An opinion piece run this week in the Charlotte Observer:

Nuclear energy is not a viable alternative to oil dependency Posted: Wednesday, Jul. 21, 2010 Steinmetz

From Tara Steinmetz, Masters of Public Policy candidate 2012, Duke University, and intern for Environment North Carolina: In the midst of the Gulf oil tragedy, there's plenty of dialogue about the need to end our dependence on oil and find clean, safe energy alternatives. And for more than a year, Congress has debated policy that would curb greenhouse gas emissions to stave off the worst impacts of climate change. Unfortunately, nuclear power is too often touted as one of those clean, viable energy alternatives, and as a solution to global warming. But the facts show the opposite. First, there's the reality that nuclear energy is not viable without massive taxpayer and ratepayer subsidies. Last month, Southern Company and their partners accepted an $8.33 billion loan guarantee from the government to build two new reactors at Vogtle station in Georgia. Our recent report, The Nuclear Bailout, found that Georgia Power customers will be paying $1.6 billion through higher electricity rates over the next six years to help finance the construction. A default on these loans would likely leave taxpayers across the country on the hook for $11 billion, or $95 from every American household. In Washington, Congress is pushing an energy bill that would allow an additional $54 billion in loan guarantees for nuclear power, among myriad other incentives. Here in North Carolina, Duke Energy is pushing for a law to allow it to increase rates to finance the construction of multi-billion-dollar nuclear reactors, even if the project has huge cost overruns or is never completed. Since private investors view these projects as too risky and likely to fail, this risk is passed on to ratepayers. In Washington, Sen. Richard Burr, R-N.C., has co-sponsored a bill that would provide more taxpayer-financed incentives to nuclear power. Second, nuclear power is hardly clean. The proposed reactors at Vogtle would create, over their lifetime, 2,500 metric tons of radioactive spent fuel-for which there is no known safe disposal method. The two reactors currently at Vogtle consume 66 million gallons of water each day and release heated water back into rivers, killing fish and damaging fragile river ecosystems. Construction of the proposed new reactors would likely dredge up to 100 miles of the river channel, disrupting fish spawning. Nuclear energy fails as an effective solution to global warming. Per dollar spent over the lifetime of the technology, energy efficiency and biomass co-firing are five times as effective at preventing carbon dioxide pollution. By 2018, biomass and land-based wind energy will be more than twice as effective, and offshore wind power will be 30 cents more effective on the dollar than nuclear. The U.S. wind industry is already building the equivalent of three nuclear reactors each year in wind farms. Nuclear energy is not ready to move quickly. During the last wave of nuclear construction, the average facility took nine years to build. Renewable energy sources can start cutting emissions immediately. If we want to get serious about finding alternatives to oil dependence and to solving global warming, we have to stop wasting time and money on nuclear energy. Nuclear energy is bad for taxpayers, bad for the environment, and bad for North Carolina.

Read more: http://www.charlotteobserver.com/2010/07/21/1573786/nuclear-energy-is-not-a-viable.html#ixzz0uNQzWHua

Demba and I have tried to settle in to our new home here in Durham, North Carolina. I would like to joke that we’ve settled into a kind of domestic bliss, but the word “bliss” usual conjures up imagery of peaceful relaxation, calm lakes and other such rubbish. Therefore, I would compare it more to a demolition derby that all parties involved thoroughly enjoy.

Now that the hardwood floors have been covered as much as is reasonable by area rugs, Demba is a much more stable growing puppy, now being able to run/slide to retrieve the ball rather than simply to glide his way there, only stopping when he collides with whatever object – valuable or invaluable – that happens to be in the path. However, there are still large swathes of the floor which remain uncovered, and will remain uncovered, and I have learned to try to target my throws accordingly.

He remains a remarkably intelligent dog, and sometimes I’m led to wonder whether I am training him, or if it is the other way around… I do try, however, not to wonder that too often (hold on, he’s ringing the bell for me to let him out)…

When I first got Demba and realized how highly adorable he is, I thought perhaps the cute puppy trick would work for me. I had heard of guys who walk around really cute puppies to try to pick up hot women, and thought maybe the same trick would pick me up a nice, attractive man. Unfortunately, so far all he’s gotten me so far is a very overweight and even more Southern man who referred to Demba as a “Yankee dog,” and the nice woman across the street and her female life partner. I retain hope of success, however I must admit that despite the lack of anticipated results, I’m happy to have made new friends. And lucky for Demba, the women across the street have a huge lab/Norwegian who likes to have playmates, especially puppies.

So things are going well for my “protector” in his new environment. Since I’ve started work he’s been getting a little frustrated with being alone so many hours each day, but he’s learning to cope as best a puppy can. He certainly feels free to share his surplus energy with me when I come home from work exhausted. I look forward to the more flexible schedule that will come with the end of my internship and the start of school in the fall. The lack of commute, along with the ability to do the bulk of my work at home, will be appreciated by both the pup and me.

Since my return to America from my Peace Corps experience, I’ve been at something of a loss in trying to figure out what to do with this blog. I started it with the idea of sharing my travel experiences with people at home. However, now I find myself somewhat more stationary (geographically speaking, that is). So the question remains: what do I do with my blog now? I thought about just taking it down, but that seemed somehow to be more avoiding the question than actually challenging myself to truly consider the question (read: the easy way out), so I decided to wait a while and see if I could come up with something a little more meaningful than that. So I thought a little more and wondered why it mattered to me so much what I did or did not write here… I realized that just as much as this was a tool to stay in touch with people, it was a challenge to myself in writing. Trying to put thoughts into words. In other words, just as much for other people, I did it for myself. Therefore, there’s no good reason to shut down the blog until I have either exhausted all of my thoughts or perfected the art of writing. I think anyone reading this (and the one writing it) would all agree that neither is likely to happen anytime soon. I share this with you all so you know that I know that most of my posts will be in many ways trivial ramblings with no real point or purpose, about things that most people probably won’t care about. As much as anything else, posting will be for the sake of exercise. You can participate in this practice or not, as you feel compelled. So… what’s next?

Everyone, this is my Demba (Mandinka for "warrior"). He's a three month old labrador-border collie mix. He's ridiculous and tons of fun. There will be more pictures soon (probably a ton of pictures). Right now, he's not so much a warrior as a goofball, but I love him anyway.

I want to put up a quick post for anyone reading this blog who might be getting ready to leave for PC The Gambia. I remember when I was ready, I did a lot of reading of current volunteer blogs, especially looking for a packing list. Now that I've returned, I think it's time I volunteered a packing list of my own. Feel free to shoot me an email if you have any questions.

Things I would pack if I were leaving again for PC The Gambia:

Easily packable, mobile hammock. Great for when you travel or want to sleep outside. If you can get a little mosquito net to go with that, even better. Pillow from home. I brought mine, and there was nothing nicer than having something so familiar and comforting at the end of the day. Travel french press. I like the camping ones because you can bring them with you when you travel without having to worry about breaking it. Good running shoes. Sometimes you've just gotta get out and run. Speakers and IPOD. Especially if you're someone for whom music is your sanity. Moleskin notebooks. My favorite for both work and journaling. Don't worry too much about clothing. Tailors there are great and cheap. If you want particularly cute clothes, bring pictures to have them copy. Also, PCVs who are closing their service tend to leave a bunch of clothes in the "free bin" in the capital, which you can usually find a lot of good things in if you raid the pile regularly. A friend of mine pretty much pulled her whole wardrobe from me when I left, having brought few clothes herself. I remember when I can being worried about being culturally appropriate in a Muslim country; that said, tank tops are fine, even spaghetti straps, as are capris and skirts, but make sure everything goes below your knee, even when sitting down. Solio charger (or other solar charger). Even if you end up in a place with electricity (most don't), it'll be nice if you travel. Duct tape. You're not a real PCV if you don't have duct tape.Most toiletries you'll want to bring enough for training, but you can buy replacements in the capital after you swear in before you go to site, which is probably even cheaper than having a bunch shipped to you. For the females, a mooncup/diva cup. Easier than spending all your living allowance on tampons or pads. Also, better for travelling and easier to pack. Netbook or small laptop. You won't have electricity at site, but most volunteers have found these really useful for any time they travel to and urban area, especially if you're hoping to be applying to graduate school during your service. If you're a biker, any bike accessories outside of a small repair kit and a rack on back. Some volunteers have wished they brought saddle bags, gloves, seats, or other accessories. Peace Corps will provide you a helmet, repair kit and basic rack on the back. Decent sunglasses, maybe with a few spares. Good sunglasses (those with UV protection) can sometimes be hard to come by in the Gambia. 1 or 2 sets of sheets. I only brought one and it worked totally fine, but sometimes I had wished i brought two. Only bring two if you have the space. Good, sturdy work pants. I know I said before clothes aren't that important, but if you're going to be doing any serious physical labor, heavy duty pants are hugely helpful. I had a pair of Prana pants from REI that I love. Silicone gel tabs for your electronics. You don't need many of these, but the rainy season can be hard on your electronics. If you drop a couple in your electronics cases, that can help suck the moisture out of the air and keep them in good shape longer. Peace Corps will probably provide you with both mosquito repellent and sunscreen, if you don't have brand or SPF preferences. They're not the best on the market, but they get the job done. They also will give you a mosquito net and water filter. Jump rope. This is a personal preference thing, but I sometimes liked being able to get some exercise in the privacy of my compound instead of on the road where people either gawk at you, leer at you or yell "tuobab." It's also just an amazingly efficient workout. Leatherman or Gerber. I like Gerbers over Leathermans, but they both would get the job done. Lots and lots of pens. I prefer basic Bic ballpoint pens, but they important thing to know is that they simply do not sell quality pens in the country. Most of the time when you buy them they either don't work or only work for only a very short while. Sweatshirt or warm sweater. Maybe 2. I know it’s Africa and it gets ridiculously hot, but in the (admittedly short) cold season, it can get down to the 50s at night. Good headlamp with extra batteries. Bring lots of extra batteries, because the batteries in the country are terrible quality. Shortwave radio. You can either bring one with you, or if you’re not terribly picky you can get one in country for about $5-6 that work fine.

I knew it had been a while since I posted a blog, but I didn't realize it had been since November. I'd like to apologize all at home who look to my blog for signs I'm still alive and kicking. I'm more than fine.

In fact, for the last four months, my silence has been an indication of nothing bad, but rather something really wonderful: getting caught up in living in West Africa.

As my service is now less than a week away from finishing (yes, really), I've been spending the last few months, well, living my last few months. I threw myself into everything I could as much as possible. Here are just a few highlights to give you an idea:

challenged a kankurang (see prior posts) to a fight...he got spooked and ran offlearned a dance from each tribegot braided...then unbraided...then braided againhad a wonderful visit from Americawent to a softball tournament in Dakargot stung by a jellyfish...twicesaw a hippo in the river by my adoptive villagewent on trek to every volunteer in the countryrode a donkeyrode a mechanical bull

All in all, I enjoyed the last few months of my service deeply and fully. I was able to reach a point of contentment with my experiences and relationships here that makes me feel ready to leave with nothing but positive feelings.

Part of what is helping with the transition back to America is that I'm not only leaving things here behind, I'm also moving toward a lot of exciting new things in my life, too, most significant of which is my acceptance into multiple grad school programs. I haven't decided on a program yet (I haven't heard from them all yet), but I'm incredibly excited. I'm ready for the next step in my life.

Though my goodbye from my host family was filled with tears and weeping, they were the tears of love that come from wonderful relationships with wonderful and beautiful people. It was difficult - change always is - but I feel thankful for every moment and every tear, and I feel ready for what's next.

So...what's next?

I've been informed that it's been a while since I've updated everyone, so I figured it was about time, even though I have no major news to report.

Last week some friends and I traveled to Senegal. We started off in Saint Louis and then went to Dakar for a few days. Saint Louis is mostly an island off the coast of Senegal north of Dakar. We stayed there for four nights, just enjoying the local vibe and, of course, the beach.

There are more pictures uploaded in the last blog posted, for those who are interested.While in Dakar, I also fell down on an island off the coast. It's mostly made of smooth stones, and I was trying to cross an area where the ocean usually sits, but the tide was low, and the rock I was on was covered in algae. A shift in my weight led to a slip and fall, additionally leading to numerous cuts and bruises and my head hitting a big rock. After I got back to The Gambia, and to our medical office, it was determined that I got a pretty decent concussion and fractured my skull by my right temporal lobe, but that it will heal on its own and shouldn't be a problem. Go figure. Onward, right? Below is a picture of the island that hurt my head.

I just celebrated my 25th birthday in the capital city here. It was a nice, casual day, with a good breakfast, boxed wine on the beach and a delicious dinner and hookah at the Lebanese place I like. It was nothing too exciting, but it was what I was looking for, and I enjoyed it.Other than that, I'm starting to face down my final five months of service and try to figure all the things I want to have done by the time I'm come home, which is still set to be sometime in April. I'll let everyone know when I have the exact date. These things include working on a live fence project with my host family, working on a library and a tree nursery with the orphanage, working with an HIV/AIDS support group, distributing nets whenever they arrive in country, and learning as many different Gambian dances as I can manage (I'm terrible, honestly).Next week, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, is the major Islamic holiday Tobaski, which will consist of me get dressed in the fanciest outfit I've had made here yet (shoes and clasp purse included), praying and asking for change for praying, and eating lots and lots of sheep meat. Already the streets everywhere are filled with sheep, awaiting their day of doom...I'm excited for the holiday.That's all for now, I suppose, but stay tuned. Inevitably, there will be more to come... :)Other than that, I just want to wish everyone at home a very happy Thanksgiving.

In Saint Louis, we took some time to make new friends and go out for a few drinks.

We even went in public with THESE folks, shockingly enough...

The city was beautiful and ugly at the same time. The river and ocean right there filled it was colorfully painted boats and the smell of fish.

All through Senegal, paintngs of this marabout abounded...at times, they were a little creepy, seeming to stare at us wherever we went. This one was about a block away from our hotel.

The streets of Saint Louis were filled with a mix of beautiful renovations and crumbling buildings, giving it a very strange feeling.

Some of the beautifully painted boats on docked on the river.

While walking through town one day, we met a group of dozens of school girls and played street games with them for a while. Even though we didn't speak their language, and they didn't speak ours, we managed to have a fun morning with them.

One of the shops had this enthusiastic mannequin with brightly colored hair, which for some reason enthralled us...

This, however, was just terrifying...

Cristin and the crew say goodbye...Doing the water fetchin' at the pump.

Rocking the water fetching one last time...

Wait, no, THIS is rocking the water fetching...

It kinda made my attempts to help superfluous...

I gave a health talk the other day in my adoptive village on the importance of taking their children to the monthly nurse-clinics and how to make sure their babies maintain a healthy weight. Here are some pics I thought I would share (thanks to Ashley for being the photographer).

My little house :)

My tree nursery - most of them to make a live fence for my host mother.

People playing cards in my compound.

Inside my house.

The other half of inside my house. Sorry about the mess.

Warning: This blog contains descriptions of bodily functions other volunteers have told me are “unattractive.” If you find my attractiveness to be a major concern, I’d skip this blog…

The other day I went out to the back of the compound to work on planting. The two girls of mine in the compound in the time came to help. As we crossed the compound, NaaJoan called out to me, “wait, the sun is too hot! You should wait a little.”

I could have waited, but both my girls and I were anxious to get going, so we did. After only a few minutes, my stomach started to hurt really severely. I couldn’t even lean over properly to do my work without cringing in pain. The girls yelled at me, telling me to go in the house and lay down and they would finish the work without me. I lied down for a few minutes and started to feel a little better and went to see how it was going. They were just finishing when I came out. NaaJoan asked why I didn’t help them finish, and I told her my stomach hurt.

“See, I told you the sun was too hot. Now your stomach hurts. It’s because the sun is hot.”

I was far too exhausted to be scolded for being sick, so I just sat down to rest a minute, the pain starting to return. After a minute, I got up and started to walk across the compound to my house. Just then, my father started coming out of his house and saw my pain-filled face. “What’s the matter?”

“Her stomach hurts because she worked in the sun. I told her the sun was too hot, but she didn’t listen.”

“Hm, wait a minute.” He walked up to me, putting his left arm on my shoulders to straighten my back. “I can fix this.” He took his right hand and started deliberately rubbing my stomach, occasionally leaning forward to blow small puffs of air on my stomach. After a few repetitions of the process he withdrew his hands and looked at me. I stood still, not knowing if I was allowed to move yet. After an awkward moment of silence, I looked at him. “That’ll make it better?”

He responded with a shrug. “Sometimes.”

NaaJoan jumped in with her instructions: “Go in and take a bath to cool your body.”

With that, I went in to bath, pouring the cool water all over my body. Also, in my state of relaxation, I passed a lot of gas (the food here has so much oil!). After the bath and the gas, I started feeling better.

Within a matter of moments, I felt completely better. Whether because I cooled my body off, I farted, or I was magically healed by my host father, I will never know…

“Nna salibo lee?”

It’s that time of year again where the inevitable questions arises: Where is my salibo? Now, for most of you reading this, the more appropriate discussion would be “what is your salibo?”

Every year, the end of the Ramadan, the month of fasting, is marked by the Koriteh celebration (the “saloo” or prayer). Signaled by the new moon, this month my village celebrated the Koriteh Sunday, the 20th. The celebration is set to last for two days, often (predictably) running over into a third. The day takes a great amount of preparation if you’re going to do it right. Last year I didn’t really participate, as I was stuck in the capital and couldn’t get transport home in time. But this year, I knew that if I was going to do it, I was going to do it right.

Starting with salibayoo, or prayer fabric, the money starts flowing. I bought nice new wax fabric, and took it to the tailor, selecting a style out of one of their few magazines. Then, closer to the day, I went with my people to the market and bought fancy new shoes – most of which would more applicably be called “tacky” by my people in America. With the help of my family, I picked out a pair of flip flops in black and silver, incredibly shiny. Most women also buy new jewelry for the day, too, but I decided to hold back and save some money, using jewelry I already have on hand. Then, we headed over to my extended family’s place in town to get braided.

Now, this isn’t any normal braiding. Women and girls have their hair braided almost all the time as a matter of cleanliness and convenience. But the Saloo requires a little something extra, which can be done through more intricate and elaborate styles of braiding or wigs.. In my case, I got fake hair extensions (“meso”), which a lot of women do around this time. The one previous time I’ve had meso, it took one packet of hair extensions and three hours. This time, it took three packets of hair extensions and eight hours. At first Umi, the woman braiding me, was afraid to braid my hair. She had heard that white women were scared of braiding and would cry if you tried to braid them. After she was fully reassured that I would not cry, she didn’t hold back, tugging and tearing the same as she does with all the women she braids. It hurt a fair amount, but not as much as I feared it might. Mostly the process was exhausting just because of the monotony of the activity with nothing to distract you. The phrase “in-flight movie” kept running through my mind.

The braiding was done at Umi’s home in town, a few kilometers away from my village. People make the trip into town nearly every day to go to the market or work, so it’s not that much of a burden, except at night during the rainy season, when the roads can be hazardous. I made my way home late that night, in the dark, accompanied by the two girls with me from home. We paid 10 dalasis (about 40 cents) to a kid on a donkey cart to take us as far as he was going, which was about half our way home. When we dropped, we made our way to the good road on the far side of town, and walked the rest of the way in on the uneven, flooded dirt road with only the light from the face of my mobile phone to guide us. Nonetheless, we made it back to the village relatively unscathed (meaning I only fell once or twice).

That evening, sitting out with the people in my compound, we were chatting like usual and listening to the radio. Much to our surprise, we heard it announced that the next day, Sunday, would be the day of prayer. Within minutes of the radio announcement, we heard the call coming out from the mosques around the village. Tomorrow would be prayer. Also within moments of the radio announcement, the station started playing the cheerful traditional music of Jeliba Kuyateh, the nation’s top musician, which had not been heard during the entire month of fasting. During Ramadan, only Koranic readings are played on the radio, and nobody breaks this by playing on cassettes in their home. People in the village yelled and sang in excitement at the end of the month of fasting. Lamin, one of the men in my compound, explained “It’s because now, we know, is the longest time we ever have before we have to think about fasting again.”

The next morning I awoke around the same time as usual, and expected to find something going on when I woke up, but the compound and village were all going about their usual routines in their usual rhythm as if today was any other day. Only later in the morning did all the adults put on their nice prayer fabric and head out to the praying grounds outside the village, carrying their mats in hand. It doesn’t take long, and soon they come back to the compound and changed out of their nice clothes back into their daily wear, preserving their nice clothes as nicely as possible. Later in the afternoon, compounds handed out a small snack to wandering children, small balls of pounded grain and sugar. My father helped roll the mixture into balls and was in charge of handing them all out to the children, who came in small groups with plastic bags to collect them for each compound. Within half an hour, so many children had come by that we were completely cleaned out.

Nothing much else happened until late afternoon when people started getting ready for salibo (yes, myself included). Salibo is a tradition the people here consider to be inherently Islamic, though I don’t recall having ever heard of it before. It’s a tradition whereby people in the village, especially the kids and the older people in the village, go around the village from compound to compound, and ask for small money as a thank you for the prayers. In practice, this usually consists of a more “trick or treat” reminiscent walking around and just asking “nna salibo lee?” or, “where is my salibo?”

Last year I avoided this tradition as much as possible, so unfamiliar was I with the concept that you should pay people money for praying for you. This year, in contrast, I found I had a better understanding of what the tradition actually meant to the people here, and rather than avoid it, I chose to do the exact opposite. Meticulously preparing myself from head to foot, my friend Nyima and I went out to hunt for our own salibo. In only moments, I found myself asking, “nna salibo lee?”

Last week, I went in to see the president of the HIV/AIDS support group, Mustapha again. I hadn’t seen him for a while – I’d gotten caught up with other projects in other villages nearby. But I figured it was time to catch up with him, see how he and the group were doing, and to see whether they’d gotten the funding yet to actually start holding meetings again. It’d been long enough that maybe, I thought to myself, it might have come through.

When I arrived at their small office, I poked my head through the thin curtain that was serving as a sort of door, walking in past the two benches of people – mostly women – sitting and waiting outside the office. I stepped into the office and greeted the people there, including the social worker, a few doctors, a couple patients, and Mustapha. The offices are tiny, made up of two small rooms with barely enough room for a few desks, let alone several extra people. Nonetheless, people are always crowded in there, and passing through to find a path to the president to greet and chat with him proved a challenge, as always.

Mustapha shouted out a happy greeting. I’d called him a few times, but, like I said, we hadn’t gotten to see each other for a while. We caught up on the news of his family, and I briefly asked about the group. It was then that he mentioned to me that the secretary of the support group, a man by the name Samba, was there and sick. I had only met Samba a few times, but I’d heard a lot about him and went with Mustapha to see him. We walked from the small offices of the support group to the health center on the other side of the compound, passing beneath the poles and covered walkway outside the health center to shade those visiting patients, then past the guard at the door who carefully monitors those who enter and exit. He opened the door only wide enough for us to sneak through, greeting Mustapha as he passed.

I’ve never felt terribly comfortable in hospitals. I think it has something to do with the smell. But at this hospital in particular, I hated being there whenever I was there. I remember the first time I walked in, seeing if there was anything I could do to help, they brought me to this same ward and said I could help treat patients (yeah, right) and all I could look at was the large pool of blood on the floor about 2 feet in diameter that nobody seemed concerned with cleaning up. Since then, I’ve done everything I can to keep from going back into that building, or at least into the patients’ wards.

We passed about ten patient beds in the first ward and walked into the second, holding about 20 beds. Near the middle of the room, we stopped to see Samba. He was so emaciated, I could scarcely believe I was looking at a grown man. Even though we’re about the same height, I think he only weighed about 70 or 80 pounds. He heaved and wheezed as he tried to breathe. He told me that it hurt him to breathe, he couldn’t even walk anymore. He struggled even to talk or look at us.

Not being able to do anything, I wished him well, said a local prayer for healing and good health, and went on with my day.

A few days later, today, I returned. I stopped by the office to see Mustapha. He talked to me a bit about another support group member who died just yesterday. Then he started to talk to me about Samba. He started to tell me, then paused. “Why don’t you come to see?”

We followed the same path over through the hospital. They had moved his bed and stood up a number of moving barriers to try to give him some privacy. We walked behind them to find him lying there, hooked up to a machine. I don’t know anything about medicine, but it appeared to be a respirator. He also had an IV hooked up, along with a catheter. He couldn’t even look at us. He was staring ahead, and every time the respirator went, his head would twitch back a little bit. I knew that he was just barely holding on. I couldn’t stand to watch him slipping like that. I told Mustapha that I wanted to give Samba privacy and not to disturb him, and we headed back to the office.

Almost as soon as we sat down, a woman in a bright orange complet (nice Gambian outfits) came in and asked after Samba. She leaned on the desk, talking familiarly to Mustapha. I couldn’t stop staring at the bright orange shirt. Mustapha told her what we saw when we went to see Samba. I added into the Mandinka conversation before me, “A mang hani je noo.” He couldn’t even see us. Mustapha ended in English, “it’s crazy…” He trailed off. She went over to the ward to see him.

It was within a few minutes when we heard wailing. Mustapha looked away from me and to the door leading out of the office. He looked back at me. “I don’t even want to see.”

He stood up and went to the door, looking out. The woman who had just left to see Samba stood with her head against one of the poles outside the hospital, wailing and crying. It was only a matter of minutes before others who were outside, waiting for changes in his condition, to join in. I sat on one of the benches outside quietly, not knowing what to do or say. Mustapha pulled up his tall, thin frame and slowly went over to them all, sharing in their grief. He came back a few minutes later, went into the office, sat at the desk, and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. I left him alone to grieve.

I don’t know why, but the thought came into my mind that Mustapha and I might have been the last people Samba saw before he died. I don’t know why I thought of that. I didn’t think anything specific about that fact, I just kept finding it lingering in my consciousness.

I sat and listened to the wailing. Watching the women throw themselves against the wall.

As so often happens to me here, a man who considers himself entitled to hit on any white woman he sees picked the worst time possible. The nurse who had been attending Samba, whose patient had just died, sat down next to me. He asked if I knew Samba, and I told him that I did. After that, he proceeded to tell me how beautiful I was and how he wanted to “know” me. I could still hear the women wailing.

I got up without saying a word and went home, still hearing him in the background, calling after me, “what, you no want to know me?”

It’s crazy, indeed.

She leaned up against the edge of her desk as I squatted down at her feet, messing with cords, trying to fix her internet. I fiddled with wires of various sorts, hours after starting this task, still desperately trying to figure out what was wrong. I could see her bare feet move out of her sandals as she hopped up to sit on the edge of the desk, still watching me.

“Darbonding, do you know much about nursing?” For a woman typically so boisterous, Fatou was asking pretty quietly. Granted, she was the secretary to the principal of the school, who was only 10 feet away, but I could barely hear her.

“Huh? Do I know much about what?” We were just talking about computers. Did she really just say nursing?

“Nursing.”

“Like what?”

“Like pregnant.”

“Pregnancy? What about it?”

“Signs that you are pregnant.”

“Oh…Oh!” I catch on fast.

She looked at me, half smiling. She’s a slender woman, clad in a form-fitting, Ghana-praising complet, and hair woven in to fall halfway down her back. She really was beautiful, and incredibly intelligent. Unfortunately, she’s been left here in the Gambia, working here, while her husband is in North Carolina working as a nurse. She barely ever gets to see him – they haven’t even had children yet, which is very unusual here.

But he came to visit her in April. For a while.

She looked down at me hopefully. My realization had completely stopped me in my tracks, so I was crouching at her feet holding cords in my hands uselessly, staring at her, gape-mouthed. She seemed to find it rather amusing, and I have to imagine that if there had been a mirror around, I would have found myself rather amusing, too. I scooted myself up and sat in the desk chair in front of her. I’ve never been approached so openly by any Gambian woman to talk about reproductive issues before.

“Well…Why do you think you are pregnant?”

“Women tell me that sometimes they vomit when they are pregnant. I don’t vomit, but sometimes I feel like I’m going to vomit.”

“Well, that could mean something…” We kept talking for a while, ending with the very real possibility that she could be pregnant and she needs to go to the hospital to get tested. Unfortunately, the pregnancy test at the local clinic costs about a hundred dalasis – a fair chunk of change here. She’ll have to save for to get a pregnancy test. I just hope that she finally is able to go and get tested. It’s so important, especially since she would be several months pregnant now as the rainy season – malaria season – approaches. Pregnant women are among the most vulnerable to malaria. I want her to take extra precautions right away if she now has more than one life to protect.

But she is still uncertain. I can’t imagine having to go through this kind of unknowing alone. Then, if she is pregnant, she’ll have to go through that alone, as well.

That’s not an uncommon situation here. The desire – and sometimes the achievement – of most young men in this country is to make it to Europe or America and then to make enough money to send money home. Remittances are a dream held in the hearts of almost every person in this country. And the desire is easy to understand given the huge disparity in wages and purchasing power. Even a bit of extra money made in America, sent back to the Gambia, can have an enormous impact on the family compound.

That leaves many women like Fatou at home without their husbands, often for years at a time. They come to visit when they can, spend time with their wives, and build a family that can go for years without seeing their husband and father. And the women here cope with it with strength and poise that I struggle to fathom.

It’s so hard for me to grasp the willingness to leave the families behind. It’s so hard to grasp the willingness to send sons and husbands away to bring the family money – especially in those situations where the money isn’t necessary, it would be extra money. But here, it’s not so hard to grasp. It’s simply how it works. I don’t know if I could do it.

The women here are so strong. It simply amazes me. It makes me proud to know them.

Now, as I write this, I desperately race to beat the dying battery of my laptop to the completion of a blog entry. I’ve moved…again. This time it was less a choice and more a directive by my boss here. Another volunteer near where I was has been sent back to America for medical reasons, so I was called upon to take her place, which drastically changes my lifestyle…again.

I’m back with a family, in a small round hut with a thatched roof. The compound has four such huts, and mine is in the back corner. The edges of the large compound are used for gardening – cassava and corn (the latter makes me feel right at home already). It’s a basic Mandinka village, with no electricity, so I have to go in town to charge my laptop (which I do almost every day), hence the race against the battery.

I like my new house – I’ve made it my own, as many of you reading this, I’m sure, are not surprised to hear. I have my big, cushy bed with my favorite green sheets, and Pillow (yes, I have gotten so attached to it that I give it a capital P). I hung photo collages around the room. I put a mat on the ground, and have bookshelves with all my things on it. There’s enough room to keep me happy, and for me to do my yoga.

My host family is amazing. I love them all already. My mother, Joan, is an older woman, and her husband travels a lot for work – he works for the department of agriculture so now, the rainy season, is the busy season for his work. I imagine he’ll be around a lot more in dry season, as not much agricultural work gets done. My host mother is really sweet to me. She’s from one of the village next to the village I was in during training, so we knew a lot of the same people, which gave us something to talk about right off the bat.

Also in the compound is my host brother, Ebrima, a thirty-something who works in town with one of the telephone companies. I barely ever see him, but I spend most of my days with his wife and kids. She, Nyama, already has two boys, about 5 (Kebba) and 2 (Abdoulie), a girl (Nyiminding, about 11), and is pregnant with their third now. We also have an 18-year-old girl, Nyima, who’s part of the extended family staying with us for a while. And the girls from my host sister’s compound just a ways away always come by. My sister is Bintou, and her children Saku (about 14) and Kumba (about 11).

In my return to three times daily meals of rice, I’ve also decided I more seriously need to work out, making sure I stay as fit as possible. Therefore, I’ve already sensitized my family and the village for the fact that I like running and training. Now, if I don’t, they ask me why I’m not, then I feel guilty for not. It helps keep me motivated and going. But my biggest motivation comes from Saku, Nyiminding and Kumba, the three small girls. They LOVE running with me. They can’t get enough of it. On the days I’m feeling lazy by evening time, they wait around and ask repeatedly if it’s time to run yet. They’d be upset if I ever failed to run without giving a really good reason.

Every day, just before 5, the girls come to the compound and wait around. The water at the tap, about 200 yards away, comes shortly after 5. They all come running as soon as I come out of my house with the bucket. They snag it from me and go skipping down the road to the tap, and I follow, usually carrying two-year-old Abdoulie with me, because he has to be involved with everything. The girls won’t let me carry the water myself, because they say that I’m not able to do it. They carry it for me, all the way back and into my backyard. Then they leave me to change, and they wait anxiously outside my door for me to emerge in my running clothes. They jump with glee whenever I come out, and do their best to keep up with me no matter how far I have to go. They frequently ask for walking breaks or to slow down, but they never give up. If I want to get serious running done at all, I might have to start taking a few runs each week myself.

Most of the rest of the day is spent with the children and the women in the compound playing their variation of “Crazy 8’s”. Hours upon hours are spent playing, sometimes with the adults just nearby, watching, and sometimes with the adults pushing the kids aside so that they, too, can play. It took me a few hours to remember how to play and then to catch onto their unique rules for the game, but now I’ve officially learned how to do it, and the requests to play with them are endless.

All in all, the new place is alright. It’s not far from the town I was working before, so I can still easily walk in to keep doing the work I have been doing. Soon I hope to start doing some work in this small village, too, working with the Village Development Committee (VDC) and the women’s group, but as always, it’s coming slowly slowly.

Until then, onward, as ever.

It’s time to try again. My mission is to get back to my site across the country, a journey that should have taken about 8 to 10 hours. Now, not counting the time lost staying the night on the way, I had been traveling 12 hours and was only halfway.

Onward.

We woke up that morning, and my friend fortified me with coffee for the day (oh, how she knows me) and sent me out to the road. She’s 4 km from the ferry crossing, so I stood there for a bit trying to get a car to pick me up and take me. Every car passed me, full. I started down the road on foot, hoping a car would soon pass me that would pick me up. I arrived at the ferry by foot, sweaty and already getting tired.

I crossed on the first small ferry without incident. Now there is a one or two kilometer walk across this middle-of-the-river island to the second ferry to make it all the way to the second bank. I’m already feeling tired, but I’m caffeinated and eager enough to get home that I’m still feeling pretty good.

As I board the second ferry, I notice the Mandinka woman next to me kept running on and off the ferry, grabbing her many items one at a time because she could not carry them all. A few minutes later, as we were disembarking, I greeted her, made a few jokes in Mandinka, and started to offer to help. She seemed grateful, and we walked together over to where we were to wait for a car. We chatted and joked, and it made the passing of the time a little easier.

Soon a vehicle came. We piled in. Usually the vehicle stops in a town about 20 km away and we change to another car to get the rest of the way. This car, however, told me that we were going to our final destination. “Score!” I thought to myself, and crawled in the front seat. My Mandinka woman got a seat in the back. I settled in, thinking I finally found a car for the rest of the way home.

Ah, hope springs eternal. And it fades so quickly.

We arrived in the first city and the car stopped. Everybody started unloading the vehicle, and I hopped out. I had paid the apprentice for the final destination, so I went up to him now and asked him for my change, since we had stopped so early. Everyone was already loading into another car, and I was in a hurry, worried about losing my seat. The first apprentice said he would give my change to the second apprentice, so I’d be paid for the rest of the way to my final destination.

I wondered why they had changed their mind about where they were going to, but I figured it was another one of those mysterious Gambian reasons that even once I heard it, I probably wouldn’t understand. Such things have been known to happen, so I didn’t really think much of it.

Once I crawled in one of the middle seats of the car to my final destination, and my Mandinka woman had made it into the seat in front of me. Of all the geles I’d ever been in, I’d never been in a car with the seats so close together as this one. I could barely fit my backpack on my lap, then I was holding even more stuff for my Mandinka woman. The seat I was on didn’t have padding on the back, which means a metal bar was pressed hard against the middle of my back, and the bars I was sitting in were pushing into my legs. I would later find that I’d gotten bruises from both of these. I also couldn’t help but think about the impact moment if we were ever to crash…We have to keep trying not to think about these things.

Soon it was time to collect fair. The apprentice asked for mine, and I tried to remind him that the last apprentice had passed him the money. He had no idea what I was talking about. I asked my Mandinka woman to help me out. We talked to the driver, the apprentice, and a bunch of other people in the car. The first apprentice had ripped me off – that’s all there was to it. Everybody in the car was furious on my behalf. The Mandinka woman told everybody in the car about what a nice girl I am, having helped her with her bags, and how unfair it was for that boy to have treated me badly. She guilted the driver and the apprentice into giving me the fair for half the regular price. Karma kicked in.

Eventually we made it back to my city. I was a little worse for wear – bruised, tired, and having lost some money. But I was finally back.

And so the journey ended…until next time…

It’s time to try again. My mission is to get back to my site across the country, a journey that should have taken about 8 to 10 hours. Now, not counting the time lost staying the night on the way, I had been traveling 12 hours and was only halfway.

Onward.

We woke up that morning, and my friend fortified me with coffee for the day (oh, how she knows me) and sent me out to the road. She’s 4 km from the ferry crossing, so I stood there for a bit trying to get a car to pick me up and take me. Every car passed me, full. I started down the road on foot, hoping a car would soon pass me that would pick me up. I arrived at the ferry by foot, sweaty and already getting tired.

I crossed on the first small ferry without incident. Now there is a one or two kilometer walk across this middle-of-the-river island to the second ferry to make it all the way to the second bank. I’m already feeling tired, but I’m caffeinated and eager enough to get home that I’m still feeling pretty good.

As I board the second ferry, I notice the Mandinka woman next to me kept running on and off the ferry, grabbing her many items one at a time because she could not carry them all. A few minutes later, as we were disembarking, I greeted her, made a few jokes in Mandinka, and started to offer to help. She seemed grateful, and we walked together over to where we were to wait for a car. We chatted and joked, and it made the passing of the time a little easier.

Soon a vehicle came. We piled in. Usually the vehicle stops in a town about 20 km away and we change to another car to get the rest of the way. This car, however, told me that we were going to our final destination. “Score!” I thought to myself, and crawled in the front seat. My Mandinka woman got a seat in the back. I settled in, thinking I finally found a car for the rest of the way home.

Ah, hope springs eternal. And it fades so quickly.

We arrived in the first city and the car stopped. Everybody started unloading the vehicle, and I hopped out. I had paid the apprentice for the final destination, so I went up to him now and asked him for my change, since we had stopped so early. Everyone was already loading into another car, and I was in a hurry, worried about losing my seat. The first apprentice said he would give my change to the second apprentice, so I’d be paid for the rest of the way to my final destination.

I wondered why they had changed their mind about where they were going to, but I figured it was another one of those mysterious Gambian reasons that even once I heard it, I probably wouldn’t understand. Such things have been known to happen, so I didn’t really think much of it.

Once I crawled in one of the middle seats of the car to my final destination, and my Mandinka woman had made it into the seat in front of me. Of all the geles I’d ever been in, I’d never been in a car with the seats so close together as this one. I could barely fit my backpack on my lap, then I was holding even more stuff for my Mandinka woman. The seat I was on didn’t have padding on the back, which means a metal bar was pressed hard against the middle of my back, and the bars I was sitting in were pushing into my legs. I would later find that I’d gotten bruises from both of these. I also couldn’t help but think about the impact moment if we were ever to crash…We have to keep trying not to think about these things.

Soon it was time to collect fair. The apprentice asked for mine, and I tried to remind him that the last apprentice had passed him the money. He had no idea what I was talking about. I asked my Mandinka woman to help me out. We talked to the driver, the apprentice, and a bunch of other people in the car. The first apprentice had ripped me off – that’s all there was to it. Everybody in the car was furious on my behalf. The Mandinka woman told everybody in the car about what a nice girl I am, having helped her with her bags, and how unfair it was for that boy to have treated me badly. She guilted the driver and the apprentice into giving me the fair for half the regular price. Karma kicked in.

Eventually we made it back to my city. I was a little worse for wear – bruised, tired, and having lost some money. But I was finally back.

And so the journey ended…until next time…

He crawled back up in the seat next to me. Even though I had dozed off, leaning forward on my backpack, I smelled his sweat as he came back in the front seat of the gele gele. He looked at the floor, by where we both put our feet, where he had stored all the many things he was dragging with him across the country.

He’d taken his polo shirt off, revealing his rasta necklace and the mesh red, green and yellow wife beater – the de facto bumster uniform. It’s not always a certainty, but its usually a good indication for suspicion and caution.

He pulled out a five gallon mayonnaise tub with some holes packed in the side. He lifted the lid slightly as I turned my head and opened my eyes to look over. Then he started shaking the tub around. *thud thud thud*

“I think my chickens are dead,” he said, looking at me for reaction. He shook some more. Thudding continued.

I closed my eyes for a moment and wondered: how did I get to be in this terrifying car in the middle of the country next to a sweater bumster-wannabe asking for my commentary on his dead chickens in a mayo bucket?

Making the journey from one end of the Gambia to the other is a feat that can usually be accomplished in one day – often in even only eight or nine hours. Usually, there are no major problems, and if there are problems at all, it only adds a few hours to the travel time.

Leaving the transit house in the capitol region by 7 am, getting a few sets of cars to make it to the terminal by 8 and catch the second ferry of the day to make it to the north bank of the river that divides the country, it should be a good start to the day. Unfortunately, for me on this particular day, it was not to be.

I made it to the ferry just in time to walk on the ferry without waiting – it gave me a foolish hope for a good travel day. I relaxed and rested my tired eyes as the ferry filled with cars and people and then slowly made its way across the mouth of the River Gambia. I occasionally opened my eyes to look at the passing waters, and the small boats of the fisherman in long canoes as they began their morning of work. The sweat was already coming, even in the relative cool of the morning air. You could see it reflecting off their bare backs in the morning sun.

I closed my eyes again and I suddenly found myself reaching the other shore. It was like a dream. I rushed with the rest of the massive sea of humanity as everyone hurried to the front of the ferry, everyone wanting to be among the first to disembark. Women gathered in their brightly colored completes with wrapped cloth bundles or fully packed laundry tubs on their head. Men carried impossibly huge duffle bags or bags of peanuts on their heads. I always watch for my own head at this point in the journey (not to mention watching for my bag. This is the part of the journey where the most people lose the things in their bags or pockets to roaming fingers).

I squished and squeezed my way through the crowd to the front, hurrying off the ferry and to the car park. You have to be fast to make sure you get in one of the cars that filled up first. If not, you’ll spend a long time waiting for another car to fill,

“Wait a second,” I thought to myself. “Where’d the car park go?”

After some wandering, I discovered that the car park was under construction, so no cars where there. After, I asked a man nearby where the car park was, and he pointed me in a new direction. I started off, still desperate to get there before all the cars filled up.

Two boys – probably about 20 or 25 years old, with the maturity of a couple 13-year-olds, stood there. “Hey, where are you going nice lady?” To my lack of response “hey, my baby, where you trying to go?” Soon they were standing in front of me and all but unavoidable. I stopped, giving them the best “leave me alone” glare I could muster.

“Where are you going? There’s nothing down that road.”

“Yes there is, I’m going to the car park. Will you please just leave me alone.”

“No, the car park’s not there. Some person must have lied to you. Nothing is down that road.”

“…ok, so where is it?”

“Back where you came from, over there.”

Ok, fine. So I started back where I came from, and though it took a while, I’ll just come to the point here and say that the car park WAS down the road I had been going on and the man I first asked for directions WASN’T lying to me. And I lost another 20 minutes wandering while cars filled up and left.

When traveling across the country, there are two main car choices: the gele and the sept-plas. The gele is the cheaper, less pleasant way to go, often with seats with no padding, people overly full so you’re half sitting on the angry Mandinka woman next to you, and often breaking down on the side of the road. It’s just generally slower and more uncomfortable. The sept-plas is a seven seat station wagon; it’s comfortable and faster, but more expensive.

Feeling particularly frugal, and seeing that I could get the front seat in a gele – the most comfortable seat – I decided to opt for that. Much to my chagrin, it took a considerable amount of time for the car to fill up and get going. My friend who left the transit house hours after me, heading back to her own site, was texting me and had almost caught up by the time my car was pulling out of the car park. Now, with my bumster-wannabe companion by my side in the front seat and his pile of belongings at our feet, we were on our way.

But things are never easy, right?

About 30 kilometers down the road we sat in a market area for half an hour, waiting for the driver to stop and do some kind of business transaction. Another 50 later, he did the same thing again, but this time for more than an hour. And shortly after that major town, about 10 kilometers down the road, smoke began rising from the engine, and it began to emit a rather strange noise. I don’t know much about cars, but it seemed like this one needed some help, so we stopped on the side of the road to have it fixed.

We sat there for hours. I sat in the car waiting, because the children in the village would not stop with the “tuobab” cries. Everyone else had evacuated the intense heat of the immobile car and were lounging and fanning themselves under a nearby mango tree. After a couple hours, the boy came over and pulled out the mayo tub from under the dashboard. He opened the lid. He looked at me and said “they are my chickens.”

Not knowing what kind of response he was looking for, I nodded and said “ok.”

“I think they’re hot.”

I peered over the edge of the lid. The poor little guys were almost gone. “Yes, it is too hot there,” I told him. “You should hold the bucket on your lap, where they can get air. If you return them to where you had them, they will die, I think.”

He looked at me dubiously. Pause. “I think ‘s ok.”

Ok, fine.

Car fixed, and we’re back on the road for about an hour. By this time, I will have usually arrived at my destination. Now, I’m not even halfway there. My friend has more than passed me and arrived at her site not far down the road. I’m starting to doubt my chances of getting home at all today. It’s not safe to travel after dark, and I had at least 6 or 7 hours travel ahead of me and was going to have to find a place to stay on the way. I text her and tell her I’m staying the night at her house and trying the rest of the journey in the morning.

The boy next to me pulls out the bucket of baby chicks. *thud thud thud*

“I think my chickens are dead.”

“Yes. They’re dead.” I said that a little coldly. I felt bad once I saw the disappointment on his face. It’s hard not to say “I told you so” on this one. I thought about that while I tried to get back to dozing on the backpack on my lap.

“Maybe,” he began nudging me. “Maybe they’re just sleeping.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I mean, its 4:30. So maybe they’re just sleeping.”

“What does the time have to do with it? Why does 3:30 mean that they would be sleeping?”

“Because it’s 4:30 and I think they’re just sleeping.”

“…ok.” What the hell does that mean? That doesn’t even make any sense!

Soon we arrived at the village where I was calling it quits for the day. Not only had my friend arrived – the same one who had left hours after me – but she had time to greet her people, open her house, sweep, and do two rounds fetching water at the pump. We hung out and I got some sleep, ready to try again tomorrow.

Alright, all, I have a new project starting that I want to write to you about quickly - and I need help from friends, family, and friends and family of my friends and family.

I'm trying to get funding for bednets for people in the community I'm working in. There's a lot of evidence out there about the number of lives saved by providing bednets - 1 life saved for every 20 bednets hung. I'm working on sensitizing people in the community about the dangers of malaria and all the ways it can be prevented, but insecticide treated bednets are by far still on of the most effective ways to save lives.

Any money donated goes directly to buying nets - no overhead costs come out of your money.

If you can't donate - please pass the web site on the others :)

I'll write more about the project later, but for now, check out my web site!

http://www.againstmalaria.com/tarasteinmetz

Camel burger... Confusing, to say the least.

At the Volubulis, Roman ruins, outside of Meknes. We strut our stuff.

Ok, I don't so much strut as idly stand there...

Chefchauen - our favorite spot of the whole trip! This is the view from the top of our hotel.

We hiked to there. I fell back down...onto a cactus. *whimper*

All Berber-ized. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Don't we look like proper ladies here?

Good girls in the mosque. See? We behave ourselves...sometimes.

The group at Cascades d'Ouzzoud.

Morocco is cold. Borrowed socks from Moroccon PCVs help us out.

We're just so damned cute, we have to show it off from time to time.

A little drink before the flight :) Turned out not to be the best idea we ever had.

The beautiful cascades - one of the top don't-miss sites of the country. Pretty.

Silly girls. This was the first time I ever half-expected to get kicked out of a park!

Little Fatou, who was afraid of us at first, but likes us much better now.

Bintou with baby Ebou, across the compound.

Lamin, one of our main counterparts in the village.

Bintou, cracking up as always...

Sona, one of our favorite people.

Musukuta, one of my new friends in my adoptive village.

Sunkuntanding, literally "small girl", drinking some attaya.

Me and Bintou (and her oldest kid, Isa), after braiding my hair.

Me and my partner in crime in our adoptive village.

Sorri, Bintou's kid, crying as usual

I’m going to give you a little idea of what my life here is like, sharing with you one particular day which is pretty typical for me here.

This is one of the days that I go out to spend time in my adoptive village.

I woke up around 7:30 am as the light was really filling the landscape. I slept too late to get a good run in today. I usually wake up at 6:30 for that, and if I go now, I probably won’t finish my run before it gets too hot.

So I pull myself out of bed, pet the cat and wake her up, and go about my morning hygiene routine. Meanwhile, I put water on to boil to make my coffee. I normally wear traditional Gambian clothes when I go out to the village – a wrap skirt and top – but last time I went to the village Bintou told me to wear pants next time I come. That’s because last time, as I tried to get on my bike to leave, I almost fell off my bike while trying to arrange my wrap skirt so that I could bicycle without flashing anybody. SO I put on pants today.

My coffee is ready and I take some time to read a book and write in my journal while I sip from the twenty cent plastic cup I bought at the market. Max jumps up on my lap and curls up back to sleep while I read, write and sip.

Around 9, after my coffee is finished and I’m ready to go, I check the tires of my bike, fill the basket with my camera, bag and a bottle of water, and hit the road. I turn on my music on my headphones and try to enjoy the ride.

It’s not all that easy to enjoy the ride, unfortunately. To get past the village, I have to pass by the main urban part of town – the busy market place. I try to navigate my way through the bicycles, pedestrians, donkey carts, motorcycles, cars and semis. Usually I do pretty well, but often people, vehicles and livestock decide stop and stand at very inconvenient – and often dangerous – times and places.

I move past the hissing men (that’s how they try to call you over) and the “tuobab!”-ing children and find my way past the road to the other side of town, starting to work my way out toward the outer villages – the suburbs, one might say (though I think that may give the wrong impression). Once I’ve found my way past the police checkpoint, and past the first village after (where the young men amass with nothing to do but yell “nice baby” at me), I find myself in the open area. I ride the main road, which is paved and fairly even, and enjoy the bush and the animals around me. I enjoy the animals around me less as a herd of fifty or so cattle crossing the road disrupt my flow, eventually opening a small hole in their line to let me through.

I ride down the final hill, taking me easily into my adoptive village. I glide in, answering now to calls of “Darbonding!” from the children on the roadside instead of the ubiquitous “tuobab!” I pull into the alkalo’s compound, calling “Salaamalekuum!” to everyone in the compound. The young women see me and call “Darbonding naata,” chanting and clapping in their little song of greeting. “Darbonding came!”

“Al saama!” Good morning, everyone!

“I saama!” Good morning.

I continue with each person individually, turning from one to another, giving the line of greetings to each. “How are you? How is the morning? Hope there is no trouble? Hope is there is no trouble? Where is your husband? Where are your children? Hope there is no trouble. My people are there. No there is no trouble. The morning is here. Peace only.”

I ride my bike over to the shade of the mango tree, near the bantaba, and stand it against the tree. Only now, in the shade as I take off my helmet, do I realize how hot the sun has already become. In the shade, I see the dull, bright sunlight hitting the rest of the compound outside this oasis of shade.

Saajo, one of the women, is sitting on a small wooden bench no larger than a shoebox with little baby Fatou. Fatou is still learning how to walk, hobbling around the compound slowly, waddling and frequently falling backward on her bum. When she falls, she always looks at you with this expression on her face that says “what, I meant to do that. You want to start something?”

Bintou is there with little baby Ebou, now about three months old. Her two year old stands beside her on the bantaba, sniffling as always, with the same disgruntled look on his face. “Wow,” I think to myself. “He’s got quite the snot collection going on there.” I make myself look away and get a seat next to the other volunteer, who beat me there this morning. We’re working there together, and she’s been there a few minutes and has already gotten through all those greetings and settled into her seat. I’m soon beside her and relaxing, too.

This morning we’re supposed to have a meeting with various village leaders to try to form some committees to work on some of the different projects going on in the village. This is our third attempt to have this meeting. Meetings have a habit of getting delayed or canceled here, over and over, for rather indiscernible reasons. Today, though, the compound quickly filled with the people we needed.

The lady president of the women’s group shows up, wearing a rather dazzling outfit of royal blue, green, a variety of other colors and sequins. Her vice president, in a huge, loose, pink shirt that reaches her ankles comes and sits beside her. The leader of the conflict mediation group, the secretary of the group, leaders and members from the village development committee come in and sit around the compound. Soon, everyone we needed was there, mixed in with all the women from the compound going about their daily work: pounding, sorting rocks from rice, pulling the leaves from stems for the stew sauce, watching the babies.

Even though the other PCV and I are both trained in and practicing our Mandinka, for meetings like this we’re thankful for Lamin, who serves as our translator. Some of the committees, they decided, can’t be formed without calling a meeting of the whole village. “Shouldn’t they have said that before the meeting, given that everyone knew what this meeting was about?” I ask the other PCV as I sip a small cup of attaya (the traditionally brewed super-sugared green tea). She shrugs. One would think so.

We do, however, get one of the committees named. We count that as a success for the day and try to move beyond our frustration. After, I turn to the president and the vice president of the women’s group. I want to talk to them a little bit about the group, trying to find out what needs to be done to improve the group. First I need to find out if it is even registered, which is required to receive support from the government and NGOs. I’ve asked this question about a dozen times, to various people, and always received the same answer. They always say no. But I decide to try again.

“Does anybody have any papers the kafoo has ever received from the government?”

“Yes.” The president of the group nods.

I sigh. “May I see them?” Lamin translates and the president nods again, getting up to go to her house and bring them for me to look at.

I look at the other PCV. “How many times have I asked that before?” She laughed and shrugged. This happens to both of us all the time. We ask the same question hundreds of times before we get an accurate answer. We’ve never really figured out why that happens so often, but it does, so we just learn to ask a lot.

She brings the papers and leaves them with us while she goes to the garden. Lamin leaves to go take care of some other business, and the two of us spend the time up to lunch and a little while after lunch reading the papers and trying to figure things out. Lunch pulled us away to join Bintou and her kids for rice with peanut sauce. It’s delicious. While we laid on our backs under the bantaba, reading and discussing (and laughing at the absurdity of some of the papers), Bintou joins her two kids sleeping on the mat.

We read the statistics listed in some of the reports about the Gambia we found among the papers the president gave to us:

According the United Nations Human Development Index of 2005, the paper said, the Gambia was ranked 155 of 177 countries. The average per capita annual income in the Gambia is $350. The World Bank recorded the average for Sub-Saharan Africa as $450. Sixty percent of the population is under 25 years old. Agriculture is credited with only 24% of the GDP, even though it is responsible for 75% of the labor force. The report described the future work situation as “bleak”.

After a while, continuing to read the data, we started to laugh hysterically. Sometimes, when we’re here reading data like that, we start to feel like the situation is hopeless. We start to feel like, when there are so many huge problems here, what could we hope to do? We start to feel like there’s nothing that we can do to help anything here. We start to feel like we’re taking two years of our lives that could be spent doing so many other things to do what seems like so little here. And to deal with all that, we laugh.

The other volunteer looks at me. “What are we doing here?” She’s still laughing.

“I don’t know,” I say. “What the hell are we doing here. Why are we here?”

We laugh another few seconds, then look over at Bintou. She’s asleep, curled with her two-year-old in front of her, and the three-month-old in front of him. They all looked so peaceful and beautiful, sleeping there.

“Oh yeah,” the other volunteer said, looking at them. “That’s why.”

I couldn’t stop the smile that came to my face. I didn’t want to forget that moment. I took my camera and snapped a photo.

The other people in the compound started laughing so hard that I took a picture of them sleeping that Bintou woke up. She yelled at me, and then I taught her how to take a picture. Then I pretended to be sleeping so she could take a picture of me sleeping and we’d be even. We spent the rest of the afternoon teaching her how to take pictures and laughing at the results. It was nice.

It was a good afternoons. We left to our respective homes at about four o’clock. I made the trek back through the town and to my village, passing by the large mosque on the road as the calls to 5 o’clock prayer rang through the village. I stopped by the small petrol station shop and picked up a soda, went back to my house and relaxed with my cool drink.

I read my book for a while as the evening cooled. Tonight was a night where the current didn’t come, so I lit a few candles and read by the candlelight. I took a break partway through the evening to make myself some pasta and watched a bit of a movie on my portable DVD player while I ate. At about 10:20 p.m., I crawled into bed and went to sleep. The cool night air blew in my window, one improvement in my life since I moved my bed right beside my window.

I drift off to sleep.

The library at the orphanage I’m working at is starting to be a library.

When I first arrived at the school there, the library was a lovely, well furnished room with a handful of books and the door kept locked. The books that were there were just in piles, not organized or accessible at all. The few times students were allowed in, they were, under no circumstances, allowed to take a book from the library.

I thought to myself, “if the library’s not a resource available to the students, is it really a resource at all?”

I don’t have a formal background in education or childhood development, but I couldn’t deny my instincts or feelings about the school. This school is probably one of the best schools in the country; it may be the best. The students are more advanced because of the quality education they receive. The first time I met the children, I was blown away by how much more advanced their English (and even their manners) are. The teachers receive extra special training and are subject to constant evaluations.

For the students who are part of the orphanage, all of their mothers speak English. For the students who come from the community, most of them come from compounds where one or more member of their compound is well-educated and speaks English. They have support at home.

This school is an opportunity.

This library is an opportunity.

These kids – each and every one of them – are all opportunities.

But they still need help.

The school still needs new books. Many people have asked if they can help with this, and my answer is “of course!” There are grades 1 through 4, but when looking at books, its important to keep in mind that all of these kids are learning English as a second – or third or fourth – language, so they are a little behind what we would associate grade levels with typically in America. These kids see the books and get so excited. It’s hard to describe. Books are rare in this country. Some folks from home (thanks to Mama and Molly) have sent me books, which I was logging into the new library system I helped create, and the kids flooded the library during their recess time to help. They all wanted to help with the books. They all wanted to touch the books. Their excitement and enthusiasm was stunning (and overwhelming when you got enough of them in the room). But there still aren’t enough books for them.

Anything else that can make this place a learning center for the children is great. Donors have already given them a television and DVD player, but they lack educational DVDs. The walls are clean and bright white – no maps, posters, colors. The principal offered me a computer to put in the room, but there aren’t any educational programs meant just for children, particularly the kind of materials that would be appropriate for West African children who have never seen or touched a computer before.

Notebooks, arts and crafts materials, maps…these children have minds like fertile soil – they just need access to seeds.

If you want to help with any seeds, you can send them to my regular mailing address and I’ll make sure they get where they need to go.

Thanks so much!

I smiled smugly as I held the papers in my hand. I felt like yelling a good old “Aha!” I probably would have gesticulated wildly if not for the half-eaten orange in my other hand. Also, I think it would have been a less dignified and poignant revelation, as perceived by my audience, given that I was the foolish tuobab about to fall off the crooked wooden bench with orange pulp still smeared all over her face.

I’ve had better moments, I’ve had worse.

But the evidence was in my hand. I had a pile of stapled papers in my hand, given to me by the woman next to me on the crooked wooden bench (I probably would have taken her down with me if I had fallen in my moment of vindication). She was the president of the woman’s group in the village I hang in (from now on, let’s give it a fake name like Nna Kunda – which means “my village”). The president of the woman’s group (traditionally called a kafoo) had just gotten back from the capital, where there was a meeting of leaders of women’s groups and associations. She came with some papers of new research and legitimization for government spending on women’s empowerment.

One of the papers held the evidence right there, right in front of me: Gambia’s population consists of 51% women.

Aha! Vindication.

For a year now, I have been fighting a losing battle to make sense of an issue that people ask me about a lot – both here and from home: polygamy. Yes, the Gambia is an Islamic country, and as such it is legally allowed for men to take up to four wives, as is the tradition in Islam as set down by the prophet. This holds true here. Obviously, coming from a Western perspective, this is hard for me to come to terms with. I’m used to all the traditional ideas and understandings of marriage and true love in terms of one to one – a single man to a single woman. Those preconceptions can be difficult to reconcile living in a strongly polygamous society.

That’s not my problem here, though. It is their religion and their right. It’s not my place to apply my values and ethical morals from the West on their religion and their life here. The problem that I have always had in my discussions with people here about polygamy is that their explanation and legitimization for it has been that the world is 80% women. That’s why polygamy exists, they say. When I push the point, they say that if the rest of the world is different, the Gambia is 80% women. To take one wife would leave the others alone and without support – that would be cruel, they say.

My problem is not that they practice polygamy. My problem is that they try to legitimize it with this myth. I hear it time and time again, and even when I argue until my mouth is dry and my throat raw, they won’t hear my evidence to the contrary. People should understand why they do what they do. They shouldn’t just legitimize what they do with lies. They should know.

The man across from me, Lamin, was one of the men I’ve had this argument with. In fact, I had this discussion with him the last time I’d been in Nna Kunda, and he laughed at my frustration and could not imagine a world where men and women are nearly equal. It must be 80%, he held. At least 75%.

Now he looked up when he saw my excitement, reading the papers in that hot afternoon sun. I read him the statistic, and looked eagerly for his reaction.

He laughed a little bit, then looked at the ground with a smile. He looked back up. “Statistics are usually wrong.”

I looked down at the papers again, then back up at him, then just threw up my hands in frustration, dripping juice from my orange on my wrap skirt. He laughed again as I pouted and wiped it off.

Kids today…sigh.

That’s a sentiment I hear a lot about around here these days. That’s not the way it’s said around here, but the idea is expressed again and again that the society is changing, especially with the young people. Now, in my own understanding of America’s history, it has always seemed to me to be a given that the old will see the new as young, disrespectful and disobedient. Apparently some things never change, no matter where you go in the world.

The other day I was sitting with a friend of mine on the porch of his workplace, chatting and drinking attaya (the local, strong brewed, sugar-packed green tea). He’s an older man, well-spoken and well-educated. He works at the lab for a local health-related government agency, and we were sitting in two moderately broken wooden chairs on the raised stoop of his lab and office, spending the afternoon discussing matters of significance and insignificance alike. I looked over at one point, and saw his eyes, hidden beneath the long hairs of his bushy white eyebrows, narrowing to some boys on the other side of the fence that set the lab compound off the highway in front.

Along the highway there were three boys in indigo blue cloaks made from the simple poplin fabric commonly sold here. They were on a mat on the ground, bowed toward the road. Sitting beside them was an older boy in a chair, holding a cup out to passers-by. I asked what this was, and the Kiangko (an identification I use for this man based on the region he is from, which I use as a nickname for him) told me that these were boys from circumcision asking for donations. He told me that they had been there at various points of the roadside for several days, and would probably continue for some days to come. They would stay there each day, he told me, long enough to raise enough money in the small cup for attaya or some sweets.

Accordingly, it was only a few minutes until they got up, rolled up their mat and wandered across the highway and into the village, led by the eldest boy. They were off to brew their tea until tomorrow. I asked about the tradition, and the Kiangko explained to me that this wasn’t always the tradition. I had read about it before, but he explained to me that when he was a child, the circumcision was always followed by months of training in the bush, where the boys were held in exclusion from all except the older boys and men that would teach them.

“What would you be taught, if I may ask?”

“How to be a good husband, a good father. How to be a good citizen of the village.”

“And now?”

“And now it only lasts a few days. The boys are only held a few days, and then they have to go back to school. Back in our day, there was no school for most of us. This tradition was our school.”

“But isn’t it a good thing that all these boys are at school?”

“Yes…” He paused and took a breath. “It is a good thing, of course. But we sacrifice many things for this good thing. They receive this public education at the expense of our traditional education. They are not taught properly how to be good men.”

“So how do you see the effects?”

“You see these young men on the streets. They loiter around, not doing work and not caring to do work. They refuse to do the work of their fathers because they think that they are above it. Part if it is that the Western ideas of how young men should be, presented in these rap videos and the like, has replaced how we teach them young men should be. But it is also that our society is changing, and they look for work outside the provincial work of their fathers – outside farming – and there is not enough of this other work for all of them. So they sit on the streets and brew attaya. Sometimes worse.”

The Kiangko is far from the only one that has expressed that idea to me. It’s a hot issue that I’ve heard about ever since my time in training village. Times are changing in the Gambia. Where once children would be born in a village, grow and die there, now young children – especially young boys – are desperate only to leave as soon as they can. While for most of them they end up going to the capital area, many of them try to steal – legally or otherwise – to Europe or America. You can read about the latter in the occasional news stories of over-packed boats stealing young men away in dangerous conditions to Spain or elsewhere, sometimes with tragic results as the boats are damaged and sink.

After spending some more time brainstorming and discussing with the Kiangko and others, I’ve heard nothing but exasperation and disappointment. I’ve heard no ideas on how to curb this trend. As far as they are concerned, there is no hope for trying to solve the problem until more jobs are made available for these young men with basic education. That seems unlikely to be resolved in any near timeframe.

The Kiangko and I reach a gap in the conversation, each staring at the road and listening to our own thoughts. Suddenly, from around the corner, a young man comes from around the corner with a small plate bearing two freshly brewed small cups of attaya. He climbs up the stares, looking bored all the while, and extends the plate to me with the usual youthful disaffection:

“Tuobab, you care attaya?”

Lately I've been having some problems thinking about the work I'm doing here in a serious and positive way. I look at the work other people have been doing, and I feel like my work doesn't hold up. So the other day, while having coffee with one of my best friends here, I confided in him my feelings.

"Well, what are you doing at site?"

I told him about bits and pieces of it, and he stopped and looked at me, laughing a little.

"What's so funny?"

"You're helping orphaned African children with learning disabilities learn how to read. That's so ridiculous it sounds like a line I'd make up at a bar to pick up chicks."

He always knows what to say to make me laugh and feel better.

WAIST. The West African Intramural (International? Who knows) Softball Tournament. Dakar 2009.

Done and done.

Now, there were a lot of us folks coming in from Peace Corps the Gambia, so we made three teams of it. In there were the top team, our A team, the competative team. These are the folks that are actually playing softball and wanted to do well, hoping to take home some honors to the Gambia. Second, there was the B team. They were the ones who could play fairly well and even though they weren't the top players in the country, they can compete and hold their own. They actually came close to making the final stages of the tournament.

Not surprisingly, perhaps, I fell on neither of these two teams. I fell on the third and final team: The C team.

That's what we call the other team. Several had never played softball before. Most hated softball and showed up for other reasons. It was not unusual to see our team (or those of our competitors - except the high school team) with mits in one hand and a Gazelle (the local beer) in the other. Our captain, in fact, unfortunately dropped a beer in his attempt to catch a pop fly. We called a foul on our own captain for the loss. Nobody remembers if he caught the ball or not... In fact, we tied for worst team in the league. We took the position so seriously, and the title with so much pride, that we considered having a grudge match to see who was really the worst...but then we got bored and tired and forgot about it.

I'd like to think that I fell at the high end of the team. I had to be one of the top three players. Or something. I believe I even hit the ball a few times, caught the ball a few times, and scored a few runs. Now, there's a photograph of me falling across homeplate (I would like to say beer was involved in that, but really it was before I was drinking), and I would like to take this forum to point out that that fall across home plate got the team a run.

In all honestly, I have to say the softball was my favorite part of the trip to Dakar. For a lot of people, the night life was a lot of fun. Every night there were parties and gatherings, but they (not surprisingly) weren't my scene. As most of you know, the whole "frat party" time of my life was very intentionally skipped over. I didn't want to do it then, and that was never really a decision I regretted. But it turns out I'm a natural for the weekend pork sandwich, beer and softball scene with friends. A natural. We had tons of fun doing cheers and fully indulging in our theme...Bumsters.

Now, I've vaguely described bumsters before (the young men who flock to the beach in hopes of getting tourists to pay for them, sponsor them, or otherwise give them money, luring them with skimpy outfits, pushups, and terrible pickup lines), but I'm not sure that I ever mentioned their trademark gear: rasta colored mesh shirt, fake crappy jewelry (or "bling"), etc. We all donned the gear and picked up their key phrases:

"Hey, nice lady!"

"It's nice to be nice!"

"Hey, Africa is not easy, you know!"

"Baby, I like your style."

"Hey, I like your movements." (That one is our personal favorite.)

"Boss Lady!"

The last of these gave birth to our team name, the Boss Ladies. On the sidelines we would yell bumster lines to our teammates and opponents alike. We would also do bumster-cizes (bumsters' favorite exercises) on the side of the field in support, in mocking, in distraction, or for pretty much any reason or no reason at all. We were, in fact, so enthusiastic and dedicated to our bumster-cise routine that it only occurred to us the second day, as we all woke up with aching legs from over indulgence in the squats. Lesson learned - and it took a few days to get back up to full strength.

Another fallback of our theme was the slightly varied climate of Dakar. Turns out that even when my village is so hot I can barely sleep, Dakar is freezing. Every morning my shorts and mesh bumster shirt proved severely lacking in terms of protection from the cold Dakar climate. We weren't the only team that fell victim to that little trick of West Africa - we were all thrown off by it. In fact, the people around who were Dakar locals told us that it was an unexpected cold spell. It was freezing. Now, back in village, I'm finding out that I didn't fully appreciate the cold when I had it. Sigh.

Another great thing about the whole softball game situation is my love of concession stand food. I loved pork sandwiches, french fries, cheesburgers and all the rest of the yummy disgusting food I had missed for years. It took me back to my years working in concession stands (which then, in my own recollection, made me amused by my forgotten extensive experience with concession stands). I must say, then, that I was sorely disappointed by the lack of nachos, but I loved the rest of it.

We didn't go out too much in Dakar, but one night two friends and I went out and got Indian food, which was a lot of fun. And delicious. And, getting there in the cab was great fun and quite the challenge given that everybody in the country speaks French and Wollof, and I speak only English and Mandinka. I had the minimal Wollof enough to try to get us there, and we only screwed it up a mild to moderate amount - we still found our way there before dark, so I count it as a win.

It was nice, though, to get back to the Gambia. I have to admit that it was probably mostly because of the return to Mandinka being useful, but I think it might have been more than that.

It was a long weekend, and I felt like I needed a vacation to rest up after I got back, but it was worth it. Next up: WAIST 2010.

Max says hi! (and yes, she looks a little evil here because she was being a little evil here...brat)

How I get around when it's not by foot (I'm particularly proud to the new basket I put on the back to help me out when I go in town to the market and back).

The walk out to the orphanage/school which is one of the places I work (and the road on which that "walk down the road" blog is based on).

The view looking out the front of my compound.

I'm partaking in what we like to call "Peace Corps Motivational Therapy". Some people call it "coloring", I believe.

Cristin, my boo boo, the founder of said therapy.

So I was walking down the road the other day, on the way home from one of the places I work to my house, and I thought I’d share a bit of it with you all.

This is the work that is the opposite direction of town. It’s a remote spot with nothing really between my house and it, and not much past it unless you’re going to other villages in a vehicle of some sort (including the always present options of bicycle or donkey-cart). I walked out the pristine gates of the compound, and started down the dirt and rock path that marks the road home for me. I wave goodbye to the security guards, calling “fo saama” or “until tomorrow” and start on my way.

I start going down the slight but long hill that is a bit dangerous to work on in the slippery flip flops I’ve chosen to wear today. I make a mental note to wear sturdier sandals tomorrow. As I ponder this, I walk around a very slight curve in the road and suddenly, from the tall bush beside me, a smallish cow pops out of the brush and stands in front of me, looking rather like he’s expecting something from me. I pause and wait for him to move out of my path and get on his way, but he seems rather content, so I move around him and continue on my own way. About ten feet down the road I look back; he’s still there, waiting for…something?

I continue on down my way and a bicycle approaches. The owner stops, climbs off, and starts walking the bike up the hill, as most riders do (not me, I’m stubborn). He’s wearing a worn dark green kaftan, with clear dirt and holes. His bike is impossibly loaded with stacks of fabric. He’s from the market in town, selling his wears. He takes his thin frame and looks up at me as he’s pushing the bike up the hill. He calls some greetings in Fula, and I do my best to respond (me and my stupid Mandinka).

As I continue down the road, from in back of me headed in town, a vehicle rumbles by. I look at it, mostly out of the desire to get as clearly out of the way as possible. I examine the vehicle. I imagine that, once upon a time, this vehicle fancied itself a station wagon of some sort. As of now, it’s a beaten, paintless (or are those white blotches something that used to be a paint job?) wagon of people – full beyond the brim. The three men on top look down at me as the car barrels past me. One of the men on top is of that age – he smiles at me and says “hey baby, I like your style.” I love it when they’re driving past so I don’t have to blow them off. They’re gone before I have to try to come up with some kind of smart remark to amuse myself and confuse them.

As I continue down the road, I see a woman in full Gambian dress coming towards me. I recognize her as Esther, one of the woman who was supposed to have been in the class I’m coming from teaching. She carries a basket of goods obviously from the market, a good three kilometers from where we met under the shade of one of the very few trees lining this particular road. She stops and explains to me that she had to go to the market…I don’t quite understand the reasoning, but I’m getting used to not understanding the reasoning here, so I encourage her to make sure she’s at the next class, as after her family and continue on my way. A few minutes later, one of the women working at where I just came from flies from behind me on a motorcycle. This town is one of the few towns that I have seen women ride motorcycles and I love it. She’s a plump woman – goes by the name “Mbaa” – and she flies by with the pink ends of her widely cut shirt sleeves flapping in the wind as she smiles broadly and toots the horn at me in greeting. I smile back, genuinely happy to see the big pink blur fly by, and wave after her.

The whole way I walk, I try to find some peace and enjoy where I am and what I’m doing. I look at the empty fields all around me, the trees popping up helter-skelter as far as I can see. The sheep are out grazing. I hear a cry in the distance, and I wonder the age-old question: was that a goat crying, or a small child? It’s always hard to tell. But it’s never very long before I get distracted out of whatever reverie I was approaching by a bombardment of flies. Usually about 15-20 can plaster me at a time. Lovely. I often have to keep a waving and flapping arm flying about to keep them from making me completely insane. I find myself suddenly jealous of all those animals I see with tails to beat away the impertinent little jerks. Wait, did I just wish for a tail? And I’m back in my reverie.

As I come into town, I start hearing a rumbling noise. But it’s not like the car. It’s something different, I can tell. Up on my left, I see some dust or something starting to drift a little. As I get closer I see lines of women with bundles of coos, all lined up to use the community milling machine to start processing them. This is one of the great sources of development – the time saved, even waiting in line, compared to having to pound all that coos with mortar and pestle, is more than significant. The all look at me as I go past, still never quite used to seeing the tuobab wandering around in the afternoon heat (or anytime, for that matter). Finally, I make my way to the little corner where I turn to my street. I turn the corner tightly, right alongside the cement fence lining the compound next to mine. There’s a donkey standing there, quite unperturbed by my sudden appearance. I was, however, somewhat perturbed and tried to shoo him off. “Acha! Acha!” He stares blankly at me. I stare blankly back.

Stupid donkey. I walk around him and walk the short distance to the white-walled, red-doored compound that is my home. With a sigh, I move to open the door and head in. The damned door is stuck again. I pound away at it, struggling futilely, until the caretaker comes and opens the door for me. Now that my face is a sufficient red to match the gate I’m passing through, I make my way into my house, sit on the white plastic chair on my porch, and put my feet up on the opposite chair. I squint my eyes. Are my feet getting tan?

Nope. Just dirt.

Who knew Gambians would like yoga so much?

I don’t know why I’m surprised, but it was really one of the most enjoyable things I’ve done since I got out here.

I was set up to do a workshop for the teachers at a school I’m working with on physical education. There is one teacher for each grade – 1 through 4 – a French teacher and the principal. The six gathered with me after school one day and we talked about the goals of a physical education class and some basic things that should be included in every physical education class. I had in my backpack a yoga book, which got pulled out when we started talking about the importance of teaching the kiddos to stretch.

I’ve never seen them so excited over anything before. It was awesome. They were even getting up and trying some really difficult poses.

Now, I’m going to take that excitement and try to get them to actually practice it more seriously – getting the basics down and working up to the more difficult poses. But for that one afternoon, I was so excited to see them getting excited, I just let them go. They asked me to make routines for them to do with the kids in their class, and then routines that they could practice at home.

I felt fantastic. They were learning, I was learning, the kids will be learning. I was on such an emotional and spiritual high afterwards that it carried me through the entire rest of the day. It was fabulous. One of the best days.

Just wait until I bring my camera for the next PE class. :) Look forward to pictures!

So I’m all moved and settled in my new home. It didn’t take too long – I’m getting good at trying to settle into new places quickly. I move so often, it seems, that if I didn’t settle quick I’d never unpack.

My new town is treating me well so far. The house I’m in is a bit removed from the town itself, so I’m not right by all the hustle and bustle of the developing African town, with the market and motorcycles. It’s a few kilometers to get into town, but it’s not a bad ride on bike – maybe 5 or 10 minutes – and I can get almost anything I would want there in terms of fruits and veggies and some staples like beans, potatoes and pasta. That’s good enough for me. Part of me really dislikes riding my bike through the town because it’s like a big obstacle course. But another part of me really loves riding through and seeing it all fly by me – cars and motorcycles, donkey carts piled high with people or goods, women walking by in the brightly colored fabrics carrying impossibly large loads on their heads with babies strapped on their backs…vendors lining every inch of street space with all their goods carefully displayed on the ground in front of them on fabric – little piles of tomatoes or peppers, piles of shoes, grass brooms, buckets and plastic cups. It reminds me of where I am and to appreciate this place and this moment in time.

Another exciting thing is that I already have my daily bean sandwich lady. Now, I hate beans in America, but I can’t seem to get enough of them here (which is good, because it contains the much-desired protein my body needs). Almost every day I ride out to her and without my even asking, she greets me while getting my sandwich ready. That’s a good woman, right there. I like to sit and joke with all the women around her selling their various wares – frozen juice, bananas, cassava, bagged water – and enjoy my sandwich until I go onward with my day. It’s really quite a nice little routine which keeps me happy and healthy.

One thing that’s really interesting to me here, more than in the last place I was, is that people seem to have more of a desire to change their condition a little bit more here. People have a little bit more ambition and a little more entrepreneurship than I’ve experienced in my last village. I don’t want to overstate it – the differences are very small and subtle, but they’re there. Let me give one anecdote. Typically, if you go to a food or drink vendor in my last village, they just give you your purchase and you head on your way. Here, a friend and I stopped in a shop for some tea to pick us up, and the man welcomed us in very generously. He made sure we had comfortable seats, and learned our names and memorized the way we each take our tea (and double checked as we left). He gave us a free refill of hot water to have a little bit more, and reassured us that he’ll take good care of us every time we come in, and he’d take care of any friends we direct his way, too. It’s a small difference, and just one example, but it’s something worth noting and something that I appreciate.

The language here is more Fula than Mandinka (I’m trained in the latter), but almost everyone speaks Mandinka here just fine. Walking down the street into town, you can here any combination of languages in five minutes time. I’m lucky enough to know how to greet in at least three of the languages, so I get by fine. Serehule, one of the less common languages in the country, is common here and is one I’ve somehow never heard a word of until now. While I may try to pick up some Fula, I think I’ll mostly stick to my Mandinka. It’s what works for me, and people here still appreciate it. Huge numbers of people here speak English, too, so I figure I’m already a step ahead with my Mandinka.

I’m staying in a house that Peace Corps is going to use me to help take care of, so it’s not with a family compound. In some ways that’s hard to get used to, but in other ways it suits my personality a bit better. It’s also forcing me to make more of an effort to forge friendships with people in town and coworkers, so I won’t take those relationships for granted. I value those relationships more when I’m not forced to have them all the time.

It’s further out from the capital, but I prefer being here and being able to enjoy where I am far more than being where I was before and needing to go in the capital all the time. I was never a big fan of that place, with the obvious exception of the beach. Other than that, though, now I wouldn’t have many reasons to go. I like that.

Work is starting slowly, slowly, as always. I’m making a more conscious effort to take my time getting into things here, leaving enough time to take care of the things that are important to me (like reading, writing, yoga, etc). I’ve started working at an orphanage in the area, just a bit further outside of town from me by about a kilometer (it’s a lovely walk out there which I thoroughly enjoy, except the insane amount of flies out here which seem to enjoy plastering your face).

A note on the orphanage: when I first started talking to my mom about it, she asked a really excellent question about why it’s necessary. I had the same question when I first heard about the place. In this culture, traditionally, if parents die and the children are left orphaned, they are taken in by other relatives without a second thought. The problem with that is that, given that many people here are suffering poverty already with the children they already have, when they receive the children of family members who have died, the children will suffer from lack of money for school fees or extra food. They will not always be able to get all the things they need and deserve with the relatives’ families. These are usually the kids the orphanage takes in.

On the grounds of the orphanage, there is also a school. The orphanage is set up like a village, with administrative buildings and the such, and 12 houses that house the children and their “mothers,” who are hired by the place to provide care and discipline for the children in their house. Most of these women are mothers themselves in the community whose children have gone and – most of them – whose husbands have passed. They live in the village with the children and with the assistance of the aunties (who go home at the end of the day), take care of the area and the children. I’m helping both with the village and the school.

For the aunties, I’m helping teach them basic computer skills in the afternoons. They’ve split into two groups, each of which meet twice each week. Hopefully things will go smoothly with the generator, which has been our biggest challenge to date. When the generator has problems, we don’t have class. I’m also going to help the administrative staff there with grant writing and proposal writing skills. They asked me to start preparing workshops to train them, which made me really happy.

In the school, I’m helping tutor 3rd and 4th grade students that have fallen behind in reading and writing. They asked me to help with Physical Education classes, because they haven’t hired a PE teacher yet, but instead I asked if I could train the current teachers on some basics to fill in for the teacher, and they were really receptive to it. I’ve already done one training, and I’m looking forward to doing more and dropping into the classes to join it and see how everything is going.

I’m also working on getting involved with a new commercial radio station in town. It’s a commercial radio station instead of a community radio station, so it’s a little different from the last place I was. The reason I want to get involved in this station is that they approached me to ask for help in developing public service programs, like education forums and health talks, to better serve the community. It’s a little unclear right now exactly what I’ll be doing or how it’ll work, but it’s something I’m keeping attuned to.

There’s also a regional Red Cross officer here who I may help with HIV/AIDS trainings in the communities throughout the area. I’m looking forward to that – they just got a huge grant to do lots of work on it, so it promises to be really interesting – they seem so excited. Also, the regional officer may help me do some research projects in the area, based on where his interests and mine cross. Hopefully you’ll here more about that later if anything comes to fruition.

There’s lots of other opportunities that could come across my plate, but right now I’m trying to enjoy what I’m doing, little things at a time. There’s lots of promise for the future here, and that’s exciting to me. I’m feeling pretty content here.

For those of you who have asked – my address remains the same. For all Peace Corps here, all packages and letters go to our main office, and they distribute it to us, wherever we are. So everything works the exact same way as when I was in my last village.

So, I guess that’s all I’ll inundate you with for now. I just wanted to give you a little more of an idea what’s going on out here. I’ll keep you updated!

Happy Birthday (1 day early) to Daddy!

I love you and I miss you!!!

Yup, I'm moving.

It's kinda hard to explain without explaining the politics and drama of the village I'm at (and Gambia in general), which I'm sure I'll try to do in bits and pieces in future blogs, but I'm moving. It was the site and the work I was doing in combination with my own needs and wants for this experience (and for my personal sanity), but another opportunity appeared and I'm moving on out, as of Saturday the 10th. Soon soon, yeah?

The new place I'm moving, I'll have some built-in work, helping the Peace Corps administration provide some services for volunteers upcountry. Yes, this means I'm moving to a farther inland (and from civilizaton) and much HOTTER part of the country, but the area where I'll be is actually a big town, with cold sodas, cold beer, and ice cream (I know this means it hits all of Adam's 'must-haves', so hopefully I'll be good). In addition to helping with the Peace Corps stuff, I have opportunities to work with a lot of organizations there on the side, including an amazingly beautiful and well-equipped orphanage and school.

Meanwhile, I'll be living in a really nice house - 3 big rooms, with a shower (cold water only, but hey, beggers can't be choosers), and no host family. I'll still be working with Gambians, and building close relationships, but with a family. I love and hugely value my experience living with a host family, but I've realized that I'm just not ready for that kind of life. I need my privacy and I need to be able to be doing my own things when I feel I need to do them. It's what I need to do to make me happy. I'm still in close contact with my family from training village, and I hope to still have that relationship with my family now, but I'm looking forward to having a little more independence.

If Max is still alive and kicking, hopefully she'll come too. It will be a much better home for her, with a good cat entrance in and out of my house, and a big yard with no other cats or children that try to kill her, as in my current compound.

I'll try to write more - more thoroughly and more posts, very soon. Right now things are very scattered and in a hurry, so I'll just wrap it up and say there's more to come...

Be excited.

So, it was New Year's Eve in Basse, and due to my amoebic infection (who I lovingly call "my boys"), I was in bed by 11:30 p.m. I was lying there in the top bunk, when the boys started acting up. The other six PCVs were still up celebrating the activities, but I needed to get up and make a rush to the latrine. In my hurry, I swung my legs over the top bunk and lowered them off the side, planning to lightly hop off and haul my little butt to the latrine.

Unfortunately, my feet got tangled in the mosquito net protecting the bottom bunk and I fell from the top bunk, landing brutally on the cement floor below. There I was as the New Year approached, lying in pain on a cement floor in West Africa, with an equally painful need to rush to a latrine due to an amoebic infection.

Let me say, though, in reference to past blogs. Fear not: I recovered my strength and made it...I'm not a "real" PCV yet.

(The title of this blog probably sounded a hell of a lot better than the actual story, didn't it?... I know Dad was worried...)

Happy New Year, all, from me and the boys.

This may not be the most interesting blog, but something to write for those of you who I know are concerned about it.

I'm trying to stay healthy.

First, I'm trying to improve the diet. Now, every day I get rice for lunch and dinner, usually with oil and onions on top - ick. Sometimes we get a nice peanut or leaf sauce, which is great when we do, but it isn't terribly common. I'm also particularly worried about lack of protein in my diet - people have a habit of losing a lot of muscle mass when they're here. That means eating a lot of beans. And I LOVE the beans here (which may be a big shock to those of you who know my eating habits well in America). I just can't get enough of them, so I'm trying to have a little bit of beans with dinner, and I have beans and bread for breakfast every day. I'm also trying to take advantage of whatever seasonal fruits are around - right now bananas (another shock that I like those all of a sudden, but I like them so much the kids selling them specifically look for me in the village because they know I always buy them).

Second, I'm trying to do some simple training. Again, trying to keep my weight in control and to keep from losing muscle mass. In fact, it'd be nice to gain some muscle mass, but that may be a bit too much to ask. Either way, I'm trying to do some jump rope almost every day, and a bit of running (starting with smaller distances and increasing slowly, slowly). On the days I don't do that, I'm trying to take a bike ride. I'm also doing a lot of stretching and some strength exercises on the floor.

Emotional/Spiritual Health: Ah, yoga. Third, I'm trying to do some yoga to open me up, revive me, and give me some calm - that's a tall order, but I feel like I need it. Who would have guessed my work here would stress me up and keep me too busy, too? I have a hard time explaining yoga to my family here, so when they ask what I've been doing in my house, I tell them I've been praying. Honestly, its not a far stretch, because I've found myself doing that during yoga quite a bit. Either way, trying to keep healthy.

And yes, I'm drinking more water so I dont' get that nasty dehydration again. Trying to keep at it.

Ok, just wanted to write this little post to keep you all reassured. That's about it for that!

Onward, as ever.

I just love that I get to have that title.

Ok, so Nathan (a site mate about 20 km away), Jenny (site mate in the same village as me as of about a month ago) and I were all in my village and decided that for Halloween, we would like to relax a bit and have a few beers or something. Nathan and I decided to make the journey to a small hotel outside of town, usually used for tourist hunters who bring in birds and boars. We had heard from some of the boys in the village that the pool was clean and open, too.

So we got on our bikes and made the relatively short trip out there (probably just a few kilometers). When we got there, we found the place virutally deserted, except for the flacky employee who greeted us on the way in. Finding the pool, we found it empty, except the few feet of thick algae glowing at the bottom. We steered ourselves towards the bar, figuring we could at least have a drink before heading back. The beer was twice what we can get it for in Kombo. After Nathan's unsuccessful haggling with the staff flacky for a better price, we headed back to our bikes and back into town to report the disappointment to Jenny.

Jenny, Nathan and I then set out on foot to the "bar" on the outskirts of town, which is basically the Christian compound on the road, so they can sell alcohol. We found the place empty, so wandered around the back looking for the owners. We found them eventually in a compound next door, sitting on a bamboo mat, cracking peanuts. Our efforts to try to arrange for a "happy hour" night once a week were dashed, as they wouldnt' go on the price. In fact, they seemed rather reluctant to be disturbed from their peanut cracking to make a sale at all. As we sat on the bench waiting for them to serve their customers (us), we heard it behind us.

And there, sitting on the stump of a cut down tree, was a teeny-tiny monkey. They told us his name was Babu. Soon, it began wandering over to the mat on the other side of us, where the old woman in charge was cracking peanuts and a baby was sleeping. After the monkey crawled on and was pulled off the sleeping baby's head, it went after the peanuts. We just watched in wonder, trying not to plan ourselves how we could get a monkey for ourselves. In the end, we got gin and no beer, headed home and tried to rationalize all the reasons we CAN'T have a pet monkey.

So in the end we got no beer and no monkey, but at least it was an entertaining journey.

Until next time.

So here I am in Kombo, trying to get a bit of work done and relax a little. I’ll go back to site maybe Wednesday (Inshallah – “God willing”). However, a combination of the need to do some computer research, the need to do some pricing of materials and the need to turn in some grant applications has brought me here.

However, it probably will not be too long before I find myself here again. As much as I don’t like to leave site (which is good, because it’s not often possible), I feel the need to come and join the group of Americans who will gather to watch the reporting of election results. You all know how I am. Besides, soon ‘twill be the season for Christmas shopping, and I may get an early jump on that as well.

Things are going well at my site. There are the natural ups and downs. I got a new family living in my compound, which rents houses out to people – the headmaster of the lower basic school and his wife. Both of them are absolutely wonderful and truly kind people. The wife, Safi, and I became fast friends. After knowing her only two weeks, she made matching outfits for me and the two-year-old girl in the compound. Now, I’m working on teaching her English, beginning with the sounds of the alphabet. (Which leads me to a new wish list item – I’m teaching a fair amount of English to folks in my compound – books like the Mr. Men books or really low level reading books would be appreciated, if you have any lying around and want them to go to a good cause!). We sit and chat TONS, and she’s a blessing to have around.

Also, work is going well – I keep finding more of it somehow! I continue working with local government, girls club, computer classes all over, the community radio and the rest I talked about before. I’m also doing a health and community development club now with top students at the school, and teaching math for grade 12. Right now grades 9 – 12 in my town have no teachers for math, science, economics or commerce. At all. That’s a problem. So I’m trying to help out where I can.

And there’s more help where that came from. I have a site mate now, a girl who switched sites from another village nearby. She now lives in the same town as me, across town, and is meant to work in the education sector. She’ll be working at all the schools and with a local branch of the national governing body for education in the Gambia. I don’t her all that much in town because we’re both so busy and working on different things, but it’s nice to have somebody else around. We also have the same work ethic and interest in some of the same projects, so its really nice to have somebody to collaborate with on things.

But, alas, yes, there are the downs, as well. In my newest – and perhaps largest – project, I am helping from the ground up create a new organization meant to serve for youth empowerment and HIV/AIDS education in the region. I had a fantastic counterpart to help me, but he has now taken a year’s leave to take a course in the capital area…I tried to convince him that higher education is overrated, but it didn’t take.

Also, there is the joy of heat rash. It turns out that October is the hottest month in the Gambia, and incredibly humid. Awesome. I have heat rash over large portions of my body – all across my cheat, back, stomach, neck, creeping down the arms and leading all the way down (forgive me for my honest, folks) to create an itchy buttcrack. The Gambia is a wonderful place, with some beautiful styles of dress and carriage that I try to mimic sometimes, especially at work, but it’s just not the same when you’re scratching all over, including the itchy buttcrack. Oh, the Gambia, how I love thee.

But soon, I’m reassured, will come the cool Harmattan winds. Inshallah. They had better not be teasing me, or I may not come back from my December vacation. The winds are supposed to start coming by November to cool things down. I’m told I’ll need a sweater. I can’t wait. Neither can my sweater, close at hand in anticipation.

This past Saturday marked my 6 months as a fully-fledged volunteer. That’s ¼ of my time here as a Peace Corps Volunteer. I can’t help but wonder whether I’ve done ¼ of what I want to do? I know that this is not the way it is supposed to work – ¼ work done in ¼ time. We’re always told that the first 9 months to 1 year is slow, and then things pick up and start happening the closer you get to your close of service. But at anniversaries like this, its hard not to think of it that way – time passed, time remaining, work passed and work remaining.

Please send encouragement, reassurement, good wishes, positive thinking and candy.

:)

Me and Binta Sala in our matching outfits as made by Safi :)

Me, Sala and Suwa, the woman who is my biggest PIA and one of my best friends here.

Me and a bunch of kids from the compound, in my dad's tailor shop.

Me and Safi, one of my new best friends (that's her husband off to the left). They're all AWESOME!

:)

The Gambian town I call home is actually one of the regional headquarters of the country, complete with office of some top officials not too far from my home and work.

One of the greatest signs of the presence is the compound in the middle of the village, which forms the center of action in the village with people coming and going from within the village and from other villages around the region. However, what I’ve always associated most with this presence is the top official's vehicle.

Tan in color with a distance gold tint, the interior has be upholstered with green, gold and black velvet fabric. The hood sports the tiny Gambian flag to add an official air. The car is easily recognizable both in appearance and in the style of driving. My village, while somewhat at an advantage because of its status as a regional capital, is still dominated by uneven dirt roads that cars venture down, but not too often. Yet, whenever the car is approaching, you’ll hear the beeps and see animals, children, women and men scatter from the road to the sides, even into the bushes if that’s all that is there. It comes barreling by as quick as possible and onward, I can only assume with things to do and people to see.

The other day, as I was working at another local government office, the car came barreling in and let off a few people by the door. I was looking out the window at it, just to see who was arriving, when I saw it backing into a parking place. It was then that I heard the agonizing cries of one of the stray dogs that is always around the compound, and saw it dragging itself away by the front legs from in back of the vehicle. The driver immediately stopped the car and got out.

“Good,” I thought to myself, “he’s going to go make sure the dog is ok, or at least that he moved out of the way.”

The driver strode across the sandy compound to the tree and bantaba (chatting place) nearby, out of my site. As he came back, he was carrying a water kettle. He washed off the back hubcap, got in the car and drove away. I was horrified and outraged, and felt a little sick in my stomache for the rest of the day.

A few days, the car was in a relatively severe accident where people sustained only minor injuries.

The car, however, was totalled.

“Karma,” I said.

The Gambia is very much, very clearly, very predominately Muslim.

Now, I know most of you know that, but I know some of you aren’t terribly familiar with Islam, so I thought I’d share what some of the implications of that are for my life and my work here.

Now that we’re in the month of Ramadan (soon to be finished), that’s the most obvious factor. Everybody, as I’ve described in another blog, is fasting. People are exhausted, and hungry people are quick to anger. This leads to a lot of things being postponed or cancelled, and a lot of things becoming more difficult than they would be under any normal circumstances.

Now, those who are sick or pregnant are excused from fasting. However, they tend not to. Part of the deal for a free pass if you’re sick or pregnant is that however many days you skip during the Ramadan you have to make up for after the Ramadan. And it’s a lot easier to fast when everybody in the country is fasting than when everybody in the country is fasting than when everybody around you is eating and drinking throughout the day and you’re lounging around, hungry, tired and spitting (see blog on Ramadan). Choosing to fast when you’re in the early (or any) stage of pregnancy or when you’re very sick will only create problems, but I can’t seem to convince people of this. Not even my host mother, who is pregnant, or a coworker who has malaria and won’t take her meds at the proper times because of the fast.

Even outside of the Ramadan, however, Islam can make things difficult. Meetings must be planned around prayer times and accommodate them fully. I find it difficult to talk about how important the prevention of malaria is because “malaria has never killed a person on this planet. Only the almighty ALLAH can do that.” The same goes for me trying to get friends or coworkers to stop smoking, a bad habit that is very widespread here. It’s difficult to argue about health issues that can lead to early death when early death can’t be caused by health issues…

Also, the issues of polygamy, separate prayers, separation of work are a combination of Islam and just cultural traditions. For my girls clubs, for my chats with women, and for makign meetings with women, this can all become rather frustrating to me. Empowering women and girls here to think and do for themselves is a problem because of the inherent Gambian culture, and because of the Islam emphasis on the community over the individual in the family, as well as the role of women.

A lot of these problems I'm encountering in terms of my work coming into conflict in Islam are very troubling because I NEVER want to do anything to interfere with the faith of people or to offend them. Also, let it be said that some of these things may be particular to the way Islam is practiced HERE and may not be part of the Islam practiced elsewhere. As with any other religion, I would imagine, different people may practice it differently...

This is all in addition to the fact that EVERYBODY is ALWAYS trying to get me to convert. My new aversion tactic is to just tell them “Mbang” (sounds like “m” plus “b – ahh – ng”) and bang my elbows against my sides, a gesture that children often use which generally either means “hell no” or something along the lines of “I don’t wanna.” That doesn’t usually get me off the hook, but if I keep doing it, I can usually do it while walking out of the room.

Now, let it be said that there is a part of me that loves some of the impacts of the Islamic tradition here. I find the calls to prayer beautiful, as I do seeing the people prostrate themselves en masse before their God. The sense of charity and goodwill that comes from Islam is widespread through the country, as is the beautiful and absolutely complete sense of hospitality, even of strangers. Even the beauty of the greetings we say every day often occur to me, when I get past the formality and function and look at the sounds and the meanings, for example:

“I be kayirato?” Hope you’re at peace?

“Kayira dorong.” Peace only.

I wish I could incorporate a dedication to finding peace to greetings in American culture, and in my own life. Somehow “peace out” as you walk out the door doesn’t have the same effect for me.

Even though it’s incredibly hot here, I appreciate on some level the sense of modesty that comes from the Islamic tradition. Many of you know I’ve always had a bit of a distaste for the American styles that come with short skirts (with or without Ug boots or whatever the hell they’re called), or incredibly short dresses that some girls wear without pants that were clearly meant to be shirts worn WITH pants. There’s something I appreciate about the restraint. And, in many cases, I think that augments the beauty of already beautiful women much more than if they were to go buy a mini and a tanktop with a drop neck. It’s beautiful in a natural way, and in a very real way, and I appreciate that a lot. I wish I could import that back into America.

Also, the unity of the religion here is imply beautiful. Everybody participates in all the acts of faith together, and there is something really inspiring about what that means about the inherent nature of humanity that I really admire.

Nonetheless, I wish I could find a way to take all the things I find so beautiful about the faith and make it NOT conflict with the work I’m here to do. It’s a constant balance…

"Chepe, nakam?" ("what's up girl" in wollof). A picture of me and some friends at the program for book distribution. I made sure these fine ladies (my informal wollof tutors) got some books for their children, too.

My new small husband, or "Keemanding". He says he loves me very much, "Ngee kanoo le!". :)

Max just goes INSANE when there's mangoes about...brat.

Me and Binta, at a friendly compound nearby. She calls me "my best friend."

Binta, being cute.

Fatou Mata (different one, my second mother married to my father's brother), was being stubborn and wouldn't let me take a picture of her. I told her I would show everybody in America this picture and tell them that she never works, only sits. But its not true. She's a tough cookie, that one.

This one in the rice fields, I just like.

What can happen to corrugated roofs when there's a really bad storm...at a nearby school...

Isatou, "nice, baby", one of my best friends in village, who is an announcer at the community radio station, and is learning to take on new tasks all the time.

Fatou Mata and Binta on our land (I did that, too!).

Binta, hard at work.

Fatou Mata, hard at work.

Binta again (yes, I'm just watching and taking pictures at this point).

The secretaries at the local government office where I work - they like to harass me as much as you all...maybe more...

Me giving a welcome speech with some local officials at a program at the resource center I'm helping manage - the program is for the distribution of books to school libraries throughout the region.

My host mother, Fatou Mata, rocks. She's a tough lady with a great sense of humor.

The kiddies of the compound - who I both love and hate - Mommadou and Binta Sala. Sure are cute, though!

This woman is my best friend and my biggest PIA, if you know what I mean. I love her to death - Suwa. This was taken either right before or right after a spontaneous dance party in my house (which has been known to happen from time to time).

Always trying to get me a man, Suwa decided the best solution is to braid my hair. Here are me, her and the results (2-3 hours of work).

Essa, one of my host brothers working away in my father's tailor shop (which is very busy these days - everybody wants new outfits for the day of prayer at the end of Ramadan!)

My 13-year-old host brother, Lamin, and me. He's one of Max's biggest fans, and stops by every day to greet her. He's also hilarious and wicked smart, this one.

Binta, in the tailor shop helping with ironing. She's soon to be married and move away, which is a big bummer for me because she's one of my best friends here...

Mama, one of my host sisters, dressed me today (can't you see the resemblance?)!

Political science major or no, the politics in this place is something to behold.

As I’ve mentioned, I’m working a lot with various NGOs and regional government offices in the town I’m in. And while I’m able to stay out of party politics (far away – we’re talking avoiding the plague, here), the interpersonal and inter-organizational politics here – sometimes even the intra-organizational politics – are unavoidable. And that’s a whole new ballgame for me.

I’m always having do dance around conflicts between different levels of elected officials, hostilities between leaders of organizations, and passing of responsibilities from one office to another (especially during those instances involving money, shockingly enough). Constant battles also include people demanding per diems to come to meetings, people getting upset I spend time in one office more than another, and who gets to have what job title or what committee chairmanship.

For example, even the other day, I was talking to the leader of one community based organization I’m working with. We were making plans for some significant changes he wants me to help make there in management and administration – things they’ve been wanting to do for years but haven’t had the skills or expertise to do. I get really excited by it – it’s everything I’m looking for. It uses the kind of skills I’m dying to use, making changes I’d love to see and making changes THEY would love to see. They asked for it, they’re designing it, they’re leading it, and I’m just functioning to transfer my skills. Unexpectedly, the manager looked at me and said “there is only one problem with this that I see…”

“What’s that.”

“You know, if you work in a place for many years, and there is not change made. Then you go to a new job and somebody else takes your place, and the changes happen after a short time. Even if you know it is because somebody else comes along with the skills, you feel it.”

The old manager of the CBO, who was there for years, is now working in a more important job in the community. If the changes happen now with the new manager, even though it is because they just got a Peace Corps Volunteer (me), he’ll still be embarrassed that it didn’t happen during that time, it happened when he left. And as the old manager is a very important man, a friend, AND one of my other working counterparts, we have to play games to make the changes seem less significant than they are, etc. I never would have thought of that. I never would have seen the negative impacts so far-reaching. I couldn’t have seen those politics.

I’m just starting to catch on to all the little implications like this one. It’s just now that I’m beginning to understand the patterns in how it all works, the way things are linked together, how different relationships are complicated, etc. But I’ll find a way to work through it all…

As always….slowly slowly.

I feel the need to share some of my truly beautiful cross-cultural moments with you, beginning with this one (it’s a two-parter):

One day as I was sitting in the radio station, there was really no work to do at the moment. The electricity had gone for the day, and I was sticking around mostly to chat with people. However, the girl sitting with me, who is one of my best friends here, was laying with her head on the crappy wooden desk, absolutely exhausted. Coming across a calculator, I suddenly felt goofy and mischievous (and, let’s face it, immature), and recalled a good old game. Typing “5138008” and turning it upside down in the calculator screen, it clearly said “boobies.” I laughed at the old middle school joke, arousing the interest of my dear friend, Isatou.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing, Isa, don’t worry about it.”

“No, it is the calculator, let me see.”

“Isatou, no, leave it be, it’s stupid.”

“I want to see why you laugh.” I hand it to her. “What is boobies?”

“Um.” I didn’t know if it was entirely appropriate to answer. Given, she’s probably one of the most liberal people I know in the village, and one of my best friends. I feel I can be open and honest with her than most anyone here. “Well, it’s an American slang word that means breasts.”

“Breasts?”

“Yeah.”

“Bobbies.”

“No, boobies.”

“Ok, booooobies.”

Once the laughter inside of my subsided….”Yes, booooooobies.”

Weeks later:

Isatou was telling me that she saw another Peace Corps Volunteer who she knows and she asked him if he knows boobies. Why she asked him, I have no idea, but apparently it caught him a bit off guard. I mean, it’s true, it’s one of the words you would least expect to hear here, besides which, the already funny-sounding word sounds even funnier with a Fula accent.

Later the same evening I received a text from my REAL counterpart in America, Molly McD, informing me to enjoy International (thanks for the correction, McD) Talk Like a Pirate Day, a true American holiday and a tradition I did not want to forget while I’m here. I laughed aloud when I received the text, and the ever curious Isatou picked up on it again. Finally I explained it to her.

“Do you know, pirates, like in the cinemas.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You know how they talk?”

I waited while her faced scrunched up into what I can only assume was supposed to be a pirate face. After a few seconds, she took a deep breath and said in a fierce Fula/Pirate voice “Aaarrrrrrrrrrrr, boobies, aaaaaaaaaarrr!”

I love cross-culturalism.

(I’m getting that on tape.)

Despite the typical weariness of the Ramadan, and all the frustrations that come with it, part of me will miss it when it is finished. Now, as Ramadan will soon end, people’s tempers are beginning to shorten, and their tiredness is increasingly visible. The fasting wears people down. From the first prayers of the morning until after 7 p.m., they do not eat, drink, or even swallow their own saliva (which results in a lot of spitting – one of the things I won’t be missing). They don’t swear or talk about things that are seen as impure (such as sex or inappropriate music). People dress more conservatively, and some of the men won’t shake hands with the women, even if they typically would outside the Ramadan.

But at the end of the day, right around the time the sun has just come to setting, people gather to break the fast together. Almost every day of the Ramadan, I have taken part in this at the community radio station. As it reaches time, everyone takes ablutions one at a time, and then pray – sometimes on their own, and sometimes all together. Outside the station in the exterior light, we gather on a prayer mat and a dirty army-green blanket laid side-by-side. Together we break bread and drink tea and chat, the toads hopping around us catching all the insects attracted by the outdoor light. People sit and joke, feeling the relief of another day being finished.

I don’t fast. I did once, then got horrifically sick the following day and spent most of the next week bedridden or in Kombo in the Medical Unit. While I don’t think the two are related, I just figured I’d be on the safe side and chug a bunch of water daily to avoid the severe dehydration I so recently enjoyed. There have been days, though, when I just have not eaten. I would like to say this is out of solidarity with the people here, or something more noble sounding like that, but in reality usually I’m just not hungry since I’ve been sick, or I just haven’t felt like cooking (I’m responsible for my own breakfast and lunch during Ramadan).

Perhaps that’s part of the reason I enjoy breaking the fast so much with people – I’m usually pretty hungry by then, even if I have had a small snack during the day. And people just feel so relieved that they are usually in jovial moods, ready to joke and laugh. And I like being there and being allowed to be a part of it.

After the Ramadan ends though, which is the end of the week, all of my work that has been put off with people for after the Ramadan will kick in and be a bit of a deluge of things…I hope I’m ready…

The other day, as I was going through my computer and confirming that I have everything backed-up on external hard drives, I came across my “Aspiration Statement.” This was a document where we were asked to answer four different questions about our aspirations for our time of service here in the Peace Corps.

When I saw it, I was suprirsied – I had completely forgotten about ever having written such a thing. Which led me to wonder if I had any clue at that time, the month before I came. I was almost scared to open it and see what ignorant jibberish I had written then. But, with the scrunched up face of dread and poor expectations, I opened it.

It wasn’t a very long document. But it was eerie enough. Things that I would have sworn I was just figuring out now were in there.

This is the first thing I say: During my service, I hope to utilize the professional skills I have so far had the opportunity to develop.

Now, I will say that at the time I wrote that, I probably had no idea what I meant by it. But as my service goes on, I see what I must have meant. I had no idea at the time what my professional skills were, really. Besides which, with a major in political science from America, what was I going to be able to do here? Even if I was able to adapt my skills to Gambian politics, we are not allowed to participate in politics here (nor would I want to). I had no idea what my area of expertise was, or what professional skills I would use (I didn’t even know really what professional skills I possessed).

But, I think its happening. I’m finding my skills. It almost happens on accident sometimes, where I’ll see a need and think “wow, they can really use…” and then shortly after that “hey, I can do that!” Things just seem to fall in place. The things I can do – my “professional skills” – just seem to float to the surface once the need arises. What may have been a more accurate statement for me to begin with might have been “I hope to find the professional skills I claim to have (or ought to have at this point), wherever the hell they are.”

Either way, I’m seeing seeds of success on this goal.

One of the most significant aspirations I would like to fill, for myself, is to develop a stronger sense of confidence in my own abilities. I want to feel more secure in what I am capable of accomplishing, and to learn to be assertive with what I know.

Again, with this one I was both dead right and dead wrong. When I said “learn to be assertive with what I know” I didn’t know that, even more than that, I’m learning “to be assertive even if I have NO damn clue.”

I am learning to be assertive with what I know. I’m learning to start saying that I know something, that I can do something, to assert that I think I’m right even when others don’t agree, if it’s something I feel I have a right to claim knowledge and experience in. Also, though, when the need arises for a skill or ability I do not possess, I approach it with an attitude that would be better verbalized “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing…yet…”

To adapt to a new culture, I first and foremost am going to be prepared to encounter things I’m not prepared for.

Ha. To say the least. I now say “just go with the flow” or “just try to be “Zen” about it more than anything else.

Examples:

Explaining to people that a “Ghetto” that people are always talking about in rap and hip hop music is not, in fact, the same thing as a place to chat.

Being asked how sex is different with a woman who has NOT been circumcised. (I believe my initial response consisted of a very long “ummmmmmmmm….”

Being told by a woman that polygamy is a great thing for women because then when your husband is “in the mood” and you’re not, you don’t have to pretend your head is paining you – you can just send him to the other wife.

Being told I should not ride a bicycle as an unmarried woman. (Why? Because it may de-virginize me.)

Being told that malaria has never killed a single human being (only Allah does that).

Eating cow intestine.

Dancing. Foot stamping, arm flapping dancing.

Having someone ask me if I’ve ever meant the fresh prince, and then seeing them nod vigorously and smile when I say “…..like….of Bel Air?”

Being told by a member of a family that has a joking relationship with my family that because I cut myself with a knife while preparing food he gets to come and remove all the clothes from my house (apparently that’s a rule?).

Being told by the Chairman that we drove around a given village because elected officials can’t drive through that village because its cursed for them and if they drive through it they’ll lose the next election.

And what not.

Right now, I have many different ideas about how my life might look after my service ends – looking into development graduate studies, seeking work with a federal agency that deals with development, or working in a nonprofit organization that combats poverty. However, I hope to use this time of service to try to look to find what I am capable of, and the circumstances in which I’m able to find personal and professional satisfaction. I hope the service will help me determine what I’m capable of in terms of my sacrifices for my career. I think my time of service will help me to better understand if development is something I want to pursue as a lifetime career goal, or if it was something I had to do before I could move on to something else. Also, I think it will help me determine what I want, in the long term what I can handle in terms of my desired work-life balance. As with the aspirations I hope to fulfill, I hope that my time in Peace Corps will give me greater confidence in my decision making for my future.

I’m on it, slowly slowly.

So, some of you may already know this, but I got pretty sick here the other day.

Right now I'm here in Banjul, staying with the medical unit, resting up and getting healthy. I'm almost fully functional, and aside from feeling a little run down, I'm doing pretty well, I think. It wasn't that great just a few days ago, though.

Friday I fasted, though I cheated and snuck drinks of water when I was in my house to try to keep from getting too dehydrated. Since I often work with people in the evenings, I wanted to know how it felt at the end of the day, just so I knew how much I'd be asking of them to do work in the evenings. It went fine, and I broke fast that night with a group of people I was teaching computer classes to. Now, when they break fast here, it usually is with tea and bread with some kind of sauce or topping. We sat under a big Neem tree sitting in the dusk, resting on the wooden bench where people lounged all day. I ate all that, then started feeling a bit sick. After the class was over, they tried to get me to have dinner with them, and even though it was delicious, I couldn't seem to get it down.

Friday night I went home, went into my house and crashed out on the bed in my entry room that usually is used as sofa.

Saturday morning was when the fun really started. (*Warning - don't read this graph if you're not into bodily functions). I got severe diarrhea, all through the day, and I could just feel the water running out of my body. I tried to keep it in with water and Gatorade. It didn't seem to be helping. So I hid in my room all day, laying on my bed/sofa, sweating and feeling crappy. I closed the curtain in front of the door to my house and people pretty much left me alone all day. I couldn't even get food in me.

Sunday wasn't much better. I had some guests passing through, which basically meant that now there was somebody there to hear me complain. I tried to buck up and pretend like I was feeling better than I really was, but it didn't seem to work very well - not with my visitors at least. The Gambians all seemed to think I was feeling better.

Monday I still went to work, and tried to tough through it and get things done. And to some extent I was successful. However, I felt that all the plates I've been spinning had started to wobble a bit and I was really worried they were going to fall.

Tuesday morning, I woke up and had a fever. It was only about 100 degrees. My body ached, and though I tried to go to work, I soon found that I couldn't do a thing in the condition I was in. I found out that one of my coworkers was taking his vehicle into Banjul, so I asked for a ride and hopped in. I rushed to my house and threw things in a bag to get ready. I think my rush and sudden departure seemed to worry my whole family, and understandably so. I've never been like that before. I know it made them really worried especially since the new Peace Corps we were to get got sent back to America for being so sick. I hope they're not too worried now.

The whole ride was miserble. My whole body ached and I could feel my fever rising inside of me the whole ride. My coworker turned around from the front seat to me lying across the back and kept patting my feet and telling me it would be alright in a very fatherly way. It was a little awkward, but still very much appreciated - it was good to feel that they were lookin' after me like one of their own.

By the time I got to the med unit, my fever was approaching 103 degrees, though not quite there. I got medicine, laid down, and have been chugging juice and trying to force down food ever since. I'm on the way to recovering now, still drinking juice boxes and trying to motivate myself to eat (and you all know how much I love eating). I'm certainly on the road to recover, so fear not.

And now you all know how well people take care of me when I'm sick, so worry not.

For now, I'm off to try to get some work done and drink more apple juice. Bottoms up!

This blog's for you, Mama.

Just a little reassurance for those out there who are worried - I know you're there.

First of all, dehydration sucks, especially in Africa. If I need to break fast, I will, and EVERYBODY in the village knows it and accepts it. They even told me "Dabonding, you should try. But don't get sick. If you get sick, eat." Worry, not, my friends and family.

Second, as Mom's mentioned to me via email, no, I do not put everything in blogs. That's for a number of reasons. The first is simply that I get tired and lazy. The second is that a lot of the ups and downs are the small picture, and I want to give you all the big picture, which really is good right now. Third, I want to be sensitive to the fact that a lot of the Gambians I work with are very smart and borderline computer literate, and I don't want to risk saying something that might offend anybody just because I've had a bad experience or a bad day. That's not fair to them, and it wouldn't be a fair representation of the experience I've had with them, so I keep it back.

However, while I'll hold things back, and keep from saying some things that might be passing anger or frustration, or that might upset something if the wrong person sees it, I never say anything that isn't true. So when I say I'm rallying with the small successes, I mean it. When I say that I'm finding a sense of contentment, I mean it. When I say that my sense of humor holds me through, I mean it.

And when I say I want coffee and sweetarts, I mean that, too... :)

Life ain' bad, folks. In fact, it's looking pretty alright from where I stand. You all might not get the most complete picture that's possible, but I try to be honest about my general sentiments. This is a frustrating work environment, and small things are always happening that make me inclined to bang my head against something very hard, or make me want to hide in my house for a few days and do nothing but eat pancakes. But what it comes down to is that every morning that I wake up, I feel motivated to get out of bed and do what I do, because I feel that I'm doing something.

Seems like a good gig to me.