"The darkest thing about Africa has always been our ignorance of it"

Your Peace Corps Volunteer may be closer than she appears

Tue, 14 Apr 2009 04:13:28 GMT

Typed Saturday, April 12, 2009:

As I type this, I am sitting in an undisclosed location, currently in hiding from most of the people I know in the US.

By the time you read this post, the surprise will be out, so let's call this a play-by-play of how it happened.

You know how my Peace Corps service was officially supposed to end next week? Well.... I got official permission from Peace Corps to let me be home for Easter on "religious grounds."

I just elected not to share the news. :)

And so, the plan was set to surprise my family (and most of you reading this) on Easter Sunday! Please pardon the little white lies and trickery of the last several months, but with any luck, it'll be worth it to see the looks on their faces!

I arrived in the US on Wednesday the 8th, almost a week sooner than most people expected. Stephen's fiancee Chelsea met me at the airport and then whisked me to her apartment for the next couple days. A few hours after she picked me up, Stephen and Chelsea went to a movie in her car. Stephen actually looked at the gas gauge and asked, "WHERE did you DRIVE today?!?! Your gas has half emptied since we were in this car a few days ago!" Chelsea feigned shock, and the issue was dropped. We later rolled our eyes together at Stephen's near-thwart of our surprise.

To pass the time, I watched movies while Chelsea was at class, had a pedicure (needed the residual dirt and calluses of Africa off my feet!), and we did some shopping. Fortunately, my body was still on Africa time, so I'd wake up between 1 and 3 am each morning (7 or 9 am Gambia time) and email my parents at the time they would expect to see stamped on my emails, since I habitually checked my email first thing each morning in Kombo.

I called Mom & Dad's pastor to finalize our plans. (The first time I called, I had to hang up shortly thereafter as Chelsea had an incoming call which turned out to be an offer to interview for a job. This comes up later.) He'd asked them to do things in the service, which would ensure they were there, and he would ask them to the front of the sanctuary to announce he had a surprise for them. The hard part was sneaking me into the church without anyone seeing. Too early and they'd have no place to hide me. Too late after the service started and I'd miss my cue.

Chelsea told me Mom had made brunch reservations for the four of them. Luckily, Mom's on Facebook now and happened to mention it there. I posted a surprised note wondering why and where they were going for brunch. Ka-ching. Pappy's Corner Pub. Promptly called Pappy's and changed the reservation from 4 people to 5, while also finding out what time the reservation is.

Emailed my cousin Wendy to tell her that, despite what my parents had said, we might be dropping in on the extended Hoffman family Easter dinner after all, following brunch, if only to see people.

On Friday, it was time to give Chelsea a break from covering up for me, so she drove me to meet Karen halfway. Karen then drove me to Fort Collins, where I stayed crouched low in the seat once within 3 miles of my house, lest we coincidentally pull up next to my parents. We arrived at Claire's house, not a mile from mine, which became my new hiding spot.

Woke up again at 1 am and was able to do my email and blog post at the correct time, but then had to be back up in time for an 8 am video chat with my parents. We'd had several video chats before, when I was in Kombo and could get to the one decent internet cafe, so I needed to set things up to resemble the cafe. Internet service in Claire's house is limited to the kitchen, which severely limited my location options, but I found that if I sat on the floor and put the laptop up on a chair in front of me (so that you couldn't tell I was sitting on the floor), the dark green wood paneling that goes up to waist height would sufficiently resemble the dark walls of the internet cafe. Fortunately, her internet had issues and froze up occasionally, just like they would have expected African internet to do. I made sure the room was dimly lit and that Claire had a heads-up not to shout anything at me. The unexpected problem, however, was that, since I was last here a year ago, Claire and her roommate have acquired a big black lab with a bark that shakes the foundation. I could not a) have Xander walk in front of the camera or b) have Xander let out a bark. So we put Xander in his crate in anticipation of the chat, covered the door with a blanket (to minimize the stimuli he might see), and opened the front door so that I could see if someone showed up and catch them before they rang the doorbell. My back-up plan, if Xander barked or the doorbell rang, was to shut the chat down suddenly and feign technical issues. Who knows whether it would've been convincing, but fortunately it never came to that.

The chat was funny, making plans for my flight and what food I wanted brought to the airport. But I had to smile when Mom and Dad gave me the exciting news of Chelsea's job interview... The call that came while I was holding the phone! :-D

Later on Saturday, I called Chelsea to let her know that, while I knew she'd been planning to wear the earrings and necklace I gave her from Gambia to church, she'd need to put the necklace in her purse and not put it on until after the surprise. Why? Because I remembered that a few of the necklace beads are made of fish vertebrae, a distinctly Gambian touch that my family would have recognized. The rest of the jewelry looks African, but could easily be faked. The fish vertebrae would have blown our cover. Another crisis averted.

Next up was to let Chelsea and Pastor Dan know which number to reach me on in the morning, to perfectly time when I walked into church and avoid accidental run-ins. Karen came over to Claire's and brought me Subway (I'd already done Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Noodles & Company, and Pizza Hut) and we caught up.

Typed Monday, April 13, 2009:

Sunday morning, after breakfast burritos and fruit salad (courtesy of Anna, Claire’s roommate), I put on my fanciest Gambian outfit, and Claire drove me to Mountain Range Church. We timed our arrival in the parking lot for just after the service would have started at 10 am. I hid low in the passenger seat and we awaited the call saying it was safe to come in.

Just then, we got a text message from Chelsea—she and Stephen were running late and hadn’t yet pulled into the parking lot. We were in trouble—Stephen would have recognized Claire! We quickly pulled out of the parking lot, barely missing them. (Chelsea said she saw us leave.) We pulled onto a nearby neighborhood street until Chelsea texted that they were parking. Fortunately, we didn’t have to wait too long, or we might have missed our cue.

We pulled back up at the church just in time to see Stephen and Chelsea walk in the door. Claire parked and I resumed my hidden position slouched down in the passenger seat. We were just in time—not five minutes later, we got the call that it was safe for me to come in. The church secretary, DJ, and Pastor Dan’s wife, Linda, were a coordinated team to rush me in the door and straight to the women’s restroom to hide out for a few more seconds.

Then, it was time, and DJ ushered me to the side door of the sanctuary, and I walked in.

Pastor Dan was standing facing the congregation, with Mom and Dad on his left and Stephen and Chelsea on his right. As it turned out, Stephen and Chelsea were positioned slightly facing me, so Stephen’s eyes bugged out almost immediately, but he stayed silent. As I walked toward Mom and Dad, who had their backs to me, Pastor Dan talked about how Easter is a time for surprises and answered prayers, and that something they were looking forward was going to happen a little sooner than they thought.

Mom & Dad were so focused on the pastor that they didn’t notice I’d walked up and was standing just behind them. After Pastor Dan finally motioned for them to look behind them, Mom turned around.

“OH MY GOSH!!!!!!!!!!” She started crying and grabbed me, and hugged me so long I began to feel bad for Dad, who was standing there waiting his turn. Dad was teary and, while Mom was quite vocal, he was speechless. They immediately harassed Stephen for helping me, and were quite surprised to learn that my co-conspirator was NOT my brother, but his fiancée! I went to high-five Chelsea, but apparently got a little too enthusiastic and almost fell over. Mildly embarrassing.

Once things calmed down a bit, I was given a chance to thank the church for their support and help, both with Peace Corps and this surprise, and Dad was given a chance to respond, but it took him a while to say anything.

The rest of the morning (especially at brunch) was spent straightening out things I’d told them. Things like no, my phone wasn’t stolen—just couldn’t have you call after I left Gambia last Tuesday! :)

So, with Julie checking my email and Facebook (to delete messages from PCVs blurting things like “HEY HOW’S AMERICA??” *ahem that’s you Croc Kate :)*); Mike T setting up a secret email account that I could plan surprises through (since my Mom has checked my normal email account for me for two years); Chelsea, Karen, Claire & Anna providing rides and lodging, and Pastor Dan coordinating the surprise, we pulled it off!

Thanks for all the help!

If I'm not going home without a fight, then put up your dukes

Sat, 11 Apr 2009 08:10:25 GMT

First of all, click here for new pics!
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During my two years in Africa, with minimal supervision and only a mildly annoying amount of paperwork, I've apparently forgotten that, as a branch of the US government, the Peace Corps must kill the forests of small nations with the paperwork hoops you have to jump through.
The application process was a long, ridiculous series of forms with numbers like 423-5C instead of names ("Doctor's Exam"), followed by follow-up forms with occasionally absurd questions. "Why didn't you tell us you had a thyroid imbalance? We're putting your medical clearance on hold." "Um, I didn't tell you about my thyroid imbalance because I don't HAVE one."
Leaving the PC is a similar process. You're given a book with sections for nearly every staff member in the office to sign. It looks easy enough, but that's a trap designed to draw you in and make you think PC actually WANTS you to return to America. The reality looks more like this:
- Try to pick up the check for 1/3 of my resettlement allowance from Juliana. (The other 2/3 comes in the mail after you return to the US.) Am told I'm not allowed to do that until I've settled up financial stuff with Peace Corps
- Pick up a form from Juliana that says how much money PC owes me and a form from Fatou that says how much money I owe Peace Corps.
- Go to the cashier to try to settle up, then get her signature on the appropriate line
- Cashier tells me that the form I got from Fatou has to first be taken to Juliana to be put into the system (the first form was a typed document, too--apparently just not typed in the right format)
- Go to Juliana to get the form put into the system
- Juliana passes the form to Yaya to put in the system
- Wait for Yaya to have a chance to put it in the system
- Yaya finishes the form, but by that time (10 am-ish), Patti, who has to sign off on the form, has stepped out to meet with or show around (not sure) the new British woman on staff
- Go back to the transit house to do other things, as I am now in a deadlock until Patti returns
- Return to the office around 2 pm, haunt Yaya, who tells me that Patti is still not back
- Pester Yaya several more times, finally find out around 3:45 that Patti is back
- By 4:00, Yaya is able to get the form signed by Patti
- Return to the cashier's office to turn in the forms and finally settle up
- Cashier's office is closed. Oh yeah. The cashier only works til 3.
- National holiday declared the next day. Stake out the office anyway, trying to catch any PC staff member who decides to drop by work for an hour. End up spending 7 hours on the couch by the front door, first waiting for Juliana (who I pressure into giving me the check, b/c my financial stuff is mostly done and who knows how many more holidays there will be before I leave) and then for the country director, with whom I'm supposed to meet at noon but who forgets and thinks it was 1 pm. Am unable to leave said couch except for rushed trips to the bathroom 2 feet away. Desperately hungry but can't go get food, less I miss someone. Fellow volunteer finally takes pity on me and goes to buy me food.
- Run into Patti, too, and express worry about getting all the appropriate signatures and forms done with all the holiday declaring going on. Patti is helpful in coming up with a back-up plan, but then tells me, "that's why I tell people they should really come in and start on the whole process as soon as you get to Kombo." Silently seethe inside and don't mention that I could have finished everything I'm stressing about if she hadn't been out of the office for 6 hours the previous day. DO mention that I arrived in Kombo Tuesday night and then spent nearly all of Wednesday and Thursday AT the office, running up and down the two flights of stairs.

Okay, so I'm a sap

Thu, 09 Apr 2009 09:10:31 GMT

When I sat down to watch the movie Bolt yesterday, I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

I'd never heard of the movie before seeing it. Had I, I might have guessed that the plot goes something like this:

- Girl has super bond with dog, who thinks he's a superhero created to protect the girl
- Dog takes himself too seriously and is overprotective
- Girl and dog get separated
- Girl sad
- Dog wants to find his "person," but in the meantime, is learning how to be a normal dog. This includes learning how to play with dog toys, befriending other animals, riding with his head out the window, and living in a regular house, none of which he'd done before.
- Dog doesn't understand why he was separated from his person and begins to wonder if she really loved him
- Dog and his person are dramatically reunited, girl decides to give dog a more normal life from now on

Does any of this sound like someone you know?

This is not a good movie to watch if you've been in a situation where your safety and mental health hinged on your overprotective dog for two years but now you're separated and your dog is off learning how to be a normal dog.

Let me just say, it's embarrassing to cry while watching a Disney cartoon. Especially in the first five minutes.

Truth is stranger than fiction

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 14:58:36 GMT

It's frightening how often my blog entries seem to need an introduction of "I swear, I am not making this up."

On that note, I swear I am not making this up:
I have one pair of tennis shoes that I brought to The Gambia with me two years ago. As it turns out, PCVs here live in flip-flops, the $1 pair you can buy anywhere in the village, and just throw away when they're worn down. So my tennis shoes have sat basically unused except when I was flying somewhere (England, home, Senegal) or when I was playing softball at WAIST in February.
Kombo is a little more tolerable temperature-wise than my site, though, so yesterday, I decided to don tennis shoes.
The following is a blow-by-blow account:
Me *talking to the other Beth, picks shoe up and gets a whiff of it*: Whoa!
Beth J: What?
Me *picks shoe up and smells it gingerly*
Beth J: What are you doing?
Me: It smells bad!
Beth J: So why are you smelling it?
Me: I'm trying to figure out what the deal is... *begins examining the shoe*
Beth J *jokes*: What, something died in there?
Me *pulls shoe open and looks inside*: A MOUSE!!! A MOUSE DIED IN THERE! AAAA! GROSS!
Beth J: Wait, you're serious?
Me: Yes! It died in there and it's been decomposing since then! EW!
I then had to extract said decomposing mouse from my shoe, and after seeing how many bits of decomposed mouse were left even after I'd pulled the body out, I realized two things:
a) There was no way I could get my shoe clean enough (not to mention deodorized enough) to wear again, without a washing machine, something I haven't used in two years except when traveling outside Gambia
b) I'm not sure even a machine could've saved that shoe. Remember, the most recent time I can vouch for that shoe NOT having a dead mouse was two months ago!

This left me with no choice but to throw my tennis shoes away. End result? I'll be flying through freezing cold (to me) New York and Denver wearing flip-flops.
I'm going to freeze.

How to find out what people REALLY think of you

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 07:09:55 GMT

I woke up before 6 am today, and couldn't sleep, so I decided I'd just come to the PC office for a while.
Waking up that early wasn't ALL bad, though.
Why?
Because I got to buy some of Jammeh's bread. Jammeh's Gambia's president of 13 years or something now. Or, "Dr. J," as I heard someone refer to him the other day.
Why, you ask, did I buy bread from the president?
Because a few months back, a bread bakery opened on Kairaba, one of the main roads in Kombo and the place with the highest real estate values in the country (so I've heard). Apparently, the big guy himself owns it.
It took me a long time to realize it was a bakery. The lines were always so long and the front door so jam-packed that I used to think they played football games on a TV there.
Turns out, people just think the bread is so amazing (because it's Jammeh's bread or because they really like the recipe, I don't know) that they're willing to stand in long lines in the hot sun to buy a 20 cent loaf of bread (shaped like a small baguette).
Anyway, as it happens, the bakery is open and not crowded at 6 am. So after walking by that ridiculous line dozens of time, I was able to stroll in when no one was around and easily buy a loaf. It's good, but it's not that good. It's basically just regular French bread.
But then, I suppose eating a loaf of Jammeh's bread is one of those things every PCV should do before leaving the Gambia. Right up there with being waved at by the president in his passing motorcade (been there) or even meeting the big guy himself (done that). So, I guess that means I can go home like, today, right?

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^Sometimes I do this when I don't have a good transition and have overused "Anyway" and "In other news."

When you COS (Close Of Service), as part of the medical clearing process, you are allowed to photocopy and take any part of your PC medical record you wish. Incidentally, this is also the first chance you get to actually see firsthand what was written about you.

It was quite the experience reading what's been written about me. The best entry was when they were looking to switch me off of the malaria prevention med that has psychological side effects. They were trying to determine how badly the meds were screwing with my head, so the entry's full of stuff like:
- "Seems rational"
- "Makes eye contact"
- "Dressed neatly"
- "Started crying"
- "Can converse coherently"

Then I happened to look at the notes for my most recent exam, the COS physical. Most of the notes were familiar, since she was copying down what I was saying. But then I got to the very end, where she'd decided to add just ooooooooonnnnee more thing:

"Mild facial acne"

Ouch.

We can sit around brewing lait and playing mancala, yes?

Sun, 05 Apr 2009 08:40:23 GMT

I hereby challenge you all to a Mancala tournament upon my return to the States.
What's Mancala, you ask?
It's that game that everyone's seen but most people don't know how to play:

I learned how to play it about a month ago, and sat there with a few other volunteers who'd gotten equally hooked, wistfully discussing how cool it would be to get a mancala board hand-carved here.
Then yesterday, I was at the Fajara Craft Market (which my parents and I found when they were here) and discovered one. I like the Fajara Craft Market, because it has mostly the same stuff as the other craft markets here, but is less well known, so people are more pressed to make a sale and I can get much lower prices there. (A tourist can't, and sometimes when I hear the prices they're bargaining at, I have to resist the impulse to jump in and tell them they're being charged triple. But hey, it's the price you pay for coming to a country without any grasp of the language or culture. End soapbox.)
It started at 800 dalasi (over $30), but I got it down to half that. I'm really excited because Mancala's a great game (easy to learn but lots of strategy), plus the set makes a cool looking souvenir. I bought the really big one that'd make a cool display piece in the middle of the room or something. Probably my favorite souvenir from Gambia (and I've bought a lot of them). It's a good thing I have a bit of wiggle room in my luggage.
So, starting next week, I'm going to teach you all how to play!

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In other news, last night was Peace Corps' third open mic. I did a couple things, but they had to be a capella as, alas, I've sorta set the guitar aside during my PC service. (I brought my guitar, but I'd get it out to play when I was feeling stressed out by Gambia, only every time I played my front door would be mobbed, which just stressed me out more.) It was cool though. PCV's are, seemingly by definition, a very artsy and musical bunch. (Intimidatingly so!) Cass usually reads a poem or two about PC life, and they always make me teary. In November she read one called "Touch," about how as PCV's we get almost no physical contact and so are constantly wrestling our host siblings for SOME human touch, though it's still not enough. Last night she read one about how we're leaving the people who understand our stories and what we've gone through the past two years for people who are just going to nod and look at us blankly. (Nothing personal to people back home! That's just how it is.)
And finally, as of approximately this week, the new must have fashion item in Kombo iiiiiiisssssss *drumroll please*...........
The propeller hat.
I know, I know, you have that picture in your head of what I mean by propeller hat, but you're telling yourself "that can't be what she means..." Allow me to clear up the confusion:

Yes. You are correct.
It's so bad that I was late getting somewhere because I'd gotten in a taxi whose driver decided to interrupt the route to drive in circles trying to go around to different vendors for the best deal on a propeller hat. I eventually got so mad I yelled at him in Mandinka, got out of the car, and walked the rest of the way, even after the driver pulled back up in his propeller hat and tried to get me back in the car.
I will NOT be bringing home a souvenir propeller hat. So don't even ask.

The time I punched a small piece of Gambia in the face

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 10:17:14 GMT

Quick! When was the last time you took a sledgehammer to something?
My answer: Thursday.
Backstory: In Kombo (the urban coastal area), Peace Corps has a transit house, where volunteers can stay while they're in town to go to the PC office or the bank... or the beach. We call it the stodge.
Inside the stodge's walled compound is a small house in the back. Currently, that house is being used for a few PCVs working in the Kombo area to live in permanently.
It hasn't previously been used for volunteer housing, so it's only recently been remodeled and brought up to PC housing code. This means that some of the bugs haven't exactly been worked out.
The house is sort of fortress like, with bars on all the windows and metal doors riveted to the house. Even the lock is super heavy-duty. Which wouldn't be a problem if it worked correctly.
As it turns out, there have been occasions where the lock has jammed and people have been locked in the house. They had to jimmy the lock around quite a bit before getting out. Not a huge problem, so long as the house isn't, say, on fire.
However, Thursday night, Beth J (the other Beth) tried to get into her locked house and failed. She called a few other PCVs over for help, and we all took turns jimmying and jiggling and jerking. No luck. It was late at night, so we decided not to call the hard-working Gambian PC staff member whose job it is to fix these things. Instead, we took things into our own hands.
Someone found a hammer, and we decided we were going to just bang the lock out of the door. One by one, Alicia, Buya (real name Amy, but we all call her by her Gambian name, Buya, pronounced "Boo-yah"... great, huh?), Pete, Beth J and I pounded at the lock -- great stress relief! Alicia was looking wistfully through the window into the house, where the fridge held her precious stash of Thin Mints cookies. She was perhaps a little more motivated than the rest of us to get inside...
We continued making progress, having thoroughly mangled the lock and loosened it a bit. But Buya went for reinforcements and returned with a sledgehammer. Yes!
It was right about then that Ellie came home and found us destroying her front door. "Umm, guys...? I have the key...."
More banging.
Finally, we decided to ask the guards for help. Gambians are great at inventive solutions to the weirdest situations. Also, they're stronger than the mostly female group we had.
When they came over and we explained the situation, their first question was, "well do you have the key?" They (like Ellie, apparently) were pretty sure that these stupid toubabs had lost the key, and decided to bang the door down rather than wait for the spare. We explained (in both English and Mandinka) that yes, we had the key, but the lock was jammed and the key didn't work, so we were just knocking the lock out of the door.
Still in doubt, the guards asked for the key, which we handed over, then watched as they tried to open the door. It was difficult to hold back the snickers when one of the guards informed us, "well, the lock is bent. That's why the key's not working."
Ok, yes, the lock is bent now...
But that's because we've been at it with a sledgehammer for the past half hour, making a ruckus that the guards couldn't possibly not have heard!
So we explained, again, that the lock was bent by our sledgehammer after the key didn't work. Eventually, we convinced the guards to just start swinging, and they successfully busted the door apart and voila! We were in!
As for the girls living in the house, they're relieved to have that lock off the door, and are requesting a fire escape be made if PC admin wants to put another industrial strength lock on there. A wise decision.

You're such a Jola

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 08:33:09 GMT

I feel differently about Gambia different days.
Today is a "punch Gambia in the face" day.
Why?
Our president is a Jola, that's why.
See, Gambians identify more strongly with their tribe (Mandinka, Wolof, Jola, etc.) than with their nationality as Gambians. As such, most still fall into predictable stereotypes about their tribe. The Serahules are businessmen, the Fulas are the most humble (having been everyone else's slaves a few generations back)... and the Jolas? They like to party.
I don't just mean once in a while. I mean that Jolas will party it up at the slightest provocation. So what happens when you put a Jola in the most powerful seat in the country?
He declares national holidays at the drop of a hat.
This is great for Gambians with office jobs, who often find out late at night that they don't have to work the next morning. It's a problem for anyone who ever wants to accomplish anything.  Peace Corps volunteers are constantly trekking into Basse or Kombo to withdraw their monthly living allowance, only to discover a holiday's been declared so, surprise! The bank's closed!
This is an especially huge problem if you arrive in Basse or Kombo without enough leftover cash to feed yourself or get back to site. Because then you're stranded... and hungry.
I once biked all the way to Basse to go to the bank, only to discover that a holiday had been declared because Senegal and Gambia had played each other in a football game and Gambia had... won, you say?  No, no, no, silly... It was a draw. So yes. Our eminent prez shut down the country to celebrate Gambia's draw in a football game.
So back to why I want to punch Gambia in the face today.
Gambia's under-17 team is off somewhere for a football game that was yesterday. (I don't care enough to know who or where they were playing.)  They actually won, this time, so last night, a national holiday was declared. It's for today through possibly as long as Sunday. But then Monday is when they return to Gambia. The last time this happened, the day the team returned was also declared a holiday. Oh! And next Friday through Monday is declared one long holiday for Good Friday through the day after Easter. (Did I mention this is a Muslim country?)
So, in short, despite the fact that I still have A WEEK AND A HALF left, I have a grand total of THREE DAYS in which to do ALL of my medical checks and Close Of Service paperwork. Because even the PC office is forced to close for every last ridiculous Gambian holiday.
This is a problem.
And yet... I've been here for two years... I should've been able to foresee this type of thing by now.
*punches Gambia in the face*

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 13:40:06 GMT

In a miraculous turn of events, the Basse internet cafe is actually working today! This is doubly miraculous, because a) I've been here at least five times this month, sometimes waiting up to 45 minutes, before finding out the internet doesn't feel like cooperating that day, and b) the Basse government powers-that-be have decided they can no longer afford the fuel that powers the generators that produce Basse's intermittent electricity. They have resolved the problem by randomly leaving sections of Basse powerless occasionally. Makes it hard to use a computer...

So anyway, I can't promise that my luck will hold out much longer, so I'll make this quick and give you the highlights of my life right now:

- I'm pretty sure I have worms. The faint-of-heart won't want to know how I know, so I'll skip that part. Let's just say I had to send some interesting "samples" to the PC med unit with the PC mailrun car on Sunday. PC screens and treats all that kind of stuff when you finish service anyway. I probably have schistostomiasis too, which is kinda fun because I remember discussing it as this rarely heard of disease in my college biology courses. I get to go home and be the person who's had every exotic disease ever. If I were a girl scout, I'd have earned my "weird disease" badge several times over. (No, such a badge does not actually exist, to my knowledge.)

- I shipped out half my belongings on mailrun to other volunteers in-country. I sold it all to make a few hundred bucks, which I'll put toward paying back Minty's shipping. So now my house is so empty it practically echoes. I can't help thinking though, that the wide open floor would be great for a dance party.

- I get picked up in a PC car on Monday! That's when I'll say my goodbyes to my host fam, probably crying so much that it'll scare the children and they won't want to hug me. Then Monday night will be in Basse for a farewell party, at which we'll make smoothies with the new PC Basse house blender. That is, if the government deigns to grant us electricity that night.

- By now, due to Gambian gossip circles (the only thing which outdoes the Peace Corps gossip circle), pretty much the entire country knows I shipped my dog to America. The image I've tried to convey is that I put him in a box and shipped him as luggage on top of the plane. (Ask any Gambian where luggage goes--on top of the vehicle!) I make sure to reiterate to them that I did not have to buy him a plane ticket because he's luggage, so no I will not buy you a ticket to America either. And no, he will not die in the box. Yes, I'm sure.

Despite having shipped Minty almost two months ago, most people seem to envision him still floating out in the middle of the Atlantic on a boat, being smuggled illegally into the US. They are shocked to hear he's already at my parents' house.

Just yesterday, my host father (who I swear I've told eight times already) gave me the "what?!? He entered there already??" To prove it (because he was clearly in doubt), I started regaling him with tales of Minty's new life. "So, I have this chair in America, right? [I don't know the Mandinka word for couch.] And it's my chair, but it's at my parents' house. And even I never let my dog on that chair! Even my America dog! But now, my parents call, and they tell me 'your dog sleeps on your chair', and I say 'bii lai wo lai tii lai'!" [That translates to some cross between "WHAT?!?!" and "Oh no you didn't!"]

Host fam: "He sleeps on your chair?!?!"

Me: "On my CHAIR!! Even here, I did not let him on my chair! And even my America dog, I did not allow her on my chair! I tell them 'no, I do not want dogs on my chair,' but they say, 'but he likes your chair TOO much--and he is sleeping.' Bii lai!!"

Host fam: "On your CHAIR?!?"

Me: "On my chair!"

Among the things I never thought I'd see...

Sat, 14 Mar 2009 17:48:14 GMT

(posted by Mom)
Bethany was out by the river this week and saw a man fishing with a fishing pole (highly inefficient--fishing is done with nets so you can catch a lot at one time.) She stopped to talk and asked if he was fishing for his dinner -- with some disgust he informed her that he didn't need to fish for dinner -- he had just purchased a good quantity of fish for eating. "So, why are you fishing?" Turns out he was bored with nothing to do in his compound so he was just fishing for entertainment! A Gambian with leisure time -- pursuing a hobby!
She asked him some questions and as a result, with the use of dental floss, a fish hook, and a raw peanut for bait, she has now successfully caught her own fish--some of which she gave to her host family and one she cooked herself with a corn meal batter -- delish!

(By the way, she'll be back in Colorado one month from today!! -- April 14)

When I go home, I’ll really miss having monkeys dart in front of me when I bike

Sat, 21 Feb 2009 04:18:40 GMT

Major kudos (and thanks) go out to Jenn, who recently wrote me from her hospital bed. THAT is a dedicated correspondent.

I bought a duck! (Again.) Partially because my current female hasn’t done a thing since abandoning her first nest, partially because I have a little bit of birthday gift money to spend, and partially because I’m still hung up on my goal of getting at least ONE duckling before I leave this country, I decided to suck it up and spend the 150 dalasi ($7). Since I’ve had Kiling (“One,” still alive), Fula (“Two,” dead), Saba (“Three,” dead) and Naani (“Four,” still alive), it means this one’s name is Luulu (“Five”). She’s still pretty young (she has a few wing feathers still growing in), but Kiling (the male) is definitely doing his part to get her to lay eggs…

I keep a running list on my little expo board of topics to blog about, so that I remember the next time I’m on my laptop. So this post was based on my expo notes that said “monkeys,” “Jenn,” and “Luulu.” What I don’t get is why I wrote a note to blog about “duck shoulder.” Oh well. It was probably a funny story at the time…

Vacation's over already??

Mon, 16 Feb 2009 23:31:13 GMT

Check out my new userpic!
Well, tomorrow morning I head back (by land this time) to Gambia. I'll be at a friend's house by dark, Inshallah (God willing, i.e. assuming our car doesn't explode or otherwise cease functioning), then will visit a few people and be back in village by Saturday.
I know I should post a more comprehensive post about my Senegal time, and I probably will in the near future when I figure out where Basse's last internet cafe reincarnation moved to. But during my first long and lonely week here in Senegal, all I had was slow internet with a krazy French keyboard with all the keys moved around so half my sentences came out gibberish (and no USB port to transfer a blog post from my laptop to the cafe computer). Then when I did finally sit down for two hours to write some exceptionally witty & moving entries, the computer was so overwhelmed with emotion that it promptly froze up and lost all my work.
On Friday, when the PCVs from the rest of West Africa showed up for our softball tournament, I moved to a cushy American expat house with wireless internet. So since then, I've had speedy (better than anywhere in Gambia) internet, and can type on my very own laptop (with normal key layout!), but I've had no time to post. It's been a crazily busy weekend, between softball games, eating amazing food (Dakar's WAY more developed than Kombo), shopping, dancing, and seeing the sights. Not to mention getting to use my homestay's washer and dryer (something my clothing hasn't seen in nine months!).
So, apologies for the slacking off... I think Mom might still have some of my pre-typed entries, so there'll still be regular updates here... You'll just have to wait a bit longer before hearing the glorious details of Dakar (overpasses! purebred dogs! trash cans!).

Did I mention the donuts?

What a long, strange trip it's... being?

Thu, 12 Feb 2009 16:38:14 GMT

Bonjour! I'm sitting here at an internet cafe in Senegal, wishing I spoke French or Wolof. Why are you in Senegal, you may ask, or perhaps, where's Senegal? Senegal is the former French colony which surrounds Gambia on all sides except for a small stretch of coast. So while former British colony Gambia has one single type of bread across the country and often mediocre cuisine, Senegal is the land of pastries, pizza, and assorted other French items starting with "p" that I never order because they don't resemble the English word closely enough for me to guess.

There are some Mandinka speakers in Senegal, and I get very excited when I run into them and can speak in complete sentences. Otherwise, I'm getting by with my guidebook French, a few Wolof phrases, a lot of gestures and the numbers 1-99 in Fula.

As to why I’m here – first, WAIST – West African Intramural Softball Tournament—a gathering of West African PCVs, and this was where I came to ship Minty direct to the U.S. (Flying him from Gambia would have meant going through Europe--nearly impossible these days after a severe tightening of their rules for shipping animals because a cargo handler was bitten a few months back.)

Minty in America!

Mon, 09 Feb 2009 17:03:55 GMT

From Mom: God Does Stuff. Then He Chuckles. Repeated attempts to make advance arrangements to ship Minty to the States had accomplished nothing. We were left with the belief that Bethany wouldn't know until she showed up at the shipping terminal in Dakar, Senegal, whether she would be able to ship Minty to Atlanta by Delta, or have to use South African Airways and ship to Dulles Airport in Washington, DC. Her Dad and I prepared to hit the road Friday night, planning to drive straight through to Atlanta (hopefully not DC) arriving Sat. evening, finding a place to sleep, and picking Minty up at 8:30 Sunday morning-- then hitting the road again, planning to arrive back in Colorado sometime Monday (and expecting to be pretty exhausted.)
Then Bethany gets to Dakar, and learns that Delta has turned over its cargo operations to DHL. The DHL agent is filling out the paperwork and asks for the address of the people receiving the dog. She says, "Well they don't live in Atlanta, so can't they just pick him up at the airport?"
He asks, "Where do they live?"
"Colorado."
To which he replies, "Why aren't you just shipping him all the way to Colorado?"
Call Mom and Dad: " How about just driving to DIA rather than Atlanta?"
Bottom line, while Delta's domestic pet shipping service wouldn't "speak" with their international shipping (so we would have had to pay a service to receive him in Atlanta and put him on a plane to Denver--for which we were quoted $1800!) shipping cargo is DHL's business. Minty still flew on Delta planes, but DHL staff handled the transfer process in Atlanta--all for less than what we expected to pay!
Cut to Sunday--we're planning to pick him up at 3:30--phone rings at 11:30. Call from Delta Cargo in Denver: "There's a dog coming in here, but you can't pick him up. U.S. Customs doesn't clear cargo on Sundays--someone should have told you not to ship a dog on the weekend." (Maybe if someone at Delta had actually tried to be helpful on one of my many calls... rather than just saying, 'you have to deal with the people in Senegal,' who surprisingly enough, don't know that U.S. Customs in Denver is closed on Sunday!) But I keep talking to this man and he takes pity and tells me we could try showing up at the cargo office, picking up the paperwork that comes in with the dog, then going to the airport terminal and asking a Customs Agent (who's checking in people) to please stamp the paperwork so we can go back to cargo and take the dog.
We do that-- Custom Agent isn't happy however, says Delta knows they aren't supposed to ask for Cargo to be cleared after hours or on weekends, but I'm there--he checks the computer -- Minty was actually cleared through Customs in Atlanta! He stamps our paperwork to satisfy the Delta cargo staff and we go back to retrieve Minty.
So after many months of planning and trying to consider everything that could possibly go wrong, the Lord looks down, chuckles, and says, "I had it handled all along."

It's a metaphor for society

Thu, 05 Feb 2009 08:40:02 GMT

Recently, while visiting a fellow PCV, I noted the collages all over her house. That led to some impromptu craft time, when we decided to collage about COS'ing. (Turns out it's good for closure!)
Unfortunately, LiveJournal massively shrinks the size and quality of images when you upload them, so this is as big as I can get it without it being totally blurry. Also, the scanner was too small to scan it all at once, hence the line down the middle. Oh, and it cut off the top inch.
But you get the idea.

P.S. I just got a very satisfying score on my Close Of Service language test for PC! (Peace Corps language tests remain in official government records and go a long way if you ever apply for a job requiring language-learning ability.)

A Professional Photo!

Mon, 02 Feb 2009 22:18:44 GMT

This picture is from Tobaski, taken by Bala, Sutukonding's official photographer. (Since my camera was broken.) Yes, the plastic chair, cracked linoleum and rapper posters are his professional "studio." He took two shots, but the other one didn't turn out because the flash reflected off the rapper posters. Seriously. This single sheet cost me 25D ($1.) Hope he didn't charge extra for the off-centeredness. Oh, and Aja's grin? I'm tickling her back -- Gambians don't like to smile in pictures. My Tobaski get up (fake hair--weaved in, jewelry, embroidered outfit, sandals, and black hennaed feet) ran me about 1000D ($50) --major splurge! Aja's outfit is new too, but her extensions are made of yarn (cheaper than fake hair.) So cute!

There was a time when my clothes matched, or at least didn’t clash horribly

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 19:19:22 GMT

Bootleg DVDs here come in all sorts of great combinations and titles (like “The Female Heroine Does Battle With The Action Film” and “Jennifer Lopez vs. Kate Winslet”), which is why my “DISNEY CARTOON THEATER WONDERFUI” (yes, that last letter is actually an “I” on the package) is one of my favs. Did you know there’s a Lion King 3? And that Fox and The Hound 2 is voiced by stars like Reba McEntire? But the biggest surprise came when I watched Beauty and the Beast, an old fav. Does ANYONE out there remember a song in that movie called “Human Again?” Because none of the PCVs here had ever seen that part of the movie. But it’s in this DVD’s version of the movie. Sort of odd to watch a movie you’ve seen a hundred times only to suddenly discover a new scene…

I visited another URR volunteer recently, and spent some time chatting with her friend, Alieu. He started in on me with the whole Gambian “take me to America” routine, but since he was her friend, I tried to reason with him instead of blowing him off. But after explaining why I couldn’t afford to get him there, and why that didn’t matter anyway because he’d have to get a visa and that’s nearly impossible here, we’d gotten nowhere. So I decided to explain to him why he wouldn’t want to live in Colorado anyway. Gambians don’t really grasp just how cold weather outside Africa can be, or what snow is really like, so, not surprisingly, Alieu didn’t find this to be much of a deterrent anyway. So then I began talking to him in terms of mol keme wo keme (every one hundred people, the Gambian phrasing for percentages). When I told him that in my village in Colorado, for mol keme wo keme, 95 of those people are white, he was shocked. “So for mol keme wo keme, only 5 people are black???” No, I explained. Those 5 people out of mol keme wo keme have to include the “Asia people,” the “Mexico people,” and the “Arab people,” in addition to the “Africa people.” So I told him maybe, maybe, 1 or 2 of mol keme wo keme is a mo fingo (black person). He didn’t seem so interested in Colorado after that.

Bii lai wo lai tii lai! (Roughly translated, that's Mandinka for "wow!")

Sat, 24 Jan 2009 08:54:43 GMT

Julie wrote about her recent visit here in Gambia, so click here to read it and see pics!

I promise you, the instructions say “Ages 3 and up”

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 18:25:56 GMT

Since, as you can tell by now, I spend a lot of time playing with my host siblings, I thought it would be fun to have a game I could play with them that would be educational as well. So I put it on my wishlist, and pretty soon, my grandma had sent me Chutes & Ladders. (Thanks Grandma!) Shortly after receiving it, I informed Mama (age 11ish), the unofficial head of the kids, that I had a new toy when they were ready to try it out. So Mama, Aja (age 3), Ajandi (age 9ish), and Mohammodou (age 7ish) came in my house and I pulled it out. Each piece was in the shape of a child, so I told them the little Asian girl was Aja Demba (my Taiwanese-American PCV sitemate, who they know well), the little blond girl was me, the little red-haired boy was Ansoumana Dembale (another PCV sitemate in the area), and the little black boy was Mohammodou. Then I let them each pick a person. Aja, the youngest, quickly got bored and confused, so she left and I took over her piece. But as we played, I could not believe how complicated Chutes & Ladders is! I honestly don’t remember it being this complicated growing up, but our first game was fraught with difficulties: they couldn’t flick the spinner properly to get it to spin, they couldn’t understand why you didn’t climb up chutes or fall down ladders, they could never figure out which direction to move their piece, and they were always knocking each other’s pieces over when they counted out their move. They did, however, quickly master counting to 6! After the first tiring, agonizingly long round was over and they left, I rethought the game. I’ve found that some things that we take for granted in child development must actually be a by-product of culture. Hand an American child a crayon and tell them to draw something and they’re off and running. Even if it’s a bunch of indistinguishable scribbles, they’ll tell you it’s a family portrait. Gambian children do not do that. I’ve never succeeded in getting a kid here to draw anything—they’ll only color in coloring books, where the picture is already there (unless they are so young that they just sort of scribble randomly on anything you hand them, which still isn’t deliberate drawing). I guess board games are similar, which is why a game suitable for a 3-year-old American child totally confounds an 11-year-old Gambian.

But I was determined not to give up, so I gave Chutes and Ladders a makeover. First, I outlined all the squares in permanent black marker—the faint lines between white and light blue squares didn’t register with my host siblings, who were forever setting their pieces right on the lines between 2 or 4 squares and then leaving me to try to remember which of the squares they were actually on. (Now I can tell them, “don’t leave your piece there on the line.”) Then I circled all the bottoms of ladders and tops of chutes, in attempt to say “DO SOMETHING FROM THIS SQUARE”. Then I drew arrows to indicate what direction to move, since the path zigzags up the rows from bottom to top and it’s easy to forget (especially in my dimly lit hut where it’s hard to see the numbers in the squares) which direction to move in which row. I drew attention-getting lines all around the final square, to indicate it as the big exciting place that determines the winner. Finally, I nixed the big cardboard multi-racial children pieces, substituting instead some small “learn to count” plastic farm animal pieces Grandma had sent in the same package. The pieces are smaller and easier to jump over when counting, eliminating the knocking-each-other-over and two-pieces-sharing-one-square problems. The next day, we tried Chutes and Ladders again.

My host siblings (minus Aja, who I’d decided was too young for the game, age 3 or not, which is fine because she wasn’t interested anymore) first remarked at all the changes. They wanted the other pieces back so they could be one of the characters again, but they were excited when they saw the farm animals. For the next several games, I was always the dog (though Gambian tolerance for dogs falls way outside fundamental Islam, there is a hesitance still), while their favorites were the horse and chicken. Over the next several games, with the help of my drawn-on additions, they caught on quickly and began helping each other when there was a problem. Now, we play Chutes and Ladders almost daily (always with the farm animals), they flick that spinner with ease, and I often end up being the pig or the rooster, since the dog’s usually taken. :)

M Be Feyaa Kang Dorong Hani Saaying (I’m Still Just Playing) Part II

Sat, 17 Jan 2009 17:50:44 GMT

Sleeping Baby: This is a new one that Jarrai (host niece) and Aja (host sis), both age 3, started the other day. They tell me I’m their baby and I need to take off my sandals and lie down on the bantabaa (square platform in the compound for sitting or sleeping on). Then they tell me to go to sleep, which I dutifully pretend to do, but apparently I’m not usually very good at pretending, because Aja often decides she’ll lull me to sleep by yelling “i siinoo!” (You go to sleep!) in my ear repeatedly. Then they grab a small square of cloth (big enough to cover a real baby, but not me) and try to tuck me in under it, while Jarrai might shake my shoulder repeatedly. (I’m not sure whether the shaking is supposed to wake me up or rock me to sleep.) When they got tired of that, they once “woke” me up and then told me to bambu (climb on top of their backs to be carried). Surprisingly enough, this didn’t work as well as when they bambu onto my back.

Gopi: It’s tempting to describe this game as “jacks played with rocks,” although really this is probably where jacks (or is it jax?) originated. Lacking bouncy balls and those funky metallic (and much easier to grip!) jacks pieces, the girls just gather around with a bunch of beroodings (small rocks) and toss one rock in the air then try to grab 1-3 other rocks and catch the first rock before it falls. I’m pretty decent at one at a time, but not great if I try to do two or more at a time, though I’m definitely improving. Plus, an errant thrown rock can get pretty painful. But this is how the girls pass the time for hours while they wait at the tap for water.

My Toma’s Juice: I wouldn’t necessarily qualify this as a game, but my toma clearly does, so I’m including it. During Ramadan, the end of the day breaking fast often includes “juice” (basically just a local Kool-Aid style drink mix). The other night, I noticed my toma had been given some juice, but that it was gone and she was feeling pretty distraught. So I decided to give her some of mine. I very carefully poured a small amount into her cup, and watched her sip appreciatively. But as she reached the last sip, she apparently thought she’d had enough, because she proceeded to dump the rest out. Yet once it was gone, she was upset again and looking around for more juice. She must not have realized there was more left when she dumped it, I thought, so I again gave her another small amount. But this time, the “sip, then dump” cycle was even more obviously deliberate, so when she got upset at her lack of juice again, I picked her up and made her sit in my lap before giving her more juice. My thinking was that I could head off the dump so she stopped making a mess. Unfortunately, she was so quick that all I could do was bat the cup away so that the spill ended up on the ground rather than all over me. Despite her giggling, I didn’t refill the cup after that.

Feng Te Karton Kono: Because Gambian culture places much less value on personal possession, Gambians (especially kids) are notorious for coming into Peace Corps Volunteers’ houses and demanding things. I decided to head this off early on when I moved into my village last year. In addition to keeping my house off-limits to people who are not with Peace Corps or part of my host family, I told my host siblings that if they asked me for anything in my house, I would make them leave. (Making them miss out on the fun of things like writing on my chalkboard and coloring with my crayons.) Instead, I kept a box where I put any trash I had that would be fun to play with, having learned that when I gave them real toys, they enjoyed them much less than certain trash items which they already had games for. Things like empty bottles, toilet paper rolls, bubble wrap, and empty boxes were a much bigger hit than any of the real toys I gave them. So whenever I have a piece of “fun” trash, I put it in the box. Originally, they would ask me “fen te karton kono?” (Is there nothing in the box?) and if things were in there, I’d just let them raid the box. But I discovered quickly that this caused mass chaos in which the bigger kids got everything and the younger ones were left empty handed. So the new practice is that, at some point each day, they’ll ask me “fen te karton kono?” If I have gathered enough pieces of trash for everyone to get one, I say yes and they all come and take one item. (They have learned to let the younger kids pick first.) If the box is empty or just has a few items, I tell them “no, not today” and they’ll ask again the next day. So now they do get stuff from me on a regular basis, and almost never (I can think of maybe five times in the last year) ask me for something that’s not in the “karton.” (They are immediately booted from my house if they do, which is why this almost never happens.)

Fen Be I Nyaa Kono: Despite the fact that I’ve worn glasses since entering Peace Corps, my host siblings have only just recently discovered that things are reflected in those glasses. So now they find it thrilling to try to catch a glimpse of the fire, objects in the periphery, or themselves in my glasses. I know the game has started because I’ll hear what fen (thing) is “in” my eyes. Jula, kiimaa be i nyaa kono! (Jula, the fire is in your eyes!) Aja (age 3) is particularly fascinated by this, and if she’s not satisfied with what she’s seeing, she’s not shy about grabbing my head and trying to position it so she can see various things in the compound.

M Be Feyaa Kang Dorong (I’m Just Playing) Part I

Tue, 13 Jan 2009 15:36:55 GMT

Games I Play With My Host Siblings:

Itsy-Bitsy Spider: I taught them this one, although when they sing it, it sounds more like:

Di izzy bizzy pider wenup da wad again

Down came da rain and wash da pid again

Out came da soon and dwied up aw dagain

And di izzy bizzy pider wenup da wad again

(“Again” is the one word they seem to have latched onto, so they insist on ending each line with it.)

Patty-Cake: Also taught them this. The oldest kids are almost able to recite the whole thing coherently (and can clap as well). The youngest kids just sort of clap at random (or hold their hands out for me to clap) and let me do all the singing til we get to the hand motions. Then they jump in on roll it, pat it, “mas it wis a b”.

Thumb War: Taught them this as well, although the younger ones seem to think of it more as a funny handshake. A couple of the older girls get the concept of the game, though, and one of my sisters, Mama, can even beat me fairly.

Mama Saw: This is a patty-cake style handgame that they play here. It sounds as though it was originally in English and has been passed down from child to child for so long that it’s virtually unrecognizable. Does anyone know the original rhyme? The distorted version sounds like this:

Mama saw, mama saw

I saw baby, it’s cool baby

I taa kang, naa kang (In Mandinka, this line would mean “you’re going, coming”)

*indistinguishable line*

E one, E two, E three, E four (and so on til E ten)

Ten koom bah tens plus, ten koom bah tens plus

Any ideas?

N Jiige: In Mandinka, n jiige basically means “help me get this down”. So when I return from the pump with a 20-liter bidong (jug) of water off my head, I have to call out “Ali n jiige” when I get to my house. (Ali means “you all.”) Then whichever of the women is closest or hears me first will come help me lift the bidong off my head so I can carry it inside. The kids like to joke that they’re going to help too, so once the bidong is off my head, I take the rolled up piece of fabric that I use to cushion my head from the bidong (it’s the rolled up fabric that’s the secret to most of that amazing head balancing you see African women do!) and put it back on my head. Then I kneel down (so they can reach) and call out “n jiige” to either Bemba or my toma (the two youngest kids in the compound, ages 2 and 1½). They’ll waddle over, and carefully remove the fabric from my head. Bemba will then just hand it to me, but my toma likes to either hit me with it or put it back on my head so the game repeats.

The Spanking Game: Once I’m done fetching water and the rolled up fabric is off my head, I usually start whacking the kids. They gather around me most days after I’ve fetched water, waiting for it, so then I unroll the fabric and whack someone. It becomes a big game, with them gathering around me in a circle and shaking their rear ends at me (if I forget to whack someone, they get upset). They’ll try to get me to chase them and a few of the youngest will even start pulling their pants down if they feel like I’m not whacking them enough. (Gambian kids are always pulling their clothes off, especially with the heat, so this isn’t any sort of new rebellious behavior I’m inspiring.) Beating figures heavily into Gambian play (and Gambian punishment), with people always threatening or pretending to beat kids, just in case you think this game makes me sound like a total weirdo. And speaking of beating games:

Don’t Beat My Toma Game: The kids came up with this one. They tell my toma (my namesake, i.e. her name is Jula just like me), “m be i butee la” (I’m going to beat you til you cry!) then pretend to beat her. (Yes, there is a special Mandinka verb for beating someone til they cry.) Then my toma, giggling hysterically, waddles across the compound as fast as she can over to me, and I grab her and pretend to shield her while yelling, “i kana n toma butee!” (Don’t you beat my toma til she cries!) Apparently for my toma, the running/waddling is a big part of the game, because even if the kid pretending to threaten her is standing right next to me, my toma will run halfway across the compound, then turn around and run back to me for shelter, rather than just taking 3 steps over to me.

Ram-Ram-Ram-Ram-Ramadan (to the tune of “Barbara Ann”)

Fri, 09 Jan 2009 18:12:53 GMT

It occurs to me, that except for posting a lot about my hunger, I haven’t actually elaborated too much on the concept of Ramadan. I know I didn’t really know what those KRAZY Muslims were up to with that “Ramadan” business before coming here, so in case you’re as clueless as I was, here’s a summary:

Sawm (in Arabic) is the annual obligatory fast for the month of Ramadan, the 9^th month of the Islamic year. Mandinkas call it Sungkaroo, literally “the fasting month.” They get up before dawn to eat an uncooked breakfast (plain bread for most Gambians) and drink jii kandoo (literally “hot water,” but actually a mix of tea, coffee, milk and hot water). Then between dawn and dusk, they can’t eat, drink, smoke, or have sex. Sungkaroo is intended to make Muslims focus on prayer and avoid vices. At dusk, they break fast (Gambians munch on some bread and drink jii kandoo to deal with immediate hunger and thirst, then have a regular but earlier than normal dinner). Unfortunately, Gambian life requires a lot of hot, heavy work (especially during the rainy and harvest seasons), so doing this work on an empty stomach makes for a miserable month for Gambians, who spend every remaining second of the day laying outside, half-comatose.

Ramadan begins and ends with sightings of the moon. The moon has to be sighted to declare the month has started or ended. Last year, this meant the moon wasn’t sighted the night Ramadan was supposed to begin, so West Africa fasted one less day than other regions who sighted the moon. This year, my village could not see the moon the night Ramadan was supposed to end. People spent the evening disappointed, knowing they’d have to fast one more day. However, the international West African Muslim council made an agreement—because the moon had been spotted in some parts of West Africa, they would declare Ramadan over. So late that night, the announcement came across the radio that tomorrow would be Saloo (prayers, the end of Ramadan celebration) after all. Yet the next morning, it turned out that the Muslim leaders in my area, a 4-village cluster that is almost more like one giant village, decided not to listen to the pronouncement. They would not break fast. So while the rest of the URR, the rest of the Gambia, the rest of West Africa, and, in fact, most of the Muslim world celebrated the end of Ramadan, my little 4-village cluster spent the day hungry, tired, and slightly peeved at their religious leaders. (Muslim relatives from around the world made their traditional Saloo phonecalls to people in my village, who grumpily had to explain over and over that they were still fasting and couldn’t celebrate yet.) My counterpart came by and informed me he would not be fasting that day because he thought it was wrong for village leaders to go against the international council like that. “Religion is about submission and obedience!” he told me. I wanted to say, “is it?”

But at last, on October 2^nd, Ramadan was over and it was time for Koriteh, the post-Ramadan celebration. Traditionally, Koriteh (and the other major prayer day, Tobaski) involves all the men and boys going and praying somewhere central, generally under a large tree (in Africa, it’s typically a baobab tree). However, it poured for hours the morning of Koriteh, restricting early morning activity and soaking the ground so much that it was far to muddy to sit on and pray, and they were relegated to the mosque. The Gambians were disappointed, but I have to admit, I was glad. I was actually feeling a bit like the Koriteh grinch. My least-favorite host relative (PFHB, Puppy Framing Host Brother, who you may remember for trying to frame Minty for pigeon murder over a year ago) was back. Lamin and I have never really been able to stand each other, so it’s fortunate he lives in Kombo (where I’m pretty sure he’s a bumster, i.e. male prostitute in the sex tourism industry). He came back, as most relatives do, for Koriteh, and had spent the past several days singing made up songs about how he hates white people and muttering insults about me. There was also some random teenage girl I’d never met staying in our compound, who liked to spend her time yelling at me in attempt to get me to give her things and do what she wanted. It was like being at a long, painfully drawn-out family reunion, only with people you don’t like AND are not even related to. So I was pretty tired of Gambians all together, and since they always make me parade by the Saloo tree (they tell me it’s to go watch the prayers, but somehow it just ends up that everyone’s watching me instead), I was pretty relieved that Koriteh was so low-key this time around.

The one thing that’s never low-key on Koriteh is the food. They go all out for all three meals, with lots of meat, oil and veggies (the three things so expensive my host family rarely cooks with them). The women from the compounds around mine always gather together at lunch, each one bringing a bowl of food they cooked, and we all share a bowl at a time. I never eat more here than when that happens. I was beyond full but it was so delicious and rare that I couldn’t stop.

Now, I don’t think it’s in the Quran anywhere, but according to Gambians, it’s practically a requirement that everyone dress up in brand-new outfits for Koriteh. For men, this includes caps or baseball hats and sunglasses, and for women this includes outlandish hair braiding styles, black hennaed feet, out-of-control make-up and drawn-on eyebrows. My fantastic new outfit was made from fabric I bought in Basse (either hedgehog or porcupine print, depending on who you ask), and I French-braided my hair. I skipped the eyebrows and make-up, but got lots of compliments on my feet and hedgehog/porcupine paree.

The evening of Koriteh (as well as the following evening or two), children go from compound to compound to salibo. Imagine trick-or-treating, only instead you wear nice clothes instead of costumes, have no parental escort, say “salibo” instead of “Trick or Treat” and never, under any circumstances, say thank you. Some people give out money, others candy. (I prefer to go the candy route, and enjoy the leftovers.) Alas, there is no candy corn in Gambia.
All dressed up for Koriteh
Drawn on eyebrows--HOT for Koriteh
Koriteh Breakfast!

In Gambia, even the black ants bite

Tue, 06 Jan 2009 00:56:56 GMT

It’s a common theme of the Gambian PCV experience that you become somewhat deadened to the pain of losing host relatives. With malaria, diarrheal diseases, and malnutrition running rampant, this is a not a country where many people live to see old age. I’ve somehow been spared that, however. In a year and half, I’ve yet to have a single host family member die. I’ve often wondered how I would handle it, and how such an event would affect me. Would it be like losing my own family member, or would it feel like I was the observer, present as someone else’s family deals with their loss? I guess I’ve figured sooner or later that Jawneh kunda (my compound) would lose someone. I just never thought it would be Lion.

As you might guess, Lion is not a human name. In fact, Lion is my host family’s dog. He’s been around for several years, and may have belonged to a former PCV in my house. (I’m unclear on whether he was her dog or if she just helped take care of him.) But since then, he has belonged mostly to my host father Seiko and teenage host brother Sidiya.

He’s always been a really sweet dog. Had no use for Minty, but would only give Minty a warning growl if he got too close. Lion did well as a Gambian dog—he knew to stay out of people’s way and never attempted to go somewhere he wasn’t allowed. (Minty, who’s had a lot more love in his life, is forever having to relearn the fact that most people here don’t LIKE him.) Lion would drive me crazy at night every now and then, though. A couple times a month, Lion would go into a barking frenzy at about 2 am, barking at nothing in particular, and just sit there right next to my back yard and bark for an hour. Since I usually SLEEP in my backyard, this made a good night’s rest virtually impossible. At first, I’d drag myself out of bed, shuffle into my flip-flops, wince as I opened my squeaky front door (what if my host family woke up and found me chasing their dog away? What would they think?), and quietly shoo Lion away. He’d go back to roaming the village like he did most nights, and I’d go back to bed.

After a while, I realized that going out wasn’t really necessary. Instead, I stockpiled rocks in my backyard (coming home with a bucket full of rocks one afternoon earned me some strange looks), so that when he barked, I could just throw a rock over the fence and chase him off. Before you think I’m cruel, remember that I was throwing these rocks in the dark, half asleep, without a flashlight or glasses. The rocks never got anywhere near him. But Lion was Gambian enough to understand that a rock sailing in his general direction meant he’d better skedaddle, and I didn’t have to explain to my host family (who evidently could sleep right through his barking) why I was padding around in the compound at 2 a.m.

So we reached an understanding that lasted until my trip to Janjanbureh last week. I was only gone 2 nights (a time to get out of village and explore part of the country I’d only seen passing through), but when I returned, Lion looked terrible. It appears that the night I’d left, when everyone was asleep, someone hacked into Lion’s back with an ax. Maybe he wandered into some part of the village where he wasn’t wanted, maybe someone was just looking to make trouble—no one knows. By the time I got back almost two days later, the wound was gaping and infested with maggots. Lion had been one of the most muscular Gambian dogs I’d ever seen, but after two days with that wound, he’d lost so much weight his skin was sagging off of him. It still didn’t occur to me at this point that he wouldn’t be okay—I hadn’t looked at the wound close-up, and animals here are so resilient (hey, he was still walking just fine!) that I figured he just had a long painful recovery ahead of him. If I’d been there when it had happened (or soon afterward), I could have bandaged him up and at least given him a chance to heal properly, but the hole was too big and the surrounding flesh too dead to do anything but let nature take its course by the time I saw him. I still didn’t realize how bad off he was til I heard a terrible crying noise that summoned me out of my house. The sound was so pathetic and desperate that I thought at first the boys had brought home a new puppy and it was crying for its mother. But then I looked into the teen boys’ hut in my compound, and there was Lion, on the floor, taking a beating rather than leave the house. Never in all my time here has Lion ever even attempted to go indoors—Gambians don’t allow it, a lesson he obviously learned a long time ago. It’s as though he was in so much pain that he just wanted to go somewhere comfortable, and was willing to withstand a beating rather than have to get up again. Evidently, that was the deciding point for my host father.

Shortly thereafter, I watched him call for Lion and put a rope around the dog’s neck. Then he summoned a few boys I’d never seen before (no emotional attachment to Lion, I guess), and asked them to take Lion out to the bush and put him out of his misery. Anger flashed in his eyes when he told me that what had been done to his dog was terrible and that they don’t know who did it. Then all the boys and men (who culturally are more attached to their dogs than the women) busied themselves—it seems like they all immediately left to go hang out with various friends, anything to get away.

Now, Lion is like the elephant in the room no one talks about. Suddenly the kids are all even more interested in Minty (Aja, who’s always yelling “Minty’s going to EAT me!” has actually started trying to call Minty sometimes. She can’t whistle for him like I do, so she tries her closest approximation of a whistle, calling out “Minty! Woo-wee-woo-wee-woo-wee!) They’d like Minty to go to the fields with them, but he won’t leave home without me (or at least, someone with white skin). I wonder if they’ll get a new puppy when puppy season rolls around in October/Novemberish, but I’m afraid to ask, since for now they all seem content not to speak of Lion and act like everything’s normal.

I sleep through the night with no disturbances now, but I never would have wished for this.

I pulled a half-inch maggot outta Minty the other day (he’s fine now!)

Fri, 02 Jan 2009 19:08:17 GMT

(Note from Mom: B created a number of blog posts on her computer over the summer/fall months when she didn't leave her site and then sent them to me on disc. Thus the occasional references to time periods that are actually a few months ago...)

It’s September 2^nd, and Ramadan has officially begun! That means no food or water for teens and adults between dawn and dusk. (The kids get to eat as normal.) Last year, participating wasn’t even really an option for me: I’d just come through two bouts of dysentery, was adjusting to a new malaria med (which can gave digestive side effects), and didn’t have the emotional stability to deprive myself of yet one more thing. This year, I’m still not going to do the whole thing, but I’ll probably do a couple days to satisfy my host family. Here’s why:

The thing that drives me nuts about Ramadan is that it makes no accommodations for health or cultural concerns. Even nursing moms are expected to fast (not healthy for the baby, a fact which I attempted to point out to the two nursing moms in my compound last year, to no avail), or are considered bad Muslims. Ramadan is scheduled by the lunar year, so it moves up each year, but for now and the next few years, it will continue to take place during the rainy season, which is also the malaria season, which is also the hungry season. So in essence, you have people working in the fields all day, with no water or food, then when they do eat, there’s not a lot of “extras” like meat or veggies, since they can’t afford it in the hungry season. So they’re undernourished and dehydrated, then expect their bodies to fight off malaria. Brilliant. Needless to say, a lot of people die during Ramadan. (This may not be the case when Ramadan falls at a time of year when people aren’t in the fields all day and can afford better food, but that won’t happen again for 5 years or so.) So I have difficulty participating in (and therefore supporting) a cultural practice that is so physically dangerous. Obviously, with multivitamins, anti-malarial meds, and more nutritious food (not to mention the fact that I would still drink water regardless), I’m not at the risk they are by fasting, but they don’t know all that. My host family keeps asking if I’m going to fast, even telling me that Salama (my PCV predecessor) fasted. Considering the fact that (according to my host family) Salama couldn’t even speak basic Mandinka, I find it highly unlikely that she went out of her way to observe many cultural practices. I pointed out the fact that she could have told them she was fasting and then just eaten inside her house (this wouldn’t be difficult—I cook all three meals and my host family still thinks I eat only their food), but they resisted that possibility. Anyway, so I’d like to do a couple days or so, but I have no intentions of going the whole month. (There are a few PCVs who do this, and they’re either crazy or super devoted. Not sure which.)

Cer (one of my sitemates) has recently found out Peace Corps is going to send her home early (about 2 months) for medical reasons. So now she’s scrambling to pack and get rid of stuff and clean out her house. She’s also going to try to take her dog, Willy (one of Minty’s buddies, who originally belonged to Salama, my PCV predecessor in my village) back to America with her. Problem is, she hadn’t started on preparations (he hasn’t had his vaccines and his crate is just now being built), so it’ll be very last minute. Hopefully it’ll all work out though, because Willy has passed through so many PCV owners (5, by my count) that he has all kinds of behavioral issues and many Gambians have made death threats against him (attacking livestock is the unforgivable sin here). If she’s not able to take him, there’s no telling what’ll happen. (One dog is all I can handle here!) If it does work out, she should be flying an almost identical itinerary to what I’ll be flying in April, so I’ll be able to get tips on how to get a dog through that whole process.

Happy Christmas! (Even Gambians who understand Christmas don't know you're supposed to say "merry.")

Thu, 25 Dec 2008 08:59:11 GMT

Can you believe it? I'm already on round 2 of this Christmasing in Africa business. This is just a quick note to wish you all a "Happy" Christmas!
For Christmas Eve yesterday morning, I took another Peace Corps Volunteer's visiting aunt to nearby Bijulo Forest Park to see monkeys. (Due to a travel glitch, Zach had to make an emergency run all the way up-country to Basse and back, leaving his aunt in Kombo for two days. Fortunately, she's been here since November, so two days isn't a huge hunk of their time.) After also wandering the touristy section of Kombo and strolling the beach, she treated me to pizza for lunch! (It's a splurge on a Peace Corps budget.)
Then after an afternoon trip to the bank (had to withdraw taxi money to pick my best friend, Julie, up at the airport tomorrow!!), I and eight other PCV's cooked Christmas Eve Dinner together. We made chicken, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, carrots and green beans, as well as wassail and mulled wine. Yum!
One of the awkward things about holidays here is that you can't really pick who you spend it with. It's just sort of whichever volunteers are in town. That can be a problem if you end up having to spend those special days with people you don't particularly enjoy. Fortunately, our group of nine (Cassandra, Courtney, Mai [who has bit parts in the movie Tropic Thunder, btw!], Travis, Josh, Heather, Ellie and Tim) last night was a fun bunch. We rocked out to Christmas music for hours while we prepped and cooked, then dinner table antics included a reenactment of this Harry Potter song (you have to have a slightly twisted sense of humor):

Later we engaged in torso-rocking exercises that they swear someone got from professional eaters. Apparently, if you rock your torso back and forth just right, you encourage movement through your GI tract and can induce burping and clear up more space for food. I can't tell you for sure that it worked, but I do know I ate frightening quantities and we all looked ridiculous rocking back and forth at the same time.
Today, we're going to try to watch Love Actually or something else Christmas-ey, bake cupcakes with the new Peace Corps staff member (Patti) who's also a trained pastry chef, and probably do another fancy dinner or potluck tonight. (I've already made the layered jello with condensed milk, a family recipe!) Might squeeze in some beach time and/or lunch at Omar's for his "Christmas special." I have some presents to open that were left in my mail box from "Santa," but most exciting will be picking Jules up tomorrow!
Happy Christmas,
~ Beth (aka Jula Jawneh)