I'm going back to Murka soon.
December 13, 2008
The past few weeks have gone by in no time at all. I can’t believe that it is really December 13th. Christmas is in 12 days, but it doesn’t feel like December. The weather is far too nice. The current temperatures have been in the 70s and 80s with nice cool breezes. I’m going to miss the tropics, but more so the people.
Last Sunday, Paul and I took a few gelleh gelleh’s South towards the Senegalese border, stopping in Kartong. From Kartong we walked five and a half beachside hours north to Sanyang. The beach was beautiful, but slightly more developed than the stretch between Tujerang and Sanyang. Unfortunately, whenever we would come up to a village or lodge, the beach would be littered with water sachets. We would collect the bags, filling my backpack and carrying them in our arms. When we came up to a group of fisherman or lodge workers, we would put the pile of plastic down, asking for a dust bin.
Often, the people would suggest that we place the bags on the beach, a horrid idea. Paul and I were in the Environmental Management in the Gambia class together. Therefore, we manage the Gambian Environment. In each place we stopped, we told the people that Paul was an inspector from the National Environmental Agency (NEA) and that I was a World Health Organization (WHO) journalist.
We were walking the beaches of the Gambia and inspecting them for waste based on a new NEA initiative called Operation Clean the Beaches. Paul explained in Wolof the benefits of having a clean beach. I introduced myself in Wolof as a journalist but I didn’t say much otherwise. He explained how the water sachets wash out into the ocean and look like jelly fish floating in the water. Sea turtles eat the plastic bags mistaking them for jellyfish and then die. Paul asked the fisherman if bags ever get caught in their fishing nets. They said that they sometimes get caught in the nets and stretch them out so that they have to make repairs. The fisherman said that they never thought that the bags could have such a major impact on the environment.
We told them that as part of Jammeh’s Operation Clean the Nation, it was the duty of the seaside towns to clean the beach on Set Setal. Set Setal is the last Saturday of every month where everything shuts down from 9am to 1pm. People should be focused on cleaning up their compounds and neighborhood. I expect that at the end of this month the people of the seaside towns and lodges will be making sure the beach is clean.
We also told them that we would be coming back to inspect the beaches within the next month. Considering that I am leaving in a few days, and that we are not real inspectors, I question the validity of the above statement.
One of the fisherman who owned three of the biggest boats offered to be a regional inspector for us. We thanked him for his enthusiasm. Hopefully they will work to keep the beaches clean for months to come. It is difficult to change people’s habits and perceptions, but people are afraid of inspectors.
It really wouldn’t be that difficult or costly to start a beach cleanup program. Someone just needs to organize it. Maybe I will come back to the Gambia as an inspector one day.
Tabaski was this past Tuesday. Tabaski is the Muslim feast day that celebrates Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his own son, Ismail, following God’s decree. God was just joking and then told him to slaughter a ram. Every man who can afford it should slaughter a ram on this day and give out meat to those who can’t afford it. A ram is expensive, anywhere from $100 on up. The holiday coincides with the end of the annual Hajj to Mecca. I went between Ebrima Tunkara’s house and Babukar Jallow’s. I ate lots of ram that day, only after watching it being slaughtered of course.
On Thursday, Annie, Renee, Erika and I went fishing with Babukar. We took along his rod and tackle and also the Gambian style line on a spool with a hook. We ended up catching about 10 fish, a few of which were minuscule in size. We also caught a small blue crab. We started early in the morning on the bridge to Banjul, but it was breezy so the fish weren’t biting. That’s our excuse anyway. There was a man catching a lot with a net, but we had no such luck. We got all of our sea creatures at a creek that Babukar knows about.
On the way to the creek I bought some oysters. After we finished fishing, we went to Babukar’s compound, cooked the fish, ate some benachin, and then after that steamed up the oyster and dipped them in lime juice. Very tasty.
I completed my last exam this morning.
Tonight we are having a catered dinner party with everyone involved in the program and with lots of our friends. It should be a good time.
We leave at the crack of dawn on Monday for Senegal. It should be interesting being in Senegal. I don’t speak any French, but I know enough Wolof to get by.
I’ll be back in the States by Thursday morning, inshallah. Hopefuly the planes won’t be operating on GMT or WAIT (Gambia Maybe Time or West African International Time). I don’t want to leave but it will be good to see all of my friends and family. I am dreading the cold, but looking forward to coming home.
Cheers,
Nathan
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
Turkey Day was spent with the Peace Corps types.
27 November - 1 December, 2008
Turkey Day was spent with the Peace Corps types. The PCVs all had to be in Kombo for a meeting on Friday, so there were around a hundred or so of these burlap sack wearing hoodwinks to share a meal with on Thanksgiving. The dinner was held at a really nice compound in Fajara where Rodney, a Peace Corps administrator lives. The food was decent, but definitely not home cooking. Julbrew donated beer for the event. The first drinks were free and 5 Delasis afterwards. There was also desert…I had brownies and pumpkin pie. Incredibly incredible. They ran out of plasticware by the time the St. Mary’s bunch got in the Turkey Day food line. Without petroleum based utensils in hand, we piled up food on our plates, and walked over to a nice spot on the lawn. Wait there is a lawn? In the Gambia? Oh irrigation. Yeah, so we ate our Thanksgiving dinner Gambia style, with our hands, on irrigated grass. It shouldn’t have been any other way.
After spending some time there, we left the dinner. Some went back to study and some of us went out. I was part of the group that went out to the Green Mamba with some Peace Corps, and not surprisingly we met the MRC there. It was not a particularly eventful night, other than recruiting some people for the next installment of the beach walk. Nothing like spending Thanksgiving first with the Peace Corps and then with a bunch of people from the UK. Not bad, but not the same.
This past weekend, Saturday to Monday, we renovated the Agi Awa Bah Nursery School in Bakau. We painted the walls inside and out, and painted a mural on the outside. We painted various shapes, and animals along the wall. There was a snake with the ABCs and an accompanying painting for each letter. The letter D stands for door, the Green Door. In honor of St. Mary’s College, the picture of the door had to be green (The Green Door is a bar close to campus that has become a part of St. Mary’s lore and tradition). Lots of work. We also put some psychedelic hand prints on the pillars around the entrance. We were accompanied by lots of the community in Bakau, and the news station Gambian Radio Television Services (GRTS) filmed some of it. It was good fun and I am very tired. Yahar, the owner of the school (as it is in her compound) had wonderful meals awaiting us on our breaks. It was some of the best food I’ve had in the Gambia. The painting and decoration really brightened up the neighborhood. I just hope the kids can still get to school tomorrow with their school looking so different.
UTG classes ended a week ago, although some of our classes have still been going on more or less. I had my final quiz of Environmental Management in the Gambia last Friday. This week I have a Wolof exam. It seems that most of my responsibilities are gone now, although I still have some papers to write for Mr. Femi’s class, African Leaders of the Modern Era and some work for my independent study.
Planned for this week:
• Tuesday: si suba (in the morning) going to the National Environmental Agency in Banjul to buy a map of the Gambia, Serrekunda market for fabric and photos; si becek (in the afternoon) to Sand Plover beach to relax.
• Wednesday: undecided/study for Wolof
• Thursday:undecided/Wolof Exam
• Friday: Rachel’s cousin’s wedding
• Saturday: Beach Walk
• Sunday: Beach Walk
• Monday: fishing on a commercial boat, inshallah.
• The rest of the week: Tobaski celebrations
• December 15: leaving for Senegal
•
I have 2 weeks left here, not nearly enough time, especially now that I don’t really have to show up for classes. I only have to get some work done sometime. I am not ready to leave yet, although I really look forward to seeing friends and family. I definitely want to come back here some day, and the sooner the better. If anyone is looking for a tour guide and you want to pay for my plane ticket, I’ll work for free.
Be ci kanam (Until the future)
Turkey Day was spent with the Peace Corps types. The PCVs all had to be in Kombo for a meeting on Friday, so there were around a hundred or so of these burlap sack wearing hoodwinks to share a meal with on Thanksgiving. The dinner was held at a really nice compound in Fajara where Rodney, a Peace Corps administrator lives. The food was decent, but definitely not home cooking. Julbrew donated beer for the event. The first drinks were free and 5 Delasis afterwards. There was also desert…I had brownies and pumpkin pie. Incredibly incredible. They ran out of plasticware by the time the St. Mary’s bunch got in the Turkey Day food line. Without petroleum based utensils in hand, we piled up food on our plates, and walked over to a nice spot on the lawn. Wait there is a lawn? In the Gambia? Oh irrigation. Yeah, so we ate our Thanksgiving dinner Gambia style, with our hands, on irrigated grass. It shouldn’t have been any other way.
After spending some time there, we left the dinner. Some went back to study and some of us went out. I was part of the group that went out to the Green Mamba with some Peace Corps, and not surprisingly we met the MRC there. It was not a particularly eventful night, other than recruiting some people for the next installment of the beach walk. Nothing like spending Thanksgiving first with the Peace Corps and then with a bunch of people from the UK. Not bad, but not the same.
This past weekend, Saturday to Monday, we renovated the Agi Awa Bah Nursery School in Bakau. We painted the walls inside and out, and painted a mural on the outside. We painted various shapes, and animals along the wall. There was a snake with the ABCs and an accompanying painting for each letter. The letter D stands for door, the Green Door. In honor of St. Mary’s College, the picture of the door had to be green (The Green Door is a bar close to campus that has become a part of St. Mary’s lore and tradition). Lots of work. We also put some psychedelic hand prints on the pillars around the entrance. We were accompanied by lots of the community in Bakau, and the news station Gambian Radio Television Services (GRTS) filmed some of it. It was good fun and I am very tired. Yahar, the owner of the school (as it is in her compound) had wonderful meals awaiting us on our breaks. It was some of the best food I’ve had in the Gambia. The painting and decoration really brightened up the neighborhood. I just hope the kids can still get to school tomorrow with their school looking so different.
UTG classes ended a week ago, although some of our classes have still been going on more or less. I had my final quiz of Environmental Management in the Gambia last Friday. This week I have a Wolof exam. It seems that most of my responsibilities are gone now, although I still have some papers to write for Mr. Femi’s class, African Leaders of the Modern Era and some work for my independent study.
Planned for this week:
• Tuesday: si suba (in the morning) going to the National Environmental Agency in Banjul to buy a map of the Gambia, Serrekunda market for fabric and photos; si becek (in the afternoon) to Sand Plover beach to relax.
• Wednesday: undecided/study for Wolof
• Thursday:undecided/Wolof Exam
• Friday: Rachel’s cousin’s wedding
• Saturday: Beach Walk
• Sunday: Beach Walk
• Monday: fishing on a commercial boat, inshallah.
• The rest of the week: Tobaski celebrations
• December 15: leaving for Senegal
•
I have 2 weeks left here, not nearly enough time, especially now that I don’t really have to show up for classes. I only have to get some work done sometime. I am not ready to leave yet, although I really look forward to seeing friends and family. I definitely want to come back here some day, and the sooner the better. If anyone is looking for a tour guide and you want to pay for my plane ticket, I’ll work for free.
Be ci kanam (Until the future)
Midweek Animism
23 December, 2008
I was in Banjul going to the medical school and there was a big commotion nearby and a bunch of people waiting in line to go somewhere. There was a group of military guys standing around the people, so I asked one of the head honchos what was going on. He asked me if I was sick because the big man was giving some healings. I said no, not really thinking. I had something to do, but now that I look back on it was the worst decision that I have made in the Gambia. I should have taken that chance to go see His Excellency Alhaji Dr. Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh and be healed. It would have been quite an experience and any chance I get to meet the head of any state of any nation in the future, I will never turn down. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I blame it on my Spanish independent study. That’s why I was there.
For the record, Jammeh is a respected healer. His father was also a respected healer. Do some research on Google about him if you are interested.
Cheers,
Nathan
I was in Banjul going to the medical school and there was a big commotion nearby and a bunch of people waiting in line to go somewhere. There was a group of military guys standing around the people, so I asked one of the head honchos what was going on. He asked me if I was sick because the big man was giving some healings. I said no, not really thinking. I had something to do, but now that I look back on it was the worst decision that I have made in the Gambia. I should have taken that chance to go see His Excellency Alhaji Dr. Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh and be healed. It would have been quite an experience and any chance I get to meet the head of any state of any nation in the future, I will never turn down. I really don’t know what I was thinking. I blame it on my Spanish independent study. That’s why I was there.
For the record, Jammeh is a respected healer. His father was also a respected healer. Do some research on Google about him if you are interested.
Cheers,
Nathan
Tumani Tenda: Internationals (tequila philosophy continued) and the Marabou
22-23 November, 2008
Saturday morning we left for another trip to Tumani Tenda. It was very relaxing, just like last time. We canoed again, but this time we also visited the community garden and met with the herbal medicine man, who showed us some of the plants and their various medical uses.
The meeting with the medicine man in itself was another display of the tequila shot, the amazing intertwining of languages in such a small country. The medicine man explained the uses of each plant to us in Jola. A worker at the lodge translated from Jola to Mandinka, and from there our language teacher Babukar translated into English. The knowledge of herbal medicine that the man has is amazing. It took him 15 years of training to become an herbal doctor. So many different parts of different trees, roots, bushes and leaves have medicinal properties. The knowledge he have is vast and invaluable, especially when the average person cannot afford the manufactured medicine of the West. It is ironic though, that many of the Western medicines are derived from the herbal medicines of traditional healers. If only Western drug companies would take some time to relearn the ways of the medicine men, medical care would be more affordable for all, and for the benefit of the community rather than for a corporation.
The other guests at Tumani Tenda were very interesting as well. There was a retired British couple on a bird watching holiday, a group of Dutch people who just completed a transcontinental road rally, and a young Dutch couple that just came from Senegal.
There were two men and two women who just completed the Amsterdam Dakar Challenge. This Challenge is an adventure where people drive from Amsterdam to Dakar both for adventure and for charity. The cars or 4x4s driven are supposed to cost around 500 Euros, although that is a guideline only. 250 Euros are to be used for repairs. The cars are adorned with advertisement stickers from sponsors. The autos are driven all the way south to Dakar, through many changing climates. The journey takes about 3 weeks. After the rally is finished the cars are donated to a charity. The only catch is that Senegalese law states that any car over five years old cannot be left in Senegal, so the cars are donated either in the Gambia or in Mali. I would love to be a part of the trip some day.
The young Dutch couple appeared to be hippie types and were living out of a monstrous yellow Mercedes van. It was the type that is usually used for a gelleh gelleh, but this one was set up for residential use, and it had some nice paintings of vines on it. I would love to have the van personally. They had spent the past two and half months building a school in Senegal and now were taking a break through the Gambia. The weekend consisted of a very interesting group all in all.
On our way out of Tumani Tenda we stopped to talk to one of the women in the village. She is a Dutch woman who is the second wife of a Muslim Gambian. It was really interesting to talk to her, especially since she is involved in a polygamous relationship as a Christian raised in a culture where polygamy is unaccepted and illegal. It is a strange concept I know, but after living here for almost 3 months polygamy seems perfectly normal. The strange part is that she is Dutch.
The woman has been living in the Gambia since 1991 working in Agricultural development. Now that she has a family she is working for a construction company since the hours are more standard. She works in the city during the week and spends the weekends in Tumani Tenda with her husband, kids, and wife and other kids. Her kids live with her in Kombo during the week to go to school.
She said that the other wife asked her to marry into the family. It is strange, but I assume what happened is that she was hanging around a lot with this woman’s husband and the first wife got fed up with it and wanted her to be a part of the family. Whatever the reasoning behind it, I don’t know, but a particularly interesting thing is the way that the kids are being raised.
They are being raised both Christian and Muslim. Their half brothers and sisters are being raised Muslim and speak Jola as a first language and then Mandinka. The husband speaks Jola and Mandinka and likely Wolof, but doesn’t speak any English. The Dutch woman is fluent in Mandinka, Englsih, Dutch and Afrikans, doesn’t speak Wolof and is learning Jola, especially from her kids. She is a South African by birth but was raised in Holland. Tumani Tenda is a Jola village, so her kids are playing with Jolas and their brothers and sisters speak Jola. She speaks to her husband and to the people in the village in Mandinka, since almost everyone there and in most places understand it. She raises her kids in Afrikans, however. Her kids speak Afrikans, Mandinka and Jola at home, and because of the similarities between Afrikans and Dutch, they are also learning Dutch. There are studying in Kombo. Classes in the schools are held in English, so they also know English. Most of the kids in Kombo speak Wolof, so in a few years time, they are also likely to pick up Wolof.
Imagine the kids of a woman with South African, Dutch and Gambian citizenship and a Gambian man living in a rural Jola village. The kids are both Dutch and Gambian citizens, raised in a completely new blend of cultures. It is very interesting, horribly mind boggling and revolutionary. With no problem at all the kids will be fluent in English, Mandinka, Jola, Dutch, Afrikans and probably Wolof. Then if they go off to college they are likely to learn French or Spanish.
It is unthinkable to be able to know 5 or 6 languages with no trouble at all. That is the kind of place the Gambia is. People routinely know two to three languages, and usually bits and pieces of more. They know all these languages regardless of their educational background. Here multilingualism is a part of life. It is a given. If anything is the true tequila shot, then it is the kids of a Dutch woman and Gambian man living in Tumani Tenda, The Gambia.
Yawn.
I wrote the past sections of this blog a week ago. It has taken me a week to getting around editing and posting it. Just a few minutes ago I remembered that I’ve yet to tell you about what happened when my fortune was told to me. I’ll tell you what I remember.
In the village we went to see a particularly well respected man. He is the alkalo (village chief), the imam and the marabou. We had been introduced to him before as the alkalo, but this time we went to see him in marabou form.
Marabous are traditional healers and spiritual guides who are also village elders and very well honored. Here they are often Muslim, as it is a Muslim country, but marabous practice animist traditions. The practice is integrated with either Muslim or Christian vibes or none at all.
We each went to have our fortunes told by the marabou, translated via Babucar. I don’t know how much I buy into the validity of the marabou’s decree nor if I believe it, but I imagine he is a hell of a lot more genuine than the back alley crystal ball sequin wearing seers of the USA. Below is my mangled memory of what he told me.
He started off by saying some prayers and reading some verses from the Koran. He had his prayer beads sitting on top of the holy book and he asked me to select one of the beads. I selected one and he took it, meditated for a bit, read something in Arabic and then told me my fortune.
The marabou said first of all that I have doubts about how long that I will live, but God willing I will live a very long life. He continued that I had doubts about whether I will have a kid, and I will have one. He said that I will travel for much of my life, and wherever I go I will be very well received and I will want to stay there and settle down. I should not do this he said, but rather I should return to my home, for if I stay too long in one place I will run into misfortunes. I will be very prosperous and successful one day, but this will not be my own doing. Instead someone will help me get started and from there I will be successful on my own accord. I was missing something, but I told him I did not think that I was missing anything. He said that someone young like me took what I was missing, and soon I would realize what was gone, but I’ve yet to find out what is missing. I will be a great leader of people, but he is not sure how I will be leading people. In the near future I will be meeting with someone and the end result will be in my favor. Whatever is decided will happen. I am to wear a silver bangle on my right wrist, but only after the proper sarax (English spelling sarahh, meaning charity) is given out. This band is to be worn at all times and will be the symbol of my leadership. I then told him that I have a silver bangle but it was in Kanifing and I didn’t have it with me that weekend. He told me that before I put it back on I must go through a sarax to ensure my good fortune. He said that I should avoid crime, because I might be caught up in it in some way. Before putting the bangle back on I should give out seven candles and seven kola nuts wrapped in Koranic scripture to elders and seven pieces of bread to children. These goods must first be blessed and upon giving my charity I would in turn be blessed b y those people.
A few days later I put the bangle back on my left hand without going through with the charity. I hope that the bangle can still be a symbol of leadership though, whatever it might be.
Santa Yalla (Thank God in Wolof)
Saturday morning we left for another trip to Tumani Tenda. It was very relaxing, just like last time. We canoed again, but this time we also visited the community garden and met with the herbal medicine man, who showed us some of the plants and their various medical uses.
The meeting with the medicine man in itself was another display of the tequila shot, the amazing intertwining of languages in such a small country. The medicine man explained the uses of each plant to us in Jola. A worker at the lodge translated from Jola to Mandinka, and from there our language teacher Babukar translated into English. The knowledge of herbal medicine that the man has is amazing. It took him 15 years of training to become an herbal doctor. So many different parts of different trees, roots, bushes and leaves have medicinal properties. The knowledge he have is vast and invaluable, especially when the average person cannot afford the manufactured medicine of the West. It is ironic though, that many of the Western medicines are derived from the herbal medicines of traditional healers. If only Western drug companies would take some time to relearn the ways of the medicine men, medical care would be more affordable for all, and for the benefit of the community rather than for a corporation.
The other guests at Tumani Tenda were very interesting as well. There was a retired British couple on a bird watching holiday, a group of Dutch people who just completed a transcontinental road rally, and a young Dutch couple that just came from Senegal.
There were two men and two women who just completed the Amsterdam Dakar Challenge. This Challenge is an adventure where people drive from Amsterdam to Dakar both for adventure and for charity. The cars or 4x4s driven are supposed to cost around 500 Euros, although that is a guideline only. 250 Euros are to be used for repairs. The cars are adorned with advertisement stickers from sponsors. The autos are driven all the way south to Dakar, through many changing climates. The journey takes about 3 weeks. After the rally is finished the cars are donated to a charity. The only catch is that Senegalese law states that any car over five years old cannot be left in Senegal, so the cars are donated either in the Gambia or in Mali. I would love to be a part of the trip some day.
The young Dutch couple appeared to be hippie types and were living out of a monstrous yellow Mercedes van. It was the type that is usually used for a gelleh gelleh, but this one was set up for residential use, and it had some nice paintings of vines on it. I would love to have the van personally. They had spent the past two and half months building a school in Senegal and now were taking a break through the Gambia. The weekend consisted of a very interesting group all in all.
On our way out of Tumani Tenda we stopped to talk to one of the women in the village. She is a Dutch woman who is the second wife of a Muslim Gambian. It was really interesting to talk to her, especially since she is involved in a polygamous relationship as a Christian raised in a culture where polygamy is unaccepted and illegal. It is a strange concept I know, but after living here for almost 3 months polygamy seems perfectly normal. The strange part is that she is Dutch.
The woman has been living in the Gambia since 1991 working in Agricultural development. Now that she has a family she is working for a construction company since the hours are more standard. She works in the city during the week and spends the weekends in Tumani Tenda with her husband, kids, and wife and other kids. Her kids live with her in Kombo during the week to go to school.
She said that the other wife asked her to marry into the family. It is strange, but I assume what happened is that she was hanging around a lot with this woman’s husband and the first wife got fed up with it and wanted her to be a part of the family. Whatever the reasoning behind it, I don’t know, but a particularly interesting thing is the way that the kids are being raised.
They are being raised both Christian and Muslim. Their half brothers and sisters are being raised Muslim and speak Jola as a first language and then Mandinka. The husband speaks Jola and Mandinka and likely Wolof, but doesn’t speak any English. The Dutch woman is fluent in Mandinka, Englsih, Dutch and Afrikans, doesn’t speak Wolof and is learning Jola, especially from her kids. She is a South African by birth but was raised in Holland. Tumani Tenda is a Jola village, so her kids are playing with Jolas and their brothers and sisters speak Jola. She speaks to her husband and to the people in the village in Mandinka, since almost everyone there and in most places understand it. She raises her kids in Afrikans, however. Her kids speak Afrikans, Mandinka and Jola at home, and because of the similarities between Afrikans and Dutch, they are also learning Dutch. There are studying in Kombo. Classes in the schools are held in English, so they also know English. Most of the kids in Kombo speak Wolof, so in a few years time, they are also likely to pick up Wolof.
Imagine the kids of a woman with South African, Dutch and Gambian citizenship and a Gambian man living in a rural Jola village. The kids are both Dutch and Gambian citizens, raised in a completely new blend of cultures. It is very interesting, horribly mind boggling and revolutionary. With no problem at all the kids will be fluent in English, Mandinka, Jola, Dutch, Afrikans and probably Wolof. Then if they go off to college they are likely to learn French or Spanish.
It is unthinkable to be able to know 5 or 6 languages with no trouble at all. That is the kind of place the Gambia is. People routinely know two to three languages, and usually bits and pieces of more. They know all these languages regardless of their educational background. Here multilingualism is a part of life. It is a given. If anything is the true tequila shot, then it is the kids of a Dutch woman and Gambian man living in Tumani Tenda, The Gambia.
Yawn.
I wrote the past sections of this blog a week ago. It has taken me a week to getting around editing and posting it. Just a few minutes ago I remembered that I’ve yet to tell you about what happened when my fortune was told to me. I’ll tell you what I remember.
In the village we went to see a particularly well respected man. He is the alkalo (village chief), the imam and the marabou. We had been introduced to him before as the alkalo, but this time we went to see him in marabou form.
Marabous are traditional healers and spiritual guides who are also village elders and very well honored. Here they are often Muslim, as it is a Muslim country, but marabous practice animist traditions. The practice is integrated with either Muslim or Christian vibes or none at all.
We each went to have our fortunes told by the marabou, translated via Babucar. I don’t know how much I buy into the validity of the marabou’s decree nor if I believe it, but I imagine he is a hell of a lot more genuine than the back alley crystal ball sequin wearing seers of the USA. Below is my mangled memory of what he told me.
He started off by saying some prayers and reading some verses from the Koran. He had his prayer beads sitting on top of the holy book and he asked me to select one of the beads. I selected one and he took it, meditated for a bit, read something in Arabic and then told me my fortune.
The marabou said first of all that I have doubts about how long that I will live, but God willing I will live a very long life. He continued that I had doubts about whether I will have a kid, and I will have one. He said that I will travel for much of my life, and wherever I go I will be very well received and I will want to stay there and settle down. I should not do this he said, but rather I should return to my home, for if I stay too long in one place I will run into misfortunes. I will be very prosperous and successful one day, but this will not be my own doing. Instead someone will help me get started and from there I will be successful on my own accord. I was missing something, but I told him I did not think that I was missing anything. He said that someone young like me took what I was missing, and soon I would realize what was gone, but I’ve yet to find out what is missing. I will be a great leader of people, but he is not sure how I will be leading people. In the near future I will be meeting with someone and the end result will be in my favor. Whatever is decided will happen. I am to wear a silver bangle on my right wrist, but only after the proper sarax (English spelling sarahh, meaning charity) is given out. This band is to be worn at all times and will be the symbol of my leadership. I then told him that I have a silver bangle but it was in Kanifing and I didn’t have it with me that weekend. He told me that before I put it back on I must go through a sarax to ensure my good fortune. He said that I should avoid crime, because I might be caught up in it in some way. Before putting the bangle back on I should give out seven candles and seven kola nuts wrapped in Koranic scripture to elders and seven pieces of bread to children. These goods must first be blessed and upon giving my charity I would in turn be blessed b y those people.
A few days later I put the bangle back on my left hand without going through with the charity. I hope that the bangle can still be a symbol of leadership though, whatever it might be.
Santa Yalla (Thank God in Wolof)
A tequila shot should be the new international public policy.
21 November, 2008
Tequila shots have a lot to do with language, much more than you might think actually. Specifically, tequila shots are a metaphor for the intermingling of languages and the creation of something beautiful. When these languages and cultures are combined harmoniously, under the same roof, in the same town or even in the same country, they are reminiscent of a tequila shot.
They are inspiring, energizing, energetic, refreshing, complex, full of tradition, precise, chaotic. The concoction of language is beautiful, abstract and free, but methodical. When it comes down to it languages are a tequila shot. The shot provides the perfect amount of electrolytes and rejuvenation, the rejuvenation that much of international political realm lacks. The salt awakens the population, getting people talking. The tequila is another group of languages, where something new and indefinite is occurring. The lime heightens the senses, a group of people full of the new awareness of a new language and of a new people. The culmination of the salt, tequila and salt is something international, a confusion of backgrounds unified, but forever diverse. A tequila shot should be the new international public policy. I think George Bush preferred Miller.
Before I go on with my story about language, I must write something directed at my mother. Do not worry that I am writing about tequila, because I know that you are. Instead, roll with the metaphor. If that doesn’t make you feel better, then just know that a certain degree of responsibility is essential to any tequila shot, the tequila shot that is language.
This past Friday night Dan and I went out to the Come Inn, the restaurant and bar that has become kind of the old home hangout for our group. It is an outdoor restaurant with a palm roof, a mahogany bar and an interesting crowd. There is the after work Gambian and sometimes a Sierra Leonean or Nigerian at the bar, and also the occasional PCV, VSO or MRC. There is one constant, though. There is always the same bunch of sorry looking of old British expatriates who we have run into enough around town to befriend, in a sense.
On this night we started out by receiving some particularly enlightening pieces of information. When we arrived we talked to a Muslim Gambian sipping on tequila and Julbrew. For those of you who don’t know, Muslims don’t drink. This man was well educated, well travelled, has spent some time in the West, and had a particular disdain for religion. In short, he is not characteristic of the typical Gambian. He was slightly off of his rocker and has nothing to do with what I am trying to write about tonight (or maybe everything to do with it), but he left us with an interesting piece of worthless philosophy.
He told us that the only things that anyone has to worry about in life are malaria, poverty and disappointment. Disappointment kills more people than anything else, because according to him if one person gets pissed off he might go out and kill six or seven people. Poverty kills more than malaria, and malaria kills less than the other two. He also said that all of the so called educated intellectuals in this world are stupid. The educated elite who lead countries are worthless and only interested in causing disappointment for other people. He said that the average person on the street would be a better leader, but as he referred to the average person as a moron, I don’t think he has much respect for anyone at all. Really I think he prefers either anarchy, or a dictatorship run by him. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about poverty anymore, only disappointment and malaria.
After enjoying a Julbrew and a shot of tequila, Dan and I left the Come Inn, but only after saying goodbye to the expats. From them I acquired some uselessly useful knowledge that I will now pass on to you. I learned that a person can be a “fucking spectacle of himself” (excuse my French), and that the owner of a restaurant down the road was a “right twat.” Old British people sure have nice things to say about other old British people and also middle aged British restaurant owners. Exceedingly useful information, is it not?
From the Come Inn, Dan and I walked down to the Blue Bar. It is a long walk down Kairaba from bar to bar, probably a good 30 minutes. The Blue Bar is a restaurant serving Western food with something of a Euro club vibe going on, only there is no dancing and there is bad American pop music. But then I suppose European club music can be quite atrocious too. It’s a classy establishment, with a good cheeseburger and an awesome plate of sautéed shrimp over a bed of lettuce. The owner of the Blue Bar may or may not be a “right twat” as I haven’t experience with him.
After showing the bartender the proper way to take a tequila shot, and paying our bill (which was discounted), we again were on our way. This time we continued to walk towards the coast along Kairaba. In no time at all some PCV and MRC types rolled by us on bicycles or by foot. Peace Corps Volunteers, like St. Mary’s students, are not allowed to ride bikes in Kombo, so for the sake of politics, all of the Peace Corps were on foot.
I had not really spent any time getting to know any of the youthful Western volunteer and working sorts of whippersnappers here in the Gambia. Most of my interaction with them had been at Fajara on beach rugby night, and as I haven’t tried my luck at the game yet, preferring instead to swim to the water or in a hammock, I got to know them better on Friday. I had met some of the Peace Corps in the area on various occasions and taken time to get to know them, but this was my first real experience with the young British types. All in all, they are nice, but they are British.
After Roxy, Dan’s unsuccessful female interest of late, and some others stopped, we walked with them to the Butik Bar, nearby a Peace Corps residence. Butiks are small stores that generally sell everything known to man, and are located everywhere, often a few on each neighborhood block. On E block in Kanifing Estate, there are over 5 within a five minute walk, all selling the same things. The word itself is a corruption of the word boutique. The Butik Bar is only the street name; its Christian name is unbeknownst to me. All bars here are Christian.
A few of us had some Chinese gin with mushrooms in the bottle, and then the Brits bought their usual at the boutique. As this was an educational evening of cultural exchange, I must tell you that the British types have integrated well with local booze. I will tell you why I call them British types in the next paragraph. In the Gambia, one can purchase gin or brandy sachets for 5 Delasis ($0.25) each. Imagine a shot of detestable liquor in a ketchup packet that costs the same amount as a piece of bubble gum from a machine, and that is the drink of choice for the MRC, VSO and the PCV. Oh and if you are lucky, they might have this gin mixed with kola nuts, but we were not so lucky. Apparently it tastes repulsive, as it is kerosene with bitter kola nuts, but the caffeine gives quite the kick. After the gin packets were purchased by the British types and stuffed into pockets, we followed the faction to a party down a road behind Blue Bar.
I call the British “British types” because they consist of a conglomeration of lads and lasses in the MRC, VSO and other groups, who might either be British, Australian or Americans who decide to identify with the British (i.e. join VSO).
Regardless of nationalities, we all ended up at our destination on GMT, to be met by more nationalities.
Continuing the metaphor of a tequila shot, the previous description is the chatter of the salt, and the shot glass is paused in time on the lips of the linguistic world. The new group of cultures is about to hit and the intermingling of the lime will unite and untie the people shortly. I am of course part of this intermingling, as are you and everyone else in the world.
The party was hosted by Italians, attended by Americans, Gambians, Brits, Australians, Spaniards, and although I am not sure, there must have been some Dutch people there as well. There is quite a lot of hollandaise sauce here. The party had a plethora of different peoples, and so a babbling amount of languages were also spoken. English was the most prevalent language, although the English spoken by Americans is markedly different than that of the British, Australians or Gambians. At any given moment, a partygoer could hop seas and oceans and go into a different linguistic realm. Generally though, people from one particular nation did not hang out together, but rather were intermingled completely.
Eventually I ended up in the kitchen speaking Spanish to a Spanish guy speaking Castellano. It was my first time speaking Spanish with a Spaniard, and the accent is notably varied from Latin American Spanish, but understandable. Dan walked in during the conversation and said something along the lines of this: “Can you speak a language that everyone can understand?” The answer is we can, but what is the fun in that.
More diplomatically, however, and more along the lines of a tequila shot, the speaker gladly switches out of their native tongue or adopted tongue to include someone else in the conversation. It is very cool though to be in one house, and be able to hear English, Spanish, Wolof, Italian and Dutch all within a few meters of each other (notice I wrote meters and not yards). For being such a small country, the Gambia seems to be a magnet for young volunteer oriented Westerners.
I’ve never really hung out with Europeans and I’ve never really considered them to be hugely similar to my culture, whatever culture that is. Maybe it was just because we are all young Western foreigners living in a country very different for our own. Maybe the huge differences between West Africa and the West make other Westerners seem much more culturally cohesive, but whatever it was, it felt very familiar. If you changed the setting, I might even believe for a second that I was at St. Mary’s. That would only be until I listened to the various accents surrounding me though. Regardless of what made the feeling of familiarity there, I think a lot of it is that we were all young, internationally minded, adventure bound people trying to figure out what to do with our lives.
Be elek.
Tequila shots have a lot to do with language, much more than you might think actually. Specifically, tequila shots are a metaphor for the intermingling of languages and the creation of something beautiful. When these languages and cultures are combined harmoniously, under the same roof, in the same town or even in the same country, they are reminiscent of a tequila shot.
They are inspiring, energizing, energetic, refreshing, complex, full of tradition, precise, chaotic. The concoction of language is beautiful, abstract and free, but methodical. When it comes down to it languages are a tequila shot. The shot provides the perfect amount of electrolytes and rejuvenation, the rejuvenation that much of international political realm lacks. The salt awakens the population, getting people talking. The tequila is another group of languages, where something new and indefinite is occurring. The lime heightens the senses, a group of people full of the new awareness of a new language and of a new people. The culmination of the salt, tequila and salt is something international, a confusion of backgrounds unified, but forever diverse. A tequila shot should be the new international public policy. I think George Bush preferred Miller.
Before I go on with my story about language, I must write something directed at my mother. Do not worry that I am writing about tequila, because I know that you are. Instead, roll with the metaphor. If that doesn’t make you feel better, then just know that a certain degree of responsibility is essential to any tequila shot, the tequila shot that is language.
This past Friday night Dan and I went out to the Come Inn, the restaurant and bar that has become kind of the old home hangout for our group. It is an outdoor restaurant with a palm roof, a mahogany bar and an interesting crowd. There is the after work Gambian and sometimes a Sierra Leonean or Nigerian at the bar, and also the occasional PCV, VSO or MRC. There is one constant, though. There is always the same bunch of sorry looking of old British expatriates who we have run into enough around town to befriend, in a sense.
On this night we started out by receiving some particularly enlightening pieces of information. When we arrived we talked to a Muslim Gambian sipping on tequila and Julbrew. For those of you who don’t know, Muslims don’t drink. This man was well educated, well travelled, has spent some time in the West, and had a particular disdain for religion. In short, he is not characteristic of the typical Gambian. He was slightly off of his rocker and has nothing to do with what I am trying to write about tonight (or maybe everything to do with it), but he left us with an interesting piece of worthless philosophy.
He told us that the only things that anyone has to worry about in life are malaria, poverty and disappointment. Disappointment kills more people than anything else, because according to him if one person gets pissed off he might go out and kill six or seven people. Poverty kills more than malaria, and malaria kills less than the other two. He also said that all of the so called educated intellectuals in this world are stupid. The educated elite who lead countries are worthless and only interested in causing disappointment for other people. He said that the average person on the street would be a better leader, but as he referred to the average person as a moron, I don’t think he has much respect for anyone at all. Really I think he prefers either anarchy, or a dictatorship run by him. That way he wouldn’t have to worry about poverty anymore, only disappointment and malaria.
After enjoying a Julbrew and a shot of tequila, Dan and I left the Come Inn, but only after saying goodbye to the expats. From them I acquired some uselessly useful knowledge that I will now pass on to you. I learned that a person can be a “fucking spectacle of himself” (excuse my French), and that the owner of a restaurant down the road was a “right twat.” Old British people sure have nice things to say about other old British people and also middle aged British restaurant owners. Exceedingly useful information, is it not?
From the Come Inn, Dan and I walked down to the Blue Bar. It is a long walk down Kairaba from bar to bar, probably a good 30 minutes. The Blue Bar is a restaurant serving Western food with something of a Euro club vibe going on, only there is no dancing and there is bad American pop music. But then I suppose European club music can be quite atrocious too. It’s a classy establishment, with a good cheeseburger and an awesome plate of sautéed shrimp over a bed of lettuce. The owner of the Blue Bar may or may not be a “right twat” as I haven’t experience with him.
After showing the bartender the proper way to take a tequila shot, and paying our bill (which was discounted), we again were on our way. This time we continued to walk towards the coast along Kairaba. In no time at all some PCV and MRC types rolled by us on bicycles or by foot. Peace Corps Volunteers, like St. Mary’s students, are not allowed to ride bikes in Kombo, so for the sake of politics, all of the Peace Corps were on foot.
I had not really spent any time getting to know any of the youthful Western volunteer and working sorts of whippersnappers here in the Gambia. Most of my interaction with them had been at Fajara on beach rugby night, and as I haven’t tried my luck at the game yet, preferring instead to swim to the water or in a hammock, I got to know them better on Friday. I had met some of the Peace Corps in the area on various occasions and taken time to get to know them, but this was my first real experience with the young British types. All in all, they are nice, but they are British.
After Roxy, Dan’s unsuccessful female interest of late, and some others stopped, we walked with them to the Butik Bar, nearby a Peace Corps residence. Butiks are small stores that generally sell everything known to man, and are located everywhere, often a few on each neighborhood block. On E block in Kanifing Estate, there are over 5 within a five minute walk, all selling the same things. The word itself is a corruption of the word boutique. The Butik Bar is only the street name; its Christian name is unbeknownst to me. All bars here are Christian.
A few of us had some Chinese gin with mushrooms in the bottle, and then the Brits bought their usual at the boutique. As this was an educational evening of cultural exchange, I must tell you that the British types have integrated well with local booze. I will tell you why I call them British types in the next paragraph. In the Gambia, one can purchase gin or brandy sachets for 5 Delasis ($0.25) each. Imagine a shot of detestable liquor in a ketchup packet that costs the same amount as a piece of bubble gum from a machine, and that is the drink of choice for the MRC, VSO and the PCV. Oh and if you are lucky, they might have this gin mixed with kola nuts, but we were not so lucky. Apparently it tastes repulsive, as it is kerosene with bitter kola nuts, but the caffeine gives quite the kick. After the gin packets were purchased by the British types and stuffed into pockets, we followed the faction to a party down a road behind Blue Bar.
I call the British “British types” because they consist of a conglomeration of lads and lasses in the MRC, VSO and other groups, who might either be British, Australian or Americans who decide to identify with the British (i.e. join VSO).
Regardless of nationalities, we all ended up at our destination on GMT, to be met by more nationalities.
Continuing the metaphor of a tequila shot, the previous description is the chatter of the salt, and the shot glass is paused in time on the lips of the linguistic world. The new group of cultures is about to hit and the intermingling of the lime will unite and untie the people shortly. I am of course part of this intermingling, as are you and everyone else in the world.
The party was hosted by Italians, attended by Americans, Gambians, Brits, Australians, Spaniards, and although I am not sure, there must have been some Dutch people there as well. There is quite a lot of hollandaise sauce here. The party had a plethora of different peoples, and so a babbling amount of languages were also spoken. English was the most prevalent language, although the English spoken by Americans is markedly different than that of the British, Australians or Gambians. At any given moment, a partygoer could hop seas and oceans and go into a different linguistic realm. Generally though, people from one particular nation did not hang out together, but rather were intermingled completely.
Eventually I ended up in the kitchen speaking Spanish to a Spanish guy speaking Castellano. It was my first time speaking Spanish with a Spaniard, and the accent is notably varied from Latin American Spanish, but understandable. Dan walked in during the conversation and said something along the lines of this: “Can you speak a language that everyone can understand?” The answer is we can, but what is the fun in that.
More diplomatically, however, and more along the lines of a tequila shot, the speaker gladly switches out of their native tongue or adopted tongue to include someone else in the conversation. It is very cool though to be in one house, and be able to hear English, Spanish, Wolof, Italian and Dutch all within a few meters of each other (notice I wrote meters and not yards). For being such a small country, the Gambia seems to be a magnet for young volunteer oriented Westerners.
I’ve never really hung out with Europeans and I’ve never really considered them to be hugely similar to my culture, whatever culture that is. Maybe it was just because we are all young Western foreigners living in a country very different for our own. Maybe the huge differences between West Africa and the West make other Westerners seem much more culturally cohesive, but whatever it was, it felt very familiar. If you changed the setting, I might even believe for a second that I was at St. Mary’s. That would only be until I listened to the various accents surrounding me though. Regardless of what made the feeling of familiarity there, I think a lot of it is that we were all young, internationally minded, adventure bound people trying to figure out what to do with our lives.
Be elek.
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