London to Freetown

My bags are packed, well almost at least I’ve decided the Barak 08 birthday gift t-shirt is an essential travel item for Sierra Leone, not yet sure if I need to pack food: is Sierra Leone also faced by the world food shortage, fuelled in some way by our common agricultural policy: better known as throw food away and subsidise European farmers.

AND Im leaving on a BMI jet plane:  BMI jet planes now fly to Freetown Sierra leone three times a week.  Its hoped the beaches of Freetown will soon by swamped with one of Britains finest exports: the tourist.

 I know very little about Sierra Leone and have sought to improve my knowledge base.  Here are some of the facts garnered to date.

Sierra Leone is a small country on the west coast of Africa.  Population, before its eleven year  western diamond industry fuelled war, 5 million, circa 4 million now. 

It is ranked lowest on the Human Development Index and seventh lowest on the Human Poverty Index.

Its capital Freetown gets its name from the freed krio speaking slaves who fought for King George in the American war of independence against the British.

It got its independence from the British in 1961 on the 27/4/08.  It used to have trains.

It is the setting of one of Leonardo di Caprios finest works, ‘Blood Diamond’.  An accurate but, I’m told not brutal enough, portrayal of the eleven year conflict fuelled by the quest for diamonds.

I’m off to meet Emmanuels  family. They live in Moyamba town. Things I do know about Moyamba  Town;

His mum only speaks mende, I will be learning some key mende phrases, ’pleased to meet’ and’ your son is wonderful’.

There’s no train there

That’s about it…..

there are lots of very good things about living in the dutch lands

- they make some seriously good biscuits, they are called stroopwaffles: they are delicious and very fattening.

- they greet each other with three not two kisses . Initially  this is tough for a brit like me, more of a handshake person but getting used to it.   You can be caught off guard by the third kiss: avoid this it can lead to awkward and embarrassing moments for them and for you.

- people dont mind my constant phrase of, ’sorry I don’t speak dutch’  and mostly speak english. 

 ‘ anyone reading the news over the past couple of years will have been aware of the tightening of immigration regulations brought about by the former minister for immigration Rita Verdank. Since 2004 these changes have been sweeping and far reaching, changing the system to reflect a sleeker and meaner attitude to immigration’( EXPAT welcome pack and guide to living in the Netherlands)

I am in the immigration building. They are not particularly friendly here.  At this juncture I would not be that sad to be deported from the Netherlands but; ,duty, work  calls and here I am to register myself with the Immigration people.

I am sitting in a suitably gloomy waiting room wondering and waiting along with the other suitably gloomy and anxious looking persons. I wonder what has brought them to the Hague.

A bit like a  Sainsburys deli counter but less friendly and no food at the end of it all  my number eventually comes up.  I am buzzed in to see suitably gloomy and miserable  and unhelpful person.  She has at least made an effort for someone - looks like she stepped out of a bollywood movie, she  should step her unhelpful miserable self back into it. The netherlands likes the forms: the right ones, my birth certificate is not properly certificated.  If its this difficult to move to the Hague perhaps it should review its decision to be the, ‘international city of peace and justice’ .

The best cities in the world are the most multi cultural cities.  I am sure I will soon discover the many delights of Den Hague but in the meantime here, to be frank, I think that they should think about employing immigration officials who can smile and be that bit more grateful for those of us moving to this place. 

When I run immigration in the UK :

Once people have passed the niceness test( the finer details of this accurate and impartial test are available on request)they will be welcomed by tea and cakes provided by the womens institute or some nice friendly britishers.

  Its very stressful moving to a new place, away from home and loved ones: people should be made to feel welcome.   I’ve moved without having to flee anything other than an overdraft- I imagine how tough and overwhelming  it is for other immigrants moving to the Netherlands or the UK.

After a whirl wind time in Nepal working for a rather large organisation that didn’t like bloggers i find myself in the Hague in the Netherlands aka not Holland, which is how some will know it.

Unfortunately for me I don’t like ; the colour orange, the rain, flat terrain, stringy cheese, riding a bicycle, bicycle lanes or clogs.  This might be a problem.  But surely there are lots of other wonderful delights to the Hague.  

After a whirlwind trip to London, just enough time to see the family, eat some junk food, be amazed by the pursuit of shopping in oxford street (so much shopping going on- what did people do before shops?) and of course to catch some of live earth on tv  ( I am going to have to kill a few cows to make up for the carbon or something)  I’m back Nepal side.

I know I’m back.  The toilet smells like a toilet, I’m sharing my room with a geko , complete strangers have enquired as to my marital status and my stomach doesn’t feel quite right.  But these things are dwarfed by the friendly, welcoming, generous people and the breathtaking beauty of nepal.

I decided to do some pre-travel revising on Nepal on the plane trip with my newly acquired lonely planet guide.  Maybe it could tell me some things I didn’t already know.  It did and here are two of many illuminating facts under the ‘women travellers’ section;

 ‘ in 2005 landmark rulings gave women under the age of 35 the right for the first time to apply for a passport without their parents or husbands permission and safeguarded their right to inherited property.’

‘ the rural custom of exiling women to cowsheds for four days during their period was  made illegal in 2005’. 

So my training in a big organisation starts on the 12^th July.  And I have decided to grab a flying visit to London. Only five days but I need to stock up on nutella.  The nutella can’t come here, I have to do the food miles for it.

It’s funny what you miss when you leave somewhere.  What would you miss most?  I think it’s the things we take for granted and don’t really think of. 

Apart from the obvious and most compelling miss of friends and family: I miss;

London traffic.  It is at least organised in its misery.  The road fatality rate is high here, apparently too high to bother counting .  For those drivers out there who want to drive in Nepal here  are the  simple road rules:  go where you can, when you can, whether you be, car, truck, cow, person or street hawker.  Beep your horn endlessly.  Never wear a motorcycle helmet as a passenger, whether you are 2 or 80. Make sure your vehicle constantly emits black acrid smoke.  Drive fast, drive like a lunatic. 

Newspapers.   Sometimes there is an information overload in our daily lives.  But it is the other extreme here.   Although not so extreme that the news of an overprivileged blonde doing a bit of time isn’t in the news here.  I crave a big juicy daily newspaper.

Getting what I ordered.  I can’t wait to go to a restaurant and have what I actually ordered turn up on my plate. And not having to worry too much about food poisoning when it arrives.  There have  been deaths from cholera in kathmandu recently.  All the rain, the flooding: polluting the water with excrement.  Nice detail , i know. 

Trains, the underground.  The Himalayas are obviously not suited to trains of any description.   This is unfortunate, trains could be a safe and efficient way for people to travel here avoiding the inherent dangers of traffic here (see road rules above).

Not being completely ignored if I am with a man.  Nepal ranks 111 out of 115 countries in terms of the level of discrimination faced by women.  The ranking measures things like health care, education, political and economic engagement: women in Nepal face almost  the worst levels of  discrimination in all of those areas.   For me this means not being spoken to if I am with a man in restaurants, having my credit card I’ve just paid with in a restaurant returned to the nearest sir to me- even when they’ve just seen me take it out of my wallet. It means meeting women and wanting to talk to them and the nearest man explaining that as an unmarried woman she is shy and doesn’t want to speak. It means a number of situations that make me want to scream, where I feel almost invisible as a person.  But that’s ok for me because I grew up with boundless opportunity and one day I can leave Nepal. 

But for women here it means; facing the highest rate of fatality in child birth, living in one of only three countries in the world where the life expectancy is lower  for women than men, where the life expectancy of  only 55 is  attributable purely to the high levels of death rates for women, where prolapsed wombs will be left untreated, where girls are more likely to be illiterate ( why bother paying for a girl to go to school who will one day only be an ‘asset’ for her husbands family), all of the well paid jobs going to men, doing all of the hard work in the villages whilst men play cards, and maybe being  traded in for a younger model when they look older than their husbands from the back breaking work they have done.  The list is endless.

 I miss London

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.

 It’s day two of welfare pension collections.  I hit upon the genius idea of following a welfare pensioner back to his village.  I want to understand his journey better and get the full flavour village life. Seven hours, of the toughest trekking I have faced, later  I am reflecting on how stupid my ‘genius’ idea has turned out to be.   I am  following a veteran of Borneo.  Managre Gurung of the 2^nd Gurkha Rifles served from 1961 until 1970 when he was made redundant without any pension.  After service he returned to his village life in Maling as a farmer and so it is to there that I follow him back.On what becomes a torturous journey, up, up, up,up, up, up and up steep mountain side in the blazing heat, I try to think positively to keep myself going.  All of this exercise must be good for me: no I don’t care.  Didn’t Charles Dickens say, ‘walk and be happy’: he was obviously not thinking of the Himalayan country of Nepal when he said this.  I am so tired I don’t think I can go up any more.  I contemplate paying the veteran five times his pension to carry me.  After all I am spending the journey eating his dust.  He is 62 surely he should be finding this hard, at least perspiring a little: I am drenched.  One foot in front of the other I keep going.  We eventually stop after hours – I drink water and coke as fast as I can.  Manbagre cracks open a beer.   And then we are off again, through jungle and then down and down steep steps made out of the mountainous rock.  I am quite grateful to be going down but also hate it: at some point, unless I decide to settle in the village of Maling, I will have to walk back up.   We make it to his village.  I vow never to go on a trek again.   I wouldn’t do it again if I was paid and if I was paid it would have to be for a lot more than the 78 pounds Managre has just received. I arrive at Manbagre’s home.  It is his sons home.  His son introduces me to the family who live their;  his wife, his sister, his mother and his children.  The mud and stone home has three rooms.  A kitchen, where most of the family seem to be sleeping, a very small store room, full of potatoes and maize and another room with a bed in where I will be sleeping ( his sister usually has this room).  His father sleeps on a sort of bench with his wife on the veranda.  I note the lack of wardrobes, but they don’t seem to own enough clothing to need them.   Managre sleeps outside within an arms length of the buffalo he cares for.   The kitchen is the hub of life.  It is constantly smokey from the open fire sans chimney.  I put my stuff in my village bedroom home and look forward to a good nights rest before starting my village life in earnest.  But first outside to sit and have some chai.  There are suddenly thirteen villagers- mostly children all staring at me.   I quickly deduce the following, not many foreigners have stayed in the village and there is not a great deal of entertainment in the village.  Every move of the foreign English girl seems quite exciting to them.  I do feel slightly like an animal in the zoo and feel quite bad for them that I have no tricks.  But apparently they seem easily entertained, my nepali, ‘I am hungry’ ie when is feeding time around here?, is greeted with a great deal of excited discussion.  The children are also keen to try out their english.  I of course introduce myself.   This precipitates a chorus of rebeek, rebeeka, rebek, rebik, ikah and  much excitement. Time for dal bhaat though.  I bade farewell to my new village friends and go into the kitchen to sit and tuck into some rice and veg.   Then to bed, exhausted.  I get into my sleeping bag, ignore my roomies- big spiders and try to sleep.  The rain is thundering down.  It’s  monsoon season.  The corrugated roof makes the rain sound harder.  I think of the homes lost in villages through the increasing landslides caused by the destruction of the forestry in the jungle.  People cut the natural protection of trees down to grow more rice and food and the firewood is used for cremations. 

Welfare Pensioners: I am back in the district of lamjung after a four hour hair raising bus trip to stay at the gurkha welfare office and meet some of the ex British servicemen who receive a charitable welfare pension.  The driver of the bus here was in an awful hurry.  With undetectable suspension, cramped onto a seat of a wooden board, and winding roads punctuated by the odd overturned vehicle the journey was not the most fun. Maybe he had heard about the prediction of a massive earthquake coming the way of the Kathmandu valley (don’t worry the fortune teller who peddled that well believed prediction causing mass hysteria is now in police custody for ‘causing mass hysteria’.

But I made it and am here to see the welfare pensioners collect their pension of 10’000 Nepalese rupees ( about £78.00).  Welfare pensioners are ex-soldiers who fought for the British Army but because they had not served the requisite 15 years they get no pension from the British government.  Instead they are reliant on a charity called the Gurkha Welfare Trust who raise money to, inter alia, provide a welfare pension of £26.03 a month to those most destitute.  It is enough to buy food with.   Well it is enough in some areas, with all the political upheaval and difficulties in Nepal, in many villages it is not really enough for food.  But of course for many it is a life saver. 

Every quarter the welfare pensioners make their way to their local area welfare office to collect the handout.  And so I spend a day observing the process.

Two hundred and two attend at the office from very early 6.30-7am.  But they will face many hours waiting, pension distribution won’t start until 10am and then it will last until around 5pm.    They have faced, to many of us (ok particularly Londoners like me) an epic journey.  Walks of up to eight hours, up and down steep inclines. This mountainous region  made all the more perilous, it is monsoon season and some paths quickly turn into rivers.  Some of the welfare pensioners, well into their 80s, are no longer able to walk.  Family members or paid porters carry them here.  They must attend once in every three payments to show they are still alive and so eligible for the welfare pension.  The journey leaves one world war two pensioner dizzy and too ill to stand, he vomits then sleeps on a mat on the floor.

They have their proud stories of service from,  world war two, borneo  to  Malaya.  They fought in Burma and India  during world war two.  I value growing up in a free country.  I value the sacrifices made by so many in world war two.  They remind me of my own grandparents these proud veterans.  It is sobering that they are utterly reliant on charity now, nothing from the government they served.

 They keep on arriving wave after wave of ;  need, threadbare shirts, worn shoes, walking sticks, frailty, fatigue, calloused feet and  resignation.  The journey looks painstaking for some.  The wait is until 5pm for some, there’s no tv to watch, not a great deal to do all day.  It’s very hot. A local shop owner sets up a makeshift tent under which they can sit and buy some sustenance for the journey home. 6 rupees for a boiled egg serve with some salt seems to be the only thing on the menu.

Some take the opportunity to see the Doctor that the Gurkha Welfare Trust have employed for them for the week.  He explains that mostly they are in need of some attention and sympathy.  The youth in their family, their children have all had to leave village life.  Village life, subsistence farming, has become harder with all of the political upheaval in Nepal.  And so those that can, that are not too old have moved away to the cities.  Leaving these veterans even more vulnerable and lonely.  It’s tiring to meet all of these ex – soldiers, whose achievements we are taught about in history lessons,  in Nepal  and facing such hardship.

 Love and Marriage:  This is going to require some serious time.  A complex subject for a non love and marriage expert to tackle anyway, let alone in Nepal where the theme becomes even more complex to a novice and foreign novice of the subject.  But here goes.

 The Himalyan Times, a popular daily newspaper, provides a few introductory clues to the subject in the personal adds section entitled, ‘The Rite Walk, Wishing you an Everlasting Relationship’.   Accompanied with the informative by line, ‘ By ourselves we can enjoy life, but to really appreciate life we must find companionship’.  Great info for a, ‘by  ourselves person’.  Better take a look at the ads.   First off the ads are broken down by ethnic group, entries appear under, ‘  brahim, chhetri, newar, limbu, rai, chaudhari, Marwari, thakuri- I am not going to have much luck here.  Where is the white foreign English girl column?   Ok ok there is an , ‘others ‘column’ I must fall into the others grouping.  Which reminds me what’s going on in lost- who are the others?    The others column is not looking good for me, most entries mirror this one,

‘ a hindu citizen, 32 years of age, currently working in Nepal looks for a good looking  nepali girl from any caste or community from a reputed family.’ 

No caste bar but coming from a reputed nepali family may be problematic.

The rest of the columns tend to be caste specific,

‘ 34, handsome, elegant and divorced gentleman looking for an educated, open minded practical girl from the Brahmin community’

’28 years old boy seeks a good looking newar girl.  She must be the only daughter and belong to a rich family’

I am going to remain a novice of ‘love and marriage’.

 and if you are wondering there is nolink between the cows and the title today- just couldn’t upload the right picture.  But look at the happy cow family- sweet