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.
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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.
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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