September 26

With all due respect to Ramadan, abstaining from water all day in this heat is madness.

My fourth Hash run started in Senegambia, went south past the Bijilo Forest Park to the beach, north all the way up to Palma Rima and back. Slowly but surely, I have seen most of the Northern Kombos beaches. It was a long, brisk walk, and a surprisingly good workout. I asked a woman who runs some hotel businesses whether she ever gets tired of the ocean, to which she replied that nature never gets boring. I certainly take a moment to appreciate the sun setting over the ocean every chance I get. Dinner at the Jewel of India restaurant was the best yet. One of the benefits of joining a group like the Hash, which has numerous people who have lived here for years, is that Gambia is small and they tend to be well-connected to many of the business owners, which affords me the opportunity to get a sampling of some of the finer things here at discounted rates. Last week, I listened to a heated discussion by some Lebanese over Hezbollah. This week, I chatted with some Brits and Irishmen about the Labour Party’s chances in the next election. They like to mock each other, which is entertaining. I was also duly informed that October is Gambia’s worst month, as the end of the rains results in stifling humidity, and hatched mosquitoes bring the highest malaria risk. Oh well, I look forward all the same.

Today was my first, and hopefully last, experience with Gambia’s medical system. I paid a visit to the Lamtoro Medical Centre by Senegambia. It was highly recommended by my tour book and coworkers as being expensive but good. While I very much enjoy experiencing both the best and worst of local life, I have no desire to extend the latter to hospital care. The centre looked very much like a clinic in Canada, with a waiting room, pharmacy, and doctor’s offices. However, it lacked the brightly lit, white, sterile feeling we tend to associate with hospitals. Buildings in the Gambia have a certain difficult-to-describe tropical feeling to them. Bars, restaurants, the airport, and my office all have it, and the clinic was no exception. I think it’s that things aren’t as closed off from the outdoors, which creates a kind of airy aura. When you’re indoors, you still feel connected to the climate and the outdoors and you don’t forget where you are. Everything, including the furniture, also feels more simple and natural. While the waiting area was poorly lit, sunlight streamed in through the windows and open door, two fans oscillated quietly on the ceiling, and a wind caused the light, white window curtains to flutter. The visit itself was uneventful, and I was prescribed antibiotics for an ear infection.

While at the doctor’s office, I spotted a scale and gave it a whirl. If both that scale and the scale at my parents’ house are accurate, I’ve lost about 34 pounds since I left Edmonton seven and a half weeks ago.

September 25

Under a clear and promising sky, I headed to Senegambia on Thursday night to take in Reggae Night at WOW nightclub, to dance and enjoy some music. I haven’t been to WOW, and had only been told by my roommate that it was the busiest bar she’d been to. The more time I spend in this country, the less I like the Senegambia area. It’s truly a bland, bumster-filled tourist strip that makes me long for Vegas. Arriving shortly before 10pm and finding WOW empty, I strolled to a casino across the street, which unfortunately was merely a small room with slots and a European electronic roulette table. I returned to the bar and relaxed on a couch, a guy came over and we chatted. Within 5 minutes, he pointed out a waitress I could buy. She was lovely, but I respectfully declined. I reminded him to go vote the next day, because he didn’t know when the election was. Slowly, the bar started to get busier. “Reggae night” was a bit of a misnomer and mainly consisted of a DJ with horrible mixing skills imitating Shaggy over 50 Cent tracks. But the reggae-ish R&B music was still a lot of fun to let loose to, the packed dance floor pulsated as the sweltering heat increased and the night wore on. The bar itself has concrete walls with African art, three areas separated by pillars and arches, and opens up to a long patio that overlooks the street below. At around 2am, I was approached by a girl and we danced a bit, and then she wanted to go to the street, where she introduced me to her brother. I hung out for a bit, but felt a growing unease that I was going to get latched onto and scammed, so I bought her a drink and went home. I suppose it’s to be expected. Gambia has a fair share of sex tourism, although it’s largely middle aged white women and young Gambian men.

Gambia was a ghost town on Friday. The 22nd had been declared a public holiday in honor of the presidential election. Streets were deserted and shops were closed, even tourist restaurants. And apparently I was mistaken, in that Gambia does have secret ballots. I started reading “Things Fall Apart” and did my fourth run in a row. They are still challenging, but I might have to start increasing my distances pretty soon. Although it rained a bit and winds were huge, the weather has definitely been improving and the rainy season seems to be nearing its end. One thing I will miss about it, aside from its cooling and refreshing effect, is the atmosphere at the office: working at my desk with the rain pouring outside my window, enjoying a cup of tea and relaxing kora music. Nevertheless, I hoped for a bit of luck in capturing a window of good weather between the rainy season and the tourist invasion, and booked a “Roots” tour for the following day.

Whoever talked about life being a journey and not a destination might have been a Gambian. Saturday morning ushered in a clear sky and a day of merciless heat. My tour guide picked me up in a taxi at 9am, and we headed north to the Banjul harbor. The local taxis in this country are fantastic and make me glad that I got a tetanus shot before I left: beat up seats, missing handles or entire side panels, doors that open with a rope, and so on. This taxi was fine, except it fishtailed mysteriously for the entire trip. We arrived at the harbor, walked through the local market, and waited for the ferry. There are usually three ferries alternating, with trips taking about half an hour and leaving every hour. One of the ferries was out of commission and, because there weren’t many people traveling the day after the election, only one of the ferries was operating. We could see it making its away across the river, and wouldn’t board it for another two hours. Gambia is on GMT (“Gambian Maybe Time”), and I normally wouldn’t be stressed about waiting around and relaxing except I worried about rain in the afternoon and having time to do everything. Nevertheless, we waited. I visited the bathroom, the most putrid toilet I’ve ever seen. I saw a couple of men urinating into the river from the bank. And I watched as men listened to ongoing election results over portable radios.

The ferry finally docked, unloaded throngs of people and cars returning from voting the previous day in their districts, and we boarded. I was told that this ferry was purchased last year from Ukraine. I wasn’t sure if this made me feel more or less comfortable. We kept waiting as more and more last-minute stragglers came running forward, and finally left for Barra, a small town on the north bank of the River Gambia, 5km north-east of Banjul. Banjul is on the tip of the southern bank, and the two towns are right at the mouth of the Gambia River where it flows into the Atlantic. I enjoyed being on the water and feeling the warm breeze. We could see the fins of dolphins, a species protected from hunting, cutting through the waves. The water is salty, but I’ve either gotten used to the smell or there wasn’t much of one. We motored past Fort Bullen on Barra Point, which was built by the British to supplement the cannons of Banjul by covering the northern part of the river against boats engaged in illicit slave trading, and to harass the French.

We landed in Barra and I looked around for a couple of minutes as my guide went to arrange further transportation. Like the Serrekundha market, Barra was impoversished, muddy, bustling with ferry traffic, and filled with street vendors in corrugated metal huts. We got in a taxi that would take us for the rest of the trip. The poverty of the houses in Barra was matched by the quality of the dirt road. While parts of Gambia have undergone development, clearly not all areas have benefited. Lunch was a cob of maize. Ladies on the side of roads or in markets heat and scorch the maize under the sun in what look like large, black woks. It was alright but somewhat flavourless, and not as good as sweet corn. We hit a paved highway after leaving Barra and headed east, settling in for a lovely and deserted drive through a gorgeous countryside of palm trees, mango trees, baobab trees, rice paddies, couscous, broad savannah, and all sorts of other greenery. After a while, we turned onto the dirt road that would take us to our final destination of Albreda. This was one of the worst roads I’ve been on, a slow crawl around giant, water-filled potholes. A land rover would have been useful. Barra to Albreda is about 30km south-east, but the drive took about 2 hours. However, the drive allowed for a good appreciation of the countryside. We drove through three small, isolated villages. Every time we were spotted, little kids and tiny toddlers would start screaming and smiling in pure, unadulterated joy, and run as fast as they could by the car.

By the time we arrived in Albreda, it was about 3pm. Albreda is a small, coastal village, and the launching site for James Island. I saw the remains of a French trading post built sometime between 200 and 400 years ago. There was the stump of the Freedom Pole which, legend has it, would grant freedom to any slave who managed to touch it. There was an old British cannon, and a statue commissioned for a previous Roots Festival. My guide and I, along with a couple of South American Dutch tourists, set out to the distant island in the middle of the river in a long, motorized wooden boat. We cut across the calm waters to the sounds of a drummer providing entertainment. The water was warm to the touch. As I gazed at the unspoiled wilderness along the banks of the river, I noted that very little had likely changed from the time colonial forces walked those shores.

James Island is a small, eroded, tree-covered island south of Albreda in the middle of the Gambia River. From the banks, it looks like a growth of trees surrounded by endless water. It was discovered by the Portuguese, and battled over for centuries by the British and French who used it as a trading site, a slave fort and later, the location from which the abolitionist British policed the river. The French ultimately booted the British off the island and destroyed the fort. The British policing efforts shifted to Banjul and Barra, and the island was abandoned in 1829. Because the ruins are not very well protected, there is a natural and raw feel to the crumbling stone walls, pathways, and abandoned cannons that pointed in all four directions from the island. It’s actually quite a nice island, with a rocky shore and a large, shady trees. However, you also see the underground room where troublesome slaves were kept, along with the grated window through which food was delivered. You see the tiny room where a hundred slaves would be kept, the governor’s room, the room where prices were arranged, and so on. Slaves would be taken from James Island to Goree Island by Dakar, thence to Europe or America. We returned to Albreda and drove to the bordering town of Juffureh where I met the 7th generation descendant of Kunta Kinte. The villages of Albreda and Juffureh were small, quiet and unassuming, and we left to head back to Barra.

We passed through the three villages once again. Life is very difficult in these poor, simple and isolated places. They had clean drinking water because of large water tanks brought in through European initiative. We drove into one of the villages and stopped because it was the childhood home of my guide and he wanted to say hello to his mother. The village children screamed in joy and surrounded the car, ecstatic and enthralled at the site of me, the “toubab”. I got out of the car and said hello to them and took a picture with the crowd. Although our time was brief, I loved the experience of seeing the upcountry villages and the children’s pure happiness was infectious.

We returned to Barra. While waiting for the ferry, we popped into a local eatery. This was a small room lit by two bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, a wall with African artwork, and plastic chairs and tables. We ate bread and a bowl of goat’s leg, which was one of the greasiest things I’ve ever had. There must be better cuts of goat’s meat. A television showed readings of the Qu’ran and the crowds at Mecca for the start of Ramadan.

We boarded the ferry, overloaded with people, cars, and a wooden casket, for the ride back to Banjul. By now, it was dark. I stood at the top of the ship by the control room (a perk of being a tourist), admired the modest lights of Banjul in the distance and the stars in the sky, and listened to a large group lower down singing songs in celebration of the President’s re-election. Banjul at night was a lively place. We took a taxi back home. The President had apparently held a party for his supporters at his place earlier in the evening and, as we drove down the highway, hundreds of people, mostly young, were walking the long way back to Serrekundha, some hanging off speeding cars, yelling and celebrating.

I was supposed to be home by about 5pm. When I arrived, it was 9pm, which included skipping a stop at the slavery museum in Juffureh. Regardless, it was a good day. Compared to what I had seen in Barra and the various villages, my house seemed like a suburban palace in a thriving metropolis, and I felt very lucky. My mind kept returning to the happy children’s faces I had seen earlier in the day, and the sad thought that some of them may very well die of malaria or another disease at a young age. There is so much beauty and promise here. Things could be much different.

Sunday was another scorcher. The waves were particularly strong and crashing at Leybado. Taking them on after rugby was a lot of fun, but the undertow started to get rather strong, tugging me away from the shore. With a bit of effort, I made my way out of the water, and watched the sun disappear over the ocean’s horizon. The other players were discussing two friends with whom I’m not familiar. They were out sailing on Friday, got caught in the sudden rainstorm, capsized, and were in the water holding on to the boat for 18 hours until they were rescued by Senegalese fisherman the next day. Scary.

Today marks the second day of Ramadan in my part of the world. Half the street vendors near my office aren’t around. I’m looking forward to seeing what Gambia will be like in this month of fasting.

September 21

I had another epiphany last night, this one concerning my aforementioned conflict between enjoying the tropical lifestyle and healthy living. I won't get into it here, but suffice it to say I've sorted a few things out and am feeling more comfortable about the matter.

Had a moment lying in bed last night when I felt a bit trapped, constrained from free and comfortable mobility in this country, and unable to find the entertainment and escapes that I want. It quickly passed, but it’s one of those moments where, even with the perks of the country, you miss the comforts and diversions of home.

In the last week, I have borrowed a large number of CDs from a couple of my coworkers. The first set was from west Africa and involved a lot of kora music. The kora is a 21-string harp-lute, a plucked instrument that sounds at times like a flamenco guitar or a harpsichord. It can be quite nice. Toumani Diabate, apparently one of west Africa’s most talented players, is a kora player from Mali. He plays traditional unaccompanied music, which is quite impressive when you hear it, as it sounds like multiple instruments supporting each other. He did a duet album with the Malian guitarist and singer Ali Farka Toure, a really laid back, jazzy work. Jali Sherrifo Konteh is a kora player from the Gambia, who does solo work similar to Diabate but with more vocals. Mory Kante is a kora player and vocalist from Guinea and Mali. His albums are ensemble works, more pop and modern, what you might see as fun and upbeat “island” music. Finally, there’s Osibisa, a fun, 70s world music band formed by three Ghanaians, a Nigerian, and three guys from the Caribbean, doing a funky fusion of African, Caribbean, Latin and other forms of music. The second set of music I borrowed was a large mix of all sorts of popular music from Ethiopia. Some of it takes some listening to (as does some kora music), but a lot of it is catchy and upbeat. The only artist I know is Teddy Afro, the biggest thing in Ethiopian popular music right now, who does a mixture of reggae, African and dance music. I love listening to traditional music and want to find more of it. The popular music is a lot of fun and it’s interesting to hear the various influencing styles. A great soundtrack when you look out at the clear blue and sunny African sky.

Hanging out with my illegitimate children

September 20

Last night, I finished reading Nelson Mandela’s autobiography. Not surprisingly, it was an amazing book. It was the story of a man who became successful in his early life through luck and perseverance, was drawn into politics not through personal ambition but because he felt compelled to do what he could to battle an unconscionable system, and remained in his mind a servant of South Africans and the ANC even as he emerged as a leader, a symbol, and a myth. Because a large portion of the story takes place behind prison walls, you don’t always get a good sense of how his persona grew so much in the international community over twenty-seven years. Similarly, the reasons for his ascent through the ANC are implied but occasionally unclear. But his childhood and adolescent development, the trials, his life underground, the prison battles, his torn devotions to his family and his people, the final push under De Klerk, the basis for Truth and Reconciliation, and the politics throughout, make for a fascinating tale. Whereas the Clinton book is more like a diary, the Mandela book reads more like a story, a literary journey.

It would be interesting to see how the ANC’s battle would be perceived if it took place today. There are varied opinions on the numerous freedom fighting organizations waging battles around the world. My thoughts turned to the unfortunate comments and actions of a certain Calgary MP a few years ago. Indeed, in the discussions of how to move to an armed struggle, Mandela outlines how they decided on sabotage, but didn’t rule out terrorism as a potential next step. Nevertheless, the mandate was quite clear to not target human lives, which is the difference. I think calling Mandela a terrorist makes about as much sense as looking at his years in prison and proclaiming him to be an abstentee father.

September 19

Last night’s Hash took us back to the Kotu neighbourhood north of Palma Rima. We did the same path as two weeks ago, only in reverse. A nice brisk walk through fields of palm trees and rice paddies, winding back along the beach. The sand was white and gorgeous, but ruined somewhat by the large amount of scattered garbage left behind by the locals from the Sunday night beach festivities. Dinner was poolside behind the Al Baba apartments and restaurant. The weather has been a fair bit nicer for the past two days, so I’m hoping this is the beginning of the end of the rainy season. From what I’ve been told, the rains have been starting and ending later over the last few years due to climate change (of course, another Brit who’s been here for four years mentioned that every year the rains do something weird and every year people cry out climate change, so who knows)….Oh, no, wait, here come the clouds….and now the rain….well, at least it’s cooler. I do love being by the coast. One feels a greater connection with global weather patterns.

Two general observations. Firstly, Gambia has a surprisingly large number of Lebanese people, and they do quite well for themselves as restauranteurs, business owners and what not. Apparently, in a popular period of migration to South America at some point in the past, a lot of Lebanese made their way through this part of the world and decided to stay. Secondly, those Africans who have substantively learned English tend to speak very properly. Combine that with the Brits I hang out with, and I start thinking that I sound like an American.

I've been rather conflicted between fully enjoying myself in the tropics and living a healthy lifestyle. I resolved to get back in shape when I left for Africa. I've exercised a lot, haven't drank much, and am eating very modestly and healthily. However, it's so easy here to just spend all your time on the beach, in restaurants, and indulging in very cheap drinks, which is what a lot of the ex-pats spend their time doing. As it stands, the healthy drive is winning, and will likely continue to do so.

September 18

An electrician came on Friday, two hours late in true Gambian fashion, and proclaimed that the problem lay not in the house but in the power lines. We called one of my co-workers, who apparently has some connections, and he made a call to somebody in the power authority to have the problem taken care of. It’s an interesting glimpse into Gambian life. Friday night also marked a small personal achievement, as I completed my run for the first time without having to break to walk, stopping only as per usual at the mid-point to take in the ocean.

I have an open list of things I want to do while I’m here. This list contains both larger excursions I’m saving for the dry season (eg. spending some time in Dakar, Senegal; seeing the slave James Island, immortalized through “Roots”; and heading to Georgetown in the east part of the country) and some simple interests. Saturday looked to be a lovely day to take care of several of the latter. When I ran into the lady from near-Calgary, she told me about a place off Kairaba Avenue to have a drink and enjoy some art. I thus made my way up the quiet tree-lined Garba Jahumpa road, past Timbooktoo and a few morning street vendors, to the Living Art Centre. The sign was nondescript and easy to miss. I turned in through the gate and saw a large, shaded house and headed inside. It was part hip coffee shop and part art gallery in a fascinating setting that could have been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Tables and chairs floated amidst scattered paintings, sculptures, fabrics, and various other things for sale. Although the rear portion of the Centre was closed in preparation for the tourist season, I was allowed to have a quick walk-through, and found outdoor patio areas connected by elevated walkways and surrounded by trees. Back inside, I stayed for a drink, an interesting mix of baobab and wanjo juices. I sat at a table on a balcony, in a wicker chair, completely isolated from the rest of the world by surrounding trees, faint music coming from inside the building. I never feel comfortable reading or doing work in a bar or restaurant, but I took a moment to read a bit of my Mandela book. I loved the Living Art Centre. It was like being in a cabin in the middle of the woods, a distinctly African oasis with culture and modernity.

My second stop was several hundred meters and a world away from the tourist bubble. On one side off the main highway, towards the ocean, is Senegambia. On the other side, where I had never been, is Kololi Village, my destination that morning. I had read about a place called the Kololi Village Market, supposedly featuring crafts, art, music and entertainment, and wanted to check it out. I walked down a dirt road into the Village, the sounds of Senegambia, the taxi garage, street vendors and traffic quickly fading. It was a quiet African neighbourhood, not as poor and congested as Serrekundha, but not as upscale or modern as Bakau or even Brusubi. I meandered through the streets, past a small girl selling peanuts by the roadside, past empty, humble local eateries, past houses with corrugated metal fences. I took a left at a mosque, and found the Market. The man who showed me inside was pleasant and indicated that they weren’t open until the first of October for the tourist season, which kicks off in the middle of the month. I thanked him, returned to the main road, and decided to try again in a few weeks.

Two of the small things I’ve wanted to do are quite simple: to enjoy a meal of fresh fish by the ocean, and to have a baobab milkshake from one of the many beach bars. The local restaurant where I listened to drumming a few weeks ago had only drinks and no food for sale, interestingly enough, so I went up the beach to the Senegambia Hotel restaurant. With a warm sun, a nice breeze, and the rhythmic sounds of the ocean in the background, I enjoyed the daily special, ladyfish. I have no idea if this is a good fish or not, but it was juicy, spicy and flavourful. Lunch was exactly the experience I wanted.

On a previous stroll up the beach, amidst my various celebrity-like approaches from women selling fruit and nuts, and men selling jewelry and their personal guide services, I saw a menu for a beach bar that contained baobab milkshake. Yum, I thought. As the storm clouds gathered, I made my way from the restaurant to the beach bar. They are like hotdog vendors, and countless numbers of them dot the coast. Baobab juice is typically a ground powder mixed with water. In this case, it was also mixed with milk. No ice cream, sadly, but still creamy, tart and delicious. I sat in a plastic chair next to the stall, enjoyed the breeze, and listened to football updates from the BBC on the vendor’s portable radio. No sooner had I left than the heavens opened. I suppose I should have been worried about lightning, but I slowly walked in the lapping water back to the Senegambia Hotel, a dark sky above me, crashing waves to my left, and warm rain refreshing me from head to toe.

I returned home to a pleasant surprise: after 10 days, the electricity had returned. Blackouts of a few hours are a regular fact of life here, and there are certainly people living in much, much poorer conditions than I am, but such a long and uncertain period without power nevertheless starts to wear one out. I had adapted to the simplicity of a home life that revolved around a book and a candle, and enjoyed the opportunity for splendid isolation, but I once again looked forward to having cold drinking water and properly refrigerated food.

That evening, one of my coworkers was picking me up for a night on the town. We started at a friend’s house in another part of Brusubi. I found out from their television that there is apparently a Global Edition of The Daily Show, and that the Pope said something stupid a few days ago. I always enjoy watching television and news in foreign countries, because you get a broader range of information that you don’t get at home, and you see sports highlights from things like football, cricket and rugby. We proceeded to Time Out, a small pub that included music by white artists for the first time since I’ve been here. The snack menu was in German, which could indicate something about the bar owners. I got to know some of my coworker’s friends. This included his companion when he came to pick me up, a Gambian New Yorker working for UNICEF. I asked her how she adjusted to Gambia coming from such a large and vibrant city, and she said that she makes an effort to enjoy what she wouldn’t be able to enjoy back in the States, which is the best outlook. There was a Brit who does microflights, another Brit vacationing for a few days who told me about a place with camel rides, a military man, and some others. From Time Out we proceeded to the Cotton Club, a jazz and salsa bar on Kairaba Avenue. This place was fantastic, with an African feel, great dancing and live music that included a sax player and an African drummer. Unfortunately, it also had poor ventilation and got very smoky. We headed to Aquarius, which was packed with people, a surprisingly large number of who were older and white. The place was still jumping at 4am when we left to go home. I had fun but also learned a valuable lesson: although I didn’t drink very much, having a mango for supper doesn’t count as “not drinking on an empty stomach”.

I think it was Kyle who mentioned that, when he was in South Africa, although he couldn’t speak knowledgeably about specifics, the stars felt different in the southern hemisphere. At 13 degrees north of the equator, I’m not sure what to expect. But, as I waited for my ride early in the evening, I enjoyed seeing the stars for the first time. Whether they felt different, or I simply expected them to, I’m not sure. But I couldn’t find the dipper.

Waking up too close to the peak sun to go for my run, I spent Sunday relaxing and reading. In the afternoon, I heard some drumming and whistling. With elections happening, this is nothing unusual. But things started getting louder and louder, so I ran to the road to see what was happening. It was a convoy making its way from the turntable in the direction of Brufut, with the President perched in his car, throwing shirts to the onlookers, and several hundred supporters marching alongside the cars, cheering, waving flags and banners. It was quite an impressive parade. This was the third time I’ve seen him. As we were heading out on Saturday night, we happened upon him returning from the airport, with a ridiculous convoy of what must have been 25 or 30 cars. I headed to Leybado for rugby in the evening, arriving early to spend an hour playing in the water. At one point, an unexpectedly large wave sped forward and slammed me in the back of the head. My neck is now sore. The waves here are modest but a lot of fun, and I wish I had the boogie board I purchased in Daytona last August. I relaxed in a hammock afterwards, thoroughly enjoying my surroundings. Only a few people came out, not enough to play, as apparently there’s a flu going around. I did meet another Edmontonian who has been out of Canada for seven years, and we laughed at the thought of snow back home. I finished the night with a run, joined for periods by children who would run behind me and then turn back in a fit of giggles.

September 15

Today marks a quarter of my trip passed. Time certainly flies.

The rain preempted my plans to check out Raggae Night at WOW last night. On the downside, we seem to be catching the effects of some sort of hurricane, as every night has been a downpour. It sounds like the house going through a car wash. Two new leaks sprung up last night, in the bedroom and in the bathroom, and I didn’t sleep very well for fear of waking up and having everything collapsed around me. On the upside, it’s dark and I haven’t had electricity for eight days, so I can’t see anything anyways.

The President drove by today, presumably headed for the airport. Neighbourhood people gathered along the highway as news spread, holding green branches (the color of his party) in anticipation. You could hear the sirens in the distance. Finally, the first police car drove by, followed by a truck filled with armed military officers. The President was in the flatbed of a large truck, poised in white, as men next to him tossed election t-shirts to the locals by the road. A few more police cars, another military truck, and the large convoy had passed. There was a buzz in the air at the short brush with power and celebrity. People were feverish in their branch-waving, giddily ran through puddles to scoop up their shirts, and shared their laughs and excitement with friends.

September 13

The first year I volunteered with the Edmonton Folk Fest was 2000. When you volunteer at the Folk Fest, you eat the same food in the same compound with many of the performers, and you attend volunteer parties at the hotel where the performers stay. Some performers are hired to play the parties, some performers jam on the quiet floor, and some just show up to hang out. The festival and volunteers are laid back and a lot of fun, so it all works out well. I’ve eaten lunch at the same table as Hawksley Workman, waited for a shuttle bus with Bruce Cockburn, sat beside Tom Jackson as he strummed on a guitar in a hotel suite, and danced next to Spirit of the West. However, when the late, great Wilson Pickett came to play on the hill, we had to open the gate next to the stage so he could drive in with his security detail. He left the same way. Jackson Browne, I’m told, did the same. These were American artists used to a very different environment. At the time, I thought they were being silly. I was reminded of it when I left the bank in Senegambia this afternoon with a large amount of cash and wondered if I should take a solo taxi back to work (a reasonable, if unnecessary, precaution against unlikely mugging). It’s interesting what fears, what conceptions of security, and what levels of trust you unconsciously adopt at home that show themselves when you’re in a different world.

September 12

Another gusty rainstorm yesterday morning, another small lake in my room when I came home from work. It’s like blowing snow, only with rain. Houses here have sliding aluminum windows. In these storms, if the wind is blowing in the right direction, water piles up in the window gutters and can’t empty out quickly enough. Oh well, no matter.

Last night’s Hash run took us through Bijilo Forest Park (ie. The Monkey Park) in the Kololi area just shy of Senegambia. I brought my camera and took a leisurely stroll through the forest, opting not to try my luck wading through a flooded area blocking part of the path. The park is lovely, filled with palm trees and vegetation, and quite similar to Abuko, only perhaps a bit airier, less dense, and not as much variety in plant life. One upside to the rainy season is the lush greenery and absence of tourists. The air was fresh, comfortable and humid, the trees were moist and waxy from the recent rains. The singing of birds added to the ambiance, while the sounds of rustling trees would punctuate the serenity and I’d see monkeys plunge through the treetops right above my head.

Our post-run drinks and dinner were held in the private Kololi Beach Resort. Classy timeshare homes, a golf course, a gorgeous reconstructed private beach, swimming pool, and a Union Jack fluttering in the wind made me feel like a high-end colonialist. I was staying away from the liquor at first, but when a 67-year-old Brit serving drinks out of the back of his car tells you to take a good swig of your fruit punch so that he can top it off with vodka, one has to say “When in Rome”. Dinner was under a large hut on the beach, and the initiation of new members was fun to watch. I went home pleased with the evening, mopped up, and promptly had both my flashlight and remaining candle burn out, plunging me into darkness for the rest of the night.

September 11

In January, when I reluctantly depart from these balmy tropics for the frigid cold of Alberta, I will undoubtedly leave with fond memories and wonder what I ever complained about. I’ve grown quite comfortable with Gambia on the whole, so to remind myself of the challenges: it sucks to be alone in an empty house that gets dark by 7:30pm, with no electricity for the past four days, with torrential rains keeping you indoors, and the occasional flood. The upside of these circumstances is the opportunity it affords one to be alone with one’s thoughts. I had a bit of an epiphany on Friday night as I sat with my candle after watching “Batman Begins” on my iPod. One of the reasons I wanted to take this trip was to get away – physically, mentally and emotionally – from my life back home, from the last nine years of University, from the various ties and commitments I’ve had to clubs, to clear my head. I realized that as long as I grasp to life back home, I will not be able to get the sense of distance and disconnect that I need, and I will not be able to fully embrace and enjoy being away and actually living a life away from home. I do not want to live as though I never left. I want a break from what's happening back in Canada. I felt a mental shift in my outlook, and I think I can point to Friday night as the turning point in my enjoyment of this trip.

Saturday was a great day. The weather finally cooperated and I was able to venture into Banjul for the first time. I met up with a guy from work who runs errands and often acts as a guide for interns at 10am and we set on our way. I didn’t realize at first that I was expected to pay for his trip, but I was happy to do it. If I’m going to pay for a tour guide, I’m glad it’s someone I like, I work with, and who I trust. And although I enjoy exploring on my own, it paid off to have him with me and the company was nice. We took three taxis to Westfield, which I haven’t seen before. Found further down on Kairaba Avenue, it was a lively commercial area, and included the Red Cross and Banjul Breweries (who make JulBrew). Taking a bus from Westfield to Banjul was a bit of a challenge, and I was glad to have my guide around. A large crowd milled around by the road and every time a bus arrived, people would run over to it, and try to push and shove their way inside. It was weird to see that sort of cutthroat “every man for himself” attitude in this laid-back country. Apparently it’s even busier on workdays, so I was happy to be going on a weekend, and I wasn’t prepared for that sort of competition. Eventually we caught a bus and rode into Banjul island, past fields, with the ocean in the distance on our left and the river in the distance on our right.

Our first stop was Arch 22 at the entry way to Banjul. The area in front of the arch was really nice, with lush trees and lots of greenery, and a roundabout with a statue of the president in the middle of a fountain. The arch itself was rather tall, maybe 10 stories, and looked like it was made of a yellowish-white plaster. We went inside and climbed up a long set of dimly lit spiral stairs inside a column. We enjoyed the view from the first landing, had a tour of the modest museum which displayed various clothing, traditional tools and the 1994 takeover speech, and then took in the view from the very top balcony. It looked very much like the picture in the guidebook, like a small, modern town with an African feel. It was cool to get that high and see the river and ocean and surrounding area, as two stories is as high as I've been in this country.

I quite enjoyed the walk into town along Independence Drive. It was clear that effort was made to make the main road charming and presentable. A few sculptures adorned the sides, there were trees and decent looking buildings. As you got further in, a sense of familiarity returned as you saw more of the typical dingy looking buildings, but on the whole I quite enjoyed Banjul. It was nice being back in what felt like a city (although, admittedly, small and not extravagant). It’s also where all the government buildings are, so you got a better sense of modern activity.

We stopped at City Hall and were taken on a quick tour. The buildings themselves were rather shabby and uninteresting, but it was interesting to see a bunch of people who I assume were civil servants connected to City Hall busy working on the incumbent presidential campaign. We also saw the equivalent of ballot boxes being prepared. They were round metal containers being painted different colours. Depending on who you wanted to vote for, you would put your ballot into a particular container. No secret ballots here.

We stopped by the main museum and looked around. It was pretty interesting and thorough, but my mind was on getting out quickly to get to the market before the weather turned. I can sum up the colonial area of the museum with “pictures of lots of white, British guys”. There was a pre-history section that I didn’t really care about. The displays on clothing and musical instruments, as well as the newsclippings on the takeover, were the most interesting.

Walking past a vast field where the takeover speech occurred, we made our way towards Albert Market. It was an experience like cave exploration as things became increasingly claustrophobic. We started along a street that had some street vendors sitting on the ground, to a street that was really busy with vendors, then we worked our way into Albert Market proper as we meandered through more and more tightly packed booths. Further inside, the booths and the pathways were covered with tarps and overhangs and in the core we were making our way through an impressive maze of booths selling all sorts of modern stuff, and were completely enclosed from the sky by tarps. The areas more to the outside reminded me a lot of the Serrekunhda market in their busy-ness, but the streets were paved and roomier. We then made our way down to the river through a few shabby alleys, past dingy buildings, and through a truly overpowering fish smell to get to the mouth of the Gambia river. There were moored fishing boats and a few people milling about. It was a good sized river but, compared to the majesty of the ocean, it looked small and dirty. I get the sense that it’s mainly used for fishing and commerce.

We spent a bit of time walking around by the river before turning to head back. We returned to a taxi “garage” close to the arch, and I was met with a craziness I haven’t witnessed yet in Gambia. It was like a New York traffic jam with the chaos of an African market. Large crowds milled everywhere, vans were trying to make their way out through the mess, and people working in the garage were yelling at drivers and buses and trying to guide everything. It felt like madness. At the same time, like everything else in Africa that seems to have a more informal and less modern approach, things somehow worked and chugged along. Human gluts in Africa are not much different than those in the western world, there’s just less modernity and polish to them. You have more animals milling about, more beat up vehicles and dirt roads. In many ways, as with the markets, the haggling and the informal economy, there’s more of a personal connection and simple, undeveloped, rustic and primal feeling to everything you do and everything around you. I finished up my evening after a bit of rest with another run.

I returned to the beach on Sunday evening for rugby. I had a better time than I did on Tuesday. The game was exciting, more people came out, I think I played better and, even tired from a morning run, I felt in better shape for the game. It’s a lot of fun to play rugby wearing only your bathing suit, barefoot on the water-swept low-tide sand, next to the gorgeous ocean, with people milling about and impromptu soccer games going on all along the beach as far as the eye could see. I’m going to enjoy these Sunday outings, for being outside in the gorgeous climate, to meet the regular people, to have some fun playing stress-free rugby, and the ability to spend some time in the water. When I came home, I spent the evening relaxing and listening to my iPod. I didn’t worry so much about what going on outside. I felt more comfortable in my space and was able to focus more on enjoying myself rather that thinking or worrying about where I was, notwithstanding the darkness and lack of electricity. Overall, it was a great weekend. And I also killed the biggest damn centipede or millipede I’ve ever seen, crawling through my kitchen. Add that and, I think, cockroaches, to the list of things that have been in my house.

September 8

Every so often, one needs to leave behind the routine of rice and beans cooked in a dimly-lit kitchen, and splurge at a restaurant. On that impulse, I enjoyed a lovely alfresco meal at the African Queen in Senegambia, watching the street get dark and the rain start to drizzle. I got home just before the downpour. The rain here tends to come down in bursts of strength, and last night’s was the most violent yet. It was an incessant roar, like a typhoon pounding the house. Unbelievable shattering thunder, shaking the house and rattling the windows. I was at my dining room table reading my Mandela book when something splattered on my arm. Water had begun to drip through the wooden ceiling above me. Then a similar splatter began in the kitchen. I went to my bedroom and walked through puddles on the floor. Streaks marked where water was coming in between the wall and ceiling. Even more water had forced its way in through the windowsill. Flashlight in hand, I began to mop, and set out my beach towel by the window to stem any further flooding. A couple of hours later, the rain continued but the storm was over. The damage was thankfully minimal. I grabbed my iPod, listened to “Banana Pancakes”, and looked ahead to the dry season.

September 6

Went down to the beach by Fajara to check out the rugby group. They play on Tuesdays and Sundays below-the-waste touch rugby (basically “buggers on the beach”). I had fun although I’m still hopeless at the sport, and the quick sprints were made even harder running on the sand. Of those I had a chance to meet, two were Americans, one working at the American school and the other with the Peace Corps. I’ve started to realize that the area around Karaiba Avenue is the place to be for ex-pats, restaurants, and general convenience. I, sadly, am on the outskirts in new development, with goats, donkeys and chickens. It took two cab rides and a 15 minute walk (or, alternatively, one expensive cab ride) to get to the beach, and it’s dark by the time I head home. I’ll probably come out on Sundays, as weeknights are harder to manage. On my stroll over to the beach, a woman stopped me and asked me if I was from Edmonton. She and her two companions were finishing up a 7-week stay in the Gambia and she noticed my “U of A Law Rugby” t-shirt. She was from around Calgary. Small world.

Back home, people are heading for their first day back at University, something I’m missing for the first time in nine years. I haven’t really reflected on being out of school. Although I’m going to miss some of the fun of September, I’m glad to be out of school (for now, at least) and happy to be doing something new. Feels weird to not be a part of whatever’s going on back in Edmonton. Realistically, though, there’s nothing but nostalgia left for me at the U of A.

In response to a request from my father...

My house.



The side street in front of my house meets up with this main road. I run down the shoulder in this direction to Brufut and the ocean. The opposite direction is the way to work.



A shot of the Turntable from the roof of the office. Keep going in that direction to get to Senegambia and the Traffic Light.

September 5

When you arrive home in the evening covered in flour and beer, you know it’s been a good night. I joined the local branch of the Hash House Harriers, an international “drinking club with a running problem”. Last night, there were about 15 or 20 participants, mainly European expatriates who have lived in the Gambia for any number of years. There were some younger people, and a large number of middle aged and retired folks, with British being the most prominent nationality. My first thought in describing expats who have lived here for a long time is “Vancouverite”. We started at the restaurant Churchills at the Palma Rima area, then walked a really nice path heading north through various farming plots then back along the beach. Flour is used traditionally to mark the path, and was used as punishment for those who didn’t dress in costume. After the walk/run, we met for a few drinks outside the restaurant, then stayed for dinner. As a new initiate, I joined those being “punished” for various reasons, which basically involved getting covered in beer. I mentioned in passing that this brought back memories of playing rugby back home. As it happens, the head of the Hash, an Irishman, plays touch rugby on the beach with a group twice a week and invited me to come out. The club members were very friendly and a lot of fun, and it’ll be a great chance to hang out with some fellow ex-pats and see different areas on different walks. I also won one of the raffle prizes, Sunday Express’ “VE Day 60th Anniversary Collection”, quite possibly the greatest CD ever made. It features songs by such people as Glenn Miller and Vera Lynn, two speeches by Churchill, and militaristic classics like the “1812 Overture”, “Pomp & Circumstance” and, ironically enough, Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”.

As I was coming home from work earlier in the afternoon, I stopped to watch a political rally in the field outside my house. Underneath several ratty tarps held up by long sticks in the ground, about 100 Gambians sat and listened to speeches from various people I didn’t recognize. When I went to bed last night, the night’s silence was punctuated once again with the sound of dozens of Gambians packed into the back of pickup trucks, beating drums, whistling and singing.

September 4

There is a charm to African architecture, furnishings and the environment. Prominent buildings exhibit an abundance of whitewashed concrete walls and broad, rounded arches. There is a sense of space and openness, colonial grace and opulence in a tropical environment. Ceilings are alternately white concrete or wood. Inside, the blandness of western, mass-produced decoration is nowhere to be found. Rather, one finds natural cloth curtains in vivid patterns, chairs and shelves that appear handmade of wood or wicker. African masks, statues and art provide decoration. Outdoors, palm trees emit the euphony of singing birds as the occasional lizard scurries along the ground. Of course, class divisions exist here as elsewhere, and this idyllic picture coexists with an abundance of tin-roofed shoddy shacks housing merchants, families, and buzzing flies.

I took Friday afternoon to pay a visit to “Timbooktoo”, Gambia’s only bookstore, located in a more vibrant area of Gambia known as Kairaba. Exiting the taxi at the traffic light, and not knowing exactly where this bookstore was, I wandered in both directions down Kairaba avenue, taking in the various shops, the gated and impressive American embassy, and numerous small restaurants. The road leading to the store had more greenery than I’ve grown used to seeing at my Brusubi outpost. Timbooktoo itself was an impressive, two-story building. Made of white concrete and shaped like a box with a rounded front, it featured the ubiquitous arches and a balcony. The store was modest yet pleasant, with a downstairs area of African and non-African fiction and non-fiction, and an upstairs area of used books and textbooks. I naturally parsed the English law texts before browsing the rest of the store. Realizing that I had brought insufficient funds for a European-priced book store, I settled on the seminal “Things Fall Apart” by Chinua Achebe. My purchase was noted in a paper ledger by a kindly man and I left, looking forward to returning later this year. On my way home, I stopped to pay respects at the Fajara War Memorial, a small but well-maintained cemetery from World War II that includes some Canadians. An arch monument pays tribute to 33 Gambians buried elsewhere. It served as a reminder that Gambians are a proud (but not bombastic) people with an interesting history and a connection to the broader world.

My plans to go see Banjul for the first time were preempted on Saturday by an ominous looking sky. That evening was a farewell get-together for another work colleague. Paying no head to the regular 7:30pm sunset in this part of the world, I headed on foot down the shoulder of the highway for twenty minutes to the Golden Beach Hotel, where we took over a lounge area adjacent to the hotel lobby for hors doerves, drinks and music. I’m pretty sure I’ve never taken over a hotel lobby for a party, at least not sober. We talked, I had a glass of South African wine in the spirit of the occasion (a 2003 Transdaal sauvignon blanc), and we danced to a variety of music from Gambia, Senegal, Cameroon, zouk music of the French Caribbean, kompa music from Haiti and, inexplicably, Paula Abdul’s 1990 “Shut Up and Dance!” remix album. The evening ended with a rousing rendition of “Auld Lang Sine” in Portugese.

My thoughts have started to turn towards the two-week break over the Christmas holidays. It may be a good time to see Senegal. Sadly, transportation in this part of the world is often limited or surprisingly expensive (for instance, getting to Banjul requires three taxis and a bus ride) and many of our regional neighbours have travel advisories, which reduces the options. But I’ll see what comes up.

September 1

I feel a lot better today than I did yesterday. Just like adapting to the country, I think I will be able to embrace the solitary life for a few months. One of my co-workers plans to introduce me to a friend who’s a member of a running club, which would be excellent.

I’ve never had interaction with domestic staff before. We have a housekeeper who comes three times a week. We also have 24-hour security. In reality, this translates to having a Gambian sleeping on my porch. One in particular has asked me for money a few times. I don’t know whether to see this as an intrusion on my private home life, or merely an opportunity to tip someone doing a horribly dull job.

Lying in bed last night, I heard the sound of people marching down the street, playing drums and chanting. Campaigning appears to be under way. Although I love elections, I should probably stay away from this one lest I irritate the wrong people. It already crossed my mind to submit my nomination for President, withdraw soon after, pledge my support to the front-runner and score a government job.