"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 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