Yes, my 27 month commitment to the Peace Corps and to the Gambia is finished. But my commitment to having awesome life stories will never finish.
So, instead of returning to the comforts of America right away, I’m going to trek the rest of Africa. Including in my itinerary thus far is:
- Cage diving with great white sharks in South Africa
- Visiting Victoria Falls in Zambia
- Snorkeling in Lake Malawi
- Whale watching in South Africa, Madagascar, Mozambique, Tanzania, and anywhere else possible.
- Swimming with penguins in South Africa.
- Climbing huge red, black, pink, and white sand dunes in the deserts of Namibia.
- Find and name a new species of lemur in Madagascar
- Safari in the Okavango Delta in Botswana
- Visiting the Limpopo River
- Swim in the Indian Ocean off the island of Zanzibar
- Take a million pictures of Mount Kilimanjaro (I would climb it, but it’s like $2000… Maybe when I’m old and rich)
- Learn some Swahili and French
- Visit Lesotho and Swaziland, because I can.
It’s going to be great, and include so much more than this brief list. The plan right now is to travel for about three and a half months and come home a week or two before Thanksgiving.
I hope to see EVERYBODY when I get home. Start planning our reunion meal and activities.
You can continue to keep in touch with me at my email address, although I’ll probably check it sparingly. Thanks for all of your support throughout this Peace Corps service, and see you in a few months!
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Saying Goodbye: A Mang Easy
Abby Sillah has left the village.
Moving away from rural Africa is different than moving away from your friends and family in America. When you leave for a new place, you know that although your relationship may change, you’ll still communicate with each other. You’ll still be informed about big life events and if the mood strikes you, you can go visit them after a couple hour car ride, or a couple hundred dollar plane ride.
But when I left my friends and family in Nyakoi, I left with no idea of when I would next see or talk to them, if ever. To get to the Gambia is not cheap or easy, and even if I could get back, everything would be different. The kids who I play with would be adults who wouldn’t remember me or want to play with me. My Mandinka will be even more pitiful than it is now, so communication will be difficult. So, visiting them again may not happen.
The internet is growing in popularity, but I fear that the grandmas I live with will not jump on the internet wave and start surfing.
The Gambia doesn’t even have a mail system. If they did, still nobody in my family can read.
So, when I said goodbye, it was goodbye for real. Here’s how it went.
Gambians are weird about goodbyes. For about a week before I went, the people most important to me started to distance themselves. I guess to continue to hang around with me would have been too painful, but it was hard to not hang out with the people I will miss most for the last week.
One of my best friends, Mawdou the tailor, came to say goodbye to me the day the car was coming to pick me up, but he left hours before the car came because he didn’t want to see it. My other best friend, Maimuna, Grade 11 student, stayed until the car came, but instead of hugging me and saying goodbye, she ran into the house and stayed there.
My host mom and a bunch of older women in the village came with me out to the car after it was fully loaded, all shaking my left hand. Normally, left hands are NEVER used for anything except self cleaning. Right hands are the clean hands, so they are the only appropriate hand to shake hands with, eat with, or pass money with. When you’re saying goodbye, you shake left hands, because it’s inappropriate. Gambians think that since the last thing you did was incorrect, you’ll have to come back sometime and make it right. That’s their way of telling me I have to come back.
One thing that I really like about saying goodbye in the Gambia is that everybody asks for forgiveness. In the last assembly of the year at my school, a grade teacher got up and asked every student in the school to forgive him if he had wronged them throughout that year. I thought it was a nice, if a little weird, gesture. But as I made my round through Nyakoi to say goodbye to everyone, everyone asked for my forgiveness. In the opposite spirit of the left handed hand shake, when someone is leaving, they want to make sure everything is right. Thus, everyone asks for forgiveness so that there are no bad spirits left behind when a person leaves.
Maimuna sent me this text message a few weeks before I left: “Hi Yabba. I want you for you forgive me. You Know why? If you are staying with some body for a long time, you should always look Forgiveness to that person Everytime. So That why Iam looking for that from you. You know why I do these everytime? You are coming to live with us here. May be we not see each other for a long time, and when you go it is right. Forgive me?”
So, in a flurry of forgiveness, left handed hand shakes, and minimal tears, I left Nyakoi, for perhaps the last time. It’s been an unforgettable, uncomfortable, unbelievable at times, and undeniably unique experience. On to the next adventure.
Moving away from rural Africa is different than moving away from your friends and family in America. When you leave for a new place, you know that although your relationship may change, you’ll still communicate with each other. You’ll still be informed about big life events and if the mood strikes you, you can go visit them after a couple hour car ride, or a couple hundred dollar plane ride.
But when I left my friends and family in Nyakoi, I left with no idea of when I would next see or talk to them, if ever. To get to the Gambia is not cheap or easy, and even if I could get back, everything would be different. The kids who I play with would be adults who wouldn’t remember me or want to play with me. My Mandinka will be even more pitiful than it is now, so communication will be difficult. So, visiting them again may not happen.
The internet is growing in popularity, but I fear that the grandmas I live with will not jump on the internet wave and start surfing.
The Gambia doesn’t even have a mail system. If they did, still nobody in my family can read.
So, when I said goodbye, it was goodbye for real. Here’s how it went.
Gambians are weird about goodbyes. For about a week before I went, the people most important to me started to distance themselves. I guess to continue to hang around with me would have been too painful, but it was hard to not hang out with the people I will miss most for the last week.
One of my best friends, Mawdou the tailor, came to say goodbye to me the day the car was coming to pick me up, but he left hours before the car came because he didn’t want to see it. My other best friend, Maimuna, Grade 11 student, stayed until the car came, but instead of hugging me and saying goodbye, she ran into the house and stayed there.
My host mom and a bunch of older women in the village came with me out to the car after it was fully loaded, all shaking my left hand. Normally, left hands are NEVER used for anything except self cleaning. Right hands are the clean hands, so they are the only appropriate hand to shake hands with, eat with, or pass money with. When you’re saying goodbye, you shake left hands, because it’s inappropriate. Gambians think that since the last thing you did was incorrect, you’ll have to come back sometime and make it right. That’s their way of telling me I have to come back.
One thing that I really like about saying goodbye in the Gambia is that everybody asks for forgiveness. In the last assembly of the year at my school, a grade teacher got up and asked every student in the school to forgive him if he had wronged them throughout that year. I thought it was a nice, if a little weird, gesture. But as I made my round through Nyakoi to say goodbye to everyone, everyone asked for my forgiveness. In the opposite spirit of the left handed hand shake, when someone is leaving, they want to make sure everything is right. Thus, everyone asks for forgiveness so that there are no bad spirits left behind when a person leaves.
Maimuna sent me this text message a few weeks before I left: “Hi Yabba. I want you for you forgive me. You Know why? If you are staying with some body for a long time, you should always look Forgiveness to that person Everytime. So That why Iam looking for that from you. You know why I do these everytime? You are coming to live with us here. May be we not see each other for a long time, and when you go it is right. Forgive me?”
So, in a flurry of forgiveness, left handed hand shakes, and minimal tears, I left Nyakoi, for perhaps the last time. It’s been an unforgettable, uncomfortable, unbelievable at times, and undeniably unique experience. On to the next adventure.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
How The Name of This Blog Came To Be
This blog was created nearly a fifth of a decade ago, and I'm not sure I ever explained why it's called what it is.
Most members of my Peace Corps training class had never heard of the Gambia when they received their invitation to serve here, much less knew where it lay geographically.
I however, was well versed.
I took a class in college called the geography of conflict, and although we talked mainly about the middle eastern conflicts throughout history, my professor was from Kenya, and he thought it was important we know exactly where all the countries in Africa were. We would have pop quizzes occasionally, asking us to identify ten or so countries on the continent.
In our studying, the way I chose to remember The Gambia was this: The outline of Senegal looks like a pudgy whale, and the little wiggly insignificant bit encapsulated within it is in the perfect position to be its mouth. So, to remember the Gambia, we would always say, "It's in the whale's mouth."
So, not only did I know exactly where The Gambia was nestled geographically, but I also had a flashy catch phrase to go with it when I first got my assignment.
Thus, Abby's Adventures in the Whale's Mouth.
Most members of my Peace Corps training class had never heard of the Gambia when they received their invitation to serve here, much less knew where it lay geographically.
I however, was well versed.
I took a class in college called the geography of conflict, and although we talked mainly about the middle eastern conflicts throughout history, my professor was from Kenya, and he thought it was important we know exactly where all the countries in Africa were. We would have pop quizzes occasionally, asking us to identify ten or so countries on the continent.
In our studying, the way I chose to remember The Gambia was this: The outline of Senegal looks like a pudgy whale, and the little wiggly insignificant bit encapsulated within it is in the perfect position to be its mouth. So, to remember the Gambia, we would always say, "It's in the whale's mouth."
So, not only did I know exactly where The Gambia was nestled geographically, but I also had a flashy catch phrase to go with it when I first got my assignment.
Thus, Abby's Adventures in the Whale's Mouth.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Some Weird Things I’ll Do When I Get Home That You’ll Just Have To Deal With
A few weeks ago, we had our Close of Service conference, where the people who came to this country with me all met to discuss leaving this country. One night, we all got dressed up and went to a fancy restaurant in Kombo to celebrate all of our accomplishments. I filled my plate with delicious goops and full grain rice, and lots of Tandoori chicken. As I started to eat the chicken, holding it in my hand and gnawing at it like a Gambian is wont to do, I thought to myself: Is this what I did in America? Is this what Americans do in a fancy restaurant? Is it inappropriate to do such a thing? And honestly, I can’t remember. The fact that it came off of my own plate instead of a communal food bowl was enough formality for me. I started asking people around the table. I started with those lucky girls who had gone to cotillion, or been trained in the art of manners. They both said they thought no. I asked the American, here subbing for only a few months. He said it depended on the situation.
So, this is my warning to you. I will most likely need to be retaught the most basic of manners and etiquette principals, or at least be de-taught the Gambian way.
Here are probable problematic areas.
- As discussed, I will have horrendous manners. In this country, it’s accepted and expected that people will eat with their hands, gnaw off a hunk of meat and throw the rest back into the middle, and to spit bones on the floor (which also happens to be the ground) around them. Tables are never eaten upon, spoons are rarely seen, and forks and knives are unfamiliar tools.
- I will speak in strange language. I think it’ll be pretty easy to switch back to English full time, but I know some stuff will stick. For example:
o Iyoo (pronounced ee-yo): used instead of ok or booyah.
o A banta: means it is finished. This phrase can be used for everything from the food on a plate to the time remaining in a movie.
o Inshallah: this phrase is proof of my living in a muslim country. It means, “If Allah wills it” or “hopefully”.
o There are a bunch of simple phrases that we use with other Gambian Peace Corps volunteers that no one else would understand. Asobe means things that look the same. Bumsters are the delightful beach dwellers who just want some attention. Gatorade is so much more than it actually is.
- Here, I sweat almost every hour of the day – and I STILL wear clothes at least two days in a row, just like my Gambian counterparts. I recognize the stigma Americans have of wearing the same thing two days in a row, and therefore, the region known as “wardrobe purgatory” – where the clothes are not totally clean, but they definitely do not need to be washed yet – will grow even larger.
- Clicks. Although Mandinka isn’t a language with clicks, Gambians use clicks to say all sorts of things: “I disapprove”, “Yes”, “No”, and “That’s way too expensive”. In a year of teaching fourth graders with attitude I didn’t pick it up, but after two years living with a Gambian family, and now I commonly make the sucking click-y nose that indicates disgrace or disapproval.
Also, I can’t explain it, but I have subconsciously picked up two distinctive clicks: one which means yes and one which means no. I can’t explain the difference now, but you’ll see when I get home.
- Shamelessness. Here in the Gambia, we tell it like it is. If you have diarrhea, you literally say your “stomach is running”. If you have to relieve yourselves, you say in Mandinka, “Pee is mine” or “Poop is mine”. It is important to mention exactly what is yours, because each of these bodily functions requires a different facility. People will tell you exactly what’s up. In addition to the influence of Gambians, Peace Corps volunteers are also free about telling their poop stories. I probably will proudly announce or tell the tales of my gastronomic woes – stop me if you don’t want to hear them. The same goes for stories of strange rashes or skin infections.
- There are a variety of useful hand motions I will probably retain when I return to America. If you’re too far away from someone to properly greet them with a handshake, you can clasp your hands high above your head and then shake the whole thing at them. A hand signal my dad can vouch that I have down is the finger wag. It means, You’re bad, or, I don’t agree, or, I don’t want that, or, No thank you. My favorite hand signal is done by simply putting your hands to your sides with your palms facing down, and then flipping them over, with as much of a flourish as you want. This literally means ANYTHING. In whatever situation you’re in, it asks the obvious question. If it’s a car approaching and you do it, it means, Where are you going? If a phone is ringing and you can’t find it, just flip over your hands and people will understand you mean, Where’s the phone? It works great for those of us with mediocre to poor language skills.
Stay tuned for the second installment of “Weird things I’ll Do When I Get Home”.
So, this is my warning to you. I will most likely need to be retaught the most basic of manners and etiquette principals, or at least be de-taught the Gambian way.
Here are probable problematic areas.
- As discussed, I will have horrendous manners. In this country, it’s accepted and expected that people will eat with their hands, gnaw off a hunk of meat and throw the rest back into the middle, and to spit bones on the floor (which also happens to be the ground) around them. Tables are never eaten upon, spoons are rarely seen, and forks and knives are unfamiliar tools.
- I will speak in strange language. I think it’ll be pretty easy to switch back to English full time, but I know some stuff will stick. For example:
o Iyoo (pronounced ee-yo): used instead of ok or booyah.
o A banta: means it is finished. This phrase can be used for everything from the food on a plate to the time remaining in a movie.
o Inshallah: this phrase is proof of my living in a muslim country. It means, “If Allah wills it” or “hopefully”.
o There are a bunch of simple phrases that we use with other Gambian Peace Corps volunteers that no one else would understand. Asobe means things that look the same. Bumsters are the delightful beach dwellers who just want some attention. Gatorade is so much more than it actually is.
- Here, I sweat almost every hour of the day – and I STILL wear clothes at least two days in a row, just like my Gambian counterparts. I recognize the stigma Americans have of wearing the same thing two days in a row, and therefore, the region known as “wardrobe purgatory” – where the clothes are not totally clean, but they definitely do not need to be washed yet – will grow even larger.
- Clicks. Although Mandinka isn’t a language with clicks, Gambians use clicks to say all sorts of things: “I disapprove”, “Yes”, “No”, and “That’s way too expensive”. In a year of teaching fourth graders with attitude I didn’t pick it up, but after two years living with a Gambian family, and now I commonly make the sucking click-y nose that indicates disgrace or disapproval.
Also, I can’t explain it, but I have subconsciously picked up two distinctive clicks: one which means yes and one which means no. I can’t explain the difference now, but you’ll see when I get home.
- Shamelessness. Here in the Gambia, we tell it like it is. If you have diarrhea, you literally say your “stomach is running”. If you have to relieve yourselves, you say in Mandinka, “Pee is mine” or “Poop is mine”. It is important to mention exactly what is yours, because each of these bodily functions requires a different facility. People will tell you exactly what’s up. In addition to the influence of Gambians, Peace Corps volunteers are also free about telling their poop stories. I probably will proudly announce or tell the tales of my gastronomic woes – stop me if you don’t want to hear them. The same goes for stories of strange rashes or skin infections.
- There are a variety of useful hand motions I will probably retain when I return to America. If you’re too far away from someone to properly greet them with a handshake, you can clasp your hands high above your head and then shake the whole thing at them. A hand signal my dad can vouch that I have down is the finger wag. It means, You’re bad, or, I don’t agree, or, I don’t want that, or, No thank you. My favorite hand signal is done by simply putting your hands to your sides with your palms facing down, and then flipping them over, with as much of a flourish as you want. This literally means ANYTHING. In whatever situation you’re in, it asks the obvious question. If it’s a car approaching and you do it, it means, Where are you going? If a phone is ringing and you can’t find it, just flip over your hands and people will understand you mean, Where’s the phone? It works great for those of us with mediocre to poor language skills.
Stay tuned for the second installment of “Weird things I’ll Do When I Get Home”.
Why It’s Hard To Teach Gambians Using An American Textbook
For the past two years, I have tutored one man in my small community in reading. His English was already pretty good, but he couldn’t read or write at all really. He has improved remarkably, but there were certainly difficult portions; usually caused by the cultural differences between what he was reading – a fourth grade American reading textbook – and his life, culture, and everything he knows.
There are the obvious things: he knows the concept of snow, but has never experienced it, so the idea of earmuffs was lost to him.
He knows that tall buildings exist, but has no idea of the scale of our skyscrapers. For a dude who has probably never gone up stairs – at all – the concept of an elevator to take you hundreds of feet in the air was baffling and terrifying.
Some examples:
- Red Riding Hood: One story took a twist on a bunch of different fairy tales. To a fourth grader, it would have been a clever and funny story. But to a Gambian without any introduction to or experience with the original version, it makes no sense. When Little Red Riding Hood erases a part of the script and instead of coming to her house dressed as a grandmother, the wolf turns into a ballerina and starts pirouetting around the stage, it wasn’t cute or clever or funny: It was baffling. Plus, try to get an early reader to decode “pirouette”.
- There was one story about inventions, and man, did that make Americans look lazy and superficial. One girl invented a combination washer and dryer so the tired American worker doesn’t have to lift wet clothes into a new machine. He responded with a laugh, and I quote, “A machine to wash cloth? How is that?” After I explained, he clucked his tongue as Gambians do, and said, “No, no, I don’t think so.” He didn’t say anything, but when I described a clothes dryer, I could see the disdain on his face and I know he was thinking, “Stupid Americans! Building a machine to do what the sun does for free…”
- Another boy invented a special, super effective sprinkler. You may think a sprinkler is a simple thing to explain but to get to the sprinkler itself, I first had to discuss what a yard is, what our grass is like and why we like it, the prevalence of running water, and the fact that, in general, we don’t have anything like their rainy season. For a man who pulls 20 liters of water a day for EACH of his banana TREES, it all sounded heavenly – and far out of reach.
- There are a lot of stories about baseball in American textbooks – and a lot of associated baseball jargon. I know any baseball story will take twice as long due to all the unfamiliar phrases – home run, short stop, pitcher, fly ball, line up, bull pen, etc.
- There are some times when he knows EVERYTHING though. There was one story about a kid who went to visit his mother’s provincial family in Thailand. They described a life where all cooking is done in a special house on an open fire, they eat with their hands, where people gathered water from a well, and where they had no electricity. But when they made these statements, they ended everyone with an exclamation mark. The textbook looked like this:
“His grandfather hauled water from a well for bathing and everything! His grandmother cooked on an open fire inside a special house specifically for cooking! When the food was prepared they ate with their hands! At night, they chatted by candlelight only!”
If Mawdou wrote the story, it’d probably sound more like this:
“His grandmother hauled water from a well for cooking, washing, bathing… Duh. The women cooked on an open fire inside their cooking house… of course. They ate with their hands… like EVERYONE. At night, they chatted by candlelight… obviously.”
There are the obvious things: he knows the concept of snow, but has never experienced it, so the idea of earmuffs was lost to him.
He knows that tall buildings exist, but has no idea of the scale of our skyscrapers. For a dude who has probably never gone up stairs – at all – the concept of an elevator to take you hundreds of feet in the air was baffling and terrifying.
Some examples:
- Red Riding Hood: One story took a twist on a bunch of different fairy tales. To a fourth grader, it would have been a clever and funny story. But to a Gambian without any introduction to or experience with the original version, it makes no sense. When Little Red Riding Hood erases a part of the script and instead of coming to her house dressed as a grandmother, the wolf turns into a ballerina and starts pirouetting around the stage, it wasn’t cute or clever or funny: It was baffling. Plus, try to get an early reader to decode “pirouette”.
- There was one story about inventions, and man, did that make Americans look lazy and superficial. One girl invented a combination washer and dryer so the tired American worker doesn’t have to lift wet clothes into a new machine. He responded with a laugh, and I quote, “A machine to wash cloth? How is that?” After I explained, he clucked his tongue as Gambians do, and said, “No, no, I don’t think so.” He didn’t say anything, but when I described a clothes dryer, I could see the disdain on his face and I know he was thinking, “Stupid Americans! Building a machine to do what the sun does for free…”
- Another boy invented a special, super effective sprinkler. You may think a sprinkler is a simple thing to explain but to get to the sprinkler itself, I first had to discuss what a yard is, what our grass is like and why we like it, the prevalence of running water, and the fact that, in general, we don’t have anything like their rainy season. For a man who pulls 20 liters of water a day for EACH of his banana TREES, it all sounded heavenly – and far out of reach.
- There are a lot of stories about baseball in American textbooks – and a lot of associated baseball jargon. I know any baseball story will take twice as long due to all the unfamiliar phrases – home run, short stop, pitcher, fly ball, line up, bull pen, etc.
- There are some times when he knows EVERYTHING though. There was one story about a kid who went to visit his mother’s provincial family in Thailand. They described a life where all cooking is done in a special house on an open fire, they eat with their hands, where people gathered water from a well, and where they had no electricity. But when they made these statements, they ended everyone with an exclamation mark. The textbook looked like this:
“His grandfather hauled water from a well for bathing and everything! His grandmother cooked on an open fire inside a special house specifically for cooking! When the food was prepared they ate with their hands! At night, they chatted by candlelight only!”
If Mawdou wrote the story, it’d probably sound more like this:
“His grandmother hauled water from a well for cooking, washing, bathing… Duh. The women cooked on an open fire inside their cooking house… of course. They ate with their hands… like EVERYONE. At night, they chatted by candlelight… obviously.”
Saturday, May 5, 2012
What I'm Doing Now Now
It’s been a while since I last posted what I’m working on, and now that I’m winding down to the end of my service, I’d give you another update on what I’m working on in my superheated tiny corner of the Gambia.
The thing I’ve been most proud of this year is my reading contest. Students are given prizes when they reach certain benchmarks – at five books they get a pencil, at ten books they get a certificate, their picture taken, and some other small prizes, like a minty or a pen or an eraser.
I know you’re all thinking, “That’s bribery!” And it is. But that got them in the door, and now I have kids filling the library at all hours of the day, because they’ve realized how fun it is. They come in with their friends, they share books, they sound out words, and even grade one students point out numbers and letters that are familiar to them. It’s sweet.
I’m planning an epic Reading Day for at the end of the school year. It going to be GREAT. I’m going to raffle off everything in my house that I don’t want anymore – every book you’ve read throughout the year gets you one raffle ticket. I’m going to give awesome prizes to the top readers in the class and school, and we’re going to have a read aloud and fun literacy games. The class who’s read the most books will get some sort of treat, and hopefully crowns to wear on their heads proclaiming that they’re the reading champs.
Another thing I’m pretty proud of is the library itself. Last year, when I began, it was a lizard infested pit of dust.
It was dirty, and nobody had been in there for probably a year. It’s still really dusty, but there are some corners of the room where you can look and think that you’re in an American classroom. It’s colorful, it’s educational, and it’s a good example to teachers of things they can put up in their rooms. Which is why, I’m sure, when I go, teachers will all clamor to steal the things I’ve made that aren’t nailed down in the library. Which is why I’ve spent so many hundreds of dalasis on nails.
I’m also just starting a library club. Basically, I wanted a group of kids to help me put books back on shelves, clean up, etc. But also, we are trying to do things that enhance creativity. I’ve picked 3-4 students from some of the upper grades, and we meet once a week, put books away, and then we make something, or we paint, or we collage, or do something that they would never get a chance to do in class. It just started, but I’m excited about it.
Finally, I’m teaching a computer class for grades 10-12at the Senior Secondary School. No, I’m not qualified at all. Kids had to tell me what CPU stood for. But, I’m walking them through basic typing by giving them printed and laminated keyboards to practice on when they can’t get on a computer. We practice typing, simple word processing, and paint. And that about the extent of my computer knowledge, so it works out great.
In my last few months, this are the things I’ll continue doing. Hopefully, I can spend some more time training teachers to take over the things that I’ve been doing, so that it doesn’t stop with me. But if it does, at least a few kids like reading a little more, and at least there’s a lot of cool stuff nailed on the walls of the library.
The thing I’ve been most proud of this year is my reading contest. Students are given prizes when they reach certain benchmarks – at five books they get a pencil, at ten books they get a certificate, their picture taken, and some other small prizes, like a minty or a pen or an eraser.
I know you’re all thinking, “That’s bribery!” And it is. But that got them in the door, and now I have kids filling the library at all hours of the day, because they’ve realized how fun it is. They come in with their friends, they share books, they sound out words, and even grade one students point out numbers and letters that are familiar to them. It’s sweet.
I’m planning an epic Reading Day for at the end of the school year. It going to be GREAT. I’m going to raffle off everything in my house that I don’t want anymore – every book you’ve read throughout the year gets you one raffle ticket. I’m going to give awesome prizes to the top readers in the class and school, and we’re going to have a read aloud and fun literacy games. The class who’s read the most books will get some sort of treat, and hopefully crowns to wear on their heads proclaiming that they’re the reading champs.
Another thing I’m pretty proud of is the library itself. Last year, when I began, it was a lizard infested pit of dust.
It was dirty, and nobody had been in there for probably a year. It’s still really dusty, but there are some corners of the room where you can look and think that you’re in an American classroom. It’s colorful, it’s educational, and it’s a good example to teachers of things they can put up in their rooms. Which is why, I’m sure, when I go, teachers will all clamor to steal the things I’ve made that aren’t nailed down in the library. Which is why I’ve spent so many hundreds of dalasis on nails.
I’m also just starting a library club. Basically, I wanted a group of kids to help me put books back on shelves, clean up, etc. But also, we are trying to do things that enhance creativity. I’ve picked 3-4 students from some of the upper grades, and we meet once a week, put books away, and then we make something, or we paint, or we collage, or do something that they would never get a chance to do in class. It just started, but I’m excited about it.
Finally, I’m teaching a computer class for grades 10-12at the Senior Secondary School. No, I’m not qualified at all. Kids had to tell me what CPU stood for. But, I’m walking them through basic typing by giving them printed and laminated keyboards to practice on when they can’t get on a computer. We practice typing, simple word processing, and paint. And that about the extent of my computer knowledge, so it works out great.
In my last few months, this are the things I’ll continue doing. Hopefully, I can spend some more time training teachers to take over the things that I’ve been doing, so that it doesn’t stop with me. But if it does, at least a few kids like reading a little more, and at least there’s a lot of cool stuff nailed on the walls of the library.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
March Madness in Africa
*This is a letter I tried to send to some choice analysts who head up ESPN's high quality programming. Apparently none of them accept email from common folk. Lame. If you happen to be on speaking terms with Rick Reilly, Tony Kornheiser, Michael Wilbon, Joe Lunardi, or the rest of the gang, pass it on.
It’s the month of March. At home, spring is springing, and the chosen teams – the best of this season – are preparing themselves for the tournament. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Here, in my second home, its hot season. In the afternoon, the temperature routinely reaches 120 degrees. The harmattan winds have blown in the dust for the past few months, and now they’re spewing Saharan heat. I sweat through every minute of the day. It’s unquestionably the least wonderful time of the year.
I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, serving in The Gambia, a tiny West African country. I’ve been here for nearly two years – through two Christmases sans snow, two Thanksgivings without turkey, two birthdays but no gifts. But the hardest month to be here is March.
Knowing the basketball fervor that is sweeping the nation – MY nation – makes it harder to be here. There’s no electricity, no running water, much less internet or TV to keep me updated on basketball – I probably own one of only four basketballs in my whole region.
During March, I go to bed under the stars, dreaming of upsets and buzzer beaters. I roll out of my hammock in the morning, already sweating, and turn on my phone, desperate for sympathetic souls in America, or lucky volunteers in the capital, who may have texted to quench my thirst for news of multiple overtimes, freshman phenoms, and the underdog prevailing. These texts of a few hundred characters hardly capture the glorious celebrations and heart breaking defeats that epitomize every weekend in March.
When these beatific texts come, I rush inside my hut, grab some chalk from its rightful place tucked within the thatch in my roof, and fill in my homemade 7 foot x 4 foot bracket, gleaming proudly from the wall of my mud hut.
I have seen exactly zero NCAA basketball games this season. I have read exactly one basketball related magazine – a preseason edition that I perused in early February.
When you have literally no intel, no insight into who’s hot and who’s not, you have to consider other things to make your picks. For example… I killed a gigantic hairy spider right on top of Syracuse’s spot in the bracket. Do I take this as a sign of lackluster defense, or crushing offensive firepower? There’s a pitifully wilting candle nailed into the wall in the elite eight (where last year Florida floundered against those mighty Bulldogs). Do I take this as a sign of that quadrant’s drooping chances at making the final four? Or maybe I should ignore it – everything melts during hot season.
I’ve heard the statistics on a perfect bracket. I have no way to look them up right now, but I know perfect brackets are rare – perhaps even only a legend that has never actually happened. I’m sure the chances of getting a perfect bracket are like one in 212 trillion. (Right before sending this email, I looked it up – one in 9.2 quintillion… Oof)
So - bracketologists, former college players, scouts, and experts in general - I have a proposition to make. If I – Abby Adams: rural literacy volunteer, teacher trainer, and die hard college basketball supporter – compose a perfect bracket, I want you to put ME on ESPN. Not as an expert, or an analyst, but as the voice of one girl who listens to her gut. For one year, I ask to be treated like a SportsCenter anchor – go to games, give my thoughts, predictions, and proclaim my biases and prejudices as truths. Because if, with no experience or knowledge, I create a perfect bracket: maybe it’s meant to be.
After all, what are the odds?
Thank you very dangerously (as they say in the Gambia),
Abby Adams
It’s the month of March. At home, spring is springing, and the chosen teams – the best of this season – are preparing themselves for the tournament. It’s the most wonderful time of the year.
Here, in my second home, its hot season. In the afternoon, the temperature routinely reaches 120 degrees. The harmattan winds have blown in the dust for the past few months, and now they’re spewing Saharan heat. I sweat through every minute of the day. It’s unquestionably the least wonderful time of the year.
I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, serving in The Gambia, a tiny West African country. I’ve been here for nearly two years – through two Christmases sans snow, two Thanksgivings without turkey, two birthdays but no gifts. But the hardest month to be here is March.
Knowing the basketball fervor that is sweeping the nation – MY nation – makes it harder to be here. There’s no electricity, no running water, much less internet or TV to keep me updated on basketball – I probably own one of only four basketballs in my whole region.
During March, I go to bed under the stars, dreaming of upsets and buzzer beaters. I roll out of my hammock in the morning, already sweating, and turn on my phone, desperate for sympathetic souls in America, or lucky volunteers in the capital, who may have texted to quench my thirst for news of multiple overtimes, freshman phenoms, and the underdog prevailing. These texts of a few hundred characters hardly capture the glorious celebrations and heart breaking defeats that epitomize every weekend in March.
When these beatific texts come, I rush inside my hut, grab some chalk from its rightful place tucked within the thatch in my roof, and fill in my homemade 7 foot x 4 foot bracket, gleaming proudly from the wall of my mud hut.
I have seen exactly zero NCAA basketball games this season. I have read exactly one basketball related magazine – a preseason edition that I perused in early February.
When you have literally no intel, no insight into who’s hot and who’s not, you have to consider other things to make your picks. For example… I killed a gigantic hairy spider right on top of Syracuse’s spot in the bracket. Do I take this as a sign of lackluster defense, or crushing offensive firepower? There’s a pitifully wilting candle nailed into the wall in the elite eight (where last year Florida floundered against those mighty Bulldogs). Do I take this as a sign of that quadrant’s drooping chances at making the final four? Or maybe I should ignore it – everything melts during hot season.
I’ve heard the statistics on a perfect bracket. I have no way to look them up right now, but I know perfect brackets are rare – perhaps even only a legend that has never actually happened. I’m sure the chances of getting a perfect bracket are like one in 212 trillion. (Right before sending this email, I looked it up – one in 9.2 quintillion… Oof)
So - bracketologists, former college players, scouts, and experts in general - I have a proposition to make. If I – Abby Adams: rural literacy volunteer, teacher trainer, and die hard college basketball supporter – compose a perfect bracket, I want you to put ME on ESPN. Not as an expert, or an analyst, but as the voice of one girl who listens to her gut. For one year, I ask to be treated like a SportsCenter anchor – go to games, give my thoughts, predictions, and proclaim my biases and prejudices as truths. Because if, with no experience or knowledge, I create a perfect bracket: maybe it’s meant to be.
After all, what are the odds?
Thank you very dangerously (as they say in the Gambia),
Abby Adams
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Redefining Man
Throw out everything you knew about men, manliness, and the kingdom of manhood.
Meet the men among men of the Gambia – wrestlers.
While some men are muscle bound, tall men with chiseled arms, it’s not a necessity. There were tiny sixteen-year-old-looking twigs who commanded the same amount of respect as the mighty men.
Manly men wear flannel; they wear jeans; they wear something to show their chest hair. But not here in the Gambia. Here, the shorter your skirt, the skimpier the shorts, and the more colorful and shiny your spandex, the manlier you are.
When manly men want to fight, they glare at each other, perhaps shove each other, and maybe pass some gruff and angry words to their opponent. Here in the Gambia, to indicate you want to fight, you approach another man, grab his belt, and pull your loins together. Manly.
As a sign of the fight about to begin, boxers and wrestlers will shake hands or knock gloves. Here in the Gambia, you gaze at your opponents eyes, and walk purposefully and swiftly towards them. As soon as you get within reach, you bend down and dip your hands into the dust, never straying from your rival’s eyes. Then, hands full of dust, you gently stroke your dusty hands down the chest of the one you are about to fight. It’s on.
When manly men celebrate a win, they leap in the air, they pump their fists, they roar ferociously. Here in the Gambia, the manliest of men who wins a match gets his four traveling minstrels, and he slowly does a jig around the arena.
When a manly man gets in injury, as in a scorpion bite (which we actually witnessed), they screw up their faces, grimace, wrap it, and get back out to the field. Here in the Gambia, the men writhe on the ground, and call over the village marabout, who proceeds to rub the injury and chant prayers and spells over it, until he’s carried out of the arena.
Manly men drink Gatorade for the electrolytes. Here in the Gambia, they drink a tea made by boiling the roots of a magic tree.
Manly men proclaim their arrival to the arena with lights, clouds of smoke, screaming fans, intense concentration, and occasional a ripping off of their oversized warm ups. Here in the Gambia, they enter the arena accompanied by shrill whistles, walking proudly beneath a banner bearing no words, but made of a sheer pink fabric overlaid with shiny golden hearts.
Manly men play until one victor prevails. They will fight to the death, hoping to be the one remaining – the best of the best. Here in the Gambia, they don’t push it. They will battle as long as it pleases them, but as soon as someone says, “I’m tired” in their language of choice, the signal is given to everyone. It’s over.
Meet the men among men of the Gambia – wrestlers.
While some men are muscle bound, tall men with chiseled arms, it’s not a necessity. There were tiny sixteen-year-old-looking twigs who commanded the same amount of respect as the mighty men.
Manly men wear flannel; they wear jeans; they wear something to show their chest hair. But not here in the Gambia. Here, the shorter your skirt, the skimpier the shorts, and the more colorful and shiny your spandex, the manlier you are.
When manly men want to fight, they glare at each other, perhaps shove each other, and maybe pass some gruff and angry words to their opponent. Here in the Gambia, to indicate you want to fight, you approach another man, grab his belt, and pull your loins together. Manly.
As a sign of the fight about to begin, boxers and wrestlers will shake hands or knock gloves. Here in the Gambia, you gaze at your opponents eyes, and walk purposefully and swiftly towards them. As soon as you get within reach, you bend down and dip your hands into the dust, never straying from your rival’s eyes. Then, hands full of dust, you gently stroke your dusty hands down the chest of the one you are about to fight. It’s on.
When manly men celebrate a win, they leap in the air, they pump their fists, they roar ferociously. Here in the Gambia, the manliest of men who wins a match gets his four traveling minstrels, and he slowly does a jig around the arena.
When a manly man gets in injury, as in a scorpion bite (which we actually witnessed), they screw up their faces, grimace, wrap it, and get back out to the field. Here in the Gambia, the men writhe on the ground, and call over the village marabout, who proceeds to rub the injury and chant prayers and spells over it, until he’s carried out of the arena.
Manly men drink Gatorade for the electrolytes. Here in the Gambia, they drink a tea made by boiling the roots of a magic tree.
Manly men proclaim their arrival to the arena with lights, clouds of smoke, screaming fans, intense concentration, and occasional a ripping off of their oversized warm ups. Here in the Gambia, they enter the arena accompanied by shrill whistles, walking proudly beneath a banner bearing no words, but made of a sheer pink fabric overlaid with shiny golden hearts.
Manly men play until one victor prevails. They will fight to the death, hoping to be the one remaining – the best of the best. Here in the Gambia, they don’t push it. They will battle as long as it pleases them, but as soon as someone says, “I’m tired” in their language of choice, the signal is given to everyone. It’s over.
How a Village Celebrates a Birthday
When I first came to village, I asked my host grandma how old she was. She responded, “Oh, Abby… I’m at least 120.”
I then asked a grade nine student how old he thought she was, and he said, “Probably like 100.”
It’s an accomplishment here if you know the year you were born, much less the day and month. So, needless to say, birthdays are not seen as a very important day in the course of a year.
Last year, I told people it was my birthday, expecting some sort of reaction. They responded with either confusion that I would recognize such a day as different than any other, or apathy.
This year, I told no one about the anniversary of my birth. I decided to use it as a test to see if there’s some sort of benevolent birthday spirit out there whose job it is to make sure birthdays rock.
On the eve of my birthday, I got two pre-birthday delights. 1. They extended the traditional wrestling contest for another day, so I got to watch not two, but THREE days of wrestling. 2. We had domoda for dinner.
Maybe the birthday spirits got the days mixed up. The actual day of glory was not nearly as good as birthday eve. I arrived at school in the morning, to be greeted at the gate by a guard armed with a giant, antique looking rifle/machine gun. Turns out I was born on pay day, because the money truck was there to deliver the teachers their salaries. Armed guard surrounded by 400 young students – just another day in the Gambia!
I’d been planning a trip to Senegal with one of my friends. We were going to go to Dakar, stay with a family we knew there, eat ice cream and go to the beach, while we waited for our visas for our later trip to Ghana, Benin, and Togo. I got word at about ten in the morning that because of Senegalese election/demonstrations/corruption, all travel to Dakar is forbidden. Thus, my week break was also cancelled. Thus, and most devastatingly, our trip to Ghana and Benin may also be impossible.
To make up for this, the birthday spirits must have had some mercy on me, because they brought domoda for lunch… but this happens every Tuesday.
Mail run had come in the middle of February, and I had saved three packages for birthday presents. Because of this, I had cake and ice cream on my birthday (oreo cakesters and ice cream sandwich flavored snack packs). I got enough calories and sugar to last weeks and weeks and weeks. So basically, I had a birthday like every eight year old wishes for: Candy, cake, ice cream, and not much else.
I then asked a grade nine student how old he thought she was, and he said, “Probably like 100.”
It’s an accomplishment here if you know the year you were born, much less the day and month. So, needless to say, birthdays are not seen as a very important day in the course of a year.
Last year, I told people it was my birthday, expecting some sort of reaction. They responded with either confusion that I would recognize such a day as different than any other, or apathy.
This year, I told no one about the anniversary of my birth. I decided to use it as a test to see if there’s some sort of benevolent birthday spirit out there whose job it is to make sure birthdays rock.
On the eve of my birthday, I got two pre-birthday delights. 1. They extended the traditional wrestling contest for another day, so I got to watch not two, but THREE days of wrestling. 2. We had domoda for dinner.
Maybe the birthday spirits got the days mixed up. The actual day of glory was not nearly as good as birthday eve. I arrived at school in the morning, to be greeted at the gate by a guard armed with a giant, antique looking rifle/machine gun. Turns out I was born on pay day, because the money truck was there to deliver the teachers their salaries. Armed guard surrounded by 400 young students – just another day in the Gambia!
I’d been planning a trip to Senegal with one of my friends. We were going to go to Dakar, stay with a family we knew there, eat ice cream and go to the beach, while we waited for our visas for our later trip to Ghana, Benin, and Togo. I got word at about ten in the morning that because of Senegalese election/demonstrations/corruption, all travel to Dakar is forbidden. Thus, my week break was also cancelled. Thus, and most devastatingly, our trip to Ghana and Benin may also be impossible.
To make up for this, the birthday spirits must have had some mercy on me, because they brought domoda for lunch… but this happens every Tuesday.
Mail run had come in the middle of February, and I had saved three packages for birthday presents. Because of this, I had cake and ice cream on my birthday (oreo cakesters and ice cream sandwich flavored snack packs). I got enough calories and sugar to last weeks and weeks and weeks. So basically, I had a birthday like every eight year old wishes for: Candy, cake, ice cream, and not much else.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Soon Soon
The time is rapidly approaching when I will no longer call a hut my home.
The time is coming where I will not announce I have to go to the bathroom, and then walk outside of the house.
Soon I will habitually eat at a table… with a fork and a knife…
This is the last year in which my birthday will mean that hot season has reared its ugly, sweaty head.
In a mere five months, I will close my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer and start my career as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer.
But it’s not here yet. It’s probably safe to send packages for the next two months or so, but if you feel a great desire to show your love for me after that, you can shower me with gifts and or Chipotle when I get home. If you have things you’ve been LONGING to send me for a while but never got around to it, get around to it. Time is short.
So you’re probably asking, what does Abby need? And the answer is not much. Anything tangible that you send me I’ll probably either have to send back home after Peace Corps is finished and before I start my epic African trek, or I’ll have to put it in the notorious free pile in the transit house. Anything edible and delicious is welcome, but not necessary. Drink mixes are also welcome, but again, not necessary. If you feel you MUST send me something, what I’d really love is something to make me laugh REALLY hard.
Also, high paying, fun jobs in America are highly welcome.
The time is coming where I will not announce I have to go to the bathroom, and then walk outside of the house.
Soon I will habitually eat at a table… with a fork and a knife…
This is the last year in which my birthday will mean that hot season has reared its ugly, sweaty head.
In a mere five months, I will close my service as a Peace Corps Volunteer and start my career as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer.
But it’s not here yet. It’s probably safe to send packages for the next two months or so, but if you feel a great desire to show your love for me after that, you can shower me with gifts and or Chipotle when I get home. If you have things you’ve been LONGING to send me for a while but never got around to it, get around to it. Time is short.
So you’re probably asking, what does Abby need? And the answer is not much. Anything tangible that you send me I’ll probably either have to send back home after Peace Corps is finished and before I start my epic African trek, or I’ll have to put it in the notorious free pile in the transit house. Anything edible and delicious is welcome, but not necessary. Drink mixes are also welcome, but again, not necessary. If you feel you MUST send me something, what I’d really love is something to make me laugh REALLY hard.
Also, high paying, fun jobs in America are highly welcome.
Parents in the Gambia Mad Lib
When the Adams’ get together in a tiny West African country, you know there are going to be some stories. Obviously, where a story is to be had, a blog must be written. But how to comprehensively communicate two weeks of Adams antics into one blog post? I had to cull the information somehow, so I am mad-lib style picking and choosing.
I sat in a room of Peace Corps volunteers and asked each person for one adjective. For each adjective, I will describe a time when that adjective was epitomized. Like, “It was so _______________ when…”
Here we go.
It was so quality when my parents first approached my house. I’ve painted an alphabet on the wall and let kids draw all over it. Upon seeing the tiny one room hut, my mom first said, “Is that the school?” My dad approached the side of the house, where I’ve written the numbers in Mandinka, and started reading the numbers 1-10 phonetically. My host family’s first impression of my American family was my dad speaking Mandinka. Half of the women had their eyes pop from their head, and said, “YOUR DAD KNOWS MANDINKA?!?!” I loved that they assumed that, but I also think it’s so quality that the women in my village had no idea what reading even is. I’ve written their names for them before and they have copied them, but this was the first time they had ever seen reading in action. Quality.
It was so stupendous when I first heard the names of my parents’ chickens. I still am in shock and am STILL laughing at the pride they exhibited when telling me the tales of their seven adopted feathered children, named Rebound, Why Not, Cleo, Tony, Hester, Buffy, and Sheila. How things have changed… Stu-pen-dous.
It was so serendipitous when we were looking for three people to fill a sept plas, and then three weary Peace Corps volunteers from Burkina Faso arrived at the car park, sleep deprived, disoriented, and ready to jet to Basse. Because of this, there were no prayer stops, no people spitting out the window, no language confusion on whether the window should be up or down, no pungent fish sandwiches invading the car. Serendipitous.
It was so cold every night while my family was here. I slept outside in my hammock and allowed my parents the joy of sleeping in my sagging, flattened, bamboo and foam bed. Before bed every night, I would put on two long sleeved shirts, a sweater, and then bring every sheet and blanket from my home and snuggle against the harmattan winds of the West African cold season. Cold.
It was so slimy when I touched a hippo at Baboon Island.
I didn’t actually touch a hippo at Baboon Island, but I did see A LOT and if I did touch one, I bet it’d be slimy.
It was so jolly to see my dad at the WAIST softball tournament. Brought back old memories of the Bike Trek softball team in sixth grade, with dad yelling, “Get on your horse, Abby!” or “DUCKS ON THE POND!” Plus, one of my friends was talking about my dad umping the game, and said, “No one could be intimidated by him. He looks like Santa.” Jolly.
It was so fluffy when… this one is hard. I’ll come back to it.
It was so fortuitous when, after spending a night in a scary place with no light and only a creepy wooden bed in a room, the Medical Research Council had an available fully furnished apartment with hot water that could have been taken directly from toubabadou and transplanted to the Gambia. I took three hot showers in 24 hours, and mom and dad slept much better that night. Fortuitous.
It was so flamboyant the way my dad greeted people. In the Gambia, the greetings last forever. You just keep going - how’s your mom? How’s your body? Where are the children? How’s your step brother’s dog? Did you wake in peace? You woke up? You came outside? You’re standing? Despite their proclivity for over-greeting, my dad out-greeted them all. In Kombo, most people that greet white people are trying to get something from them and will probably be annoying (sorry, it’s cynical but it’s true). But dad took their greetings and then machine gunned twelve more back at them. A dude would say how are you, and the answer you should ALWAYS give is “fine”. But dad came back with, “oh, we’re doing pretty well this morning, hope your day is going well, we’re just headed over to Bakau to eat some food but we’re not sure where to eat, what do you think?” Even the Gambian was overwhelmed with the thorough-ness of his response. Flamboyant.
It was so hilarious when mom had the guy come and clean our room two times because she thought the splatters of concrete were poop, and the dude cleaning proclaimed, “That is not a poop.” It was also hilarious when I went up to dad at WAIST on the sidelines of an exciting game. He had his headphones on a la Steve Bartman, and I was pretty sure the consolation game for the competitive league of a tournament in Dakar didn’t have commentators. I asked him what he was listening to, and he said, “WHAT?” He was obviously listening to whatever it was very loudly. I took out one of his earbugs and asked again. He replied matter-of-factly, “Muslim chants.” I took the earbuds from him and put them in my own ears and sure enough – the blasting off pitch chants of a far away imam – “Alllaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar. Alllaaaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar.” HILARIOUS.
Back to fluffy. I felt all fluffy seeing my family again after a long hiatus, knowing they cared enough to come and see where i live and what i'm doing and they're willing to get out of their comfort zone, out of the adjacent zone, and then through to a zone of discomfort that doesn't even border their comfort zone. They're strong and I'm proud that they did it. Fluffy.
I sat in a room of Peace Corps volunteers and asked each person for one adjective. For each adjective, I will describe a time when that adjective was epitomized. Like, “It was so _______________ when…”
Here we go.
It was so quality when my parents first approached my house. I’ve painted an alphabet on the wall and let kids draw all over it. Upon seeing the tiny one room hut, my mom first said, “Is that the school?” My dad approached the side of the house, where I’ve written the numbers in Mandinka, and started reading the numbers 1-10 phonetically. My host family’s first impression of my American family was my dad speaking Mandinka. Half of the women had their eyes pop from their head, and said, “YOUR DAD KNOWS MANDINKA?!?!” I loved that they assumed that, but I also think it’s so quality that the women in my village had no idea what reading even is. I’ve written their names for them before and they have copied them, but this was the first time they had ever seen reading in action. Quality.
It was so stupendous when I first heard the names of my parents’ chickens. I still am in shock and am STILL laughing at the pride they exhibited when telling me the tales of their seven adopted feathered children, named Rebound, Why Not, Cleo, Tony, Hester, Buffy, and Sheila. How things have changed… Stu-pen-dous.
It was so serendipitous when we were looking for three people to fill a sept plas, and then three weary Peace Corps volunteers from Burkina Faso arrived at the car park, sleep deprived, disoriented, and ready to jet to Basse. Because of this, there were no prayer stops, no people spitting out the window, no language confusion on whether the window should be up or down, no pungent fish sandwiches invading the car. Serendipitous.
It was so cold every night while my family was here. I slept outside in my hammock and allowed my parents the joy of sleeping in my sagging, flattened, bamboo and foam bed. Before bed every night, I would put on two long sleeved shirts, a sweater, and then bring every sheet and blanket from my home and snuggle against the harmattan winds of the West African cold season. Cold.
It was so slimy when I touched a hippo at Baboon Island.
I didn’t actually touch a hippo at Baboon Island, but I did see A LOT and if I did touch one, I bet it’d be slimy.
It was so jolly to see my dad at the WAIST softball tournament. Brought back old memories of the Bike Trek softball team in sixth grade, with dad yelling, “Get on your horse, Abby!” or “DUCKS ON THE POND!” Plus, one of my friends was talking about my dad umping the game, and said, “No one could be intimidated by him. He looks like Santa.” Jolly.
It was so fluffy when… this one is hard. I’ll come back to it.
It was so fortuitous when, after spending a night in a scary place with no light and only a creepy wooden bed in a room, the Medical Research Council had an available fully furnished apartment with hot water that could have been taken directly from toubabadou and transplanted to the Gambia. I took three hot showers in 24 hours, and mom and dad slept much better that night. Fortuitous.
It was so flamboyant the way my dad greeted people. In the Gambia, the greetings last forever. You just keep going - how’s your mom? How’s your body? Where are the children? How’s your step brother’s dog? Did you wake in peace? You woke up? You came outside? You’re standing? Despite their proclivity for over-greeting, my dad out-greeted them all. In Kombo, most people that greet white people are trying to get something from them and will probably be annoying (sorry, it’s cynical but it’s true). But dad took their greetings and then machine gunned twelve more back at them. A dude would say how are you, and the answer you should ALWAYS give is “fine”. But dad came back with, “oh, we’re doing pretty well this morning, hope your day is going well, we’re just headed over to Bakau to eat some food but we’re not sure where to eat, what do you think?” Even the Gambian was overwhelmed with the thorough-ness of his response. Flamboyant.
It was so hilarious when mom had the guy come and clean our room two times because she thought the splatters of concrete were poop, and the dude cleaning proclaimed, “That is not a poop.” It was also hilarious when I went up to dad at WAIST on the sidelines of an exciting game. He had his headphones on a la Steve Bartman, and I was pretty sure the consolation game for the competitive league of a tournament in Dakar didn’t have commentators. I asked him what he was listening to, and he said, “WHAT?” He was obviously listening to whatever it was very loudly. I took out one of his earbugs and asked again. He replied matter-of-factly, “Muslim chants.” I took the earbuds from him and put them in my own ears and sure enough – the blasting off pitch chants of a far away imam – “Alllaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar. Alllaaaaaaaahhhh ak uh bar.” HILARIOUS.
Back to fluffy. I felt all fluffy seeing my family again after a long hiatus, knowing they cared enough to come and see where i live and what i'm doing and they're willing to get out of their comfort zone, out of the adjacent zone, and then through to a zone of discomfort that doesn't even border their comfort zone. They're strong and I'm proud that they did it. Fluffy.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
SOFTBALL IN SENEGAL? A guest blog by Ben Adams
I had a great seat at the finale of the West African International Softball Tournament (WAIST) organized by the Peace Corps volunteers. Teams from the individual countries, including my daughter Abby’s Gambian team, and other NGOs compete for honor and glory and try not to slice open a leg while running bases on a dusty cindery infield.
After the social league final in which Abby, in a losing effort, smashed a couple of RBI singles (yes I have photos!), I settled into a folding chair along the first base line to watch the grand finale of the most competitive league. The finalists were a team from the US Embassy staff and a team from Senegal. The US team was made up of 30-40 somethings, serious and sober, a little gray on the edges with a few guys sporting cleats and stirrupped pants from their old stateside softball leagues. Team Senegal was a group of very tall, athletic men who had clearly taken to America’s game. Their pitcher wore black rimmed glasses and serious demeanor looking very much like a young Malcolm X.
The game started with a bang as the USA big boppers flexed their muscles launching several high arching never-coming-back-to-earth blasts that gave them a large early lead. One blast deep into the right field corner, just shy of the fence, had a pair of Senegalese security guards scurrying out of the way none too happy having their naps interrupted.
Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.
In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.
The Senegalese showed great fielding skills – their shortstop/2nd base combo made plays that would make a Dominican scout nod in approval. There were some eccentricities: the first baseman would always flop to dirt on any throw from the infield leaving him seemingly followed by a low Pigpen-like dust cloud. The outfielders didn’t bother squaring up when handling a ground hit but used an unusual underhand submariner throwing motion to get the ball back to the infield – unorthodox but effective.
As the Muslim rhythms filled my head, it became clear that the game was tied and the Senegalese, batting last, needed one run to win! I silenced imam’s teachings and sat forward to let the drama unfold. Man on second, 2 outs!
I need to point out that in this type of softball, there are 2 home plates: one for the pitched ball and catcher, and a second one where runners make runs. I’m sure this is to prevent the consequences of home plate collisions that anyone of a certain age hearing the name Ray Fosse or Buster Posey will understand. Hey it is 2012 – just check YouTube for “Fosse Rose collision” or “Posey injury”.
So here we go – a line single to left center, running blazing around 3rd leaving a conical red trail of dust, a strong throw home, and the ump twists his hands together and yells “OUT!”
In this soccer crazed country, the protocol of protesting a bad call is set by what you seen at the World Cup – the entire Senegal bench launched out on the field, incredulous, arms flailed like a kid playing airplane, and then, surrounding the ump and each raising his index finger in a windshield wiper motion as if shouting “No Way”. The ump, who was another of these gray templed Yanks from the losing semifinal team, admirably held his ground and as fast as the fury of protest started – it stopped.
Play was resumed with the Yanks up to bat. Each player was dreaming of blasting the lead homer but the bodies were not willing – long deep flied to left, center, right all just short of reaching the black mesh netting that meant “homer”.
So the Senegalese dramatics were repeated – same scenario for the single hitters. But this time the runner scored from 2nd easily for the winning run. And the celebration began as the fans surround the players on the mound and the women broke into a dance and somewhere there was drumming. Congrats from the humbled Yanks and great goodwill preserved.
Next should have been a feast of cheeseburgers, corn-on-the-cob and beer swapping stories and comparing bruises - but I guess the Peace Corps budget can’t handle that. Instead, after trophies, everyone drifted off to various Dakar destinations. As I looked back on the field I could still see a cloud of dust, now orange in the late afternoon sun, hanging over the pitcher’s mound.
It was a good day for softball, for international understanding, a good day for all.
After the social league final in which Abby, in a losing effort, smashed a couple of RBI singles (yes I have photos!), I settled into a folding chair along the first base line to watch the grand finale of the most competitive league. The finalists were a team from the US Embassy staff and a team from Senegal. The US team was made up of 30-40 somethings, serious and sober, a little gray on the edges with a few guys sporting cleats and stirrupped pants from their old stateside softball leagues. Team Senegal was a group of very tall, athletic men who had clearly taken to America’s game. Their pitcher wore black rimmed glasses and serious demeanor looking very much like a young Malcolm X.
The game started with a bang as the USA big boppers flexed their muscles launching several high arching never-coming-back-to-earth blasts that gave them a large early lead. One blast deep into the right field corner, just shy of the fence, had a pair of Senegalese security guards scurrying out of the way none too happy having their naps interrupted.
Team Senegal rebounded with gappers and hard singles extended to doubles in daring dashes making dusty clouds as they slid into second. The comeback was on.
In the middle innings, I pulled out my sturdy unlocked GSM cellphone, ubiquitous here and in the Gambia, slipped on headphones and tuned into an FM station broadcasting Muslim prayers. The rhythm of the chanter’s praises to Allah filled my head with peace as young black mean and older white men kept circling the bases.
The Senegalese showed great fielding skills – their shortstop/2nd base combo made plays that would make a Dominican scout nod in approval. There were some eccentricities: the first baseman would always flop to dirt on any throw from the infield leaving him seemingly followed by a low Pigpen-like dust cloud. The outfielders didn’t bother squaring up when handling a ground hit but used an unusual underhand submariner throwing motion to get the ball back to the infield – unorthodox but effective.
As the Muslim rhythms filled my head, it became clear that the game was tied and the Senegalese, batting last, needed one run to win! I silenced imam’s teachings and sat forward to let the drama unfold. Man on second, 2 outs!
I need to point out that in this type of softball, there are 2 home plates: one for the pitched ball and catcher, and a second one where runners make runs. I’m sure this is to prevent the consequences of home plate collisions that anyone of a certain age hearing the name Ray Fosse or Buster Posey will understand. Hey it is 2012 – just check YouTube for “Fosse Rose collision” or “Posey injury”.
So here we go – a line single to left center, running blazing around 3rd leaving a conical red trail of dust, a strong throw home, and the ump twists his hands together and yells “OUT!”
In this soccer crazed country, the protocol of protesting a bad call is set by what you seen at the World Cup – the entire Senegal bench launched out on the field, incredulous, arms flailed like a kid playing airplane, and then, surrounding the ump and each raising his index finger in a windshield wiper motion as if shouting “No Way”. The ump, who was another of these gray templed Yanks from the losing semifinal team, admirably held his ground and as fast as the fury of protest started – it stopped.
Play was resumed with the Yanks up to bat. Each player was dreaming of blasting the lead homer but the bodies were not willing – long deep flied to left, center, right all just short of reaching the black mesh netting that meant “homer”.
So the Senegalese dramatics were repeated – same scenario for the single hitters. But this time the runner scored from 2nd easily for the winning run. And the celebration began as the fans surround the players on the mound and the women broke into a dance and somewhere there was drumming. Congrats from the humbled Yanks and great goodwill preserved.
Next should have been a feast of cheeseburgers, corn-on-the-cob and beer swapping stories and comparing bruises - but I guess the Peace Corps budget can’t handle that. Instead, after trophies, everyone drifted off to various Dakar destinations. As I looked back on the field I could still see a cloud of dust, now orange in the late afternoon sun, hanging over the pitcher’s mound.
It was a good day for softball, for international understanding, a good day for all.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
More Guest Blogs
More brave travelers have traveled to the Gambia! Stay tuned for their insightful stories of African adventure.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A Toubab’s First 48 in the Whale's Mouth
(The views, opinions and thoughts expressed in this column do not necessarily reflect those of the author of this blog. I am solely a guest toubab author who enjoyed the opportunity to travel to the African continent for the first time 2 months ago)
I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).
After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.
Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.
I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.
Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.
One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).
The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!
We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.
Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.
Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.
We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.
We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:
Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”
Me: “Sure, why not.”
A few minutes pass.
Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”
Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.
What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.
Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.
-Steve
I awoke on the morning of October 29, 2011 excited, anxious and ready for my first ever trek to the African continent. I had spent the previous two weeks getting shots in my arm, taking big blue pills, FedEx-ing the Gambian embassy, buying expensive backpacks and clothing, stocking up on Clif Bars, and watching the digitally remastered version of the Disney classic The Lion King, all in anticipation for this day. And as much as I felt ready to go, deep down I knew I had no idea what to expect (to all my ASP friends, I just felt like a first year saying that).
After 3 flights, 1 re-route thru Dulles (from where I did in fact bring the author her first full Chipotle burrito in approximately 17 months), a good bit of snow, 2 plane de-icings (same plane… good work Dulles ground crew!), and a 3 hour runway delay, I landed at Dakar’s Leopold something airport, the morning sun rising to welcome the day (images of multiple scenes from Blood Diamond are running thru my head right now). As we are about to land, I’m thinking to myself: “Planes from all over the world fly into Dakar. This will be a large, if not fairly nice airport.” Wrong. Dakar’s airport is only slightly larger than the puny Tri-Cities, Tennessee airport (would definitely be smaller if there were no Duty Free stores) and much more run down. The sign on the roof proclaiming the name of the airport is missing letters, there is a beaten up hangar where I would suspect illicit happenings go down, and there are men with large machine guns patrolling the gates. But hey, at least there was a bus to take me the 50 feet I needed to go to the terminal where my backpack actually made it through! All things considered, this is a great start.
Once I grab my backpack and walk outside for the joyous reunion with Abby, I realize this trip is going to THROW me out of my comfort zone. Out of the same zip code as my comfort zone. Out of the same ozone as my comfort zone. I am immediately accosted by a horde of Senegalese taxi drivers trying to buy my services, speaking to me in French and/or bad English. Picture this analogy. You are in the middle of New York City, and instead of trying to hail a cab, the cab drivers are all hailing you in a language you don’t understand, while simultaneously trying to rip you off. I was in Africa. Finally, I meet Abby, she negotiates a cab and we drive to the car park.
I don’t think I’ve said “no” more times in the span of an hour than that Sunday morning at the Pompier car park. As we wait patiently for our sept plas to fill, I find myself unable to speak a complete sentence to Abby without being asked if I would like to buy the following: fake RayBans, belt buckles, oranges, bananas, clothing, belt buckles, bracelets, anklets, hats, among other things. We did end up purchasing two things: kola nuts that I could give to Abby’s host family and friends, and water, which in this part of Africa looks like you’re buying individual breast implants (maybe my mind is in the gutter, you be the judge). One fascinating thing about the Pompier car park before I move on; people are actually washing their cars! And we’re not talking brand new Mercedes or even 5 year old Toyotas. The newest car in this place is the equivalent of a 1985 Ford Pinto whose only function has been to shuttle people through the desert (not an extreme example). So I pose this question: Would you bother to wash your car if you knew it could possibly die at any moment or not start the next time you put the key in the ignition? Didn’t think so.
Our sept plas finally fills and we roll out into the streets of Dakar and head toward Banjul. Now the Gambia, and to a similar extent Senegal, are small countries. So I’m thinking to myself, “Alright, 2-3 hour drive to Banjul and another 2-3 to village. Just in time for dinner.” It is only now that I am informed that we will be lucky to make it to village by 10 or 11 p.m. The Pop Tart/Clif Bar/ Granola bar rations immediately sustain a big hit.
One of the first images emblazoned in my memory upon leaving the car park is a man defecating on the side of the road. Some reminders in case you haven’t been paying attention. It’s 10 a.m., it’s broad daylight, and everyone can see you! None of these things seem to matter to this man. When you gotta go, you gotta go. Strangely, this observation puts me at ease. Should my stomach have an adverse reaction to a rich West African meal, all I have to do is tell the driver to pull over (ironically, road pooping only becomes a factor once I am in Cape Verde, not the continent). Once I am secure in the knowledge that no one will care if I poop in public, I immediately begin making a list of who I know that should never come to West Africa. In no particular order: Mom and Dad, my best friend Steve (closet diva), Sarah Burnett (actual diva), my roommate Nicole, every sorority girl at Wake Forest University (pretty much covers the entire female population) and any human over 6’4” tall (no way they could handle a sept plas for more than 10 minutes and every African child would think they are an actual giant).
The next 5 hours en route to the Barra car park consist of the following: the most trash I have ever seen, the most rams I have ever seen, the biggest set of testicles I have ever seen (on the rams. Did you know they flex them when they bleat?), the thickest trees I have ever seen (the mighty baobabs), the most I have ever sweated in a moving vehicle, the most potholes I have ever hit, the most potholes I have ever swerved to avoid, the most dust I have ever breathed/ingested and my first solicitation from an African prostitute! I’m not even in the Gambia yet!
We finally cross the border to “the Gam”, as Abby so eloquently refers to her home, and after a 2 hour wait in the Barra car park that involved much yelling at our driver from our fellow passengers and a few more swigs of breast implant water, we’re off to Basse on the next leg of our journey. 20 minutes into the trek, we pull over to cover the luggage so that it doesn’t get wet from the approaching storm. While we are stopped, the old man sitting in front of me gets out and goes to relieve himself on the side of the road while the 20-something guy sitting next to him peruses his music on his iPhone. Fascinating. Worlds collide.
Going on 40 straight hours without sleep the fun really begins. As darkness descends upon the wilderness, the skies open and unleash a torrent of rain amidst astounding flashes of lightning and crackling booms of thunder. Experiencing an African thunderstorm in the flesh; check. However, my fascination is short lived as our driver decides that now is the opportune time to make up for lost time. Our sept plas begins barreling down the road, throwing splashes of water from the frequent potholes, edging dangerously close to the River Gambia. I brace myself in anticipation of the moment our driver loses control of the vehicle and we fly into the water and I meet my untimely demise, hoping this will not be the way I encounter my first wild hippopotamus.
Amazingly enough, we make it to Farafenni without incident and stop there for evening prayers, stretch our legs and enjoy cold coke. “3 hours left, boy”, Abby tells me. I don’t know why at this point I kept believing this would be true. The silver lining at this juncture is that at least I know I will have no trouble sleeping in an African mud hut tonight. We depart Farafenni and after a few checkpoint bribes and about an hour of driving without rain (praise Allah), we arrive at the Janjanburreh ferry. The only problem is that there is no ferry in sight. “Driver?” Abby asks, “you called the ferry man right?” “Yes, yes, of course,” responds the driver. Taking him at his word (another poor decision), we get out of the car to stretch our legs and wait for the ferry man to come. It quickly becomes apparent that there is in fact no ferry man coming to pick us up and as we come to this realization, it begins to rain. We head back to the car to figure out what the deal is and what do we find but our driver sleeping peacefully at his steering wheel. It was at this moment I was convinced that I was not even going to spend my first night in Africa in the luxury of a mud hut, but rather on this rainy, muddy, pitch black river bank. Luckily, before having to fashion a ferry of our own, Abby springs into action. “Driver! Give me the ferry driver’s number! Tell him to come now now. Tell him I will pay 100 dalasis to go now. WE. WILL. NOT. SLEEP. HERE. TONIGHT.” Okay, perhaps Abby didn’t put it in quite so blunt of terms (although I certainly would have by this point), but she essentially got the message across. Abby calls the ferryman, wakes him from his slumber and he finally comes to ferry us across the river. After paying the ferryman an additional late night driving fee (ASP reference. PMs holla back!), we are on our way again.
We finally make it to Basse around 2 a.m., when all that is visible are the buildings and trash. There is not a soul in sight and if Abby told me that Basse was a ghost town that was deserted 50 years ago when all the gold was mined from the area, I would have 100% believed her. We make our way down to the river where amazingly, Abby’s neighbor Lamin, who owns a car, (the unassuming hero and of this entire tale along with his accompanying steed) has been waiting for us for at least 3 hours. Some old dude ferries us across the sludge-ridden river to the last leg of our journey. Inshallah! We are almost there. We greet Lamin and as I open the front door of his car, my eyes lock on a rifle sitting in the driver’s seat. Maybe it was the lack of the sleep, maybe a sense of utter defeat, who knows, but my first reaction upon laying eyes on Lamin’s rifle was not alarm, not suspicions of serial murders, nor fear for my own life, but rather, “Hey, that’s a gun. That’s nice.” Lamin is quick to assure us that he went out hunting earlier that day and that is why the rifle was in the car. Good enough explanation for me. Let’s get to the mud hut already.
We get in the car and begin our quick journey down our final road. I can picture the mosquito-net enclosed mattress right now. My eyes are already rolling into the back of my head despite the pothole we hit every 3.2 seconds. But the path to glory is not without its trial and tribulations. As I am staring blankly at the road in front of me, only 10 minutes from village, something clambers up the side of the car and begins to make it’s was across the windshield. My body somehow manifests the adrenaline one more time to decipher what this potential danger could be. Sure enough, it is not one, but TWO GIANT RATS RUNNING ACROSS THE WINDSHIELD OF THIS MOVING VEHICLE. What is going on?! The following scene immediately plays out in my mind from 3 weeks earlier, when I was at the clinic getting my pre-Africa shots:
Nurse: “Would you like a pre-exposure rabies vaccine as well?”
Me: “Sure, why not.”
A few minutes pass.
Nurse: “I’m sorry sir. We’re out of the pre-exposure rabies vaccine. You’re probably just staying in hotels anyway, so I wouldn’t worry about it too much.”
Me: “Well, not exactly. But I don’t plan to get bitten my anything. So I should be fine.”
Famous last words. Luckily, the first rat scurries off the other end of the car after some prodding by Lamin. However, rat #2 decides it will be a good idea to run up the windshield, onto the roof. I immediately reach for the handle to roll my window up while keeping my eyes on the window. I reach and reach but cannot for the life of me find the handle. “That’s it. This rat is going to crawl into my seat, bite me, give me rabies and I’ll die in Nyakoi all because I didn’t get the damn pre-exposure rabies shot.“ For 2 solid minutes I turn my body, ready to punch this rat in the face should he even attempt to look at me. I finally summon the courage take my eyes off of the window for a split second and look down for the window handle. It is only now that I realize Lamin has electric windows. SERIOUSLY! IT’S NOT UNTIL NOW THAT I AM IN A CAR WITH ELECTRIC WINDOWS! I give up. Note to self- next time you get in an African’s personal vehicle, immediately discern whether it has manual or electric windows. I finally roll my window up, safe from the peril that lies above me. Lamin finally drops us off at the compound (I don’t think I’ve ever exited a car so fast) where our short walk to Abby’s mud hut goes without incident. After 48 hours without more than a few seconds doze, I poop in my first pit latrine and sleep one of the most beautiful slumbers I have ever had.
What ensued for the next two weeks across the Gambia, Senegal and Cape Verde was the trip of a lifetime. I got to hike above the clouds, peer into the depths of an active volcano, eat some delicious food, teach Cape Verdeans how to play Frisbee, see an African sunrise and sunset, all while sipping on Jul Brew, Strela and grogue. But best of all, I had the privilege to meet some truly incredible individuals. From the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia and Cape Verde, who willingly let us into stay in their homes and sacrificed their time to show off their little piece of the world; to Jamil and Dilal and entire Haidous family for putting us up in Dakar, showing us your beautiful family, and cooking one of the best meals I’ve ever eaten; and to the villagers of tiny Nyakoi, who after a butchered Mandinka introduction and 15 minutes of chatter will call you “friend”. Most of you may never read this, but in case you do, thank you for being part of my incredible adventure. I will never forget you and hope to see you again someday.
Finally, I would like to thank the author of this blog for her generosity in allowing me to share some of my thoughts and for sacrificing two weeks of her time to travel around West Africa with me and two years of her life to serve there. I most certainly would have wound up dead in the River Gambia with the hippos if it wasn’t for her.
-Steve
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