"Blacks Without Borders" -- the Pan-Africanism about which Malcolm spoke?

"Imagine, Affimative Action -- with teeth."

(I can just see my brother, Asa, shaking his head in the affirmative right now!)
















I think capitalism is a boil on the ass of human-kind, particularly since our Black bodies played such a large part in its birth and growth here in America.  However, this, is certainly what I thought we would do with it -- either here, or on The Continent if that's what we wanted to do (because I had, and still have no doubt, that we could!).

It seems these brothers and sisters took what they learned about it and went back home -- giving back, as they continue to prosper.  And as much as I hate that boil, I just can't be mad at them for that (okay, I gotta admit, the diamond trader did make me uncomfortable, because I immediately thought about -- conflict/blood diamonds, who owns the mines, who's doing the mining and under what conditions.  But, I can't ignore how she's not only ensured that African talent benefits from what she does, but that our African cultural heritage is at the forefront of her work as well).

Watching this documentary tonight, I'm once again reminded of Alex Raventhorne's comment on "...and yet they wonder why POC emigrate" over At the Bar:

"Stay where you are celebrated, reconsider where you are tolerated, and flee where you are persecuted."

Think about it Family...

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

I left Ibrahim to his sand painting and went to the lobby where I found Gerald and John laughing and talking animatedly with a young woman in uniform.

Reminding me of a younger version of my older sister, she had the same unmade-up smooth, dark skin, almond-shaped eyes, great cheekbones and a beautiful, slightly gapped-toothed grin.  Her name was Mariatou and she was Mandinka.

She reached to shake my hand and holding it with my right hand, I put my other arm around her shoulder, laughing as said, "Sorry - I'm a hugger!"  The ice immediately broken, she was a hugger too (and the exact same age as my youngest)!

Working at the Center not far from her village, the guys had taken a break to pick her up when she got off work and brought her to Banjul to meet me - and they were going back, leaving me to my own devices for the evening.  But first, we all got a little better acquainted over a Guinness for Gerald and me, and Fantas for John and Mariatou.

"She's no bumster!" Gerald assured me, saying he'd known Mariatou ever since he started building the Center years ago.  He trusted her implicitly - and knowing Gerald - so did I.

Having been a former, British colony, the official language taught in schools - is English, so there was no language barrier between the two of us.  She turned to me and said, "If you would like, tomorrow, I will take you to my village so you can see true Gambian culture!"  While the hotel provided a comfortable "familiar" to which I could return each night, I'd certainly not crossed that "distance, deliberately created" to which Mr. Baldwin referred, just to sit in it!  I told her I would very much like.

For some time now, I've been following the bread crumbs that link my South Carolina Gullah heritage, to a lineage and legacy that had been marginalized my entire life.  I knew nothing of Africa save those images of starving Biafran babies with swollen bellies and flies all over them in televised pleas for donations from white folk from UNICEF when I was around 12 (something about which my cousin reminded me when I talked to her on the phone right after I got back.  "Why you wanna go over there? Remember dem babies?!  My explanation was very long-winded.).

The history we learned in Catholic school inculcated our minds with visions of savages on that "Dark Continent over there," where benevolent missionaries risked themselves to spread the civilizing gospel - an oxymoron that always makes me think of this enduring (if not exact), Jomo Kenyatta quote:

When the missionaries came to Africa, they had the Bible and we had the land.  They taught us to pray with our eyes closed.  When we opened them, we had the Bible in our hand and they had the land.

In addition to visiting her mother's compound and rice farm, she said she'd also take me to visit her father's compound.  The immediate, confused (read - ignorant American) look on my face had everybody cracking up!  Once they got over the bends, they explained that her family was Muslim and it was perfectly acceptable in The Gambia for her father to have a second wife - and he did.  Saying, that as a visitor, I could respect that as a part of the culture however - "Couldn't be me."

By the time we  finished our drinks and said goodbye, I was excited and ready for the next day because I felt an education coming on that I'd never had before!

I went back out near the pool where a local cultural group was performing to smoke a cigarette.  Okay, this is the part where I tell you my non-computer-wonk-ass, recently and accidentally deleted quite a few photos and videos I'd been organizing to post in this series - among them - a video of this cultural group doing a ceremonial circumcision dance.  However, with the help of the recently returned husband, I was able to recover some of them (taking a computer class or two - just as soon as I quit kicking my own ass for that mess!).  I did find a pretty shitty video I'd taken on my new phone that night (still don't know what I'm doing with that damned thing either!) 

Anyway, I know it's hard to see here, but take my word for it - that "temple of my familiar" was doing some kind of serious liberation-dance on my  soul as I watched this group perform!  It immediately reminded me of that, "standin' on the history" nod in this trailer for "Faubourg Tremé: the Untold Story of Black New Orleans":

I went back inside brimming with anticipation.  Like a kid getting ready for the first day of school, I laid some Capri jeans, a top, some clean underwear and a pair of thonged, flip-flop sandals out on the second twin-bed and tried to go to sleep so I'd be well rested (didn't unpack, Gerald had informed me he'd made those "arrangements").  After tossing and turning for about an hour, I decided the only way sleep was coming soon, was "on the wings of Lunesta."  I took one and passed the hell out.

Once again, unaided by the alarm, I got up early and went to breakfast.  I came back and anxiously got ready even though she wasn't coming until sometime around noon.  When she finally called from the lobby, I grabbed my straw, hold-everything bag and headed out.  She explained, "Since we were on our own today, we'll have to take a taxi."  I said okay and we walked out to the street to flag one.

As it turns out, it was three taxis and a multi-passenger sort of mini-bus called a "tonka-tonka!"  I don't remember all of the villages through which we traveled and changed taxis, but I know we traveled south through Serrekunda and down to the "traffic light" in Brikama, a bustling crossroads.  There, we caught a tonka-tonka headed west to her village.  It let us out on the main road at the head of the road leading to her mother's compound.

I can only describe that ride as a cross-continental, "back-to-the-future" experience!  Squeezed into my seat by the crush of people and goods on the tonka-tonka, Rev. Deas and his own "multi-passenger bus" (actually at first, it was a big station wagon, then he got a passenger-panel van-looking thing) popped into my head.  He'd leave his church on the island every Saturday morning around 6 a.m. and pick up people who didn't have cars and needed/wanted to go "to town" to shop - for a fee.  Like in Brikama, there was even a sister "traffic light" of sorts (more a blinking light) through which he traveled, where you could get picked up or dropped off.  We called it the "Tin Store light" and it was a little more than halfway between the country and the city.

Mostly, he'd drop everybody off near the Edwards five-and-dime on King St. wherefrom they'd disperse via city bus, taxis or rides from family or friends.  If they weren't staying over, they'd reassemble at the same spot  - with everything they bought (clothes, groceries, you name it!) - at the pre-appointed 6 p.m. for the drive back to the island.  Judging by how far toward the beach you lived, you knew you'd either be getting out soon, or - be squeezed up against a door, or a person, for a little while longer.  But just like on the tonka-tonka, you'd get a little breathing room once passengers were disgorged along the way. 

You could also "Catch Rev. Deas" one-way, from town to the country as Mama would have us do when we wanted to go hang-out with the cousins on Saturday night (my brother and I hung-out with the the uncle and cousins our age - my sister, aunts and older cousins went out partying!).  She'd come pick us up the next day after church.  And no, we didn't miss church.  No matter how late we stayed up - or out, we went to my grandmother's A.M.E. church, or my grandfather's Baptist church services at 11 a.m. -sharp.  Stragglers who'd made my grandmother late to "chuch," were invited to pick their switch from any of the bushes outside in the yard.

From the first taxi ride out of Banjul, to the tonka-tonka, the trip through the countryside flooded my brain with back-in-the-day memories of leaving "the city" of Charleston and heading to my grandmother's house out on the island - "in the country."  The further south you went on Highway 17 in that 45 minutes, paved roads gave way to - Legend Oaks, forming a cool canopy over your journey through a landscape dotted with farms and little homes (some mere shacks) with their doors and window frames painted blue to keep out evil spirits; and "Do-Drop Inns" along the main road, not far from the little family stores, pregnant with a little bit of everything you needed (ours was "Doll's Store, a short walk from my grandmother's house - though a ride was much better if you could get one!); and dirt roads, leading to similar family "compounds," with relatives' houses a mere, hop, skip and a jump away.

Of course, as with countless other areas in this country where Black folk have lived - especially near water -gentrification has reared its ugly head, forever changing the landscape and invisibilizing the Blacks who remain.

As we walked the dirt road to the compound, I kept asking her, "How come my feet are covered with sand and yours aren't??"  We were both wearing the same kind of thonged sandals, yet my feet, below the ankle, were covered in sand while hers were not.  She laughed and said, "Because I'm used to it."  I laughed saying, "Look, I walked dirt roads just like these when I was young - sometimes barefoot, sometimes not - but I never remember being so used to it I didn't get sand between my toes!  Hell, "fly-toe" was always on my mind !" (Don't know the medical term for it - but we got it in the creases of our toes - often.)
  

Being greeted by, and introduced to, several people along the way, we reached the compound, encircled by a cinder-block fence where she, her mother and her older sister and children lived.  Fussing about how the children had thrown stuff on the ground after she'd just swept around the entrance before she left, I was reminded of how my Mama complained about the very same thing whenever she got off work and I'd not swept the sidewalk clean of all sand and debris in the front of our rented, Reid St. abode downtown.  The old Charleston House had a small yard, but no grass, so one of my after-school chores was to make sure the front was clean and dust-free.  As Mariatou groused, I heard Mama in my head, calling my name in her usual loud, pronouncing-every-syllable way - "Deb-o-r-a-h-h-h!  How come you ain't swept these steps yet!"

Inside the compound, there were chickens, goats and a well where they drew water (Yes, I said "well" and "drew water" - there is no public water service to the village.  We entered the one-level house from a covered porch leading into the living room.  It was a simple, unadorned structure, with swept-clean, concrete floors, two couches and room enough for everybody in the family.  A wall unit faced the door with family photos, accompanied by some large bowls on the top, and a TV in the center.

I met one of her older sisters who also spoke English, along with a friend of hers who was visiting with her one and half year-old son.  As soon as that boy saw me, he started to cry loudly, yelling, "Tubaab!  Tubaab!" (the Gambian word for foreigner - usually white) in between breaths.  When I reached for him, he cowered in his mother's arms, just shaking his head and crying uncontrollably.  I'd never met a little one I couldn't cajole into my arms, but this little guy, so keenly aware of my different-ness even though I was Black too, wasn't havin' any of it.  Everybody laughed as I backed away saying, "No problem, Man!  I ain't tryin' to make you cry!"  He finally settled down, but continued to watched me cautiously.
 

Mariatou took me down a short hall to show me her room, and the large bed, covered with a mosquito net that her father had had made for her.  Back in the front-room, she told me the large bowls atop the wall unit were serving bowls from which everyone in the family ate - together.  She proudly took down a picture of her eldest sister who's been living in Sweden for the past 13 years or so.  She'd been married to a Gambian man, but had divorced him and left the country, not having returned since then.

Her mother was out at the farm which was a short distance away, so we decided to visit her Dad's compound first.   His second wife was sitting outside the front door with some kids playing around her.  She was a young, light-skinned woman (she'd been two years behind Mariatou in school) with two little ones under 4 years old.  Here's a short video of them that I was able to restore.  The two little ones on his left are his, and the other little girl is a playmate.

Afterward, we went inside and he asked his wife to make us some chai tea.  We sat for awhile, discussing a little politics (to include the Changeling); a little religion (Muslim/Christian); a little about his country and how proud he was of Mariatou.  She beamed.  We had another cup of tea and then she said, if we were going to the farm, we'd better get going.  I thanked her father for the tea and conversation, said goodbye to the children and his wife and we left.

On the walk back to the main road where we'd get a taxi to the rice farm, she talked about how much she loved her father and I told her I could see it.  She said she knew it was hard for me to understand, but - I interrupted her saying,  "I came here to observe and learn, not to judge.  Like I said before - as a visitor, I respect that it's a part of your culture and I've not come here to change it, however - Couldn't be me.  And anyway, all that really matters is that you love him and understand it, right?" 

As she smiled and held my hand as we walked back to the main road - me flip-flopping sand everywhere - I had yet another déjà vu moment, remembering the countless times my cousin, Myra and I had walked, hand-in-hand, from our grandmother's house to her house around the bend.  It made me smile as we got into the taxi ride and went to her Mum's rice farm.

"Black Rice"

"African growers and pounders of rice, enslaved in the Americas, desired to consume their dietary staple in the lands of their bondage.  In South Carolina they found and environment eminently suitable for the cultivation of rice.  The wetlands where they experimented with rice growing in fact showed planters the way to use an African indigenous knowledge system for their own mercantile objectives.  Slaves with expertise in rice farming used that knowledge to negotiate a system of labor demands similar to that known to them with indigenous African slavery.  Planters, on the other hand, saw the means to control this black expertise for the their own ends.  During the charter generations of slavery in South Carolina, this African and gendered knowledge system did result in a mitigated form of labor over that known in other slave societies of the Americas...

... African knowledge of rice farming established, then, the basis for the Carolina economy.  But by the mid-eighteenth century rice plantations had increasingly come to resemble those of sugar, imposing brutal demands on labor.  Slaves with knowledge of growing rice had to submit to the ultimate irony of seeing their traditional agriculture emerge as the first food commodity traded across oceans on a large scale by capitalists who then took complete credit for discovering such an "ingenious" crop for the Carolina and Georgia floodplains.  For this reason, the words "black rice" fittingly describe their struggle to endure slavery amid the enormity of the travail they faced to survive." (emphasis mine)

- Black Rice - Judith A. Carney
Chapter 4: This Was "Woman's Wuck"

The taxi deposited us again, at the head of the road leading to the rice farm. As we reached an opening in what I thought was merely tall grass (turns out it was rice growing, as far as the eye could see!), Mariatou held my hand, guiding me through a path over low, marshy ground to a clearing where we came upon a group of women (flip-flops were not what I should have been wearing!). They were Mandinka, one of the largest ethnic groups in West Africa; Wolof and, Jola (Diola - French transliteration) - all coming together, co-op like, to help her mother get all the rice cut.

She greeted them respectfully, asking where her mother was.  A woman, later introduced to me as her aunt, Fatou (name given to the eldest girl in the family) pointed across the field and called out her name, "Kaddy!  Kaddy!"  She looked up and waved and started making her way toward us.  While we waited, Mariatou introduced me to each of the women, translating my return greetings in each of the women's languages.  Watching as they quickly worked the already cut mound of rice into neat little bundles on the ground, I was at once, humbled and empowered by this gathering of strong women working together.

As she explained to them that I'd never seen rice in its natural state before,one of the women, Bintou (name given to the youngest girl in the family), gave me her knife, grabbed my hand smiling and showed me how to cut and bundle the rice with Mariatou translating her instructions. We all laughed out loud when I made one, exactly like the ones on the ground. Mariatou explained that once all the rice was cut and bundled, they would carry it back to the compound and pound it, removing the husks - and from that pounding, comes the white grains we see in grocery stores! The rice would later be bagged and stored - some to eat, some to sell (And no rest for the weary! In a recent conversation with Mariatou, she advised Kaddy'd already planted, among other vegetables, some tomatoes, ground nuts (peanuts) - a popular export, ground eggs (eggplants) and sweet potatoes!)

Her mother finally made her way across the field to where we were standing. With a big smile, she greeted me first, with a firm handshake - and then a hug. She'd never gone to school, so she spoke no English. Mariatou translated for us as we talked about me, America, her daughter, my grandmother - and rice.

They still had plenty work to do, so she walked us back through the field to the main road. Walking ahead of us, I kept hearing this clicking sound - like the one you make trying to "scratch" whatever's irritating that space in your nasal cavity.  I asked Mariatou what it was and she said it was her mother, scaring away any snakes that might be up ahead. All bug-eyed and nervous now, I said, "Snakes! I think we need to walk a little bit faster!" It hadn't even occurred to me that there had to have been snakes in the marshy field!

This outing had definitely been déjà vu all over again! By the time we came along, "the African and gendered knowledge system of rice growing" was mirrored in my grandmother's fields. And it WAS "woman's wuck." From season to season, she was out there from "dayclean" to sundown - hoeing, planting and harvesting vegetables like tomatoes and cucumbers; yellow, zuchini and acorn squash; peanuts; watermelon; corn; okra and sweet potatoes.

Those of us (mostly female) big enough to go and "pick" on the white man's farms, did - earning money based on how many bushel baskets were picked. At day's end, half went to my grandmother and we got to keep the other half. After the first few times out, she kept me home to run her roadside stand, selling her home-grown vegetables to the white folk headed to the beach saying, "Debbie, you pick too slo', hunnah can' mek no money like dat!" Fine with me, I hated the way okra ate up my hands and arms anyway.

The European marginalization, followed by their usual appropriation of yet another important part of our culture was, and continues to be, despicable. But most importantly, it was soul-crushing. In reviewing Carney's book, Drew Gilpin Faust of The New York Times said it most succinctly:

"Between the end of the 17th century and the Civil War, hundreds of thousands of people of African descent toiled in swamps, ditches and fields cultivating rice, a crop that by the time of the American Revolution had created a planter aristocracy wealthier than any other group in the British colonies. The high concentrations of slaves in rice-growing areas produced as well a black culture that remained closer to its African roots than that of any other North American slave society. Yet even in South Carolina, where they were a majority of the population, blacks have remained underrepresented in the historical record, partly because they were unable to leave the rich written legacy that immortalized their owners, partly because historians have failed to look closely enough at the evidence that has survived. In "Black Rice," Judith A. Carney, a professor of geography at the University of California, Los Angeles, finds new "ways to give voice to the historical silences of slavery." Exploring crops, landscapes and agricultural practices in Africa and America, she demonstrates the critical role Africans played in the creation of the system of rice production that provided the foundation of Carolina's wealth." (emphasis mine)

Imagine if, instead of having been made to feel ashamed of our language and this legacy all of our lives, Black folk - especially women - had grown up knowing and learning about, and being proud of, the major contributions we'd made to these United States!!

I'd lay money on the fact that it would have made a huge difference - not only in how we now see our soul-crushed selves in this country and the world, but also in how we see our brothers and sisters in the diaspora. I doubt any of us would then, be lining up behind the Changeling (second-generation African that he is) and his white handlers as they wage war on an African country whose only imminent threat to this country is the rejection of neo-colonialist hegemony through self-determination.

If you are Black and from South Carolina in general, or the Sea Islands in particular - I recommend a thorough reading of Carney's book, along with those of Peter H. Wood ("Black Majority"),Wilbur Cross ("Gullah Culture in America"), Lorenzo Dow Turner ("Africanisms in the Gullah Dialect"), J.H. Easterby ("The South Carolina Rice Plantation") and Prof. Daniel C. Littlefield.

I promise, you will not only come away with a much better understanding of what our people brought to America's table (no pun intended), but also, and most importantly - with a feeling of immense pride and connectedness based on what's expressed here, in the introduction to Carney's book:

The millions of Africans who were dragged to the New World were not blank slates upon which European civilizations would write at will.  They were peoples with complex social, political, and religious systems of their own.  By forced transportation and incessant violence slavery was able to interdict the transfer of those systems as systems; none could be carried intact across the sea.  But it could not crush the intellects, habits of mind, and spirits of its victims.  They survived in spite of everything, their children survived and in them survived Africa. (all emphasis mine)

-Sidney W. Mintz, introduction to the 1990 edition of

The Myth of the Negro Past by Melville Herskovitz 

To be continued:  A "Homegoing" - Part 5a:  Neocolonialism, Juffureh and 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