5) I’ve Got My Eye On You
When I first arrived to Sare Ngai, I went on a daily jog up to
the nearby village of Fulabantang. Aside
from a few cows, the occasional donkey, and the super- rare following of
children, reminiscent of that scene from Forrest Gump, I was alone. But afterwards, I’d tuck into a small
building to do some exercises before heading home, and it was here where I
attracted the unwanted notice of the village youths. They would stop and stare; regardless of how
hard I attempted to shoo them away, they remained steadfast in their
attentions. My frustration was palpable.
Seeing this, one evening my host father sat me down and explained the curiosity
of these peeping children. He said, “Fatoumata,
most of these children have never seen a white lady. Now here you come along,
and you just start running. But Fatoumata—you
are not going anywhere. Just only
running. They cannot understand
this. Then, you are squatting up and
down, up and down. They think—look at
this white lady! Is it that she cannot decide to sit down or stand up? Why is she doing that?” I couldn't help but laugh at his way with
words, and it made me put my anger into perspective, but it still didn't make
me dislike being watched any less.
So now, months later, I've adapted my routine and created a
backyard gym of sorts. I blew up a
stability ball, made barbells and hand weights out of metal rods and giant tin
cans filled with cement, and threw down a yoga mat. Voila!
I could finally have the privacy I’d been craving. But then, a few weeks ago, I was minding my
own business doing some sit-ups, when I noticed something strange in my cement
wall. I took a second glance and
realized there was a tiny eyeball rolling around in one of the blocks. I yelled “Hey!” and the eye grew large and
then disappeared as the young boy it was attached to ran away. I was, as an American, as Meghan, absolutely furious. My privacy had been completely violated. I was being watched in my own bathroom where
not only do I exercise, but I bathe, do naked dishes, and even sleep once in a
while! How long has this been going on?
These kids are going to get it! But then, remembering my host father’s
words, I tried to imagine seeing a strange alien-person lifting up heavy
things, setting them down again, jumping around erratically in her underwear
and tennis shoes and how, as a child, it would be almost impossible not to spy on such bizarre
behavior. So I took a deep breath,
filled an empty can with a bit of water and cement, walked outside, and
proceeded to fill in the holes. I soon
had a gathering of kids around me, so I explained that it was not nice to watch
people in their houses. They helped me
paste up the peep holes with their little fingers, and it became a fun “find
the crack” game rather than the emotional display of outrage that the former
Meghan would have insisted upon. This
experience showed me that it’s definitely not just us Peace Corps volunteers
making a difference in some other country—the country and its culture are
making a huge difference in us. My
patience and ability to see the other side of a situation has expanded to a
degree I never thought possible for a hot-head like myself. Now, if they could just work on my road rage….
4) Maternity Warden
As I mentioned a while back, my host mother, Hawa, recently
had a baby. She was born on March 23rd,
is an adorable, healthy little girl, and upon the family first consulting me,
was named after my own mother, Deanna Scripture. It was such a touching way to honor my
presence in the Kandeh family, and although my host father also gave her the
traditional name, Isa, she is called Deanna by most of the village, which has
been a real trip. It’s particularly funny
when, upon hearing her cry, people tell me, “Fatoumata, go pick up your mother—she
is very upset!”
I have not had a child of my own, so this was the first time
in my memory where I've witnessed the initial bonding of mother and child. In Muslim culture, a woman is not to leave
her home whatsoever for seven days following the birth. With no electricity, Law & Order marathons
are out of the question, so to keep mom and baby entertained during this first
week, many visitors drop by and help curb the boredom. I sat on Hawa’s bed, taking turns holding the
tiny bundle in my arms, bringing her my lantern at night, and making simple
conversation. I watched as she struggled
to feed baby Deanna before her milk came in, and as her brothers are sisters
stared into the face of their new sibling for the first time.
The night after she gave birth, in the still darkness of her
room, three women came in carrying a towel, a large bowl of water, and some
sticks with thick green leaves. I
shuffled a bit thinking I should go, but with a nod from Hawa, I was handed the
baby and told to sit down. So there, in
the flickering candlelight, I sat and observed.
Hawa was placed face-down on the ground.
One woman rolled the leaves into packets tied together with twine from
the branches and submerged them beneath the hot water. Another woman took these packets and rolled
them over Hawa’s back, letting the herbs and water run over her skin. It filled the room with a heavy, Earthy scent
and I could tell from the look on her face that Hawa felt relief.
Never before have I felt like such a part of the community
here, of my own family, as I did that night.
This was a private moment, that only a few women closest to my mother—not
the younger girls, not even my sister—were invited to witness, and I was
permitted to stay. That night will stand
as a powerful memory for me, not only as a reminder of my bond with Hawa, but
of the deep bond that exists between women, across all cultures, and throughout
all time.
3) The Backway
It is not new information that many people from 3rd
world countries, lacking the right passport, the right education, and the right
amount of money to secure a visa to the West, look for a way, anyway, to reach the riches and
opportunities they believe await them in Europe or America. However, one year ago, if someone had asked
me if I was familiar with The Backway, I would have blushed, given them a dirty
look, and immediately walked away. Now,
I am rushed with desperate feelings of anger and sadness, as I've learned what
The Backway really is—a long and dangerous journey synonymous with struggle and
death.
For some time now, Libyan refugees escaping the political
unrest in their country have been granted asylum in Italy. Other West African countries were quick to
catch onto this, and began making the journey up to Libya in hopes of reaching
the so-called Promised Land, where nothing but wealth and power await
them. People gather up all the money
they can, often pay to secure fake documents, IDs, bank statements, etc. and
head off for their better life.
From Gambia, the journey is long, taking roads to Senegal,
on to Mali, Niger, and then finally crossing into Libya. Once there, it could be months or years
before they land a seat on a ship. As
this route gains popularity, corrupt government officials, common thieves, and
others looking for capital gain take advantage of these desperate
travelers. They bribe them, rob them at
gun point, and hold them in prison camps under unspeakable conditions until
they get what they need. Families are
called, money is wired—money that most are in no position to lose—and it turns
to fate whether they are robbed again, or are able to move forward on their
journey.
It is the few that do make it over that give hope to the
rest, though it is often those people who have it worst of all. For us, it’s not hard to imagine why these
men cannot find work. They have no papers, no formal education, and no local
language. The change in climate, culture
and currency form a Trifecta of challenge nearly impossible to overcome. Many live in make-shift camps on the
outskirts of farms, hoping for a bit of work to feed themselves and to send
money home to their families in Africa.
After all…they were supposed to be rich now…they made it.
As time passes, the death toll continues to climb and with
it, the number of homeless West Africans living in Europe. The situation is attracting attention from
the UN, who recently stopped the migration of nearly 1,100 Sub-Saharan's and
deported them back home. While I do what
I can here to spread the news about the realities that await these boys if they
try to go The Backway, I cannot make a measurable difference on my own. Not a week goes by where someone in my
village doesn't either know of a person who has recently died, talk to a friend
on their way, or is trying to escape themselves. These numbers are mind-blowing, and I can
only hope that as time passes, the myth will be broken, and things will begin
to change.
2) Special Delivery
Vastly differing from most places in the developed world,
rural, “up-country” Gambia is a sprawling land with a single paved road running
through it, one above and one below the river that divides it. One village stretches out behind the next,
each cluster of huts connected through a maze of unmarked tributaries created
from rough, rocky earth. A community is
found by its relation to another, not by its geographic coordinates or place on
a map. While this sounds lovely, you can
imagine how the prospect of mailing something might present…a bit of a
challenge. Or so one would think...
However, combining the small size of this country with the
large hearts of its people, somehow they make it work. I've written letters for my school and asked what
address to use. I was answered with a
strange look and, “just the name of the person and the village”. Ok. Then, last month, one of the Peace Corps
drivers, John, who is a Christian-Gambian, was preparing for Easter and was on
the hunt for a fruit called Baobab, which is dried and pounded up to make
juice. Apparently, my village is well-known
for its abundance of Baobab, so this man phone my father and together, they
commissioned a few boys to climb the trees, collect the fruits and arrange
delivery to the big city. I was in
awe. The entire transaction occurred between
people who had never even met! But sure
enough, when I asked John if he received his fruits in time for Easter, he
assured me he did.
Although I was getting familiar with this mysterious postal service,
I had still never taken advantage of it myself.
That is…until last week. After spending
the night in nearby Janjanburreh, a friend and I woke the next morning, did a
bit of shopping at the market, and hopped on a bus. When my stop came, I rushed out, waved
goodbye, and walked off. It was then I
realized I’d forgotten my bag on the floor of the bus. My
precious mangoes! Why? Why! It then occurred to me that this was my chance.
So, I made a call. I told my friend to give the bag to a driver
heading back up-country. “Tell them to
give it to one of the policemen that stand on the road in Fulabantang. Tell them it’s for the white lady in Sare
Ngai.”Within one hour, I had my mangoes, and they.were.delicious.
1) E-I-E-I…No.
These past months I've had a few close calls with some
members of the animal kingdom. For those
of you who don’t know, there are very few things that make me as uncomfortable as
random animals. They are unpredictable,
have no sense of personal space, and their bathroom habits need serious
work. That said, I do enjoy the beauty
and grace possessed by some of Earth’s
creatures. Baboons, for example, have
been out in full-force lately, and I appreciate seeing them scatter en mass
across the road, and I even enjoy seeing the one brutish male who often sits
high in the tree near my school (although when I pass, I sing to myself just stay up there, don’t mind me). I've also gradually become accustomed to
being constantly surrounded by goats, cows, donkeys, chicken, and sheep
(although enjoy is not exactly how I’d
describe my feelings).
Anyway, when my new baby sister, Deanna, was born, a naming
ceremony was to be held on her seventh day of life, as is the tradition. It’s a
huge celebration; everyone wears new clothes, food is prepared, music is
played, and the baby is seen for the first time by all. My father, Batchi, went all-out and purchased
a big sheep for the occasion. She was a
wretched sheep—constantly bleating, butting her head against things, and trying
to run away, which all things considered is, I suppose, understandable.
After a few attempted escapes, the boys tied her up
good. She wasn't going anywhere, and
she.was.pissed. So, nightfall came and I
sat chatting under my family’s porch, directly across from my hut. Suddenly, a loud bang echoed through the
compound and everyone dispersed, trying to wrangle in this wild beast. Then, as I sat, alone, in the dark, the
crazed sheep jumped up on top of the table right in front of me. I screamed as her eyes met mine as if to say,
“You did this to me,” and she
bolted. People came running to make sure
I was okay— for they too know my fondness for wildlife—and then I heard them—the
words every animal-weary foreigner prays never to hear. “Fatoumata…the sheep is in your house.” I couldn't process it. What?
Wait…What?! “Yes, the sheep, it is
inside your house.” I watched in horror
as three grown men entered my hut as if proceeding into battle. And in fact, they were. Bumps, bangs, the crash of a fallen pot, and seconds
later, out walked my heroes, struggling to hold the writhing beast by her
legs.
After surveying the damage, I was relieved to see that there
was not much of it, but now, any time a sheep so much as crosses my path, my
family laughs and says, “Fatoumata, I think she is coming for you.”
