Bangkok Forever, Bangkok, Thailand, August 2009

Bangkok grows on you.  You start off treating it like someone on a train who starts talking, you respond politely but you don’t feel too comfortable with the situation.  It’s not an easy city to get along with, it’s hot and sweaty and dirty.  There are far too many tourists and far too many locals.  Gradually though it got under my skin.  It’s the transport hub for not only Thailand, but the entirety of South East Asia and so I have passed through many times each time I discover something new. 

Bangkok never stops, even in the early hours of the morning when the street vendors have long packed up and the bars have locked their doors the city still buzzes.  The darkness is warm around you and will pulse against your skin like the heartbeat of a giant sleeping beneath.  This feeling is never so strong as in the rainy season when the atmosphere is full of urgency and expectance, late afternoons lying in pokey guest house beds.  A ceiling fan chugging away above you, shutters drawn, slits of pale light dance on your skin, the distant squeal of tuk tuk horns breaks the incessant hum of the traffic outside.  Suddenly the skies break and the clatter of raindrops fill your ears.  When it ends the air is fresh, the city renewed, the cycle begins again. 

Everything is an exotic adventure in Bangkok, the river boats pass grand hotels and ancient temples while the impeccably clean sky train takes you into the heart of a skyscraper cluster.  The Grand Palace, a short walk from the backpacker centre of Kho San Road, is the epitome of sublime.  Ruby red roofs glint atop intricately decorated columns of the many pagodas around the sight.  Golden dragons are depicted in paintings and statues, emerald eyes and Cheshire cat like grins.  The reclining Buddha reflects your face in the mellow gold sheen, as it serenely stares out into the distance, Mona Lisa smile on his face. 

The markets are like mazes, selling clothes for every taste, blue and white porcelain, and knick knacks for the undiscerning tourist.  There are always people everywhere, weaving around you down sidealleys.  The foodstalls create bottlenecks as who could resist a portion of pad thai or spring rolls.  Evening means of steaming bowls of curry and rice accompanied by the standard luke warm Chang.  Every night boasts a festival atmosphere, street bars selling buckets of Sangsom whisky and red bull pop up on every street corner, brightly coloured plastic stools are filled with eager customers.  Once you have danced the night away you walk once again through the quiet streets, the night is calm and you are complete.  

Ode to the Hammam, Casablanca, Morocco, October 2010

The woman of Morocco are a contradiction; they have managed to embrace the modernity that Western woman strive for, whilst staying true to their more traditional roots.  Nowhere is this clashing of era's so apparent as in the Hammam.


I had only one previously encountered the theory of a shared bath- a scene in Sebastian Faulkes' Charlotte Grey, other than that the theory of communal cleansing has only been revisited in the context of Herbal Essences advert.  Luscious long haired beauties prancing about in very little, was not an image I would place myself in, and yet the description of the Hammam had a certain familiar ring to it.  If I was to be clean without the prospect of pneumonia (cold showers abound at the Hostel I was staying at in Casablanca), I was to put my quibbles aside and brave my own nudity.


A nondescript door lead onto an equally nondescript corridor which ended in a changing room, typical of any swimming pool I'd ever visited.  Armed with my soap in one hand and a bucket in the other I stripped down to my birthday suit (as had previously been advised by a kindly Fin on the train from the airport) and entered the inner sanctum.  I was greeted by a series of dimly lit, tiled rooms, obscured by steam; the whole set-up made me feel I was in some sort of mythological maze waiting for the Minator.  It was at this point I was to realise one very embarrassing error- pants!  Everyone bar me seemed to be in possession of them..  I find moments like these require a shed load of self confidence akin to "What? You're wearing underwear?  What a novel idea." However mine was crumbling fast and I could barely muster a Moroccan teapot full when I was gently guided to a corner and to asseyez vous.


My guardian angel had relieved me of my bucket and was busy filling it with steaming hot water.  When she returned I knew the cleaning would begin.  First a thick, brown, oily paste was smoothed over, left to soak in and then rinsed of, followed by 'the scrub'.  This doesn't fully describe the removal of three layers of my skin.  While this near surgical process was being performed I got a chance to take a look at the other patrons.  The woman ranged from small children to grandmothers, all sitting on the floor, surrounded by buckets of hot water completely involved in the process of self cleansing.  Every sector of Moroccan society was reflected in this room- young women with perfect pedicures and manicures who would surely leave dressed in tight jeans and Armani sunglasses.  The middle aged woman with a young boy, and even the matriarch chatting incessantly about the lives of her neighbours.  I was now part of history- this custom has been occurring for hundreds of years and even now woman favour tradition over convenience as their mothers and grandmothers before them had.


Walking out in freshly cleaned clothes I felt like poetry.  Every inch of me had been polished to perfection and I literally shone.  And the best part?  I can do it all again next week!

Talking Talibe, St Louis, Senegal, September 2010

Volunteer with Talibe

It's hot.  In fact hot doesn't quite cover it- I haven't seen temperatures this high since my arrival in Senegal over a month ago, so much for the 'cool' season.  I have chosen this of all mornings to visit a group of volunteers providing care and basic medical aid to a group of children known as the Talibe.  I'm sure the religious connotations of this name has not escaped your notice, and you would be correct in your assumption.  The Talibe are from impoverished families who can no longer afford to feed or clothe them (let alone educate them) so bring them to be looked after by a quasi-religious leader known as a Marabout.  In the group homes where they live, known as Dara's, they will be taught the Koran before either returning to their home villages as Marabouts themselves or a more likely scenario, try and muddle through in a country where unemployment is rife (48%, CIA World Factbook).  SO what's the issue I'm sure you're beginning to wonder?  My answer would be there are so many abuses going on at every stage in the chain I'm struggling to know where to begin.  In the words of one volunteer "when do the Talibe ever catch a break? Never!".


Let us first start with the Dara's, they are situated in the worst part of town; weaving through the narrow street you are constantly skirting tennis court sized mounds of refuse and encounter the sleeping mats of the homeless scattered in the most unlikely of places.  The buildings of the Sara's themselves vary; some are large, roomy and relatively clean with grubby but nonetheless smiling boys sat in neat rows attentively listening to their lessons, however others are given nicknames which point to altogether different conditions, such as 'Dara de Mouche' (Dara of flies).


The Marabouts themselves are well respected within communities, and as far as the government are concerned provide a necessary service steeped in moral duty.  To travellers such as myself though, they are nothing more than cult leaders who force the children to beg for money and food, perform hard physical labour and endure countless acts of brutality.  The weapon of choice in these cases being boiling water, often poured down the left side.


This is why the volunteers are here- they visit the Dara's everyday, disinfecting scabs, bandaging wounds and washing the ever filthy boys.  There are a dedicated core of Senegalese volunteers working alongside, and relationships are tactfully cultivated between them and the Marabouts, ensuring access to the Talibe.


So what can be done when this institution is so deeply rooted in Senegalese culture and hiding behind the seemingly inpenetrative curtain of religion.  In reality very little.  Most Senegalese see the Marabout as a solution to the ever present problem of unwanted children in a poverty stricken nation.  People will continue to fund these practices, as giving to charity is one of the five pillars of Islam, and Talibe's are useful cheap labour especially as house cleaners.


There are homeless children the world over, and it can be argues that these children are lucky to have some sort of support system, which, when it works is good but there are undeniable shadows lurking in the background.  The work of the volunteers is crucial, but prevention is always better than cure and until more is done to lift families out of poverty the plight of the Talibe will continue.