London to Freetown

Village Life: 20th June 2007

Village life starts early: 5am. I have to confess not to being up until 6am. Meanwhile Managre ( the british army veteran I am currently stalking) and his wife are up off of their veranda bench bed and already working. He has fed the buffalo, who is endlessly hungry, some greenery and hay like substance. I will confess at this point to not being overly familiar with the country side and farm type things. There aren’t that many farms in London that I am aware of and if there are, my weekends tended not to involve them. None the less I have successfully identified some of the livestock here; a buffalo, some goats, very scrawny chickens and some cow like creatures but maybe they are cows or ox, not really sure. Mangre sweeps and cleans around the buffalo. He feeds the scrawny chickens. The chickens sleep in the roof of the house. They were so noisy all night, I just want to eat them. I drink chai and eat some freshly picked and then grilled maize. I don’t think I have ever eaten such fresh food. My entire diet is growing around me. Food miles- zero. I can definitely cancel out some of my air travel sins with this. The daughter in law and sisters life takes place almost entirely in the dark, smokey kitchen. The potatoes are washed then peeled, the cabbage chopped, the rice cooked, the food served, the plates scrubbed under the outside tap. All day every day, this is their routine. I am already starting to get a bit bored, which is not very good. But excitement Mrs veteran wants to take me to the village ‘ market’. Sounds like my cup of tea. Off I go and we are there. A small room in a house selling not very much: cigarettes, sweets and crisps. I buy some sweets, mostly to please Mrs Veteran. And then more excitement, I am going to school with the children from the village. I follow the eldest, the rest follow me. I feel a bit like the pied piper. Up and up and up and up and up- today I am being lapped by four year olds- to school. We walk up for about forty minutes. I am drenched by the time we reach the school. Excited children gather round. A man comes out, looking scruffy and tired, he introduces himself as the head master. I introduce myself. He explains that he has to pop to lunch (lunch is at 9.30am in Nepal). The teachers had to meet earlier about another proposed strike and so classes will start late. He would like me to stay and take a class. I agree. Before he goes the teacher complains about, the buildings- too small, teachers not being respected in the village, not having enough books: he complains about everything, which is maybe understandable but he doesn’t seem to notice the eager, committed, motivated student body he has around him. That is a shame. He informs me that only 1-3 of the students will make it to further education, out of a subsistence farming life. I fear his prophecy will continue to be fulfilled. I take a class- relay some basic facts about the UK, population, religion, democracy. I invite the children to ask me some questions. But I fear the headmaster, whose class it is supposed to be, puts them off. He has done nothing all lesson. I ask him to translate, maybe that’s the problem. He explains the children are shy but they would like to know some things I will ask for them, ‘are you married’? I leave the school building sad for those children. Back to the village. Mr and Mrs veteran go about their daily tasks; feeding the animals, digging up potatoes, ploughing a field with oxen or maybe cows, planting rice, replanting rice. It is hard work in unbearable heat. And this is life day in day out. Plant food, dig it up, eat it. I confess that after two days of this I was ready to climb Everest to escape. In fairness to myself I did discover a dead rat rotting in the bedroom which explained an increasingly bad smell. I just wasn’t up for another night there. So I’m out of there. Glad to be trekking again. And reflecting. The next time a person who tells that the ex-gurkha soldiers are better off than most Nepalese need to come here. And they need to spend their lives growing what they eat and they need to send their children to the school in Maling.