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.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
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.
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