Part 2
The Delights of York village
I awoke early, ready to start saving whales. I had breakfast with Judit, a dutch girl and the only other volunteer here at the moment. She duly informed me of the situation, I recognised almost instantly that she was one of those morbid pessimistic types, she instantly told me about the huge boil on her armpit, how many times she's had the shits since being in Africa, and other personal horrors that I will not bore you with (as she bored me). 'The house' she continued 'has electricity from 7 – 11, powered by a noisy generator, there is no running water so we wash in the river, use sea water to flush the loo and collect rainwater for cooking and washing clothes and dishes. Last week a huge snake was in the kitchen, so we killed it with a broom'.
These slight inconveniences are out of my control so I'll have to roll with them, I thought. I then asked about the work the foundation did and was shocked by the answer:
'Nothing at the moment, the foundation has no money, we need an engine for the boat to see the whales, money should be sent in 2 weeks. We have a chicken farm with 5000 chickens, but not enough money to buy feed, the chickens are beginning to eat each other and aren't laying yet. And we sometimes teach in the school but they are on holiday.'
'So what do you do all day?'
'Nothing'
'Nothing at all?'
'I walk around the village sometimes and read my book by the sea'
I'll have to make my own fun, I thought. I then met the locals who work at the foundation:
Colin – the boss man, speaks excellent English, supports Liverpool and is good humoured.
Sarah – stays in the house with us, very attractive, good cook, kind hearted
Kamilo – Cool, laid back little guy, braided hair, likes spearfishing
Musa – Friendly, always skint, heavy smoker, ultimate womaniser
James – Quiet, likes a drink, possible dark horse
I spent the next four days exploring the village, with Kamilo, Musa and James and acquainting myself with the diets, customs, habits and language. The houses are mostly made from rusty corrugated iron, dried compact muddy clay, dried grass and leaves for roofing and empty window frames. The people seem very welcoming, wide grins, shouting; 'hey whitey man, whats your name,' 'Look its Jesus Christ' and 'Kushe-o' (hello in Krio). The drinking water comes in 500ml clear plastic bags, and the method is to bite off on corner and squirt the contents into your mouth. The language is supposedly a kind of pigeon English, but I would say it is a bird smaller than a pigeon as it is difficult to grasp. It originates from the first English settlers here that used Freetown as the main west African port in the early 1800s. The language has evolved steadily away from this Dickensesque English, as has our own English evolved in a different direction. This means words like cutlass (for machete), vexed (for annoyed) and even bah humbug! are used commonly here. If spoken slowly the English origins of most phrases can be identified; Mi Coppa done done (I have ran out of money), I gotme a behlfull (i've just eaten) my favorite phrase so far is 'Blow ya nose' for 'do your flies up'. Whilst exploring the village I have seen the bat cave – a cave full of enormous bats, the local beaches, taken treks through the jungle – seeing vultures, lizards, armies of giant soldier ants, parrots and beautiful butterflies.
My afternoons are mostly spent going fishing with kamilo, taking a snorkel, flippers and the giant speargun – an iron rod, sharpened at one end, and a notch near the other end which a tight elasticated cord is attached to, a trigger releases this spear; it is a similar mechanism to a crossbow, but longer and more slender. I think it may be the most enjoyable hobby known to man, you slowly swim about admiring all the colourful fish and corals in the warm water, then every so often you see a big, tasty looking beast, you take a large breath and dive down, but not so fast that you scare it, you slowly stalk the fish looking down the long sharp arrow and then, when the time is right,'thunk' 'the arrow shoots forward, the fish flaps around impaled and helpless on the unexpected cold iron extension of human ingenuity. To top of the ultimate hobby, you then go home and fill your belly full of the lovely white meat, knowing it's sustainable, fresh and well deserved.
'Christ on a bike' was a hilarious, and quite an indisputably English phrase that one laughing, gappy toothed old man shouted at me as I rode my bicycle along the stunning white sands of Tokeh beach. Tokeh was a former westerners paradise before the long and hideous recent civil war. Its incredible palm tree perimeter is studded with huge derelict roofless concrete buildings, former hotels, bars and playthings for the wealthy. There is a disused helicopter pad about 100 metres into the sea, that tourists used to be flown in on straight from Freetown airport. It seems that the older generation here are extremely warm and welcoming to foreigners, I find this a rare and wonderful occurrence, usually it is the olds that show the most hostility to those of oddly coloured skin and I don't just mean in Africa, we all have a racist gran, do we not?. I presume that seeing the white skins on the beach remind them of a former prosperity that was shattered by the war and gives hope for the restoration of the buildings and livelihoods in the future. Musa and I were tearing along in the sun on the wet sand when I noticed a strange sight, a white man! Walking along in the lapping waves, 'Hey whitey man' I shouted (as is customary) and when I got chatting, we soon realised that coincidentally we were both from Leicester. We decided to meet up for a drink later, especially as he (Tony) informed me that the beach huts he stayed in (just across the river from Tokeh and the only guesthouse for miles) sold COLD beers. A huge novelty in a hot climate with no electricity. Musa agreed to accompany me there in exchange for a couple of pints, and we continued our journey past the busy fishing boats and uncountable games of aggressive beach football.
On returning to York an argument ensued with Colin about the roads being too dangerous to cycle back, with no lights, drunk in the dark, I then made the idiotic mistake of saying I did it all the time in England. 'In England!' he replied seething 'Where you have bike that works, lights in the road, driving laws, a fucking man to scrape you of the floor and drive you to fucking hospital, and.....' I cut him off, I'll just stay in the hotel for the night and get a room for Musa too. I set off after a quick river shower with 100 000 leones (around £15) in my wallet, more than enough to get myself and Musa drunk, fed, secure a comfortable bed and possibly (I was getting excited by this notion) a hot shower! I even took a range of shampoos, soaps, conditioners and moisturisers with me that other volunteers had left. After an hours cycle ride and a small rowing boat that took our bikes, ourselves and four old lady's that were carrying enormous loads on there heads across the river, we arrived at the river number 2 beach resort just before nightfall (the two big rivers near us are poetically named river number 1 and river number 2). We met Tony, ordered three cold and delicious refreshments and I then went about getting a room. 'Oh Moos, for da wan room wi too beds for da net' I asked in my best krio, '60 dollars' he replied. In a place were you can buy a slap up meaty meal for 30 pence, and the average daily wage is under a pound, I found this ridiculous. I set about haggling and Musa came to join me, the bastard wouldn't budge on the price, presumably because Tony was being equally ripped off and was within earshot. He told us he would pitch a tent on the beach for us for 100 000, I set forth a torrent of abuse and finished my drink with Tony, who sadly was moving on with his travels tomorrow, so we barely chattered. This now meant that we had to cycle home in the dark and leave immediately as the boat would stop running. We set off, had to pull the boatman away from eating his dinner, but he seemed happy, and then decided to cycle through the jungle instead of the road. Luckily the windy path of white sand was illuminated by the bright moon and navigating our way back to York was surprisingly easy, and quite enjoyable. I kept my promise to Musa and we got pissed on warm beer as he told me of his various sexual conquests and the secret society that he is part off (I am slowly and cunningly gathering more information about this and will allow this to remain a mystery until a future edition).
Each evening we dine in 'Irenes restaurant', Irene has a healthy smile from ear to ear, and a large gut, so I trust her cooking. At dinner with Sarah and Judit on my third evening I decided to go for the Achete with Chicken, achete is an oily cous cous type food, with herbs and spices, very delicious, I ate it all up and devoured my spiced chicken leg, licking the bone clean. Sarah then turned to me and asked 'do you not like the chicken?',
'I loved it' I replied.
'So why don't you finish it'
I looked at her gone out, she read my expression and laughed. 'In Africa we eat all the chicken, good for the teeth'; she then continued to pick up the bone and chomp it down. I was gob smacked! But have to confess that as each day I have steadily eaten more and more of my bone, after all we all want good teeth. During my few days in York I became good buddy's with Musa, he is from a tiny jungle village and grew up with no education and 12 brothers and sisters. He worked in the diamond mines during the war and then on fishing boats with Colin, I presume he got his job with the foundation for his good humour and charm. He seems to be mates with every single person we come across wherever we are, and has a girlfriend in every town. I am helping him learn to read and write and in return he invited me to spend four days visiting his mother in his family home in mende village, this is not on any map and inland about 40 miles from us (therefore one solid days travel). So we set off at 6 am leaving the rusty corrugated iron homes of York behind to visit the rural villages at the heart of the jungle, my most adventurous adventure to date.....
Sunday 18 September 2011
First Impressions Of Sierra Leone
I write this, my first installment of my Sierra Leone blog, whilst lying in a bunkbed encased in mosquito cloth, it is dark as we only have electicity from 7 – 10pm but my laptop is charged, a huge thunderstorm is throwing glimpses of electric light into my room. It is the third evening here and I am beginning to feel relaxed. I have decided to embrace the rats and lizards as fellow room mates, but have to thoroughly check my bed before tightly encasing myself in my anti-animal netting. The house overlooks the sea and has a large patio area, it is situated in the jungle in a small fishing village called York. The people here are welcoming and fun to be around, before I talk about the village though, dear reader, allow me to tell you about my journey.
Heathrow – Paris – Conacky – Freetown – York Village
I arrived in Sierra Leone airport an hour late, my passport was checked and my yellow fever card examined by a man wearing tattered white robes with 'docta' written on his top pocket in marker pen. The baggage collection belt was surrounded by guys fighting to attend to the westerners, 'Ello Sir, whot you need? taxi? African tobacco?', 'I am fine' - I lied, trying to hide the bewilderment in my eyes. I managed to collect my bag and make for the exit, two men decided to accompany arguing in krio (the native language) I presume for ownership of the westerner, a small slap in the face from one to the other left me with just one guide. 'Sir, You need my help, people here, day teefs! I look after you, you my friend'. I was unconvinced but walked with him outside for lack of a better option. The sun was scorching, we were standing by a busy dirt road, motobike taxis all over the place, small wooden and corregated metal huts shackled together with rope and nails with large tattered cocacola signs above housed small shops selling cigarettes and drinks. I was meant to be meeting Abdul, my collector and courier, but he was nowhere to be seen, my new friend eyed me hungrily and I asked him if he new of abdul? 'No sometimes people don't show' I take you where you need' as he bekoned towards a taxi. 'I'll wait' I said, 'very dangerous here for you' he replied as he opened the taxi door. My initial fear of the place resided as I saw a giant African man running up to me with a little sign saying 'Philip tunstall'. Payment was demanded by my brief accomplice and 1 american dollar was payed with much gratitued. I walked towards my bodyguard feeling safe, my hero, Abdul! my protector is here! ... 'You!', he shouted, 'where you been? We miss da ferry now, you late, fook sake!' I tried to explain that my flight got delayed, and it was not my fault, but his English was broken and my krio was non-existant, he looked pissed off.
My flight was running on time from Paris, but had to make a stop in Conacky, the capital of Guinee, the neighbour of Sierra Leone. Here, most of the travelers disembarked, leaving about a 5th of uson the plane. The airport consisted of a large dusty track surrounded by the ruins of large old metal planes, this was surrounded by lush green forest and it was my first site of Africa. I could see the locals unloading the baggage out of my window, as could the Leone couple sitting behind me. 'teef' shouted the lady and as I looked closely, one of the baggage handlers was opening the zip pockets in a rucksack and filling up his own pockets. The air stewardess was grabbed and the captain was told. Now I watched the one hour of confusion, arguing and chaos from my window in which nothing was resolved and most people just sat and smoked in the sun. the culprit was nowhere to be seen and the security guys just kept scanning someone with a metal detector who wasn't anything to do with unloading the plane. This is why I was late Abdul! The plane continued to Freetown – Sierras capital. The airport is actually situated 10 miles over water away from the capital itself (bad town planning, possibly) so ferry, helicopter or speedboat are the only options to cross. Although due to my delay all of the options had either gone or were not financially viable. However Abdul had a plan.
Seven of us crammed into a small renault taxi, it had no windows and I sat in the front, squashed upto giant Abdul in the passenger seat, we waited for the driver to finish his business outside in the bustling car park. 'What you smoke?' Abdul asked, 'Drum tobacco' I replied, 'Show me!' I opened my bag accidently exposing my camera and phone. He grabbed it shut growling 'Never open in public! This is Africa!' I have never felt like such an idiotic tourist. We made our way to the docks, and I watched my new world go by, kids playing football, women carrying baskets of fruit or cloth on their heads, thin dogs sniffing around piles of rubbish, beautiful countryside, a giant lizard walking by the roadside, huge billboards reading 'Save Africa, get HIV tested today', 'A friend with HIV is still a friend', 'Kick Polio from Sierra Leone' and 'Buy Coca Cola'. We arrived at the dock, children smiled and said 'hello' to the novelty white man in town, Abdul argued boat business and money changed hands, we walked down to the beach, the long thin wooden boat was out in the water, anchored 30 meters from shore, I was given a makeshift life jacket and began to kick off my shoes. A teenager half my size ran up to me, 'no, no,no' he picked me up, flung me over his shoulder and waded me to the boat. The boat was called 'the Manchester United' and was painted brightly, it was around 80 feet long, with no benches so we sat around the edge, the boat began to leave, but was soon stopped by a man shouting from shore as more people were paying for a ride. We sat on the boat then for over an hour in chaotic commotion as everyone on the boat wanted to leave before nightfall. 'Oi Arbour Masta greedy basterd' was a recognisable and commonly used phrase in the arguing that commenced. But, Arbour Masta was a business man, not letting the boat leave until it was well overloaded, no matter how agitated his customers were becoming. With only a 15hp engine, it took over an hour to reach freetown it was dark and choppy, we had no lights and a storm was brewing, however I found in the warm sea breeze refershing and exhilarating, I chatted to a local guy my age, the self declared greatest rapper in Africa, he had wild eyes, good banter and a loud laugh.
We then arrived in Freetown, the world mecca of corruption. Abdul grabbed me by the hand, I felt like a child but wasn't ungrateful, we walked through a couple of streets, the buzz of iffy electrics overhead and the arguing of hustlers from every corner, we made it to a waiting car, the driver Maamed talked football with me as Abdul went to do some more 'business'. On his return I asked about changing money, I only had dollars and needed to pay him for his services and get some beer money. He made some calls and gave him some dollars, we waited on the main street at the side of the road, Maamed rolledup some African tobacco which he shared with me. I began feeling stoned and paranoia began to kick in, three hookers stood behind the car trying to seduce the passing traffic, one of which snook into the ditch next to the car to take a piss, I glanced accidently at her and was shown a swift middle finger. Some guys leaned up against the car arguing between themselves. Abdul told them to 'Fook off' they argued back and the only phrase I picked up was 'fookin white man in da back' they carried on leaning on the car. I began to feel overwhelmingly thirsty, having not drunk a thing since the plane, on which I took advantage of the free booze, this coupled with the strong weed, had turned my spit to sand. I asked if we could get a drink, 'Yes! Let us go to de pub'. I began to feel better already. We walked over the road, leaving Maamed to watch the car. It was a small very bright and busy cafe, music blaring from a tinny sound system and premier league highlights on the tv. Abdul ordered two star beers and then instructed me to sit on one of the plastic chairs, he then preceded to leave the bar. My beer went down to fast and I had no Leones (local currency) to buy another. Two guys came over, probably sensing my unease, 'what you want here? I get for you, weed, women' I told them I was ok but they sat with me and continued to try to get me to go with them, getting progressively more hostile 'Why you even here whiteman?' I found this hard to answer.
Just when I thought my great African adventure was a bad idea a massive black, blue eyed smiling guy came over. 'Hey man heard your accent, English yeah? spoken in strong cockney, he sat with me ordered a couple of beers and we chatted about Sierra Leone. 'Once you understand the place its great man!' He told the two guys to fuck off and that I was his friend. He was half leonen and here on business, what exactly he couldn't tell me, but I warmed to him and he gave me his number, saying if I got in any trouble he would help. We plan to go for drinks next time I was in Freetown. Abdul soon returned with the dollar-man as he liked to be called. He wore newyork bling and a silver cap, he tried to rip me off, counting my 20 dollar bills as 10s about three times in a row as he counted the money in front of me. My wits were frazzled but I pulled through, he said 'you have to tip me now, you are hard to cheat' with a big laugh and grin, I did. We piled back in the car and headed to York. Maamed asked if I wanted to buy some weed, I thought it only polite to say yes. I wanted some for a nice sunny day on the beach but somehow the tansaction involved me giving him 1000 leones (20p) and him giving me an enormous lit spliff. 'Welcome to africa, my buddy!' he said. I know he thought he was giving me a nice welcome, but the last thing I wanted was to indulge in a giant spliff at this time, however, I did not want to be rude. I smoked the beauty and fell asleep in the back. Only waking for the constant near misses with other traffic, there is no lines in the centre of the road and this causes mayhem, we were pushed into the grassland at the side a couple of times due to oncomers overtaking, horns and curse-words galore. Maameds driving tactic was to keep his left indicator on all the time so that oncomers would think he may just dart left at any second, thus slowing them down, but him remaining at a steady speed.
I finally arrived in York! We walked down a small lane to the house and found only one volunteer in residence and 5 local staff, they were welcoming and we chit-chatted for 20 minutes until the electricity ran out and I went to bed.
Day one complete! Alive, well, exhilarated, scared and sweaty.
Heathrow – Paris – Conacky – Freetown – York Village
I arrived in Sierra Leone airport an hour late, my passport was checked and my yellow fever card examined by a man wearing tattered white robes with 'docta' written on his top pocket in marker pen. The baggage collection belt was surrounded by guys fighting to attend to the westerners, 'Ello Sir, whot you need? taxi? African tobacco?', 'I am fine' - I lied, trying to hide the bewilderment in my eyes. I managed to collect my bag and make for the exit, two men decided to accompany arguing in krio (the native language) I presume for ownership of the westerner, a small slap in the face from one to the other left me with just one guide. 'Sir, You need my help, people here, day teefs! I look after you, you my friend'. I was unconvinced but walked with him outside for lack of a better option. The sun was scorching, we were standing by a busy dirt road, motobike taxis all over the place, small wooden and corregated metal huts shackled together with rope and nails with large tattered cocacola signs above housed small shops selling cigarettes and drinks. I was meant to be meeting Abdul, my collector and courier, but he was nowhere to be seen, my new friend eyed me hungrily and I asked him if he new of abdul? 'No sometimes people don't show' I take you where you need' as he bekoned towards a taxi. 'I'll wait' I said, 'very dangerous here for you' he replied as he opened the taxi door. My initial fear of the place resided as I saw a giant African man running up to me with a little sign saying 'Philip tunstall'. Payment was demanded by my brief accomplice and 1 american dollar was payed with much gratitued. I walked towards my bodyguard feeling safe, my hero, Abdul! my protector is here! ... 'You!', he shouted, 'where you been? We miss da ferry now, you late, fook sake!' I tried to explain that my flight got delayed, and it was not my fault, but his English was broken and my krio was non-existant, he looked pissed off.
My flight was running on time from Paris, but had to make a stop in Conacky, the capital of Guinee, the neighbour of Sierra Leone. Here, most of the travelers disembarked, leaving about a 5th of uson the plane. The airport consisted of a large dusty track surrounded by the ruins of large old metal planes, this was surrounded by lush green forest and it was my first site of Africa. I could see the locals unloading the baggage out of my window, as could the Leone couple sitting behind me. 'teef' shouted the lady and as I looked closely, one of the baggage handlers was opening the zip pockets in a rucksack and filling up his own pockets. The air stewardess was grabbed and the captain was told. Now I watched the one hour of confusion, arguing and chaos from my window in which nothing was resolved and most people just sat and smoked in the sun. the culprit was nowhere to be seen and the security guys just kept scanning someone with a metal detector who wasn't anything to do with unloading the plane. This is why I was late Abdul! The plane continued to Freetown – Sierras capital. The airport is actually situated 10 miles over water away from the capital itself (bad town planning, possibly) so ferry, helicopter or speedboat are the only options to cross. Although due to my delay all of the options had either gone or were not financially viable. However Abdul had a plan.
Seven of us crammed into a small renault taxi, it had no windows and I sat in the front, squashed upto giant Abdul in the passenger seat, we waited for the driver to finish his business outside in the bustling car park. 'What you smoke?' Abdul asked, 'Drum tobacco' I replied, 'Show me!' I opened my bag accidently exposing my camera and phone. He grabbed it shut growling 'Never open in public! This is Africa!' I have never felt like such an idiotic tourist. We made our way to the docks, and I watched my new world go by, kids playing football, women carrying baskets of fruit or cloth on their heads, thin dogs sniffing around piles of rubbish, beautiful countryside, a giant lizard walking by the roadside, huge billboards reading 'Save Africa, get HIV tested today', 'A friend with HIV is still a friend', 'Kick Polio from Sierra Leone' and 'Buy Coca Cola'. We arrived at the dock, children smiled and said 'hello' to the novelty white man in town, Abdul argued boat business and money changed hands, we walked down to the beach, the long thin wooden boat was out in the water, anchored 30 meters from shore, I was given a makeshift life jacket and began to kick off my shoes. A teenager half my size ran up to me, 'no, no,no' he picked me up, flung me over his shoulder and waded me to the boat. The boat was called 'the Manchester United' and was painted brightly, it was around 80 feet long, with no benches so we sat around the edge, the boat began to leave, but was soon stopped by a man shouting from shore as more people were paying for a ride. We sat on the boat then for over an hour in chaotic commotion as everyone on the boat wanted to leave before nightfall. 'Oi Arbour Masta greedy basterd' was a recognisable and commonly used phrase in the arguing that commenced. But, Arbour Masta was a business man, not letting the boat leave until it was well overloaded, no matter how agitated his customers were becoming. With only a 15hp engine, it took over an hour to reach freetown it was dark and choppy, we had no lights and a storm was brewing, however I found in the warm sea breeze refershing and exhilarating, I chatted to a local guy my age, the self declared greatest rapper in Africa, he had wild eyes, good banter and a loud laugh.
We then arrived in Freetown, the world mecca of corruption. Abdul grabbed me by the hand, I felt like a child but wasn't ungrateful, we walked through a couple of streets, the buzz of iffy electrics overhead and the arguing of hustlers from every corner, we made it to a waiting car, the driver Maamed talked football with me as Abdul went to do some more 'business'. On his return I asked about changing money, I only had dollars and needed to pay him for his services and get some beer money. He made some calls and gave him some dollars, we waited on the main street at the side of the road, Maamed rolledup some African tobacco which he shared with me. I began feeling stoned and paranoia began to kick in, three hookers stood behind the car trying to seduce the passing traffic, one of which snook into the ditch next to the car to take a piss, I glanced accidently at her and was shown a swift middle finger. Some guys leaned up against the car arguing between themselves. Abdul told them to 'Fook off' they argued back and the only phrase I picked up was 'fookin white man in da back' they carried on leaning on the car. I began to feel overwhelmingly thirsty, having not drunk a thing since the plane, on which I took advantage of the free booze, this coupled with the strong weed, had turned my spit to sand. I asked if we could get a drink, 'Yes! Let us go to de pub'. I began to feel better already. We walked over the road, leaving Maamed to watch the car. It was a small very bright and busy cafe, music blaring from a tinny sound system and premier league highlights on the tv. Abdul ordered two star beers and then instructed me to sit on one of the plastic chairs, he then preceded to leave the bar. My beer went down to fast and I had no Leones (local currency) to buy another. Two guys came over, probably sensing my unease, 'what you want here? I get for you, weed, women' I told them I was ok but they sat with me and continued to try to get me to go with them, getting progressively more hostile 'Why you even here whiteman?' I found this hard to answer.
Just when I thought my great African adventure was a bad idea a massive black, blue eyed smiling guy came over. 'Hey man heard your accent, English yeah? spoken in strong cockney, he sat with me ordered a couple of beers and we chatted about Sierra Leone. 'Once you understand the place its great man!' He told the two guys to fuck off and that I was his friend. He was half leonen and here on business, what exactly he couldn't tell me, but I warmed to him and he gave me his number, saying if I got in any trouble he would help. We plan to go for drinks next time I was in Freetown. Abdul soon returned with the dollar-man as he liked to be called. He wore newyork bling and a silver cap, he tried to rip me off, counting my 20 dollar bills as 10s about three times in a row as he counted the money in front of me. My wits were frazzled but I pulled through, he said 'you have to tip me now, you are hard to cheat' with a big laugh and grin, I did. We piled back in the car and headed to York. Maamed asked if I wanted to buy some weed, I thought it only polite to say yes. I wanted some for a nice sunny day on the beach but somehow the tansaction involved me giving him 1000 leones (20p) and him giving me an enormous lit spliff. 'Welcome to africa, my buddy!' he said. I know he thought he was giving me a nice welcome, but the last thing I wanted was to indulge in a giant spliff at this time, however, I did not want to be rude. I smoked the beauty and fell asleep in the back. Only waking for the constant near misses with other traffic, there is no lines in the centre of the road and this causes mayhem, we were pushed into the grassland at the side a couple of times due to oncomers overtaking, horns and curse-words galore. Maameds driving tactic was to keep his left indicator on all the time so that oncomers would think he may just dart left at any second, thus slowing them down, but him remaining at a steady speed.
I finally arrived in York! We walked down a small lane to the house and found only one volunteer in residence and 5 local staff, they were welcoming and we chit-chatted for 20 minutes until the electricity ran out and I went to bed.
Day one complete! Alive, well, exhilarated, scared and sweaty.
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