Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24 | The prototype of a classroom built with plastic bricks at a school in Ivory Coast's Abidjan, now used as the school's nursery.
Plastic bricks made via a recycling process developed by a Colombian social enterprise are being used to help tackle a huge shortfall of classrooms in the West African nation of Ivory Coast.
Experts hope the environmentally friendly new technique will also provide more stable incomes for plastic waste collectors and contribute to reducing rates of serious illnesses in the country. Nine model classrooms have already been set up in Ivory Coast (officially known by its French name, Côte d’Ivoire) by Conceptos Plásticos in partnership with UNICEF, the UN agency for children, at three test sites across the country. Built with bricks made from plastic salvaged from the streets of Bogotá, the showrooms have persuaded the Colombian company, Conceptos Plásticos, that what they are doing in Bogotá could be replicated elsewhere in West Africa.
A plastic brick made by Conceptos Plásticos.Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24
Conceptos Plásticos’ plastic brick factory in Bogotá buys its material from 15,000 collectors, who work individually or in collectives. The company is now building a larger factory in Yopougon, a suburb of Abidjan, the commercial capital of Ivory Coast. Abidjan alone churns out 300 tonnes of plastic waste a day, of which only around 5 percent is currently recycled, typically by female pickers, according to Sophie Chavanel, head of communications for UNICEF Côte d’Ivoire. For their part, UNICEF staff are confronted with serious health issues for the country’s children: malaria, diarrhoea, pneumonia. “We were looking for a way to fight plastic pollution that exacerbates diseases that can potentially kill children, mainly under 5 years old,” Chavanel told FRANCE 24. Not only does plastic litter contribute to dirty water and associated illnesses, it also provides a breeding ground for mosquitoes, which carry malaria and can easily reproduce in rainwater collected in plastic detritus.
Plastic bottles held in a mosquito net in Abobo-Baoulé, Abidjan.Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24 Five tonnes of plastic bricks, each around 50cm long and much lighter than other types of building block, are required to build a classroom. When the factory is at full capacity, its 9,200 tonnes of brick will be enough to build more than 1,800 classrooms a year. UNICEF has agreed to buy enough bricks from Conceptos Plásticos for over 500 classrooms. UNICEF estimates the country will need 15,000 new classrooms by 2021 and 30,000 by 2025. Using the plastic brick technique is approximately a third cheaper than conventional construction. In a poor section of Abidjan, parts of which were recently torn down by the government for development, the École Primaire Publique (EPP) de Gonzagueville (public primary school) in the Port Bouët district is hosting several model classrooms, including the first prototype, identical to the ones used in Colombia. When it was built, staff, children and parents were asked for their feedback and when the next classroom was built alongside it, a wooden structure was incorporated for the roof, allowing for improved airflow.
The improved classroom with wooden roof structure built at EPP Gonzagueville following consultations with teachers and parents.Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24
“When I’m in my own classroom, I really want to just be in here instead,” one student called Abigail said, referring to the model, “Because here it’s really nice, there’s lots of things, it’s well decorated.” Her traditional classroom is noticeably hotter inside, featuring rows of benches. Sitting in the prototype classroom that serves as the school’s nursery (the only public nursery in the district), EPP Gonzagueville head teacher Tirangue Doumbia echoed her student. “They’re almost beyond comparison. They’re like night and day,” she said. “Teachers and pupils can move around in these rooms, which they can’t in the others. Some of the other classrooms have over 120 pupils,” says the teacher. “It’s difficult.” While the classrooms are welcome, the school needs more, plus toilet blocks and child-sized toilets. For now, teachers have to hold the smallest children over the latrines to prevent them from falling in. “There’s no problem finding teachers, it’s classrooms we need. Teachers are being trained all the time and some can even do rapid training courses to help us,” adds Doumbia.
Children inside one of the traditional classrooms at EPP Gonzagueville.Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24
Plastic classrooms can be built in just a couple of weeks using trained workers, since the bricks are put together without using cement. The result is cooler and sturdier than structures built with traditional building methods and does not require repointing after the rainy season. The plastic walls are non-toxic, since no PVC is allowed in the mix. They can be left bare or finished with plaster or wood and, unlike with concrete walls, hanging items or affixing shelving is a simpler task. The bricks’ lightweight quality also means that in remote areas where truck delivery would be impossible, the bricks can be carried using animals or even by hand. The addition of solar panels means the rooms can be built wherever there is a need. Teaching staff will be provided by the government’s education ministry. “For UNICEF it’s an innovative way to partner with the private sector. In this partnership, Conceptos Plásticos brings the technology to Côte d’Ivoire, employs people from Côte d'Ivoire, provides better income to women collecting the plastic and contributes to clean communities,” says UNICEF’s Chavanel. Local plastic pickers are already being introduced to the innovative concept. Women are being approached, says Chavanel, because: “We know that when you empower women, when they have a better income, it often goes to their children." Pickers currently earn around 1,000 FCFA (West African CFA francs) per day [approximately €1.50], but are at the mercy of middlemen. Currently, it’s difficult for pickers to determine which type of plastic middlemen will want to buy in a given week – flip flops, sheeting, or bottles.
Mounds of plastic belonging to individual waste pickers at Abobo-Baoulé, Abidjan.Frank Hersey, FRANCE 24
“We set out at 5am,” says picker Mariam Coulibaly, surrounded by heaps of plastic each belonging to a different picker on a patch of wasteland in Abobo-Baoulé, Abidjan. “We’re back by 10am. then have to see to the housework, then sorting, going out again picking at night from 7 until around 9pm, when we head home. Every day.” She hopes that when they can sell the plastic they collect directly to the factory, conditions will be better: “They’ve said we’ll be able to sell the things it’s hard to sell normally like broken buckets and plates, and they’ll take them quickly." Coulibaly and the others in her cooperative each sell around 50kg of plastic per week, a figure which stands to increase, since the Conceptos Plásticos technique can employ any type of plastic.
Curry Inside the Factory Source: https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0bg6whb
Gregg Wallace explores the
Nottinghamshire factory that produces 250,000 jars of curry sauce each
day. Gregg is making a supersized 3,000-kilo batch of tikka masala -
enough to feed 25,000 people. He loads in almost half a tonne of yoghurt
and cream and ten other ingredients, including 30 kilos - or 10,000
cloves - of garlic. He deploys an unusual kitchen implement - a hosepipe
- to get his ingredients into the cooking pot and heats it for 30
minutes. Then he checks it for colour against a decorating colour chart.
Finally his jars head into a pasteuriser for a second two-hour cooking
session. Meanwhile, Cherry Healey is in Guntur,
the chilli capital of India, where they sell 3,500 tonnes of chilli each
day. She helps to harvest the chillies on a typical small-scale farm,
dries and packs them down then follows them through processing into
chilli powder. Cherry also gets the lowdown on cooking rice with four
foolproof rules which ensure it comes out right every time, and learns
how to beat the burn if you have overdone it in the curry house. It
turns out that milk is the right choice because the fat dissolves the
capsaicin that is responsible for that burning sensation. Historian Ruth Goodman finds that our
passion for curry is around 370 years older than the supposed invention
of tikka masala in a Glaswegian restaurant in the 1970s. She recreates a
1747 recipe for rabbit curry, and learns that the word 'curry' itself
is a misunderstanding of the Tamil word 'kari'. And she re-examines the
early convenience curries of the 1970s and talks to the British Asian
housewife whose curry crusade helped to make high street curries closer
to Indian home cooking.
"It's not for everybody," Tagaq says, but her
unique music, a blend of an ancient art form with elements of punk rock,
heavy metal and electronica, has been called "transfixing" by Rolling
Stone
Chances
are you won't be hearing Tanya Tagaq's music at your next dinner party
or wafting over the speakers at the mall. She is technically a pop star,
but not in the same vein as, say, her fellow Canadians Drake or Arcade
Fire, both of whom Tagaq recently beat out to win the country's most
prestigious music prize. Hailing from Nunavut, a territory above the
Arctic circle, Tagaq is an Inuit throat singer, keeper of an ancient art
form that stretches the limits of the human larynx. She has brought
this traditional sound screeching onto the modern scene by layering it
with elements of punk rock, heavy metal and electronica. Rolling Stone
called her music transfixing. We'd never heard anything quite like it
before and so it is we say: now, for something completely different.
Tanya Tagaq begins every performance by closing her eyes - as she puts it, shutting out the visual and plugging into the sound. Her voice flickers, then builds to a rhythmic panting. Then
comes the inevitable moment when the mounting tension uncoils and she
unleashes a sonic storm. If this is not what you were expecting Inuit
throat singing to look or sound like, stick with us here.
Tanya TagaqHer music is improvised. There is
no set plan, no set list. Often, there are no shoes. At 5-foot-1-inch,
Tagaq generates a mighty sound, especially for a diminutive person and
she'll be the first to tell you it's not easy listening. Jon Wertheim: You give people a warning sometimes? Tanya
Tagaq: Yeah. Because I feel like it should be consensual. Like you
shouldn't have to sit there and suffer through it if you don't like it,
because it's not for everybody. Jon Wertheim: You tell people "if you don't like it, hey?" Tanya Tagaq: I'll point out the exits like on an airplane. Jon Wertheim: You're like a flight attendant. Tanya Tagaq: There are four exits. And then I tell them, it's ok to leave. Like I'm not gonna be insulted. Those
who stay in their seats are bathed in a mash up of Inuit tradition and
contemporary experiment. And, as Tagaq told us over lunch before a
concert in New York, no two shows are alike. Jon Wertheim: A good show means what to you? Tanya Tagaq: When it's effortless in the fact that I feel like I'm a fish on the end of a hook, I'm just being reeled in. Jon Wertheim: What's reeling you in? Tanya Tagaq: The music. I get kind of hypnotized by it. And it just becomes its own creature.
Tagaq with correspondent Jon WertheimTo make sense of all this sound,
to understand Tanya Tagaq and her music, you have to go to the source.
So we headed north. Four flights and 2,300 miles from New York, we
landed on a gravel runway in Nunavut, Canada's northernmost and largest
territory, ancestral home of the Inuit, Indigenous people of the North.
Nunavut, literally "our land" in the native Inuktitut language, is made
up of 800,000 square miles of the Canadian Arctic, roughly three times
the size of Texas. The landscape calls to mind the setting for an
extraterrestrial sci-fi movie. And then there is the lighting. It
might not look like it, but it's now midnight here inside the perimeter
of the Arctic Circle. In summer, months can go by without a sunset. Of
course, that means that in winter, months can elapse in total darkness.
By then it's often so cold that Fahrenheit and Celsius converge at -40
degrees. Which is why we visited in July. Tagaq's touring schedule
keeps her based in Toronto; but every summer, she comes back to the
family cabin in her hometown of Cambridge Bay, population 1,700.
Tagaq and her older brother Carson took us out on
the tundra — more of a lunar scene than a polar one, though we did
manage to find a patch of ice. We rode for hours along the shores of the Arctic Ocean, to a favorite fishing spot. Tanya Tagaq: It never gets old. You're free. You're living with the land. You're living with the animals. The
land, the sea, the animals, they all take turns playing Tagaq's muse.
And in summer, the rhythm of her life here is set by runs of Arctic
Char. Tanya Tagaq: My heart's beating fast. I want to eat one. Darn, where'd they go? Come on. Jon Wertheim: and Tanya Tagaq: I can't believe we don't have a fish. Cause once you have fresh arctic char, you're addicted. Back at the family cabin, Tagaq's father and her daughter had more success with nets. Jon Wertheim: You got dinner. Tanya Tagaq: Yeah. Are you gonna try it? You don't have to. Jon Wertheim: I'll do it. Tanya Tagaq: Cheers! Jon Wertheim: That's fresh fish. Tanya Tagaq: Mmmmmmm.
Nunavut is home to 40,000 Inuit,
or Inuk people. They have lived off the land and the sea here since
migrating east from across the Bering Strait, 1,000 years ago. Inuit throat singing, that sound we came all this way to hear, can be traced back just as far. Tanya
and her friend Donna Lyall demonstrated the traditional form for us.
Conceived in an igloo while the men were out hunting, it's really a
friendly competition between two women, akin to a musical staring
contest. Tanya Tagaq: There's a leader and a follower. And you
have to be able to mimic the sound a split second after the first person
does it. Both partners make short inhalations and exhalations that vibrate over the top of their windpipes. Tanya Tagaq: You're basically trying to mess up the other person. Tanya Tagaq: (Laugh) I lost. I lost that round! Isn't this awesome? All
the more awesome when you consider that throat singing was all but
banned here in recent decades, along with many Inuit traditions and the
native language. Tanya Tagaq: It was part of the colonial
process. Children were forbidden from speaking their language, or
exercising their culture in any way whatsoever. And they told us our
belief system was wrong. Canada has a long history of mistreating
Indigenous people. In one of the worst chapters, from the mid-19th
century until the mid-90s, the government separated thousands of Inuit
children from their parents and placed them in church-run schools as a
way to assimilate them. Tanya herself went to a residential school five
hundred miles from home, 25 years ago. Jon Wertheim: What was that experience like? Tanya
Tagaq: It was a bit like jail where every single one of our minutes
were accounted for. You know, so we were very tightly controlled. But it
was like a boarding school by the time I went. But previous generations
had it much, much harder. Most of them were sexually abused, beaten. Jon Wertheim: This is a really shameful stain in Canadian history, isn't it? Tanya Tagaq: It's absolutely horrific. Jon Wertheim: This anger, this despair, this is what I'm hearing in some of your songs. Tanya Tagaq: Absolutely. I live with a broken heart thinking about our history. The
Canadian government apologized ten years ago for its policy of forced
assimilation, but the country is still reckoning with generational
trauma. Tagaq's concerts serve as acts of resistance against the Canadian government and also celebrations of Inuit culture. And
the music has found global appeal. She's on perpetual tour of the
world's concert halls. Her albums earn the kind of critical acclaim that
would make most mainstream pop acts, well, scream. But Tagaq told
us she discovered throat singing quite by accident. Because the music
was taboo for so long, her introduction came when she was away at
college and feeling homesick. Tagaq's mother, born and raised in an
igloo, found some tape recordings of the traditional sound and mailed
them to her. Jon Wertheim: What are you hearing on these tapes that resonated with you? Tanya Tagaq: I could hear the land. It was incredible for me to be able to taste my home again in my ears. Jon Wertheim: Well, you didn't just taste it in your ears, you tried to practice yourself. Tanya Tagaq: For years, I was just throat singing in the shower. I was trying to do both of the voices. Jon Wertheim: The call and response. Tanya Tagaq: Uh-huh. Then
one night, she found herself casually throat singing for a few friends
around a campfire at an arts festival in Nunavut. The festival director
heard her and asked if she'd perform on stage. Tanya Tagaq: So I
put on my slinky dress and a headband and got up on stage and I was
like "I'm me" Like it just made total sense. I was like, okay this is my
thing. Her particular thing, combining throat singing with rock,
punk and pop, found a niche audience. And if the music resists
classification and labels, so does Tagaq herself. We asked about one
label she rejects outright. Jon Wertheim: Your twitter bio says "Don't call me Eskimo." What do you mean by that? Tanya
Tagaq: I have heard too many times as an insult to me personally I've
had that used against me. Like, a "raw-meat eater." They meant it like
"You can't even cook your food. You're too savage." Jon Wertheim: When you talk to Southerners, which is basically everyone, what are the stereotypes you encounter? Tanya
Tagaq: There's a kind of tokenization of our culture like, cute little
happy Eskimos up there in the cold in their igloos. And not looking at
the hard and cold facts that there's a lot of poverty and people are
going through a lot of grief. Communities in Nunavut face far
higher poverty levels than the rest of Canada and one main cause is food
insecurity. Because so little grows on the Northern tundra, food is
imported and wildly expensive. We paid $15 for a jar of peanut butter
here. Hunting and fishing — caribou, muskox, seal and char —
are not just an Inuit tradition, but means of survival, something Tagaq
says she constantly has to defend.
Tanya Tagaq: We'll have people
from California telling us not to fish, or eat meat. It's like what are
you gonna do here? Show me, where's the tofu? Show me. Show me the tofu. Jon Wertheim: This is your Whole Foods right behind us. Tanya Tagaq: Yeah, our Whole Foods is right here. She is especially protective of the seal hunt, using her spotlight to promote one of the Inuit's only renewable resources. Tanya Tagaq: Wearing seal and eating seal, it's delicious. Tagaq
has taken on animal rights groups who portray seal hunting as inhumane.
She once tweeted this photo of her baby daughter next to a harvested
seal, her way of normalizing the hunt. The post elicited angry
responses, laying bare some of the ugliest assumptions about life in
Nunavut. Tanya Tagaq: Like people think we club seals on the head. Jon Wertheim: Just to be clear - Tanya Tagaq: I don't know anyone who's ever clubbed a seal. Jon Wertheim: You don't like outsiders saying what you can and can't eat and what you can and can't harvest. Tanya Tagaq: I hate it.You know what else makes me really mad? I'm telling you everything that pisses me off. She
keeps a sense of humor as she sounds off both in conversation and in
performance. Back up north, her brother Carson has never seen her play
live but says he's proud of her. Carson: She's taking something old and making it new. Jon Wertheim: Do you like it? Carson: Yeah, it's, it's okay. Jon Wertheim: (Laugh) you waited too long there. Carson:
Yeah, well, it's not Van Morrison, that's for sure. But I think it
takes a lot of guts to put yourself out there the way that she has and
to take Nunavut and the North to the global stage is a good thing. Other
throat singing acts are following her, breathing new life into an old
art form. And for Tanya, this might be the most gratifying note in her
unlikely success. Tanya Tagaq: Oh, it makes me so happy. I'm like "Be freeee." Say this about Tanya Tagaq: go to the North Pole and back, and you won't come across an artist any freer. Produced by Nathalie Sommer. Associate producers, Cristina Gallotto and Emily Gordon.