Bamba Laye, while I do share this writer's disgust at the loony we have, I seriously take exception to his reference to Gambia as an accursed place. By whose authority is this guy speaking of a land as accursed? The fact that there are mean street hustlers, an even meaner, even demented president, dysfunctional toilets and airconditioners in hotels, among the many other issues he describes, does not mean that Gambia is accursed. 

 

I find this piece extremely offensive, but for the fact that it does a great job of further exposing the evil deeds of the mad tyrant of Kanilai. The author can rest assured that given the right kind of leadership, The Gambia can truly deserve being called The Smiling Coast of West Africa. We will bring back the smiles to our beloved Motherland, God willing. Thanks for sharing.

 

Baba
 


Date: Mon, 20 Jul 2009 07:43:39 +0400
From: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Fw: Gambia is epitome of Africa accursed
To: [log in to unmask]



http://www.kansascity.com/115/v-print/story/1332610.html

Posted on Sat, Jul. 18, 2009 
Gambia is epitome of Africa accursedBy C.W. GUSEWELLE
The Kansas City Star 

During his recent visit to Ghana, President Barack Obama praised his host nation as an example of the progress that, with principled leadership and domestic order, could be possible elsewhere on the continent.

Sadly, however, as he realistically noted, in too many other parts of Africa endemic corruption, self-perpetuating tyrannies and internal strife have been pervasive curses, defeating the hope of development and a brighter tomorrow. 

To appreciate the obstacles that millions of Africans face in attempting to create decent lives for themselves and hopeful futures for their countries, one need look no farther than Gambia, also on Africa’s west coast.

A onetime British colony, it is home now to 1.7 million unlucky souls, among the poorest on earth. And it offers a stark example of social and political ruin — a refutation of the notion that the trajectory of human affairs is inevitably upward.

In 1986, with my family, I lived several months in Dakar, Senegal, and we traveled out from there. One of our journeys was to Casamance, the southern region of the country, which is separated from the north by a major river flowing from the West African interior to the Atlantic.

That is the river from which Gambia — only a 10- to 15-mile-wide sliver of land on either bank — takes its name.

Logic would dictate a bridge linking the north of Senegal to the south. Instead, there was only a ferry, and long lines of vehicles at the crossing.

The wait can be so interminable — from three days to as much as a week for commercial vehicles — that truck drivers often set up camp in the shade under their machines, with hammocks, stoves and cooking gear.

Passenger cars get priority. But even so, because of the river bottleneck, when traveling south to Casamance it’s usually necessary to break the trip at the Gambian capital, Banjul.

Some travelers have claimed to find Banjul charming. We found it as beguiling as a sanitary landfill. I’ll repeat here my observations from the experience. 

••• 

Incredible accumulations of refuse — broken and discarded things, and others organic and putrefying — wash up in chest-high waves against the walls of derelict buildings along once-paved streets that have simply crumbled away to red dirt.

Gangs of idlers lounge in the dust and stare at the passing strangers with a look of sullen resentment — which is the expression anyone might have, if he contemplated a lifetime spent in such a place.

The street hustlers of Banjul, unlike those in Dakar, are worse than just clever and determined. They are intimidating and mean. They lay hold of a traveler, jerking at his arms, maybe feeling for his pocket. One of them, when finally warned away in impatience, left with a threat. 

“You will know the consequences of this later tonight,” he muttered. “You will see me again!”

At our hotel two blocks from the ferry landing, our room had an air conditioner that worked, but a toilet that did not. In the other room, our daughters’, the air conditioner was broken but the toilet was functional, though lacking a seat. By visiting the plumbing in that room, and dragging mattresses through the hall to the floor of the other, it was possible to imagine enduring the hours ahead.

Outside, on the small balcony, the temperature had to be 95 degrees. Across a confusion of shed roofs could be seen only a few incandescent lights — so few that one was reminded afresh of the miracle that electricity truly is.

Figures moved in awful slow motion through the dark trenches of the dirt streets below. The refuse heaps sparkled wickedly in the hot moonlight. The air was heavy with languor, with aimless fury, with menace and defeat. 

Mindful of that earlier threat, we travelers slept uneasily with a chair wedged under the handle of the door.

••• 

That was most of a quarter-century ago.

Today, according to reports coming out of Gambia, the ruin is even worse.

Al-Haji Yahya Jammeh, who seized power in 1994 coup, rules with a dictatorial savagery that makes even Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe seem almost benign by comparison.

His prescription for the treatment of AIDS is bananas and herbs. His response to political opposition is prison and torture. Critics of his tyranny flee or are murdered, or simply disappear.

On Jammeh’s command, witch doctors accompanied by armed thugs scour the country, rounding up, brutalizing and often killing villagers the demented president suspects of being sorcerers.

Gambians are said to live in perpetual terror of the loony who governs their country and their lives.

Whatever was in that accursed place before Europeans began arriving in the mid-1400s was more than remains there now of happiness or hope.

There are some errors of history, some human and political deformities, that may be beyond the collective power or will of international charity to correct. If so, Gambia is one of them.
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