréla, which in turn is home to a herd of hippopotamuses. I remembered that in Malawi, the hippos generally took to the water in the daylight hours for relief from the heat. Today is overcast and a cool breeze blows. Sure enough, they do not appear. Still, the calm of the lake during an hour's pirogue trip is an edifying experience.

The highlight of the day is a visit to the Cascades de Karfiguéla. Not especially high or dramatic, the falls are envigorated by the stunning setting. The approach is suitably exciting, as one walks through a giant avenue of magnificent trees before proceeding up a steep hike. At the top, the falls gush forth forth and down into the lush jungle of West Africa - calling to mind my first African adventure in Ghana years ago.

Dogon Country

2009-10-29T21:03:00.050Z

Journeying on the back of a donkey cart, we - my guide Abdoul and me - set out for

the first village of Dogon country, Kali-Kolombe. The place didn't particularly inspire and I started to wonder why the experience of Dogon Country is cited as one of the highlights of travelling in West Africa. After a short trek, we stopped in a second village and here, with the tantalising backdrop of the once-inhabited escarpement, I began to appreciate how unique the Dogon existence once was.

After lunch, we climb up to explore the deserted villages in the rock face, build there hundreds of years ago so that the Dogon had a natural form of defence against the conquering Islamic tribes.We pass through the empty buildings, tunnels and passes that once constitued an entire community: compartmentalised storage silos, a butcher's, the house of the village elders, a sacrifical altar. All with the most stunning view across the plains below.

Below, in the village of today, three old men making baskets happily pose for photographs - once I have furnished them with the required kola nuts. It seems these are something of a delicacy for the old men here and act as a pseudo currency for tourists wishing to win favour (and photo opportunities). It's hard to bridge the gap between the Dogon of yesteryear and these people I live with for two days. Having eventually descended from the escarpement to be nearer water (and with the elders deciding the threat of other tribes had diminished), the exposure to the wider world has undoubtedly wrought profound changes. As a guided tourist, it's tempting to imagine that the majority of Dogon income is provided by the likes of me. I see so many campements, craft shops and textile sellers. But that's to ignore the many locals to whom I have no reason to be introduced: the children on their way to school, the women pounding millet, the men in the fields.

Over our evening meal, I feel the guide/tourist barrier is broken between Abdoul (himself a Dogon) and me. We talk of my trip, his family and our respective marriage prospects. The dinner is excellent and as the evening lengthens, a majestic moonlight envelops the village. It is such a rarity for me that the illumination provided by a clear night is utterly amazing. Its beauty overwhelms me and I want to ask Abdoul about the meaning of life. I resist... and retire to my bed - a mattress and blanket on the roof. With the perfect infinity above, my eyes resist repose for a long time.

Sandcastles

2009-10-26T19:54:00.002Z

Djenne, Mali. Home to the largest mud structure on the planet and thus protected as a world heritage site. It is more by coincidence than intent that I visit on Monday, the recommended day to visit due to the scheduling of the weekly market. My guid book states that this has scarcely changed since the days when the Tuareg people came to trade salt for fish. The proliferation of Barack Obama t-shirts on sale debunks this claim.

The market obscures the facade of the giant earthen mosque itself and I struggle to take a photograph that encaptures it, fearful of including a trader in the shot and consequently incurring offence or demands for financial recompense. I settle for a few snaps of the towers on the front; nothing how remarkably similar to a child's sandcastle they are. I imagine a gigantic toddler, manipulating his toy figures into various poses of prayer in the courtyard of his seaside masterpiece.

As I wait for the bus back to Sévaré, the call to prayer issues forth and two men lingering nearby ( I want to say in the waiting room but it's merely a few benches under a straw shade) unfurl a rug and begin to pray. It seems extraordinary given we're within spitting distance of the gargantuan house of worship. But then I recall the notices - accompanied by ones forbidding entry to non-Muslims - on the entrances to the magnificent mosque: entry 25F.

Welcome to Mali

2009-10-22T18:27:00.037+01:00

I arrive at Stade de l'Amitie in plenty of time for the midnight departure from Dakar. I'm taking the bust to Bamako, capital of Mali. Partly as a result of a malfunctioning celing fan in the guest house, my fatigue has crippled my bartering skills and I pay over the odds for my baggage. So, I'm already feeling a tad irritable when eventually the passenger list is read, in order of when the tickets were purchased, I believe.

When the bus is almost full and just three or four of us remain waiting, the list-bearer gestures to me for help finding my name. It turns out to have been quite near the top but he just missed it. Sadly for me, all the decent places are already gone, so I'm left with an aisle seat. For those of you unfamiliar with African public transport, this is a seat quite literally in the aisle. Dispensing with the need for a permanent thoroughfare, African buses generally have additional fold-out chairs to in crease passenger capacity. The back rest of my 'seat' is around three inches high and the legs are unstable.

I don't actually know how long this journey is going to take. My guide book states 'two days' - somewhat vague. The man who sold me the ticket was a little more optimistic: 25 or 26 hours, he reckoned. Still, it is with no little despair that I take my seat.

The following occurs twice in the first half an hour. The driver, proceeding at high speed, suddenly slams on the breaks and we fail to decelerate quickly enough to avoid the impact of the massive pot-hole in the road. Everyone is thrown up in the air and much complaining ensues. On my left is a sextagenarian, who seems to have spent her entire life practising in advance of the magnificent conversation she is now engaged in. The young woman to my right has fallen asleep; her head is sort of on my knee. I look longingly at her redundant headrest. Then the music starts. Who would have guessed that such a decrepit old bus would have such a voluminous PA?

We arrive at the Mali border around lunchtime. It's beautiful. No, really. The vehicle barrier has been painted in the vivid green, yellow and red of Senegal's (and Mali's) tricolore and a matching parasol shades the attendant. Into the distance either side shimmers a strip of fresh tarmac, cutting a perfect line through Africa's green and red. I want to take a picture but something tells me the border guards might not be best pleased.

Instead, I joing my fellow passengers in what appears to be the archetypal road trip meal here: barbecued pig in a baguette, with all the trimmings. I am too busy savouring its divine deliciousness to ponder for long why this food is so commonplace in these Islamic countries.

Entering Mali, a Togolese in our group is stopped for failing to pay the required funds. We wait. I'm not quite sure how waiting will resolve the issue but a couple of hours later it does. It's around nine in the evening - and three more document checks later - when one of the bus people advises that we won't be going any further this evening. It's okay though because we can sleep on the bus. The sextagenarian immediately starts to make herself comfortable and whips her bra off from underneath her clothing. She gives it a deep sniff, recoils in disgust and then calmly places it in her handbag.

In the morning, there is more barbecued pig. A very close encounter with an oncoming vehicle whilst overtaking is best recorded with the real-time commentary of a Nigerian passenger: 'jesus... jesus... jesus... jesus jesus jesus jesus jesus jesusjesusjesus... JESUS... JE... SUS!'

But make it to Bamako we do, some 40 hours after departure. Despite my initial reservations, I flippin' loved every minute.

Civil code

2009-10-17T17:30:00.038+01:00

It's 16:30. I'm writing early in the day in an effort to transmit my emotions directly, for today I feel rage. Dakar is a city that provokes, prods you endlessly with a stick broken inexpertly from its branch - the end a disarray of needles and splinters. It's impossible to walk around the centre in possession of white skin and a rucksack without constantly feeling the stick. Every few metres, a new salesman has a new pitch or a new ruse.

Of course, as Ibu - a jewellery vendor - observed to me in Cap Skiring last week, we tourists have to understand that they're just trying to make a living. The challenge is to hold onto this thought and maintain one's composure. More importantly, to retain a sense of humanity towards the irritating, irrepressible, unavoidable street vendor.

This lack of civility displayed to strangers is a great bugbear of mine. There was a perfect example during the tube strikes in London earlier this year, when I witnessed rudeness, blatant pushing and borderline violence on the overground service, which was dangerously overcrowded as a result of the industrial action. Around every set of doors on the train platform, there existed a base mob displaying bewildering selfishness.

Now, imagine that the night before, by a bizarre circumstance of fate, every single person around one of those doors attended the same party. Everyone was introduced by first name. Some only stayed for one drink; others lasted the evening. The next morning everyone remembers everyone's name. What then, the scene on the platfrom? I don't think the scene would be the same. Nothing more is required for such decency than knowing a name. But what's in a name? Is it so hard to exercise a little humanity without knowing a name?

This passes through my mind as I'm accosted for the 20th time on the streets of Dakar. Non, merci.

But sometimes it is do hard. The 21st time, my response isn't met with the desired effect and the vendor walks with me. He's not the first to do this but he is the first to give me a little nudge with his arm. I'm surprised; momentarily caught off balance; perspiring under the midday sun. I'm broken. From then on, not an acknowledgement, not a pause, not a word - not a shred of humanity. I can sense the chagrin at my sulky arrogance but the animal is in control and I feel ever more determined to ignore them.

I feel it still as I barter more aggressively than usual for my taxi home. In the sanctuary of the cab, Mr Hyde departs and i'm filled with remorse. At the guest house, I thank the driver with sincerity and give him a tip.

Tu as quel âge?

2009-10-13T22:09:00.001+01:00

I am 28 years old and I feel like death. A horrible sore throat descended on me overnight in my hotel room and this morning, it had developed into a hacking cough and accompanying headache.

My departure from Ziguinchor was hastened by Alfonse's drinking problem (long story) so I've sought refuge in Cap Skiring and reside in a campement barely two minutes from one of Africa's finest beaches. Yet, for the morning, I was unable to rouse myself from a snotty stupor.

Eventually, I take a walk along the shore, have lunch and chat with some locals. The beach really is glorious and almost entirely deserted, peak season having recently ended. Fede - a Guinean refugee - and I sit admiring the view and work our way through the various topics I'm capable of discussing in French. He asks me how old I am.

I am 28 years old and I feel like death.

Nevertheless, Fede is quite insistent that we go out and celebrate. Reluctant at first, I eventually relent, imagining that my malaise will be overcome by glamorous bars frequented by beautiful, French, African-travelling women... all of whom will be thrilled to celebrate my birthday.

A couple of hours later, I sit on a plastic stool in the darkened backstreet behind a cheap hotel. Fede is smoking a joint he has just bought from a Gambian who maintains his name is Bob Marley. I am 28 years old.

I had suggested to Fede earlier that we ought to get something to eat at some point but there is a power cut in the town and everywhere is temporarily closed. We wait. Fede finishes his joint. I decide to cut my losses and take a taxi home, using my illness as an excuse. I buy a packet of chocolate biscuits and get into bed with a book, feeling strangely content. I am 28 years old.

Heads

2009-10-10T19:17:00.042+01:00

In the late afternoon, Alphonse and I head to fulfil a long-held ambition of mine: attending an African football match. Ziguinchor's Casa Sports are one of Senegal's top teams and play in a stadium just outside the town centre, the vast majority of the crowd crammed into the one proper stand, shaded from the sun that sinks behind it. In the middle of the throng, the official cheerleaders (if that's the appropriate term) are relentless for the full 90 minutes: a group of around 30 young women - attired in matching t-shirts - throw their magnificent shapes with astonishing energy as they beat out a rhythm on handheld percussion, all the while singing with a grace unbeknownst to English football grounds.

But then, all around them the remainder of the crowd was strangely mute. Not once did they join in a chant and even the celebrations for each of the home side's three goals were, well, quiet. The entire experience was strangely underwhelming. Even before this outing, I would have said that - when compared with some African nationalities - the Senegalese are a fairly subdued people. Guide books cite the love of subtle and witty conversation as being central to their culture. As a non-francophone, I perhaps miss out on this this and hence, the more patent elements of life are starker in their absence.

Still, there's enough to provide a thrill or two. As we leave the stadium, it's apparent most of the supporters have come on foot but there are still scores of motorbikes (including one on which Alfonse and I ride), a few cars and one comically overladen bus - all are attempting to leave via the solitary road. We come within a hair's breadth of collision several times in the space of 100 metres. 'Passez ici!' grins the biker next to us, indicating a surely suicidal route on the inside of the bus. Alfonse declines the option of negotiating past the swaying vehicle and the numerous patrons hanging from the open doors and windows.

But we round it on the outside at the next junction and accelerate away. As the sun sets on Ziguinchor, I feel the wind on my face and the exhiliration of this temporal freedom. In my head, I'm already deliberately mistranslating Born To Be Wild. Tête dehors sur l'autoroute...

Tails

2009-10-10T19:00:00.017+01:00

A conversation with Alphonse this morning persuades me to make the inevitable decision: I email my principal contact here to request leaving Senegal and being placed elsewhere in West Africa. Again last night the director of the school failed to show and Alphonse is now of the opinion that he's a 'joker,' remaining in Dakar to make money out of a youth football tournament. It's rather soul-destroying. I come here with such good intentions and can't help but be saddened when people treat me with such disregard.

Moreover, it compels me to question the entire endeavour (ten days in - count 'em) and further still, the use of one's time for pursuits such as these. It's realistic to imagine that even a life wholly dedicated to altruistic development would be littered with disappointment. Equally, maybe I'm not the right person for this sort of thing. Perhaps I don't have the requisite assertiveness to make things happen myself; maybe I'd be better off doing my bit from a desk.

But I'm not done yet. I cling to the successes of the past and know my fickle nature can be won back by a change of fortune in Mali or Burkina Faso or Benin... Stick with me.

It's fun to stay

2009-10-08T18:08:00.003+01:00

I'm in the Ziguinchor office of the YMCA, having just accompanied the regional head - Alfonse - on his lunchtime errands. A trip to collect some papers from the social office. A slightly tense meeting at the town's driving school, where the manager informed Alfonse that an employee had failed his theory test. A visit to said employee's parents to break the bad news. A house call to a friend who is unwell - they think it's his kidneys. Lastly, a leisurely lunch in the French tradition. I'm not volunteering with the YMCA; I'm merely accompanying Alfonse for the day as he is also my host family and I'm still waiting to meet the director of the school at which I'll work.

It's easy to forget how slowly things can move in Africa. On the day of my arrival in Dakar, it was discovered the following evening's ferry here was full, so I would have to wait four days for the next. I'm sure there exists an overland option but my hosts insisted I wait. Knowing the adoption of such an attitude will serve me well over the coming months, I offered no argument.

Back in the office and Alfonse shuffles papers, adjusts the fan and leaps into action when the telephone rings. I have confidence in his intentions and having witnessed a meeting in Dakar, believe the Senegalese YMCA does some valuable work (without any underlying Christian message it would seem, which is perhaps not surprising in a country that is 90 percent muslim). Both Alfonse and the organisation, however, operate at a pace to which we are not accustomed.

Exothermic

2009-10-05T20:44:00.000+01:00

I write in my oppressively hot room in Dakar. Within minutes of entering, my enitre body is covered in a layer of sweat. On my forehead, it collects and drips down from my nose, blotting the ink of my journal. I will be content to depart this stifling city on the ferry tomorrow.

I've just finished my dinner - the first one to disappoint these past few days. Still, the bread is very good - a baguette with every meal. No doubt the instructions for its preparation were imparted meticulously by the French many years ago, intent on continuing to enjoy their creature comforts in a foreign land. I half-expect to encounter an excellent Camembert before long.

As it stands, the language is the strongest vestige I've noticed in Senegal thus far. In former British colonies, the use of English is certainly widespread but it's always appeared to remain distinct from local dialects: conversations are conducted in one or the other. Here, French frequently makes appearances mid-sentence and mid-conversation and not just out of necessity (vocabulary for nouns introduced by the French, for example). A French person might claim that the Senegalese, as with other nationalities, cannot help but but be seduced by the most beautiful of tongues, overcoming even centuries of habit.

The cynic might retort that perhaps the severity with which the Academie Francaise reacts to threats posed to the language today mirror that which was witnessed during the imposition of le francais in the dark days of colonialism.

Point of entry

2009-10-02T22:12:00.004+01:00

The contrast beween the rich and poor districts of Dakar is even more striking than in other African cities I have visited. The taxi ride from the airport traversed gleaming motorways, complete with underpasses and flyovers. Here, the sight of a Frenchman in an SUV is commonplace, journeying to one of the exclusive restaurants or beachfront hotels.

Towering above the peninsula at Africa's western-most point is the under-construction monument de la renaissance africaine, a huge bronze statue that depicts an anatomically-improbable African family, full of the promise of this great continent.

Down in the city suburbs, the normally chaotic traffic is further disrupted by the tail end of the rainy season; sewers are overflowing at the low-lying junctions. Taxis mount the pavement to circumvent the floods, negotiating the locals holding their noses in protest not just at the immediate miasma but also at the government budget that can find the millions to pay foreign companies to construct the distant edifice but not the funds to provide adequate drainage to the capital's poorest. The promise of the future benefits stemming from the tourist dollars that the monument will generate rings hollow when one learns that 35 percent of the revenue will go directly to the president's personal pension.

Prologue

2009-08-28T15:24:00.001+01:00

Back to Africa again and this time, it’s the big trip. Flying into Dakar on 1 October, I’m intending to make my way through Senegal, Mali, Burkina Faso, Benin and possibly a couple of other countries before flying to Ethiopia by the year’s end. From there, I’m embarking on an overland route south; I’m intending to pass through Kenya, Uganda, Rwanda, Tanzania, Malawi, Zambia, Botswana and more before finishing up in South Africa in spring.

Anyone who has read of my earlier trips to Africa will know how enthusiastic I’ve been about my experiences so far. Last year’s three weeks in Tanzania were a particular highlight and it was there, sat on a hillside overlooking the town of Mwanga, that I first conceived the approaching expedition. I have never before, however, attempted to justify these activities in advance; for some reason, I feel compelled to do so with this one.

I love Africa. The countries I have visited there form a collective experience that is simply more intoxicating, pleasurable, fascinating and inspirational than any other I acquired elsewhere. It is cliché but one born of a widespread truth: once visited, a burning desire to return to the continent is roused. What the French call mal d’Afrique is why I choose to go there.

The reasons for what I choose to do there are more complex. Ever since I spent six weeks as an actuarial intern during a summer break from Cambridge, I have been plagued with the worry that too much of my life will be spent in activities that feel, to me, slightly worthless. Of course I understand the concept of ‘means to an end’ but I’ve become a classic example of Generation Y: seeking instant gratification and visible, tangible rewards for my efforts. I even work in an industry that affords me the opportunity to witness first-hand the entire fruits of my labour: live events.

But still I want more. I want to use my hands to build things of worth; I want to pass on knowledge directly to those that could use it; I want to know that my mark on the earth will prove to be a positive one. At first glance, it would seem that I could achieve all of these things through involvement in development of the third world. But from here, we venture into the murky waters of how best to achieve such lofty goals and believe me, I have not yet found enlightenment. For every charitable success story in the field, there is a legitimate criticism being heckled from the sidelines.

An idealist, however, I remain. In my experiences thus far, this irritating, relentless optimism of mine has been best expressed through volunteering. It’s such a beautifully simple concept: give up some of one’s time to help others. It’s not immune from the aforementioned criticism, of course, but I’m yet to find an argument against it that I can’t quickly find flaws in. At the very least, it’s provided me with better travelling experiences than I could ever find on a Mediterranean beach. At best, it’s an idea that – if fully embraced – could completely change the societies it affects.

Without question, it’s the best path to my goals I’ve found so far. So, I’m going to Africa to do some more. I’ll have a slightly different mindset this time. I hope to have the same enthusiasm for the projects at hand and the people I’ll meet but this time, I’ll be paying a bit more attention to the bigger picture. What’s the overall impact of the charity I’m working for? What could be done better? What would the effect be if this project didn’t happen? Could it happen without international volunteers? Would I have been better off sending a cheque in the post?

I’m an optimist but not a naïve one. I’m going with an open mind. I want to have some of my ideas strengthened but I also want to find that I’m wrong about things. I’d be delighted if you choose to follow me along the way, so please click the link to the left.

Life on film

2009-02-04T15:37:00.017Z

Unlike Paris, sculpture doesn’t offer an angle for my writing on Cannes. I’m informed by guide books and websites that a couple of museums lie in the locality but I must confess, I wasn’t sold on the sales pitches – perhaps they didn’t sound Cannes enough. Of course, this city is dominated by the very modern art form of cinema.

The impression gleaned from a couple of days there last week suggests this domination extends beyond the twelve days in May and not positively so. The steps of Palais des Festivals et des Congrès are perma-red, posters adorn the walls of restaurants and the odd pap lingers outside the grandest hotels on the Croisette.

However, it’s the absence of the festival that is most striking. Strolling through the old town of an evening, the streets are near deserted, restaurant and bar staff idling outside, seemingly aching for business, but perhaps to alleviate the tedium rather than earn their keep. Cannes is expensive enough in January but undoubtedly the seasonal fluctuations around the festival send prices skyward, so the remainder of the calendar must seem an unprofitable bore for entrepreneurs.

The city cannot, of course, be without commerce for 11 months of the year; there is a special breed of local who keep everything ticking over. Walking clichés of the wealthy Mediterranean populate the sea-blue chairs lining the promenade: fur coats, giant sunglasses, golden bling and skin straight from the leather tanning workshop are the signature themes.

There are some who fall into a younger category, like the guy practising his reverse slalom rollerblade moves through the line of bespoke traffic cones. He unites with the others, though, in appearing to be here for the sake of appearances: displaying their own or bathing for the sake of future displays.

Incidentally, I should note that it is impossible to resist the charms of the sun, which seems to linger permanently in the perfect sky that blesses this part of the world. Even when I think I’ve had enough, she appears again and makes me realise that, no, actually, I want more.

Ultimately, I am terribly cynical about places that ooze wealth in the way that Cannes does. The curiosity with which I inspect the prices in the window of the branch of Rolex descends into the antithesis of Holly Golightly’s Tiffany’s-inspired emotions: her joy at the wonder of such things contrasted by my depression at the folly of humanity. Well, a small proportion of humanity.

I should probably allow Holly to escort me back to a happier place and the subject of film. The half-hearted exertions of the accordionist across the street reveal his patience in awaiting the return of the cinema-loving masses. I might have been more enamoured with Cannes if I’d followed his lead.

Espirit d'escalier

2009-01-10T18:55:00.008Z

Whilst strolling through Victoria Tower Gardens by the Houses of Parliament on a bitterly cold but beautifully clear day this week, I stumbled upon a cast of Rodin's The Burghers of Calais. A coincidence, as I had viewed the very same work just a few days before, at the Rodin museum in Paris and I have since learnt that no more than twelve casts of this emotive symbol of Anglo-French conflict in times past were permitted after the great man's death.

That French, and specifically Parisian, culture exhibits influence in London is, of course, no surprise. The redesign of the capital itself by Haussman - under the instruction of Napoleon III - in the nineteenth century was to have profound effects on architecture around the globe, notably on the City Beautiful Movement in the US. The motivation behind the work alone make it worthy of study, rooted as it was in the revolutionary movement, socialist ideals and less altruistically, discouraging further rebellion with streets wide enough to make barricades impractical.

These facts were related to me by a local, on an evening walk from Notre Dame to Bastille on the second night of a trip for new year; certainly, the history and physical attributes of the City of Lights were of greater interest to me for the effect they have on the people or the manner in which they reflect the population. So, now that Paris abounds with its grand boulevards, there remains a great sense of the pride in its idealistic origins, together with the undeniable beauty it generated - undoubtedly, Haussman was selective when choosing which parts to clear the way for the new thoroughfares.

At this time of year, the biting wind blows freely through these majestic spaces, rendering my favoured means of city-viewing - by foot - a slightly arduous experience. Despite this, Paris warms you with its inevitably romantic embrace: the snow falls on the gardens of Versailles and Tuileries, creating scenes that soothe and elate.

The weather also had the effect of driving our touring party into numerous cafes, in search of a warming coffee. It is in these outlets that, on occasion, the reputation of the city is sullied, as the stereotype of Parisian service rears its head and suddenly, the outside doesn't seem so cold. Undoubtedly not universal, it is unfortunate the experiences such as these stick in the memory but stick it did, leaving me to ruminate on explanations.

Perhaps Paris itself has the answer. Does a proud local believe the traveller is dazzled enough by the facades outside to mitigate the need for generous courtesy? There may exist an attitude - with some I emphasise - that "this is Paris, be grateful for that alone." The pride sometimes overflows, so that outsiders are regarded as undeserving transients. Or maybe the broad boulevards mean the only option these days is to build some mental barricades.

All these thoughts I could have discussed with a Parisian or two but as is so often the case, they only came to me as I was leaving.

Our city

2008-11-07T12:02:00.006Z

- Yes we can! And so can you!

Thus screamed the Obama-badged American lady, quite loudly… and really quite close to my face.

I was around 21 miles into Sunday’s New York City Marathon and I’d stopped. Although I was experiencing that unique level of pain us runners like to refer to as The Wall, I had actually pulled up to stretch the life out of my right hamstring, which seemed to be in danger of giving up on me entirely. The only thing that could have added to my state of exhaustion would have been explaining this to her, so I merely issued a final groan and went on my merry(ish) way.

The views during the run are mighty rewarding: the magnificent Verranzo-Narrows offering a remarkable panorama of the world’s most famous cityscape and the Pulaski vista is arguably even more impressive, giving a real sense of the enormity of Manhattan’s towering blocks. However, by the time the race hits the Queensboro crossing, the novelty has faded, obliterated by the ever-growing pain and the realisation that bridges mean ascents and in New York, long ones. Here, the manifold aches began, starting with the lower back and culminating in the hamstring that saw my encounter with the well-meaning spectator, leaning on a tree in Upper Manhattan.

She could have been any one of the magnificent supporters that lined the streets, for the crowd are as much a part of the show as the runners, willing all 40,000 of us to the finish. Live bands; children holding out their hands to touch a ‘hero’; adults to give them fruit, sweets or water; men with whistles; women with bells. They’re not unique in the marathon-spectator world – I can certainly vouch for Londoners – but here, there’s an added dose of American zeal.

The night before, my fellow runners and I had been to see the finishing straight in Central Park, where a pre-race firework display lit up the sky and deafeningly echoed off the numerous high-rises. Afterwards, I sat in a Midtown eatery, carb-loading and declaring to the others (debutants) that this was probably going to be my last marathon. As I pounded down the same path into the final mile, some 17 hours later, I predictably retracted the assertion. There’s nothing quite like it: conquering every mental urge to submit to the pain; sharing the amazing stories of those running – and raising millions – in honour of departed loved ones or noble causes; above all, the two million spectators with no cause other than basic humanity, carrying us over that line.

Marathon aside, New York is a wonderful advertisement for the States. To describe it as ‘welcoming’ would be a gross understatement: from the hangers-on at the Harlem YMCA where I stayed to the wise-cracking diner waiter to the friend of a friend who gave up days to show me – hitherto, a stranger to her – around, I was embraced with genuine enthusiasm by this great city. It’s a combination, I think, of two things. A curious generosity pervades the place, each local encountered seems intent on improving my visit by giving a little more. Perhaps it stems from the second aspect: pride. Aside from the bustling metropolis, the food, the shopping, all these things we know from the movies, New York’s residential areas also have a lot to offer: there are beautiful, leafy streets, lined with iconic architecture and one suspects that therein lies a real sense of community. It is no wonder New Yorkers love New York; they welcome our visit, as it gives them the opportunity to share with us – yeah, I live here… isn’t it fantastic?

Staring at a map near Washington Square Park, I was offered – not for the first or last time – assistance by a passerby. A woman in middle-age, her smart, fashionable attire and determined gait suggesting an appointment for some ludicrously cool profession in Greenwich Village. Still, she took the time to stop, on the one occasion I’d actually orientated myself.

- I think I’m okay, actually, but thanks very much.
- My pleasure. Welcome to our city.

I was running the marathon in aid of the British Red Cross; if you would like to sponsor me, please visit http://www.justgiving.com/alandoylenyc.

Blog Action Day 08 - Poverty

2008-10-15T11:35:00.006+01:00

Reading over my posts, there is a rhetorical thread to my writing. My remit extends beyond the words of Swift; I value the educational aspect but I know I also seek to preach and persuade, particularly on certain topics.

I received an email that touched such a nerve from a friend a couple of days ago, informing me of Blog Action Day: an opportunity to join other writers across the world in discussing poverty. I’ve seen a bit… and I harbour an opinion or two.

The front page of London’s Metro newspaper this week was splashed with an image of some poor Africans, the headline highlighting how the billions currently being employed on bailing out the West’s banks could be otherwise spent: per capita, a reasonable sum to lift millions from poverty. It is a crude comparison but it provokes a valid debate.

When did it become acceptable for elected governments to choose to sustain huge organisations that exist for no other reason than to make money – to make this choice over choosing to prevent starvation and disease? How does a bank executive earning tens of millions of dollars a year wake up, watch a news story about human beings perishing in unspeakable poverty and do nothing about it? Yes, there are exceptions who have done much good but behind every Warren Buffet, there are countless callous others.

I have studied enough economics to know it is not simply a case of Robin Hooding the rich so that poverty will magically disappear. I would sooner question the reasons our societies allow these incomprehensible disparities to develop. Is there something missing in our education systems, a course in basic human decency? Are we inherently selfish?

Perhaps some might argue that we are powerless to help those in need; many of the criticisms against the largest charities are justified, so why give money that might be wasted? The Make Poverty History campaign was accused of turning serious issues into a fashion accessory, of mobilising the masses for misguided causes. The attacks were vicious and often well-informed… notably, they were also void of alternatives, or when alternatives were presented, they were conspicuously not backed by the aforementioned mobilised masses. If you criticise, present an alternative – otherwise, your attacks from a position of idle comfort are contemptible. If you have an alternative, work at it – an idea on a piece of paper will never be anything more unless someone acts on it. To the critics of MPH, I would suggest it achieved something, more than your critique did. Baby steps go further than no steps at all.

I’ve been fortunate enough to witness some successes that fall into the happy alternative category. This year, in Tanzania, we visited a health centre that provides care to 12,000 people – 12,000 people that, a couple of years ago, had to travel 25km to get to a medical facility. They don’t, on the whole, have cars. This centre exists because of Western assistance. On land in Uganda that I helped to clear two years ago, there now stands a school for orphans. It didn’t exist before and now it does, because of Western assistance.

Why should we have to help? Isn’t it true that many of the governments in developing nations are inept and corrupt and if these issues were targeted instead, the helping hand of the rich wouldn’t be necessary at all? Certainly, corruption exists but evidence suggests a strong correlation between such problems and the level of poverty in a country – what came first? Inept at governing? Would the CEO of Lehmann Brothers level the accusation? Or perhaps the colonial powers that gave birth to many of these nations?

The reality is that such excuses for inaction ignorantly eschew the most important issue, namely that there exist regions of the world where people are born disadvantaged: the climate lottery means that some societies have always struggled for food, water, and resources to build protection against hardship; they have to contend with diseases we do not; they contend with natural disasters we do not. Is there a creed in the world that declares one people’s worth over another on account of geography?

Must we all be responsible for this? No, I think not. I would not begrudge a man or woman declaring his or her life ambition to constitute a home, a loving partner, a life safe from harm, a family, a good job to support these things. This could be decreed an ideal existence for humanity; if everyone achieved it, we have a happy planet… and for many, these things aren’t easy to achieve, so, by all means, dedicate your life to achieving them. Indulge in the small pleasures like music, art, literature – they edify us all.

However, the line must be drawn somewhere around the point that comfort becomes excess. I know that’s difficult to define but there are surely plenty of starting points. Who am I to deny a person’s right to live life to the full? I will not. Instead, I claim many don’t know the meaning of the phrase.

I claim that sitting on a full bus for nine hours on a journey across Malawi, next to a mother nursing her child – the seats so small that child’s head rests on your shoulder – will, come your end of days, always rank higher than driving a Bentley down Ocean Drive.

I claim that the meal cooked for me in a cramped room – a home to a family of five – in the mountains of Sichuan on the eve of Chinese New Year tasted better than a £35,000 cocktail at Movida ever will. The meal cost my host very little by Western measures and it cost me nothing. It was given. Out of kindness.

I claim that the high of amassing the fortune of a small nation through a successful day’s trading on the markets pales by comparison with the simple joy of being able to say ‘yes’ to a woman begging for firewood to help feed and warm her family.

Please refute these claims… but only if you’ve tested them. If you haven’t, I’ll insist you heed Swift’s espousal of education. I’ll insist you travel.

Terrain

2008-10-13T12:09:00.007+01:00

I stand on a nightclub dancefloor, utterly engaged in the conversation of Sofia, one of the team’s hostesses. We talk of Africa, of pursuing work that inspires, of Gothenburg – her cycle into town, as she strives to keep her eyes alert to the beauty of a town she sees every day, fighting to remember to appreciate it.

Cynics with a rudimentary knowledge of my character might suggest that it is the ice blue eyes, rather than the mind behind them, that captivate me so. They are quite stunning… but this isn’t romance, merely the spark of a meeting of minds – effortlessly enjoyable.

Sadly, it is around 4am, and we two are amongst the last still standing of those that entered the venue for the project wrap party some hours before. The impending dawn cannot disguise the sun setting on my time in Sweden.

So, travel mistreats us, not only with people but with food, culture, climate and lifestyle. It entices us up to an improbable mountain-top oasis of wonders and then – all too often – it is just as we sip from the heavenly water that we are hurled back down. Down to the nadir of nostalgic ponderings in the asylum that is an airport eatery. Wondering how swallowing would have felt, maybe bathing… or even drowning.

Discussing this very quandary with another pair of Swedish blue in Stockholm last week, we struggled to reach a firm conclusion. Five months in to opting for the plains (a 9 to 5 in her home town), she is already pining for the peaks and valleys. Comfort, routine, familiarity, security – attractive propositions and those perhaps regarded as ideals by much of society. However, she muses, it is the surprise and loss, the joy and pain, that really make her feel that she is living. So, I cast my eyes around Landvetter airport, searching for the next hill.

Löv Part II

2008-09-21T21:06:00.011+01:00

I’m back in Sweden. I have been for a full month now and as I write, I’m considering the possible reasons for my not posting sooner. Certainly, I’ve been busy: the purpose for my return is to once again produce a large event for a car manufacturer and once again, the first weeks have witnessed long hours and very few days off. However, this is not reason enough; the renewal of the love affair has not been as smooth as might be expected from last year’s gushing posts.

There is, certainly, an analogy to be drawn from relationships with encountering a new acquaintance: the beginnings of a friendship or love affair are often dominated by the exciting discovery of the wondrous traits this individual possesses, those that set them apart from those already known. This period is particularly apparent if it is cut short by circumstance, the new bond being rejoined at a later date. Then, the second period of acquaintance begins with conditions already established, few surprises and expectation firmly set.

So it is with Sweden. I know what it is that delights me about this nation and I came here again expecting it. Gothenburg does not dazzle in the manner that Stockholm does but it’s a town of charm and occasional beauty, nights of fine cuisine and hedonistic excess, people of depth and kindness. Still, the impact is not as great this year; I am enamoured once more but there is perhaps not the frisson that novelty brings.

As with people, however, the test of kinship lies not in these initial flames but in the enduring embers. The greater test of my experience here is not whether I’m once more amazed by the efficiency, the social welfare, the beauty of the landscape. It is, simply, whether I enjoy life here.

And I do. Cycling over the gargantuan road bridge that straddles the city’s primary waterway on my morning commute, I marvel at the fresh air, the basic ease – and joy – of moving from A to B; as a contrast to London’s grind, it could not be more stark. There is free fruit everywhere. Everyone unashamedly loves bowling. No one works too hard. People visit their sick grandmothers on days off. When the sun comes out, the islands in Gothenburg’s archipelago abound with sail boats. The players of IFK Gothenburg bow as one to their supporters at the end of a game that was played to a vocal support that never once let up. Simple pleasures count.

High

2008-08-02T13:39:00.014+01:00

Ever since I noted the project I was allocated to was in the Kilimanjaro region of Tanzania, the idea of climbing the mountain itself has lingered in my mind. Sort of a Mallory "because it's there" reason. Or rather, because I'm there - the mountain was there first.

The first three days of the Machame route belie its reputation as a challenging path up Kili. The hikes are long and I certainly felt the strain on my lungs during the ascent to 4,600m on the third day (for acclimatisation - we camped at 3,900m). However, anyone of moderate fitness would cope adequately. Indeed, the approach to campsite number three is quite a magical experience: passing through a seemingly permanent cloud of mist, the strange and beautiful vegetation around you is the only thing visible. The sounds of Africa emanate from the unknown distance. Truly, the area is as dreamlike as imagination permits.

Day four begins with something approaching an actual climb, as we scaled a tower of rock that shadows the campsite. Although not hazardous enough to warrant ropes or safety equipment, the path definitely necessitated all four limbs and presented a couple of slip-and-you-die moments. The real challenge of this day, however, is ensuring you traverse the route in sufficient time, for the evening offers at most six hours' sleep before the assault on the summit begins at midnight. I managed about three.

It is said that the official reason for the nighttime approach to Uhuru peak - to take in a spectacular dawn - is a ruse and the true intent is to mask the imminent horrors from the tourists. I would not be surprised. The route is relentless in its gradient, punishing the body for hours on end as it rises and rises and rises. Gazing up at the trail of headlamps ahead offers only false hope: an end to the twinkling perhaps indicating an end to the incline. But no, the group is simply hidden by twists and turns, rocks and cloud.

The struggle to Stellar Point almost defeated me. A short way from the top, I half collapsed, half threw myself to the ground, refusing to battle the agony of cold, hunger and fatigue. My guide lifted me, informing me of how close we were to the peak.

The first peak, that is. Uhuru itself lay a further 90 minutes away but here, the climb is much less severe. Though the winds raged from here on, though the landscape presents the fresh challenge of virginal snow, though my headlamp froze redundant with the cold, I knew I'd made Stellar Point in good time and the possibility of the summit at dawn spurred me onwards.

I would also have to attribute my determination at this stage to a sort of delirium taking over. The altitude had finally taken effect, I'd had very little sleep for several days and everything ached. Yet, I stumbled on, not totally conscious of my surroundings and certainly not in complete control of the legs that robotically followed my guide's. We made it. As we reached the suitably shabby sign that marks the highest point of Africa, tears filled me eyes and the dream was complete. On cue, the sun rose.

Credit where credit is due

2008-07-27T12:49:00.005+01:00

In the town of Moshi, awaiting the start of the Kilimanjaro climb tomorrow, I should offer some final thoughts on the workcamp, which I can't help but regard as something of a triumph, even if the work itself offered little in the way of achievement. The shortcomings of the project's objectives have already been discussed and in addition to this, our progress was frequently checked by the usual construction difficulties: failed delivery of materials; lack of availability of water; inadequacy of scheduling.

For the first time, I found myself compelled to attempt circumnavigation of these barriers. I can no longer consider myself merely a pair of hands on these adventures; I have experience of several camps, a brain and a genuine passion for the work. When the hosepipe failed, I suggested organising bucket runs to the community's water supply. Whilst the locals proceeded with the skilled task of laying level stones, I dug trenches in preparation for the subsequent tasks. When the work stopped entirely, we organised a collection to purchase (and have installed) new nets for a previous project, the community basketball court. Credit must got to Ntime, the camp leader, for accommodating all these proposals so readily. The criticism must be levelled, however, that UVIKIUTA must build in such contingencies themselves, as the difficulties experienced could hardly be described as unexpected.

Given these shortcomings, why do I use the word triumph? Without hesitation, I can proclaim this to be my most positive African experience to date. In previous posts, I've discussed the success of charitable organisations here that have grown thanks to the support of volunteers. This should be celebrate.

Of perhaps even greater importance is the band of emissaries for the cause that this camp has created. On our final day together, Almut - a German-Irish veteran of numerous projects - declared this her best workcamp.

- I really feel it's true that you get out as much as you put into these things... and everyone here has put in so much.

She is right; never before have I been so impressed and indeed moved by a group of individuals.

Gil of Korea, so often the entertainer of the party, was equally impressive when called on to be serious. After injuring his hand under the weight of a large rock during one of the first work tasks, he cared not for his pain. His immediate concern was for the work of the group; he feared the accident might dampen morale.

Grace, Tanzanian mother of two and widowed by a tragic car accident could inspire by her presence alone. More than this, she smiled, she danced, she sang.

Patrique, the Irish teacher who simply ignored months of being told Africa is too dangerous to visit.

Audax, another Tanzanian and beacon of moral integrity for the whole group. His 40 years belie a seemingly inexhaustible energy for work, for games with the group and for a graciousness in everything he does.

Alicja, a young Polish woman with an insatiable appetite to learn more about Africa. She hopes to start her own enterprise, with the aim of increasing income generation and self-support.

Diarmaid, a fellow Dubliner and possessor of an inherent sense of equality and justice. On the final day of work, he spurned an opportunity to meet the Deputy General Secretary of the UN and chose to carry on toiling with the stones and the earth - alone amongst the internationals.

Solenne, French marvel, another who belies her years, this time through a wise and astute maturity. She knows when to be sceptical and she has identified disillusionment but she will not yield to it.

There are more but for the sake of brevity, I will include here an apology for their omission. Each of these individuals will return home with a seminal experience in his or her life. Each has seen real progress. Each will talk positively about what can be done. Maybe they will return. Maybe they will inspire others to come. Maybe they will do even more.

Africa is sometimes referred to as a scar on the conscience of the West. I'd like to amend this metaphor to remove the suggestion of permanency. It is not a scar. It is a wound. It can be healed.

Prognosis

2008-07-24T12:45:00.001+01:00

Today, the value of the health centre was once again emphasised to me, when I was obliged to pay it a visit as a patient. No tropical illness, thankfully but a suspected cracked rib, received, well, I'm not entirely sure... any one of the various physical pursuits that have occupied my time here. They don't have an x-ray machine so the diagnosis remains uncertain; I'm just hoping the prescription does the trick before I attempt Kilimanjaro next week.

Luckily, the injury has come after the work of the project has been completed. Although the courts are not yet finished, our part in their construction is over and the mantle will be taken on by the next camp to enter town. Certainly, the vaule of my time here cannot be questioned. Friday afternoon witnessed another fascinating visit to a local organisation; this time, an HIV/AIDS charity. Initially started as an outreach programme, with volunteers visiting and offering counselling to those affected, the group now owns several premises, offers testing and also runs schemes for single mothers and orphans.

This information was delivered by one of the founders, an elderly woman who had the most remarkable effect on her audience. Shaking every one of our hands as she entered the room, she took a seat at one end of the line of expectant faces and proceeded to quietly narrate the group's history. Dressed in smart, Tanzanian attire, her worn countenance conveyed the undoubted hardships she has seen. Her eyes were framed with the bags of a thousand and one nights, effortlessly evoking long evenings spent on the road to someone who needed help.

"The graph just kept going up," she declared in explanation of the initial motivation for starting the organisation. Despite her occasional descent into almost inaudible murmur, she utterly captivated us all. I attribute this to one reason: the consummate honesty that surrounds her. Nothing in her words suggested ulterior motive, any deviance from simple explanation; her language couldn't even be described as persuasive. She told a story, as it was. The only real fires in her emotion were sparked when she allowed herself a small smile to finish. "Last year, for the first time, the graph went down."

Corollaries

2008-07-17T12:28:00.004+01:00

I need to look up the meaning of the Swahili word 'mito'. It was said today by a doctor in Mwanga's health centre, in response to my query on why he entered the profession. Timmy - co-camp leader - attempted to translate but advised consulting a dictionary. He spoke of a need for doctors, a desire to help people.

The man earns around $250 a month; is responsible, with three other doctors, for treating a population of 12,000; he has electricity three days a week; he is required to perform minor surgery using only natural daylight. Tuesday afternoon's visit was a humbling experience but also an uplifting one: the dedication of the both doctor and nurse was highly evident; the availability of free vaccinations and family planning advice surely of huge benefit to the community. (On the latter, it should be noted that a quarterly injection is the most common form of contraception for women here, probably because of one benefit highlighted by a poster in the clinic. "Private. Others cannot tell if a woman is taking it.")

This is, of course, the health centre we were supposed to be building for the project. It is, evidently, already built... but only partially: two buildings are complete, one half-constructed and several trenches for the foundations of others exist. The unfinished areas were to be our task but the funds for the materials are not there.

"As you can see," sighs the aging nurse, letting her veil of indefatigable patience slip for a moment, "the situation is not ideal but when the centre is complete, it will be better." It is heartbreaking that cannot speed things along but what UVIKIUTA (the charity I'm here with) has already achieved is hugely encouraging - despite its limitations, the centre is clearly invaluable.

When it was confirmed that the proposed project would not go ahead and instead would be replaced with the construction of a netball court for the community, I was tempted to follow a French couple and walk out of the camp. The net benefit of the two programmes to society here cannot really be compared. However, the information was imparted after a more general discussion on projects of this nature.

"I want to erase all prejudices"
"To see the country from the inside"
"The difference between reality and stereotypes"

A selection of comments from volunteers when confronted with the ubiquitous workcamp questions. Why not send the money you would have spent? What have you got to give? Why are you here? A quick review of the supplementary arguments for volunteering compelled me to stay. The exchange of ideas, shattering of preconceptions, development of methods all remain, despite the relative inadequacy of the most obvious outcome of the project. My lingering doubts were quashed with quite an eloquent rendition of this rhetoric from one of the charity's directors. Wisely, he skirted over the details of this particular camp but I was determined to question him on two points that bothered me. Had the community sanctioned the alternative proposal? When was it known that we would not have the materials? The answers - yes and this week - render complaints unfair.

Indeed, a decision to quit would, at that stage, have been only a selfish act. I could have kept my project fee, felt smug about only doing real charitable work and enjoyed an extended holiday. The community would only lose out. The usual argument - that by accepting such organisational calamities, I allow their perpetuation can be countered with adequate feedback to both UVIKIUTA and UNA Exchange back in the UK.

So, for four days, I have dug trenches, shovelled earth and carried bricks. All in the beautiful surroundings of Mwanga, a village in the Kilimanjaro region of Tanzania. There is an excellent spirit in the camp - it is amazing how a group of strangers from Korea, Germany, France, Japan, Netherlands, Ireland and Tanzania can so instantly generate a sense of community lacking in European cities where neighbours have lived alongside each other for years. It is an education for everyone involved.

I've got the secret

2008-06-02T17:10:00.006+01:00

It’s around 10am on Ramrod Key, Florida. I’m standing with my travelling companions outside our guest house, munching on a granola bar breakfast in an effort to fend off the hangover. The sunshine is frying our pale complexions but it remains preferable to the roasted interior of the hired Mazda, which has not yet been rendered hospitable by the recently activated air con. A clown walks by. Well, it might not be an actual clown. He may just have the outfit: bright orange wig, baggy blue dungarees, comically large shoes and two large bags – no doubt containing all manner of hilarious props. There seems to be no plausible explanation of why a clown would be strolling alone through this empty car park at this hour of day.

The following day the image returns to me, as we stop for a sensational breakfast at 7 Mile Diner, located adjacent to the area’s famously lengthy bridge. The waiter, in between commendable efforts at a posh English accent, informs us that “This is the Keys: anything can happen.”

I’m pleased to announce that I’ve found plenty of positives. This stretch of tiny islands, reaching out from the US like seeds taking flight from a dandelion clock, has plenty to cheer the soul. There remains here plenty of the fun-loving Florida attitude of upstate but here the flavour is more bohemian, open-minded and genuine. Sandy of Sunset Watersports was most helpful in recommending the highlights of Key West:

- For sunset, head to Mallory Square. It’s really crazy there: you get guys who juggle chainsaws and there’s this one dude who has trained cats to jump through flaming hoops.

Sandy is booking a snorkelling trip for the group. I enquire if there are any nearby hat vendors but reassuringly, there are none; it seems there are parts of Florida that have not been overrun with the tourist industry. Indeed, this shack seems to be the only visible sales outlet on this part of the beach. During the snorkelling briefing, the captain of the boat reminded us of our responsibility to the environment. I didn’t see any Bentleys on the streets. There were no VIP areas in the clubs.

Okay, maybe my mood was a factor in the different experience this time around. Immediately before we set off on the road trip south, I’d finished up an event in Fort Lauderdale that had run like clockwork. The client was thrilled, my colleagues were up for a three-day party to celebrate and I had about a month’s worth of stress to release. Still, all things being equal, I’m sure The Keys outshines Miami.

The highlight of the trip, however, occurred under a clouded sky. Following the car out of Miami, was Larry, biking enthusiast and now proud possessor – albeit on hire only – of an all-American Harley Davidson. Then came the rain. The apocalyptic, impenetrable rain. Cruising along in front, the four warm and dry members of the party cast a brief concerned glance backward before continuing with the important business of wailing along to MGMT’s Time To Pretend, later declared official anthem of the road trip. Larry, confident that riding motorcycle in a state of effective blindness does not fall into the ‘Top Safety Tips’ section of the Highway Code, decided to take matters into his own hands and accelerated alongside the Mazda. Dutifully, we wound down the windows, unmasking the full horror of his situation: dripping from every square inch of his unimaginably conditions-inappropriate outfit, enduring a wall of rain hitting his face with a literally painful force, weaving on the slippery-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it road surface, he turned and bellowed to us:

- I’ve got to stop! I can’t see anything… I just can’t see anything.

How to respond to a friend in such dire circumstances? Morality dictated we must act to help him. A cool head and clear thinking was required to devise a solution to get him off the highway as soon as possible. Responsibility was thrust upon us to come to this man’s – this friend’s – aid. What did we do? High on the coastal air of The Keys, riding the wave of post-event ecstasy, agog with holiday fever... we laughed like drunk children and took pictures. Some minutes later, Larry was alone in the toilets of Burger King, pouring the water from his shoes.

My mammy

2008-04-15T22:15:00.005+01:00

- What is the purpose of your visit?
- How long are you staying?
- What is your occupation?
- Place your right index on the scanner.
- Place your left index on the scanner.
- Look into the camera.

The United States of America is, perhaps, not as welcoming as it once was. This, I must remind myself, as my jaunt to Florida last week was my first to the land of the free, so perhaps my impressions were unfairly tainted from the off. Also not helping the situation was one Carl Hiaasen, author of three novels that I took with me on the trip, courtesy of my boss, who thought they’d offer an insight into the Floridian psyche.

The underlying message of his debut novel, Tourist Season, seems to be that Florida is a once-beautiful land that has been ravaged, ruined and bled dry by wealthy, idiotic white Americans, who hold no valid claim to the state and its fruits. Although my brief stay offered me precious little time to establish the veracity of this notion, I didn’t find anything to contradict it.

Lying on the same latitude as Northern Africa, India and Southern China, the Sunshine State enjoys a tropical climate, joyously nestled in between the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean. The weather is consistently glorious, the natural landscape stunning, the beaches long and golden. This, of course, is the source of the problem for the likes of Hiaasen, not to mention the impressive variety of wildlife that once thrived here.

Arriving at the tail end of Spring Break, Fort Lauderdale still teemed with droves of tourists – here to soak up the Floridian rays, to surf and to eat and drink away their vacation dollars. The endless strip of restaurants and hotels along the beach happily obliges. Nothing new here, really – the same as any mass tourist destination in the world.

Perhaps it was only when we progressed to Miami that I started to feel a little uncomfortable about this particular US brand of indulgence. By then, I’d moved on to Hiaasen’s satire on cosmetic surgery – Skin Tight. South Beach is a living advert for the industry. It was here that the overriding impression of the locals (clearly the wrong term but who is a local here?) suddenly revealed itself to me: an astonishing self-obsession. I’ve never before encountered such a concentration of individuals, whose priorities extend exclusively to tanning, working out and making money.

I know I’m straying into dangerously sanctimonious waters; there is nothing wrong with bettering oneself, working hard, wanting to be a success – I concede. The difference is, I feel that the oft-delivered accusation of selfish insularity is utterly justified to the happy campers taking a break on the shores of this corner of America. All of this self-indulgence is pursued with a flagrant disregard to the consequences of others. The tourism dollar pours in, the hotels and condos rise and natural beauty is forsaken. Cruising down Ocean Drive is an indefatigable convoy of SUVs, proudly declaring “I don’t give a damn about the environment; I just want to make sure my car is bigger than yours. PS: To be sure everyone knows how much bigger it is, I’m going to cruise along Ocean Drive. I’ll be wearing sunglasses. My stereo will be playing very loudly.” The road doesn’t even go anywhere! It’s on the beach! Yet still, it is permanently crawling (literally, not more than 5mph) with these people.

Of course, to view all these things, I must have been out and about, enjoying the sunshine, spending my dollars in hotels and restaurants. And it’s true, I was. And I did. With a bit of cash, it’s hard not have a good time. For all the toy town pastels, the Art Deco architecture of Miami Beach is nothing if not unique; the wide range of cheap eats and fine drinks hard to resist; two nights out on the town were gloriously hedonistic. However, even the after-dark pursuit of fun fuelled the fire…

At a club on Saturday night, my two companions and I are amazed to discover that the one and only dancefloor – which occupies half of the room, in the middle – is VIP-only. Now, I can cope with such segregation in nightspots – let the rich pay through the nose. But, really, an exclusive dancefloor, with the plebs reduced to strutting their stuff around the darkened edges, like adoring simpletons of the glitterati in the spotlight. I was enraged. I’ll be lobbying the UN to add ‘freedom to throw shapes on dancefloors’ to the fundamental charter of human rights. My colleague suggested we try to talk are way in. This is a family blog, so I’ll refrain from printing my precise reply.

The experience once more smacked of an attitude I find quite disturbingly unpleasant: I’m better than you. I got where I am by ignoring what happened to you on the way. I want you to know this, so, watch.

This trip was just a site visit, so I’ll be back again for the event next month. I’m already preparing my answers for the immigration official.

- To find some more positives.
- As long as it takes.
- For the purposes of this blog, I’m a writer. I’m trying really hard to keep an open mind on my output but throw me a frickin’ bone here guys.
*Right, left, smile*

The Swedest Decline

2007-08-18T08:42:00.001+01:00

The train from Oslo takes the scenic route through the city of Stockholm; sweeping around to the Southern outskirts, it turns North and speeds through Sodermalm and Gamla Stan before coming to rest at Central Station. In the light of the evening sun, the setting is unmistakable: the shimmering waterways, the fairy tale architecture, rich in oranges and yellows. This capital is beautiful.

Contemplating once more the disappointment I feel on leaving the city, I go in search of further criticisms of this nation and its inhabitants.

"Swedish people are rude," speaks another (now former) colleague. "We don't even have a polite way to ask for something in our language. People will stand on the tube - even if there is a spare seat next to someone - rather than sit in close proximity to a harmless commuter."

I enquire about the rumoured rudeness of Swedish men to their female counterparts, or rather, their lack of romance and chivalry.

"It's true. Men here will never hold a door open, buy you a drink, or compliment your appearance. I think it's because the idea of equality is so forced upon us from day one at school... the notion of such gestures becomes tarnished with the brush of sexism."

I have been wondering if this strict adherence to egalitarianism is detrimental to Swedish life (perhaps not in the case of the interaction between the sexes - many a feminist would argue the case for the situation described above). Name five famous, living Swedes. I'm not accepting 'the members of Abba'. Struggling? Bergman's death hasn't exactly aided your chances. Is it possible that the drive for equality has stifled the exceptional? Should a nation so wonderfully efficient and affluent not produce more of the world's greats? Or is the tendency, consequential of the country's ideals, to rest when 'lagom' has been achieved? A word with no direct English translation, it's prominent in Swedish parlance and can be interpreted as enough, sufficient or suitable.

My last evening in Scandinavia is spent wandering the city squares, casting a curious eye over the offerings of the Stockholm Cultural Festival. The enthusiasm for the arts here is really quite inspiring: everyone seems passionate about music, be it schlager, metal or otherwise; the capital is teeming with museums and galleries; creative design is apparent from the architectural triumphs to the homeware boutiques. My wanderings lead me to Kungstragarden, where the festival's largest stage has been constructed, the location for the event's premiere spectacle. The wild cheers of the crowd heighten my anticipation, as I navigate the crowds to catch a glimpse of the show.

On stage, three platinum blonde teenage girls wail nervously into microphones and offer occasional wiggles, barely discernible as dancing. They appear to be reading the lyrics from a single monitor in front of them. Their 'performance' is being relayed live to a giant screen at the side of the stage, which is covered in the livery of Telia, a mobile phone company. In short, this is karaoke, en masse and corporate-sponsored.

I should, perhaps, be disappointed that here lies no contradiction to my speculations on the greatness of Swedes. However, this is not the overriding emotion. Tired from two weeks of travel and not a little despondent due to my imminent departure, I still can't fail to be warmed by the efforts of the trio, the wild fervour of the crowd, the sunshine, the glorious backdrop of Stockholm in the summer. There is no greatness on display here but everyone - everyone - is having a good time.

Neither my way nor the highway

2007-08-15T08:33:00.000+01:00

With only 7% of the land suitable for arable farming, Norway is not merely impressive for its breathtaking scenery, but also for the sheer magnitude of land adorned with lakes, ridges, mountains and valleys. Journeying by train from west to east, we pass through all seasons, a paradise for hikers, cyclists and sailors.

The stark isolation of many of the mountain towns also captures the eye. Beautiful as the landscape that welcomes a local every morning is, one can't help but ponder on the potential effects such a severance from society might have in a nation already notorious for its problems with depression.

The sunny side of life has, however, been dominant over the past ten days. The weather has held in the coastal towns of Ålesund and Bergen, availing us of kayaking expeditions, hillside treks and evening beers in the harbour... bought in the supermarket of course. Norway was recently proclaimed as having the most dollar millionaires per capita of anywhere in the world; the prices of everything don't fail to reflect this statistic. Interestingly, a good deal of the restrictions on the purchase of alcohol in Scandinavia (Sweden too has high prices and limited times to buy) stem from economic policy. Widespread alcoholism bred dangerously low productivity, spurring governments to intervene, perhaps helping to nurture the healthy Nordic race we know (and love) today.

Norway even went as far as to impose prohibition - albeit briefly. This actually led to one of the nation's contemporary obsessions: coffee. The ubiquitous western addiction was a great solace to the Norwegians in the dry years and has maintained its popularity ever since. Sitting atop another table - of coffee consumption - the country boasts several barista world champions and an associated minor celebrity culture.

I've not yet been won over, so it's a cup of tea I cautiously sip in a cafe at the end of Gerainger Fjord. One of the planet's most spectacular natural formations, magnificent in its pure, gargantuan beauty, and still dotted with the vestiges of the farms that once improbably sat on its slopes, it is the perfect location to ponder on all things Norwegian. Comparisons with the land I've called home for two months are inevitable; although the peaks here are higher, it is perhaps Sweden that casts the shadow. Yes, the familiar Scandinavian traits are prevalent: the excellent public transport; the enviable balance of work and life; the blonde hair; the benevolence. Nevertheless, the country was once occupied by its rival to the east and there is a sense that a mild inferiority complex lingers. Not until Oslo attains the sheen of Stockholm, until the numerous millionaires take note of the numerous homeless, until I can get a pint for less than four quid will this nation win the heart of this fickle pen.

Until then, I can perhaps best summarise that Norway is a country that lies somewhere between Britain and Sweden.

Still

2007-08-01T15:37:00.000+01:00

Walking along the waterfront of Gamla Stan – Stockholm’s historic centre – one’s easily amused by a group of elderly Swedes fulfilling yet another stereotype. Uniformly silver-haired and tanned, they sit patiently in a queue to view one of the vessels on show at the Tall Ships festival – in town for the weekend.

Hundreds of years ago, one of the world’s great tall ships was built in Stockholm. Now housed in its own museum, the Vassa was a marvel of construction in its day. Unfortunately, it sank around 15 minutes into its maiden voyage. Those involved in the project had predicted that its disproportionate height would lead to this turn of events but none possessed the courage to inform the king, who had a hand in the design himself. Perhaps some are ancestors of those silent civilians in the queue by the waterfront of 2007.

But perhaps not; the ships in the harbour are indeed marvels worth beholding – for any passer-by. Water is the essence of Stockholm, its traffic – transitory and permanent – not merely a consequence of necessity but a reflection of the widespread desire to take to the waves. In conversation with colleagues today, I was asked, as a foreigner, what’s the first thing I’d do on arriving on the city. Without hesitation I replied, ‘take a boat to the archipelago’. The region’s collection of thousands of islands is a treasure trove of natural beauty, ripe for the piratical traveller.

Sitting on a picture postcard of rock formations at the edge of the bay on the island of Grinda, with the sun slowly setting, there is no better location to muse on all that is wonderful about Sweden. Or wrack one’s brains once again for flaws.

- They never fill your beer glass to the brim
- Maybe it’s for health reasons

A few ‘healthy’ beers into Sunday night, after a spectacular firework display bade the tall ships goodbye and my visitor and I had thrown a multitude of shapes at a sparsely-attended gay club night, we headed in the direction of my humble Stockholm abode. Along the way, we were distracted by the familiar thump of sub-woofer. Descending the steps from the bridge and peering underneath, we were confronted with a mass of rampant revellers, grooving away to sounds from the sixties. A seemingly illegal disco in the most random city-centre location standing in defiance of those spontaneity bemoaners. Barely a moment’s thought was given to the bed/dancing dilemma, as we stepped in to join the throng. With Sweden, I never quite know when to go home.

Taken with trees

2007-07-13T17:53:00.001+01:00

I'm not convinced that the six weeks I've spent in Sweden amount to sufficient time for insightful observations to be made. The job I'm doing - a project for Volvo - has kept me extremely busy, restricting Stockholm fun to occasional dalliances.

But fun it is. It's summertime in the capital of Scandinavia and the locals are embracing the sunshine with great gusto. Understandable, given the long hours of darkness endured in the winter, and the resulting near-hibernation that reportedly accompanies the cold months. For now, the Swedes finish work early, drink cocktails by the waterfronts, journey to weekend summer cottages and dance until (the very early) dawn. All this occurs with encouraging regularity; there is no working late, the holidays are long and the nights out grand.

Fantastically, the Swedes have maintained this preservation of the good stuff to sit alongside their modestly successful economy. Preservation, generally, is key. On 22 June, the nation celebrated midsummer's eve and though there is little genuine belief in the origins of this festival, the importance of schnapps, singing, games and frolicking in the woods are not to be underestimated. Yet the locals also spend enough time at the grindstone to ensure a healthy affluence. Signs of poverty are rare; care for the elderly is the envy of the world; university study is free, regardless of how many degrees one already holds; government ministers talk of wanting more refugees from Iraq, who will benefit from immediate housing upon arrival. And yes, there is an extraordinary number of beautiful women.

I've been struggling to see what's wrong. So, I explained my observations to Jennie and Marie, two of the natives I work with. They have both lived abroad, so could offer valuable thoughts on the relative failings of the nation.

- It's so hard to find somewhere to live in Stockholm. I need to find a new apartment to rent but in that part of town, there are people who've been on the waiting list since 1987.

- There are so many rules about everything. You can't be free.

- There's no spontaneity; in other places, you just decide to do something and do it.

- But that's the people, not Sweden.

I get the gist. Maybe the Swedes have been so focussed on creating and maintaining a perfect society for humans that many have forgotten a crucial part of the human experience: losing that focus, control, structure. The idyll itself becomes the problem - the constriction. A welcome problem, perhaps, but who would be satisfied with nearly perfect? As the Swedes would say, nearly doesn't shoot a hare.

On balance, however, one suspects that there is respect enough for personal freedom. I wouldn't mind being able to put the following message on my out office (a genuine reply from a company here, received last week) and not expect an indignant reaction...

"I am out on my annual Summer fishing tour. Will be back mid August. If anything urgent, please contact me on my cellphone.

All the best,Michael"

And in the end

2006-11-22T23:35:00.000Z

The start of work was delayed by two hours this morning as a violent torrent of rain persisted until well after ten. After arriving at the site and slashing away for an hour or so, I stood to survey the progress and was dismayed.

Once again, this seemed to be descending into another African failure. At the end of the last week, I was supremely confident of completing our task in the allotted two weeks. Today, I looked around at what I feared to be more than another two days' work. The reason? Half the workers - the other group of older Buloba locals - had been conspicuous by their absence all week. No one seemed to know why and I couldn't help but allow the awful prejudices against African workers encroach on my mind.

On the walk home, we bumped into two of this group and Sam engaged in a brief exchange with them - in Lugandan. After we passed, he turned to me and asked, 'Do you you know why they haven't come?'
'No.'
'They lost someone.'
'Lost?'
'Someone. Dead. I think he was ill.'

The spectre of death looms so prominently in Africa, it is shameful I hadn't even considered the possibility. Ddumba's heartfelt fear of illness. Yesterday, the visit to Lambert's sepulchral home: he's housed in a cavernous, primitive house with seven other children. The parents of the household took him in after his father died and his mother failed to cope. What strikes me most about Lambert is the darkness in his eyes, betraying real anguish and sadness - he genuinely has seen too much.

I'm ready to go home now but more than capable of two more days of work. An encounter with a lovely lady in a dirty, minuscule restaurant this morning provided an added incentive. As her half-naked son wandered about in the squalor, Sam explained the project to her and then translated her thoughts for me:

'Good. Because she earns very little money, the schools around here are very expensive and she wants to educate her children.'

The view from the afternoon

2006-11-18T20:14:00.000Z

Strolling along Kampala road a couple of hours ago, I decided to stop into Cafe Viva for a spot of lunch. Up on the first floor, I was tempted to take a seat on the balcony that overlooks one of the city's large, park-like squares - this one patrolled by scores of crested cranes, Uganda's truly awesome national bird. For no good reason, I decided against the idea. A wise move. As I began tucking into my chicken curry, a loud commotion outside seemed to signify the start of some sort of parade - a man standing through the sunroof of a four-wheel drive sped past, loudly cheered on by a gathering crowd.

And then came the tear gas.

The customers and employees who had taken their vantage point on the balcony came stumbling back into the restaurant with cloths over their mouths, coughing and rubbing their eyes. It transpires said dude in car was the leader of the opposition and the government/police don't take too kindly to his holding impromptu rallies in the middle of the capital. The pandemonium continued for half an hour or so but as far as I could make out, this was little more than a touch of civil unrest, rather than full-scale rioting. No shots were fired and the police's role seemed to be restricted to mere masculine posturing. So, once again, Africa is throwing a few surprises my way.

The project is also a very different experience from those in Malawi and Ghana. This time, I'm a volunteer amongst paid labourers, which, I suppose, softens the blow my inferior work rate strikes. The work is hugely demanding: clearing two acres of land of all vegetation in preparation for the construction of a school for the locality's disadvantaged children - AIDS orphans and victims of the conflict in the North. All this is to be achieved with basic hand tools: machetes and 'slashers'.

In the first hour of work, I was forced to retreat to a tree stump, gasping for water; lamenting my fragile, white skin for breaking so easily under the pressure of a wooden handle; deploring the fatigue that had set in so quickly. It was only yesterday that I began to feel my contribution was amounting to anything: my body has grown accustomed to the early starts, the vertiginous temperatures and the demands on my protesting muscles. It feels great though: I defy any man to hold a slasher in his hand and not childishly imagine himself as a sword-wielding slayer of bushy undergrowth. Grr.

The views in Buloba, where the school will be built, are breathtakingly beautiful. The lush landscape hosts a wealth of green that is astonishing in both its abundance and its range: a more than imaginable variety, from the ill-lit baize of a smoke-filled snooker hall to the short lived fashion mistake lime of the mid-nineties.

This geography extends down the road to the neighbouring village of Bulenga, wherein lies the small guest house to be called home for another week. This building too, accommodates a first-floor balcony from which can be witnessed equally intriguing, if less violent, events. To the east lies a yard where local children play, including ubiquitous boy with stick and spokeless wheel - a cliched reminder of the presence of poverty. To the west is a small family home, one of the occupants being a most welcoming young lady: on my first evening sat there, she bellowed up at me, addressing me with the local word for 'white men' - which is called by virtually every child I meet here - and declaring "Mzungu, I love you!"

Who says volunteers don't make a positive impression?

Disorientate & Lyle

2005-09-13T21:58:00.000+01:00

I've become very attached to the sun in Malawi. Here, as was the case everywhere once, life really is dictated by its cycle. During the project, we rose to work when the light was sufficient. After a few days, I had the realisation that I was - for the first time - in the Southern hemisphere... and hence the sun was moving the other way. This realisation helped no end with estimating the time of day.

Even in the towns and cities there is a certain reliance on mighty Sol. Streetlighting is often non-existent and at best sparse. More pertinently to the traveller averse to drinking in bars, there is very little to do after dusk.

So the setting of the sun has become an event of great significance for me, not least as a consequence of its frequent magnificence here. I've scheduled several days around being in the perfect spot to watch the blazing disc sink beneath the hills, the plains or the lake. I suspect I've taken far too many photos that nice people at Boots will place advisory stickers on.

Generally, my photographic records of Africa will always seem inadequate. Especially true for the lone passenger, taking pictures from within the travelling group misses the point entirely. The essence of the journey - the displacement of the individual to an unnatural habitat - is overlooked by the unhelpfully positioned lens. How much better it would be if the shot at Liwonde station captured the throngs of Malawians embarking on their daily journeys and the one, lost-looking white face searching for his bus. Equally, the rows of intrigued child faces are rendered meaningless as the object of their fascination is impossible to photograph... with one camera anyway.

I'm looking forward to food at home. Malawian cuisine - save the fresh fish at the lake - leaves a lot to be desired; it's usually drowned in any number of oil, salt or sugar to disguise the insipid taste. What's concerning is the vast quantities of these flavour enhancers which are sold here, often by familiar Western brands. This, coupled with the apparent ignorance to any negative health implications - and I refer to educated individuals.

Over the last few days, as I've dipped a toe or two into the jaws of the tourist trap, I've been accosted by Malawian boys, selling all manner of things - from barbecues to board games. They employ a sales technique I've not come across before: after they've exhausted all other approaches, they appeal to the tourist's humanitarian side and implore the white - and thus rich - man to buy, to help launch a business, to contribute to the community. I've tried to explain that I came here for precisely such reasons.

Perhaps the impact of one little construction won't be felt in all corners of Malawi. However - and I've come to realise the importance of this phrase in the huge and daunting world of development - it's better than nothing.

Liwonde

2005-09-11T21:49:00.000+01:00

I sit on the Eastern bank of the Shire river in Liwonde National Park and my mind is at complete rest. Very often when travelling, there is some concern lurking in the mind, spoiling the experience: money, transportation, accommodation, water, food or something unrelated - a problem back home.

Occasionally, circumstances overwhelm any such worries, allowing one to bather entirely in the experience at hand. Such is today. Irking me this morning were the issues of having to find the river, the perseverant curios salesman at the jetty, the huge financial outlay I was undertaking.

Five minutes into the journey and all was forgotten. Alone with the driver, I was given free reign in decisions to pause here to watch a baby elephant forage with its mother, there to capture a docile group of hippos cool off in the shallow waters. These two great creatures were abundant; waterbuck and monkeys were also visible; sadly, I only caught a brief sight of crocodile scurrying away.

The camp itself is populated with a dozen warthogs and troops of chacma baboons; also to be seen are various small mammals I've failed to identify. I'm not exactly an expert in this sort of thing. The birds on the river failed to inspire me at first but Glynn, the driver, soon had me snapping at kingfishers, herons, cormorants and fish eagles.

It's testimony to the excitement of the day that its details dominate my diary, as opposed to the my speculative pondering. Right now, there are strange baboon, hippo, warthog and ornithogical noises emanating from every direction. It's wonderful.

Dig in

2005-09-06T22:46:00.000+01:00

Suddenly, I'm clinging to it. Part of me wants to stay and build walls indefinitely. I worry it's the lazy part: as Ayako observed, there really isn't any stress in this existence, not London or Tokyo stress.

It's also the tangible end of the project. It's Wednesday of week two tomorrow, so the close is looming. Progress, however, has markedly improved. The community has taken a much more active role today; from the score of schoolkids completing the brick shifting to the 'chief' haranguing the local boys to lend a hand. So, the walls are standing tall and my minimum goal (a foundation and four sides) looks like being finished tomorrow.

Dispense with the personal reflections

2005-08-30T22:54:00.000+01:00

I'm in Bangwe, a small satellite of Blantyre, Malawi's second city, former capital and commercial centre. As is now traditional with my African altruism, the project is not the planned construction of a school near Zomba, some 60km away, but instead the building of a community policing office about 150m up the road from the charity's HQ. As before, this doesn't really change things for me.

Today, encroaching fears regarding the timescale of the project led to an early bath for orientation and commencement of the labour: we knocked down the old building. This was as enormously fun as pulling, kicking and poking with big sticks apart a structure sounds. With a bit of carrying stuff up and down thrown into the mix, I was back in Ghana again... and all the better for it.

There will be no indulgent assessment of internationals this time, only because of their absence. Only Ayako is on the adventure from overseas. This girl has never been to Africa before, can't cook and doesn't have the best English in the world. Yet, she impresses and endears, making every effort to initiate conversation (dictionary at the ready when necessary) smiling away and delighting in teaching Japanese to Chris and me.

Japanese. In Malawi. Brilliant.

That happiness thing is so easy to come by here. I recognise that the same is not true for the locals but I hope it's not patronising of me to take great comfort and joy in giving the remains of the old building to the pleading impoverished to the be used as firewood; to gush forth with congratulations to Mavis, a volunteer who has just gained a permanent, paid position with the charity; to laugh - literally without a care in the world - at the little girls who pose all smiles for my camera, blissfully unaware that I'm actually seeking to capture the glorious sunset over the hills.

Acronyms

2005-08-29T22:29:00.000+01:00

It's pretty astonishing how much one can learn from travel. I realise today because I've not been working. The camp incorporates a two-day orientation, so I've had time to take in the other facets of international volunteering. And it is extraordinarily consequential. Simply by engaging in a 30 minute conversation with a Malawian, I can pick up more about the culture than any secondary resource will ever provide. And of course, I can take back all this wonder with me.

Furthermore, the effect will naturally happen in the opposite direction - probably to a greater extent due to the general lack of information available to poverty-stricken African states. What of it, one might query. Well, although I was a tad sceptical of the benefits of such byproducts of aid work, today I - to borrow the expression used continually on the evangelical TV crap broadcast here - saw the light.

The word 'developing' finally tapped me on the shoulder, slapped me in the face, came up and bit me. Africa really is developing - rapidly, unpreparedly and unfortunately often, misguidedly. As Chris, programme coordinator, states, Malawi has only had proper democracy since 1994. Everyone seems acceptantly aware that they're still adjusting to the idea - feeling their way around.

Often this naivety manifests itself as apparently elaborate committess for routine tasks. The most surprisingly low-key events or organisations have boards and executive directors, presumably built on some scrap of paper picked up somewhere... The All American Dream Organisational Structure Guide - for dummies... and developing nations. This is the crux. Malawi - and other developing nations - need some real people with real accounts of the developed world to assist it in its quest to acquire the benefits of Western civilisation, or what these are perceived to be... correctly or not. That, obviously, leads to another debate. Which shall be left for another occasion.

Epilogue

2004-08-28T21:30:00.000+01:00

Around Huizhou, men of varying ages are seen cycling in an ambling fashion (is there a specific verb for this?) with a sign dangling from the handlebars, a mysterious knapsack attached to the rear and an inaudible - but loud - recording being played on loop via a megaphone. Unable to bear my bafflement any longer, I recently asked a Chinese colleague what they were doing. 'They're construction workers - advertising their services.' The flux of the city hasn't changed much over the past year so next week, I'll leave Huizhou as I found it - hurtling upwards.

Last night, I was sitting alone in my regular noodles joint watching the local diners. It's very easy to come to China and - having listened to the slurping, seen bowls an inch from mouths and treaded around the piles of bones and dirty tissues on restaurant floors - surmise that the Chinese have disgusting table manners. But where else in the world is the oldest of a dining party given the prime feng shui seat at the table? Who do you know that will always select a prime piece of meat from a communal dish and place it in another's bowl? Do you fill everyone's cup before your own?

The Olympics was on TV. One of those passionately-soundtracked montages of moments of glory, triumph over adversity, despairing disaster. They always make me want to cry - dammit. I interrupted my avid gaze to check out my fellow customers again. They were watching too. They really don't look very different anymore.

Tommy in class M3B says China is changing. Nearly everyone he knows resents spending time at school listening to the thoughts of MaoZeDong and the opinions of DengXiaoPing. When his generation come to power, students won't have to endure this anymore. Maybe China will be very different next time I'm here. But then again, Tommy learnt how to make a bomb from a website and wants to build a tank capable of destroying the latest American model.

There's a strong chance you shall see me in England soon. Don't be surprised if I'm accompanied by a bicycle, a painted red sign and a megaphone.

Love’s a two-way dream

2004-08-04T21:29:00.000+01:00

I've agonised quite a lot of whether to send this email. My previous snippets of my year abroad have been rosy anecdotes, merry and gay. However, I am, in some sense giving a tiny picture of China to those who've never been here and perhaps never will come. So here are some warts.

One of the Western teachers was left on Sunday so the school put on a bit of a bash at our regular bar on Saturday night. A fun night was had by all and I was wandering home with the guest of honour and another friend when bad Middle Kingdom reared its head. There was a guy attacking what presumably was his girlfriend in the middle of the street. Those who know me know I'm not prone to violent confrontation but perhaps incensed more by the failure of anyone else on the very busy street to do anything, and undoubtedly not thinking entirely straight due to the lingering of a few TsingTaos in my bloodstream, I intervened.

This was not a good idea. As the girls accompanying were vociferously pointing out, guys with knives are hardly a rarity around here and any affront to a Chinese man's "face" in such a public place is likely to be met less than welcomely. He wasn't even very good at his apparent abuse, aiming drunken half-jumping kicks at the wailing-but-upright woman. Cue lots of less-than-fluent Chinese shouting from me and the girls' attempts to get the victim into a cab home. They failed. I succeeded in as much as I postponed proceedings until I was strongly advised to leave the now seemingly-calm scene by another local passer-by. We went home and I'll never know what happened.

Sorry that this story doesn't really have an end or point or moral but that's it.

Life continues as normal for the most part. Had a fabulous night in Hong Kong last week, courtesy of a rich friend of a teacher's grandfather (it's all about who you know in Asia). He put us up at a gorgeous hotel and we enjoyed a ridiculously expensive and downright hearty meal in his company. Love Hong Kong, especially when I'm not paying. Wasn't the case for the splendid night out which ended with insanely-hot - literally inedible to anyone not forged in the fires of hell - noodles and morning newspapers at 6am.

And school. My kids have returned from their summer break and seem thrilled as ever to be learning English. Not. I'm sure they'd break a little more enthusiastic sweat if they knew their beloved Mr Doyle was running away in but 5 weeks.

He murdered his brothers but his people were happy

2004-07-07T21:28:00.000+01:00

The above is a line from a text I'm writing to complement a summer programme syllabus I'm in the process of composing. Whilst musing with my co-author James on an old syllabus - themed on pirates - that we were trying desperately not to copy, I commented 'If only we could think of another historical group of people who did nowt but slaughter and pillage.' 'Vikings!' was his enthusiastic reply.

It's five past midnight and the damn thing is due in in but 33 hours time. Ugh. Happily, I believe life should be taking a turn for the more reclined once it is finished.

Thank high shiny places for eventful days off. My co-adventurers of the famed singing in the park incident were once again in company last week as we set off for Red Flower Lake. They presented themselves with the insane physical challenge of swimming its breadth whilst I presented myself with the insane physical challenge of running around it to meet them on the other side.

Alas, there were two "other sides". They were wondering if I'd collapsed and died whilst I was scouring the various entrances in a state of abject, dehydrated exhaustion. I got a taxi home after an hour and a half, thinking they must have found another way out and managed to get home without the usual essential aids of clothing, shoes or money - all of which were safely nestled in my rucksack. They hadn't. I got a taxi back, explaining my woes to the driver on the way. I was expecting mocking laughter but he seemed genuinely sympathetic and concerned. So when I at last spotted my chums on the way up the hill leading to the lake - our mutual heads snapped round as we crossed paths on the mazy, heat-hazed road - he was more than happy to spin the wheel and set off in hot pursuit. The story would be more exciting if this hot pursuit had actually ensued but Sheena had seen me so had stopped her taxi 20 seconds down the path. Foregoing the inner tubes they had used as payment for their ride, they leapt to my vehicle in joy and delirious merriment.

How did we recover from this stunning escapade? We ate dim sum and got drunk. Woohoo.

Sublime

2004-06-11T21:27:00.000+01:00

A month not without incident. Deciding not to venture to the beach with the rest of the teaching staff on our weekly day off, I and two of the other teachers decided to head to the local park for lighthearted sporty fun. Little did we think that our newly-invented game of hitting a shuttlecock as far as possible would draw such an enthusiastic crowd of locals. The request to borrow my football (for it was a mutli-sporting day) soon resulted in the largest game I've ever witnessed as bodies ran amongst trees attempting to avoid one another and the flying mass of leather. Peace ensued as the crowd - as one - sat down to form a circle... and invited us to join them. Twas here that I did my little headcount: 60 completely random strangers. Cue obligatory guy with guitar and Chinese pop song. Then the inevitable invitation to the foreigners to do likewise. I couldn't resist, so - hauling the other two, slightly-less-willing, staff along with me - I proceeded to teach this cheery bunch of fully grown adults kindergarten songs... complete with Chinese translation for the bits I could translate.

Truly one of the most ridiculous moments in my life and certainly amongst the most enjoyable. Party games Chinese style were next on the menu but after two rounds of human tug-of-war, we ran away.

Less enjoyable was my recent televisual non-debut. Powers that be at the school decided that I should be the second member of staff (after the entirely-fluent principal) to provide an interview in Chinese for local news - all part of China's Children's Day celebrations. Having practised for hours on end and rattled off everything I could possibly say to my Chinese teacher perfectly... I totally forgot what I was doing half way through and froze - believe they decided not to bother showing it. Fame must wait a little longer.

And lastly, er, I'm in Hong Kong airport on my way to England. Will be in the country for something like 4 days, the weekend mostly in Brighton and after that Cambridge. Millions of people I'd love to see but will be difficult to contact due to lack of phone. If you're going to be in either of these fair cities, please send me a mail and I'll try to be in touch.

Taiguo

2004-05-08T21:26:00.000+01:00

Nearly two years ago, I spent the afternoon on a beach in Ghana, soaking up the equatorial sun, watching various companions burn to a undeniably humourous crisp. I met a guy named George, who warned me of the dangers of local thieves and gave me a simple wooden bracelet (apparently bestowed upon him by his deathbed-bound grandmother) as a token of our friendship.

So it had been a while since I'd been to a decent beach. Thailand thus seemed the sensible choice when deciding on a destination for last week's May holiday. And a fine choice it was too. Frantic running between various modes of transport ensured we reached our island destination in good time to enjoy 3 nights in hot and sticky heaven. This is the point where my holiday is filled with long gaps of lying about, reading, eating and drinking... it can be of no interest but anyone but myself.

On the last morning on the island, I decided to participate in the activities of my travelling companions (three other teachers from the school) a little more by joining them an a, ahem, banana boat. These things are unimaginably more fun than I assumed. I believe it's the thrill of clinging desperately to a small plastic handle whilst being dragged underwater by an upside-down inflatable banana. Drowning seems a distinct possibility as the torrents flood into your head but you just have to hold on to prove that you can... especially when your competitors are girls.

And to Bangkok... with only a day and two nights, I'm not sure I've fully appreciated this city. But I did manage to enjoy two fabulous nights out with a friend from Cam as well as taking in the Grand Palace, King - happened to be passing by - and all. The decision to sacrifice any sleep was a conscious one but left me a little dazed as I attempted the voyage home, sleep-deprived and quite frankly, still a bit drunk.

So it was that as I carelessly lowered my backpack onto the conveyor belt at the HK/China border, the strap caught my wrist and the bracelet broke, the tiny pieces of wood spilling onto the floor and running into the machine itself - the resulting strange noises disturbing the peace at a typically sterile Chinese base of officialdom. I had but one option. I ran away.

Apple trees and honey bees

2004-04-13T21:25:00.000+01:00

Hope you have all been enjoying the Easter weekend, be it in a religious, chocolate or days-off-work capacity. I only realised the occasion was due last week when Sheena and I realised we should be teaching the Easter page of the book to our kindergarten classes. Deliberating a long time on the best way to communicate crucifixion and resurrection by means of gesture and mime, we in the end decided to abandon that lesson plan and instead sing a song about bunnies and colour eggs with marker pens. As ever, it was a storming success.

School has been going very well recently. I have now been here long enough to merit enduring the traumatic experience of "open" lessons, where the parents of my delightful students can sit in and watch what it is I rant on about for an hour twice a week. First up, P5A, a class of undoubted talent (the A meaning they're the best in their year) but too cocky by far and thus there was the concern that the lesson might descend into silliness (trust me, this is the appropriate word). Thankfully, it didn't. In fact, my extensive explanation of the lyrics of "I'd like to teach the world to sing" - no chairs, no tables, no beds... we're gonna furnish this home with just one thing: LOVE - was so captivating that I had one mother lean over her son's shoulder so she could see the words and sing along.

Outside work, big development is the swanky new pad, which some Chinese bod thought it would be fun to call Shidai Guangchang... or translated, Times Square. It is rather fabulous it has to be said. We have magic cards that make the lift (incidentally I was stuck in the lift at the gym for half an hour the other day after it suddenly shuddered to a halt and the lights went out) go beep and then automatically takes you to your floor. Mine is the sixth and very conveniently, the roof garden - complete with swimming pool - is just a hop, skip and jump away on the fifth. The only downside is that I am once again surrounded by women, sharing with five of the fairer sex in the shiny apartment. There is, however, a lock on my bedroom door for when the inevitable watching-of-romantic-comedies, discussion-of-hair-products, etc. ensues.

I apologise for my appalling chauvinism. BUT IT'S TRUE.

Made in China

2004-02-04T20:23:00.000Z

Okay, so if I start with the group email then everyone who may have mild concerns over whether I'm still alive will be pacified. The masses I owe individual notes to, mumbling apologies... long holiday... very cold... no money for internet cafe... school security guard looking pleadingly: please don't stay here much longer.

Yes, so, been around a bit. I arrived back in China via the throbbing city of Shanghai. As a tourist destination, it doesn't have masses to offer but tres cool nevertheless. I'm sure I'll be lambasted by the female amongst you for casually dismissing the home of the world's busiest shopping street so, but there you have it. What was totally wicked was enjoying cocktails on the 87th floor of the world's 3rd tallest building, which overlooks the awesome cityscape. From there, headed west by train and by boat (Yangtze river and all that Three Gorges malarkey - miserable weather, slept a lot), stopping off to enjoy crazy Chinese nightlife involving excessive karaoke and techno clubbing. Destination: Sichuan - home to the Giant Panda (we only bothered seeing the human-dressed-up-as variety) and wonderfully spicy food. Here, I feel, the whole incredible life experiences thing kicked in. We spent a few days (due to lack of buses, longer than freezing cold led us to desire to be honest) in the North of the province, riding horses up mountains and then falling down the other side via Tibetan villages, stunning scenery and the like. Our guide - ahem, Jeffrey - invited us back to his family home for the traditional Chinese New Year dinner. Rice wine ("no, no, not strong.... only 45%"), living room karaoke, reticent kids, we had the works. Not to mention the violent war-like assault on one's eardrums that is the Chinese approach to fireworks.

Then south to take a look at one Mr Dafo... at 71m high, he's the world's largest Buddha. Thoroughly nice guy too. And then we thought it'd be fun to climb a mountain. Emei Shan, one of China's four holy Buddhist peaks, stands at over 3km and is mostly covered in ice and snow... and legendarily violent monkeys. Interesting decision but one that paid off delightfully. A truly breathtaking two-day climb (insert altitude sickness joke here) that culminated in a short cable car ride through the final layer of cloud to a stunning peak that sits like a tiny island in a sea of mist. We spent the night in the temple on the top before rising to watch the sunrise... the growing light revealing scores of other peaks in the Tibetan/Himalayan region to the west. Nice.

Happy birthday Mam

2003-10-03T21:10:00.000+01:00

Sunburnt, eyes very bloodshot. Don't think I slept a wink last night - no good reason springs to mind.

Hired bikes again and set off for nearby village of Fuli. Found it and cycled around its tiny, barren streets for a while. Took in the farmers and the water buffalo and the land... such isolation, simplicity, tranquility.

Fabulous journey back: boat across the river and a challenging cycle along its eastern bank to Yangshuo. Awesome views; the man entertaining us with his leaf-blowing party trick; his daughter avidly observing my sketching.

Yesterday once more

2003-09-07T21:21:00.000+01:00

A young Chinese lady performed above song on the piano in the restaurant I was eating in last night... from the ninth floor, the place offers an impressive view over the West Lake, this city's number one tourist attraction.

So, Huizhou and all that jazz. The city of around a million people is, I imagine, somewhat typical of rapidly-Westernising China. Every building is at least 6 storeys high and lots are 20-30. Every street has some massive construction project taking place as the authorities attempt to accommodate the masses of people that fill every street and shop at every hour of the day. There are way too many staff for every company, the only real visible indication of a communist city full of David Beckham pictures and branches of McDonalds. I think the proximity of Hong Kong (3 hours by bus thro two crazy border crossings) has accelerated the influx of Western culture here.

The locals are friendly on the whole. They point and stare a bit (there aren't many Western people here); they have a total disregard for traffic regulations (the TV advert comparing being a good driver to being a kung fu master is largely unheeded, despite the advice of Jackie Chan); they have a very different perspective on the socially acceptable with sneezing in public a big no-no but picking one's nose is fine and dandy. Socialising seems to be restricted entirely to drinking lots of beer. Whenever you meet a new Chinese person in a bar, the first thing they'll do is raise their glass and propose that you both down your drinks. It's all a bit girly tho as they have these tiny little beer glasses that must hold about a 1/4 pint... don't think Man Night has hit the Far East yet.

Haven't settled into teaching properly as yet. Had a couple of days training and was then flung in with a bunch of kids to do my stuff. My four lessons so far have been pretty good tho... I have a syllabus and textbooks to follow and a lot of it involves playing silly games and making sure everyone's having fun. New academic year starts tomorrow so I'll be starting with my eight different classes and teaching about 17 hours a week... lots of hours spent doing preparation work as well. Six day week, 1-9pm most days. Other staff are very helpful and supportive so hopefully, I'll survive the work side of things.

Accommodation isn't the Grand Hotel... plain room with wardrobe, tiny desk and very hard bed. Probably shouldn't mention the toilet facilities for mother's sake. Still, have DVD player and TV couple of floors down and a fridge only one flight down. Don't think I'll be using that much tho as fed mostly at the school and can afford to eat out the rest of the time as everything's so cheap.

Promise that my future correspondence won't be so tediously long but wanted to set the scene, y'know... oh, it's 32 in the shade btw. For any folk who'd like to really get me excited, you can write to me at :

Thames School of Languages
2nd Floor Block C Binjiang Gardens
Huishadi Road
Huizhou
Guangdong
China

Apparently, post to the school is much more reliable than the place I live and I'm there almost every day anyway.

Right, I'm off to play some basketball in extraordinary temperatures. Heatstroke anyone?

Basic Education Reform

2003-09-02T20:12:00.000+01:00

Can't get enough of road journeys in foreign lands, silently staring at the unfamiliar landscape as it flies by. Even the totally inappropriate soundtrack provided by Cheng Hong's 'Divas Las Vegas' DVD (Cher, Shakira et al) added to the experience - in certain situations, almost any music can evoke.

It was nice to have another reason as to why I'm here. So far, I've been caught up with 'losing myself'. Just recently, due to observations of my lessons and criticism of my planning, I've realised what a challenge teaching is. Now, I've also got the whole travel thing to think about.

Nadir

2002-09-25T16:04:00.000+01:00

The day started off so well: the closing ceremony brought everyone the realisation that so much really has been achieved in Old Ayomah, even if the constructions lay unfinished. The evening also started promisingly, with a supply of booze and a disco for all the volunteers.

As I sat observing the festivities, I saw Lauren - a French volunteer - give c5,000 to a local boy to fetch him a beer. As I knew the alcohol had run out, I wasn't surprised to see him return empty-handed. At this, Lauren made a silent gesture to the road up to the village bar... mutely ordering the kid to go and buy his beer - it was unbelievable. I then noticed Benz, one of the group's favourite girls from the village clinging to a completely indifferent Emelie. Everywhere were children in adulation of us... but we're leaving and we could have done so much more.

Black holes

2002-09-20T15:57:00.000+01:00

I was in Hohoe again today, leaving early to accompany Polly, who wanted to sort out her medication. She was confirmed with malaria (the seventh case) but seems fine.

Apparently, not much work was done as many turned up late and some not at all. I'm really disappointed in certain individuals; all those leaving on Sunday seem to have lost interest in the project. Equally unimpressive was their behaviour this evening: cutting up t-shirts for entertainment in front of impoverished children with nothing but rags; getting drunk and being disrespectful to the hosts, including the Stool Father's son, who arrived today with gifts for the group.

Here comes the fear

2002-09-18T15:54:00.000+01:00

Three internationals were diagnosed with malaria today and we have two more very strong candidates. Everyone's a bit freaked and not much work is being done. As a health committee member, I may be going to the hospital in Hohoe tomorrow.

Not much else to say really. Thoughts turn to home and comfort but I'm okay and I'm pretty sure all will recover... I'll be home in two weeks.

Turning point

2002-09-17T15:45:00.000+01:00

I'm being sensible and getting an early night, although is partly motivated by Polly and Sarah doing the same.

I've been feeling rough today: stomach cramps every time I eat and drink. Very little work achieved this morning (carrying sand from the river and then bricks down the road). I skipped lunch and slept for the afternoon, so feeling a bit better... hoping the early retirement will induce a full recovery.

Today is the halfway point of the trip, so what's changed? Well, the kids are less cute and more annoying. I'm happier generally and have more hair. I'm also pretty sure the project won't be completed but I know I'll do my bit.

Some slack

2002-09-09T15:39:00.000+01:00

We started work this morning: shifting water, pick axing, digging, shovelling, carrying sand through jungle and over streams. Hard, physical labout. Lovin' it.

I hope the organisational side of things go well. I could be more involved but I feel this trip is a holiday from mental stress; I'm quite happy being a pair of hands.

Openers

2002-09-08T15:34:00.000+01:00

Man there are some huge spiders in this room - Mike wouldn't have lasted five minutes.

I went to church this morning - Roman Catholic and everything. My first service in about six years, I think. Very very different to what I was used to: they auctioned food for money, danced and sang a good deal. There was a funeral procession afterwards: a generally celebratory affair but one woman visibly broke down. A local informed me the departed was her only daughter.

We played football against the village boys and heavily outnumbered, lost 4-1... the gangly Irishman bagging our consolation.

Old Ayomah

2002-09-07T15:28:00.000+01:00

After arriving in the village, the night has suddenly brought the most incredible experience of my life. It's the kids that make it: they insisted on carrying our bags from the bus; I sat for hours with them after dinner. They sang us songs, danced and played various games... I lost a highly dubious arm-wrestle to 'The Champion'.

It's slightly odd, as I'm staying away from all the girls with German guy Volker in a house on the hill. All the people are so friendly though, so all is well.