Wednesday, May 13, 2015

For Better or For Worse: The Gambia's Top 5 Cultural Tidbits Spring 2015

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.
Many NGOs work to educate about and warn against using this method of leaving the country, but unfortunately, it just doesn't deter people, specifically young men, from trying.  Recently, over 400 people perished when their ship overturned and sank; but even knowing this, and of the miserable conditions on the ships which include having little food, no bathrooms, and even little to no drinkable water, people still want to go.  The desperation is truly blinding. 
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.”


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