Meet the men among men of the Gambia – wrestlers.
While some men are muscle bound, tall men with chiseled arms, it’s not a necessity. There were tiny sixteen-year-old-looking twigs who commanded the same amount of respect as the mighty men.
Manly men wear flannel; they wear jeans; they wear something to show their chest hair. But not here in the Gambia. Here, the shorter your skirt, the skimpier the shorts, and the more colorful and shiny your spandex, the manlier you are.
When manly men want to fight, they glare at each other, perhaps shove each other, and maybe pass some gruff and angry words to their opponent. Here in the Gambia, to indicate you want to fight, you approach another man, grab his belt, and pull your loins together. Manly.
As a sign of the fight about to begin, boxers and wrestlers will shake hands or knock gloves. Here in the Gambia, you gaze at your opponents eyes, and walk purposefully and swiftly towards them. As soon as you get within reach, you bend down and dip your hands into the dust, never straying from your rival’s eyes. Then, hands full of dust, you gently stroke your dusty hands down the chest of the one you are about to fight. It’s on.
When manly men celebrate a win, they leap in the air, they pump their fists, they roar ferociously. Here in the Gambia, the manliest of men who wins a match gets his four traveling minstrels, and he slowly does a jig around the arena.
When a manly man gets in injury, as in a scorpion bite (which we actually witnessed), they screw up their faces, grimace, wrap it, and get back out to the field. Here in the Gambia, the men writhe on the ground, and call over the village marabout, who proceeds to rub the injury and chant prayers and spells over it, until he’s carried out of the arena.
Manly men drink Gatorade for the electrolytes. Here in the Gambia, they drink a tea made by boiling the roots of a magic tree.
Manly men proclaim their arrival to the arena with lights, clouds of smoke, screaming fans, intense concentration, and occasional a ripping off of their oversized warm ups. Here in the Gambia, they enter the arena accompanied by shrill whistles, walking proudly beneath a banner bearing no words, but made of a sheer pink fabric overlaid with shiny golden hearts.
Manly men play until one victor prevails. They will fight to the death, hoping to be the one remaining – the best of the best. Here in the Gambia, they don’t push it. They will battle as long as it pleases them, but as soon as someone says, “I’m tired” in their language of choice, the signal is given to everyone. It’s over.
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