A Word on Transportation

    Anyone who has traveled knows that part of the joys (and pains) of the experience lies in the logistics of getting from one place to another.  This sort of thing can be complicated enough in one’s own country—I still get frustrated when taking the subway and don’t even get me started on those outdoor airport trolleys that take 25 minutes to load and then drive the 12 feet to a new gate.  So, add to this a different currency,  a new language, small changes in social graces, and a whole lot of B.O., and you've got yourself one hell of an adventure.  To this end, I've come to expect a certain degree of the purely bizarre when travelling, and I’m happy to report that The Gambia has proved itself no exception and has, in fact, exceeded my expectations with unique flair. 

It was a lovely 900 degree Saturday afternoon.  My mothers needed to visit the large lumo, or market, in a nearby town called Brikamaba.  They sell everything from dishes and vegetables to fabric and fruit.  Did I want to join?  Absolutely!  With this, the journey began: A 3 kilometer walk up the dirt path to the main road where we’d catch a gelle-gelle, (van-ish hoopty mobile) to the city.  We walked, we sat, we waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Forty minutes, a few false alarms, and a couple of “sorry, all full”s later, and we were on our way.  We fought ourselves into this clown car containing about 16 others--my friend Tim and his host mother included as they joined us in our waiting.  Squeezed together like sardines, sharing sweat, stench, and shopping strategy alike, we all rode into Brikamaba without much trouble.  We even figured out how to pay the “apparente”, who literally hangs off the back of the vehicle, swinging freely in and out of the moving car collecting money.  I am still unclear on whether this is done in order to free up more space or purely for sport.

Sufficed to say, the market proved itself enjoyable, albeit fairly uneventful.  Tim was able to bargain for a few home wares, and I managed to find some of the last mangoes of the season, over which I later shed tears as I ate every square inch of juicy flesh and realized how sorely they will be missed.  Ready to head home, we waited with our bags--sun-kissed, soaked, exhausted-- until we found a gele heading back towards our villages.  Successful, we boarded and began claiming our space, both continuously trying to take more than our share, but getting called out on our bluffs every time.

The driver loaded up the bus and looked for more people to fill it.  Why drive only 17 passengers in a 10-seater when you could clearly fit 23?  Women and young children came to the windows, selling icy-cold bags of “juice” from the metal bowls balanced on their heads.  I promptly purchased one and stuffed it down my shirt.  Fellow travelers questioned Tim and I about our day’s purchases and we struggled to give comprehensible answers in Pulaar.  My first mother then asked the driver what was taking so long and, as if right on cue, a very massive, very alive ram was hoisted up atop the van and secured down with the rest of the baggage. Already hanging out of the window for fresh air, I came face to face with this beast and was the lucky recipient of his wet, hot breath as his mouth wailed open in angry protest and mine in amused disbelief.  I was unsure what to think.  Part of me was appalled at the rough treatment of this animal, but mostly I was relieved that this meant we could finally get on the road. 

I looked across the isle, catching Tim’s eye, and immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter.  The other passengers laughed with us, not finding the situation particularly humorous, but finding pleasure in the fact that we, the foreigners, the “toubabs” appreciated this moment.  This purely bizarre, purely Gambian, moment.  

Top 5 Gambian Moments: Warm Fuzzies Edition

With another month in-country down, it is time for another Top 5....

5)  A Tree Named Fatoumata

 As we are winding down our time at our training villages, we're not only saying our goodbyes, but are attempting to leave a mark, however small, on the community.  Peace Corps suggested we give a short talk on something health related, so we held a town meeting and discussed the importance of hand-washing as a means of preventing disease.  This seems like such common sense for us, but here, where it's considered "common sense" to wipe your child's butt while cooking, (multi-tasking!) it's a much needed wake-up call for many.
      
Afterwards, a few community leaders thanked us and then, as a surprise, announced that they wanted to plant trees in our honor.  We all marched over to the mosque in the center of town and helped place our "own" tree into the soil and pack the earth in around it.

As most of my time here thus far has been learning a new language and therefore needing a lot of help from others, it was nice to feel that I had contributed something.  So now, in a tiny town called Sare Musa, there stands a small tree named "Fatoumata", just for me.

4)  Moonshadow, Moonshadow

For those of you familiar with Islam, you know the moon plays an immensely important role in life, as the lunar calendar is used to mark important religious holidays throughout the year.  As we arrived in village at the beginning of July, we came just in time to witness the grueling month of Ramadan.  Simply put, Ramadan is a month-long fast from food and water during daylight hours.  Any pleasurable pastimes like smoking, sex, or listening to music are also forbidden.  This creates a roughly 30-day period of time where people on the whole are exhausted, cranky, and unbelievably f*king thirsty.  So, on the last day of Ramadan, just before sundown, everyone in the village gathered outside to see if they could see the shadow of the moon. If so, the fast is over; if not, it continues for another day. I waited in the crowd with baited breath, staring up at the sky, unsure of what exactly a moonshadow was, but looking for it all the same.  Suddenly, a voice called out, and people were smiling and praying. Children grabbed my hand and had me crawl up on steps to see this tiny crescent that caused such pure joy.  It was truly magical.
   
Within the next couple of weeks, the "Supermoon" shone full and bright here in The Gambia.  I don't know how it looked in the States, but there were two days where I swear it looked like I could reach up and touch it. Those nights I walked home and "showered" without a flashlight, and used only the fullness of the moon to illuminate the night.

3)   Down on the Farm

 On the rare occasion we have a day off from classes, we trainees usually take the opportunity to ride our bikes to the nearby "city", charge electronics, visit the internet cafe, and stuff our faces with all conceivable combinations of market snacks.  A few Sundays ago, however, I just wasn't feeling it, and I decided to stay back and help my family work on the farm.  Never before have I so keenly understood the phrase, "It was the best of times; it was the worst of times."

As you might assume, I am not a very good farmer.  For one, I have no idea what I'm doing, and two, I'm a pansy.  Walking around barefoot in the dirt, minding not to step on any poisonous what-have-yous while heaving medieval-looking tools into the ground is not fun.  Every time I would complete a row, I'd look up, panting...proud..only to see my 75 year-old grandmother with a toddler on her back three rows ahead of me. Sigh.

That said, the time was also really special.  A few times I looked up (singing "one of these things is not like the other") and realized how awesome it was just to be where I was--standing, in the middle of a field, as a member of a family in Africa.  I probably definitely won't ever fit in here, but that day, my host mom said to me in Pulaar, "Fatou, today you make me very happy" and right then, that was enough.


2) "Please to Meet you, I am Your Landlord-Father"

 Last week, all of us trainees dispersed throughout the country for four days to catch the first glimpses of what will be our permanent site, the village we will call home for the next two years.  I had so many questions...What will my family be like?  Will my house be cool?  As nervous as I was, I'm happy to report it all went smoothly.  The surrounding area was gorgeous.  Lush, knee-high grasses encircle the whole village, my school is small and close, and my house is pretty adorable..a traditional African hut with a thatched roof.  My family is small with two wives and six kids (two of whom are grown) and I felt welcome and comfortable.

My friend, Tim, who I've gotten to know throughout training, is placed only three kilometers from me, so we were able to hang out, meet each others' families, and even plot a jogging route between the two houses.  I also used those days to do a little remodeling...With the help of a family friend, I was able to buy cement and cover a portion of my enclosed backyard to convert into my outdoor bedroom for use after the rainy season.  My 1st mom, Nene Hawa, taught me how to make folaray, a sauce made from sorrel leaves, and I fertilized the peanut farm with my self-proclaimed "landlord-father".  All in all, it proved a success and allowed me to breath a sigh of relief at the knowledge that my new home will be peaceful, welcoming, and full of new experiences.

1)  Post-Dinner Fam Jam

 Now that Ramadan is over, the entire family eats dinner together.  We sit on mats outside and eat (with right hands only!) out of the same huge metal bowl.  After dinner, everyone sits around in the moonlight chatting.  As my ability to "chat" is fairly lacking, I've had to come up with alternative after-dinner scenarios.  Some days I've brought out books to read to the children-which often rouse more interest from the adults.  One in particular about sea creatures was a real crowd-pleaser as no one could believe that dolphins could have their babies underwater.  I was commanded to mime giving birth...as a dolphin...for several people that evening, one of whom was my grandfather, who nodded in awe and disbelief.
   
On some occasions, I've done make-shift yoga classes, which also serve as good language practice for me as I have to recite "squeeze your legs, touch your toes," etc. in broken Pulaar.  A few nights we've indulged in a bit of dirty dancing; the kids chant and teach me how to dance like a Fula woman.  (low to the ground and with as much booty as possible)  Still other nights we sit in a circle and play hand games like Down By the Banks of the Hanki Panki or just tell stories.

The most memorable night so far, though, has been singing Queen Bee by one Ms. Barbara Streisand.  <Pause for laughter>  The kids were begging me to sing, and since I figured the desperate can't be picky, it seemed perfect.  Children here can stomp and clap a rhythm from birth, so I utilized this skill and had about 15 kids making a solid beat for me.  In no time, we had ourselfves quite the party.  This song is near to my heart, as the entire soundtrack to A Star is Born  also served as the soundtrack to My Childhood (thanks, Mom).  As silly and bizarre as it was, that moment felt like I was fusing my life in America with my life here, and I had the feeling that I was precisely where I was supposed to be. 

Feast Your Ears on This: The Sounds of A Country Alive

While we all know the old adage, “don’t judge a book by its cover”, we know too that this proves easier said than done.  Our senses are trained to collect information, process it, and judge according to our previous life experiences.  When taking in a place for the first time, our sense of sight seems the most useful, as things you see are more simple to sort through and categorize.  We effortlessly recognize the familiar sites: a mother and her child, a person buying groceries, or a load of people travelling on a bus, and we achieve a degree of understanding about what’s happening, of where we are.

It’s the other senses, however, that color the picture and are much more difficult to grasp and interpret.  A new taste can be many things- good, bad, strange, familiar-all at the same time.  A smell can be both comforting and disagreeable, and a touch, a texture of a new place can be similarly bipolar.  The dryness of the soil is not the soil I know from home; the way people embrace and engage socially is not natural to me. Each element of the puzzle is just a piece and takes time and effort to put together.  But of all the senses, for me at least, it is the sense of sound that has shown itself to be the most complex. 

Unfamiliar sounds can do incredible things to your imagination.  A language unknown gives us almost no insight, aside from intonation, which isn't necessarily a tell-tale sign of the message.  (I've learned this here as I am often certain that two women are mere moments from clawing one another’s eyes out in anger only to begin laughing heartily and part ways seconds later.) #instinctfail.

A bump in the night in unfamiliar surroundings has the rare ability to excite an intense and immediate fear in a person-young and old alike.  (I learn and re-learn this almost nightly as I am wakened by a thump and lay still, heart pounding, awaiting certain death by any number of carnivorous bush mammals.)  Still other sounds leave too much room for imagination as they are so foreign, so unfamiliar, that we don’t know how to feel about them.  These are the sounds I want to share with you now.  {Dramatic Soap Opera Voice}

                                             

                                                 These are the Sounds of My Life

Living in a Muslim country, I've slowly gotten used to the chant, known as the “call to prayer” which happens five times daily.  A man's voice booms from the mosque, of which every single village has at least one, starting at 5 am and lasts a few minutes each “round”.  Now, factor in my not being much of a morning person with the proximity of my house to the speakers of the mosque, and you might imagine this is not my favorite sound.  You are correct.  However, it infuriates “startles” me less and less as time goes on, and I have actually come to enjoy the evening calls-to-prayer quite a bit.  It’s kind of magical taking a bucket bath under the stars, hearing the loud rhythmic chant, and listening as the villagers begin making their way to the mosque to pray. 

The next sound is a little less romantical.  It’s a sound I thought for sure I was imagining my first few weeks here; I thought it perhaps an auditory hallucination-a side effect of my Malaria prophylaxis..? Negative. It’s the superbly obnoxious “waaka waaka” of a clown horn.  Yes, the horn usually-if not exclusively-heard during a circus intermission.  This sounds comes through my windows, weather permitting, around 6 am.  You might imagine this is not particularly enjoyable.  You are correct.  But, it has been in my learning what this noise signifies that brings me joy.  It is the calling card of none other than...the fish delivery man!  A young teen boy rides his bike throughout the village while sounding his ridiculous horn, signaling the women to come out and buy their fish for the day.  Now, while I have continued to fantasize about stripping the horn from the bicycle and beating him with it violently, the vision is fleeting, as I am quickly overtaken with anticipatory elation at the prospect of having fish for dinner.    

Another sound of my new home is harder to describe.  Imagine holding a very heavy wooden ball and then dropping it into a deep wooden bowl.  It’s a rich, hollow, echo-y sound.  This noise fills every corner of the village at nearly every hour of the day. It’s the sound of countless women pounding grains into powders with a massive mortar and pestle.  Gambian food necessitates a lot of these powders for use in various sauces and porridges, so the women never cease to have things which require a good smash.  By the way-Gambian women, who do most of the heavy-lifting for their families, are total beasts.  They carry 15 pound buckets of water on their heads while lugging a 10 pound baby on their back, and they can pound the SHIT out of these grains.  In order to break up the monotony of the pounding, a variety of choreography has been created, which is done at random times or whenever the mood strikes.  This includes but is not limited to:

 1)   Pair Pounding:  Women work in tandem to create a see-saw motion of pounding.  This speeds things up  and adds the potential for socializing. Low degree of difficulty.

 2) Group Pounding: Similar to above, but with three or more women.  Higher degree of difficulty as timing can prove quite tricky. 

 3) Clap Pounding:  The exciting variation where one must drop the wooden club

down with such a force as to  cause it to bounce up and stay air-borne for enough time to clap their hands together before catching the  club on its way back down.  Highest degree of difficulty. 

You might imagine this all takes a great deal of practice and coordination, and that a cocky foreigner such as myself should be well advised against participating in such spectacles for fear of hurting themselves and others.  You are correct. 

All of these sounds have made up my world the last 7 weeks.  Together with the animals, the language, and the truly spectacular rainstorms, I have been surrounded with a cacophony of new noise.  While I do look forward to this noise becoming more familiar, I also revel in its oddness, because for me, oddness is one of the very best things.  

There Ain't No Bugs on Me

7/19/14

Ever since I was a little girl, I have taken a great pleasure in the catching and killing of bugs...specifically, flies.  It's an anomaly...While my hand-eye coordination is generally sub-par, I can catch flies in mid- flight like a f*king ninja.   It's a skill my father helped me to acquire in the 2nd grade.  I think it made me feel safe or less afraid...if I could smash it, how scary could it really be?

Fast forward 20 years to July in The Gambia.  Now that the rains have finally come, they brought with them all.the.bugs.  Many many bugs.  Perhaps a visual is necessary.  Anyone remember the ROUS' from Princess Bride?  Well these are the BOUS'.  I'm talking Jurassic Park caliber shit here.  For the last few days, I've been alternating between being totally fascinated at their enormity and terrified that one is trying successfully to burrow into my skin.  Thankfully, my level of bravery is increasing daily, as one can only have small children laugh in your face as you "eeek" and "ewww"  so many times before you feel like a total asshole and need to re-evaluate your life.  Sure, I will take language lessons from a four year old little girl, but I will NOT allow her to protect me from a beetle....even if it is on steroids. 

Soo, yesterday, I made the executive decision to cease all fear and revive my ninja skills.  After dabbling in a few minor kills, my confidence was rising.  Then, ready-or-not, I was prematurely called for my black belt exam.  Last night, after brushing my teeth outside with T. Swift, (my fav goat pal)  I was ready for bed. But, upon coming back inside, I realized that my room was absolutely crawling with insects. On the floor, on my walls, flying through the air.  It looked like the page of a bug encyclopedia had come to life.  Heart racing, I geared myself up---I can do this. 

So...there I stood in the middle of my house, wearing nothing but a pair of giant underwear, my retainers, flip flops, and a headlamp on full blast.  I went into full attack mode.  Noises were made. Grunting was involved.  A few respectable (ish) screeches of disgust slash terror were uttered and one or two verses of "yea, bitch...this is my house"later were yelled, and my work was done.  As you can imagine, the aftermath was not pretty.  Carcasses covered every inch of my dirt floor, and I'm pretty sure a few were stuck in my hair.  Either way, one sweep of the battle grounds, and I was ready for bed. 

Now, if I could just muster up the same courage for all things furry,  I'd feel unstoppable....but I think in that case, I'd really rather the 4-year olds handle it. 

Screaming Goat Featuring Taylor Swift

To save the 90% of you the hassle of googling "do goats really scream like humans" I have attached this nice video for you.  Please enjoy; and think of me waking up in a pool of sweat somewhere, missing you all.  :) 

7/10/2014

The Heat is On...

So, it's been an interesting couple of weeks....

I've hit many milestones since I last checked in.  Most significantly, I've learned to urinate while effectively aiming at cockroaches, to fetch water from a pump-well and carry it the half-mile back to my house without spilling, and to eat a mango the size of a cantaloupe in approximately two minutes.  Life, in short....has changed a bit.

We all left the capital area of Banjul at the end of June and were transported to our "training villages" where we will stay until the end of August when we are officially sworn in as volunteers.  In these villages, we live in our own house or room, have our own outdoor bathroom area, complete with pit latrine (AKA 10 foot deep cement hole) and have a family who "adopts" us and helps us adjust to the new culture.  For these couple of months, we are near three other volunteers, so every morning we meet up at our teacher's house, who is a native of the Fula tribe, and he helps us learn the local language called Pular.  It's a long and stressful day, as learning so much so quickly while the hot sun beats down on us is noooo joke.  My body and mind are still adjusting to this heat. My hand to God I will never again take a cool breeze for granted. I've have never considered myself to be particularly religious, but every time the wind blows, I say a prayer for it to happen again, so we'll see....I may end up a full-on Deacon by the time I'm out of here!

Aside from formal lessons, we have blocks set aside in the day to just walk around the village and practice speaking to people.  This is helpful at times, but also endlessly frustrating and exhausting.  They want so badly to communicate with us and assume that because we are taking lessons, fluency is just around the corner.  As you can imagine, this is not the case.  It's a slow-going process.  Although, two days ago I overhead an old woman on the other side of my bathroom fence say, "Look!  That foreigner is taking another bath!", as she could see my headlamp on and hear me splashing around.  I didn't know whether to be angry at the prospect of being referred to as "that foreigner" or totally ecstatic that I could understand it....

Speaking of old ladies...One of my absolute favorite things that occurs so far has been the dancing-and it's still Ramadan where music and dance are mostly forbidden, so I ain't seen nothin' yet.  The life and energy of dance here is almost enough to make up for being served white rice grits for breakfast, which I lovingly refer to as "hate soup" and clearly can't get enough of.  So the first time we danced with the people in the village, a huge crowd gathered to amuse themselves and watch the strange white people do strange white people things.  Two kids were showing us how to get down and were getting super frisky.  We loved it, but were also not about to join in at a bump and grind in broad daylight--at least not on the first day... But then, I looked over and saw the sweetest, smallest, wrinkliest granny of the bunch give a loud clap and drop it to the floor.  It was then that I knew things were going to be alright.  I mean...if grannies are going full- twerk at noon, then this is definitely the place for me. 

This isn't to say that this time has been without hardships...The food has proved a daily struggle for me.  Not eating many carbohydrates in a culture that believes "noodle dip" is a thing has been...very trying.  Boiled eggs, bits of chicken or fish and the occasional giant mango have been my saviors so far, but I can't wait to move to my permanent site where I can buy all the beans and lentils and cook for myself.  I plan to cover everything in oregano and pound it all directly to the face. 

Other difficult moments are more lacking in comic relief...It was an absolute shock upon arrival to realize where I'd be living.  Dirt floor, stifling hot rooms with no fan or hint of breeze, and the children...Hundreds of children--half naked, fully covered in filth, and totally without the things they need to thrive.  Many are very sick, others are underfed, and all of them need more love and affection than their families are able to provide.  There are simply too many of them.  I've seen babies no older than 10 months walking pant-less down a dirt path alone while sucking on a battery.  I've walked in on my two-year-old "nephew" playing with a huge kitchen knife in the back yard, and on a daily basis I see toddlers carrying infants on their backs while doing hard laborious chores.  This is not meant as a judgement-it's just an unfortunate and unavoidable circumstance of the conditions here.  It will be interesting to see how my views on all of this change throughout my time here....or if any of this will ever cease to freeze me in my tracks. 

Instead of continuing on for ages, I've decided to compile a Top 5 list.  I love Top 5 lists and assuming things continue to amuse me here, I will try and make one every month.  Here goes. 

                                         Top 5 Gambian Moments of the Month: JULY

5)  Having to absolutely M.U.R.D.E.R. all spiders and bugs.  They are such resilient freaks of nature that a simple stomp will just not suffice.  They must be stabbed-violently.. repeatedly.. in order to die.

4) Having a five-year-old girl come to my rescue and help teach me to make Attaya, the local tea.  I thought I had a high tolerance for touching hot things, but apparently, these hot things do not include burning coals or metal teapots containing boiling water.  #Epicfail #Whatfingertips?

3) Realizing that as a random white person, I am pretty much the strangest, most intriguing thing some of these people have ever seen.  There are people peeking through my windows and watching me AT ALL TIMES.  They watch me while I sleep, they watch me bleach and filter my water, one kid even watched me exercise for 40 minutes without so much as acknowledging me...just hands up against the window, mouth agape, like I was on fire.  At first, I tried to get them to stop and explained how I generally prefer a bit more privacy, but mostly they just nodded and laughed because they have no idea what I'm saying.  So now, the way I see it, if you see me sweeping my house naked, that's your problem. 

2) Coming to terms with the fact that corn rows are not for me.  I've only given it one fair shake, but a second shot is not likely.  It lasted a day, no-I have no photographic evidence of said rows, and yes- I looked very much like an extra from Orange is the New Black.  Full disclosure, I think it also affected my personality insofar as I felt a little tough and much less inclined to smile at children, and I think I even licked my teeth a few times. 

 The Absolute #1 realization about Gambian life thusfar is.................

1)  That goats really actually do sound like screaming humans.  Now, for some of you, this may not be a shocker, but for me, it was nothing short of mind blowing.  A goat noise never even occurred to me until last year when that Taylor Swift video went viral.  And even then I just figured it was digitally enhanced.  Turns out...that just actually how they sound.  I wake at all hours of the night in a panic thinking a small child has fallen down a well, when the reality is, the goat in my bathroom just wanted to say goodnight. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NFgx5MY72Dk

The Cold Has Always Bothered Me Anyway..

7/1/14

I have spent the last few nights at a Peace Corps transit house near the capital of The Gambia.  This place is decked-out with everything from running water, electricity, filtered water on tap, to freaking wifi and air-conditioning.  Each of the nineteen people in the house has been awakened by being so bone-chillingly cold that they woke up in order to pile random things on top of themselves for warmth.  This is not real life...starting tomorrow. Tomorrow, we are being bussed up country to our training villages, where we will reside for the next 2 months while going through intensive language classes, learning to survive without any modern conveniences, and sweating profusely through and onto any and all things within a 10 foot proximity of our bodies. 

We have been getting slowly eased into this new country; Its culture, food, languages, and landscape are all becoming more familiar, and as of today, I have finally stopped waking up with that panicked "where in the F am I?" pounding in my chest.  HOWEVER, I can't say that I feel prepared for what lies ahead in the coming weeks.  While I feel prepared to sleep alone and have my own space, I am nervous.  I am nervous for being alone, for trying to bond with people through a language I can't speak, for actually knowing what 120 degrees feel like, and above all else, I'm nervous for running into something furry in the dark.  I relive this moment over and over again in my head, hoping that the fear will somehow dissipate and that my new sense of strength or independence or whatever will overpower my fears, but mostly my visions end with me screaming, peeing my pants, and crying in front of my new host family. 

The last week has been filled with all sorts of classes.  From eight to five, we sit in a classroom at Peace Corps headquarters in Banjul.  We listen to various people tell us about the culture, we eat the lunches with failed attempts to use only our right hands, and we get shot up with just about every vaccination known to man. I even sat through a presentation on how to successfully defecate into a hole. Three days ago, after getting shot up with Hepatitis A and Meningitis, we received our Malaria prophylaxis along with explicit instructions on how to use them. Feeling confident in my ability to follow simple instructions, I went home with my bag of pills.  For the next three days, I felt accomplished; I woke up at six, exercised, showered, ate breakfast and took my prescribed medications.  In addition to my daily cocktail of vitamins and pain relievers, I added in the mix a Mefloquin and one Doxycycline to prevent Malaria.  As the days went on, I felt an increased level of bizarre.  An intense dizziness peppered with nausea, a slower-than-normal heart rate, and a general feeling that I had recently chugged 300 beers was overtaking me, and I was not sure what to do.  After seeing the doctor, resting, and drinking my body weight in water, I came back to the PC house to pack up my things.  It was then that I realized I had been taking the Mefloquin- a WEEKLY medication-EVERY DAY for the last three days.  Thankfully, I am still alive and also apparently quite resistant to Malaria.  I decided to ride out my strange feeling by going to watch the World Cup and imbibing in a couple of the local beers...I mean...if I feel drunk, I had better damn well be enjoying myself. 
 
Aside from my medicinal mishap, most things are going well.  I couldn't have hoped for a better group of people and I've been able to swim in the ocean and relax into my new environment.  I don't know when the next time is that I will have access to internet or electricity.  Until that time comes, I hope for nothing more than a cool breeze, a nice family to live with, and for all the rodents in the whole of Gambia to spontaneously keel over and die.

Here's hoping.