There’s a special sort of feeling you get when you’re raking flaming bones and offal with a pitchfork, as the fetid stench of decay roils with the greasy smoke in a horrific miasma of choking death. It’s called civic pride.

In a noble effort to clean our streets, get people invested in their communities, and really irritate the hell out of everyone, the bureaucracy of the Gambia created a policy called Set Settal. One of the more bizarre pieces of legislation I’ve seen, it requires everyone in the country to take four hours on the last Saturday of every month and, as an act of national solidarity and purpose, clean. It’s like that rule you had with your roommate in college, except it’s enforced with Kalashnikovs instead of passive aggressive little notes.

No one actually cleans, of course. But since everyone’s supposed to be, businesses are closed and transportation slams to a halt. Which is a lot of fun, since every vehicle is stopped at nine in the morning, wherever it happens to be, and doesn’t move until one in the afternoon. If you’re wise, you avoid traveling that day. I’ve never claimed to be so, and have spent more days than I’d like to remember trapped in some town the size of a bowling alley, napping in the scorching shade along with thirty other absent-minded travelers.

So in general, not a fan. I’m marking that a one on the customer satisfaction card when I leave. But the other week I was invited to an actual Set Settal event, where people from the government and community gather with shovels and wheelbarrows to clean up the trash in the street and tidy the miniature landfills. Sounds exciting, huh? Well, after a while you take what vacations you can get.

It ended up being a pretty good time. No one really expected me to do anything except stand there and be white (which is the case a lot of the time. I’m like a mascot or a trophy wife), so it shocked them when I picked up a pitchfork and started to clean. The novelty wore off fairly quickly, though, and before long they were shouting me orders. A group of us would gather all the trash in an area into a pile, then a guy would come around and light it on fire. It was gratifying to watch.

At one point we got into the middle of the largest mini-landfill, the one where they dumped animal bones and mechanical parts. We were working our way inward, when the fire guy got a little overzealous and lit the trash before it was fully in a pile. The flames spread quickly, and soon the ground was burning across the entire alley. I backed off, but the guys with me just headed right in - if anything, they raked faster, so I took a deep breath and followed.

It was a tad disturbing. I saw cow skulls that had been soaked in feces then lit on fire. Discarded machine parts burned along with plastic bags and old clothes. The voices of the other shovelers echoed weirdly, and I could dimly see their struggling forms through the smoke. Everything burned wetly. The stench was like a thick liquid, forcing its way up your nostrils, soaking into your skin.

When I got home none of my host siblings or my dogs would come near me, and I emptied three buckets of water scrubbing my brief visit to Hell out of my skin. Still, it felt good: I’d cleaned something. You don’t get many unambiguous wins here, so you take what you can get.

Life has generally taken a turn toward the macabre and bizarre lately. Keen readers will remember I have two dogs, Brownie and Chulo. Chulo’s the one I raised from a puppy. He's my best friend here, the only constant I have. Brownie’s the one I unwillingly adopted, who manages to be both the village idiot and bicycle, whose puppies I took care of for two months. This was not a pleasant experience, for either the dog or myself, and neither of us was looking to repeat it. So we were both unhappy when she went into heat again.

We did our best. She hid in my house, and I locked her away every night. Chulo was included in the lock-down after he got into a vicious fight with one of the visitors Brownie’s pheromones attracted. When I pulled him off the other dog he was latched on its face, actually pulling the skin away from the bone. I was almost proud; he’d come a long way since the scared little puppy who got beat up every night. Somehow in the tumult I got bit, which led to a couple fun little rabies shots.

But after a few weeks Brownie’s belly started to extend, and we knew we’d failed. For the next month she was prone to wild mood swings and bizarre behavior, like sprinting in circles around the perimeter of my bath room or trying to bite her own ears. When she was calmer she stared off into the distance with a hunted look, and I’m sure she was remembering half a dozen hungry mouths shooting off the floor, like tentacles of a squid, latching on to her and pulling her to the ground. I remember that look from when she would flee in terror from her own children, dragging them along the ground until their suction maws detached.

I went to the capital for a meeting, leaving a key with my host family and a request to lock up both dogs at sundown each evening. When I got back and the children saw me, they all burst into tears.

“Brownie is bad! Brownie is bad!” they shrieked.

“What happened?” I said.

“She eat her daughters!”

At the house I found a thinner, happier Brownie grinning from ear to ear. Of the puppies there was no sign. Apparently when the time had come she’d retreated around the side of the house for some privacy. The family heard some grunting and squealing for a few hours, then Brownie came trotting back, licking her chops and looking pleased with herself.

My reaction probably wasn’t what they were expecting: “Great!”

Now, I’m not heartless, and I’m certainly opposed to post-natal abortion, with the possible exception of the Dallas Cowboys and anyone who says “awkward” when they mean “bad”. But I never met the little meals on wheels, and animals die every day here. Most dogs you see in village have been mistreated and neglected, generally leading pretty miserable lives. And I’m not going to lie, I wasn't going to miss cleaning up small lakes up urine each morning and positioning the heads of idiot puppies that can’t even suckle a teat properly. Brownie made the decision her instincts led her to, and I can’t really fault the poor girl for not wanting to go through that again so soon.

Still, for the next few days I kept my distance from the cannibal mama. Something in the way she smiled...

In village I’ve been trying to wrap up my projects. There’s a month left now, and the shadow of the real world is looming. I’d like to walk out of Africa thinking that something, anything, is different because I came.

The women’s business classes are still going, but they’re frustrating, both for my students and me, because no matter how much I teach them about supply and demand or proper budgeting, it won’t solve the essential problem they all face: there’s nowhere to sell their goods. There’s the local market, where dozens of women all sell essentially the same thing at absurdly low prices to a handful of customers with no money. Or they can trek to one of the weekly markets that are scattered around the region, paying absurd fares and letting a third of their inventory spoil during travel. Once they get there, odds are good that the market is already flooded with whatever they’re selling. If they don’t sell everything, unscrupulous Senegalese merchants will buy the leftovers, usually for a quarter of the asking price. Often the women will let their food rot rather than let themselves be cheated.

There’s an organization here called Gambia is Good that sells produce to restaurants and hotels in the capital. They run a few farms up-country, one of which is up the road past Kerewan. So we worked out a deal. They call me every week, tell me what they need that week, and the women have it ready each Sunday by the side of the road. GiG even paid better prices than you could get in the market. It worked incredibly well – my friends were able to sell the bulk of their crop without ever leaving their village or setting foot in a market stall. Most of them saw about a 15% increase in profits; not a lot in the grand scheme of things, but that little bit put them consistently in the black. It made things just a little bit easier.

It’s is a pattern I’ve found again and again when I work with small businesses here, from restaurants to mechanics to general stores. Nobody’s buying. Nobody has any money, so nobody can make any money. What they have they’re careful with, too careful to spend it on something new, something they haven’t been buying for years, which means that any innovative business folds almost immediately.

I was thrilled when a restaurant opened up in Kerewan. They were in a good location, a nice atmosphere, and they served chicken. Chicken! I can’t remember the last time I was so excited. Although Gambian food takes away your hunger, it never leaves you feeling full or satisfied, at least not for me. Those of you who saw me when I visited the States know how much weight I’ve lost. So this place was a godsend. And it wasn’t just chicken – he made pasta, salad, fish, omelets, it was like mana from heaven. I did everything I could to help him out, designing a menu, helping with the books, and eating there as often as I could.

But less than two months after the grand opening, the owner skipped town, a step ahead of a mob of angry creditors. He hadn’t had enough of a consistent customer base to make a profit. The entire concept of dining out is foreign to the village culture, and no one was willing to try something new. I remember once I wanted to thank my friend Yusupha for some help he’d given me, so I offered to buy him dinner. (Yusupha is the one who brought the severed ram head last Tabaskie, for folks following along at home.) He asked if I could just give him the money and he would eat at home instead. Bah.

Speaking of Yusupha, he’s also just started his own business. He’s selling small, low price solar-powered lights to villages without electricity. These are great little devices, simple and reliable. They were brought to the Gambia by an American couple who thought they could do a lot of good by offering locals a decent product that was affordable and useful. They wanted to set up distributors across the country, and asked me if I knew anyone with the energy and charisma to sell them. I immediately thought of Yusupha, who’s been my go-to guy for just about every community project I’ve done here.

We tried to get him a loan to buy a crate of the lights at wholesale, but the same microfinance company that refused to do business in Kerewan because it wasn’t an urban area refused to give him a loan because he was trying to start a new business.

“Business loans,” the branch manager told me earnestly, “are only intended for people who already have a business started. No one ever starts out with a loan.” He laughed jovially. “That would be ridiculous.”

But my friends agreed to give Yusupha a few lights on commission, with the idea that once he had sold a dozen or so he’d either have enough money to pay the wholesale price for a crate or enough credibility to get a loan. I’ve tagged along with him on a few sales calls, and it’s great to watch him work. He really understands how things work in small villages, knows who to talk to if he wants to shift the opinion of the whole community, when to push and when to let the idea build on its own. There are so few opportunities for talented individuals here, unless they have family connections.

And here’s the thing – Yusupha’s really helping. It’s hard for most Americans to really grasp just how much of a difference having electricity makes. The ability to see at night, without cumbersome flashlights or smoking candles, changes everything. Being able to work, study, or play in those hours effectively adds a third to your life. Yusupha’s not helping by giving grants or building lavish development projects. There’s no patronizing altruism – he’s just selling a product that people need, letting them buy a tangible improvement in their lives.

Again and again I’m finding that it’s only those tiny little changes that are worth a damn. Every Peace Corps Volunteer comes in thinking they’ll build a school, change a village, or save hundreds of babies, and they’re all disappointed when they find out that’s not gonna happen. I know I was. You might remember a long time back I was trying to build a massive car park / shopping center for Kerewan, with restaurants, bathrooms and artisans stalls. I wanted the glory of pointing to some huge edifice and saying “I did that.” It’s embarrassing to read over those entries now.

You see the same mentality in aid agencies the world over. Everybody’s gotta build a hospital or a farm. Drive down any main road in the Gambia and within fifty miles you’ll see ten signs proclaiming that this is the site of an irrigation garden, or a skill center, or a mango dehydrator, donated in the name of peace to the benighted peoples of Africa. Next to the sign is usually an abandoned building or an empty field.

You want to know the best work I’ve done here? Spillways - little ditches next to roads and footpaths. They rarely take more than a week to dig, and cost less than four dollars a meter, but they can save a village. During the rainy season floods are common, and roads can be washed away in a single night. Villages get cut off from the world, making it impossible to get access to food or healthcare.

More often, though, they’re cut off from their fields. Farmers have to slog miles through the mud to do any work. Carts can't get through, which means that everything has to be carried by hand. Animals brought in to plow get stuck or snap their legs. Agriculture in the Gambia is barely at a subsistence level as it is; all it takes it one bad rain and an entire village goes hungry. Spillways are cheap, they’re easy, and they keep the roads intact. I’ve planned dozens of them, sneaking them into budgets whenever I can’t get the funds. None of them have signs telling everyone how cool I am, but I guess I’ll just have to live with that.

In other good news, my drama club finally put a show together. We’d done little ones for the school before, but this was an honest-to-God production, with tickets and a real audience and everything. Very fancy. The whole thing raised my blood pressure enormously, though. Although I like to think I’ve adapted fairly well to the Gambian conception of time, when the actors didn’t show up until an hour after the show was supposed to start and the audience didn’t show up for until midnight, I started seeing red.

But someone knew someone who had a speaker system, and someone else had an uncle who was

a DJ. We blasted reggae across the village and soon the place was packed with villagers, chatting and dancing, most of whom didn’t have the slightest idea that they were attending a play. Still, once we stopped the music and my kids started the scenes, they all shut up and paid attention. They even seemed to have a good time.

I think it helped that I’d finally convinced the drama club that although plays where everyone dies of AIDS are super fun, maybe we should try a little comedy. We had a play where two old men are trying to steal a cow, but the cow doesn’t want to move, so they keep slipping and falling in the mud. There was one where a girl got a magic ju-ju to get revenge on her tormentors. Every time she touched it whoever she looked at went crazy, flailing around and barking or laughing hysterically. This one was great, because it really gave them a chance to cut loose and do whatever came into their head, giving it all the energy they had.

My personal favorite, though, was this weird little scene that only lasted about a minute. I’ve never seen anything that so perfectly captured the human condition. Or at least the male condition. It went like this (translated from Mandinka):

Man 1 (enters): “Look! A bowl of food. I will eat it. Ow ow ow! The spoon is too hot, I burned my mouth!”

Man 2 (enters): “Why are you crying?”

Man 1: “Um… I’m crying for all the poor children in the world that do not have any food. Here, eat.”

Man 2: “Ok. Ow ow ow!”

Man 1: “Why are you crying?”

Man 2: “I’m crying for all the poor children in the world who do not have any food.”

Man 1: “Liar! You’re crying because the spoon is hot!”

I got my own chance to perform again, since we had another open-mike night. I wrote this when I was thinking about the good folks from Washington that might be perusing this blog, and what kind of job that would be. I want to emphasize, in case one of them does read this, that it is meant with love.

Ode to a Peace Corps Blog Monitor

It’s not too gentle and it’s not too quick

As you click click through our tricky secrets.

Our fabulous lies, our dramatic inversions,

Our vaingasp speakings, our spotlight seekings.

In our little words you hunt for our little subversions.

Hunt, then, blog monitor.

Hunt out the blood in our tall dry tales.

Hunt down the breath of a thought of a truth.

Slaughter our stillborn musings, gasping mutely.

Sever what neck we dare to stick out.

Bleed our bad blogs of a hintbit of meaning.

In a ninetofive and a ninetofive,

Infirm days of cubicle withering,

The torture of carpet dust and clean lines.

You blink to the beat of minutes dying,

Stories tattooed on the gleam of your eye.

O! You bane of blogs!

You purifier of posts!

You last best defense against dangerous information.

You grim voyeur of auto-electric masturbation.

My blog monitor.

My glob vomiter.

My lobe limiter.

My friend,

When you sip your stale coffee does your mind taste attaya?

Does the flickerdeath office light burn like a Basse sun?

Where does your underbrain go when your overlife pauses?

Squat with me on my little shit hole while porcelain spreads your cheeks.

Wake with me to prayer calls.

Walk with me through dark places.

Shed my worn-out tears for me,

I don’t mind – I’ve got life enough here to spare.

It’s not too gentle and it’s not too quick,

As we glitter flit our world-saving bit

Past your steady march, your daily dollar.

You turn the gears of the land of the free,

Dreaming of spices you’ll never taste

And worlds you’ll never see.

In January I finally got to go hunting, something I’ve been wanting to do for over a year now. I went out in bush one night with a friend of mine, a teacher named Saho, and a few other volunteers. We never shot anything, or even saw anything worth shooting, but it was a beautiful evening, without much of a moon, so the stars were burning. It’s funny, I keep realizing something over and over, and every time I do it’s fresh: Africa is scary at night. I suppose that seems obvious, but it’s really, really true. There’s something about the darkness here that’s thicker, more alive. It seems to bunch behind you in twisted knots, move in the corner of your eyes. All the white people spent a lot of time spinning around, sure there was something behind us. Saho found this hilarious.

At one point we saw a light off in the distance, maybe a hundred yards away. It was just a pinpoint, and I figured it was another hunter and started to wave with my headlamp. Saho clamped a hand on my arm. I protested, and he shushed me violently. “It’s a witch light,” he said.

I’d heard about these. Little lights that appear in the bush, with no cause or explanation. No one knows what they are, mostly because people who see them up close tend to die. I had been wanting to go out some night and try to track them down, but none of my friends wanted to take me. The light flicked out, but immediately flicked back, some fifty feet from where it had been. It’s possible it was two lights, but if so they were perfectly synchronized.

Now, I hope that any regular readers of this blog will know by now that I’m not easily frightened, nor do I shy away from unusual experiences. But something about that light bothered me. Maybe it was because I couldn’t tell what color it was – it seemed orange, at first, then white, then sort of green. Maybe it was the way that looking at it made me feel like I couldn’t quite get enough air, like my chest wasn’t big enough for my heart and my lungs. As a group we opted for the better part of valor and decided to leave this mystery unsolved.

I managed another first this month, attending a wrestling match. This, too, was something I’d wanted to do since coming to this country, but any time they had one in an area near me I had always been busy. Finally they had one in my village, on a night when I was in town, and I got my game face on.

This thing was epic. Hundreds of villagers gathered in a football field on the edge of town. Light was provided in dim islands by a few scattered bulbs that hung from logs shoved into the sand. The power station had been having some problems lately, so the lights flickered drunkenly – they would switch suddenly off, slowly light again, then off a few seconds later. In and around these indecisive patches of illumination, dark bodies twisted and grappled. The multitude of feet kicked up so much dust that the whole field was covered in a haze, and as the men fought in this African fog they appeared and disappeared from view like dreams.

West African wrestling isn’t like what you see on American TV, or in American gymnasiums. There was no artifice, no bullshit name calling or expostulating. No one used any complicated holds or strategies. They wrestled standing up, face to face, and the winner often ended up picking the loser entirely off the ground and throwing him through the air.

It’s worth mentioning that this was also the night I discovered that palm wine isn’t always terrible. I’d had it once before, after being warned by more seasoned travelers, and found it to be the most vile substance I had ever consumed – and I survived on public school lunches for years. It wasn’t harsh like strong liquor; it just had this sickly, nauseous quality that made my entire body rebel and my throat spasm. But a friend from village had some that he said was better (bad, bad Muslim), so I figured what the hell. It was drinkable. Not good, not by a long shot, but drinkable. Also very, very alcoholic.

Now, for the benefit of the good folks in Washington, I want to emphasize that I did not get drunk. However, it is possible that the alcohol had something to do with my agreeing, after a lot of prodding by my Gambian friends, to participate in the contest.

There was a lot of good-natured joshing and elbow nudging as I made my way out into the wrestling area. Quite a few catcalls in Mandinka that I don’t think I was supposed to understand. My opponent was a big guy, with solid muscle sheathed beneath a decent layer of fat, which isn’t a common build in West Africa. If men are muscled here they’re usually slender and ripped. He was wearing a purple diaper, which I thought was a little weird, but far from the weirdest thing about the evening. He didn’t seem to like me, and I’m sure the palm wine on my breath didn’t endear me much.

We stepped close together. He grabbed my pants. I grabbed his diaper. Then I was in the air. Then I wasn’t.

I lay on the ground for a few seconds, trying to resolve the gyrating shapes and the cheering, laughing crowd into a coherent image. The damn flickering lights really didn’t help. My friends ran over to me, asked if I was all right. Their concern was belied a little by the fact they were all trying hard not to laugh. I said I was fine, and they said, good, then you can do the second match. I said, what?

It was the same guy. Now, instead of a contemptuous sneer, he had an amused and contemptuous sneer. Well, hell with this guy. I stepped forward, wrapped my fingers around his diaper, and as soon as I felt his hands on my waist I shoved forward, as hard and as fast as I could. The momentum knocked the chubby bastard on his ass, and me on top of him, right when the lights went out. I felt him struggle and curse at me, and I hopped up, victorious.

Oh, man, he was pissed. Everyone else thought it was hilarious. We circled and were going to come together for a final match, but the lights went out for good. It’s just as well, since that trick would only have worked once and he probably would have killed me.

It’s funny. Nothing I’ve done, none of the development projects, classes, or social functions have won me anywhere near the acclaim that five minutes in the wrestling ring got me. Kids run up to me in the street now and adopt the stance. People I’ve never met shout “champion,” which is funny, since I never won. I think everyone knows that I had no business out there, and that I have no actual wrestling ability. They just like it when they things they care about are taken seriously.

I also got myself all cut up this month. Several of the local tribes do ritual scarring, usually on the face, to signify passage into adulthood. They cut two or three parallel lines, then rub the ash of peanut shells into the wound to make the scar darker. It’s become a tradition with Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia to get their own scars – though not on the face; that might be a handicap at job interviews or dates. I’ve never had a tattoo or piercing, mostly because it seemed a little silly to intentionally damage your body when so many things in the world seem willing to do it for you. But this seemed different. Something that would be a mark of my time here, a symbol of the changes I’ve been through, the incredible things I’ve seen and done in Africa. Plus chicks dig scars.

So another volunteer and I visited a little old lady who was well known in the area for her scarring abilities. I wonder how you get to be good at that kind of thing. Did she practice a lot? Was there a training program? Maybe she gave away free scars while she was a student, like a hair stylist. We brought our own razors, as well as medical gloves, hand sanitizer and gauze. We were dumb, but we weren’t stupid. We drew with pen where we wanted the scars to be, gritted our teeth, and she set to work.

My friend wanted hers on the sides of her wrists, which I thought was a little odd, especially since she wants to be a school teacher when she gets back. She bore the experience with manly stoicism. I wasn’t quite so tough.

I had two spots where I wanted scars: the back of my neck and my ribs; I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. The ones on my neck weren’t too bad, really, I was surprised when she was done. The ones on the ribs, though… there’s not a lot between skin and bone around the ribs, especially when you’re an emaciated Peace Corps volunteer, really just a lot of nerve endings. It was excruciating, and slow, and the lines were long, and it was in all not a happy ten minutes for me. The old lady maintained a professional demeanor, but every time I gave a muffled whimper I saw a little gleam in her eye, and thought I knew why she’d chosen this particular profession. When she was finally done, and my side was on fire, she grabbed a big pinch of peanut ash and rubbed it hard into the cuts, twisting and pulling at the skin. I swear the witch was humming.

We bandaged ourselves up, pained but proud, glad it was over. She handed us a bag of ash, and said that every day, for the next three days, we had to open the wounds back up and rub more ash inside. This woman was the devil.

It was all character building, I suppose. So now I have the distinct pride of looking like a bored child doodled on me with a pen.

I told this story to an American friend of mine, who’d had a gigantic red dragon tattooed across her entire right side. I described the level of pain, and she looked thoughtful and said, “Yeah, that sounds about right.” I asked how long it took, and she said, “About five hours.” So I guess there’s always someone more badass.

I got my revenge on old African women, though. I showed them but good. Remember that business class I’m teaching for local women? No? Tsk tsk. There’s gonna be a quiz at the end of all this, you know.

Well, as a recap for the slackers, I’m teaching a class to a dozen women in Kerewan who sell vegetables and other goods. We’ve been learning the basics, like supply and demand, the idea of competition, scarcity vs abundance, and so on. The thing we’ve been hitting the hardest has been basic bookkeeping – tracking income and expenditures, calculating profits.

These women have a strange relationship to math. They can calculate change in their heads faster than I can do it on a calculator, even for triple digits. But put those numbers on a blackboard and their minds switch off. They have this idea of written mathematics as this arcane discipline, far beyond the reach of simple minds such as their own. So we’ve been working on that, and most of them can handle basic arithmetic with small numbers. But their businesses don’t operate just in small numbers. They need to calculate expenses for entire crops, as well as seasonal profits, which are big, scary numbers.

So I taught them how to use their cell phone calculators. First I drew a big calculator interface on the board, complete with the phone keypad. I gave them simple math problems, and the women would come up one at a time, press the imaginary buttons, and I would write whatever the screen should display.

In order to really picture this scene I need to paint you a picture of a typical village woman when she’s dressed up. She’s wearing a beautifully cut dress, made of a shimmering, incandescent cloth. It’s always a striking color – neon green, or yellow, or crimson – and it’s usually covered in sequins. Her head is wrapped in a similar cloth, tied in an intricate knot known as a tika. Finally, when it’s hot she drapes a diaphanous cloth over her head and shoulders. It’s incredibly beautiful, and it’s amazing to see, in these villages of dirt and stone and rough metal, these floating visions of color like flowers in a muddy river.

The first woman to muster up the courage to try my fake cell phone was in her sixties, wrinkled and bent, but still dressed to the nines. She was in the toubab’s class, after all, and she had to look her best. She inched forward, staring at the chalkboard distrustfully, then extended a bony finger and stabbed a button.

“Beep,” she said. “What did you say?” I asked. “Beep,” she said, and she stabbed the button again. “Mobiles say beep when you push them.” And for the rest of the lesson, each woman would beep merrily as she dialed the chalkboard.

I just have to take a second to talk a little more about these women. They are absolutely incredible. They wake up before dawn every morning. They feed the children, work the garden, wash clothes, pound rice, and cook dinner in tiny, smoke-filled rooms that about as closely approximate Hell as any four-by-three space can. They work in the rice fields, travel long distances to market to sell their goods, and chop the wood. While the boys and men rest in the shade for eight hours at a stretch, the women do everything that’s needed to keep the massive households together and running, and they do it without complaining, without even being aware that they’re being taken advantage of.

And then they take the time to dress up in their best outfits, outfits they had to work their fingers to the bone to earn the money for, and come to my little business class. The truth that both they and I know is that I need them far more than they need me. There’s nothing I can really teach them about life.

Just a quick caveat - this isn't the standard bleeding heart bullshit about how hard life is for rural women in developing countries. I don't feel bad for these women, and I don't want to lift them out their drudge and misery. They live more and better than just about anyone I've ever met. All I'm trying to do is help them get something close to a fair return on the insane amount of work they do.

Someone complained that I don’t give a complete picture of my work here, that I just dole out funny little anecdotes that I think will make me look good. So here’s a quick rundown on the things I’m working on.

The Council’s strategy plan is still going, although very slowly. I made the mistake of including mostly concrete suggestions that can immediately be acted on, rather than vague policy shifts that will have no real effect, and that disturbed people. So I’m working on blunting it, while retaining some level of effectiveness.

I put got a web page for the Council together, with descriptions of its projects and the major problems facing the region. Finding someone to host it in the Gambia for a reasonable price turned out to be quixotic, so I’m looking elsewhere. Suggestions would be welcome.

The regional strategy plan (which is a bad name, since it’s neither a strategy nor a plan – it’s the thing where we did the play where I got stabbed by a big stick) is going decently well. We did another skit, although we did it two months after we were scheduled to, this time about the importance of planting trees. It was a nice little skit, a lot like the Giving Tree – a farmer takes from a tree to make medicine, food, a fire, etc., until there’s nothing left but a stump.

We used children from the audience to make the tree, and I, as the farmer, chopped one of them down every time I needed something. Now at this point my old theater buddies are shaking their heads at my stupidity. I broke one of the cardinal rules: never work with animals or children. They can’t be controlled. I, in my white man’s hubris, assumed that they would be so in awe of us that they’d do whatever we asked. Turns out they were so in awe of us that they ran away in the middle of the performance. I guess being chopped down and eaten was a little unsettling.

I’m still helping out with development projects for the Council, mostly by following my counterpart, Keita, around and trying not to get in his way. We recently visited a mosque that had been started a few years ago and then abandoned from lack of funds – which is very, very common here. You see a lot of buildings that look like they’ve been bombed, but actually were just never finished. We were called in to assess how much it would cost to finish it. It was a sad little half-building, with no roof, no floor, and crumbling walls.

The alkalo (village leader) showed up and started explaining why it was the imam’s fault that the mosque was never finished. The imam showed up and started yelling at the alkalo. Some of the elders showed up and started yelling at everyone. People were ripping chunks out of the mortar with their bare hands to demonstrate the quality of construction. My man Keita just waited, calmly, like a rock in turbulent waters, until there was a break while everyone took a breath. Then he began listing the improvements that were necessary, and exactly how much they would cost, and who they should call to do the work, and how they could mobilize the labor, all in a perfectly calm, professional voice. After a few minutes everyone was nodding seriously and agreeing to commit resources. This man is a genius. He has a way of cutting through the bullshit, dealing with hard reality in a way that makes problems seem solvable, and everything else unimportant.

My drama club, alas, is not doing so well. Last year most of the talented and dedicated members graduated, and the people I’m left with aren’t so much bad as lazy. Only about a third of the rehearsals I go to actually happen. The rest of the time there’s always some excuse. And even when we do manage to get them all together, they’re watching the clock the whole time, waiting to be done. It’s discouraging, but I can’t teach people who don’t want to be taught. I can’t force them to care. So I’m picking out the best, the ones who actually seem to give a damn, and having private rehearsals outside of school. We’ll see if that goes anywhere.

I recently got to be loan collector, which was a lot more fun than it sounds. It was actually one of the best days I’ve had in this country. Microfinance organizations issue small loans to village businesses. The rates they charge are usurious by Western standards – as high as 30% - but since the original loans are so small, interest payments don’t come to much. There’s an organization called Reliance that offers microloans in a nearby city, so I shadowed one of their loan collectors for a day to learn more about it.

The first thing I noticed was that everyone loved us – well, him, I suppose. He was the market’s golden boy. People gave us free food, called out boisterous greetings, and generally couldn’t be happier to see us. Little old ladies ran up with their hundred-dalasi bills clutched in their hands, then watched proudly as we entered the payment into their account books. There was one guy who three months earlier had taken out a loan for three thousand dalasi – about a hundred and twenty bucks. The loan was for six months. He’d bought some supplies, started a business that took off, and that day he repaid the entire loan, straight out, then immediately took out a five thousand dalasi loan. The money here is printed in a variety of colors, and the big fistful of torn, stained bills that he held out to us looked like a rainbow.

Every project I’ve worked on, just about every development project I’ve heard of, tells a story. In that story, the main character is me, or someone like me, doing noble works and saving the day with daring do. The people being helped are side characters, movable set pieces of misery and need. But in that alley, in the sun, holding out his pride in a rainbow fist, that man was the main character. I was just, I don’t know, comic relief. And that felt right.

So I tried to bring the whole thing to my village, Kerewan. I talked to Reliance about extending savings and loan services to business people in my community, and they said it could work, if I got enough people and organized the payment structure. The problem would be payments. Reliance usually sends out loan collectors every day, which makes it easy to spot and deal with defaulters. Kerewan was over thirty kilometers away from their nearest office. So one of the conditions of the deal would be that someone in Kerewan would be responsible for collecting the payments and getting the money to the company. I said we could work something out.

For the next week I canvassed the community, talking to shop owners, carpenters, vegetable sellers, anyone who offered any kind of good or service for money. Over two hundred people, and most of them were interested. Many said that they’d tried to secure a loan, but the banks had turned them down. I even got them to agree to the payment structure, and appoint two representatives to be the loan collectors. We set up a meeting with an administrator from Reliance. The guy showed up five hours late, during which time most of Kerewan’s business owners came, sat around for a while, and left angry. Finally the representative arrived, so I went back into the town, re-gathered all the annoyed and busy villagers, and we had a meeting. It went well – the locals asked intelligent questions about payment rates and services, and the Reliance representative, while lacking in people skills, seemed to have the answers.

We scheduled another meeting for two weeks later, at which point people would actually sign up for accounts. The timing was crucial, as the shortest loan was for four months and it was exactly four months until the rainy season started and money became tight. Two days before the meeting I called to make sure everything was on schedule. The administrator said, “Oh, yeah, sorry. Upper management decided not to work in Kerewan. It’s not worth the risk.”

The worst part is that my people didn't seem very surprised when I told them. They were used to being ignored and taken for granted, and they expected people not to take them seriously. I was just one more outsider who promised a lot and didn't follow through.

So yay. Instead of ending with that depressing story, I’ll tell you about a game my friends and I invented. It’s called XP, or Experience Points. No, not like in a nerd game. You earn XP any time you have an experience. It can be good or bad, important or trivial, silly or serious. It just needs to be unusual, or interesting. It needs to let you know that this is real, that you are alive. Just about everything I’ve written in this blog is a time I or someone else earned XP.

You earn it when you climb a mountain, and when you get into a car accident. You earn it when you meet someone you haven’t seen in years and you have a great conversation, or when you get into a fight at a bar. You earn it going to your child’s birthday party, or when a relative dies. Any time you’re tested, any time you sacrifice. You get bonus points if you participate, instead of just observe, and you get bonus points the weirder or more powerful the experience is. It’s a great game because it keeps you aware that you are here, now, and you are alive. So the next time something terrible, or wonderful, or weird, or scary happens, be happy that you earned XP, that you’re earning the life you’ve got. The object is simple: get as much as you can until you die.

The general philosophy in Peace Corps is that the first year is really just a warm-up. You learn the language and you make some connections; you run the gauntlet of pit latrines, cockroaches and bush taxis, watch project after project crash and burn, and slowly learn how things get done. Volunteers aren’t really expected to accomplish much their first year, which is nice, because they rarely do. It’s the second year when things really get moving. You’ve found your stride, made your connections, and you finally start to have a real impact, which is an unfamiliar and disorienting feeling.

For me, things have been steadily improving since I passed the one-year mark, and when I got back from America everything clicked. It’s hard to pinpoint the difference. It’s not that my job is any easier – if anything, it’s harder; my week isn’t complete unless I’ve had a screaming fight with a Gambian. All the old obstacles are there: the apathy, the lies, the pervading atmosphere of fatalism and failure. But when I smash my head against one of these walls, instead of lying down and crying, I keep smashing until the wall breaks (or I get a concussion).

I’ve been learning a lot from my friends. There are a few exceptional individuals here, people who have a spark in them, something strong and hungry. They jump on every opportunity, learn everything they can, usually have multiple jobs and do well at all of them. Those people exist in America, too, but they’re harder to pick out of the crowd. Here, they shine out – just look for the guy who’s a teacher, owns a hardware store, works at the radio and is automatically invited to every village development meeting. Or the woman who cooks and cleans for a family of thirty, sews her own clothes, owns a small business selling beans or ice and runs the local women’s group. These people have something in them that just won’t let them give up or ever be satisfied with where they are. They tend to be fantastically successful, not least because there isn’t much competition.

My closest counterpart is one of those. A guy named Alasan Keita, the Physical Planning and Development Officer at the council, which means that he does all the work worth doing there. He dropped out of the school at fifteen when he realized he knew more than his teachers, travelled around Africa for years, learned farming, carpentry, and architecture, married a woman from Mali, then came back to the Gambia and built them a house. With the skills he taught himself he planted a mango orchard and a massive vegetable farm, built several beehives, started a poultry breeding project combining local chickens with Moroccan imports, kept a herd of goats, and headed up dozens of development projects for the local area council. Keita and I have a simple relationship: I teach him how to write effectively and use a computer, and he teaches me how to be awesome. I think I’m getting the better part of that deal.

The big project I’m working on right now, with heavy input from Keita, is a ten-year strategy plan for the council. I’ve never had lot of respect for things like this, honestly. In most organizations I’ve worked for you keep extra copies of the strategy plan around in case you run out of toilet paper. When the head of the council asked me to write one up I assumed it was a makework assignment that would take me a day or two at most. But Keita pointed out that this was an incredible opportunity. No other area council in the country has a strategy plan; this would be read by every NGO, government official, village development council, embassy, and dog catcher that ever worked or will ever work with the council. It’ll provide the one thing this organization, and every development organization that’s ever existed, desperately needs: accountability. If the big talking heads at the council and the upper levels of government sign off on the plan, then the council will be bound to actually do some of the things it says they will.

So we’ve spent the last couple months interviewing every staff member, from senior councilors to secretaries. I’ve poured over budgets and expense reports for the last ten years, which was fun. None of their files are electronic, protected from the elements or even organized very well, so my afternoons have been spent in a cramped, stifling file room, chest deep in ancient, moldy papers, trying to figure out how the hell this organization has been spending its money for the last decade. The good folks in Washington don’t like it when I talk too frankly about how things work here, so I’ll just say that the results were interesting.

I also found that the council is nowhere near fulfilling its potential, or even its obligations according to the original act that created it, and with Keita's help I laid out a step-by-step ten year plan for how it could do so. Mission statements, internal analyses, budgets, timelines. It revises the way expenses are reported, projects are taken on and completed, and staff are hired. Keita and I have been writing it piecemeal over the last few months, and yesterday we put it all together and printed it out. It's a little intimidating. A printed copy is sitting on the desk next to me, and I swear it growled at me a minute ago. If the council follows even a quarter of the strategies it outlines, it’ll have serious, long-term effects, not just for the council but for the region it serves.

Now comes the fun part: the politicking, the negotiations, the arguing. The strategy plan calls for sacrifices from everyone involved – staff, councilors, contractors, village councils – everyone but me, actually, since I won’t be here, which is causing a little resentment. To get it approved is going to take a lot of dealing and concessions and coercion, which I’m sure will be fun for everyone involved. The nice thing is that I’ve build up enough momentum and gotten enough people excited that anyone who tries to block it risks getting labeled as a dissenter, which is just about the worst thing you can be in Gambian culture. So knock on wood for me, and hope this thing gets approved. And that once it is people won’t just dump it in a filing cabinet and never think about it again.

As least one part of the whole thing will be tested soon. The council's tax collection system has been a mess for years, bringing in about a third of what it should. Some of the missing funds stay in the pockets of people big and influential enough not to pay, some magically disappear on the way to the bank, and some just never get collected because of sloppy records. I've been working with the Director of Finance to completely overhaul the tax record system, with detailed schedule for hitting the entire region, redundant safeguards at every step of the collection process, a fully transparent record and filing system that will account for every damn Dalasi at every step, along with accountability checks so that no one has the opportunity to accidentally slip some cash in their pockets. It's going into effect as I write this, and within the next month we'll see how it goes. By a conservative estimate it should increase the year's revenue by at least 50%. I never thought I'd be so excited by taxes.

Anyway. Enough shop talk. I know that none of you read this thing to hear about the work I'm doing, toiling away to fight the good fight. You want zany stories and wacky misadventures.

Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I sank the kayak again. I had help this time, which made it more fun. For a long time it’s been bugging me that the kayak is a one-seater, and although I can use it to explore the hidden waterways and secret jungles of West Africa, it's a shame that I can only see all that beauty alone. So I made a raft. It is possibly the most brilliant thing I’ve ever done. As I was rooting around an old storage room at the council, trying to find some missing files, I came across four ancient life vests sitting in a cabinet, collecting dirt and rat poop. I cleaned them off, then tied them together in a line, ending up with something roughly the length and width of a person. My vision was a sort of floating couch, like some people have in their pools. I called it the Life Lounger. The finished product was one of the ugliest things I’d ever seen, but it worked, after a fashion. It kept the rider afloat, but not entirely above water, and it had a tendency to buckle right under the waist, leaving one wet but alive. I needed something easily portable to tie it to the kayak with, so I used a busted extension cord that rolled up onto a spindle.

Oddly enough, few of my friends had the courage to try it out, and my genius sat unused and unappreciated for a month. Finally, after a good amount of begging, a girl named Tara agreed to be the guinea pig for my ground-breaking experiment. She clumsily mounted the Life Lounger, balancing with difficulty and soaking herself immediately, I got in the kayak, and off we went. Tara had the presence of mind to ask if we shouldn’t leave our cells phones on shore, but I assured her it would be fine. Ha. Things went fantastically well for about five minutes, just long enough to get a ways downstream. Then the extension cord, a cheap Chinese knock-off that apparently hadn’t been built for its load bearing capacity, snapped.

Reflecting on this later, Tara and I agreed that the stupid part was not trying to head back immediately. Instead I just pulled alongside her and we floated for a while, eating watermelon and enjoying the sunshine. A car full of white tourists stopped on the bridge and stared at us for a while. I’m sure up to that point they had been very impressed with themselves, roughing it through the wildness of Africa, and I like to think that the sight of Tara and I lounging in the river, eating watermelon and sunbathing, ruined that a little. I’m a giver.

But karma, as ever, was not my friend, and the current was a hell of a lot stronger than I’d estimated, so as we were congratulating ourselves on how badass we were we got swept out of sight of the dock. At that point we gave serious thought to how the hell we were going to get back. We tried a number of options. She clung to the back of the kayak, which was of course devoid of handholds, while I struggled in vain to paddle against the current. Every stroke threw a small wave into her face. When Tara fell off for the fifth time she tried holding on to the front. The image of her face beaming at me above the water, arms and legs wrapped around the point of the boat like a demented, backwards figurehead is one of the images from Peace Corps I’ll hold onto forever. Finally she tried to clamber up the back of the kayak and sit behind me. As she was struggling up the inside slowly filled with water, and the boat sank.

It’s funny, at no point in any of this was I worried. Partly because between the two of us we had five lifejackets. But also because the entire thing was so ridiculous, it couldn’t possibly have any negative consequences. We were close to the edge of the river, so we swam-shoved the kayak up to the mangrove trees and wedged it between the branches. There was no bank, only trees, but with great difficulty Tara and I tipped the boat on one side and emptied it enough that it would float. I climbed through the branches above the long-suffering, beleaguered craft and plopped down into the cockpit. She couldn’t row the kayak on her own, so she had to slog through the mud and mangrove fields a few hundred yards to the road. I got mine, though, since the tide was so low that the water was below the pier, and I had to wade through mud up to my chin, finally using a fishing net to haul myself hand over hand to shore.

It’s impressive how one stupid act can build on another, until disaster doesn’t so much strike as inevitable arrive. The kayak was fine, as were both of us, and the only casualties were our cell phones and our dignities. For those of you keeping score at home, the tally is: Phones destroyed in the river: 5 Times sunk the kayak: 2 Self-respect left: 0

The funny thing is, I felt great afterward. I was walking on clouds all day, even covered in scratches and caked with mud. I'm not sure what it is here, but so much of the time I feel muted, sedated. It's hard to muster up enthusiasm for much of anything, even things I know I'm excited by. Most of the conversations I have, with Gambians or toubabs, are essentially recycled copies of old dialogues. Other volunteers here feel the same way. I think a lot of it is the diet, the fact that we just don't have the physical energy to throw ourselves into something. Another factor is that this country doesn't often reward short-term enthusiasm; the harder you strive or argue for something, the less likely you are to get it, whether it's a project you're working on, a disagreement with a local, or even bargaining in the market. The laid-back approach always works best. That's not something I'm particularly good at, I partly blame the cognitive dissonance for my general lassitude. Hell, maybe I'm just lazy. But having a real adventure, needing to struggle to save life and property, even if it was all caused by my own lack of common sense, was a nice wake-up.

A week later the streets ran with blood, which helped.

It was Tobaskie again. Some of you might remember this from a year ago: it's the biggest Muslim holiday of the year, commemorating the day when Abraham was willing to kill his son Isaac. God had mercy and turned him aside at the last minute, so Abraham killed a ram instead. I like the directness of Muslim celebration. In Christianity they celebrate their leader's birth with decorated trees and blinking lights; they celebrate his death with bunnies and candy. For Muslims, a dude killed a ram, so they kill themselves a ram. Rams, plural, actually. Like, a lot. Each compound that can afford it slaughter one, but I saw some families do in six or seven. My god, the gore I saw that day. No horror movie can compare. The phrase "rivers of blood" is one that shouldn't ever be used literally. I saw more severed limbs than a tree trimmer.

At one point a Gambian friend of mine stopped by my place for a while. We sat in my living room, playing a board game, for about ten minutes before I noticed a strange smell.

"What the hell is that?" I said.He said, "It's from my bag.""Oh, you've got some ram meat?""Sort of," he said. He wouldn't look me in the eye."Sort of?""It's the head.""What?" I looked inside the bag, and sure enough, glaring back at me was a severed ram's head, its tongue stuck out like an insolent child. Blood was leaking through the bag and onto my floor.

"I will boil it," he said cheerfully. "Do you want some?"

I said, "I'm good." We finished the game (he destroyed me) and then he took his head and left.

Not a whole lot to tell this month, because I spent most of it traveling – to America, in fact, and most of the lovely people reading this blog saw me there. It was a great trip. I saw a lot of people that I hadn’t seen in a while (exactly fourteen months, in fact), and it was great to reconnect. Shockingly enough, my job is occasionally lonely, and with the miserable cell phone networks here communication has been spotty, so I’ve felt a little cut off at times. Seeing my friends and family again, even for such a short time, helped me feel grounded again.

Getting there, however, turned out to be tricky. The cheapest flight I could find to the States left out of Dakar, the capital of Senegal. I’ve been there before, and there weren’t any problems, so I was anticipating smooth sailing. My flight was at one-thirty in the morning, a target I thought even I, with Fate’s big bullseye on my back, could hit comfortably.

Before I even left the Gambia the ferry broke down, and we had to wait for the emergency back-up ferry (and you can imagine what a proud and noble vessel this was) to get started up and take us across. The ferry normally takes an hour to cross the mouth of the Gambia river; this time it took five. This same trip I heard from someone that the French had offered to build a bridge there, but Gambia turned them down. They wanted their independence.

Then no-one wanted to go to Senegal. Then everyone wanted to go to Senegal, and all the cars left without me. Then the border official felt the need to cause trouble. Normally these guys see that I’m Peace Corps and basically wave me through, but this particular GI Joe had a problem with the fact that I’d been issued a two year visa, when the maximum was supposed to be one year. I explained that his government had issued me the visa in an agreement with my government, and that although I’m sure both of them had meant to make sure it was all right with him, it had probably slipped their minds. So that took an extra hour or so. Then at the car park people kept lying to me about where they were going, when they were leaving, and how much it would cost. The lies seemed entirely frivolous, not trying to cheat me so much as to see how gullible the toubab was. What a fool am I, to believe someone when they say they will take me somewhere. So that took another four hours, and I spent a lot of time counting to ten.

Finally I got on my way, crammed into a station wagon that had been converted to hold seven passengers, driving on the comically bad African road. This road had been paved, once upon a time, but since then had turned into one giant pothole, with occasional patches of smooth asphalt. No one ever drove on the paved road if they could help it; instead they drove on the medians, gradually widening them until the whole thing was really just a wide dirt road, with a crazy obstacle course as a median. I did the math, and figured I was going to make it with about an hour to spare. That’s when we were robbed.

It actually took me a while to realize that was what was happening. The military stopped us, which is common, but they didn’t search anyone’s bags or check our passports. They talked to the driver for a few minutes, then he started yelling, then they slapped him (lightly, like a bad dog) and walked away. And then we sat there. And sat there. No one in the car spoke English or Mandinka, and I think they were all embarrassed by what was happening, but eventually I figured out that the police wanted money. No justification, not even a pretense. It was highway robbery.

Fortunately, I’ve spent a lot of time negotiating bribes. I got a pen and paper and strode over to the shoulders. We spent an amusing half-hour bickering in the moonlight, scribbling numbers, gesticulating, throwing pieces of paper around, until I got the price for my car’s release down to a reasonable level. All the passengers were put in, and we were off. To thank me for my assistance the driver sped like a demon the rest of the way to Dakar – all on the partly paved section of road. It was like driving a monster truck rally in a Prius. It was actually a lot of fun. Every few minutes I’d shout out how many minutes were left until my flight, and everyone would groan and scream at the driver to go faster.

And in the end I got to the airport half a damn hour after the plane left. The next flight, of course, left at the same time, the next morning. So. Twenty-four hours in Dakar.

The airport left something to be desired in terms of comfortable seating, or places where I could nap without worrying about being stabbed for my shoes, so at three a.m. I headed off into the city. Outside I could see, thrusting up from the buildings, silhouetted by a faint light, what looked like a giant headless guy trying to kill a baby. This was good. I had a goal now.

A garbage truck stopped outside the airport to pick up some trash, and I just marveled at the novelty until it started to pull away, going in the direction of the behemoth. So I grabbed my bags and hopped on the back. When the truck stopped again and the two guys got out they seemed a little surprised to see me. I gave them a little wave, my best Arabic greetings, and then picked up one of the trash cans and emptied it into the truck. I don’t know if this kind of thing happened to them a lot, or if being a garbage man in Africa just makes you generally unflappable, but without a word they loaded up the rest of the trash and moved on, with me standing on the bumper.

I ended up riding around with those guys for about six hours, helping out at each stop. I never got much closer to the statue, but I did end up seeing almost the entire city. I’m not qualified to comment on the amount of funding going into waste disposal in Dakar, but as far as I could tell, this was the only garbage truck running in town, because we went everywhere. The downtown business district, the artisan village, the beaches, the Presidential Palace, the slums (and nowhere does slums like Africa). We stopped to chat, whole communities greeted us. Well, they greeted the real guys. But I got included.

And these guys were smart. It was Ramadan, the month when you fast from dawn to dusk, which means people put a lot of effort into their breakfasts. And, of course, when someone stops by, you invite them to eat. We had breakfast five times. It was delicious, although usually had no idea what I was eating.

Right before dawn we stopped outside this tiny little nightclub in a dirty part of town. People were still partying, and a number of them had taken it out into the street. When they saw us they started chanting something (I can only assume it was “garbage man” in French). As we collected the trash they swarmed around us, dancing a kind of rhythmic shuffle in time to our lifting and throwing. I got annoyed, but the real garbage men started dancing along – pretty well, actually. They were men cut from a very special cloth. We spent a while grooving with the drunken revelers and tossing trash bags back and forth. One girl decided to climb inside a garbage can and dance, which would have worked a lot better if she hadn’t knocked it over once she was inside. She gave a little yelp as she rolled away, and my colleagues and I decided it was time to move on.

We finished our shift and I bade them a fond farewell. One of them gave me an egg. Raw, as I discovered later when I tried to eat it. I got a fix on the statue, the original object of my quest, and set off. Passage was complicated by the fact that half the streets were closed off for construction. There’s a building craze sweeping the entire city, and everywhere you look there are cranes and scaffolds and half-finished structures. This continually confounded my progress and I felt a little like a tip of a pencil line in a puzzle-book maze, until I remembered my magical toubab powers. I found a busted up old hard hat, put it on, and strode through every construction site that stood in my way. My way was unbarred. Doors opened at my touch. No one bothers a white guy in a hard hat.

When I found what I had first assumed was a headless man murdering a child, it turned out to be a little more disturbing. He was indeed headless, also huge and absurdly muscle-bound. Like a cross between He-man and the Stay-Puf Marshmallow Man. It was a baby in his hand, but this was a far from helpless creature. It gazed boldly out into the ocean, one majestic arm stretched forth to point the way. The way to the future. Its baby face was settled into a stern and shockingly precocious expression of the most intent purpose.

The man wrapped a woman in his other arm. She was my favorite. Her Western-style hair swept back dramatically as she folded into his embrace. Her dress, which wasn’t much more than a sheet (although a giant bronze sheet a hundred feet wide), barely contained her… ampleness. And, worst of all, it rode above her knees. This is a big deal. No West African woman ever shows her knees in public. They’ll walk around with their breasts bare without a blush, but a flash of a knee and they’re shamed for life. I was seeing thigh here. Miles of it. I was surprised to find I was actually offended; it seemed indecent.

Having reached the veritable Holy Grail of my quest and found it wanting, I moved on to the next thing I could see on the skyline: a giant lighthouse. Thrusting the mocking voice of Virginia Woolf firmly to the back of my mind, I set off, threading my way through yet more construction sites and fruit markets. On the way I stopped and feasted on a beef sandwich that tasted exactly – I mean exactly – like the Sloppy Joes my mother used to make. This was turning into a strange day.

The lighthouse was one of those strange old affairs where it wasn’t really a functioning civic structure and it wasn’t really a tourist attraction, so you’re never sure if you’re welcome. It was beautiful, though, and the view from the top was incredible. You can see the entire city, and miles out into the ocean. It was like I was on top of the mast of a big urban ship. I amused myself for a while tracing the route of my shift that the morning.

A friend of mine visited this lighthouse once with a guy she liked. They bought a bottle of wine from a grocery store and (discreetly, this is still a Muslim country) toted it up the windy staircase to the lighthouse. I imagine there was a lot of bumping and giggling, although she didn’t supply details on that point. They crawled onto the very top, through tiny winding staircases, ladders and trapdoors, and snuggled on the rickety little metal ledge. They watched the sun start to set as they leaned back, stammered a little at each other, and tried to open the wine, only to discover they had no opener. So the guy crawled back down, found the old caretaker and his family at dinner, and asked them if he could borrow a knife.

They spoke Wolof and he spoke Mandinka, so he resorted to a series of inane gestures to convey what he needed. Why the white man climbed up to the top of a lighthouse, with a young girl, just before dark, and then suddenly remember he needed a knife, they didn’t know or want to know. They just handed him the biggest butcher knife he had ever seen, offered him some dinner out of politeness, and said goodbye. The guy crawled back upstairs, at several points having to hold the small sword between his teeth while he used both hands to climb. Scared the hell out of the girl when he popped his head up. With a glance at the setting sun, he took his machete and pried at the cork of what was supposed to be the ice-breaker.

I can only imagine the frustrated rage that powered his wrists, because he snapped that knife right in half. They both stared in slightly hazy disbelief as the gleaming point flipped end over end down the side of the lighthouse, rhythmically catching the sunset’s light. With heavy hearts, sword shattered, bottle unopened and boundaries unbroken, they limped their way back down to the ground to tell the family they’d broken their knife.

Take that, Virginia Woolf.

After the lighthouse I walked on the beach for a while. Some older men hanging out in a shallow cave gave me a grilled fish. We had a long conversation (in the few words of different languages we had in common) about how, although they were fisherman, and good fisherman, they had an excellent and rational reason not to be fishing fish at exactly that moment, and indeed at any second they might be taken with the urge to do grab a real and go to town, and if they did, woah, watch out. For my end I relied mostly on the time-honored Peace Corps conversational tactic of saying “Eyoh!” (meaning OK) and nodding my head. I’m sure they thought I was a genius.

What was interesting was a latticework structure frame on the wall behind them, woven out of wood, pieces of rebar, and strips of canvas. It stretched most of the way up the cave wall. Tied to it were hundreds of small carvings and talismans made of bones. The meta-fisherman explained that each of these was a ju-ju (they pointed to the one on my arm to demonstrate) to commemorate someone who’d died. It seemed a lot more complicated than that, something about both staying and leaving.

It’s funny. This was exactly what I’d come to Africa to see. This was the reason I’d flown across half the world, braved hippos and camels and bush taxis, pit latrines and heat rash. To see something like this, something totally new. And here it was, in a cave, and I'd found it by mistake.

The beach called to me, and the waves. I stashed my bags under a rickety roof someone had built into the cliffs near the water, got down to skivvies, and went in. These, however, were not the gentle waves of the Gambian beaches, or the soft current of my river. These things were serious. Every time I forged in they tossed me back on shore, disdainful of my puny self. After seeing my feet above my head for the fifth time I began to wish for a surfboard and a Ninja Turtle. The embarrassing headlines that my death here would cause flashed through my head and sent me back onto dry land.

Where there was a guy sitting on my bags. Lots of emotions made themselves felt as I dripped over to him. Anger, at first, of course, then a twinge of unease as I wondered if he was crazy, then embarrassment, as I realized he had on the outfit of an imam, a Muslim priest. I’d been righteously offended at the Big Bronze Striptease, yet here I was in my underwear dancing around someone’s beach in front of an imam. But when I sat down that little bit of unease came back; his eyes were so red they were almost black, and he was spreading dozens of ju-jus on the ground. He was a witch doctor.

He spoke Mandinka, which helped, and he explained that these were not ordinary ju-jus. Not like the crap I had (no offense). These ones would make me Bruce Lee, Donald Trump and Spider-man all rolled into one. He had some for defense, some for wisdom, some for potency, some for avoiding traffic jams. I asked if he ever used any ju-jus, and he lifted up his tunic to reveal what looked at first like thick leather skin, encrusted with jewels. He had thousands of these ju-jus; each one was a square pouch of leather an inch or two on a side. Some had fake gems on the outside, some had pieces of mirror, some had patches of cloth or animal skin. Some were like thin leather belts and some were necklaces, and he had them all. The man was a walking tannery. I was amazed he could move. He also showed me his fine selections of magic powders, which he said would make me fly like an eagle. I believed him.

Then he pulled out the prize of his collection. His face was a mask of reverent awe as he lifted up a long strip of white cloth, with a simple pattern sewn in. I had to admit it was at least better craftsmanship than the others. The maribout (witch doctor) said that this ju-ju would make me invincible. I said, I thought the others ones made me invincible. He said, well, yeah, but this one makes you really invincible. Like, from anything. Bad spirits. Bad thoughts. Bad fate.

I asked how much. He named an absurd price, five or six times my monthly stipend. I told him to go to hell. He came down, but not a lot. It was obvious we weren’t going to make any kind of middle ground, so I said no thanks. He was getting a little agitated, and his dark eyes made it hard to tell where he was looking.

Then he took off. Just left all his stuff and staggered toward the edge of some high rocks. He called out, watch. The crazy bastard was going to throw himself off. I cursed and sprinted after him, and he giggled when I tackled him to the ground. It must have hurt. He said, see? I am safe!

I said, I’ll take it. What can I say, the guy was a hell of a salesman. I pulled out some Dalasi, the currency of the Gambia, and said that I’d have to pay with that. I meant the type of money, but he thought I meant the bill itself, and snatched it. It was only 100 D, about a hundredth of what he’d originally asked. He examined the whole thing carefully, from one end to the other, sniffing at each tear and smudge like it was my fault. He pointed to a number scribbled in the corner and asked if I’d written it. I said no, they all had that. He nodded, satisfied, and shook my hand.

I made my way back up to the road and kept walking, figuring eventually I'd find something else insane. It was the hot part of the day, though, when the air is thick and muggy and seems to be cooking in chunks on the sidewalk. I walked for a couple hours, lugging my bags, in sodden and sandy clothing, and eventually ran out of water. The streets I passed were all residences or office buildings, no restaurants or anywhere to just sit. But damned if that ju-ju did not work as advertised. Just as I was starting to see the upside of passing out, a big wooden building with the words “Gallery and Bar” appeared like a sweet mirage.

Inside was dark and cool, and I blinked away the afterimage of the day outside. Hundreds of masks lined the walls, some sized for a person, some five or six feet tall. Every surface held carvings and statues of fantastic things, some recognizable shapes, some not. They drew the eye in a way that was hard to resist. The hostess appeared from the darkness and asked if she could help me. She was as beautiful and calm as the room was, and I was very aware of my filthy, sunburned, and bedraggled appearance. She explained that the bar was not open yet, they were just setting the business up now, but she had some cold water, would that be all right? At that moment nothing had ever sounded better in my life.

As we sat and I drank we talked. I asked her about life in Dakar, the gallery. It was going to open up at the beginning of the month, a pet project by a wealthy French and Senegalese couple who wanted to compile artwork from all over the continent. She gave me a tour, and it was quite an education. To be perfectly honest, although I’ve always loved African art, I’ve always felt that if you take away its exoticness it isn’t actually all that beautiful. But what I’d seen were the quick tourist rush-jobs, or the Smithsonian anthropological oddities. This was art. These were masterpieces, created by men and women with an understanding and passion for beauty greater than I’ll ever have. The hostess pointed out to me spears from Rwanda, paintings from Tanzania, works I had no name for from places I’d never even thought about.

She showed me the whole place, top to bottom; she was very friendly. I met the management and some of the staff, and helped move around a few heavy pieces that they were still trying to find places for. They were going to have a restaurant attached, and the chef was trying out some different recipes, which they invited me to share to break Ramadan fast. I reflected, not for the first time, that there’s a lot of things we do better in America. But there’s a lot of things they do better here.

As I left the gallery it seemed like Dakar took its bow. Go out on a high note, they say, and it had been a stunning performance. I made my way simply and without incident back to the airport, read and took a nap, then got on the plane to America.

While I was there I saw some of you lovely people. I won’t go into details; this entry seems long enough and no one’s signed off the rights to have the details of their lives exposed and mocked here. But it was wonderful to see everyone I visited, family and friends, and I wished I’d had more time with each of you, especially the ones I didn’t get to see at all. Thanks to everyone who rolled out the red carpet and gave me a bed or couch to sleep on. And thanks for checking in on this blog. I was surprised how many of you had read it. I was annoyed, at times, too, because every damn story I had to tell you’d already read. And I didn’t even get to see your faces at the really big lies.

I started a business class for the local women this month. It’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a while, but haven’t had the social capital in village to pull it off. But after I managed to get my neighbor kicked out (his bosses finally transferred him once I got the alkalo to make a call), my street rep improved to the point where people would actually show up to something if they said they were going to.

So a few weeks ago twelve local women and I gathered in a sweltering little room in the back of a local shop to discuss profit margins and budgeting. We immediately hit a few road blocks. Only three of the women could read, and only six could do basic math. My Mandinka was good enough get across the basic ideas I wanted to teach, but not to understand and answer all the questions they had. After about an hour of stammering, misunderstanding, and scribbling on pieces of paper, I realized I’d fallen into the same stupid paradigm as every damn aid agency on this continent.

Before even meeting with these women, I’d decided what was wrong, what they needed, and how to give it to them. I planned out a lesson, gathered them together, and lectured them on how to do the jobs they’d been doing their whole lives. All I knew about their businesses was what I’d seen from the outside and what I assumed to be true.

So I started over. I threw away the papers, grabbed a friend from the compound next door to translate, and sat down so we were all at eye level. Then I asked each one to tell me about her business, what the challenges were, and what she’d like to learn. Turns out the biggest problem most of them face is that profit margins are razor thin, and the slightest hiccup can send them into the red. They can’t raise their prices or become more competitive because the laws the market follows are social, not economic. Since they’re all competing for the same small customer base, in their eyes it’s a zero-sum game: make more money and the person next to you makes less. By the same token, the culture of charity means that any revenue – not even profit, jut revenue – is eaten up by family and friends who sponge off anyone with a job. It’s impossible to build up capital, so tiny businesses stay tiny forever.

It’s not all grim. The women have a collective that works sort of like a combination group savings account and microfinance loan agency. Each woman contributes a certain amount each month, and then at given intervals they give the whole fund to one woman, decided by vote. It’s actually a lot more complicated than that, but the main idea is excellent, and I arranged to talk to the whole group at one of their meetings and see how I can lend a hand.

For the purpose of the classes, right now the women and I are trying to do some basic bookkeeping. Almost all of them sell foods and perishables, so a lot of it gets wasted when people don’t buy it. If they can figure out exactly how much is going in and out, it will do a hell of a lot to improve their profits without biting into their friends’ businesses. The problem, of course, is that they’re illiterate. So I’m putting together a system with pictures and colors that might work. They’re all pretty excited about it, at least. So we’ll see. Whether it works or not, it’ll be on their terms.

It’s nice to have some work that’s actually solid. Ramadan started this month, which has been a whole lot of fun, let me tell you. Now, before any of my vast Muslim reading audience gets offended, I have every respect for the fasting tradition. It’s a way for Muslims to bond with their families and communities through shared privation. It gives them a clear way to prove their faith through sacrifice and suffering, things that are highly underrated in our culture. It puts everything you do in a more religious context, so good deeds during Ramadan count more, and sins are doubled. I’ve tried it, and it really does clear your mind and make you more aware of yourself, your place in the world.

It also makes you grumpy and hungry. Not eating or drinking for fourteen hours during the most humid part of the year will put a damper on anyone’s mood, no matter how pious you are. Trying to get anyone to do anything requiring effort is an exercise in futility. Work more or less grinds to a halt.

The funny thing is that I’m still busy, just not with anything cool. Construction projects have mostly been put on hold because of the rains – we’d like the buildings to last at least a year before they melt. Once Ramadan ends and things dry out I’ll have a dozen projects to deal with at once, so while things are slow I’m doing a lot of paperwork and preparation. More thrilling adventures in the Peace Corps.

The puppies started walking this month, which added a whole new level of psychosis to my life. I was really hoping that once Chulo was potty-trained it would be a while until I had to deal with dog poop as a daily aspect of my existence. This month my house was a mine field. Every step had to be examined first, every trip across my living room to be weighed for its potential gain and risk. Going to the bathroom at night was sheerest folly.

The puppies themselves were fun, when they weren’t irritating the hell out of me. I’ll spare you the details – just read the entry nine months ago from when I first got Chulo, then multiply by five. They were certainly active, with sharp little teeth and a taste for toes and socks. Chulo is terrified of them, which is hilarious. He refuses to go near them and sleeps on chairs so they can’t get him. They love him, though, and like to chase him around the house. Watching my badass gangster dog flee in panic from a few tiny puppies has been the best entertainment I’ve had in a while.

After a few days I noticed one of the girls couldn’t walk. Her back legs stuck out rigidly from her body and she had to drag herself around by her front paws. For a while I thought that it was just a muscle problem, that she’d get over it. I spent hours manually moving her legs and trying to teach her to walk. But sometimes her front paws would be paralyzed, too, or her head. Her crying would wake me up at night and I’d find her lying in a puddle of her own urine. There were signs of mental problems – she didn’t respond when I picked her up or one of the other puppies tried to play. I had to clear a space for her to feed, or else the others would shove her out of the way, but even when I did she often couldn’t manage to get her mouth around the nipple. She was in a lot of pain.

When it was over, I carried her body out into the bush late at night. By the light of my head lamp I dug a pit in the mud near a rice field. It needed to be deep so that the hyenas that roved near town couldn’t get to it. It seemed very strange to me that she and I should be there, at that moment, together. If each of lives only once, how does it make sense that this dog’s only chance was a few miserable weeks of pain and fear? In some literature the significance of a character lies far beyond his life; he’s a symbol, written out as part of a word he’ll never read, that has no relevance to him or to his pain. If he ever found out, how furious would he be with his author? Would he even care what the word said?

Anyway. Something happier. I got to die again, which is always fun. This time I was stabbed through the stomach with a tree branch. The experience was only marred a little by the fact that the guy who did it was wearing a giant purple dress. I made sure to scream and flop around a lot; everyone liked that.

Remember that Regional Strategy Plan I talked about a while back? Probably not. It’s just a group of volunteers trying to combine efforts. For months it’s been a lot of empty talk and frustration. That all changed when we decided at the last meeting to quit messing around and do a damn project. We were going on tour!

Some background: a few years back a PCV in Mali invented a topical medicine called neem cream that makes a better mosquito repellant than anything you’ll find on the shelves. It’s cheap as hell and easy to make – all you need is soap, cooking oil, and the leaves of the neem tree, common in Africa. Volunteers in the Health Sector are required to do a certain number of neem cream demos a year, getting a group of villagers together and showing them how to make it. As a sustainable project it doesn’t usually work that well - people are happy to get have the toubab make it for them, but won’t pay a lot of attention or make it themselves afterward.

So we did the mother of all neem cream demos. We wrote a skit, translated it into Wollof (a tribal language I don’t know), and took it on the road. I got to stretch my theatrical muscles as the evil villain who wanted everyone to die of malaria. At one point my opening monologue scared away the entire audience. We didn’t have enough women (which was weird), so one guy had to play the wife. I choreographed a quarterstaff fight that ended, like I said, with him stabbing me through the stomach. (I had to drop my script for the fight, so to my meager Wollof vocabulary was added my last line – “You’ll never stop me. You’ll have to kill me.” You’d be surprised how useful that’s been.) We made several huge batches of neem cream and sold them at a nice little profit, donated of course to the needy volunteer beer fund.

The audiences were insane. We performed at the luumos, which weekly markets held at different vilalges across the region, to absolutely packed crowds. Even though we were speaking their language, I was the only one who projected enough to be heard over the constantly chatting crowd, so most of the plot was lost. They liked my death scene, though, as well as the chase scene and some other physical comedy. And they paid attention to the part where we actually made the stuff. A week later, I got reports that people were making and selling neem cream at the luumos.

So bam. A win for the good guys. Not to overload you simple folks with too much introspection in one entry, but it occurred to me as I took a bow after the last performance that I am really, really lucky. To be doing this, working my ass off in the heat and the dirt, with good people, at something I’m good at, doing something that really will save people’s lives – it’s not too bad at all.

This month I helped birth a litter of puppies, met a devil, failed to steal a monkey, and lost the good fight.

So one of the great things about living in my new site, Kerewan, instead of my old site, Njaba Kunda, is that in my compound there is another dog, a sweet but not very bright girl. Her fur is mostly white, so they named her Brownie. The reason this is great is that in Njaba Kunda I was having some real behavior problems with Chulo – ripping things up, going crazy in my house, giving lots of little bites and nips when we played. He wasn’t a bad dog, he was just lonely. He needed to bite something, and since he didn’t have any friends I was the next best thing. As soon as we got to Kerewan and he met Brownie all that ended. He’s generally a much happier dog, and much easier to deal with.

Brownie, in turn, has fallen in love with the two of us. Although she is technically my neighbor’s dog, she spends all of her time in my house. I’m the one that gives her attention and affection, I’m the one that goes running with her. She has a favorite chair that she sleeps in every night. It’s been great, except for one thing.

There’s a reason I got a boy dog instead of a girl. A few months back Brownie became quite popular with the male dogs in the neighborhood, a fact that caused Chulo no small amount of consternation – especially because he was too young to engage in such activities himself. In general Brownie kept her distance (except for one memorable occasion when she and another dog ended up stuck together. I’ll spare you the details, except to say that I have never seen two creatures look more uncomfortable and embarrassed in my life. I imagined the male dog saying, “So, do you want to get breakfast or something?”)

But there’s no stopping nature, and Brownie’s stomach began to swell. She started doing weird things like scoot under my bed or behind a dresser, wedge herself in, then freak out and try to scramble back out. More than once I had to lift my bed off her so she could escape. She was insanely hungry, developed an appetite for strange foods, and stole out of the trash more than once, usually something bizarre like eggshells or coffee grinds. Finally one morning I woke to her whining pitifully and trying to climb up on my bed, foiled by her big belly. I was mostly asleep, but some intuition told me not to let her up, which was a good thing because at that moment her water broke.

I’m not sure I can adequately describe to you just how disgusting the next few hours were. I moved her outside, where I set up a nest of old pieces of fabric and sheet. She couldn’t walk properly, so I had to carry her, doing my best not to squish the little creatures inside. As I wrestled for a hold and she wriggled frantically, a paw poked out. I didn’t know much about puppies, but I knew with people that’s bad. I had nightmare visions of having to reach in and turn it around, or it getting stuck and all the others being trapped inside. I called everyone I knew who might have the vaguest idea what was going on, babbling words in a panic like “alien creature,” “clawing its way out,” and “placenta everywhere.” Turns out that’s totally normal, and the little beast popped out just fine. It was tiny, slimy, and wailing like a fire truck. Some… other stuff came out with it, which Brownie slurped up. (She wasn’t hungry that night, which surprised me until I remembered how much she'd already eaten.)

Five more came out, all with relative ease, over the next few hours. Brownie licked each one thoroughly before settling back, looking exhausted but proud, to let them feed. My heart finally settled into a normal rhythm and I even let myself be happy about the whole thing. More than one person had expressed interest in adopting, and I felt confident I could get them out quickly. But it turns out that puppies have to stay with their mother for at least six weeks after birth. My neighbor assured me that they would be no trouble during that time; Brownie would take care of raising them, feeding them, everything. All I had to do was make sure Brownie stayed fed and hydrated.

What neither of us took into account was just how dumb Brownie is, and that she would probably pass on this dumbness to her offspring. She’s a terrible mother. She often forgets that her puppies are there, and will roll over on top of them without realizing. The whole process of feeding mystifies her. She never lies in such a way that the puppies have easy access, and will often wander away and take a nap in another part of the house, ignoring the puppies’ pitiful squeals. Even when the little monsters are right by her belly they seem incapable of figuring out exactly what it is they’re supposed to do unless you put their heads right in front of a teat. So every few hours I’m notified by a chorus of whimpers that my governance is needed. I grab Brownie and force her onto her side, then take each of the six puppies in turn and line its head up with a nipple, until all are suckling happily. After a few minutes Brownie usually gets bored and wanders away. This game is especially fun at three o’clock every morning.

Needless to say, I spend a lot more time out of the house these days. Running has become a lot more interesting these days. You see, the Gambia doesn’t have normal season, like summer and winter. Instead it has two – wet and dry. During the dry season, it doesn’t rain for eight months, temperatures routinely top a hundred degrees, and during the hot parts of the day movement is simply impossible – the only reasonable activity is lying in the shade and trying not to die.

But the wet season is worse. It’s not as hot, but the air is so thick you can cut chunks out of it with a knife. It could be seventy degrees and you’ll be drenched with sweat. This is the season of heat rash, of infections, of fungus. It’s when the mosquitoes come out in force and the clinics explode with malaria cases. It’s when the ants, the cockroaches, and the spiders all come out to play in every corner of your house. It’s also known as the hungry season - when every food bowl gets pretty skimpy and every stomach gets pretty empty, since it’s been a full year since the last harvest and the food stores have run low. Normal work (such as it is) grinds to a halt as every able-bodied person goes out to the field to plant. Every aspect of your life gets worse in the wet season, except one. The country turns absolutely beautiful.

It’s kind of surreal. Eight or nine months out of the year the countryside is brown, barren, especially in the heavily deforested areas like my region. As soon as the rains start the growth is explosive. I usually run the same path every day, and every day the plants are noticeably higher. The land turns so green it’s unreal, like someone took a neon paint brush of life and swept with heavy-handed strokes over the whole world. You can just stare and stare. It’s a overpowering example of a principle that I’ve been noticing more and more in the Peace Corps – that good things after a lot of bad. When I get chocolate, or wine, it doesn’t matter that it’s low quality – it’s still better than anything I ever tasted in America. And when I see green here, real green, the life of the land exploding for a precious few months – it’s almost worth the heat rash. Almost.

So I go running, usually with some kids from my neighborhoods (for those of you paying attention, these are the same kids I almost drowned). One day I wanted to go a little farther than we had before, toward some trees in the distance that looked interesting. After a few seconds I noticed I was running alone. I looked back and saw the boys hanging back, with a mixture of fear and embarrassment. They said we couldn’t go there. I asked why. They said there was a devil there. I laughed. I shouldn’t have, but I did. These were smart kids. They were going to school, doing well. We would sometimes do math problems or practice spelling as we ran. But they were honestly terrified to go to this place that didn’t look to me any different from anywhere else in the bush. It’s not like a lot of people had died there, or there were dangerous animals. But apparently everyone knew that a devil lived there, and you shouldn’t go.

So I went. I figured what the hell. It was... I don't even know how to say it. I’ve seen a lot of pretty amazing things in my life, I like to think. I’ve visited some of the great cities in the world, hiked canyons, mountains, walked on a glacier. But I have never seen anything as beautiful as this place. There's nothing awesome or sublime about it - but everything there is perfect. It's amazing. There is a small pond, surrounded by reeds and trees. It’s quiet there. It seems more alive, more real, than any place I’ve ever been. Chulo likes to run along the edge of the pond, where the water is only a few inches deep. I don’t know why, but he goes crazy for it, sprinting back and forth, biting at the splashes that he fountains up. There’s a tree growing at a strange angle, almost horizontal, with a crook that fits my back perfectly. It’s more comfortable than any bed. Birds and monkeys talk in the trees, and I even saw a bush pig come up and drink at the pond once. I’ve gone back at least every other day when my schedule allows, and I just sit there, sometimes for hours. If there is a devil there, he’s got good taste. The boys still refuse to go in with me, but that’s all right. It feels like mine.

My other encounters with nature have been less blissful. My neighbor and his family acquired a monkey from somewhere, God knows why. They seem to hate it. They spend at least half an hour each day shouting at it and whacking it with sticks. They keep it tied up to a tree, with the other end of the rope cinched tight around its waist. The other day I walked outside to see my neighbor holding a stick so big it was more like a branch. He kept swinging it at the monkey and shouting in Mandinka. I didn't catch everything he said, but at several points he called it lazy. Which seems a little unreasonable. It just glared at him, its expression clearly saying “What the hell is your problem?”

So I decided to free it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly a hippy Greenpeace type. The whales can shave themselves, for all I care. And if I were to save an animal, it would be one much cuter and nicer than this nasty little creature. But seeing something that has clear moods and facial expressions get the living hell beaten out of it every day just gets to me. So the last week, the night before I went to the capital, I snuck out at three, creeping my quietest past my neighbor’s house. I untied the end of the rope, and granted the poor monkey its freedom, feeling like a master criminal with a heart of gold.

It wouldn’t move. It just glared at me. I grabbed a stick and poked at it, the irony heavy in the night air. It just kept glaring at me. “Psst. Monkey. Fuck off. Be free.” Nothing. Then Chulo decided to lend a hand. It should be no surprise to anyone that he hates this monkey, and chases it up the tree every time he goes outside. He saw me engaged in epic battle with the beast so he let up a primal howl to back up his master, probably waking up everyone in a three block radius. The monkey snatched the stick from me and threw it at the dog. Then, deciding I was the lesser of two evils, it hopped into my arms for protection.

So I was busy trying to shush Chulo, watch my neighbor’s door, get ready to bolt, and contend with a squirming mass of terrified monkey in my arms. I knew that he would come out to shout at Chulo at any second, so I did what anyone would do.

I threw the monkey.

It was a pretty good throw, if I do say so myself, especially considering I didn’t have much of a grip. I tossed it over the compound wall and it gave a forlorn little shriek as it sailed away out of sight. Then I grabbed Chulo by the neck, dragged him inside, and slammed the door shut, heart pounding. When I didn’t hear anyone stirring for a while I went to sleep, feeling tired but righteous. Except when I came back three hours later to catch my bus, it was still there, sitting on the wall. Its glare was especially murderous in the silver dawn light.

Now I had a dilemma. If my neighbor came out that morning and saw the monkey there with the rope untied, he would know that someone had been messing with it, and I’m the only real suspect. So I had to tie it back up. But the monkey no longer trusted me, perhaps with good reason. So I had to chase the damn thing up and down the wall until I managed to grab its rope and drag it squealing back to the tree.

So just to recap: in an effort to save the monkey from being tied up and beaten, I jabbed it with a stick, threw it over a wall, yanked it around by the rope, and in the end tied it right back up. I’m a real hero.

Most of my efforts to play the hero seem to come up short these days. I work on a lot of development projects, and I usually have two main roles: speed up the process by kicking people until they do their jobs, and slow down the process by bringing up issues they’d rather ignore. As you can imagine, this sometimes causes problems. The issue I run up against again and again is that land use in West Africa is usually divided along tribal lines, with the village leader allocating land according to need and contribution to the community. It works about as well as you’d think, with lots of corruption and favoritism, but it’s been the system for thousands of years, and it’s worked – until about forty years ago, when the Gambia went “modern.” They adopted Western property laws, with deeds and sales and whatnot, which means that ninety percent of this country is legally squatting on the land they live on.

Now, before I anger the nice people in Washington who monitor this blog, I am not claiming the government of the Gambia is in the habit of stealing people’s property. All I’m saying is that if there’s a project underway, even a development project intended to benefit a community, and someone’s house or business happens to be in the way, it’s real easy to find legal justification to… reallocate the land use. I recently had a nasty run in with a contractor when we found ourselves on opposite ends of this ideological line. I can’t get into details here, but it’s an interesting story, so if you want to know, email me.

What’s frustrating is the attitude of my counterparts every time an issue like this comes up. They patronize me, like I’m a childish idealist who doesn’t understand the way things really work. I understand it fine. I just want to change it. Maybe that’s a tad ambitious for a two-year service, but I hate feeling like I’m part of the problem. But at the end of the day, I have to believe that I’m doing more good than bad, that most of the injustices would’ve happened anyway, and that by remaining involved I’m keeping it as clean and effective as possible.

There’s a phrase that keeps repeating in my head, something about the road to Hell…

Hello, beautiful people. Happy late Fourth of July. One year ago, on July 3rd, a scared little white boy stepped off a plane and onto Africa. So congratulate me. They say it’s all downhill from here.

Speaking of downhill, I left a few stories on cliffhangers last time, so let’s wrap those up now.

My dog, Chulo, managed to rip out about half his stitches again almost immediately. I said hell with it and just tried to keep the wound clean, along with spraying him with the purple disinfectant every few hours. I had a lot of fun trying to get back to site. You see, one of the lesser-known tenants of Islam is that you’re not supposed to travel with animals. Tying them to the roof is okay, but even having an animal in the hatchback of a car with people riding in the backseat is taboo. I find this hilarious, because I can’t count the number of times I’ve ridden in a taxi rubbing cheeks with a goat. Their breath is about as nice as you’d imagine.

To get to my site from the capital you have to take a ferry across a wide river, then catch a bush bus from the car park. The bus usually takes about two hours and costs 35 dalasi. No one would take me and Chulo for anything less than 300 dalasi, which I refused to pay, so I sat in the car park for several hours, arguing with the drivers. I called up my contacts at the area council and asked them for help, and they said they’d send someone. Two hours later, well after dark, he shows up. I pick up my bags and ask, “Where’s your car?” He says, “What car?”

Turns out he lived in the town I was in, and was simply sent over to help me negotiate, not give me a ride. Why it took him two hours to get to get to me when the entire town is less than a mile wide, I don’t know. He argued with the drivers for a while, and they told him exactly the same thing they told me: no filthy animals in their cars for less than 300 Dalasi. I said I wouldn’t pay that. So he paid them one hundred from the area council petty cash, and I paid two hundred. Except that the council already owed me one hundred for other expenses, so basically I paid what I originally swore I wouldn’t. At that point I was sick, stressed to hell, with a bleeding, terrified dog, and wanting to kill every person in this stupid country, so I gave in.

Chulo’s wound healed up pretty well, in the end. Not even much of a scar. Of course, as soon as it did, he developed a cyst on his rib cage. This dog has had more twisted health problems in the last few months than any creature should be able to survive. He’s been run over by a car, had mango flies lay eggs in his testicles, gotten weird bruises and swellings on his legs, had his side ripped open, and gotten a cyst on his side. He’s still the most active and irritatingly energetic dog I’ve ever seen.

The other conflict I left hanging has not resolved itself so well. My neighbor, a swell guy named Jobatie, who happens to be a wife-beater, a drug-pusher, oh, and the chief of immigration, has basically stopped paying his share of the electricity bill. When I got back from Kombo at the beginning of last month, we had a calm conversation about it, and I agreed to pay a little more than what I had been, just to keep the peace. I ended up paying rather a lot more, and he still was barely paying anything. So the lights went out, my fan died in the stifling heat, and when I asked him to pay more he told me to go to hell.

Now, you all know that I am normally the soul of diplomacy. A gentle lamb am I, filled to the brim with the soul of human goodness. But I have limits. So I yelled. He yelled back. Things ended up a little violent. Not a lot violent, but a little. He pushed me, then waved his belt at me like I was going to fly at him in a bloody rage and he would have to fend me off. I just walked into my house. He stood outside for a while, shouting bizarre threats like he would have me deported. That would be a neat trick. The next morning, he and I both left the compound at the crack of dawn, at a near run.

The race was on.

You see, in America, with a dispute like this, the parties involved would file a complaint with their landlord, and if it got really bad, they’d take it to the municipal court. In the Gambia, the court of public opinion is the only one that matters. Whichever of us could get the neighborhood on his side would get to stay in the compound. The other would have to find a new place to live. For the next week he and I basically ran an election campaign, canvassing the neighborhood, talking to everyone we could, trying to get our respective versions of the conflict heard by as many people as possible.

It was really quite a learning experience. Power structures in West Africa are subtle and many-layered. I had to speak to the governor (yes, the one that threw the stapler) and the chief of police, of course, but I also met with the imam (the Muslim priest) and the alkalo (the village’s traditional leader). But that was only the beginning. I talked to women’s groups, which are a lot more powerful than most people realize, as well as student’s groups, even the football teams. I’m sure the good folks at the Peace Corps will be proud to know that I’m using the skills they taught me to get back at people who screw me over.

Anyway, the whole thing is still up in the air. I managed to shift public opinion enough to get the landlord to agree to kick Jobatie out, but long hard experience in this country has taught me that just because someone says something’s going to happen doesn’t mean it will happen soon, or ever. So we’ll see.

I got a nice break from the stress last week, when admin put us all up in the Sheraton for a few days. We had a meeting of all the volunteers in the country. It was amazing. The place look like it had been designed by Picasso after reading too many Dr. Seuss books and playing Legend of Zelda for three days straight. It took at least twenty minutes each morning for me to find my way to the breakfast buffet, wandering lost but happy through labyrinthine turns, twisting staircases, inexplicable dead-ends, and the occasional pit lines with spikes.

But it was worth it, because they had bacon. They could have put me up in the janitor’s closet and I would have been happy.

We had another open-mike night, an evening when we put together a malfunctioning microphone, several dozen volunteers with more courage than talent, and lots and lots of alcohol. It was a lot of fun, especially when a guy from Georgia broke out with his personal rendition of “Achy-Breaky Heart” a capella, which for reasons I never discovered he performed while doing a chicken dance. I wrote another poem, which you lucky, lucky people get to enjoy here. It doesn’t quite have the lyrical flow of the last one, but it’s one of the most honest things I’ve ever written. But don’t read it while you’re eating.

My future is eating me.

His table manners are atrocious.

Sometimes he uses his fork and knife, but usually his fingers

Pulling off bits of me and shoving them greasy into his red mouth.

His chin is soft and slick with juices.

He starts at my feet.

Eats up my child dreams, my story heroes.

My I want to bes and my nightmares.

Everything that seemed special and true.

They slide down his gullet and turn into things he used to believe

Things he knew when he was half-made and stupid small.

Things he put aside.

He eats past my knees.

Picks the gristle of my scars from his yellow teeth.

And all the places my legs have taken me.

Between his molars he grinds every mountain I’ve climbed.

He slurps down every path I’ve walked like dirty pasta.

They squish and splish in his belly, buried under mortgages and memos.

Pumped into his varicose veins.

He eats my groin.

And with it all the women I’ve loved. He over-seasons them;

Salts the stolen kisses, saturates the sex with Splenda

Until he can’t taste the sweat, the need, the furious passion.

With his fork he mashes all the lovely heart-ripping soul-cutting pain they gave me,

Whipping it smooth so it won’t give him heartburn.

He takes my insides one by one.

Gums my anger till it’s soft.

Chokes down my shit poems and half-written novels.

Plucks out my hunger with his fingers.

Drops the bones of my arrogance on the floor.

My jokes are all on me.

As he eats he gets fatter, older.

His hair thins, his eyes dim,

His hands shake. Lines drip down his face like melted wax.

A body and mind neglected and befouled.

Around my rib cage he finds my Peace Corps service.

Eats it slowly. Lovingly. A delicacy.

He keeps the bullshit for his resume, edits out the failures.

Chews my stories again and again until they’re a gray paste lining his gums,

Coming out in a fine spray of flecking spittle.

He sucks the marrow of my life through my neck

Like a middle-management vampire.

He eats my education, my opportunity knocks and my campus dreams

And shits out a do-nothing go-nowhere job.

Pulls the skin off my face and blends it until it blends on in.

Just like everyone else.

My hair he rips out in clumps.

My eyes see nothing when they are popped into a gaping maw.

With a meaty belch, he pats his chin dry

And flips on the TV.

This month I sank my kayak, almost drowned a couple of kids, built a slaughter house, re-did the record books at a hospital, stitched my dog’s leg, and got caught in a domestic dispute.

Let’s go in order. On arriving back in Kerewan I found, predictably enough, that none of the projects I’d set up to continue developing my in absence had progressed at all, and every meeting I’d organized for my return was cancelled. Good times. Most of my projects had actually taken some big steps backward, as people who were firmly on board when I left had gotten cold feet or just stopped caring. The schools were in full grip of exams, a period when pretty much all activity shuts down as students try to take these tests, which they have in no way been prepared for but are crucial to their future.

The resource center, where I taught community computer classes, lost its power line; publicly I complained but inside I cheered. I hated those damn computer classes. The only reason I was teaching them was to spare the governor and the donor groups that built the center the embarrassment of yet another useless development project, a big shiny building appropriated from the community and used by no one. Hell with it. I have enough of my own mistakes without having to cover for other people’s.

My counterpart at the council got transferred, making all the work I’d done with him on the rest area I talked about last time essentially useless. His replacement, a young guy named Keita, is a good guy, though, and I’ve begun working with him on a few other development projects.

He asked me if I wanted to help build an abattoir, so I said yes, not wanting to admit I didn’t know what an abattoir was. So I spent a while putting together item cost spreadsheets, writing letters, and drawing sketches, all without having any idea what the hell I was working on.

At one point Keita pointed to the middle of my sketch and said, “That’s probably where we should put the groove for the blood.”

I said, “What?”

It turns out an abattoir is a slaughter slab. It’s a concrete floor, with the necessary groove, with a roof and a small trench leading to a pit. We went to visit the one they have now, and it was one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen. Blood soaked the ground. When I walked I crunched pieces of splintered bone and skull. Standing pools of gore drew clouds of flies. The stench was overwhelming. And it was right in the middle of a residential area.

“The people,” Keita said, “say they don’t want this here any more.”

“Really,” I said. So we went to the new site, on the very edge of town. We measured and marked and squinted at the ground a lot. My job was finding round rocks and rolling them to see which slope was steepest, for the afore-mentioned blood groove. Construction started fairly quickly, which surprised me, and the next week I went out to check on the progress. To mark the boundaries of the structure we had used the exact and professional method of jamming sticks into the ground where we wanted the corners, and I guess this must have confused them, because they were building the whole thing backwards. When I pointed this out, they didn’t see the problem, and I spent a good half hour explaining to them why blood can’t flow uphill. I was tempted to use some of theirs as an example.

The other project I’m working on with the council has been a lot more frustrating. They gave me a project proposal to build a new ward for a health center in a nearby village and wanted me to fix the wording. I found it a useless document, with absolutely no hard data about admission, infection rates, infant mortality rates, or anything that might convince someone to donate money. When I asked for some of this information, they said they didn’t have it. They said they didn’t need it. They said that the French NGO sponsor would donate the money no matter what, and all they needed was a piece of paper asking for it. I said that’s insane. I spoke to the head of the clinic and asked him about the expansion, and he said he’d never heard about it. That’s even more insane.

Basically, this whole thing is another donor project that’s just an excuse to spend money, without taking into account what the community needs and what the impact of the project will be. If I had my way, the whole thing would be scrapped and the money would be spent on something more worthwhile. But I don’t have the power or influence to simply kill a project yet, so I did my best to rehabilitate it. I visited the health center, looked at the facility, actually talked to the people involved, went through all their books and came up with all the information I’d originally wanted. Maybe they didn’t want a real project proposal, but I was going to give them one anyway. I cut out about fifty thousand Dalasi in useless expenses and put it back in with renovations to the maternity ward, silly things like mosquito nets, running water, and beds that don’t fall apart. So maybe something will be salvaged out of all this.

Outside of work, I’ve been spending more time with some of the village kids, which has been great. They love my kayak, and we spend a few afternoons a week just messing around in the river. Usually I swim, one of them uses the kayak, and one of them uses the life vest as a big floating diaper, flipping it upside down and putting his legs through it so he can float around. It’s possibly the most Peace Corps thing I’ve done in this country, and I’d feel like a cliché if it wasn’t so much fun.

This has not been without mishaps. At one point I and some of the bigger boys were trying to get into the kayak in the middle of the river. Every time we tried it would tip a little, and a little water would get in, until there was too much water and the damn thing sank before our eyes. We watched, disbelieving, as it disappeared into the murk of the river. I couldn’t believe it. After everything I’d done to get the wretched vessel to Kerewan, I’d lost it with an unbelievably stupid mistake. So the boys and I took turns diving to the bottom of the river, dragging it a few feet through the muck, and resurfacing. It took about an hour to get it on the bank.

A week later, I was swimming while two of the boys were paddling around in the

kayak. The current was strong, and they were uncomfortably far from the dock. I yelled at them to come back, but fear swept the rough instructions on using the kayak I’d given them from their minds, and they started paddling frantically in the wrong direction. So I chased them. They were screaming hysterically, fleeing down the river like Bonny and Clide. I’m not the best swimmer, but the current worked for me and I finally captured the fugitives, whereupon I swam back with one arm, towing them after me.

That’s the great thing about Gambia. In America, someone would have sued the hell out of me.

I think, in general, recent events have shown that I’m not qualified to take care of other living creatures. Chulo, my dog, had a very bad month. Mango flies have been all over him, since the rains are starting, laying their eggs in his flesh, giving birth to maggots that squirm out of his skin. It’s exactly as disgusting and painful as it sounds. Then last week he got into some kind of fight, I don’t know how or with what, that left him with massive gashes all over his back leg. He had a few puncture wounds and a flap of skin torn away about the size of my palm. I carried him to the Kerewan health center, on the other side of town, where they refused to treat him. They told me about the veterinary technician in Kerewan, whom I’d never heard of, so I spent most of the day tracking him down.

This was a great guy. Really stellar. He didn’t have any anesthetic for dogs, but he brought his kit over and got to work. He was halfway through the first stitch when he looked up at me and said, “I am feeling the smoke.”

“What?” I said, then "oh." He was high. So I had to stitch up my dog. My experience with medicine is limited to a first-aid class in high school, and while I usually enjoy doing things I’m not qualified to do, this was a little much. There was blood everywhere. The needle and thread kept slipping away, Chulo’s thrashing knocked them out of my hands, and the flaps of skin refused to come together. I can’t imagine the pain my dog was in. Fifteen stitches, none with anesthetic, many having to be re-done by a scared and bumbling amateur. I’ve never heard any living creature howl like that.

In less than two days he’d ripped the stitches out. I did everything I could. I made him a neck cone out of pink construction paper and duct tape. I used medical tape, Ace bandages, and finally pinned a pair of my boxers on him, trying to find something, anything, to keep the wound clean. It was a bad couple of days. Finally I took him into the capital and paid an absurd amount to get it done by a real vet. The best part was when he peed all over the back seat of the cab.

As if all this wasn’t enough, I got involved in another domestic dispute, something I’d sworn never to do again. My neighbors, the chief of police and his wife, had an hour-long screaming match the night before I took Chulo to the capital. I was already a little stressed out, as you can imagine, but I did my best to tune it out. It was only when the shouting stopped that I got worried and went outside. Most of the neighborhood was gathered in the compound, watching the man drag his wife on the ground by her hair and punch her in the head. Sometimes I feel like a one-trick pony. A few people were trying to pull her away, which just seemed to be doing more damage. I had to use a full nelson to get him off her. Of course, as soon as she got up, she attacked him, and I became an unwitting accomplice, keeping him from defending himself. This is why I try not to get involved in these things.

The next morning she was gone. Apparently the police had to escort her out of the house. The man, with whom I’d always had a cordial if not friendly relationship, was riding a wave of vindicated masculinity and told me he was no longer going to pay his share of the electricity bill. So all in all it’s good times.

Sometimes this country makes me tired.

A request: if you read this post, would you do me a favor and post a quick comment? I'm tying the blog in to a smaller project I might be working on, and I'd like to get an idea of how many people are reading. Thanks.

I know, it’s been a while again. This once every two months thing won’t get to be a habit, don’t worry. I’ve just been very, very busy. Things in Kerewan, my new site, are going great. Hectic, stressful, and often surreal, but I’m finding that’s the way I like it. I’m a teacher, a bureaucrat, a DJ, a small business owner, and a building contractor. I wear so many hats I sometimes get rug burn switching them. I’m learning more about the realities of business and government in developing nations than I ever thought I would (or should).

The big project I’m working on these days is building a business center / rest area just outside of town. Twenty or thirty years ago Kerewan was a thriving economic and cultural center, with restaurants, shops, a huge street market, and even a bar. Its place on the main road, in the center of the North Bank District, made it a popular stopping place for travelers and tourists. Now the bar is closed, the market has shrunk and split in two, and the restaurants have all closed but one (and that one struggles to make ends meet). Vehicles passing on the road blow straight through on their way to larger cities, without ever spending a Dalasi.

So I’ve been working with the local area council on plans for a center where local businesses can cater to travelers. There are some abandoned building on the edge of town that are perfectly placed, with space for shops, food vendors, and craftsmen, with an open area for cars and buses to park. One of the buildings even has a few broken toilets, and I should be able to get the utility company to reconnect them. As I indicated in my last post, toilets are incredible luxuries here. There’s also a large building in the back with a kitchen and dining room that would make beautiful restaurant, with a cathedral ceiling and large windows overlooking the river. We could sell condoms at the bathrooms for almost nothing, which would be great, since truckers moving across country are among of the biggest contributors the spread of AIDS. I’ve been talking with local suppliers and builders, and they’ve agreed to some deals that would keep the price tag below 125,000 Dalasi, or about $5,000, easily doable with grants and loans.

This is the point where I have to be careful, though. All too often well-meaning NGOs and charities dump loads of money on a really cool-sounding project without ever consulting the community they say they’re helping or taking the realities of life in the country into account. So if I’m going to get the money together for a project of this size, I need to talk to community leaders, business owners, bus and cab drivers, tourist companies – everyone who will actually use the place, and make sure they actually will. So that’s what I’m working on now.

I’ve been finding this work very rewarding, which is strange, because I never pictured myself as the middle management type. But I’m shocked to discover that I like meetings and memos, and smoozing politicians and businessmen. I like working with people who have power and getting them to use that power to help me. Convincing Gambians to do anything that requires labor or concentration is often difficult, which drives most volunteers crazy, but I’m finding it an interesting challenge. And since they are generally so passive, I can get them to agree to a lot of things if I speak quickly and give the impression I know what I’m talking about.

The only person that hasn’t worked on is the governor, because he uses exactly the same tactics on everyone else. He and I have had a few run-ins, and in the beginning it looked like he was going to be the main obstacle to almost all of my projects. He’s a powerful personality, and he’s used to bulldozing over people, and when I wouldn’t just buckle under it caused some friction – our first three meetings were mostly screaming matches. He threw a stapler at me once, left a bruise. But I actually found it refreshing, because he was the only guy I was working with who will give me a straight answer. Most people, if I ask them if they’ll do something, they will say yes, but mean no. Or they’ll say, “yes, Inshallah,” an Arabic phrase that literally means, “if God wills it,” but here actually means, “not a chance in hell.” Working with the governor is great, because if he isn’t going to do something, he’ll just say so. He has no desire whatsoever to please me. On his end, I think I’m the only person he works with who isn’t afraid of him, which he kind of likes. So although I’ll never invite him over to paint our nails and gossip about boys, I think it will be a good working relationship.

On top of my work in Kerewan, I’m still heading up the Regional Strategy Plan in the North Bank. For those of you who found it too boring to remember from my last post, this is an idea I picked up in Senegal to get all the volunteers in my region together to work towards some common goals, share skills and resources, and get some hard data from the ground level about how close we are to meeting those goals. It’s been an incredible headache. Getting Peace Corps Volunteers to do anything together is like herding ADD cats in heat. But we’re making progress, at a faster pace than I’d originally thought, and most people are getting pretty excited about it.

In the last meeting, as we were going over plans for a village survey that each of us would conduct, a difficult and time-consuming job, one of the newer volunteers finally called bullshit on me and asked me to explain exactly how all this work would actually benefit her service. I’d been expecting and dreading that question for a while, because I didn’t have a perfect answer to give. This whole project is experimental, and even though I’m the one who’s supposed to have the vision, I can’t say for certain what the real outcome will be. But I discovered something interesting about leadership: if you do your job right, you don’t ever have to defend yourself. As I was struggling for an answer, all the other volunteers, whom I’d been cajoling and pushing in this thing for weeks, jumped to my defense with arguments that were much better than anything I could have come up with. And when they were finished, and the criticizing volunteer was slightly mollified, I told everyone straight up that I had no guarantees that this would work or that all their work would be justified, and that even if it did help our service I wasn’t sure what form that help would take. Oddly enough, they all seemed happy to hear that. People are strange.

So that was March. In April I didn’t get much done at site, because I was gone for most of it. The first week and a half was taken up with IST, or Inter-Service Training, which was a chance for my training group, six months after swearing in, to come back together and talk about what we’ve learned since training, what we’ve accomplished, what problems we’ve encountered, etc. We had some sessions on various education-related themes, like non-formal community teaching and classroom discipline. The highlight was a session I taught on drama groups. I went over the best ways to form a group in the Gambia and put a show together, then took everyone outside for some drama games and warm-ups. Sotl-ites will be happy to hear that I taught them “Lion Face / Lemon Face” and “Mother Pheasant.” That last one was fun, because it’s a tongue twister that sounds dirty but isn’t, and the house we were using was right behind the US Embassy. If having a dozen Peace Corps Volunteers screaming psuedo-profanities at the US Embassy is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Then came the Morocco journey. This was a trip that had been planned by a group of my friends months ago, and they were able to get tickets dirt cheap. By the time I decided to go, the price had moved out of my range. But I heard rumors that it was possible, although extremely difficult, to get there overland. I had thought that it wasn’t allowed for Americans to travel through the area of the Sahara south of Morocco, but apparently there was one route along the coast that held only a mild chance of being abducted and murdered by desert nomads. I did my research, and found that it would be four or five days of dirty, uncomfortable travel, in fruit trucks and bush taxis, through countries that don’t speak any languages I’m familiar with, some of which are actively hostile to Americans, and I would be doing it alone.

So I figured what the hell.

The only difficult part of the preparation, aside from convincing an understandably reluctant admin to let me go, was getting a visa for Mauritania, one of the countries on the way. I had been told that I would be able to get one at the border, but two days before I left I found out that wasn’t true. This was on Friday, and I had to leave on Sunday if I wanted to meet my friends. Friday is a holy day, when everyone stops work to pray at one pm, so I sprinted downtown to the Mauritanian embassy at twelve forty-five, ran breathless into the lobby past the crack security team out front, and stopped the Mauritanian ambassador as he was walking out the door. I was… extremely persuasive, and so I got my visa processed, a procedure that normally takes at least 24 hours, in ten minutes.

The trip itself was just as difficult and uncomfortable as I expected. Getting through Senegal was relatively painless, and only took a day, but transportation through Mauritania was slow, frustrating, and often insane. There were guard stations every twenty miles, and each one took an eternity as I gave them my passport, answered a series of bizarre questions in French (my grasp of the language improved remarkably on this trip – that is, from none whatsoever to the ability to say “I have no cocaine or pornography”), then they carefully looked over every single page of my passport, slowly wrote down all my information, and let us on our way.

A quick side note – the new American passports are gorgeous, with beautiful pictures and famous quotes on every page. I hate them. Every goddamn person that examined mine had to look at every single pretty picture in the goddamn book. I think at least three or four hours of my trip were taken up waiting for random guards to admire the images of George Washington and the moon landing.

It was in Mauritania that I ended up chasing the camel. I was in a small car, only the driver and three passengers, at midnight, trying to get to a town on the border. The driver got a call on his cell phone, spoke for a minute, then turned the car off the road and into the desert. This was the Sahara, just like you’ve seen in the movies, sand dunes and all. He switched off the headlights and we just coasted through the sand. After a while I saw the dark silhouttes of camels near the car. A few dozen of them were walking in a loose line in the night, and we coasted among them for a while, like a ship floating past icebergs. There was no moon, and the stars were like white embers. It was surreal and beautiful, and only slightly marred by the fear that they were taking me out here to kill me. Eventually I saw a man riding on the lead camel, oblivious to us. The driver silently maneuvered behind him, then flicked on the headlights and honked the horn at the same time. The guy whirled around, stared at us for a second, then started to run.

So of course we chased him.

If you’ve never seen a camel gallop, it is hilarious, like a giant hairy slinky on toothpicks. But the car was driving in sand, and we couldn’t go very fast, so it was actually a real chase. The driver stuck his head out the window and screamed at the guy, and after a second the passengers in back stuck their heads out and started screaming, too. So I figured what the hell, stuck my head out the window and screamed.

“You better run! We’re gonna cut you up, man! We’re gonna feed you to your camel!”

Finally we caught the guy, and the driver got out to go yell at him. They shouted at each other for a while, then the driver turned and punched the camel. This was not a light tap. I heard it from inside the car; it rocked the camel back a few steps, and this was not a small animal. The driver walked back, looking satisfied with himself, and we drove back to the road.

“What the hell just happened?” I said.

He smiled.

The next day, on a twenty-four hour bus ride through West Sahara, a Frenchman got on and sat right next to me, although there were plenty of empty rows.

“Hello,” he said, in broken English. “You smell very bad.”

“You’re French,” I said.

“Yes! And you smell very bad.”

I sniffed, and he was right. I had been traveling through the desert for days without showering or even changing clothes. I turned back to my book and tried to ignore him. I’d brought James Joyce’s Ulysses, figuring if there was one time in my life I would have the time and lack of stimuli to tackle that massive, incomprehensible tome, it would be this trip. It’s a stream of consciousness, one of the most impenetrable books ever written, and it was taking all my concentration just to follow the plot.

“What are you reading?” my new friend asked.

“Ulysses.”

“Read it to me!” he said. I declined, until he started petting my head and making up his own version of the story. "Once upon a time there was a rabbit..."

“Other hand a sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket,” I said to shut him up.

“Amen!”

“Um… ok. Long and the short of it. Big he and little she. Very strange about my watch.”

“Amen!” He threw up his arms and stepped into the aisle. “Amen!”

“Wristwatches are always going wrong!” I was getting into it. I stood up too, and adopted a Southern evangelist accent. “Wonder is there any magnetic influence between the person because that was about the time he!”

“Amen!” The Frenchman danced up and down the aisle, then took off his hat and started soliciting donations from the other passengers.

“Yes, I suppose, at once! Halleluiah!” That last part was my addition.

We preached the gospel of James Joyce for a while, until the driver made us sit down. We actually collected about ten dirham, enough to split a cheese sandwich at the next stop.

I met up with my friends in Marakesh, and we traveled around Morocco for about a week. It was absolutely beautiful, and I highly recommend it as a travel destination to anyone. The food was great, the people were friendly, the cities and the mountains were beautiful. We met some Moroccan volunteers, who showed us some of the real life in the country that tourists don’t usually see. We had tajines and kebabs, hiked up mountains and through waterfalls, and just generally had a blast.

We even tried out the himmam, a Moroccan bathhouse that’s like a giant steamroom. The idea is that you sweat for a while, then scrub off the sweat, dirt, and dead skin with a rough brush. But the Moroccan volunteers told us that the ritual was fairly elaborate, and that unless we knew what we were doing we should pay someone to scrub us. I was a little dubious, but I figured what the hell. So when I walked in and a giant Arab man asked me if I wanted to pay for a massage, I said sure.

I have never been so terrified in my life. This was not a massage. This was an assault. He twisted me like taffy, grabbing appendages and pulling, seemingly at random, grappling and kneading me until I was a whimpering puddle on the bathroom floor. The worst part was that he kept making sound effects. I think in his head he was a pit crew, and I was a race car, and he had to completely overhaul me in less than five minutes. A sample of our conversation:

“Whoosh.”

“Ahhh!”

“Zip zip!”

“No! I – uhhh!”

“Bam!”

“Ow”

“Bam!”

“Oh, God, why?”

Then he dumped a bucket of scalding water on my head and scrubbed my skin off with steel wool. After the massage, it was fairly relaxing. He didn’t speak point. I felt used. Although I have to say, when he finished, I have never felt so clean in my entire life.

It was as I was leaving that I ran into trouble. I had paid when I came in, but the guy who had given me my towel and brush stopped me and indicated that I should pay him more money for them. Now, at this point I was getting really tired of people claiming I owed them money after the fact. Guys had been trying to charge me after they gave me directions, or I took a picture with them in it, and I was sick of it. If people wanted to charge me money for something, they should tell me before they did it. So I argued with the guy for a while - I’ve gotten really good at arguing with someone without speaking their language. Through an impressive series of pantomimes he told me to perform an act on myself that is physically impossible, so I just started to walk out. At that point he tried to get into a fight with me, but because the floor was so wet and he was a small guy he mostly just slid around a lot. I fell back on years of locker room brawls and flicked him with the towel he was trying to charge me for until he stopped.

Outside I met my friends, who had gone to a separate himmam, one for women.

“How was it?” they asked.

“Interesting,” I said.

“Did you remember to tip the bath attendant?”

I looked away. “Yeah.”

I think karma caught up with me, because the trip back was much worse than the trip there. Nothing particularly exciting happened, just an endless series of delays and irritations. Cars broke down, rides were late. At one point a bus tried to leave without me, with all my stuff inside. I managed to chase it down. The Moroccan police turned my car away at the border, so I had to walk the mile or so from the Moroccan border to the Mauritanian one, which for some reason has no paved road. Walking through the Sahara in the middle of the afternoon is just as hard as they make it look in the movies.

I never thought it would feel so good to be back in the Gambia. Better the insanity you know, I suppose. I’m going back to Kerewan as soon as I post this, and I’m looking forward to being home.

On one last note, a few people have asked me what kind of things I would like in care packages. The thing I need most is protein, so any kind of protein bar or powder would be great, or canned meats. I'm also starved for news of current events, so magazines like the Economist or Newsweek would be great. If anyone could burn some CDs of movies or TV shows, that would be great, as you run out of digital media here pretty quickly. I've written a few people letters, but I don't have anyone's address here, so if you'd like a letter send me your address.

So this has been a big month. For those of you who have not heard about my adventures in January, I’ve written the blog post, but I’m probably not going to post it for a while, so send me an email if you’re really curious. Suffice it to say that Peace Corps admin got a little irritated at me.

I tried to worm my way back into their good graces, because I wanted to get a site change. The projects that I posted about a few months ago kind of dried up. The computer classes became monotonous and largely pointless, as most of the students I was trying to teach couldn’t read. The drama club never really happened because the majority of students going to Njaba Kunda School don’t actually live in Njaba Kunda, but in one of the surrounding villages. Many of them walk for an hour or two to get home every night. It doesn’t matter how motivated a kid might be, he’s not going to walk two hours home and two hours back in the evening for rehearsal. The club had a lot of interest in the beginning, but after three meetings where four kids showed up (then three, then one), I had to admit defeat.

There’s a nearby town, Kerewan, where I’ve been doing a lot of interesting work. It’s the seat of the regional council, and it’s got a radio station, multiple NGOs, businesses, and schools with drama clubs already founded. It got a little ridiculous, to the point where I was spending two or three nights a week there, sleeping on my friend’s bamboo couch.

I had a simple solution. The amount of work I did in a week in Njaba Kunda I could probably accomplish in a day. Kerewan is about an hour’s bike ride away, so why not just shift over, living in Kerewan and spending a day or two every week in Njaba Kunda? I would be able to accomplish much more, working with the regional council, helping draft policies that affect thousands of people. The radio station reaches a good chunk of the country, and everyone listens to the radio, pretty much all the time. You can’t find a better medium for public messages. There’s a resource center with a meeting space and computers that the American Embassy donated, just sitting there without someone to run it. There are professionals who want computer training, who will understand the concepts and apply them in their jobs. And the drama club is well run and energetic, and just needed someone with some experience with larger productions to help them start performances for the public. And I would still get just as much done in Njaba Kunda.

That was the pitch I sold to Peace Corps admin. They were understandably hesitant. They don’t like moving people from their sights when they’ve been there less than a year, unless there’s a security risk, because they feel volunteers should give their sights a real chance. Plus, like I said, they were less than pleased with me at the time.

So we wrangled and argued for a while, until I had to leave for WAIST. WAIST is the West African Invitational Softball Tournament. It’s a meeting of groups from all over West Africa, mostly Peace Corps but also some embassies, to play softball and socialize in Dakar, the capital of Senegal.

I had gotten really sick the weekend before, vomiting and whatnot, and I hadn’t been able to eat for a few days, so I lost about five pounds. If you saw me these days, you would know I can’t really afford to lose five pounds. So when I went to Dakar I went crazy. Hamburgers, hot dogs, beer, Indian food, pastries, beer, steak, chocolate mousse, and lots of beer. At one point during a game I had to put down my can to catch the ball, which was a great sacrifice. I gained back my five pounds and then some.

Through a weird series of circumstances, I ended up being captain of Peace Corps Gambia’s C-team, the third-stringers, the ones that, when asked if they wanted to play, said only if they were allowed to drink on the field. Many of them had never played softball or even baseball in their lives. We didn’t win a single game, which was fine. No one expected to. More than once we walked the other team’s entire batting line up straight through. It was strange being captain, though, because I felt a sense of responsibility, like even if we weren’t going to win we could not completely embarrass ourselves. It made me oddly tense, which was the exact opposite of the point. Eventually I just said hell with it and drank more beer.

I actually got a lot done on that trip. I met a woman who worked at the Embassy and we started talking about West Africa and development. She had some fascinating stories to tell about the foreign service, and she seemed really interested in some of my ideas about economics and outsourcing in developing countries. I told about her some of the projects I was working on, trying to get some advice, and she gave me her card and told me to email her and we could follow up. It was only as I was walking away that I looked closely at the card. She was the American ambassador to Senegal.

So that was embarrassing, but great. I’m sure she’ll be a great contact. I also attended an all-volunteer meeting for Senegalese volunteers. They had a number of interesting round-table discussions, including one about something called a Regional Strategy Plan. I can say without exaggeration that that discussion changed my entire Peace Corps service.

It’s a little too complicated to fully get into, but a Regional Strategy Plan is a way of creating a framework for the projects of all the PCVs in a region by finding common goals, quantifying them, and coordinating efforts among volunteers to accomplish them. Basically it gives PCVs some extra credibility and authority, making their work part of a larger effort rather than just an individual’s good idea. It’s an amazing plan, and I walked out of the meeting knowing how I was going to make my mark in the Peace Corps.

Back in Gambia, fired up with my idea, I started networking and making meetings, getting all the volunteers in my region of the Gambia together to start making plans. We actually had our first regional meeting last weekend, and it went well. If we can pull this off, it will be a model for all the other regions of the Gambia, and it will change the way we do our services.

In the midst of all this passion and bustle, admin told me I could move to Kerewan. Like a kid with a new toy, I had shifted all my energy to this new project, so when I got the news I saw it more as an inconvenience than anything.

Until I saw the toilet.

You don’t understand. You can’t. Nothing can communicate to you the almost religious awe with which I beheld this porcelain beauty on first site. In Africa, you spend a lot of time on certain unpleasant activities, and when your only outlet is a whole in the ground, it gets old fast. Now I can just sit. Maybe read. Rest. Be secure on my throne, lord of my domain.

If I’m going to be perfectly honest, it’s actually kind of a pain, because I only get water at random hours of the day. It’s even less constant than the power. But when it’s working, man. Watch out. After I’m done, I wash my hands. In a sink. The luxury is overwhelming.

This has been a slow month, so this post will have to be a little shorter. There've been a plethora of holidays and school functions, so in the last month I've only had about a week of actual classes. I've spent most of my time hanging out with my host family, going to the various prayer ceremonies and watching bootleg copies of Gilmore Girls. I'm really living the life, let me tell you.

I love going to Muslim prayer. They don't really like me going to the regular ones, but for the special events they're more than happy to have me tag along. I don't understand the Arabic prayers, but the workout of falling to my knees, touching my head to the ground, then jumping up again twenty or thirty times is great. The head rush helps with the religious experience. Plus I usually stand in the back, so I get the indescribable experience of having thousands of Africans all moon me at once.

All kidding aside, I really do enjoy the prayers. There's an intensity, a fervor created by so many people all focusing on a single idea, united in their belief, performing rituals they've done their whole lives, so many times it's part of their muscle memory, but still finding it them some solace, some connection with each other. It's not something I can really understand as an outsider, but I appreciate that they at least give me the chance to be a part of it.

Their big December celebration is called Tabaskie, a celebration of Abraham demonstrating his faith in God by being willing to kill his son and God demonstrating his faith in Abraham by not making him do it. In the story, Abraham kills a ram instead, so on Tabaskie every family that can afford it (and most of the ones that can't) slaughter a ram and have a feast.

When my family killed their dinner they asked me if I wanted to hold the head still. I couldn't really think of a way to decline without looking like a wuss, so I got to keep the ram from thrashing around as my brother cut its throat. I thought I would have to look away when it happened, but I couldn't, even when I tried. At the last second, before the knife cut all the way through, it stopped struggling, its breath calmed, and I swear it just looked at me. I thought I saw something as it died, in its eyes. I'm not sure what. I kept looking until they shooed me away to skin the body.

That night they had a party at school, which was a lot of fun. Call me a racist if you want, but every African kid I've met can dance like hell. Put me to shame, certainly. Everyone was having a blast until they up and kicked us out and told us we had to pay 25 Dalasi (about a dollar) to get back in. That's a hell of a lot of money for a Gambian kid in the bush, so most of the children in the village just milled around outside and listened to the music. There was a vague feeling of shame in the whole crowd.

I was feeling tired, and annoyed, and not in the mood to be extorted on a religious holiday. So I grabbed my host sister and started swing dancing. She shrieked, of course, and tried to run away, but I persisted and soon we were doing all kinds of twirls and tucks and turns and whatnot. Once she stopped freaking out she was actually pretty good, so I grabbed a random guy in the crowd and told her to dance with him, then found my other host sister and danced with her. After a few minutes I had a good thirty or forty people all dancing, spinning and stepping around on the dusty road, in the middle of the night, as the music filtered out to us from the mostly empty party. There was a lot of falling over.

It was certainly my best Tabaskie.

The next day I was feeling good. There's a tradition of kids walking from compound to compound and asking for salibo, or little gifts like candy or money. It's like trick or treating, but a lot more annoying, as they tend to ask for a lot and don't have much shame about hitting you up again if you've already given them something. I wanted to keep my good mood, so I decided to hit the road.

A friend of mine in the middle of the country had left for a few weeks to visit her family in America. Another volunteer and I decided she should be punished for this. We took a bus taxi to her site, told her family we were her friends, there with her blessing, and painted her walls with as many garish and terrifying colors we could find. It looked like Jackson Pollack had a seizure, with twisted streaks of red, blue, and green streaking her walls, scattered with bizarre pictures and vulgar phrases. We forgot to buy paintbrushes, so it was finger-painting all the way. All in all a fine artistic achievement.

Karma caught up with us on the way back, however. We were in another bush taxi, this one quite large, and the driver was having some problems with shifting. Most of these vehicles are at least ten or fifteen years old, never been tuned up or maintained. They're absolutely terrifying the first time you ride them, and it seems like they're about to fall apart at any second. I think it's a testament to how the Peace Corps has made me a much less flappable person when the driver, speeding down a hill, stalled out the car and couldn't get it back in gear.

I have to admit, though, I got a little worried when he pulled the gear shift completely out of the floor. He looked at it for a second, almost curiously, as though he had no idea what this thing was or how it got into his hand. Oddly enough, the car wouldn't work after that. As they were trying to fix it, the man who owned the car and was riding along told me that there was nothing wrong with the vehicle, that this was a new driver and it was his fault we broke down. I don't know. I've met some bad drivers, but I've never seen one so bad he could dismantle a car with his bare hands.

Maybe by the time I leave, I will have learned such skill.

Oh, before I go, I'm linking to a blog of a friend of mine, Marcus Walton. I'm not great at taking pictures, which is why I haven't posted many, but he's amazing, so if you want a visual picture of the Gambia hit his site up.

There's a new addition in my household. He's six inches tall, brown, and he leaks so much liquid I think sometimes he must be part sponge. He's called Chulo, Spanish for gangster, a name he has so far completely failed to live up to. He cries and whines and bitches more than any creature I've ever met. He's terrified of everything, all the time, and once spent twenty minutes cowering in fear from a dropped saucepan. Sleep has been a little more exciting since I got him, because two a.m. is usually the time he decides it's time to play, and when I don't wake up he tries to chew my face off. On the plus side, his bean-bag-like body handles being thrown at the wall pretty well.

Yet another way Gambians are weird: the women are scared of puppies. When I bring him near them or he moves around their feet they scream and flail like they've sen a rat. They don't have any problem with the grown dogs that roam around the village, mangy curs that I can hear trying to rip each other to pieces at night outside my compound. These poor creatures have been in so many fights and live in such terrible conditions that many of them look like zombie dogs, with gaping wounds on their scarred faces and chunks missing from their bodies. But my little eight-pound puppy is the terrifying one.

I got to be pretty scary myself, last week. I got to be a hyena, an evil hyena. I was defeated by science! (Possibly blinded, too). Maybe I should explain. About a month ago one of the teachers came into my lab, told me they were starting a science club, asked if I wanted to help out. I said, "sure." "Great," he said, "we're announcing the launch at assembly later today. You should stop by." So I said "sure," again. Like a fool.

So I'm standing near the back of the crowd at assembly, watching the teacher give an impassioned speech about the importance of science, and clubs, and the combination of the two. He whipped them up into a frenzy, painting utopian visions of a world governed by reason, truth, and bake sales. And just when they reached a fever pitch, he pointed at me and said, "And let me introduce our founding director!"

I said, "Huh?" And they all applauded.

So apparently I'm the head of a science club now, a job title which seems to mean doing all the bitch work. I've been organizing debates and making ID cards for the officers, inviting guest speakers and whatnot. It's actually been a blast, mostly because the people I'm working with are pretty motivated and things that they say will happen actually happen. Like a debate we had last week over the economics of solar power versus fossil fuels. It was my idea, but when I proposed it I only half-thought it would ever come together. Eight days later we got the whole school, along with the elementary school next door, in a hall that hadn't been used in eight years and was now spotless, with new chairs lined up in perfect rows, with banners proclaiming to glory of our science club festooning the walls. We even got a local DJ to bring his massive speaker system and microphone.

The night before, as I was leaving school, the same teacher came up to me and said that he wanted to do a play. I said, "when?" He said, "tomorrow." I said, "no." He ignored me, explained the teacher coordinators of the club thought it would be great if they all put on a show about the importance of science, and how it can be misused, and it should be funny, but with a serious message, and with lots of action, and it should demonstrate different scientific principles, and it should be simple enough for the younger students to follow but interesting for the older students. He said the only time he could get the teachers all together to rehearse was in half an hour, so could I have it written by then? I said, "I hate you."

So we did Chicken Little. Each of the teachers was a different animal - we had Donkey Bonkey, and Horsey Norsey. I was Hyena Xena (I figured what the hell). I narrated most of it, then I dropped into character when it was time to trick the animals into going into my cave, where I promised they would be safe from the sky falling. I don't want to spoil the story for you, if you haven't read it, but I was actually planning to eat them. But I was defeated by my arch-enemy, Lion Vion the Scientist. He used his scientific knowledge to show that the sky was not falling, and because he studied animals he knew that I was, you know, a hyena, and I was going to eat them. So they chased me behind the speakers.

All in all it was a great success, although I can't take much credit. The microphone died while I was crawling on the floor and being evil, so most of the students had no idea what we were saying. They just liked watching their teachers pretending to be animals. The guy who played the donkey kept shaking his butt at them, and I think that helped. It was possibly the most powerful production of my theatric career.

There was a creepy consequence to all this. The Mandinka words for "dead" and "killed" are the same, and they don't make much distinction between past and future tense. So ever since my stunning Gambian theatrical debut, people from villages all round who either saw the show or heard about it have been coming up to me and saying, "Yahya, you are dead!"

Considering my fragile emotional and mental state, this is a little disorienting.

Microphones in general seem to hate me lately. I went to the Peace Corps Open-Mike Night last night. I wrote a little poem for the occasion. It was about a bug. I was proud of it. But one of the country directors, an American, decided to bring his kid, and while my poem was hardly pornographic, it had a few words that I wouldn't feel comfortable saying in front of the sweet little seven-year-old who parked herself in the front row and gazed up at each performer with worshipful eyes. So I asked the organizer to bump me back until after she left. Then a friend of mine gave a inebriated delivery of the Angry Vagina speech from the Vagina Monologues, complete with gestures and vernacular. His pantomime of the metal duck-beak at the gynecologist was particularly entertaining, and when the father didn't raise an eyebrow I figured I was in the clear.

But, of course, he who hesitates is lost, and the moment before I got on stage the mike died. So I got to bellow my artsy little poem, with all its carefully drawn metaphors, at the top of my lungs to a crowded bar. Most of them didn't hear me, but it's just as well, since the ones who did were a little too drunk to really follow it. Ah, well. I should have gone with my original plan done my impression of Donald Duck doing an impression of Malcom X. That always gets them.

If any of you happens to be curious, here's the poem. For a little clarification, GMT (Gambian Maybe Time) is a phrase we use to refer to the sort of vague time frame in which things in this country tend to happen. Meetings start hours late, appointments are kept the next day or next week. Seconds and minutes have a fluidity that's hard to adjust to.

There’s a bug on my ceiling.

He’s been there for a month-year now,

A chuck of that chewed-up Peace Corps maybe time.

When you skip through seasons and stumble through seconds

When time turns back on itself.

He was in that corner of my room I like

That point where if you twist your eyes and slant your mind

It flips out and whips you out and now it’s the outside corner of a cube

And you’re standing. And spinning in space.

Alone.

And this little bitch bug’s being on my ceiling,

On my spot, pulling me back to the world.

And I say, bug

I say, bug, you fuck off

Bug, you go get your own universe.

But he don’t leave.

He turns in a nice, tight little circle.

Pivots on his back leg.

Again and again.

Turn and turn.

And he stops.

And he starts again, throwing his legs up and eating his trail dust

On his one-bug, all-kicks, born-free little Route 66.

And he was there the next day, the next, each, beat-up blended Gambian maybe day

For three maybe months.

Walking, jiving, slipping and speeding,

In his smooth long circle-waltz

And his stately way of proceeding.

Maybe he thinks he’s progressing.

Developing.

Sustaining.

He’s got his own buggy maybe kinda time

On his high circle march of mercy

His brain is so small and his world is so tall

The two-second revolution

Seems like two years.

He doesn’t know he’s walked this way,

Played this game,

Danced this dance a thousand times.

This ol’ howdy pilgrim’s walking the straight line

Toward some sacred and succulent salvation.

Maybe I’ve got him all wrong.

Maybe he’s coursing the Icaran heights,

Touching the gods, kicking their teeth, bucking their rights,

Secure in his god-damn, god-high sights.

Yeah, and though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

I shall fear no evil, for my little bug buddy is watching out for me,

Watch it, watch out,

Lord and shepherd of all he sees.

I wonder if he volunteered.

Maybe he thinks I’m his god.

Yeah, yeah, I think, yeah.

Maybe I’m his fire and bile and riled up god,

Ready to smack him back him back down if

He fucking thinks of

Stepping his little stepper out of step

Or shining his light out of line.

I’d like to be a god. For just a maybe day. To just a maybe bug.

So I checked.

Three months, real, hard, sun-up months later

Me, the fucking empirical-goddamn-imperial-stupid-imbecile,

I wanted to see what was up.

Stuck in a cobweb,

A little buggy carcass hung an inch from my ceiling,

Turning in the air.

I'm working in the education sector of the Peace Corps, specializing in ICT (information and communication technology), which is weird because I have no ICT experience. The closest I've got is a summer job as a web designer, where I almost got fired. I think it was because I never actually built a webpage. People are so picky. Although I originally had some reservations, I'm glad I'm doing ICT. Compared to my students, I'm a freaking wizard. They actually applauded once after I demonstrated my amazing forty-word-per-minute typing speed. They've also never done anything like using a computer before, which means I have a lot more freedom than other volunteers in my teaching methods. I should probably explain that. The education system in the Gambia is occasionally a little frustrating for Americans, as it's based more on memorization than analytical thinking. A typical scene in a Gambian classroom is a teacher holding a textbook and writing what it says on the blackboard, while the students earnestly copy it down, without a word spoken. I teach a few math and English classes on the side, to help out the chronically understaffed school, and I keep having the same problem. I'll try to explain an idea for a good half hour, with absolutely nothing getting through, until finally a light bulb goes off for one of them. He'll explain the exact same idea with slightly different words, and suddenly everyone will understand. Turns out they learned it last year. They have no way of relating different concepts, or even the same concept worded differently. They know it the way it was drilled into them or not at all. It drives me insane. But with computers, they don't have any paradigms burned into their brains. It's totally new, self-motivated, requiring analytical and problem-solving abilities that they've never had the chance to use before. Some find it intimidating, and can't handle the lack of a rigorous structure, but the ones who get it are like genetic alcoholics on their first sip of Jack Daniels. I have to kick them out of my lab, and they're begging me each night to open it up and let them practice more. I even find that things go more slowly when I actually try to teach, guiding them step-by-step through some activity. I get a lot more out of them when I just switch on the computer and let them go to town, exploring, making mistakes, while I'm there when they need a tip or crash a program. Although the liberal populist in me hates it, I'm realizing that I just can't reach all of them. Not even a large portion. In fact, if I leave here after two years and I've only really taught five or ten kids, I'll be happy. Because those are the kids that really want it. They're willing to fight for it, bleed for it, break through the malaise that's infected their culture. They're the ones that will study, go to school, start a business, really go somewhere, and maybe pull their country up with them. The main project I'm working on right now is turning my computer lab into an internet cafe. The lab's got eight or ten decent computers, and I've just finished a deal with the country's telephone company to hook up a land line. Now I've got to convince a telecom company that it would be worth their while to give us free dial-up internet. If I can do that I can teach internet classes to the school, which would be nice, but I've got bigger ambitions. I want to turn it into a full internet cafe, servicing the community, run by the students. It would be the only full cyber cafe in the region, and if we can expand our small bank of solar panels it will be the only cyber cafe outside of the capital that is open all day - the power only being on for a few hours in the morning and a few hours at night. It would open up access to the internet to my village and those surrounding, as well as teach my students small business administration skills. I've already got a few students as my protegés, who help tutor the other students and run the lab when I'm not around. I'm also working with the school's peer health club to put on some short plays about health issues, like malaria and AIDS. It's a little annoying, because while I agree those issues are important, I'm not PBS. I don't care if knowing is half the battle. My goal is to branch out into plays about Gambian history and culture. It's part of an overall initiative that I've been working on with some other volunteers to improve the African self-image. Sometimes it feels like the entire continent has a insecurity complex. I can't count the number of times a Gambian has told me he can't do something because he's African. The country is caught between its tribal roots, the Muslim dogma that was imposed a millennium ago, and the Western values of the last century, and it doesn't fit with any of them. Western culture is its dream, Islam is its law, and tribal beliefs are its embarrassing past. Only a few vestigial remnants of the original culture, the one I came here to see and be a part of, remain visible. There's the leaf monster, I suppose. That's kind of cool. We're tackling this issue a variety of ways. One of my friends, Tara Steinmetz, works at the local radio, an excellent medium for low-technology areas. Just about everybody listens to it. She's working on a Pan-African music hour, playing native music from across the continent and emphasizing the cool side of African cultures. She's also put up posters of African-American models, specifically ones with darker skin, at the radio and in her home. It's been difficult finding them, as most famous and beautiful African-American women have very light skin. I guess some things cross oceans. From my end, I'm researching old Gambian history and myths. The local story-tellers, called griots, charge ruinous prices, but they're a trove of ancient family and tribal histories. They travel from village to village, attending ceremonies, and for a small donation they'll reel off your entire family history, noting famous ancestors, recounting amusing stories and bloody conflicts. Since I don't have a Gambian lineage, it's a little difficult for them, but I just ask them for their most dramatic stories, and no good performer, even a traditional tribal storyteller, can resist the chance to ham it up. Now I'm working on turning those stories into short plays. I've talked to some local musicians, too, and with a little luck and perseverance my students should be able to start putting on some shows for their villages about tribal stories, with tribal music, showing that maybe an African heritage is something worth taking some pride in, not an excuse to fail. Plus I get to do fight choreography with spears, which is freaking awesome. Well, that's enough shop talk. I know the only reason you all are checking back on this is for another cute little story. I don't have another monster dance-off, but I do have an important lesson about the importance of voting. So grab your mini American flags and listen up, kiddies. Because the Gambia doesn't have a functioning postal system, there is a mail-run once a month that travels from the capital up the country, stopping at every volunteer's site. This last one was very important, because it had our absentee ballots on it. Volunteer traveling came to a standstill for a day as everyone made sure to be at their sites so they could vote. So the mail truck showed up, the guys delivering were friends from training, so we chewed the fat for a while as they gave me my stuff. They handed me my ballot, and told me that I had to fill it out right there and give it back to them. I showed them around my place, and they admired the wiring job I've done (that's right, I wired my own house. What've you done this week?). They had a long way to go, so they bade a fond farewell and climbed back into the truck. I went back into my house, and the cleverer of you can guess what I found: I was still holding my ballot. I ran out after them, just in time to see the truck pull away. I was wearing shorts, with no shirt or shoes, so I grabbed my bike, bit the ballot between my teeth, and sped after them. The truck and I had a sweaty, slow chase through the streets of my village, as I wove back and forth through side alleys, trying to catch up. The pedals of my bike have spikes on them, which drove through the soles of my bare feet like tiny torture devices. The faster I went, the more it hurt. I shot through a gap between compounds and splashes through what I thought was a giant pile of mud. It coated me, and I quickly discovered it was not mud. This was seeming less and less like a good idea. But in a strange way, the more I suffered, the more determined I was to press on. After all, it couldn't get much worse. I almost caught up with the damn truck at the junction with the main road. I was two feet behind it, waving my arms and screaming through my ballot, when every kid that likes to hang out by the junction after school started shouting my name. Why? Because, that's why. So the driver didn't hear me, didn't look in the rear view mirror, of course. and started down the road, quickly leaving me behind. I did some mental math. The next volunteer was about three miles away, so I figured hell with it. I was damned if I was going to give this up. So as the mail truck pulled away from his house they were greeted by the sight of me, shirtless, shoeless, with bleeding feet, covered in animal feces, eating my ballot. They stopped. "What are you doing?" "You deaf people!" (people was not the word I used) They laughed when they heard what happened. A lot. Of course there was no room in the truck to give me a lift back, so I got to put my bloody feet back on the Marquis de Sade pedals and shuffle my slow, stinky way back home. The best part is that when I finally got to fill out my ballot I was shaking with exhaustion, so I think the election counters were probably a little surprised to record a single vote for "Ehdug Usdfe." Let no one doubt my commitment to the democratic process.

I’ve been in Africa for three months now, but it never feels like it. Sometimes I think I’ve only been here a moment, that this place, these people are still as strange to me as if I’d just arrived, that all the things I’ve learned and experienced haven’t brought me any close to understanding Africa or it to understanding me. That I am still an alien. Sometimes (and this is more often, lately) I feel like I’ve always been here. My perspective on some things have changed so radically, things once bizarre – like my pit latrine, or fishing for bones in my food, or washing from a bucket - are just parts of my life. I sweep the dead bugs through the door every day, casualties of the nightly battles between spiders, flies, and ants. I never touch anyone with my left hand. The call to prayer wakes me up at five o’clock every morning, shouting haunted Arabic through a loudspeaker at the mosque, a lonely voice spreading itself over the village. I once asked someone to translate one of the phrases for me: “Prayer is better than sleep.” It used to irritate the hell out of me, but when I go a night without it I feel a little disconsolate. Other Peace Corps volunteers feel the same way (about feeling like they’ve been here a long time, that is. Most of them still hate the damn call to prayer.) During training we would talk endlessly about lives back home, friends, family, zany anecdotes and stories of college. But conversations with volunteers now concern only our lives here. Projects we’re working on, classes we’re teaching, frustrations with schools, living conditions, village leaders, plans for trips and vacations. It takes an active effort to get us to talk about our past, to relate anything about ourselves beyond our African lives, and when we do it feels strained. The stories we tell don’t feel true any more, like we’re relating events we only heard about second-hand. There’s something about this life that eats you up. I’m perfectly happy to be eaten up, personally. Not that I had any particular problem with my life in America, or that I want to forget about everyone who cares about me – far from it. But for the first couple of months, none of this felt real. The idea of two years – twenty-four months, one hundred four weeks, seven hundred thirty days, seven hundred thirty early morning calls to prayer – seemed ridiculous. Surely, a part of me assumed, a part accustomed to twenty-four hour convenience stores and pizza delivery, this was just some vacation (a very low-budget vacation), and I could go back to my air-conditioning and internet soon. And because none of it was real, I could accept none of it; every other thought was of home. If I’d begun this little blog here a month or two ago, it would read very differently. Phrases like “doing well” would have come up a lot. “Learning to live with.” “Looking forward to.” “A tad isolated.” It’s different now, though. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what the change is. The food has gotten better, and some of the other volunteers have been teaching me how to cook (although most of them get care packages from friends and family back home, hint, hint). Oddly enough, now that I’m the only white person in my village, I actually feel less isolated. My work takes me to other sites fairly regularly, and I have the freedom to visit people even when it doesn’t. My language has gotten to the point where I can carry on a ten or twenty minute conversation, and actually make jokes and tell stories with my host family. I have a job to do now, which is crucial. I’m teaching classes at my school’s computer lab, I’m organizing their large but anarchic library, I’m teaching a math class at a nearby town once a week because their school has no math teacher, and I’ve started working with a few drama groups to put on short plays. I’m here. I’m alive. Whatever part of me was holding back has decided that I am, in fact, living in Africa, that I will for some time, and that that’s pretty damn cool. If you’ve just stumbled onto this blog, and you’ve kept with it thus far, you’re probably a little confused. So let me backtrack. My name is Nathan Anderith. I am a twenty-three-year-old American citizen, currently volunteering with the United States Peace Corps in the Republic of the Gambia. This here is my blog. There are many others like it, but this one is mine. Because my name is a little hard for the locals to pronounce, with their inability to make "th" sounds, I go by Yahya.

If you’ve never heard of the Gambia, don’t feel bad. It’s a teeny little country in West Africa, bordered on one side by the ocean and on the other three by Senegal. It’s a thin, snakelike nation that’s basically just a river with five to ten miles of land on either side. There’s a legend that the British created the country when they sailed a warship down the middle of the river and continuously fired their broadside cannons. Wherever the canonballs landed, that’s where they marked the border of the country. It has about a million and a half people, half of whom live in or near the capital of Banjul and over half of whom are less than fifteen years old. As it was originally settled by the British, the official language is English, but you wouldn’t know it to walk through most villages. The nation is split up into about ten tribes, each with villages scattered around the country, each with their own distinct language. Since most of the traders come from Senegal, French is also common. One would thing with such a smorgasbord of tongues and peoples that communities would be insular and tensions high. Therein lies the genius of the Gambia, something that makes it almost unique from any place I’ve ever been: it has almost no ethnic conflict. Someone can travel from a Wolof village to a Mandinka and be welcomed. A Jola can marry a Fula. These peoples are packed into a tiny country together like a canned fruit salad, but instead of the pressure cooker of racial tension you’d expect there’s just a general feeling of live and let live. People from other countries, other walks of life are accepted, welcomed as guests. From what I’ve been able to see, this Sesame Street-esque level of tolerance grows out of the practice of senewu, or joke-mates. A given family will have a few other families that are its official joke-mates; every time members of these families meet, they exchange a series of extended and vitriolic insults. The first time I saw this I thought the two men were going to start beating the hell out of each other, until everyone started laughing. It’s like the college rivalries we have in the States, but with genuine good feeling behind it, rather than thinly-suppressed hatred. Cities and even entire regions will have joking relationships with each other. I was trained in the southern region of Kiyang, but now I’m living in Baddibu, and any time I mention where I lived I’m subjected to a ten-minute rant about how people from Kiyang are poor, lazy, and dirty, and do nothing but eat and sleep all the time. I usually respond that Baddibu folks are greedy thieves who would sell their mothers for a bag of rice. The slightly disturbing thing is that both of these have elements of truth. People can get pretty nasty. But as long as it’s all in the joke-mate spirit, no one gets offended, no one gets in a fight, and, on a larger scale, no one starts a war. Anyone who knows me even slightly probably realizes that this might be the perfect country for me. I’m running out of time to write and, knowing my audience, you’re probably running out of attention span, so I’ll end with a story. It’s far from the most interesting thing that’s happened to me, but it’s the one that can best be encapsulated into an amusing bite-sized chunk. I had a dance-off with a leaf monster. My friends in village invited me to an even in the next town. My Mandinka wasn’t very good at that point (still isn’t), so the most I could get out of them was that it was a “masquerade.” I was a little worried because I didn’t have anything for a costume, and I didn’t want to be embarrassed. Hah. We get there, and I see about two hundred people standing in a circle and clapping (interesting side-note: these people don’t have much for instruments, but they more than make up for it with their ability to spontaneously generate incredibly complicated percussion beats. A group of them will get together, start clapping randomly, and before you know it they’ve got a rhythm going with enough complexity and intensity to put a marching band drum line to shame). In the middle of the circle is something is moving. It looked like a pile of leaves you’d raked had grown feet and a red helmet, downed six cups of coffee and a handful of amphetamines, and started to boogie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dance that fast in my life, much less a compost heap. A group of young men patrolled the perimeter of the circle, dancing slowly and every so often whacking people with sticks for no reason that I could see. Groups of audience members, mostly women, would periodically run into the circle and dance around the leaf monster for a minute, then flee shrieking when it ran at them. All in all a good time. I was a part of one of these groups, but when I tried to run back into the circle they shoved me back to the center. The monster jumped and danced around, and when I tried to dance with it for a second it stopped, turned around, bent over, and shook its butt at me. Everyone laughed. It was on. The leaf pile was the better dancer, faster, more athletic, but I had hundreds of crappy movies and music videos to fall back on. While it was doing his leafy dance, I gave it some Saturday Night Fever, some YMCA, some robot. When the crowd cheered for me it started hopping in huge circles around me, clearing a good three or four feet with every jump. I had visions of it as Mario and myself a hapless white Goomba. So I did what anyone else would do, and started channeling Michael Jackson. I did the moonwalk, the Thriller dance, even the crotch-grab and yelp. I don’t think it saw that coming, and its expression seemed a little nonplussed; it turned around and started doing the butt-shaking thing again. I dropped into the Russian kicking dance and it actually hit me with its butt, sending me sprawling into the dirt. Clearly, I had to put it in its place. So I took a jump to the left. And then a step to the right. I put my hands on my hips. And tucked my knees in tight. It just sort of watched as I did the entire Time Warp, ending with the falling over dead, at which point it spun around a few times and fell over himself. I don’t know if that means I won, but everyone cheered when I walked out of the circle. I don’t mind telling you, I felt pretty damn cool.