An African Exorcism

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Is all I said later to a friend who had asked. I will attempt to do this story justice but I fear I won’t be able to truly recount it; I feel though, having bore witness to the oddity I must at least attempt to. It was the quarterfinal game of my village’s regional football tournament. I’ve told you about the splendid ridiculousness of the group stage victory and the team was nervous to move on to the knock-out stage. The game started quickly as we were rushed onto our gilly and moved through some rare forested bush roads. It was a more open game then I’m used to with ball possession going back and forth, neither team holding it for very long. Their team was bigger than us, and from what I heard far more experienced, as the corrupt footballing system again allowed our opponents to take on far to many first division players (none of which remotely lived in their team’s village). Regardless though for the first half we were holding our own, with the exception of our flanks. A shitty foul was given in our penalty box and amidst sighing fans a goal was scored. Two counter attack goals by the opposition would follow shortly after and moral crashed. It was excruciating to watch and I know the rest of the coaching staff could have done without having to be there through second half.

As the whistle blew for half time most of the team was brought to tears, walking off the field like they had just watched their puppy be beaten to death. There they sat, balling there eyes out, most said nothing, completely drained not from their fitness but the situation; the others were cursing the crowd controllers, Army soldiers equipped with AK-47s and egos. We had to break up one fight and calm one of the guards who was fairly pissed off by some off color sideline comments. It seemed every man in the village that had come to watch the game, just had to put their two cents in. I shoed away the spectators from the bench as best as I could, not that I had a great inspirational speech planed, but that was not the way to go about things. The last thing the team needed was to be yelled at by elders calling them brainless. I kept it positive and told them the things they were doing well, I told them to forget the first half and just play the game, not to get frustrated and never give up. I did end up getting hokey and saying nothing’s impossible and that I truly believed without a doubt in my mind that they would come back; thankfully I have a doctorate in bullshiting.

The second half began and ended, drawn out like a small town actor’s flamboyant death scene. The team had shown a valiant effort though regardless; but a few atrocious calls and a red card later we were walking to the gilly home. Grown men balled and players were brought to their knees. It was beautiful in a way, to see people so passionate about a game; but here in Africa, it was never just a game. We piled into the vehicles, people asked me what I thought happened and I would explain our absence of ball possession, vulnerability on the flanks, and our lack of positional awareness, but I would conclude with a simple, “You practice how you play.” It was true, though I had taught them a lot their discipline and maturity on the practice field was less than admirable. None the less they could have won the game with a little better luck.

It was a pretty ride back with the sun setting through the woods. I stuck my head out the window of the front seat to take in the cool breeze, a short relief from the muggy vehicle. Brush fires were burning to our left clearing the forest floor of debris and leaving it only in cinders. The smell outside reminded me of summer campfires and late night stories. Without warning I heard arguing in the back and the pounding of feet on the metal roof. Looking out to my right I saw one of my players running off into the bush at full sprint. The car stopped and a group of us began chasing after him jumping over bushes and plowing over freshly grown saplings. We ran further into the wilds as the van drifted from view only to bring large trees above and a thick layer of ash below. Gray dust rose with every step and only black craters remained. We wouldn’t find him until later, curled in the large buttresses of a mahogany tree. We walked farther through the brush and intercepted the gilly past a clearing. Driving further down the road my goal keeper began convulsing violently and five players had to hold him down. We stopped the car again and I ran in the back and pulled out a mat to lay him on. With the little water we had left we washed him down. One of the older men began whispering something in his ear, he then started to blow in both his ears and his mouth until he calmed down. We got back in the gilly for only a few minutes before it began again with two of my players now becoming violent and cursing with out remorse. Stopping again I had to hold one of them with both hands locked around his torso as we brought them to the side of the road. They began trembling again and the older man repeated the breathing ritual. One of them in the shuddering called out my name and exclaimed, “Meng bi coos woli bi cas!” old Mandinka for: what is here is there.

I’d love to leave it that creepy but at that point I believed this one was putting on an act. That proverb he used I say on a regular basis in village; I use it as a deterrent against answering the question in Mandinka on a regular basis, “which is sweeter, America or Gambia?” The kids rag on me all the time that I actually know that proverb and repeat it whenever they see me, so it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that when he saw me helping the other boys hold him down he would repeat that. Either way they were able to calm him down a little. My goalie wasn’t doing as well. He had begun convulsing harder and it took twice as many guys to hold him down. He started screaming curses and gibberish, I know enough of the local languages to know it wasn’t sensical speech. A large group of men picked him up and began walking him to the nearest village and I hopped back in the truck to drive ahead and fill up some water at the pump. The pump water came out murky brown and I was forced to filter out the sediment with an old t-shirt. Once the flat bed truck of supporters and the men caring the player had reached the village a few minutes later, they were immediately directed to the marabou’s compound, the village “medicine man”. They laid him down and he began foaming profusely from the mouth, his eyes clouded over and became red as he continued to what looked like seizure, but less erratic. It wasn’t full body shaking as much as twitching waves of muscles as if something was moving through him. The Marabou began saying prayers and rubbing what smelled like fresh limes over each part of his body. He then sprinkled some sort of powder with it. Yelling and arguing by the older men in Mandinka began and it was two fast and loud for me to follow… something about a “key”.

Stabilizing him the Marabou rushed us back to the vehicle and told us to hurry back to the village. The sun was setting in the trees as we raced back through the bush road narrowly avoiding large branches and pot holes. The roof passengers had ditched at the beginning as it was getting too dangerous even for them to hang on, so they decided to walk the 5k home. We drove further and further into the encroaching darkness of the sinking sun until it vanished completely, the two troubled players moaning eerily in the background. Not exactly sure how the heap of junk made it back but we did. The car chase reminded me of that scene in Jurassic Park where the T-Rex is chasing the jeep and I kept looking back into the shadows for the dinosaur’s silhouette. As we reached our village we took a sharp turn away from town that caught me off guard. We zipped onto a constricted side street narrowly avoiding a drainage ditch on the right; then we took another left strait into the bush. I had passed by this place that morning on a walk but never knew this rickety earthen compound on the outskirts of town had been our Marabou’s. The two troubled boys were taken inside one by one as most of the passengers waited outside. Would it be rude if I walked in and wanted to watch? Would they push me out? I have to go in there and see for my own irrepressible curiosity. I dared.

I walked into the dank but homely hut, the only light coming from a jerry-rigged flashlight affixed to the ceiling. I walked further into the back room lit only by a single candle on the floor, the boys being held down on a mat by the bed. Oddly Latin salsa music was emanating somewhere in the darkness until the dancing flame of the candle exposed the radio in the corner. The ritual began much the same as before and ended unclimatically with the player’s bodies relaxing as they passed out on the ground. I was half expecting to hear, “THE POWER OF CHRIST COMPELLS YOU!!!” but disappointingly no.

They awoke delirious as we asked them the day, where they were, and random people in the room’s names. It was over. We walked backed to the center of town and I to my hut. A few of the players tried to explain to me that this was African magic, that this is why football in Africa will never go anywhere. They went on to say that essentially in Africa you’re subject to spell attacks by opposing team’s “witches” and marabous. A few of my players even told me that they couldn’t see the ball at times in the game, and that they felt like something was stopping them from playing their best. Was it all an act, if so why? Was this just an excuse for an embarrassing loss, that maybe by embellishing this magic it took the pressure off of the players? In the end I’ll never know for sure. Maybe it was just a mental defense against dealing with the reality of losing the critical game. A lot of people here are incredibly superstitious and the mind is a powerful thing. Maybe in the end, magic does exist? Who’s to say? As for the business with the key, I later found out that the day before our team had done some magic with the marabou to protect us from dark curses during the game. Out of absentmindedness or being too busy one of the other coaches had supposedly neglected to pick up a lock and key from the Marabou that morning; a key that with a certain further ritual would safeguard the defensive spells completion. I’m still trying to figure out what really happened but as for now I believe I witnessed my first exorcism…until next game, welcome to Africa.

Additional asinine adventures in Africa

I had another run in with the diverse assortment of animal species that live in my hut again. It was late at night after a meeting with the football team on how they need to get their act together. It didn’t end till 12pm and I was exhausted and feeling a cold coming on. Entering into my house I immediately stripped down to my sleeping clothes… aka the clothes G-d blessed me with. Don’t judge, it’s fucking hot here and a man’s got to sleep. So anyways, I sit down on my bed in nothing but my skippies and a dollar sized tanish scorpion runs right across my foot and into my embarrassingly large collection of shoes. I’m the beast-master and all but it was late and I’m not going to lie it scared the ba-jesus out of me. The first thing I did was yell at Dano, my cat, who didn’t exactly live up to her “hunter” namesake. Lazy bitch. I proceeded to then strategically hunt down and kill the intruder that so rudely disturbed my much needed beauty sleep. I cornered the monster in between my trunk and a large Listerine bottle. With the scorpion’s stinger ready to strike Dano decided to step into action and prove her valor. As to keep my kitten’s confidence up I pushed her away so she wouldn’t get her ass kicked. There I was poised and ready to strike, my weapon the back end of a plastic broom handle, and with a single focused blow slayed the monster in my hut. Dano jumped in to drag off the carcass before I could stop her and I spent 10 minutes chasing her down and disposing the carcass. Maybe when she gets bigger I’ll let her take on one of her own. As any of my stories would not be complete with out a touch of irony, coincidentally the name and official mascot of the Gambian National Football team is the Scorpions.

The other day the hospital received a very hefty donation of about 20 computers and monitors so that I could teach IT skills. I was taken aback by how quick we received them as I assumed I’d be waiting for months to even get one. I set an entire day aside to check them all and see how many I could use. One by one I went through all of them. Some made strange beeps then never turned on, other’s gave dramatic dying noises like a wounded animal. In the end only three ended up working, and of those three only one was in a useable condition that I could actually attempt to fix well enough to run a typing program. Yet all three… unfortunately… were in Dutch, a language that could easily be mistaken for Volgon; back to the drawing boards on the computer front.

On a worse note, I was toubabed in my own compound the other night. It was late and I wasn’t having the best day of my life, so I broke out my laptop and decided to watch an old episode of Scrubs with my family (if you’ve read early blogs about the problems associated with showing American television to Gambians, disregard it as my compound is a million times more exposed to western society than back in training village). There we sat, enjoying the humor of Zack Braff, my host mother even thought it was me (I was doubly flattered), and watched “the Todd” indiscreetly expose his ‘Banana Hammocks’. A young boy around 10 years or so walked into my host brothers house as we were enjoying the show and decided this was the optimal time to proclaim, “Toubab!”… yes, there is a white person in the room. It absolutely baffles me the nerve of these kids some times. What exactly was going through his mind, that he decided it was necessary to announce there’s a white person here, in the middle our compound, while we were intently watching a show. What confuses me even more is why the families here see nothing wrong with it. In America lets say, if a child were to be delivering a newspaper to my house in Cincinnati, while I was entertaining a black friend of mine; then he was to walk in and announce, “Black person! There’s a black person here!”. That child would be in an amount of trouble deeper than if he had called his sister a two cent Caucasian hussy. He would then be grounded for life and if it was me would feel guilty for a good amount of time after the punishment was over. If a child was walking around in front of other company screaming, “Blacky!” every time he passed an African American, the parents would be more than shamed by their child’s actions. Here though it seems they are completely ok with that behavior, more over in some areas literally train their children to say it. Just the other day I walked past a man (who after I had asked him how the home people are in Mandinka he morbidly responded with they are all dead) by the school his entire family chanted “Demba Toubabo, Demba Toubabo” at me. That not only tells me they actually knew my name, but that they also preferred to be perpetually ignorant. It baffles me.

So before I conclude another Iliad of a blog entry I’d like to end with one last story. After my football teams victory the kids wanted to raise some money for the transportation fees etc. and they all decided to throw a huge dance party at the school and charge 25 dalasis to enter. Doing the math in my head it was going to take 40 people to pay off the DJ who was charging us 1,000 dalasis for the event. It was a mess of sound and speakers packed into an office sized cubical classroom… a medical problem waiting to happen. I had fun the entire evening trying to teach the guys my age how we dance in clubs in America: aka I put a little crunk into a dance party which far more resembled a Jr. High dance than a club. Muslims schmuslims, dancing takes two. Regardless of the fact that the team actually ended up losing money on the event I woke up with my ears still ringing and a little disoriented from another night of lucid mephlaquine dreaming (the malaria medication… not to be confused with methanphenimines please, mother I don’t do drugs so don’t you dare think your kid ran off to the peace corps and started toking it up). Anyways in the confused mess of bringing myself back from the dream world there was an acute lapse in my thinking paradigm and I managed to put on a unique pair of pants. I walked the 30 meters to the pump to fetch water like any other day, greeting the dozen ladies who normally presence the pump for a chat while waiting to collect water. I sat down, continued my greetings, and waiting a few, what are now bewildering, moments to which I realized I had selected my favorite pair of genes that day. The pair that my mother pleaded I didn’t take to Africa as a cavernous rip was located right below my zipper… but they were my favorite pants, and I just assumed I’d be wearing underwear on a regular basis. That morning though, I had not, in a mess of daze and confusion, and exposed my testicles to the entirety of the pump. In retrospect I think I handled it very smoothly by not jumping at the realization of the situation; and not noticing anyone having remotely reacted to the spectacle I can only pray that by the grace of G-d my lanky legs had obscured my parts from view. Recently I was able to fix my jeans with the help of the sewing machine at the skill center, my favorite pair of jeans lives again. Just another day in the life of Steven in Africa.