Spring 2004 - University of Kent

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Grownup gap year JOANNA GRIFFITHS K82 Swearing in a primary school is not, perhaps, what one might expect of a civil servant, but I was chasing a life-size inflatable whale across a windswept muddy playing field in the pouring rain! Luckily, the children were out of earshot. everyone’s relatives – usually all 30 of the extended family. Sticking to what had become the theme of ‘find a place completely different from the last’, I headed to Peru – up to 15,000 feet in the Andes, to the mysterious Machu Picchu, and down the Amazon to the rainforest. I saw condors close up, lots of llamas and a brace of tarantulas. Top: Jo with children at village school in Ghana I’d decided to take a year off to travel and volunteer around the world. The Hebridean Whale and Dolphin Trust on the Isle of Mull was my first stop. Pursuing a runaway whale was nothing compared to the trip to the school. We’d travelled from one end of the island to the other on the charity’s boat, a floating cetacean classroom. It was raining and windy. Staying below was impossible. I spent five numbing hours on the deck, grimly hanging on, chilled to the bone. Needless to say, for the Mud baths in Rotorua, New Zealand remainder of my volunteering, I was land-based. Mull’s scenery is breathtaking, and I saw golden eagles, otters and seals but, alas, no whales. ‘Do you sit or squat?’ my fellow volunteer Charlotte was asked. We’d heard that the Ghanaians were more open about toilet habits than the British. But this question, from the Headmistress of the school where we were based, was unexpected. She then delivered a lecture on the relative merits of the two styles. I was volunteering at a village school just outside the capital, Accra. There was little by way of resources and the standard of teaching was poor, but the children seemed happy. Charlotte and I were classroom assistants. Simple games and songs such as ‘the Hokey cokey’ caused endless amusement, but our tour de force was the ‘Britain’ class. We’d decided to teach the children about our country and culture. Our resources were limited, but, armed with jumpers and photos of snow, we tried to describe winter. A raid on an expat supermarket yielded the typical British diet of cream crackers, Weetabix and Marmite, which the children curiously dismissed in favour of jelly – an unknown treat. There was much hilarity as it wobbled out of the children’s grasp. For our finale, Charlotte produced her recorder while I performed some Scottish country dancing, dimly remembered from lessons 30 years ago. I think we convinced the children that the British are completely mad. Ghana was a complete onslaught on the senses. Noise was everywhere, from goats and chickens to the constant ‘Acc-ra, Acc-ra’ from the ‘trotros’ (minibuses) plying for custom. Women in brightly coloured dresses carried everything from a sewing machine to a basket of live chickens on their heads. I was everywhere accompanied by cries of ‘Obroni, obroni!’ – (white person). And I was introduced to As the garland of welcome was placed over my head at the airport, I had a feeling that Rarotonga (Cook Islands) was going to be good. In fact, it was stunning: lush, green, white beaches, turquoise sea and flowers everywhere – even the bus drivers’ uniform included a garland. In Auckland I met up with Maurice Slingerland (R80). We hadn’t seen each other for 18 years. Making my way from North Island to South Island, I saw everything from the art deco gem Napier to bubbling thermal mud and geysers in Rotorua, to magnificent snowcapped mountains on the famous alpine train route from Christchurch. I finally saw my whales in Kaikoura. Everywhere I went I was congratulated on the Rugby World Cup but I think that this had more to do with Australia’s defeat than England’s prowess. I am now in the final couple of months of my career break. Exotic destinations have given way to the unattractive prospect of finding a job… Joanna Griffiths was a civil servant, and most recently worked for the Cabinet Office in Brussels. 18
Letter from Madrid JONATHAN RAY K82 PA Photos DEATH IN THE MORNING We arrived at Atocha station in Madrid at 7.25 am, groggy and hungover from a night on the town. I was accompanying a party of British chefs from restaurants such as Nobu and Le Manoir aux Quat’ Saisons on a culinary visit to Spain. Including our hosts and PR representatives, we numbered 17, one of whom was running late. We made our way downstairs to the level above the platforms and hung around grumbling about the early start. Eventually the latecomer joined us. Due to catch the 8am express to Seville, we now had about 20 minutes in which to grab a coffee and lug our suitcases downstairs. But for our latecomer, we would already have been on the platform. until we were outside that we began to grasp the enormity of what had happened. Ambulances, police cars and fire engines thronged the road as officers put up security tapes. Frustrated travellers packed away their mobiles and walked smartly in the direction indicated. There seemed to be no panic, rather a sense of resignation. Then there was a shout, and instantly the crowd ran, as one, away from the station. An elderly lady with no shoes and her trousers in rags, blood pouring from a gash over her eyebrow, was being helped by a young man. She looked remarkably unconcerned. Behind me a woman was in tears, shrieking into her mobile, while beside her a young bloodspattered couple ran with their arms around each other. I was carrying two bags and was walking at the back rather than running, partly 7.39am because as a journalist I thought I ought to At 7.39 am there was an enormous ‘carrump,’ followed by a slight aftershock. One of our party muttered half to himself, ‘that sounded like a bomb,’ but nobody seemed too concerned. Not thinking, two of us strolled closer to the windows overlooking the tracks for a better look. Two more smaller ‘carrumps’ and we still didn’t take in what was happening. I went to get a newspaper. Suddenly a couple of policemen dashed past us, and the newsvendor grabbed the paper in my hand with a cry and slammed down his shutter. Moments later a young lad was brought up the stairs by an officer who was gripping his arm. He was holding his head with his free hand and I thought that he had been arrested, but as he turned I saw that his left ear and neck were gushing with blood. Gradually it dawned on me that things didn’t look too good. No alarms or sirens went off in the station, but a policewoman shouted at us to evacuate. This everyone did at a leisurely pace and it wasn’t University students from the southern Spanish city of Jerez placed 190 white masks on Friday, 26 March 2004, at a makeshift shrine in the Atocha train station in Madrid, Spain, in memory of those killed in the series of terrroist bombings on packed communter trains on 11 March. Two of the four trains attacked that day were arriving at Atocha when the bombs exploded. The students used their own faces to mold the masks. hang around, and partly because an army friend of mine had once told me that secondary bombs were often planted in the path of a fleeing crowd. 11 March Amazingly in this crush of many hundreds, our party managed to find a quiet corner and regrouped. We were all talking at once and shaking from the adrenalin. Most of us were calm, although some were pale and unsteady. One of the chefs in particular was very wobbly. 2004 Seville. Reports of what had happened began We decided to split into small groups and go to the airport, determined still to get to to filter through. Some thought a train had overshot the station; others that there had been a gas explosion, but most were convinced it was a bomb. Five people were declared dead. No 2, no 15, 40, 100. The number kept rising. I called my wife in England. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said, ‘ the baby’s crying. I’ll have to call you back.’ An hour later she did so and, having now seen the BBC news, she was worried. At the airport we found that flights to Seville were fully booked, and were put on a waiting list. Within the hour, though, we were allocated seats on the first flight, several of the expected passengers no doubt having perished or been injured by the bombs. To our consternation, there was little evidence of security at the airport. When I went through the X-ray machine the ping went off, and when I pointed to my mobile, the guard waved me through with a grin. We arrived in Seville a little after midday and watched as several passengers were greeted by weeping relatives. During a two-hour bus ride through the Andalusian countryside, we gleaned more about the morning’s events from calls on our mobiles, and delayed shock began to set in. But later, as we stood in a lush green meadow while a farmer drove his pedigree Iberian pigs towards us, some of us wondered whether the sickening events of the morning had really happened. We felt far removed from the horrors of Madrid. The day took on an even more surreal hue as the farmer’s young son, Pedro, picked up one of the smallest piglets and handed it to one of our chefs. He cradled the little chap in his arms and turned to us with tears in his eyes but laughter in his voice, saying, ‘Hey, guys, this is life’, before reluctantly passing the piglet on. Each of us in turn demanded to have our photograph taken with it. This article was adapted from the original published in The Spectator. 19
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Spring 2004 - University of Kent

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