Monday 29th March

Just before the sun went down, I got on a bus loaded with kids to make the short journey from the boy’s home to a basketball court down the road. The children were excited, anticipating the game ahead. We stopped on the hill to pick up the girls, who overfilled the vehicle. Half a dozen of them crammed together at the front, chatting to each other in their local dialect, peppered with p’s, b’s and d’s. The driver didn’t bother shutting the door until we were on the main street; so two of the boys spent much of the journey leaning out to wave at people passing by.

We pulled up and the bus quickly emptied onto the street. Once we’d crossed over we passed behind the roadside buildings to the court, where an announcer was interjecting over hip-hop music every few moments. The setting was amazing. The venue was pushed right up against a beach where several boats had been pulled into the shore. Beyond the water the sun was going down over the mountains. Ian and I had just discovered a panoramic feature on my camera while we were waiting for the bus, so I set to work taking pictures before the light disappeared behind the rocks. Meanwhile the two teams were warming up on the court. The opposition looked more organised than our lads, although both were suitably dressed in kits emblazoned with their names and numbers across the back. The boys from the home were playing under the name ‘Ablaze’.

The game got underway, with every move described by the announcer and punctuated by squeals from the player’s friends on the sidelines. A surprising number of people had turned out to watch. There must have been around a hundred before counting the hoard of noise that had travelled with me on the bus. Our boys were good and ran into a 6-0 lead very quickly. But the opposition had some strong talent too. Over the following minutes I watched the scoreline swing one way, then the other. Ablaze were keeping their noses just ahead until the start of the forth quarter when the opposition scored several quick, unanswered points. Suddenly the squeals of delight turned into nervous tension. The crowd edged forward, prompting one of the umpires to have a word with the coach to move us back. With 1 minute 26 remaining, scores were level but both teams were tired. A timeout was called. The coaches called their boys round to pass out instructions. A boy just infront of me jumped up onto his seat and started clinging onto a pole that was just next-door. The announcer’s tone sounded sharper as the game got back underway. Ablaze were next to score. 50 seconds, 40. Ablaze scored another point. 30 seconds, 25. Even timeouts and penalty breaks weren’t making events slow down. The opposition scored again. Just one score would determine the outcome. Both looked hungry and eager. The crowd squealed one more time for one more effort. And it came. Ablaze scored two more points. And although the last 18.4 seconds took an eternity, it was going to be a happy bus travelling home.

The journey home did have a sense of summer about it. Once again we all had to cross the busy road. Once it was assumed we were all on board, the driver three-point-turned into the traffic to get us out. It felt fun and carefree and had no knowledge of all the red tape that would surround a similar trip back in the UK. Randy wanted to know what I’d made of the match. I said I enjoyed it very much and he said there was another one tomorrow. For much of the day, he’s been wearing my Manchester United top. I gave it to him after he turned up wearing a Leeds shirt. I told him it was a loan but I doubt I’ll get it back. If I do, I’ll present it to him before I leave. I won’t get more enjoyment out of that shirt than seeing him wear it. Before watching the basketball, Ian and I had been invited to play a game with some of the adults and the older boys. All of us ran up a big sweat in a big hall on the other side of town. Randy was still wearing the shirt then so it must have been humming by the time he took it off this evening. Assuming he isn’t sleeping in it.

Earlier in the day a group of us visited a local remand prison, where Chrissie lead a service for a group of female inmates. I wanted to go to see what sort of condition the prisoners were living in. We were told that no phones were allowed and I almost didn’t take my camera because I assumed the same would apply to that. Thankfully, that turned out not to be the case. Infact the staff seemed more interested in finding out why such a large group of visitors was interested in watching a church service in their jail. One of the female officers kept walking past taking photos on her mobile. The prison itself felt far more open than I expected with women walking past us doing their laundry at a well just next to us. There was a large videoke machine at the front and we had to leave quite quickly at the end because some of the inmates wanted a go.

There were about 20 prisoners who took part in the service. There were a range of ages although almost all had some of their teeth missing. They wore bright yellow tops. Most of them had the jail’s branding across the back, but some of the inmates had substituted theirs for similarly coloured yellow vests. Here and there, some women were wearing entirely different coloured clothes. The singing was raucous and possibly a bit too happy. Just infront of me, a woman who I later learnt was called Oli enthusiastically clapped along to the singer at the front, encouraging the others to do the same. She was one of two prisoners who volunteered to come forward to give testimonies. Both were full of emotion with positive messages but eyes that shone heavily. I remembered that these women had had their freedom taken away.

Mum gave another sermon and I thought this one was better than yesterday’s, focussing more on the scripture and less on her own situation. She seemed to have tailored it to the women. Her talk finished with a story about her time in Bangladesh. She’d been woken in the night to help delivery a baby. When she reached the house, the child had already been born but the after birth was still stuck inside the woman. As my mum told the story, the man translating struggled to find the word for the placenta. The women realised what it was before he did and the translation came from the floor, complete with an ‘oww’ sound. My mother said that she tried repeatedly but couldn’t remove the after birth. So she and her nurses prayed and the after birth came out easily. It was the first time I’ve heard my mother speak about her faith in Bangladesh. The only story I can remember her telling is about being fed 5 meals at Eid. It was good to hear her saying a bit more.

Tonight I feel as though I’ve had several days rolled into one. I even managed to squeeze in a little bit of painting in between visiting the jail and playing basketball. My luck with paint pots isn’t getting any better though. Ian and I left our pots on a wall outside while we got some lunch. Shortly afterwards, mum came in and told me mine had been knocked over by one of the kids, causing another spillage on the floor. I asked what had happened to Ian’s and she said that wasn’t there. He hadn’t moved it, so I don’t know why mine had been left where it was. I’m not having much luck with paint.