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. ;-)