My Two Moms

So, it’s many days later. I am writing this post from my rustic hut, a sandstone brick structure with two rooms, four windows, and two doors. It has its own pit latrine, it’s own 3x8 backyard area, and a small front porch area. It’s actually not too bad. I live in a compound with the rest of the Ceesay family, which includes my father: a farmer who yells a lot and laughs at almost everything I do. I have a feeling he’s really really awesome, but I can understand almost nothing that he says; My first mom, who is like a gypsy. She has two gold teeth, always wears bright wrap skirts, and thrusts in my general direction while dancing; My second mom, who is like the head honcho of the village. People do what she says, and she is super inviting. Neither of these host parents speak any English at all, except “nice”. Since I have two moms, you have probably realized that my dad has two wives. I tried to conjure up a family tree with my limited vocabulary, but it became very convoluted, very quickly. There are about 11 kids who live here, ranging in age from 4 months to 23 years. Every one of these kids has twelve friends which they bring over daily, just to watch the toubab (white person) study or to be entertained by her. I never thought I’d say it, but I wish for one day, no kids would try to play with me. They follow me in the streets, yelling “Abby Ceesay!” and trying to hold my hand. I was literally holding the hands of 8 different people today, and upon closer examination, I think about 6 had pink eye. Huzzah.

I know I had conversations with many of you about the culture of this primarily Muslim country, and the fact that it is considered mildly inappropriate to show my knees. I’ve been very concious of this rule, and have been wearing my basketball shorts really low so they cover my knees, and wearing capris that I would never don in the states. However, I am often walking around in my cultural appropriate gear, and see topless women EVERYWHERE: breast feeding, doing farm work, carrying huge buckets of water or bundles of crops on their head, or just chilling. I have to imagine I am more shocked to see their “sunjolu” than they are to see my knees, so I’ve loosened up a little bit. I went to hang out with one of my moms before dinner the other day, and when I lifted my lantern to find a place to sit, I realized she was flying free up top. I sat next to her regardless, but felt very, very uncomfortable.

Since my last post, I’ve pooped in the hole many times, and have found it to be not the worst thing I’ve ever done. So that’s good.
Sometimes, to entertain myself, I think about a screenplay, translated into English, involving me and everyone else that I interact with on a daily basis. Here’s what it would go like.

Gambian: God go with you.
Aby Ceesay: And God go with you.
Gambian: hope you slept well.
Aby Ceesay: yes, I slept very well.
G: where are the home people?
AC: they are there.
G: Is there peace?
AC: Peace only.
G: Hope there is no trouble.
AC: No trouble.
G: Where are you going.
AC: I’m going *Point away*
G: Something I can’t understand.
AC: slowly. Slowly. *Smile, pause, shrug shoulder in the international sign of “I can’t understand you”*
G *Confused look, as Aby hasn’t answered her questions.*
*the pair walk along for a few silent minutes*
AC: Goat. *Points to creature on the side of the road.*
G: Yes… goat… *looks to the side as if to say “Oh, brother”

This is what most of my days are like. We have language for about 6 hours every day, but it is going slowly, slowly. I try to hang with the fam for as much time as possible, but sometimes the awkwardness drives me away.

I have many things to say about the food, the children, my teacher, monsoons, my classmates, the World Cup, and the pump, but I have no electricity to continue typing, and am just jonesin’ to practice my Mandinka. I’ve given up on trying to memorize everything we learn in class, and instead am memorizing key phrases. “Say it again, please”, “I’m sorry”, “what is this?”, “Please help me”, and “My name is not Toubab”.

What an adventure.

Fo waati do (until next time)

Abby Adams/Ceesay