The smoke that thunders

I went to see the Victoria Falls this afternoon. It really is like nothing I've seen before, you cannot imagine the amount of water crashing over - in fact it is so big you can't look down and see the bottom, all you can see is the spray, and this was not the falls at their height. You get right up to the bridge between Zambia and Zimbabwe where it might as well be raining there is so much spray. I'll have to go back again, if I can negotiate the journey.  there is a lot of scope for ripping off tourists and guess what I do look like a tourist. I realised when I got there I had been charged about ten times more than I should have been so on the way back in a shared taxi squashed up next to a rather large Zambian lady, I was only charged double, and felt quite pleased with myself.
This morning went well, I think: we were at a community centre this time, an even less official kind of school than the community schools. The groups were mixed ages from 3 to 11 and not many of them spoke English, but we seemed to do OK. With the very wee ones we flapped our wings like flamingos, quivered like butterflies and wriggled like snakes. The older ones read "Elmer" (thank you Lesley) I'm not sure how much they understood but they read it gamely and then coloured in patchwork elephants - you'll understand if you know the story. The children seemed even poorer than the ones I have met so far, but very friendly and keen to join in and draw or look at the pictures. The school was a traditional mud hut, with a thatched roof, incredibly sturdy and beautiful, but very primitive by our standards. As we leave, Kelly (our leader) has to walk beside the bus and another helper sits on the step looking behind, to make sure none of the children get run over as they all run along beside it trying to keep  up with it. Have to stop to get back to Campsite before dark (at 6.30 here) Also have to do my prep for tomorrow - I am having to dredge up all my mostly forgotten tips from Blue Peter - sticky backed plastic comes in very useful here.

Chileleko Community School

I realise I was unaware of another important travel rule:take ear-plugs. Staying in a campsite is not a haven of peace and quiet, not helped by the somewhat raucous nature of the camp-site owner and his cronies; and sweet dreams are not enhanced by the presence of the camp security light directly positioned behind my tent, making my sleeping quarters resemble one of those cells where they torment prisoners by keeping the light on all the time. But hey, this is all about challenge...tomorrow I may be able to move my tent down the line as one volunteer leaves and I will no longer be the newest recruit.

Today was my first day in school (yesterday was a national day of mourning for the ex-president of Zambia, Frederick Chiluba - a bit like having a day of mourning for Tony Blair I suppose. Everywhere was shut and even though he had been prosecuted for corruption, his death was obviously taken very seriously) I went along mainly as helper today, as it was really my first day of book bus proper. We had to go in blue taxis as the road to this village (not far out of Livingstone) has been partially washed away in places and the bus cannot negotiate it. A community school is one run set up by local people for children whose parents cannot afford to send them to the state school. I am not sure if there are fees as such for the state schools, but you have to wear a uniform and buy books and exercise books etc, beyond the reach of many. The school is in a small concrete building with about three classrooms - the teacher writes up the work on the blackboard and the children copy it down -and that's it mostly.School is for one lot of children in the  mornings and another lot in the afternoon because of the shortage of classrooms. We set up on mats outside under the trees and each age group has a session lasting an hour. Again, red dust everywhere and by the end of the morning, my trousers were covered - so you're right about the white trousers Rosie! Often the reading is done "together" so the teacher reads a couple of words aloud and the children repeat them, following the words in the book with their finger. After the book, there are crafty activities linked in some way to the subject matter - this group of volunteers are very hot on their animal masks and headbands so I'll have a lot to live up to.

The children were shy but some very friendly and keen. Writing their names on a piece of masking tape which they stuck on helped with names, as some are so unfamiliar. It was the last day for one of the other volunteers and the boys had asked her for a football which she left with the teacher, to be kept at school for everyone. As we left, I saw a group of children playing with a a ball made out of what looked like scrunched up newspaper, so I am sure it will be appreciated. Back to camp now to prepare my first sessions for tomorrow - elephants with trunks that swing maybe - or butterflies? Planning them will help while away the night-times in the tent at any rate.

First Day

19 hours after leaving Heathrow, I was laying out my sleeping bag in my tent in "Grubby's Grotto", feeling dazed, mostly from lack of sleep. The campsite, in a relatively well off part of Livingstone, is in the grounds of a very down-at-heel looking former colonial official building of some sort. Though the facilities are very basic, there are beautiful trees and even a small swimming pool - water is cold as it's winter here, but not too cold for us hardy pseudo-Scots. That afternoon, I joined the four other volunteers to go by blue taxi to the Lubasi Orphanage a mile or so away in a very different part of town. No proper roads here, just dusty red dirt tracks - and the dust gets everywhere. Very few cars either, an occasional bicycle and no white faces. This was a play more than a reading session, but I read "The Gruffalo" with a 12 year old boy. He struggled to read more than the simplest of words, but was obviously so pleased with himself when he managed a line. While it would be thought of as a much younger children's book at home, all the repetition makes it ideal for practising new words and apparently the children here have less sophisticated, more innocent tastes. We walked back through the market, goats and chickens running round, ramshackle stalls all over the place, some little more than a wheelbarrow with a few bunches of bruised bananas on them - hard to take in everything in my slightly halluncinatory sleep-deprived state, but one that struck me most was manned by five or six men all hammering out metal by hand from scrap to make cooking utensils, buckets. Making a living is not easy here. 

on the way

Five minutes into my journey to London, I realised I had broken the first rule of travelling. My bag was ridiculously heavy and unwieldy - not helped by the fact that I was also transporting an empty rucksack for my son....
The good citizens of Ealing rushed to my assistance up tube steps, and an elderly man insisted on carrying one side of the bag for 200 yards along the High Street, but last night my daughter re-packed all my carefully chosen belongings. Subjecting every item to tough scrutiny, she sternly replaced my own towel with something that looked like a duster, removed half my clothes, lent me her own lighter versions and fitted everything into a backpack half the size.

getting ready

I've had all the jabs, got the malaria pills, accumulated a collection of serious expedition items -  sleeping bag, camping mat, mosquito net, insect repellent, torch, water bottle -  and raised another £600 at a birthday party/fundraiser at my house. 
I have been incredibly touched by the fantastic open-hearted generosity of all my friends, family and work colleagues: it's nearly time to set off.


(the picture shows me talking about my plans or how to embarrass your children)

wobbling

As we all know, it’s one thing having a brilliant idea, but quite another to make it a reality. My brilliant ideas are prone to sabotage from my alter-ego scaredy-cat deborah, who worries about germs and getting sick, who likes to be tucked up at night in a cosy bed rather than sleeping on the ground in a tent and who certainly does not like the thought of what the brochure called “long-drop toilets.”  As the months went by and I did nothing, I felt ashamed of my lack of courage, as if all my bold words had been empty self delusion. I needed something to push me into action. When a good friend died of cancer around Christmas time, I realised how lucky I was simply to still be alive and kicking, to still have the opportunity to take risks, to have an adventure. At the same time, work seemed more and more depressing – the cuts, threats of redundancy and longer hours. What had I got to lose?

In the end, it seemed as if the decision took itself. I filled in the form, sent off the cheque - it was as easy as that.  When two friends came to stay in March to run a 10 kilometre race in the Borders in the dark, I was given my first opportunity to try some fundraising. ( I only did the less intrepid 5 k daytime version, but I did crawl under nets, splash through mud and wade waist-deep through a river tunnel.  Good training I thought for being out of my comfort zone in Zambia!)  I felt awkward asking people for money, but my colleagues at work were incredibly supportive and enthusiastic: for many of them, the work of the Book Bus seemed to really touch a nerve. I raised nearly £500 on that occasion, so thank you very very much everyone; I hope my efforts will be worthy of your trust and generosity.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0AyXgOugaw - you can watch the race here!

In the beginning.....

Next Friday evening, I'll be getting on a plane for Zambia. While I know other people buzz about the planet all the time, it's a huge step for me. I've never been to Africa before - I've always been much too terrified of being bitten by a snake or catching some rare disease and living in a tent for a month is my idea of a bad dream!
BUT
last year, I went to a talk given by Quentin Blake, illustrator of the Roald Dahl books. In between drawing pictures for the audience of George making his marvellous medicine and of dragons with books for wings, he told us about his involvement with the Book Bus project. Equipped like a mobile library, the Book Bus, travels to schools and orphanages in Zambia and Malawi, with volunteers on board who read to small groups of  children who may have never seen a picture book before. The aim of the project is to give them some idea of the joy and adventure of reading, something that children in our society take for granted. Children in Zambia are taught in English, but most books they encounter are school text books, and they are taught in large classes where there isn't much opportunity for individual attention. When Quentin Blake showed us a picture of the bus, decorated on the outside in his famililar style, surrounded by kids waving and smiling, I knew this was something I wanted to do. I teach English and Communication to students who don't appear to value reading very highly, and sometimes I feel the education system doesn't either, so the idea of spending some time doing what I love with children who would enjoy it, was very appealing.   It sounded like an ideal way of doing something really worthwhile and travelling somewhere exotic at the same time.