As I sit in a cyber cafe in Ghana, I wonder how much of West Africa's internet usage is young African men posing as women and exchanging emails and instant messages with white men overseas. Hopefully the fiscal returns justify this...
First, a couple of quotes from a headmaster/principals meeting way back in March, discussing logistics of a prospective Cluster sports day and other issues.
Headmaster #1: "So it's agreed - three schools will contribute a sack of rice, the other eight will sell theirs and contribute the money."
Headmaster #2: "Don't forget to put the rice in another sack or the bitiks [stores] will try to cheat you because they know you shouldn't sell it."
Later, Cluster Monitor: "And, by the grace of God, your school will have a [football] field."
Headmaster of Bati Ndarr Lower Basic School: "God - sometimes he ignores things."
CM: "You! You are a Fula!"
August 1 - On the second day of our journey into Guinea, the driver took advantage of the rain and tossed some Omo powdered soap onto the windscreen. He then turned on the wipers to administer his improvised washer fluid. As I laughed at this display (carried out while driving), one of the passengers exclaimed, "C'est Afrique!", a familiar refrain after our night of breakdowns and washed-away roads.
August 3 - Exchange overheard on our abortive first attempt to reach Mali(ville).
Passenger: "Are we turning around because of the accident?"
Driver: "No, no, this is a different engine problem."
The accident in question took place just a couple of minutes after we left the car park/garage as our driver inexplicably veered off the road and into the gutter. We all got out and literally lifted the car out (gutters are deep in West Africa). Some time later the engine started acting up and the driver elected to return to the garage.
Sierra Leone
"I hear that in America they call the African a 'sex machine.' Is this true?" Fellow passenger on the road to Bo, while the driver attempts to fix the axle.
Liberia
Christiana, from Sierra Leone: "What you're doing is illegal."
Liberian police officer: "Just give me something small."
All ECOWAS citizens are officially free to travel through member states without visas or paying fees. As the ride from the border to Monrovia demonstrated (with 10 police/immigration stops on a 150 kilometre trip), this often matters little to low-paid officials. As far as extracting bribes, the Liberians on this stretch of road are the worst I've seen in my West African travels.
Christopher, a Nigerian in the car that was hit up so often for bribes: "Ghanaian taxis are really comfortable - only one person sits in the front seat."
17 September 2007
15 September 2007
Time for an update!
I am presently in Grand Bassam, the old colonial capital of Cote d'Ivoire. I really should have attempted the occasional update while travelling, but the computers aren't always reliable, and I am often lazy.
Anyway; I shall move chronologically and gradually post descriptions of my travels:
circa July 27, 2007
Yesterday we had a nice visit to the Salls in Nord Foire (sp? it's on the outskirts of Dakar). The mother Fatou is a sister of my host father in Njau (Chebo), so I have stayed with them on past visits to Dakar. I was here with Jon, who had just arrived a couple of mornings ago (and, as luck would have it, his luggage arrived early the next morning.
Elhaas's wife Astou cooked a delicious chicken yassa, and I got to say goodbye to the Salls, we watched Senegalese TV/Brazilian soap operas, and I again got grief for not marrying Sohna, their cute cousin who dropped in.
Mot Lamin's coworker Jack, from (PR) China; had some interesting geopolitical news from The Gambia for me -- President Jammeh has announced that should China invade Taiwan, he is ready to send 1,000 soldiers to Taiwan's aid. Gambia, you may recall, is one of Taiwan's allies/client states in its quest for international recognition, along with Nauru, Vanuatu and others.
Senegal recently switched allegiances to China (well, in 2005). Around that time, in September '05, they had a falling-out with Gambia after the Gambians doubled the fares for their ferries. So the Senegalese government imposed a blockade of sorts, requiring all trucks going between Dakar and Casamance to drive around The Gambia. At the time, Senegalese president Abdoulaye Wade proposed the following solutions:
1) build bridges (the river's not very wide),
2) let Senegal control ferries of their own, or
3) dig a tunnel running under The Gambia since it's so small.
The matter was resolved a few weeks later, when Gambia sheepishly returned ferry prices to their pre-blockade rates.
Anyway; I shall move chronologically and gradually post descriptions of my travels:
circa July 27, 2007
Yesterday we had a nice visit to the Salls in Nord Foire (sp? it's on the outskirts of Dakar). The mother Fatou is a sister of my host father in Njau (Chebo), so I have stayed with them on past visits to Dakar. I was here with Jon, who had just arrived a couple of mornings ago (and, as luck would have it, his luggage arrived early the next morning.
Elhaas's wife Astou cooked a delicious chicken yassa, and I got to say goodbye to the Salls, we watched Senegalese TV/Brazilian soap operas, and I again got grief for not marrying Sohna, their cute cousin who dropped in.
Mot Lamin's coworker Jack, from (PR) China; had some interesting geopolitical news from The Gambia for me -- President Jammeh has announced that should China invade Taiwan, he is ready to send 1,000 soldiers to Taiwan's aid. Gambia, you may recall, is one of Taiwan's allies/client states in its quest for international recognition, along with Nauru, Vanuatu and others.
Senegal recently switched allegiances to China (well, in 2005). Around that time, in September '05, they had a falling-out with Gambia after the Gambians doubled the fares for their ferries. So the Senegalese government imposed a blockade of sorts, requiring all trucks going between Dakar and Casamance to drive around The Gambia. At the time, Senegalese president Abdoulaye Wade proposed the following solutions:
1) build bridges (the river's not very wide),
2) let Senegal control ferries of their own, or
3) dig a tunnel running under The Gambia since it's so small.
The matter was resolved a few weeks later, when Gambia sheepishly returned ferry prices to their pre-blockade rates.
19 July 2007
Mangee dem!
So, soon I will be an RPCV and enjoying some post-service travel in West Africa. My friend Jon is coming to Dakar on the 25th. From there we'll make our way to Guinea-Conakry, to visit another good friend of mine. While there, I'll try to put to use my rudimentary Puel Fouta (different from the Fula spoken in the Njau area) that my bean sandwich lady Kindeh taught me. She also gave me directions to her brother's house ("Get out of the car in the Bambeto Quartier and start asking for him"), so we may have a couple of people to visit. I'm looking forward to some nice upcountry hiking, and sour milk. This is going to be great!
After that, Jon will return and I shall chart a course for Ghana. After eight years away, I'm eager to catch up with old friends there, and to see what changes have taken place. I've heard and read a lot of good things about how the situation in Ghana is gradually improving, and I remember it as a place where people seemed motivated by the possibility of bettering their lives in the future. To be sure, it's still a very poor place, but I remember there being a lot of spirit there.
I'm not yet sure which route I shall take to Ghana; it will depend on the rains and the available modes of transport. I will go via Liberia or Mali, and I have potential hosts in both.
As for my Peace Corps service, I am ready to move on. I feel that I worked pretty hard while I was in Njau, although often on the micro-level, with individuals. Also, my direct style, though refashioned as time went on, often rubbed teachers the wrong way, so that I wasn't as effective as I could have been. Still, I got to know the community very well and shared ideas and thoughts with a lot of people. I think this can slowly lead people to reevaluate their life choices; it certainly helped to give me some perspective and to make me more accommodating. As for the students, they were the most fun to work with, since the reverence of elders here and general norms of politeness served me well here (i.e. I don't have to be as diplomatic around kids). In all, a satisfying experience and one that will help me with my future activities. I will miss Njau.
As for my post-travel plans, I expect to fly to the UK from Ghana. There I will stay with some good friends in Edinburgh, Scotland, work for up to a year, and look into graduate school in education -- either in the UK or through one of the Peace Corps Fellows programs.
After that, Jon will return and I shall chart a course for Ghana. After eight years away, I'm eager to catch up with old friends there, and to see what changes have taken place. I've heard and read a lot of good things about how the situation in Ghana is gradually improving, and I remember it as a place where people seemed motivated by the possibility of bettering their lives in the future. To be sure, it's still a very poor place, but I remember there being a lot of spirit there.
I'm not yet sure which route I shall take to Ghana; it will depend on the rains and the available modes of transport. I will go via Liberia or Mali, and I have potential hosts in both.
As for my Peace Corps service, I am ready to move on. I feel that I worked pretty hard while I was in Njau, although often on the micro-level, with individuals. Also, my direct style, though refashioned as time went on, often rubbed teachers the wrong way, so that I wasn't as effective as I could have been. Still, I got to know the community very well and shared ideas and thoughts with a lot of people. I think this can slowly lead people to reevaluate their life choices; it certainly helped to give me some perspective and to make me more accommodating. As for the students, they were the most fun to work with, since the reverence of elders here and general norms of politeness served me well here (i.e. I don't have to be as diplomatic around kids). In all, a satisfying experience and one that will help me with my future activities. I will miss Njau.
As for my post-travel plans, I expect to fly to the UK from Ghana. There I will stay with some good friends in Edinburgh, Scotland, work for up to a year, and look into graduate school in education -- either in the UK or through one of the Peace Corps Fellows programs.
18 July 2007
Faith in the Market...
Prior to my visit to Touba, my aunt Judy remarked on the large presence of Senegalese vendors in Italy these days.
An Economist article last year delved further into these itinerant traders, the vast majority of whom are Mourides. So here is a little more background on the Mouride diaspora. I switched from the Economist's link as it is now in their archive and unavailable, but at least here is the introduction.
An Economist article last year delved further into these itinerant traders, the vast majority of whom are Mourides. So here is a little more background on the Mouride diaspora. I switched from the Economist's link as it is now in their archive and unavailable, but at least here is the introduction.
13 July 2007
There IS wildlife in The Gambia!
In May, after a pair of abortive attempts, seven students, one teacher and I went to River Gambia National Park (I thought they had their own web presence, but cannot find it) across the river from Wassu-Kuntaur, near Sambel Kunda.
It was a nice environmental education weekend for the kids, and I think they appreciated the message about the value of animals, and the chance to see some. While Njau does have a little bush nearby, it's buffeted on all sides by farms and villages, leaving very little wildlife. In addition to the animals and relative remoteness of the setting, we also got to spend time on the river, something Njau kids don't do much (Njau's 12 kms from the river), and even scaled some rare hills.
The animals we saw included these hippos and some chimpanzees. The chimps were reintroduced to these midriver islands starting in 1978; before then they'd been extinct here since early in the 20th century. No visitors are allowed on the island, so the chimpanzees are left in peace, with the occasional visit from researchers. The hippos, too, benefit from the low level of development in the area, and restrictions in boat travel around the islands.
Lastly, one of the activities our students did was a blindfolded tree identification competition. The leaves from the various trees were hung on a line and my kids then felt, smelled and tasted them. Of our seven students, six scored 9 or more out of 11. I have trouble identifying them without being blindfolded! The kids are also well versed on the various uses of the trees, which helped our hosts emphasize the importance of preserving and planting as many trees as possible.
It was a nice environmental education weekend for the kids, and I think they appreciated the message about the value of animals, and the chance to see some. While Njau does have a little bush nearby, it's buffeted on all sides by farms and villages, leaving very little wildlife. In addition to the animals and relative remoteness of the setting, we also got to spend time on the river, something Njau kids don't do much (Njau's 12 kms from the river), and even scaled some rare hills.
The animals we saw included these hippos and some chimpanzees. The chimps were reintroduced to these midriver islands starting in 1978; before then they'd been extinct here since early in the 20th century. No visitors are allowed on the island, so the chimpanzees are left in peace, with the occasional visit from researchers. The hippos, too, benefit from the low level of development in the area, and restrictions in boat travel around the islands.
Lastly, one of the activities our students did was a blindfolded tree identification competition. The leaves from the various trees were hung on a line and my kids then felt, smelled and tasted them. Of our seven students, six scored 9 or more out of 11. I have trouble identifying them without being blindfolded! The kids are also well versed on the various uses of the trees, which helped our hosts emphasize the importance of preserving and planting as many trees as possible.
12 July 2007
Saying goodbyes
At the end of the year we had a few 'programmes' -- the Gambian word for parties. I ended up having three -- library helpers, school, women of Njau -- which may conjure up memories of my long goodbye amongst my friends in DC.
They were a good time, with music sets and goat meat at the school (see the first picture of the boys cleaning out the intestines), but the one at my compound (the red gates on the left mark the entrance) may have been more fun. There the women and girls just turned over a few metal bowls and plastic buckets, forged an open space and invited people to dance. The ataaya, lait and juice mixes flowed freely (compliments of my host mom and others). The parties were good fun, and a chance to say goodbye and thanks to a lot of my friends.
The last picture has me in Demba Sey's compound. Squatting is Danielle, my sister's toma/namesake, who is enjoying some leftover rice. Amie is sitting next to me. Danielle's older sister Isatou (well, she's just a week older) was afraid of the camera so she's trying to hide in her mother Kumba's fana.
They were a good time, with music sets and goat meat at the school (see the first picture of the boys cleaning out the intestines), but the one at my compound (the red gates on the left mark the entrance) may have been more fun. There the women and girls just turned over a few metal bowls and plastic buckets, forged an open space and invited people to dance. The ataaya, lait and juice mixes flowed freely (compliments of my host mom and others). The parties were good fun, and a chance to say goodbye and thanks to a lot of my friends.
The last picture has me in Demba Sey's compound. Squatting is Danielle, my sister's toma/namesake, who is enjoying some leftover rice. Amie is sitting next to me. Danielle's older sister Isatou (well, she's just a week older) was afraid of the camera so she's trying to hide in her mother Kumba's fana.
The iron ore train to Nouadibou
Some time ago, I belatedly wrote about my travels to Mauritania with my long-suffering friend Fatou Jallow. Well, the NYTimes Africa journalist was just there as, in additional to an article about a nascent campaign to wean Mauritanians off their love for hefty women, I came across an article about the train we rode to Nouadibou. I apologize if the article soon becomes inaccessible, but you may find it by searching for "Tough Commute on a Train Not Meant for People".
We did not go the whole distance, but instead joined the train at the 'station' in Choum, after a back of the pickup truck ride through the desert from Atar. We went westbound instead, so the cars were full of iron ore dust, which we flattened out to lay down in for the night.
Interestingly, it seems that large numbers of Pakistanis are using the train en route to Europe. You may recall Nouadibou as the port where many would-be sub-Saharan African migrants set out by boat for the Canary Islands and, it is hoped, greener pastures. This is an incredibly dangerous undertaking, as many boats are lost, with one unfortunate crew's remains eventually being discovered in the Bahamas. As far as I could tell, Fatou and I were the only non-Africans on the train, but we didn't check the passenger berths.
The funny thing is that this very alarmist article is in the same magazine whose cover story implores Americans to cast aside fear as we attempt to restore our place in the world.
We did not go the whole distance, but instead joined the train at the 'station' in Choum, after a back of the pickup truck ride through the desert from Atar. We went westbound instead, so the cars were full of iron ore dust, which we flattened out to lay down in for the night.
Interestingly, it seems that large numbers of Pakistanis are using the train en route to Europe. You may recall Nouadibou as the port where many would-be sub-Saharan African migrants set out by boat for the Canary Islands and, it is hoped, greener pastures. This is an incredibly dangerous undertaking, as many boats are lost, with one unfortunate crew's remains eventually being discovered in the Bahamas. As far as I could tell, Fatou and I were the only non-Africans on the train, but we didn't check the passenger berths.
The funny thing is that this very alarmist article is in the same magazine whose cover story implores Americans to cast aside fear as we attempt to restore our place in the world.
Medical breakthroughs in The Gambia
Given that I've been dutifully serving as an ambassador of sorts for my home country, I've done my best to avoid holding forth on Gambian politics and other developments.
The time seems right, though, to share some developments that took place in January. At that time, President Jammeh announced that he had discovered cures for asthma and AIDS, and viewers were treated to television programs showing the President treating the patients. This was widely reported in the domestic media, less so on the international scene.
Recently, though, I have come across two irreverent international pieces on the President's breakthrough. One was in a recent Economist. The other is a clip on Youtube, which I've heard much about but never before seen. Today was my inaugural viewing, with Meet the President - Yahya Jammeh - 14 May 07 - Part 1 as my first Youtube video. Riveting stuff.
The time seems right, though, to share some developments that took place in January. At that time, President Jammeh announced that he had discovered cures for asthma and AIDS, and viewers were treated to television programs showing the President treating the patients. This was widely reported in the domestic media, less so on the international scene.
Recently, though, I have come across two irreverent international pieces on the President's breakthrough. One was in a recent Economist. The other is a clip on Youtube, which I've heard much about but never before seen. Today was my inaugural viewing, with Meet the President - Yahya Jammeh - 14 May 07 - Part 1 as my first Youtube video. Riveting stuff.
An old picture from February '06
My good friend Sekouba took this picture in the market in Farafenni. I was haggling with Bitch, sorry, Ms. Bitch, over the trousers I'm holding. He held firm so I had to break down and pay 35 Dalasis ($1.20). The trousers have served me well to this day, and will be my 'smart' pair during my travels.
Religious life in The Gambia
So this won't be a very insightful piece; I want to upload the pictures. As I've mentioned in previous posts, the 'western' style schools face competition from madrassas, although attempts are being made to integrate them into the overall educational system.
Anyway, my friend Fatim (Grade 5 at Njau) goes to Dara (Koranic classes) on the weekends. In May her class had a day of teri, or recitals, so I dropped by her village (Lebba) on my way home to Njau from Kombo. So here are a couple of pictures of the community gathered around to listen, and Fatim performing her recitation. She was a bit nervous, but did well and helped show others that you can study both.
The Gambia as a whole is some 90-95% Muslim, and our students get daily Koranic instruction in the timetable. School ends at 1:45, so that everyone can perform ablutions in time for the 2 o'clock prayer, or thereabouts. So here are a couple of pictures of the daily ritual, with the consent of the teachers. Afterwards, it acts as our ad hoc announcements forum.
Anyway, my friend Fatim (Grade 5 at Njau) goes to Dara (Koranic classes) on the weekends. In May her class had a day of teri, or recitals, so I dropped by her village (Lebba) on my way home to Njau from Kombo. So here are a couple of pictures of the community gathered around to listen, and Fatim performing her recitation. She was a bit nervous, but did well and helped show others that you can study both.
The Gambia as a whole is some 90-95% Muslim, and our students get daily Koranic instruction in the timetable. School ends at 1:45, so that everyone can perform ablutions in time for the 2 o'clock prayer, or thereabouts. So here are a couple of pictures of the daily ritual, with the consent of the teachers. Afterwards, it acts as our ad hoc announcements forum.
11 June 2007
Mail Run hardship (for the recipients)
In April, Colleen and I and John the driver went on PC-TG's monthly mail run. The Gambia is so small that PCVs' mail can be delivered (well, to varying degrees of success) to their 100 or so sites in a six day trek.
Colleen's description of our delivery debacles is a good rendition of our trip, so I will not say much more. It was great fun to drive all over The Gambia, and take in the varied environments -- flat grassland, flat mangroves, flat forested areas. I also enjoyed seeing how PCVs dealt with their different living situations, and talking to their host families. In a tweak of the traditional mail run survey, we opted to interview PCVs' families while we were at it. Between Colleen's Mandinka and my Wolof, we were able to converse with just about all the compounds we visited (non-Mandinkas and -Wolofs usually know at least one of them as a second or third language). One notable exception was Stephanie/Bintu's site, which is way the fuck out there.
Colleen's description of our delivery debacles is a good rendition of our trip, so I will not say much more. It was great fun to drive all over The Gambia, and take in the varied environments -- flat grassland, flat mangroves, flat forested areas. I also enjoyed seeing how PCVs dealt with their different living situations, and talking to their host families. In a tweak of the traditional mail run survey, we opted to interview PCVs' families while we were at it. Between Colleen's Mandinka and my Wolof, we were able to converse with just about all the compounds we visited (non-Mandinkas and -Wolofs usually know at least one of them as a second or third language). One notable exception was Stephanie/Bintu's site, which is way the fuck out there.
16 March 2007
A Madrassa in the City
I had long promised to visit my friend Bubacarr, who works as an Ustas (Koranic teacher) at a dara/madrassa in Thies, Senegal's second city, during the dry season. Bubacarr comes home to Njau to farm during the rainy season, so that's how I know him. So it was that, after the Magal and a stopover in Dakar, I came to visit Thies.
I expected that some parents in Njau and other villages had left their sons in Bubacarr’s tutelage. I was surprised to discover, though, that all of his talibes/students were from around Njau, having moved 300 kilometres away to Thies. It seemed to me counterintuitive that Bubacarr, an Njau native, and his talibes would leave their homes and families for an expensive, unfamiliar city in another country. As it turns out, the rationale is economic.
If Bubacarr’s madrassa were in Njau, parents would not be able to pay him for his services. There are rural madrassas where children toil in their Ustas’s fields (see my July 18 2006 post on this), but Bubacarr lacks the land for this to be a viable option.
Moving to Thies proved feasible, though. The talibes’ parents still don’t have any money, and there’s no subsistence work available, but one can get by thanks to the West African and Islamic values of hospitality and zakat (alms giving), respectively.
Bubacarr rents a compound where he and his 40 or so students live and study. With water fees (there’s a tap in the compound), rent comes to 12,000 CFA (about $22) a month – a heady sum when your students have no money, nor food. This is where the aforementioned kindness of strangers, prescribed by social and religious norms, comes in.
The talibes spend a couple of hours every morning out with old tomate paste cans (for taking collections), offering prayers to people kind enough to make a contribution. A similar thing happens at lunch and dinner. The children return home with extra rice from compound food bowls and divvy it up at meal times. Bubacarr, too, has a couple of neighbours that provide him with meals, out of respect for the work he does teaching children the Koran and Islamic values.
The talibes study for a few hours before and after lunch, and for another hour or so at night. Older students teach the younger boys, with Bubacarr there to teach the older guys and to answer questions that come up. Bubacarr likened his role to that of my headmaster at Njau’s primary school.
So Bubacarr’s dara relies solely on charity to operate. At first this seemed unrealistic, but if every kid collects 25-50 CFA a day that works out to 1000-2000 CFA. Bubacarr had enough to splurge 2500 CFA on dinner for us (leaving me feeling a little sheepish), and is even contemplating renting a slightly nicer room. The funds also supported his two wives (now three as he has married his brother’s widow) and children at home in Njau.
So the urban dara system, in this case, works quite well financially. On the other hand, living quarters are cramped, the diet’s not great (but on a par with Njau), and Bubacarr and his talibes are far from home. Also, one boy is there simply because he ran out of money to attend government school, and Bubacarr has poached a few other kids from Njau’s primary school. It would be nice if more children simply took the two track approach – about 30 Njau LBS students pay for extra Koranic classes with the school’s Ustas – rather than making it an either/or proposition, but the money’s simply not there to support a madrassa in Njau.
Addendum: I did a brief Internet search on talibes, and most posts deplored the living conditions of dara students. Although the living conditions are difficult, I saw a generally happy atmosphere at Bubacarr’s school, and the talibes seemed to be treated reasonably well.
15 March 2007
The Magal pilgrimage in Touba!
On 6 March 2007 I traveled from Njau for the Magal/annual pilgrimage to Touba, Senegal. Assembled here are some random notes from letters I’ve been writing to friends.
The Magal is celebrated by followers of the Mouride sect, and commemorates the founder’s return from 20 years’ French-imposed exile in 1907. So this city gets up to two million visitors during the Magal (to put that in perspective, I think Saudi Arabia allots passes for two million pilgrims for the Hadj). About half of Senegal’s 11-12 million people are Mourides and a fair amount of Gambian Wolofs are too (and some Mauritanians). I traveled there with Njau’s imam, an old pa (Baay Pateh) from Njau who’s keeping an eye on me, and a few other people from Njau and the surrounding villages (we hired a gelegele/minibus, which went off the beaten track, heading north from Njau). Quite a few other people from the Njau area are here; I bumped into the gelegele driver from our Grade 6 class trip last May, among others. The first afternoon we were there, I visited the mosque with Baay Pateh. It’s very large and ornate, and there are several adjunct shrines/mausoleums dedicated to past leaders of the Mourides. Every main street branching out from the mosque is filled with shops and sidewalk stalls (I think we passed over 100 cell phone stores). Many of the Senegalese working overseas are Mourides, and there’s a lot of trade back and forth. A major characteristic of this and other Muslim brotherhoods in the region is their reverence of their Serignes/marabouts/leaders, and their belief that these leaders can be conduits of messages or prayers to Allah. A lot of other Muslims might consider this elevation of leaders to be un-Islamic, but it dovetails nicely with local traditions of consulting wizened men for help with health, family, or financial problems or needs.
Besides checking out the market/city, we spent our time hanging out in three compounds that our imam and Pateh know (we are among hundreds of people sleeping in their courtyards), chatting with various pilgrims curious about my presence here, going on expeditions to places to take a bath (Baay Pateh knows a couple of compounds about 30 minutes’ walk from us that had pretty reasonable bathing places, plus we didn’t have to fetch water – one time Pateh simply pulled rank and used his seniority to annex one unfortunate young man’s bucket of water and place in line), eating, and resting.
So that’s about all I can tell you about Touba. Most of my information may not be completely accurate, and I use some terms interchangeably that may not be completely correct. Still, it gives you a small idea of what the trip was like, along with this little ‘survival guide’ which I’ve put together for prospective Peace Corps travelers to the Magal.
Magal Survival Guide
Although this won’t match the attention to detail in Tina and Nate’s Mauritania brief (“The pit latrine in the Atar PCV house issues a pleasant report when you drop a solid stool…”), I will do my best to be helpful. I highly recommend the trip to anyone who is curious (some command of Wolof or French is vital – or a companion with those qualities).
Try to leave a couple of days before the Magal, as traffic and accommodation both get really tight.
Travel with Gambian or Senegalese friends
If your village/town has a fair amount of Wolof compounds, there’s a decent chance there are Mourides among them (some Mauritanians are Mourides too). Travelling with locals should mean that logistics (transport, accommodation) are taken care of.
Bring your own water?
This was the suggestion of my host father, who claims cholera is widespread in Touba during the Magal. To be sure the taps end up surrounded by cesspools, and the water tastes awful. I brought along a 20 liter bidong for myself and the old pa whose fare I sponsored, but this only lasted two days as the less-prepared members of our party helped themselves. Bottled/shrink-wrapped water can be bought, but it sold out the day of the Magal.
Bathing
This could be a battle. You could borrow someone’s bucket, or bring your own. On the plus side, the taps always run. I lucked out as my old pa is a Magal old hand, and found us some good bathing places, although they were a half hour’s walk away.
Sleeping
Plan on sleeping in what you wear. You may want to bring extra layers, and socks, as it was quite chilly and you’ll likely be exposed to the elements. You’ll need a mat or something to roll out over the sand. Mats can be bought in Touba at the usual rates. Sleeping will be cramped; the last night we squeezed our mat between a compound wall and a taxi.
Visiting the Grand Mosque
This can be a bit tricky (although they apparently give tours during quieter periods), but it you dress the part, speak some Wolof (a little Arabic would probably completely flummox and quieten interrogators), and have someone who can vouch for you (Baay Pateh banged on about how I fasted over Ramadan and was generally living as they do), you should be fine.
Theft
The crowds are overwhelming, so try to stash somewhere on your person any valuables you don’t need at hand. I found my khaftaan quite handy as it covered the items in my trousers. I left my clothes and such where my people were ensconced and nothing was taken. Basically, the usual precautions apply.
Toilets
The standard pit latrines, just count on sharing it with a few hundred people.
Food
There are plenty of street vendors to buy food from, and tones of bitiks. If your host is a Serigne, or Mouride spiritual leader, he’ll want to make a good show of taking care of his acolytes. Breakfast was tea and bread; lunch was benichin with vegetables and beef(!); dinner was cous with sauce and more beef. It was kind of like Tobaski, except cows were slaughtered instead of rams or goats.
EXPENSES
Roundtrip fare from CRD-North: 5000 CFA / D 250 / $9
Large mat: 4000 CFA / D 200 / $7.50
Drinks: 300 CFA / D 15 per person per day / $0.50
The Magal is celebrated by followers of the Mouride sect, and commemorates the founder’s return from 20 years’ French-imposed exile in 1907. So this city gets up to two million visitors during the Magal (to put that in perspective, I think Saudi Arabia allots passes for two million pilgrims for the Hadj). About half of Senegal’s 11-12 million people are Mourides and a fair amount of Gambian Wolofs are too (and some Mauritanians). I traveled there with Njau’s imam, an old pa (Baay Pateh) from Njau who’s keeping an eye on me, and a few other people from Njau and the surrounding villages (we hired a gelegele/minibus, which went off the beaten track, heading north from Njau). Quite a few other people from the Njau area are here; I bumped into the gelegele driver from our Grade 6 class trip last May, among others. The first afternoon we were there, I visited the mosque with Baay Pateh. It’s very large and ornate, and there are several adjunct shrines/mausoleums dedicated to past leaders of the Mourides. Every main street branching out from the mosque is filled with shops and sidewalk stalls (I think we passed over 100 cell phone stores). Many of the Senegalese working overseas are Mourides, and there’s a lot of trade back and forth. A major characteristic of this and other Muslim brotherhoods in the region is their reverence of their Serignes/marabouts/leaders, and their belief that these leaders can be conduits of messages or prayers to Allah. A lot of other Muslims might consider this elevation of leaders to be un-Islamic, but it dovetails nicely with local traditions of consulting wizened men for help with health, family, or financial problems or needs.
Besides checking out the market/city, we spent our time hanging out in three compounds that our imam and Pateh know (we are among hundreds of people sleeping in their courtyards), chatting with various pilgrims curious about my presence here, going on expeditions to places to take a bath (Baay Pateh knows a couple of compounds about 30 minutes’ walk from us that had pretty reasonable bathing places, plus we didn’t have to fetch water – one time Pateh simply pulled rank and used his seniority to annex one unfortunate young man’s bucket of water and place in line), eating, and resting.
So that’s about all I can tell you about Touba. Most of my information may not be completely accurate, and I use some terms interchangeably that may not be completely correct. Still, it gives you a small idea of what the trip was like, along with this little ‘survival guide’ which I’ve put together for prospective Peace Corps travelers to the Magal.
Magal Survival Guide
Although this won’t match the attention to detail in Tina and Nate’s Mauritania brief (“The pit latrine in the Atar PCV house issues a pleasant report when you drop a solid stool…”), I will do my best to be helpful. I highly recommend the trip to anyone who is curious (some command of Wolof or French is vital – or a companion with those qualities).
Try to leave a couple of days before the Magal, as traffic and accommodation both get really tight.
Travel with Gambian or Senegalese friends
If your village/town has a fair amount of Wolof compounds, there’s a decent chance there are Mourides among them (some Mauritanians are Mourides too). Travelling with locals should mean that logistics (transport, accommodation) are taken care of.
Bring your own water?
This was the suggestion of my host father, who claims cholera is widespread in Touba during the Magal. To be sure the taps end up surrounded by cesspools, and the water tastes awful. I brought along a 20 liter bidong for myself and the old pa whose fare I sponsored, but this only lasted two days as the less-prepared members of our party helped themselves. Bottled/shrink-wrapped water can be bought, but it sold out the day of the Magal.
Bathing
This could be a battle. You could borrow someone’s bucket, or bring your own. On the plus side, the taps always run. I lucked out as my old pa is a Magal old hand, and found us some good bathing places, although they were a half hour’s walk away.
Sleeping
Plan on sleeping in what you wear. You may want to bring extra layers, and socks, as it was quite chilly and you’ll likely be exposed to the elements. You’ll need a mat or something to roll out over the sand. Mats can be bought in Touba at the usual rates. Sleeping will be cramped; the last night we squeezed our mat between a compound wall and a taxi.
Visiting the Grand Mosque
This can be a bit tricky (although they apparently give tours during quieter periods), but it you dress the part, speak some Wolof (a little Arabic would probably completely flummox and quieten interrogators), and have someone who can vouch for you (Baay Pateh banged on about how I fasted over Ramadan and was generally living as they do), you should be fine.
Theft
The crowds are overwhelming, so try to stash somewhere on your person any valuables you don’t need at hand. I found my khaftaan quite handy as it covered the items in my trousers. I left my clothes and such where my people were ensconced and nothing was taken. Basically, the usual precautions apply.
Toilets
The standard pit latrines, just count on sharing it with a few hundred people.
Food
There are plenty of street vendors to buy food from, and tones of bitiks. If your host is a Serigne, or Mouride spiritual leader, he’ll want to make a good show of taking care of his acolytes. Breakfast was tea and bread; lunch was benichin with vegetables and beef(!); dinner was cous with sauce and more beef. It was kind of like Tobaski, except cows were slaughtered instead of rams or goats.
EXPENSES
Roundtrip fare from CRD-North: 5000 CFA / D 250 / $9
Large mat: 4000 CFA / D 200 / $7.50
Drinks: 300 CFA / D 15 per person per day / $0.50
Embargoed for Release – My Mauritanian Travels Revealed
In August 2006 I set off to Mauritania with my friend Fatou Jallow. She had visitors who were leaving from Dakar, so we met there. We spent a night in St. Louis, a very nice colonial town (the oldest French settlement in West Africa, I believe) on the coast (with the old part of town on an island) which was the colonial capital of Senegal and Mauritania. With independence St. Louis ended up in Senegal (though Dakar is now the capital) so Nouakchott (Mauritania’s capital) was an ad hoc creation. It’s now grown to a population of over a million, but it’s a dusty place without much to see. I think Kombo (the region outside Banjul) is somewhat livelier, and it has more amenities and places to go out to. Both have their well-heeled expat classes, but Gambia has tourists to cater to as well.
After a couple of days in Nouakchott we headed inland (though only 5kms from the sea NKTT is basically desert). There we based ourselves in Atar (relying on the hospitality of a PCV-Mauritania) and went on trips to Terjit (an oasis enveloped by small mountains) and Chinguetti (apparently the 7th holiest city in Islam, although I couldn’t say why). Terjit was really nice, as there was a little rock swimming pool in the stream, we could do a little hiking in the cooler hours (I use the word ‘hiking’ lightly but it was a different landscape after a year in a country that never rises more than 300 metres above sea level), we could engage in some people watching (Mauritanian families came for day trips and picnics), and one of the workers gave us free food from the other customers’ orders. Chinguetti was pretty too, and we went on a short camel ride and spent the night camping in the desert.
After that we shared the back of a pickup truck with ten other people and their luggage and headed north to Choum. Once there we hung out with our fellow passengers, drinking ataaya (the green tea with sugar that is ubiquitous throughout the region), eating dates, and chatting. Mauritanian transit towns have little rooms or covered areas where people can lay about on mats or mattresses, resting, chatting, drinking tea, or eating. After it cooled down a bit, some of the young men went out to play petanque/bocce ball. I had a few gos, but didn’t do very well. I can blame the heavy metal balls, grassless pitch, and the claim made by my companions that Mauritania is the 7th best nation in the world when it comes to petanque.
Several hours later, after 9 o’clock that night, the longest train in the world pulled into Choum. There is no station to speak of but, as this is the only northern route west to Nouadhibou, it stops there to pick up passengers. There is a passenger car in the back, but we and most other travelers opted for the tops of the other cars, where you pay no fare. After scrambling on top (with some of our companions from the truck), we set to work leveling the iron ore dust and settled down for the night. The ride was nice, though cold and (iron ore) dusty, and there wasn’t much to do besides look at the stars and desert and listen to the train rumble along the tracks.
After 13 hours and 400-500 kms (not a bad pace by Gambian south bank highway standards) we disembarked outside Nouadhibou. The train was quite an impressive sight in daylight (it’s said to be some 2.3 kms long), although the same could not be said for us. It took an hour-long shower to get myself reasonable clean, and I was still discovering pockets of iron ore dust a couple of weeks on.
Nouadhibou, Mauritania’s second city, was an interesting place, although we only had a day there. It’s right on the ocean, so it’s a bit cooler than NKTT, and you aren’t buffeted by dust from all sides – just three directions. It’s a big fishing port, one of the main industries in Mauritania. Most fishermen are black Africans (as opposed to fairer skinned, Arabic-looking Maurs), and some are from other countries, Senegal in particular. As a result, Nouadhibou is quite a diverse city, with lots of Wolofs and others around. Another, less positive, reason the city is a magnet for West Africans is that it is the prime launching point for boats of migrants aiming for Spain’s Canary Islands. From there we headed back to NKTT (which does have a nice market and okay museum) and then onwards to Senegal.
Overall I had a grand time in Mauritania. Language wasn’t too difficult, as I remembered French from some pre-Peace Corps courses I took in DC, plus we occasionally found Wolof speakers. A lot of Mauritanians travel to Senegal and Gambia for work (they run much of the fabric trade and many general stores in The Gambia), and Wolof is the lingua franca of trade in both places (to the chagrin of Mandinkas in Gambia).
Mauritanians on the whole treated us very well, and we experienced no problems in a country that is more conservative than SeneGambia. Before I traveled, a lot of Gambians warned me that “Naars” (Mauritanians of North African extraction) were wicked. I experienced nothing of this but I think that is because, as a visitor, I was no privy to the sometimes strained relations between more Arabic-orientated Mauritanians and black African Mauritanians, most of whom are from the southern area around the Senegal River, where there is some farming land. There have been race riots in the past, and black Mauritanians sometimes feel a bit marginalized economically and politically. Still, I saw generally friendly interactions between Mauritanians of all stripes. As for in The Gambia, the degree to which Mauritanians get along with Gambians varies from person to person. The same, of course, is true of PCVs in Gambia.
One potentially confounding way of life is the Mauritanian style of dress. Virtually all of the men wear either blue or white khaftaan tops, with no sleeves (the fabric does spill over the arms but is folded up), and with similar gold embroidery. In Gambia I use the (slight) variation in clothing as a crutch that helps me remember names. Black Eminem t-shirt – Eliman; blue Italy football shirt – Abdoulie; black halter top/tube top under shredded shirt – a boy named Samba; etc. I would not be afforded this luxury in Mauritania, with its uniform, albeit beautiful, national dress.
After a couple of days in Nouakchott we headed inland (though only 5kms from the sea NKTT is basically desert). There we based ourselves in Atar (relying on the hospitality of a PCV-Mauritania) and went on trips to Terjit (an oasis enveloped by small mountains) and Chinguetti (apparently the 7th holiest city in Islam, although I couldn’t say why). Terjit was really nice, as there was a little rock swimming pool in the stream, we could do a little hiking in the cooler hours (I use the word ‘hiking’ lightly but it was a different landscape after a year in a country that never rises more than 300 metres above sea level), we could engage in some people watching (Mauritanian families came for day trips and picnics), and one of the workers gave us free food from the other customers’ orders. Chinguetti was pretty too, and we went on a short camel ride and spent the night camping in the desert.
After that we shared the back of a pickup truck with ten other people and their luggage and headed north to Choum. Once there we hung out with our fellow passengers, drinking ataaya (the green tea with sugar that is ubiquitous throughout the region), eating dates, and chatting. Mauritanian transit towns have little rooms or covered areas where people can lay about on mats or mattresses, resting, chatting, drinking tea, or eating. After it cooled down a bit, some of the young men went out to play petanque/bocce ball. I had a few gos, but didn’t do very well. I can blame the heavy metal balls, grassless pitch, and the claim made by my companions that Mauritania is the 7th best nation in the world when it comes to petanque.
Several hours later, after 9 o’clock that night, the longest train in the world pulled into Choum. There is no station to speak of but, as this is the only northern route west to Nouadhibou, it stops there to pick up passengers. There is a passenger car in the back, but we and most other travelers opted for the tops of the other cars, where you pay no fare. After scrambling on top (with some of our companions from the truck), we set to work leveling the iron ore dust and settled down for the night. The ride was nice, though cold and (iron ore) dusty, and there wasn’t much to do besides look at the stars and desert and listen to the train rumble along the tracks.
After 13 hours and 400-500 kms (not a bad pace by Gambian south bank highway standards) we disembarked outside Nouadhibou. The train was quite an impressive sight in daylight (it’s said to be some 2.3 kms long), although the same could not be said for us. It took an hour-long shower to get myself reasonable clean, and I was still discovering pockets of iron ore dust a couple of weeks on.
Nouadhibou, Mauritania’s second city, was an interesting place, although we only had a day there. It’s right on the ocean, so it’s a bit cooler than NKTT, and you aren’t buffeted by dust from all sides – just three directions. It’s a big fishing port, one of the main industries in Mauritania. Most fishermen are black Africans (as opposed to fairer skinned, Arabic-looking Maurs), and some are from other countries, Senegal in particular. As a result, Nouadhibou is quite a diverse city, with lots of Wolofs and others around. Another, less positive, reason the city is a magnet for West Africans is that it is the prime launching point for boats of migrants aiming for Spain’s Canary Islands. From there we headed back to NKTT (which does have a nice market and okay museum) and then onwards to Senegal.
Overall I had a grand time in Mauritania. Language wasn’t too difficult, as I remembered French from some pre-Peace Corps courses I took in DC, plus we occasionally found Wolof speakers. A lot of Mauritanians travel to Senegal and Gambia for work (they run much of the fabric trade and many general stores in The Gambia), and Wolof is the lingua franca of trade in both places (to the chagrin of Mandinkas in Gambia).
Mauritanians on the whole treated us very well, and we experienced no problems in a country that is more conservative than SeneGambia. Before I traveled, a lot of Gambians warned me that “Naars” (Mauritanians of North African extraction) were wicked. I experienced nothing of this but I think that is because, as a visitor, I was no privy to the sometimes strained relations between more Arabic-orientated Mauritanians and black African Mauritanians, most of whom are from the southern area around the Senegal River, where there is some farming land. There have been race riots in the past, and black Mauritanians sometimes feel a bit marginalized economically and politically. Still, I saw generally friendly interactions between Mauritanians of all stripes. As for in The Gambia, the degree to which Mauritanians get along with Gambians varies from person to person. The same, of course, is true of PCVs in Gambia.
One potentially confounding way of life is the Mauritanian style of dress. Virtually all of the men wear either blue or white khaftaan tops, with no sleeves (the fabric does spill over the arms but is folded up), and with similar gold embroidery. In Gambia I use the (slight) variation in clothing as a crutch that helps me remember names. Black Eminem t-shirt – Eliman; blue Italy football shirt – Abdoulie; black halter top/tube top under shredded shirt – a boy named Samba; etc. I would not be afforded this luxury in Mauritania, with its uniform, albeit beautiful, national dress.
19 September 2006
A wasp strikes Alhagie!
So last week I came home in the afternoon, only to discover that my little brother Alhagie had been stung by a wasp on his hand and left cheek. It quickly swelled up and soon Alhagie had trouble seeing.
This was the source of much amusement, particularly to his mom Maram. Alhagie promptly covered himself with a muso/veil, and skipped two days of school out of pain and embarrassment (classes had not started yet). It was very difficult for me to prevent myself from laughing too, but I managed to restrain myself.
The next evening, though, Alhagie was a little more philosophical about his predicament and wanted to record it for posterity. So he asked me to take pictures. This was a very cathartic moment for me as I felt free to let out my laughter at the hilarity of Alhagie's appearance.
Please note that the first, before/normal picture of Alhagie was actually taken after the stinging. So you can see that he has safely recovered. But it will be some time until I forget the image of Alhagie struggling to see the meal in our food bowl.
Normal (above) and swollen (below).
Along with Alhagie are his older brother Omar Dye, Omar's friend Sait, and Alhagie and Omar's mom Maram.
This was the source of much amusement, particularly to his mom Maram. Alhagie promptly covered himself with a muso/veil, and skipped two days of school out of pain and embarrassment (classes had not started yet). It was very difficult for me to prevent myself from laughing too, but I managed to restrain myself.
The next evening, though, Alhagie was a little more philosophical about his predicament and wanted to record it for posterity. So he asked me to take pictures. This was a very cathartic moment for me as I felt free to let out my laughter at the hilarity of Alhagie's appearance.
Please note that the first, before/normal picture of Alhagie was actually taken after the stinging. So you can see that he has safely recovered. But it will be some time until I forget the image of Alhagie struggling to see the meal in our food bowl.
Normal (above) and swollen (below).
Along with Alhagie are his older brother Omar Dye, Omar's friend Sait, and Alhagie and Omar's mom Maram.
18 September 2006
A visit with my friends Matarr and Mbombeh
Sorry, I forgot about this post until now. I started it in December. Here now are my friends Matarr and Mbombeh. In fact, I'm visiting them for lunch today.
Matarr and Mbombeh lived in Njau but moved to Latri Kunda, in Kombo, several months ago. When I'm in town I usually drop by and see them. So these pictures are from a visit there in April.
Top left is Matarr in the yellow vest. His son Mohamed is in red on the right.
In the picture on the right, Mbombeh is having her hair braided by her daughter Fanna, and her son Alieu is sitting in front.
The group of kids are enjoying some Jumkin (juice mix), an occasional treat.
The World/Gambia is Flat
29 August -- I've been passing the time reading "The World is Flat," a book my parents sent me for my birthday (among others - thanks guys!). The gist of the book is that the world is flattening or converging -- creating new opportunities and challenges for billions of people as barriers to education and employment come down. So I have been reading with some trepidation about this new world, considering the ramifications for The Gambia.
I am fearful that most of this country will miss out on this flattening of the global playing field. I haven't read the book's section of developing countries yet, but the author (Thomas Friedman) seems sanguine about the aggregate positive effects of globalization on the world's population. Unfortunately, Gambia seems largely removed from these changes. To be sure, modern communication is slowly proliferating, but the country seems to be falling further and further behind the rest of the world. There are some improvements, like the paving of the north bank highway, but these all seem to be driven by foreign donors. Most people want to go work overseas (and they do work hard if they get there), but the money made is devoted to micro-level changes here -- a nicer house, a few years of generator-provided electricity. Reading about legions of Chinese and Indians toiling away and improving their skills, it is difficult to contrast that with what I see here, where many teachers may not read a single book during the school holidays.
Yet just a kilometer from here is a functioning, albeit poor, country. All of Senegal's large towns have near-constant electricity. Even out here, if I walk 3-4 kms to Makorgui, the site of the nearest Senegalese school, the government has installed solar and the village has light at night. When I was riding a horsecart to my host mother's village for her brother's wedding I saw the ambient light in the distance, which I regarded with the fascination I would presumably reserve for an alien spaceship landing.
In short, I get rather discouraged when I think about Gambia's prospects. It's one of the reasons I'm contemplating another PC posting -- to visit a country where the attitude towards poverty and life is not largely one of abject resignation. To be sure, I exaggerate, and there are a lot of kids, and some adults, with lots of creativity, curiosity and motivation.
UPDATE: Having finished the book, I thought I'd comment briefly on the chapter on developing countries. I think Mr. Friedman's arguments that states should open up their markets, lessen red tape, invest in education and infrastructure and so on are laudable. And to the benificent leader who is not terribly enamored with remaining in office, these are great moves.
However, I see very little motivation for an administration that is less altruistic or visionary in outlook. Gambia has very little incentive in such a situation, as the leaders' hold on power and information would be negatively affected. As things stand, Gambia gets enough aid (some 60% of the education budget, for instance) that there is little financial pressure to increase surveillance of public employees or to reduce spending on wasteful projects.
The international community, too, seems to have a symbiotic relationship with an administration interested in touting minor infrastructure improvements. They draw positive attention for NGO's donors and Gambian citizens alike, both of whom rely on others for information -- the NGOs and the largely government-controlled Gambian media, respectively.
And Gambia's too insignificant for larger countries to pressure it to change, although America deserves credit for (quietly) dropping Gambia from its list of deserving countries receiving aid through the Millenium Challenge Grant/Account, or whatever it's called. More forceful follow-up is needed, though, if Gambia's leaders are to undertake more than piecemeal moves to improve governance.
I am fearful that most of this country will miss out on this flattening of the global playing field. I haven't read the book's section of developing countries yet, but the author (Thomas Friedman) seems sanguine about the aggregate positive effects of globalization on the world's population. Unfortunately, Gambia seems largely removed from these changes. To be sure, modern communication is slowly proliferating, but the country seems to be falling further and further behind the rest of the world. There are some improvements, like the paving of the north bank highway, but these all seem to be driven by foreign donors. Most people want to go work overseas (and they do work hard if they get there), but the money made is devoted to micro-level changes here -- a nicer house, a few years of generator-provided electricity. Reading about legions of Chinese and Indians toiling away and improving their skills, it is difficult to contrast that with what I see here, where many teachers may not read a single book during the school holidays.
Yet just a kilometer from here is a functioning, albeit poor, country. All of Senegal's large towns have near-constant electricity. Even out here, if I walk 3-4 kms to Makorgui, the site of the nearest Senegalese school, the government has installed solar and the village has light at night. When I was riding a horsecart to my host mother's village for her brother's wedding I saw the ambient light in the distance, which I regarded with the fascination I would presumably reserve for an alien spaceship landing.
In short, I get rather discouraged when I think about Gambia's prospects. It's one of the reasons I'm contemplating another PC posting -- to visit a country where the attitude towards poverty and life is not largely one of abject resignation. To be sure, I exaggerate, and there are a lot of kids, and some adults, with lots of creativity, curiosity and motivation.
UPDATE: Having finished the book, I thought I'd comment briefly on the chapter on developing countries. I think Mr. Friedman's arguments that states should open up their markets, lessen red tape, invest in education and infrastructure and so on are laudable. And to the benificent leader who is not terribly enamored with remaining in office, these are great moves.
However, I see very little motivation for an administration that is less altruistic or visionary in outlook. Gambia has very little incentive in such a situation, as the leaders' hold on power and information would be negatively affected. As things stand, Gambia gets enough aid (some 60% of the education budget, for instance) that there is little financial pressure to increase surveillance of public employees or to reduce spending on wasteful projects.
The international community, too, seems to have a symbiotic relationship with an administration interested in touting minor infrastructure improvements. They draw positive attention for NGO's donors and Gambian citizens alike, both of whom rely on others for information -- the NGOs and the largely government-controlled Gambian media, respectively.
And Gambia's too insignificant for larger countries to pressure it to change, although America deserves credit for (quietly) dropping Gambia from its list of deserving countries receiving aid through the Millenium Challenge Grant/Account, or whatever it's called. More forceful follow-up is needed, though, if Gambia's leaders are to undertake more than piecemeal moves to improve governance.
Eleven Things I Like About My Host Father
In homage to Chebo Ceesay. One day I will put up a picture.
1. He spends 150% of my rent money on ataaya.
2. When he hums along to "Ain't no sun shining when she's gone."
3. His son might be the fattest small boy in The Gambia.
4. He misses broccoli.
5. He reads with his son sometimes.
6. He doesn't beat his kids.
7. He has one wife and two kids and doesn't want more of either (especially the former).
8. His wife Maram asked me if albinos in America are black.
9. His older son fetches water for the compound [this is not considered men's work here].
10. His relative engagement with the outside world keeps me from forgetting how most people regard U.S. foreign policy.
11. When he calls to his wife, she answers "Ceesay!"
1. He spends 150% of my rent money on ataaya.
2. When he hums along to "Ain't no sun shining when she's gone."
3. His son might be the fattest small boy in The Gambia.
4. He misses broccoli.
5. He reads with his son sometimes.
6. He doesn't beat his kids.
7. He has one wife and two kids and doesn't want more of either (especially the former).
8. His wife Maram asked me if albinos in America are black.
9. His older son fetches water for the compound [this is not considered men's work here].
10. His relative engagement with the outside world keeps me from forgetting how most people regard U.S. foreign policy.
11. When he calls to his wife, she answers "Ceesay!"
17 September 2006
Pictures of Dakar, courtesy of Jeremy
My friend Jeremy sent me a disposable camera, and he has just sent the prints and a CD to me. These pictures are from my trip to Dakar, Senegal, in April 2006.
This is a small picture of the crowd in Dakar (it belies the scope) assembled for Independence Day celebrations and the procession of Senegalese President Abdoulaye Wade and everyone's favourite reformed dictator, Muammar Qaddafi. Below are posters of Wade and Qaddafi. Five other African heads of state came too, but they barely rated a mention in the national press, nor did they take part in the main parade.
Goree Island was a major waypoint in the slave trade. Nowadays it's a rather tacky environment, although there is some interesting architecture. Lots of restaurants and touts, though. The old forts (left relatively unmarred by tourism) in Ghana are much more thought provoking, and so is the ruined fort at James Island in The Gambia (nearby Alex Haley's "Roots" village Juffureh is not up to much).
This is a small picture of the crowd in Dakar (it belies the scope) assembled for Independence Day celebrations and the procession of Senegalese President Abdoulaye Wade and everyone's favourite reformed dictator, Muammar Qaddafi. Below are posters of Wade and Qaddafi. Five other African heads of state came too, but they barely rated a mention in the national press, nor did they take part in the main parade.
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| A view from the southern tip of Dakar. Also, Dakar is on the western tip of the peninsula that is the westernmost land on the African continent. During a future visit I shall trespass on Club Med grounds and make it to westernmost West Africa (Cape Verde excepted). |
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| A distant view of Goree Island. |
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| The Palais du Justice and main bus station. |
16 September 2006
post-Gambia travel plans - come along!
So it's a bit early to give much thought to my post-service travel plans (although the time is coming quickly - July 2007). But those of you in the real, workaday world, who may be inclined to join me for some of my wanderings but would have to budget and allocate time, deserve a sneak peak to consider it.
Here are my plans, such as they are. Essentially, I am going overland to Ghana, where I would probably then spend at least a few weeks. Everything in between is up in the air.
DEFINITE features of my itinerary:
- visiting Guinea, where a good friend is working (in Conakry), and where there is beautiful hiking (in the Futa Djalon);
- visiting Guinea-Bissau, and checking out the archipelagos just off the coast for a few days;
- the aforementioned return to Ghana after 8 years, to catch up with friends across the country;
- a visit to Senegal's Casamance region, intermittent skirmishes permitting
POSSIBLE waypoints and stops on the journey:
- Bamako-Dakar train - something I'd really like to do
- Togo
- Benin (esp. Abomey)
- perhaps Niger, and even Nigeria?
So, if you are interested in any or all of this trip, give it some thought and get in touch with me soon-soon. My plans are pretty flexible, so someone could join me just for a couple of weeks, and I could come meet you in whatever city you fly into. Getting here is expensive, but travelling around is more reasonable. There's not a lot of wildlife compared to east and southern Africa, but I was thinking of visiting a game park and traipsing around behind some elephants. Plus The Gambia has hippos! (Mali does too.)
I'm not too picky about what I need from a companion on the road. It couldn't hurt if you knew a little French. Mine is awful, but enough to get by on. Wolof isn't of much use beyond Gambia and Senegal, although some people spoke it in Mauritania. I will try to learn a little more Fula, but their dialects vary.
Come travel around West Africa with me! If I'd used my digital camera, I could have put up some pictures of Mauritania, which was a pretty amazing trip. Maybe I'll go through some of the other volunteers' files. My writeup on that adventure is coming soon.
Here are my plans, such as they are. Essentially, I am going overland to Ghana, where I would probably then spend at least a few weeks. Everything in between is up in the air.
DEFINITE features of my itinerary:
- visiting Guinea, where a good friend is working (in Conakry), and where there is beautiful hiking (in the Futa Djalon);
- visiting Guinea-Bissau, and checking out the archipelagos just off the coast for a few days;
- the aforementioned return to Ghana after 8 years, to catch up with friends across the country;
- a visit to Senegal's Casamance region, intermittent skirmishes permitting
POSSIBLE waypoints and stops on the journey:
- Bamako-Dakar train - something I'd really like to do
- Togo
- Benin (esp. Abomey)
- perhaps Niger, and even Nigeria?
So, if you are interested in any or all of this trip, give it some thought and get in touch with me soon-soon. My plans are pretty flexible, so someone could join me just for a couple of weeks, and I could come meet you in whatever city you fly into. Getting here is expensive, but travelling around is more reasonable. There's not a lot of wildlife compared to east and southern Africa, but I was thinking of visiting a game park and traipsing around behind some elephants. Plus The Gambia has hippos! (Mali does too.)
I'm not too picky about what I need from a companion on the road. It couldn't hurt if you knew a little French. Mine is awful, but enough to get by on. Wolof isn't of much use beyond Gambia and Senegal, although some people spoke it in Mauritania. I will try to learn a little more Fula, but their dialects vary.
Come travel around West Africa with me! If I'd used my digital camera, I could have put up some pictures of Mauritania, which was a pretty amazing trip. Maybe I'll go through some of the other volunteers' files. My writeup on that adventure is coming soon.
15 September 2006
The Travails of My Trousers
Lazily taken from a letter I wrote to my good friend Harry while in Dakar, Senegal.
9 August -- My trousers are being held hostage by the Senegalese government. I discovered a tear along the seam of one of the legs yesterday, so today I took them to a local tailor and, after a prolonged negotiation, I left expecting to pick them up after lunch. I returned after 3, but the tailor's was still closed. Assuming he was still at lunch, I came back again a bit before 5.
When I got there, the men at the neighbouring store told me the tailor was gone, the place locked, and he might not return today. Given that I had (faint) hopes of leaving tomorrow morning, I found this a bit vexing. I asked if anyone knew the tailor's phone number, but they said no and, when pressed, that no one around there knew how to contact him. Cryptically, they said he doesn't have a key anyway.
So I settled down and played a game of foosball. Another thing that Senegal has over Gambia, besides electricity, roads, and the like, is foosball tables galore. Going down a town’s main street, I see one every two or three blocks. I don’t know if they are truly foosball mad (or perhaps the French brought higher smoking rates and a love of foosball to their colonies), but they are truly abundant.
A little later the tailor did return. He promptly told me the trousers were ready. I suggested that he fetch them. At this point one of the assembled men decides to tell me that he is the one in charge off the sewing booth – it resembles a freight container from a ship – but he cannot open it.
He explains that the space is rented from the municipal authority, which decided that afternoon to lock out tenants truant on their rent payments. He told me he would go tomorrow to pay his arrears and collect the key. When? In the morning, Insh’Allah (God willing). Does he have the money to pay the rent? No. Does he know where he’s going to get the money from? Nope. So, when might he be back to open the place if he does happen to get the money? After 1 o’clock, Insh’Allah. Reiterating that I may be leaving tomorrow does not faze him. In fact, he, the tailor and the rest of the crew found it all quite entertaining.
I have to admit it was amusing (aided in this hindsight as I was by a can of Carlsberg given to me by a Nigerian who stayed in the room across from me), but it crystallizes some depressing facts of life here – that so much depends on the arbitrary whims of government officials (the closings took place without any notice or warning), that nobody gives a shit when things are delayed or held up, and the compulsion to withhold information unless asked repeatedly.
24 August – In a happy ending, I picked up the trousers on my way back down from Mauritania!
9 August -- My trousers are being held hostage by the Senegalese government. I discovered a tear along the seam of one of the legs yesterday, so today I took them to a local tailor and, after a prolonged negotiation, I left expecting to pick them up after lunch. I returned after 3, but the tailor's was still closed. Assuming he was still at lunch, I came back again a bit before 5.
When I got there, the men at the neighbouring store told me the tailor was gone, the place locked, and he might not return today. Given that I had (faint) hopes of leaving tomorrow morning, I found this a bit vexing. I asked if anyone knew the tailor's phone number, but they said no and, when pressed, that no one around there knew how to contact him. Cryptically, they said he doesn't have a key anyway.
So I settled down and played a game of foosball. Another thing that Senegal has over Gambia, besides electricity, roads, and the like, is foosball tables galore. Going down a town’s main street, I see one every two or three blocks. I don’t know if they are truly foosball mad (or perhaps the French brought higher smoking rates and a love of foosball to their colonies), but they are truly abundant.
A little later the tailor did return. He promptly told me the trousers were ready. I suggested that he fetch them. At this point one of the assembled men decides to tell me that he is the one in charge off the sewing booth – it resembles a freight container from a ship – but he cannot open it.
He explains that the space is rented from the municipal authority, which decided that afternoon to lock out tenants truant on their rent payments. He told me he would go tomorrow to pay his arrears and collect the key. When? In the morning, Insh’Allah (God willing). Does he have the money to pay the rent? No. Does he know where he’s going to get the money from? Nope. So, when might he be back to open the place if he does happen to get the money? After 1 o’clock, Insh’Allah. Reiterating that I may be leaving tomorrow does not faze him. In fact, he, the tailor and the rest of the crew found it all quite entertaining.
I have to admit it was amusing (aided in this hindsight as I was by a can of Carlsberg given to me by a Nigerian who stayed in the room across from me), but it crystallizes some depressing facts of life here – that so much depends on the arbitrary whims of government officials (the closings took place without any notice or warning), that nobody gives a shit when things are delayed or held up, and the compulsion to withhold information unless asked repeatedly.
24 August – In a happy ending, I picked up the trousers on my way back down from Mauritania!
Three kids from Njau
This is a photo in my house of Mariama Sallah, Sally Ceesay, and Fatoumata Sallah, who dropped by one evening for a little studying.
25 July 2006
Photos of the AgFo-Ed. group match
Pictures from our football match. Look at the beautiful Atlantic ocean. The education team is on defense on the right (I'm wearing red).
24 July 2006
Education volunteers dispel myth: they can run!
A few notes for the uninitiated: IST (In-Service Training), AgFos (AgroForestry volunteers), Ed(ucation)
Friday, March 31, saw the merciful end of our respective ISTs, and the new AgFos and newish Ed group decided to have an American football match on the beach.
The AgFos seemed pretty confident of victory in the days leading up to the match, and talked a lot of trash (Lie Sinyaan: "When I'm done with you, you're going to wish your daddy pulled out early."). The Ed group was a little intimidated by those taut, wiry bodies, honed by days working in the fields and searching for counterparts. Add to this the fact that we were missing three of our stalwarts - the sublime Robert (who was taking a bath), the insane Lie Njie (and the prospect of a post-football Frisbee game), and one of our tall man-eaters. But six months of watching kids kneeling in the sun with their arms over their heads meant that the Educators know a thing or two about doling out punishment.
Faced with the disinterest of half our team ("No lunch or per diem? Fuck it."), we managed to field 7 education volunteers for the 5-on-5 affair. By contrast, the AgFos came in droves, with a dozen or so willing participants. Still, the Teachers had a tight rotation and Jannetty, for one, tagged in and out with aplomb.
After a tentative first few series, the match was tied at 1. But a few defensive stops by the Education group put the score at 4-1, and the rout was on. The ignominy continued till a score of 10-6. At that point we decided to finish things off with a "first to three," leaving a total of 13-7. For one day, Tie-Dye Mai was known as Touchdown Maimuna, and Xaji came through with some incongruously athletic defensive plays. Yusufa was to opposing receivers what Katia is to dance partners. The wide margin of victory, however, prevents us from referring to it as a “grind it out win”.
Although cowed, and a little shellshocked, by the beating administered by classroom- and office-bound educators, the AgFos deserve some credit for their showing. Most of them turned out to play, in contrast to the lackadaisical education volunteers. Also, Peter had the block of the game when he put Guttridge flat on his back during one kickoff. They also bought us beers, the stakes of the game. One can only wonder if they regret freezing out Rodney, who apparently expressed interest in playing, and has wanted to lay Alieu out for a while now. Good dinner and drinks followed at the Sandplover.
Back at the Stodge, though, the AgFos rallied like true PCTG veterans, masters of the sedentary arts. Not ones for drowning their sorrows, they turned to the Stodge TV for comfort. The Ed vols, by contrast, were a little frightened by the content ("Texas Chainsaw Massacre") and retreated to the clubs of Senegambia.
In the meantime, the Ed group awaits a challenge (and the promise of hotties in the next Ed batch). Perhaps the health groups can offer more resistance?
Friday, March 31, saw the merciful end of our respective ISTs, and the new AgFos and newish Ed group decided to have an American football match on the beach.
The AgFos seemed pretty confident of victory in the days leading up to the match, and talked a lot of trash (Lie Sinyaan: "When I'm done with you, you're going to wish your daddy pulled out early."). The Ed group was a little intimidated by those taut, wiry bodies, honed by days working in the fields and searching for counterparts. Add to this the fact that we were missing three of our stalwarts - the sublime Robert (who was taking a bath), the insane Lie Njie (and the prospect of a post-football Frisbee game), and one of our tall man-eaters. But six months of watching kids kneeling in the sun with their arms over their heads meant that the Educators know a thing or two about doling out punishment.
Faced with the disinterest of half our team ("No lunch or per diem? Fuck it."), we managed to field 7 education volunteers for the 5-on-5 affair. By contrast, the AgFos came in droves, with a dozen or so willing participants. Still, the Teachers had a tight rotation and Jannetty, for one, tagged in and out with aplomb.
After a tentative first few series, the match was tied at 1. But a few defensive stops by the Education group put the score at 4-1, and the rout was on. The ignominy continued till a score of 10-6. At that point we decided to finish things off with a "first to three," leaving a total of 13-7. For one day, Tie-Dye Mai was known as Touchdown Maimuna, and Xaji came through with some incongruously athletic defensive plays. Yusufa was to opposing receivers what Katia is to dance partners. The wide margin of victory, however, prevents us from referring to it as a “grind it out win”.
Although cowed, and a little shellshocked, by the beating administered by classroom- and office-bound educators, the AgFos deserve some credit for their showing. Most of them turned out to play, in contrast to the lackadaisical education volunteers. Also, Peter had the block of the game when he put Guttridge flat on his back during one kickoff. They also bought us beers, the stakes of the game. One can only wonder if they regret freezing out Rodney, who apparently expressed interest in playing, and has wanted to lay Alieu out for a while now. Good dinner and drinks followed at the Sandplover.
Back at the Stodge, though, the AgFos rallied like true PCTG veterans, masters of the sedentary arts. Not ones for drowning their sorrows, they turned to the Stodge TV for comfort. The Ed vols, by contrast, were a little frightened by the content ("Texas Chainsaw Massacre") and retreated to the clubs of Senegambia.
In the meantime, the Ed group awaits a challenge (and the promise of hotties in the next Ed batch). Perhaps the health groups can offer more resistance?
18 July 2006
The guy with the mustache...
Well, my blog has been linked to by my fellow PCVs and some of our newly arrived Education trainees perused my page. I met the Wolof trainees this past weekend as I was asked by PC to go down to Sare Samba and help out a little. I managed to provide a little encouragement, chiefly by showing that after a year I am still pretty hopeless (and no longer remember how to set up a water filter). It was fun to revisit my old stomping grounds, and I really get on well with my old host family there. A couple of the trainees had visited my blog, and the chief thing they remembered was my facial hair of a few months ago. "Didn't you have a mustache once?" was the question.
Janitorial Hubris
From the annals of indignities heaped on our school caretaker…
Given the low rung on the pay scale occupied by our school caretaker, his attempt to become the only Njau Lower Basic School staff member to retain two wives was bound to raise eyebrows. With a lower salary than even our unqualified teachers (whose monthly earning were unfavourably compared by our deputy headmaster to the money needed to feed an English dog – see June 4 entry), Ebou Incha’s gambit to take on a recently-widowed mother of three children seemed a classic case of overreach. Ousainou, our headmaster and, along with my host father Chebo, a staunch advocate of having only one wife, was quick to announce his disapproval of Ebou’s assuming this added financial burden. Alas, a great many destitute Gambian men cannot resist the allure and status of a second wife (which aims to obfuscate, yet simultaneously worsen, their sorry financial states), and Ebou Incha proved no exception. After Ebou gave a warugar/bride price which included two cows, the new wife Jai arrived at the beginning of the 2005-06 school year, just preceding my own arrival.
It wasn’t long afterwards that Ebou pointed to his onerous financial obligations when I pestered him about his daughter Incha’s dropping out of school. It soon came to light, too, that Ebou’s first wife Sohna was not happy to have Jai join the household, with the ill feelings exacerbated by the compound’s precarious financial footing. Soon Jai was spending most evenings in a neighbouring compound which I sometimes visit. Jai often bugged me about buying her stuff but, as I get that treatment from quite a few people, I thought little of it. After about six months of acrimony and deprivation, Jai decided she’d had enough and returned to her in-laws’ across the river in Niamina.
Following this turn of events, the women of Njau decided to do a “roast” of Sohna – Ebou’s first wife. To the accompaniment of drumming and dancing the women teased Sohna, needling her for driving away Jai, who could’ve been a big help with work around the compound and on the farm. Ebou recounted this final humiliation to Ousainou, with the coup de grace being that Malick Ceesay (yours truly) came along to watch insult be heaped on top of injury (in truth I came for the music and dancing and only learned of the event’s agenda later on).
Given the low rung on the pay scale occupied by our school caretaker, his attempt to become the only Njau Lower Basic School staff member to retain two wives was bound to raise eyebrows. With a lower salary than even our unqualified teachers (whose monthly earning were unfavourably compared by our deputy headmaster to the money needed to feed an English dog – see June 4 entry), Ebou Incha’s gambit to take on a recently-widowed mother of three children seemed a classic case of overreach. Ousainou, our headmaster and, along with my host father Chebo, a staunch advocate of having only one wife, was quick to announce his disapproval of Ebou’s assuming this added financial burden. Alas, a great many destitute Gambian men cannot resist the allure and status of a second wife (which aims to obfuscate, yet simultaneously worsen, their sorry financial states), and Ebou Incha proved no exception. After Ebou gave a warugar/bride price which included two cows, the new wife Jai arrived at the beginning of the 2005-06 school year, just preceding my own arrival.
It wasn’t long afterwards that Ebou pointed to his onerous financial obligations when I pestered him about his daughter Incha’s dropping out of school. It soon came to light, too, that Ebou’s first wife Sohna was not happy to have Jai join the household, with the ill feelings exacerbated by the compound’s precarious financial footing. Soon Jai was spending most evenings in a neighbouring compound which I sometimes visit. Jai often bugged me about buying her stuff but, as I get that treatment from quite a few people, I thought little of it. After about six months of acrimony and deprivation, Jai decided she’d had enough and returned to her in-laws’ across the river in Niamina.
Following this turn of events, the women of Njau decided to do a “roast” of Sohna – Ebou’s first wife. To the accompaniment of drumming and dancing the women teased Sohna, needling her for driving away Jai, who could’ve been a big help with work around the compound and on the farm. Ebou recounted this final humiliation to Ousainou, with the coup de grace being that Malick Ceesay (yours truly) came along to watch insult be heaped on top of injury (in truth I came for the music and dancing and only learned of the event’s agenda later on).
Career Advancement and Self-Improvement vs. The Siren's Call of Green Tea
July 7 – The choice may seem obvious to the uninitiated, but when I returned to Njau from an 8 km walk to Mbolgoh and Njokoben to greet parents and explain their children’s report cards and exam results (and my hopes to get half the kids to repeat Grade 1), I discovered two of Njau’s “unqualified” teachers waiting for transport at the police station cum gelegele stop. It was 7:30 in the evening and my erstwhile colleagues were hoping to travel to Mansa Konko, where the next morning they would take (and hopefully pass this time) the entrance exam for The Gambia College’s teacher certification program.
Given that the journey entails at least three gelegele/minivan rides (and the potential for breakdowns) and a ferry ride, plus the fact that Friday, being the Sabbath, is a horrible day for catching transport, a noontime departure is prudent – especially when considering the stakes. If I have to be in Mansa Konko by a certain time, I’d allow 8 hours on a normal day.
Today was (mercifully) the last day of school (we assembled to give out report cards and tutus…), which let out at 11AM. As I left to begin my catchment village tour, the teachers settled down to brew some ataaya (Chinese green tea with lots of sugar). This included our two prospective teachers, who one might have expected to want to leave early to be well-rested in advance of an exam they’ve already failed a few times. They too hunkered down, though, for two full brewings (a batch of ataaya features three progressively sweeter rounds) that took them well into the afternoon. Once I’d arrived and greeted the police and my colleagues, one of the teachers bemoaned their difficulty finding transport at this late stage. This was one of those rare occasions where I managed to bite my tongue; a year of haranguing teachers about the seemingly obvious is wearing on me and the rainy season break is arriving in good time.
Given that the journey entails at least three gelegele/minivan rides (and the potential for breakdowns) and a ferry ride, plus the fact that Friday, being the Sabbath, is a horrible day for catching transport, a noontime departure is prudent – especially when considering the stakes. If I have to be in Mansa Konko by a certain time, I’d allow 8 hours on a normal day.
Today was (mercifully) the last day of school (we assembled to give out report cards and tutus…), which let out at 11AM. As I left to begin my catchment village tour, the teachers settled down to brew some ataaya (Chinese green tea with lots of sugar). This included our two prospective teachers, who one might have expected to want to leave early to be well-rested in advance of an exam they’ve already failed a few times. They too hunkered down, though, for two full brewings (a batch of ataaya features three progressively sweeter rounds) that took them well into the afternoon. Once I’d arrived and greeted the police and my colleagues, one of the teachers bemoaned their difficulty finding transport at this late stage. This was one of those rare occasions where I managed to bite my tongue; a year of haranguing teachers about the seemingly obvious is wearing on me and the rainy season break is arriving in good time.
Rock The Vote, Gambian style
July 5 – In the days following the AU summit, when 35 or so heads of state (along with the presidents of Iran and Venezuela…) descended on Banjul for a few platitudes and a joint statement denouncing coups (future ones, not the ones that brought to power some of these leaders, including the host), President Jammeh has shown his gratitude to a compliant populace by giving the country (well, those with government jobs or at banks and the like) four days of public holidays.
So school is finishing today (Wednesday) instead of on Friday. This combined with the fact that we had Monday and the previous Friday off, put paid to my hopes of our headmaster holding an end-of-year staff meeting (or even a 2006 one).
One sector of government is working quite strenuously, though, unlike the schools, which are giving added meaning to the phrase going out with a whisper. The “Independent” Electoral Commission is in town, registering voters for the upcoming presidential elections (variously projected to take place between September and November). Suffrage is universal from age 18, so I was a little surprised to see some of my 6th, 5th and even 4th Grade students lining up to join the democratic process. To be sure, some of our students are a few years older than their corresponding grades (and some PCVs working in high schools have students older than them), but I don’t think that even any of our Grade 6 students are as old as 18.
In lieu of birth certificates and immunization cards, which inconveniently have closer approximations of birthdates, the children have statements ghostwritten by relatively literate young men (who are back in town for the rainy season), then stamped by their alkalis (village chiefs). It’s a reasonably effective, albeit obvious, racket, as the ruling party (the president appoints district chiefs who in turn oversee the alkalis in their area) will have the alkalis turn out the (pre-selected) new registrants later to augment its take at the polls.
As a result of this registration drive, we’ve been missing our Deputy Headmaster, who’s also our Grade 1 teacher, for the past three weeks. He’s hoping to parlay his working for the ruling party/electoral commission into a headmaster post – a position he’s consistently failed to carry out in the past. He’s been so abysmal, in fact, that he’s been demoted to deputy status (no mean feat).
The upshot of this is that your correspondent found himself in charge of writing, giving and grading exams for over fifty Grade 1 students. I decided to be thorough and this, combined with questioning administered haltingly in English, Wolof and Fula, meant that I spent 20 hours alone on giving the exam, not counting treks to outlying villages to test students who’d been absent. The upside of this is that I have a very clear idea of what our first graders know, and don’t know. Still, after over 1000 minutes of showing students numbers (for example: “6”, answer: “W”) and letters (flashcard: “F”, response “21”), it gets a bit draining. As of now my main goal for the summer is to venture out to our catchment villages to explain the report cards to parents, do a little farming, and bugger off to Mauritania and Senegal for three weeks.
So school is finishing today (Wednesday) instead of on Friday. This combined with the fact that we had Monday and the previous Friday off, put paid to my hopes of our headmaster holding an end-of-year staff meeting (or even a 2006 one).
One sector of government is working quite strenuously, though, unlike the schools, which are giving added meaning to the phrase going out with a whisper. The “Independent” Electoral Commission is in town, registering voters for the upcoming presidential elections (variously projected to take place between September and November). Suffrage is universal from age 18, so I was a little surprised to see some of my 6th, 5th and even 4th Grade students lining up to join the democratic process. To be sure, some of our students are a few years older than their corresponding grades (and some PCVs working in high schools have students older than them), but I don’t think that even any of our Grade 6 students are as old as 18.
In lieu of birth certificates and immunization cards, which inconveniently have closer approximations of birthdates, the children have statements ghostwritten by relatively literate young men (who are back in town for the rainy season), then stamped by their alkalis (village chiefs). It’s a reasonably effective, albeit obvious, racket, as the ruling party (the president appoints district chiefs who in turn oversee the alkalis in their area) will have the alkalis turn out the (pre-selected) new registrants later to augment its take at the polls.
As a result of this registration drive, we’ve been missing our Deputy Headmaster, who’s also our Grade 1 teacher, for the past three weeks. He’s hoping to parlay his working for the ruling party/electoral commission into a headmaster post – a position he’s consistently failed to carry out in the past. He’s been so abysmal, in fact, that he’s been demoted to deputy status (no mean feat).
The upshot of this is that your correspondent found himself in charge of writing, giving and grading exams for over fifty Grade 1 students. I decided to be thorough and this, combined with questioning administered haltingly in English, Wolof and Fula, meant that I spent 20 hours alone on giving the exam, not counting treks to outlying villages to test students who’d been absent. The upside of this is that I have a very clear idea of what our first graders know, and don’t know. Still, after over 1000 minutes of showing students numbers (for example: “6”, answer: “W”) and letters (flashcard: “F”, response “21”), it gets a bit draining. As of now my main goal for the summer is to venture out to our catchment villages to explain the report cards to parents, do a little farming, and bugger off to Mauritania and Senegal for three weeks.
A little about the competition
29 June 2006 – Tonight I visited Musa and Fana Ceesay, whose 5 year old son Mam Sheikh has left the school’s nursery class, and is now studying at a dara (madrassa) in Darou, a km away from us in Senegal. So I dropped by to see if I could encourage Mam Sheikh’s return. Musa and his brother Sheikh, a teacher at Njau’s school, are both well-educated and could help Mam Sheikh, who’s a bright boy, to do well.
Musa was quick to mollify me, however, explaining that after two years in Darou, Mam Sheikh would re-enroll at Njau for Grade 1. His plan to give Mam Sheikh a little grounding in the Koran sounded reasonable enough.
As Musa went on, though, I felt less at ease. He explained that the students spend the morning farming in the school’s fields, then study after lunch. He noted that the teachers are very strict (a strong statement given some of the sadists in DOSE’s employ), and the children don’t sleep on beds (or under mosquito nets) and only bathe once a week or so. Musa said that Mam Sheikh used to be very playful (he is five, after all), but now his demeanour has totally changed. I had to concede that point to Musa, although I haven’t seen Mam Sheikh recently.
Musa was quick to mollify me, however, explaining that after two years in Darou, Mam Sheikh would re-enroll at Njau for Grade 1. His plan to give Mam Sheikh a little grounding in the Koran sounded reasonable enough.
As Musa went on, though, I felt less at ease. He explained that the students spend the morning farming in the school’s fields, then study after lunch. He noted that the teachers are very strict (a strong statement given some of the sadists in DOSE’s employ), and the children don’t sleep on beds (or under mosquito nets) and only bathe once a week or so. Musa said that Mam Sheikh used to be very playful (he is five, after all), but now his demeanour has totally changed. I had to concede that point to Musa, although I haven’t seen Mam Sheikh recently.
05 June 2006
A trip to the stone circles
Here are a few pictures from my second visit to Wassu's stone circles, about 40 kms east of Njau. I've since made a third trip, a Grade 6 class trip, and always have a nice time there.
No one knows much about the laterite stones, although some have been there for 1200 years. Some of them surround burial sites of (presumably) important people, and they vary from a few feet in size to three meters tall.
Maimuna (tie-dye), Fatou J. (red bandanna) and I visited them in April, and stopped by to see Julie (pink trousers), a volunteer who lives in Wassu. As you can see, we made pyramids.
No one knows much about the laterite stones, although some have been there for 1200 years. Some of them surround burial sites of (presumably) important people, and they vary from a few feet in size to three meters tall.
Maimuna (tie-dye), Fatou J. (red bandanna) and I visited them in April, and stopped by to see Julie (pink trousers), a volunteer who lives in Wassu. As you can see, we made pyramids.
04 June 2006
Assorted quotes from Gambian teachers
Obviously, these tend to obscure the fact that many people here are working hard, with little training and support, for a pittance -- as our Deputy Headmaster put it, the salary for "Unqualified Teachers" (those without a teaching degree) is "less than it costs to feed a dog in England." That said, these are entertaining.
"Get out of here before I beat you!" -- an Njau teacher address yours truly.
"Children who ask for help with homework are weak." -- another Njau teacher, on the appropriateness of assisting students after school.
"I really haven't done any work these two terms." -- My counterpart, in a meeting with me. The day before he heard that he'd been nominated for Headmaster/Principal of the Year.
"The people here are very nice and hostile." -- Grade 4 teacher at Sare Samba Lower Basic School, minutes after beating students who failed his vocabulary test.
"Get out of here before I beat you!" -- an Njau teacher address yours truly.
"Children who ask for help with homework are weak." -- another Njau teacher, on the appropriateness of assisting students after school.
"I really haven't done any work these two terms." -- My counterpart, in a meeting with me. The day before he heard that he'd been nominated for Headmaster/Principal of the Year.
"The people here are very nice and hostile." -- Grade 4 teacher at Sare Samba Lower Basic School, minutes after beating students who failed his vocabulary test.
3 PCVs and an Iranian head of state
28 February -- I had a dream that Sekouba, Fatou J. and I (see picture further down) lived together with Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. We all seemed a bit afraid of him (he's kind of dour in person), but Mahmoud did fry us some eggs. Perhaps this was an allusion to, or premonition of, the U.S.'s new stance towards Iran. Lariam/Mephlaquine's good stuff!
An End to Ponding?
27 January 2006 -- I was listening to some listener feedback on the BBC World Service this morning. This is always entertaining, as the BBC will put just about any text message, now matter how deranged, on the air (Network Africa is especially fun because of this). Anyway, the callers and texters were commenting on a piece that focused on initiation rites at universities. The original story was about one man's experience with some form of hazing at a university in central Africa (I believe it was Congo-Kinshasa).
One of the respondents wrote about "ponding," a rite of passage into Commonwealth Hall (a.k.a. Vandal City) at the University of Ghana. Built by the Brits in the 1940s, the University features some nice architecture. Commonwealth, on top of the hill, has a terraced structure, and here and there are small rectangular ponds. It is into these ponds that new Vandals are violently dunked (in the case of Freshers) or allowed to gently roll in (exchange students such as myself). A little while ago, the listener wrote, one victim of a vigorous ponding (around 10 Vandals hold you and slam you up and down on the water) suffered a "sprained femur" and ended up missing the school year.
The university authorities suspended those responsible and banned ponding, draining the ponds (which I think have relied on rainwater rather than plumbing for the last few decades) for good measure. I was saddened to hear this, as I look back on that night with some fondness. To be sure, my initiation as a Vandal was gentler than more, but there was still plenty of vitriolic epithets to take in (not to mention the latent homoeroticism of young men carrying on in various states of undress). Another incident made this a seminal night in the early days of my stay in Ghana. Shortly before being carted off for ponding, our hardy crew (there were six of us from America in the dorm - me, Isaac, Ziggy, Kwame, Guy Jesus, and Snake) was robbed by a couple of shady guys (not university affiliated). The next several days saw us pushing the police into action (with much credit due to plying them with yoghurt ice creams) to capture the thieves. The eventual early morning raid (complete with automatic firearms) would not have been possible without the assistance of two young men who remain great friends to this day -- Senanu and Essel. Senanu's quite old now, though.
One of the respondents wrote about "ponding," a rite of passage into Commonwealth Hall (a.k.a. Vandal City) at the University of Ghana. Built by the Brits in the 1940s, the University features some nice architecture. Commonwealth, on top of the hill, has a terraced structure, and here and there are small rectangular ponds. It is into these ponds that new Vandals are violently dunked (in the case of Freshers) or allowed to gently roll in (exchange students such as myself). A little while ago, the listener wrote, one victim of a vigorous ponding (around 10 Vandals hold you and slam you up and down on the water) suffered a "sprained femur" and ended up missing the school year.
The university authorities suspended those responsible and banned ponding, draining the ponds (which I think have relied on rainwater rather than plumbing for the last few decades) for good measure. I was saddened to hear this, as I look back on that night with some fondness. To be sure, my initiation as a Vandal was gentler than more, but there was still plenty of vitriolic epithets to take in (not to mention the latent homoeroticism of young men carrying on in various states of undress). Another incident made this a seminal night in the early days of my stay in Ghana. Shortly before being carted off for ponding, our hardy crew (there were six of us from America in the dorm - me, Isaac, Ziggy, Kwame, Guy Jesus, and Snake) was robbed by a couple of shady guys (not university affiliated). The next several days saw us pushing the police into action (with much credit due to plying them with yoghurt ice creams) to capture the thieves. The eventual early morning raid (complete with automatic firearms) would not have been possible without the assistance of two young men who remain great friends to this day -- Senanu and Essel. Senanu's quite old now, though.
Kids in Lower River Division
Ousman was/is one of Yusupha's host brothers from training. He's a very nice kid who waited in Kaiaf for two hours to take us down to Sare Samba. Alas he and his friends weren't among the best horsecart drivers, but we managed.
When Ousman was born (he's around 10 now), his mother called him Kumba, a girl's name, before his ngente/naming ceremony (which comes a week after birth). The usual placeholder name for Wolof boys is Samba but, as two of her previous babies had died as infants, Ousman's mom wanted to throw any malevolent forces off the scent. So Ousman is still called Kumba by a lot of people in Sare Samba, as this is not usual practice.
On my way back to Njau, I got a horsecard ride from Assan. On the way to Soma we picked up three "hitchhikers" - Maimuna, her mother, and her grandmother. Maimuna is in Grade 4 at a school farther along the path to Soma. It's a half hour walk each way, so it's a small victory that she has time, and is permitted, to go. I asked Maimuna where she would go after Grade 6, since the nearest upper basic school is about 8 kms (5 miles) away. Maimuna answered only "No," as continuing with school didn't seem to be an option. When we alighted in Soma, I appealed to her mom and gradmother to help Maimuna continue beyond Grade 6. I tried to encouraged enlightened self-interest (my usual tactic), but I'm not sure her guardians were anything besides bemused by my speech, delivered as it was in broken Wolof.
When Ousman was born (he's around 10 now), his mother called him Kumba, a girl's name, before his ngente/naming ceremony (which comes a week after birth). The usual placeholder name for Wolof boys is Samba but, as two of her previous babies had died as infants, Ousman's mom wanted to throw any malevolent forces off the scent. So Ousman is still called Kumba by a lot of people in Sare Samba, as this is not usual practice.
On my way back to Njau, I got a horsecard ride from Assan. On the way to Soma we picked up three "hitchhikers" - Maimuna, her mother, and her grandmother. Maimuna is in Grade 4 at a school farther along the path to Soma. It's a half hour walk each way, so it's a small victory that she has time, and is permitted, to go. I asked Maimuna where she would go after Grade 6, since the nearest upper basic school is about 8 kms (5 miles) away. Maimuna answered only "No," as continuing with school didn't seem to be an option. When we alighted in Soma, I appealed to her mom and gradmother to help Maimuna continue beyond Grade 6. I tried to encouraged enlightened self-interest (my usual tactic), but I'm not sure her guardians were anything besides bemused by my speech, delivered as it was in broken Wolof.
The Land Ran Red...Then Brown Again
I suppose it's not as extreme as self-flaggelation, but preparing a smorgasbord of flesh that will likely give you a strong case of biir bu daw (the stomach that runs) seems a somewhat excessive way to commemorate a moment of religious import. Yet so it was with Tobaski.
Tobaski (or Eid al Adha in Arabic) is marked in remembrance of Ibrahim/Abraham's near sacrifice of his son Ismail/Isaac, averted by a late substitution of a ram for the boy. So every year Gambians (well 90% or so of them) endeavour to sacrifice a ram (or, failing that, a billy goat). This is no mean feat, as most Gambians have difficulty affording a ram (around $100) or goat ($30) to slaughter. My family had a goat so, after praying at the mosque and watching the imam kill his ram, we headed back to our compound.
I didn't kill the goat (my bloodlust remains satiated by my offing of a chicken during training), but I did help skin it and cut up the meat. Compared to the chemicals and preservatives in our stateside fare, we were eating meat within two hours of the goat's death. My host dad and brother did a good job cleaning the animal, although I could have done without the testicles and intestines. Not much is wasted in The Gambia.
Aside from the financial hardship most endure to put on a good Tobaski, the other discomfiting aspect of the holiday is the shits alluded to in my title. Given the abject lack of protein in the daily diet here (I am excited by the prospect of eating egg sandwiches when I travel outside Njau), the sudden abundance of meat can be a shock to the system (and proved to be just that in my case). People still seem to wholly enjoy the holiday even if it is debilitating to their finances and digestive tracts (and their kids'). For all these misgivings, though, it is nice to see people having such fun -- eating heartily and dressing sharply in their new threads.
Tobaski (or Eid al Adha in Arabic) is marked in remembrance of Ibrahim/Abraham's near sacrifice of his son Ismail/Isaac, averted by a late substitution of a ram for the boy. So every year Gambians (well 90% or so of them) endeavour to sacrifice a ram (or, failing that, a billy goat). This is no mean feat, as most Gambians have difficulty affording a ram (around $100) or goat ($30) to slaughter. My family had a goat so, after praying at the mosque and watching the imam kill his ram, we headed back to our compound.
I didn't kill the goat (my bloodlust remains satiated by my offing of a chicken during training), but I did help skin it and cut up the meat. Compared to the chemicals and preservatives in our stateside fare, we were eating meat within two hours of the goat's death. My host dad and brother did a good job cleaning the animal, although I could have done without the testicles and intestines. Not much is wasted in The Gambia.
Aside from the financial hardship most endure to put on a good Tobaski, the other discomfiting aspect of the holiday is the shits alluded to in my title. Given the abject lack of protein in the daily diet here (I am excited by the prospect of eating egg sandwiches when I travel outside Njau), the sudden abundance of meat can be a shock to the system (and proved to be just that in my case). People still seem to wholly enjoy the holiday even if it is debilitating to their finances and digestive tracts (and their kids'). For all these misgivings, though, it is nice to see people having such fun -- eating heartily and dressing sharply in their new threads.
11 April 2006
PCVs in The Gambia!
From late February, 2006. Here is Saikouba Demba, Fatou Jallow, and yours truly (Malick Ceesay), in Farafenni, Saikou's town. I don't know what's on Saikou's mind, but the mustache (not sported since 1999)was grown out in anticipation of an abortive birthday celebration for our friend Keba. Perhaps next year...
A Sojourn in Dakar
Of note in Dakar, where I took a brief holiday from April 2-7. I stayed with relatives of my host family in Njau, and was unemcumbered by greeting and other obligations I face in village or down around Banjul. It was a few days to myself, where the anonymity of a big city with lots of expats meant I could choose my spots and practice my Wolof (my French is now non-existent, but everyone in Senegal speaks Wolof) when the mood struck.
On April 3, I made the rounds with a Togolese man named Ali Francis, a friend of my host Cheikh. Ali is something of a small business man and, although he speaks little English and Wolof and I no French, it was interesting running errands with him. We visited a couple of banks, a church's basement kitchen (where one of his clients was cooking lunch), and several clothing stores where Ali picked up a few knock-off t-shirts. One of these stores had a little DVD player showing old Michael Bolton music videos. Dakar's different from The Gambia.
In the afternoon I just roamed around town. The next day happened to be Senegal's Independence Day, so I was treated to large crowds feting this anniversary and, yes, the impending arrival of Muammar Khaddafi. In addition to the obligatory posters of Senegal's (non-despotic, mind you) president, Abdoulie Wade, there were just as many of Khaddafi. Oil money will do that for you.
The next day while relaxing around my host's compound (interrupted by a couple of walks on the beach some 300 metres away), we saw the Independence pageantry on the TV. Khaddafi has just started growing a mustache and goatee. Due to the greying of his facial hair (in contrast to his locks, which remain a suspiciously glossy black), the salt and pepper effect merely made him look dirty. I also saw Charles Taylor on the news, and surmised that he has now arrived in Sierra Leone. So, although Khaddafi enjoyed the adulation of the Senegalese (I cannot imagine him getting such a reception in Libya), it may have been a bittersweet moment as one of his proteges is now in the dock.
Visiting Dakar, with all its amenities, is a bit incongruous, what with near-constant electricity, running water, and many other consumerist goodies. This was best typified by my uncle Al-Haji Laying, who was also visiting from Njau, and is just a few years from Old Pa status. This is a man whose energy use consists of having someone use cooking charcoal to brew some ataaya for him, yet one morning I came out of the bedroom to discover him on the computer using his best Fana Fana greetings (How are the home people? Hope nothing's wrong? How is the work?) while speaking to relatives in America over Skype, a program that up till then I had only read about in The Economist.
On April 3, I made the rounds with a Togolese man named Ali Francis, a friend of my host Cheikh. Ali is something of a small business man and, although he speaks little English and Wolof and I no French, it was interesting running errands with him. We visited a couple of banks, a church's basement kitchen (where one of his clients was cooking lunch), and several clothing stores where Ali picked up a few knock-off t-shirts. One of these stores had a little DVD player showing old Michael Bolton music videos. Dakar's different from The Gambia.
In the afternoon I just roamed around town. The next day happened to be Senegal's Independence Day, so I was treated to large crowds feting this anniversary and, yes, the impending arrival of Muammar Khaddafi. In addition to the obligatory posters of Senegal's (non-despotic, mind you) president, Abdoulie Wade, there were just as many of Khaddafi. Oil money will do that for you.
The next day while relaxing around my host's compound (interrupted by a couple of walks on the beach some 300 metres away), we saw the Independence pageantry on the TV. Khaddafi has just started growing a mustache and goatee. Due to the greying of his facial hair (in contrast to his locks, which remain a suspiciously glossy black), the salt and pepper effect merely made him look dirty. I also saw Charles Taylor on the news, and surmised that he has now arrived in Sierra Leone. So, although Khaddafi enjoyed the adulation of the Senegalese (I cannot imagine him getting such a reception in Libya), it may have been a bittersweet moment as one of his proteges is now in the dock.
Visiting Dakar, with all its amenities, is a bit incongruous, what with near-constant electricity, running water, and many other consumerist goodies. This was best typified by my uncle Al-Haji Laying, who was also visiting from Njau, and is just a few years from Old Pa status. This is a man whose energy use consists of having someone use cooking charcoal to brew some ataaya for him, yet one morning I came out of the bedroom to discover him on the computer using his best Fana Fana greetings (How are the home people? Hope nothing's wrong? How is the work?) while speaking to relatives in America over Skype, a program that up till then I had only read about in The Economist.
30 December 2005
Njau Women's Center
Here's a picture that a neighbouring volunteer (Haddy Wan lives in Chamen, some 9kms away) took while visiting the Njau women's centre. As with the school, certain activities (crop harvests, Ramadan) prevented me from an undiluted view of the centre's daily undertakings, but I'm hoping to get more involved with a more active outfit after Tobaski.
Among the group's activities is weaving handbags and purses out of old plastic bags, which they then sell to create a little supplemental income and a measure of financial independence. We are looking at ways to expand the market for these goods. I'm including a picture of these items too.
28 December 2005
Al's Pizza in the Gambia!
Yesterday I went to visit the family compound of my headmaster/principal in Banjul. It was a nice visit, as we relaxed, drank ataya, watched a bad movie until the power cut off, and checked out the local gym -- the first in Banjul.
The gym wasn't bad, although a bit cramped (they're building a second floor). To be sure, it's an upgrade on the one in my old University of Ghana dorm, Commonwealth Hall. The Vandals (Commonwealth is known as Vandal City) had to rely on things like disk brakes for weights.
Anyway, Assan, my headmaster's twin brother, works at the gym. He also lived in the U.S., mainly in and around Washington, D.C., for 12 years. Assan worked mainly in restaurants, including the Armand's Pizza on Wisconsin Avenue. But he also worked for a while at my trusty Capitol Hill pizza shop, Al's Pizza. It's always fun when I get to make connections like these, and talk with people who know the places I know.
Interesting, too, is how someone who worked largely on the margins of U.S. society (i.e. in the kitchen of a pizza joint) can return to a place like Gambia and put his savings to really good use (since they're worth so much more here). Assan has also experienced the same difficulty, though, in explaining to Gambians that, just because the money goes further in West Africa, it doesn't necessarily follow that life is incredibly easier in the U.S. (although in certain ways it is).
But that is something that is very difficult to explain here -- trying to negotiate the culturally, socially, and media-driven chasm between comprehension of our different environments. I have potential visitors in the next year or so, which excites me about the opportunity to broaden perspectives of visitors and the visited (and, in turn, their friends and relatives).
The gym wasn't bad, although a bit cramped (they're building a second floor). To be sure, it's an upgrade on the one in my old University of Ghana dorm, Commonwealth Hall. The Vandals (Commonwealth is known as Vandal City) had to rely on things like disk brakes for weights.
Anyway, Assan, my headmaster's twin brother, works at the gym. He also lived in the U.S., mainly in and around Washington, D.C., for 12 years. Assan worked mainly in restaurants, including the Armand's Pizza on Wisconsin Avenue. But he also worked for a while at my trusty Capitol Hill pizza shop, Al's Pizza. It's always fun when I get to make connections like these, and talk with people who know the places I know.
Interesting, too, is how someone who worked largely on the margins of U.S. society (i.e. in the kitchen of a pizza joint) can return to a place like Gambia and put his savings to really good use (since they're worth so much more here). Assan has also experienced the same difficulty, though, in explaining to Gambians that, just because the money goes further in West Africa, it doesn't necessarily follow that life is incredibly easier in the U.S. (although in certain ways it is).
But that is something that is very difficult to explain here -- trying to negotiate the culturally, socially, and media-driven chasm between comprehension of our different environments. I have potential visitors in the next year or so, which excites me about the opportunity to broaden perspectives of visitors and the visited (and, in turn, their friends and relatives).
26 December 2005
3 month challenge over!
Well, we've completed our "Three Month Challenge," during which we were supposed to remain in and around our sites, and avoid the temptations and amenities of Kombo, the capitol region. So, that successfully completed (aside from the fact that two of us returned to the U.S., and a couple others were too disease ridden to avoid a trip to the PC med center), my group assembled in Kombo for an education meeting and a fortnight of general carousing.
Dare I say that three months of deprivation has not turned us towards a more ascetic lifestyle. While I think we have done fairly well in difficult living and working conditions, we are enjoying the fruits of being in a big town -- electricity, running water, beer, eggs. It is a nice break, but I do miss my village and will certainly be back well before Tobaski (commemorating Ibrahim/Abraham's near-sacrifice of his son Ismael/Isaac), which should fall around January 10.
The three months in Njau were somewhat challenging, although not tremendously so. Everything at school went slowly, as classes were delayed by millet/cous harvest, Ramadan, late teacher postings (all coordinated by the central government), tardy teacher arrivals, and groundnut/peanut harvest.
So I didn't get a lot done aside from putting the school library to use, teaching some library classes, and teaching Grade 6 English for a while. I'm hoping that next term we'll get more stuck in to our actual work, during which I envision taking a consultant-like position, more in line with the aim of my job, which is to improve teachers' skills.
In the social realm, it has not been difficult making friends. I get on very well with my headmaster/principal, as well as the rest of the teachers, and we usually take lunch together after school. The only hindrance to good friendship is the frustration some cause me with their approaches to work. In the village, I spend several nights a week making the rounds, visiting compounds and practicing my Wolof (and, to a lesser extent, Fula). Juggling the social engagements can be a little daunting sometimes, so I am hoping to manage my schedule better next term.
In short the adjustment is going well. I'm coping with the diet (although I miss eggs), and sour milk is the only product that consistently upsets my stomach. Milk comes in two varieties here -- warm and fresh (right from the cow and goat), or curdled after a few days. Both are quite tasty, but I'm still not used to it.
I'll end here, but shall attempt to upload some pictures in the next day or two that my good friend from training, Lie Njie, an IT teaching volunteer here, made a CD of for us.
Happy Holidays!
Dare I say that three months of deprivation has not turned us towards a more ascetic lifestyle. While I think we have done fairly well in difficult living and working conditions, we are enjoying the fruits of being in a big town -- electricity, running water, beer, eggs. It is a nice break, but I do miss my village and will certainly be back well before Tobaski (commemorating Ibrahim/Abraham's near-sacrifice of his son Ismael/Isaac), which should fall around January 10.
The three months in Njau were somewhat challenging, although not tremendously so. Everything at school went slowly, as classes were delayed by millet/cous harvest, Ramadan, late teacher postings (all coordinated by the central government), tardy teacher arrivals, and groundnut/peanut harvest.
So I didn't get a lot done aside from putting the school library to use, teaching some library classes, and teaching Grade 6 English for a while. I'm hoping that next term we'll get more stuck in to our actual work, during which I envision taking a consultant-like position, more in line with the aim of my job, which is to improve teachers' skills.
In the social realm, it has not been difficult making friends. I get on very well with my headmaster/principal, as well as the rest of the teachers, and we usually take lunch together after school. The only hindrance to good friendship is the frustration some cause me with their approaches to work. In the village, I spend several nights a week making the rounds, visiting compounds and practicing my Wolof (and, to a lesser extent, Fula). Juggling the social engagements can be a little daunting sometimes, so I am hoping to manage my schedule better next term.
In short the adjustment is going well. I'm coping with the diet (although I miss eggs), and sour milk is the only product that consistently upsets my stomach. Milk comes in two varieties here -- warm and fresh (right from the cow and goat), or curdled after a few days. Both are quite tasty, but I'm still not used to it.
I'll end here, but shall attempt to upload some pictures in the next day or two that my good friend from training, Lie Njie, an IT teaching volunteer here, made a CD of for us.
Happy Holidays!
15 September 2005
Riding the sareti fas!
Recounting events of August 25, 2005, one of my favourite days of training...
On our day off, we rented a horse cart and rode it from Saresamba to Soma, the nearest "big" town (14kms journey, 11kms as the crow flies). My host brother Assan drove, using the family horse, Pegasus (we named him on our previous venture a few weeks ago). Laye Njie (nee Craig N.), Aram Sinaan, Fatou Ngaalan and Yuusufa Touray (formerly Nancy, Sarah and Taylor) joined us for the trip. The extra two people (Aram and Fatou), plus the muddy conditions (we're in the middle of the rainy season), made for a slow journey.
In Soma we bought eggs, butter and flour, as we plan to bake some peanut butter cookies for our host families (this is our last week in Saresamba). On the way back home, our cart foundered in the mud, so we had to dismount and push it through. Laye brought along an MP3 player and speaksers, so we listened to 80's hits on both legs. A little while after the mud, Laye started shouting "Stop! Stop!" and after a few seconds I remembered the Wolof command ("Taxawal") and Assan reined in Pegasus.
Now we were all looking at Laye, and I for one thought that it was time for an emergency bathroom break (these are not uncommon). Instead, Laye pointed to the front, while frantically turning on his camera. We turned forward to see the remainder of a pack of baboons crossing the path. Once we started moving again, we saw a few stragglers pass through the bush. I saw about a dozen of them, but Laye reckoned there were perhaps 40 baboons.
By this time it was getting dark, making the bumps less predictable -- but none of the eggs broke! So we trotted along in fits and starts (Pegasus was getting tired) and, in the echo of the sunset (which shone orange, red, then purple through the clouds) and the haze of the moon, listened to "Carmina Burana" as we negotiated the route. It seemed quite fitting and portentous (there were lightning flashes in the distance), plus it reminded me of my friend Adrian, who was a voice major in college.
Little adventures like this spice up our days. While on the cart, I got to practice Wolof with Assan. He's getting married in the dry season, to Mena, a girl who lives in Senegal. In a week he's going to visit her family there. People tend to marry in the dry season, because crops have been harvested -- so people have lots of food, and some money from the sale of surplus crops. Few people marry in the rainy season (also known as the "hungry season") as food runs out, and harvest is a few months away. I also spoke Wolof in the market (many traders are Wolof). Great fun, really.
On our day off, we rented a horse cart and rode it from Saresamba to Soma, the nearest "big" town (14kms journey, 11kms as the crow flies). My host brother Assan drove, using the family horse, Pegasus (we named him on our previous venture a few weeks ago). Laye Njie (nee Craig N.), Aram Sinaan, Fatou Ngaalan and Yuusufa Touray (formerly Nancy, Sarah and Taylor) joined us for the trip. The extra two people (Aram and Fatou), plus the muddy conditions (we're in the middle of the rainy season), made for a slow journey.
In Soma we bought eggs, butter and flour, as we plan to bake some peanut butter cookies for our host families (this is our last week in Saresamba). On the way back home, our cart foundered in the mud, so we had to dismount and push it through. Laye brought along an MP3 player and speaksers, so we listened to 80's hits on both legs. A little while after the mud, Laye started shouting "Stop! Stop!" and after a few seconds I remembered the Wolof command ("Taxawal") and Assan reined in Pegasus.
Now we were all looking at Laye, and I for one thought that it was time for an emergency bathroom break (these are not uncommon). Instead, Laye pointed to the front, while frantically turning on his camera. We turned forward to see the remainder of a pack of baboons crossing the path. Once we started moving again, we saw a few stragglers pass through the bush. I saw about a dozen of them, but Laye reckoned there were perhaps 40 baboons.
By this time it was getting dark, making the bumps less predictable -- but none of the eggs broke! So we trotted along in fits and starts (Pegasus was getting tired) and, in the echo of the sunset (which shone orange, red, then purple through the clouds) and the haze of the moon, listened to "Carmina Burana" as we negotiated the route. It seemed quite fitting and portentous (there were lightning flashes in the distance), plus it reminded me of my friend Adrian, who was a voice major in college.
Little adventures like this spice up our days. While on the cart, I got to practice Wolof with Assan. He's getting married in the dry season, to Mena, a girl who lives in Senegal. In a week he's going to visit her family there. People tend to marry in the dry season, because crops have been harvested -- so people have lots of food, and some money from the sale of surplus crops. Few people marry in the rainy season (also known as the "hungry season") as food runs out, and harvest is a few months away. I also spoke Wolof in the market (many traders are Wolof). Great fun, really.
11 September 2005
Katchikally Crocodile Pond, The Gambia
This was at a visit to the Katchikally Crocodile pond. Crocodiles (unlike other reptiles) are venerated and it's believed that the water of the pool can help women become pregnant.
Other reptiles are roundly reviled, however. All snakes that are encountered are killed on the assumption that they are poisonous and want to attack people. My host family in Saresamba upset me one night by killing a gecko -- the story there is that the geckos spit in the grain in compound food stores, and this makes people sick.
In my broken Wolof I told them that I volunteered at the reptile house in the DC zoo, and that the animals are largely harmless (especially the geckos). They were dubious about this, but they did promise not to kill any more geckos (I'm sure that promise is void now that I've moved out).
In other reptile news, I hope to acquire a chameleon for a pet. The geckos here are too fast, and all the dogs and cats are disease-ridden, or very soon will be upon encountering their brethren.
Other reptiles are roundly reviled, however. All snakes that are encountered are killed on the assumption that they are poisonous and want to attack people. My host family in Saresamba upset me one night by killing a gecko -- the story there is that the geckos spit in the grain in compound food stores, and this makes people sick.
In my broken Wolof I told them that I volunteered at the reptile house in the DC zoo, and that the animals are largely harmless (especially the geckos). They were dubious about this, but they did promise not to kill any more geckos (I'm sure that promise is void now that I've moved out).
In other reptile news, I hope to acquire a chameleon for a pet. The geckos here are too fast, and all the dogs and cats are disease-ridden, or very soon will be upon encountering their brethren.
10 September 2005
Finishing Training!
My 10 weeks of training are virtually over, with only this week in the capitol remaining, with the following tasks: shopping for provisions not available upcountry, attending swearing-in ceremony at the ambassador's residence (which reportedly has a great buffet featuring food we will never again encounter in The Gambia), swimming at the beach, and drinking away our paltry salaries at the bars.
I am very excited to be starting work at the Njau Lower Basic School (grades 1-6) on the north side of the Central River Division (40kms east from Farafenni along the main road, 1km from the northern border with Senegal). There's some excitement as there's a by-election for an open parliamentary seat, so I already saw a lot of activity and heard lots of conversation in my first few days in Njau (I moved into my new compound last week).
My school looks like a good place to get lots of work done, particularly in the library, which will be my primary focus at first. The room is not too bad, but we are extremely short of books, shelving, and other materials. There is a lot of potential! My headmaster/principal, Oussainou Touray, is rather eclectic but very interested in helping improve the school, and is quite proactive. Among our upcoming weekend activities: visiting the feeder villages to try and drum up enrolment, and having the police join us on a friendly sweep of Njau to collect benches, desks and chairs "borrowed" for various naming ceremonies and weddings. And I'm certain we'll be drinking plenty of ataaya (green tea with oodles of sugar).
I'm definitely going to miss my host family from my training village of Saresamba. My family there, the Tourays, had 18 members in the compound, 13 of them girls or women. By contrast, the Ceesays have only four people in their family, and the only female is the mother. So it's quite a different dynamic.
The good news is that Njau is a manageable size (350-400 people) so I should be able to know just about everyone, and find some social outlets. The village is about half Wolof (they are a bit wealthier), and half Fula. I'm in the Wolof side, but expect to learn some Pulaar -- at least the (elaborate) greetings. For a village without electricity and running water, I was pleased to still find some treats -- sour milk (tastes like yoghurt and is plentiful in the rainy season) and fresh bread (baked every two days).
Dinner at our hostel beckons so I must end here, but will try to add more in the future.
I am very excited to be starting work at the Njau Lower Basic School (grades 1-6) on the north side of the Central River Division (40kms east from Farafenni along the main road, 1km from the northern border with Senegal). There's some excitement as there's a by-election for an open parliamentary seat, so I already saw a lot of activity and heard lots of conversation in my first few days in Njau (I moved into my new compound last week).
My school looks like a good place to get lots of work done, particularly in the library, which will be my primary focus at first. The room is not too bad, but we are extremely short of books, shelving, and other materials. There is a lot of potential! My headmaster/principal, Oussainou Touray, is rather eclectic but very interested in helping improve the school, and is quite proactive. Among our upcoming weekend activities: visiting the feeder villages to try and drum up enrolment, and having the police join us on a friendly sweep of Njau to collect benches, desks and chairs "borrowed" for various naming ceremonies and weddings. And I'm certain we'll be drinking plenty of ataaya (green tea with oodles of sugar).
I'm definitely going to miss my host family from my training village of Saresamba. My family there, the Tourays, had 18 members in the compound, 13 of them girls or women. By contrast, the Ceesays have only four people in their family, and the only female is the mother. So it's quite a different dynamic.
The good news is that Njau is a manageable size (350-400 people) so I should be able to know just about everyone, and find some social outlets. The village is about half Wolof (they are a bit wealthier), and half Fula. I'm in the Wolof side, but expect to learn some Pulaar -- at least the (elaborate) greetings. For a village without electricity and running water, I was pleased to still find some treats -- sour milk (tastes like yoghurt and is plentiful in the rainy season) and fresh bread (baked every two days).
Dinner at our hostel beckons so I must end here, but will try to add more in the future.
The Gambia
I composed this during our staging in Philadelphia, PA, on July 5:
To the tune of 50 Cent's Candy Shop --
I'll take you to The Gambia
Won't let you get malaria
Here comes the cotton swab
Wait till you get your shots
Woo!
I'll take you to The Gambia
No, not Zambia
You'll eat from a communal pot
Hope it's not too hot
Woo!
To the tune of 50 Cent's Candy Shop --
I'll take you to The Gambia
Won't let you get malaria
Here comes the cotton swab
Wait till you get your shots
Woo!
I'll take you to The Gambia
No, not Zambia
You'll eat from a communal pot
Hope it's not too hot
Woo!
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