Dad Visits!!

Last month marked a truly memorable time in my service.  My father from the true-blue USA came to visit me in The Gambia.  I had spent almost the entire month of February hopping from one training to another, which was a good thing, as had I been in the least bit idle, I’d have driven myself crazy with excitement. 

Keeping true to my type-A, planny pants persona, I had the whole week’s adventures lined up, complete with private taxis, hotels, and illegal Saturday currency exchanges.  Aside from the airline losing his luggage, thus forcing us to embark on an impromptu shopping spree (including an inexcusably large cowboy hat), all went according to plan.  

The first few days were spent enjoying cold adult beverages and taking in sights of the “big city”.  From walking the markets to taking a sunset boat cruise around the coast, I not only learned that Gambia has far more uses for oysters and their shells than I’d ever imagined, but that bargaining for fabric is much more enjoyable with someone else footing the bill.  #twoplease

By Monday, we’d soaked up enough city to feel prepared for the journey up-country.  While this was what I most looked forward to during his visit, it was also the most nerve-wracking, as I worried about blips in transportation, sub-par lodging, and above all else, sleeping in my village, meeting my host family, and using the dreaded pit latrine. Not wanting to over-exhaust him on regular public trans, we opted for the blue “luxury” bus from Kombo to Janjanburreh.  For this pleasure, you pay a premium, but you get a seat of your own, a vent with actual air-conditioning, and the exquisite joy felt from the lack of squawk and smell of farm animals far too common on those other buses.  We arrived just in time for lunch and a few beers with a fellow friend and PCV, and were soon picked up by a boat and taken across The River Gambia to our night’s lodging.  The place takes great care to feed and cater to the ever-growing monkey population, which includes keeping electricity off the island, as power lines would drive them away.  As such, we considered it a good “baby step” on the way to my village.  Dining was by candlelight, showering was done via mere dribbles of water over a seat-less toilet, and the darkness held eerie unidentifiable sounds.  

Those discomforts aside, we managed to smuggle in a few warmish beers secretly paddled over by a staff member sensitive to our plight, and afterwards, we watched a cultural show.  A group of women came to chant, sing and dance while men beat drums by firelight.  The show proved entertaining for us both; He was able to experience traditional song and dance, and I was excited to be plucked up from the crowd to (attempt to) dance and clap along.  The most amusement, however, came from the uncovering that some of the chants were not quite so mystical as they may have sounded, for, thanks to my small grasp of local language, I realized that instead of romantic lyrics about the wilds of Africa, the lines, “I am so tired…” and “oh, many foreigners” were sung in chant and chorus while the 10 Dutch travelers also in attendance just smiled and swayed to the music, captivated by the pure bliss only ignorance can provide.   #sobusted 

 

After playing hide-the-breakfast with the monkeys the next morning, we hitched a boat back to the main-land and sought out to buy—wait for it….a live chicken.  Gambian culture holds great importance on small tokens of appreciation.  Much like we would bring a nice desert or bottle of wine to a dinner party, we intended to bring a big fat chicken and some (rather elusive) carrots.  Also in tow were some cola nuts, a traditional symbol for thanks and welcoming, Dijon mustard, and some tea.  As you might imagine, even in my tour-guide, “I got this” mindset, I was flipping out about holding a live chicken for the 20 minute gele-gele and 15 minute bike ride into my village.  Thankfully, though, some friendly locals showed me how to tie up the bird in a plastic bag, and I proceeded to watch and pretend not to be horrified.  Sure, this is normal.  I have my bag of veggies, and also I have my bag of…live poultry. The ride proved cramped, but generally uneventful, and we soon arrived at Tim’s village, ready to grab bicycles and head off.  His most mom, however, insisted we hitch a ride on their neighbor’s donkey cart for the 3K into the bush.  We agreed. Here’s what ensued:

 

Try to envision my father and me-he in the Rodeo-regulation size hat, and me sporting a full Gambian two-piece complette, together with our new friend, Miss Chicken, all perched atop a wooden plank pulled along by an ill-tempered donkey.  The whole scene was hilarious, made even more so by the protest of both animals involved; Miss Chicken, sensing her fate was near, shared her rather spirited opinion on the matter by defecating and peeing all over my skirt (since she had, naturally, already torn through the plastic cage). The donkey, not wanting to be the only cooperating member of the bunch, joined in the fun by rearing up his hind legs to kick me in the hip every few minutes, which consequently scared Miss Chicken into again peeing herself, and thusly--myself.  Not long before this, I had felt compassion for this bird, having shrouded her in plastic during the heat of the day.  Concurrently, of course, I wanted to prevent her untimely death by dehydration prior to the proper slaughter, so I found it in me to actually bottle feed water to this feisty fowl.  This small kindness was promptly snuffed out, though, when the increasing stench and soiling of my dress allowed me to look very much forward to seeing Miss Chicken meet her end.  #sorrynotsorry

Looking a tad disheveled, we finally arrived.  My family was thrilled beyond all words to have my father as a guest, and he was given the red-carpet treatment. He sipped Attaya brewed with mint, helped me fetch water, and pounded up pepper and onion for (Miss) Chicken sauce.  Everyone ate from one big dish, Gambian-style, with our hands, and it was a really wonderful evening.  

After a night of sleeping in my backyard on a bamboo bed bought for the occasion, we woke to coffee and breakfast before my host father, having skipped worked to spent time together, took us around the village to share the cola nuts we had brought as an offering for the community.  This was really special as my dad was able to meet and see the faces and places that make up my daily life.  He was invited into their homes, tried his hand at a little local language (bless his heart) and got to hear how much everyone has enjoyed my presence in the village, which was really nice to hear when sometimes it can be so easy to be hard on yourself.  It was so nice to have both pieces of family together, and my heart was full and smiling that day.    

The smiles continued as my host mother, intent on showing her appreciation, knocked on my door later that afternoon.  I answered it to reveal Hawa, standing proudly, holding a dead chicken up to her grinning face.  It’s a rare occasion to have meat at all, and here we were having it two nights in a row! My host father said it best when he beamed, “Fatoumata, I will remember this day for all time.”  

My host father, Batchi Kandeh. "Take one with me and my animals!"

With many hugs and camera snaps, we bid our goodbyes the next morning, but not via the notorious ill-tempered donkey—this time we made off in style.  My neighbor drove us on his massive horse cart, a ride which provided both speed and scenic views, as a troop of baboons came right through my village as we drove off—a sight even I’ve never seen so close to home.  It was a lovely farewell to the bush, but it was time to kick it up a notch.  On the road awaited our private chariot, equipped with air-con and 4 wheel drive.  We loaded up and set off for our next stop, Baboon Island.  

Only about a two hour’s drive away, this hidden sanctuary houses four families of protected chimpanzees, an immeasurable number of bird species, and hundreds of monkeys and baboons.  We spent the afternoon on a small boat, riding the contours of the lush islands, watching as the chimps swung and crawled their way down the lowest branches to the banks, eager for their lunch to arrive.  Babies playfully jumped from one tree to another, while the most senior members just sunned themselves, flung over and slumped in massive heaps across fallen trees like heavy black coats over park benches.  Our boat captain kept a fair distance to ensure the safety of both species, which, while I suppose it did prevent the spread of communicable diseases and/or face-eating, it also unfortunately prevented me from getting a decent close-up of these magnificent creatures lazing about in the trees.  At night, we slept in safari tents atop high wooden structures over-looking the river, and the following morning, we took a guided walk to spot baboons, which kept a much closer eye on us than we did them.  All in all, while it was not the Gambia known to me, it is a small corner of the country holding a mystique all its own, and I am lucky to have seen it.  

Our chariot, having also slept at the camp, soon pulled up to begin the long drive back to the city.  For his last night in the country, our travel agent (cough, cough) highly recommended a stay at The Sheraton.  Not only is it close to the airport, it has real beds, hot showers, a spa, and mostly importantly, bacon.  Needless to say, it was the greatest taste of luxury I’d had in eight months, and while this may not have been the case for my dad, he nonetheless got a few laughs in as I brought life to the old adage, You can take the girl out of the village, but….(Smelled my newly pedicured feet in a public space, flooded the entire bathroom, ate like a heathen)  It wasn’t quite as pathetic a display as the guy from Encino Man, but it was sadly close enough to warrant comparison.

His flight was scheduled to leave just before midnight, so we had the whole day to relax, eat bacon, and play cards.  Around nine, our now familiar driver came to drag us from the Sheraton paradise and back to reality.  It was a teary goodbye, but as he left, I did manage to laugh as he willed to me none other than that monstrosity of a hat, which I then proceeded to wear, while simultaneously laughing and crying for a good deal of the drive back to the PC house.  I’m sure the driver enjoyed it.  #whitegirlcrazy

So it was that his visit ended as quickly as it came upon us, but what-a-week.  It is a rare itinerary which includes everything from beaches and baboons to killing your own dinner and carrying bath water on your head, but it captures the uniqueness of Gambia so perfectly.  It may not be for everyone, but I am so glad it was—at least briefly—for him.  Thanks, dad for the awesome visit.  I will remember those days for all time.  

I'm Back! January/February Highlights 2015

As Christmas and New Years came to a close, January found me mostly at site, where as you already know, I have little access to electricity and even less access to the wonderful world wide web. So, regretfully, I wasn't able to post any blog updates. I will, however, try to give a brief update now and then I fully intend to get back on my monthly schedule.

First, sincere thanks to everyone who gave me birthday shout outs; although I didn't see them until fairly recently, it didn't make them any less appreciated.  Secondly, here is my best go at a quick yet thorough run down of the last two months.

5) Fatoumata Arti! 

After more than three weeks away from site, I finally returned on Saturday, January 3rd.  I enjoyed a quiet New Years with a few friends in Basse, but was ready to return to my hut and sleep through the night with no lights, snoring peoples, or any other lovely things that come with sleeping in an African frat house.   It's amazing how three weeks with worldly comforts so quickly became an overload to the senses.  I was craving the simplicity of my four crumbly walls and my bucket of water to bathe with under the moon.  Now, this is not to say I didn't appreciate the city life.  I did.  I wore jeans, I drank decent Cabernet, ate delicious meals, went dancing, drank much less decent Cabernet, and even treated myself to a one hour massage.  But, all that aside, I was ready for village.  I wanted to wear the exact same thing every day, and not brush my hair for an entire week without anyone plotting an intervention.

The journey home was long and tiresome, and the closer I got to my stop ,the more I found myself nervous about returning to village life.   Would I have to adjust to "going without" all over again? Would my family be happy to see me?  What if I forgot how to speak Pulaar?  Well, shit.  Maybe I'm not ready...?  However, ready or not, the bus stopped and I gathered my things and stepped down. After picking up my bike from Tim's house, I began my 15 minute ride into the bush of Sare Ngai.  I rode slowly, soaking up the last moments of alone time, going over phrases in Pulaar.

Toulie loving the camera

Soon, I arrived at the gate of my family's compound and shyly said, "Salaam-ma-lakuum". Immediately, my mom came bounding towards me, clapping her hands and stomping her feet.  She screamed, "Fatoumata arti! Fatoumata arti!" (Fatoumata's back!)  My little sister, Toulie, the toddler who had once been scared to death at the very sight of my face, came running up, smiling. She squealed, "Fatoumata!", which was the first time (to my knowledge) she actually spoke my name.  My heart melted.  I hugged Hawa, picked up Toulie, and all of the sudden, I was back.  The fears and hesitations I held onto about returning floated away when I realized that these people really had missed me.  I had become a part of something--a family, a village, a country--and it was slowly sinking in that this was all real.  I know I am not really named Fatoumata, and I'm conscious of the fact that these wonderful people are not my actual blood relatives, but here, where my sense of self, of "Meghan" is so distorted, I have, in a way, become Fatoumata.  She is real to all of the people I work with and befriend and spend time with.  She is real to the tiny little girl who falls asleep on my shoulder every night.  I just didn't realize until that moment when I pulled up on my bike that she is actually real to me, too.

4) Lettuce Eat

After eight months in-country, I've seen a few seasons of crops come and go.  There was the corn season, where the whole village smelled like smoke and charred popcorn. That was closely followed by watermelon season, where seeds and rinds littered the sand and my mouth was in a constant state of watering, and then groundnut season, where peanuts of every conceivable variety lined the streets of the markets.  But, January brought a new jewel to the market: romaine lettuce.  Please allow me to pause and soak in the pure joy that it brings me to even type these words.  Lettuce!  Something not only familiar...but something reasonably healthy...something crunchy...something fresh-tasting, green...something I can put balsamic vinegar on!

As you can see, I can't explain the excitement.  So, while I can't get my hands on these leafy beauties in my village, I can ride my bike 40 minutes to the big market on Saturdays.  At the end of the month, Tim and I had a movie-night pajama party, and in the morning, did just that.  I came home with the greatest jackpot I'd ever scored in the lumo.  We're talking a big cucumber, two carrots, a green pepper, onions, a few ripe tomatoes, and approximately 25 smallish bunches of lettuce.  (I may have gotten a bit overzealous...) After staying at Tim's for another three and a half hours getting my hair pulled into very intricate braids, I sped home to make a proper salad for my family to try (and to show off my new 'do, which, although it was startling at first, I now consider to be my prison-fab look).

I hurriedly chopped, peeled, and tore up the veggies. I whisked up my favorite dressing of dijon mustard, balsamic, and oregano.  So proud, I brought it out to my family and told them to enjoy this real "Italian salad". They put the bowl on the ground, squatted around it, and ate it with their hands.  I retreated into my hut, eager to whip up salmon-cakes using care-package ingredients to eat with my salad-- I was totally not sharing those. (Sorry folks...but thanks mom and dad!)  Once I had finished, I came back outside was thanked profusely my host father, who said he was so full, he didn't even care how fat he gets, let's eat it every day.  I explained that salad doesn't make you fat, that it fills you because of the fiber, and it's better for your body than medicine.  Everyone was shocked.  While we know these things instinctively, most Gambians don't have a clue about nutrition; they eat what's there and don't think about the value of it.  Rice and sugary tea keep you feeling full, so usually, that's all they have, completely unaware that the food they're ingesting has the nutritional value of a cotton ball.
 
The next morning, I sat reading with my coffee, and my mom called the family over for breakfast.  I cook for myself, so don't usually eat with them, but this time Hawa yelled in Pulaar, "Fatoumata, come.  We are eating the Italian medicines you like."  Sure enough, she had diced up a real salad at the demand of my father.  While she still fried onions and fish in oil and MSG, it was, nonetheless, a salad, and even the kids were eating it.  Now I don't know how long salad season will last, but that memory of seeing Hawa present her Italian-Gambia fusion will last a lifetime.

3) Houston, We Have Adjusted. 

The third week of January brought yet another splendid anniversary of my 26th birthday.  Being at site, I didn't do much, but I did manage to take a nice bike ride, have a few beers, and eat lunch by the river.  A week after that, my friend Jess, a fellow PCV, and Nora, her visitor from the U.S., came to stay with me for a day.  My family was thrilled to have not just one, but two strangers staying with us, and made sure to welcome them.  My mom gave me branches of dried leaves which I pounded and mixed with water to make henna, and we spent the first afternoon applying the paste to our feet in intricate patterns while neighbors watched and told us how beautiful our feet looked.  As the night rolled in, we sat and chatted around a fire and Nora seemed to enjoy the almost eerie quiet that comes with village life.

Freshly hennaed feet

Learning to carry things on my head!

The next morning, we took a gelle-gelle to Janjanburreh and stayed in a lodge for the night after lunching in a restaurant and watching a drum show at a local dive.  Having a visitor from America was incredibly refreshing, as it was the first time I'd experienced Gambia as a tourist. Things can get a little monotonous, so it was nice to re-see the little gems around me that I've started to take for granted.  The beauty of the sky, the graceful balance of the women carrying their plates and buckets atop their heads--it all reset in my mind how special this time is.

Getting used to fetching water everyday

Scout and I embracing local hair styles

Other things, however, were not so romantic. Jess and I were both confronted with the reality that our hygiene practices have been...reduced.  We no longer reach for the anti-bacterial every few minutes as we used to, we were okay with our level of smell if a quick underarm sniff only caused a slight up-turn of the nose, and wearing the same outfits three days in succession didn't seem socially unacceptable. We were also informed, with absolute authority, that our bodies have now adapted to the heat, and that bundling up in hoodies and blankets at night was in actuality, completely unnecessary.  These realizations, for better or for worse, showed me the changes both my mind and body have been going through these last eight months.  It's nice to see that I am adaptable, but I hope that I don't continue to "adjust" quite so steadily for the next eight, as I don't think I will be allowed on the plane back home if things keep up the way they've been going.



2) Weekend Warrior Two

I wrote back in October about attending a yoga retreat at a lodge up country.  At the end of January, I had the opportunity to attend another one, only this time there was a change of venue.  About 22 of us hauled ourselves, mats in tow, to an EcoLodge in the Western coastal region of Kartong.  The resort, named Sandele, for "now, be still" in the local language of Mandinka, was the perfect place to escape village life and have a weekend of relaxation.  These retreats are meant to serve as a time to escape back into our American skins-no children, no translation, no constant attention for being different. We ate vegetables-amazing!, used composting toilets-not so amazing, but definitely cool, and took showers with running water heated from solar panels and pumped by wind turbines.  I taught a kickboxing class, rose early for sunrise yoga, and of course, sat by the ocean. At night, we had a story slam on the beach complete with a bonfire, where we got to know some of the newer people who have recently arrived in-country.  It was awesome, and for about 48 hours, I barely remembered that I was in the Peace Corps at all.

1) Scripture Staycation!

Well, clearly I have saved the best news for last! However, in lieu of a full spoiler, I will be saving some of the goodies for a later date, as I have no pictures yet for all the stories, and my mother will die if I post details to the internet without her hearing about them first-hand.  The last week of February brought a very exciting visitor to The Gambia...my dad!

After working almost the whole month going back and forth to workshops on malaria prevention, gender equality, and literacy, I excitedly made my way to Kombo to pick up my father from the airport in Banjul on February 21st.  I was so pumped and had a whole week of things planned out for us.  We spent two days in Kombo, talking, sight-seeing, marketing, eating, and boating.  He was able to see my village, sleep in my little hut, and get to know my family away from family, which was so special.  The last few days were spent touring around some parts of the country that my meager PC earnings don't allow for without a little father funding, and then yesterday, I reluctantly rode with him to the airport so he could begin his 24 hour journey back to Cleveland.   I can't wait to get some pictures up and share some of the highlights, but it will have to wait until I have all the camera charging, USB-ing, and uploading tools. Until then, I hope everyone is surviving the cold back at home.  Thoughts and hugs to all of you, and I promise to write and post pictures soon!

Top 10 Gambian Tidbits and Honorable Mentions: 2014

I am officially at the sixth month mark in my service.  Throughout this time, I have learned a lot, made countless memories, and sweat through every single item of clothing in my possession.  While I have shared many of these moments with you, there are some more random stragglers that don't necessarily require a lengthy explanation, but are nonetheless telling about the culture I am currently nestled in.  They may not be funny, they may not seem noteworthy at all, but they are my little gems, my bits of life that have kept me going so far.  I hope that 2015 brings a thousand more.  Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all you wonderful people.

10) Jifffy Lube

Desperately lacking in protein, Gambian cuisine depends heavily on the nutrients provided by groundnuts. They roast them, pound them into dusty flours, grind them into peanut butter for sauces poured over rice, and, during periods of abundance, simply boil them for snacks. If you can find a way to eat them, they are generally interested. The only exception to this rule, however, seems to be the way in which one should consume peanut butter. In my opinion, it doesn't take much to make eating peanut butter an enjoyable experience, as I am of the camp that believes a spoon alone provides a sufficient vehicle for getting this sticky goo into my mouth. I now know that Gambians wholeheartedly disagree.

I have learned a lot about making all products peanut in the last few months. From picking and shelling to roasting and grinding, I've done it all. Making my own peanut butter from nuts that I actually plucked from the ground was one of my crowning moments. I even got a small cheer of approval from my family, who had been so eager to teach me all about this tasty paste; but, they were also curious to see what I was going to do with it once I made it. I don't eat the rice, so I don't need sauce for it...They just couldn't imagine what the hell I would do with it. When explaining to my sister about my philosophy on peanut butter, she was horrified. What do you mean eat it plain? Just only this? And, when I further explained that Americans also like to eat it on bananas, apples, or on bread, she was absolutely disgusted. She laughed, turned and said something to her friend, then looked at me a little bewildered, and said, “An ko psy psy” which literally means, “you're crazy.” #moreforme

9) Tailor Trouble

As Gambian weather is harsh on clothes, most American things I brought have already bit the dust—chewed it up, and then violently regurgitated it into stained shreds off cotton-poly blends. So, I've had to branch out and get some clothes made. This can create stress as it is very hard to find someone who can sew clothes in a subdued Western style. Gambian women wear these elaborate shirt-skirt combos called complettes. They are covered in ruffles, metallic sparkling ribbons, and the tailors here just cannot help but to add these lovely touches to everything they get their hands on.

One of my brothers, Gibi,is a tailor, and after a couple of epic failures, I decided to try a new guy in Tim's village up the road. That turned out alright, but it took three exhausting tries to get things in wearable condition, and I felt so absurdly guilty for “cheating” on my brother that I found myself lying when asked about my new clothes, awkwardly explaining how a friend had given them to me.

Last week, I decided to attempt get some Christmas fashions made, so I hauled out to yet another tailor further down the road. Now I was cheating on my guy on the side-suddenly transformed into a big fat cheater complete with irrational lying and hiding pieces of fabric in black plastic bags as I passed his shop so as not to be found out. For days, an internal dilemma took over. Should I only wear certain things in the presence of the creator of the outfit? No, that could be stressful. Maybe I should just come clean and admit to my inability to commit. No, I would hurt their feelings. Well, turns out, the joke's on me. The newest “suitor” is apparently my mom's brother-in-law and word is very much out that I've been getting clothes made all over town. Initially, I was mortified, but now I feel free to wear any random getup I please without the fear of being called out on my infidelity. 

8) You Missed a Spot

       I often mention how hard Gambian women work in order to keep their households running. One thing in particular that has always struck me as unique is the sweeping of the compound. As most time is spent outdoors, the area outside the huts is the place that looks the most “lived in” at day's end. There is no den or family room, but there is a a front yard with some plastic chairs and a fire. Biscuit wrappers, flip flops, random peanut shells, bits of charcoal, and hundreds of tiny footprints from the naked feet of playful children litter the sand. So, as strange as it may seem, the women take to sweeping the sand with these short brooms made of sticks. They brush the sand back and forth into very intricate wave patterns. The first time I witnessed this, I remember thinking, “What the hell? Who sweeps sand?”, but now, when I come out of my hut in the morning, I really appreciate the tidy look of the compound; the lines in the dirt are every bit as orderly and pleasing to the eye as lines in freshly vacuumed carpet, and these days I just sweep the sand with the best of them.

7) Sugar Daddy

Like many Americans, one of the most crucial steps in my morning routine is drinking a cup of hot strong coffee. Milk or no milk, hot as can be, and definitely no sweetener. There's nothing like it. Gambians drink something called Attaya, which is a very strong tea brewed with equal parts sugar and water. Sugar is taken very seriously around here as Gambians on the whole, feel that there's nothing that cannot be improved upon with the addition of obscenely large doses of this white grainy drug.

One morning, I was sitting outside enjoying some coffee, when my host father asked if he could try some. I warned him that Gambians tend to hate American coffee, but he insisted. Eager to see his reaction, I gave him the cup and watched as he slowly brought it to his mouth and took in the smell, unknowingly imitating a Folger's commercial. But then, after taking a small sip, his face turned sour as his body immediately rejected the bitter beverage. Panicking, he shoved the mug back at me and yelled in Pulaar for the teenage boys brewing Attaya to bring him sugar with precisely the same urgency as a surgeon calling for a scalpel. The boy rushed it over, my host dad dumped
approximately a quarter cup of it into his hand, and began to tongue clumps of it from his palm. Sufficiently leveled out, he looked at me, pointed in my face and said sternly in English, “How you can drink this, Fatoumata? Why did you give me this?,” and promptly got up and walked away...presumably to find more sugar.

6) The Elephant in the Womb

     Within The Gambia, there are several different ethnic groups, each with their own customs and language. As I've mentioned, I am living as part of the Fula tribe, who are known among other things like cattle and nice fabrics, for their strange superstitions. They are convinced that the spit of salamanders will burn your skin, that falling stars mean the devil is on the hunt for a kill, and they believe that if you admit that you are with child, that baby will not make it into this world. Now, with no cable, restaurants, or other worldly distractions, a fair amount of mating is going on. Women are pregnant all over the place. But, unlike most of the world-there are no questions asked, no bellies rubbed. They simply go about their chores pretending as if they've just suddenly gained a good deal of weight.

Recently, my host father warned me to expect a baby to be born in our compound this coming spring. It's very unusual for him to have told me, but said he “knows how the foreigners like to make plans about all the things” which I thought was hilarious, endearing and also fairly accurate. So, Hawa is having a baby. I cannot, of course, let her know that I know, so I will continue on pretending that she is just very much enjoying groundnut season until I suddenly have a brand new baby sister or brother to hold come April-ish.

5) The Pork Palace and the Drunkard's Den

Because Gambia is a predominantly Muslim country, two of life's greatest offerings are strictly prohibited: pork and alcohol of any kind. This creates a problem for us foreigners who walk around craving crisp bacon and cold beer. True, we manage to get our fixes of adult beverages from time to time, but pork cravings are those satiated only in the big city of Kombo—or so we thought.

Last Saturday, Tim and I rode our bikes to the large outdoor market for some wandering and shopping. As the sun came out, our mouths began watering for an ice cold beer. A fellow Peace Corps friend there with us helped out by calling a Christian Gambian who knew a guy who knew a guy. Turned out that guy was a gal and her name is Fatou; she apparently runs a little hush-hush operation in a small area of her back yard. It's a tiny shack fenced in by corn husks and has a cooler, two benches, and an array of bottom-shelf liquors guaranteed to provide the most miserable of hangovers. The other side of the “bar” serves as a slaughter-room slash kitchen for all things pig. Jackpot.

We followed the confusing directions, trying to think positively and not be too disturbed by the fact that this place was in the lady's yard. Lost, we called her, she kindly came out to the road and waved us down, and soon we were escorted inside. Taking our seats on the wobbly benches, we exchanged comforting safety in numbers glances, and ordered our beers. Fatou passed them around, while simultaneously breast-feeding her child. We figured if the beer was cold, we'd stick around and maybe ask about the pork situation. This was potentially the best Saturday ever. Sadly, this did not come to be. Although the beer was tasty, the other patrons at this establishment were (shockingly) not of the highest caliber, and we felt it best to high-tail it out of there before a few overly-friendly thigh slaps and an inappropriate pinch of the rear turned into unmanageable circumstances. It's an unfortunate consequence of a mostly dry country that these problems are not uncommon; those who imbibe and the places that cater to them are not always the classiest. From here on out, I will just accept that pork is just not happening up-country, and I promise to refrain from imbibing in the backyards of strangers.

4) I see London, I see France, I see Hawa's....Kneecaps

      Another component of Muslim culture is the necessity for modesty in public. This is especially applicable to women—no skirt or dress should be at or above the knees. Aside from random glimpses pumping at the well or washing clothes, it's very rare to see the legs of any woman. Late in October, I accompanied Hawa to the peanut farm to check on and pull up a few plants. The grounds surrounding the farm are littered with bushes that have those sharp prickly balls that stick on your clothes and later stab into your skin like tiny knives. So, before entering, Hawa stopped, looked around, and, feeling that we were out of site, tied her long wrap skirt up around the tops of her thighs. She motioned for me to do the same and we proceeded into the fields. She and I walked along, picking up bunches of groundnuts, and munching through the soft shells to get to the earthy, radish-like flesh. She found some sticks good for chewing (the surprisingly effective method of dental hygiene here) and then found some nice green leaves to pick for folaray, a leaf sauce eaten over rice. Having forgotten a bowl, Hawa unraveled part of her black head wrap and used the end of it to tie up the leaves, giving the illusion that she had long black hair.

Paired with her skirt hiked up, I saw my host mother in a totally new light; for this short time, she wasn't some middle-aged Muslim woman with four children, she was a young girl walking through a field picking flowers. She smiled knowingly as if to say that's also how she felt, and we shared a moment where we—without words—bonded as women. Baring our knees opened the gate to bare our girlishness, and it was a special exchange. It's so easy to look at the women around me, covered head to toe in yards of fabric, and see nothing more than that, but seeing Hawa in the farm that day opened my eyes to the reality that she is just like me....only with much longer legs.

3) Ba, Ba, Black Sheep, Have You Any Soul?

Back in October, I wrote about the slaughtering of the rams to celebrate the holiday of Tobaski. As the months roll by, the price for these animals rises exponentially, so it's good business sense to try and buy one early and care for it throughout the year. Our family lucked out as our female sheep was pregnant and due any day. I was getting ready for school when I heard an oddly pained cry. I came out to see the smallest little sheep you ever saw, covered in substances that clearly explained the weird cries. But oddly, the mother sheep was nowhere to be seen. I asked what was happening, where was she? My sister, Kadjiatou, explained that seconds after giving birth, the mother attempted murder by head-butting and then ran away to find food. I was torn—I felt awful for the little guy, but I wasn't about to cradle his gooey body and play mommy. I also felt a tinge of guilt as I identified with the mom; her instincts, or lack thereof, are precisely what terrifies me about having a baby of my own. No, I wouldn't try to murder it...at least not right out of the gate, but would I too lack that motherly instinct to feed, hold and even love my child? It's a scary thought, but something I ponder more and more as the anniversaries of my 26^th birthday continue to accumulate without any prospect of procreation.

As for the sheep? Sadly, the baby passed away after two days of attempted mothering by my brother, and the mom seems content...unaware or unconcerned about her missing offspring. As for me? It remains to be seen, I guess, but lately I've taken to letting the sheep graze in my yard instead of shooing her away. I figure, it's Christmas, and we cranky ole biddies may as well stick together.

2) Walking in Fields of Grain

Since the moment I arrived in my village, my host father has talked about when I would accompany his sister and spend the entire day working alongside the other women in the rice fields. It was one of those things I wanted to do, but was more looking forward to the memory of having done it than the actual experience itself. I've never worked in rice fields, but everyone in the village had been warning me how difficult it would be, how my whole body will pain me, and that I should wear long sleeves so I don't bleed as much. Great. So, as you can imagine, I was very intimidated and mildly frightened as the day approached. Sunday morning came, and I prepared my things: enough water to get through the day (as I cannot yet drink water from random wells without undesirable consequences), a long sleeve shirt with a collar I borrowed from a neighbor, and a tikka, or head-wrap to protect my hair from the prickly stems of the rice.

We set out on a horse cart; ten women and two men making our way through village after village until we reached the river, where the rice fields of all surrounding villages are located. We were followed by a donkey cart, carrying a few other people and some supplies. The drivers and women joked back and forth about how we were better than the donkey cart people (because horses are faster) and the donkey cart folk retorted that actually, our horse should be put to death because the donkey was keeping pace with the him and therefore bringing shame to all horses. It was all very amusing. The rest of the day, however, was devoid of humor. It was time to work.

Upon arriving, we unloaded the gear, took off our flip flops, and plotted out a route from the generator-run grain separator to the rice field, where stacks of massive stalks lay ready to be hauled over the land and piled for grinding. The women showed me what to do. Basically, you bend down at the waist, scoop up an enormous amount of stalks, each easily exceeding eight feet in length, hoist them up and onto your head and walk the through the gushy wet field about 200 yards. After the initial hilarity of white girl carrying rice on her head wore off, we had a beautiful, albeit exhausting day. We walked for hours and hours, back and forth without much talking, but there was a lot more to soak up than just words. The fields were home to hundreds of the most beautiful birds, cranes, and a troop of baboons playing on a nearby tree, and the sun was strong but hidden enough behind clouds that it sent beams of light onto the tall stalks of grain. The wind blew lightly, creating a soothing whooshing sound, and the absolute blackness of the women's skin was so gorgeous against the bright greens and yellows of the grasses that I even thought for a moment that I would come and work again the next day just to have the chance to capture them with my camera. While I did not make it out, I do plan to revisit this serene place that seems to be a separate Gambia-a world starkly contrasting to the loud bustle of markets, villages filled with a hundred noisy children, or the cramped buses I so often find myself in.

1) Food Items, the People Who Serve Them, and Also Christmas

Beginning December 11^th, my entire group took off for Kombo to attend the swearing-in ceremony for the new agriculture and health volunteers (AKA, eat things involving cheese and drink lots of low-quality alcoholic beverages.) After the weekend, the education group had a week of classes at the Peace Corps office reviewing how our service is going so far, and learning more about how to get involved. Every night, dinner was on our own, so we missioned out to restaurants looking for all the food stuffs we'd been craving. While the food was usually great, the ordering part of the program proved the most difficult. Waitresses here are not like those at home. They're not working for tips, so speed isn't much of an issue, they usually don't know much about the menu, and sometimes, they may not be aware that you even want to order food at all, since sometimes people just come to take a load off and sit at a table. This sounds like a first-world problem rant, and perhaps it is in part, but it is amusing enough that I find it worth sharing.

Going out to dinner is not really a Gambian thing, so they are mostly catering to either the very wealthy or foreigners. My friend, Scout has a story that puts things into perspective. Upon looking at the menu, she saw something under the sandwich section, but had a question for the waitress. She asked “What is the Philadelphia?” to which the woman responded, “It's a food item.” Ahhh...now we understood. Not. Needing further detail, she got more specific. “What's on this food item?” The waitress explained, “Hmm..Philadelphia”. Perfect. Not in the mood for a eating a metropolis, Scout decided to order the vegetarian pizza.

Scout: “What comes on the vegetarian pizza?”

Waitress: ”Everything.”

Scout: ”Everything? Everything comes on the pizza?”

Waitress: ”Yes.”

Scout: ”Yea, ok, I'll have that.”

Needless to say, while Kombo at Christmas was fully enjoyable with all it's offerings and worldly fare, it became more enjoyable to buy groceries and cook at the Peace Corps house than attempt to play Who's on First with the employees of the local eateries. Christmas morning, a group of about 30 of us enjoyed home-cooked dishes, wore festive clothes, and even had a white elephant gift exchange. It was a nice holiday, but now as the year is at a close, I find myself more ready than I ever expected to return to the quiet life of my village and sleep alone in my hut. With that, I am heading home tomorrow, returning to the land of the disconnected and wi-fi-less. Here's to wishing that 2015 brings even more crazy memories and experiences for all of us.

Isn't There an App for That?

     A while back I wrote about the first time I visited my permanent village of Sare Ngai.  I was given the chance to meet the people who would make up my Gambian family and was able to sneak a peak at the surrounding area.  During that visit, I also had the opportunity to see my host-father's peanut farm and "assist" in the fertilizing of the small buds.  (Read: I threw handfuls of pellets at the ground asking "is this too much?...is this enough?"  secretly hoping I wasn't killing the crops and setting the family up for starvation.)  This was in August.  Now Fall has arrived, bringing harvest season with it, and I have found myself having a go at farming once again.
     These past couple of months have been pretty full, so I'd only seen the growing plants a few times between that day in August and that day in late November, when I, alongside my three brothers, first mother, and a mysterious elderly woman made way back to the peanut fields.  So much had changed. We worked for many hours to collect, pile, separate and bag all of the groundnuts from this years' harvest.  There were so many steps involved, so much information to process.  Firstly, the day was chosen, I was told, because the wind conditions were just right, as it must be blustery for the process to work.  I didn't understand why, but then I saw.
     The unnamed woman stood tall in the crook of a small tree, its limbs fixed together into a sling-shot shape by my brother.  Hawa and I gathered up piles of nuts that had already been thrashed by the men in order to separate them from their stems and leaves.  Then, one at a time, we lined up to hand the old woman large metal bowls piled high with groundnuts, dirt, sticks and prickly plant bits. I watched as she waited carefully.  She stood thoughtfully, her bare, wrinkled feet clenched firmly around the branches, then, when the wind finally blew, she raised the bowl up high above her head and let the forces of nature carry the pieces of earth and debris back behind her, as the groundnuts-still in their shells-fell down heavy in a pile at my feet.

A billboard in the capital area showing local women harvesting their groundnuts.

     It was absolutely beautiful.  To watch them fall, to hear the loud cracking of the shells against one another, and to smell the freshness of the soil being blown away was all so spectacularly organic.  In our world where machines do all of the separating, scooping, sorting, it doesn't matter if the day is windy, rainy or still and baking hot.  But here, the people are so deeply in touch with nature simply because they must be-their livelihoods depend on it.  They have figured out ways to use the breeze, the rain, the sun, to work for them, with them, and it's incredible to realize how little else is actually needed to survive.  That said, at the end of the day, I looked down at my hands-they were filthy, scratched and bleeding.  Exhausted, I sat down with my brother and jokingly suggested that next year, we should really try and find a machine to help lighten the load.  He laughed and replied that yes, I can find the machine, but only in my dreams...When I wake up, maybe instead I can find some gloves.

Top 5 Gambian Moments: November 2014

5) Mother Plucker

 Shortly after coming back from Halloween, I was told that there was another Gambian holiday called Tamarec to be celebrated on the 3rd and 4th of November.  Without school in session, I stayed home to help cook and fix the meals for the day.  I should have known it was going to be an interesting experience when my host father walked across the compound holding a live chicken and a knife.  I watched, curious to see if it would run around post-decapitation as I've heard chickens often do, but unfortunately, there was no running.  It did, however, give me a bit of a rush as it jumped about three feet in the air after laying dead for some time.  This of course brought about a yelp from me, followed by mocking laughter from my whole family.  In need of redemption from my unwarranted fear, I decided to offer that I be the one to prepare the chicken.  Amused, my host mother smiled and said, "A wawi?" (you can) to which I replied, "Uh...me etto" (I try).  

With this, I marched over and picked up the carcass, mentally preparing myself for it to have another death-rattle while in my hands, and placed it into a large pot.  I dumped scalding hot water over it and tried not to stare at the head or feet, which are so severely hideous, I may have backed out altogether had I given them a good look.  So now, under Hawa's instruction, I began to de-feather it. I sat there and plucked clumps of feathers from this bird, amazed at the large pores left behind.  Embarrassingly, it had never occurred to me that chicken skin is dimpled from the feathers (yet another lesson for the books).  Now feather-free and scrubbed thoroughly with more boiling water, it was time to cut.

Without cutting boards, Gambian women butcher in tandem; one woman holds the body of the animal, while the other pulls at the appendage ready for removal and saws at it until it's liberated from the rest of the body.  I proceeded to hack up every square inch of this thing, taking orders from my sous chef, Kumba, who is maybe five and lives next door.  She giggled at me a I continued to avoid the feet and head, and she also apparently tattled on me as Hawa soon came over and asked why am I so afraid of the neck.  I explained that "the feet are not nice and also I don't like the head looking at me".  She chuckled, walked me through how to shove the legs and feet up inside the head to make one big easily avoidable package; then, as an extra kindness, she took my knife, sliced open the anus and cleaned it out before adding to the pot.  Well then.  I was grateful, but she told everyone in sight for the next 48 hours how "Fatoumata is very afraid of necks and heads and <insert something I could not understand> Now, I can't be entirely sure what else she said, but, if I had to guess what, it'd be chicken butt.

Either way, I finished the meal according to Hawa's recipe, using onion, garlic, MSG, tomato paste and no less than the 6 cups of oil in nearly all Gambian cuisine.  While this may not have been my preferred preparation, the experience alone gave me confidence that if stranded on a desert island and presented with the opportunity to hunt chicken, I now feel fully up for the task.  Minus the anus.

4) Fatoumata is Having Many Strangers

The second Saturday of November all of the Peace Corps volunteers in my region of The Gambia called CRR, Central River Region, had a meeting.  It was held in Janjanburreh, the "tourist island-city" about a 40 minute bike ride away.  For me, the travel was low-maintenance, but others had to make the journey from much father away.  My friend Scout decided to break the travel up into two days, so she came to stay with me Friday night.  Tim also had someone staying with him, so we cooked homemade lentil burgers for lunch before Scout and I retreated to my hut to design and apply henna to our feet in my backyard  (the Gambian equivalent to painting each other's toes).  We relaxed, ate Jello pudding made with fresh cows' milk gifted to us by my neighbor, and watched Orange is the New Black in my bed, which felt so blissfully normal it hardly felt like I was in Africa at all.  The next morning, we set out for Janjanburreh, where we would cook a spaghetti dinner and sleep at a lodge after an afternoon meeting.  All went according to plan and we even managed to score a crate of cold beer and some poker chips, attracting a couple of new friends from Holland who were passing through and keen for some friendly competition.  It was an awesome night away with good company.

The next morning, I rode home and was accompanied by Eloise, another friend wanting to rest a day on her way home.  She too lives in a Fula village and as she has been here almost two years, her Pulaar is pretty damn good.  My family was thrilled and continues to remind me that my Pulaar should be more like hers.  The other villagers are also very interested in all my recent company. They've come up to me asking, "Who is your stranger?"  I had yet another visitor stay overnight and was told by several people the next morning that I must be very lonely now that my strangers have all gone. As Americans, it seems so intrusive and nosy to be asking about my house guests, but in a village where everyone knows the bathroom habits of entire generations of people, I guess it's understandable.  So, although I do enjoy playing hut-hostess, I also love the feeling of coming home to a quiet space and having time to relax, or presumably just daydream about the next stranger-convention for all of us desperately lonely people.

3) Baby's First Bike Trek

Last month, I attended a training on how to teach a two-day HIV/AIDS awareness class for 8th and 9th graders.  Tim and I wanted to practice, so mid-November we taught for four days in his school in Fulabantang.  Every morning I rode my bike the 3K to his house, made oatmeal, and drank "coffee". The best part was, I had actual goosebumps every day on the ride over as the early morning chill still lingered in the air now that the cold season has arrived.

Aside from a few blunders like inadvertently grabbing at myself every time I said the word breast-milk or Tim pointing to his pants when he said penis, things went really well.  Feeling prepared, we set off to our assigned schools, loading bikes and baggage atop the buses as we made our way across the country.  For two days I taught with nine other volunteers in a village called Somita, sleeping outside under a pavilion near the school with mattresses and mosquito nets provided NAS (National Aids Secretariat).  Tuesday evening we set off and rode to one next destination, Sibanore, where we set up camp in a couple of empty rooms at the school.  At night we listened to music by candlelight, played cards, ate loads of watermelon, and took baths in the garden.  I even killed a snake with a hunter's knife while remaining surprisingly composed.

Once we finished on Thursday, we rode on to Bwiam where we joined up with the other 10 volunteers teaching in different villages.  We stayed the night there, had a closing ceremony and exchanged stories from the week.

Many of us experienced similar challenges; having too many students per class, not sleeping well, and feeling incapable of saying things like "remember to leave room for the semen" to a bunch of kids during condom demonstrations without feeling a bit creepy.  However challenging, though, the whole things felt like a success.  Hundreds of kids learned important things like how one should not attempt to wash and re-use latex, how you cannot get pregnant from oral sex, and above all else-how those with HIV/AIDS are not to be feared or shunned by society.  As I slowly settle into life and work in Gambia, it's times like these that make me feel useful and competent; I truly hope this was just the first of many successes to come.

2) Gobble in Gambia

Thanksgiving came up quickly this year.  I can hardly believe I've lived here for five months already. Perhaps the lack of below freezing temps makes it difficult to imagine that the holiday season is upon us, but Turkey Day arrived whether I was ready or not.
While many volunteers went to the capital area, Kombo, I opted to stay closer to home and cook in Basse, where the other PC house is.  There were 11 of us, and among the lot, we pulled off a pretty legitimate meal. I made make-shift green bean casserole using powdered soup mixes and cornflakes, we used chicken pieces in lieu of turkey, and I cut up an enormous squash which was transformed into savory sweet potatoes, pumpkin pie, and something we decided to name "pecan bake".  It was a lovely holiday and although it did make me miss my family back home, it also gave me an appreciation for my family here--a unique group of people who provide the friendship and support necessary to live so very far away from home.

1) Half Nelson, Full Monty

As I spent so much of November away from site, I wanted to put in some face-time with the family. Ordinarily, I retire to my hut much earlier than the other adults as it's commonplace for the Gambians to go to bed around two, wake up at 5:30 for prayers, and begin their days' chores.  Those of you who know me also know this is simply not the life for me, They can laugh and call me a child all they want...I'm sleeping nine hours and I'm loving it.  That said, my family requested that I drink my "foreigner coffee" in order to stay awake Friday night and attend a wrestling match.  This is not really my idea of fun, but I felt guilty enough for being away that I agreed.  Boy, oh boy am I glad about this life choice.  Wrestling in The Gambia is not what I'd envisioned.  Actually, it's a tribal-themed Chip N' Dales show in held in the bush.  We're talking minimal clothes, maximum bodies, topped off with drums and dancing competitions.  Basically, it's fantastic.  The crowd goes wild and shoves money into the skimpy loin cloths of the men as they prance by showing off their dance moves and muscles.

My first mom, Hawa was shrieking like a school girl at a Justin Bieber concert and getting up to dance alongside these gorgeous wrestle-beasts.  I however, just sat staring--amazed that I had quite nearly skipped this glorious event in exchange for a solid nights' rest.  Moral of the story? Next time the villagers ask me to stay awake for something, I'm going to have to think long and hard about how tired I really am.