I had a great seat at the finale of the West African International Softball Tournament (WAIST) organized by the Peace Corps volunteers. Teams from the individual countries, including my daughter Abby’s Gambian team, and other NGOs compete for honor and glory and try not to slice open a leg while running bases on a dusty cindery infield.

After the social league final in which Abby, in a losing effort, smashed a couple of RBI singles (yes I have photos!), I settled into a folding chair along the first base line to watch the grand finale of the most competitive league. The finalists were a team from the US Embassy staff and a team from Senegal. The US team was made up of 30-40 somethings, serious and sober, a little gray on the edges with a few guys sporting cleats and stirrupped pants from their old stateside softball leagues. Team Senegal was a group of very tall, athletic men who had clearly taken to America’s game. Their pitcher wore black rimmed glasses and serious demeanor looking very much like a young Malcolm X.

The game started with a bang as the USA big boppers flexed their muscles launching several high arching never-coming-back-to-earth blasts that gave them a large early lead. One blast deep into the right field corner, just shy of the fence, had a pair of Senegalese security guards scurrying out of the way none too happy having their naps interrupted.

Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.

In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.

The Senegalese showed great fielding skills – their shortstop/2nd base combo made plays that would make a Dominican scout nod in approval. There were some eccentricities: the first baseman would always flop to dirt on any throw from the infield leaving him seemingly followed by a low Pigpen-like dust cloud. The outfielders didn’t bother squaring up when handling a ground hit but used an unusual underhand submariner throwing motion to get the ball back to the infield – unorthodox but effective.

As the Muslim rhythms filled my head, it became clear that the game was tied and the Senegalese, batting last, needed one run to win! I silenced imam’s teachings and sat forward to let the drama unfold. Man on second, 2 outs!

I need to point out that in this type of softball, there are 2 home plates: one for the pitched ball and catcher, and a second one where runners make runs. I’m sure this is to prevent the consequences of home plate collisions that anyone of a certain age hearing the name Ray Fosse or Buster Posey will understand. Hey it is 2012 – just check YouTube for “Fosse Rose collision” or “Posey injury”.

So here we go – a line single to left center, running blazing around 3rd leaving a conical red trail of dust, a strong throw home, and the ump twists his hands together and yells “OUT!”

In this soccer crazed country, the protocol of protesting a bad call is set by what you seen at the World Cup – the entire Senegal bench launched out on the field, incredulous, arms flailed like a kid playing airplane, and then, surrounding the ump and each raising his index finger in a windshield wiper motion as if shouting “No Way”. The ump, who was another of these gray templed Yanks from the losing semifinal team, admirably held his ground and as fast as the fury of protest started – it stopped.

Play was resumed with the Yanks up to bat. Each player was dreaming of blasting the lead homer but the bodies were not willing – long deep flied to left, center, right all just short of reaching the black mesh netting that meant “homer”.

So the Senegalese dramatics were repeated – same scenario for the single hitters. But this time the runner scored from 2nd easily for the winning run. And the celebration began as the fans surround the players on the mound and the women broke into a dance and somewhere there was drumming. Congrats from the humbled Yanks and great goodwill preserved.

Next should have been a feast of cheeseburgers, corn-on-the-cob and beer swapping stories and comparing bruises - but I guess the Peace Corps budget can’t handle that. Instead, after trophies, everyone drifted off to various Dakar destinations. As I looked back on the field I could still see a cloud of dust, now orange in the late afternoon sun, hanging over the pitcher’s mound.

It was a good day for softball, for international understanding, a good day for all.

More brave travelers have traveled to the Gambia! Stay tuned for their insightful stories of African adventure.

(The views, opinions and thoughts expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the author of this blog. I am solely a guest toubab author who enjoyed the opportunity to travel to the African continent for the first time 2 months ago)

I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).

After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.

Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.

I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.

Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.

One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).

The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!

We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.

Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.

Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.

We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.

We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:

Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”

Me: “Sure, why not.”

A few minutes pass.

Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”

Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.

What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.

Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.

-Steve

Here in The Gambia, the vast majority of the population is Muslim. A combination of their tribal beliefs and their newer Islamic beliefs has led to a strong confidence in the power of jujus: verses of the Koran, written by a holy man called a marabou, bound in leather, and worn somewhere on the body.

I was about to head to Cape Verde on a travel-filled epic adventure, and Steve was coming so I needed a gift that was unique but appropriate and that he’d like. It was time for me to make some jujus.

I took a long time for me to decide what I wanted. Should I protect myself from knives? Should I go the safe route and get a juju for invincibility? Should I guarantee myself vast wealth in my future? Which juju would Steve most appreciate?

On our upcoming Cape Verde trip, I knew if travel plans were altered at all we wouldn’t make it to all the destinations I wanted. So the first juju I wanted, for both Steve and I, was for safe and efficient travel.

Then, I tried to think about what else we were passionate about. Of course, I thought of sports. So I made a juju for the success of the Green Bay Packers, and made Steve jujus for all of his favorite sports teams to be successful.

It was an incredible collision of my old life and my new one in Africa as I watched this holy man spell out “Green Bay Packers” phonetically in Arabic, then proceed to chant and make marks on a paper, continually cross-checking with his Islamic texts.

Apparently, as a marabou is making a juju for a person, he’s able to see things about their future. So, this is what my marabou told me about what my life would be like in the future.

- Where you live, people will love you. You will be much beloved and you will be rich.

- A government employee will try to befriend you, but you should stay away from him.

- You will go somewhere where they speak French

- You will be in the running with two others, and you will be the winner.

After he told me my future, he proceeded to make inexplicable marks on a paper, guided by Allah himself, I guess. When he finished he was left with three rows of little lines, each row with either one, two, or three lines in it. Based on the arrangement of the lines, it determines how successful your juju will be. As he drew one for the Cleveland Cavaliers, he made a satisfied clucking noise. I asked why, and he said, “They are in the second position. That is good.” That was the only point when I doubted his juju making abilities. I guess Allah doesn’t know the recent occurrences within the Cleveland Cavaliers organization.

When he was finished with all of the pieces of paper, covering all of the jujus I wanted, he told me that in order for all of the jujus to be successful, I would have to give some charities. He said I would have to do exactly as he said before I picked up the jujus, or they would not be as powerful.

The following are the gifts that I had to distribute.

- Give children milk on a Sunday

- Give silver to a disabled person

- Give three white kola nuts to someone older than you

- Give a prayer shawl to an old woman

So, one Sunday, armed with many dalasis and the power of Allah, I went to the market to purchase and distribute.

As I finished making my purchases and I was walking out of the market, I saw a blind man sitting and begging. I went to him and gave him the three white kola nuts, which are a sign of utmost respect in Gambian culture. As I put them in his outstretched hand I said, “Sadaa fele”, which means, “Gaze at the gifts.” Then I sat as he prayed for me, in the middle of the market, asking for Allah to bless me.

So my first charity given was awesome.

Later, I saw another blind man standing outside, clinking coins together. I awkwardly placed the silver ring on his pinky finger (that’s the only place it would fit, it was a tiny ring), but he also kept me there for a long time, blessing me with Allah’s praises.

So now, armed with the a double dose of heavenly blessings, I ventured to find an old woman and some children.

There was a woman sitting outside of the bank in a wheelchair, also clinking coins together, begging for money. I went to her, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and told her, “Gaze at the charity”. She gave me a quick thank you in mandinka, and then immediately asked me in English for money. I laughed and strolled away. Even if that less than stellar response canceled out one of my Allah blessings, I still had one to spare.

Then I went to find some kids to give milk to. I was sure this would be the easiest one, because every day, as I’m walking down the road, anything that I have, kids will ask for. If I’m drinking a bag of water, kids will yell, “Give me water!” If I’m eating a banana, they’ll say, “Give me banana!” So I thought as soon as I said yes to one of these requests, a horde of kids would come running and I’d have to fight them off.

I had three bags of milk to give away, so when I first saw a group of three kids, I said, Sweet. Perfect. But as soon as I nicely called for the boys to come over, they looked scared and ran away. I tried to explain in Mandinka that I had a gift for them, but apparently they had been schooled in stranger danger – or just didn’t know why on earth a toubab would be beckoning them.

Eventually, I found a kid sitting alone on a bike. I thought, aww, lonesome kid on a bike, who better to give my charity to? But then his well-dressed mother approached, looking apprehensive. I told her I had to give charities, and I wanted to give milk to her son. She said thank you, and in the tradition of the women gift receivers of the Gambia, promptly asked for some money too.

I found my last two kids sitting and waiting in a car park. I’m not sure they understood what they were getting, but their wise looking elder was sitting next to them, and he motioned that it was ok for them to take the gift.

In a country where if you don’t finish your coffee, you can give it to a four year old boy and he’ll guzzle it from the same cup, a country where when you throw out a coke can, kids immediately pick it up and start licking it for a few final sweet drops of liquid, who would have thought it’d be so hard to get them to take milk?

So, I completed my charities. I went to the marabou to pick up my jujus, and he said that on Sunday, he had sat for one hour, while the Packers were playing half a world away, and had prayed for their success.

I don’t want to jinx anything, but my jujus are awesome. The Packers are (as of now) undefeated, and Steve and I made it to all of our travel destinations safe and sound.

Cleveland teams are still struggling however… maybe no amount of heavenly power can make those teams successful.

This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Peace Corps. To celebrate, all over the world, different Peace Corps countries and the governments therein are having events, throwing parties, giving gifts to commemorate all the brave young men and women who’ve put real life on hold to go and explore the unknown.

Recently, the president of the Gambia, His Excellency Sheik Dr. Alhagie Professor Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, invited all Peace Corps volunteers to his home village, to properly honor the time the Peace Corps has been present in the Gambia, which as of this year, has been 45 years uninterrupted. Through coups and revolutions, Peace Corps has been ever present in The Gambia.

Peace Corps volunteers have seen how village meetings and programs are run in the Gambia. We know not to expect a meeting in the village to start until two hours after it’s supposed to, we know when it says there’s lodging it’s probably sleeping on a thin mat on a concrete slab, and we know that if food is provided it’s probably fish, palm oil, and okra.

But would it be different when the president was our Gambian host? Time would tell.

The program was set to begin at 4pm, with lunch. We arrived at around 4, after a police escorted hour and a half trip from Kombo to Kanilai. A Peace Corps volunteer got on the intercom system on the bus (yes it was one of those buses – a la eighth grade band trip to Florida) and acted as our tour guide. He pointed out the trees of the Gambia, the point at which the pavement stopped, and my favorite, uttered this quote: “On your right, you’ll see Yuna psychiatric hospital and liquor production facility”. And sure enough, to our right, there it was.

We arrived at around four to a large welcoming party. We finished eating at around five thirty, over an hour late, as expected. If the lunch spread was any indication of how the night would go, we were in for a treat. Every time I looked up, they brought out a new roasted goat filled with stuffing; they had delicious domoda, roasted lamb, tons of fresh fruit, and overall things that provide slightly more taste and nutrition than the average Gambian meal.

Then we all moved to the stadium. We sat in the seats of honor, behind where the president was expected to sit. We sat, watching the dancing Jammeh supporters, listening to the band, and waiting for the big man to make his appearance. The actual ceremony was expected to start at six.

Darkness fell, and still no president had shown his face. At this point we were tired of acting like honorable guests of honor, so I got the people sitting around me involved in a round of “the ugly game”, where each person tries to make him or herself as ugly as possible, and then capture it on digital camera.

Finally, at around 7:45, the president showed up. His arrival was perhaps my favorite thing about the entire night. Most presidents don’t drive themselves anywhere – it’s much safer for someone else to sit in the driver’s seat. But President Jammeh isn’t most presidents. He peeled out in his Land Rover, his traditional white robes blowing wildly in the wind. He squealed to a stop in the grass in front of the leather couch that had been placed there specifically for this purpose, and his henchman approached the car, opened the door, and quickly ushered him onto the couch. Like communion on Easter Sunday, we all quickly cycled from our seat to the front to greet and shake the president’s hand, then back around to our seats.

Then the ceremony began. We sang both national anthems. There were numerous speeches, some well thought out and eloquent ones, some long and rambling ones. Speeches were given by Peace Corps volunteers in each of the local languages. You could tell the crowd got a kick out of hearing toubabs speak and joke fluently in their local language. Even the president gave a couple of guffaws. After this, pretty much everyone who ever was involved in the Peace Corps and is now in government gave a speech. And like most programs in The Gambia, it went on FAR TOO LONG. By the time all the speaking was finished, it was around 10:30 pm. Dinner was planned to be served at 8 pm. Only two and half hours late is about right for the Gambia, so we were all relatively pleased with the timetable of the night.

But then, the president announced he had an exciting surprise for us. First, he asked all female volunteers to stand, which we did, although slightly nervously. Visions of massive wedding ceremonies flooded through my head, but then the president announced he wanted to give us all dressed. We all exchanged excited looks, and now new visions flooded my head – traditional, embroidered, wax print dresses for all of us. Or even better, a dress made out of the fabric printed with the president’s face and name. We all got in a long line to receive our gifts. They were all folded, so we couldn’t really see what we were being offered until we got back to our seats and could open them…

And the president had given every Peace Corps volunteer a Gambian made… pantsuit. Imagine a 70’s flight attendant uniform, then put it a color two steps uglier, and embroider it four levels gaudier, and that’s about what we received. I chose a lovely lime green shirt, far too small, with embroidery that has a pattern you’d see on a blanket in New Mexico. Some girls received some pretty inappropriate stuff, with embroidered arrows pointing directly to their nether regions… Immediately people started talking about throwing their presidential gifts into the free pile. I’m hoping enough people held onto theirs that we can use them for uniforms for WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) this year.

Then the Peace Corps men were invited up, and to the ladies’ shock, many of them were given beautiful, traditional, wax printed clothes. Some unlucky ones near the back got embroidered white t shirts, but some dudes hit the jackpot.

Finally, gifts given and speeches heard, we moved to the dining area to eat and watch the movie created by a Peace Corps volunteer about Peace Corps in the Gambia. It was about 12:30 pm.

At 1am, we moved to the food. There were cakes, there was salad, there was meat and fresh fruit. I ate triple what any normal person should, but I knew a few short days would find me back in village, eating fish bones only. As I was walking around the tennis court (where the food was set up and served), I was piling food on my plate, while simultaneously eating the tiny cakes he had millions of. I probably ate eighteen tiny pieces of cake by the time the dinner was over. We all ate as much as we possibly could, watched the movie, and then were completely exhausted and ready to sleep in the presidential accommodations the pres had arranged for us.

As we were indulging, our safety and security coordinator came around, and told us the nice lodge in the village only had thirteen rooms, and Peace Corps staff would stay there. So, we could stay in this abandoned apartment complex, or we could return back to Kombo to stay in the Peace Corps house. I chose to return, and entered the door to the place I would finally rest my head at 4am.

Those that stayed said that the lodging was a concrete room, a mattress on the floor, and no electricity… so in fact, even less accommodating than our pit latrine equipped huts with beds.

Despite the tardiness, the poor accommodations, the exhaustion, we all had a pretty good time, and definitely felt that the people of the Gambia appreciated what we and our predecessors have done for the country.

At least, we felt that until a few hours later, when a large number of us had immense gastrointestinal discomfort. Apparently, food that is prepared and ready to be served at 8pm is not quite as intestinally accepted when it’s served at 1am.

I just went on an epic trip to Cape Verde. It was amazing and beautiful and perhaps the greatest place on earth, but I’m not going to publish the itinerary nor my reasons for my glowing recommendations until a successful travel writing business pays me for my efforts.

Instead, I am going to publish the top three reasons that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.

Reason Number Three: Street Food

I cannot explain how amazing the street food was there. I told myself before I went that I would try every piece of street food that I saw, at least once. In The Gambia, if I had made that promise, I would be sputtering in disgust often. Following through on this declaration in Cape Verde, however, was joyous surprise after joyous surprise.

My knowledge of the Portuguese language, and most street food vendors knowledge of English intersected enough for them to understand, through broken Portuguese and emphatic hand motions, that I was indicating, “FEED ME ONE OF THOSE”.

The first tasty morsel was some sort of brownish goop that they spread on bread. Now, in the Gambia, this goop is bound to be something okra or fish related. So I was nervous. But upon its first contact with my taste buds, I knew this was not Gambian street food. The goop was some sort of sweet caramel type substance. The bread was about the size of a hot dog bun, slathered with delicious muck, and it put me back 10 escudos, or about 14 cents. I immediately ate two more.

Only then did I notice the wild variety of street food surrounding me. Had I noticed it before, I would not have been so quick to guzzle the first nugget.

Immediately upon discovery, I had all my hands and mouth space occupied with some pizza type onion-y thing, two incredibly iced doughnuts, and a huge piece of cake. All of that for 50 escudos. Or like 80 cents.

The best street food moment of the trip came after many attempts. I’d seen woman walking around with large, clear plastic bags, filled with what looked like raw tofu. It was visibly cold and wet, and was about the size, shape, and thickness of a rice cake. I had no idea what this was for a long time. I had seen many people walking around with the bags, and people making purchases, but no one actually consuming this mysterious consumable.

My moment came, and in a flurry of misunderstanding, I finally ended up with one of these discs, for 150 escudos, or slightly more than two dollars. Based on my previous experiences, this was an expensive hunk of something.

I examined its cold wetness, and wondered what it could possibly be. At this point, I was still pretty sure it was raw tofu. But upon the first squeaky bite, I knew for certain that it was the greatest discovery since the finding of these beautiful islands so long ago.

It was cheese. A huge disc of recently pressed goat cheese (I think). Cheap, accessible, fresh, not processed, cheese????? This is the stuff of a Gambian volunteer’s dreams. And thus, reason number three that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.

Reasons Number Two: Infrastructure

This may have been the biggest shock upon arriving to Cape Verde. I’m no expert nor widely traveled person, but having lived on the continent for over a year, I thought I’d understood what Africa had to offer, and most likely wouldn’t be too surprised by anything this continent had to throw at me.

Then I arrived in Cape Verde.

You think Africa, in general, has a lack of power, running water, banks, restaurants, on time vehicles, or schedules of any sort? Think again.

Cape Verde has some amazingly beautiful sights to see. They have mountains, beaches, volcanoes, beautiful people, interesting cities, etc. But a strange proportion of my pictures are of seemingly mundane things. Trash cans, power lines, electric lights, and comfortable seating.

BECAUSE AFRICA DOES HAVE THESE THINGS.

Was I pretty ignorant of Africa before I got to Cape Verde? Definitely, but I would argue that makes me appreciate it much more. Most folks, upon seeing a beautiful valley filled with sugar cane blowing in the wind, capped off by a low, fluffy cloud cover, would miss the understated beauty and the manifestation of lots of time and effort on the part of government and local laborers if they overlooked the green trash cans, the cobbled road, the delicate spine of power lines running to the most remote, basic, rural homes.

Reason Number One: Stuff to See

The most amazing thing that Cape Verde had was stuff to see. Scenery you couldn’t get anywhere else, sights and sounds completely unique and beautiful. Looking to the west and seeing the ocean, and across the channel, another island with the sun setting behind it, and then turning to the east and seeing the peak of a epic volcano that you climbed earlier that day?

Emerging on the top of an epically high ridge of mountains, to look down into the next gorgeous valley, shade obscuring half of it and sunlight blindingly illuminating the rest?

Watching farmers not only plow their fields with horses and donkeys, but also adjust the irrigation lines that come from the water trickling down from way up the mountain?

A boy making his way up a steep cobbled road, and to assist him, he’s holding the tail of a huge white horse?

Hearing a local Creole speaker order the locally made alcohol called “grogue”, which in my Chicago accent sound synonymous with witch’s puke, but in their lispy, musical tongue, it sounds like something fantastical and delicious?

Amazing.

You should go there.

PS. Mom. I know you just bought your ticket to the Gambia… but it’s pretty good too!

The Gambia was lucky to welcome a new toubab non-tourist inside its borders a few weeks ago, and he has generously agreed to write a blog post about his experiences. Check back for what's sure to be a hilarious, well written tale of wonder and woe.

I’ve eaten a lot of meals in the Gambia. By my calculations, about 1300. About a third of those have been breakfast, which I provide for myself, but the remaining two thirds, over 800 meals, have been with Gambians, served by Gambians, cooked by Gambians. The vessel to bring much of these meals from bowl to mouth has been my hand. I’ve learned by the smell of an unopened food bowl which delectable mash I’ll be served that evening. And through these hundreds of lunches and dinners, I’ve noticed some trends. So, come and learn with me, as I take you through the slimy, mushy, and carb-filled world of food in the Gambia. As the Gambians say, “Come eat.”

Here in the Gambia, the food pyramid is nothing like the triangular thing of beauty that we all grew up with, and definitely nothing like the weird thing the FDA is trying to make Americans buy now. I spent some time drawing it up, and this is about how it looks.

Here are some common recipes that are cooked here in the Gambia. Try them at home!

RECIPE ONE: Serve at least 9 times per week

Ingredients: Carbs

Oil

MSG

Fish (and especially the bones)

Cook a carb: usually rice, bird seed, or sand.

Cook another carb, usually pasta, and cook it in oil.

Add plenty of MSG.

Fry a fish and throw it in on top of the bowl. (If you can’t afford a fish, at least throw in a bunch of bones to give the illusion that it once had fish… or for a boost of calcium. Or for crunch. Or a challenge, something to search for amongst the homogenous mash)

RECIPE TWO: Serve four to five times per week.

Ingredients: Carbs

Leaves

Oil

MSG

Fish bones

Mash leaves together with MSG. Don’t stop mashing until they’re good and slimy.

Cook in oil until the sliminess is maximized, and all nutrients or beneficial substances in the leaves have been removed completely.

Cook a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.

Serve leaves over carbs.

Add fish bones to taste

RECIPE THREE: One time per week ,if you’re lucky.

*These recipes will provide the eater with a bit of protein, an essential element that is absent from all other meals. Since this is the case, if you are ever served this dish, EAT UP.

INGREDIENTS: Ground nuts

Carbs

Oil

MSG

Fish bones

Mash groundnuts (peanuts) into peanut butter. Try to remove all the bugs first, but if you miss a few: meh.

Cook with oil and MSG.

Prepare a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.

Serve groundnuts over carbs.

Add fish bones to taste.

Beyond meals, sometimes Gambians snack throughout the day (unless its Ramadan. Or hungry season) These snacks are sometimes a delightful way to introduce some variety to the day to day food options. Snacks depend greatly on the season in which the snacker is snacking.

June – August: No snacks. It’s hungry season. The crops are in the ground, and none have grown tall enough for us to eat yet.

August – October: Carbs on the cob.

November – January: Groundnuts, fresh from the earth, still crawling with pests.

January – April: Groundnuts, now old. Still pests though!

May – June: MANGOES! The only time fruit is added to the everday Gambian diet.

So no matter what time of year you choose to come visit the Gambia, you'll be prepared for the dining options that await.

Bring Clif Bars.

To my dear friends and family -

I realized that I haven't blogged in a long time. A LONG time. And the past few times that I blogged, it was about things that were decidedly un-Peace corps or un-village life. It's not that nothing has happened since I last posted. Actually, a lot has happened. New trainees came, the president of the Gambia came to my village, we passed our one year in country AND one year of service, training ended, Ramadan began, Ramadan ended, rainy season came, my backyard became a jungle, new volunteers swore in, I got blood poisoning, we had a ton of fun parties. LOTS has happened, but I haven't felt the incredible need to write about it, nor experienced the moment where my eyes light up and I break into a huge grin and exclaim, "That was SO bloggable."

After extreme soul searching and hours of hungry boredom during Ramadan, I realized what it is.

I've become a Gambian.

No longer is it crazy to see goats and couches piled high on top of the same bush taxi. No longer do I feel strange when I go haul water for my daily bucket bath. No longer am I annoyed by having to sweep everything in my house daily because otherwise I will eat dust only. It's normal to greet in Mandinka, and holidays, although still boring, are now not mysterious ordeals. I think domoda is delicious, I've come to terms with eating a few bugs every day, and wading through knee deep mud is an expected part of my commute. As you can see from the facebook photos as of late, I have become extremely unaware of my appearance, and match the most horrible prints with other equally horrible prints.

So, I'm sorry. I know the stories that were once funny, gross, and or wild to me are probably still pretty shocking to others. It's like I'm no longer a tourist. When you first move to New York City, you may take pictures of Times Square, and famous street signs, and the Statue of Liberty, but after a certain amount of time they're just part of your regular life, no matter how different from your past life it is.

I don't know how to fix this problem. I'll try to remember how I felt in the beginning, and write with the same fervor and zeal. Another, even better, option, is for everyone to come and see it themselves. You should come and take the pictures that I should be taking, gasp at the sights that I no longer even see, and experience the traditions and culture that is now everyday.

Again, I'm sorry for the lack of communication. I'll be better.

I apologize very dangerously,

Abby

Sometimes a person joins the Peace Corps, an organization that demands flexibility under extreme conditions, but gets lucky enough to not have to be flexible at all. Sometimes people in the Peace Corps, even though living in a developing country, gets a sweeter set up than they had back in America. If you have an apartment, you’re in the Posh Corps. If you have electricity and/or running water, you’re in the Posh Corps. If you can get ice and/or ice cream in your village/town/neighborhood, you’re in the Posh Corps.

In no way could my Peace Corps experience be considered “posh”. I pretty much got the ”maximum flexibility” option. However, this past week, I have lived how the other side lives. This is the story of my one week of Posh Corps.

The American Embassy in the Gambia sent out a text a few weeks ago, asking for volunteers who would be willing to assist with a basketball camp in Kombo. Being the basketball aficionado I am, I promptly jumped on this opportunity. As I learned more about the camp, I got more excited. An ex-NBA player would be flown in, to teach the people of this tiny African country how to ball efficiently. It would involve about six hours of basketball a day, in ocean-breezy Bakau. It was too good to pass up.

When the other two volunteers and I arrived in town to assist, we didn’t know what to expect. We had no idea that the upcoming week would be the most luxurious and worthwhile one we’d had in this country… perhaps ever.

Day One of the camp was pretty standard. My fellow Peace Corps buddies and I didn’t really know what to do to be most helpful, so we just ran drills with the camp participants. We felt like rock stars when Tommy Davis, ex-NBA player, invited us to help him demonstrate drills or skills, and then, after fundamentally flawlessly completing the play, all the Gambians would cheer when we scored, yelling “Basket!” and offering enthusiastic high fives.

There’s about a four hour break in the middle of the day, so on day one, we just went back to our Peace Corps house and hung out. Then we returned to the camp to coach the little ones in the afternoon. Pretty standard day of basketball camp.

On Day Two we started to get to know Ole Tommy Davis even better, and he turned out to be the nicest man in the world.

A quick biography of my main man TD: He played at the University of Minnesota , and his favorite college memories were dropping thirty plus points on Indiana and a furious, chair-hurling Bobby Knight. As a child, he went to the annual camp for the best youngsters in the country, and he played with the likes of Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing, Karl Malone, etc. According to him, (and you don’t doubt a man with as much integrity as Tommy Davis has), he was better than Michael Jordan when he was twelve. After graduating college, he was drafted by the Dallas Mavericks. He played I think only one season in the NBA, and then traveled to play in the Philippines. He was a huge star in the Philippines, and made tons of money while living in paradise. When he left there, he traveled around Europe, scouting for the team he coaches in Bordeaux, France. He has lived there for the past twenty years, and speaks French fluently. Now he travels everywhere, running camps, scouting and recruiting internationally. He still keeps in touch with Popovich, coach of the Spurs, and has been extended an offer to coach in the NBA when he wants to return to the US.

When a man with this many credentials comes to chill in the Gambia, you know he’s a good dude.

So, after the first session on Day Two, Tommy asks us if we’d like to go get something to eat – something Gambian. After dining on cheap Gambian food, he’s like, “We have a couple hours before we have to go back to the courts. Why don’t you tag along with me to the hotel I’m staying at, which happens to be none other than Cocoa Ocean, the most luxurious hotel in the country? My personal driver will drive you there, you can hang with the celebrity likes of me, and then we’ll return to play basketball.”

So we did that. And you don’t know luxury until you leave a Gambian village and then are suddenly surrounded with the blatant, extravagant luxury that we were thrust into. There were like eleven horizon pools, just waiting to be dipped in. The hotel overlooked the ocean, and was filled with tasteful yet funky furniture, enough pool chairs to seat my entire village comfortably, color and beauty.

Old TD hung out with us by the pool, telling us all about the basketball royalty he had faced, asking us questions about the Peace Corps, reminiscing about NCAA tournaments past, and continuing to offer us things we had been deprived of – food, hot showers, air conditioned rides across town.

So, daily, we continued to do this. We were Tommy’s helpers in the morning, perfectly following his instructions and demonstrating skills which we had mastered as children, being worshipped by Gambians for making simple shots or dribbling between our legs.

One day, I invited Tommy to play a friendly game of HORSE… in which I couldn’t miss. I beat him and my male volunteer counterparts, and THE Tommy Davis, NBA star, friend of Gregg Popovich, pal of Tony Parker, who played with the legends of my youth said, and I quote, “That girl can shoot.”

Then we’d go eat Gambian food, return to luxury, and sleep by the pool for a few hours, before we’d go back and play basketball again.

One day, the employees of the embassy decided to show their appreciation for all the” work” we were doing. They took us to the best and most expensive restaurant in town. The amount of money I spent on my meal was more than the monthly rent I pay my family to stay in my house and eat with them every day… FOR A MONTH. We got fancy juices, ate meat without bones, Mexican food, salads, and dessert. It was perhaps the best meal I have ever eaten.

On Saturday, the final day of the camp, Tommy invited us to escort him through a few of the markets in Kombo. Where normally we would have to cram into a smelly broken car, his personal driver took us right to the market in an air conditioned vehicle. We helped him bargain for the items he wanted, and he was impressed with our comfort in the market, as well as our language skillz.

As he dropped us off for the final time, he took our email addresses, told us anytime we came to France we had a place to stay, double kissed my face, and then told us he loved us.

And we loved him too.

The antics of ASP have given me many fun games to play in a tight spot, when I’m bored or need to entertain many.

This time I chose to enlist the help of Dizzy Bat, a hilarious game involving materials readily available in the Gambia. I grabbed a locally made broom (lots of grass tied together with a piece of fabric), and told kids to look up in the air, put the broom on the tip of their nose, look at the end of it, and spin around ten times FAST. Then, when they’ve finished, they should put the broom on the ground, stand next to it, and jump from side to side over the broom ten times.

That’s the game.

I played it with kids of all ages. Lots of kids fell down, tons of kids got real dirty, and my 9th grade friend and I exchanged words for “dizzy” in our respective languages. In Mandinka, it’s “tiroo”.

The next day, my ninth grade friend Maimuna approached me and gave me the following letter.

“Abby How are you today.

Yesterday the game that we played seen I go home I started sleeping at 7:49 I sleeping up to 10:53. my mother called me, did not anser, she ask me what happened. I say noting, she say no something is go on. I say noting go on. she say you never sleeping like this.

I willy I am not going to do these game again

From Maimuna”

So, obviously I made an impression on her. I also now have numerous kids who I don’t recognize start spinning around when they see me, yelling “Abby! Tee-zee! Tee-zee!” until they fall down.

I constantly wonder what my legacy will be when I finally leave this tiny country. I think this game is in the running for what people will remember about me. "Oh, yeah, Abby? She's the one that drew that map on the wall right? Or, she's the one that carried 20 liters of water in her backpack AND twenty liters on her bike for training? Ohhhhhhh, the dizzy bat chick... Now I remember."

So, even though we still have about six weeks left in this term, I was thinking about back to school after the long rainy season. Then I was thinking about back to school in America.

American back to school time is my favorite time of year. WalMarts are filled with all of the students, unexcited to go back, the parents, unexcited to be in a WalMart, and me, excited all around. There are so many things arranged in rainbow order, the smell of glue and paper in the air...

And I was thinking about the sales. How for a dollar, you can get an entire pack of crayola markers, or ten packs of notebook paper.

So, if you or anyone you know is doing back to school shopping this year, think about this.

If everyone I know fills one standard weight shipping box (cost to send about $50-60) with school supplies, they will last my school years and years beyond my tenure here. So, if you're up for it, here are the things that are most useful to my school and the teachers within it.

- Markers - good crayola ones, thin and thick.

- CONSTRUCTION PAPER - Impossible to get in this country but SUPER important.

- Lined notebook paper

- Glue - not glue sticks, but elmer's in a bottle. Glue sticks dry out in like a day during dry season.

- SCISSORS - both big teachers pair and LOTS of small kids pairs. My dream is to make a class set so students can actually use them, but classes have like forty or more kids...

- Pens and pencils - less important than the above things, but nonetheless important.

- Dictionaries. I know these will be hard to send, but most kids don't know how to use one/have never seen one. Beyond that, I think they would be helpful for teachers.

- Books - used, new, any children's book are appreciated. See below.

I also just painted a giant world map on the wall of the library, and I want to teach students a little more about the rest of the world, of which they know nothing! I was thinking about reading them books from other countries scattered throughout the world. I have West African books, and I have books from America and England, but none from anywhere else. So, if you can find books from Scandinavia, Indonesia, Patagonia, or Antarctica, I'll take ANYTHING!

And while you're at it, if you want to send me Clif Bars, raw almonds, and/or candy of any kind, I'd accept it. :)

Thanks in advance!

I realized earlier that I often write stories of the ridiculous tales involving cultural mystery, discomfort, or the woe of being a toubab in a strange land, but I don't think I have told you all what I spend my time doing...

So,don't expect to laugh a lot during this one... only cold hard facts.

First of all, "doing stuff" in the Peace Corps, at least for your first year, from what I hear, is hard to do. You don't know the language, you don't know how everything works, you don't know who the movers and shakers in your community are. So, A LOT of my time is spent reading, writing letters, playing with kids, or in general wasting time.

My job is to be a teacher trainer. So, that sort of encompasses everything at school. I observe teachers occasionally, trying to give them encouragement (which they rarely get from their superiors) and also give them tips on how to improve things like classroom management and student involvement. The Gambia is slowly moving away from a "chalk and talk" style of lecture teaching, but it's slow going.

I also build teaching aids for teachers out of locally available junk, and try to encourage the teachers to do it too.

I have gotten a ton of books from Books for Africa, and am working on continuing to build our collection of library books. I have taken the library to be sort of like my showroom. Every class has one library period a week, so I teach about 13 periods a week. When they come in, I take the opportunity to do a fun activity or art project with them, because that's something they'll never do in their normal class, and I try to model a good lesson for the teacher. It's been rough because, despite being taught in only English for their entire schooling career, almost no one can understand me. Sigh. It's hard to model a good lesson and get students involved when they can't understand the question being asked, and have been taught not to speak out in class even if they did understand the question.

Beyond that, I'm trying to make the library look as much like an American classroom as I can. I painted a huge map of the world on the wall, I've put up all sorts of colors, hung up lots of student work, and am working on saving enough of my own money to buy some more paint, colorful curtains, and table coverings to make it a place where students like to come.

It's already been slightly successful. A few students come in before they go to afternoon class, or after they finish in morning class. They come in and sit quietly with their friends and look through the books. Maybe they're not actually reading, but I will take the successes where I can get them. One student even brought me a page of unfinished math problems and asked me to hang them on the wall.

So, there's the day to day. Not exciting, but it's what I do.

So, if you have books, ideas, construction paper, art materials, scissors, or other cool educational items, send them my way. I'm convinced that with the more visual stimulation in the library, the more jazzed kids will be about school.

Teleto means “on TV” in Mandinka. I didn’t know this until recently, when I heard from numerous people in my village, many Peace Corps staff members, and one particularly observant vendor in the car park, that I had been on the one and only Gambian TV channel, GRTS.

No one can remember what the news story was on. All they remember is seeing a toubab run near the screen.

The accounts of the scene are all different. One says I was carrying a backpack. Another says I was carrying many “busoos” or plastic bags. Some told me I had “high hair”. Some say I was running near the bank, others say I was running to catch a gele. But all accounts involved one element – what made me sure that it was me they saw and not some other husky, tall, female toubab. They all described perfectly my huge red shorts.

When first the Peace Corps employees told me I was on TV, it made sense. They know me, so they’d most likely notice my presence. When I was on ESPN at Illini games, I expected friends to call me during the game, or at least mention after the game, that they had seen me on TV.

But when randos from the car park recognize me as the toubab on TV… at first that didn’t make sense. It’s like watching an Illini basketball game, and saying, Oh, yeah, I saw you on TV, you were standing next to the guy with the orange shirt on…

Upon further thought, and analysis of the demographics of this country, I began to realize this recognition makes more sense… it actually makes a lot of sense. It’s not like seeing a normal person, it’s a toubab! It’s like watching an Illini game and seeing a man in a gorilla suit in the stands. You’re going to remember. And next time you come across a gorilla man, you’re probably going to tell him you saw him on TV.

I just wonder how many toubabs the lady in the car park claimed to see before she came across me, the one who was actually on TV.

This weekend was games weekend for Peace Corps The Gambia volunteers. Those who chose to participate met up in Juffareh, the site made famous by the novel Roots. Juffareh is where Kunta Kinteh was stolen from before being sold into slavery. It’s one of the most famous tourist sites in The Gambia, and each year lots of African Americans come to this little village to see where their ancestors may have come from.

Because it gets so much tourist activity, there is a little eco-lodge there called Kunta Kinteh camp. This is where we stayed. It’s right on the river/ocean/inlet/whatever that body of water is called. It had a pool. It had a bar. It had lots of tables where tons of nerds could play all sorts of lame games.

But before we could test our individual wit, strategic skills, and dungeons and dragons tolerance, we had to have the real contest. The contest that shows true will, true grit, true spirit, true desire. We had to have a mango eating contest.

The first round of the mango eating contest involved everyone who was interested in participating. Everyone was given a plate with slices of mango, adding up to about two to three entire mangoes. When the signal was given, everyone would eat the mangoes as quickly as they could… without using their hands. And if you’ve ever eaten a mango, you know that they are slippery. To get your teeth into one was way more difficult that getting it down your gullet.

If you know my desire to compete, my appetite, and my affinity for mangoes, hopefully by now you will have guessed that I was one of the people who ate their mangoes the quickest. I finished in second to a mango eating machine.

So, the first three to finish moved on to the real contest: a timed challenge in which each person tried to eat as many mangoes as they could in a two minute time period.

The large, burly, bearded mango eating machine was contestant number one. He has been mistaken for Bigfoot and is known for his eating abilities.

Contestant number two was a tall, thin, wiry guy. He looked beatable, but his resolve was strong.

And then there was me. The lone female, representing half of humankind, and about 70% of Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia.

The contest began, and I shoveled those mangoes as fast as I could into my mouth. I had a counter on one side, and a coach on the other, guiding me on which pieces looked most mash-able, and which pieces were smallest, to maximize my eating potential.

The winner, Bigfoot, ate 26 pieces of mango, which according to my calculations, is about 5 mangoes. In two minutes.

Slim and I tied for second place, with 21 mango pieces, or about four mangoes. Two mangoes a minute. Not too bad, eh?

After that contest, the other games began. Think of a nerdy game, and we had it. French settlement building, German property trading, world conquest, railroad maximization, dungeons, dragons, munchkins… we had it all.

Late that first night, I played a game called Munchkin. Basically, it was a tryout to see who could hack it to move up to the big leagues of actual dungeons and dragons. And I failed MISERABLY. It was a ridiculous game, involving warriors, clerics, elves, and Halflings, where people obtained items like the “Boots of Running Really Fast” and “Huge Rock” and fought monsters like “the Floating Nose” and “the Plutonium Dragon”. It took forever, you had to wait your turn, and there were a lot of rules to learn.

Since I found out early I would never cut it for D&D, I decided to play a fun game and eavesdrop on the kinds of ridiculous quotes that are bound to come up during a game of intense Dungeons and Dragons. Here are some gems.

“Before we open the door, does anyone need to do anything to buff themselves up?”

“Well… maybe… I could call an extra creature to help us fight…”

Discussing a murder scene with dust, woman’s clothing, and is assumed to be the death of a vampire, “Is facial hair left behind?”

“Obviously, the vampire was a woman.”

“I’m not gonna mess around, I’m gonna go ahead and take out my sword and slice the carpet.”

“I think the mayor’s daughter might be queen of the vampires.”

“They’re a medium humanoid.”

Also involved in the weekend was tarot cards. I had a lot of skeptical fun, which in turn entertained my Buddhist, hippie, fellow volunteer.

I drew a lot of cards throughout the weekend to inquire and get insight about many different aspects of my life. My favorite was the “existence” card. This card basically says that the universe, all of existence, is not full with me. The universe would be missing something were I not in it.

Not only does the universe need me in it, but also the mango market would decline greatly in the Gambia were I not around, although Dungeons and Dragons would gain a lot more respect.

I was visiting one of my Peace Corps friends in her village, walking towards her school, when we heard a shrill and haunting noise coming from above.

We simultaneously swiveled our heads up and saw five children, at varying heights in a tree, all gazing down at us with terror in their eyes. Their howls were anguished, their mouths were wide, and their eyes pleaded at us to, for the love of allah, help them.

Based on prior experience in the Gambia, I assumed that these children were afraid of us, the three toubabs walking down the street. As soon as we passed underneath the tree, they must have felt trapped, and immediately reacted with a similar horror as I would have if I were in a locked room with an angry wolverine.

Since we were in a Wolof village, I couldn’t understand what they were screaming as they were screaming, and based on tone alone, they were afraid of death. My wolof speaking Peace Corps friend listened closely, and finally was able to understand that they were yelling that there was a chameleon in the tree. What normally would cause children to exclaim, “Cool!” instead caused the chaos we saw above us.

Then, the toubabs came to the rescue. Like firefighters rescuing people from a burning building, we raised our arms, and caught the children as they rained down to us.

Gambians believe that chameleons are evil and deadly. Just how strong is this belief? These Gambian children, who undoubtedly have rarely had the opportunity to be in the presence of a toubab, leaped, no questions asked, into the waiting arms of a strange toubab.

It's finished. It has been finished for about eleven hours.

Before I reflect on the last month, let me share how I spent every last dalasi of what I was allotted.

Sunday, April 17: Day 31

I was still at the Basse House, our refuge where we can sometimes have electricity, sometimes have cold water, sometimes have fan power. However, as it often is, the power didn't ever come on during the day, so we just sat and waited and sweated. The pump that we drink out of is also run by Basse power, so we didn't even have potable water. In order to compensate for all the sweat I poured, I needed water. It's biology. So, I sent someone with four dalasis to buy me two bags of water (about a liter).

Item: Water bags (2) Cost: 4D Remaining: 10D

Thus, the trek started. I went to my friend Sunny's house first, and relied on her hospitality and generosity to house and feed me. Thank god, she's an impeccable host, thus, I spent no money. One day left, and ten dalasis.

Tuesday, April 19: Day 33

Second day of the trek, and I went to my friend Trish's house. She was also an impeccable host, feeding me benachin and dancing the benachin dance to celebrate the delicacy we were consuming. However, since she knew this was the last few hours of my dollar a day, AND I had ten dalasis left, we would splurge. And buy a delicious, slightly cool, Coca Cola is a glass bottle.

Item: Coca Cola Cost: 10D Remaining: 0D

Later that night, we were looking for entertainment. So, we entered a hut with a generator attached that was showing a football game. We agreed if they asked us for money, we would plead ignorance and then leave. luckily, no one did!

Item: Viewing of 0-0 tie football match between Manchester and Newcastle Cost: 0D! Remaining: 0D

So, it's finished. I made it without going over my meager wages, but JUST BARELY. Let's reflect and discuss what I've learned and how I'm going to be a better person after this experiment.

Revelation #1: It's hard to be social when you are under such a strict budget. Hanging out with people often involves food, drinks, activities, most of which cost money. I never made this connection before, but this could be a very good reason people of similar economic statuses hang together. Even though we all get paid the same, hanging out with Peace Corps volunteers was difficult, because they had more disposable income to spend than I did. I ended up hanging out in village more than usual, because travel and activities cost money.

Revelation #2: You're always worried about money. Even though I had more money, since I was prohibited from spending it. I have to imagine I worried much less than people who only HAVE one dollar a day. Small events can make a huge differences in a person's finances, and I was often worried about what something would entail. Even eating lunch at school has hidden costs sometimes, and when that comes up too often, it's trouble.

Revelation #3: I prepared a lot for this. I spent some money to stock up so that I was at least slightly comfortable for most of it, and never had to go without basic necessities. But, if an emergency ever came up, and money was stolen or it all had been spent, I'd be IN TROUBLE. Without my stocking up on oatmeal, phone credit, and other things I use all the time but don't need, I would be WAY over. I spent money on food very few times, and both times it was pretty expensive. If someone sneak attacked me and said, "You must do a dollar a day for the next thirty days, starting today!", I'd be screwed. I would probably get way skinnier and never go anywhere.

So, it was hard. In general, I could still do the things i wanted to do, but had to make a few concessions along the way. The only reason it wasn't impossible was the prep. without that, I don't think I would have made it.

A SAD EPILOGUE

You'd think I have learned to go without some things, or appreciate spending less money. But, as soon as I rolled into Basse on the first day of financial freedom, I immediately bought four cans of coke to stock pile, and a giant thing of juice, adding up to a third of the cost of my entire month. Maybe in a few days I'll even out and spend less but not none, but right now I'm splurging. And those cokes were SO WORTH IT.

When I last left you, it was the day before the NCAA Championship game. I went to my friend’s place at the Medical Research Council, where he’s doing research, and exploited the community television/cable from 1:30 until 4:30 in the morning to watch this (disappointing) matchup.

In order to convince this dude that it was a good idea to stay up until 5am to watch this game AND to let me sleep in his air conditioned apartment , I had to offer something. So I said, “Hey, why don’t we make dinner, bake some cookies, and play bananagrams until game time?”

So that’s what happened. Thus, what I feared last time – a big expenditure over 25D – occurred. Here’s the latest look into my finances.

Monday, April 4 : Day 18

I brought lots of stuff that I had hoarded to prepare for this dollar a day expedition, but still had to buy rice, limes, onions, and tomatoes to make this mango, corn, bean, concoction. Then cookie materials. It was delicious, but costly.

Item: Foodstuffs Cost: 50D Remaining: 54D

Tuesday, April 5: Day 19

Crossed the river to get home after lots of good food, but too little sleep.

Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 44D

Sunday, April 10: Day 24

Again, my phone will not last longer than a week without charging.

Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 39D

Tuesday, April 12: Day 26

My good friend Mariama came to visit finally, after I hadn’t seen her since her wedding in January. I was at school, and a man came around, selling blocks of ice. This man carried blocks of ice from Basse in a big sack, on a bicycle, the 10K to my village. I thought, “What better gift on a 115 degree day than a block of ice! I have only one week left, I can afford it.” I brought it home, eager to hear them all exclaim what a great toubab I was, but they didn’t seem nearly excited enough…

Item: Ice block Cost: 15D Remaining: 24 D

Saturday, April 16: Day 30

It’s spring break, so I’m taking a trek around the URR on my bike. However, to get to Basse, from whence all treks start, OF COURSE, I have to cross that expensive river.

Item: River Crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 14D

So, I am in Basse. The land with two restaurants, and at least four places that sell cold coke… it’s the land of temptation. And I have to make my fourteen dalasis last until Tuesday.

Will I make it? Find out on Wednesday.

If you’ve been following my blog, you know it’s hot here… WAY. TOO. HOT.

A few days ago, I looked at my thermometer, and it said 120 degrees. I saw it and laughed in a fit of hysterical incredulity. No way, right? It was officially only four degrees from being too hot for my thermometer to handle, and it was closer to boiling point than to zero… woah.

I was sitting at school a few days later watching this EPIC brush fire. It started two nights ago, and is still spewing ash into my house and backyard. Some teachers and I were speculating as to how it started, and some thought that someone had started the fire with a cigarette. One teacher spoke of a tree, which, when it gets hot enough, spontaneously combusts. He is convinced that the 120 degree day caused a tree to self-immolate, and in turn caused the massive destruction of the few trees we have left in the Gambia, and lots of cattle grazing areas.

The first full day of the fire, the village was eerily empty, and a fast moving parade of small boys was exiting to the bush. I asked someone where they were going and they said to hunt.

So, remember Bambi? That sad and scary scene where the fire starts a stampede of terrified creatures? I don’t know about you, but I really felt for those animals. Their strife was my strife.

If the typical Gambian had direction Bambi, it would’ve been a quite different movie. As soon as the fire started there would be a picture of a huge group of men turning to look off into the distance with a killer’s gleam in their eye, and then scattering to their respective compounds. As soon as they dispersed, there would be a montage of different men gathering their slingshots, sharpening their machetes, gathering stones, and riling up their dogs to join the hunt. The montage would probably be played over by The Eye of the Tiger, or We Will Rock You, or some other equally manly composition.

Then the killing would begin. The same frightened animals would be shown, but in this version, you would sympathize with the hunters. You would rejoice with every homeless animal killed for its meat.

As soon as the forest fire began, one of the teacher’s eyes widened and mouth started watering. With this massive exodus of all beasts large and small, he knew some lucky hunter would bag a bush pig.

Muslims are not allowed to eat pork. So, the few Christians in this predominantly Muslim country are consistently hungering for what they can rarely have. This particular teacher was particularly lucky, because some non-Muslim dog caught and killed a baby bush pig, and an opportunistic Muslim hunter found a buyer for it quickly.

The teacher, knowing that I am a non-Muslim, came to my house to invite me to partake in this succulent other white meat.

You have never, ever seen a more beastly display of table manners (that’s a misnomer, no one eats on or at a table here), until you se a Christian in a Muslim country get a hold of a forbidden meat that he constantly craves. (I say this now, but when I finally get back to a Chipotle in two years, I think it will be a similarly disgusting display of gluttony).

Five Christians gathered around a giant plate, onto which was dumped the puzzle pieces of an entire baby pig. Still scalding to the touch, they tore in.

Numerous times they uttered phrases of disbelief. “It’s a baby pig!”

“It’s bones are still soft!” they cheered.

“You can even eat the bones!” they joyously discovered.

I stuck around for about twenty minutes, and in that time, four men ate an entire pig, bones and all.

At the end, all that remained of the poor piglet were two shoulder blades, a few vertebrae, and the juices stewed away from the now-vanished creature.

Over the meal, the men talked about what a shame this forest fire is, but I could tell they were internally thanking their non-Muslim god for bringing them a juicy, succulent, bone-crunchingly delicious piece of forbidden meat.

Last month was my birthday, and when you live in Africa, you get to celebrate twice! I celebrated on the actual day, and then celebrate again a month later when the presents arrive. Woot!

Thank you, Doug and Linda, for the plethora of Cliff Bars. It's helping me get through a dollar a day.

Thank you, Grandma! Your card was beautiful, and the fabric you sent is going to make some very VERY spirited African clothing. I haven't gotten to watch the games yet, but I'm super excited about sitting down for an entire day and watching all the great Packers football I missed.

I now officially own the best looking pair of shoes in the entire West African region, and socks that mice haven't chewed holes in. Thank you Steve Tomick! What. A. Man.

Thank you, Amber from Pennsylvania, who despite the fact that she doesn't know me, sent me an awesome Packers water bottle! You da best! A letter's coming to you soon!

If you sent something and don't see your name here, don't worry, I'm sure it's on its way coming. Thank you in advance!

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to live on a dollar a day for at least a month. It took me over three months to actually start it, but on March 18, I started.

Here’s the finances:

The conversion rate on the day I started was 30 dalasis to one dollar, which was a lucky break for me. Normally, it’s like 28. So, for the month, I got a total of 900 dalasis.

Each month, I pay my family 600 dalasis for housing and feeding me. This is the equivalent of about twenty dollars… not a bad deal.

This leaves me with 300 dalasis for the thirty day experiment or ten dalasis per day.

Just so we’re clear before I claim to actual know what living on a dollar a day is like, I want to make it clear that I cheated.

I stocked up on pounds of oatmeal, lots of phone credit, and peanut butter galore.

I have packages coming from America filled with things I need. I have a pretty reliable bicycle to get around.

My family cooks all meals for me. The Peace Corps med unit provides supplies that Gambians either don’t have access to, or have to buy if they need.

Still… it’s a challenge.

Friday, March 18: Day One

I was confident I could go at least the first day without spending any money. But, while I was away in Kombo, our food situation at school changed, and now teachers buy their own bread for lunch.

Item: Half bread Cost: 2D Remaining: 298D

Disaster. I went to a Nyakoi Sport Committee meeting, and was asked for my membership fee, and also back pay for last month.

Item: Membership in an organization where I can’t understand most of what goes on.

Cost: 50D Remaining: 248D

Saturday, March 19: Day 2

I crossed the river to go to Basse to coach a basketball team that rarely shows up.

Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 238D

Returned across the river after no one showed up for basketball… again.

Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 228D

March 20 – March 26:

Spent no money… and it feels so good.

Sunday, March 27: Day 9

Sent a letter to a reader of my blog to thank her for a killer gift. I included a 5D bill.

Item: 5 dalasis Cost: 5D Remaining: 223D

Monday, March 28: Day 10

The power of the sun can’t keep up with my phone battery usage, so I had to pay someone to charge it for me.

Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 218D

School ran out of food, so I had to contribute for lunch. I could go home and get free lunch, but I have to teach a lesson, and lunch at home will be over.

Item: Lunch contribution Cost: 10D Remaining: 208D

Friday, April 1: Day 15

Party! Today is the party inviting the new URR volunteers to the region. But of course, have to cross the river to get to where everyone is.

Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 198D

I was worried about this party, and knew it’d be a big money day, so I thought ahead and planned what I thought was a cheap side dish. Mangos are free for the taking, onions and peppers and limes are everywhere… mango salsa it is. There are no tortilla chips on this side of the country though, so I had to buy loaves of bread to dip. Disaster.

Item: Mango salsa and bread Cost: 44D Remaining: 154D

I had resigned myself to only drink water for the entire month. No 5 dalasi packets of juice, no cokes (normally I drink like two every day when I’m in Basse), and no beer (no big thing – I’m not a big drinker). However, tonight was the night for epic flip cup to happen and I could not NOT play… I love games!

Item: An epic night of flip cup (2 beers) Cost: 50D Remaining: 104D

Halftime Reflections: I’m halfway through and have spent two thirds of my available funds… It’s been ok so far, but crossing the river is really getting to me. I think that I can make it, but if anything crazy comes up (any expenditures over 25D), I’m gonna be cutting it close.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of a dollar a day.

Two days in a row, at the lunch food bowl, teachers have had the following argument completely in Mandinka. If this conversation was to hold place in a courtroom, here’s how it’d go.

Prosecution: We accuse aforementioned fat teacher of being pregnant.

Defendant: We stand by the defendant’s word that she is not pregnant.

Prosecution: We wish to enter the following two pieces of information into consideration

1. The defendant is fat.

2. She doesn’t feel good today.

I’m no doctor, but to me, that means pregnancy.

Defendant: I can explain all of that. Please enter these two nuggets of info as exhibits A and B.

A. My client is not pregnant

B. She’s just fat

And, ladies and gentleman of the jury, to further prove it, my client will lift her shirt, showing her high waisted skirt and full view of her undergarments, and wiggle her fat around to prove there is no baby there. Fat teacher, if you would.

Prosecution: Objection, your honor! If we are not allowed to poke and prod at that fat, how can we know it’s real.

Judge: Sustained. You may poke and prod.

Prosecution: (after many minutes of jiggling, squeezing, shaking, and poking) No further questions your honor.

*I wanted to write this article with a surprise ending, but in this age of African uproar and widespread violence in the news, I’m going to give away the ending before you get too caught up in my vivid imagery… it’s a monkey.*

After today, I will never be the same… I saw one of my ancestors being savagely slaughtered and butchered for his meat.

I watched as the murderer cut off each foot. Each hand.

On one detached hand, the fingers lay splayed to the sides, still rigid in fear and shock at actually having been captured. The other lonely hand seems to have accepted it… its large knuckles curve slightly into a moon shape, seeming to finger the fine grained red dust as a last acknowledgement of beauty in the world the victim would never see again.

I watched the butcher carelessly crack bones apart at the joints.

I stared at the victim’s vacant eyes, and, perhaps out of subconscious sympathy, my mouth took on the same slack jawed look of disbelief.

After fully dismembering the body, the butcher reached into the chest cavity, and like savage sacrificial offerings of the past, pulled all of the innards out… something was still fastened, so in a sick chain of events, the innards pulled on the muscles, the muscles pulled the spine, and the head sickening descended into the neck, if only momentarily.

After apparent eons of agony, they finally hacked off the head. THWACK, THWACK, THWACK, and it rolled away. Grinning like the maniacs they are, the butchers chased it down, and held it dangling equidistant from their mad smiles and my face, then offered it to me as a gift. I took cautious steps backwards, not wanting to anger them with my revulsion, but not wanting to appear too eager either.

The cloud of flies was immense; the crowd of people was too. I cautiously picked my way backwards, never losing eye contact with the disembodied head and its sad, dead eyes.

I found myself shocked that so many would want to witness this carnage, but unable to pull myself away.

And later that day, just to say I did… I ate a piece of the victim.

Yes… I ate monkey.

Following is a list of dates and temperatures. All temperatures were taken at various times between 1:45 and 6 pm. I’ll let them speak for themselves.

March 18 114

March 19 108

March 20 109

March 21 106

March 22 112

March 23 113

March 24 106

March 25 116

I was motivated to write this poem about my experience at WAIST (see previous blog if you are unfamiliar) when I remembered a poem that my talented brother, Nate Adams, wrote in probably third grade. He wrote a hilarious ballad called, "My legs are fake" and also a poem about the contents of a refrigerator. I think it ended with something like this, "The wilted head of lettuce / As old as a geezer / Made me afraid / to open the freezer"

My prose doesn't nearly do justice to the original inspiration, but please enjoy.

Also, you won't really understand the poem unless you see a picture of the trophy we won at WAIST. Please see it below.

We'd sweated and we'd toiled.

We'd worked and schemed and trained.

Our arms and backs were aching

Our muscles we had strained

In our final glorious triumph

We raised our trophy high

Our little hunch backed goblin

Was lifted way up towards the sky

I love that little guy

Despite his Benjamin Button look

The three upon his back

Indicated the place that we had took

So I tied him to my back

As only Gambian mothers can

Through the urban streets of Dakar

I transported my wee man

And so I returned

To a champion's fanfare

I passed around our little beast

This victory I would share

Everyone admired the prize

A pleasant smile masking their shock

Even if it's an ugly baby

You grin and tell the mother it's not

My WAIST team I trusted

To take care of the prize

And so as I left for the party

I know it was under watchful eyes

Later, after too little sleep

And far too many beers

We boarded our bus to discover

Our trophy was not here!

Mother's instinct set in

And I scrambled off the bus

Horrible scenes filled my mind

Was he kidnapped? Broken? Crushed?

I searched the entire hostel

From ceiling to the floor

And called for reinforcements

To help me search a little more

The search was unsuccessful

So we tearfully drove away

After questioning each individual

Of where they'd seen him that day

Seven hours and two countries,

One boat and a border later

A clueless young man finally spoke up

And said, "Didya check the refrigerator?"

My schock was immense

My horror was real

Imagining our gremlin

Locked in a box of freon and steel

You may ponder and ask yourself

Why didn't he speak up before?

Was he deaf? Was he sleeping?

Was this Frenchman feeling poor?

So in the not so distant future

When your cherished child is lost

Just check your household fridge

And set your kid out to defrost.

It is March, and therefore, it is absolutely the worst time to be living in a hut in the middle of Nowhere, West Africa.

The tournament is beginning, and excitement is spreading throughout America, but here, the term "Selection Sunday" causes no grins, no shivers of excitement, not even a glimmer of recognition of the greatness the term embodies.

I've done all I can to bring the madness to The Gambia. I distributed a bracket to my Peace Corps people, and most said, "I don't know any of the teams". Of course I told them that NO ONE DOES. THIS IS AFRICA! Many refused to do it, and others succumbed, picking winners such as 13 seed Oakland... it could happen.

To at least make it a little more like home to me, I chalked a GIANT March Madness bracket on the inside of my hut wall (see below). I made a bracket for what might be for dinner when I get home (white rice with sauce is sure to be the champion), and have been filling out bracket after bracket, trying to follow where my heart leads me, because this year, that's all I have to go on.

In the past, I watched games, read articles, and analyzed upsets that are bound to be. This year, I know nothing. I know Michigan State and Illinois were disappointing, UNC sucked and then was good, and Northwestern almost made it for the first time. From the last week I've spent in Kombo, I've learned that Colorado got screwed, and VCU got lucky. I've learned nobody cares about the First Four.

I wanted to do something really creative for my bracket. I wanted to pick teams with most native Africans to move on in the tournament, or pick the team with the most Gambian sounding names. However, my love of the sport preventing me from doing this, and instead, I went with the little I knew, and my heart.

So, here are the picks. Sorry if it's hard to follow.

THE EAST

FIRST ROUND

OSU vs. PLAY IN WINNER OSU by 34 points. Duh.

GEORGE MASON vs. VILLANOVA George Mason, the team of destiny in perhaps one of my favorite tournaments of my young life, will prevail again, by 12 points.

WVU vs. CLEMSON Upset! I pick Clemson to ride a big win from last night and keep rolling. The Tigers win by 6, although I would love to see a rematch of the Appalachian elite 8 game of last year.

KENTUCKY vs. PRINCETON Wildcats by 17

XAVIER vs. MARQUETTE If it were a fashion show, Marquette would win hands down. Despite their fly uniforms, they lose to Xavier by 9.

SYRACUSE vs. INDIANA STATE Larry Bird is left with a single tear running down his cheek as his alma mater is stomped by Syracuse, by 14 points.

WASHINGTON vs. GEORGIA I like Washington. Their city is sweet, their campus is beautiful, and the climate is the opposite of what I'm experiencing right now. Their tendency to have short yet incredible ballers (Isaiah Thomas, Nate Robinson) makes them irresistable to me. Huskies by 11.

UNC vs. LIU I don't know what LIU stands for, but I wish them the best. Despite my intense waves of hatred shooting across the Atlantic Ocean into the hearts and souls of the Tar Heels, they win by 18 against poor Lower Idaho University.

Second Round (I'm not putting point values in, because I feel like I should know the actual match ups before I decide the point differential.)

OSU over George Mason

KENTUCKY over Clemson

SYRACUSE over Xavier

WASHINGTON over unc (those bastards)

Elite 8

OSU over Kentucky

SYRACUSE over Washington

Final 4

OSU over Syracuse

THE WEST

First Round

DUKE vs. HAMPTON Duke by 21

MICHIGAN vs. TENNESSEE Although I seem to remember that Tennessee can't win a big game unless I am in the stadium to see them do it live, they still beat the Wolverines by 3.

ARIZONA vs. MEMPHIS Zona by 7

TEXAS vs. OAKLAND Texas win big, by 19 points.

CINCINNATI vs. MIZZOU Mizzou beat us in the Border Battle this year, which means they've got to be good. I remember they are well conditioned, and that leads them past Cincinnati. Tigers win by 13.

UCONN vs. BUCKNELL We once played Bucknell in the first round, and we beat them. Thusly, UConn will too. By 25 points.

PENN STATE vs. TEMPLE I heard that Temple's team is full of thugs and gangsters. It still can't get them past the preppy Penn Staters. Penn State by 2

SDSU vs. N. COLORADO San Diego State University by 8

Second Round

DUKE over Tennessee

TEXAS over Zona

UCONN over Mizzou (although this one is close)

SDSU over Penn State

Elite 8

TEXAS over Duke

UCONN over sdsu

Final Four

TEXAS over Uconn

THE SOUTHWEST

First Round

KANSAS vs. BOSTON U Kansas wins by 14

ILLINOIS vs. UNLV Illinois wins, obviously, but does not play to its potential. They will use this as fuel to ignite their impending duel with Kansas. Illini by 7

VANDERBILT vs RICHMOND I have an irrational hatred for Vandy and an unnatural love for the Spiders of Richmond. So, the underseeded underdogs beat the Commodores by 9.

LOUISVILLE vs MOREHEAD STATE I read somewhere that Morehead State is one of the most likely upsets, but I still pick the C A R D I N A L S to win by 6.

GEORGETOWN vs PLAY IN WINNER Georgetown beats their exhausted opponent by 19

PURDUE vs SAINT PETERS Purdue by unlucky 13

TEXAS A&M vs. FLORIDA STATE I know some new Peace Corps volunteers from A&M, so the Aggies win by 5.

NOTRE DAME vs. AKRON It's hard for me to imagine Notre Dame as a two seed, and even harder for me to pick them to win any games, but I think they win this one by 17.

Second Round

KANSAS over Illinois (but Illinois plays great! Kansas wins on a lucky buzzer beater for sure.)

RICHMOND over Lousiville

PURDUE over Georgetown

NOTRE DAME over Texas A&M

Elite 8

KANSAS over Richmond

NOTRE DAME over Purdue

Final Four

KANSAS over Notre Dame

THE SOUTHEAST

First Round

PITT vs UNCA Pitt by 23

BUTLER vs OLD DOMINION Butler, although not the Cinderella team of last year, beats ODU by 12

KANSAS STATE vs UTAH STATE I heard Utah State got wicked underseeded... so they win by 4

WISCONSIN vs. BELMONT Badgers by 11

ST JOHNS vs GONZAGA St. Johns zigs the zags by 8

BYU vs WOFFORD I believe in the power of Jimmer. BYU by 28

UCLA vs MICHIGAN STATE Coach Izzo's teams don't struggle during the playoffs - they'll be ready for the Bruins. State by 10.

FLORIDA vs UCSB Florida by 14

Second Round

PITT over Butler

UTAH STATE over Wisconsin

BYU over St. Johns

MSU over Florida

Elite 8

UTAH STATE over Pitt

BYU over MSU

Final Four

BYU over Utah State

SOOOO... my final four teams are

BYU

KANSAS

TEXAS

OHIO STATE

Kansas and Ohio State move on to the championship game, and Kansas brings it home again. But only because Bill Self learned all he knows from coaching at the University of Illinois.

There they are. If you win, be proud, but if you lose, be very very very ashamed.

WAIST stands for

West

African

International

Softball

Tournament

and it is perhaps one of the best ideas anyone has ever had. Bring together hundreds of Peace Corps volunteers and local Senegalese teams, raise a bunch of money for cool projects, give volunteers an excuse to travel to a legitimate city from their scattered home villages, play competitive softball in crazy costumes, and drink heavily.

WAIST takes place every year on President’s Day weekend, in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, and (I think) the biggest city in West Africa. This is awesome for us, because they have real food, they have iced beverages, they have reliable electricity, the water most likely won’t give you parasites, and white folks are hardly noticed since the city is so attractive to ex-pats.

The Gambia is represented well here at WAIST. We have two teams from our tiny country. Other teams include the local embassy workers (who are jerks to play against), numerous Senegal Peace Corps volunteer teams (who are hilarious to play against), and even a team of Cape Verde volunteers + refugees. This includes those volunteers who were recently evacuated from Niger and reassigned placements.

We arrived on Thursday afternoon, and games began on Saturday. So Friday, people went crazy in Dakar. Some people, for a touch of normalcy, went to the giant and expensive mall overlooking the ocean. Others, with a sense of adventure, paid 500 CFA (about $1) to jump on a trampoline for fifteen minutes, also overlooking the ocean. Others, such as myself, went to numerous markets to find sweet African wares (because there’s nothing better than receiving the question ‘Where’d you get that’ and being able to respond ‘Dakar’ or some other exotic place they’ve most likely never been), ate delicious food (a salad, the likes of which is impossible to get anywhere in the nation of the Gambia) at a moderately priced restaurant, ate heaps of gourmet ice cream, and walked around, taking it all in.

On Saturday, the games began. We walked to the field from our hostel, and were bombarded with color, shine, and alcohol once we entered the fields. Different Peace Corps teams were dressed in different CRAZY costumes. One team had taken African fabric and made it into liederhosen, and had found appropriate hats to match the liederhosen. One team all had various befuddled Senegalese tailors make them tutus out of shiny tulle. Even the dudes rocked the tutus. One team was dressed as the characters from jersey shore (I didn’t get the reference, but apparently it’s a big deal). Another team was cops and robbers, and they had all kinds of antics on the field.

The first team we played on Friday was dressed entirely in tutus. They were also severely intoxicated. We crushed them 17-0. I pitched, and my team played great behind me.

Our second game we played the jersey shore team. They were also reprehensibly intoxicated, and after seeing the first game that we played, just wanted to forfeit. However, we convinced them to play, and handily beat them, 21-0.

After the first two games, we had some concerned people approach us carefully, and ask us why we were so serious. We didn’t carry our beers onto the field, so apparently that was way too serious for the volunteers who came to drink competitively, as opposed to competitively play softball. We told them we wanted to win, and they looked at us bewilderedly, shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sauntered towards the bar.

After one of our games, at our team huddle, our second basemen drew out attention to the plentiful amounts of glass in the field. We were concerned for the welfare of the knees and shins of the people playing on the field, so we tried to pick up all the glass we could. The next field we played on had the same problem – the second basemen noticed it and we tried to pick it up. Our coach type character told the commissioner (yes, this informal tournament had a commissioner), and he said that they were aware of the problem. When they re-dirted the fields before the season, they accidentally got construction debris dirt instead of clean dirt, so glass was everywhere on all three fields. Things like this reminded all of us that we were still in Africa.

Throughout our three days and six games, we played two teams that were actually competitive. One of them was a team of embassy workers, and as a pitcher working against their batters, I hated everything about this team. I am under the impression that slow pitch softball is a smash and dash kind of game, where if a pitch comes in, you want to crush it as far as you can. But the old people on this team were of a different mindset; they wanted to get walked around the bases. In our first four games, we allowed 5 runs, and I walked in all of them during the game against the embassy. However, we ended up slaughtering that team regardless, and I felt the sweet, sweet taste of victory against an underhanded, un-noble foe. The righteous always prevail.

We ended up winning third place in our division. We only lost to one team, and that was a Senegalese team who practices year round. We beat every Peace Corps team, so I could leave Dakar knowing that even if we weren’t better than everyone, we crushed the rest of Peace Corps West Africa.

Everyone from my team went to the championship game, because the awards ceremony was scheduled for immediately after. While the championship team was celebrating their win, we gathered together and discussed how we would celebrate when they called our names to collect our trophies. Our coach had bought a bottle of hard cider, and we had epic plans similar to a locker room after a World Series victory. We finalized our celebration routine, walked to where the trophies were sitting, and found most people had dispersed, and our lonesome trophy was sitting there, waiting for us. No one called our names, no one acknowledged our great achievement. So, we snatched our trophy, took it to the pitchers mound, and leapt around, sprayed hard cider like it was champagne, and took turns kissing our prize.

The trophy itself was an ugly thing. It was carved by a local artisan, so I guess the cultural aspect made up for its hideous appearance. It was a small ogre-ish black man, wearing an enormous baseball cap, and hunched over like Quasimodo. It was about the size of a gallon of milk, and it was ours.

I volunteered to take the trophy home, and brought it back to our hostel. We hung out there for a little while, reliving the moments and the triumph. I brought the trophy out to show our fans, and left it on the table as we laughed and planned the events of that night.

Before we left for that evening’s party, I checked to make sure it wasn’t still sitting on the table in the common area. Since it wasn’t, I assumed someone had taken it and put it in a safe place.

The next morning, we left at 5:30 am. After the shenanigans of the previous evening, nobody felt that great. We all got on the bus, and I paused in my mental checklist to ask, “Who has the trophy?” No one had seen it. I felt responsible, so I went back into the hostel to double check everywhere. It wasn’t there. I sent another volunteer in, to look and also alert the French-speaking hostel staff that we were looking for an ugly little wooden beast. She still couldn’t find it, so we left, assuming it’d been stolen or someone had packed it without realizing it.

We traveled in a bus for about 7 hours, crossed the border into the Gambia, and were on the ferry going to Banjul, when we were hypothesizing what could have happened to this trophy that we had worked so hard for. One of our most with it volunteers *SARCASTIC! NOT TRUE!* said, “Oh, yeah, I put that in the refrigerator last night.”

I cannot adequately describe my incredulity and fury at this moment. A million questions went through my head. Why didn’t you say anything when we were frantically looking for it? The fridge? Why didn’t you grab it? THE FRIDGE?

We called the hostel, they confirmed that our prize remained in the fridge, and now we have to figure out how to bring it to its rightful home, The Gambia.

But when it comes, we will welcome it with a ceremony and parade, and know that WAIST 2011 was a glorious victory for Peace Corps The Gambia.

I got my hair braided. I didn’t want to, but I promised my friend Mariama, the bride in the aforementioned wedding ceremony, that I would do it as her wedding present…

Reason Number 1 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided

It takes a LONG time. I went to the hair braider's compound at about 10am, thinking I would be there for a few hours. At about 2pm, they offered me lunch, but I declined, thinking surely I’ll be home before I starve, so that I can eat with my own family and not inconvenience the braider and her family.

Eight hours after I arrive, I start the walk back to my compound. That’s a BIG time commitment. Don’t ever, ever, ever do it.

Reason Number 2 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided

It hurts. They yank on your hair as it’s being installed, and the worst part is how TIGHT it is. You can’t yawn or smile or laugh as you used to, because either you’ll rip out hair or your face will break. Sleeping on a pillow is the hardest part – there’s literally no comfortable way to sleep unless you mash your face into your pillow and no part of your head is touching anything.

Reason Number 3 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided

It feels weird. You can feel wind in parts you never had before, and if I were to shave my head today, I would have the strangest tan lines EVER. It itches and it’s impossible to scratch it. I just mashed my hands onto my head and rubbed occasionally, and I know I ripped out half of my hair.

Reason Number 4 YSNEEGYHB

As a toubab, you will draw even more attention to yourself. Not encouraged.

Reason Number 5 YSNEEGYHB

It’s dirty. You can’t wash it for as long as you keep it in. I kept it in for less than two weeks, and I felt disgusting.

THE MOST IMPORTANT REASON YOU SHOULD NEVER, EVER, EVER GET YOUR HEAD BRAIDED

The extraction process. To remove the fake hair from your real hair, you need to very carefully cut the bottom of the braid, where the fake hair is tied in a knot. Inevitably, you cut some of your own locks. Then, you undo everything the hard working braider did in the first place. I tried sticking sharp objects somewhere in the braid, and just yanking down.

At this point, I began to realize just how much hair I had really lost, and how much it messed with the hair that I still had attached to my head. It’s like after an appendage has been in a cast for a while – it was frail, it was weak, it broke more easily than before, and it was strangely soft to the touch.

I started the removal process at about 2pm on Wednesday. I allotted all day for the task. After one hour, I had removed maybe 12 braids. At two hours, the pile of fake hair was growing, and I had removed maybe 30. This was still a TINY TINY portion of the braids in my head. I wish I had counted them. There were probably 300-400. And they were SMALL.

Eventually, I knew I had to enlist help. A few of my friends were at the only bar in Basse, so I showed up, wielding sharp implements. I sat on the floor of this dirty bar, surrounding by generous and helpful Brits, and spent two hours with four other people, removing braid after braid. Through the process, my attitude shifted from “Save all the hair that you can! Be very careful!” to “Please get these things off of my head.”

When people left the bar, everyone was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to finish by the time I had to leave at 5:30 that morning for the car park, so I could travel up to the capital. I remained positive.

From 10pm until 3 am, I sat and watched movies and removed braids. The power went out at 3 am, so then I just sat, watched a candle burn, and removed braids. I stopped at 5 am, because I HAD to wash my hair before I entered a car with other people. I had about 30 braids remaining.

The shower was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. I had pulled out a lot of my hair as I removed the fake hair, but that wasn’t the end of it… oh no. As I shampooed and conditioned the remnants, GIANT clumps came out in my hands. I could’ve plugged the BP oil spill hole with this amount of hair. I could have put everyone at Locks of Love out of a job. I could've built 7 teddy bears. It was disgusting. Probably about 40% of my hair was yanked out during that shower.

And I wasn’t even done. On no sleep, in the worst seat in the seven passenger vehicle that crosses the country to the capital, I unbraided. It was more difficult because I was falling asleep, having to pull out my ID card, and there were people on either side of me so my elbows were constrained. I removed the last braid on the way over to Banjul on the ferry, at about 1pm. A full 23 hours after I had begun the horrible endeavor.

Please, please, please. No matter how cool you look, how much you sympathize with the Rasta way of life – NEVER EVER DO IT.

People.

You need to mobilize yourselves.

We have a serious issue on our hands.

THE PACKERS ARE GOING TO THE SUPER BOWL!

I, the biggest Packers fan in America, am in WEST AFRICA, about as far from Green Bay as you can get - in every way possible; Weather, demographics, language, foods available, longitude and latitude.

I need people to take initiative. Contact Ben Adams to take responsibility for one of the following.

- write to Delta Airlines and tell them the situation, and make sure you mention I live in a hut with no electricity or water. And that my birthday's coming up.

- call Aaron Rodgers. He needs to know that his #1 fan and future wife is stuck in West Africa. If anybody can save me, he can.

- Contact everyone I've ever known. Tell them if they each gave $20, I could be home and go to the superbowl.

- Talk to whoever planned the heist in Ocean's 11. If we cannot obtain tickets legally, we'll have to get in somehow.

- Find someone to stay with in Texas.

- Write sob stories to the 18 richest people in the world. Tell them time is of the essence. Tell them of the boils. And the rats. And this morning I woke up and there was a cockroach in my mosquito net. THEY NEED TO KNOW.

- Wardrobe - I need a Sam Shields jersey STAT.

- Cheer hard. Like insanely hard. Throw things. Squeal and screech and yell and growl and get angry and cry with joy. Leave it all on the field.

GO PACK GO.

Some people say that “most unique” is an illogical phrase, because uniqueness can’t be quantified. I respectfully disagree. I think that if you’ve done something that very few people have done, like climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro or been eaten by a shark, then you’ve achieved a higher level than someone whose uniqueness comes from having cross eyed or using words like “serendipitous”.

I think my unique-ity shot up about 4000% this weekend, because I attended every minute of a traditional Gambian wedding. How many people have done that?

Throughout the proceedings, I was mostly thinking about how to accurately contain all of the cultural anomalies in one blog post. I carried a notebook and wrote down anything that my previous All-American self would be shocked at. It came to a mighty list, which I will try to categorize and organize in a logical way.

Background: A friend of mine in village, Mariama, is getting married. She has been promised to this man for a while, but he lives in Switzerland and has just returned. Lamin, Mariama’s now husband, lives in a village about a 45 minute drive away from where Mariama’s family lives in Nyakoi.

Marriage in the Gambia, as in many Muslim countries, is a status symbol. A man also gets married so that his wife can take care of his mother – cook and clean and wash for her and the rest of the compound – and to have children - so those children will eventually cook and clean and wash for his compound when he’s old.

SO – even though he lives in Switzerland and has two wives already, Lamin called on Mariama to marry him, to move away from her family and friends, and to work and live in his mother’s compound in Jah Kunda.

You probably don’t need me to, but let’s put this in an American context: Bill, from Philadelphia, wants to marry Sharon, from Denver. God knows Bill doesn’t want to stay and live in Philadelphia, where he grew up, so he moves to sunny Orlando, Florida. Sharon has no choice but to agree to marry Bill, and moves into a house with his mother in Philadelphia, despite never wanting to leave Denver. She sees Bill once every five years or so.

Night 1:

So lungtangoes (strangers) start arriving on Wednesday evening, because the events start on Wednesday night. There’s no time schedule for anything, so everybody pretty much just sits around and waits for someone to tell them to go somewhere, do something, or eat. I’m sitting talking with a few students who speak English, and they’re asking me questions about America.

We’ve already established that I don’t know Michael Jackson or Rambo. One girl asks, “Do you know chalk?” I asked her to repeat, and then said, yes, we have chalk in America. I went and got a piece and she said, “No, CHALK”. It took a while, but I finally got it when she said, “Chalk Noss”. I told her, unfortunately I have not yet had the opportunity to meet the man who caused Waldo to hide, the man who holds air hostage instead of breathing, the man who can win Connect Four in three moves: Chuck Norris.

My Gambian friends were very disappointed when I laughed for an hour, and divulged that I didn’t know Chalk. They were also shocked that I hadn’t met Van Damme, Komando (who, from what I gather, is a character played by Van Damme), or Alex (who is Komando’s twin, apparently).

For the weekend, I have chosen an English-speaking grade nine student named Maimuna who is to lead me around and tell me exactly what to do for the entire weekend. She is to tell me what to eat, when to stand, where to sleep, and what to say. I make her overly aware that if she leaves me to fend for myself, I will only sit in one location and wait for her to come and guide me.

So, we’re sitting around waiting, when finally a ghostly figure crosses in front of the compound, and everybody gets excited and runs to follow. Here comes the bride, dressed in tight pink pants, a frilly pink shirt, but who’s wrapped in a white cloth that covers her entire head.

Maimuna grabs my hand and runs to catch up. We follow and enter Mariama’s bedroom, with about 30 other girls. The bed is disassembled, which I thought was weird for a second, but then was distracted because of the white silhouette of the bride lying on her mattress on the floor, her face entirely hidden.

I had heard that night one was the night of wailing, but didn’t really know what that meant. I assumed it would be a solemn and sad affair. So I entered the room, stood in the corner, and watched people come in. I was a little offended when people were laughing and joking with Mariama lying hidden on her mattress, but didn’t think much of it.

A few minutes later, a horde of younger kids try to enter. Maimuna is flung into the role of body guard. She stands at the door, all of her weight against it, as preadolescents throw themselves at the door. Suddenly, they overpower Maimuna, and dozens of them rush into the room. I am immediately pushed up against a wall, wide eyed, afraid, and looking for guidance from Maimuna. She’s pretty busy trying to quell the flood of kids.

Now there is an uncomfortable number of people in the room, Mariama is still lying unmoving on the ground, the door has been forced closed and locked, and people are quietly looking at her.

The relative silence is SHATTERED when a woman outside the room yells something and then beats a drum three times. Every girl in that room starts screaming. And this isn’t like, “I saw a spider!” screaming… it’s like “I’m a thirteen year old girl, I’m flying down the highest drop on a roller coaster, AND Justin Beiber is performing next to me, and OH MY GOD, HE JUST TOUCHED ME!” That kind of scream. At the same time as the screams erupted, everybody started jumping flinging flailing. It was EXACTLY like the most brutal mosh pit you’ve ever been in. I found out later the bed had been disassembled because so many beds have been broken by over enthusiastic wedding attendants.

The sounds waves flattened me even further against the wall of the room – I held my ears, which left my middle unprotected. As my midsection was bashed mercilessly, I closed my eyes and tried to wake up from this nightmare. Then, I hear a new sound over the cacophony of wails. It’s the unmistakable sound of a Gambian using an object to beat another human.

I open my eyes and two of Mariama’s closest friends are wielding a wooden piece of the deconstructed bed and a sturdy piece of plastic. They have a fiery rage in their eyes, and they are BEATING these girls to get them out. Maimuna opens the door, and suddenly those being beaten are trying to flee, and I continue to be flattened to the wall.

Eventually, those that are supposed to be there are there, and those that aren’t supposed to be there are broken, bleeding and their voices are hoarse from the screaming. With the hooligans gone, the solemnity that I was expecting arrives. The older women of Mariama’s life gather around her, her friends sit near her on the bed. For some reason, I’m given a spot of honor, sitting right next to Mariama on the floor, when all I really want is to lean against a wall and observe.

Women start singing songs. I don’t know what they mean, but hear later that they’re talking about the history of Mariama’s family, and the members of her family in Nyakoi that will miss her. This starts Mariama wailing. It’s like crying, but in between each sob, there’s this high pitched note. It’s kind of how babies cry, except in an adult. So once Mariama starts, everybody is wailing. It’s not nearly as loud as the recently-finished wailing session, much more heart-wrenching, and although I’m not, in general, a wailer, I started getting a little teary eyed about how unfair it is she has to move and marry a man she doesn’t like and leave her family.

There are long silences where I just sit and stare at nothing. The atmosphere was so depressing and down, many times I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, but chickened out before I could start the first verse of “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.”

Eventually, the old women are like, ok. That’s enough. Let’s go party. So they all leave to go a program of dancing and singing, and Mariama and her friends continue to sit around and cry.

And that’s how night one ends.

Night 2:

Night two is when we all leave to go to Jah Kunda. But before that, it’s the most important part. It’s the actual wedding. I was excited to see what a legitimate Gambian ceremony would be like. I kept wandering from compound to compound, wondering when Lamin, the husband would arrive. I kept saying “Lamin lee? Lamin lee? A man naa foloo?” or “Where’s Lamin? Where’s Lamin? He didn’t come yet?” Finally, someone made me understand that he would not be coming. I thought my Mandinka translation was just exceptionally poor, and that of course he’d be coming for his own wedding, but I soon found that the wedding doesn’t require the man to be present.

A troupe of girls took Mariama, hidden by a veil of old cloth with palm trees on it, and walked about 0.03 mph through the village. Mariama’s mother, aunts, grandmother; none of them came. We took a long way, and I thought that surely there must be a destination, a purpose to this walking. As we’re walking, we’re singing. We finally stop at a random point and Maimuna informs me that this is the place.

It’s just dirt. There’s nothing here. But she says that this is it.

Then we continue to walk. We walk in a circle three times, and then turn and go home. I asked Maimuna why we did that, and she said, “Now she’s married.” So, for those bachelors and bachelorettes, NEVER walk in a circle three times near Gambians – you could get married. I have a loop that I jog when I go running… I wonder how many Gambians I’ve married…

On the way back, I see a whole huge group of people, STARING at me. This is like staring like I would stare at Aaron Rodgers. They have creepy smiles, and they whisper to each other, they turn so they can always keep me in their peripheral vision, like if they take their eyes off of me I might disappear. I feel very, very, very uncomfortable, and I ask Maimuna who these staring grown people are. She says they’re from Niger, and they probably had never seen a white person before. They’re gaping at me wide eyed, their kids are cowering behind legs, but never lose sight of me. Their mouths are wide open, shocked and awed, and I can see exactly what’s running through their minds and mouths, even though it’s in French or some tribal language I don’t speak – “They do exist.”

We return to Mariama’s compound. The whole trip would have taken someone strolling about ten minutes, someone running about two minutes. It took us over two hours.

Throughout the day, people bring over wedding gifts and present them to Mariama’s mother. I was trying to explain to some Gambians about American weddings, and the concept of a gift registry. If I were to make a gift registry for Mariama, here’s what it would look like.

- forty spoons

- fifty cheap plastic cups

- 15 gaudy plastic platters that have “Made in China” printed prominently over the ugly flowers

- 10 brooms

- 10 sifters

- 4 cooking pots big enough to cook a fourth grader in

- 4 cooking pots big enough to cook a baby in

- A spoon big enough to serve that cooked baby with

- 4 Spoons and stirrers over 3 feet long

- BOWLS

There were an insane number of bowls. If I had a penny for every bowl that Mariama was given, I would have almost $2. If bowls were assigned a value based on the number of pennies that they could hold, I’d probably have thousands of dollars. I was sitting there writing in my notebook about my incredulity at the number of bowls, and a ton of people gathered around – I guess it’s kind of a novelty to see people writing, especially the quick messy notes of a person trying to write down funny things before they forget. I looked up and like fifteen Gambians were watching me… I had to say something so I said, “Bolo siata!!” which means, “Lots of bowls!” Someone asked me if, when I get married, won’t I have this many bowls. I said no. Then someone asked, on that note, where is your husband. I said, “M kewo be bolobaa kono!” which means “My husband is in the big bowl!” (I think). They laughed for like an hour, so either I really messed it up, or they thought that was hilarious.

There were some more ceremonial type things. All the interested parties (except the husband) went to the alkalo’s (village leader’s) house, and the wife got advice from the alkalo and the men and women of the village. Most of the messages amounted to “Submit to your husband.” I’m no feminist, and I understand there are cultural differences, but by the end, I was pretty finished with hearing their domestic advice.

The advice was over when the car came. When I say car, I mean that it had an engine and held passengers. The thing that makes this car different is that its normal passengers are cattle, rams, sheep, or other varieties of livestock. People grab all their stuff, and start piling into the back of this cattle truck. When the car is about ¾ filled, the people in charge realize there’s no way we’re all going to fit. I’ve seen Gambian fights before, and it’s epic, so I timed the exact moments that the following events occurred.

10:14:28 – The man who seems to be in charge of the people of Jah Kunda who came for the festivities, says, hey. Guys. We can’t all fit. Everybody get out, and the people of Jah Kunda should get in. People who don’t fit can figure out their own way. The people of Nyakoi, especially the ones already on the car say, hell no. No one moves. Fighting ensues.

This man is saying, in effect, Nyakoinkolu (people of Nyakoi): Everybody move to the back of the bus. Rosa Parks, anyone? He runs around in circles, stopping at anyone who is willing to argue with him.

10:37:16 – The bride has had enough. Her family takes her to her home until this can be sorted out. Fighting continues. I stick around hoping a fist fight will break out. I also make a deal with myself. If this car has not left by midnight, I’m sleeping in my bed and will ride my bike to Jah Kunda tomorrow morning.

10:54:10 – I haven’t eaten any dinner and go eat a Clif Bar to delay death by starvation.

11:07:49 – Apparently, the people of Nyakoi won the battle, so the people of Jah Kunda get off the cattle truck, Nyakoinkolu get on. I have no idea where Jah Kunda nkolu will stay, but in Muslim communities, you are bound by Allah to take in strangers. They’ll be fine.

So, it’s time to go. I think, YES. Finally something truly exciting, and I start to climb into the back of the cattle truck, but my host mom and the bride say NO! The back of the cattle truck is no place for a toubab. Get in the cab with the bride. I cannot describe my disappointment.

11:26:31 – We leave Nyakoi.

12:06:08 – Arrive in Jah Kunda.

Because according to Allah, we have to be taken in by strangers, we sleep in a strange bed as hard as a rock. The only reason I can sleep is that my fearless guide, Maimuna, is sleeping next to me, and she’d never lead me into harm.

Day 3:

We sit around most of the day. The bride lies in her bed in her new home ALL day. Other people cook food, slaughter animals, and unload the millions of bowls and obscenely huge spoons. I lay on the bride’s bed, take pictures, and read 200 pages of my book. I try to pretend that I don’t see the rats that scurry around the compound.

Since NOTHING happened that day, this is a good time to talk about the treatment of toubabs at Gambian weddings. I’ve been thinking since the end of the wedding about a good analogy for it.

At first, I thought, it’s kind of like inviting a really really attractive person to your wedding – they’re bound to take some of the attention off of you. But that sounded too vain.

Then I thought, it’s a little like inviting a famous actor to your wedding, but that doesn’t capture the fear that some children have of me.

So, it’s kind of like inviting an alien to your wedding. But a not scary looking alien. Just different. Some people keep their distance, because they’ve never interacted with an alien before. Some people greet the alien endlessly, because, oh my god! It’s an alien! And it can speak a little bit of our language! Some children are afraid of the alien and cry when it comes near. Some folks wonder how they can get a visa to visit the alien’s home land. Some people, especially the caretakers of said alien, worry endlessly about the well being of the alien. She can’t drink our water, she doesn’t like our food, she doesn’t like eating with her hands, OH MY GOD, WHERE WILL SHE BATHE! The alien is given a spot of honor in all pictures and meals, normally right next to the bride, because you want as much documentation and face time to prove that you ACTUALLY met an alien. A chair is always vacated if she is standing, and she is given a first serving of all attaya, juice, milk, tea, or bread with mayonnaise. Because this alien came from far away, she could go back home if she wanted, but she is choosing to be here with us.

So, literally, we sit around all day. Occasional dance parties break out, which makes me a little uncomfortable since the bride is laying in bed and crying morning, noon, and night.

Finally we sleep. This night I sleep on a wooden pallet in a room with bags and bags of rice and other foodstuffs. I assume the rats will hang out in those edible things before they mess with me. Plus, my trusty sidekick Maimuna wouldn’t let a rat gnaw on me.

Day 4:

We wake, eat breakfast. Around 11, the car comes, and the wailing starts again, because now everyone the bride knows is going home, and she will be left alone in her new village.

It was truly heartbreaking. I know it’s their culture, but I couldn’t stop thinking how much this aspect of it sucks. She seemed miserable.

So, we all left in a kind of depressed mood. My mood immediately lifted when I saw the cattle truck again! And this time I would not take no for an answer. I rode in the back, flew up and down when we drove through giant ditches, ducked under trees, and waved at farming Gambians.

I have never been happier to see my hut than I was when we returned after this trek.

Am I glad I went? Yeah. I learned a lot about the traditions, I got to hang out with my friend in a really hard couple of days in her life, and I have some crazy stories to tell.

Would I ever attend another one again? Never.

Do you all remember the stupid game show on UPN at like 4, 4:30, 5, and 5:30 every weekday, and for about 3 hours every weekend? I think it was called Blind Date, but it involved one girl and three dudes, or one dude and three girls. The set for the show was incredibly simple. It was four chairs, and a wall separating one from the rest.

The premise of the show is to have a potential suitor REALLY get to know the people that they want to date. They’re allowed to ask about six questions: as long as it fits in the 22 and a half minutes allotted for the show, given breaks for commercials. And since they can’t see their interviewees, they must be choosing who to date based on the quality of their character, and not the shallow exterior… Right? At the end of the show, they choose the one they like the best, and then the show pays for them to go on a date and see if they’ve really made a love connection… maybe the show was called Love Connection…

Anyway… Let’s play.

Following are two letters received by my 18 year old, 9th grader friend who lives next door. Notice the intricacies of the vocabulary, the hidden inflection, and the sincerity inherent within each letter, and at the end, please decide who you would choose to date.

*Disclaimer* These letters appear exactly as written. Punctuation, grammar, spelling, everything is true to the original letter. Although it hardly matters in a country where 2/3 of the people are named Lamin or Fatou and whole villages have the same last name, I have changed the names to protect the innocent.

Letter #1

Hi Girl. is me Michael Smith *not his actual name* I am Hear by writing you this letter to you and the rest of your friends in favor.

SO Haw are you are you find as I am. and you are about to inform you inform you about very importance thing or manas is all about Love you know if you love some one you should tell hem that I love you weather you love me or not but me I love you too much in my life today SO if I don’t see you I will not sleeping at night every day. SO if you see this letter you answer me befor Friday 2011 to Tuesday 2011.

Thank you

is your lover

I love you girl 100% of love and like you please uerrold

Letter #2 (when viewing the format of this letter, please know that teachers DRILL how to format a letter into students head. They may not know how to format a sentence within that letter, but they know exactly where the date, salutation, and location go)

Kerewan Village Wuli West

District Upper River Region

13th January, 2011

Hi My love

is a longtime I, miss you. How are you and rest of your family. I hope they are find. Is me your lovly boy Howard Figgenbottom *not his real name* I love you enver order girls in world only you place love me. enver day I, don’t see you that day I, on miseserable all the day you I, love you too much in my life today. So if I, did see you enver day in the nigh I, can’t sleep so please love howard. Why don’t you love me why. Before maday 2011 you Answer me ore going to see frighting

I love you

love me

Mom, you tried to teach me a lot of things when I was young. One thing that you tried to teach and drill into our brains was the tendency to clean up after ourselves. You tried numerous tactics – five minutes of clean up, pick up ten things before you move on, bribing us, yelling at us to get us to do chores – but even after 18 years of that, my dorm rooms and apartments were always untidy.

That’s all changed now. When I use a dish, I wash it immediately, sometimes before I even eat the food I’ve prepared. Food is always hidden, closed in a container, and then put in a trunk. After I wear clothes, I put them in the dirty laundry immediately, or if they can be worn again, I hang them up on my line. After I use a pen, I put it back in its holder. I make sure all of my doors and drawers and lids are closed and that there’s nothing on my desk when I go out of my house. Everything has its place, and everything is always in its place. Papers are never scattered or left out. I sweep once or twice daily. I still don’t make my bed (sorry, it’s hard with a mosquito net) but I do make sure that my net is neatly tucked in on all sides whether I’m inside or outside of it. I weed my backyard, and hang my towel up to dry instead of leaving it in a heap. Nothing is ever left on the floor.

What has led to this unexpected change of character? What has suddenly made messy, childish Abby, into the responsible and clean person she is today? The answer is one word:

Infestation.

I do all of these things, because if I do not, mice or bugs will eat, crap in, or try to inhabit things that I would prefer to be eaten by me, not crapped in by anyone, and uninhabited.

If every time a child left crumbs on the kitchen table, it meant that a new horde of mice would move in and eat their food (this food being special food that they could only buy in a certain corner of the country, hours and hours away from the certain corner of the country in which they live), they would probably wipe up the crumbs.

If every time a child left his bed unmade, mosquitoes would get in and buzz in his ears all night, or mice would get in and eat his earplugs, he would probably make his bed.

If their favorite clothes or important papers were eaten once after a child left them out, that child would probably make sure to put them away the next time.

There may be holes in my theory. Gambian children grow up in Africa, and they are always dirty and breaking things. Maybe maturity and caring for objects is vital for this method of child rearing to be effective, but it has undoubtedly worked for my 25-year-old self. I don’t know what would have happened if I was sent to live in a hut with no water or electricity when I was 8 years old, but I may have saved my mom a lot of grief.

*This blog post is very geared toward ASP people. So, people who are not familiar with the wonder of ASP, I apologize. However, if you don’t know what it is, you should visit the website (asphome.org), and VOLUNTEER!

It’s January, and you know what that means… it’s SAW season! For the last six years, in January and February, I have been either excitedly awaiting or anxiously and exhaustedly facilitating a Staff Applicant Weekend for those brave souls who want to be ASP staffers.

One of the tasks of these hopeful-future-staffers is to plan a day of runs, given certain restrictions – construction materials have to be there at a certain time, everything can’t be carried at once, meetings are scheduled, etc. Although never actually confirmed (why didn’t we ever do this?), it is highly theorized that the scenario that we give these eager youths is actually impossible to complete while meeting all of the requirements of safely loading vehicles, being on time, and having materials to people when they need them.

The ASP scenario seems daunting and unimaginable… but you ain’t seen nothing yet. Check it.

SCENARIO:

It’s Beautification Day at the Basse House! You decide that the shelves need to be shored up in the kitchen or else they will topple to the floor within a few days! You decide it can be done with a few 2x2’s and some nails. How will you complete the task?

Seems easy right? But wait!!! Everyone who’s been to a SAW or who’s been on ASP staff knows that there’s always something unseen and unpleasant that springs up, and our scenarios are no different. So…

SURPRISE SITUATION!

Oh, guess what. You’re in Africa. You have no car. You’re in a town that barely qualifies as such. You have no materials, and don’t know where to go to get them. You don’t know what’s available or how much to pay for it. The shelves you have to shore up are nailed to a concrete wall, which the nails do not stay in. Deal with that, sucker.

Here’s how this sucker dealt with this situation.

Since the shelves could not be nailed into the wall effectively, we decided to build a support in the front of the shelves, and then put a similar support on the first shelf to support the second, immediately above.

Without a tape measure or measuring equipment of any kind, we took craft cord and measured from the shelf to the floor. Was the shelf level? No. Was the floor level? Most decidedly no. Was the craft cord hanging plumb? Please. Was the craft cord pulled to the extent of its tautness? Doubtful. Was anything about this accurate in any way? Take a guess.

So, then, I take our six lengths of purple craft cord, and start riding towards Basse. I ride until I see a man with motorcycle equipment and bike tires our front, and say, maybe this man will know where they sell wood… As you are undoubtedly questioning my logic at this point, let me tell you, thinking back on it now, I feel the same quizzical look crossing my face.

But, eventually this man found me a carpenter. This man didn’t actually sell any wood, nor speak English, but he was a carpenter. I was getting somewhere.

Eventually, this carpenter brought me to a man that does sell wood. I know what most of you are thinking. Even bad Appalachian hardware stores have wood in uniform sizes, that’s been planed and maybe treated in some way to make it look the same. And they have some sort of selection in terms of length.

This man had ten pieces of wood. That’s it. If I didn’t want one of them, I had to find somewhere else to go. These ten splintery pieces of wood, which he called “1x6” varied in width from three to seven inches. They were all about fourteen feet long. He wanted 190 dalasis for the piece of wood that I thought could make this shelf stand. Then, I talked to the carpenter who had come along. I asked him how much it would be for him to rip it in half, and then cut it into six pieces. So altogether, seven cuts, although one would be very long.

He said 3000 dalasis.

I cannot put enough punctuation in that sentence to adequately convey how aghast I was at that price. That’s the equivalent of about $120.

I laughed in his face, shook my finger at him, and told him he was a bad man in two languages he didn’t understand, and then he said, “Ok. 300 dalasis.”

I wanted to properly punish him for his trying to rip me off so extravagantly, so I left, thinking I could find wood elsewhere.

I went to two different shops that had plywood out front, but neither had planks of wood. I tried to explain to one shop owner what I wanted by pointing at the planks of wood covering the two-foot-deep gutter full of garbage that act as a bridge for potential patrons. He immediately tried to sell me those pieces of wood.

Feeling downtrodden and slightly ashamed, I returned to the original shop, and said agreed on the price, which I still think was too high.

The carpenter took the piece of wood, and set to work. Interesting note – carpenters here don’t have chalk lines. They take a bunch of scraps of fabric, and tie them together to make a long rope. Then they dip it in oil. Then they wrap it around a stick. When it’s time to make a long cut, they unroll it, stretch it and snap it, and boom! Straight line. Less environmentally friendly, less temporary, and more flammable than its American counterpart, but it worked.

Now, I still wish I didn’t have to pay him 300 dalasis, but the way that that man ripped a 14 foot board in half using a hacksaw was pure magic. With this man’s skills with non power tools, I think he could do construction good, fast, AND cheap.

I pulled out my daintily pieces of purple craft cord, stretched them what I thought was the appropriate amount, and allowed him to cut the pieces.

Finally, I had six pieces of correctly cut wood, and two longer pieces. And one bike. And a two kilometer walk back to the construction site.

I strapped the small ones on the back, still making me about 4 feet wide. I balanced the longer two precariously on the seat and handlebars, and struggled through the sandy roads back to the Basse House.

Now, all we had to do was slide the boards into place, hammer in a few nails, and our shelves were good to go!

However, something about the craft cord plan didn’t go exactly right. All the boards were about an inch or an inch and a half too long. That meant, we had to use the tools that we had, which included.

- 1 hammer

- 1 hacksaw that was the equivalent of a butter knife.

- A handful of nails

- A surprisingly nice level

The first tool to be deemed completely unnecessary was the level. I think the level was a cruel joke that someone wanted to play on anyone trying to do construction in the Gambia. If you think Appalachia is not level… I promptly banished that level to a shed, never to be used again for anything related to construction.

Next, I tore into those boards with that hacksaw, but I’m no Gambian carpenter. My cuts were wiggly and of poor quality, and took a long time and most of my energy. Eventually, we ended up with some shelves that bend slightly less when you put dishes on them than they did yesterday.

Although the construction related differences between the Gambia and America are staggering, there is one construction tactic that works in both settings.

Shimming is global.

Field Day. Those of us who were lucky enough to, one glorious day a year, experience the joy and wholehearted competitive spirit of Field Day probably remember stations, with a few minutes spent at each of your favorite activities: bozo buckets, relay races, playing with the parachute, Frisbee tosses, etc.

At Nyakoi Lower Basic School, it’s quite a bit different.

Let me preface all of the action by saying that there is no such thing as a “waiver” or a “permission slip” in Gambian schools. Teachers do what they want, students do what they want, and if a student goes missing or gets hurt, it’s the kids fault. I could decide one day, to take my class, leave school, walk to the river through a field of ravenous hyenas, take a swim amongst crocodiles and hippos, and if a kid or two happened to not make it back, I am not accountable. Knowing all that, let me describe the events of the day.

SPRINTS

By far the most popular event, every student wants to be the fastest. Children line up on the dusty football field, filled with large, dead, scratchly weeds, and race until the teachers tell them to stop. Of course, since the footwear of choice in the Gambia is flip flops year round, students race barefoot. Being conscientious teachers, most races are run on the relatively weed-free dusty parts of the field, but for the longer races, there just isn’t enough space. “Oh, you must have a spare pair of shoes for students to wear – even jellies would do!” you might say. While we don’t have shoes, we do, for some reason, have like 18 pairs of men’s navy blue dress socks. So, to protect these young children’s tender feet, they must don these ridiculous socks. Seeing Gambian children with tattered school uniforms running in argyle socks is one of my favorite moments thus far.

Another of my favorite moments is seeing the full-caftan-wearing Koranic teacher, a usually somber and solemn man, high stepping in circles and screaming in glee as his student (members of the Yellow Kunda) finished the race in first place. He led the rest of his kunda in lifting each winning yellow racer and chanting “YELLOW, YELLOW” until the next race was about to start.

We also had a teacher race. I don’t want to go into it, but let’s just say that Gambians are fast. Very fast. And I overestimated myself. And I now have to get water for one of the teachers whenever he wants it for the next week.

BUCKET RACE

From a young age, girls are expected to carry large amounts of water, groundnuts, firewood, and dinner on their heads. The competition has a race specifically designed to play to those young ladies’ strengths. Students must carry a bucket on their head for sixty meters, as fast as they can, without using their hands. In a foot race, with me running, and them balancing buckets, I would win – but it’d be close.

LONG JUMP

For the long jump, we all went to the sacred ground where daily, the whole school gathers to pray at two and five o’clock. We immediately dug up that holy ground, and shoveled together enough sand for students to land safely in. During this and the high jump competition (see HIGH JUMP) one teacher was in charge of re-raking all of the sand back together after each jump. Occasionally, students who were observing would start to encroach too close to where the jumpers were jumping. And that’s just not safe! So the teacher in charge, upon noticing this, would immediately start spinning around, darting from one side of the course to the other, wielding his sharp and exceedingly dangerous rake, and alternating between shrilly blowing his whistle, and bellowing, “N ko! N ko!” which is the equivalent of “I say! I say!” If it were a British man doing it, it’d be the most hilarious act of slap stick ever, but in this situation it was slightly more menacing.

Another dangerous highlight of the long jump happened as I was looking at my records, writing a students distance. I heard a collective gasp/scream go up from the crowd of students, and heard a gradual stampeding away from the jumping grounds. I looked up and three full grown horses were rampaging towards all of our students! Right in the middle of field day! A few teachers got them under control, and escorted them out of school grounds. In all the excitement however, one horse forgot his manners, and crapped right in the middle of the landing pad. Oh, Africa.

HIGH JUMP

The high jump is the most dangerous event thus far. The rake is still present, along with the spinning “N ko”-ing teacher, but now we have two wobbly wooden poles with numerous nails sticking out of them. Supported by those nails is a huge bamboo pole that goes flying into the crowd of spectating students anytime an athlete doesn’t clear a height.

But good god. These kids can jump. Just like I wrote about in my blog about Gambians playing basketball, these kids have never seen these sports that they’re attempting to do. They’ve never been properly trained in the technique and finesse involved in events like the high jump. All they’ve been told, and all they know is in the name.

Jump. High.

At the beginning, the students could jump high enough so that all they have to do is get a running start, leap over, and land on their feet. As the bar moved higher and higher, the acrobatics and their in-air form got more and more Superman like. Kids were getting running starts of twenty yards, and then vaulting themselves, completely horizontal, hoping to clear the bar, or die with honor in the process. There were some spectacular misses, and some ridiculously close calls involving rakes, careening bamboo, and toppling towers of nails.

Overall, it was a success. I laughed A LOT, I saw students enjoying themselves at school, and I had undoubtedly, my favorite day in the Gambia thus far.

Most Christmases involve gifts, family, snow, Santa, and lots of food. This Christmas, here in the Gambia, differed slightly from the norm.

Same: We started with a giant breakfast.

Different: In order to cook this giant breakfast, we had to open dozens of eggs, and dispose of the ones that were fertilized. It was one of the most disgusting experiences I've ever had, and I, therefore, did not partake in any of the egg dishes. I did have plentiful pancakes, fruit, and juices of numerous tropical fruits.

Same: There were gifts involved.

Different: It was a White Elephant gift exchange, and the gifts were very different from normal Christmas gifts of books, CDs, movies, and other useful things. This involved mainly alcohol, some cheap African cookies, and underwear that says Obama on the waistband. There were also some fire crackers, which we promptly blew up bottles, cans, and various other items with. And most likely terrified the entire neighborhood.

Same: In the afternoon, you play outside in the elements.

Different: In America, the elements involve bundling in various layers of clothing, and sliding down snow covered hills, squealing with glee. This Christmas, we went to the beach, and played in the hot, hot sun, and swam in the ocean. We concluded the day by watching the African sunset with some strong Africans doing push ups. Weird.

Same: There were some Christmas characters strolling about.

Different: In America, Santa and his elves are shown everywhere. Here, I didn't see Santa throughout the entire Christmas season. However, when walking back from the beach, we saw two different Konkerands, which are people that are supposedly possessed by spirits, and walk around with a troupe of drumming children, trying to scare money out of people.

Same: Christmas movies are viewed, including Home Alone and A Christmas Story.

Different: This year, I watched these movies in an old, infested frat-like house, instead of snug on my couch. Instead of watching with the Adams family, I watched with the Peace Corps the Gambia family.

Same: We eat a big Christmas meal.

Different: Just like in the end of the Christmas story, this meal was Chinese food at the only Chinese restaurant in town.

Was it the best Christmas ever? No. I miss snow and family and breakfast pizza.

Was it the most unique Christmas ever? At least until next year.

Merry Christmas everybody!

I was taking a little walk with my host sister the other day, greeting the people, as village celebrities ought to do. We were strolling in a place about an 8 minute walk from my home. Somehow, in this region of the village, they had not heard of my presence in town. Everyone came up to my sister and said, "WHO's THAT TOUBAB?" I kindly introduced myself, all the while thinking, "You don't know me?" I felt like a big sports star must feel when they walk into a Star Wars convention, or some other place where they don't typically know sports figures. Or like a international man of genius in the world of chemistry, in the locker room of an NBA team... you get the idea.

So, there was one particularly excited elderly, elderly, ELDERLY woman who struggled to walk to me. She held out her hand and asked my sister who I was. I surprised her by speaking Mandinka, and she was so pleased, she revealed a giant smile.

This was a horrifying smile. Do you remember the scene in Aladdin when Jafar dressed up as a beggar in prison so he can convince Aladdin to get the lamp from the cave of wonders? That's exactly what her teeth looked like. Here's a sneak peek.

So, my kind smile turned into a horrified kind of sneer, but she still didn't get the hint. Apparently she noticed how different our teeth were as well, and so she made a comment. The following conversation took place in Mandinka.

She: Your teeth are white!

Me: *Laughing nervously* Haha, yeah... A siata. pointing to my mouth which means, there are many. A man siya. pointing at her mouth which means, They are not plentiful.

She: *Laughing, truly letting me see every rotten tooth and orifice where a tooth should be* *Stops laughing, gets serious, and looks into my soul* Give me your teeth.

I wanted to take an opportunity to thank those who have made the first (almost) six months of service the best it could be.

- Mom and Dad, for endless packages of necessary items, devoid of the usual junk that dad throws in.

- Uncle Tom and Aunt Barb, who provided me with raw almonds and school supplies that have both been LIFE SAVERS. Oh, and Aunt Barb sent lifesavers.

- Mr. Utterbach, the loyal Illini. Your daughter's awesome.

- Laura DeMaster, Nancy Gerhart, and Angela Bend for their hilarious and motivational letters.

- Marta Jewson for her "surviving Africa" kit.

- Haven't opened it yet, but I just saw in the mail room that I received a package from Jerry and Susie. Thanks in advance!

- The good people at Chacos, for sending me free shoes.

It all started with a rainbow belt at the Farafenni market…

Actually, it started at 4 am this morning.

Today, we traveled from Basse to Kombo, the area surrounding the capital of the Gambia. It was an early morning, and it was cold. We left the Basse house at 5 am, walked into town, and sat in a gelle gelle until 6:30 until it filled with people and we could leave.

It was an extraordinary easy trip. Normally, these stories about travel involve terror about breakdowns, sweatiness, police checkpoints, and awkward advances by Gambians. Today, there was an off duty police officer in our gelle gelle, and every checkpoint we went through, he just looked out the window, yelled a greeting in one of the four languages common in the Gambia, and we flew through.

We stopped in Farafenni to get some grub, and as we were walking through the market, I saw a rainbow belt. I am unable to avoid buying things in rainbow order, but today, I was strong, thinking, “I don’t wear pants in this country, why do I need that belt?” So I did not purchase it… remember this. It becomes important later in the story.

So, we got to the ferry crossing at a respectable time, and instead of trying to get on the huge ferry, which is overcrowded and rampant with pick-pocketers, we took a small wooden boat across the wide expanse to Banjul.

We approached the boats, and noticed that the boat was really far away from the shore… as in, a person of normal height could not walk to it without their midriffs being submerged. We all had bags with computers in them, and we were a little worried about the crossing…

There were a few men walking with us, all trying to get us to come to their boats, so that they can get the fare from us. At this point I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?” There was a man wearing no pants, trying to get us into his boat. We did not choose him. And it wouldn’t be the last time that day I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?”

You’re probably wondering where the rainbow belt comes in… wait for it.

When we got closer to the ocean, we realized the men who were escorting us were lifters. What’s a lifter you ask? Yes, it’s just what it sounds like. His chosen profession is to lift people, some larger than the average bear, on his shoulders, and trudge across the sea floor to hoist them onto the boat.

So, now let me pause to describe the exact scene. He told me the equivalent of “Turn around and spread ‘em.” I did what he told me, and his head lowered between my legs, and hoisted me off the ground.

Let me pause here to describe me. I’m a pretty hefty kid. I have a backpack on my back, stuffed with clothing and my computer. So, not a light bag. Then, I have a huge satchel dangling from one side of my body. And this he all lifted in the air.

As he lifted, I said, “A koleeyata!!!” which means, “It’s difficult!! It’s heavy!!”. With normal sized people, or even large Gambians, he can just activate his massive quadriceps, and lift them in one go. With me, he made one attempt, regrouped, and went up for a second go and a large grunt.

Another side note. I don’t know if you’re like me, but I think in general, big kids hate to be lifted. I really hate to be lifted. I am reminded of ASP training, and the embarrassing, “team building” lifting activities that always are included when staffers are at their most vulnerable. (If Sarah Burnett is reading this, remember “I’m ENORMOUS” and laugh)

So, once I reached the peak, I was uncomfortable, unwieldy, and ready to not be on this man’s shoulders. In order to balance the pull of gravity on my large backpack, I had to hold onto something. The chosen hand hold was the man’s forehead. As I clung to his eyebrow region, my giant satchel twisted, and hung directly under the lifters chin. So he is basically draped in toubab (white lady). And he starts the long trek to the boat.

At this point, I’m aware that months in village, eating little else but white rice and the occasional snot-like sauce, my pants are a little too large, and I feel like I am perhaps revealing too much of myself to the Gambians behind me. One of my fellow Peace Corps friends then squealed with delight, “Abigail Adams, I love you!” She had to shout out this affirmation because I should’ve been very embarrassed.

When we got on the boat, I asked her if my fears were true. She answered in the affirmative, that yes, everyone could see my buttcrack…

If only I had bought that rainbow belt…

So, there’s a Muslim holiday called Tobaski. I don’t know exactly what event it celebrates, but it happens about two months after the end of Ramadan, and it happened last week.

Let me paint you a picture of what this holiday is like. It’s like a mixture of 1)prom, 2)the strip at Miami Beach, and 3)a bloodbath. Let’s go into more detail, shall we?

1. Tobaski is like prom.

Tobaski is like prom for many reasons. People spend an INCREDIBLE amount of money on looking superfly for Tobaski. Like A LOT. My host sister dropped about 1800 dalasis on one of her outfits for Tobaski, and she got THREE. To give you a picture, I make a lot of money for someone living in the Gambia, and I make about 5500 dalasis a month. Teacher trainees at my school get 475 dalasis per month. So… woah.

Following everybody getting all dolled up, they walk around on the dirt roads, and walk to a photo studio… I know what you, being Americans, are picturing. This is not what you’re picturing. It’s a single hut, humming with noise from a generator which supplies energy for like two lightbulbs. Lining the walls are ridiculous posters from America… RIDICULOUS. There are numerous Obama posters, duplicate Jennifer Lopez posters, and lots of soccer pictures. In front of these, sits a small Christmas tree, decorated with huge orange shiny balls. And this acts as the backdrop for hundreds of Gambians in inappropriately shiny clothing, posing and clashing with all of the Americana on the walls.

2. Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach.

Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach for many reasons. People get all dressed up, as cars get souped up in Miami. Then people walk up and down the dirt road, greeting each other and checking out each other’s new digs, quietly masking the jealousy they feel that their neighbor has a brand new lime green sequin studded kicks, and you do not.

These Gambians are souped up in every way that a person can be souped up. They add unnecessary accessories everywhere. They wear sunglasses when it’s not sunny. They wear glasses without glass in it. They wear earrings that are way too shiny and plastic. They wear high heeled shoes that sink into the sandy road that you must walk down to get anywhere.

3. Tobaski is a bloodbath.

Tobaski is a bloodbath for only one reason. This reason is that thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of rams lose their lives during this holiday. What makes it different from other holidays where everybody eats the same animal (like Thanksgiving) is that every family has to slaughter and butcher their own meat. I had the pleasure of watching one particularly wealthy family slaughter their three rams. I could go into details of the bloodbath: the sound like a balloon being released when they cut through the windpipe; the pit dug for the blood to run; the spurting that was not as much as I expected, but more than I was comfortable with; the copious buzzards circling over the scene of the carnage. I heard later that in our little village of Nyakoi, over three thousand rams were killed… WHAT? And each ram runs a family like three or four thousand dalasi. That’s a lot of money wasted for a little bit of tough, gristly meat.

The holiday in itself was incredibly boring. Most of the day was getting ready to go out, and then walking around and doing nothing, and then eating some tough meat. Party on.

To spread awareness about HIV/AIDS in the Gambia, a bunch of health volunteers have worked super hard to put together a curriculum and plan all the logistics so we could trek across the country, dropping knowledge bombs on unsuspecting students.

Our team left from the island of Janjanburreh, and biked about 120 kilometers over 5 days. We stopped at six schools along the way, showing videos, doing activities and teaching about HIV. We ended in Farafenni, a fairly big town in the CRR. Another team left from near the capital, and traveled across the Western Region, and a third team traveled around the Farafenni area.

While teaching sex ed to adolescent students is hard enough, try it when they speak very little English. I had to say words that I’m uncomfortable saying, but I had to repeat, elongate and enunciate agonizingly well in order to be understood. There were a number of hilarious stories involving our subject matter and the questions we were asked, but this is neither the time nor the place.

Our first day was an easy ride. We left Janjanburreh at about 5pm, and only had to go like four kilometers to the next village, where we planned to show a video. Before we had gone one kilometer, we were stopped at a checkpoint, which normally you can just ride straight through on a bike. I was immediately perplexed. The militiaman approached one of our team members, and pointed to her camoflauge blanket strapped to the back of her bike, and said angrily, “What is that?!?” This was made increasingly terrifying due to the machine gun in his hands. After a little bit of tense conversation, we learned that it is ILLEGAL to own or wear camoflague in the Gambia. I guess it’s like impersonating an officer. He eventually let us go, telling us to hide it in our bags for the remainder of the trip… yikes.

When we finally arrived at the school, we were greeted by dozens of students and parents, all waving leafy branches and singing a welcome song. They all shook our hands as we went through the human tunnel they had made. Awesome.

We tried to show the video that night, but after three different generators failed to work, we gave up and just had a Gambian dance party. We also had failed to plan a meal for that night, and so we had mayonnaise and spam sandwiches. Not as bad as it sounds. That first night, we also were pitifully unprepared. We had no surfaces on which to sleep, insufficient mosquito nets, and most people hadn’t brought any sort of bedding. I know it’s Africa, but it gets pretty cold at night. It was miserable. We also had to take bucket baths at night with three of our team members guarding against villagers with flashlights. It was like an ASP center, except there was no electricity, more creatures, no showers, and the classrooms had no windows.

When we arrived in Farafenni our last day, we had an entourage of other volunteers there to greet us. We immediately went and ate chicken and chips, and two cokes each. Then we went to our lodging for the night, which was the Farafenni hospital.

So. Gambian hospitals. We had heard it was nice. Air conditioning, running water, and we assumed the conditions would be fairly sterile. As we walked in, we saw cats running about, people on mattresses on the floor outside. We entered our room and saw roaches scatter. There was no electricity in the bathroom, no running water, but there was air conditioning… We had just finished a week of living on the road, biking hours every day, and sleeping on the floor, and I would have rather have done it again than stay in this gross hospital. So that was the end of the bike trek.

But the story continues. We had to get home from Farafenni then. Saturday was supposed to be set-setal, which was an idea of the president’s. Every month, for one Saturday, people are supposed to “clean their environment”. Everything is closed, no one is allowed to travel, and from 9am to 1pm, the country is supposed to stop. So we were planning to go halfway and stop for the night, until we learned that morning that set-setal was cancelled. So the trek began. We took one gele gele (bush taxi) from Farafenni to Janjangburreh. About halfway to Janjangburreh, the car broke down. For like an hour and a half. So we’re sitting in this tiny village with all of the other members of our car, waiting for another car to come or for them to fix it. Finally we got started again, after loading up with two more people and like seven rams strapped to the top, that I’m pretty sure bent my bike significantly. We left at about 11:30, traveled about 300 kilometers, and got home at around 9 pm. Gross.

In the Basse market today, the best thing to have ever happened to me or the University of Illinois, happened. I was walking and saw, hanging from a hanger, over a pile of trash, gleaming like an angel, an embroidered Illinois Basketball shirt.

Before I go into the details of this Illinois basketball shirt, I want to tell you the first Illinois basketball shirt that I encountered in this fine country. A man was wearing one in my tiny village of Nyakoi. I knew very little Mandinka at the time, and so thought twice before approaching him to declare my love for the Harvard of the Midwest (this is a lie. A big lie). I went to him excitedly and said in Mandinka “Me! School! My school!”. Having exhausted my Mandinka I said, “Do you speak English”, and he of course said no. So h, despite the fact that he knew no English, I went into a long soliloquy about how I went to the University represented on his shirt, and how I loved my time there, and it’s so weird that he is wearing a shirt of MY school, in MY tiny village, thousands of miles away. Then I left.

So anyway, during this exchange, I knew I would probably fair better. I know slightly more Mandinka, and I was in a town where most vendors know at least a little English. So, I excitedly marched up and said, THIS IS MY SCHOOL. I WENT HERE! Then I switched to English, and told my host sister and the four people working at this tiny stand that I went here. I made them all say “The University of Illinois”, “The Best University in America” (again, I know, I lied, not true). Then I sang the fight song, did the dance that goes with it, and made them repeat the dance. Only after this did I say, How much.

Upon reflection, I maybe should have left it hanging so that a Gambian would buy it and spread the Illini nation by bringing the Chief’s glorious image to his or her village… but I had to have it. He started with the ridiculous price of 200 dalasis. I said, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyeeeeehhhhh” in the aghast Gambian way. With the help of my host sister, I talked him down to 75 dalasis, or the equivalent of about $3.

I looked at the price tag (the shirt came from Marshall’s) and it was going for $19.99 in America, already marked down from the exorbitant price of $32.01 to the low, low price we all have come expect from Marshall’s. Following is a cost analysis of how much you save buying your sports apparel in the Gambia.

Cost of T-shirt at high priced store where only millionaires shop: $32.01.

Price in dalasis: D800.25

Cost of T-shirt at affordable store like Marshalls’s: $19.99

Price is dalasis: D499.75

For a savings of about 37.5%

Cost of T-shirt at dusty road-side stand in Basse, The Gambia: D75.

Price in dollars: $3

For a saving of about 90.7% over the highest price and 85% over Marshall’s.

In my economic opinion, you should come to Basse to do your shopping. Think of the money you could save!

I left my friends at the little mart, went and did some more shopping in Basse, and walked past them later. They all rose, and said, “Hi, Friend! University of Illinois! Best university in America!” One dude, his voice rising above the others in what I can only imagine what Gambian angels (Gambiangels, haha) sound like, said, “Oskee-wow-wow”. Illini nation, take notice.

- CD mixes of new hits

- Ziploc Bags (especially big, gallon-sized ones)

- Sports illustrated or news publications

- Frisbees

- Gum

- School supplies (markers, pens, colored pencils, pencils, colored paper)

- Clif Bars

- Batteries (AA)

- Gatorade powder

- Candy of any kind

- Funny t shirts

- Educational toys (blocks, cuisinart blocks, anything kindergarteners might learn something from)

- Seeds (for food or flowers)

*The following is an announcement made to the entire Nyakoi Lower Basic School student body before school on a Monday

Another thing has been bothering us at school. Some of you students are using the school environment as your toilet. If you need to urinate (pronounced you-rine-ate, with emphasis on the RINE) you need to go to the toilets behind the school. I’ve caught a few of you younger ones you-rine-ating along the back wall behind the school, and some of the classrooms are starting to smell. You can’t just spread your YOU-RINE wherever you want.

The following is the email I sent to Chacos to plea for their help. If you know any high ups in the Chacos, organization, please let me know, and pass along this email.

Dear Chacos employees -

My name is Abby Adams, and I am a Peace Corps volunteer serving in the

tiny West African country of the Gambia. The Gambia is surrounded by

Senegal, and is the fifteenth least developed country in the world. I

live in a round hut, with a thatched roof, and have no running water

or electricity.

I am writing to tell you of a tragic loss that occurred while trekking

throughout the country, on my way to the village where I will stay for

my two years of service.

I purchased my first beloved pair of Chacos in September of 2008 at a

kayaking festival in North Carolina. I had heard how great they were

through the hiking and kayaking community, and found people's

recommendations to be exactly correct. For the two years after

purchasing them, I wore them almost everywhere. They were

comfortable, rugged, and in the grass roots service organization in

Tennessee at which I worked, they were even considered work

appropriate.

As soon as I was accepted into the Peace Corps, I began making a

packing list, and my Chacos were one of the first things on the list.

In the first few months in the Gambia, they were valuable shoes to

have. They dealt with the mud of the rainy season well, but gave me

traction and stability in the dry sand roads that I had to trudge

through when we went a few hot days without rain.

On the way out to my village, about six hours from the capital,

somehow one of my Chacos fell out of the car. Despite never having

left the vehicle, my Chaco disappeared without a trace. I have only

the one shoe left, constantly reminding me of what once was.

I am writing to plea for your help. As a volunteer, who just arrived

in The Gambia within the past three months, I have very little money,

and hope to save some to see more of Africa and the world, while I

have this rare opportunity.

I would very much appreciate if you would send me a new pair of

Chacos. I am including below my address in the Gambia, as well as my

address in America. If shoes are sent to the America address, a

visitor will be able to get them to me at some point. My shoe size is

a women's ten. I love bright colors, and hate pink.

Also attached is a picture of the last excursion I took with my

Chacos, through the bush of the Gambia. There was quicksand, water up

to my waist, and alternated between hot sun and rainstorms. The

second picture is of the feet of a few of my Peace Corps friends and

I, and our noticeable Chacos tans.

Thank you again for considering my request. I appreciate you and love

your product, and hope to continue to represent the adventurous and

outdoorsy spirit that Chacos embodies.

Sincerely,

Abby Adams

This is the response I received from Chacos.

Hello Abby,

Thanks for the note and the photos! Yikes! That is true mud. I can check in our stock of single sandals and see if we have a mate for you. What size, color and model are these? Let me know and I will see what I can do for you.

Best regards,

WHAT? A ROOM OF ORPHAN SHOES!! I am now almost more interested in obtaining a picture, and getting a clear idea of the size and scape of this shoe collection than I am in obtaining a replacement shoe (if a Chacos employee is reading this, this is not true. I would still prefer to have a replacement shoe, but in a perfect world, I would get both). I’m going to send a request for a photo from said Chacos employee, and if the request is granted, I will post it here.

I’m pretty sure children in my village, when yelling my name, are saying “Habib”.

Through the Peace Corps, we are in a cell phone plan which gives us free texting and calling among Peace Corps volunteers and employees… suddenly every witty remark is sent to everyone you know who appreciates funny things. These are just a few of those that I have sent and received over my months here.

Me: Major topic of our staff meeting today: we have a school goat. Favorite quote of the meeting, immediately upon remembering that the school does in fact own a goat: Where is that goat?

Katie: Giant lizard the size of my face is in my room. Inshallah it leaves before I go to sleep because I have no other ideas about how to handle the situation.

Me: I’m checking lesson plans and schemes of work today… Favorite quote: “skripple on the slap”. Oh, Africa.

Me: Handwriting practice today featured writing this sentence ten times: “I am tall and black.” Oh, Africa.

Lily: So just went into a third grade math class the teacher added 3/5 and 1/4 without an lcm and then proceeded to convert the answer of 4/9 into the mixed number of 1 and ½.

Me: Someone stole my friends bike. In response, he said `I will go to the maribou and he will not urinate for 3 days. Then he will die.` The Gambian justice system at its best.

Julie: I am teaching library, but the principal has borrowed my boys to wash his goat.

Me: I was just sitting here in the dark thinking about how I’ve never heard a Gambian fart. What are you doing?

Jess: Some of the topics grouped together in the English course syllabus my principal gave me: space travel, bumsters, sports.

Jess: I think I’ll have the kids write stories about a footballer who is driven to prostitution. On mars.

Me: Does it ever bother you that everyone calls the principal simply “Master”? Maybe it’s because I just finished reading Roots.

One of our language teachers, responding to the question of how to say “map” in Mandinka.

Teacher: Bankoolu la naanee yitandi kaytoo. Meaning the paper on which country’s boundaries are shown. Substitute bankoolu with gambia saatewolu.

Teacher: Or simply maapoo.

Last meeting, I attempted to take notes about what I understood of our meeting, held only in Mandinka. This is what I wrote.

Today, _________________ and ____________________ will come. Modou ___ go _____. Football is happening _____________________________________________________________________. Basse is ______________________________________ and water __________________________ tomorrow. We want _________________ and _____________________ and ___________________ and maybe _______________. Teachers _________________________ master ________________________ field now. It’s good. Praise Allah.

After this failure, I quit and waited for my translator to help me. A fellow member translated the following information to me, after probably about a fifteen minute discussion.

Ref of the matches/Secretary of the Committee (R/S): The Medina team is demanding that the Farato team be punished. They say that they hired a marabou (a village holy man) to put a curse of the refs so that Farato would win the game.

President of the Committee (P): What? There’s no way to prove black magic. Let’s write a letter to medina, telling them we can’t prosecute for what we can’t prove. Let’s also write a letter to Farato, explaining that black magic cannot be used. Secretary, will you write the letter?

R/S: I don’t want to write the letter.

P: You have to. You’re the secretary.

R/S: Yeah, but last game… I don’t know. I felt strange…

P: What do you mean?

R/S: My head felt strange… I felt unconscious.

*The whole crowd shares meaningful glances, acknowledging the work of black magic.

R/S: I don’t want to write the letter.

P: Ok. We won’t write a letter.

The following is a comprehensive list of things that, throughout the football tournament in Nyakoi, I have seen on a field* which I think should be elsewhere during play.

*By “on a field” I do not mean simply encroaching into the playspace. I mean impeding the progress or affecting the flow of the game due to their presence alone.

-a pack of four donkeys

-a pair of donkeys

-three children riding donkeys

-an old woman with bananas on her head

-an old woman with firewood on her head

-an old woman just taking a stroll (who made no effort to move more quickly when the action approached her)

-Fighting children (this was seen a ridiculous amount of times, but I will write it only once)

-A convoy of motor bikes

-a BUNCH of chickens

-crawling infants

-a rake (I could not believe it when a player knelt down in the taller grass and pulled up a rake… how dangerous is that!? And we can’t even afford a first aid kit to deal with the consequences)

Wherever you are, go to a window, and look out at the sky. Chances are, if you live in America, you see at least one or two planes RIGHT NOW. Since coming to the Gambia, I have seen approximately 2 planes… in four months. And by approximately, I mean exactly.

On one of these rare occurrences when I saw an airplane in the sky, I was sitting with my young friend Maimuna. She looked up, gasped, and asked me what being on an airplane is like. I told her it was just like sitting in a car, but less bumpy. Then she asked more questions.

Are there roads that the plane drives on in the sky?

- No, there aren’t any roads… it’s… well it’s kept up by wind… more is pushing up than down… you have to go really fast…

She was confused by this answer. She decided to change topics from the physics of air travel to the logistics.

Do you just go to the airport and wait for a plane to come, like with a gele gele?

- No… you have to go online… umm, you have to go on the internet and search for a flight leaving when you want to leave.

So you can hire a plane for when you want to go?

- … no. They only leave on certain days at certain times… and you have to be there then.

So you just showed up at the airport and bought your ticket?

- …no. you buys tickets online… on the computer. With a credit card.

So you sent your money?

- …no. credit cards send it automatically… over the computer… or phone wires… or internet. You have special numbers that link to your bank account… (this continued for many minutes, with me backtracking, starting over, giving false information, and overall confusing Maimuna thoroughly.) You see?

Ok.

Self realization: I have no idea how to buy a plane ticket if you don’t do it on the internet.

Is this statement racist? Maybe. Is this statement sexist? Maybe. Is it stereotypical and does it generalize an entire nation and gender group? Perhaps. But is it 100% true? Absolutely.

I went to a Muslim secondary school in Basse today, to talk to a man who’s excited about the prospects of having somebody come and train his students in basketball, or as the Gambians call it, “basket”, and in volleyball, as the Gambians call either simply “volley”, or adorably, “volley-volley”. Through an informal meeting with him in the library, soon it expanded into a committee of interested school officials, including the vice principal, the librarian, two PE teachers, and for some reason, a cook.

One of the PE teachers is kind of a head honcho in the sports world of the URR (my region of The Gambia). I’m pretty excited to work with him more, and he was equally excited. He invited me to speak on his sports radio show… I promptly asked what in the world I would talk about, and he asked me to share some of my expertise… I told if he gave me a list of questions and gave me time to prepare, I would love to have my voice float over The Gambia on the airwaves… if you have any ideas on what I could possibly talk about, let me know.

They showed me a letter that the PE teacher was about to send to the Regional Education Office, which detailed their need for materials, which I promptly informed them I probably can’t provide. The letter also asked for people with expertise in sports and training. They asked me what skills I had, and I told them I had played basketball and softball all my life, played rugby for a while, run some, and played volleyball recreationally… Suddenly, they all start exclaiming about how Allah has answered their prayers and provided them with an expert to solve all of their sporting woes.

The PE teacher had a basketball lesson in about half an hour, so they invited me to stay and watch. I was excited to see what he knew, and also a little nervous, since he was carrying around a photocopied piece of paper with a diagram of a court on it and he had highlighted only “Naismith”.

So he gathered the students and brought them out to the court. It was his introductory lesson, so he showed them the ball, the three point line, and half court, and then told them that they couldn’t run with the ball, they had to pass it to a friend. One person asked if they could kick the ball, and he said that, no, that would be a foul. Then he said, OK… let’s go. He chose ten people, and sent them to the court to play…

Thus the madness ensued. Now keep in mind – these students have never seen a basketball game on TV or in person. It’s doubtful that they’ve ever seen anybody playing basketball correctly, and since the teacher trained in Physical Education thought that Naismith and “don’t kick it” were the only things students need to know, my expectations were low. But not low enough.

The PE teacher brought the ball out to center court, and said, “We start the game by throwing the ball up in the center”. Everyone gathered around, and leapt into the middle when the ball went up. No one can catch the ball. Attempts at dribbling were ridiculous affairs involving players throwing the over-inflated ball at the ground as hard as they could, and then it, in line with the laws of physics, hurtling back up into the hands and/or faces. I’m pretty confident that at no point was anyone actually holding the basketball, it was just tipped and tapped and kicked (even though it’s against the rules) from one player to the other. No baskets were scored, and I’m fairly certain no one hit the rim.

Also, side note. One end of the court had TWO HUGE piles of donkey crap in the center of the lane. I thought somebody would clean it up before the game… but no. It was like an extra defender for that team, which I think is a worthy strategy.

When the ball was errantly traveling around, sometimes students instincts kicked in, and these instincts are all football related. I wanted to create a rule just for this particular group of people, called “high kicking”. I’ve never been worried before that someone would get kicked in the face during a basketball game, but it was one of my prime concerns in this contest.

At the end of the game, the PE teacher had the students gather around me. He introduced me as a sports expert. Then he asked if I had anything to say to them… I had so many things to say, but what I started with was, “You have many things to learn… but you’re all very athletic!” Sigh.

I have another meeting with them in two weeks, to go and see an actual practice with actual people who are actually interested in playing basketball for the team. Hopefully, some of them will know something, but if not, it’s going to be challenging, exciting, kick-in-the-face fun.