Below is a final tribute to Paabi...one of my favorite kids in my host family. This is a brief retelling of what I experienced the morning I said goodbye to my host family and village...

My things of two years passed are smooshed into the front room of my comfortable house. All linens are stripped from the bed, books stacked in boxes, and my belongings strategically packed into two bags and two trunks. Items are organized to be donated to other PCVs who requested them or the famous 'PC free pile' at the transit house. The 'stuff' that's coming with me were pushed against the far wall; the items, like worn, but still good, buckets and clothing, were placed on the other side of the room. Those items were to be left for my family. Early in the morning, I gave explicit instructions to my host mothers (3) and host uncle that they are to divide the items accordingly only once I've left the village. I did not give them much because I did not have that much to give, nor did I want them to expect anything from the next PCV who would be coming there next year. If there's anything I've learned these past two years, giving hand outs does not solve problems.

The PC driver, who's also a close friend, arrived 15 minutes earlier than he originally told me. He ordered the young, teenage boys to help him carry my belongings out to the truck. As we were loading items into the truck, Paabi, the 4 year old who I've watched 'grow-up' for the past 2 years, stood behind the open doors of the truck, with his mouth wide-open. His expression doesn't really strike me as odd as he's had this expression on his face for the entire two years I've been living in the compound. It's the epitome of Paabi---either his mouth is wide-open or he's dancing (with or without music).

However, as I looked down at him, merely trying to determine if he really knew what was going on (in that I was leaving...permanently), I realized that Paabi decided to give me a send off I wouldn't forget. Paabi, who's infamous for parading around the compound before bath time in the buff, decided to not put on any pants that morning. There he stood, with no pants, t-shirt on backwards, and face unwashed, staring blankly at my stuff disappearing into the back of the truck. I looked down at him and started laughing...

In Mandinka, I said---

'Paabi...Where are your pants?'

Blank stare.

'Paabi...where are your pants? Your wife (me) is returning home today, and you can't even put on your pants?'

Blank stare...near muttering of words as indicated by lips moving. However, no sound emerges...

'Paabi...I'm leaving in a few minutes, and if you want to join me (jokingly...we always joked I would take him back to America), you really need to wear your pants. You won't be able to enter the plane because you're not civilized.'

Blank stare, slightly bigger eyes, drool begins to fall from the corners of his mouth...at this point, Paabi's mother, Fana, yells at him to go and put his pants on. She, too, then tells him he's uncivilized. He hears her, but doesn't move and remains expressionless. She finally gets up from where she's sitting and drags him, with his mouth still wide-open, into the house.

A few minutes later, the truck is all packed, the doors are shut, and my host uncle gathers the family around the sitting area outside. Some neighbors (my friends and counterparts) are arrived to see me off. We sat my host uncle offered me prayers of thanks and for safe travels. I cried briefly, but not hysterically. My one host mother quietly cried, and a few others wiped their eyes, while mouthing to me 'Don't cry.' We said 'Amen'. And I shook hands, ran in my host mother's house to give goodbye kisses to Mero and Buba, two kids that were still sleeping, and hopped into the truck. As I hopped up into the passenger seat, Paabi stood by the passenger side door, in pants, with the blank stare still upon his face. His wife was really going.

I didn't take any pictures of my goodbye that morning as I wanted it to remain as a memory in my mind. I'd like to think that Paabi kept his mouth wide-open that morning as his way of absorbing or even capturing the last few moments of this 'stranger' in his compound. Perhaps his mouth was like the shutter of a camera, with the exposure setting left open just a little too long to capture all that he could, while he was able...

I miss you, Paabi...my dancing, no pants, little man.

And you hunger for the time...

Time to heal, desire, time....

And your earth moves beneath your own dream landscape...

Oh don't sorrow, no don't weep...

For tonight, at last I am coming home...I am coming home.

-A Sort of Homecoming, The Unforgettable Fire

On Saturday, April 4, I left my village, my home, for the past two years. Leading up to my departure, I had a month and a half of overwhelming emotions, frustrations, ups and downs, joys, and annoyances. Overall, though, I expected the worst and hoped for the best. I learned to be flexible and make the most of the moment. These 'mantras' helped me leave my host family and villagers after two years without too many tears and a feeling of contentment. I accomplished something, not necessarily anything large scale or even noteworthy to scrutinizers, but I achieved a lot in the sense of self-discovery and self-awareness. I am still the same 'Steph' that left the U.S. 26 months ago. I am the same merely because my traits that brought me to The Gambia, fundamentally, have not changed. I am still curious, compassionate, hardworking, and dedicated, but I am more assertive than I once was. I have the ability to speak up for myself and others. I am a bit more realistic, yet still remain optimistic. And maybe I'm just a little bit bolder and dare I say, brighter...

Leaving site was like, for lack of a better term, tearing off a Band-Aid. It was quick and painful for a mere second, and in hindsight, somewhat uneventful. It was better that way. I had no party, no program. I wanted to slip away, quietly. I told those that were close to me when I was leaving and made sure we said our goodbyes earlier in the week. I spent time with people, took pictures (check out the links), and just enjoyed people's company for one last time. Goodbyes are terrible in America, but they're worse here...either dramatic or emotionless.

Due to last minute medical clearances and prioritizing time with PC friends before my final departure from The Gambia (and a quick vacation to Spain), I'm now completing this blog post after being home for a little over a week. I am very glad to be back in America, but admittedly, I miss my Peace Corps friends and the kids from my host family. Readjustment will take some time, but I'm determined to enjoy all those 'things' I've missed for two years, while I try to figure out what's in store for the future...

Thank you, everyone, for your support and your interest these past years. Both have made a world of difference to me as I've walked through this journey.

Returning to The Gambia

So it's been a while since I posted, and it turns out, I'm back in The Gambia. I've been back for about 1 month now and quite honestly it feels as though my visit home was forever ago (possible reasons for that detailed later). I was excited to be coming back to The Gambia for I felt like I wasn't quite finished here yet. After a long, sleepless flight from New York to Dakar, and another dusty, yet speedy car trip from Dakar to Banjul, I returned to 'my home'. Sadly though, despite a fairly flawless trip to and from America, I knew I returned to The Gambia as soon as I walked across the border from Senegal to The Gambia. If it weren't for the shouts of small children exclaiming 'toubab! give me pen!' or a government official bothering me instead of doing his job, I would have thought I was still in Senegal. Thankfully, I kept my cool during my 20 minute taxi ride and 45 minute ferry ride because I wanted to be happy when I was picked up by a few of the people I missed most while I was home.

After a short time re-readjusting to The Gambia, via visiting a reptile farm with fellow PCVs' high school current events group and eating some very fancy cuisine at some top restaurants, I headed back to site. I was near tears as I wandered into my compound. The kids turned and cheered as I stepped through the space of the non-existent gate and grabbed by bags. It felt good to be back.

Later in the day, I made sure to greet all my family members who were not present when I arrived. And after I just sat with some of the teenage girls. Admittedly, it was weird, not because I felt uncomfortable, but because I realized I had just re-entered a life so different from the place I just came from (America). And for the first time in a long time, I realized how humbling life really is here.

After an hour of sitting and chatting, my host father awoke from his afternoon nap. My host mothers called me into his house for me to greet him. I tried, but the old, frail man was incoherent. Sitting up, he tried to talk to his wives' and to this day I have no idea if he even realized I was home. He'd open his mouth and gurgled. 'Gosh,' I thought to myself, 'he's not going to make it this time.' I'm not a doctor, but it was apparent, he was dying of pneumonia. The next morning, my host father BaAlaghie Saikou Fatty, died. I was sullen and my compound was sad, yet loud thanks to intermittent wailing when a new mourner arrived. BaAlaghie lived a good, long life for someone who's life expectancy is approximately 55 years old in this country. My host father was at least 75. May he rest in peace.

Re-readjustment

Admittedly, returning to my host father's death was not quite the welcome back I had expected, although I've always had in the back of mind that he could possibly pass away during my service here. My family compound is complex and is comprised of two separate families, that do not necessarily live peacefully together. However, there usually is no arguing, but it is more passive-aggressive behavior that indicates tension within the compound. After my host's death, my host uncle became head of the compound. And based on cultural and religious practices, one is to not do anything without notifying the compound head. This became a problem when I had to pay my January food money to my host (formerly my host father). Unfortunately, I got caught in the middle, but after much advising by Peace Corps' language and cultural trainers (thank you!), I managed to uphold an agreement and follow the appropriate cultural customs without ruffling any feathers (that I know of). And I'm still very impressed with how kind and diplomatic my host uncle remained during the whole situation. He's one of my favorite men here.

Even though I was not close with my host father, his absence is felt at the compound. My host mothers are still in their 40 day mourning period. But oddly enough, right after his death, the family seemed somewhat relieved. Perhaps they were celebrating his life and felt he was now in a better place. They were able to see family from all over the country and even the world, as my host brother working in Spain flew home for the funeral and to take care of compound business. Needless to say, I didn't handle the mourning process very well. My family is Muslim; I am not. For Americans, death is something that is held close and is private and personal; for Gambians, it is private and personal as well, but theirs consists of a cultural practice of wailing that can make you doubt one's sincerity during the mourning process. I'm not saying it is wrong, but just different and quite jarring when it happens in front of you. It was a tough time.

Close of Service Conference

Amidst all the chaos in my compound, I left my village a mere five days after returning to attend my Close of Service Conference with 14 of my fellow training group members. On that cold day in Washington, DC in late January 2007, we started with 21 people; there are now 15 of us remaining. What can I say...Peace Corps is a challenge and for those that left early, for whatever reason, they gave it a whirl, and that's a pretty big deal right there. (You were all missed at the conference.)

Anyway, the Close of Service Conference was to assist us in reviewing our service and accomplishments and to begin resume writing and post-Peace Corps plans. It was a great conference and it was wonderful to catch up with group members and talk about the future.

Frustrations in Village

After the end of the conference, I returned to village, to find that the stresses I left at my compound had not yet been resolved. However, after a few sleepless nights at site, they were and I could move forward with my work. Progress on the women's garden has been phenomenal and even more so that they took initiative to finish the project during my absence. However, it was the little things, like organizing a work day without notifying me, or telling me that my presence is requested to help build the garden gate, when I was just about to go for my evening run. Or having a difficult time reading the expressionless faces of some members (not all) of my host family when I presented them with my traveling gifts from America. Or when one of the girls I mentored asked if I brought everyone a mobile. Or lending my bucket, knife, cups, and bowls in a time of need only for them to be returned to me (with my asking for their whereabouts) broken or cracked or not clean. Or a trusted counterpart being fired for eating money that was to be used to buy supplies for the clinic. Or just feeling like I've been taken for granted.

Turning the Page

Alas, however, I got over it. I'll always have a few doubts about my service, role, and purpose here, but I'm still a big proponent that I've made an impact on a handful of people here, who do respect me, honor me, and trust me. And for me that is enough for I have grown and matured and perhaps become a bit more realistic about the world and its challenges, but they're all part of what makes us tick. So I'll just keep on ticking, making the most of it while I can...

Paabi's Dancing...Again!

-The Strangers Have Come-The Village Welcomes My Family

(I was walking backwards while trying to film...obviously, I have no future as a cinematographer.)

A taste...

Of what it's like on the road to Dakar, Senegal

Amadou Hops

Baby Paabi Dances-May 2007

(sorry, I recorded it with my camera being held vertically...oops).

Paabi Plays It Up for the Camera

Many people have asked, how does it feel to be back home?

It feels wonderful, comfortable, and so familiar, but at the same time, it feels as though I'm looking through a window, and doing just that: looking through a window at a world that I'm not quite a part of. I don't feel this way because I feel unwelcomed, but instead, I've been realizing I have a life here and a life in The Gambia, and I just haven't quite figured out how to have the two of them merge. When will I no longer look through that window, but when will I open it and let the two worlds collide? I have a feeling I won't for a while, but oh, how exciting to think about the possibilities!

As many of you know, I'm currently home in America, and my primary reason for coming home was to help celebrate my Grandma turning 100! There was a nice party, full of catching up, laughter, and even some tears. Not only was it amazing to spend such a day with my Grandmother, but it was wonderful to see and reconnect with so many relatives. Although the time with the extended family was short, it was just what I needed---a time to hear the latest family news, see how big the cousins' children have grown, and more personally, to flush out 2 years of my life and to reflect.

It was big news, knowing that the niece, or the cousin, or the granddaughter (depending on who was talking to whom) came 'all the way from Africa' to join in on the festivities of such a joyous day. I was asked the same questions, in different forms, with different accents, and despite the 'interviewer's' concerns, I honestly didn't get too tired of answering (maybe they got too tired of listening). And at times, I found myself saying things over and over again, but rather than it be redundant (to me), it was reaffirming. An affirmation that I lived to tell about my crazy two years of living in the middle of the African bush...no, no...just kidding. Seriously, my dialogue reminded me, that this whole experience, this 2 year life, will never be just that, but it is something that will be carried with me wherever I go. And I was also reminded that the influence of my Grandmother also travels with me wherever I go.

Valentina, or Val, is my Grandma. Believe it or not, she's one of the reasons why I decided to join the Peace Corps. Hearing her story always fascinated me when I was little, and it stills does today. She traveled, by ship, to America with her family, who wanted a better life from that in Russia; she arrived at Ellis Island, and settled in a foreign land. What a life. She couldn't speak the language, but learned it over time. She served as interpreter for her parents, and she worked hard because hard work yields benefits. 'What was it like back then, with no electricity or running water?' my sister and I would ask. 'How did you wash your clothes?' 'What kind of food did you eat?' And oddly enough, I, too, 97 years later after her stepping foot on American soil, I am answering the same questions about living in West Africa. My travels to Russia and Poland in high school and college always baffled Grandma. She never understood why I wanted to study the past so much. She was proud that I was returning to the land of our heritage, but for her, my studying the history of where we came from reminded her of days that were maybe not so romantic, but much more realistic and even, heartbreaking. But I told her I wanted to learn not only about the past, but more about how the past shapes people. When she heard I was going to Africa for two years, she was curious as to why, but expressed happiness and pride; she knew I wanted to challenge myself.

The day I arrived at Grandma's residence with my family, we sat in a private room off the dining hall. We caught up, my aunt's family and mine and Grandma, while eating lunch. Grandma was delighted to see everyone. However, the look on her face, five minutes after my sitting next to her in silence, when she realized that I traveled from 'all the way from Africa' to America for her birthday, was priceless. Her eyes lit up as it clicked in her mind, and we both smiled at each other, without saying a word. We knew what the other was thinking--- gratitude and grace.

I'm posting this picture because I like it. It's from a few weeks ago when I was visiting my host family that lives in Kombo. Every time being with other PCVs gets overwhelming, I'll stop by my host family members that live in Kombo and it gives me that village experience I love, without the hectic travel of going up-country. Sometimes, things just make me smile, even when I'm missing the people I love. Today happens to be one of those days when I realize even though I'm far away from people I love, I'm still really happy to enjoy the moment while it's here. Miss and love you all.

Here are bits and pieces about recent events and upcoming happenings:

1.For all of you that shared your concerns about Mero, she's better and almost fully healed, with little scarring.

2.Exciting news! The work for the women's gardens is finally moving along. The land has been mowd down, literally with only one minor mishap. The tractor driver accidentally ran into the cement wall of one of the garden's wells. Ooops. I can't really blame him as it was an accident, but seriously the weed growth was over 1.5 meters high. Unfortunately, this project has moved slowly. For one, things really do move slowly here and rice planting interfered during the rainy season and then we had a month of Ramadan, where people are fasting for most of the day. In addition, my travel back and forth to village and Kombo also affected the progress. However, much to my surprise and happiness, the garden committees met during my absence and collected money from every woman in the village in order to pay for the tractor use. I was so proud of their ability to get the job done! And once again, thanks to all of you for your support.

After returning to site, I was fetching water one morning and someone approached me saying that the tractor arrived! It literally was like Christmas, except no one told me Santa was stopping by unannounced.

3. I have less than 5 months left here now. It's bittersweet. Then I hope to travel a bit with my sister.

4. I'll be home on Christmas and will stay for a 3 week vacation, primarily to celebrate my Grandma's 100th birthday!

5. The cool season here and I'm back to wearing long sleeping pants and using a top sheet at night. How glorious!

6. Thanksgiving was absolutely fantastic this year. And it was great to spend time with some of my closer Peace Corps friends and staff. Many Volunteers (including this one) helped to make food and bake delicious desserts. Our American Associate Peace Corps Director of The Gambia kindly opened his house for about 100 Americans (and a few Brits). It was great, and the turkey was amazingly. Despite all the food and the fact that it felt like it was America, the power went out at one point in time and we didn't turn on the generator, and we were reminded that even though we had our little America, we were still in Africa. It's great to be able to have feelings of thankfulness and gratitude and I think they become even more apparent when one is away from home. Despite a great Thanksgiving, I missed my family and look forward to celebrating in the U.S. next year.

7. Training is going well and in two weeks, I'll leave my site again to assist in a few more training sessions where I am teaching about Community Assessment Approaches. Then, my job as part of the PCV training team will be finished. While I'll miss it, it's nice knowing that we've hopefully made a positive contribution to this year's training and future ones.

8. I'm so excited to be heading to site for 2 weeks. I have a lot to do while I'm there, and despite the limited time schedule, I hope to be fairly productive. There's work with the garden committees, possible local beekeeping training with a few of my counterparts (we'll make local grass hives), clinic work, tutoring/mentoring of my host brother and his friend,

souvenir shopping, and the Muslim holiday of Tobaski, for which I'm very excited as I already have my fancy African dress made. Can't wait to don it!

9. I had another infection on my leg this week, but it healed fairly quickly. Woohoo!

10. I still miss you all...A LOT! Love, Steph

Happy Thanksgiving! May you all enjoy good food, good company, and blessings! Thanks for all your support. Gobble, gobble.

I'd also like to say---

Happy Birthday, Mom!

I'm so thankful for you. Can't wait to celebrate with you when I'm home (so very soon!) Love and miss you.

'Mero' is a term for an older woman here in The Gambia. But the sweetest, smartest, friendliest, littlest 2.5 year old you could ever meet is called Mero.

Let me tell you about Mero. When I return from being away, it's Mero that runs to me. She yells 'Jalika' (my Gambian name) and wraps her arms around my knees. Mero used to yell 'Jakali' because she couldn't say 'Jalika', but then she realized she could and despite this, still said Jakali because it brought her attention---she's definitely not stupid. Now, Mero calls me 'Binki' which is the term for aunt, since her father is my host brother.

Mero knows that I love her, and so does my family. I try not to treat her differently than the other little ones, but I do. I can't help it. At times, it's like she's not a Gambian child, but an American one. She plays, talks, mimics her mother's actions, laughs, and eats like no other despite her small size (she takes after her mother who is tiny).

The mothers and fathers in my compound are caring of their children (which at times, can be atypical of the other parents in the village). My host family (usually) listens to me when I tell them they need to tell their kids to put on their shoes, clean a wound, or feed them better food. And Mero's mother is especially attentive to Mero and to me. She listens.

But just like in America, careful and caring parents are not immune to things they can't control...like freak accidents.

I've always been afraid of dying in a fire or even being severely burned, yet I'm still fascinated by fire. It was to no surprise though that when I arrived in The Gambia and moved to my training village that I saw fire more as a danger rather than a source of life (cooking, warmth in the cold season, etc.) I've seen so many children burned by fire-related accidents here. I never witnessed one first-hand, but saw the burns after a few weeks. They became infected because of improper care, with children wincing with pain, almost cursing their parents and the world for letting it happen to them. Horrible burns when the dark skin is now light and there is pus and blood, but packed with soot and other 'traditional methods' of treating an injury.

Usually such burns occur when a child is playing near the 'kitchen' or a small charcoal burner (where green tea is boil and made into a sugary concoction called attaya). The kids are being kids---and fall over and sometimes fall straight into the fire or the coals. Hands, legs, chests, butts, and even genital areas are charred.

Some say I have a sixth sense (no, I don't see dead people...thank goodness), but I have these premonitions or thoughts of something that may happen in the future (usually it involves guys I've dated or been dating or situations with friends, etc.) It's just a feeling and sometimes a quick flash of thought that makes me remember that moment as a link to an even in the future.

Last year, with kids bouncing around the fire, either with attaya cooking or because the cold season settled in, I thought, 'Gosh, I hope one of 'my kids' doesn't fall into the fire. And if they did, I'd be destroyed and what would I do , how would I react, and how would my host family react if one of its children fell into the fire?'

Well, unfortunately, my thought became my reality last week. Little Mero was bopping around outside the kitchen with her playmates, Paabi and Amadou. Mero's mother had cooked breakfast, and she pour the corn porridge into the humongous, metal food bowl. She placed it outside the kitchen, on the ground to cool. She went into the house to add the sugar and somehow, Mero fell into the bowl of steaming hot porridge, while her mother stepped into the house for a few mere seconds.

I was in my house, sweeping and preparing my things to leave for a meeting in a village near the river. Then I heard it: the scream. Not the 'I want attention' cry, but a scream that conveys sheer pain. Mero's mother yelled her daughter's name, and I heard the rush of all of Fatty Kunda's women's feet running on the hard, compacted dirt.

I ran out, looked at poor Mero, and ran for cold water. I told one of my host mothers to get a bucket and fill it with cold water and to drop Mero in it. I didn't even know where the burn was at first. About 2 minutes of her sitting in the bucket, I saw it. Dark skin gone---white flesh exposed on a third of her back. I told them to go my counterpart's house, the Community Health Nurse, but said probably he wasn't there because he was deworming children at the schools in the area. If he wasn't there, they were to take Mero to the private clinic in the next village over, when I sometimes work.

As we pulled Mero out of the water, I saw the worst of it: burns on the inside of her legs, to her butt, and on her gential area, except the skin was still blistering. I held myself together, as did everyone else, except Mero's grandmother, NaLisa. She cried and wailed and everyone told her to stop. The look on Mero's face rattled every bone in my body. She is not Mero, I thought. Where did Mero go? She was in pain.

Mero's mother and I rushed to my counterpart's home, only to find, he had already left. Issou, Mero's mom, went ahead to the clinic by foot, while I returned to the compound to get my bike and tried to find Mero's health card, but didn't find it amongst Issou's things. NaLisa came with me (on foot) as Issou has a month and a half old baby to nurse and couldn't spend 2 hours at the hospital without nursing it.

NaLisa and I waited at the hospital for 2-3 hours. Mero only flashed a slight smile when I offered her an icee. My heart broke. Poor Mero. My clinic co-workers gave Mero medicine and antibiotics (by way of injection, which 2.5 year-old children already hate when they're well), and they cut the blister sacks open. NaLisa held Mero in her lap, as I held Mero's legs apart and still. The nurse punctured the blisters with a disposable bladed and dobbed up the liquid with an over-sized cotton ball. As the skin was drained, the skin was pulled away to expose a flesh of white.

As Mero screamed and I saw the flesh be cut away, I lost my control and started to cry and couldn't stop. The nurse looked at me and said 'You are crying.' and said the same to my host mother in Mandinka 'She is crying'. The nurse kind of chuckled to my host mother. I could have punched the nurse square in the face, but I was so weak and so drained, still crying, I just didn't care. NaLisa told the nurse (in Mandinka), 'Mero is like Jalika's own child. She hurts too.'

I sent Lisa with Mero and told her to buy the burn cream the clinic once again didn't have a supply of; NaLisa had to travel 7 kilometers on the gele-gele to purchase it at the pharmacy. And as she left to walk 2 kilometers to my village with Mero wedged on her front in a strategic way, so as not to irritate the wounds, I positioned myself under a tree on the clinic grounds. And bawled without any notion that there were patients and nurses staring as the toubab sulked in the shade. They know why...they've experienced the same pain, hurt, distress with their own children or members of their family. Mero is like my own child. She's in pain. And I know such an event of her falling into the porridge had a high chance of happening one day, yet I couldn't do one thing to prevent it.

Hey Loved Ones and Random Blog Readers (i.e. Stalkers)-

I've posted a few random postings over the past couple months, ranging from ridiculous ramblings, atypical anecdotes, and images of indiscriminate infections. And I'd like to take the opportunity to send a shout-out to all of you for continuing to show your support (in ways that are seen and some that are not so visible). I appreciate it, and it means so much knowing how many of my 'home people' continue to cheer me on... You have been contacting me via cyberspace to let me know that you're reading my blog or checking out the pics. Thank you.

However, I must admit, the past few months, have been a bit bleak in terms of 'real' communication and snail mail. I know I'm in my second year now, with only a mere 6 months to wrap up this life in this strange, exciting, befuddling planet of West Africa, and the novelty of my being in this brave, new world has probably worn off by now to many of you (and I don't blame you because sometimes it has the same effect on me). But I can't stress enough how much an occasional letter or magazine or even a small little package filled with goodies from home means to me. I'm adjusted to this life, but you never can escape the memories of the one you left behind.

Now, I know that I've been a slacker on my end with sending out letters in the past few months, but I have been near the Internet more frequently this past year due to my training work in the capital. Maybe the instantaneous connection that I've been able to share with you via Facebook, GoogleChat, email, and blog posts have conjured the sensation of my being that much closer to you. And in fact, I have been, but in a virtual reality. When I'm in my hut, I reread all those handwritten or typed letters that were sent during my days in training village, 3-month challenge, birthdays, holidays, etc. Having something tangible really makes quite a difference when I'm having a bad day and questioning my role and purpose here, or when I really just miss going out for drinks with friends, watching a movie in the theater or just plain being home. I've got a great support network of friends and staff here, but nothing ever compares to those of you that knew me before I arrived here in February 2007. And for me, an old letter is a way I can give you a hug or even talk to you when the humid, dust haze prevents calls from getting through to my cell phone...

To all of you that have been loyal pen pals (you know who you are), I thank you. And for those of you who have tried to send out that package, but life just gets complicated (trust me, I understand), this is a public service announcement letting you know that you have only 6 months left. (Actually, it's more like 4 as come February, you run the risk of my not getting a package before I leave, and the Peace Corps mail room gods bequeathing it to some other PCV who still has yet to finish his or her service, but that you respect for what he or she is doing here, but don't know and probably never will.) And just think, when I open that envelope or box, I'll immediately think 'Hmm, what souvenir can I bring home for you?'

Anyways, in all seriousness, I can't ever thank you all enough for the support you have given me. It means so much and has really helped to make my experience here an enjoyable one.

I look forward to hearing from you...in whatever forms, means, lines, you may choose.

Miss and love you all.

Stephanie

Steph

Sticky

Stephers

Jalika

*Please note that this post was to be read as a funny little musing and had no intention to maliciously attack or hurt anyone's feelings.*

Since I didn't take any pictures of the infection on my face in August, I decided to take some snapshots of this month's latest infection: my foot. For all you people who must have a visual image to go with a literary one, reread the Infection post from August while glancing at the pics below. Then you'll have somewhat of an idea as to what the infection looked like on my face. Needless to say, descriptions of such images can be all captured by the use of one word: UGLY Elephant foot vs. Real foot. Gross, huh?And you can see that my toe nail (removed in August) on the real foot is slowly growing back, but it's not very pretty...

And that's the original wound. Note the black permanent marker line denoting redness. That's to see if the swelling and redness increases or decreases.

Hot stuff.

I awake. Only to want to go back to my dream. Fall Back. To Sleep. NOW. I try and try to re-enter that world where I am somewhere else, but instead I feel wide awake and I can tell my mind's going to be flitting from place to place until 6:45am when I usually stir.

I glance at my indiglo watch my Dad sent-4:50am. Oh-not again. I woke up because I have to pee...AGAIN. Here I feel like an old woman-having to pee 2-3 times a night (usually). That never happened in America unless I'd been drinking alcohol. I attribute this constant whizzing to the Jumbo-MSG/bouillon flavoring added to every food item. I'm convinced it makes me retain water and eventually I have to let all that retained water out---like a dam that just can't do its job anymore. And the fact that I drink at least one flavored drink mix daily---you know those sugar-free ones; they make me pee a lot too, and I have a horrible habit of drinking a full liter before bed. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

My journey to the pit latrine is quick. No cockroaches lurking beneath its cover, probably because dawn is just on the horizon. My path from the latrine back to my house is short, but requires more effort than usual. All my energy is exerted to open the wooden door back to my house that is swollen thanks to the rainy season. I try to wish myself back to sleep, but to no avail. Streams of consciousness ricochet inside my brain like a ping-pong ball that's been hit too hard onto the table onto the basement wall only to bounce back and hit me square in the eye. Okay...I give up. I'm awake, with my thoughts and the sound of the corn leaves rustling as it gives warning of an approaching storm.

-I really hope Modou can make the shirt I designed.

-I hope Susan didn't steal all my 'going-out' tops. I want to wear them when I go home.

-I hope I make enough money when I get home to live on my own for once.

-Will I ever get married? Do I want to?

-Maybe I should take the Foreign Service Exam again, just for kicks. Can I pass it twice? Or am I pushing my luck?

-How long will I be home until I chop of my hair, my tan fades , and my blonde hair turns to dirty blonde/light brown?

-Is it going to rain on me at the lumo today?

-When will there be lettuce here again?

-Is it bad that I've rediscovered being a bookwork (it's been about 18 years)?

-How do I know when my backyard corn is ready to be picked?

-What's the name of the pizza place at the Marlton Circle? I can't believe I've forgotten. I want Salad Caprese.

-I love rainy season, but I can't wait until my things stop smelling like mildew.

-Does my village really like me or are they just pretending to?

-Why did Kendo (one of the girls I mentored last year) take a husband while I was in Kombo? How long are her dreams of going to school going to last?

-What happened to baby Mariama?

-Why are there so many crickets in my house?

Of course my thoughts---random, ridiculous, and raw---slowly wear me down and I'm tired again. As those ping pong balls ricocheted, I was in a state of being awake and being asleep. I could see an image of an apartment in Philly, or my house on a lake, or a commute into work, but those thoughts faded as the sounds of the wind stirring and the rain pelting the corrugate became louder in my distorted reality.

Get up and close the windows, you lazy bum. Hurry back inside before the family awakes and sees that I too, am awake.

I have 40 pages left of the novel I'm reading, and I fight the sleep that comes just as the sunlight filters through the blanket of morning rain clouds. My buckets are lined on the walkway, catching water from the roof. Believe it or not, I use it to bathe as it's cleaner than if I fetched water from an open well.

Some days, thoughts like the ones above dominate my mind. At night under the amazing sky of stars, I sit and think. My family says I'm quiet or I don't talk and partially that's true because I can't. I can't have the conversations that I'm used to. To talk about Tida Sama (which one?) and her rice field or that it's cold or we need a tractor just doesn't interest me after the 10th time. I used to feel bad about my minimal attention span, but I don't anymore.

I once was walking through the bush near my house with a PCV friend who was visiting. It was dusk and we were taking a short cut through someone's field, past an old graveyard of a old, now, non-existent village as marked by the huge baobab trees. We paused and looked west at the cloud formation and the sun's reflection off them. All the people had left except for one woman weeding her hectare. As we stared at the clouds, the enormous trees, and vastness of the flat landscape, I asked my friend, 'What do you think she's thinking about all day?'

I think about my future and how I can enjoy the present. I think about the past, the what ifs, and the how tos. I think about the goals, motivations, and the next step. People here live day to day- and those that think ahead usually 'build castles in the sky' while brewing attaya, never really doing much to get them there or even close. But they must think about nourishing a child, their children, or imagining a world based on what's been heard and seen on TV (if they have access to one).

One night, when laying under the stars with my family, I was talking to my host cousin (who I call my sister), Fanta. She's 16, no more than 18 (determining age is a problem here). I was looking at shooting stars, and I noticed one wasn't actually falling, but orbiting. I thought it was a plane at first (rare here as they only fly near the coast), but then Fanta asked if it was a satellite. I'm pretty certain she was right. So it turns out she was paying attention in science class---Yes!

Fanta began asking about my trip to Sierra Leone, and whether I took a plane or car. 'We flew, ' I said. And she said, 'Do planes fly, or do they walk on the sky?' And I realized that my thoughts that ricochet at night, in the morning, during sleep, in a meeting, a Mandinka conversation, are not so abnormal. And I tell Fanta 'Planes fly, but I guess it is like they're kinda walking on the sky.' I used to be embarrassed of some of the questions that entered my mind and even now I'm embarrassed when they tell me I can't weed or sweep. It makes me humble, but it makes me rediscover an innocence that only being here, in a different world and plunged into a world of my thoughts that I cherish. And from now on I equate flying with walking on the sky...because my thoughts and experience let me see the world in a completely different way.

After getting the approval from the PC nurse to go to Dakar 12 hours before our planned early morning departure, my two friends (both of which were lucky enough to travel with this chick), Brian and Bjorn, left the PC house at 6:30am, a few minutes after an hour-long torrential downpour. It was dawn and the streets were flooded with muddy puddles, which I was not happy about due to my wrapped, infected toe. Anyway, here, you just roll with it...and we did.

While waiting for the ferry in Banjul, we were asked by an abnormally unsketchy guy if we happened to be going to Dakar. Why yes we were! After negotiating a price, slightly higher than, a sept plas (seven passenger vehicle that's a step up from a gele-gele). It was the three of us, the driver and his no more than 5 year-old niece. As we sat on the ferry, we looked to our left and noticed a white, wooden coffin on the bed of a pick-up next to us. (Knowing funeral practices of Islam, the person inside probably died at the early hours of the morning and was being taking to its burial place as quickly as possible.)

We proceeded on our way with a minor freak out when car spun out on the muddy road from Barra to the border town of Almdalai. Brian and Bjorn handled it well and didn't even notice my hands gripping their thighs as I let out an 'Ahhh!' (I was sandwiched in the middle of them). We continued on our journey, full of bribing police officers for a unlit tail light, a bumpy, mud-ridden road, and a repeat electrical short, which later caused the car to stall when slowing down. After several pushes by a Senegalese Gendarmie officer, Bjorn, Brian, and useless bystanders, and a laborious hot-wiring the job, the car went on its way without any problems. We hit Dakar around 5:30pm, only to sit in horrific, diesel-exhaust fume-filled traffic for about an hour and a half. Our driver, FaKebba, dropped us off near our hotel, and Bjorn began using his Wolof skills so that we could survive our week long trip in Dakar. (Brian speaks Fula; I speak Mandinka; none of us speak French.)

We arrived at our hotel, recommended by our friends Ryan and Leslie (thanks guys!), and it was a nice treat. Hot water, running shower, spotless, air conditioning, fan and a pretty steady supply of electricity without the use of a generator. We had arrived. First task: money and food. Good food: no rice, palm oil, no peanuts.

During the week, we ate to our hearts' content. And after a week of what felt like gorging, I realized I felt the healthiest I have (despite my various infections) since being in West Africa. Why? I wasn't eating rice...in fact, Brian, Bjorn, and I made a pact to not eat rice the entire time we were there. (We broke it the first day as we were offered really cheap chicken yassa for lunch.) Salads, cheese, fresh bread, seafood (lots of it), and even Ben and Jerry's ice cream. (I ate half the container and still feel no shame.)

Traveling through the different parts of Dakar---Ngor Island, Goree Island, Alamides, Les Mamelles, Place of Independence, and more African urban parts, I was happy to be in this world of familiarity. Familiarity with West Africa---its culture, its transport, its frustrations, but at the same, famliarity with a world in which I've been disconnected in over 1.5 years...full of luxuries as menial as pastries, bus schedules, good cups of coffee, news, and even fashion. My two worlds collided, in a sense, and while it was great to be back in a life of 'luxury', it only made me realize how much I miss home. My family, my friends, the parks, the cities, and my bike. As Bjorn and I said goodbye to Brian, who was flying to the States for his sister's wedding, I realized I could have walked right on that plane too. New York was ALMOST right there. But I couldn't. I didn't. And I wouldn't. I'm not yet done.For the next few days, more cheese and more baguette bread were eaten. More was explored and one day, we actually found ourselves on a bus, not really certain where it was going. At first we thought to ask the driver to stop the bus, but then we realized that it's okay to just ride around...see the neighborhoods, the universities, the people, the life. We spent about 3 hours riding around the city, and I thought to myself, would I ever do this in New York City or even Philadelphia? Probably not. But I think that will be on my list of things to do once States-side again. Ride the bus like a local, while acting as a tourist. Rediscover those places I've missed. and I can't wait.Five days after our arrival to Dakar, it was time to return to The Gambia. Admittedly, I had mixed emotions. I could've stayed a bit longer, but I really couldn't. Funds were running low. After a ridiculously long check-out at the hotel (there was a minor error, but became a major task to fix), we hired a taxi to take us to the car park. We hoped for a sept plas, but none were available. So instead, we got a van that took 4 hours and 15 minutes to fill. It was by far the worst 'waiting for transport' experience of my time here. Passengers finally became angry after we waited for 2 hours for the last two passengers to arrive. After we finally left the car park, we headed out of the madness, hitting traffic and stopping every 50 kms for the same passenger to pee. Then, it became dark, with people getting off and taking their luggage, which required 5 minutes to untie and retie the remaining baggage to the roof rack. Stop and go, stop and go. We hit the border around 8:45pm at night, checked out with Senegal Immigration and checked in with Gambia Immigration. The Gambian Officers assured us that we'd make the last ferry from Barra to Banjul. We arrived in Barra at 9:30, only to find out that that night, the Gambia Ports Authority decided to close the ferry early (the last ferry is at 11pm), due to the arrival of rain and some Raggae singer (who knows). We were stuck in Barra for an hour, surrounded by drunk men, trying to have us hire a small boat across, or trying to convince us to stay at the 'guesthouse' (ie. brothel). We sat at the police station, complete with ravenous mosquitoes and men being held in jail cells. Thankfully, a PCV friend that lives nearby helped bring a happy ending to our horrid day. She found a friend with a car, and they came to pick us up, and we stayed at her house for the night. All was well the next morning when we crossed to Banjul. Despite my homesickness (and unsatiated desire for cheese and baguette and Salade Nicoise), I'm happy to go back to site in a few days. The rest of the year will be an exciting time---garden work, babies to be born in the compound, health talks, tutoring, Arts and Craft club, growing vegetables in my personal garden, biking the country, and maybe rediscovering The Gambia, before I leave to return to that other world. Keep in touch. And know I miss you all.Lots of Love,Steph

The sister of my wife (my wife is my host brother's wife) recently visited with her two small children.

Three days after her arrival to our compound, our guest informed her sister (my wife), that her younger child, Mariama, who is 11 months, had diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and a fever for 4 days. To my knowledge, she did nothing during this time. I looked at her makeshift UNICEF health card (a photo-copied piece of paper since the supply of the UNICEF blue cards has 'run out') and just by her weight of 6.7kg, she's on the verge of being classified as underweight and malnourished. In fact, such is the case for children here in The Gambia, and of course, all throughout Africa.

However, I don't want to mislead you, I'm not living amongst a sea of emaciated children, with sunken eyes and stretched skin across a skeleton. There is food here (although, we are told that due to the global food crisis, this time next year, many Gambians and Africans could be starving---more on that in a later post).

Food is available and plenty is here, but it is not prepared properly (to preserve nutrients) or the diet itself is not varied enough to provide adequate vitamins and protein. Far too many children die because they aren't making healthy weight gain, become sick---in most cases, either with diarrhea or malaria, and die, or they are born with an untreated illness that will ultimately end their lives early.

This time last year, I took a 2 year-old to the hospital with his concerned mother. The child, Almamy, was rapidly losing weight. His mother did what she could (from my humble observation and my counterparts'). She went to receive the food supplement bundle distributed by the Department of Health here and UNICEF, but the supply hadn't yet been delivered and was unavailable. When we went to the major hospital, the hospital said he was severely malnourished (which was obvious to just about anyone) and he tested positive for malaria. They prescribed medication, but didn't have the multi-vitamins in stock at the hospital's pharmacy. The pharmacy in town was closed, and we proceeded to the 'black market' of medicine, where former health workers buy medicine in the Kombos and resell them at an inflated cost to those who will pay anything because they desperately need it.

A few days after taking Almamy to the hospital, I had to travel to Kombo. Almamy was released from the hospital while I was away. But during my stay, Almamy died. His condition was already too far gone and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe taking him to the hospital gave him a few more days of life, or maybe it made no difference whatsoever. Sadly, I knew before I even took him that he wasn't going to make it.

So now, will the story of Almamy become the story of Mariama? Deep down, I hope not, but now I realize, one never knows. An innocent child born into this world (compounded with the struggles of Africa) was born merely to suffer---never to enjoy the feat of discovering how to go from a crawl to a walk, experiencing the sounds and shrills that eventually result in a muttering of 'Baba' (Daddy), or mimicking her mother as she carries out her daily tasks of fetching water, washing clothes, and cooking meals. For some reason, I feel like Mariama may become this year's Almamy.

As Mariama's mother, Jainaba, left my compound, my wife told me that they were going to go to the hospital the next day since the child was not better, even though we gave her medicine prescribed by my counterpart. As Jainaba, Mariama, and Mariama's brother left, I felt Mariama's forehead: it was hot---hotter than the day we took her to my counterpart's. Mariama can't talk as she's too young, but her whimpers and spurts of moaning (never really crying) translated clearly---HELP ME.

Greetings! The past month has been an interesting one...filled with rainy-season infections, village celebrations, gardening, rain (lots of it), and travel.

---I arrived in Kombo about 1.5 weeks ago to attend a pre-Service Training meeting, have some skin infections checked out, and to head to Dakar, Senegal for a mini-vacation with two friends.

The ride down to Kombo was an exciting one, as I was toting my host sister (really my host cousin but everyone is a cousin of someone else here, so it's easier to say sister...plus, she's like the younger sister I never had.) Fanta, my host sister, is looking to attend Senior Secondary School in Kombo and came with me to speak to some headmasters and to talk to relatives about living in their compounds while she attends school for the next three years. This trip was exciting because 1) I had a traveling companion and 2) Fanta had never crossed McCarthy Island nor traveled to Kombo via the North Bank Road. I think I was more excited for her than she was herself.

A few days prior to my departure, I was at another PCV's place for a Friendship Day Party (August 3). While there, I developed a fever and became really sick to my stomach. In addition, I developed a weird rash/bite-type thing on my right arm. It became really itchy, like a mosquito bite, started to scab (without my even scratching), and then a large, puffy, hot red ring formed around it. The fever was gone in twelve hours, but my arm didn't improve. In addition, I had an infected toe for about 2 weeks prior to my departure to Kombo. It's an ingrown toenail, and chances are it be removed during my visit to Kombo.

The day of departure to Kombo, I had three large pimples (or so I thought) on the left side of my face. You know the kind that are deep, down under the surface, and they hurt like mad? (If you don't remember, think back to when you were 15 and actually had pimples. If you go to Africa in your mid-20s, you'll feel like your 15 again because they magically come back!) Anyway, I rode down to Kombo, without any problems, dropped my host sister off at our relatives, chatted for a while, and headed to the office. After a few hours checking email, I went to the PC house, took a shower, and immediately the entire left side of my face started swelling. It continued to swell, so much that I had to call the PC duty nurse. I took some Benadryl and used some cold compresses. The next morning, I walked quickly, with my head down (literally embarrassed by the size of my face), to the med unit only to be told by the Duty Nurse, that she wasn't going to do anything until the doctor saw me. I only (minorly) freaked out. My face is swelling up! Not to mention my toe is infected...

The doctor and my health nurse saw me and immediately prescribed aggressive antibiotics. The swelling went down slowly and continued to decrease, little by little each day. They have no idea what happened or what it was, but they were concerned it wouldn't respond to antibiotics, and they'd have to begin treating me for a staph infection (ON MY FACE!). Thankfully, the antibiotics worked.

Twelve hours before I was scheduled to leave with my two friends, the nurse gave me the approval to go. And I went...and so happy I did.

Thankfully, it's all better now...or it appears that way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn't take any pictures. Trust me, it was bad---looked worse than my wisdom teeth swelling and conjunctivitis pictures from training.

---

A few days ago, my friend and I were walking to a car park, all the while trying to decide whether we should continue on to our destination despite a pending rainstorm. We decided to keep on going and figured that if we shower from buckets and go to the bathroom in a concrete hole, we could probably get soaked and deal with looking like drowned rats. It’s really not a big deal when you look at the big picture.

As we were walking, still kind of unsure about our decision, my friend noticed a huge, vivid rainbow above the Fajara War Cemetery. We stopped to take a picture because rainbows like this only seem to happen in Africa (I have vivid memories of the ones in Kenya). As we continued walking toward the car park, we noticed that the rainbow projected across the sky, with its end seemingly looking as if it were the Peace Corps office. However, after further observation and estimation, I decided that the end was actually, the American Embassy (note: you cannot see the Embassy in this picture as a photograph of it must be destroyed, but if you were imagine where the end of the rainbow would be, it’d be there).

My thought made me realize that the answer to my question ‘What’s at the end of the rainbow?’ is multi-dimensional. Personally, the thought of the U.S. Embassy as being the end of the rainbow to me, an American, living in this strange land that I temporarily call home, is rather overwhelming, yet comforting. It’s a place I walk by, every time I walk to my office/ As I pass, I think ‘America is right there.’ And it is…as soon as I step through the Embassy gates, I’m technically in the U.S. But, it’s just a building, where decisions on policies, aid, assistance, visas, and people’s lives are carried out. It’s powerful and humbling and chaotic and uncertain and bold and brave and sometimes intimidating...

But for many Gambians, the Embassy and with that, the idea of America---my refuge, my little piece of identity--- is hope, but also, sadly desperation for them. At least one person a day asks me to take them to America when I’m ready to home, or they want me to take their 8 month old baby back with me. Despite the daily annoyance of coming up with creative ways to respond to such statements (trust me…it’s difficult after a while), I realize that even though it’s annoying to me, it’s indicative of the desperation that envelops everyone here. They think of America as ‘Babylon’ (which oddly enough, think of what part of the world historic Babylon is today). They want to flee to Europe and America, and I understand why…I see it every day. But, if everyone leaves, then what’s left? More desperation, no hope, and a society that disappears into thin air.

Before I arrived in The Gambia, many of you know that I worked for a federal politician, handling constituents’ problems with Immigration Services and the State Department. I was exposed to people’s heartache, frustrations, and on some occasions, joys. To hear a person’s struggle, to make a better life for himself or his family, plays with your emotions. Each immigration case is different, but oddly enough, sings the same tune---seeking a better life, the desire to be with a loved one, escaping political persecution, fleeing a civil war…the situations are the same, but each story is a little different, which makes it all the more human.

Every time I get asked to take someone to America, I usually spit out a defiant ‘No!’. Then I realize that my reaction may have been a bit harsh (although in some cases, that’s not true). What I suppose causes me to react in the way that I do is the notion that people leaving isn’t the best solution. In many cases, those that leave and earn more money abroad (albeit their standard of living in their newfound country is still on the lowest rung, unless they are highly educated), they don’t necessarily return to help The Gambia or their home country. They send money. Money helps, most certainly, but it has no use if the allocation of that money is for a television and generator, but in a month’s time the family can’t purchase a bag of rice to feed its children.

I am not opposed to those leaving their lands to attain a better life, but I am disheartened that the notion of attaining a better life IS only by fleeing to a different land. Why is that? Is it because no one wants to work at a solution? Is there no feasible solution? Or is it because it’s the easiest way to get what they feel will make them happy? Is it worth it---risking one's life by crossing the ocean to Europe, in a boat made of planks, with extra fuel stored in 20 liter jugs, small food rations, and no protection from the elements? I honestly don't know.

Just as Julius Nyerere, former President of Tanzania said:

Man can only liberate himself or develop himself. He cannot be liberated or developed by another. For Man makes himself. It is his ability to act deliberately, for a self-determined purpose, which distinguishes him from the other animals. The expansion of his own consciousness, and therefore of his power over himself, his environment, and his society, must therefore ultimately be what we mean by development.

Should we encourage Gambians (and others) to continue to look for that U.Ss Embassy at the end of the proverbial rainbow, or should we try to work on reevaluating Gambians' value here, in their country, so that they can take ownership of their lives, families, and nation? Somehow I think it’s not only important to focus what’s at the end of the rainbow, but how we can improve the journey of getting there. And perhaps by doing so, they’ll be able to see that there’s a lot within the rainbow that’s worth their while and they don’t even have to travel too far to find it.

Even though I previously posted about missing America on its birthday, I still managed to have a memorable 4th of July weekend. Besides the obvious missing pieces (friends, family, and fireworks), we managed to have a fun-filled weekend of Americana.

Thanks to one of our (American) bosses hospitality in (always) hosting us at his house for American holidays, we had a nice backyard BBQ on the 4th, complete with a makeshift slip ‘n slide, lentil burgers (for all those hippie PC vegetarians), and my homemade macaroons (definitely a hit, not gonna lie). The day after the big boss’s BBQ, a several PCVs got together for a wickedly fun game of pick-up softball. Three hours or 15 fifteen innings later, the team I was playing on (and yes I played---remember, I was a 2nd base player and a decent hitter when I was 10 years old) won 41-40 (no that’s not a football score, honest). I left with really sore quads and the realization that I really need to incorporate sprinting into my running routine. The following day, my PCV friend, Ellie, and I, organized an Open-Mic Night for all PCVs that were in town at a friend’s outdoor garden bar. Despite my worries, the night was an absolute success and a fun time was had by all (or so we’re told).

This past week, I was co-facilitating the 1st year health Volunteers In-Service Training. I believe it’s been going fairly smoothly so far (it continues through next week), but admittedly after 1.5 weeks in the Kombos (urban area), I am suffering from a multitude of ‘symptoms’, such as being easily irritated when more than 5 PCVs are in the same room as me, annoyed when taxi drivers try to pick me up while I’m walking in the opposite direction to which they’re driving, and just suffering from general restlessness of being ‘connected’ to American life, but not actually being there.

Despite my fun (and slight frustration) in Kombo, it’ll be fun to return to site next weekend as there is plenty to be done---rainy season has started and people are planting (have planted) their rice, millet, groundnuts and corn. The mosquitoes are breeding, and therefore, so is the malaria. And I realize this is my last rainy season, so I better buckle down and do all that I want while I can.

The village’s women’s gardens revitalization project is progressing, albeit slowly. Because of my schedule and the farmers’ necessity to sow their fields based on the arrival of the rains, the work on the garden has been delayed a bit. However, in all honesty, it’s better that way, as long as the fence is completed by the end of August. Once completed, the women will be able to utilize it post-rainy season, which, admittedly, is the better time to actually sow certain vegetables. Posted are pictures depicting the miraculous (and certainly ridiculous)

transportation of 47 bundles of chicken wire and 60 kilos of nails 300 kms up-country, on a ferry, in a vehicle, across another ferry, and in a tractor-like vehicle from my friend’s hardware store (my version of the Home Depot) to my village on a water-filled, pothole-riddled road during a high wind, flooding rain storm. Just another day in The Gambia… Thanks again for all your support.

In an attempt to make you laugh (or perhaps just grin), I decided that I would upload this video so you can see AND hear the delight that is the children of my compound. These two just happen to be the funniest kids under the age of 5. Paabi (boy) and Mero (girl) are eating their 5:30pm snack of rice and peanut porridge (typically what we have for breakfast). And Paabi epitomizes the 'art of slurping' churro (or anything liquidy) and the noise one must make when 'drinking' from the calabash.

Hello Everyone-

It's been quite sometime since the last posting, and quite a bit has happened in these almost 2 months (wow, two months...time is flying.) Tomorrow is 4th of July and I'm in West Africa---not in Philly. Sometimes, I think I feel even more homesick, or maybe reminiscent, at this time of year than I do during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. For all of you in the Philly area, or in the great outdoors somewhere this weekend, please know I'm thinking of you. Enjoy the fireworks and think of me when the cascading gold ones fall into the Delaware.

In the next few weeks, I'll be posting a few things about my thoughts on development (I've been doing a lot of thinking and actual 'working' these past months). Some postings may be not as jovial as usual, but don't think that that is my attitude now. The comments, thoughts, ideas are just raw conclusions that one forms after living and working in 'development' for over a year. I'm happy here, and I'm enjoying myself while I can and trying not to look too far ahead, although it's starting to freak me out about what my next step will be.

---

Musings from a late rainy night sometime during the week of June 22nd:

So many thoughts going through my mind as of late. The first thought is about home: I think about home all the time. Today, I was riding to a friend's house, 15 km away, and I realized when I was on kilometer 12 that I rode the entire way, thinking about 'America'. Now granted, I ride on a road that takes me to where I want to go as there are only 2 paved roads up-country. There is one junction where I must turn to get to the river crossing (where my friend lives). I traveled the entire way without even thinking about where I was going---on kilometer 12, I realized that this is place is just like home, in the sense that I do daily activities, mindlessly...just like traveling to the grocery store in America, without even thinking twice about putting on my right turn signal, and then my left, and stopping at the stop sign. I am here and I am living in the now.

My time here is fleeting and so I become somewhat bothered on those days when I become preoccupied with thoughts of home. (Of course, I love home and would teleport there everyday if I could), but I want to focus on the now. Focus. On. The Now. For the most part I do, and I have. But lately I just can't stop thinking of 'that place' where things are organized, simple tasks take little time, and people respect each other, their property, and rules. Maybe these thoughts have been conjured up by the change in weather. The rains have started and that immediately transports me to rainy days at home. The smell of honeysuckle (or something similar) as I pass by the monkeys while riding my bike reminds me of my 30 mile bike rides on the D & R canal.

Lately, I've been thinking about what life will be like post Peace Corps. I'm already anticipating experiencing some difficulties readjusting (to all of you out there, let this be your first gentle warning). But, I'm finally realizing that for the first time in my life, I haven't a clue as to what I want to do after Peace Corps. I've always had direction, and that direction has led me here, doing something I've always wanted to do. But my view of the world has shifted a bit. I still remain fairly idealistic and hopeful that things could change, albeit slowly, but a part of me adheres tightly now to the notion of what doesn't work.

'Development' is a tricky thing to discuss as part of me wonders, why, after all these years...are we still trying to get basic needs fulfilled for millions of people in the world? Shouldn't we find that appalling? Unacceptable? Disheartening and even depressing? I'm a first year Volunteer at my site and quite honestly, I've tried my best to go slowly... to assess what the community needs and wants and that they already have. 'Development', in my opinion, sometimes skips over this key step. Many Volunteers (both PC and non-PC) come to the developing world, thinking they're going to make radical, life-improving, and in some cases, life-saving changes in villages and communities. However, they're fooling themselves, giving false hope to villagers, and feeding culture that has become accustomed to receiving and taking.

If I were to ever head an NGO (non-governmental organization) or an international aid organization (in my dream world), I'd require it's non HCNs (home country nationals) to live for a least one year in actual village or community before they could do any development work. People can be appropriately helped if only they first are properly assessed. It's like going to the doctor in the States...if he doesn't give you a thorough exam, asking you your symptoms, their duration, medications, stresses, etc, then he could potentially misdiagnose your condition. You don't improve, get sicker, and before you know it, it's too late and all the efforts by the doctor were in vain. If only he had asked the right questions before giving you medication that had horrific side effects with another medication you were already taken. This type of 'haphazard assessment' happens, more often than not, in development. And as a result, failure after failure of development projects get added to the list. Aid agencies (not all, though) don't ask the right questions, observe, or even make an effort to understand the culture first. What worked in Kenya may not necessarily here? What worked in one village, may not work in the other. One can't ignore social structure, cultural norms, or political issues in order to just add another 'project' to the list.

Cultural integration is not taken seriously, but I feel it is the most important. Those who bypass it, have a total disregard, and therefore, an utter lack of respect for the people of that country. It is no better than ignorance.

Here money is a problem, which is what is said to me at least once daily. And many people ask me (and pretty much any other white person) to give them money or they ask 'Where is the money?' My usual reply is, 'I don't know...you tell me.' My initial reaction is to slap the person across the face, but deep down, I want to scream 'Money is not the answer.' Everyone needs money and they're preoccupied with it when they don't have it and again when they do (Human nature at its best, I suppose. It happens in the States, too...and probably even moreso when people do have money.)

There is money being poured into this and other countries, but it's not always used properly or appropriately. And that's where the problem lies---with the givers and the receivers. There is a lack of research by the donors and their dependency of 'giving because it feels good' . These actions only create a dependency on part of the recipients, as they receive something they say they want, or even in many cases, things they don't want OR need, and nothing ever becomes sustainable. Dependency continues to be encouraged by both sides and progress remains only short-term, or worse, non-existent.

Development should be based on what 'they' want, but more importantly, what they need and what they can use appropriately, according to their culture and their strengths as individuals and communities. Assessments should be based on interviews, observations, and being integrated with the community. Where their ideas and the development worker's knowledge and skills meet, then that's when and where development...slowly, slowly...can begin, or in rare cases, continue.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and primarily it’s because a lot has happened in the last month…so much that, at times, it’s hard to keep it straight. Unfortunately, I haven’t been journaling as much, and at the old age of 26 now, I, admittedly, have a hard time keeping track of things. Anyway, you’ll find a few highlights below, but before I forget:

I want to formally (is writing this on my blog, formal? Probably more public than anything, which is definitely different from formal) thank everyone who contributed to my garden project. I’m still trying to obtain a list of donors, but since there are privacy issues (thanks government), I’ve had a difficult time getting names of contributors. If you read this and donated, please email me and let me know if you did. I’d like to write you letters, and perhaps thank you formally and a lot less publicly. By no means, do I want your kindness to go unnoticed. Thanks. Work will hopefully commence late this month! I’ll post pics documenting the progress. Let’s hope it’s completed before the rains!

In addition, some people have been asking in correspondence if I need/want anything. Below, please find a list of things that are not necessary for survival, but would be appreciated:

-Bear Creek Soup Mix (any flavor)

-Archer Farms Trail Mix (or anything Archer Farms---it’s the Target food brand)

-Drink mixes (Crystal Light, 4C, Propel Target brand, etc)

-Lipton Pasta Sides

-Tuna packs (flavored or plain)

-Betty Crocker mixes (in the pouches)—Brownies, Breads, Biscuits, Cookies, Pancakes, etc

-Pictures of your special events during the past year

-News articles you think I’d enjoy

-Magazines (within the last year is fine)

-AA/AAA batteries are always great

-CLIF/Luna bars

---

Okay…back to the juicy stuff:

As I said, my last month has been busy. I assisted in the final days of Pre-Service Training for the new Health and Community Development Trainees. I also was a participant in the Agroforestry sector’s In-Service Training. There, it was reaffirmed that I really am a wannabe Agfo, but I just care too much about my own personal hygiene and that of others that I can’t switch to the deep, dark, dirty Agfo side. In addition to switching from role of trainer to trainee, I celebrated my 26th birthday. (Had a near nervous breakdown on my birthday eve, but that was cured by a day at the beach and many birthday wishes from you all. Thank you.) Can’t wait to celebrate with you all next year.

And finally, the big story of my month, is my ‘vacation’ to Sierra Leone. On April 27, I hopped on an unmentioned West African airline with three fellow PCVs to experience a place with topography for 10 days! Upon our arrival, we knew that our ‘vacation’ would be a unique one. In order to curb any undue mental duress to loved ones, I will provide the PG-13 version of my time in Sierra Leone. For those of you who think you can handle more or would like to verify that I am in fact a lunatic, email me and I’ll give you more details as to why.

The Sierra Leonean airport is located across from the capital city of Freetown, as that particular area is the flattest, which clearly makes it most suitable for an airport. Our options to get across are to either hire a speedboat, take a helicopter (supposedly flown by Russian alcoholics), hire a hovercraft (currently out of service), or take the ferry. Yay ferries! We can do that…we have to take one every time we want to get to Banjul from up-country. Piece of cake...

We realize that it’s Sierra Leonean Independence Day, thanks to the secondary school band members that are also on the ferry to Freetown. They are performing in a parade, but due to the late departure from the terminal, will be late for their performance. We befriend these students, ages 16-22. All four of us (all women) acquire an admirer during the hour long crossing. Mine was named Charles Jones. If you’re out there, I’m flattered, but taken (read old post about Paabi the 3 year old). Charles, I wish you all the best. Cheers.

We arrive in Freetown, scope out a place to stay, which is called a hotel, but is really like a hostel, but in actuality serves as a brothel. (Note: This is pretty normal when backpacking anywhere. My hostel in Sydney, Australia had this one beat, hands down, for being, let’s say, an interesting place, filled with interesting people and insects.) We stay one night, grab street food, and then head to the hills, literally.

Sierra Leone is absolutely beautiful. And while I was happy to return to the Gambia after 10 days (The Gambia felt like home), it was enjoyable to be in not so-hot-but-humid weather, with an occasional rain, and a green landscape, with water and trees. Anyway, we took a bus to Kabala. Kabala is a town, about 7 hours away from Freetown. The mountain range that spans Sierra Leone and Guinea-Conakry begins in Kabala, and much of the fighting, later in the war, occurred in and around Kabala. Unlike The Gambia, the bus fare was posted and it left on time. The road was smooth and it was evident that solid infrastructure was in place, even prior to the near-decade long war that ended in 2002. Perhaps this is why Sierra Leone was able to bounce back so quickly (in addition to the UN and numerous non-governmental organizations, whose presence could not go unnoticed, even in the remotest of places). The country is by no means developed, but it's definitely got lots of potential. Which direction will it go...it's too early to predict!

The drive was scenic and breathtaking. (Please look at the pictures link to view my Flickr pics). We couldn’t wait to hike! We arrived in Kabala, scoped out a place to stay, and realized that the street food is phenomenal. Fried chicken, spicy bean sandwiches that remind me of sloppy joes, butter cookies, fried/baked plantains, and AVOCADOS. Lots of them for cheap! We hiked a look-out hill, toured a World Bank funded clinic and maternity center, found locally made fabric, befriended a boy named Gibril, who became our unofficial tour guide, hiked a famous hill (AMAZING), met a former refugee who lived in The Gambia at the tail end of the war, befriended a young, Canadian NGO worker, and much to our dismay, came to grips with the murder of the owner of our guesthouse during our visit. (We don’t think we were present during the actual crime. It was a domestic dispute that had nothing to do with us, and honestly, could have happened anywhere. The girlfriend, who committed the crime, was taken to jail immediately. It merely took us by surprise, and if anything, opened our eyes to the similarities and differences of mourning and death in the cultures of The Gambia and Sierra Leone.) Thankfully, we took refuge in our NGO worker friend’s house. (Thanks for being there, Matthew!)

After hiking the high hill in Kabala, we reflected, relaxed and enjoyed the utter beauty of our time in a different place. We headed back to Freetown on the same bus that brought us to Kabala. We then returned to Freetown, in hopes to spend some quality time at the beautiful beaches. And we did just that…after a bit of a rocky start to our beach adventure (operators of a camp charging us too much), we still were able to relax and enjoy the sun, sand, surf, and mountains. We also befriended a couple, who were kind enough to let us stay in a house, for free, on a piece of property a family member owns. Yay to making friends! It was safe, and while unfurnished, was a welcomed change from our hostel experience. Thanks Fayez and April!

While I was on vacation, I still, at times, felt like I was working. It became apparent that Peace Corps has trained me to constantly ask questions. What’s the health care system like? What about the schools? What infrastructure was in place before the war? What still needs to be rebuilt? Where is the middle-class? Were you affected directly or indirectly by the war? However, I also realized that I don’t think I could ever take a vacation in a lesser developing nation, without asking those questions, merely because it’s instinctual and in some ways, imperative to my survival and understanding.

It was great to travel to another West African country as I found it neat to compare and contrast. It is apparent that sound infrastructure was in place prior to the war. Sierra Leoneans are resilient people, but also interact with caution, perhaps due to their past or perhaps I just was surprised by the lack of ‘toubabing’ and attention. It was a welcomed reprieve from the Gambian experience of bumstering, toubabing, and limited privacy. Sierra Leone is a beautiful country, that is on the brink of possibly becoming an amazing tourist destination. However, it still needs time. A middle class is non-existent, and outside influence is present everywhere you go.

Despite the crazy encounters, I want to return there some day…to dig a little deeper (and no not for diamonds), meet the people, and hear their stories.

I finally realized what I like doing best when traveling---hearing people’s stories---their trials and tribulations, their fears and dreams, and how they experience this thing called life. Usually it brings me back to the idea that we’re all so different and we have different stories, but that, oddly enough, the differences are what best connects us.

Here’s to digging a little deeper---in my garden, in my village, in others, and in myself. Peace out until July (I hope).

Miss and love you all.

Happy 27th Birthday, Niki!

April 29

To Niki-

Even though I can't be with you on your special day, please know I am thinking of you and can't wait to celebrate with you next year. Love and miss you (TONS).

---

Happy 30th Birthday, Sus! (Your Golden Birthday!)

April 30

Sus-

Happy Birthday. I am sorry I'm issing your special day, but I promise to throw you a 30 plus 1 party next year (or maybe we'll be celebrating in Morocco?). And by party, I mean cooking you a really nice meal and baking you a really awesome cake and maybe taking you out for some drinks. Anyway, I miss you and I love you. All the best and many more...

(This is not me, but a fellow PCV. )

For the past two weeks, I've been in the Kombo region, assisting with the final week of the Health and Community Development training (the newbies swore-in on April 18...I'm now a second-year Volunteer...woo hoo!) After those festivities (and a nice little party thrown by JulBrew, I shifted from the role of trainer to trainee as a participant in the Agroforestry sector's In-Service Training this past week. My primary objective of joining this training was to learn more about beekeeping and tree grafting, all of which could be successful in my village and surrounding communities. It was a great experience to get to know other Volunteers and to gain some invaluable knowledge. (Shh...don't tell anyone, I secretly want to be an Agfo, but I practice good hygiene, so I guess that automatically disqualifies me to be a member of the Dirty Agfo group). I also had the opportunity to meet some Volunteers from Senegal and Guinea; it was great to hear about their experiences.

In addition to being a trainer and a trainee, I purchased my visa and ticket for my upcoming vacation to Sierra Leone and celebrated my 26th year! What an exciting past few weeks. Oddly enough, I think I'll be looking forward to going back to my site and relaxing and waiting for the rains to come at the end of June. Rainy season is such a peaceful time here...and it'll be my last one, so I'll have to make the most of it.

Anyway, back to the In-Service Training...Learning how to properly harvest bees and then processing the honey are probably two of the most exciting things I've learned about here.

After learning the process, dress, and tactics used for harvesting bees/honey, our group broke up into smaller groups. We suited up at dusk, duct taped our shoes to our pants and gloves to our sleeves, and then entered the harvesting area, looking as if we were members of a strange moon-walking cult. Not too mention, the full moon added an element of eerieness to the whole experience.

We entered the apiary and began to work. I was the designated smoker, but then had the opportunity later to cut off the honey comb. Bees swarming, buzzing, close against your skin, tricking you to believe that they're crawling all over your skin. The suite provides protection, but they can still sting you. The adrenaline, the risk, the fascination that such small things---the bees---can produce such a glorious sweetness, while potentially being a huge risk to one's comfort and even one's life. I escaped without any stings (still never been stung), but left with an appreciation and new-found respect for something so small, but so important.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!!!

Still partying with the best of them after all these years!

(Don't hate me for the pic. It's courtesy of Tim.)

Today is my Dad's birthday. And for the second year in a row, I'm not going to be home to share it with him.

However, we had the wonderful opportunity to celebrate family birthdays a little early this year, thanks to the fam's visit to The Gambia. (Yes, I'll be giving you the run down on the family visit soon. I have it written, but the pics take forever to upload).

---Dad-

Happy **th Birthday! Hope you have a wonderful day. And please know how thankful I am to have you as not only my Dad, but my friend. Love you lots and miss you. Bugsy

So these people...

...travelled far across the ocean (not showering, not sleeping, and sitting in a purgatory-like place called the Yoff International Airport in Dakar) to meet these people...

---

Despite a few, minor hiccups (bag lost, but recovered; sweating profusely, but not melted; ate rice, but acquired early resistance to all things with rice (sorry, Dad)), the family's visit to The Gambia was definitely 'enjoying only'. (Note: Family, if you disagree, please state so NOW, NOW).

And now for some highlights:

*Family, if you feel any of the following accounts are inaccurately depicted...too bad, send me an email with 'your' account or better yet, write your own blog.*

1. When Susan's luggage did not arrive, Susan had to wear my clothes for 32 hours. Thankfully, after one year of being away from each other, the theory that Susan is still TOO tall to wear my pants. Even after one year, it's unanimous...I'm still short. DARN IT. (Side note: She still can wear my shirts, despite the increase of the size of my belly...thanks rice!)

2. I didn't realize how much I missed TV until I was able to watch day old Good Morning America in the hotel. Electricity = awesome; Electricity AND televisions = awesomer

3. My inability to properly turn on the hot water in the hotel shower after day 3 proved that one's capability to use modern-day technology diminishes after when one lives without amenities for 14 months. (Who wants to show me how to use a microwave when I get home?)

4. As if crossing the Barra Ferry wasn't stressful enough, it's even freakin' harder when there are no cars in the car park going to where you want to go and you have 3 very pale people watching your every move to negotiate with a driver while they try not to burn in the near-equatorial sun.

5. You know it's going to be a good trip when the family embraces the idea of a bean sandwich for lunch or their third day in the country.

6. Dad did not manage to acquire a huge bruise on his forehead, despite all the times he hit his head getting in and out of the taxis. (See all that extra padding on your fat head is good.)

7. Susan managed to thwart who wanted attention and thankfully, did not accept any marriage proposals from bumsters.

8. The parents are as equally cool in America and The Gambia, as voted by friends from home and in The Gambia.

9. Family successfully entertained 30 children while I made fishcakes and baobab juice.

10. After 3 days of being at my site, Paabi and Mero didn't run the opposite way screaming when seeing the 'toubabs'.

11. I can now refer to Dad as Demba, Mom as Hawa, and Susan as Mariama---all Fattys, of course! That's what you get for laughing at Jalika Fatty's surname for the past 12 months.

12. Who ever would have ever thought 300 plus people in my village of 1200 would wait by the side of the road for an hour to greet my family. AMAZING.

13. Realized that my ability to cope with things by use of humor is inherited from Mom and Dad. Thank goodness I got the humor genes and the youthful looking ones...:P

14. Despite my abhorrence for keeping pet monkeys as pets, they really are the crowd pleaser, especially when your Mom comes to visit and her name is Lois, and the monkey's name is Louis, which is not only confusing for Americans to decipher, but also Gambians.

15. Dreams and meditations of my sister joining me on my runs through the African bush were actually NOT nearly as good as actually having her run with me. Sweet!

16. Managed to save 5 whole delasis (ie. ONE quarter) while buying a Gambian soccer jersey in a packed Serrekunda market, while keeping hot tempers at bay.

17. Swimming pools are FANTASTIC, especially when paired with an ocean view.

18. Family vacations really can be fun, despite what most people say.

19. Oddly enough, my two worlds collided and everyone survived and maybe became a bit wiser, bolder, and crazier because of it.

20. My family never ceases to amaze me.

Thanks.

For the past three months, I've been traveling throughout the country quite a bit and it doesn't look as though it will let up until the end of April.

For the times that I'm in my village, which ranges from one week to two weeks at a time, I've been busily awaiting the arrival of my family. I finally received an additional bed/couch-like piece of furniture from the village's bamboo furniture maker. Unfortunately, it took me 7 months to receive it and lots of badgering, threats, and various individuals stalking the furniture maker's whereabouts. I've also recently purchased a chair (no more sitting on the floor mat!) and a nice desk/table. It finally feels like a home and at times, my retreat (although I still really like the silk cottonwood tree in the bush that I run to (literally) when I need a hiatus...but the tree doesn't fit in my house).

At nights, I've been heading to bed earlier than usual so I can come inside and paint a portion of one of my sitting room's walls that did not have blue paint on it (I ran out of it when I was painting last summer). Each morning, members of my family (old and young) have been peering through my door, seeing the sketch transform into a collision of colors, patterns, and designs. The painting (and room) is still incomplete, but I'm hoping to have the real family help me with filling in the blank spots of the walls, making candle holders, and sewing up some pillowcases I've made. My host family is so infatuated with this painting of mine (it's not even that good as I'm out of practice) that my 37 year old host brother wants me to paint a painting/mural in his family's house. I think I might try to paint a picture of Fatty Kunda...but that means, I'd have to paint all 65 members of the family. Maybe I'll just paint a landscape picture for them...Birds of The Gambia sounds good to me.

---

So it's been a while since I've posted and don't think I've forgotten about you all...I certainly haven't. Your emails, cards, letters, packages, and thoughts still accompany me throughout the days.

My family arrives soon, but it doesn't seem as though it's real. My host family seems to be just as excited about my real family's arrival as my real family is. I'm sure my family's time here will be quite the adventure and I've urged them to 'roll with it' with a sense of humor as that is how one gets through the not so normal things here. I've told my host family and Gambian friends that I will cry when I see my parents and my sister, and every time I'm told the same thing...'Why would you cry? You'll make them think life is not sweet here!' and I always respond 'I'll cry because I'm so happy.' The surprised Gambian then says, 'You don't cry when you're happy!' And I said, 'No...YOU don't...but I most certainly do.'

Being in the Gambia has certainly helped me to uncover or reveal things about myself that weren't always evident, but being here hasn't changed what makes me, ME. So I say...

Let the tears f l o w...

Safe travels Mom, Dad, and Susan..

I have been told that many of you have been asking how you can directly help me with my endeavors here in The Gambia...well, here is your chance:

Help Repair and Revitalize My Community's Women's Gardens

Above: Garden Fence

Proposal

The members of two women’s groups are requesting funds to repair the fencing of each group’s garden. Fencing currently exists, but it is in disrepair, due to a bush fire and general corrosion of barbed wire and nails. The funds will be used to purchase barbwire, nails and corrugate (for garden doors/gates and replacing roofing on pre-existing bathroom/rest house structure in one of the gardens). The larger of the two gardens has an area of 3.5 hectares (HUGE!). The smaller garden is 192 x 120 m. Repairing the fences will stop grazing animals and curious children from entering the gardens. Strong, durable fencing will help to ensure year-round gardening, which will aid in better nutrition and additional income generation for the women and their families. Total project costs are estimated at GMD 86,865/USD 3,948.42. The community will be contributing to $1,174 of the cost; I am seeking the assistance of interested family and friends in helping to fund the remaining $2,274. Donations can be made here.

For those of you interested in knowing more about my village and this current endeavor, please scroll below.

I cannot thank you enough for all of your support---letters, care packages, emails, inquiries to my parents and sister, and your donations. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

History

The population of my village consists of 1200 people. The village is located in the Central River Region of The Gambia. Mandinka is the predominant local tribal language spoken there; however, many villagers are also fluent in Pulaar as the surrounding villages are Fula. Two larger nearby villages serve as commercial and healthcare hubs for the region.

Above: One of the various rice fields

Citizens of my village work primarily in rice cultivation, self-sustainable farming, and fishing. Some villagers are also skilled in carpentry, blacksmithing, and tailoring.

The women of my community (and interested men) have utilized the active women’s groups to embark upon improving the nutrition and well-being of the women and their families, particularly their children. The women of the community are very industrious and hard-working. Produce grown is sold at weekly markets in surrounding villages for additional income generation. The women also take part in adult literacy activities and many are involved with the Parent/Teacher Association at the local Basic Cycle School (where I teach Grade 9 English). Both men and women maintain several beds in both of the women’s gardens, but the women of my village are the most involved, with approximately 250 women working throughout the year in both gardens. The gardens are already equipped with several wells. The 3.5 hectare garden has a total of eight wells, while the 192 x 120m garden has four wells. The water table in both gardens is quite high and easily accessible by traditional water retrieval methods. This garden has existed for approximately 20 years and about 100 women maintain beds.

Above: Garden Well

Existing Problems & Needs

Currently, the gardens are not being fully utilized as many of their members do not want to plant seeds without a safe and secure fence that can protect against animals and children. Villagers want to ensure that strong, durable fencing is constructed, prior to resuming work in the gardens. The women (and men) of the village are hardworking and have tried to balance both work in the rice fields (majority of villagers’ main source of income) and the gardens. In addition to improving nutrition and diet, many members supplement their income by selling their own produce. Growing vegetables is beneficial to the community both directly and indirectly.

Ever since my arrival to village eight months ago, its community members, especially the members of the two women’s groups, have expressed their desire to repair their existing gardens. On several occasions, I have met with leaders of the women’s groups, as well as interested males who oversee the labor for the repair and subsequent sustainability of the women’s garden. While the women are the main workers in the garden, the village elders and men are equally excited about the revamping of the garden. All parties are motivated and eager to start the revitalization project.

I am once again back in Kombo after one week in my village. Since I pretty much spent most of January in Kombo, due to my being asked to assist with the planning for the arrival and training of the new Health and Community Development Trainees, I realized that I really, really do like village-life more than Kombo life. When I arrived in my village last week after my three-week work-hiatus away, my family graciously received me, and then began commenting on the following things:

Conversation #1 with Host Family

Family: Your body is not as big anymore. Kombo is not good for you; you've lost weight.

Me: (Smiling or more like smirking, which isn't always interpreted well)...It's because I didn't eat RICE for 3 weeks.

Conversation #2 with Host Family

Family: You stayed too long.

Me: I know; I had to, but I missed to see your faces.

Family: Don't stay that long again.

Me: I have to go back again in a week.

(They ignore that).

Family: Jalika, you like Kombo too much.

Me: No, I like here better.

Family: But there is sweeter.

Me: No, I don't agree. Here is sweeter because my family is here. I like it here.

Family: Next time, don't stay too long. You always travel.

Me: I know...I know...I know. (Deep Breath) I have to go back there in a week.

Family: What?!

Me: Sorry. I won't stay long, I promise, but work is there.

Family: But if you keep going there, you can't help the people here in village.

Me: I know. Traveling will stop soon, and then I'll be here.

Family: Don't stay long this time.

Me: I said I won't.

Despite these conversations that bring mixed emotions of my not being able to fully express that I really do like my host family and my village and want to spend as much time with them as possible and the fact that I continue to be questioned by everyone and their brother, second-wife, step-daughter, and family donkey where I've been, I have spent a lot of time this past week reflecting on the past year. ONE YEAR. One year has passed by since my arrival here. Time has moved so quickly, even though, for the first two months here, I wrote various desired achievements lists during what seemed-like an eternity of training; I sequenced 'Lists of Things I Want to Do Before I Die', 'Personal Goals for Peace Corps', 'Meals I Would Like to Eat that Don't Contain Rice', etc.

It's so weird to think that what was so abnormally strange has become so abnormally natural. When I'm in Kombo, I wonder if my arm strength will weaken due to my ability to turn on a tap and not fetch 20L of water and carry it on my head. When I'm in Kombo, I think about my host family, and baby Mero, who soon can no longer be called a baby. During my 3 week absence, I returned noticing how much bigger Mero has become. She can speak; she calls me by name and responds when I call her or ask her a question; she runs into my house and tries to help me sweep. Oddly enough, when I look at Mero, I can't help but realize how much I, myself, have grown since I've come here. It's incredible.

One of my good friends (who shall remain nameless here) said I look so much older or mature now. And I don't necessarily feel I look older, but I definitely feel older. I don't feel like a 25 year-old who is constantly trying to prove that I am old enough to have a job, working for a government official. Perhaps I feel old too because I'm constantly reminded (still) that I should already be married and have at least 2 children by now. But perhaps, I feel older, or rather more mature and more assured, that I can do things that I never thought I could possibly do. Or I am still doing this...and still with a (HUGE) smile on my face, even when Mero takes my overly large broom and scatters the neat pile of dust I collected in her efforts to help me sweep. Here's to another year of ups and downs, humility, joy, and discovery of self and the world. Perhaps this feeling of oldness should really be captured as coming into my own...

Greetings! The month of December flew by, and it already feels like January will follow in its footsteps! The next few months have a whirlwind of activity---attending workshops, going to Dakar, Senegal for an ex-pat softball tourney, helping with the new H/CD group's training, and possible visitors from America! Plus, I have my normal 'job stuff' in village to take care of, such as getting funding for the Women's Gardens, starting my Arts Club, teaching at the school, and other village activities.

The latter part of December involved quite a bit of activity. Upon my arrival home from my trip to Kombo last time, I was informed that my host cousin, Jonesaba, delivered a healthy baby boy. (I was told prior to his birth that if the baby was a girl, they'd name it Jalika, after me, and I have a 'too-ma', or a namesake.) However, since the baby was a boy, the family told me that at the baby's naming ceremony, they would be give the baby the name of my real father. Now, there is a baby in a medium-sized, Gambian village, in West Africa, named after a tall, Slavic rooted, American, named Raymond.

The family calls the baby Ray, well actually "Bray" because they can't say 'Ray'. So Ray turned into Bray, which reminded the family of Braima, which is like the Muslim name "Ebrima". (A baby still has to be given a Muslim name, even if named after a toubab.) When the baby's health card is completed, I will make sure that it reads, 'Ebrima Ray Bayo' or 'Ray Ebrima Bayo'.

Needless to say, my American father was very happy to have a little Gambian child named after him. Mom and Dad: Make sure you bring some cute baby clothes when you visit...

A few days after Baby Ray's naming ceremony, we celebrated Tobaski. While some Gambians celebrated the holiday on Thursday, December 20, the rest of us, mostly in the provinces, celebrated it on Friday, December 21 (it's a long story).

Admittedly, Tobaski was a difficult holiday for me. Not only did I witness the slaughtering of two rams, was forced to take a picture of the two rams (named Sarjo I and Sarjo II), and was handed approximately 4 pounds of raw ram meat by my host father and host uncle, I was incredibly homesick.

I realized my feelings of homesickness early in the day, but couldn't really grasp why because it wasn't Christmas just yet. Finally, it hit me as I was holding sleeping Baby Ray, while my host brother was gutting dead Sarjo I, that I was celebrating a holiday with a family, which has traditions and was excited to be together with family. But while I was with my host family for which I love and adore, I was not with MY family or with MY traditions. It's weird to go through similar motions and activities, but for a whole different purpose and for something, like Tobaski, that has a totally different meaning. I had my breaking point after my family handed me the 4 pounds of meat. I literally threw it in a plastic bowl on the table in my 'kitchen'[consists of gas stove on the floor and a meter tall table, minimumly stocked with cooking utensils] and ran to my backyard and sat on my bathroom bench and bawled for about 15 minutes until a Gambian friend of mine stopped by to greet me. I shook off the emotions and reluctantly cooked 3 pounds of the 4 pounds of meat (gave the remaining pound away to my visiting friend) and actually came to really enjoy the rest of the day. After members of my family had a special lunch, with ram meat, rice, vegetables, and other goodies, we sat around listening to music until the evening. After the sun went down, people dressed up in their specially-made Tobaski outfits and walked around the village greeting and asking for 'salibo' (prayers or money are given to those who ask).

At night, I danced like a champ (is there any other way?) with all my teenage host brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and cousins at the village's Tobaski dance.

Two days after Tobaski, I headed down-country to another PCV's site for Christmas. He lives in a Christian compound that raises pigs. So...my Christmas was a lot like home (minus the tree, church, and 24 screening of A Christmas Story), but we certainly did a lot of eating. Surprisingly, Christmas wasn't as emotionally hard as Tobaski had been a couple days earlier. I suppose being away from home during the holidays is a process and much like everything else, you get through it.

It was nice to relax and be near a more tropical part of the country (it was almost like an entirely different country). After Christmas, I visited two other PCVs at their respective sites and had a nice time, just relaxing and getting to know some other PCVs better. It's always motivating to return from someone else's site because we all do similar work here, but we all try different approaches.

I made sure to return to site for New Year's and passed up attending a PC party nearby. Instead, I stayed in my village and rang in the New Year with another PCV friend who came for a visit, coloring books, colored pencils, and my fellow PCV's iPod. Happy 2008!

(*Not THAT kind of encounter---although, if it were, it’d be more interesting, wouldn’t it? Sorry to disappoint…)

---

This is a recent contribution I wrote for my sector's December newsletter...it is based on a real chance meeting I had with a British tourist in the middle of nowhere. I'm (obviously) the PCV in the story. I disguised my identity for the sheer purpose that I didn't want to have fellow PCVs ridicule my horrible storytelling abilities.

NOTE: This is best read if you imagine the sound of my sarcastic voice during the bracketed sections. If it's been too long for you to remember what my voice, albeit sarcastic tone, sounds like...then I suggest you either call me or better yet, come visit. Thought I'd slip a plea in there. If one wants something, she must ask for it, right?

Anyway...read on...before my nonsensical ramblings distract you again.

…Whilst riding home on my bicycle, an hour before dusk (i.e. the time of day when the sun falls down), in a large, dusty pothole (literally), somewhere in Fulladu West. There is a fellow cyclist in the distance, and my initial thought is that it’s another Peace Corps Volunteer, but I soon realize the rider was not wearing a helmet---a clear indication that it was NOT (Reminder: Wear your helmet!!!) I move out of the sun glare and realize the cyclist was a man, who stopped instantly and seemed even more enthusiastic than I usually am when stumbling upon a fellow ‘toubab’ who’s not throwing minties from a tourist bus. Thus goes our conversation (some of which may have been altered for maintaining interest of the audience…)

British cyclist tourist man: Hello!!!! Where you headed?

PCV : Home. [Secretly thinks: Anywhere you’re going, baby.]British cyclist tourist man: Oh, so you live here. Just thought I’d warn you that the road is really bad that way…

PCV: Yes, I know. What are you doing here?

British cyclist tourist man: I’m a tourist, just biking my way through Senegal and The Gambia, but I’ve gotten lost.”

PCV: Where are you supposed to be going now?

British cyclist tourist man: Well, I missed the turn for Janjanbureh. I’m staying there for the night.

PCV: You missed the turn? [Thinks to self: Dude, there’s only two roads here…both go east and west, one in the north, one in the south. How did you miss the ONLY junction? Oh wait, you’re a tourist.]

British cyclist tourist man: Yeah, can you tell me where I should go?

PCV: Go about 5km, look for the sometimes-there, sometimes-not-there-police checkpoint on your left and you’ll see the junction. Turn left and follow the road until you see the river. You can’t miss it (twice). To cross on the ferry with your bike is two delasis.

British cyclist tourist man: So why are you here? What are you doing?

PCV: I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, working with Health and Community Development. You’re biking alone? [Want company…?]

British cyclist tourist man: Yeah, I did this trip in 2004, but wanted to do it again. I bought this bike (powder blue and orange, bike with mud fenders in Kombo---THINK: Trek bike meets a beach cruiser). I’m looking to do something and help here. I have an electrical engineering background, but I suppose that may not be too helpful here.

PCV: Well, it could be…you just have to be creative. I think the key is building relationships with people first and then assessing their needs. In fact, I just came from a meeting at the Regional Health Team’s office [fire the ambulance driver who stole the ambulance for two weeks already!] and am now heading to the school I’m working with. There’s a program there this evening because a Spanish NGO came today to “drop-off things” for the children---computers, laptops, solar panels, games, notebooks, pens. All those things are great, but the Spanish folks are leaving before all the solar and computers can be installed.

British cyclist tourist man: Hmm…I see. [Appears to be interested in aforementioned comments, but clearly isn’t, thanks to his abrupt change in focus to my RAD wheels] That’s a nice American bike you’ve got there. You come with that?

PCV: PC provides it…THIS [taps affectionately] is my baby. I love it---great stress reliever. Instead of punching children in the face when they ask me to ‘borrow them my bike’, I just say, ‘NO!’ and ride off as fast as I can [the kids can run really, really fast and sometimes I fear I can’t escape them! Or I ride as if I’m escaping hyenas who want to attack---it could happen.]

British cyclist tourist man: Well, I guess I should get going. Thanks for your help and good luck to you.

PCV: Thanks. You too! And good luck with the rest of your journey.

Both of us ride off into the sunset...wondering if we’ll ever meet again [cue romantic, yet dramatic movie music]…Well, actually I was riding into the sunset and he was going east and clearly riding away from it. But anyway, it was a classic Peace Corps moment---a chance encounter on the road less traveled...

Three days later (I kid you not…the below REALLY did happen)…

Riding in the back seat of a white Mercedes-Benz, with four other people, heading (rather quickly) towards the Barra Ferry Crossing.... Before we go to the vehicle weigh station, I see the outlines of a red cyclist’s shirt in the distance…and much to my amazement…it’s British cyclist tourist man! He’s pedaling his last few kilometers of his journey and I’ll be there [*crosses fingers*] to greet him…

My vehicle enters the loading dock for boarding the ferry, and I’m secretly excited to meet British cyclist tourist man again. I sit for a few minutes and desperately look for the children selling ices; today they are nowhere to be found. I look up after my brief disappointment of not having the opportunity to suck cold, juicy goodness from a plastic bag, and I see that British cyclist tourist man has crossed the imaginary finish line of his journey (no, he didn’t ride off the dock and into the water). I hurriedly get out of the vehicle to go and congratulate him on a job well done.

PCV: Hello…do you remember me? [He nods yes.] Congratulations…you made it!

British cyclist tourist man: Yes! I remember you. I’m finished and it feels great! I’m going to Kartong now to relax and eat. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight.

We continue to chit-chat, until Kanilai (the name of the ferry) docks and I rush back to the vehicle so that my driver doesn’t leave me in Barra. Before we load onto the boat, British cyclist tourist man gives me his email and his blog address and says “If you’re ever in London.” I hurriedly give him mine…The passengers of the vehicle ask “Is he your husband?” I laugh and say a defiant, “No!” [Images of our future together…our proposal, our wedding, our children flash before me and they’re gone, like the sunset…] We cross and as my vehicle leaves the Kanilai and enters Banjul, we wave… a chance encounter, twice lived…

Life here as a Volunteer, as you all know, is full of unexpected, unpredictable happenings and events. My encounter (times two) with British tourist cyclist man (whose real name is Jon) made me realize a few things:

1. Not all tourists like to throw minties out of tour bus windows. In fact, some like to brave it alone and when they get lost, they venture through villages to find their way and meet the people, Gambian and Volunteers.

2. Riding with a helmet still makes PCVs the coolest [and hoTTest] cyclists in all of The Gambia.

3. We should all ride our bikes more---we might meet some interesting people along the way.

4. Cycling is a great stress reliever.

5. Encounters like this reinforce the fact that The Gambia REALLY is THAT small.

Before I head back to my village, I want to wish you all Happy Holidays! May you enjoy your time with loved ones and friends and know that I am thinking of all of you from afar and will miss you.

As for my holiday plans, I'll be celebrating the Muslim holiday of Tobaski (Tobaski info)on December 21 with host family and village. I will have a traditional African dress made (wrap skirt and matching top)and am excited to be having a nice party, with music and food. My host father has already purchased a ram. I just hope I'm MIA when my family goes to slaughter it. Travel throughout the country will be chaotic for the next week or so, and I've already begun to see rams (several) strapped to the roofs of gele-geles making the trans-Gambian journey.

For Christmas, I will be traveling West towards the Kombo area (but not entering Kombo)and will be staying with another PCV's Christian host family. There will be several PCVs there also celebrating. We will be eating bush pig (Muslims don't eat pork)and hopefully having some good Christmas cheer! As far as New Year's goes, I have no idea what I'll be doing, but it'll be worthwhile, I'm sure.

So for now, I wish you all a wonderful holiday season. I look forward to sharing more adventures with you in the New Year! Take care and all the best.

Love,

Stephanie

P.S. If you're sending me a letter, why not send me pictures too? I love receiving photographs from people.