Nous sommes arrives!

We are now ensconced in Douala, gradually getting settled in before starting staff meetings on the 17^th (school begins on August 24).

As a city that has a larger population of the entire African country I last lived in (The Gambia), Douala is a busy place. We are in a relatively less crowded neighbourhood, although it still pretty built up. Travel within the city is quite easy (we missed some rains that flooded parts of Douala earlier in the rainy season), and within walking distance we have discovered preferred vendors of fruit and veg, hardware, and liquor bottles of nuts.

While French is the official language of most of Cameroon, there are large numbers of English speakers (many from the Anglophone, formerly British-administered west) and many people are bilingual. We are still getting plenty of French practice, though. While Douala was originally settled by the Douala people (fancy that!), urbanization and migration – and Cameroon's cosmopolitan population with nearly 300 different languages – mean that there is no local/indigenous lingua franca. So people in the largest cities tend to speak French or English with one another.

Germany controlled the colony of Cameroon until World War I and the Treaty of Versailles when it was split between Britain and France. Approaching independence, British Northern Cameroon opted to join Nigeria while British Southern Cameroon merged with French Cameroon. This was meant to be a federation but over time the French portion of Cameroon (the seat of national government) has centralized authority, thereby marginalizing Anglophone Cameroon. Many of the school's staff are of Anglophone extraction so I will solicit their thoughts on the arrangement.

Proof that we are “being treated like kings” (with a nod to my friend Alicia):

 We procured a Louis Vitton
individually-crafted wooden ironing board.

Further innovations: Flip-up umbrellas on moto-taxis for when it rains (which is often).

Ollie's Odyssey Begins

As you can see from these pictures, Ollie was not particularly enthused about her impending move. She also experienced several courses of rabies shots, a microchip implant, and USDA-notarized paperwork. Despite our only having a three hour layover in Brussels, she had to meet onerous EU standards (Cameroon's were not as strict – really just the rabies shot and confirmation).

On the road, though, she remained quiet, if not still, when confined to her soft bag (with “privacy flaps”...). Life outside the bag was more stressful, including when I had to carry her through the metal detector and was also selected for TSA extra screening. Once I walked through the metal detector, an agent called out “I need a hands check” (to inspect my hands for chemicals) so I waited with Ollie writhing in my arms as the agent became increasingly curt (“I need hands!” “Hands!”).

After a few minutes someone came to check my hands (as I swapped Ollie between arms) then we proceeded to collecting my carry-on. After conducting a chemical(?) check of the bag, Ollie was allowed to return to her sanctuary. This was followed by searches of my carry-on bags, a body pat-down, and the brief sequestration of my shoes for further scanning.

At this point the hardest (or most entertaining, from Blair's onlooker perspective) portion of the trip was over. Before landing in Brussels we noticed on a stub with our boarding passes that ALL flights to African countries depart from something called “Terminal T.” No, Brussels Airport isn't that large, these were just leftover gates from Terminal A that were redubbed Terminal T gates and partitioned away from the rest of Terminal A...

Terminal A: Shengen destinations

Terminal B: International (non-Shengen) destinations

and then there was Terminal T: Africa.

Guess which terminal has one cafe and one duty-free shop...

I carried Ollie through one more metal detector and asked whether we needed to present her paperwork anywhere. Nobody seemed terribly concerned so we proceeded to our gate.

This we discovered after sitting in a waiting area with the other passengers travelling to various African countries (along with flights to Washington, DC, and New York City) and taking a shuttle bus to the T portion of Terminal A.

Onwards to Douala. Ollie would occasionally push around in an attempt to escape (reminiscent of the “breakout” scene in Alien – the bag, after all, was not much larger than she was), but remained quiet so the passenger seated above her was none the wiser. Good thing too as one of United/Brussels Airlines requirements was that your pet “may not annoy other passengers.”

Upon entering Douala, officials were similarly uninterested in Ollie's arrival (the school thought there'd be a vet on hand to inspect her and her paperwork). Nobody even bothered to stop us at Customs and we were on our way to Ollie's new home!

Ollie scouting out new spots to sleep in Douala.

ECD

Visiting a sleepy nook renowned for Sri Lankan fare, only to find it closed. Walk in vain for twenty minutes in search of another SR restaurant. Decamp to dumpy seafood bar (replete with clashing bouts from fervent singers-along to Brian Adams and heavy metal), only to retreat in the face of overpriced seafood for such a humble establishment. Consider an Italian restaurant with beer and pizza before my friend declares that Domino's is what he's after. 10 minute wait, no seats – a beer for the ferry? To the bodega, then across the street to wait for the pizza to be warmed over.

Accosted from another bench by a man ominously wonders, among other things, “Who said, 'Houston, we have a problem?'” He refused the answer of Tom Hanks. A trio of pollis arrive, muttering about open containers and quotas. They proceed to bash their borough, while echoing the siren song that calls them to Florida and strip mall/divided highway heaven. Forty-five minutes later, two pink slips (which Romney feared) each, although mine is gone before we return to the terminal with our pizza.

Three months hence, a return to the once bucolic isle. Name is posted, written incorrectly. Sit in a room with a dozen other men; a couple have female support, otherwise no women in evidence. An encapsulation of the statistic that women outlive men? The sentries laugh amongst themselves while discussing football. Muttering from my neighbours about quotas - “bullshit, man.”

What's your last name? What? Wrong first name – no that's okay. And you? You're not on here. Open container. Go downstairs [to the clerk]. Back later: he doesn't have my name. Then you can go.

Some thirty minutes later a woman arrives laughing, positively giddy. Joins the sentries' conversation, adding details of her impending trip (Spain, and a Meditteranean isle? Not Mallorca or Minorca...). Another few minutes later the pageantry begins. Will the giddiness hold?

First, a late 20s young man in a shiny grey suit jacket. Using a student subway card he found. Did he know it wasn't his to use? Well, he rides the subway a lot, sheepishly...ECD.

Next, reckless driving/blowing a red light. Well, I was down by ___, you know it? Okay, and I turned in the wrong place and had to come out. I'm sorry if I'm nervous. There wasn't no red light there because the traffic would have been impossible to turn into. I realise I made a mistake. It's hard to get out of there – you know that street? He said I didn't signal my turn but you know that street? – there's four lanes on each side. But I didn't go through a red light. Maybe when I turned I went across. See I'm a steelworker. I usually look for cranes. He told me that I didn't have my license so he had to write that I went through a red light. Mild confusion followed by an ECD.

Open container. Through intermediary: we were walking home. But you had one? We were just walking home. But you can't carry one...ECD.

Excessive noise. What were you doing? I came to pick up my friend. He told me to pull around in front of him but then he told me to pull over. He told me he was giving me a ticket because he didn't like the song. I don't think I would have liked the song either – what was the song? I don't remember. ECD.

Off-street cycling. You can only walk there. The road was narrow and busy. Then you get off and walk. ECD. Imagined vocation – fast food delivery.

Invalid license. My license was valid – it was a mistake. Do you have it with you? No. Bring it back – see you in November. Vindication pending.

A barrister, no defendant. Can we reschedule? How about October 2? No, [mean] judge So-and-So will be there. How about the 4th? - I'll be back. See you then.

Open container, ignoring signs. A dual performance, the first that morning. Did you drink in the park? 1 – Yes. 2 - ...Yes. You agree with that answer? It's honesty day today! This is a misdemeanor you know? They all close at night. Even if you don't see a sign just don't go in. ECD. A performance stymied, a platform wasted. Justice served, yet denied.

An old cliché, returning to the scene albeit with tea/coffee. A neighbour's Cobra fell to the ground, frothing, its spilling contents met with profanity. Did he read the sign? It's the end of the month – quotas are coming due...Another asked if we were related – perhaps owing to glasses and dress shirts and trousers (the latter two being abjectly absent in the park).

Three months later, Sri Lankan was served.

Operation Santa 2011

After polling several veterans of this field trip, I was apprehensive about taking my students to Operation Santa. This is what it reportedly entailed:

Four thousand students with special needs are seated at tables in a large square surrounded by parade fencing, in the middle of an aircraft hangar at JFK airport. After an hour or so, the hangar doors open and Santa taxis in on a jumbo jet. Then Santa boards a train/float and rides around the perimeter of the square as students variously try to get closer looks or try to avoid the noise around them.



The best thing my colleagues could say about Operation Santa was that it was a “rite of passage.” So I was naturally concerned it could have been a difficult trip for my students, given the close quarters, noise level, cool temperatures, and limited movement available.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by the trip. Organized by the Community Mayors (who also hold an excellent annual trip to the USS Intrepid Museum), there were numerous characters (including the Pink Panther) walking around to keep most of the students' attention while we waited for other schools to file in and for Santa to arrive. In addition, the square enclosure had been divided into four smaller squares, allowing for closer views of the anthropomorphic teapots, high school bands and Santa's train, as well as lessening crowding and providing easier exit points for accessing the Port-A-Potties. A pair of noise-dulling headphones I brought along for one student were also a great help.



In all, two of my three charges enjoyed the trip (a fourth would have found it too noisy and constricting), and I had a fairly good time myself. While a visit to El Museo Del Barrio and the aforementioned Intrepid Museum trip were superior, Operation Santa exceeded understandably low initial expectations.

Speech Therapist Science Theater 3000

During the lull between Parent-Teacher Conference sessions, a colleague and I decided to watch X-Men: First Class while laminating worksheets and communication symbols/PECS. Our speech therapist joined us sporadically, variously interrupted by phone calls, errands, and lunch.



Given her pedigree, perhaps it was only natural to report observations on similarities between First Class and other movies, and to compare and contrast them. After all, she spends time helping our students do this.

The first film that merited comparison to X-Men: First Class was Pirates of the Caribbean: "Doesn't that guy [Johnny Depp] have superpowers?"



Next came Avatar since one, and later two, characters in First Class are blue.



Finally, there was Star Wars, since Beast resembled "What's his name? Chihuahua?"



Our SLT's contributions made for an enjoyable viewing, even though I was occasionally distracted by cutting and attaching velcro. It was a nice chance to bond without talking about students.

Chebo Ceesay

Today I learned that Chebo Ceesay, my host father in Njau, The Gambia, passed away yesterday, October 28, 2011.

Chebo was a kind and thoughtful man, and an independent thinker. He travelled for work as a younger man, spending time in Mauritania, Cote d'Ivoire, and on a Spanish merchant ship that plied the west African coast. He even lived in the Bronx for a spell.



I could always rely on Chebo for useful advice, and contrarian perspectives on Gambian and international politics. I enjoy chatting with and listening to him as we took in BBC World Service reports.

One of my favourite memories was sitting under the mango tree by Chebo's radio listening to the penalty shootout between Cote d'Ivoire and Cameroon in the 2006 Africa Cup of Nations quarterfinals. After the first five players from each team made all of their penalty shots, it was time for sudden death. We listened incredulously as the commentators announced an amazing 11 shots made by each side, until Samuel Eto'o missed the 12th shot for Cameroon, leaving Didier Drogba to finally win the match.



Chebo always had humourous stories to share. These included Chebo's getting lost on his way home during his first night in New York, when he wandered around the Bronx for eight hours. Another favourite was about the time his Njau neighbour (and Bronx hot-bed mate) Ebou Secka got food poisoning from monitor lizard meat and Chebo could hear him groaning through the night from his compound across the way.

Perhaps the best story ended with Chebo urging me to ask the Alkalo (chief) of the Sey Kunda section of Njau "Ana sa beneen dalla?" ("Where is your other shoe?"), a cheeky reminder of the Alkalo's youthful indiscretions.



Chebo was a good husband to his wife Maram, and a good father to Omar Dye and Alhagie Sait. I wish them all well and they have my sympathies.

The Seder

In advance of our stay in Bogotá, Becky looked into possible Passover Seders she could attend there. With some general directions, we set off on the Transmilenio to points north.

We got off at Calle 100 – well, Amy and I did. Becky didn't get out in time and continued to Calle 127. We decided to wait until Becky returned, presumably by the same bus line. Eventually a young man came up to me and asked “Are you Chris?” and pointed towards the exit. There we found Becky buying a bus ticket to enter, despairing of the effectiveness of yelling “Chris!” repeatedly. Becky reportedly managed her quick return to us by boarding a taxi and yelling “Calle 100! Mis amigos!” between bouts of laughter.

With this hiccup behind us, we proceeded along Calle 94 to the site of the “Israeli backpacker” Seder, which should've been a less formal affair than the one hosted by the Jewish community in Bogotá Having wandered past the pedestrian overpass, we scampered across one intersection and were promptly soaked by cars driving through the numerous puddles/ponds.



At this point we realised that we had passed the block the address suggested, although it soon emerged that the address was, in fact, incomplete (i.e. with block and street number, but no building number). At a hotel I began asking about a “sinagoga” nearby. Rather than being ushered back where we came from (perhaps on the other side of Calle 94?), a kindly, portly, moustachioed middle-aged man suggested that we continue along Calle 94 for several blocks. I was a bit dubious as this contradicted the partial address we had, but we set off nonetheless.

After several minutes' trudging, we decided that we should head back to the side of the block we missed on the walk over. Our friend from the hotel caught up with us though, and pressed on with us. I tried to ask him if there wasn't a synagogue behind us (“sinagoga” being the only known Spanish word that even approximated what we were looking for), but he said, “No, that's a hotel.” I attempted this line of inquiry a few more times, but had no way of fully explaining that I knew we'd met him outside a hotel, but was wondering if there wasn't anything further back.



Five minutes later he pointed to the left and said, “Es casi una sinagoga.” - That's almost a synagogue. He was pointing to the rather garish Farhaad Rugs: Persian Carpets emporium across the calle.



I felt compelled to ask, “But it's not...?” To which he declaratively stated “No!”

We went on a couple of more blocks before our friend said that it was just a bit further ahead on the left. He tacked right to catch a bus home.



We remained doubtful, but shortly afterwards we saw a brightly lit building with well-dressed people greeting each other and heading outside. The building was called “Lubavitch,” which turned out to be the synagogue for the resident Jewish community, earlier deemed by Becky as too posh for the likes of us in our (sodden) backpacker getup.



At first Becky protested that she couldn't enter in her current state (under-dressed and over-soiled), but Amy and I insisted that they go in after all the effort we made in finding the place. So Becky and Amy headed in while I searched for an affordable place to drink in the zona roja, finally settling on a quiet bar nestled amongst car dealerships (but still quite expensive).

Shonibare exhibit at Museum of African Art

While in Washington, DC, a couple of days ago, I visited my favourite museum – the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art. It's particularly appealing in the summer, as it sees very few visitors in comparison to the Air and Space, Natural History and other museums on the Mall. I have ample space and time (and quiet) to take in the exhibits and, more often than not, make off with a cheap poster, a pair of which now frame my living room.



Since I last visited quite recently, there was only one new exhibit: Yinka Shonibare MBE. It was a retrospective of his work, and I found it very interesting, and fun too.

I like the connections Shonibare made to a triangle trade of sorts with the Dutch wax, which undercut African textile makers. A recent Economist article explained that imported Chinese textiles cost 1/3 the price of comparable domestically produced fabrics in Angola.



I also enjoyed Shonibare's view of the Enlightenment creating a justification for colonialism - bringing wisdom to ignorant peoples. So his conclusion was that the age of reason served as a rationale for subjugating others.



The exhibit was very accessible - good explanations, including some video of Shonibare describing his art and motivation. It's on until March 7, 2010, and I strongly recommend that you visit it if you happen to be in DC!

My stay in Scotland

It's been nearly three months since I left Scotland and, as I catch up on some posts I wanted to do, I decided to write a little about my experience in Edinburgh.

I first lived with a great friend of mine from my time in Ghana. It was staying with Sena and his family, and to play uncle for several months. I also enjoyed my experience at Harmeny School immensely, and I believe it'll help me a lot as a teacher in New York.

Cramond Island, Edinburgh, in February 2009

Part of the idea of moving to Scotland and not back to DC was to see how I liked life in the UK, and to have a quieter existence after finishing up in The Gambia. I made some good friends from my Sunday football group, Papa, Sena and Delali, my Wolof student and fellow West Africa aficionado, and my coworkers.

While in Edinburgh I was fortunate to have several visitors from the U.S., as well as a couple of friends staying around London. As Ousainou was in the UK, I had the opportunity to practice Wolof on the phone often, and during his visits. Since Harlem has an area called Little Senegal, so hopefully I'll get to keep up on Wolof.

For the last eight months or so of my stay I moved into a flat closer to work. This allowed me to bike to work, or take the bus, in 30 minutes - a nice improvement over the old 75 minute commute. Plus it was a little more spacious. Just before Christmas I discovered a weekly pick-up basketball game. Great fun, although I was surprised how popular basketball is with Polish people (or "Polanese" as Ousainou puts it) - of our 15 regulars, 6 were from Poland.

One major downside of living in Scotland was a general inability to pursue a teaching certification there. This was principally due to my unwillingness to spend several hundred Pounds (and a couple of evenings a week) on a couple of English courses, which would help Scottish universities establish that I had sufficient command of the English language to teach in Scotland. Bachelor's degrees from fairly reputable American universities, plus experience in Scottish schools and attendant recommendations, don't suffice. As a result I was beginning to disengage from life in Scotland and very relieved to get into the teaching programme in New York.

Other disadvantages included the weather and my second job at TESCO three nights a week. The latter helped me to save a little money, though.

Cramond Island on a sunny day in May

So I had a good stay in Edinburgh, although I didn't manage to travel as much as I'd have liked. Plus I mostly missed the festival as I visited the U.S. in August 2008. It's possible I'll return again, assuming a U.S. teaching degree has some value there, and enjoy the luxury of government provided healthcare!

The Green School Bus

Throughout my visit to Njau, my host father Chebo extolled the virtues of Gambia's new public buses. I will a bit surprised by this praise as he's generally not keen on initiatives undertaken by the APRC, Gambia's ruling party. [In a particularly rash pre-election moment a couple of years ago, he told the Njau police station officer that the S.O. would be slaughtered if the opposition won.] The vehicles are old American school buses painted green (the ruling party's colour) that ply the north bank road to the Barra ferry, and even across to Banjul and Serrekunda.



Chebo's main points:

- The buses are repainted green, and refurbished inside too - they're comfortable and have a good radio and speakers.

- The buses are cheaper than gelegeles (D90 to D100), which is forcing gelegele aparantis/conductors to reduce their fares.

- The buses don't dawdle for passengers and so are much faster.

- The buses get priority on the ferry so that you can quickly continue to Serrekunda (for no extra fare, although you do pay for the ferry ride).

Chebo, fan of green buses, and radios.

So on the appointed day I went to the bantaba (old men's hang-out spot) at the highway and waited for the 3 o'clock bus. Around 5 it rumbled up.

It soon became clear that the green school bus was not so different from the competition. The usual overcrowding led to great sharing of seats and children (I had one girl on my lap for a few hours), and plenty of time was devoted to picking up passengers, plus the obligatory food/toilet stop in Farafenni. But it also featured the usual kindnesses and personal interest of any trip - the girl who sat with me was being looked after by her grandmother as her mom could not manage. They were travelling to a wedding but didn't know how to get there. Fellow passengers made a few inquiries and phone calls to find out where they were going and someone on the bus agreed to escort them.

One improvement was the good state of the radio and speakers. There were no cassettes so we listened to a Gambia Radio and Television Service programme on the sexual exploitation of children, which somehow had the anagram SISSECS (like "scissors" with "ex" as the second syllable).

The moderators covered the main talking points, but weren't very good at countering caller responses. When one man called to castigate teenage girls for wearing short skirts thereby testing men's self-control, the presenters did not counter this argument.

The bus reached Barra around 10, which eliminated most of the ferry advantage as there was hardly any traffic at this hour (and we were down to one ferry). Whereas Gez and Liam elected to abandon their earlier green school bus, I didn't see any alternatives. I got to Mariama's around midnight, perhaps four hours later than I may have with the first post-lunch gele. But it was nice lying under the bantaba with my host dad and some of the men of the village, and I enjoyed the trip once I realised that Chebo's assessment of the APRC bus was hopelessly off.

A Bittersweet Return to Njau L.B.S.

My friends Liam and Gez joined me on this visit to The Gambia in April 2007. It was fun to share some of my Peace Corps experience with them, and it's always fun travelling with people who take notice of things that you may not see as readily.

My old boss in The Gambia, Ousainou Touray, moved to the UK shortly before me. We talk frequently, and we were able to get periodic updates on Njau Lower Basic School. Ousainou served as Njau's headmaster/principal for five years. Since Ous and I left, there have been 4 or 5 headmasters in the last two school years. So we had an inkling that all was not well. In addition to presents for his family, Ous gave me a couple of footballs for the school.

The day after I arrived in The Gambia, I came to Njau to try visit the school before it closed for Easter holidays (Gambia, 90-95% Muslim, dutifully observes even the most obscure Catholic holidays like Ascension). We went up to the school on Friday and met the students on the way as they'd been sent back (Gambian schools tradionally close a day or week early before a holiday). We continued and checked out the school and the (vegetable) garden. Eventually the new headmaster came over from his quarters. Liam wondered why I didn't give Jallow the footballs but, as he didn't seem terribly enthused, I elected to wait until the PTA chairman, Mot Hoja Ceesay, turned up as planned. I left the footballs in his care.

Mr. Jallow, myself, Mot Hoja Ceesay in the school garden

The school grounds weren't in very good shape. The roof from Grade 3 had blown off, and the furniture/class was relocated to my beloved library, the door to which was left unlocked as the keys were lost. The school garden wasn't as big as before, but did seem fairly well irrigated. After a few more minutes we headed off.

As my former Njau L.B.S. colleagues returned for Easter I began to learn more about Mr. Jallow. It turns out he was the headmaster of Buduk L.B.S. southeast of Njau. He was caught selling the school's World Food Programme supplies so he was transferred to Njau (Gambia's Dept. of State for Education doesn't fire people for stealing students' food).

On top of being a criminal, Mr. Jallow also got on very poorly with his teachers. One, Sheikh Ceesay, is a Njau native and lives there with his family. Due to conflicts with Jallow, Sheikh moved to Buduk's school, even though it meant spending the week away from his family and rent a food bowl. I was unable to see one of the two remaining teachers, the Ustas (Koranic teacher), as he had left early after an argument with Jallow. My little brother Alhagie Sait's teacher had not returned since the Christmas holidays. The lack of teachers and classroom means that a couple of classes now come in the afternoon.

One good thing to come out of Njau L.B.S.'s current travails is that it's helped me better appreciate Ousainou and the work he did at the school. I always knew he was cut from a different cloth than many headmasters and education authorities, but this visit reemphasized some salient points:

- Ous had a great rapport with his teachers. They were welcomed into his quarters for after-school lunch and ataya, and by and large work attendance was very good.

- He got on really well in the community, and knew just about everyone in the area. He also helped some compounds through the lean months. (Although this too was a misappropriation of WFP stores, it wasn't for personal gain. There was still plenty for the students, and whatever's left at the end of the year gets pilfered by the regional education office.)

- Ousainou also worked quite hard. He organized outreach/"sensitisation" in Njau and surrounding villages. He also spent a lot of holiday time visiting NGOs and prospective donors, in order to get funds for school improvements (library renovation, water pumps). The roof from Grade 3 would definitely have been restored.

Ousainou Touray and I in London. April 2009

Throughout my visit, many people noted how much Ousainou was missed and how the school was struggling. As disappointing as the school's state is, it helped me appreciate how much was accomplished by Ousainou.

Moonlighting

A quick aside. Hips Don't Lie confronted me on the TV the other night, and I noticed that Shakira seems to be running through a room of mosquito nets - really nice ones like the expat girl had when we went to Dakar for WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament). I couldn't tell if Shakira's also had sequins...


A few months ago (12 weeks to be exact - I just had my review!) I started a part-time job to help pay the bills. So three evenings a week I stock shelves in a supermarket cum big box store.

The work is relatively painless as most of the customers are cordial, and I've thus far avoided being trained to work checkouts so mostly operate in my own little world, with occasional reminders that we need to get through the dairy/meat backstock.

The chain gives us prescribed space to show our individuality on our nametags, where you can have a piece of clipart (the beer/wine ones are only available to employees over 18) and a fact about you listed. I went for a basketball but, as it was not on the list of languages, "I speak Wolof" did not make it onto the badge. Other entertaining features are the random searches, our clocking in/out cards (with the Orwellian phrase "Supporting Your Attendance" emblazoned across it), and weekly briefings where I learn how much money we've made and the value of products which are 'wasted' (it all goes straight into the compactor instead of being given away).

All told it's not a terrible place to make a few extra Pounds, although I am bewildered by the fact that we have literally hundreds of types of yoghurt available. My coworkers are all pretty nice, although the teenage boys never seem to do any work at all. Plus at the end of the shift I sometimes manage to sample some nicer items when they've been reduced in price as they approach their due date. And the work's not too mentally taxing.

There's all manner of formal avenues of communication, from the weekly status reports, surveys and so forth. So at the 12 week review my major input was to request that we get better newspapers in the staff room, perhaps even the Economist. My manager wasn't very encouraging but did say he'd put in a word with the higher-ups.

The Credit Crunch Hits (Rented) Home

Today I visited my bank in Edinburgh, with an eye towards getting a credit card through them. I don't intend to spend a lot of money, but I'd like to have the added insurance that credit cards offer over cash or debit cards (in light of travel company XL's recent demise), and want to avoid the extra commissions for using an American credit card in the UK.

Unfortunately my quest ended in failure. The customer service agent informed me that, since I carry no debt or mortgage (HA!), and spend very little of my savings, my credit rating is too low. So unless I spend more of my money, I cannot be trusted with a credit card -- even one with a credit limit linked to my account balance, which I suggested. In addition, my Peace Corps service kept me off the financial radar for two years, curtailing my opportunities to establish my profligate bona fides. This proves the old adage, No good deed goes unpunished.

A few weeks ago I read an article in the Economist stating that many African countries, due to their relative detachment from world financial markets, should not be as adversely affected by the international financial crisis. [In general, the article is cautiously optimistic about Africa's current prospects.] At the time I mused that I was analogous to these countries as I have not been caught up in the global financial tumult given my lack of investment (or liability).

Alas, I was incorrect in this assumption. As banks have belatedly moved to tighten their lending and credit provision strategies, I remain out of the UK financial loop, at least for the next six months.

That Kind of Guy?

I had a hectic three week visit to the U.S. in August., my first trip home in three years. I got to see my parents and sister and also caught up with lots of friends. While en route through London I even saw some South African friends I hadn't seen since 1991.



Given that the flight was on a stingy American carrier, I had to plan ahead. “Economy Plus” (I found no lower seating class) passengers could purchase cans of beer and so forth for $6. Having learnt my lesson on an Italian holiday (when I had to surrender toiletries), I presented the security screener with a sandwich bag of toothpaste and 5 cl bottles of vodka. Then all I had to do was furtively open them on the plane (it's even illegal to drink your duty free on the flight) and request extra orange juice.

After a few fun days in DC that included meeting beautiful babies (a demographic I greatly miss from my days in The Gambia) and a board games reunion (including stalwarts Illuminati and Citadels, and new games PowerGrid, Bohnanza and Puerto Rico) I took some Chinatown buses to Philadelphia and NYC. Like Gambian gelegeles, these buses seemed to stop anywhere to pick up and drop off passengers, who were usually standing under trees (in industrial/commercial parks, though). In NYC I had a mini-Gambian reunion and in Haji and Mai's new neighbourhood I got to speak Wolof, drink wonjo (sorrel leaf) and bui (baobab) juice and eat benichin rice with oil running down to my elbow!


In Pittsburgh I visited the Mattress Factory, which had a lot of interesting exhibits including some fun confusing dark spaces with visual tricks. Also while in the Northside my hope of one day owning a home was restored (my friend has a nice little $40,000 rowhouse) and I confounded a waitress by asking if the orange juice was “bottomless” (and was surprised to learn that they did indeed have “free refills”).

America remains as safety and litigation conscious as ever. In Pittsburgh a sign warned against leaving corn husks on the ground lest someone slip on them. In Tacoma, WA, I was admonished to point my lightly carbonated juice bottle “away from face and people, especially when opening.” It made me nostalgic for days of children climbing 50 feet with a machete to collect coconuts, riding bareback while balancing scythes on their heads, and having adults shout at them “Dinaa la door benga buga dee!” (I will beat you until you want to die.)



Back in DC I took in Treasures 2008 at the National Museum of African Art, with most of the ivory figures from the Congo basin and Nigeria. I also visited the decidedly more crowded exhibit of Afghan art at the National Gallery. Perhaps more people would've been at Treasures if we'd intervened in or bombed parties to the conflict in DRC (5.4 million dead over the past decade).

Seattle - Tacoma

Here we enjoyed some nice hot weather and geared up for friend Sean's (nee Xiao) wedding, which was of a decidedly relaxed nature. To wit:

“What if we don't get the dress for the second flower girl?”

“Oh, we'll just tell her she's not in the wedding.” (The dress arrived on time.)

I also had a rude reintroduction to driving (by proxy – the DC DMV wouldn't renew my license). We stayed at a hotel further from town, only to spend the savings on petrol, while missing at least half the turns and on-ramps we should have taken. This theme reached its nadir when we made an interminably slow 5 hour journey to Vancouver (again, traffic and routes colluded against us), spent 1½ hours there (it's pretty), and drove back. It was my highest ratio of journey time to destination stay since my star-crossed boat ride to Timbuktu. At least the en route dim sum and tea beat seven days of rice & fish and river water.


I was reunited with Fatou Jallow in Tacoma, which is not highly regarded in Seattle. We visited the “bridge of glass” (actually a bridge with some glass features above it), the Park Way (one of two Tacoma bars on Esquire's list of America's top 50 bars) and met with a bumper sticker saying “I pray. Get use [sic] to it.”


In Fatou's cute little African coffee table book of I came across a woefully mis-captioned picture:

“Senegalese street vendors sell fruit in front of striking ocher-painted buildings.”


At most these men were holding down the fort while the female vendor was off attending to another task. They are probably just chewing the fat.

In Seattle we went on an interesting tour of the underground – I had not realised that the city was built on top of old structures and streets that were not sufficiently above the flood/tide plane/plain. I also led Vic and Adam on what Adam described as a “rattan death march”, as is my wont when visiting new cities.

The wedding was a nice outdoor affair, although outboard motors obscured the vows. The ring bearer was a little discombobulated, the legacy perhaps of being lifted through a chandelier by his new uncle (though X had the scar to show for it).

I've forgotten the lovely couple's song, but the DJ made some curious selections during the sit-down portion of the reception. These included “White Flag” (about unrequited love) and “Hotel California” (as one of our friends at the high school table noted, “You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave.”). We had a fun time dancing (aside from Xiao's dad, Ning's mum and a random couple we were the only ones on the floor) until I had to catch my flight east to begin my journey back to Edinburgh.

A little break in Italy; Gambian political update

Judy: I love merenda.
Chris: Who's that, the wife?
Judy: No, tea [i.e. teatime].

With that, Judy set about scraping off the burnt edges of the bruschetta she was making in the event that some German neighbours did turn up that evening for some wine and snacks, before we went for some pizza.

So of course Judy decided that the Germans weren't coming, and I proceeded to devour most of the bruschetta. As Judy and a builder were busy debating where best to build a stone support post for a patio roof, I heard the German family approaching. Thankfully they brought some snacks (and wine!) to supplement the remnants of the dish we had prepared. So in spite of it all we had a nice chat, then made our way to the pizzeria some 90 minutes after our reservation (Judy had to hold off on locking the back door until the Germans had turned the corner).

On the whole my visit to Tuscany was great fun. I got stuck rereading some Adrian Mole books, so my goal of finally finishing Negro With A Hat was set back a bit. It was low-key and I got to see my cousins and their families briefly too. Look for the pictures to be uploaded in August.

Speaking of my camera, while visiting my cousin Lucy's B&B A Mezza Costa I saw a display of her friend's art. They were collages of painted "found objects." One of these, from 2005, featured, among other artifacts or bits of rubbish, was my camera! Perhaps a further hint that I should move into the digital era! Still, I like the fact that I will be surprised by and reminded of past activities once my film (36 exposures, not 24, it turns out) is finally finished. It was begun in October 2007.

In Gambian news, which I occasionally chronicle, President Jammeh last week announced that the time has come for homosexuals to quit The Gambia. Jammeh plans stronger restrictions on homosexuality than those softies in Iran. I may give this silliness some thought at a later date.

On Harmeny

After Saturday, I am motivated to write a little about the school I work at. That day, two of our boys participated in a 2.5km run on the Meadows in Edinburgh, so I decided to head over there with my nephew and a friend of mine. In addition to the two chaperones (who jogged with the boys), I expected a few people from Harmeny to drop by. So I was quite impressed to meet a dozen of my colleagues (including some who do not work directly with students) and some of their families. That day I felt very proud to be working at Harmeny School.

Besides the challenges and rewards of working with our students, I am also lucky that there is a good rapport between school employees, whether they are in administration, education or care (i.e. working in the cottages). It is a fun atmosphere, although I fear I will need some reeducation before I return to an American work setting, as it tends to be a bit more conservative in the U.S.

Here are some examples of the children's work and activities. I was lucky enough to attend the Burns Supper/Lunch (I am in the distance at the end of the table), and to see the creation of A Fight For Inner Peace.

More on talibes begging for their madrassas

My friend Maimuna sent me an Associated Press article on young Muslim boys from Guinea-Bissau sent away to study with marabouts/serignes/ustas (Koranic teachers) in Senegal. The students/talibes support their schools/madrassas by begging:

It's big business in Senegal. In the capital of Dakar alone, at least 7,600 child beggars work the streets, according to a study released in February by the ILO, the United Nations Children's Fund and the World Bank. The children collect an average of 300 African francs a day, just 72 cents, reaping their keepers $2 million a year.

Most of the boys — 90 percent, the study found — are sent out to beg under the cover of Islam, placing the problem at the complicated intersection of greed and tradition. For among the cruelest facts of Coli's life is that he was not stolen from his family. He was brought to Dakar with their blessing to learn Islam's holy book.

This made me think anew about my friend Bubacarr's little dara/Koranic school in Thies, Senegal, many hours from Njau, Gambia.

At Bubacarr's dara/madrassa the begging is done in lieu of farming, which young students often carry out as payment to teachers in rural areas. Since Thies is a big city, there is no farmland so relying on alms (one of Islam's five pillars) is the avenue pursued to support the school (and everyone's feeding).

While I am still dubious about the overall merits of the boarding dara/madrassa system (far from home, more time spent begging than studying), Bubacarr's did have a few saving graces. These are that the talibes are all from Njau, so they and their families know Bubacarr well, and see him whenever he returns to visit the village. Also, although difficult, life at the school did not seem too harsh (although some of this may have been due to my visit) -- everyone ate fairly well (as well as or perhaps better than they do in Njau) and the kids had spare money that they could spend on icees (frozen sugar-baobab/hibiscus drinks). But it's probably one of the better ones.

Of course, most of these boys had the decision to travel to Bubacarr's dara foisted upon them by their parents. I would have preferred they went to Njau's government school, but people value religious knowledge and can't always see the benefit of western education. And I'm sure the boys missed their families.

Regarding the article's thrust on child labour, I am again unsure exactly how to think of this. As the author mentions, some returned boys began working in their home villages. Rescuing them from their serignes/marabouts certainly won't spare these children from contributing their labour to their families' livelihood.

On dustbins and malaria

While in Hull visiting a friend from primary school, I came across a couple of strange things. First off, while taking in a cooking programme before heading out that morning, I listened to one guest speak about Malaria Awareness Week. So I thought we'd perhaps hear about the estimated 1 million people who die annually from malaria, and the relatively low cost of increasing prevention in regions where malaria is endemic.

Instead, I learned that some 2000 British travellers catch malaria overseas, and Brits thus need to learn more about the disease. Perhaps this is an angle to get Britons concerned about malaria worldwide, but I am a bit cynical, as no mention was made of non-British sufferers of malaria.

Upon heading out, we came upon a special van equipped with hoses and powerful sprays. For a couple of pounds a go, you could have your plastic rubbish bin washed. This seemed a bit useless since, well, it's a receptacle that stores filth and will keep getting dirty, and it's rarely hot enough here to worsen and spread the odour of the rubbish.

An enjoyable weekend

First off, it seems that in Edinburgh female drivers have a good reputation. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a car for sale. Among the virtues listed was that it has had "1 Lady Owner." Recently I also saw a driving school company that is simply named Female Driving Instructor. While on the subject of cars, one of my colleagues takes the bus to work as if she moved her car her (unzoned) spot would be taken. So she owns a car but feels she cannot drive it lest she lose the parking spot. Absurd.

Since I've gotten to Scotland, I've been on the lookout for some Wolof speakers so that I can brush up my language skills. I hadn't much luck (the language I most often randomly recognize is Twi, from Ghana), although I am teaching somebody some Wolof for use in their research work in Senegal. [My roommate recently remembered that he has a Gambian coworker, so I shall see if we can meet up for conversation.] So I was pleased when I happened upon a brochure for the World Sufi Festival in Glasgow, which would feature a Senegalese booth. As I've mentioned before a lot of Senegalese are followers of the Mouride sect of Islam, although I discovered that religious fervour did not figure prominently in the "Senegalese Market."



After a relaxing Friday afternoon watching Brokeback Mountain (which I thought was excelllent) and meeting up with some people at a pub, I left early Saturday morning for Glasgow. I spent the morning walking around the city (a nice place, I thought), and visited the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. It's an amalgamation of an art gallery (with Scottish, Italian and French art, plus a few masks in a theme on costume), Scottish history sections (I learned that the Scots did not wear kilts into battle, so I'm a little disappointed in my primary source of Scottish history - Braveheart) and a natural history museum, but quite nice all the same. Their signature piece seems to be a painting by Salvador Dali, called Christ of St John of the Cross, the purchase of which caused consternation.



At the Senegalese booth at the World Sufi Festival (other events at the conference centre included the Model Railroad Show and Cyprus Property Show) I did indeed meet several Wolof speakers and got some good practice in. In fact, one of them had sent a brief response to my Gumtree posting for a Wolof conversation partner, then never wrote again (apparently Amadou went on holiday to Ukraine), so he remembered me. There was a nice little dance and drumming session (it always seems to be white guys who are on the djembes), and a couple of them sang some familiar chants from the Baye Fall, itinerant Mourides who roam the Senegambian countryside singing for alms. There were plenty of other interesting booths, plus some nice Pakistani singing performances. There were a couple of real estate booths -- I could have bought into some condominium in Beirut ("by Ivana Trump" - I didn't know this was a big selling point) or perhaps gotten a bargain on a place in Lahore.

My weekend wrapped up with my second Sunday playing pick-up football in the Meadows. It was quite fun, although rather cold and I had an abysmal second stint in goal. It's nice to get the exercise, though, and hopefully we'll go for post-match pints next time. People are strange here in that when an activity ends here, they just up and leave.