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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

More Guest Blogs

More brave travelers have traveled to the Gambia! Stay tuned for their insightful stories of African adventure.

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