It was sort of like the cremation of Anakin Skywalker in Return of the Jedi. (Ok, insert nerd accusations here.) Mixed feelings of closure, sadness, life lived, and a hint of relief.

Standing next to a raging fire Daboe and I talked of unrelated topics, the planting of squash in The Gambia and the harvesting of pumpkin in America. We stood in front of the last two years of my life burning happily, a pile consisting of letters, cards, study notes, personal scribbles, newspaper articles, magazine cut outs and more. As orange flame swayed in the wind and turned pages to white ash, Daboe poked and turned the pile with a long cassava shoot. With each effort pages hiding from flame would reveal themselves, a letter from an ex-coworker talking about travels in Thailand printed in courier font, a box diagram depicting Mandinka prepositions, a greeting card from a friend in deep transition hopeful and decorated with art from StoryPeople.

These were fragments, snapshots of my life over the past two years all dissolving into dust. Closure, sadness, life lived, and relief indeed.

As I prepare to come home, one of the last things I will do is celebrate my 24th birthday. When I reflect on my adult life this scenario repeats itself, not by design but by coincidence. The last time I had a birthday stateside was when I turned 20 and I was preparing to go abroad for the first time in 12 years as a student in Vienna. When I compare the person then to the person now it is hard to believe so much has passed. Upon turning 24 I will have become in love with a time and place in Europe, an avid cyclist, reconnected with the land of my mother, a college graduate, accepted into a new family, and soon to be a returned Peace Corps volunteer.

On Sunday I will leave The Gambia and cease to be a PCV.

She says that the toys are alive, look and see. She tells the group that the toys are alive and when the people come they return to looking dead and lifeless, like toys. She tells the group to watch and see. Under the shade of a fruitless mango tree on small wooden benches sit my neighbors: three middle aged women come to fetch their evening buckets of water, five children frantically playing games before the last sunlight dies out, and my kids Buba and Amee. Kaddy and I stand behind the group and she translates the plot line to the group in Mandinka. The hodgepodge group huddles around a tiny 13” MacBook screen to watch the film Toy Story.

Kaddy has seen this film before and enjoys using her better understanding of English and storytelling to explain the events in Mandinka. I watch her explain to the group and watch the glow on her expressions, the laughter in her belly, and the broad smile on her face and know that she is truly in the moment.

I look in the background and I see Daboe sitting patiently on his own bench. I know that he might like to watch the movie but I know that his mind is on other things. I watch him as he directs the children to take their evening baths and I watch him as he performs the evening absolution, cleaning his face, ears, hands, and feet. He pulls out a small plastic yellow and tan mat decorated with a picture of a mosque woven into the middle of a crosshatch pattern. He stands on the mat, faces eastward, and begins to pray.

I look to my right and I see my host sister Maa pounding the evening rice. She is pounding rice and peanuts into a fine powder and I know that means we are eating Saatoe. I know that we are having it as a special treat tonight and I can’t help but feel as though my host family is trying to spoil me before I leave. The whole family loves the food and I know that I love it too and I feel as though I am part of the family.

I look in front of me and I see the character Woody fall onto a bed and fall lifeless. I see the children and women around me laugh and smile in delight and know that they understand what Kaddy has explained to them.

~

It’s the next day and it’s the afternoon with nothing in particular on the agenda. Amee and Buba are both home and they ask me if today we can build things. I remember the insightful gift that was sent by my parents and I tell them yes we can build things. I pull out a large red topped tupperware box and on my large mat I pour out a host of multicolored building blocks.

Amee tells me that I should build a chair and I tell him he can make one himself. He looks bewildered and I know he has seldom been given confidence to experiment in life. I know that this environment does not lend itself well to experiments, I think about the cost of failure in hunger, health, money, and lives, and I feel sad knowing that this is the place where the benefits of experimentation could be seen most.

I tell Amee that I will build something first but then he has to copy me. I place 4 small round pillars on the mat, then two long blocks across and Amee looks at me inspired yet confident. He copies my construction plan and makes his own less precise version of the chair. I look at his design and smile knowing that despite its rough edges he has improved since our last game. I add four more blocks perpendicularly across for a seat and add a few elongated pyramid shapes for a back rest. I tell Amee that I am finished then Amee does the same and looks up at me for approval. I tell him he’s done very well and that his chair is nicer than mine. He lowers his head to his left as if to inspect his workmanship and looks back up at me with a satisfied grin.

~

The weekend arrives and I know that I have few opportunities like this left in The Gambia. I know that we have been trying to go as a family to the beach and I know I want this to happen before I leave because Maa is 12 and Amee is 6 and both have never been to the beach in their life.

Amee is walking with Maa on the beach for the first time ever in their lives. Bouncing on the waves is a large group of fishermen on narrow boats coming in from the afternoon catch. A group of women sit on the beach scaling and cutting fish into large wicker baskets. To our left a group of old men silently thumb through their prayers beads and make their way to a holy prayer site farther down the beach. The waves crash a beautiful white as the sun shines blindingly on a deep but narrow diagonal strip of the Atlantic Ocean. Amee puts his hand on his mouth, his cheeks perk up and give a hint of redness, and he looks at his father and myself. There is an absorbed look to his eyes and I know that we are opening new worlds and possibilities.

Amee shifts his eyes directly to his Dad and gasps out the word, “Baa!” He yells, “Dad!” and we both wait curious for his next comment but it never comes. Amee waits a second, his mouth drops, and he looks back the ocean in bewilderment. I look at this little curious boy and I see him speechless for the first time ever in my two years knowing him.

It’s the end of my service and I hope these are the things I will remember The Gambia by.

Max Weber on the political vocation

Die Politik bedeutet ein starkes langsames Bohren von harten Brettern mit Leidenschaft und Augenmaß zugleich...

Politics is a strong and slow boring of hard boards. It requires passion as well as perspective. Certainly all historical experience confirms–that man would not have achieved the possible unless time and again he had reached out for the impossible. But to do that, a man must be a leader, and more than a leader, he must be a hero as well, in a very sober sense of the word. And even those who are neither leaders nor heroes must arm themselves with that resolve of heart which can brave even the failing of all hopes. This is necessary right now, otherwise we shall fail to attain that which it is possible to achieve today. Only he who is certain not to destroy himself in the process should hear the call of politics; he must endure even though he finds the world too stupid or too petty for that which he would offer. In the face of that he must have the resolve to say ‘and yet,’—for only then does he hear the ‘call’ of politics.

-Max Weber, Politik als Beruf (1919) (lecture delivered before the Freistudentischen Bund of the University of Munich)(Scott Horton transl.)

Reprinted from Harper’s Magazine June 2008

The Gambia is a country where due to a number of issues, basic information about and involvement in politics is hard to come by for the average citizen. In a country where a large population lives out of range of reliable cell phones, radio, television, newspapers and transportation, receiving political information is a near impossibility. Add to that difficultly in communication, whether it be crossing multiple languages and the low rates of literacy, it is hard for politicians to reliably spread their message. These realities leave a population unable to feel well integrated into the overall system.

This comes in contrast to the Western world and the United States in particular, where we are literally over-run with media. Overrun with so much media that we rarely have time to properly digest any of it. This macrocosm of information dissemination creates a different problem from the Gambian situation but with a similar result. Despite the abundance of basic information, we still lack understanding of the information or involvement.

The blame could be placed on the lack of depth that our news media seems to give to politics. It could be placed on the news ticker readings of CNN, could be blamed on the reliance on quotable zingers instead of in-depth review, or could be blamed on the popularity of Web 2.0 easy-to-read large font headlines.

However, we should not be so quick as to take some of the blame off ourselves and our own motivation. We could look at what might be the root. How willing are we as the average citizen to re-engage the world of politics? How much are we willing to trust that our involvement will lead to governance that returns back to the ideal, "Of the people, by the people, and for the people?" We must adjust our priorities and take time to read deeper into the issues that for better or worse will put a politician into power. We must be willing to openly debate their meaning, and respectfully compromise when someone has made the better argument. And finally, we must be willing to believe that if enough of us do this, the more important and pressing issues to everyday citizens will find their way to the surface and become the new talking points.

“But this stuff is too much I think,” my neighbor Yama tells me.

Lying in front of us is a mishmash of household items: Rusted corrugate tin, blankets, small wooden stools, 20 liter plastic water jugs, clothes, and a mangled car tire. Our compound-mates, Daboe’s brother’s family, have completed their own compound and are moving out. What was a compound of 27 upon my arrival is now a compound of 8. I believe this is a reflection of the social mobility of the urban region of The Gambia.

Throughout the day the children have been loading everything from bed frames to firewood onto a donkey pulled cart, brining load after load of a lifetime worth of stuff to its new home. If you’ve ever gutted a house, you are aware of just how much stuff can pile up.

As they load the carts, the children are all singing. Singing upbeat workmen’s songs of motivation and hope. It makes me think of American settlers moving Westward, putting everything on display on the back of a cart and praying for the best, praying for guidance as the next chapter of a life begins, uncertain. I listen to the children sing and believe that it is the sound of their hope that sometimes helps us adults move forward.

I bring all of this up to say that if you're someone who wants to make radio stories (or do any kind of creative work), you're probably going to have a period when things might not come too easily. For some people, that's just a year. For others, like me, it's eight years. You might feel completely alone and lost during this period ... And there are things you can do during this period of mediocrity that will get you to the next step, that will drive you toward skill and competence.

-Ira Glass from This American Lifeinterviewed here.

In my two years in The Gambia, I never acquired a satisfactory strategy for dealing with the barrage of everyday stressors. We are often searching for those appropriate outlets that would allow us to channel our frustrations and anger. Constructing a mental time bomb, I bottled feelings and emotions inside and, as some of my group mates will tell you, I’ve finally cracked. Flowing out uncontrolled, like an over pressured garden hose, feelings let themselves out in an unbalanced and wild manner.

I see myself snapping at and devaluing students who have failed to take responsibility for projects, visibly ignoring the man who’s been hissing to get my attention, or worst of all, giving up on people/projects upon unpredicted and inconsistent particulars. It’s all a bit shameful when taken at once in a rapid fire list. Perhaps it’s just two years on Mephaquin.

As I get to the end of my service, this is not what I want to remember, but it is most definitely flowing my current thoughts and actions down streams that drown.

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Posted are my responses to the Education Newsletter’s survey of my group at our Close of Service.

1. What’s one thing every volunteer should have?

Easy to make cinnamon rolls

2. Most creative way to satisfy hunger?

Any vegetables you can find and jimbo (MSG) in a pot

3. What is one skill/ability that you have lost?

Have become way more serious here then I was back home

4. What will you be remembered for?

Ridiculous smiles in pictures

5. The song/album ________ was the soundtrack to my service.

Gomez - “Get Miles”

6. The name of your ideal pirated from China 40 in 1 DVD collection:

Super Anime Robot Explosion

7. One love, one hate, one desire.

Love – that everyone in our group had no real skills but we still rocked this

Hate – extensive greeting

Desire – let my guard down

Daboe writes a letter to my family in America. He writes it with such heart and effort that I can’t help but feel like my family here has espoused me into their lives. Daboe talks about how much the children have become used to my presence, how much we have opened to and shared with one another, and how there will always be a home for me in Jammeh Kunda. I think back to my original goals for joining the Peace Corps and I feel as though much of them are made complete by the meaning held within this letter.

The next morning I am walking to down my dirt and sand road to my school. 250 meters ahead of me is the paved southern bank highway which serves as the main pathway for most students. My vision is crowded with a sea students in their school uniforms, white shirts and navy blue pants or skirt dresses. There is little chatter from the crowds, everyone is still waking up. Pockets of noise erupt and break the silence between small groups of students, informing one another of recent gossip or teenage tales of success or betrayal. I see smoke billowing out of each compound and I smell the muted scent of rice porridge and I know that breakfast is almost ready for those still at home. I am in the moment and take it all in as the stylized picture of the early morning in The Gambia.

In the background, I hear a voice yelling my name and I turn to see Amee and Buba running towards me. Buba is still growing and his run has traces of a duck waddle, back and forth, back and forth, he bounces. I ask Amee where they are going and why they are alone and he tells me that they are going to their grandparent’s compound down the street and that it’s not far. I know that it’s only a few city blocks to the house but despite this I feel a hint of fear that they are going places alone. I look at them and they still seem like such small children, I still see them as I was introduced to them 2 years ago. Buba runs up next to me and grabs my hand and I look down at his face. He gives me a look that I can’t quite describe, not asking for help, not asking for assurance, rather, seeming just to say I want to walk beside an elder, that’s ok right? The kids are in no rush and approach the swelling waves of students with some apprehension. Amee, Buba, and I walk down the street in a shuffling turtle paced stumble and I can’t help but feel like this scene looks awkward and undesirable to the students ahead of me. I remember being a high school student and remember showing caring for family members was something a teenager seemed to be too cool for.

Still, the three of us shuffle down the street and all feels completely normal. I live in that present moment and I am content with what I have become.

As a child, my father often joked with me that I had a serious case of schadenfreude; taking pleasure in another person’s misfortune. I suppose that’s why I was in hysterics when one of my group mates told me about his FACTOR program.

At his middle school the spoken English and literacy rates are abysmal. This is not to say that the children are slow learners, rather it is a reflect of the fact that their education up to this point has been of dubious quality. Despite this, my friend has been posted to teach grade 7, 8, and 9 science classes. But how can one teach about biological diversity, gravity, or chemical reactions when the students struggle to read or comprehend English at a 1st or 2nd grade level? One of the most common questions we, as teachers, ask is, “Do we teach to their ability or do we teach to their grade level syllabus?”

“So, I decided it was time to tackle this problem. Teach the syllabus but try and improve their English by other means. I needed something with a catchy acronym, since all good things in life need a catchy acronym. Hence, FACTOR,” he said without a hint of sarcasm or cheekiness.

“Which stands for?” I asked inquisitively.

“FACTOR: Force a child to read,” he said plainly but with a slight smile of satisfaction. “You see, once a week I take them to the library, which otherwise would remain dusty and cobweb filled from underuse. I take them to a section of books that I think is at their level, which usually means picture books with a couple of sentences per page, and I make them read to one another. I force them to read together for 35 minutes. It’s a bit hectic with 50 children all mumbling aloud to one another, but it might be the only time during the school day when they are actually learning anything.”

I’m sure he does darn well as a science teacher, but how much more effective could he have been in improving his students’ education if he were left to FACTOR his whole school? I doubt he would even desire the position of administering forced reading to all, but I think it’s clear the long term impact it could have.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation he has been put in, and the name he had chosen to improve the situation. Getting (forcing) a child to read in a library is something that we might have to do in America as well, but to give it such a name as Force a Child to Read gave the whole program such a policed and regimented feel that made me think of some sort of horrible punishment being struck upon these children. I imagined kids being led down the the library kicking and screaming in refusal. I imagined his face with a paternal look of tired frustration, as if to say, “You’ll thank me later for this...” Therefore, my laughter. Schadenfreude.

In reality, everyone in my group has been duly impressed with his work. The children are learning and they are doing so quite willingly. In fact, one might even say they look forward to reading time. My group mate has demonstrated an immense amount of patience and resolve to get students to read on a regular basis. Moreover, by bringing them to the library week by week, he is creating the habit of utilizing a place of education. With that success in mind, Mr. EA, FACTOR on.

When facing the prospect of spending periods of time with people in a car, going on a group bike ride through the country side, or sitting in a large group with no activity to occupy the time, I’ve often said in a sarcastic tone, “Well, we’ll just have to sit together and practice the fine art of conversation.”

I have said this phrase any number of times here in The Gambia, first as we were thrown into the media desolate area where our training took place. Later in my service lack of power, spans of free time, and a national culture of chatting have led me to repeat this phrase with a metronomic consistency.

I caught up on emails this weekend and upon reading a couple of short stories a good friend of mine sent me from her Graduate portfolio, it dawned on me that I would consider her a good friend despite the fact that we have barely ever participated in the fine art of conversation.

This contrast struck me particularly strongly in the face of such consistent conversation here. I reflected a minute and realized that even here, my own conversational willingness, is far from at national norms. Through heavy reliance on text message and email, I still remain rather impersonal and disconnected. In fact, I find I prefer text messaging someone to calling them. Yes, it is more economical to do so, but it is probably more deeply rooted in an avoidance to taking the conversation to a more personal level. I believe it is a reflection of an overall introverted personality.

The more I thought about my use of an electronic proxy to engage in conversation, the more I realized how many cherished relationships I have that have grown entirely without any physically close conversation. A friend I met studying abroad who kept in touch well after the program, or a friend from high school that only became close with personal and sincere emails. I don’t know if that’s something to applaud as a success of our technology or fear as a sign of a coming disunion between meaningful communication and personal interaction. Of course, these are fears that have preoccupied social critics since the dawn of electronic communication.

After two years many of my family and friends have stayed in touch with me through this Blog and e-mail. I would say that some have become aware to a side of my personality that was previously hidden; the same seems true in reverse. Where does our relationship lie now?

Community and togetherness are an integral part of society here. It is not uncommon for neighbors and family to stop by requesting to borrow a wheel barrow, stop for lunch unannounced, or a act as a temporary babysitter.

It is then a curious peculiarity of society in The Gambia that the pinnacle for a family compound is to have a high protective wall of stone surrounding the entire property. This shuts a compound off from other community members visually and mentally, as what would otherwise be a unconcealed peek into the comings and goings of the family, becomes as much of a mystery as why the child next to me has been crying for the past 40 minutes.

Remember when American homes had front porches? Or when you desired to know everyone in your neighborhood? Or when people became wealthy enough to buy everything they could ever need for themselves? The result of these factors has led to a move towards a secluded lifestyle, which I think some would argue has gone to an extreme in America.

In the recent months Daboe, little by little, has been buying and making a small collection of concrete blocks in an effort to bring the compound to the higher standard. What previously was a chest high concrete wall would soon be taller than most NBA players.

This is how it goes. Every few weeks there would be a new pile of sand sitting in the middle of the compound. It is then mixed with water and concrete until it has a fine batter like quality. It is then poured into a building block cast, and then set out to dry in the West African sun.

So it has been for about the past 5 months, a few hundred blocks being molded at a time. This past week construction on the actual wall finally began, and what once was an open view of my neighbors is quickly being cut off in favor of increased security and comfort.

I arrived home from our Close of Service Conference this past weekend and saw men hard at work raising the wall roughly 1.5 meters higher than it was before. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. Time and time again as a volunteer I have asked people if they would make long term plans and then be vigilant to stick to them. I figured that with such a large project as this I would never see it get off the ground, literally. It was therefore a pleasant homecoming and a reminder that good things can happen, with clear goals, a positive attitude, a little effort, and the right people.

I think a unique aspect of recent Americana has been the dissolution of the American home as a fixed physical place. In The Gambia families can live in a single home,a family compound as it is commonly referred to, for an indefinite amount of time. While the practice of moving between homes is common, especially amongst children, it is usually from one place of permanence to another. For example, over the course of their youth a Gambian might move between compounds owned by their biological parents, uncles and aunts, and grandparents.

It seems that home in American has transformed over the past few decades from a permanent state into a fluid state, shifting the majority of Americans at least once during their youth. Not only are we, like Gambians, moving between homes but we are also lacking the permanence that comes with generations residing in one home. There is a disconnect between the reality of home and home that gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling when you think it.

This phenomenon is particularly pronounced with people in their 20s as they move out of the bubble of collegiate life and try to start their own lives. At the same time, parents are often transitioning to a life with an empty nest and are moving out of the homes that the children were brought up in. Our permanent homes existing merely as a memory of time past.

Having said that, I am currently planning my own future which involves a move to Chicago in about 3.5 months. Most of my immediate family have moved to new locations since I have been in The Gambia, and it is an odd feeling to know that all of the homes I will return to I have never lived in. I imagine as a returning Peace Corps volunteer I will live in a quiet world of contrasts, emotions that won’t have appropriate outlets. One of the big contrasts will be trying to understand the shifting idea of home. During most of my stay here I have lived in the Jammeh family compound, a place where my host family has lived for 11 years. If I were to travel to visit Daboe or Kaddy’s parents home we would be traveling to a place that has generations of family history.

This will be a positive experience. I think all the change we put ourselves through is part of the enduring American spirit. We put ourselves intentionally in new and different situations in order to keep ourselves innovating. I hope as a nation we are able to keep adapting to new environments as we move into an age that has been labeled “uncertain and weakening.”

I’ve got about 4 months left in country and I’m in a strange place mentally. It’s a mix between finding my place here and becoming increasingly anxious about returning home. Still, I lack the right words, inspiration, or style to express what has been happening, but here is a try.

Recently work has been showing success, I feel like I’ve made some solid progress with my counterparts and students and now it’s just a refinement point. I can look back with some satisfaction on that aspect of service.

In the household I’ve been spending a lot more time with my host family, enjoying the bond we’ve formed over the past months. We’ve been trading cooking ideas, watching a number of cartoons, and I have been making more of an effort to do basic tutoring for the school going children.

A few days ago I asked Amee a question that I in my youth, I never thought carried any true weight or meaning, “What did you learn in school today?” He looked at me funny with inquisitive eyes as if to ask, “My what a strange question you’ve asked,” then he perked up and recited a prayer passage that he had learned. When he was done there was a smile on his face that glowed of pride and a successful completion. When I was younger, “What did you learn in school today,” seemed to carry little weight because it seemed like the thing that a parent does out of repetition of a social norm. Now, I see it carrying weight because it is a thing that a parent should say. Showing interest in what the child is doing and showing an interest in what they are putting energy into is a way of showing caring.

On the other side of the strange mental world I’ve entered is the closeness of home. I increasingly fear it, while at the same time can’t wait to get back. All the common fears of returning after a long journey are there, amplified in conjunction with the acceleration towards July. I fear silence from a lack of common discussion points, emptiness, feeling unfit to handle the speed and pace of home, inability to reconnect with old friends, and what to do with my future.

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In late February we added a new family member in our compound, Paa Malik Jammeh. Kaddy gave birth at the RVH hospital in Banjul. He is healthy and doing well. The following is a picture of myself, Kaddy, and the baby.

Daboe was gone for the weekend. This much should be noted, because it broke from a reliable months long notion that, along with the evening came his defining presence.

Daboe is the father figure of the compound and therefore has the power to set the tone of the evening. It’s not a power created out of repetition and consistency of a message. Rather, most nights he is quiet and reflective, letting the light of moon and stars and pure chance direct the mood. When he does exercise command, the power and impact of his words is a direct result of his typical lack of vocalization. Not that this power always comes in a disciplinary tone or is always directed towards children. in fact I fondly remember the first night he said, “Yaya, today the men are cooking the porridge. You will learn. Let’s go.” The evening and into night ended up not only being a simple and fun lesson, but brought out a joking relationship between him and Kaddy that I had never seen before. A relationship that played and poked with gender roles, accepting the traditional but stretched and pulled towards equality of responsibility.

But already I am missing my original point, Daboe, on this particular weekend, was gone. The lack of his presence shaped the night like a hacked tree, a mangled impression of something more animate. How do you repair those gaps of assurance and comfort when a family member is missing? Can they truly be filled?

If Daboe was home we would all be sitting around a warm bowl of rice, peanut, and sour milk porridge. He would be making sure the boys were holding their spoons correctly, making sure they weren’t spilling rice all over the mat, and he would be evenly distributing the milk to all sides of the bowl. On this evening, I took over those roles. The minutes of passing time it took to have dinner represented a small moment of integration that define a volunteer’s vitality. The bowl of porridge was set on my mat laying just in front of my door. Buba came and sat around the bowl as if nothing was out of place. I held a small flashlight over the bowl so that throughout the meal we could see where we were scooping. Buba patiently waited for me to distribute the milk and stir it into the porridge. He listened and made corrections when I told him to eat properly, and when he was finished he told me, “I’m full. Here is the spoon,” gave me the spoon, then got up and walked away.

Increasingly, as my service comes to the home stretch, these moments are what remains of my days. They are what I will take home.

I increasingly feel like I’ve lost the ability to have an outsider’s view of this place. How does one keep their perspective fresh to an outside reader and do it in an appropriate variety of styles?

More and more the unique perspectives are coming from others. There is a shift towards more active listening, listening to comments from friends and family, reflective on myself, their lives, their intentions, and their hopes.

Here are a few of those reflections spanning a range of emotions.

“Todd, you are usually impossible to read. You tend to hide things well.”

“It was weird being home, trying to be the person she thought I was before I left for Gambia. But I’m just not anymore, I’m not.”

“I never realized how much of a role we were playing as cultural ambassadors. When my parents were visiting my village, this was obvious. Everyone has a better view of Americans because of my actions living with them.”

“In village I can’t even begin to turn on my brain for that kind of work. Have you ever considered editing writing as a profession?”

“So let’s say I wanted to switch my house to a completely solar set up, totally self sufficient. What kind of money are we talking about?”

“No, no, no. You see what she doesn’t know is that as a bachelor I used to cook all sorts of things for myself. If one can go to the market alone, why should they not be able to cook for themselves?”

“That boy, he was truly talented with his hands. He learned how to do woodworking quicker than any of my other students, but he just couldn’t get serious. I had to tell him to go.”

The eastern woods of the Western Region was a land that, for the city dwellers, seemed untamed and backwards. Logged forests, salted tributaries, and drought had desecrated the land over the course of many generations and no one seemed to remember it’s original fertility. The roads, ghosts of a rickety path set down by European colonists, were dilapidated to a point of preventing a positive flow of growth or prosperity. Driving down this road in a lonely and rusting vehicle, a quiet traveler felt as if he was in the precense of someone painfully lying on their death bed.

Within the confines of this region lies the small rustic village of Bwiam. Approaching from the east the village appeared to sit on a slight incline letting it’s visitors feel lifted up into it’s embrace. The change of emotion is much needed as the path to the village is far from inviting. Water-deprived moaning woods flank both sides of the road, and the tired traveler’s mind had been repeating this same scene of decay for hours.

As the car jumped and rattled around a slight bend in the road a large oval structure popped out of the tree-lines. Higher than any tree and bright reflective white in color, the structure appeared to be hovering in mid-air. Bending his head high and crunching his neck muscles together to view the sight, it seemed to want to fly off it’s four tiered skeletal base. The giant white bowl was smooth and round on it’s bottom half but triangular shaped at it’s top; it appeared like a giant flattened out toy spinning top. In comparison to the greys and browns of the dying woods, the shattered black and crushed white of the seashell gravel road, the bright shiny white structure appeared to the traveler as coming from another world.

The car approached clunking up and down, closer and closer. As the car moved along he forced his neck muscles to remain locked on the object, and it was then that the traveler realized he had been tricked by the magic of perspective. Indeed, the structure appeared to decrease in size and grandeur the closer and closer that he came. With a more intimate view it was obvious that it was something much more plain that his awe would suggest, it was a merely a water tower.

He looked up at this structure in it’s reduced state, a giant brought down by inspection, and realized it should not be reduced or thought of as any less momentous for it’s steady delivery of drinking water. Then he pondered if humanity would always find a way forward.

This past week has been a rather busy one being consumed in large part by participating with fellow volunteers, staff, and administration in a Peace Corps training design and evaluation workshop. The aim of the workshop is to increase the measurability of our training program and trainees and has come as a result of a world wide PC mandate to improve the quantifiability and quality of our training programs.

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The few days this week that I spent back at site reminded me of why this is my favorite time of year in The Gambia. The weather in the evenings is cool, and in the mornings, it is down right “chilly.” Of course this is all relative, my sister sent me an e-mail about Chicago using the same vocabulary, but with a distinctly different set of temperatures. I deal with cold at a low of 75 or 80 (I don’t really know absolute amounts anymore), whereas my sister would remark, “Funny how your perception of cold changes when you live in a city where 30 degrees is warm.”

Nighttime is particularly enjoyable due to the decrease in temperature. The stars come out as brilliantly and clear as ever. The inner stargazer in me is happy to see that Orion has made a return, starting eastward in the early hours of the night. The pattern in the sky is yet another reminder that my favorite time of year has come again.

The children of the compound celebrate “winter” with fire. Something about this seems more than fitting in the human context. Each night they sit around a large log fire, the wood slowly crackling and popping in that ancient but comforting sound. They sit and chat, sing songs, and play games with one another till late in the evening. I sit on my veranda and watch their shadows dance and hop on the wall of crumbling and aging concrete block.

This is my home in The Gambia.

The following is fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or places is purely based on speculation and inspiration from multiple people or personalities.HOLIDAYS TO CHICAGO. 2010. Family Travel Diary

I've never written a diary before but Yaya recommended I write one for this journey. He told me that I will be able to read this some years later and gain much enjoyment out of it. So I don't know how this should be written, but here it is.

~ D. Jammeh Musa

Saturday 16th October

We have been looking forward to this day for the entire year and now it has finally come. It's been two years since we last saw Yaya and when he left we honestly never expected that we would see him again. Travel is difficult; this we know because getting our VISA alone was a serious problem. When he left Yaya told us that we would be invited for his wedding. To my surprise this January I received a letter at my office saying that he was not planning to be married soon, but he said he missed us and that it might be possible to sponsor a trip for Kaddy, the two boys, and myself to visit.

But I am writing too much on this which is now the past. What is important is that we are sitting at Banjul International Airport about to depart for the city of Chicago, America. I don't know exactly what to expect, but travel is always experience and learning. For that I am grateful to Allah, happy, and excited.

Yaya always tried to explain the feeling of a plane as it takes off from a runway. He said there is a feeling in your stomach that is unnatural but exciting. I am excited to feel this for myself.

Sunday 17th October

Why are airplanes so cold? We spent 7 hours from Dakar to Brussels and I was glad the women apprentices on the airplane were handing out warm tea and blankets. Yaya has warned us that Chicago will be very cold when we arrive and I can't imagine if it is much worse than the plane trip. The problem for me was that I could not escape from the cold, we just sit sit sit.

There were plenty of wealthy Senegalese people on the airplane. I think some business traders but mostly they seemed to be traveling to see relatives in the UK or Europe. When I look at the way they dress and their manners I think about the big difference between their lives and what I am familiar with. It seems like they have a much harder time making due with minor troubles or inconveniences. They seemed to be making many requests of the staff but since I don’t understand French I couldn’t understand all they were saying.

We are stopped at the Brussel's airport waiting for our flight to Chicago. I cannot believe how large this place is. Kaddy is a bit beside herself at the speed and size of what is going on at this airport. She doesn't seem to be outwardly showing any problems, but I sense her discomfort. Maybe it is because I am also discomforted but impressed with the size of this place. I worked for 3 years at the Banjul airport, but this place is something different entirely. We are sitting for our plane in a large waiting area. We are surrounded by the morning sun that is coming in the huge round canopy of windows. It’s like being in a big bubble made of a metal skeleton and glass skin. The ceiling must be almost 100 meters high. Buba and Amee are enjoying themselves because on both sides of the bubble they can look out and see not just one or two planes, but an entire fleet of planes. They are close and Buba keeps putting his hand on the glass as if he wants to run out and touch the plane.

We have to wait until 10pm for our flight to Chicago. I think there must be every nationality in this airport now. I'm surprised at how much of an outsider I feel in this environment. Everyone else seems to know where they are going, and I sit and try to understand the variety of everything in this environment.

Evening

I have decided that airports are interesting places to watch people and how they act. People running around from one place to another, some dressed in suits, others alone, some Senegalese in their Kaftans, others in these long coats.

I am anxious to get into an airplane again.

Monday 19th October

Afternoon

What a world this is. As our plane moved through the sky I watched a small television displaying how far we had traveled and what countries we were flying over. I was shocked when I saw Gambia as a small dot on the screen that was about 50 times smaller than the ocean we were crossing. It’s strange to think about how easy we are traveling this distance when at home traveling between Brikama and Basse would probably take longer and be more uncomfortable.

Amee and Buba enjoyed the television also. They got to watch some cartoons like the ones Yaya used to always watch at our compound.

I have a small headache from writing so let me close here.

Evening

We have arrived in Chicago. We were tired from our long journey but I was more than excited to see Yaya again and finally meet his sister that he has told us a lot about.

We were a bit lost to find the area where we would pick up our bags, but a friendly large man helped direct us. His face and body seemed like he had been enjoying too much Saatoe, bread, or meat, but that is something that I have noticed about a lot of the people already: they seem to have been eating very well.

We walked into the area where our bags were and immediately I saw Yaya in the distance with a friendly looking girl with him. That must be his sister I thought. They were both holding a poster board saying, “Welcome!” We left our bags on the belt and went to greet them. I was surprised when he decided to greet us first in Mandinka, I thought he would have forgotten everything by now! His accent was not right but he was still trying. The thing I noticed most is that he definitely looked older. You could tell in his face he had more years on him, but he looked younger as well. I can't describe it but he looked more fresh and more strong than I remember him when he was leaving The Gambia. It was good to see him again anyways.

We met his sister who was more than welcoming and she and Kaddy laughed about how hard it is hard to feel clean and presentable after a plane flight. Some women things I might never understand. I think they will get along well though. Amee and Buba are not used to American names and had trouble saying her name. Muh-lly they would say.

We walked to the garage where Yaya said that we would take a car to his apartment. I wasn't sure what transport would be like here, but I was surprised when we found two cars there for him and his sister. We were able to split everyone up into the two vehicles and drive to his home. Seku, Sarjo, and Yaya always said everyone in America has their own car, but I wasn’t sure of this until I saw for myself. I remember very well Yaya always telling me that back home he could drive and had been doing it for years. Still, I was surprised to see him driving us around.

It is strange to hear everyone referring to Yaya as "Todd." I always knew his American name, but simply never connected the face with the name in every day use. Anyways, it is all fine and I think if he doesn't mind I will continue to call him Yaya.

Tuesday 21 October

Kaddy is nervous about her English but she is doing fine. Still I know she is uncomfortable having to use it all the time. Buba and Amee still haven't gone through enough school to be able to say much in English. I feel a lot of pressure having to be the translator for everything, and my mind is tired after an entire day of speaking English. Still, we are enjoying ourselves and that is only a small disturbance.

The highways here. The highways are wide and fast. Each time we are out I am surprised at how many cars can travel so fast and so close to each other without accidents. Everything moves fast.

Wednesday 22 October

Cold. Horrible cold. This country is more cold than I could have imagined. It rained in the morning and I went with Yaya to put the rubbish in a large bin and I nearly died with the small bits of rain hitting my long sleeve shirt. We had to go to a shop today to buy more jackets and warm clothing for everyone.

At the shop we were trying to purchase the clothes but when it was time to pay Yaya shortly distracted by something. The woman asked me something in a quick voice and accent I couldn't understand at all. I told her “Pardon me, I didn’t get you”, but she gave me a look like I was stupid for not understanding her.

Yaya explained later that she was talking with what he would describe as a southern accent. He said that sometimes people from different parts of the country have trouble understanding each other and it is no problem that I had trouble understanding her. It made me think of Mandinka back home, the Foni Mandinka and Western Division Mandinka. There are differences but even then I think we can usually understand one another?

I think I like the trees here the most. There is a smell to the dying trees that reminds me a bit of the leaves around mango trees at the end of the rainy season, but this is more strong and powerful. Yaya says this is his favorite time of year because of the colours on the trees. I agree with him and we have been taking a lot of pictures of us with trees colored red, yellow, and orange.

Total number of blog entries for 2007: 55

Intended number of blog posts per week: 1

Number of weeks missed: 5

Number of volunteers from the Education Group 2006-2008 that ET’ed or were administratively or medically separated in 2007: 0

Number to date: 2

Number of volunteers from the Education Group 2005-2007 who extended: 2

Number of recreational trips taken outside of The Gambia: 2

Number of recreational trips taken inside of The Gambia: 3

Number of trips inside of The Gambia that were to a previously unvisited village: 1

Perceived level of improvement in effectiveness as a volunteer as compared to 2006: 2.75

Perceived level of improvement in language proficiency as compared to 2006: 1.25

Estimated amount of times called "tubab" by children/teenagers: 5,568

Official population of Brikama in 1983: 19,624

Official population of Brikama in 2003: 88,870

Number of new volunteers within a 1.5 hour bike ride: 7

Number of new volunteers within a 10 minute bike ride: 4

Number of flat tires patched: 6

Number of replaced bicycle tire tubes: 2

Estimated amount spent on mobile phone credit in Gambian Dalasis: 2,860.00

Amount that would represent per month in US Dollars: 11.09

Percentage drop in the US dollar’s value since arriving in country: 28

Number of weeks the majority of banks would not exchange the US dollar due to its volatility: 5

Average amount of dollars spent per week for food, transport, and recreation: 17.45

Percentage chance of consumption of chicken in a given week: 20

Percentage chance of consumption of eggplant in a given week: 85

Percentage chance of consumption of carrot in a given week: 15

Estimated number of books read during the calendar year: 16

Number of books read from July 2006-December 2006: 17

Number of books that received a second reading: 2

New Peace Corps country directors: 1

New groups of Peace Corps volunteers: 3

New computers in my school's lab: 15

Average processor speed of those computers: 650mhz

Average amount in Dalasis for a bean sandwich, peanuts, and popsicle lunch at the school's canteen/market: 7

Amount of time in seconds to pour and tie a 1 Dalasi bag of peanuts: 9

Number of visitors from America: 2

Number of site mates who had visitors from America: 3

Estimated days until my flight to Indianapolis, Indiana: 192

Percentage chance that I will extend for a third year: 5

Percentage chance that I will be a mess of emotions when leaving The Gambia: 100

Estimated time in minutes that will be needed to finish a whole apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream: 3.5

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We will remember 2007 as a year of incredible effort and stress, paired against joy and success that defied description. Truly, it was a year where there was beauty in contrast. 2008 awaits, Happy New Year to friends and family, new and old.

There are things that happen and leave no discernible trace, are not spoken or written of, though it would be very wrong to say that subsequent events go on indifferently, all the same, as though such things had never been.

Two people met, on a hot May day, and never later mentioned their meeting. This is how it was.

From A.S. Byatt - Posession: A Romance

Dear Santa,

This year I believe I have been a good boy, at least as good as I could have been. There are certainly other volunteers who better describe what a “good volunteers” is, but I humbly propose that I fall somewhere on the positive side of that definition. No, I can’t have deep conversations with my community leaders in Mandinka, but I do take a particularly passionate attitude towards my technical work. That should count for some good, right? I suppose ultimately you are judge and jury as to whether or not I’ve been good.

What would be nice for Christmas? Of course there is a whole host of physical goods that I might find nice to grace my little corner of the country, some are even a bit selfless, but they would just be icing on the cake. Let me name them just in case: First and foremost, the whole family compound could do very well with a connection to the national power grid. Sure it would serve entertainment purposes for watching French dubbed versions of Roots on VCD, but it would have other uses as well. With power we could finally turn on Kaddy’s refrigerator which now has to share time with other appliances at her family’s compound. We could also add lights to our showering areas providing the family with an extra layer of security, or we could finally use some stronger wattage light bulbs so that we could read books late into the night without burning our eyes from weak 5W fluorescent bulbs. What other goods would be nice to have? Well my bike’s in rather bad shape, so some spare parts for that, and I can always use new ear plugs for the music of village life, a replacement for my mobile which is coming to the end of its life, some collections of TV show seasons to bring back laughter, oh and don’t forget a new matt to replace the aging and tattered piece that sits in my living room.

Those are all things that would be nice to receive, but what I really want are a few guarantees. I know this isn’t exactly your department, after all how can you put “Happiness” or “Success” in a small box with ribbons and a tag with someone’s name on it? But I figured that if you could give “Holiday Cheer” and “The Spirit of the Season” on TV shows, perhaps you can also gift other abstract ideas.

So here is my real Christmas wish list, asking for a few guarantees. One guarantee that all is well with my family and friends back home, and that in 6 months they will welcome home and understand someone significantly tested and changed. A guarantee that for the remaining months in The Gambia I am able to focus on work, family, and friends which make me happy, and be at peace and like water with those things that bring stress. Thirdly, a guarantee that I find the confidence to be a supportive older volunteer and naturally transform into the roles that entails. Finally, a short term guarantee that I hope you can present a little bit early. Could you please give my stomach, which has become weaker and weaker in recent weeks, strength to heal now and then survive till the end of my service?

We’ll be sure to go to the market and buy sour milk from our favorite Fula seller and NICE brand biscuits from the bitik so that we can leave them out for you on Christmas Eve.

Sincerely,

Todd

p.s. Amee and Buba can’t write very well, but I’m sure they would enjoy some of your famous wooden toy cars, trains, people, or animals. You know, the kind of stuff people would depict you making in the early 20th century.

Tobaski in Gambia 2007. Daboe narrating most of the action.

To my family, I wish I could be back home, but there are things to be done here before my time is over. With care and love, wishing you all a Merry Christmas.

“If you could ask for anything for Christmas, what would it be?” she asked. “Oh, and it can’t be any of that ‘Peace for everyone or a book for every child’ stuff,” she quickly added.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, of course there were a million things that would be nice to have, but after a while in country one becomes content to deal with what they have so all those wishes don’t surface when called upon.

My eyes squinted a bit and shifted down and to the left as they tend to when searching for long hidden information. After taking probably one minute too long to respond, I said, “Well if it was something immaterial, then it would be nice to pick out a lot of favorite PCVs and put them in one place at one time.”

What I failed to grasp was that this already happened the night before at my very own home.

This past weekend my small concrete and wood home was transformed into a Peace Corps Christmas wonderland. Across my entire ceiling was a set of ornaments which gracefully alternated Santa figure - ball - Santa figure - ball. In the entranceway from my living room to my bed room was a large set of bells and ivy, quickly manufactured in a Chinese factory. My small laptop was playing Christmas music fit for a local Wallmart, but despite this was filling the air with sing along voices and holiday cheer. The entire house smelled of cinnamon and sugar, as they were the main ingredients in our holiday drink.

The task for the evening, decorate a small Charlie Brown Christmas tree as best as we could. By the end of the evening the tree was covered with a soft layer of cotton ball snow, a long garland made out of a glittery paper bag, a small matchbox present, old folders turned into gingerbread men, one Christmas star, and a hanging ball ornament created mostly out of a medical glove. It was classic Peace Corps, making the best with what we had, and it was absolutely awesome.

The party was well attended by some of my favorite people from my Education group as well as a number of my site mates. Of course, good company is what makes the holiday season so special and a special thanks and mention for my own memory should be given to all who attended. The day was a Christmas wish right there of our own making. The future was in our hands, uncertain yet promising.

Returning to the conversation with my friend I thought about my dead laptop battery, darkness in my bathroom area, and quickly fading 25 cent candle. At that point I added, “Of course, it would be nice to have current.”

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Next up for big events, Tobaski, which is this upcoming Thursday. Our market is absolutely packed with double the normal amount of creaky wooden stalls and shops selling everything from small bracelets and earrings to large stereos and speakers. Walking through the market I have to twist and turn as if I suddenly had the flexibility of Gumby.

Traditionally families will make a set of clothing in the same style for the holiday, the word used to describe this tradition translates roughly “uniformity.” Daboe, Amee, Buba, and I have already made our outfits, a bright sky blue color, and I hope that pictures will come soon.

I must be dreaming, thought Shadow, alone in the darkness.

I think I just died.

He remembered hearing and believing, as a child, that if you died in your dreams, you would die in real life.

He did not feel dead; he opened his eyes, experimentally.

- Neil Gaiman from American Gods

Buba, barely up to my thigh in height, runs up to me and wraps his arms around my knee. “Yaya, look my mother bought me new shoes!,” he exclaims.

“They look very new Buba. This one here is your new shoe?,” I ask pointing to his right shoe.

“Yes and this one too Yaya, see this one too!,” he smiles pointing to his left shoe, and then he runs off with an enormously wide grin on his face.

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His morning breakfast was an egg sandwich so layered with oil that it seemed to swell out of the sides like a steaming tea kettle ready to burst. He had lost count of how many of these gooey concoctions he had eaten over his term of service.

There was a silence between him and the man he was sitting with, but not an uncomfortable silence, just an indicator to the fact that there wasn’t much else to say on the subject.

After the extended pause he said quietly and with a look of abandonment, “Yeah. I think the day I return home to America, that will be the happiest day of my life so far.”

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He had spent his morning frantically dashing around his office complex assisting the entire staff to print and compile hundreds of documents that were barely complete, proofread, or organized.

The lines under his eyes revealed a stress that had been quickly engraved into his face.

He looked to his American colleague and said, “It just doesn’t make sense, they’ve had months to plan this and still they are unprepared up until the last minute; very stupid.”

It was time for him to think about why he was doing the things he was doing.

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The old chain was pulled, warped, and tattered in such a way that it would make a medieval metallurgist throw up his hands in frustration. The new chain was a fine piece of craftsmanship, but something that one could find at any bike shop back home for $29.99.

The young bicycle repair boy, who must have been under the age of 13, stared at the new chain for a long minute, slowly nodding his head up and down in an approving fashion. He looked back up and exclaimed, “Wow, this, this is a chain!”

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Your first time in any new place is difficult, let alone when it is a place of religious significance. I was happy but admittedly nervous to be invited to our local mosque for the first time, just five city blocks and a few goats, donkeys, and chickens down the road.

When I first entered the mosque I saw one elderly man slowly shake hands and greet everyone inside one by one, while another two equally respectable looking men merely greeted those nearby to where they intended to sitting. I saw this contrast of manners as I took my first steps into the mosque and thought, how am I supposed to infer the culturally appropriate thing to do from that?

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There was life to be lived with the advice given, “Wherever you go and whatever you do, do so without fear but with confidence.”

It was nighttime, and despite the soft glow of the city, the stars were bright and maternally encapsulating.

On the rooftop, he was surrounded by those particular people that he could spend the day with saying nothing, and it would feel like the day had been spent in endlessly engaging conversation.

In spite of these facts, why was there an air of “sehnsucht?”

2007 20th Century Fox Spotlight

Director: Yaya Demba, Previous film credits: Pumpkin Pie

Playing: AMC West, Polaris Center, AMC 16 North

Summary: In a comedy of manners that gives a nod to the novel “Remains of the Day,” an old American expatriate suffers a stroke and is forced to come to terms with the fragility of his age and health. When his younger sister and son come to his home in southern Germany to help his recovery they attempt to convince him a life in America is a safer and happier place to live out his final years. He vehemently refuses and a timeless struggle is played out between the weakening body and freedom of one’s spirit.

Review: Gathering with your extended family this holiday season? Looking for a great family film that everyone can enjoy? Then run like hell away from Who’s Cutting the Turkey. Despite what you might think from the title, this film is one of the most depressing and honest looks at our relationships to our family young and old that I have seen in years.

Following the recovery of Jim (Jürgen Prochnow), an old clock-maker living in Freiburg, the film weaves through triumph and tragedy of recovery. The momentum comes when Jim’s son, Will (Tim Robbins) and younger sister, Mary (Ellen Burstyn), arrive in Freiburg to celebrate Christmas and help him with his recovery process. Upon seeing his condition they try to persuade Jim to come home so that they can keep a closer eye on him. He desperately refuses claiming he will be able to take care of himself and that they can’t take him away from the place where his best years of life were spent. His weakening condition and the time and distance of their homes force the three into a rushed discussion of his future.

The film’s biggest downfall is that it borrows a lot from the plot structure of many foreign films that are becoming increasingly popular. That is, there seems to be an entire lack of plot structure in the traditional sense. The film alternates between the challenging discussions about Jim’s future with more lighthearted excursions of Will and Mary into the town. In this less sensationalized view of the world, the film plays like a documentary of a tragedy that is more relatable to daily life than a Hollywood script. Somewhat frustrating but ultimately more intriguing for the viewer are the numerous points during the film where the characters’ dialogue should come to a firm conclusion, but instead the audience is treated to scene cuts that at first glance seem to offer no clear resolution.

This is a film that is being released during the holiday season, takes place during the holiday season, but will never become a staple of the holiday season. Don’t go to this film with your family, especially if your parents are in the mix. You’re better off seeing any number of the B-rate Christmas films like The Santa Clause 4: The Elves Rock! and going home with a smile on your face than seeing a film that moves you but doesn’t fill you with that holiday cheer. The film is open ended, asks questions that won’t be answered with one viewing, and you will most likely leave the theater with that empty feeling that comes after an emotionally demanding experience. With that in mind, Who’s Cutting the Turkey is a must see for those who enjoy a film that makes a difference and forces one to reexamine their moral codes, and for that reason it might just be the best, worst holiday film this year.

B+

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What do PCVs do to keep their mind off crying babies, skin rashes, and oily rice bowls? They make up movies in their head and like pawns, characters are moved across their imaginary theater stage. Without further ado, here are the thoughts and sketches that are behind the above fake film.

STORY BEATS

The film takes place over the course of the Advent season, roughly two and a half weeks before Christmas. The film opens with snowy and festive scenes of celebrations for of St. Nicholas day. The film cuts to a more bleak and sterile interior of a hospital where Jim awakes under the watchful care of nurses.

Jim has suffered a major stroke immobilizing him. The doctor’s prognosis is that Jim might not fully recover and it would be surprising if he will ever be able to work with his hands or move freely around town again. The doctor claims that the first three weeks of the recovery process are critical and Jim’s progress during this time will allow him to make a more accurate prognosis.

Upon hearing the news Jim’s son and younger sister rush to Freiburg to meet him and help him with recovery. They meet him on the first day that he is able to make slight movements to his body.

The film follows Jim’s recovery process as the family tries to bond together through adversity and celebrate Christmas as a cheerful celebration of life and togetherness.

Throughout the initial days Jim shows much progress and he is able to move around his bed and eat slowly by the time Will and Mary have gotten their bearings in Freiburg. He goes home in a wheel chair, but once he returns home his recovery is stunted and it remains unclear whether or not he will make any more progress.

The fragility of his condition prompts Will and Mary to begin talks of Jim’s return to America so that they can keep a better watch on him.

The coming of Will’s family exposes Jim’s weakened state as he is unable to even get out of his chair and hug his family. As the film moves on the discussions between Jim, Will, and Mary about his return becoming increasingly heated. In the end Will is forced to make a statement, “Dad. You can barely lock your door, turn on a stove, or brush your teeth. What do you want me to say? If you stay here alone we’re all going to be worried sick. If you aren’t going to get any better then you’ll have to come home.”

Jim makes further progress regaining some motor skills in his body but there is great effort displayed in the simplest of tasks like brushing his teeth or using a phone. The doctor reluctantly informs the family a few days before Christmas that Jim’s progress seems to be plateauing and it is unlikely he will be able to take care of himself.

The film comes to a close during the Christmas dinner. Jim thanks his family for coming together under such stressful conditions. Thanks God for a good life and painfully picks up knife and fork and cuts the turkey. It is unclear from the contrasts of his words and actions if he intends to return to America or despite the family’s plea, stay and fight on.

If he decides to stay it means that this is the last time they could all be together.

SETTING

Freiburg:The historic city is southern Germany’s Black Forest region, the city has roughly 220,000 residents and is best known for the Albert Ludwig University, one of the oldest in Germany dating from 1457. In the middle ages the city remained catholic and remained against the reformation. The city sits in the bottom of a hill valley and is surrounded by wooded rolling hills on all size. The city invests heavily in green technology. The city center holds the Münster, the city’s cathedral started in 1200, as well as the city marketplace which is a popular tourist destination. The city serves as a starting point for many tourists wishing to see the Black Forest region and is well known for its wood carving, particularly the cuckoo clock, which is said to have had its start here.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

These characters don’t like to move much physically or mentally, they are stubborn.

Traditionally the three do not see each other due to logistics.

Jim Meyer: The film begins with him suffering a massive stroke. He is treated at the medical facilities in his city of Freiburg in south western Germany. His health has forced him to choose between going home to America and staying where routine makes life simple for an old man. The repetition is medicine for the numbness of losing his wife, structure where there is otherwise a missing half. Became a (cuckoo) clockmaker famous to the region during his final period of stay in Freiburg. Married a native of Freiburg after meeting her while studying abroad. Born in 1936, visited Freiburg first as a student in 1957 as a Junior in college.

He married Eva, (b. 1939 Freiburg) who grew up in the ashes of post war Germany. As it struggled to rebuild her father taught music at the Freiburg Musik Universität, mother stayed at home. Growing up Eva grew up with a Germany that was trying to find something to be proud of and found that in it’s natural beauty, typified by the Southern Germany foothills as well as Austrian alps. At the age of 18 she was already working as a secretary for a small tourism company in Freiburg, at this point she met Jim who was then an exchange student at the University.

Jim married Eva and lived happily in Germany working with Eva in the tourism industry which took them around southern Germany. Jim picked up an interest in woodcarving, particularly the famous cuckoo clock style of the Black Forest region, and quickly excelled at the art. Eva’s parents died at an early age (in 1959 - Father and 1964 - Mother) and she was an only child, leaving no extended family in Germany. Jim loved Germany but thought their children should grow up in America because it would offer long term benefits on an international level. Jim also believed that America was the glory of the world after rebuilding Europe. He felt strongly that his son, William, should have a US education as well as get to know an extended family which only existed in America. Eva reluctantly agreed but did admit that she wanted to see and understand America at some point in her life, so took the move as temporary. They left in 1965 when their only son, William, was to be born in Jim’s home city of Philadelphia. There Jim lived a modest life running a small arts and crafts shop doing some small import and export business with Germany. His wife helped out and together they made a simple living until 1987 when they moved back to Freiburg because William was finished with college and Eva had become increasingly homesick.

Once back in Germany Eva began teaching in the local elementary school, specializing in English instruction. Jim went to work for a number of companies including numerous restaurants and travel agencies but finally felt the urge to get back to wood carving. In 1998 he joined a small woodworking and crafts shop just outside of the Freiburg’s main market specializing in cuckoo clocks. The old man of the shop he was in charge of adding detail and finishing works to be sold mostly to tourists.

Eva died in 2005 at the age of 66 and seemingly fair health. This rocked Jim who continued working heartlessly for 6 months and then suddenly quit claiming increasing depression. Going into retirement at the age of 71 he was well over the retirement age. He spends much of his days in routine. He is the old man who wanders the city taking a morning walk, buying his afternoon fruits and vegetables from the market, cooking lunch, watching TV, reading a book, and going to sleep after some tea. He lives for his Sundays Saturdays when he still goes out to the local market where he sells and trades wooden goods and chats with the young students and citizens of the city. He feels the end coming and never found a way to replace Eva.

He wants to remain in Germany because it is the place where his dreams for a beautiful wife and life became a reality. The image of a perfect life is glorified and frozen in a single state of mind, and as the end draws near he doesn’t want to die with that as a mere memory, but as a living image that surrounds him.

JIm’s younger sister, Mary Benjamin (Age 62), has three children, husband deceased the year before. Lives outside of Richmond, Virginia where she has spent her entire life. Is horrified at the thought of her own aging and is beginning to live life as if tomorrow were her last day. While she is careless with her own body, Jim’s health seems to be of major concern and she feels her brother should come home because a man should not spend his last days dying alone and far away from family. She has discovered all sorts of new ways to live life and doesn’t want him stuffed up in this old tired place that is all about history rather than moving forward. She hosts alcoholic dinner parties where she always takes one sip too many, drives a convertible at faster speeds than her reaction time can allow, is developing a weight problem from indulgent eating, and is constantly in financial trouble from living in luxury (despite what should have been a big insurance gain from her husband’s death). Her husband’s death left her with a spiritual hole that she is trying to fill with a hunger for material pleasures.

She wants to convince Jim that he should go home because it would make her mentally feel like she’s been a good sister. She would tell him how to live a more full life and where to go do it, just like she is doing. However, she is unwilling to offer much financial or social support because it would hinder her carefree life style. She is something of the classic and ignorant American who believes that the American way is the only way to get things done and the best possible way there could be.

William Meyer (Age 42), Jim’s son: Bewildered at his lack of influence on his father he plays serves as a sort of translator for the audience asking questions and pleading for “logic,” when he has no way of really understanding what aging is like.

The son loves the idea of Germany as his heritage but feels deeply American and sees Germans as “foreigners” rather than family. Is opposite of his mother and father who were talkers and socializers, he is more introverted and calculating. Created a life for himself in America with his wife (Katy) and two children (Claire, Rachel) in Philadelphia as the manager of a local beer brewing company. Isn’t angry with his parents for a modest and sometimes financially poor childhood but firmly remembers the harder times and demands economic stability for his own family.

Finds devotion to one thing a great virtue. He is a determined business man who divides his time for maximum efficiency. When around his family he is always up for a jolly time but when it is time for work he is by the books and focused. He seldom mixes the two.

Is now financially well off due to expansion of the brewing company throughout the East Coast. He achieved his position by brute force of good schooling, slaving away at the lower levels of the workforce, and once in the position, marketing the brewing company tactfully and strategically. Has stayed on with the same company for most of his career.

He is coming to terms with the last good years of his youthful adulthood and the transition into the maturity of adulthood. He has two children, two girls both in school age 15 and 12 and it will soon be time for him to become a friend and mentor to them rather than an regulator of rules and punishments.

His father’s stroke awoke a new sense of emergency in him. With his mother he was not prepared for her death and suffered greatly. Sees his father’s stroke as a warning that he needs to act now before it’s too late. Subconsciously wants his father in a place where there is constant surveillance and in a place where he can check in every once in a while. Like Mary is unable to see himself making a larger commitment to helping his father on a daily basis.

Will has spent most of his life in America with only short summer trips to Germany, his German is far from perfect and many of the interactions are a struggle, especially as he is expected to baby his Aunt Mary around.

“For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.”

Note: This past weekend was filled with events including Thanksgiving, Peace Corps Gambia’s 40th Anniversary of uninterrupted service, and a very productive All Volunteer meeting. To get a good general view of what this entailed, check some of the Blog links to the right over the coming weeks (Or the master list, especially good reads will probably come from still energetic and chipper first year volunteers' Blogs).

I’ve mentioned before that there are times when it feels like I’m three different people. One person resembles how I was in the months leading up to departure, the other who I am as a member of my community, and lastly who I am in the bubble of Gambia PCVs. It’s rare to see the three of these combine into one greater whole, but hey if those evil construction Transformers could do it, why can’t any of us?

* One *

I have a buddy named Marc who my good friend Patrick (Hope all is well in Chicago...) introduced me to our last year of college. Marc was an exchange student from just outside of Munich and he always seemed up for seeing how far we could push American cultural norms. I remember one of his last nights before he returned home was one of those bitter cold winter nights that cries out for a warm log fire, hot chocolate, wool blankets, and the company of good friends. However, being college students, we were of course out getting drunk. For once we weren’t partaking in price to performance drinking consisting of guzzling trouble sold in square packs of 30 cans, we were instead being civilized and drinking in style. We were having a fine time at a “dress to impress” themed party and I think we had done rather well for ourselves in a solid set of suits made for far more important situations. As time wore on Marc began to feel like on his last night he should get out and see more, do more. He wanted to go out to the bars. But Bloomington bars are often filled with beer spilling, rude, undergrads dressed in anything from stuff that’s been sitting under the “to clean” pile for months to carbon copies of twenty-something magazine advertisements. We would stand out a bit in business suits. Unfortunately with the frigid temperatures it was too far to walk back and change, so Marc looked over at me and said, “Oh hell, let’s just go like this. We’ll have some fun with it and say that you just got out of a business dinner/interview for a German exchange program. You were accepted on the spot and we decided to just go celebrate right away.”

You know, that’s not such a bad idea I thought. Let’s do this thing after all, why not. I miss this sense of confidence towards the accidental and unplanned.

* Two *

Daboe and I were in the market the other day getting our clothes for Tobaski tailored. Tobaski is an important holiday in Gambia and the common practice is to get new clothes made and often families will get something made together so the whole family is wearing the same style clothing when they go to prayers.

Daboe and I had been bartering with the tailor who wanted us to have all our the measurements taken within the next couple of days otherwise he would become to busy with other work. Daboe and I realized that both of our schedules were going to be extremely busy and we had no time to bring the children, Amee (Age 7) and Buba (Age 2) to the tailor for measuring. I remembered that maybe there was a small portion of time when I was free and openly announced it thinking that maybe Daboe would be able to find time off work or know if Kaddy would be free to come with me. However, upon hearing my statement the tailor quickly said, “Oh well then great. Yaya at that time you will come with the two children and I can measure them then.”

Daboe and I gave a look to each other that for about a millisecond displayed a concession that this was our only choice in order to to get the clothes done. In the second millisecond our faces immediately switched to distinct looks of, “I know Yaya is integrated with the family but there is no way he’s going to be able to bring two children into the heart of a bustling urban market.” We held that glare for another second then Daboe looked back to the tailor and said, “We’re going to have to get back to you.”

These relationships and moments are what I like best about site.

*Three *

After our 40th Anniversary celebration the local brewing company agreed to host a small gathering for Peace Corps volunteers at their headquarters in the Kombo area. After 17 months in country Jul Brew tastes delicious but it might be better described to the reader back home with the description Jacob gave it on his trip to The Gambia. “Drinkable,” I think was the adjective he used. Jul Brew comes in a bottle that has a green color that for whatever reason reminds me of recycling. We were treated to two large refrigerators of recycling colored goodness hosted under a small patio area, filled with public park style tables, lit with fluorescent lights, and completed with music from a small portable speaker system connected to an iPod. There are small shrubs and bushes that surround the patio area and the factory is far enough away from the main road that you don’t hear too much highway traffic. I always got the feeling that the owner wanted it to at least somewhat resemble a small beer garden.

I miss people from my Education group and this was the last time I would see most of them until our Close of Service conference in May of 2008 (Shortly after which we will start to go home, one by one). I have a renewed sense of caring for these people and desire to strengthen friendships with them while we still have the chance. They became my focus for the evening, one in which many people were able to mingle and greet all, and for better or worse I held a mental checklist for my group specifically and tried to stick to just that small snippet of the great PCV population.

Somewhat brutally honest but our time and choices are limited. The pay off is that since group mates are most often the people one knows best, even small chats can bring you rather far in the relationship. I appreciate more and more the good people that they are and how close we’ve come.

* Transformers? *

For our 40th Anniversary Commemoration a few people in my region gathered to put together a theme for our outfits that we would wear to the event. Usually volunteers will do something like this for Peace Corps meetings but the designs will usually be more simple or traditional. But because this was the 40th Anniversary I think we all wanted to take it to that next level. A number of my site mates and I went to work and searched our market for something that would represent us as a region. We found a great blue fabric with forks and spoons scattered throughout, symbolizing not only our unquestionable cool factor but also that we don’t eat with our hands like the upcountry folk (Or as popular misconception might place on them). We all went to our respective tailors to turn the fabric into something great. I smiled and laughed for a long time when I decided to try and turn our burning blue fabric, accented with neon green forks and spoons, into an American style sports coat. In the end five of us showed up to our Anniversary decked out in some of the best outfits I’ve seen in my year and half here (No bias of course). There two classy professional business outfits and three incredible dresses that could probably even be used back home. Hopefully I’ll be able to track down some photos of the outfits soon.

This combination of people is what brings out the most happiness in my life.

MUSIC FADE IN “MULL OF KINTYRE” P. MCCARTNEY

Episode #319: From WFMB in Brikama this is a special international edition of This American life. Today we’re talking with a number of people who come from a large but often quiet segment of the US population, Peace Corps volunteers. We’re here in The Gambia because this week the country is celebrating it’s 40th Anniversary of Peace Corps cooperation.

Our show today in four acts, chronicling 40 years of impact the Peace Corps has had in this small West African country, past, present, and future.

... ... ...

MUSIC FADE IN “IT NEVER ENTERED MY MIND” -M. DAVIS

> NARRATOR:

Act 3: What are we doing here?

Helping change lives is all well and good, but what happens when a development agency stays in one place for too long? Should there be a count down timer that alarms as if to say, “Sorry but your time is up. Get out or else?”

As the current volunteers gathered for the anniversary we spoke with a number of volunteers who brought up these issues. What inner revelations and tranquility would be hiding in these people? Most of them seemed to be justifying their experience with a larger picture greater good.

Surprisingly we found that while most volunteers were highly opinionated on this topic, when prompted to simply talk about their experience the much more everyday was what came up first and foremost. That is to say, life goes on, no matter where the location.

SFX COWS, ROOSTERS, AND A LARGE GROUP OF WOMEN CHATTING LOUDLY

> DAVID:

Sorry about my home being a mess. The past few days I’ve been a bit under the weather.

> NARRATOR:

So go ahead and define under the weather for us.

> DAVID:

(Laughing) Well, I’ve spent the past four days getting rid of every last bit of food and water in my system. I’ve become very close with my pit latrine.

Health gets a bit tricky when you’re all the way out here. I live about 75km inland and about 15km from the main highway. It’s a pretty rural community that survives mostly on simple crops and selling cows’ milk.

If you did a Google search on Gambia you’d probably get some semblance of my surroundings. It’s pretty remote here. It’s a bit hard to accurately describe to someone who’s never been this far out. It’s hard to describe sensing personalities of large cattle,stars which actually twinkle, or the slowness of watching growing cassava or corn.

> NARRATOR:

This is the sort of world that many people envision when they join the Peace Corps. A rural, simple, and distanced lifestyle free of all distractions of American life. The ideal picture as David puts it. However, what happens when you need that connection with the world? What about those times when you are “a bit under the weather?”

SFX PRAYER CALLS, MORE ROOSTERS, CHILDREN CRYING, POUNDING BLOCKS

> DAVID:

I think the worst aspect of the past few days has been dealing with all those little things about life here that usually don’t bother me. We’re trained to put up with a lot of cultural differences and after a while they start being more like cultural norms.

But when you are sick all you can think about is what is hurting and why. You start to go a bit crazy and knowing that you’re this far out, you just have to take it. Any trip that would be worth your time in terms of medical attention is too difficult and too draining to even consider.

It began right as the first prayer call was being sounded around 5:30 in the morning. I woke up with an acing stomach and a pounding headache and my body automatically went in a b-line towards my pit latrine.

(SIGHS AND PAUSE) I was probably there a good hour or so when I finally crawled back into my house and collapsed onto the concrete floor. I think I was praying for any sign of improvement when there came a banging at my door.

SFX BANGING ON TIN DOOR FRAME

It was my host mother wondering what was the matter. I hadn’t opened my front door yet, and that caused my host family to worry. Usually I’m up early and out the door for breakfast, a run, or to go to the market. Something gets me up and out.

SFX BANGING ON DOOR LOUDER

So there I was lying prostrate on my floor sweating and in a haze. Your body just gets worthless when you’ve lost so much fluid in a short period of time. And, the thing is, I usually love my family’s sense of care and urgency for my well being. It’s just hard to appreciate that care when you’ve got a million woodpeckers chipping away at your head.

I remember at this point trying to stand but about halfway up I felt more food coming up so I did a sort of controlled fall down on all fours. (PAUSE) Looking back I wish I had a picture of it. I crawled like a baby to my door and just like a house pet sort of clawed my hand at the door handle.

SFX DOOR OPENING

I fell down on my back and rolled over like an oaf. My door swung open on its own gravity and there was a rush of light that burned my eyes a bit. There was my host mother standing in my doorstep with a concerned look on her face. She loudly asked, “Ousman, you are sick?”

> NARRATOR:

And at this point did you even have the strength to respond to that question?

> DAVID:

Well what you have to understand is that here it’s perfectly fine to state an obvious fact. Sp I’m still not really sure if she was just stating the obvious and I didn’t need to reply or if she was asking the question, but I’m sure I looked the pretty messed up. Just in case I did the universal sign of sickness: groaning and nodding. But the extra motion caused a bit more food to make its way up.

I closed my eyes and heard her say that she was going to help me fetch water. That’s about the last thing I remember for a while. I think that must have been when I passed out.

> NARRATOR:

Far away from any medical help David was pretty much stuck to get better the all natural way. At this point he’s strewn out right next to his front door, he’s dehydrated, he’s sweating and still losing water, he’s suffering from a migraine headache, and he’s in and out of consciousness. But life indeed does go on.

SFX PEOPLE WALKING SLOWLY TOWARDS MIC. MORE POUNDING AT DOOR

> DAVID:

I don’t know how long I was asleep but I was woke up with a rush of lightheadedness and by the most pleasing sound in the world: Banging fists on metal and people yelling your name.

My coworkers from the local clinic had heard the word that I was sick and were coming to check in on me. “OUSMAN, OUSMAN,” they yelled despite the fact that they were standing right in front of me. There’s something about the internal volume here that always seems turned up to about 105 decibels. “OUSMAN, OUSMAN, HOW IS IT MAN? YOU OK?”

I told them I was feeling “sick small” and I did a weak smile trying to say thanks and please I can’t really translate anything more than that right now. There was a pause. It was long enough that I thought I would fall back into my haze and maybe just maybe find more peace and less pain.

(SHORT PAUSE)

“THAT’S FINE. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING BETTER...

... SO YOU ALRIGHT, EH?”

... ... ...

Please listen to the original This American Life if you haven’t already. This rushed reproduction doesn’t do it justice. It might turn into the highlight of your week and comes in handy Podcast and/or Broadcast form.

Why does this week’s post seem meandering and out of focus? It was written in bursts and I mostly wrote what first came to mind, sort of like an interview should be. We’re also preparing for our Peace Corps Gambia 40th anniversary celebration, Thanksgiving, an all volunteer meeting, and of course I’m busy with work. I wanted to write up a much more detailed “Movie Review” of a fake movie that is brewing in my head (See the “Pumpkin Pie” post from last Thanksgiving). Last year the movie review proved to be so much fun and a creative challenge that I had to give it another go. Blog intertextuality rules, more to come.

Delegates met to discuss gender issues and the future of African YMCAsThe week of November 5th through 9th the author spent with the crew of the YMCA Digital Studio recording the Africa Alliance of YMCAs 30th Anniversary celebration and gender workshop. The even was set in an overtone of pride in prolonged unity. The following are excerpts from moments that exemplified this impression on the author.

Photo Credit: Daniel Anundi, YMCA Digital Studio

In a continent where long distance travel often conjures up images of an epic adventure into the unknown, small miracles do happen. The 2007 African Alliance of YMCAs 30th Anniversary conference and gender workshop was able to bring together representatives from 15 African nations from Ethiopia to Zambia as well as representatives from four other nations as different as Norway and Bangladesh.

A group singing to a Nigerian song.It is a curious consequence of history that these people from thousands of miles apart would be able to communicate with one another so well. Hold overs of the colonial era, the majority of the delegates had a commonality of English with translations in French provided for key meetings and lectures. However, it was not these Western languages that brought the range of people together with a common message, it was their music. Unity from music not only in the way that the Swahili or Wolof words created weight and form to the songs, but also in the tone, sway, feeling, and joy of the music that so many find this continent is rich with. I would see someone from Madagascar emphatically singing along to a Sierra Leonean song and I knew something must be right in the world. Listening to the music helped me redefine what unity as an idea or emotive quality can aspire to be.

The representatives were also unified religiously by a common belief in Jesus Christ. Those hailing from predominantly Muslim countries showed a particularly strong devotion. Their separation from mainstream society ties their mentality to the quintessential Christian figure, the martyr. Not that these people are actively persecuted against, but they are masked under the shadow of a cultural giant and their minority in society engages them as modern representatives of their savior.

Through the languages, musical connections, and religious unity the week was filled with genuine debate over how to move forward with the African Alliance of YMCAs as well as better integrate women in the organization.

Perhaps most encouraging from these debates was a shared feeling of faith that progress will happen once Africans have the confidence to put the future in their own hands (uncertain yet promising). From many of the representatives that hail from countries that have made significant progress in the last generation (South Africa as perhaps the best example of this), the desire and burning for a better future was clear. Their hard word, mixed with a little bit of luck, was bringing about visible change that they proclaimed through a patriotism and hope for their country that is utterly devoid from my generation of Americans. As we grow we must come to realize that we owe it to our home to create the conditions that foster a similar pride.

The author presenting the Digital Studio to delegates.The warm and forward moving atmosphere of the conference also fell upon the crew of the Digital Studio. Never before had the crew undertook a week long on location shoot, nor sorted through dozens of hours of footage, or feverishly worked to meet a deadline for one final edit, but none of the crew broke with professionalism or dedication to the work at hand. During the week I saw the crew come of age before my eyes and I couldn’t be more proud of the work they accomplished. The long hours brought us together as only intensely stressful situations can, and I think I will remember the jokes, expressions, and quieter moments for the rest of my life. We were a team.

With so many voices, ideas, and beliefs being offered it is amazing that the resulting mix was harmonic. But with the right set of people in the right place and time, miracles of unity can happen.