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.