"A Homegoing": Part 5b - The Center

Posted over at The Intersection of Madness & Reality last week, the following video seemed a perfect segue into this, the last part of "A Homegoing."  If you've not yet seen it, please take a moment to watch - and carefully listen:



This beautiful young sister definitely spoke to my own, "single story" existence, growing up Black in America (my collection of Nancy Drew books is still boxed up - somewhere!).  A voracious reader at a very young age as well - I, too, had fallen for the "single story."  And as Ms. Adichie so succinctly explained, the "unintended consequences" of doing so, took me everywhere except - from whence I came.

Serendipitously, however - a transfer to our neighborhood public high school (my then, single mother could no longer afford the Catholic school tuition), where I was assigned to the freshman English class of Mrs. Alfreda Jenkins (also my French teacher) - taught me a new and exciting story.

She introduced me to Black writers like my favorite, James Baldwin.  And for good measure - she brought along W.E.B. DuBois, Lorraine Hansberry, Richard Wright, Audre Lorde,  Claude McKay, James Weldon Johnson, Nikki Giovanni, Langston Hughes and, Paul "We Wear the Mask" Laurence Dunbar.  All of them were writing about life - as I knew it!  And much like Adichie, I experienced a paradigm shift.

More relevant to this series though, Ms. Adichie perfectly described my prior, Black American "single story" of Africa.  Though I'd had two casual acquaintances from Africa at my small HBCU, who'd tried desperately to dispel the nonsense with which I had been inculcated all my life; I carried that trick-or-treat for UNICEF, "single story" with me.  Despite my knowledge of South African apartheid, Nelson Mandela's imprisonment and, the divestment campaigns of the late 70s - I still carried much of that "single story" with me. 

When I met Gerald Pinedo a little over 10 years ago, however, I began to really get how the "single story" of Africa - copiously fed to us in America - had been able "to flatten my experience and to overlook the many other stories that formed me."

Though very European (Lawd!  He absolutely hates when I say that - but it's true!), Gerald is one who is driven, to tell the whole of the stories which formed (and continue to form) us through his research, art, sculpture and documentary films.  Accordingly, he is a member of, and is certified by - the Society for the Promotion of Educational Art Projects on the History of Slavery, based in Cologne, Germany:

Here's a little about "the work":

While working tirelessly toward telling the whole of the story through exhibitions and lecturing - he's been working to make The Center a reality.  When I arrived in December last year, he was well on his way to accomplishing that, as well.

Below is a little slideshow, combining some of his earlier pictures when he began building in March of  2010, together with some that I took nine months later:

Aside from the bureaucracy that reigns, no matter the continent, he's been faced with some challenges, which have certainly delayed the completion of the project (like handmade concrete blocks and hand-hewn support beams!).  But he's persevered.

To date, the container of art, sculpture, books and their display cases and pedestals have arrived from Germany, and the generator for the electricity has been installed.  All that's left to do, is move it all in - and I'll be there to help him do it (Sometimes travel insurance is a good thing!  Long story, next post).

More importantly to me though, is the fact that my family will also be there to help.  The husband and I decided to forego the usual mall fare for the sons this Christmas, and elected instead, to put passports and tickets to The Gambia under the tree.  At 27 and 30 years old, I want them to have the opportunity to shed the "single story" of Africa that continues to this day - and make up their own minds.  So far, they're extremely excited.  I'll keep you posted.

I'd like to end the series the way I began it (seems fitting):

"When most people talk about a "home-going" - they're talking about a death and a burial. And in a sense, so am I, though not of a corporal kind."

Though I'm not completely there yet, I've come a long way toward putting the final nail in that particular coffin.  I've come to understand, as well as agree with Ms. Adichie, that - "When we reject the single story, when we realize that there is never a single story about anyplace - we regain a kind of paradise."

Thanks again for your patience...

A "Homegoing" - Part 5a: Neocolonialism and Juffureh

I'd initially included "neo-colonialism" in the title for this piece but, with all the current examples of European and American, wink-and-a-nod R2P policies (encompassing regime change, to include out and out murder - and bragging about it {smdh}); the continued land-grabbing in Africa; and The shadow war in Syria (all which have transpired since Part 4!), I figured belaboring that point would've been moot.

So instead, I thought I'd do a Part 5(a), sharing some more "being there" and then, closing with my trip to Juffureh.  And then - because this post is already wa-a-ay long (Yeah, you might want to read it in shifts or something.  If nothing else, do, at least watch the slide show at the end!), I'll do a retrospective of The Center in Part 5(b).

Again, my apologies for leaving you hanging.  But as I said before, "Life just keeps happening!"

~#~

Leaving the LAICO

I made a beeline to the shower after my day at the rice farm and got ready for dinner.  Since Gerald had called, saying they'd be picking me up at check-out time the next day, I figured I'd pack my stuff, and spend the evening saying my goodbyes to those who'd made my introduction to The Gambia such a meaningful experience during my short stay at the LAICO Atlantic.

Stopping by Ibrahim, the sand-painter's table after eating, I got a huge hug and a promise to make me something "beau-ti-ful" on my next trip.  Laughing, I told him there'd definitely be a "next trip," so I was holding him to that (and expecting a  second-timer's discount!).

Heading toward my room, I saw Bintou ("but everybody calls me Mama") setting up the lobby bar.  I couldn't just say goodbye to this young sister, because for the short time I was there, she was - in so many delightful ways - one of those "archetypal dreams" of that "temple of my familiar."  So instead, I decided to sit and have a drink and talk.

One drink became two, then two became three as we talked and laughed about our families; our birth order (Bintou is the name given the youngest daughter and I'm the youngest daughter too); foods we liked (I already told ya'll, I love me some rice!  But I also like boiled peanuts and sweet potatoes - both of which my Grandmama grew in South Carolina and, are locally grown in The Gambia; what we each wanted to be when we grew up (What? I still have dreams!) and music - the rhythms of which we both agreed came first, then the words.  For all that "distance created, created deliberately" which continues to render our circumstances decidedly different - it was apparent that we were the ones, "more alike than we were unalike."

Then - I heard the music start in the club next to the bar.  Mama and I looked toward the door, then back at each other - and burst out laughing!  Draining my glass, I said,  "Hell, check-out's not 'til noon!  I think a little leg-shakin's in order!  Flashing that beautiful smile, she said, "I'm on til midnight or I'd go wit you!"  We hugged, promised to stay in touch and in I went.

I walked through the doors, surveyed the landscape and immediately spotted Ansumana dancing.  I'd met this young brother working the evening shift the day I arrived.  He'd said then - "Just remember 'handsome' and you'll remember my name!"  Crackin' the hell up, I asked, "Has that line ever worked for you??  Smiling broadly, he just slowly shook his head up and down like my youngest does - when the answer is absolute.  Witnessing the veritable stream of European women offering to buy him drinks and pulling him to the dance floor - I had no reason to doubt him.

He'd been a font of information since I got there, suggesting places in Banjul I should see; telling me how other parts of the country compared to the capital; schooling me about local reactions to, and interactions with, foreigners - especially foreign women (priceless, dead-on info, I promise you!).

I went over and plopped down on a stool at the bar and ordered a Guinness (thought I'd switch from the drinks I'd been having so I could be sure to get my old ass up in the morning - bad idea).  When Ansumana came off the dance floor, he took the stool next to me. I knew he'd worked earlier that day, so I asked why he was still there.  He said whenever he had the breakfast shift the next day, he'd just stay over in Banjul rather than going home to his village.  "Tonight though, my job is lookin' out for you my Sistah, he said laughing.  "Cuz trust - dese guys in here watchin' you!"

To throes of laughter from the bartender, I shot back, "Hell, no need for them to be watchin' me!  I'm old enough to be all their Mamas!  And besides, there's plenty women in here!"  Then Ansumana said, "But Sistah, you different from dem, You Black - and American!"

Asking what that had to do with anything, he said, "First of all, cuz we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here - at least not until the Roots Festival.  And second, you Blacks in America, you know how to fight for your rights - and win!"  I felt an uneasy sense of shame at his first observation, and while deeply humbled by the second, all I could think was, "Yeah, we used to."

I got this email from Mariatou after I'd returned, confirming his first observation:
Hi Deborah how are you doing, greetings from Gerald to you and my family...an how is the weather there? say hi to your husband an your boys for me, i miss you so much...the festival have started since last Sunday and a lot of black Americans are around, Luciano and some musician from Senegal, i wish you are around to witness a real roots festival. i will keep in touch with you thanks a lot bye for now...(She also told me they'd renamed James Island, now calling it, "Kunta Kinteh Island" during the festival)

Ansumana's, "...we don't have a lot of Black Americans come here" hit me somewhere deeply.  Silent for a moment, I mulled over why I'd taken more than 50 years to finally get there. In the spirit of Baldwin's "do your first works over" - I had to own that, growing up, and for a very long time after, I'd not only believed a lot of the stories fed me by my country about this continent, I'd also internalized the negative thoughts and feelings that had come along with them (divide-and-conquer seeds, perfectly sown).

My reverie was interrupted by the sound of bottles hitting the bar in front of me.  The bartender had given us another round and they were waiting on me for a toast.  Clicking our bottles, we toasted my "coming home" - and I have to say, it felt pretty damned good.  The three of us talked and laughed the night away over quite a few more bottles of Guinness.  And as the DJ put on the last song of the night, Ansumana jumped off his stool with a smile and a sweeping, "Madame...?"

A sucker for that "Madame" thing since I first heard it in the Banjul airport, I hopped off my stool and went out on the dance floor to Michael Jackson's "Billie Jean.  I remember saying aloud (to no one in  particular), "Yes, a little leg-shakin is always good for the soul - especially to Mike!"  I'm old-er, what can I say?!

When the music stopped and the lights came on, he walked me to the hallway leading to my room, saying to call him once I got to the new hotel - so he could show me the nightlife in Senegambia (which according to him, was way better than Banjul).  I put his number in my phone and promised I would.  Once I started exploring though, I never got a chance to call, nor sample the Senegambia nightlife!

On to Bakau

The three Sidekicks were there on the dot at check-out to pick me up the next day.  I'd totally slept through my 10 a.m. wake-up call (like I said - switching to beer was a bad idea!).  Instead, it was the annoying and incessant ring I'd assigned to Gerald on my cell phone that woke me.  He was saying something about being just around the corner.  Figuring they'd arrive before I could shower and get dressed, I ran into the bathroom, made the sign-of-the-cross, brushed my teeth and threw on a sun-dress.

On the drive from Banjul to Bakau, I kept asking Gerald questions about the hotel.  Finally, he said, "Oh Deborah, don't worry, you will love this hotel!"  And he was right.  From the time we pulled up to the Ocean Bay Hotel Resort (located directly across the street from the U.N. building), to the day that I left - I not only loved this hotel - but I loved the people who worked there as well!

As we piled out of the car, the bellman greeted Gerald as if he were an old friend (which he indeed was, having stayed there for many months on end, for a few years).  Following him in, I noticed an enlarged replica of the photo on the right, prominently displayed on an easel outside the front door.  Curious, I asked what it was and what it meant.

He explained the statue stood on the island of Juffureh (made famous by Alex Haley's 1976 book - "Roots: The saga of an American Family").  The "Never Again!" he said, referred to the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, its complete meaning - "Never Again in Chains."  I made a mental note to ask Mariatou how soon we could go there.

The lobby was a veritable Babel - abuzz with people from all corners of the world.  Some were checking in, while others - at tables and sofas spread around the lobby - were having drinks and/or food from the lobby bar, or hanging around the flat screen watching "football" (soccer to me).  When we reached the busy front desk, Gerald asked for "The Director" and we were sent down a short hall to his office.

He was a big man in stature - bespectacled, with coal-black skin, a booming voice and a ready smile.  Following the introductions, I asked if they were always so busy. He said, "Yes usually, especially with Christmas approaching."   But the reason they were so busy this time, was because of Laurent Gbagbo's refusal to abdicate the Cote d'Ivoire presidency.  As it turns out, the U.N. had evacuated all of its "essential personnel" from Abidjan - to The Gambia.

Let me interrupt the story and be clear here.  What I knew about Cote d'Ivoire previously, could fit on the flat side of a cocoa bean - literally.  And at first, I had the typical, colonized-mind, knee-jerk, American reaction: "He LOST the election!  What do you mean he REFUSES to step down?!"  But as I continued to follow the brewing conflict on the local and BBC news (most of the TV programming available aside from a couple movie channels), and interacted with some of the U.N.'s "essential personnel" -  my Spidey-senses started tingling.

So, I decided to talk with, and listen to - some damned West Africans (to include calling my Ivorian, Senegalese-twistin' sister-friend back home, leaving a rambling message asking after her family in her village - and peppered with plenty of "What the hells??")!

I was grateful for the opportunity to be there, getting my own bird's eye view of that whole, "two sides to every story, and then the truth" thing vis-à-vis neo-colonialists in modern-day Africa and this UN-monitored, "election."  And after kicking it around in my head for awhile, it began to make a a whole lot more sense to me.  My conclusion by the end of my stay?  There's never a dearth of those like the Changeling, willing to help feed those "I'm king of the world" beasts.

The Sidekicks, going back to the Center, said they'd come back for me the next day.  With a kiss on each cheek, Gerald assured me he was leaving me in good hands - and he was.  As I waited, half-listening as "The Director" handled a billing problem with one of the front-desk staff, I perused the pictures he had on a wall.  I didn't know any of the people with whom he was smiling and shaking hands, but I could tell they were African dignitaries of some sort.

Once he was convinced of the error, he firmly directed its correction and then turned his attention to me asking, "So where are you from?" When I said America, he asked puzzled, "So how do you know Pinedo?!"  I related the whole, met-in-Florida-ten-years-ago-when-I'd-interviewed-him-for-a-piece-in-the-local-newspaper-and-we'd-kept-in-touch-ever-since story. He asked if this was my first time in Africa, and again, I felt that creeping shame, hot on the back of my neck.  I answered, "Yes - but I'm sure it won't be my last."  We also talked  about the crumbs I'd been trying to follow, tracing my Sea-Island family roots back to West Africa.  With a hearty laugh, he said, "If anybody can help you with that - it's Pinedo!"

After signing everything, I got my "hotel passport" and the same bellman I'd met earlier escorted me to my room.  As we walked past the library toward my room, there was an old man on his hands and knees - plugging bald spots on the lawn (Oh I know - we're so evolved now, with our riding lawn mowers and/or gardeners!).  But in a strange and beautifully reaffirming way, it reminded me of how we've always been able to brilliantly do more - with less!  One thing's for sure, it made me appreciate the lushness all around me even more!

Aside from no in-room WiFi, I had no complaints about the LAICO during the few days I spent there.  But I have to say that this hotel, definitely helped ease my transition from those oh, so evolved, Western expectations - to the total reality that is The Gambia.

Once inside, the bellman showed me how to use my key-card to work the lights, explained the mini-bar/fridge thing, showed me how to operate the armoire safe and connect to the WiFi.  He opened the balcony curtains, to reveal a partial view of the pool through a rainbow of bouganvilleas (probably my most favorite flowering plant because they're a deceivingly, sturdy beauty with protective thorns - kind of like me!) - and I was mighty glad I'd trusted Gerald and his "arrangements."

For a damned-near germophobe, the room was perfect!  Deciding to take that shower I'd missed, I checked the grout (some things are harder to unlearn than others!), and then, bolstered by my few days of practice at the LAICO, I jumped into the small shower stall with my Butterfly Flower, a steady stream of  hot water - and found myself,  languishing!

After Skyping the husband to let him know I was safe and sound, I headed to dinner, but first - I stopped at the lobby bar for a Guinness and a chat (best source of information, I found).  The bartender gave me the lay of the land, suggested some dishes I should try and was again, surprised to find out I was from America.

An Australian couple came and sat on the two stools next to me.  We had some interesting conversations about Australia  (about which I know little), America (about which they knew even less)  and I don't know why, but we ended up talking about knowing different languages (well - more like our apparent unwillingness to embrace different languages).

It may have had more to do with me than them, because so far, I'd been pleasantly surprised to find, that even though each tribal group still maintained their own, distinct, cultural traditions and languages - many, if not most, were not only able to communicate with each other in English (the official language of the country) and some French, but in each other's tribal languages as well (unless that's a recent development, it kinda dispels that whole, "we couldn't talk to each other while chained together in the belly of a slave ship" thing - No?).

Having missed breakfast after over-sleeping, my stomach began to complain - loudly.  So, saying goodbye to everybody, I grabbed my unfinished Guinness and headed outside to the dining area around the pool.  After ordering, I just sat there, people-watching.  And aside from all the different accents I could hear, what I noticed most - from folk dressing formally for dinner, to "afternoon tea," to the way some guests treated the wait-staff - was the degree to which Europe's colonial influences were still so deeply embedded in the country. 

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised, seeing as they were once a British colony which, geographically, is way closer to them, than they are to us - but I was.  However, when this local, cultural group performed, I was immediately pleased at how the mere sight of the "Hammer pants," coupled with the rhythm of the dance - instantly narrowed that "distance created, created deliberately" about which Baldwin spoke!  I went to bed early - and slept like a log.

The Sidekicks came for me a little after noon the next day.  When I got in the car, Gerald announced enthusiastically, "We're going to the Spanish man's house where I'm staying.  And I'm cooking!"

Juan and Gerald had become friends over time (since his earlier days of visiting The Gambia and staying at Ocean Bay).  So, since Gerald was in-country and Juan was in Spain, he was able to stay at the little house, not far from the hotel.  I'd later learn, there are quite a few Europeans, Lybians, Lebanese, Chinese  - and even a smattering of Americans - who've bought, and/or developed property in the country, renting them fairly inexpensively.

John's wife and daughter, along with her sister and her husband, visiting from Senegal, were waiting for us when we arrived.  Since they all spoke some English - and French - I thought it'd be the perfect time for me to practice a little.  Trust me, a Bachelor's degree in French does not a Francophone make!  My abysmal efforts gave new meaning to the phrase, "use it or lose it."  But they were all, very patient and gracious with my trying.

After the introductions and some small talk, I went outside on the patio for a cigarette.  Mariatou, John and his brother-in-law joined me, while Gerald and the sisters started dinner.  Soon, the delicious aroma of food coming from the kitchen won out and  I went back inside to see what was cooking.

Né and her daughter, Awa (that's her elbow in the photo on the left) were keeping an eye on the Chicken Yassa and potatoes on the small stove, while Gerald seasoned the freshly caught Ladyfish that he'd just cleaned and filleted.  I thought to myself, "Dinner's definitely gonna be lip-smackin'!" - and it was (do note the huge pot of rice sitting in front of Né in the photo on the right - I felt right at home!).  The best part of the day though - even better than the meal - was being, in community, with folk from the community who all looked like me, slowly working on closing that "distance."

Juffureh

Mariatou, and I made the trip from Bakau to Juffureh with Moussa.  He'd worked for Gerald when he started building the Center. Now, he apparently either drove a taxi, or hung out with the guys who do drive taxis.  He'd arranged our 7:30 a.m. taxi ride to the Banjul ferry, then shepherded us through the crowds in the ferry terminal and onboard.  And when we arrived in Barra, he negotiated the taxi fare from there, to Juffureh and back.

   
I tell you, if I'd not seen the levelling work being done on the road leading to the village (coating everything in its path with a thick, red sand that reminded me of "the red clay hills of Georgia"), I'd have said that the small fishing village of Juffureh hadn't changed much since Alex Haley traced his ancestral roots there in the late 1970s.

As a matter of fact, the thatched-roof huts of handmade mud bricks; donkeys, goats, cows and actual "macacas" (nod to stupid) freely roaming the tree-lined roads; the mortar-and-pestle sound of "Woman’s Wuck" (as detailed by Judith Carney in Chapter 4 of her wonderfully written, "Black Rice"); with a slew of little kids running around, laughing and playing barefoot in the dirt - all combined to make me feel I'd been transported to a place of little or no change at all.

We came upon this woman winnowing rice outside her compound. Instantly, I recognized the "basket" bridge between this West African village and my Charleston, SC roots. She spoke no English, but she carried on a lively conversation with Moussa, while Mariatou explained this part of the seed-to-table process to my forgotten self.

If you ever visit the Old Slave Market (we called it "Market," they call it "Mart" - go figure) in downtown Charleston, you can still find Black women making and selling beautifully woven, Sweet Grass baskets like the one she's using in the video.

I'm getting a little ahead of myself here.  Rather than just telling the story of my visit to Juffureh, I also wanted to share it in these photos.  I suggest watching it in full-screen, not only so you can see the, tiny, little words - but so you can pause it, and read some of the signs and excerpts.

No folks, I saw no slick Westernized malls, skyscrapers or subway trains in The Gambia (but, whether brought by owners, or sold through auctions or dealers - I did see plenty expensive, late-model Western vehicles!).  And for purely selfish, "Back to the Future" reasons,  I liked it like that.  Seems to me, the only harm in having an, "If I knew then, what I know now" do-over - is not learning a damned thing from it.  Me?  I want to learn...

UPDATE:  Ivory Coast elections bolster French recolonization plans

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 5b:  The Center

A "Homegoing" - Part 4a: Being there...

We arrived at Banjul International Airport on time (6:40 p.m. GST), and as I stepped off the plane into that hot darkness, apprehension and anticipation skipped off, hand-in-hand, right behind me.  Though not sure exactly into what I was headed - I certainly could not wait to find out.
 
As we waited on the runway for a bus to the main terminal, I was bathed in sweat due to the heat (and a sudden hot flash).  From the time I got a seat, to the time I got off at the terminal, the whole "only-wearing-deodorant-in the West" theory had pretty much become moot because - layered scents and Mitchum notwithstanding, I was as nose-stinging as everybody else by then!

Getting in the non-Gambian line, I struck up a conversation with a young blond girl walking next to me in the breezeway to passport control.  She'd been in-country for awhile working for an NGO and had just returned from a weekend in Europe (now armed with a more concrete knowledge of its geographical proximity to Africa, a white woman jetting off to Europe for a weekend didn't garner as much as a raised eyebrow from me - though it did give me some much-needed perspective down the road).

Remembering something I'd read about an airport fee, I asked if she knew anything about it.  She said they'd just instituted a new exit fee, but to her knowledge, there was no entry fee. And upon reaching the passport control desk, there wasn't one.  I got my entry stamp and asked whereto next.  With a flourish and a huge smile (the country is marketed as the "Smiling Coast"), I was directed to the luggage carousel.

It was wall-to-wall people, standing damned near shoulder-to-shoulder, in heat so thick - I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West when she got that water thrown on her ass.  And don't act like y'all don't remember that whole - "I'm melting!" - thing!  After awhile, the luggage carousel started to spit out its burden, and what felt like pure bedlam ensued.

There were passengers reaching over, under and around one another trying to retrieve bags; there was a swarm of local men everywhere, all shouting at once, asking if we needed help with bags or taxis; and then, there was the heat - times two.  Between constant, "No, thank yous," and anxiously searching the crowd of predominately Black faces for Gerald's, I started hot flashin' - times two, with sweat dripping down my face like I'd been rained on. 

After being nearly crushed amid the wave of passengers trying to retrieve bags and the locals trying to help them, and then wrestling the heavy, wheeled garment bag and its smaller, upright sister from the carousel (all while trying to hold onto the wheeled carry-on with the laptop in it!), I wish I'd said "Yes!  Thank you!" 

A little guy, obviously feeling sorry for me after watching my comedy of errors unfold, suddenly appeared, rolling cart at the ready saying, "Madame, would you not like some help?"  Drenched and overwhelmed I gave in (who could resist the "Madame?").  We headed to the baggage security line where they scan the luggage before entry to the main airport complex.

Once through, and with the little guy ready and willing to take the bags outside and find a taxi, I spotted Gerald - smiling and waving frantically.  I could hear him excitedly yelling, "Deborah!  Deborah!  I'm here!  I'm here!"   I was never so happy to see a familiar face!

As he made his way toward me, I told my dedicated helper, "Thank you so much, my friend's just over there, coming to meet me."  I gave him $5 for his good lookin' out  and when he thanked me so profusely, I was taken aback. I later found out from Gerald, that my $5 had been an extravagance.  The usual tip was $1.50 - $2.00 US.

That was to be the first of many lessons affirming the connections between people with very little and doing more with less in this place, and the way I'd been raised in South Carolina.  In that moment, being Black and American - a living, breathing embodiment of that "distance, deliberately created" to which Baldwin referred - felt at once, like a sucking chest wound, surrounded by warm fuzzies.  At least, with every U.S. dollar equivalent to 25 Dalasi in local currency at the time, I'd been able to help him HAVE a little more, but DO less - for a change.

After sweaty hugs and two-cheek kisses, Gerald introduced me to John, his sidekick and electrician from Belgium, who'd married a Senegalese woman and settled in The Gambia 10 years ago.  It was his car into which we piled and headed to the hotel I'd booked in Banjul.  It was non-stop catchin'-up for Gerald and me.  We'd not seen each other since my family moved from Florida to Maryland almost eight years ago.

I couldn't see much of the capital city as we entered because it was dark, and street lights were few and far between.  I could make out some single-family home neighborhoods, government buildings and paved roads though.  Once we reached the LAICO Atlantic, Banjul (owned by the Libyan Arab African Investment Company headquartered in Tunis), they struggled with the luggage, while I went to check-in. 

Expecting my late arrival, my key and "Hotel Passport" card were ready at the front-desk.  The back of the card reads:  "This card is your passport in the Hotel.  It will be requested by the reception staff when collecting your key, by bar or restaurant staff when charging to your room and by the cashier for meals included in the price of your stay. Please therefore retain this card at all times until surrendering it to the cashier on departure."

I think, it's to make sure only "paying" guests are availing themselves of the "amenities" - but that's just me.

He led us to my room, showed me how to work the lights with the key card and the guys followed him back to the lobby, saying they'd meet me by the pool for a drink.  I said, "Just what the doctor ordered!  Let me wash my damned face - the rest can wait!"

There weren't a lot of people hanging out, so I found them quickly.  The night was warm with a light breeze - and it was beautiful sitting out there!  Gerald and I both had a Guinness.  I rarely drink beer, but this one was downright refreshing given the day I'd had!  Since he was driving, John decided on a locally bottled, Fanta Orange soda.  Amid fits of raucous laughter, we talked for about an hour - them, excitedly bringing me up to date on the center's progress (these fellas had been busy!), and me, recounting what I'd learned so far about international travel, while intermittently practicing my French on Jon - and failing miserably!

I told Gerald I wanted to see just what all they'd been doing and rising to leave, he suggested, "You better get plenty of rest then!  I've arranged for you, a personal tour guide to be with you during the day."  Surprised and a little wary, I asked, "And where will you be?!" Reading my mind, he said laughing, "Oh Deborah, but do not worry - you will love her!

He explained he and John would most likely be at the center working during the day and he just wanted to make sure I'd be able to see as much of the country and its culture that I could.  "But you are also more than welcome to come and work too if you like!" he said laughing.  I got the two-cheek kiss goodbye from both of them and Gerald said, poking John in the side - "We will not come for her until around noon tomorrow because she is NOT a morning person!" 

Laughing (because anyone who knows me well - would cosign that), I walked them through the lobby to the car.  Gerald asked had I changed any money yet and I said no.  He reached in his pocket and gave me 1000 Dalasi saying, "Some pocket money, in case you need to get anything before we come back for you tomorrow.  We'll settle up once you change some money."  Before they pulled away, I leaned in the window and asked him if he'd made those "arrangements" yet.  Patting my hand, he said,  "It will be no problem Deborah, don't worry!!  Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow."  Shaking my head, I said good night and went inside.

I got back to the room  and realized I was tired, but not sleepy.  I took a Guinness from the fridge, went on the terrace and smoked a cigarette (it was advertised online as "non-smoking" - for the most part, I'm a rule follower).  Sitting there in the shadows, that full feeling began to creep up into my chest as I said aloud to myself, "Welcome home sistah."  I finished my beer, had another cigarette and went in to take a shower.

The husband had warned the shower would be compact - built only to wet yourself down, lather yourself up and rinse yourself off.  He was right.  It felt a little cramped (and so not suited for languishing!).  Taking the shower head down to ensure a thorough, whole-body rinse, I thought, "Damn good way to conserve water, 'cause I'm sure as hell ready to get out of this cubicle!"  I can't lie, I like to languish.

When I slid into my pajamas and got between the sheets, all clean, lotioned and "Butterfly Flower"-smellin', the body just said, "Aw-w-w yeah!!" - and promptly fell the hell out.  A loud knock on the door around 9 or 10 p.m. jolted me awake.  It was a young man on staff with an aerosol can, coming to spray the room for mosquitoes (not sure if mosquito nets were available upon request, never occurred to me to ask).  I waited in the hallway until he was done and then went back in, surveying the room to which I'd not really paid much attention upon my arrival.

Very clean (I already told y'all back in the Brussels bathroom!  Not Clean - pet peeve), with all the amenities one would expect or need:  two twin beds (cheaper), a safe, tucked away in the very spacious armoire, the obligatory, pay-as-you-go mini-bar/fridge, a television and a desk.  A screened, sliding glass door leads out to the small terrace facing the Bird Sanctuary behind the hotel. As stated on the back of the "Hotel Passport, breakfast and dinner are also included in the price of the stay.

Since I was up, I decided to send the husband and sons an email letting them know I was safe.  The laptop battery was about spent, so I figured I might as well plug it in and let it charge overnight.  I should have just gone back to bed because none of the outlets could accommodate the plug! 

I went to the front desk and the guy on duty smiled as I recounted how I'd searched high and low, but could not find a suitable outlet. He said, "But Madame, you would never have found one, you need an adapter to use your American electronics here!" 

Seeing as I was going to be in the country for awhile, I forked over the 150 Dalasi, took my adapter and went back to my room to send my emails.  I must've missed reading that in my haste to book - because there was no Wifi access in the room!  I called back to the front desk, only to be advised that Wifi was only available in the lobby areas!  I have to say, that was the only drawback about the hotel for me.

Since I was expecting those other "arrangements" to come through the next day, it wasn't that big of a deal, but in the interest of Gambian tourism, they might want to look into that set-up.  I decided to wait until morning and went back to my room, set my phone alarm for 8:00 a.m. (right in the middle of breakfast being served so as not to miss it!) and fell asleep watching the BBC channel.

I slept very well.  So well in fact, I got up at 7:15 a.m. - before the alarm went off!  Starving, I threw on some sweats and flip-flops and headed to the restaurant for breakfast - camera in-hand (for those of you who've done any late-night clubbin' - y'all know - things that look good in the dark, tend to look a whole lot different in the daylight!).  Set up in the inside dining room was a smorgasbord of British, American and Gambian staples - and you could get omelets made to order while you waited (which I did)!  Rather than eat inside, I decided to go back out to the poolside-table we'd shared the night before.

The pool, now abuzz with activity, slapped me in the face with that "geographical proximity to Europe perspective" that I mentioned earlier!  Aside from the staff, I was the only black face in the joint!

With music and water aerobics going full-tilt,  everybody was quite friendly.  I was just absolutely undone that I could be in Africa, with just as many white folk as I'd left back home!!  All I could think about was how ignorant I'd been all my life, AND -  how woefully inadequate our education system in America was, is, and continues to be for Black folk.  I had a cigarette and went back to my room to call Gerald.

I reached him on his cell, and he and John were at the center.  He couldn't believe I was up and about so early in the morning.  He said he and John would be by around noon with the young lady who'd become my constant companion during my stay.  I told him, since I'd not taken a shower yet - that was perfect!

After I'd showered and dressed, I decided to go out and investigate the digs.  There was really nothing a foreigner would lack if they chose to vacation there.  Time was still - sort of.  I felt like I'd been transported to peace and tranquility.  Living up to the moniker attached to the country, every staff person I met had a smile and a conversation for me.  Most were surprised when I told them I was from America.  One of the landscapers said, "We don't get many Black Americans here.  It's good to see you sistah!"  I was, at once, happy - and ashamed.

Noon came - no Gerald.  I called him on his cell to find out where they were - of course, he was at the center.  "We'll be there right away!"

I decided to wait by the pool.  On the way, I stopped at one of the hotel bars for a Guinness.  I was served by one of the cutest, most amiable, little chocolate girls who reminded me of myself (in much younger days!).  Her name was Bintou, "But everybody calls me Mama" she said, smiling.  She'd become a welcome face in the short time I was there.

I took my beer and went outside where a local vendor was set up.  His name was Ibrahim, and he was making some of the most beautiful sand paintings I'd never seen.  Here's a video of the process.  I apologize, I'm no computer wonk and I've yet to figure out how to re-size my videos - with crispness intact - for Blogger ("Tomorrow, I will do it tomorrow" as Gerald said!):

Yeah, no - it is not only in The Gambia that sand painting is done.  But Ibrahim is a businessman (and a capitalist!) just like any other businessman all over the world - marketing to the unsuspecting buyer is everything!  As I watched him, I realized, if I could draw as well as he does - I could sand paint too!  It's exactly how I made my Christmas stockings with our names on it - but with glitter, not sand.

As I said on the end of the clip, I had to go.  Gerald, John and my new friend were waiting in the lobby.

To be continued:  A "Homegoing" - Part 4b:  Links, lineage and the legacy of "Black Rice"

A "Homegoing" - Part 3: Going "back to Africa" on my own terms

Mr. Baldwin's, "Where are you from" story is familiar to most of us whose ancestors' entry into this country "was a bill of sale" (the remainder of the discussion's here and here).

Growing up in the Deep South, I was always confused when white folk would sneer at us and say, "Y'all niggers need to go back to Africa!"  Angrily, I'd always say to myself, "What?  (I was little!), I ain't never been to Africa!  I was born right here!"

Obviously, that "distance created, created deliberately" to which Baldwin referred, coupled with the physical and psychological barbarity experienced at the hands of our countrymen for hundreds of years (and counting) - had all been very effective in ensuring that I too, would have no knowledge whatsoever of whence I came. 

But after more than 25 years of critically thinking and realizing that I both wanted and needed to know, I now had a golden opportunity to physically and psychologically  diminish that "distance" in less than 48 hours - and  not at the behest of any of those "real Americans" in Dixie - but at my own.

My own, "Up in the Air"...

Before I dive into this, let me just say that from Newark on out, all times are approximate given my very, American idea that I didn't need to figure it all out.  After all, everybody's got clocks right?

But while my mind had dismissed keeping up with the whole time-change thing, I discovered later on that the body had been paying strict attention.  In very short order, it would register its stern opposition to my wearing it the hell out - with a vengeance!  But I'm getting ahead of myself. 

I'd left home at 9:40 a.m. CST headed to Houston.  The flight was about 45 minutes and since we didn't have to deplane as they dropped off and picked up passengers, I texted the sons and called Rhoda to check in while we sat on the tarmac.  The unloading and loading went pretty quickly - and shortly after noon, we were on our way to Newark where I'd change planes for Europe - and lose an hour. 

We arrived at 4:30 p.m. EST, and as we disembarked and blended toward our gate to Brussels, the linguistic composition of the passengers noticeably shifted from mostly English-speaking, to a veritable Tower of Babel!  And to my surprise, I was starting to "hear" bits and pieces of French and Spanish conversations going on around me.  I thought to myself, "Aww yeah, NOW, I'm feelin' that whole international traveler thing!"

I checked in and sent the husband a text letting him know where I was (I didn't in Houston because of the 10 1/2-hour time distance).  When I hit send, I got a pop-up saying the battery needed to be charged.  A frantic search of my carry-on produced nothing - I'd left the damned charger on the kitchen counter!

Serendipity reared its beautiful head once again though, and not too far from my gate (thank the Lawd!), I found an electronics store.  I picked up a compatible charger and headed back to the boarding area, stopping for a large cup of coffee on the way.  Taking a seat near a plug, I sipped coffee, people-watched and waited.

When the call to board came at 5:40 p.m., I was ready.  Settling into my seat, I pulled out Mab Seagrest's, "Memoir of a Race Traitor" which I should have been able to finish on the plane, if only I could've just concentrated on one thing.  At 6:30 p.m. EST - which I note because it marked my descent into real time-change hell! - we began to taxi down the runway. 

Watching the lilliputian, Newark-Liberty International recede from view - I exhaled.  It had been an absolutely beautiful day for flying so far, and the trip had gone without so much as a hitch.  The stone was more than halfway rolled up the hill.

Our estimated arrival time in Brussels was 7:50 a.m. (CET) - a seven and half hour flight!  All I knew was I'd been awake since 6:40 a.m. (CST) and the body was saying, "Hey!  How 'bout a little shut-eye here!  But since my seat was one row behind the exit row, I  resisted.   I thought I'd better pay close attention to the signal-woman in the aisle, since I sure as hell knew I couldn't drink up all that water out there if we crashed into it!  But once the show was over - I was down for the count.

I remember being awakened for dinner and later, standing in a short line to "answer the call."  Awake now, I considered writing, but getting the laptop - out of the carry-on, in the overhead bin - was more than I wanted to do.  Instead, I watched "Eat, Pray, Love" and really enjoyed it!  When it was over, I looked out of the window into a pitch-black night and decided to read.  The body, however, had other ideas.  After only a few pages - I passed out again.

I was happy I had a window seat for the many times I awoke and found myself leaned into the bulkhead, scrunched up on that little pillow, with that thin, little blanket pulled up around my neck.  And based on that telltale damp spot where my face met my palm, I'd definitely been sleeping with my mouth wide open.  In between sleep and wake, I vaguely remember a kid crying. But since that's what kids do, it didn't really interfere with the many catnaps I'd have between then and Brussels.

I awoke to the flight attendant asking me to pull my seat back up because we were preparing to land.  I raised the window shade and realized it was the beginning of a gorgeous morning!  As we descended, the view of the city just took my breath away!  It was absolutely stunning!  I made a mental note - "Get a Rick Steves book and plan one of those Eurail Pass trips to Europe!  You need to see this place and the surrounding countries at ground level at least once before you check the hell out!"

I made my way off the plane, following the herd to Customs and Immigration.  I stood in a fast-moving line and after my documents had been verified and the pat-down was completed, I traipsed right on through the checkpoint (I was sure glad I'd gotten that visa beforehand!).

Upon arrival in Brussels, everyone with connections to Africa had to trek to Terminal T.  Since we had an almost four-hour layover, I took my time, window-shopping and people watching as I walked through this fairly new and very clean airport (I took the moving sidewalk whenever I could!).

I didn't see "Up in the Air," okay?  But, I am convinced there's some connection with that movie coming out and this Nespresso ad, plastered all over the Brussels airport at what seems like every three feet!  I mean he's cute and all, but I'm not buying a coffee-maker cuz he says so! {smdh}

When I got to the gate, there were no Brussels Air representatives there yet, so I decided to go freshen-up.  And just like the rest of the airport, the bathroom (my number one pet peeve) was spotless!  A young Black woman - with beautifully smooth, not made-up, coffee-colored skin and Senegalese twists trailing down her back - was standing at the mirror talking to a little Black girl, no more than seven or eight years old.  She was wearing the same "joined plaits" in her hair that I used to have from first to fourth grade.  With a strangely "full" feeling in my chest, I stopped in the doorway for a minute thinking, "Two faces of me!"  I'd have that feeling more times than I could count from there on out.

I smiled and said hello, excused myself as I passed between them and chose the first stall.  I could hear the little girl saying she lived in America, but she was going to The Gambia  with her mom (in the stall next to me as it turned out) because her grandfather had died.  Then she asked, "How come you talk like that, are you from Africa?" The young woman laughed and said proudly, "Yes, but I live in France!  I'm going with my father and uncle to see my grandparents back home in Senegal."

When I came out of the stall, I almost collided with the little girl's mother.  Smiling, we both apologized for the near miss and said hello as her daughter came over, excited to tell her all about her new "friend."  I walked over to the sink to wash my hands, silently enjoying the small sampling of the beauty of the African diaspora in this Brussels bathroom.

Hands dripping, I was looking around for one of those folded-paper towel holders or, one of those on-the-wall dryer things, when what sounded like a vacuum cleaner starting up made me jump.  I turned to see the Gambian mother with her hand in this yellow, air-blowing thing.  I laughed and told her, "That's exactly what I was looking for - I think!"  Moving my hand around, I noticed the "Dyson" logo on the machine and thought to myself, "Vacuum cleaners?  Fans?  Seems "air" is quite lucrative for this guy!"

I started back to the gate, stopping for a bottle of juice and some gum.  Good thing my new phone had a "Smart Converter" app on it, because she gave me the price in Euros and I would've had no clue how much it was in dollars!

I got to the gate and checked in among a sea of faces in various shades of black, brown and yellow, wearing everything from traditional African attire to typical, Western jeans and sweaters.  There were some whites, but the passenger composition had shifted.  People of color were in the majority in that camp!  And it felt good.

I pulled out the laptop and sent the men in my life this short email:

Sent: Sun 12/5/2010 6:38 PM
Subject: One last flight!
It's 2:30 a.m. home time and 9:30 am (not sure) here in Brussels. Flight to Gambia leaves at 11:20 a.m. Will text when I get there.
Love you guys and thanx for everything!

I really didn't know what time it was anywhere! The computer said 6:38 p.m., the clocks said 9:30 a.m. and I just guessed about what time it was at home (I didn't even consider the husband's 10 1/2-hour time difference from CST!).

After making some small talk with a lady next to me, I read a bit while we waited for the call to board.  When it finally came I was excited.  In about six hours, I'd be planting my feet on terra firma for awhile.

I got situated in my window seat and a few minutes later, two young Chinese men took the middle and aisle seats next to me (three of their friends took the middle row of seats across the aisle from us).  No offense intended, but I think deodorant is mainly a Western thing.  I could be wrong, but it sure seemed like it when my nose started stinging with the scent of body odor gone bad.  All I could do was lean into the bulkhead and wait until the nose adapted to the scent as it usually does.

Once we got up in the air and the signal-women had done their thing, the simulated flight path displayed on my very own miniature TV screen caught and held my attention.  I watched as the little plane flew up and across the UK toward Ireland.  I looked out of the window just as we flew over a cluster of windmills somewhere in southern Ireland and thought smiling, "This is way better than playing, "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego!" (a game we played fanatically when the sons were small!).  I leaned back in my seat, put on the headphones and started watching, "Two and a Half Men" - and promptly fell asleep.

The seat-neighbor's head falling on my shoulder, and the sound of the captain's voice, saying something about approaching Casablanca woke me up.  I looked out of the window and as far as the eye could see, there was nothin' but sand -- from the almost black, to a rainbow of browns, reds and beiges.

I fumbled for my camera, and over the next couple of hours, I intermittently snapped pictures as the terrain changed from sand alone -- to sand meeting water at the coastline. I got that "full" feeling in my chest as I watched all the different shades of the same "grains" pass by my window.  After awhile, I went to the bathroom to get the circulation going in my legs - waking the seat-neighbors. No harm, no foul though because the food cart was in the aisle when I got back and e'erybody was wakin' up! I squeezed past back to my seat, skipping the meal in favor of a steaming cup of coffee.

I switched my TV to the simulator thing to see exactly where we were. The little plane was slowly moving south toward Senegal. I leaned into the bulkhead and read myself into another catnap.

As it turns out, the body decided to go for the "dead sleep" instead, keeping me damned-near comatose for about an hour and a half. Not until I heard the seat-neighbors talking back and forth in Chinese as they got their bags out of the overhead bin, did I realize we were on the ground! Wide awake now, I turned to look out of the window for the African Renaissance monument I'd read about last year -- and there it was in the distance. We'd landed in Dakar...



...and I heard my beautiful, young sister, India in my head, singing...

Photograph: Seyllou/AFP/Getty Images

I can appreciate the fact that the monument's been a real bone of contention for a lot of people in Senegal.  But I can't argue with what the analyst said in the last paragraph at the link because - it does "make a heck of a first impression for a visitor upon arriving in Senegal."

Even though I couldn't see it in detail from the plane, I knew it existed.  And getting a chance to be there to see it - even if only in silhouette - it meant a great deal to old, mushy-'bout-my-people me.  I plan to go back and see it one day - only up close and personal the next time.

The layover in Dakar, much like the one in Houston, was brief.  We didn't have to deplane, and the unloading and loading of baggage and passengers went quickly.  Before I knew it, we were slowly taxiing down the runway, sending that damned stone careening down the other side of the hill at quite a clip as we took off.  Once  airborne, I took a couple more photos of the city and watched as the sun began to set on the horizon.  I sat back in my seat for the very last time as we made the 20-minute trip to The Gambia.  And yes, I was feeling pret-t-t-y good about what I'd accomplished.

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 4a:  Being there

A "Homegoing" - Part 2b: "Getting there" lessons continued

I'm hoping my litany of hiccups in Part 2a , will be helpful for those who've not yet travelled "across the pond" - going "home" - but plan to do so one day.  If nothing else, at least you'll know that spontaneity alone, won't get you there!

I'd rescheduled my departure date for Dec. 4th (and changed my 3-day, hotel reservation to coincide with my Dec. 5th arrival), pushing that rock a few feet further up the hill. I figured I might as well keep it movin' - so I printed the application the husband had so helpfully sent on the 24th and completed it, leaving Item 12 - Passport No., Issue Date, Expiry Date) blank, until the passport came. At the end, I read through these, just to ensure I had, or soon would have, all of them):

VISA APPLICATION REQUIREMENTS (please note that we canNOT process unless requirements are complete)

1. Valid passport
2. One passport-size photograph (taken in the last six months; please write name and passport number on the back and sign)
3. Completed and signed application form
4. A nonrefundable application fee of $100.00 in money order only, payable to the Embassy of The Gambia
5. Prepaid self-addressed/return envelope (FedEx/UPS or Priority/Express Mail recommended)
6. Personal or telephone interview may be required.
7. Regular visa processing time 3 – 4 days.

It was Nov. 25th and now, I was in that - "on, or about" window, waiting on my "expedited" passport. When I'd applied Nov. 10th, the courthouse clerk wrote "5 - 10 days" in the top right-hand corner of the application and date-stamped it. The State Department email said it'd been printed on Nov. 23rd (apparently "printed" really just meant - "printed"). I'd been waiting 15 days - and counting. Add to that, the 3 - 4 day, processing time - and there was no way I would've made that first flight I booked!

The mailman delivered the passport Nov. 26th in the morning (Can't really complain right?  It did arrive "about" the 25th).  I filled in Item 12 and headed immediately to the post office (sans passport). I don't know why, but I thought Item 1 meant, I had to have a valid passport - so I could complete Item 12!

When my oldest was four, and doing his best, "I'm making my bed" imitation, he found his Skeletor among the tangle of sheets and blankets.  Yelling to me in my room, he said, "Look!!  It's serendipity, Mommy!  I did a double-take and walked into his room, saying, "Serendipity?  What's that mean (thinking he didn't)?"  He looked at me, laughed - and said, "When you find something good that you're not looking for!" I said to myself, "How did he know that??"  When I asked him, he just hunched his shoulders saying, "I don't know - I just do!"  I've never forgotten that day.  He's always been an old soul to me - still is!  But I digress.

I share that little vignette simply because, for some reason, as I headed to the "big" post office where I was sure I'd get any, and all questions I had answered - my "Low Fuel" light came on.  So I got off the expressway about a half-mile before the exit, deciding to go to the closer, "little" post office - inside the Shell gas station (this IS Texas, y'all!). 

As I started completing the Express Mail form for overnight delivery, the young Ethiopian guy - doing double-duty as postal clerk and gas station cashier - walked less than 10 steps over to the "postal" counter to help me.  I told him what I was trying to do, and that I'd just got my passport that morning.  He said, "Oh!  I'm waiting for my passport myself, so I can send it in for my visa to London!" (emphasis mine)

I said, "Send it in?  With the visa application?  He said, "Yes, yes!  How else will they be able to stamp it?"  Actually, having the visa stamped on the passport never crossed my mind (I thought they'd just mail me a page for it to put in the passport).  I told him, "Man am I glad I ran into you!  I have to go home and get the passport to include in that envelope!"  Serendipity, no?

So I hustled the half-mile back home, got the passport, put it in the envelope and went back to the "little" post office.  I tracked it with the overnight mail number - it was delivered on Monday, Nov. 29th (Why had I paid extra to expedite it - over the weekend - when no one would be there to process it???  Could've just sent it Express mail and got the same result!).  I called the embassy to make sure it'd be expedited because I was leaving Dec. 4th.  They assured me it would be - and it was.  I got it back Dec. 1st.

I'd not spoken to Gerald directly since Nov. 12th. We'd been communicating intermittently through our mutual, 81 year-old, Jewish friend in Key West (part of his collection - which he eventually plans to ship to The Gambia - was still being stored there). Our last cross-communication had me arriving Nov. 30th, but neither Rhoda, nor I had been able to reach him before then to tell him anything different (figured when he showed up at the airport - and I hadn't - he'd know, and call some-damned- body!). He did - in a panic - 20 minutes after 1 a.m. on Dec. 1st, waking her up when I should have been walking off the plane (there is a 7-hour time difference from EST).

When I called her later that morning, she said, "I'm glad you called.  Gerald is frantic!  I told him you wouldn't be there until Dec. 5th. Didn't you tell him?" I told her I'd tried calling his cell several times, but I kept getting a recording that my call had not gone through. Turns out he'd bought a Gambian SIM card and now had a Gambian telephone number - and had given it to her, to give to me (did I say he was really "single-minded?"). She said, "He gave me a "220" number for you to call him, but it didn't look like enough digits!" "When?" I asked. "The last time I talked to him," she said matter-of-factly.

I took the number and called Gerald. He was frantic. "Me and my friend, John were there waiting at the airport for you! I thought you got stuck in Brussels!"

I told him just as frantically, "If you'd given me your new - Gambian number - I could have told you I'd be delayed!"  He went through the whole thing about giving it to Rhoda, and thinking she'd pass it on to me.  I cut him off and said, "Never mind, Man - I'll be there on Dec 5th, same time.  And since we haven't spoken, I made a reservation at The LAICO Atlantic in Banjul for three days.  Any luck on that "great-rate hotel" arrangement yet? 

He said no, but by the time I got there, he'd know. I told him, "I'm sure glad I made those damned reservations!!" We both laughed, knowing one another too well.

I hung up and emailed the husband to tell him sorry I'd missed him on Skype - but I had to get my damned hair braided (he's ten and a half hours ahead of CST) and start packing! He said:

Hey,
No worries...Got in and the internet was down, ironed clothes then it came back.  Should have called and told you I would be on later. Hope you got ur hair done and all.

I love you kiddo, I really do.
LYAHAW

I answered:

Thank you so much for making this trip possible. I’ll be in here all morning tomorrow packing, so I’ll talk to you then.

Me

He responded, Dec. 2nd (his time):

Hey:
I am so glad that you will be taking this adventure. Push yourself the whole time because you can rest when you get home. See everything you need to, talk with the people, visit the public records building and see what's there. I know you're breathing is the thing, but get out and mingle with everyone and most of all, eat the traditional food. I want to know how it is.

See you tonight or later on today.

LYAHAW

I smiled to myself contentedly thinking, "Ain't Understanding Mellow?"

I'd arranged with the oldest to come stay at the house with the dog while I was gone, and to take me to the airport at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.  Excited (and scared I'd forget something really important), I didn't go to bed until 4 a.m.   But by 6:45 a.m., I was dressed and ready to go!

And by 9 a.m., James Baldwin and I were snug, as bug, in a rug - in my window seat, on that Continental flight, heading to Houston for a short lay-over and then, on to Brussels - final stop, Banjul, the capital of The Gambia!


A "Homegoing" - Part 3:  Going "back to Africa" - on my own terms

A "Homegoing" - Part 2a: "Getting there" lessons

Getting there involved wa-a-a-y more than I expected - especially since, unbeknownst to me at the time, the window in which I'd given myself to meet Gerald in-country (on, or about Nov. 21st) was only opened a crack!

"They do not know the world in which they live"

Marian Wright Edelman

That day sadly, she was talking about today's children (which, in itself, is profoundly instructive).  How can the children "know" anything of this world in which they live, if their parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, or any of the people in their lives have no idea either? 

And while there are some teachers capable of helping children "know," let's not forget that most of their world views have been reduced by the system in which they work and, were also educated!  As it turns out, that "cracked window" is a great analogy because it speaks to how absolutely non-global, and unexceptional the lived experiences of many in this country - particularly Black folk - continue to be.

Luckily, the county library provided an unrestricted view of the world for me as a young child.  You could know as much as you wanted - and it was close by.  In only a five-block walk down King St. to Calhoun, I could lose myself in the lives of people and places far-removed from those I knew.  And I could take them home, because I had a library card!  On the fire escape, with my nose buried in a book, is usually where my Mama found me when she got off work (raisin' holy hell as she came through the back door, because I'd not yet swept the sidewalk or something).

Later, because we had to fulfill a two-year, foreign language requirement before we could graduate, I had another opportunity to know a little of the world.  My choices?  French or Spanish - that's it! While it's changed a lot since then, some things remain the same (do peruse the other links within the link, a prime example of why we're viewed as "ugly Americans"). 

It was my distinct privilege, to learn French from two Black women who made it such a fun, and culturally interesting endeavor, I decided it'd be my major in college (despite the loud protestations from my mother and guidance counselor who both told me, "You better major in Education, or Business Administration so you can get yourself a real job!").

Then came the military, that "safe" (tongue's firmly planted in cheek here), three-hots-and-a-cot place, where I, and many of my kinfolk sought to escape the lives we'd been living, as well as the pigeon-holed opportunities awaiting us after high school or college if we stayed. For a year, I was immersed in the Russian language and culture.  Native, Russian-speaking instructors exposed me to a culture I'd known absolutely nothing about other than to be suspect - and afraid. (I was in the military dammit!  And we were in a "Cold War"  - with them!).

I knew nothing about international travel before this trip.  Yes, I'd lived in Central America for a couple years - but the military handled all of the paperwork to get us there.  We just showed up with the husband's orders, smiled for the camera and got our passports.  The household goods and car shipments, as well as the booking of our seats (including the dog's)  - was all their doing.  And that missed opportunity at "knowing," was at the time, just fine with me.

But when I began the process of getting to The Gambia on Nov. 5th, it became crystal clear to me that I'd assumed much, - and didn't know JACK!  

I told the husband, sons and Gerald that I was definitely going.  Then I went downtown Nov. 9th. to renew my 14-year, expired passport (paying extra to expedite it).

The next day, I hopped on Govarm.com looking for a ticket.  I had a budget within which I was working for the round-trip ticket, hotel stay and pocket money - so the shorter, more expensive flight was definitely out of the question. I did find a considerably, less expensive flight though.  I'd leave here at 6:50 a.m. on the 29th, arriving Banjul at 6:20 p.m. on the 30th.  I figured, "What the hell!  I like reading (and looking out the window) - so, Nov. 10th, I booked it. I emailed the husband my reservation so he'd know how to track me, then foolishly sat back feeling pret-t-ty good about what I'd accomplished. Hell, I thought I was good to go!

But when the husband Skyped me with a question the next morning, it started the "stone" rolling on what would seem like (due to my "cracked window," world view) a Sisyphean task - of "getting there."

"Did ya call Sprint to let them know you'll be travelling overseas?"  Confused, I asked, "What for?"

"Well, your phone may not work over there you know (How in the hell was I supposed to know that?  Last time we were overseas there were no cell phones!) - you just might want to call them and check it out."  When we disconnected, I did - and it didn't.  I had to buy a new damned phone - which was not in the budget (I did, however, get a discount, seeing as I was in the "up-grade eligible window" and all).  It was Nov. 11th, and the phone wouldn't get here for a few days.
   
I called Gerald Nov. 12th, to give him my itinerary, since he'd already told me he'd arrange for me to stay at the hotel he'd been calling home in The Gambia for 4-6 months intervals a year, for the last four years or so.

"Fantastic!" (his favorite word) he said excitedly. "It's a beau-ti-ful place, you will love it! You can walk right out of your room and onto the beach! They know me there, and they'll give you a good rate! You have your visa from the embassy, yes?"

I felt the "stone" rolling back down the hill a few feet.  "What visa?  And what damned embassy, Gerald?!"  I started to feel a little anxious, mainly because my carefully-cultivated-over-the-years, being-in-control-of shit, was totally non-existent now.

"Oh Deb-o-rah," he said exasperated, "You know you will need to contact the Gambian embassy for a visa, don't you?  If you can't get it before you leave, then you can get one from the airport in The Gambia once you arrive - BUT, you might get stopped at immigration in Brussels when you go to change planes, and if you don't have the proper papers you could be stuck there!"
 
"Stuck?? - Oh, I'm not doin' that shit!" I told him emphatically.  I told him quite confidently (steeped in my ignorant American-ness), "I'll contact the embassy."  We chatted about the fact that I'd had to buy a new phone.  He said, "When you get here, you can buy a Gambian SIM card and your calls while you're here will be cheaper.  I said, "What!  Buy a SIM card??"  He said, "Yes, then your local calls will be much cheaper because you won't be first, calling to the U.S. to call here" (so much for Crystal from Sprint's spiel about my saving money).

I asked him what I should pack because I'd started reading about the country online and I didn't want to offend their Muslim culture.  I asked him if the women were covered, he said no, African Muslims do not cover, but Arab Muslims, of which there are some - do.  I said, "Alright Gerald, you'll be at the airport to pick me up - right?  And you'll call me back in a little while to let me know that the room is all set - right?"  He said, "Yes! Yes! No problem!"  It was a phrase with which I'd become very familiar during my entire time in The Gambia.
 
On Nov. 13th, I started to feel a little antsy because Gerald hadn't called me back to confirm the room was set.  When the husband Skyped me later that morning, I shared my concern about where I was going to be staying.  I told him I was just going to make my own reservations somewhere for a few days so I'd be sure to have someplace to stay until Gerald let me know what was what.  He thought it was a good idea.  So when we disconnected, I went back to Govarm.com and made a reservation at the Laico Atlantic Banjul  for three days, arriving Nov. 30th.  I felt better.

I decided to go to the State Department's - International Travel site for The Gambia on Nov. 14th and 15th.  I wanted to see what else I might need to know.  Turns out - it was plenty!  I signed up for the Smart Traveler Enrollment Program listserve at the Embassy in Banjul.  At least if something happened to me, somebody else in the country would also know I was there.  Then I read this:

ENTRY/EXIT REQUIREMENTS: A passport, visa, and evidence of yellow fever vaccination are required...There are no uniform procedures for Gambian immigration officials and the best way to avoid any potential problem is to get a visa before entering the country. A $10 (U.S. dollars) tourist levy is charged upon arrival at the airport. Payment is only accepted in U.S. dollars, British pounds, or Euros.

At least my decision to get the visa before I left was a good one.  And the 411 on the tourist levy in U.S. dollars was helpful.  But, a yellow fever vaccination?  Hell, I hate needles!!  I bookmarked the Bureau of Consular Affairs website, read about the "bumsters" (yes they call them that there too), and when I got to the Medical Facilities and Health Information section and read the following - I felt that damned "rock," rolling backward again:

Before visiting The Gambia, you may need to get the following vaccinations and medications for vaccine-preventable diseases and other diseases you might be at risk for at your destination:

• Routine Recommended if you are not up-to-date with routine shots such as, measles/mumps/rubella (MMR) vaccine, diphtheria/pertussis/tetanus (DPT) vaccine, poliovirus vaccine, etc.
• Hepatitis A...travelers to developing countries with "standard" tourist itineraries, accommodations, and food consumption behaviors.
• Hepatitis B Recommended for all unvaccinated persons...
• Typhoid Recommended for all unvaccinated people traveling to or working in West Africa, especially if staying with friends or relatives or visiting smaller cities, villages, or rural areas where exposure might occur through food or water.
• Polio Recommended for adult travelers who have received a primary series with either inactivated poliovirus vaccine (IPV) or oral polio vaccine (OPV)...
• Yellow Fever CDC yellow fever vaccination recommendation for travelers to The Gambia: For all travelers ≥9 months of age...Vaccination should be given 10 days before travel and at 10 year intervals if there is on-going risk...
• Meningococcal (meningitis) Recommended if you plan to visit countries that experience epidemics of meningococcal disease during December through June.
• Rabies Recommended for travelers spending a lot of time outdoors, especially in rural areas, involved in activities such as bicycling, camping, or hiking...
• Malaria:  Areas of The Gambia with Malaria: All. (more information)

If you will be visiting an area of The Gambia with malaria, you will need to discuss with your doctor the best ways for you to avoid getting sick with malaria. Ways to prevent malaria include the following:

• Taking a prescription antimalarial drug
• Using insect repellent and wearing long pants and sleeves to prevent mosquito bites
• Sleeping in air-conditioned or well-screened rooms or using bednets

All I could say was "Lawd, have mercy!"  I couldn't even remember the last time I had any kind of shot!  And Polio!?!  Really??  Was the "Dark Continent" overlooked when the Salk vaccine was successfully introduced - in 1955??? {smdh}

What with waiting on my passport, getting the visa, and now - all of these damned shots! - I was cuttin' it as close as close could be!  I had exactly two weeks to make this happen!

On Nov. 16, I called the International Travel clinic on the base to make an appointment for the shots.  I could get some earlier, but the Yellow Fever shot was only given on Tuesdays - and it was Tuesday (I later found out the reason for the Tuesday thing was because they weren't opening this very expensive vial for just one person, they needed at least a few people before cracking that seal.  So they scheduled as many as they could on Tuesdays).  I got a Nov. 23rd appointment.  "Still okay, I've got six days before I leave" I said to my uninformed self.

I felt the anxiety building again and when the husband Skyped me - it showed.  I just let loose a torrent of "How in the hells?! and WTFs??"  He told me he'd see what he could find out about getting the visa and email me.  He did, attaching the application and adding, "of course you need your passport number because you have to write that on the back of a passport picture you need to send them."

Down rolled the "rock" again.  I still hadn't gotten the passport (it had been exactly a week since I'd applied for renewal -expedited).  I was pretty much stuck at that point.  Frustrated as hell, I started second-guessing my decision.  After all, I didn't know anything about where I was going, and I sure as hell didn't know much about getting there; and I didn't know anyone there but Gerald! While I knew he'd look out for me and show me around, I know him well enough to know that his single-mindedness regarding his "Center," would leave me with more than a little free time. And yes, I wondered if I'd be safe.

Look - along with that learned fear about the "Dark Continent" (a measure of which, I admit existed) - I'm a 54 year-old look-alike for an "in-shape" woman, who's been smoking since age 12 - with no desire to be "locked up abroad" for carrying an illegal weapon!  Hell, if I ever had to run for my life, I'd be a dead somebody! So yeah, I thought it was more than reasonable to wonder about that.

But anxiety slowly turned to determination when I got my new phone on Nov. 18th.  I called Crystal back and she walked me through the features.  But still no passport - which meant, still no visa.  On Nov. 23rd at 10:30 a.m., I got an email from the State Department saying they'd finished processing the passport and it had been printed.  Since I paid to have it expedited they said, "You should receive it on or about Nov. 25th!  Still blindly hopeful, I kept my 3 p.m., shot appointment.

The doctor was a pleasant enough young lady with an Italian-sounding name.  We talked about where I was going, and why.  Then she told me - I had to get five shots!  She called her assistant in to do the deed and said she'd be back to go over how I should take the Malaron (to combat malaria), the Cipro (in case I got a bacterial infection cuz I forgot and drank the local water) and the Imodium (to stop the resultant diarrhea - from drinking the local water) for which she'd be writing me prescriptions.  She said I needed to start the Malaron and have the yellow fever in my system for at least 10 days before I left.  I said, "Well that can't happen - I'm leaving on Nov. 29th!"

She said, just a little too forcefully for my taste - "You're not going to Europe!  You're going to a Third World country!!" . Without missing a beat, I said, "I guess there's no chance of me getting any of these things in Europe right"  And then just as quickly I asked, "Have you ever even been to Africa?"

She gave me a weird look and dead-panned, "Well, you have a bigger chance of catching them over there that's for sure.  And no, I've never been to Africa.  Have a good trip."  With my biggest shit-eatin' grin, I said, "Oh I'm sure I will - even though it's a Third World country!" - and left.

Whether it was true or not, her Europe vs. Third World comment annoyed me.  But I knew I shouldn't play with the 10-day thing - so I surrendered.  Besides, there was no way I'd be able to get the visa and make that Nov. 29th flight.  When I got home, I changed my departure date to Dec. 4th.  Yeah, it took a little extra from the budget, but I'd gone this far already.  I couldn't quit now!

To be continued - A "Homegoing" - Part 2 (b):  "Getting there" lessons