The laughter of Gambian women can be a wonderful, life-affirming, and energizing thing. When a thin plastic rope is cutting into your hand with the other end attached to a full 20 liter bidong of water at the bottom of at well, however, it doesn't do much for the self esteem. These were the circumstances I found myself in a couple of weeks ago in the Barrow Kunda women's garden.
The whole situation began with my TOSTAN facilitator, Mamadi, and me tilling up a garden bed in which to plant moringa one hot and dusty March afternoon. Mamadi of course had to take a smoke break in the middle of the work, leaving me to do most of it, but that was OK with me, as my purpose in the endeavor was twofold. One, to show how easy raising moringa in an intensive leaf production bed is and how many benefits can be gleaned from it. Two, to immerse myself back in the community and to further illustrate to the village women that people of the toubab persuasion, can indeed do manual labor. That I was man working in the women's garden threw a bonus gender discussion in to boot. Once the ground was all chopped up and dampened, I planted the first batch of 200 or so seeds about 10 centimeters apart in rows also spaced 10 centimeters apart. I then had to wait to borrow someone else's rope and bucket to fetch water from the nearest well before I could water them. I resolved to remedy this problem by buying a bucket a rope at the next luumo (market).
In the mean time, I decided to try out the “Basho” watering can design in the appropriate technologies manual we were given during training. I bought a bidong from the bitik, cut the section with the cap out of it, and punched a series of holes in the other side with a hot awl. The resulting watering can is a little unwieldy and takes some strength to hold over a bed when full, but effectively dissipates the stream of water to prevent seeds from being washed away. My plan was to buy a thick rope at the luumo on Monday, and use the modified bidong as both watering can and well bucket. It would be heavy to pull up full of water, but I would only need to do it twice to water the whole bed. The next few days that I went to the garden I was inundated by questions about why I came to the garden, what I had planted, and why I didn't have my wife water the bed for me. While I waited for my turn at the well, I had many the ad hoc health talk.
“Where is your wife, Seikou?”
“She is lost. If you see her will you tell her to come home? Besides, I am a strong man and can do my own work.”
“Well what did you plant? It has not come out yet.”
“I have planted nebedayo” (nebedayo is a corruption of “never die”- another name for moringa)
“And what else?”
“Nebedayo only.”
“That is not good. You should plant kucha. That is sweeter than nebedayo.”
“If you know how to cook nebedayo I think it is very sweet. And nebedayo's power is much greater than that of kucha.”
“But kucha has power.”
“Yes, it has a little power, but the power of nebedayo is greater than that of any other thing in the garden. If you harvest the leaves, dry them in the shade, and pound them into a powder, they will become a medicine. If your children are small and not healthy, you can put the powder in their food every day, and it will make them strong.”
“Hey, that is very good. But Seikou, you can not fetch water well.”
“I am trying, slowly, slowly.”
Luumo day came, but when I browsed the different dealers I found that they all wanted over 150 Dalasis for a length of rope that would reach the bottom of the well. Being the cheap PCV that I am I decided that I would make do with five to six 6 Dalasi lengths of bitik rope. The next day I returned to the garden to show off my American ingenuity. “Hey, Seikou, that rope is too thin!”Several women said to me. “Don't worry, it will be fine, I lift two full bidongs at the well every day.” I replied. I threw the bidong over the side and lowered it down to the water level and waited for it to fill. And waited. And waited. Frustrated, I pulled it up to find that it was less than a third full. I poured it over the bed and went in search of a rock. Finding a suitable one, I wedged it under the handle of the bidong and once again threw it over the side. Success! The bidong quickly filled with water and submerged completely. I reached down and pulled the rope to start bringing the water up.
The good news is that I had not overestimated my own strength. I was able to lift the weight of the bidong without too much difficulty. The cheap rope, however, was a very bad idea. After pulling up the first length, it started cutting into my hands, and if I let go with one hand to reach down and pull up more length, the rest of the rope began quickly sliding out of my other hand. The women around the well, having been watching me intently, erupted in unbridled laughter, which carried on for several moments before a couple of them stepped in to help me, each of us alternating holding the rope and reaching to pull up another length. Once the bidong reached the top of the well, I sheepishly thanked the two women and finished watering my plot. My friend Fatou Tambajang told me that she knew of a compound that had a few small 5 liter bidongs that I could buy for 5 Dalasis. I asked her if she could take me there the next morning.
The compound turned out to be that of the president of the women's group in the village, Fatoumata Fatty. She took me to the back of the compound where several small bidongs were lying on the ground. I picked one up and handed her a 5 Dalasi, note, which she dismissed with a wave of her hand. “You have come here to work for us, and I know I be able to harvest some of the nebedayo from that bed, as you said it was for all of us.” I assured her that she could indeed, and thanked her again. While 5 Dalasis isn't a large sum, the gesture was worth far more than that.
3 weeks on into the project, I have planted 3 batches of moringa seeds, more than 75 percent of which have germinated, totaling in over 300 hundred healthy seedlings, and there is still room in the bed for more. Women in the village have shown more interest in planting moringa and have asked me for seeds more times in the last few weeks than in the rest of my service combined. I have even expanded the program to do moringa demonstrations in a couple of neighboring Fula villages with the help of my Fula community health nurse. It still may be a bit early to call the project a success on the whole, but as long as I maintain the sense of humor that has kept things running to this point, I can at least count on a lot of positive discourse.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 8, 2010
A Little Love From Africell
Hey everyone, sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've had a lot of things happen in the last few months which kept my mind a bit too occupied for blogging. I will detail some of it in future posts. To break back into the swing of things I thought I would just put up something funny and mindless. One of the main cell phone carriers in the Gambia is Africell. They sell SIM cards that allow the owner to make phone calls using a system of towers in the country. When you turn on your phone with an Africell card inside, you are given a list of options on the Africell menu. Among more functional features such as checking your credit or calling customer service, there is a feature called "Love Quotes." This is a series of beautiful mini-poems which you can download for the mere price of one dalasi each and send to whomever you love dearest in this world. Here is a sampling of some of my favorites, in their full, unabridged, and uncorrected* glory:
In da morning I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
at noon I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
in da evening I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
at night I do not sleep cuz I am hungry.
---------------------------
Proposing u was my desire
having u is my jackpot
loving u is my attitude
pleasing u is my duty
missing u is my habit
kissing u is my wish
2gether 4eva my filfi
---------------------------
I believe that God above
created u for me to luv.
he picked you out
from all the rest
cos he knew id luv you the best!
---------------------------
like a fallen star u fell into my life.
u made me smile wen thingz werent rite..
if hugz were water id send u the sea
n sail away 4eva jus u n me.
---------------------------
I can't smile anymore, dnt worry about me,
I know what 2 do.
I'll just stare at 1 corner n think of yu.
No one else could make me happy
like d way yu do.
---------------------------
one day the moon said 2 me,
if ur lover makes u cry
why don't you leave ur lover..
i looked at the moon and replied
would u every leave ur sky?
---------------------------
(*Actually, this makes them look more professional, as I put them in stanzas as opposed to just mashing them together in a single text message.)
In da morning I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
at noon I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
in da evening I don't eat cuz I tink of u,
at night I do not sleep cuz I am hungry.
---------------------------
Proposing u was my desire
having u is my jackpot
loving u is my attitude
pleasing u is my duty
missing u is my habit
kissing u is my wish
2gether 4eva my filfi
---------------------------
I believe that God above
created u for me to luv.
he picked you out
from all the rest
cos he knew id luv you the best!
---------------------------
like a fallen star u fell into my life.
u made me smile wen thingz werent rite..
if hugz were water id send u the sea
n sail away 4eva jus u n me.
---------------------------
I can't smile anymore, dnt worry about me,
I know what 2 do.
I'll just stare at 1 corner n think of yu.
No one else could make me happy
like d way yu do.
---------------------------
one day the moon said 2 me,
if ur lover makes u cry
why don't you leave ur lover..
i looked at the moon and replied
would u every leave ur sky?
---------------------------
(*Actually, this makes them look more professional, as I put them in stanzas as opposed to just mashing them together in a single text message.)
Friday, December 18, 2009
How Much Impact?
The Gambia is a long way from Copenhagen, and the distance between the perspectives of the average Danish and Gambian citizen is possibly even greater. Thanks to the BBC World Service, however, the happenings at the environmental summit in Copenhagen are known and discussed by the Gambians who have had at least some schooling. Environmental awareness is not a totally alien concept to West Africa, so many have opinions about what world leaders, especially Barack Obama, should do in the way of legislation, green development projects, and the like. Unfortunately, most conversations I hear are not about what the western powers can do right in the future, but about what they have and are currently doing wrong. It should be taken as a given that Americans, Chinese, and Western Europeans are responsible for the great bulk of the damage that has been done to the environment. There is such a wealth of statistical information on the internet and in print that supports this that I will not attempt to do so here. What my perspective as an American living in West Africa gives me is anecdotal evidence of the attitudes that Gambians have about this discrepancy. The most common one, in my experience, is not anger at the wastefulness of wealthier nations, but envy of it.
Very few Gambian households outside of the wealthy Kombo districts on the coast have the means to consume much carbon, despite the great desire to do so. My district is without a power grid, as is the entire region except for a couple of administrative and commercial centers, which only have electricity about ten hours a day. My village has at most 10 generators, only one or two of which are run any given night due to the price of gasoline. There are perhaps 20 motorcycles and 3 trucks or cars among the approximately 1500 people in the village, meaning that public transport, bicycles, or walking are the only options for most people. There is no indoor plumbing in any of the rural villages and towns, and even in administrative centers such as Basse, toilets are only to be found in NGO and government offices.
As such, the carbon footprint of the average Gambian is very small as compared to the world at large, due almost entirely to poverty. In villages, the idea of depriving yourself of anything just for the sake of the environment would be laughed at, and loudly. Driving a car is always better than walking or biking. Drinking water out of a bottle is always better than out of a well. Something easy in a package shipped from far away is always better than harvesting, pounding, and cooking for hours. It is somewhat ironic that people who are itching to do some polluting are completely unable to do so, while people like the famous "No Impact Man", Bill Nye, and Leonardo DiCaprio are polluting exponentially more while ostensibly doing everything they can to avoid it.
The government in the Gambia is doing its part, in theory, to change the collective mind of the people. The last Saturday of every month, the epic "Set Settal environmental cleansing exercise" is performed across the country with much aplomb. This event consists of women sweeping and men raking all of the litter that people throw indiscriminately for the rest of the month into great piles and burning them, filling the air with dust and fumes from burning plastic and rubber. I have no figures to back it up, but my suspicion is that the respiratory problems caused and carbon released as a result of the bonfires far outweigh any of the benefits of having less clutter in the streets for a week or so.
"So what are you doing?", you may ask. Well, by necessity, I am living the Gambian green lifestyle- pooping in a hole, bathing in a bucket, walking, biking, and being jostled in crowded bush taxis. That's all well and good, but a month after I get back to the states I will probably have made up for these lean two years. Something more useful I have been attempting has been to encourage the idea that planting trees after chopping them down is not only a considerate thing to do, it is absolutely essential if Gambians don't want to live in a desert. The Sahara moves further south each year as a result of deforestation, and as population gets denser and denser, trees get thinner and thinner. In theory this should be easy--every Gambian knows that trees are extremely useful as a source of food, lumber, firewood, and numerous local medicines. They just aren't so receptive to the idea of doing more work than they have to. I did manage, with the help of my counterparts Karamo and Mamadi, to get a large group together to plant a cashew plantation a few months ago. Have they fenced it yet? No. Have goats eaten some of them? Yes. What am I hoping for? I am hoping that, even if every single tree is eaten and fire scorches the plot, that maybe one of the kids that helped plant trees will like this idea, and that when he is a few years older, he will start his own plantation or tree lot. Then his daughter will do the same thing, and on and on, ad infinitum. Maybe it will happen, maybe it won't, and I most likely will never know either way. All I have is my good will and the hope that I've made the right kind of impact.
Very few Gambian households outside of the wealthy Kombo districts on the coast have the means to consume much carbon, despite the great desire to do so. My district is without a power grid, as is the entire region except for a couple of administrative and commercial centers, which only have electricity about ten hours a day. My village has at most 10 generators, only one or two of which are run any given night due to the price of gasoline. There are perhaps 20 motorcycles and 3 trucks or cars among the approximately 1500 people in the village, meaning that public transport, bicycles, or walking are the only options for most people. There is no indoor plumbing in any of the rural villages and towns, and even in administrative centers such as Basse, toilets are only to be found in NGO and government offices.
As such, the carbon footprint of the average Gambian is very small as compared to the world at large, due almost entirely to poverty. In villages, the idea of depriving yourself of anything just for the sake of the environment would be laughed at, and loudly. Driving a car is always better than walking or biking. Drinking water out of a bottle is always better than out of a well. Something easy in a package shipped from far away is always better than harvesting, pounding, and cooking for hours. It is somewhat ironic that people who are itching to do some polluting are completely unable to do so, while people like the famous "No Impact Man", Bill Nye, and Leonardo DiCaprio are polluting exponentially more while ostensibly doing everything they can to avoid it.
The government in the Gambia is doing its part, in theory, to change the collective mind of the people. The last Saturday of every month, the epic "Set Settal environmental cleansing exercise" is performed across the country with much aplomb. This event consists of women sweeping and men raking all of the litter that people throw indiscriminately for the rest of the month into great piles and burning them, filling the air with dust and fumes from burning plastic and rubber. I have no figures to back it up, but my suspicion is that the respiratory problems caused and carbon released as a result of the bonfires far outweigh any of the benefits of having less clutter in the streets for a week or so.
"So what are you doing?", you may ask. Well, by necessity, I am living the Gambian green lifestyle- pooping in a hole, bathing in a bucket, walking, biking, and being jostled in crowded bush taxis. That's all well and good, but a month after I get back to the states I will probably have made up for these lean two years. Something more useful I have been attempting has been to encourage the idea that planting trees after chopping them down is not only a considerate thing to do, it is absolutely essential if Gambians don't want to live in a desert. The Sahara moves further south each year as a result of deforestation, and as population gets denser and denser, trees get thinner and thinner. In theory this should be easy--every Gambian knows that trees are extremely useful as a source of food, lumber, firewood, and numerous local medicines. They just aren't so receptive to the idea of doing more work than they have to. I did manage, with the help of my counterparts Karamo and Mamadi, to get a large group together to plant a cashew plantation a few months ago. Have they fenced it yet? No. Have goats eaten some of them? Yes. What am I hoping for? I am hoping that, even if every single tree is eaten and fire scorches the plot, that maybe one of the kids that helped plant trees will like this idea, and that when he is a few years older, he will start his own plantation or tree lot. Then his daughter will do the same thing, and on and on, ad infinitum. Maybe it will happen, maybe it won't, and I most likely will never know either way. All I have is my good will and the hope that I've made the right kind of impact.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Videos
Hey everyone. Been pretty busy and a little under the weather lately, so no new posts yet, but I put up some videos on a youtube site that are pretty interesting. There is a link to them on the left if you want to take a look, and thanks once again for all of your support-
Brendan
Brendan
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Mali Journal II : The Dogon Country
We stayed in Bamako just one night before heading to the Pays Dogon, a series of dozens of villages along the Bandiagara escarpment, a 200 km stretch of granite and laterite cliffs in the south of the country. The Dogon are one of the West African ethnic groups that have most successfully held onto their indigenous culture. Although now they are comprised of Muslims and Christians as well as Animists, they maintain vibrant wood carving, cloth weaving and dyeing, architecture, and dance and music traditions. After another day long bus ride we arrived in Sevare, a town north of Bandiagara that is commonly used as a starting point for trips to Dogon. Ian called the guide that we had arranged our trip with previously and he said he could pick us up right in front of the bus station. A few minutes later a large man in a Renault station wagon pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window to greet us. He introduced himself as Hassimi and asked me how we were doing. I said fine, except that it was a bit hot. He laughed and replied, "Ohhh yeah, it's really f***ing hot, dude!"
This response might have seemed crass and a bit off-putting if not for the extremely friendly and jovial manner with which Hassimi addressed us. His English was not fantastic, but certainly understandable, and like most West Africans who speak English he was not entirely aware of the gravity of the f-bomb in the west. He invited us to stay in his compound for free and discuss the itinterary for our trip. We made sure we were all on the same page as far as his rate (quite reasonable) and what we were interested in seeing, and shook hands feeling good about the next couple of days.
The next morning we got up, had breakfast and were on the road by 8 o'clock. The first village we went to was named Banjugu, and as we first saw it the stone and mud buildings tucked into the confines of a rocky cliff rising before us in the distance, we knew that what we had been told about the beauty of the Pays Dogon was no exaggeration. We followed Hassimi into the village while he explained the manner of construction of the buildings, and told us of the legend of the Muslim saint who converted the village to Islam by building a full mosque in one night. The Dogon had fled from the jihads waged by the Fulani to convert the different ethnic groups of West Africa, and lived in the cliffs to protect themselves from attackers. According to Hassimi, unlike the Mandinka, Bambara, Wolof, and other West African tribes, the Dogon muslims were converted by persuasion rather than the edge of a sword.
As we walked around the village, Hassimi pointed out various natural rock ledges and tables that the village people used as meeting places, workshops, and even one spot that functions as a court--Banjugu, the first village to convert to Islam, also practices Sharia law. As we walked through the narrow streets we marvelled at how naturally the buildings fit into the rock formations; everything is built in tandem with nature, rather than in spite of it. What we found remarkable, however, the village residents found mundane. Women continually asked us why on earth we would want a picture of the side of their house, or of children sliding down a slick stretch of rock warn even smother by the repeated friction of their bony behinds. Even the beautiful Friday mosque, build entirely out of mud and sticks, was every day to them. It is easy to let the vibrancy of the lives of these villagers belie the fact that they are extremely arduous. Hassimi showed us to a small spring about half 1/2km from the village on a steep rock path. It was less a spring than a never-emptied puddle of cool, clear water, fed by an underground stream. To get water in the dry season, women have to go to this spring and fill their buckets cup by cup, then carry the full buckets on their heads over that same treacherous rock path and up countless stairs back to their compounds.
After leaving Banjugu we had lunch in Bandiagara before continuing to the actual escarpment--where every view suddenly became a stunning panorama. After a few stops for photos we came to the village of Telli, the first village on the southern end of the escarpment to have the characteristic clay buildings built into the side of the cliff, similiar to the structures at Green Mesa in Arizona. Hassimi showed us the different types of buildings--granaries, stables, fetish sites. He also pointed high up the cliff, sometimes closer to the top than the bottom, where in small cracks there were tiny little mud huts that seemed absolutely impossible to reach. These are the dwelling places of the Tellem, some dating back to the 2nd or 3rd centuries B.C.E. The Tellem were a race of very small people related to the pygmies of Central Africa. Hassimi said that it was believed that the Tellem were able to reach these huts so high up the cliff by climbing vines that covered the cliffs at a time when the area was more lush and green. Some Malians believe, however, that the Tellem had supernatural abilities, including the ability to fly.
We spent the night at a rustic hotel, or campement, in the nearby town of Ende. Hassimi took good care of us, in that every place we stayed was clean and pleasant, and the food was always excellent--cous cous with a chicken stew over it, sheep in a sauce over macaroni, et cetera. The next morning we walked around the village, visiting various textile and jewelry makers. Zach and I both picked up some striking blankets of mud-dyed Bogolon cloth and Dogon hats, which are made of cloth sewed together with three tassels on top, a bit like a European jester's cap. Ian bought a couple of Dogon shirts, which are made of woven cloth dyed with indigo. After shopping, we tour the old Dogon village in the cliffs, and Hassimi shows us the Hogon house. The Hogon is the head chief of the village, who makes all final decisions and has crucial roles in ceremonies. If a Hogon dies, a new one cannot be chosen for three years. New candidates must be the oldest members of a high status family, such as the founders of the village. Once chosen, the Hogon is carried to the house where he will spend the rest of his life. Everything he eats must first be tested by a tortoise--if the tortoise refuses any food, it is not fit for the Hogon. The Hogon can only drink pristine food and water brought to him by a clean woman-a virgin. This is entirely for cleanliness purposes, as the Hogon effectively takes an involuntary vow of chastity when he is chosen.
The next day we moved on to a new campement to park the car, then began a day-long hike, first to a Dogon market, then a village nestled high up in the cliffs. The market was a quite an experience. One of the primary items sold at Dogon markets is millet beer, sold in either plastic bottles or large bowls made out of gourds. Dozens of women with big pots doled the stuff out to men in various states of inebriation. One was wearing a full Santa Claus beard and wig. A young Japanese man approached me to say hello, explaining that he had been on a tour of West Africa for several months, and had been in the Dogon for a week or so. He then introduced me to his guide, who spoke no English or Japanese, and was completely wasted. He kept trying to tell me about Malian politics in slurred French and hinting that I should buy him more alcohol.
We wished our Japanese friend good luck and continued on a trail that went alongside a stream up into the cliffs. The trail was flanked by millet fields and massive acacia and baobab trees, making for yet another spectacular landscape. We made our way behind women from the market still carrying baskets and goods on their heads. How they do this every week is beyond me. We reached the village at dusk, and Hassimi explained that it is divided into three sections, one Muslim, one Christian, one Animist. No section, however, has any type of toilet as their villages are built on solid rock, so certain sections of the village are best avoided.
The next morning we did a tour around the village, during which Hassimi points out small fetish sites in animist compounds where families will sacrifice millet and blood to their various gods. It is very interesting, but we are not allowed to see much, as most of the sites are very sacred and all but the most venerable village members are forbidden. We end the tour in the Christian section, market by a small mud church and, like the animists, numerous pigs penned up in compounds. The last compound we saw had a myriad of hunting trophies mounted on the wall, including drying baboon carcasses, snakes, and the skulls of various other primates. From here, we move on to another steep, rocky path further along the cliffs. After few minutes of hiking we came to a large Animist village once again perched at the edge of the cliffs. Here there are even more fetish sites, including some larger ones that Hassimi told us are forbidden to all but the oldest men in the community, who go there during festivals to sacrifice and eat meat. If any but these elders eat the sacrificed meat, the Dogon believe they will die as surely as if they had ingested poison.
From here we took a long downward path to the village where our car was parked, taking in more amazing views as we went. Things got steeper and a little trickier, with perhaps the most nerve-wracking moment being a crevasse probably 50 feet deep bridged only by the local Dogon ladders--logs with steps roughly carved into them. The couple of cracks serving as mausoleums full of skulls and bones that Hassimi pointed out in the sides of the cliff were somehow less than reassuring, as well. After another hour or so we made it back to the village unscathed.
Once we packed up all our things we got back on the road to Sevare--about a three hour drive. Although we had a great time, there was definitely the sense that we had just scratched the surface of a very rich culture. I sat drowsily in the car looking at the magnificent scenery that sped by, amazed to think I didn't even know this place existed before I came to West Africa, and this is just one very small ethnic group out of hundreds in this region. Living in The Gambia can make the world feel very small sometimes, but you don't have to venture that far away to get a sense of the magnitude of things.
This response might have seemed crass and a bit off-putting if not for the extremely friendly and jovial manner with which Hassimi addressed us. His English was not fantastic, but certainly understandable, and like most West Africans who speak English he was not entirely aware of the gravity of the f-bomb in the west. He invited us to stay in his compound for free and discuss the itinterary for our trip. We made sure we were all on the same page as far as his rate (quite reasonable) and what we were interested in seeing, and shook hands feeling good about the next couple of days.
The next morning we got up, had breakfast and were on the road by 8 o'clock. The first village we went to was named Banjugu, and as we first saw it the stone and mud buildings tucked into the confines of a rocky cliff rising before us in the distance, we knew that what we had been told about the beauty of the Pays Dogon was no exaggeration. We followed Hassimi into the village while he explained the manner of construction of the buildings, and told us of the legend of the Muslim saint who converted the village to Islam by building a full mosque in one night. The Dogon had fled from the jihads waged by the Fulani to convert the different ethnic groups of West Africa, and lived in the cliffs to protect themselves from attackers. According to Hassimi, unlike the Mandinka, Bambara, Wolof, and other West African tribes, the Dogon muslims were converted by persuasion rather than the edge of a sword.
As we walked around the village, Hassimi pointed out various natural rock ledges and tables that the village people used as meeting places, workshops, and even one spot that functions as a court--Banjugu, the first village to convert to Islam, also practices Sharia law. As we walked through the narrow streets we marvelled at how naturally the buildings fit into the rock formations; everything is built in tandem with nature, rather than in spite of it. What we found remarkable, however, the village residents found mundane. Women continually asked us why on earth we would want a picture of the side of their house, or of children sliding down a slick stretch of rock warn even smother by the repeated friction of their bony behinds. Even the beautiful Friday mosque, build entirely out of mud and sticks, was every day to them. It is easy to let the vibrancy of the lives of these villagers belie the fact that they are extremely arduous. Hassimi showed us to a small spring about half 1/2km from the village on a steep rock path. It was less a spring than a never-emptied puddle of cool, clear water, fed by an underground stream. To get water in the dry season, women have to go to this spring and fill their buckets cup by cup, then carry the full buckets on their heads over that same treacherous rock path and up countless stairs back to their compounds.
After leaving Banjugu we had lunch in Bandiagara before continuing to the actual escarpment--where every view suddenly became a stunning panorama. After a few stops for photos we came to the village of Telli, the first village on the southern end of the escarpment to have the characteristic clay buildings built into the side of the cliff, similiar to the structures at Green Mesa in Arizona. Hassimi showed us the different types of buildings--granaries, stables, fetish sites. He also pointed high up the cliff, sometimes closer to the top than the bottom, where in small cracks there were tiny little mud huts that seemed absolutely impossible to reach. These are the dwelling places of the Tellem, some dating back to the 2nd or 3rd centuries B.C.E. The Tellem were a race of very small people related to the pygmies of Central Africa. Hassimi said that it was believed that the Tellem were able to reach these huts so high up the cliff by climbing vines that covered the cliffs at a time when the area was more lush and green. Some Malians believe, however, that the Tellem had supernatural abilities, including the ability to fly.
We spent the night at a rustic hotel, or campement, in the nearby town of Ende. Hassimi took good care of us, in that every place we stayed was clean and pleasant, and the food was always excellent--cous cous with a chicken stew over it, sheep in a sauce over macaroni, et cetera. The next morning we walked around the village, visiting various textile and jewelry makers. Zach and I both picked up some striking blankets of mud-dyed Bogolon cloth and Dogon hats, which are made of cloth sewed together with three tassels on top, a bit like a European jester's cap. Ian bought a couple of Dogon shirts, which are made of woven cloth dyed with indigo. After shopping, we tour the old Dogon village in the cliffs, and Hassimi shows us the Hogon house. The Hogon is the head chief of the village, who makes all final decisions and has crucial roles in ceremonies. If a Hogon dies, a new one cannot be chosen for three years. New candidates must be the oldest members of a high status family, such as the founders of the village. Once chosen, the Hogon is carried to the house where he will spend the rest of his life. Everything he eats must first be tested by a tortoise--if the tortoise refuses any food, it is not fit for the Hogon. The Hogon can only drink pristine food and water brought to him by a clean woman-a virgin. This is entirely for cleanliness purposes, as the Hogon effectively takes an involuntary vow of chastity when he is chosen.
The next day we moved on to a new campement to park the car, then began a day-long hike, first to a Dogon market, then a village nestled high up in the cliffs. The market was a quite an experience. One of the primary items sold at Dogon markets is millet beer, sold in either plastic bottles or large bowls made out of gourds. Dozens of women with big pots doled the stuff out to men in various states of inebriation. One was wearing a full Santa Claus beard and wig. A young Japanese man approached me to say hello, explaining that he had been on a tour of West Africa for several months, and had been in the Dogon for a week or so. He then introduced me to his guide, who spoke no English or Japanese, and was completely wasted. He kept trying to tell me about Malian politics in slurred French and hinting that I should buy him more alcohol.
We wished our Japanese friend good luck and continued on a trail that went alongside a stream up into the cliffs. The trail was flanked by millet fields and massive acacia and baobab trees, making for yet another spectacular landscape. We made our way behind women from the market still carrying baskets and goods on their heads. How they do this every week is beyond me. We reached the village at dusk, and Hassimi explained that it is divided into three sections, one Muslim, one Christian, one Animist. No section, however, has any type of toilet as their villages are built on solid rock, so certain sections of the village are best avoided.
The next morning we did a tour around the village, during which Hassimi points out small fetish sites in animist compounds where families will sacrifice millet and blood to their various gods. It is very interesting, but we are not allowed to see much, as most of the sites are very sacred and all but the most venerable village members are forbidden. We end the tour in the Christian section, market by a small mud church and, like the animists, numerous pigs penned up in compounds. The last compound we saw had a myriad of hunting trophies mounted on the wall, including drying baboon carcasses, snakes, and the skulls of various other primates. From here, we move on to another steep, rocky path further along the cliffs. After few minutes of hiking we came to a large Animist village once again perched at the edge of the cliffs. Here there are even more fetish sites, including some larger ones that Hassimi told us are forbidden to all but the oldest men in the community, who go there during festivals to sacrifice and eat meat. If any but these elders eat the sacrificed meat, the Dogon believe they will die as surely as if they had ingested poison.
From here we took a long downward path to the village where our car was parked, taking in more amazing views as we went. Things got steeper and a little trickier, with perhaps the most nerve-wracking moment being a crevasse probably 50 feet deep bridged only by the local Dogon ladders--logs with steps roughly carved into them. The couple of cracks serving as mausoleums full of skulls and bones that Hassimi pointed out in the sides of the cliff were somehow less than reassuring, as well. After another hour or so we made it back to the village unscathed.
Once we packed up all our things we got back on the road to Sevare--about a three hour drive. Although we had a great time, there was definitely the sense that we had just scratched the surface of a very rich culture. I sat drowsily in the car looking at the magnificent scenery that sped by, amazed to think I didn't even know this place existed before I came to West Africa, and this is just one very small ethnic group out of hundreds in this region. Living in The Gambia can make the world feel very small sometimes, but you don't have to venture that far away to get a sense of the magnitude of things.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Mali Journal I : The Road to Bambako
To celebrate a year in The Gambia and my 25th birthday, I decided to take a trip. Initially I had planned on going to Guinea Bissau, and had looked into travel routes, destinations, and costs, and just about had the whole thing planned. Then the president was assassinated by the military. A few months later, several major political figures thought to be contenders for the vacant presidency were also assassinated. So much for that idea. Instead, I began researching another country that had caught my interest: Mali. Mali is the home of Bamako, one of West Africa's great music centers, as well as the fabled city of Timbuktu, and some of the wider stretches of the great Niger river. It all seemed pretty extroardinary to me, so my friends Zach and Ian and I decided to go on a two-week trip starting on the 17th of October. These next entries are a journal of that trip.
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The border between Senegal and The Gambia south of Basse is not exactly a fortress. The large shell of a former customs compound is now left empty save for the daily use of the small mosque built for border guards. Across the road from this tiny house of worship are two drab, dirty concrete buildings which house the few guards who protect the The Gambia from the throngs of Senegalese who are itching to jump the border to...steal peanuts, perhaps? Although peanuts, like just about everything else, are as or more abundant in Senegal.
Upon crossing the border, there is nothing that indicates that you have entered a different country. The red laterite road full of potholes, the scrub brush and intermittent bush mango, baobab, and other tall trees, the white-vested, black crows and vultures--none of these bush inhabitants has any concept of the border created by Europeans with no regards to tribal boundaries transport routes. After ten or so kilometers of that familiar Senegambian landscape, we arrive in Wellingara, the nearest travel hub to the Gambian border. Dispite the fact that Wellingara is about the same size as Basse, it is almost immediately evident that things are more organized here. There are two internet cafes with good connections, there are numerous 2 and even 3 story buildings, and the car park is well organized, with benches, labelled areas for different destinations, and even printed tickets. Many transactions are actually one in French, as well--I rarely if ever hear any type of business done in English in the Gambia outside of the capitol.
We buy tickets for a sept-place (seven seat station wagon) from Velingara to Tambacounda, the hub used for trips to eastern Senegal and Mali. After a few minutes of waiting our car fills, and we embark on the paved road. I can't help but thinking that this can't last--the red, rocky destruction of West African transport will return shortly, but, save for a few areas under construction, the whole 100+km trip is on asphault. And, to boot, once we have passed the Velingara police checkpoints, there are no others. It is the smoothest trip in a non-Peace Corps vehicle that I have taken in a year.
Tamba is quite small on the map, but to our surprise, the town is a bustling little urban center by West African standards, with good multi-lane roads and two large car parks. We spend the night in the Peace Corps transit house, which is very comfortable, with running water and electricity, and eat at decent restaurants, one of which has fast wi-fi. Yet another example of what decent infrastructure can do.
The next morning we continue to the border town of Kidira in another sept-place, and have to take a taxi from the car park to the immigration post on the senegal side. This process is pretty straightforward--a short ride, a passport stamp, and we are on our way to the Malian side. Here, things aren't quite so simple. We ask our taxi driver to take us to the immigration post to buy a visa, but he gets confused and takes us to the police station. We explain again and he takes us where we need to be, but then he wants more money because he went to both places. We finally negotiate him down, but he's a bit pushy while we wait for the immigration official to write out and sign receipts for the visas we will have to get in Bamako. He wants us to pay more than we negotiated, but luckily the bystanders all agree with us, so he has to relent. After all is said and done, we skip the taxi ride back to the car park and jump on a bus headed to Kayes, the first sizable city in Mali.
The bus system is definitely something of a change from what we are used to. The closest thing to a bus in The Gambia is a large gele-gele as full of rice sacks, goats, chickens, and market goods as it is people. In Mali, there are numerous bus companies, some of which even have air conditioning, if you are in the right place at the right time and want to pay a little extra. Goats and sheep are still allowed, but they are tied up in bags and put below with the luggage-an arrangement I am sure they find most comfortable. Our bus is not air conditioned, but we all have more than adequate leg room, and as long as the bus is moving there is a pleasant breeze. Unfortunately, like most vehicles in West Africa, the bus makes frequent stops for seemingly assinine reasons. At one point it seems we stop for twenty minutes so the driver and porters can sit and chat with some people on the road, and the passengers in the bus nearly drown in their own sweat.
We arrive in Kai in the late afternoon, and immediately buy tickets for the next morning's ride to Bamako. We ask what time we should arrive, as we had been told the bus usually leaves at something like 5 A.M. We are told to be there at 3:30. There are a number of taxi drivers standing next to the bus station, and we attempt to explain where the Peace Corps house is- down the block from the prison and near the river. The drivers speak French and Bambara- neither of which we know more than a few phrases. Mandinka is close to Bambara sort of like Spanish is close to Italian, so Zach and I try to explain things as best we can. Zach says the house is closed to where people are locked. I say it's close to where wicked people are. Ian tries saying "prison" with a French accent- "pree-zon," basically. Finally, I point to a scooter and say, "If I steal this, and the police catch me, where will they take me?" "Ohhhhh, "pri-son!" They all exclaim. We sigh and get in the taxi.
After a pleasant night spent hanging out with some Mali volunteers at a local bar, we get a few hours of sleep before getting up far earlier than I think is ever really necessary. We have arranged for a taxi to pick us up, and he arrives right on time. At the bus station, the staff members yell out the name of everyone who has bought a ticket, butchering each of ours in new and interesting ways. The bus has screens, and after upon embarking at 4:30 they begin to show an episode of the American series Prison Break in French. Ian has seen the show and explains a bit to me, but I am fast loosing consciousness, so we both put in our ipod headphones and pass out. When I wake up around 7, the porters are handing out raisin croissants and small bottles of cold generic cola. It seems like a strange combination, but I eat and drink and look out the window for awhile.
The landscape in Mali is a definite change from Senegambia. Before the border and even most of the way to Kayes it had been that same combination of short shrubs and grasses with occasional tall trees. Past Kayes, it slowly becomes more and more like the American southwest- short shrubs with no tall trees except around villages, rocky hills rising in the distance, and sandy, sun drenched expanses of land. The architecture changes as well, with much fewer thatched roof buildings, replaced instead by corrugated iron roofing over clay or mud brick houses. When we arrive in Bamako that afternoon, we are amazed at the large hills surrounding the city. It strikes me as kind of a West African Nashville- a city known for its music nestled in the hills. We have arrived at our first destination, and are excited to get a feel for this whole new country.
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The border between Senegal and The Gambia south of Basse is not exactly a fortress. The large shell of a former customs compound is now left empty save for the daily use of the small mosque built for border guards. Across the road from this tiny house of worship are two drab, dirty concrete buildings which house the few guards who protect the The Gambia from the throngs of Senegalese who are itching to jump the border to...steal peanuts, perhaps? Although peanuts, like just about everything else, are as or more abundant in Senegal.
Upon crossing the border, there is nothing that indicates that you have entered a different country. The red laterite road full of potholes, the scrub brush and intermittent bush mango, baobab, and other tall trees, the white-vested, black crows and vultures--none of these bush inhabitants has any concept of the border created by Europeans with no regards to tribal boundaries transport routes. After ten or so kilometers of that familiar Senegambian landscape, we arrive in Wellingara, the nearest travel hub to the Gambian border. Dispite the fact that Wellingara is about the same size as Basse, it is almost immediately evident that things are more organized here. There are two internet cafes with good connections, there are numerous 2 and even 3 story buildings, and the car park is well organized, with benches, labelled areas for different destinations, and even printed tickets. Many transactions are actually one in French, as well--I rarely if ever hear any type of business done in English in the Gambia outside of the capitol.
We buy tickets for a sept-place (seven seat station wagon) from Velingara to Tambacounda, the hub used for trips to eastern Senegal and Mali. After a few minutes of waiting our car fills, and we embark on the paved road. I can't help but thinking that this can't last--the red, rocky destruction of West African transport will return shortly, but, save for a few areas under construction, the whole 100+km trip is on asphault. And, to boot, once we have passed the Velingara police checkpoints, there are no others. It is the smoothest trip in a non-Peace Corps vehicle that I have taken in a year.
Tamba is quite small on the map, but to our surprise, the town is a bustling little urban center by West African standards, with good multi-lane roads and two large car parks. We spend the night in the Peace Corps transit house, which is very comfortable, with running water and electricity, and eat at decent restaurants, one of which has fast wi-fi. Yet another example of what decent infrastructure can do.
The next morning we continue to the border town of Kidira in another sept-place, and have to take a taxi from the car park to the immigration post on the senegal side. This process is pretty straightforward--a short ride, a passport stamp, and we are on our way to the Malian side. Here, things aren't quite so simple. We ask our taxi driver to take us to the immigration post to buy a visa, but he gets confused and takes us to the police station. We explain again and he takes us where we need to be, but then he wants more money because he went to both places. We finally negotiate him down, but he's a bit pushy while we wait for the immigration official to write out and sign receipts for the visas we will have to get in Bamako. He wants us to pay more than we negotiated, but luckily the bystanders all agree with us, so he has to relent. After all is said and done, we skip the taxi ride back to the car park and jump on a bus headed to Kayes, the first sizable city in Mali.
The bus system is definitely something of a change from what we are used to. The closest thing to a bus in The Gambia is a large gele-gele as full of rice sacks, goats, chickens, and market goods as it is people. In Mali, there are numerous bus companies, some of which even have air conditioning, if you are in the right place at the right time and want to pay a little extra. Goats and sheep are still allowed, but they are tied up in bags and put below with the luggage-an arrangement I am sure they find most comfortable. Our bus is not air conditioned, but we all have more than adequate leg room, and as long as the bus is moving there is a pleasant breeze. Unfortunately, like most vehicles in West Africa, the bus makes frequent stops for seemingly assinine reasons. At one point it seems we stop for twenty minutes so the driver and porters can sit and chat with some people on the road, and the passengers in the bus nearly drown in their own sweat.
We arrive in Kai in the late afternoon, and immediately buy tickets for the next morning's ride to Bamako. We ask what time we should arrive, as we had been told the bus usually leaves at something like 5 A.M. We are told to be there at 3:30. There are a number of taxi drivers standing next to the bus station, and we attempt to explain where the Peace Corps house is- down the block from the prison and near the river. The drivers speak French and Bambara- neither of which we know more than a few phrases. Mandinka is close to Bambara sort of like Spanish is close to Italian, so Zach and I try to explain things as best we can. Zach says the house is closed to where people are locked. I say it's close to where wicked people are. Ian tries saying "prison" with a French accent- "pree-zon," basically. Finally, I point to a scooter and say, "If I steal this, and the police catch me, where will they take me?" "Ohhhhh, "pri-son!" They all exclaim. We sigh and get in the taxi.
After a pleasant night spent hanging out with some Mali volunteers at a local bar, we get a few hours of sleep before getting up far earlier than I think is ever really necessary. We have arranged for a taxi to pick us up, and he arrives right on time. At the bus station, the staff members yell out the name of everyone who has bought a ticket, butchering each of ours in new and interesting ways. The bus has screens, and after upon embarking at 4:30 they begin to show an episode of the American series Prison Break in French. Ian has seen the show and explains a bit to me, but I am fast loosing consciousness, so we both put in our ipod headphones and pass out. When I wake up around 7, the porters are handing out raisin croissants and small bottles of cold generic cola. It seems like a strange combination, but I eat and drink and look out the window for awhile.
The landscape in Mali is a definite change from Senegambia. Before the border and even most of the way to Kayes it had been that same combination of short shrubs and grasses with occasional tall trees. Past Kayes, it slowly becomes more and more like the American southwest- short shrubs with no tall trees except around villages, rocky hills rising in the distance, and sandy, sun drenched expanses of land. The architecture changes as well, with much fewer thatched roof buildings, replaced instead by corrugated iron roofing over clay or mud brick houses. When we arrive in Bamako that afternoon, we are amazed at the large hills surrounding the city. It strikes me as kind of a West African Nashville- a city known for its music nestled in the hills. We have arrived at our first destination, and are excited to get a feel for this whole new country.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Year Approaches...
Every bumster, every pushy salesman, every nosy lady with a flaccid breast hanging out to feed a screaming infant--they all ask me the same sequence of questions. "Which country?" "Are you piss-corpse?" "Can you take me America?" And finally, "How long since you come here?" After I add up the months for this last one and reply, I usually get a flood of praise for how well I speak Mandinka or for how long I have been working for the betterment of Gambians. Either of these might be flattering if they weren't part of a pitch to get money or a ticket overseas. But these exchanges do serve as a continuous count-down of my service, so I am pretty much always aware of how long I have been here. My reply is edging ever closer to that big twelve-month mark, and I have been trying to take stock of what that means to me.
First of all, it means that my term of service is not quite half over. It's funny how it can seem like I should be almost done and that I just got here simultaneously. There is still over a year to try to get new projects done, see different parts of the Gambia, meet new people, and who knows what else. On the other hand, we are no longer the new group in the country, with one education group sworn in and a health and environment group on the way next month. My swear-in group is in a sort of limbo between the doe-eyed rookie and the crusty veteran.
Second, it means that I feel that I am hitting a stride in a lot of ways--like dealing with the various solicitors I meet in the street. I make a real effort not to be one of those angry volunteers who always assumes someone approaching them is a creep only out for money. At the same time, I don't want to open myself up to every person who comes by and end up bitter at being cheated and molested constantly. I try to maintain a certain guardedness without being impolite until I can assess the character of someone new, and then I either open up or say "no thank you" and move quickly on.
One last thing that the year mark is making me consider is, "What I would have been doing if I were in the the States?" The standards for accomplishment in the U.S. are quite a bit higher than here, so in terms of actual, honest-to-God work, I would almost certainly have more hours under my belt. But what about the results? All I did in the year before I came here was sling bagels and coffee and wait tables. This made me a few bucks (which I mostly blew) but provided me with no real lasting accomplishment. All I can chalk that year up to is life experience. Since I have been here, however, I have been involved in a lot of projects that have the potential to change things for the better in a place where change is desperately needed. With village residents, I planted over 500 trees. I taught people about malaria and how to prevent it with mosquito nets and locally made repellent. I helped write vaccination records and weigh babies and child welfare clinics, and educate women about malnutrition.
None of these things is guaranteed to have an impact. The trees could all be eaten by goats. That's not a joke, it's a distinct possibility. The people who heard the malaria and child health talks may or may have not been paying attention. Even if they were, it might not change their actions. I could have done more with the time I have been given. Basically, all of this could amount to nothing. Some of it almost definitely will. But if just a few things take, if just one or two parents start taking better care of their kids, if there are a few more trees in a declining forest, if a few less people get malaria, or a few kids become interested in learning and thinking about things, then that means a lot more to me in the long run than having been a damn good bagel baker.
First of all, it means that my term of service is not quite half over. It's funny how it can seem like I should be almost done and that I just got here simultaneously. There is still over a year to try to get new projects done, see different parts of the Gambia, meet new people, and who knows what else. On the other hand, we are no longer the new group in the country, with one education group sworn in and a health and environment group on the way next month. My swear-in group is in a sort of limbo between the doe-eyed rookie and the crusty veteran.
Second, it means that I feel that I am hitting a stride in a lot of ways--like dealing with the various solicitors I meet in the street. I make a real effort not to be one of those angry volunteers who always assumes someone approaching them is a creep only out for money. At the same time, I don't want to open myself up to every person who comes by and end up bitter at being cheated and molested constantly. I try to maintain a certain guardedness without being impolite until I can assess the character of someone new, and then I either open up or say "no thank you" and move quickly on.
One last thing that the year mark is making me consider is, "What I would have been doing if I were in the the States?" The standards for accomplishment in the U.S. are quite a bit higher than here, so in terms of actual, honest-to-God work, I would almost certainly have more hours under my belt. But what about the results? All I did in the year before I came here was sling bagels and coffee and wait tables. This made me a few bucks (which I mostly blew) but provided me with no real lasting accomplishment. All I can chalk that year up to is life experience. Since I have been here, however, I have been involved in a lot of projects that have the potential to change things for the better in a place where change is desperately needed. With village residents, I planted over 500 trees. I taught people about malaria and how to prevent it with mosquito nets and locally made repellent. I helped write vaccination records and weigh babies and child welfare clinics, and educate women about malnutrition.
None of these things is guaranteed to have an impact. The trees could all be eaten by goats. That's not a joke, it's a distinct possibility. The people who heard the malaria and child health talks may or may have not been paying attention. Even if they were, it might not change their actions. I could have done more with the time I have been given. Basically, all of this could amount to nothing. Some of it almost definitely will. But if just a few things take, if just one or two parents start taking better care of their kids, if there are a few more trees in a declining forest, if a few less people get malaria, or a few kids become interested in learning and thinking about things, then that means a lot more to me in the long run than having been a damn good bagel baker.
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