Writing

I was a columnist for a local Nova Scotian paper in 1998 and 1999. I wrote bi-weekly stories when I was living overseas. I first went to South Korea to work as an English teacher. This is one story from my many glances into life in Asia.

At my school, there's a window overlooking a busy Puyo street. When I first arrived here I loved to watch all the sights. Everything was drastically new, different and utterly foreign.

When it snows here they don't plow the roads or put down salt. Instead, a truck drops dirt all over the streets. When the snow melts, the dirt stays and rises into the air. Now there's a layer of dust constantly floating through the town. It coats my teeth and the windows. I see everything through a brown haze.

There are no signs in English. Cars and buses are driving full speed in the middle of town. There are no stoplights and you use the crosswalks at your own peril. Motorists are always honking at pedestrians who get stranded between the lanes of traffic.

People aren't afraid to use their horns and blast them all the time. I hate it when I'm in my apartment and outside a car will blare. They never honk once but for a few minutes. One day I'm going to lose it.

Tooting the horn does have its finer points especially when I'm walking in the narrow streets. A car will rush up behind me. Honk! Honk! I'll move out of the way instead of being hit. If someone is struck, she will be the one charged. Not the driver. The person walking has to be the watchful one.
   
There's another danger lurking. I've almost been hit by scooters. There are tons of the motorcycle-type vehicles here. People of all ages ride them: old men, young girls, women and boys. Many of them don't care where they drive; they even go on the busy sidewalks. I feel like the scooters are like that alien from the movie Aliens. You never know when and where one is going to pop up and get-cha!

The buildings that line the street are not much to look at architecturally. Square and squat. Fancy boutiques, CD stores and coffee shops are the popular businesses. There are so many coffee shops here that I wondered how they made any money. So I asked Kung-Ran, a Korean woman at work.

Puyo is notorious for its "coffee shop girls." These women are prostitutes, the lowest of the low in many societies but especially here in Korea. Men call the shops for a beverage and the women deliver it and something else. Across from my school is one such place. I always see the women in short shirts and bare legs coming out in the winter air, carrying coffee pots.

Most times they have a driver who takes them around in a purple car. If the women aren't waiting for him outside in the cold he'll honk the horn.
   
I've been told horror stories about prostitutes, how some of them used to be lawyers or doctors but got captured on the streets and were forced to be hookers. Even if they did escape, their shame would keep them from entering normal life again.
   
Kung-Ran said gangs of men catch women walking alone. A car will pull up and the men will grab her and take her from life.
   
Vehicles will also pretend to be taxis and whisk a woman away. I'm not supposed to get into a cab unless I see an official sticker.

Every day I see elderly women going to the market. Their backs are hunched over at a 90 degree-angle, with their faces almost pressed to the sidewalk. Their arms are clasped behind their backs dragging a shopping cart. I asked Kung-Ran why they were so bent. She said it's because they've spent most of their lives tending the rice fields. I've noticed the old men walk upright.
   
Some of the people selling things outside at the market walk by with huge bundles on their heads. I can't see what's inside because it's all covered up with a big piece of cloth. I want to brush quickly by them and see if anything happens.
 
There are always school kids on the sidewalk. They stroll along hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm and shoulder-to-shoulder. Junior and senior high kids wear school uniforms but elementary students don't. I think uniforms are a good idea because I can tell who doesn't have a lot of money and who does. A few kids at my school are so poor they don't have buttons on their coats and don't wear socks. Some kids have a new outfit on every day. The ones with bare feet get teased.

A man in military uniform marches by. Green, yellow and brown camouflage jacket and pants. The suit doesn't hide him here next to all the colourful signs. I was thinking how this part of the world doesn't seem strange anymore. It certainly doesn't look like home but the street scene doesn't confuse me as it once did. I'm glad I'm finally seeing instead of looking to see what's different.

A column I wrote while in South Korea.

Korea - the place definitely turned my head upside down and made me think in different ways.

I met a lot of different people, Westerners and Koreans. It was a fantastic social experience but a horrid work one. I was teaching English to kids. A word of warning to people who want to teach in Korea - contracts aren't worth anything.

My first school was a nightmare. I was the only teacher, English or Korean, in a hog won (school) of about 40 kids. It was brutal. My boss tried to take my passport for the year; he didn't give me pots and pans to cook in, furniture or a phone.

I had to beg for oil to heat my apartment and the school, and plea for paper, pencils. The furnace broke in my apartment and I had to survive in freezing weather.

I was the only foreigner in the town and sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I was surprised that I wasn't Asian. I travelled around the country on my weekends off and that's what saved me. 

I met two Canadians who helped get me out. Things went from worse to a little better. At least I had heat! There were still problems in the new school. The new bosses tried to move another person into our tiny two bedroom apartment, changed the schedules every week and finally they fired my roommate and left me with all the classes, no extra pay.

When I was offered a job in Africa I left to come home.

Korea wasn't all bad. I learned so much from living overseas. I made some cool friends and I saw many interesting sights and had ripping adventures.

Spending lots of time exploring, Christine and I forgot that museums have hours. We got to the Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves) just as it was closing. However, they let us in for a few minutes.

It was better to be in the Maison without the rest of the tourists. The place was painted a brick red and was dark, dank and damp. It was impossible to stop the feelings of terror that poured from the walls. At any moment I expected to hear shouting or moans of grief.
    
The Maison des Esclaves was built by the Dutch in 1776. It was a prison. People were shoved into six by 10 meter pens, like animals. They then were inspected and priced. Above each doorway there's writing in French. One translates to "children" and another "insubordinate". The chamber for people who resisted their plight is a cement closet. It has a sloping roof, there is no way anyone could stand up or sit down.

Sea water was often pumped into all rooms, keeping people almost submerged. Those who died were fed to sharks. They were the most fortunate. Everyone else was branded, packed tightly into a ship and forced into slavery.

The prison looms out over the ocean. There used to be a dock where the boats would pull up and people would be loaded aboard. An inscription over the doorway out to sea states that it is "The door of no return." Ile de Goree was the last look at Africa that many had.

I was the rappoteur for a women’s conference on international human rights procedures for the promotion and protection of women’s rights in Africa. This is a summary I wrote after a conference seminar in Dakar, Senegal.

Tarnished Traditions

Usually, values are considered positive. Yet, there can be values that are negative. This is the finding by a group of women and men at a conference in Dakar, Senegal.

The group was participating in a training course on international human rights procedures for African women. People gathered from all over the continent at the end of this November. They were learning how to use international instruments, like the United Nations (UN), to protect and promote women’s rights.

One seminar was on the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights. The Charter is a sister to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR). Though the African Charter states that everyone is equal, there’s no direct mention of women. The Draft Protocol to the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights Concerning the Rights of Women is an attempted to further African women in their society. However, a major concern about the addition is Article 2.

 Article 2 of the Draft Protocol states:
    Women shall enjoy on the basis of equality with men the same rights and respect for their dignity and contribute to the preservation of those African (cultural values) TRADITIONS that are positive and are based on the principles of equality, DIGNITY, justice and democracy.

A negative value to the group was Female Gentile Mutilation (FGM). But to traditionalists, it’s a positive. A circumcised girl means honour to her family. Everything gets more complicated when religion enters the traditional factor.

Not only girls face hardship and discrimination. Boys do too. But it’s in the name of traditional education, firmly entrenched in society, religion, culture and tradition.

Almudoes (al-moo-does) are boys who are sent away from home to learn the Koran. This is an age old practice unique to West Africa. Boys between the ages of five to 15 are placed in the “care” of an Islamic holy man called a marabout (mara-a-boo). The marabout is the teacher, the boys are the breadwinners.

The teacher is supposed to provide lessons and shelter in return for the Dalasi (money) the children bring back. The case is often the boys sleeping on the bare floor at night, rising at dawn and spending the better part of the day begging. The almudoes roam markets and the streets in tattered clothes, dirty and hungry. There have been cases reported of physical and sexual abuse and dire health conditions.

Giving to the needy is called zacat or almsgiving. It’s part of the Five Pillars of Islam. By giving food or money to the less fortunate, people are thanking Allah for their own material wealth. Almudoes are often the receivers of this duty.

Almudoes are street kids yet they’re not. It’s a very strange situation for a Westerner to try and grasp. For generations people have been sending their sons for religious education. For generations people have believed that the suffering these children go through actually improves their religious fervour. For generations it has been considered a positive cultural value.

Most almudoes are boys from poor rural families. Their parents and communities are too poor to send them to school or to raise them. They are sent to the urban areas for Islamic schooling.

In a village in Senegal, there were six almudoes surrounding a car. Tiny little guys in rags carrying an empty red tomato tin on a string. The red can is like a badge, it identifies an almudoe. They chant Koranic verses while looking for handouts. One little boy had shiny streaks of tears on his dusty face. Put there by two smaller bullies.

Skinny, with scabs and dirt encrusted clothes and skin, they are pathetic. There are many articles in The Convention of the Rights of the Child condemning this neglect. Articles 2, 9, 18, 19, 24, 26, 27, 28, 29, 32, 36 and the list goes on.

Traditional teaching versus Western teaching, it is a definition of cultural and traditional values to wrestle with. At the women’s conference, no definition of values could be decided on. However, it was made clear that culture is dynamic. That traditions, customs and values change with time. Deep-rooted practices can be harmful, especially if they involve violating an innocent child. The new century is definitely a time to start the uprooting.

I learned so much from the material and from participants themselves at the conference. Most people have incredible stories to tell. Tales of horror and struggle. But they tell them while laughing.

One woman’s father wouldn’t let her go to school when she was younger because she was a girl. At the age of seven, she decided to go herself. She was such a good student that the teachers and principal of the school paid a visit to her father. They told him it was her right to education. He threw her birth certificate at them and disowned her.

She’s a forceful woman today – about as gentle and soft-spoken as a tank. Helping her people move on and forward with their lives in Africa.

Quote of the Week
“All people should have equal opportunities in this society. No matter where you come from, rich or poor. We should all live together as one.”
    Lamin Ceesay, 17, Tahir Secondary School, The Gambia

Gambia is a very very hot country. Especially when I first arrived. It was the middle of the monsoon season and the heat was stifling. The rains last from June to around the middle of October. Be prepared to find yourself stuck in the middle of a downpour. The grey clouds can sneak up quickly.

The Gambia has great beaches where I could cool off. Some days the waves were so huge that they picked me up and rolled me on the bottom. Undertows have a lot of strength and a lot of people get into trouble.

Gambians are friendly. They always greeted me no matter how many times I had seen them that day. Always make sure you say hello too! Bumstas (hustlers) can be a problem. The only way to deal with them is to ignore them. It seems rude but unless you cut off contact from the beginning, there's no way to get rid of them.

Compounds are what Gambians live in. Small one floor apartments joined by a courtyard. Many parts of the same family live together in numerous flats. I lived in a few compounds with my roommate Christine. Christine and I are in the same Canadian government program. We went to Gambia together.

The "Yellow Compound" was our most permanent home. It was bright yellow and spanking new. So new, it didn't have a sink when Christine and I moved in. So new, we're were still asking for furniture, a phone and other tiny things right up until the day we left the country. Things that I never knew I could miss. Hot water, being able to access the outside world and power are things I thought I would miss but don't. I almost never saw our landlord. He's a border guard between Senegal and Gambia. He only came to see Sira, his wife and our landlady, once every two weeks. He splits his time between her and his other wife in another village.

The Yellow Compound has two maids and two guards. The guards are in charge of letting us in and out. Sometimes they don't open the gate. I had to climb over the high wall once. It's not a good idea when wearing a long dress. My knees got mixed up in all the fabric. I impressed the kids of the neighbourhood with my feat.

The Yellow Compound has a banana tree, a dog named Bebe and a scorpion that I sucked up in Sira's vacuum cleaner (we had power that hour.) Music and chanting from the mosque down the street filter in every morning and evening. Roosters used to wake me up but now the guards sweeping outside my window do. The men like to look in at us. Privacy is nowhere but locks are. Even the fridge has a lock on it. People know my every move. Even people I've never ever seen before. They know I'm Canadian. Though from time to time, they think I'm French. Some mornings I put on my flip flops and walk a few metres down the sandy street to buy a loaf of the most delicious bread. Sometimes I get up early in the morning and go for a swim at the "country club." A dilapidated pool at an old British airplane hangar. Sometimes I meet a big bunch of people, expats and Gambians, and go for a run. Hash House Harriers we're called. Sometimes I love it here and sometimes I don't. Degrees are extreme and it was 37 yesterday. The air conditioner in my office keeps me at a cool temperature. Too cool and I have to turn it off.

Food. I'm addicted to these really, really bad "muffins." No one knows the correct name for the things. Though I've asked countless shop clerks. A woman told me they were buns. They are lumps of banana tasting dough. So dry that after every bite I have to take a swallow of water. Dry as hell and I like to especially eat them frozen. I also don't mind chomping some Fish Benachin prepared by a Gambian friend or shortbread, imported from England. We have warm Diet cokes every lunch. If they're available.

Nothing is in the middle in The Gambia. It's either high or low. High when I'm enchanted by the jungle. The wild monkeys running at me, huge baobabs and vines tangling their way into my memories. Low when I'm faced by pollution on all surfaces, kids who act like they're 88 and the disfigured beggars who sit in front of the supermarket and bank. Smells are many. Intermingling with body odour is orange and wood and garbage and strong perfumes of incense. Travel is by foot or by destroyed yellow and green taxis. Walking on the beach is a favourite of mine. So is the swim after a tough day at the African Centre. The trip to Banjul is great because the big white bush taxi only stops a few times during the 20 minute drive. Continuous and the breeze hits my face.

Friends are not hard to come by. Christine and I have met many British and Irish folks. They'll have their first Thanksgiving with us Saturday. Other foreigners are in the country. The Nova Scotia-Gambia Association is here. I will share Thanksgiving with 10 Canadians on Sunday. The man I work with is from Ghana. The woman down the hall is from Sierra Leone. Zoe's from Zambia. It's hard to make Gambian friends but I have. Women don't have time and are shy. Men have too much time. Michelle, a secretary at the Centre, made time. Work is like swimming through glue. Deadlines mean nothing and if I ask for a piece of work to be done. I know I'll have to ask a few more times. I've argued with the executive director over a couple of things.

Reading, writing, walking, swimming, talking, listening, thinking, observing, smelling, growing, beer drinking, in for lunch, out for supper, parties with such a mix of people, surfers, sunsets and 24 hours in The Gambia.

EDITORIAL

Global Byte
Angels and Devils

A Rwandan horror has bloomed. Into an escapable nightmare for many women. An atrocious action of depraved war has evolved into a deeper, more complex issue.

During the genocide massacres in 1994, Hutus killed mostly minority Tutsi and moderate Hutus. People of all ages were victims. Now there are new victims, children.

Rape was a common method used in by the Interahamwe, militia men who did most of the slaughtering. Over half a million women delivered babies conceived by this disgusting and violent act. These children aren’t received into happy loving families. They are born into humiliation and despair.

Who can blame the mothers for hating these babies? Some women were forced to watch their kids killed and buried. Then these women were raped by the same men. To give birth to one of the monster’s babies would be tantamount to living in hell.

What is the child itself? An innocent victim? The planned outcome of the Interahamwe to wipe out the Tutsi race? A painful reminder of torture?

All children must enjoy equal rights irrespective of the child’s or his or her parent’s or legal guardian’s race colour, sex, language, religion, political or other opinion, national, ethnic or social origin, property, disability, birth or other status.
    Article 2, The Convention on the Rights of the Child.

I have to take a direction on this issue. It’s much too easy to sit on the fence. The babies have been born. They’re living in my world, that is now theirs too.

Children are born innocent, no matter who their brutish fathers are. Babies are small, unprotected and vulnerable. They are humans.