After polling several veterans of this field trip, I was apprehensive about taking my students to Operation Santa. This is what it reportedly entailed:

Four thousand students with special needs are seated at tables in a large square surrounded by parade fencing, in the middle of an aircraft hangar at JFK airport. After an hour or so, the hangar doors open and Santa taxis in on a jumbo jet. Then Santa boards a train/float and rides around the perimeter of the square as students variously try to get closer looks or try to avoid the noise around them.

The best thing my colleagues could say about Operation Santa was that it was a “rite of passage.” So I was naturally concerned it could have been a difficult trip for my students, given the close quarters, noise level, cool temperatures, and limited movement available.

However, I was pleasantly surprised by the trip. Organized by the Community Mayors (who also hold an excellent annual trip to the USS Intrepid Museum), there were numerous characters (including the Pink Panther) walking around to keep most of the students' attention while we waited for other schools to file in and for Santa to arrive. In addition, the square enclosure had been divided into four smaller squares, allowing for closer views of the anthropomorphic teapots, high school bands and Santa's train, as well as lessening crowding and providing easier exit points for accessing the Port-A-Potties. A pair of noise-dulling headphones I brought along for one student were also a great help.

In all, two of my three charges enjoyed the trip (a fourth would have found it too noisy and constricting), and I had a fairly good time myself. While a visit to El Museo Del Barrio and the aforementioned Intrepid Museum trip were superior, Operation Santa exceeded understandably low initial expectations.

During the lull between Parent-Teacher Conference sessions, a colleague and I decided to watch X-Men: First Class while laminating worksheets and communication symbols/PECS. Our speech therapist joined us sporadically, variously interrupted by phone calls, errands, and lunch.

Given her pedigree, perhaps it was only natural to report observations on similarities between First Class and other movies, and to compare and contrast them. After all, she spends time helping our students do this.

The first film that merited comparison to X-Men: First Class was Pirates of the Caribbean: "Doesn't that guy [Johnny Depp] have superpowers?"

Next came Avatar since one, and later two, characters in First Class are blue.

Finally, there was Star Wars, since Beast resembled "What's his name? Chihuahua?"

Our SLT's contributions made for an enjoyable viewing, even though I was occasionally distracted by cutting and attaching velcro. It was a nice chance to bond without talking about students.

Today I learned that Chebo Ceesay, my host father in Njau, The Gambia, passed away yesterday, October 28, 2011.

Chebo was a kind and thoughtful man, and an independent thinker. He travelled for work as a younger man, spending time in Mauritania, Cote d'Ivoire, and on a Spanish merchant ship that plied the west African coast. He even lived in the Bronx for a spell.

I could always rely on Chebo for useful advice, and contrarian perspectives on Gambian and international politics. I enjoy chatting with and listening to him as we took in BBC World Service reports.

One of my favourite memories was sitting under the mango tree by Chebo's radio listening to the penalty shootout between Cote d'Ivoire and Cameroon in the 2006 Africa Cup of Nations quarterfinals. After the first five players from each team made all of their penalty shots, it was time for sudden death. We listened incredulously as the commentators announced an amazing 11 shots made by each side, until Samuel Eto'o missed the 12th shot for Cameroon, leaving Didier Drogba to finally win the match.

Chebo always had humourous stories to share. These included Chebo's getting lost on his way home during his first night in New York, when he wandered around the Bronx for eight hours. Another favourite was about the time his Njau neighbour (and Bronx hot-bed mate) Ebou Secka got food poisoning from monitor lizard meat and Chebo could hear him groaning through the night from his compound across the way.

Perhaps the best story ended with Chebo urging me to ask the Alkalo (chief) of the Sey Kunda section of Njau "Ana sa beneen dalla?" ("Where is your other shoe?"), a cheeky reminder of the Alkalo's youthful indiscretions.

Chebo was a good husband to his wife Maram, and a good father to Omar Dye and Alhagie Sait. I wish them all well and they have my sympathies.

In advance of our stay in Bogotá, Becky looked into possible Passover Seders she could attend there. With some general directions, we set off on the Transmilenio to points north.

We got off at Calle 100 – well, Amy and I did. Becky didn't get out in time and continued to Calle 127. We decided to wait until Becky returned, presumably by the same bus line. Eventually a young man came up to me and asked “Are you Chris?” and pointed towards the exit. There we found Becky buying a bus ticket to enter, despairing of the effectiveness of yelling “Chris!” repeatedly. Becky reportedly managed her quick return to us by boarding a taxi and yelling “Calle 100! Mis amigos!” between bouts of laughter.

With this hiccup behind us, we proceeded along Calle 94 to the site of the “Israeli backpacker” Seder, which should've been a less formal affair than the one hosted by the Jewish community in Bogotá Having wandered past the pedestrian overpass, we scampered across one intersection and were promptly soaked by cars driving through the numerous puddles/ponds.

At this point we realised that we had passed the block the address suggested, although it soon emerged that the address was, in fact, incomplete (i.e. with block and street number, but no building number). At a hotel I began asking about a “sinagoga” nearby. Rather than being ushered back where we came from (perhaps on the other side of Calle 94?), a kindly, portly, moustachioed middle-aged man suggested that we continue along Calle 94 for several blocks. I was a bit dubious as this contradicted the partial address we had, but we set off nonetheless.

After several minutes' trudging, we decided that we should head back to the side of the block we missed on the walk over. Our friend from the hotel caught up with us though, and pressed on with us. I tried to ask him if there wasn't a synagogue behind us (“sinagoga” being the only known Spanish word that even approximated what we were looking for), but he said, “No, that's a hotel.” I attempted this line of inquiry a few more times, but had no way of fully explaining that I knew we'd met him outside a hotel, but was wondering if there wasn't anything further back.

Five minutes later he pointed to the left and said, “Es casi una sinagoga.” - That's almost a synagogue. He was pointing to the rather garish Farhaad Rugs: Persian Carpets emporium across the calle.

I felt compelled to ask, “But it's not...?” To which he declaratively stated “No!”

We went on a couple of more blocks before our friend said that it was just a bit further ahead on the left. He tacked right to catch a bus home.

We remained doubtful, but shortly afterwards we saw a brightly lit building with well-dressed people greeting each other and heading outside. The building was called “Lubavitch,” which turned out to be the synagogue for the resident Jewish community, earlier deemed by Becky as too posh for the likes of us in our (sodden) backpacker getup.

At first Becky protested that she couldn't enter in her current state (under-dressed and over-soiled), but Amy and I insisted that they go in after all the effort we made in finding the place. So Becky and Amy headed in while I searched for an affordable place to drink in the zona roja, finally settling on a quiet bar nestled amongst car dealerships (but still quite expensive).

While in Washington, DC, a couple of days ago, I visited my favourite museum – the Smithsonian National Museum of African Art. It's particularly appealing in the summer, as it sees very few visitors in comparison to the Air and Space, Natural History and other museums on the Mall. I have ample space and time (and quiet) to take in the exhibits and, more often than not, make off with a cheap poster, a pair of which now frame my living room.

Since I last visited quite recently, there was only one new exhibit: Yinka Shonibare MBE. It was a retrospective of his work, and I found it very interesting, and fun too.

I like the connections Shonibare made to a triangle trade of sorts with the Dutch wax, which undercut African textile makers. A recent Economist article explained that imported Chinese textiles cost 1/3 the price of comparable domestically produced fabrics in Angola.

I also enjoyed Shonibare's view of the Enlightenment creating a justification for colonialism - bringing wisdom to ignorant peoples. So his conclusion was that the age of reason served as a rationale for subjugating others.

The exhibit was very accessible - good explanations, including some video of Shonibare describing his art and motivation. It's on until March 7, 2010, and I strongly recommend that you visit it if you happen to be in DC!

It's been nearly three months since I left Scotland and, as I catch up on some posts I wanted to do, I decided to write a little about my experience in Edinburgh.

I first lived with a great friend of mine from my time in Ghana. It was staying with Sena and his family, and to play uncle for several months. I also enjoyed my experience at Harmeny School immensely, and I believe it'll help me a lot as a teacher in New York.

Cramond Island, Edinburgh, in February 2009

Part of the idea of moving to Scotland and not back to DC was to see how I liked life in the UK, and to have a quieter existence after finishing up in The Gambia. I made some good friends from my Sunday football group, Papa, Sena and Delali, my Wolof student and fellow West Africa aficionado, and my coworkers.

While in Edinburgh I was fortunate to have several visitors from the U.S., as well as a couple of friends staying around London. As Ousainou was in the UK, I had the opportunity to practice Wolof on the phone often, and during his visits. Since Harlem has an area called Little Senegal, so hopefully I'll get to keep up on Wolof.

For the last eight months or so of my stay I moved into a flat closer to work. This allowed me to bike to work, or take the bus, in 30 minutes - a nice improvement over the old 75 minute commute. Plus it was a little more spacious. Just before Christmas I discovered a weekly pick-up basketball game. Great fun, although I was surprised how popular basketball is with Polish people (or "Polanese" as Ousainou puts it) - of our 15 regulars, 6 were from Poland.

One major downside of living in Scotland was a general inability to pursue a teaching certification there. This was principally due to my unwillingness to spend several hundred Pounds (and a couple of evenings a week) on a couple of English courses, which would help Scottish universities establish that I had sufficient command of the English language to teach in Scotland. Bachelor's degrees from fairly reputable American universities, plus experience in Scottish schools and attendant recommendations, don't suffice. As a result I was beginning to disengage from life in Scotland and very relieved to get into the teaching programme in New York.

Other disadvantages included the weather and my second job at TESCO three nights a week. The latter helped me to save a little money, though.

Cramond Island on a sunny day in May

So I had a good stay in Edinburgh, although I didn't manage to travel as much as I'd have liked. Plus I mostly missed the festival as I visited the U.S. in August 2008. It's possible I'll return again, assuming a U.S. teaching degree has some value there, and enjoy the luxury of government provided healthcare!

Throughout my visit to Njau, my host father Chebo extolled the virtues of Gambia's new public buses. I will a bit surprised by this praise as he's generally not keen on initiatives undertaken by the APRC, Gambia's ruling party. [In a particularly rash pre-election moment a couple of years ago, he told the Njau police station officer that the S.O. would be slaughtered if the opposition won.] The vehicles are old American school buses painted green (the ruling party's colour) that ply the north bank road to the Barra ferry, and even across to Banjul and Serrekunda.

Chebo's main points:

- The buses are repainted green, and refurbished inside too - they're comfortable and have a good radio and speakers.

- The buses are cheaper than gelegeles (D90 to D100), which is forcing gelegele aparantis/conductors to reduce their fares.

- The buses don't dawdle for passengers and so are much faster.

- The buses get priority on the ferry so that you can quickly continue to Serrekunda (for no extra fare, although you do pay for the ferry ride).

Chebo, fan of green buses, and radios.

So on the appointed day I went to the bantaba (old men's hang-out spot) at the highway and waited for the 3 o'clock bus. Around 5 it rumbled up.

It soon became clear that the green school bus was not so different from the competition. The usual overcrowding led to great sharing of seats and children (I had one girl on my lap for a few hours), and plenty of time was devoted to picking up passengers, plus the obligatory food/toilet stop in Farafenni. But it also featured the usual kindnesses and personal interest of any trip - the girl who sat with me was being looked after by her grandmother as her mom could not manage. They were travelling to a wedding but didn't know how to get there. Fellow passengers made a few inquiries and phone calls to find out where they were going and someone on the bus agreed to escort them.

One improvement was the good state of the radio and speakers. There were no cassettes so we listened to a Gambia Radio and Television Service programme on the sexual exploitation of children, which somehow had the anagram SISSECS (like "scissors" with "ex" as the second syllable).

The moderators covered the main talking points, but weren't very good at countering caller responses. When one man called to castigate teenage girls for wearing short skirts thereby testing men's self-control, the presenters did not counter this argument.

The bus reached Barra around 10, which eliminated most of the ferry advantage as there was hardly any traffic at this hour (and we were down to one ferry). Whereas Gez and Liam elected to abandon their earlier green school bus, I didn't see any alternatives. I got to Mariama's around midnight, perhaps four hours later than I may have with the first post-lunch gele. But it was nice lying under the bantaba with my host dad and some of the men of the village, and I enjoyed the trip once I realised that Chebo's assessment of the APRC bus was hopelessly off.

My friends Liam and Gez joined me on this visit to The Gambia in April 2007. It was fun to share some of my Peace Corps experience with them, and it's always fun travelling with people who take notice of things that you may not see as readily.

My old boss in The Gambia, Ousainou Touray, moved to the UK shortly before me. We talk frequently, and we were able to get periodic updates on Njau Lower Basic School. Ousainou served as Njau's headmaster/principal for five years. Since Ous and I left, there have been 4 or 5 headmasters in the last two school years. So we had an inkling that all was not well. In addition to presents for his family, Ous gave me a couple of footballs for the school.

The day after I arrived in The Gambia, I came to Njau to try visit the school before it closed for Easter holidays (Gambia, 90-95% Muslim, dutifully observes even the most obscure Catholic holidays like Ascension). We went up to the school on Friday and met the students on the way as they'd been sent back (Gambian schools tradionally close a day or week early before a holiday). We continued and checked out the school and the (vegetable) garden. Eventually the new headmaster came over from his quarters. Liam wondered why I didn't give Jallow the footballs but, as he didn't seem terribly enthused, I elected to wait until the PTA chairman, Mot Hoja Ceesay, turned up as planned. I left the footballs in his care.

Mr. Jallow, myself, Mot Hoja Ceesay in the school garden

The school grounds weren't in very good shape. The roof from Grade 3 had blown off, and the furniture/class was relocated to my beloved library, the door to which was left unlocked as the keys were lost. The school garden wasn't as big as before, but did seem fairly well irrigated. After a few more minutes we headed off.

As my former Njau L.B.S. colleagues returned for Easter I began to learn more about Mr. Jallow. It turns out he was the headmaster of Buduk L.B.S. southeast of Njau. He was caught selling the school's World Food Programme supplies so he was transferred to Njau (Gambia's Dept. of State for Education doesn't fire people for stealing students' food).

On top of being a criminal, Mr. Jallow also got on very poorly with his teachers. One, Sheikh Ceesay, is a Njau native and lives there with his family. Due to conflicts with Jallow, Sheikh moved to Buduk's school, even though it meant spending the week away from his family and rent a food bowl. I was unable to see one of the two remaining teachers, the Ustas (Koranic teacher), as he had left early after an argument with Jallow. My little brother Alhagie Sait's teacher had not returned since the Christmas holidays. The lack of teachers and classroom means that a couple of classes now come in the afternoon.

One good thing to come out of Njau L.B.S.'s current travails is that it's helped me better appreciate Ousainou and the work he did at the school. I always knew he was cut from a different cloth than many headmasters and education authorities, but this visit reemphasized some salient points:

- Ous had a great rapport with his teachers. They were welcomed into his quarters for after-school lunch and ataya, and by and large work attendance was very good.

- He got on really well in the community, and knew just about everyone in the area. He also helped some compounds through the lean months. (Although this too was a misappropriation of WFP stores, it wasn't for personal gain. There was still plenty for the students, and whatever's left at the end of the year gets pilfered by the regional education office.)

- Ousainou also worked quite hard. He organized outreach/"sensitisation" in Njau and surrounding villages. He also spent a lot of holiday time visiting NGOs and prospective donors, in order to get funds for school improvements (library renovation, water pumps). The roof from Grade 3 would definitely have been restored.

Ousainou Touray and I in London. April 2009

Throughout my visit, many people noted how much Ousainou was missed and how the school was struggling. As disappointing as the school's state is, it helped me appreciate how much was accomplished by Ousainou.

A quick aside. Hips Don't Lie confronted me on the TV the other night, and I noticed that Shakira seems to be running through a room of mosquito nets - really nice ones like the expat girl had when we went to Dakar for WAIST. I couldn't tell if Shakira's also had sequins...

A few months ago (12 weeks to be exact - I just had my review!) I started a part-time job to help pay the bills. So three evenings a week I stock shelves in a supermarket cum big box store.

The work is relatively painless as most of the customers are cordial, and I've thus far avoided being trained to work checkouts so mostly operate in my own little world, with occasional reminders that we need to get through the dairy/meat backstock.

The chain gives us prescribed space to show our individuality on our nametags, where you can have a piece of clipart (the beer/wine ones are only available to employees over 18) and a fact about you listed. I went for a basketball but, as it was not on the list of languages, "I speak Wolof" did not make it onto the badge. Other entertaining features are the random searches, our clocking in/out cards (with the Orwellian phrase "Supporting Your Attendance" emblazoned across it), and weekly briefings where I learn how much money we've made and the value of products which are 'wasted' (it all goes straight into the compactor instead of being given away).

All told it's not a terrible place to make a few extra Pounds, although I am bewildered by the fact that we have literally hundreds of types of yoghurt available. My coworkers are all pretty nice, although the teenage boys never seem to do any work at all. Plus at the end of the shift I sometimes manage to sample some nicer items when they've been reduced in price as they approach their due date. And the work's not too mentally taxing.

There's all manner of formal avenues of communication, from the weekly status reports, surveys and so forth. So at the 12 week review my major input was to request that we get better newspapers in the staff room, perhaps even the Economist. My manager wasn't very encouraging but did say he'd put in a word with the higher-ups.

Today I visited my bank in Edinburgh, with an eye towards getting a credit card through them. I don't intend to spend a lot of money, but I'd like to have the added insurance that credit cards offer over cash or debit cards (in light of travel company XL's recent demise), and want to avoid the extra commissions for using an American credit card in the UK.

Unfortunately my quest ended in failure. The customer service agent informed me that, since I carry no debt or mortgage (HA!), and spend very little of my savings, my credit rating is too low. So unless I spend more of my money, I cannot be trusted with a credit card -- even one with a credit limit linked to my account balance, which I suggested. In addition, my Peace Corps service kept me off the financial radar for two years, curtailing my opportunities to establish my profligate bona fides. This proves the old adage, No good deed goes unpunished.

A few weeks ago I read an article in the Economist stating that many African countries, due to their relative detachment from world financial markets, should not be as adversely affected by the international financial crisis. [In general, the article is cautiously optimistic about Africa's current prospects.] At the time I mused that I was analogous to these countries as I have not been caught up in the global financial tumult given my lack of investment (or liability).

Alas, I was incorrect in this assumption. As banks have belatedly moved to tighten their lending and credit provision strategies, I remain out of the UK financial loop, at least for the next six months.

I had a hectic three week visit to the U.S. in August., my first trip home in three years. I got to see my parents and sister and also caught up with lots of friends. While en route through London I even saw some South African friends I hadn't seen since 1991.

Given that the flight was on a stingy American carrier, I had to plan ahead. “Economy Plus” (I found no lower seating class) passengers could purchase cans of beer and so forth for $6. Having learnt my lesson on an Italian holiday (when I had to surrender toiletries), I presented the security screener with a sandwich bag of toothpaste and 5 cl bottles of vodka. Then all I had to do was furtively open them on the plane (it's even illegal to drink your duty free on the flight) and request extra orange juice.

After a few fun days in DC that included meeting beautiful babies (a demographic I greatly miss from my days in The Gambia) and a board games reunion (including stalwarts Illuminati and Citadels, and new games PowerGrid, Bohnanza and Puerto Rico) I took some Chinatown buses to Philadelphia and NYC. Like Gambian gelegeles, these buses seemed to stop anywhere to pick up and drop off passengers, who were usually standing under trees (in industrial/commercial parks, though). In NYC I had a mini-Gambian reunion and in Haji and Mai's new neighbourhood I got to speak Wolof, drink wonjo (sorrel leaf) and bui (baobab) juice and eat benichin rice with oil running down to my elbow!

In Pittsburgh I visited the Mattress Factory, which had a lot of interesting exhibits including some fun confusing dark spaces with visual tricks. Also while in the Northside my hope of one day owning a home was restored (my friend has a nice little $40,000 rowhouse) and I confounded a waitress by asking if the orange juice was “bottomless” (and was surprised to learn that they did indeed have “free refills”).

America remains as safety and litigation conscious as ever. In Pittsburgh a sign warned against leaving corn husks on the ground lest someone slip on them. In Tacoma, WA, I was admonished to point my lightly carbonated juice bottle “away from face and people, especially when opening.” It made me nostalgic for days of children climbing 50 feet with a machete to collect coconuts, riding bareback while balancing scythes on their heads, and having adults shout at them “Dinaa la door benga buga dee!” (I will beat you until you want to die.)

Back in DC I took in Treasures 2008 at the National Museum of African Art, with most of the ivory figures from the Congo basin and Nigeria. I also visited the decidedly more crowded exhibit of Afghan art at the National Gallery. Perhaps more people would've been at Treasures if we'd intervened in or bombed parties to the conflict in DRC (5.4 million dead over the past decade).

Here we enjoyed some nice hot weather and geared up for friend Sean's (nee Xiao) wedding, which was of a decidedly relaxed nature. To wit:

“What if we don't get the dress for the second flower girl?”

“Oh, we'll just tell her she's not in the wedding.” (The dress arrived on time.)

I also had a rude reintroduction to driving (by proxy – the DC DMV wouldn't renew my license). We stayed at a hotel further from town, only to spend the savings on petrol, while missing at least half the turns and on-ramps we should have taken. This theme reached its nadir when we made an interminably slow 5 hour journey to Vancouver (again, traffic and routes colluded against us), spent 1½ hours there (it's pretty), and drove back. It was my highest ratio of journey time to destination stay since my star-crossed boat ride to Timbuktu. At least the en route dim sum and tea beat seven days of rice & fish and river water.

I was reunited with Fatou Jallow in Tacoma, which is not highly regarded in Seattle. We visited the “bridge of glass” (actually a bridge with some glass features above it), the Park Way (one of two Tacoma bars on Esquire's list of America's top 50 bars) and met with a bumper sticker saying “I pray. Get use [sic] to it.”

In Fatou's cute little African coffee table book of I came across a woefully mis-captioned picture:

“Senegalese street vendors sell fruit in front of striking ocher-painted buildings.”

At most these men were holding down the fort while the female vendor was off attending to another task. They are probably just chewing the fat.

In Seattle we went on an interesting tour of the underground – I had not realised that the city was built on top of old structures and streets that were not sufficiently above the flood/tide plane/plain. I also led Vic and Adam on what Adam described as a “rattan death march”, as is my wont when visiting new cities.

The wedding was a nice outdoor affair, although outboard motors obscured the vows. The ring bearer was a little discombobulated, the legacy perhaps of being lifted through a chandelier by his new uncle (though X had the scar to show for it).

I've forgotten the lovely couple's song, but the DJ made some curious selections during the sit-down portion of the reception. These included “White Flag” (about unrequited love) and “Hotel California” (as one of our friends at the high school table noted, “You can check in any time you like, but you can never leave.”). We had a fun time dancing (aside from Xiao's dad, Ning's mum and a random couple we were the only ones on the floor) until I had to catch my flight east to begin my journey back to Edinburgh.

Judy: I love merenda.

Chris: Who's that, the wife?

Judy: No, tea [i.e. teatime].

With that, Judy set about scraping off the burnt edges of the bruschetta she was making in the event that some German neighbours did turn up that evening for some wine and snacks, before we went for some pizza.

So of course Judy decided that the Germans weren't coming, and I proceeded to devour most of the bruschetta. As Judy and a builder were busy debating where best to build a stone support post for a patio roof, I heard the German family approaching. Thankfully they brought some snacks (and wine!) to supplement the remnants of the dish we had prepared. So in spite of it all we had a nice chat, then made our way to the pizzeria some 90 minutes after our reservation (Judy had to hold off on locking the back door until the Germans had turned the corner).

On the whole my visit to Tuscany was great fun. I got stuck rereading some Adrian Mole books, so my goal of finally finishing Negro With A Hat was set back a bit. It was low-key and I got to see my cousins and their families briefly too. Look for the pictures to be uploaded in August.

Speaking of my camera, while visiting my cousin Lucy's B&B A Mezza Costa I saw a display of her friend's art. They were collages of painted "found objects." One of these, from 2005, featured, among other artifacts or bits of rubbish, was my camera! Perhaps a further hint that I should move into the digital era! Still, I like the fact that I will be surprised by and reminded of past activities once my film (36 exposures, not 24, it turns out) is finally finished. It was begun in October 2007.

In Gambian news, which I occasionally chronicle, President Jammeh last week announced that the time has come for homosexuals to quit The Gambia. Jammeh plans stronger restrictions on homosexuality than those softies in Iran. I may give this silliness some thought at a later date.

After Saturday, I am motivated to write a little about the school I work at. That day, two of our boys participated in a 2.5km run on the Meadows in Edinburgh, so I decided to head over there with my nephew and a friend of mine. In addition to the two chaperones (who jogged with the boys), I expected a few people from Harmeny to drop by. So I was quite impressed to meet a dozen of my colleagues (including some who do not work directly with students) and some of their families. That day I felt very proud to be working at Harmeny School.

Besides the challenges and rewards of working with our students, I am also lucky that there is a good rapport between school employees, whether they are in administration, education or care (i.e. working in the cottages). It is a fun atmosphere, although I fear I will need some reeducation before I return to an American work setting, as it tends to be a bit more conservative in the U.S.

Here are some examples of the children's work and activities. I was lucky enough to attend the Burns Supper/Lunch (I am in the distance at the end of the table), and to see the creation of A Fight For Inner Peace.

My friend Maimuna sent me an Associated Press article on young Muslim boys from Guinea-Bissau sent away to study with marabouts/serignes/ustas (Koranic teachers) in Senegal. The students/talibes support their schools/madrassas by begging:

It's big business in Senegal. In the capital of Dakar alone, at least 7,600 child beggars work the streets, according to a study released in February by the ILO, the United Nations Children's Fund and the World Bank. The children collect an average of 300 African francs a day, just 72 cents, reaping their keepers $2 million a year.

Most of the boys — 90 percent, the study found — are sent out to beg under the cover of Islam, placing the problem at the complicated intersection of greed and tradition. For among the cruelest facts of Coli's life is that he was not stolen from his family. He was brought to Dakar with their blessing to learn Islam's holy book.

This made me think anew about my friend Bubacarr's little dara/Koranic school in Thies, Senegal, many hours from Njau, Gambia.

At Bubacarr's dara/madrassa the begging is done in lieu of farming, which young students often carry out as payment to teachers in rural areas. Since Thies is a big city, there is no farmland so relying on alms (one of Islam's five pillars) is the avenue pursued to support the school (and everyone's feeding).

While I am still dubious about the overall merits of the boarding dara/madrassa system (far from home, more time spent begging than studying), Bubacarr's did have a few saving graces. These are that the talibes are all from Njau, so they and their families know Bubacarr well, and see him whenever he returns to visit the village. Also, although difficult, life at the school did not seem too harsh (although some of this may have been due to my visit) -- everyone ate fairly well (as well as or perhaps better than they do in Njau) and the kids had spare money that they could spend on icees (frozen sugar-baobab/hibiscus drinks). But it's probably one of the better ones.

Of course, most of these boys had the decision to travel to Bubacarr's dara foisted upon them by their parents. I would have preferred they went to Njau's government school, but people value religious knowledge and can't always see the benefit of western education. And I'm sure the boys missed their families.

Regarding the article's thrust on child labour, I am again unsure exactly how to think of this. As the author mentions, some returned boys began working in their home villages. Rescuing them from their serignes/marabouts certainly won't spare these children from contributing their labour to their families' livelihood.

While in Hull visiting a friend from primary school, I came across a couple of strange things. First off, while taking in a cooking programme before heading out that morning, I listened to one guest speak about Malaria Awareness Week. So I thought we'd perhaps hear about the estimated 1 million people who die annually from malaria, and the relatively low cost of increasing prevention in regions where malaria is endemic.

Instead, I learned that some 2000 British travellers catch malaria overseas, and Brits thus need to learn more about the disease. Perhaps this is an angle to get Britons concerned about malaria worldwide, but I am a bit cynical, as no mention was made of non-British sufferers of malaria.

Upon heading out, we came upon a special van equipped with hoses and powerful sprays. For a couple of pounds a go, you could have your plastic rubbish bin washed. This seemed a bit useless since, well, it's a receptacle that stores filth and will keep getting dirty, and it's rarely hot enough here to worsen and spread the odour of the rubbish.

First off, it seems that in Edinburgh female drivers have a good reputation. A couple of weeks ago, I saw a car for sale. Among the virtues listed was that it has had "1 Lady Owner." Recently I also saw a driving school company that is simply named Female Driving Instructor. While on the subject of cars, one of my colleagues takes the bus to work as if she moved her car her (unzoned) spot would be taken. So she owns a car but feels she cannot drive it lest she lose the parking spot. Absurd.

Since I've gotten to Scotland, I've been on the lookout for some Wolof speakers so that I can brush up my language skills. I hadn't much luck (the language I most often randomly recognize is Twi, from Ghana), although I am teaching somebody some Wolof for use in their research work in Senegal. [My roommate recently remembered that he has a Gambian coworker, so I shall see if we can meet up for conversation.] So I was pleased when I happened upon a brochure for the World Sufi Festival in Glasgow, which would feature a Senegalese booth. As I've mentioned before a lot of Senegalese are followers of the Mouride sect of Islam, although I discovered that religious fervour did not figure prominently in the "Senegalese Market."

After a relaxing Friday afternoon watching Brokeback Mountain (which I thought was excelllent) and meeting up with some people at a pub, I left early Saturday morning for Glasgow. I spent the morning walking around the city (a nice place, I thought), and visited the Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. It's an amalgamation of an art gallery (with Scottish, Italian and French art, plus a few masks in a theme on costume), Scottish history sections (I learned that the Scots did not wear kilts into battle, so I'm a little disappointed in my primary source of Scottish history - Braveheart) and a natural history museum, but quite nice all the same. Their signature piece seems to be a painting by Salvador Dali, called Christ of St John of the Cross, the purchase of which caused consternation.

At the Senegalese booth at the World Sufi Festival (other events at the conference centre included the Model Railroad Show and Cyprus Property Show) I did indeed meet several Wolof speakers and got some good practice in. In fact, one of them had sent a brief response to my Gumtree posting for a Wolof conversation partner, then never wrote again (apparently Amadou went on holiday to Ukraine), so he remembered me. There was a nice little dance and drumming session (it always seems to be white guys who are on the djembes), and a couple of them sang some familiar chants from the Baye Fall, itinerant Mourides who roam the Senegambian countryside singing for alms. There were plenty of other interesting booths, plus some nice Pakistani singing performances. There were a couple of real estate booths -- I could have bought into some condominium in Beirut ("by Ivana Trump" - I didn't know this was a big selling point) or perhaps gotten a bargain on a place in Lahore.

My weekend wrapped up with my second Sunday playing pick-up football in the Meadows. It was quite fun, although rather cold and I had an abysmal second stint in goal. It's nice to get the exercise, though, and hopefully we'll go for post-match pints next time. People are strange here in that when an activity ends here, they just up and leave.

I get news briefs on Gambia and Ghana sent to my email, which helps explain why I have been writing more about President Jammeh recently. Of course, some of the recent news focuses on Bush's African tour, which included Ghana as one of the stops.

In case anyone is inclined to think of Africa as a diverse continent with many different experiences, and levels of political and economic development, Reuters, via the Herald Sun (Australia), puts things to right: George Bush tours disease and poverty stricken Africa.

Here's a headline from an article about some Worcestershire residents going to Gambia: We’re off to a country where children have to use melons as footballs. Now I never saw this (and the waste would not be looked kindly on), although I'm sorry to say that our kids made short work of footballs - perhaps because on one end they got shot into the brush, and behind the other goal line lurked the toilets with broken corrugated iron doors with sharp bits curling out. So I never bothered buying a football while I was in Njau.

Bush wrapped up his tour with a short stop in Liberia, a country that the U.S. and Americans should have a lot more interest in, given the shared history and involvement (although this obviously looms larger for Liberia, the smaller party) over the centuries. He's done fairly right by Liberia in recent years, including calling for Charles Taylor to step down and pressing for his subsequent extradition to The Hague.

During a brief speech, Bush made a telling observation: “It’s easier to tear a country down than it is to rebuild a country.” He was of course offering encouragement to Liberians, but may have also been in a reflective mood, as even on this legacy burnishing trip Iraq looms large.

Lastly, Nicholas Kristof does well to note that Kenya's coddled rulers belong to the Musharraf class of American allies -- dictators who we variously classify as democrats, stewards of eventual democracies, or guarantors of stability in volatile regions. Kristof doesn't bother mentioning any other members of the African Musharrafs he describes, but several would qualify to varying degrees. Among them are Blaise Campaore in Burkina Faso, Eyadema in Togo, Museveni in Uganda, Idriss Deby in Chad (where the French just turned back Sudan-backed rebels), and Paul Kagame in Rwanda (which merited a visit from Bush).

Absent from the above list is the deservedly maligned Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. He profits from the double standard, however, and can point to this and the fact that white Zimbabweans are a visible component of his victims, which seems to have drawn Britain and America's ire on him in particular. After all, Mugabe oversaw a pogrom in Matebeleland in the 1980s, but this went largely unremarked on. It's difficult to expect success rallying African opposition to Mugabe, as they see this selective denunciation.

[See also this Washington Post article with African commentary on the relative importance of democratization and stability/counter-terrorism to Bush's foreign policy.]

For the last couple of weeks I've been watching the Cup of Nations in Ghana. Living with Ghanaian friends, I am in a fairly partisan crowd ("The Egyptians are cheats and thieves") but we usually give credit where it is due, and begrudgingly acknowledged that Ghana didn't look good. Still, there was lots of good offensive play in the tournament as a whole.

Here are a few observations from the tournament:

1) I was excited to see my friend and former drumming teacher Francis performing in the opening ceremonies. I looked but didn't find him during the post-final awards ceremony, perhaps because the victorious Egyptians had taken over the drums.

2) Ghana's Black Stars were to be put up in some nice digs - the Golden Tulip or a similar high class hotel. With demand for tournament accommodation rising, though, the hotel found higher-paying customers and the Black Stars were left without rooms.

3) During the tournament, the Confederation Africaine de Football (CAF) selected Didier Drogba of Cote d'Ivoire as the African Player of the Year, and summoned him to neighbouring Togo to collect his award. It was a strange decision, since all the players, many CAF officials, and international media were already in Ghana. Given that Cote d'Ivoire's base was in Takoradi, an eight hour journey from Lome, Drogba hoped to send someone to pick up the award on his behalf. CAF promptly announced that Drogba could not have the Ballon d'Or trophy, and Drogba said he had no interest in future CAF awards.

4) In the Cameroon-Ghana semifinal, a bizarre event took place in the match's dying minutes. With Cameroon up 1-0, the medics came onto the field to attend to an injured Indomitable Lion. While they were doing so, another Cameroon player ran over and shoved one of the medics to the ground, earning a red card (and missing the final). Nobody really knows why Andre Bikey lashed out, including his victim.

5) I like the tournament ball.

6) Finally, the closing ceremonies of the tournament (after Egypt's 1-0 win over Cameroon) featured some unfortunate medal errors. First, the ribbons on the medals were broken so the first few fell to the ground after they were put around the Cameroonians' necks. They handed out the rest. When the Egyptians came, CAF turned out to be one medal short, so the coach gave his to the goalie.

While watching the first half of the England-Switzerland friendly, I listened as the match announcers discussed England's attacking tendencies. They found fault with the fact that the English side seemed loathe to pass the ball back towards midfield and defence when in possession. Compared to international football norm, the English side is too impatient. An announcer remarked, "Slowly slowly gets the monkey."

A popular Wolof proverb (also available in other Senegambian languages) is Ndanka ndanka mooy japa golo chi nyaay bi - Slowly slowly it catches the monkey in the bush.

Switzerland has just equalised, so the monkey may get away regardless of England's approach.

I just finished my fourth week of work, and am enjoying it a lot so far. Although I have obviously been accepted for the classroom assistant post, my school wishes to have a pair of references to burnish my personnel file.

So, since school reopened on January 7, they have been in touch with my old headmaster from Njau (currently in Slough, working at a "car supermarket"), and my former boss at a research institute in DC. The former came through with a general form from my school, but has yet to send in a short handwritten letter supporting my appointment. Master did once fax over an old letter, which spliced together two different recommendations that were composed in the past - a general one, and another for a UK grad school application. As for the DC-based reference, she assured me that her reference was submitted, but nothing has come. I hold out hope that Master will send off his handwritten note soon.

Given the abject failure of my DC reference, I have turned to a second Gambian supervisor - which may be putting too many eggs in one basket. Still my old boss with Peace Corps says she will respond to a reference request from my school. She only got the email a week ago, so I will give her some time.

Public Transport a la Afrique Occidentale

Yesterday, as I was returning home from a band's album launch (replete with free cupcakes) I let a couple of old women enter the bus before me. I thought this is reasonable move, but received a light shove in the back for my efforts. I turned around to discover a miffed old man who seemed in a hurry to get on the bus.

This desire to get on the bus first (though not the surliness) reminded me of getting transport in West African cities. When a gelegele/tro-tro or share taxi pulls up, there is much jostling and pushing to get in the vehicle first (one also has to be mindful of pickpockets while battling for a place). This is by and large a good-natured competition, though.

Still, it was a bit ridiculous that this elderly man was getting angry about entering the bus, when there were ample seats available. But it wasn't something for me to get agitated about, and I could only chuckle at what people take seriously here.

On balance today was another good day. I decided to make a list of some of the good moments here.

My buses to work arrived in good time, and I have been enjoying a new book on the way -- The Foreign Correspondent.

The morning session went well, with a little reading and reasonably calm conversation.

The first part of session two went great, as I attended a formal introduction to the school's outdoor programme. We went on a tour of the grounds (the 30 acres are framed by woods and streams that form natural boundaries) and took a ride on the 'flying fox' -- the zipline/foofie slide. I have already helped with a few class and individual outdoor education settings, and it was nice to get out and see everything in a leisurely manner.

We had a long conversation with one of our students, which has helped me better understand what has been making him sad.

In the afternoon we did some cooking and baked little spanikopita (spinach with feta) pastries. Then we made some displays for tomorrow's Burns Day, which celebrates the poet Robert Burns (who wrote Auld Lang Syne). I am gradually learning more Scottish history and culture! Tomorrow should be a hectic day as there will be 17 people (students, teachers, guests) in the classroom for lunch.

As some of you may have read or seen, Gambia's President Jammeh announced last year that he could cure AIDS, asthma and a few other ailments, through traditional remedies and judicious application of the Koran. This "breakthrough" first came to my awareness while I was visiting Kaur. Hanging out with a friend's coworker, we lay on his bed as we saw the president pour black liquid from a used water bottle (coveted in Gambia) onto patients' stomachs, which he then rubbed in (he wore gloves to maintain sanitary conditions).

The following is The Daily Observer's reflection on this success:

Thursday, 17th January which is the eve of Yawmal Sahura, makes one year since His Excellency the President of the Republic of The Gambia, Alhaji Dr Yahya Jammeh, introduced the treatment of HIV/AIDS in The Gambia.

Since then, over 30 patients have been treated and discharged, with the Aids virus no longer detected in their blood stream. In addition to this remarkable achievement, President Jammeh has cured over 1000 people suffering from asthma and hundred of people with hypertension, infertility in his programme.

More details on the health status of the discharged patients and President Jammeh's treatment programme can be watched in the documentary series 'The Breakthrough' - Part Three, coming soon on GRTS.'The Breakthrouh - Part One and Part Two can be watched on Tuesday, 15th January 2008 at 8:00pm and 10:00pm respectively.

Meanwhile, the celebrations marking the 1st anniversary of President Jammeh's breakthrough will take place on Thursday, 17th January 2008, at the July 22nd Square in Banjul. The programme is scheduled to begin at 8:30am.

President Jammeh of Gambia has long been fond of holidays. He has declared several to mark election victories, the successful hosting of an AU conference, and other occasions. The most recent is the ngente/coolio/naming ceremony, or outdooring ceremony, of his baby son Mohamed. So the entire business of government was shut down for the day.

Foroyaa, an opposition newspaper that has not been shut down yet, reports at length on this absurdity, and makes the connection between Jammeh's behaviour and that of the late Turkmenbashi of Turkmenistan, and such luminaries as Idi Amin Dada (Uganda) and Jean Bedel Bokassa (CAR):

Apart from the millions of Dalasi no doubt spent on the occasion, we can also imagine the great loss suffered by both the public and the private sector for being forced to take an unplanned public holiday as well as the mobilization of government resources, including the engagement of the Gambia Radio and Television Services for the whole day to broadcast messages and commentary in support of President Jammeh and Baby Mohamed, as if it is a private institution owned and financed by him alone.

Foroyaa also impressed me by noting the gender imbalance in Jammeh's celebration and holiday decisions:

Another interesting aspect of this unprecedented naming ceremony was the gender dimension. While this is not the first time that President Jammeh is having a child, but one would tend to ask why this naming ceremony is more lavish and elaborate than the naming ceremony of Mariam, his first child. Of course, the only sensible conclusion is that he values a boy child more than he values a girl child. This is indeed a big challenge to the gender activists to find out from him why he chose to so blatantly manifest his gender bias in favour of the boy child.

I feel sorry for newspapers such as Foroyaa. Although they are widely available in the Kombo (capital) area, they are only distributed upcountry by readers who decide to bring them for friends to look at. As for the radio, that is dominated by the government broadcaster, so I'm sure much was made of Baby Mohamed's birth. And one can only wonder, in a very poor country, how much money was spent on this celebration.

Last week the leader of the Mouride brotherhood in Senegal passed away. About half of Senegal's population belongs to this Muslim brotherhood, with a lot of followers in Gambia too, and even Mauritania.

While in The Gambia, I was fortunate to travel with some Njau residents on the Magal, the annual Mouride pilgrimage to Touba.

In addition to large-scale involvement in Senegalese agriculture, a lot of Mourides travel overseas for work, both to support their families and their imams/serignes and the brotherhood.

Here is a picture Jon took of some pictures of serignes (religious leaders and teachers) who are widely venerated in Senegal and Gambia. I've also seen bumper stickers that say "I [heart] Serigne Omar Jobe" and others.

Adventures in Job-seeking

My search for fairly humble employment in Scotland took six weeks, but not before a few misadventures.

The principal mishap was when I went for a group "supply" (i.e. substitute) pupil support worker interview in West Lothian, to the west of Edinburgh. Given that my knowledge of the regional geography is terrible, I probably should have taken more care than simply relying on online mapping and trip planning websites.

It seemed simple enough. My bus dropped me off at the predetermined point, and I was armed with a printed map showing that I was less than a kilometre from the interview location. Alas, the roads had no pavements/sidewalks, so I was forced to take to pedestrian paths that took me behind rows of identical houses. Since it was only 7:30AM it was still quite dark. Lacking my familiar directional indicators - mosques and the sun - I wandered into a vast expanse of shopping centres and parking lots asking locals for Owen Square, which they had never heard of.

Eventually I called the interview hosts and discovered that I had somehow come quite close to the building. I beat a direct path to it, and only turned up about 15 minutes late, although covered in mud after abandoning the walking paths. An upside to my tardiness was that I got to stay on a few minutes after the group interview concluded, which afforded me the opportunity to ask naive questions about the education system and terms of employment in front of a smaller audience.

The following week I had interviews closer to home, and did the necessary research and staking out to prevent a late arrival. That morning as I moved to button my suit trousers, I discovered that the dry cleaner had melted off the button. Luckily I had another ill-fitting tailored suit (the jacket is snug, the trousers more of a zoot suit style) from Ghana to wear, so I managed. It turns out that some buttons are not meant for dry-cleaning, although the dry cleaner did agree to replace the button. I will have to warn Inusa about the buttons...

My other difficulty with interviews here is that they often turn into talks about my life in The Gambia. It is not always easy for me to frame these experiences in a manner that highlights my credentials, and employers then don't grasp how my work in Peace Corps will help me at a school in Edinburgh. Of course, people here have no idea what Peace Corps is; in the U.S., at least there is some familiarity with the program. I am doing better at this, though, and at one primary school I managed to link my achievements and challenges in The Gambia to the work I will do for them next year.

In the beginning of December I went on a hike through an online group posting. It was in nearby West Lothian, about an hour on the bus. The hike was nice but very windy. I had thought that walking around would keep me warm, and my thin jacket with a broken zipper was not up to the task. I am wearing the red backpack.

Still, it was fun to get out in the countryside and admire the wind-towers in the distance, and VERY healthy looking farm animals. I will have to photograph the sheep sometime and send them to my friends in Njau.

The ride back was a bit of a challenge as we misread the bus schedule once (waiting half an hour for a bus that doesn't come on Saturdays), then missed the subsequent bus as the timetable was off by 10 minutes. Fortunately we got lifts from some hikers who drove.

I got a little lackadaisical over the next few weeks so didn't make it to any further group events. Plus I was trying to save money as I didn't yet have work, and a follow-up hike was postponed. Then there was some dispute between members that I was not party to, featuring much flaming and the eventual departure of the group head (who I never met). So in January I will relaunch my social endeavours!

With the end of my West African sojourn, will my blog reach an inevitable end? This may seem a strange question to (my few) readers, given the fitfull and infrequent updates on the blog. The question gains saliency, though, as the online journals of several of my RPCV friends seem to have passed on. The include blogs I've linked to - Sekouba, Hadji, Maimouna - as well as a couple more I've happened upon, namely Haddy Whan's and Yusupha Touray's (the latter is probably too busy eating). With her extension of service, Mariama Touray's blog has a new lease on life. Hopefully my blog will avoid this post-Peace Corps fate, although readers may lost interest as the events of note lose some of their exoticism.

Now I am in Edinburgh, Scotland, staying with good friends from Ghana. I am still adjusting to the digs (my Gambian home is palatial by comparison), and trying to get active (I have been waylaid by the combined forces of rich food, cold weather, and constant Internet access). The city is beautiful and I'll try to explore in the next few weeks while I'm not yet gainfully employed.

Around London, I spent 10 days catching up with friends from Ghana, Gambia and the U.S., basing myself with my South African relatives. Given that I've been staying with Sena and family, I haven't yet gotten to know many Englishmen or Scots. I'm anticipating improvement once I have a workplace, and may also check out some MeetInDC-like groups. I'll report more on my first foray into that world shortly.

From Senegal to Ghana, I managed to see quite a few museums, although I did miss the national museums of Sierra Leone and Cote d'Ivoire. Here are my thoughts on them, in order of visit.

Jon and I visited the IFAN Museum in Dakar, which had raised its tariff to 3000 CFA from 500 CFA from when I last visited in April 2006. It basically has a bunch of simulated village settings of Senegalese and other West Africa ethnic groups (especially Guinea Bissau). Not a whole lot to see.

A nice bonus, though, was an extra wing which had an exhibition of an artist named Eduardo Nery. I've interspersed a few of the blends of masks and faces, which Jon photographed.

In Labe in the Fouta Djalon, we attempted to visit the Musee de Fouta. First we walked to its old location. When we arrived some hours later at the correct address, we discovered it was closed. Oh well.

In Conakry we visited the dusty old National Museum, which was just one large room in this case. Here they had models of the different compound styles in Haute Guinea, Basse Guinea, and the Fouta. Someone made a half-hearted attempt to sell us some clothes and paintings, then we were off to fight for seats in a share-taxi out of town.

After Jon returned to Dakar, I made my way to Sierra Leone. Here I visited the National Railway Museum; the trains stopped running in 1971. Someone from the UK helped the Museum secure funds to repaint and refurbish the old trains -- most of the metal was pilfered by desperate refugees trying to trade parts for something to live on. The trains are fairly well restored, although they don't enjoy a lot of visitors. I also passed by the ruins of the Old Fourah Bay College's main building. The stairs leading up to nowhere hosts vendors, barbers and a drinking spot, and there's a few more sellers in the courtyard. Fourah Bay was one of the premier West Africa universities; a few of my old Gambian friends were here before the war forced them to transfer to the University of Ghana. I missed the National Museum in S.L.

In Liberia I did make it to their very humble National Museum. I think most things of value were looted. There are a few old paintings and trinkets. Otherwise, there is a wall of computer printed pictures of Liberia's presidents. It really is in deplorable shape, and doesn't yet have anything on recent developments (aside from presidential photos of Charles Taylor and Ellen).

In Grand Bassam in Cote d'Ivoire, they have fixed up a couple of colonial buildings quite nicely. What I think was the old governor's residence is now home to the Musee National du Costume. They had a bunch of traditional clothing, as well as performance garb, of Ivoirien ethnic groups. The north of the country looks really interesting, which my travel guide suggests too. They also had the miniatures of traditional compounds, and a somewhat disturbing picture of a colonial official manually inspecting a teenage girl's breasts at a market in the early 20th century. One unfortunate development over the years is that a lot of artifacts famous to certain countries or regions are now produced all over, with varying degrees of quality. This includes Ashanti stools, Ivoirien masks, mud cloth, and indigo cloth. As evidence of this, the artisans on hand in the Musee du Costume courtyard included a number of non-Ivoiriens. I got to practice Wolof with a few Senegalese artisans, who come from a country without such a rich woodcarving tradition, although the quality was decent.

In Abidjan I again missed the national museum, but headed to the suburb of Cocody where I visited the aforementioned Musee Municipal d'Art Contemporain, which had an interesting and enthusiastically guided exhibit of student artwork.

In Ghana I visited Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park. The museum and park are in good shape, but most of the historical photos are just of him visiting with various heads of state. Otherwise, most of the shelves hold copies of his various books.

Also in Accra I visited their National Museum. This one was quite nicely put together, with a lot of items, and quite a few explanations too (particularly of kente and adinkra symbols). There also seemed to be a recent effort to engage with youth, so there were a few pictures of this, and much writing on the virtues of preserving culture and national heritage. The Museum also did a good job of discussing the similarities between Ghana and other African countries, and displayed similar artifacts (or ones with similar purposes) together with Ghanaian objects. They also had a nice guest exhibit of photos of Japanese children, taken from 1945 up to the present.

Kumasi has several museums which cover Ghanaian, and particularly Ashanti, history. Of the museums I visited, the Armed Forces one had the most enthusiastic guides, and all of them go over the same potted history of the Ashantis. Sadly, the hat museum was closed for renovations.

October 1

In The Gambia, an early morning or evening walk would sometimes afford me the opportunity to see some warthogs or monitor lizards. Most Saturdays, if I left the Panchang lumo (weekly market) by early or mid-afternoon I'd usually see a pack of colobus monkeys crossing the north bank highway on my bike ride home. Once, on trek between Buduk and Chamen, we saw about one hundred baboons climbing up the mini-escarpment from the rice fields near the river bank. Plus there's Bubu, the police station's baboon mascot. And I got to see some hippos and chimps on our trip to River Gambia National Park. Not much large wildlife, though.

In Mole National Park in Ghana, I saw all of the aforementioned (well, no monitor lizards), only some were largely domesticated. The monkeys, baboons and warthogs walked around like any regular domestic West African animal, sorting through the trash generated by the Mole staff quarter's residents, with the warthogs wallowing in random patches of mud and in the gutters. As a result, rubbish was strewn all over the periphery of the staff quarters.

One we headed a little way onto the park grounds we saw, in addition to indifferent baboons and warthogs, three species of relatively skittish antelope. This was nice, as I'd never seen any in Gambia. After some more walking, on two of my three outings we saw, and got very close to, elephants. The first time, it was just the guide DK, Oliver (a tourism office transfer from Kumasi on his first park hike) and myself. We watched the three elephants eat for about twenty minutes, the we left them to it. That afternoon I visited Oliver to chat and watch Nigerian standup on his office PC. Ghanaian civil servants, toiling away!

The second time, I was in one of three groups of ten. This time we met five elephants. DK had us stay a while, so we got to watch them spray themselves with water from a mud patch. One our way back up the hill to the camp, we saw another elephant taking a bath in a waterhole.

Mole was a fun experience, especially as we got within twenty metres of the elephants. I think the park could easily charge more than $1.50 per person on the two hour guided walk, but I did notice that the park guides did not record the number of visitors on each hike, so a fair amount must get chopped. In all, the setup is a bit amateurish, and it's a shame about the rubbish all over the camp.

My other wildlife sighting of note was in Busua, a southwestern village I visited when I first entered Ghana from Cote d'Ivoire. One morning I woke up, strolled up to the beach, and saw a few whales swimming and spouting water just off the coast.

October 1

Note: Essel is in a blue shirt, Felix in white, when we went to visit Miss Lilian. Not our typical night out to eat.

My hosts in Accra, Essel and Felix, are twins. The traditional Ewe names are Etse and Atsu/Atchu (in Gambia it's Adama and Awa, or Assan and Ousainou if both are boys). Both worked as "anyworks" -- young boys who made a little money by running errands and cleaning for students on campus. Essel worked for the Gambians on upper A (Dollar) Block, then for some of my American friends there, so that's how I got to know him. Felix worked for a friend of mine in another hall, among others.

After Junior Secondary School, Essel went to a Senior Secondary School east of Accra, while Felix went to the national vocational school to study electrical work. Both have now finished school and are looking for regular work.

Essel finished at Old Ningo S.S.S. last year, and has gotten a bit discouraged. Having been convinced that he cannot go far without further education (in IT or his personal favourite, business), he has not been proactive in seeking work opportunities. In a country with limited job prospects this leaves him with no chance of getting anywhere. So we are working on strategies that could help him make headway in this environment.

Felix has more prospects thanks to his electrician qualifications, but so far he has only had short-term odd jobs through word of mouth. With construction booming, there should be ample opportunities for Felix to get consistent work.

The twins are not lacking in work ethic. As "anyworks" they put themselves through J.S.S./middle school, when their father and uncles were unable and/or unwilling to help with their fees. They remain in the family compound, which has fallen into neglect. Some of the better-off uncles have moved out, leaving tenants in their place. Although by and large wonderful people (they are taking great care of me), the tenants cannot be expected to help out the twins and attend to the compound the way an owner might. Their father and the remaining uncle spend on alcohol what little money they earn. The few times I've run into the twins' father, he has stunk of booze. On the one occasion he didn't, he was on his way to the bar and was visibly shaking. Essel and Felix are not on speaking terms with their father.

Essel and Felix never knew their mother. But a few months ago she came to visit them in Kisseman. She had remarried and lives with her Malian husband in Bamako. Essel and Felix now have a brother (12 years old) and sister (6) in Bamako, and two more sisters in their early 20s living in Lome, Togo. It was a happy reunion, and their mother and step-father now call from time to time.

Essel is the more serious of the two, and more reserved. He is conservative in his spending and manner. Although I was pleased with this discipline, I think his modesty and reticence stifles his search for employment.

Felix, by contrast, is a fun-loving individual. He is happy to spend on a spot of drink, although he is not as nihilistic as his father. While Essel would prefer we just have some water with dinner, Felix encourages us to get some minerals or beer. But on our big night out, to my former study abroad director Doc's wife's restaurant in East Legon, Felix just went for banku with pepper soup. Our visit to Essel's congregation two Sundays ago was the first service Felix or I had attended in quite some time. But it was good to stop in as the pastor is a friend and mentor of Essel's.

We have been working on resumes/CVs and approach/cover letters so that Essel and Felix can leave a more lasting impression than saying "I need a job" and leaving only a phone number. They seemed quite pleased with the results, which should give them a little more confidence on the job search. We shall see what has come of it once I return from a week in the north.

We have been looking at some IT (well, typing and MS Office) courses for Essel. The understanding is that Essel will find work to occupy him along with the coursework. Even if the work is very low-paying or voluntary, it will get him out of the house and meeting people, and give him more work experience. Essel's aspiration is to attend the national polytechnical school in Koforidua to study business, perhaps next year. But that qualification won't provide him a livelihood without initiative and motivation. Hopefully this year will be a more productive one.

A few things Essel has said shed light on his outlook, which I am trying to change. Once, Essel mused about how much more money he might have if he'd been an "anywork" in America. I told him there was no point in wondering, as it wasn't so, plus his laundry skills (far superior to my own) would be of little use in America, anyway. His wistful attitude tends to substitute for going out and finding better options.

Another night, we visited a former teacher of Essel's who I once had a parent-teacher conference with many years ago. Her husband seemed to think we had come to beg or steal; we had to wait outside the big gate until Miss Lilian welcomed us in (any compound that has to have a gate opened by someone is a nice place). Anyway, during our conversation Miss Lilian related the tale of her stay in the UK. Her husband worked as a petrol station attendant while he pursued his master's degree and Lilian (a qualified teacher) worked as a cleaner to help with the bills. Miss Lilian, and I, clearly hoped the moral of this story for Essel and Felix would be that you cannot be too proud to take any work that is available, and to do whatever you can to better your situation. Shit, I probably would have settled for Essel wondering how Lilian's husband could forget his humble, but admirable, work and look askance at two random young men and their obruni friend. Instead, Essel remarked after we left, "Imagine what you could do with a little money earned overseas!" I retorted with what I deemed worth gleaning from Miss Lilian's experience, and again thought about how difficult it is to change people's attitudes.

ADDENDUM: It should be noted that Lilian's husband Francis was a great host when we came on an announced visit to their home. Also, my purpose in this article is to give a little idea of the situation in Ghana, and my hopes for a great friend of mine.

The 50th anniversary of Ghana's independence is also Commonwealth Hall's 50th year. The Vandal City, as Commonwealth is dubbed, is renowned for the spirit and enthusiasm of its residents. I experienced this during my year at the University of Ghana. My hallmates (V-Mates) had initiations for freshmen (and foreign students), pre-dawn route marches around campus, weekly debates on the hall steps, and an annual hall week replete with school boy, traditional wear and crossdressing days.

For all the shenanigans, the Vandals are by and large excellent students. The hall is held in such regard that their Jubilee Durbar was attended by John Kufuor, the president of Ghana, among other luminaries.

While visiting an old friend (and Old Vandal) in Winneba, we came across a television programme on the history of Commonwealth and the ethos of Vandalism. Although not a very incisive look (it was funded by an Old Vandal), the show had some fun reminders, such as that the other residence halls are referred to as "the colonies." When I visited there I was uniformly greeted with shouts of V-Mate! and got to see that the spirit is still strong. The hall is actually in fairly good condition, although the old problems remain (the water wasn't on that day). It was fun to get back and reminisce about the days there, the closest I got to fraternity living.

28 September 2007

It has been great to be back in Ghana, although a little strange after such a long absence (since July 1999). There have been a lot of changes that have made parts of Accra unrecognizable, and the population has ballooned too. My friend Essel's home, Kisseman, used to be a dusty village between Achimota and the university in Legon, but when I arrived it was an unfamiliar jumble of storey buildings, makeshift compounds and street-stalls, with the paths through compounds or gutter-ways the only way to get around.

Downtown Accra is even more crowded and congested than before, with many new roadways and overpasses trying to keep up with the city's growth. These photos are from the old lighthouse in Jamestown, in downtown Accra.

One problem of such quick, unplanned growth is an unreliable water supply. Most of the compounds (households) lack running water; even the trusted public toilet ($0.05 a go, $0.06 if you don't have paper) is not a self-flushing facility. So Essel and his family, and their tenants, have to fetch water from one of the compounds that can afford a tap. In Kisseman a 20 Liter bidong/jerry can costs five pesewas, or $0.05, to fill. In other areas where piped water is an even greater problem (such as parts of Madina), 20L is as much as $0.20.

Essel asked me if I had seen Extreme Makeover, which is shown on TV here, and if deserving people really could enter and win the chance to have their home revamped. The show and the money and energy people put into their home decorating and improvement is a little, well, extreme to me -- consider that Essel's compound with some 25 people does not have a single toilet. That I find these home aesthetics programs a bit bizarre when just thought of abstractly may not bode well for my upcoming return to this milieu. To me, more practical concerns, such as a compound of two dozen people lacking even a long-drop toilet (and with one bathing area for the residents to share) are of greater concern than the extra touches that make a house nicer.

With yet more photos from the largest church in the world...

Since 2002, Cote d'Ivoire has been divided between northern rebels (uprising against discrimination and marginalization) and a national government led by Laurent Gbagbo (who won a 2002 election over a general who overthrew Houphouet-Boigny's successor Henri Konan Bedie, but which excluded a key northern politician), with a "Zone of Confidence" monitored by French and U.N. troops. Although there have been several attempts to reach peace accords, conditions haven't improved markedly over the last several years, with the north falling even further behind the south in terms of economic development, education, and so on.

I travelled through the government-held portion of Cote d'Ivoire, so I cannot comment on the situation in the north, aside from hearing that there is no more running water, sporadic electricity, and little infrastructural development.

As for the south, government services do seem to be working. In all of the towns I stayed in (including the smallish Tolepleu) there was constant electricity, and there was work on installing a lot of streetlights on the road from Tolepleu to Yamousoukro (perhaps a branching out of the 20,000 or so H-B installed in that ghost town).

There were lots of military checkpoints, but only occasionally was I asked for money (with their only take, $2, coming on the border where I was magnanimous since I didn't have to pay for a visa). Given the security situation, these checkpoints and stops (all near the Zone of Confidence) made some sense, as opposed to those in Liberia (becoming more stable, with the only checkpoints serving as shakedown points) and Gambia (perfectly peaceful, just corrupt). A disturbing aspect of these checks, though, was the fact that people who seemed to be of northern origin (i.e. were clearly Muslims) were most likely to be told to come down from the vehicles and have their luggage searched. Coming from the sahel, it was sad to see some elderly men who should be treated with respect shown such little regard.

Francis, my host in Yamousoukro, used to work in Bouake, the largest northern city -- that's where his Eglise du Christ school was based before the war. Francis said that he sympathises with the northerners, as they were long discriminated against and neglected economically (most African colonial development took place on the coast, exacerbating regional and cultural divisions). With the war, they are even more cut off.