Rene, I commend you for your ability to portray the life of this imaginary
village as vividly as you have. What is stopping you from visiting and
reseaching authenticity for your book? you may respond to me at
[log in to unmask] I would like to be able to help.

Remember though that if your work is under fiction, you need not
authenticate it. For true drama, all you'd probably need would be a literary
correspondent from a similar village in Gambia.

cheers!!


>From: Rene  Badjan <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Gambia and related-issues mailing list
><[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: An excerpt
>Date: Mon, 23 Oct 2000 10:24:13 EDT
>
>  Thanks Awa. These excerpts are part of a 250 page manuscript. I feel much
>should be done about the story itself, in terms of developing the
>characters,
>the places, and being more familiar with the issues under consideration. It
>is necessary, in this respect, to visit the places I want to write about,
>or
>at least should be the basis of what I want to write about. Since the
>setting
>of the story is about this imaginary Gambian village, it is necessary to be
>in the Gambia for a while to work on this as a project. These are the
>contraints. Trying to convey images which could have been better treated
>had
>it been that you were there physically to conduct the research, make the
>observations, interviews, and visit places that can best project what you
>want to write. This is the work that needs to be done. It may take time,
>but
>hopefully it would be done. I have been sitting on this for three years.
>Meanwhile, I will share the skeleton of what I have now. Again, these
>excerpts are randomly selected.
>
>                                                    *
>
>
>     The aircraft, a metallic bird with outstretched silvery wings, glided
>lazily on the wet tarmac, and came to a grinding halt. The landing stairs,
>unfolded slowly, effortlessly, a mildly, creaky, shaky, railed metal
>stairwell that anchored steadfastly on the ground. The hordes of passengers
>tiredly descended from the aircraft; they were weary, exuberant, impatient
>and acutely restless. They walked hurriedly, briskly, the short distance
>into
>the airport terminal.
>
>      Samba followed deligently, excitedly, the rest of the passengers, who
>eagerly formed a long line behind the immigration desk at the International
>Arrival lounge. The passengers glowing faces, like embers in a dying fire,
>masked a burning hunger for all the glittering spectacles that lurked
>enticingly beyond the airport. A big eye-catching sign artfully designed,
>emblazoned the words: Welcome To New York.
>
>     Samba was now thirty years old. He was tall and of medium built. He
>weighed less than a 150 lbs. He had a bronze colored skin. His hair was
>black, soft and curly; his eyes small, joyous, with a thin line of
>eyelashes.
>His nose a little pointed, he had a round-shaped mouth with one of the
>front
>teeth jutted out. He had sunken cheeks; nonetheless, he appeared quite
>handsome in his new navy blue suit.
>
>    "Passport please," the burly immigration officer requested.
>
>    Samba for a moment appeared visibly startled from his reverie. It was
>now
>his turn at the long queue. He timidly handed over his passport. He
>remembered scornfully, joylessly, a friend whom immigration officers had
>heartlessly returned home with the next available flight. His friend had
>acceptance from a school, an I-20, but made the cruel mistake of arriving
>three weeks after schools had already opened for the Fall. Samba saw his
>friend wear the cloak of melancholy as they returned him home; a boisterous
>send-off party held few hours earlier on his behalf.
>
>    "Next...," the immigration officer scoffed.
>
>     Samba's relieved was profound. The fear that cuddled in his chest,
>pounding nervously with an irate fist, in that brief encounter, suddenly
>fizzled out like a punctured ballon. He had made it. He gave a long sigh of
>relief. His travel bag hung loosely on his shoulder, he strode with ease
>into
>the welcoming lounge. He did not expect anyone to welcome him. When he
>called
>Sainey Touray, the person who would be accommodating him in New York prior
>to
>his departure, there was no indication that someone would pick him up from
>the airport.
>
>      There were throngs of people in the welcoming lounge. Some were
>holding
>big signs with the names of the people they had come to pick scribbled
>neatly
>with colored markers. They raised their signs high above their heads.
>Others
>scrutinized gleefully, like dissected frogs in a science lab, the stern and
>tired faces that emerged from the arrival lounge.
>
>     Samba had never met Sainey Touray before. He had been to Banjul only
>twice, for the almost twenty years he had been living in New York city.  A
>friend who had arranged for him to stay at his place, introduced them over
>the phone. He unreservedly gave Samba his address at the Bronx, and told
>him
>gently how to get there.
>
>     Samba suddenly felt hounded, like a bunch of stray dogs, by different
>people who naggingly asked whether he needed a taxi. Some of those who had
>approached him had features that were peculiarly Gambian or Senegalese.
>They
>might have known that he was a Gambian. They came up to him warmly and
>said:
>
>     "Njama ngam"
>
>     "Njama rek," he replied
>
>     "Do you know Sainey Touray? The marabout who lives in the Bronx," he
>asked.
>
>     "I know him very well. Are you going to his house? I can take you
>there,"
>one of the persons answered quickly. He had lips so full like a chunk of
>roasted beef.
>
>    They were now squabbling among themselves as to who should take Samba.
>It
>happened that Sainey Touray was a prominent figure in the Gambian immigrant
>community in New York, and was also strongly regarded as a spiritual and
>cultural leader. His standing and moral authority, however, went far beyond
>the Gambian immigrant community; he was a renowned marabout.
>
>      "Look! I can take you there. The person you are going to is my
>uncle,"
>the person with the big lips said in mild irritation.
>
>      "Well! Let's go then," Samba said feeling tired now.
>
>     He sat comfortably on the back of the old Lincoln Continental, and
>watched curiously outside as the driver navigated expertly the maze of
>turns
>and circles, to get out of the airport and into the highway. He couldn't
>take
>his eyes from the window, turning his head to the right and to the left, as
>he greedily indulged in the spectacle before him. The driver was now plying
>across a long bridge; he then came to a toll booth. He lowered his door
>window, dangled his left hand outside and paid the toll booth attendant a
>fee.
>
>      "That bridge we just passed is the Whitestone Bridge. Amazing!  Is it
>not?" the driver asked.
>
>      "It is more than amazing, I guess. Right now, I am dazzled with all I
>am
>seeing," Samba repled.
>
>      The whole city was aflame, the lights so dazzling, like a myraid of
>firballs in the sky. Beyond, gaping defiantly towards the clouds, the tall
>buildings, the towering buildings, stood impressively everywhere, the
>wonders
>of modern architecture that mockingly defied the limits of the sky. The
>expansive highways, running parallel over and under, across bridges and
>into
>tunnels, invoked a marvelous spectacle that jolted one's imagination.
>
>     The taxi driver pressed hard on the accelerator zooming passed the
>scenic
>skyline that Samba found so tantalizing. The night was wickedly cold, and
>the
>wintry wind coldly caressed his face when mistakenly he rolled down his
>door
>window.
>
>     The taxi driver was now in the Bronx, and came to street where a group
>of
>other taxi drivers, with leather gloves and heavy jackets, gathered in
>front
>of a Convenient store chattering mildly.
>
>    "How are you doing guys," he greeted them enthusiastically. "I have a
>newly arrived Gambian pasenger."
>
>     They were all from the same ethnic group, and spoke in their language.
>Most of them have day jobs. They worked very hard in restaurants, sweat
>shops, merchandize factories, gas stations etc, and worked at night also as
>taxi drivers. A very industrious ethnic group. Well noted, they laboriously
>toiled, basking under the burning Sun, the diamond mines in Freetown and
>Zaire. They possessed in-depth business acumen, the basis of their
>survival,
>demonstrated with remarkable wit and zeal.
>
>     Except for few other people who dared to brace the biting cold, the
>streets deserted wholly. Finally, they came to a very tall brownish
>building,
>or so it appeared in the dark. The contours of the building against the
>sparsely lighted street conjured an image of a menacing monster. They got
>out
>of the car and walked slowly towards the building. A security guard,
>dressed
>in layers of clothing like a corn, approached them and asked spitefully:
>
>      "What do you want?"
>
>     "We are going to the eighteenth floor, apartment 36," the driver
>replied.
>
>     "You have to use the intercom for them to open the door," the security
>guard mouthed.
>
>      He sluggishly walked back to his metal desk, and resumed looking
>excitedly at his adult magazine. The driver buzzed the apartment, and a
>sleepy voice asked in a croak sound:
>
>      "Who is that?"
>
>      "It is me. I have a visitor for Sainey," the driver responded in
>their
>language.
>
>     They door opened, and they walked into the lobby of the building. The
>driver pressed the button for the elevator, and Samba heard distinctly the
>squeaking noise the elevator made as it descended. It was an aged elevator.
>
>     He led Samba quietly to apartment 36. He knocked gently the door, and
>the
>same sleepy voice answered from within. After they waited for a few minutes
>the door opened and he herded Samba inside.
>
>     What Samba saw when he walked into the apartment gave him a jolt.
>There
>were about six people sleeping in the living room. Some slept on the
>couches,
>and the others on the floor. The driver exchanged a few words with the
>sleepy
>person and left.
>
>     "Enjoy your stay," he said to Samba. He shook his hand affectionately.
>
>     Samba sat on one of the vacant couches. The sleepy person said to him
>in
>broken English:
>
>       "You can lie down and make yourself comfortable." He put out the
>light,
>and the next minute Samba heard him snoring loudly like a braying donkey.
>
>      Samba sat in the darkness, and was momentarily lost in his thoughts.
>He
>closed his eyes tightly, and was taken through a cloud of distance, back to
>his compound in Christekunda. He sauntered idly into his bedroom, and
>sprawled cozily in his neatly made bed. He slowly, painstakingly opened his
>two eyes, and frieghteningly greeted eerie darkness, except for the
>snoring,
>heavy breathing and audible sounds coming from the sleeping persons.
>
>      "Everything would be alright in the morning," he muttered to himself.
>
>      He removed his shoes slowly, and crouched fittingly into the small
>couch
>in his clothes. He covered himself with a thin piece of cloth that he found
>lying on the floor. The house was warm with the temperature at least sixty
>or
>so degrees. He couldn't sleep for the rest of the night or morning, and
>twist
>and turn in the small couch until daylight broke.
>
>      The activity in the apartment when the Sun began to peep in was
>bewildering. With the number of people sleeping in this three bedroom
>apartment, they took turns to use the only bathroom downstairs. Those who
>slept in the living room did not wait to use the bathroom downstairs. They
>went into the kitchen, and one after the other washed themselves up
>temporarily.
>
>     They would put one leg in the kitchen sink and washed it up to the
>knee.
>They would then remove that leg and put in the other one doing the same
>thing. They would washed one hand to the elbow and then the other. They
>washed their faces three times, and used their fourth fingers as a
>tootbrush
>to clean their teeth and mouths.  Finally, they rinsed their mouths and
>spewed the water splattering into the sink....
>
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