Improbability

A quick one today. Patrick is applying himself to the twin hurdles of probability and statistics. I’ve seen some of his study material—it seems pretty basic to me, but for all Patrick’s linguistic legerdemain, his math and science skills leave a lot to be desired. Honestly, I’m not even sure it’s his skills so much as attention to detail. I’ve tutored him a little bit, as much as one can over WhatsApp, and he seems to grasp the concepts just fine. It’s not like he’s a dunderhead who can’t solve basic arithmetic problems. The issue is that he does things out of order and tends to skip over problems. I’m not sure where this tendency comes from—to me the whole of the Gambia seems to share it, though I wonder if a lifetime spent addressing only the grossest aspects of survival isn’t a poor preparation for a world where details are what distinguish one from the pack. I’m not sure there is a pack in the Gambia to distinguish oneself from though. Merely having a college degree seems to vault one into a higher socio-economic tranche, and having a masters degree or a PhD is tantamount to being a god.

Whatever the case, he has attached himself to one such god—a mathematics professor with a side hustle tutoring kids for just this sort of challenge. So I guess that’s good, so long as this prof is an invested fellow and not just in it for the investment. Patrick has had a lifetime to become cynical about his home country; I cut to the chase rather more quickly. The contrast with our own society, I suppose, is illustrative.

In any event, he’s applying himself with his usual zeal. I reckon he must be deeply concerned—he’s told me he feels ashamed for failing the exam. He feels, he says, like he’s failed me. I explained that not everybody is good at everything and I’m aware of the effort he’s putting in; that moreover this is the first time I’ve seen him fail academically. He’s been on this earth almost a quarter century and has survived more than I have in twice that time, but he lacks yet the appreciation of his own strength. Not having anyone around to remind him of those facts is surely the source of this shortcoming. It’s still strange that by virtue of accident and curiosity, that task should fall to me. The connected world is a bizarre one.

Anyway, only a few images this week. I don’t want to bother Patrick about photographs when he’s freaking out about means and standard deviations. He did, however, out of the blue, send some really interesting pictures last weekend.

“Nice masquerade. We call them Zumba. People run away from them especially kids but they create fun by dancing and playing all sorts of music.”

This is the Africa I think we all believe we know, from a lifetime of National Geographic magazines. It’s certainly there, but it’s a special occasion in Patrick’s life as much as anyone. I asked if there had been a holiday of some sort. “Oh it was an entertainment organized by a football club after lifting the trophy.”

Honest to God, why do we not do this at little league games?

Here’s the image that really got me though:

“This is John, who has lived here for more than ten years. He can speak the most commonly spoken language here which is Mandinka and he’s now a Muslim. I have been seen him before but I was lucky enough to photograph him today.”

This is not the first white man Patrick has sent photos of, but all of the others have been tourists—overweight, ill-fitting in their western clothing, clustered in tight groups near ferries and markets. John here has gone native. Patrick tells me that he came to the Gambia from the U.S. He went on, “Many say he’s here to hide for years because he’s wanted by the law of your country.”

I mean, that would be fascinating indeed. I didn’t suggest that Patrick talk to him, but he volunteered the idea. I don’t intend to push, because who knows what sort of character John is. But it is scintillating mystery isn’t it?