Malaria Article

About the project I mentioned a few posts ago: a few Friday evenings ago, I had some thoughts on the malaria problem, and decided to write them up in an article and send it to the Edmonton Journal. Apparently it's in today's paper, page A19. "Battling Malaria Requires African, Western Efforts" can be found here.

October 27

With Ramadan over, the country seems livelier once again, as if it has emerged from hibernation following a long winter. The streets seem busier with more cars and happier people, and music is once again emanating from various places. Tourists have also made their way into the country. The hotels and Senegambia strip are busier. Tour buses and covered off-road vehicles motor around regularly, white people are milling about or riding around on motorcycles, locals are plying their wares, bumsters are on the prowl. I’m not sure I like it all. I’m going about my normal life. It’s a bit like being in a zoo.

On Wednesday evening, I set down “The Blind Assassin” after finishing its final words. The acknowledgements at the end were interesting as Atwood thanked, among others, early reader Rosalie Abella, then a justice of the Ontario Court of Appeal, now a member of the Supreme Court. The book was a marvelous read, a picture painted through three interwoven narratives of a century in Canadian life, the rise and fall of a family, wealth, high society, love, poverty and despair. The story is not so much told as it is pieced together, unfolded, gradually revealed. The book wouldn’t be everyone’s cup of tea, as it is not a quick read, and Atwood’s love of similes and metaphors makes for some highly descriptive prose. But I got used to her writing style, which is certainly impressive, and I enjoyed spending a few weeks immersed in the story. On to James Joyce.

Yesterday, I bought what will likely be my last Gambian mango. Their season is over, a few stragglers remain, and I paid three times what I used to pay for one last enjoyment. Farewell, dear fruit. Your sweetness, your succulent juiciness were a pleasure. I now have to move on to new and exciting adventures. Let’s see what these Gambian grapefruits have to offer.

October 26

Day 80 on African soil. This marks the end of the first half of my time on this continent. Here’s hoping that the next 80 days will be equally challenging, enlightening and fulfilling. I owe so much to my parents, who have been incalculably supportive (well, I suppose it’s calculable, but let’s pretend that’s not true). Without them, this trip would not have been possible.

October 25

A haze has set in over the Gambia. One views the distance as through a thin veil of tangible heat. Objects are dulled, a faded photograph. I feel like I’m in Los Angeles smog, or near a forest fire.

Ramadan finished on Sunday evening. As such, Monday and Tuesday were public holidays here in the Gambia. My last five days can be summed up as follows: food, football, and walking. Lots and lots of walking.

On Friday afternoon, I returned to Timbooktoo after indulging once more in a delicious watermelon juice at the Living Art Centre. Taking advantage of their book exchange program, I returned “Things Fall Apart”, which I didn’t feel compelled to hang on to, and picked up “Dubliners” by James Joyce. I loved Ireland when I was there in December and January, and Dublin was a great city. I look forward to reading what a 25-year-old James had to say on the matter.

Saturday dawned clear and sunny, and I headed down to the traffic lights. The 21st of October is African Human Rights Day, and the African Union, through the African Human Rights Commission, was holding a walk in celebration. Exiting the taxi, I saw a group, two hundred strong I would estimate, milling about, getting their free t-shirts and hats, readying banners. It was a scene similar to the start of a road race back home. I put on my hat, tossed the too-small t-shirt over my shoulder, noted the other white person in the crowd, and tracked down some of my co-workers. The short walk went east on Kairaba Avenue to the office of the Commission. We were led by a small marching band, a contingent of the Gambian Police. The drums and brass instruments took me to college football games in the States, the pipes took me to the American Civil War. A few people held signs, a few people held banners, the crowd was energetic, and a large number of people appeared to be enjoying the free hats and shirts and the promise of refreshments. When we arrived outside of the Commission, we milled about, a speech was made that nobody could hear, people ran over themselves to get the next freebie, namely a pocket copy of the African Charter and some stapled sheets describing the origins and work of the Commission, then muffins and soft drinks were made available. During a lull, I popped into an internet café located above a nearby gas station. With little else to do, I took a taxi and headed over to nearby Palma Rima.

Wanting to see the atmosphere of a football game in a local bar, I went to Churchill’s. Unfortunately, I was two hours early and didn’t want to wait around, so I went down to the beach, relaxed in the sun next to a couple with horribly leathery skin, then walked along the coast to Senegambia, arriving at Sportsman’s just in time for the start of Chelsea vs. Portsmouth. A couple of guys were playing pool, a large shirtless man was sitting at the bar, and half a dozen or so middle-aged Brits were watching the game, some cheering Chelsea, others jeering the New York Yankees/Rangers of the Premiership. I enjoyed my chicken and I enjoyed the game, although I don’t know enough to appreciate what was done well and what was done poorly. But Chelsea won, and I got to see Shevchenko play again. I didn’t mind returning to Sportsman’s and its Avenue Pizza/Garneau Pub-like feel. However, billing it as an English pub is a bit off. I’ve never been to England proper (outside of Heathrow, that is), but I’ve been to pubs in Ireland, Scotland and Northern Ireland, and they’re warm and cozy rather than plain and barren. No matter, fun nonetheless. Having little else to do, I cut through Bijilo to get back to the beach, and walked home, arriving two hours later. I once again enjoyed the relative solitude, the wall of palm trees, and the fresh breeze. Distance covered walking home from Palma Rima: about eleven and a half kilometers, give or take.

I woke bright and early on Sunday, went for my run, then got ready for another afternoon of Premier League football. I was picked up by my co-worker shortly after noon, and we drove to his home in Sukuta, an area that looked very much like Bakau. The same quiet feel, the same dirt roads, the same shops, the same people milling about. The surroundings aren’t idyllic, but his home was very nice and comfortable inside. Once again I noted that in many places in this country, the actual houses inside the compounds can have a vastly different feel and atmosphere from the outside world. We watched the second half of Liverpool vs. Manchester United, a match taken by the latter, then it was time to eat. We washed our hands and dug in. Lunch was traditional Ethiopian doro chicken, with a sauce made from onions, peppers, pure cow butter, and whatever else, placed on plates with Lebanese bread (not traditional), and eaten with the hands using white bread. I had feared something spicy that would set my head on fire, but it was very good. Eating with the hands is typical in many African countries, with food usually served in a communal bowl. I asked my coworker about the recipe, but apparently men are not allowed in the kitchen in Ethiopian culture, and he didn’t know. I finished the meal with some water and orange juice, then we settled in for Arsenal vs. Reading. My hosts were Arsenal fans, and I was promised a team that plays beautiful, fluid soccer with short, quick passes, a team more like a South American club than a British club, a young team that develops its young talent. I was not disappointed. Arsenal played with a skill that made everything look effortless, particularly the Frenchman Henry. It was like watching a squad of Hemskys, minus the mental gaffes. I could see myself being an Arsenal fan. During the game, we snacked on mandarin oranges, and a mix of peanuts and barley. While I’m not a coffee drinker, I had a cup of Ethiopian coffee. It is harvested without additives, brewed in a special clay pot, and served in small, round, handle-less cups. It was quite dark but not very bitter, almost chocolatey, like a Guiness of coffee. We finished things off with a bottle of French red wine. Red wine is a tough proposition in this country, where people have to add ice just to bring it down to a suitable temperature, but it was quite good.

I returned home in the evening. The Premiership has an excitement to it that we saw during the World Cup but that doesn’t turn up in the same way in North America, with the possible exception of March Madness. The Premier games were far more interesting than the World Cup games, where one could see very early that a game would inevitably be scoreless into penalty kicks, a game filled with diving and tentative play. I love hockey, but I find myself liking soccer more and more as I watch it, for many of the same reasons that I love baseball. It has a grace that I appreciate, and values skill over hitting people with sticks. As I surveyed my quiet and basic house, I mulled over the importance of home. One can largely live anywhere and adapt as long as one has a comfortable home, a place for tranquility and escape, filled with the decorations, furnishings, entertainment, etc. that one values. It is something that I will look for and hope to create down the road.

In once again woke bright and early on Monday morning, and enjoyed a pleasant jog with a cool breeze, the merciless sun mercifully hidden behind some clouds. Several dozen Gambians were lined up outside the two butcher shops I passed. It was Eid ul-Fitr, the holiday at the end of Ramadan. They would be heading to Mosque to pray. Food would be eaten. Wonderful clothing would be seen everywhere. My two female day guards were making lunch in a bubbling pot on the porch, and gave me some. It was afra of “cow meat” and potatoes, rather tasty. I enjoyed a quiet day, then headed for the Hash in the evening. We were joined by a whole bunch of newcomers: some vacationers, members of the Gibraltar army who were in the country for some training and were leaving the following day, and some Calgarians working on an off-shore oil project. The hash itself was more traditional than usual, with flour marking the paths, false trails, and all that. Unfortunately, marking a trail with flour can prove quite difficult when neighbourhood children are factored in, and we spent a lot of time early on figuring out where to go. In the end, we had a good walk along Atlantic Road, parts of Bakau New Town, the beach by Leybado, and the Fajara steps. Dinner was at the British High Commission, a natural home for our kind of group, a special treat made possible as the Deputy British High Commissioner happens to be a member of the Hash. It was a nice compound on the serene, tree-lined Atlantic Road, across from the MRC, surrounded by a fence with barbed wire, and complete with various buildings and a swimming pool. Fun as always.

I have become thoroughly familiar with the area north of where I live. I’ve headed east a few times. But I had yet to go south. Aside from my usual run, I also have never really explored the area where I live. As such, at a quarter to ten on Tuesday morning, I threw on my backpack and set out like a hobbit for a little adventure. From my house, I cut across the main road and made to go through the neighbourhood across the way to get to the ocean. Although this is only a few hundred meters, it was deceptively difficult. Imagine, if you will, a far-reaching plain of tall grasses, trees, and overgrown vegetation. Narrow sandy paths wind through the plain like thin veins. Sprinkled amidst the vegetation are house compounds, as if randomly plunked down from the sky. You quickly get sucked in and lost. I ended up reaching the highway leading to Senegambia, which was not where I wanted to be, doubled back, asked a local (who said the neighbourhood was called “Tranquil”) for directions which helped to a point, then I followed a beach bar worker through a field. The field opened up into a large, dusty plain with several cows milling around hoodoo-like mounds of sand. I climbed down a short, rough path, past some palm trees, and was on the beach. I hadn’t yet been by the ocean in the morning. The sun was bright, the waves were crashing heavily, and nary a soul was in sight.

I set out heading south. I passed a few local beach bars, very humble and ramshackle buildings specializing in beer and fresh fish. The sand was littered with what the tide had brought up, but the beach was whiter, sandier and less eroded than the area around the northern tourist hotels. To my left as I walked was a short escarpment with grass and trees. I was walking parallel to the highway along which I do my usual jog, but I could see and hear nothing of the usual bustle of cars, people and businesses. Completely isolated ocean-side, with only the sound of the waves to keep me company.

The greatest thing about this walk, aside from enjoying the undeveloped and deserted southern beaches, was the changing landscape as I made my way. At first was the short, grassy escarpment with broader, sandy beaches. As I kept going and passed the construction for the new, 5-star hotel (which will undoubtedly change the nature of this area), the escarpment quickly grew into imposing, five-meter high sandy cliffs. Erosion also started increasing, the beach got progressively smaller, until only a thin strip of water-swept sand was between the waves and the vegetation at the foot of the cliffs. The beach opened up once again, and a shallow escarpment returned, as I got to the Brufut fishing village. Brufut itself is inland, but this is where the fisherman cast off. I saw a few boats out in the water, and passed lineups of dozens of wooden, brightly-painted fishing boats, soldiers at the ready. It was quiet, probably due to the holiday. I said hello to a couple of fishermen mending a net, found a strip of beach further up, and rested briefly to get a bit of sun. I gazed at the ships in the distance, admired the deserted beach to my right and left, and once again felt grateful to be here.

I kept walking, and once again found myself making my way through shallow water along imposing, rocky cliffs. Two fisherman were milling about in the shallow water, holding nets at the ready. I reached what appeared to be a shallow, flooded plain. I tried to walk around to my left, but gave up after getting caught by a thorny bush, thick mud in the water, and large roots that blocked the path up ahead. I retreated and mulled over my plan of attack. A fisherman came over, and showed me the path to take to ford through the knee-high water. Once across, he told me that he’d show me the rest of the way. We made our way around a bend, and kept going along the once-again sandy, white beach. In the distance were Gambia’s only off-shore islands, part of the nature preserve. We walked a ways, and finally reached the mouth of the Tanji River, which we had to cross. Having a guide, who had dropped what he was doing to show me along, worked out well, because as soon as I stepped into the water, I got caught in the mud and started getting sucked in like quicksand. I pulled my way out with his help. Backpack perched high on my shoulders, we forded the waist-high water, barefoot over the rocks, and walked to the hotel along the main highway. I had reached my destination: the fishing village of Tanji. I tipped my guide and he went back to his abandoned net. It was 2pm. In the four hours I had been trekking, I had come across maybe a dozen people along the beach.

Like Brufut, Tanji’s fishing activities take place along the beach while the village itself is inland. Along the beach were many of the same, wooden, colorfully decorated boats. Soaked from the waist down, I walked a bit along the highway, saw the various dilapidated buildings used by the fishermen and some small businesses. Not much was happening, a few groups of men lounged around. I headed away from the water and made my way to the village, which was a short distance away. The village looked and felt very much like the villages I had seen on my trip to James Island. Very rural, but less isolated. It also looked very much like a typical African neighbourhood, with wide sandy streets, modest corrugated-steel housing, laundry hanging on lines, residents sitting around outside their houses, kids playing soccer, lots of greenery. I spent some time wandering the streets, waving like a celebrity to all those who said hello. Many people greeted me in French, one shop sign advertised in French, and I had a short conversation with a local en francais. I’m not really sure why. The kids, once again, were a joy to see. Tanji is easily accessible and a tour destination, so they’re more used to seeing tourists than the truly upcountry villages, but they were still very happy to see me. They would run out of their compounds smiling, just wanting to touch me and hold my hand. As I was walking along, a whole bunch came running when they realized I had a camera. They were thrilled to have their picture taken. They were positively giddy when I showed it to them. Tanji offers camel rides on the beach, but I didn’t really care about doing that. I did want to have a fish lunch, but hadn’t seen a place to stop. Concerned as well about getting home before nightfall, I headed out.

It’s worth noting that the highway right outside my house leads straight to Tanji, which admittedly would have been an easier path for the morning hike but not nearly as interesting. Having done the beach walk on the way there, though, I opted for the highway on the way back to see something different. I walked along the shoulder, and was passed by no fewer than six tour buses. I preferred to walk. The highway intersects the Tanji Bird Sanctuary, which provided glorious scenery on both sides of the road as I went along. After a while, I took a turnoff and diverted east to see Ghana Town and Brufut. Ghana Town was quiet and looked like a typical African neighbourhood, rather run-down and quite poor, lots of open buildings and sparse places. I walked along the main, sandy road, and eventually Ghana Town seamlessly turned into Brufut, like going from Edmonton to St. Albert. Brufut looked to be bigger, wealthier, more residential and settled, with seemingly more trees and nicer compounds. It was quiet and not unlike Brusubi, only it seemed older, more established, more lived-in. I headed north after a while, and made my way through the various narrow paths, taking in my surroundings. When you get off main roads and make your way into African neighbourhoods, be it saturated like Bakau Old Town or more stately like Brufut, you’re quickly sucked in, insulated from the outside world. Eventually I found my way back to the main highway, and kept going home. I walked past the new Taf development adjoining Brufut, a fully modern, western-style development of identical housing and wide, paved, orderly roads. Unlike in the west, though, these houses had lawns and trees. Getting thoroughly tired, I made the final stretch home. Gambians were once again dressed to the nines and bustling around with plans for the evening. At 5:20, after seven and a half hours, I stumbled through my front door, exhausted. I had a shower, made some supper, and relaxed. It was good to be indoors and off my feet. The day saw me walking about 21 kilometers and drinking over 5L of water.

Gambia is very much a place to be outdoors and enjoy the wonders of nature. Although it cannot boast the beaches of the Caribbean or the wildlife of Kenya, it has a bit of both in modest proportions, and also has very nice vegetation, lovely countryside, interesting nature preserves, and popular bird watching opportunities. With all the hustle-bustle in the world (which I admittedly miss), it’s nice to be able to enjoy those things.

Today I am back at work. It’s brutally hot outside. And I’m sore.

October 19

For those looking to travel, I highly recommend the “Rough Guide” travel books. My book on The Gambia has been fantastic. I’m not sure which books we used on debate tournament travels, as I tended to leave my orientation in the hands of more directionally gifted people. But the Rough Guide has proven to be both thorough and accurate.

Spent some time yesterday working on a small project. More to come. Also still exploring options for the Christmas holidays. More to come on that, too.

Soccer was on GRTS on Tuesday night. At least, I think it was. It certainly sounded like soccer. But playing with the rabbit ears of the television did little to clear up the vague, snowy images. I tried in vain for a few minutes to make out what was happening, staring at the television like a 13-year-old boy willing an unsubscribed adult channel to come into view, but quickly abandoned the effort. I’ll just have to head to one of the ex-pat bars. One of my coworkers explained to me how the Premier League and European Championships work. I’m going to his home on Sunday to take in some Arsenal and Manchester United action as well as some spicy Ethiopian chili. Wish me luck with the chili.

October 17

Mustafa mentioned that there is no such thing as “muslim attire”. I was thinking of the boubou, which a lot of people wear, and which I assumed was religious garb.

The Hash last night started at a place on the main highway just shy of Senegambia called Sportsman’s. It is billed as an English pub, a good place to watch soccer, rugby and cricket. The inside was barren and dimly lit, with flags from the United Kingdom countries gracing the ceiling and walls, a concrete floor, a pool table, plastic tables and chairs. It was the Garneau Pub, a place to get a beer, a room ready for a good soccer fight. I will have to return when there’s something good on television, see the atmosphere and clientele. We headed south down the highway back in the direction of my house, then crossed the highway through Bijilo to get to the ocean along a little dirt path that cut through an unmaintained overgrowth of shrubs, grasses and trees. I haven’t previously visited this area of beach. I enjoyed it, as the area was undeveloped, free from hotels and bumsters, largely deserted, littered with all sorts of garbage and smashed-up fishing traps that the tide swept in. Through a light mist, I walked quietly along the strip of ocean-swept sand between the calm lapping of waves on one side and the dense, unspoiled wall of Bijilo Forest palm trees up an embankment on the other. The coast of Africa. I was just a guest in a brief moment of time, listening to the languorous conversation between two wise and ancient friends who have seen generations of locals, plunderers and visitors come and go.

October 16

In an attempt to keep my mind occupied and myself entertained, I poked around the websites of the leadership contenders for the federal Liberal party. It was a lot like looking at firm websites when applying for articling positions. Slick and glossy packaging, very similar promises made by them all. The main difference is that inspiring pictures of city skylines and suited, dynamic young people “on the move” are replaced with inspiring pictures of Canada’s majestic landscapes, smiling multicultural crowds, and the red maple leaf. The provincial Tory leadership websites are similar, except they seem to revolve around mountains and grain.

This is a difficult time to be a tourist in the Gambia. The weather has been cooler and overcast for the last while, which I love, but which I’m sure isn’t ideal for the beach-and-sun vacationers. The rainy season has basically passed, but the occasional rainstorm still threatens, like Mother Nature crying out for attention. Tourist season doesn’t kick off until the end of the month, which means that a lot of hotels, restaurants, stores and entertainment venues are still getting ready and don’t have much on the go. It’s harder to book tours that require a bunch of people. And it’s Ramadan, so everything is quiet, places are more subdued, and hours of operation for a lot of things are unpredictable at best. It also appears that the season for mangos, wanjo and baobab is soon to end, which makes me sad. Watermelons are popping up everywhere.

As I’ve mentioned, the state of driving here isn’t very good. Traffic rules are replaced by consistent honking that lets people know where you are, when you’re passing them, and when you’re about to do something stupid. And yet, I had yet to see a traffic accident (perhaps because the road network is very basic). This weekend, I saw three: the results of a head-on collision; something involving a local bus; and a large, 10-wheeled gravel truck turned on its side. I decided against buying a bike shortly after I got here. However, if anything will get me in this country, it’s likely to involve some sort of car.

Water was turned off for most of the weekend. I have come to the conclusion that water outages are far more aggravating than power blackouts. I need water to cook, to wash, to shower, to drink. Not having it on hand makes one uneasy.

Friday night was a large rainstorm, the first in some two weeks. But Saturday morning dawned clear and sunny, so I ventured out to the traffic lights, and strolled down Atlantic Avenue to check out the botanical gardens that were closed last week. I wanted to go early because of the combination of unpredictable Ramadan hours and the tendency for a lot of places here (like banks) to keep siesta-like extended lunch hour schedules. The gardens are located right at the start of the Cape Point area, next door to the British High Commissioner, are run by the government, and maintained through the generosity of one or two British couples. As soon as I arrived, it started raining. Disappointed but undeterred, I went in and walked around, taking cover under large palm trees during particularly strong bursts. I relaxed in the gazebo and read for a bit, but the mosquitoes started coming out. Eventually the rain stopped, the sun came out, and the true beauty of the flora came to light. I enjoyed the gardens. Paths traced through all sorts of unique and colourful trees, flowers and bushes planted throughout the compound. I could hear the sounds of the bustling market and children playing soccer just outside the fence, and enjoyed the peace of just walking around and taking in the surroundings. I will try to return again with a book in hand.

When I left, I stopped by the market and watched some kids playing soccer. A gentleman asked me if I would like to see the local kindergarten. I thought it would be interesting, so I followed along into Bakau. I was told that the school was for orphaned children. A single-story yellow building framed a dusty square, and a corrugated-steel shack served as a classroom for about 70 children, who read words off a chalkboard in English and Arabic, then sang a song about Canada in my honour. Not surprisingly, I was asked to donate a bit of money for the school, which I did. When I left, I could see the children leaving the classroom. I’m not sure whether it was all some sort of scam, or whether I’m just paranoid, but it wasn’t a lot of money and seemed like a good cause.

On my way back, I stopped by the African Village hotel, which I had been told puts on live shows of African music. As with various places, they won’t really kick things off until November, but I stayed and had some lunch overlooking the Atlantic. The hotel seemed pretty interesting, with a floating pool bar and a more authentic African feel. There was an elevated, man-made “beach patio” down below, waves slamming against rocks, and not much beach to speak of. I’m starting to see what they mean when they talk about coastal erosion. Lots of ocean, lots of water-swept sand during low tide, but little in the way of white, sandy beaches.

Before heading home, I stopped by Timbooktoo to ask them about their book exchange program, which could prove useful. I popped into the Living Art Centre, and relaxed with my book and a smooth, wonderful watermelon juice. I love that place, so much more interesting than the bland hotel restaurants. On my way home, I cut through Bakau New Town, a quiet, residential neighbourhood with wide dirt streets and tree-filled compounds. In my time here, I have really lost all previous notions and standards of what is wealth and what is poverty, what is comfortable and appealing and what is not. Areas that I’m sure would be considered poor by western standards (I think) seem quite nice and comfortable to me. I don’t expect much culture shock when I return to Canada, as I know what life there is like, but it’ll be interesting to see how many things I’ve gotten used to here without realizing it.

Conscious of the fact that something unexpected could pull me back to Canada earlier than planned, I’ve been a bit rushed in my weekends for the last two months, trying to see various things. Slowly, my list of touristy destinations has shrunk. Although there are still a few things left to do, I’m looking forward to being able to relax more without plans or agenda.

October 12

I’ve discovered my new favourite thing about the Gambia: returning from a run and having the water shut off, unable to shower, having run out of drinking water, with food for supper requiring water to be cooked, and not getting water back until the following morning. My house is a model of emergency preparedness: belongings kept off the floor and windows kept closed in case of freak rainstorm, valuables under cover in case of roof leaks, candles at the ready for power outages, and now the inevitable start of water hoarding. Maybe it’s not so much “emergency” preparedness as simply the charm of African living. Nothing is taken for granted.

I haven’t experienced too much of a language barrier here. English is the official language, and most of my dealings with Gambians are with those involved in the service industry. They generally have a fairly good grasp of the language. Even the average person on the street knows the basic greetings. Occasionally, however, it happens. For instance, I buy fruit from local street vendors, typically mangoes and bananas. There are sometimes fruits I don’t recognize.

Me: What kind of fruit is this?
Nice Lady: Twenty!
Me: No, no. Kind. Type. Mango? Papaya?
Nice Lady: Twenty!

...and so it goes.

October 11

My favourite billboards that I’ve seen thus far in the Gambia:

“My friend with AIDS is still my friend.”

“Soldiers protect the nation. Condoms protect the soldier.”

I was told that GRTS on Tuesday nights broadcasts two games of Premier League football. I checked, but all that was playing was somebody reading from the Qur’an, and commercials comparing the state of Gambia to how it was pre-1994. Maybe soccer will return after Ramadan.

October 10

The Hash last night started on the other side of the highway opposite Palma Rima, at the average Amsterdam Dolphins restaurant. We wound through the residential Kotu neighbourhood, which contained wide, dusty streets and some pretty nice houses. Kids were playing soccer in the streets, as they are wont to do. We crossed the highway and made our way back into the picturesque area of Kotu, with its maize plants that dwarfed me, endless fields of rice, and new hotel complexes springing up by the beach. I wonder if the demand exists for them. We were accompanied on our stroll by local beach dogs. The coast has been deserted with Ramadan, but tourists have started to pop up, the light rain before the storm.

My time away has had me think about where I want to be down the road. Unfortunately, this has created more questions than answers. I enjoy being involved in Canadian society, but I would also like to live in Europe at some point. The foreign service interests me, but I want to get involved in politics, which I assume is easier when you’re stationed at home. I like the open spaces and lack of pretension of western Canada, but I don’t fit in politically. Edmonton has been a good home, but I feel drawn to a more exciting centre like Toronto, Vancouver or New York. Montreal sounds like a place I would love, but I can’t practice law there. And the areas of law I’m interested in are typically practiced more by NGOs abroad than law firms, anyways. Bah. I don’t know.

October 9

The sky is overcast. The air is cool. At least, it feels cool. It’s probably a chilly 24 degrees and I don’t notice. It feels like a breezy autumn day in Edmonton, minus the leaves of changing colour. I love it.

It’s funny how my day off from exercise, Saturday, so often turns into hours of walking and touring. Such was the case this weekend, as I explored the area north of the traffic light up to Cape Point, where I’ve only been once before. Having nothing else planned, I decided to check out the Katchikali crocodile pool. I walked down Garba Jahumpa Road, past Timbooktoo and the Living Art Centre, through Bakau New Town, which contained the usual mix of small shops. I got to the area known as Bakau Old Town, an urban African community, and quickly got lost in the maze of identical, dusty narrow alleys and family compounds. I never feel unsafe in the poorer areas of the country, as the violence spawned from poverty in North America doesn’t exist here. People are friendly and go about their business. There is a sense of community. I asked somebody for directions and he sent two local children to lead me to the pool, which turned hours of potential wandering into a 5-minute walk.

The Katchikali pool, as with so many of the attractions here, is found in a thickly-vegetated compound. I took a quick stroll through the museum, noting in particular the pictures of Gambian soldiers in the world wars, then walked down the shaded path, past a monstrous and ancient tree, towards the pool, where I met a guide. The crocodile is a sacred animal in Gambian culture and the small pool, said to be some 500 years old, was believed to have fertility and healing powers. I’m used to zoos and aquariums, where animals are kept distant and caged. Already in the Gambia, it was interesting to go through Abuko and Bijilo parks, where monkeys (and who knows what else) roam free. About one hundred crocodiles live at Katchikali and they too are uninhibited. I walked past several crocodiles lounging on the banks right beside the path. I petted and posed for pictures with Charlie and another docile croc. They felt like rough, dusty rock, and the underside of their legs was cool, reflecting their cold-blooded nature. I wasn’t particularly compelled to come see the crocodiles, as I wasn’t hugely interested in seeing the animals and dismissed the pool as being a tourist trap. It was, but it has some interesting history, being so close to the crocs was pretty cool, and the setting was nice enough.

From Katchikali, I emerged from the Bakau Old Town labyrinth and checked out the botanical gardens, which were closed, so I kept walking up to Cape Point. It is described in my tour book as having a quiet, cul-de-sac feel, which is pretty accurate. The walk up to the Point was leisurely, lots of trees, an older and more dignified area. I had lunch and then started my walk back to the traffic light along Atlantic Road, which runs parallel to the coast. The walk took me past a bustling craft and food market on the fringe of Bakau Old Town, then quieted into a long, straight, tree-lined road flanked by numerous shaded embassies and the absolutely massive compound containing the Medical Research Council, home to the majority of the British ex-pats I’ve met. This part of the Gambia has a “government town” feel, like Ottawa, only rather than local government (which is in Banjul) it’s embassies and NGOs. I got home after riding from Senegambia to the Turntable in one of the local vans with 16 other people, and spent a few hours relaxing. The day was extremely hot, and the parabolic walk up Garba Jahumpa Road, through Bakau Old Town, up to Cape Point, and then back down Atlantic Road on the other side along the coast was about 12km, I would guess.

The owner of the African Village hotel is a friend of one of my co-workers, and he was having the grand opening of his new bar, Sinatra’s, in Bakau. I had walked past it earlier on my stroll down Atlantic Avenue. The invite said 8pm, but my experience with Gambia night life thus far made me think 10pm would be a better guess. I arrived, the bar was full, and I was just in time to catch the end of the dedication ceremony on the large restaurant patio in the back. This was complete with African musicians and a fire-breather performing on the roof. The place was nice enough, with various Sinatra and Rat Pack framed albums and decorations. But I was hoping for Rick’s Café Americain. Aside from the wall art, it lacked anything else that would reflect the namesake or identify it as a piano bar, and the musical entertainment for the evening felt more like cheesy cruise ship than classy martini joint.

I was going to check out the nearby African Village but, on my way out, I ran into my fellow rugby-playing Edmontonian and ended up going with him to a house party. It was a small, laid-back affair filled with many of the young North Americans and Europeans I have met through rugby, along with some people I hadn’t met before. Having arrived four days earlier, 3 of the 5 CIDA-funded Canadians were there. I told them a bit about the Gambia, and found it interesting that, having been here for two months, I’m no longer the new kid on the block. The ex-pat community experience is an interesting one that I want to comment on, but I haven’t quite put my thoughts together at this point. Another day.

October 4

Setting aside African fiction and non-fiction for the time being, I have returned home and started Margaret Atwood’s Booker Prize-winning “The Blind Assassin”. Hopes are high.

I haven’t talked about work very much on the blog. The main reason for this is that legal work tends to be confidential. I also don’t like to discuss office personnel or office issues. That said, here’s a general overview of what I do. The African Union adopted in 1981 the African Charter on Human and People’s Rights. This is a document of rights and responsibilities to which African nations that have ratified the Charter (all of them) are bound. The document also established the African Commission on Human and People’s Rights, which promotes human rights in Africa and hears complaints filed against governments. The NGO I work with is the preeminent litigator of cases before this Commission, and is also involved in other aspects of the Commission’s work. I work on the submissions to the Commission of the cases we bring forward, along with some other tasks. We also do similar work with the African Charter on the Rights and Welfare of the Child and its associated African Committee of Experts on the Rights and Welfare of the Child. That, in a nutshell, is why I’m here.

October 3

I have yet to discover truly unique and amazing Gambian food. The mangoes and peanuts here are wonderful. Beach bars typically offer fish and chips, which tends to be cheap and fresh. The goat leg I’d prefer not to have again. Two big draws are chicken yassa and chicken afra. I tried chicken yassa my first week here, which was tasty and nicely spiced, but nothing out of the ordinary. Chicken afra is the Gambian equivalent of late-night Denny’s. It is chicken cut up into small pieces, served with the appropriate onions and spices, and eaten with your fingers (not unlike eating ribs). Restaurants generally offer standard western fare, like pizza and meat dishes. I need to seek out some low-key traditional Gambian restaurants. Apparently home cooking is the way to go, but I haven’t had the opportunity to participate.

Whereas the food hasn’t been memorable, I love African clothing, especially that worn by women. Women tend to dress more traditionally, and wear head coverings and elaborate flowing dresses made of light fabric in dazzling colors and patterns. You see many women and girls walking around, balancing baskets or trays of bananas and peanuts on their head covering. Men’s clothing is more nondescript, and is characterized by loose, light long-sleeved shirts and pants. Some wear African-styled shirts with bright patterns, while others wear more western style clothing. Of course, men are also frequently seen wearing traditional Muslim attire. The Hawaiian shirts I got in Vegas, which I was wary of bringing to a Muslim country, have been a big hit. Wearing one of those shirts and sandals to work is a plus. I’m going to look into having some clothing made while I’m here. Having worn the same few shirts for the past two months, a change would be nice.

Last night’s Hash started at Leybado Hotel on Kairaba Avenue, went down the beach to Palma Rima, and back through the Fajara neighbourhood parallel to the main highway. The heat convinced most of the group to stop half-way for drinks at a hotel situated next to an area of severe coastal erosion. I’d never walked through Fajara before, and it was interesting to see the quiet neighbourhood of impressive gated houses. I couldn’t quite make out the US ambassador’s house through the high white walls and thick trees. Right outside that house was a shack and a child selling pop from a dilapidated stand. Dinner was at Mama’s on Kairaba Avenue. As I dove into my meal, Nickelback came over the restaurant music system, and I smiled.

Break for Pictures (Part 2)

slave James Island


the market at Barra


ruins of the fort on James Island

Break for Pictures

Kololi Village neighbourhood


Hash walk through Kotu


Banjul seen from the Arch

October 2

The weather’s been bloody hot. Mid-30s, over 80% humidity. Blazing sun. Everywhere you look, Gambians are languishing in the shade. These days, the country has slowed from the heat, and has quieted significantly with Ramadan.

Friday night. I walked to the end of the Senegambia strip, turned right before the Senegambia Hotel, and walked a block down a quiet and dark side street away from the hustle of the tourist district. Reaching the entrance, I saw that it led not into a building, but rather into a shaded forest path. I walked down a gravel and dirt path amidst palm trees. Open huts with thatched roofs littered this tree-filled compound like camp sites, accessible yet distinctly private and secluded all the same. The biggest hut of all emanated the chill beats of electro-jazz. I sat down on a low, reclined chair sculpted from two flat pieces of wood, placed a tray of fresh, salty Gambian peanuts and my drink of wanjo, cactus and daharr juices with lime on a table constructed of interwoven logs, and gazed up at the stars and moonlit palm tree tops. This was the Green Mamba, a fully outdoors bar that feels like a cross between a hip martini bar and a nature trail. Apparently, it’s a popular Friday night gathering place for the various ex-pats working with the UN, Peace Corps, and other human rights groups in the Gambia, and is a tribute to this warm climate. I only stayed briefly because I was exhausted, but the place was great and I continue to love the tropical juices found in this country.

I returned home at around midnight. Taking advantage of the fact that I was already covered in bug spray, I relaxed on my porch for a while. When you’re away from home, you gain certain appreciations. You learn to appreciate those things that exist in the west. You appreciate those things unique to Africa. But you also gain an appreciation for the things that exist in both but which were previously undiscovered or taken for granted, like seeking out new restaurants, taking unhurried walks or enjoying the sounds and solitude of a warm summer night.

Because I wanted to wait for my ear to get better and to finish my medication, my plans for Saturday had to be postponed. The weekend was lazy and uneventful. I got a haircut on Saturday and proceeded to spend two and a half tiring hours under a scorching sky golfing at the Kololi Beach Club Par 3. The course was gorgeous, with lush vegetation framed by the ocean, yet modest, with dirt greens called “browns”. I rarely golf, so it was fine for me. I was also the only person on the course, so I took my leisurely time to “unspoil the good walk”, as it were. Sunday was spent doing little. I enjoy the peaceful nature or this country, and being alone has allowed me to chart my own path and afforded me plenty of opportunity for reading, exercising, and touring at my leisure. However, I miss the energy and life of being in a western city, and I miss having close friends and companions to spend time with.

I finished my third book of this trip this weekend, the Nigerian classic “Things Fall Apart” by Chinua Achebe. Although I appreciated the themes of the novel, the unique writing style, and the image of individuals and an African society as a whole affected by colonialism, and while I’m certain that a closer study and deeper criticism of the book would yield an even greater appreciation, I didn’t find it to be particularly interesting.

September 29

This country is funny. As soon as they give you back your electricity, they start taking away your water. Thankfully, though, the water shortages have been infrequent and very brief. For now. Scorching sun these days. I’m glad I work indoors.