BoggBlog

The End

2007-01-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

On Sunday night at 9pm, my SN Brussels flight will whisk me away after 160 days on the African continent. In Nelson Mandela’s book, he mentioned a fellow inmate who commented once that, in prison, the days can feel like years and the years feel like days. I haven’t been in prison, but there have been days that were very challenging, some very, very low points, and yet five and a half months have somehow gone by. The last week has been a mixture of slow-moving tedium as I’ve counted down the days to my finish here, with various outings to both enjoy the last of the Gambia and to draw various work and social associations to a close. My next four days will largely be the same. I’ll finish packing, I’ll keep exercising. At lunch on Friday, I’m meeting up with a Calgarian Hasher who is here on some sort of oil exploration. Friday night, I was invited to some sort of house party in Brufut by another Hasher. And Saturday night, the Institute Director is having me over for supper. Perhaps a walk here and there and maybe take in a soccer game, but otherwise that wraps things up for me here.

On July 26, I posted some priorities on my blog about what I wanted to do while in Africa:

I am just under two weeks away from moving to Africa. I'm looking forward to a few things: moving on from my University life, reading books, helping the less fortunate, seeing a new world, and reexamining my priorities.

Some reflections on my trip:

READING: I managed to read 8 books on this trip, ranging from historical fiction (Dickens, Austen, Joyce), contemporary fiction (Atwood, Achebe), and autobiographical non-fiction (H. Clinton, B. Clinton, Mandela).

FITNESS: The first time I jogged in the Gambia, I almost threw up and spent two hours immobile in a chair to regain my composure. Slowly but surely, I worked my way up from short runs twice a week to running for 75 minutes 6 times a week, plus doing 150 situps and 48 modified pushups every morning, in addition to the weekly Hash runs, rugby (before I got bored with it a few months ago), and lots of time spent walking and touring. After letting things slide too much throughout law school, I return to Canada in the best shape I’ve been since my half-marathon running days of 2001. It took a whole lot of effort and sacrifice, as being in Africa provided various challenges: the stifling heat, the lure of the beach, bistro eating and cheap beer, and greater time sucked up by everything from laundry to shopping and transportation. But it was worth it. Things have slacked somewhat in the last month, what with my birthday binging, my vacation, and the unplanned farewell restaurant tour since my return last week, but I’m happy overall.

WORK: I have not been vacationing, but rather have been working full time. I had the opportunity to become very familiar with the human rights system here in Africa, both in terms of past cases of the African Human Rights Commission and in terms of how things work. I worked on cases for both the Commission and the African Committee of Experts on the Rights and Welfare of the Child. I worked on some policy drafting. I participated in a roundtable on legal aid in the Gambia, attended the NGO Forum and the Commission Session, and gave a presentation on the international human rights framework at a training workshop.

TOURING: I saw the Abuko Nature Reserve, Bijilo Forest Park and Katchikali Crocodile Pool. I had the opportunity to go up country to see James Island and, in the process, had my first exposure to small villages and the Gambian countryside. I walked all over, from north to Cape Point to the Tanji fishing village in the south. I ate at all sorts of restaurants and visited numerous clubs and bars. I saw the unspoiled beaches of the southern Kombos. I saw more of West Africa by traveling to Senegal overland, and experienced North Africa by traveling to Morocco.

EXPERIENCING A DIFFERENT CULTURE: I spent five months living in a traditional African neighbourhood, largely separated from the tourist, expat and diplomatic areas. I have shopped from street vendors, interacted with Gambians, and lived through the rainy season. I ate traditional Gambian foods and experienced local beach and fishing culture. I have lived in West Africa. Being by myself for four of those months, I have been immersed in Gambian living and have largely had to find my own way. I think myself better for it.

REEXAMING MY PRIORITIES: My time here has given me a lot of time to think and reflect. And while I don’t have all the answers for my life, some things have been made somewhat clearer.

HILIGHTS: The weather for the last two months has been wonderful. Seeing African villages for the first time was a very worthwhile and moving experience. Publishing on malaria in the Edmonton Journal was very fulfilling. And all of the things listed above really made the trip what it was. On the whole, I am proud that I was able to take the step to decide to come here, take a further step to travel around a bit independently, and make it through the entire time when, back in August, I couldn’t imagine how I would ever do so.

DISAPPOINTMENTS: Having my planned tour to Georgetown in the east part of Gambia fall through was unfortunate, but I got my fill of travel, villages and countryside in other ways. I never really made close friends with people in my age group, as those I met through rugby I never particularly clicked with. I wish my time in Gambia were such that I could have fully immersed myself in the experience and put thoughts of Canada away for the duration. But the various challenges of being here – living hardships, loneliness, boredom, cultural frustrations and racial division – rendered that impossible. To this day, although I go about daily living comfortably, I am still an outsider here.

I’m somewhat surprised I’ve managed to keep this going for my entire trip. 93 pages of reflections on various things, most of which was posted to the blog. Sometimes interesting, sometimes less so, but as accurate and honest as I was able to make things. Now, on to Brussels, two days of rest in Amsterdam, through to Mineappolis, and on to cold, snowy home.

Part VI: The Home Stretch

2007-01-11T09:19:00.000-08:00

January 4, 2007

Being back feels like a welcome overstayed, or like 3rd year law school: you’re ready to leave and don’t really want to be here anymore. I’m more tired and worn out all day than I would have expected. I spent some time relaxing in the sun at the Kairaba Hotel and popped into work to try to check my email but, in fitting Gambian fashion, the internet was down. For dinner, I went to a wonderful all-you-can-eat Mongolian Grill at the Green Mamba. I ate a ridiculously exorbitant amount of food, but it was great value and a great meal.

January 5, 2007

Popped into work again. It feels like being there on the weekend, or being at work right before holidays when nothing is getting done. People are still coming back from vacation, so nothing is really happening and nobody is around. I’ve largely started to tune out the country and am looking forward to leaving. Next week will be slow and dull.

January 6, 2007

Started writing up my trip diary. Not much else I want to do in the Gambia. My thoughts are really set on leaving, not on doing a flurry of activities before I leaving. I started slowly figuring out how I might be able to pack up my souveniers.

January 7, 2007

In a change from the last couple of days, I decided to head out today and enjoy a bit more of my time here. Light-headed and feeling slightly drunk from NyQuil (I’ve caught a cold from the weather changes, presumably), I took in a good British lunch (a contradiction to be certain) at Churchill’s, then I took a leisurely stroll through the palm trees and rice fields of Kotu. I was very much alone, with just a few cars and field workers in the distance. The weather at this time of year is quite gorgeous and there are certainly some picturesque elements to this country upon which I will look back fondly. I walked back for an hour along the beach to take in the ocean. The large number of bumsters out and about I will look back upon with far less fondness. I finished up my afternoon with a daiquiri in Senegambia. An impulse purchase with money I didn’t really want to spend, I decided that I couldn’t go back to Edmonton not having had at least one tropical drink on a patio here. Happy Ukrainian Christmas.

January 9, 2007

Attended my last Hash last night, at a new-ish Hungarian restaurant up at Cape Point. The walk was pleasant, as I’m taking the opportunity these days to appreciate what I can before I leave. Dinner was fun and celebratory, and I treated the 71-year-old Brit who has kindly been giving me rides to and from the Hash since I started. I thanked the group and got a signed t-shirt as a memento. Heading home, I reflected on the familiarity of my surroundings and the various routines I’ve gotten accustomed to over the last five months. Joining the Hash was unquestionably one of the major things that helped give me a sense of comfort and belonging here in the Gambia, exposed me to various places, and provided information and helpful guidance when necessary. Young, old and older, the group was fun, laid-back, unpretentious and welcoming.

January 10, 2007

On my list of “things to do” before leaving was trying the last of a list of restaurants, The Clay Oven, the most notable Indian restaurant here in the Gambia. Headed there for lunch yesterday. It is in the tree-lined, upscale neighbourhood of Fajara. Heading inside through a long hallway filled tastefully with Indian art, I was seated in the empty dining room, an airy room with white walls, ceiling and floor, yellow chairs and window drapes, white and blue coverings on tables, and assorted Indian art lining the walls. In a nice atmosphere of music and sunlight, I had a small tasty lunch of samosas and some chicken, particularly enjoying the sweet chutney sauce for the samosas and experimenting with various others for the chicken. Tasty and enjoyable, but not great value for the meal. In this country, if you wish to venture away from the basic Gambian or tourist fare, you can expect to pay North American prices. Which isn’t a big deal, except when you’re but a few days from leaving. It was worth it, though, to have something a little bit different in a pleasant atmosphere.

January 11, 2007

I returned to the Green Mamba last night for one last all-you-can-eat, and once again enjoyed a fabulous meal in their wonderful, laid back setting. It is likely my favourite bar and restaurant here in the Gambia. I debated whether to spend the money to go back there, but when you get a soup, bread, all-you-can-eat Mongolian grill of fish, prawns, tuna, chicken, pork, beef, and various vegetables with 5 sauces (peanut, banana, spicy, sesame, oyster) to choose from, with fresh fruit salad for dessert and attaya green tea for the equivalent of about $14, I won’t be able to enjoy such a thing when I return. I enjoyed the food, enjoyed the largely jazz music, and the comfortably cool weather in this oasis just off the Senegambia cesspool. It’s too bad they didn’t open the restaurant earlier in the trip, or I would have been there every weekend. On the other hand, maybe it’s good that they didn’t, or I would have been there every weekend. I also enjoyed chatting with the Hungarian waitress there who I met a few months ago, who’s doing a Masters project here in the Gambia on the romance tourism culture before heading off to Sudanese refugee camps in a few months.

I have largely finished packing. Surprising how quickly one can store away 5 months of living into two humble suitcases. My house looks even emptier now.

Finished the last of the Dickens Christmas novellas yesterday, “The Cricket on the Hearth”. A rather interesting tale, following in the same formula of “The Christmas Carol” and “The Chimes” of downtrodden yet honest folk, contrasted with almost comically unpleasant characters, ultimately enjoying the spirit and gift of happiness. I found it a bit annoying in this particular instance as a rather interesting and compelling story was made worse for me by an almost deus ex machina-type feel good ending, with equally unbelievable changes in previously sinister characters.

Pictures from Marrakech

2007-01-11T08:38:00.000-08:00

Marrakesh, with the Koutoubia Minaret in the distance

Djemma el Fna in the evening

Part V: Marrakech, Morroco, and back to the Gambia

2007-01-11T03:25:00.000-08:00

December 30, 2006

An 8 hour train ride to Marrakesh. The train was packed from about before Casa to just before Marrakesh: people were sitting and smoking with their luggage packed in the hallways outside the train compartments. Another thought: as the toilets empty straight out of the train, it gives another reason not to play on train tracks.

The landscape was wonderful. By Fes there were rolling hills and farmlands. By Casa I saw the distant ocean. It then turned into more dull farmlands heading on, but became cool and desertish. The high, snow-covered Atlas mountains soon emerged, dwarfing and providing a background for Marrakesh down below.

I arrived in Marrakesh around supper. I couldn’t get a good taxi rate so I decided to walk. It was not far, but I couldn’t find the hotel as my scanned map provided little guidance. It was getting dark and cold, but I finally found it and got a nice feel for the streets in the process.

In Fes I was staying in the Medina. Here in Marrakesh, I was staying in the new town. The Hotel Toulousain was very much a change from the Riad in Fes. Everything in Marrakesh over new year’s was full when I was doing bookings a month ago, and this was the only hotel I could find. It was a very basic room with two beds, a stained floor, a barren toilet and shower with minimal heating. It was really one step above a hostel. But I just need a place to sleep, so it’s fine.

I walked around the Ville Nouvelle (also known as Gueliz). I found it to be disappointing: it was overwhelmingly crawling with tourists, was fully modern, and lacked even the charm and interesting architecture of Casa. It looked and felt a bit like Whyte Avenue. I am looking forward to throwing myself back into traditional surroundings by heading to the Marrakesh medina tomorrow, although I admittedly did enjoy sitting on a cold café patio sipping a hot chocolate and taking in my surroundings.

December 31, 2006

I awoke early with a head cold. Thankfully, there was hot water in the shower because emerging from my layers of blankets into the cold room was painful. Breakfast was included, and it was nice to see other worn trekkers like myself at breakfast, a very unpretentious gathering. I wanted to do as much today as possible not being sure what would be open tomorrow on New Year’s. It’s also a Muslim holiday now, further complicating touring matters.

I went to the Jardin Majorelle, a truly spectacular creation. Formerly a private garden created by artist Jacques Majorelle, it was opened to the public a few decades ago, and is now maintained in trust by fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent. You enter and walk past a fountain into the garden. If you go one way, you enter a shaded, secluded bamboo path with a quiet gazebo. You keep walking and the air opens up into a winding path through palm trees and cactus plants, a bit like walking through Kotu in the Gambia. You follow one of the paths and the imposing majorelle blue house (Majorelle’s former work studio) appears, with plants in colorful pots along the way. A large koi pond with floating plants was set off from one side of the house while the porch overlooked another pond that stretched like the Washington D.C Mall far into the bamboo wooded area, where another gazebo was situated from which the house would just be tantalizingly visible through the trees. There were various other paths, openings and resting places. The whole things was beautifully structured. With plants collected from 5 different continents, different areas in the garden seemed to evoke different emotions: open airiness, seclusion, and the dominance of the house and its pools overlooking it all. It was amazing to see what one man could create.

Marrakesh is the most pleasant, relaxing and idyllic place I’ve visited on this trip, but in many ways it is also the least interesting. The Ville Nouvelle lacks the French feel of Casablanca, and the Medina lacks the historic and authentic feel of Fes. The walk to the Medina was very pleasant but dull. Everything felt new. It felt like the suburbia of Calgary mixed with the mountain charm of Banff and an upscale Florida retirement community. It felt largely artificial. If Fes is historic Morocco, then Marrakesh felt like a Disneyland or Vegas Morocco, an artificial construction of the Moroccan experience for honeymooning couples and those looking for easy Morocco. Arriving at the Medina, it felt too new. It was picturesque, but again artificial. The place was also crawling with tourists, and there was even a prominent Club Med. There was, however, a romantic feel to it all: nice gardens, horse-drawn carriages, the slightly newer paths of the Medina, and the overall aura of Djemma el Fna.

The Djemma el Fna is a large, open square, framed by some cafes and shops. I walked through it, saw some fruit stalls and numerous snake charmers surrounded by the creatures and making cobras sway in front of them. I saw the Koutoubia Minaret, which dwarfs everything in the area and is nice, very old and imposing. The Koutoubia Gardens were also pleasant to walk through.

I waited in a long tourist line to see the Saadian Tombs. These were amazing, with very elaborate wood and plaster carvings and intricate mosaics. I then tried to find the Ben Youssef mosque but got lost in the Medina. It was not as claustrophobic as Fes. It seemed newer and was largely deserted. The same could be said for most of the streets around the Saadian tombs: was this because it was Sunday? Or New Year’s Eve? Or the Muslim Eid? Whatever the explanation, it felt like the Moroccans had closed up shop and gave the throngs of tourists the run of the place. I felt better walking through the Medina streets, as I felt a return of a more authentic feel, although it was newer, with seemingly wider and roomier streets. I popped by the Hotel la Mamounia, the most expensive hotel in the city and Winston Churchill’s former stomping grounds in Marrakech, but it was sadly closed for construction.

I returned to the Djemma el Fna in the evening. It was still full of tourists but more and more Moroccans were making their way there. It was quite an experience. Throngs of food stands were filling the air with steam, there were countless orange juice vendors, cafes filled with tourists, numerous shops selling merchandise, stalls of shoe polishers. The dusk air was lit with hundreds of bulbs from the food stands and the Minaret was lit in the background like the Empire State Building. Circles of people surrounded musical performers. Thousands of people made their way and wandered amidst old men animatedly telling stories, old men sitting on the ground selling herbal remedies. There were simple carnival type games, and two young men boxing. The air was filled with the smell of food, the sounds of music and the calls of the mosques. The steam, the light: it was all very atmospheric and fun. It was a nightlife public gathering (which I couldn’t find in Fes). It was a mixture of the Fringe, the Street Performers Festival, Klondike Days, Whyte Avenue and a market all rolled into one. After a few hours, I grew tired of walking around the square, and enjoyed the walk amidst busy foottraffic on the main thoroughfare to return to Gueliz.

Unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be much by way of New Year’s celebrations. I saw various people dressed up and heading off to places unknown, and saw some tourists having fancy dinners. However, I wasn’t sure where celebrations were taking place. I asked around but couldn’t find anything out, and the hotel staff implied that the Muslim holiday was all to be had. There really was more of a café than a club culture, so I hung around outside for a while, enjoying some espresso and the street traffic. At this point of the trip, I wished my hotel was more comfortable, because I was largely tired of touring.

Marrakech grew on me. It was not as intense as the other places I had been, but it was a nice, relaxing place to visit. I worked to try to enjoy it for what it was: a more modern, smaller-town, atmospheric place. I returned to my chilly hotel room and went to sleep as some distant group in the hotel did the final New Year’s countdown in French. Welcome 2007.

January 1, 2007

I looked to spend a more leisurely day today. Much of the city and the Medina was shut down, but the touristy things seemed to stay open.

I took a different path into the Medina from the new town and managed this time to find the Ben Youssef Medersa. It had intricately carved surfaces, gorgeous corridors, a wonderful courtyard and attached prayer hall. It was like the one I saw in Fes, but this was better because we could walk around the place. It was interesting to see the student cells, which were like small, prison cells.

Next I went to the Marrakesh museum next door, saw Fes pottery, some fabrics and jewelry. I enjoyed the art displays, as I hadn’t seen any art up to this point. It was a very nicely restored building, including an elaborate inner courtyard. Walking through the art displays in the more low key hammam areas was cool.

Finally, I saw the Almoravid Koubba. It was cool, a below-ground-level excavated building, the only intact surviving Almoravid building and the root of all Moroccan architecture. The dome structure was amazing. It was interesting to see the carving motifs and the windows, which were more simple here than in the Medersa because they were done here for the first time and spawned everything else I had seen. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the various latrine and other attached water-transfer areas from the French descriptions.

I walked casually through the Medina looking for Djemma el Fna using the tried-and-true method of occasionally asking for a direction and assuming I’d be on the right track if the number of tourists increased or the path seemed busier or had more kiosks open. Eventually I found the square, relaxed for a bit there with cheap fresh orange juice, relaxed in the park by the minaret, then finally made my way back to Gueliz. I spent the evening walking around and relaxing at various cafes drinking espressos, banana-milk juice, and having supper. I enjoyed taking in the nighttime atmosphere, seeing the crazy traffic of cars, scooters and horse-drawn carriages, as well as the lights of the new town.

I am tired of touring. There are only so many examples of Moroccan carvings that you can see. But I enjoyed relaxing today and just appreciating the Marrakech ambiance.

Nightlife in a Muslim country is pretty nice. People are more laid back and level-headed when the streets aren’t filled with drunks. I appreciated Marrakech as the kind of city it would be best to live in: relaxed, clean, picturesque, a comfortable night life, and a safe feeling.

January 2, 2007

Today was going to be the start of the two-day trek to get home to the Gambia. I woke in Marrakech and took the just-over 3hr train to Casablanca (Casa to Fes takes just over 4 hours, while Fes to Marrakesh is around 8). I rather enjoy the time I spend traveling: it is relaxing and gives one the opportunity to enjoy the scenery outside the train, but the packing and moving every few days, and back-of-the-mind worry the night before of things going wrong is less fun.

I spent the afternoon killing time in Casa. I enjoyed seeing the old (decaying) buildings once more, but it was a bit like the morning after a party, or returning to the scene of a past good time, or the bittersweet end of a vacation: I was just killing time, the fun and excitement weren’t there anymore. I am in return-home mode.

After taking a train to the airport, I had an uneventful 3.5hr evening flight back to Dakar. On the flight, I found myself dreading the return to Gambia tomorrow. The travel in West Africa is certainly tiring and tedious, but I don’t so much mind the travel itself as the constant haggling over prices and the informality and uncertainty of the entire process. If I was just booking a bus ticket, I wouldn’t give it a second thought.

Coming from the airport late in Dakar, I got a ride with a man who said he was a taxi driver in an unmarked car. This was probably not the smartest thing given all my other precautions taken for safety on the trip. But it’s something of a reality in west Africa in the informal economy, as even the cars I took to get to Dakar could have been something entirely untrustworthy for all I knew.

I enjoyed the experience of feeling the brisk, evening cold air boarding the plane on the runway in Casablanca, and then feeling the warm, humid and tropical nighttime air getting off in Senegal.

January 3, 2007

Finally got to bed at 3am last night, up at 8am to head home. Dakar didn’t feel as foreign and imposing the second time around, but still very much a city of urban decay. I grabbed a taxi to the Gare Routier, found out that there was a bus headed to Banjul, so I boarded it to get to the border. I sat waiting for probably one and half hours as departure proceeded in true west African fashion. People meandered on and off board, sellers of everything from bread, watches, belts, dissonant toys playing demonic-sounding children’s songs climbed on board periodically to ply their wares. No indication was evident that we were ever going to leave. When you’re tired and want to get home, it is frustrating how slow moving everything is in this part of the world. Once we got going, it took probably another hour just to get out of Dakar. Traffic was heavy, and the bus stopped very minute or two. The bus itself was basically a transit bus fitted with extra seats in the middle aisle. Senegalese music played over the intercom, a warm dusty wind blew the blue curtains covering the windows, and a guy would lean out of the doors shouting our destination to surrounding crowds, much like the minivan buses in the Gambia.

It took about 6 hours to get to the border. If I thought the 7-seater Peugot 504 car took a while because we’d stop periodically for rest breaks, this was a comparatively aggravating process, made worse by my state of fatigue. The bus would stop constantly to pick up or drop off new people, or simply slow down or stop for reasons I couldn’t figure out. It was like taking an ETS transit bus cross-country. Wherever we’d stop, the sellers and dirty, begging children would surround the doors and climb on board. The bus was pretty packed for the entire trip, with a few dead chickens among the passengers.

I did enjoy my iPod and the nice scenery. There was lots of deserty-looking grass, many deciduous trees, and we got to pass through a fair number of small villages and larger towns. I ate cookies and shared in a street-vendor sandwich offered me by the young guy sitting next to me.

The border crossing was once again uneventful and quick, with barely a glance in my direction as my passport was stamped. Once again on Gambian soil, I took another taxi, which bounced its way down a dirt path to get to Barra. Once there, another long wait ensued for the ferry to arrive, and a longer wait to be let out of the waiting pen to be allowed to run and scramble down the path to the ferry. We were packed in the waiting area behind a gate, like 3rd class passengers on the Titanic, frustratedly watching people walk their way to the ferry who had managed to sneak their way through from the ticket booth. I was quite tired from two long travel days by this point. The ferry ride under a moonlit night sky was quite pleasant, but I was really too tired to care much. On the ride across the river mouth, I ran into my former tour guide to James Island who helped me get a good price for a taxi once we arrived in Banjul.

I finally got home at around 8 or 9. The streets were deserted and quiet: still the Muslim Eid, I think. My arrival at home found the house and neighbourhood quiet and deserted. Entering my house was a bit like when I first arrived five months ago. It seemed barren, empty and foreign. The smell I noticed the first day had returned, like tropical air mixed with the mosquito net smell.

About five minutes after I had arrived and dropped off my things, I looked out my kitchen window and saw a tremendous fire erupt and start to spread right behind the secondary building in my backyard. Smoke and flames were billowing, so I quickly grabbed the bags I had just dropped off in my room, and rushed out of my house. I went around to the backyard to see if the fire had spread and realized that, thankfully, the building was not on fire. It looked as though somebody had started a clearcutting fire on the other side of the fence behind my house. People burn things in this country all the time, which is not unusual, but I had never seen such a massive blaze. I went back inside, and relaxed again a while later when the fire appeared to subside somewhat and my house was still in one piece.

It’s nice to not be moving around anymore and living out of a backpack, but returning feels like a bit of an odd extension, as though I’ve finished but have decided to come back for a few days. We’ll see how the final week here plays out.

The trip on the whole made me realize, more than I would have expected, just how challenging, limited, and deprived my life has been since August. I also didn’t realize how long I had been gone on this little jaunt until I returned to the intern house, which felt a bit distant and strange, like something from a previous life. I’m very glad to not have to travel overland within West Africa again notwithstanding it being something of an experience. Having traveled for 16 days with just a small bag, I don’t understand what people put in those gigantic backpacks when they go trekking through Europe or whatever. I also find myself annoyed by the abuse of carry-on allowance on airplanes by stupid people. How much crap do you really need to try to stuff into the overhead compartment, you moron? Bah. I’m cranky. But at least I’m home.

Pictures from Fes

2007-01-10T06:27:00.000-08:00

A roof-top look at the tannery workers below

Fes from on high at the Merenid tombs

The kind of intricate Moroccan stucco carvings, paintings and mosaics that cover the walls and ceilings of medersas, tombs, etc.

Fes el Bali Medina

Part IV: Fes, Morocco

2007-01-10T06:14:00.000-08:00

December 27, 2006

I was up at 6am for my desired 8:15am, 4.5 hour train ride to Fes. Moving every few days is both the best and worst part about traveling, but I relaxed in Casablanca, saw the Mosque, and didn’t have anything left I wanted to see or do. Leaving, I was mildly apprehensive about two things: whether there would be any complications with the train, and whether I would be able to find my riad in Fes.

All was fine with the train. It was nice, European-style station, and I settled into a compartment with some others for the trek. I started reading Dickens’ “The Chimes”. It proved to be a good satire on class relations, the industrial revolution, politics and pretension. I also quite enjoy Dickens’ informal story-telling style, where he will break away into an aside as though he’s personally telling you the story. He might stress or reiterate something, which I find interesting.

The train ride was relaxing. There were wonderful landscapes: rolling green fields, small villages set in valleys in traditional Moroccan style, where houses are built like jagged stacks of blocks, and sandy dunes. I mentally felt myself once again being removed from the big city into the countryside. There were also low Atlas mountains. More tourists boarded the train at Meknes. Although fewer tourists is always better, it’s also nice to have the reassurance of seeing fellow travelers on a parallel voyage.

My first sight of Fes was striking: a huge growth of Moroccan-style housing set in a valley. It was like a medieval, Arabic Calgary, with walls and large gates.

I was dropped off outside a small gate in the wall along a road and told to head inside, which I did. Thankfully, I quickly spotted a small sign for “La Perle de la Medina”, so I knew I was on the right track. I followed a short, cobblestone path and turned into a narrow, indistinguishable alley of indistinguishable yellow stone buildings that ended in a dead-end of a large, unlabelled metal door. This was my riad, hidden and undistinguishable from any other of the thousands of buildings in the Medina.

The riad was like a small palace. It was a traditional, restored Moroccan house, 4 levels high with a rooftop patio. It was amazingly ornately decorated, rooms set around a 4 story indoor tiled courtyard with a fountain, couches, a reading room and Moroccan furnishings and decorations. My room was adorned in a similar fashion. I write this while relaxing on a couch in front of the fountain, which is surrounded by small candles. Basically, this is a gorgeous, intimate guest house.

The Fes layout is confusing and intimidating, even in trying to understand the maps and where we are. The Medina is a huge, walled maze of narrow streets, small alleys, dead ends, tall, ancient Moroccan stone buildings creating this labyrinth. I did some walking to get my bearings, went up to the cemetery and up some of the major streets in the Medina. It was all very commercial: lots of stores, lots of vendors, produce, donkeys, lots of tourists. I also saw a live sheep getting stuffed into the back seat of a taxi, which was interesting. And I enjoyed a wonderful Moroccan mint tea by the main entryway of Bab Boujeloud.

The Fes Medina compared to that of Casa: seems larger and more impressive, old but not run down, traditional Moroccan rather than French adopted art deco, thriving rather than decaying, a mixture of residences and markets. This is the oldest of the imperial cities, and it certainly shows.

The Medina and markets compared to Dakar: not as filthy and pushy, pedestrian traffic rather than car traffic, merchants not as pushy. Dakar is a big city mixed with African market mentality, somewhat slum-ish with decaying European architecture. Fes is medieval in its pathways and architecture. There is modernity but in an ongoing historic setting, like an enlarged picture of Europe my sister has. There is a strange mix of modern youth, stores, old people in traditional Moroccan garb, and traditional trades.

Thoughts on Casa and Fes: both are largely modern living in a historic setting. When traveling, it is sometimes hard to find a place where the lifestyle itself remains historic and unchanged. Probably in small villages unspoilt by modernity and tourism.

Getting a guide tomorrow, should be helpful to find the sights I want to see.

December 28, 2006

Today was a full day of touring. It was rushed but fulfilling: having a guide let me quickly get through everything I wanted to see without struggling to find my way in the Medina maze. I saw:

Talaa Kebira: one of the main paths in the Medina. Atmospheric, moody main artery through the Medina, partly covered from the sun. It has a feeling of more authentic retail.

Talaa Seghira: the same route I walked down yesterday, lots of little shops, a lighter feel, lots of tourists.

Nejjarin Souk: this was the carpenter craft area. Lots of nice smells, lots of nice products.

Nejjarin Fondouk: a nice restored house with a wood museum. The museum was a bit dull, but there were some intricate carvings and a nice view of the Medina from the roof. The house resembled my riad, only it was largely wood decorated. Outside, the Place en Nejjarin was really just a small square.

Medersa Bou Inania: a gorgeous buildings of cedar carvings, mosaics, stucco carvings and wonderful Iraqi stained glass windows. I wonder what it would have been like being a high school student studying the Quran here hundreds of years ago.

Clock: a former water clock right outside the Bou Inania medersa. Unknown how it functioned, but it was lovely and intricate.

Dyer’s Souk: a smelly alleys, small rivers of dye flowing on the ground amidst hanging, drying clothes, workers with stained hands, and large buckets of dye

Tanneries: got a cool, rooftop look at the workers working amidst dozens of giant (red) paint cauldrons on the street below

Kairaouine Library: although I couldn’t enter, I saw a nicely decorated reading room

Zaouia of Moulay Idriss II: although I couldn’t enter, I caught a glimpse of the tomb of the founder of Fes

Kairaouine Mosque: a big mosque hidden behind street-bordering walls and doors, but I couldn’t see anything

Place Seffarine: just a square in the Medina; the guidebook said it was supposed to be picturesque which this wasn’t, so I’m not sure if I saw the right thing

I also saw various other jewelry areas, a carpet store, a man working a loom to make silk fabric products (like scarves), the metal workers factory, the tannery factory. It was a bit like being back in Bangkok, where you would always be led into pressure selling situations, which I resisted. Morocco certainly has a tradition of very wonderful craftsmanship in ceramics, carpets, embroidery, metals, jewelry and woodwork.

My afternoon was more relaxed. I went to the Dar Batha museum, which had much of the same sort of artifacts I had been seeing. But there was a cool Arab weapons exhibit of very intricately decorated weaponry like knives and guns. The museum had a nice garden in the middle courtyard (the Museum formerly being a royal house) although it was slightly less impressive in December. Still, I enjoyed the garden’s solitude. The Medina lacks trees, greenery and open spaces. It is very enclosed and claustrophobic, it dwarfs and envelops you, with the tightly-packed buildings serving to largely block out the sun and sky as though you’re surrounded by mini skyscrapers.

I then went to the Boujeloud Gardens, where I relaxed, walked around. It was pleasant and must be great in the summer. It was strange to see palm trees when it’s so chilly during the day and freezing at night.

Dinner was once again a tajine dish. Ate lots of bread today and indulged in cheap fresh juices available here in Fes. It was a bit dark at around 6 when I walked home. The Medina doesn’t seem like it would be a very pleasant place at night. The people in Fes el Bali are generally poorer with the rich having escaped to the Ville Nouvelle. My guide said that there is a lot of crime in the Medina.

In the Medina I saw buildings going back to the 11th century, including old brothel windows. It was cool to visit but I wouldn’t want to live here long-term in the Medina. Although old settings can be interesting to see and experience, they can prove challenging to actually live in.

Fes certainly has a more traditional feel than Casablanca (although, admittedly, I’m staying in the Medina for the whole time here and not bothering with the new town). It is the oldest Medina in Morocco, free from European influence, with much more traditional commerce, style of living, and clothing (fes hats, cloaks, slippers). Although there are modern elements, the historic setting remains, and traditional living persists. Fes is unquestionably the most unique place I’ve ever visited.

December 29, 2006

I visited the water fountain by the Mosque Bab Guissa in the north part of the Medina. It was a gorgeous, intricate mosaic work, but neglected. A short walk from there, I visited the Hotel Palais Jamai, a gorgeous, swank hotel overlooking the Medina. As with my own riad, it’s hard to balance immersing yourself in the place you’re visiting when you have amenities to enjoy in the place you’re staying. Still, Morocco has a certain mysterious, romantic charm and the hotel could be a good honeymoon place.

I climbed to the top of the hill overlooking the Medina to visit the Merenid tombs. From here, I was able to get a great view of the sprawling town and its old walls. It was a bit hazy, but I caught a good view of the rolling green hills and short mountains. On my way home, I bought some ceramics and a cedar chess set.

I wish I had another day in Fes just to relax and enjoy my riad a bit more, but Marrakesh beckons and I am uprooting once again.

Thoughts on Fes: claustrophobic, modern additions yet rooted in history. A great experience to visit to see the buildings and gorgeous craftsmanship. There was not much by way of entertainment in the old town and I didn’t visit the Ville Nouvelle. The Perle de la Medina was a charming building with a great courtyard and rooftop patio. It was innocuously hidden and conveniently close to everything.

Pictures from Casablanca

2007-01-10T05:22:00.000-08:00

Boulevard Moulay Youssef

Inside Mosquee Hasaan II

Arrivals Gate at Casablanca's airport

Casablanca

Part III: Casablanca, Morocco

2007-01-10T04:47:00.000-08:00

December 25, 2006

Up at 4am again for the early morning flight. I was up late packing and was kept awake by the apparent bombing campaign in downtown Dakar. The drive through the suburbs to get to the airport in Yof was interesting, as there was little to distinguish what I saw from another urban centre. The Dakar airport was a bit rough around the edges, but modern. There were only a few dozen of us on the early morning flight so we had the run of the plane. I stretched out comfortably in an emergency exit seat and alternated nodding off with finishing “A Christmas Carol”. It was a familiar, pleasant story. Some of Scrooge’s ass-ish lines and a few instances in the narrative for me reveal a wit in a young Dickens. Not sure if this was in fact the case, or whether he was just bitter. In any case, the Dakar airport and the flight were both very low key, like it was a special Christmas flight just for us.

Flying into Casablanca I noticed a lot of farmland. The arrivals lobby was gorgeous, the nicest I can recall. I took a train to the downtown. My first impression of the outskirts as we went through: Dakar without the negative elements. Very much looked the same but it very much felt like going through agrarian Europe, and the buildings when we reached them looked like Dakar.

On the train, I met an American man who was on the last leg of his 3-week round the world trek. I’m not sure how I feel about a rapid-fire plane jaunt all over the place. On the other hand, a couple of days is often enough to get the feel of a place. We discussed how many North Americans have little conception of the reality of the rest of the world outside of our borders.

I walked from the train station to my hotel. My first impressions on downtown Casa: it was a big, European city centre. The Hotel de Paris was in a great central location, with a very pretty interior and lovely rooms: decorated arched wooden doors, rugs, chair and table.

I walked around most of the day. It was much like going around Dublin, although the streets were a bit confusing at times. I had good ice cream from one of the various parlours for which Casa is known. I went to de Fleurs restaurant for supper, and had my first experience with Moroccan tajine, which was really just some beef, potatoes and veggies broiled in a clay pot. I also tried the local Casablanca beer. It was alright, an unoffensive lager like Flag and Julbrew.

I took a quick stroll through the medina: it was really just old dilapidated buildings, although it was more pleasant than the Dakar and Banjul markets: there were stone roads rather than dirt, less pushy salespeople, less insanity, nicer stuff. These markets are still not my thing, though.

Casa was very much a café-style city: everywhere there are people walking the streets, sitting indoors or outside drinking coffee, all day and into the evening. I had a more pleasant nighttime walk than in Dakar, where everything shuts down and you want to take a taxi wherever you go. Here, there was lots of traffic on the streets. It felt like West Edmonton Mall’s French recreation.

Getting off the plane earlier that morning at the Casablanca airport, I was hit with a welcome chill. It was not a cool, summer breeziness like in Gambia, but a light, biting mild winter child, which I’ve missed. I think the pilot announced that it was 8 degrees.

Casablanca citizens seem like a pleasant, stylish group. Casa is far more pleasant than Dakar, with none of Dakar’s madness and where I felt pretty much comfortable walking around.

There was no real feel of the movie, aside from vast amounts of architecture which evoke a French past. It was a combination of low-key (compared to the British) imperial French cool and stateliness combined with Moroccan grace and beauty.

December 26, 2006

I slept under warm blankets last night. It was a bit chilly, but the room was nicely heated.

This morning I went to the Mosquee Hasaan II. It was the most impressive man-made structure I’ve had the opportunity of ever seeing: huge, beautiful, intricate, rich, grandiose, awe-inspiring. The walk to get there took me along the port area and along the old Medina walls.

After the Mosque I went to the central market to buy fruit. It is hard to live cheaply and healthily when you’re traveling around.

I did a walking tour in the afternoon to see the architecture: from Place Mohammed V (a nice park, surrounded with the art-deco style official buildings), down Boulevard Moulay Youssef (which runs through an amazing deciduous and palm-lined park), past the Cathedrale du Sacre Coeur (abandoned art-deco), up to Place Oued el Makhazine, then casually back.

My thoughts on Casa: it doesn’t feel like Africa (which I’ve realized doesn’t mean much, since African countries are all different), the architecture and palm trees and parks feel like a cross between Los Angeles and Paris, with Arab inhabitants. I thought about visiting the Churchill Club (the British Bank Club), but decided against it: it was too far, and expat living is only fun if you know other expats. I popped into the Bar Casablanca at the Hyatt: a very swank hotel so I didn’t stay long. At night, the outside of the hotel was lit like a Vegas hotel. I’m not a big fan of artificial attempts to capture the movie. It is better to go out and experience Casablanca as it really is. Rick’s Café Americain was more than just about being swank, it was about a gathering place for expats (like Churchill’s in the Gambia).

I spent the evening relaxing at a couple of cafes, which is fun both when it’s warm in the day and when it’s bustling and cooler at night. I discovered that espresso with some sugar is rather tasty. It is more substantial than café au lait, and tastes like weak Ethiopian coffee, and warms you up nicely on the cool patio. Casablanca is like the British pub culture only with coffee. It is more stylish and less rowdy.

I’m glad to be leaving Casa: the lure of pastries and ice cream is too great. I hope to spend more time touring in Fes and Marrakesh. It is tough to stay healthy when you’re in a consumption town. The good thing about Casablanca was getting great, cheap, fresh-pressed fruit juices. There is cheaper eating and living than in Dakar, and is overall a lovely city.

More thoughts on the movie: the feeling is evoked somewhat by the combination of the architecture (worn down though it is now) and palm trees, which hint to the world that the movie took place in. You can tell that Casa used to look like 1940s Hollywood, although that world doesn’t really exist here anymore. However, you can picture in your mind when the buildings were new, and the existence of expats and sailors, and the European influence of café culture, 1940s fashion walking around amidst old cars.

It’s interesting to note that French colonialism here and in Dakar left so much more behind than the Brits did in Gambia (who really left nothing). I wonder what somebody new to Africa would think of Casablanca (or Dakar, for that matter). The Gambia prepared me for Dakar. And after Gambia and Dakar, there wasn’t much to it for me. It was like stepping into Europe.

Pictures from Dakar

2007-01-10T03:29:00.000-08:00

A view of Dakar from a downtown hotel's rooftop pool

A street on Goree Island

Downtown Dakar

A view from the east coast of the peninsula (Corniche Est), looking back towards the downtown

Part II: Dakar, Senegal

2007-01-09T02:57:00.000-08:00

Note: Uploading images doesn't seem to be working for me, so I'll add pictures when I am able.

December 19, 2006

I woke up this morning at 4:45am and left the house, draped in my small backpack and even smaller sling-pack, at 6am to take a taxi to the Banjul harbour. At 7am, the ferry arrived to take us from Banjul to Barra. I stood on the main floor of the ferry beside a family sitting next to a car. Getting to Barra, the craziness of the taxi garage, the bus to Dakar appeared to be absent, so I haggled a spot in one of the several cars heading to the border, bouncing crazily over a dirt road for half an hour. Security was lax at the border: my passport was stamped by an official eating his lunch as I walked across the border. I then took a taxi to another garage a few kilometers away where, amidst the bedlam of cars and food vendors, I arranged a spot in a 7-seat Peugot 504 car (basically a station wagon with two bucket seat in front, and two three-seater benches in the back) to make the trek to Dakar. The first thing I noticed about Senegal was that the roads were more paved, and the beggars were more numerous and more aggressive. I sat jammed by the window of the back seat, as if in a 3-seat row of an airplane. The drive was a bit like going from Saskatchewan to Alberta: not too different, but the feeling of greater wealth. The drive was also like traveling through the Alberta prairies, but with more deciduous trees. We drove through several towns that were like going through Serrekunda. The trip was calm if a bit cramped and I enjoyed the scenery outside the window, although it was a bit tiring to keep making frequent stops.

We finally hit the outskirts of Dakar at around 4pm, some 6 hours later. It felt like the Gambian markets multiplied by a 1000, with a freeway moving through the middle of the bustle.

Dropped off at the garage, I arranged a taxi to take me to my hotel in the downtown core. Upon arriving at the hotel, I was rather apprehensive of my surroundings but, after an hour of sitting in my room, I forced myself to go for a walk through the neighbourhood, and am glad I did. I relaxed at Le Viking and tried the Senegalese “Flag” beer. The place was a nice British/Irish-type pub. I had shawarmas at Ali Baba’s, which was a Lebanese fast-food restaurant. The city centre of Dakar was very dynamic: I saw buses again, and more people wearing suits. A bit like Vancouver. It certainly had an African feel but with a big city vibe. It was nice, but I figured one might as well stick with western cities. Driving into Dakar, I felt a familiarity with the big city energy, but was also apprehensive about the busyness. When I got to the hotel, it felt like being dropped off in an alley in the midst of urban decay. I had heard horror stories about the city, and was particularly wary of the uncertainty of the main Avenue Pompidou just a block down from my hotel.

December 20, 2006

Spent the day seeing much of the city’s downtown. I went to the IFAN museum, which has particularly nice masks and sculptures, but not much explanation of anything. I walked along the area south of Avenue Pompidou, from the Museum to the Presidential Palace and up to Place Independence: very nice, European, shaded, interesting architecture. The French colonial influence was everywhere and, wide-eyed, I over-indulged somewhat in pastries and ice cream from various nice bakeries. My breakfast and lunch were spent sitting on small wooden benches next to Senegalese eating street vendor sandwiches, made of bread, some sort of meat, an onion sauce and butter: cheap, greasy and tasty. I saw a panoramic view of the city from the rooftop pool of the Independence Hotel, and was amazed at how far reaching the city was. I made two attempts to find the Grande Mosque and in the process walked through the north part of town, the market, the Medina. It was all crazy busy, very commercial, very hectic, very crowded.

Supper took me to Chez Loutcha, which looked like a hole-in-the-wall from the outside, but was great value and had a café feel. I had a giant dinner of calamari at this Cape Verde specialty restaurant. While being ignored by waitstaff for a long time, I ended up chatting with an American girl named Maria who was just beginning a 3-month trip through West Africa. Afterwards, I went for a beer at the bar at the Hotel Ganale, which was nice, flashy and cozy. Walking through downtown Dakar after dark felt largely uncomfortable: the streets were poorly lit, most stores were closed, and homeless people were everywhere.

I very much enjoyed the south part of Dakar: it was busy, cosmopolitan, rich, with an African flavour, but I find what that I like most are the things that are western and European. There is a different mentality among the African people and workers here than in the Gambia: they are more advanced, more modern, self-assured, sensible and competent. They seem little different from western folk, which isn’t the case in the Gambia.

December 21, 2006

Today was my trip to Goree Island. On the ferry ride over, I met an older, well-travelled American woman who had worked her way down from Morocco by land and was heading for Mali the following day. She didn’t like Dakar, feeling it to just be a city. While this is true, in getting away from the Gambia, that is exactly what I wanted and needed on this trip.

I was one of many tourists on the chaloupe. Goree was wonderful, a quiet, peaceful getaway from the craziness of Dakar. It was filled with European-style houses with window shutters that opened up over quiet cobblestone and dusty lanes. It was very much leftover from colonial influence: French or Portuguese, I’m not sure. It would be a wonderful place to rent a room for a few weeks if one wanted to do some writing.

Goree being a former slave island, I visited the Maison des Esclaves, including the Door of No Return, which opens up over black rocks on the edge of the water. It was crazy to see the cramped cells underneath on the main floor and the pretty colonial architecture where the Europeans lived just above on the second floor. I went up to the castle, which was little more than a nice view across the ocean to Dakar in the distance. I saw the police station, the oldest building in Goree, as well as the lovely Eglise St. Charles, which very much had an outdoorsy, warm climate, colonial church feel. The old town of the island, however, was very much a typical, run down African neighbourhood.

Not feeling well in the afternoon, stomach is killing me. Perhaps I have malaria. I slept and watched CNN and movies on my hotel television.

Dinner was at my hotel restaurant, the Farid, a very nice and classy Lebanese restaurant with fun music, but expensive. I had Fatayer fromage, and something called “Fatte Ijrain Fatte Pieds de Mouton” of “pieds de mouton, lait caille, pignons de pin sautés, pois chiches, pain libanais grille”, with Lebanese bread and Lebanese chocolate ice cream for dessert (which was good, but oddly sticky). Very good meal, but still feeling ill, so smaller appetite than I otherwise would have had.

There are very good restaurants in Dakar, but a bit pricey for my budget (yet still somewhat cheaper by Canadian standards). I think I will save up during the day, and splurge on suppers.

December 22, 2006

Dakar is on a south-facing peninsula. I walked the perimeter of the peninsula today along the Route de la Corniche Est, down to the Palais de Justice and Cap Manuel at the tip, then back up the Route de la Corniche Ouest, missed wherever the Village Artisinal was supposed to be and ended up walking all the way up to the University (where I checked my email from a cheap internet café and found out that my sister is engaged), then wound my way back as best I could through Fann Hock, Guele Tapee, the Medina and to the Plateau. In the Corniches and the Peninsula, because there were so many government, embassy and military buildings, there was lots of security everywhere.

Corniche Est: like Saskatchewan Drive overlooking the ocean. A quiet path along the various ambassador residences and the Presidential palace. It had great views and was very serene, but I had to be careful as apparently it’s not a place to come after dark, attacks occasionally happen, and it’s better not to go alone.

Palais de Justice: abandoned and hideous concrete slab of a building.

Cap Manuel: very quiet, I was completely alone, and spent some time simply overlooking the ocean.

Corniche Ouest: busy with traffic and construction.

The walk back through the city: very hectic, typical African neighbourhoods, lots of people and livestock, and I saw a dead rat. The smell of the city really bothered me. However, I was hassled much less than on the Avenue Pompidou. I also didn’t really care for the open markets. Walking through the Marche Sandaga at one end of Avenue Pompidou, crazy doesn’t begin to describe the experience of blocks and blocks of vendors and stalls, thousands of people acting like they’re on the floor of a stock exchange, teeming stalls, with buses and motorcycles trying to make their way through the throngs.

Dinner was at a French restaurant called La Dagorne by the market at the other end of Avenue Pompidou, the Marche Kermel. Although not too far from my hotel, walking there was probably a mistake: the streets were dark, secluded, unlit, with deserted alleys. Unfortunately, restaurants open rather late here. With nice places to go to, it’s unfortunate that the streets as a whole aren’t more engaging in the evenings. The restaurant had a nice bistro feel, with vines and a nice atmosphere. I had rabbit with mushroom sauce, vegetables, bread and peanuts and vanilla ice cream. It was also expensive, but probably much cheaper for such a meal than back home.

December 23, 2006

I went to Le Salon de The de la Galette, where I had a panini for lunch. It was a takeout bakery with tasty looking sandwiches and sumptuously enticing desserts.

I did absolutely nothing during the day but stayed in my hotel room away from the hectic world outside, slept in, took another long, hot bath, and watched movies/CNN/soccer all day. I also started reading “A Christmas Carol”. It was a great, relaxing, rejuvenating day, a welcome part of my vacation.

For supper, I went back to Chez Loutcha, liking their great-value meals. I had cous-cous with fruits de mer, which had a decent variety of shellfish, with lots of prawns and calamari, something I didn’t recognize, and half a crab, which I unfortunately couldn’t figure out how to eat.

One of the main things I wanted to do in Dakar was hear high quality, live Senegalese music. It being Saturday night, I took a taxi to the Village Artisinal on the west coast and was dropped off at a dead end fence with no bar visible. I followed on good faith somebody who said he’d show me the way. It was just a short way in amongst the dark paths of the closed shops and stalls. Nothing was going on at my destination of Le Kily, so I went to Le Soumbe next door. This was a large, open-air bar, like a beer gardens in a covered enclosure next to the Bay. They played a mix of western and African music, but the place had an overwhelming smell of fish, so I didn’t stay long. It did seem to ramp up a bit at midnight when I headed back to Le Kily.

I was told by several people back in Gambia that Dakar has a great nightlife, but being on my own I didn’t really care about it beyond wanting to hear some high quality live music. Le Kily: it was strange to have a large, live music venue hidden in the middle of a dark, deserted craft market by the ocean. I sat at a booth and listened to reggae, waiting for the show to start. It was dark and nothing really got going until probably 2am. The show was wonderful: Thione Seck and le Raam Daan. The band had about 10 players, and I finally had some actual, live, west African (Senegalese) music rather than the touristy “island” fare you get in Gambia. I danced, and although the style of singing takes some getting used to, I loved the frenetic drumming.

It was a nice change from the Gambia. This was all locals simply enjoying their night out. I was left alone. The bar and music were not catered for tourists, which I enjoyed. The Senegalese at the club were also largely wearing stylish clothing, demonstrating the wealth disparity between the two countries, where in the Gambia you largely see what looks to be mismatched second hand western clothing. Being in Dakar, I was able to enjoy actual musicians who run clubs here. It’s a bit like going to Dublin and going to a Bono-owned club where U2 plays on weekends. I finally got to bed at 5am. I can’t get used to the late night starts of the nightlife here.

December 24, 2006

As expected when I decided to leave Gambia on the 19th rather than the 20th, this ended up being a wrap-up day. I did some laundry, shaved, and walked around the areas of downtown and down on the peninsula and coast that I have enjoyed in order to see them again, get some fresh air and exercise. The Corniches once again felt a bit like being in Vancouver.

It was very quiet today, either because it’s Sunday or because it’s Christmas Eve, but most places were closed and there was little foot or auto traffic, which left largely the dozens and dozens of homeless people, invalids, lepers, beggars, and disfigured people who reside on the streets.

Dinner was at La Palmeraie: delicious hot chocolate, a wonderful crepe pizza and a Grand Marnier flambee dessert crepe. The restaurant had a wonderful atmosphere: wooden chairs and tables, a few checkers boards, a wooden bar-like service area, stained glass decorations. It was a mix between a turn of the century French café and a coffee shop. The Christmas decorations and the easy listening instrumental versions of pop songs that sounded oddly like Christmas carols gave it a lovely, cozy, snowed-in Christmas Eve feel which I both loved and which caused some pangs of longing. I now look ahead to Morocco: uprooting yet again and venturing once more into unknown territory.

Reflections on Dakar: on the whole, it was a very positive and satisfying experience. I did all I wanted to do and saw all I wanted to see. I could have done with one less day but this allowed me time to relax and enjoy doing nothing either in the city or in my hotel, which was a wonderful and needed part of my vacation. Everything worked out exactly as I had hoped and planned.

Pros on Dakar: nice big city amenities: wonderful restaurants (especially the Lebanese and French influence, mixed with West Africanism), a good music scene, the wonderfully enticing ice cream shops and bakeries. The city had a bigger and more diverse population, which allowed me to better blend in and keep to myself. Everything seemed richer and more modern, and people seemed to have more to do and their own lives to focus on. Generally, the lives of locals didn’t revolve around harassing tourists so, although the street merchants were more aggressive than in the Gambia, I was largely left alone for my time here. The city had nice, European-inspired architecture. There were good coastal views and walking paths. Goree Island was marvelously quaint. From a personal perspective, the time here allowed me to reacclimatize somewhat before returning to Edmonton. There was electricity, nicer cars, internet access, water, a more cosmopolitan and accomplished feel, like the New York of West Africa. Outside of Avenue Pompidou, I was hassled very little and felt pretty safe. The Hotel Farid was great: quiet, clean, reasonably priced, centrally located in the downtown core to be convenient, had a bathtub, air conditioning and a television.

Cons on Dakar: most of what I liked was what made it more western and less African: the European-style restaurants and residential neighbourhoods. The open markets were not my thing: they were immensely hectic. After all the warnings I had heard and read about, I also never felt completely comfortable and safe in Dakar, always being a bit wary, always looking over my shoulder a bit, and I could never afford to truly slow down, relax, and be lost in my own thoughts in public. This was more than in a western big city, where you take reasonable steps against random violence rather than always wondering about targeted crime. As a result, I never really felt comfortable talking to people and really trusted nobody. For me, the best was what Dakar offered rather than Dakar itself: the nice architecture is deteriorating, the city is filled with urban decay, there are scores of homeless, sick and disfigured people. Realistically, most people would have looked at my hotel neighbourhood in the downtown as being a slum. I’ve just gotten used to it. The city was largely dirty and hectic, like Serrekundha but multiplied by 1000 and placed in an urban setting, especially around the markets and in the traditional Medina neighbourhood. Dakar was also rather expensive. The air of animals, cars and garbage made me feel ill during the trip. The culture of littering was strange to me. I also missed having a place to go running.

As Christmas Eve is celebrated with random fireworks going off from random downtown streets and balconies, making my hotel sound like it’s being bombed, and a group of small children watches in pleasure from the street below my balcony amidst the roar of motorcycle engines, I’m ready to move on from Dakar. I think once back in Gambia I will try to enjoy the peaceful, low key beach lifestyle when I come back.

Dakar was a great time away of rejuvenation and invigoration. It gave me a much-needed dose of western living and a bit of (over) indulgence as the first few days were like being let out of prison into the sunlight. I managed to get by with my French, although my vocabulary is limited and I have forgotten a few grammatical rules and conjugations. It was pretty good, though, for being 12 years out of practice. On to Morocco.

Part I: Pre-Trip

2007-01-08T02:31:00.000-08:00

December 15, 2006

Finished “Living History”. Not as in depth as Bill’s book, but a better story structure and flow. There was also a better variety on the issues covered: first lady issues, family issues in particular. Where there was overlap I preferred Bill’s book as it was more engrossing, but I enjoyed Hillary’s independent stories, both when she was young and as First Lady.

I’m thinking ahead to the trip, but spending more time hoping that logistics (especially money) works out than really getting excited about what I’m going to see.

December 16, 2006

Went to Timbooktoo. Offloaded Hillary’s book, the West Africa tour book, Dubliners, Pride and Prejudice and The Blind Assassin for “History of Economics”, Oliver Twist, Journey to the Centre of the Earth, and The Importance of Being Earnest.

Had lunch at a co-worker's. We had palasas, made of bissap leaves, ground peanuts, catfish, beef, palm oil and peppers sauce over rice. We ate traditionally: on the floor out of a communal bowl. I used a spoon, she used her hands.

Too full to go to my planned birthday dinner of all-you-can-eat Mongolian grill at the Green Mamba, so I celebrated my birthday at home with something of a depressed mini-binge involving a can of Fanta, an ice cream sandwich, a bottle of malbec and a bottle of baobab juice from GamJuice (which was too sweet) and watched movies. I very much felt lonely and isolated, more than I’ve felt in a long while. There was nobody to celebrate with, nowhere to go that I would enjoy, and nothing really to do. I’m quite glad to be going away, because being here for the two weeks over Christmas holidays would be intolerable.

December 17, 2006

Spent the day getting things ready for my trip. Right now, I’m still preoccupied with logistics. Once I’m out the door on Tuesday, I’ll get excited.

Did my last jog of 2006.

Hit the wine again and felt very much alone. This weekend more than any has been exceedingly lonely: the office is closed, the lure of indulgence is strong, and there is nothing to do. Amidst the wine and watching movies I’ve watched dozens of times, I felt trapped.

December 18, 2006

Finished getting ready to leave tomorrow.

Binged a bit too much on food and drink the last couple of days, but such is life. Back to normal now.

Went to my second-last Hash at Bamboo Gardens Chinese restaurant. Very tasty sweet and sour pork.

Returned home and nothing is left to be done before I leave. Everything is set. Now I’m getting excited. I paused for a few minutes outside because the stars were amazing, so numerous and bright tonight. Our world is so small in comparison.

There and back again

2007-01-05T02:55:00.000-08:00

After 16 days of living out of a small backpack through two plane rides, two ferries, 5 train rides, 13 bush taxis, and a bus, I returned late Wednesday night from a wonderful jaunt through Senegal and Morocco. Stories to come when I write them up.

December 15

2006-12-15T05:15:00.000-08:00

Today is a public holiday for the President’s Inauguration. The army is out and about everywhere monitoring the streets. Sirens go every now and then as convoys bring in various dignitaries from the airport. An army guy in fatigues and carrying a large gun reprimanded me yesterday for apparently having my hand in my pocket as I watched a stream of cars go by. I’m spending the day indoors.

I’m celebrating my birthday tomorrow by going for a Gambian lunch to the house of one of my coworkers. I might go out for supper as well. Beyond that, I’m just getting ready to leave on Tuesday. As it was with coming to Africa, there is a mixture of nerves and excitement as I leave a zone of comfort and familiarity to explore something new. But I’m looking forward to it.

Back in January. Merry Christmas to you all.

December 14

2006-12-15T04:44:00.000-08:00

Went over to a small gathering last night hosted by a couple from the Hash. We, along with a few others, sat under a tent in their apartment complex courtyard by the pool and enjoyed wine, amaretto, and a nice dinner of rice, lamb, coleslaw, Christmas pudding (complete with brandy) and ice cream. Good food, good drink, good company. Wine is usually not ideal in this country as the selection is poor and the climate too hot. However, at my corner store, amidst bottles of cheap local liquor and groceries, I found a bottle of my favourite grape (Malbec) for under $10. It was a Cisca Mendoza 2003 from Argentina. Probably not the greatest wine in the world, but I rather enjoyed it. We then proceeded to Churchill’s, right next door, for karaoke. A fun evening all around, and I’m a little the worse for wear this morning.

December 13

2006-12-15T04:36:00.000-08:00

It rained briefly this morning. The mornings and evenings have gotten rather cold, like late autumn nights in Edmonton. Thankfully my electricity is back, so I once again have hot water. I wonder what it’s going to be like coming back in January. A ballpark guess is that it will suck.

It’s odd what you get accustomed to over time. I have both enjoyed and lamented the quiet and uneventful pace of life here and have looked forward to returning to a more vibrant country. A few days ago, however, I went down to Kairaba Avenue for some banking, really the hub of modern commerce and activity in this neck of the woods. The heavy traffic, noise, and busy shops made me appreciate getting back to my quiet little suburb of Brusubi, which I wouldn’t have expected. Going to Dakar next week, an urban African centre of 2 million people, will be interesting. For that matter, so will spending two weeks traveling in French-speaking countries.

I’ve started to give thought to packing for my trip home. The small museum of collectibles that I’ve amassed should counter what I’m leaving behind. Doing laundry by hand does not serve clothing well (at least the way I do it, which is poorly). At least half of my shirts will be thrown out. My exercise clothes and towel will be burned. My sandals are hanging on by a thread. And the backs of my running shoes wore out a while ago, so I have had to pad my right heel with toilet paper when jogging for about two months.

December 12

2006-12-14T06:21:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago at Hash dinner, one of our members decided to count how many originating countries were represented in the evening’s group. It was eighteen. Quite remarkable.

December 11

2006-12-12T04:52:00.000-08:00

I leave the house in the early morning, squinting at the African sun holding court over a pristine blue sky. A cold wind sweeps through my yard. Smiling at the lethargic guard dozing on a thin blanket covering the ground, I quietly close the metal gate behind me. Only a few years ago these houses did not exist, and this road was not paved. As I walk, a small boy riding on a rickety metal cart pulled by an obedient donkey passes on my left. To my right, a stray dog trots past a pair of goats and a nearby chicken. Up ahead, Gambians are preparing for the day. A tall, elderly man in a bright boubou slowly pedals his way on the shoulder of the highway. A group of young men yell and try valiantly to chase down a pickup truck already taking a sizeable crowd to parts unknown. A white van, filled to the rafters with humanity, motors down the road as an unseen voice shouts the destination through an obscured window. Local taxis, with their eclectic mix of beat up seats, missing handles, eroded side panels, and doors that open with a rope, depart from a dusty patch serving as a garage. Behind makeshift wooden tables, various ladies sit behind their wares of the day: fresh bananas, little bags of local peanuts, and mountains of luscious watermelons. A nearby shop that rents outdates videos, sells canned goods, liquor and building appliances, opens its doors. West African and reggae music emanate from a taxi parked nearby. A group of school children say hello as I walk by. Other Gambians standing by the side of the road, or sitting aimlessly outside of shops, merely stare at me. I stop at the junction and take in the same scene that has greeted me every morning for the past four months. Four months since a delayed flight whisked my reluctant body and mind away from vibrant European living. Four months since I disembarked under a watchful moon and was greeted by a muggy wall of hot, sticky air, a giant runway surrounded by empty fields, and the watchful eyes of the military. This is The Gambia.

***

A few weeks ago, I stopped by Churchill’s in Palma Rima to find out where that Monday’s Hash run was being held. Churchill’s is a fitting place for this information to be posted, what with the Hash being run a group of old, laid back, beer and coast-loving British expats, and the pub being a popular hangout for those same folk. As I perused the notice board, I noticed an advertisement for a place called the King Kombo distillery. Apparently this place makes liquers of local fruits, is close to my house, and provides tours and samples. Excited by the idea of finding something like a baobab liquer, I headed down there on Friday. After walking down the highway in the direction of the airport, a sign took me down a dirt road into the fields, and finally toward a forested area. Arriving at my destination, I made my way into the distillery. It was a lot like the Green Mamba bar: a bar set outdoors amidst the shade of an expanse of trees. In the last few days, I had seen a fair number of beat up and dirty cars driving around the Gambia advertising the Amsterdam-Dakar Challenge. A fair number of these Dutch folk were at the distillery when I arrived, and I joined them for the tour. The distillery itself is small, about 9 years old, and family-owned. They sell at the location and do promotions at the hotels of whatever liquor happens to be in season. Sadly, my dreams of exotic liquers were dashed as they didn’t have what I hoped for, and I missed out on the mango and cashew liquers that had come and gone several months previously. Nevertheless, they had three for sampling and selling. The first was a sweet banana, lime and coconut. The second was more sour and had more heat, being a combination of orange, grapefruit and lime. The last was banana, coffee and imported Belgian chocolate. Having traveled long distances (about 15 minutes of walking) to see the distillery, hopeful to bring something back home with me, and feeling generous after the two rounds of free samples, I ended up awkwardly carrying several bottles back down the highway. I’m not sure if the flavours are the most novel or exotic in the world. But I decided that I could enjoy them back in Canada even if they weren’t groundbreaking. They were certainly tasty, not too expensive, and made of fresh ingredients here in the Gambia, which I appreciated.

Saturday was another Cleaning Day. The streets were quiet, and more plumes of smoke were evident than usual from people burning garbage. Later that evening, as I headed to Francisco’s for our Hash Christmas party, I saw a few hundred army members on the side of the highway, clear-cutting the growth with machetes and scorching the remains. There was also a big traffic jam as apparently the President was in the area. This was being done to make things pretty for Friday’s inauguration. The Christmas party was a lot of fun. Christmas carols played, I drank gin and tonics (the drink that built the Empire) with some Brits, wine was had, I had something called a tiamaria, and dancing ensued. One of the shops along Kairaba Avenue that I popped into on my way to the restaurant was also decorated with Christmas ornaments. There is some Christmas spirit here, and I’m told that December 25th itself is a good party. They don’t spend months building up to it. But it doesn’t feel the same given the climate.

I’ve had the opportunity to try a variety of local foods from here in the Gambia. On Sunday, I went to Senegambia to have “domoda”, which is a sauce made of peanuts and vegetables, served over beef, that was delicious. At the workshop last week, I had “palazas”, something also sold by ladies sitting roadside. Served over rice, it is a sauce made of palm oil, meat, fish, vegetables, and whatever else they decide to throw in. Also at the workshop, I had “foufou”, which is basically like eating a ball of raw dough made of cassava flour. It is served with a sauce made of okra, palm oil, etc. I’ve previously had “yassa”, which is a lemon-onion-mustard sauce, and “afra”, which seems very similar. The one thing I haven’t had a chance to try is palm wine. I went down to the beach again on Saturday to see if the nearest beach bar had any. Once again getting lost, I ended up further down the beach than I wanted to be, and made my way back. Somehow I ended up walking for an hour and a half until I reached Senegambia. Either I missed the bar, somehow, or it has been razed in the last two weeks. Weird. In any case, West African food has certain perks. The common elements seem to be sauces made of all sorts of meats and fish and vegetables. The biggest downside is how very greasy it all ends up being.

On an unrelated note, I’ve been hearing a lot of Celine Dion playing recently, both in taxis and in the restaurant I went to on Sunday. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

December 7

2006-12-11T02:13:00.000-08:00

Today is day two of our Workshop on Child Protection, which was organized for a children's rights NGO. This is the fourth time on this trip that I am acting as a scribe for a workshop. It’s nice to get out of the office occasionally, and you learn things from these sorts of workshops. However, they tend to be tiring, and I look forward to the day when I can be a worker and participant in whatever I happen to be doing on my own status, rather than merely being an intern or a summer student or something of the like. That said, I was able to give a presentation on the international human rights framework. It was fulfilling to be able to constructively participate and impart knowledge as part of the workshop.

International law serves an important role of setting out a broad moral framework to which nations pledge themselves to strive. While these documents are legal instruments in and of themselves, they are also very much a launching pad to a long, slow and complicated process of social change. Like with all elements of the law, the study and the practice can be very different things. International law is interesting in and of itself in its legal element. But so much depends on the challenges of implementation. And, at that level, so much depends on the work being done on the ground by civil society working hard to push governments and educate and sensitize citizens at the grassroots. This is why it is important for groups like ours to do training on underlying legal frameworks for those going out and doing this work. You hear about dialogue and education over and over. You hear about the challenge of cultural change. So much is done, and so much depends, on all those people working hard to move rights from the realm of mere idea and principle to tangible reality.

December 5

2006-12-10T05:50:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday our office was invited for supper at the home of a prominent Gambia lawyer, who is also the chair of the Board of the Institute. A wonderfully large spread in an equally wonderful, large and elaborately African-decorated house. This demonstrated once again that it’s not always easy to tell what lurks beyond the sandy roadways and beat-up concrete fences. There were lasagnas, meatballs, salads (which is appreciated, as vegetables are apparently surprisingly difficult to grow in this country), chicken, cashews from Guineau-Bissau, and a traditional dish of cous with a baobab-peanut sauce. I ate too much and am happy to have done so.

Last night I attended my first Hash run in four weeks. Three weeks ago, I only managed to make it in time late for the dinner, walking blindly in the dark down a sandy path in Brufut to the Blue Bar, a hotel/restaurant complex inexplicably located in the middle of an old, established residential village far from the beach, the tourist area, and any main road. I figure it must be hoping for a growth in clientele with the expanding housing developments in my area. Last week, I was late again coming from the Session but made it for supper at a nice new outdoor restaurant in the upscale and shady neighbourhood of Fajara. Last night we walked through the area of Bakau New Town north of the traffic light, seeing everything in the residential area from undeveloped fields, the bustle of shops along Garba Jahumpa Road, wandering live-stock, run-down housing, a church constructed in a small concrete building with a corrugated metal roof, and the enormous and modern Independence Stadium right in the middle of it all (where the inauguration is being held next Friday, another public holiday). Not a picturesque stroll, but a nice mixture of residential and commercial areas that I have both seen and not seen before. We ate great rice and non-descript barracuda at a restaurant that appeared to be a part of a company that produces Gambian movies. I’m not certain how it all works.

December 4

2006-12-04T06:43:00.000-08:00

Having been in Gambia for almost four months, my life has largely settled into the routine of daily living. With the exception of a few small things I’d still like to do or try, and a two-day trip to eastern Gambia that’s been up in the air since September, there’s nothing significant to catch my attention. This is neither unexpected, nor necessarily problematic, since it’s nice to not be rushing around trying to see everything. Unfortunately, there are really only three things to do here as part of “daily living”: drinking beer with the tourists, eating greasy food with the tourists, and walking by the ocean. These are great for a short vacation, but lose their luster after a while. My life has thus been a quiet mixture of reading, running, and enjoying the increasingly-mild December weather. With only about three weeks left to spend in this country, and the prospect of backpacking in two weeks time, my mind has started to turn elsewhere.

I finished Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice” on Friday night. I wanted to read it because it is a fairly notable novel, and also because I have two English major friends who have polar opposite opinions on the latest film version. So I wanted to decide for myself. The book was enjoyable with some wonderful wit and dialogue. The writing style, however, gets some getting used to. Like the characters themselves, it is more reserved and expository than descriptive and engaging, which places the reader at something of a distance from the characters and events. But, it quickly grew on me and I enjoyed the read. One thing I wonder about is what is intended as satire or critical commentary and what is merely a neutral reflection of the times. Clearly some characters and situations are put forward as being silly or foolish or pretentious or what have you. But, on other issues, like land ownership, necessity of marriage, uneventful lifestyles, I’m not sure if Austen intends to be critical of the underlying norms and realities or merely to critique certain behaviour within that framework. As for the movie, I don’t remember it well enough to comment on how it compares with the book. I remember leaving the theatre deeming the father to be the only redeeming character and commenting that, while a work of Shakespeare might stand the test of time for speaking to true human nature, a work that merely mocks social norms is less interesting and doesn’t age as well. But I’d like to watch it again, having gained a different perspective from the book. And seeing Keira Knightley again doesn’t require much prodding.

I exchanged my Gambia tour book (which I have no use for anymore) and picked up two books that should last me the rest of the trip. The first, to try to get into the spirit of the non-existent holidays, is a book containing Charles Dickens’ three Christmas stories. The second, to take a break from fiction and get a glimpse into the mind of someone who might be president, is “Living History”, the autobiography of Hillary Rodham Clinton. I’ve started reading the latter. Thus far, it is a fairly quick read as there is a lot of overlap with what Bill wrote. After reading his, shall we say, extensive account, however, Hillary’s seems a little less in-depth and not as personal. What is interesting, however, is the work that she did in her youth and before becoming first lady. I find these political stories to be inspirational. At the same time, it’s hard to put out of my mind how much more accomplished some people have been, or are, by my age than I am. I’ve had some success, but I’m sure I could have achieved even more if I had chosen some things differently in the past, or had a better idea of what I wanted to do earlier.

I’m giving a lecture on the international human rights framework on Wednesday. Should be fun.

November 30

2006-11-30T05:57:00.000-08:00

I have never been much a fan of event planning. In that vein, planning the logistics of a trip from a country with poor internet, phone and fax services, during high Christmas and New Years seasons, becomes very time-consuming and frustrating. Nevertheless, the ability to do some traveling is not something to complain about, and I’m pleased that things seem to be finalized. Knocking on wood against unexpected complications and delays, I will be in and around Dakar, Senegal for a week before heading to Morocco for a whirlwind railway jaunt through Casablanca, Fez and Marrakech. I’m very much looking forward to it. Next time, though, I’ll just find an acceptable tour and let somebody else worry about the details.

November 22

2006-11-23T08:35:00.001-08:00

The weather has become very pleasant in this country. It’s still hot during the day but not oppressively so, the humidity seems to have disappeared and the winds have died down. The evenings are very pleasant, and I can’t sleep with my window open anymore because it gets too cold in the early mornings. This will hardly bring sympathy from those in the Canadian tundra, but there it is.

It came to mind that it’s nearing the end of November, which back home would mean that the Christmas season would be out in full force. Nothing of the sort here. The seasons merely fluctuate in degrees of wetness and little seems to change from one day to the next. The only defining public events here have been the election, which brought some brief excitement, and Ramadan which, from a public perspective at least, was defined more by an absence of activity than anything else. Do I miss the crass commercialization of the holiday season? No. But I miss having the celebratory buzz in the air.

November 22

2006-11-23T08:35:00.000-08:00

November 21

2006-11-21T08:55:00.000-08:00

There is an old maxim that says one should not grocery shop on an empty stomach. A corollary to this must be that one should not browse for hotels in Dakar after living without power for two-and-a-half weeks, eating unrefrigerated fruits and fish, watching a frog bound along the kitchen floor. The power pole was finally fixed today, and I hope that the return of electricity will coincide with a return of sanity.

I am thrilled to be back in the office today with the conclusion of the public portion of the Commission Session. The last 6 days at the Kairaba (and preceding 3 of the NGO forum at Paradise Suites) were long, tiring, highly informative, at times interesting, at times tedious and repetitive. Being in the tourist zoo of Senegambia didn’t help matters. The Session was largely a broad dialogue, with almost each agenda item involving various statements, questions and responses from any interested party: Commissioners, states, NGOs, and national human rights commissions, something that becomes a consuming process. Items discussed included the human rights situation in Africa, the relationship between the Commission and civil society groups, consideration of state reports, and the activity reports of the Commissioners and various working groups. Notable speakers included the UN Special Rapporteur on Torture, and the representative for the AU mission to Sudan. I met some interesting people, got a crash course on the political climate of the African continent and the functioning of the Commission, and gained some insight into the various work done in this area and those who are doing it. There was also a large display set up outside of the hall concerning the Darfur crisis. It was funny to see shirtless, sandal-wearing hotel patrons sipping on a cocktail and reading about a humanitarian crisis. In any case, I’m glad for a break, but am also glad to have observed the work done.

Currently reading Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”.

November 9

2006-11-10T04:00:00.000-08:00

Starting on Sunday, I will be busy with the 40th Ordinary Session of the African Commission on Human and People’s Rights, as well as the associated NGO forum, and spending much of the rest of the month observing and taking part at the fabulous Kairaba Hotel. Representatives of African governments, IGOs and NGOs from around the world will be making their way to the Gambia. Limited blogging for the next little while, I suspect.

Finished “Dubliners” this evening. A very enjoyable collection of character studies. Joyce did a really good job of painting brief pictures of these working-class individuals. Through them, one gets a sense of life in Dublin at the turn of the century for a segment of the population, and the commonalities of bleakness, religious piety, social interaction, resignation, desire for upward mobility, and loneliness. Wonderful book.

November 8

2006-11-10T03:44:00.000-08:00

Three months ago today, I waited for eight hours at the Frankfurt airport for my flight to Banjul. I wondered if anyone would be picking me up when I landed, given the three hour delay. I envied the carefree tourists on the same plane as I thought of what my house might look like. These are small anniversaries, to be certain, but appropriate for the length of the trip.

At the Hash on Monday, I chatted with an Irishman who has worked here for a few years. He was soon to be on his way to one of the Scandinavian countries to meet up with his expecting wife, and to enjoy a vacation. I commented that it’s very hard to explain to people back home why anyone would want to leave a tropical country by the ocean to vacation in a cold country in November. He replied, “They’ve never lived here.”. Quite true. This country wears you down.

November 7

2006-11-10T03:34:00.000-08:00

Hash last night worked its way through the Fajara neighbourhood. Quiet, tree-lined, lots of impressive compounds housing government members and foreign diplomats. We walked through the Fajara Golf Course which was scenic, and retained a roughness and landscape that preserved the African feel. There were also people hunkered down in lean-tos among the trees, people who make their home on the course, and kids playing in a dirty stream. I chatted with the British Deputy High Commissioner about her experiences as a foreign service worker. The upside certainly seems to be the ability to spend a few years at a time living in interesting places around the world and being paid to do so. The downside appears to be that you lose some connection to your home country and, as you spend most of your time dealing with your own nationals and equivalents from other countries, you don’t really become ingrained into the country you’re in. You represent your nation, and you shouldn’t lose that. The upside holds a lot of appeal to me. On the other hand, my time here has made me realize the importance I place on being able to become part of, and contribute to, my community. Seeing different countries would be great, but would I enjoy being a visitor, an outsider, for two or three years at a time? Can I get similar experiences simply by traveling during vacations? At the same time, if I were somewhere in Europe, my thoughts might be very different. Things to consider.

Dinner was lovely at Francisco’s, one of Gambia’s oldest establishments, newly reopened and refurbished after a few years. Like the Green Mamba, it had tables and comfortable chairs set up under large huts, lots of African art, surrounded by trees and plants. It was like eating in a botanical garden, or in the U of A’s greenhouse. Rustic, African feel. The dim lighting also gave it a classy, yet outdoorsy, air. Once again, I appreciated the kinds of places one can have in a warm climate. At some point the stereo, which was playing Elton John hits, played “Can You Feel The Love Tonight”, marking the first point on this trip that I’ve heard from the Lion King soundtrack.

November 6

2006-11-09T02:18:00.000-08:00

Early on in my trip, I asked around to find out where I could hear some live, African music. I was told the African Village, which is a nice, down-to-earth hotel on Atlantic Road. Unfortunately, I had to wait a few months before tourist season started and their programming resumed. One of my co-workers, who’s friends with the Village owner, told me that a band was scheduled for Friday night, so I eagerly made the trek. Wanting to save a bit of money on a long taxi fare, I left early, took shared taxis to the traffic light, and walked the rest of the way there. A pleasant stroll, although this country gets dark quickly and is poorly lit, so most of the quiet walk along the shoulder of the road was lit only by the moon and the fleeting light of the occasional passing car. Although one has to be careful, it’s nice to be in a country where you basically feel safe wherever you go. During the walk, I was met up with by a member of the Gambian National Guard on his way back to the barracks. The GNG, along with the Army and Navy, make up Gambia’s armed forces. He told me that the National Guard is in charge of domestic security, and one signs up for either 9 years or 12 years (if I remember correctly). As with military in any country, it is challenging both physically and in the sacrifices you make with regards to family. I asked him whether he had personally been involved in anything interesting or exciting, and he replied putting down the attempted coup six months ago and jailing those involved. Fun.

I enjoyed the African Village. The band was set up by the pool and floating pool bar, with tables largely full of tourists enjoying the evening’s buffet. Great atmosphere: a clear, moonlit sky reflected in the water, palm trees, and open-air music, like a Caribbean resort. The band played a mixture of reggae, African music, and covers of popular tunes. The best description in my mind is “fun island beats”. The band wasn’t spectacular, the keyboardist was largely incompetent, but the sax player and guitarist were excellent. Because reggae is so popular in the Gambia, most of the local music is a mixture of various styles. I relaxed, enjoyed the music, danced a bit by the pool. However, generally speaking, I prefer more local, normal establishments away from the hotels and tourist bubble. Living here, I feel like a stranger when I visit the short-term, oblivious, fun-loving tourists in the pre-packaged world.

From the Village, I hopped over to Sinatra’s, where another band was starting up. I enjoyed some late-night stir-fry, but very quickly grew tired of the group, who created an atmosphere of poorly-played wedding music aboard a cheesy cruise ship. As I was about to leave, I ran into a co-worker who was starting up her evening, so I tagged along with her and her friends as we proceeded to Jazziz in Palma Rima.

As so often happens in life, the unanticipated events overshadow those that were planned. The goal for the evening was to enjoy the African Village, but Jazziz turned out to be the highlight of the night. Decoratively, it was a mixture of jazz club, coffee shop, 1970s bachelor pad, with African art and a mishmash of others things thrown into the mix. Musically, it was wonderful as the house band was solid and played a great mixture of jazz, reggae, music from Cape Verde and Senegal, and the assorted other styles that find their way into the Gambian musical landscape. Not too crowded, a nice breeze flowing through the open walls off of the patio. We finished off the night with stops in Aquarius and the Green Mamba. It’s tough to adjust to the late night starts in Gambia when you go to bed and get up early all week, but a fun night was had. Some of the clubs I’ve been to (Cotton Club, Green Mamba, Aquarius, Jazziz) I prefer to the places in Edmonton. More interesting architecture, good live music, nice variety in the music supplied by DJs, open air atmospheres, and none of the Whyte Avenue stupidity. Better than a large room playing Top 40 music.

The rest of the weekend was relaxing. Spent time by the ocean on Saturday. Celebrated three months away from home on Sunday with a nice chicken yassa lunch at Ali Baba’s in Senegambia, then went upstairs to watch Arsenal take on West Ham. I went around to the back and climbed up some beat up stairs to the roof of Ali Baba’s, where corrugated metal and cloth curtains created a make-shift soccer bar. Inside was a bar, walls were covered with flags and soccer posters, and a tropical breeze fluttered past a Union Jack as I grabbed a metal folding chair to watch the game on a large projection screen with a bunch of West Ham fans. It was more crowded and livelier than Sportsman’s, with a lot more boisterous Africans enjoying the game. The place exuded a local, tropical feel.

That evening, the Hash held a November 5th Halloween beach barbeque. I walked down to La Pirogue, a charming little hotel off the beaten track. Although I abstained from the meal, as it was a bit rich for my blood, I enjoyed the laid-back company and the DJ, and threw myself into the pool for a swim, rather appreciating being in an outdoor pool in November framed by palm trees and a sunset. After supper it got dark, and we capped off the night under a full moon with a 6-foot bonfire on the beach, complete with two Guy Fawkes effigies. It lit up the sky, the distant lights further down the coast, and the rough waves lapping away another day in west Africa.

November 3

2006-11-09T02:05:00.000-08:00

Well, my reservation was cancelled because Royal Air Maroc wouldn’t issue the ticket through the retailer. Have tried again through Expedia. Ticket seems to be confirmed this time, so hopefully that’s that.

My jog last night wound through a large herd of cattle being directed across the highway by a young boy. Although some of the beasts gazed at me, none of them decided to follow me, unlike the stray dogs in this country.

There are three worlds here in the Gambia, separate yet overlapping like a Venn diagram: locals, tourists and ex-pats. Even where ex-pats live here for a long time, the difficulties I see in integration mean that, in my mind, I continually see the groups “in relation” to one another rather than really mixing together (a compound mixture vs. a solution, if you will).

Tourists are an easy group. Like the rains, they appear mostly seasonally, scattered occasionally throughout the rest of the year. Because tourism is such a big part of Gambia’s economy, they are anticipated, and they have an impact on daily life in various parts of the country. They are here for a short time to relax and enjoy themselves, to take in the surroundings, to either enjoy the resorts or to venture out and explore. The country is a novelty to them. One sees many older white men with young Gambian girls, and older white women with young Gambian men. They enjoy their vacations, take in the sites, relax on the beach, maybe buy a shirt and some crafts, then leave.

Because befriending locals is a difficult prospect, I know only what I’ve seen. Some work in the service industry: in the hotels, in banks, in restaurants, as security guards, with tour groups. I see many labourers building houses, fixing cars, or working in the fields. I see women working in the rice fields or selling fruit and fish on the side of roads, and children carrying small loads and driving donkey-pulled carts. Then there are the bumsters, whose sole purpose in life appears to be hanging around the tourist areas and beaches trying to strike up conversations and befriend the foreigners, usually offering to take them around somewhere. Some go around peddling cheap Nigerian jewelry or CDs. They are typically in great shape and are likely among the many people who do push-ups on the beach. Most of the Africans I’ve met through work and other non-governmental groups are from other parts of the continent. Apparently there are successful professional Gambians, but they don’t show it off and culturally do not go out as much, so they’re less visible. Which is unfortunate, because I think I’ve seen much of the worst group and not enough of those more accomplished.

Then we have the ex-pats. In some ways, we are like candidates in an SU exec election: away from our normal lives for a spell, existing in a bit of a bubble, loosely united through common purpose and experience. For the most part, the ex-pats are either here teaching, volunteering with the Peace Corps, doing some type of development work, or in the hospitality industry. Nobody comes here from Europe to labour in the fields. We are different from the tourists in that we are more settled in the country, live day-to-day lives, have fun but not in the wide-eyed, escapist, short-term way tourists do. However, the ex-pat community isn’t homogeneous, either. I don’t know much about the Lebanese people here, but they appear to be well-settled and integrated into the country, doing fairly well for themselves, and are a close-knit cultural community. I also don’t know where to categorize ex-pat Africans, as I’ve met a fair number of them through my work who have come here to work from all over the continent. Although they come from different areas, they are understandably more familiar with African life and bring a wealth of backgrounds, knowledge and experiences.

My experience is largely with two ex-pat groups, the Hash and the rugby people. The Hash sees people come and go, but is largely an older group. There are career people who have been here for a few years working on development work and career people who are here for short stints for the same reason. Many of them have lived in all sorts of countries in Africa and around the world. Those in the hospitality industry seem to have been here for the longest time. The older crowd is retirees who enjoy the relaxed, quiet tropical life and who, for whatever reason, are glad to have escaped from Britain. This combination of people are experienced with being abroad, are knowledgeable about the country, and are largely well-connected to the business class here.

The rugby people are the younger crew. A few are slightly older and have been here for a bit longer, but most seem to be here for only one or two years. I’ve met one in the American Peace Corps, an American teaching here, a short-term medical resident, a few who seem to do development work, but the vast majority seem to be tied to the Medical Research Council. They enjoy doing things like playing rugby and ultimate Frisbee, and going out and getting drunk at the clubs on Kairaba Avenue on the weekends.

When one thinks of ex-pat communities, one thinks of Hemingway’s Parisian Lost Generation. Although there is a type of shared purpose to the ex-pats here, it’s more ambiguous. Most of the people are here for some aspect of development work or the hospitality industry, but those experiences are quite varied and unique. Only the MRC people seem to have that commonality. The community is defined more by a desire to come together, have fun, and create a familiar niche in a foreign country.

Although I interact with both groups, I don’t feel hugely integrated in either. I am more of a weekly visitor than part of a group of friends. This is admittedly less so with the Hash, whose members I’ve gotten to know rather well and with whom I enjoy my Monday nights. They are friendly and encourage growth in membership. Less so with the rugby. While the rugby is fun and the people are generally friendly, a lot of them know each other through their work and tend to be more clique-ish. Although I like to go out, I’m also less interested in spending my weekends getting trashed. The biggest contributing factor, though, is my work circumstance. I work for a different group, live on my own a fair bit away, have a limited budget, and don’t have a phone. It’s a bit like having friends who all live and hang out in and around Whyte Avenue, while you’re out in St. Albert.

I believe that this has ultimately been a mixed blessing. Although I find myself with times of loneliness, I am able to do what I want to do. Being on my own, and being a ways away, has both forced and allowed me to explore more broadly. I suspect if I was working with more people my age or living closer to the livelier areas, things would have been more exciting and convenient, but I would have lazily fallen into the habit of doing what everyone else was doing, would have spent more of my time in the clubs and on the beach, and not really learned to fend for myself, figured out what touring I wanted to do, experienced living in a more local African neighbourhood, and explored the roads less traveled. I’ve grown to enjoy being in a more real area, with fewer diplomatic license plates zooming around. I also would likely have read and exercised less, which I’ve ultimately been happy with. Life for me is a three-way balance between doing things for personal growth and enjoyment, doing things to experience the Gambian community, and having a sense of camaraderie and familiarity with other ex-pats. I’ve done all three. It hasn’t always been perfect, but I think I’ve done my best.

November 2

2006-11-07T02:22:00.000-08:00

Weird dreams kept waking me up last night. My semi-lucid mind kept imagining snakes in my bed.

We’re back in the habit of no electricity during the days and evenings. I hear it come back in the middle of the night as my fan restarts, it sticks around in the morning, then disappears. Bit of a tease, really. I have a small idea of what it must be like to be blind, fumbling around in the dark.

Found tickets online, but couldn’t book because I’m not resident in the US. Found a retailer that is based in Canada, and things look good. Assuming tickets are confirmed as expected by the airline, plans are now set for the Christmas holidays: I’m going to Senegal and then on to Morocco. I’m excited.

In unrelated matters, if anyone knows of someone looking for a short-term hire for February-April, let me know.

November 1

2006-11-06T06:20:00.000-08:00

Apparently, last night was Halloween. Not a hint of it here. I did, however, read on Halloween by candlelight a story set on Halloween at the turn of the century. Adding to my rustic living, I did laundry by hand by candlelight as a lone ant wandered aimlessly on the tiled bathroom floor.

Travel plans for the Christmas holidays temporarily thwarted by this country’s frustrating lack of credit card infrastructure and my limited stores of cash. Exploring alternatives online.

More pictures

2006-11-03T04:29:00.000-08:00

A stretch of the highway I walked along coming home from Tanji

More of the deserted, southern coast I walked on that long day

A shot of the fishing area in Tanji

Pictures

2006-11-03T03:59:00.000-08:00

Botanical Gardens

A stretch of the deserted, Southern Kombos beaches

A crocodile at Katchikali Crocodile Pond

Bakau Old Town

October 31

2006-11-02T07:20:00.000-08:00

I’ve spent much of today forwarding on my Journal article to all sorts of people back home. It isn’t about self-promotion (although it’s always nice to see your name in print). If it can serve to educate or enlighten people, I’m happy. It’s the same as my blog: let people in Canada share in my modest experiences. And, if the University can use it in some small way to help raise money by demonstrating what its alumni are up to, all the better.

Wonderful hash last night. It was the perfect mixture of seeing a local African community, interesting undeveloped scenery, the ocean, and a bit of a nature hike. We went through the residential area of Bijilo, on the opposite side of the highway from the monkey park and ocean. Typical neighbourhood. From there, we went through the Bijilo/Tranquil (I’m not sure) area that I got lost in on the weekend. One of the ladies told me that she remembered when no houses existed in this area just a few years ago. Even now, there are still sizeable fields, wild vegetation, and sandy dunes that make it an interesting landscape. From there, we headed back to the Senegambia area along the ocean, but followed a path further up from the water, a nice dirt path through the grass that made for a good hike. Dinner was at Baobab, an outdoor patio restaurant that looks like they have touristy music in the evenings, and where I discovered a local black currant fruit drink. At the end of the night, I got a ride home from an English bird ringer, sitting on bags of cement in the back of his open Land Rover.

I had an interesting conversation over supper concerning the development work that some of the ex-pats are doing, attempts to both develop the country and empower the Gambian people themselves. I also got some interesting perspectives on the relationship between locals and foreigners from some who have been here longer than I have. Unfortunately, many of the perceptions I’ve had in my short term don’t seem to improve in the long run. The gap remains.

October 30

2006-11-01T02:02:00.000-08:00

Following the excursions of the long weekend, I decided to relax this weekend. In this country, there is a fine line between relaxation and boredom, but I try to walk it. On Saturday, I headed down to the beach, once again getting lost in the Tranquil maze on the way. I wanted to both enjoy a bit of sun and to try one of the country’s many local beach bars/restaurants. The closest one was called Atlantic. I ordered a local dish called peanut soup, pre-paid a portion of the bill, and rested on the sand while the Rasta owner went off to buy some ingredients. After about half an hour, lunch was ready. Soup was a bit of a misnomer. What I had was a giant plate of rice, and he ladled out a sauce made of peanut powder, oil, tomatoes, potatoes, hot peppers, fish, and whatever else. It was really good and inexpensive but very filling and I could only get through about a third. The restaurant itself was a round, crude gazebo centered around a tree. The palm leaves roof was supported by long sticks, the benches were constructed from logs, the table a white construction board. A separate, similarly constructed lean-to contained the kitchen, while a room in the back was where the owner and his brother live. I enjoyed the meal, but my cynical attitude towards the country prevented me from fully relaxing and enjoying myself. I have become very guarded in all dealings with local people, as friendliness here is all too often simply an ingratiating attempt to get money.

I left, made my way out of the neighbourhood, and somehow ended up a ways along the main highway leading to Senegambia. I took a taxi to Sportsman’s and caught the latter half of Liverpool vs. Aston Villa. I wanted to watch the Arsenal game, but the remote was in the hands of a Liverpool fan, so there it was. Some fantastic hilights from the various games. I thought I should make an effort to head out to a club in the evening, but it’s simply not as fun when you’re by yourself, your location requires you to trek a long, expensive way to get anywhere at night, and nothing gets going until after midnight. I’ve been to a few nightspots, but you feel less like a participant and more like an observer of an experience of fun. The trip has made me more introverted, partly by choice, partly by necessity. There are days when I feel like a cross between an honours student stuck in a remedial high school class and a hot girl walking down Whyte Avenue on Saturday night.

Sunday I found lunch at a little place a block from my house called Janet’s Bar and Restaurant. The place was cozy enough, with raggae music playing over the stereo, a patio out front, and an open, sunny feel to the rest of the café. I had a cheese sandwich, which is notable for being only the second time I’ve had cheese in this country. Janet was a pleasant Lebanese (I think) woman. Nothing special on the menu, but close at hand to my home. Rugby in the evening. Beach has gotten busier. The air was refreshingly cool (cool, of course, compared to whatever heat I’ve grown accustomed to), as was the water. There is nothing like the feel of walking down the sand towards the ocean, anticipating the first reach of shallow water sliding forward to greet your bare feet.

Malaria Article

2006-10-30T08:00:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-30T05:16:00.000-08:00

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

2006-10-27T04:47:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-25T09:29:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-19T08:13:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-17T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-11T03:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-10T09:25:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-09T06:48:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-05T06:35:00.000-07:00

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)

2006-10-04T03:42:00.000-07:00

slave James Island

the market at Barra

ruins of the fort on James Island

Break for Pictures

2006-10-04T03:21:00.000-07:00

Kololi Village neighbourhood

Hash walk through Kotu

Banjul seen from the Arch

October 2

2006-10-03T03:02:00.000-07:00

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

2006-10-02T07:54:00.000-07:00

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.

September 26

2006-09-29T02:17:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-28T03:10:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-27T06:23:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

September 20

2006-09-26T02:09:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-25T03:37:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-21T05:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-20T06:22:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-19T03:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-18T04:55:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-15T05:29:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-13T09:18:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-12T06:02:00.000-07:00

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...

2006-09-07T03:44:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-05T03:15:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-04T06:06:00.000-07:00

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

2006-09-01T05:58:00.000-07:00

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.

August 28

2006-08-29T02:57:00.000-07:00

The weekend was uneventful. I have a modest list of tourist activities I want to do before I leave the country, but they generally require more planning or guarantees of better weather. I’ll have plenty of time for these things once the rainy season passes in a few weeks.

Saturday was my first exposure to “Cleaning Day”. One Saturday a month, citizens are not to leave their house until 1pm. The streets are cleaned that morning and people are supposed to clean their houses. Huh.

I spent Saturday afternoon walking down the beach and playing in the water for a few hours. I was constantly approached by bumsters and women selling nuts and fruit but, notwithstanding that, it was a lovely afternoon. Staring out into the ocean, I considered myself very lucky to be here. That evening, several coworkers went out for dinner on Kairaba Avenue. Chicken cordon bleu never tasted so good. We went back to the Aquarius nightclub afterwards. Around here, people don’t start showing up to clubs until 12 or 1 in the morning. They may go till 4 or 5. There is no such thing as “last call” and there doesn’t appear to be a drinking age. I’m told that it might have something to do with the large number of Muslims here and the fact that a lot of people don’t drink when they go out. My nocturnal nature has been turned on its head since I arrived, as I typically go to bed as early as 9:30 or 10. When it gets dark, and there’s not much to do, your clock shifts.

On Saturday, I also finished reading “My Life”, the autobiography of Bill Clinton. I haven’t consistently read recreationally in a long time. Wanting to remedy that, and anticipating lulls of activity on my trip, I headed to Chapters to buy a boatload of books to take with me. Unfortunately, the limiting factor for luggage ended up being the flight from Frankfurt, and I found myself taking out clothes and books, weighing and re-weighing my suitcases, as I packed in Edmonton late on August 4th. I loved the Clinton book. I enjoyed the stories of his time in college, his Oxford days, law school, the various campaigns, and Middle East negotiations. The book also served as an affirmation of my liberal views and of public service as a noble pursuit. I find myself ideologically reinvigorated and determined to forge my way in public life. My literary adventures now transport me several thousand kilometers to the land of the Thembu people and the start of Nelson Mandela’s “Long Walk to Freedom”.

Today is Nomination Day in the Gambia. The Presidential election is on September 22nd, and a cursory glance at a local newspaper on the receptionist’s desk tells me that three people are challenging the incumbent. I watched on television as one of the contenders, with a crowd of supporters, marched down Kairaba Avenue to the election office, submitted his nomination papers, gave a speech on the need for fairness in the election process and an independent media, and spoke with reporters. At this point, I don’t know too much about how these elections work. Some excitement arose from the alley behind our office, and my television viewing was briefly interrupted to watch, at a safe distance, as some neighbourhood children beat down and killed a snake in the grass.

August 25

2006-08-28T05:03:00.000-07:00

As usual, the power cut out again last night. It’s getting to be a regular occurrence, both at work and at home. My roommate and I ended up discussing money. She showed me an example of a Nigerian 500 naira bill, which seemed greenish and looked like normal money. She also showed me a Zimbabwean demand cheque she had for $10000 dollars. I think it was like a money order but with no identified purchaser. It was plain, on white paper, with only stains on the back. I showed her a Canadian five-spot, and some coins, including the tooney, complete with stories about the early days of that particular coin. We chatted about her attempts to draft an action plan for a Darfur event back home and her masters program. When she headed to bed, I sat in the dark for a while, accompanied only by my thoughts and the dancing shadows cast by a dwindling candle. I relaxed, listened to songs on my iPod, and thought about the simplicity of life when you have no electricity, no light, no responsibilities, no connection to the hectic world outside Gambia. I thought I might write some music while I’m here, something I haven’t done since high school. The rain started pouring outside, I felt content and serene, and watched the candle until it burned out.

A bright light suddenly blinded me as I tried to sleep a few hours later. Wha…? Oh. Power’s back. Note to self: remember to turn off my bedroom light before I go to bed. Only in Gambia would previously cut power resume during a storm.

August 23

2006-08-25T02:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve been in Africa for just over two weeks now, which is a good time to take stock. Despite the various complaints and difficulties in adjustment, life is pretty good. I’ve largely gotten used to the heat and humidity to the point that, when I went running last night, the overcast sky and the wind felt cold (it still must have been about 25 degrees). I’ve gotten used to handling the taxi drivers and ignoring the bumsters in the tourist areas. I think people in and around my neighbourhood have gotten accustomed to seeing me around, walking to and from work, shopping and jogging, because they don’t really take notice of me anymore. I’m jogging three days a week and averaging about 2 liters of water a day. The main problem I’ve had, I think, is seeing that Gambia is an interesting place to visit, and in which to relax, as a tourist for about two weeks, but it’s more difficult for long-term living, especially if you’re by yourself. There’s not much to do and there doesn’t appear to really be a community life to integrate oneself into, no place to really hang out and nothing to really get involved in. For now, though, I still have books to read, beaches to enjoy, and touristy things to look forward to. Work will probably keep me bush in October and November. By December, I figure I’ll be bored and ready to go home, filled with a greater appreciation for the dynamism of western life.

A lot of locals seem to think that I’m British. A waiter, my Abuko guide, and others. It can’t just be an accent, because I also got a “Run, Englishman!” when I was jogging. Maybe I should create an alter-ego for myself while I’m here. I could be a Baron. It would be cool to be a Baron. Or maybe a Duke.

Africa is by no means homogeneous. Apparently, people in Morocco, Algeria and South Africa often don’t see themselves as being part of Africa. And apparently South Africans don’t really know much about their neighbours or geography or Africa outside their borders.

Morning tea at work has introduced me to pleasant beverage options. Having never been much of a tea drinker, I’ve started to enjoy the green tea popular here, with a bit of milk. I’ve also had the opportunity to try a drink from the roselle plant called wanjo in Gambia or jus du bissap in Senegal. It’s a sweet, red drink that tastes like a fruit punch. Another is called baobab, and is a creamy, white, lightly sweet drink similar to the Sobe energy drinks back home.

Things that have been in our house: spiders (including a jumping variety), termites, mosquitoes, these little flies that apparently come out after the rain and which some Gambians apparently fry and eat, something that I think was a grasshopper, normal ants, crazy massive ants, these big black bugs I haven’t identified, and a couple of geckos.

August 21

2006-08-24T02:12:00.000-07:00

Fun-filled weekend. Friday’s a short day, where we get out at 1pm, so I took the afternoon to hit up the market in Serrakundha, Gambia’s largest residential neighbourhood. I succeeded in making the shared taxi work to Senegambia, then, for the first time here, tried the bus to my final destination. “Bus” is perhaps too generous. What Gambia has is a number of sweltering beat-up vans, packed with a dozen or so people, which travel along generally prescribed routes, with a guy either hanging out the door or shouting out the window the van’s destination to those walking along the side of the road. As it travels along, it picks up and drops people off pretty much anywhere.

Serrakundha was a great place to visit. Blocks and blocks of bumpy dirt roads, endless stalls and people on the ground selling everything from fish to pirated CDs, hordes of people walking around, cars finding their way through the foot traffic, alleys displaying slum living conditions. It was a crowded and hectic market, the residential core of Gambians in this area. The conditions there were much poorer than Brusubi, but it was great to experience the hub of African life here. I also managed to pick up some souvenier crafts.

On my way home, again by bus, I decided to stop at Senegambia and chill by the beach for a bit. I was already outside, the weather was nice, and I had nothing else to do. Walking along the beach, I started chatting with a couple of drummers from a nearby beach bar. I stopped in to the bar and listened to the drummers pound out a few songs. I heard the University of Alberta West African Drum Ensemble play at President Samarasekera’s installation concert, loved them, and wanted to hear as much music as possible when I came here. I may yet take some drumming lessons.

Saturday I decided to hit up the Abuko Nature Reserve. The trip was pleasant, however, given that it’s the rainy season, two problems occurred: because the animals aren’t forced to come to the main pond for water, you see less of them; and it started pouring halfway through my tour. Nevertheless, it was nice to spend a few hours walking around in nature, away from civilization. It was like a tropical River Valley with monkeys. The reserve has free-roaming monkeys, snakes, birds, antelope, etc., and you just walk on this unprotected trail through the park. You’ll walk along, and there will be a bunch of monkeys a few feet away from you just doing their thing. Sadly, I didn’t see any antelope, snakes (maybe for the best, since they have the poisonous ones too) or crocodiles, so I’m thinking I may return in December. In the wild, I saw two kinds of monkeys. In the rather ghetto nursery, I saw caged monkeys, baboons, hyenas, parrots, and long-tailed sparrows. They apparently had lions at one point which ended up escaping for a time, which is kind of funny. I also was completely useless at spotting the birds my guide tried to point out to me. I don’t know if it’s because I’m colour blind, incompetent with binoculars, or both.

Sunday night I went with my roommate to a beach further up from Senegambia. Apparently, every Sunday night, thousands of Gambias congregate on this beach to party. We walked along through the throngs. There were people playing in the water, dozens of soccer games going in the sand, music from various sources, a wrestling circle, and countless young people dressed to impress hanging out with their friends. It was a town square, a beach outing, a mall, a nightclub rolled into one. From the beach party and our subsequent taxi ride home, I’ve gained the impression that people here love raggae. We settled into a beach bar, had a few drinks, and chilled for a couple of hours. At this point, it had gotten dark and, a ways up, a DJ was playing music to a large crowd. We were going to finish up and check it out, but then the heavens opened up, as they’re want to do at this time of year, and we ended up staying under the thatched patio roof, admiring the lightning lighting up the Atlantic Ocean and the pouring rain, waiting for it to let up so we could get home.

Drivers in Gambia are crazy. As I’ve mentioned, there are something like four traffic lights in the entire country. People largely maneuver however they want, honking frequently to let other cars know that they’re there. On our cab ride to the beach, our driver almost sideswiped a car to our left who was trying to overtake us. This driver subsequently stopped his car, came to our cab, demanded to know whether the driver had a license and, when it was produced, took it and walked back to his car with it. The cab driver had to get out to get it back. With shades of Thai tuk-tuks, our cab ride home from the beach involved a driver leaning over the wheel trying to see through the rain and the dark, trying not to hit people walking along the side of the poorly lit road, occasionally wiping the fog off the front windshield. Not as busy as Bangkok, but just as crazy.

Didn’t sleep well last night. Homesick. Not looking forward to having the house to myself when my roommate returns to Nigeria.

Temperature these days: about 31, or 40 with the humidity. Apparently September and early October are the temperature peaks. After that, when the European tourists start flocking in, I’ll be enjoying a comfortable Edmonton summer, while everyone here will be freezing.

August 17

2006-08-24T02:00:00.000-07:00

Aside from the tourist restaurants, daily eating is simple in the Gambia. I am limited by what I find in the neighbourhood grocery store and the stalls in the street. My diet is largely cereal, mangoes and bananas, rice, beans and some pasta, water and juice. An event I appreciate is our mid-morning tea at work, where we enjoy a breakfast of eggs, bread, noodles, and some sort of meat or fish. I’ve never been much for coffee or tea, but have grown to enjoy the green tea popular here.

August 16

2006-08-23T02:20:00.000-07:00

I was severely aggravated on Monday night. After work, I wanted to go buy an alarm clock, so I decided to test out the “shared taxi” from the Turntable to Senegambia and from Senegambia to the Traffic Light. Rather than paying some 50 dalasi for a taxi, you share it with three other people and pay 5 dalasi. I went to the Turntable and asked around, but all the drivers said that there were no shared taxis. Finally, somebody pointed me to a group of people waiting for a taxi. I got in, and took the taxi. When we got to Senegambia, I gave the driver my 5 dalasis. He started berating me that it’s not a lot and, as a tourist, I should be paying more. I got a bit angry and said that that’s what everyone else pays. I started to look for another shared taxi to the Traffic Light, but couldn’t find them so, frustrated, I started walking. Finally, I ended up just taking a taxi for 40 dalasis. When we got to the destination, he would only give me 50 change from 100. On the way home, I didn’t even bother looking for a shared taxi, and just took one solo straight through. I was angry and frustrated when I got home, tired of the targeting. How am I supposed to live here normally for five months when I can’t get decent rates available to other people? How am I supposed to be able to go out and do stuff and see stuff and get around? It sucks to be in a foreign country and just wanting to stay at home, avoiding all the bastards who want to take advantage of you and won’t leave you alone.

Spent a quiet day yesterday. Read a lot, went for another run, watched “Raiders of the Lost Ark”. There's a store by our house that rents outdated videos, sells canned goods, liquor, appliances, and who knows what else. I've enjoyed watching a bunch of movies with my roommate. It's a welcome change from our television selection, which is one fuzzy black-and-white channel showing government programming in Wolof.

I can’t recall if I’ve mentioned this, but the first time I went shopping for groceries, I noticed something interesting: booze is cheap in this country. A box of American cereal was more expensive than a liter of gin. If I hadn’t resolved to live a healthy lifestyle while here, I could have had some fun.

Just had a meeting with my supervisor to go over the work we’ll be doing over the next few months. The work descriptions sound very exciting; there will be some good experience to be had. Additionally, there will be a workshop and a Commission session while I’m here, which is excellent news. Sadly the workshop, originally potentially contemplated for Pretoria, South Africa, will be here in Gambia. Such is life.

August 14

2006-08-22T03:13:00.000-07:00

Our house has termites. It looks like a giant vein of fuzz running down the side of our bathroom door. Yesterday, I declared war on the ants in our house. They’re gone for now, but I’m sure they’ll return soon enough. Oddly enough, I’ve only seen two mosquitoes since I’ve been here.

I was awoken in the middle of the night by a giant thunderstorm. Rain was pounding down like a monsoon. It’s still raining as I type away here at work. On the plus side, it’s a lot cooler. On the down side, there’s not much to do around here when the weather is like this.

The weekend was decent. True to the Gambian lifestyle, our ride for the wedding on Friday didn’t show up until after 9, so we caught the tail-end of the celebrations. In a side street not too far from the intern house was the afterparty. Chairs were set up everywhere, a variation of African and dance music was blaring, people were sitting and mingling. It was a mixture between a wedding reception and a street party, pretty low key. The men were generally dressed fairly casually. The women wore amazingly beautiful African garb, very nice. I was the only white person there, and was approached for money several times. This is not unusual at the wedding celebrations (they give you a scarf, and you’re supposed to hand it back with money), but I seemed to be targeted. After the celebrations, we went to two bars in Senegambia. The first was a typical touristy type place, with a band playing island music and people sitting around having drinks or dancing. I enjoyed the bar, but hadn’t been feeling well during the day. I was also finding it hard to shift into the mindset of a carefree tourist, when my mind kept cynically drifting to what the rest of Gambia is really like. The second bar was a typical nightclub, playing R&B music. I enjoyed it a lot, danced a bit, felt like I was back home. There were also a lot of really young looking girls there. I’m not sure if they were just out having fun, or if there is an element of child exploitation in this country.

As I've mentioned, living in Gambia can best be described through a couple of comparisons. It’s like Bangkok, in that you’re targeted if you’re white, mainly by people who want to be your friend or wanting to take you somewhere, but it’s a lot less hectic, dangerous and interesting. Also, in Bangkok people typically want to sell you something, whereas in Gambia they want to establish a relationship. It’s also like being in a tourist country like Cuba, Jamaica or the Bahamas, but living amongst the people outside of the resort bubble. You can go and enjoy yourself in the tourist area, but you see both worlds. Driving around, you can see that there are clearly some very nice houses and people who have done very well for themselves, but that’s tempered by a lot of very poor, run-down looking houses, buildings and businesses.

Saturday I went for my first jog. It was overcast and lightly raining, which I thought to be perfect. I went running from Brusubi all the way down to Brufut by the ocean and a new hotel. Access to the beach was fenced off for the benefit of hotel patrons. The jog was nice because the road was rather quiet and fewer people disturbed me as long as I kept moving. I did run into a group marching and collecting funds for something or other. By the time I got back to the house, I was exhausted and couldn’t get up from a chair for about half an hour. All I could do was sit there, despite several false attempts to get up and have a shower, and guzzle water. Despite the overcast conditions and the rain, which made for a pleasant run, the heat and humidity still got to me. It took me a few hours to get back to normal. Lesson learned: don’t overdo it when jogging for the first time in a new climate. I can’t imagine what it would be like to run on a clear day. I’ll save my jogs for similar weather and, when dry season comes, it should be cooler.

Sunday was a great day. The weather was clear, the sun was out, and we headed to the beach. We had lunch in a resort at Cape Point. Unlike Friday, this time I resolved to start enjoying such excursions and not feeling guilty about it. If people who live in Gambia can go out and relax and live well, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t be able to enjoy my time here as much as possible. We walked down the beach, from the nice area by the hotel, with beach chairs and such, further down, which found us in a poorer, more local area of the beach, where Gambians were playing soccer, fishing boats were moored, and a shabby-looking restaurant stood a ways away. It’s nice to be able to see both sides to get the full Gambian experience. We then went to the beach by the Senegambia hotel, which was nicer. I went and played in the water for a bit, my first time in the ocean since the Florida trip last August. It was so nice and refreshing to cool off in the ocean, to swim, to float, and to compensate for the modest shower back at the house. There is something about the ocean. I think when you live in a land-locked area like Alberta, there is a closed-in feel. The ocean brings a sense of freedom, a release from the bounds of land, a limitless opportunity. It is similar to the sense of majesty one gets from the mountains.

Washing all my clothes by hand really sucks. It is practically difficult and, now that I’ve done it, all my clothes seem to smell. It’s frustrating.

I’ve gained interesting insights into African countries so far. Nigeria is apparently a rougher and busier country. It is also the big brother in Africa, involved in other people’s business, with Nigerians found all across the continent. Cameroon doesn’t suffer from internal strife, although it has an interesting colonial history. Ethiopia sounds more advanced than I expected. It has a developed system of hydroelectricity (which Gambia could use, frankly, given that we have a big river and a lot of blackouts). Apparently, corruption is not much of a problem because it is seen as a disgrace on character, and police officers also have incentive, through promotion, to be ethical. By all accounts, their weather is like a good Edmonton summer. Judges in a lot of countries, surprisingly, seem to be hired for short terms.

August 11

2006-08-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

Last night, in the middle of watching “Cape Fear”, I experienced my first Gambian blackout, when the electricity went out for the remainder of the night. My roommate and I chatted by candlelight, and I learned more about Nigeria and Africa, before I headed to bed. Sleeping under the mosquito tent without a fan wasn’t as horrific as I had expected. Perhaps I’m starting to get used to the weather here.

I’ve just read a judgment from the Commission based on the atrocities that occurred in Rwanda in the 1990s. This took me to the debate law students often have over the nature of international law, whether it is truly “law” given that it can’t really be enforced. Similarly, in the Clinton book that I’m currently reading, he discusses military intervention in areas like Bosnia, Somalia and Rwanda. These two issues might lead one to believe that, because it can’t always be enforced and because it falls under the realm of politics and military might, international law doesn’t exist. What good, after all, comes from having the African Commission wag their finger at Rwanda, holding them liable of provision violations? I have to disagree. First, a document such as the African Charter is an expression of the collective beliefs and aspirations of the African people. Although difficulties always exist given the nature of some African governments, knowledge of the Charter has increased over the course of the last twenty years, leading to better judgments, better access to the Commission for complainants, and better responses from the governments. The judgments go to all the African governments and can be a source of pressure and embarrassments for perpetrators. Secondly, for western countries to stand for the rule of law in their domestic systems, it is hypocritical for them to disregard agreements they reach in an international context. Thirdly, the communications and judgments drafted are a great collection of facts and can bring issues to a public light. Fourthly, it allows a jurisprudence to be built up. Lastly, when a body like the Commission investigates the Rwanda massacres, in the framework of a pan-African agreement, from a legal perspective, with precedent and evidence, it gives a sense of legitimacy to the opinions reached and frames the violations as being grounded not just on humanitarian but also on legal grounds, that they are based on law and a proper process and not merely on the opinions and political whims of what western nations deem to be justifiable humanitarian causes. I have a lot of respect for the people with whom I work and the difficulties they often face.

I've had some conversations about malaria, and bouts that people have experienced as children. While I can’t be certain, I think this gives some insight into the AIDS crisis. Because people around here are exposed to so many things, it becomes easier to just accept them and not really think about them too much. When I think about my malaria pills, my hot mosquito tent, my avoidance of tap water, and so forth, it’s easy to understand why people would want to just forget about all that and simply lead a normal life without worrying about it all.

It’s Friday. Tonight I’m going to a Muslim Gambian wedding. Apparently, next Tuesday is a public holiday for the Feast of the Assumption. Ironically enough, I had to come to a Muslim country to have a Christian holiday celebrated as a public holiday.

August 10

2006-08-18T04:44:00.000-07:00

I have been in Gambia for two days now. I flew in on the 8th. Our flight was 3.5 hours delayed leaving Frankfurt. I was sitting next to what appeared to be a dour German but who ended up being a pleasant Swiss man going to visit his partner’s family. The plane was also carrying a Gambian youth soccer team, and guy who got drunk on the plane with his friends and proceeded to entertain everyone on the plane. He was like Rahool when he arrives at Worlds. When we landed, we couldn’t leave the plane because there were NASA nets set up on the runway and the plane couldn’t turn around. We then waited in the terminal for about 1.5 hours waiting for our luggage. First impressions leaving the plane: hot even for the late hour, muggy, a giant runway surround by an empty field with tones of army and airport types out to greet us. Having been to Thailand, and having been briefed by Andrew on the laid-back nature of Gambia, I took all the delays with a grain of salt, mainly just worried that my ride from the Institute wouldn’t be there and I would have to sleep on someone’s lawn. Most of the passengers seemed pretty tense, including a stereotypical middle-aged white male tourist with the fanny pack, traveling with his family, who was agitated over, I think, the airport landing tax. The terminal was small, and barren, with the luggage carousel leading straight to the outdoors. Thankfully, my ride was still there, as I took my weary addled body and brain past the hordes of Gambians offering to take my luggage. By now, it was about midnight. We drove down a paved road past fields, palm trees, trees that looked like the Joshua Tree album cover, and poor-looking houses. I got taken to the intern house where, after waking up the security guard, I got let in and settled into my room. The house is rather large, rather bare, but clean. I set up the mosquito tent, which is like camping and feels like you’re in a giant jelly fish, and went to sleep.

Our house and work is in a “village” called Brusubi. It is apparently something of a dead-end when it comes to the main road. In one direction is just the airport. In the other direction is Senegambia, the area around the Stoplight, then on to Banjul. The main road seems to be the source of the most activity in this part of town.

I spent my first day sleeping in and went to the office in the afternoon. The walk to the office was my first exposure to Gambian people in this neighbourhood. My surroundings are very poor. A lot of Gambians are walking around by the road, or hanging around by the stores and buildings. We are next to the Turntable, which is a major point on the main road where people wait for taxis and such. I walked down the road to get to the office, wary of my surroundings, the people who would take glances at me and call out to me. After a bit of time in the office, I was taken for a drive down to the Stoplight, Gambia’s first and only, and showed me some of the stores in the area. We went to the police compound, a dusty and dilapidated area which also had a mosque inside playing a loud Muslim “mass”, I think. We then backtracked down the main road towards Senegambia, the tourist area. Senegambia has a military checkpoint to keep out unauthorized cars and bumsters. There are restaurants and night clubs, and a lot of white people on patios. When you walk down the strip, restauranteers and others call out to you and try to get you to try their restaurant, or take you on a Gambian tour, or what have you. It is also an expensive area for catching a cab, being a white male, although that’s really the case everywhere here. When I grabbed a bite, a local started berating a British man at the patio who was calmly drinking a Julbrew, over what I don’t know. But I heard him say something about “not to a white man”. I was tired and hot and went back to the house, and tried to read but couldn’t because it was too hot, then slept on the couch, then watched a movie with my roommate, then went to bed early. I’m feeling crappy because of the heat, and worries over whether I would be able to cash my traveler’s cheques, I’m hungry because I haven’t eaten much, and the lack of respite at home; given the heat everywhere, there is nowhere I can go to get comfortable and escape it all. I don’t think there’s too much excitement around either; Gambia thus far is like a less-interesting Bangkok.

I still don’t have an alarm clock. I woke up early this morning to the sunlight, the sounds of a donkey and rooster. I spent the day at work, which was nice, because it’s air-conditioned. I may just live here for the next five months.I also got introduced to the tea break, where we all gather outside under a thatched gazebo, and chat and have some prepared breakfast food. Our backyard is quite nice, with grass and various trees. I felt really crappy this afternoon, hungry, tired of the heat and the smell, worried about my traveller’s cheques, thinking about the length of time I’ll be here. I’m also tired, after only two days, of trying to get around being white and not having any peace. I don’t really want to go back to Senegambia for that reason, but I also don’t want to just sit at home for four months.

This evening, things took a turn for the better. I went back to Senegambia and was able to exchange my traveler’s cheques, which was a relief, although I didn’t feel comfortable leaving with the big wad of cash. I decided to have supper at a restaurant, and broke my no-alcohol pledge by having a couple of Julbrews, Gambia’s home-brewed beer. It was a decent beer, no particularly distinctive taste. Maybe it was the food, or the beer, or success at the bank, but I looked around at the tourists, and realized that I don’t have to be miserable here. I had really been struggling with the fact that I’m in a gorgeous climate but living in difficult conditions, that I should be enjoying the weather and wanting to explore but instead hate the heat and want to avoid the Gambia population by staying at home. I can enjoy life here like any tourist, going out and seeing things. My house is clean and decent, and no worse than camping. The work is going to be enjoyable and, I can relax at home when I feel like it or enjoy the beach and the weather if I want to go out. I’m here for five months and don’t have to stress about doing everything right away or every day. I’m still thinking that five months is too long and I’d rather go home in December, but it’ll be good.

August 8

2006-08-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

I’m writing this from a gate waiting area in the Frankfurt airport. My flight to Banjul has been delayed for 3 hours, extending my wait here to 8 hours. Although these delays suck, I love being in Europe and I love the busyness, enormity and interconnectivity of the European train and plane system. It’s great to look at the board and see flights to Hong Kong, Canada, all over Europe, Asia. You look outside and see airplanes for Air India, Lufthansa, Ukraine, etc. It’s also interesting how prevalent English is in the airports (both here and in Amsterdam), the hotel I stayed in in Amsterdam, and the more touristy areas. Europeans have the right idea in knowing various languages. Travelling in Europe is remarkably easy: although the languages are different, the alphabets are the same and one can fairly quickly get the hang of what’s going on. The cultures in the western world really aren’t that different. The only place where things were vastly different was on our trip to Thailand. Other than that, Europe is easy to get into, and I suspect something like Australia wouldn’t be much more difficult. It reinforces my thought that people the world over are inherently the same, and basic human rights should be a universal concept.

...

My trans-Atlantic flight was disappointing. I usually love flying to Europe, being in a giant plane, watching movies, drinking wine. Unfortunately, I was jammed in a window seat by a fat American. I watched “She’s the Man” in Dutch for a few minutes before calling it quits and going back to my Clinton book, with which I’ve been enthralled. I enjoyed Amsterdam very much, although it was filled with tourists like me. When I flew in on the 6th, I spent the day sleeping, and only went to the hotel bar for a beer (Grolsh, which I enjoyed). Staying at a hostel would have been fun, but I was so happy to be able to drop my luggage and sleep the day away in a comfortable hotel room. I spent the 7th just walking around downtown Amsterdam, once I figured out how to get there from the train station. Amsterdam is picturesque and charming, filled with canals and typical European architecture. I went to one of the museums that was featuring Rembrandt and Anne Frank letters. Although the Rembrandt exhibit was rather small, it featured a bunch of amazing etchings he had done, as well as the medical painting for which he’s famous. The Anne Frank exhibit was less interesting. I decided to go to the VanGogh museum late in the day, and am glad I went. Going through the exhibit was the most enthralled I’ve been in a museum in a long time. It traced his life and development. Although I didn’t think too much of his artistic talents (he seemed a bit of a hack; his early pointillism was childish at best), it was fascinating to go through his life and periods in pictures. On my way home, I went through the Red Light District, which was rather uncomfortable. I was expecting laid-back prostitution, and it was filled with creepy stores and obnoxious tourists. I’m really curious what the Dutch think of the District, whether it’s a part of normal life, or whether they think it’s an embarrassment, or whether they don’t necessarily accept it but want to live and let live. I also popped by two coffee houses. I left quickly because they were too smoky.

So it begins...

2006-08-16T03:19:00.000-07:00

I have been in Africa for just over a week, and am alive and well. Although it is the rainy season here for another couple of months, it is very hot and humid. My first few days here were moderately miserable, as I didn't have much to eat, couldn't sleep due to the heat, didn't have money available, and wasn't used to the culture. But I'm more settled now. I've started work with the Institute (see africaninstitute.org, if you're interested), which will be a rewarding experience. I've been keeping a travel diary since I left Edmonton, and will be posting updates on my blog, as well as some pictures. The two best comparisons I can give for my life here is that, being a white male, it's a lot like Bangkok, only far less hectic and interesting. And because Gambia is a European tourist destination for its beach resorts, it's a lot like going to a place like Cuba or the Bahamas but living with the locals outside the tourist bubble.

Here's to the night

2006-08-05T01:10:00.000-07:00

After months of errands and planning, I leave in 12 hours. I had a blast at my going-away party.

They say you should do one thing a day that scares you. Today that thing is "moving to Africa". I have two days in Amsterdam, and then on to Gambia. Giddyup.

Thank God I've Graduated

2006-08-02T16:03:00.000-07:00

First Scholar's closes, and now I find out that Keegan's has been closed. Aside from RATT, there's nothing left for me on this campus. My "pre-Harlow-3am-wake-up-call" routine is completely gone. Sigh.

Africa

2006-07-26T01:14:00.000-07:00

I'm drunk. I just watched "Almost Famous" with my roommate for the gazillionth time. My room is half-vacated.

I am just under two weeks away from moving to Africa. I'm looking forward to a few things: moving on from my University life, reading books, helping the less fortunate, seeing a new world, and reexamining my priorities. I have a digital camera now. Stay tuned for pictures.

Heh

2006-07-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

While I didn't think much of Kevin Smith's latest offering, it was worth it for giving Smith the opportunity to say this.

Joel Siegel was right

2006-07-21T21:40:00.000-07:00

I love watching movies, and I love going to movie theatres. It's sad that summer, a period with the greatest amount of free time, is also home to the laziest filmmaking. Undeniably, there are some entertaining blockbusters out there but, Jesus, does 2006 suck. Having seen the vast majority of the films currently playing (excluding obvious garbage like "Little Man"), I give you the following:

Best movie I've seen: either "The Lost City" or "Sophie Scholl: The Final Days"
Worst movie I've seen: "Clerks II"

Sigh.

A Scanner Darkly

2006-07-18T00:31:00.000-07:00

A two-hour mixture of tiresome and moderately amusing drug-induced paranoia, culminating in a vague, tacked-on moral.

The beautiful game

2006-07-05T15:27:00.000-07:00

I went into this World Cup not particularly liking soccer. However, a mixture of Ukrainian participation and unemployment caused me to get into the spirit of the event. I've watched a lot of the games and have grown in appreciation for the sport. Sadly, Ukraine got knocked out by Italy in the quarters, but I'm very proud of my countrymen for their showing. I am now actively cheering for France to take out the whiny, diving Italians in the final.

On the topic of Ukraine, I borrowed Michael Ignatieff's "Blood and Belonging" from the library, the book that sparked some controversy for derogatory comments about Ukrainians. I like politicians with a brain, so I want to like Michael, but I also wanted to see for myself what the book said (given his supporters' cries of "the comments were taken out of context"). Having read the chapter and much of the rest of the book, I can say that the "context" isn't particularly helpful. Ignatieff is clearly a fan of civic nationalism over cultural nationalism but never really comes back to his comments. As such, it's unclear whether it is a case of forgiveable initial ignorance, latent feelings of cultural superiority, or what. I really found nothing in the book to excuse the comments. My feeling is that Ignatieff just doesn't get it.

I don't know how to quit you

2006-06-26T19:19:00.000-07:00

I finally got around to watching "Brokeback Mountain", which I've been meaning to see for a long time. It is fan-freaking-tastic. The movie was filmed in Alberta, so the mountain scenery was gorgeous. It made me want to go camping. And, you know, have sex with men.

Athletic Prowess

2006-06-23T17:08:00.000-07:00

It's funny. I've played rugby and never sustained a serious injury. How did I hurt my arm earlier this week? Playing darts at the Black Dog.

Hockey

2006-06-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

Well, the Oilers lost, which sucks, but they had a great run and the city should be proud of them. I disagree with those who believe that, not only should Carolina not be a Stanley Cup champion, they shouldn't even have a franchise. Canadians love hockey, and tend to get uppity when people abroad don't share their taste for their sport. If people in the States can enjoy the sport and put together a competitive team, all the power to them. It's worth remembering that the Oilers were an expansion team at one point as well. And if we followed strict policies of "sport elitism", there would likely be a dearth of baseball, basketball, soccer and rugby in our neck of the woods.

Convocation

2006-06-18T18:52:00.000-07:00

I attended my Convocation last week. The history of it all, the pomp and circumstance is wonderful. I am now Roman Kotovych, B.Sc. (Spec.), LLB. A fun note is that my immediate family now has 12 University degrees. In a year it will be 13, and a year later will be 14.

Partook in Whyte Avenue celebrations last night. We watched the streets below from the roof of the Black Dog. I saw people getting arrested for stopping on the sidewalk to talk on their cell phones, and people getting arrested for stepping off the curb to avoid gluts of people, gluts, ironically enough, created by the police. While I certainly understand the city's concerns, particularly after the post-Ducks hooliganism, I think the police crackdown is starting to get out of hand.

The wonderful world of cinema and albinos

2006-05-21T00:34:00.000-07:00

When you've graduated from school and are gainfully unemployed, you suddenly find yourself with a lot of time to do those things you've always wanted to do. When you quickly realize that you can't figure out what those things are, you resort to filling your time with hockey and movies. As the success of the Oilers speaks for itself, I have little need to address the former, aside from noting that rowdy hooligans hanging off electrical wires is merely natural selection at its finest. As for the latter, today we look at "The DaVinci Code".

The novel by Dan Brown is interesting in spite of the author's best efforts. A horrible writer, Mr. Brown fills his book with poor dialogue and inconsequential characters, and demonstrates a complete inability to integrate his historical premises into a readable narrative. When characters speak as though they're reciting an encyclopedia for the sole purpose of advancing plot, I get irritated. The premise of the book, however, and the ideas contained therein, were interesting: religious coverups, secret societies, hidden messages, and so forth. Generally speaking, an interesting idea poorly executed.

Which brings us to the movie. If you haven't read the book, you're better off with the movie. It starts off mirroring many of the things that irritated me about the novel, but progresses nicely into a good adaptation. Much of the dialogue that made the book tedious has been pleasantly trimmed in the movie, and we're left with an entertaining visual portrayal of the story. Are the characters compelling? Is it a great movie? No, but I give credit to Ron Howard and the cast for doing a decent job with what they had to work with.

I've recently had conversations with one of my roommates about pop culture, particularly in the context of a certain television series that he loves and I deem rubbish. In this time of summer blockbusters, which are admittedly entertaining, I am saddened by the numerous quality films that get overlooked on a regular basis. I don't think too many people line up for hours to see "Good Night and Good Luck", for instance. And while entertainment is certainly more subjective than objective, I have a hard time using that as a means of explaining why anyone would go see "Scary Movie 4".

Go Anaheim

2006-05-01T14:15:00.000-07:00

The cover of today's Edmonton Sun has a photo comparing Edmonton and Calgary in their respective post-Game 5-victory celebrations. Calgary was shown as being wild and crazy, while Edmonton was show as being calm and unperturbed. I think this image demonstrates quite well why Calgary sucks. Edmonton is mature. Edmonton is used to success and knows how to handle it. Calgary, on the other hand, acts like somebody who just moved into Lister for their first year of University. Aside from some smart fans who stuck by their team in the shitty 90s, I just see bandwagoners and drunks.

Deep Throat

2006-04-16T21:09:00.000-07:00

The last few months saw some interesting developments within the Law Students' Association. Spending habits, responsilibity and entitlement emerged into the public discourse, helped along by an investigatory article in our student newspaper. It's times like these where you observe people's actions, reactions and comments, and you see aspects of people's characters that either impress or disappoint. I am disheartened to have seen those who fall into the latter category.

In unrelated matters, I attended a showing of "Bigger Than Jesus" at the Rice Theatre at the Citadel this evening. It is a one-man multimedia examination of religion and Christianity. I'm not sure if I "enjoyed" it, per se, perhaps due to examination fatigue, but I certaintly appreciated it.

September 1997 - April 2006

2006-04-12T14:17:00.000-07:00

This past semester has been one of "lasts". Last debate meeting. Last fraternity Bar Night at the Plant. Last day of classes. The fact that I still have to spend two weeks studying for exams has mitigated somewhat the emotional shock that comes with leaving your home of 9 years. Sometime in May, I'm going to wake up and realize that the life I've built for myself over the last 5 years (because, realistically, the preceding 4 were spent in a computer lab) has run its course. And it's time to start fresh. And create something new for myself. Right now, though, I sit drunk in the LSA office, about to hand in my last paper for my last class at the U of A, not really wanting to think about it.

Hockey

2006-04-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

The Oilers beat Phoenix 7-1 last night. I'm surprised that Calgary didn't try to get 6 of those goals called back.

I hanker for movie popcorn

2006-04-03T01:02:00.000-07:00

Coming home late Friday night, I decided to catch a midnight showing at Cinema City 12. Sitting alone in the dingy theatre, a high school-looking kid comes in with a bunch of his friends, they're having a good time, and he asks me if I've seen the movie, and how he doesn't want to sit through some boring, 2-hour movie. I tell him that I haven't seen it but I've heard it's good. The movie was "Syriana". As the film rolled, and discussion began on-screen about the global energy economy, I chuckled into my popcorn. Stupid kids.

In unrelated matters, I've recently taken up squash. It's awesome. Hawksley concert coming up on Friday, then I take my first stab at 40 Beers with the geers on Saturday. Exam failures soon to follow.

Africa

2006-03-26T22:16:00.000-08:00

As most of you know, I will be graduating in April after 9 glorious years at the University of Alberta. Some of you may also know that I will start clerking with the Court of Queen's Bench in Edmonton in June 2007, giving me a year to chill, travel, and do whatever. Recently, I have been offered a 6-month internship with the Institute for Human Rights and Development in Africa in The Gambia, starting in August. This will be a fantastic opportunity to work in the field of international law and human rights, and experience a whole new culture. I'm excited.

Scholar's

2006-03-22T22:04:00.000-08:00

There is a bar a block away from the Law Centre formerly known as "The Library", currently known as "Scholar's". This bar, renovated a few years ago, is a comfortably-dingy little lounge where everybody knows your name. Given its proximity to the concrete bunker where we go to class, it has emerged as the second home for many a law student and a first home to quite a few others. We've been going there since first year, and it is the place where you can always find law students and professors, all day every day and twice on Sundays. In the last six months or so, we've noticed something disturbing: the beer has progressively grown more and more foul. Tonight, the pitcher of Canadian tasted like a mixture of dish soap, rotten fruit, and ass. I feel like I'm in an abusive relationship: I know it's not good, but I hold out hope that this time it will be different. Scholar's, I implore you: don't drive away your most loyal customers. People are starting to notice. Figure out why it sucks, and make it good again.

A little bit of culture

2006-03-16T14:52:00.000-08:00

A few months ago, I went to see "The Marriage of Figaro" at Convocation Hall. Last night, I bought a solo ticket and enjoyed a wonderful performance of "Guys and Dolls" at the Citadel Theatre. Next Tuesday, I'm going to see "La Boheme" presented by Edmonton Opera. It is always problematic to find people to attend such events, as well as events such as the formal dinners I've had opportunity to attend over the last few years. So, if you're a girl who enjoys nights out for drinks, jazz music, concerts and dinners, call me.