Typed Saturday, April 12, 2009: As I type this, I am sitting in an undisclosed location, currently in hiding from most of the people I know in the US.

By the time you read this post, the surprise will be out, so let's call this a play-by-play of how it happened.

You know how my Peace Corps service was officially supposed to end next week? Well.... I got official permission from Peace Corps to let me be home for Easter on "religious grounds."

I just elected not to share the news. :)

And so, the plan was set to surprise my family (and most of you reading this) on Easter Sunday! Please pardon the little white lies and trickery of the last several months, but with any luck, it'll be worth it to see the looks on their faces!

I arrived in the US on Wednesday the 8th, almost a week sooner than most people expected. Stephen's fiancee Chelsea met me at the airport and then whisked me to her apartment for the next couple days. A few hours after she picked me up, Stephen and Chelsea went to a movie in her car. Stephen actually looked at the gas gauge and asked, "WHERE did you DRIVE today?!?! Your gas has half emptied since we were in this car a few days ago!" Chelsea feigned shock, and the issue was dropped. We later rolled our eyes together at Stephen's near-thwart of our surprise.

To pass the time, I watched movies while Chelsea was at class, had a pedicure (needed the residual dirt and calluses of Africa off my feet!), and we did some shopping. Fortunately, my body was still on Africa time, so I'd wake up between 1 and 3 am each morning (7 or 9 am Gambia time) and email my parents at the time they would expect to see stamped on my emails, since I habitually checked my email first thing each morning in Kombo.

I called Mom & Dad's pastor to finalize our plans. (The first time I called, I had to hang up shortly thereafter as Chelsea had an incoming call which turned out to be an offer to interview for a job. This comes up later.) He'd asked them to do things in the service, which would ensure they were there, and he would ask them to the front of the sanctuary to announce he had a surprise for them. The hard part was sneaking me into the church without anyone seeing. Too early and they'd have no place to hide me. Too late after the service started and I'd miss my cue.

Chelsea told me Mom had made brunch reservations for the four of them. Luckily, Mom's on Facebook now and happened to mention it there. I posted a surprised note wondering why and where they were going for brunch. Ka-ching. Pappy's Corner Pub. Promptly called Pappy's and changed the reservation from 4 people to 5, while also finding out what time the reservation is.

Emailed my cousin Wendy to tell her that, despite what my parents had said, we might be dropping in on the extended Hoffman family Easter dinner after all, following brunch, if only to see people.

On Friday, it was time to give Chelsea a break from covering up for me, so she drove me to meet Karen halfway. Karen then drove me to Fort Collins, where I stayed crouched low in the seat once within 3 miles of my house, lest we coincidentally pull up next to my parents. We arrived at Claire's house, not a mile from mine, which became my new hiding spot.

Woke up again at 1 am and was able to do my email and blog post at the correct time, but then had to be back up in time for an 8 am video chat with my parents. We'd had several video chats before, when I was in Kombo and could get to the one decent internet cafe, so I needed to set things up to resemble the cafe. Internet service in Claire's house is limited to the kitchen, which severely limited my location options, but I found that if I sat on the floor and put the laptop up on a chair in front of me (so that you couldn't tell I was sitting on the floor), the dark green wood paneling that goes up to waist height would sufficiently resemble the dark walls of the internet cafe. Fortunately, her internet had issues and froze up occasionally, just like they would have expected African internet to do. I made sure the room was dimly lit and that Claire had a heads-up not to shout anything at me. The unexpected problem, however, was that, since I was last here a year ago, Claire and her roommate have acquired a big black lab with a bark that shakes the foundation. I could not a) have Xander walk in front of the camera or b) have Xander let out a bark. So we put Xander in his crate in anticipation of the chat, covered the door with a blanket (to minimize the stimuli he might see), and opened the front door so that I could see if someone showed up and catch them before they rang the doorbell. My back-up plan, if Xander barked or the doorbell rang, was to shut the chat down suddenly and feign technical issues. Who knows whether it would've been convincing, but fortunately it never came to that.

The chat was funny, making plans for my flight and what food I wanted brought to the airport. But I had to smile when Mom and Dad gave me the exciting news of Chelsea's job interview... The call that came while I was holding the phone! :-D

Later on Saturday, I called Chelsea to let her know that, while I knew she'd been planning to wear the earrings and necklace I gave her from Gambia to church, she'd need to put the necklace in her purse and not put it on until after the surprise. Why? Because I remembered that a few of the necklace beads are made of fish vertebrae, a distinctly Gambian touch that my family would have recognized. The rest of the jewelry looks African, but could easily be faked. The fish vertebrae would have blown our cover. Another crisis averted.

Next up was to let Chelsea and Pastor Dan know which number to reach me on in the morning, to perfectly time when I walked into church and avoid accidental run-ins. Karen came over to Claire's and brought me Subway (I'd already done Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Noodles & Company, and Pizza Hut) and we caught up. Typed Monday, April 13, 2009: Sunday morning, after breakfast burritos and fruit salad (courtesy of Anna, Claire’s roommate), I put on my fanciest Gambian outfit, and Claire drove me to Mountain Range Church. We timed our arrival in the parking lot for just after the service would have started at 10 am. I hid low in the passenger seat and we awaited the call saying it was safe to come in. Just then, we got a text message from Chelsea—she and Stephen were running late and hadn’t yet pulled into the parking lot. We were in trouble—Stephen would have recognized Claire! We quickly pulled out of the parking lot, barely missing them. (Chelsea said she saw us leave.) We pulled onto a nearby neighborhood street until Chelsea texted that they were parking. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait too long, or we might have missed our cue. We pulled back up at the church just in time to see Stephen and Chelsea walk in the door. Claire parked and I resumed my hidden position slouched down in the passenger seat. We were just in time—not five minutes later, we got the call that it was safe for me to come in. The church secretary, DJ, and Pastor Dan’s wife, Linda, were a coordinated team to rush me in the door and straight to the women’s restroom to hide out for a few more seconds. Then, it was time, and DJ ushered me to the side door of the sanctuary, and I walked in. Pastor Dan was standing facing the congregation, with Mom and Dad on his left and Stephen and Chelsea on his right. As it turned out, Stephen and Chelsea were positioned slightly facing me, so Stephen’s eyes bugged out almost immediately, but he stayed silent. As I walked toward Mom and Dad, who had their backs to me, Pastor Dan talked about how Easter is a time for surprises and answered prayers, and that something they were looking forward was going to happen a little sooner than they thought. Mom & Dad were so focused on the pastor that they didn’t notice I’d walked up and was standing just behind them. After Pastor Dan finally motioned for them to look behind them, Mom turned around. “OH MY GOSH!!!!!!!!!!” She started crying and grabbed me, and hugged me so long I began to feel bad for Dad, who was standing there waiting his turn. Dad was teary and, while Mom was quite vocal, he was speechless. They immediately harassed Stephen for helping me, and were quite surprised to learn that my co-conspirator was NOT my brother, but his fiancée! I went to high-five Chelsea, but apparently got a little too enthusiastic and almost fell over. Mildly embarrassing. Once things calmed down a bit, I was given a chance to thank the church for their support and help, both with Peace Corps and this surprise, and Dad was given a chance to respond, but it took him a while to say anything. The rest of the morning (especially at brunch) was spent straightening out things I’d told them. Things like no, my phone wasn’t stolen—just couldn’t have you call after I left Gambia last Tuesday! :) So, with Julie checking my email and Facebook (to delete messages from PCVs blurting things like “HEY HOW’S AMERICA??” *ahem that’s you Croc Kate :)*); Mike T setting up a secret email account that I could plan surprises through (since my Mom has checked my normal email account for me for two years); Chelsea, Karen, Claire & Anna providing rides and lodging, and Pastor Dan coordinating the surprise, we pulled it off! Thanks for all the help!

First of all, click here for new pics!

***************************************************************During my two years in Africa, with minimal supervision and only a mildly annoying amount of paperwork, I've apparently forgotten that, as a branch of the US government, the Peace Corps must kill the forests of small nations with the paperwork hoops you have to jump through.

The application process was a long, ridiculous series of forms with numbers like 423-5C instead of names ("Doctor's Exam"), followed by follow-up forms with occasionally absurd questions. "Why didn't you tell us you had a thyroid imbalance? We're putting your medical clearance on hold." "Um, I didn't tell you about my thyroid imbalance because I don't HAVE one."

Leaving the PC is a similar process. You're given a book with sections for nearly every staff member in the office to sign. It looks easy enough, but that's a trap designed to draw you in and make you think PC actually WANTS you to return to America. The reality looks more like this:

- Try to pick up the check for 1/3 of my resettlement allowance from Juliana. (The other 2/3 comes in the mail after you return to the US.) Am told I'm not allowed to do that until I've settled up financial stuff with Peace Corps

- Pick up a form from Juliana that says how much money PC owes me and a form from Fatou that says how much money I owe Peace Corps.

- Go to the cashier to try to settle up, then get her signature on the appropriate line

- Cashier tells me that the form I got from Fatou has to first be taken to Juliana to be put into the system (the first form was a typed document, too--apparently just not typed in the right format)

- Go to Juliana to get the form put into the system

- Juliana passes the form to Yaya to put in the system

- Wait for Yaya to have a chance to put it in the system

- Yaya finishes the form, but by that time (10 am-ish), Patti, who has to sign off on the form, has stepped out to meet with or show around (not sure) the new British woman on staff

- Go back to the transit house to do other things, as I am now in a deadlock until Patti returns

- Return to the office around 2 pm, haunt Yaya, who tells me that Patti is still not back

- Pester Yaya several more times, finally find out around 3:45 that Patti is back

- By 4:00, Yaya is able to get the form signed by Patti

- Return to the cashier's office to turn in the forms and finally settle up

- Cashier's office is closed. Oh yeah. The cashier only works til 3.

- National holiday declared the next day. Stake out the office anyway, trying to catch any PC staff member who decides to drop by work for an hour. End up spending 7 hours on the couch by the front door, first waiting for Juliana (who I pressure into giving me the check, b/c my financial stuff is mostly done and who knows how many more holidays there will be before I leave) and then for the country director, with whom I'm supposed to meet at noon but who forgets and thinks it was 1 pm. Am unable to leave said couch except for rushed trips to the bathroom 2 feet away. Desperately hungry but can't go get food, less I miss someone. Fellow volunteer finally takes pity on me and goes to buy me food.

- Run into Patti, too, and express worry about getting all the appropriate signatures and forms done with all the holiday declaring going on. Patti is helpful in coming up with a back-up plan, but then tells me, "that's why I tell people they should really come in and start on the whole process as soon as you get to Kombo." Silently seethe inside and don't mention that I could have finished everything I'm stressing about if she hadn't been out of the office for 6 hours the previous day. DO mention that I arrived in Kombo Tuesday night and then spent nearly all of Wednesday and Thursday AT the office, running up and down the two flights of stairs.

When I sat down to watch the movie Bolt yesterday, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I'd never heard of the movie before seeing it. Had I, I might have guessed that the plot goes something like this:

- Girl has super bond with dog, who thinks he's a superhero created to protect the girl

- Dog takes himself too seriously and is overprotective

- Girl and dog get separated

- Girl sad

- Dog wants to find his "person," but in the meantime, is learning how to be a normal dog. This includes learning how to play with dog toys, befriending other animals, riding with his head out the window, and living in a regular house, none of which he'd done before.

- Dog doesn't understand why he was separated from his person and begins to wonder if she really loved him

- Dog and his person are dramatically reunited, girl decides to give dog a more normal life from now on

Does any of this sound like someone you know?

This is not a good movie to watch if you've been in a situation where your safety and mental health hinged on your overprotective dog for two years but now you're separated and your dog is off learning how to be a normal dog.

Let me just say, it's embarrassing to cry while watching a Disney cartoon. Especially in the first five minutes.

It's frightening how often my blog entries seem to need an introduction of "I swear, I am not making this up."

On that note, I swear I am not making this up:

I have one pair of tennis shoes that I brought to The Gambia with me two years ago. As it turns out, PCVs here live in flip-flops, the $1 pair you can buy anywhere in the village, and just throw away when they're worn down. So my tennis shoes have sat basically unused except when I was flying somewhere (England, home, Senegal) or when I was playing softball at WAIST in February.

Kombo is a little more tolerable temperature-wise than my site, though, so yesterday, I decided to don tennis shoes.

The following is a blow-by-blow account:

Me *talking to the other Beth, picks shoe up and gets a whiff of it*: Whoa!

Beth J: What?

Me *picks shoe up and smells it gingerly*

Beth J: What are you doing?

Me: It smells bad!

Beth J: So why are you smelling it?

Me: I'm trying to figure out what the deal is... *begins examining the shoe*

Beth J *jokes*: What, something died in there?

Me *pulls shoe open and looks inside*: A MOUSE!!! A MOUSE DIED IN THERE! AAAA! GROSS!

Beth J: Wait, you're serious?

Me: Yes! It died in there and it's been decomposing since then! EW!

I then had to extract said decomposing mouse from my shoe, and after seeing how many bits of decomposed mouse were left even after I'd pulled the body out, I realized two things:

a) There was no way I could get my shoe clean enough (not to mention deodorized enough) to wear again, without a washing machine, something I haven't used in two years except when traveling outside Gambia

b) I'm not sure even a machine could've saved that shoe. Remember, the most recent time I can vouch for that shoe NOT having a dead mouse was two months ago!

This left me with no choice but to throw my tennis shoes away. End result? I'll be flying through freezing cold (to me) New York and Denver wearing flip-flops.

I'm going to freeze.

I woke up before 6 am today, and couldn't sleep, so I decided I'd just come to the PC office for a while.

Waking up that early wasn't ALL bad, though.

Why?

Because I got to buy some of Jammeh's bread. Jammeh's Gambia's president of 13 years or something now. Or, "Dr. J," as I heard someone refer to him the other day.

Why, you ask, did I buy bread from the president?

Because a few months back, a bread bakery opened on Kairaba, one of the main roads in Kombo and the place with the highest real estate values in the country (so I've heard). Apparently, the big guy himself owns it.

It took me a long time to realize it was a bakery. The lines were always so long and the front door so jam-packed that I used to think they played football games on a TV there.

Turns out, people just think the bread is so amazing (because it's Jammeh's bread or because they really like the recipe, I don't know) that they're willing to stand in long lines in the hot sun to buy a 20 cent loaf of bread (shaped like a small baguette).

Anyway, as it happens, the bakery is open and not crowded at 6 am. So after walking by that ridiculous line dozens of time, I was able to stroll in when no one was around and easily buy a loaf. It's good, but it's not that good. It's basically just regular French bread.

But then, I suppose eating a loaf of Jammeh's bread is one of those things every PCV should do before leaving the Gambia. Right up there with being waved at by the president in his passing motorcade (been there) or even meeting the big guy himself (done that). So, I guess that means I can go home like, today, right?*********************************************************************************************************************

^Sometimes I do this when I don't have a good transition and have overused "Anyway" and "In other news."When you COS (Close Of Service), as part of the medical clearing process, you are allowed to photocopy and take any part of your PC medical record you wish. Incidentally, this is also the first chance you get to actually see firsthand what was written about you.

It was quite the experience reading what's been written about me. The best entry was when they were looking to switch me off of the malaria prevention med that has psychological side effects. They were trying to determine how badly the meds were screwing with my head, so the entry's full of stuff like:

- "Seems rational"

- "Makes eye contact"

- "Dressed neatly"

- "Started crying"

- "Can converse coherently"

Then I happened to look at the notes for my most recent exam, the COS physical. Most of the notes were familiar, since she was copying down what I was saying. But then I got to the very end, where she'd decided to add just ooooooooonnnnee more thing:

"Mild facial acne"

Ouch.

I hereby challenge you all to a Mancala tournament upon my return to the States.

What's Mancala, you ask?

It's that game that everyone's seen but most people don't know how to play:

I learned how to play it about a month ago, and sat there with a few other volunteers who'd gotten equally hooked, wistfully discussing how cool it would be to get a mancala board hand-carved here.

Then yesterday, I was at the Fajara Craft Market (which my parents and I found when they were here) and discovered one. I like the Fajara Craft Market, because it has mostly the same stuff as the other craft markets here, but is less well known, so people are more pressed to make a sale and I can get much lower prices there. (A tourist can't, and sometimes when I hear the prices they're bargaining at, I have to resist the impulse to jump in and tell them they're being charged triple. But hey, it's the price you pay for coming to a country without any grasp of the language or culture. End soapbox.)

It started at 800 dalasi (over $30), but I got it down to half that. I'm really excited because Mancala's a great game (easy to learn but lots of strategy), plus the set makes a cool looking souvenir. I bought the really big one that'd make a cool display piece in the middle of the room or something. Probably my favorite souvenir from Gambia (and I've bought a lot of them). It's a good thing I have a bit of wiggle room in my luggage.

So, starting next week, I'm going to teach you all how to play!****************************In other news, last night was Peace Corps' third open mic. I did a couple things, but they had to be a capella as, alas, I've sorta set the guitar aside during my PC service. (I brought my guitar, but I'd get it out to play when I was feeling stressed out by Gambia, only every time I played my front door would be mobbed, which just stressed me out more.) It was cool though. PCV's are, seemingly by definition, a very artsy and musical bunch. (Intimidatingly so!) Cass usually reads a poem or two about PC life, and they always make me teary. In November she read one called "Touch," about how as PCV's we get almost no physical contact and so are constantly wrestling our host siblings for SOME human touch, though it's still not enough. Last night she read one about how we're leaving the people who understand our stories and what we've gone through the past two years for people who are just going to nod and look at us blankly. (Nothing personal to people back home! That's just how it is.)

And finally, as of approximately this week, the new must have fashion item in Kombo iiiiiiisssssss *drumroll please*...........

The propeller hat.

I know, I know, you have that picture in your head of what I mean by propeller hat, but you're telling yourself "that can't be what she means..." Allow me to clear up the confusion:

Yes. You are correct.

It's so bad that I was late getting somewhere because I'd gotten in a taxi whose driver decided to interrupt the route to drive in circles trying to go around to different vendors for the best deal on a propeller hat. I eventually got so mad I yelled at him in Mandinka, got out of the car, and walked the rest of the way, even after the driver pulled back up in his propeller hat and tried to get me back in the car.

I will NOT be bringing home a souvenir propeller hat. So don't even ask.

Quick! When was the last time you took a sledgehammer to something?

My answer: Thursday.

Backstory: In Kombo (the urban coastal area), Peace Corps has a transit house, where volunteers can stay while they're in town to go to the PC office or the bank... or the beach. We call it the stodge.

Inside the stodge's walled compound is a small house in the back. Currently, that house is being used for a few PCVs working in the Kombo area to live in permanently.

It hasn't previously been used for volunteer housing, so it's only recently been remodeled and brought up to PC housing code. This means that some of the bugs haven't exactly been worked out.

The house is sort of fortress like, with bars on all the windows and metal doors riveted to the house. Even the lock is super heavy-duty. Which wouldn't be a problem if it worked correctly.

As it turns out, there have been occasions where the lock has jammed and people have been locked in the house. They had to jimmy the lock around quite a bit before getting out. Not a huge problem, so long as the house isn't, say, on fire.

However, Thursday night, Beth J (the other Beth) tried to get into her locked house and failed. She called a few other PCVs over for help, and we all took turns jimmying and jiggling and jerking. No luck. It was late at night, so we decided not to call the hard-working Gambian PC staff member whose job it is to fix these things. Instead, we took things into our own hands.

Someone found a hammer, and we decided we were going to just bang the lock out of the door. One by one, Alicia, Buya (real name Amy, but we all call her by her Gambian name, Buya, pronounced "Boo-yah"... great, huh?), Pete, Beth J and I pounded at the lock -- great stress relief! Alicia was looking wistfully through the window into the house, where the fridge held her precious stash of Thin Mints cookies. She was perhaps a little more motivated than the rest of us to get inside...

We continued making progress, having thoroughly mangled the lock and loosened it a bit. But Buya went for reinforcements and returned with a sledgehammer. Yes!

It was right about then that Ellie came home and found us destroying her front door. "Umm, guys...? I have the key...."

More banging.

Finally, we decided to ask the guards for help. Gambians are great at inventive solutions to the weirdest situations. Also, they're stronger than the mostly female group we had.

When they came over and we explained the situation, their first question was, "well do you have the key?" They (like Ellie, apparently) were pretty sure that these stupid toubabs had lost the key, and decided to bang the door down rather than wait for the spare. We explained (in both English and Mandinka) that yes, we had the key, but the lock was jammed and the key didn't work, so we were just knocking the lock out of the door.

Still in doubt, the guards asked for the key, which we handed over, then watched as they tried to open the door. It was difficult to hold back the snickers when one of the guards informed us, "well, the lock is bent. That's why the key's not working."

Ok, yes, the lock is bent now...

But that's because we've been at it with a sledgehammer for the past half hour, making a ruckus that the guards couldn't possibly not have heard!

So we explained, again, that the lock was bent by our sledgehammer after the key didn't work. Eventually, we convinced the guards to just start swinging, and they successfully busted the door apart and voila! We were in!

As for the girls living in the house, they're relieved to have that lock off the door, and are requesting a fire escape be made if PC admin wants to put another industrial strength lock on there. A wise decision.

I feel differently about Gambia different days.

Today is a "punch Gambia in the face" day.

Why?

Our president is a Jola, that's why.

See, Gambians identify more strongly with their tribe (Mandinka, Wolof, Jola, etc.) than with their nationality as Gambians. As such, most still fall into predictable stereotypes about their tribe. The Serahules are businessmen, the Fulas are the most humble (having been everyone else's slaves a few generations back)... and the Jolas? They like to party.

I don't just mean once in a while. I mean that Jolas will party it up at the slightest provocation. So what happens when you put a Jola in the most powerful seat in the country?

He declares national holidays at the drop of a hat.

This is great for Gambians with office jobs, who often find out late at night that they don't have to work the next morning. It's a problem for anyone who ever wants to accomplish anything. Peace Corps volunteers are constantly trekking into Basse or Kombo to withdraw their monthly living allowance, only to discover a holiday's been declared so, surprise! The bank's closed!

This is an especially huge problem if you arrive in Basse or Kombo without enough leftover cash to feed yourself or get back to site. Because then you're stranded... and hungry.

I once biked all the way to Basse to go to the bank, only to discover that a holiday had been declared because Senegal and Gambia had played each other in a football game and Gambia had... won, you say? No, no, no, silly... It was a draw. So yes. Our eminent prez shut down the country to celebrate Gambia's draw in a football game.

So back to why I want to punch Gambia in the face today.

Gambia's under-17 team is off somewhere for a football game that was yesterday. (I don't care enough to know who or where they were playing.) They actually won, this time, so last night, a national holiday was declared. It's for today through possibly as long as Sunday. But then Monday is when they return to Gambia. The last time this happened, the day the team returned was also declared a holiday. Oh! And next Friday through Monday is declared one long holiday for Good Friday through the day after Easter. (Did I mention this is a Muslim country?)

So, in short, despite the fact that I still have A WEEK AND A HALF left, I have a grand total of THREE DAYS in which to do ALL of my medical checks and Close Of Service paperwork. Because even the PC office is forced to close for every last ridiculous Gambian holiday.

This is a problem.

And yet... I've been here for two years... I should've been able to foresee this type of thing by now.

*punches Gambia in the face*

In a miraculous turn of events, the Basse internet cafe is actually working today! This is doubly miraculous, because a) I've been here at least five times this month, sometimes waiting up to 45 minutes, before finding out the internet doesn't feel like cooperating that day, and b) the Basse government powers-that-be have decided they can no longer afford the fuel that powers the generators that produce Basse's intermittent electricity. They have resolved the problem by randomly leaving sections of Basse powerless occasionally. Makes it hard to use a computer...So anyway, I can't promise that my luck will hold out much longer, so I'll make this quick and give you the highlights of my life right now:- I'm pretty sure I have worms. The faint-of-heart won't want to know how I know, so I'll skip that part. Let's just say I had to send some interesting "samples" to the PC med unit with the PC mailrun car on Sunday. PC screens and treats all that kind of stuff when you finish service anyway. I probably have schistostomiasis too, which is kinda fun because I remember discussing it as this rarely heard of disease in my college biology courses. I get to go home and be the person who's had every exotic disease ever. If I were a girl scout, I'd have earned my "weird disease" badge several times over. (No, such a badge does not actually exist, to my knowledge.)- I shipped out half my belongings on mailrun to other volunteers in-country. I sold it all to make a few hundred bucks, which I'll put toward paying back Minty's shipping. So now my house is so empty it practically echoes. I can't help thinking though, that the wide open floor would be great for a dance party.- I get picked up in a PC car on Monday! That's when I'll say my goodbyes to my host fam, probably crying so much that it'll scare the children and they won't want to hug me. Then Monday night will be in Basse for a farewell party, at which we'll make smoothies with the new PC Basse house blender. That is, if the government deigns to grant us electricity that night.- By now, due to Gambian gossip circles (the only thing which outdoes the Peace Corps gossip circle), pretty much the entire country knows I shipped my dog to America. The image I've tried to convey is that I put him in a box and shipped him as luggage on top of the plane. (Ask any Gambian where luggage goes--on top of the vehicle!) I make sure to reiterate to them that I did not have to buy him a plane ticket because he's luggage, so no I will not buy you a ticket to America either. And no, he will not die in the box. Yes, I'm sure.Despite having shipped Minty almost two months ago, most people seem to envision him still floating out in the middle of the Atlantic on a boat, being smuggled illegally into the US. They are shocked to hear he's already at my parents' house.Just yesterday, my host father (who I swear I've told eight times already) gave me the "what?!? He entered there already??" To prove it (because he was clearly in doubt), I started regaling him with tales of Minty's new life. "So, I have this chair in America, right? [I don't know the Mandinka word for couch.] And it's my chair, but it's at my parents' house. And even I never let my dog on that chair! Even my America dog! But now, my parents call, and they tell me 'your dog sleeps on your chair', and I say 'bii lai wo lai tii lai'!" [That translates to some cross between "WHAT?!?!" and "Oh no you didn't!"]Host fam: "He sleeps on your chair?!?!"Me: "On my CHAIR!! Even here, I did not let him on my chair! And even my America dog, I did not allow her on my chair! I tell them 'no, I do not want dogs on my chair,' but they say, 'but he likes your chair TOO much--and he is sleeping.' Bii lai!!"Host fam: "On your CHAIR?!?"Me: "On my chair!"

(posted by Mom)

Bethany was out by the river this week and saw a man fishing with a fishing pole (highly inefficient--fishing is done with nets so you can catch a lot at one time.) She stopped to talk and asked if he was fishing for his dinner -- with some disgust he informed her that he didn't need to fish for dinner -- he had just purchased a good quantity of fish for eating. "So, why are you fishing?" Turns out he was bored with nothing to do in his compound so he was just fishing for entertainment! A Gambian with leisure time -- pursuing a hobby!

She asked him some questions and as a result, with the use of dental floss, a fish hook, and a raw peanut for bait, she has now successfully caught her own fish--some of which she gave to her host family and one she cooked herself with a corn meal batter -- delish!

On the not so great side, this whole African experience has cost her another camera -- this time she walked into the river with it in her pocket!! She's really mad at herself and just hoping that when she brings the memory card home the pictures can be recovered.

(By the way, she'll be back in Colorado one month from today!! -- April 14)

Major kudos (and thanks) go out to Jenn, who recently wrote me from her hospital bed. THAT is a dedicated correspondent.I bought a duck! (Again.) Partially because my current female hasn’t done a thing since abandoning her first nest, partially because I have a little bit of birthday gift money to spend, and partially because I’m still hung up on my goal of getting at least ONE duckling before I leave this country, I decided to suck it up and spend the 150 dalasi ($7). Since I’ve had Kiling (“One,” still alive), Fula (“Two,” dead), Saba (“Three,” dead) and Naani (“Four,” still alive), it means this one’s name is Luulu (“Five”). She’s still pretty young (she has a few wing feathers still growing in), but Kiling (the male) is definitely doing his part to get her to lay eggs…I keep a running list on my little expo board of topics to blog about, so that I remember the next time I’m on my laptop. So this post was based on my expo notes that said “monkeys,” “Jenn,” and “Luulu.” What I don’t get is why I wrote a note to blog about “duck shoulder.” Oh well. It was probably a funny story at the time…

Check out my new userpic!

Well, tomorrow morning I head back (by land this time) to Gambia. I'll be at a friend's house by dark, Inshallah (God willing, i.e. assuming our car doesn't explode or otherwise cease functioning), then will visit a few people and be back in village by Saturday.

I know I should post a more comprehensive post about my Senegal time, and I probably will in the near future when I figure out where Basse's last internet cafe reincarnation moved to. But during my first long and lonely week here in Senegal, all I had was slow internet with a krazy French keyboard with all the keys moved around so half my sentences came out gibberish (and no USB port to transfer a blog post from my laptop to the cafe computer). Then when I did finally sit down for two hours to write some exceptionally witty & moving entries, the computer was so overwhelmed with emotion that it promptly froze up and lost all my work.

On Friday, when the PCVs from the rest of West Africa showed up for our softball tournament, I moved to a cushy American expat house with wireless internet. So since then, I've had speedy (better than anywhere in Gambia) internet, and can type on my very own laptop (with normal key layout!), but I've had no time to post. It's been a crazily busy weekend, between softball games, eating amazing food (Dakar's WAY more developed than Kombo), shopping, dancing, and seeing the sights. Not to mention getting to use my homestay's washer and dryer (something my clothing hasn't seen in nine months!).

So, apologies for the slacking off... I think Mom might still have some of my pre-typed entries, so there'll still be regular updates here... You'll just have to wait a bit longer before hearing the glorious details of Dakar (overpasses! purebred dogs! trash cans!).

Did I mention the donuts?

Bonjour! I'm sitting here at an internet cafe in Senegal, wishing I spoke French or Wolof. Why are you in Senegal, you may ask, or perhaps, where's Senegal? Senegal is the former French colony which surrounds Gambia on all sides except for a small stretch of coast. So while former British colony Gambia has one single type of bread across the country and often mediocre cuisine, Senegal is the land of pastries, pizza, and assorted other French items starting with "p" that I never order because they don't resemble the English word closely enough for me to guess.There are some Mandinka speakers in Senegal, and I get very excited when I run into them and can speak in complete sentences. Otherwise, I'm getting by with my guidebook French, a few Wolof phrases, a lot of gestures and the numbers 1-99 in Fula.As to why I’m here – first, WAIST – West African Intramural Softball Tournament—a gathering of West African PCVs, and this was where I came to ship Minty direct to the U.S. (Flying him from Gambia would have meant going through Europe--nearly impossible these days after a severe tightening of their rules for shipping animals because a cargo handler was bitten a few months back.)

From Mom: God Does Stuff. Then He Chuckles. Repeated attempts to make advance arrangements to ship Minty to the States had accomplished nothing. We were left with the belief that Bethany wouldn't know until she showed up at the shipping terminal in Dakar, Senegal, whether she would be able to ship Minty to Atlanta by Delta, or have to use South African Airways and ship to Dulles Airport in Washington, DC. Her Dad and I prepared to hit the road Friday night, planning to drive straight through to Atlanta (hopefully not DC) arriving Sat. evening, finding a place to sleep, and picking Minty up at 8:30 Sunday morning-- then hitting the road again, planning to arrive back in Colorado sometime Monday (and expecting to be pretty exhausted.)

Then Bethany gets to Dakar, and learns that Delta has turned over its cargo operations to DHL. The DHL agent is filling out the paperwork and asks for the address of the people receiving the dog. She says, "Well they don't live in Atlanta, so can't they just pick him up at the airport?"

He asks, "Where do they live?"

"Colorado."

To which he replies, "Why aren't you just shipping him all the way to Colorado?"

Call Mom and Dad: " How about just driving to DIA rather than Atlanta?"

Bottom line, while Delta's domestic pet shipping service wouldn't "speak" with their international shipping (so we would have had to pay a service to receive him in Atlanta and put him on a plane to Denver--for which we were quoted $1800!) shipping cargo is DHL's business. Minty still flew on Delta planes, but DHL staff handled the transfer process in Atlanta--all for less than what we expected to pay!

Cut to Sunday--we're planning to pick him up at 3:30--phone rings at 11:30. Call from Delta Cargo in Denver: "There's a dog coming in here, but you can't pick him up. U.S. Customs doesn't clear cargo on Sundays--someone should have told you not to ship a dog on the weekend." (Maybe if someone at Delta had actually tried to be helpful on one of my many calls... rather than just saying, 'you have to deal with the people in Senegal,' who surprisingly enough, don't know that U.S. Customs in Denver is closed on Sunday!) But I keep talking to this man and he takes pity and tells me we could try showing up at the cargo office, picking up the paperwork that comes in with the dog, then going to the airport terminal and asking a Customs Agent (who's checking in people) to please stamp the paperwork so we can go back to cargo and take the dog.

We do that-- Custom Agent isn't happy however, says Delta knows they aren't supposed to ask for Cargo to be cleared after hours or on weekends, but I'm there--he checks the computer -- Minty was actually cleared through Customs in Atlanta! He stamps our paperwork to satisfy the Delta cargo staff and we go back to retrieve Minty.

So after many months of planning and trying to consider everything that could possibly go wrong, the Lord looks down, chuckles, and says, "I had it handled all along."

Recently, while visiting a fellow PCV, I noted the collages all over her house. That led to some impromptu craft time, when we decided to collage about COS'ing. (Turns out it's good for closure!)

Unfortunately, LiveJournal massively shrinks the size and quality of images when you upload them, so this is as big as I can get it without it being totally blurry. Also, the scanner was too small to scan it all at once, hence the line down the middle. Oh, and it cut off the top inch.

But you get the idea.

P.S. I just got a very satisfying score on my Close Of Service language test for PC! (Peace Corps language tests remain in official government records and go a long way if you ever apply for a job requiring language-learning ability.)

This picture is from Tobaski, taken by Bala, Sutukonding's official photographer. (Since my camera was broken.) Yes, the plastic chair, cracked linoleum and rapper posters are his professional "studio." He took two shots, but the other one didn't turn out because the flash reflected off the rapper posters. Seriously. This single sheet cost me 25D ($1.) Hope he didn't charge extra for the off-centeredness. Oh, and Aja's grin? I'm tickling her back -- Gambians don't like to smile in pictures. My Tobaski get up (fake hair--weaved in, jewelry, embroidered outfit, sandals, and black hennaed feet) ran me about 1000D ($50) --major splurge! Aja's outfit is new too, but her extensions are made of yarn (cheaper than fake hair.) So cute!

Bootleg DVDs here come in all sorts of great combinations and titles (like “The Female Heroine Does Battle With The Action Film” and “Jennifer Lopez vs. Kate Winslet”), which is why my “DISNEY CARTOON THEATER WONDERFUI” (yes, that last letter is actually an “I” on the package) is one of my favs. Did you know there’s a Lion King 3? And that Fox and The Hound 2 is voiced by stars like Reba McEntire? But the biggest surprise came when I watched Beauty and the Beast, an old fav. Does ANYONE out there remember a song in that movie called “Human Again?” Because none of the PCVs here had ever seen that part of the movie. But it’s in this DVD’s version of the movie. Sort of odd to watch a movie you’ve seen a hundred times only to suddenly discover a new scene…I visited another URR volunteer recently, and spent some time chatting with her friend, Alieu. He started in on me with the whole Gambian “take me to America” routine, but since he was her friend, I tried to reason with him instead of blowing him off. But after explaining why I couldn’t afford to get him there, and why that didn’t matter anyway because he’d have to get a visa and that’s nearly impossible here, we’d gotten nowhere. So I decided to explain to him why he wouldn’t want to live in Colorado anyway. Gambians don’t really grasp just how cold weather outside Africa can be, or what snow is really like, so, not surprisingly, Alieu didn’t find this to be much of a deterrent anyway. So then I began talking to him in terms of mol keme wo keme (every one hundred people, the Gambian phrasing for percentages). When I told him that in my village in Colorado, for mol keme wo keme, 95 of those people are white, he was shocked. “So for mol keme wo keme, only 5 people are black???” No, I explained. Those 5 people out of mol keme wo keme have to include the “Asia people,” the “Mexico people,” and the “Arab people,” in addition to the “Africa people.” So I told him maybe, maybe, 1 or 2 of mol keme wo keme is a mo fingo (black person). He didn’t seem so interested in Colorado after that.

Julie wrote about her recent visit here in Gambia, so click here to read it and see pics!

Since, as you can tell by now, I spend a lot of time playing with my host siblings, I thought it would be fun to have a game I could play with them that would be educational as well. So I put it on my wishlist, and pretty soon, my grandma had sent me Chutes & Ladders. (Thanks Grandma!) Shortly after receiving it, I informed Mama (age 11ish), the unofficial head of the kids, that I had a new toy when they were ready to try it out. So Mama, Aja (age 3), Ajandi (age 9ish), and Mohammodou (age 7ish) came in my house and I pulled it out. Each piece was in the shape of a child, so I told them the little Asian girl was Aja Demba (my Taiwanese-American PCV sitemate, who they know well), the little blond girl was me, the little red-haired boy was Ansoumana Dembale (another PCV sitemate in the area), and the little black boy was Mohammodou. Then I let them each pick a person. Aja, the youngest, quickly got bored and confused, so she left and I took over her piece. But as we played, I could not believe how complicated Chutes & Ladders is! I honestly don’t remember it being this complicated growing up, but our first game was fraught with difficulties: they couldn’t flick the spinner properly to get it to spin, they couldn’t understand why you didn’t climb up chutes or fall down ladders, they could never figure out which direction to move their piece, and they were always knocking each other’s pieces over when they counted out their move. They did, however, quickly master counting to 6! After the first tiring, agonizingly long round was over and they left, I rethought the game. I’ve found that some things that we take for granted in child development must actually be a by-product of culture. Hand an American child a crayon and tell them to draw something and they’re off and running. Even if it’s a bunch of indistinguishable scribbles, they’ll tell you it’s a family portrait. Gambian children do not do that. I’ve never succeeded in getting a kid here to draw anything—they’ll only color in coloring books, where the picture is already there (unless they are so young that they just sort of scribble randomly on anything you hand them, which still isn’t deliberate drawing). I guess board games are similar, which is why a game suitable for a 3-year-old American child totally confounds an 11-year-old Gambian.But I was determined not to give up, so I gave Chutes and Ladders a makeover. First, I outlined all the squares in permanent black marker—the faint lines between white and light blue squares didn’t register with my host siblings, who were forever setting their pieces right on the lines between 2 or 4 squares and then leaving me to try to remember which of the squares they were actually on. (Now I can tell them, “don’t leave your piece there on the line.”) Then I circled all the bottoms of ladders and tops of chutes, in attempt to say “DO SOMETHING FROM THIS SQUARE”. Then I drew arrows to indicate what direction to move, since the path zigzags up the rows from bottom to top and it’s easy to forget (especially in my dimly lit hut where it’s hard to see the numbers in the squares) which direction to move in which row. I drew attention-getting lines all around the final square, to indicate it as the big exciting place that determines the winner. Finally, I nixed the big cardboard multi-racial children pieces, substituting instead some small “learn to count” plastic farm animal pieces Grandma had sent in the same package. The pieces are smaller and easier to jump over when counting, eliminating the knocking-each-other-over and two-pieces-sharing-one-square problems. The next day, we tried Chutes and Ladders again.My host siblings (minus Aja, who I’d decided was too young for the game, age 3 or not, which is fine because she wasn’t interested anymore) first remarked at all the changes. They wanted the other pieces back so they could be one of the characters again, but they were excited when they saw the farm animals. For the next several games, I was always the dog (though Gambian tolerance for dogs falls way outside fundamental Islam, there is a hesitance still), while their favorites were the horse and chicken. Over the next several games, with the help of my drawn-on additions, they caught on quickly and began helping each other when there was a problem. Now, we play Chutes and Ladders almost daily (always with the farm animals), they flick that spinner with ease, and I often end up being the pig or the rooster, since the dog’s usually taken. :)

Sleeping Baby: This is a new one that Jarrai (host niece) and Aja (host sis), both age 3, started the other day. They tell me I’m their baby and I need to take off my sandals and lie down on the bantabaa (square platform in the compound for sitting or sleeping on). Then they tell me to go to sleep, which I dutifully pretend to do, but apparently I’m not usually very good at pretending, because Aja often decides she’ll lull me to sleep by yelling “i siinoo!” (You go to sleep!) in my ear repeatedly. Then they grab a small square of cloth (big enough to cover a real baby, but not me) and try to tuck me in under it, while Jarrai might shake my shoulder repeatedly. (I’m not sure whether the shaking is supposed to wake me up or rock me to sleep.) When they got tired of that, they once “woke” me up and then told me to bambu (climb on top of their backs to be carried). Surprisingly enough, this didn’t work as well as when they bambu onto my back. Gopi: It’s tempting to describe this game as “jacks played with rocks,” although really this is probably where jacks (or is it jax?) originated. Lacking bouncy balls and those funky metallic (and much easier to grip!) jacks pieces, the girls just gather around with a bunch of beroodings (small rocks) and toss one rock in the air then try to grab 1-3 other rocks and catch the first rock before it falls. I’m pretty decent at one at a time, but not great if I try to do two or more at a time, though I’m definitely improving. Plus, an errant thrown rock can get pretty painful. But this is how the girls pass the time for hours while they wait at the tap for water. My Toma’s Juice: I wouldn’t necessarily qualify this as a game, but my toma clearly does, so I’m including it. During Ramadan, the end of the day breaking fast often includes “juice” (basically just a local Kool-Aid style drink mix). The other night, I noticed my toma had been given some juice, but that it was gone and she was feeling pretty distraught. So I decided to give her some of mine. I very carefully poured a small amount into her cup, and watched her sip appreciatively. But as she reached the last sip, she apparently thought she’d had enough, because she proceeded to dump the rest out. Yet once it was gone, she was upset again and looking around for more juice. She must not have realized there was more left when she dumped it, I thought, so I again gave her another small amount. But this time, the “sip, then dump” cycle was even more obviously deliberate, so when she got upset at her lack of juice again, I picked her up and made her sit in my lap before giving her more juice. My thinking was that I could head off the dump so she stopped making a mess. Unfortunately, she was so quick that all I could do was bat the cup away so that the spill ended up on the ground rather than all over me. Despite her giggling, I didn’t refill the cup after that. Feng Te Karton Kono: Because Gambian culture places much less value on personal possession, Gambians (especially kids) are notorious for coming into Peace Corps Volunteers’ houses and demanding things. I decided to head this off early on when I moved into my village last year. In addition to keeping my house off-limits to people who are not with Peace Corps or part of my host family, I told my host siblings that if they asked me for anything in my house, I would make them leave. (Making them miss out on the fun of things like writing on my chalkboard and coloring with my crayons.) Instead, I kept a box where I put any trash I had that would be fun to play with, having learned that when I gave them real toys, they enjoyed them much less than certain trash items which they already had games for. Things like empty bottles, toilet paper rolls, bubble wrap, and empty boxes were a much bigger hit than any of the real toys I gave them. So whenever I have a piece of “fun” trash, I put it in the box. Originally, they would ask me “fen te karton kono?” (Is there nothing in the box?) and if things were in there, I’d just let them raid the box. But I discovered quickly that this caused mass chaos in which the bigger kids got everything and the younger ones were left empty handed. So the new practice is that, at some point each day, they’ll ask me “fen te karton kono?” If I have gathered enough pieces of trash for everyone to get one, I say yes and they all come and take one item. (They have learned to let the younger kids pick first.) If the box is empty or just has a few items, I tell them “no, not today” and they’ll ask again the next day. So now they do get stuff from me on a regular basis, and almost never (I can think of maybe five times in the last year) ask me for something that’s not in the “karton.” (They are immediately booted from my house if they do, which is why this almost never happens.) Fen Be I Nyaa Kono: Despite the fact that I’ve worn glasses since entering Peace Corps, my host siblings have only just recently discovered that things are reflected in those glasses. So now they find it thrilling to try to catch a glimpse of the fire, objects in the periphery, or themselves in my glasses. I know the game has started because I’ll hear what fen (thing) is “in” my eyes. Jula, kiimaa be i nyaa kono! (Jula, the fire is in your eyes!) Aja (age 3) is particularly fascinated by this, and if she’s not satisfied with what she’s seeing, she’s not shy about grabbing my head and trying to position it so she can see various things in the compound.

Games I Play With My Host Siblings:Itsy-Bitsy Spider: I taught them this one, although when they sing it, it sounds more like:Di izzy bizzy pider wenup da wad againDown came da rain and wash da pid againOut came da soon and dwied up aw dagainAnd di izzy bizzy pider wenup da wad again(“Again” is the one word they seem to have latched onto, so they insist on ending each line with it.) Patty-Cake: Also taught them this. The oldest kids are almost able to recite the whole thing coherently (and can clap as well). The youngest kids just sort of clap at random (or hold their hands out for me to clap) and let me do all the singing til we get to the hand motions. Then they jump in on roll it, pat it, “mas it wis a b”. Thumb War: Taught them this as well, although the younger ones seem to think of it more as a funny handshake. A couple of the older girls get the concept of the game, though, and one of my sisters, Mama, can even beat me fairly. Mama Saw: This is a patty-cake style handgame that they play here. It sounds as though it was originally in English and has been passed down from child to child for so long that it’s virtually unrecognizable. Does anyone know the original rhyme? The distorted version sounds like this:Mama saw, mama sawI saw baby, it’s cool babyI taa kang, naa kang (In Mandinka, this line would mean “you’re going, coming”)*indistinguishable line*E one, E two, E three, E four (and so on til E ten)Ten koom bah tens plus, ten koom bah tens plusAny ideas? N Jiige: In Mandinka, n jiige basically means “help me get this down”. So when I return from the pump with a 20-liter bidong (jug) of water off my head, I have to call out “Ali n jiige” when I get to my house. (Ali means “you all.”) Then whichever of the women is closest or hears me first will come help me lift the bidong off my head so I can carry it inside. The kids like to joke that they’re going to help too, so once the bidong is off my head, I take the rolled up piece of fabric that I use to cushion my head from the bidong (it’s the rolled up fabric that’s the secret to most of that amazing head balancing you see African women do!) and put it back on my head. Then I kneel down (so they can reach) and call out “n jiige” to either Bemba or my toma (the two youngest kids in the compound, ages 2 and 1½). They’ll waddle over, and carefully remove the fabric from my head. Bemba will then just hand it to me, but my toma likes to either hit me with it or put it back on my head so the game repeats. The Spanking Game: Once I’m done fetching water and the rolled up fabric is off my head, I usually start whacking the kids. They gather around me most days after I’ve fetched water, waiting for it, so then I unroll the fabric and whack someone. It becomes a big game, with them gathering around me in a circle and shaking their rear ends at me (if I forget to whack someone, they get upset). They’ll try to get me to chase them and a few of the youngest will even start pulling their pants down if they feel like I’m not whacking them enough. (Gambian kids are always pulling their clothes off, especially with the heat, so this isn’t any sort of new rebellious behavior I’m inspiring.) Beating figures heavily into Gambian play (and Gambian punishment), with people always threatening or pretending to beat kids, just in case you think this game makes me sound like a total weirdo. And speaking of beating games: Don’t Beat My Toma Game: The kids came up with this one. They tell my toma (my namesake, i.e. her name is Jula just like me), “m be i butee la” (I’m going to beat you til you cry!) then pretend to beat her. (Yes, there is a special Mandinka verb for beating someone til they cry.) Then my toma, giggling hysterically, waddles across the compound as fast as she can over to me, and I grab her and pretend to shield her while yelling, “i kana n toma butee!” (Don’t you beat my toma til she cries!) Apparently for my toma, the running/waddling is a big part of the game, because even if the kid pretending to threaten her is standing right next to me, my toma will run halfway across the compound, then turn around and run back to me for shelter, rather than just taking 3 steps over to me.

It occurs to me, that except for posting a lot about my hunger, I haven’t actually elaborated too much on the concept of Ramadan. I know I didn’t really know what those KRAZY Muslims were up to with that “Ramadan” business before coming here, so in case you’re as clueless as I was, here’s a summary:Sawm (in Arabic) is the annual obligatory fast for the month of Ramadan, the 9th month of the Islamic year. Mandinkas call it Sungkaroo, literally “the fasting month.” They get up before dawn to eat an uncooked breakfast (plain bread for most Gambians) and drink jii kandoo (literally “hot water,” but actually a mix of tea, coffee, milk and hot water). Then between dawn and dusk, they can’t eat, drink, smoke, or have sex. Sungkaroo is intended to make Muslims focus on prayer and avoid vices. At dusk, they break fast (Gambians munch on some bread and drink jii kandoo to deal with immediate hunger and thirst, then have a regular but earlier than normal dinner). Unfortunately, Gambian life requires a lot of hot, heavy work (especially during the rainy and harvest seasons), so doing this work on an empty stomach makes for a miserable month for Gambians, who spend every remaining second of the day laying outside, half-comatose.Ramadan begins and ends with sightings of the moon. The moon has to be sighted to declare the month has started or ended. Last year, this meant the moon wasn’t sighted the night Ramadan was supposed to begin, so West Africa fasted one less day than other regions who sighted the moon. This year, my village could not see the moon the night Ramadan was supposed to end. People spent the evening disappointed, knowing they’d have to fast one more day. However, the international West African Muslim council made an agreement—because the moon had been spotted in some parts of West Africa, they would declare Ramadan over. So late that night, the announcement came across the radio that tomorrow would be Saloo (prayers, the end of Ramadan celebration) after all. Yet the next morning, it turned out that the Muslim leaders in my area, a 4-village cluster that is almost more like one giant village, decided not to listen to the pronouncement. They would not break fast. So while the rest of the URR, the rest of the Gambia, the rest of West Africa, and, in fact, most of the Muslim world celebrated the end of Ramadan, my little 4-village cluster spent the day hungry, tired, and slightly peeved at their religious leaders. (Muslim relatives from around the world made their traditional Saloo phonecalls to people in my village, who grumpily had to explain over and over that they were still fasting and couldn’t celebrate yet.) My counterpart came by and informed me he would not be fasting that day because he thought it was wrong for village leaders to go against the international council like that. “Religion is about submission and obedience!” he told me. I wanted to say, “is it?”But at last, on October 2nd, Ramadan was over and it was time for Koriteh, the post-Ramadan celebration. Traditionally, Koriteh (and the other major prayer day, Tobaski) involves all the men and boys going and praying somewhere central, generally under a large tree (in Africa, it’s typically a baobab tree). However, it poured for hours the morning of Koriteh, restricting early morning activity and soaking the ground so much that it was far to muddy to sit on and pray, and they were relegated to the mosque. The Gambians were disappointed, but I have to admit, I was glad. I was actually feeling a bit like the Koriteh grinch. My least-favorite host relative (PFHB, Puppy Framing Host Brother, who you may remember for trying to frame Minty for pigeon murder over a year ago) was back. Lamin and I have never really been able to stand each other, so it’s fortunate he lives in Kombo (where I’m pretty sure he’s a bumster, i.e. male prostitute in the sex tourism industry). He came back, as most relatives do, for Koriteh, and had spent the past several days singing made up songs about how he hates white people and muttering insults about me. There was also some random teenage girl I’d never met staying in our compound, who liked to spend her time yelling at me in attempt to get me to give her things and do what she wanted. It was like being at a long, painfully drawn-out family reunion, only with people you don’t like AND are not even related to. So I was pretty tired of Gambians all together, and since they always make me parade by the Saloo tree (they tell me it’s to go watch the prayers, but somehow it just ends up that everyone’s watching me instead), I was pretty relieved that Koriteh was so low-key this time around.The one thing that’s never low-key on Koriteh is the food. They go all out for all three meals, with lots of meat, oil and veggies (the three things so expensive my host family rarely cooks with them). The women from the compounds around mine always gather together at lunch, each one bringing a bowl of food they cooked, and we all share a bowl at a time. I never eat more here than when that happens. I was beyond full but it was so delicious and rare that I couldn’t stop.Now, I don’t think it’s in the Quran anywhere, but according to Gambians, it’s practically a requirement that everyone dress up in brand-new outfits for Koriteh. For men, this includes caps or baseball hats and sunglasses, and for women this includes outlandish hair braiding styles, black hennaed feet, out-of-control make-up and drawn-on eyebrows. My fantastic new outfit was made from fabric I bought in Basse (either hedgehog or porcupine print, depending on who you ask), and I French-braided my hair. I skipped the eyebrows and make-up, but got lots of compliments on my feet and hedgehog/porcupine paree.The evening of Koriteh (as well as the following evening or two), children go from compound to compound to salibo. Imagine trick-or-treating, only instead you wear nice clothes instead of costumes, have no parental escort, say “salibo” instead of “Trick or Treat” and never, under any circumstances, say thank you. Some people give out money, others candy. (I prefer to go the candy route, and enjoy the leftovers.) Alas, there is no candy corn in Gambia.

All dressed up for Koriteh

Drawn on eyebrows--HOT for Koriteh

Koriteh Breakfast!

It’s a common theme of the Gambian PCV experience that you become somewhat deadened to the pain of losing host relatives. With malaria, diarrheal diseases, and malnutrition running rampant, this is a not a country where many people live to see old age. I’ve somehow been spared that, however. In a year and half, I’ve yet to have a single host family member die. I’ve often wondered how I would handle it, and how such an event would affect me. Would it be like losing my own family member, or would it feel like I was the observer, present as someone else’s family deals with their loss? I guess I’ve figured sooner or later that Jawneh kunda (my compound) would lose someone. I just never thought it would be Lion.As you might guess, Lion is not a human name. In fact, Lion is my host family’s dog. He’s been around for several years, and may have belonged to a former PCV in my house. (I’m unclear on whether he was her dog or if she just helped take care of him.) But since then, he has belonged mostly to my host father Seiko and teenage host brother Sidiya.He’s always been a really sweet dog. Had no use for Minty, but would only give Minty a warning growl if he got too close. Lion did well as a Gambian dog—he knew to stay out of people’s way and never attempted to go somewhere he wasn’t allowed. (Minty, who’s had a lot more love in his life, is forever having to relearn the fact that most people here don’t LIKE him.) Lion would drive me crazy at night every now and then, though. A couple times a month, Lion would go into a barking frenzy at about 2 am, barking at nothing in particular, and just sit there right next to my back yard and bark for an hour. Since I usually SLEEP in my backyard, this made a good night’s rest virtually impossible. At first, I’d drag myself out of bed, shuffle into my flip-flops, wince as I opened my squeaky front door (what if my host family woke up and found me chasing their dog away? What would they think?), and quietly shoo Lion away. He’d go back to roaming the village like he did most nights, and I’d go back to bed.After a while, I realized that going out wasn’t really necessary. Instead, I stockpiled rocks in my backyard (coming home with a bucket full of rocks one afternoon earned me some strange looks), so that when he barked, I could just throw a rock over the fence and chase him off. Before you think I’m cruel, remember that I was throwing these rocks in the dark, half asleep, without a flashlight or glasses. The rocks never got anywhere near him. But Lion was Gambian enough to understand that a rock sailing in his general direction meant he’d better skedaddle, and I didn’t have to explain to my host family (who evidently could sleep right through his barking) why I was padding around in the compound at 2 a.m.So we reached an understanding that lasted until my trip to Janjanbureh last week. I was only gone 2 nights (a time to get out of village and explore part of the country I’d only seen passing through), but when I returned, Lion looked terrible. It appears that the night I’d left, when everyone was asleep, someone hacked into Lion’s back with an ax. Maybe he wandered into some part of the village where he wasn’t wanted, maybe someone was just looking to make trouble—no one knows. By the time I got back almost two days later, the wound was gaping and infested with maggots. Lion had been one of the most muscular Gambian dogs I’d ever seen, but after two days with that wound, he’d lost so much weight his skin was sagging off of him. It still didn’t occur to me at this point that he wouldn’t be okay—I hadn’t looked at the wound close-up, and animals here are so resilient (hey, he was still walking just fine!) that I figured he just had a long painful recovery ahead of him. If I’d been there when it had happened (or soon afterward), I could have bandaged him up and at least given him a chance to heal properly, but the hole was too big and the surrounding flesh too dead to do anything but let nature take its course by the time I saw him. I still didn’t realize how bad off he was til I heard a terrible crying noise that summoned me out of my house. The sound was so pathetic and desperate that I thought at first the boys had brought home a new puppy and it was crying for its mother. But then I looked into the teen boys’ hut in my compound, and there was Lion, on the floor, taking a beating rather than leave the house. Never in all my time here has Lion ever even attempted to go indoors—Gambians don’t allow it, a lesson he obviously learned a long time ago. It’s as though he was in so much pain that he just wanted to go somewhere comfortable, and was willing to withstand a beating rather than have to get up again. Evidently, that was the deciding point for my host father.Shortly thereafter, I watched him call for Lion and put a rope around the dog’s neck. Then he summoned a few boys I’d never seen before (no emotional attachment to Lion, I guess), and asked them to take Lion out to the bush and put him out of his misery. Anger flashed in his eyes when he told me that what had been done to his dog was terrible and that they don’t know who did it. Then all the boys and men (who culturally are more attached to their dogs than the women) busied themselves—it seems like they all immediately left to go hang out with various friends, anything to get away.Now, Lion is like the elephant in the room no one talks about. Suddenly the kids are all even more interested in Minty (Aja, who’s always yelling “Minty’s going to EAT me!” has actually started trying to call Minty sometimes. She can’t whistle for him like I do, so she tries her closest approximation of a whistle, calling out “Minty! Woo-wee-woo-wee-woo-wee!) They’d like Minty to go to the fields with them, but he won’t leave home without me (or at least, someone with white skin). I wonder if they’ll get a new puppy when puppy season rolls around in October/Novemberish, but I’m afraid to ask, since for now they all seem content not to speak of Lion and act like everything’s normal.I sleep through the night with no disturbances now, but I never would have wished for this.

(Note from Mom: B created a number of blog posts on her computer over the summer/fall months that she didn't leave her site and then sent them to me on disc. Thus the occasional references to time periods that are actually a few months ago...)

It’s September 2nd, and Ramadan has officially begun! That means no food or water for teens and adults between dawn and dusk. (The kids get to eat as normal.) Last year, participating wasn’t even really an option for me: I’d just come through two bouts of dysentery, was adjusting to a new malaria med (which can gave digestive side effects), and didn’t have the emotional stability to deprive myself of yet one more thing. This year, I’m still not going to do the whole thing, but I’ll probably do a couple days to satisfy my host family. Here’s why:The thing that drives me nuts about Ramadan is that it makes no accommodations for health or cultural concerns. Even nursing moms are expected to fast (not healthy for the baby, a fact which I attempted to point out to the two nursing moms in my compound last year, to no avail), or are considered bad Muslims. Ramadan is scheduled by the lunar year, so it moves up each year, but for now and the next few years, it will continue to take place during the rainy season, which is also the malaria season, which is also the hungry season. So in essence, you have people working in the fields all day, with no water or food, then when they do eat, there’s not a lot of “extras” like meat or veggies, since they can’t afford it in the hungry season. So they’re undernourished and dehydrated, then expect their bodies to fight off malaria. Brilliant. Needless to say, a lot of people die during Ramadan. (This may not be the case when Ramadan falls at a time of year when people aren’t in the fields all day and can afford better food, but that won’t happen again for 5 years or so.) So I have difficulty participating in (and therefore supporting) a cultural practice that is so physically dangerous. Obviously, with multivitamins, anti-malarial meds, and more nutritious food (not to mention the fact that I would still drink water regardless), I’m not at the risk they are by fasting, but they don’t know all that. My host family keeps asking if I’m going to fast, even telling me that Salama (my PCV predecessor) fasted. Considering the fact that (according to my host family) Salama couldn’t even speak basic Mandinka, I find it highly unlikely that she went out of her way to observe many cultural practices. I pointed out the fact that she could have told them she was fasting and then just eaten inside her house (this wouldn’t be difficult—I cook all three meals and my host family still thinks I eat only their food), but they resisted that possibility. Anyway, so I’d like to do a couple days or so, but I have no intentions of going the whole month. (There are a few PCVs who do this, and they’re either crazy or super devoted. Not sure which.)Cer (one of my sitemates) has recently found out Peace Corps is going to send her home early (about 2 months) for medical reasons. So now she’s scrambling to pack and get rid of stuff and clean out her house. She’s also going to try to take her dog, Willy (one of Minty’s buddies, who originally belonged to Salama, my PCV predecessor in my village) back to America with her. Problem is, she hadn’t started on preparations (he hasn’t had his vaccines and his crate is just now being built), so it’ll be very last minute. Hopefully it’ll all work out though, because Willy has passed through so many PCV owners (5, by my count) that he has all kinds of behavioral issues and many Gambians have made death threats against him (attacking livestock is the unforgivable sin here). If she’s not able to take him, there’s no telling what’ll happen. (One dog is all I can handle here!) If it does work out, she should be flying an almost identical itinerary to what I’ll be flying in April, so I’ll be able to get tips on how to get a dog through that whole process.

Can you believe it? I'm already on round 2 of this Christmasing in Africa business. This is just a quick note to wish you all a "Happy" Christmas!

For Christmas Eve yesterday morning, I took another Peace Corps Volunteer's visiting aunt to nearby Bijulo Forest Park to see monkeys. (Due to a travel glitch, Zach had to make an emergency run all the way up-country to Basse and back, leaving his aunt in Kombo for two days. Fortunately, she's been here since November, so two days isn't a huge hunk of their time.) After also wandering the touristy section of Kombo and strolling the beach, she treated me to pizza for lunch! (It's a splurge on a Peace Corps budget.)

Then after an afternoon trip to the bank (had to withdraw taxi money to pick my best friend, Julie, up at the airport tomorrow!!), I and eight other PCV's cooked Christmas Eve Dinner together. We made chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and green beans, as well as wassail and mulled wine. Yum!

One of the awkward things about holidays here is that you can't really pick who you spend it with. It's just sort of whichever volunteers are in town. That can be a problem if you end up having to spend those special days with people you don't particularly enjoy. Fortunately, our group of nine (Cassandra, Courtney, Mai [who has bit parts in the movie Tropic Thunder, btw!], Travis, Josh, Heather, Ellie and Tim) last night was a fun bunch. We rocked out to Christmas music for hours while we prepped and cooked, then dinner table antics included a reenactment of this Harry Potter song (you have to have a slightly twisted sense of humor):

Later we engaged in torso-rocking exercises that they swear someone got from professional eaters. Apparently, if you rock your torso back and forth just right, you encourage movement through your GI tract and can induce burping and clear up more space for food. I can't tell you for sure that it worked, but I do know I ate frightening quantities and we all looked ridiculous rocking back and forth at the same time.

Today, we're going to try to watch Love Actually or something else Christmas-ey, bake cupcakes with the new Peace Corps staff member (Patti) who's also a trained pastry chef, and probably do another fancy dinner or potluck tonight. (I've already made the layered jello with condensed milk, a family recipe!) Might squeeze in some beach time and/or lunch at Omar's for his "Christmas special." I have some presents to open that were left in my mail box from "Santa," but most exciting will be picking Jules up tomorrow!

Happy Christmas,

~ Beth (aka Jula Jawneh)

According to my most recent letter from Nel (the Dutch missionary in Jamaica who founded Happy Hills, the camp I work with), there is a new promotional video for Christian Camping International, Jamaica. I’m told that if you go to www.ccijamaica.org you can see it, and apparently I’m in it somewhere too! I won’t have internet for a few more months yet, most likely, so you all can watch it and tell me what I’m missing.News from the ducks: Naani (“Four,” my female) is a bad mother. She fared better than Butut the duck (by reaching adulthood), better than Fula (by surviving long enough to breed), and better than Saba (by not dying after laying her eggs). So it’s taken over a year, but I at last had a duck incubating her eggs (ten of them). Kiliŋ (“One”) is a doting mate and seemed to be taking good care of her. Then suddenly she was limping and a couple days later she’d abandoned her eggs (the limp is gone now). Considering the fact that they’re in a pen, abandoning her nest meant moving a foot over and staying there, but (I’m told) ducks are bad at taking care of their nests and abandonment is common. To which I respond that every other duck in my village has had 3 or 4 batches of ducklings in the time I’ve been trying to get one. At this point, I’m reasonably certain I could keep even rabbits from breeding…When we went to Kombo last month, Tamara and I had both been in village for the preceding couple months and therefore hadn’t had to deal with the increase in transportation fares. We knew the cross-country fare had increased by 20 dalasi ($1), but all the smaller fares in and around Kombo were unknown to us. 5d fares had gone to 6, but what did the 6d fares go up to? Or the 8d fares? And what about direct fares from the ferry to the Peace Corps house? After a rambling, confusing trip through Kombo, we concluded that we’d become a couple of country bumpkins who evidently no longer knew how to work Gambia’s public transportation system.And finally, great Gambian t-shirts I’ve seen: “BE A ROLL MODEL TO YOUR PAIRSHIV/AIDS IS OUR MISTOKTHANKS FOR NAS” (NAS was written in a different font, so I think it was the organization’s acronym) “WULLI DISSCERSTER &DRAUTH RELIEF ASSOCIATION”

Aside from my host siblings, the most notable “character” in my host family would have to be my uncle Janko. Seiko, the landlord and “boss” of my compound, is considered my host father by virtue of being in charge, but it’s Janko who most fills the host father role. Seiko, though kind with kids and soft-spoken, has this quiet imposing manner and frightening stare that always make me wonder if I’m somehow offending him, while Janko is so openly goofy and self-deprecating that he’s a lot easier to relate to. In fact, Minty’s favorite non-white person is definitely Janko, who plays with him and always asks, in addition to the regular morning greetings, “and what about Minty? Did he sleep well too?”Recently, a man said something to me in Mandinka that I didn’t understand. He was insistent though, that I go home and ask “my people” what it meant. So I returned to the compound and found Janko sitting with a Fula friend of his. Janko speaks rudimentary English, and his friend speaks Pulaar (Fula), Mandinka, and decent English, so I figured they could help me out. I repeated the phrase, and Janko began trying to explain, though he had to do so in Mandinka. He said something about Minty. I tried to clarify: “He said he doesn’t like Minty?” No, that wasn’t it. He tried explaining again. “He does like Minty?” Still not it. “He wants Minty?” No, that wasn’t it either. Finally, the Fula guy decided he’d been amused enough by our confusion and said, in English, “it means, ‘I luhf [love] you.’ ” Turns out, Janko had been trying to tell me, “it’s the way you feel about Minty.” As a white person, I am perpetually barraged by requests I either am unable to meet or have no interest in doing so. I have my host siblings trained so they know exactly what I am and am not willing to give them, and how to ask. Janko, however, has a way of asking me for things where he first dangles something in front of me, “you’d like this, wouldn’t you?” then after I’m interested, tells me what he needs to make that happen. If Janko were an American, he’d be a used car salesman.“Fatumata had a daughter. And I’m naming it after you, isn’t that great! Her naming ceremony is going to be so wonderful! I was just thinking, though, maybe you could help out and buy a bag of rice [600 dalasi, which at the time was about US$24]?”“Do you like to eat pig?” Um, why yes I do. “So you’d like it if we killed a pig and brought it to you? Because pigs [actually wild warthogs] are eating my crops so we want to go kill them. If you pay for the bullets, we’ll bring you anything we kill.” How much are bullets? “We just need 100 dalasi [$5] worth.” Okay, I can do that.The one time it didn’t work was when he tried to sell me on the value of education, then get me to pay his kids’ school fees. Nope, ain’t happening, not as long as the few kids in my compound who are enrolled in school are held back 3 days a week to do chores, and Janko can afford to own a motorcycle rather than pay school fees.They haven’t bagged a pig yet, which is a bummer because I’m ready and waiting to eat pork.Sitting around discussing the news the other day, Janko suddenly started rambling to one of my host moms, Maanansa, about Jamaica and how it’s part of America.Me: “Um, no Jamaica’s not part of America.”

Janko: ”It’s not? But I thought it was in America.”Me: “No. It’s not.”Maanansa: “They’re not the same country?”Me: “No, they’re very close together, but they are two separate countries. I’ve been to Jamaica many times.”Janko: “You’ve been to Jamaica??”Me: “Yes, 9 times. I have pictures from Jamaica that just came in the mail.” I pulled out the New Generation camp brochure I’d just gotten in the mail that week from Sharon. “All of these pictures were taken in Jamaica.”

Janko: ”There are African people in Jamaica?”Me: “Yes, all Jamaicans [not totally true, I know] are African people.”Maanansa: “There are black people in Jamaica??” (Believe it or not, this is not the first time I’ve had this conversation.)Me: “Yes, Jamaicans are black people. All of those people are black. *I point to the white guy in one of the pictures.* This white man, he is not Jamaican. He’s from America or Europe.”Janko: “So Jamaicans are black people…”

(Back to posts typed in past months - uploaded by Mom)

When my supervisor, Gibril, was planning where to put the new health & community development volunteers (who arrived this past February), he checked out several villages near me. When we learned which villages these were, a couple other volunteers and I started dropping in and talking to people about their potential future Peace Corps volunteer. In the process, we saw where the volunteer would live (if a volunteer were indeed placed there), where they would work, and met key people in the village, who we talked to about how to keep their volunteer feeling safe and welcome. One of the villages we checked out was over two hours away by bike, so after arriving there in the cool of the morning, we had little choice but to spend the day there until it was cool enough to ride home. This village had hosted a Peace Corps volunteer from Dan’s group, but that volunteer ET’d about the time I arrived, so I’ve never met him. Tamara had, however, and had been to his house. So when I noticed the words “Be Here Only,” over his front door, she was able to explain. Now, the concept of “Here Only” is one I’m familiar with. If a Gambian asked you, “how is the morning?” you answer “it is here only.” If they ask you, “how is it?” “It is here only.” “How are you?” “I am here only.” Naturally, translated to English, this all sounds kind of ridiculous. (Okay, well to me it sounds ridiculous even in Mandinka, because the greetings are mumbled in an apathetic, eye-contact-avoiding, distracted manner that makes a Westerner wonder why they even bother. But Peace Corps volunteers are supposed to be culturally enlightened so pretend I didn’t say that.) However, when someone asks you, “where [i.e. how] is your family?” or “where [i.e. how] are the America people?” the correct response is “they are there only.” (Unless your family happens to be present with you, in which case they are “here only” as well.) So, in truth, as much as I try to keep in touch through letters and phone calls, for as long as I am in Peace Corps, I will always be “here only” and y’all will always be “there only.”Apparently John (the aforementioned former Peace Corps volunteer) was regularly away from site, visiting his girlfriend (a fellow PCV who ET’d together with John and their four cats). So it was important to him that when he was at site, in order to be productive, that he be “here only” and focused in the moment. It’s probably been six months since I’ve sat in that old PCV hut and stared at those words (in the end, a PCV was not placed in that village, for now at least), but I still think about them a lot. I would probably paint them over my own door, except that would be copying and I’d feel lame. Maybe I’ll paint it over my door in America someday. Gah! And therein lies the problem. I am forever neglecting to live “here only.” I constantly think “I’ll do this when I get back to America,” and “this is something I need to check out when I go to Jamaica next time.” Planning is all reasonable and good, of course, and I’m trying to keep a notebook now where I write these random plans down (thereby hopefully clearing them from my mind), but at some point, I have to realize that I’m “here only.”It’s not a strictly Gambian problem, either. The Gambian laid-back, sit-around-and-drink-attaya culture certainly facilitates delaying work, but my problem goes beyond procrastination. I have thousands of big dreams for what I’m going to do tomorrow, or next year, or when such-and-such changes, and I neglect to look at the here and now for big dreams. In the early days of Peace Corps, I found it to be helpful (though technically escapist) to get through the bad weeks and months by focusing on some bright plans in the distant future, but now those bad weeks and months have turned into a bad day here and there, and I have to constantly stop and say, “I’m here only.” I miss you guys like crazy, but, nothing personal, you’re there only, so I am working on focusing more on the rational, local things (my garden, my projects, my language learning) and less time letting my mind wander to things that are “there only.”But, as they say in The Gambia, I do “miss to see your face!”

I had a great conversation yesterday with my little cousin, Paige. You may remember that Paige was living in England for 3 years and that I visited her there last October. Well she and her parents moved back to the US several months ago, so she's been readjusting and slowly losing her British accent. For Thanksgiving, my parents, Paige, her parents, and our grandparents all got together in Arizona. I got a chance to talk to them when they called yesterday, at which point Paige told me she'd soon be leaving Arizona and flying back to "America." Cute! :-)

Thanksgiving dinner was a "paper plates in the backyard" affair, so not particularly fancy but the food was good. I'll be glad to get back to real family Thanksgivings, though! (As an indicator of the financial divide between poor Peace Corps Volunteers and the well-paid American Peace Corps office staff, the staff members wouldn't eat local turkeys [which are perfectly delicious--we used one in last year's Christmas turducken], but instead had American turkeys shipped over here. [You can buy two entire Gambian chickens for $7.] Decisions like that apparently made the dinner cost almost $25 per person, of which we had to pay $10, a significant splurge on our budget.)

Last night, after our All-Volunteer meeting (we were picked up at 7:45 and my meetings weren't finished til 5:30), we had an open mic night and photo contest. In the Peace Corps office is a section of framed 8x10 photographs of and by PCVs in Gambia, but they're several years old so nobody knows those people anymore. The photo contest was intended to find new pictures to put up. There were 12 categories (animals, you at your job, transportation, etc.), and many people entered all 12. Three PCVs who entered are especially skilled with their cameras and/or Photoshop, so they won a good portion of the categories between them. Fortunately, the decision had been made that when it comes time for actually framing, they'd try not to let anyone have more than one or two pictures on the wall. So in some cases, it'll actually be the 2nd or 3rd place winner whose picture goes on the wall. Anyway, all that to say, I won third in a couple categories (beaten by the super-photographers), so there's a chance that I could get a picture up on the wall. :-) (Both photos are of my host siblings; one is of Mohammodou in the pounding bowl, and the other is five of my little host siblings all perched on a motorcycle.)

I'm finishing up errands and paperwork today and will be heading back up-country at 6am tomorrow. Can't travel today as it's Set Settal, the monthly "Clean Up The Nation" Day when the whole country shuts down from 9am-1pm and there's no transport and everyone's supposed to be cleaning their environment. Will be back down in Kombo for Christmas, though.

Thanks for keeping up with my blog! After today, Mom will begin posting blog entries again from the pre-written ones I sent to her. So keep checking back for news!

I'm currently in Kombo right now, which means I can go to the Peace Corps office every day and check in the package room to see if I have new mail. (Usually, I have to wait all month for the mail to be loaded onto a Peace Corps car and driven up to my site.) As such, I was able to see yesterday when a package from my parents arrived, filled with birthday cards from the people of Mountain Range Church!

I'm temporarily camera-less, or else I would post a picture of myself with a cheesy grin, holding up a wad of birthday cards. Included in the cards were a few pictures, 2 angels, and a $1 bill from one of the kids. :-)

Thanks for putting all those together (and to my parents for organizing it)! There's so many that I haven't a chance to read all of them yet, so I'll have reading material for a while now!

Thanks again,

~ Beth

I know y'all are probably tired of election stuff, but here's some highlights I bet most of you back home in the US missed.

Several other PCVs and I pulled an all-nighter watching election coverage in Basse (Obama didn't accept until 6am our time). But since CNN reception fizzles out in Basse around midnight, we watched most of the coverage on BBC and, believe it or not, Al-Jazeera. While you were on the edge of your seat in nervous anticipation, we were laughing all-night long. Why? Here's a few reasons:

I'm told Gore Vidal was once a preeminent authority on history. Now apparently he's just crazy. Watch the BBC reporter try to make sense of Gore Vidal's total gibberish:

John Bolton's psycho. He was like this all night: (be patient, he's at the end of the clip.)

These videos don't include the times the Brits tried to make sense of the America's electoral system, the thousand times they made fun of Americans, and the time a cameraman spent a couple minutes on a long, slow zoom-in on a palm tree.

I'm down in Kombo for errands, pizza, Thanksgiving and an All-Volunteer meeting, so I'm making use of the internet!

Me with Udee (left), Fanta (in my lap), and Fanta's mom (right), whose name is difficult to pronounce and even harder to spell. Udee, Fanta and Faye (below) were all guests at my American/Gambian birthday party.

Visiting Faye's compound. Faye is one of my counterparts who's been trying out the new Nerica rice. He loves it! Minty loves getting to visit people and knows Faye's compound well.

A few more pictures are here.

I’m going to put this entire post in bold font in the hope it’ll stick in your brain.Due to the delay in mail and not wanting to miss out on anything you take the time and effort to send me, the following are the LAST days I recommend sending me mail: Last day to send PACKAGES from JAMAICA to Gambia: November 30th, 2008Last day to send LETTERS from JAMAICA to Gambia: December 31st, 2008 Last day to send PACKAGES from US to Gambia: December 31st, 2008Last day to send LETTERS from US to Gambia: January 31st, 2009 AFTER THESE DATES, PLEASE SEND MAIL TO MY ADDRESS IN THE US:1507 Birmingham DriveFort Collins, CO 80526 (If nothing else, if I get lonely in my last two months after the mail flow dries up, I can ask my parents to read me the letters that have arrived in the US.)I will continue to answer any mail I get up until the day I leave, I’m just hoping that by setting these deadlines, I won’t miss mail that arrives after I’ve left The Gambia.Thanks!

I've posted this before, but you have to watch these videos to get what my life here is like:

Recently, I was able to join 60 or 70 villagers at the communal farm for all of the villages in my district, Wuli West. (Think of a district as similar to a county.) The district chief, Hagie, and one of my counterparts, Maakee, are heading the farm project. Maakee and Hagie each live in one of the villages next to mine, so I see them often and arranged for them to get a few bags of Nerica rice. Due to a major delivery delay for the rice, I had to allow Hagie to take the rice without paying, because he was in charge of the rice, and Maakee (who was in Kombo at the time) was in charge of the money. The rice was so late, I couldn’t hold it waiting for payment or it would have been useless to them. Then there was a big mix up and they SPENT the money that was supposed to go to the rice (needed the fields plowed and the tractors arrived without gas), so they’ve been having to raise it back. Hagie’s plan was to tax each village 50 dalasi, to be announced at this district-wide workday at the farm. I thought I’d go along, see the fields, help out, and remind him about his announcement.The thing is, I hate Gambian crowds. Meeting new people here is already a bit of a hassle. After introductions and cursory greetings, the Gambian often begins feeling you out to see what they might get out of you. So you go down the list, answering their questions and clearing things up. No, I’m not looking to get married. No, I won’t take you to America. Yes, I’m sure you have relatives in “Cololaado,” now that you’ve asked me three times to repeat the name of my American village and still can’t pronounce it. No, I don’t have medicine. No, I’m not Santa Claus. Or an ATM. Yes, I can speak Mandinka, so no, I’m not stupid. I’m also not a child. Or your puppet, so no I’m not going to perform on-demand for you. I’m also not a freak show, so kana n juube teng (don’t look at me like that). As a matter of fact, I’m just a regular ol’ human being here to work, not give out freebies or entertain you. Okay? And then, finally, we can have normal interactions (hopefully).So when I’m asked to show up at this community farming day, knowing there are dozens of people with whom I am going to have to go through the above clarifications, it was with a feeling of weariness that I got on my bike. (They told me to come at 9, naturally I got there at 10, still beating Maakee, as well as most of the district.)I pitched in, weeding the fields (barrow is the Mandinka verb, daabo is the name of the handhoe you use). I fully admit that I don’t have the stamina of a Gambian weeding the fields—it’s backbreaking work, and my back breaks faster when the sun comes out from behind the clouds. However, the women coddled me and would regularly send me back under a tree to rest so my “hands don’t blister.” They had another motive, too. Somehow, at least 10 or 20% of the people who showed up specifically to weed the fields did so without bringing their own daabo. (Understand that the number of people to number of daabos ratio is practically 1:1 in village—these people had the necessary tool, they just didn’t bring it.) They all said they forgot, though Hagie gave them a stern tongue-lashing for showing up unequipped. So I was regularly sent to rest so that one of the women sitting out could borrow my daabo.The day nearly wrapped up without Hagie making his announcement (I had to remind him), but he did, right before lunch arrived (at 4pm). At that point, everyone got to eat and go home. It was fortunately cloudy (a bike ride in the sun at that time is brutal), because I was dying to get away from the guy in his late teens/early twenties who spent the entire day calling me “darling.” After he followed Maakee and I as we walked to the road, I finally told Maakee, “I do not like that boy. He won’t stop troubling me,” mostly as a way of explanation for why I was being rude to the boy. (The Gambians I’ve been around, especially my host family, are totally unhelpful in telling people to leave me alone. My pleas for intervention are rarely heeded and so I don’t bother.) To my surprise, Maakee gave the boy a dressing down for disrespecting me and not calling me by my proper name. (It is for reasons like this that I am requesting that Peace Corps put my replacement in the next village, in Maakee’s compound, and discontinue my house as a Peace Corps site.) It was a good way to end the day!

I used to worry about the fact that my dog has been raised on a diet heavy in table scraps. Then I realized: I live in Gambia—I don’t even HAVE a table! *cymbal crash*

I just finished reading Cold Mountain, a book which makes infinitely more sense than its movie version. It got me to thinking about the books-turned-movies I’ve read here. I’m afraid I’m turning into one of those people who’ll always be saying, “well, the book was so much better,” but, well, it often is. A rundown of the titles I’ve read, off the top of my head (rhyme unintentional):

- Cold Mountain – I saw the movie way back when it came out and I remember thinking that I didn’t really get the point and that it was sorta perversely obsessed with sex. Upon reading the book, I realized that the story doesn’t follow the normal rise and fall plotline that does well in movie style. It’s sort of a long, meandering traveler’s tale that does have a few sexual scenes, but the movie apparently cut out a lot of the meandering and left in the sex, hence the creepy feeling I got when I saw it. The book’s definitely better but I don’t know that I would recommend it to someone unless they had a particular interest in historical fiction.- Harry Potter 1-7 –I wasn’t really interested in Harry Potter prior to Peace Corps, though I went to at least one of the movies with my family, where I either fell asleep or zoned out, don’t remember which, just that I don’t remember it. I’ve never really been into fantasy, so until I got here and had enough free time to read anything, I didn’t bother. But I actually really like the stories now. I like how the books were written to “grow up” as her readers did, and have good character development and relatable interpersonal relationships, beyond all the wizardry stuff. I’ve since seen a few of the movies (1-5 are all available here in bootleg versions—you can’t buy legitimate movies in Gambia) and liked them—I felt like even though stuff was omitted in the movies, the story still made sense. The downside is that I read 1-6 out of order (just based on when I could get my hands on a copy of each—half the PCVs in country are reading them), so by the time I got to 7, I couldn’t totally follow it because previous storylines didn’t follow a linear progression in my head.- Emma – I picked this one up and realized a little ways in that the movie Clueless is actually based on this Jane Austen book! Weird I’d never heard that. That odd connection got me really interested in the book, curious to see how much of it was kept intact in its valley girl adaptation. I read another of her books, Persuasion, after this, and wasn’t nearly as interested (her satire of the upper class is so over the top in that book that I didn’t like the characters enough to care.) Pride and Prejudice was better than Persuasion, though I haven’t seen the movie.- Memoirs of a Geisha – both read the book, and saw the movie here. The movie is bad bad bad. I don’t think it even makes sense. Maybe the surface story makes sense, but there’s tons of layers and cultural background in the book that is totally missing from the movie. I watched it with another PCV who hadn’t read the book and felt like I constantly had to fill in the missing pieces for the story to even be logical.- The Beach – never seen the movie, because when it came out, I thought the previews made it seem like a horror/suspense/slasher movie. The book is nothing like that, so I don’t know if I misread the previews or if the previews were misleading or if the movie totally mangles the book.- The Hours – decent story but fairly boring. Does not make me want to see the movie.- White Oleander – disturbing, but I think it’s supposed to be. I connected a lot with the girl in foster care because her story is so similar to kids I’ve met at Turning Point and in Jamaica. Definitely needed to be followed up with a lighter read.- Bridget Jones’ Diary (and sequel) – read these books having already seen the first movie, but not the second one. The movie is so true to the first book that I found myself just basically mentally replaying the movie in my head as I read along, which probably meant my imaginative faculties weren’t fully engaged or something. The second book I could imagine more, though the fact that the main characters are so notable meant I was basically imagining them acting out the scenes.- In Her Shoes – there are two copies of this book floating around the PC libraries in Gambia. As it happens, the copy I picked up was the post-movie version, complete with a giant Cameron Diaz adorning the cover. Though I’d never seen the movie, it was easy to imagine which character she played (there are two main characters—one skinny and glamorous, the other not). So this led to the other characters being vaguely formed in my mind based on the author’s description, all interacting with Cameron Diaz. I can understand why Tamara, one of my sitemates, hates reading a book if she even knows what actors are in the movie version.

You’d probably be proud of me, if you’d seen me the other day, interrupting my own chores so that I could go sit with my host family and help them crack peanuts. You might be less proud of me if you knew I did it because I smelled attaya (super strong, super sweet tea) brewing and knew that if I were around when it was ready, I’d get a serving. Lately I’ve been working on promoting a concoction called “neem cream.” By brewing neem leaves (a local tree) in water, then adding shaved bar soap and vegetable oil, you can make a pretty effective mosquito repellent, a huge thing to have during this, the malarial season. It really is that easy to make, and the scent of bath soap overpowers (for humans, at least) the bad scent of the leaves which repel insects. I made a batch with my host family, and they raved about how great it was. In fact, I think that if the rainy season didn’t also coincide with the hungry season (as the previous year’s crops are running thin), I think everyone would be making neem cream. Problem is, until the harvest comes in, people can barely afford to eat decently, so the cost of vegetable oil (24 dalasis per batch of neem cream, about US$1.25) plus bath soap (10-14 d for two bars) is more than most in my area would spend on oil, vegetables, and seasoning for an entire compound’s daily food. So while people are very excited about it, it’s difficult to find someone who can afford the expenditure. I tell people they can sell it, and give suggestions about how they would go about doing so, but they’re loath to take the risk until the strain on their finances is eased. Problem is, the yearly strain ends just about the time that the rains dry up, taking with them the mosquitoes.I did find one compound, across the road in the village where I do most of my work (my village is an uncooperative, bureaucratic nightmare which no other organization will work with anymore). It’s a compound I know fairly well—it’s close-by, the women’s president of the village (who is also a T***** participant) lives there, and Minty has a puppy friend there that he likes to drop in on for playdates. I dropped in with a sample of the neem cream I’d made, and because only one woman was home (everyone else was out working in the fields), I walked her through the cardboard chart I’d drawn for them, with its drawings of the step-by-step process of making neem cream. I told her to try it out, and that I’d come back in the next day or two and see if they were interested in making it themselves, which I would be glad to help them with if they bought the ingredients (getting people to invest in things is key here—they’re used to depending on ignorant Westerners handing out freebies).I returned the next day, giving them a night to use the cream. I went in the morning, when all the women (including Nene, the women’s president) would be home. I’d figured that someone of her stature might be likely to have a little more money and be able to afford to make the cream. I asked if they were interested in making it themselves, and they were! We set a date and time for me to come help.So, that Friday at 5pm (our appointment having been rescheduled from that morning when I showed up and they weren’t ready), I showed up to work. Most of the women were out. I was told to sit and wait, and by 5:30 they’d returned, then I felt slightly guilty as the women of the compound spent the next half hour scrounging and pooling together enough money to buy soap and vegetable oil.By 6, we had the oil, and by 6:15, they’d scrounged up money and bought the soap. We got to work, shaving the soap with a makeshift shredder, a sardine can with holes pounded into it with a nail. We took turns stirring the leaves, and then straining them when the water turned green. I was mixing in the soap and oil, when one of the women came out with my sample bag of neem cream and asked, “when do we add this?” Noticing the bag had not been opened, I realized they had clearly not understood my explanation of what the cream was. I explained that what they’d been holding on was the finished product, and actually opened the bag and applied it on myself, then repeated the whole explanation of what it does. Turns out, the woman I’d initially explained it all to didn’t get what I was saying and they’d apparently agreed to make the cream either to humor me or because I’d given them a bag of a mysterious substance that they thought was the key ingredient. We laughed over the mix-up, but I guess I should be glad for it because who knows if they’d been willing to invest in the cream themselves otherwise?Anyway, once the soap and oil are added, you have to stir “til your arm hurts,” so we took turns for half an hour, stirring and wondering if it would ever solidify (I was getting nervous since my previous batch only took 15 minutes to reach lotion consistency). I finally told them to cover it and set it aside (it was getting late) and that I’d come check on it later. Sure enough, it firmed up just fine. Now, if I can just get them to start selling it… Neem Leaves and Vegetable Oil

Sardine Can Soap Grater

It’s important, if you are going to live in a foreign country, to master the local language. Without such mastery, you would not be able to participate in daily conversations like this:Ajandi: “Fatiyo, your goat!”Fatiyo: (Sees goat’s head stuck in fence gate) “Aaa! My goat!” (Looks at goat’s predicament up-close) *laughing* “My goat’s going to die!”Me: “I’ll hold the fence.”Fatiyo: (Maneuvers goat’s head out from between the sticks that make up the fence, laughing the whole time) “Thanks Jula!”Me: “Your goat’s head is not sweet.” (That’s how we Mandinkas like to say, “your goat is stupid.”)Fatiyo: “You are correct.” In local news, I heard that a PCV here was jailed overnight for getting into a fight with a midget (er, dwarf?) over an apple. Turns out the jail part wasn’t true.

Crucial to understanding Gambian culture is understanding the concept of a toma. In The Gambia, there are no baby name books filled with lists of names and their meanings and background. Naming a Gambian baby is approximately like standing in a room full of people, spinning around blindfolded, then naming your kid after whoever you happen to be pointing at. A Gambian would tell you children are named after someone, but when everyone has the same names, how do you know WHICH Mariama you’re named after?There are some exceptions: first sons are often named Lamin, first daughters often named Fatoumata. Twins are named for Adam and Eve. Hawa (the Arabic form of Eve) for the girl, and Adama for the other twin, boy or girl. They do something different if both twins are boys, but having never encountered this myself, I’ve forgotten what the naming scheme is in that case. A Muslim who has done the Hajj (pilgrimage) to Mecca takes on a new name, Alhagie for men and Ajandi for women. (Gambia’s President’s full name is something like “His Excellency Magical Doctor Alhagie Yaya A.J.J. Jammeh.” Don’t quote me on that—I’ve probably left something out, though I really did hear he was looking to add something along the lines of “Magical Doctor” to his name in light of his announcement of his AIDS cure.) Of course, you can still choose to name your newborn child after someone who’s done this pilgrimage, which is why there are little Ajas and Alhagies waddling around my village who are not yet old enough to walk, much less head on a pilgrimage.When you meet someone with the same name as you, it is customary to exclaim that they are your toma and to fawn over each other like long-lost twins. This somewhat makes sense with a Gambian name like mine (Jula), which is fairly uncommon, but to see Fatoumatas exclaim over their tomas (there are 3 Fatous in my compound alone), is a little bizarre to me. My village has recently taken up the practice of allowing someone to mark their place in line at the water tap with a bidong (jug for carrying water), so they don’t have to sit there all day. (Other villages have always done this, but mine never has, for some reason.) Then when people gather at the tap around 4pm, you find out whose bidong is in front of yours, so you know when to take your turn. In trying to mentally lay out the order of the line, I asked Mama (my host sister), “who’s bidong is first?” Mine, she said. “And this one?” That’s Maafanta’s. “And this one?” Maafanta’s. “The same person?” No, it’s her toma. “Okay. What about the next one?” Maafanta’s. “Same as the last Maafanta?” No, that’s a different one too.So I knew I was supposed to fetch water at SOME point after a Maafanta. Helpful.In my compound, I used to be the only Jula. My host uncle, Janko, has a wife named Jula, but I didn’t even know about her for a long time because she lives in Basse. (My PCV predecessor at this site never knew she existed.) So until my infant toma came along, when I heard my name called, I didn’t have to wonder which Jula they meant. Then, even when my toma was born, I could still distinguish. Any long distance, angry, or beckoning calls were for me. My toma was never beckoned (being an infant), and most often spoken to in baby talk. There was a clear distinction.But when I returned from my vacation in the US, my toma was walking! Now, she’s getting into trouble, running away (spent most of June apparently trying to see how far she could go), and having to be called. Now, when people call for Jula, they are almost always yelling at or beckoning my toma, not me. So unless there are indications to the contrary (they’re standing at my door, calling over my fence, or giving an explanation), I rarely answer to my name anymore. One of my host moms, Maanansa, called me out on it, saying she’d been calling me repeatedly and I didn’t respond. I tried to explain that my toma and I have the same name and they call for her a hundred times a day, so I assumed that’s who they were calling. Maanansa looked at me as though my confusion were ridiculous and said, “but this time we were calling you.” Sigh. Too bad I don’t know how to say “but I’m not psychic” in Mandinka. Now when Maanansa wants my attention and thinks I’m unlikely to respond, she calls for “Julakeba,” the suffix “keba” meaning “elder.”(Final note: the best thing about having a comparatively uncommon name like Jula is that people on the street, particularly men, are always trying to guess your Gambian name, hoping you’ll think the person knows you and feel obligated to talk to them. I love walking down the street hearing them go down the list from Fatoumata to Mariama to Isatou to Hawa, knowing if they didn’t know it on the first try, they’ll never guess my name.)

I’ve lamented my lack of Gambian friends on this site before, which I suppose gives the impression that they’re difficult to find. Not so. Gambians are constantly telling me, “Mmu i teerima, ya moyi?” I’m your friend, you hear? If not that, it’s “so now we are friends, okay?” or even better “I love you. You are my friend now.” Usually, I hear this from people I’ve just met, and whose names I’ve either already forgotten or never learned. From the men, I get lewd suggestions and proposals of marriage, but from the women (and occasionally children), it’s declarations of friendship. If only making friends was this easy. I could write to senators, my favorite celebrities, perhaps even try it next time a cop pulls me over: “hey, you’re my friend now, okay?” Because then, like a Gambian, I would go back to that person at a later date, hoping for a favor and remind them, “we’re friends, remember?”What’s curious about this Gambian process of befriending the toubab is that no confirmation is needed on my part. No one asks me if I accept this friendship, or even remotely like the person declaring the association. I usually just accede half-heartedly and then hope it doesn’t come back to bite me later and they come hoping I’ll pay up on this “friendship.” The women who make these declarations never seem to speak English either, so even if they do decide that they are now investing in this newfound friendship, it mostly consists of conversations about how the sun is hot or the rain is not plenty today or yes, it is possible that I could be 23 and not married. I can handle this sort of inane, repeated (practically every day I’m here) conversation when it’s taking place over an activity of some kind: helping the women shell peanuts, or doing local embroidery, that kind of stuff. But talking about the relative heat of the sun being a goal in and of itself can get old. So I’m politely chatty with the women who’ve declared themselves my friends, see if I can get them involved or interested in various projects I’m doing (like encouraging people to grow and eat moringa), but I don’t repeatedly seek them out just to hang out and shoot the breeze.So when Udee, the woman who fed me and made me a bed on the ground while I waited for the-meeting-that-wasn’t (see a couple entries back), declared herself my friend, I smiled and didn’t take her too seriously. After my head (or stomach, or whatever) ache, she walked me out of her village, to the road I cross to get home. She told me I should come over sometime to “chat,” (just like 20 other women had told me that day); I said, “yeah someday,” and thought nothing of it.Well, apparently Udee was serious. Because when I didn’t show up within the week, she showed up at my door one evening and said she wanted to chat. I said okay, and went and sat out on my family’s sitting area. But Udee had other plans, and didn’t mean here. She had come to get me and take me back to her compound so we could chat there. Sigh. Feeling coerced, I followed her back to the opposite side of the next village, where we sat in the compound and recited the conversation I probably have tattooed onto my brain by now. Yes, I am good at Mandinka. No, I’m not married. No, I don’t want to get married here. No, I don’t want children right now. No, my father told me I could only go to Gambia if I waited until after I got back to the US to get married (this is my favorite excuse—Gambians are reluctant to question the authority of a father and they usually quit trying to push me to find a Gambian husband at this point). No, I cannot take you back to America. Unless you’d like to ride in my bag. No, I cannot get you a visa. Yes, I like rice. Yes, I know how to work in the fields. Today? No, I went to the fields yesterday.Somewhere around this point, I was saved by rain. For some reason, Udee and the group she’d rounded up (I suspect I was the evening’s entertainment) decided that rain meant I needed to be rushed home, so I didn’t get stuck there all night. I had an umbrella and could handle getting a little wet, but I was willing to accept any reason to get rid of the invisible “FREAK SHOW” sign that periodically seems to materialize above my head here.I’d hoped that my performance (that’s what it felt like) at Udee’s would be enough to satisfy the initial curiosity that seems to overcome many people when they meet me, and she, like most Gambians, would return to a slightly more normal relationship with me, maybe making an extra effort to greet me now and then, but certainly not showing up unannounced hoping to drag me somewhere.Then the other day, I had just come in from my bucket bath in the backyard and was standing in my house drying off. Who should come barging in my front door (something I don’t allow—most people know that or are deterred by Minty’s presence on the porch, which is why my front door is rarely locked) without knocking but Udee. Fortunately, I was on the other side of the curtain which divides my house, so I told her I wasn’t dressed and yelled at her to get out. I hoped she’d take the hint and leave, but instead she hung out in my compound waiting for me, despite the exaggerated length of time I spent pretending I was still getting dressed. It was even later than her last visit, and I was not in the mood to be dragged over there again. But when I went out, it turned out she’d just come to tell me I should have come back and it’d been weeks and I hadn’t come to chat. Sigh. So she extracted a promise from me that I’d come chat the next day.I went, only I strategized and went after 10 am, reasoning that she’d probably be in the fields by then and I could just tell whoever was home to greet Udee and let her know I came by. Alas, Udee got a late start that morning and was still around, with time to chat. She brought me into her sparsely furnished house, where she sat me down on her bed (in view of her wall of yellowing pictures), then left me sitting by myself while she went and did chores or something. So I perused the pictures and then stared at the wall for a while til she came back and stared at me, waiting for me to say something entertaining. I asked her about her pictures, so she pulled out a few more, then had me look through them. I said they were nice and handed them back, but she told me to take one. I tried to protest, but then she made the decision for me and pulled out a photo of herself. Actually, she pulled out a PG-13 photo of herself. In Gambia, where (to quote a fellow PCV) breasts are about as sexual as elbows, it was totally natural for her to have a picture of herself made up (complete with drawn-on eyebrows), sprawled across a bed wearing tight jeans and a bra (no shirt). I, however, wondered how I’d explain to Udee that she’d just given me a picture that’d raise serious questions about me, should I fall off a cliff (HA! Like Gambia has cliffs…) tomorrow and people have to sort through my personal effects. What am I supposed to DO with this picture now, anyway?

A few highlights (and thoughts) from books I’ve read lately:- I highly recommend that anyone wondering what the general PC experience is like read The Sex Lives of Cannibals. Don’t let the title scare you—that’s not what the book is really about. It’s actually a hilarious overview of the author’s experience living in a tiny, obscure, Third World country. (Does that sound like anyone you know?) Think of it as what my blog would sound like if I were funnier (or, at least farther removed from certain experiences to MAKE them funnier in hindsight) and if Gambia were slightly worse. It’s a favorite Peace Corps read because some pages are so relatable and others make you go, “Gambia, it is not so bad.” (As opposed to the usual saying, “Gambia, it is not easy.”) My favorite passage by far would be the conversation between the author and his wife, which starts with “avocado,” then they take turns listing foods they miss. This habit of food fantasizing is huge with Peace Corps volunteers. (Someone once commented that we talk like a bunch of fat kids on a diet.) For us, it goes something like this:“I’m hungry”“Me too. How about a pizza?”“I don’t know if this Domino’s delivers. There’s a new Pizza Hut down by the bitik, though.”“Well, I prefer Domino’s. Why don’t we drive there in my nice air-conditioned car?”“Okay, only I have an appointment at the spa in an hour. Can it wait 'til after then?”“Sure, as long as we go right after that. I don’t want to miss my workout class at the gym.”“Should we drop by Dairy Queen afterwards?”Eventually laughter breaks out, and we sigh and inwardly remember selecting from several pizza delivery places and pampering ourselves and the freedom of having a car and the ability to escape round-the-clock heat. It didn’t take a bit of imagination for me to believe the author would sit around fantasizing about avocadoes.- I highly recommend The Reason For God by Timothy Keller. I’ve read a ton of Christian books, done multiple evangelistic training programs and been sitting in on sermons my whole life. But this book is the best apologetics presentation I’ve ever seen. I learned a ton, and really like how his arguments are presented. (His documentation is so thorough that his footnotes section is practically a book itself.) I heard about the book because it was written up in Newsweek, so apparently it’s kind of a big seller in the US right now.- Another one on my list was Eat Pray Love, recommended to me by a volunteer who ET’d from our group and has been writing since then. The author takes a year-long “self discovery” trip of sorts, eating in Italy, praying in India, and loving in Indonesia. I don’t agree with all the conclusions she draws, but there were a few passages I really liked:“I met a young Australian girl last week who was backpacking through Europe for the first time in her life. I gave her directions to the train station. She was heading up to Slovenia, just to check it out. When I heard her plans, I was stricken with such a dumb spasm of jealousy, thinking, I want to go to Slovenia! How come I never get to travel anywhere?Now, to the innocent eye it might appear that I already am traveling. And longing to travel while you are already traveling is, I admit, a kind of greedy madness… But the fact that this girl asked directions from me (clearly, in her mind, a civilian) suggests that I am not technically traveling in Rome, but living here. However temporary it may be, I am a civilian. When I ran into the girl, in fact, I was just on my way to pay my electricity bill, which is not something travelers worry about. Traveling-to-a-place energy and living-in-a-place energy are two fundamentally different energies, and something about meeting this Australian girl on her way to Slovenia just gave me such a jones to hit the road.”This is a good explanation for why, besides being excited to COS, I’ve fantasized about visiting about eight different places (even within the US) when I get back. Weird as it sounds, I feel like I haven’t BEEN anywhere except to England since I got here. (I went home of course, which was more like returning from travel than traveling, yet when I got back to Gambia, it was like I’d returned from traveling then too. So England was the only time I’ve had traveling-to-a-place-energy in a year and a half.)“I met an old lady once, almost one hundred years old, and she told me, ‘There are only two questions that human beings have ever fought over, all through history. 'How much do you love me?' And 'Who’s in charge?' Everything else is somehow manageable. But those two questions of love and control undo us all, trip us up and cause war, grief and suffering.”Don’t have deep thoughts to add to this one. Being a natural contrarian, I tried to come up with an exception to this, but didn’t succeed. I thought it was an interesting point.“In Venice in the Middle Ages there was once a profession for a man called a codega—a fellow you hired to walk in front of you at night with a lit lantern, showing you the way, scaring off thieves and demons, bringing you confidence and protection through the dark streets.”The author says that a friend of hers acted as her codega in Italy. This is a good letter-starter question: who’s your codega? Good time to write me a letter! :)

Apparently people often ask my parents why their daughter is living in a mud hut on the other side of the world. As such, I’ve been asked to post a “Top Ten” list of the reasons I’m here. I’m not sure if they meant why I came, or why I’m still here, so I’ll post both. (You may remember a similar entry from a little over a year ago, posted July 27, 2007.) I don’t have it in front of me, so I wonder how much this list will differ?)Top Ten Seven (I honestly didn’t have ten, sorry) Reasons I Joined Peace Corps & Came To The Gambia7) Most of my “social circle” back home has never really understood my international ambitions. Many were supportive, even if they didn’t totally understand where I was coming from, but in other cases, I was actually warned against joining Peace Corps by friends who thought I was aimless or that I would “fall away” from the church. While I haven’t made many close friends here, I have finally found people with whom I can have long stimulating conversations about things like international relations and development work. I remember when my best friend moved from Fort Collins to Boulder, and then from Colorado to LA, one of the things she looked forward to with each move was meeting people who were increasingly “different.” We grew up in such a white-bread, safe and comfortable, yet homogenous society, that the chance to get out and meet people from all over the country and all different backgrounds was a welcome change for her, and now also for me. I certainly see eye-to-eye with people a lot less here, but there’s not a single volunteer who doesn’t understand the drive to go beyond US borders.6) It’s in my blood! Fun fact: my great-uncle Glen did Peace Corps in Iran back in the 60’s.5) It’s a good way to see more of the world, without paying for it myself or risking my life by joining the army or something.4) If I couldn’t go the Caribbean with Peace Corps, Africa is the next-closest thing, culturally. (My mom wished I’d have gone for the next-closest thing physically and been in Central America.)3) As I’ve mentioned, I’d hoped to do PC somewhere in the Caribbean, but as the application process progressed and I was nearing the day when PC would tell me what regions had positions I was eligible for, Africa was coming up eerily often. Suddenly everyone was talking about Africa and I was meeting people who’d worked there and organizations in Africa were sending me letters and filling my email inbox. I’d planned from the beginning that if a spot didn’t open up in the Caribbean, I’d go to Africa (see reason #4), but now I was almost convinced that, given the choice between Africa and the Caribbean, I wouldn’t know which to choose! By that point, I was pretty sure I was meant to go to Africa, but would I be able to resist a position closer to Jamaica? As it turned out, when I finally got the call from my recruiter, it went something like this:Recruiter: “Now, I know you were hoping for a position in the Caribbean, but unfortunately there are no positions opening there within three months of when you’d like to leave.”Me (thinks): Yeah, yeah, I figured. Just tell me about the position in Africa already.Me: “Okay, what else is there?”Rec: “Well, I have this position in Africa…”Me: Yup, that’s the one! “What’s the position?”

Rec: “There’s not too much information here. Just that it’s a health position and it requires that you know how to ride a bike. Now I also have this one in eastern Europe...”

Me *listens to the other options, but knows the decision is already made*: “Let’s go with the one in Africa. I can ride a bike.” Thinks: Of course, I haven’t done so in ten years because I don’t like biking. I hope if I have to bike a lot, it’s at least not down mountains or anything. [Note: the highest point of elevation in The Gambia is 170 ft. Sometimes even the term “hill” is a bit of a stretch. Guess I got my wish there.]2) Peace Corps is sort of a practice-round in international living. I plan to live in Jamaica permanently, but Peace Corps allows me to learn to deal with the frustrations and cross-cultural issues of living in another country, while still having support and medical staff in the background as a safety net. Ironically, most Peace Corps volunteers who hear this reason comment that they’re pretty sure living in Gambia, even with PC support, is harder than living in Jamaica would be. I tend to agree now.1) I don’t want to do grad school, but didn’t feel ready to jump into the “real world” and move to Jamaica permanently without something in-between. Peace Corps is like free hands-on grad school without having to write a thesis. Top Ten Reasons I Ain’t Quit Yet:10) As awful as it sounds, I didn’t come here to save the world. I came here to learn: about other cultures, about development work, and (surprisingly) about myself. I read blogs just like this one (every single one I could find, in fact) before joining Peace Corps, so I had a pretty good idea that PC job descriptions in the Gambia were loosely defined and often unproductive. So while many people ET (Early Terminate, i.e. quit) after not finding satisfying work, I came expecting to be pleasantly surprised if I did find it. Peace Corps has three main goals, only one of which has to do with actual work. The other two are about learning about other cultures and teaching other people about our culture. It’s those goals I really signed up for, and while cultural exchange is endlessly frustrating, I can’t say it’s not what I expected. Don’t worry: I work toward the third goal too—I’m not a slacker, and have my fair share of difficult-to-navigate-much-less-explain projects. But my work here doesn’t define me, and is rarely the exciting or interesting part of my life here, which is why my blog probably comes off as “Frolicking Through Africa” sometimes.9) I really, really like my host siblings. While their behavior by American standards is often atrocious, the responsibilities they’re saddled with would break every American child labor law in the book. I figure it evens out. I can recognize their cries; who’s crying when, who’s faking, who’s not feeling well. I’m not going to give any of them a school scholarship or make big plans to take one of them to America someday – it’s that kind of grandstanding that has made Gambians believe themselves totally dependent on whites – but I can say that they now know how to write their names, how to have a thumb war, and how to play Patty-Cake. Everyone else will fade into the general scenery, part of the Gambia that I leave behind, but leaving my host siblings themselves will be the hardest part.8) Surprisingly enough, I have come to enjoy biking. Somehow, the bone-jarringly bad roads, swerving cars, and passersby shouting “TOUBAB!” isn’t enough to negate the stress relief of a forced bike ride. (Forced because my transport options are pretty limited.) Of course, I plan to buy a bike upon my return to the US (with American leash laws, I know of no other way to burn off Minty’s excess energy—only a professional runner could keep up with him), but biking in the city and biking on a remote African dirt road are not quite the same. I will miss the monkeys darting across my path, and the hornbills I like to think of as Zazu birds (whoever animated that character for the Lion King deserves kudos for accuracy) letting me bike dangerously close before taking off.7) I’m wary of typing this reason out, lest people mistake it for a subtle hint, and I get barraged by “it’s okay if you quit!” letters. However, I have to admit that one of my reasons for staying is so that I don’t disappoint people back home. A lot of people have spent a lot of time and money keeping in touch with me, keeping me fed, and keeping me reasonably comfortable. While I know that if I chose to go home tomorrow, few people (if anyone) would ask why I gave up, why I couldn’t hack it, why I couldn’t hold out after making it this long, etc., I would feel an obligation to answer those questions, even if they remained unasked. In short, I don’t want to let people down. I’m not asking permission to quit, I’m just saying people (okay, mostly family members) have been telling me how proud they are of me, and I don’t want to give people reason to feel otherwise.6) I’d like to prove to those people who thought PC was a bad idea that they were wrong, I made it, and I didn’t even become a cannibal or a homeless bum or join a cult, or whatever else they were worried about.5) Julie’s coming to visit for New Year’s! She booked her tickets, so barring major catastrophe (basically something earth-shattering enough to merit me wasting her $2,000+), I’m sticking around til then. At that point, it’ll only be a month til my COS (Close Of Service) conference, when PC takes the next group of volunteers that’s leaving and pampers them for a few days (sadly, the level of pampering has gone down with the value of the dollar), in-between training sessions on how to readjust to the real world. So it only makes sense to stick it out that additional month til COS conference, then by the time that’s over, I’ve only got two months left. Breaking eight months down into three chunks like that makes all three chunks seem so small it’s not worth quitting early.4) Maybe I’m just more anal-retentive than most, but it blows my mind how people are able to suddenly call Peace Corps and be gone by the next week. When I look around at my one-room hut, the mass of stuff I’ve collected astounds me. The process of sorting out what has to be returned to PC, what I’m going to sell, what I’ll give away to other volunteers, what’s coming home with me, etc. will take probably from COS conference until when my COS car picks me and my luggage up from my site for my final trip to Kombo. That’s just the kind of person I am—I need the closure of a long, drawn-out transition period. Not to mention the prep work it’ll take to ship Minty, or the souvenir shopping and last-minute picture-taking I’ll have left to do. In short, I’m far too neurotically organized to be able to pack up and leave at a week’s notice unless left with no other choice. Quitting early would hugely complicate my life, so maybe I’m just being lazy by saying I want to stick around.3) One of the most valuable nuggets of wisdom I received from a fellow volunteer was that the first year of Peace Corps service makes the second year work. The first year, with its emotional rollercoaster and language confusion and feelings of utter uselessness is what gives you the cultural and linguistic understanding to actually be able to move through your village effectively and find relevant work that actually interests you AND your village during the second year. So if I’ve already done the hard part by surviving last year, why not reap the rewards this year?2) I have, in my head, played through my homecoming a thousand times. By looking forward to when I go home (rather than wishing to be home right now), I can stave off homesickness a bit and have something to look forward to. In the movie reel that plays in my head, there are hugs, there are tears, there are unbearably long flights and stacks of paperwork for Minty, but never in all my imaginings is there a sense of failure or a question of whether I quit too early. In short, when I get home, I don’t ever want to wonder if I gave up prematurely. This isn’t to say that if things suddenly got unbearable here, or if I were needed at home for some reason that I would hesitate at all to leave PC, but until one of those situations arises, I’m sticking it out. I may not come parading home with my head held high at having saved the world, but I’m not going home with my tail between my legs either.1) When my parents came in February, they brought a CD with some new hits (that have come out since I left), and to fill space, a few older songs. One of those older songs has become a favorite of mine here, where I rarely feel successful and often feel bombarded. I often pull that song up on my mp3 player when I’m starting my bike ride to or from Basse. It’s called Voice Of Truth, by Casting Crowns. Any part of the song can bring me to tears on a bad day (sometimes even on a good day), but my favorite part summarizes the #1 reason I’m still here: Oh what I would do to have the kind of strength it takes to standBefore a giant, with just a sling and a stoneSurrounded by the sound of a thousand warriors, shaking in their armorWishing they’d have had the strength to standBut the giant’s calling out my name and he laughs at meReminding me of all the times I’ve tried before and failedThe giant keeps on telling me, time and time again,Boy, you’ll never winYou’ll never win But the Voice of Truth tells me a different storyThe Voice of Truth says “do not be afraid”And the Voice of Truth says “this is for My glory”Out of all the voices calling out to meI will choose to listen and believe the Voice of Truth

A few weeks back, Tamara (my sitemate) was in the Basse market, where she ran into someone I’ve worked with at T***** (you may remember that I have to refer to the organization I work with as T***** because they monitor any internet traffic that uses their whole name and I’d rather not have to worry about them reading everything I blog about—write me a letter if you missed earlier blogs and would like more info about T*****!). This person, whoever he was, knows me, and asked Tamara to pass on a message asking me to come to a talk on FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) the following Sunday in the village across the road from mine. Problem was, that’s all the information he gave, and without knowing WHO this guy was Tamara ran into (I couldn’t pinpoint him based on her description), I couldn’t track him down for more information. So I called people at T***** who knew a little about it, and was told it’d probably start “around” 7pm.Knowing that Gambian meetings make Jamaican meetings look frighteningly punctual, I decided not to leave my house til after 7, and arrive at the bantabaa (village center) around 7:30. I hadn’t thought to ask where the meeting would be, simply because the bantabaa (where most events are held) is next door to the village T***** classroom. So I figured if it wasn’t in one place, it’d be in the other. I arrived at the bantabaa and found no one there, so then I turned to the T***** classroom only to discover it was gone. Apparently they’d dismantled the straw fence classroom for the rainy season to turn it into farm land until class starts up again after the harvest. So I had no idea where I was supposed to be, and couldn’t reach any of my T***** counterparts by phone to ask them. I walked to a neighboring compound (the same compound where people came to dance for my parents when they visited) to ask them if they had any idea what was going on. Since the women of that compound are T***** participants, I was a little unnerved when they said they didn’t even know anyone was coming! Finally, one older woman who was visiting the compound overheard and said, “oh, you’re looking for the visitors/strangers?” (The word is the same in Mandinka.) “They’re staying in my compound.” I thought she must live in the alkalo’s (village chief’s) compound, since that is where important visitors usually stay and events occur, if not in the bantabaa. However, the compound she took me to was not that of the alkalo. Sitting on a small bantabaa (which is also the word for bench) were a man and two women. They told me they were the people sent there to talk to the village about FGM, along with two others who’d forgotten some paperwork from their morning presentation at the next village over (a ten minute walk), but once they brought back the paperwork, we’d get started. I asked, “okay, but where are all the people?” “Oh, we’ll call them when we’re ready.” Here’s the thing: based on the fact that the only person I talked to who knew anything about this was a woman who they were staying with, I had a pretty good idea it was going to take a while to round anyone up. I tried to hint at that, to no avail. So we sat.A little girl in the compound, from the moment I entered, basically threw herself at me. Now I’m used to three reactions from strange children: sheer terror, tentatively befriending me, or rudely demanding things. This child behaved as if she’d known me for years and it was totally natural for her to be climbing all over me, investigating everything. She played with my clothes, examined my bag, touched my hair, checked out my bracelets, and finally had to be stopped when she tried to yank down my shirt just to have a look around. But once I told her a few no’s (no you cannot look down my shirt, no you cannot undo my ponytail, no you cannot take my stuff), she seemed fine with that and just sort of draped herself over me for the next hour or so while I sat uncomfortably on the cement bantabaa noticing that not only did the two missing people not come, but the one man who was present left to go to the mosque to pray and never returned. That meant that of the five people needed to even CALL people to the meeting, we were down to two.Now, say it’s late at night, nearing your bedtime (I go to bed before 9 here—nothing to do after dark and I get up at dawn), and you’re waiting for a meeting to begin so you can get it over with (Not that I don’t find FGM interesting—it’s just that this meeting would be in Mandinka and that’s a subject I cannot converse intelligently about in Mandinka. I knew I would be totally lost and mostly showed up as a symbolic gesture.). The last thing on earth you want to have happen at that point is for someone to set up a bed and pillow outside and say, “why don’t you sleep til the meeting starts?” Um, I did not sign up for this. Any meeting that’s so late it deserves a NAP while you wait is not going to start this side of midnight. I tentatively obliged, feeling cornered and wishing I’d had ALL the facts so I could have begged off in the first place.After a while, a woman from the compound brought me dinner (they eat late here), which was delicious, but assuming the dinner situation was iffy, I’d eaten before I came and didn’t have much room. So I apologized profusely for only being able to manage a couple bites, then laid back down, but not before noticing that the remaining two women (of the five people needed) had disappeared. Great.So, I laid there a while, as dinner was finished and people finished up evening chores, put kids to bed, and sat outside talking. As it passed 9pm, I got to thinking:- None of the 5 people were in sight. If they started rounding them up immediately, they could perhaps hope to find all 5 by 9:30pm.- If they started rounding everyone else up immediately at that point, they might start leaving their compounds (having chatted with everyone else in the compound and announcing, “hey, some people want us to go to something… but I want to finish this first”) at around 10.- On their way, they will have to stop and greet, see if their friends are going, and if they really hurry, the majority of the people might arrive by 10:30pm.- The “important” people, like the alkalo and imam (Muslim religious leader) and such would, of course, be late, and nothing can start without the important people, so they would sit around a chat til the VIPs arrived at, say, 11pm.- Then there would be more chatting, everyone greeting the VIPs, the long formalities and prayers which start Gambian meetings, then perhaps it would REALLY start by 11:30.- Once the meeting started, it would be several hours long (typical for Gambia), and unless I slipped away under the cover of darkness, it would be difficult for me to leave early. People would want me, a VIP by virtue of race, to stay for the whole thing, and would probably try to seat me front and center anyway, making sneaking out virtually impossible. There I would sit, barely able to stay awake (Gambians have an amazing ability to function on four hours of sleep—I don’t), and too tired to make sense of the Mandinka and actually contribute or get anything out of it.In short, I faked a stomach ache (Or was it a headache? Don’t remember now.) and went home.

The Peace Corps experience is sort of a voluntary emotional rollercoaster that lasts 27 months instead of five minutes. Of those emotions, there are many I hope never to relive (like my malaria-drug-induced terror), some that have surprised me (like my affection for my host siblings, considering I am NOT into large groups of small children), some I’ve enjoyed (the satisfaction at having upgraded my hut from total disrepair to pretty darn nice), but few I will genuinely look back on and wish to relive. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad to be here now, but in a year, I don’t expect to spend much of my time wishing for pleasures like finding a dead rat in my yard (a pleasure because it’s an indication that my rat poison was successful and the numbers are tilting in my favor). But if there were one feeling I could bottle, to take home and help people understand my experience, or pull out myself to remember the good days of Peace Corps, it would be the anticipation of an afternoon rainstorm. I don’t just mean a light rain, or a storm that blows in at night or early morning unobserved. I’m talking a storm that starts moving in sometime around lunch and appears sometime before dark. The kind blowing outside my window right now, giving me cause for this reflection and the cool weather to sit inside with a warm computer on my lap.It starts with a cloudy day—enough clouds that there could be a sprinkle at any moment, but not looking ominous enough to rush anything inside. Then to the east, coming up and over the next village, is a mass of thick, dark blue clouds so deep blue they almost look like an evening sky. We’ve all been watching the sky, of course, whether we admit it to each other or not. For an adult, the rains are a good sign for the crops, a good omen for next year’s food supply. For a child, the rains bring a respite from chores, and an easy bath, standing under the edge of a corrugated tin roof and soaping up. For me, the rains mean a break from the sweaty mugginess of the rainy season and a cool breeze! So, we’ve all been watching to see if these clouds would materialize into anything. Finally, someone says, “sanjiyo pareeta!” (The rains are ready!) At that point, it’s so obviously going to rain that it’s time to pull everything inside, take down drying laundry, and get ready for what’s coming. Then the clouds start to roll in and my 12-year-old sister Mama tells me, “Jula, diboo dunta!” (Jula, the dark has entered!) Following close behind is the wind, and the fact that it’s significantly colder is a sure sign the rain is imminent. Soon, another child is sure to announce that the foño (wind) is here, or perhaps that the foño is siyaariŋ (plentiful). Then it’s just a couple moments before the sky opens and it pours. Some of the kids run inside, while others (of course, this may just be my nutty host siblings) run around in the rain screaming “Sanjiyo! Sanjiyo!” (Rain! Rain!) The adults watch bemusedly from under the shelter of the porch. Minty takes shelter wherever I do, whether in my house or on my host family’s porch, and I notice my host family bends their “no animals on the porch” rule for him as long as the storm continues. Sometimes, the rain cools things down so much that from deep inside my Africanized body comes an almost forgotten reflex—a shiver.

My back yard when it rains:

If you’re reading this, it means that the CD of pictures and blog entries that I mailed to my parents has arrived safely. Over the next several weeks, my mom will be posting a pre-typed entry from me, twice a week. So be sure to come back often, because there’ll be lots of reading material!

From Mom:

Bethany's Country Director, Mike, emailed her a link to pictures from his trek to the URR for the Basse house grand opening referenced in a previous post. I've selected a few:

First -- although we've heard about it, we never actually saw how goats travel by public transportation -- Mike got a couple of great shots:

He visited Bethany in her village:

From the Ceremony to mark the grand opening of the New Transit House/Office in Basse:

There were Fula Musicians

Many Government officials attended:

Mike with Governor Omar Khan:

The Governor's remarks seemed mostly directed toward Mike:

Mike speaking, with interpreters into Fula and Mandinka:

There's also some great video of the dancers and musicians in action, as well as Mike dancing -- but this shot of one of the PCVs joining in will have to suffice for now.

From a letter written August 7:

So, as I started this, I wondered what to write about. I'm sitting outside on one of my family's bantabaas (benches), so I looked around at my host siblings for inspiration. My three-year-old sister, Aja, had a dehydrated milk can she was peeling the label off of. I watched bemusedly as she meticulously stacked the pieces of the label next to her. But before she was finished, she grabbed one of the pieces she'd removed, lifted it to her nose, and wiped. I wanted to cheer! This is such an improvement over typical Gambian nose-wiping, which usually involves getting a nice big chunk on your finger, then wiping it on the wall. (You can see sections of walls that have been permanently discolored by well, boogers.) Yay for my sister, learning more hygenic habits than that! I figured she'd probably just drop the paper on the ground, but it'd be swept up when the compound is cleaned this afternoon and at least it'd be dealt with. So I sat there smugly satisfied by the superior hygiene of my host family, 'til I realized what Aja was doing with her snotty shred of a label. She very carefully took the paper and reapplied it, snot-side down, to the can. She wasn't cleaning her nose--she was looking for an adhesive! Just when I thought nothing shocks me anymore...

The only other thing of note going on in my compound is my eleven(ish)-year-old host brother Ebrima (the Arabic form of Abraham) trying to completely reassemble a cassette tape. It looks like the ribbon broke somewhere, but he's disassembled the whole thing and strung the ribbon across the compound, trying to get it all untwisted. Have no idea how he plans to reattach it. Can't say I'd mind if he failed. Gambian tapes are screechy, poor quality, and the play the same three songs repeatedly at full volume. It's a weird mix of kora (a local instrument) playing and rasta stuff.

5 minutes later: Well, we've evidently given up on fixing the tape. He's now unwound all of his hard work and is "decorating" the compound stringing ribbon everywhere. Ebrima's even climbing the cement wall across the road to tie it there somewhere. It'll be interesting to see how long the adults let him leave the ribbon hanging all over. Especially since the ribbon strung across the road is at a precarious height for a person riding by high on a tractor...

As I wrote this, a woman wandered into my compound to talk to my host aunt. Only she's spent little time talking and a lot of time just staring at me. I know my skin color attracts attention, but it drives me crazy to be stared at while I do something as mundane as write a letter. So I decided to stare back, and we had to have not one but two stare downs before I finally shamed her into at least pretending she wasn't watching me. Now I just look up if I notice her watching and she immediately looks away and pretends to be fascinated by something else. It's the little victories, I suppose...

Minty greets the home people and wants you all to know he was having so much fun playing in the fields yesterday that he did a somersault in a ditch.

It's me! No, there's still no internet in Basse. I'm on a two-day mini-vacation visiting a volunteer who's staying on the island

of Janjanbureh for a few weeks. JJB (as PCVs trying to save money on their text messages like to call it) is in the middle of the country, set in the middle of the river Gambia. It's tourist central, so it's been called "Kombo without the amenities."

I'm using the only internet on the island, which I'm paying out the ears for, mostly to sit and watch pages load. But hey, I'll take what I can get. Of course, getting to the page where I could type this entry has taken a considerable amount of time, so I'm now racing against the clock (the town's power gets shut off in 10 or 15 minutes), so this won't be

a long one.

Life at site is good. It's corn season, which is wonderful, because the smell of roasting corn could quite possibly be my favorite Gambian scent. It's still raining buckets, practically every night. I built Minty a rain shelter in my backyard for when I'm away, but every time we get a huge storm, it just rips the shelter apart. I super-fortified it before my trip to JJB, so here's hoping he won't be dripping wet when I get home. Poor guy!

I'm staying away from Kombo because a) I have little to do there right now, except use internet and eat pizza and b) I'm saving money, so that basically means I'm fantasizing about pizza and ice cream every night (can't even get ice cream in Basse anymore), but my bank account's happy!

Alright, gotta run (who knows how long it'll take for this internet connection to send this entry!), but keep in touch! August mailrun was a much happier occasion than recent months, which has been a big help with the start of Ramadan, but I've still got a ways to go--if you've got an unanswered letter from me floating around somewhere, send me a note!

Thanks! ~Jula

From Mom:

So with Bethany not having internet access (the town does have fuel to provide electricity again, but the cafe still isn't in operation) I'm here to just give a little update about her recent activities.

The new Peace Corps house in Basse opened a few weeks back -- what was going to be just a little gathering by PC staff mushroomed into an event with the local governor, police officials and other government officials. It was a bit more than the volunteers wanted, with all sorts of unknown people traipsing through, but hopefully they all got the word that this was a one-time event and they won't be allowed to just come in in the future.

She also spent some time making some Neem Cream -- neem is a very invasive plant but has many properties -- antibacterial, antifungal, and will also repel insects. She made the cream and distributed small amounts to various compounds letting them know that it would repel mosquitoes and that they could make it themselves. She told them that they would have to purchase the ingredients and then she would come back and teach them how to make it. (Remember, the PC goal is to start sustainable projects and it can be hard to encourage these women, who already have lots of responsibilities to take time to do something new--so making them purchase the ingredients was the starting point.) It's just been a week or so, but one compound has taken her up on the offer -- although it seemed there was some misunderstanding -- they thought the sample she gave them was an ingredient -- so they felt obligated, "She gave us this, so we have to buy the other items." When she was teaching them to make it, they brought out the sample she'd made and asked, "When do we add this part?"

The Nerica Rice is growing well -- the final challenge has been to collect the money -- again it's important that these projects not just be handouts, so not only did she have to convince them to try a new crop, but they needed to purchase the seed from her. Because of the delay in getting the seed, when it finally came, it wasn't always the "money" person who took delivery of the seed, so she's had to make a few trips back around to collect.

For those of you who are regular readers, I'll close this by saying that what everyone says, "The 2nd year is much better than the first," looks to be proving true -- considering the challenges of the first year: problems with malaria meds, language, cultural and climate adjustments, figuring out how to actually DO something productive and such; things are much better now, BUT it is still lonely and more than anything, she needs your continued prayers AND ACTUAL LETTERS!! The number of people who said, "I meant to write" when she was home in May was huge -- If you are one of those people, and you haven't written yet, it's time to do it. Three mail days have passed since she left: May, June, July. August is coming soon -- anything sent now will not arrive until Sept. so please don't put it off.

Thanks!