Journal Entry 10.13.2007

Today was Koriteh and for the first time the village did not fast. This meant there was a more festive afternoon, following of course the morning of prayers. We all went to the prayer session at 10am. Dressed up a little, hot and sweaty. All the kids got new clothes. Some shorts and pants, probably the only ones they’ll get for another year. We sat with the 40 or so people of the village who came to pray. The women of middle to adolescent age weren’t there, but all the men, boys, girls and elderly women. It was beneath a tree looking east into the cous field. The town mosque is too small or else we would have been inside of that. But outside in the shade was just fine. The whole thing lasted only half an hour or so. We mentioned the ceremony with the boys telling us when to say amen and touch our forehead. We sat beneath our shaded studying tree and finish our homework then around 4ish, "L" and "A" arrived on bikes.
The women of the village by now dressed up in fine colorful wraps and dresses began to beat a drum. We were made to dance which didn’t take too much cajoling when the kids were grabbing our hands and smiling and laughing. My host brother asked for the guitar so I got it and ripped off a piece of bamboo from under our studying tree. Bamboo by the way makes a great pick. I even took out my harmonica and blew on it as the women were drumming. Everyone stopped and jaws hit the ground. They all started laughing and had these looks of awe. The party continued and this little girl danced to the bad harmonica I was playing until her flowers fell out of her hair. We then went on parade to the big house, a new structure one of the richer families built with money coming in from America. One of their sons married a PCV about two or three years ago. At least I think that the family I may have it wrong. In any case, the house was nice but contained nothing but beds, laundry, rugs and concrete floors, rich is still a relative term. But we danced and drummed through the horde and I played guitar with them. We got to a room, a small room, crammed inside and the women and the girls were taking turns dancing in the middle of the room. One older lady had a whistle she was blowing with all her might and an infant baby strapped to her back with a long blue patterned wrap. The baby despite being rocked and whipped back and forth with a loud whistle and drums and singing echoing throughout a small reverberated room, was fast asleep. Children here learn fast and young to be docile in loud and tough situations. We panic, they live. When I saw that woman dance, however, I had what we are calling an African moment. Despite being here, it still doesn’t feel real, maybe because we are still being coddled, fed, taught, engaged. We are still speaking English to other white people. Maybe when that disappears, it will all hit us. But until then, it’s hard not to think that we are not just ten minutes down the road from civilization or the western world, or however you want to call it. Throughout the day this does not feel like “Africa” until one moment hits you and you feel like your are in the middle of a National Geographic magazine and you realize that this is not home. This is not “safe and easy”, this is very much real. These moments so far have been from positive experiences, playing with kids, watching people eat or do their hair, dance, sing, etc. But then we go to bed at night and at least still dream vivid dreams about home and America.
Last night I was hanging out with Larry David, which is of course Zack Fox in 20 years, and we were getting into all these adventures trying to take the Max redline into New York City and visit the Ghostbusters building which turned out to be haunted still and I could see the ghosts and Larry David drove a sports car and gave me a lift to the airport where I missed my flight to Africa and I didn’t know how I was going to get there, but I knew I couldn’t leave the airport either. That’s the short version. In any case I have these moments I guess they are of homesickness but more over, take the situation in the airport, I feel like I’m still not here, I’m in limbo. I’m in some waiting period where Frank, Jesse, Sara, Heather, and everyone else is still a part of me waiting for me as if they are just ten minutes down the road waiting for me to get bored, or to really want a shower in a clean bathroom with towels and a sink and a mirror and a fan and music playing. Half of me doesn’t want to forget that, the other half wants to start dreaming of the Gambia, speaking Pulaar and working under a hot sun in the middle of a cous field.