Sunday November 9, 2008
In Pursuit of Cheese
It is interesting how a two month cheese deprivation can lead you on an extended adventure. A friend of Dan Combs, Brian Alexander, told Dan that there is a place in the Gambia that has some pretty incredible pizza. It is not just pizza that is incredible to the cheese deprived, but also to any casual pizza joint frequenter or brick oven aficionado. This pizza has even earned the respect of the Fall 2007 St. Mary’s group in the Gambia to the extent that they enjoyed it on Thanksgiving. That’s sure an internationalist perspective, or rather a confusion of cuisine identities to celebrate Thanksgiving at an Italian establishment in West Africa.
I must say, I really am quite fond of Gambian food, and I am a big fan of seafood which is cheap and plentiful here. If you were anti-fish in this country there is a good chance you would be anti-eat, unless you live in our compound, where fish is served only once or twice a week, if at all. Gambian food is also full of flavor which is very important in any good dish. There are some American foods that I miss, but generally, at least for a few months anyway, I welcome a departure from the food of North America.
With that in mind though, there comes a time in the life of every American living away from the land of dairy, when a period of cheese withdrawal hits. If there is anything I miss about the States, it is cheese. I don’t miss the processed, hydrogenated, preservative laden, diabetes causing, laboratory concocted excuse for food that is called American cheese or Cheese Whip, but a grilled cheese on whole wheat toast with Velveeta might be kind of good right now. Velveeta is just as bad as American cheese and canned cheese, I suppose, but I have to ask why any Cheese God –fearing American would put cheese substitute that comes from a pressurized can on a cracker and then attempt to eat it. I can’t be too snide or critical about fake cheese, because I have family and friends who have fallen into the trap, but really it should be avoided at all costs.
Real cheese is the creation of the heavens. When it is coupled with tomatoes, onions, peppers and spices, crisp crackers, tortilla chips or even French onion soup it something otherworldly, but a good cheese can always be enjoyed alone.
In the height of a cheese craze, Dan and I took a taxi towards Cape Point near Bakau in search of the ultimate pizza in the Gambia. We drove past a junction in the road, and like a beacon that was calling me, I caught in the corner of my eye a sign that said Italian Connection. The driver turned around and took us down the road to a truly fantastic Italian restaurant.
We got out of the car and walked through the entrance that led into a court yard. It looked as if there should have been tables set up for outside seating, but they were not yet there. To the left there was a raised covered tile patio surrounded by white metal work. The place looked very nice, but very closed. Shortly after walking in, a man with a thick Italian accent named Danilo gave us a warm welcome and assured us that he was open. Immediately he asked us if we were Peace Corps Volunteers. Apparently we give off that vibe much more than the trashy European tourist vibe, or maybe it’s that there aren’t North American tourists here. We explained that we were students and in a sense associated with Peace Corps and he asked “who sent you.” That could be construed as kind of a peculiar way to ask where the good word spread about his restaurant, as if we were spies trying to appropriate his top cheese secrets. His warm welcome assured us that he didn’t think we were spies or something of that nature.
He took us around back through a compound that I assume was his personal residence, within the walls of the restaurant. We then went into the back through the kitchen and he led us into the dining room. Without hesitation he asked us about our victory with Obama. His attitude suggested that he had a complete disillusionment with politics, and he asked if we had gotten any richer because Obama was elected. We assured him that we hadn’t yet, but hopefully change would come. There were tables set that were covered in nice white linens, lending to a very classy setting. I might say that it was reminiscent of Italy and the proprietor would probably take that as a huge compliment, but unfortunately I have never been to Italy.
Dan and I sat down to a table on the patio and the owner introduced himself. We were the only customers of the afternoon, so throughout the meal Danilo checked in on us when he wasn’t in the kitchen. He sat us, waited on us and cooked for us. He brought us out two well designed posh looking menus and drink lists. I barely had a chance to look at the menu before he asked if we knew what we wanted. We must have been deciding to slowly, or he must have been reading our minds, because he asked if the menu was too expensive for us. It was indeed a bit pricy, and he returned with a take away menu for us to order from. The options were fewer, but nothing was spared in the quality of the food.
We ordered 2 small pizzas and split them. It was more than enough for both of us, but we didn’t need encouragement to finish it. We ordered the Pizza Siciliana and a Pizza Rustica. The Siciliana was made with tomatoes, mozzarella cheese, ham, aubergine (eggplant), black olives, oregano and hot chillies. The Rustica was adorned with salami, green peppers, black olives, mozzarella and oregano. Both were baked in what I imagine to be a wood stove oven, based on the taste.
A few minutes after taking our order Danilo returned with our drinks and his hands covered in flour, a telling fact that the dough was good and fresh. The pizzas were superb. Although I am cheese deprived and anything reminiscent of cheese makes something taste good, I am confident that this is some of the best pizza I have ever had. Danilo said to tell our friends to come to his restaurant, so that is what I am doing. If you are ever in the Gambia and you have the desire to eat some genuine Italian food, then go see Danilo at the Italian Connnection.
Although the food was good, I don’t know why some tourists would seek out an excellent Italian restaurant while vacationing in West Africa. If I was a European tourist I might want to eat local food, but instead many flock to European cuisine, never leaving their comfort zones. The majority of the nice restaurants serve either European or Chinese food, and in addition the majority of the patrons to these places are either foreigners or elite Gambians. I went there because it was time for some cheese after over two months, but those who come for a short stay should explore some new tastes.
The Birkenstock Factor
Birkenstocks are for suburban hippies. They are also for the outdoor type that claims no allegiance to any label. They are also for the people who claim that claiming no allegiance to any label is in itself a label. They are for ex hippies and musicians and college students and trend following New Yorkers and cardigan sweater wearers and stock brokers, kayakers, folk musicians, teachers and anyone who likes wool socks. They are for anyone who likes their comfort and support. They are for anyone who lives an active or outdoor lifestyle, pretends to, or would like to. They are also for the lazy slob. Really when it comes down to it, when the nomadic way of life hits, they are for anyone, even if it is just for fashion.
Birkenstocks are not however for rock climbing, boulder traversing, wave evading, cliff descending, seafaring or beach walking. They are particularly not for beach walking when the beach at hand involves rock climbing, boulder traversing, wave evading while on boulders and cliff descending all in the same outing. That task is for a Teva, Chaco, or a generic non water fearing flip flop.
I wore Birkenstocks to lunch at the Italian Connection, but I claim no allegiance or association to any of the above foot talk, nor do I know the source of the writing.
The sandals served me well on the walk from the Italian connection to three quarters of the way to Anna’s Sand Plover and then all the way back for Dan’s pack of fags and then back to Sand Plover. A word about cigarettes. In the Gambia and I suppose in England you don’t smoke a cigarette, you smoke a fag. You don’t smell like cigarettes, you stink of fags. I don’t think telling someone that they stink of fags in the USA would go over so well. If you don’t believe me, try it out someday. The experiment might work best somewhere in the South, or maybe in Texas.
This is the proper time to stop and take a bite of cheese, as long as it does not have artificial coloring. This is also an excuse for me to not come up with a proper transition between the previous paragraph and the next. I bit of cheese might suit you better.
The day of our lunch and beach walk was Sunday. We were doing work at the house, and the plan was to return after lunch to continue our studies, but GMT has a way of taking over. This is not the Greenwich Mean Time but the far more accurate Gambia Maybe Time. I prefer the later. It is nice to operate without planning something out and have an adventure sporadically emerge just because it can. It emerges precisely because there was nothing planned, and in fact any type of planning structured around the traditional GMT is at arms with the sporadic and freeing nature of Gambia Maybe Time. Maybe instead of Yoga classes and self-help books there should be Gambia Maybe Time lectures. Maybe someone could make a lot of money off of a self help book about Gambia Maybe Time philosophy. Unfortunately, the regimented publishing schedule of such a book and the sales and distribution and then finding time to read the book would in fact quarrel with the very meaning of Gambia Maybe. The author of the book would be labeled a time heretic.
If someone must write a book about this philosophy let it be written in some abstract setting and deposited on some beach where someone walking barefoot picks it up and learns the way. Really the purpose of this digression is to say that Gambia Maybe Time must not be taught but it must be lived. It can be lived by experiencing it or by experiencing others living it. It is not just found in the Gambia, but it is also the GMT of many places and people who don’t want to be anywhere particularly quickly. Those who live the GMT life should, if they are true wayfarers, like the trip just as much as the destination. That is also the difference between power boaters and sailors. Sailors enjoy the sail, but power boaters are in too much of a fuel burning frenzy to take pleasure in the trip. The illustrious and illusive destination is always in sight. With a prejudice towards the sailor philosophy, Dan and I ended up going on a few hour beach walk in the direction of Fajara.
As I mentioned before, after Dan retrieved his cancer sticks our journey began at Sand Plover. Sand Plover is a nice casual unassuming beach restaurant on the protected side of a peninsula. There is along rickety board walk over a marsh to get to the restaurant and beach, and once there, you can sit at a table with a sand floor. Dan and I enjoyed a Julbrew and then got on our way.
After passing some beach front mangroves, we walked south past some tourists and resorts and stopped at a resort with a Hobbie Cat out in front. We stopped there to inspect the vessel and then saw that there was a Laser as well and inside some windsurfing gear. We talked to the guy working there and worked out a deal for when we return. The tourists get to pay tourist prices. We get to pay college student prices. It is Monday afternoon as I sit here and write this, and in an hour or two I hope to be on the water. We thanked the guy and said that we would return in a few days. I am going back this afternoon, but Dan has to do something bogus and trivial like school work.
The decision was made to walk all the way to Fajara on the beach. We soon made it past Cape Point, where we had been before, and realized that the next big portion of the walk would not be barefoot sand between the toes beach walk. We ventured away from the sandy beach and onto the sand stone boulders (called laterite) cramped between the cliff above and the crashing sea to our right.
It was really pretty amazing to hike atop the monstrous red boulders with waves crashing beneath and around us. It is also one of the safest things I have ever done in my life. Whoever said that there was no rock climbing in the Gambia was mistaken. Some bumster in training (i.e. a young bumster) decided that he wanted to accompany us. When he found out that we were to walk on the boulders he decided that he would volunteer to be our guide. It’s too bad for him we didn’t need one. He was quiet enough and nice enough, and out of our business enough that we let him walk ahead of us on our way.
Taking the time to stop and look at the surroundings brought a breathtaking view; cliffs to both sides with the surf crashing on rocks below. The only catch was that we were on the rocks below. The setting was reminiscent of Northern California, only there were palm and coconut trees lining the cliffs and warm water.
For all of this I had my Birkenstocks on, as I thought we were only going to eat pizza. The shoes fared me well through the first set of rock crossings, although they were a touch slippery on the dusty or wet rocks. My other flip flops would have been a better choice. Eventually we made it past the rocks and to some resort. They had built a raised concrete bulkhead well above the surf and filled it will sand. We scaled the bulkhead and saw old European tourists with flabby skin in bikinis and Speedos. The place was kind of strange, a raised up beach with a little beach bar and a restaurant and hotel rooms further up the cliff. We stopped for a drink, and our bumster accomplice finally decided to leave us.
The place also had drums for sale and batiks and other tourist goods in these shops set up at the hotel. I guess they were supposed to appeal to the tourists, so that they would never have to leave their hotel, but the place was really very strange and tacky. Hopefully the tourists were getting ripped off, if they think that a resort run craft market is a good place to buy “authentic” African goods. After chatting with a worker and the bar tender for a while and agreeing with them that the scantily clad wrinkly Europeans were quite disgusting, we continued our excursion.
Rather than continue through the cliffs, we walked up through the resort. The place was nice, but the decorations were very strange and the pool was outlandish as well. There was a pool bar in the center and some sleazy looking people relaxing on chaise lounges. If I ever want a swimming pool though, I might go back. They would probably never question that I wasn’t a guest, but the unfortunate reality is that it is just because of my skin color, not because I am sleazy. In fact I am not sleazy, but if I was I might fit in there better.
On our way out through the lobby we saw four young blonde women, who I assume were from Holland based on their accents. They were complaining about their guide not showing up or something. Dan and I decided that we could be their guide and be white bumsters, but again we are not that sleazy.
We diverted our walk to the main road for a short time, and then turned down to a construction site overlooking the ocean where beach houses were being built. The security guards told us that we could get to the beach from there, so we tried. After following one path through the brush and corn stalks growing on the cliff, we came to a dead end…literally, if you were to jump. Some kind of nettle or something made my legs all itchy, but after turning back from the edge, we kept going. We were walking along the cliff and some security guards from some building came out from behind a fence and asked us where we were going. After greeting them in Wolof they showed us the way to a path to get down to the water and the boulders below.
It looked risky, an eroding cliff with rocks at the bottom. It wouldn’t be too bad in the States where there is health care, but here it could have been a bad choice. I found it funny that Dan was the voice of reason or fear suggesting that it might not be a good idea, but I insisted that it was. I led the way down the face, remembering the many times of my childhood that I had down climbed Cunningham Falls. Cunningham Falls is much longer and steeper, only it doesn’t have the whole loose sand thing. We made it down safely and continued our walk.
We walked on sand for a while, which allowed me to take off my shoes for again. Soon, though we were on the rocks. We met a man surf fishing, so I asked him “Naka jen bi?” He answered, “Jen bi baax na.” The fish were good. He had a great place to fish, isolated from most people due to the terrain. The beach and rocks gradually became littered with all kinds of beautiful small shells, including a few cowries. It’s really unfortunate that I didn’t have my camera with me for all of this, but when you are going to lunch on GMT, you don’t plan things ahead.
With the cliffs above it seemed that we were in some isolated region because the buildings above us couldn’t be seen from below. As we neared Fajara, the tide kept coming in closer and closer. I began a rock hoping campaign between waves and in the sandy areas, a sprinting operation to the next piece of high ground when the surf subsided. It was successful for a while, but eventually my Birkenstocks got wet. I guess it was time for them to get broken in, courtesy of the East side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Our hike finally ended in Fajara, our old home beach, where Dan joined the Sunday night beach rugby game. I went back home to start writing this blog. My Birkenstocks were sufficiently wet and sandy. That is the way they should be in the end I guess. Otherwise they would just be like any other pair of Birkenstocks in suburbia. But these sandals are different. They are rock crawling, ocean evading, water worthy continent hoping Birks.
It’s good to have a lunch that turns into an adventure. It’s also good to have non hypocritical Birkenstocks, although all Birkenstocks will forever be cliché. Abandon your sense of time. Throw your dress shoes into the ocean and your day planner into a bonfire, and your lunch might turn into a beach cliff walk too.
Don’t work too hard and eat lots of cheese, but avoid the canned stuff.
Be beneen yoon. (Until next time)
Nathan
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
The Beaches Beyond
November 2, 2008
Jeffery Nutt Hankins once suggested that I go for a walk on the beach. It is not hard to convince me to do something like that. For those who don’t know Nutt, he is a crazy wind surfer type and a friend of mine, which might make him a bit more nuts. He was here in the Gambia during Renee’s first stay in the Spring of 2007.
About a month ago I was chatting with Jeff on the internet about the state of the universe and he suggested that I walk on the beach from Tujereng to Sanyang with Kartong in mind as my final destination. Tujereng to Sanyang is a lesuirly but hot and long day’s walk, and it is another meandering day from Sanyang to Kartong. Without much thought I decided that it was essential for me to walk the beach, so I set out to do just that.
On Saturday night I sporadically decided that Sunday would be the first day of the walk. I had previously alerted my housemates of my plans, but on the eve of the journey I had no takers. Fortunately, I know of some other people who also think that walking all day long on the beach in the hot Gambian sun is a good idea. I quickly called Ebrima Tunkara and Paul Correa from my Environmental Management class, and they quickly agreed that the journey was necessary to our well beings. Ebrima and Paul are kindred spirits in that they seem to enjoy an adventure, a long walk, and the outdoors. Maybe they just like to wander aimlessly. I think I would do that if I could. But they are not aimless. If they were aimless, then I might have to call them wayfarers, but they wouldn’t be of the wayward variety. Wayward wayfarers are a fine breed at the end of the day, though.
It is my experience that aimlessness is not the style of science majors, although it is important to keep in mind that Nutt is a bio major. He might have what one could call a determined yet abstractly planned and resolute aimlessness. In the end, however, not all who wander are lost (that’s the title of a Chris Thile album, but I am not putting it in quotes, because I don’t know if he can truly lay claim to the phrase).
It was agreed upon that the expedition would start from my compound at 9am the next morning. I hailed a cab, or rather Jamie called Esa and spoke with him in French, and he came to pick us up. While I packed my internal frame pack with water for the journey, and sun shit for my white boy skin, Ebrima negotiated the rates while we waited for Paul.
It turns out that we could have taken a van all the way out to Tujereng but for some reason I wasn’t thinking about that. Esa gave a very good rate, although because of the distance of our trip, it was still pricy.
In the interim, Ebrima and I walked down the street to buy our fuel for the day to accompany the coolant that was already in the boot of the taxi. We ordered three tapalapa ak nen ak pomputeer ak Jumbo ak mayonnaise. Unrefrigerated hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, warm Gambian mayonnaise and Jumbo (an Old Bay like seasoning that makes everything taste better) on a long piece of Gambian tapalapa bread. Food for the soul. It is important to note that eggs in their raw form or hard boiled form do not need be refrigerated. Nor does mayonnaise, especially when it’s the sort pumped up with some kind of preservative that I’d rather not know about. This is definitely the filling meal of choice though for a long journey.
Soon after Paul arrived we were on our way, or so I thought. In the States, life seems to be instantaneous; everything functions or is supposed to function in an on demand fashion that overlooks the importance of conversation, relationships, greetings, relaxation and walking. Although I lived on an island all summer, and I operate on Island Time and now sometimes on Gambian Maybe Time, there is still a little bit of that American impatience breeding inside of my system. Maybe the tap water will kill it. You should be able to get transportation anywhere anytime you want it, right? You a very wrong my impatient friends. Get in your car and drive somewhere very rapidly and ignore the scenery on the way if you demand punctuality. Contrarily, if you are of the sort who kind of appreciates the concept that time is theoretical and not to be regimented, then go for a walk with nowhere in particular in mind, or come to the Gambia. I have become a fan of this way of thinking. Or rather, I would like to think that I always have been a fan, but I remain a fan. I know that to truly absorb myself in this concept of time could haunt me in the paved road reality in the land of Wal-Marts. But then again I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
We left by around 9:30 although the driver had been waiting since 9, and after about a 5 minute drive from the house the fan belt on the engine went out. Esa drove us to find a friend who could match his price or come close, but his friend wasn’t around. Instead we found a driver who said 500 Delasis ($25) for the trip, but we eventually got him down to 350. Given the price of diesel burning in an old Mercedes-Benz and the distance we had to cover, the driver said it would cost him around 200 just in fuel.
Mr. Cab Man drove us out past the traffic light and past the nauseating attraction of Senegambia and into the countryside. After about a 30 minute drive…before finishing this sentence the Gambia in me must interject. It is a truly Western concept to quantify the amount of time it takes to get from one place to another. Any trip on any road should be variable, and in fact usually is. In addition, the time frame of 30 minutes is just an estimation from my feeble mind; an evaluation of ticking that comes from 19 years of training in an all too regimented society. Anyway, after a while we arrived in Tujereng, and Paul and the driver asked a local how to get to the beach. After some back tracking and couple more stops to ask directions in Wolof and the driver’s complaints in Wolof about the amount of fuel he was wasting, we turned off the main road.
Do you hear banjo music? The ominous kind that sounds festive at first but eventually turns into the sounds of nightmares past and yet to come. Do you hear it? Paddle faster. Do you hear it? I hear banjo music. Paddle faster, faster, faster.
Do you hear it? I sure don’t. That’s for West Virginia my friends, and Deliverance, not a tropical beach on the Smiling Coast of Africa. The driver navigated the Mercedes down a single lane sand road through bushes and palm trees, beeping every time we came to a curve in the road, because there was no way of seeing an oncoming vehicle. The road would have given quiche eating, SUV driving soccer moms and dads indigestion, but in the Gambia where football is football and not a bunch of overgrown men in body armor, sand roads have a special relationship with rear wheel drive cars.
We came to a clearing in the bush and heard the soft crash of the Atlantic Ocean on the white beach ahead. The three of us got out of the car, and I made sure to sniff the sea air, something that I have been trained to do every time I get out of the air conditioned car upon my arrival in Hatteras. It doesn’t hit you quite as strongly here when everything smells of fish, and your olfactory senses are not sheltered by the confines of air conditioning, but there is always something special about sea air.
I put my frame pack on my back, paid the driver and the three of us walked down to the beach. I quickly removed my shirt and drenched myself in Coppertone, while my dark skinned accomplices got themselves into beachwear. They didn’t need Coppertone. After loading their shirts and long pants (shorts are preferred on beaches of course) into my bag we began our walk south.
The beach was gorgeous. To the north we could see a group of fisherman pushing a boat up out of the surf and onto some timber. They rolled the boat on top of tree trunks onto higher ground, or rather higher sand. Although there were people to the north, there was not a building in sight to the north or south. There is nothing like the beauty of an undeveloped beach.
As we turned south we were immediately bombarded by a multi-ton amoeba of flesh, bones and hide. There was a herd of long horn cattle making their way towards us, with the cowboy meandering behind. I think if I was a cowboy and I had the choice I would walk my cattle on the beach side too. Even if you don’t like the ocean, it serves as a nice big road to transport the beasts from one grazing area to another. By the way, they are not really long horn cattle, they have long horns, but they are of a different variety. They are of the N’Dama variety to be exact, originating from the Fouta-Djallon highlands of Guinea. And I don’t think that a herd of cows here in the Gambia calls their master a cowboy, but for the sake of the combinations of letters you are processing, they are.
Paul, Ebrima and I walked for a while enjoying each others company and the splendor of the coconut tree lined beach that went on for thousands of miles south of us. The shoreline was peppered with Pyramidellidae or pyramid shells of all colors and sizes, and occasionally we would stumble upon some other type of sea life, living or dead (I think that that is the kind of shell from my research online. The shell is pointy and can be found on the beaches of the Atlantic in the Americas too).
Paul is a 28 year old teacher studying at the university with a knack for telling stories, and telling us about the trials and tribulations of whatever creature he comes across. I am 19 year old kayak tour guide, with a knack for telling tourists about marine eco-systems, I have an obsession of all things aquatic, and a fascination with meaningless bits of information. I’m sure that between Paul and I we would be enough to either annoy someone who would prefer to walk down the beach oblivious to their surroundings, or impress some silk shirt wearing tourist or weekend naturalist. Ebrima didn’t seem to mind us anyway.
We found the back of squid, a dead lady fish, a dead blue crab, various types of coral, and lots of ghost crabs peeping out of their holes. Paul remarked that Americans must call ghost crabs ghost crabs because they are so clever that they hide like phantoms whenever a passerby thinks about looking at them. According to Paul, ghost crabs to Gambians are just a generic land crab. But then of course there must be a distinction between the fiddler crab that frequents the river bed and marsh, and the ghost crab. I’m sure there is one, but Paul didn’t know it. There was also a typical medley of scallop and clam shells on the beach with the occasional conch thrown in. Eventually we found a natural sponge, and we broke it open. There were baby star fish moving around inside of it, and realizing that the sponge was nursery school, and bad things happen to people who destroy nursery schools, we put the sponge back in the ocean. Its tough work to walk on a beautiful undeveloped beach, but someone has to do it.
Sometime in the midst of all the pseudo marine biology talk that we were engaging in, we came to a hut built on the beach. We walked into it, and it had some kind of make shift counter top, a table carved out of drift wood, and a day bed (minus the mattress) in the center. The shack was small and open to the sea breeze; the perfect abode to transform into a surf shanty. A large tree stood watch next to it on the beach. It is the kind of place where any beach bum would be content to spend the rest of his days.
Despite all the splendor and beauty of the beach in between Tujereng and Sanyang we eventually came to a pipe. This pipe popped up out of the sand before going into the ocean. I don’t know whether the builders of the conduit intended it to be seen or not, but it was obvious that something was being dumped into the ocean. Whether it was runoff, sewer or some kind of chemical, the beach in that area was littered with a fair share of dead blue crabs. I really enjoy eating crabs, but I wasn’t very hungry for those.
For much of the trek we had been walking towards a sandy point in the distance, stopping every now and then to wade in the water. I also tried my hand at teaching Ebrima to swim and Paul to swim a little bit better. Floating is the key to swimming. Remember that. There is not much of a beach culture here, so not many people can swim. There are those that can, I would hope the fishermen can, but the number of human fish in this country is limited.
As we rounded the point we came to an idyllic cove where the crash of the ocean turned into a tranquil haven. The point was caressed with palms and an army of prickly pear cacti. Some of the fruits on the cacti were pink and ripe, so I showed Ebrima and Paul the joys of a fruit growing atop a porcupine. We all managed to get a few small hair-like needles in our hands as we peeled the fruits. In no time at all our hands appeared to be covered in blood. The deep red and staining juice of the fruit flowed out all over our hands as we ate the contents of the fruit, sucking the flesh off of the small cacti seeds. It was really a quite refreshing venture, although I think my hands would be forever red if I indulged in the fruit too often. As we were doing this, some lighter skin person passed on a four-wheeler. I’m sure we were quite the sight with our bloody hands.
Further on down the cove there were two sets of rock outcroppings with a smooth sandy beach in between. We took a rest here to relax, and continued the swimming lessons. On the land side of this exquisiteness were a few thatch roofed buildings and a hut, sheltering a large group of Lebanese Gambians enjoying their Sunday afternoon. Their Mercedes SUVs and other luxury vehicles were parked behind the structures. There were some older veiled women praying, lots of people in the water, and a fair share of men smoking hookah. From the looks of things the Lebanese here were a mix of Christian and Muslim. I went up to the hut to order a Coca-Cola which they told me who cost 20 Delasis. I told them that I would pay 15. Then they told me that they were selling fish benechin for 80, which sounded good, but I had already had my potato sandwich. 80 Delasis is a lot of money for benechin anyway. I greeted them and ordered my drink in Wolof. One of the guys behind the bar started laughing and making fun of his friend in Mandinka and then explained to me in English that I know more Wolof than his friend.
After another dip, we walked further down the beach and made it to the fish market on the beach of Sanyang. There we met Ebrima’s sister’s husband’s brother. Gambians would refer to a relative of that sort as an uncle or brother. Due to his age he was an uncle. He is a fisherman out of Sanyang, and Ebrima hoped to get some free fish out of him. He had yet to be out fishing for the day and was going out that evening so Ebrima was out of luck. There were all kinds of fish in the market, including lots and lots of skates.
Apparently skate tastes pretty good. It is similar to shark, which I have had, but I don’t recall ever eating skate. For those of you who frequent cheap seafood restaurants with buffets of frozen seafood and overcooked vegetables, you have probably eaten skate. Cheap restaurants in the States tend to take shark or skate spines, and cut them up and tell you that you are eating scallops. If you didn’t notice I don’t feel bad for you. Gambians know about fresh seafood. 85% of the seafood in the USA is imported. Americans don’t know about fresh seafood, unless you’re a Hatterasman. Then you know fresh seafood and you know not to go to Dirty Dicks, unless you think fresh is frozen fish caught from the Sysco food truck at 7:30 in the morning. Sorry naive tourists. I don’t feel bad for you either.
After smelling some fish for a while, we went to the beach for another swim, and then we joined some of the locals to kick a football back and forth. Eventually there were enough of us to play a small game of post football. Four other Gambians (the ones with the ball) and a young guy from Holland working at a clinic in Sanyang joined us for the game. After we were sufficiently exhausted we headed back to the market to find transportation home.
The three of us hoped into the back of a miniature Renault four by four. It was one of those old little utilitarian car/trucks that in town are usually used to deliver bread. This one had two side facing wooden benches built in to take people from the market to town. From Sanyang we went to a car park and caught a gelleh gelleh into Birkama. Gelleh gellehs are these big vans that are trying to pass for buses that can have chickens and goats along for the ride as well. They are generally these old Mercedes buses with raised suspensions and roaring diesel engines packed with twenty some people and a big pile of luggage on the roof. They are often also decorated with bright colors. Bright pink, green and yellow usually make the things sufficiently flashy. This one fit the description in every way except for the bright colors. Instead it was forest green. How plain of them.
From Birkama we took a smaller van into Westfield, and back to our respective homes. For each person the transportation back was 22 Delasis, plus a 50 Delasis ride from the market to Sanyang. Much more reasonable than a town trip. I learned my lesson.
It was a long walk, and an exhausting day, but well worth it. There is nothing like being a wandering wayfarer. I quite enjoy it. The beach is calling me. I must return for another adventure another day. If for some odd reason I spontaneously disappear from the real world, assume that I am on some isolated beach. Besides, pristine beaches are much more real than the drab monotony of strip mall parking lots.
Love and Peace,
Nathan
PS: I believe that it is cold in the States for the majority of you by now. I am sorry. I forgot to take my camera on this journey. I am extremely sorry about that. Oh and by the way last weekend I was in Jufureh where Kunta Kinte is from and Jan Jan Bureh, a British slave trading town. I saw hippos in the river on a boat trip and monkeys in the trees. The experience was quite interesting, but I've yet to feel motivated to write about it. I might write about it another time. Ask me about it if you are interested. Cheers
Jeffery Nutt Hankins once suggested that I go for a walk on the beach. It is not hard to convince me to do something like that. For those who don’t know Nutt, he is a crazy wind surfer type and a friend of mine, which might make him a bit more nuts. He was here in the Gambia during Renee’s first stay in the Spring of 2007.
About a month ago I was chatting with Jeff on the internet about the state of the universe and he suggested that I walk on the beach from Tujereng to Sanyang with Kartong in mind as my final destination. Tujereng to Sanyang is a lesuirly but hot and long day’s walk, and it is another meandering day from Sanyang to Kartong. Without much thought I decided that it was essential for me to walk the beach, so I set out to do just that.
On Saturday night I sporadically decided that Sunday would be the first day of the walk. I had previously alerted my housemates of my plans, but on the eve of the journey I had no takers. Fortunately, I know of some other people who also think that walking all day long on the beach in the hot Gambian sun is a good idea. I quickly called Ebrima Tunkara and Paul Correa from my Environmental Management class, and they quickly agreed that the journey was necessary to our well beings. Ebrima and Paul are kindred spirits in that they seem to enjoy an adventure, a long walk, and the outdoors. Maybe they just like to wander aimlessly. I think I would do that if I could. But they are not aimless. If they were aimless, then I might have to call them wayfarers, but they wouldn’t be of the wayward variety. Wayward wayfarers are a fine breed at the end of the day, though.
It is my experience that aimlessness is not the style of science majors, although it is important to keep in mind that Nutt is a bio major. He might have what one could call a determined yet abstractly planned and resolute aimlessness. In the end, however, not all who wander are lost (that’s the title of a Chris Thile album, but I am not putting it in quotes, because I don’t know if he can truly lay claim to the phrase).
It was agreed upon that the expedition would start from my compound at 9am the next morning. I hailed a cab, or rather Jamie called Esa and spoke with him in French, and he came to pick us up. While I packed my internal frame pack with water for the journey, and sun shit for my white boy skin, Ebrima negotiated the rates while we waited for Paul.
It turns out that we could have taken a van all the way out to Tujereng but for some reason I wasn’t thinking about that. Esa gave a very good rate, although because of the distance of our trip, it was still pricy.
In the interim, Ebrima and I walked down the street to buy our fuel for the day to accompany the coolant that was already in the boot of the taxi. We ordered three tapalapa ak nen ak pomputeer ak Jumbo ak mayonnaise. Unrefrigerated hard boiled eggs, boiled potatoes, warm Gambian mayonnaise and Jumbo (an Old Bay like seasoning that makes everything taste better) on a long piece of Gambian tapalapa bread. Food for the soul. It is important to note that eggs in their raw form or hard boiled form do not need be refrigerated. Nor does mayonnaise, especially when it’s the sort pumped up with some kind of preservative that I’d rather not know about. This is definitely the filling meal of choice though for a long journey.
Soon after Paul arrived we were on our way, or so I thought. In the States, life seems to be instantaneous; everything functions or is supposed to function in an on demand fashion that overlooks the importance of conversation, relationships, greetings, relaxation and walking. Although I lived on an island all summer, and I operate on Island Time and now sometimes on Gambian Maybe Time, there is still a little bit of that American impatience breeding inside of my system. Maybe the tap water will kill it. You should be able to get transportation anywhere anytime you want it, right? You a very wrong my impatient friends. Get in your car and drive somewhere very rapidly and ignore the scenery on the way if you demand punctuality. Contrarily, if you are of the sort who kind of appreciates the concept that time is theoretical and not to be regimented, then go for a walk with nowhere in particular in mind, or come to the Gambia. I have become a fan of this way of thinking. Or rather, I would like to think that I always have been a fan, but I remain a fan. I know that to truly absorb myself in this concept of time could haunt me in the paved road reality in the land of Wal-Marts. But then again I don’t shop at Wal-Mart.
We left by around 9:30 although the driver had been waiting since 9, and after about a 5 minute drive from the house the fan belt on the engine went out. Esa drove us to find a friend who could match his price or come close, but his friend wasn’t around. Instead we found a driver who said 500 Delasis ($25) for the trip, but we eventually got him down to 350. Given the price of diesel burning in an old Mercedes-Benz and the distance we had to cover, the driver said it would cost him around 200 just in fuel.
Mr. Cab Man drove us out past the traffic light and past the nauseating attraction of Senegambia and into the countryside. After about a 30 minute drive…before finishing this sentence the Gambia in me must interject. It is a truly Western concept to quantify the amount of time it takes to get from one place to another. Any trip on any road should be variable, and in fact usually is. In addition, the time frame of 30 minutes is just an estimation from my feeble mind; an evaluation of ticking that comes from 19 years of training in an all too regimented society. Anyway, after a while we arrived in Tujereng, and Paul and the driver asked a local how to get to the beach. After some back tracking and couple more stops to ask directions in Wolof and the driver’s complaints in Wolof about the amount of fuel he was wasting, we turned off the main road.
Do you hear banjo music? The ominous kind that sounds festive at first but eventually turns into the sounds of nightmares past and yet to come. Do you hear it? Paddle faster. Do you hear it? I hear banjo music. Paddle faster, faster, faster.
Do you hear it? I sure don’t. That’s for West Virginia my friends, and Deliverance, not a tropical beach on the Smiling Coast of Africa. The driver navigated the Mercedes down a single lane sand road through bushes and palm trees, beeping every time we came to a curve in the road, because there was no way of seeing an oncoming vehicle. The road would have given quiche eating, SUV driving soccer moms and dads indigestion, but in the Gambia where football is football and not a bunch of overgrown men in body armor, sand roads have a special relationship with rear wheel drive cars.
We came to a clearing in the bush and heard the soft crash of the Atlantic Ocean on the white beach ahead. The three of us got out of the car, and I made sure to sniff the sea air, something that I have been trained to do every time I get out of the air conditioned car upon my arrival in Hatteras. It doesn’t hit you quite as strongly here when everything smells of fish, and your olfactory senses are not sheltered by the confines of air conditioning, but there is always something special about sea air.
I put my frame pack on my back, paid the driver and the three of us walked down to the beach. I quickly removed my shirt and drenched myself in Coppertone, while my dark skinned accomplices got themselves into beachwear. They didn’t need Coppertone. After loading their shirts and long pants (shorts are preferred on beaches of course) into my bag we began our walk south.
The beach was gorgeous. To the north we could see a group of fisherman pushing a boat up out of the surf and onto some timber. They rolled the boat on top of tree trunks onto higher ground, or rather higher sand. Although there were people to the north, there was not a building in sight to the north or south. There is nothing like the beauty of an undeveloped beach.
As we turned south we were immediately bombarded by a multi-ton amoeba of flesh, bones and hide. There was a herd of long horn cattle making their way towards us, with the cowboy meandering behind. I think if I was a cowboy and I had the choice I would walk my cattle on the beach side too. Even if you don’t like the ocean, it serves as a nice big road to transport the beasts from one grazing area to another. By the way, they are not really long horn cattle, they have long horns, but they are of a different variety. They are of the N’Dama variety to be exact, originating from the Fouta-Djallon highlands of Guinea. And I don’t think that a herd of cows here in the Gambia calls their master a cowboy, but for the sake of the combinations of letters you are processing, they are.
Paul, Ebrima and I walked for a while enjoying each others company and the splendor of the coconut tree lined beach that went on for thousands of miles south of us. The shoreline was peppered with Pyramidellidae or pyramid shells of all colors and sizes, and occasionally we would stumble upon some other type of sea life, living or dead (I think that that is the kind of shell from my research online. The shell is pointy and can be found on the beaches of the Atlantic in the Americas too).
Paul is a 28 year old teacher studying at the university with a knack for telling stories, and telling us about the trials and tribulations of whatever creature he comes across. I am 19 year old kayak tour guide, with a knack for telling tourists about marine eco-systems, I have an obsession of all things aquatic, and a fascination with meaningless bits of information. I’m sure that between Paul and I we would be enough to either annoy someone who would prefer to walk down the beach oblivious to their surroundings, or impress some silk shirt wearing tourist or weekend naturalist. Ebrima didn’t seem to mind us anyway.
We found the back of squid, a dead lady fish, a dead blue crab, various types of coral, and lots of ghost crabs peeping out of their holes. Paul remarked that Americans must call ghost crabs ghost crabs because they are so clever that they hide like phantoms whenever a passerby thinks about looking at them. According to Paul, ghost crabs to Gambians are just a generic land crab. But then of course there must be a distinction between the fiddler crab that frequents the river bed and marsh, and the ghost crab. I’m sure there is one, but Paul didn’t know it. There was also a typical medley of scallop and clam shells on the beach with the occasional conch thrown in. Eventually we found a natural sponge, and we broke it open. There were baby star fish moving around inside of it, and realizing that the sponge was nursery school, and bad things happen to people who destroy nursery schools, we put the sponge back in the ocean. Its tough work to walk on a beautiful undeveloped beach, but someone has to do it.
Sometime in the midst of all the pseudo marine biology talk that we were engaging in, we came to a hut built on the beach. We walked into it, and it had some kind of make shift counter top, a table carved out of drift wood, and a day bed (minus the mattress) in the center. The shack was small and open to the sea breeze; the perfect abode to transform into a surf shanty. A large tree stood watch next to it on the beach. It is the kind of place where any beach bum would be content to spend the rest of his days.
Despite all the splendor and beauty of the beach in between Tujereng and Sanyang we eventually came to a pipe. This pipe popped up out of the sand before going into the ocean. I don’t know whether the builders of the conduit intended it to be seen or not, but it was obvious that something was being dumped into the ocean. Whether it was runoff, sewer or some kind of chemical, the beach in that area was littered with a fair share of dead blue crabs. I really enjoy eating crabs, but I wasn’t very hungry for those.
For much of the trek we had been walking towards a sandy point in the distance, stopping every now and then to wade in the water. I also tried my hand at teaching Ebrima to swim and Paul to swim a little bit better. Floating is the key to swimming. Remember that. There is not much of a beach culture here, so not many people can swim. There are those that can, I would hope the fishermen can, but the number of human fish in this country is limited.
As we rounded the point we came to an idyllic cove where the crash of the ocean turned into a tranquil haven. The point was caressed with palms and an army of prickly pear cacti. Some of the fruits on the cacti were pink and ripe, so I showed Ebrima and Paul the joys of a fruit growing atop a porcupine. We all managed to get a few small hair-like needles in our hands as we peeled the fruits. In no time at all our hands appeared to be covered in blood. The deep red and staining juice of the fruit flowed out all over our hands as we ate the contents of the fruit, sucking the flesh off of the small cacti seeds. It was really a quite refreshing venture, although I think my hands would be forever red if I indulged in the fruit too often. As we were doing this, some lighter skin person passed on a four-wheeler. I’m sure we were quite the sight with our bloody hands.
Further on down the cove there were two sets of rock outcroppings with a smooth sandy beach in between. We took a rest here to relax, and continued the swimming lessons. On the land side of this exquisiteness were a few thatch roofed buildings and a hut, sheltering a large group of Lebanese Gambians enjoying their Sunday afternoon. Their Mercedes SUVs and other luxury vehicles were parked behind the structures. There were some older veiled women praying, lots of people in the water, and a fair share of men smoking hookah. From the looks of things the Lebanese here were a mix of Christian and Muslim. I went up to the hut to order a Coca-Cola which they told me who cost 20 Delasis. I told them that I would pay 15. Then they told me that they were selling fish benechin for 80, which sounded good, but I had already had my potato sandwich. 80 Delasis is a lot of money for benechin anyway. I greeted them and ordered my drink in Wolof. One of the guys behind the bar started laughing and making fun of his friend in Mandinka and then explained to me in English that I know more Wolof than his friend.
After another dip, we walked further down the beach and made it to the fish market on the beach of Sanyang. There we met Ebrima’s sister’s husband’s brother. Gambians would refer to a relative of that sort as an uncle or brother. Due to his age he was an uncle. He is a fisherman out of Sanyang, and Ebrima hoped to get some free fish out of him. He had yet to be out fishing for the day and was going out that evening so Ebrima was out of luck. There were all kinds of fish in the market, including lots and lots of skates.
Apparently skate tastes pretty good. It is similar to shark, which I have had, but I don’t recall ever eating skate. For those of you who frequent cheap seafood restaurants with buffets of frozen seafood and overcooked vegetables, you have probably eaten skate. Cheap restaurants in the States tend to take shark or skate spines, and cut them up and tell you that you are eating scallops. If you didn’t notice I don’t feel bad for you. Gambians know about fresh seafood. 85% of the seafood in the USA is imported. Americans don’t know about fresh seafood, unless you’re a Hatterasman. Then you know fresh seafood and you know not to go to Dirty Dicks, unless you think fresh is frozen fish caught from the Sysco food truck at 7:30 in the morning. Sorry naive tourists. I don’t feel bad for you either.
After smelling some fish for a while, we went to the beach for another swim, and then we joined some of the locals to kick a football back and forth. Eventually there were enough of us to play a small game of post football. Four other Gambians (the ones with the ball) and a young guy from Holland working at a clinic in Sanyang joined us for the game. After we were sufficiently exhausted we headed back to the market to find transportation home.
The three of us hoped into the back of a miniature Renault four by four. It was one of those old little utilitarian car/trucks that in town are usually used to deliver bread. This one had two side facing wooden benches built in to take people from the market to town. From Sanyang we went to a car park and caught a gelleh gelleh into Birkama. Gelleh gellehs are these big vans that are trying to pass for buses that can have chickens and goats along for the ride as well. They are generally these old Mercedes buses with raised suspensions and roaring diesel engines packed with twenty some people and a big pile of luggage on the roof. They are often also decorated with bright colors. Bright pink, green and yellow usually make the things sufficiently flashy. This one fit the description in every way except for the bright colors. Instead it was forest green. How plain of them.
From Birkama we took a smaller van into Westfield, and back to our respective homes. For each person the transportation back was 22 Delasis, plus a 50 Delasis ride from the market to Sanyang. Much more reasonable than a town trip. I learned my lesson.
It was a long walk, and an exhausting day, but well worth it. There is nothing like being a wandering wayfarer. I quite enjoy it. The beach is calling me. I must return for another adventure another day. If for some odd reason I spontaneously disappear from the real world, assume that I am on some isolated beach. Besides, pristine beaches are much more real than the drab monotony of strip mall parking lots.
Love and Peace,
Nathan
PS: I believe that it is cold in the States for the majority of you by now. I am sorry. I forgot to take my camera on this journey. I am extremely sorry about that. Oh and by the way last weekend I was in Jufureh where Kunta Kinte is from and Jan Jan Bureh, a British slave trading town. I saw hippos in the river on a boat trip and monkeys in the trees. The experience was quite interesting, but I've yet to feel motivated to write about it. I might write about it another time. Ask me about it if you are interested. Cheers
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Surreptitiously Senegambia
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.
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.
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.
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