Tuesday, January 31, 2012
More Guest Blogs
More brave travelers have traveled to the Gambia! Stay tuned for their insightful stories of African adventure.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A Toubab’s First 48 in the Whale's Mouth
(The views, opinions and thoughts expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the author of this blog. I am solely a guest toubab author who enjoyed the opportunity to travel to the African continent for the first time 2 months ago)
I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).
After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.
Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.
I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.
Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.
One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).
The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!
We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.
Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.
Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.
We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.
We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:
Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”
Me: “Sure, why not.”
A few minutes pass.
Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”
Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.
What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.
Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.
-Steve
I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).
After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.
Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.
I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.
Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.
One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).
The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!
We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.
Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.
Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.
We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.
We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:
Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”
Me: “Sure, why not.”
A few minutes pass.
Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”
Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.
What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.
Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.
-Steve
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Jujus
Here in The Gambia, the vast majority of the population is Muslim. A combination of their tribal beliefs and their newer Islamic beliefs has led to a strong confidence in the power of jujus: verses of the Koran, written by a holy man called a marabou, bound in leather, and worn somewhere on the body.
I was about to head to Cape Verde on a travel-filled epic adventure, and Steve was coming so I needed a gift that was unique but appropriate and that he’d like. It was time for me to make some jujus.
I took a long time for me to decide what I wanted. Should I protect myself from knives? Should I go the safe route and get a juju for invincibility? Should I guarantee myself vast wealth in my future? Which juju would Steve most appreciate?
On our upcoming Cape Verde trip, I knew if travel plans were altered at all we wouldn’t make it to all the destinations I wanted. So the first juju I wanted, for both Steve and I, was for safe and efficient travel.
Then, I tried to think about what else we were passionate about. Of course, I thought of sports. So I made a juju for the success of the Green Bay Packers, and made Steve jujus for all of his favorite sports teams to be successful.
It was an incredible collision of my old life and my new one in Africa as I watched this holy man spell out “Green Bay Packers” phonetically in Arabic, then proceed to chant and make marks on a paper, continually cross-checking with his Islamic texts.
Apparently, as a marabou is making a juju for a person, he’s able to see things about their future. So, this is what my marabou told me about what my life would be like in the future.
- Where you live, people will love you. You will be much beloved and you will be rich.
- A government employee will try to befriend you, but you should stay away from him.
- You will go somewhere where they speak French
- You will be in the running with two others, and you will be the winner.
After he told me my future, he proceeded to make inexplicable marks on a paper, guided by Allah himself, I guess. When he finished he was left with three rows of little lines, each row with either one, two, or three lines in it. Based on the arrangement of the lines, it determines how successful your juju will be. As he drew one for the Cleveland Cavaliers, he made a satisfied clucking noise. I asked why, and he said, “They are in the second position. That is good.” That was the only point when I doubted his juju making abilities. I guess Allah doesn’t know the recent occurrences within the Cleveland Cavaliers organization.
When he was finished with all of the pieces of paper, covering all of the jujus I wanted, he told me that in order for all of the jujus to be successful, I would have to give some charities. He said I would have to do exactly as he said before I picked up the jujus, or they would not be as powerful.
The following are the gifts that I had to distribute.
- Give children milk on a Sunday
- Give silver to a disabled person
- Give three white kola nuts to someone older than you
- Give a prayer shawl to an old woman
So, one Sunday, armed with many dalasis and the power of Allah, I went to the market to purchase and distribute.
As I finished making my purchases and I was walking out of the market, I saw a blind man sitting and begging. I went to him and gave him the three white kola nuts, which are a sign of utmost respect in Gambian culture. As I put them in his outstretched hand I said, “Sadaa fele”, which means, “Gaze at the gifts.” Then I sat as he prayed for me, in the middle of the market, asking for Allah to bless me.
So my first charity given was awesome.
Later, I saw another blind man standing outside, clinking coins together. I awkwardly placed the silver ring on his pinky finger (that’s the only place it would fit, it was a tiny ring), but he also kept me there for a long time, blessing me with Allah’s praises.
So now, armed with the a double dose of heavenly blessings, I ventured to find an old woman and some children.
There was a woman sitting outside of the bank in a wheelchair, also clinking coins together, begging for money. I went to her, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and told her, “Gaze at the charity”. She gave me a quick thank you in mandinka, and then immediately asked me in English for money. I laughed and strolled away. Even if that less than stellar response canceled out one of my Allah blessings, I still had one to spare.
Then I went to find some kids to give milk to. I was sure this would be the easiest one, because every day, as I’m walking down the road, anything that I have, kids will ask for. If I’m drinking a bag of water, kids will yell, “Give me water!” If I’m eating a banana, they’ll say, “Give me banana!” So I thought as soon as I said yes to one of these requests, a horde of kids would come running and I’d have to fight them off.
I had three bags of milk to give away, so when I first saw a group of three kids, I said, Sweet. Perfect. But as soon as I nicely called for the boys to come over, they looked scared and ran away. I tried to explain in Mandinka that I had a gift for them, but apparently they had been schooled in stranger danger – or just didn’t know why on earth a toubab would be beckoning them.
Eventually, I found a kid sitting alone on a bike. I thought, aww, lonesome kid on a bike, who better to give my charity to? But then his well-dressed mother approached, looking apprehensive. I told her I had to give charities, and I wanted to give milk to her son. She said thank you, and in the tradition of the women gift receivers of the Gambia, promptly asked for some money too.
I found my last two kids sitting and waiting in a car park. I’m not sure they understood what they were getting, but their wise looking elder was sitting next to them, and he motioned that it was ok for them to take the gift.
In a country where if you don’t finish your coffee, you can give it to a four year old boy and he’ll guzzle it from the same cup, a country where when you throw out a coke can, kids immediately pick it up and start licking it for a few final sweet drops of liquid, who would have thought it’d be so hard to get them to take milk?
So, I completed my charities. I went to the marabou to pick up my jujus, and he said that on Sunday, he had sat for one hour, while the Packers were playing half a world away, and had prayed for their success.
I don’t want to jinx anything, but my jujus are awesome. The Packers are (as of now) undefeated, and Steve and I made it to all of our travel destinations safe and sound.
Cleveland teams are still struggling however… maybe no amount of heavenly power can make those teams successful.
I was about to head to Cape Verde on a travel-filled epic adventure, and Steve was coming so I needed a gift that was unique but appropriate and that he’d like. It was time for me to make some jujus.
I took a long time for me to decide what I wanted. Should I protect myself from knives? Should I go the safe route and get a juju for invincibility? Should I guarantee myself vast wealth in my future? Which juju would Steve most appreciate?
On our upcoming Cape Verde trip, I knew if travel plans were altered at all we wouldn’t make it to all the destinations I wanted. So the first juju I wanted, for both Steve and I, was for safe and efficient travel.
Then, I tried to think about what else we were passionate about. Of course, I thought of sports. So I made a juju for the success of the Green Bay Packers, and made Steve jujus for all of his favorite sports teams to be successful.
It was an incredible collision of my old life and my new one in Africa as I watched this holy man spell out “Green Bay Packers” phonetically in Arabic, then proceed to chant and make marks on a paper, continually cross-checking with his Islamic texts.
Apparently, as a marabou is making a juju for a person, he’s able to see things about their future. So, this is what my marabou told me about what my life would be like in the future.
- Where you live, people will love you. You will be much beloved and you will be rich.
- A government employee will try to befriend you, but you should stay away from him.
- You will go somewhere where they speak French
- You will be in the running with two others, and you will be the winner.
After he told me my future, he proceeded to make inexplicable marks on a paper, guided by Allah himself, I guess. When he finished he was left with three rows of little lines, each row with either one, two, or three lines in it. Based on the arrangement of the lines, it determines how successful your juju will be. As he drew one for the Cleveland Cavaliers, he made a satisfied clucking noise. I asked why, and he said, “They are in the second position. That is good.” That was the only point when I doubted his juju making abilities. I guess Allah doesn’t know the recent occurrences within the Cleveland Cavaliers organization.
When he was finished with all of the pieces of paper, covering all of the jujus I wanted, he told me that in order for all of the jujus to be successful, I would have to give some charities. He said I would have to do exactly as he said before I picked up the jujus, or they would not be as powerful.
The following are the gifts that I had to distribute.
- Give children milk on a Sunday
- Give silver to a disabled person
- Give three white kola nuts to someone older than you
- Give a prayer shawl to an old woman
So, one Sunday, armed with many dalasis and the power of Allah, I went to the market to purchase and distribute.
As I finished making my purchases and I was walking out of the market, I saw a blind man sitting and begging. I went to him and gave him the three white kola nuts, which are a sign of utmost respect in Gambian culture. As I put them in his outstretched hand I said, “Sadaa fele”, which means, “Gaze at the gifts.” Then I sat as he prayed for me, in the middle of the market, asking for Allah to bless me.
So my first charity given was awesome.
Later, I saw another blind man standing outside, clinking coins together. I awkwardly placed the silver ring on his pinky finger (that’s the only place it would fit, it was a tiny ring), but he also kept me there for a long time, blessing me with Allah’s praises.
So now, armed with the a double dose of heavenly blessings, I ventured to find an old woman and some children.
There was a woman sitting outside of the bank in a wheelchair, also clinking coins together, begging for money. I went to her, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and told her, “Gaze at the charity”. She gave me a quick thank you in mandinka, and then immediately asked me in English for money. I laughed and strolled away. Even if that less than stellar response canceled out one of my Allah blessings, I still had one to spare.
Then I went to find some kids to give milk to. I was sure this would be the easiest one, because every day, as I’m walking down the road, anything that I have, kids will ask for. If I’m drinking a bag of water, kids will yell, “Give me water!” If I’m eating a banana, they’ll say, “Give me banana!” So I thought as soon as I said yes to one of these requests, a horde of kids would come running and I’d have to fight them off.
I had three bags of milk to give away, so when I first saw a group of three kids, I said, Sweet. Perfect. But as soon as I nicely called for the boys to come over, they looked scared and ran away. I tried to explain in Mandinka that I had a gift for them, but apparently they had been schooled in stranger danger – or just didn’t know why on earth a toubab would be beckoning them.
Eventually, I found a kid sitting alone on a bike. I thought, aww, lonesome kid on a bike, who better to give my charity to? But then his well-dressed mother approached, looking apprehensive. I told her I had to give charities, and I wanted to give milk to her son. She said thank you, and in the tradition of the women gift receivers of the Gambia, promptly asked for some money too.
I found my last two kids sitting and waiting in a car park. I’m not sure they understood what they were getting, but their wise looking elder was sitting next to them, and he motioned that it was ok for them to take the gift.
In a country where if you don’t finish your coffee, you can give it to a four year old boy and he’ll guzzle it from the same cup, a country where when you throw out a coke can, kids immediately pick it up and start licking it for a few final sweet drops of liquid, who would have thought it’d be so hard to get them to take milk?
So, I completed my charities. I went to the marabou to pick up my jujus, and he said that on Sunday, he had sat for one hour, while the Packers were playing half a world away, and had prayed for their success.
I don’t want to jinx anything, but my jujus are awesome. The Packers are (as of now) undefeated, and Steve and I made it to all of our travel destinations safe and sound.
Cleveland teams are still struggling however… maybe no amount of heavenly power can make those teams successful.
Jammeh's Jamboree
This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Peace Corps. To celebrate, all over the world, different Peace Corps countries and the governments therein are having events, throwing parties, giving gifts to commemorate all the brave young men and women who’ve put real life on hold to go and explore the unknown.
Recently, the president of the Gambia, His Excellency Sheik Dr. Alhagie Professor Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, invited all Peace Corps volunteers to his home village, to properly honor the time the Peace Corps has been present in the Gambia, which as of this year, has been 45 years uninterrupted. Through coups and revolutions, Peace Corps has been ever present in The Gambia.
Peace Corps volunteers have seen how village meetings and programs are run in the Gambia. We know not to expect a meeting in the village to start until two hours after it’s supposed to, we know when it says there’s lodging it’s probably sleeping on a thin mat on a concrete slab, and we know that if food is provided it’s probably fish, palm oil, and okra.
But would it be different when the president was our Gambian host? Time would tell.
The program was set to begin at 4pm, with lunch. We arrived at around 4, after a police escorted hour and a half trip from Kombo to Kanilai. A Peace Corps volunteer got on the intercom system on the bus (yes it was one of those buses – a la eighth grade band trip to Florida) and acted as our tour guide. He pointed out the trees of the Gambia, the point at which the pavement stopped, and my favorite, uttered this quote: “On your right, you’ll see Yuna psychiatric hospital and liquor production facility”. And sure enough, to our right, there it was.
We arrived at around four to a large welcoming party. We finished eating at around five thirty, over an hour late, as expected. If the lunch spread was any indication of how the night would go, we were in for a treat. Every time I looked up, they brought out a new roasted goat filled with stuffing; they had delicious domoda, roasted lamb, tons of fresh fruit, and overall things that provide slightly more taste and nutrition than the average Gambian meal.
Then we all moved to the stadium. We sat in the seats of honor, behind where the president was expected to sit. We sat, watching the dancing Jammeh supporters, listening to the band, and waiting for the big man to make his appearance. The actual ceremony was expected to start at six.
Darkness fell, and still no president had shown his face. At this point we were tired of acting like honorable guests of honor, so I got the people sitting around me involved in a round of “the ugly game”, where each person tries to make him or herself as ugly as possible, and then capture it on digital camera.
Finally, at around 7:45, the president showed up. His arrival was perhaps my favorite thing about the entire night. Most presidents don’t drive themselves anywhere – it’s much safer for someone else to sit in the driver’s seat. But President Jammeh isn’t most presidents. He peeled out in his Land Rover, his traditional white robes blowing wildly in the wind. He squealed to a stop in the grass in front of the leather couch that had been placed there specifically for this purpose, and his henchman approached the car, opened the door, and quickly ushered him onto the couch. Like communion on Easter Sunday, we all quickly cycled from our seat to the front to greet and shake the president’s hand, then back around to our seats.
Then the ceremony began. We sang both national anthems. There were numerous speeches, some well thought out and eloquent ones, some long and rambling ones. Speeches were given by Peace Corps volunteers in each of the local languages. You could tell the crowd got a kick out of hearing toubabs speak and joke fluently in their local language. Even the president gave a couple of guffaws. After this, pretty much everyone who ever was involved in the Peace Corps and is now in government gave a speech. And like most programs in The Gambia, it went on FAR TOO LONG. By the time all the speaking was finished, it was around 10:30 pm. Dinner was planned to be served at 8 pm. Only two and half hours late is about right for the Gambia, so we were all relatively pleased with the timetable of the night.
But then, the president announced he had an exciting surprise for us. First, he asked all female volunteers to stand, which we did, although slightly nervously. Visions of massive wedding ceremonies flooded through my head, but then the president announced he wanted to give us all dressed. We all exchanged excited looks, and now new visions flooded my head – traditional, embroidered, wax print dresses for all of us. Or even better, a dress made out of the fabric printed with the president’s face and name. We all got in a long line to receive our gifts. They were all folded, so we couldn’t really see what we were being offered until we got back to our seats and could open them…
And the president had given every Peace Corps volunteer a Gambian made… pantsuit. Imagine a 70’s flight attendant uniform, then put it a color two steps uglier, and embroider it four levels gaudier, and that’s about what we received. I chose a lovely lime green shirt, far too small, with embroidery that has a pattern you’d see on a blanket in New Mexico. Some girls received some pretty inappropriate stuff, with embroidered arrows pointing directly to their nether regions… Immediately people started talking about throwing their presidential gifts into the free pile. I’m hoping enough people held onto theirs that we can use them for uniforms for WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) this year.
Then the Peace Corps men were invited up, and to the ladies’ shock, many of them were given beautiful, traditional, wax printed clothes. Some unlucky ones near the back got embroidered white t shirts, but some dudes hit the jackpot.
Finally, gifts given and speeches heard, we moved to the dining area to eat and watch the movie created by a Peace Corps volunteer about Peace Corps in the Gambia. It was about 12:30 pm.
At 1am, we moved to the food. There were cakes, there was salad, there was meat and fresh fruit. I ate triple what any normal person should, but I knew a few short days would find me back in village, eating fish bones only. As I was walking around the tennis court (where the food was set up and served), I was piling food on my plate, while simultaneously eating the tiny cakes he had millions of. I probably ate eighteen tiny pieces of cake by the time the dinner was over. We all ate as much as we possibly could, watched the movie, and then were completely exhausted and ready to sleep in the presidential accommodations the pres had arranged for us.
As we were indulging, our safety and security coordinator came around, and told us the nice lodge in the village only had thirteen rooms, and Peace Corps staff would stay there. So, we could stay in this abandoned apartment complex, or we could return back to Kombo to stay in the Peace Corps house. I chose to return, and entered the door to the place I would finally rest my head at 4am.
Those that stayed said that the lodging was a concrete room, a mattress on the floor, and no electricity… so in fact, even less accommodating than our pit latrine equipped huts with beds.
Despite the tardiness, the poor accommodations, the exhaustion, we all had a pretty good time, and definitely felt that the people of the Gambia appreciated what we and our predecessors have done for the country.
At least, we felt that until a few hours later, when a large number of us had immense gastrointestinal discomfort. Apparently, food that is prepared and ready to be served at 8pm is not quite as intestinally accepted when it’s served at 1am.
Recently, the president of the Gambia, His Excellency Sheik Dr. Alhagie Professor Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, invited all Peace Corps volunteers to his home village, to properly honor the time the Peace Corps has been present in the Gambia, which as of this year, has been 45 years uninterrupted. Through coups and revolutions, Peace Corps has been ever present in The Gambia.
Peace Corps volunteers have seen how village meetings and programs are run in the Gambia. We know not to expect a meeting in the village to start until two hours after it’s supposed to, we know when it says there’s lodging it’s probably sleeping on a thin mat on a concrete slab, and we know that if food is provided it’s probably fish, palm oil, and okra.
But would it be different when the president was our Gambian host? Time would tell.
The program was set to begin at 4pm, with lunch. We arrived at around 4, after a police escorted hour and a half trip from Kombo to Kanilai. A Peace Corps volunteer got on the intercom system on the bus (yes it was one of those buses – a la eighth grade band trip to Florida) and acted as our tour guide. He pointed out the trees of the Gambia, the point at which the pavement stopped, and my favorite, uttered this quote: “On your right, you’ll see Yuna psychiatric hospital and liquor production facility”. And sure enough, to our right, there it was.
We arrived at around four to a large welcoming party. We finished eating at around five thirty, over an hour late, as expected. If the lunch spread was any indication of how the night would go, we were in for a treat. Every time I looked up, they brought out a new roasted goat filled with stuffing; they had delicious domoda, roasted lamb, tons of fresh fruit, and overall things that provide slightly more taste and nutrition than the average Gambian meal.
Then we all moved to the stadium. We sat in the seats of honor, behind where the president was expected to sit. We sat, watching the dancing Jammeh supporters, listening to the band, and waiting for the big man to make his appearance. The actual ceremony was expected to start at six.
Darkness fell, and still no president had shown his face. At this point we were tired of acting like honorable guests of honor, so I got the people sitting around me involved in a round of “the ugly game”, where each person tries to make him or herself as ugly as possible, and then capture it on digital camera.
Finally, at around 7:45, the president showed up. His arrival was perhaps my favorite thing about the entire night. Most presidents don’t drive themselves anywhere – it’s much safer for someone else to sit in the driver’s seat. But President Jammeh isn’t most presidents. He peeled out in his Land Rover, his traditional white robes blowing wildly in the wind. He squealed to a stop in the grass in front of the leather couch that had been placed there specifically for this purpose, and his henchman approached the car, opened the door, and quickly ushered him onto the couch. Like communion on Easter Sunday, we all quickly cycled from our seat to the front to greet and shake the president’s hand, then back around to our seats.
Then the ceremony began. We sang both national anthems. There were numerous speeches, some well thought out and eloquent ones, some long and rambling ones. Speeches were given by Peace Corps volunteers in each of the local languages. You could tell the crowd got a kick out of hearing toubabs speak and joke fluently in their local language. Even the president gave a couple of guffaws. After this, pretty much everyone who ever was involved in the Peace Corps and is now in government gave a speech. And like most programs in The Gambia, it went on FAR TOO LONG. By the time all the speaking was finished, it was around 10:30 pm. Dinner was planned to be served at 8 pm. Only two and half hours late is about right for the Gambia, so we were all relatively pleased with the timetable of the night.
But then, the president announced he had an exciting surprise for us. First, he asked all female volunteers to stand, which we did, although slightly nervously. Visions of massive wedding ceremonies flooded through my head, but then the president announced he wanted to give us all dressed. We all exchanged excited looks, and now new visions flooded my head – traditional, embroidered, wax print dresses for all of us. Or even better, a dress made out of the fabric printed with the president’s face and name. We all got in a long line to receive our gifts. They were all folded, so we couldn’t really see what we were being offered until we got back to our seats and could open them…
And the president had given every Peace Corps volunteer a Gambian made… pantsuit. Imagine a 70’s flight attendant uniform, then put it a color two steps uglier, and embroider it four levels gaudier, and that’s about what we received. I chose a lovely lime green shirt, far too small, with embroidery that has a pattern you’d see on a blanket in New Mexico. Some girls received some pretty inappropriate stuff, with embroidered arrows pointing directly to their nether regions… Immediately people started talking about throwing their presidential gifts into the free pile. I’m hoping enough people held onto theirs that we can use them for uniforms for WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) this year.
Then the Peace Corps men were invited up, and to the ladies’ shock, many of them were given beautiful, traditional, wax printed clothes. Some unlucky ones near the back got embroidered white t shirts, but some dudes hit the jackpot.
Finally, gifts given and speeches heard, we moved to the dining area to eat and watch the movie created by a Peace Corps volunteer about Peace Corps in the Gambia. It was about 12:30 pm.
At 1am, we moved to the food. There were cakes, there was salad, there was meat and fresh fruit. I ate triple what any normal person should, but I knew a few short days would find me back in village, eating fish bones only. As I was walking around the tennis court (where the food was set up and served), I was piling food on my plate, while simultaneously eating the tiny cakes he had millions of. I probably ate eighteen tiny pieces of cake by the time the dinner was over. We all ate as much as we possibly could, watched the movie, and then were completely exhausted and ready to sleep in the presidential accommodations the pres had arranged for us.
As we were indulging, our safety and security coordinator came around, and told us the nice lodge in the village only had thirteen rooms, and Peace Corps staff would stay there. So, we could stay in this abandoned apartment complex, or we could return back to Kombo to stay in the Peace Corps house. I chose to return, and entered the door to the place I would finally rest my head at 4am.
Those that stayed said that the lodging was a concrete room, a mattress on the floor, and no electricity… so in fact, even less accommodating than our pit latrine equipped huts with beds.
Despite the tardiness, the poor accommodations, the exhaustion, we all had a pretty good time, and definitely felt that the people of the Gambia appreciated what we and our predecessors have done for the country.
At least, we felt that until a few hours later, when a large number of us had immense gastrointestinal discomfort. Apparently, food that is prepared and ready to be served at 8pm is not quite as intestinally accepted when it’s served at 1am.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Cape Verde > The Gambia
I just went on an epic trip to Cape Verde. It was amazing and beautiful and perhaps the greatest place on earth, but I’m not going to publish the itinerary nor my reasons for my glowing recommendations until a successful travel writing business pays me for my efforts.
Instead, I am going to publish the top three reasons that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reason Number Three: Street Food
I cannot explain how amazing the street food was there. I told myself before I went that I would try every piece of street food that I saw, at least once. In The Gambia, if I had made that promise, I would be sputtering in disgust often. Following through on this declaration in Cape Verde, however, was joyous surprise after joyous surprise.
My knowledge of the Portuguese language, and most street food vendors knowledge of English intersected enough for them to understand, through broken Portuguese and emphatic hand motions, that I was indicating, “FEED ME ONE OF THOSE”.
The first tasty morsel was some sort of brownish goop that they spread on bread. Now, in the Gambia, this goop is bound to be something okra or fish related. So I was nervous. But upon its first contact with my taste buds, I knew this was not Gambian street food. The goop was some sort of sweet caramel type substance. The bread was about the size of a hot dog bun, slathered with delicious muck, and it put me back 10 escudos, or about 14 cents. I immediately ate two more.
Only then did I notice the wild variety of street food surrounding me. Had I noticed it before, I would not have been so quick to guzzle the first nugget.
Immediately upon discovery, I had all my hands and mouth space occupied with some pizza type onion-y thing, two incredibly iced doughnuts, and a huge piece of cake. All of that for 50 escudos. Or like 80 cents.
The best street food moment of the trip came after many attempts. I’d seen woman walking around with large, clear plastic bags, filled with what looked like raw tofu. It was visibly cold and wet, and was about the size, shape, and thickness of a rice cake. I had no idea what this was for a long time. I had seen many people walking around with the bags, and people making purchases, but no one actually consuming this mysterious consumable.
My moment came, and in a flurry of misunderstanding, I finally ended up with one of these discs, for 150 escudos, or slightly more than two dollars. Based on my previous experiences, this was an expensive hunk of something.
I examined its cold wetness, and wondered what it could possibly be. At this point, I was still pretty sure it was raw tofu. But upon the first squeaky bite, I knew for certain that it was the greatest discovery since the finding of these beautiful islands so long ago.
It was cheese. A huge disc of recently pressed goat cheese (I think). Cheap, accessible, fresh, not processed, cheese????? This is the stuff of a Gambian volunteer’s dreams. And thus, reason number three that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reasons Number Two: Infrastructure
This may have been the biggest shock upon arriving to Cape Verde. I’m no expert nor widely traveled person, but having lived on the continent for over a year, I thought I’d understood what Africa had to offer, and most likely wouldn’t be too surprised by anything this continent had to throw at me.
Then I arrived in Cape Verde.
You think Africa, in general, has a lack of power, running water, banks, restaurants, on time vehicles, or schedules of any sort? Think again.
Cape Verde has some amazingly beautiful sights to see. They have mountains, beaches, volcanoes, beautiful people, interesting cities, etc. But a strange proportion of my pictures are of seemingly mundane things. Trash cans, power lines, electric lights, and comfortable seating.
BECAUSE AFRICA DOES HAVE THESE THINGS.
Was I pretty ignorant of Africa before I got to Cape Verde? Definitely, but I would argue that makes me appreciate it much more. Most folks, upon seeing a beautiful valley filled with sugar cane blowing in the wind, capped off by a low, fluffy cloud cover, would miss the understated beauty and the manifestation of lots of time and effort on the part of government and local laborers if they overlooked the green trash cans, the cobbled road, the delicate spine of power lines running to the most remote, basic, rural homes.
Reason Number One: Stuff to See
The most amazing thing that Cape Verde had was stuff to see. Scenery you couldn’t get anywhere else, sights and sounds completely unique and beautiful. Looking to the west and seeing the ocean, and across the channel, another island with the sun setting behind it, and then turning to the east and seeing the peak of a epic volcano that you climbed earlier that day?
Emerging on the top of an epically high ridge of mountains, to look down into the next gorgeous valley, shade obscuring half of it and sunlight blindingly illuminating the rest?
Watching farmers not only plow their fields with horses and donkeys, but also adjust the irrigation lines that come from the water trickling down from way up the mountain?
A boy making his way up a steep cobbled road, and to assist him, he’s holding the tail of a huge white horse?
Hearing a local Creole speaker order the locally made alcohol called “grogue”, which in my Chicago accent sound synonymous with witch’s puke, but in their lispy, musical tongue, it sounds like something fantastical and delicious?
Amazing.
You should go there.
PS. Mom. I know you just bought your ticket to the Gambia… but it’s pretty good too!
Instead, I am going to publish the top three reasons that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reason Number Three: Street Food
I cannot explain how amazing the street food was there. I told myself before I went that I would try every piece of street food that I saw, at least once. In The Gambia, if I had made that promise, I would be sputtering in disgust often. Following through on this declaration in Cape Verde, however, was joyous surprise after joyous surprise.
My knowledge of the Portuguese language, and most street food vendors knowledge of English intersected enough for them to understand, through broken Portuguese and emphatic hand motions, that I was indicating, “FEED ME ONE OF THOSE”.
The first tasty morsel was some sort of brownish goop that they spread on bread. Now, in the Gambia, this goop is bound to be something okra or fish related. So I was nervous. But upon its first contact with my taste buds, I knew this was not Gambian street food. The goop was some sort of sweet caramel type substance. The bread was about the size of a hot dog bun, slathered with delicious muck, and it put me back 10 escudos, or about 14 cents. I immediately ate two more.
Only then did I notice the wild variety of street food surrounding me. Had I noticed it before, I would not have been so quick to guzzle the first nugget.
Immediately upon discovery, I had all my hands and mouth space occupied with some pizza type onion-y thing, two incredibly iced doughnuts, and a huge piece of cake. All of that for 50 escudos. Or like 80 cents.
The best street food moment of the trip came after many attempts. I’d seen woman walking around with large, clear plastic bags, filled with what looked like raw tofu. It was visibly cold and wet, and was about the size, shape, and thickness of a rice cake. I had no idea what this was for a long time. I had seen many people walking around with the bags, and people making purchases, but no one actually consuming this mysterious consumable.
My moment came, and in a flurry of misunderstanding, I finally ended up with one of these discs, for 150 escudos, or slightly more than two dollars. Based on my previous experiences, this was an expensive hunk of something.
I examined its cold wetness, and wondered what it could possibly be. At this point, I was still pretty sure it was raw tofu. But upon the first squeaky bite, I knew for certain that it was the greatest discovery since the finding of these beautiful islands so long ago.
It was cheese. A huge disc of recently pressed goat cheese (I think). Cheap, accessible, fresh, not processed, cheese????? This is the stuff of a Gambian volunteer’s dreams. And thus, reason number three that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reasons Number Two: Infrastructure
This may have been the biggest shock upon arriving to Cape Verde. I’m no expert nor widely traveled person, but having lived on the continent for over a year, I thought I’d understood what Africa had to offer, and most likely wouldn’t be too surprised by anything this continent had to throw at me.
Then I arrived in Cape Verde.
You think Africa, in general, has a lack of power, running water, banks, restaurants, on time vehicles, or schedules of any sort? Think again.
Cape Verde has some amazingly beautiful sights to see. They have mountains, beaches, volcanoes, beautiful people, interesting cities, etc. But a strange proportion of my pictures are of seemingly mundane things. Trash cans, power lines, electric lights, and comfortable seating.
BECAUSE AFRICA DOES HAVE THESE THINGS.
Was I pretty ignorant of Africa before I got to Cape Verde? Definitely, but I would argue that makes me appreciate it much more. Most folks, upon seeing a beautiful valley filled with sugar cane blowing in the wind, capped off by a low, fluffy cloud cover, would miss the understated beauty and the manifestation of lots of time and effort on the part of government and local laborers if they overlooked the green trash cans, the cobbled road, the delicate spine of power lines running to the most remote, basic, rural homes.
Reason Number One: Stuff to See
The most amazing thing that Cape Verde had was stuff to see. Scenery you couldn’t get anywhere else, sights and sounds completely unique and beautiful. Looking to the west and seeing the ocean, and across the channel, another island with the sun setting behind it, and then turning to the east and seeing the peak of a epic volcano that you climbed earlier that day?
Emerging on the top of an epically high ridge of mountains, to look down into the next gorgeous valley, shade obscuring half of it and sunlight blindingly illuminating the rest?
Watching farmers not only plow their fields with horses and donkeys, but also adjust the irrigation lines that come from the water trickling down from way up the mountain?
A boy making his way up a steep cobbled road, and to assist him, he’s holding the tail of a huge white horse?
Hearing a local Creole speaker order the locally made alcohol called “grogue”, which in my Chicago accent sound synonymous with witch’s puke, but in their lispy, musical tongue, it sounds like something fantastical and delicious?
Amazing.
You should go there.
PS. Mom. I know you just bought your ticket to the Gambia… but it’s pretty good too!
Stay Tuned!
The Gambia was lucky to welcome a new toubab non-tourist inside its borders a few weeks ago, and he has generously agreed to write a blog post about his experiences. Check back for what's sure to be a hilarious, well written tale of wonder and woe.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Food Critique
I’ve eaten a lot of meals in the Gambia. By my calculations, about 1300. About a third of those have been breakfast, which I provide for myself, but the remaining two thirds, over 800 meals, have been with Gambians, served by Gambians, cooked by Gambians. The vessel to bring much of these meals from bowl to mouth has been my hand. I’ve learned by the smell of an unopened food bowl which delectable mash I’ll be served that evening. And through these hundreds of lunches and dinners, I’ve noticed some trends. So, come and learn with me, as I take you through the slimy, mushy, and carb-filled world of food in the Gambia. As the Gambians say, “Come eat.”
Here in the Gambia, the food pyramid is nothing like the triangular thing of beauty that we all grew up with, and definitely nothing like the weird thing the FDA is trying to make Americans buy now. I spent some time drawing it up, and this is about how it looks.
Here are some common recipes that are cooked here in the Gambia. Try them at home!
RECIPE ONE: Serve at least 9 times per week
Ingredients: Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish (and especially the bones)
Cook a carb: usually rice, bird seed, or sand.
Cook another carb, usually pasta, and cook it in oil.
Add plenty of MSG.
Fry a fish and throw it in on top of the bowl. (If you can’t afford a fish, at least throw in a bunch of bones to give the illusion that it once had fish… or for a boost of calcium. Or for crunch. Or a challenge, something to search for amongst the homogenous mash)
RECIPE TWO: Serve four to five times per week.
Ingredients: Carbs
Leaves
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash leaves together with MSG. Don’t stop mashing until they’re good and slimy.
Cook in oil until the sliminess is maximized, and all nutrients or beneficial substances in the leaves have been removed completely.
Cook a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve leaves over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste
RECIPE THREE: One time per week ,if you’re lucky.
*These recipes will provide the eater with a bit of protein, an essential element that is absent from all other meals. Since this is the case, if you are ever served this dish, EAT UP.
INGREDIENTS: Ground nuts
Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash groundnuts (peanuts) into peanut butter. Try to remove all the bugs first, but if you miss a few: meh.
Cook with oil and MSG.
Prepare a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve groundnuts over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste.
Beyond meals, sometimes Gambians snack throughout the day (unless its Ramadan. Or hungry season) These snacks are sometimes a delightful way to introduce some variety to the day to day food options. Snacks depend greatly on the season in which the snacker is snacking.
June – August: No snacks. It’s hungry season. The crops are in the ground, and none have grown tall enough for us to eat yet.
August – October: Carbs on the cob.
November – January: Groundnuts, fresh from the earth, still crawling with pests.
January – April: Groundnuts, now old. Still pests though!
May – June: MANGOES! The only time fruit is added to the everday Gambian diet.
So no matter what time of year you choose to come visit the Gambia, you'll be prepared for the dining options that await.
Bring Clif Bars.
Here in the Gambia, the food pyramid is nothing like the triangular thing of beauty that we all grew up with, and definitely nothing like the weird thing the FDA is trying to make Americans buy now. I spent some time drawing it up, and this is about how it looks.
Here are some common recipes that are cooked here in the Gambia. Try them at home!
RECIPE ONE: Serve at least 9 times per week
Ingredients: Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish (and especially the bones)
Cook a carb: usually rice, bird seed, or sand.
Cook another carb, usually pasta, and cook it in oil.
Add plenty of MSG.
Fry a fish and throw it in on top of the bowl. (If you can’t afford a fish, at least throw in a bunch of bones to give the illusion that it once had fish… or for a boost of calcium. Or for crunch. Or a challenge, something to search for amongst the homogenous mash)
RECIPE TWO: Serve four to five times per week.
Ingredients: Carbs
Leaves
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash leaves together with MSG. Don’t stop mashing until they’re good and slimy.
Cook in oil until the sliminess is maximized, and all nutrients or beneficial substances in the leaves have been removed completely.
Cook a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve leaves over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste
RECIPE THREE: One time per week ,if you’re lucky.
*These recipes will provide the eater with a bit of protein, an essential element that is absent from all other meals. Since this is the case, if you are ever served this dish, EAT UP.
INGREDIENTS: Ground nuts
Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash groundnuts (peanuts) into peanut butter. Try to remove all the bugs first, but if you miss a few: meh.
Cook with oil and MSG.
Prepare a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve groundnuts over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste.
Beyond meals, sometimes Gambians snack throughout the day (unless its Ramadan. Or hungry season) These snacks are sometimes a delightful way to introduce some variety to the day to day food options. Snacks depend greatly on the season in which the snacker is snacking.
June – August: No snacks. It’s hungry season. The crops are in the ground, and none have grown tall enough for us to eat yet.
August – October: Carbs on the cob.
November – January: Groundnuts, fresh from the earth, still crawling with pests.
January – April: Groundnuts, now old. Still pests though!
May – June: MANGOES! The only time fruit is added to the everday Gambian diet.
So no matter what time of year you choose to come visit the Gambia, you'll be prepared for the dining options that await.
Bring Clif Bars.
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