Return of my youth

I have slowly been coming to terms in positive ways with my 30’s and learning to embrace those flecking greys as distinguished looking, meals in with friends as a genuinely ‘big night out’, and becoming more tidy as a good trait to be developing.

My job though can bring my age into sharp focus. I will always remember two young people I have worked with loads over the last 5 years pointing out with deep concern my grey hair just a few months before my 30th Birthday….”‘I remember when you used to look so young matt” they said.

Well, My youth has officially returned and it has been awesome to be young again this week. However this is not just because I am here at the African Youth Summit with loads of young people, or that according to the Africa Union, the official definition of a young person is up to 35, but because in fact its currently mid-february in 2002 in the Ethiopian Calendar….and that means I am 23.

Officially.

Snacks on a plane

On long-haul flights, the little snacks you get your with your gin and tonic, or whatever your nerve dulling drink of choice is, are usually pretty boring, dry and over-salty.

So it was extremely exciting to get handed out quite simply the most fun plane snacks I’ve ever had.

 

Well done Ethiopian Airlines for having the best – it was a a highlight in the otherwise tedious same-ness of long-haul flying

Lizards wars

I often have lizard friends on my travels most recently Lizzie and her family who I room shared with in Kanyakumari

Togo isn’t all hellhole prisons, and it seems that everywhere I look in Togo there are lizards. Literally everywhere. Many of them are brightly coloured, with vibrant markings who seem to be able to jump as well as they can run. Then there are also loads of brown dull ones who seem to be put on this earth simply to be chased all over the place at high speeds by the cocky brightly coloured ones.

Fun to watch but strange to understand. LG has just informed me that the colourful cocky ones are the males. Don’t know if thats true, but it certainly explains it.

Covered in chalk again

We’ve been doing some advocacy training out here in Togo for young people, so its been good to try and be all ‘youth workerey’ in a totally different context (and language!) The first was in Lomé and was suitably youth workery as we stuck flip charts on trees, did moving evaluations and led the sessions outside amongst the cluster of sandy trees outside the Y office. All informal and safe.

Well, today we travelled up to Attakpamé, (check out his random youtube clip of the town) a small town in the centre of Togo to do another session with a group of young people there. Despite having insisted before hand we could do outside and we didn’t need desks or anything formal like that, the Y had hired a classroom for us to work in! Now I am totally addicted to flip-charts when i do session…it is my comfort and lifeline, so you can imagine I was horrified to be told there was none…just a blackboard!! To make matters worse, as i entered the young people were sitting neatly in rows on individual desks as formal as it is formally possible to be!!

Still, it was actually a great day and as I got progressively covered in chalk dust I found myself going back to the year I spent as a teacher in Zimbabwe. The school we were in was so similar – the smells, the sounds and dusty ground. As were the eager faces of young people so happy in their formal classroom and studious in their learning. I have my own opinions now on gap year kids going to ‘teach’ in developing countries, so because of this maybe I don’t appreciate actually what an amazing impact it had me, not only as a person, but in terms of my understanding of what I do now, and how much it has underpinned my life decisions since.

So thank you the people of Zongoro and the Daneford Trust for making it all possible so many years ago. It was because of you that today I found myself sweating in the heat of a hilly Togolese town, covered in chalk, speaking rusty French to a group of young people about campaigning and making do without my flipchart.

Prison – Traumatised

At the moment the only things i can write about Lomé prison is a list of adjectives. It seems impossible to write on the blog other then something that wold only downplay the conditions that people held there are kept in. Adjectives such as anarchic, medieval, noisy, claustrophobic, filthy and simply wrong.

As you come through the huge black metal gate in the stone arch of the entrance and are exposed to the courtyard that at first impression just seems like the busiest and noisiest african market you’ve ever seen. It then dawns on you that that is it…thats all the space there is other than the cells that must obviously surround it, but are totally blocked from view by the sea of people filling the ‘court’ . No guards are in sight. They stay ’safely’ out side the main prison.

The prison is meant to hold 500 inmates. The day we were there the chalk writings on the the inside of the stone archway say there are 1625 inmates. It also states that of these only 375 have gone to court and been tried and found guilty of a crime. The rest…they are waiting to be judged. Many have been here waiting for years. Young people, old people, children, petty criminals, innocents and murdered are all mixed up and it matters not if you have been given a 20 year life sentence for murder or are innocent and awaiting trial to prove this.

We are ushered into a small room in the stone archway where there is a room full of young people all of whom are being trained to be barbers. This is project we are developing and it was obvious it was the only thing in the prison. We chatted for ages with the guys, though the constant noise of shouting, bangs and the generally loud din made it difficult. It was no surprise when they said they could never sleep. Some talked of their crimes and how long they would serve, other hadn’t been tried yet, and other wanted to talk of their futures. BUt what they all wanted to talk about was the conditions. . They all said that food was the most worrying thing, as they are basically not fed and rely on visitors who bring food. Those without visitors have to rely on the ‘generosity’ of other inmates. They are all also terrified of getting ill. They say even if the guards let you leave to go the prison clinic here is not the medicines and man spoke of knowing inmates die of curable diseases.

One of the inmates then wanted to take us to his cell and through the courtyard. Only on entering it do you realise the utter crazyness of the place. It is rammed, with barely room for people to sit down, as groups of men talk, chat, shout, fight, wash, sleep, cook and sell things from small stalls they have set up on a ground constantly muddied by human waste and washing water. Clothes hang everywhere on make shift lines and in amongst the mayhem you can make out the doors to the ells, all which sleep over 60 people in. “We are like sardines” he told me, smiling as if knowing this was a ridiculous understatement. We went into his cell, which like the outside, was rammed with people and he showed us some paintings he had done. We then left pretty quickly as it was very obvious we were also not safe at all, 3 white people wandering around and I have to admit being pretty terrified as it dawned on me actually where we were and my mind filled with the terrifying possibilities of what could develop in this powder keg of a place. Men were suddenly running everywhere and shouting so we made our way out, hastily saying good bye to our new friends.

It is without a doubt the most awful place i have seen in all my years of travelling. I know we are supposed to not feel pity etc and be all pc and stuff, but sorry, its impossible to see this and not just find it inexplicable that it is allowed to go on and to leave feeling traumatised, angry and basically so sad for the people forced to live like that.

The sign above the prison proudly has a large EU flag on it. They funded (and are allegedly funding) a so called ‘redevelopment’ project of the prison. How they can allow this place to operate in its name made me even more angry.

Children behind bars

It was 10.40 at night, and we were sitting in our open meeting room being encircled by baying mosquitoes debating the terms of a baseline study. We’d been at it since 8.30 in the morning, but at least we were all sipping a bottle of local beer. We’ve been staying at a catholic priests training school in the country, and as you can imagine, Togolese trainee priest are not exactly prima donnas, so neither is the accommodation fit for one. But if i needed to motivate myself in any way for the days of meetings, i just needed to remember our visit to the Brigade, the youth prison, which we saw just before heading back out here again. After all, that was essentially why we were here.

The brigade is small…well really small. We went to talk with the social worker there who our project supports and immediately I was shocked to find out that the brigade not only holds children accused of crime but also takes in other vulnerable children, such as those living on the streets. The state here is so unable to support them that this seems the best way to look after them. It is insanity as the regime here makes no differential between those held here judicially and those whom are here because they are just vulnerable.

We were first taken to the TV room which is the only place where they are allowed, other than their cells. It was dark and had an old TV blaring away to itself. It was empty because at weekends they are held in their cells the whole time and not allowed out at all.

We entered the courtyard between the cells and could see the faces of the detainees behind the bars, peeking out curiously at the visitors.

The rebel in me kicked in and i decided i was not going to make sure I didn’t get the ‘official’ tour. Then the youth worker in me kicked in, so I went over to chat to them in their cells. There were 8 boys in one cell – just go and chat to them i thought – but meaningful conversation is pretty impossible through a metal barred window. Still, they were all avid supporters of Arsenal (the Adebayor link you see) and were playing a game of cards that seemed to be at a crucial point. They all want to go back to school when hey get out, but when pushed they began to move away from standard responses. “There is nothing here to do at all..its just so boring..even the tele is rubbish as we only have 3 local channels and we can’t even go out at the weekends.” They all loved football, but there was simply no where for them to play, even if they would have been allowed too.

Seeing the reality of children behind bars and the obvious impact on the future it must have on them and their prospects, it seems crazy that so many are being incarcerated for such small and petty crimes, without any thought going into the psychological and physical effects on them as young people Yet its not just a Togo thing…or a distant problem…in the UK, we now lock up more children that any other country in Europe (Click to see stats). We have the resources to ensure they are not kept in the crowded conditions I’ve seen here in Togo, but we do not have the moral high ground at all to think that what goes on in the Brigade in Lomé is wrong.

If i will need any extra motivation, we are spending the morning in the real prison next week….I am sure that will provide it in abundance.

Religious Irreverance

It was a moment of pure comedy genius.

We have had to do a fair bit of translating at our first weeks meeting, as there are two German participants who can’t speak French. So me, LG and Noxy have taken turns translating their English into French and visa-versa.  All good, but surely there was some room for comedy……or even some unintended religious irreverence.

Indeed there was.

LG was translating into French. The guy from Germany was, well shall we say, rather evangelical. As he began his speech it was not long before he turned “to a story from the bible”. I could see LG cringe thinking she’d struggle with the vocab as he launched into a min-sermon.  All was going fantastically well, until he said “Jesus is Risen”.

She paused, miss hearing him and asked him for clarification. “Jesus isn’t….?”

“Jesus is Risen” he replied a little bit more emphatically.

“Jesus isn’t” she retorted.

“Jesus is Risen” he said, this time with traditional charismatic hand gestures.

LG smiled, thinking she had finally got it and then began to say to the room rather triumphantly in French that “Jesus n’est pas..” to which the whole room piped up in exasperation saying “Non!, Jesus est Ressuscité!!!!”

There in that exchange of words caused by a simple misunderstanding of a translator was a summary of debate on the whole foundation of Christianity. The evangelical insisting that Jesus is risen, and the sceptic reply that Jesus isn’t. Comedy genius

The religious irreverence didn’t end there though. as later on that night, we realised Noxys room was decked out in the finest piece of religious kitsch I have ever seen; hands down (as seen in the piccie). At first sight it looked fine. A large crucifix on the wall with Jesus on the cross.  The genius was that when we turned the light off, Jesus glowed in the dark…..very brightly!

A new breakdown job

I always thought that running a wine bar in Paris for no profit and letting friends use it to play music and sell art was going to be my ‘Breakdown’ job; you know, the job you think you’ll do when all goes belly up and you need to just start again. Well, i now have a new one. I am going to man the land border at Aflao between Ghana and Togo, raising and lowering the rubber rope that constitutes the countries boundaries.

The border was quite simply chaotic, chilled, manic, confusing, logical, noisy and relaxing all at the same time. It seemed almost too cliched to be real. We joked that it was the sort of experience you had on a gap year and would then regale friends on your return for years with ‘this one time, we went through the Togo border and…” So I will spare you this, but you can imagine it was a brilliant experience. The officer even felt obliged to live up to stereotypes and try and bribe us, except he only asked for a bottle coke and he had already issued our visa!

We called our colleague in Lomé who said he would come to meet us but to just relax at the border, so we sat catching the rays on a wooden bench in no-mans land between Ghana and Togo, looking out to the sea, chatting and taking it all in. I then bought us drinks off a passing cart and waited there by the road leaning on a wooden post directing cars and lorries through the border as everyone seemed oblivious to everything going on. It odd to feel so relaxed in such chaos. That was it, that was to be my new breakdown job. If i couldn’t work the rope, then i could always sell bottled drinks from a wooden cart.

So you now know where to find me

Paxan, Matilda Asante would eat you for breakfast

A four hour drive from Accra to Lomé via the border town of Aflao is not exactly beautiful, so the thought of the driver putting on a Ghanan political chat show did not at first fill me with excitement. Little did I know I was about to hear the famous Matilda Asante

Now she makes Paxman look like a shy kitten in a new house. She was simply awesome as she took politician after politician apart one by one. She was not overtly aggressive though, just brilliant at reading between the lines and exposing them. You could almost hear the guys sweating at the other end of the telephone line as she prepared to ask her questions. “Are you saying then that you have failed in your responsibilities and duties for which we are paying you?” was one deadpan line she delivered, followed by another where he simply said “So, reading between your words, you have hoodwinked the electorate”. It is now wonder she has won numerous awards, including BBC Local On-Air Campaign of the Year.

I would encourage you to google her and see if you can see or hear any of her work.

Flirting

I am often told that i flirt a lot: rarely told that i flirt well….

I am currently sitting in business class, sipping a fine red wine and enjoying my almost flat seat courtesy of the First Officer, whose name i actually can’t remember anymore. For once it has paid off. Me, LG and Noxy have just been personally escorted from our seats (in what i will now refer to as pleb class) to our new ones by the well dressed officer whose name i just can’t remember. Even listening to Coldplay is an enjoyable experience.

It all started when I did my usual tactic of flirting with the stewards, which has usually got me a few extra chocolate bars and on one occasion a bag full of plane wine to take to Sierra Leone, developed into a conversation about why i was flying to Ghana and what i was then going to do once I got to Togo. He seemed genuinely interested and told me the First Officer’s daughter was going to to Ghana to do voluntary work. I said wed be more than happy to talk to him if he wanted a chat. A bottle of extra red wine later (which would have been bonus enough) and he appeared next to us and we got into a chat about his daughter and her future work. I admit at this point Noxy took most of the lead, whilst LG was almost oblivious to it all, but once it was finished, as if asking us out on an illicit dates he said ‘would you be embarrassed if i asked you to come and sit in some free seats up the front?’. Embarrassed?!?! Ecstatic more like! For once it had paid off! As we left our stuff on his command, as if escaping from prison, he led us up front to our new fully reclinable seats, as we struggled to contain our childish excitement.

We live in our own world at times in this job,and it was nice to feel special and valued. I have often written about how it is very easy in our field to be so damn self-relective and PC that we often loose the bigger picture. Well, the First Officer whose name I am now really upset I still can’t remember due to the wine thought what we do was important job, he warmed to us in our talk and wanted to do something special for us.

Thank you First Officer. Not just for the seats, but for the recognition.

A perfect day

Yesterday was simply…a perfect day

Every once in a while they come along and its so important to enjoy every minute of them. How can i write about a perfect day? Well I will simply try and list the things that made it so.

From the morning expectations, nerves and fears as we set of for the march, to the march itself (which i will write more on later) which was a mind-blowing experience. After the march we sat with the young people by the road side, chatting, drinking strangely coloured fizzy drinks and celebrating and reveling in their high from what they had just done.

After that, a few hours off and me and LG and Noxy went for a gorgeous lunch, sitting outside and having a celebratory beer. The work was all over and we could start to relax. A shower and freshen up later, we headed to meet with the Honduran guys again, where we treated to the funniest cultural presentation and performance by young people I have ever seen, part of which involved me having to dance with a transvestite women, dressed up in an ugly rubber mask, with huge fake boobs and arse who was dancing like the most agile lapdancer in her 20s! The cap it all off, she finished her dance by bringing my boss to dance with her too! But all the dancing was fantastic.

This was then followed by a long drive away from the mean streets of Tegucigalpa and out in the beautiful hills that surround it. We went to a traditional bar and restaurant and spent the rest of the night dancing away, doing a piñata, eating cake and then about 2 in the morning, starting Kareoke! The dancing was awesome, we had basically taken the dace floor over as cultural stereotypes did too! And as for the akreoke, well we took turns to sing english power ballads (mine and Noxys whitney housten was a high point, as was mine and LG’s ‘Smells like teen spirit’) and they sung latin love songs crowded aroud the one dodgy mic.

For us a staff team too, it was great night too, to come together and celebrate a hard week, which had gone extremely well. We rarely let our hair down all together, so it was great to relax…even our boss had a good dance too.

To spend a night like this with people who have become such great friends and to let our hair down in the most latin way, was such a pleasure and a night I will never forget.

We all rolled into bed about 5, full of dark rum and complete happiness.

A perfect day.

The Prison Break

So we did it….we got out! The prison break happened, but in the most dramatic fashion!

We went out to Barrio San Francisco and joined loads of young people in a march through their barrio against violence and for peace! It was amazing. My week has been gearing up to the big march on friday, so this was like a bonus one, or even a warm up one!

We came round the corner (as we were a little late) and hit the march, in all its colourful and noisy glory! Suddenly I was back…and in my element again. It was so easy to enjoy it so much and feel so much part of it, that you begin to forget you are marching through one of the most dangerous barrios in the world

Except it was not possible to forget, as we were flanked by the very police the march was protesting against . The police were carrying huge guns, and behind the march was 4 rows on police marching as a block. The irony must have been lost on them

Still you soon got used to them…until the rally at the end of the march. We all congregated in the main playground, and the young people released balloons and did some plays and dancing. One sketch involved mimicing a gang fight. They were great actors, so much so that when they pulled their fake gun out, the police reacted, instantly, and pulled theres ready to fire. It all happened in the blink of a very terrifying eye. Me and LG were in between the boys doing the play and the crowd of police…and for half a second as we turned to flee I genuinly thought they were going to open fire (and we would have been in the middle)

They didn’t. But it was a terrifying reminder of the reality of life here for young people. And so amazing to be with young people prepared to march to change it.

Bob Harris I am not

The last two days I have been stuck in a meeting. I am not usually the formal development meeting person. Others are involved in these conferences – evaluating and planning and sharing – sitting behind desks, fiddling with translation head pieces. I am usually more of the hands on guy, the person who is out there getting my hands dirty, seeing and being involved in projects, rather than talking about them.

So I have found these two days hard. When you are used to working with young people and making things as creative and interactive as possible, a day stuck behind a desk listening to powerpoint presentations being read is never really going to turn me on. We are also in a high rise hotel in the centre of Tegucigalpa, in a street that appears more like the latin zone of disney land than the Tegucigalpa I have come to know and love, and the city we had spent such a great few days in before moving here. I can’t help feeling like Bob Harris in the middle of ‘Lost in Translation’ as I have felt stuck in our high rise hotel unable to leave.

Me and LG only confirmed this when we ventured to the gym, which was on the top floor with a stunning view over Tegucigalpa. Tucked up in our little gym bubble though, it was almost like a picture on the wall, rather than the real world and we could have been anywhere…thankfully we got a little lost on our way down and found a deserted balcony outside, which not only gave us a breath of fresh, warm, un-air conditioned air, but we could also hear the sounds and smell the smells of the city. The meetings and preparations mean we’ve hardly had a minute to even leave the four walls…….

So tonight, in the words of Bob Harris….”can you keep a secret? I’m trying to organize a prison break…..”

Job descriptions !?!

I heard some colleagues moaning recently about having to do things that weren’t in their job descriptions….

I giggled to myself about this after the last few days me and LG have had. Job descriptions? What job descriptions….and thats why I just love what I do sometimes. These is what I thought as I sat on the table in the office cutting out large letters in sparkly red paper, to make a welcome sign, sticking down pieces of card to make a Zambian flag, in amongst chatting away in my bad spanish, giggling and planing for a big march next week. The day before after doing some planning for our meeting (which i guess is in our job descriptions) then setting off shopping to buy paints, plastic, paper, card and most importantly balloons.

What better way to learn spanish than to follow around N as she told me things to go and find in a shop that was the Honduras equivalent of B&Q on speed! When would I ever have learnt the words for balloon? Me and LG then went on what felt like the quest for the holy grail to find ‘palstico negro’ for the march. Everyone apart from us seemed to know what is was and eventually we found it! I’ve put in a picture of the ‘plastico negro’ to show you what it was…what we are going to use it for is anyones guess at the moment.

Another shop saw us amazed by the enormous number of ‘pinatas’ hanging from ceiling. There was so many, even an Elmo from Sesame Street one! It was a very surreal sight.

To top it all off, today was spent building large black coffins, which the young people will use to parade through the streets during their march……….

More formal meeting start tomorrow, so back to the job description for a few days…sadly……

Friends

Its is so good to be back with the staff and volunteers here in Honduras. Being here only 5 months, ago, it feels like we’ve hardly been away and I’ve really felt welcomed and at home. There is none of the formality and sounding out of eachother, that you often get the first time you go to visit a partner, and we were straight into jokes and laughs as we spent out first day in the office.

Its great to hear the good news of friends and people we had met last time…of V, who is now working as a lawyer fighting for womens rights, and B a young person we met on the Februar project a few months ago (read about that here) , who is now speaking on their behalf on national youth platforms, and to meet her mum, who now volunteers herself on community projects. The office here is always so busy and full of young people, sitting, chatting, working, it has to have the best atmosphere of any office I’ve worked in in the world! We’re planning to all go dancing one night…and to make it to the Karaoke we never quite made it to last time.

There is of course the bad news too, a good friend who has been battling drug addiction is ill again and no longer well enough to carry volunteering as a youth worker, and we heard more stories of killings of young people.

But all in all, its so good to back amongst these guys who so quickly become friends, as well as colleagues. They are all making jokes about my improving spanish….hopefully next time I come I’ll be able to understand the jokes!!

White knuckles

Tegucigalpa airport is terrifying.

Well, the airport itself is lovely actually, very bright, modern and airy (bit like a Terminal 5 that works), but the approach and landing at the airport has to be the most terrifying in the world.

Just google it or put it into Youtube and you will see loads of videos of people backing up my claims! Here is just one of many examples, but its hard from here to tell just how scary it really is! Mine and LGs sweating hands are better testimony!:

When I landed hear in March I was simply terrified. Now doing it another time, and following a fatal crash in June, when a plane over shot the tiny runway (only 18000meters – read this god article about it), I took the time to experience the shear fear of it all!

The airport is right in the city centre and surrounded by hills, which are simply too big to have any right to be anywhere near an airport. So as you approach all you can see is hills and houses that are very very close and it seems inexplicable that you are anywhere near an airport. You fly right over a mountain overlooking the city with the synonmous overlooking large statue of Jesus (see an earlier post about that), so near you can literally pat him on his head. As the plane comes into land and you realise its about to hit the ground, it seems inevitable that you are about to crash into the centre of the city, so close are the houses and roads. But miraculously as you close your eyes waiting for the end, you realise the loud bump is in fact the runway hitting the planes tyres – a runway that appears from nowhere. People clapped – and if ever a planes landing deserves a clap, its at Tegucigalpa.

The most frightening bit is then looking out the window and seeing the end of runway, literally 10 meters form the plane! Its one of the smallest in the world, so the braking when you finally hit the ground is extraordinary as the plane tries its very best to stop before the end. They are now in the process of extending it.

Sorry dear blog

I have just got back from the most crazy 2 weeks in Prague. I was managing a large festival for over 8000 young people, running a venue at the site. Now to say it was a crazy whirlwind was an understatement, but now I am back and trying to reccover, the last two weeks have really taught me how important this blog has become to me.

I literally did not stop from very early in the morning until the early hours every day, so I barely got a chance to think, let alone blog. And now I am back I so wish I had forced the time. I now realise how important blogging has become to me when I am working away with work. It really helps me to process what I am seeing and doing and vocalise and understand it. It helps you make sense of the tough times but also helps you to remember all the memories, the smiles, and the laughs. It also means so much to get your comments and know there’s a few of you reading out there too.

So blog, I am sorry for neglecting you…Off to Honduras soon and will not make the same mistake again.

Colombian games

Before I write about the the amazing things I have seen and experienced in Colombia this week, I wanted to share with you one of the best games i have played in a long time. Its called Tejos.

It is basically a Colombian version of Bowls or Petanque, except you throw lead discs into a square box of clay. The closest to the middle gets the points and if you get it in the centre ring, you get even more points. You play in pairs, and each throw two discs each. Simple…….

….except the difference is that they place explosives in the central ring, so the idea is to hit them and blow them up! Not too sure what this says about Colombians, but it makes for a bloody exhilarating game.

Me and LG were duly asked to join in and paired up with our colleagues. You could see us baulking and jumping every time a ‘tejos’ was thrown from miles off, much to everyone’s amusement. There was further amusement when I kindly declined their offer of taking a few lead discs and explosives home to teach young people in the UK! I duly pointed out that explaining to the security at Miami airport that “they were only explosives given to me by my Colombian friends…Its only a game, I promise” as they lead me off to Guantanemo Bay may not be the most water tight excuse.

As it happened I ended up blowing it up! Much to mine (and LGs considerable) surprise. I may now enquire if there is a local tejos club nearby…..it may just catch on

(You can see the small explosives in the clay behind the thrower – they have two’ ends’ like in Petanque, so you throw from in front of the other box of explosives!!)

In Honduras, they don’t just talk

I’ve made what we call in the business a ‘pictures to music’ of my time in Honduras.  I think the music really fits, as i’ve mainly used pictures from the amazing march of young people I saw. Me and LG had an amazing week working with our colleagues there on a campaign, which is facilitating young people too to campaign for their rights in the criminal justice system and against the state sponsored murder and repression of young people.

The young people we worked with, and the stories we heard of young people taking action and campaigning in Honduras were a true inspiration.  They know what needs to change in their society, not just for them, but for others, and are prepared to act to change it. If only we had half of that feeling of civil responsibility and empathy here, the UK would be  a much beter place to be for us all

Biting the hand that feeds

The USA has recently given a huge aid package to Honduras to help with the problem of the gangs. The organization I’m visiting was asked by the US Embassy to apply for some of these funds to do work with young people. They decided to say no.

Odd you my think for an NGO to turn down money – to bite the hand that feeds it. But on hearing the story and reason, I could not help but wish more NGOs felt strong enough to take such decisions.

As with everything that originates from the US, there is a political context, and a rather sinister one at that. The money was intended to help Honduras with the issue of gangs. The US earmarked 90% of that funding to go to the government and state mechanisms for ‘repression and control’ of the gangs. The repression that had led to over 3000 young people being killed in extra-judicial killings and prions fires. They allocated 10% for prevention and rehabilitation projects. This is what the organization was offered. The word tokenism springs to mind.

As they work with the young people who are being directly affected by the state repression of them, it seemed barmy for them to ‘consent’ and acknowledge this funding. So they made a political point of not taking the money and have been advocating for other NGOs to do the same. If we accept this money they argue, we justify the 90% the US is pouring into the state mechanisms.

So they did indeed bite the hand…and quite right so.

A Palm Sunday to make the big man proud

As a 1000 young people ran towards me cheering and singing slogans, holding the traffic up on the main roundabout in Tegucigalpa, I was in awe at how people here are prepared to stand up for what they believe is right and the risks that needed be taken to change things.

I was on a march of over 1000 young people, marching against the violence and murder that blights their lives, both violence by the Maras gangs, but also the police and military as they arbitrarily clamp down on young people in general.

What made this march all the more powerful is that it was being organised by the Catholic Church. Now i´m not getting all religious on you readers, but i could not helped but be moved.

Christians throughout the world celebrate Palm Sunday by marching through their cities and towns in a traditional sign on “witness” to others of their faith.
Yet this was different. There was no smug “witnessing”or “evangalising” as you usually see on Palm Sunday marches, just people saying that their society was unfair, and as Christians, they wanted that to change and they were prepared to march through the streets to get that change.

I had a great vision of Jesus watching with a wry smile and a lot of pride.

After all, his original journey into Jerusalem, that Palm Sunday remembers, was a massive political statement itself, not a self indulgent self-serving act, as he rode in to the heart of Roman and Jewish power that was Jerusalem. He did not do this in a chariot or surrounded by an army, but on the back of a donkey, with people waving palm trees as a sign on peace.

This was a massive political and social statement. The church and young people here clearly seemed to have remembered this.

 

Would the church in Europe be able to mobilise such large numbers of young people for purely political reasons? and also feel confident enough to take such a political stand against the government and military?

Disorientate me

I sometimes get very confused and disorientated. I have just travelled through 4 Latin American cities in 5 hours, as we flew from Tegucigalpa, via San Jose and Panama City onto Bogota.  This on a day we had woken up in a rather ropey hotel room overlooking one of the most beautiful lakes I’ve seen after a ‘day off’ after a week of work.

Travel can really disorientate and confuse and I sometimes have to check myself in with where I actually am. I know it may seem glamorous, but it can sometimes be quite angst inducing.

Sitting in a vaguely confused state in Panama I realised with LG that the previous month, in the space of 4 days we been through 5 airports – Heathrow, Belfast City, Belfast International, Geneva and London City.

Having said all that, I love what I do and I won’t even mention the words carbon and footprint……

Not so smug…..

I’ve often written about how I can be a bit of a smug vegetarian when I travel. (Read ‘Smug Vegetarian’ and ‘back with a few things off my list‘).Well I have got my comeuppance on this visit. It seems impossible to be one here. Literally every meal has meat in it. Full stop. Firstly, people look very strangely at me when LG tells them i don’t eat meat, and then rather sweetly say that I can have the chicken then. Once we then explain i don’t eat that either, there is usually a shrug of the shoulder, a look of pity and i am served a meal, with the meat simply removed!!

 

Association in the ‘hood’

San Francisco is one of the most notorious ‘colonia’ in Tegucigalpa, literally stuck to one side of a mountain that surrounds the city. As we drove up the ridiculously steep roads to get there, as the sun set, I could not help but feel a bizarre mixture of anxiety and excitement.We were doing everything we had been told not too – not only were we out at night, but we were driving into one of the colonia, whose gang crime and poverty defines modern day Honduras. But how could we understand this problem if we stayed away from the very places that are at its root and didn’t meet met the very people whom are considered at its core.

We had spent most of the day there, which had been a fantastic experience as we spent the day with a schools project that teaches citizenship and advocacy classes, and also been to visit a recreation centre. But this was different. It is at night when the Maras take charge and the Barrio and Colonia of Tegucigalpa become ‘hot’, as people say here.

We were going to spend the evening with a self-formed youth group supported by the ACJ. They meet on a street corner, by a broken wall to be precise. This is youth work at the extremes.

The young people began to gather and come over, intrigued byt the two new arrivals! The two yotuh workers (both volunteers) who lead the group seemed to have such a great rapport with the group and spoke very passionatly about what they ave been doing. They meet, talk and discuss the problems in their Barrio. But they don’t just talk…they have spent the last few years organising themsleves to do small development projects in the area, such as laying roads (which when you see them you’ll know how important that is!), collecting rubbish and working with other young people in gangs

The young people said how great they felt to be part of the solution in their communitites and prove wrong the steroetype that all young people in these areas are criminals in gangs. They also spoke about how they were efffectivly in a gang, but not the gangs we instantly associate with Honduras. But a gang of young people who care about their commuity and will work hard (and at considerable risk) to make it better.

Our night in the Colonia came to and end and as we drive away I could not help but be moved and inspirred by the group we had met. You learn alot about the principle of ‘Association’ in youth work, and the need for young people to feel part of a group, to have a sense of belonging and purpose. When we loose this, either due to family breakdown, leaving school or other social problems, many people here think this is why people join the gangs that blight the society here. They get that ‘Association’ in their new gang…a feeling of selfworth, hope and belonging…but more importnantly a feeling of being valued and supported. When society fail to probide this, young people turn to the gangs, who provide it in abundance.

This project also provides it in abundance…and has created something quite magical.

Childish I know

Language can sometime bring such funny moments and this has been so true here in Latin America. I’ve writen about this before. It has provided rather childish moments of light relief in what has been a week dealing with some really hard issues.

Last night me and LG just couldn’t stop giggling as we were taken out by Fanny to a bar opposite the huge neon sign of the local ‘One Cok’ restaurant opposite us.

Reality

Nothing prepares you for the reality of seeing some one being beaten…and I hope nothing ever does.

After 2 days in the office talking to young people and organisations about the reality of violence here in Tegucigalpa, we took a late evening walk with some of them into town. People are naturally so protective here so we had spent most our time indoors, so it was nice to get out in the air and take in the beauty of the city views and chat with our friends here. As we walked past the football stadium we heard whistles and then saw a young person being chased by 3 policemen. As they caught up to him he slipped and fell right into the fist of one of them. They then proceeded to hold him and beat him very hard over his chest and face, before leading him away out of view.

The young people we were with simply shrugged and said that thats the state repression we have been telling you about…and walked on calmly, which eirly showed to me how this is now the norm.

This is not the first time I have seen people beaten by the army or police, but what struck me about it here was the sheer normality of it. The sounds (that deep echoing sound when someone is hit in the chest) and the random brutality of it naturally shocked me and LG so much, yet the world just carried on around us.

Juxtaposition

There is always a juxtaposition in places I visit.

I have been so surprised by how beautiful Tegucigalpa is. The stories of the city and the country are always so negative and full of the gang crime and murders that blight this country. Yet the city is based in the valleys of two joining rivers, meaning it is a very green city based almost entirely on small hills and mountains that we you are always either driving up or down – god knows how many new clutches they sell here!

On our first afternoon before our work was due to start we were taken up into the hills above the city to a national park, from where you get the most stunning view down over the city…yet conversation turned very quickly to the violence against young people we are here to work on. Stories began of the recent killings, many of them graphic and the patches of bares mountain in amongst the houses, caused by mud slides from Hurricane Mitch are still visible, as bare scars to the tragedy that hit Honduras in 1998. It was impossible to be somewhere just for its beauty and not get engrossed in the stories.

So once again, I was in a beautiful place hearing the most un-beautiful stories. I was again stuck by the juxtaposition of natural beauty with the situation people find themselves in. This has always hit me; Standing on the beach in Kanyakuari in the ruins of homes hit by the Tsunami, doing workshops on conflict with young people at No2 River in Sierra Leone and sitting on the mountain edge in South Africa talking about Apartheid in South Africa are other times when it has really hit me hard.

The beauty of our world can sometimes sit so uncomfortably with the realities of the lives of those who live in it

Miami nights

There is an old tale that goes around NGO workers that if you fly to Latin America with work…if you are very lucky…you fly via Miami. If you are even luckier, your flight connections will mean you get the spend the night there. So I was lucky enough to find that was the case with my latest trip!

In a job where I feel we are made to consistenly feel guilty about taking time off and time for ´us´ when we are working , this was one of the few times when we could justify to oursleves a night out in Miami. An almost guilt free ´perk and ´us´time to relax. We weren´t choosing to do so oursleves, it just happened to work out that way.

The longer I do this job and the more time I spend with other Youth Workers and people in similar chairty jobs, the more I realise how all consuming it is, and the more I see how it is ingrained in us, in our training, to always self-reflect and constructivly criticise what we do.  This is great and makes us better youth workers. Yet the more I see of this, the more I can how damaging it can be, when it becomes a habit to always reflect on what we can do better . This escalates into almost consistent self-criticism. “We are good youth workers so we sit around and beat oursleves up about how bad we are at our job”. By focussing on the 10% that we can do better, we naturally overlook the 90% we have done well. This means we don´t ever think we have done a “good job” or take the pride, confidence and motivation from that, which we need as human beings to keep going.

I meet some unbelievably inspiring and talented youth workers on my travels and i just wish they´d realise that more and give themslves the hug and pat on the back they deserve.

I´m the worst at it, I know, but I did try to say to myself about Miami to just “enjoy myself”, and ”I did deserve a night on South Beach”. And that I certainly did. The late evening swim on the South Beach was awesome and we walked along the sea wake as the sun set. The bars were amazing, the crab dinner unbelievable and the dancing and club (where we go ID´d!! So happy!!) brilliant fun. Our “One night in Miami” was one to remember.

We then had to get up and fly off to Honduras and Colombia for some hard work. Should I feel guilty for having some fun? Am I beating myself up about it? …hmmm…..

Heaven on Earth?

The final day was full of farewell speeches and presents, as is the custom – but once the wonderful farewell lunch as over, the group went shopping for presents, me and H realised we just wanted to chill.  So we spent the last afternoon in the Lakshya projects office with the staff whom I had become so close, so quickly. I had been lucky enough to shadow one of them this week, and see her work close up.

They went about their work, and in between times, we listened to music, chatted and my arm was painted in beautiful Mendhi.

I then got the overwhelming sensation of this office, and the whole YMCA in fact, being a very very special place.

Here was a place where those whom society shunned: Gay people, HIV positive people & their families could just come and be. In the confines of these walls they could be who they really were and be comfortable and proud.   

As people and staff came and went I could not help but be struck by the power of this community and the feeling that the workers had created a haven for people, a wonderful loving, expressive environment for people considered outcasts by the communities round them. A place to be, to be cared for and a place to draw on each others strengths and shared problems. It was as if the place was glowing with warmth and love.

Those of you who know me know I have a very unpindownable faith, but I could not help reflecting on faith and religion as I sat in this wonderful place. Christian dogma has a lot to answer for in the way it has treated gay people and those living with HIV. Yet I believe this dogma sits as a blatant contradiction to the reality of Jesus’s life and words. Jesus spent his life with outcasts and sinners, never judging, but loving and nurturing those whom society at the time ostracised and condemned. I was genuinely moved, as I realised, that here in this office, the YMCA seemed to me to be truly living the way Jesus wanted people to.

If only all Christian and religious organisations could view people in such a way, we may go someway towards creating a much sought after heaven on earth.

(This video is a selection of pictures from our time in Nagpur. It includes pictures of the fantastic, wonderful, inspiring and fab staff at work at the Lakshya project and the truckers project that works with truck drivers and the related community at the truck stop on national Highway 7.)

Male Grooming

There seems to be a recurring theme this visit: Male grooming! I had a fantastic time at the barbers in Kanyakumari when I arrived, and since then have had two more experiences of Indian grooming.

The next time was when I returned to Mutom village, one of the re-built Tsunami villages I visited last year. Then I had spent an hour or so chatting to Mr Ravi and his wife.

On my return this year, I was overjoyed to see Ravi had set himself up as the village barber! He had been a fisherman, but lost his trade in the Tsunami and he is still too traumatised to return to the sea. With support from the Y, has has now set himself up.

After a nice chat he ushered me into his shop in his house and offered me a shave a cut. I naturally said yes and sat down happily. As he began the shave, it was revealed to me he had only actually been a barber for 4 days! Now had I known this would I have let him loose with a cutthroat on my neck??!!

Whilst he got to the jugular I slightly paniced, and as it turned out justifiably. He cut me!

Now…we then spent the next few minutes (for the sake of his pride) ignoring the steadily flowing line of blood that was now half way down my chest! Once it reached my trousers I though it best to mention it. He was actually distraught at his slip and tried to patch me up and stem the flow of blood! When all was said and done it was a good shave, and hopefully next year I can get a shave from a more experienced Mr Ravi!

Then, when in Nagpur and feeling particularly ill and exhausted, my friend Pranj lifted me from my slumber and insisted I got on the back of his bike and went to his barbers. It started in a traditionally ‘butch’ way with a shave.

Now I wonder how the following would have gone down in a British barbers.
No one batted an eyelid and many were indulging in the same. Its worth remembering that his was just a bog-standard street barber off the main road, the equivalent of your £8 a go places in London.

He proceeded to apply exfoliating creams and give me a thorough face massage. After exfoliation, he then toned and moisturised, before starting a full head, face and back massage, with aruyeydic oils! Afterwards, I literally felt 10 years younger and probably looked so!

Men here take a genuine and refreshing pride in their appearance. Brilliant!

Finally, I have also ended up with a full half-sleeve of mendhi on my arm. Mitalli spent 3 days slowly building it up on my arm, doing it bit by bit, when she was able to pin me down in her office to do it. Though I have to say it was great to just sit with her and have it done. The result? A fanatically beautiful design covering my hand and arm.

Now I am not sure of the custom of men wearing Mendhi, though the guys at the Sarathi trust do and took an excited interest in my developing design! So when in Rome…

Not sure how it will go down in London, but it will only last a few weeks.

Dealers

This just made me giggle. In South-East London, this would have a very different connotation.

I had visions of what a ‘dealers’ conference in Peckham would involve!

Empowerment and all that crap

I hate the word empowerment – its is so over used in NGO talk and in the youth work world – and very often by me!

 

In many ways it implies that power is their to be given by others, and those with it are simply gracious enough to pass it onto those without. Power is not something to be given by those with it, but something we all have in us, but some people simply need the support to bring it out. Mark Smith writes very well about how it is in fact a very outdated concept 

 

Yet I genuinely saw it today – well, I saw what I believe genuine empowerment is.I have spent the day shadowing a workers from the Lakshya project at Nagpur YMCA – a new project that supports positive people to live a full life, providing them with counselling, medical care and advice and long term support through home visits and support groups. It then trains them to become peer educators in their own community, educating people about HIV, in an attempt, not only to raise awareness of the virus and prevention methods, but also to de-mystify the reality of HIV in India and break down steroeptypes and stigma. It is based on a model that is being pioneered in South Africa, and the YMCA is one of the few places in India to replicate it. (I had had the pleasure the day before of making Rangoli with the staff)

 

We went to visit one of the new peer educators in her home. She became angry as she recounted the level of stigma and discrimination positive people face – and how she had been kicked out of her husbands home and blamed for his AIDS related death, and is now ostracised from a blossoming career, having got a Msc in Social Sciences. She was now living in a room in her parents house with her positive daughter.

 

She said to me that she had always seen herself as the victim or as part of the ‘problem’. In the UK, her story is a classic one that would invoke sympathy and most predictable pity, a classic ‘western sterortype’ of positive people in the developing world.

 

Yet she is now a trained peer educator in HIV awareness and runs a support group for HIV positive women. She delivers one-to-one and group session with people in her local community about the facts of HIV and how to protect yourself. She proudly told me she was not someone to be pitied or felt sorry for, but someone who was now genuinely empowered to make a difference. She was no longer the victim…she was now part of the solution.

 

Thats empowerment…… 

 

Kanyakumari pictures

I made this picture video for our group – it is of their time in Kanyaumari. The pictures show us in discussion groups at the YMCA, at a Tsunami Boys home, a vocational computer training centre, Mutom village, a village rebuilt after the Tsunami and a Womens empowerment group (SHG) meeting.

Rangoli

Another nice side to being ill (other than being able to write loads) was that while the group were out and about today, I decided to wander downstairs, to break the boredom of resting in my room. I was so glad I did. One of the HIV and AIDS projects has its office under our rooms, so as I walked past I as instantly asked in for tea and after the initial concerned questions abut my health, we spent a short while just chatting.

This specific project works with young, HIV positive people, supporting them to live a full and healthy life and also training them to be peers educators, using the arts and drama to educate other young people about HIV. They are such a brilliant bunch of people to be around.

They were about to practice making a rangoli, which is a wonderfully colourful piece of art, using sandpainting. It is usually seen outside peoples homes during religious festivals or festivities.

They were going to design one related to HIV and use it in their outreach work – another example of how creative they are in using so many techniques to get the message across. So they set about practising their design on the floor outside the office.

It was so transfixing watching them at work, their artistry enchanting, as they sprinkled the coloured powders through their fingers, and seamlessly landing every time in exactly the perfect place.

How they were able to do this and still keep looking up to chat to me I do not know. They were silly enough to let me try too – and I tried my best – but managed to fumble the paint everywhere!

Still, they got it finished in the end – and beautiful and powerful it was too.

Waiting times….

One advantage of currently being ill was I got to walk around the local hospital – and with the signs in Hindi, naturally got rather lost and wandered along what seemed like every single corridor trying to find the blood lab.

Still, it meant I wondered past the A & E and saw a rather amusing sign about waiting times.

The doctors in my family often talk about the new NHS 4-hour maximum waiting time, and how its is causing all sorts of problems and an example of Blairite target chasing gone totally barmy.

I wonder what they would have made of this.It had the waiting times stated thus;

• Emergency -10 minutes
• Urgent – 20 minutes
• Standard – 60 minutes.

There was then a final category, which made me really laugh. It was:

• ‘Dead, or so severely injured not expected to survive’.

Next to this column it simply said ‘0 minutes’

Clearly there was no waiting time for them, or targets for the staff to meet.

Maybe one for the NHS managers to ponder on…..

The only way to arrive…

…after a 14 hour train journey to Nagpur whilst battling with an amoeba, is to get on the back of JPs motorbike through the streets of Nagpur to the YMCA. Brilliant

The problem with English

I read this on a friends blog and it rung so many bells – being here in India

http://battutabahrain.blogspot.com/2008/01/problem-with-english.html

Bint Battuta is a fab blog to read anyway

Born to be a star

Arrived in Nagpur today for the 2nd part of our programme. As I wrote last year, the HIV and AIDS works here is so amazing, as is there work to support sexual minority groups in he community. So, I found it no surprise (though I think the rest of the group were rather taken aback!) to arrive and find the staff taking tea with Laxmi, an extremely well known transgender and Hijras activist who travels the world advocating for her communities rights. I was so great to meet her and have some fascinating, though at time rather outrageous chat. She was here as guest of honour of The Sarthi Trust, supported by the YMCA here, who were celebrating 2 years as an NGO.

She was featured in a film recently entitled Between the lines: The Third gender of India . The sad thing is, whilst showed widely across the European independent film circuit, it has never been granted a release in India.

See an interview she did recently here

Her T-shirt read ‘Born to be a star’. She was an amazingly inspiring person to meet, someone prepared to do all it takes to support her community and fight for their equal rights. She really is living out Ghandis famous challenge to become the change that you want to see in the world

Salute to the sun

When you work with a group, as me and H are at the moment in India, time to yourself is at a premium to say the least and it can be very easy to get very stressed, very quickly. Our hosts offered to take the group down to the beach to watch the sunrise and lead us in some yoga one day.

Now, we make a tactical, but rather naughty decision, to keep this bit of the programme quiet, so at 5.30am when Bernard turned up to drive the group to the beach, he found only me and H there.

Naughty, I know, but it meant me & H had an hour and half of unadulterated ‘us’ time, to unwind and relax and Bernard also thought it was great as he too, had become worried by our stress levels.

So we watched the sun rise over the Indian Ocean and were led in a ‘salute to the sun’, a yoga move specifically designed for the sunrise. Once the sun was up, we swam, did some more yoga, and wondered in a totally chilled daze back the car to begin another day of hard work.

There has to be no better way to start a day. When your day normally begins with a quick shower, a cup of tea and maybe some bran flakes, whilst being constantly mindful of having to leave to catch the train on the time, this was some change. I will ponder how possibly to make my mornings a more fullfilling time of day

My Virlity

I spent the morning with one of the Womens self help groups, set up in the new Tsunami villages, I met last year. Last year the projects were a year old and the women were making real progress, developing small micro-finance schemes and supporting each other in their new villages. Many had not been allowed out of their homes before.A year later things had really moved on. I take it as a sign of the groups success that a year later they felt comfortable enough to question my virility and fertility for over half an hour, after I’d told them that at 29 I did not have any children.

We also had much deeper discussions about love vs arranged marriages and the alcoholism that seems so endemic amongst their husbands.

Lizzie – Is she a rival for Roland?

I seem to attract animals to my room.

In Mumabi in 2005, it was a family of pigeons who nested on top of our air conditioning unit (never thought through the health implications at the time, those were in the days before bridflu!) and in Sierra Leone recently, it was my old friend Roland, the rat, who kept me company.

I now have Lizzie the lizard and her 3 children Eddie, Scuttle and Scamp living in my bathroom (Thanks for naming them LG ;-) Though to be honest, they’ve been pretty bad at lizzarding.  I assumed they would be nice and sort out the ants who are also in my room, but apparently they don’t like ants! Lizzie does seem to be a world champion at catching moths and butterflies. I am beginging to pity them , as they fly in mnildessly flying to the light in my room, only to never reach nirvana as they are plucked with great skill from the air and promptly eaten.

Though today they do now seem to be spending more time in H’s room next door – obviously my hospitatlity is not quite up to hers!

 I shall try and post piccies later! As you can see i;ve been working (probably far too) hard since the group came yesterday and these are the sorts of distractions that can keep a man sane in the snatched moments of breaks when away working!

Something for the Pongol holiday sir?

Last year I had had an amazing experience involving Henna die, an overly friendly massage, and a haircut in a Nagpur barbers, so yesterday I set off in Kanyakumari to find a barber, to try and re-create the experience. I was sent off by our colleagues here to the local shop, with stories of what happened the last time a foreigner ventured their ringing in my ears – Still, I only wanted my hair trimmed – not much could go wrong. I found the place and realised it was just a mirrored room, a chair and my barber who had one pair of scissors and two combs, an empty brandy bottle but a big smile and welcoming laugh!

Language was a major issue here, my Tamil stretches to hello and thank you, sadly not ‘can you trim the sides and back and cut into and thin out the top’. His English stretched to ‘hello’ and ‘I am a Christian’ (!) which he said several times over, seeming to think this would reassure me of his skills with the blade.

Yet it was a great atmosphere…and for a while I felt like I was in the Tamil version of ‘Desmonds’, as people popped in, sat and joked with the barber, and gazed intriguingly at the slightly anxious white guy. All we needed was a Matthew character. If only I knew the Tamil for ‘There is an old Indian proverb….’

It also seemed to be like a kind of male local styling salon, with guys coming in, borrowing his comb, giving their hair a good brush and touch up in front of the mirror. The young men take a great deal of pride in their appearance here, an element of what we might term metrosexuality seems the norm. Once they’ve had a good old stare and pose and decided they were looking their best, they left with a smile and nod. This is obviously part of the service, that you can return as many times as you like to give your barnet a brush and keep looking your best.

I shall certainly be back.

Happy Pongol! Do we still plough the fields?

Happy Pongol – today in Tamil Nadu is the Pongol festival – Harvest. It last 3 days, and today is the day for celebrating people. Tomorrow they celebrate the cow, and thank it for its role in growing crops. It is a very big holiday in Tamil Nadu. Everywhere people come together with their family for festivities, eating the traditional ‘Pongol’ (a mix of spices, and ground rice and lentils). Every home has beautiful chalk drawing on the ground outside their gate – drawn by the women of he home before the sun rose this morning.

We start work properly tomorrow, as the group arrive, and are both still pretty jetlagged and grotty, so I did not expect to spend my first proper morning in India, standing in the middle of 250 camp fires at 5.30 in the morning!

Yet there I was this morning, outside a huge wonderfully decorated temple, where 250 families would celebrate, by each cooking pongol in a clay pot together, as an act of community, as the sun rose. Row upon row of clay pots, set atop a small fire of banana leaves, whilst music was played and songs sung. It was an amazing sight before they were all lit! But then when they all started to light them, it was something I will never forget. Groups of women in stunningly colourful saris sat around each fire, feeding it with banana leaves to keep it going, and watching that the pongol didn’t overflow. It is moments like this when I so love the opportunities I get with my job – and moments like this when I realise how useless cameras are sometimes too – you could never capture the sight properly.

Our presence though did not go unnoticed. Its a bit hard to blend in at events like this!! News stations were there to cover the Pongol celebrations, and me and H were duly photographed and filmed around the burning stoves and then interviewed about how we had enjoyed it. The question that stumped us both was ‘So do you celebrate a similar thing in the UK’ we both thought long and hard. I guess we do – Harvest Festival – but my sole memories of this is being made to sing ‘We plough the fields and scatter’ (which by the way is now stuck in my head, which is a surreal experience whilst in the middle of rural India) and giving the headmaster tins of tinned tomatoes, peaches and spam that he assured us would go the local old peoples home. Yet was it a bigger thing in the past? Is this just me, as a self-confessed urbanite, or have I forgotten recently to pause and say thanks for the food we take so much for granted. Is this because we are too un-avowedly urban, secular or maybe both?

Maybe it goes even further back – bizarrely – I was drawn back to Billy Braggs song “The world turned upside down’ about the socialist Diggers movement in the 17th century, crushed by society for their communalist beliefs, summed up in his song thus: “This earth divided, We will make whole, So it will be, A common treasury for all”. It’s a perspective we’ve defiantly lost, but one certainly on show at the festivities today.

The interview went down OK tough and it was only afterwards were told we are to be on 3 main news channels, one of which is not only shown across India, but Malaysia, Singapore and Thailand too! We’ve colleagues working in Thailand at the moment, they may well get a shock if they switch on the news this evening!

Stars

 

“If you surround yourself with stars, you too will shine”

I said this, rather cheesily, after a few drinks recently about my team at work. It is so true……Thanks guys. 

Jabs and dogs

When we travel, we get so obsessed with jabs, inoculations and all sorts of health stuff in our work. I have one of the finest love-hate relationships with our nurse who (you will forgive my sarcasm) so kindly administers the injections we need to ensure we are vaccinated against, rabies, tetanus, polio, yellow fever et al. Never have I had such fear of any other human being…still, it is all for the best. There are serious risks when we go abroad we are always being told….

…so who would have thought that I would have been glad off all the sweaty palms and sore arms on a cold night in a quiet pub in Kings Cross. On venturing to the toilet I encountered a rather large Alsatian, who appeared to take issue with me. As he barked rather viciously i realised i was backed into the wall. He duly bared his fangs and bit me…hard…on the leg. Now, despite the obvious shock and fear of the whole episode, we couldn’t help laughing at the irony. For the first time, I was so relieved by the fact I was up-to-date on all my jabs (including rabies). I wasn’t in India or Sierra Leone, but Central London. But my jabs meant I could relax, knowing my assailant hadn’t passed any nasty things onto me.

A fine single malt, the kind hand of a friend, a bath and an early night sorted me out. Now I need to work on getting over my now irrational fear of dogs! I’m sure all the ones wandering the streets in Kanykumari next week will help….(?!?)

Back…and with a few less things on my list

I am off to India again next week, so have been drawn back to my blog.

The last tumultuous months in my life have meant I haven’t written for a while, despite a fair few trips. These included a tough (work-wise) visit to the Czech Republic. Though I did thankfully once again feel like a smug vegetarian whilst there! (see previous post). I was the only one and at the first meal time, this caused much mirth amongst the young people and leaders I was with…that was until I seemed to served the finest, freshest meals the kitchen seemed capable of serving! Whilst everyone else made do with meat and offal broth, I was served lovely mushroom pastas, fresh vegetables and gorgeous omelettes!

I also got to cross off one of my things of list if things to do before I die. I had a sauna and then cooled off by running (almost) naked into the snow and roll around like an idiot! I have to say it was absolutely brilliant and took me a day to come down off the high!

I was also in Geneva again, a city I have still never quite got my head around. It just seems to be like the culture dementors have been round, sucking the life out of the city. I know much of this is due to the fact that the city is full of NGO workers, bankers and business people from all over the world, many on transient business stays or short-term placements from their own countries. Its always disappointed me that this hasn’t produced a vibrant and noisy multi-cultural mix of a town that would be a pleasure to spend time in. Yet this time, I was privileged enough to be taken out for food and drinks by a local guy from Geneva who has started working with us. Wow…what a difference it made to be with him, as he took us to the hidden away bars that are kept the preserve of Swiss, away from the life sapping visitors like me! I had a fantastic evening that has restored my faith that there is much more to Geneva underneath its undoubtedly beautiful clothes.

Dulce et decorum est?

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” is a line from the Roman lyrical poet Horace’s Odes. It means. “It is sweet and becoming to die for one’s country,” and was used frequently by pro-war protagonists to recruit young men to fright in WWI.

This week, Britain is celebrating 25 years since the war in the Falklands.

I’ve done a lot of work over the last few years in Palestine, Northern Ireland and now in Sierra Leone. The news coverage of the current bloodshed in Gaza, mixed with the memories of the stories I’ve heard, and things I’ve seen abroad with work….I have to say I have found his weeks ‘celebration’ of the Falklands war very difficult.

Thatcher has publicly said “we should still rejoice” at the victory in 1982 saying “in the struggle against evil… we can all today draw hope and strength” from the Falklands victory…Fortune does, in the end, favour the brave”

Me, John and Muffle spent Thursday night depressing ourselves about the state of the world, and since then, I have been drawn back to one of my all time favourite poems – Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen. (I wish I’d had the intelligence to bring it up that night lads!)

Wilfred Own wrote the poem from the trenches during WWI as a direct response to war propagandist, Jenny Frost, who wrote poems exclaiming the virtues of war during WWI. He originally wrote it as a letter to her, from the trenches, but encouraged by his friend, and another fantastic anti-war poet, Siegfried Sasoonn, he wrote it as a poem. It was only published once the war was over and is for me better than anything any politician or leader has ever said about the realities of war. It is made all the more poignant, as he was killed in the last week of war, in 1918.

If you don’t read the whole poem, just read the last 4 lines. They are stunning and a perfect counter-balance to our ‘heroic’ pro-falkalnds war news coverage this weekend. Despite being written 90 years ago, I also think it is as relevant today, to those all over the world, where war and conflict dominates peoples lives, as it was all those years ago.

Dulce et Decorum Est
by Wilfred Owen

A complacent ‘business traveller’ ?

Being in Kiev for one night has been an odd experience. I literally arrived at lunch time, got in a car and taken to the hotel, and as I was already late, walked straight into the meeting I was there for. We stayed in the same room in this hotel until dinner, where we then went to eat. By this time, my best attempts to get colleagues to go into town so I could see some of Kiev were failing, we comprised and went for a drink at a local bar around the corner from the hotel. We all got talking and before I knew it it was time to sleep.

The next day; breakfast, then straight back into the meeting, which over ran, so I went straight from their into a taxi back into the airport.

Before then, I texted one of my best friends in the morning, moaning about the meetings, saying how bored I was. She replied saying however bored she was in the meetings, she’d be so happy and excited to be in Kiev.

She was so right.

Am I becoming complacent? So many of my friends, like her, would have loved to have been in my position – and here I was, moaning,

Had I not made the effort I should have to see Kiev? After all, when would I ever get back there? Had I missed a real opportunity? Was I taking for granted the great places I get to see with my job?

I know I am not becoming the complacent business traveller you have probably met and thought how much they miss by just ‘seeing the inside of the airport, a taxi and the hotel’, but this was a little wake-up call.

I am always so lucky that people in YMCA never let that happen, and are always such amazing hosts. But this was a wake up call for me that when you go somewhere for such a short time, make sure you appreciate every tiny bit it!

I do travel so much, and it does knacker me out and has real affects on my personal life back home, but I need to acknowledge the negatives, and in doing so also realise I am so so lucky and must savour every second of it.

Speechless

I realised in Kiev how important language was.

I admit I have been so busy before going that I didn’t have a chance to look up any words in Russian. I was only there two days, so was being lazy and thought I’d just try and get by. I’ve not learnt Russian before, so the language was completely new to me.

When I got there I really felt helpless, totally helpless in fact. I couldn’t even say hello or thank you to our driver who took us from the airport, and embarrassingly used English, hoping he’d realise that I wasn’t some language imperialist! I’ve always made such an effort to learn the basics of whatever language is spoken where I go. Creole, Hindi, Tamil, Zulu, Arabic, Hebrew…I’ve made a poor but committed effort to speak them all. But this time, going to Ukraine, I hadn’t, I’d been lazy. And boy did I feel so uncomfortable that I couldn’t manage even a few words in the language.

It made me think how people can go to places for weeks, and not be able to even say the basics needed to appear polite. Communication is so important and making the effort, however basic so vital to relationships.

I hope to not be ‘speechless’ again.

Smug vegetarian

I have officially become a smug one. I know I’m not a real one, I eat fish, and have no real moral leg to stand on…but still.

Flying to Kiev the airline had not ordered enough veggie meals. The staff were so apologetic, but as I could see my fellow passengers tucking into their food and thinking I was just being difficult and should just suffer the consequences for being so ‘fussy’.

So for about 30 minutes I began to doubt my vegetarianism as I sat like a social lepper, with my tray table down in front of me, empty, with no food, whilst everyone else tucked into their meat meals.

Self doubt…

Then the nice steward came back from first class with a veggie meal from first class especially for me. So there I was with my large tray, polished silver cutlery, real cotton serviette, feeling like the smuggest man on earth, as I tucked into my freshly cooked food, warm rolls, French chesses (veggie I am sure?!), freshly cut fruits and chocolate profiteroles.

Newcastle’s doors

I was in Newcastle this week, which is where we now have a new office.

Its really special for me as this is where I studied and spent 4 very happy years. I still go back every so often to visit friends, but to come here for work was a nice treat.

When i was there the city seemed to be consistently changing for the better. Every week there seemed to be a new restaurant, shop, bar or arts project! Its culture was also very distinct and rich, which is a rarity in England. It really felt distinctive.

Yet one change when i went back was not so much fun and i can’t quite get my head around it….

Newcastle has a fantastic ‘Metro’ system, linking the city to it to Sunderland, Tyneside and the surburbs of the city. It was famous though the city for it distinctive noise, everytime the doors close. If you’ve been there you’ll remember it

There is a loud ‘urrrrr’ sound, followed by the broadest geordie accent saying “Stand clear of the doors, please”.

Yet now, this has gone, replaced by a standard dull monotone voice simply saying ‘mind the doors’.

It got me thinking about how we seem to want to please by stripping everything away of our individuality and culture. Someone, somewhere has clearly decided that the voice was too broad and localised and wouldn’t be understood by us all.

Yet we have so little culture that is distinguishable and different, should’t we be celebrating difference, rather than trying to standardise everything? I guess I always struggle with culture here in the UK, espcially being ‘english’. The countries I work in have such rich proud cultures, which always make ‘home’ seem so deviod of anything that could meaningfully be called culture.

I know the sounds on the Metro doors is only a minor thing, and i’ve probably read too much into it, but it did make me think….

Pride and hope vs horror and helplessness

We spent one afternoon this week in Kissy, which is in the most easterly province of Freetown. This was where the RUF forces retreated too after their first attempt to take Freetown, and they made it their base for a while. As far as Freetown is concerned, this part took the main brunt of the conflict, most notably the people living there.

We visited a school and training centre that is working to rehabilitate children and young people who’ve been affected by the war. We had discussion with the young people there, our group, sharing their own experiences of conflict.

Whilst this was going on, I was assured away by one of the teachers, who wanted to take me on a walk of the area.

He said it was impossible to understand the work they do at the school with out knowing what had happened here particularly in the last few years of the war. He said when the Lome accord was signed; this area of Kissy was a ghost town. Nearly every house had been destroyed or damaged and nearly everyone killed, forced into militias or fled.

Walking around I saw such obvious destruction. Every other house was burnt our or simply a ‘footprint’, with the concrete floor left. He told me personal stories of the people who had been living there, and his own personal stories from the time the rebels went on the rampage in this area.

You can read books, see films and be told about the horrors of war so many times, but to actually be there, and be being told, at the point and place these stories happened, about what had been on that very street corner, or what had happened in that very shell of a house. That brings it home more than ever.

Yet throughout the whole walk he was telling me this, he continued to be positive and upbeat. He wasn’t telling me to shock me or make me feel guilty, but to show use it as a mirror to the past, to make me see how well the local community had begun to rebuild their lives.

In amongst what appears to us to be carnage….he was so proud.

When you see such extreme poverty, its so easy to think the situation helpless, yet he wanted to impress on me, despite how simply it may appear helpless, his people had come so far in such a short space of time.

That was real pride and hope. That was what I took away, not the horrific stories. And that is what he wanted me to take away.

If Carlsbeg did youth work venues….

OK, nothing will ever be the same again. In youth work, we always talk about creating environment – a place for us to work with young people. Well, most YMCAs I work in will never quite live up to this.

We took our youth work sessions with the young people out the Freetown YMCA today and out to the beach. Tourism is virtually non-existant, so most of the beaches are beautiful and untouched. We took our selves out of the city to spend the day at ‘No.2 River’ beach – which is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, with a river running in behind it, that forms two large white sand islands, and the jungle literally coming up to the sand.

 

I know you’ll be thinking we just spent all day on the beach, and I can hear the Daily Mail having a field day, but we took flipcharts, pens, workshop plans, and got the groups doing some great group work, focusing on peace building. Believe it or not, it was so me of the best work they’ve done all week. As they scattered along the beach into their groups, one meeting on some rocks, the other under a mango tree – I realised how important environment was to youth work in the most extreme way.

Enjoy it while I can I thought – it’ll be back to the big, old, cold colourless halls next week!

Roland

 It appears as if my new friends the cockroaches, with whom me and Brendy are sharing a room, now have a new friend themselves – a rat!  We had a moment as our eyes met, mine said ‘shock’, his said’ I shouldn’t be here, whoops I’ve been caught’. So he scooted his large hairy frame up a pipe and out of a hole.  We’ve blocked the hole up from where he came, as anti-social as it may be, it will at least make us sleep better……

Religous ‘tolerance’

 

Sierra Leone is a predominantly Muslim country. Yet both Islam and Christianity are thriving religions here. From my UK perspective and probably stereotyped opinion, and given the political climate we all live in at the moment, I assumed that this would have caused tensions in their society. Yet this is not the case, in fact many Sierra Leoneans have gone out of their way to point this out – it is a cause of great pride. One friend said “can you imagine how much more horrific the war had been if we’d let religion get in the way too?”

One example of this was on the ferry over to pick the group up from the airport (an experience in itself). The room we were in had entertainment, and the guy happily put on a Christian worship CDs, which most people in the room sang and clapped along to. Augustine, our colleague from Sierra Leone pointed this out, saying that most of the people in the room would have been Muslim. Yet it seemed no issues for everyone to be together and singing along.

They have a thriving inter-religious council, that met continuously throughout the war too.

Muslims here celebrate Christmas and Easter and Christians celebrate Eid and respect (and many observe) Ramadan. One friend said that people will even attend services, or prayers with friends anf family of the other religion. You see no real obvious, traditional or overt symbols or expressions of people religions on the streets – except for the many mosques and churches that line the streets many side by side. Traditional religious dress, such as conservative dress or women wearing the veil is almost non-existent – yet everyone you speak to, from both religions have extremely deep faiths.

Obi, another friend here told me today about his family. He is a Christian, so is his brother, one sister and his mum. His two other sisters and another brother are both Muslim, and his father is the Imam at their local mosque. They all respect and celebrate each other faiths, celebrate major festivals together and from what it sounds like, have very vibrant conversations. His family is certainly not unique. He says people are taught from a young age to understand each others religions.

So it appears as if education and understanding is the key. Everyone understands and knows about each other religions. We have such issues glaring issues in the UK about all this.

What can we learn from how the different religions live together so cohesively?

Can we learn from how the Muslims here make the Christian minority feel valued and respected? Can we learn from how much education and respect of other religions is so valued?

Obi says the key is being confident enough in our own religions to not feel the need to ‘convert’ each other – it is from that that conflict arises.

The guys here say that the integration is simple. It based on mutual understanding. Whereas in the UK it is based on ignorance and fear.

Fundamentalism and evangelicalism in both religions in almost frowned upon here. For them, ‘tolerance’ isn’t even a word they’d use. They don’t need to ‘tolerate’ eachother, they moved beyond that and just get along.

Yet we here in the UK and in most countries around the world can’t even seem to get the toleration stage.

There is much for all of us to learn from Sierra Leone.

Time to myself?

Loads to write about soon guys – been pretty mental since the group arrived – and unbelievable experiences – the group go off on a home stay programme, so should have time to myself (its that’s possible here) to get some thoughts down and posted

Its just impossible to find time when you do these programmes to just reflect and think yourself – buti guess thats all part of the job…but hopefully i can do some of that this afternoon – i certainly need it…

Freetown

The last two days I am beginning to get my head around Freetown. In all my busy work schedule before I came, I’d not really got my head around the fact that Sierra Leone is, according to the UN, the second poorest country on earth.

Poverty is everywhere, shacks that house seemingly impossibly large families have been built on spare land, even at the YMCA, they come right up to the 4 walls, meaning the YMCA building is surrounded by what is effectively a shanty town.

Most people there had fled the rural areas for the relative safety of the capital in the early days of the war and now find themselves trapped by poverty. This is the most immediate sign on the recent war.

Its hard to avoid the signs of war, they almost seem to haunt you. On almost every street corner, groups of men, amputees, sit around, some begging. They are left with the most obvious scars of all.

Many of the older colonial buildings have obvious damage to them and many plots now sit silently, where wooden homes were burnt down of blown up. Again, scars left on every street. The ruins seem eerie, many obvious, other hidden behind corrugated iron, other with new building being built out of the rubble.

Yet it also the most colourful city I’ve seen for ages and one of the most beautiful. It is built on and surrounded by huge hills lied with jungle, making it so green. This fits perfectly with the colourful buildings, street signs and fauna that line the roads, along with the multitude of street stalls that line nearly every street. The people too make this such a vibrant place to be. Without resorting to clichés, they are so unbelievably friendly and happy – there is such a determination to move on and to try and build a better future – this seems to dominate every conversation I have.

The group from Northern Ireland arrive tomorrow, so the work begins, and I hope to get an even better insight into this fascinating country.

Football – Real passion again

As the YMCA has power in the evening, it charges local guys to come I and watch bug football matches. So tonight I joined the full room to watch Man Uts vs Roma.

Everyone is obsessed with English football here and they all support on of our big four teams (I did ask if there were any reports of other Norwich City fans, but was politely told they were not big enough). Watching the game tonight, with a room full of wild fans, not one of them needing to drink or fight to show their passion, made me think about how I think I’ve lost my own passion for the game.

People here are so passionate about it. On lots of street corners enterprising bars and individuals advertise on chalk blackboards the games, when they are on, and the charge to come in and watch. I also know they recently held (and so proud to have) the first ever FIFA amputees World Cup – which my friend Simon had photographed.

Anyway, back to the game. The room was full and people talking incessantly about the game and football in general, and from what I could pick up from the Creole, it was really engaging intelligent football conversation – and in such stark contrast to back home – they did not need a drop of drink to talk about it or to enjoy the game.

As Man Utd’s goals went in, one after the other, people jumped and ran around the room joy, hugging eachother and slapping hands. Pure unadulterated pleasure. It was how I always imagined my front room to have been like if we’d gone all the way in Euro ’96.

It was a pleasure and for me to have shared their passion, I’ve not enjoyed watching a game like that for so so long – I guess their passion was contagious.

3 new posts below

Hi, theres 3 new posts below – i had to uplaods them all at once. As you’ll read, there is only power for5 hours a day, so its been tricky getting on line!

Matt x

Hear’say

Yes they are still big somewhere. As we drove across town form the heliport to the YMCA, the local radio announcer introduced Hear’say’s ‘Pure and Simple’ with the words “and now for the song you all just can’t stop singing…”

Surreal.

There is no national electricity system here, so people who can afford it use generators to power them. At the YMCA, they have enough diesel daily to have power from 7pm until midnight. Then it runs out and all goes dark. As we ere taken to our rooms as we arrived very late, we were given a paraffin lamp and told we’d soon be in darkness. The paraffin lamp brought back memories of my year in Zimbabwe 10 years ago. Have I changed so much since then? For a year I lived with no electricity and running water, yet the thought of the power going off in half and hour or so sent me into a spiral of anxiety.

Still I survived the night. I think much of the anxiety is just being somewhere for the first night, the strange smells, sounds and feelings. Arriving at night is always difficult anyway, as you have no real concept of the place you are coming to, its boundaries and yours. So last night was fairly difficult. There are so many songs, prayers and poems about everything turning out fine in the morning, and there is a reason. Its usually so true. So after muddling through the nights sleep, by the time the sun rose, I felt calm, settled and ready to start work. And ready to start exploring what looked such an amazing city as the sun rose over the stunning view from my room