Top 5 November 2015: Cooling Off but Heating Up

I feel like a broken record, but November came and went in the blink of an eye.  The final leg of Leadership Trek was completed the first weekend, followed by a lot of time in Kombo closing the grant and working on a couple of media projects.  I'm also thrilled to report that the cold season has rolled in and I'm happily sleeping under not one, but two blankets these days, which brings me a degree of joy I cannot adequately express in words.

5) Let's Lead

As I've mentioned the last couple of months, I was one of three female PCVs in charge of a project called Student Leadership Trek. After several visits back and forth to all the schools, preparing our funding paperwork and gathering supplies, after writing our curriculum and recruiting 15 other PCVs to trek and teach with us, the weekend for the actual event finally arrived.  The first weekend of November, the three of us separated, accompanied by our respective teams, and taught at two schools.  On Saturday, my team biked to

Acrostic poetry lesson

Tahir, where students and teachers alike were ready bright and early for our arrival.  We began the day with a short assembly and motivational activity called The Human Knot.  After breakfast, students began their rotation through the four stations of English, Art, Sports, and a special role model session where boys and girls separated and listened as a a stand-out member of the community spoke to them about their struggles toward success.  The day was long, but everyone applied themselves in order to make it work. The writing, while difficult for most, was enjoyed by a few talented young people, the art class proved to be the favorite of the day, and despite the heat of the afternoon sun, kickball was also a hit.  Sunday, we repeated the entire program at Kaiaf, a school about 15 kilometers away, and after closing ceremonies that evening, we all dispersed back to our villages Monday morning.

The food bowls for students and teachers cooked by local women. 

Who says you can't play in a skirt?

Blowing paint bubbles

While it was strange to see the product of so much time and effort flash by in just two short days, I'm so grateful for the opportunity to have organized such an incredible program.  It's too easy to focus on the imperfections in our work, and this trek was certainly chock full of them, but at the end of the day, the smiles spread across the faces of the kids was enough to make me put the flaws aside and just be thankful for the experience.

4) Ready, Set, Write!

Instead of going back to my village of Sare Ngai at the close of Leadership Trek, I had to head into Kombo to tie up the loose ends of our grant and write an article on one very special teacher we worked with at one of the schools. For the following three days, I attended a media workshop, where nine volunteers were split into groups of three to cover a topic of our choosing.  Each group had one volunteer focused on a specific medium: photography, videography, and writing.  My group decided to focus on transportation in The Gambia.  It was a lot of work to swing in just two days, but every group managed to get it done with flair. (See my article HERE) After the training, I prepared myself to return to my hut, and to my little Deanna, who is growing like a weed and learning to babble, coo and crawl!

3) Patch That: A Gambian How-To

In preparation for painting the world map on the wall of one of the classrooms in my local school, we had to first fix all the cracks and holes. Well...perhaps fix isn't quite the right word.  After using three bags of cement to completely redo the floors which were full of huge potholes, we had only a small amount to use for the walls. To best utilize the materials we had, the school Ustas, or Koranic teacher Pa Omar Barrow, taught me how to fill the holes of the classroom.  Please envision the two of us, propped up on tiny plastic chairs, shoving scraps of t-shirts, old socks, school uniforms too tattered to mend, and other random finds into the deep crevices of the wall.  Of course, the entire wall was hollow, so the clothes were easily swallowed up without so much as filling even one hole.  He sighed, frustrated.  New plan.  I got a packet of old gauze from the "medical kit" in the office and, carefully folding and rolling it into a dense ball, created plugs for the gaping holes.  Eschewing the idea of a perfect patch, I then threw globs of cement on top and Voila! a new wall!  A few hours later, Ustas and I mixed up some chunks of white paint with water and salt, and proceeded to whitewash the entire room.

The blue square: home to future world map!

He gets all the kudos as I was much too scared to mix up the paint (it gets scalding hot, shakes, and bubbles in the bucket) and, at 6'2", he was able to crawl on tables and chairs to reach the high spots.  I couldn't have done it without him, and I look forward to keeping the project going and finishing before next semester closes.




2) Giving Thanks

Since I passed on going to Kombo last year and instead helped to make a small feast in Basse, I decided to treat myself and go to the city and eat real turkey at the country director's house.  In exchange for the delicious meat, we each brought a side dish to round out the meal (I made green bean casserole) and together, about 50 of us indulged in a huge holiday spread.

While I missed my family and the intoxicating smell of my Aunt's kitchen, it was nice to have a few familiar things that make it feel like Thanksgiving.  We also used the day to show our gratitude for our surrogate families here with a special facebook post.  (See HERE)  I hope you all had a wonderful time with family and friends and I am quite excited for next year's Thanksgiving, where I plan to eat at least one piece of pie an hour until I collapse.

1) Just Face It

After all the casseroles and turkey breast, I planned to head back home, as work had me away from village so much this month.  My plan was spoiled, however, by an unexpected infection...in. my. face. There are many great things about life in West Africa; one of the not-so-great things is that skin infection are far too common. I've had many--from my foot, to my arm, in my nose, and now, in my face.  It began innocently enough.  I thought I had somehow bumped my forehead on something and had a smallish boil or goose-egg type thing.  But little by little, this thing swelled and swelled until my right eye was almost entirely swollen shut.  A bit nervous, I had a visit with the PC doctor, who immediately started me on antibiotics, and I now live to tell the tale.  After a few days, no longer resembling the elephant man, and no longer scaring unsuspecting strangers into gasping and and shouting, "Ah! Your face!", I decided it was time to go home.

All in all, November proved another successful month and I'm ready to see where the rest of the year takes me. Much love and holiday spirit to all of you back home.

Transportation Gambian Style

Envision this: You are a Peace Corps volunteer living in a remote bush village. You wake before sunrise to begin your journey into the city.  Loading up your backpack and hoisting your tired body onto your bicycle, you make your way up the deep, sandy path leading to the paved road. Stretching your headlamp over your bike helmet to illuminate the last moments before dawn, you pedal through the sand, cautiously monitoring the world around you for any stray hyenas not yet aware of the morning’s arrival. The air is crisp and cool, and although the heat from your baggage builds and the weight burdens your back, somehow you enjoy it — this precious moment of quiet calm before the storm — the unknown, unpredictable storm that is traveling on public transportation in The Gambia. 

Regardless of whether a volunteer lives north or south of the shallow river that divides the country, whether they live 10 or a mere 3 kilometers from the road, the challenges and joys of using public transport are unavoidable. From gele gele to bus, citizens and travelers alike come together for hours on end, cramped into the closest of quarters, in order to reach the metropolitan region of The Gambia known as the Kombos. Without much space to spread out, passengers quickly become familiar with one another. Babies are handed off to strangers so that their mothers are able to gather luggage and heave themselves into the automobiles. People repeatedly shuffle in and out of their seats, assisting others in safely affixing their sheep and goats to the roof racks of the vehicles. “We become a kind of team when we travel,” said Cameron Hatlevig, a health volunteer residing four kilometers off the main road. “One time I had an old woman take groundnuts out of my hand and actually shell them for me because I let her granddaughter sit on my lap.” 

Though special moments like these do happen, volunteers don’t often think of travel as a pleasant experience. The vehicles are in all states of disrepair. The seats are usually ripped and even missing the necessary hardware to hold them up; the A/C is not only broken, but is, more often than not, actually emitting blasts of scalding hot air . The combined body odors of the passengers make for an overall undesirable aroma, and as one volunteer put it, “People seem to think it’s normal to encourage your small child to pee on the ground even though they’re in a confined public space.”

Lia Killeen, a health volunteer, remembers a late afternoon ride home she took alongside members of her extended family. After hitting a dip in the road, the truck became stuck in a vertical position, women and their wares sprawled in every direction, and goats were thrown into the glass which separated the bed of the truck from the front seats. “The men sent me to get my host father and his horse cart to come and pick up my family and their baggage. When I returned, I walked up to see all the women in their fancy completes (traditional West African fashion), pushing the truck out of the muddy ditch,” she said. “I was impressed.  Their natural reaction wasn’t to complain about the situation, but to laugh it off and just solve the problem.”

Stories like this are common threads stitching the travel experiences of many volunteers together.  Some are lucky to find inspiration and kindness where they least expect it, but others have a vastly different perspective.  One volunteer living on the reputedly inconvenient north bank of the country shared details from her most recent trip to the city. After an estimated nine hours of biking to, waiting for, and riding on a gele gele, Alexandra Hooper was shocked and devastated when a fellow passenger, thought to be asleep, was found dead by relatives upon arriving at her village. They pried her body from the vehicle and collected her baggage as the vehicle doors closed; the seemingly unfazed passengers simply continued on to their final destinations. “I felt that there was a degree of acceptance that I just couldn’t understand,” Hooper explained. “My gut reaction was to check her pulse, console her family members, anything … but the Gambians just knew she had passed, and knew they had to move on.”

Other volunteer experiences don’t fit into either category, but stand out simply as bits of comic relief from the exhaustion of travel. Education volunteer Dan Tanner, having passed through a police checkpoint on the main road a few weeks prior, was recognized by an officer while waiting for his vehicle to be waved through.  Upon entering the gele gele to review the passenger IDs, the officer immediately recalled the volunteer’s fully grown beard, grabbed ahold of it and announced, “Bora ba!” (or “big beard” in the local language of Mandinka), before turning to exit. Tanner and his fellow passengers exchanged confused glances and continued on in a state of amused disbelief. 

Although volunteers travel the same roads with the same population of people, no two experiences are ever the same.  Some have been offered free rides from sympathetic drivers, others have struck up conversations to find they have family in the same city back in America, and still others have made connections with locals that will last far beyond the end of their service.  The adventure of using public transportation in an unfamiliar country and culture is one full of bittersweet moments, but it’s what makes The Peace Corps unique. “I’ve had people give up their seats for me on the bus, share their last piece of watermelon, and trust me to hold their child,” Hatlevig said. “That would never happen back home.”  

Top 5 October 2015: From Retreat to Trick-or-Treat

Fall has been the busiest time in my service so far.  Between my library project (finally underway) the s.l.o.w.l.y. unfolding secret project in my village, and my travelling up and down the country organizing Leadership Trek, I've had little time to relax at site, but have managed to squeeze in a space to enjoy life and its small joys while getting things accomplished.

5) Motion By the Ocean

The first weekend of October came time for another yoga retreat; this quarter, we held it at the seaside eco-resort of Sandele.  As usual, 17 volunteers came together for three day of re-grouping, physical exercise, and meditation.  Each person contributed their own bits of personality to the weekend as we had activities ranging from yoga to cards and abs classes to picture frame making, poem writing, and dance lessons.  A long weekend of R&R mixed with nutritious food and plenty of good conversation really is the refreshing combination of things needed to keep going in this environment, and I feel so lucky and proud to be a part of both the team that makes it happen and the group of people reaping the benefits.

4) City Slickers

I have to admit, after a few days of stress-free bliss, the last things I wanted to do was head back for the first days of school, but, such is life.  This year, the Ministry of Education assigned a few of our teachers to different schools, so we have a couple of fresh faces in town.  One in particular is a young new teacher named Sainabou Mendy.  She is a Manjanko (a typically Christian ethnic group) coming from just outside of Kombo.

We are slowly getting to know one another, but as we do, I am constantly amused by the vast differences between "city Gambian" and "upcountry Gambian".  Sainabou, who has never seen the village life of her own country, is finding the adjustment to the simpler life to be....somewhat challenging.  She is, for the first time in her life, having to fetch water and do household chores without electricity, and to be honest, I'm kind of loving it.  After more than a year in Sare Ngai, I can wash my clothes, carry water on my head and scale a fish with my eyes closed, but because everyone else here can too, it's not that noteworthy.  But now, I'm being asked a Gambian woman how I manage to live without all the creature comforts of lights and running water.  I never thought I'd see the day.  The other teachers just laugh and insist it's because I am "a true Gambian now"; maybe, but mostly I'm just happy to have someone else understand where I come from--even if it's just a glimpse. I already felt close to her, but the ultimate bonding moment came when she came bounding out of the classroom screaming that teaching these kids was impossible. She insisted, "They don't speak any English....and I can't speak any Pulaar!"  I just smiled, crossed my legs, and said, "Sainabou...welcome to Sare Ngai."

I hope we get to work together this year as we both deal with similar challenges both in the classroom and in the daily stresses of life in this difficult yet stunningly beautiful countryside.

3) Trek Time

By the third week of October, it was time again to head in Kombo and continue work for Leadership Trek, the project I'm heading with two fellow PCVs, Jess and Elizabeth.  We had just a few short days in which to cash the check from the grant, review the budget, buy supplies, organize huge bags of materials to drop off at the schools, divvy up payments for the people we assigned to cook the food during program, and finish the curriculum.  It was hectic, but we managed to get it all done in four days, leaving time to pack up the PC vehicle and head upcountry, accompanied by three other girls who are leading Camp GLOW, the final week-long program to be held in January for the "winners", or stand-out students, of Leadership Trek.

We held meetings at each of the six schools, helping the staff understand their responsibilities for the day of the program. Menus and money for ingredients and materials were provided for the cooks, and teachers were briefed on the lesson plans for their sessions.  Afterwards, the GLOW team explained the end- purpose of the trek, and then gave a few teasers regarding the January event.  While things were a bit hurried, all six of us were able to complete our jobs, and are beyond excited to see how the final project turns out in November.

2) Soap on a Rope

Because school opened just as my work was taking me to other areas of the country, a few things didn't get done as I'd hoped.  One things I accomplished last year was the implementation of Tippy Taps on the school grounds.  These contraptions, fashioned out of four sticks, a piece of fabric and an empty five gallon jug of oil, are used as hand-washing stations for both the children and teachers to use throughout the day to promote a healthy environment.  As collecting the proper materials took quite some time the previous year, my natural expectation was that the sticks and jugs were locked up--saved for use this year.  Well, that proved all too much to ask for, as I found out upon my return from trek.  This lack of foresight and planning is one of the many headaches that come with working in a developing country.  If you can just throw the jug into a pile of trash rather than save it and keep it clean--even if it will save time and effort in the future--the easy way out always wins.  So, defeated, I started from scratch; they pulled three male students out of class to help us search for and cut down the sticks we needed to create four Tippy Taps.  Hours later, with the much appreciated help of the Ustas, or Koranic teacher, we had the holes dug, the logs chopped, and the structures finished. By the end of the week, the children were once again able to wash their hands before meals and after using the pit latrines.  I can only hope, after my frustration-fueled lecture, that they remember to save all the materials for next year.

1) Got Milk?  

The end of the month came up so quickly, I barely realized it was time for a Halloween party.  Just kidding!  I still love Halloween deeply and, although it fell in a busy month, I had my costume ready and made my way to Basse for a short weekend getaway.  Because I am a Fula, the tribe known for their cattle, I have access to fresh milk, but most other tribes don't, so powdered milk reigns king in The Gambia.  So, I decided to purchase some silky blue and gold fabric, and pull together a costume fit for a few laughs.

I wasn't the only one--costumes ranged from a character from Orange is the New Black, a pregnant dinosaur, a British sex tourist (a sad component of Gambian life) to cross-dressed men, Mugato from Zoolander, and The Dude from The Big Lebowski.  It was a colorful crew, and it made for a fun evening with friends, forgetting the worries and stresses of site, and enjoying a bit of nonsense and a fair amount of boxed wine.

Top 5 Gambian Moments: September 2015

September was fast and furious.  Somehow, an entire month flew by without anything too remarkable happening, but, as always, it was not without a few of those little moments worth sharing.  Here’s what:

5) Rain, Rain, Go Away

We were lucky to have a long, successful rainy season.  Throughout the summer, the grounds soaked up buckets of water, which we’re all waiting with baited breath to see the fruits of when harvest time comes in the next couple of months.  As the rain starts winding down, it’s typical for the last weeks to bring the heaviest downpours and the strongest winds.  This year was no exception. Rain pelted down and gusts of wind blew strong. Some villages, such as Sibanore, my friend Jess’ region, even had entire compounds destroyed--flattened entirely--by the powerful storms. Keeping up with the whims of Mother Nature proves both mentally and physically exhausting and many locals, myself included, felt ready for rainy season to pass. Although I was, at times, a bit grateful for the weather, as it meant nightly breezes and saving me the labor of hauling in water for my garden, I was also pretty tired of all my clothes hanging heavy with the damp dog dander stench of must, of my hut being temporarily transformed into a homeless shelter for armies of insects capable of drilling through both wall and floor, and of my entire body serving as a veritable petri dish for all the wonderful varieties of skin infections that are the oozing red cherries on top of this stiflingly humid African sundae.  

My compound pre-flood. (My house is the white one on the left)

As I’ve mentioned before, the weather dictates so much in a society that lives mostly out of doors.  Bad roads mean less travel, which in turn means less produce available at the markets. In America, people avoid driving in the rain, even armed with our paved roads and windshield wipers, but when your main method of transport is a donkey cart, a heavy rain holds the power to immobilize a community for days at a time.  So, while the water is appreciated and definitely needed for the crops to grow and the dry, brittle bush to flourish into luscious greens, I’m looking very much forward to the skies closing up and the sun shining for long enough to grant us all a blissfully dry pair of underwear and an infection-free fall. 

4) Mid-service Milestone!

Alibatou, Binta and Hawa 

The second week of September marked time for all members of my batch to reconvene in Massembeh at the Peace Corps camps for our mid-service training.  Here, we spent a few days reviewing what we’ve been doing at site, learning a few new tips and tricks of the trade, and exchanging ideas with admin on various pros and cons of Peace Corps The Gambia.  That was all fine and well, but my favorite part of Massembeh will forever be a woman named Alibatou, who cooks and cares for us like we are her own, and even attended a group workout session I led which she kicked and punched her way through while remaining seated entirely on the floor. 

After the conclusion of the program, I hitched a ride with staff and a few fellow PCVs on the big bus back to Kombo.  I had some things to deal with regarding my “secret project” and also wanted to squeeze in a visit to the doctor for a one-year checkup.  All went well, although I did have to make my way back to site on public trans, which, after being spoiled with A/C and a reasonable degree of personal space, required an immediate adjustment of expectations and a serious increase in patience. 

3) Market Mania

A couple of PCVs from down country decided to come up and pay Tim and I a visit.  Since we are so close (a 10k bike ride away) to one of the largest lumos, or markets, in the country, we all decided to take advantage of the Saturday and spend the afternoon wandering the alleys of nearby Brikamaba.  One thing not taken into consideration, however, was that this weekend was the last lumo before the big holiday of Tobaski.  Much like one would be wise to avoid a local supermarket on Thanksgiving morning, we too would have been wise to have at least prepared ourselves for the crowded insanity of the market on this particular Saturday. 
Thankfully, our guests were understanding and patient, knowing all too well what happens when large numbers of Gambians gather in confined spaces, but even so, it proved a lot to take in.  Donkey and horse carts pushed their way throughout thick masses of people, puddles of mud and who knows what else splashed up in their wake.  Layers of women fought for first dibs at vegetable stands, and people everywhere were passionately exercising their right to bargain for new fabric which would be sewed into clothes for the big celebration.  All annoyances and near-death experiences aside, we enjoyed ourselves as we soaked up the sights, sounds and spirit of the day.  I ate a slice of fresh coconut and probably the best bean sandwich to date, and then we all sat chatting in the shade of a gas station awning well into the afternoon before parting ways and heading back to our respective villages. 

2) Tobaski: The Sequel

Scientist Falie, chasing baby chickens.

As I’ve passed my one-year mark, the holidays and celebrations have slowly become more familiar.  This year, I was happy to spend Tobaski, the most important Islamic holiday which pays homage to the story of Abraham and Isaac, with my family for the second time; I was able to relax a bit more as I spent less time wide-eyed asking hundreds of questions, and more time just soaking in the holiday.  In addition to wearing new clothes and getting dressed to the nines, families able to afford it also slaughter a ram.  My compound, having both a father and one mother with a job, was blessed enough to have a big fat ram to celebrate with.  However, due to some unfortunate circumstances, this was not without difficulty.  What happened, you ask?  Well, this year I learned of the very specific restrictions put on The Tobaski Ram.  We had our animal in the compound for months ahead of time, but only weeks prior to the holiday, our family friend noticed something unusual about one of the ram’s eyes.  A few very scientific experiments were carried out (little brother ran at him with a stick from both sides then followed up with a slow, comedic circling of its head with a flip flop) and it was confirmed—our precious ram was blind in one eye.  Everyone was devastated; naïve and confused, I asked why this was such a disaster.  Apparently, if you kill a ram for a wedding or a naming ceremony, it can be deaf, blind, or even full-blown retarded, but the Tobaski ram, serving to symbolize a person’s unwavering dedication to Allah, cannot have so much as a hangnail.  So, thus began a mad dash to find a new, unblemished ram.  They decided to kill Ol' One-Eye for my second mother’s naming ceremony, then managed to secure another animal just in the nick of time. 

The Replacement, hiding out.

On the day of Tobaski, following the slaughter and prayer, Hawa and Batchi called me over and gifted me a portion of the meat.  They had also offered it to me last year, but as a newbie to village life, I was hesitant and also slightly horrified at the prospect of being handed a bowl full of raw hairy sheep carcass.  This year, however, time in Africa has taught me that when someone gives you meat—raw, cooked, hairy or otherwise—you take it. And so began an episode of Iron Chef, Gambia…secret ingredient: Ram! I cleaned up the meat, marinated it in a spicy chipotle and lime-garlic concoction; I sauteed some onions with okra, then simmered the meat in the hot peppery broth.  I washed up some raw cabbage leaves, scattered them in a circle around a big plate, and put a bowl of meat in the center.  I presented it to my host father, instructing him to place a piece of meat inside of the cabbage and roll it up Korean-style.  He loved the concept, but, as per usual, insisted I "like peppay too much"; Hawa raved that my “toubab meat was delicious” and the kids, although they ate everything, thought that it was beyond hilarious that I served raw cabbage. 

Kadijatou getting "eyeshadow hair"

The rest of the day was spent relaxing until later in the evening when all the women and children put on their smartest outfits and makeup and went around the village asking for salibo, or small tokens of money, as is the holiday tradition.  I sat on a floor mat completely covered in babies, and handed out little candies to the kids like it was Trick-or-Treat.  My belly full and my body tired from the weight of infants, I retired to my hut and slept the bittersweet rest of knowing I had just experienced my last Tobaski in The Gambia. 

1) Trek Time

As fall unfolds, so has the groundwork for Leadership Trek, a project I am heading along with two other PCVs.  This project is focused on working with grade ten students in six different schools. We will gauge their English, leadership and team building skills through a variety of classes during a one-day workshop.  Upon completion of the workshop, we will choose two boys and two girl students along with a teacher who proved themselves most worthy to attend a week long program called Camp GLOW at the PC facility in Massembeh.  Here, they will focus on learning about gender equality and on the importance of working together to help Gambia
reach its fullest potential.  Although the workshops are only one day, so much planning goes into bringing them to fruition, and we’ve kept busy the last couple of weeks getting the proverbial ball rolling. We wrote a grant in order to obtain funding, completed the curriculum we will use for the classes during the program, and the last week of September, we set out with our own four-wheel drive PC vehicle and held meetings with the headmasters each of the six schools to inform them of our plans and to arrange for their help in organizing the logistics of the final event.  It went as smoothly as could be expected and we were all amazed at how productive a day could be when not at the mercy of public transportation.  Our next trek to follow up and drop off supplies is coming soon, and as each small step is accomplished, my nerves calm, allowing excitement for the big day to sneak in bit by bit.   

Top 5 August 2015: It's The Little Things

Since coming back from Morocco, I've been trying my best to soak up the last bits of these precious summer months before the schools here open their doors again September 28th.  Between spending quality time in village with the fam and even squeezing in a bit of work here and there, it's been a blissfully uneventful August, but, as always, there were those little moments that will stay with me forever, and here they are....

5) Return to Reality

Deanna's sitting!

After a vacation, it's always a bit difficult to settle back into the daily grind.  I missed my family here, but wasn't looking forward to public transportation and all the other joys of upcountry living after being spoiled with air-conditioned vehicles devoid of live animals and endless fresh produce. However, upon walking into the compound, I was thrilled to be back.  The babies had grown so much, as had the lush grasses surrounding the bush, and we were all happy to see one other. As it had been storming constantly while I was away, Kadijatou and Ramatoulie, my pre-teen besties, helped me to sweep my house, which had been overtaken by ants, lizards and earwigs, and the three of us proceeded to tag-team my backyard which had been blown to shambles by the winds.  We weeded the grass, washed all my clothes, put my things back in order, and then had a small dance party to celebrate being done.

That night, I passed around pictures on my tablet, describing the different things I saw in Morocco. They marveled at the size and number of mosques, the hugeness of the mountains, and were in complete awe and disbelief that Moroccan fare lacks the white rice serving as bed and base for all Gambian meals.  I passed around small gifts for everyone, then slept the deepest sleep I'd had in weeks, under the silent skies of Sare Ngai.

4) Kombo Combo

Although I'd only been back in village for two weeks, the newest batch of Peace Corps trainees was ready to be sworn in as volunteers, so most of us headed to Kombo to welcome them with a couple of parties and attach some faces to names we'd been hearing about for months. Fun aside, I also got some work done while I had access to technology. I, along with two friends, finished curriculum planning an upcoming trek we're leading this fall.  Knowing that we wanted to enjoy beach and city life, we pushed hard to complete our work and it felt fantastic to accomplish so much in a short period of time--something frustratingly uncommon in a country where even the smallest of tasks tends to take months to see through.

 Also up my sleeve was a plan for a project in my own village that I'd been planning for a couple of months, but was just now realizing.  I am, due to my jinx-phobic nature, keeping it a secret for now, but rest assured I'll disclose every detail as soon as things pass the point of jinxation.   Peace Corps staff helped me gather materials, hire construction workers and arrange deliveries, and I am pleased to report all have proved successful so far. I can't wait to share more!

3) Batchi Gets a Laptop

Other than the two little bundles of joy, the Kandehs have another new addition to the family--a DVD player.  Soon after my return from Morocco, my host father came home with a new toy; he proudly proclaimed to the entire compound that he'd purchased a laptop, that it was wonderful, and could I please come and help him use it.  What? He couldn't have just bought a laptop on a whim...and where did you buy this? Have I missed the opening of an electronics store the next village over? Curious and slightly confused, I went in to investigate.  There, on his table, resting between the two car batteries and tangles of cords charging the cell phones (another side-biz of my savvy host fam) sat a giant gold video karaoke machine.  I couldn't help but laugh out loud as the thing looked straight out of an episode of a Different World, but then it was down to business.

He wanted to know how to use it, and I was supposed to teach him. With the assistance of my brothers and a couple of the more tech-savvy villagers, we were able to rig it up to the solar panel-charged car batteries to give it a constant flow of power.  I was so thankful for the boys' help, as oftentimes I experience a sense of mild panic when prompted with questions about technology;  the stereotype of 'I come from America, therefore I know how to configure phones, rebuild mother-boards, and rig up complex wiring systems' beats hard in my compound, and just once, I wanted to muster up some degree of tech-know-how.
 I may not have worked out the wiring, but I was able to insert a USB and show them some pictures from home, and then tried to introduce them to Ray Charles, but the music was immediately vetoed by all.  Finally, taking the reigns, my brother put in a disk ---a Kung Fu movie, which drew in about 50 viewers from around the village, and thus a new tradition was born.  Every night, children, teens, and older family friends would gather and watch one horrible B movie (that's being kind) after another.  Jean Claude Van Dam was often involved, and I was in hell.  Why can't we go back to gazing at the stars? I felt like Africa had up and left--how was I stuck in a perpetual Ground Hog's Day of poorly dubbed, albeit pleasantly shirtless, violence?  So, in an attempt to regain some peace, when I went to Kombo, I sought out to find some new films.  They sell these black-market DVDs containing several films per disc--I just had to find the right one--one I could handle listening to on a nightly basis without loosing my mind.  I settled on a disc containing the following: The Gods Must be Crazy, Sister Act I and II, The Pacifier, and all of the Big Mamas. Obviously I hoped Sister Act would be the family favorite, but unfortunately, due to Whoopie's apparent lack of vocal skills and her "ugly face" (harsh!), Batchi nixed that and Martin Lawrence slid into first place. Crowded together on floors, chairs, stools, and mats, people shuffled into the small hut of my host father and proceeded to obsessively binge-watch Big Mama's House.  Their reactions were priceless as no one believed that it was really a man in disguise. Fatoumata, but no, you can see that fat one is a woman. Cannot be a man, Fatoumata. No.  One scene towards the end showed a big reveal where the wig and mask are ripped off to expose a very masculine, very mustachioed Martin Lawrence; everyone gasped in utter disbelief.  They rewound it, and again had the same reaction. The entire room buzzed with chatter...How could it be!?  It was truly hilarious to watch.  Now, each time I head to the city, I plan to seek out more DVDs, not for my own entertainment, but for the simple amusement of watching the village react to them.

2) Fatoumata Sprouts a Green Thumb

Because I cook for myself and because Gambian markets tend to be a bit....sparse in their vegetable selection, I have wanted to start a garden of my own for some time. The obstacles in my way were as follows: I had no seeds, I didn't know the first thing about gardening, dry season was hot and rain-less, and also I'm lazy.  Now, my parents sent me seeds, there are two agriculture volunteers nearby, and it's rainy season. I felt my excuses were running out and so decided to finally do it.  Dividing my seeds packets into categories like "worth a try", "don't know what it is", "share with family" and "hoard for myself", I, under the tutelage of a friend, finally started my garden.  He gets most of the credit for the heavy lifting and sifting, but I'm proud of my own consistency in daily watering and general upkeep.

So far, the cucumbers and tomatoes are coming up nicely, a few zucchini plants have sprouted, and my basil has a promising future.  Other things I'm waiting on are lettuce, broccoli and cilantro, which while I would love, have heard the chances of success are slim to none.  Additionally, some of the bigger fruits like pumpkin and watermelon we planted in my family's yard, and with some luck, I'm hoping to make jack-o-lanterns for Halloween and maybe even introduce them to an oven-less version of pumpkin pie, although that too may be moved to the "hoard" section of the program depending on the results of the recipe....

1) It's a Girl! Let's Kill Goats and Eat Porridge

Kadijatou and Deanna 

As I wrote about when Hawa had baby Deanna, Gambians hold a ceremony seven days after the birth of a child in order to give them a name and introduce them to the village.  Because Jainaba, my second mother, delivered during Ramadan, a time for fasting and religious devotion, it was not acceptable timing for a party, and it was decided that we'd wait until the end of August to have the program. I invited friends of my own, too.  Jess traveled from her far away village to stay the weekend, and another couple of friends came for the ceremony.  We hennaed our feet, held all the babies, and ate popcorn by candlelight.  The day of the party was nice; a hundred or so people came to hear the naming, view the slaughtering and eat monie, the traditional cous porridge topped with sour milk.  All was well until late night, around 1 am, when the teens had finally managed to land a DJ and, setting up approximately five yards from my hut window, proceeded to squeal and dance to the repetitive bass-heavy beats of Nigerian pop music well into the next morning.  For this reason alone, I'm glad my remaining time in Gambia is not long enough to see the production of more offspring in my compound which would give cause to make this DJ ever return.

J. Boi and new baby Fatima

All in all, August was a good month.  The new school year is fast approaching and with it, a new set of goals for my last year in country.  I couldn't do it without the help and support from people back home, so thank you for all you've done to show me a little love! Extra special thanks to Jeff Gilespie, Elyce Wozniak, Barb Ebinger, Joanne Youngblood, Rhona Costa, Chris Saviolis, Judy Klecan, Richard Prinze, Joanie Conkle, Lynn Beesley, Aunt Susan and The Smith Family, and of course, my amazing parents: From beef jerky to ballpoint pens, you keep me stocked, proteined, and able to give a little extra to my people here.  It's appreciated more than you know.

A Very Merry Morocco

Although it may not be about Gambia per se, as most of you readers are, in all likelihood, either related to me or are friends of my mother, I feel a rundown of our time in Morocco is called for.

After a quick and easy three hour flight to Casablanca, I jumped in a cab and made my way to the hotel.  Other than the drastic change in auditory surroundings--my ears filled with the guttural animations of Arabic and the enchanting flirtations of French--the first thing to strike me was the cleanliness of the city.  It was immaculate.  Not a hint of garbage, the landscaping was impeccable, and the edges of the streets sparkled with decorative lampposts.  I had forgotten a city could look like that, and I was impressed.  (Gambia, there's so much to love about you, but pleasing aesthetics just isn't one of them.)

As I hadn't slept a wink the night before in order to catch my 3:30 a.m. flight, I crashed a few hours before hitting the streets. When faced with the decision to check out the local markets or the enormous cement blimp of a building called the Morocco Mall, shamefully, I chose the mall. Now, I generally avoid the mall like the plague in America . The claustrophobic chaos of the building itself, the deep sadness I feel at seeing my fellow inhabitants of Earth dressing their offspring in shirts stating things like "I'm with sexy", and the smell of McFried Foot and Feather is usually too much for me. However, the thought of finding a nice pair of shoes, a steaming cup of coffee, and a cute something or other all while listening to techno pop remixes in line at an H&M was just too tempting, so I went for it, and it was everything I'd hoped for and more. I tried on impractically high heels, drank a Starbuck's drip of the day, bought a cute beaded skirt from a mildly trashy teen store, and even walked through the GAP just to make things official. After four hours, bags in tow, I ended the day by getting a salad and coffee to go, sitting on a park bench and watching the locals gather on the beach for their Ramadan break-fast. Leisurely making my way back to the hotel, I went to the gym and awed at the invention of treadmills and those cushy floors, then ordered room service in a very poor attempt at French, and slept for the next 13 hours.  

Having the whole next day free before my mom arrived, I planned to post up at the pool after breakfast.  But, breakfast, as it turned out, took a bit longer than expected as I had not anticipated the buffet offerings in terms of my wildest dreams. They had dried figs, apricots, almonds, fresh nectarines, peaches, plums, cheese, slices of meat, olives, and an omelette station.  AN OMELETTE STATION. So, sufficed to say, I enjoyed my morning meal well into the early afternoon, and also managed to smuggle a pistachio flavored yogurt and like four nectarines into the room for later.  With a well-fed smile, I baked in the sun all afternoon, and peeled myself up to ready for the nearing reunion.  

Gymed and showered, margarita in hand, I sat and kept watch for my mom to arrive.  Before I knew it, she ascended a staircase and stood right in front of me. We both squealed and pinched each other to make sure it was really us. Bags to room, us to table, wine to lips, and vacation had officially begun.

The next morning we made off for our first stop, Chefchoeun, a beautiful town nestled in the Riff Mountains.  The drive was long, but made fairly painless as we had an air conditioned SUV, a driver willing to cater to the cries of female bladders, and a few historical stops along the way serving to break up the monotony.

We viewed the largest mosque in Morocco, the Mausoleum of Mohammed V in Rabat, and the Chellah Ruins before making it to Chefchoeun.  Once settled in, we walked the alleyways of this magical town, found a place to eat, and played cards before trying our first real Moroccan fare, vegetable-topped salad, olives of every size and color, chicken tagine with cinnamon and spiced carrots, and lamb kafta.  Everything was delectable; the only thing missing was wine, but turns out finding alcohol in a Muslim country during Ramadan is harder than you might think. Exhausted, we headed to sleep early to prepare for exploring the following day.  

After indulging in the breakfast spread of every variety of crepe and spreadable (including local goat cheese, omg), we grabbed a map and set out to see the town. "You cannot get lost in Chefchoeun," boasted the village credo, but I am here to insist otherwise. The beauty and the blue are distracting enough, but mixed with the sharp turns, the hundreds of cats leading you and your camera lens astray, together with my own pathetic inability to read a map and tendency to gravitate towards any and all fruit stands, our sense of direction was lost for approximately 92% of the day.  That aside, it was a lovely afternoon, capped by a walk up a steep hillside to view the sunset over the city as the call-to-prayer echoed through the horizon.

We woke early the next day and, meeting our driver, Hassan, took off for a hike to see the Akchour Waterfalls, just outside the city.  It proved a long hike, but a gorgeous one.  Hiking not really Deanna's thing, she was an awesome sport, hanging on to roots of plants and scooting down cliff-sides on her bum for the (more than) six hours round trip.  The real star of the day, however, was Hassan, as he did the whole thing with us, but as it was still Ramadan, he did it without food or water. Because of this though, I think he reveled in the ice-bath at the foot of the fall more than any hiker in history.

That evening, we ate at a cafe on the main street and watched as hundreds of locals broke their fast together with milk, boiled eggs, traditional spiced tomato soup, and sticky sweets.  It was incredible to see and hear, but was also so evoking of my life here in Gambia during Ramadan, I was glad my mom got to experience a bit of that with me. 

While the mountains were striking, it was time to head south and reach our next big destination, Fes. One of the ancient capitals of the country, Fes looks and feels eerily similar to the way it did centuries ago. It too has winding alleyways filled with mazes of merchants and markets, and aside from the comically large number of TV satellites adorning the roof tops, it gives the feeling of going back in time to the Morocco of centuries past.

One thing not evoking this time travel was the highly-evolved manipulation skills of the locals. Well aware of the potential profits tourists provide when purchasing their wares, locals, usually young men, wait in alleys and listen to the conversations of travelers making their way through the confusing backstreets. Once they peg your country of origin, they sick someone on you who speaks your language; they offer advice, directions (not always accurate ones) or help in finding the best of the best in Fes.  If successful in leading you into a shop, these men are later given a commission by the shop owners as payment for choosing their store. It's a tricky business, but one that works, for as much as Deanna and I were aware of it and ready to dismiss every attempt from these persistent perpetrators (I even took to speaking Pulaar to throw them off our trail), we still ended up falling prey to their games on at least one occasion.  Getting stuck in a downpour, one kind man said, "Hey, you ladies are at Riad Andalib! I work there...Let me help you find the way back."  Desperate, we followed, figuring he knows where we're staying, so he must know us.  After an untraceable number of twists and turns, we did end up back at the hotel, but we were also confronted for money since he was, for all intents and purposes, our guide.  #instinctfail. We had a low key dinner at the Riad and decided to close the blinds and not set an alarm.  

Waking at an incredible 11 a.m., we were greeted by a quiet day in the Medina, or old city, as it marked the holiday celebrated once the fast of Ramadan is over.  In some ways, this was unfortunate, as most of the shops were closed and we couldn't spend fortunes drenching ourselves in piles of jewelry and leather goods, but in other ways, it was ideal, as the streets were clear and easier to navigate. We did manage to visit the tanneries, though, which was a big check off both our lists. From many floors above a leather shop, tourists are able to look down on the hundreds of vats containing natural dyes and soaks for the hides of the animals brought in for their transformation into coasts, shoes, bags and furniture.

It really was fascinating to see all the work that goes into the production of these leather goods. We managed to escape the post-tour sales trap, getting only respectably ripped off, and had a couple of small round ottomans and a belt to show for it.  Later, we enjoyed dinner on the rooftop of our Riad which, accompanied by a perfect Syrah, was one of my favorite meals of the trip, and slept well before we packed up to begin our journey into the Sahara.  

Coffee still warm on our tongues, we left early as the ride was going to be long, but the excitement of what lay ahead was enough to keep us going.  The next days held the most anticipated part of the trip--the camel trek into the desert.  After driving for what seemed like an eternity, we stopped for lunch.  Hassan was happy to indulge with us now that Ramadan was over, so we all posted up at a little table in the garden behind...a gas station.  An unlikely spot for culinary wonders, yes, but this ended up being a pleasant surprise and memorable feast.   Leaving the ordering up to him, we waited for the food to arrive.  The customary mint tea was brought, then some traditional bread, and finally, the main event--a platter cradling nothing but two kilos of grilled lamb.  Apparently, you simply name the type of meat you desire, how many kilos you think you can manage, and then you just go for it. With hands, teeth, and entire being, we enjoyed our meat.

At this point, I had already ingested more meat in one week than I had in the whole year previous, but this definitely put me over the edge and subsequently put lamb in the #1 slot for my fav meats.  Hours later, we arrived at our desert Kasbah; after surviving an intense sand storm and dining al fresco to the vocal and percussionary stylings of our hosts, we turned in early.  

A beautiful day awaited us as the weather not being nearly as suppressingly hot as we had expected. Together with both our host, Amed and our now good-buddy driver, Hassan, we toured the area; we saw French excavation sits, danced with some local tribes from Sierra Leon still settled there from times of slavery, and experienced tea with a nomad family in the hills.  Later that evening, we tied up our scarves, packed a small bag, and headed out into the Sahara on the humped hindquarters of our very own camel. The ride was peaceful and uniquely scenic, rocking slowly while layers of sand moved quick and heavy under the feet of our enormous beasts.  Around sunset, we spread out at our camp, ate, and chatted the night away under the stars. Sleeping outside has become on of my unpredicted loves here in Gambia, and it was wonderful to do it with my mom.  She awed at the expanse of the sky, the deceiving touch-ability of the stars, and we both felt humbled by the thought of being the only people for miles and miles--yet another assertion of our planet's spectacular beauty.

Learning the "ancient ways" (still used in Gambia!)

With a quick shot of coffee and a saddling up of our hairy chariots, we took off back through the sand and into our 4-wheel drive with Hassan. The markets selling fruits, veggies, and livestock provided interest on the way to a Berber pharmacy where we purchased a few goodies before leaving for an overnight near the Skour Oasis en route to Marrakesh.  After a walk through Todra Gorge, a dip in the pool, and a delicious sleep, our drive continued into Marrakesh, making a couple of stops along the way to see the ancient Kassbah Amridil and the old city of Ait Benhaddou, where 'Gladiator' was filmed.

It was then, riding the sharp edges of the mountains, that we agreed not renting a car was in our best interest.  The desert had been amazing, but we were ready to indulge in the comforts of our gorgeous hotel and a nearby restaurant that had not only wine, but cocktails, a menu to die for, and belly dancers for good measure. We had arrived in Marrakesh!

Mom tries Sheesha!  

Waking and reveling in the double espresso and fresh squeezed OJ, we finally made it out into the city to look around.  We bargained, did some sight-seeing, and then decided to visit a Hammam, or spa.  These differ from your typical hour at a classy day spa.  How, you ask?  Well, the first step is exchanging your clothes for a hilarious paper thong in preparation for a vigorous, sudsy, molestatious scrub down in a marbled steam room by women who, if they do speak English, chose not to for the added comic effect. This is followed by a body mask and an oil rinse, neither of which is relaxing, but proved more a practice in the art of composure as the sights and sounds of slick naked bodies sliding around like wet seals on marble counters combined with the look of mild to moderate terror on my mother's face and her attempts at avoiding death by feet tickling all created a memorable afternoon. Cleaned and ushered into a dimly-lit room, the two-hour massage commenced, and, let me assure you, there was nothing funny about that portion of the program.  Feeling relaxed, we chose to have an early night in, which I later opted out of and decided instead to call up our trusty driver-friend, Hassan, and search for some dancing. 

We woke early the next day for our cooking class, which was such a great way to spend an afternoon. We made zucchini salads, chicken tagine with preserved lemon, and baked fresh bread in clay ovens all without lighting ourselves on fire.  That evening we listened to jazz piano at the first Riad in the city where I attempted to try my first beef carpaccio,but, falling victim to deceptively flourished menu fonts, actually tried beet carpaccio, which, I can attest, is not the same thing.  

The following day was spent wandering the endless streets of the city, getting an unexpected make-over from an over-friendly shop keeper, then I relaxed at the pool while my mom went back out for some solo souvenir shopping.  That night we made reservations at a swanky tourist restaurant with incredible food, decor, dancing and overall yes factor.  We laughed, relaxed, talked and ate our way through the night knowing that reality and flights to our respective homes loomed before us.  

Enjoying a lazy breakfast, we chose to sunbathe by the pool before our final trek back to Casablanca by train.  Although we did suffer a few minor hiccups on the way (my luggage a la Gambia finally broke and we may have purchased tickets to the wrong place) but both parties managed to make it to the airport hotel with time to spare.

It was a simple night spent reviewing the adventures of the trip and taking in the last of each other's company before waking at dawn to get my mom and her bags on the shuttle for the early morning flight.  It was, naturally, a teary goodbye, but knowing how lucky we were to have had this time together, it was cushioned by joy.

Thank you, Mom, for such a fantastic time full of these wonderful memories and so many others. Start stocking up on Syrah, I'll see you in no time! 

Top 5 Gambian Memories: July 2015

The summer finally arrived and with it the intense rains, the end of school, and the time to prepare the farms for this year's crops of cous, groundnut, and beans.  As many of you know, I've been on a countdown to July 11th, the day marking my first trip out of the country and my first reunion with my mother in over a year.  Obviously that trip warrants a Top 5 all its own, but the beginning of July held its own magic here in The Gambia, and I'd like to pass it on.  Here are the most memorable moments of (early) July 2015.

5) Rosie The Riceter

As seasons change, so do the types of crops that need planting.  While rice serves as the mainstay in Gambian cuisine, the variety depends on whether the grain was grown in the wet or the dry season.  Early July marked the harvest for dry season rice; planted anywhere from January to early March, this variety doesn't require nearly as much water and is identified by its shorter, more narrow stalks.  Last year when I helped with the harvest, I was hoisting seven or eight foot lengths over my head, but this shorter variety proved much more my style,as they maxed out around four feet, although unfortunately, the blade-sharpness of the grains did not decrease in tandem with the lengths..#winsomelosesome

One important aspect of planning for this years' harvest was accommodating the challenges of Ramadan.  As this Islamic tradition follows the lunar calendar, the month in which it falls continuously changes.  This year, the month-long fast began in mid-June, right smack in the middle of the harvest.  Working in the fields means long hours in the burning sun, and without food or water not only tires a person out, but is potentially dangerous, so in attempts to combat this problem, those who can afford it hire non-fasting Christian women from the city to work their fields.  The payment for this work is not money, however, but the rice itself.  An average-sized family of about 10 people typically goes through one bag of rice per month. With each bag weighting in at 50 kilos, that's a lot of rice.  A full day's work can earn one bag to every nine going to the owner of the field, and because many city dwellers don't have the cash to purchase the scarce and therefore expensive land for fields of their own, this work provides a wonderfully rich opportunity to take in enough food to feed their families for an entire year.

So, mid-morning on July 2nd, I set out on my bicycle with a giant metal food bowl strapped to the back.  The plan was to take lunch to the two women my host father had hired to complete most of the heavy-lifting, and then offer to help carry out any duties a fairly unknowledgeable and comparatively weak human being could possibly manage.  Once I arrived and delivered the lunch, I was given a job: pick up piles of rice stalks and stack them next to the woman in charge. She then took the plants fist-fulls at a time and beat them repeatedly against large drums that once held oil imported from Mauritania.  (If you can say one thing about Gambians, it's that they are savvy in the business of re-purposing.)  This thrashing breaks the encased grains of rice off from the rest of the stalk, so part two of my job was to collect the empty shafts, throw them to the banks of the shallow rice paddy, and sweep the millions of tiny grains into bag-able piles.  As simple as this all sounds, it's not an easy job, and I cannot fathom doing it every day for weeks on end.  I did it only two days in a row and was sunburned, scratched up beyond belief, aching, and totally exhausted.  I felt pathetic next to these women-especially compared to my Aunt Nopay, who worked all week even though she was not only fasting, but going home to cook dinner for her family as well.  That said, my ego was partially restored as my host father came to help bag up some rice for just a few short hours and spent the entire evening on his back in pain.

It's little moments like these that are so telling about a culture.  Firstly, that a man would so willingly give props to the girls for their hard work starkly contrasts to our culture, where a stereotypical man would sooner pass out from exhaustion than to admit "defeat" by a female. Traditionally, any sweaty manual labor is left to the men in western society, but in Gambia, chopping firewood, slaving away in the rice fields, and vigorously pounding grain for hours a day is considered women's work.  It just goes to show that we are all truly equals, and that it's simply our social norms that shape our perception of "men's work", "women's work", and just who is capable of what.  #wecan(all)doit

4) Oh, Baby. More Babies. 

Remember when I wrote about the new addition to the family...the little princess named after my mother? Well, Batchi's been busy, ya'll.  My second mother just recently delivered another tiny lady who they've named Fatima, a variation of my Gambian name, Fatoumata.  She had her at the hospital on July 3rd, and both baby and mommy are doing well.  It's been amazing watching my first mother, Hawa, help Jenaiba with the baby, teaching her how to bathe, swaddle and feed her.  As is customary, the naming ceremony should be held seven days after the birth, but as this fell during Ramadan, it was postponed until the end of August.  Details on that extravaganza to follow.

3) Survivor: Independence Day 

Just because we weren't in America for the 4th didn't make us any less excited about the prospect of a celebration.  One volunteer from nearby Janjanburreh had an idea.  Let's have a mini triathlon, then engage in more typical celebratory activities such as drink beer, listen to music, and grill stuff.  So, on the morning of the 4th, about 15 volunteers met up to carry out this race-party fusion.  This running was eschewed by some, the biking by others, but due to the magical combination of the suffocating heat and the downright fun of it, most participated in the swimming.  We jumped off the dock of the river-side lodge that we'd talked in to hosting our shin-dig (even though they were technically under construction) and swam to the other side of the river and back, cautiously watching for the area's notorious hippo population.  Death-by-hippo: not that patriotic.


This fun aside, we were unknowingly being tested by the gods to see just how patient, and-in one specific case-how tough, Peace Corps service has made us.  As I mentioned, the lodge wasn't really in operating form, but knowing PC standards are a bit, uh...lower...than your average tourist, the staff thought they could pull it off.  Since I live to tell the tale, I suppose they were right, but if anything it was by the skin of their teeth.  No drinking water, cold beer, or alcohol as promised proved the least of our problems as one volunteer, upon trying to use the composting pit latrine in her tent, felt the floor collapse from underneath her, leaving her to grab the edges of said latrine and pry herself out like the demon girl from The Ring.  Thankfully, because the lodge and therefore the latrine had been out of use for so long, there were no close encounters with any fresh "compost", and other than a few scratches (and being totally scarred for life) she came out fairly unscathed. 


After this incident, most people relaxed and adopted the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" philosophy. The rest of the evening was spent sipping bathtub whiskey with packets of Crystal Light out of tiny candle holders provided in lieu of cups, eating a meat melange with silverware most probably found buried in the construction site once housing a dining room, taking bucket baths with river water scooped up in our hands (cups: no. candleholders: occupied) and peeing in the woods to avoid any further unintended explorations of the underground.

What's more surprising than all of this going wrong in one day was that no one--not even the poor victim of the The Great Pitfall--really complained.  It was nice enough to enjoy the holiday in the company of others and to realize what actually makes things fun are the people and the stories and the memories.  Pretty glasses are nice, but they're easy to forget. Having no cups and falling into human waste are not nice, but I'll never have another 4th of July that I don't think about snorts of laughter while swigging awful whiskey from random candle stick holders....  Happy Anniversary, America. :)


2) Ramadan: The Good, The Bad, and the Guilty Conscience 

Last year, as we had just arrived in country when the 30-day fast began, Peace Corps prohibited us from participating.  Our bodies were already going through too many shocks for it to be healthy.  However, now that we've had time to adjust to the climate, the diet, and the culture, we are not just allowed, but encouraged to see what fasting is all about.  Some volunteers take it very seriously, fasting from food and water every day, while others sneak bits of water here and there, and the rest, like me, just give it one or two days and go back to life as usual.  For those of you wondering why some people do it, regardless of their religious beliefs, I can only say that for me, it was a way to bond with my host family and village.  I wanted to know what it's like for them to fast all day and still have to go through the motions of life, raising babies, fetching water, cooking dinner.  Every day at the well, women asked me, "Are you fasting today?" and when I said no, a part of me did feel terribly guilty, even though I'm not Muslim at all.


On the first day of Ramadan this year, I chose to take the plunge.  My host father was thrilled that I wanted to experience it, so he called me at 4:45 am to make sure I woke in time to take my water, tea, and morning meal before sunrise.  I went back to sleep and woke, feeling alright.  The day was overcast and my body was still blissfully unaware of what I was trying to do.  After spending a few hours at school, mostly chatting with the teachers about how terrible fasting is, I lazily shuffled home, stripped down, and proceeded to lay on the floor of my hut....for the next 5 hours.  I tried reading, but my eyes were too heavy; I tried writing, but I just couldn't be bothered.  I tried any other conceivable thing one can do in a superbly dehydrated state, but lay there was all I had.

Around 7:00, I got up and started to prepare for break-fast.  I had my water bottle filled, my two eggs cracked and whisked, and my can of green beans on the burner.  I brought my things outside to count down the minutes with my family, which are precisely calculated by a location's distance from Mecca, and waited.  At exactly 7:34, my family and I broke fast.  I, ever the amateur, chugged my entire 1.5 liters down in one eager gulp, and immediately felt so full I needed to lie down again.  They laughed at me, explaining how I should only take "small, small" so as not to get sick. A while later, I tried to eat my goodies, but was only able to manage a few bites without feeling awful. How disappointing. I even had the good hot sauce.

Deciding to take the next day off, it was a slippery slope; Each day brought a new excuse as to why is was a bad idea for me to fast.  But I want to work out later...I'm going on vacation soon...But I'm alllreaddy thirsty...Either way, I'm glad I tried it as it did give me an insight into the strength needed to pull through this trying month.  Perhaps next year I'll give it another go, I don't know.  What I do know, is that Lent ain't got nothin' on Ramadan.

1) Tick Tock, Morocc

Since going to Kombo involves a long day of travel and because I love any excuse to visit my lovely friend about two hours away from the city, I decided to make the trip to the airport a two-parter.  I stopped in the village of Sibanore where Jess lives with her family in a Jola community.  We strung beads to make bins bins, or necklaces that women wear around their waists, we ate break-fast with her host family, and we listened as the neighbor boy sang out the call-to-prayer in the dark of night beneath stormy skies in the middle of her compound.  It was a special night made even more so by the knowledge that I was going to meet my real live American mom in just a couple of days.

After boarding an early bus, I arrived in Kombo in time to pick up a few dresses I'd had tailored for vacation, pop into the bank, hit the local hotel and spa for a little humanizing before the flight, and have a nice dinner with friends.  I was ready, packed, and primped for Morocco...To Be Continued.