How to make a difference

But how do you make a difference?

     I took nine young musicians from mid-Argyll and the Isle of Barra to Zambia last month. They had all met the Mthunzi culture group on Scottish soil and made friends on their own terms. Now they were going to stay in a residential centre for vulnerable young people. They were going to share their lives, eat their food, visit their schools – try to dance their dances and sing their songs.

     As far as the latter were concerned, they knew they had a hard act to follow. With their oral tradition, the Zambian musicians had learned Gaelic songs in a few hours, accent perfect. They picked up the Gay Gordons and Strip the Willow complete with tricksy footwork and authentic hand movements rarely tolerated, never mind attempted by, teenage boys in this country. For the rest, this was all unknown, despite photographs, descriptions and carefully provided vocabulary.

     The Scottish group are caring youngsters – otherwise they wouldn't have got involved, raised their fares, given up part of the summer. But there was an underlying assumption that on the two visits made to Scotland by the Zambian boys, our burgers, our fizzy drinks, our MP3 players, our telly and our computer games were gifts for which they must surely be eternally grateful.

     Mmm…not quite so. Yes, there were some who took to sausages and chips and swigged back the Coke and Pepsi with gusto. Others held back, muttering the advice 'eat what you know' and averring – like Indians claiming that no meal is complete without rice and daal – that unless you have eaten nsima, you haven't eaten at all. Nsima is like polenta – a white maize staple that simultaneously fills you up and acts as a tool with which to convey your cabbage, spinach, or pumpkin tops, and your beans, successfully to your mouth.

     The rules – we do what they do. Eating with hands was a shocker for our young travellers. Interestingly, it made hand hygiene a priority. No Zambian will sit down to eat without washing hands first. How many of us still carry out that simple safeguard before a meal, despite our public service TV ads, our swine flu and our killers of all known germ surface sprays?

     The power cuts were a bit of a surprise, too. And what power cuts mean you can't do. Homework. Work. Boil the kettle. Have a hot shower. Have a shower at all. Flush the loo. Once the tanks from the deep bore wells were dry, there was no electricity to pump the water and the taps and cisterns ran dry. We experienced a few blackouts at the centre, but when we went to schools where it was evident that this was the norm, not an occasional inconvenience, the reality check was made. Flushing the loo means having a huge barrel of water and a bucket in place at all times. Of course – that was where there were flushing toilets. Most were dry toilets, built around a hole in the ground.

     Some of us had head torches. The Zambians don't. Their kids do their homework by candlelight, sometimes in windowless dormitories that the wind sweeps through, creating hazards it is better to ignore.

     We saw computer rooms that are waiting to be connected to the internet. The suggestion of setting up chat sessions with Scottish schools was considered wistfully as something for the future. We saw classrooms where blackboard and chalk rule. There were science labs with the most basic of equipment.

     Yes, the Scottish contingent sneaked off and bought crisps for midnight feasts. But they shared dormitories with strangers in strange schools. They learned Zambian songs and dances. They were dazzled by the genuine Zambian desire to grasp every educational opportunity. They ate the nsima and they liked the beans. They didn't get it all right – why should they? But I will guarantee that somewhere down the line, some of these young people will make a difference in the developing world (and trust me, it will still be 'developing' when they've finished their BAs and MAs and doctorates) because they get it.

     Unlike the ambassadors and diplomats and politicians and, God love them, the Bonos and Geldofs and even some of the non-government organisation personnel, these young people understand that, cultural differences apart, their Zambian friends are just like them. They want the same kind of future – often still unarticulated – and now they have experienced the lack of the most basic elements of life that currently stop that happening.

     Let's get Bill Gates to fund broadband. Let's make solar power in sub-Saharan Africa an aid priority. Let's stop talking about a child dying every eight seconds and instead give every child a laptop that links to a free e-learning centre. It's the kind of thing that just might come from a cultural exchange called ZamScot, that took teuchter song and dance to Zambia and mixed it with tribal dance and a Bemba song about forgetting to put on your underpants.

     Donald, where's your broadband?


Marian Pallister, a leading Scottish journalist, now runs a charity which supports education in Zambia