Guys,
Here is  the posting that some of you missed. It was an attachment of a
posting by Sheikh Tejan Nyang on Monday 7th February. Due to the
file-extension of the attachment, it was difficult for some to open the
file. However, I am re-posting the piece for all to read. Because of the
length of the article, I have removed the headers, trailers and footers to
reduce the length.
WARNING: "THIS IS A VERY LONG PIECE AND READING THROUGH MIGHT MAKE YOU
CHOLERIC, BUT PLEASE BE PATIENT AND READ THROUGH."
Please NOTE that this article was written ENTIRELY by a GERMAN.
Enjoy!
Prince Coker


From: "Spector Travel of Boston, Inc" <[log in to unmask]>
To: "Sheikh Tejan Nyang" <[log in to unmask]>
Subject: Website
Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2000 15:37:47 -0500
No Problem in The Gambia?
By Birgit & Joel Samuel


 Embedded in the country of Senegal, the Gambia is located at around 13
degrees north of the equator and is the most western spot on the continent.
It was made popular as the home of Kunta Kinteh from Alex Haley's "Roots".
Its population is just over a million people from about 10 different ethnic
groups and it is among the twenty poorest countries in the world with a
fifty percent illiteracy rate and a life expectancy of less than 45 years.
There used to be dense woodlands at one time but due to over-population and
grazing it has lost most of its vegetation and is now on the verge of
becoming a desert in the Savannah zone. High incidence of Malaria was
responsible for its fame as the "white man's grave" and Malaria remains one
of the leading causes of death to this day. The chief religion is Islam with
widely practiced polygamy where a man is allowed to legally have as many as
four wives and two girlfriends.
This affects the society and anarchy is the rule of thumb. The good aspect
is that the children grow up with an extended family and many relatives
around them all the time which makes them seem better adjusted in
interacting with people on a group-level than the western way of isolation
and separateness.

For the man the woman is there to serve him. Her pleasure is not a topic,
but her sterility is. If a woman does not produce an offspring after a
relative short time of marriage she is in trouble. The man can always send
her back to her family or simply divorce her. And a woman without a man is a
heavy burden to the family and one more mouth to feed. The society offers a
solution for these women: the Marabous.

Many European women come to West Africa in search of a man. They are often
beyond the age of attraction in their own societies and find temporary
solace with an African man. Many Africans view these type of women as a
source of wealth for the family and often when the finances are
significantly depleted the man's Moslem side comes to the forefront and he
demands another wife. After a few years of trying to keep the marriage going
she is a beaten and changed woman who either just surrenders to this type of
lifestyle where she is of much lower standing than other African women or -
if he doesn't claim the children -ends up taking them back to a Europe that
doesn't accept her anymore. Another common scenario is that the entire
family moves up to Europe and the African man continues to use the woman for
money, often living a double life with his other wives waiting for him in
Africa to which he returns from time to time. Many countries are now aware
of this African problem and it is much harder for them to find any sympathy
when trying to move or travel to Europe.

Most of the women to this day are circumcised, meaning that at the age of
thirteen their clitoris is removed with a knife or razor blade during a
special ceremony. This can cause infections and some women even die. Those
who survive often have to deal with bad scars and sterility problems.

To explain what the Marabous are is a bit confusing to the Western mind:
they are not priests, but clerics; not healers, but medicine men; not
magicians, but advisers.
They are a bit of everything. Sterile women are sent to them and receive
"jujus", charms to protect and help them, and guidelines of how to perform
certain charity. This can vary from giving 20 cola nuts to older males or
serving sour milk to twins, breaking an egg on a street junction or throwing
it into the sea. In very hopeless cases they are sent to the white
crocodile, which is considered holy. They have to touch it and are promised
fertility, that is if the crocodile is not aggressive or hungry and things
go as planned.

Until 1994 there used to be pictures of Sir Dawda Jawara, the original
President of the Gambia, everywhere. He was an educated man who had studied
veterinary medicine in Britain and became president right after Britain gave
the Gambia its independence. That was back in 1963 and through these long
years of ruling corruption was rampant and it was a very decadent
government. But then, almost over night, many changes were taking place and
the accelerated pace was due to the rapid expansion of technology. This
development was much too fast and there were undercurrents of tension all
around. It could be felt that all this was coming to an end. And then, one
day in July 94, Jawara was overthrown in what was termed a bloodless
military coup and replaced by a military regime that promised to hold its
government accountable.

Word had it that the USA was involved in trying to oust Jawara and replace
him with a puppet president. But things went drastically wrong when a then
second lieutenant who was a former presidential body-guard wandered into the
abandoned State House and declared himself the new leader of the Gambia. At
that time the new USA replacement was holding a conference with the US Navy
offshore. Thus the bright future of then 2nd lieutenant Yaya AJJ Jammeh was
preordained and he almost immediately turned into retired Colonel Yaya AJJ
Jammeh.

In the beginning of 1999, 4 1/2 years after the coup, the Gambia is loaded
with problems as it had always been. The economy is weak, the unemployment
rate high and the government tried to solve this dilemma by raising the
expatriate quota, a yearly fee payable by working non-Africans, to $ 3,000.
As a result many have left the country, leaving maids, watchmen and drivers
employed for their private needs and workers and clerks, employed for their
businesses behind, for whom it will be almost impossible to find employment
again. The people are worried and have reason to be. Only a stone's throw
away is the troubled area of Casamance, Guinea Bissau is war-torn and in
Sierra Leone the war has never ended. The stability that their own country
would have needed so badly never came. They pray for a brighter future and
trust in their God. Thy will be done = Inch Allah!How many misconceptions
there are about Africa we realized when we returned from the Gambia and
tried to answer questions that took us by surprise. What do people think
when they think of Africa, and why is it all mixed up? One main factor is
that many people see Africa as a country, not a continent. And they have a
vague idea of its inhabitants and the environment: it is hot, there is the
burning sun and the sea, there are monkeys, lions and consequently there
must be tigers, probably piranhas and alligators, for sure bushmen, medicine
men, magic and voodoo. The people live in huts, there are bananas, life is
backward, there are jungles and snakes, starvation and poverty, wars, aids,
Ebola and all kinds of diseases, cannibals and the Sahara, arrows, bows and
spears. It is definitely strange and primitive.
We had been to Africa for different reasons. Joel is an American video
producer and this time he visited the Gambia, Africa's smallest nation, to
do a documentary about West Africa and was later asked to work as a
consultant and trainer in conjunction with Gambia Television.
Birgit came from Germany to do business with a Gambian partner. They
purchased second hand furniture from their former employer, the US Army,
that was reducing its presence in Germany. Then they shipped them to the
Gambia and sold them in their shop. She had lived there for some years
enjoying her house near the ocean surrounded by the fantastic colors and
smells of the tropics.
Obviously our reasons to come were different, but when we left they were
similar.
The Gambia is not the country of the elephant or giraffe, no hunting
safaris, only photographing of birds takes place.
 When one finally has arrived there and the doors of the airplane open, a
burst of humidity and a heat wave are the first things to greet you, then
you realize the dust and if you happen to have come during the rainy season
you will be welcomed by millions of insects that have waited for you at the
airport. Next you will be hit with the smell of burning wood.
The way from the airport to the hotels leads through streets that remind of
slums in South Africa's Soweto and you'll find yourself staring at masses of
people in their colorful dresses and the cacophony of radios, children, cars
and horns is deafening and irritating. Should your arrival be at night you
will participate in a ghostly ride through complete blackness until you get
to the first settlements where kerosene lamps lit the interior of the huts
that are lining the road all the way to the hotel area.
Your first encounter with the local population will probably take place the
next morning after you woke up to the strange noises of hundreds of birds,
the soft rattling of the palm leafs and the distant thunder of the ocean.
"Nanga-def?" they will ask you with broad smiles and you will smile back and
answer "fine thank you", which will be followed by "and how's the mother?"
into your astonished face.
People go through a cordiality and greetings can take an inordinate amount
of time. For an American or European who is accustomed to asking for
something even before any greetings are extended very little ever gets
accomplished in this culture. You have to get used to this way to do things
that never get done and the philosophy is an easy one to learn: "this is the

Gambia. The country of sunshine, the smiling coast. No problem.
But problems are everywhere and nothing is ever easy, remembers Joel. "I was
contracted to do a video tape for an Non Governmental Organization that
wanted to appeal to the international community for money, its name was DASH
which stood for Development Action Through Self Help. I was at the airport
trying to board my plane when stopped by a guard brandishing an M-16 assault
rifle who intimidated me to open all my suitcases. I appealed to him
pointing out that my camera and tripod case could be of no interest to him
and out of the blue he said: 'DASH'. This signaled to me that he knew of my
assignment and I tried to explain that I was working for this project. He
continued to say 'DASH' as if he was trying to convey something that I
hadn't understood. This went on for quite some time and he got more and more
agitated and belligerent. Finally a German man walked by and, overhearing
this fruitless 'conversation', told me that in Wollof, the most widely
spoken tribal language, Dash meant 'bribe' and to just give some money. I
did - and the guard immediately walked away.
But often there is simply comedy in the situation," he says, "and the best
way to handle it is to take it with a fair amount of humor. I was working
upriver at a Wollof village and the sun was going down. The Chief invited us
to eat with them in the traditional way of the Moslems. I had watched the
food preparation and had seen that the water was drawn directly from the
river. I knew about tests which showed a wide assortment of diseases that
flourished in the water and lost my appetite. The women also were not too
clean and the place not very sanitary. My guide did his best to get us out
of the invitation but said it would be considered an insult if we didn't
partake with them. We sat on a Baobab mat in a large circle and the food was
set in the middle. Everyone was waiting that I serve myself so that they
could begin and I knew I had to think fast. So I immediately reached in and
took my food with my hand in the typical Moslem manner, but I used my left
hand. Voices were raised in protest and an argument ensued. I knew what I
had done, but was unsure of its ramifications. For the Moslems only the
right hand is used to eat with and the left is reserved for wiping after
defecating. My guide was as well astounded, but I then told him that I was
left-handed which he immediately conveyed to the chief. I also added that in
my culture many people, including myself, wiped with either hand. The women
were busy clearing away the defiled food and I was never asked again to eat
with the village."
 Many foreigners who come to work in Africa come via international
organizations such as UN or other non-governmental organizations and only a
few come as technicians and even fewer as entrepreneurs. Birgit belonged to
the last group and worked and even lived with locals for two years before
she moved to her own compound. Living there has plusses but many minuses,
too. The food, for those who can afford it, is fresh and there is a wide
diversity with tasty meat, rich seafood and a large variety of vegetables
and fruits. For the affluent, help such as maids, cooks, nannies, watchmen
and all labor is very inexpensive. Housing, by most western standards, as
well. The houses are built generously with two or more bathrooms, master
bedrooms, terraces and nice gardens. The tropical climate guarantees fruits
throughout the year and the gardens explode in smells and colors during the
rainy season. On the minus part there is plenty of disease to go around and
most everyone has had a few bouts with Malaria and to understand the ways of
the people is really not easy. "We had to learn a lot about a very different
culture," Birgit laughs, "and it seemed unreal sometimes. Especially their
belief system. Living in the midst of Gambians showed me a new side to life.
To my European mind there was superstition everywhere but to the Gambians
nature spoke. A bush might have been transformed to watch you now and reveal
all your secrets, the wall might have ears and the trees eyes. The owl that
sat every night high up in the palm tree was a witch and probably the
neighbor woman that had died last week. 'Didn't you notice the earring?'
they asked me. 'She was a bad woman, that's why she was turned into an owl'.
They were always careful. In a country where it was believed that Marabous
have the power to send invisible curses to an unsuspecting victim which
brought nightmares and trouble upon him, everybody was distrustful. And then
one day I found my first juju.
I had sat in the kitchen and had the first coffee of the day when something
in the garden caught my eye. There was a little bird house hanging from the
Mango tree. In half the year that I've lived there I had never seen it
before and sat there wondering about this, when Yacine, a woman from Senegal
, came to visit. 'This is a juju', she informed me 'and you better get rid
of it, and fast.' Well, I did have trouble with my former Gambian business
partner, big trouble to be precise, and I had heard a lot about Marabous and
curses.
  The common opinion among the whites was to ignore that nonsense. 'Hang a
mirror in front of it so that it reflects back on them', someone advised me,
'that scares the sh......out of them.'But some were more thoughtful. 'There
are people with powers, don't underestimate them.' I was undecided. When
Yacine pressured me to see a Marabou myself, 'because when fought with guns
you fight back with guns,' I finally gave in. And so I found myself crossing
the country with Yacine in order to see my Marabou. 'My' because he spoke
French and I could communicate with him.
We left African civilization and entered the bush, followed endless sandy
roads full with potholes and I knew that I would never be able to get there
during the rainy season. We passed several villages until we finally reached
our destination and stopped in front of a plain compound.
I had never been to a place like this before. There was no green. Sand as
far as the eye could see. Skinny chicken ran hecticly across the yard, dogs
with festering, scabby eyes and bleeding ears lay motionless in the sparse
shadows. A group of women sat at a well with filled buckets of brackish
water around them and numerous children in rags approached us. Their noses
were running, flies settled on inflamed eyes, and smiling and noisily they
all wanted to touch me, the toubab (white person). Yacine entered the yard,
followed by me who was followed by at least twenty children screaming
'toubab, toubab!' If this Marabou didn't know before who was coming he knew
for sure by now. We entered the clay hut and came into a dark room. Lined at
the wall were some decrepit chairs and a couch which had also seen better
days. I was still reflecting whether I could load it with my enormous weight
of 120 pounds when I saw the much heavier Yacine just flopping down onto it.
So I sat down and waited for the Marabou, feeling as uneasy as I possibly
could and knew for sure that I had lost my mind.
It took a while before one of the many curtains that flapped into the room
was pushed aside and a skinny man in his sixties appeared. His once white
dress was torn and now gray, he looked shabby and unclean. But when I looked
into his face I relaxed. Here stood a man with intelligent eyes, eyes that
even showed humor and he took my hand into both of his and greeted me
warmly. My uneasiness somewhat left me. Then, in his room, he started to ask
for my reason for visiting him and I told him about the 'bird house' and the
problems I had and asked if he could help me. And he nodded and smiled.
He took a horn into his hand. As far as I could tell it was a sheep's horn
with red marks painted on it. Other than that it was just an ordinary horn
as I had seen often during the Moslem holidays when they slaughtered sheep
and threw the horns away. He caressed it, then put it to his ear, listened
to something only he could hear and finally placed it in front of me, on the
dirt packed ground. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement
and as I looked closer I saw this horn spinning around and around, turning
around its own axis. My mouth went dry and my heart began pounding faster.
This was frightening. The Marabou sat motionless on the other side of the
room, away from this horn, and except for the two of us nobody was present.
Then he started to speak. He looked at me and smiled, but he seemed far away
and then he told me my life. He knew the names of my children and of
friends, he knew what I did in the Gambia, he knew of my court case and of
the corrupt lawyer of mine, he knew of my business partner and warned me of
him. He told me I am in danger and should leave the country. This he said a
few times until he finally shook himself back to reality and went silent.
After a while he asked me if I had a question, but no, I had none. In fact
all that I had heard was more than I could handle and I thanked him and
wanted to leave. I was prepared to be charged with a high fee now because I
am white and therefore must be rich. And why not, he had done his job and he
and his family had to live from something, I had noticed at least four women
and probably all these kids that had greeted me were his. So I asked him how
much I owed him but he put me off. 'I am ashamed of my own people,' he said
'may God protect you.' I was stunned, stood there for some time while he
still held my hands in his, wishing me luck and warning me to be careful.
I left him thoughtful. How safe was this country? Should I really leave? I
had been badly attacked by my Gambian partner who had brutally beaten me up
in front of many eye-witnesses who later in court forgot all they had seen.
I had been robbed of my car, my house and my business but most of all of my
belief in justice since the Gambian court system had proved beyond a shadow
of a doubt that I had no rights having the wrong color. And I thought of
Joel's story and what had happened to him when he accompanied Mr. Cole and
his family to videotape ceremonies":
"I had trouble sleeping that night, the air was very stagnant and I awoke to
a stillness and the quietness that comes after a newly fallen snow. I
emerged from my quarters to find a deep fog all around me, but this was
different. It was the Harmattan from the Sahara and what looked like fog was
an intense and thick dust that hung in the air. It was everywhere and was so
fine that even a closed refrigerator door would not be able to keep it out.
We expected the dust to stay thick for a couple of days and were surprised
to see it diminishing in the afternoon. This was the out dance-day for the
male circumcision ceremony of the Mandinka tribe in Georgetown which
promised to be very colorful and exciting and a unique opportunity for me.
I had heard many stories about their mask men called the Kankoran which
terrorized the villagers running rampant, given the status of a god and a
law unto itself. The Mandinka call them guardians which embody the spirit of
the bush and are sent out to impart with the elders the secret doctrine of
the tribe to the circumcised boys. For a period of up to three weeks these
beings are starved and given drugs to put them into a state for the sole
purpose of scaring the boys and keeping alive the superstition and power of
the Marabous or the priests. I was looking forward to this ceremony because
there would be over a thousand people in all their finery and I would tape
this never before-seen event.
We were entering a very big field where young boys were sitting on the
ground in headdress and many colored beads signifying that they were of the
circumcision ceremony and immediately I noticed the masked men. For the
first time there were ten Kankorans from all over the Gambia and the
Casamance, which is the area of southern Senegal bordering Guinea Bissau. I
ventured forward and immediately someone asked me not to photograph until
there was official clearance. I had my tally light turned off but kept the
camera going without looking into the view finder. After a moment I was
signaled to follow Moussa and to proceed to the heart of the ceremony which
was due to begin in front of the tribe. I was running tape as we approached.
Moussa had words with someone and gave me permission to tape as he beckoned
me directly in front of a row of initiates. All of a sudden I felt the sting
of being smacked from behind and faced a Kankoran with two machetes in hand
when I turned. I immediately put the camera to my hip and replaced the lens'
cap. The masked devil ranted in a language I could not understand, jumped up
and down, then turned and ran back fifty paces. I turned and looked for
Moussa but he was nowhere to be seen. Once again I felt the intense pain of
being struck three times. I turned immediately and this masked animal was
grabbing for my camera which was still at my hip trying to tear it from me.
Out of instinct I took a stance knowing that the next attack would be more
violent as this thing began to run at me brandishing its machete. I thought
'this may be it' and to use my camera as protection if I had to. Everything
seemed to happen in slow motion now and at that moment an unknown black man
jumped in front of me and pushed me forward. He yelled in English to run. He
was right on my tail and the devil right behind him as we dashed into the
main crowd. While running, thoughts of how easily I could have lost my life
occurred to me and that there was nothing anyone would do to help me. No-one
would stand responsible because I was encroaching on their hidden ceremony
and the only white man; it would be construed as legal.
My adrenaline was racing and I stood back in the crowd, camera fixed on this
psychotic creature, as he stormed around terrorizing whoever got in his way.
This tribe had much more exposure to Europeans and was the once ruling class
of the Gambia. Therefore this treatment surprised me even more and I
wondered if there was something else going on that I was unaware of.
Later I was to find that this Kankoran was a stranger to this local and was
from the war-torn Casamance that isn't friendly to outsiders."
The shock of what happened brought to mind our vulnerability for the first
time and with it came a new awareness. Africa can be a very dangerous place
and any illusion of safety can be shattered. We were aware that our work
here was finished and looked forward to returning to civilization.

Biographical Sketch C Past Productions C Current Production C No Problem in
The Gambia? C Skills C Main Page
Web Page designed by Birgit Samuel ? last update August 22, 1999 ? for more
information contact Back to German

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

To unsubscribe/subscribe or view archives of postings, go to the Gambia-L
Web interface at: http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/gambia-l.html

----------------------------------------------------------------------------