Part 2

When I arrive at Schiphol airport (thirty minutes delay) the clock just shows 24.00 hours and the customs officer wishes me good luck with my new age. Oh, yes, so it is April 18th 1996!

Next weekend I was sure to intend to work out my idea. First I looked in every drawer and cupboard, then to the attic and open all bags, boxes and cases. Unravel my document files. The only result is two crochet-needles. No books, no patterns, no large collection of coloured left-over balls, no knitting pins. During time and the many removals everything has been eliminated. It is ages ago when my girlfriend and I were trying to keep our eyes open while knitting in the large lecture-rooms of the TH-Delft, division mechanical engineering. Those rooms were filled with a thousand male fellow-students who were strangely surprised of two ladies listening to a technical lecture while slowly letting grow colourful shawls. Knitting has never been my hobby but a good remedy to sleep-inducing lectures.

After that I have had the gloves-mania. Knitting on four needles small fingers from many left-overs. They were thankful small presents and in this way I coloured my surrounding. But hardly any left-overs were still there.

I decide to go to the shop. Searching for simple instruction-books with clear drawings of setting up the first stitches. The Gambian women whom I have met cannot read, speak any English. They have to be instructed by visual material. A true challenge for someone who has studied on visual public information of material for foreign women. The stores of Hema and V&D did not offer much. In the Yellow Pages searching for all embroidery-shops and visit them. After one day of hunting I can only make up one conclusion: in Holland people hardly knit or crochet anymore. Finally, my last chance: "the Slegte" (a second-hand bookshop) and, oh my, there were simple intruction-books full of pictures.

With the help of some cutting and pasting the first course is set up. A test-person in the form of a man who is completely unknown to embroidery is easy to find. Clumsy hands, wrong direction of the crochet-needle and fumbling with threads teaches me that still more small drawings must be added. At last in May my duplicate instruction-package is ready. There is a page for each handling and on each page a small piece of crochet and knitting is glued. I pack the small books together with a supply of colourd small balls of cotton, knitting pins and crochet-needles, spools of thread and a tape line packed in strong paper and heading for the post-office. "Airmail or overseas mail?" the question is. Airmail is much more expensive but I cannot control my patience anymore. It should be sent to the Gambia as soon as possible.

And then the desired staring at the mailbox starts. Slowly it changes into looking much longer and this changes into long waiting. Summer months pass away. Slowly the memories of the Gambia disappear. Sometimes a blue letter slips into my house but that turns out to be a neat thank you letter of Gambian passers-by whom I have sent photos. Meaningless and hurried.
Summer-holiday has passed ages ago. At work it is hectic.

BANG.
A letter.
A photo rolls out of it and a long story. A report about the rainy season in the Gambia. Working on the land. Growing all sorts of plants. Due to mutual efforts by men and women taking care for sufficient harvest in a short period. And in the evenings there is a course with thread and knitting pin. Our host from Fatoto translates the econmical text in Mandika and his wife....see photo. On the photo two women and indeed a complete art of work hanging on a knitting pin. After the harvest they have intentions to organize courses for women of the village and I am welcome any time. Something is itching again.

. . be continued