I have similar stories of waiting for transport while in West Africa, but for ferries. Longest wait? About seven hours. Wouldn't have minded the wait, except the heat and dust were something fierce, and the toilet facilities left something to be desired.
Tubaab was the Wolof word for foreigner/white person. Tubaabs weren't an uncommon occurence in the region, which was near tourist destinations, so only very small children were shocked at the sight of me. I worked in a clinic, and one of duties was malaria testing. That meant many small sick children were brought to me. They would stare at me in shock, and then I'd have to poke them with a needle to draw blood, so they'd start screaming. Altogether, I don't think it helped them perceive my pallor in a positive light.
Thank you. I've written some stories about it, but one part of being a healthcare worker is that your stories are often part of other people's stories, so you have to find ways of telling them that protect them. I am still finding those ways.
I hope you find your way protecting your "other people" to write your stories. I had an easier task, I wrote my memoir, and I was very open about myself and my life, because readers understand what is true, what is a lie , and what is interesting or not, and so on...
Yes, I would love to. I studied with black students from Africa at Leningrad University, and they were regular boys, just another color, with knowledge of English or French, depending on their colonial background. Of course, they were from privileged backgrounds, but we knew nothing about Africa.
Ah, Mother Africa. You left too soon to adapt to her rhythms.
I remember when I first went to a Standard Chartered Bank in Bulawayo to cash a check for a project payroll. After waiting in queue for more than three hours, my eyes bled from aggravation.
A few years later, while reading a thick Russian novel as I waited, I wondered briefly if any other banks in town were more efficient. I also thought I should start bringing a comfortable camping chair in which to wait.
Your Images of Africa are so captivating that you should continue to write. It reminded me of my Siberian trip in my youth. Everything is so unusual and scary.
Thank you for taking me with you back to your time in Africa. You transported me. It reminded me of experiences in India, especially the dust. There’s an expression in Bengali that refers to “the time (of day) of the cow dust,” in a poem by Rabindranath Tagore) early in the evening when the herd returns home down the ever dusty road. I
I enjoyed this so much I almost forgive you for staying at the Manchester City hotel and not the clearly more well-established, older, grander Manchester United hotel that I'm sure sat right across the road.
Wow. I’ve seen your notes for a while but I hadn’t clicked on an article until now, and I thoroughly appreciated it. I’m in a mood now to go re-read Beryl Markham.
First-rate scenes making me feel in-country, waiting for that damned bus. And being on edge as the Very Obvious foreigner. Sometimes that can work to your advantage; it helped me avoid being pressed into the Peruvian army decades ago!
I've been to Africa a couple of times for work, to Kenya – Nairobi and Mombassa. I was, I'm almost ashamed to say, way out of my comfort zone, but I wouldn't have missed it. The red earth, the dust, the stares, the relative poverty, the lack of road surface just a few minutes out of the city, the armed guards at the hotel in Nairobi, and on the hotel private beach on the coast near Mombassa. This was in 2007, an election year and the atmosphere was pretty tense.
I have similar stories of waiting for transport while in West Africa, but for ferries. Longest wait? About seven hours. Wouldn't have minded the wait, except the heat and dust were something fierce, and the toilet facilities left something to be desired.
Tubaab was the Wolof word for foreigner/white person. Tubaabs weren't an uncommon occurence in the region, which was near tourist destinations, so only very small children were shocked at the sight of me. I worked in a clinic, and one of duties was malaria testing. That meant many small sick children were brought to me. They would stare at me in shock, and then I'd have to poke them with a needle to draw blood, so they'd start screaming. Altogether, I don't think it helped them perceive my pallor in a positive light.
You have such an interesting story about your labor in Africa. Would you tell us about it?!
Thank you. I've written some stories about it, but one part of being a healthcare worker is that your stories are often part of other people's stories, so you have to find ways of telling them that protect them. I am still finding those ways.
I hope you find your way protecting your "other people" to write your stories. I had an easier task, I wrote my memoir, and I was very open about myself and my life, because readers understand what is true, what is a lie , and what is interesting or not, and so on...
Thank you, M.E. Rothwell, for understanding the challenges faced by beginning writers.
Yes, I would love to. I studied with black students from Africa at Leningrad University, and they were regular boys, just another color, with knowledge of English or French, depending on their colonial background. Of course, they were from privileged backgrounds, but we knew nothing about Africa.
Ah, Mother Africa. You left too soon to adapt to her rhythms.
I remember when I first went to a Standard Chartered Bank in Bulawayo to cash a check for a project payroll. After waiting in queue for more than three hours, my eyes bled from aggravation.
A few years later, while reading a thick Russian novel as I waited, I wondered briefly if any other banks in town were more efficient. I also thought I should start bringing a comfortable camping chair in which to wait.
Don’t get frustrated; get smart. I like your style
“Don’t worry. Be happy.”
Your Images of Africa are so captivating that you should continue to write. It reminded me of my Siberian trip in my youth. Everything is so unusual and scary.
There will be at least one more post in this vein, I promise!
Thank you for taking me with you back to your time in Africa. You transported me. It reminded me of experiences in India, especially the dust. There’s an expression in Bengali that refers to “the time (of day) of the cow dust,” in a poem by Rabindranath Tagore) early in the evening when the herd returns home down the ever dusty road. I
appreciate your evocative words.
I enjoyed this so much I almost forgive you for staying at the Manchester City hotel and not the clearly more well-established, older, grander Manchester United hotel that I'm sure sat right across the road.
I would have rather slept in a ditch than anything tainted with the name of Man United
Well the joke's on you - ditches are intrinsically linked with the current Man United team
This is beautifully written article conjuring up the country for those of us who have never been there.
Your descriptions bring back many memories of rural African travel. Thirty years ago or last year, it has always been the same.
nice
reminds me of the vorrh by b. catling
This was a wonderful read. I was literally full of wonder at your descriptions. Great writing!
Wow. I’ve seen your notes for a while but I hadn’t clicked on an article until now, and I thoroughly appreciated it. I’m in a mood now to go re-read Beryl Markham.
Glad it was worth the click!
Riveting reminiscence of a land few mzungu have seen. The Finnish painter Gallen Kallela seems to have captured its vibe.
I enjoyed reading your article very much. You brought all the stories alive.
First-rate scenes making me feel in-country, waiting for that damned bus. And being on edge as the Very Obvious foreigner. Sometimes that can work to your advantage; it helped me avoid being pressed into the Peruvian army decades ago!
Thank you so much for sharing your memories - very atmospheric.
I've been to Africa a couple of times for work, to Kenya – Nairobi and Mombassa. I was, I'm almost ashamed to say, way out of my comfort zone, but I wouldn't have missed it. The red earth, the dust, the stares, the relative poverty, the lack of road surface just a few minutes out of the city, the armed guards at the hotel in Nairobi, and on the hotel private beach on the coast near Mombassa. This was in 2007, an election year and the atmosphere was pretty tense.