It all started with a rainbow belt at the Farafenni market…
Actually, it started at 4 am this morning.
Today, we traveled from Basse to Kombo, the area surrounding the capital of the Gambia. It was an early morning, and it was cold. We left the Basse house at 5 am, walked into town, and sat in a gelle gelle until 6:30 until it filled with people and we could leave.
It was an extraordinary easy trip. Normally, these stories about travel involve terror about breakdowns, sweatiness, police checkpoints, and awkward advances by Gambians. Today, there was an off duty police officer in our gelle gelle, and every checkpoint we went through, he just looked out the window, yelled a greeting in one of the four languages common in the Gambia, and we flew through.
We stopped in Farafenni to get some grub, and as we were walking through the market, I saw a rainbow belt. I am unable to avoid buying things in rainbow order, but today, I was strong, thinking, “I don’t wear pants in this country, why do I need that belt?” So I did not purchase it… remember this. It becomes important later in the story.
So, we got to the ferry crossing at a respectable time, and instead of trying to get on the huge ferry, which is overcrowded and rampant with pick-pocketers, we took a small wooden boat across the wide expanse to Banjul.
We approached the boats, and noticed that the boat was really far away from the shore… as in, a person of normal height could not walk to it without their midriffs being submerged. We all had bags with computers in them, and we were a little worried about the crossing…
There were a few men walking with us, all trying to get us to come to their boats, so that they can get the fare from us. At this point I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?” There was a man wearing no pants, trying to get us into his boat. We did not choose him. And it wouldn’t be the last time that day I said, “Why is that man wearing no pants?”
You’re probably wondering where the rainbow belt comes in… wait for it.
When we got closer to the ocean, we realized the men who were escorting us were lifters. What’s a lifter you ask? Yes, it’s just what it sounds like. His chosen profession is to lift people, some larger than the average bear, on his shoulders, and trudge across the sea floor to hoist them onto the boat.
So, now let me pause to describe the exact scene. He told me the equivalent of “Turn around and spread ‘em.” I did what he told me, and his head lowered between my legs, and hoisted me off the ground.
Let me pause here to describe me. I’m a pretty hefty kid. I have a backpack on my back, stuffed with clothing and my computer. So, not a light bag. Then, I have a huge satchel dangling from one side of my body. And this he all lifted in the air.
As he lifted, I said, “A koleeyata!!!” which means, “It’s difficult!! It’s heavy!!”. With normal sized people, or even large Gambians, he can just activate his massive quadriceps, and lift them in one go. With me, he made one attempt, regrouped, and went up for a second go and a large grunt.
Another side note. I don’t know if you’re like me, but I think in general, big kids hate to be lifted. I really hate to be lifted. I am reminded of ASP training, and the embarrassing, “team building” lifting activities that always are included when staffers are at their most vulnerable. (If Sarah Burnett is reading this, remember “I’m ENORMOUS” and laugh)
So, once I reached the peak, I was uncomfortable, unwieldy, and ready to not be on this man’s shoulders. In order to balance the pull of gravity on my large backpack, I had to hold onto something. The chosen hand hold was the man’s forehead. As I clung to his eyebrow region, my giant satchel twisted, and hung directly under the lifters chin. So he is basically draped in toubab (white lady). And he starts the long trek to the boat.
At this point, I’m aware that months in village, eating little else but white rice and the occasional snot-like sauce, my pants are a little too large, and I feel like I am perhaps revealing too much of myself to the Gambians behind me. One of my fellow Peace Corps friends then squealed with delight, “Abigail Adams, I love you!” She had to shout out this affirmation because I should’ve been very embarrassed.
When we got on the boat, I asked her if my fears were true. She answered in the affirmative, that yes, everyone could see my buttcrack…
If only I had bought that rainbow belt…
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Tobaski
So, there’s a Muslim holiday called Tobaski. I don’t know exactly what event it celebrates, but it happens about two months after the end of Ramadan, and it happened last week.
Let me paint you a picture of what this holiday is like. It’s like a mixture of 1)prom, 2)the strip at Miami Beach, and 3)a bloodbath. Let’s go into more detail, shall we?
1. Tobaski is like prom.
Tobaski is like prom for many reasons. People spend an INCREDIBLE amount of money on looking superfly for Tobaski. Like A LOT. My host sister dropped about 1800 dalasis on one of her outfits for Tobaski, and she got THREE. To give you a picture, I make a lot of money for someone living in the Gambia, and I make about 5500 dalasis a month. Teacher trainees at my school get 475 dalasis per month. So… woah.
Following everybody getting all dolled up, they walk around on the dirt roads, and walk to a photo studio… I know what you, being Americans, are picturing. This is not what you’re picturing. It’s a single hut, humming with noise from a generator which supplies energy for like two lightbulbs. Lining the walls are ridiculous posters from America… RIDICULOUS. There are numerous Obama posters, duplicate Jennifer Lopez posters, and lots of soccer pictures. In front of these, sits a small Christmas tree, decorated with huge orange shiny balls. And this acts as the backdrop for hundreds of Gambians in inappropriately shiny clothing, posing and clashing with all of the Americana on the walls.
2. Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach.
Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach for many reasons. People get all dressed up, as cars get souped up in Miami. Then people walk up and down the dirt road, greeting each other and checking out each other’s new digs, quietly masking the jealousy they feel that their neighbor has a brand new lime green sequin studded kicks, and you do not.
These Gambians are souped up in every way that a person can be souped up. They add unnecessary accessories everywhere. They wear sunglasses when it’s not sunny. They wear glasses without glass in it. They wear earrings that are way too shiny and plastic. They wear high heeled shoes that sink into the sandy road that you must walk down to get anywhere.
3. Tobaski is a bloodbath.
Tobaski is a bloodbath for only one reason. This reason is that thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of rams lose their lives during this holiday. What makes it different from other holidays where everybody eats the same animal (like Thanksgiving) is that every family has to slaughter and butcher their own meat. I had the pleasure of watching one particularly wealthy family slaughter their three rams. I could go into details of the bloodbath: the sound like a balloon being released when they cut through the windpipe; the pit dug for the blood to run; the spurting that was not as much as I expected, but more than I was comfortable with; the copious buzzards circling over the scene of the carnage. I heard later that in our little village of Nyakoi, over three thousand rams were killed… WHAT? And each ram runs a family like three or four thousand dalasi. That’s a lot of money wasted for a little bit of tough, gristly meat.
The holiday in itself was incredibly boring. Most of the day was getting ready to go out, and then walking around and doing nothing, and then eating some tough meat. Party on.
Let me paint you a picture of what this holiday is like. It’s like a mixture of 1)prom, 2)the strip at Miami Beach, and 3)a bloodbath. Let’s go into more detail, shall we?
1. Tobaski is like prom.
Tobaski is like prom for many reasons. People spend an INCREDIBLE amount of money on looking superfly for Tobaski. Like A LOT. My host sister dropped about 1800 dalasis on one of her outfits for Tobaski, and she got THREE. To give you a picture, I make a lot of money for someone living in the Gambia, and I make about 5500 dalasis a month. Teacher trainees at my school get 475 dalasis per month. So… woah.
Following everybody getting all dolled up, they walk around on the dirt roads, and walk to a photo studio… I know what you, being Americans, are picturing. This is not what you’re picturing. It’s a single hut, humming with noise from a generator which supplies energy for like two lightbulbs. Lining the walls are ridiculous posters from America… RIDICULOUS. There are numerous Obama posters, duplicate Jennifer Lopez posters, and lots of soccer pictures. In front of these, sits a small Christmas tree, decorated with huge orange shiny balls. And this acts as the backdrop for hundreds of Gambians in inappropriately shiny clothing, posing and clashing with all of the Americana on the walls.
2. Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach.
Tobaski is like the strip at Miami Beach for many reasons. People get all dressed up, as cars get souped up in Miami. Then people walk up and down the dirt road, greeting each other and checking out each other’s new digs, quietly masking the jealousy they feel that their neighbor has a brand new lime green sequin studded kicks, and you do not.
These Gambians are souped up in every way that a person can be souped up. They add unnecessary accessories everywhere. They wear sunglasses when it’s not sunny. They wear glasses without glass in it. They wear earrings that are way too shiny and plastic. They wear high heeled shoes that sink into the sandy road that you must walk down to get anywhere.
3. Tobaski is a bloodbath.
Tobaski is a bloodbath for only one reason. This reason is that thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands, of rams lose their lives during this holiday. What makes it different from other holidays where everybody eats the same animal (like Thanksgiving) is that every family has to slaughter and butcher their own meat. I had the pleasure of watching one particularly wealthy family slaughter their three rams. I could go into details of the bloodbath: the sound like a balloon being released when they cut through the windpipe; the pit dug for the blood to run; the spurting that was not as much as I expected, but more than I was comfortable with; the copious buzzards circling over the scene of the carnage. I heard later that in our little village of Nyakoi, over three thousand rams were killed… WHAT? And each ram runs a family like three or four thousand dalasi. That’s a lot of money wasted for a little bit of tough, gristly meat.
The holiday in itself was incredibly boring. Most of the day was getting ready to go out, and then walking around and doing nothing, and then eating some tough meat. Party on.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
HIV/AIDS Awareness Bike Trek
To spread awareness about HIV/AIDS in the Gambia, a bunch of health volunteers have worked super hard to put together a curriculum and plan all the logistics so we could trek across the country, dropping knowledge bombs on unsuspecting students.
Our team left from the island of Janjanburreh, and biked about 120 kilometers over 5 days. We stopped at six schools along the way, showing videos, doing activities and teaching about HIV. We ended in Farafenni, a fairly big town in the CRR. Another team left from near the capital, and traveled across the Western Region, and a third team traveled around the Farafenni area.
While teaching sex ed to adolescent students is hard enough, try it when they speak very little English. I had to say words that I’m uncomfortable saying, but I had to repeat, elongate and enunciate agonizingly well in order to be understood. There were a number of hilarious stories involving our subject matter and the questions we were asked, but this is neither the time nor the place.
Our first day was an easy ride. We left Janjanburreh at about 5pm, and only had to go like four kilometers to the next village, where we planned to show a video. Before we had gone one kilometer, we were stopped at a checkpoint, which normally you can just ride straight through on a bike. I was immediately perplexed. The militiaman approached one of our team members, and pointed to her camoflauge blanket strapped to the back of her bike, and said angrily, “What is that?!?” This was made increasingly terrifying due to the machine gun in his hands. After a little bit of tense conversation, we learned that it is ILLEGAL to own or wear camoflague in the Gambia. I guess it’s like impersonating an officer. He eventually let us go, telling us to hide it in our bags for the remainder of the trip… yikes.
When we finally arrived at the school, we were greeted by dozens of students and parents, all waving leafy branches and singing a welcome song. They all shook our hands as we went through the human tunnel they had made. Awesome.
We tried to show the video that night, but after three different generators failed to work, we gave up and just had a Gambian dance party. We also had failed to plan a meal for that night, and so we had mayonnaise and spam sandwiches. Not as bad as it sounds. That first night, we also were pitifully unprepared. We had no surfaces on which to sleep, insufficient mosquito nets, and most people hadn’t brought any sort of bedding. I know it’s Africa, but it gets pretty cold at night. It was miserable. We also had to take bucket baths at night with three of our team members guarding against villagers with flashlights. It was like an ASP center, except there was no electricity, more creatures, no showers, and the classrooms had no windows.
When we arrived in Farafenni our last day, we had an entourage of other volunteers there to greet us. We immediately went and ate chicken and chips, and two cokes each. Then we went to our lodging for the night, which was the Farafenni hospital.
So. Gambian hospitals. We had heard it was nice. Air conditioning, running water, and we assumed the conditions would be fairly sterile. As we walked in, we saw cats running about, people on mattresses on the floor outside. We entered our room and saw roaches scatter. There was no electricity in the bathroom, no running water, but there was air conditioning… We had just finished a week of living on the road, biking hours every day, and sleeping on the floor, and I would have rather have done it again than stay in this gross hospital. So that was the end of the bike trek.
But the story continues. We had to get home from Farafenni then. Saturday was supposed to be set-setal, which was an idea of the president’s. Every month, for one Saturday, people are supposed to “clean their environment”. Everything is closed, no one is allowed to travel, and from 9am to 1pm, the country is supposed to stop. So we were planning to go halfway and stop for the night, until we learned that morning that set-setal was cancelled. So the trek began. We took one gele gele (bush taxi) from Farafenni to Janjangburreh. About halfway to Janjangburreh, the car broke down. For like an hour and a half. So we’re sitting in this tiny village with all of the other members of our car, waiting for another car to come or for them to fix it. Finally we got started again, after loading up with two more people and like seven rams strapped to the top, that I’m pretty sure bent my bike significantly. We left at about 11:30, traveled about 300 kilometers, and got home at around 9 pm. Gross.
Our team left from the island of Janjanburreh, and biked about 120 kilometers over 5 days. We stopped at six schools along the way, showing videos, doing activities and teaching about HIV. We ended in Farafenni, a fairly big town in the CRR. Another team left from near the capital, and traveled across the Western Region, and a third team traveled around the Farafenni area.
While teaching sex ed to adolescent students is hard enough, try it when they speak very little English. I had to say words that I’m uncomfortable saying, but I had to repeat, elongate and enunciate agonizingly well in order to be understood. There were a number of hilarious stories involving our subject matter and the questions we were asked, but this is neither the time nor the place.
Our first day was an easy ride. We left Janjanburreh at about 5pm, and only had to go like four kilometers to the next village, where we planned to show a video. Before we had gone one kilometer, we were stopped at a checkpoint, which normally you can just ride straight through on a bike. I was immediately perplexed. The militiaman approached one of our team members, and pointed to her camoflauge blanket strapped to the back of her bike, and said angrily, “What is that?!?” This was made increasingly terrifying due to the machine gun in his hands. After a little bit of tense conversation, we learned that it is ILLEGAL to own or wear camoflague in the Gambia. I guess it’s like impersonating an officer. He eventually let us go, telling us to hide it in our bags for the remainder of the trip… yikes.
When we finally arrived at the school, we were greeted by dozens of students and parents, all waving leafy branches and singing a welcome song. They all shook our hands as we went through the human tunnel they had made. Awesome.
We tried to show the video that night, but after three different generators failed to work, we gave up and just had a Gambian dance party. We also had failed to plan a meal for that night, and so we had mayonnaise and spam sandwiches. Not as bad as it sounds. That first night, we also were pitifully unprepared. We had no surfaces on which to sleep, insufficient mosquito nets, and most people hadn’t brought any sort of bedding. I know it’s Africa, but it gets pretty cold at night. It was miserable. We also had to take bucket baths at night with three of our team members guarding against villagers with flashlights. It was like an ASP center, except there was no electricity, more creatures, no showers, and the classrooms had no windows.
When we arrived in Farafenni our last day, we had an entourage of other volunteers there to greet us. We immediately went and ate chicken and chips, and two cokes each. Then we went to our lodging for the night, which was the Farafenni hospital.
So. Gambian hospitals. We had heard it was nice. Air conditioning, running water, and we assumed the conditions would be fairly sterile. As we walked in, we saw cats running about, people on mattresses on the floor outside. We entered our room and saw roaches scatter. There was no electricity in the bathroom, no running water, but there was air conditioning… We had just finished a week of living on the road, biking hours every day, and sleeping on the floor, and I would have rather have done it again than stay in this gross hospital. So that was the end of the bike trek.
But the story continues. We had to get home from Farafenni then. Saturday was supposed to be set-setal, which was an idea of the president’s. Every month, for one Saturday, people are supposed to “clean their environment”. Everything is closed, no one is allowed to travel, and from 9am to 1pm, the country is supposed to stop. So we were planning to go halfway and stop for the night, until we learned that morning that set-setal was cancelled. So the trek began. We took one gele gele (bush taxi) from Farafenni to Janjangburreh. About halfway to Janjangburreh, the car broke down. For like an hour and a half. So we’re sitting in this tiny village with all of the other members of our car, waiting for another car to come or for them to fix it. Finally we got started again, after loading up with two more people and like seven rams strapped to the top, that I’m pretty sure bent my bike significantly. We left at about 11:30, traveled about 300 kilometers, and got home at around 9 pm. Gross.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Oskee-Wow-Wow
In the Basse market today, the best thing to have ever happened to me or the University of Illinois, happened. I was walking and saw, hanging from a hanger, over a pile of trash, gleaming like an angel, an embroidered Illinois Basketball shirt.
Before I go into the details of this Illinois basketball shirt, I want to tell you the first Illinois basketball shirt that I encountered in this fine country. A man was wearing one in my tiny village of Nyakoi. I knew very little Mandinka at the time, and so thought twice before approaching him to declare my love for the Harvard of the Midwest (this is a lie. A big lie). I went to him excitedly and said in Mandinka “Me! School! My school!”. Having exhausted my Mandinka I said, “Do you speak English”, and he of course said no. So h, despite the fact that he knew no English, I went into a long soliloquy about how I went to the University represented on his shirt, and how I loved my time there, and it’s so weird that he is wearing a shirt of MY school, in MY tiny village, thousands of miles away. Then I left.
So anyway, during this exchange, I knew I would probably fair better. I know slightly more Mandinka, and I was in a town where most vendors know at least a little English. So, I excitedly marched up and said, THIS IS MY SCHOOL. I WENT HERE! Then I switched to English, and told my host sister and the four people working at this tiny stand that I went here. I made them all say “The University of Illinois”, “The Best University in America” (again, I know, I lied, not true). Then I sang the fight song, did the dance that goes with it, and made them repeat the dance. Only after this did I say, How much.
Upon reflection, I maybe should have left it hanging so that a Gambian would buy it and spread the Illini nation by bringing the Chief’s glorious image to his or her village… but I had to have it. He started with the ridiculous price of 200 dalasis. I said, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyeeeeehhhhh” in the aghast Gambian way. With the help of my host sister, I talked him down to 75 dalasis, or the equivalent of about $3.
I looked at the price tag (the shirt came from Marshall’s) and it was going for $19.99 in America, already marked down from the exorbitant price of $32.01 to the low, low price we all have come expect from Marshall’s. Following is a cost analysis of how much you save buying your sports apparel in the Gambia.
Cost of T-shirt at high priced store where only millionaires shop: $32.01.
Price in dalasis: D800.25
Cost of T-shirt at affordable store like Marshalls’s: $19.99
Price is dalasis: D499.75
For a savings of about 37.5%
Cost of T-shirt at dusty road-side stand in Basse, The Gambia: D75.
Price in dollars: $3
For a saving of about 90.7% over the highest price and 85% over Marshall’s.
In my economic opinion, you should come to Basse to do your shopping. Think of the money you could save!
I left my friends at the little mart, went and did some more shopping in Basse, and walked past them later. They all rose, and said, “Hi, Friend! University of Illinois! Best university in America!” One dude, his voice rising above the others in what I can only imagine what Gambian angels (Gambiangels, haha) sound like, said, “Oskee-wow-wow”. Illini nation, take notice.
Before I go into the details of this Illinois basketball shirt, I want to tell you the first Illinois basketball shirt that I encountered in this fine country. A man was wearing one in my tiny village of Nyakoi. I knew very little Mandinka at the time, and so thought twice before approaching him to declare my love for the Harvard of the Midwest (this is a lie. A big lie). I went to him excitedly and said in Mandinka “Me! School! My school!”. Having exhausted my Mandinka I said, “Do you speak English”, and he of course said no. So h, despite the fact that he knew no English, I went into a long soliloquy about how I went to the University represented on his shirt, and how I loved my time there, and it’s so weird that he is wearing a shirt of MY school, in MY tiny village, thousands of miles away. Then I left.
So anyway, during this exchange, I knew I would probably fair better. I know slightly more Mandinka, and I was in a town where most vendors know at least a little English. So, I excitedly marched up and said, THIS IS MY SCHOOL. I WENT HERE! Then I switched to English, and told my host sister and the four people working at this tiny stand that I went here. I made them all say “The University of Illinois”, “The Best University in America” (again, I know, I lied, not true). Then I sang the fight song, did the dance that goes with it, and made them repeat the dance. Only after this did I say, How much.
Upon reflection, I maybe should have left it hanging so that a Gambian would buy it and spread the Illini nation by bringing the Chief’s glorious image to his or her village… but I had to have it. He started with the ridiculous price of 200 dalasis. I said, “Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyeeeeehhhhh” in the aghast Gambian way. With the help of my host sister, I talked him down to 75 dalasis, or the equivalent of about $3.
I looked at the price tag (the shirt came from Marshall’s) and it was going for $19.99 in America, already marked down from the exorbitant price of $32.01 to the low, low price we all have come expect from Marshall’s. Following is a cost analysis of how much you save buying your sports apparel in the Gambia.
Cost of T-shirt at high priced store where only millionaires shop: $32.01.
Price in dalasis: D800.25
Cost of T-shirt at affordable store like Marshalls’s: $19.99
Price is dalasis: D499.75
For a savings of about 37.5%
Cost of T-shirt at dusty road-side stand in Basse, The Gambia: D75.
Price in dollars: $3
For a saving of about 90.7% over the highest price and 85% over Marshall’s.
In my economic opinion, you should come to Basse to do your shopping. Think of the money you could save!
I left my friends at the little mart, went and did some more shopping in Basse, and walked past them later. They all rose, and said, “Hi, Friend! University of Illinois! Best university in America!” One dude, his voice rising above the others in what I can only imagine what Gambian angels (Gambiangels, haha) sound like, said, “Oskee-wow-wow”. Illini nation, take notice.
Stuff I Want (revised)
- CD mixes of new hits
- Ziploc Bags (especially big, gallon-sized ones)
- Sports illustrated or news publications
- Frisbees
- Gum
- School supplies (markers, pens, colored pencils, pencils, colored paper)
- Clif Bars
- Batteries (AA)
- Gatorade powder
- Candy of any kind
- Funny t shirts
- Educational toys (blocks, cuisinart blocks, anything kindergarteners might learn something from)
- Seeds (for food or flowers)
- Ziploc Bags (especially big, gallon-sized ones)
- Sports illustrated or news publications
- Frisbees
- Gum
- School supplies (markers, pens, colored pencils, pencils, colored paper)
- Clif Bars
- Batteries (AA)
- Gatorade powder
- Candy of any kind
- Funny t shirts
- Educational toys (blocks, cuisinart blocks, anything kindergarteners might learn something from)
- Seeds (for food or flowers)
You-Rine
*The following is an announcement made to the entire Nyakoi Lower Basic School student body before school on a Monday
Another thing has been bothering us at school. Some of you students are using the school environment as your toilet. If you need to urinate (pronounced you-rine-ate, with emphasis on the RINE) you need to go to the toilets behind the school. I’ve caught a few of you younger ones you-rine-ating along the back wall behind the school, and some of the classrooms are starting to smell. You can’t just spread your YOU-RINE wherever you want.
Another thing has been bothering us at school. Some of you students are using the school environment as your toilet. If you need to urinate (pronounced you-rine-ate, with emphasis on the RINE) you need to go to the toilets behind the school. I’ve caught a few of you younger ones you-rine-ating along the back wall behind the school, and some of the classrooms are starting to smell. You can’t just spread your YOU-RINE wherever you want.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Dear Chacos
The following is the email I sent to Chacos to plea for their help. If you know any high ups in the Chacos, organization, please let me know, and pass along this email.
Dear Chacos employees -
My name is Abby Adams, and I am a Peace Corps volunteer serving in the
tiny West African country of the Gambia. The Gambia is surrounded by
Senegal, and is the fifteenth least developed country in the world. I
live in a round hut, with a thatched roof, and have no running water
or electricity.
I am writing to tell you of a tragic loss that occurred while trekking
throughout the country, on my way to the village where I will stay for
my two years of service.
I purchased my first beloved pair of Chacos in September of 2008 at a
kayaking festival in North Carolina. I had heard how great they were
through the hiking and kayaking community, and found people's
recommendations to be exactly correct. For the two years after
purchasing them, I wore them almost everywhere. They were
comfortable, rugged, and in the grass roots service organization in
Tennessee at which I worked, they were even considered work
appropriate.
As soon as I was accepted into the Peace Corps, I began making a
packing list, and my Chacos were one of the first things on the list.
In the first few months in the Gambia, they were valuable shoes to
have. They dealt with the mud of the rainy season well, but gave me
traction and stability in the dry sand roads that I had to trudge
through when we went a few hot days without rain.
On the way out to my village, about six hours from the capital,
somehow one of my Chacos fell out of the car. Despite never having
left the vehicle, my Chaco disappeared without a trace. I have only
the one shoe left, constantly reminding me of what once was.
I am writing to plea for your help. As a volunteer, who just arrived
in The Gambia within the past three months, I have very little money,
and hope to save some to see more of Africa and the world, while I
have this rare opportunity.
I would very much appreciate if you would send me a new pair of
Chacos. I am including below my address in the Gambia, as well as my
address in America. If shoes are sent to the America address, a
visitor will be able to get them to me at some point. My shoe size is
a women's ten. I love bright colors, and hate pink.
Also attached is a picture of the last excursion I took with my
Chacos, through the bush of the Gambia. There was quicksand, water up
to my waist, and alternated between hot sun and rainstorms. The
second picture is of the feet of a few of my Peace Corps friends and
I, and our noticeable Chacos tans.
Thank you again for considering my request. I appreciate you and love
your product, and hope to continue to represent the adventurous and
outdoorsy spirit that Chacos embodies.
Sincerely,
Abby Adams
This is the response I received from Chacos.
Hello Abby,
Thanks for the note and the photos! Yikes! That is true mud. I can check in our stock of single sandals and see if we have a mate for you. What size, color and model are these? Let me know and I will see what I can do for you.
Best regards,
WHAT? A ROOM OF ORPHAN SHOES!! I am now almost more interested in obtaining a picture, and getting a clear idea of the size and scape of this shoe collection than I am in obtaining a replacement shoe (if a Chacos employee is reading this, this is not true. I would still prefer to have a replacement shoe, but in a perfect world, I would get both). I’m going to send a request for a photo from said Chacos employee, and if the request is granted, I will post it here.
Dear Chacos employees -
My name is Abby Adams, and I am a Peace Corps volunteer serving in the
tiny West African country of the Gambia. The Gambia is surrounded by
Senegal, and is the fifteenth least developed country in the world. I
live in a round hut, with a thatched roof, and have no running water
or electricity.
I am writing to tell you of a tragic loss that occurred while trekking
throughout the country, on my way to the village where I will stay for
my two years of service.
I purchased my first beloved pair of Chacos in September of 2008 at a
kayaking festival in North Carolina. I had heard how great they were
through the hiking and kayaking community, and found people's
recommendations to be exactly correct. For the two years after
purchasing them, I wore them almost everywhere. They were
comfortable, rugged, and in the grass roots service organization in
Tennessee at which I worked, they were even considered work
appropriate.
As soon as I was accepted into the Peace Corps, I began making a
packing list, and my Chacos were one of the first things on the list.
In the first few months in the Gambia, they were valuable shoes to
have. They dealt with the mud of the rainy season well, but gave me
traction and stability in the dry sand roads that I had to trudge
through when we went a few hot days without rain.
On the way out to my village, about six hours from the capital,
somehow one of my Chacos fell out of the car. Despite never having
left the vehicle, my Chaco disappeared without a trace. I have only
the one shoe left, constantly reminding me of what once was.
I am writing to plea for your help. As a volunteer, who just arrived
in The Gambia within the past three months, I have very little money,
and hope to save some to see more of Africa and the world, while I
have this rare opportunity.
I would very much appreciate if you would send me a new pair of
Chacos. I am including below my address in the Gambia, as well as my
address in America. If shoes are sent to the America address, a
visitor will be able to get them to me at some point. My shoe size is
a women's ten. I love bright colors, and hate pink.
Also attached is a picture of the last excursion I took with my
Chacos, through the bush of the Gambia. There was quicksand, water up
to my waist, and alternated between hot sun and rainstorms. The
second picture is of the feet of a few of my Peace Corps friends and
I, and our noticeable Chacos tans.
Thank you again for considering my request. I appreciate you and love
your product, and hope to continue to represent the adventurous and
outdoorsy spirit that Chacos embodies.
Sincerely,
Abby Adams
This is the response I received from Chacos.
Hello Abby,
Thanks for the note and the photos! Yikes! That is true mud. I can check in our stock of single sandals and see if we have a mate for you. What size, color and model are these? Let me know and I will see what I can do for you.
Best regards,
WHAT? A ROOM OF ORPHAN SHOES!! I am now almost more interested in obtaining a picture, and getting a clear idea of the size and scape of this shoe collection than I am in obtaining a replacement shoe (if a Chacos employee is reading this, this is not true. I would still prefer to have a replacement shoe, but in a perfect world, I would get both). I’m going to send a request for a photo from said Chacos employee, and if the request is granted, I will post it here.
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