The street pulses with sound. Drums of all sizes ring in tandem with massive cowbells and earthen jars whacked with sponges. Songs in more than a dozen languages vie with one another to be heard by spectators. The sweat of a myriad of masquerade dancer soaks the pavement, dripping from cloth, tree bark, papier-mache, leaves, and plastic. All of this bedlam, this jubilation, put on for a group of special tourists, themselves decked out in what they have been told is the traditional garb of their ancestors, themselves sweating and smiling under a pavilion. They are here to recapture their "roots" at the tenth edition of the International Roots Festival in Banjul, The Gambia.

There is something very primal about that idea--the pilgrimage back to the land of one's ancestors, to recapture the significance of our past. But how often does it mean anything? When third or fourth generation Americans of certain European ancestry go back to their "motherlands," what really links them to these people in foreign countries? Maybe there is something intangible, something deep. I, myself, am mostly German, but the only thing German my family ever does is eat egg noodles at holidays, thanks to the efforts of my Grandma Max. I know only the German I have learned through studying music and through popular culture. Oh, and I like German beer, but I tend to think that has more to do with its quality than my genes. For me, I don't feel that revisiting the land of my ancestors would have that much meaning, as I am now thoroughly American. At least European Americans, however, have a distinct path to follow; family trees, genealogies, and even DNA tests can tell us the paths our families took on their way to the New World.

For African Americans, this is rarely, if ever, true. It is a matter of public knowledge that the Africans captured by Arab and African slavers and sold to Europeans were treated as livestock, with little importance being given to their names, backgrounds, and families. All we have are slave logs to go on, but what assurance do we have that the slavers wrote the right names, and how do we know who these people are related to? Kunta Kinte, the now legendary Mandinka whose life Alex Haley documented in his novel Roots, could have come from a number of Kinte families, all up and down the Gambia river. Even if we are to trust that Alex Haley was faultless in his research, which a lot of evidence indicates is not true*, the people of Juffureh, where Kunta Kinte was supposedly born, had strong incentive to supply him with a story. Most of the Gambians I know, especially those in rural villages, consider America and Europe to be places of inexhaustible wealth, and therefore will try to get patronage from any Americans or Europeans they meet. In the case of Juffereh, they received the money to build a new mosque from Haley, so they were certainly rewarded for their stories, regardless of how accurate they were.

I should clarify that I have nothing against Roots if it is taken as what it is--a work of historical fiction. There are inaccuracies, and the core of it is probably not true, but most of it could have happened, and I don't think that Haley had sinister motives. I do feel, however, that he, like many of those who have followed in his footsteps to "Mother Africa," let emotion and a longing for an ancestral home get in the way of reason and logic. While I have nothing against seeking one's beginnings, I am very wary of the mutual exploitation that goes on between African Americans and Africans. The opening ceremony of the Roots Festival that I described above is a prime example. While the cultural groups were spectacular, they added up to a mishmash of West African culture, where there are actually many distinct, complex ethnic groups with their own cultures and traditions. One dance was performed by Igbo from Nigeria. Another was from the Susu of Guinea. Yet another from the Mende, from Sierra Leone. It would be as if I, as a European American, traveled to a random country in Western Europe and was presented with Flamenco Dancing, Celtic folk music, a performance of a Brahms sonata, and served Boeuf Bourgingon, while being welcomed back to my "European Homeland."

I am a fan of African unity in an economic and political sense, but this type of cultural Pan-Africanism only serves to muddle African cultures and diminish the richness and complexity of the African continent in the minds of outsiders. It becomes even more questionable to me when this smorgasbord of Africana is served up in the interest of attracting these "Roots" pilgrims, who are often unaware of the specifics of their African heritage and are seeking to fill that void with a generic "African homecoming."

So how would I remedy these problems? For one, I would encourage anyone who is seriously interested in their own heritage to do more research. I myself, as a white-bread whitey-white toubab, am continuously amazed at the depth and complexity of the cultures of Africa, and I have only spent time in a small pocket of the West. Anyone who actually has African heritage would be better served, in my opinion, to do some research and find out specifics rather than to opt for a pre-packaged, "Mother Africa." Even if you are not sure exactly where your ancestors come from, some research into the sub region-almost all American slaves came from West Africa- should give some ideas about what their lives were like.

As to what the Gambia should do, I think the main thing is to be honest. The Gambia has an enormous wealth of culture and beauty, and it is my opinion that this does not need to be augmented with historical rewrites (such as the claim I have heard made that West Africans were the most technologically advanced societies in the world before the Europeans came) and additional performances from cultures that are not native to this region. Providing more cultural education, encouraging traditional performers by organizing festivals, and providing a vivid, accurate picture of Gambian cultures to the outside world is the path I would recommend. This would encourage tourism, foster cultural pride, and honor the ancestors that so many in the diaspora seek to find.

Picture 1: Fula girls dancing -- from Wulli, The Gambia

Picture 2: Susa dance and drum group, from Guinea Conakry

Picture 3: Mandinka secret society -- from Jarra, The Gambia

*Haley was accused of plagiarism in copying parts of Harold Courlander's work, The African. Also, investigations by genealogist Elizabeth Mills and historian Gary B. Mills, as well as journalist Mark Ottaway, found historical inaccuracies in the novel and threw Haley's sources into considerable doubt.

As a counterpart to the batch of photos and videos that I just uploaded to facebook, I am going to share a few stories I read while recopying Gambian histories and genealogies into the National Center for Arts and Culture computer database. I finished typing a history of Kombo Brikama and the surrounding area yesterday. This music, history, and culture is what the Gambian Music Preservation Project is all about. Unfortunately, we are still coming up short on funds, and my time frame for finishing the project is getting shorter and shorter. Donations of any size are much appreciated, and the donation process is quite easy. The link can be found on the left hand side of my blog in a box titled "important links."

As I said, I have been doing some typing for the National Center for Arts and Culture while I am waiting for the funds for the project to accrue. In the past, NCAC researchers frequently trekked into the field to record history and music straight from its keepers- the elders and traditional historians of each region and village. In recent years, because of lack of funding and experience, this work has rarely happened. This project is an attempt to revive the documentation of important cultural heritage in The Gambia. Here are a few stories that I read and re translated this week. I have paraphrased them from the original Mandinka testimonies given by Brikama village elders more than twenty years ago.

Brikama is the oldest seat of government in the Kombo districts of Western Gambia. It was one of the largest cities in the Gambia before the British set up their colonial government in Bathurst (now Banjul). The traditional rulership of Brikama and it's surrounding area, which once stretched all the way to the coastal areas of Banjul and Sifoo, has always been passed down between members of the Bojang family, who have three compounds in Brikama - Summa Kunda, Mansaring Kunda, and Hawla Kunda. Some of these rulers were queens, which hearkens back to a time before Islam was such a dominant cultural force and women were allowed more privileges in Gambian society. As Brikama grew in the pre-colonial days, however, groups from within Brikama began to break off and go in search of their own lands, as overpopulation made finding food and resources more difficult. Here are two stories of the manner in which nearby settlements were founded and named.

The village of Kitii was founded by a prince of Brikama. Having come from the Bojang lineage, he had expected to become the king after his father. He was unaware that his step father, also a Bojang, was to be crowned instead. The very day that the rival was to be crowned, the prince went to the bush to tap palm trees for their wine. While he was working, his younger sister came to the tree and called out to him.

"Brother, why are you in this tree?"She asked. "Do you not hear the djundjun drums?"

He said, "No, I had not heard. What do they signify?"

"Your step father is being crowned right now, as we speak." She yelled to him.

Upon hearing this, he cried out in anger and lost his concentration. Wobbling at the top of a high palm tree, he lost his footing and fell to the ground, going into a coma. And that is the meaning of the word, "Kitii." In Mandinka, it means to fall unconscious, or to go into a coma. It is unclear whether the residents who settled there were lead by the prince once he recovered, or by someone else. Regardless, they saw fit to name their village after this incident.

The village of Sifoo also takes its name from the exploits of a prince of Brikama. This prince, who was not in line for the kingship, requested from the village elders that he be given land in the territory of Brikama to settle. They told him that it would be granted, and he would know where his settlement would be soon. Time passed, and he did not receive land. More time passed. Finally, in frustration, he chose a spot that appealed to him and told the elders he would build a compound there in which to stay while he waited for their decision. That temporary waiting spot came to be his permanent settlement. Thus the name, "Sifoo," which means in Mandinka, "Wait until..."

The Atlantic road by bike is a pain in the (insert body part). It has little to no shoulder as a result of erosion during the rainy season, and the ground to either side is a mix of foot-deep sand, gravel, and scrub brush. When you compound this with Gambian driving habits--no followed speed limit, cars skimming bikes and pedestrians by inches, loud honking at white people and women, among other delights--it completely obliterates the desire to bike this accursed stretch of road in any sane person. It is also forbidden for Peace Corps volunteers to ride alongside it. It is, however, the shortest, most straightforward route between my workplace in Fajara and my home, in Brusubi. The land on either side of it is an unknown maze of side streets twisting through tourists areas, trash dumps, and small hamlets.

Finding a decent bike path through this obscurity would save me a decent amount in daily cab fare. So, with this in mind, I set out on Saturday to find the best route possible. There is a small bottleneck where the Atlantic road meets Kairaba, the street I work on, so I had to ride a stretch on what shoulder I could find before I made the first left turn onto a side street. It was a nerve wracking experience, with cars zooming by at what had to but over 70 mph speeds, barely edging to the left to avoid me. After running this short gauntlet and ducking onto the side road, I ended up in an industrial park with the Kotu power plant to my left, spewing black fumes and a loud churning drone into the air. Outside the gates was a small, crumbling shop and restaurant, assumedly built there to cater to power plant workers. Two small children stared sullenly at me from inside the door as I passed, as hung laundry on a line flapped in the breeze nearby.

Continuing further from the main road, I ended up in a village built entirely around a massive trash dump. The houses were built mainly on hills surrounding a big pit in the earth, likely dug to make clay bricks for construction, filled with old tires, scrap metal, and debris. The road twisted and wound through compounds, with small dust devils springing up here and there, throwing up potato chip wrappers and empty water packets. In a dusty field set aside, a group of small boys were playing soccer with a tattered old ball and make-shift goals comprised of two stones placed a few feet apart. Passing the field and rounding the corner, I headed up a steep incline, shifting to low gear and pumping the pedals hard. When I reached the top, I saw a large, three-storey, white compound. There were two suvs parked in the driveway, and a number of satellite dishes hanging off the roof. I switched to a higher gear while passing the locked gates and the guard sitting in front of them.

I continued until I came to a paved, two-lane road and a sign that announced my arrival at Manjai Kunda. My wandering had brought me further away from the Atlantic road than I intended, as MK is a suburb of Serrekunda, the largest city in the Gambia, which is several kilometers from where I want to be. I turned right onto the paved road, once again getting skimmed and honked at by agressive taxi drivers. I passed a number of mid-range apartment complexes, tailor shops, and stores selling Chinese knockoffs of Adidas and Puma shoes and clothes until I reached a gravel and tar road I knew to be the main highway of Kotu.

I took another side road, which once again led me to the main Atlantic road, near Maroun's supermarket. I had never been to this store, but had heard it was pretty upmarket, so I decided to take a break and see what was inside. Walking in, I noticed that the clientele was almost entirely white. I passed a chubby mustachioed man and his wife speaking in some Scandinavian-sounding language, and continued to the deli counter. They had cured meats from Spain, German sausages, dozens of types of cheese, and vats of olives, any of which a hundred grams would cost enough to feed an average Gambian family for a couple of days. My curiosity thus satisfied, I passed by a couple of young europeans men picking up a thirty pack of Heineken, greeted the cashier, and walked out the door.

Outside I hung a left down a sandy back street to distance myself once again from the Atlantic road. I found myself surrounded by little bar/restaurants catering mostly to tourists. One, called Mango Table, had a large mural that was obviously of a bumster and and older woman. Truth in advertising, at least. Continuing into Kololi, another step closer to Brusubi, the landscape changed to small hotels and nicely manicured compounds overflowing with bouganvillea. The road also became increasingly sandy, and I started having to walk stretches until I found patches of more solid ground. After slogging away for a mile or so, I came back out onto the Atlantic road at the Senegambia junction. Here, once again, I was surrounded by toubabs, overly tatooed, underly clothed, just shining examples of the high class and culture of the western world. I had to bike on the main road for a quarter mile or so, and then I plunged back into the uncertain tangle of sidestreets.

The next town to work my through was Bijilo, which is comprised of massive tourist hotels to the right of the road on the coast, and a fairly traditional, if well-to-do, Gambian town on the left side of the road. I worked my way through the increasingly sandy streets, avoiding gangs of boys playing enthusiastic games of soccer with improvised equipment literally every hundred meters or so. Sometimes they stopped to smile and brazenly ask for money or my bike in what little English they knew. I was polite to those who didn't beg. I ignored those who did. As I kept taking turns, I started to doubt if I was on the right track. I stopped to ask directions from a man sitting brewing attaya outside his compound, and got the standard suprised/amused reaction at request being made in Mandinka. He put me on the right track, but his manner, so frequent among people I meet in Kombo, was a bit grating to me. In village I could just have a conversation with friends without them having to make constant comments or give me advice on my language. Here, a toubab speaking Mandinka is still very much a novelty, and it makes me feel like a sideshow sometimes.

Finally, after dragging my bike through another mile or so of sand, I arrived at the roundabout known to locals as "the turntable." My house was just another few hundred meters away, and on paved roads, no less. I started my trip at around 3 PM. I looked at my phone, and it said 5:45. Almost three hours, which in a taxi takes about 15 minutes. Gambians don't really see time as money. Not yet, anyway. I am an American--I do. The ten dalasis be damned, I am taking a taxi.

I wish that there were some effective method to prepare oneself emotionally for drastic change. Graduations, big moves, the loss of friends or families--these things are all foreseeable intellectually, but when it comes to our emotions, there is just no way to avoid feeling lost. I have known that my date of departure from the Gambia was not too far away on the horizon for the past year. It was something that I thought I had prepared for, and yet, now that is unavoidably close and there are so many major decisions to be made and good-byes to be said, I feel blindsided all the same.

My first week in The Gambia I felt adrift. The shoots of what would become good friendships with my fellow volunteers had sprouted, but there was no one close to confide in, and home seemed a long way away. We all sucked it up and dealt with it, throwing ourselves into language learning and technical skills, and by the end of training I felt comfortable in my skin and ready to get things started. Since then, The Gambia has been home, and I only occasionally felt short pangs of homesickness. I had friends in the Peace Corps, friends in my village, and good friends and family at home who sent e-mails, cards, and packages.

Now things are unravelling a bit. Many of my friends in the Peace Corps have already gone home to be with their families for the holidays. Several of my close colleagues in village have been transferred, and I don't really have as close a connection with their replacements. And, while I am looking forward to seeing everyone at home, it still seems like an abstract future that is hard to really imagine, despite how near at hand it is. Feeling lost at sea, it's hard to feel close to people who are here, let alone people thousands of miles away across the ocean.

What is keeping me strong is the music project that I have started, and plans for grad school. Although I have been living in Africa for a year, it's evident that I am still very American, as I feel alert and focused only when I am hard on a task that I deem worthwhile. I am extending until the early spring to raise funds and finish the recording project, and, while this is a big undertaking, I find comfort in the motivation it gives me to keep striving and doing something meaningful. Once it's successfully completed, I know that it will be a difficult transition back to life in America, but with the research done and a lot of talking and presentations to give, I think the motivation driving me should continue over the Atlantic.

First of all, I want to apologize for such a long lack of new posts on this blog. With grad school applications, planning out the next few months, and less than stellar telecommunications capabilities, my mind has been on other things. I am happy to say, however, that one of the things that has kept me busy and away from blogging has finally come to a successful head -- my Peace Corps Partnership Proposal for the Gambian Music Preservation Project has been approved, and the website is up and ready to accept donations.

In case you have not been fully informed about the project, let me fill you in on what the project is all about. About a year ago, I had the idea to record Gambian music to make a lasting record of some of the traditions that are vital to traditional Gambian society. Initially, the plan was to record music from all of the major ethnic groups in the country, and to combine all of this music into a computer database for easy access to anyone interested. After speaking to the leadership of the National Centre for Arts and Culture (NCAC) in Banjul, I found that there is already a national archive filled with recordings of stories and songs, but that these records are incomplete and kept entirely on dilapidated reel-to-reel and cassette tapes. Revising my original idea, I decided to make an effort to help revitalize the work and mission of the NCAC. Working with Bala Saho, the director general of the NCAC, we decided to get some better recording equipment and focus on recording the musical traditions of some of the lesser known ethnic groups in The Gambia--the Serahule, the Manswanka, and the Bainounka. Our plan is to make treks into the interior of the country to communities of these ethnic groups, and to conduct recording sessions and community forums. The recording sessions will capture these vibrant traditions for current and future generations to see, and the forums will help to raise awareness of the importance of music in Gambian society.

After a few months of revisions and meetings with Peace Corps and NCAC staff, I completed the final draft of the project proposal and submitted it. The proposal was approved by Peace Corps Washington last week, and now is ready to move forward, once funding is acquired. This is where all of you in the states can help. On this blog is a link to the Peace Corps Partnership fund raisings site. To donate to the Gambian Music Preservation Project, simply follow this link and search for my project by keyword (Gambian Music Preservation), by my home state (Iowa), or by my country of service (The Gambia). When my project comes up in the search, simply click on it to donate using a credit card.

I am really excited to get this project started, and will be writing a lot about it in my blog when things really get underway. I am including some photos of Mandinka and Jola music and dance traditions with this entry. While these are not the traditions that the project is aiming to preserve--the ones specific to the project have yet to be documented--they will give you an idea about the vibrancy of Gambian culture and why it is something worth time and money to save. Thanks for your time and support, and look forward to more exciting posts in the future-

Brendan

Hundreds of things I would like to say to the young Western European man on the ferry flashed through my head like a holodeck of exasperation. "Put a shirt on, for chrissakes! Are you blind? Can you not see that everyone around you is completely covered? Do you really think be sweaty and half-naked is acceptable in public anywhere, let alone a muslim country? How do you not know this is Ramadan, the month of pious fasting and self-denial? What the hell do you think your conduct says about not only you, but Westerners in general?"

That last question really sums up the way I feel about the behavior of most of the tourists I see in The Gambia. It is hard for me to fathom the idea of someone spending all of the time and money to come to Africa, and yet to be so willfully ignorant of the culture. I think most people in America feel that being shirtless, as a man in a public place, is somewhat provocative, but in The Gambia it is downright inappropriate. I try to maintain a certain level of good conduct in this country, both to be respectful to Gambians and to be a good representative of the United States. My ideas about conduct abroad seem to be drastically opposed to those of many international tourists, however. I have come into contact with many people whose opinion seems to be that "If I am on vacation, then I can do whatever I want, because it's MY time."

Trying to avoid this type of thinking was one of my top priorities for my parents' trip to Senegal and The Gambia. Obviously comfort and entertainment were also important, but I was determined in planning the trip to never sacrifice being respectful and appropriate. Of course, my parents, being seasoned travellers, were not likely to be crass and disrespectful in the first place. Still, as with any cross-cultural experience, it can be easy to say and do things that are wrong or offensive without knowing any better. Shaking with your left hand, for instance, or asking loudly for a "PHOTO," which, in Mandinka, translates to a certain part of the male anatomy. With my loving guidance, and their own common sense, my parents managed to avoid this pitfalls, for the most part.

One of the highlights of the trip were the cultural programs that my village organized to welcome and honor my folks, the most dramatic of which was the daytime Kankurang program. It started with just an ordinary dance by the women, during which individual dancers will jump out and stomp their feet with a fierce intensity while flapping their arms in the air. This went on for about an hour with my parents and I awkwardly participating at intervals, to the cheers and delight of those gathered. Finally, a cry goes up and children scatter as the kankurang makes his appearance. There are many types of masked kangkurang dancers in the Senegambia region, but the most common for daytime performances in my village is the jambo kangkurang--the leaf forest spirit. His costume is made up of the red bark of the camel foot or "farra" tree and green leaves from another type of tree--often neem. His dance is characterized by a somewhat calm, slow entrance into the dancing arena, after which he throws himself into a frenzy of ducking, charging, stomping, and leaf shaking. In many villages the kangkurang is unpredictable, potentially violent force that is best avoided, especially be women. He is summoned for occasions during which malevolent forces such as witches and demons are prone to attack, especially circumcision ceremonies. In my village, however, the deep and mysterious powers inherent in the dance have faded in favor of its pageantry. Women dance and sing next to the kangkurang and children are afraid in the same quasi-humorous way that children are afraid of halloween monsters.

Besides dances and pageantry, the other primary component of village programs is speech-making. On the occasion of my parents' visit, the speeches were even more numerous and verbose. Old men came out of the woodwork to praise my parents for raising me, for letting me come, for giving some money and books to the school library, for giving some seeds to the women's group. They were declared honorary alkalos (mayors, basically) of the village. To make sure that everyone heard their glowing words, the village people appointed Lamin Danjo, the shopkeeper, as the town crier, and he would bellow the mumblings of toothless village elders. I did my best to translate the proceedings for my folks, but occasionally would miss a detail or try to gloss over a thinly veiled request for money or to help young people go to America or Europe. Karamo, the VDC chairman would quickly fill my parents in on these details.

After four short days in and around my site, we headed to the River Gambia National Park in the Central River Region of the Gambia, where the Chimpanzee Rehabilitation Projects is located. One of my shortfalls as a host was that I am used to a fairly low standard of travel comfort after living in Africa for nearly two years. As a result my parents were subjected to a long wait in the car park, a less than pleasant bush two hour bush taxi ride, and a two mile walk with heavy packs over a pretty rough road before we were picked up by the CRP staff and taken to the camp. Upon arrival, however, all of my dad's doubts about this part of the trip were put to rest, as the lodge and facilities were beautiful, and the tilapia and fried rice lunch waiting for us was delicious. Our host, and intern named Karen, made sure we were comfortable and told us that the boat tour would start around four. While living in the Gambia I have come to know that you should never expect to see wildlife, as animals, except for birds, are elusive, few in number, and easily frightened. As such, I was thrilled at how many large mammals we saw in the two hour boat ride, including eight or more hippos, several communities of Chimpanzees, Baboons, and other monkeys. In addition to this we saw countless waterbirds nesting around the island.

The next day, after a pleasant but less eventful boat ride, we caught a car with some other Peace Corps volunteers on their way to Kombo and arrived in the late mid-afternoon. We had done a little bit of research looking at hotels during our previous stay in Kombo before going to my village, but my friend Mike highly recommended the Coco Ocean hotel, so we decided to check it out before making a final decision. It was much more than we expected--well-appointed suites, numerous swimming pools, excellent service, beautiful grounds, and a great beach. My parents decided that, for the money, this was their best option. For my part, I agreed that is was beautiful and that they deserved a little luxury after being tossed about by West Africa for a couple of weeks. I was glad, however, that this hotel was not their introduction to The Gambia. This is, after all, the world of the shirtless man on the ferry. It is the walled-in world where rich foreigners get massages, spend a Gambian's month salary on a bottle of wine, and learn little to nothing about the diversity, the culture, the poverty, the frustration, the beauty and, above all, the people, that are just outside the walls.

In Africa, I have had many the awakening met by confusion and disorientation. In the first year or so, in my own home, I often awoke with no idea where I was, and no idea what the noises around me meant or where they were coming from. This rarely happens to me now--donkeys, roosters, rice being pounded in mortars--the myriad of morning sounds washes over me with a sense of familiarity. This morning is one of those old disoriented mornings, but in an unfamiliar bed, in a small dark space. The sound that meets me, however, is one I have known since I was very young, and could not be mistaken for anything else; it is the sea.

Saint Louis is in the north of Dakar, on the Atlantic coast, and is something of a hybrid African/European city founded 350 years ago. It consists of three sections--the mainland, an island a few hundred meters off the mainland in the middle of the Senegal river, and a Peninsula that extends a protecting arm to the east, as if to save the small island from the savagery of the open sea. It is the location of an annual jazz festival that attracts musicians from West Africa, Europe, America, and the rest of the world. Seeing as I had a few extra vacation days lying around, and Whitney and I had not yet taken a trip together, we decided to make the journey.

We left Gambia on the 20th of May, and, after an unexpected but not atypical delay that stranded us in Dakar for the night, we arrived in Saint Louis on the afternoon of the 21st. There were four of us. Whitney and myself and Danielle, a newer volunteer, all speak Mandinka. Jasmin, also in my training group, is a Fula speaker. None of us speak French or Wolof, which unfortunately left us at something of a disadvantage in terms of communicating in northern Senegal. I have picked up some French vocabulary words, but little to no grammar, making me sound like a stuttering French caveman.

These language skills, in addition to a lot of flailing and some phone calls to local PC volunteers, got us to a section of beach hotels on the peninsula, the Langue d'Barbarie. We were told to try the Auberge du Pelicain. Which turned out to be a beautiful hotel with a rooftop bar and restaurant. It also turned out to be completely full. The management told us to try the inn next door. The polite matron showed me a reservation list and asked me which was my name. Upon clarification, she pointed down the beach and said to ask for the Auberge Mermoz. Half an hour of searching along the beach later, we gave up on that idea and decided to just ask about the only other hotel we saw nearby- the Hotel Dior. It looked unlikely, as it was a fairly upper-class looking establishment, but there turned out to be a small camping section called "Camping Ocean," which not only had a vacancy right on the beach, but was the cheapest option we had yet found while still being comfortable.

After settling in at the hotel, we headed to town to explore a bit and look for some dinner. We saw a variety of nice European, Asian, and African options, all far too rich for our thin wallets. Finally we stumbled on a small cafe adjacent to an African art gallery. From the place's appearance we all assumed it would be too expensive, but we were surprised to be able to sit down to some wonderful chicken yassa for about five American dollars. What made the place better was the extremely friendly and helpful waitress--an educated young woman who tried her best to speak to us in English. She gave us her e-mail address and invited us to a fashion show at the gallery the next day before we thanked her and went back out into the town. We found a small pastry shop and tried a few of their offerings, including a cup of espresso for me. Every time I go to a French country I am continuously surprised at how intermixed the African culture is with French culture. This isn't true nearly as often with British culture in The Gambia. Whether it is positive or negative that the Senegalese had French culture more effectively thrust on them, however, is a topic open for much heated discussion.

After the coffee and pastries we headed to the mainland looking for a party at a Peace Corps Volunteer's apartment. Once again our lack of any really useful language skill threw us off the beaten path and we had to continuously ask for directions, which just made us more confused, walking down dark and foreign colonial streets. Finally Jasmin called on or her friend in the area and got us back on the right path, after considerable back-tracking. The party was in a location that seemed ridiculously opulent to we humble Gambian volunteers: an apartment at the top of a 5 or 6 story building, half inside, half on terraced-in patios with beautiful views of the river, island, and sea. We socialized with the volunteers in attendance and drank some pretty potent jungle juice, easily losing track of time. When we finally managed to break away it was past one a.m., and we went in search of live music.

While Jasmin, Danielle, and a few of the Senegalese volunteers headed to a danceclub-type venue with a DJ, Whitney and I looked for some music that was a bit more authentically live. We finally found a club by the river that had a band of Africans playing with a white--presumably French--drummer and keyboardist sitting in. They played lively jazz with some African percussion and singing mixed in, and the mood frequently changed as new people sat in, including a Senegalese keyboardist and a stylishly dressed, female, African albino bass player. She seemed to totally get lost in the music--swooning, thrashing her head back and forth, opening her mouth wide while deeply bending a note. The band finally began to pack things up around 3, after which people seemed to be ready to leave, when all of a sudden a new type of music burst spontaneously from four men sitting near the bar. They were apparently part of a gospel choir and began singing Christian songs such as "Go Down Moses" and "This Little Light of Mine" in four-part harmony, accompanied by the intermittent "whoop" of one of them blowing on a half-empty beer bottle. Despite the late hour and the mixed-religion crowd, everyone was re-energized and excited by this sudden outburst of music, so characteristic of West Africa.

I woke up at 2 the next afternoon with the call to prayer from the nearby mosque. My head throbbed softly and my mouth was sticky. I heard the ocean and I wanted to dive into it--clear my head and wash off the sweat, dried in places, pungent in others. Trunks on and I hit the beach, where impatience pushed me to run. I thrashed into the surf and was shocked into something closer to a lucid state of mind. I practiced my usual oceanic ritual of swimming just past where my feet can touch before returning to shore. Back at the hut I changed into a slightly wrinkled off-white shirt, a maroon tie with yellow stripes, and khaki dockers. Whitney finished off the outfit by putting her fedora on me. Not quite haute couture, but at least not ragged.

In town we walked the streets of old colonial buildings while Mauritanians called out deals on silver jewelry and drumming from gatherings in compounds throbbed through concrete and plaster walls. Crudely painted portraits of local cheikhs stared forebodingly from cracking cement walls, surrounded by tattered posters of past music events and glossy newer ones of an upcoming dance gala. We turned a street and run smack into a parade consisting of dancers, singers, stilt walkers, and various other incarnations of the cultural life of Senegambia. I took Whitney's camera and started shooting, trying to capture just a taste the strange and wonderful stimuli this city keeps throwing at us. That evening we met up with some other Peace Corps friends and head for a bar where the albino bassist's band is playing. Our progress was interrupted, however, when one of out number was pick pocketed. She ran after a man she suspected to be the thief and confronts him, but he empties his pockets willingly, removing only his own cell phone. After some consoling she went back to her hotel to get some money to bring to the club, and the rest of us continued on, feeling a little more sober. It's easy to forget sometimes that anything that outwardly implies you have money can make you a target. Unfortunately, in many developing countries, being white is one such attribute.

We all made it to the concert ready for some cheering up, and we were in no way disappointed. The act, "Jac et le Takeifa," was a hyper mix of Senegalese mbalax dance music, American rock and punk, traditional West African music styles, and whatever else they feel like at the moment. We uninitiated toubabs were energized, but we seemed catatonic in comparison with the frenzy of the Senegalese. Ten or more men jumped up and down on a long, groaning wooden table, chanting the words to each song between hits of fanta or flag beer, depending on religious affiliation. Some of the performers from the mainstage jazz festival sat in on a few songs, including a German guitarist with a stunning mullet. All the while the Afro sporting front man and the bassist traded energy back and forth, headbanging, shaking, and throwing themselves into the music. When we left at three in the morning, others at the bar were calling friends, looking for another party to hop to.

The next day I managed to rise before noon. It's easier than before; I suppose that after its initial protests my body resigned itself to a temporary nocturnal state. After another dip in the Atlantic we headed in for our last day in the city. Whitney and I found an art gallery hosting an African art exhibition run by a British man who splits his time between London and Cape Town. It was full of photographs, abstract paintings, and historical information about the cultural connections between African nations and their former colonizers. This, along with the festival and the general atmosphere of Saint Louis made me keenly aware of the lack of such cultural displays in the Gambia. I feel that this should change, that Gambians should value their culture more and display it more proudly. But what they value is not up to me, or to the U.S., Britain, or anyone else. All we can do is give suggestions, and it is up to the Gambians to decide what is best for themselves.

Since it is our last night in town, we decided to splurge a little bit and pay the ticket price to get into the mainstage show. The first act was The African Roots Quartet, comprised of a kora player, a Fula flutist, a sabar drummer, and a French percussionist on a drum set. They played a charged and highly improvisational brand of music, displaying a lot of virtuosity on their respective instruments. They were followed by an ensemble led by Puerto Rican Trumpet player/percussionist Jerry Gonzales. What initially seemed to be a standard latin jazz and salsa outfit quickly became more interesting, as a Senegalese drummer, a Spanish trumpeter, and a Flamenco vocalist all added different elements to the mix. It was interesting to see the entire interaction between Africa, Europe, and Latin America represented on one stage, and the music was exciting and danceable. The closer for the performance was the American saxophonist Pharaoh Sanders. Despite being in his seventies and playing a set that started at one in morning, he can still wail away. He threw a lot of avant-garde elements into his music, including singing while playing, overtones, atonal passages, and a very free, open structure to each piece. He was a lot of fun to watch, but our group is fading fast, and after about an hour we file out and head for the street to catch a cab.

Before dawn the next morning we were up, dressed, and almost conscious as we took a cab to the car park on the mainland. As I groggily leaned my head against the taxi's window pane, I glimpsed the sea from between the scruffy whistling pine trees poking out of the beige sand in the weak light of the coming day. I could just hear the faint sound of the surf as we crossed the bridge onto the island, before it faded completely. Then we were back into the hustle of the car parks, the cries of the hawkers and beggars, chickens and asses--the sounds that would wake us in the days to come.

"Sixty dollars?"

"No one else is gonna drive you for less than that."

"I only have thirty on me."

"You got a card? I have a reader in the taxi."

"Just my personal one. Hey man, sorry, but I think I'm gonna have to pass. I had better give the office a call to see what I should do."

"Suit yourself."

Living in the Gambia has ingrained in me this all-pervasive thriftiness, akin to survivors of depressions, world wars, or natural catastrophes. I pay 300 Dalasis, about 14 bucks, to get from Basse to Barra--about 300 km-- so there is no way in hell I am going straight from that to a sixty dollar cab ride for 15 miles. And why does 40 degrees feel so cold?

The 5A bus gets to the park about half an hour later. It's ten bucks to the nearest metro station, which is a lot more digestible to my tightwad tendencies. A nice guy who is part of some type of Christian group touring the area fills me in on how to get from the West Falls church metro to Rosslyn station, from which I will have to catch a shuttle to the Virginian Suites. I freak out for a second thinking I have forgotten my anti-malaria meds. I find them in a side pocket of the single back pack in which I have crammed all of clothes and personal effects that I will have for the next...week? Two weeks? Month?

The Virginian is nice, but not opulent. Wi-fi, free coffee and tea in the lobby, a shuttle to the grocery store and nearest metro station. My roommate groggily answers the door, as he has not been informed I was coming. We chat a little bit. He was stationed in Morocco, and has been here nearly a month already. He walks with a limp. Some type of nerve pain the doctor's can't quite explain. We get along well.

It's the weekend so I can't get a doctor's appointment until at least Monday. The other medevac'ed volunteers are friendly enough. A girl from Ecuador, who just had some dental work repaired and is waiting on a mouth guard. A guy from China after 2 years in Mauritania who had leg surgery and developed a Staph infection. An older man on his third peace corps term, this time in Georgia, with a badly broken leg. A girl from a Central Asian country who doesn't talk much about her reasons for being there--stress, anxiety, something like that. A girl from East Africa with a stomach issues. My urological issues seem kind of minor compared to some. In the Ecuadorian girl's room we sit and talk about our experiences. The girl from Central Asia asks me about my tattoo. I say it's from East of Eden. "Oh Steinbeck. Don't you think he just kind of vomits on the page?" I don't concur. It's an awkward conversation.

Some of my fellow infirm and I go to Avatar in 3D. In the states I enjoy going to a film at least a couple times a month, but this is my first movie in a theater for over a year. In The Gambia I'm more used to thirty or forty people crowding around poorly dubbed Bruce Lee films on 15 inch televisions with the whir of a generator in the background. This is a bunch of blue cat people on a huge screen in front of me while I wear 3D glasses and drink an Icee that costs as much as my meals for nearly a week in the Gambia. It hurts my head. It hurts my face. But I like it.

In spite of the Thai food, the climate control, the museums, and walking down the street without being noticed, I start to miss the Gambia. Hypochondria starts to take hold. What's this new leg pain? Is my sore throat from the cold or something more sinister? Are the doctors really taking my fears seriously? Should I be taking them seriously? All of my urine tests come back clean, and the Urologist acts surprised that I would be medevac'ed for something so minor. He schedules me for a cystoscopy. It involves fiber optic cable and water-based lubricant.

In the days leading to the unpleasantness, we do some more quintessentially American things. The mall, for instance. I have never actually been in an Apple store, and being in one after a year in a mud hut is like going from Gilligan's Island to Star Trek. The girl from Central Asia is acting a bit strange. She snaps at the girl in the makeup shop. She drops gummy bears over the railing on people on lower floors. She knocks over a wet floor sign and throws a small fit. The rest of us don't know how to react. Is this a result of something that happened to her? None of us had met her before we came here. Who are we to each other?

The cystoscopy is over in less than five minutes. There is no anesthesia, local or general. The urologist talks to me the whole time. It really isn't that bad. But it definitely hurts to pee the rest of the day. My anxiety breaks open again like a scab. My Peace Corps nurse makes an appointment with an internist to check on my sore throat and general malaise. My sister comes the next weekend, and so do two of my friends who are living in Pittsburgh. I can't think of anything that would pick me up more, but I feel like my discomfort hampers some of what we want to do. We still manage to see some of the sights of D.C. and have a couple nice meals before I am alone again. Some new medevacs arrive. One from Tonga, one from Mongolia.

The internalist takes some blood samples, all of which come back clean. They give me some antibiotics and tell me to get more rest and try to relax. Because of some of my discomfort and specific symptoms they set up an appointment with a gastroenterologist in a week. My nurse warns that the more problems we explore, the less likely it will be that I will be able to go back. My mom comes that weekend. I know that I am 25, an adult now by any measure, and should be capable of handling things on my own. Still, it is extremely comforting and reassuring to see her.

We spend the weekend doing as many interesting things as we can, including restaurants, museums, and movies. It's really snowy that week, so walking in my thin West African Converse ripoffs is a bit brutal. One evening we go to a show at the Folger Theatre with the girl from Mongolia and the girl from Tonga. It's a bit strange spending time with my mom and two people we just met, but we have a good time. Later that night I got with the girls from Mongolia, Tonga, and Tanzania to a bar called Madam's Organ--a play off the neighbor hood name--Adams Morgan. There is a latin band playing and the special makes drinking only slightly expensive as opposed to the outright mugging that most D.C. prices are. We have a good time, but I still barely know any of these girls. That Sunday my mom and I have brunch at the only place that serves it near the metro station--a cheap place in the Best Western across the highway. Cheap diner French toast, complete with sealed fake butter packets, those food-industry slide-opening syrup pitchers, and orange juice from concentrate. It evokes the many childhood road trips with my family to the Ozarks or the Gulf Coast of Florida. It's delicious, but for sentimental reasons more than anything. We take the train to Ronald Reagan National Airport and she gets on a plane and I am alone again.

Over the next few days I feel in a sort of snow-induced limbo. D.C. is hit by its biggest snow storm in decades, which closes everything down, including all federal government offices, which includes Peace Corps. As such, I am left in my room wondering whether I will be in The Gambia next week or getting yet more tests. The day before the storm hit, a new girl arrived from Central Asia She is feeling a bit stir-crazy, so we go out into the unplowed snow wilderness that was D.C the day before. It is a strange sight, even for one not used to the city. What used to be traffic-clogged arteries are now venues for community snowball fights, avenues for children to drag each other back and forth on plastic sleds, and dog walking parks. People are friendly to the point of farce, waving at everyone who passes and making lame jokes to complete strangers. "How 'bout this weather?" The girl from Central Asia and I strike up an impromptu friendship. This whole experience has been a microcosm of Peace Corps relationships in general--you meet people, you befriend them out of necessity, and you are often confused about what your relationship to these people actually is. In The Gambia I have figured some of these things out. In D.C., I have no idea.

I see the gastroenterologist, a soft-spoken man in his 50's with receding hair and pictures of his family all over his desk. He asks me a lot of questions I have already been asked, does another very personal examination, labels it a yeast infection, and prescribes some pills and ointment. He says I am clear to go back. I bring this news to my Peace Corps nurse at the office, and she says that's all I need, I can go back as soon as we reserve a flight. The earliest we can do so is Monday, so I have the weekend to fit in whatever else I want to do. Despite the wealth of options, I just kind of hang out. The whole experience has been exhausting. The day of my departure, my fellow Medevacs and I have some excellent Mexican food for my last meal in the states, then head to the airport. I share a cab with two middle aged ladies who are teachers from California, and tell them about where I am going and why. They are interested, but only to a point. The second half of the ride is mostly silent.

One of the in-flight movies is Where the Wild Things Are. It's played on a horrible little screen, but because of the content and my emotionally frazzled state I find myself tearing up. I half read an article on the flight that says everyone tends to cry more during in-flight movies than in grounded ones. I chalk it up to that and try to sleep the rest of the flight. When I can't, I look down on the vastness of the Sahara and wonder if I'll ever go there. I don't talk to the people sitting next to me. I don't really feel like meeting anyone new.

The next day, a world away, there are baobabs near the runway in Dakar, and it starts to feel like home again. One hop later down to Banjul and I start actually recognizing things. Banjul harbor. The ferry at Barra. The coast going south. The plane touches down and I start to think that I can feel normal again. By coincidence my fellow Gambian medevac Jasmin gets into the airport from South Africa at practically the same time. While we wait for the Peace Corps car to pick us up, we get hassled by bumsters. Now, at last, for better or for worse, I feel at home.

Hypothetical situation:

You have gone to nursing school for 2 years after completing high school, and have been stationed a day's journey away from friends and family in a rural village with no electricity, paved roads, or any type of modern convenience. You spend your days trying to help the uneducated population of this village with their myriad health woes, many of which amount to conditions as vague as "my body hurts." Your tools are limited and your training is limited, but you make do, and have become an accepted member of your new community, although you are still supporting a spouse and son back in your hometown. You work hard for that modest, but at least steady paycheck you receive every month. And with that paycheck, there comes the inevitable deluge of phone calls. Your brother - "I have been invited to a wedding ceremony and I need 500 dalasis to buy a gift large enough to impress the family. I am your brother, do you not love me? Do you only love your wife and son?" Your mother - "I am old and only have a few cows and a garden with which to make money. You, my son, are a civil servant. You have more money than you need. Send me 700 dalasis for new bowls and for a bag of rice." And so on. That monthly paycheck is soon divvied up and distributed among your relatives, leaving nothing left for you to save for the future.

I am sure this scenario seems ridiculous to the average American. If your brother asks for money and its not an emergency, you feel under no obligation to give him anything, and no one will judge you for not doing so. Sharing is all well and good, but there is a definite line between legitimate requests and begging. In much of West Africa, however, a request of anything from a relative or friend, if at all feasible, is something that must be given. If it is not, the person making the request will accuse you of being wicked, greedy, and uncaring--accusations that will be spread around the community and may stick. If they do, this will all but destroy your chances of getting any help in building a house, starting a business, or doing any other work that requires another set of hands.

Being a toubab, this aspect of the culture can be extremely frustrating, but at least I have an excuse for refusing most of the time, not being actually related to anyone. This doesn't stop every casual acquaintance from asking me for money for a loaf of bread or for green tea or medicine. Before you furrow your brow at that last statement, wondering why I would deny poor Africans food and medicine, let me explain the situation here and my feelings about hand-outs in the third world in general. Yes, the people here need help. But they have been getting help for decades. Western aid to African since the 60's amounts to more than a trillion dollars, and that has done little to lower poverty rates, improve governance, and generally make life better for Africans. (Check link at left for details) There are a number of probable reasons for this, but the one that is most evident to me on a daily basis is that aid decreases self reliance.

Many the charity or development organization that comes to The Gambia is staffed by people motivated by lofty ideas of building hospitals, saving children, and changing the world. While altruism is certainly something to be admired and encouraged, the main problem with this kind of attitude is that it can quickly turn to selfishness when things in the developing world are not what we expect. When projects fail because of disinterest, poor planning, harsh conditions, or a myriad of other reasons, many western donors and workers lose their patience and pull out. Westerners expect Africans to be humble, hardworking, and grateful for whatever scraps western countries are willing to give them. Often the case is just the opposite--many African leaders, especially men, are highly self-laudatory, lazy, and corrupt. International aid organizations in the Gambia routinely close down operations because of allegations of fraud and theft among Gambian staff members. It is often just too easy and too tempting for people of humble origin, when put in charge of large sums of money, to pocket some of it for themselves. This is especially true when so much financial support is expected of working men and women from their families. Since so much of this money gets siphoned off, more and more of it is needed to maintain projects, and since more of it keeps coming, it no longer becomes a leg up to poor but appreciative people, but an expected allowance that is viewed as an entitlement.

This problem of reliance on foreign aid starts at the top echelons of African societies--the government and educated Africans working in development-- but also trickles its way down to poorer people. NGO's sweep into a small village, do a short and inadequate needs assessment, and then build a school, well, garden, or other generic development project. This project either fails completely within a few years, as do most gardens and wells, or staggers on with little success, crippled by a lack of continued funding and an indigenous leadership without the proper training and/or motivation to run it. After the project fails or is no longer viewed as viable, rather than trying to revamp it or start a new project of their own design the community will sit on its thumbs, waiting for another NGO to come along and throw them some money, starting the process all over again.

It is this viewing this process which has hardened my resolve to never give anything to anyone in the community that I do not have a strong relationship and understanding with. The old man who asks me for bread doesn't need it--it's a luxury item in Africa anyway. The woman who wants painkillers most likely doesn't have any real pain problems at present anyway--many times they just ask you because they hope to get some free medicine from the toubab. Even if they do have a real need, if I give them something they will be less likely to go through the established infrastructure to get what they need in the future. There is a Spanish NGO that comes yearly to a village near my own that, until recently, gave away medicine for free after a short medical examination given by med students and nurses. That sounds wonderful, until you realize that in the months leading up to the visit by the "Spanish Doctors," very few people go to the health centers unless they are at death's door. They would rather jeopardize their health and wait to get treatment for free in a two months instead of having to pay a nominal fee to get it now. The community nurse in my village had to have a somewhat heated meeting with the Spaniards to explain the system of medical treatment in the Gambia in order get them to help him instead of competing with him.

I realize that my tone up until this point has sounded relentlessly negative about the situation here, but let me just say that after 19 months in this country I still remain motivated and excited to be doing what I am doing. These are daunting challenges which we face if we want to improve the lot of people living in developing countries. Fortunately, I feel that the Peace Corps and a few other organizations are getting at least one thing right--working with people on their own terms as well as ours. Development organizations can not come in and dictate the "right" way for a country to improve itself. This is ignorant and arrogant on the part of western agencies, and will most likely alienate and insult the recipients of the proposed aid. At the same time, developing countries can not make demands on western nations and feel entitled to an unending stream of hand outs. It is certainly true that European countries have exploited the developing world to a despicable degree in the past, but by hanging on to bitterness and demanding aid instead of building trading and diplomatic relationships, developing countries will never make themselves into strong, self-reliant nations.

What I value so far about my service to the Gambia and to The Peace Corps is that, despite a lot of frustrations, I have found people to work with who want to make things better by their own means. We spend two years here trying to build relationships with this type of people. This is may seem like a long time, and it is longer than the terms of most development workers, but it is still precious little time really become a part of a community. And once we find those people and decide together on a project they deem necessary, they are willing to work for it. Maybe they need a little leg up now and again with some training or a small grant, but on the whole, they want to do things for themselves. Working with such people on equal terms and with equal respect is the only type of work I see as worthwhile, and the only work that will have any type of sustainable effect. And hopefully those doing the work will find some way of keeping their relatives' hands off at least some of the benefits.

Hey everyone, sorry it's been so long since I've posted. I've had a lot of things happen in the last few months which kept my mind a bit too occupied for blogging. I will detail some of it in future posts. To break back into the swing of things I thought I would just put up something funny and mindless. One of the main cell phone carriers in the Gambia is Africell. They sell SIM cards that allow the owner to make phone calls using a system of towers in the country. When you turn on your phone with an Africell card inside, you are given a list of options on the Africell menu. Among more functional features such as checking your credit or calling customer service, there is a feature called "Love Quotes." This is a series of beautiful mini-poems which you can download for the mere price of one dalasi each and send to whomever you love dearest in this world. Here is a sampling of some of my favorites, in their full, unabridged, and uncorrected* glory:

In da morning I don't eat cuz I tink of u,

at noon I don't eat cuz I tink of u,

in da evening I don't eat cuz I tink of u,

at night I do not sleep cuz I am hungry.

---------------------------

Proposing u was my desire

having u is my jackpot

loving u is my attitude

pleasing u is my duty

missing u is my habit

kissing u is my wish

2gether 4eva my filfi

---------------------------

I believe that God above

created u for me to luv.

he picked you out

from all the rest

cos he knew id luv you the best!

---------------------------

like a fallen star u fell into my life.

u made me smile wen thingz werent rite..

if hugz were water id send u the sea

n sail away 4eva jus u n me.

---------------------------

I can't smile anymore, dnt worry about me,

I know what 2 do.

I'll just stare at 1 corner n think of yu.

No one else could make me happy

like d way yu do.

---------------------------

one day the moon said 2 me,

if ur lover makes u cry

why don't you leave ur lover..

i looked at the moon and replied

would u every leave ur sky?

---------------------------

(*Actually, this makes them look more professional, as I put them in stanzas as opposed to just mashing them together in a single text message.)

The Gambia is a long way from Copenhagen, and the distance between the perspectives of the average Danish and Gambian citizen is possibly even greater. Thanks to the BBC World Service, however, the happenings at the environmental summit in Copenhagen are known and discussed by the Gambians who have had at least some schooling. Environmental awareness is not a totally alien concept to West Africa, so many have opinions about what world leaders, especially Barack Obama, should do in the way of legislation, green development projects, and the like. Unfortunately, most conversations I hear are not about what the western powers can do right in the future, but about what they have and are currently doing wrong. It should be taken as a given that Americans, Chinese, and Western Europeans are responsible for the great bulk of the damage that has been done to the environment. There is such a wealth of statistical information on the internet and in print that supports this that I will not attempt to do so here. What my perspective as an American living in West Africa gives me is anecdotal evidence of the attitudes that Gambians have about this discrepancy. The most common one, in my experience, is not anger at the wastefulness of wealthier nations, but envy of it.

Very few Gambian households outside of the wealthy Kombo districts on the coast have the means to consume much carbon, despite the great desire to do so. My district is without a power grid, as is entire region except for a couple of administrative and commercial centers, which only have electricity about ten hours a day. My village has at most 10 generators, only one or two of which are run any given night due to the price of gasoline. There are perhaps 20 motorcycles and 3 trucks or cars among the approximately 1500 people in the village, meaning that public transport, bicycles, or walking are the only options for most people. There is no indoor in any of rural villages and towns, and even in administrative centers such as Basse, toilets are only to be found in NGO and government offices.

As such, the carbon footprint of the average Gambian is very small as compared to the world at large, due almost entirely to poverty. In villages, the idea of depriving yourself of anything just for the sake of the environment would be laughed at, and loudly. Driving a car is always better than walking or biking. Drinking water out of a bottle is always better than out of a well. Something easy in a package shipped from far away is always better than harvesting, pounding, and cooking for hours. It is somewhat ironic that people who are itching to do some polluting are completely unable to do so, while people like the famous "No Impact Man", Bill Nye, and Leonardo DiCaprio are polluting exponentially more while ostensibly doing everything they can to avoid it.

The government in the Gambia is doing its part, in theory, to change the collective mind of the people. The last Saturday of every month, the epic "Set Settal environmental cleansing exercise" is performed across the country with much aplomb. This event consists of women sweeping and men raking all of the litter that people throw indiscriminately for the rest of the month into great piles and burning them, filling the air with dust and fumes from burning plastic and rubber. I have no figures to back it up, but my suspicion is that the respiratory problems caused and carbon released as a result of the bonfires far outweigh any of the benefits of having less clutter in the streets for a week or so.

"So what are you doing?", you may ask. Well, by necessity, I am living the Gambian green lifestyle- pooping in a hole, bathing in a bucket, walking, biking, and being jostled in crowded bush taxis. That's all well and good, but a month after I get back to the states I will probably have made up for these lean two years. Something more useful I have been attempting has been to encourage the idea that planting trees after chopping them down is not only a considerate thing to do, it is absolutely essential if Gambians don't want to live in a desert. The Sahara moves further south each year as a result of deforestation, and as population gets denser and denser, trees get thinner and thinner. In theory this should be easy--every Gambian knows that trees are extremely useful as a source of food, lumber, firewood, and numerous local medicines. They just aren't so receptive to the idea of doing more work than they have to. I did manage, with the help of my counterparts Karamo and Mamadi, to get a large group together to plant a cashew plantation a few months ago. Have they fenced it yet? No. Have goats eaten some of them? Yes. What am I hoping for? I am hoping that, even if every single tree is eaten and fire scorches the plot, that maybe one of the kids that helped plant trees will like this idea, and that when he is a few years older, he will start his own plantation or tree lot. Then his daughter will do the same thing, and on and on, ad infinitum. Maybe it will happen, maybe it won't, and I most likely will never know either way. All I have is my good will and the hope that I've made the right kind of impact.

We stayed in Bamako just one night before heading to the Pays Dogon, a series of dozens of villages along the Bandiagara escarpment, a 200 km stretch of granite and laterite cliffs in the south of the country. The Dogon are one of the West African ethnic groups that have most successfully held onto their indigenous culture. Although now they are comprised of Muslims and Christians as well as Animists, they maintain vibrant wood carving, cloth weaving and dyeing, architecture, and dance and music traditions. After another day long bus ride we arrived in Sevare, a town north of Bandiagara that is commonly used as a starting point for trips to Dogon. Ian called the guide that we had arranged our trip with previously and he said he could pick us up right in front of the bus station. A few minutes later a large man in a Renault station wagon pulled up to the curb and rolled down his window to greet us. He introduced himself as Hassimi and asked me how we were doing. I said fine, except that it was a bit hot. He laughed and replied, "Ohhh yeah, it's really f***ing hot, dude!"

This response might have seemed crass and a bit off-putting if not for the extremely friendly and jovial manner with which Hassimi addressed us. His English was not fantastic, but certainly understandable, and like most West Africans who speak English he was not entirely aware of the gravity of the f-bomb in the west. He invited us to stay in his compound for free and discuss the itinterary for our trip. We made sure we were all on the same page as far as his rate (quite reasonable) and what we were interested in seeing, and shook hands feeling good about the next couple of days.

The next morning we got up, had breakfast and were on the road by 8 o'clock. The first village we went to was named Banjugu, and as we first saw it the stone and mud buildings tucked into the confines of a rocky cliff rising before us in the distance, we knew that what we had been told about the beauty of the Pays Dogon was no exaggeration. We followed Hassimi into the village while he explained the manner of construction of the buildings, and told us of the legend of the Muslim saint who converted the village to Islam by building a full mosque in one night. The Dogon had fled from the jihads waged by the Fulani to convert the different ethnic groups of West Africa, and lived in the cliffs to protect themselves from attackers. According to Hassimi, unlike the Mandinka, Bambara, Wolof, and other West African tribes, the Dogon muslims were converted by persuasion rather than the edge of a sword.

As we walked around the village, Hassimi pointed out various natural rock ledges and tables that the village people used as meeting places, workshops, and even one spot that functions as a court--Banjugu, the first village to convert to Islam, also practices Sharia law. As we walked through the narrow streets we marvelled at how naturally the buildings fit into the rock formations; everything is built in tandem with nature, rather than in spite of it. What we found remarkable, however, the village residents found mundane. Women continually asked us why on earth we would want a picture of the side of their house, or of children sliding down a slick stretch of rock warn even smother by the repeated friction of their bony behinds. Even the beautiful Friday mosque, build entirely out of mud and sticks, was every day to them. It is easy to let the vibrancy of the lives of these villagers belie the fact that they are extremely arduous. Hassimi showed us to a small spring about half 1/2km from the village on a steep rock path. It was less a spring than a never-emptied puddle of cool, clear water, fed by an underground stream. To get water in the dry season, women have to go to this spring and fill their buckets cup by cup, then carry the full buckets on their heads over that same treacherous rock path and up countless stairs back to their compounds.

After leaving Banjugu we had lunch in Bandiagara before continuing to the actual escarpment--where every view suddenly became a stunning panorama. After a few stops for photos we came to the village of Telli, the first village on the southern end of the escarpment to have the characteristic clay buildings built into the side of the cliff, similiar to the structures at Green Mesa in Arizona. Hassimi showed us the different types of buildings--granaries, stables, fetish sites. He also pointed high up the cliff, sometimes closer to the top than the bottom, where in small cracks there were tiny little mud huts that seemed absolutely impossible to reach. These are the dwelling places of the Tellem, some dating back to the 2nd or 3rd centuries B.C.E. The Tellem were a race of very small people related to the pygmies of Central Africa. Hassimi said that it was believed that the Tellem were able to reach these huts so high up the cliff by climbing vines that covered the cliffs at a time when the area was more lush and green. Some Malians believe, however, that the Tellem had supernatural abilities, including the ability to fly.

We spent the night at a rustic hotel, or campement, in the nearby town of Ende. Hassimi took good care of us, in that every place we stayed was clean and pleasant, and the food was always excellent--cous cous with a chicken stew over it, sheep in a sauce over macaroni, et cetera. The next morning we walked around the village, visiting various textile and jewelry makers. Zach and I both picked up some striking blankets of mud-dyed Bogolon cloth and Dogon hats, which are made of cloth sewed together with three tassels on top, a bit like a European jester's cap. Ian bought a couple of Dogon shirts, which are made of woven cloth dyed with indigo. After shopping, we tour the old Dogon village in the cliffs, and Hassimi shows us the Hogon house. The Hogon is the head chief of the village, who makes all final decisions and has crucial roles in ceremonies. If a Hogon dies, a new one cannot be chosen for three years. New candidates must be the oldest members of a high status family, such as the founders of the village. Once chosen, the Hogon is carried to the house where he will spend the rest of his life. Everything he eats must first be tested by a tortoise--if the tortoise refuses any food, it is not fit for the Hogon. The Hogon can only drink pristine food and water brought to him by a clean woman-a virgin. This is entirely for cleanliness purposes, as the Hogon effectively takes an involuntary vow of chastity when he is chosen.

The next day we moved on to a new campement to park the car, then began a day-long hike, first to a Dogon market, then a village nestled high up in the cliffs. The market was a quite an experience. One of the primary items sold at Dogon markets is millet beer, sold in either plastic bottles or large bowls made out of gourds. Dozens of women with big pots doled the stuff out to men in various states of inebriation. One was wearing a full Santa Claus beard and wig. A young Japanese man approached me to say hello, explaining that he had been on a tour of West Africa for several months, and had been in the Dogon for a week or so. He then introduced me to his guide, who spoke no English or Japanese, and was completely wasted. He kept trying to tell me about Malian politics in slurred French and hinting that I should buy him more alcohol.

We wished our Japanese friend good luck and continued on a trail that went alongside a stream up into the cliffs. The trail was flanked by millet fields and massive acacia and baobab trees, making for yet another spectacular landscape. We made our way behind women from the market still carrying baskets and goods on their heads. How they do this every week is beyond me. We reached the village at dusk, and Hassimi explained that it is divided into three sections, one Muslim, one Christian, one Animist. No section, however, has any type of toilet as their villages are built on solid rock, so certain sections of the village are best avoided.

The next morning we did a tour around the village, during which Hassimi points out small fetish sites in animist compounds where families will sacrifice millet and blood to their various gods. It is very interesting, but we are not allowed to see much, as most of the sites are very sacred and all but the most venerable village members are forbidden. We end the tour in the Christian section, market by a small mud church and, like the animists, numerous pigs penned up in compounds. The last compound we saw had a myriad of hunting trophies mounted on the wall, including drying baboon carcasses, snakes, and the skulls of various other primates. From here, we move on to another steep, rocky path further along the cliffs. After few minutes of hiking we came to a large Animist village once again perched at the edge of the cliffs. Here there are even more fetish sites, including some larger ones that Hassimi told us are forbidden to all but the oldest men in the community, who go there during festivals to sacrifice and eat meat. If any but these elders eat the sacrificed meat, the Dogon believe they will die as surely as if they had ingested poison.

From here we took a long downward path to the village where our car was parked, taking in more amazing views as we went. Things got steeper and a little trickier, with perhaps the most nerve-wracking moment being a crevasse probably 50 feet deep bridged only by the local Dogon ladders--logs with steps roughly carved into them. The couple of cracks serving as mausoleums full of skulls and bones that Hassimi pointed out in the sides of the cliff were somehow less than reassuring, as well. After another hour or so we made it back to the village unscathed.

Once we packed up all our things we got back on the road to Sevare--about a three hour drive. Although we had a great time, there was definitely the sense that we had just scratched the surface of a very rich culture. I sat drowsily in the car looking at the magnificent scenery that sped by, amazed to think I didn't even know this place existed before I came to West Africa, and this is just one very small ethnic group out of hundreds in this region. Living in The Gambia can make the world feel very small sometimes, but you don't have to venture that far away to get a sense of the magnitude of things.

I brought an alarm clock with me to the Gambia, but I am not sure where it is. If I had any actual use for it I would probably have kept better track of it. It's probably under my bed or in a suitcase. I wish it was a soft beeping sound waking me each morning, as opposed to the metallic squeal of feedback and a very lo-fi voice zealously chanting the call to prayer at 5 AM. That is how this day starts, but it is different from most days in that today I plan to travel- first to Basse, then on to Kombo.

As the scratchy howl of the mosque loud speakers 30 yards away continues to beckon the faithful, I groggily roll out of bed in the darkness, guided only by the tepid light an LED lamp on the wall. My friend Whitney has been visiting and is already up and packing her things together. I snag a quick drink of water and wolf down a loaf of bread after changing into some relatively clean clothes and grabbing my bag; we both head for the door.

Outside my house the light is not yet visible on the horizon, and the swirl of the milky way and glow of the moon barely illuminate the silhouettes of the sleepy worshippers filing towards the mosque. Whitney and I use the flashlights built into our cell phones to pick out the remnants of the path out of town that has been gutted by the torrential rains of the past couple of months. We join the main road about a quarter mile out of the village and head towards Chamoi - the nearest village in which reliable transport can be found in the rainy season. I listen for the barking of baboons or steady whoop-whoop of hyenas, as I have heard in the early morning on this road before, but only crickets chirping and toads croaking accompanies our footsteps.

After a little more than a mile we reach our destination, and sit by the side of the north bank road in hopes of catching a bush taxi. After about 1/2 an hour - a relatively brief wait, actually- a large van approaches and we barter passage to basse, crammed inside with about 20 other people. As is is Ramadan, those fasting are not allowed to spit, since it is seen as form of relief. About 2 miles down the road an old man mumbles something to Whitney about her seat, and becomes very animated. A passenger to his right explains that the old man wants to sit by the window, and Whitney agrees to avoid any arguments. Once they have switched, the man immediately slides the window open, loudly clears his throat, and proceeds to spit several large wads of saliva and phlegm out the window.

Upon arrival in Basse we head to the car park, where many of the early cars have already left, leaving us few choices. The car that seems the best bet to leave the soonest is an old grey Peugeot station wagon that already has 3 passengers. We negotiate fare and move around to the back to load our luggage. When the driver opens the back hatch a large swarm of flies erupts into the air, having been interrupted from eating the residue on several empty rice sacks that had once conveyed some unknown, pungent cargo.

Another passenger joins our car and we are off, headed for the ferry across the Gambia river at Janjanbureh. Thankfully we are stopped only briefly at the police checkpoint just outside of Basse- just long enough for our driver to give a small bribe to one of the officers. The ride is fairly smooth for the first 20 kilometers or so, after which the road gives way to something that more closely resembles a lunar landscape, filled with bumps and craters caused by rain as opposed to meteors. The front part of my seat has been worn away by the posteriors of countless passengers, so if I lean back too far the small of my back grinds into a metal bar that supports the cushion. Every now and again the driver does not slow down adequately before a bump, and everyone in the vehicle briefly experiences weightlessness before crashing back to earth again.

After a couple of hours we arrive at the ferry to join a queue of about 9 cars. The ferry can only carry two vehicles at once, so we have at least a half-hour wait ahead of us. We quietly buy a couple bags of water and smuggle them past the hordes of fasting Gambians to an idyllic little spot on the riverside underneath a massive silk cotton tree entwined with two small mango trees. Watching the ferry slowly cross the river powered by the combined strength of its passengers pulling on a metal rope, we took this stop as a welcome break from the rigors of Gambian travel. After about an hour our car boarded the ferry and we pulled along with everyone else until we landed safely on Janjanbureh Island.

After a short engine-driven ferry ride to cross the river on the other side of the island, we reached the paved section of the north bank road. This section of road feels out of place with the rest of the Gambia- its is a true highway, like those found in America or Europe, complete with distance markers, dividing lines, and shoulders. Police checkpoints are also more common on this stretch of road, but thankfully today we are fortunate--few stop us and they are content with a small exchange of pleasantries. In Farafenni we stop so a man with a large jug of gas can pour it through a funnel into our tank while swarms of young girls selling bread, bananas, and dates try to push their wares through our windows. As we drive back onto the road, I lean my head back an manage to doze off.

After a few hours of varying stages of consciousness, we arrive in Barra. Barra is a major transit hub for Senegalese travelers as well as Gambians from all over the country. As such, it is also a dirty, smelly haven for thieves and con men. We walk with purpose through the gauntlet of offers of guidance and buy two tickets to the ferry. Buy some fantastic stroke of luck, the ferry is just about to leave and we are able to walk on just in time, thereby foregoing the usual 1-2 hour wait. On the ferry we climb to the upper level to take in the beautiful view of the river heading out to the sea and the harbor of Banjul at the other side. The sun is getting lower in the sky as dusk approaches, and the water is dappled with gold and bits of red and orange. After 12 hours of travel, the sea breeze and the view feel like a reward, and we land in Kombo with a sense of accomplishment and relief.

Early March, 2009-

I'm an idiot. I wanted to water my garden and catch the last part of the BBC World Report so badly that I left Jah Kunda at 7:15 PM. That's a 15 minutes or less before the sun usually goes down, and I didn't bring a flashlight. And I'm alone.

The usually ill-defined road quickly becomes almost invisible, as the stars, unhindered by the lights of cities or even small towns, gave only slight definition to the surrounding bush. I forge ahead, blindly feeling out the path with my tires, ruts and tree roots like expletives in braille, jarring me just as I think I've hit a smooth patch.

I am reasonably sure that there is little or no danger lurking in the bush. Still, each shadowy mass begins to resemble a mob of baboons or hyenas rushing me with gnashing teeth and glowing red eyes. My imagination even conjures up leopards perched in trees, waiting to pounce, though there existence in The Gambia isn't exactly certain, and the odds of coming upon one in my district would be slim to none, due to hunting and deforestation.

That's not to say animals in the bush pose no danger. I've heard plenty of stories of hyenas making off with goats and baboons trying to intimidate campers. However, I have never heard of anyone, Peace Corps or native, who has been injured by these animals. It's about the same threat that wolves pose in the states. Sure, they have sharp teeth and could do a lot of damage, but unless they're sick or feel threatened, they generally leave people alone.

The threat in the bush that most gives me pause is that of snakes, which would have to make an impressive display of timing and athleticism to hit someone on a bike. Spitting cobras, green mambas, and puff adders are among the more poisonous snakes in The Gambia--any of them could put you in a very serious condition if they tagged you. Gambians are terrified of snakes, and will gather a mob to beat the last vestiges of live from any snake or snake-like animal they see, no matter what it looks like. The prevailing wisdom is that if one snake can kill you, and you're not exactly sure which, why take chances? Not exactly an eco-friendly or humane view, but certainly a pragmatic one.

But these fears extend to animals whose danger would seem much less plausible. Owls, for instance, are believed by some to be witches, and should be killed on sight. Chameleons have two teeth with which they can bite victims. One brings everlasting luck, the other everlasting misfortune. The risk of being bitten is generally seen as one not worth taking. If a toad gets angry it will puff up to several times its size and bite your chest, staying there until you die, unless you go to a blacksmith who then scalds the toad with a red-hot poker. These beliefs are fading as more people are receiving at least some type of education, but I often am witness to something of a "better safe than sorry" attitude among even those who have been to school.

In my current situation, lack of really dangerous animals non withstanding, riding through the bush at night is not safe, and a decent bike and sense of direction is all that's keeping me on the road home. I finally merge back onto the main road into my village and make out the tall, lonely palm tree rising from the village center, and I resolve to be a bit more responsible in the future. Thankfully, it's a lesson I've learned without any harsh consequences.

Sorry to interrupt this exciting and entertaining blog, but I have a quick public service announcement-A couple of former PCVs from my region have started a bed net distribution project and asked me to get involved. I think it's a great idea. We are raising funds to buy bed nets at a very low rate, and then distributing them to low income families in the Gambia. Bednets have proven very effective in combating malaria, which has a very high prevalence in the Gambia, and is a common cause of death for children under 5 years of age. Research suggests that for every 20 nets distributed in Africa one life can be saved. If you would like to make a contribution to this cause you can do so very easily through the site I have set up which there is a link to in the sidebar to the left of my blog. You can make a donation online or via check in the mail. Donations are %100 percent tax deductible, and, most importantly, Peace Corps volunteers in The Gambia, myself included, will be personally distributing the nets, so you know your money is being used responsibly. If you have any questions feel free to contact me or the people at againstmalaria.com.Oh, and another quick note, I've put up a lot more pictures on my photobucket site, which can be viewed by clicking on the other link in the sidebar to the left. Thanks for reading everyone, and for your continued support-Brendan

"A British man sentenced to a year in prison in the Gambia for making anti-government remarks has been taken back to court to face new charges."

This short blurb from the BBC, heard amidst intermittent waves of static on my short wave radio, is the only news concerning the Gambia as a nation that I have heard in the last month. I was vaguely aware of the story previously, as we had been informed of it by Peace Corps staff during training and told to be cautious in writing our blogs--the English man and his wife had made their disparaging remarks via private correspondence, and if that type of communication is being monitored, chances are public postings on the internet will be read as well.

Not that I was planning on bashing anyone on this blog beforehand. My work is at the grassroots level in a village many kilometers away from the capitol, and I'm a young American with little or no knowledge of world diplomacy. Anything I would have to say would be ill-informed, and making political judgements in my position would be unprofessional.

However, as a fairly liberal-minded American who has always been able to speak his mind freely, the prospect of being censored is somewhat alarming to me in principle. I once fought a high school teacher tooth-and-nail when she withdrew a controversial story I had written for a student run literacy magazine whose staff had unanimously accepted it. The story was sub par in retrospect, but the idea of censorship was unacceptable to me.

This is obviously a very different situation. I am no radical, this is not a political blog in any way, and the content will change little as a result of the political climate, if it changes at all. Still, just the idea of an Orwellian scenario, with government censors possibly looking over every line I write, just seems unreal to me. Not to say this is a dictatorship-- I've talked to many Gambians who are of the oppositions party and have spirited discussions about the government on a regular basis. I just always remain a spectator.

Still, this idea in the back of my mind that I'm being watched changes things slightly. For the most part I feel quite at ease with life in "Africa's smiling coast." But if future headlines from the Gambia have a similar tone, that may change.

Preface: I have been trying to get decent internet access for over a month now, so now that I have a slow connection for about half an hour and no notebook to write from, I'm going to try to relate a brief event in village. I have several pages of posts that will appear here in late April when I travel to Kombo.

-

When I first arrived at site visit, I greeted everyone I met, and usually received a reply, even in the case of children. One pretty girl of about 13, however, gave to vocal reply, which is considered very rude. "Saalaam aleekum." I said to her, all I got back was a questioning arm guesture. She then came right up to me and poked me on the arm, again making the same guesture. I was puzzled. At first I thought she was just very shy, but what shrinking daisy directly approaches a stranger (of a different skin color, no less) and makes physical contact? And why wouldn't she answer me? A nearby woman my cluelessness: she can't hear. She's deaf.

Over the coming weeks this girl, named Suntu Touray, will frequently accost me with wordless questions. Even if I spoke perfect Mandinka I would be at a loss for what she was asking me much of the time. I think that her basic question is, "What are you doing?" to which I usually reply by pointing the direction I'm walking and making an improvised sign denoting sleep, eat, or reading. When she is frustrated she will make more urgent guestures and sometimes unsettling shrieks and screams, more akin to the snarl of a wildcat than a young girl. Another very common guesture from Suntu is to cup her breast and make a sucking noise. While in America this would be seen as crude, this is a universal sign for the hearing and hearing impaired in Gambia for "mother." She wants to know where my mother is. All I can really reply with is an emphatic point over the horizon-- very, very far away.

I came to enjoy these brief interactions for a time, but I started feeling she was a little to persistent sometimes, not letting me leave the "conversation" for some minutes even though no real communication was occuring. I also was surprised at the reactions of others to Suntu's antics--she is almost universally ignored or told to go away. This change one night during a music program, when a Jali, or musician, from Mali was playing. Suntu became extremely agitated, trying to rush up to the man for some unknown reason. Perhaps she was enamored with him, or maybe was enraged that everyone else could hear what he was playing and she could not. She became frenzied to the point that several other girls restrained her, and finally her father yanked her, screaming, by her hair out of the congregation.

A few weeks ago Mamadi and I were sitting, chatting and drinking attaya by my hut. Suntu came by and started to interrogate me as usual. Mamadi joked with her a little, but then started to become irritated and tried to shoo her off. This had the reverse effect of making her ever more mocking and bold. She made guestures indicated that she would beat him and that he was no good, and started to do cartwheels around us. Mamadi finally picked up a stick to chase her off, causing her to run to the edge of the compound, but not to leave entirely. There, in full view, she leaned over and proceeded to lift up her skirt. I believe I can safely say that at this moment I had the most surreal thought I have ever had in my life: I am in Africa, sitting next to my own mud and grass hut, and I am being mooned by a deaf and dumb girl.

Suntu hasn't come by my compound as much lately. Maybe some of her antics got back to her father and she caught a beating as a result. Maybe I'm just boring her. But she still stands out in a community of people who generally conform to societal norms in almost every way. Manner of speech is standardized. Stores carry the same basic household supplies. There is usually at least one person named Lamin and Fatoumata in every family. But Suntu doesn't fit into this framework, and I don't think she will any time soon. What will happen to her when she gets old enough to marry? Who will have her? Can she perform all the duties expected of her? I have no way of knowing and will leave before any of these things become evident. All I can do is try to be at least one person who is willing to give her some type of positive feedback. And that, like everything I'm trying to do in village, is at least something.

"There is a place near here that is very bad, and I have not yet gone there." Mamadi said, before taking a drag on his cigarette. I had nearly crashed into him on my bike when he took this impromtu smoke break on our way back from Sare N'Gai. The sun bore down on the dusty, craggy road, filled with ruts and craters--the faded impressions of a deluge long since evaporated. "There is a waterway there, during the rainy season. The village people say that there is a dragon living there. Two boys were looking for sticks, and there they saw the dragon, and they were being very afraid. So they went home, and one of them died after that and one went blind." I sat on my cike, unclipping my helmet, and chuckled, saying in a playful tone, "So that's why you've never gone there? You think there's a dragon?" "No," he replied, "It is a very bad place, nad I have not ever been going there." This was not a joke.

As he finished his smoke and we continued, I said nothing, lest I betray my surprise at hearing this from Mamadi. He is one of my main counterparts--a TOSTAN facilitator, educating women to combat female genital mutilation and other risks to their general health. He is a fairly educated man. Yet, as I looked at the bush that surrounded us--the wizened, ancient trees with blackened limbsw clawing the relentlessly blue sky, the red dust covering the withering vegetation as if the hard, cruel earth were trying to smother the life that it had previously birthed, and the scraggly, mean-looking dogs, lizards, and buzzards scraping whatever meagre existence they can out of the dying landscape--it wasn't so hard to see why the Gambians saw it as a place of witches, demons, and even dragons.

I had been out on my own in the bush the afternoon before, in search of the point nearest my village where one can glimpse the great Gambia river. I passed through two small villages where gangs of children regarded me with either curiosity or wariness, all the way asking if I was headed in the right direction. Past the second village the road became more of a rough path cleared through the brush, often filled with loose sand, making biking difficult. I was starting to wonder if I had misunderstood someone's directions when the vegetation started thickening, suggesting a water supply nearby. I passed a grove of birds-of-paradise and fields of partially cleared grass, when the path faded out completely, giving way to patches of uncleared grass and brush.

I ignored the lattice-work of scratches forming on my arms and forged ahead, going the direction of whatever most resembled a path. Fields gave way to thickets, and my frustration began to mount, until finally a glint of light reflected off of water caught the corner of my eye. I quickly made a v-line in that direction, and came to a large wetland clearing surrounded by a grove of low shade trees. The scene reminded me of summer in Minnesota--water birds scanning for fish, surrounded by water lilies and pools of greenish much ready to swallow the boots of anyone foolish enough to enter them.

There was one difference between this and similiar American scenes, however. Between the shade trees were trails of hooven tracks ending in large depressions and couple of meters wide. Each of the individual footprints was approximately the size of my head, and all of the trails began at the water's edge. Without ever having seen suck tracks before, it took me very little time to figure out what they were: Hippos tracks. Hundreds of them.

Those who grew up playing a certain Milton Bradley board game or reading Richard Scarry books may not entirely understand the meaning of such a finding. Hippos are the most dangerous large animals in Africa, killing more people yearly than lions, leopards, rhinos, or other big game. They are extremely territorial, and will attack other animals that get to close, attempting to slash the offender with the sharp sides of their teeth. The American equivalent would be to stumble upon hundreds of grizzly tracks. Needless to say, my heart began beating somewhat more quickly- both from fear and excitement. After all, despite the danger, how many Americans get to see hippos in the wild? So, following an urge either fearless or self-destructive (if there is a difference), I began to muck my way somewhat closer.

Thesurface of the water was mostly covered with lilies, making it hard to discern from a distance if anything was lurking there. I stepped gingerly from one grass covered mound of mud to the next, trying to avoid the brackish puddles of stagnant water. I got as close as I was able, craning my neck, but no dice-- all I could see were those same water birds, who seemed to be having more luck in their search than i had had. I headed back to the grove with a mixture of disappointement and relief, and started the ride home.

I certainly have my doubts about the existence of dragons in the Gambia or anywhere in the world. But the hippo, unlike the dragon, is undoubtly a very real denizen of the Gambian bush. And for an American used to sleepy zoo fare when it comes to African beasts, that is as almost as fearful and exciting.

I've never been a stickler for safety. Screw bicycle helmets (I wear one now because I could literally be sent home if I didn't). Life Jackets be damned. And if I drop food, the 5, 10, or even 15 second rule usually applies. But as I watched the woman in the motorcycle helmet and bathrobe-looking ensemble thrash wildly, resembling a tap dancer having a seizure, one thought came to my mind: is that kid strapped safely to her back? The same went for the rest of the women dancing in the center of the circle, children bound with cloth to their over-worked backs, lit only by burning millet stalks and 11 PM moonlight.

At least at this point I had the luxury of worrying about other people's health. This spectacle marked the end of the second day I had spent in bed with a 1-2 combo of kono bayo (running stomach) and a fres-cold making me feel like someone was sitting on my chest. In the daze of my feverishness I had also stepped on a nail on my way to the bathroom. After mending it and finally reaching the door I noticed that it was completely covered in thousands of ants. I took a moment. I yelled some obscene things. I killed ever damn one of them with half a can of insecticide. Then I went back to bed to contemplate my situation. I wanted someone to take care of me, as pathetic as that sounds. But there is no one here- I'm a day's drive from the nearest medical office, and a day's flight more to dear old mom and a bowl of chicken soup. I needed a savior. I turned to the Coz.

Believe it or not, after listening to the hour and a half or so of Bill Cosby stand-up I have on my i-pod brought me back from the brink. I talked briefly on the phone with the Peace Corps Medical Officer, after which I started myself on the ciprofloxicin and ibuprofen in my med kit. By the evening myt fever had broken and I felt significantly better.

Shyould I have let myself be dragged to the "women and children traditional dance" (my host brother's description) at 10:30 that same night? Probably not. But hey, what the hell- I'm supposed to be integrating and I can sleep in tomorrow. Plus, some part of me would have remained incomplete if I had missed the woman in the button down shirt, pants, and Sorcerer's Apprentice hat (complete with Mickey Mouse ears) stomp the earth with wild abandon, sending clouds of dust into the night sky and befuddling the wide-eyed infant clinging to her back.

As the focus shifts, inevitably, in my direction, all of the hats (including Mickey's) are stacked on my head and necklaces adorned with whistles and pieces of broken headphones are strung around my neck as the air resounds with an an emphatic call: dance! dance! dance! So I do, and my bandaged foot hurts. But not that much.

The sounds of scooters, donkey carts, and mobs of children flood into the open door of the small building in which I am sitting. The road a few feet away is bright red dirt, half eroded from the yearly rains. Most of the surrounding buildings don't have running water or electricity. Yet here I am, in a tiny internet cafe, writing on my blog. This can really be a strange world sometimes. My friend Lyn found this small place that has a half decent connection for 30 dalasis ($1.25) an hour. This means that I will be making more regular blog entries. Unfortunately, I left my notebook in my village, not expecting to find any high technology in the bustling, rustic trading center of Basse Santa Su. My thought out, well written (hopefully) entries will have to wait for a couple weeks, but here are some details about what's been happening-

I initially had no bed or furniture, but after a few bike rides, haggling, and a ride on a flat bed truck that was solved, and I borrowed a couple of tables for the local school.

I'm working with a local NGO on adult literacy and numeracy, as well as health topics and women's rights.

I have planted a garden which is sprouting, but is constantly under attack by grasshoppers and ants. I have newfound respect for organic farmers.

There is almost constant dancing, singing, and cultural events in my village, and I have been trying to record as much as I can.

I am doing well, after a brief bout with diarrhea and a fever.

I appreciate hearing from all of you, and thanks again for your thoughts, prayers, ideas, packages, letters and general support!

-Brendan

So now begins the real thing. Which means I won't have internet service with any kind of regularity. I will be back in Kombo in March or April for In service training, so you can expect to see more then. Until then, I did get a few photos up here and on photo bucket-my username is joeloula. It's not working well w/ our connection, but hopefully next time I'll get a lot more up. Here are a few more of the better ones. Thanks for reading!

(December 25, 2008)

I've got a headache, my knee has ached since the 3rd K of our now completed 27K hike, Tendaba Camp's food gives everyone the runs, and this white wine tastes like Robitussin. Merry Christmas in Africa.

This is the third time we have all dragged a few of our scattered belongings to this so-so tourist hot spot, and none of us are too sad that it's the last. You'd think after using a hole in the ground for a toilet for weeks, reading by candle light, and taking a bath out of a bucket, running water and sporadic electricity would be paradise. Not so. The schedule here is always so much more stressful than in village, with only a few breaks to let numb minds try to regain feeling after hours of technical training sessions. I usually try to spend a little of the scant down time taking in the beautiful view of the Gambia River, which is easily the best feature of the camp. This same river also happens to be the final resting place of my new cell phone--who new that Gap Khakis had such shallow pockets.

Now just let me say that things are not all bad. We had a great hike through the bush with wildly varying terrain, including mangrove swamps, savannah, and salt flats. I really enjoyed it in spite of the creaky knee, which is probably just a result of the cheap New Balance Knock-offs I bought at a market in Soma. Dinner last night was half decent, supplemented by some Senegalese cookies provided by our Country Director and free alcohol provided by the owners of Tendaba. Some of it might taste like cough medicine, but it is booze, and it is free. To cap it all off, we had a nice boat ride in the mangrove swamps this morning, during which we saw plenty of waterfowl, crocodiles, and a couple of types of monkeys.

The bigger issue, of course, is that it is Christmas, and all of us are thousands of miles from the ones we love, and because of this every minor inconvenience becomes something worthy of snapping over. It's my first Christmas away from home in my entire life, and it has been a bit harder than I thought. Not to saw I'm thinking of throwing in the towel or anything, but those theoretical difficulties that seemed so piddling and distant on paper have suddenly become much more real.

It is 9:00 at night, pitch black, and I am completely covered in angry bees. I squeeze the bellows of the smoker to make the swarm more docile while Scott and Tammy pull out comb after comb heavy and golden with honey and larvae. The burning cardboard and the pheremones of the angry bees fill the air with a smoky sweetness that hightens the exhiliration. It makes me laugh that these are the same "Killer bees" that threw gullible Americans into a panic when I was a child. True, a sting from one of them would be painful, and several of our group learns this firsthand. But our guide, Matt, has such a passion for the bees, and the experience is so memorable that any sense of danger is pushed far into the back of my head. The sight of so many thousands of living things working with a completely uniform sense of purpose to make structures so perfect is awe-inspiring. And the honey we harvest, crushed straight from the cones, is immaculate--sweet, tangy, fragrant, delicious. On the van ride back to the transit house, we all silently concur--this was a fantastic way to end training.

The next morning we are up later than usual- most of us getting out of bed around 8 or 8:30. An hour later we are all wearing our Sobe--a variety of different outfits made of the same cloth-- for our swearing in ceremony. We take a short ride to the Ambassador's house, which is enormous, and has a beautiful back yard--the ocean. We mill around for about an hour, chatting with PCVs, Language teachers, staff members, and employees of NGOs. Whitney and I make a little bet about which distinguished-looking middle-aged man is the ambassador--is it beardy, bald guy, or guy with wife wearing a scarf? The ceremony begins with Rodney, one of the associate peace corps directors, introducing us, saying how great we all are, and then giving the mic to the ambassador (it's beardy-I win) for the opening remarks.

I have to admit my mind wandered a bit during some of the speeches. I felt a little bit ragged from the past week and a half of technical training and our final language test. I finished everything and was told during my evaluation that I did very well--both on Language and on technical matters. I have to admit it felt good to hear it, but it created a sense of expectation for the first three months in village and for my service as a whole. It feels like they expect me to be some kind of dynamo, leaving the country fluent in my first language and conversational in at least one other, with a slew of successful projects chalked up to boot. Maybe I can do all of that. Maybe I can't. I really have no way of knowing, as I've only spent 2 nights and a day in the village where I will spend the next two years. But, at least I have a good start.

The ambassador, our Country Director, Mike McConnell, and the Secretary of State for Agriculture all give speeches praising the program and the efforts of individual volunteers in developing the country. We then give our oath to serve the United States and the Gambia unconditionally, and are given a pin and hearty handshake. Then there is lots of singing of national anthems other less stoic songs. On the whole it's a very nice ceremony, and it's followed by a brief meet and greet with food--FRIED food, and mini pizzas and cream puffs and unlimited returns to the soft drink table. I mix a bit and completely gorge myself (15+ cream puffs) and return to the transit house feeling very satisfied.

At the beach an hour later, I am in the water and I am freezing. But I want to be. I want to be jarred awake and living and aware and in the moment. But back on the shore the exhaustion returns and I am out for almost an hour. When I come around I see two PCVs I haven't met, Jenny and Katie, and we talk for about 10 minutes before the bumsters start giving their pitches. One's in a band. One wants to "join our family." One hangs back until his brother "gets our permission," which never happens and he still comes up to flex his lanky but defined body casually while his brother feeds us some stupid lines about harmony and love. A police officer calls them over to ask just what they're doing and we make good our escape.

Back at the stodge there are more people I've never met--lots more. For so long it has just been our training group and occasional Volunteer trainers, and now that the world is opening up it is a bit overwhelming. But each person I meet seems interesting, and aware, and capable. And they make us one hell of a cook out, with burgers, 2 kind of fries, chili, mixed drinks, music, and yard ball. Once again I eat myself into a stupor in a glorious celebration of food American style--and it seems such an underrated cuisine at this moment.

A few drinks later and we are at a Churchill's karaoke bar on Senegambia highway, a region we were not allowed to go to until we swore in. I put my name in for three songs, but the disorganized deejay loses them all amidst adolescent girls mimicking Christina Aguilera and Bumsters and prostitutes belting Bob Marley and 80's R & B. I leave annoyed, but decide to try to salvage the evening going dancing at a nearby club. Aquarius is just an overpriced bar with an empty dance floor when we arrive, but soon everyone is twisting and thrusting and jumping and yelling in a glorius release of built up tension. I've never been that much of a dancer, but I'm off the dance floor for maybe 5 minutes of the two hours I spend there.

The hangover the next morning is actually very mild, more of a result of the bad quality rather than large quantity of the alcohol. I don't have them often and am less likely than ever to have them in the next 2 years, living in a Muslim country. But the night was a good one. A Necessary one. I, for one, feel extremely excited at the prospect of living in my village, the lone toubab, with no schedule, no direct supervision, no expectation and few limitations. It's been an adventure getting to this point, and crazy as it seems, it's all just been a prelude to the real adventure.

(Dec. 30, 2008)

Readers of past blog entries will perhaps remember the naming ceremony we took part in the first week in training village. It was a minor affair, but we have often been told of the splendor of the real thing. So Monday, Whitney and I don our full African garb and made the 1/2 hour bike ride over the undulating hills and devastated pavement to Jiroff, where the real thing was going down.

We arrived in the village around 9:30 amid the shouted greetings of children in Mandinka and Pulaar--the language of the Fula people. Jiroff is split down the middle to divide the two ethnic groups a la West Side Story, minus the dance fighting. We came to our friend Jes' hut, but we was bathing so we moved on to Jasmin's place. Her host brother and his friends were sitting outside and we chatted for awhile, wondering when things would start. We had been told 10, but not much seemed to be going on. After Jasmin and Jes had both changed into their Compleats (matching outfits) we hung out in Jes' hut to avoid the mob of children outside loudly yelling for candy, pens, or bottles. At one point I got annoyed enough to try running out and chasing them away, but that, as everything, became a game, and they returned to the door shortly after I went back inside.

Suddenly the beating of bidongs (water/oil jugs) filled the air and we were taken by Jes and Jasmin's teacher, Ida, to a compound in the center of the village. Ida and the girls found a spot on a nearby mat, but I was told to sit with the men. An ancient man in massive sunglasses and a deep blue robe bade me sit next to him. I shook his right hand, noticing it was the only one he possessed, and made small talk in Mandinka as I was able. Sometime during this conversation, I realized that I was surrounded by craggy old men in colorful clothes--one with massive cataracts, another with bare feet mummified with dust, a gaping hole where one big toenail should be. They boxed me in on all sides, leaning against me, and talked loudly and boisterously in Pulaar, occasionally throwing a word or two in Mandinka my way.

Then, things started happening. The drumming and clapping reached fever pitch as teh mother and child were encircled by a mob of singing revelers. A wizened old man in a white hat and purple robe produced a stainless steel razor and began carefully shaving the tiny brown scalp. While this went on, several young men in football jerseys and counterfeit Sean Johns pulled a ram into the center of the compound, just to the right of the clapping, gyrating mob.

Two of them grabbed the beast's legs and pulled them out from under it, laying it on its side, bleating loudly. Yet another old man in deep blue robes approached the animal with a long, sharp knife. Amidst the roar of the dance and the singing of the women, the last frantic shrieks and gurgles of the ram as it's throat is cut are all but drowned out. It attempts to thrash and kick its way out from under the weight of the grown men gradually fade to a series of twitches and a long shudder.

The men stand, releasing the ram, whose last remnants of life are draining out of its body along with the puddle of blood forming under its neck. All the while the chattering of the old men surrounds me, mingling with stamps and claps and cheers from the women. Suddenly, the ram is alive again, its leg rearing back and kicking in a violent reflex action, and an old man is speaking to me and I'm trying to respond and the the one armed man leans over me, his empty left sleeve brushing my face, and the ram thrashes violently again and there is laughter and music and shouting and life in the air and death on the ground...and suddenly the most difficult thing about being here is explaining it to you, because you're not here.

No luck so far on being able to put up pics. But take heart! My friend Whitney just put some pictures up on here blog which I have a link to here on my site. She was in the same training village as me and saw a lot of the same things, and there is a group picture of my training class. Also, I will post at least two more actual blog entries before I leave for my site.

(Nov. 30, 2008)

I haven't had any trouble sleeping so far. I like the food, and eat plenty at each meal. The cockroaches have retreated to the pit latrine, fearing my shoe and all-mighty BOP spray. The language is coming more and more each day. Diarrhea and I have remained distantly respectful of each other. Things are going well--But I don't plan on letting my guard down any time soon.

So what are my worries? What are the x-factors that could still derail my service? Integration. Successful behavior modification in those I'm trying to help. Being able to simply function on a day-to-day basis at site. Thses things are all unknowable until after I swear in (assuming I do) and have been at least a month or two at my permanent site.

For now, spirits remain fairly high, save for attitudes regarding some of our Trainee-Directed Activities, which generally involve us doing some type of prescribed activity that will give us moe technical knowledge and push us further into the culture. Some of the activities are short write-ups that require a few questions asked of our family. Others are presentations about health topics given to groups of village members, which invariably make us feel ridiculous. Imagine a group of young Africans coming to your town square, community center, or whatever, and telling you the benefits of hand washing and mosquito repellent using language kindergarteners would find simple. The language studies, as I said, are going wll, but it's still a frustrating process. Given how long we've been studying, we're doing very well. Still, when a Gambian reels off a solid block of clipped phonemes and expects an intelligible answer, it's hard to feel like such a stud.

My family is a bright spot, certainly. They have a great sense of humor, much of which I appreciate despite the language barrier. My host sister Fatou is a great help in everything. She is 14, and speaks very serviceable English, but unfortunately she just has two settings--English or light speed Mandinka. My friend Kasey named a tiny, snow white goat living in my compound Mustafa. He has become a constant topic of conversation. Gambian greetings (which take up much of one's day) often involve asking "where" people are, really asking how they are doing. The prescribed response is "they are there/here." Where's your wife? She is there. Where's your family? They are there. But now, every day I am asked, with restrained laughter, "Where's Mustafa?" He, along with a host of goods, bads, and in-betweens, is right here.

(November 19, 2008)

We had a funeral today, less than a week into our in-village training.

Up to now, Africa has been only idyllic, only theoretical--almost a novelty. Even the negatives, such as the male sex trade and women's rights issues have seemed abstract, distant--bullet points on fact sheets. The bumsters, who are basically male prostitutes, present themselves so ludicrously, with catch phrases like, "Hey boss lady, it's nice to be nice," delivered between sets of beachside push-ups, that it's easy to forget the suffering and degradation behind the concept.

But we had a funeral today, within hours of hearing the high pitched shriek of a mother with her child dead in her arms.

Does this change things? Directly, no. I don't doubt myself more or less than I did Monday. I had not met the deceased girl, my host family had only a passing connection to her. My service and my life in general continue. But as we crouched behind the mosque and the Imam, both spiritual leader and father of the deceased, muttered a prayer and the tiny body encased in a white shroud was lowered into the ground, something in me felt different.

We had a funeral today, and I wore the new suit of wax-cloth I had had tailored just the day before.

It fit me well, and was more appropriate for the occasion than any of my American clothes. There's something mildly chilling in having a suit made and being given such an opportunity to wear it within 24 hours. The group of trainees met shortly after the ceremony to debrief. As we discussed the issues at hand, in my mind I could still hear the shrieks of the women, feel the stinging of my calves from crouching to pray behind the mosque wall, and taste the chalky, sugary munko rice ball given by the mourning family. As all this swirled in my head, I thought to myself:

We had a funeral today, and if this girl had been American, in all likelihood she would still be alive.

(November 16, 2008)

Personal time. That's the wording on the schedule. And my assumption was that the meaning would be the same as it was in the states. But not necessarily so. Yesterday was scheduled as almost entirely personal time, but as my village mates and I were to find out, this was "time to be personal with others," as opposed to "our own personal alone time." The day was spent trying to communicate with laughing children and amused old men, and making "panketos"--the local variation on the donut hole.

Familiar names given to new things and vice have been a common theme during our training. There's Guinness, but it tastes nothing like at home or Europe. There's spam, but it's made with chicken (spicken), as pork is forbidden by Islam. And today, I got a new name.

We had been told about the naming ceremony before we had even reached Bumari, our training village, and it's something that I had anticipated with curiosity. Are they going to shave my head, per tradition? Will it be long and awkward? Will I have to dance? Will my new name be Mustafa? These thoughts swirled in my head as I woke this morning and took my cold bucket bath. Soon, I was called to breakfast by my host family. Eating with my hands next to little Kaadi and Ensaa, I looked around at the adults with trepidation. After finishing and washing my hands I was given some traditional clothes and returned to my room. The pants were easily 40 inches at the waist (with a drawstring) and the shirt all but swallowed me up in a sea of light blue embroidery. The hat? Too small, of course. Jarra, my cousin, laughed openly when she brought me my second breakfast of spicken, potatoes, and bread. I'm constantly given more food than I need, and the process of refusing and explaining that I'm sick or not hungry is so complicated that I eat most of what I'm given. I can barely take the spam, so I eat a piece of two and focus mainly on the potatoes as I wait for Bakari, my teacher, to come and get me. He doesn't seem to be coming, so my Maama, my aunt, finally just tells me to go myself.

Upon arrival I greet my fellow trainees and we share a few laughs at our costumes--ill fitting both for our bodies and our skin tone. A large rug covers the rust-colored dirt under the tree in the center of Bumari, and a number of well-dressed men sit on one side of it. I'm told that I will be first, and am directed to the center of the rug. A man in a bright purple "compleat," or full outfit, feigns shaving my head, and recites a prayer. I'm given some party favors--a small baggie of juice, panketos, and kola nuts--and sent back to my seat with my new name ringing in the air: "Seeku Darboe." Whitney, Tammy, and Kasey, my village mates, are soon christened in the same manner.

Once the formal ceremony is finished, the men leave and the dancing begins. One of the girls drums heavily on a bidong, or large jug, as the girls of varying size erupt into laughter and stomping. They call, "Seeku!", and thrust me to the center, where I awkwardly ape their stomping and bird-like arm flapping for few moments to appease them. After all of the trainees had danced, the crowd dispersed, and Only Seeku, Faatu, Saatu, and Kaadi remained, wondering exactly what just had happened.

I will be training up country in a village w/ no electricity, let alone internet, for the next 2 months--More postings in January.

I turned 24 last month, which at the time made me feel exceedingly old. I think living near a college town full of drunken co-eds contributed to this feeling, as well as my sister and her herd of high school friends frequently high-jacking the house. During the past week, however, I have routinely felt as if I were a minor again. Why? Because Peace Corps training involves being led around by the hand as if this group of college graduates were a junior high field trip.

The whole trend began at staging. We spent 10 minutes drawing pictures of our fears on butcher paper, acted out a public service announcement regarding PC drug, travel, and safety policies, and broke the ice throroughly enough to make snow cones. This experience was sweetened by a $140 stipend for food and drink while in Philadelphia, which let us briefly remember our age while rooting for our candidate of choice over beer and cheesesteaks.

2 shots, a bus ride to Newark, 12 hours+ flight time, 5 hours layover stateside, and a mixed-up 3 hour ordeal in Brussels later and we were in the Gambia. Once again we were bewildered children, surrounded by unfamiliar sights, herded into buses and taken to Kombo. Here we began training at the Gambian Pastoral Institute. The tone of this leg of our training was more akin to a summer camp with foreign language classes and spicy food. They did take us to a bar to meet some of the currently serving volunteers, which was fun, but the general tone of said veterans was "Aww, I remember when I was training," as opposed to "hello, respected colleagues." Now we've moved on to a Peace Corps transit house, and tomorrow we go to our villages to begin our first real immersion into Gambian culture. This is a big step on our way to independent work in our final sites, but we still have the bulk of training to go.

During this productive, yet sometimes frustrating phase in my service, I'm reminded of my summer working at Preferred family healthcare--a rehab center for kids 13-17. The kids at PFH had often been exposed to adult experiences at an early age, including sex, violence, bad language, and drugs. This gave them the attitude that they were already adults, despite their immature, childlike behavior. A common assertion among the clients was, "I'm gr-own," with an attitude best described as "sassy." I had to stifle my laughter at the time, when a 15-year-old with his underwear hanging out the back of his pants and a milk mustache yelled that he was "grown." Right now, however, I can sympathize. When we're told we can't leave the conpound without volunteer guidance, or taken on a "field trip" and given box lunches, part of me wants to shout, "I'm a grown up- I get to do what I want!"

But then I realize--I'm in a country thousands of miles from home, where most of the people don't speak more than a few words of my language. Also, in 9 weeks we're going to be largely on our own, with only limited supervision from PC staff. There are going to be times where I would very much like someone to hold my hand and tell me just what the hell I'm supposed to do. So, for now, give me the box lunch and constant supervision. I'm going to work hard to try and be ready for service, and until I am, a little child-like security doesn't sound so bad.

So it's 5 days away. To most of you that means a chad or a lever or a marker and the end of 2 years of bullsh#$. To me it's a plane ticket and the prospect of an obscenely early morning, then a country I only know from photographs and factoids. At this point I possess the knowledge of a 3rd grader who drew The Gambia out of a fishbowl and spent a couple weeks learning about agriculture and demographics and sticking photos of bustling marketplaces and crocodiles on posterboard. What will I do when I get there? That information as of yet is a bit fuzzy.

The first 2 months seem to be devoted to cramming an overload of information into my currently atrophied brain. The last year or so I spent memorizing bagel sandwich construction and sales pitches for movie rental bundles. Nothing particularly difficult or important in either the long or short run. Starting next week I will be assaulted with 2 years' worth of vocational training, language skills, and cultural sensitivity, over which I will be regularly graded and critiqued. This prospect is honestly more frightening than the spectres of exotic disease and wild fauna. After this initial training, assuming I pass, I will be inducted into the corps and placed in a village where I will be...improving it in yet-to-be-defined ways. Basically, the assignment will be what I make it.

Yet while the task seems daunting, it is equally invigorating. It is exactly the kind of stimulation to jar my dilapidated cognitive abilities, atrophied from a year of minimum wage drudgery. Case in point- it has taken me almost two distracted months to read Sons and Lovers, which at 400 pages isn't light reading, but should be easy to dispatch within a month for someone with a B.A. So, while Obama and McCain are revving up for what appears to be a very difficult presidency, I am preparing for my own modest contribution to our image abroad, and hopefully revive my own ambition. The purpose of this blog will be to document the successes and struggles of my service--and maybe work on my writing skills a little bit. Comments and criticism (within reason) are welcome.

-Brendan