Dearest readers,
Last night Dan, Jamie, Annie and I decided to hit up the touristy area of the Gambia...Senegambia. It is also frequented by wealthier Gambians, but it seems to be very far removed from what the Gambia is, and from what most Gambians know. Anyway, Rachel called a cab driver to pick us up. The driver, Esa used to drive Mr. Femi around before he bought a car, so he is a regular St. Mary's student driver. He also drives Rachel because of the connection with Femi. Anyway, the driver doesn't speak much English, as he is Senegalese, so Jamie hit it off with him in French. Rather than negotiating for prices like with most drivers, he tells us he can't set a price for us because Femi is his God Father(I imagine in the Gambian sense)...very interesting.
Senegambia is designed for Western tourists, and is isolated from Gambian Gambia. I usually avoid it, but it was nice to go there last night. Yellow taxis are not to drive in the area to cut down on traffic, and to allow the over priced green tourist taxis to do business in that area. Esa had a friend in the immigration office at Senegambia, so he got a pass for his car to drive us directly to our bar of choice: The Green Mamba.
We had been there before for a Peace Corp party. The setting is very nice, a stone walk way lined with palms leading back to the thatched roof bar. It was almost like we were in a Latin American country, especially since they were playing Spanish language music on the surround sound while were there. Anyway, I have been talking about being extravagant lately, so I ordered a drink called the Black Adder. I highly recommend it to all of you who will never be over here to try it, although it costs 175D, the equivalent of about 8 bucks. Dafa seer. It is a blended mix of ice, tamarind, lime, ginger and of course rum. It is very refreshing. After one drink there we left and walked to The Kora. The Kora was a very interesting place. First of all, the tables, bar and floor were a dark hard wood, making it reminiscent of an American rustic bar with barn rafters. It also had a flare of city and a European retro vibe going on at the same time..and remember the name of the place is the Kora. There is also a pool table where Dan challenged and eventually lost to a group of mid-twenties Lebanese men. It was interesting, the place had some British tourists, some Spanish tourists, and a copious amount of Lebanese Gambians.
It makes you wonder though what the tourists think when they come to the beaches of this "tourist paradise." The isolated wealth and club vibe of Senegambia is not the Gambia. It is tourist central. I wonder if they ever venture outside of their bubble to really see the place, and to get to know the culture. I doubt it. For the record this was only my second time to Senegambia.
From the Kora we walked to an Indian Restaurant. Outside of the restaurant we ran into Dan's friend Roxy a VSO (Volunteer Service Overseas). She invited us in and said it was an open bar. Apparently the restaurant was having a night where they could show the people how good their food was, and then according to Roxy, "make them forget the food altogether." The menu looks very good, I will have to go back a splurge sometime. Inside there were Indian music videos being projected on the wall and music being blasted from the surround sound. Because it was a special night for the restaurant, I suppose all of the owner's family and friends were there. There were lots of Indian men and women dancing, and a few old British Expats. I ordered a Martini, as I saw there was Bombay Sapphire, but the man thought that I wanted chocolate gin instead for some reason. There was no regular Martini and Rossi gin, so I suppose since I said martini he assumed the brand. I guess that I forgive the fact that he didn't know I wanted a martini when Indian music was blaring so loudly that I had to shout to make half of a syllable audible. And it was free. The Indian restaurant has a very cool Westernized Indian environment, but again it doesn't seem like the Gambia. After a short stay, we called Esa, and I retired to Kanifing Estate.
Cordially yours,
Mr. Nuha Sanneh of Kanifing Estate
PS: I am on my way upcountry for the next four days.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
...maybe it's maybe time...
Bansang October 16-19
There is a saying here that goes like this: “Gambia maybe time.” It means exactly what it implies, if it implies anything at all. Time here is relative. Time here is maybe. Maybe it is time and maybe it is not, or maybe time in the Gambia might be immaterial. But then again one might argue that all time is immaterial.
This past Thursday Erika, Rachel, Jamie and I embarked on an epic journey, a journey that is the embodiment of “Gambia maybe time.” We were to assemble at the UTG Administration building by around 9 and to leave by around 10. Renee suggested that given the parameters of maybe, we wouldn’t leave until around 1pm. The journey was a trip to a far away town in a far away time called Bansang, where we were to visit NAWEC’s water treatment plant in the area, an area with a notoriously high iron content in the water. This venture was all part of our Environmental Management in the Gambia class, and we were accompanied by 21 of our colleagues (that is a very Gambian word to use).
We arrived maybe around 9:45 but no one seemed to be there. Professor Dele was not yet kicking either. A call was made to him, and he said he would arrive in 20 minutes. I found out that some of the other students were relaxing across the street at the canteen. I joined them and eventually ate half of a piece of tapalapa bloated with a boiled potato, a hardboiled egg, Jumbo spice, mayo and ketchup.
The Student Union Hyundai Coaster bus was the vessel of choice for the trip, but it was in the garage that morning being repaired or something, so we weren’t able to leave yet. The time for departure was 11, then 12, then 1…then eventually 3. Apparently the bus hadn’t been run in 3 months, so the battery then needed to be charged. Eventually, we were able to load our luggage on the roof of the coaster, and pile in.
There was a problem with the scheduling of drivers, so eventually we got a driver, because the other driver didn’t want to go or maybe there was a more definite reason. The chosen driver then drove us to his house so he could pack his bag for the 4 days upcountry. Then we went to buy fuel. One might think that all of this should have happened long before, especially since the drivers knew of the trip, but no.
Then the driver said that the bus was making some kind of noise and needed to be returned to the shop because they just paid them. So across the street from the Elton Station in Senegambia we switched buses, and loaded everything on top of a second smaller coaster. By this time it was 5pm and Mr. Femi happened to drive by us and stopped to witness the smuggling of luggage and suggested that we leave the next morning. Regardless of his suggestion we continued on our trip.
It is interesting that we switched buses, because the alternative bus we were loading up was the one that broke down so many times on the trip from Dakar, but we were assured that it was fixed. The interesting part was that we were loading up a bus that was designed to hold less people then we had. We had something like 27 people in a 25 passenger bus, or maybe it was a 22 passenger bus. Numbers, like time are all relative.
My North American counterparts across the ocean might have been especially frustrated by a day’s worth of waiting, and indeed some of the Gambians were as well. Generally, though, people relaxed across the street at the canteen and sat under the tree chatting up a storm. I welcomed the down time, as it gave me a few hours to really get to know my classmates. I had never had the opportunity to talk with them so much before, so it was very nice.
We made it on the Banjul ferry by 7pm and some attendant wanted money out of us, so one of the students said, “Can’t you read? This is the University bus.” I guess it helps that it is THE University of the Gambia and the President is the Chancellor of the institution, so we were on our way.
Bansang is over 300kms away from Kanifing, so on Gambian roads the trip usually takes 6-7 hours. The trip was dark and bumpy and when we made it to the next ferry it was just dark. To get to Bansang via the North Bank, one must take a ferry across the river to McCarthy Island, cross the island and then take another short ferry. It was late so there was no ferry running. Some phone calls and honking were made, and eventually an engine across the river started running, and a ferry boat was in due course produced.
The noise that we made woke some of the people on our side of the river, so they came out and some of us boarded a small boat to cross the river. We walked around the island in the dark led by Paul, a student who knew the area well. When the bus finally crossed scraping the backside across the pavement on the ramp, we again boarded it. The ferry on the other side is one of a kind. It is a barge with an engine, and there is no particular way of controlling the craft. Instead a steel cable runs across the river and is connected to the boat, ensuring that the ferry plows across the water sideways rather than drifting downstream.
We arrived by 3:30am…enough said.
Our accommodations were these very nice 3 bedroom houses in the country side owned by the International Trypanotolerance Centre (ITC), an institution that does research to improve livestock productivity. The development was designed to house foreign researchers who were doing bovine crossbreeding. It seems like a bunch of cow manure if you ask me. The organization ran out of funding for the site, so it is no longer in use, and the generator is broken so there was no electricity. It was a very relaxing weekend though. Electricity is not important.
The next day we visited NAWEC’s water treatment plant for the region. An electric motor pumps the water from a borehole 1.5km away from the plant. The plant is on a hill so that after the water is pumped, the rest of the work can be done by gravity. A fountain pumps the water and then it goes through 3 filtration pools, it is chlorinated and deposited into a big tank and from there it goes to the valleys below. It was much more interesting than I am making it sound. The plant was built in 1999. Before then, the people drank the iron filled water directly from the borehole, and before that, directly from the river. It is not the cleanest river in the world, and as far as the NAWEC staff members know, there was never a study made to see the effect of the iron in the water on the people of Bansang.
We relaxed the rest of the day. Or at least the guys did. Taking on their gender roles, beforehand the womenfolk volunteered to prepare the meals on the trip. The men took on their responsibility of relaxing and drinking attaya while the women labored under the hot sun and over the hot fire. Cooking in the Gambia takes forever, as it involves picking the dirt out of the rice and then cooking over the fire. It also takes a long time to cook for 27 people. Out of all of the men on the trip only 3 of us helped with the food. Two Gambian men and I helped pick the rice, but we didn’t do nearly as much work as the women.
After sorting the rice, I decided to take on my gender role, and went to chat with the men. The conversation of choice, my choice, was a debate about gender roles in the Gambia. I proposed that women do all the work in this society while the men sit around drinking attaya, smoking cannabis and relaxing. The other men mostly agreed. The argument was made that it is the man’s responsibility to bring money to the family and it is the woman’s job to take care of the household and cook. Someone said, “So you are advocating for gender equality.” Of course I was.
Consider this: Man is naturally superior to woman, so it is his place to sit back and relax. Consider this also: One of the guys in the class made the argument that physiologically men are more capable of making decisions and that they always have more sound judgment. For this reason, according to one of the guys, if a job is open and there is both a man and a women applying for the job, the man should always take it because he able to make better decisions. He is also physically stronger and therefore mentally stronger. The woman is made from the rib of man, so man is naturally superior. Women cannot be Imam’s so they are naturally inferior. The justification the men gave for sitting around and doing nothing while our peers cooked was a mixture of culture and religion. The Muslim women would argue that it is culture and not religion, or maybe an abuse or misinterpretation of religion. Another guy made the argument that man is superior because in some study the boys chose to play with guns and the girls with dolls and that women aren’t generals in the army. I told this person not to go the USA and join the military because he would have a woman commanding him. The debate ended with me going to do the dishes and asking which of the men would come help me. I had no takers accept for the 2 guys who were already helping.
Because we made it in so late the night before, we had “breakfast” at lunch time and “lunch” at dinner time. Around midnight, a few of the guys in the class went around to the girls’ house demanding dinner. As you might expect the girls response was deservedly filled with wrath. The next morning one of the guys involved was decidedly sitting away from the girls, because I am sure they wanted nothing to do with him.
I also had some interesting debates about gender roles with the women. The girls all adamantly supported gender equality, but because of the way their society functions, they were still the ones to cook and clean. They made it clear though, that they were upset with the men’s lack of appreciation. I might add that the perspective of these girls is atypical or if it isn’t, their vocalization about the issue is uncharacteristic. They are all young empowered Gambian women of a different socioeconomic background than the majority of the country…and they are all chemistry and biology majors (whatever that might imply I am not sure).
One of the guys managed to acquire a generator from town to power a boom box. I joined them for a while for a while, but I turned in early as I was still tired from the night before.
The next day we went to McCarthy Island to the quarters where the slaves were stored before they were shipped away. The British traded guns and alcohol for the slaves. The holding quarters was a horrible building where the slaves could not stand up all the way. In the chamber there was no light and food was given through a hole in the wall. The most stubborn of slaves were chained up. We also saw a building where the even more stubborn would be imprisoned in the dark for a few days and upon reentry into the light they would be blinded. All in the name of “civilizing” and Christianizing.
That night we had a lecture from a young Environmental inspector from the NEA. He said that there was far too much work to be done and a lack of resources. Six of him might get the job done. I think that he is doing lots of good work, if only more of it could be done.
We left the next day around 11am, and returned, ndanka, ndanka, around 11pm. A few of the people fell sick the night before departure and that morning, so before leaving Bansang, we visited the hospital. One of the girls was so weak they gave her an iv of glucose to drip into her system on the trip home. We stopped at some pre-Islamic stone circles on the way back, but the SMCM group will be going there this weekend, so I’ll tell you about it another day.
Eventually we made it back, as always, on “Gambia maybe time”.
There is a saying here that goes like this: “Gambia maybe time.” It means exactly what it implies, if it implies anything at all. Time here is relative. Time here is maybe. Maybe it is time and maybe it is not, or maybe time in the Gambia might be immaterial. But then again one might argue that all time is immaterial.
This past Thursday Erika, Rachel, Jamie and I embarked on an epic journey, a journey that is the embodiment of “Gambia maybe time.” We were to assemble at the UTG Administration building by around 9 and to leave by around 10. Renee suggested that given the parameters of maybe, we wouldn’t leave until around 1pm. The journey was a trip to a far away town in a far away time called Bansang, where we were to visit NAWEC’s water treatment plant in the area, an area with a notoriously high iron content in the water. This venture was all part of our Environmental Management in the Gambia class, and we were accompanied by 21 of our colleagues (that is a very Gambian word to use).
We arrived maybe around 9:45 but no one seemed to be there. Professor Dele was not yet kicking either. A call was made to him, and he said he would arrive in 20 minutes. I found out that some of the other students were relaxing across the street at the canteen. I joined them and eventually ate half of a piece of tapalapa bloated with a boiled potato, a hardboiled egg, Jumbo spice, mayo and ketchup.
The Student Union Hyundai Coaster bus was the vessel of choice for the trip, but it was in the garage that morning being repaired or something, so we weren’t able to leave yet. The time for departure was 11, then 12, then 1…then eventually 3. Apparently the bus hadn’t been run in 3 months, so the battery then needed to be charged. Eventually, we were able to load our luggage on the roof of the coaster, and pile in.
There was a problem with the scheduling of drivers, so eventually we got a driver, because the other driver didn’t want to go or maybe there was a more definite reason. The chosen driver then drove us to his house so he could pack his bag for the 4 days upcountry. Then we went to buy fuel. One might think that all of this should have happened long before, especially since the drivers knew of the trip, but no.
Then the driver said that the bus was making some kind of noise and needed to be returned to the shop because they just paid them. So across the street from the Elton Station in Senegambia we switched buses, and loaded everything on top of a second smaller coaster. By this time it was 5pm and Mr. Femi happened to drive by us and stopped to witness the smuggling of luggage and suggested that we leave the next morning. Regardless of his suggestion we continued on our trip.
It is interesting that we switched buses, because the alternative bus we were loading up was the one that broke down so many times on the trip from Dakar, but we were assured that it was fixed. The interesting part was that we were loading up a bus that was designed to hold less people then we had. We had something like 27 people in a 25 passenger bus, or maybe it was a 22 passenger bus. Numbers, like time are all relative.
My North American counterparts across the ocean might have been especially frustrated by a day’s worth of waiting, and indeed some of the Gambians were as well. Generally, though, people relaxed across the street at the canteen and sat under the tree chatting up a storm. I welcomed the down time, as it gave me a few hours to really get to know my classmates. I had never had the opportunity to talk with them so much before, so it was very nice.
We made it on the Banjul ferry by 7pm and some attendant wanted money out of us, so one of the students said, “Can’t you read? This is the University bus.” I guess it helps that it is THE University of the Gambia and the President is the Chancellor of the institution, so we were on our way.
Bansang is over 300kms away from Kanifing, so on Gambian roads the trip usually takes 6-7 hours. The trip was dark and bumpy and when we made it to the next ferry it was just dark. To get to Bansang via the North Bank, one must take a ferry across the river to McCarthy Island, cross the island and then take another short ferry. It was late so there was no ferry running. Some phone calls and honking were made, and eventually an engine across the river started running, and a ferry boat was in due course produced.
The noise that we made woke some of the people on our side of the river, so they came out and some of us boarded a small boat to cross the river. We walked around the island in the dark led by Paul, a student who knew the area well. When the bus finally crossed scraping the backside across the pavement on the ramp, we again boarded it. The ferry on the other side is one of a kind. It is a barge with an engine, and there is no particular way of controlling the craft. Instead a steel cable runs across the river and is connected to the boat, ensuring that the ferry plows across the water sideways rather than drifting downstream.
We arrived by 3:30am…enough said.
Our accommodations were these very nice 3 bedroom houses in the country side owned by the International Trypanotolerance Centre (ITC), an institution that does research to improve livestock productivity. The development was designed to house foreign researchers who were doing bovine crossbreeding. It seems like a bunch of cow manure if you ask me. The organization ran out of funding for the site, so it is no longer in use, and the generator is broken so there was no electricity. It was a very relaxing weekend though. Electricity is not important.
The next day we visited NAWEC’s water treatment plant for the region. An electric motor pumps the water from a borehole 1.5km away from the plant. The plant is on a hill so that after the water is pumped, the rest of the work can be done by gravity. A fountain pumps the water and then it goes through 3 filtration pools, it is chlorinated and deposited into a big tank and from there it goes to the valleys below. It was much more interesting than I am making it sound. The plant was built in 1999. Before then, the people drank the iron filled water directly from the borehole, and before that, directly from the river. It is not the cleanest river in the world, and as far as the NAWEC staff members know, there was never a study made to see the effect of the iron in the water on the people of Bansang.
We relaxed the rest of the day. Or at least the guys did. Taking on their gender roles, beforehand the womenfolk volunteered to prepare the meals on the trip. The men took on their responsibility of relaxing and drinking attaya while the women labored under the hot sun and over the hot fire. Cooking in the Gambia takes forever, as it involves picking the dirt out of the rice and then cooking over the fire. It also takes a long time to cook for 27 people. Out of all of the men on the trip only 3 of us helped with the food. Two Gambian men and I helped pick the rice, but we didn’t do nearly as much work as the women.
After sorting the rice, I decided to take on my gender role, and went to chat with the men. The conversation of choice, my choice, was a debate about gender roles in the Gambia. I proposed that women do all the work in this society while the men sit around drinking attaya, smoking cannabis and relaxing. The other men mostly agreed. The argument was made that it is the man’s responsibility to bring money to the family and it is the woman’s job to take care of the household and cook. Someone said, “So you are advocating for gender equality.” Of course I was.
Consider this: Man is naturally superior to woman, so it is his place to sit back and relax. Consider this also: One of the guys in the class made the argument that physiologically men are more capable of making decisions and that they always have more sound judgment. For this reason, according to one of the guys, if a job is open and there is both a man and a women applying for the job, the man should always take it because he able to make better decisions. He is also physically stronger and therefore mentally stronger. The woman is made from the rib of man, so man is naturally superior. Women cannot be Imam’s so they are naturally inferior. The justification the men gave for sitting around and doing nothing while our peers cooked was a mixture of culture and religion. The Muslim women would argue that it is culture and not religion, or maybe an abuse or misinterpretation of religion. Another guy made the argument that man is superior because in some study the boys chose to play with guns and the girls with dolls and that women aren’t generals in the army. I told this person not to go the USA and join the military because he would have a woman commanding him. The debate ended with me going to do the dishes and asking which of the men would come help me. I had no takers accept for the 2 guys who were already helping.
Because we made it in so late the night before, we had “breakfast” at lunch time and “lunch” at dinner time. Around midnight, a few of the guys in the class went around to the girls’ house demanding dinner. As you might expect the girls response was deservedly filled with wrath. The next morning one of the guys involved was decidedly sitting away from the girls, because I am sure they wanted nothing to do with him.
I also had some interesting debates about gender roles with the women. The girls all adamantly supported gender equality, but because of the way their society functions, they were still the ones to cook and clean. They made it clear though, that they were upset with the men’s lack of appreciation. I might add that the perspective of these girls is atypical or if it isn’t, their vocalization about the issue is uncharacteristic. They are all young empowered Gambian women of a different socioeconomic background than the majority of the country…and they are all chemistry and biology majors (whatever that might imply I am not sure).
One of the guys managed to acquire a generator from town to power a boom box. I joined them for a while for a while, but I turned in early as I was still tired from the night before.
The next day we went to McCarthy Island to the quarters where the slaves were stored before they were shipped away. The British traded guns and alcohol for the slaves. The holding quarters was a horrible building where the slaves could not stand up all the way. In the chamber there was no light and food was given through a hole in the wall. The most stubborn of slaves were chained up. We also saw a building where the even more stubborn would be imprisoned in the dark for a few days and upon reentry into the light they would be blinded. All in the name of “civilizing” and Christianizing.
That night we had a lecture from a young Environmental inspector from the NEA. He said that there was far too much work to be done and a lack of resources. Six of him might get the job done. I think that he is doing lots of good work, if only more of it could be done.
We left the next day around 11am, and returned, ndanka, ndanka, around 11pm. A few of the people fell sick the night before departure and that morning, so before leaving Bansang, we visited the hospital. One of the girls was so weak they gave her an iv of glucose to drip into her system on the trip home. We stopped at some pre-Islamic stone circles on the way back, but the SMCM group will be going there this weekend, so I’ll tell you about it another day.
Eventually we made it back, as always, on “Gambia maybe time”.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Who needs water?
I just finished cooking some eggs to go with my tapalapa. I also brewed a cup of Peruvian coffee. Some of my classmates and I are preparing to go on a 4 day trip up country to Bansang with our Environmental Management class. We will be taking water samples at a branch of NAWEC, the government owned water company. It is ironic, that as of last night we are not to use the water from the taps for anything until further notice, according to NAWEC. No showers for the 7 hour bus ride. Next time I write, we will likely have water. I'm not so sure about electricity.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Some thoughts about language.
Es interesante vivir en un país donde existen muchas lenguas diferentes que funcionar en un área pequeña. El Gambia es un país más pequeño de Maryland pero contiene muchas lenguas. Hay una variedad de lenguas en Maryland, pero son lenguas de inmigrantes. Los inmigrantes puede ser de los EEUU, pero en el Gambia los grupos étnicos viven juntos pero hablar lenguas diferentes. En el cuidad Olof generalmente es la lengua que la gente hablar en común. En este país la mayoridad de la gente hablar en Mandinka, pero en Kumbo, Olof es la lengua de comercio y de la calle. Si una familia en la cuidad fuera Mandinka o Jola, la gente hablaría Mandinka y Jola en la casa, pero también Olof y usualmente inglés también.
Creo que existe un problema mayor en el sistema de lengua aquí. Inglés es la lengua oficial del gobierno y del el país pero es una lengua extranjera, es la lengua del colonizador, del opresor. El sistema de educación es un sistema extranjero. Es un sistema del oeste con un foco en Inglaterra. Primero, la lengua de educación es inglés pero es claro que inglés no es la lengua de la gente. Los jóvenes que puede pagar por educación aprenden inglés. Por lo tanto, inglés transformar en la lengua de las elites. En verdad mucha de la población tiene un rudimentario conocimiento de la lengua pero en función es una lengua innecesaria aquí.
El concepto que inglés es una lengua insignificante en un país donde es la lengua oficial parecería extremo, pero a menos trabajaría en negocios o por el gobierno o en turismo no es importante hablar en inglés. En verdad, la mayoridad de la gente no entiende inglés pero hablar en su propio idioma. Este crea un choque en la comunicación y la distribución de las ideas. El gobierno funcionar en inglés, pero porque de la barrera lingüística es difícil pasar las mensajes del gobierno a la gente.
El gobierno utiliza algunas metidas de comunicando en lenguas nativas, pero los documentos y los leyes son escritos en inglés. Desgraciadamente, aunque el gobierno transmite información en una lengua del Gambia, el mensaje es limitado a la gente que poseer un radio o una televisión, excluyendo los más pobres.
Brevemente me gustaría proponer esta idea. Tenía una lectura sobre la tradición oral en el Gambia. Tradicionalmente, era una clase de gente llamado los “grioles” quien era responsable para aprender las historias de la cultura y entretener la comunidad. Esta clase de gente está desapareciendo. Los jóvenes no quieren estudiar la música pero en lugar prefiere entretenimiento moderno y una educación británica. Hoy día la comunidad no quiere mantener esta clase de gente. Conozco que es una resulta de urbanización pero yo especulo que es una producto de colonización también. Cuando estudia una lengua, la persona adopta una parte de la cultura de ese lenguaje. El foco del educación formal es inglés y un disminuyendo de la cultura nativa y la grande literatura de la gente.
La persona que hablaba con nosotros sobre la tradición oral tiene una educación formal y él he viajada extensivamente. Él habla inglés, olof, mandinka y supongo otras lenguas. Está trabajando consolidar en texto y sonido las historias y las canciones de los grioles. Traja contigo un griole, Demba Danjo, para tocar el konting (un instrumento mandinka) y para cantar por los estudiantes de SMCM.
Yo estaba impresionada por su tocando y querría estudiar el konting con él. Ahora estoy estudiando con Demba. Es interesante porque el griole no habla inglés ni olof pero solamente mandinka. Nosotros podemos comunicar en guías alternativas. Durante la lección, sin embargo, la lengua en común es la música. La música es una lengua transcultural y lingüística sin fronteras o limites. La música es la última lengua multinacional.
Creo que existe un problema mayor en el sistema de lengua aquí. Inglés es la lengua oficial del gobierno y del el país pero es una lengua extranjera, es la lengua del colonizador, del opresor. El sistema de educación es un sistema extranjero. Es un sistema del oeste con un foco en Inglaterra. Primero, la lengua de educación es inglés pero es claro que inglés no es la lengua de la gente. Los jóvenes que puede pagar por educación aprenden inglés. Por lo tanto, inglés transformar en la lengua de las elites. En verdad mucha de la población tiene un rudimentario conocimiento de la lengua pero en función es una lengua innecesaria aquí.
El concepto que inglés es una lengua insignificante en un país donde es la lengua oficial parecería extremo, pero a menos trabajaría en negocios o por el gobierno o en turismo no es importante hablar en inglés. En verdad, la mayoridad de la gente no entiende inglés pero hablar en su propio idioma. Este crea un choque en la comunicación y la distribución de las ideas. El gobierno funcionar en inglés, pero porque de la barrera lingüística es difícil pasar las mensajes del gobierno a la gente.
El gobierno utiliza algunas metidas de comunicando en lenguas nativas, pero los documentos y los leyes son escritos en inglés. Desgraciadamente, aunque el gobierno transmite información en una lengua del Gambia, el mensaje es limitado a la gente que poseer un radio o una televisión, excluyendo los más pobres.
Brevemente me gustaría proponer esta idea. Tenía una lectura sobre la tradición oral en el Gambia. Tradicionalmente, era una clase de gente llamado los “grioles” quien era responsable para aprender las historias de la cultura y entretener la comunidad. Esta clase de gente está desapareciendo. Los jóvenes no quieren estudiar la música pero en lugar prefiere entretenimiento moderno y una educación británica. Hoy día la comunidad no quiere mantener esta clase de gente. Conozco que es una resulta de urbanización pero yo especulo que es una producto de colonización también. Cuando estudia una lengua, la persona adopta una parte de la cultura de ese lenguaje. El foco del educación formal es inglés y un disminuyendo de la cultura nativa y la grande literatura de la gente.
La persona que hablaba con nosotros sobre la tradición oral tiene una educación formal y él he viajada extensivamente. Él habla inglés, olof, mandinka y supongo otras lenguas. Está trabajando consolidar en texto y sonido las historias y las canciones de los grioles. Traja contigo un griole, Demba Danjo, para tocar el konting (un instrumento mandinka) y para cantar por los estudiantes de SMCM.
Yo estaba impresionada por su tocando y querría estudiar el konting con él. Ahora estoy estudiando con Demba. Es interesante porque el griole no habla inglés ni olof pero solamente mandinka. Nosotros podemos comunicar en guías alternativas. Durante la lección, sin embargo, la lengua en común es la música. La música es una lengua transcultural y lingüística sin fronteras o limites. La música es la última lengua multinacional.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Béisbol been bery bery good to me. Fútbol, I don’t know.
October 11, 2008
Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep!!! Honk!!! WHOOOOOO!!!!! Bang bang bang bang bang bang Bang bang bang bang!!! Ba cha taab a cha Ba cha taab a cha ba. Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrpppp!!!!!!!
“The people are running in the street, they will even fall down.” Mohamed
Gambia just played their rival in football, Senegal. Senegal always seems to win, I am told. This time, the Scorpions are on their way to the African Cup, and this time they tied the Senegalese 1-1.
Everyone took to the streets, either by foot, or those fortunate enough to have a car, by car. People were running down the street in celebration, beating drums or whatever they could find, blowing whistles and singing in jubilee. Gambian flags were racing down E block in Kanifing Estate. Both private cars and taxis alike revved their engines going down the bumpy road, beeping and flashing their lights in appreciation. The suspensions were definitely feeling the power of the celebration on the potholes and ditches in the road, but no matter. Gambia tied Senegal. “Gambia Won!!! Senegal Won!!!”
I grabbed my camera and headed to the street for the celebration. Everyone was walking or running in the same direction to celebrate. They were headed to Westfield to convene at the roundabout between the road to Banjul and Kairoba. In our neighborhood I met some of the guys who live nearby and walked with them to see what tomfoolery might be ahead.
On Jimpex on the way there, we were greeted with more people all walking in the same direction. Apparently Westfield is the normal meeting place for a celebration such as this. Cars were flying down Jimpex at deadly speeds with passengers hanging out of the windows holding jerseys and waving flags, making as much noise as possible with their engines and horns. There was a small pickup truck with a ladder angled from its bed up onto the roof. A merrymaker was laying face down on the ladder with arms spread, pretending to fly. Cars were stuffed with people cheering in such methods that most certainly violated government safety standards (if it were in the USA).
On the main road to Westfield, trucks were stuffed with men in the back all headed in the same direction. The closer we got to Westfield, the slower the traffic. There was a widespread traffic jam, both on Banjul Road and in Westfield. There was no point in trying to get anywhere in that area, so nobody did.
Children, men and some women ran around the roundabout in Westfield cheering and singing. There were police and military trucks in the area filled with uniformed men, who were also cheering and waving in celebration, but I suppose they were wishing they could be in civilian clothes celebrating and causing more of a ruckus. There was also a fair share of riot police, but it was a celebration, so no worries.
There was a sea of people painted with the red, white, blue and green of the Gambian flag. The sea was chanting “Olay Olay Olay Ollaay Ollay Olay, Olay Olay Olay Ollaay Ollay Olay,” but its repertoire contained other chants of celebration as well. This ocean also had braches from trees bobbing in support.
The game started at 4pm, so by the time the game ending, dusk was approaching. Soon after we made it to Westfield, the sun sank below the sky. This meant that it was time for fire. Some of the rowdiest members of the crowd had oodles of some kind of spray in aerosol cans. These cans were probably releasing all kinds of CFCs. The NEA wasn’t there. The men with the cans sprayed the fumes into the sky and lit them on fire, sending a tower of flames upwards, awakening the celebration. The police had no problems with the fire. After all it was a celebration.
The crowd was amorphous and had a tendency to move in one direction, all directions, or no directions at any given time. The only constant was the sound of excited cheering. There were a few fights that needed to be broken up, but nothing major.
I can only imagine what Banjul must have looked like at the conclusion of the game, or what Westfield would have been like if the Gambian Scorpions won. Nonetheless, Gambia is onto the quarter finals to play Liberia. I’m not quite sure how it works, but they might be on their way to the World Cup. Football is no joke here. Those Americans that enjoy American football should reconsider the way they celebrate for the games. Put down the beer, get your hand out of the greasy bag, get off the couch, and take to the streets.
Chao
Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep Beep!!! Honk!!! WHOOOOOO!!!!! Bang bang bang bang bang bang Bang bang bang bang!!! Ba cha taab a cha Ba cha taab a cha ba. Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrpppp!!!!!!!
“The people are running in the street, they will even fall down.” Mohamed
Gambia just played their rival in football, Senegal. Senegal always seems to win, I am told. This time, the Scorpions are on their way to the African Cup, and this time they tied the Senegalese 1-1.
Everyone took to the streets, either by foot, or those fortunate enough to have a car, by car. People were running down the street in celebration, beating drums or whatever they could find, blowing whistles and singing in jubilee. Gambian flags were racing down E block in Kanifing Estate. Both private cars and taxis alike revved their engines going down the bumpy road, beeping and flashing their lights in appreciation. The suspensions were definitely feeling the power of the celebration on the potholes and ditches in the road, but no matter. Gambia tied Senegal. “Gambia Won!!! Senegal Won!!!”
I grabbed my camera and headed to the street for the celebration. Everyone was walking or running in the same direction to celebrate. They were headed to Westfield to convene at the roundabout between the road to Banjul and Kairoba. In our neighborhood I met some of the guys who live nearby and walked with them to see what tomfoolery might be ahead.
On Jimpex on the way there, we were greeted with more people all walking in the same direction. Apparently Westfield is the normal meeting place for a celebration such as this. Cars were flying down Jimpex at deadly speeds with passengers hanging out of the windows holding jerseys and waving flags, making as much noise as possible with their engines and horns. There was a small pickup truck with a ladder angled from its bed up onto the roof. A merrymaker was laying face down on the ladder with arms spread, pretending to fly. Cars were stuffed with people cheering in such methods that most certainly violated government safety standards (if it were in the USA).
On the main road to Westfield, trucks were stuffed with men in the back all headed in the same direction. The closer we got to Westfield, the slower the traffic. There was a widespread traffic jam, both on Banjul Road and in Westfield. There was no point in trying to get anywhere in that area, so nobody did.
Children, men and some women ran around the roundabout in Westfield cheering and singing. There were police and military trucks in the area filled with uniformed men, who were also cheering and waving in celebration, but I suppose they were wishing they could be in civilian clothes celebrating and causing more of a ruckus. There was also a fair share of riot police, but it was a celebration, so no worries.
There was a sea of people painted with the red, white, blue and green of the Gambian flag. The sea was chanting “Olay Olay Olay Ollaay Ollay Olay, Olay Olay Olay Ollaay Ollay Olay,” but its repertoire contained other chants of celebration as well. This ocean also had braches from trees bobbing in support.
The game started at 4pm, so by the time the game ending, dusk was approaching. Soon after we made it to Westfield, the sun sank below the sky. This meant that it was time for fire. Some of the rowdiest members of the crowd had oodles of some kind of spray in aerosol cans. These cans were probably releasing all kinds of CFCs. The NEA wasn’t there. The men with the cans sprayed the fumes into the sky and lit them on fire, sending a tower of flames upwards, awakening the celebration. The police had no problems with the fire. After all it was a celebration.
The crowd was amorphous and had a tendency to move in one direction, all directions, or no directions at any given time. The only constant was the sound of excited cheering. There were a few fights that needed to be broken up, but nothing major.
I can only imagine what Banjul must have looked like at the conclusion of the game, or what Westfield would have been like if the Gambian Scorpions won. Nonetheless, Gambia is onto the quarter finals to play Liberia. I’m not quite sure how it works, but they might be on their way to the World Cup. Football is no joke here. Those Americans that enjoy American football should reconsider the way they celebrate for the games. Put down the beer, get your hand out of the greasy bag, get off the couch, and take to the streets.
Chao
Author's Note: The title is derived from some Bolivian newspaper comic from the 1970s, if my memory is correct. I don’t know the name of the comic, nor if it still exists. And for the record, I prefer soccer over baseball.
Ongoing fiascos within the confines of Bureaucracy
October 10, 2008
The ongoing fiasco of trying to get work done for my independent study.
On Friday I had a 10am appointment with Professor Addy at RVTH so that I could get some work done on my independent study. It was my understanding that after meeting him he would introduce me to the head of the Cuban community. Like I said, that was only my understanding.
I left the house around 9:15 to make it to Banjul by 10. Mohamed said that I would be late. Usually that is plenty of time to make it to the capitol, but not on this day. It was the day before the Senegal-Gambia football match, so all of the vans running into the city were full of people headed for the ferry and then to Dakar for the game. There were throngs of people lingering along the side of the road trying to hop into a van. As soon as one pulled up and one or two people got off, the people raced to get into the one available seat.
After a while, a tractor trailer pulled up, and the driver opened the door, and lots of people climbed up and got in the cab. A second one came by at a slow pace, and I flagged it down. After it slowed to a stop, I asked if I could hop on, and the driver said yes. There’s nothing like hitchhiking a big rig. An older man and I got into the cab and I thanked the driver for the ride. He told me he would drop me off at the port. It’s quite an experience to sit up high in a Peugeot truck barreling towards the city. Since full-size trucks aren’t allowed to drive through Banjul, we took a back road to the port. At the port, the driver pointed out which direction I should head to get to the hospital. I thanked him and climbed down from the French made big rig.
At the port I called Prof Addy to confirm the appointment. He asked, “When did I ask you to come?” and I reminded him that it was at 10. He then told me that he had scheduled a staff meeting for then that was just about to begin and to come back at 1 or 2. Obviously, I was frustrated, but it gave me the opportunity to spend the day in Banjul.
I ran into my neighbor, who goes by Bob, when I first got to the main street. He is a driver for the Department of Treasury. I had to “relieve myself” as some people say here, so he took my in the back way past security into the restroom of the Department of Treasury. I went into the archive room and to the back where the restroom was. It was kind of funny, I was in a nice air-conditioned room filled with archives, but the bathroom door was off its hinges. To open or close it you had to pick it up and precariously prop it in place.
After that escapade we went across the street and I bought a Coke for each of us. Just as that happened though, Bob was called to drive someone somewhere. I enjoyed my coke alone at this little café, and did some reading. I’ve learned to always bring something to read with me to Banjul, because I never know how long I will have to wait. I eventually ordered some cenfu ak corn beef and onions for breakfast/lunch. The workers in the café were very talkative, so I chatted with them while I enjoyed my lunch. Fatu, the girl, who served my food, was quite the flirt for Muslim standards, and she was kind of cute. She gave me a free bag of water with my food, rather thoughtful of her.
After lunch I drank some attaya with mint with some older men on the street, trying to pass the hours until Professor Addy was free. We talked about politics and life in the Gambia, among other things.
Around 1pm I went to see the Prof. He had the letters that I had written in hand, and asked where my protocol was. Apparently for any research at the hospital, a statement of protocol must be submitted. It would have been very nice to know this a month ago. From what he told me it sounds like it is a medical research style protocol, although he knows very well that I am doing cultural studies. He told me to come back Monday to meet with him and he would take to meet someone to get the medical protocol format. From there I can take this document home and fill it out. Then I will submit it and an ethics board will either approve or disapprove of my work there. It’s very frustrating that they didn’t make this clear to me a long time ago. It seems that I might never get my work started. Maybe there is a way around this protocol and ethics committee. I shall see.
Be beneen yoon
Nathan
PS: I just talked with Mr. Femi and he said to bypass all of this protocol. He said that this is supposedly a free country and I am free to talk to whoever I like. I suppose his approach to this is the difference between a cultural studies person and a sociologist. I prefer cultural studies. It turns out that my Environmental Management professor, Mr. Dele knows some of the Cubans. Hopefully the tides are turning.
The ongoing fiasco of trying to get work done for my independent study.
On Friday I had a 10am appointment with Professor Addy at RVTH so that I could get some work done on my independent study. It was my understanding that after meeting him he would introduce me to the head of the Cuban community. Like I said, that was only my understanding.
I left the house around 9:15 to make it to Banjul by 10. Mohamed said that I would be late. Usually that is plenty of time to make it to the capitol, but not on this day. It was the day before the Senegal-Gambia football match, so all of the vans running into the city were full of people headed for the ferry and then to Dakar for the game. There were throngs of people lingering along the side of the road trying to hop into a van. As soon as one pulled up and one or two people got off, the people raced to get into the one available seat.
After a while, a tractor trailer pulled up, and the driver opened the door, and lots of people climbed up and got in the cab. A second one came by at a slow pace, and I flagged it down. After it slowed to a stop, I asked if I could hop on, and the driver said yes. There’s nothing like hitchhiking a big rig. An older man and I got into the cab and I thanked the driver for the ride. He told me he would drop me off at the port. It’s quite an experience to sit up high in a Peugeot truck barreling towards the city. Since full-size trucks aren’t allowed to drive through Banjul, we took a back road to the port. At the port, the driver pointed out which direction I should head to get to the hospital. I thanked him and climbed down from the French made big rig.
At the port I called Prof Addy to confirm the appointment. He asked, “When did I ask you to come?” and I reminded him that it was at 10. He then told me that he had scheduled a staff meeting for then that was just about to begin and to come back at 1 or 2. Obviously, I was frustrated, but it gave me the opportunity to spend the day in Banjul.
I ran into my neighbor, who goes by Bob, when I first got to the main street. He is a driver for the Department of Treasury. I had to “relieve myself” as some people say here, so he took my in the back way past security into the restroom of the Department of Treasury. I went into the archive room and to the back where the restroom was. It was kind of funny, I was in a nice air-conditioned room filled with archives, but the bathroom door was off its hinges. To open or close it you had to pick it up and precariously prop it in place.
After that escapade we went across the street and I bought a Coke for each of us. Just as that happened though, Bob was called to drive someone somewhere. I enjoyed my coke alone at this little café, and did some reading. I’ve learned to always bring something to read with me to Banjul, because I never know how long I will have to wait. I eventually ordered some cenfu ak corn beef and onions for breakfast/lunch. The workers in the café were very talkative, so I chatted with them while I enjoyed my lunch. Fatu, the girl, who served my food, was quite the flirt for Muslim standards, and she was kind of cute. She gave me a free bag of water with my food, rather thoughtful of her.
After lunch I drank some attaya with mint with some older men on the street, trying to pass the hours until Professor Addy was free. We talked about politics and life in the Gambia, among other things.
Around 1pm I went to see the Prof. He had the letters that I had written in hand, and asked where my protocol was. Apparently for any research at the hospital, a statement of protocol must be submitted. It would have been very nice to know this a month ago. From what he told me it sounds like it is a medical research style protocol, although he knows very well that I am doing cultural studies. He told me to come back Monday to meet with him and he would take to meet someone to get the medical protocol format. From there I can take this document home and fill it out. Then I will submit it and an ethics board will either approve or disapprove of my work there. It’s very frustrating that they didn’t make this clear to me a long time ago. It seems that I might never get my work started. Maybe there is a way around this protocol and ethics committee. I shall see.
Be beneen yoon
Nathan
PS: I just talked with Mr. Femi and he said to bypass all of this protocol. He said that this is supposedly a free country and I am free to talk to whoever I like. I suppose his approach to this is the difference between a cultural studies person and a sociologist. I prefer cultural studies. It turns out that my Environmental Management professor, Mr. Dele knows some of the Cubans. Hopefully the tides are turning.
the unfortunate ramblings of some fortunate happenings
The 1st day of October through the 9th day
Good Afternoon.
I might have made the claim that this entry was to be “enthralling if not beguiling (although the difference between those words is so trivial it’s not of much use to use them both).” That claim is for the most part false, but you are free to disagree.
Last week was a week of expectation. I was in expectation for my trip upcountry to Soma with Mod Talla Cesssay. Mod Talla is a teacher who is studying at the UTG on a grant from the government. His wife, who is also a teacher, and his kids live in Soma. He is in the Kombo area to study and is staying at his father’s compound. He invited me to join him in Soma for Koriteh. I was very excited and honored to go. We were supposed to meet Monday morning to discuss the trip, but then we were to meet in the afternoon. I skipped class because of this. Then Tuesday we were supposed to meet. “Gambia maybe time” Then Wednesday, the Koriteh day came around. I was still in Kanifing.
On Koriteh I woke up put on my white caftan on. I’ve been told that the caftan is glowing. It is made with an intricately woven white fabric, and the tailor that rents space in Awa’s compound sewed it and made embroidery across the top. In a previous entry I wrote about the importance of a new outfit on Koriteh. Everyone was dressed in their very best, and looked fantastic. There were bright colors, elaborate patterns and lots of long fabric.
Music is not to be played during the month of Ramadan, so Koriteh is also a day of noise and excitement. Mohamed set up extension cords so that the speakers of his stereo could be played out on the street. In the morning we listened to music from Sierra Leon (as Mohamed is from Sierra Leon), Gambia, Senegal, and of course from the US of A. This was Mohamed’s much awaited and talked of attaya party. He brewed the sugary caffeinated concoction and passed the small cups of it around until we were all sufficiently filled with the tooth rotting tea. People talk of giving up cigarettes and attaya. It is not particularly addicting, just strong sugary black tea, but the process of making it is a long one. And it is not to be enjoyed alone. They are giving up the long social process of brewing the tea, and presumably spending their newly begotten time doing more productive things. Attaya is productive enough for me.
Because I was not yet sure of my plans with Mod Talla, I went with Renee, Annie and Erika to Baboucar Jallow’s compound in Bakau. The girls cooked a big pot of spaghetti to bring to the festivities, and I brought myself. We played with the kids at the compound for a while and sat and talked under the tree for a while before eating. Renee brought her djembe, so naturally the kids were infatuated with it. We all played a few beats, and then one of the women in the compound asked me if I could sing, so as you would expect, I had to sing. Eventually, the kids led by Padudu escorted me around the corner of the compound to Kachikally to see the crocodiles. We walked through the main gate and the guy said to the kids (and me), “Acha!” Acha is a term usually used to make the scraggly, mangy, hungry, downtrodden dogs go away. We went in the other way where some of the elders were sitting, and they recognized that the kids were from Boboucar’s compound. We walked in to see the crocodiles, which I have seen before. I saw three this time. A man there said not to touch the crocodile that was out of the pool because she was a female and she is aggressive. I wasn’t planning on touching it. It’s not surprising that the females are aggressive though. I also saw the matriarch of the crocodile pool. She was enormous, and hanging out in a drainage pipe.
I went back to the compound for a while and resumed the festivities. Some of the women in the compound were selling ebe outside to passersbys in the neighborhood. I asked what it was so, Baboucar’s father, the head of the compound told someone to get me a bowl and serve me some. It was very good, a spicy fish stew with potatoes and cassava.
It was time for the feast to begin. The spaghetti was served out, individual dishes to us, one to Mohamed (Boboucar’s little son), one to his father, and some big plates for everyone else. Traditionally, food is served and eaten on a big platter. Everyone sits around the platter and eats from their section of the plate. If you want a piece of food on the other side, you should ask, as it is rude to eat from outside of your section. We ate with spoons, but many people eat with their right hand. The right hand it used for eating and for taking food from someone, because the left is used for wiping oneself after excretion.
Isn’t that appetizing? Afterwards we had a very nice rice and chicken dish. After eating and talking some more, all of us but Renee returned to Kanifing. Mohamed’s attaya party was still going on, and we drank some more tea and watched people walk by. There were a lot of children wandering the streets that evening. It was kind of like Halloween except the kids looked nice, they weren’t saying “trick or treat,” and it wasn’t yet dark. They were asking for salibu, a charity that is given out to kids on this day.
People either give out Dalasi coins, mintis (mints), or a larger bill to the group leader. Dinner was spent at Lamin’s house, one of our neighbors.
I found out mid day that the car Mod Talla and I were supposed to take up country was dysfunctional or broken or something. Just as well.
On Sunday we returned to Kachikally for our naming ceremony. We were all given Gambian names before, but the ceremony was saved until after Koriteh. There was lots of dancing and singing and drumming, all led by a group of women who are barren, their children died, or they are widows. The women banded together to support each other through song and dance and they are regularly hired for ceremonies. We all danced, albeit horribly, and were given our names. Lots of the people of Bakau came to watch the naming ceremony, including the people from Boboucar’s compound. The kids from the Jallow residence all sat on our laps to watch. The other kids stood. After the ceremony Gambian animal crackers and Coca-Cola was distributed to all of the people watching and involved. It was a very nice time. I did have a fever during all of this, so that made it slightly less enjoyable.
Afterwards, we had a great feast at Aji Aya Bah Nursery school run by Yahar Jallow. Awa, Boboucar, Mohamed and the teachers from the school all joined us for the post ceremony feast. We had baobob and wanjo to drink, and a wonderful beef rice and vegetable dish. It was finished off with watermelon and a cous desert. It was the best meal that I have had in the Gambia. Again I was feeling sick, and I wanted to leave directly after eating, but no matter.
Yahar is a retired and well travelled teacher who founded this nursery school in 2001. Nursery schools in the Gambia are very expensive, especially for the good ones. She opened her school as an outreach program for the children of Bakau. It costs 500 Dalasis ($25) per trimester when most schools are in the 1000 Dalasi range. Yahar explained to us that her retirement mission is provide affordable education to the people of her town, and that she will teach until the day that she dies. This school is funded by friends abroad as well as, I suspect, by her.
I then went home and slept the day away.
Classes resumed this week. On Tuesday, despite my fever, I went on an Environmental Management field trip to the National Environmental Agency in Banjul. We were greeted by some very competent people who had some very good things to say. And expectedly as university students we had things to ask. The UTG students especially had probing questions to ask about lack of enforcement and lack of publicizing of environmental issues. The people defended themselves and pointed to the outlets that they use. The radio is a big venue. Environmental documents are made public, but since they are produced in English it is only available to the educated.
One of the women at the NEA stressed the importance of education in changing people’s perceptions about the environment. The NEA is working to put environmental education into the school curriculum so that with the next generation, environmental attitudes can be changed. Hopefully that works. The problem they said, for all of their endeavors are that the funding is not available. I’m sure even in the United States environmental organizations receive far too little funding.
One of the acts that we read, NEMA, states that environmental inspectors have the authority to enter and inspect any property without a warrant. That is a lot of power. I asked a certain person at the NEA a question, and I asked this person in specific for a specific reason. For political reasons, however, I shouldn’t get into why I asked him. The question I will disclose. It was “Based on the amount of power given to the inspectors, has there been any abuse of that power?” The answer of course was “No.”
Today is Thursday and my plan was to find out about the price of shipping a djembe to the USA and to volunteer at the YMCA. I ended up not volunteering at the YMCA because Karamou, who I work with, was playing in a concert in Dakar, Senegal or maybe he was back. I don’t know. He is very talented kora player though.
Gampost told me that it would cost 5000 D to ship. Far too expensive. DHL was 20,466 and with a 15% discount 17, 396. Preposterous. UPS was 14, 978. We’ll see what happens. I don’t even want to pay 5000. The UPS man gave me the phone number of his friend who works at Red Coat at the airport. They are far cheaper generally, so hopefully I can get a deal.
When I was making my way into Westfield to check the price at UPS, school was letting out, so there were kids everywhere. I got in the back of a cab with some kids. There was a man in the front seat of the cab drinking Guinness who seemed very happy to see me. After I started talking to the kids he said that I was a good man because I like kids and he likes kids. Then when we stopped I went to the boot to get my djembe out of the car. The trunk latch was acting up, so the driver had to help me out. The drunkard in the front seat decided to get out too. This time he didn’t seem too happy with me. He started yelling that I was a racist and told me to go back to my country. This drew a lot of attention. Some people started to come around as if to keep the drunken man away. Drunkards are not accepted in this culture, and if a family member is a drunk, you try to keep it a secret, or at least you don’t greet them in public. He got back in the cab and started yelling going down the road.
Good Morning,
Nathan
Good Afternoon.
I might have made the claim that this entry was to be “enthralling if not beguiling (although the difference between those words is so trivial it’s not of much use to use them both).” That claim is for the most part false, but you are free to disagree.
Last week was a week of expectation. I was in expectation for my trip upcountry to Soma with Mod Talla Cesssay. Mod Talla is a teacher who is studying at the UTG on a grant from the government. His wife, who is also a teacher, and his kids live in Soma. He is in the Kombo area to study and is staying at his father’s compound. He invited me to join him in Soma for Koriteh. I was very excited and honored to go. We were supposed to meet Monday morning to discuss the trip, but then we were to meet in the afternoon. I skipped class because of this. Then Tuesday we were supposed to meet. “Gambia maybe time” Then Wednesday, the Koriteh day came around. I was still in Kanifing.
On Koriteh I woke up put on my white caftan on. I’ve been told that the caftan is glowing. It is made with an intricately woven white fabric, and the tailor that rents space in Awa’s compound sewed it and made embroidery across the top. In a previous entry I wrote about the importance of a new outfit on Koriteh. Everyone was dressed in their very best, and looked fantastic. There were bright colors, elaborate patterns and lots of long fabric.
Music is not to be played during the month of Ramadan, so Koriteh is also a day of noise and excitement. Mohamed set up extension cords so that the speakers of his stereo could be played out on the street. In the morning we listened to music from Sierra Leon (as Mohamed is from Sierra Leon), Gambia, Senegal, and of course from the US of A. This was Mohamed’s much awaited and talked of attaya party. He brewed the sugary caffeinated concoction and passed the small cups of it around until we were all sufficiently filled with the tooth rotting tea. People talk of giving up cigarettes and attaya. It is not particularly addicting, just strong sugary black tea, but the process of making it is a long one. And it is not to be enjoyed alone. They are giving up the long social process of brewing the tea, and presumably spending their newly begotten time doing more productive things. Attaya is productive enough for me.
Because I was not yet sure of my plans with Mod Talla, I went with Renee, Annie and Erika to Baboucar Jallow’s compound in Bakau. The girls cooked a big pot of spaghetti to bring to the festivities, and I brought myself. We played with the kids at the compound for a while and sat and talked under the tree for a while before eating. Renee brought her djembe, so naturally the kids were infatuated with it. We all played a few beats, and then one of the women in the compound asked me if I could sing, so as you would expect, I had to sing. Eventually, the kids led by Padudu escorted me around the corner of the compound to Kachikally to see the crocodiles. We walked through the main gate and the guy said to the kids (and me), “Acha!” Acha is a term usually used to make the scraggly, mangy, hungry, downtrodden dogs go away. We went in the other way where some of the elders were sitting, and they recognized that the kids were from Boboucar’s compound. We walked in to see the crocodiles, which I have seen before. I saw three this time. A man there said not to touch the crocodile that was out of the pool because she was a female and she is aggressive. I wasn’t planning on touching it. It’s not surprising that the females are aggressive though. I also saw the matriarch of the crocodile pool. She was enormous, and hanging out in a drainage pipe.
I went back to the compound for a while and resumed the festivities. Some of the women in the compound were selling ebe outside to passersbys in the neighborhood. I asked what it was so, Baboucar’s father, the head of the compound told someone to get me a bowl and serve me some. It was very good, a spicy fish stew with potatoes and cassava.
It was time for the feast to begin. The spaghetti was served out, individual dishes to us, one to Mohamed (Boboucar’s little son), one to his father, and some big plates for everyone else. Traditionally, food is served and eaten on a big platter. Everyone sits around the platter and eats from their section of the plate. If you want a piece of food on the other side, you should ask, as it is rude to eat from outside of your section. We ate with spoons, but many people eat with their right hand. The right hand it used for eating and for taking food from someone, because the left is used for wiping oneself after excretion.
Isn’t that appetizing? Afterwards we had a very nice rice and chicken dish. After eating and talking some more, all of us but Renee returned to Kanifing. Mohamed’s attaya party was still going on, and we drank some more tea and watched people walk by. There were a lot of children wandering the streets that evening. It was kind of like Halloween except the kids looked nice, they weren’t saying “trick or treat,” and it wasn’t yet dark. They were asking for salibu, a charity that is given out to kids on this day.
People either give out Dalasi coins, mintis (mints), or a larger bill to the group leader. Dinner was spent at Lamin’s house, one of our neighbors.
I found out mid day that the car Mod Talla and I were supposed to take up country was dysfunctional or broken or something. Just as well.
On Sunday we returned to Kachikally for our naming ceremony. We were all given Gambian names before, but the ceremony was saved until after Koriteh. There was lots of dancing and singing and drumming, all led by a group of women who are barren, their children died, or they are widows. The women banded together to support each other through song and dance and they are regularly hired for ceremonies. We all danced, albeit horribly, and were given our names. Lots of the people of Bakau came to watch the naming ceremony, including the people from Boboucar’s compound. The kids from the Jallow residence all sat on our laps to watch. The other kids stood. After the ceremony Gambian animal crackers and Coca-Cola was distributed to all of the people watching and involved. It was a very nice time. I did have a fever during all of this, so that made it slightly less enjoyable.
Afterwards, we had a great feast at Aji Aya Bah Nursery school run by Yahar Jallow. Awa, Boboucar, Mohamed and the teachers from the school all joined us for the post ceremony feast. We had baobob and wanjo to drink, and a wonderful beef rice and vegetable dish. It was finished off with watermelon and a cous desert. It was the best meal that I have had in the Gambia. Again I was feeling sick, and I wanted to leave directly after eating, but no matter.
Yahar is a retired and well travelled teacher who founded this nursery school in 2001. Nursery schools in the Gambia are very expensive, especially for the good ones. She opened her school as an outreach program for the children of Bakau. It costs 500 Dalasis ($25) per trimester when most schools are in the 1000 Dalasi range. Yahar explained to us that her retirement mission is provide affordable education to the people of her town, and that she will teach until the day that she dies. This school is funded by friends abroad as well as, I suspect, by her.
I then went home and slept the day away.
Classes resumed this week. On Tuesday, despite my fever, I went on an Environmental Management field trip to the National Environmental Agency in Banjul. We were greeted by some very competent people who had some very good things to say. And expectedly as university students we had things to ask. The UTG students especially had probing questions to ask about lack of enforcement and lack of publicizing of environmental issues. The people defended themselves and pointed to the outlets that they use. The radio is a big venue. Environmental documents are made public, but since they are produced in English it is only available to the educated.
One of the women at the NEA stressed the importance of education in changing people’s perceptions about the environment. The NEA is working to put environmental education into the school curriculum so that with the next generation, environmental attitudes can be changed. Hopefully that works. The problem they said, for all of their endeavors are that the funding is not available. I’m sure even in the United States environmental organizations receive far too little funding.
One of the acts that we read, NEMA, states that environmental inspectors have the authority to enter and inspect any property without a warrant. That is a lot of power. I asked a certain person at the NEA a question, and I asked this person in specific for a specific reason. For political reasons, however, I shouldn’t get into why I asked him. The question I will disclose. It was “Based on the amount of power given to the inspectors, has there been any abuse of that power?” The answer of course was “No.”
Today is Thursday and my plan was to find out about the price of shipping a djembe to the USA and to volunteer at the YMCA. I ended up not volunteering at the YMCA because Karamou, who I work with, was playing in a concert in Dakar, Senegal or maybe he was back. I don’t know. He is very talented kora player though.
Gampost told me that it would cost 5000 D to ship. Far too expensive. DHL was 20,466 and with a 15% discount 17, 396. Preposterous. UPS was 14, 978. We’ll see what happens. I don’t even want to pay 5000. The UPS man gave me the phone number of his friend who works at Red Coat at the airport. They are far cheaper generally, so hopefully I can get a deal.
When I was making my way into Westfield to check the price at UPS, school was letting out, so there were kids everywhere. I got in the back of a cab with some kids. There was a man in the front seat of the cab drinking Guinness who seemed very happy to see me. After I started talking to the kids he said that I was a good man because I like kids and he likes kids. Then when we stopped I went to the boot to get my djembe out of the car. The trunk latch was acting up, so the driver had to help me out. The drunkard in the front seat decided to get out too. This time he didn’t seem too happy with me. He started yelling that I was a racist and told me to go back to my country. This drew a lot of attention. Some people started to come around as if to keep the drunken man away. Drunkards are not accepted in this culture, and if a family member is a drunk, you try to keep it a secret, or at least you don’t greet them in public. He got back in the cab and started yelling going down the road.
Good Morning,
Nathan
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
The Word according to fluctuations in atmospheric pressure.
October 7, 2008
Chaapans.
The power has been out for most of the day. It decided to come back on for dinner and post dinner email checking, but then it decided to go on its merry way again. But it is back now.
So I might have gotten around to writing a week ago, but I might not have. I might not even finish what I am writing right now. It might be saved for another day. I’ve been reading too much Tom Robbins, so I am thinking in paradox. But I suppose paradox is balance or perhaps it is disorder or the meeting place of disorder. Or possible if the stars align properly disorder might in fact be order, and order is anarchy. But then what does that make a meeting place? Too much Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.
The reason I wrote the sentence above, “So I might have gotten around to writing a week ago, but I might not have,” is known to me but it is not known to you. I might choose to make it known to you if you choose to keep reading. I am in fact (not) delusional but what in fact is delusion if the world is but an apparition of order. And who needs order in the first place. Too much Tom Robbins and African revolutionary authors.
I had a fever of 101.6 or 7 or maybe it was 101.5 this past Friday night. I was going to go out to a club, but for some reason I felt that I should take my temperature. Saturday’s temperature was similar, both mine and the Gambia’s and after being strongly encouraged by my housemates to go to the clinic, I went. Mohomed and I set out to see the doctor and took the vans to the general vicinity, but we did a lot of walking in the hot sun to and from the clinic. I didn’t feel like paying for a town trip, but heat and fever go together about as well as the African sun and pasteurized milk. The doctor tested me for malaria after hearing of my fever and exhaustion.
(Sweeping Interlude). Rachel just screamed and called for Mohamed. She said that there was a rat in our compound, specifically in the bathroom. Mohamed came with a broom and entered the bathroom, and the broom swept away the rodent’s life. It turned out to be a pathetic baby mouse. Back to the story at hand.
Or rather the male nurse tested me for malaria. I didn’t see the doctor until after the test. Normally I would go back and edit that mistake in content, but the malaria meds make my memory meander. The nurse man stabbed a piece of metal, man into my thumb, man. Then he took my appendage and squeezed the contents of it onto a glass slide. The results?
And now a word from our sponsors. You will have to read on. This is an unnecessary ply to place something out of order that could easily have been added after the end of the doctor’s visit. After the visit Mohamed and I stopped for some carryout fufu in Serekunda. Fufu is a Nigerian paste made out of yams. The mashed yams are used as sort of bread to dip in the sauce and meat. We had beef fufu. Nasty fatty pieces and cow skin. I was disappointed that we didn’t have any cow feet, tongue or testicles. The sauce was mildly spicy and had traces of fish in it, but the power in it was the cow parts. It tasted okay. It wasn’t my favorite, especially the cow skin, but I will have it again. And now back to the program.
I took the note to the doc, but I read it first. We both confirmed that the test said that I was negative for malaria. But then again I am taking a prophylaxis, Larium, so the parasite might not show. My white blood cell count was down though. Doc Njie gave me 5 days worth of Ampicllin which cost me 50 Delasis (2 dollars). The American drug companies should get it together and stop being so greedy. That was two dollars without insurance. He said if I still had a fever on Monday, then I should fill the malaria prescription that he gave me.
Skip Sunday until later.
Monday came around and I woke to a fever. Went to the clinic, they took my blood pressure and weighed me. They didn’t take my temperature because all of their glass thermometers were broken leaving them with nothing. By the way the scale they used is your everyday home use scale. So the doctor said that if I were to have a fever again later in the day to go on the malaria treatment.
I took a cab to Westfield and bought the drugs for 200 Delasis. 10 bucks. Not bad. So right now it is 9:21pm and I am exhausted, and my mind is all over the place. But I think that it is probably doing pretty well, since I am writing something that resembles intelligence. I’ll see how it looks in the morning. It’s a combination of the malaria medication, my illness, whatever it might be, and the state of the universe.
So I will finish the medication in a few days. I am feeling better for all of you who might be worried, and I only have a mild fever now. Here ends this part of this entry. The rest will consist of Koriteh, not going up country, my naming ceremony, and the National Environmental Agency. I assure you it will be enthralling if not beguiling (although the difference between those words is so trivial it’s not of much use to use them both). Now I think I will go study or something of the sort for a quiz that Professor Femi Ojo-Ade is giving tomorrow.
I am back after drinking some water and I have reached a heightened state of awareness with the help of the 500mls of bagged Naturelle water, so I am not studying until tomorrow.
It was I or maybe it was my father that posed the question, “What is the difference between a duck?” And certainly the logical response is a cantaloupe. Then he might ask, “What is the difference between an electric butter knife and a goose?” Of course the levelheaded answer would be a duck. This segment served to either enlighten you or demoralize you, depending on your perspective. That is all.
Disclaimer: It says above that I would be discussing “Koriteh, not going up country, my naming ceremony, and the National Environmental Agency.” That is all a lie. That is in the next issue. Sorry to make you wait, sort of. Oh and I would appreciate any and all comments. Please do comment vigilantly and extravagantly without regard for reason, civility or restraint. By the by, chaapans is the Wolof equivalent of “What the hell,” or “heckbones” for the more mild of heart. Paz y amor.
Chaapans.
The power has been out for most of the day. It decided to come back on for dinner and post dinner email checking, but then it decided to go on its merry way again. But it is back now.
So I might have gotten around to writing a week ago, but I might not have. I might not even finish what I am writing right now. It might be saved for another day. I’ve been reading too much Tom Robbins, so I am thinking in paradox. But I suppose paradox is balance or perhaps it is disorder or the meeting place of disorder. Or possible if the stars align properly disorder might in fact be order, and order is anarchy. But then what does that make a meeting place? Too much Even Cowgirls Get The Blues.
The reason I wrote the sentence above, “So I might have gotten around to writing a week ago, but I might not have,” is known to me but it is not known to you. I might choose to make it known to you if you choose to keep reading. I am in fact (not) delusional but what in fact is delusion if the world is but an apparition of order. And who needs order in the first place. Too much Tom Robbins and African revolutionary authors.
I had a fever of 101.6 or 7 or maybe it was 101.5 this past Friday night. I was going to go out to a club, but for some reason I felt that I should take my temperature. Saturday’s temperature was similar, both mine and the Gambia’s and after being strongly encouraged by my housemates to go to the clinic, I went. Mohomed and I set out to see the doctor and took the vans to the general vicinity, but we did a lot of walking in the hot sun to and from the clinic. I didn’t feel like paying for a town trip, but heat and fever go together about as well as the African sun and pasteurized milk. The doctor tested me for malaria after hearing of my fever and exhaustion.
(Sweeping Interlude). Rachel just screamed and called for Mohamed. She said that there was a rat in our compound, specifically in the bathroom. Mohamed came with a broom and entered the bathroom, and the broom swept away the rodent’s life. It turned out to be a pathetic baby mouse. Back to the story at hand.
Or rather the male nurse tested me for malaria. I didn’t see the doctor until after the test. Normally I would go back and edit that mistake in content, but the malaria meds make my memory meander. The nurse man stabbed a piece of metal, man into my thumb, man. Then he took my appendage and squeezed the contents of it onto a glass slide. The results?
And now a word from our sponsors. You will have to read on. This is an unnecessary ply to place something out of order that could easily have been added after the end of the doctor’s visit. After the visit Mohamed and I stopped for some carryout fufu in Serekunda. Fufu is a Nigerian paste made out of yams. The mashed yams are used as sort of bread to dip in the sauce and meat. We had beef fufu. Nasty fatty pieces and cow skin. I was disappointed that we didn’t have any cow feet, tongue or testicles. The sauce was mildly spicy and had traces of fish in it, but the power in it was the cow parts. It tasted okay. It wasn’t my favorite, especially the cow skin, but I will have it again. And now back to the program.
I took the note to the doc, but I read it first. We both confirmed that the test said that I was negative for malaria. But then again I am taking a prophylaxis, Larium, so the parasite might not show. My white blood cell count was down though. Doc Njie gave me 5 days worth of Ampicllin which cost me 50 Delasis (2 dollars). The American drug companies should get it together and stop being so greedy. That was two dollars without insurance. He said if I still had a fever on Monday, then I should fill the malaria prescription that he gave me.
Skip Sunday until later.
Monday came around and I woke to a fever. Went to the clinic, they took my blood pressure and weighed me. They didn’t take my temperature because all of their glass thermometers were broken leaving them with nothing. By the way the scale they used is your everyday home use scale. So the doctor said that if I were to have a fever again later in the day to go on the malaria treatment.
I took a cab to Westfield and bought the drugs for 200 Delasis. 10 bucks. Not bad. So right now it is 9:21pm and I am exhausted, and my mind is all over the place. But I think that it is probably doing pretty well, since I am writing something that resembles intelligence. I’ll see how it looks in the morning. It’s a combination of the malaria medication, my illness, whatever it might be, and the state of the universe.
So I will finish the medication in a few days. I am feeling better for all of you who might be worried, and I only have a mild fever now. Here ends this part of this entry. The rest will consist of Koriteh, not going up country, my naming ceremony, and the National Environmental Agency. I assure you it will be enthralling if not beguiling (although the difference between those words is so trivial it’s not of much use to use them both). Now I think I will go study or something of the sort for a quiz that Professor Femi Ojo-Ade is giving tomorrow.
I am back after drinking some water and I have reached a heightened state of awareness with the help of the 500mls of bagged Naturelle water, so I am not studying until tomorrow.
It was I or maybe it was my father that posed the question, “What is the difference between a duck?” And certainly the logical response is a cantaloupe. Then he might ask, “What is the difference between an electric butter knife and a goose?” Of course the levelheaded answer would be a duck. This segment served to either enlighten you or demoralize you, depending on your perspective. That is all.
Disclaimer: It says above that I would be discussing “Koriteh, not going up country, my naming ceremony, and the National Environmental Agency.” That is all a lie. That is in the next issue. Sorry to make you wait, sort of. Oh and I would appreciate any and all comments. Please do comment vigilantly and extravagantly without regard for reason, civility or restraint. By the by, chaapans is the Wolof equivalent of “What the hell,” or “heckbones” for the more mild of heart. Paz y amor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
