Here in The Gambia, the vast majority of the population is Muslim. A combination of their tribal beliefs and their newer Islamic beliefs has led to a strong confidence in the power of jujus: verses of the Koran, written by a holy man called a marabou, bound in leather, and worn somewhere on the body.
I was about to head to Cape Verde on a travel-filled epic adventure, and Steve was coming so I needed a gift that was unique but appropriate and that he’d like. It was time for me to make some jujus.
I took a long time for me to decide what I wanted. Should I protect myself from knives? Should I go the safe route and get a juju for invincibility? Should I guarantee myself vast wealth in my future? Which juju would Steve most appreciate?
On our upcoming Cape Verde trip, I knew if travel plans were altered at all we wouldn’t make it to all the destinations I wanted. So the first juju I wanted, for both Steve and I, was for safe and efficient travel.
Then, I tried to think about what else we were passionate about. Of course, I thought of sports. So I made a juju for the success of the Green Bay Packers, and made Steve jujus for all of his favorite sports teams to be successful.
It was an incredible collision of my old life and my new one in Africa as I watched this holy man spell out “Green Bay Packers” phonetically in Arabic, then proceed to chant and make marks on a paper, continually cross-checking with his Islamic texts.
Apparently, as a marabou is making a juju for a person, he’s able to see things about their future. So, this is what my marabou told me about what my life would be like in the future.
- Where you live, people will love you. You will be much beloved and you will be rich.
- A government employee will try to befriend you, but you should stay away from him.
- You will go somewhere where they speak French
- You will be in the running with two others, and you will be the winner.
After he told me my future, he proceeded to make inexplicable marks on a paper, guided by Allah himself, I guess. When he finished he was left with three rows of little lines, each row with either one, two, or three lines in it. Based on the arrangement of the lines, it determines how successful your juju will be. As he drew one for the Cleveland Cavaliers, he made a satisfied clucking noise. I asked why, and he said, “They are in the second position. That is good.” That was the only point when I doubted his juju making abilities. I guess Allah doesn’t know the recent occurrences within the Cleveland Cavaliers organization.
When he was finished with all of the pieces of paper, covering all of the jujus I wanted, he told me that in order for all of the jujus to be successful, I would have to give some charities. He said I would have to do exactly as he said before I picked up the jujus, or they would not be as powerful.
The following are the gifts that I had to distribute.
- Give children milk on a Sunday
- Give silver to a disabled person
- Give three white kola nuts to someone older than you
- Give a prayer shawl to an old woman
So, one Sunday, armed with many dalasis and the power of Allah, I went to the market to purchase and distribute.
As I finished making my purchases and I was walking out of the market, I saw a blind man sitting and begging. I went to him and gave him the three white kola nuts, which are a sign of utmost respect in Gambian culture. As I put them in his outstretched hand I said, “Sadaa fele”, which means, “Gaze at the gifts.” Then I sat as he prayed for me, in the middle of the market, asking for Allah to bless me.
So my first charity given was awesome.
Later, I saw another blind man standing outside, clinking coins together. I awkwardly placed the silver ring on his pinky finger (that’s the only place it would fit, it was a tiny ring), but he also kept me there for a long time, blessing me with Allah’s praises.
So now, armed with the a double dose of heavenly blessings, I ventured to find an old woman and some children.
There was a woman sitting outside of the bank in a wheelchair, also clinking coins together, begging for money. I went to her, wrapped the scarf around her neck, and told her, “Gaze at the charity”. She gave me a quick thank you in mandinka, and then immediately asked me in English for money. I laughed and strolled away. Even if that less than stellar response canceled out one of my Allah blessings, I still had one to spare.
Then I went to find some kids to give milk to. I was sure this would be the easiest one, because every day, as I’m walking down the road, anything that I have, kids will ask for. If I’m drinking a bag of water, kids will yell, “Give me water!” If I’m eating a banana, they’ll say, “Give me banana!” So I thought as soon as I said yes to one of these requests, a horde of kids would come running and I’d have to fight them off.
I had three bags of milk to give away, so when I first saw a group of three kids, I said, Sweet. Perfect. But as soon as I nicely called for the boys to come over, they looked scared and ran away. I tried to explain in Mandinka that I had a gift for them, but apparently they had been schooled in stranger danger – or just didn’t know why on earth a toubab would be beckoning them.
Eventually, I found a kid sitting alone on a bike. I thought, aww, lonesome kid on a bike, who better to give my charity to? But then his well-dressed mother approached, looking apprehensive. I told her I had to give charities, and I wanted to give milk to her son. She said thank you, and in the tradition of the women gift receivers of the Gambia, promptly asked for some money too.
I found my last two kids sitting and waiting in a car park. I’m not sure they understood what they were getting, but their wise looking elder was sitting next to them, and he motioned that it was ok for them to take the gift.
In a country where if you don’t finish your coffee, you can give it to a four year old boy and he’ll guzzle it from the same cup, a country where when you throw out a coke can, kids immediately pick it up and start licking it for a few final sweet drops of liquid, who would have thought it’d be so hard to get them to take milk?
So, I completed my charities. I went to the marabou to pick up my jujus, and he said that on Sunday, he had sat for one hour, while the Packers were playing half a world away, and had prayed for their success.
I don’t want to jinx anything, but my jujus are awesome. The Packers are (as of now) undefeated, and Steve and I made it to all of our travel destinations safe and sound.
Cleveland teams are still struggling however… maybe no amount of heavenly power can make those teams successful.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Jammeh's Jamboree
This year marks the fiftieth anniversary of the Peace Corps. To celebrate, all over the world, different Peace Corps countries and the governments therein are having events, throwing parties, giving gifts to commemorate all the brave young men and women who’ve put real life on hold to go and explore the unknown.
Recently, the president of the Gambia, His Excellency Sheik Dr. Alhagie Professor Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, invited all Peace Corps volunteers to his home village, to properly honor the time the Peace Corps has been present in the Gambia, which as of this year, has been 45 years uninterrupted. Through coups and revolutions, Peace Corps has been ever present in The Gambia.
Peace Corps volunteers have seen how village meetings and programs are run in the Gambia. We know not to expect a meeting in the village to start until two hours after it’s supposed to, we know when it says there’s lodging it’s probably sleeping on a thin mat on a concrete slab, and we know that if food is provided it’s probably fish, palm oil, and okra.
But would it be different when the president was our Gambian host? Time would tell.
The program was set to begin at 4pm, with lunch. We arrived at around 4, after a police escorted hour and a half trip from Kombo to Kanilai. A Peace Corps volunteer got on the intercom system on the bus (yes it was one of those buses – a la eighth grade band trip to Florida) and acted as our tour guide. He pointed out the trees of the Gambia, the point at which the pavement stopped, and my favorite, uttered this quote: “On your right, you’ll see Yuna psychiatric hospital and liquor production facility”. And sure enough, to our right, there it was.
We arrived at around four to a large welcoming party. We finished eating at around five thirty, over an hour late, as expected. If the lunch spread was any indication of how the night would go, we were in for a treat. Every time I looked up, they brought out a new roasted goat filled with stuffing; they had delicious domoda, roasted lamb, tons of fresh fruit, and overall things that provide slightly more taste and nutrition than the average Gambian meal.
Then we all moved to the stadium. We sat in the seats of honor, behind where the president was expected to sit. We sat, watching the dancing Jammeh supporters, listening to the band, and waiting for the big man to make his appearance. The actual ceremony was expected to start at six.
Darkness fell, and still no president had shown his face. At this point we were tired of acting like honorable guests of honor, so I got the people sitting around me involved in a round of “the ugly game”, where each person tries to make him or herself as ugly as possible, and then capture it on digital camera.
Finally, at around 7:45, the president showed up. His arrival was perhaps my favorite thing about the entire night. Most presidents don’t drive themselves anywhere – it’s much safer for someone else to sit in the driver’s seat. But President Jammeh isn’t most presidents. He peeled out in his Land Rover, his traditional white robes blowing wildly in the wind. He squealed to a stop in the grass in front of the leather couch that had been placed there specifically for this purpose, and his henchman approached the car, opened the door, and quickly ushered him onto the couch. Like communion on Easter Sunday, we all quickly cycled from our seat to the front to greet and shake the president’s hand, then back around to our seats.
Then the ceremony began. We sang both national anthems. There were numerous speeches, some well thought out and eloquent ones, some long and rambling ones. Speeches were given by Peace Corps volunteers in each of the local languages. You could tell the crowd got a kick out of hearing toubabs speak and joke fluently in their local language. Even the president gave a couple of guffaws. After this, pretty much everyone who ever was involved in the Peace Corps and is now in government gave a speech. And like most programs in The Gambia, it went on FAR TOO LONG. By the time all the speaking was finished, it was around 10:30 pm. Dinner was planned to be served at 8 pm. Only two and half hours late is about right for the Gambia, so we were all relatively pleased with the timetable of the night.
But then, the president announced he had an exciting surprise for us. First, he asked all female volunteers to stand, which we did, although slightly nervously. Visions of massive wedding ceremonies flooded through my head, but then the president announced he wanted to give us all dressed. We all exchanged excited looks, and now new visions flooded my head – traditional, embroidered, wax print dresses for all of us. Or even better, a dress made out of the fabric printed with the president’s face and name. We all got in a long line to receive our gifts. They were all folded, so we couldn’t really see what we were being offered until we got back to our seats and could open them…
And the president had given every Peace Corps volunteer a Gambian made… pantsuit. Imagine a 70’s flight attendant uniform, then put it a color two steps uglier, and embroider it four levels gaudier, and that’s about what we received. I chose a lovely lime green shirt, far too small, with embroidery that has a pattern you’d see on a blanket in New Mexico. Some girls received some pretty inappropriate stuff, with embroidered arrows pointing directly to their nether regions… Immediately people started talking about throwing their presidential gifts into the free pile. I’m hoping enough people held onto theirs that we can use them for uniforms for WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) this year.
Then the Peace Corps men were invited up, and to the ladies’ shock, many of them were given beautiful, traditional, wax printed clothes. Some unlucky ones near the back got embroidered white t shirts, but some dudes hit the jackpot.
Finally, gifts given and speeches heard, we moved to the dining area to eat and watch the movie created by a Peace Corps volunteer about Peace Corps in the Gambia. It was about 12:30 pm.
At 1am, we moved to the food. There were cakes, there was salad, there was meat and fresh fruit. I ate triple what any normal person should, but I knew a few short days would find me back in village, eating fish bones only. As I was walking around the tennis court (where the food was set up and served), I was piling food on my plate, while simultaneously eating the tiny cakes he had millions of. I probably ate eighteen tiny pieces of cake by the time the dinner was over. We all ate as much as we possibly could, watched the movie, and then were completely exhausted and ready to sleep in the presidential accommodations the pres had arranged for us.
As we were indulging, our safety and security coordinator came around, and told us the nice lodge in the village only had thirteen rooms, and Peace Corps staff would stay there. So, we could stay in this abandoned apartment complex, or we could return back to Kombo to stay in the Peace Corps house. I chose to return, and entered the door to the place I would finally rest my head at 4am.
Those that stayed said that the lodging was a concrete room, a mattress on the floor, and no electricity… so in fact, even less accommodating than our pit latrine equipped huts with beds.
Despite the tardiness, the poor accommodations, the exhaustion, we all had a pretty good time, and definitely felt that the people of the Gambia appreciated what we and our predecessors have done for the country.
At least, we felt that until a few hours later, when a large number of us had immense gastrointestinal discomfort. Apparently, food that is prepared and ready to be served at 8pm is not quite as intestinally accepted when it’s served at 1am.
Recently, the president of the Gambia, His Excellency Sheik Dr. Alhagie Professor Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh, invited all Peace Corps volunteers to his home village, to properly honor the time the Peace Corps has been present in the Gambia, which as of this year, has been 45 years uninterrupted. Through coups and revolutions, Peace Corps has been ever present in The Gambia.
Peace Corps volunteers have seen how village meetings and programs are run in the Gambia. We know not to expect a meeting in the village to start until two hours after it’s supposed to, we know when it says there’s lodging it’s probably sleeping on a thin mat on a concrete slab, and we know that if food is provided it’s probably fish, palm oil, and okra.
But would it be different when the president was our Gambian host? Time would tell.
The program was set to begin at 4pm, with lunch. We arrived at around 4, after a police escorted hour and a half trip from Kombo to Kanilai. A Peace Corps volunteer got on the intercom system on the bus (yes it was one of those buses – a la eighth grade band trip to Florida) and acted as our tour guide. He pointed out the trees of the Gambia, the point at which the pavement stopped, and my favorite, uttered this quote: “On your right, you’ll see Yuna psychiatric hospital and liquor production facility”. And sure enough, to our right, there it was.
We arrived at around four to a large welcoming party. We finished eating at around five thirty, over an hour late, as expected. If the lunch spread was any indication of how the night would go, we were in for a treat. Every time I looked up, they brought out a new roasted goat filled with stuffing; they had delicious domoda, roasted lamb, tons of fresh fruit, and overall things that provide slightly more taste and nutrition than the average Gambian meal.
Then we all moved to the stadium. We sat in the seats of honor, behind where the president was expected to sit. We sat, watching the dancing Jammeh supporters, listening to the band, and waiting for the big man to make his appearance. The actual ceremony was expected to start at six.
Darkness fell, and still no president had shown his face. At this point we were tired of acting like honorable guests of honor, so I got the people sitting around me involved in a round of “the ugly game”, where each person tries to make him or herself as ugly as possible, and then capture it on digital camera.
Finally, at around 7:45, the president showed up. His arrival was perhaps my favorite thing about the entire night. Most presidents don’t drive themselves anywhere – it’s much safer for someone else to sit in the driver’s seat. But President Jammeh isn’t most presidents. He peeled out in his Land Rover, his traditional white robes blowing wildly in the wind. He squealed to a stop in the grass in front of the leather couch that had been placed there specifically for this purpose, and his henchman approached the car, opened the door, and quickly ushered him onto the couch. Like communion on Easter Sunday, we all quickly cycled from our seat to the front to greet and shake the president’s hand, then back around to our seats.
Then the ceremony began. We sang both national anthems. There were numerous speeches, some well thought out and eloquent ones, some long and rambling ones. Speeches were given by Peace Corps volunteers in each of the local languages. You could tell the crowd got a kick out of hearing toubabs speak and joke fluently in their local language. Even the president gave a couple of guffaws. After this, pretty much everyone who ever was involved in the Peace Corps and is now in government gave a speech. And like most programs in The Gambia, it went on FAR TOO LONG. By the time all the speaking was finished, it was around 10:30 pm. Dinner was planned to be served at 8 pm. Only two and half hours late is about right for the Gambia, so we were all relatively pleased with the timetable of the night.
But then, the president announced he had an exciting surprise for us. First, he asked all female volunteers to stand, which we did, although slightly nervously. Visions of massive wedding ceremonies flooded through my head, but then the president announced he wanted to give us all dressed. We all exchanged excited looks, and now new visions flooded my head – traditional, embroidered, wax print dresses for all of us. Or even better, a dress made out of the fabric printed with the president’s face and name. We all got in a long line to receive our gifts. They were all folded, so we couldn’t really see what we were being offered until we got back to our seats and could open them…
And the president had given every Peace Corps volunteer a Gambian made… pantsuit. Imagine a 70’s flight attendant uniform, then put it a color two steps uglier, and embroider it four levels gaudier, and that’s about what we received. I chose a lovely lime green shirt, far too small, with embroidery that has a pattern you’d see on a blanket in New Mexico. Some girls received some pretty inappropriate stuff, with embroidered arrows pointing directly to their nether regions… Immediately people started talking about throwing their presidential gifts into the free pile. I’m hoping enough people held onto theirs that we can use them for uniforms for WAIST (West African International Softball Tournament) this year.
Then the Peace Corps men were invited up, and to the ladies’ shock, many of them were given beautiful, traditional, wax printed clothes. Some unlucky ones near the back got embroidered white t shirts, but some dudes hit the jackpot.
Finally, gifts given and speeches heard, we moved to the dining area to eat and watch the movie created by a Peace Corps volunteer about Peace Corps in the Gambia. It was about 12:30 pm.
At 1am, we moved to the food. There were cakes, there was salad, there was meat and fresh fruit. I ate triple what any normal person should, but I knew a few short days would find me back in village, eating fish bones only. As I was walking around the tennis court (where the food was set up and served), I was piling food on my plate, while simultaneously eating the tiny cakes he had millions of. I probably ate eighteen tiny pieces of cake by the time the dinner was over. We all ate as much as we possibly could, watched the movie, and then were completely exhausted and ready to sleep in the presidential accommodations the pres had arranged for us.
As we were indulging, our safety and security coordinator came around, and told us the nice lodge in the village only had thirteen rooms, and Peace Corps staff would stay there. So, we could stay in this abandoned apartment complex, or we could return back to Kombo to stay in the Peace Corps house. I chose to return, and entered the door to the place I would finally rest my head at 4am.
Those that stayed said that the lodging was a concrete room, a mattress on the floor, and no electricity… so in fact, even less accommodating than our pit latrine equipped huts with beds.
Despite the tardiness, the poor accommodations, the exhaustion, we all had a pretty good time, and definitely felt that the people of the Gambia appreciated what we and our predecessors have done for the country.
At least, we felt that until a few hours later, when a large number of us had immense gastrointestinal discomfort. Apparently, food that is prepared and ready to be served at 8pm is not quite as intestinally accepted when it’s served at 1am.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Cape Verde > The Gambia
I just went on an epic trip to Cape Verde. It was amazing and beautiful and perhaps the greatest place on earth, but I’m not going to publish the itinerary nor my reasons for my glowing recommendations until a successful travel writing business pays me for my efforts.
Instead, I am going to publish the top three reasons that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reason Number Three: Street Food
I cannot explain how amazing the street food was there. I told myself before I went that I would try every piece of street food that I saw, at least once. In The Gambia, if I had made that promise, I would be sputtering in disgust often. Following through on this declaration in Cape Verde, however, was joyous surprise after joyous surprise.
My knowledge of the Portuguese language, and most street food vendors knowledge of English intersected enough for them to understand, through broken Portuguese and emphatic hand motions, that I was indicating, “FEED ME ONE OF THOSE”.
The first tasty morsel was some sort of brownish goop that they spread on bread. Now, in the Gambia, this goop is bound to be something okra or fish related. So I was nervous. But upon its first contact with my taste buds, I knew this was not Gambian street food. The goop was some sort of sweet caramel type substance. The bread was about the size of a hot dog bun, slathered with delicious muck, and it put me back 10 escudos, or about 14 cents. I immediately ate two more.
Only then did I notice the wild variety of street food surrounding me. Had I noticed it before, I would not have been so quick to guzzle the first nugget.
Immediately upon discovery, I had all my hands and mouth space occupied with some pizza type onion-y thing, two incredibly iced doughnuts, and a huge piece of cake. All of that for 50 escudos. Or like 80 cents.
The best street food moment of the trip came after many attempts. I’d seen woman walking around with large, clear plastic bags, filled with what looked like raw tofu. It was visibly cold and wet, and was about the size, shape, and thickness of a rice cake. I had no idea what this was for a long time. I had seen many people walking around with the bags, and people making purchases, but no one actually consuming this mysterious consumable.
My moment came, and in a flurry of misunderstanding, I finally ended up with one of these discs, for 150 escudos, or slightly more than two dollars. Based on my previous experiences, this was an expensive hunk of something.
I examined its cold wetness, and wondered what it could possibly be. At this point, I was still pretty sure it was raw tofu. But upon the first squeaky bite, I knew for certain that it was the greatest discovery since the finding of these beautiful islands so long ago.
It was cheese. A huge disc of recently pressed goat cheese (I think). Cheap, accessible, fresh, not processed, cheese????? This is the stuff of a Gambian volunteer’s dreams. And thus, reason number three that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reasons Number Two: Infrastructure
This may have been the biggest shock upon arriving to Cape Verde. I’m no expert nor widely traveled person, but having lived on the continent for over a year, I thought I’d understood what Africa had to offer, and most likely wouldn’t be too surprised by anything this continent had to throw at me.
Then I arrived in Cape Verde.
You think Africa, in general, has a lack of power, running water, banks, restaurants, on time vehicles, or schedules of any sort? Think again.
Cape Verde has some amazingly beautiful sights to see. They have mountains, beaches, volcanoes, beautiful people, interesting cities, etc. But a strange proportion of my pictures are of seemingly mundane things. Trash cans, power lines, electric lights, and comfortable seating.
BECAUSE AFRICA DOES HAVE THESE THINGS.
Was I pretty ignorant of Africa before I got to Cape Verde? Definitely, but I would argue that makes me appreciate it much more. Most folks, upon seeing a beautiful valley filled with sugar cane blowing in the wind, capped off by a low, fluffy cloud cover, would miss the understated beauty and the manifestation of lots of time and effort on the part of government and local laborers if they overlooked the green trash cans, the cobbled road, the delicate spine of power lines running to the most remote, basic, rural homes.
Reason Number One: Stuff to See
The most amazing thing that Cape Verde had was stuff to see. Scenery you couldn’t get anywhere else, sights and sounds completely unique and beautiful. Looking to the west and seeing the ocean, and across the channel, another island with the sun setting behind it, and then turning to the east and seeing the peak of a epic volcano that you climbed earlier that day?
Emerging on the top of an epically high ridge of mountains, to look down into the next gorgeous valley, shade obscuring half of it and sunlight blindingly illuminating the rest?
Watching farmers not only plow their fields with horses and donkeys, but also adjust the irrigation lines that come from the water trickling down from way up the mountain?
A boy making his way up a steep cobbled road, and to assist him, he’s holding the tail of a huge white horse?
Hearing a local Creole speaker order the locally made alcohol called “grogue”, which in my Chicago accent sound synonymous with witch’s puke, but in their lispy, musical tongue, it sounds like something fantastical and delicious?
Amazing.
You should go there.
PS. Mom. I know you just bought your ticket to the Gambia… but it’s pretty good too!
Instead, I am going to publish the top three reasons that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reason Number Three: Street Food
I cannot explain how amazing the street food was there. I told myself before I went that I would try every piece of street food that I saw, at least once. In The Gambia, if I had made that promise, I would be sputtering in disgust often. Following through on this declaration in Cape Verde, however, was joyous surprise after joyous surprise.
My knowledge of the Portuguese language, and most street food vendors knowledge of English intersected enough for them to understand, through broken Portuguese and emphatic hand motions, that I was indicating, “FEED ME ONE OF THOSE”.
The first tasty morsel was some sort of brownish goop that they spread on bread. Now, in the Gambia, this goop is bound to be something okra or fish related. So I was nervous. But upon its first contact with my taste buds, I knew this was not Gambian street food. The goop was some sort of sweet caramel type substance. The bread was about the size of a hot dog bun, slathered with delicious muck, and it put me back 10 escudos, or about 14 cents. I immediately ate two more.
Only then did I notice the wild variety of street food surrounding me. Had I noticed it before, I would not have been so quick to guzzle the first nugget.
Immediately upon discovery, I had all my hands and mouth space occupied with some pizza type onion-y thing, two incredibly iced doughnuts, and a huge piece of cake. All of that for 50 escudos. Or like 80 cents.
The best street food moment of the trip came after many attempts. I’d seen woman walking around with large, clear plastic bags, filled with what looked like raw tofu. It was visibly cold and wet, and was about the size, shape, and thickness of a rice cake. I had no idea what this was for a long time. I had seen many people walking around with the bags, and people making purchases, but no one actually consuming this mysterious consumable.
My moment came, and in a flurry of misunderstanding, I finally ended up with one of these discs, for 150 escudos, or slightly more than two dollars. Based on my previous experiences, this was an expensive hunk of something.
I examined its cold wetness, and wondered what it could possibly be. At this point, I was still pretty sure it was raw tofu. But upon the first squeaky bite, I knew for certain that it was the greatest discovery since the finding of these beautiful islands so long ago.
It was cheese. A huge disc of recently pressed goat cheese (I think). Cheap, accessible, fresh, not processed, cheese????? This is the stuff of a Gambian volunteer’s dreams. And thus, reason number three that Cape Verde is greater than the Gambia.
Reasons Number Two: Infrastructure
This may have been the biggest shock upon arriving to Cape Verde. I’m no expert nor widely traveled person, but having lived on the continent for over a year, I thought I’d understood what Africa had to offer, and most likely wouldn’t be too surprised by anything this continent had to throw at me.
Then I arrived in Cape Verde.
You think Africa, in general, has a lack of power, running water, banks, restaurants, on time vehicles, or schedules of any sort? Think again.
Cape Verde has some amazingly beautiful sights to see. They have mountains, beaches, volcanoes, beautiful people, interesting cities, etc. But a strange proportion of my pictures are of seemingly mundane things. Trash cans, power lines, electric lights, and comfortable seating.
BECAUSE AFRICA DOES HAVE THESE THINGS.
Was I pretty ignorant of Africa before I got to Cape Verde? Definitely, but I would argue that makes me appreciate it much more. Most folks, upon seeing a beautiful valley filled with sugar cane blowing in the wind, capped off by a low, fluffy cloud cover, would miss the understated beauty and the manifestation of lots of time and effort on the part of government and local laborers if they overlooked the green trash cans, the cobbled road, the delicate spine of power lines running to the most remote, basic, rural homes.
Reason Number One: Stuff to See
The most amazing thing that Cape Verde had was stuff to see. Scenery you couldn’t get anywhere else, sights and sounds completely unique and beautiful. Looking to the west and seeing the ocean, and across the channel, another island with the sun setting behind it, and then turning to the east and seeing the peak of a epic volcano that you climbed earlier that day?
Emerging on the top of an epically high ridge of mountains, to look down into the next gorgeous valley, shade obscuring half of it and sunlight blindingly illuminating the rest?
Watching farmers not only plow their fields with horses and donkeys, but also adjust the irrigation lines that come from the water trickling down from way up the mountain?
A boy making his way up a steep cobbled road, and to assist him, he’s holding the tail of a huge white horse?
Hearing a local Creole speaker order the locally made alcohol called “grogue”, which in my Chicago accent sound synonymous with witch’s puke, but in their lispy, musical tongue, it sounds like something fantastical and delicious?
Amazing.
You should go there.
PS. Mom. I know you just bought your ticket to the Gambia… but it’s pretty good too!
Stay Tuned!
The Gambia was lucky to welcome a new toubab non-tourist inside its borders a few weeks ago, and he has generously agreed to write a blog post about his experiences. Check back for what's sure to be a hilarious, well written tale of wonder and woe.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Food Critique
I’ve eaten a lot of meals in the Gambia. By my calculations, about 1300. About a third of those have been breakfast, which I provide for myself, but the remaining two thirds, over 800 meals, have been with Gambians, served by Gambians, cooked by Gambians. The vessel to bring much of these meals from bowl to mouth has been my hand. I’ve learned by the smell of an unopened food bowl which delectable mash I’ll be served that evening. And through these hundreds of lunches and dinners, I’ve noticed some trends. So, come and learn with me, as I take you through the slimy, mushy, and carb-filled world of food in the Gambia. As the Gambians say, “Come eat.”
Here in the Gambia, the food pyramid is nothing like the triangular thing of beauty that we all grew up with, and definitely nothing like the weird thing the FDA is trying to make Americans buy now. I spent some time drawing it up, and this is about how it looks.
Here are some common recipes that are cooked here in the Gambia. Try them at home!
RECIPE ONE: Serve at least 9 times per week
Ingredients: Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish (and especially the bones)
Cook a carb: usually rice, bird seed, or sand.
Cook another carb, usually pasta, and cook it in oil.
Add plenty of MSG.
Fry a fish and throw it in on top of the bowl. (If you can’t afford a fish, at least throw in a bunch of bones to give the illusion that it once had fish… or for a boost of calcium. Or for crunch. Or a challenge, something to search for amongst the homogenous mash)
RECIPE TWO: Serve four to five times per week.
Ingredients: Carbs
Leaves
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash leaves together with MSG. Don’t stop mashing until they’re good and slimy.
Cook in oil until the sliminess is maximized, and all nutrients or beneficial substances in the leaves have been removed completely.
Cook a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve leaves over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste
RECIPE THREE: One time per week ,if you’re lucky.
*These recipes will provide the eater with a bit of protein, an essential element that is absent from all other meals. Since this is the case, if you are ever served this dish, EAT UP.
INGREDIENTS: Ground nuts
Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash groundnuts (peanuts) into peanut butter. Try to remove all the bugs first, but if you miss a few: meh.
Cook with oil and MSG.
Prepare a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve groundnuts over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste.
Beyond meals, sometimes Gambians snack throughout the day (unless its Ramadan. Or hungry season) These snacks are sometimes a delightful way to introduce some variety to the day to day food options. Snacks depend greatly on the season in which the snacker is snacking.
June – August: No snacks. It’s hungry season. The crops are in the ground, and none have grown tall enough for us to eat yet.
August – October: Carbs on the cob.
November – January: Groundnuts, fresh from the earth, still crawling with pests.
January – April: Groundnuts, now old. Still pests though!
May – June: MANGOES! The only time fruit is added to the everday Gambian diet.
So no matter what time of year you choose to come visit the Gambia, you'll be prepared for the dining options that await.
Bring Clif Bars.
Here in the Gambia, the food pyramid is nothing like the triangular thing of beauty that we all grew up with, and definitely nothing like the weird thing the FDA is trying to make Americans buy now. I spent some time drawing it up, and this is about how it looks.
Here are some common recipes that are cooked here in the Gambia. Try them at home!
RECIPE ONE: Serve at least 9 times per week
Ingredients: Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish (and especially the bones)
Cook a carb: usually rice, bird seed, or sand.
Cook another carb, usually pasta, and cook it in oil.
Add plenty of MSG.
Fry a fish and throw it in on top of the bowl. (If you can’t afford a fish, at least throw in a bunch of bones to give the illusion that it once had fish… or for a boost of calcium. Or for crunch. Or a challenge, something to search for amongst the homogenous mash)
RECIPE TWO: Serve four to five times per week.
Ingredients: Carbs
Leaves
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash leaves together with MSG. Don’t stop mashing until they’re good and slimy.
Cook in oil until the sliminess is maximized, and all nutrients or beneficial substances in the leaves have been removed completely.
Cook a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve leaves over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste
RECIPE THREE: One time per week ,if you’re lucky.
*These recipes will provide the eater with a bit of protein, an essential element that is absent from all other meals. Since this is the case, if you are ever served this dish, EAT UP.
INGREDIENTS: Ground nuts
Carbs
Oil
MSG
Fish bones
Mash groundnuts (peanuts) into peanut butter. Try to remove all the bugs first, but if you miss a few: meh.
Cook with oil and MSG.
Prepare a carb: either rice, bird seed, or sand.
Serve groundnuts over carbs.
Add fish bones to taste.
Beyond meals, sometimes Gambians snack throughout the day (unless its Ramadan. Or hungry season) These snacks are sometimes a delightful way to introduce some variety to the day to day food options. Snacks depend greatly on the season in which the snacker is snacking.
June – August: No snacks. It’s hungry season. The crops are in the ground, and none have grown tall enough for us to eat yet.
August – October: Carbs on the cob.
November – January: Groundnuts, fresh from the earth, still crawling with pests.
January – April: Groundnuts, now old. Still pests though!
May – June: MANGOES! The only time fruit is added to the everday Gambian diet.
So no matter what time of year you choose to come visit the Gambia, you'll be prepared for the dining options that await.
Bring Clif Bars.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
An Apology
To my dear friends and family -
I realized that I haven't blogged in a long time. A LONG time. And the past few times that I blogged, it was about things that were decidedly un-Peace corps or un-village life. It's not that nothing has happened since I last posted. Actually, a lot has happened. New trainees came, the president of the Gambia came to my village, we passed our one year in country AND one year of service, training ended, Ramadan began, Ramadan ended, rainy season came, my backyard became a jungle, new volunteers swore in, I got blood poisoning, we had a ton of fun parties. LOTS has happened, but I haven't felt the incredible need to write about it, nor experienced the moment where my eyes light up and I break into a huge grin and exclaim, "That was SO bloggable."
After extreme soul searching and hours of hungry boredom during Ramadan, I realized what it is.
I've become a Gambian.
No longer is it crazy to see goats and couches piled high on top of the same bush taxi. No longer do I feel strange when I go haul water for my daily bucket bath. No longer am I annoyed by having to sweep everything in my house daily because otherwise I will eat dust only. It's normal to greet in Mandinka, and holidays, although still boring, are now not mysterious ordeals. I think domoda is delicious, I've come to terms with eating a few bugs every day, and wading through knee deep mud is an expected part of my commute. As you can see from the facebook photos as of late, I have become extremely unaware of my appearance, and match the most horrible prints with other equally horrible prints.
Upon arriving in the country, and for much of the first year, I punctuated this sentence as follows. "THIS is my life?!?!?". Now, it look more like this. "This is my life." No longer does the sentence end with an interro-bang of shock and awe... now only a accepting and normal period.
So, I'm sorry. I know the stories that were once funny, gross, and or wild to me are probably still pretty shocking to others. It's like I'm no longer a tourist. When you first move to New York City, you may take pictures of Times Square, and famous street signs, and the Statue of Liberty, but after a certain amount of time they're just part of your regular life, no matter how different from your past life it is.
I don't know how to fix this problem. I'll try to remember how I felt in the beginning, and write with the same fervor and zeal. Another, even better, option, is for everyone to come and see it themselves. You should come and take the pictures that I should be taking, gasp at the sights that I no longer even see, and experience the traditions and culture that is now everyday.
Again, I'm sorry for the lack of communication. I'll be better.
I apologize very dangerously,
Abby
I realized that I haven't blogged in a long time. A LONG time. And the past few times that I blogged, it was about things that were decidedly un-Peace corps or un-village life. It's not that nothing has happened since I last posted. Actually, a lot has happened. New trainees came, the president of the Gambia came to my village, we passed our one year in country AND one year of service, training ended, Ramadan began, Ramadan ended, rainy season came, my backyard became a jungle, new volunteers swore in, I got blood poisoning, we had a ton of fun parties. LOTS has happened, but I haven't felt the incredible need to write about it, nor experienced the moment where my eyes light up and I break into a huge grin and exclaim, "That was SO bloggable."
After extreme soul searching and hours of hungry boredom during Ramadan, I realized what it is.
I've become a Gambian.
No longer is it crazy to see goats and couches piled high on top of the same bush taxi. No longer do I feel strange when I go haul water for my daily bucket bath. No longer am I annoyed by having to sweep everything in my house daily because otherwise I will eat dust only. It's normal to greet in Mandinka, and holidays, although still boring, are now not mysterious ordeals. I think domoda is delicious, I've come to terms with eating a few bugs every day, and wading through knee deep mud is an expected part of my commute. As you can see from the facebook photos as of late, I have become extremely unaware of my appearance, and match the most horrible prints with other equally horrible prints.
Upon arriving in the country, and for much of the first year, I punctuated this sentence as follows. "THIS is my life?!?!?". Now, it look more like this. "This is my life." No longer does the sentence end with an interro-bang of shock and awe... now only a accepting and normal period.
So, I'm sorry. I know the stories that were once funny, gross, and or wild to me are probably still pretty shocking to others. It's like I'm no longer a tourist. When you first move to New York City, you may take pictures of Times Square, and famous street signs, and the Statue of Liberty, but after a certain amount of time they're just part of your regular life, no matter how different from your past life it is.
I don't know how to fix this problem. I'll try to remember how I felt in the beginning, and write with the same fervor and zeal. Another, even better, option, is for everyone to come and see it themselves. You should come and take the pictures that I should be taking, gasp at the sights that I no longer even see, and experience the traditions and culture that is now everyday.
Again, I'm sorry for the lack of communication. I'll be better.
I apologize very dangerously,
Abby
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Posh Corps
Sometimes a person joins the Peace Corps, an organization that demands flexibility under extreme conditions, but gets lucky enough to not have to be flexible at all. Sometimes people in the Peace Corps, even though living in a developing country, gets a sweeter set up than they had back in America. If you have an apartment, you’re in the Posh Corps. If you have electricity and/or running water, you’re in the Posh Corps. If you can get ice and/or ice cream in your village/town/neighborhood, you’re in the Posh Corps.
In no way could my Peace Corps experience be considered “posh”. I pretty much got the ”maximum flexibility” option. However, this past week, I have lived how the other side lives. This is the story of my one week of Posh Corps.
The American Embassy in the Gambia sent out a text a few weeks ago, asking for volunteers who would be willing to assist with a basketball camp in Kombo. Being the basketball aficionado I am, I promptly jumped on this opportunity. As I learned more about the camp, I got more excited. An ex-NBA player would be flown in, to teach the people of this tiny African country how to ball efficiently. It would involve about six hours of basketball a day, in ocean-breezy Bakau. It was too good to pass up.
When the other two volunteers and I arrived in town to assist, we didn’t know what to expect. We had no idea that the upcoming week would be the most luxurious and worthwhile one we’d had in this country… perhaps ever.
Day One of the camp was pretty standard. My fellow Peace Corps buddies and I didn’t really know what to do to be most helpful, so we just ran drills with the camp participants. We felt like rock stars when Tommy Davis, ex-NBA player, invited us to help him demonstrate drills or skills, and then, after fundamentally flawlessly completing the play, all the Gambians would cheer when we scored, yelling “Basket!” and offering enthusiastic high fives.
There’s about a four hour break in the middle of the day, so on day one, we just went back to our Peace Corps house and hung out. Then we returned to the camp to coach the little ones in the afternoon. Pretty standard day of basketball camp.
On Day Two we started to get to know Ole Tommy Davis even better, and he turned out to be the nicest man in the world.
A quick biography of my main man TD: He played at the University of Minnesota , and his favorite college memories were dropping thirty plus points on Indiana and a furious, chair-hurling Bobby Knight. As a child, he went to the annual camp for the best youngsters in the country, and he played with the likes of Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing, Karl Malone, etc. According to him, (and you don’t doubt a man with as much integrity as Tommy Davis has), he was better than Michael Jordan when he was twelve. After graduating college, he was drafted by the Dallas Mavericks. He played I think only one season in the NBA, and then traveled to play in the Philippines. He was a huge star in the Philippines, and made tons of money while living in paradise. When he left there, he traveled around Europe, scouting for the team he coaches in Bordeaux, France. He has lived there for the past twenty years, and speaks French fluently. Now he travels everywhere, running camps, scouting and recruiting internationally. He still keeps in touch with Popovich, coach of the Spurs, and has been extended an offer to coach in the NBA when he wants to return to the US.
When a man with this many credentials comes to chill in the Gambia, you know he’s a good dude.
So, after the first session on Day Two, Tommy asks us if we’d like to go get something to eat – something Gambian. After dining on cheap Gambian food, he’s like, “We have a couple hours before we have to go back to the courts. Why don’t you tag along with me to the hotel I’m staying at, which happens to be none other than Cocoa Ocean, the most luxurious hotel in the country? My personal driver will drive you there, you can hang with the celebrity likes of me, and then we’ll return to play basketball.”
So we did that. And you don’t know luxury until you leave a Gambian village and then are suddenly surrounded with the blatant, extravagant luxury that we were thrust into. There were like eleven horizon pools, just waiting to be dipped in. The hotel overlooked the ocean, and was filled with tasteful yet funky furniture, enough pool chairs to seat my entire village comfortably, color and beauty.
Old TD hung out with us by the pool, telling us all about the basketball royalty he had faced, asking us questions about the Peace Corps, reminiscing about NCAA tournaments past, and continuing to offer us things we had been deprived of – food, hot showers, air conditioned rides across town.
So, daily, we continued to do this. We were Tommy’s helpers in the morning, perfectly following his instructions and demonstrating skills which we had mastered as children, being worshipped by Gambians for making simple shots or dribbling between our legs.
One day, I invited Tommy to play a friendly game of HORSE… in which I couldn’t miss. I beat him and one of my male volunteer counterparts, and THE Tommy Davis, NBA star, friend of Gregg Popovich, pal of Tony Parker, who played with the legends of my youth said, and I quote, “That girl can shoot.”
Then we’d go eat Gambian food, return to luxury, and sleep by the pool for a few hours, before we’d go back and play basketball again.
One day, the employees of the embassy decided to show their appreciation for all the” work” we were doing. They took us to the best and most expensive restaurant in town. The amount of money I spent on my meal was more than the monthly rent I pay my family to stay in my house and eat with them every day… FOR A MONTH. We got fancy juices, ate meat without bones, Mexican food, salads, and dessert. It was perhaps the best meal I have ever eaten.
On Saturday, the final day of the camp, Tommy invited us to escort him through a few of the markets in Kombo. Where normally we would have to cram into a smelly broken car, his personal driver took us right to the market in an air conditioned vehicle. We helped him bargain for the items he wanted, and he was impressed with our comfort in the market, as well as our language skillz.
As he dropped us off for the final time, he took our email addresses, told us anytime we came to France we had a place to stay, double kissed my face, and then told us he loved us.
And we loved him too.
In no way could my Peace Corps experience be considered “posh”. I pretty much got the ”maximum flexibility” option. However, this past week, I have lived how the other side lives. This is the story of my one week of Posh Corps.
The American Embassy in the Gambia sent out a text a few weeks ago, asking for volunteers who would be willing to assist with a basketball camp in Kombo. Being the basketball aficionado I am, I promptly jumped on this opportunity. As I learned more about the camp, I got more excited. An ex-NBA player would be flown in, to teach the people of this tiny African country how to ball efficiently. It would involve about six hours of basketball a day, in ocean-breezy Bakau. It was too good to pass up.
When the other two volunteers and I arrived in town to assist, we didn’t know what to expect. We had no idea that the upcoming week would be the most luxurious and worthwhile one we’d had in this country… perhaps ever.
Day One of the camp was pretty standard. My fellow Peace Corps buddies and I didn’t really know what to do to be most helpful, so we just ran drills with the camp participants. We felt like rock stars when Tommy Davis, ex-NBA player, invited us to help him demonstrate drills or skills, and then, after fundamentally flawlessly completing the play, all the Gambians would cheer when we scored, yelling “Basket!” and offering enthusiastic high fives.
There’s about a four hour break in the middle of the day, so on day one, we just went back to our Peace Corps house and hung out. Then we returned to the camp to coach the little ones in the afternoon. Pretty standard day of basketball camp.
On Day Two we started to get to know Ole Tommy Davis even better, and he turned out to be the nicest man in the world.
A quick biography of my main man TD: He played at the University of Minnesota , and his favorite college memories were dropping thirty plus points on Indiana and a furious, chair-hurling Bobby Knight. As a child, he went to the annual camp for the best youngsters in the country, and he played with the likes of Larry Bird, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan, Patrick Ewing, Karl Malone, etc. According to him, (and you don’t doubt a man with as much integrity as Tommy Davis has), he was better than Michael Jordan when he was twelve. After graduating college, he was drafted by the Dallas Mavericks. He played I think only one season in the NBA, and then traveled to play in the Philippines. He was a huge star in the Philippines, and made tons of money while living in paradise. When he left there, he traveled around Europe, scouting for the team he coaches in Bordeaux, France. He has lived there for the past twenty years, and speaks French fluently. Now he travels everywhere, running camps, scouting and recruiting internationally. He still keeps in touch with Popovich, coach of the Spurs, and has been extended an offer to coach in the NBA when he wants to return to the US.
When a man with this many credentials comes to chill in the Gambia, you know he’s a good dude.
So, after the first session on Day Two, Tommy asks us if we’d like to go get something to eat – something Gambian. After dining on cheap Gambian food, he’s like, “We have a couple hours before we have to go back to the courts. Why don’t you tag along with me to the hotel I’m staying at, which happens to be none other than Cocoa Ocean, the most luxurious hotel in the country? My personal driver will drive you there, you can hang with the celebrity likes of me, and then we’ll return to play basketball.”
So we did that. And you don’t know luxury until you leave a Gambian village and then are suddenly surrounded with the blatant, extravagant luxury that we were thrust into. There were like eleven horizon pools, just waiting to be dipped in. The hotel overlooked the ocean, and was filled with tasteful yet funky furniture, enough pool chairs to seat my entire village comfortably, color and beauty.
Old TD hung out with us by the pool, telling us all about the basketball royalty he had faced, asking us questions about the Peace Corps, reminiscing about NCAA tournaments past, and continuing to offer us things we had been deprived of – food, hot showers, air conditioned rides across town.
So, daily, we continued to do this. We were Tommy’s helpers in the morning, perfectly following his instructions and demonstrating skills which we had mastered as children, being worshipped by Gambians for making simple shots or dribbling between our legs.
One day, I invited Tommy to play a friendly game of HORSE… in which I couldn’t miss. I beat him and one of my male volunteer counterparts, and THE Tommy Davis, NBA star, friend of Gregg Popovich, pal of Tony Parker, who played with the legends of my youth said, and I quote, “That girl can shoot.”
Then we’d go eat Gambian food, return to luxury, and sleep by the pool for a few hours, before we’d go back and play basketball again.
One day, the employees of the embassy decided to show their appreciation for all the” work” we were doing. They took us to the best and most expensive restaurant in town. The amount of money I spent on my meal was more than the monthly rent I pay my family to stay in my house and eat with them every day… FOR A MONTH. We got fancy juices, ate meat without bones, Mexican food, salads, and dessert. It was perhaps the best meal I have ever eaten.
On Saturday, the final day of the camp, Tommy invited us to escort him through a few of the markets in Kombo. Where normally we would have to cram into a smelly broken car, his personal driver took us right to the market in an air conditioned vehicle. We helped him bargain for the items he wanted, and he was impressed with our comfort in the market, as well as our language skillz.
As he dropped us off for the final time, he took our email addresses, told us anytime we came to France we had a place to stay, double kissed my face, and then told us he loved us.
And we loved him too.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Dizzy Bats
The antics of ASP have given me many fun games to play in a tight spot, when I’m bored or need to entertain many.
This time I chose to enlist the help of Dizzy Bat, a hilarious game involving materials readily available in the Gambia. I grabbed a locally made broom (lots of grass tied together with a piece of fabric), and told kids to look up in the air, put the broom on the tip of their nose, look at the end of it, and spin around ten times FAST. Then, when they’ve finished, they should put the broom on the ground, stand next to it, and jump from side to side over the broom ten times.
That’s the game.
I played it with kids of all ages. Lots of kids fell down, tons of kids got real dirty, and my 9th grade friend and I exchanged words for “dizzy” in our respective languages. In Mandinka, it’s “tiroo”.
The next day, my ninth grade friend Maimuna approached me and gave me the following letter.
“Abby How are you today.
Yesterday the game that we played seen I go home I started sleeping at 7:49 I sleeping up to 10:53. my mother called me, did not anser, she ask me what happened. I say noting, she say no something is go on. I say noting go on. she say you never sleeping like this.
I willy I am not going to do these game again
From Maimuna”
So, obviously I made an impression on her. I also now have numerous kids who I don’t recognize start spinning around when they see me, yelling “Abby! Tee-zee! Tee-zee!” until they fall down.
I constantly wonder what my legacy will be when I finally leave this tiny country. I think this game is in the running for what people will remember about me. "Oh, yeah, Abby? She's the one that drew that map on the wall right? Or, she's the one that carried 20 liters of water in her backpack AND twenty liters on her bike for training? Ohhhhhhh, the dizzy bat chick... Now I remember."
This time I chose to enlist the help of Dizzy Bat, a hilarious game involving materials readily available in the Gambia. I grabbed a locally made broom (lots of grass tied together with a piece of fabric), and told kids to look up in the air, put the broom on the tip of their nose, look at the end of it, and spin around ten times FAST. Then, when they’ve finished, they should put the broom on the ground, stand next to it, and jump from side to side over the broom ten times.
That’s the game.
I played it with kids of all ages. Lots of kids fell down, tons of kids got real dirty, and my 9th grade friend and I exchanged words for “dizzy” in our respective languages. In Mandinka, it’s “tiroo”.
The next day, my ninth grade friend Maimuna approached me and gave me the following letter.
“Abby How are you today.
Yesterday the game that we played seen I go home I started sleeping at 7:49 I sleeping up to 10:53. my mother called me, did not anser, she ask me what happened. I say noting, she say no something is go on. I say noting go on. she say you never sleeping like this.
I willy I am not going to do these game again
From Maimuna”
So, obviously I made an impression on her. I also now have numerous kids who I don’t recognize start spinning around when they see me, yelling “Abby! Tee-zee! Tee-zee!” until they fall down.
I constantly wonder what my legacy will be when I finally leave this tiny country. I think this game is in the running for what people will remember about me. "Oh, yeah, Abby? She's the one that drew that map on the wall right? Or, she's the one that carried 20 liters of water in her backpack AND twenty liters on her bike for training? Ohhhhhhh, the dizzy bat chick... Now I remember."
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Back to School
So, even though we still have about six weeks left in this term, I was thinking about back to school after the long rainy season. Then I was thinking about back to school in America.
American back to school time is my favorite time of year. WalMarts are filled with all of the students, unexcited to go back, the parents, unexcited to be in a WalMart, and me, excited all around. There are so many things arranged in rainbow order, the smell of glue and paper in the air...
And I was thinking about the sales. How for a dollar, you can get an entire pack of crayola markers, or ten packs of notebook paper.
So, if you or anyone you know is doing back to school shopping this year, think about this.
If everyone I know fills one standard weight shipping box (cost to send about $50-60) with school supplies, they will last my school years and years beyond my tenure here. So, if you're up for it, here are the things that are most useful to my school and the teachers within it.
- Markers - good crayola ones, thin and thick.
- CONSTRUCTION PAPER - Impossible to get in this country but SUPER important.
- Lined notebook paper
- Glue - not glue sticks, but elmer's in a bottle. Glue sticks dry out in like a day during dry season.
- SCISSORS - both big teachers pair and LOTS of small kids pairs. My dream is to make a class set so students can actually use them, but classes have like forty or more kids...
- Pens and pencils - less important than the above things, but nonetheless important.
- Dictionaries. I know these will be hard to send, but most kids don't know how to use one/have never seen one. Beyond that, I think they would be helpful for teachers.
- Books - used, new, any children's book are appreciated. See below.
- People here love certificates. If you can find blank "Certificates of Achievement" or "Certificates of Accomplishment" or whatever, they'd be great to have.
- Page protectors - I'm working on using some dry erase markers I have to make worksheets reusable, so putting them in page protectors is like the same as laminating them. If you have any of these lying around, send them.
- Prizes - any prizes that children would like. Colorful erasers or pencils, anything you can buy for cheap in a big pack that kids might like.
I also just painted a giant world map on the wall of the library, and I want to teach students a little more about the rest of the world, of which they know nothing! I was thinking about reading them books from other countries scattered throughout the world. I have West African books, and I have books from America and England, but none from anywhere else. So, if you can find books from Scandinavia, Indonesia, Patagonia, or Antarctica, I'll take ANYTHING!
And while you're at it, if you want to send me Clif Bars, raw almonds, and/or candy of any kind, I'd accept it. :)
Thanks in advance!
American back to school time is my favorite time of year. WalMarts are filled with all of the students, unexcited to go back, the parents, unexcited to be in a WalMart, and me, excited all around. There are so many things arranged in rainbow order, the smell of glue and paper in the air...
And I was thinking about the sales. How for a dollar, you can get an entire pack of crayola markers, or ten packs of notebook paper.
So, if you or anyone you know is doing back to school shopping this year, think about this.
If everyone I know fills one standard weight shipping box (cost to send about $50-60) with school supplies, they will last my school years and years beyond my tenure here. So, if you're up for it, here are the things that are most useful to my school and the teachers within it.
- Markers - good crayola ones, thin and thick.
- CONSTRUCTION PAPER - Impossible to get in this country but SUPER important.
- Lined notebook paper
- Glue - not glue sticks, but elmer's in a bottle. Glue sticks dry out in like a day during dry season.
- SCISSORS - both big teachers pair and LOTS of small kids pairs. My dream is to make a class set so students can actually use them, but classes have like forty or more kids...
- Pens and pencils - less important than the above things, but nonetheless important.
- Dictionaries. I know these will be hard to send, but most kids don't know how to use one/have never seen one. Beyond that, I think they would be helpful for teachers.
- Books - used, new, any children's book are appreciated. See below.
- People here love certificates. If you can find blank "Certificates of Achievement" or "Certificates of Accomplishment" or whatever, they'd be great to have.
- Page protectors - I'm working on using some dry erase markers I have to make worksheets reusable, so putting them in page protectors is like the same as laminating them. If you have any of these lying around, send them.
- Prizes - any prizes that children would like. Colorful erasers or pencils, anything you can buy for cheap in a big pack that kids might like.
I also just painted a giant world map on the wall of the library, and I want to teach students a little more about the rest of the world, of which they know nothing! I was thinking about reading them books from other countries scattered throughout the world. I have West African books, and I have books from America and England, but none from anywhere else. So, if you can find books from Scandinavia, Indonesia, Patagonia, or Antarctica, I'll take ANYTHING!
And while you're at it, if you want to send me Clif Bars, raw almonds, and/or candy of any kind, I'd accept it. :)
Thanks in advance!
Friday, May 20, 2011
What I Do
I realized earlier that I often write stories of the ridiculous tales involving cultural mystery, discomfort, or the woe of being a toubab in a strange land, but I don't think I have told you all what I spend my time doing...
So,don't expect to laugh a lot during this one... only cold hard facts.
First of all, "doing stuff" in the Peace Corps, at least for your first year, from what I hear, is hard to do. You don't know the language, you don't know how everything works, you don't know who the movers and shakers in your community are. So, A LOT of my time is spent reading, writing letters, playing with kids, or in general wasting time.
My job is to be a teacher trainer. So, that sort of encompasses everything at school. I observe teachers occasionally, trying to give them encouragement (which they rarely get from their superiors) and also give them tips on how to improve things like classroom management and student involvement. The Gambia is slowly moving away from a "chalk and talk" style of lecture teaching, but it's slow going.
I also build teaching aids for teachers out of locally available junk, and try to encourage the teachers to do it too.
I have gotten a ton of books from Books for Africa, and am working on continuing to build our collection of library books. I have taken the library to be sort of like my showroom. Every class has one library period a week, so I teach about 13 periods a week. When they come in, I take the opportunity to do a fun activity or art project with them, because that's something they'll never do in their normal class, and I try to model a good lesson for the teacher. It's been rough because, despite being taught in only English for their entire schooling career, almost no one can understand me. Sigh. It's hard to model a good lesson and get students involved when they can't understand the question being asked, and have been taught not to speak out in class even if they did understand the question.
Beyond that, I'm trying to make the library look as much like an American classroom as I can. I painted a huge map of the world on the wall, I've put up all sorts of colors, hung up lots of student work, and am working on saving enough of my own money to buy some more paint, colorful curtains, and table coverings to make it a place where students like to come.
It's already been slightly successful. A few students come in before they go to afternoon class, or after they finish in morning class. They come in and sit quietly with their friends and look through the books. Maybe they're not actually reading, but I will take the successes where I can get them. One student even brought me a page of unfinished math problems and asked me to hang them on the wall.
So, there's the day to day. Not exciting, but it's what I do.
So, if you have books, ideas, construction paper, art materials, scissors, or other cool educational items, send them my way. I'm convinced that with the more visual stimulation in the library, the more jazzed kids will be about school.
So,don't expect to laugh a lot during this one... only cold hard facts.
First of all, "doing stuff" in the Peace Corps, at least for your first year, from what I hear, is hard to do. You don't know the language, you don't know how everything works, you don't know who the movers and shakers in your community are. So, A LOT of my time is spent reading, writing letters, playing with kids, or in general wasting time.
My job is to be a teacher trainer. So, that sort of encompasses everything at school. I observe teachers occasionally, trying to give them encouragement (which they rarely get from their superiors) and also give them tips on how to improve things like classroom management and student involvement. The Gambia is slowly moving away from a "chalk and talk" style of lecture teaching, but it's slow going.
I also build teaching aids for teachers out of locally available junk, and try to encourage the teachers to do it too.
I have gotten a ton of books from Books for Africa, and am working on continuing to build our collection of library books. I have taken the library to be sort of like my showroom. Every class has one library period a week, so I teach about 13 periods a week. When they come in, I take the opportunity to do a fun activity or art project with them, because that's something they'll never do in their normal class, and I try to model a good lesson for the teacher. It's been rough because, despite being taught in only English for their entire schooling career, almost no one can understand me. Sigh. It's hard to model a good lesson and get students involved when they can't understand the question being asked, and have been taught not to speak out in class even if they did understand the question.
Beyond that, I'm trying to make the library look as much like an American classroom as I can. I painted a huge map of the world on the wall, I've put up all sorts of colors, hung up lots of student work, and am working on saving enough of my own money to buy some more paint, colorful curtains, and table coverings to make it a place where students like to come.
It's already been slightly successful. A few students come in before they go to afternoon class, or after they finish in morning class. They come in and sit quietly with their friends and look through the books. Maybe they're not actually reading, but I will take the successes where I can get them. One student even brought me a page of unfinished math problems and asked me to hang them on the wall.
So, there's the day to day. Not exciting, but it's what I do.
So, if you have books, ideas, construction paper, art materials, scissors, or other cool educational items, send them my way. I'm convinced that with the more visual stimulation in the library, the more jazzed kids will be about school.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Teleto
Teleto means “on TV” in Mandinka. I didn’t know this until recently, when I heard from numerous people in my village, many Peace Corps staff members, and one particularly observant vendor in the car park, that I had been on the one and only Gambian TV channel, GRTS.
No one can remember what the news story was on. All they remember is seeing a toubab run near the screen.
The accounts of the scene are all different. One says I was carrying a backpack. Another says I was carrying many “busoos” or plastic bags. Some told me I had “high hair”. Some say I was running near the bank, others say I was running to catch a gele. But all accounts involved one element – what made me sure that it was me they saw and not some other husky, tall, female toubab. They all described perfectly my huge red shorts.
When first the Peace Corps employees told me I was on TV, it made sense. They know me, so they’d most likely notice my presence. When I was on ESPN at Illini games, I expected friends to call me during the game, or at least mention after the game, that they had seen me on TV.
But when randos from the car park recognize me as the toubab on TV… at first that didn’t make sense. It’s like watching an Illini basketball game, and saying, Oh, yeah, I saw you on TV, you were standing next to the guy with the orange shirt on…
Upon further thought, and analysis of the demographics of this country, I began to realize this recognition makes more sense… it actually makes a lot of sense. It’s not like seeing a normal person, it’s a toubab! It’s like watching an Illini game and seeing a man in a gorilla suit in the stands. You’re going to remember. And next time you come across a gorilla man, you’re probably going to tell him you saw him on TV.
I just wonder how many toubabs the lady in the car park claimed to see before she came across me, the one who was actually on TV.
No one can remember what the news story was on. All they remember is seeing a toubab run near the screen.
The accounts of the scene are all different. One says I was carrying a backpack. Another says I was carrying many “busoos” or plastic bags. Some told me I had “high hair”. Some say I was running near the bank, others say I was running to catch a gele. But all accounts involved one element – what made me sure that it was me they saw and not some other husky, tall, female toubab. They all described perfectly my huge red shorts.
When first the Peace Corps employees told me I was on TV, it made sense. They know me, so they’d most likely notice my presence. When I was on ESPN at Illini games, I expected friends to call me during the game, or at least mention after the game, that they had seen me on TV.
But when randos from the car park recognize me as the toubab on TV… at first that didn’t make sense. It’s like watching an Illini basketball game, and saying, Oh, yeah, I saw you on TV, you were standing next to the guy with the orange shirt on…
Upon further thought, and analysis of the demographics of this country, I began to realize this recognition makes more sense… it actually makes a lot of sense. It’s not like seeing a normal person, it’s a toubab! It’s like watching an Illini game and seeing a man in a gorilla suit in the stands. You’re going to remember. And next time you come across a gorilla man, you’re probably going to tell him you saw him on TV.
I just wonder how many toubabs the lady in the car park claimed to see before she came across me, the one who was actually on TV.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Games Weekend
This weekend was games weekend for Peace Corps The Gambia volunteers. Those who chose to participate met up in Juffareh, the site made famous by the novel Roots. Juffareh is where Kunta Kinteh was stolen from before being sold into slavery. It’s one of the most famous tourist sites in The Gambia, and each year lots of African Americans come to this little village to see where their ancestors may have come from.
Because it gets so much tourist activity, there is a little eco-lodge there called Kunta Kinteh camp. This is where we stayed. It’s right on the river/ocean/inlet/whatever that body of water is called. It had a pool. It had a bar. It had lots of tables where tons of nerds could play all sorts of lame games.
But before we could test our individual wit, strategic skills, and dungeons and dragons tolerance, we had to have the real contest. The contest that shows true will, true grit, true spirit, true desire. We had to have a mango eating contest.
The first round of the mango eating contest involved everyone who was interested in participating. Everyone was given a plate with slices of mango, adding up to about two to three entire mangoes. When the signal was given, everyone would eat the mangoes as quickly as they could… without using their hands. And if you’ve ever eaten a mango, you know that they are slippery. To get your teeth into one was way more difficult that getting it down your gullet.
If you know my desire to compete, my appetite, and my affinity for mangoes, hopefully by now you will have guessed that I was one of the people who ate their mangoes the quickest. I finished in second to a mango eating machine.
So, the first three to finish moved on to the real contest: a timed challenge in which each person tried to eat as many mangoes as they could in a two minute time period.
The large, burly, bearded mango eating machine was contestant number one. He has been mistaken for Bigfoot and is known for his eating abilities.
Contestant number two was a tall, thin, wiry guy. He looked beatable, but his resolve was strong.
And then there was me. The lone female, representing half of humankind, and about 70% of Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia.
The contest began, and I shoveled those mangoes as fast as I could into my mouth. I had a counter on one side, and a coach on the other, guiding me on which pieces looked most mash-able, and which pieces were smallest, to maximize my eating potential.
The winner, Bigfoot, ate 26 pieces of mango, which according to my calculations, is about 5 mangoes. In two minutes.
Slim and I tied for second place, with 21 mango pieces, or about four mangoes. Two mangoes a minute. Not too bad, eh?
After that contest, the other games began. Think of a nerdy game, and we had it. French settlement building, German property trading, world conquest, railroad maximization, dungeons, dragons, munchkins… we had it all.
Late that first night, I played a game called Munchkin. Basically, it was a tryout to see who could hack it to move up to the big leagues of actual dungeons and dragons. And I failed MISERABLY. It was a ridiculous game, involving warriors, clerics, elves, and Halflings, where people obtained items like the “Boots of Running Really Fast” and “Huge Rock” and fought monsters like “the Floating Nose” and “the Plutonium Dragon”. It took forever, you had to wait your turn, and there were a lot of rules to learn.
Since I found out early I would never cut it for D&D, I decided to play a fun game and eavesdrop on the kinds of ridiculous quotes that are bound to come up during a game of intense Dungeons and Dragons. Here are some gems.
“Before we open the door, does anyone need to do anything to buff themselves up?”
“Well… maybe… I could call an extra creature to help us fight…”
Discussing a murder scene with dust, woman’s clothing, and is assumed to be the death of a vampire, “Is facial hair left behind?”
“Obviously, the vampire was a woman.”
“I’m not gonna mess around, I’m gonna go ahead and take out my sword and slice the carpet.”
“I think the mayor’s daughter might be queen of the vampires.”
“They’re a medium humanoid.”
Also involved in the weekend was tarot cards. I had a lot of skeptical fun, which in turn entertained my Buddhist, hippie, fellow volunteer.
I drew a lot of cards throughout the weekend to inquire and get insight about many different aspects of my life. My favorite was the “existence” card. This card basically says that the universe, all of existence, is not full with me. The universe would be missing something were I not in it.
Not only does the universe need me in it, but also the mango market would decline greatly in the Gambia were I not around, although Dungeons and Dragons would gain a lot more respect.
Because it gets so much tourist activity, there is a little eco-lodge there called Kunta Kinteh camp. This is where we stayed. It’s right on the river/ocean/inlet/whatever that body of water is called. It had a pool. It had a bar. It had lots of tables where tons of nerds could play all sorts of lame games.
But before we could test our individual wit, strategic skills, and dungeons and dragons tolerance, we had to have the real contest. The contest that shows true will, true grit, true spirit, true desire. We had to have a mango eating contest.
The first round of the mango eating contest involved everyone who was interested in participating. Everyone was given a plate with slices of mango, adding up to about two to three entire mangoes. When the signal was given, everyone would eat the mangoes as quickly as they could… without using their hands. And if you’ve ever eaten a mango, you know that they are slippery. To get your teeth into one was way more difficult that getting it down your gullet.
If you know my desire to compete, my appetite, and my affinity for mangoes, hopefully by now you will have guessed that I was one of the people who ate their mangoes the quickest. I finished in second to a mango eating machine.
So, the first three to finish moved on to the real contest: a timed challenge in which each person tried to eat as many mangoes as they could in a two minute time period.
The large, burly, bearded mango eating machine was contestant number one. He has been mistaken for Bigfoot and is known for his eating abilities.
Contestant number two was a tall, thin, wiry guy. He looked beatable, but his resolve was strong.
And then there was me. The lone female, representing half of humankind, and about 70% of Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia.
The contest began, and I shoveled those mangoes as fast as I could into my mouth. I had a counter on one side, and a coach on the other, guiding me on which pieces looked most mash-able, and which pieces were smallest, to maximize my eating potential.
The winner, Bigfoot, ate 26 pieces of mango, which according to my calculations, is about 5 mangoes. In two minutes.
Slim and I tied for second place, with 21 mango pieces, or about four mangoes. Two mangoes a minute. Not too bad, eh?
After that contest, the other games began. Think of a nerdy game, and we had it. French settlement building, German property trading, world conquest, railroad maximization, dungeons, dragons, munchkins… we had it all.
Late that first night, I played a game called Munchkin. Basically, it was a tryout to see who could hack it to move up to the big leagues of actual dungeons and dragons. And I failed MISERABLY. It was a ridiculous game, involving warriors, clerics, elves, and Halflings, where people obtained items like the “Boots of Running Really Fast” and “Huge Rock” and fought monsters like “the Floating Nose” and “the Plutonium Dragon”. It took forever, you had to wait your turn, and there were a lot of rules to learn.
Since I found out early I would never cut it for D&D, I decided to play a fun game and eavesdrop on the kinds of ridiculous quotes that are bound to come up during a game of intense Dungeons and Dragons. Here are some gems.
“Before we open the door, does anyone need to do anything to buff themselves up?”
“Well… maybe… I could call an extra creature to help us fight…”
Discussing a murder scene with dust, woman’s clothing, and is assumed to be the death of a vampire, “Is facial hair left behind?”
“Obviously, the vampire was a woman.”
“I’m not gonna mess around, I’m gonna go ahead and take out my sword and slice the carpet.”
“I think the mayor’s daughter might be queen of the vampires.”
“They’re a medium humanoid.”
Also involved in the weekend was tarot cards. I had a lot of skeptical fun, which in turn entertained my Buddhist, hippie, fellow volunteer.
I drew a lot of cards throughout the weekend to inquire and get insight about many different aspects of my life. My favorite was the “existence” card. This card basically says that the universe, all of existence, is not full with me. The universe would be missing something were I not in it.
Not only does the universe need me in it, but also the mango market would decline greatly in the Gambia were I not around, although Dungeons and Dragons would gain a lot more respect.
Lizard Tree
I was visiting one of my Peace Corps friends in her village, walking towards her school, when we heard a shrill and haunting noise coming from above.
We simultaneously swiveled our heads up and saw five children, at varying heights in a tree, all gazing down at us with terror in their eyes. Their howls were anguished, their mouths were wide, and their eyes pleaded at us to, for the love of allah, help them.
Based on prior experience in the Gambia, I assumed that these children were afraid of us, the three toubabs walking down the street. As soon as we passed underneath the tree, they must have felt trapped, and immediately reacted with a similar horror as I would have if I were in a locked room with an angry wolverine.
Since we were in a Wolof village, I couldn’t understand what they were screaming as they were screaming, and based on tone alone, they were afraid of death. My wolof speaking Peace Corps friend listened closely, and finally was able to understand that they were yelling that there was a chameleon in the tree. What normally would cause children to exclaim, “Cool!” instead caused the chaos we saw above us.
Then, the toubabs came to the rescue. Like firefighters rescuing people from a burning building, we raised our arms, and caught the children as they rained down to us.
Gambians believe that chameleons are evil and deadly. Just how strong is this belief? These Gambian children, who undoubtedly have rarely had the opportunity to be in the presence of a toubab, leaped, no questions asked, into the waiting arms of a strange toubab.
We simultaneously swiveled our heads up and saw five children, at varying heights in a tree, all gazing down at us with terror in their eyes. Their howls were anguished, their mouths were wide, and their eyes pleaded at us to, for the love of allah, help them.
Based on prior experience in the Gambia, I assumed that these children were afraid of us, the three toubabs walking down the street. As soon as we passed underneath the tree, they must have felt trapped, and immediately reacted with a similar horror as I would have if I were in a locked room with an angry wolverine.
Since we were in a Wolof village, I couldn’t understand what they were screaming as they were screaming, and based on tone alone, they were afraid of death. My wolof speaking Peace Corps friend listened closely, and finally was able to understand that they were yelling that there was a chameleon in the tree. What normally would cause children to exclaim, “Cool!” instead caused the chaos we saw above us.
Then, the toubabs came to the rescue. Like firefighters rescuing people from a burning building, we raised our arms, and caught the children as they rained down to us.
Gambians believe that chameleons are evil and deadly. Just how strong is this belief? These Gambian children, who undoubtedly have rarely had the opportunity to be in the presence of a toubab, leaped, no questions asked, into the waiting arms of a strange toubab.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Living on A Dollar A Day: A Banta!
It's finished. It has been finished for about eleven hours.
Before I reflect on the last month, let me share how I spent every last dalasi of what I was allotted.
Sunday, April 17: Day 31
I was still at the Basse House, our refuge where we can sometimes have electricity, sometimes have cold water, sometimes have fan power. However, as it often is, the power didn't ever come on during the day, so we just sat and waited and sweated. The pump that we drink out of is also run by Basse power, so we didn't even have potable water. In order to compensate for all the sweat I poured, I needed water. It's biology. So, I sent someone with four dalasis to buy me two bags of water (about a liter).
Item: Water bags (2) Cost: 4D Remaining: 10D
Thus, the trek started. I went to my friend Sunny's house first, and relied on her hospitality and generosity to house and feed me. Thank god, she's an impeccable host, thus, I spent no money. One day left, and ten dalasis.
Tuesday, April 19: Day 33
Second day of the trek, and I went to my friend Trish's house. She was also an impeccable host, feeding me benachin and dancing the benachin dance to celebrate the delicacy we were consuming. However, since she knew this was the last few hours of my dollar a day, AND I had ten dalasis left, we would splurge. And buy a delicious, slightly cool, Coca Cola is a glass bottle.
Item: Coca Cola Cost: 10D Remaining: 0D
Later that night, we were looking for entertainment. So, we entered a hut with a generator attached that was showing a football game. We agreed if they asked us for money, we would plead ignorance and then leave. luckily, no one did!
Item: Viewing of 0-0 tie football match between Manchester and Newcastle Cost: 0D! Remaining: 0D
So, it's finished. I made it without going over my meager wages, but JUST BARELY. Let's reflect and discuss what I've learned and how I'm going to be a better person after this experiment.
Revelation #1: It's hard to be social when you are under such a strict budget. Hanging out with people often involves food, drinks, activities, most of which cost money. I never made this connection before, but this could be a very good reason people of similar economic statuses hang together. Even though we all get paid the same, hanging out with Peace Corps volunteers was difficult, because they had more disposable income to spend than I did. I ended up hanging out in village more than usual, because travel and activities cost money.
Revelation #2: You're always worried about money. Even though I had more money, since I was prohibited from spending it. I have to imagine I worried much less than people who only HAVE one dollar a day. Small events can make a huge differences in a person's finances, and I was often worried about what something would entail. Even eating lunch at school has hidden costs sometimes, and when that comes up too often, it's trouble.
Revelation #3: I prepared a lot for this. I spent some money to stock up so that I was at least slightly comfortable for most of it, and never had to go without basic necessities. But, if an emergency ever came up, and money was stolen or it all had been spent, I'd be IN TROUBLE. Without my stocking up on oatmeal, phone credit, and other things I use all the time but don't need, I would be WAY over. I spent money on food very few times, and both times it was pretty expensive. If someone sneak attacked me and said, "You must do a dollar a day for the next thirty days, starting today!", I'd be screwed. I would probably get way skinnier and never go anywhere.
So, it was hard. In general, I could still do the things i wanted to do, but had to make a few concessions along the way. The only reason it wasn't impossible was the prep. without that, I don't think I would have made it.
A SAD EPILOGUE
You'd think I have learned to go without some things, or appreciate spending less money. But, as soon as I rolled into Basse on the first day of financial freedom, I immediately bought four cans of coke to stock pile, and a giant thing of juice, adding up to a third of the cost of my entire month. Maybe in a few days I'll even out and spend less but not none, but right now I'm splurging. And those cokes were SO WORTH IT.
Before I reflect on the last month, let me share how I spent every last dalasi of what I was allotted.
Sunday, April 17: Day 31
I was still at the Basse House, our refuge where we can sometimes have electricity, sometimes have cold water, sometimes have fan power. However, as it often is, the power didn't ever come on during the day, so we just sat and waited and sweated. The pump that we drink out of is also run by Basse power, so we didn't even have potable water. In order to compensate for all the sweat I poured, I needed water. It's biology. So, I sent someone with four dalasis to buy me two bags of water (about a liter).
Item: Water bags (2) Cost: 4D Remaining: 10D
Thus, the trek started. I went to my friend Sunny's house first, and relied on her hospitality and generosity to house and feed me. Thank god, she's an impeccable host, thus, I spent no money. One day left, and ten dalasis.
Tuesday, April 19: Day 33
Second day of the trek, and I went to my friend Trish's house. She was also an impeccable host, feeding me benachin and dancing the benachin dance to celebrate the delicacy we were consuming. However, since she knew this was the last few hours of my dollar a day, AND I had ten dalasis left, we would splurge. And buy a delicious, slightly cool, Coca Cola is a glass bottle.
Item: Coca Cola Cost: 10D Remaining: 0D
Later that night, we were looking for entertainment. So, we entered a hut with a generator attached that was showing a football game. We agreed if they asked us for money, we would plead ignorance and then leave. luckily, no one did!
Item: Viewing of 0-0 tie football match between Manchester and Newcastle Cost: 0D! Remaining: 0D
So, it's finished. I made it without going over my meager wages, but JUST BARELY. Let's reflect and discuss what I've learned and how I'm going to be a better person after this experiment.
Revelation #1: It's hard to be social when you are under such a strict budget. Hanging out with people often involves food, drinks, activities, most of which cost money. I never made this connection before, but this could be a very good reason people of similar economic statuses hang together. Even though we all get paid the same, hanging out with Peace Corps volunteers was difficult, because they had more disposable income to spend than I did. I ended up hanging out in village more than usual, because travel and activities cost money.
Revelation #2: You're always worried about money. Even though I had more money, since I was prohibited from spending it. I have to imagine I worried much less than people who only HAVE one dollar a day. Small events can make a huge differences in a person's finances, and I was often worried about what something would entail. Even eating lunch at school has hidden costs sometimes, and when that comes up too often, it's trouble.
Revelation #3: I prepared a lot for this. I spent some money to stock up so that I was at least slightly comfortable for most of it, and never had to go without basic necessities. But, if an emergency ever came up, and money was stolen or it all had been spent, I'd be IN TROUBLE. Without my stocking up on oatmeal, phone credit, and other things I use all the time but don't need, I would be WAY over. I spent money on food very few times, and both times it was pretty expensive. If someone sneak attacked me and said, "You must do a dollar a day for the next thirty days, starting today!", I'd be screwed. I would probably get way skinnier and never go anywhere.
So, it was hard. In general, I could still do the things i wanted to do, but had to make a few concessions along the way. The only reason it wasn't impossible was the prep. without that, I don't think I would have made it.
A SAD EPILOGUE
You'd think I have learned to go without some things, or appreciate spending less money. But, as soon as I rolled into Basse on the first day of financial freedom, I immediately bought four cans of coke to stock pile, and a giant thing of juice, adding up to a third of the cost of my entire month. Maybe in a few days I'll even out and spend less but not none, but right now I'm splurging. And those cokes were SO WORTH IT.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Living On A Dollar A Day: Part Two
When I last left you, it was the day before the NCAA Championship game. I went to my friend’s place at the Medical Research Council, where he’s doing research, and exploited the community television/cable from 1:30 until 4:30 in the morning to watch this (disappointing) matchup.
In order to convince this dude that it was a good idea to stay up until 5am to watch this game AND to let me sleep in his air conditioned apartment , I had to offer something. So I said, “Hey, why don’t we make dinner, bake some cookies, and play bananagrams until game time?”
So that’s what happened. Thus, what I feared last time – a big expenditure over 25D – occurred. Here’s the latest look into my finances.
Monday, April 4 : Day 18
I brought lots of stuff that I had hoarded to prepare for this dollar a day expedition, but still had to buy rice, limes, onions, and tomatoes to make this mango, corn, bean, concoction. Then cookie materials. It was delicious, but costly.
Item: Foodstuffs Cost: 50D Remaining: 54D
Tuesday, April 5: Day 19
Crossed the river to get home after lots of good food, but too little sleep.
Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 44D
Sunday, April 10: Day 24
Again, my phone will not last longer than a week without charging.
Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 39D
Tuesday, April 12: Day 26
My good friend Mariama came to visit finally, after I hadn’t seen her since her wedding in January. I was at school, and a man came around, selling blocks of ice. This man carried blocks of ice from Basse in a big sack, on a bicycle, the 10K to my village. I thought, “What better gift on a 115 degree day than a block of ice! I have only one week left, I can afford it.” I brought it home, eager to hear them all exclaim what a great toubab I was, but they didn’t seem nearly excited enough…
Item: Ice block Cost: 15D Remaining: 24 D
Saturday, April 16: Day 30
It’s spring break, so I’m taking a trek around the URR on my bike. However, to get to Basse, from whence all treks start, OF COURSE, I have to cross that expensive river.
Item: River Crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 14D
So, I am in Basse. The land with two restaurants, and at least four places that sell cold coke… it’s the land of temptation. And I have to make my fourteen dalasis last until Tuesday.
Will I make it? Find out on Wednesday.
In order to convince this dude that it was a good idea to stay up until 5am to watch this game AND to let me sleep in his air conditioned apartment , I had to offer something. So I said, “Hey, why don’t we make dinner, bake some cookies, and play bananagrams until game time?”
So that’s what happened. Thus, what I feared last time – a big expenditure over 25D – occurred. Here’s the latest look into my finances.
Monday, April 4 : Day 18
I brought lots of stuff that I had hoarded to prepare for this dollar a day expedition, but still had to buy rice, limes, onions, and tomatoes to make this mango, corn, bean, concoction. Then cookie materials. It was delicious, but costly.
Item: Foodstuffs Cost: 50D Remaining: 54D
Tuesday, April 5: Day 19
Crossed the river to get home after lots of good food, but too little sleep.
Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 44D
Sunday, April 10: Day 24
Again, my phone will not last longer than a week without charging.
Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 39D
Tuesday, April 12: Day 26
My good friend Mariama came to visit finally, after I hadn’t seen her since her wedding in January. I was at school, and a man came around, selling blocks of ice. This man carried blocks of ice from Basse in a big sack, on a bicycle, the 10K to my village. I thought, “What better gift on a 115 degree day than a block of ice! I have only one week left, I can afford it.” I brought it home, eager to hear them all exclaim what a great toubab I was, but they didn’t seem nearly excited enough…
Item: Ice block Cost: 15D Remaining: 24 D
Saturday, April 16: Day 30
It’s spring break, so I’m taking a trek around the URR on my bike. However, to get to Basse, from whence all treks start, OF COURSE, I have to cross that expensive river.
Item: River Crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 14D
So, I am in Basse. The land with two restaurants, and at least four places that sell cold coke… it’s the land of temptation. And I have to make my fourteen dalasis last until Tuesday.
Will I make it? Find out on Wednesday.
The Other White Meat
If you’ve been following my blog, you know it’s hot here… WAY. TOO. HOT.
A few days ago, I looked at my thermometer, and it said 120 degrees. I saw it and laughed in a fit of hysterical incredulity. No way, right? It was officially only four degrees from being too hot for my thermometer to handle, and it was closer to boiling point than to zero… woah.
I was sitting at school a few days later watching this EPIC brush fire. It started two nights ago, and is still spewing ash into my house and backyard. Some teachers and I were speculating as to how it started, and some thought that someone had started the fire with a cigarette. One teacher spoke of a tree, which, when it gets hot enough, spontaneously combusts. He is convinced that the 120 degree day caused a tree to self-immolate, and in turn caused the massive destruction of the few trees we have left in the Gambia, and lots of cattle grazing areas.
The first full day of the fire, the village was eerily empty, and a fast moving parade of small boys was exiting to the bush. I asked someone where they were going and they said to hunt.
So, remember Bambi? That sad and scary scene where the fire starts a stampede of terrified creatures? I don’t know about you, but I really felt for those animals. Their strife was my strife.
If the typical Gambian had direction Bambi, it would’ve been a quite different movie. As soon as the fire started there would be a picture of a huge group of men turning to look off into the distance with a killer’s gleam in their eye, and then scattering to their respective compounds. As soon as they dispersed, there would be a montage of different men gathering their slingshots, sharpening their machetes, gathering stones, and riling up their dogs to join the hunt. The montage would probably be played over by The Eye of the Tiger, or We Will Rock You, or some other equally manly composition.
Then the killing would begin. The same frightened animals would be shown, but in this version, you would sympathize with the hunters. You would rejoice with every homeless animal killed for its meat.
As soon as the forest fire began, one of the teacher’s eyes widened and mouth started watering. With this massive exodus of all beasts large and small, he knew some lucky hunter would bag a bush pig.
Muslims are not allowed to eat pork. So, the few Christians in this predominantly Muslim country are consistently hungering for what they can rarely have. This particular teacher was particularly lucky, because some non-Muslim dog caught and killed a baby bush pig, and an opportunistic Muslim hunter found a buyer for it quickly.
The teacher, knowing that I am a non-Muslim, came to my house to invite me to partake in this succulent other white meat.
You have never, ever seen a more beastly display of table manners (that’s a misnomer, no one eats on or at a table here), until you se a Christian in a Muslim country get a hold of a forbidden meat that he constantly craves. (I say this now, but when I finally get back to a Chipotle in two years, I think it will be a similarly disgusting display of gluttony).
Five Christians gathered around a giant plate, onto which was dumped the puzzle pieces of an entire baby pig. Still scalding to the touch, they tore in.
Numerous times they uttered phrases of disbelief. “It’s a baby pig!”
“It’s bones are still soft!” they cheered.
“You can even eat the bones!” they joyously discovered.
I stuck around for about twenty minutes, and in that time, four men ate an entire pig, bones and all.
At the end, all that remained of the poor piglet were two shoulder blades, a few vertebrae, and the juices stewed away from the now-vanished creature.
Over the meal, the men talked about what a shame this forest fire is, but I could tell they were internally thanking their non-Muslim god for bringing them a juicy, succulent, bone-crunchingly delicious piece of forbidden meat.
A few days ago, I looked at my thermometer, and it said 120 degrees. I saw it and laughed in a fit of hysterical incredulity. No way, right? It was officially only four degrees from being too hot for my thermometer to handle, and it was closer to boiling point than to zero… woah.
I was sitting at school a few days later watching this EPIC brush fire. It started two nights ago, and is still spewing ash into my house and backyard. Some teachers and I were speculating as to how it started, and some thought that someone had started the fire with a cigarette. One teacher spoke of a tree, which, when it gets hot enough, spontaneously combusts. He is convinced that the 120 degree day caused a tree to self-immolate, and in turn caused the massive destruction of the few trees we have left in the Gambia, and lots of cattle grazing areas.
The first full day of the fire, the village was eerily empty, and a fast moving parade of small boys was exiting to the bush. I asked someone where they were going and they said to hunt.
So, remember Bambi? That sad and scary scene where the fire starts a stampede of terrified creatures? I don’t know about you, but I really felt for those animals. Their strife was my strife.
If the typical Gambian had direction Bambi, it would’ve been a quite different movie. As soon as the fire started there would be a picture of a huge group of men turning to look off into the distance with a killer’s gleam in their eye, and then scattering to their respective compounds. As soon as they dispersed, there would be a montage of different men gathering their slingshots, sharpening their machetes, gathering stones, and riling up their dogs to join the hunt. The montage would probably be played over by The Eye of the Tiger, or We Will Rock You, or some other equally manly composition.
Then the killing would begin. The same frightened animals would be shown, but in this version, you would sympathize with the hunters. You would rejoice with every homeless animal killed for its meat.
As soon as the forest fire began, one of the teacher’s eyes widened and mouth started watering. With this massive exodus of all beasts large and small, he knew some lucky hunter would bag a bush pig.
Muslims are not allowed to eat pork. So, the few Christians in this predominantly Muslim country are consistently hungering for what they can rarely have. This particular teacher was particularly lucky, because some non-Muslim dog caught and killed a baby bush pig, and an opportunistic Muslim hunter found a buyer for it quickly.
The teacher, knowing that I am a non-Muslim, came to my house to invite me to partake in this succulent other white meat.
You have never, ever seen a more beastly display of table manners (that’s a misnomer, no one eats on or at a table here), until you se a Christian in a Muslim country get a hold of a forbidden meat that he constantly craves. (I say this now, but when I finally get back to a Chipotle in two years, I think it will be a similarly disgusting display of gluttony).
Five Christians gathered around a giant plate, onto which was dumped the puzzle pieces of an entire baby pig. Still scalding to the touch, they tore in.
Numerous times they uttered phrases of disbelief. “It’s a baby pig!”
“It’s bones are still soft!” they cheered.
“You can even eat the bones!” they joyously discovered.
I stuck around for about twenty minutes, and in that time, four men ate an entire pig, bones and all.
At the end, all that remained of the poor piglet were two shoulder blades, a few vertebrae, and the juices stewed away from the now-vanished creature.
Over the meal, the men talked about what a shame this forest fire is, but I could tell they were internally thanking their non-Muslim god for bringing them a juicy, succulent, bone-crunchingly delicious piece of forbidden meat.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Thank Yous
Last month was my birthday, and when you live in Africa, you get to celebrate twice! I celebrated on the actual day, and then celebrate again a month later when the presents arrive. Woot!
Thank you, Doug and Linda, for the plethora of Cliff Bars. It's helping me get through a dollar a day.
Thank you, Grandma! Your card was beautiful, and the fabric you sent is going to make some very VERY spirited African clothing. I haven't gotten to watch the games yet, but I'm super excited about sitting down for an entire day and watching all the great Packers football I missed.
I now officially own the best looking pair of shoes in the entire West African region, and socks that mice haven't chewed holes in. Thank you Steve Tomick! What. A. Man.
Thank you, Amber from Pennsylvania, who despite the fact that she doesn't know me, sent me an awesome Packers water bottle! You da best! A letter's coming to you soon!
If you sent something and don't see your name here, don't worry, I'm sure it's on its way coming. Thank you in advance!
Thank you, Doug and Linda, for the plethora of Cliff Bars. It's helping me get through a dollar a day.
Thank you, Grandma! Your card was beautiful, and the fabric you sent is going to make some very VERY spirited African clothing. I haven't gotten to watch the games yet, but I'm super excited about sitting down for an entire day and watching all the great Packers football I missed.
I now officially own the best looking pair of shoes in the entire West African region, and socks that mice haven't chewed holes in. Thank you Steve Tomick! What. A. Man.
Thank you, Amber from Pennsylvania, who despite the fact that she doesn't know me, sent me an awesome Packers water bottle! You da best! A letter's coming to you soon!
If you sent something and don't see your name here, don't worry, I'm sure it's on its way coming. Thank you in advance!
Living On A Dollar a Day Part One
One of my New Year’s resolutions was to live on a dollar a day for at least a month. It took me over three months to actually start it, but on March 18, I started.
Here’s the finances:
The conversion rate on the day I started was 30 dalasis to one dollar, which was a lucky break for me. Normally, it’s like 28. So, for the month, I got a total of 900 dalasis.
Each month, I pay my family 600 dalasis for housing and feeding me. This is the equivalent of about twenty dollars… not a bad deal.
This leaves me with 300 dalasis for the thirty day experiment or ten dalasis per day.
Just so we’re clear before I claim to actual know what living on a dollar a day is like, I want to make it clear that I cheated.
I stocked up on pounds of oatmeal, lots of phone credit, and peanut butter galore.
I have packages coming from America filled with things I need. I have a pretty reliable bicycle to get around.
My family cooks all meals for me. The Peace Corps med unit provides supplies that Gambians either don’t have access to, or have to buy if they need.
Still… it’s a challenge.
Friday, March 18: Day One
I was confident I could go at least the first day without spending any money. But, while I was away in Kombo, our food situation at school changed, and now teachers buy their own bread for lunch.
Item: Half bread Cost: 2D Remaining: 298D
Disaster. I went to a Nyakoi Sport Committee meeting, and was asked for my membership fee, and also back pay for last month.
Item: Membership in an organization where I can’t understand most of what goes on.
Cost: 50D Remaining: 248D
Saturday, March 19: Day 2
I crossed the river to go to Basse to coach a basketball team that rarely shows up.
Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 238D
Returned across the river after no one showed up for basketball… again.
Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 228D
March 20 – March 26:
Spent no money… and it feels so good.
Sunday, March 27: Day 9
Sent a letter to a reader of my blog to thank her for a killer gift. I included a 5D bill.
Item: 5 dalasis Cost: 5D Remaining: 223D
Monday, March 28: Day 10
The power of the sun can’t keep up with my phone battery usage, so I had to pay someone to charge it for me.
Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 218D
School ran out of food, so I had to contribute for lunch. I could go home and get free lunch, but I have to teach a lesson, and lunch at home will be over.
Item: Lunch contribution Cost: 10D Remaining: 208D
Friday, April 1: Day 15
Party! Today is the party inviting the new URR volunteers to the region. But of course, have to cross the river to get to where everyone is.
Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 198D
I was worried about this party, and knew it’d be a big money day, so I thought ahead and planned what I thought was a cheap side dish. Mangos are free for the taking, onions and peppers and limes are everywhere… mango salsa it is. There are no tortilla chips on this side of the country though, so I had to buy loaves of bread to dip. Disaster.
Item: Mango salsa and bread Cost: 44D Remaining: 154D
I had resigned myself to only drink water for the entire month. No 5 dalasi packets of juice, no cokes (normally I drink like two every day when I’m in Basse), and no beer (no big thing – I’m not a big drinker). However, tonight was the night for epic flip cup to happen and I could not NOT play… I love games!
Item: An epic night of flip cup (2 beers) Cost: 50D Remaining: 104D
Halftime Reflections: I’m halfway through and have spent two thirds of my available funds… It’s been ok so far, but crossing the river is really getting to me. I think that I can make it, but if anything crazy comes up (any expenditures over 25D), I’m gonna be cutting it close.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of a dollar a day.
Here’s the finances:
The conversion rate on the day I started was 30 dalasis to one dollar, which was a lucky break for me. Normally, it’s like 28. So, for the month, I got a total of 900 dalasis.
Each month, I pay my family 600 dalasis for housing and feeding me. This is the equivalent of about twenty dollars… not a bad deal.
This leaves me with 300 dalasis for the thirty day experiment or ten dalasis per day.
Just so we’re clear before I claim to actual know what living on a dollar a day is like, I want to make it clear that I cheated.
I stocked up on pounds of oatmeal, lots of phone credit, and peanut butter galore.
I have packages coming from America filled with things I need. I have a pretty reliable bicycle to get around.
My family cooks all meals for me. The Peace Corps med unit provides supplies that Gambians either don’t have access to, or have to buy if they need.
Still… it’s a challenge.
Friday, March 18: Day One
I was confident I could go at least the first day without spending any money. But, while I was away in Kombo, our food situation at school changed, and now teachers buy their own bread for lunch.
Item: Half bread Cost: 2D Remaining: 298D
Disaster. I went to a Nyakoi Sport Committee meeting, and was asked for my membership fee, and also back pay for last month.
Item: Membership in an organization where I can’t understand most of what goes on.
Cost: 50D Remaining: 248D
Saturday, March 19: Day 2
I crossed the river to go to Basse to coach a basketball team that rarely shows up.
Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 238D
Returned across the river after no one showed up for basketball… again.
Item: Boat crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 228D
March 20 – March 26:
Spent no money… and it feels so good.
Sunday, March 27: Day 9
Sent a letter to a reader of my blog to thank her for a killer gift. I included a 5D bill.
Item: 5 dalasis Cost: 5D Remaining: 223D
Monday, March 28: Day 10
The power of the sun can’t keep up with my phone battery usage, so I had to pay someone to charge it for me.
Item: Charge Cost: 5D Remaining: 218D
School ran out of food, so I had to contribute for lunch. I could go home and get free lunch, but I have to teach a lesson, and lunch at home will be over.
Item: Lunch contribution Cost: 10D Remaining: 208D
Friday, April 1: Day 15
Party! Today is the party inviting the new URR volunteers to the region. But of course, have to cross the river to get to where everyone is.
Item: River crossing Cost: 10D Remaining: 198D
I was worried about this party, and knew it’d be a big money day, so I thought ahead and planned what I thought was a cheap side dish. Mangos are free for the taking, onions and peppers and limes are everywhere… mango salsa it is. There are no tortilla chips on this side of the country though, so I had to buy loaves of bread to dip. Disaster.
Item: Mango salsa and bread Cost: 44D Remaining: 154D
I had resigned myself to only drink water for the entire month. No 5 dalasi packets of juice, no cokes (normally I drink like two every day when I’m in Basse), and no beer (no big thing – I’m not a big drinker). However, tonight was the night for epic flip cup to happen and I could not NOT play… I love games!
Item: An epic night of flip cup (2 beers) Cost: 50D Remaining: 104D
Halftime Reflections: I’m halfway through and have spent two thirds of my available funds… It’s been ok so far, but crossing the river is really getting to me. I think that I can make it, but if anything crazy comes up (any expenditures over 25D), I’m gonna be cutting it close.
Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion of a dollar a day.
Lunch Bowl Conversations
Two days in a row, at the lunch food bowl, teachers have had the following argument completely in Mandinka. If this conversation was to hold place in a courtroom, here’s how it’d go.
Prosecution: We accuse aforementioned fat teacher of being pregnant.
Defendant: We stand by the defendant’s word that she is not pregnant.
Prosecution: We wish to enter the following two pieces of information into consideration
1. The defendant is fat.
2. She doesn’t feel good today.
I’m no doctor, but to me, that means pregnancy.
Defendant: I can explain all of that. Please enter these two nuggets of info as exhibits A and B.
A. My client is not pregnant
B. She’s just fat
And, ladies and gentleman of the jury, to further prove it, my client will lift her shirt, showing her high waisted skirt and full view of her undergarments, and wiggle her fat around to prove there is no baby there. Fat teacher, if you would.
Prosecution: Objection, your honor! If we are not allowed to poke and prod at that fat, how can we know it’s real.
Judge: Sustained. You may poke and prod.
Prosecution: (after many minutes of jiggling, squeezing, shaking, and poking) No further questions your honor.
Prosecution: We accuse aforementioned fat teacher of being pregnant.
Defendant: We stand by the defendant’s word that she is not pregnant.
Prosecution: We wish to enter the following two pieces of information into consideration
1. The defendant is fat.
2. She doesn’t feel good today.
I’m no doctor, but to me, that means pregnancy.
Defendant: I can explain all of that. Please enter these two nuggets of info as exhibits A and B.
A. My client is not pregnant
B. She’s just fat
And, ladies and gentleman of the jury, to further prove it, my client will lift her shirt, showing her high waisted skirt and full view of her undergarments, and wiggle her fat around to prove there is no baby there. Fat teacher, if you would.
Prosecution: Objection, your honor! If we are not allowed to poke and prod at that fat, how can we know it’s real.
Judge: Sustained. You may poke and prod.
Prosecution: (after many minutes of jiggling, squeezing, shaking, and poking) No further questions your honor.
Carnage
*I wanted to write this article with a surprise ending, but in this age of African uproar and widespread violence in the news, I’m going to give away the ending before you get too caught up in my vivid imagery… it’s a monkey.*
After today, I will never be the same… I saw one of my ancestors being savagely slaughtered and butchered for his meat.
I watched as the murderer cut off each foot. Each hand.
On one detached hand, the fingers lay splayed to the sides, still rigid in fear and shock at actually having been captured. The other lonely hand seems to have accepted it… its large knuckles curve slightly into a moon shape, seeming to finger the fine grained red dust as a last acknowledgement of beauty in the world the victim would never see again.
I watched the butcher carelessly crack bones apart at the joints.
I stared at the victim’s vacant eyes, and, perhaps out of subconscious sympathy, my mouth took on the same slack jawed look of disbelief.
After fully dismembering the body, the butcher reached into the chest cavity, and like savage sacrificial offerings of the past, pulled all of the innards out… something was still fastened, so in a sick chain of events, the innards pulled on the muscles, the muscles pulled the spine, and the head sickening descended into the neck, if only momentarily.
After apparent eons of agony, they finally hacked off the head. THWACK, THWACK, THWACK, and it rolled away. Grinning like the maniacs they are, the butchers chased it down, and held it dangling equidistant from their mad smiles and my face, then offered it to me as a gift. I took cautious steps backwards, not wanting to anger them with my revulsion, but not wanting to appear too eager either.
The cloud of flies was immense; the crowd of people was too. I cautiously picked my way backwards, never losing eye contact with the disembodied head and its sad, dead eyes.
I found myself shocked that so many would want to witness this carnage, but unable to pull myself away.
And later that day, just to say I did… I ate a piece of the victim.
Yes… I ate monkey.
After today, I will never be the same… I saw one of my ancestors being savagely slaughtered and butchered for his meat.
I watched as the murderer cut off each foot. Each hand.
On one detached hand, the fingers lay splayed to the sides, still rigid in fear and shock at actually having been captured. The other lonely hand seems to have accepted it… its large knuckles curve slightly into a moon shape, seeming to finger the fine grained red dust as a last acknowledgement of beauty in the world the victim would never see again.
I watched the butcher carelessly crack bones apart at the joints.
I stared at the victim’s vacant eyes, and, perhaps out of subconscious sympathy, my mouth took on the same slack jawed look of disbelief.
After fully dismembering the body, the butcher reached into the chest cavity, and like savage sacrificial offerings of the past, pulled all of the innards out… something was still fastened, so in a sick chain of events, the innards pulled on the muscles, the muscles pulled the spine, and the head sickening descended into the neck, if only momentarily.
After apparent eons of agony, they finally hacked off the head. THWACK, THWACK, THWACK, and it rolled away. Grinning like the maniacs they are, the butchers chased it down, and held it dangling equidistant from their mad smiles and my face, then offered it to me as a gift. I took cautious steps backwards, not wanting to anger them with my revulsion, but not wanting to appear too eager either.
The cloud of flies was immense; the crowd of people was too. I cautiously picked my way backwards, never losing eye contact with the disembodied head and its sad, dead eyes.
I found myself shocked that so many would want to witness this carnage, but unable to pull myself away.
And later that day, just to say I did… I ate a piece of the victim.
Yes… I ate monkey.
Pity Me
Following is a list of dates and temperatures. All temperatures were taken at various times between 1:45 and 6 pm. I’ll let them speak for themselves.
March 18 114
March 19 108
March 20 109
March 21 106
March 22 112
March 23 113
March 24 106
March 25 116
March 18 114
March 19 108
March 20 109
March 21 106
March 22 112
March 23 113
March 24 106
March 25 116
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Poetry Corner
I was motivated to write this poem about my experience at WAIST (see previous blog if you are unfamiliar) when I remembered a poem that my talented brother, Nate Adams, wrote in probably third grade. He wrote a hilarious ballad called, "My legs are fake" and also a poem about the contents of a refrigerator. I think it ended with something like this, "The wilted head of lettuce / As old as a geezer / Made me afraid / to open the freezer"
My prose doesn't nearly do justice to the original inspiration, but please enjoy.
Also, you won't really understand the poem unless you see a picture of the trophy we won at WAIST. Please see it below.
We'd sweated and we'd toiled.
We'd worked and schemed and trained.
Our arms and backs were aching
Our muscles we had strained
In our final glorious triumph
We raised our trophy high
Our little hunch backed goblin
Was lifted way up towards the sky
I love that little guy
Despite his Benjamin Button look
The three upon his back
Indicated the place that we had took
So I tied him to my back
As only Gambian mothers can
Through the urban streets of Dakar
I transported my wee man
And so I returned
To a champion's fanfare
I passed around our little beast
This victory I would share
Everyone admired the prize
A pleasant smile masking their shock
Even if it's an ugly baby
You grin and tell the mother it's not
My WAIST team I trusted
To take care of the prize
And so as I left for the party
I know it was under watchful eyes
Later, after too little sleep
And far too many beers
We boarded our bus to discover
Our trophy was not here!
Mother's instinct set in
And I scrambled off the bus
Horrible scenes filled my mind
Was he kidnapped? Broken? Crushed?
I searched the entire hostel
From ceiling to the floor
And called for reinforcements
To help me search a little more
The search was unsuccessful
So we tearfully drove away
After questioning each individual
Of where they'd seen him that day
Seven hours and two countries,
One boat and a border later
A clueless young man finally spoke up
And said, "Didya check the refrigerator?"
My schock was immense
My horror was real
Imagining our gremlin
Locked in a box of freon and steel
You may ponder and ask yourself
Why didn't he speak up before?
Was he deaf? Was he sleeping?
Was this Frenchman feeling poor?
So in the not so distant future
When your cherished child is lost
Just check your household fridge
And set your kid out to defrost.
My prose doesn't nearly do justice to the original inspiration, but please enjoy.
Also, you won't really understand the poem unless you see a picture of the trophy we won at WAIST. Please see it below.
We'd sweated and we'd toiled.
We'd worked and schemed and trained.
Our arms and backs were aching
Our muscles we had strained
In our final glorious triumph
We raised our trophy high
Our little hunch backed goblin
Was lifted way up towards the sky
I love that little guy
Despite his Benjamin Button look
The three upon his back
Indicated the place that we had took
So I tied him to my back
As only Gambian mothers can
Through the urban streets of Dakar
I transported my wee man
And so I returned
To a champion's fanfare
I passed around our little beast
This victory I would share
Everyone admired the prize
A pleasant smile masking their shock
Even if it's an ugly baby
You grin and tell the mother it's not
My WAIST team I trusted
To take care of the prize
And so as I left for the party
I know it was under watchful eyes
Later, after too little sleep
And far too many beers
We boarded our bus to discover
Our trophy was not here!
Mother's instinct set in
And I scrambled off the bus
Horrible scenes filled my mind
Was he kidnapped? Broken? Crushed?
I searched the entire hostel
From ceiling to the floor
And called for reinforcements
To help me search a little more
The search was unsuccessful
So we tearfully drove away
After questioning each individual
Of where they'd seen him that day
Seven hours and two countries,
One boat and a border later
A clueless young man finally spoke up
And said, "Didya check the refrigerator?"
My schock was immense
My horror was real
Imagining our gremlin
Locked in a box of freon and steel
You may ponder and ask yourself
Why didn't he speak up before?
Was he deaf? Was he sleeping?
Was this Frenchman feeling poor?
So in the not so distant future
When your cherished child is lost
Just check your household fridge
And set your kid out to defrost.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Madness Comes to The Gambia
It is March, and therefore, it is absolutely the worst time to be living in a hut in the middle of Nowhere, West Africa.
The tournament is beginning, and excitement is spreading throughout America, but here, the term "Selection Sunday" causes no grins, no shivers of excitement, not even a glimmer of recognition of the greatness the term embodies.
I've done all I can to bring the madness to The Gambia. I distributed a bracket to my Peace Corps people, and most said, "I don't know any of the teams". Of course I told them that NO ONE DOES. THIS IS AFRICA! Many refused to do it, and others succumbed, picking winners such as 13 seed Oakland... it could happen.
To at least make it a little more like home to me, I chalked a GIANT March Madness bracket on the inside of my hut wall (see below). I made a bracket for what might be for dinner when I get home (white rice with sauce is sure to be the champion), and have been filling out bracket after bracket, trying to follow where my heart leads me, because this year, that's all I have to go on.
In the past, I watched games, read articles, and analyzed upsets that are bound to be. This year, I know nothing. I know Michigan State and Illinois were disappointing, UNC sucked and then was good, and Northwestern almost made it for the first time. From the last week I've spent in Kombo, I've learned that Colorado got screwed, and VCU got lucky. I've learned nobody cares about the First Four.
I wanted to do something really creative for my bracket. I wanted to pick teams with most native Africans to move on in the tournament, or pick the team with the most Gambian sounding names. However, my love of the sport preventing me from doing this, and instead, I went with the little I knew, and my heart.
So, here are the picks. Sorry if it's hard to follow.
THE EAST
FIRST ROUND
OSU vs. PLAY IN WINNER OSU by 34 points. Duh.
GEORGE MASON vs. VILLANOVA George Mason, the team of destiny in perhaps one of my favorite tournaments of my young life, will prevail again, by 12 points.
WVU vs. CLEMSON Upset! I pick Clemson to ride a big win from last night and keep rolling. The Tigers win by 6, although I would love to see a rematch of the Appalachian elite 8 game of last year.
KENTUCKY vs. PRINCETON Wildcats by 17
XAVIER vs. MARQUETTE If it were a fashion show, Marquette would win hands down. Despite their fly uniforms, they lose to Xavier by 9.
SYRACUSE vs. INDIANA STATE Larry Bird is left with a single tear running down his cheek as his alma mater is stomped by Syracuse, by 14 points.
WASHINGTON vs. GEORGIA I like Washington. Their city is sweet, their campus is beautiful, and the climate is the opposite of what I'm experiencing right now. Their tendency to have short yet incredible ballers (Isaiah Thomas, Nate Robinson) makes them irresistable to me. Huskies by 11.
UNC vs. LIU I don't know what LIU stands for, but I wish them the best. Despite my intense waves of hatred shooting across the Atlantic Ocean into the hearts and souls of the Tar Heels, they win by 18 against poor Lower Idaho University.
Second Round (I'm not putting point values in, because I feel like I should know the actual match ups before I decide the point differential.)
OSU over George Mason
KENTUCKY over Clemson
SYRACUSE over Xavier
WASHINGTON over unc (those bastards)
Elite 8
OSU over Kentucky
SYRACUSE over Washington
Final 4
OSU over Syracuse
THE WEST
First Round
DUKE vs. HAMPTON Duke by 21
MICHIGAN vs. TENNESSEE Although I seem to remember that Tennessee can't win a big game unless I am in the stadium to see them do it live, they still beat the Wolverines by 3.
ARIZONA vs. MEMPHIS Zona by 7
TEXAS vs. OAKLAND Texas win big, by 19 points.
CINCINNATI vs. MIZZOU Mizzou beat us in the Border Battle this year, which means they've got to be good. I remember they are well conditioned, and that leads them past Cincinnati. Tigers win by 13.
UCONN vs. BUCKNELL We once played Bucknell in the first round, and we beat them. Thusly, UConn will too. By 25 points.
PENN STATE vs. TEMPLE I heard that Temple's team is full of thugs and gangsters. It still can't get them past the preppy Penn Staters. Penn State by 2
SDSU vs. N. COLORADO San Diego State University by 8
Second Round
DUKE over Tennessee
TEXAS over Zona
UCONN over Mizzou (although this one is close)
SDSU over Penn State
Elite 8
TEXAS over Duke
UCONN over sdsu
Final Four
TEXAS over Uconn
THE SOUTHWEST
First Round
KANSAS vs. BOSTON U Kansas wins by 14
ILLINOIS vs. UNLV Illinois wins, obviously, but does not play to its potential. They will use this as fuel to ignite their impending duel with Kansas. Illini by 7
VANDERBILT vs RICHMOND I have an irrational hatred for Vandy and an unnatural love for the Spiders of Richmond. So, the underseeded underdogs beat the Commodores by 9.
LOUISVILLE vs MOREHEAD STATE I read somewhere that Morehead State is one of the most likely upsets, but I still pick the C A R D I N A L S to win by 6.
GEORGETOWN vs PLAY IN WINNER Georgetown beats their exhausted opponent by 19
PURDUE vs SAINT PETERS Purdue by unlucky 13
TEXAS A&M vs. FLORIDA STATE I know some new Peace Corps volunteers from A&M, so the Aggies win by 5.
NOTRE DAME vs. AKRON It's hard for me to imagine Notre Dame as a two seed, and even harder for me to pick them to win any games, but I think they win this one by 17.
Second Round
KANSAS over Illinois (but Illinois plays great! Kansas wins on a lucky buzzer beater for sure.)
RICHMOND over Lousiville
PURDUE over Georgetown
NOTRE DAME over Texas A&M
Elite 8
KANSAS over Richmond
NOTRE DAME over Purdue
Final Four
KANSAS over Notre Dame
THE SOUTHEAST
First Round
PITT vs UNCA Pitt by 23
BUTLER vs OLD DOMINION Butler, although not the Cinderella team of last year, beats ODU by 12
KANSAS STATE vs UTAH STATE I heard Utah State got wicked underseeded... so they win by 4
WISCONSIN vs. BELMONT Badgers by 11
ST JOHNS vs GONZAGA St. Johns zigs the zags by 8
BYU vs WOFFORD I believe in the power of Jimmer. BYU by 28
UCLA vs MICHIGAN STATE Coach Izzo's teams don't struggle during the playoffs - they'll be ready for the Bruins. State by 10.
FLORIDA vs UCSB Florida by 14
Second Round
PITT over Butler
UTAH STATE over Wisconsin
BYU over St. Johns
MSU over Florida
Elite 8
UTAH STATE over Pitt
BYU over MSU
Final Four
BYU over Utah State
SOOOO... my final four teams are
BYU
KANSAS
TEXAS
OHIO STATE
Kansas and Ohio State move on to the championship game, and Kansas brings it home again. But only because Bill Self learned all he knows from coaching at the University of Illinois.
There they are. If you win, be proud, but if you lose, be very very very ashamed.
The tournament is beginning, and excitement is spreading throughout America, but here, the term "Selection Sunday" causes no grins, no shivers of excitement, not even a glimmer of recognition of the greatness the term embodies.
I've done all I can to bring the madness to The Gambia. I distributed a bracket to my Peace Corps people, and most said, "I don't know any of the teams". Of course I told them that NO ONE DOES. THIS IS AFRICA! Many refused to do it, and others succumbed, picking winners such as 13 seed Oakland... it could happen.
To at least make it a little more like home to me, I chalked a GIANT March Madness bracket on the inside of my hut wall (see below). I made a bracket for what might be for dinner when I get home (white rice with sauce is sure to be the champion), and have been filling out bracket after bracket, trying to follow where my heart leads me, because this year, that's all I have to go on.
In the past, I watched games, read articles, and analyzed upsets that are bound to be. This year, I know nothing. I know Michigan State and Illinois were disappointing, UNC sucked and then was good, and Northwestern almost made it for the first time. From the last week I've spent in Kombo, I've learned that Colorado got screwed, and VCU got lucky. I've learned nobody cares about the First Four.
I wanted to do something really creative for my bracket. I wanted to pick teams with most native Africans to move on in the tournament, or pick the team with the most Gambian sounding names. However, my love of the sport preventing me from doing this, and instead, I went with the little I knew, and my heart.
So, here are the picks. Sorry if it's hard to follow.
THE EAST
FIRST ROUND
OSU vs. PLAY IN WINNER OSU by 34 points. Duh.
GEORGE MASON vs. VILLANOVA George Mason, the team of destiny in perhaps one of my favorite tournaments of my young life, will prevail again, by 12 points.
WVU vs. CLEMSON Upset! I pick Clemson to ride a big win from last night and keep rolling. The Tigers win by 6, although I would love to see a rematch of the Appalachian elite 8 game of last year.
KENTUCKY vs. PRINCETON Wildcats by 17
XAVIER vs. MARQUETTE If it were a fashion show, Marquette would win hands down. Despite their fly uniforms, they lose to Xavier by 9.
SYRACUSE vs. INDIANA STATE Larry Bird is left with a single tear running down his cheek as his alma mater is stomped by Syracuse, by 14 points.
WASHINGTON vs. GEORGIA I like Washington. Their city is sweet, their campus is beautiful, and the climate is the opposite of what I'm experiencing right now. Their tendency to have short yet incredible ballers (Isaiah Thomas, Nate Robinson) makes them irresistable to me. Huskies by 11.
UNC vs. LIU I don't know what LIU stands for, but I wish them the best. Despite my intense waves of hatred shooting across the Atlantic Ocean into the hearts and souls of the Tar Heels, they win by 18 against poor Lower Idaho University.
Second Round (I'm not putting point values in, because I feel like I should know the actual match ups before I decide the point differential.)
OSU over George Mason
KENTUCKY over Clemson
SYRACUSE over Xavier
WASHINGTON over unc (those bastards)
Elite 8
OSU over Kentucky
SYRACUSE over Washington
Final 4
OSU over Syracuse
THE WEST
First Round
DUKE vs. HAMPTON Duke by 21
MICHIGAN vs. TENNESSEE Although I seem to remember that Tennessee can't win a big game unless I am in the stadium to see them do it live, they still beat the Wolverines by 3.
ARIZONA vs. MEMPHIS Zona by 7
TEXAS vs. OAKLAND Texas win big, by 19 points.
CINCINNATI vs. MIZZOU Mizzou beat us in the Border Battle this year, which means they've got to be good. I remember they are well conditioned, and that leads them past Cincinnati. Tigers win by 13.
UCONN vs. BUCKNELL We once played Bucknell in the first round, and we beat them. Thusly, UConn will too. By 25 points.
PENN STATE vs. TEMPLE I heard that Temple's team is full of thugs and gangsters. It still can't get them past the preppy Penn Staters. Penn State by 2
SDSU vs. N. COLORADO San Diego State University by 8
Second Round
DUKE over Tennessee
TEXAS over Zona
UCONN over Mizzou (although this one is close)
SDSU over Penn State
Elite 8
TEXAS over Duke
UCONN over sdsu
Final Four
TEXAS over Uconn
THE SOUTHWEST
First Round
KANSAS vs. BOSTON U Kansas wins by 14
ILLINOIS vs. UNLV Illinois wins, obviously, but does not play to its potential. They will use this as fuel to ignite their impending duel with Kansas. Illini by 7
VANDERBILT vs RICHMOND I have an irrational hatred for Vandy and an unnatural love for the Spiders of Richmond. So, the underseeded underdogs beat the Commodores by 9.
LOUISVILLE vs MOREHEAD STATE I read somewhere that Morehead State is one of the most likely upsets, but I still pick the C A R D I N A L S to win by 6.
GEORGETOWN vs PLAY IN WINNER Georgetown beats their exhausted opponent by 19
PURDUE vs SAINT PETERS Purdue by unlucky 13
TEXAS A&M vs. FLORIDA STATE I know some new Peace Corps volunteers from A&M, so the Aggies win by 5.
NOTRE DAME vs. AKRON It's hard for me to imagine Notre Dame as a two seed, and even harder for me to pick them to win any games, but I think they win this one by 17.
Second Round
KANSAS over Illinois (but Illinois plays great! Kansas wins on a lucky buzzer beater for sure.)
RICHMOND over Lousiville
PURDUE over Georgetown
NOTRE DAME over Texas A&M
Elite 8
KANSAS over Richmond
NOTRE DAME over Purdue
Final Four
KANSAS over Notre Dame
THE SOUTHEAST
First Round
PITT vs UNCA Pitt by 23
BUTLER vs OLD DOMINION Butler, although not the Cinderella team of last year, beats ODU by 12
KANSAS STATE vs UTAH STATE I heard Utah State got wicked underseeded... so they win by 4
WISCONSIN vs. BELMONT Badgers by 11
ST JOHNS vs GONZAGA St. Johns zigs the zags by 8
BYU vs WOFFORD I believe in the power of Jimmer. BYU by 28
UCLA vs MICHIGAN STATE Coach Izzo's teams don't struggle during the playoffs - they'll be ready for the Bruins. State by 10.
FLORIDA vs UCSB Florida by 14
Second Round
PITT over Butler
UTAH STATE over Wisconsin
BYU over St. Johns
MSU over Florida
Elite 8
UTAH STATE over Pitt
BYU over MSU
Final Four
BYU over Utah State
SOOOO... my final four teams are
BYU
KANSAS
TEXAS
OHIO STATE
Kansas and Ohio State move on to the championship game, and Kansas brings it home again. But only because Bill Self learned all he knows from coaching at the University of Illinois.
There they are. If you win, be proud, but if you lose, be very very very ashamed.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
WAIST
WAIST stands for
West
African
International
Softball
Tournament
and it is perhaps one of the best ideas anyone has ever had. Bring together hundreds of Peace Corps volunteers and local Senegalese teams, raise a bunch of money for cool projects, give volunteers an excuse to travel to a legitimate city from their scattered home villages, play competitive softball in crazy costumes, and drink heavily.
WAIST takes place every year on President’s Day weekend, in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, and (I think) the biggest city in West Africa. This is awesome for us, because they have real food, they have iced beverages, they have reliable electricity, the water most likely won’t give you parasites, and white folks are hardly noticed since the city is so attractive to ex-pats.
The Gambia is represented well here at WAIST. We have two teams from our tiny country. Other teams include the local embassy workers (who are jerks to play against), numerous Senegal Peace Corps volunteer teams (who are hilarious to play against), and even a team of Cape Verde volunteers + refugees. This includes those volunteers who were recently evacuated from Niger and reassigned placements.
We arrived on Thursday afternoon, and games began on Saturday. So Friday, people went crazy in Dakar. Some people, for a touch of normalcy, went to the giant and expensive mall overlooking the ocean. Others, with a sense of adventure, paid 500 CFA (about $1) to jump on a trampoline for fifteen minutes, also overlooking the ocean. Others, such as myself, went to numerous markets to find sweet African wares (because there’s nothing better than receiving the question ‘Where’d you get that’ and being able to respond ‘Dakar’ or some other exotic place they’ve most likely never been), ate delicious food (a salad, the likes of which is impossible to get anywhere in the nation of the Gambia) at a moderately priced restaurant, ate heaps of gourmet ice cream, and walked around, taking it all in.
On Saturday, the games began. We walked to the field from our hostel, and were bombarded with color, shine, and alcohol once we entered the fields. Different Peace Corps teams were dressed in different CRAZY costumes. One team had taken African fabric and made it into liederhosen, and had found appropriate hats to match the liederhosen. One team all had various befuddled Senegalese tailors make them tutus out of shiny tulle. Even the dudes rocked the tutus. One team was dressed as the characters from jersey shore (I didn’t get the reference, but apparently it’s a big deal). Another team was cops and robbers, and they had all kinds of antics on the field.
The first team we played on Friday was dressed entirely in tutus. They were also severely intoxicated. We crushed them 17-0. I pitched, and my team played great behind me.
Our second game we played the jersey shore team. They were also reprehensibly intoxicated, and after seeing the first game that we played, just wanted to forfeit. However, we convinced them to play, and handily beat them, 21-0.
After the first two games, we had some concerned people approach us carefully, and ask us why we were so serious. We didn’t carry our beers onto the field, so apparently that was way too serious for the volunteers who came to drink competitively, as opposed to competitively play softball. We told them we wanted to win, and they looked at us bewilderedly, shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sauntered towards the bar.
After one of our games, at our team huddle, our second basemen drew out attention to the plentiful amounts of glass in the field. We were concerned for the welfare of the knees and shins of the people playing on the field, so we tried to pick up all the glass we could. The next field we played on had the same problem – the second basemen noticed it and we tried to pick it up. Our coach type character told the commissioner (yes, this informal tournament had a commissioner), and he said that they were aware of the problem. When they re-dirted the fields before the season, they accidentally got construction debris dirt instead of clean dirt, so glass was everywhere on all three fields. Things like this reminded all of us that we were still in Africa.
Throughout our three days and six games, we played two teams that were actually competitive. One of them was a team of embassy workers, and as a pitcher working against their batters, I hated everything about this team. I am under the impression that slow pitch softball is a smash and dash kind of game, where if a pitch comes in, you want to crush it as far as you can. But the old people on this team were of a different mindset; they wanted to get walked around the bases. In our first four games, we allowed 5 runs, and I walked in all of them during the game against the embassy. However, we ended up slaughtering that team regardless, and I felt the sweet, sweet taste of victory against an underhanded, un-noble foe. The righteous always prevail.
We ended up winning third place in our division. We only lost to one team, and that was a Senegalese team who practices year round. We beat every Peace Corps team, so I could leave Dakar knowing that even if we weren’t better than everyone, we crushed the rest of Peace Corps West Africa.
Everyone from my team went to the championship game, because the awards ceremony was scheduled for immediately after. While the championship team was celebrating their win, we gathered together and discussed how we would celebrate when they called our names to collect our trophies. Our coach had bought a bottle of hard cider, and we had epic plans similar to a locker room after a World Series victory. We finalized our celebration routine, walked to where the trophies were sitting, and found most people had dispersed, and our lonesome trophy was sitting there, waiting for us. No one called our names, no one acknowledged our great achievement. So, we snatched our trophy, took it to the pitchers mound, and leapt around, sprayed hard cider like it was champagne, and took turns kissing our prize.
The trophy itself was an ugly thing. It was carved by a local artisan, so I guess the cultural aspect made up for its hideous appearance. It was a small ogre-ish black man, wearing an enormous baseball cap, and hunched over like Quasimodo. It was about the size of a gallon of milk, and it was ours.
I volunteered to take the trophy home, and brought it back to our hostel. We hung out there for a little while, reliving the moments and the triumph. I brought the trophy out to show our fans, and left it on the table as we laughed and planned the events of that night.
Before we left for that evening’s party, I checked to make sure it wasn’t still sitting on the table in the common area. Since it wasn’t, I assumed someone had taken it and put it in a safe place.
The next morning, we left at 5:30 am. After the shenanigans of the previous evening, nobody felt that great. We all got on the bus, and I paused in my mental checklist to ask, “Who has the trophy?” No one had seen it. I felt responsible, so I went back into the hostel to double check everywhere. It wasn’t there. I sent another volunteer in, to look and also alert the French-speaking hostel staff that we were looking for an ugly little wooden beast. She still couldn’t find it, so we left, assuming it’d been stolen or someone had packed it without realizing it.
We traveled in a bus for about 7 hours, crossed the border into the Gambia, and were on the ferry going to Banjul, when we were hypothesizing what could have happened to this trophy that we had worked so hard for. One of our most with it volunteers *SARCASTIC! NOT TRUE!* said, “Oh, yeah, I put that in the refrigerator last night.”
I cannot adequately describe my incredulity and fury at this moment. A million questions went through my head. Why didn’t you say anything when we were frantically looking for it? The fridge? Why didn’t you grab it? THE FRIDGE?
We called the hostel, they confirmed that our prize remained in the fridge, and now we have to figure out how to bring it to its rightful home, The Gambia.
But when it comes, we will welcome it with a ceremony and parade, and know that WAIST 2011 was a glorious victory for Peace Corps The Gambia.
West
African
International
Softball
Tournament
and it is perhaps one of the best ideas anyone has ever had. Bring together hundreds of Peace Corps volunteers and local Senegalese teams, raise a bunch of money for cool projects, give volunteers an excuse to travel to a legitimate city from their scattered home villages, play competitive softball in crazy costumes, and drink heavily.
WAIST takes place every year on President’s Day weekend, in Dakar, the capital of Senegal, and (I think) the biggest city in West Africa. This is awesome for us, because they have real food, they have iced beverages, they have reliable electricity, the water most likely won’t give you parasites, and white folks are hardly noticed since the city is so attractive to ex-pats.
The Gambia is represented well here at WAIST. We have two teams from our tiny country. Other teams include the local embassy workers (who are jerks to play against), numerous Senegal Peace Corps volunteer teams (who are hilarious to play against), and even a team of Cape Verde volunteers + refugees. This includes those volunteers who were recently evacuated from Niger and reassigned placements.
We arrived on Thursday afternoon, and games began on Saturday. So Friday, people went crazy in Dakar. Some people, for a touch of normalcy, went to the giant and expensive mall overlooking the ocean. Others, with a sense of adventure, paid 500 CFA (about $1) to jump on a trampoline for fifteen minutes, also overlooking the ocean. Others, such as myself, went to numerous markets to find sweet African wares (because there’s nothing better than receiving the question ‘Where’d you get that’ and being able to respond ‘Dakar’ or some other exotic place they’ve most likely never been), ate delicious food (a salad, the likes of which is impossible to get anywhere in the nation of the Gambia) at a moderately priced restaurant, ate heaps of gourmet ice cream, and walked around, taking it all in.
On Saturday, the games began. We walked to the field from our hostel, and were bombarded with color, shine, and alcohol once we entered the fields. Different Peace Corps teams were dressed in different CRAZY costumes. One team had taken African fabric and made it into liederhosen, and had found appropriate hats to match the liederhosen. One team all had various befuddled Senegalese tailors make them tutus out of shiny tulle. Even the dudes rocked the tutus. One team was dressed as the characters from jersey shore (I didn’t get the reference, but apparently it’s a big deal). Another team was cops and robbers, and they had all kinds of antics on the field.
The first team we played on Friday was dressed entirely in tutus. They were also severely intoxicated. We crushed them 17-0. I pitched, and my team played great behind me.
Our second game we played the jersey shore team. They were also reprehensibly intoxicated, and after seeing the first game that we played, just wanted to forfeit. However, we convinced them to play, and handily beat them, 21-0.
After the first two games, we had some concerned people approach us carefully, and ask us why we were so serious. We didn’t carry our beers onto the field, so apparently that was way too serious for the volunteers who came to drink competitively, as opposed to competitively play softball. We told them we wanted to win, and they looked at us bewilderedly, shook their heads, shrugged their shoulders, and sauntered towards the bar.
After one of our games, at our team huddle, our second basemen drew out attention to the plentiful amounts of glass in the field. We were concerned for the welfare of the knees and shins of the people playing on the field, so we tried to pick up all the glass we could. The next field we played on had the same problem – the second basemen noticed it and we tried to pick it up. Our coach type character told the commissioner (yes, this informal tournament had a commissioner), and he said that they were aware of the problem. When they re-dirted the fields before the season, they accidentally got construction debris dirt instead of clean dirt, so glass was everywhere on all three fields. Things like this reminded all of us that we were still in Africa.
Throughout our three days and six games, we played two teams that were actually competitive. One of them was a team of embassy workers, and as a pitcher working against their batters, I hated everything about this team. I am under the impression that slow pitch softball is a smash and dash kind of game, where if a pitch comes in, you want to crush it as far as you can. But the old people on this team were of a different mindset; they wanted to get walked around the bases. In our first four games, we allowed 5 runs, and I walked in all of them during the game against the embassy. However, we ended up slaughtering that team regardless, and I felt the sweet, sweet taste of victory against an underhanded, un-noble foe. The righteous always prevail.
We ended up winning third place in our division. We only lost to one team, and that was a Senegalese team who practices year round. We beat every Peace Corps team, so I could leave Dakar knowing that even if we weren’t better than everyone, we crushed the rest of Peace Corps West Africa.
Everyone from my team went to the championship game, because the awards ceremony was scheduled for immediately after. While the championship team was celebrating their win, we gathered together and discussed how we would celebrate when they called our names to collect our trophies. Our coach had bought a bottle of hard cider, and we had epic plans similar to a locker room after a World Series victory. We finalized our celebration routine, walked to where the trophies were sitting, and found most people had dispersed, and our lonesome trophy was sitting there, waiting for us. No one called our names, no one acknowledged our great achievement. So, we snatched our trophy, took it to the pitchers mound, and leapt around, sprayed hard cider like it was champagne, and took turns kissing our prize.
The trophy itself was an ugly thing. It was carved by a local artisan, so I guess the cultural aspect made up for its hideous appearance. It was a small ogre-ish black man, wearing an enormous baseball cap, and hunched over like Quasimodo. It was about the size of a gallon of milk, and it was ours.
I volunteered to take the trophy home, and brought it back to our hostel. We hung out there for a little while, reliving the moments and the triumph. I brought the trophy out to show our fans, and left it on the table as we laughed and planned the events of that night.
Before we left for that evening’s party, I checked to make sure it wasn’t still sitting on the table in the common area. Since it wasn’t, I assumed someone had taken it and put it in a safe place.
The next morning, we left at 5:30 am. After the shenanigans of the previous evening, nobody felt that great. We all got on the bus, and I paused in my mental checklist to ask, “Who has the trophy?” No one had seen it. I felt responsible, so I went back into the hostel to double check everywhere. It wasn’t there. I sent another volunteer in, to look and also alert the French-speaking hostel staff that we were looking for an ugly little wooden beast. She still couldn’t find it, so we left, assuming it’d been stolen or someone had packed it without realizing it.
We traveled in a bus for about 7 hours, crossed the border into the Gambia, and were on the ferry going to Banjul, when we were hypothesizing what could have happened to this trophy that we had worked so hard for. One of our most with it volunteers *SARCASTIC! NOT TRUE!* said, “Oh, yeah, I put that in the refrigerator last night.”
I cannot adequately describe my incredulity and fury at this moment. A million questions went through my head. Why didn’t you say anything when we were frantically looking for it? The fridge? Why didn’t you grab it? THE FRIDGE?
We called the hostel, they confirmed that our prize remained in the fridge, and now we have to figure out how to bring it to its rightful home, The Gambia.
But when it comes, we will welcome it with a ceremony and parade, and know that WAIST 2011 was a glorious victory for Peace Corps The Gambia.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Why, No Matter What, You Should Never, Ever, Ever Get Your Head Braided Like A Rasta
I got my hair braided. I didn’t want to, but I promised my friend Mariama, the bride in the aforementioned wedding ceremony, that I would do it as her wedding present…
Reason Number 1 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It takes a LONG time. I went to the hair braider's compound at about 10am, thinking I would be there for a few hours. At about 2pm, they offered me lunch, but I declined, thinking surely I’ll be home before I starve, so that I can eat with my own family and not inconvenience the braider and her family.
Eight hours after I arrive, I start the walk back to my compound. That’s a BIG time commitment. Don’t ever, ever, ever do it.
Reason Number 2 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It hurts. They yank on your hair as it’s being installed, and the worst part is how TIGHT it is. You can’t yawn or smile or laugh as you used to, because either you’ll rip out hair or your face will break. Sleeping on a pillow is the hardest part – there’s literally no comfortable way to sleep unless you mash your face into your pillow and no part of your head is touching anything.
Reason Number 3 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It feels weird. You can feel wind in parts you never had before, and if I were to shave my head today, I would have the strangest tan lines EVER. It itches and it’s impossible to scratch it. I just mashed my hands onto my head and rubbed occasionally, and I know I ripped out half of my hair.
Reason Number 4 YSNEEGYHB
As a toubab, you will draw even more attention to yourself. Not encouraged.
Reason Number 5 YSNEEGYHB
It’s dirty. You can’t wash it for as long as you keep it in. I kept it in for less than two weeks, and I felt disgusting.
THE MOST IMPORTANT REASON YOU SHOULD NEVER, EVER, EVER GET YOUR HEAD BRAIDED
The extraction process. To remove the fake hair from your real hair, you need to very carefully cut the bottom of the braid, where the fake hair is tied in a knot. Inevitably, you cut some of your own locks. Then, you undo everything the hard working braider did in the first place. I tried sticking sharp objects somewhere in the braid, and just yanking down.
At this point, I began to realize just how much hair I had really lost, and how much it messed with the hair that I still had attached to my head. It’s like after an appendage has been in a cast for a while – it was frail, it was weak, it broke more easily than before, and it was strangely soft to the touch.
I started the removal process at about 2pm on Wednesday. I allotted all day for the task. After one hour, I had removed maybe 12 braids. At two hours, the pile of fake hair was growing, and I had removed maybe 30. This was still a TINY TINY portion of the braids in my head. I wish I had counted them. There were probably 300-400. And they were SMALL.
Eventually, I knew I had to enlist help. A few of my friends were at the only bar in Basse, so I showed up, wielding sharp implements. I sat on the floor of this dirty bar, surrounding by generous and helpful Brits, and spent two hours with four other people, removing braid after braid. Through the process, my attitude shifted from “Save all the hair that you can! Be very careful!” to “Please get these things off of my head.”
When people left the bar, everyone was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to finish by the time I had to leave at 5:30 that morning for the car park, so I could travel up to the capital. I remained positive.
From 10pm until 3 am, I sat and watched movies and removed braids. The power went out at 3 am, so then I just sat, watched a candle burn, and removed braids. I stopped at 5 am, because I HAD to wash my hair before I entered a car with other people. I had about 30 braids remaining.
The shower was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. I had pulled out a lot of my hair as I removed the fake hair, but that wasn’t the end of it… oh no. As I shampooed and conditioned the remnants, GIANT clumps came out in my hands. I could’ve plugged the BP oil spill hole with this amount of hair. I could have put everyone at Locks of Love out of a job. I could've built 7 teddy bears. It was disgusting. Probably about 40% of my hair was yanked out during that shower.
And I wasn’t even done. On no sleep, in the worst seat in the seven passenger vehicle that crosses the country to the capital, I unbraided. It was more difficult because I was falling asleep, having to pull out my ID card, and there were people on either side of me so my elbows were constrained. I removed the last braid on the way over to Banjul on the ferry, at about 1pm. A full 23 hours after I had begun the horrible endeavor.
Please, please, please. No matter how cool you look, how much you sympathize with the Rasta way of life – NEVER EVER DO IT.
Reason Number 1 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It takes a LONG time. I went to the hair braider's compound at about 10am, thinking I would be there for a few hours. At about 2pm, they offered me lunch, but I declined, thinking surely I’ll be home before I starve, so that I can eat with my own family and not inconvenience the braider and her family.
Eight hours after I arrive, I start the walk back to my compound. That’s a BIG time commitment. Don’t ever, ever, ever do it.
Reason Number 2 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It hurts. They yank on your hair as it’s being installed, and the worst part is how TIGHT it is. You can’t yawn or smile or laugh as you used to, because either you’ll rip out hair or your face will break. Sleeping on a pillow is the hardest part – there’s literally no comfortable way to sleep unless you mash your face into your pillow and no part of your head is touching anything.
Reason Number 3 You Should Never Ever Ever Get Your Head Braided
It feels weird. You can feel wind in parts you never had before, and if I were to shave my head today, I would have the strangest tan lines EVER. It itches and it’s impossible to scratch it. I just mashed my hands onto my head and rubbed occasionally, and I know I ripped out half of my hair.
Reason Number 4 YSNEEGYHB
As a toubab, you will draw even more attention to yourself. Not encouraged.
Reason Number 5 YSNEEGYHB
It’s dirty. You can’t wash it for as long as you keep it in. I kept it in for less than two weeks, and I felt disgusting.
THE MOST IMPORTANT REASON YOU SHOULD NEVER, EVER, EVER GET YOUR HEAD BRAIDED
The extraction process. To remove the fake hair from your real hair, you need to very carefully cut the bottom of the braid, where the fake hair is tied in a knot. Inevitably, you cut some of your own locks. Then, you undo everything the hard working braider did in the first place. I tried sticking sharp objects somewhere in the braid, and just yanking down.
At this point, I began to realize just how much hair I had really lost, and how much it messed with the hair that I still had attached to my head. It’s like after an appendage has been in a cast for a while – it was frail, it was weak, it broke more easily than before, and it was strangely soft to the touch.
I started the removal process at about 2pm on Wednesday. I allotted all day for the task. After one hour, I had removed maybe 12 braids. At two hours, the pile of fake hair was growing, and I had removed maybe 30. This was still a TINY TINY portion of the braids in my head. I wish I had counted them. There were probably 300-400. And they were SMALL.
Eventually, I knew I had to enlist help. A few of my friends were at the only bar in Basse, so I showed up, wielding sharp implements. I sat on the floor of this dirty bar, surrounding by generous and helpful Brits, and spent two hours with four other people, removing braid after braid. Through the process, my attitude shifted from “Save all the hair that you can! Be very careful!” to “Please get these things off of my head.”
When people left the bar, everyone was pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to finish by the time I had to leave at 5:30 that morning for the car park, so I could travel up to the capital. I remained positive.
From 10pm until 3 am, I sat and watched movies and removed braids. The power went out at 3 am, so then I just sat, watched a candle burn, and removed braids. I stopped at 5 am, because I HAD to wash my hair before I entered a car with other people. I had about 30 braids remaining.
The shower was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. I had pulled out a lot of my hair as I removed the fake hair, but that wasn’t the end of it… oh no. As I shampooed and conditioned the remnants, GIANT clumps came out in my hands. I could’ve plugged the BP oil spill hole with this amount of hair. I could have put everyone at Locks of Love out of a job. I could've built 7 teddy bears. It was disgusting. Probably about 40% of my hair was yanked out during that shower.
And I wasn’t even done. On no sleep, in the worst seat in the seven passenger vehicle that crosses the country to the capital, I unbraided. It was more difficult because I was falling asleep, having to pull out my ID card, and there were people on either side of me so my elbows were constrained. I removed the last braid on the way over to Banjul on the ferry, at about 1pm. A full 23 hours after I had begun the horrible endeavor.
Please, please, please. No matter how cool you look, how much you sympathize with the Rasta way of life – NEVER EVER DO IT.
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