Hey all,

Lately I’ve been feeling a little unfocused. There could be a variety of reasons for this. It could be that our Health and Community Development project plan for The Gambia is really vague. It could be that the training I received focused much more on the needs of the rural villages, and didn’t take into account the needs and work opportunities in a more urban setting. People around me don’t need to be encouraged to bring their children to the health clinic, they already go. They don’t want to make mud stoves, they want gas stoves like their more affluent peers have and like they see on TV. They keep business records. They know how to garden. Girls, by and large, attend school. I also wasn’t attached directly to a person or organization, I was more or less plunked down and told to find something to do(This is a mixed blessing though. Some of my friends who were attached to someone, found it was a bad connection for one reason or another, and had to awkwardly back out.).
I’m not mad about it. I love my family. I love my neighbors. I’ve found work that is meaningful to me, though no one work item has been constant throughout. My priority and focus changes according to what is going on at the time, and who is most interested in working at the time. I enjoy my work with the highschoolers most. Lately a primary school whom I had been working with but stopped because they weren’t serious, recently became reinspired and wanted me to come back and tackle some new issues with them.
This chicken project so far has come to naught. We were approved for the grant, but then some investigation happened, and no further funds have been dispensed. There is reason to believe that we still may receive funding, but the longer it delays, the more I want to just give it back if it did come. The group’s president is honest and hardworking, as are a small faction of the club’s general population. But a larger portion of the club is actively against putting any work into the club, and just want immediate benefits for themselves. In my American way of thinking, I think they can just leave the club if they don’t want to do what is expected of them to be a member, but that’s not how everyone else sees it. Also, I have a fear that some might actually sabotage any improvements, out of jealousy(I’ve seen it happen in other clubs. My friend’s club had some rabbits. Someone was jealous of the rabbits, but rather than stealing them, or getting their own, they just poisoned the rabbits. Awesome). I’ve been trying to urge the chicken group along, but most of the members feel that they have done enough now, and that they would rather sit back and wait for profits to come. Well, I’m not bringing in $15, 000 to that atmosphere. I’m worried that if I tell them that though, they will put on a happy face to please me, then still not properly maintain the project, and it will still be wasted in the end.
Ugh. Donor money is a sticky situation. There is still so much need….but so much has been spent irresponsibly.
Unrelatedly, a friend of mine at the school wants to write a grant to have internet installed at the school. He is the computer teacher there, and runs an IT club for students. The principal suggested the same when I first arrived, though he wanted it to be an internet café as an income-earner for the school, open to the general public. While earning income for the school is good, of course, my opinion (that I did not express at the time), was that the young men in the neighborhood do not need another method of doing nothing available to them. Many of them do nothing perfectly well already, and if they want to go to town, internet is there. That opinion still stands. However, this new suggestion is to install internet at the school computer lab, for use in teaching, and to give students access to the web. This makes sense, internet is in the school syllabus, yet they don’t have access. You can’t teach search engines, etc, hypothetically, you need hands-on learning. Also, the IT club is half girls (!), and they more than boys need to get comfortable with computers and internet access to stay competitive in the job market. I’d even like to set aside a few hours every week in the lab for girls only, like in the US at the gym when sometimes they have women’s hours only so that women get proper access to the machines and don’t feel shy to ask for help.
My friend the computer teacher has worked with a number of PCVs in the past, and understands sustainability, etc. His plan is to write a grant to buy the equipment and pay for the first month of web access, then charge students 5 dalasi($.25, pocket change) per hour to browse outside of class hours. With over 1500 students at the school, it should easily earn enough to pay the monthly internet bill. What still needs to be worked out, is if/how the school should benefit(it’s a slippery slope, you need the principal’s support to make anything work, but I don’t want him to expect any kickback). If all goes well, we may write a grant through Peace Corps that is funded by friends and family back at home. More on that later.
Wow, so speaking of unfocused, that was one long stream of conscious. I guess when I write it out, it sounds like I have a lot going on. But it doesn’t feel that way in the day to day.
Happy holidays.

Manlafi

Well here’s something I’d heard of, but never saw until this morning.

Sometimes, when a woman has had a child die in the past, when she has a new child, it is tradition to try to trick God into thinking that she doesn’t want it, and hopefully God won‘t take it. This can be done by naming it “Manlafi” which translates to “Don’t Want” or “Don’t Like.” Or, the family can bring the baby to the bush or the trash heap and leave it there. They then return to deliberate whether or not they want it, then sometimes leave it again, then in the end they take it home.
This morning I was at the neighbor’s house, attending a naming ceremony. They had shaved the baby girl’s head, named her Fatumata, and then we had all eaten porridge. Then, a bunch of older women put the baby in a bucket. She was swaddled and padded with lots of shawls, but she was still in a bucket. Women gathered around and sang and danced to the baby, then an old woman put the bucket on her head and announced that she was going to the market to sell the baby(for how much?, I asked. 100 dalasi. Roughly 4 USD). A crowd of women all went with her. Along the road they would occasionally put the baby bucket down, deliberate whether they wanted to sell it, then they would decide they did, and would continue down the road. I did notice, though this woman had doubtlessly been carrying things on her head her whole life, and could carry whole jugs of water, pans overflowing with cassava, and piles of firewood all with no hands, she kept a hand on the baby bucket on her head at all times. All the while, the people at the party kept assuring me that the baby would be back, they wouldn’t sell it, it was just tradition, etc. In the end, yes indeed, the baby did return.
I also thought this was funny, because when children piss me off, I threaten to sell them all the time. But I usually start with the low price of ten dalasi. You don’t ask too much for a stubborn child.

Manoo

pronounced "Mah-NOH"

Rice harvest time. Lots of work! Per usual, I was hanging out with the neighbors, but not allowed to help, because ultimately I would mess up the rhythm of the pounding (true enough, I'm terrible at pounding), but the ladies said "Faatu! go get your camera! Tell the American people about rice farming!"

Well, people of America, here it is. Rice was planted at the beginning of the rainy season, and now is ready for harvest. The ladies go and chop the tops of the stalks off, then pound them to get the kernels off. Then, all the kernels are pounded with a mortar and pestle to remove the hull. it's lots of work, and it amazed me how little rice resulted. rice is a staple food in the gambia, but really, most of it is imported. the family across the street eats three 50 Kilo bags of rice a month, and there is no way they planted and harvested enough to last them. despite some really creative land uses, people plant in tiny little unusable areas AND big rice fields, there is not enough land, and not enough people willing to cultivate in order to be fully sustainable for the amount of people in the country. its a scary problem.

Whoa! One Year!

This coming November 6 marks my one-year anniversary in The Gambia. How about that? In some ways I feel like I just got here, and others it feels like I’ve been here much longer. What I guess is strange is that instead of counting up, now things may feel like a count down. Scary! But otherwise this anniversary is cause for celebration. Out of the 25 volunteers in our training group, 22 remain. Quite an accomplishment, I think.
What else have I accomplished? This is always a difficult thing to assess, and can either be depressing or comforting, depending on my mood. My motivation for joining Peace Corps was mainly for personal development, and to be helpful and friendly in any way I could to the community into which I was placed. With such vague goals, how could one help but to be successful? Honestly, I’m proud of what I’ve done. I’ve lived in a culture very different from my own, and adapted myself to it. I’ve become functional in a foreign language, though sadly I think I will always be able to hear and understand far more than I can express in response. I’ve made many friends and valuable relationships. I think I’ve been helpful in working through the grant-writing process with a community group, and I think they could do it on their own in the future. I hope I’ve been helpful in encouraging young people to make healthy choices, and to think critically. I hope I’ve been a good example of a friendly American, who knows how to do hard work. I hope I’ve been able to provide alternate perspective in conversations. Hell, I hope I’ve been able to share with people as much as they have shared with me.
Some personal qualities that I’ve found here, and value, is that I find my capacity for joy is much greater, or perhaps my threshold for it is just lower, but either way I can find happiness and reasons to laugh in the smallest of situations. Small things, like cold watermelon, can make me immensely incurably deliriously happy(The reverse can also be true, unfortunately. Huge variations in mood, even throughout the course of a day isn’t instability. Its just Peace Corps, and from my research, we all go through it). That said, I find I have more patience here, even when things are rough, and have been better able to focus on the things that I have control over, and accept the things in life over which I have no control, thereby letting them go. This has lead to a lot less stress. I hope these are skills I can retain when I return home.
What do I miss most? Anonymity, hands down. I miss being able to leave my house and blend into the crowd. I miss sitting on a street and people-watching without being stared at or approached. But I suppose there is plenty of time for that later.
I don’t feel like making this some big heart-searching moment, and if I did I don’t really want to post it on the internet. But hey, 12 months down, 15 more to go.

Oh man though, I’ve never had a pedicure in my life, but I think I could go for one when I get home. Because seriously, someone has got to turn these hooves back into feet. ;-)

Workin'

Work has been busy busy lately, which has been nice. Other than discussing the inculcation of ideas to my chicken group members (see previous entry), my work with the Peer Health Club at the local high school has really taken off.
After sitting in on their meetings last year, trying to get a handle on their premise (“Learn and educate others”), watching them bicker amongst themselves, and seeing them not show up to events or do any outreach, I decided to arrange a Health and Lifeskills curriculum for them, deciding that writing skits is really not my strong suit, especially for people who don’t want to perform them. But if I gave them the correct information, they could do with it what they wanted. They could organize their own skits and spread the word formally, or they could chat with their friends and know that they had the right info. Well, the group that loves to point fingers and evade responsibility has been surprisingly willing to come to my activity sessions. They are even getting used to me wanting things to be interactive. Every other Friday, I ask them to meet for an hour after school, we do a health-related activity, have some juice, and go home. They’ve liked it. They even went so far as to use the info to write a skit and perform it for the school. Good on you, guys!
Last week we were invited to compete in a Drama and Quiz competition on the topic of HIV/AIDS. It was pretty typical notice….two days notice before the event was to occur, the invitation did not include the venue or starting hour, nor any information on how many were to participate, or how long the drama could be. Nonetheless, my group stepped up. I was proud of them. They wrote their own drama, and rehearsed it. We went over HIV/AIDS facts, discussed modes of transmission, prevention, etc.
On the day of the event, they all showed up “on time” (9 AM sharp=11:30ish), and did very well. We answered all our quiz questions correctly. * They performed with gusto. The drama itself didn’t make sense…and I offered that feedback. They performed it well, and I was thrilled that they included song, but the premise didn’t make sense(who is ever going to make the conscious choice to get HIV? No one, the choice is never that cut and dried), and honestly it spread a strong message of fear, which is counter-productive. Nonetheless, they did it all themselves, and after I said my peace about how it spread the wrong message, I felt it was best to just support them and be the best geeked-out, soccer mom supporter ever.
*this is something that I’m wondering. They can memorize facts and repeat them incredibly well, its just something they’re used to as a part of their schooling, but I’m not convinced that they actually believe them. For example, ask them if you can be infected by sharing a food bowl with someone who is infected, and they all will answer no, and explain why using all the right terms. But when push comes to shove, I’m not sure they would eat with someone who is positive. The requisite behavior change is not there, even though they “know” all the right facts. Is it that they have memorized the right words, but don’t know their meaning? Is it just that they don’t believe the books (and me)? Not sure, but while I am proud of their sudden burst of activity, my work in this area is not done.

All in all, we qualified to proceed to the finals, which will be held next Friday. We have to present a new play, so hopefully this one will focus on treatment and sensitivity to those infected. Wish us luck.

Tiyoo!!

Tiyoo!

Pronounced “tee-YOH” Peanuts!!

Its peanut harvest time, and like the corn harvest, there is much to be done. Men and boys pull up the peanut plants, and dangling from the roots are all the peanuts. They then haul them home in big bundles and in wheelbarrows. The women’s job is to pull the peanuts off the roots, a job that takes several days to get through the harvest. It’s dirty work in both departments, but I’ve enjoyed sitting with the women. It’s a good time for chatting, and the old women are downright hilarious. Many a pleasant afternoon has been spent this way.
Later, the nuts will be shelled. Some will be pounded raw for use in rice porridge, some will be ground into peanut butter, and then made into “durango” a peanut sauce, and served over rice. Still others will be roasted and sold by the roadside as snack food. EVERYONE is harvesting, which means there are also a lot of peanuts around. Everyone I help has given me some to bring home, people I pass on the street give me handfuls. The thing is, peanuts don’t emerge from the ground honey-roasted and lightly salted. Raw peanuts? Not for me….they sort of have the same texture and flavor as raw potatoes. I usually give these gifts to the first child I see after I have left whomever gave them to me.
This picture with the kids was sort of funny to try and capture. These children live across the street from me, and there is usually about 17 of them aping in front of the camera wanting their picture taken. Its pretty overwhelming. But today, it was just Tulai and Babucar around, and they were shy. It went like this “Ok, Tulai, hold the peanuts…now look at me. Ok, now Babucar look at me…ok, smile!! Ok, no, look at me. And Tulai look at me. Hey, Babucar, look at me. Ok, smile!” None of them turned out, it was just too much to orchestrate, the looking and the smiling and the peanut-holding. But they are some of my favorite neighborhood kids.
So that’s that. Lots of peanut work. But you know its time for a break when you start to pop all the rotten, hollow peanuts and think “wow, this is fun like bubble wrap!”

Inculcate!

Hey all,

“We seek to inculcate within members a feeling of brotherhood and popular participation in poultry projects…”
“Inculcate?” Really? Actually, I’ve encountered this word twice in the past week…and that’s pretty much two more times than in the whole of the rest of my life, and I thought it was worth a mention. I’ve thought a lot about language since being here, and the ideas that language is meant to relate, and the status symbol of using one language over another.
The chicken group that I’ve been working with has been on hold for a little while. Yes, or grant was approved by the grant committee, but before we could get the money, the man whose job it is to give final approval and write us a check was released from his job. We’re waiting for the UNDP to hire someone else. We’ve been waiting for some time…but we’re patient. This is development. Anyhoo, we’re using our time wisely, to review and revise our group’s constitution. Its written in very flowery, wordy, English and I’m not at all convinced that the general members of the group understand it. We’ve had trouble with people not following the rules laid out in the constitution, so I suggested that maybe revising the wording to make it more straightforward might be a step in the right direction. We seek to inculcate a lot of ideas into the membership. I wonder if we might try to encourage these ideas, or foster them. The other word that was repeated unnecessarily much was “quorum.” Quorum, quorum, quorum. Its not that I don’t know what it means, its not that it was used incorrectly. It’s just that its such an odd word to hear from non-native English speakers. Heck, I’m a native speaker, and I’ve never had need to use it. In fact, I think it lends itself rather well to made-up meanings. (Harry and Ron were having quite a difficult time in Herbology class this term. They had yet to harvest enough quorum to complete their potions. All of a sudden, the seed pods with which they were working burst all over them. “Ugh! I’m covered in quorum and it‘s burning my skin!” yelled Ron. See?) So the goal of the meetings with my group has been to simplify, simplify, simplify, an idea that wasn’t as readily accepted as I thought it might be. I’ve over and over been asking, “yes, but what does that mean? What do you mean by that?” but we’re working through it, slowly slowly.
Oddly, later in the week, I again encountered more people wishing to inculcate ideas or qualities in other people. I stopped by just to greet a headmaster at the local primary school. He was working on revising the school’s mission statement, and wanted me to look it over and give suggestions. According to the statement, the school wishes to inculcate in students all the necessary tools to be successful in life. When I asked just what tools these might be, he listed academic skills, which is great. When I asked if there were any personal qualities which he thought were important to inculcate in the students as well. It was interesting what we came up with. We agreed on such qualities as honesty and a good work ethic. But when I suggested inculcating such qualities as independence and self-sufficiency, these were met with reticence. Even when he was trying to get a word out of me, and defined it as “being able to provide for yourself and your family without resorting to banditry” So self-sufficiency? No, he really didn’t like that idea, it was too focused on the self. Interesting. Yet another time when I am forced to remember how damn American I am, how American my values are, and indeed how well inculcated I was with them throughout my childhood.

Anyway, with both of these documents that my counterparts are trying to write, it was very important to them that they were in English, and even more so, in complicated English. It’s a status thing. But I’ve wondered for awhile just how much is lost in translation. From English to Mandinka, I can get the words right, and surface ideas across, but I think that important connotation, much of which cannot be really explained is lost. Its more obvious to me when it is someone speaking English for whom it is not their native tongue. Even if their words are correct, sometimes I am still pretty sure that what they have said is not what they meant. Or what it means to me, is not what they meant to say exactly. I’m sure it goes the other way. What are we not communicating to each other?
Oh man, I set the goal of saying inculcate 10 times in this entry.
Inculcate!

Hey, just thought I’d post some more pics of my fam being great. The past few weeks we’ve been harvesting the corn. Its maize, really, so it’s a lot tougher than sweet corn at home. I thought maybe that if I boiled the hell out of it, it would taste like sweet corn. It doesn’t. We dry it in the sun, then pop all the kernels off with our thumbs (as shown in these pictures), then those are dried fully, then pounded and cooked. I’ve actually not seen what the final food product looks or tastes like. The popping-the-kernels-off-the-cob time is a good time for chatting, but man your thumbs get tired.

It's Fatumata!!

Hey all, I was just going through some pictures from the summer, and I realized that I forgot to post this one. Fatumata was born sometime in August, to one of my host mother’s sisters. It was pretty amazing, I got to hold her when she was only about six hours old. In this picture, she must be about one week old, I’m pretty sure this was taken on the day of her naming ceremony (notice the shaven head).
Also, I want to draw attention to her awesome Burt and Ernie eyebrows. Women here shave their eyebrows and draw them on in bright colors (gold! Metallic purple!)when they dress up, but I think its pretty atrocious when they do it to babies. Atrocious or awesome. My favorite is when the baby moves while they draw them on, so all day the brows are uneven and looks like the baby is smirking. Anyway, it’s a fashion choice from which no baby is safe.

hey check out these nasty spiders!

lately it seems like these guys are everywhere! gross, hey? their legspan gets up to five inches! luckily, i've never seen them hanging out on walls, or lurking under beds being creepy. they mostly stay up in webs up in the trees or power lines. i'm pretty spider intolerant, so if i found one in the house, he would probably get a book dropped on him.

Hey, lets talk about Ramadan

Well, that was quite a month. Kind of glad it’s over, to be honest. I’m ready for everybody to get back to work. Glad, I experienced it though. While I was fasting, I started my days early, around 5:30, with a big scrambled egg sandwich, coffee, and glass of water, then I would head back to bed and sleep for as long as I could. After that, the day continued as usual, though I tried to sleep during the 2pm to 4 pm hours. That’s Gambian lunch time, and was so very difficult. The key was to stay busy. Then, around 7:20 in the evenings, we would all break fast with bread (that’s one thing The Gam gets right, their bread is great), really sugary tea, and a dish made with (usually) noodles, potatoes, and some sort of protein-- chicken, eggs, or beans--cooked in onions and other spices. These dishes are great. Once we had beef. Seriously, BEEF. Mmmm. Then, my fam usually served a sugared down kool-aid type drink(I‘m pretty sure we all ate our weight in sugar this month), then dinner was served an hour later.

Overall, I fasted for 7 days, though while I was traveling, I sort of fasted by default merely because I didn’t want to eat in front of anyone who wasn’t eating, and if I didn’t have a chance to run behind a tree for a drink of water or something, then I had to wait until break fast time,. So maybe I fasted for longer, like 12 days. Either way, I lost more weight than I consider healthy and decided it wasn’t worth it.

The final day of Ramadan, called Koriteh, is a major feast day, everyone gets dressed up, we eat lots of good food and have a good time. In the evenings, people (usually women and children) walk around asking for “saliboo” or prayer gifts. They want money, usually I give candy, but its also totally appropriate to give prayers. “May Allah give you long life!” is not quite as satisfying as some dalasis. Sorry.

It was funny to me what rules people chose to follow during Ramadan, or what they were willing to compromise on. For one, people were spitting everywhere. God doesn’t want you to eat or drink anything, including your own spit, so you’re hawking everywhere? Gross. Also, people aren’t supposed to listen to any music throughout the month, but I know I heard it. People aren’t supposed to smoke, tobacco or marijuana, ever, but I know I saw and smelled that too. People aren’t supposed to have romantic relations with their girlfriends or boyfriends (spouses are fine, I think), and my PCV friends who have Gambian partners told me that this rule was adhered to without fail. I’m not judging people for breaking the rules, I’m just saying that if it was me, and all sins being equal, and I was looking to break some rules but not others, I’d prioritize differently. ;-) Food and affection from the opposite sex would be WAY higher on the list than music and cigarettes. People who are sick, old, or traveling, women who are pregnant, breastfeeding, or menstruating, are all NOT SUPPOSED TO FAST. The Koran says so. But women did. In fact, all the women who I know who are pregnant or breastfeeding fasted. It pissed me off.* They just don’t want to make it up later in the year, when everyone else is eating. People in general liked to tell me how many more days than me they fasted, and it felt a little competitive. When I explained that I tried for sake of experience, and that its not my religion, nor a requirement for me, they backed down, but it did seem a little like they took some satisfaction from being stronger than me. This isn’t that surprising. I know religious groups in the US who enjoy being ‘holier than though’ too.

*Actually, I would say that behavior change communication, or BCC, is probably the most difficult and frustrating part of this job. There are plenty of situations where I think “If they just did THIS, their lives would be so much easier, safer, more efficient, BETTER. Soap for hand-washing, sending girls to school, smoking cigarettes even though your family can’t afford vegetables. It’s not that people don’t know the health or life benefits of these choices, they’ll tell you that what they are doing is not good, but they do it anyway. Talking to these women about their fasting choices was just a pisser. They KNOW they are harming their babies. They agree with me that its not good to fast. But they do it anyway. I talk to their husbands, and their husbands talk to them, and they still refuse. Children don’t fast, but they are forcing their developing fetuses to fast. If I’d have known this was going to be a problem, I would have tried to tackle it earlier before the month started, maybe organize for them all to eat now, then all fast TOGETHER in a few months.
To put this in perspective, how many things have we all been encouraged to do, and know we should, but don’t? I don’t floss. Every dentist visit of my whole life, I’ve been told to floss but I don’t ( I also have no cavities). I don’t have a regular exercise routine, I’m just blessed with a good metabolism, but I’m sure that will kick me in the ass later in life. I don’t always wear a seatbelt sometimes. See, I get it, just knowing the possible consequences of your actions is not enough, there is more to behavior change, and it can’t be forced on people.

So, in all, Ramadan was an experience worth having, but I’m sure glad its over.


**Whoa, re-reading this post it seems a little disjointed. I wrote it while fasting, so maybe that’s the reason. Anyway, when I started being able to eat again, my mood and focus improved immeasurably.

I'm back

Hey all, I’ve not been in the mood to communicate much lately, but I might as well write about my trip up-country. It was exactly what I needed, I was able to see friends, see parts of the country that I hadn’t yet seen, and do some thinking on development.
I began by visiting a friend in a Fula village on the north bank of the country, sort of in the middle. Her village is fairly small, and is about 12 K from the main road. Transport only comes through her village twice a week. That means if you’ve got places to be any other time, its either bike it, walk it, or make really good friends with someone with a horse cart(as it happens, not a foolproof method. On the night before I needed to leave, it rained heavily such that the horse cart could not make it through the mud. We walked it). What struck me first was how much more green things were there than where I live. There is less concrete--houses, roads, or fences--, less trash (plastic shopping bags, plastic candy wrappers, plastic water bags, little tiny plastic bags used to contain popsicles, batteries), and just more open space for farming. It was gorgeous. When I noted this to my friend, she just looked at me and replied, “duh, they can’t afford that.” Also, people just seemed more genuine. They were all friendly, but no one asked me for anything. They all just asked where I was staying in the country, and how long I would stay here. It was really refreshing in that respect. Also, no bumsters or wanna-be thugs.
After leaving there, I headed to the very far eastern end of the country, and stayed with two different friends there. I found the same to be true in both of their villages, everything was greener, people were nicer. Yes, things are more remote(we had to walk 15 K to get to the nearest weekly market), but the atmosphere was also just more pleasant. Also, there is so much more biodiversity in their forestry up there. Around me, its all mango, cashew, and oil palm. But up there is a huge variety of plant life, some edible, some not, but it just seems more healthy. My friends reported that the attitude towards development was different as well. Since no tourists go up that way, and very very few development dollars get that far up-country, people know that if they want something done, they will have to do it themselves. There weren’t nearly so many young men just sitting around under trees trying to tell me their name is 50 Cent, they’re too busy fixing fences to protect the crops. On the other hand, the people there are very busy in terms of everyday survival, so sometimes there just isn’t anything in terms of “development” going on, they don’t have time to have a meeting to discuss the health of the community or sending girls to school, and I think sometimes my friends feel bored and isolated.
So that was my brief comparison on development in The Gambia. In my opinion, Western Region of The Gam has had too much of it, and this has killed the incentive of many of it’s citizens. They’ve got more stuff, and expectations for stuff, than they have the education and understanding of what to do with it. But on the other hand, there is always something to do if I need it. I can get fruit and vegetables whenever I want them(even if I have to buy them from a wanna-be gangster named 50 Cent), I can get a car whenever I want it. And my people are here. It felt nice to be home.

Hey folks at home. August has been a challenging month for a variety of reasons, but I’m living through it, and its almost done. Work has been slow, my cat died, and while I’m reasonably sure that the group who raises chickens, with whom I have been working, will be awarded the grant that we requested from the United Nations Development Project, it’s a little scary. This is, of course, very exciting; we worked very hard on it and did lots of revisions. However, now the REAL WORK will begin, and I feel a lot of pressure and responsibility for this $15, 000. We’re digging a well, we’re fencing their land, we’re buying, vaccinating, and raising 450 layer hens. However, the very day after I had learned that we would likely get the money (and the very day my cat died), I heard some drama from the history of the group, which makes me question their integrity. Seriously, guys, we’ve been working together for a number of months. This information would have been helpful, oh, any day but today. With careful management, this project could be profitable for the community, and with only a few people slacking, it could go to hell. So we’ll see.
Other work has been slow. I’m looking forward to school starting up again, I liked working with the kids at the secondary school.
When I’ve been feeling down, or frustrated, or just plain bored, it’s never anything outwardly very meaningful that makes me feel better, and I have to keep reminding myself that. It’s usually something really small, like teaching the kids across the street Itsy Bitsy Spider (and man, we can sing it like mo-fos, let me tell you), or seeing how many clothes pins we can to clip each other’s faces (you’d be surprised how many, actually). The other day, I went over to a co-workers house, he wasn’t there, but I chatted to his wife for a long time. She seemed genuinely happy to have me there, and not just because I’m white and therefore might sponsor her children to school, and not just putting up with me because she knows my host mother. We chatted for a long time and she made lunch. It was just nice, being appreciated for me.
So that’s that. I’m out of here.

Of course I can do that! Look at these muscles!

So one more thing that has made August difficult, and I figured it deserves an update all to itself. I felt that this month more than others, I heard the phrase “you can’t do this” more often than in previous months. This could because now is the time for lots of farming and manual labor, but when I try to join, I am confronted by “you cannot do this” or “you are not able” more often than before.
This pisses me off. It turns my day bad. It took a few minutes of clear-thinking to realize just how American my reaction is. Really, maybe it’s a very American experience to spring forth from the womb triumphant with the inherent knowledge that with enough hard work, one can do anything. I‘m told this is not a universal experience, so maybe people don’t realize how insulting it is to me to be told I’m not capable of something. Also maybe I need to chill out. You’re right, when I do my laundry, I can’t make the squilch-squilch noise that the women here make with it. And for God’s sake, I don’t know WHY I can’t, I use enough soap and rub the fabric together with my wrists and knuckles, but it just doesn’t make the noise. Because my laundering is silent, my host mother, sisters, and neighbors all assume that I am not getting it clean, so they come over and take the clothes out of my hands, bend down and do it for me. So now I do the laundry behind my house. I’m not running around with stains on my clothes, they smell fine. And I did it myself. So there.
But what about the things that I CAN do? For example, I was at the preparations for a baby-naming ceremony, and women were gathered around an enormous cooking pot frying panketos (Balls of fried sweet dough not unlike a donut. Fresh, they are delicious. Day-old and they squeak when you bite into them, and probably bounce like tennis balls). They asked me if I could do this. I replied, hesitantly, that I could. My reasoning is that while my first few might not be perfectly round, with a few minutes of practice, I think I could drop dough into the hot oil, roll it around with the three-foot-long spoon, and retrieve them. The women all argued that this is very hard work, the fire is very hot, and that I could not do it. But they also wouldn’t let me try.
Am I just being super immature here? When I know I’m not capable of doing something, I’m pretty open about it. Can’t make the squilch-squilch noise, though I think my clothes are clean enough without it. Can’t fix anyone’s computer problems. Ever. Can’t be an astronaut when I grow up….
So I was left feeling unsure about what the proper response should be. I mean no disrespect when I say that I am capable of something, and in no way mean to imply that the work is not difficult. Yes, I can dig holes with a shovel for many hours, but I’m glad that it’s not my job. It is hard work. I can distinguish weeds from crops, and can pull them by hand or with a hoe, but I’m glad that it’s not what I do day in and day out. It’s hard work. But to say aloud that I am not capable of something just jars me, and goes against my very up-bringing.
So that’s that. I’m going to explore up-country for a little while. Then we’re getting new volunteers, and I get new site mates! And then school starts again, thank God, and maybe we can get these GD chickens up and running.
Oh, and I decided that I will fast this Ramadan (It started Saturday the 22), at least while I‘m in my own community. My reasoning is that in the evenings, people eat lots of really really good food. While my host family would never exclude me from these dishes, if I were not fasting, I would feel that I didn’t quite deserve it. And would be nice to have that feeling of solidarity with those around me. And I can do it. So don’t tell me that I can’t. It pisses me off.
*Addendum: After my first day of fasting, my conclusions are that the thirst is WAY worse than the hunger, though at no time did I stop sweating or feel cold, so I think I was ok. The hours from 2-4 pm are worst, probably because that is Gambian lunch time, and when I am accustomed to eating. And the breaking the fast food is AMAZING. Totally worth it.

Hey ya’ll. It’s been awhile. The last couple of weeks have been sort of up and down. Work has been work, etc. My cat died a really nasty poisoned-thrashing-around-on-the-floor death. In a sort of mixed blessing, I’m reasonably sure that the group who raises chickens, with whom I have been working, will be awarded the grant that we requested from the United Nations Development Project.

Actually. To be honest I don’t feel like updating right now, but I thought I should because it had been a few weeks. I’m alive though, so until next time.

Hey toubab! Aaaaaany minty!

Hey so the other day, all the kids in my compound were playing a game. I’d never seen it before. It went a little like this:
One kid would yell “Toubab! Any Minty!”
And the other kid would throw a charred cashew at him. Sometimes the response would be more complex like “Sure! The minties are here in my bag!” and then he would throw the cashew.
The “Toubab! Any minty!” is a pretty common refrain for kids in The Gambia, I was just surprised to hear it from THESE kids. I’m the fourth PCV to live in Jammeh Kunda, and these kids have never toubabed me. In fact they defend me from kids who come from other neighborhoods(and it really is something to have a 4-year-old hold your hand and yell at her peers, in her little squeaky voice “Her name isn’t Toubab! It’s Faatu!”), so naturally I assumed that their close interaction with PCVs (some are young enough that they have always known PCVs to be here in their compound) had somehow made them enlightened on racial matters, able to see and appreciate people as individuals, and able to see through the silliness of stereotyped expectations. Nope. Maybe just under threat of a severe beating for bothering the toubabs who live at Jammeh Kunda. Or maybe it just hasn’t worked in the past with PCVs, so they stopped trying.
“Any Minty!” is irritating, but I can’t say that I always blame the kids for yelling it. It totally works sometimes. I’ve been in touristy places, and overheard people who were going to visit a school later, saying they wanted to stop and buy candy for the kids (for Christ’s sake, if you’re going to visit a school, and can’t help but give something, why not, oh I don't know, PENCILS?!). But it does make me wonder what the kids think of ME. I never give candy. I’ve made banana bread and shared with the neighborhood. I play. I chat. But I never give candy or money. So DO they see and appreciate me as an individual? Or am I, and all the PCVs before me, just the worst toubabs ever, stingy and lame. Don’t we know we’re supposed to throw candy from cars?
Anyhoo, it was really interesting to watch. Later the game turned to “Yaya Jammeh! Biscuits!” because the president throws cookies from his motorcade.
Kids.

Sex and Ramadan, they're not related.

Except for today, because they’re both in my blog entry. So which one to tackle first?

Ramadan is coming up soon, and if you don’t know, it’s a whole month of fasting and prayer. Done correctly, one doesn’t eat or drink any water from sun up to sun down, all month long. My question is, do I participate? It’s cultural. My PCV friends say that it gives you a certain amount of street cred if you say you are fasting. My hangup is that I;m not Muslim. Everyone knows this and its not been a problem. I don’t want it to seem that I am somehow mocking someone’s religion by participating ( I also feel stupid every time I have to introduce myself as Fatumata, the name of the Prophet’s daughter. It sounds dumb when I am obviously not a Muslim. Should have changed it, too late now). For example, if I said I were fasting, the next question would be, are you praying? I don’t feel like having a long discussion on what prayer constitutes prayer, so the answer would be no because I am not praying the way they pray. And so what’s the point? My other reservation around fasting is less philosophical, more physical. I’m hungry all the time anyway, I don’t know what I would do if I couldn’t eat. Nothing would be accomplished all month long. And not drinking water is not an option. I don’t like to do things half-assed, so it makes me think I shouldn’t try it at all. But it’s cultural, and it might be a good experience. And I should at least put on a show of support and solidarity (even if I were eating, I would certainly have the respect to do it in my house) for my family and community. Suggestions? Am I mocking people by participating in their religious practices when I am not a believer? Should I just fake it? Should I go all in and just do it?

And now to the sex discussion. Some youth in the community asked me for condoms this past week. That’s awesome. In a culture where age of sexual debut is quite young, and many people have multiple partners, I was glad to hear that this person wanted to be safe. I advised they go to the nearest health center, about 2 K away, where I was told that condoms are distributed for free. The young man who had come to me said that he had already gone to the health center, but that he had been turned away empty-handed. The health center had told him that they did not want him to take condoms that he had gotten for free, then turn around and sell them to make a profit. Hmm. Well. I would think an organization promoting sexual health would distribute condoms for free, regardless of the risk that someone may profit. Or, even so, my solution would be to flood the market with free ones, then no one would even think of buying them from anyone. We could hang them from trees! Give them out as prayer gifts--instead of money or candy! If the president would throw condoms into the crowd instead of huge boxes of cookies, then maybe fewer children would be run over by his motorcade…and also people might make safer choices in their sex lives.
Anyhoo, so in the meantime, before I could figure out what exactly was up with the health center, I got some condoms from Peace Corps to distribute. This is not a sustainable solution, but if someone wants to be safe, I want to make that choice available. We had a short how-to session, slapped a few of those rubbers on my sunscreen bottle for practice, and he was ready to go!
When I finally did go to the health center to investigate how easy it was to procure condoms, I discovered that indeed it was not. Each time I introduced myself as a PCV, saying that I had some inquiries from people on where to get condoms, and wanted to know exactly where to direct them to make it easiest. After inquiring in a few different departments, I was shuffled from office to office, and it got a little old. Finally, I found the place I needed to be, way across the health center compound, I was directed to a small office, way at the end of a side hallway. And the man who would distribute them to me wasn’t there, he was in a meeting. Seriously? I never would have found it, nor would I have stuck around to wait for the man. Now, add to the situation that I’m some awkward teenager who doesn’t want to be there in the first place, Jesus, no wonder condom use isn’t all that widespread.
So I’m not sure what to do. I’ll still direct people there, but I’d rather have someone in my community willing to distribute them (but will men seek them if a woman is distributing? Will women seek them from a man? What if the person is old?). It’s not sustainable for me to keep doing it(and super awkward. If I give someone 8 condoms, then they come back to me 5 days later for more, I don’t want to think about that! I don‘t want to monitor anyone‘s sex life!), but I will until something better can be arranged.
And that’s all the news that’s fit to print. And I’ve got heat rash. good story, whitney

the continued adventures...

Hey so many of you may know that I used to work with kids with severe behavioral problems before coming here. Some were violent, and some had odd habits in such ways that it would be difficult to fit in. For example, I knew a young man who would spank his bottom, squinch up his face, and say he was an old granny every time he was in a social situation that made him nervous. We tried to discourage that. I had some severe déjà vu of exactly these situations, just the other day.
I was at the house of one of my mother’s friends. Everyone was chatting in Mandinka. I can understand most things if I pay attention and put forth a little effort, but by this time I was daydreaming and not listening at all. All of a sudden, out of nowhere, one of the kids says, in Mandinka, “I have a pen in my asshole. Hold it.” I turned around, and yes indeed, he had put a pen between his cheeks and was wiggling his behind in the direction of his brother. Now, conversations are still a struggle for me, I understand only the general meaning of things, none of the complexities, and I had not been paying attention at all.

But I heard THAT sentence, plain as day.
It made me question what we take for abnormal child behavior in the States, and how diagnoses fly willy-nilly. Maybe all kids are just weirdos, and they grow out of it. But I also pondered the various diagnoses that a child could receive, and that none of the services are available here, if there really were problems with their development. Probably the problem/solution lies somewhere between the diagnosis-happy-ness of America, and the kids-are-kids attitudes I see here.

Pull the pen out your butt, kid. Go wash your hands.

Hey all
So sometimes I think that Peace Corps is a great job for me because I don’t mind being alone, and being in a hut by myself with people who, while friendly, will never quite understand me is not a problem. On the other hand, Peace Corps is a terrible job for me because I don’t mind being alone, in fact I can get lost inside my hut inside my head doing some mundane task or other(lately its been weeding the garden, that task is never done), contemplating the world, and before I know it half the day is gone and I haven’t left the house yet. I could just Zen out and live like this forever.
So lately I’ve been back at site, but since so much of what I had been doing was based at schools, and now schools are on exams, then will be on summer holiday until September, I’m not quite sure what to do with my time. (getting teachers and school staff to meet outside of school hours is really tough, even during the school year. All of their in-service stuff happens during the school day, so the kids just run wild. Plus in the coming months everyone will be busy with their rainy-season planting.) So lately I’ve been sort of back to basics, just wandering around and chatting with people. It’s been nice, hanging with the women, playing with their kids.
Something that I’ve noticed that I struggle with, and think that things would go smoother if I could just master, is the art of indirectly talking about something, or talking around an issue. I’m usually pretty blunt in my discussion, and when I have a question or observation, I just put it on the table, and it can be so maddening when someone will start talking about something else entirely. They’re not being evasive, they intend to get around to whatever topic was at hand, just not by the most direct route. It think sometimes I come off as outright rude when I go straight to the core of an issue. For example, women sometimes don’t talk about their pregnancy for fear that devils may curse them and they will lose the child, so it is a better tactic, if you want to discuss it, ask her if she knows anyone who is pregnant, then talk about it in the abstract. I need to work on that skill in other areas.
Men have been more jerky than usual lately. Honestly, they’re egos are amazing, is it really so shocking that I DON’T want to chat with you? Really, I know that you’re just such a stand-up guy, and have so much to offer in the ways of intellectual conversation as you tell me how perfect and easy it is in America (Not crapping on all Gambian men, just the ones who follow me down the street until I seek shelter with an old woman. They don’t want to be shamed, so they’ll usually back off when I do this, though not always.).
This is another time when I have to be careful not to be TOO blunt(even when they ask for it), men seem caught off guard when I directly defend myself, and I don’t want to appear too rude to the women with whom I seek shelter. I just have to remember that just because I KNOW some good insults doesn’t mean I should use them.

Anyhoo. It’s hot. I’ve been here 8 months, how awesome is that?

Hey all, its been a great week. Mostly, it included having an All-Volunteer meeting of every PCV in the country, and lucky for some careful use of the rules, we got to have it at a 5 star resort. The highlights of this week were:

Sitting on grass.
Eating bacon.
Letting my knees and calves see the light of day.

Unrelatedly, we got internet installed at our Peace Corps transit house, this is fabulous.

But I thought i would throw up a few more pics of my fabulous family. These were taken on the day of my two older host brothers'(dressed in green) Koranic reading (I feel like it was sort of like a final exam for the year for them). They had to recite verses of the Koran from memory, and while I wish they were learning other things at school, it was pretty cute to watch. The oldest will be going to regular school next year, so thats good.
Enjoy!

Hey ya'll, how ya lookin?

Hey look, its my and my fam. This is my host sister Nyima (or Maa, for short) and my brothers Bubacar (Buba) and Monlamin (Amie), all dressed up.

I was all like, hey Darbo, is this clothes line in the way? Should we move?

No! Nothing is in the way!

Ok, well we still look good. ;-)

I bless the rains down in Aaaaafricaaaaa....

Anybody? Toto? No? Ok.

Well rainy season is finally here, which means that mango season(oh hell yes) is also here and hungry season is not far behind (the time when the dry season harvest is running short, and the rainy season crops have not matured). The rains have truly been a blessing because during the day not only has it been hot, but its been incredibly humid. Mostly the rains have come at night, sometimes they last for hours, accompanied by lots of thunder and lightning. The downside is that even though the rains are pleasant when they come, as soon as they’re over it goes right back to being humid, and I go right back to laying in a puddle of my sweat. Nothing is dry. My skin is never dry, my clothes are never dry even when left in the sun, everything smells moldy, food goes bad more quickly. And there is more insects. Right now all the streets are a big muddy mess such that is impossible to get anywhere without wading through sticky mud. That said, it is nice to have everything green around me, rather than dust colored. Despite it’s discomforts, I like this season.

Mangos are out in full force. They are so plentiful that many rot beneath the trees. I had big plans for a mango-drying initiative in order to preserve them throughout the year. But as I stated above, getting anything dry is a problem. The mosquito-net tent that worked well for drying bananas has not been so successful with mangos just because its so humid out. Even when left in the sun, the fruit just ferments out there. So I’m not sure what I’m going to have to do about that. Probably just eat some more mangos. Think it over.

Hey, check out this bug. He’s about the size of my thumbnail and only comes out after the rains. Pretty, isn’t he?




Addendum: Hey, know what’s fun? Having it pour torrential rain, sideways, plus having the shits due to probably eating too many mangos, therefore having to go out to the pit latrine every 15 minutes or so.
Lesson learned.

Hey all,

So I’ve been intentionally vague about work in my previous entries. I think I was waiting for something to be successful before I talked about it to my followers at home, but where is the learning experience in that?
So here is my recent activity. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in the past few months working with an organization who raises chickens for meat, and wants to expand into egg production. The group, especially their president, is pretty great. They understand the problem in The Gambia’s economy, in that they import EVERYTHING, and export very little. So wanting to produce food locally is their attempt at fighting the problem, at least on the small scale to begin with. They are very hard-working and committed. So I’ve spent a lot of time writing a grant proposal with the group’s president. Overall, I’m lucky. Given a little extra time, he reads and writes English, has some computer experience, and is a very very hard worker. I know that even when it makes me want to pull my hair out(oh jesus, it would be so much FASTER if I could just do it myself), writing the grant together is a good learning experience for him, and hopefully I’m transferring skills that will be left behind when I leave.
But also, it’s a good learning experience for me. I don’t know anything about chicken farming. What is a de-beaking machine? (it cuts the beaks off all the chickens)Do you really need one? (yes, because sometimes they peck each other to death) What are the risks and benefits of imported versus locally-produced feed? (imported is of much higher quality, but it is expensive and will sometimes be inexplicably unavailable. Locally produced feed will always be available, but is difficult to mix correctly, may cause inferior eggs, or cause the chickens to stop laying).
But the real problem I’m encountering, is now that we have written and re-written drafts and drafts of this document, is that I don’t think that the project can be sustainable. After crunching the numbers on the cost-benefit analysis, from how many eggs they can be expected to collect, to how much they will sell for, the group stands to make only a minimal profit if everything goes according to plan and nothing nothing goes wrong (and of course something will go wrong. That is life and this is The Gambia). These chickens just can’t compete with the imported gacked-out-on-steroids chickens.
So what to do? If I could just will it into being, I would love this project to be successful. I trust that my counterpart will do everything in his power to make it so, but I just don’t think it will be enough. And its irresponsible to put money into something that is bound to fail, no matter how much you like the person you’re working with. So do I tell them, and try to convince them to change tactics? What if they don’t want to? Do I continue to write this proposal with them, and when it gets rejected, blame it in the grant committee? Will my counterpart lose all of his idealism and quit?

Suggestions?

Hey so I was going to be done posting about Spain, but then our return trip was so entirely noteworthy that I decided it was worthy of another entry.

On our way to the airport in Madrid, we ran into another PCV from The Gambia, Jax, on her way back from a trip to Morocco, and as it turns out, we were to fly back to Dakar on the same flight. Awesome, not only was it great to see her and exchange stories, but she also speaks Wolof and so would prove helpful. Blahblahblah, flight was fine. Then, we arrived in Dakar at 9 pm their time, though it was 11 pm by our Spain-adjusted bodies. And immediately there was no doubt that we were back in West Africa.
Our original plan had been to sleep in the airport terminal until morning, then try to arrange transport home, but being so tired of traveling (and worried that we might get kicked out), we decided to try to arrange for a night bus to the border, hoping to make it to the north bank in time for the first ferry. Jax negotiated very hard on our behalf to get a car to take us, finally they settled on a price that was only slightly more expensive than what we had paid to get there, we agreed considering the driver would be going all night. Also, this transport company seemed somewhat legit, considering they had an office at the airport, we didn’t want to get stuck in some shady carpark in the middle of the night.
At this point, we realized that we did not have enough CFA (pronounced “say-fah”, the official currency in Senegal) to pay for the trip, but many of us had some Euro left over. But where to change it at 10 pm? On the street, of course. So, without much difficulty at all, we found a man on the street right outside the airport willing to change our Euro. We weren’t sure how much the exchange SHOULD be, but all the people we talked to seemed to agree. We exchanged bills, but then wanted to exchange coins, only to be told that coins were exchanged at a much worse rate than the bills were. Why? Money is money. We told him that that was BS, and when he asked for more coins to make up for the balance, we told him “mbang!” (while sharply flapping our arms down at our sides once, much like a chicken dance, it means “I refuse!”) and he burst out laughing and responded “You refuse? Ok then, we’re friends.” Sounds like shady practice to me, but what do you want from changing money on the street.
Once we got that sorted out, we returned to load onto our van and get going. Before we could take off, the driver and the man with whom we had been negotiating asked Jax, our Wolof speaker to come into the office so that they could take her passport number and giver her a receipt. When she got into the office, they locked the door and proceeded to berate her in Wolof. They then tried to add 30,000 CFA to our already agreed price. Jax was only able to get out of the office when she said that she needed to go back to the car to get money. Instead she returned with the only male traveling in our group, the men changed their tune, and we got on the road. It was around 11 pm.
As if there hadn’t been quite enough hints that this was not a safe choice, the ride was a nightmare. Our driver, while very nice, drove like a maniac. He was going at absolutely ridiculous speeds, careening around potholes, and swerving around other drivers. We would ask him to slow down, but bit by bit he would speed up again. There were many times that I seriously questioned whether I would rather die in my sleep, or rather stay awake to see my death barreling towards me at breakneck speeds. On the upside, I can now say “slowly slowly” in four languages.
By the grace of God, we arrived at the border at around 4:30 am, did the passport thing, and arranged for another car. The new driver indeed took advantage of the fact that it was early, we are foreigners carrying backpacks, and it was raining. But we negotiated a price and started for the riverbank, 20 K away. Along the way, Jax wanted to get out and walk to her village. It was only 2 k off the road, and she was anxious to get home. The driver wouldn’t let her out. He said that it was dark and raining, therefore not safe, but if we doubled the price, he would take her all the way. What? Double the price to add another 4 K to our 20 K trip? No way dude, we’re already paying you too much. But he continued to be rude, he wouldn’t let her out, and it really was insulting. Seriously dude, we’re here giving up two years of our lives to help develop your country, and all you can do is be a greedy asshole? We could be home earning money, having a normal support network of friends, having a normal romantic life, but we’re here instead trying to bring some good into the world. F you and F that noise. We raised such a ruckus that he finally let her leave, but he was really pissed at us for not giving him more money. Ugh, its not that I want special favors, I’ll pay a fair price for fair work, I just don’t want to be taken advantage of. Asshole.
We finally got to the ferry, waited in the rain to be let on. I fell asleep on board, in the rain, because I was just that tired.
When we reached the other side, the steady rain had turned into a downpour, and again we needed to arrange for a car to bring us to the PC hostel. We arranged a price with one car, and began loading in. The price was again elevated due to the rain and the fact that we were all carrying luggage. But then, another driver offered a price that was half of what we agreed to. We gave our driver a chance to reduce, he refused, so we unloaded our luggage and started to get into the new car. Our driver got mad and started yelling at us and at our new driver. Some of us loaded into the new car, but then the other driver physically blocked the rest of us from getting in. So we’re stuck standing in the downpour, holding our bags, while the two drivers yell and shove each other in the street over who gets to drive us, and at what price. This went on for about ten minutes, a crowd gathered, it was great. We finally were able to get the people OUT of the car who had gotten in, and we got another car. And paid a small fortune to be dropped right at our doorstep.
So at the late hour of 9 am, we all passed out, muddy and exhausted.
Dear West Africa,
Thanks for all your help.
Whitney

time to get back to work...

Hey all,

Heading back to The Gambia tomorrow, and for the most part I'm looking forward to getting back to my house, getting back to my fam, and getting back to work.
But Madrid was a blast. The things I was most pleased about was seeing pieces of art that I had studied in college, but only seen in books, never in real life. While here, I saw "Guernica" by Picasso, "The Garden of Earthly Delights" and "The Haywain" both by Bosch. They were all huge!! I was really impressed merely by the size of the works, but then to be able to analyze the detail was really fascinating. I also saw a variety of others, but those three were most poignant in my mind.
Oh boy, now who is ready for a flight, followed by a night at the airport, then a looooong ride in a car, then a horsecart ride, then etc.....?
here we go!

Madrid

just a quick note to say that Madrid is a fabulous city. I'm pretty sure I've got about as many picture from Spain in four days as I've got from The Gambia in seven months. I figure I spend half my time trying to convince people I'm NOT a tourist when in The Gambia, but here I can just embrace the fact that I am one, and its ok to take pictures of every single building.

Thus far I've

Gone to the modern art museum (twice!)
Seen the cathedral
Seen "Carmen" done by the Flamenco Ballet of Madrid
Taken pictures of probably 50 buildings
Drank sangria ;-)

Here's some pictures from around. Enjoy!

HeyguesswhatI'minMadrid!!

yes, its that exciting, and i'm pretty sure i've slept all of two hours in the last 32 or so. our travels began with a 10-hour journey, including 4 cars, a ferry, and a horse cart to get us from Fajara to the Dakar airport. Hey good story, no one in Senegal speaks Mandinka, and none of us spoke French or Wolof.

This morning we landed at 4 am in Madrid, and here we are. My plans include eating all things not rice, being clean, checking out the architecture, drinking red wine, being clean, dancing, downloading illegal movies and music from the fast internet, and being clean. Honestly, this is going to be fabulous.

Play ball!!! Or something like it!!

So something I’ve learned is that a majority of the Peace Corps experience is teaching skills which one is only mildly comfortable with oneself. For example, I don’t know much about computers, but I can use Microsoft Word. I know a little bit about running a small business, albeit in an American context, so I do my best to give sound advice.

The latest manifestation of me offering my meager experience and skill set, and being treated as an expert is that now I am coaching softball. Mind you, I played back when I was 11 and 12, and those were two awkward summers. The hand-eye coordination was never there, nor was the attention span. Even so, while I may have been able to throw reasonably well at the time, those skills are long gone through lack of practice. Nonetheless, some organization affiliated with the Olympic Committee here in the Gambia is spending money to organize sandlot softball teams, and while there are two Gambian coaches, neither of them has ever played before either, nor do they know the rules, so my PCV friend and I are doing our best to guide the group.

How to do that? I know what good throwing technique looks like, but I can’t demonstrate. I know what a good swing looks like, but I can’t actually connect with the ball (actually any improvement was good here, many swung the bat in a downward motion like an ax). When I was learning all these skills, my coach or father would stand directly behind me, holding the bat with me, and guide me through the swing, but in this conservative society that doesn’t seem right for me to wrap my arms around an adolescent boy, but words sometimes fail, what to do? I do know the rules fairly well, but how to adequately explain them without the language? And there are a lot of nuances, that seem very logical to me, but may not if you hadn‘t grown up with it--you can run through first base but not through any of the others. You can’t throw the ball AT the runner to get them out. What if the batter hits the ball, the ball hits the first baseman, then bounces foul? Is it foul, or fair? What about if your ball is an unripe mango?

I’m especially happy when girls show up, even if its inconvenient. They are always late, or absent entirely from morning practice, only showing up in the evening. While their brothers are free to roam the neighborhoods and engage in pick-up games, the girls are home fetching water, cooking, sweeping, and doing the family’s laundry. So while it is irritating having to re-teach all the skills over and over, I know its not their fault. And I’m pretty proud of them for wanting to participate.

Overall, its been fun, and we did finally get equipment, though not nearly enough to have 40 or 50 kids practice. I’d like to think I’m coaching future Olympians, but in all I’m fine with just making sure some kids have some fun on a Saturday. Now if we could only get a pool over here(and NOT at a tourist hotel), I could coach on a skill that I actually know something about. ;-)

Zuesta baake!

This is my cat. His name is Zues. Thus far he hasn’t lived up to such a majestic name. He mostly just runs around the place knocking things over. But he’s good company when the going gets rough. ;-)

"Ha ha. I get it. Thats supposed to be funny because I'm a woman."

Joking here is a really big part of the culture. This was a little difficult to get used to, especially after being warned in training to not sass anyone older than me, don’t sass men, and never ever sass any man older than you, only then to see some young child say rude things to an elder. It was also hard to be just learning the language and barely understanding what was going on anyway, then someone would give me a hard time, and I wouldn’t know how to respond, I would get all flustered etc.
Come to find, there are traditional “joking relationships” between some family names, some geographic regions, and some ethnic groups. Its been explained to me that this is why The Gambia is so peaceful, the joking is a traditional outlet for any ethnic tension that may exist between people. For example, my last name here is Jammeh (awesome, I share that with His Excellency The President), and we have a joking relationship with the Darbos. Usually the joking centers around eating too much (their stomachs are big, they are never full), or saying “their mind is not sweet” (they are stupid). Same joke pretty much every time, and every time its funny.
Other jokes that are always fair game center around husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. The women at my mother’s club like to tell me that when my husband comes, he will prefer them to me. When someone asks to use my phone, I always ask if they want to call their boyfriend, or to tell him that I love him. The police officers on the corner (who are just as bad as bumsters in many ways) always ask where my boyfriend is (“He’s at home cooking dinner!”)
There is one joke that I never fully understand, is when I approach, men will ask “where’s breakfast?” or lunch, etc. Ha ha, guys. Its funny because I’m a woman and I’m supposed to cook. Very creative. I’m not yet sure what the appropriate joking response is supposed to be.I always feign shock, and ask why they didn't cook, saying that I didn't because I thought it was their turn. They just look at me like I'm stupid, and explain that they never cook, their wives do it. Well. What am I supposed to say? That’s the dumbest joke ever, and it never fails to chap my ass. I guess I just don’t have a very good sense of humor. ;-)

Hey all,

So I recognize that the last few entries were negative, and have received a few emails about it. It was a bad week, and I had trouble keeping my sense of humor about things. Life is much better now, I just have to remember to laugh. Like when you're on your way somewhere important, and every time your car stops, they have to push it to get it started again, and every time they need to open the door, they just lift it off the car...the whole process takes extra long to get passengers out, but if I keep the right mood, it tickles me every time. The Gambia is great.

You know what else is great? The moon. The moon is positively spectacular lately.

"Ouch! My Penis Hurts!"

Know whats even more fun than having a ceremony to name your baby? Having a ceremony to circumcise one. It was ridiculous!

So today I went to two post-circumcision parties in my area, and it was a crazy time!! Both these ceremonies were for boys, I have yet to see one for girls, and don’t know how those celebrations differ.
Anyhoo. I’m told that boys are meant to be taken to “the bush” for circumcision in their early teens, but I’d say these kids averaged age eight(one was only two). The boys in a community are gathered and sequestered in a compound for two to three weeks. During this time they are circumcised and taught to be men. An important character to mention during this tradition is the “kankoran.” He is a man dressed head-to-toe in strips of bark and he carries two machetes. His job is to keep the boys sequestered from any females or uncircumcised males during their time in the bush. So during the weeks the boys are gone, he is going around the village, chasing women away with his machetes and yelling. I don’t think he’d hurt me, but I run just the same, I don’t want to test it. At the end of this time away, the community holds a big party for the boys, which is what I attended.
On the morning of the boys’ return, all their female relatives got all dressed up in rags, face paint, beads, and necklaces made from candy and cookies, and went around town dancing, singing, and generally carrying on. Then for most of the rest of the day, people were cooking, dancing, and waiting for the boys. Then, around dusk, the boys all arrived back. They were draped head to foot in cloth, such that you couldn’t tell who was who, all seated on a mat. The large group who had gathered by that time all formed a circle around the boys, with a group of drummers in the middle. One by one, each boy was uncovered and brought to the center of the circle where he had to dance. People threw money and candy, and sometimes went to pick the boy up to carry him around. These kids were terrified. Overall, it was a long day of dancing. While at the party, lots of women’s clubs wearing their asobi (matchy-matchy clothing) and were having what looked like West Side Story-style dance-offs. Except with less finger-snapping, more ass-shaking. It was way fun.

I hear its nice to be nice

So a long time ago I promised an entry on bumsters. Now is as good a time as any.

Bumsters are young men in the Gambia who hang around looking to be picked up by, usually older, European or American women. They spend most of their time walking up and down the beaches, doing ridiculous “exercises.” Yes, they’re usually ripped but that’s from working on the farm, not doing their weird moves.
Anyhoo. Bumsters approach women on the beaches, or really anywhere in the Kombos, and strike up conversations. They are extremely persistent. “Hey boss lady” is a common opener. As is “hey nice lady,” “hey, nice baby,” or “what’s your nice name?” or just “its nice to be nice.” Their hope is to pick up a boss lady who will pay them for their services, or if they’re lucky, take them back to toubabodu (America or Europe).
Now, I recognize that this system wouldn’t be there if it didn’t work, sometimes. I have definitely seen it in action--older women in their little short shorts, walking around with a Gambian man thirty years their junior. While we were in training village up in Kiang, a bumster brought his 55-year-old girlfriend home around Tobaski. She was around the village, dressed totally inappropriately, holding his hand (also not culturally appropriate) and it just looked silly. And I try not to judge. But really, how is that not prostitution?
On top of it, prostitution or not, it just makes my day rough. Even men who are not bumsters by profession still buy into the culture. The assumptions about white women are still there. Sometimes, the unsolicited flirtation is just too much. Men in positions of power are the worst, policemen, etc. The cheesy smiles, the catcalls, the “Where are you from, beautiful lady?” Really now, why are you calling out, over two lanes of traffic to try and greet me? Why aren’t you greeting all the other women on the street? If I don’t answer, they’re not like “Whoa, I was harassing that woman, that’s why she ignored me.” its more like, “how dare she? I was just trying to talk to her, she must be racist.” When I do answer, it just turns into “Where do you live? When can I come see you? Do you have a boyfriend in the Gambia? I’ll come see you tomorrow, would you like that?” Do I tell them where I live, and thereby gain some street credit for not being a tourist, but also run the risk of them coming to see me? I tell them I’m married, but lying and saying that he’s here is too big a lie to keep up, and in a culture where extra-marital affairs are pretty common, its not much of a deterrent. And damnit, if I even stop to have this conversation, they’ve won. They’ve got my attention. And they always find a reason to touch me, even though by the rules of Islam, they’re not supposed to.* There’s not an age limit either. Some ten-year-olds are certified creepers. Even some men that I’ve been working with, and thought that I had a very professional relationship with, have suddenly turned creepy out of nowhere, which is very disappointing.
Its hard, I don’t want to hate on men, most of my friends at home are men. And I can’t very well be a successful Peace Corps Volunteer if I ignore half the population. My host father is great. My host brother is really nice, and has never once been creepy to me. Some of the men I work with are downright wonderful. When I’ve got the patience for it, and a man hasn’t been too offensive yet, sometimes I’ll stop to talk, and we’ll talk about why I don’t like being catcalled, why its rude, and those are some of the best conversations I’ve ever made time for, however I‘m never sure if I‘ve made a dent or not. Other days I just don’t have the patience, or they ask me who is going to keep me warm when the cold seasons comes. This being West Africa and all, when the “cold” comes, I think I’ll somehow manage.


*speaking of touching me, the Tickle Finger (aka the Icky Finger). Its when a man, while shaking your hand in greeting (also not ok by Muslim rules, but plenty do), uses his index finger to tickle my palm. Its gross. It means he wants to sleep with you, and its hella creepy.

Nothing puts the peace in Peace Corps quite like gritting your teeth to stop yourself from spitting insults. Men of The Gambia, I’m not your boss lady. Its not nice to be nice, sometimes its nice to be an asshole.