Home(less)

The demand for shelter beds increased by more than a 16 per cent and the average number users per night rose by 28 per cent.

Those statistics do not reflect the number of people sleeping in parks and on the street, in vehicles, tents and trailers, and in garages and overcrowded basements.
read full story: Homeless population growing, Regina LeaderPost

This is a world where causes intersect continually. How do you improve primary education when children are hungry? How do you end hunger when one has to choose between shelter and food? How do you end poverty without meaningful employment?

How does one love their neighbour?

Mix Tape

A friend of mine rides the bus from time to time. On one particular bus is a person who still has, and uses, a portable cassette-tape player. Apparently it is big and heavy looking. I suppose that, beside an MP3 player, anything is bound to appear large. Of course, I suggested he make mix tapes for the fellow. A new one every few weeks to catch up on more recent tunes or be introduced to some classics.

Before leaving for Africa, I almost did a poll with a little request attached. It was to have gone along the lines of “if you were stuck on a desert island…” The catch was that it was I who was moving to another continent and I wasn’t sure how I would do “all alone.” I wanted songs that, when played, would remind me of my friends and family. The truth is, I wasn’t alone all that oftenand I picked up a few new additions for my playlists.

The best way I’ve found to find new melodies is to share with others. Since my sharing has gone neglected for a few months, enjoy my discoveries below. There are different genres to pick from. Some artists have free downloads too.

Who knows? Maybe this will become a regular ‘first-of-the-month’ sort of thing. Something to look forward too. And a glorious Canada Day to you!
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Home

Home is…

… where the heart is?
… where everybody knows your name? [Cheers]
… where you hang your head? [Marx]
… where they have to take you in? [Frost]
… not where you live but where they understand you? [Morgenstern]
… where the skies are not cloudy all day? [Higley]

I’ve been away from Canada for about four months. Some things are pretty much the same. (Like the mess in my livingroom.) Some things are new. (Like babies.) Some things are expected. (Like the miraculous disappearance of snow and the greening of landscapes.)

I’ve been back in Canada for a bit over two weeks. I know exactly what you mean when you ask, “So, is it good to be home?” I always answer yes. And I’m telling the truth. But I have to explain that Africa has become a bit like home too. Those people are also my friends, my coworkers, my (adopted) family. I am loved and valued and welcomed into their homes. We exchanged hopes and dreams and fears and longings.

But my beloved Africa seems so very far away. Waking up in the morning to donkeys, roosters and children on my thin foam mattress, brushing aside my mosquito net. Pulling on the nearest skirt and T-shirt. Sweeping my hair up. Reading the next section in my daily Bible. Walking down the sandy street to the shop to pick up tappa-lappa for breakfast. Boiling water for coffee. Making the slow hour-long progression via local transport to work. Teaching or sorting or planning or encouraging. Making the reverse trek home in 35 Celsius humidity. Sweat literally dripping down my back, bracing my feet in the 15-passenger van to keep that remaining sliver of my body on the seat, listening to the latest Youssof N’Dour tune from the speakers, smiling at the baby on her mother’s lap, ignoring yet another guy asking for either a phone number or my hand in marriage. A quick stop at La Parisienne for some combination of free wi-fi, good coffee and air conditioning. Picking up some fruit from my fruit lady; the one who always throws in a little extra after I’ve paid. Arriving home to the exuberant welcome of darling A, complete with a hug around the knees. Being amazed at what new word she decided to utter that day. Seeing V still hard at work and admiring her boundless joy. Looking forward to the refreshment only a cold shower on a hot African afternoon can bring. Dinner of yassa or domoda or benechin or beans. Preparing for the next day. A quick journal entry. Another washing of feet before hopping into bed, securing the bug-net, and falling asleep to unending reggae.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. I don’t remember how dirty my feet truly got. I don’t remember the smell of burning garbage mixed with exhaust fumes. I don’t remember how to move slowly. I don’t remember how to be constantly in community. I don’t remember how to be acutely aware of monitoring water levels, awaiting electricity to come back on, dealing with running out of propane for cooking, needing to shop everyday for groceries, washing clothes by hand, being content with just the essentials.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. I drive my well-maintained car on smooth and paved roads. I don’t plan my day anticipating power-outages. I have access to an endless water supply and countless grocery store shelves. I can count on meetings starting on time and a schedule being followed. I am utterly and completely confused by these daylight extending events called dawn and dusk.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. Being in Canada seems so very normal. Neither place is better than the other. It is simply that they are different. I can recognize the privilege it is to live in Canada and the sheer abundance this country has to offer. I can recognize how overwhelmingly difficult it is to live in Africa despite its endearing charm.

I know exactly what you mean when you ask, “So, is it good to be home?” I always answer yes. And I’m telling the truth. But I have to explain that Africa has become a bit like home too.

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
~John le Carre

48

My last forty-eight hours are shaping up as rather African.

Electricity: or rather lack thereof. There has been about 8 hours of electricity in the last two days. Most of this occurs in the wee hours of the morning while everyone is sleeping. It makes things like printing my final report for the pharmacy department a little challenging.

Internet: also closely tied to the lack of electricity, internet access is somewhat diminished. Fortunately there are places such as La Parisienne that not only have free Wi-Fi but also serve wonderful brewed coffee (not the instant Nescafe that is so loved by Gambians), a vast array of fresh churned ice creams and truly delightful pastries. I am enjoying a cup of joe whilst writing this post.

Hitchhikers: on the way to Banjul and the hospital this morning, we decided to pick up a group of non-Africans we had seen before. Not only to be nice but also to find out who they were. They ended up being a group of short-term volunteers from South Korea who have been teaching at a secondary school in Banjul.

Music: I have been blessed with music today. The Korean volunteers broke out into wonderful harmonies during our trip to Banjul. The melody danced between different individuals as the group created a wonderful flowing base. All this softly rising from the back of the LandRover as we sped along. On my way back from Banjul, in local transport, three extroverted and bubbly women engaged me as I entered the van: Toubab-o. I tundi? — White one, what is your name? they asked in Mandinka. (Actually they asked much more but I am not near proficient enough in that language to converse.) Now knowing me as Jeneba, they too burst forth in traditional singing — complete with megaphone, clapping and a call-and-response pattern, all at a volume sure to carry into the mangroves along the road.

Missed photo ops: again while driving, two vehicles would have offered wonderful photos — had I had a camera with me. The first was a compact Renault traveling along the highway with a fully-assembled double bed frame tied to its roof. The second was a large transport truck (perhaps 5 or 6 axle) toppled on its side along the highway, with contents of its load spilling into the bush. (My favourite missed photo op was a few months ago — a woman with baby in bambo on her back carrying an incredibly oversized suitcase on her head. Truly impressive.)

Of course, it will be truly sad to leave this country that feels so much like home. At the same time, I am looked forward to returning to the prairies and seeing family and friends again. Four months is both long and incredibly short at the same time.

Giraffe, camel, fish

Remember how I said it’s all about community? Well, this past weekend I was invited to the new home of my “boss.” Mr. Pharmacist bought some land in 2003 after he finished his master’s degree. The building began in 2005 and things are nearly completed.

The Kombos area (equivalent to a province) of The Gambia is becoming more and more familiar but there are still corners I have not ventured into. Mr. Pharmacist’s house is in a newer development. As such, I got to learn about a new taxi route. He told me the name of the taxi garage on Friday and I tried to put it to memory by it’s equivalent English sound. Friday evening, I seemed to think this was “woolen giraffe” (a.k.a. wolongira).

Saturday afternoon I ventured out, first catching transport (a shared taxi on a fixed “bus-route”) to turntable. I have been past turntable many times … to the north is Sukuta and a garden project, to the south follows the coast down towards Brufut and Sanyang beach and continuing east is the airport junction. I knew I wanted to go towards Brufut but figured I should double check that “woolen giraffe” was correct. Good thing I checked. While the taxi drivers would undoubtedly have figured out where I wanted to go, I’m sure they would have had a good chuckle along the way.

The actual name of my destined taxi garage: woloncama (”woolen camel”). While giraffes and camels are somewhat similar (longish necks? common in various parts of Africa?), they are indeed different.

I found a taxi going in that direction. I even responded correctly to some Wolof and Mandinka questions, much to the delight of the taxi driver and other passengers. Mind you, these were pretty basic (what’s your name and how’s the day).

After visiting at Mr. Pharmacist’s house, meeting his wife and children (and their Qur’anic teacher), we drove to Tanji as he wanted to get some fresh fish for the week. (Tanji is also where one can go on a camel ride; see Flickr photos.) That moment of walking through the crowded beach, gulls circling, children chasing each other, women hawking their fish filled baskets, the ebb and flow of colours, the fresh salty-sea air and a gently increasing glow as the sun dipped lower — that moment was just a little bit magical.

With typical Gambian generosity, I was dropped off at turntable with a bag of fresh fish and an open invitation to visit at any time. Not bad for a Saturday afternoon adventure.