Thursday, January 1, 2015

Top 10 Gambian Tidbits and Honorable Mentions: 2014

I am officially at the sixth month mark in my service.  Throughout this time, I have learned a lot, made countless memories, and sweat through every single item of clothing in my possession.  While I have shared many of these moments with you, there are some more random stragglers that don't necessarily require a lengthy explanation, but are nonetheless telling about the culture I am currently nestled in.  They may not be funny, they may not seem noteworthy at all, but they are my little gems, my bits of life that have kept me going so far.  I hope that 2015 brings a thousand more.  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all you wonderful people.


10) Jifffy Lube

Desperately lacking in protein, Gambian cuisine depends heavily on the nutrients provided by groundnuts. They roast them, pound them into dusty flours, grind them into peanut butter for sauces poured over rice, and, during periods of abundance, simply boil them for snacks. If you can find a way to eat them, they are generally interested. The only exception to this rule, however, seems to be the way in which one should consume peanut butter. In my opinion, it doesn't take much to make eating peanut butter an enjoyable experience, as I am of the camp that believes a spoon alone provides a sufficient vehicle for getting this sticky goo into my mouth. I now know that Gambians wholeheartedly disagree.

I have learned a lot about making all products peanut in the last few months. From picking and shelling to roasting and grinding, I've done it all. Making my own peanut butter from nuts that I actually plucked from the ground was one of my crowning moments. I even got a small cheer of approval from my family, who had been so eager to teach me all about this tasty paste; but, they were also curious to see what I was going to do with it once I made it. I don't eat the rice, so I don't need sauce for it...They just couldn't imagine what the hell I would do with it. When explaining to my sister about my philosophy on peanut butter, she was horrified. What do you mean eat it plain? Just only this? And, when I further explained that Americans also like to eat it on bananas, apples, or on bread, she was absolutely disgusted. She laughed, turned and said something to her friend, then looked at me a little bewildered, and said, “An ko psy psy” which literally means, “you're crazy.” #moreforme

9) Tailor Trouble

As Gambian weather is harsh on clothes, most American things I brought have already bit the dust—chewed it up, and then violently regurgitated it into stained shreds off cotton-poly blends. So, I've had to branch out and get some clothes made. This can create stress as it is very hard to find someone who can sew clothes in a subdued Western style. Gambian women wear these elaborate shirt-skirt combos called complettes. They are covered in ruffles, metallic sparkling ribbons, and the tailors here just cannot help but to add these lovely touches to everything they get their hands on.
One of my brothers, Gibi,is a tailor, and after a couple of epic failures, I decided to try a new guy in Tim's village up the road. That turned out alright, but it took three exhausting tries to get things in wearable condition, and I felt so absurdly guilty for “cheating” on my brother that I found myself lying when asked about my new clothes, awkwardly explaining how a friend had given them to me.

Last week, I decided to attempt get some Christmas fashions made, so I hauled out to yet another tailor further down the road. Now I was cheating on my guy on the side-suddenly transformed into a big fat cheater complete with irrational lying and hiding pieces of fabric in black plastic bags as I passed his shop so as not to be found out. For days, an internal dilemma took over. Should I only wear certain things in the presence of the creator of the outfit? No, that could be stressful. Maybe I should just come clean and admit to my inability to commit. No, I would hurt their feelings. Well, turns out, the joke's on me. The newest “suitor” is apparently my mom's brother-in-law and word is very much out that I've been getting clothes made all over town. Initially, I was mortified, but now I feel free to wear any random getup I please without the fear of being called out on my infidelity. 



8) You Missed a Spot

       I often mention how hard Gambian women work in order to keep their households running. One thing in particular that has always struck me as unique is the sweeping of the compound. As most time is spent outdoors, the area outside the huts is the place that looks the most “lived in” at day's end. There is no den or family room, but there is a a front yard with some plastic chairs and a fire. Biscuit wrappers, flip flops, random peanut shells, bits of charcoal, and hundreds of tiny footprints from the naked feet of playful children litter the sand. So, as strange as it may seem, the women take to sweeping the sand with these short brooms made of sticks. They brush the sand back and forth into very intricate wave patterns. The first time I witnessed this, I remember thinking, What the hell? Who sweeps sand?”, but now, when I come out of my hut in the morning, I really appreciate the tidy look of the compound; the lines in the dirt are every bit as orderly and pleasing to the eye as lines in freshly vacuumed carpet, and these days I just sweep the sand with the best of them.

7) Sugar Daddy

Like many Americans, one of the most crucial steps in my morning routine is drinking a cup of hot strong coffee. Milk or no milk, hot as can be, and definitely no sweetener. There's nothing like it. Gambians drink something called Attaya, which is a very strong tea brewed with equal parts sugar and water. Sugar is taken very seriously around here as Gambians on the whole, feel that there's nothing that cannot be improved upon with the addition of obscenely large doses of this white grainy drug.

One morning, I was sitting outside enjoying some coffee, when my host father asked if he could try some. I warned him that Gambians tend to hate American coffee, but he insisted. Eager to see his reaction, I gave him the cup and watched as he slowly brought it to his mouth and took in the smell, unknowingly imitating a Folger's commercial. But then, after taking a small sip, his face turned sour as his body immediately rejected the bitter beverage. Panicking, he shoved the mug back at me and yelled in Pulaar for the teenage boys brewing Attaya to bring him sugar with precisely the same urgency as a surgeon calling for a scalpel. The boy rushed it over, my host dad dumped
approximately a quarter cup of it into his hand, and began to tongue clumps of it from his palm. Sufficiently leveled out, he looked at me, pointed in my face and said sternly in English, “How you can drink this, Fatoumata? Why did you give me this?,” and promptly got up and walked away...presumably to find more sugar.

6) The Elephant in the Womb

     Within The Gambia, there are several different ethnic groups, each with their own customs and language. As I've mentioned, I am living as part of the Fula tribe, who are known among other things like cattle and nice fabrics, for their strange superstitions. They are convinced that the spit of salamanders will burn your skin, that falling stars mean the devil is on the hunt for a kill, and they believe that if you admit that you are with child, that baby will not make it into this world. Now, with no cable, restaurants, or other worldly distractions, a fair amount of mating is going on. Women are pregnant all over the place. But, unlike most of the world-there are no questions asked, no bellies rubbed. They simply go about their chores pretending as if they've just suddenly gained a good deal of weight.

Recently, my host father warned me to expect a baby to be born in our compound this coming spring. It's very unusual for him to have told me, but said he “knows how the foreigners like to make plans about all the things” which I thought was hilarious, endearing and also fairly accurate. So, Hawa is having a baby. I cannot, of course, let her know that I know, so I will continue on pretending that she is just very much enjoying groundnut season until I suddenly have a brand new baby sister or brother to hold come April-ish.

5) The Pork Palace and the Drunkard's Den

Because Gambia is a predominantly Muslim country, two of life's greatest offerings are strictly prohibited: pork and alcohol of any kind. This creates a problem for us foreigners who walk around craving crisp bacon and cold beer. True, we manage to get our fixes of adult beverages from time to time, but pork cravings are those satiated only in the big city of Kombo—or so we thought.

Last Saturday, Tim and I rode our bikes to the large outdoor market for some wandering and shopping. As the sun came out, our mouths began watering for an ice cold beer. A fellow Peace Corps friend there with us helped out by calling a Christian Gambian who knew a guy who knew a guy. Turned out that guy was a gal and her name is Fatou; she apparently runs a little hush-hush operation in a small area of her back yard. It's a tiny shack fenced in by corn husks and has a cooler, two benches, and an array of bottom-shelf liquors guaranteed to provide the most miserable of hangovers. The other side of the “bar” serves as a slaughter-room slash kitchen for all things pig. Jackpot.

We followed the confusing directions, trying to think positively and not be too disturbed by the fact that this place was in the lady's yard. Lost, we called her, she kindly came out to the road and waved us down, and soon we were escorted inside. Taking our seats on the wobbly benches, we exchanged comforting safety in numbers glances, and ordered our beers. Fatou passed them around, while simultaneously breast-feeding her child. We figured if the beer was cold, we'd stick around and maybe ask about the pork situation. This was potentially the best Saturday ever. Sadly, this did not come to be. Although the beer was tasty, the other patrons at this establishment were (shockingly) not of the highest caliber, and we felt it best to high-tail it out of there before a few overly-friendly thigh slaps and an inappropriate pinch of the rear turned into unmanageable circumstances. It's an unfortunate consequence of a mostly dry country that these problems are not uncommon; those who imbibe and the places that cater to them are not always the classiest. From here on out, I will just accept that pork is just not happening up-country, and I promise to refrain from imbibing in the backyards of strangers.

4) I see London, I see France, I see Hawa's....Kneecaps

      Another component of Muslim culture is the necessity for modesty in public. This is especially applicable to women—no skirt or dress should be at or above the knees. Aside from random glimpses pumping at the well or washing clothes, it's very rare to see the legs of any woman. Late in October, I accompanied Hawa to the peanut farm to check on and pull up a few plants. The grounds surrounding the farm are littered with bushes that have those sharp prickly balls that stick on your clothes and later stab into your skin like tiny knives. So, before entering, Hawa stopped, looked around, and, feeling that we were out of site, tied her long wrap skirt up around the tops of her thighs. She motioned for me to do the same and we proceeded into the fields. She and I walked along, picking up bunches of groundnuts, and munching through the soft shells to get to the earthy, radish-like flesh. She found some sticks good for chewing (the surprisingly effective method of dental hygiene here) and then found some nice green leaves to pick for folaray, a leaf sauce eaten over rice. Having forgotten a bowl, Hawa unraveled part of her black head wrap and used the end of it to tie up the leaves, giving the illusion that she had long black hair.

Paired with her skirt hiked up, I saw my host mother in a totally new light; for this short time, she wasn't some middle-aged Muslim woman with four children, she was a young girl walking through a field picking flowers. She smiled knowingly as if to say that's also how she felt, and we shared a moment where we—without words—bonded as women. Baring our knees opened the gate to bare our girlishness, and it was a special exchange. It's so easy to look at the women around me, covered head to toe in yards of fabric, and see nothing more than that, but seeing Hawa in the farm that day opened my eyes to the reality that she is just like me....only with much longer legs.


3) Ba, Ba, Black Sheep, Have You Any Soul?

Back in October, I wrote about the slaughtering of the rams to celebrate the holiday of Tobaski. As the months roll by, the price for these animals rises exponentially, so it's good business sense to try and buy one early and care for it throughout the year. Our family lucked out as our female sheep was pregnant and due any day. I was getting ready for school when I heard an oddly pained cry. I came out to see the smallest little sheep you ever saw, covered in substances that clearly explained the weird cries. But oddly, the mother sheep was nowhere to be seen. I asked what was happening, where was she? My sister, Kadjiatou, explained that seconds after giving birth, the mother attempted murder by head-butting and then ran away to find food. I was torn—I felt awful for the little guy, but I wasn't about to cradle his gooey body and play mommy. I also felt a tinge of guilt as I identified with the mom; her instincts, or lack thereof, are precisely what terrifies me about having a baby of my own. No, I wouldn't try to murder it...at least not right out of the gate, but would I too lack that motherly instinct to feed, hold and even love my child? It's a scary thought, but something I ponder more and more as the anniversaries of my 26th birthday continue to accumulate without any prospect of procreation.

As for the sheep? Sadly, the baby passed away after two days of attempted mothering by my brother, and the mom seems content...unaware or unconcerned about her missing offspring. As for me? It remains to be seen, I guess, but lately I've taken to letting the sheep graze in my yard instead of shooing her away. I figure, it's Christmas, and we cranky ole biddies may as well stick together.

2) Walking in Fields of Grain

Since the moment I arrived in my village, my host father has talked about when I would accompany his sister and spend the entire day working alongside the other women in the rice fields. It was one of those things I wanted to do, but was more looking forward to the memory of having done it than the actual experience itself. I've never worked in rice fields, but everyone in the village had been warning me how difficult it would be, how my whole body will pain me, and that I should wear long sleeves so I don't bleed as much. Great. So, as you can imagine, I was very intimidated and mildly frightened as the day approached. Sunday morning came, and I prepared my things: enough water to get through the day (as I cannot yet drink water from random wells without undesirable consequences), a long sleeve shirt with a collar I borrowed from a neighbor, and a tikka, or head-wrap to protect my hair from the prickly stems of the rice.

We set out on a horse cart; ten women and two men making our way through village after village until we reached the river, where the rice fields of all surrounding villages are located. We were followed by a donkey cart, carrying a few other people and some supplies. The drivers and women joked back and forth about how we were better than the donkey cart people (because horses are faster) and the donkey cart folk retorted that actually, our horse should be put to death because the donkey was keeping pace with the him and therefore bringing shame to all horses. It was all very amusing. The rest of the day, however, was devoid of humor. It was time to work.

Upon arriving, we unloaded the gear, took off our flip flops, and plotted out a route from the generator-run grain separator to the rice field, where stacks of massive stalks lay ready to be hauled over the land and piled for grinding. The women showed me what to do. Basically, you bend down at the waist, scoop up an enormous amount of stalks, each easily exceeding eight feet in length, hoist them up and onto your head and walk the through the gushy wet field about 200 yards. After the initial hilarity of white girl carrying rice on her head wore off, we had a beautiful, albeit exhausting day. We walked for hours and hours, back and forth without much talking, but there was a lot more to soak up than just words. The fields were home to hundreds of the most beautiful birds, cranes, and a troop of baboons playing on a nearby tree, and the sun was strong but hidden enough behind clouds that it sent beams of light onto the tall stalks of grain. The wind blew lightly, creating a soothing whooshing sound, and the absolute blackness of the women's skin was so gorgeous against the bright greens and yellows of the grasses that I even thought for a moment that I would come and work again the next day just to have the chance to capture them with my camera. While I did not make it out, I do plan to revisit this serene place that seems to be a separate Gambia-a world starkly contrasting to the loud bustle of markets, villages filled with a hundred noisy children, or the cramped buses I so often find myself in.

1) Food Items, the People Who Serve Them, and Also Christmas

Beginning December 11th, my entire group took off for Kombo to attend the swearing-in ceremony for the new agriculture and health volunteers (AKA, eat things involving cheese and drink lots of low-quality alcoholic beverages.) After the weekend, the education group had a week of classes at the Peace Corps office reviewing how our service is going so far, and learning more about how to get involved. Every night, dinner was on our own, so we missioned out to restaurants looking for all the food stuffs we'd been craving. While the food was usually great, the ordering part of the program proved the most difficult. Waitresses here are not like those at home. They're not working for tips, so speed isn't much of an issue, they usually don't know much about the menu, and sometimes, they may not be aware that you even want to order food at all, since sometimes people just come to take a load off and sit at a table. This sounds like a first-world problem rant, and perhaps it is in part, but it is amusing enough that I find it worth sharing.

Going out to dinner is not really a Gambian thing, so they are mostly catering to either the very wealthy or foreigners. My friend, Scout has a story that puts things into perspective. Upon looking at the menu, she saw something under the sandwich section, but had a question for the waitress. She asked “What is the Philadelphia?” to which the woman responded, “It's a food item.” Ahhh...now we understood. Not. Needing further detail, she got more specific. “What's on this food item?” The waitress explained, “Hmm..Philadelphia”. Perfect. Not in the mood for a eating a metropolis, Scout decided to order the vegetarian pizza.

Scout: “What comes on the vegetarian pizza?”

Waitress: ”Everything.”

Scout: ”Everything? Everything comes on the pizza?”

Waitress: ”Yes.”

Scout: ”Yea, ok, I'll have that.”


Needless to say, while Kombo at Christmas was fully enjoyable with all it's offerings and worldly fare, it became more enjoyable to buy groceries and cook at the Peace Corps house than attempt to play Who's on First with the employees of the local eateries. Christmas morning, a group of about 30 of us enjoyed home-cooked dishes, wore festive clothes, and even had a white elephant gift exchange. It was a nice holiday, but now as the year is at a close, I find myself more ready than I ever expected to return to the quiet life of my village and sleep alone in my hut. With that, I am heading home tomorrow, returning to the land of the disconnected and wi-fi-less. Here's to wishing that 2015 brings even more crazy memories and experiences for all of us.


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