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.
No comments:
Post a Comment