Things are coming to an end. It’s a shame that it takes so long to get good at something that by the time you’re really ready, I mean really, get your teeth in there it’s time to leave. I feel like that. I’m at the top of my game with only 2 seconds left on the clock. Well, 2 months but you get the drift. I wasn’t terrible during my service so don’t get me wrong, but in hindsight I could have done even more. The end of service comes with many Schindler’s List moments. Why didn’t I know about and get the list of the 50 most used words in English to teach my host sisters last year instead of a week ago!? Why didn’t I start a Geography club? I could have been doing Life Skills lessons years ago (well, almost). There is always this huge learning curb in life, but how do you get ahead of it? I remember seeing volunteers that were about to leave. I had only been in Gambia for a couple months and I thought “wow, they really look comfortable here. They have work, they know the language, their families love them, ect”. That isn’t something that happens in a day, and even if you know that, it’s hard to realize at the time that eventually, long long from that moment, you will be a volunteer on the verge of going home. You will know the language, you will know the answers, and your host family will love you (really love you). New volunteers or those on your way, it’s hard, it’s awkward, it’s frustrating, but even if it takes to the 11th hour, eventually, you won’t be the odd one out, you’ll be the one their crying is on their way out.

For the longest time there was no rain. Well, there was some rain, but not really at the level that it should have been. Peanuts were wilting, corn stalks were short and easily broken, and the rice fields were just dry fields. Then, the rain came and for a week or two it was like a real August rainy season.

I often forgot how much water is vital to every day. Here, I not only know it, I feel it.

Let's take an average day.

I wake up and drink some coffee and make some Oatmeal. I use water that I filter from a bidong. To get the water I have to walk to the center of village with a big empty yellow container and my bike whilst greeting people and hoping the line is short. I use the hand pump to get water into my bidong then lift the heavy water onto my bike and walk it to my house. I have to do this every couple days.

I am slowly becoming rather strong on my right side from carrying water. Every day I get between 2-5 buckets of water for gardening, laundry, bathing, washing dishes, and cleaning. My well isn't far, it's in my compound, but it's not simple like it would be in America. I mean, laundry takes half an hour to start. I clean my buckets, haul water, buy soap (so of course greet people along the way which takes time) and by the time I finally get to scrubbing 30 minutes have gone by.

I dream of the days when water will easily come from a tap once again. Simplicity will come with dishes, laundry, and bathing, and I will once again have symmetrical arms. I'm sure Gambians dream of next year, when all the crops won't be slowly suffering through a drought, enshallah.

Recently I went to a Jola circumcision ceremony. I know what doesn’t really sound like a good time but imagine a brisk in which your whole village celebrates for a week. This “program” only happens every 25 years or so, so if you miss a Jola village’s program, you have to wait basically a generation for the next one. Here is how it goes down but I missed the first day of the party so I will only briefly report on that. Guys ranging in ages from little kids to 25 year old men sit with their mom and they kill a chicken. The guys later eat the chicken while they are in the bush. After the chicken-cide the boys are led to the bush and they will stay there for a week. I think we all knows what physically goes on while there, it’s in the title, but this is also a time of forming unity with the other men of your village and being part of your culture. While the guys are in the bush the village become like a Gambian Burning Man. There aren’t naked people (well...) like the dessert party of my home state is known for but there are a couple similarities. 1.There are make shift houses built for all the visiting people. Each compound bought woven fences and used then to build little row houses for the mass of family and friends arriving. Like the dessert in NV it goes from spares to flourishing with human activity. 2. Sense of sharing. This is a Gambian thing in general but I literally ate 7 lunch/dinners one day. I didn’t pay or anything, I just sat around talking and someone put a delicious bowl of food in front of me. 3. Crazy things to see. Though this wasn’t an art show in any way I think by looking at my pictures you can tell that there were some weird things to see there. Man on stilts, men in groups trying to cut themselves with knifes and failing, giant pant wearing men basically thrash dancing with machetes, and dance parties galore. There are more but I want to get into more detail about some topics mentioned. The first being the men trying to cut themselves. The party has groups of men trying to cut themselves and why are they just trying to cut themselves instead of achieving it? Jujus. If you look at the clothes they are covered in little squares which are see all over the Gambia called Jujus. People get there for love, money, protection, ect. The men are supposedly not able to cut themselves even if they try. The cutting attempts included machete at teh stomach, razor blade against the scalp, and knife on the chest. The food at this thing was AMAZING. There wasn’t a lot of food to be found in the morning but around 4pm you suddenly find yourself presented with bowls of Jola food I had never tried before and the normal Domada and Benechin. At night there would be different dance parties. Normally when the sun goes down I am at my compound but for this week it was expected that you roam around going to different dance parties. I love dancing and this Jola dancing was my thing. There was also a smaller tribe semi related to the Jolas that was there and I really enjoyed their dance circle. There was a guitar and singer that were really chill but then there was this fast clapping of bamboo sticks for a rhythm so people could dance. The music never stopped. We would wake up at 7am and there would be a party going on somewhere. It was literally a week of partying. I missed the end but the day after I left the boys came out of the bush. They had their own dance party and everyone celebrated the healthy return of all the guys. The village slowly fell back into its normal state of sleepy town with another 25 years to wait till its next big party. Blow are pictures of the biggest ram I have ever seen and a rice drink that may or may not have been slightly alcoholic. Men were drinking this by the mouthful.

The pictures edition! I am slowly getting more pictures than I can keep up with. Here are a few. The first are of the world map mural I am painting at the school. The last picture is 2 week worth of work.

There is a odd really bitter fruit that grows by the river.

Then is the building of the school pump. It happened fast and now my village has a regular pump and this one that they can use on weekend when school is out.

Tea=Gunpowder?

Then are some teaching aides. The house scene is from a translation of The Boy Who Cried Wolf and the Africa Map is from a game I am making to teach the kids a little bit about geography.

There is a picture of Casey and I who people often confuse. Which one is which?! Guess and maybe you will win a prize.

Then there is my host aunt's baby naming ceremony. Everyone gets dressed to the nines.

Last is a public bathroom. Not even the worst I have seen.

One culture can’t trump other. What is rude in one culture is the norm in another. When people have cultural conflicts who is right? No one? The majority? Here is an example of what I mean. A husband and wife get into an argument in my village about the wife going to another village without asking the husband if it’s ok first. In my culture a wife wouldn’t have to “ask permission” for something like this but in this culture it is the norm. The argument persists until the husband is threatening to beat his wife. Everyone is standing around watching the debate with a hint of awe. Finally it becomes physical with the husband grabbing a rope and beating (aka whipping) his wife. In my culture we would be personally upset to watch this happened and a coward not to stop it. People would demonize the husband and tend to the wife. Domestic violence is so taboo in our culture that even witnessing it has a strong impact for a viewer. This personal affront is not felt in this culture. Beatings are literally a daily occurrence here whether it be children to children, people to animals, adults to children, or husbands to wives. But who’s right? Being American, when I see a fight or physical confrontation I want to stop it but here it’s culturally inappropriate for me to do so. Either I look like a rude meddler to their culture or feel like an cowardly bystander in my own. Another example is greetings. Gambians can’t get enough greeting. Well, they can, but they are extremely offended if you don’t greet them. This means that I spend a lot of my time asking people where their whole family is, how work is, if they slept in peace, and if there “was no trouble there?” It all comes down to time. In the West it’s rude to waste some ones time. If I don’t know you, and I am in a hurry, why do I HAVE to talk to you? It’s rude to demand that I talk to someone that I don’t even know and will never see again. At least, for my culture. Now, I like to say hi to people. Even in the states I would say hi to people I passed on the street because it was just awkward not to. This is the best part of wearing sunglasses, no eye contact, no need to say hello. But here, it takes me 30 minutes just to get soap at a shop less than a football fields length away because I have to shoot the shit with everyone. Ok, back to time. Everyone here says “toubob time” meaning on time. Everyone knows that us Westerners like to be on time, or at least not hours late to sometimes. We all know the phrase “5 minutes early is on time” but in Gambia 45 minutes late is early. Here it’s not a huge problem for me because I’m not often really busy with a lot of time constraint things to do. But sometimes there is stuff I want to do and I get mad when I show up to something at my rough estimate of when it will actually start and I end up waiting an extra hour to make any progress. Here, it’s rude to rush people but in the West it’s rude to waste sometimes time. You just can’t win! The one time I saw Gambians in a hurry was Setsetal. This is always the morning of the last Saturday of the month when no cars are allowed to run, most businesses are closed, and everyone is supposed to “clean the land” (aka sweep everything into a pile and burn it). There is a small window of time in the morning for people to get from one area to another that is from about 6am till 9. I was trying to get from a place on the coast to the main capital area. I knew I would make it but by 8:15 the Gambians in the car with me were getting worried that they wouldn’t be making it to Banjul. I bet they never made it. Every time the geli would stop to let people off and the driver dawdled or apperante was bantering people would click their tongue and tell them to hurry up. The driver got mad about it and started yelling at the passengers “don’t try to condition me! This is my car, we are going. You will not condition me”. It’s not that I want Gambia to become America. I can’t assume that Gambians will change their entire lifestyle to please me, but I can’t change my entire lifestyle to please them. This is the point. There is no correct way. Or maybe I say this because I am the minority, a Gambian might just say “you are in Gambia, here our way is the correct way”. There is a terrific Gambian proverb that goes with this though.

“Yiri kuntoo si mee baa kono naa wo naa a buka ke noo bamboo ti.” If you cut a tree and throw it into the river it will never become a crocodile. It basically means that you can go into another culture, but no matter how long you are there you can’t become something you aren’t.

I recently got to see what going to the doctor is like for a Gambian. My host sister Musakuta fell off a motorcycle about a month ago and at the time of the incident everyone came by to see that she was alive but no one talked about medical care in any way. At the time she didn’t seem that bad off. Her leg was swollen and sore but nothing looked broken or out of place. I like to think that I mentioned that she should go to a hospital but most people in my village only go if someone is obviously dying and everyone seemed content to keep her home and let her rest. Time went by and her hobble slowly became a normal walk. She went to school, did chores, ran around like all the other 12 year olds. Before the Easter Break I noticed that she missed school a couple times. I asked why and everyone said that her leg was hurting. The pain lasted and last week her ankle swelled until I would find her in the morning with tears in her eyes from the waves of pain. Last night as I was talking with another person in my compound Musakuta went from her normal cheerful sitting self, to wincing and holding her ankle. How long would my host family wait to take her to a doctor? Since she was given to my compound but her dad still provides some things for her who’s responsibility is it to get her medical care? I asked her if I could take her to the hospital would she be game then asked her father and my host grandma. All 3 were in support. Musakuta, almost never getting to go to the “big city” of Basse was thrilled to get to go. The morning of the trip the first thing my host dad said to me was “My car is going to the river then will come back and get you guys”. We got a ride directly to the hospital and after a quick breakfast walked around looking for where to go. At first I was told to go to the Dressing Ward. She didn’t need a bandage but through asking multiple name tagged people I got to a area to buy a “ticket”. I had assumed there would be a line (You’d think that after a year and a half of living her I would know that buying a ticket for anything never involved a line) but instead was met with a lump of people, much like the Barra Ferry Terminal, vying for some attention from the ticket giver. I got my ticket and after another series of questioning found the line(a real line this time) and took a seat. This line was funny because if you assigned someone to watch your ticket, and left it there, you could leave for a while. At one point I was watching the lady in front and behind me’s ticket. When a couple tried to cut in front of my the lady who’s ticket I watched came to my rescue and defended me. Any future PVC’s reading? Watch people’s spots for them, it pays off. Then an attendant came to me and told me and Musakuta to come. We basically got to skip line and go into the room with the 3 working Cuban doctors. I felt bad skipping ahead but I did it regardless. In there a young doctor about my age looked at Musakuta as I translated. I had been worried about this part but Musakuta has always been able to understand me and it went smoothly enough. I had to take her to go get an x-ray, which I didn’t even know was an option (that’s great!), which turned out cool because I was able to show her what is in the chest because of other people’s x-rays. She was excited to see her foot bones too. Upon return to the doctors they were able to see that it wasn’t broke. The muscles are the cause and rest, anti-inflammatories, and cold compresses would help.Originally when I got there I was worried I would be told to go from department to department without anything getting done. I worried about the care, that they would just look at it, prescribe vitamins, and send us home. Once I got in the line I was happy with the care. It’s free(unless you get an x-ray which is $4), doesn’t take too long (even if I had waited in that line), and the doctors are pretty nice. It could be worse, there could be no hospital, or it could be terribly expensive.

Below are pictures from my odd life. The first is a picture of my 1 dalasi salad I got in Farafeni. That is about the same amount as 4 cents. Then is a sete plus that crossed on the ferry. It was rather top heavy but you see cars like that all the time over here. Next is Momalamin. He is my host brother and is always falling down and getting scrapes. I used soap, duct tape, water, and bandages to clean him up. The next is a picture at Ian's going away party. Next is a shot from the back of a sete plus. Last is a door that I saw in a renters compound in Bansang.

While watering my garden I noticed a lot more men walking towards the marsh with half football shaped baskets. I asked if they were going to the river to fish but they just pointed towards the bush. Once I got out to where I could see the marshland I saw that men from every compound in my village were out in the water with nets and baskets trying to catch fish. The area normally fills in with water during the rainy season but as the heat goes up and the rain stops coming the fish slowly get concentrated in the pond.

As I was walking over to see the action everyone started to run out of the water. I thought “snake? Biting Worms? Bees?” but right as everyone got out of the water every started yelling “AHHHH!” and sprinted right back into the water. It was a sort of surprise attack. If there was a movie about fishermen war-ing with fish in a pond this would be a pivotal battle scene. As I walked around and saw people’s catches I noticed two types of fish. One was a run of the mill fish, small, undistinct, full of bones. The other was Catfish. That pond had some arm length sized Catfish! Thank goodness I never swam in there. I saw at least 2 in the small area I was watching. To make sure the fish doesn’t flounder its way back into the water they hit it several times with a thick stick, more of a thin log really, and let it sit there till they come get it when they are done. Little boys run around with rice bags and collect the goods their older brothers and fathers have caught. Much like America, people wanted pictures with their huge catches.

Before watching fish massacre I had gone to my ever dying garden to water and bird watch. Thats right! I bird watch.... I never really considered myself to be “outdoor-zee” but the older I get the more I find myself outside, and it’s not just because I basically live outside now. In the last couple months I have gotten into bird watching (“birding” to those of you under 35yrs) and though that might sound lame, it’s actually pretty fun. My village is the place to be for birding. There are reserves, and boat toured marshes, and national parks, but if you aren’t close to any of those and can only afford a geli ride then my place is great to see some colourful life. This is coming out more as an ad (there IS a “guest house” aka hut in my village that a visiting foreigner could sleep in, money goes to the school) but when it comes to seeing bird life I lucked out with my village selection. There are 4 places that are good to see birds. First is my host family’s garden. There, I see birds like Bee Eaters, Finches, Weavers. In the marsh that is next to the gardens I see Rollers, Herons, Egrets. In the bush I see Starlings, Hawks, Hornbills. At the river I have seen the really colourful guys, more Bee eaters, Parakeets. Everything is about a 15 minute walk from each other. It’s awesome and though I am slowly showing myself to be the crazy lady that is staring off into the bush with a weird looking “camera” aka binoculars, I like getting to be out of my hut seeing what’s out there.

I just finished reading Dark Star Safari by Paul Theroux. It is a book about the author’s travels from Cairo, Egypt to Cape Town, South Africa overland. It took him months, he took bush taxi’s, trains, buses; any way that the locals took. Other than his ever present distain for tourists and aid workers one of the themes in the book was how little the big events of the west mattered in the remote villages that he was travelling through. He would listen to the BBC and hear about the Dow getting lower and lower and think “and none of it matters over here”. He wrote that book almost 10 years ago and now that I’m out here, far away from the events of the West, I am seeing the delayed effects of economic crisis effecting rural places. It’s not that what happens in other places doesn’t matter, it’s that it takes time to affect places in the out reaches. When the economies of Western countries deflates, tourism in tourism dependent countries deflates. When the war in Libya disrupts oil delivery to Gambia the power doesn’t come on every day in Basse like it’s supposed to. When the gas price rises internationally it doesn’t matter how much that old woman argues with the aparantee, the 6 mile ride is no longer 10 dalasi, its 15. Every day I hear my host mom’s talk about the price of fabric. It’s going up and up. I hear “blah blah blah wax fabric blah blah expensive blah blah should be 40 dalasi, blah he said 100!” I nod in frustrated support since recently I tried to buy some that should be 15 dalasi and was told 20 as a last price. I understand that things are hard in the states. People can’t live off the land like they do here, but when the prices rise, and the income stays the same, at almost nothing, what will people here do? They don’t buy that much anyways. Rice, sugar, tea, oil, fabric, cement, tomato paste. It’s not like people live in excess here. It’s odd how you get used to living with no power, having to bike an hour for a cold soda, and getting excited when the power comes on so you can finally charge your phone. I’m used to that stuff but I can still see that there isn’t any posh-ness to living here. An amazing house in Kombo and well stocked fridge are about the same as an average family home in America. It’s $10 to buy a tub of Cream Cheese! $2 for a can of sliced peaches! $3 for a jar of black olives! Now I’m just ranting really. I guess I’m just trying to debate Paul Theroux that things are, in fact, connected. Though, they seem to hardly impact each other at the time. Events big and small, both in the East and West, affect things.

Crying baby! Everyone's gotta have one of these pictures about it. Above is a picture of the pond by my garden full of tadpoles. The one above there is a picture of my Host Grandma and I in our garden. The top is two host brothers digging a latrine in my compound.

Not a day goes by that I don’t hear the word “toubob”. As I ride my bike I hear the word screeched across a field from a group of excited children. Sometimes people will try to greet me, starting with “Toubob, how are you?” To my dismay my village has developed the terrible habit of calling me Fanta Toubobo. Toubob is the word people here use to say white person. I’m sure they aren’t trying to offend, but it gets tiring. When I tell people not to call me it they say “what?, you’re not white?”. Yes, I’m white. I know I’m white, but come on people. I tell them that I don’t go around calling them Ebrima Mofi or Aminata Mofi AKA Black Ebrima, Black Aminata. Sounds bad, right? Being PC is not on the agenda of most up country Gambians. If you read my last post it was about Gambian body image in relation to American body image and how the Gambians around me aren’t afraid to call me fat. But trying to tell my host family to stop calling me fat is like trying to tell my village to stop calling me White Fanta. The more I say “don’t” the more it reminds them to do it. This might be a weak comparison, and I have no intention to offend, but I know what it’s like to be the “other” in a society. To be the judged or stereotyped minority. I’m not going to compare it to what African Americans had to deal with/do deal with, but I think I understand more than the average white American. I never start with a clean slate here, when people meet me there is an assumption and through getting to know me assumptions change into actually knowing who I am. Here it’s assumed that I’m rich, I can’t do ANY manual labor, I know how to read, I love to study, i can’t do laundry, I can take people to America easily/give them a Visa, I want a black husband, or that I’m a doctor. I mean, people put assumptions on each other all the time regardless of race or place, but it just seems more effecting to me here. The thing that makes it less frustrating is knowing that in 8 or 9 months I will be back in Toubobadu (white people land) and won’t be called the white equivalent of the N word in the 1950’s. For some Americans they don’t have that escape. America is their home and sadly they have to deal with prejudice without an escape somewhere else. I’ve had people refuse to sell me stuff, jack up the price on items, literally stare but ignore my greetings, avoid me, and children cry and run in terror at my arrival in a compound. Gambian mothers will tell their children “the white woman is going to beat you!” then thrust their children at me to make them cry. Most of this stuff isn’t an average, these are rare but memorable occurrences that have happened in the last year and a half. I don’t think the Gambians around me are trying to be rude, but they just don’t realize how wearing it can get for me and most have never had to deal with being in the out group~~~

Something that keeps coming up as a running joke in my compound is how "wide" I am. "Fanta be warima...pip!" (Fanta is wide....Very!) gets echoed to me at least once a day. Somehow, to my dismay, this became a running joke in my host family. I'm not that wide, I'm about normal adult Gambian woman sized. I wear pants which might show it off a bit more but really, does that mean its time to call Fanta a fatty every 5 minutes? This got me thinking about body image, and Gambian's thoughts on women's bodies, specifically size.

Before I lived in Gambia I thought Africa was the place that big women were queen. Statues I remember seeing never showed women with jutting collar bones but women with hips 3 times the width of their waist. Popular media led me to believe that African's didn't want a lean feather of a women but someone who could show off, through their voluptuous, that they were well off economically, healthy enough to bare children, and had a little extra in case times got tough with food.

I am often told I am big. This doesn't overly get to me since Gambia has made my skin thick but its interesting that they love this running joke. It's almost more of a compliment. A big ass seems to be on everyones mind when it comes to the erotic. Though women don't show their legs they never say "oh your legs are thick, thats nice!", but I do here "your ass is wide, your husband must be a happy man".

When asking my host mom about this she said "big is ok but too big isn't. When it gets hot, all those women say is "uh, ooo uh, this heat" and they sweat SO much". Big is ok but small is better. I have heard Gambian men say "I know some guys like bigger ladies, but I want someone small, petite, not a huge woman." Most Gambian women aren't small. They aren't huge either but one a woman has a child you rarely find tiny women. Most are made of muscle, and though they aren't fat at all, they aren't petite.

Most teenage girls are TINY and I think the ones that are a little chubby are treated the same way teen girls are treated in America. Some people are terrible attractive even if they are bigger and some tiny women aren't inherently attractive because of their size.

There is a compound in my village with two obese women. Their husband is a small man but he definitely has a type of woman he likes. In an attempt to get my host family to see me as a normal size woman I made a joke about that other compound, instead of being called Fofana Kunda (the last name is Fofana) it should be called Wide Kunda. My family loved it, but now they just tell me that I'm getting so big I will have to go live there. I can't win with this joke. They somehow know that western women tend to like to be small so any time I go running they say "Fanta wants to be small. She doesn't like being big". I think they hold me to a American standard and themselves to their own. At least my host mom is hugely pregnant right now, so all the teasing can be given in return.

This is the mosque in my village. Right after this picture they started to paint it white.

These kids are dressed up at Kangkorans. Their outfits aren't that good, but notice the weaponry.

Thought I did not plant Tomato in my garden the rouge Tomato and Okra plants cuddled up to my Bell Pepper and Cabbage are the first things to produce anything. This tomato si the first thing out of my beds.

The Corn is corn left over from the last rainy season. It's hard as hell and the family works the kernels to free them so later they can be pounded.

This is my bed set up outside. It's MUCH better outside.

The next three shots are of my hut. It's not always this dark but since it was in the evening it looks it.

In one of my late night talks with my host mom I finally started to get some romantic details from her. Of everyone I know she is my closest Gambian friend and is amazing at understanding my Mandinka. She seems the best to eventually get all the real details of a Gambian woman’s life. I’m starting slowly but like any little kid hearing how their parents met, I was interested in the littlest detail. We originally started talking about girlfriends and boyfriends. I asked if my host dad was her boyfriend before he was her husband. She said, “Fanta, black people and white people are not the same. You white people have boyfriends or girlfriends, we don’t. Here, that is not good”. I asked if she had ever had a boyfriend and she said basically repeated what she said before. I asked if her and Dikori just starting talking, hit it off, and decided to get hitched. She said “No, I went to Bansang, he saw me and asked if I had a husband. I said no and he said he liked/wanted me. I told him that we are Gambian, if he wants me he needs to go talk to my parents.” I asked if she was originally annoyed that this man was talking to her like this. I have to wave my hand to men in car parks and on the street to make them leave me alone often and it gets irritating. Maybe the difference is that Gambian women have a split second to make a possibly lifelong choice. This man presents an opportunity and the woman will eventually say yes to one of them. Bana said he went to her mom’s place, talked with her family, and eventually he was allowed to “buy her”. Eventually she came to live in his compound. I had heard that women don’t really get to sleep for 3 days before their wedding. She said “yeah, people are coming all the time and you are busy and just never get to sleep”. After a woman is brought to her husband’s house she had to stay in her house for a week. She is only allowed to go to the backyard and the rest of the time she is in her room. Weddings are always in the hot season and in the afternoons rooms can be terribly hot. She said “oh, it's so hot in there, and you have to stay in there. It’s not sweet.” I told her that some people in Kombo have boyfriends or girlfriends but I guess no one really has one in my village since our village is so conservative. She said “they are here, but people don’t want others to know. At night they go out and hang out with them. It’s not good but it happens and people keep it a secret.” I got to tell her that most Americans date first. We want to make sure we find someone that we can get along with, someone we can enjoy things with, and that we always worry about divorce so we want to pick the right person. She seemed to understand but I don’t think she was sold on the idea. The good thing about her is that though she doesn’t always agree with the American way of life she never treats me negatively for personifying some of the American behaviors she doesn’t like. She is really tolerant of things she doesn’t support. Villager Profile

Name: Bana Age: Roughly 27 Education: some lower basic school Children: 1 rather difficult 2 year old and one hopefully good baby on the way. Job: School Committee and Women’s group member. Hobbies: Sewing, braiding hair, sleeping (mostly during pregnancy), gardening, drinking tea. Best quote: “Fanta is BIG! Fanta be GREAT!” (in English!)

My favorite part of each day in village is the evening and night time. Around 5 o’clock all yelling children go back to their respective homes, the women go to the garden, and I am left with the compound to myself for a minute. Things suddenly quiet down, the sun is starting to get at a beautiful angle, and I can pick up my house and relax. I love this time because there is no pressure to be out with my family. For about 2 hours I can do whatever I want. Normally I sweep my place, pick things up, wash dishes, listen to music, take a shower, have a snack. It’s all small stuff but I like not feeling expectation on me from people in my village. As its starting to get dark I leave my house and sit next to my host grandma on the bantiba. Her and me aren’t big chatters to each other but we share a mutual affect for one another. She is the cutest old woman around and has always been really sweet to me. I always take her advice because I don’t think she has any malicious intentions ever and especially towards me. Her garden prowess is probably the only thing keeping my black thumb from destroying all of Gambia’s ecosystem. Eventually everyone comes back to the compound and settles on the two bantibas. One of my two host moms will be working on the koos dinner (not anything like coos coos, don’t envision something amazing or anything) and everyone else will be laying out and talking. This is normally the time that the girls in my compound come to me for homework help. Normally it’s math or reading practise. My host sister in grade 4 is really starting to pick up sounding words out. I know that sounds silly that a 4th grader is just starting to sound stuff out but for here, thats not bad. Shortly after dark we eat dinner. My grandma and I each have our own bowl of Koos and the family shares a large bowl of it. I like koos. It looks like sand and sometimes is a bit flavorless but sometimes the sauce can be almost good and its enjoyable. Then I star gaze, sometimes talk with my family, and eventually am asked why I am being so quite. I told my host grandma about a list of things I was thinking over and she said “you are being quiet and just thinking, that’s not good”. If my host dad comes home early enough and eats his dinner he always invites me to eat from it. It’s half mandatory but it’s a good time to talk to him. I don’t really see him otherwise since he is a geli driver and works from 7am to about 8pm. The other night my host family was listening to Jeliba (Gambias biggest musician. If you don’t know who he is Gambians will say “He went over to America! You don’t know him!?”). Suddenly one of the neighbour kids hooped up and started dancing. It was dancing like what you would see a Kangkoran do at a wedding party. It would go from slow, to quick leg movements, then posed, then butt shaking. This lasted for a good 30 minutes. Any time the song picked up pace this kid would jump up and start stealing the show. I used my flashlight to give him a spotlight and everyone got a kick out of this kid. Even now they still bring it up, “remember when Adama was dancing? Man! That kid can dance!”. As always, here are some pictures.The first is a picture of a Kangkoran. This one is the fun party type that show up for festivals. It's not actually a Kangkoran, its a Devil. This was the New Years Devil.

This is a Bitik. Its a littleshop that has a a ton of little things you could want. Cookies, Batteries, Bread, Soap. They are really useful and every village has them

This is a power outlet at the old PC house. Safety is our top priority. Don't Touch signs were all over the place.

This is my host dad holding up some Obama Attaya. If Obama got royalties from the stuff that his face sells he would have even more money. Seriously, there is tea, motor oil, shirts, belts, hats, stickers. Obama all over the place.

Lunch is up! Green leaf sauce that most don't like. I like it and rather prefer it to the oily sauces we have. It's okra, cassava leaf, some other leaves, and dried fish.

This is the garden that my family grows their food in. Most of it is onion and red pepper. I have 2 beds of my own that have green bell pepper and cabbage. My cabbage is quickly being eaten by bugs but I still have hope. My host grandmother said "cabbage work is not sweet" and I am starting to agree. My peppers are coming along nicely though everyone swears they will be the long green spicy peppers. Lets hope not. To get our there I have to either walk through leech laden thigh deep water or a 50 feet swamp walk. I choose the quicker thigh deep water.

This a Momalamin and Satang. Momo is 3 and Satang is about 11. They are both pretty fun. The expression of the 3 year old was pretty funny.

This is a little guy I saw in my rake. It was during the rainy season and my yard was taken over by frogs at night. I still get them there now that sit in the puddles from my laundry and dish washing. Since I live by a swamp the night echoes with hundreds of frogs.

PC isn’t a vacation. A lot of people think we get paid to live in a foreign country while we sit back, drink tea, and enjoy the exotic cuisine (or sometimes not enjoy the exotic cuisine). That happens, but the rest of the time we are actually trying to get work done.

If at times we seem sedentary, it’s not because we want to be, it’s because our counter parts ran off to a naming ceremony, or the committee can’t meet because they are harvesting peanuts, or everyone in the office that you need to talk to has gone to the capital for a 3 week training. Besides, I can’t learn Mandinka by never socializing. So, what do I do? My primary job is working with a Nursery School to develop its infrastructure, work on teacher development, sensitize the community towards education, and make sure the school and all its little parts are working within the bureaucratic structure of Gambia. I’m basically an accidental education volunteer. The work sounds fancy and all, but there is nothing fancy about grass roots work. I mostly work with the school committee to get things done, meet with the teachers to try to get them on board with fulfilling their contracts and work on their teaching skills, and bounce from building to building trying to get papers signed often while being told a list of several more hoops to jump to get my task done. An example of this is how I have tried to get my school’s committee registered for basically the last 9 months. Working with the committee has been one of the single most frustrating parts of my service (besides cross country travel, trying to rescue birds that are “pets”, and getting called Toubob every other minute on a bike ride). There is a silver lining though, because with each encounter, both pro and con, I learn a little bit more about the culture and the people in my village. I don’t think my committee can be used as an example of all Gambia groups, at least I hope not, but I’m still learning from it anyways. The main reason for writing this blog is to tell a little story of a sign. It’s a bit taller than me, white, and says “Kanubeh Nursery School” in the colors of Gambia. It was purchased by 3 of the 5 people from the NGO Gambia Up-Country Development when they visited about a month ago. The NGO are the funders for the nursery school. For safe keeping I put it in my backyard after they left and I was given the task of following up with the Planning Department to make sure we can legally put it up. I went to the Planning Department ready to take a piece of paper from place to place to get signed and approved. To my surprise they had already taken it for me and just needed to put one more stamp on it, which they did right away. It was good to go! I didn’t have to do anything! The sign could go up right away. A Christmas miracle really. When I got back to my village I jumped out of the geli just a couple feet from the Chairman of the School Committee. I don’t know the word for sign, bury, or put in the ground but luckily there was an English speaking guy (1 of maybe 5 in my village) close by and I had him tell the Chairman we could put the sign up this week, hopefully before the heads of the NGO come next week (at the date of publication, today). I knew things weren’t going well when the Chairman said a paragraphs worth of speech, starting low and eventually talking forcefully while wagging his finger. There was a pause before my translator said “you know, he says the committee was not informed about the sign, and to ask them for the labor, people are working in the fields, and they do not want to do it because they were never told about it”. I thought “They were given this sign (expensive) and now they won’t put it up. Seriously people!?”. I said “ok...ok...uh, ok” and walked away. But later I thought “Wait, they were informed of it, invited to come paint it, and some members showed up to drink tea and paint.” I asked the Chairman’s brother to talk to him. I met up with the Chairman’s brother and he said “I haven’t talked to him, but the committee is upset, they were invited over there and then one of you told them to go to the school to see something. They were invited then pushed out. They are not happy”. Remembering this occasion I think we started the 3 rounds of tea (because any good social event HAS to have tea), around the beginning of round 2 the sign was done, we told them it was done and didn’t have to stay. Possibly we went to the school to work on something. I don’t honestly remember how it went down. But this brings up something I constantly experience here. An example is the word in Mandinka for the color orange and yellow. It’s the same word but one is the darker version of the other. To an American they are different colors, to a Mandinkan they are the same. With this sign incident the NGO and PCV’s saw the sign painting as over and didn’t want to waste the committee member’s time. With the sign incident the Committee saw that they were invited over, tea was brewing and that they were shoo’d away prematurely. So now, to show their frustration they are refusing to put the sign up. The heads of the NGO are coming tomorrow and the sign is still in my backyard. What type of image are they going to be showing about their commitment to the school if they won’t even put up a sign? But, they would rather cut off their nose to spite their face. And culturally, there isn’t really a right or wrong. The westerners feel they are right, the Gambians feel they are right. It’s the same situation but the way we see it is completely different. This type of problem comes up far more often that I can count. In the end, all I can do is ignore the crap and press on. I’m sure when the NGO comes the committee will say they were never informed, then will say they were informed but we treated badly, then eventually things will get smoothed out and the sign will go up. Part of my job is doing work while constantly taking culture into consideration. My village just happens to be far more sensitive than the average Gambian on certain issues. I’m the minority here and nothing works how I think it will. It’s frustrating but in my extremely conservative, uneducated (for now but not ever!), slow paced village that’s how it’s going to go. This won’t be the sign that broke the donkey’s back.

And as always, here are some random pictures from my random life.

The Gang doing a Gambian style photo op. My host brothers makings spoons out of some melon, a host brother cutting hair, us trying to dance in the Dink style, the ballon drop, kids trying to knock down Baobob out of the trees, and the wrapper of some fireworks. All of the shinanigans are from New Years in Basse with my fellow PCVs and the VSO Brits.

There is a change going on up here. It’s slow, and frustrating, and uncertain but I see the beginnings of something that will take years and years to become something tangible. 50-50. This is the phrase you hear when people talk about women’s rights. It was supposed to be about work load and benefits between a man and (a) woman (en) within a marriage but now it seems to be used as a umbrella term for equality. When you talk with women about 50-50 they seem in support. They think that in America and the West women live happy lives and their husbands help them with tasks and everyone works equally. In some ways that is true though probably not to extent of their day dreams. When you talk to men about 50-50 they usually laugh with a shake of the head “ha, oh 50-50, Do you guys really have that there? Ha, that’s crazy”. Some people seem torn on the issue. From my host father I have heard “50-50, I think 50-20.” When I heard this I thought, “Is he trying to be clever because he has two wives?” But after half a second I realized “50+20+20≠100”. He isn’t about equality within his marriage in any way. He is the ruler of his compound, he wants his water carried for him, wants his dinner brought to his feet after his shower, and expects his wives to do a quick kneel to him every night. If he is thirsty they have to bring water to him even if they are far away from the water and he is next to it. If anyone is going to get beat in the compound it certainly isn’t him. I have heard him discuss with other men about the new policy about that if a man beats his wife she is to take him to the police. I’m sure he isn’t pro about this since I have the host family that always fights during the holidays and if that law was being acted out he would have spent Koriteh and Tobaski in jail. But then, this same man (who treats me very nicely) will say “I want all of my children to go to school. My sons and daughters... maybe Fatou Mata can be a doctor, or a pilot. Yes, I never got to go to school, but I want my children to go.” That is a VERY progressive stand compared to most of Gambia. Recently the Vice President (“Her Excellency), along with Tostan (a huge NGO that does just about everything), and the Women’s Coalition made a trek up to the URR to do a march and hold multiple meetings about equality in Gambia. There was a radio presentation that preceded the arrival of “Her Excellency” that reached a majority of URR households and though some scoffed, some listened with quiet excitement, and some were indifferent it started the discussion about women’s rights. My host mom’s live in an extremely conservative village. They have told me they can’t wear nail polish, no upper calves showing, no pants, hair is always covered, ect. As an example, they once were concerned that my “husband” would be upset about a picture with me and some musicians because I was sitting next to them. One time they were asking me if people lived in large family units in American or on our own. I explained that after 18 we are expected to eventually move out, get a job, and start to support ourselves. I said “everyone works. Women and men.” They both nodded and said “A betiyatta (it’s good)”. I could see why a Gambian couple moving to America would have problems. I think the change for the woman might come more naturally with some culturally supported freedoms and the man of the relationship might feel a lose of control in a situation in which he used to have total authority. This is not representative of all relationships though. Recently while talking to a volunteer’s former host dad he told me “Love is easy, you work together, you talk to each other, we both watch the children, you support each other”. Some people are naturally a great example that not everyone is in a power struggle of a relationship. Gambia is a place in transition. It is a country with a woman Vice President and women wearing burkas in the streets.

Merry Belated Christmas!!! I hope all of you out there in Toubobadu (any place that isn’t Africa or the Middle East) had a great Christmas. Maybe you could comment and tell me how it went? Often people feel a bit glum for having to spend their Christmas in Gambia with its heat and lack of Christmas spirit. Everyone misses their family, friends, dark beer, and having to wear the layers and layers of clothes to keep warm. I missed all these things of course but I also had a really good time this Christmas.

In a reminiscence of high school I found myself playing Christmas music in a jazz band. We only had a couple days to practice but to my surprise I was able to channel my inner music nerd and was able to play pretty fluently. It was an eclectic group. I played bass, a professional musician named Dave led and played the piano, a man from Senegal played the guitar, and an ex-pat Brit who runs a lodge played the bongos. We were the back-up band for the American School’s Christmas Show. The kids sang and did a great job.The pictures are Ian cooking pancakes, the rest of the crew making breakfast, and the actual breakfast.

A couple days before Christmas was carolling at the Scottish Embassy. A bunch of PC and ex-pats got together for some beer and holiday cheer. Dave played the piano and we all sang along. We weren’t a professional choir by any means and some lines were lost in a mumble but it was really fun. Christmas Eve was spent playing poker then going to Mass. Quite opposite things, I know. I hadn’t played poker in a long time but I made Nevada proud. Maybe all Nevadans are good at poker but since we often only get to play each other we have really high standards? I played well but another volunteer was a lot of competition. I’m sure if we would have played till the end it would have been just like those poker shows, but more fun. We stopped poker early so I could go to Mass. I’m not Catholic and even though I have always gone to a protestant version of a midnight mass I was still semi awkward at the night’s events. I of course wasn’t totally out of place though and in our PC group of 6 or 7 there were 2 other semi lost protestants. The two and a half hours included lots of prayer, a lot of hymns, some drumming songs in Wollof, tossing holy water 2x’s, shaking hands, and a little bit of critique from the priest to his staff. I swear I saw a fake hair model there! Just wait till I tell my host family that one. Christmas morning! After just a couple hours of sleep due to mass and a debrief “Is there always that much incense at a mass? I mean, it’s all the same just acted out differently really” conversation, we were ready for breakfast. There was a huge 50+ person breakfast with pancakes, bacon, fruit salad, and frittata. We left nothing. That food didn’t stand a chance. Breakfast was followed with Christmas movies.

That evening 3 of us got together and made a big dinner. We had stew, pasta salad, mashed potatoes, and cookies. There was a gift exchange and we finished off the night watching CSI.The picture is of Ian opening the gifts his family sent him. He really liked them.

It was a great Christmas.

A couple months ago PC The Gam did a huge bike trek for HIV education. There were 3 teams, two starting from opposite sides going towards Farafeni and one that trekked around FF. I was on the Janjanbureh to FF team which ended up being about 117k (72 miles) of biking over 5 days. We taught in teams with a 4 hour lesson then biked in the evenings and slept at the schools. Here are some high and low lights from each day. Day 0- We biked to ____ (insert village name here, I can’t remember). We were met with song and drumming. We wanted to do a movie showing but the generator was a terrible flop. For dinner we ate bikit bread, canned meat, onion, mayo, and mustard. Sleeping was freezing for some and the showering “area” was just a spot between trees behind a building. Good thing it was a moon-less night.

Day 1- We taught out first lesson. Trial by fire really. My class was a little silent but I’m sure some people learned a bit. Kevin and I partnered up and dropped some knowledge. We biked over to Wassu, ate a ton of domada (tomato, peanut butter, rice), then set up camp in the computer room of Wassu’s upper basic school. We had foam mats this time around. Win! Day 2- Second day of teaching the lesson.

We were more on our game but the students were basically mute. It was half painful during the last lesson when the kids had to toss red string to each other and say something they learned. We had the PVC who lives there help us and she was really great with keeping the kids in line and just making us feel good. The ride to Nyanga Bantang was nice but I was lacking some optimism after the kids at Wassu. But then!We were met in Nyanga Bantang by a happy head teacher, great food, and a shower area that actually covered us. Moral was getting better and we had a “romantic” dinner by candle light in the big room at the school. Day3- 3rd day of the lesson and it went TERRIFIC! The students already knew so much, were way more talkative, and they actually understood some English. I was really impressed by this school. Since Wassu wasn’t too good I thought this more rural school would be the same or worse, but their students were exactly how we hoped students would be. We biked to Panchar and met up with another PVC. We hung out at her compound, took showers, ate Nyatikon (re-cooked rice with msg spice, and dried fish. It sounds gross but its actually really good), and had attaya. When we got back to the school we got to eat Chicken Yassa (chicken, onion, spices, and extra veggies) which was delicious. We were more like a travelling zoo to these kids because every other minute someone was looking in at us. We were met with a really great dancing and drumming kids club as our welcome.

Day 4- Class went even better! Kevin and I had a huge class but the kids already knew SO much! I was able to do a condom demo at each school but this village had a little bit of debate about if it was culturally appropriate to do so. Their health teacher basically said “I already did one, so why not another?” In the end I got to do one. During this whole trip there were many memorable quotes but this is one that, when said, I had to walk out of the class to laugh. “Oral sex is when a man puts his mouth on a man’s vagina”. I had to leave, I had to laugh, but you know, still wanted to seem professional. We biked to our last school, had some more great dinner, and spent the night listening to listening music and sitting on sporadically placed desks outside. Day 5- We were at a Senior Secondary which meant the kids already knew almost everything and were a lot more active with their questions. Our class was bulging with people and we were asked every sensitive subject under the sun. From homosexuality, to female condoms, to “the cure” which is a governmental program to cure people with HIV. Our students put on a drama and even made their own song. It was really well done.

Then, we biked, and biked, and biked. We had to bike 37k to FF. It took a while but wasn’t horrible. The last 5k dragged but when we got there we were met by the FF team, chicken dinner, and free sodas.

We had a celebratory party, then, my team and the Barra to JJB team stayed in the hospital. It was a little creepy but at least we had somewhere to sleep. Plastic covered beds and bad lighting in a 3rd world hospital are the things of nightmares but having 4 people in my 10ft by 7ft room made it hard to be creeped out.

Since there is a new group coming it made me think of last October as I packed away, sold everything I owned, and took off to a place I really didn’t know much about. Thinking of that made me think of all the things I didn’t know about TG before I came here. Here are some of those things. 1. 1:Children are allowed to go #2 basically ANYWHERE outside. 2: 2:Koos is a grain that isn’t actually like koos koos at all and generally is met with dissatisfaction but eventually grows on you. 3.The love of dogs and animals isn’t an inherent human trait. Gambian’s aren’t overly kind to their “pets”. 4.4:Jelibah is a superstar. HOW could I not know who he is? 5.5:There is polygamy in the TG, 6:Rope and wire are perfectly normal things to use in the engine of a car. 7.7:Everyone wakes up at 6AM, so why wouldn’t they yell, bang pots, work on cars at 6:15AM? 8. 8:80 degrees is almost chilly. 9.9:No matter what you think, you can learn a language. You might sound like a 3 year old, but you get your point across eventually. 10.10:1/3rd of you the year you will sleep outside because it’s just a little colder outside than in your scorching hut. 11.11:People pick their nose’s in public. 12.12:Boss lady will become your second name in the capital. 13.13:Getting clothes tailored is cheaper than buying used. 14.14:All those donated to Africa clothes end up being sold, and not cheaply. 15.15:Everyone gets Malaria, I thought it would be a big deal but people act pretty casually about it. 16.16:Chocolate in a wrapper will melt and the glue from the wrapper will mix with it and make it taste bad. 17.17:Drink your tea as fast as possible! Other people are waiting for that cup! 18.18:Children love sticks. 19.19:Termites will eat your books, fence, door, roof, ect. 20.20:You can eat rice and dry fish sauce every day and life. You won’t be made of muscle, but you won’t die either. 21.21:Mayonnaise and ketchup make good spaghetti toppings.

Villager Profile Name: Mama Ami (Ami Darboe) Age: Old Marital Status: Widow Hobbies: Gardening, cracking peanuts, looking cute, praying. Pet Peeve: Children chasing the goats with a stick. Quote: Saying to the infant while laughing “Be buuti la! =I will beat you!” “Fanta mang saa faa no = Fanta (Me) doesn’t know how to kill a snake”. I told her the kids at school were driving me crazy and she said “i naata, i be i la muro samba karangbungo to? =You came back, are you going to take your knife to the school?” Christmas is coming. It being hot makes it hard to feel the Christmas spirit. A friend living in the capital has Christmas lights which help but walking out to the 90 degree afternoon to buy presents isn’t quite the same. The lack of appropriate weather and home town family and friends won’t stop this from being a nice holiday. Most people are wrapping up presents with the PC newsletter and jumping in gelis across the country to travel down to Kombo for some comrodery. I’m sure you will hear all about but. Merry (happy) Christmas! If you spill your drink make sure to donate some to your hommies in Africa. And please, eat some pie for me.

I'm going to update this thing soon. Real soon.

Here are some things to look forward to.

Bike Trek

Travel

Characters and Awkward Events

More Awkward Things (It's constant)

The Sad, The Bad, The Ugly

Return of My Inner Orch Dork

Tobaski

Caution:Lots of dead ram in the blog post

Holidays here just don’t do it for me. I’m all about eating ram and putting on a fancy outfit, but other than that there isn’t much else. That doesn’t mean it’s all boring but it lacks something that American holidays have. Maybe its Christmas lights, family and friends, dark beer, whatever it is I can’t put my finger on it. Today (November 17th) was Tobaski. It is a Muslim holiday to celebrate Abraham being so devoted to God (AKA Allah over here) that he was willing to sacrifice his son. What’s that?! Muslims and Christians sharing the same background of their religions?! You don’t say! Hey Nigeria (and world), you can stop fighting each other now. I digress. I woke up early, got on my kompleto, and walked out to the bush with my host grandma (Mama Ami). A year ago in training village people prayed outside of the mosque. Here at my site people go to the eastern most part of the village, in a field, and pray. It was really beautiful actually. It was a bright blue day with a slight breeze. We sat under Mango Trees in a clearing surrounded by tall green grass that slides up to a large hillside, and it was quiet since we were outside of village. The men (old and young) come and sat on mats in lines towards the front. The women (only older women allowed, and me) sat in the back. Everyone gets up and does the prayer, then a group of elderly men gather in a huddle with a sheet on their heads and pray for the village. I wish I had a picture of this because it’s hard to describe and even at the time I thought it seemed odd. There is a tall stick with a large sheet draped over it. Men (maybe 4-7) stand up under it and loudly pray for things. Everyone else sits and listens. Then it’s done and people leave a different way than they came. When I got home my host family had already killed the ram, well, it was in the process of dying. I’m not sad for this ram because he had a thing for ramming small children whenever they got around him. I seriously once saw a 2 year old fly 3 feet after a head butt to the chest (yes, in hind sight I should have noticed him being close to the ram and moved him, but....what can I say, I’m just going to be a terrible parent some day).

Everyone walks around and says prayers for each other. When they do, the receiver is supposed to tap their forehead and say "ammin". Of course I can't recognize a prayer to save my life so I'm sure lots of well meaning old men and women walked out of my compound a little confused with me.

After an hour ram meat starts flowing through the village. People are giving ram to each other left and right. My host brother was hacking bits of meat behind me with a machetti and eventually my host dad handed me a huge handful of bone and meat. I don’t really have any previous experience with meat butchering but I managed to make ram strips with soy sauce and garlic. I walked around different compounds and gave it away. People looked at my plate of meat with varying reactions. One woman tossed it around with her hand while glaring and saying “what is this?” while others just smiled bravely and threw a piece in their mouths. Lunch comes late but it’s well worth it. It’s bennechin with meat, potato, eggplan, and squash. I’m still in a food comma. Holidays and parties are the only time I get food that resembles the lunches that PC used to put on for us. The more veggies the better but in real life that hardly happens.Towards the end of the day I put on my red and gold sparkling kompleto (thanks Ousman) and walked around and greeted people. It is more of a thing the kids and teens do. They dress up and walk compound to compound asking for “Salibo”, which just means money. It ends up being like Halloween but instead of costumes it’s nice clothes and instead of candy its money. This evening greeting party goes on for a couple nights and fizzles out after a couple days.

My "epic" kompleto. Many a' ladies were jealous about this one.

This is me cutting up my handful of ram.

This is the ram who we ate. I later saw this head boiled and put on top of my host dad's dinner. I was surprised to say the least.

This is my host grandmother praying for my neighbor. He is tapping his head and saying "ammin"

This is ngebbe. I think there is tomato in it....I don't really know but we only have it on special occasions. Its a bit slimy but not too bad.

These are some ladies from my compound in their Kompletos. People like to wear the same thing to show they are in a group so that is why some are dress the same. Most are extended family. The woman holding an infant and the one to the right of her are my host moms.

This is a picture of my school, teachers, and the students.

Foreword: This post was written a month ago but was delayed in posting.Insects. They come and come, and always seem to go for the face. Remember all the commercials for sponsoring Africa orphans? The flies are actually like that sometimes. Biking uphill, with a fly persistently trying to land on your face is slow torture, and it happens, a lot. There are 3 different creatures that have been continuously annoying me lately. Wasps, termites, and worms. Since the rains are slowly coming to an end I suddenly remember “Oh yeah, termites love eating my fence and house.” How could I have forgotten? Last year my back door was on its last leg after termites ate all the border wood and started on the main body of the door. It was a daily bug spray and sweeping battle. Just today I discovered they are trying to eat my window and their trail leads somewhere into my walls. It’s just cement and dirt in there so i don’t really know what they would be doing but after seeing damage other volunteers have experienced, I know trouble must be brewing in there. Last week I spent 6 hours with another volunteer rebuilding my privacy fence in my back yard and just a couple days later I found the spiky mud of termite infiltration. It’s a losing battle I feel. Wasps love me. I love killing them. It’s not just wasps but all flying stinging creatures. I was stung by a hornet (and honestly, I can’t really tell the difference between wasps and hornet so I might use the phrase interchangeably) last month. It got me in the back of the shoulder before cowardly running off into my Mango tree. A week later I got stung twice on the thumb as I tried to close my back door. How was I supposed to know some little red and yellow wasps had moved in? Man, it hurt so badly. My whole thumb swelled up and in a culture that loves to shake your hand, it was a problem. At any given time my backyard has something with a stinger in flight. Doing laundry never fails to be a time of ducking and weaving to avoid these guys. Today, as I was sitting innocently washing clothes in my backyard I felt an itch on my back. Doing laundry outside always includes little bugs biting me or something landing on me and causing an itch. When I went to brush my back I managed to roll something far bigger than a fly across my back. It instantly hurt on my hand and back and I thought “geeze! That hurt, it kinda felt like a wasps sting, man!”. When I looked at the ground what did I see but a little yellow and red wasp. I killed it but that thing managed to sting both my hand and back. I kill them in my house daily. The last but surely not least is the parasite I had. About 3 months ago I noticed an itching on the side of my foot. I had a red bump so I figured it might have been a mosquito bite. A week later it was still there. I thought “well, i guess a mosquito got me twice”. Mosquitos love feet. I ended up waiting. PC people are covered in rashes all the time. Bumps and itches come and go. I wasn’t worried. A month and a half went by. I started to forget how long I had had it. 2 weeks? 5 weeks? I finally called the med unit. Over the phone saying “My foot itches....” of course just sounds like a fungus. I put cream on it and noticed that the itch started to be in a different area. In a week it had moved about an inch. When I say “move” I don’t mean I could see it moving, it moved slowly, sometimes painfully at a crawl. So, called the med unit again. “I have a moving itch that has travelled an inch towards my toe...” sound like a worm. By the time I got a cream for it the worm had moved about 2 inches. I put that on and about a week later it was dead. I had imagined I would go to Kombo for some toe cutting worm removal thing. It was less exciting. Worms in real life aren’t like the show Monsters Inside Me, at least not for me, yet.

I got my hur did. For those of your not up to date on your Ebonics that means I got my hair done. For weeks I have been thinking about getting my hair braided with long braids. This means I would have to get fake hair and find someone to do it. My host moms are the go to ladies for “sick ass braids” in my village but I have seen many ladies start this process with my host moms and it end up being a 3 or 4 day process. I wanted it done in one big painful session instead of several. I decided to go to a “salon” in Basse. A salon here in Basse consists of a room with a mirror and some chairs. They only actually use this room if its raining or they are eating lunch. Most of the time people sit on a mat on the stoop of the building. The only difference between a salon in Basse and just going to a friend’s house to do it is the price and paintings that say “Barbing” “Saloon” and some pictures of hair styles they can try to imitate. After Ramadan was over I had another volunteer take me over to a lady that volunteers have used in the past. Of course, that lady was off somewhere without any planned return so I was left in the hands of another lady that said she could do it. One problem with all this is that she doesn’t speak any English or Mandinka and I don’t speak any Fula. All I really had to say was “rasta” which is a general term for long braids but any questions they asked me after that was met with us stairing questioningly at each other. Eventually the woman would just assume an answer for whatever she asked me and the braids started. The braids don’t hurt when you first start to get them. Actually, most of this whole process is painless which is why the 3 days of scalp pain I had after, though warned about it, still came as a surprise. The braiding takes forever. I started at 10:30 in the morning at it wasn’t finished till 4pm. To make the braids the braider sections out little piece of hair then tightly wraps the fake hair around the base and then braids the real and fake hair together into a long braid. At first your scalp doesn’t really hurt but by the evening, when you’re ready to go to bed, it hurts terribly. Finding a position that you can rest your head without pulling hair is difficult. This ended up lasting a couple nights until I finally found good ways to sleep and my scalp got used to it. When the braiding was half way done my “stylist” looks at me and said “the hair is finished”. I had brought two packs of fake hair with me and instead of spacing it out she used it all in the back. We had to send out a girl to go get 2 more packs of fake hair. It was SO much fake hair. Most people do 2 packs and I ended up running around during rainy season (hot and humid) with 4 packs of fake hair on my head. It was heavy, and huge. After the braids were done I thought I could leave, but I was wrong. A minute later the woman comes over, lights a cloth on fire and starts to run it over my braids (perfect!). Were the braids done then? No. She then brings out scalding hot water and dips half the hair in just inches from my face. Was she done then? Yes. Finally.Walking through Basse after that was interesting since I was getting A LOT of looks from my huge weave. I even got a free coke from a guy, they were THAT good looking.This is my back yard as Matt and I were trying to reconstruct my privacy fence. Before we did some work to it I'm pretty sure possibly a lot of thigh was visible from my compounds side yard.

Finished!

This is my host Grandma, Mama Ami. She is great and desperately tried to keep me out of the rice fields so I wouldn't get a leech after me.

This is a class in the nursery school that I do work in.

Green leaf food bowl.

Last but not least. I had a parasite worm in my toe. This is a picture of it. It's hard to see but its the white line that leads up to a sort of people at the top of the circle. There will be more on this to come.

I woke up at 5AM to the sound of wailng. Crying in this part of the world is a mix of screaming, moaning, and tears so when it happens in the dead of night, you hear it. At first I thought it was the man who does prayer call early in the morning and who once scared the wits out of me when I was waiting for a car. I thought he was some crazy man loose in the morning hours. Hearing the cries again I realized it was two different women crying. I thought that the lightning that had woken me up an hour earlier had finally lived up to my fears and struck someone in village. We have been getting late night storms with lightning that you can see, hear, and feel. Almost every night lately I am woken to what sound and feel like little earthquakes. I heard my host moms shuffling outside and peeked my head outside to see what was going on. They told me there was a fire, but when I asked if lightning had struck they didn’t have an answer. We got on our clothes, grabbed our buckets to rush over towards the smoke. When I got to my neighbours I found that their Bitik (a small store about the size of a small bathroom crammed with sugar, batteries, oil, fish, etc.) had been completely burnt out. The women (including me) started to haul water from the wells so the men could throw the full buckets into the now charred roof beams. The ground was flooded with a mix of rain water, well water, and oil from now melted containers. Though the fire had been put out for a while there was still smoke streaming through the corrugate roof. People were standing around, watching the owner try to find some things not wrecked in the blaze. I saw a half burnt bag of sugar and some melted batteries come out of the soaked room. The will of Allah was mentioned over and over. Randomly there would be a wave of wailing coming from the yard of the house since this was their primary livelihood and there isn’t such a thing as insurance in the middle of no where Gambia. I was happy to hear that the whole family had gotten out all right. This family has several small children including a new born so they were lucky no one was hurt. I don’t know the extent of the story, who woke up first, how the fire started, if it extended to any bedrooms or just the store. At 5 in the morning with people crying and the lose of so much capital it doesn’t seem the right time to expect people to speak to me in slow easy Mandinkda. After the fire seemed quelled and the family was being calmed by their friends my host mom and I retreated to our place. Later today I will go over and give the family some money. That was my favorite Bitik because the owner and his wife are so friendly. Most stores here are full of cashiers that will barely look at you or answer your questions. I hope before I leave they are able to get their store back to normal.

Rainy Season, Gambia

I have recently gotten to voyage out of my site to my buddy Matt’s place. He basically lives in the sticks in the CRR. As my service continues I want to visit a lot of sites but so far I have managed to only stay in Mandinka villages except one, even though I have stayed in all of the regions of this country. I’m sure at time goes on I will get to enjoy baby cows with the Fulas and talk about scandalous topics with the Wollofs.

Going out to Matt’s site is tricky, or not, depending on your definition of tricky travel and if you are lucky that day. I think I basically set a Gambia Geli Travel record the day I went out there. Poor Matt normally takes hours and hours to get up to the Basse area but I somehow made it to the cut off for his road in 3 hours. That might not seem like a long time but on the way back it took me 6 hours and that is still faster than it normally takes him. Back to travelling... Each time I got out of a car there was another car leaving the car park and going where I was going. It was amazing. I had to take 2 gelis, then a boat, then two more gelis just to get to where a hired car would come get me. I eventually got to the cut off for his site, but the cut off is still something like 10-15K (I’m leaning with the latter, oh, and that means 6-9 miles) from his actual site. I ended up sitting there, under a half built shed trying to read On the Road (good timing right?) while a old man tried to talk to me, and though he assumed I didn’t really speak any Mandinka, he still continued to talk to me and tell me about Gambia. Eventually Matt was able to find a driver from his village to come get me.

The car was a pale purple 70’s ride with basically no shocks and minimal interior anything. I was thrilled to be in it though since it meant I was going towards the goal. We drove and drove, and each village I saw I thought “this must be Matt’s village.....oh, its not....wow, Matt is out there”. Then we finally arrived, at the end of the line, since his village cuddles right up to the river.

I was only at his site for 2 full days but in the time we managed to hear hippos, experience one of the worst and thickest swarm of mosquitoes of the season, watch shamefully large amounts of the show Top Gear, crash multiple times on a bike ride, and give ourselves chemical burns. It was quite an adventure.

Matt’s family was great. At night the children would fan us vigorously (sometimes surprise hitting us with a big full arm swing) and we tried to fight the hordes of on -coming mosquitoes. They were so thick they were biting through my jeans and the air was full of a high pitched background humming. I guess his place is nationally notorious for this mosquito thing but even the people that lived there said that the nights I was there were some of the worst this season. The food there was really good but since my friend has had numerous bouts of food poisoning I expected the worst. So far though, my stomach remains to be a steal trap. (I have only gotten sick in this country once, at a friend’s house, and lets just say, I got sick everywhere...)

The first full day there we had to bike back to the road to go to the lumo. I had to use Matt’s bike and he borrowed his host brothers. The bike I was riding was huge for me. It fishtailed all over the place because of the sand and I had to bail often. At one point I went off sideways landing in a heap of smooth rocks. Could have been worse, could have been jagged rocks I guess. It was also really hot for a rainy season day, we were biking at noon, and the humidity was high high high. I’m sure I was not the best biking buddy for Matt that day. I didn’t cry though, so, win.

The best part of this whole thing (story wise) was making soap. Gambian markets are like a seasonal food, Obama themed stuff, strong chemical cornucopia. Sometimes you can get your all three within eye shot of each other. Any given day in a larger region you can get lye, caustic soda, bleach, etc. In recent months I have had to deal with all of these in different little adventures. This time around Matt and I got to mix the soda with water, wait several hours to cool, then blended in oil. We were really careful to not spill or splash and we had a big bottle of vinegar sitting around just in case. Once we got the soap into its mold we went to wash out the bucket.

We figured the time and oil would have neutralized the base-ness of the soda. We were wrong. Not only did we dumbly decide to wash the bucket out at the pump (people like drinking caustic soda right!?...) but we used our hands to clean off the bucket. It took less than a minute for me to start to feel my fingers pruning and my skin feeling tight and dry. A minute later Matt’s hands felt the same and we rushed off to splash some vinegar around. The oil that we had mixed in with the soap helped to make a barrier between our skin and the vinegar so we ended up having to do a combo of soap, water, vinegar to eventually get rid of the burn. I lucked out with just some rough skin and a lack of fingerprints, Matt had a couple little blisters on his forearm about the size of a silver dollar. So people, if you are going to make soap, be careful. We tried to be careful, still got burned and though we had a slow reaction burn, it still hurt.

After prepping the soap, but before the burn, we tried to go to the river to play scrabble. We ended up giving up when we hit the rice fields but it worked out because while there and later while playing scrabble, we could hear the grunt air bubble sound of a hippo. I’d like to see a hippo again, but from a perched type of position with an easy escape. I’m sure if I was chased I’d role my ankle and go straight into a useless fetal position and if I wasn’t killed I would at least be med-sept due to injuries. We lived though, and I made it back to site with far more difficulties, pauses, and less comfort than the trip there.

This is Matt mixing the soda and water. It gets hot, really hot.

Notice the stick turned black, it was that hot.

Making soap!

Koos before it's been pounded to look like sand.

Scrabble out in the bush, with hippos within ear shot.

The fly that was a mystery spice on my chicken at our legit restaurant.

This is the rice fields out at Matt's site. Hippos were right out of view.

Matt said my wrap skirt made me look pregnant...

Matt's leaky roof, see the light on the right? It shouldn't be there.

Looks like a made a new friend...

This man looks crazy but he had some amazing dance moves and singing skills. If I ever have a fast internet connection I will try to put some video up. Now, on to the blog...

I got to test my host mom’s affections and hospitality for me recently. She’s a great person, just a little older than me, laughs all the time, and loves any type of social event. She is pictured below btw. Though we live in the middle of no-where, she works in the fields, and spends most of her days outside I think she could still be considered a bit of a girly girl. It’s odd that of everyone I could get to take me out there, she happened to be the person.

I have been telling my host family that I want to go out to the rice fields to see them since the rains started. They all kinda laughed it off but I was finally able to persuade them and my host mom (Bana) said she would take me out there when she got back from weeding in the bush. Every time I talked about going out there everyone told me about the water. “it’s so deep!” “It’s freezing and disgusting!” “There are bugs in there that will come up and bite you!” None of this really scared me away but even we walked out there one woman showed us her bleeding battle wound from this rice field creature. When we were getting to the beginning of the stream we finally saw the thing they were trying to scare me away from. They said “Fanta come look come look! You want to go out there?” What was this terrible creature of the underworld that has my family fearing so strongly for me you say? A leech. I’m not stoic nor Bear Gryllis or anything but I was a bit underwhelmed. Leeches don’t even hurt, it’s not something to completely freak out about. I looked up at the women around me, said it was no problem, and got scoffs of exasperation.

A funny part about all this is how little I knew about rice fields. I imagined that it was a lowered pool of water with dry raised banks. It’s not. As we walked we slowly got in more and more water and deeper mud. When the mud was getting to our ankles I thought “I wonder if it’s going to be like this the whole way. . .” We went from ankle deep, to calf deep, to sometimes hip deep. Grass surrounded and sometimes the path would open into lily pad laden open areas. The mud was deep so we would trudge through the sharp grassy areas so we wouldn’t fall.

Before I get into anything more I want to go over my dress for this occasion. Women wear a mix of things. I saw one woman putting on socks to go out there (seemed like a good idea), another with pants and cloth with string holding it tightly to her ankles and waist. I took a more German approach by wearing bright yellow soccer socks, strap sandals, and capris that I eventually tucked into the socks (fierce?). My host mom wore her normal complete which she promptly got dirty by falling in the mud when we weren’t even 3 inches deep in water. This was the start of a fun afternoon for me, and a lame one for her.

After 20 minutes of walking through the grass and water we finally got to my host grandmother. She was surprised (not just by my awesome fashion sense) and kinda just went, “so you are here now....thats nice”. My host mom seemed a little worried since, as mentioned before, she isn’t very outdoorsy after all. We headed back after just a short time because lurching in ass deep water is probably not on the Peace Corps list of helpful health techniques. On our way back there was a point when my host mom shouted “Fanta! (my Gambia name [I know, like the drink, hilarious...]) move move!” I moved, looked to my pant leg that she was staring at and saw the strings of my capris but my host mom thought it was a leech swimming vigorously for me. She yelled out and started to haul ass back. Mind you, we were still hip deep in slippery mud and water. I wasn’t able to stop her to tell her that it wasn’t a leech until we were on dry land.

I plan on going again so I can get some pictures but for now I am going to wait a little while to make sure I don’t pick up some dirty mud/water disease. My toe has been hurting all day. You know what that means, looks like I might be leaving this country sans one toe.

Here are some more random pictures from

This is my host mom doing her sisters henna tattoo to look foxy when she goes back to her new husband and compound.

This is a shot of my village during a dust storm.

The moon after a dust storm.

This is the river during the dry season. Great for the environment, right!?

One of my host mom's and a neighbor pounding.

My fingers after getting the henna done. They do it on the feet and hands for special occasions.

This is my hut. Pretty classy, I know. I have a better roof now too.

This is me and Kane's attempt to put me on his back like the women here do with their babies. It worked, but was terribly painful for Kane.

Gettin' yur hur did is a bit more extreme here.

They really love Obama here, or at least use him as a marketing ploy all the time.

This is my house getting a new roof.

Getting a new well in our compound. They seriously dug this thing in two days. That is so fast. It took me forever just to get my compost dug.

Note: I didn't edit this at all because I don't have time. There is a rant at the end which is probably badly worded and more diary than anything else.

Hello all you out there in Toubabadu. Gambia greets you. Since getting back to site I have started more serious work, fasted, travelled back to Kombo for training, welcomed a British visitor, and gotten in my first Gambian argument (it was basically like talking to a wall about a dead horse). Work is going alright. I went to the hospital in Basse and have started to work with the HIV support group for the region. It’s going to be outreach education, grant reporting, office structuring, and teaching computer literacy. I plan on helping at the monthly support meetings and finding ways to both educate the group and structure the meetings so everyone can get some say and whatever kind of support they need. Even on that first day I learned so much about HIV in this country, the situation with ARVs here, and some helpful and not so helpful ways people have to get their medicine. The good news is that the ARV’s are free, the bad news is that sometimes people can’t get them when they run out. Missing doses, even a couple, will build up resistance in the body so, of course, it’s important people can get to the meds when they need them. The other work I am trying to get going on involves education. Once again I am an education volunteer in a health volunteers role. There is a nursery school in my village that me and another volunteer are going to be doing some intense daily teacher training. We plan on having one of us in the classes every day for the first month of school to watch the teachers, help them implement the daily routine, lessons, proper punishment, and post class debrief of the day. This is a new school so they are still trying to work out the kinks. Other than my villages nursery school I want to work at a orphanage school in Basse to get their computer lab together and educate the teachers on computer literacy. I think knowing how to type and use my facebook hardly qualifies me as computer literate but I will try my best. Fasting. It’s kinda lame. Maybe the fact that I’m not doing it because I’m religious is why I dislike it so much. I don’t have the emotional strength from Allah to be stoic about it. I think those around me aren’t THAT big of fans of it either. Everyone seems more short tempered, falls asleep all over the place, and bitches about the new price of things (but me too). 10 dalasi for a bag of sugar?! Seriously, wtf. People are fasting food, sex, smoking, and drinking. That’s right, DRINKING! We live in Africa people! You are out in the bush all day weeding! Drink some friggin’ water! I fasted (mostly) for the last week. I gave up today. I wanted to make coffee, eat some circle cheese on bread, and chill today, fasting would have gotten in the way. Here’s the break down. 4am- Eat. I don’t know what they eat since I refuse to get up at that hour just to eat. If I happened to wake up for a minute, sure, but I’m not getting out of bed to eat some cold rice if I don’t have to. 4:30am-7:29pm- suffer, aka fast. 7:30pm- Drink tea, eat beans and bread. If you are lucky, or ritzy like my host family, you get mayo and ketchup in the mix. I’m living the life. 8pm-9ish- Fall into sleep coma. 9pm-Everyone prays then eats dinner. (It’s like 2 dinners! Gluttons...geez)

This is the tea, beans, and bread for my family.

To the disdain of my village, I went to Kombo again. I had to go for my groups Reconnect. I went there with high hopes and was excited to see everyone (which really was great) but due to semi unforeseen events the week went terribly wrong. The good news is that I got some good food (ants were only in it once and quickly was replaced with chicken curry), got to see my entire group sans one, and got far more language training that I could even think of language questions for. Once again I got to enjoy the beach and in the mix we had a huge Dirty 30 birthday bash for 4 people turning 30. It was an 80’s themed scavenger hunt that took us to all of our favourite spots. My team was like the A team of scavenger hunting. I got to speak German, Erica’s shirt got us free rides, and we had some impressive karaoke skills. In the end it was a sprint to the finish, we got second L. I came back to my village to find a British woman visiting. My village has a “guest house” that they use as a fund raising resource for the nursery school. The Brit has been a blast and I have been really enjoying her visit. The kids are around her 24/7 but, since she is a teacher of problematic teens in England, she has been amazing with all of them. I’m not saying that Gambian children are all problematic (unless you’re an animal) but she is really patient and doesn’t get stress out by so much attention. She has had a couple meetings with the school head teacher and gave us some great ideas that Ashley, the teachers, and I can use in the upcoming school year. Her visit has led to the last topic, the arguement. Yesterday was by far one of the most stressful days I have had in village. Normally my village is great but yesterday I had to pull kids off each other, kids demanded I give money (for the first time in village), I kept getting called Fanta Toubob, and it all came to a climax with the school committee demanding that Ami give gifts to them. Ami (her “Gambian name”) bought present like soap and cups for people she had met here who had treated her well. She had a box of things and the school committee wanted her to give them out in a “naming ceremony”. The problem with this is that 1. She already was being called by a Gambian name, 2. It’s Ramadan and no one is eating during the day, 3. No one is going to drum or dance when they are so hungry. She didn’t ask for the naming ceremony and they called it that as a way to get her to give out these gifts. Long story short it ended with me and another volunteer getting into a disagreement with a member of the committee who also became irate over soap. It’s soap! Not a raft in a flood, or veggies during hungry season. He basically told us that we were being rude because the committee built the house and should get gifts. We told him that they are only doing this because she is white, she paid to stay in the house so she has already given her due, and that it was extremely rude and greedy to demand that she gives gifts to people she doesn’t even know. It’s a gift, she can give it to whoever she wants. We were told “you only know 1/4th of this culture. You are PeaceCorps , you are here to know our culture and act like us”. You can braid my hair, put a kompleto on me, and get me to eat rice with my hands but I’m still American. Besides, I have never seen them treat one of their visitors like this. Culture my ass, you guys are just exploiting her because she is from the West. I feel embarrassed when I see NGO’s or other Westerners come here, enjoy the people, then on the last day get treated so rudely that it forever tarnishes their view of this place. The last days are when people demand money, things, call us rude, and try to guilt the hell out of us for material things. I have seen so many people leaving saying “these people are so greedy” “so lazy” “so rude”. I just wish they could see the nicer parts of the culture, why do Gambians have to ruin a good thing? I hear people say “oh, they are acting like this because they think you are a tourist but you’re PC, you are different”. Why is it ok to treat tourist like shit? I’m from a city with a ton of tourists but I don’t go out of my way to exploit them. The worst I think is “ah! Come on buddy! This is a one way!” All the people up country that are visiting are up here out of good will but people don’t realize that they don’t owe you shit, they are here to help you, and the last thing you should do is demand something. The argument was a moot point, no one was going to concede, and I think I have possibly lost a counterpart over it. Oh course not every day is like this. I rant about it because it was an outliner of my villages normal behaviour. This is possibly a look at what it’s going to be like in a year and a half when I COS. At least I will be ready for it, somewhat. This is my flooded out compound during a rain storm.

This is what Gambia comes to look like after a ton of rain.

This is mold that is slowly growing on my bed frame. I am going to clean it in about an hour of two.

I saw this guy on my way here. I slammed on my breaks at got a shot of him. He was so bright and fluffy he stood out like a sore thumb.

These guys are all over my back yard.

My host dad's wrecked geli

My "Laundry Room"/backyard

This is a night shot of a storm that rocked my village.

PS I had to bike an hour, wait for the internet to work, and upload pictures for 3 hours for these 10 pictures. I hope you enjoy them.

I have been in Kombo (the capital) for far longer than I originally intended. I came back from Dakar about a week ago and wanted to register my village's nursery school with the Community Development Office and go straight back to my site. The office ended up having meetings for at least two days and then there was a public holiday, and then the weekend. This means that I have to stay here till Monday to register the school then head back to village on Tuesday, if all goes as planned.

On the bright side this has given me time to enjoy some of the finer things about Kombo life.

The beach has been amazing. Matt and I took a walk along the coast by some cliffs. The red sand doesn't make for the most stable cliff material but it seemed safe enough. There were little washed out parts that we sat in and were able to just look out at the ocean in the early evening. There wasn't really any people back there since its just a path behind people's back yards. (Sorry there are no pictures of any of these things but soon this blog will be laden with them.) Later Mark and I went swimming at the beach closest to the PC house. It has a name but, you know, I don't really know it yet. Then, the coupe de ta (my French is "not sweet") was a visit out to Tanje, which was so nice, it deserves it own little paragraph.

I trucked out to Ian's site so I could go to the beach with him and the new training group. The drive out there was quick and easy. I took a 5 Dalasi taxi twice and then a bush taxi out to his village for another 5. I think the apprentice of the geli (bush taxi) recognized me, but maybe I am just vain. Shortly after getting to his site he biked off to the training villages to pick up the group. While he was gone I had an improve football game with me and some of the neighboring girls. I'm getting old, they were fast, and like, 15 years younger than me. Everyone arrived, I rode Ian's bike, and he ran us to the beach. It was amazing. I know I'm from Nevada and all but I thought it was one of the nicest beaches I have ever seen. We biked through a garden path that eventually led to a steep slope to a beach. Down there the water was nice, no rip tide, or any big waves, just calm. We went back up the cliff, through more gardens, and then to a lookout that had great views. There were some storm clouds in the sky and you could see the fishing boats far out in the water.

The real point of writing this specific journal entry is to talk about the brunch we had at our Medical Officers house. Once a month he has a get together for volunteers to come over, eat some great food, and socialize. The food was AMAZING! Mike's kids are the CUTEST kids ever! It was a blast. I drank 3 cups of coffee, pancakes, eggs, crepes, and ate a sausage (um....it fell on the floor, and, after pressure from Brian, I ate it, and he ate the other one I dropped. I'm a terrible health volunteer, but I just couldn't waste it. Can't wait to hear how my future medical apt with go when I explain to Mike that I'm sick because I ate a sausage off the floor of this kitchen. Try not to judge though, I never get sausage, or meat, so screw wasting. And, I'm not sick yet). I wish I could go to Mike's food get-together every month.

My goal was to make this a short post, but it didn't work out. Next time you eat breakfast, enjoy it, a lot.

It's been a month since my last blog post? Well baby, its not that I didn't want to post to you....its just that I was busy, you know how hard it is to get to the computer these days, and I was out of the country and all. Forgive me? aw, you're the best.

I went to America and back. It was great. So very very very nice. Good food, great friends, nice weather. I like how 90 seems like a perfect temp now. Tahoe and Yosemite were beautiful as always and I got to spend lots of evenings looking at the stars in rural Nevada. It's nice that my friendships haven't changed, it's like I never left.

Getting to Dakar was easier than I thought. I was worried, well, more like a little pansy about it. I stayed with two volunteers right by the ferry and caught a car easily to the border. After customs I took a motorcycle to the car park. I thought, "motorcycle? I have a suitcase. How is that going to work?" but in classic West Africa fashion (maybe all Africa fashion for all I know) the presence of a large object didn't phase this driver the least bit. He just put it on the tank and steered with his arms around it.

The car park was easy and even the negotiations went fine. The ride was bumpy but not bad. Maybe I am just used to having to take a sete plus to get around but I liked looking at the country side. Once getting to Dakar I though "man, real highway? Fancy". My driver looked at me and said "Airport (in French)" and then dropped me off on the side of the highway by a taxi. Let me repeat that, dropped me off on the side of the highway, in Dakar. The price neg. didn't go as smoothly and ended with a straight out arguement in front of the airport over the price. I won, but I didn't want to have to do that. The driver thought he could intimidate me, but, having worked in a video store in which this happened all the time, I was prepared to give the stonewall face, but unlike then, I didn't feel bad yelling back.

The airport was uneventful. It's not really opened during the day. That part is weird.

Flights were good. AirFrance has great food and all the people I was next too were French and pleasant. I remember thinking "uh, I haven't worn deoderant in so long, those poor people, oh wait, they're French, no prob".

As written above, America was great.

The first flight back was a bit scary due to a ton of turbulence. I had a violin with me which made me feel classy and over burdened at the same time. I had my fair share of beers in the LA airport (not drunk, don't worry) and had my 10+ hour flight to Paris. Both flights when smoothly. The Dakar airport was crowded picking up luggage with people half taking each other out grabbing 60 pound bags. "Get you 7 year old grandson out of here lady! These falling bags weigh more than he does!".

I was picked up by a Brazilian diplomat that I found on the couch surfing web site. Him and his wife were great hosts and saved me so much hassel by getting me at the airport. They had a 3 bedroom apartment that looked to the ocean. It was amazing. We went to dinner with some of their friends then to a swanky party with some nice ex-pat 20 somethings. It was a great experience.

The next morning I quickly found the sete plus home, had a terrible time getting a fare price, and ended up having a car full of really pleasant people. I was so tired I basically half slept the whole way. The guy next to me ended up being half nature show host half bodily injury helper. He woke me up when my head was hitting the window because of the bumpy road, and when there were two amazing (and really rare) animals that I was thrilled to see.

Customs was more a problem this time but just because they all wanted my number. I got asked for my number 4 times in the first hour of being back. It was kinda lame. The rest of the trip went how it normally goes. Ferry, car, office.

I spent the night at Ian's site and slept like a champ. I slept so hard that when his host mom came in to give him back a pan, it didn't wake me up one bit. The best part is that she didn't see me and put the pan on the pillow of his air mattress. I had the pillow on my head and was sunken into the mattress so when Ian came back into the room he found me asleep with a frying pan on my head. I was tired.

Now I'm in the capital. Trying to find people who are never in their office and getting people into college when it's already started for the year. Who knows when I will be back at site.

The rains are here (only). I guess the rainy season has come a month early this year. Last night it poured and poured. I assume eventually I will be so used to it that I don't even mention the torrent of rain landing on this patch of earth. "Another blog update" you say? Yes, I have found myself in Basse once again with a computer at my fingertips.  I came up here to teach the nursery school principal at the orphanage how to use his computer. She ended up having the day off, though we had a meeting scheduled, but it worked out that now I will come in and try to teach basically anyone who wants to learn about computers. Slowly I am becoming an education volunteer. Sorry health program. By staying I ended up taking care of a fellow volunteer who wasn't feeling well and got to watch the new(er) Star Trek movie. I even got to make rehydration drink for the first time. I guess I'm not such a bad health volunteer after all, I mean, he hasn't died.In other turning my back on my sector news: I am going to meet with the Cluster Monitor(he monitors the schools) for my area in a couple hours to try to figure out a way to get more children from my village to go to school. No one goes! It's not good and hopefully I can figure out some way to get attendance up.Since the rains one coming every other day or so that means the mosquitos are finding their life mates and are ready to invade everyones space. Ashley and I are trying to put together a net distribution for my village on the 18th.  Logistics aside, it should be a pretty fun day. It will be nice to feel like I'm getting some work done in village.

One other thing before I run off to the world of spaghetti covered in ketchup and mayo.

I have a cat and 3 kittens. I also have a circle house which means I only have 1 big room. Kids get really excited about the cats so every once in a while a new kid will try to look into my place. Last week I had just taken a shower and was standing nude at the day I was born looking at my roof when I see a 7 year old boy rip my curtain to my site. I yelled out in surprise as he quickly jumped from the window. I threw on some clothes and found him sitting on the bantiba outside my house. Maybe he was traumatized, or perhaps just contemplating that he peaked in nude woman viewing so early in life and was upset that it came so soon in life. I told him that I would beat him (just kidding?) and to not look in my house. I knew this day would come....I just didn't know when.

The rain is finally starting to show up. It's not coming in a never ending downpour but we have had at least two major rains in the last month. For the first I was in Kombo but the second turned out to be a interesting event.

Getting a new roof turned out to be far more difficult than I thought it would be. It took time, as in, months to finally get people planning to get me a new roof. Maybe I was just to hasty in my villages eye. Eventually I got word that I needed to prepare my house because my host brothers were going to replace the roof in the next two days. I spent a day packing away my stuff and moved in all in the back yard. The rope prep for the roof ended up taking two days rather than one so when the clouds grayed over I began to worry for the night ahead. When I headed to bed I felt a couple drops of rain so I moved a bunch of stuff back into my house just in case and slept under the mango tree.

I woke up to fire and brimstone of wind and lightening. I didn't feel any rain yet but the crashes of lightening were enough to make me want to sleep inside. I got up, ripped the sheet off my bed and headed into my hut. I didn't really have many choices for sleeping in there, my bed was outside along with a majority of other stuff. I thought I would sleep on the floor on a towel but then the mix of random ants and kittens convinces me I would need to look for other options. I relized that two of my trunks put together long ways would be enough for my body and my suitcase full of clothes could be used for me head. As I got my t-shaped bed made a downpour of rain started outside. I layed on the metal of my trunks and tried to sleep. My hissing cat (mad about the rain?) didn't help and it was still pretty hot in my place. Then the rain came. Inside. It came down the walls, it dripped from the roof and suddenly half my floor had a pool of water. I was pumped I was on those trunks.

When I woke up (3 hours later) it was morning and the air had cooled. My host family marvelled at my engenuity and stubborn-ness of not asking them for help. The looks of sympathy were enough for me to feel that I was indeed correct in asking for a new roof months ago.

We then tore down the old roof, which covered me totally in mud and grass, and put the new grass up. My new roof is thick and has that "new thatch smell". I was pretty excited to have the new grass, so much so that I'm pretty sure my family thought "geez, calm down Fanta, it's just some grass, not a cure for Malaria". Whatever, I was happy.

Site and all the accompanying adventures have been great. I am down in Kombo right now for a HIV/AIDS task force meeting and to saw goodbye to Ellie and Mike. Up country it has been hot hot hot, and not in a everyone has ab's sort of way, which they do. Other than the 120 degree induced heat rash things have been great. I discovered that finally sleeping outside has many pros and cons. Pro because I don't wake up dehydrated and sweating and con because mangos randomly free themselves from the tree and quickly pick up a "star wars speed (I will get to this later)" towards my head. My mosquito net helps out and now I have a sheet up, but the first night I was lucky to not get a broken nose. Whew!

The URR (Upper River Region) crew decided to have a Bike Tour 2010 ending with a Jolly Bah concert to help fundraise for a school in Brendan's village. In 4 days I managed to bike well over 100k while narrowly avoiding such hazards as small children, roaming cows, and heat stroke. Here are some pictures from our adventures.

Above is a picture of us resting. We had camped out by the river and were tired as it gets. I spent the night debating on whether hippos would come from the river or baboons from the bush to get us. Kasey dog managed to scare everything away.

This is a picture of Clervi and a semi delicious "power food" he made with power drinks, oats, seeds, ect. It was weird but semi good.

This is a picture of my feet on our last day of biking. I look a little Gambian right?

This is Clervi and I taking a rest to make sure the whole group caught up.

This is a shot while I was trying to change Kasey's bike tire. It took forever and in the end we had to abandon our two sick crew to find their way on a donkey cart. Some small kid ended up taking them on "the worlds smallest donkey cart" and after hours of looking for a car, they eventually made it back to Basse.

Kasey and Mike torturing a 2 year old child. Notice the baby on Kasey's back.

This is a shot of the river from the cliffs by Kasey's site.

Clervi's rash. Didn't stop him from enjoying our outing.

The gang on the first night. Notice Ashley's purple hair. Good times were had.The whole trip was good and full of great food. Clervi made us some great mixture with koos koos, Kasey had her family make us domada, Jenna (who's site is amazing and the bike ride in was one of my best sun sets here) made some calazones (probably one of the first times this has ever been made up country), and Brendan made us some curry. Up on the cliffs we heard baboons and in the market the police we all about befriending us. I got back home to the surprised faces of my village being amazed that I had biked so far.

One last quick update before I go up-country.

Now seems like a good time to go over my site situation.

I live in the URR (Upper River Region). This region is the farthest away from the capital and gets the most extreme weather. My place is a circle house with a grass roof and a big backyard area. The family I am living with is small by Gambian standards (grandma, host dad, 2 host moms, 4 kids, and 3 adopted kids) with my host dad driving a van and my host moms gardening. My village is big (about 55 compounds) and is about an hours bike ride from Basse (the other city in Gambia). I'm going to be working on an education program in village and possibly work on a English as Second Language program. So far though, I am mostly working on language and trying to get my barrings.

IST is done. It was quiet a blast, informative, and I think it really gave people motivation and guidance for work at site. To celebrate the end of IST we went out to Senegambia for some relaxation. (not that getting a full day at the Sheraton wasn't relaxing enough).

Here are some high/low lights from the night.

High: Discount drinks. I know the PC gets a bad rap for our affections towards drinking but we go on long stints at site without any indulgence so when we have a day off, working power, and good friends we make sure to enjoy ourselves.

Low: glass getting knocked out of my hand, shattering, and getting a bunch of little cuts on my foot.

High: a Susan Boyle esk woman at karaokee who really made the night wonderful. Her cheesy songs allowed me to shout supportive comments like "you tell that man!" in a southern gospel church style.

Low: Weird young Euro guys who tried to take a picture of me when I was dancing with one of them. Not ok young man, not ok.

High: Singing Bohemian Rhaspody and Fever. The first was done by me and 4 excited friends. The latter was my attempt at being classy.

Low: A drunk man yelling at us because we wouldn't give him our numbers. He was a lively, and hated the Peace Corps, or at least thought that giving us a mouth full would somehow fix the situation.

So now we are being freed into the infinitey of the rest of our service. I have a lot of good ideas about what to do, the hard part is just starting them. I guess the rough part is getting through the first year but even that doesn't seem to be too long. I have 3 months here, 2 weeks back home, and then 5 months until my first year is up. But first, gotta get back into the heat and try to start my school education program.

I am going to ignore most of the events that lead up until now i.e training and 3 month challenge, but randomly interject them into this blog. For now, lets get into today!

We are several days into IST (In Service Training). So far so good. I really think the staff is putting together interesting and useful information. Today we learned about creative ways of teaching. A drama group came in and performed, with one man being really good at fake crying, and luckily no AID's Babies came into topic. That seems to be a reoccuring theme "she stopped going to school, got a boyfriend, got pregnant and suddenly had a AID's baby and died". There was a lot of yelling but the acting wasn't bad by any means.

Our group got bused over to an NGO in the Southern part of the country which seems to be doing great work. They have all sorts of programs going on. One thing they are working on is education through puppet shows. They performed one for us that was funny and somewhat adult. Look out Avenue Q, we got to hear lines like "I will slaughter you!" and "Who has been enjoying you!?", the skit was about cheating and the characters forgave eachother really quickly. It's always funny to hear lines quickly and somewhat monotonely delivered. It was really funny though.

After the skit we got to see a play with some ladies in drag (not all but the 2 who were in drag were really funny), and a traditional skit with a signing group. After that some ladies sang and did hair. It ended up being very sureal as 1 man played the keyboards frantically (and without any idea of chords) while women did hair in a speedy presentation and children slowly started to surround us. It was one of the many sureal moments we have had.

One thing we saw that was awesome (and will have pictures later) was a cooking apron with a sketch of the female reproductive system. I had to buy it. I might be able to use it later but just for the fact that it was so random and would be hard to ever find again I had to get it.

That's all for now. We are doing a taco night. I will update on training and funny stories later, but that is what is going on now.

This was a picture from inside the airport in Brussels. A nice painting to welcome us to Europe.

This is as we were getting in the Newark Airport. We had quite the line.

This is a view from the plane on our way to Brussels.

This is my blog on my service here in Gambia while I'm in the Peace Corps. I'm 6 months in but better late than never.

This blog does not represent the U.S. Government or United States Peace Corps. Anything said is of the opinion of the writter and not that of the U.S. Gov or USPC.