“No, No, it’s perfectly safe!”
I’m trying hard not to completely lose my shit here, they sprang out of nowhere with these snakes from all directions. My heart almost stopped at least two times.
They want me to sit down on some sort of death stool. I’ve got unidentified snakes unchaperoned around my neck, and this guy is pulling me down. I’m near panic at this point, I had never expected to be doing this, I had just paid 10 Dirham to a man to allow me take some pictures of the snakes and, this guy grabs me, takes my camera, starts taking pics then gives it to Carolyn.
I thought this fez hat coming from behind me was another snake being dropped on my head. I’m not laughing anymore, I’m not really enjoying myself, In my head I’m screaming, “YAHHH! Get this thing the hell off of me!!” This little old man, this tiny little man, shoves the snake’s head in my hand and tells me to hold him. I’ve got cobras at my feat completely sticking their heads up at me like when Indy fell into the asp pit. (“Very dangerous, you go first,” was playing on a loop in my head this whole time.) I’m sitting there shitting the pants I’m going to die in and suddenly a calm comes over me. I’m thinking could this be venom in my bloodstream? I’m in a daze that resembles a shock victim. And just as I’m beginning to calm down a slight bit, the man shoves a cobra in my face that is coiled up on a tambourine with his head poised at eye level. That thing is coming to get me!
You’d have to see it to believe it, so why don’t you: HERE
-BBB
Thursday, January 24, 2008
It's Noisy at Our Junction
It’s noisy at our junction.
We live one house off Garba Jumpa Road, which is a main road in our area of the coast. All bus and most taxi service runs by us going from Bakau to Westfield and back, or Bakau to Serrekunda and back. It always has a truck or bike or cab racing by. They constantly ‘toot’ their horns.
Directly on one side of the compound where our apartment building is located sits an auto garage that bangs metal on metal all day long, It’s like someone is always knocing on our door. There is also the occasional revving of a newly fixed engine. Sometimes they blast music from the car stereos and sometimes they gamble after work in large numbers playing dice and card games while the younger kids play foosball. The gaming is actually kind of cool to watch from the second story overlooking the wall a bit. Right now I hear banging from that side of the flat. And right now…and now. It’s getting so a young man can’t take a decent afternoon nap, but I’m actually starting to getting used to it, maybe I’ll be able to live in New York City after all.
Next door on the other side of the compound is a six shop mini strip mall being built by hand. That is a source of non-stop noise usually banging of some kind. It’s been interesting to watch them building but it is loud, and smelly, as I have mentioned in another post. Now I think they are letting some of the builders live in that compound behind the shop because it has gotten much louder at night recently, music until 1:00 AM or later and yelling and, from what I can gather, the sounds of cat raping.
The mosque calls for prayers at 5:30am and four other times a day. But unlike Morocco they chant for at least twenty minutes each time. And sometimes they come on at other times to do some chanting. We are within earshot of one in particular but sometimes can hear another as well. I’m very used to this now, and since I’m turning Muslim it’s beginning to be a very welcome sound. Allah be praised! I’m not turning Muslim in the traditional sense, but you know; “When in Rome.”
There is a six year old girl with some kind of hyperactive disorder that lives beneath us who screams pretty much all day long. (And as it turns out shares my birthday) She’s cute and calls Carolyn, “Auntie Carolyn.” She’s loud. There’s always an assortment of chatter coming in through the windows. It’s weird because after some of the huge cities I’ve been to in Africa now, Dakar and Casablanca, I find it hard to believe that this is the most densely populated part of Africa, but there certainly is never a quiet moment on the street outside our window.
This Sunday, as I started Belle and Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress, right on cue with the first song, a loud barrage of sound descended on the apartment coming from every window. We thought for a minute that the Mosque speakers were on the fritz but soon I started hearing some kind of horn through the madness of feedback and what sounded like a distorted guitar played buy the girl downstairs through blown speakers. It turned out to be the music before a speech of a speaker holding a rally about two blocks away. Soon after the music died down he came on and started yelling about something in a language I don’t speak.
I was reading yesterday, laying on the bed, and I stopped to note that I heard; the guy in the background at the rally day two, the garage was banging away on some piece of metal, the girl had some kind of plastic horn which she was running back and forth using in a not too professional way, and the mosque was calling for prayers. It was noisy.
-BBB
We live one house off Garba Jumpa Road, which is a main road in our area of the coast. All bus and most taxi service runs by us going from Bakau to Westfield and back, or Bakau to Serrekunda and back. It always has a truck or bike or cab racing by. They constantly ‘toot’ their horns.
Directly on one side of the compound where our apartment building is located sits an auto garage that bangs metal on metal all day long, It’s like someone is always knocing on our door. There is also the occasional revving of a newly fixed engine. Sometimes they blast music from the car stereos and sometimes they gamble after work in large numbers playing dice and card games while the younger kids play foosball. The gaming is actually kind of cool to watch from the second story overlooking the wall a bit. Right now I hear banging from that side of the flat. And right now…and now. It’s getting so a young man can’t take a decent afternoon nap, but I’m actually starting to getting used to it, maybe I’ll be able to live in New York City after all.
Next door on the other side of the compound is a six shop mini strip mall being built by hand. That is a source of non-stop noise usually banging of some kind. It’s been interesting to watch them building but it is loud, and smelly, as I have mentioned in another post. Now I think they are letting some of the builders live in that compound behind the shop because it has gotten much louder at night recently, music until 1:00 AM or later and yelling and, from what I can gather, the sounds of cat raping.
The mosque calls for prayers at 5:30am and four other times a day. But unlike Morocco they chant for at least twenty minutes each time. And sometimes they come on at other times to do some chanting. We are within earshot of one in particular but sometimes can hear another as well. I’m very used to this now, and since I’m turning Muslim it’s beginning to be a very welcome sound. Allah be praised! I’m not turning Muslim in the traditional sense, but you know; “When in Rome.”
There is a six year old girl with some kind of hyperactive disorder that lives beneath us who screams pretty much all day long. (And as it turns out shares my birthday) She’s cute and calls Carolyn, “Auntie Carolyn.” She’s loud. There’s always an assortment of chatter coming in through the windows. It’s weird because after some of the huge cities I’ve been to in Africa now, Dakar and Casablanca, I find it hard to believe that this is the most densely populated part of Africa, but there certainly is never a quiet moment on the street outside our window.
This Sunday, as I started Belle and Sebastian’s Dear Catastrophe Waitress, right on cue with the first song, a loud barrage of sound descended on the apartment coming from every window. We thought for a minute that the Mosque speakers were on the fritz but soon I started hearing some kind of horn through the madness of feedback and what sounded like a distorted guitar played buy the girl downstairs through blown speakers. It turned out to be the music before a speech of a speaker holding a rally about two blocks away. Soon after the music died down he came on and started yelling about something in a language I don’t speak.
I was reading yesterday, laying on the bed, and I stopped to note that I heard; the guy in the background at the rally day two, the garage was banging away on some piece of metal, the girl had some kind of plastic horn which she was running back and forth using in a not too professional way, and the mosque was calling for prayers. It was noisy.
-BBB
Morocco
For Carolyn’s midterm break we went to Morocco. We didn’t fly straight from Gambia, that would have been too easy. First we had to take a taxi to the ferry and once across the Gambia River we took a taxi to the border where we crossed into Senegal and walked to a bus depot and got a bus to Dakar where we would then fly to Casablanca.
The drive to Dakar was as expected and planned for; 7 hours in a small three row bus, 4 to a row, with extra sideways seating in the rear, enough for 5, plus the front window seat for two. We were 20 bouncing bodies tumbling over the bumps of the highway and then off-road when there were too many potholes to stay on the main road. It was quite the trip. Coming after the ferry across the Gambia River and a Taxi to the border it was a full day travel. Once out of the bus, we took a taxi to a Chinese restaurant and then one to the airport where we took the red eye to Casablanca getting there in the morning. We got a French breakfast and planned our next move.
Our next move was to splurge on a nice hotel and shower and watch TV. It was real nice, the shower was the first hot shower for Carolyn in 3 months and over a month for me. The TV was non-stop Benazir Bhutto coverage on the only two English speaking stations; CNN and BBC News. She was a wonderful leader and inspired many while she lived. In her death a nation was mourning, as played out on TV. Being the only story, the coverage became exhausting, I was really looking forward to some sports and end of the year recaps like news channels do. Not having TV for over a month and then only being able to see the same last minute clip of that guy with the gun in his hand was lame. I really feel like I suffered more than anyone else in the world due to the untimely passing of this political leader. Sure she was a female icon in the Muslim world and perhaps the one hope for Pakistan to scale back it’s extremist leanings in favor of a more democracy oriented system that would stand up to Al Queda and bring moderation to a country on the front lines in the battle on terror, but I wanted to see some NFL highlights! Really, is that too much to ask?
So I guessed we might as well leave the hotel and see some of this city since there was nothing good on TV. Casablanca, what a town! Buildings over two stories, power that stays on, Castle Beer “The Queen Of Beers”, it was great!
The Medina is the city center, it is the ancient city that was surrounded by a great wall for protection during antiquity, it has been the home to people for thousands of years, and it’s where you can get really good deals on black market DVD’s and hookahs. All the bigger cities in Morocco have Medinas and they are generally touristy type places but still house a great deal of people. Casablanca’s is pretty small but Marrakech’s Medina is huge with a large central square called the Jemma el Fina where for thousands of years people have come to trade and eat from the food stalls and see the snake charmers. Not a lot has changed in two thousand years, people still come from all over the world but now it’s less for Moroccan wool, glass and grain and more for rugs, hookahs, trinkets and Wayne Rooney jerseys. The Moroccan craftsmanship on these imported Chinese Manchester jerseys is staggering. The way they get the breast patch to look so real while misspelling van Nistelrooy is really something. Ok, so perhaps that’s a bit cynical, but let’s just say that there is plenty of stuff for western kids to grab up while mom and dad look for a rug.
I really loved both the cities we traveled to, We met some nice people and bought a beautiful lamp, ate in the food stalls. We met Ibrahm a guy who worked at a food stall, as well as his 4 other jobs, who liked to talk to us about anything but it was the best when we got into politics and exchanged the names of some political thinkers to read. He wrote down Samuel Huntington and Edward Said for me and I told him to read Chomsky and a few others. It is easy to see that most people I’ve met in my travels do not blame the average American for what Bush has done. Our reputation is not as sterling as it may have been pre-911 but people don’t put that on us. For some mentioning Bush was the first thing they did when we told them we were American. And some did even say, ‘Bush is Hitler’ but nobody at all got up in our face about it. It could have been due to the fact that as soon as they said ‘George Bush’ I said, “No, No, No please don’t associate us with him. He is not our country. Everyone hates him in America now” Or words to that effect. Also, when we actually talked for a while to people and let them know we were living in Gambia teaching West Africans they loved us. People are just friendly in general if you are friendly to them, and Americans on par are really nice people. Much nicer than Euro-trash, Dolce Gabbana fur coat wearing asses who don’t even look at the people who approach them or ask them for change. One day I said to Carolyn, lets pretend that we are from Canada today and then see what people think about Americans. I kept forgetting to do it though so I don’t have too much to report about the experiment. One time I said I was from Canada to a guy and asked if he liked it and he said, “I like Jim Carrey!” So do I my friend…so do I. Plus I couldn’t believe he knew where he was really from, I had forgotten myself. America is still the place where everyone has a relative and where many want to go if they can get a visa.
A Bit off the topic of Morocco but Canada patch wearing travelers really get my goat. You know this is what they do now, they wear a little Canada flag patch on their packs so people don’t mistake them for Americans. I’m not quite sure on how many levels I hate it but here’s what I feel; they put flags on their packs because for the first time ever they actually have a good national self esteem. Which is ironic because this new sense of national identity is still predicated on what America has done, and the fact that we’re not so popular right now, not for anything Canada has done. Canada is like the Democratic Party, they’re popular for nothing they’ve done, just that the Republicans have screwed up so much. Now I say they have just entered a new sense of self esteem because that is exactly true, Canadians have had self esteem issues for a long time, in fact their government even used public service announcements on TV to try and make them feel good about themselves. Like a, “Hey, you’re Canadian, and that’s really good…eh!” commercial before they watched an American show on TV. And now here they are, finally no longer the bitch of the Americas, and they can’t wait to take a piss on the USA. I still like Canada though and almost every Canadian I’ve met.
The hotel in Marrakech does not stock toilet paper so it was up to us to grab as much napkins and TP from other places during the day to use at night in the hotel. I actually looked around the stalls and saw no one selling TP. There were homeless kids selling travel sized tissues in the streets so I bought those on occasion but the best place to get TP was definitely at breakfast where they had a napkin dispenser on each table at our favorite omelet place with outdoor seating in the sun. So one night we were out of tissue and at about midnight I went out to the market area to see if I could find a kid selling tissues. Most shops were closed and no kids were out so I went to a food stall and asked a couple of the guys, whose job it is to stand there and shove a menu in your face and get you to sit at their stall and not one of the others right next to it that are essentially the same, if they had some napkins. One said sure and went over and grabbed me a piece of the deli paper they use when they serve food. Now I was tired at the time and had just been walking for 15 minutes looking for some freaking napkins so I said, “no, it’s to rough” they looked at me with some confusion so I said, in a tired drawl, “ I need it for my butt.” They looked at me like I was from another planet and one said, in a hilarious drawn out way, “Are you from Kentucky Fried Chicken?” I just smiled and walked away.
Dolce and Gabbana; yuck!
Could they make more hideous shit? Could European men dress more horribly? These are the questions I asked myself day in and day out while walking around Marrakech, One guy on a cell phone had a light blue shirt, tight, unbuttoned down to his navel with tacky gold chains and a hairy chest wearing painted on white pants with matching white leather shoes and a huge “DG” belt buckle leaping out over his pudgy stomach. I could not restrain myself from laughing out loud as I passed. These people dress like they’re in a gay American’s nightmare. I feel like I could go on for pages about this, and the fact, they think American style is hideous but I won’t. I’m just going to leave it there. Nothing to get mad about, these people look ridicules and that’s it. I never needed KC to help me mock a situation more in my whole life.
Oh, we went to the third largest mosque in the world while in Casablanca, to some other mosques, and an old palace in Marrakech, and a tomb or two as well. I’ve got pictures of all that touristy stuff that I’ll put up somewhere. Plus we took the Marrakech Express from Casablanca. Carolyn got a beautiful suede pullover with nice embroidery that a man was asking 800 dirhams for (1 to 8 exchange rate for US $ to DH) who we talked down to 130DH. Would never have been able to do it without our new Gambian haggle experience.
-
Saw a dog eating a dead elk from the train window as well as some dead animals hanging out a home window as we passed.
Saw a guy break his foot when a large cart blew over onto him by the food stalls, we dove at his papers that were flying everywhere while others went to him. He was carrying Suduko puzzles and was selling single cigs.
Saw a Bush chasing Bin Laden toy train set with Bush driving a tank with his head sticking out the top and Bin Laden on a cart just in front of him. It just went around and around. Metaphoric to say the least. I almost bought it but it was way too much.
Saw a little girl crying for her mom twice. I think it was a scam of some kind. Seriously, these 3 year olds are savvy in the market!
That’s about it. I took about 600 pictures and will show you each of them one by one till your eyes pop out. Just kidding, it was nice being able to take a picture without people yelling at you like they do here in Gambia. I don’t even take my camera out with me here, locals get really upset, I have a pic I’ll put up where one guy is doing just that. Sorry I haven’t put up any pics yet, but I have been taking them, and I will as soon as I can sit down and edit the good ones.
-BBB
The drive to Dakar was as expected and planned for; 7 hours in a small three row bus, 4 to a row, with extra sideways seating in the rear, enough for 5, plus the front window seat for two. We were 20 bouncing bodies tumbling over the bumps of the highway and then off-road when there were too many potholes to stay on the main road. It was quite the trip. Coming after the ferry across the Gambia River and a Taxi to the border it was a full day travel. Once out of the bus, we took a taxi to a Chinese restaurant and then one to the airport where we took the red eye to Casablanca getting there in the morning. We got a French breakfast and planned our next move.
Our next move was to splurge on a nice hotel and shower and watch TV. It was real nice, the shower was the first hot shower for Carolyn in 3 months and over a month for me. The TV was non-stop Benazir Bhutto coverage on the only two English speaking stations; CNN and BBC News. She was a wonderful leader and inspired many while she lived. In her death a nation was mourning, as played out on TV. Being the only story, the coverage became exhausting, I was really looking forward to some sports and end of the year recaps like news channels do. Not having TV for over a month and then only being able to see the same last minute clip of that guy with the gun in his hand was lame. I really feel like I suffered more than anyone else in the world due to the untimely passing of this political leader. Sure she was a female icon in the Muslim world and perhaps the one hope for Pakistan to scale back it’s extremist leanings in favor of a more democracy oriented system that would stand up to Al Queda and bring moderation to a country on the front lines in the battle on terror, but I wanted to see some NFL highlights! Really, is that too much to ask?
So I guessed we might as well leave the hotel and see some of this city since there was nothing good on TV. Casablanca, what a town! Buildings over two stories, power that stays on, Castle Beer “The Queen Of Beers”, it was great!
The Medina is the city center, it is the ancient city that was surrounded by a great wall for protection during antiquity, it has been the home to people for thousands of years, and it’s where you can get really good deals on black market DVD’s and hookahs. All the bigger cities in Morocco have Medinas and they are generally touristy type places but still house a great deal of people. Casablanca’s is pretty small but Marrakech’s Medina is huge with a large central square called the Jemma el Fina where for thousands of years people have come to trade and eat from the food stalls and see the snake charmers. Not a lot has changed in two thousand years, people still come from all over the world but now it’s less for Moroccan wool, glass and grain and more for rugs, hookahs, trinkets and Wayne Rooney jerseys. The Moroccan craftsmanship on these imported Chinese Manchester jerseys is staggering. The way they get the breast patch to look so real while misspelling van Nistelrooy is really something. Ok, so perhaps that’s a bit cynical, but let’s just say that there is plenty of stuff for western kids to grab up while mom and dad look for a rug.
I really loved both the cities we traveled to, We met some nice people and bought a beautiful lamp, ate in the food stalls. We met Ibrahm a guy who worked at a food stall, as well as his 4 other jobs, who liked to talk to us about anything but it was the best when we got into politics and exchanged the names of some political thinkers to read. He wrote down Samuel Huntington and Edward Said for me and I told him to read Chomsky and a few others. It is easy to see that most people I’ve met in my travels do not blame the average American for what Bush has done. Our reputation is not as sterling as it may have been pre-911 but people don’t put that on us. For some mentioning Bush was the first thing they did when we told them we were American. And some did even say, ‘Bush is Hitler’ but nobody at all got up in our face about it. It could have been due to the fact that as soon as they said ‘George Bush’ I said, “No, No, No please don’t associate us with him. He is not our country. Everyone hates him in America now” Or words to that effect. Also, when we actually talked for a while to people and let them know we were living in Gambia teaching West Africans they loved us. People are just friendly in general if you are friendly to them, and Americans on par are really nice people. Much nicer than Euro-trash, Dolce Gabbana fur coat wearing asses who don’t even look at the people who approach them or ask them for change. One day I said to Carolyn, lets pretend that we are from Canada today and then see what people think about Americans. I kept forgetting to do it though so I don’t have too much to report about the experiment. One time I said I was from Canada to a guy and asked if he liked it and he said, “I like Jim Carrey!” So do I my friend…so do I. Plus I couldn’t believe he knew where he was really from, I had forgotten myself. America is still the place where everyone has a relative and where many want to go if they can get a visa.
A Bit off the topic of Morocco but Canada patch wearing travelers really get my goat. You know this is what they do now, they wear a little Canada flag patch on their packs so people don’t mistake them for Americans. I’m not quite sure on how many levels I hate it but here’s what I feel; they put flags on their packs because for the first time ever they actually have a good national self esteem. Which is ironic because this new sense of national identity is still predicated on what America has done, and the fact that we’re not so popular right now, not for anything Canada has done. Canada is like the Democratic Party, they’re popular for nothing they’ve done, just that the Republicans have screwed up so much. Now I say they have just entered a new sense of self esteem because that is exactly true, Canadians have had self esteem issues for a long time, in fact their government even used public service announcements on TV to try and make them feel good about themselves. Like a, “Hey, you’re Canadian, and that’s really good…eh!” commercial before they watched an American show on TV. And now here they are, finally no longer the bitch of the Americas, and they can’t wait to take a piss on the USA. I still like Canada though and almost every Canadian I’ve met.
The hotel in Marrakech does not stock toilet paper so it was up to us to grab as much napkins and TP from other places during the day to use at night in the hotel. I actually looked around the stalls and saw no one selling TP. There were homeless kids selling travel sized tissues in the streets so I bought those on occasion but the best place to get TP was definitely at breakfast where they had a napkin dispenser on each table at our favorite omelet place with outdoor seating in the sun. So one night we were out of tissue and at about midnight I went out to the market area to see if I could find a kid selling tissues. Most shops were closed and no kids were out so I went to a food stall and asked a couple of the guys, whose job it is to stand there and shove a menu in your face and get you to sit at their stall and not one of the others right next to it that are essentially the same, if they had some napkins. One said sure and went over and grabbed me a piece of the deli paper they use when they serve food. Now I was tired at the time and had just been walking for 15 minutes looking for some freaking napkins so I said, “no, it’s to rough” they looked at me with some confusion so I said, in a tired drawl, “ I need it for my butt.” They looked at me like I was from another planet and one said, in a hilarious drawn out way, “Are you from Kentucky Fried Chicken?” I just smiled and walked away.
Dolce and Gabbana; yuck!
Could they make more hideous shit? Could European men dress more horribly? These are the questions I asked myself day in and day out while walking around Marrakech, One guy on a cell phone had a light blue shirt, tight, unbuttoned down to his navel with tacky gold chains and a hairy chest wearing painted on white pants with matching white leather shoes and a huge “DG” belt buckle leaping out over his pudgy stomach. I could not restrain myself from laughing out loud as I passed. These people dress like they’re in a gay American’s nightmare. I feel like I could go on for pages about this, and the fact, they think American style is hideous but I won’t. I’m just going to leave it there. Nothing to get mad about, these people look ridicules and that’s it. I never needed KC to help me mock a situation more in my whole life.
Oh, we went to the third largest mosque in the world while in Casablanca, to some other mosques, and an old palace in Marrakech, and a tomb or two as well. I’ve got pictures of all that touristy stuff that I’ll put up somewhere. Plus we took the Marrakech Express from Casablanca. Carolyn got a beautiful suede pullover with nice embroidery that a man was asking 800 dirhams for (1 to 8 exchange rate for US $ to DH) who we talked down to 130DH. Would never have been able to do it without our new Gambian haggle experience.
-
Saw a dog eating a dead elk from the train window as well as some dead animals hanging out a home window as we passed.
Saw a guy break his foot when a large cart blew over onto him by the food stalls, we dove at his papers that were flying everywhere while others went to him. He was carrying Suduko puzzles and was selling single cigs.
Saw a Bush chasing Bin Laden toy train set with Bush driving a tank with his head sticking out the top and Bin Laden on a cart just in front of him. It just went around and around. Metaphoric to say the least. I almost bought it but it was way too much.
Saw a little girl crying for her mom twice. I think it was a scam of some kind. Seriously, these 3 year olds are savvy in the market!
That’s about it. I took about 600 pictures and will show you each of them one by one till your eyes pop out. Just kidding, it was nice being able to take a picture without people yelling at you like they do here in Gambia. I don’t even take my camera out with me here, locals get really upset, I have a pic I’ll put up where one guy is doing just that. Sorry I haven’t put up any pics yet, but I have been taking them, and I will as soon as I can sit down and edit the good ones.
-BBB
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Still No TV
No big deal. I don’t need to watch the last half season of Chuck, the show about a nerd who gets all the CIA files ever written downloaded into his brain where he then ‘flashes’ through them when he sees a trigger, like a spy walking out a bathroom or something. He has a cute sister who was on Scrubs too. And why would I need to see the very last season of Scrubs anyway? I’ve only seen every single episode of the show, through the help of Comedy Central reruns. And who needs John Stewart and Colbert to entertain me every for that matter? I think I had only seen like 98% of the Colbert Report since it started so there should be no withdraw from that at all. It’s not like I’m dreaming of Jennifer Love Hewitt’s cleveland’s in Ghost Whisperer or anything. I swear she’s in a baby doll nightie through two thirds of that show. How they manage to get the plot into her house at night every single week I have no idea…I digress. I don’t even care what happens to the gang on LOST. I barely even pay attention when it’s on, who needs to see if Freckles gets her name cleared when coming back from the Island as is hinted in the episode where they are saved from the island but you don’t know it till the end. It’s not like I watched 8 hours of TV a day, 10 if something good was on, on my HD TV with Tivo so I could record all the episodes of 30 Rock, the best new show on TV and maybe the best period, you can catch half the season or more on NBC.com right now if you’re not caught up. Give it a try!
What I’m saying is, it doesn’t affect me at all. I’m not curled up in the fetal position on my bed longing to see what madcap, painfully embarrassing position Michael (Steve Carrell) will put the Office in this week. It’s not like I’ve been watching that show since it’s BBC incarnation or anything. My Name Is Earl? How about My Name Is I Don’t Care If Earl Gets Out Of Prison This Season or If I Find Out Why Crab Man Went Into The Witness Protection Program.
And who gives a crap that this is a record breaking year in the NFL, Just cause Farve is the best football player to play in my generation and he’s having a beauty of a season, and the Pats are undefeated and I’m in the finals of my fantasy league. It’s not like I loved spending all day with my laptop churning stats while I stared transfixed at the games like Bart sat glued to the TV in the episode where they steal cable and he sees his first pair of boobies on a late night movie channel, like I did. “Bart you shouldn’t watch that, that’s for mommies and daddies who love each other,” says Homer when he catches him frantically flipping to the farm report.
Oh, wait, there’s a writers Strike? God bless those unions and their commie agenda. Cool, hopefully it will last till about mid June.
What I’m saying is, it doesn’t affect me at all. I’m not curled up in the fetal position on my bed longing to see what madcap, painfully embarrassing position Michael (Steve Carrell) will put the Office in this week. It’s not like I’ve been watching that show since it’s BBC incarnation or anything. My Name Is Earl? How about My Name Is I Don’t Care If Earl Gets Out Of Prison This Season or If I Find Out Why Crab Man Went Into The Witness Protection Program.
And who gives a crap that this is a record breaking year in the NFL, Just cause Farve is the best football player to play in my generation and he’s having a beauty of a season, and the Pats are undefeated and I’m in the finals of my fantasy league. It’s not like I loved spending all day with my laptop churning stats while I stared transfixed at the games like Bart sat glued to the TV in the episode where they steal cable and he sees his first pair of boobies on a late night movie channel, like I did. “Bart you shouldn’t watch that, that’s for mommies and daddies who love each other,” says Homer when he catches him frantically flipping to the farm report.
Oh, wait, there’s a writers Strike? God bless those unions and their commie agenda. Cool, hopefully it will last till about mid June.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Food
Obviously I should start with the fish. The fish is so good here, caught hours before you buy it. They have Lady Fish, cousin to the Tarpon found in America, a thin, delicate white fish that is usually fried in a pan with an oil sauce. They use a lot of oil in Gambia. Then there is Butter Fish a small flounderesque shaped fish that is used pretty much interchangeably with Butter Fish as the two are cheaper fish compared to the wonderful Barracuda. A strong swimming big boy that has a tuna like texture, barracuda is so good. I like it with just a little lemon or like they make it at this one place called Sailors that fries them with a breading. I’m going to try smoking it in the near future. There will be more to come on fish as I plan to cook it often. Shrimp is also abundant here, we made it last week. We had to cut the heads off and peel them, then deturd them, and then wash and cook them. They were fantastic. Carolyn made a delicious oil and lemon sauce and we fried the shrimp with ham squeezings and oil, combined it with bits of ham, pasta and veggies and then her sauce. When we cook we always make really great food. I made French Tapalapa again and it was even better than before.
The main local food is Benachin, which you make with anything you have around cooked with rice and seasonings in a real big pan, about 2 to 3 feet in diameter over a fire. Fish heads, minced meat (ground beef) chicken, anything and everything. Then everybody just sits around and eats it right out of the pan. It’s really good. Then there is Chicken Yassa, Sometimes served as Fish Yassa. It’s an onion based sauce over grilled chicken. Yassa is my favorite local dish. Afra is meat on a stick that Carolyn likes however, I haven’t worked up the courage to eat it yet. There is some other local food but those are the main ones. And of course my Tapalapa from across the street.
Foreigners have brought a great deal of food along with them. There are Lebanese places and several high quality Indian places. As well as a pizza joint or two. Pretty much everything in the tourist areas serves the same stuff with their twists to it. Some places are much better than others. This being a tourist area for mostly the Gambia’s former colonial power, Great Britain, means everything is served with chips (French Fries (Freedom Fries)), which is nice because I wholly enjoy the fried potato. And of course there is the Traditional English Breakfast, so named because it is always the same; fried eggs, bacon (fried ham NOT bacon), sausage link, fried tomato, and baked beans. I had it in Manchester, on the plane and here last year. Hold the beans if you don’t mind, old boy.
Cheers
-BBB
The main local food is Benachin, which you make with anything you have around cooked with rice and seasonings in a real big pan, about 2 to 3 feet in diameter over a fire. Fish heads, minced meat (ground beef) chicken, anything and everything. Then everybody just sits around and eats it right out of the pan. It’s really good. Then there is Chicken Yassa, Sometimes served as Fish Yassa. It’s an onion based sauce over grilled chicken. Yassa is my favorite local dish. Afra is meat on a stick that Carolyn likes however, I haven’t worked up the courage to eat it yet. There is some other local food but those are the main ones. And of course my Tapalapa from across the street.
Foreigners have brought a great deal of food along with them. There are Lebanese places and several high quality Indian places. As well as a pizza joint or two. Pretty much everything in the tourist areas serves the same stuff with their twists to it. Some places are much better than others. This being a tourist area for mostly the Gambia’s former colonial power, Great Britain, means everything is served with chips (French Fries (Freedom Fries)), which is nice because I wholly enjoy the fried potato. And of course there is the Traditional English Breakfast, so named because it is always the same; fried eggs, bacon (fried ham NOT bacon), sausage link, fried tomato, and baked beans. I had it in Manchester, on the plane and here last year. Hold the beans if you don’t mind, old boy.
Cheers
-BBB
Disparity
I’ve decided I’m going to try to come to some understanding about the disparity between poor and rich. It’s confusing me to no end. There are desperately poor people here and there are people who are making plenty of money and living very well. There is not much of a middle class from what I understand. I’m pretty sure the middle class, if one really exists, lives much like the poor but with nicer clothes, better mobile phones, and cooler American thingamgigs. I’ve really only made some observations at this point but from other foreigners, like me, I have talked to they seem to be as confused as I am.
We live in a two-story apartment next to a main road, Garba Jumpa Road. However, in between the road and us is a tin shack, no kitchen, bathroom or sanitation to be found. They cook on wood burning stoves and they defecate in the corner, as best I can tell, near the water spicket and drain. It smells so bad it swoops in our windows during a certain breeze. I have to shut the windows or else I’ll want to retch. It’s a thin, filtered and diffused smell. It’s sweet with an under layer of shit, almost unnoticeable at first. After I breathe in heavy to try and figure out what I’m smelling that under layer hits me and it’s, ‘hello, Mr. ass balls!’
Just now a newish Isuzu Trooper 4-wheel drive just drove by on our side street. Right by outdoor bathroom and off to their, most likely, nice house. Probably with A/C. Down the street is an enterprise (business) that always has a BMW 315i with after market rims and paint that in the states would cost an easy four grand alone. And next to that is a C Class Mercedes, decked all the way out. As best as I can tell, it’s a travel agency. I have seen, as early as today, kids grabbing at used plastic forks and cups next to African men drinking Julbrew (local beer) and laughing. It’s not much different than most developing countries I suppose. Years ago I saw a little boy half naked in Mexico literally scrubbing out a cardboard McDonalds cup, shoeless in the middle of a dirt street, San Diego in the background. I just don’t see how so much enterprise can be going on with so much poverty at the same time, and so much indifference.
Today we went to a trade fair in the parking lot of the sports stadium. Most of what’s valuable in the Gambia was represented. LG had a big booth, Flat screens and dishwashers. Cutting edge products from a world leader in cutting edge crap. There was a booth with Nigerian pharmacists selling local, natural products for life. There was a packet of Man Power for low sperm count that had, ‘Lot of Sperm’ written on the side, amongst many others. That booth was very busy with locals. There were booths with local crafts, Muslim crafts, bottled water, and bucket supplies. Buckets are necessities in countries, like Gambia, where the water goes out all the time. (Today we have no water) We bought a new washing bucket for laundry today to replace the cracked tubs we had. There was a model home set up as well, very small, with five jet showerheads costing 5,600 dalasi ($300). Chamber of Commerce had a booth, as well as many other business groups. Lots of stuff was there. From motorcycles to fabric to the Port Authority, all was represented. It’s simply amazing to see the modern aspects of life juxtaposed with such subsistence living.
Speaking of which, I belong to The Fajara Club now. It’s a country club with a pool and tennis courts, oh yeah, and an 18 hole golf course. It’s pretty cheap to join but its members are overwhelmingly foreign like us. It reminds me of a movie about British colonialism that shows a British hunting club smack in the middle of a village, or a ‘civilized’ pub on the Congo River that’s built by and for the whites. I love the club, they actually have a shower and I love to swim during a hot day. Like I said, it’s hard to wrap my brain around the disparity here. I think I’ll play golf this week. We have such nice caddies at the club. Maybe I can meet someone there who wants to help me open my diamond mine. I jest, but just barely, because I feel like I could go either way. Like someone was saying, “when you have the means you get nice things for yourself.” No matter if your neighbor shits in pile in the corner of their yard.
In America the middle class represents the vast majority of the country, shrinking though it is. In Africa the poor represent an overwhelming majority which puts it right in your face, everywhere you look. So Perhaps a brand new Cadillac Sedan Deville driving down my road, like I saw last night, looks out of place where it might not look so while driving through Springfield, VA past the billiards and bar stool store. But right next to that store, where it’s not easy to see, is an apartment complex that is famous for immigrants living eight to an apartment situated well below the poverty line. So there it is, out of site; out of mind. Out in my face; all I can think about. I wonder for how long though. When will the poverty become so commonplace that I don’t think twice about it? I hope soon. (kidding) I do want to become desensitized to the shit smell though, like Carolyn has. That would be nice. I haven’t decided what I can do yet to help in even a small capacity. Aid programs have been shown to almost cause as much harm as they do good, becoming expected handouts and not addressing root causes or issues that Africa is in desperate need of. Plus aid workers are kinda assholes. Holier than thou dicks who rotate in for a few years and don’t see the long view of what they’re doing, which is tantamount to a band-aid on a bullet wound. But they do have foreign money and foreign 4X4’s and they’re out here doing something. And something has to be better than nothing, doesn’t it? But not right now, it’s time for a dip in the pool.
-BBB
We live in a two-story apartment next to a main road, Garba Jumpa Road. However, in between the road and us is a tin shack, no kitchen, bathroom or sanitation to be found. They cook on wood burning stoves and they defecate in the corner, as best I can tell, near the water spicket and drain. It smells so bad it swoops in our windows during a certain breeze. I have to shut the windows or else I’ll want to retch. It’s a thin, filtered and diffused smell. It’s sweet with an under layer of shit, almost unnoticeable at first. After I breathe in heavy to try and figure out what I’m smelling that under layer hits me and it’s, ‘hello, Mr. ass balls!’
Just now a newish Isuzu Trooper 4-wheel drive just drove by on our side street. Right by outdoor bathroom and off to their, most likely, nice house. Probably with A/C. Down the street is an enterprise (business) that always has a BMW 315i with after market rims and paint that in the states would cost an easy four grand alone. And next to that is a C Class Mercedes, decked all the way out. As best as I can tell, it’s a travel agency. I have seen, as early as today, kids grabbing at used plastic forks and cups next to African men drinking Julbrew (local beer) and laughing. It’s not much different than most developing countries I suppose. Years ago I saw a little boy half naked in Mexico literally scrubbing out a cardboard McDonalds cup, shoeless in the middle of a dirt street, San Diego in the background. I just don’t see how so much enterprise can be going on with so much poverty at the same time, and so much indifference.
Today we went to a trade fair in the parking lot of the sports stadium. Most of what’s valuable in the Gambia was represented. LG had a big booth, Flat screens and dishwashers. Cutting edge products from a world leader in cutting edge crap. There was a booth with Nigerian pharmacists selling local, natural products for life. There was a packet of Man Power for low sperm count that had, ‘Lot of Sperm’ written on the side, amongst many others. That booth was very busy with locals. There were booths with local crafts, Muslim crafts, bottled water, and bucket supplies. Buckets are necessities in countries, like Gambia, where the water goes out all the time. (Today we have no water) We bought a new washing bucket for laundry today to replace the cracked tubs we had. There was a model home set up as well, very small, with five jet showerheads costing 5,600 dalasi ($300). Chamber of Commerce had a booth, as well as many other business groups. Lots of stuff was there. From motorcycles to fabric to the Port Authority, all was represented. It’s simply amazing to see the modern aspects of life juxtaposed with such subsistence living.
Speaking of which, I belong to The Fajara Club now. It’s a country club with a pool and tennis courts, oh yeah, and an 18 hole golf course. It’s pretty cheap to join but its members are overwhelmingly foreign like us. It reminds me of a movie about British colonialism that shows a British hunting club smack in the middle of a village, or a ‘civilized’ pub on the Congo River that’s built by and for the whites. I love the club, they actually have a shower and I love to swim during a hot day. Like I said, it’s hard to wrap my brain around the disparity here. I think I’ll play golf this week. We have such nice caddies at the club. Maybe I can meet someone there who wants to help me open my diamond mine. I jest, but just barely, because I feel like I could go either way. Like someone was saying, “when you have the means you get nice things for yourself.” No matter if your neighbor shits in pile in the corner of their yard.
In America the middle class represents the vast majority of the country, shrinking though it is. In Africa the poor represent an overwhelming majority which puts it right in your face, everywhere you look. So Perhaps a brand new Cadillac Sedan Deville driving down my road, like I saw last night, looks out of place where it might not look so while driving through Springfield, VA past the billiards and bar stool store. But right next to that store, where it’s not easy to see, is an apartment complex that is famous for immigrants living eight to an apartment situated well below the poverty line. So there it is, out of site; out of mind. Out in my face; all I can think about. I wonder for how long though. When will the poverty become so commonplace that I don’t think twice about it? I hope soon. (kidding) I do want to become desensitized to the shit smell though, like Carolyn has. That would be nice. I haven’t decided what I can do yet to help in even a small capacity. Aid programs have been shown to almost cause as much harm as they do good, becoming expected handouts and not addressing root causes or issues that Africa is in desperate need of. Plus aid workers are kinda assholes. Holier than thou dicks who rotate in for a few years and don’t see the long view of what they’re doing, which is tantamount to a band-aid on a bullet wound. But they do have foreign money and foreign 4X4’s and they’re out here doing something. And something has to be better than nothing, doesn’t it? But not right now, it’s time for a dip in the pool.
-BBB
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
How We Get Around
There are buses and two types of taxis in The Gambia along with two different ways of taking the standard taxi. The standard taxi is yellow, generally a Mercedes, smells of ganja (weed) and the windows usually don’t have handles on them. You can have this taxi take you anywhere, within reason, on what is known as a Town Trip for 50 Dalasi (just over $2) for the whole car no matter how many passengers. Or you can pick up a cab already going in a certain direction and hop in with other passengers for 5 dalasi (25 cents) each. This way the taxi will pull over for passengers and pull over when asked. This is the one we use the most. I wave down a taxi it pulls over and if someone is already in it then I simply ask if they’re going the way I want to go, “Westfield?” If there is no one riding already you must ask them, “Westfield for 5 Dalasi?” to which he may reply, “No, only Town Trip.” or “Ok.” And then you say no thanks and keep looking or hop in. The town trip rides are nice at night coming home from dinner or when you have to go somewhere of the normal path of the four main roads around this area. (Not very often)
Taxis and buses will always go the same way from where you get in, so if you are in Serrekunda and ask for Bakau, the cab will always go down Kariba Avenue and turn right on Garba Jahumpa Road (our road) heading to Bakau. So you don’t have to give any further directions once inside.
The other day we paid 100 Dalasi for the taxi to take us to two grocery stores and to the fruit and vegetable market and then back home again. We were loaded down with groceries and water so the only way to do it in one big trip is to hire for and hour or so. That is negotiated with the driver at the time. He took us to the stores, which are across the road from each other, and waited. When we were done in one store we put our stuff in the back of the car and went in the other store, safe in the knowledge that he would not be driving off with our groceries or anything of the sort. I’m not sure yet if it’s a cultural thing, or a Muslim thing, or a tribal thing, or a combination of all, but people are honest here. Or maybe we haven’t been had yet but Carolyn has been here for over a year now and this is how it seems to be. There is, simply put, no car theft in this country and a group of big guys heading toward you at night will pass you and say, “Hi, happy couple. How’s your day?” Anyway, after the second store it was off to the market and then back home returning as the sky was getting dark so the driver stayed, with his lights on, long enough for us to get our gate door opened up.
The Tourist taxis are painted green and only do town trips for 3 to 6 times more than yellow cabs and only the tourists take them. They are only in the resort areas when looking for fares and are the only cabs allowed to service several of the resort strips. It’s said that they are nicer kept than the yellow cabs but I’ve never been in one.
Buses are Toyota minivans from the early 90’s. Remember those ones with the driver’s seat in front of the front tire, kinda look like VW vans? They fit 11 passengers a driver and a fare collector/pitch man. A skinny kid, always a skinny kid, sits in a make shift seat by the sliding door and yells out the window at people on the street letting them know where we are going. Today I hailed one (there are no bus stops, you just flag em down like a cab) and got the very last seat in the back row. The lady in front of me had to get out so I could get in and as I squeezed my huge American frame through this tiny van to the back left corner I slid my right butt cheek right across this nice young lady’s shoulder. I finally landed in my seat, patted her shoulder with my hand and told her I was sorry, to which she just smiled, laughed and said, “No problem.” Once I had my legs turned in front of me my knees were up to my chest and slammed into the next row in front of me. I couldn’t reach my hands into my pocket for the fare without some serious wrenching around.
We’re getting a car after Christmas, maybe before.
Taxis and buses will always go the same way from where you get in, so if you are in Serrekunda and ask for Bakau, the cab will always go down Kariba Avenue and turn right on Garba Jahumpa Road (our road) heading to Bakau. So you don’t have to give any further directions once inside.
The other day we paid 100 Dalasi for the taxi to take us to two grocery stores and to the fruit and vegetable market and then back home again. We were loaded down with groceries and water so the only way to do it in one big trip is to hire for and hour or so. That is negotiated with the driver at the time. He took us to the stores, which are across the road from each other, and waited. When we were done in one store we put our stuff in the back of the car and went in the other store, safe in the knowledge that he would not be driving off with our groceries or anything of the sort. I’m not sure yet if it’s a cultural thing, or a Muslim thing, or a tribal thing, or a combination of all, but people are honest here. Or maybe we haven’t been had yet but Carolyn has been here for over a year now and this is how it seems to be. There is, simply put, no car theft in this country and a group of big guys heading toward you at night will pass you and say, “Hi, happy couple. How’s your day?” Anyway, after the second store it was off to the market and then back home returning as the sky was getting dark so the driver stayed, with his lights on, long enough for us to get our gate door opened up.
The Tourist taxis are painted green and only do town trips for 3 to 6 times more than yellow cabs and only the tourists take them. They are only in the resort areas when looking for fares and are the only cabs allowed to service several of the resort strips. It’s said that they are nicer kept than the yellow cabs but I’ve never been in one.
Buses are Toyota minivans from the early 90’s. Remember those ones with the driver’s seat in front of the front tire, kinda look like VW vans? They fit 11 passengers a driver and a fare collector/pitch man. A skinny kid, always a skinny kid, sits in a make shift seat by the sliding door and yells out the window at people on the street letting them know where we are going. Today I hailed one (there are no bus stops, you just flag em down like a cab) and got the very last seat in the back row. The lady in front of me had to get out so I could get in and as I squeezed my huge American frame through this tiny van to the back left corner I slid my right butt cheek right across this nice young lady’s shoulder. I finally landed in my seat, patted her shoulder with my hand and told her I was sorry, to which she just smiled, laughed and said, “No problem.” Once I had my legs turned in front of me my knees were up to my chest and slammed into the next row in front of me. I couldn’t reach my hands into my pocket for the fare without some serious wrenching around.
We’re getting a car after Christmas, maybe before.
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