Life in Gambia

One day i up and left Senegal by plane to Gambia. It was a dark and stormy night. Just kidding snoop dog; it was an overcast day. It never rained while i was in Senegal, and it was always temperate by the sea, but it was starting to warm up just before i left. I said my thank yous and goodbyes to all my friends and neighbors and family, and we shook with the left hand. Ken taught me that when we shake with the left hand upon departure we ensure that we will see each other again...god willing!

One hour in a small plane later, after scoping out the passengers representing the African international jet set, we disembarked at the tiny airport. On the approach into the airport all i could see was little plots of farm land...with trees in the open spaces. Much greener and more tropical looking than around Dakar...at the airport i was met by Dave and Fiona and their daughter Elizabeth (see photos). I met Dave and Fiona through a group of missionaries in Dakar. I met the group of missionaries through a guy who was riding around the world on a motorcycle (NOT on a mission for the lord). He was staying at the little guesthouse up the street from the Doumbia house, which is owned by my Senegalese friend and dance teacher Allasane from the states. So i met this guy Frank and we got to talking and soon i was preaching and he said hey! i know just the people for you..The god squad! That was his name for the folks i ended up meeting an having fellowship with. Here is a link to their website.
http://freewebs.com/familycaresenegal/

So that's how i ended up with Major Dave and his family. I arrived on may 10. I used my New Zealand passport instead of my American to avoid the 45 dollar visa fee. Gambia is part of the British commonwealth, and any citizens of a commonwealth country (such as NZ) are exempt from needing a visa. My first few days in Gambia were a whirlwind of meeting a fascinating cross section of Gambians and expatriates from all over Africa and the globe. High ranking politicians and police, big business people, ex-prisoners and criminals, dirt poor and dirt rich people, musicians, teachers, pastors, children, and plenty of just regular working family folks. At one party i met a man who is a student in his first year of law school here in Gambia. In fact, its the first year of law school EVER in the Gambia. Brand new. Like Gambia in general. Ten years of intense development fueled by the tourist industry, as well as the migration of villagers into the city.

Gambia when i arrived was dry and dusty and in need of rain, which everybody kept saying was imminent. It has rained a bit since i have been here, and everybody says July is the month. They say when it rains it transforms the land instantly from dirt to grass, from dusty to shiny, from hazy to crystal clear, from mushy yellow clouds to billowy bright white ones...i would like to see that...i would like to go upriver, where the water is filled with crocodiles and hippos, which are far more dangerous...And many species of birds...and monkeys, and big cats and hyenas...rhinos and elephants and lions and giraffes all live farther inland, deep into Mali where the country is more open and free...

Gambia...colonized by the British who ran a slave fort on an island on the river. Where American Alex Haley traced his ancestral ROOTS to a man named Kunta Kinteh in the village of Juffreh, which is now a tourist destination for many Americans seeking their own roots in Africa. Kunta Kinteh, a free Mandinka man who was kidnapped by slave traders and taken to America where he was forced into chattel slavery until his dying day...in Juffreh today you can meet a elder woman named Binta Kinteh...

"Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me"...(song written by the captain of a slave ship whose conscience finally got the better of him, and he turned the ship around and released the kidnapped people back in Africa...)

Gambia has the most amazingly easy public transportation. For one thing it's a small compact country with only a few main roads and highways. From the suburb of Kerr Serigne you walk about 10 minutes to the end of the line for the little mini van shuttles that run all the way to Serrakunda. The shuttles run every ten minutes all day every day, until around 9 or 10 at night. The cost is 5 dalasi for any length of trip, which is 20 cents USA. You off board by yelling "stop here!" anywhere. You just wave the shuttle down and it will pick u up, anywhere. Now that's what I'M talking about! At the main junctions which lead to different locations than Serrakunda there are regular yellow taxis waiting. These taxis run between the main junctions (generally just a few miles on the open highway) and also cost 5 dalasi for any length of ride. The driver waits for four people to fill his car and drives off. So from Kerr Serigne to Banjul (the capital), which is around 13 miles, you pay 5 for a shuttle to the first junction, 5 for a taxi to the next junction, and then 6 for a larger bus to the city. Just over 1 US dollar for a two hour (door to door) 25 mile roundtrip to the capital. It's a pubic transportation wet dream. Late at night, or whenever you want, the taxis charge for a "town trip", which is a personalized ride to your front door. That price is negotiable, as like in Senegal the taxis have no meter. Generally you can get a town ride for 50 D or less.

As we drove from the airport on that first day i noticed that Gambia was nothing like urbane Dakar. Here was much more rural and rough around the edges. Poorer. But in a country of 1.5 million there is an almost non-existant murder rate. Maybe 10 per year? (a wild guess, someone google it). Contrast that with Oakland California which has a population of .5 million people, a third that of Gambia. Oakland has a murder rate of about 3 per week. Just about every other day someone is murdered in Oakland. Probably 90 percent are young men of color, primarily African American. Lets say that of the 150 murders a year, 100 of the victims are young black men. Oakland is about 33 percent black, which is approx 165,000. Half of those are men, and maybe half of those 80,000 are young. Thats 40,000 young black men in Oakland. And every year, 100 are murdered (usually by each other). Now, compare that to UC Berkeley, which has a student body of 30,000, with probably another 10,000 employees. Thats 40,000 people. If just ONE of those people gets murdered by someone else on the campus, it's a big huge story. If three murders happened in one year it might be considered a national story, as in WHAT THE HELL IS GOING WRONG AT UC BERKELEY? If it happened every year, 3 or 4 murders, inside jobs so to speak, it would be considered a disgrace to the city of Berkeley and the state of California in general. There would be heavy police presence and massive FBI involvement. Parents would keep their students home. But 2 people PER WEEK are murdered out of 40,000 in Oakland, every single week, every single year, and the story gets buried in the back pages of the Oakland tribune. Barely a notice. Just a shrug and a "oh well, what can you do." Interesting, that's all i'm saying.

But my first day in Gambia was different. Just the day before, a young man in Serrakunda died. The next day, as we drove from the airport in the midday, the young men of Serrakunda were rioting, standard issue stuff, you know, breaking windows, burning tires. Nice intro...

Have a beautiful day or night.

god

Remember the quote from the book of Isaiah...here is a continuation of it...

"Wash you, make you clean; put away the evil of your doings from before mine eyes; cease to do evil; Learn to do well; seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow. Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool. If ye be willing and obedient, ye shall eat the good of the land: But if ye refuse and rebel, ye shall be devoured with the sword: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken [it]."

Naomi from Dakar and I have an ongoing discussion about god. She is a PhD in religion and teaches religion classes through an online university. She posed the question "what do you make of the phrase 'judge the fatherless.'"

Here is my reply. Proceed with caution. Thank you in advance for listening to my ramblings. All corrections, additions, oppositions and agreements are welcome and accepted equinamiously.

Always go with your first thought they always say, right? So in answer to your question about "judge the fatherless"...here is my first thought...

Who is the father? In a spiritual context there is only one father, god. And also there is only one judge, god as well. On "judgement day" we will be "judged" not on our list of good and bad behaviors but on whether or not we had a relationship to the father, god. Did we have a father or were we fatherless, without god? Only god will be the judge of that...

This is why i can sort of comprehend the holiness of the trinity...god sends himself as a man...people accept jesus, for jesus says "she who loves me loves my father, and is she that my father will love..." and the holy spirit comes after jesus (which, by the way, i comprehend as female, as mother. The holy spirit is also called the comforter, who can be more of a comforter than a mother? And where there is a father and a child there must be a mother. Not Mary, who is a substitute, but the true holy spirit...) The holy spirit comes after jesus to be dispensed INTO our spirit, so that actually OUR nature (which is natural, which is to say, inherently selfish, like that of a baby which can only cry for its needs, it is purely selfish in a totally non-moralistic, non- judgemental way, it just IS)...so that OUR nature can be replaced by HIS nature, gods nature...and if "we" can be a judge of the fatherless it is only god within us that is the judge of the fatherless... as bob marley said, leave all judgement unto him!

We, as humans, are SO SO SO inherently self centered and self absorbed that we always think everything is about us, that god is talking to us, that we are the center of attention etc. When god gives us the ten commandments we NATURALLY think he is talking to us...but my insight is that it has nothing to do with us...god is not looking for us, god is looking for his child, the one who embodies his perfect nature, and god gives us the opportunity to be his child (through grace which means undeserved/unmerited favor..)

The ten commandments is a CHARACTER description of christ himself, christ being the perfect manifestation of gods nature in a human form. A description. And the only way to follow the law is to follow that perfect person, because he IS the law. HE is the law. So by accepting christ, and the holy spirit, then the complete LAW is in our spirit, and we are perfect in the law because we are following christ with all our hearts! Its an inward experience, not an outward expression such as god rails against in the book of isaiah...

We cant and dont love the lord and our neighbors with all our hearts (as christ commanded when we asked what are we to do, what is the law), and anyone with a shred of self honesty will recognize that, because once again we are so SELF ABSORBED and ADDICTED to the illusion of our SELVES that we think christ is giving US a commandment that our puny little selves can accomplish. No. Again, actually christ is describing HIS abilities to love infinitely, he is describing the nature of god, as the apostle paul says later, with ME nothing is possible, but through him IN me, all things are possible...

OK, and the point is simply this: when god says "seek judgment, relieve the oppressed, judge the fatherless, plead for the widow" it is actually a description of a holiness that god possesses and that is deep within us only as god himself. So the only way to do what god says is to let go and let god. Die to our self and let the god that lives deep in our spirit be the guide...its like that fantastic painting in the sistine chapel by Michaelangelo where god and man are almost touching...the thing is, as i feel it, is that in order for our spirit to be ACTIVATED, we need to be touched by god the father/mother/child...our spirit lies dormant, or is corrupted by the opposer, until we seek, ask and pray for god the big spirit to enter our hearts and touch our spirit, then we have the connection, the activation...this is being born again, or born anew. A new creature, a new being.
Amen. Selah!

THE GAMBIA!

Pictures from The Gambia. As always, ignore the date stamp which i always forget to turn off when i replace the batteries.

Zak with Fiona and baby Elizabeth showing off some indigo colored cloth dyed by hand in the Gambia.

The fellas at the compound. From left to right Luke, Dave, Modou Saliou, Aliou, and Ziggidy Zak. The white outfit i have on was one of my fits made by Sana the tailor (see explanation below).

14 month old (queen) Elizabeth and baby mama.

Bakary on the right, Sana the tailor to the left, in Serrakunda, Gambia. Serrakunda is the main market town in the country. It's relatively small and manageable, but crowded, energetic and colorful. Cars enter from the edges but towards the middle the roads are filled with people, cars don't venture there! It becomes really like a farmers market/flea market atmosphere. Bakary is a family man who lives in a nearby suburb. In Senegal i did internet research about fabrics in Gambia: spinning yarn, weaving, dying, tailoring...i found an American woman who runs a business out of Gambia and when i emailed her for a contact in the country who could help me she recommend her good friend Bakary. I came to Gambia with 30 yards of natural hemp fabric, some hemp yarn, and some raw hemp fiber (purchased in the states). My intention was to find natural traditional indigo dyers for the fabric (and maybe mud cloth dyers in Mali), someone to weave the yarn on a hand loom (traditionally done by men), and someone to hand spin the fiber into yarn (traditionally done by women). Having had a long standing interest in fabrics, and especially hemp, i was curious to see if hemp could be used like cotton in these old style West African artisan crafts. However, i got completely immersed in other projects and never got started on this one. I am going to leave the materials here and return later to pursue this goal. I could easily find batik and tye dye artists in the area to play with the hemp, but they use store bought chemical dyes. I am searching for the holy grail, which is indigo and mud cloth dyes made from natural plants and earth minerals, which i will probably find in the rural areas of highland Guinea and back country Mali. Nonetheless, Bakary helped me locate and purchase cotton fabrics expertly dyed in local motifs, and introduced to me his trusty and expert tailor Sana, who tailored for me three outfits (top and pants) for 30 dollars (i bought the fabric separately).

Aliou, Dave (that's British military officer Major Dave to you) and Lamin, from left to right, on Daves motor boat near the ocean. Those are mangrove trees lining the river. I am currently staying with Dave and his wife and two children Luke and Elizabeth in the suburb of Kerr Serigne not far from Serrakunda. Aliou and Dave work together in car repair, construction, landscaping, anything they can get their hands on. Lamin co-captains the boat when he an Dave motor up the Gambia river to preach the gospel of Christ Jesus to anyone interested...

The fabulous fishing village of Gunjur in southern Gambia near the border of the region called The Casamance in southern Senegal. All the boats, like this one, are hand made from hand hewn timber. The planks are nailed and glued together. They paint the outside, mount a motor on the back, throw in some fishing gear and away they go. This boat is painted with the name and visage of an Islamic marabout.

Outside of Dave and Fiona's compound there was a street party one night. The neighbors hired this group of Sabar drummers to lay down some funky syncopated rhythms, but strangely only the little kids danced. A few weeks earlier down the block a group of about 60 women hired a group of Kutiro drummers (Kutiro are the drums of the Jola people) and those women got DOWN, dancing Linjin into the evening until the dust filled the sky...

Inspecting the morning catch in Gunjur. The boats come in with fish mid morning. They anchor as close to shore as possible, and then all the strong young women wade out with their buckets to collect the fish from the boats. The women carry the buckets of fish to shore, and for each bucket they carry, they get to keep between 3 and 5 of the fish each depending on type of fish, size, quality etc. They run back and forth, sometimes waist deep in the surf, all morning, and collect their own personal bucket of fish. The remaining fish are then sold by the fishermen to the fish merchants, who in turn hire the women to haul their purchase, the same exact buckets they carried earlier, to wherever they need the fish to be, and the women collect yet more fish. Is it beginning to sound a bit fishy? The village economy is fueled by the many smoke houses that line the shore. Everyone takes their personal stash of fish to their preferred smoker and pays for the fish to be smoked by the expert fish smokers. How many times can i say smoke in one sentence? The fish can then be taken to market, sold locally or even be exported out of the country en masse. The smoked fish in Gambia is considered to be of high quality. They pay a pretty price for it in the big cities of West Africa: Abidjan Ivory Coast, Lagos Nigeria. Fresh, natural, healthy fish.

Lamin De Costa proudly hanging out in the 16 meter deep well he dug by hand in just 12 days. This is in the village of Gunjur, back of the smoke house industry on the beach. Lamin carved out the holes in the side to shimmy up and down, unprotected by a rope. The dirt is hard pack and the water is clean and sweet. I added a bit of grapefruit seed extract to it just to be sure, and i had zero problems drinking this fine H2O.

This is my friend Dou in Gunjur, where he lives and grew up. I met Dou through bible study at Daves place in Kerr Serigne. Dou owns a fishing boat, a motor and nets, but doesn't go out much. He prefers to read the bible. He thinks he's a fisherman but really he's an intellectual bohemian dreamer who would rather kick back in a cafe with a smoke and a glass of attaya or red wine, reading the bible and quoting Christ to impress the ladies. I told him he should just sell the boat and go to bible school. Follow your heart! I like the way people build these wood fence walls between their compounds, creating narrow paths through the village. Precursor to the modern suburban gated community.

Dou on the beach in Gunjur with all the colorful boats.

I met this woman and her one week old baby at the baby's naming ceremony party in the village area of Sanyang near Gunjur. Her husband is a friend of Dave and Fionas. In West Africa the baby doesn't get a name for a week. Then the family throws a naming ceremony party and tells everyone the name. These folks grow fruits and vegies on a small plot of land and sell the produce in the market. This is a banana tree.

This is a papaya tree on the same piece of land.

And all those tall skinny green plants are not cannabis sativa. They are cassava, known as yucca root in California. Everyone grows cassava because it produces a hefty harvest of yummy and versatile roots that fetch a decent price in the market.

Senegal Last Thoughts

LANGUAGE AND EFFORT:
I was lazy with learning the language after the first week or two because I knew I was in Senegal for a limited time and thus i made little commitment. I really respect people who go to a place, stay for awhile and make a COMMITMENT…to learn the language, really BE there…I skated by on natural talent as usual…I'm a good mimic of languages and accents…but I am a bad listener and have a poor memory for words and phrases (my memory bank being used up by mostly useless statistical trivia). I did have an idea for a language book tho. First, in English, write down the 1000 most important words and phrases we use to communicate on a daily basis, in the order of their frequency. So first would be greetings…then verbs, the 5 W’s etc…then use that English book to fill in the language you are learning. Most language books are so convoluted and useless. They tell you how to say things like “Why, your car is such a lovely green color!” or “That sure is a nice mortar and pestle!” or “Is the freezer cold enough to keep ice cream?”

My African friends found it humourous that I relied heavily on my little journal to remember language. They learn language almost strictly be listening and speaking. I think people who grow up speaking at least two languages have a much easier time of this. The difference between learning one language and learning two or more is like a quantum leap in brain development for additional language aquisition. On the other hand, African people almost never learn the colonial language of French, or English, or whatever, as well as native speakers. Thus they are forever at a language disadvantage when they attempt to gain a foothold in first world societies. I'd say it's a conspiracy but i "know better than that". I did meet one of Kens uncles of about 50 years of age who had hardly left Dakar his entire life, and he spoke French like a master. He was a French teacher and took it as a point of pride that he was more literate in French than the average french person, even claiming he taught French people their own language. But that is rare.

I find Wolof to be a dynamic and energetic language, and without a doubt easier to pronounce and enjoy than French. I am hopeless in French. I can say complex African names with far more ease than i can pronounce the french name Viex. My strength and effort went towards remembering names. But I tried one hundred times to say that name and i still have no idea. My mouth just doesn't want to move to the french rhythm. Wolof, i like. It fits better, what can i say?

ISLAM AND THE KORAN:
Every morning around 530 i was gently awoken by the not so distant call to prayer by the local mosque...honestly its a soothing and mystical sound...i can truly understand why people love their Muslim religion, or any religion...the practices can be addictively enjoyable! Occasionally the neighbors would have a Koranic prayer party on the roof in the early evening. They set up a loud speaker and absolutely blared Islamic singing and chanting well into the night. In Senegal it's a perfectly acceptable practice to engage in once in awhile. Tolerance is a beautiful thing. I practice it when i can and it serves me very well! Instead of allowing myself to be annoyed i just recognize the humour in a situation and laugh. Very healing, we should do it more often.

Arabic colonists entered Africa early in the history of Islam (7th century onward) from their homeland in the Arabian peninsula (present day Saudi Arabia) and enforced their religion on the populous of North Africa from Egypt to Morocco, and later as they crossed the Saraha desert they went down south as far as Nigeria, Darfur in Sudan, etc. People think of North African countries as being "Arabic" (Egypt, Algeria etc.) and consequently they think of North Africa as being part of the "Middle East". Geographically, North Africa cannot be the Middle East, as it is directly south (and west) of much of Europe. (And of course the term "Middle East" comes from the perspective of people living in far West Asia (otherwise known as Europe), hence "Far East" (China etc.) "Near East" (Turkey etc.) and "Middle East" (Israel, Iraq, even as far as Iran who of course on Persian, not Arab, etc.))

Culturally North Africa is lumped into an area called the Middle East because the politics and religion is dominated by Muslims of Arabic descent. Arab Muslims colonized lands and imposed their political will in areas where hundreds of both indigenous and immigrant ethnic groups were living. For example, after the destruction of Jerusalem by the Roman empire in the year 70 A.D., the nation of Israel was disbanded and the great Jewish diaspora began. Jews fled in all directions. Many migrated across North Africa and ended up in Spain, where they suffered the indignity of the Catholic Inquisition of 1492, and had to flee once again, which is incidental to the story at hand. Many Jewish communities were living in North Africa for centuries before the Islamic takeover. And it was a takeover. People of all colors and backgrounds from white Berbers to black "animists" to brown christians to olive jews were given a choice: accept Islam or die. People accepted Islam as a means of survival. Just like with Catholicism throughout the world, people incorporated indigenous traditons into the new religion (such as the wearing of juju items), or they went underground with their religion (a favorite tactic of jewish people). (Similarly, many Africans avoided the slave trade by excessively tattooing and piercing their bodies so that they would be rejected by the traders as being too unattractive and unpresentable in the slave markets).

The expression of Islam in Senegal has many similarities and many polar opposites to Islam expressed in Arab controlled countries, and even parts of Africa like Nigeria. As with religion everywhere, people fall in between a range of extraordinarily devout to Muslim in name only. For example, from what i could see, the draconian law of "Sharia" is not enforced in Senegal. Sharia is similar to the Levitical laws of the Hebrews in the old testament, which is probably why the Koran is full of it. The laws of the Hebrews as described in the book of Leviticus in the bible are full of nightmarish consequences for those who break the law. Adultery? Instant execution. Stealing? Lose a hand. In countries that enforce Sharia today, people are arrested, beaten and tortured for even relatively minor offenses such as having a conversation with an unmarried woman. Or not wearing a burka such as was enforced by the Taliban in Afghanistan. In Senegal i never heard of anything remotely resembling the law of Sharia being enforced. Very few women cover their heads. The girls in the Doumbia house wore head coverings for a few hours on Fridays. Many children supplement their secular academic studies with Koranic study. After school, on the weekends etc. But i never saw any serious Koranic study in any house. Many people i talked to hardly knew what the Koran actually says. People i talked to said that they hoped to go to heaven, but they weren't sure about it. They could only hope that on judgement day when god weighed their good deeds in his right hand and their bad deeds in his left hand, the right hand would sag lower...as for me, i read the first 100 of about 500 pages of the Koran, from a Penguin editions translation, and i wish i read the rest. It's a remarkable read. It constantly references the bible, going so far as to claim itself the final confirmation of the bible, as opposed to a contradiction of the bible. I also read a fairly in depth history of the life of Mohammed and it's a mind blowing historical story...everyone was there. The Jews, the Christians, the pagans...it's an intimate story of all of us...

The people i met and lived with and made friends with were exceptionally tolerant and amiable about other religions and ways of life. Most Muslims i met believed that the most important thing is faith in god regardless of religion. They told me that their religion instructs them to respect ALL religions, and that the Christians and Muslims in Senegal had a strict peace pact of tolerance and acceptance, despite the fact that Muslims are about 90 percent of the population. I once commented to Boubacar that this reminded me of a confederacy of dunces, or worse, a pact between liars and thieves...(as in, "if you don't blow my cover i wont blow yours!") You may think this is harsh. God doesn't. Just read Isaiah 1 as god is talking to the Israelite Hebrew Jews...and don't forget, Isaiah is probably the most revered prophet in the bible, and this is part of the opening chapter. Isaiah means to tell us something important...

"What are your multiplied sacrifices to Me?" Says the LORD. "I have had enough of burnt offerings of rams, And the fat of fed cattle. And I take no pleasure in the blood of bulls, lambs, or goats. When you come to appear before Me, Who requires of you this trampling of My courts? Bring your worthless offerings no longer, Incense is an abomination to Me. New moon and sabbath, the calling of assemblies-- I cannot endure iniquity and the solemn assembly. I hate your new moon [festivals] and your appointed feasts, They have become a burden to Me. I am weary of bearing [them]. So when you spread out your hands [in prayer], I will hide My eyes from you, Yes, even though you multiply prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are covered with blood."

Did you hear that? God HATES our religious behavior! And don't forget also, the people god was talking to through Isaiah were the most religious people on earth! They were attempting, and actually succeeding, in following the rules (as set down by god no less) perfectly! Perfectly! They were doing EXACTLY what god wanted them to do, or so they thought! Let us meditate on that for a bit...

Let me end by saying that is was a wonderful and instructive time to be with my Muslim FRIENDS and family, and that i love and accept all religious and atheist and agnostic and pagan and dirt worshiping polytheistic polygamous brothers and sisters just as they are, and i can only pray that all people extend to me the same courtesy.

FOOD:
Breakfast in Senegal for most people consists of french bread with an assortment of toppings. Just margarine with white sugar if you're poor. Maybe with mayonnaise, hard boiled egg, potatoes, an onion/meat mix, or beans...little shops and carts dot the neighborhoods and make your breakfast sandwich to order...eat with herbal teas, or cafe touba...tiny bakeries sell pastries and sweet breads also...Lunch comes late, around 2. In Senegal fish is plentiful and inexpensive.

Every morning around 9, Monjai the fish guy would amble down the lane on his horse drawn cart calling out in a high pitched nasal whine the names of the fish he was hauling..."Yai Boy Yai Boy..." Fatoumbai would come out and playfully negotiate with him for the days meals. Back and forth they would go, quickly and humorously. 5 for 500. No, 6 for 400. No, 5 for 450. No, 6 for 450. Ok. Then Fatoumbai would try and steal one when he looked the other way. And then he would try and leave without giving change...hilarious...people having fun instead of viewing everyday chores as a drudgery...

Lunch was often fish with rice, with a few vegetables: eggplant, carrot, cabbage, bitter tomato, cassava root (called yucca in Spanish), potatoes, a small thick green sauce made of green leaves, and one habanero pepper. Habanero is so hot you just touch it with your spoon and mix it into the section of food you're eating. Dinner usually the same. Sometimes instead of rice it's noodles, or couscous, or millet. Sometimes fruit slices are served after the meal. My auntie Sara, who is a real "foodie", asked me in an email "what is local"...which was an astute question. Most of the food in Senegal is common to California. Honestly there isn't much variety in the markets. Pretty much the same thing everyday. Mangoes are popular, eaten green and ripe. A few melons, and a few unique tropical fruits such as one small round one with sour flesh and tamarind sized seeds, popular with kids (who love sour tastes), eaten with salt, sugar and a bit of hot pepper, scooped out with a spoon, eaten slowly and with relish.

MONEY:
99 per cent of the people don't have enough. Like everyone, including people with "enough", people dream of having a million money's. A million whatever. If i just had a million my life would be grand! We forget that if we had it we would be racked with guilt. That friends and family would be nagging us to get some. That poor people would rightfully call us hypocritical greedy selfish jerks for not sharing, and when we did help it would never be enough, and soon you'd just want to give it all away and say to hell with it!

Its a constant struggle for the people in Senegal. I started out giving a bit out here and there and it snowballed. I give you something, now i have to give someone else something. Then here come the stories: i need to go to the hospital. I need to go to a funeral. My baby needs something...its so hard to say no, especially when you know you have it and can actually "afford" to give it away! Afford as in go back to America and work like heck to pay off the credit card, which at least is a far better opportunity than the people here have! In the America people who own nothing can get a 5000 dollar credit card. That kind of money in Senegal would start a lot of profitable businesses. Conversely, in Senegal, people who owe zero money on their properties valued at tens of thousands of US dollars can NOT get a bank loan! The banks are paranoid that they won't get paid back, despite their ability to simply seize the property if necessary! It is perplexing and infuriating. These governments talk about economic growth but the simplest tenet of economic growth, lending money against property, is denied. It's ridiculous, frankly. I would swear it's a conspiracy but i "know better than that". My friend Boubacar was in this exact very position. Property rich, cash poor. But if he sells his house where will he, his two sisters and his nephew and nieces live? He has no job because those are scarce and super low paying, and he can't borrow money to buy his art supplies...catch 22.

God is the only solution.

Goree Island

Goree island is a like Alcatraz island in the sf bay area...a tourist attraction with a gory and gruesome history...a 20 minute ferry ride from near downtown Dakar...Goree was used a staging area for the trans-Atlantic slave trade. There is a surprisingly small building in which enslaved African people were (whare) housed, another area that was used for executions, and lots of old colonial buildings where the European slave traders lived and worked.

There are no cars allowed on the island so the narrow sand streets are quiet and relaxing. I went there with Boubacar and another friend named Kaba. Goree has turned into an artists colony. The artists have staked out claims in the old ruins of the island and there many live, work and then display their wares. Lots of paintings, batiks, jewelery, carvings...Bouba and Kaba gave me the personal touch tour by introducing me to some of their hippie artist friends...they have created rent free homes out of the old underground military installations...

In the afternoon we gathered with a group of visitors inside the old slave house for a presentation given in French by the curator. For years i'd seen pictures of the pink colored dual curved staircase and the "door of no return" leading into the sea: i expected a big huge building like an airplane hangar. Truly it's small, no bigger in square footage than a small apartment building, with myriad dungeon rooms where the people were kept packed in "like sardines" before being shipped off to the America's....Even tho it's small it housed hundreds of people at a single time, and over decades and centuries that means the numbers of people shipped out likely went into the hundreds of thousands, if not millions, from this small port alone. There is a gigantic disparity of estimates about the number of enslaved people that passed through these gates...no matter what, the place hits you in the gut. Bouba showed me where the children were kept in a separate room next to the mothers, with only narrow slit windows for the families to communicate. We were told that the slave traders forced big strong healthy men to have sexual intercourse with big strong healthy women so that they would have big strong healthy baby slaves. Recalcitrant human beings were executed. Just to be in those little rooms, imagining the smell, the fear, the rage, the sorrow, the disgrace, the humiliation...you just shake your head...

After an hour another tour group came in...this time it was all Senegalese students, middle school aged. Bouba, Kaba and I sat on the upper balcony and watched the tour guide give his speech. I watched the students to comprehend their reaction to the story...the group was at least 100 students and they were quiet, sober and absorbed for the entire 30 minute talk, even while having to stand in the hot afternoon sun. As a teacher that was nice to see. Later we ate a lunch of fresh grilled fish with french bread, a meal for three that cost about 2 US bucks. The woman was grilling on an open fire under a big tree out by the beach. Just so. As the sun set we witnessed a group of young people rehearsing djembe drumming and dancing on a open plaza right by the water. Then it was back onto the boat for the ferry ride back to Dakar...

Some thoughts on slavery:
As an American who grew up with African-Americans, and who has experienced the traumatic legacy of slavery where i live and work, being on Goree was unnerving. I can understand why people consider it a pilgrimage, a link in the chain to Africa that creates a sense of wholeness having come full circle.

I also was struck by the incredibly ironic thought of how some "black" people had ancestors who were white slave traders and slave masters, and how some "white" people had ancestors who were black slaves! We just don't know our own true histories...

And then we add onto all that the newly emerging story lines and increasing recognition of the role of Africans themselves in the slave trade, which then opens up a whole new can of worms after you think you've sealed the deal on all the pain! For a non-African or African-American (in other words, me) to raise this issue always seems to sound like passing the buck, or sloughing off responsibility, or excusing the European colonial powers with a sort of "Well EVERYONE was doing it" excuse...but none the less, an all that not withstanding, it is still a fascinating and intriguing aspect to the slave trade that is worth exploring. I met an African-American woman in Dakar who was passionate about it: how Africans were enormously complicit in the trade, how it could never have "succeeded" without Africans contributing, and how pissed off she is about it! She relishes the remembrance of times when she has had the opportunity to remind Africans of how their ancestors sold their brothers and sisters to the white man...

When we begin to look closely at the social structure of the African kingdom states at the time the slave trade began we see that there was CLEARLY a slave class in existence, almost like the caste system in India. And where ever you go on earth, when kingdoms want to expand they tend to enslave smaller ethnic/political/social groups. The elite classes of African societies were dealing in slavery within their own kingdoms, and when the Europeans came and offered money and political support to those elite classes the Africans took advantage of it by participating in the capture and sale of human beings to be used as slaves.

However, the slave classes of Africa were very very different than those in the America's, and the word slave is too broad a term. The chattel slavery that was practiced by Europeans and European-Americans from Canada to Brasil to Haiti was arguably as barbaric and ruthless as you will ever find in history. The slavery of the Mali empire was probably closer to indentured servitude, or again, similar to the caste system of India where you are born into a class of people that serves as slaves (for all intents and purposes) to the richer classes. So it's not fair to compare, and its erroneous to lump all these practices into one bag called "slavery" as if it was "all the same". But unlike in America where there has been a big change, parts of Africa STILL have this kind of slavery inextricably woven into the fabric of societies. For example, Mauritania (the Sahara desert country north of the Senegal border), is largely controlled by lighter skinned people of Arabic descent who hold darker skinned people of more traditional African descent as slaves in their families for generations: slavery is literally engraved like a brain tattoo into the psychology of people there.

So, controversially, evidence comes to light that African societies were intimately intertwined with Europeans in propagating and profiting from the sad tale that is the trans-Atlantic slave trade. And THAT is interesting because, imho (in my humble opinion) it can actually contribute to reconciliation by breaking down the illusion of polarity. It complexes the shituation. It makes us have to think a bit more broadly and deeply. It peels back another layer of the onion that is human nature. It's food for thought and reflection. So chew away, digest and excrete at your leisure.

Street Life

My favorite experience of Senegal was daily interactions with people in the house and on the block. Greeting all the members of the Doumbia house first thing in the morning. Going over to Fahjop and Amijops house for cafe touba. Their house had an open air courtyard in the middle, which was paved with tile and used as a clothes washing area. They ran a clothes washing business, and employed their daughters who apparently didn't go to school. As fun as it was to be there with them, laughing and hanging out, it saddened me that the girls were missing school and all the opportunities a school education brings. They wash clothes by hand in big buckets and hang it all to dry on the roof. Then they iron the clothes using a non electric iron that is filled with red hot coals. Yeah, COALS. Another style is to heat up two cast iron irons (so THAT'S how the iron got its name, duh!) on a metal plate sitting on top of a fire and rotate them as they cool. (The iron filled with coal has a wood handle, the solid cast iron iron needs to be held with an oven mitt). Sometimes i did my own laundry and hung it on the roof...but on our roof there is no clothes lines so we had to hang it over the roof side walls using sandy stones to hold the clothes down...which reminds me of the sheep. Our house had a resident sheep. Not a goat, a sheep. Odd how singular and plural are the same for sheep. One sheep, 54 sheep. Seems like it should be one ship, 54 sheep, or something like that. So this ship/sheep was tied up under the outdoor back stairs leading up to the second floor. Once a week Salif took the ship sheep to the ocean for a bath. Right into the waves you go, and then a detergent scrub to clean all the dried shit and stuff in your hair, and then a nice salt water rinse and yer good to go, back under the stairs with ya. Ken said the sheep serves as a repository for all the negative energy that enters the house. Plus, when Tabaski rolls around you don't have to pay a premium for a sheep to slaughter, you already got one. Tabaski is a Muslim holiday that commemorates the willingness of the Hebrew patriarch Abraham to slaughter his son Issac, and God replacing Issac with a sheep. Btw, Saddam Hussein was hanged on Tabaski. That's called sending a message. The sheep eventually got shipped to the roof where it was tied up in a corner. So when i hung my clothes i made sure to place them out of the reach of the sheep's mouth because sheep will eat clothes. One day someone moved the sheep and tied it up next to my clothes, and the sheep ate some of my clothes. Nasty. After that i just paid Fahjop and Amijop whatever totally underpaid overworked fee that they charged for their clothes cleaning labors.

With a cuppa cafe touba in my hand i got to shoot the Wolof breeze with the neighbors who always seemed to be on the street with me. I mean, think about it. When you go outside of your house in America you are lucky to see a neighbor, and luckier still if they wave to you, and its a miracle if you know their names. Here it was like a daily street party. So i would entertain the kids, laugh with the folks...but it was easy for me because i knew i was leaving so i could experience all that on a superficial level. After awhile i noticed that in fact people were interacting in very, how should i say, structured and conventional ways. Sort of like the way high school is. You know how it be: The white kids hang out on the steps, the black kids hang out over by the C building, the latinos meet by the cafeteria, the asians go to the library, the punkers find some dark hole, the hippies climb the fence to go smoke weed in the park, the jocks all eat at Mickey D's...etc. To break that model is practically impossible, unless like me you just breeze in like a visitor from mars and do whatever the freak you feel like doing. Don't even KNOW the rules to know what to break and not to. I noticed that many neighbors didn't greet each other, or if they did it was perfunctory...they have to live together for years. Maybe they don't even speak the same language. Maybe they are different religions. Its a minefield of potential conflicts and miscommunication. Best to move slowly, cautiously, avoid problems, feel out the situation, be guarded and respectful of each others space. But not THIS cowboy. I was like, ya HOO-HOO...just my god given job. Shake shit up. Sing Hallelujah with the Muslim children, you know, the Leonard Cohen version. As Jesus said, i am respecter of NO MAN. I used to be one of these people that said
"i respect all religions."
One day in the garage someone asked me what was my religion and i said i have no religion and Ken said
"He respects all religions" and i snorted
"No, actually i respect NO religions" and Ken gave me a look like "Whaaaaaaaaaat???"
I used to wonder: if all the religions claim to be the truth, then SOMEONE is lying. The question, i thought, must be, which one is telling the truth? Which one is right? Like a quiz, like the show "who wants to be a millionaire." Remember that South Park episode where everyone is in hell and satan says
"Right. Welcome to Hell" and everybody starts shouting out
"Wait i'm not supposed to be here i'm christian/muslim/jewish/buddist/hindu/native american/pagan/wiccan etc.?" and Satan says
"Oh yeah...the answer to that question. Let me look in my guidebook here...it says, lessee, oh, MORMON was the right answer. Sorry! Now right this way..."
So then i figured out, wait, they are ALL lying! Or as the great Nigerian drummer Babatunde Olatunji said
"the truth is like a post rooted deep in the ground, and everybody is trying to pull it towards themselves..."

That's my story and i'm sticking to it.

Touba continued

Ken and Naomi left for London to do a presentation on African spirituality four weeks after i arrived in Dakar. One week later I decided to go to Touba. I had the privilege of traveling with my two baye fall friends Boubacar and Lamp Fall. Initially I suggested that we walk the 200 or so kilometers but they just laughed wholeheartedly. So one Wednesday afternoon we headed to the Blaise Senghor center for the arts for a little going away party, and then it was off to a massive taxi staging area for a ride to anywhere in Senegal. The taxis are 7 passenger diesel Peugeot's and the two hour ride to touba cost about 10,000 CFA for the three of us (20 bucks). As we waited at 10 pm for the taxi to leave I kicked back under a full moon on a clear night and called my friend in the states on the cell phone...the stars in Senegal are the same as in California. Now that’s a surprise. Of course when you cross the equator and head south you begin to see a whole new night sky…in Dakar I had a conversation with someone about the night sky, and astronomy in general, and he was surprised that the sky is the same in America. He just assumed it was completely different. He had heard about how way up north the days are short and the nights are long in the winter, and he thought it must be that way all the time, so I explained that in the summer the exact opposite happens, long days and short nights, with lots of sun. This too came as a shock to him, because he thought of Africa as always sunny and warm and Europe/America as always dark and cold…so that led to a general discussion of the way the earth rotates on its axis, and how as the earth takes a year to circle the sun it tilts at different angles…and how the stars move in the sky…which most people don’t pay attention to. Like me for example, a university educated tree hugging eco terrorist, who didn’t know until the age of 25 that the stars rotate in the sky 360 degrees in 24 hours around the hub that is the north star: a giant sky spinning wheel. Only its not the sky that is spinning. It’s the earth. Astronomy 101.

The taxi ride to Touba was a noxious fumey hell. I think the tailpipe was routed through the roof right into the back seat where I was sitting so I could inhale all that lovely exhaust. Other than that it was interesting to be flying down the open highway watching the flat dry baobab forest land bathed in moonlight pass by at 100 kph…at midnight we arrived on the outskirts of a small town called M’backe, right at the junction of a large arched gate over the highway indicating the official entrance into the holy city of Touba.

Lamp Fall and Boubacar led me to one of the many houses owned by their marabout, Mame Massamba Fall. We crashed at his house (he wasn't there) for the night while one of the baye fall guards circled the compound making a loud whistling sound all night. The next day we walked 7 kilometers from the gate to the center of Touba. Its like a mini pilgrimage, retracing the steps of Cheik Ibrahima Fall…it was hot. I was told that if anyone is caught smoking or drinking within the city limits they can be beaten or even killed on the spot. Immediately I jettisoned my pint of rum and my pack of cigs. People who didn’t want to walk were riding on the donkey cart taxis. Donkeys are a trip. Everytime I look at one I hear the voices of Eddie Murphy and Mike Meyers. You know, Donkey and Shrek? in the movie Shrek?
"SHUT UP DONKEY!"
"But Shrek, i'm such a NICE donkey!"
Donkeys are these little miniature horses with big heads. The way they trot is funny. Poor donkeys. Just the word donkey is funny. Donkey. They have to sit there in the searing sun tied to a big old cart laden with people or rice or bricks, and then get whipped to make them move. It’s a donkeys life. Bouba told me that donkeys are a mystic animal. If you see a donkey in the road you aren’t supposed to say “HEY LOOK IT’S A DONKEY!” cuz that’s bad luck.

Finally we reached the mausoleum of the masters, of Cheik Ibrahima Fall and many other holy men. Before entering we had to take off our shoes about 50 yards from the entrance, and cross the sun baked sand. Lamp Fall and Bouba sucked it up and walked cool calm and collected to the door. After copying that style for about 10 yards I hopped like a fool in a panic, my feet getting literally burned. The old men at the door were giggling...so with my friends I was allowed into the sacred shrine where people were praying and meditating. I was delighted when Lamp Fall started chanting La Illa Ilala at the top of his voice and nobody minded…next we walked to the library with its 7 tons of books handwritten by Cheik Amadou Bamba alone. 14,000 pounds of journals. My lifes collection of writing sits in a trunk in my moms garage and weighs about 40 pounds, 50 tops. And I thought I wrote a lot.

After that we went to the site of the holy water where i thankfully drank to my hearts content. And finally we entered the grand mosque which is like, super big and stuff.
Ok, so my tone is a bit irreverent, but with anything religious i just cant help it. Its in my blood. Truth is i really appreciated that Lamp Fall and Bouba were so kind and generous with me...they were great company. And being in Touba, frankly, made me appreciate jesus all the more. not christianity mind you, just jesus, who said i have come to set you free. Free of religion and all its stifling rules and regulations. I'M FREE THANK YOU JESUS!

After the Touba mega tour we headed back to the house, where there was a gathering of the faithful on the roof. We sat and enjoyed the evening and discussed the baye fall life, the koran and the bible...tremendously interesting and fun. The men gathered in a nearby house to sing and chant deep into the night... Next day we headed back to Touba to catch a bus across the country side to the town where we would find the Marabout. Bouba and Lamp Fall hadn't seen him for awhile...oh i forgot. The Marabout had sent word to Dakar for Lamp and Bouba to bring him three boxes of shotgun shells, 25 per box. So the day before we went shotgun shell shopping in the holy city. It was like looking for drugs. Surreptitiously shopping for shotgun shells on the sly while slinking around back streets. We found them and off we went. While waiting for the bus we watched as everybody headed for the grand mosque for friday afternoon prayer. Friday is the big prayer day and men came streaming from all directions dressed to the nines in long flowing robes. Then the prayers began and all fell silent. For ten minutes the entire city prayed to the east. Actually muslims used to pray towards Jerusalem WAAAY back in the day. Lamp Fall and Bouba, being Baye Fall, just watched quietly, not participating. Once Bouba cracked me up when the men were having a big discussion about traditional islam and baye fall islam. Bouba took a long drag off his spliff and wearily said about prayer "i just cant handle it mon!"....Then it was off to Ginganeo to see the Marabout. Two hours across hot dry flat senegal. When we got there in the afternoon it was a sleepy little town in the oppressive warmth. We waited patiently at the tailors shop until the truck drove up with the marabout. I had been told he liked people with a sense of humour so when Bouba and Lamp Fall went to their knees in supplication to their spiritual master (the disciples are always supposed to have their heads below his) i fell flat on the ground in the dirt in a full hindu prostration...in dakar they called me a comedian...or sometimes sighsigh, which means rude but in a comedic free way, not actually rude or impolite. Its just my god given job. The marabout had a wry grin on his face. We sat with him for quite a long time...he entertained many people, children...everyone seemed at ease and comfortable with him, quite happy really. I could tell he's a hard working guy trying to help his community the best way he can...that night we spent in a round hut in a nearby compound...yeah i said, this is more like it. Getting back to the root mon!

Saturday we finally drove out of town with the marabout to his actual village. N'gatch. He built the village himself. Super hot. Baobab forest and tamarind trees. The village is a work in progress, with a brick wall around its main area of about 500 by 100 square meters. Out there almost no one has a car. They take horse or donkey and cart to town. N'gatch is where many of his wives live, along with the children, and other married couples, and single men who work full time for the community. When we arrived a mat we set out in the shade and about 25 children came running up to collect candy and hang out with us. After a meal from two large bowls we all piled into the pickup truck to go use those bullets we bought in Touba. To make a long story short, the marabout was hunting birds and rabbits out of a moving pickup truck fourwheeling it off road in the 100 degree hot savanna…all the while drinking wine and smoking weed, with the disciples yelling YAHOO! In the back of the truck. Just like in Texas? Me in the back seat, with the marabout who was, well, riding shotgun, naturally. Hunting from a pickup truck in the village wilderness of africa with a marabout while we're all drinking wine and spliffing it up...another wow moment. At one point we stopped and the marabout asked bouba to translate for me. He got real serious and everyone was quiet. He said...
"These birds were killed by me because they had no owner. They had no protection. They were calling to me to be killed because now thy will go straight to paradise. It is very important to have an owner in this life, for protection."
I said to myself as always...thank you jesus...

At night we slept in the village annex, a small complex of cottages and round huts protected by a large grass fence. While walking in the night i saw a wild dog...not a hyena, although they can be around. In the middle of the night we were awoken and served a bowl of food, which we ate with our hands. Next day was a hot one and we spent most of the day with the children. Late in the day i had a long conversation with a group of wives. Well, a long but limited in vocabulary conversation full of pantomine, funny sounds, body language, sign language etc. It's amazing how creative you can be when you want to communicate but cant speak the words. And its fun. Also sat with the marabout and the men and it was full of ribaldry. Is that a word? One the marabout elder disciples spoke very good english. He talked about how he once tried to escape africa to go to america as a stowaway on a ship but never made it. Escape is a fair word (and how is THAT for ironic?!?) Try getting a visa to any first world country if you hold a passport from a third world country. It's so pathetically unequal and unfair. Just is. Anyway, the man was making a joke.
He said to me "This man here (one of his friends) wants to play the game of thowing horse shoes...but he wants to use my penis as the post!"
So i said, "So? What's wrong with that?"
He said "What? Not my penis! Why dont you let him use yours?"
I said "No way, mine is way too small! It will never work! But you, i am sure you have a big one that will work just great!" and just as i was indicating exactly how big his must be the marabout came walking up and thankfully he was laughing...Men. Guys. Fellas. Dudes. Boys. Gents.

That night sunday night we ate dinner back at the annex with a bunch of the teenagers in the village..Bouba translated as i asked them about their lives...school, their futures...their world views...bright inquisitive and goofy, just like teenagers tend to be they were...again in the middle of the night awoken to eat...i knew there was a message, a lesson in the midnight feeding, but i'm not sure what it was! But i knew we were being taken care of and looked after as guests...and i felt safe and sound. Aside from one dutch woman who married Serigne Massamba Fall and who built herself a little house in the village and whose son was living there, i doubt N'gatch saw too many true outsiders like me pass through the gates...

Monday morning we began the all day trek back to the coast, to the cooling ocean breezes of the big city Dakar baby. From the tiny village of N'gatch to the small town of Ginganeo, to the small city of Kaolack, and to Dakar. Back at the house. I stayed a few more days and got on a plane and flew to Gambia. But i still got more to say about Senegal. YO! Btw, yo means you in wolof. Hey, YO!

TOUBA

TOUBA:
is a small religious city that was built by Cheik Amadou Bamba and his one true disciple Cheik Ibrahima Fall...it had been a baobab forest, the bush as they say...Ibrahima Fall cleared the forest himself, some say by mystic powers...my friends Boubacar and Lamp Fall (his Baye Fall name) escorted me on a five day journey...my first time leaving Dakar (after five weeks) for the interior...Bouba and Lamp are deep into Baye Fall...dedicated for sure...it was a memorable trip and i will write about it in detail but right now i gotta go. I am going shopping for fabric in Serrakunda, the main market city in Gambia. While doing research on the internet about fabrics, tye dye, batik, traditional indigo dying, weaving and spinning in Gambia, i found a American woman who runs a business out of Gambia. She directed me to a Gambian family in the area who host travelers and who specialize in helping people with all my interests in fabrics etc. The head of the family is Bakary and he is going to show me around today...Gambia is a very very very small country, and the heart of the urban area lies between where i am staying out by the tourist hotels on the beach, and the tiny capital city up by the mouth of the river...in only maybe 30 kilometers by 20 kilometers...lots of open space, light traffic, and frequent, extensive and cheap public transportation by public taxis and mini vans.

The Baye Fall

my father moved through dooms of love
by E. E. Cummings

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father's fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer's keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father's dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn't creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
yes humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he'd laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that's bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
--i say though hate were why men breathe--
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all


My friend wrote about this next poem:
"i feel so un-believably pierced by this poem and all ways have and i think always will........ i am weeping right now and praising GOD."


Daddy
by Sylvia Plath


You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time--
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend

Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You--

Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.

If I've killed one man, I've killed two--
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
12 October 1962


BAYE FALL:
(Baye means father in the Wolof language. Fall is a last name.)

There once was a devout and pious Muslim man from Senegal
named Cheik Ibrahima Fall.
Cheik Ibrahima Fall was searching all over the land for his spiritual master.
He would encounter a holy man and sit at his feet and inquire in his heart, is this my master?
and the answer would come back no and still he searched both places high and low.
One day he saw a man named Cheik Amadou Bamba and knew that this man was the one he had been seeking...
So they sat and gazed into each other eyes, and Cheik Amadou Bamba knew that this was the man who had been seeking him, his one true disciple.
Cheik Amadou Bamba wore an all white robe with no pockets, sandals, and carried nothing but a tea pot and a prayer mat.
He never looked over his shoulder.
He preached non-violent opposition to the colonial rule of France in West Africa.
For this he was persecuted by the French.
They say he was thrown into a den of hungry lions who behaved as tame kittens in his presence.
He was exiled to Gabon for 7 years, 7 months, 7 days, 7 hours, 7 minutes and 7 seconds...when he returned he built the holy city of Touba in Senegal.
Cheik Amadou Bamba called himself "Hadim Rasul Allah"...:"Servant of the Prophet (Mohammed) of God..."
So Cheik Ibrahima Fall devoted his life to this man.
He began to work so hard his clothes fell apart.
Rather than spend money on new clothes he simply patched the holes with odd bits of fabric lying around.
He considered Cheik Amadou Bamba so holy that he cupped both his hands for his master to spit in, and rubbed the spit in his hair until his hair was knotted in locks...
And he worked. He worked ceaselessly for his master. He worked so hard and so long that he didn't have time to fulfill four of the five pillars of Islam.
He didn't have time to pray five times a day.
He didn't have time or money to tithe to the poor.
He didn't have time or energy to fast during ramadan.
He didn't have time to go to Mecca.
All he could do was work and chant over and over the opening line of the Quran (and the first pillar of Islam):
"There is no god but god, and Mohammed is the messenger of god..."
Cheik Amadou Bamba saw the work of his disciple and that it was good.
Cheik Amadou Bamba excused Chiek Ibra Fall from four of the five pillars and said his work was a substitute for his prayer, his financial sacrifice, his fasting and his holy journey...
Critics would ask Ibra Fall, why you dont pray like us? you should pray like us...
and he would answer
You pray five times a day, but what are you doing all the rest of the day?

The fame of Cheik Ibrahima Fall spread across the land, and how he served his master Cheik Amadou Bamba, the holiest man of Africa...
Cheik Amadou Bamba had many sons and grandsons who became marabouts (holy men) of Senegal to this day.
The last youngest son of Cheik Amadou Bamba is the holiest man in Senegal today...he lives in Touba...
Cheik Ibrahima Fall also had many sons and grandsons who became marabouts of Senegal.
Many men (and some women too) of Senegal hear the call of Cheik Ibrahima Fall and join the brother/sisterhood. For this they are excused from practicing four of the five pillars.
But all other muslims must still...
Hard work for their marabout and for the community, and chanting and singing the first pillar, is their religious practice.
They call themselves the BAYE FALL, the followers of FATHER FALL. Because he is like their guiding light, they call him Lamp Fall...he is the lamp of light to them...
They are free to drink alcohol, smoke tobacco and marijuana.
But they wont eat swine.
Touba is their Mecca.
The Baye Fall marabouts of today are considered holy and pure and to posess mystic powers.
Islam allows a man to have up to four wives. The Baye Fall marabout may have more...it is said that to father children he gives his wife a hand written note upon which is breathed a sacred breath and when the woman accepts this note she will become pregnant...
This and more i learned from my Baye Fall friends, some in California and some in Senegal...

Sometimes you will see the Baye Fall around town, wearing clothes they call N'jockahss, which means all thrown together like a patch work. Baye Fall revere N'jockahss, which is more a state of mind than a clothes style. It means someone who is humble enough to accept anything as it is. Poor clothes, poor food...almost a mentality of asceticism...like that of a mendicant. The Baye Fall will sometimes travel through the streets wearing long robes of patchwork fabric, dreadlocks streaming behind them, boots and a big leather belt, singing and chanting at the tops of their lungs, while carrying a large bowl in which they accept donations. When they see another Baye Fall they will greet each other exuberantly. They will shake hands and then bow down to bring the back of the other persons hand up to touch their forehead gently. They will do this back and forth quickly several times...all the while uttering a steady stream of greetings and salutations with smiles and happiness, like a long lost reunion.

"JAYE JEFF BAYE FALL! AKASA!
JAI JEFF OTAY KUBA!
BARKAY SERIGNE TOUBA...BARKAY CHEIK IBRA FALL...
LAMPA FALL...
YES I! GIVE THANX AND PRAISE TO THE MOST HIGH...
JAI JEFF WHY!"

Poetry

Poem by Vachel Lindsay:
How Samson Bore Away the Gates of Gaza (A Negro Sermon.)

Once, in a night as black as ink,
She drove him out when he would not drink.
Round the house there were men in wait
Asleep in rows by the Gaza gate.
But the Holy Spirit was in this man.
Like a gentle wind he crept and ran.
("It is midnight," said the big town clock.)

He lifted the gates up, post and lock.
The hole in the wall was high and wide
When he bore away old Gaza's pride
Into the deep of the night: —
The bold Jack Johnson Israelite, —
Samson —
The Judge,
The Nazarite.

The air was black, like the smoke of a dragon.
Samson's heart was as big as a wagon.
He sang like a shining golden fountain.
He sweated up to the top of the mountain.
He threw down the gates with a noise like judgment.
And the quails all ran with the big arousement.

But he wept — "I must not love tough queens,
And spend on them my hard earned means.
I told that girl I would drink no more.
Therefore she drove me from her door.
Oh sorrow!
Sorrow!
I cannot hide.
Oh Lord look down from your chariot side.
You made me Judge, and I am not wise.
I am weak as a sheep for all my size."

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

The moon shone out, the stars were gay.
He saw the foxes run and play.
He rent his garments, he rolled around
In deep repentance on the ground.

Then he felt a honey in his soul.
Grace abounding made him whole.
Then he saw the Lord in a chariot blue.
The gorgeous stallions whinnied and flew.
The iron wheels hummed an old hymn-tune
And crunched in thunder over the moon.
And Samson shouted to the sky:
"My Lord, my Lord is riding high."

Like a steed, he pawed the gates with his hoof.
He rattled the gates like rocks on the roof,
And danced in the night
On the mountain-top,
Danced in the deep of the night:
The Judge, the holy Nazarite,
Whom ropes and chains could never bind.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

Whirling his arms, like a top he sped.
His long black hair flew round his head
Like an outstretched net of silky cord,
Like a wheel of the chariot of the Lord.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.

Samson saw the sun anew.
He left the gates in the grass and dew.
He went to a county-seat a-nigh.
Found a harlot proud and high:
Philistine that no man could tame —
Delilah was her lady-name.
Oh sorrow,
Sorrow,
She was too wise.
She cut off his hair,
She put out his eyes.

Let Samson
Be coming
Into your mind.



Another poem by Vachel Lindsay:
Heart of God

O great heart of God,
Once vague and lost to me,
Why do I throb with your throb to-night,
In this land, eternity?

O little heart of God,
Sweet intruding stranger,
You are laughing in my human breast,
A Christ-child in a manger.

Heart, dear heart of God,
Beside you now I kneel,
Strong heart of faith. O heart not mine,
Where God has set His seal.

Wild thundering heart of God
Out of my doubt I come,
And my foolish feet with prophets' feet,
March with the prophets' drum.