Peace Corps Journals

"What is Africa to Me?" Clinton Etheridge

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

2012-02-10 05:54:00

A fellow Gambia RPCV and staff member for Peace Corps Washington DC posted this touching story about an African American man who served in The Gambia as a teacher from 1970-1972. He recently took a trip back to The Gambia with his daughters (and grand daughter), after his wife passed away. He ponders how his four year old grand daughters perception will change after visiting Africa, and also

...America, America, God Shed His Grace on Thee...

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Journey to The Gambia

2012-02-10 03:31:00

So here I am, finishing up a 3 week vacation in the great land of America!

Here are some highlights:

1. Visiting with my beloved family

The first shock was that my nieces and nephews have grown so much!!! Thankfully they all remembered me and were excited to see me. Noah, the youngest (in yellow) took the longest to warm up to as he was only 6 months old when I last saw him. Speaking of Noah, I found myself speaking to him in Mandinka (the local language I speak in The Gambia). Why? Because subconsciously I thought, "I'm not hearing him speak English, so he must speak Mandinka!"

I thoroughly enjoyed my time with my family:

I cooked with my mom
Worked out with my dad (he swam while I ran/biked)
Shopped with my mom and sisters
Babysat nieces and nephews
Went to a "tea party" at my grandma's where I was able to share my African experiences with 5 of my grandma's friends
Visited my aunt Mitzi and Tatum
Took a car trip with my 2 sisters to visit Grandma Washburn (see below)
Just hung out with family. :)

2. My sisters and I visited Grandma Washburn

It was really good to see her again as it is likely the last time I'll see her. Her health is deteriorating (although she looks GREAT in this picture) and hospice is just trying to make her comfortable. She has such faith and comfort in knowing the Person of Jesus Christ. It's inspiring. I feel honored to have her as a grandmother.

My time here in America has been restful, relaxing, and fun. God knew what I needed and who I needed to see and talk to. I am so thankful to the support network that God has raised up around me for such a time as this. Well, tomorrow I begin my return journey to The Gambia. I am restored and recharged to begin this 2nd year of my Peace Corps experience.

Thank you family and friends for your love and support. It means so much more than you know! May God bless you abundantly!

Stay tuned for more African updates!!!

Upgraded to WP 3.3.1

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The One Revolution

2012-02-09 23:58:25

Hey, so somehow I’ve had a lot more time on my hands recently, so decided to fix the issues I’ve been having with this site (database password got messed up – sorry, my bad). Also took the opportunity to upgrade to WordPress 3.3.1 – pretty! Plan to post a bit more often, but we’ll see [...]

The Harmattan Winds

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-02-09 14:08:29

I don’t know when I ever learned about the Harmattan winds, but in my mind it was some exotic African experience. As I googled the winds, the blog of a friend popped up, and I think she says it with more eloquence. “I think I first read about the Harmattan winds in The English Patient, [...]

To market, to market

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-09 11:26:00

It is Sunday morning and I’d gone to visit with Fatou Bobo. She was busy preparing lunch and asked, since I have a bicycle, could I go to the market and buy “nebbam karre,” “minty-lait”, and a medicine for a paining body. Oh, and Ma Debbo wants nebbam karre too, so double the amount of that but make sure it goes in two separate bags. When I admit I don’t know either nebbam karre or the medicine for a paining body (I didn’t know minty-lait either, but thought I did) she tries to describe them. I forget all the descriptions except “the pills are the white ones.” I ask Rugi, who is standing nearby, if she knows what these things are. She does. I ask if she can sit on the back of a bicycle. She can.

“You can?” Fatou Bobo, her mother, wants to know. I realize that of course Rugi is going to say she knows how to sit on the back of a bike whether nor not she actually can, but for both of our sakes I hope she is telling the truth. Fatou Bobo hands me the money and Rugi follows me to get the bike from my house. At our compound, Jainabou asks where we’re going and when we say “to the market” she hands me a 25 dalasi bill and asks me to buy 10 dalasis worth of some kind of peanut I’ve never heard of.

Rugi and I make it to the market without incident, but at the market she is less than helpful. I want to get the nebbam karre first, but I have no idea what sort of thing it is It could be a cooking oil, or a lotion, or something for laundry, or something for bicycles…oil is a pretty universal product, and I’ve no idea what “karre” might be. Rugi doesn’t appear to know either. She asks first the ladies selling vegetables and then the men selling shoes, “Where is the nebbam karre?”

I’m embarrassed to follow Rugi, as if I were incapable of asking this simple question for myself, so I tell her I am going to ask Samba Njie. He leads me right to the nebbam karre seller. I still have no idea what it is, but fudge-like yellowy cubes are counted out and put in bags for me. Rugi asks the vendor if she also sells minty-lait. I expect the woman to say no, because I do not see any of the little lip balm tins, but to my surprise she says yes and something like petroleum jelly is plopped into a plastic baggy.

I say, “Now let’s get what Jainabou wanted.”

Rugi says, “okay.”

We stand still. Rugi appears to have forgotten that she is supposed to be leading the way. I start to walk towards where most of the food vendors are. I ask a lady selling bean sandwiches where to buy “Rugi what is it Jainabou wanted?”
Rugi: “What?”
Me: “…what Jainabou wanted.”
Rugi is clearly distracted by the million things happening at the market, but manages to recall the name of the peanuts. We are directed to the table of ladies selling soap.

I ask, “Do you sell peanuts…” waiting for Rugi to jump in with the specifics about the type of peanut. Rugi never does fill in the details, but the lady must’ve known because she gestures towards a bowl of what might be peanuts.

“Rugi, is this what Jainabou wants?”

“Hmm?”

“Is this what Jainabout wants?”

“Yes.”

Then I ask if Rugi would like an icee because no am not buying her a whatever it is she is begging me for and an icee is what I’d bought for Pateh and Ous when they followed me to the market. Rugi agrees, until I am counting out change for the icees and the lady is picking one out of her cooler.

“No, I want peanuts.”

Luckily, the lady selling peanuts is also right in front of us so I apologize to the icee vendor and say I will buy five dalasis of peanuts instead. As the lady is scooping the peanuts onto a piece of paper, Rugi shakes her head no.

“You don’t want peanuts?”

No, she wants the kind of peanuts Jainabou got. I say no because those peanuts are ten dalasis and I am only spending five dalasis, icees or these peanuts, which will it be?
The ice and peanut vendors nod and murmur in a “kids these days” sort of way. “Peanuts,” Rugi grumbles.

I thought we were ready to leave the market and buy the medicine from that man in Camara Kunda, but now Rugi is starting to ask people where the medicine is so I tell we are going back and asking Samba. Samba points me to a man standing not far away. In front of the man is a table scattered with pills of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Rugi, predictably, provides no help in locating the pills Fatou Bobo asked for. Fatou Bobo had warned me not to rely on Rugi’s memory, but she failed to realize that my own memory, for unfamiliar words and unknown products, is no more reliable.

I greet the medicine vendor, then turn to Rugi and ask, “What medicine did your mom want?”

“Medicine.”

“I know, but what medicine?”

“To drink.”

“You drink all medicine.” (in Pulaar “to drink” is the verb used for consumption of medicine, even if the medicine is, in fact, chewed)

“Pills.”

“Rugi, many medicines are pills; not all pills are the same. Your mom said medicine for a paining back, I think?”

The man holds up a plastic baggy filled with bright red pills. Rugi nods her head yes. I sigh, “No, she said the white ones.”

The man holds up a plastic baggy filled with off-white pills. I ask, “This is medicine for…?”
“A paining body.”

The pills look familiar, like something I’d seen Neene with before, and they’re the right color, so I say okay.

“How many do you want?” the medicine man wants to know.

“Ten dalasis.”

He counts out ten dalasis’ worth of pills, pours them into a new baggy and ties it shut.
Rugi and I bike back and distribute the purchases to Jainabou and Fatou Bobo—miracle of miracles!—we’ve purchased everything correctly.

Two weeks later Neene tries to send me for the pills I bought last time and Jainabou again wants those special peanuts but that day the medicine man did not come and the lady did not cook the special peanuts.

Children's song!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-08 23:35:00

There is a song that Amadou sometimes plays from his boombox in which a woman sings the benefits of smoking cigarettes.

The children believe she is speaking Pulaar (she isn't) and here is how they have interpreted the lyrics: “Cigaretti, cigaretti, dabi fightin…almeti, bisketi.” (Cigarettes, cigarettes, ‘dabi fightin' … matches, biscuits).

Except for the “dabi fightin” it could be a song about items sold in bitiks. I approve.

Wednesday Gambia Rewind

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-02-08 17:30:00

So I have decided that our previous posts on our Peace Corps experience were somewhat biased and rushed. I was looking through our hard copy journal we kept our first year and thought- why don't I share these? Granted, I would not like to re-type the whole thing, but rather, extract short quotes from long entries that capture a certain memory of that time. I'll post them in order of write date

Dirt!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-07 23:39:00

Adama and Rugi are chanting something as we walk back from a football game. At the end of the chant Adama says, “God is dirt,” and touches her fingertips to the sandy ground and then to her forehead, leaving a little dirt smudge. Rugi follows her example, but instead of her fingertips she uses her entire hand. She also repeats the procedure several times, until sand is covering the majority of her (formerly) freshly-washed face. I guess Rugi really loves God.

Dear Donkey

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The My Peace Corps Experience in The Gambia

2012-02-07 19:12:00

*This is what happens when I get bored in my hut.*

Dear Donkey,

When I look into your eyes

I see past the flies

I can tell your soul is sweet

even in this awful heat

I listen to your horrid screams

and know you’re just blowing of steam

Donkey, I want to tell you how sorry I am

That your owners load you up as if you were a tram

And that the children beat you

And often mistreat you

If you were mine

I’d tell you how good you are all of the time

I’d feed you carrots

and teach you to talk like a parrot

I’d rub your sore back

and never give you a whack

I’d sing you songs

in hope that you would hum along

I’d untie your feet

and let you step to your own beat

I’d clean up your pin

and wouldn’t let it get messy like that again

I’d teach you to say excuse me

because those farts of yours are quite a doozy

and then I’d read you a bed-time story

so you’d know there’d be no need to worry

If you were my donkey…

Weekend Recap

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-02-06 16:00:00

I made Martha Stewart pancakes twice (they are seriously amazing and simple... fluffy recipe here). Then we biked 10 miles over to Idaho ( and the 10 miles back) to buy Josh a suit for an interview in March (looking good!). And I re-pierced an ear that had closed up... thank goodness I had that bear to squeeze. The food court is right in front of Claires, so of course everyone was

D.I.Y: Amusing Afternoon!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-06 10:07:00

Materials: half of a small condensed milk tin (empty), a blue marble

Step 1: Stand the milk tin on its base on the ground somewhere.

Step 2: Step a few paces away from the milk tin.

Step 3: Attempt to toss the marble into the milk tin.

Step 4: Retrieve the marble.

Step 5: Repeat steps 2 - 5 until you've been sufficiently amused.

Poison!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-05 16:48:00

Neene said rats have been eating all of the chicken eggs. Now I do not feel bad about killing the rat that had been making a mess in my house. I tried to dispose of him humanely, with a trap made out of an empty powdered milk tin, baited with peanut butter. And okay, yes, it’s true I tried to make the peanut butter poisonous by mixing in large quantities of expired aspirin that I’d crushed up, but the trap failed anyway.

After several nights of painstakingly arranging the trap, only to find it creature-less the next day and the trails of mouse poop still on my desk and floor, I decided to just go for a plate of expired-aspirin-poisoned peanut butter. I awoke to find the peanut butter untouched. So maybe that explained why the trap hadn’t work, but instead of looking for better bait, I decided to buy some real rat poison. Actually, I thought of just grinning and bearing because I was too lazy to go on a rat poison quest, but conveniently, the poison came to me.

On a trip to Basse I stopped at a mat spread out on the ground with little piles of beaded bracelets and metal bracelets and rings. I thought maybe I’d see something I’d want to buy, so I greeted the man and stepped closer for a better look. I noticed that one of the piles contained neither bracelets nor rings, but sachets of rodentcide. I know this because the paper sachets were a scary shade of green, there were illustrations of an evil-looking rat and below some Chinese characters were the words “RODENTCIDE.” To be sure, I asked, “This kills rats?”

“Yes.” I told the man about the rat in my house who is even chewing the soap.

He said, “It is tiring you.”

Seriously!

I agreed and paid the ten dalasis (I thought this was amazingly cheap, only later did I learn I paid twice what I should’ve) The jewelry/poison vendor bundled one of the sachets in a piece of plastic and handed it to me. This action reminded me that what I’d just purchased was poison and I should be careful about where I put it.

At home, a couple of days later, I take out the sachet. I am disappointed to learn that either “rodentcide” is the same in English and French or someone somewhere was playing a cruel joke on all people not English-French or Chinese-French bilingual because the entire back of the sachet, the side with the instructions, is written in French. I assume the words below “UTILISATION” are telling me how I’m supposed to use the poison. “Mélanger” probably means “mix.” Okay, so I’m supposed to mix the poison with something, good to know. But what is “denrée alimenta ire”?? I remember "alimentary" relates to food from some Sherlock Holmes joke with the punchilne, "alimentary my Dear Watson" so maybe the instructions are just reiterating that the rat will eat the poison, once I’ve mixed it with whatever it’s supposed to be mixed with. My French food vocabulary is limited to the lyrics of a song about steak I learned in seventh grade. These words are: steak, carrot, potato, salad, cheese, dessert, chocolate mousse, strawberries, candy. I also know some body parts from that song where the bird gets plucked apart. And I could ask my brother Jacques if he’s sleeping.

But none of these song lyrics appeared on the back of the sachet of rat poison. There are some parentheses in the UTILISATION paragraph and “riz” is one of the words listed. Rice was not one of foods in the steak song, but somehow I know that is what "riz" means. Rice is something we've got plenty of--things are looking up. In addition to rice I’m supposed to mix in 2g of “d’huile comestible.” I haven’t a clue what that might be (until days later, where I spot “huile” on the label of a 20L container of vegetable oil). I decide to hope that even without “huile,” the mixture will kill a rat. Then I’m supposed to do something with the mixture and something with paper and the rat will do something. I figure I’ll mix the stuff on a plastic lid and leave it out somewhere.

I’m more worried about not understanding the Précautions. There is a numbered list of them. 1) Says it is toxic for people, animals, and some other word I can’t figure out. I wonder, really, what else besides people and animals we are worried about poisoning. Plants? 2) ??? 3) I figure out it lists the symptoms of poisoning, but I can’t figure out what these symptoms are. I decide if I suddenly feel different in a bad way, I’ll alert somebody. 4) This item on the list is a long one, and I don’t understand a word apart from “immédiatement,” “empoisonnement,” “rodenticide,” “lait,” and “docteur.” Maybe the poisoned person is supposed to drink milk immediately and call a doctor? That would be a problem—I can’t just open a fridge and pull out a carton; somebody would probably have to go and milk a cow. One sentence seems to be talking about provoking vomiting, but I wouldn’t know if it said “do” or “don’t do.” I decide to hope that I don’t poison myself.

That night I take some of the leftover dinner that had been given to Levi, put it on a plastic lid I’ll later throw away, pour the rodentcide on top and mix the stuff together with a stick. I originally put the lid on my table, but realize that’s a bad plan if my goal is to not accidentally poison myself. Since Levi decided to stay outside to sleep, I bring the poisoned rice to the floor. And the next day, waddayaknow, there’s a dead rat, curled up on the table next to the jar of pens and pencils.

I dropped the rat down the latrine. I felt bad about doing this, considering what he’s been dropped into and what will later be dropping on top of him, but I didn’t have another choice. Even if I brought it way out to the bush (which would have required walking a long distance with a dead rat) I wouldn’t have trusted Levi not to find and eat it. He’s a smart dog generally, but his definition of “food” is sometimes broader than it should be. For a couple of days I worried mildly that my hut, or possibly just my pit latrine, would be haunted by the spirit of the dead rat. I’d never killed anything larger than a cockroach before. However, I forgot this fear after a few nights not spent lying awake to the sounds of a scurrying rat at night and a few mornings not spent sweeping away rat poop and righting knocked-over items.

By the way, “Rodentcide” in Pulaar is “lekki dombru,” which translates literally as “rat medicine.” I guess because it cures you of your rats.

coffee shops and old journals

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-02-04 17:30:00

I love time in coffee shops, so even though I don't have "work" to doI read newspapersAnd I have been flipping through our old journals from Peace Corps I flagged a few that I want to remember And I wrote up some for this blog, so we can rewind a little and remember a little something.Even if it's just a short little quote or funny story.I felt like our posts

Facebook Stories

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-02-04 11:30:30

I realized that if I don’t put some content between my “Cooking with Mbosse” recipe posts, then I run the risk of becoming a weird African Food Blog. Which isn’t bad, but I don’t think that’s what you all are interested in. If you’re even there. Hello? Anyways, I realized that I haven’t blogged much [...]

Operation!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-04 09:47:00

The lady suggested we try a taste of the watermelon before buying it.

We wanted to know, what would happen if we disliked the taste and decided not to buy a watermelon after all?

She insisted it was sweet, we’d like it. Please, just allow her to operate on it.

Okay.

She removes a small square of the rind with attached flesh.

We each take a nibble.

We buy the post-operation watermelon.

In a haste to eat...

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-03 23:12:00

At the end of the fourth period, I pulled out a ten dalasi bill from my wallet and it ripped in half. It was the only money I’d brought with me, nor did I have any tape. Miss B. announces that I would not be given any Sellotape. Someone else comments that I’d been in “too much of a haste” to buy food.

I grin foolishly, then ask if anyone has tape. One teacher said he did not have any with him, did I have another ten dalasis I could use? I did not. He looks in his wallet and kindly exchanges my torn bill for a whole one.

I return with a sardines sandwich. One teacher says, “I thought Binta would not eat today.” I answer, “Mr. K changed the ten dalasis for me.” Miss B tells him he should not have done that. Then she tells me she will “advertise this,” which I take to mean “remind you of this day for the remainder of your stay in The Gambia.”

The Staff Meeting Survival Guide

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Getting Down In The Gambia

2012-02-03 11:32:00

An article I wrote for the Education Newsletter

By this point, we’ve all been there…the dreaded staff meeting (and if you haven’t, you sneaky bastard you, please tell us your secrets.) Staff meetings are a place where the staff comes together to go over unimportant topics, waste as much time as possible, and generally drive a PCV crazier than they already are.
After attending every staff meeting at my school for the past year and a half and spending roughly 32 hours of my life in these “meetings” I’ve managed to develop and put to practice a survival guide. I believe it has kept me from going completely insane and ETing on the spot and I want to share it with you today. My friends get ready to be schooled on staff meeting survival:

1) Show up early. And by that I mean on time. You want to make sure you get a good seat. Preferably not directly in your head teacher’s line of vision. If possible sit next to or near your Oustas, or oldest teacher. You can make a bet with yourself or your closest teacher friend on how long it will take for him to fall asleep.

2) If you have long hair wear it down or to one side over your shoulder so that you can listen to your ipod. If you have short hair, again, seat placement is key. Try sitting in the back corner. I recommend the podcast “How Stuff Works.” It’s perfect for making 4 hours seem like 1 and it’ll make you giggle AND smarter at the same time.

3) Glue a crossword puzzle into a notebook so it looks like you are taking notes. Don’t forget to look up and nod every once in a while! And if your family and friends don’t think that sending 2 crossword puzzles in every care package is more important than peanut m&ms let me know, I have plenty and would be willing to give them away (at a price, cough peanut m&ms cough)

4) Find that one teacher who likes to stare at you, shouldn’t be hard, and have a stare-off. Try and make him as uncomfortable as he makes you on a daily basis. WARNING: If not done the right way this teacher could get the wrong idea so do with caution.

5) Count the number of yawns per half hour. Maybe it’ll match up with the teachers at my school!

6) During hour number 3, I would highly advise against shaking your head, rolling your eyes, sucking your teeth, staring daggers, and muttering under your breath at your long-winded head teacher. You will regret your irrational behavior once you see sunlight and breathe fresh air again.

7) Don’t get excited and start planning the rest of your day when you get to item number 5 out of 6 on the agenda after only an hour. The last item, A.O.B (any other business) will be the bane of your existence. AOB means hours and hours of pointless, irrelevant, redundant, unnecessarily drawn out debates with topics such as: on which side of the board to write the date, how should the girls have their hair braded, using your timetable to know where you should be at what time, how to call in sick, etc.
n One way to get through the particularly long and stupid debate is to keep score. All of the teachers will want their opinions heard and will say the same things over and over. You can make two teams out of the two sides of the argument. Come up with team names (such as the righties and the lefties for the chalkboard date debate.) Give each team a point whenever there is a sensible argument is made. If someone makes an especially good point throw your hands up in the air and yell “GOOOOOAAAALL!!!

8) Before the meeting, put a lot of credit on your phone so you can catch up with your fellow PCVs. Make sure to let them know that you’re texting them because you like them, not because you’re bored out of your mind and are trying to stay awake.

9) You can make a bingo card for yourself with phrases such as “are we there?” and “isn’t it?” and words such as: assessment or syllabus. You could even include actions such as a teacher jerking awake, a teacher chasing students away from the windows with a stick, someone taking a call, or your head teacher taking a call.

10) Lastly, you can always use the excess of wasted time to write an article for the critically acclaimed and award winning Ed newsletter for others to read during their mindless staff meeting.

Good luck to you all and remember, it WILL end…eventually.

Six Months Left

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-02-03 08:48:34

There are only six months left in my service, and it has already gotten into my head! Knowing the end is coming is causing me to think about the end game: What do I want to leave here? What work must get done? What’s my legacy? When thinking about that isn’t enough, I’ve started day-dreaming [...]

Leaving the Tropics Was a Mistake?

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Location: The Gambia

2012-02-03 09:58:00

we made it to Morocco!!! which is really exciting. especially because Royal Air Maroc checked our passports no less then 5 times so if we didn't have our documents in order we'd have been screwed. Morocco is amazing, more like Europe then Africa, which is crazy. but there's still undertones of Africa here and some other impressions that are purely Moroccan. this place has a lot more cultural identity than any other country i've visited these past few years.

there's just one thing.

it's WINTER here. really really winter. last night it was 1 degree celsius-just a hair above freezing. i am so cold i don't even know what to do. i even bought more clothes, i'd forgotten what layering feels like. next on my list is shoes, chacos and socks just don't cut it. and the thing about Morocco is they don't really embrace the concept of heating. when we first arrived i thought it was strange the way everyone wanders around bundled up as if they were on a trek across Siberia, but i quickly realized this is because this is the only choice. not a single hotel, cafe, shop, or any building i've been in has had any sort of heat. not even fireplaces. it's crazy. you have to bundle up all the time because you can't quite pop indoors and warm up. but its good for me, sort of like going cold turkey-get it?-on feeling hot. plus i probably needed to beef up my winter wardrobe. but that didn't stop me, last night, bundled under 2 of the thickest blankets i've ever seen, from asking myself...was leaving the tropics a mistake?

no. and yes.

but anyways Morocco is one of the most beautiful places i can even imagine; naturally and architecturally. people speak french and arabic which makes it feel soo exotic but there's still enough english for us to manage. the food is amazing, they really know how to use spices here. you can buy strawberries from street vendors and pastries on every corner. they have huge stray cats the locals feed to entice them to kill more rats. i just wanna entice one to take a nap in my bed so it'll be nice and warm when i crawl in it. Morocco is definitely a cut above Ghana, the ideal next step up the development ladder. i have taken a few pictures but its difficult to do it justice. needless to say i will still post them later anyways. until then, i am yours in gloves, a hat and a scarf. c'est bon? c'est bon.

Happy 3.5 Un-Anniversary!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-02-03 01:30:00

Happy Un-Anniversary! I can't believe Josh and I have been married 3 and a half years. I'm just going to keep posting wedding photos every anniversary (and apparently every un-anniversary). Our first year of marriage, we stuck to the paper theme- as first year is paper gifts.We made fun lists about different things- things we like about each other, places we want to visit, etc. We also got

Photos of a chameleon, a dog, a guinea fowl and some puppies

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-03 00:15:00

I looked up and saw a chameleon. Not wanting him to be knocked out of the tree, I decided not to tell a single soul.

I have an excess of photos of guinea fowl and dogs. I could just keep them to myself. Instead, I''ll have them randomly appear in unrelated posts for at least a few weeks.

SOFTBALL IN SENEGAL? A guest blog by Ben Adams

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Adventures in the Whale's Mouth

2012-02-02 23:02:00

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

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

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

Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.
In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tirana, Albania

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J's Travels

2012-02-02 14:41:00

Modern Tirana was founded as an Ottoman town in 1614 by Suljeman Bargjini, a local ruler, although the area has been inhabited since long before the town was founded. Tirana became Albania's capital city in 1920. The city is surrounded on almost all sides by hills, with Dajti Mountain on the East and a valley that leads to the Adriatic in the distance, the Triana river also runs through the city, and is visible in many parts of the city. During WW2 Tirana was a fascist stronghold, that Benito Mussolini visited from time to time. A puppet government was established there with a puppet leader King Zog, at the reins. Tirana stayed in fascist control until is was liberated on 17 November 1944 after a intense battle between Communists and Nazi forces. The Nazis didn't hold for long and eventually withdrew and the communists seized power. The city experienced a incredible decline in architecture, as well as living standards as massive socialist-styled apartment complexes, and factories were constructed, while Skanderbeg Square was redesigned with a number of buildings being demolished. Tirana's Old Bazaar and the Orthodox Cathedral were burned to the ground for the creation of the Soviet-styled Palace of Culture. The Italian-built municipal building was destroyed and the National History Museum was constructed instead, while the structure housing the Parliament of Albania during the monarchy was turned into a children's theater. It seems as you have read and will read in the future, that when one regime enters, it destroys all reminders of the former regime, to replace it with a facade of their own. Of course, there were revolts against the standards of living and other issues throughout this time in Tirana's history, mostly by university students. Overtime, with the fall of the USSR, communism fell in Tirana. The most recent problem now is the chaotic development of the city. Everywhere you look the is construction. Multi-story complexes are going up and there is no utility backbone in the city. Many illegal homes are going up and the roads are not in great shape. Tirana is a colorful place, with a bustling nightlife, but no charm. Its a place with some kinks that still need to be worked out.

So I arrived in Tirana and immediately saw the mess that it is. I liked it though. It was a fast paced city with movement everywhere. I walked around the square and took the sights, the mosque and clocktower, the opera house, the national history museum. A big statue in the center of a former Albania war hero, horseback. On my way to the hostel I heard screaming. I look over and see a woman screaming and almost throwing herself into the road. She is screaming at every passing car. She obviously had a mental illness. Everyone avoided her as they walked by and she ignored everyone...except those cars. The hostel was nice I stayed there for several days and met a guy working their an American. That was nice, because it was good to talk to someone in English for a change. We went out and drank throughout the whole time there. I went to Mt. Dajti to get a view of the city. It was a nice trip up to the mountain. Great views and plenty places to hike around. On the way out I ran into the prime minister of Albania. Have a secret service guy show me his gun, because I wanted a picture of the pm. It was cool all the same. After a couple of days I left for Berat. I was waiting on a new card to come in mail. I am still waiting to get back to that card and out of Albania. I am ready to see a new place. I love it here. I would recommend it to anybody, but its time for a change of scenery. Next stop was Berat.

Skopje, Macedonia

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J's Travels

2012-02-02 10:32:00

Skopje is the capital of the Republic of Macedonia. Skopje, with about a third of the total population. It is the country's political, cultural, economic, and academic center. It was known in the Roman period under the name Scupi. Some people still call it by this name today. The area in and around Skopje has been inhabited since at least 4000 BC; the remains Neolithic settlements were discovered inside Kale Fortress (Skopje Fortress.) The night before the start of the 1st century AD, Scupi was seized by the Romans and converted to a military camp. Later in 395 AD, The Roman Empire was divided into two halves, east and west, Scupi came under Byzantine rule from Constantinople (Istanbul). From 1282 the town was part of the Serbian realm and its capital city since 1346. In 1392 the city was conquered by the Ottoman, it would stay that way for over 500 years. At that time the city was famous for its oriental architecture. In 1912 the city was conquered by the Serbs during the Balkan Wars and after the First World War and stayed that until the creation of what was to be called Yugoslavia. In the Second World War the city was conquered by the Bulgarian Army. This is one of the reasons Macedonia and Bulgaria don't get along to this day. In 1944 it became the capital city of all the reincarnations of Macedonia. The city developed rapidly after World War II, until the major earthquake of 1963, which destroyed 80% of Skopje. Skopje is approximately halfway between Belgrade and Athens. The Vardar River, passes through the city then flows south passing the border into Greece. Today, Skopje is spreading is growing leaps and bounds. The government has created the "Skopje 2014" project. With the help of the EU the city is changing its image of a bland capital into something different plans have been to erect several statues, fountains, bridges, and museums at a cost of about €500 million. When I arrived at the central bus station in Skopje, I saw was a unorganized, bland, and unimpressive city. I could see the VERO center, which was a major eyesore. I wandered to my hostel, which was in "Old Town" and was quite nice. Old town was a really nice part of the city, small streets, old houses, and Macedonian flags waving in the cold wind. I woke up the next morning and wandered around the city. I went to Macedonia square and saw the gigantic statue of Alexander the Great. There was a huge video screen next to the statue. It was playing a movie, that was fragmented often with car commercials. After seeing this I went to the Kale Fortress, it was a long walk to find it closed. I heard later from many people that this is a common issue as of late. Afterwards, I went to the National Holocaust Museum, which was very interesting and well designed. It was in Cyrillic and English, which was nice, even the movie playing in the rooms was in English. I discovered that the Bulgarians during WW2, entered Macedonia and made all the Jews write down their addresses, names, and bring a picture. This was a way of cataloging never seen, in WW2. Its the only one of its kind. The people in some of the pictures are smiling, some are not. The museum has many of these pictures. This is another reason Macedonians dislike Bulgarians. After the Bulgarians, the Ustaša arrived and reeked have on the people of this country. The amount of hate it took to kill so many people, I will never understand.

From there I traveled around the city and stumbled upon the National Art Gallery. It was not very impressive. First it was expensive. Second, all the paintings suffered from water damage. Third, there was so little, maybe 30 pieces total. I did find one or two that I liked a lot. After this, I went back to the hostel and planned my next move...Albania.

Effo’s Chicken Yassa**

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-02-02 09:20:14

Today’s cooking lesson killed two birds with one stone: It is Wednesday and that’s “Cooking with Mbosse” day, but I was also invited to a potluck with neighboring volunteers, so I asked Mbosse if we could start later, and cook for more. Always accommodating, Mbosse helped me make Chicken Yassa for 6 people. I’m going [...]

My 5 Top Favorite Movie Montages

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-02-02 00:37:00

by Kelsey 1. Step Brothers - "Do You Want to do Karate in the Garage?" with Hall and Oates 2. 500 Days of Summer. The scene where he is walking through the park and everything in his life is right- I love that feeling and you can totally get it by watching this- also with Hall and Oates: 3. Mrs. Doubtfire - Best "Make Over Montage." I love a good makeover sequence, but my all

Feet are annoying to photograph.

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-02-01 18:18:00

Tired of reading about guinea fowl? I'll never be tired of writing about guinea fowl, but I'll stop anyway. I don't have anything to say in this post, I just wanted to share a photo to show people (a.k.a. my dad) what my Fula scars look like.

Bulgaria and Rila Monestary

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J's Travels

2012-01-27 19:05:00

Sofia

So Jesse and I arrived in Sofia around 2am. The bus there was not so bad. Our first border crossing went well. Few questions and the guards were generally humble. We walked through Sofia for quite sometime. We couldn't find our road for the hostel and my feet were going numb. If you remember, I burned my really good pair of socks in Goreme. We pasted by old shops, squares, a small river, prostitutes (who whistle at you!), and thousands of cabs. Jesse and I walked around aimlessly until about 5am. Finally, after telling Jesse that I would pay for the cab, we get one. The cabby tells us that he knows the place. We enter the cab and he takes up about a block away and we are now standing in front of our hostel. I would stay for the next 6 days. A little history about Sofia. Sofia with a population of 1.3 million people, sits ensconce under Mount Vitosha; which you can see from certain parts of the city. The well-preserved town walls, which are visible when you walk underground, date back before the 7th century BC, when the Thracians constituted their city around a mineral spring, which people still drink out of today. Sofia has three mountain passes that lead to the city, which have been key roads since days of yore, affixing the Adriatic Sea and Central Europe with the Black and Aegean Seas. The city was destroyed in the 447 invasion of the Huns. It was rebuilt by Byzantine Emperor Justinian I (Remember him from Hagia Sophia in Istanbul) and for a while called Triaditsa or Sredets by the Slavic tribes. During the reign of Justinian it prospered, a great fortress with walls was built whose remnants can still be seen today. After a number of futile sieges, the city fell in 1018, but once again was established into the restored Bulgarian Empire at the time of Tsar Ivan Asen I. From the 12th to the 14th century, Sofia was a burgeoning center of trade and crafts. Again, in 1382, Sofia was seized by the Ottoman Empire in the course of the Bulgarian-Ottoman Wars after a extended siege. After this event the city started to construct more Ottoman style structures, such as Mosques and bathhouses. In 1878 Russian forces took Sofia again in the Russo-Turkish War, and became the capital of the autonomous Principality of Bulgaria in 1879, which became the Kingdom of Bulgaria in 1908. During WW2, Sofia was bombed by Allied aircraft, in late 1943 and early 1944. As a consequence of the invasion of the Soviets, Bulgaria's government, which was allied with Germany, was overthrown. These issues ended in 1946 with the creating of the People Republic. The architecture of Sofia is a mix of Socialist apartment blocks and quite a large amount of ancient Roman, Byzantine and medieval Bulgarian buildings are preserved in the center of the city. Many architects were involved in the construction of more modern buildings in Sofia, including places of learning. With the rise of Communism in Bulgaria came the typical Stalinequse construction of apartment blocks, large public squares, and particular designs for learning centers. This is also still present today, and can be found anywhere in former Communist states. The city is known for the Ivan Vazov National Theatre, National Opera and Ballet, National Art Gallery, National Gallery of Foreign Art, Alexander Nevsky Cathedral, Boyana Church, and SS. Cryil and Methodius National Library houses the largest national collection of books and documents and is Bulgaria's oldest cultural institute. Bulgaria is now a member of the EU and WTO.
The first issue occurred the next morning. I was trying to get money out of an ATM, which was not a problem in Turkey. I kept getting denied. Jesse fronted me some money and I was fine. Two days later out of money again. Again, I go to an ATM. This time it eats my card. We try calling the bank. They tell us that they will not give me my card back. I wait til the next day and again attempt to get it back from the bank. Here is a similar dialogue of what was said between me and the teller:
Me: "Can I get my card back?"
Teller: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Teller: "Hold on, let me ask."
Me: "Good idea."
Long story short...got the card back and have been suffering from this issue as of now. Lots of Western Unions as of late. This has been somewhat of a problem. I just got to budget a bit.

Rila Monastery

Its an incredibly beautiful place. A long trip up into the mountains, around them, through valleys, snow everywhere. You follow these things, until you hit a a wall and a door-that's it-the monastery. Rila Monastery is found in a deep valley of the Rilska River at an elevation of 1,147 m (3,763 ft) above sea level. The monastery is named after its founder, the hermit Ivan of Rila (876-946 AD). Who was said to travel into the mountains to be left alone and pray all the day threw. Well, it seems he was followed or discovered, as well as his hiding place, and thereafter turned into a monastery. Over the years large donations were made by almost every Czar of the Second Bulgarian Empire up until the Ottoman Conquest, making the monastery a cultural and spiritual center of Bulgarian national consciousness that reached its acme from the 12th to the 14th century. The monastery was rebuilt where it lies today by a man named Hreylu Dragovola during the 14th century. However, the Ottomans, as well as numerous raids overtime had destroyed the monastery by the middle of the 15th century. With donations by the Russian Orthodox Church, Rila was re-erected by the end of the 15th century. Three brothers from the region of Kystudenil, who moved Ivan of Rila's relics into the complex, were the main constructors of the monastery. After the complex acted as a cache of Bulgarian language and culture in the ages of foreign rule. During the time of the Bulgarian National Revival(18th-19th century), it was destroyed by fire in 1833 and then reconstructed between 1834 and 1862 with the help of wealthy Bulgarians from around the whole country.

As we entered the monastery, there was a level of silence, I have yet to hear since I started on my journey. The snow fell with a bit of strength. I started to look around and become familiar with my surroundings, when a Japanese woman started shouting about a picture. I had not noticed her, until then. She was screaming "OK! Take my picture here!" I would take it, she would run back and tell me no, then we would repeat this process. Now I am not a camera man and I don't what kind of shot she wanted, but I apparently was not doing this "picture" justice, so finally she just looked at it and said "OK," in a sad kind of way and went off. Back in my zone I started to shoot away. The church was amazing. Every square inch was hand painted eons ago, by St. Ivans novices. Pictures of all the important religious figures were present, as well as St. Ivan and other big players of the monastery's past. The inside of the church, was really impressive. The same style as the outside, painted in every place, but with some graves inside, writing in Cyrillic so I cant tell who they were, as well as some splashes of gold, and a lot of candles. They even sold Rila Monastery bottled water inside! Got to make money wherever you can, maybe that's why there were 3 souvenir shops inside and a dozen outside? We stayed for about two hours, not because we wanted to, but because the driver of the bus disappeared. When the driver came back we left. I slept the whole way back. When we arrived back in Sofia. I had made a decision to book it. That night Jesse and I, on our way back to the hostel, were smoking ciggarettes. I saw a cop car coming up the street. I even joked, "be cool, the cops kid." Well, the cop car stopped right in front of us. A cop exited and a conversation started, that went something like this...mind was a bit clouded:

Officer: asaldòlskdoapsodkùàèèò! (I don't know Bulgarian?)

Jesse and I: We don't know what your saying, we are American.

O: òpmnddilsiepeè! Bulgarian!

Jesse: OK

Me: Whatever you say

O: Where is the heroin, the marijuana, the cocaine?

Me: Not here.

J: Yeah, we don't have anything like that.

O: Were is your Passports?

Me: In the room

Jesse: (While handing him his Tennessee driver license) Here.

O: (Incredibly confused) OK. (Hands it back). Have a good day (and some other bs in there).

The officer leaves in the car, walk home laughing.

I was tired of it there. So after a night of bowling and drinking heavily, I told Jesse I was going. He felt rushed and possible pushed a bit (even though there was not a rush and he was not being pushed), so he didn't come with me. Haven't seen em since. I woke the next morning, packed and got out of there. Had a splitting headache that started, that morning. I had it for the next three days to come.

Also I am just curious if anyone is reading this thing anymore. I am quite behind with these, but am slowly typing them up. I would like to know. I am going to write them anyway. I just want to know. Thanks J

Collected evidence in support of guinea fowl:

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-31 16:29:00

After seeing a guinea fowl for the first time, Adama asked, “What is that?” then said, “It is beautiful.”
Buba has repeatedly requested that I give him one of my guinea fowl. He has also requested that I give him a car, a tractor, and my house. As cars, tractors, and my house are all pleasant things, one can infer that Buba only requests pleasant things. Thus, guinea fowl are pleasant things. (please move on to the next bullet point without rereading this one or thinking too deeply about the logic of those statements).
They were named after “the Guinea Lands of West Africa,” as The Oxford Junior Encyclopædia (1957) refers to the place.
“The guinea fowl… provide good red meat” (The New Caxton Encyclopedia, 1969)
“The eggs… are good to eat” (Children’s Britannica, 1960)
But before being eaten, guinea fowl will eat the nasty-tasting oatmeal I accidentally created in an attempt to roast away a bug infestation, thus preventing the oatmeal from going to waste (actually, it wouldn’t have gone to waste. I would have grimaced and eaten it).
Other unpleasant things guinea fowl will eat: “insects, weeds, and so on” (The Oxford Junior Encyclopædia, 1957)
The ancient Greeks knew all about philosophy, mathematics, theater and other Important Topics. The ancient Greeks also knew about guinea fowl.
A guinea fowl can take the place of a watch-dog.
Guinea fowl can been described with the following adjectives: gregarious, very shy, gallinaceous. To satisfy your curiosity, here is what gallinaceous means: Of or relating to or resembling a gallinacean. Here is what gallinacean means: Heavy-bodied largely ground-feeding domestic or game birds
Guinea fowl can be described with the following noun: galeeny. Here is what galeeny means: Word not found: galeeny

Guinea Fowl, Chapter 2, “Only one is useless.”

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-30 16:28:00

To prevent my life goal from being “useless” I decide to buy a female guinea fowl as soon as I return from a trip to the bank in Basse. Before I leave for Basse, I tell the kid I will buy a second guinea fowl, a female, as soon as I go to Basse and get money from the bank. He is pleased to hear this, and promises it will be caught. And that is how, a week later, Prunella Josefina Marzipan Cunningham came to join her husband, Ira Cornelius Peabody Cunningham.

Unfortunately, I am not entirely convinced that Prunella, is, in fact, female. When I went over to Camara Kunda to buy “her” the kid asked, “You need a male, no?” to which I replied, “No, it was a male you gave me before” to which he replied something along the lines of yes, that’s right, that’s what I’d meant to say. I wasn’t convinced.

“This one is a female?”

“Yes, yes.”

“She” is pulled out of a cage and brought over. Another kid flips her upside down for me and we look at the underside. I assume he is determining its sex. He assumes I am doing the same.
After a minute he asks, “Is it male or female?”

“I don’t know.”

“It is a female,” reiterates the boy selling me the guinea fowl, even though he had not even joined us in the examination.

At the house in Basse I’d found a poultry manual with a section on guinea fowl. I should have read it more thoroughly, taken notes, even. I think I meant to come back later and do so, but I forgot. What I do remember is: the guinea fowl is notoriously difficult to sex. Some tips were provided, however, which my brain did not bother to retain.

The next day in class a student asks if my guinea fowl turned out to be a female. I say, “Yes, they are not fighting.” I have assumed that, like Siamese fighting fish, you will immediately know if you’ve got two males by their commencing to tear each other to pieces. Ira and Prunella have done nothing of the sort, have instead chirped happily to each other and followed each other about the yard, swallowing ants and seeds. This behavior could mean nothing at all, of course, if it turns out guinea fowl are less similar to fish than I’ve imagined. One afternoon I notice a feather on the ground that must have come from the newest guinea fowl; when Amadou plucked out Ira’s flight feather he tucked them into my roof, but the feathers from the second guinea fowl were just tossed over the fence. I decide to do Amadou Julde’s feather-drop test. Male. Try again. Male. I thought maybe I was remembering the direction of the feather wrong, maybe face-down meant female, so I repeated the test a couple of times with one of the feathers that had been tucked into the roof. (Of course, two females would be another explanation for non-tearing-each-other-to-pieces, but Alasan had come to see Ira and looked at his underside and seemed confident in the “male” prognosis). The roof feather also landed upside down. I should have everything but distrust in this method. If sexing a guinea fowl was as simple as plucking out a feather, dropping it, and noting which way it lands, surely the manual would’ve mentioned that? Surely people other than Amadou Julde would be aware of it? And what are his qualifications, anyway? This I don’t actually know. Perhaps his family raises guinea fowl.

The next day, one of the guinea fowl let out a squawking trill and I wished Julia had been around to hear. Neene comes in, she wants to see them. She said it’d been making that noise all this morning and she thought it would’ve stopped now that he’s got a wife. She points to one, “Is that the one you bought yesterday?”

I cannot remember exactly, or see exactly which one she is pointing to, but I say, “yes.” She nods in confirmation; she can tell by the way that the other one’s neck is that it’s a male.

“Man and woman,” she says, pleased. Neene should know, right? After all, she grew up in Guinea…

At school, I decide to do some encyclopedic research. The school library has several encyclopedia sets, some of them complete, none more recently published than 1967. Vol. VI (FARMING AND FISHERIES) of the Oxford Junior Encyclopædia (an inscription on the front page informs me was Presented to St. Peter’s School by the Society of St. George February 1963, although the book itself was published in 1957) provides me with the following information: “Cocks and hens cannot be easily told apart except by their voice, for it is only the hen that makes the characteristic cry, which sounds something like: ‘Come back! Come back!’” I have heard my guinea fowl making a variety of noises, one of which may be the “characteristic cry” the encyclopedia is referring to, but the noise I hear most frequently sounds something like “BRSTHGWHWW!”

Well, if it does turn out I’ve got two males, I could always eat one of them.

A Different Life

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-01-30 04:57:00

After two years of cultural integration within a foreign culture I now find myself having to adjust to an equally foreign culture: academia. There are certainly some similarities between the two. As I feel like I’ve been literally plucked from one geospatial coordinate and placed in another, like one of those mechanical-arm prize machines in Pizza Hut lobbies, that I might be qualified to

One Year In

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The My Life in the Gambia

2012-01-30 01:19:00

It’s official. Over a year ago I arrived in the Gambia. I was describing to a friend how I feel like time here moves like our public transportation: either you are holding on for dear life flying down the road or you are sitting next to a broken car thinking that you will be stuck here forever.

Christmas brought an amazing present; Michael, my twin brother, came for a visit! It was so great to have a friendly face here. I got to experience a different side of the Gambia while we spent a few days at lodges relaxing and eating good food. Our favorite place was right on the beach. I made sure he also got the real Gambian experience too and took him up to my village. I’ve gotten so used to the way things work here that I forgot Michael might be uncomfortable on the slow ferri across the river or annoyed by having to wait two hours for a car to fill. But in the end we made it. My village smothered him with their overzealous welcoming and poor Michael had to greet everybody. My host family and village friends were so excited to meet him since family is so important to the culture here and they didn’t believe I actually had any.

One day we went to a weekly market which I am sure was overwhelming for Michael. New Year’s Eve we spent with my friend Samba who plays a fiddle made of horse hair and the skin of a lizard. We danced while he played and his wife sang. The village kids and women got down too. It was a great way to bring in the 2012. On New Year’s Day we took an amazing ride down the Gambian river and saw hippos and a crocodile. That was a first for me and very exciting. My close friends in village gave Michael gifts to take home, mostly for my mom as a sign of respect for my family.

Michael doesn’t know this but everyone in my village called him “Minirowo Ma” or younger [brother]. That is because in Pular there is no word for brother or sister just older or younger sibling. In Gambian culture the twin to come out first is considered the younger sibling because it is thought that the older twin sent their sibling on ahead to scope out the world for them. Michael always holds his extra five minutes over my head but here I win!

I was sad to see him fly out again and know it would be so long until we’ll meet again. I kept busy by finishing up the pump repair project that I wrote about before. I want to send my deepest thanks to those of you who helped contribute to fix it! We were able to buy new parts to replace old parts that have been worn down from decades of use. A local man from a village near ours came over and we pulled the pipe 36 meters out of the ground. All the men in my village spent a day in the sun watching was everything was taken apart and pieces got replaced. I was fascinated to watch as well. The actual pumping mechanism was so small. It was a very slow process to lower everything back in the hole but now things are working great! With two functioning pumps in the village the line for water has gotten a lot shorter. Everyone is so happy. Thanks again!

My ongoing project of helping the women’s group sell their handcrafts got more complicated today. I was so excited because I made contact with a woman who sells crafts here in the capital to the hordes of tourists that come to use the beach. She heard about our traditional jewelry and was eager to see samples and place an order. I brought some with my friend Dowda today. She thought the necklaces were very beautiful but didn’t like our prices. The problem is that a lot of what the tourist craft markets have here is actually imported from places like China or Turkey were it can be made cheaply. The markets are chuck full of identical, imported, ‘African’ crafts. We have to ask for triple or quadruple the wholesale price of most of her other items. She is going to think about buying from us but it doesn’t look good. It makes me so angry that fake, cheap things are being past off for authentic crafts and the money from the tourists isn’t staying in the Gambia where it is needed.

I’m trying to soak up what is left of the cold season. It was great for a while, some nights I needed a sweatshirt to sleep in. The heat is fast approaching as is wedding season and naming ceremonies for the babies. My host father has saved money to have a ceremony for his three youngest children and I am looking forward to celebrating, there will be some really good food.

Thanks for reading. I miss you all- send me some letters or emails please ;-)

Guinea Fowl, Chapter One "Life Goal: Acquired."

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-29 16:11:00

This post is dedicated to Julia, who is hopefully reading this.

As the kid had warned me, the guinea fowl came as a surprise. The afternoon I brought my first guinea fowl home, I had not even been thinking about guinea fowl. For the previous two hours, I’d been admiring a beautiful bride and photographing her as we paraded across the village to her in-laws’ compound (I’ll upload the photos in another post). The road home took me past Camara Kunda, where several of my students were sitting and brewing attaya. The kid reminds me that my guinea fowl has been caught. I had been told this a few days ago, but as the guinea fowl had never appeared at my doorstep, I thought the kid might be optimistically fibbing. I ask to see the guinea fowl. The kid brings it over.

“Could I bring it home now?”

I am told I may. I say I do not have the money now, but I can bring it the next time I am walking to the market, or even to school on Monday. I am told they will be at my compound this evening.

“300 dalasis.”
"But we agreed on 250."
“Okay, okay, make it 275.”
"But we agreed on 250."
"275."
"But I am your teacher, don't I get a special price?"
"275 is a good price! Look, this one is very big."
"Okay, make it 260."
"Okay. We will come to your compound this evening."

The guinea fowl is handed to me with a rope of cloth strips tied around one leg.

I'm holding a guinea fowl!!!

Pippi Isatou, who had been walking with me, asks me about some of the English words she had overheard in my conversation with the boys.

"I heard '300' and '250;' what does that mean?"

I explained we’d been haggling over the price. Then she wanted to know what I would do with my guinea fowl.

“I will put it in the compound and wait until the rainy season and before I go to America, I will eat him.”

“When you do that, call me over to eat.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t forget!”

Neene and Amadou both appear pleased (and less surprised than I’d expected) when I turn up with a guinea fowl. Neene asks how much I paid and gives a nod of “good, good” that it was only 260 dalasis. They want to know if it is a boy or a girl. I say a boy. Amadou Julde (a different Amadou, not my host brother), who is in the compound, says he will confirm. He plucks a feather and watches it fall. It lands face down. “Yes, it is a man.” He picks the feather up and drops it again. It lands the same way. He explains to Neene that the way the feather lands will tell you whether it is a male or a female.

Amadou (my host brother) tells me to bring the guinea fowl to my backyard. I ask if it will fly away. He says yes, I need to tie it to something. He tells me tomorrow he will build a house for it. He also tells me something along the lines of: "But you know, Binta, only one is useless. And he will always be trying to escape, trying to find a wife.”

Instead of explaining that I’d really only bought the guinea fowl to amuse myself for a few months and then to eat it I say that I will buy another one as soon as I go to Basse and get more money from the bank.

Guinea Fowl, Prologue

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-28 18:05:00

GUINEA FOWL: A west African bird having dark plumage mottled with white; native to Africa but raised for food in many parts of the world

The Stamford Museum and Nature Center, in Stamford, Connecticut, is an amazing place. There is a farm full of baby animals. There is a hidden playground in the woods. One time the changing art exhibit displayed mechanized creatures made of trash. It was on a trip to the Stamford Museum and Nature Center, probably sometime in middle school, that I first formulated one of my life goals.

We were leaving the butterfly garden when I saw the flock of guinea fowl. We stopped to watch the birds amble along the wall. I decided I needed to own some. Not right that instant, obviously, I wasn’t a “buy me a pony!!!” kind of kid. I filed the goal away with the other things to accomplish “when I grow-up.” I worried a little, because “managing a farm” was not on the list of grown-up things to accomplish, nor even “live in a rural setting,” so I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to succeed with “own guinea fowl,” but I decided I’d let my grown-up self figure that out.

And then, of course, I forgot about guinea fowl for awhile. For fifteen years, to be precise. Then I came to The Gambia.

“Guinea fowl!” I would’ve shrieked and pointed, if I’d been the kind of person who shrieked and pointed. A boy in training village had a pair of them and I asked my language teacher about them. I didn’t explain the whole life-goal-since-middle-school thing, but I told her I wanted to buy some. She said that was possible, and told me the prices, said they became more expensive as they grew bigger.

On subsequent trips to the market I kept my eyes peeled for guinea fowl. I saw only chickens.

During my first weeks in village, when I wasn’t doing much of anything because I couldn’t say much of anything, I thought about my future guinea fowl. I even debated what I should name them. Phineaus and Philomel? Or Bonny and Clyde?

But when the markets remained depressingly devoid of guinea fowl, I decided to get a puppy instead.

For a few months I thought, “Well, I don’t really need the guinea fowl now, that might be too much trouble, I can always wait until I’m later to buy them…even if I don’t get them until I’m sixty-five or something…that could be funny…I could be the crazy guinea-fowl lady…doesn’t have quite the same ring as ‘crazy cat lady’…Oh well.”

Luckily I snapped out of this thinking and realized, “NO! Guinea fowl cannot wait until later! I need one NOW.”

So this past October I began pursuing my life goal in earnest. I even wrote “guinea fowl” at the top of the month’s calendar page.

I go with Julia to ask Samba how to say “guinea fowl” in Pulaar. He tells us. I write it down. I lose the slip of paper. I ask where they sell guinea fowl. He says they sell them here, but they are maybe 400 or 500 dalasis. I could get them cheaper somewhere else.

I decide to look somewhere else. I have a vague memory of passing a flock of guinea fowl on the road to Basse…but where? Julia texts other volunteers for guinea-fowl-related information, but there is no response. I vow that even if I need to pay 500 dalasis for a guinea fowl, I would do it.

In mid-October, as I am biking to Basse, I pass a flock of guinea fowl on my way through Sudawol. I ask the volunteer in Sudawol if he knows who the guinea fowl belong to. He says his family has guinea fowl. Lucky me! I ask if he will find out if two are for sale. He says he will.

A couple of weeks later, I am in Sudawol for the HIV bike trek. I ask again if the guinea fowl are for sale and am told they “probably are.” I can come ask his family. I decide I will do it that evening. Evening becomes night before I’ve remembered. I forget the next day. And the next. Then we leave Sudawol.

It is the start of November. I write “guinea fowl” at the top of the calendar. On a bike trip back from Basse, I stop in Sudawol and greet the volunteer and his host family. He asks if I want to ask about them about the guinea fowl. I say, “Sure!” We find the one woman who speaks Pulaar and I ask her if the things that are not chickens and not ducks were for sale (had the guinea fowl been walking nearby I could’ve just pointed to one, but I guess things were more amusing this way). She says she doesn’t own them, but brings us over to the neighbor who does. He speaks Pulaar too, but the woman doesn’t explain why she led us over here so I need to go through the not-a-chicken-not-a-duck charade again. He says they are for sale.

“How much ?”

“But they are difficult to catch.”

“But you will sell one?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“If you come in the evening, before they go to the tree, they will be easier to catch.”

“Thank you.”

Maybe he wasn’t telling me the price because I’d get it for free? The Sudawol volunteer develops a plan involving a mini-mosquito net and says he will call me if he catches one.

The next week, walking back from the market, Julia, our “stranger” and I pass a flock of guinea fowl. I ask a nearby man if the guinea fowl are for sale. He says, “If you catch one, it is yours.” Our stranger chases one. It run-flaps away. One of my students, who is been watching, says, “So, Miss Jallow, you want one of these?”

“YES.”

“I will catch one for you.”

“If you catch one for me I will be very happy.”

It is starting to seem that owning a guinea fowl is as simple (or difficult) as catching one. I ask for advice from fellow volunteers. The mosquito net trap sounds like it should work, but it hasn’t so far. I am told someone’s neighbor has just captured a live baboon and has caught guinea fowl in the past…with bullets. I am told they have a loud and annoying squawk. I am told to wait until evening, before they fly into trees to roost. It is suggested I lure them under a wash basin leaning on a stick connected to a rope. I am told they are “pretty obnoxious creatures.” It is suggested I forget about owning a guinea fowl.

It is the start of December. I write “guinea fowl” at the top of the calendar.

In my journal, I write:

December 13: Casey didn’t catch one before he left for IST, but yesterday the kid from Camara Kunda said he’d caught a guinea fowl but I never came for it. I didn’t know if he was being serious or if that was just his greeting, so I tried to emphasize that I would pay money in exchange for a guinea fowl. Abdoulie told me he would catch it for me, I said I would buy it if he does. He could have it for me today. Today? Today or tomorrow. He wants to catch me the white one. Casey also wants to catch me the white one. If I end up with a pair of white guinea fowl, that would be amazing, but even if I just end up with one absolutely ordinary guinea fowl, that would be amazing.

On other scattered days throughout December there are similar broken guinea-fowl promises. I lose hope.

It is the start of January. I do not write “guinea fowl” at the top of the calendar.

Baby YaYa and The Bean: Thoughts on Childcare in The Gambia

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-01-28 04:35:00

On a walk today, I couldn’t shake the thought that I held more babies in my two years in Peace Corps, The Gambia, than I had prior in my whole life. I also started thinking about how parenting here differs, or in particular, how people perceive parents differently. I believe parents in the U.S. feel a lot more responsibility for their children’s behavior. The mom on the airplane, the mom in the grocery store- who, when their child acts up, cries, throws a tantrum- feels embarrassed and apologetic to everyone around her. Now, in The Gambia, women are never embarrassed or apologetic about things like that. Ok, maybe if their kid poops or pees on you, they are really sorry and clean it up swiftly, but really it’s no big deal. However, the community is a lot more involved in raising children (insert it takes a village quotation here).

Yes, in The Gambia, children are not raised solely by these two individual struggling parents- who from what I see are trying to do it all- instill morals, go grocery shopping, work, etc. In The Gambia- men and women both have to work- just not what we think of traditionally. Out in the provinces the traditional method is farming. Women go out to the rice fields and men work the millet and peanut fields. The rice fields, especially during the rainy season is hard work that requires constant weeding from sun up to sun down (feel lucky yet?). Now, what some moms do with infants is either (a) use formula, (b) have a wet nurse (not common from what I saw. However an interesting thing I observed is some aunts or grandmas gave the child a nipple- like a pacifier effect) (c) have someone bring out the baby to the fields or (d) not go to the fields for as long a period during the day. Now, the D option is what really disturbed me while I was there because I witnessed and heard some unhappy babies- to which the grandma or the young sibling who was babysitting all day would reply, “S/he’s hungry.”

As mentioned, siblings and grandmothers do a lot of the childcare. Because a lot of the elderly people are somewhat house bound already (i.e., a lot of general body pain) they often just sit outside and watch the children in the middle of the compound, or hold them for a while, especially the babies. Similarly, the older siblings do a lot of the care taking such as bathing, feeding (not preparing meals, this task is for older siblings or parents), dressing, etc. The moms usually work in the rice field, cook, pound rice, or do laundry. Siblings also shared in this task, which was done every other day and is very labor intensive.

To do laundry, you have to first fetch enough water from the pump to fill three big buckets. Then, you basically cycle the clothes through the three buckets. In the first bucket you do an intensive scrubbing with a very harsh soap made of lye and soda (very toxic and harsh- some women douched with this). In the bucket, the clothes are rubbed together to sud and rinsed a little. The third bucket is the final rinse and the white clothes got a final dump in a chemical that maintains whiteness, called “Blue-O” (the water was literally dark blue). Yes Josh and I did this 1-2 times a week and I can say from personal experience it is not fun.

But anyway, that was a side note. Basically, women do a lot of work. But that’s not my point. My point is that mother is not expected to do it alone. Her children, her mother, her sister, her aunt and all the other women in the compound take care of each other. Sometimes they take turns cooking. Sometimes they take turns watching baby. The other women in the community also share in on the responsibility.

I will use a story as an example- I will call it, “Baby Ya Ya and the Bean.” So one night, Baby Yaya’s mother came frantically up to us, telling us baby YaYa had a bean in his nose and wanting to know if we could fix the problem. This was a frequent occurrence (not the bean, but being asked to help- as they assumed we know so much about medicine and what to do). I looked at baby YaYa and I felt so bad- he was crying and scratching/rubbing his nose. I honestly did not know what to do- so I told them to go to the nurse. The nurse, as usual was not there. I could go off on a tangent about that as well. And honestly even if he was there I would be scared to think of what he actually might do. Injections were usually the solution to most problems. Even when I was talking together with the nurse and a young boy who was sharing about his father being mentally ill (actually the correct term was possessed by demons) the nurse said “We can give him an injection for that.” I would hate to know what that injection is. Back to the story- Baby Yaya’s mom finally decided- that’s it, we are taking him to the “sateweo kono” which directly translates into “middle of the city.” So, off went Yaya, Yaya’s mom and a couple other people from the compound. Fifteen minutes later, back they came. And the bean was out. “What happened?” I asked. Apparently, someone got it out with a stick. So, there you have it, when something goes wrong, just take it to the middle of the village and someone will fix the problem. I can also gaurentee you from memory the next day, everyone I passed in the village knew the story about baby YaYa and the bean.

Baby YaYa, sleeping peacefully, many weeks after his bean removal.

On a side note- public breastfeeding is no big deal either. I saw boobs on public transport, in the city, village, walking down the street- anywhere! No one is ashamed to breast feed their child. Now part of that is cultural. Boobs are not a sexual object in The Gambia as they are in the U.S. In The Gambia, the sexual object is the upper thigh.

People help women out too- getting on public transport it is not uncommon to see a mother hand a random stranger her baby when getting in and out of the car. And hey, sometimes they even hold it awhile. Myself and a lot of Peace Corps volunteers can tell of many car trips where we had a baby on our lap the whole way. Sometimes mom needs a break.

I feel, in the U.S., mothers are judged too harshly by others on their childcare practices. People don’t like to get involved either. And part of that is we don’t trust each other, we don’t want to infringe on personal space. We just want to sit from a high chair (no pun intended) and tell other people how they should be raising their children instead of giving them a hand. We have too many walls- literally and figuratively. I have heard of some great ways around this in the U.S. – parent groups, baby co-ops, etc. But wow, we are just so different as far as playing the role of the bystander. In The Gambia, I felt there was no bystander. We were all there- sitting, standing, lying down- we were a part of it.

Whoops!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-28 01:22:00

Saliou, my husband, spilt the last cup of attaya, which his mom had been about to drink.

Sinni: Kowbala! [this is one of my husbands many nick-names]

Saliou gives a look exactly like Macauly Culkin in Home Alone. I wanted to burst out laughing, but I didn't want to encourage attaya-spilling.

There's a pause, and then Saliou announces, “I farted.”

Neighbor: You farted?

Saliou: Yes.

And that was that.

Some things I like in Gambia

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Kola Nuts

2012-01-28 00:48:00

I'm going to let the photos do most of the talking here.

The veggie vendors on the road outside of the market in Farafenni. I like all the little piles.

This is the initial entrance to the market. On a busy day you need to seriously push to make it through.

This man is one of the Kola Nut sellers. He makes people happy all day everyday....except for that day when he announced price increases on the kola nuts...

PC Gambia at the West African International Softball Tournament in Dakar. I'm in a blue headscarf here. We are very strong.

Preharvest pigeon peas in my backyard. Agave sisalana in pots on the floor. Home sweet home.

My plant baby, my moringa tree, age 9 or 10 months. Now it is making fruit! And then i am going to eat it!

My post harvest pigeon pea trees. Look! I found basil underneath them. I had missed walking that little section of path for like 3 months.

This is Omar's Lunch Shack. The man makes a mean domada and loves Peace Corps Volunteers. I try to visit him every time I come to the urban area. I currently owe this guy 10 dalasi.

Carlos sitting on the stoop. He's grown out of being a little ball of fluff, but is still pretty cute. He knows how to turn on the charm when he smells cooking fish.

Vacation in Dakar includes legit chicken fajitas. Legit chicken fajitas. Vacation!

Dakar is wonderfully covered in spray paint. I kept driving by this one, lambasting myself for never coming back on foot, until i just had to snap whatever i could get. Banjul doesn't have this...

Homegrown in Wallalan. All the mangoes are flowering right now in the country. It's gorgeous and fragrant here. When seen from far away...they look smokeable.

"Here, Binta. A dalasi."

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-27 01:20:00

Ous hands me a stone and tells me it’s a dalasi. I hand it back and say, “Buy me a candy.”

Ous walks away. He returns empty-handed. “They were out of candies.”

Instanbul and Cappadocia

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J's Travels

2012-01-26 12:31:00

Istanbul
Meeting with Jesse at the airport was easier than I expected. We met at a Starbucks! Of all places...ha. We met up, hugs were given and we talked for about 20 minutes about travel and sights in general. We took the metro to Sultanahmet, where our first hostel was located. The first thing I noticed was how modern everything was. Tokens for the subway, computers and other machines everywhere. Now for 2 years I didn't see a receipt, let alone a computer. Istanbul is a huge city. We passed by buildings, stadiums, an old city wall maybe 50 feet high. The Minarets, towers, and other relics of the past are everywhere. The city has literally absorbed the landscape around it. It took us 45 minutes to arrive in our part of the city. We immediately saw Sultanahmet Camii ( Sultan Ahmet Mosque or The Blue Mosque) and Ayasofya (Hagia Sophia) in a large square. There was an Obelisk from the Byzantine to right of us next the road. These places take up every bit of the sky you see. I am still so impressed at their Brobdingnagian size. The work that was put into them, most have been labor intensive. We walked through the square and wondered down some cobble-stoned streets; streets barely wide enough for a car. As we finally drew near our hostel, I felt a big weight lifted off my shoulders. I was no longer in The Gambia. I was starting a new journey, something different and new. I looked forward to it.
The next morning after a hot shower and a sound sleep, we traveled back to Ayasofa and Sultanahmet Camii for views of the inside of these places. First, we went to Sultanahmet Camii. We wandered around the outside of the complex looking at outline of the mosque and its minarets, its overall size and all the small domes. There were ablution spots on all sides of it. The marble or stone was still quite lambent after so many years. I took several pictures of the outside of it, while taking everything in. I found the entrance to enter inside, but was sort of uncomfortable with entering. I remember in The Gambia that if you were not a Muslim, you could not enter a mosque. In this case, we being called by a Turkish man to come and see. We entered reluctantly and removed our shoes. Inside was one central room or the main dome. This "big" room was more like an infinite expanse. All the white pillars and walls were covered with beautiful designs in reds and blues. The soft carpet under toe was spotless and well cut. My first thought was how incredibly dingy it was, but after a few minutes you didn't even notice. You aren't there to look at the carpet anyways. There is a praying "area" where some Muslims were praying. They blocked it off with a long wooding banister. I noticed everyone taking pictures of the men praying. This bothered me in a way. This is there space and we are just here to see it. Its one thing that its prayer time and we're there, its something else to take pictures of them while they pray. The chandeliers that hung from the ceiling, were quite nice in their own eclectic way. I sat for a few minutes on the floor just taking everything in. I could feel the energy surging through the building. Its hard not to; there is so much history in that place. Looking out of a large wooden doorway; I could see my next stop on the other side of the square, Ayasofya.
Ayasofya was built before Sultanahmet Camii in 360. It was originally a Greek cathedral, but was destroyed by rioters twice, once in 532, again 537. It was a Roman Catholic cathedral from 1261 to 1453. From 1453, until 1943 it was a mosque. Its now a museum. The central dome is incredible. So far on my travels, I never seen anything to quite compare. Ayasofya is considered one greatest surviving examples of Byzantine architecture. The huge buttresses and arches are everywhere. The windows are copious. The architects over the years that have fixed collapsed domes, broken windows, and other structural issues were extremely ingenious. Through history always changing certain issues and replacing them with more inventive and pulchritudinous architecture. There are two floors with a views of the main room abundant. The walk up to the second level is through a space wide enough for carts to move heavy stones. The floor is made of cobblestone and is worn down by feet over centuries to a lustrous, almost slippery sheen. The second level of the church is decorated similarly to the first level, but with some older, unearthed pictures of Jesus and his apostles, as well as Mary. There are even old cast iron candle holders aligning the second levels inner walls. When you look up to the center of the main dome from the second level you can see the exquisitely painted works of hand. Saint John Chrysostom is seen as well as Pope John The Baptist, and other mosaics by Patriarch Photius with (Emperor Micheal III and Basil I present) , Emperor Alexander, Empress Zoe, and Emperor John II Comnenus. The artwork is gracefully painted in many colors, but with Christ wearing a blue robe with gold backgrounds (Typical 9th Century art style). There is amazing tile work everywhere and geometric shapes are plentiful. I wondered around taking all of this in. Ayasofya is another impressive construction endeavor. I was feeling the same vibe that I felt in Sultanahmet Camii here, but stronger. This structure felt to me like a breathing entity. I glanced over at one point to see Jesse sitting next to an old man in some wooden chairs along a wall. It was really picturesque. Jesse, a young, healthy man. The old Turkish man riddled with scoliosis, leaning on a wooden cane to sit in a chair.
After leaving Ayasofya, we worked around the city for possibly 4 hours. I found a nice doner and a park to sit in. As I sat, the fat cats of Istanbul arrived with hopes of some falling scrapes finding there way to the ground. Jesse and I chatted about a lot of things and our lives over the past two years. It is one of those memories I will not forget. Afterward, we wandered up a nearby road and passed under a Roman aqueduct. Once again, the city had built around this treasure of the past. It was weird watching traffic run directly underneath it. We walked into the Grand Bazaar accidentally. Inside the bazaar, people passed and weaved. Sellers offering prices and hot Turkish tea. Herbs and Spices galore. The arched ceiling and geometric patterns with a splash of yellow background was very appealing. Later on made back to our second hostel and had an Efes, the Turkish beer. It was tasty, not a Julbrew, but good. Drank a little Raki too. Turkish liquor that tastes like licorice. Went bed that night feeling pretty damn good.
Woke up the next morning and bought fresh pomegranate juice on the street. It was delicious. I also had the pleasant surprise of seeing my first snow in over two years that morning. We walked again through the city. Moved out of the touristy part of Istanbul and went to an area called Beyoglu. We were near Taksim square, in the pouring rain wandering around looking for our next hostel (we forgot to get an address before we left.) We stumbled upon a small riot over some issue (found out later had to do with Kurdistan). There were police with riot gear and shields waiting for something to happen, nothing did and we moved on. We eventually found the hostel, which was near Galata Tower. When we arrived we immediately sat next to a heater for over an hour. My feet were soaked to the core and had lost feeling. That night we met up with a friend of Jesse's that went to our college. She showed us around and took us to a tea bar. I drank to cups and a coffee. Watched a Galatasaray game on TV; they won. Afterward, we met up with a friend of friend of mine for food and beers. We went to a traditional Turkish restaurant and ate like kings. Met some cool people and then went for some beers. Drank Tequila and beer, met a Kurd, who lived on boats for a living. He had three months to kill, before setting off again. All he wanted was alcohol and women. he told me he lived in a container in Baghdad for 4 years. They told us about suicide bombers killing police. Putting bombs in trashcans, robbery, and murder. Not against citizens, but against the police and the government. Heard a story about a guy, who held an entire ferry at gunpoint, until the police arrived and gunned him down. No one knows why he did it. After dinner went back to the hostel and talked with a guy about the Peace Corps. He was really interested and said a lot of nice things about me and my choice. I was smoking a ciggarette with him, while he talked to his girlfriend in Qatar. Lots of "I love you baby"'s were said and lots of "I promise"'s too.
Went to Galata Tower the next day. It is a tourist trap, I didn't want to pay 15 bucks to view the city from a restaurant at the top of the tower. Jesse and I decided to go to Cappadocia, so we left for the bus station. When we arrived at the Otogar main bus station, I immediately went to the bathroom. I didn't see Jesse again until 5 hours later at the hostel.
Cappadocia
Jesse decided not to go the next morning so I went alone. I left earlier in the morning it was still dark. I encountered three teenagers. As I walked up, I realized that they all had lead pipes in their hands. I tried not to be too intimated, but as soon as they saw me their attention was on me. They walked up and were saying something to me in Turkish. I didn't understand. I just kept walking, they decided to follow me, which annoyed me. They were hitting their pipes against the walls of nearby buildings. I finally turned around and said "Fuck Off!" They stopped and stared at me. We waited for a few moments and they turned around and went the way they started.
The bus ride took 11 hours and was fairly crowded. When we reached Ankara the capital, it got kind of confusing. Several bus changes and no English didn't help. Luckily, small Japanese woman on my bus named Kobo helped me by translated Turkish into English. What a world! I made to the right bus and moved on. Saw an amazing sunset at Tuz Gulo an enormous salt flat. Made it to Nevinshir around 7 at night. It was snowing again, which was nice. Took a bus to Goreme. Goreme is a crazy little town. People live in caves there. The government regulates the work done to caves. I talked to one guy who told me that if he even put a nail in the wall that was 20 years in prison. He also told me that the caves are great for your health and keep food fresher longer. An Orange can last up to 5 years without going bad, an apple 4, grapes 2, and grapefruit 5. I arrived at my hostel and then owner took me out for some drinks. We drove around the town in his old Renault, until we found the place he was looking for; a small bar full of Turks watching the Fenerbache game on a projector. The owner a lunatic gave me tea and beer. I asked someone how to say thank you in Turkish, he told me. I said "Thank You," which was actually "Fuck off!" in Turkish. The owner flipped out, screaming "No! Fuck You! Get the fuck out of here!" I didn't know what was happening. Everyone laughed at my expense. I was warned about Turks and their ways of joking...I was warned. I came back to the hostel later and wanted to dry my socks. I laid them on top of a heater for a few seconds maybe ten at the most. I burned them and the room smelt like absolute shit. I went and told the owner what I had down. He was fine, but my Asian roommate was not to happy. All I got was "Really, why would you do that?" I know its hard to piss off a Asian person, there the nicest people on planet earth. I achieved that goal, I pissed him off. After my sock burning episode, I went to get some food. Ended up meeting my other roommates. We drank and ate, I played FIFA 12 on 60 inch plasma. The owner was a Turk, who just came back from Australia after 8 years. I called him the rubberband, its like the man had no bones in his body or he was double jointed everywhere. He could dance...like a rubberband. Talked with a solider about the war in Kurdistan. Talked to a Turk, who translated for American troops in Iraq. Drank a lot. We had the town to ourselves it was really amazing.
Next morning, went on a tour of Cappadocia, saw Derinkuyu Yeralti Sehri (Derinkuyu Underground City). Its the largest underground city of its kind in Cappadocia. We seemed to be in a hurry, so I didn't see as much as I wanted to. It was extremely impressive though. An insane feat digging 11 stories underground. Its so easy to get lost too. Lots of tunnels, holes in the floor (booty-traps), etc. The hallways were built so that if they were attacked by invaders only one man at a time could go down the hallway, making it easier to kill them. Saw some torture devices, a stable, a cathedral, a burial site, all underground. Next, went to a mountain cathedral, it was beautiful. Saw some valleys, went to a few small towns. That night, I decided to go back to Istanbul. Took a night bus, arrived in the morning, met with Jesse and we decided to go to Bulgaria. We went back to Otogar, this time didn't get separated. I got a ticket, thought I lost my camera, I found it. Pissed off a Turk for getting in my bag too much. That's Turkey for you. Off to Bulgaria.

Motorcycle and Man Meander to Market

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-26 01:15:00

On the way to the market, where I was going to buy soap, the following exchanges take place.

Man on Motorcycle: Hey, Adama!

Me: I’m Binta…Good morning.

Man on Motorcycle: I thought you went to America.

Me: Adama went to America, but I am Binta.

Man on Motorcycle: So when are you going?

Me: Remaining less than a year.

A couple of minutes later I get stopped by a man in a car. There are actually several men in the car, but only the driver talks to me.

Driver of Car: Why did you not call to me?

Me: Hmm?

Driver of Car: When you walked past me, why did you not call to me? I was going to the market, I could have taken you.

I now recognize the car as the one usually parked outside of the pharmacy I walk past on my way to the market. I must have walked past it today as they were about to head out.

Me: Sorry, I did not see you.

Driver of Car: But you walked right next to the car! I could have taken you to the market!

Me: Maybe I walked right next to you, but I was looking somewhere else.

Driver of Car, containing laughter: You were thinking about your husband over there.

Me: Yes.

Actually, I’d been thinking about blue jeans.

385 days like a weeklong dream

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Gambian Mike

2012-01-25 20:17:00

I have been here a while, as I sit here relaxing having just finished making and consuming my now world famous gut bomb skillet; it made me stop and think about the last year and where I came from to where I am now and what I have accomplished. I came into Peace Corps with low expectations I told everyone that if I can make one person’s life a little easier than I have succeeded. I accomplished my goal early on in my service. I figure everything else I do is just a bonus. Some people here don’t want your help or they will stop and listen or see what you are doing and continue to do things the same way as their grandparents and parents did things because that’s the only way they know how. I don’t know if it is fear, lack of critical thinking or just plain “I don’t want to listen to this white stranger.” Either way its fine with me, I believe and know I can’t change the whole country and fix all the problems that are in this country but if I can continue to improve a few people’s lives and make it easier than I am happy.

I remember after that long 30 some odd hour flight from Chicago to Banjul via Brussels finally arriving at the airport and being so excited and then walking off the airplane and wondering why the engine exhaust was being funneled so close to where we were walking out of the airplane but then I realized quickly this is the glorious weather of West Africa. I remember telling people that work for Peace Corps here in The Gambia that “I’ll never be cold here,” well, over the past month or so I have either wore pants, long sleeve shirts or hoody sweatshirt with socks either in the morning or at night nearly every day. I can’t believe it, it’s in the 70’s and I’m cold. Just today I wore a local scarf around my head walking to a meeting we had, I wore it all day. I told a friend I was with “I can’t believe I am wearing a scarf in Africa.” I don’t know how hot it was but right now at 8pm it’s in the 90’s and I don’t feel hot. It is amazing how your body becomes acclimated to your surroundings.

Over the last year I have had highs and lows, been so sick that I wanted to come home and been so hot trying to sleep wondering how people sleep in the heat. On the other side I have had some wonderful moments. I feel like have been adopted into a second family. I have a couple teenage sisters that are surprisingly a lot like teenage girls in America and sometimes I just stop and laugh at the eerie similarities. I have a couple small toddlers that every time I get off the bush taxi at my house they scream “Forday naata, Forday naata,” which translates to Forday is here Forday is here. As they are running towards me with their arms out and then come crashing into my legs and try and carry whatever bag or box I am carrying, even if it is 50lbs.

Overall, I am happy here I have finally settled in and loving it.

Mbosse’s White Bennachin

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-01-25 16:08:51

I’ve asked my neighbor Mbosse to teach me how to cook some of my favorite Gambian dishes. I don’t teach on Wednesdays, so we’re going to use the occasional Wednesday to educate me before I leave. For today’s cooking class we chose white bennachin. Firstly, Let me introduce you to Mbosse, and the world’s cutest [...]

individualistic vs. communal

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-01-25 02:00:00

Between my thoughts this morning on my everyday market experiences in The Gambia while strumming through my routine to the long conversation I had at the bus stop with a stranger and fellow psychology student on time spent with friends and surrounded by people, I have been thinking a lot about being around people vs. being in isolation, and what that means for a person, and for a culture. Americans spend a substantial amount of time not interacting with other people. In The Gambia, and perhaps other more communal cultures, that just isn't possible. In The Gambia, every vegetable purchase, every transportation moment, every walk, and every mostly every waking moment involved being with or interacting with people. It was one of the hardest things for me, as an "introvert", to get used to. And now, I am finding it to be the thing that I miss the most. I miss having to go through long drawn out greetings while buying a pound of potatoes. People were really nosy too, "Where is your husband?" or "What part of town do you live in?" I miss sitting at work and either sharing or having some one else share food with me. Maybe I knew them, maybe I didn't. I probably miss that aspect of constantly interacting with people more than anything.

Interestingly, in my conversation with this student at a bus stop, he mentioned how some of his International student friends (I assume from more communal cultures) find that when they switched to spending more time alone, they find it easier to study. So, in some ways, it is good that in our American culture we can find and value time alone. Spending time alone isn't necessarily a bad thing, I don't think. It helps us grow and study ourselves or whatever topic or work we are focused on. But, lately I have been thinking that it's important to find a balance. How we can best develop a good balance between spending time with other people and spending time alone?

Goat attaya!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-25 01:13:00

The night Gaye returned from Kebba Kunda he brewed attaya he had bought while on a trip to Senegal. He said this attaya was very good. Fatou Sowe’s Musa asked, “Is it the goat attaya?” Gaye replied that he didn’t know, but it is very sweet. The attaya they brew in Kebba Kunda is not sweet. It’s been a long time since he’s drank attaya because he will not drink the Kebba Kunda attaya—it’s really not good. In Kebba Kunda they will only sell the black attaya. If he brews it himself, he will make it so it is sweet because he will wash it first. But if you do not wash the black kind of attaya, it will be dirty, there will be dirt in your attaya.

Fatou Sowe’s Musa, grabbing the attaya carton: Dad, give me the box.
Gaye: Musa, it’s not finished yet!

Gaye takes the box back.

Later, when the box is empty, I see Musa examining it. It is lime-green and yellow and there is a picture of a deer on the front and back sides. The deer picture looks like clip-art that might be found on the tag to a camouflage jacket, or on the cover to a deer-hunting computer game, one of those ones from the $4.99 bin.

Meanwhile, Gaye and Kairaba are still raving about the goat attaya and lamenting that it can only be bought in Senegal.

Cooking Time!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The J + K

2012-01-24 02:44:00

One of my past times I was excited to get back to when we returned to the U.S. was cooking. So, I have been using google calendar for meal planning, which has worked out really well. If you google "google calendar meal planning" a million mom blogs show up! It is really funny. Here is the site I used to make mine: http://simplemom.net/how-to-menu-plan/

Every Sunday, I plan the weeks dinners. It's fun to sit down and sort through bookmarked recipes and think about what would make a balanced week of food. Breakfast and lunch are on our own, or we eat leftovers. Usually we go out to eat Friday and Saturday, or Saturday and Sunday. Josh usually makes breakfast on weekends and he always does the dishes! Thanks! It works really well because then we can do our grocery shopping on Monday for the whole week, with the list I have crafted based of the ingredients in the recipes. As the author in the above link/blog mentions, she uses something called "delicious cookbook" or something like that. I use Pinterest, blog searches, or Tastespotting to find recipes (or from a magazine collection ripped out page). Google, also has a cool recipe search option which is great if you are trying to use up certain ingredients.

Tonight I made Vegetable Pot Pie. It was more like a vegetable soup with puff pastry on top but I thought it was really good and wholesome. I used, as I always do, low fat milk instead of cream or half and half. Which is really ironic now that I think about it because the puff pastry was probably loaded with butter. Kind of like the one time I confused the barista and ordered a soy drink with whip cream.

note: this is not a ramaken (sp?)! It is a souffle bowl.

Playing with fire!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-24 00:52:00

Mamadou, Fatou Sowe’s Musa and I are sitting around the former cooking fire (former because the cauldron of sauce has since been removed). Mamadou is pushing smoldering sticks around unnecessarily.

Me: Mamadou, stop playing with fire.

Mamadou pretends he has not heard me.

Musa: Mamadou, Binta said leave the fire.

Mamadou continues poking around.

Musa, turning to me: Heh! Mamadou will not hear what is said.

Mamadou stops poking around and joins us on the bench. He turns to face Musa and says, “You have no brain.”

Me: He has no ears and he has no brain…

Musa: I have no ears and Mamadou has no brain?

Me: No, you said Mamadou will not hear what is said, so he has no ears, and Mamadou said you have no brain.

Mamadou pulls my head close to his and whispers directly into my ear. All I hear is “Mumble mumble seller mumble.” He leans back and asks, “Did you hear?”

Me: No, I didn’t hear.

Mamadou yanks my head down again and repeats, “He is a sour-milk seller.”

Me: Heh!

Musa: What? What did he say?

Me: I dunno—I’m not telling!

Mission Accomplished!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Location: The Gambia

2012-01-23 12:14:00

first things first....

oh nothing, just me spectating an elephant as it eats the landscaping at Mole Hotel. the hotel staff was unsurprised by this little breakfast interruption, but the rest of us loved it. they really do kinda see them as pests.

backing up a bit, here are some castle pictures from the Elmina Castle, a few k outside of Cape Coast. the castle was originally built by the Portuguese and eventually taken by the Dutch, then the British when Ghana was the stronghold during the slave trade. almost all the slaves that left west Africa spent time in this castle or the one at Cape Coast. we saw the dungeons all the way up to the governors quarters, but i'm only gonna put a few pics here. this is the view of the fort that was used as a lookout, on the top of that hill. you also can get a pretty good glimpse of Elmina itself, a "small" village (huge!) that is a pleasant place to spend an afternoon.

another view. the castle hugs the coast but still had a moat.

the view from where the governor stood to address his troops. to the left are the dungeons, to the right are the rooms where they imprisoned unruly soldiers, or the tomb where they threw rebellious slaves. the building in the middle, oddly enough, was the chapel.

another view, from the other side of the courtyard.

ok. now to the good stuff...Mole National Park. it was originally established as a hunting ground in the 1950's, when the government was trying to eliminate the tsetse fly. the theory was that the larger animals were its' breeding grounds, so they should all be killed. after 20 years, it was decided sleeping sickness (caused by the tsetse fly) was no longer a threat and turned into a game reserve. in 1974 it was formally established as a protected area (and they doubled it in size!) this picture is of a "bachelor pack" of male kops, a kind of gazelle. once the young male kop is about 7-9 months old, they are driven out of whichever elder male's territory they were born on. they then roam in these large bachelor groups until they are old enough and strong enough to fight a lone male for his territory. the female kops can come and go as they please, meaning the males are really just fighting for land, not right to the females.

here is an elephant crossing the road, causing quite a ruckus. this is a male elephant, the only kind we saw, as the females are all hiding deep in the forest with their babies.

i'm a little obsessed with warthogs now. they like to walk around on their knees. here is a baby demonstrating. they are fairly dangerous, according to the staff at Mole a full-grown warthog can defeat a baboon anytime. this one was too little to do much damage yet. just don't make it's mama mad.

when not scaring baboons, the warthogs enjoy the scraps of the staff canteen. they treat them almost like dogs, though they are careful not to touch them and to keep the baby away. but they are not unpleasant to have around. and they will eat anything. we even saw one eat a plastic bag.

the elephant down by the watering hole. just headed to pack some mud on his skin. he doesn't worry about the crocs in that pool, they're all scared of him.

if you can ignore the glowing eyes (my bad) you can see the pattern of this bush back perfectly. they were one of the most beautiful animals we saw. and this one got so close to us!

the view from Mole's observation platform. spectacular.

this is the first elephant we saw, about 20 minutes into our morning walk. he was wallowing in the water when we found him, which is why he has that delightful painted look about him. cute?

so as you can imagine, we are 2 very happy campers right now. and tomorrow, we're headed to the beach to take a vacation from our vacation. all this trip people have been telling us to go to Busua, so it seems like the appropriate place to end our Ghana adventure. enjoy the pictures and i'll post again soon!

You're killing me!

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The Peace Only

2012-01-23 00:48:00

Mariama rolls away with a motorcycle tire.

Mariama: I’ve gone to Basse!

Mariama rolls back with a motorcycle tire.

Mariama: I’ve come back from Basse!

Rugi: How’s the afternoon?

Mariama: Peace only.

Rugi: How are they in Basse?

Mariama: Peace only.

Rugi: How are the farts?

Mariama: Peace only.

Rugi repeats that last question a few times and they laugh, and Rugi says Mariama is a fart, and they laugh and laugh. Rugi declares, “You are killing me with laughter!”

West African International Softball Tournament (WAIST)

Thu, 01 Jan 1970 00:00:00

Gambia, The An Empire of Bon Voyage

2012-01-22 08:46:17

If you all will recall president’s weekend 2011, you’ll know that I spent it resting, relaxing, and playing softball in Dakar. This year the tournament was moved forward to January to avoid conflicting with Senegalese elections, and at the last minute, I decided to go (to stave off boredom in Brikama – The University is [...]