An African Christmas Story

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

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

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

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

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

Same: Christmas movies are viewed, including Home Alone and A Christmas Story.
Different: This year, I watched these movies in an old, infested frat-like house, instead of snug on my couch. Instead of watching with the Adams family, I watched with the Peace Corps the Gambia family.

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

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

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

Merry Christmas everybody!

Teeth

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

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

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



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

She: Your teeth are white!

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

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

Shout Outs

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

- Mom and Dad, for endless packages of necessary items, devoid of the usual junk that dad throws in.
- Uncle Tom and Aunt Barb, who provided me with raw almonds and school supplies that have both been LIFE SAVERS. Oh, and Aunt Barb sent lifesavers.
- Mr. Utterbach, the loyal Illini. Your daughter's awesome.
- Laura DeMaster, Nancy Gerhart, and Angela Bend for their hilarious and motivational letters.
- Marta Jewson for her "surviving Africa" kit.
- Haven't opened it yet, but I just saw in the mail room that I received a package from Jerry and Susie. Thanks in advance!
- The good people at Chacos, for sending me free shoes.

Rainbow Belt

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

Actually, it started at 4 am this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only I had bought that rainbow belt…

Tobaski

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HIV/AIDS Awareness Bike Trek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oskee-Wow-Wow

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

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

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

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

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

Cost of T-shirt at high priced store where only millionaires shop: $32.01.
Price in dalasis: D800.25

Cost of T-shirt at affordable store like Marshalls’s: $19.99
Price is dalasis: D499.75
For a savings of about 37.5%

Cost of T-shirt at dusty road-side stand in Basse, The Gambia: D75.
Price in dollars: $3
For a saving of about 90.7% over the highest price and 85% over Marshall’s.

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

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

Stuff I Want (revised)

- CD mixes of new hits
- Ziploc Bags (especially big, gallon-sized ones)
- Sports illustrated or news publications
- Frisbees
- Gum
- School supplies (markers, pens, colored pencils, pencils, colored paper)
- Clif Bars
- Batteries (AA)
- Gatorade powder
- Candy of any kind
- Funny t shirts
- Educational toys (blocks, cuisinart blocks, anything kindergarteners might learn something from)
- Seeds (for food or flowers)

You-Rine

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

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

Dear Chacos

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

Dear Chacos employees -

My name is Abby Adams, and I am a Peace Corps volunteer serving in the
tiny West African country of the Gambia. The Gambia is surrounded by
Senegal, and is the fifteenth least developed country in the world. I
live in a round hut, with a thatched roof, and have no running water
or electricity.

I am writing to tell you of a tragic loss that occurred while trekking
throughout the country, on my way to the village where I will stay for
my two years of service.

I purchased my first beloved pair of Chacos in September of 2008 at a
kayaking festival in North Carolina. I had heard how great they were
through the hiking and kayaking community, and found people's
recommendations to be exactly correct. For the two years after
purchasing them, I wore them almost everywhere. They were
comfortable, rugged, and in the grass roots service organization in
Tennessee at which I worked, they were even considered work
appropriate.

As soon as I was accepted into the Peace Corps, I began making a
packing list, and my Chacos were one of the first things on the list.
In the first few months in the Gambia, they were valuable shoes to
have. They dealt with the mud of the rainy season well, but gave me
traction and stability in the dry sand roads that I had to trudge
through when we went a few hot days without rain.

On the way out to my village, about six hours from the capital,
somehow one of my Chacos fell out of the car. Despite never having
left the vehicle, my Chaco disappeared without a trace. I have only
the one shoe left, constantly reminding me of what once was.

I am writing to plea for your help. As a volunteer, who just arrived
in The Gambia within the past three months, I have very little money,
and hope to save some to see more of Africa and the world, while I
have this rare opportunity.

I would very much appreciate if you would send me a new pair of
Chacos. I am including below my address in the Gambia, as well as my
address in America. If shoes are sent to the America address, a
visitor will be able to get them to me at some point. My shoe size is
a women's ten. I love bright colors, and hate pink.

Also attached is a picture of the last excursion I took with my
Chacos, through the bush of the Gambia. There was quicksand, water up
to my waist, and alternated between hot sun and rainstorms. The
second picture is of the feet of a few of my Peace Corps friends and
I, and our noticeable Chacos tans.

Thank you again for considering my request. I appreciate you and love
your product, and hope to continue to represent the adventurous and
outdoorsy spirit that Chacos embodies.

Sincerely,

Abby Adams

This is the response I received from Chacos.

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

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

Peace Corps Texts From Last Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jess: Some of the topics grouped together in the English course syllabus my principal gave me: space travel, bumsters, sports.
Jess: I think I’ll have the kids write stories about a footballer who is driven to prostitution. On mars.


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


One of our language teachers, responding to the question of how to say “map” in Mandinka.
Teacher: Bankoolu la naanee yitandi kaytoo. Meaning the paper on which country’s boundaries are shown. Substitute bankoolu with gambia saatewolu.
Teacher: Or simply maapoo.

So...

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

Nyakoi Sport Committee Meeting Notes

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

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

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

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

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

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

P: You have to. You’re the secretary.

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

P: What do you mean?

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

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

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

P: Ok. We won’t write a letter.

Things That Shouldn’t be on a Soccer Field During a Game That Were on the Soccer Field during a Game

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

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

-a pack of four donkeys
-a pair of donkeys
-three children riding donkeys
-an old woman with bananas on her head
-an old woman with firewood on her head
-an old woman just taking a stroll (who made no effort to move more quickly when the action approached her)
-Fighting children (this was seen a ridiculous amount of times, but I will write it only once)
-A convoy of motor bikes
-a BUNCH of chickens
-crawling infants
-a rake (I could not believe it when a player knelt down in the taller grass and pulled up a rake… how dangerous is that!? And we can’t even afford a first aid kit to deal with the consequences)

Sky Roads and Credit Cards

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

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

Are there roads that the plane drives on in the sky?
- No, there aren’t any roads… it’s… well it’s kept up by wind… more is pushing up than down… you have to go really fast…

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

Do you just go to the airport and wait for a plane to come, like with a gele gele?
- No… you have to go online… umm, you have to go on the internet and search for a flight leaving when you want to leave.

So you can hire a plane for when you want to go?
- … no. They only leave on certain days at certain times… and you have to be there then.

So you just showed up at the airport and bought your ticket?
- …no. you buys tickets online… on the computer. With a credit card.

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

Ok.

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

All Gambians Play Basketball Like Girls

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resume Builder

One of the things that has gotten me through the boredom so far in my village is a soccer tournament that’s been going on. Just like in high school, girls dress up, sit at the football game, and use it as an excuse to look pretty and socialize. (In this case, looking pretty usually involves full African gear, but the westernized ones choose to wear tight bright pink jeans, and tube tops that say “SHINY” in sequins.) Boys go to the game to watch and yell for their team, but also dressed to impress with their too big embroidered jeans, Jamaican gear, and shirts that say “HEMP” and have a huge marijuana leaf on them.

At one of these soccer games, I was sitting near the table where the head honchos of the tournament sit. I started talking to the guy who appeared in charge, just trying to see what kinds of things they did in the community. He introduced himself as the chairman (or something) of the Nyakoi Sports Committee, and promptly brought over the President, Vice President, and Assistant Chairman or something. I had the same conversation with all of them, how I was really enjoying the tournament, loved all sports, and hoped to maybe start some soccer/literacy camps or maybe other kinds of sports tournaments or sports for girls. They seemed super jazzed, and promptly invited me to their “secret meeting” which was happening the following afternoon. I promptly accepted.

So the next day, I went to the meeting. I sat there for twenty minutes as the committee discussed many important issues. As they would finish a conversation, or it would start to wind down, one of the members who spoke English would look at me and say, “Did you understand that?” and I would say, “Well, no, but I know he said something about a table, and something didn’t come, and… that’s about it.” So my translator would then have the whole discussion for me again in English (which of course was nothing about a table). After a few such sessions, I heard one person say in the middle of a Mandinka sentence the words “female representative”. Since the only other female in the committee was sitting next to me, I thought they were surely talking about her. So when he asked if I understood, I said, “Yeah, you were talking about her” and pointed to the lady sitting next to me.

He informed me that, no, they were actually talking about me. And although I had been there for only twenty minutes, understood nothing of what had gone on, and elongated the meeting by at least double, they had all agreed that they would like to invite me to be the Vice President Female Representative of the Nyakoi Sports Committee… what?!?!

Adding it to the resume. Now now.

We had our second meeting yesterday, and I told them that I had big plans for a Frisbee tournament. They all said, “What? Fresh beans?” So, hopefully, in a few months, the tiny West African country of The Gambia will see it’s first Fresh Beans tournament.

Wield Your Knife at School Day

So, it was the third day of school, and in our daily assembly, the teachers told all of the students to come to school the next day in their work clothes, and not in the normal uniform of blue and white. They also told them to bring all of the knives, cutlasses, and axes they could get their hands on. What kind of mayhem was planned for a large number of elementary-aged students and implements that could kill or maim? That’s right. We’ll clear the school grounds.

The next day, students came, as directed, wielding all of the large, sharp, and could-break-at-any-moment tools that they had. And to my surprise, they got to work. They removed as many weeds as they could, and all the girls swept the dirt school grounds (which I don’t think I’ll ever understand). Despite all of them having deadly weapons in hand, the student to teacher ratio probably hovering around 50-1, there were no serious problems. The usual wrestling, punching, and threatening still went on between students, but now with a potentially fatal twist.

While the day passed relatively uneventfully (students and teachers both called it a day around noon), I can’t help thinking what the equivalent would be in America, and what the outcry would be among the community.

Maybe a school wide hunt would be a comparable event in America? Can you imagine the note home to parents? “Please allow your child to bring all instruments of death to school tomorrow. We will need guns and large knives. There will be no instruction, save that in the valuable art of tracking and killing.”

Gambian Football Match

As many of you know, I love sporting events. As those who really know me should know, top notch among sporting events are international sporting events. Since my arrival in the Gambia about 10 weeks ago, I have told every Gambian I’ve had the pleasure of meeting that they need to let me know whenever the Gambia is playing at home in a football match. And TODAY was that day.

One of my favorite Gambians informed me this morning that THE Gambia would be battling the southern African nation of Namibia today in some sort of African cup of nations qualifier. We bought tickets on the way home from the market, and set off at game time.

As soon as I arrived, it was exactly what I expected it to be. Old decrepit cars packed full of Africans, wearing their nation’s jerseys, scrambling to get tickets through rain and mud. Even a few arrived on donkey carts. We hopped out of our decrepit taxi, and entered the gates.

Africa is different from America in many ways, and the organization of its spectators during sporting events is one BIG difference. In America, if you have a ticket and you show it to the proper person, you are permitted to enter the stadium. In the Gambia, having a ticket means that you can enter through one gate. However, there are two gates to enter the actual stadium. And the second gate is where the madness goes down.

When we arrived at the second gate, we saw some pushing, saw some shoving, and saw some angry police men (with some military backup). Being the gutsy Peace Corps volunteers we are, we secured our belongings, and attempted to shove through the gates with the rest of them. However, our awareness of imminent danger set in when it got a little rougher, and we backed down a few stairs to get away. Soon after, there are dozens of frightened African men, leaping 6 steps at a time to flee from the policeman who is wielding a giant club. And he’s not half-heartedly shaking it around. He has a death glare on his face, and actually hit a few men who were too slow to escape in time.

So, at this point, we’re nervous about the prospects of actually viewing this game. Unbeknownst to us, unlike in America, where stadiums sell only the number of seats they have available, in the Gambia, as long as people are there with money, there’s a seat for them. So seats are filling up quickly, quickly. So we call our friend/Peace Corps employee on the inside, and ask him to come and help us navigate the chaos. He speaks a few words to one of his friends in high places, and gets us escorts through the angry mob of sports fans, and into the stadium.

Sounds great, right? Well, don’t forget these details. As five white women, in a group, our demographic makes up about .05% of the population of this game’s spectators. Meaning, any real Gambian fan who we just shoved past now knows who the toubabs were who got preferential treatment. I couldn’t help but think of how mad I would be if I was one of those fans who had to continue to fight for entry, when 5 white kids who had been in the country for two months, got to go before me. That said, I still took the free pass.

As we sat and waited for our other friends to be provided the same military escort, we watched how dysfunctional the system was. There was a large metal gate, with cops inside of it. The gate had two entry doors, which, when opened, would cause a mad rush. People would squeeze through until a cop arbitrarily decided things were getting too rowdy, and then he would threateningly raise his night stick, and attempt to stop the flow of fanaticism by closing the door. All the while this is going on, on the opposite side of the gate, people are just climbing up the balcony to get into the game. They just hop onto the railing, scootch up a little bit, and put their feet on the ground where they want to be. Then some cop has had enough of these antics and HE threateningly raises his nightstick. It was unorganized, unfair, terrifying to be a part of, and hilarious to watch.

When we finally entered the stadium, we learned some other differences between Gambian and American sports. While in America you would be bombarded with opportunities to blow money on snack foods and merchandise, the Gambians are not interested in such things. You get in, you sit down, and you cheer on your team. We immediately tried to do so, and found something interesting. Since they sold more tickets than they had seats for, and let more people in than they should have, people are standing up EVERYWHERE. We can barely get down the stairs to the remaining poor seats, in the rain, because people are sitting or standing on the staircase.

We also noticed a surprising lack of sound. We soon discovered that not only is there no food or merchandise, but there’s no electricity in the stadium. This means no jumbo tron, no loudspeaker, no scoreboard, not even a timer to help the audience know what’s going on. There were lights on the stadium, but we assumed they were run by either numerous generators when necessary, or they were just for show.

After the culture shock wore off, we enjoyed the game IMMENSELY. There’s a cheering section that was across the stadium from us, but I definitely want to be the first white kid to be allowed to have one of their custom made shirts, and learn all the cheers for the Gambian national team fan base. THE Gambia scored after like the first five minutes, and we leapt around with joy. THEN, like another 7 minutes later, we scored AGAIN! At this point, something strange occurred. I was jumping up and down with excitement, as those who know me know that I am prone to do during exciting sporting events, and strangely enough, one time I jumped up but did not come down. Turns out, a Gambian had caught me in mid jump, held me around my waist, and was holding me suspended above the ground. I had only a brief amount of time to flail my limbs with surprise, excitement, distress, and national pride, when he let me down. The Gambia scored three goals in the first half, and those weak Namibians scored ZERO. They got one cheap shot in at the end of the second half, but at that point, everyone knew it was over.

So, the game ends, with THE Gambia prevailing, 3-1. But the shock isn’t over yet. In America, when a game is over, you patiently wait your turn until you can exit the stadium in a quick and orderly fashion. In THE Gambia, you do what you want. That means people crawl over other people to get out, lift their friends over people to exit, or, my personal favorite, just leap down onto the field and enter through the gaps in the stadium walls. Hundreds of young Gambians went with option number three. In America, this would incite so much tear gas and inciting a riot indictments, no one in their right mind would think it was worth it. But in THE Gambia, no one seemed to mind or think it was strange. Keep an eye out for a facebook video of it… it’s insane.

After a hard fought victory in the Gambia, they celebrate quite a bit differently than in the US. People still cheer, gather their belongings, and leave the stadium. In America, these belongings usually include binoculars, cell phone, wallet, water bottle, and trash. In the Gambia, that is almost exclusively your prayer mat. Since you missed the 5:00 prayer during the game, and you have to uphold the pillars of Islam, you roll out your prayer mat as soon as you exit, face east, and you bow down to pray. As I exited, I thought there was some sort of football idolatry going on, with all the fans bowing to the stadium.

After that, it’s pretty much exactly like America. You find your car or donkey cart, you hitch a ride in a gele gele or a taxi, and you cheer on your team as you walk home.

No single game could have met all of my hopes and expectations for a football match more than this one. I only hope when I go to a European and South American soccer match, they can live up to the precedent set by the Gambian football squad.

Stuff I Want

Many of you have asked, and many of you haven't, but I know you've been dying to know what kind of things you can send me in the Gambia.

This will probably change as I know more about my actual job and what my school needs. So most of these are personal, selfish requests.

CD mixes of new hits
DVDs of important sporting events/new movies I would love
Sports illustrated or news publications
Gum that won't melt
Spices (cinnamon, red pepper flakes, salt, pepper)
School supplies (markers, pens, colored pencils, pencils, colored paper)
Clif Bars, other filling granola bars
Raw almonds or other nuts (not peanuts or cashews, they're everywhere)
Batteries (AA)
Dried sauce packets
Gatorade powder
Candy of any kind (that won't melt)
Funny or sports teams t shirts
Seeds (for food or flowers)
Photos and letters
books I'd read
anything else i love

Thanks in advance!

PHOTOGAPHS

If you want to see some professional-like photographs of the Gambian Peace Corps experience, check out Dylan’s flickr page. http://flickr.com/photos/daltoris

Enjoy!

SITE VISIT

Two weeks before we swear in as volunteers, we go and visit the village where we’ll be living for the next two years. The goal is to meet our family, make a list of necessities to buy in civilization, and meet up with important people in the community.

When I got to my site, in beautiful Nyakoi, THE Gambia, I found that my house was unfinished. The house itself was up, and it’s ridiculous. Imagine what you think most Africans live in, and that’s what it is. A tiny, TINY, one room circular mud hut, with a thatched roof. I think I could recreate that famous da Vinci painting by just laying in the center of the house and touching the walls with my hands and feet simultaneously. When I arrived, there was no pit latrine area, no fence, it wasn’t painted, the floor was still mud, and there were no doors. So needless to say, I couldn’t move in yet. In a horrifically awkward twist of fate, I had to stay in a room in the house with my family. Now, it sounds like it would be ok, but there were a variety of factors that made it fairly terrible.

1. This house isn’t like a normal house. There is no ceiling, so the walls divide rooms in terms of vision, but sound is free to move and travel as it wishes. Therefore, when I went to bed to escape the awkwardness outside at 10pm, the party outside was not shut out. And when fasting people rose at 5am to eat food before the sun showed its face, I could hear it all. Beyond that, it allowed sound to move freely, but the house provided exactly zero light to my room. So I had to rummage through all my stuff, no matter how bright the sun shone outside, by only the light of flashlights.

2. The bed. I can’t yet get past the thought of what African beds could contain. So, I spent my first two nights creating imaginary itches and feeling imaginary bugs crawling around. My first morning, I saw a mouse scurrying around the tops of the walls and roof supports, and so I actually imagined a mouse crawling up my mosquito net one night. At least I hope I imagined it… Also, it was constructed of basically two horizontal supports, one of which was much higher than the other, and both of which disrupted the natural flow of my vertebrae.

3. Since I didn’t have my own pit latrine, I had to use my families. This is very different than using a bathroom in someone’s house. I could smell and see their coming and goings (so to speak) and they mine. Also, there’s no door, much less a lock to prevent people from entering while you’re at your most fragile. So, I came down with a terrible cough every time I had to shower or use the facilities, just so that they would realize they were occupied.

4. The social aspect. Oh my god. Ramadan is in full swing, and so people don’t do ANYTHING. Sometimes they go to the bush (farm) for a few hours during the day, but most of the time they’re just sitting, sedentary, chatting. I, as a newcomer to the Mandinka language, am unable to chat effectively with them. It’s like being a party where you know no one, and all that you can effectively communicate is “how are you”, “How’s work”, “Where are the children”, and “Yes, I’m sitting”. Keep in mind, however, that unless people respond to these questions or comments in the simplest of ways, you can’t understand the responses. Further, in American situations, you can just go play with some toddlers who can’t speak anyway, but in the Gambian situation, all of those children are terrified of you because you are white.

Despite the awkwardness, Nyakoi is unbelievably beautiful. Some relatives of my host family live right next door in the Gambian version of a palace. They have a generator (which they haven’t used yet) and a staircase! It’s the first staircase I’ve seen outside of the capital of The Gambia. It leads to the roof, and so the other day, I climbed up there to check out the view. It was unbelievable. I thought it was too early to break out my camera, since for the price of it they could probably feed their family for many months. I will try to explain it as well as possible.

There were two storms approaching, one from the left, one from the right. I could see the big, dark clouds, and the rain falling miles away on both sides of me. Occasionally, I could see lightning flashing between the clouds on both sides. Closer to me, there were huge puffy clouds covering the sun, and so you got that cool heaven-like effect, where the sun rays are like tangible things, busting through the gaps in clouds.

The landscape is ridiculously flat, and since it’s the rainy season, everything is green. Capital G-R-E-E-N. So, it’s just leafy and green everywhere you look, except when a bright red dirt road snakes between the green. The sky in between the two storms was bright, bright blue, and dotted throughout the scenery was the dusty brown of mud huts. My host grandma or aunt (I’m not sure who’s who yet) was out in the fields gathering two goats, and so there’s the stereotypical dark black old woman, in the vibrant green and yellow complete, bringing in two goats from the field. Nearby, I could hear and see little children yelling and playing.

A rainbow also showed its face for a few minutes through it, and I just sat watching it all. It was like a postcard, no matter where I looked. Unbelievable. Next time all of those conditions come together again, I’ll get a picture. I promise.
So, now we’re headed back to Kombo (the capital area) for about ten days, to have some sessions, take our final language test (yikes), stock up on food, supplies and household needs, and then Swear In! I’ll be a volunteer in a little more than a week. Huzzah!

Also, since I’ve changed families, I have to take their name. Readers, please meet my new identity, Abby Sillah.

MODEL SCHOOL

So, a few weeks ago, we had a “sink or swim” week at a Basic Cycle School in a nearby village, in the Gambian Peace corps version of student teaching, an event called Model School. Since it’s summer here, they gathered 25 students from each grade (fifth through eighth), and Peace Corps PAID them to come and do fun lessons with Peace Corps volunteers.

It was good to be in a classroom again. Since corporal punishment is a very real part of the education experience of all of these children, students are very well behaved, and I didn’t have to deal with the attitudes and misbehavior that run rampant in American schools. Most of the time, students did what I asked them to do, and when I got my teacher voice going, they straightened up. This was perhaps not the most realistic depiction of Gambian schools, since they picked the best students to attend Model School, and normal classrooms have about 60 students.

In one of our cultural lessons, we learned that Gambian meeting times are very fluid. They said that if you plan to have a meeting at 3, you can expect it to start at 5 or 5:30. I was horrified, and refused to believe it. But, our model school graduation was supposed to start at 3, and didn’t get going until about 4:30.

During Model School, I taught fifth grade math and seventh and eighth grade gym. One of these (elementary math) was my major and minor, and one of these (gym) I never did before. But, man, I was a killer gym teacher. I think I missed my calling. I taught one class to play capture the flag, and one of them I taught to play ultimate Frisbee. On the evaluation at the end of Model School, numerous eighth graders wrote that their favorite part was “freez-bee”. Soon enough, it will be the national sport of the Gambia. Mission one: on the way to accomplishment.

One of my gym lessons happened to land on the first day of Ramadan. Halfway through the hour long lesson, I took some mercy on the students and took them to the well to get some water. Some of the students gave me weird looks, but I thought that was just because I was being exceedingly generous, giving them water at the middle of a period. I was surprised when all of the Anna’s, Pa Louis’, Philip, and Frances’ (the Christians) could get water, but the Alhagie’s, Oumie, Hawa, and Muhammed’s (the Muslims) had to abstain. (My African eighth grade class had whiter names than my class in NC!)

Capture the flag went amazingly well. I was pretty nervous about the language barrier before I started the lesson, so when students were doing what I wanted, I was ecstatic. I tried to give some of the ones who were trying really hard and following directions a simple, innocent high five. In doing so, I culturally insensitively forgot that the American “Way to go! Hit my hand in celebration!” is the same symbol as the Gambian “I’m about to beat you”. Oops.

Janjangburreh

To see more of the country, we took a field trip to a town called janjangburreh. It’s a fairly big town/island in the middle of the Gambian River, close to the center of the country. The goal while there was to see some more of the country, to relax on a boat trip, and to attend an hour of a summer teacher training seminar for local Gambian teachers.

We stayed in a “resort”. This resort made Yuna Resort (the first one we stayed in) actually seem like a resort. Although the rooms looked more unique, the water didn’t work, there was no electricity, only a tank could navigate the road to get to the resort, and it was infested with monkeys and bats.

When I say infested, I mean it. The first day when we ate breakfast at the resort, a girl went and got her food, put it down on the table, bent her head to the side slightly so that she could find her chair and sit in it, and while her head was turned ten degrees for about a tenth of a second, 4 monkeys made their move. Apparently they just sit in the shrubbery near the eating area, waiting for people who let their eyes wander. Four monkeys leapt over chairs, onto the table, grabbed as many panquetos as their four fingers and opposable thumbs could carry, and then fled back into the trees. It was UNBELIEVABLE. Every meal, some dude had to carry a large stick, and continuously throw it like a spear into the bamboo where they all sat, planning their next attack; deciding which monkey would be on the front line and which would take the flank. I can just imagine the staff meeting of the resort staff. Every night I bet they play rock, paper, scissors, and the loser has to be on monkey patrol.

To eat without getting your food snatched, you literally had to sit in tight little squares, four people hunched in near their food. In your left hand you held a knife or stick of some kind, to ward off brave monkeys, in your right hand you shoveled your food into your mouth, and your eyes are always darting from side to side, sweeping the area for suspicious and ambitious looking monkeys. Occasionally, you would yell to your friends, “WATCH YOUR BACK!” or “HE’S COMING IN FROM THE LEFT!” or “AERIAL ATTACK!”

Besides the thieving monkeys, we saw some cool animals on our boat trip. There were a bunch of pockets of baboons chilling all along the banks of the gambia river. I also saw a staple of African animal sightings – a hippo! I was SOOO excited. Once I figure out how to zoom in on the picture, I will post it here.

My First Language Success

I didn’t know before I got here and was thrown into a language filled with strange symbols, double letters, and weird intonations, but I suck at learning languages. I’m bad at building sentences, and for my entire first language test, I don’t think I used any verbs - ever. I said “I store” instead of “I went to the store”, “Dad farmer” instead of “My dad is a farmer”, and answered with one words responses as much as possible.

So, I take each little success. Anytime I can leave my host family without them looking shocked, scared, or mad at me, I consider myself at having communicated well. When I get to the store, and leave with what I wanted and at least some of my change, I consider it a success. Here, I want to chronicle my most impressive language achievement yet.

I was walking home from language lessons last week, and I saw a baby goat. As you probably know from my other blog posts, seeing a goat is no longer an exciting thing for me. However, this goat was an infant. I would guess he had emerged from the womb less than 48 hours before I cast my eyes upon him. He even still had a gross little dried out umbilical cord still attached.

I knew as soon as I saw this goat, that I needed to have a picture taking whilst holding said baby goat. I knew I could not rest until I had photo documentation of how ridiculously cute and young this kid was. However, catching a baby goat is harder than it seems. After a short race with it (I even ran in a backpack to attempt to catch it) I realized that I am not nimble nor spry enough to catch my prize. I had to rely on my language skills, and many Gambian children.

In English, I would have said;

“Children! Come here and listen to me! I need to request your services for a short period of time. I would very much like for you to engage in a short foot race with that baby goat. I would like for you to overtake him and, kindly and humanely, catch him and deliver him to me. Following the capture, I would like to hold the baby goat in my hands, and have some pictures taken with my camera. One specific picture I would like is one of me holding the baby goat as if I’m about to take a large bite from his side. I would also like my friend Caroline to be in the picture, pretending to dine upon the infant goat as well. As you can see, this picture is one of my highest priorities, so would you please do your best and run your fastest to gather him for me?”

In Mandinka, I said;

“N lafita baaringo!” which means simply;

“I want baby goat!”

As soon as I chanted that a few times and made a few feeble attempts at snagging the goat, those kids caught on, and it was better than a small town parade. Mother goat was leading the pack, followed closely by baby goat, followed closely by about 30 children, all running after each other, yelling, “N lafita baaringo!” They ran past the alkalo (village chief’s) house, around the block, and eventually, and triumphantly, delivered to me what I wanted.

The picture is hilarious. All thanks to my extensive knowledge of the Mandinkan language.

Site Announcement!

Today, we found out our site placement, so the place were we’ll be spending the two years after training. Site placement was just like county placement. I forgot how stressful it is to be on the unknowing side of deciding people's fate, as opposed to the Admin, all-powerful side.

My village is called Nyokoi (which means White Eye in Mandinka) or something like that, a village about 10 km from a larger town called basse. It’s pretty close to the beautiful gambia river, and apparently has some hiking with some cliff views of the river. The unfortunate thing is that I’m SO far from banjul, the capital, where most of the civilization and peace corps stuff is. It’ll take a full day of travel to get back to Kombo (the Banjul suburban area) when I have to.

I’ll be working mostly in a lower basic school, doing literacy work with the teachers and students. I’ll also be working a little bit in an upper basic school, doing some math work, hopefully. Also, and most exciting, is that apparently one of my schools has a basketball court at it! The basketball court is apparently just a slab of concrete, but it’s something to work with. I’ll find the first gambian star yet.

I haven’t been there, but have seen pictures of my house. It’s tiny, a round mud hut, with a thatched roof. I still can’t believe it. It’s really Africa.

The Sched

Here’s the daily schedule of my life in the Gambia thus far. This is basically how it seems to go during training, and things will change a lot once we get out to our permanent sites.

6:38 – Awaken to my alarm, although exuberant roosters and braying donkeys have had me in and out of sleep for the past hour and a half. Hit snooze at least three times.

7-ish – Untuck my mosquito net, get out of bed, hit the pit. Sweep out my house, to avoid having sand dunes form in the corners of the rooms. Read through my notes one time, so when I go and face my host family, I don’t sound like a complete idiot.
7:40 – greet my family. This alone, with all of the member of the family, takes about 15 minutes.

8am – classes start. We usually start by walking to a bitik (store) to get some bread and chocolate (which provides me much of my sustenance for the day). Then we are thrown into the world of Mandinka, which follows exactly zero of the rules of the English language. We usually have an audience of about six adults and 14 kids, who just watch as we try to learn, and laugh as we try to speak.

11 or noon – Morning classes end, and we are set free. Usually we hang at our teachers house and drink attaya (a tea that is brewed all day long here, filled with enough sugar to build a cotton candy castle), eat mangoes, and sleep, read or study under the mango tree.

1pm – Lunch. Everyday, we eat from a giant food bowl, using only our hands. The food is always rice, some sort of meet, cabbage, cucumbers, beans, and occasionally some sweet potato fries… mmmm. It apparently is the best food that we’ll get in this country, so I’m trying to live it up. I eat a lot every day, because dinner is harder to swallow. After lunch we usuallly continue hanging out under the mango tree, either reading or studying. No one tells us to do this, but we like to stay as a group and hang out and study, since it’s a lot harder to do so in your compound.
4:30 – class again. More language lessons. Everything that I’ve learned from the morning is most likely gone.

6:30 pm – Bucket bath. Still trying to figure out the correct amount of water, the correct rinsing tactic, and how to keep the soap from slipping and getting crazy dirty.

7:30pm – Hang out with the fam. Sometimes I help my sister cook dinner, sometimes I play frisbee or a red light green light type game with the tons of kids, and occasionally try to awkwardly have a conversation with my family. Usually, this consists of them saying, “You came”, “You’re here” or the ever popular “you’re sitting”, each of which I respond to with a resounding “haa” or yes. Stimulating conversation.

9pm – Dinner. I am served a full fish, complete with eyes, along with a suspect sauce and a giant bowl of white rice. Usually I take a few bites of white rice and give the rest back.

10pm – it’s too dark to do anything, unless you have fox like night-vision, so I go beneath my mosquito net and read. Then go to sleep.

World Cup Video Club

About a week ago, we went to the video club across the street from my compound, we paid ten dalasis, and we sat in a hot room, filled to double capacity, trying to watch the epic european battle; the finals of the world cup.

It was quite an experience. The seating was boards placed on bedongs (big plastic jugs). The technology area had crazy wires – connected to car batteries, to generators, to DVD players, to cable boxes, I think there might have been a wire connected to a goat running on a wheel outside, just trying to eek out enough electricity to get the entire game.

The room was hot, it was sweaty, and it smelled TERRIBLE. This is what African soccer fans are all about. About 20 minutes into the game, it started to monsoon. There was thunder, lightning, and rain coming in through the windows. Because of this, the already weak Senegalese cable station that we were watching it on, flickered in and out. We missed about thirty minutes of the game because of the crazy rain.

When the one goal was finally scored, the crowd went CRAZY! The owner of the video club was running around telling people to calm down, because they almost jumped through his ceiling! We had no idea what anyone was saying, but a lot of people were yelling “GOOOOOOOOOOOAL” I think. Apparently, everyone wanted Spain to win because more black people live in spain than in the Netherlands.

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

Never Have I Ever

It’s my first blog post. Hopefully it is up to par. In the true ASP fashion, please provide feedback on the content, and quality of writing in the following post.

So, I left the metropolitan region of chicago a mere six days ago, but it feels like forever. I know a lot of people say that, but for real. Here are the things that I’ve done since six days ago that I have never done before.

1. Arrived at Philly’s airport with all of my bags and a smile on my face.
2. Eaten a Philly cheese steak in Philadelphia (it was kind of gross, but I heard that we went to the wrong place)
3. Eaten a last American ice cream cone.
4. Eaten a second, last American ice cream cone.
5. Been to continental Europe. (The brief stay in Brussels was enough to get a stamp on my passport and check this off of the to-do list)
6. Been to Africa.
7. Slept under mosquito netting.
8. Taken malaria medication.
9. Eaten an egg (this I’ve done before, but not since I reached the age of reason, so I think it counts)
10. Greeted people in Mandinka
11. Greetted people in wolof.
12. Greeted people in Pulaar.
13. Learned how to tie a wrap skirt, to tie a head scarf, to take a bucket bath, and to use a pit latrine.
14. Held a native-to-Africa snake
15. Held a naked African.
16. Got pulled over at an African police checkpoint.
17. Eaten from a communal food bowl, with my hands.
18. Strongly considered eating a fish with eyes that were still gazing at me. Decided against it.
19. Stayed at a resort where I wasn’t allowed to drink the water or use it to brush my teeth.
20. Played euchre and Red Jar Blue Jar in Africa.
21. Danced in a cultural celebration with a man dressed as a bride, a man on stilts, and two hissing men dressed as lions.

That’s all I can think of now, but I’m sure there are more.

Overall, things are going exceedingly well. Having said that, I have yet to poop in a hole, pump and filter my water, or prepare my own food. Tomorrow we go to the village, and there I will find my new home for the next 8 weeks. I’ll meet my host family, and on Wednesday, I will receive my first gambian name. My last name will be Ceesay, which is the last name of my host dad, and they get to pick what my first name will be. There are only about 12 names to choose from (this number may be a little low) but a LOT of people have the same first and last name here. I hope I don’t get fatou for my name. A husky girl named Fatou? Think of how they’ll make fun of me.

Go Time

It's my first blog, it's set up. I'm not sure how often I'll have a chance to update it, but I will do my best to give all my loyal fans a little taste of life in the Gambia as often as possible.

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