A foundation is being laid. Into the scoop goes the gravel, sand, mix and water which gets picked up by a hydraulic scoop and thrown into the tumbler. The sand pile sits outside the compound with three people working that area, two young men to shovel sand into a wheelbarrow and one who hauls it around to the scoop attached to the mixer. The gravel pile sits right next to the mixer with two men filling a wheelbarrow and pouring it into the scoop. The bag of mix sits on the other side of the mixer and one guy cuts it open pours it in with the sand, another oversees the operation of the mixer and pours out the cement.
Poured into a wheelbarrow fleet the cement is taken to large holes, the size and depth of a grave. A tree trunk made of rebar extends out of the holes where two men wait for the next load of fresh cement. Like most daily operations in Gambia it’s a symphony of human movement. Each participant filling a vital link in a tremendously long series of events that will culminate in a new building right across from my window where I sit and type, right in front of me, right now. I don’t know when this new building will completely block my view of the road, like the one that just went up right outside the other window in this room, and despite the noise, I will enjoy watching as much of the process as I can. The loss of the view to the road will be tragic though. I have spent so much time sitting here watching the world outside my window. Soon much of that view will be completely blocked. I may have to move the table in the dining area where I can still see our junction.
More rebar just pulled up in a small pickup truck and is now sitting idle waiting to be unloaded. Two men are wrestling in the sand pile, laughing while they wait for their friend to come back with an empty receptacle, to be filled again. As I made some corrections in the paragraph above the rebar trunks were unloaded, the truck is gone and the load is being moved about the site, one per hole. The scoop just lifted a fresh recipe to be mixed. The wheelbarrow full of sand just spilled and must be refilled again. It’s done so with a smile and a laugh, all day long.
BBB
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Holding Cell
In The Gambia you must go to a local police station to apply for a driver’s license. I was told to go to the station near the beach and fish market in the resort area of Cape Point. This is just past the Internet café that advertises, “Probably one of the best Internet cafés in Gambia,” I love that sign. At least they’re being honest, but come on guys, sell yourselves a little!
I entered into the station immediately into a room that was divided in half with a holding cell on the right, and a long counter from the cage to the wall on the left. There were about five men in the cell, which extended all the way to the front wall. Upon entering I was standing right next to cell and the people locked up at the same time I was at the counter being helped. In my opinion this is an odd way to set up a room with a holding cell, however, the proximity to the front for the inmates could have some reason for which I just don’t know, and hopefully won’t find out. I asked a young man behind the counter, not wearing a uniform, if I could apply for a license. While answering me a man in the cell started trying to get my attention by whistling at me and saying hey. I was perplexed, I don’t like to ignore people and this young man was trying to get my attention. I decided to talk to the officer instead of trying to carry on two conversations at the same time, one with a policeman and one with a convict.
As I began to respond to the officer who was telling me I was at the wrong station the boy quickly shouted out, “Can you bring us some food?” Now that was a leap! I looked over at him, back to the man behind the counter, and back to the guy in the cell, and then I started to chuckle. I did a real life double take. It was quite confusing for a second, which gave way to humor as I thanked the man behind the counter and laughed as I ran out of there.
I wonder what he was in for, I wonder if the cop slammed a nightstick on the cell and told them to shut up when he was talking, like in a movie. I should have stopped and asked him to tell me his story, but I wanted to get the license done before we left for Casamance and getting anything done here takes five trips so I just had to leave and go to the other station, which had a line out the door for licenses so I gave up utterly defeated. We rode to Casamance anyway and I just used my American license the few times I was asked and everything was fine. On a hot day everything is fine if you just smile a lot and act like you don’t understand, which is good, because most of the time I don’t.
BBB
I entered into the station immediately into a room that was divided in half with a holding cell on the right, and a long counter from the cage to the wall on the left. There were about five men in the cell, which extended all the way to the front wall. Upon entering I was standing right next to cell and the people locked up at the same time I was at the counter being helped. In my opinion this is an odd way to set up a room with a holding cell, however, the proximity to the front for the inmates could have some reason for which I just don’t know, and hopefully won’t find out. I asked a young man behind the counter, not wearing a uniform, if I could apply for a license. While answering me a man in the cell started trying to get my attention by whistling at me and saying hey. I was perplexed, I don’t like to ignore people and this young man was trying to get my attention. I decided to talk to the officer instead of trying to carry on two conversations at the same time, one with a policeman and one with a convict.
As I began to respond to the officer who was telling me I was at the wrong station the boy quickly shouted out, “Can you bring us some food?” Now that was a leap! I looked over at him, back to the man behind the counter, and back to the guy in the cell, and then I started to chuckle. I did a real life double take. It was quite confusing for a second, which gave way to humor as I thanked the man behind the counter and laughed as I ran out of there.
I wonder what he was in for, I wonder if the cop slammed a nightstick on the cell and told them to shut up when he was talking, like in a movie. I should have stopped and asked him to tell me his story, but I wanted to get the license done before we left for Casamance and getting anything done here takes five trips so I just had to leave and go to the other station, which had a line out the door for licenses so I gave up utterly defeated. We rode to Casamance anyway and I just used my American license the few times I was asked and everything was fine. On a hot day everything is fine if you just smile a lot and act like you don’t understand, which is good, because most of the time I don’t.
BBB
Holes
The compound across from my window used to be the site and home of a mechanic, with cars and buses coming and going all the time. It’s about a sixth of an acre walled off with a house at one end and a very large yard facing the main road. One day last week a group of men came in the yard with shovels and began digging holes. Four rows of eight holes each situated in what looked like cemetery plots. I said to Carolyn, “They’re building a cemetery across the street. That’s going to be creepy watching funerals outside our window. Maybe we can videotape them or something.”
The next day I saw a truck come and unload a very large amount of gravel and the obvious dawned on me. The owner must have seen that dirt currently costs more than gravel, so he will dig up the dirt in his yard to sell and replace it with gravel, where it can sit until gravel futures improve and can be sold for cheaper filler, like sand or cork. It’s an inspired plan; exactly what I would have done. But as the days passed I saw that wasn’t it either. He never hauled off the dirt and he never filled in the holes with the gravel, it just sat there.
The other day a truck came by outside the wall and dumped a huge amount of sand. This now represents a second filler where only one was needed in the first place, and yet the holes remain empty! Now they’ve punched a hole in the wall of the compound and are moving equipment inside. I’m hereby at a loss for what could be happening inside this compound. I can’t even guess as to what they could be planning. If only I could think outside the box. That’s it! Perhaps they’re making molds for boxes, small building-like boxes, to hold trinkets and personal items. Seems like a lot of work for just that. It’s most likely something else entirely.
The next day I saw a truck come and unload a very large amount of gravel and the obvious dawned on me. The owner must have seen that dirt currently costs more than gravel, so he will dig up the dirt in his yard to sell and replace it with gravel, where it can sit until gravel futures improve and can be sold for cheaper filler, like sand or cork. It’s an inspired plan; exactly what I would have done. But as the days passed I saw that wasn’t it either. He never hauled off the dirt and he never filled in the holes with the gravel, it just sat there.
The other day a truck came by outside the wall and dumped a huge amount of sand. This now represents a second filler where only one was needed in the first place, and yet the holes remain empty! Now they’ve punched a hole in the wall of the compound and are moving equipment inside. I’m hereby at a loss for what could be happening inside this compound. I can’t even guess as to what they could be planning. If only I could think outside the box. That’s it! Perhaps they’re making molds for boxes, small building-like boxes, to hold trinkets and personal items. Seems like a lot of work for just that. It’s most likely something else entirely.
A Day In The Life
Life is settling in to a predictable groove at this point here in Gambia and I’m getting used to the way life is lived here. At this point I don’t even heat water anymore for my bucket showers. Bucket showers are how we bathe most of the time. Water is not always on and even when it is the pressure is not very good. The water will come out of the faucet but doesn’t have the power to travel the rest of the way up the one-meter tube to come out the showerhead. You can hear it struggling to climb up to glory but it falls short usually with me saying something like, “come on baby, come on…give me some, gimmie some!” However, when pressure is good I love to take cold dripping showers, it comes so close to reminding me of home, and then doesn’t.
I often get up when Carolyn rises to heat some water for her morning bucket and to make her lunch for the day while she is getting ready for work. Then I see her off and will take my shower or perhaps go back to bed for a while. I usually can’t sleep after I get up in the morning so I will often read in bed or simply start my day writing, which I try to do a few hours a day or more. Sometimes I slack off. [hold for laugh]
Once I have bathed and eaten I usually attend to the water necessities of the day. That is the boiling of the drinking water and the filling of the buckets, as well as any dishes that might need cleaning from the night before or breakfast. The water, when on, will only last for the morning so I really need to make sure I get everything squared away before the water is finished. We have three buckets, the largest being just over knee high and stays in the shower room for use there. All showering, hand washing and teeth brushing is done from that bucket when the water is off. The only non-boiled water I put near my mouth is from that bucket when I brush my teeth, but I never swallow. It is a bit off-putting to brush my teeth from the same bucket that I shower from. Every once in a while I will notice soap dripping into it when I scoop the next cup out of it. And I’m sure water whisks off me and back into the bucket when I’m bathing every so often. The next bucket is about half the size of the shower one and rests in the kitchen for use in all water related kitchen activity. I get the water for boiling, cooking and washing dishes from it. It’s the one we keep the cleanest, always washing it out and filling it when it’s completely empty so as to avoid the settling of particles at the bottom, which we have noticed before. Personally I want to get a bigger one for the kitchen and then use this one as a separate, hand and mouth only, bathroom sink bucket. That would make this OCD sufferer a little happier. The last of our buckets is situated in the water closet (toilet only room separate from the shower and sink room). It is the exact size to refill an empty toilet when we have flushed, when the water is off, and find ourselves needing to flush again before the water comes back on. There is a joy of filling a toilet at three in the morning just so I can flush it again and it's something one really needs to experience for their self. Needless to say we are a ‘if it’s yellow let it mellow’ family here in The Gambia, which everyone should be in this crazy world of over population and wasted resources. I’ve never been less wasteful in my life than I am now living in Africa with the world-class poverty everywhere around us.
So now I’m clean, the water is boiling and our buckets are full. Carolyn has long since left for school and I find myself alone until about 3:30. This is usually when I will do my writing, as well as late at night. Sometimes I go outside. Hey, I’m in Africa so I better get out and do stuff or else I might as well be back in America sitting around all day. I love to go to the beach, which is a 14-minute walk from our apartment. Or I might walk to the pool and swim laps. (I am exercising a lot now) Often there is some shopping or errands to run as well during the day, like today when I went, early in the morning, to a photo lab to get pictures for my residency card and then to the police station to apply for a driver’s license. And then to the other police station where all the applications are taken, every task here takes more than one trip or phone call, or location diverted to. It took six trips over three days to the phone company to figure out our internet bill, pay it, and then have it reconnected after we found out we never paid a different, separately billed, fee for over a year.
By the time I’ve done my errands for the day it’s usually near 3:30. I try and make sure I’m home when Carolyn gets off work because we love each other very much and want to smooch and hold each other. After this we might have made previous plans to go to the pool/gym or we might have some shopping to do. Or we might just hang around home, watch movies on the laptop, and do what needs to be done here. Dinner is a particularly special time for us because we love to cook together and have been making some unbelievable food lately. But that is another story.
BBB
I often get up when Carolyn rises to heat some water for her morning bucket and to make her lunch for the day while she is getting ready for work. Then I see her off and will take my shower or perhaps go back to bed for a while. I usually can’t sleep after I get up in the morning so I will often read in bed or simply start my day writing, which I try to do a few hours a day or more. Sometimes I slack off. [hold for laugh]
Once I have bathed and eaten I usually attend to the water necessities of the day. That is the boiling of the drinking water and the filling of the buckets, as well as any dishes that might need cleaning from the night before or breakfast. The water, when on, will only last for the morning so I really need to make sure I get everything squared away before the water is finished. We have three buckets, the largest being just over knee high and stays in the shower room for use there. All showering, hand washing and teeth brushing is done from that bucket when the water is off. The only non-boiled water I put near my mouth is from that bucket when I brush my teeth, but I never swallow. It is a bit off-putting to brush my teeth from the same bucket that I shower from. Every once in a while I will notice soap dripping into it when I scoop the next cup out of it. And I’m sure water whisks off me and back into the bucket when I’m bathing every so often. The next bucket is about half the size of the shower one and rests in the kitchen for use in all water related kitchen activity. I get the water for boiling, cooking and washing dishes from it. It’s the one we keep the cleanest, always washing it out and filling it when it’s completely empty so as to avoid the settling of particles at the bottom, which we have noticed before. Personally I want to get a bigger one for the kitchen and then use this one as a separate, hand and mouth only, bathroom sink bucket. That would make this OCD sufferer a little happier. The last of our buckets is situated in the water closet (toilet only room separate from the shower and sink room). It is the exact size to refill an empty toilet when we have flushed, when the water is off, and find ourselves needing to flush again before the water comes back on. There is a joy of filling a toilet at three in the morning just so I can flush it again and it's something one really needs to experience for their self. Needless to say we are a ‘if it’s yellow let it mellow’ family here in The Gambia, which everyone should be in this crazy world of over population and wasted resources. I’ve never been less wasteful in my life than I am now living in Africa with the world-class poverty everywhere around us.
So now I’m clean, the water is boiling and our buckets are full. Carolyn has long since left for school and I find myself alone until about 3:30. This is usually when I will do my writing, as well as late at night. Sometimes I go outside. Hey, I’m in Africa so I better get out and do stuff or else I might as well be back in America sitting around all day. I love to go to the beach, which is a 14-minute walk from our apartment. Or I might walk to the pool and swim laps. (I am exercising a lot now) Often there is some shopping or errands to run as well during the day, like today when I went, early in the morning, to a photo lab to get pictures for my residency card and then to the police station to apply for a driver’s license. And then to the other police station where all the applications are taken, every task here takes more than one trip or phone call, or location diverted to. It took six trips over three days to the phone company to figure out our internet bill, pay it, and then have it reconnected after we found out we never paid a different, separately billed, fee for over a year.
By the time I’ve done my errands for the day it’s usually near 3:30. I try and make sure I’m home when Carolyn gets off work because we love each other very much and want to smooch and hold each other. After this we might have made previous plans to go to the pool/gym or we might have some shopping to do. Or we might just hang around home, watch movies on the laptop, and do what needs to be done here. Dinner is a particularly special time for us because we love to cook together and have been making some unbelievable food lately. But that is another story.
BBB
Saturday, February 16, 2008
African Dreaming
I’ve never had stranger dreams than the ones I’ve had in Africa. Maybe it’s the low sodium diet or the organic food, but the vivid dreams have just been astounding. Like the one where Carolyn and I are the only passengers on a 747 which is weaving through traffic and stopping, hovering, at traffic lights in a coastal town and then skimming by the cruise ships. Or the one where I am on a pirate ship with four midgets who all want to be the Capitan, a dream right out of the movie Time Bandits, and I haven’t seen that flick in a decade.
I have a clearly stated personal policy, and many of you know this, that I will not buy lottery tickets for other people for the reason that if they should happen to win on a ticket printed just one away from the one I am buying for myself I would simply have to kill myself. I have no problem having other people buy tickets for me but, usually after learning that I won’t reciprocate, people refuse to buy for me anymore, a reverse situation for which I have no problem with. Which brings me to last night’s dream. I am sitting at a long picnic table on the shoulder of the Capitol Beltway eating dinner with a large group in the darkness while cars zip by. To my left my old scoutmaster from Troop 1140 is reading the newspaper and reads allowed the headline, “The Lottery Is Lucky For People Associated With Brad Baldwin.” At which point I become very agitated and demand the reason for this story. So he continues reading and it describes how two people I bought tickets for have recently won big. I demand to know who it is when out of nowhere 70’s funny man Tim Conway, sitting halfway down the table, says he is one of the people. Stunned, I ask how much he won and he tells me it was the “Mega”. It turns out my scoutmaster is the other beneficiary and pocketed a breezy twenty-five grand on a scratcher, a thousand of which he has already given away to a police charity of all places!
I’m so pissed off that I grab a saltshaker off the table and throw it into traffic and it explodes all over the hoods of cars racing around the inner-loop. As I’m turned around, watching the salt flying everywhere, I see my parents driving up behind us and upon exiting the car my mom tries to calm me down. I’m inconsolable; pointing to Tim Conway I exclaim, “Are you kidding me? Dorf on Golf won the mega!”
******
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed this post and would like to learn more about Emmy Award winning comedian Tim Conway, or would like to purchase his Dorf on Golf videos please visit his website.
I have a clearly stated personal policy, and many of you know this, that I will not buy lottery tickets for other people for the reason that if they should happen to win on a ticket printed just one away from the one I am buying for myself I would simply have to kill myself. I have no problem having other people buy tickets for me but, usually after learning that I won’t reciprocate, people refuse to buy for me anymore, a reverse situation for which I have no problem with. Which brings me to last night’s dream. I am sitting at a long picnic table on the shoulder of the Capitol Beltway eating dinner with a large group in the darkness while cars zip by. To my left my old scoutmaster from Troop 1140 is reading the newspaper and reads allowed the headline, “The Lottery Is Lucky For People Associated With Brad Baldwin.” At which point I become very agitated and demand the reason for this story. So he continues reading and it describes how two people I bought tickets for have recently won big. I demand to know who it is when out of nowhere 70’s funny man Tim Conway, sitting halfway down the table, says he is one of the people. Stunned, I ask how much he won and he tells me it was the “Mega”. It turns out my scoutmaster is the other beneficiary and pocketed a breezy twenty-five grand on a scratcher, a thousand of which he has already given away to a police charity of all places!
I’m so pissed off that I grab a saltshaker off the table and throw it into traffic and it explodes all over the hoods of cars racing around the inner-loop. As I’m turned around, watching the salt flying everywhere, I see my parents driving up behind us and upon exiting the car my mom tries to calm me down. I’m inconsolable; pointing to Tim Conway I exclaim, “Are you kidding me? Dorf on Golf won the mega!”
******
Dear Reader,
If you enjoyed this post and would like to learn more about Emmy Award winning comedian Tim Conway, or would like to purchase his Dorf on Golf videos please visit his website.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Snakes On A Marrakech Street
“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
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
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
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