Barely enough for a can of coke

They took us to an aluminium recycling plant in the heart of Serekunda. Immediately western images filled our heads with walls and workers and health and safety laws. But here we met two men, with more skin on show than was covered by shorts and fraying shirts, sitting around a pit of molten fire, their burnished toes hanging over the edge of the melting pot. The factory was cramped, the floor no different to the ground of outside and the corrugated walls seemed to lean in as though they too had begun to melt under the agonising heat.

We took it in turns to fill the tight space and gaze into the inferno inches from our canvas covered feet. Those that were taller could barely stand and the sweat on our noses began to drip and make potholes in the dust. Moulds hung from the walls for pots and cauldrons and various utensils. The men just sat and watched and stirred. A few moments was all we could manage before we tripped from that place and let the next batch in.

In the next section of the factory, consisting of a yard situated at the back of the hut we had come from, aluminium products were being plucked from mountains of rubbish and collected in a heating vat to begin the process of transformation. I looked at what counted as precious to the people who worked there, and was ashamed to see many items that I would have deemed unusable. 

       

Finally, we stood in a cavern of matt silver as the final products dangled from ceilings and leant against walls. ‘Please touch’ was the invitation given by a bobbing vendor. The surfaces were rough and satisfyingly grainy. Tiny hollows where tools had beaten the metal into shape were visible, trademarking each item as handmade and unique. We bought generously, baffled at the prices that seemed so little. I traced the delicate outline of a leaf, its veins spreading like tributaries to the very edges of the perfect dip in my serving spoon. Twenty five Dalasi, barely enough for one can of coke, and yet a handful had gone into making my gift.    

Later, as we drained the last drops of water from our plastic bottles, children with orange feet held out their hands for what they could use and we would throw away. 

The Dispute- a poem found in 'Shadow of the Silk Road' by Colin Thubron

Blackened pillars on shrunken gums

chop littered talk

onto dangling beards

that sift an argument

of hot air

into a cloud of dust

I can barely understand a word

Secretly Inside

It starts with a speck of grit

an irritating splinter caught between

that must be covered

to make it unseen

but it grows

round like a baby

and then they come

fingers fat

to prise it out

with gushes of pleasure

they dribble with many

 

my flaw becomes your pearl

It takes a village to raise a child

She sought me out amongst the white faces and raised her arms high. Instinctively, I lifted her into mine and smiled. She stared back, her face barely flickering, the whites of her eyes like two moons in a night sky.

Around us, the dancing continued. Pounding feet kicked up clouds of dust that in the morning we would discover had dyed our clothes a stubborn orange. Tumani Tenda blazed with life and rhythm and the clack of wood against wood.  

I had seen her dancing before she found me, her little legs moving fast and furious, her face a picture of peace and ease. She was not the only infant in the village who could keep a solid beat. Each child flowed with that natural ability. Later, while lying in our mud huts and encased by mosquito nets, we wondered aloud together if it was learnt or instinct.

She hardly moved in my arms, but hers locked tight around my neck like two snakes squeezing life. She could have only been three years old. I searched the pulsing crowd for any sign of a distressed mother but found none. Each face was content, each body relaxed in that familiar environment. It was infectious. I found myself swaying to the music.

There were children holding babies, their hands as capable as any adults. Silver bangles shone in the moonlight; sparks flashing in a fire.  

My bundle began to wriggle in my arms and I set her down sadly, instantly missing the weight of her despite the ache in my shoulders and arms. She was swallowed up by the crowd but I felt no concern; this was her home, her village, her family.

I was reminded of the African proverb that says it takes a village to raise a child. I understood it now and enjoyed the fact that I could not locate a single, distinct mother and child amongst the people of Tumani Tenda. Each woman was mother, sister, aunt. Each man father, brother, uncle.

When she sought me out a second time, and raised her arms to be lifted again, I realised she had chosen to seek motherly comfort in me that night. To her, I was not a guest in that place, I was a member of the village, and for one night I could have a hand in raising her.   

Iconic Fruit

The suspense was killing us.

Half an hour had passed since our arrival at the prime site, and so far nothing had moved except the sun that slipped in the sky like a raw yolk. My camera was hot in my hands, battery fully charged, its shutter open and ready for capturing.

A few of us had taken to pacing the empty road, creating awkward dances as feet tried to avoid black splats of poo. Concerns had been raised as to their size and the height from which they had been dropped. Suddenly looking up seemed a dubious action. But they had to be witnessed.   

One car had passed since our arrival, and was now parked on the roadside, the inhabitants our new companions on our so far uneventful exploit. They gabbled in Tagalog and smiled keenly at us with nodding heads.

My neck ached from craning back, my eyes were strained from peering into the growing gloom. But we would continue to wait.

This was the place, they’d told us. Not long now.

High in the trees hung leather cocoons, each the length of my arm. Every now and then one would twitch and shudder, then fall still as the pale shine of the sun insulted the nocturnal eyes within. Not quite yet.

I sat down with my back to the jungle. Dust on my legs mixed with the growing tan so that I did not recognise my own skin. I watched an ant with raised pincers charge at a leaf and decided to stand again.

That’s when the first gasp sounded.

Seven necks snapped back and witnessed the opening of hundreds of wings, the shaking out of hundreds of ears and the stretching of hundreds of fur-covered bodies. The trees were not so still anymore. The cocoons had spilt and creatures that looked like rotten fruit hanging from their branches were now alert and restless. There were flaps and kafuffles as the trees became too cramped a home for them. The blackened sky beckoned and boasted with space.

When the first took flight, my camera missed.

When the second took flight, it captured a blur; a smudge of coal on black.

When the rest swarmed like a rash across the sky, my camera caught and caught.  

Through the tunnel of the lens, I held the white moon and waited for the iconic silhouette of black wings.         

In Dark Places

Sewage oozed beneath my flip flops. I lifted my toes with their salmon pink nail varnish.

The mountain glistened like oil and brown plastic. Trucks crawled across the uneven terrain. People were up there too, although they could not be seen from so far below. I looked at the sludge creeping onto the edges of my flip flops and imagined fingernails ingrained with the same sticky filth.

Below, everything was made of rubbish; the ‘cleaner’ pathways, the houses that rose in domes and cubes and cuboids; a little order amongst the chaos. 

We walked, eyes keen, nerves tense, cameras hidden.

Their house was leaning and cramped with possessions. I ducked my head and entered, smiling at the eager faces that welcomed us in. The children took our gifts and put them on. The top was too big for the boy, but he fingered the folds as though he were dressed in gold. The grandmother dipped her head and smiled her toothless appreciation. They showed us their home and they were proud.

When the mother returned she hid her muck stained hands behind her back and met our eyes with flickering glances. Her children ran to her, showing off their new gifts. She dipped her head just like her mother had done, but there was no smile to accompany. I looked down at her feet and saw they were bare. Suddenly a little sludge on my flip flops seemed trivial. Walking on the rubbish dump with bare feet was only the smallest of concerns for the people here.

We walked on through narrow corridors of corrugated iron and sweating boxes. No one spoke as we tried to digest the world around us, the world portrayed on television so often and yet the truth of it only becomes reality when you stuff your senses into its heated core.

We rounded a corner and came across the worst of it all. I didn’t care about my flip flops anymore. I wanted to kneel down, dig my hands into the rubbish and clear a space for life to breathe.

That was when the music started. Right there, in the bleakest of all spots, it rang out crisp and loud and joyful. Music to give thanks for the many blessings the people had. In the shadow of the mountainous rubbish dump, humility, fortitude and happiness sang unfaltering like the faith of children.  

Pink Ribbons

I’ve noticed something about kangaroos.

It occurred to me when I was standing amidst a sea of them, all stretched out and lazy in the heat of the Australian midday sun. Some had their scratchy little hands crossed in front of them like old ladies clutching handbags. Others used them to rub tummies full of kangaroo pellets offered by eager tourists with their two dollar paper bags. The lazier of the bunch seemed to have no control over their hands at all, letting them hang in strange shapes above them as though paying homage to the sun. In contrast to these tiny limbs, pairs of long legs stretched out like petrified snakes.

I had infiltrated the camp during the daily siesta snooze.

I sauntered through, amused at the various restful poses and realising that male kangaroos have no shame. I stumbled across a small female moving slowly amongst her kin, her twitching black nose stuck to the scent of left over pellets on the dusty ground. Seizing my chance, I crouched down and offered her a flat handful of pellets. When she reached out with her tiny fingers to pluck one from amongst the dozen, I smiled in surprise and, catching onto the etiquette, selected another and held it out between my thumb and forefinger. We remained in this feeding regime for a few minutes until she stretched to reveal her tummy and a pouch full of joey. Instantly my camera clicked to capture the oversized ears and thickly lashed eyes.

In the gift shop a lady produced an orphaned joey from her bag and offered me a hold. I held the man-made pouch and felt the warmth of the package within as it wriggled and rooted.

Driving home I saw a flutter of pink ribbon at the side of the road, then another and another. They were tied in perfect bows, as though someone had taken considerable time and care over their appearance. Had it not been for the fact that they were attached to the strong hind legs of dead kangaroos I would have found them quite pretty. Pink ribbons to mark the carcasses of Australian road kill ready for collection. I supposed they chose the colour to cheer the situation up. Add a bow to anything and it seems much brighter. It’s all about the packaging.   

So anyway, the thing I’ve noticed about kangaroos is…