Journal Entry 9.24.07

Hier Kommt das begginnen: Philadelphia, PA

Yesterday doesn’t really count since it was mostly on a plane and I was asleep. But today counts. 24 or so hours ago I arrived and met T, my roommate or hotelmate, Sheraton University City hotel mate. But what’s stranger than that, which isn’t so strange, is that while getting the ground transportation at Philly airport a woman had the same hotel request.

“Peace Corps?” I asked.

“Yeah”, she said.

Long story, short, we shared a crowded van to the hotel and she was from Portland and I was from Portland—small world.

“I recognized you” she said, “you were asleep the whole time. I noticed you with that red pillow.”

I brought my mom’s red mochi pillow, it doesn’t condense well so I have to attach it with a shitty carabiner and so it rubs up against everything... dirty—airport floors, dirty airplane seats, dirty Philadelphia sidewalks. In any case, I thought it was weird, 3 out of the twenty-four volunteers are from Oregon, 2 from Seattle. The Northwest kicks ass!

My roommate (or hotelmate) A, the other Portlander, and I went to the White Dog Café which was recommended by the lady sitting next to me on the Liberty van that took us from the airport. The porter at the hotel said Peace Corps people always pack too much. “we have to” A said. The White Dog is a great bar. Well maybe not great. It could be cheaper, but the music is handpicked and the atmosphere is as well. What’s most impressive is the street on which it lives. Sansom, although A and I thought naturally that it was Samson. But T bet us the opposite and of course we were wrong. But as we licked our wounds I take comfort in hearing every local Philadelphian say “Samson Street”. So there. T is a geographer so I guess he reads street signs. F*ck geographers. But Sansom Street is quaint and beautiful. It looks like it got lost and is trying to find Greenwich Village again, a thin row and a tight one-way street lined on one side by brownstones. They’ve re-done on the ground floors to become cafes, bars, restaurants. The White Dog, is the only place in Philly that’s served me a beer. They feature local beers only so as to stay local. It’s a cute idea that the rest of the world should adopt. When we walked in, they were playing Ella. When I came back in to use the bathroom, Pointer. I’m a pointer, and we were sitting outside, the music was none other than Bob Dylan, good omen. “and like a fool I mixed then, and they mangled up my mind and people just kept getting uglier, and I lost all sense of time.” I non-soberly sang long. The White Dog’s good enough that I’m back here again writing this.

Today I woke up and denied my roommate company to the Rocky stairs and went it alone to downtown. I took the 36^th? Station thinking it was a real subway but it wasn’t. It was a trolley, a trolley underground. Strange. I got off at City Hall, which was gorgeous at least from the outside. I then walked down Market to the Delaware River. I was surprised that the sister city to Philly was Camden, a town I have only heard disdain for. But seeing it from across the river on a sunny clear, eighty some degree-day, Camden didn’t seem so bad. How lucky for me to see the brighter side of shitty horrible places, when of course I am far away and safe and naïve.

I didn’t go inside anywhere historical because, frankly once I got there, I wasn’t interested. I walked then, grabbed the real subway back to 34^th no 40^th avenue and walked back to the hotel. But before I got there, I went inside an Indian place, got the buffet, and did all my PC paperwork.

Orientation was all right. I had to busy myself with doodling and the lead facilitator I think, wasn’t so hot about that. I caught her eye a few times. They gave us a debit card with $180 on it and asked us to pull it out at once and we were happy to hear that. Reimbursement and per diem. So I’m back at the White Dog. Last night I caught the eye of the bartender a few times, right now she’s a few seats down between two d-bags trying to make important conversations. I’m glad to know that Portland isn’t the only town where people b.s. about their home made bikes and being an artist and how important and interesting it all is. But in the end there is always uncomfortable silence because who F-ing cares about bikes and self-righteousness. But who am I to judge, I’m alone at a bar. But I’m glad cynicism isn’t just for Portland and Seattle, the whole world can enjoy it.

...and just when I thought things couldn’t get stranger, the bartender from yesterday mentions Gambia and how her sister served there for the Peace Corps five years earlier. We talked for a while and she wrote down the village where her sister lived. If I make it there I’ll have to mention her name and see what happens. Amy from orientation doesn’t know I’m here, she’s on my left. This bartender is on my right, they both speak of the Gambia. The omens are strong. Maybe I’m meant to go there after all. Too bad for Tanzania.

Journal Entry 11.4.07

I just got scolded. I guess I haven’t been in much of an academic mood lately and my Pulaar is slipping. The trip to Janjanbureh hurt me more than it helped. I had an evaluation yesterday with my LCH and I couldn’t form even the simplest of phrases. There’s a wall I was ready to hit and I just hit it. Tonight my host father came up to me and said that I was having an exam. A pop quiz so to speak. Two days ago we learned body parts in class. I don’t know if he knew that or not but sure enough he tested me on all the body parts that I did not know or at least forgot. He joked with me but I was disappointed for the last two days I have been disappointed with my language skills both comprehension and in speaking sentences that sound better than a caveman. “me want this, me come water garden, me good good, mosquitoes bad”.

We have our second language test on Wednesday or maybe Tuesday. I got Novice High last time ahead of the curve. I have to excel again. My goal of course is Intermediate Mid, but Intermediate Low is more of a reality. I cannot get Novice High again. I must progress. My host father made me get a pen and paper and write down all the body parts he told me. I promised tomorrow that I would have a make up exam and know it all. I realize my worst fear when studying by myself. I procrastinate too much. I am way behind on my agfo reading. I don’t know coppicing from cutting or grafting. I’m working on my garden and in the process of making manure tea. ok clumps of cow and goat shit in a bidong and add water, shake and leave in the sun for a week until it gets ripe and then pour onto seedlings for extra fertilization or (jambunge). I have another bidong soaking up neem leaves and branches. Neem is a tree here that the locals use the branches for toothbrushes, the sap and leaves can be used as a pesticide that essentially is what I am making. Right now though, I am slacking. I need constant check ups and pop quizzes like tonight to keep me in line.

My main priority over the last two days has been lei making. A trainee here is from Hawaii and today she had a birthday. The other week I asked her if she had ever had a birthday where she didn’t get a lei and she said no, her African birthday would be her first. Well somewhere inside I heard my mother 6,000 miles away saying that I shouldn’t let that happen so I asked the trainees in my village and the neighboring one if anyone wanted to bike to “M”s village for her birthday. I had four takers so yesterday I got all my chores done and at sunset I set off into the fields to find wildflowers. I asked the locals what the small yellow ones were. They called them Senegal something, no worries, I picked a bunch and then took them back and outside under the stars by candlelight with my travel sewing kit, I strung a bunch of little yellow flowers into a long white string with the help of my little host brothers and sisters, cutting flowers off of the stems piercing the needle through stringing them up. I liked the one I made for “M” so much that I started making another one for my host mother. I wanted my host brother to give it to her but everyone went to bed, so I stayed up and finished it. I heard my host mother still kicking around so I called her and gave her the second lei and she didn’t understand that I was giving it to her. She thought I gave it to her so she could try it on, but I said: “no its for you. I made it for you” in my best Pulaar. Then I turned my flashlight on to show her what she looked like with it on and to my surprise she was topless, National Geographic style. I guess it wasn’t that much of a surprise, she’s always topless, she has a baby after all, and this is Africa no one wears shirts I’ve seen more shirts on men then I have on women. But it was the fact that I was giving her this lei, I was expecting this nice bonding moment and it was at the same time it was yet another reminder that hey, I’m in Africa! When I give my host mother a floral necklace and put it on her, and turn a light on so everyone can see, chances are she won’t be wearing a shirt. The lei will only further accentuate her motherly breasts and her absence to the thought that anything could be possibly wrong with going topless because after all there isn’t anything wrong with going topless. I encourage more American females to follow in my host mother’s footsteps. I hoped “M” would at least, this morning when I gave her her lei but I wasn’t so lucky.

She did love it even though it wilted pretty bad. I tried to “refrigerate” it by sticking it in a Ziploc bag and placed it in my reserve bucket of drinking water which stays a bit cooler than room temp but I wasn’t so lucky The African heat got to it pretty fast, it shrunk to about 2/3 its size by the end of the day.

Getting to “M”s village takes about an hour so we had to leave at 7ish this morning. The ride was gorgeous! The sun rising over the baobab trees and the dew lifting off the rice fields. Awe inspiring a nice cool breeze. We waited till about 4pm to head back so the afternoon sun would cool a bit and we got lucky the ride back was even better. I’m glad out of all the miscellaneous crap I brought that I included my biking spandex padded shorts and cycling jersey. Sure I looked like a fool, but it felt great, sweat wicking off of me, the wind grazing my ample aerodynamic frame. I’m not used to mountain bikes and that’s exactly what we have. The roads look like downtown Bagdad potholes the size of VW bugs. The Gelegeles and trucks cannot exceed 20mph for fear of breaking an axel. So biking and driving have relatively equal distance times. If it takes me an hour by car, expect the same by bike. I’ll try to get pictures but just image an impassable road on the states, that’s the best stretch here on the South bank highway. The North bank is much nicer, but that’s because they vote for the current president. South bank could give half a shit apparently. They just drive on the side of the road in the ditches. It’s often better than what’s “paved”. Used to road bikes, I thought mountain bikes would take some getting used to but it was a lot of fun actually. I figure the main road is like a giant obstacle course and the back roads are so sandy it’s like riding on ice sometimes, jack-knifing and tipping over. I figure people drive for miles and pay lots of dough to ride in trails like this. Here I get a free trek mountain bike and an adventure every time I ride down the street to get a bar of soap.

On somewhat of a sad note one of our original 24 trainees is considering terminating his service. It’s a guy here in my training village. He confided in me the other day even though everyone saw it coming, he saw it coming too. We talk a lot about that, how he’s been overwhelmed on this journey and maybe it’s not the right time for him. He pretty much made it public the other day so I think it’s going to happen, we’ll see. Whatever does happen, whatever choice he makes I just hope it’s for the right reasons. Leaving or staying whatever makes him fitter, happier and more productive. It’s gotten all of us to think about our time here and how we feel about early termination or not leaving and why would do either. Riding home today I had a burst of endorphins and the road kept its integrity for a stretch and a nice cool breeze came and I really felt great. I felt the same emotion that I felt when I would ride home at night from watching a movie at the Laurelhurst on a cool summer night, dry, going “no hands”. It was one of these moments when I felt like this was my new home. I AM GETTING ADJUSTED. It’s strange to move somewhere and not get those feelings. But it takes time. Slowly, slowly. As much as Portland was my home so can this be. I’m not forcing it. I’m just letting it happen. Plus, the other day my youngest host brother was in my backyard helping me and saw my toilet paper and asked “what’s this?” I cracked up. I have two years to either teach people about toilet paper or forget about it completely myself. We shall see.

Journal Entry 10.31.07

Halloween and I’m writing this by candlelight. Finally got a candle holder. My deodorant ran out and lucky, Old Spice Red Zone happens to fit two white standard candles just fine. I have been in country for a month now and have accumulated ¼ of a Target plastic bag in garbage. In the states, I’d have taken the trash out at least two times, filling one of those green bins each time. Here, there is no trash collector hence no dump other than the streets. Things are dirty but also pretty clean. Since everyone prays five times to the east and have to wash their hands and faces each time it keeps them clean and dust free. Plus they bathe twice a day and always wash their hands. Things aren’t clean here by U.S. standard, dishes and clothes are best left to be done out of sight, out of mind.

But still we went on a 4 day excursion to Janjanbureh (or Georgetown) and stayed at a rustic camp, not unlike Tendeba only without electricity. But there was running water and the shower was a much welcome luxury. This camp was on the river so mosquitoes were the # 1 pest. I have a system now, however. I shower (or bucket bathe) then I hop into scrubs, t-shirt and socks (most important since the little shits go after the feet most of all). I just plain out don’t wear shorts or sandals at night if I can help it. Or at least sandals with socks which is my #1 fashion pet peeve but since my scrub pants drape over the ankles, and since it serves a purpose, it suffices my hypocracy for now at least. So the mosquitoes (or bodi) weren’t such a problem this time. The monkeys however were.

I was sharing a room with “A” and “K” (who we’ve named “stripes” because we have like three “K”) and one day this “K” wore a striped shirt and the name stuck. I will continue to make it stick!! So late at night, nothing stirring in and then along comes this sound of a man shouting and more sounds of animals scampering around. I’m dreaming fast asleep because its like four in the morning and what else would I be doing. And upon hearing these noises I instantly dream that there is a man outside our room herding sheep at 4a.m. through the camp. What wakes me up is the sound of some type of mammal crashing upon the aluminum roof over our heads. I jolt up still in the “sheep herding dream” thinking now, half awake that a goat has busted down our door and has proceeded to eat, in and around Stripes. I call out “Stripes, you okay?” Obviously she is, because a goat didn’t come busting through our door. Rather some type of monkey or monster, had crash landed on our tin roof, which is already loud and from what we could make out, took the next half hour to eat, or perhaps mate with another monkey or perhaps monster. We’re not really sure. Although there were plenty of monkeys at camp and possibly no monsters, the sounds that came from above us on the roof were not only inhuman but I don’t think even primates have the gurgling capacity or want to make those kinds of noises no matter how badly it wants to eat or mate or how badly it does not want to be eated or mated upon. Like most other interferences and strange noises in the night outside my window, I began to pay it no mind and fell quickly asleep again still wondering if there was a chance that a goat might still come into our room and eat Stripes.

This morning was the first time I actually made it to breakfast at the camp. I wouldn’t say on time, because I wasn’t, but at least I made it while they were still serving. I was able to finally eat the buffet of bread, butter flavored Crisco, strawberry jam (a rare treat!) and little bean curd donuts not unlike Malasadas or whatever its called. They had two forks wrapped in napkins instead of one fork, one knife. But lucky they did because my first fork fell on the ground not because I’m clumsy though often I am, but you see, one of these monkeys the cute skinny gray kind with long tails and almost baboon faces, the kind that infest the trees around the eating area and forage for leftover scraps, the kind that probably has e-bola. One decided to be daring and come over and sit by me. For a split second I was like, “holy shit, there’s a monkey that just came right up to me how awesome!” Until halfway through my thought I noticed that the monkey was only looking at my plate and before I knew it, the damn thing snatched a piece of bread off my plate knocking my fork to the ground. Before I could call the cops or say “hey, stop that” the monkey was back in the tree enjoying my fresh piece of bread. Bastard. I have now rightfully been mugged twice in my life. Once at gunpoint in L.A., and the other in Africa by a monkey. Sometimes I wonder what good it was that we evolved in the first place. Damn monkey.

Journal Entry 10.25.07

By the looks of it, it’s been a month since I arrived in Philly and this whole damn adventure began. On days like today full of challenges and what not, it’s actually easy to see myself here for two more years. “Seeda, Seeda” the motto goes: “slowly, slowly”.

Uno is a big hit, I’m playing more Uno or have played in the last two days than my entire life. Two points of interest today.

1) Today was our TAXI EXPERIENCE DAY where we had, with the other trainees and our LCH, to take a trip to Soma from our villages by way of Gelegele, the local bush taxi. Soma is about a half hour’s drive but the roads are SO bad it takes upward to an hour. It costs D25 or $1.00 U.S. And there’s no schedule. You just wait by the side of the road under a tree or thatch roof if one exists, until you see a rickety van gallop down the road, huffing and puffing diesel like it’s the last Mad Max/Chitty Chitty Bang Bang contraption left on the road. Then you flag it down, if there’s room, you get in, if not, you probably still get in, but if there’s really not, you wait for the next one which may or may not ever come. We caught one about an hour after waiting.

The trainees from a Mandinka village down the road were already in there along with a few locals. We piled in no problem, 8 or 12 passenger van with 1 or 2 seats left till capacity. We jossle down the road, come to a stop, fill the engine with water (it was thirsty) and pick up a few more passengers. A small boy is put into the lap of his father and I figure that is a full ride. A few minute later we stop at a police blockade (standard, no trouble) except more people start climbing aboard. We couldn’t possibly cram more people in, but we did! The lady against the window had a small baby who needed to pee. She tried holding it up to the window, but the driver’s apprentice, 1 of 3, all stand outside on the bumper or above on the luggage rack, said NO. We stopped and he took the kid out to pee, we gather more people going to Soma. We were over twenty in the van swinging by another village where trainees are studying Wolof. We gathered “T” and “Bj” and a few more. “Bj” had to ride standing up half in and half out of the back of the van with the apprentices. At final count there were 29 people in the van not sure if that included the 3 up above and outside. The van was packed and for some reason they asked for the fare when we were most packed and confused, smashed going this way and that, waiting for change and getting said change back into your pockets takes patience. Gambian patience.

2) This afternoon, “M”, “A”, “K” and I were working in the fields of coos, collecting more stakes for “A”s fence. We figure this is a futile task but it keeps us busy and already the goats are getting into his garden and nothings been planted yet. As the sun began to set we tried to figure out how we were going to get the stalks back to his garden. Last time we wrapped them in rope and then “M” and “A” carried them, but that was too itchy and heavy. So “A” said he’d grab his bed sheet that he doesn’t use and we’ll carry it in that. We try to suggest a donkey cart, but it was getting late, we’d have to get the donkey cart, donkey, both of which were just out of our mental and physical reach. So “A” got the sheet, and was teased on his way back to the field ”What’s the sheet for” “to carry the coos” “but it’s so new!”

We lift the coos stalks with the blanket, each taking a corner like a bunch of pall bearers and hike the coos awkwardly to “A”s garden. The ladies at the pump laugh of course and we take two loads like this. Carrying the third, our LCH stops us and asks what we are doing. We figure it’s because the ladies got her saying that we’re wasting a perfectly good bed sheet. Nope. She tells us to drop the coos immediately. Apparently the Gambian culture is such that they bury their dead exactly how we were carrying the stalks. Even down to the brand spanking new bed sheet. They take the bed sheet, place the dead and carry them to be buried, one man at each end. The fact that we were defacing their culture wasn’t even the worst of it. If one does mock the dead, that in itself is a bad omen. That death will be coming soon, and in a village in a third world country, death can come without warning just about anytime and for any reason. One doesn’t need a good or bad omen to predict death! So. Bed sheet: 100 dalasi. Machete: Peace Corps issue. Offending an entire village mid their sacred rituals: priceless. Chalk it up to the full moon, which I might add is awe inspiring and so damn bright even an idiot toubab can find his way to pit latrine at night without a flashlight.

Journal Entry 10.22.07

“The sky too is folding over you” I listen to this now as I write, not thinking that I would write for a while just because everything seems either dull or repetitive. Last week was spent at Tendeba a tourist camp/hostel on the river with millions of mosquitoes. In fact the t-shirts say “one million mosquitoes can’t be wrong. Tendeba is awesome”. Well, Tendeba is something. It was better than GPI in the way that we believed the kitchen better prepped and cleaned, the dishes and food. There was electricity almost all the time and there was even a bar and a four/five foot deep swimming pool. All of that was great except we (our whole group (24) got back together again) had class every minute of everyday, so it wasn’t the easiest to find time to do everything we wanted. We spent time in the garden, a forest really, about 1km from camp. We learned to make sunken beds and mud stoves and beehives and had other tech stuff classes, lots of classes, not much applied learning yet. All in all, Tendeba was ok, but we ended up longing for our sleepy little villages. At least I did. I enjoyed my company, “J” and I mated rooms again. I hung out a lot with “A” and “M” and “B” and I jammed on our guitars and harmonicas. That was a lot of fun. We had our first language test, the goal was Novice Mid but I scored Novice High. I don’t know how I did that cause I feel like an idiot speaking this language and I can’t understand anything anyone says but whatever. I’ll take it. But coming back to village feels normal. We know the people better and more interesting things happen. On Sunday I went over on my bike (used, but the best of the bunch, mine changes gears! and has brakes!) to the next Fula training village. I went by my lonesome and guitar and met up with “B” and sat neath a mango tree playing our folk jam songs to little Africans who couldn’t possibly understand how ironic it was for us to sit in front of them with their eyes wide open listening to two Toubabs named Momodou Bah, Jam Tan Jam Band, singing wide-eyed ourselves about them lost and certainly this is not our home and yet we are the ones who feel comfortable. They are the ones without a clue to why we are blowing metal reeds between our metal head gear, strumming against foolish wooden expensive guitars like a bunch of idiots.

Yesterday I was feeling overwhelmed with all the work I needed to do and the language work and the immersion into the community, that’s the most daunting., talking with the locals. I’m just not there yet, I don’t feel right stumbling over my vocab as they smile blindly at me. But finally I needed to start my garden in my back yard, so I gathered up my tools and my brothers and a couple other “small boys” jumped at the opportunity to help. That’s the best part of having a village like ours. The kids can be annoying and loud but the village really does raise them, not just one mother one child. If you see a kid doing something wrong, you say something. If you need help, you tell them to do something, and they do it. They love to help. It must kill the boredom. So I had three or four small boys digging up my back yard. I did my best to tell them how to do it correctly in my best, always my best Pulaar. It worked for the most part. One kid, Ousman (another of the many) saw that I had a wasp’s nest beginning on my fence. I said that when I get a chance I’ll spray it or something. He didn’t want me to wait I guess cause he convinced me that he would grab it with a rag and throw it over my fence and into the coos field. Okay I said. I gave him a rag and sure enough he grabbed the softball sized wasp’s nest with his hand (wasps included) and held onto it for a few minutes, then chucked it away.

Today’s African moment of the day was cleaning my three bidongs with my host brothers. A bidong is a five gallon drum of cooking oil from China. It’s plastic with a small opening and a handle. It comes used and dirty and still has oil inside. Our job is to wash them out so we can water our gardens with them, or store water. They’re a bitch to clean though. You have to fill them with dirt and sand to soak up the oil and then wash all the dirt out, and then if you want to store drinking water in ‘em, you have to sterilize them after that. I’m not storing drinking water anywhere near them, I’m just using them to water and mix compost and manure tea.

So my brothers took the bidongs to the well and with a small wasp-hive-grabbing rag and a few slivers of soap we cleaned the hell out of those bidongs. One quick African method, as I saw it with my own eyes this morning, is to grab a discarded ear of corn, kernels removed and preferably eaten, roasted and delicious. And take that ear of corn and use it as a scrub brush. And that’s exactly what I did. I collected the best chewed up corn cobs I could find and my brother grabbed a corn husk laying in the dirt and we got scrubbing. They didn’t use sand or dirt to absorb the oil inside but instead some dried, little crusty looking things from the coos fields, they worked great. These kids really knew what they were doing. I, as the oldest one, hadn’t a clue. But I loved getting there at the water pump, scrubbing away at a plastic oil container with a broken down ear of corn in the 21^st century thinking, wow, sure don’t do this in the states. Later that evening I taught (they already kind of knew) UNO, only I was trying to do everything in Pulaar, so it was Goto. Goto, didi, tatti, nigh, jowi, jago, jadidi, jatatti, and janigh. The colors, which I learned in class today are Bodajo (red) Bulajo (Blue) Bajekaci (green) and Natejo (yellow). I don’t think I have that right still every after saying it three hundred times. They played in a sudden death kind of way. Whoever had the most cards at the end sat out the next game until there were only two left myself and Amadou, the middle of the tree boys who was in charge of the bidong cleaning today and who has taken the most to making sure I don’t get myself into trouble by politely handing smaller kids my things as I often innocently do. Amadou definitely has my back, even when he had malaria which he just had when I was at Tendeba. He’s feeling better now, thank God. I gave him some 400mg of Ibuprophin for his fever the other day. I’m glad it didn’t kill him. He’s the kind of kid that’s just well behaved and uses common sense, is very intelligent and receptive, hard working. He’s the kind of kid I want to send to Toubab Country Continent University. I’m sure there’s about a million kids like him, all deserving of a chance, but they’ll never get it. They’ll be here in 20 years, farming coos, having a big family, happy, not knowing anything different than the few Peace Corps volunteers who show up every year to relearn how to tie their shoes and take a shit. Amadou won, of course. I don’t think I’ve ever won at Uno or Gofo. We finished up and laid down looking up at the night sky, the moon was almost full and it’s so bright you don’t even need a flashlight half the time. Dark clouds moved above us and a cold wind blew over our skin. The three boys and I laid there anticipating rain that never came. I felt content and happy, watching clouds pass over the moon, dreaming about home, wondering who’s dreaming about Africa?

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.

Journal Entry 10.11.2007 - Night

Oh day! What a good day. What a gorgeous goddamn day. The fasting went well, but I had little to strain myself over. I did happen to notice that my feet and ankles have become swollen like that of a pregnant lady. "K" thinks it has something to do with the heat, dehydration, high sodium intake. I agree but add on to that list mosquito bites and bed bug bites and probably a myriad of other things. My neck is still killing me. It’s like I had whiplash or something. Either from the enormous pillow which is made of tough hay, or the fact that I carry stress in these muscles. Pain and discomfort-wise it rated a 9 the other day. Today, maybe a 6. So that’s good. (A donkey just sneezed outside my window, it scared the crap out of me).
But I digress. It’s been a wonderful day, neck and feet aside, fasting gave me a little boost of energy and respect in the village and they all think it’s funny that I won’t do it again tomorrow. But again, besides all that. Today is the day before my birthday, I am turning 28 years old. I feel someday like 21, most others 62. Ida, our language and culture trainer (LCH) here in our training village left today at around 2pm so she can enjoy the holiday with her family. We are left to amuse ourselves and do all the mounds of homework by ourselves before we go to Tendeha Camp for a week, starting Monday. Well, when the cats away….
Ida left and we sat around our favorite mango tree, I put my feet up on the trunk to quell some of the swelling and rested my head on my binder, a familiar position for my afternoon nap beneath the classroom tree. There’s an elevated bamboo woven mat that surrounds the trunk. It makes for a perfect meeting place, well shaded throughout the afternoon. Well at about 3:30 or so, I never keep track of time anymore, I awoke and pulled some books out to study when I saw a bunch of toubabs, or white people with bikes and bike helmets out the top of hill near the entrance to town. I thought it was our neighbor Fula group of PCT’s (peace corps trainees) from the next village down about a kilometer and a half. Then one of the local boys came over to announce said Fula group coming from the back road, not the front. I tried to correct him saying that I can see the toubabs coming from the north. He instead said they were coming from the east. I looked to the east, and sure enough, there came the neighbor PCTs. Who were on the bikes then, Mormons? Hardly. The 3rd and 4th group about 5 or 6 kilometers down the road from the Mandinka villages. Without direct communication the Fula group made a 30 minute trek on foot to our village arriving at the same time as the Mandinka PCTs some 30-40 mins by bike and the opposite direction!
No one could believe the coincidence. On top of that, our village is populated by 7 (only 7 compounds). Even if each compound had 10 people that’s only 70 towns people. Here, on a sleepy Thursday afternoon comes 12-14 white people, some on bikes all wishing me a happy birthday. I almost forgot it was my birthday to be honest. I have enough on my plate and I hate burdening people with stuff like that, but how sweet of them to all make the effort. I have to say I was pretty surprised. I didn’t think I was going to see "J" or "A" until Tendeba so when they showed up, we got to catch up a little, swap stories, plus I felt this becoming sense of pride for my village. It’s small but everyone is so nice and it’s noticeable. "J" made some comment about how some other villages were tougher, the people here he said: “You can see the love in them”. I showed them my house and backyard and tomato plant where I bathe. "J" pulled out a fifth of whisky (McCarthy brand 7 dalasi Gambian special) and technically I broke fast. But hey, it’s my birthday. Everyone left too soon, but had to hit the road before dark. I understand. "A", who has been having a rough time adjusting, got the boost he needed visiting with everyone and seems much more optimistic. We walked down to get our books from the mango tree and noticed a giant black cloud over the firmament. I’ve never been to the Midwest but I imagine this is what it’s like to be sitting outside in the muggy heat one second, and then have to grab your stuff and run for the hills the next. A giant wind blew through town and everyone was off the street. We grabbed our books and high tailed it out of there. I met up with one of my younger brothers and we talked about the “ngigam” that was about to come. Last birthday I had been in a foreign country was Spain’05 and it stormed that day as well. I love storms and I love rain, and I love it when a good cool wind blows through hot African towns. Thank God for a wonderful birthday or pre-birthday. I sat beneath my thatched roof on the concrete porch with my three “minirawo” or younger brothers and tried to communicate about the rain and how where I’m from it rains all the time and how I miss it. They were shivering—it’s probably 70 degrees or thereabout and they are freezing. They asked for the guitar and so I brought it out and we sat on the bench on the patio. One kid strumming, one kid drumming on the wood, and me holding down strings to make the G and E-Major chords, the guitar stretched out on our laps. It was great. Poor people aren’t so bad after all.
Later we gathered in the father’s house. I had not been in there before. It’s the same size as mine but without concrete floors, just dirt like the outside but no one cares. We broke fast with this tea that I love so much. I’ll be sad when Ramadan ends cause that’ll be the end of the tea. Also there’s bread, little baguettes, fresh that day from one village over, a little butter and garlic smeared inside of it, then roasted “tourbano” or corn. An ear put right on the charcoals of a small little stove, the kernels are roasted and it tastes like popcorn still on the ear. Awesome, love it! The little girl and I played that game where you hold your hands out and the other person tries to slap them before you can remove ‘em. I had her giggling for 5 minutes. All in all, great day.
Now I get to go to bed and have more vivid dreams. Last night I was modeling for Madonna’s Vogue album cover. It was me making zombie-like shadow puppets with Madonna and company on the bed with a camera liking what I did. What will happen tonight? Hopefully the first night it’s cool enough where I’ll wake up without sweat all over me. At least I hope it’s sweat. Oh, also point to make….Bucket baths are actually pretty great especially under the stars at night when you’re surrounded by fields of tall corn and cous. Tonight, since it was pouring rain, I made the decision to bathe under the rain as well as the night. I stripped inside and left my towel and things inside, walked out naked with only my sandals on since the clouds blocked the stars and moon, it was pitch black. I had only a dim light from my headlamp inside my house to see the concrete path to the latrine area. Again, I have a pit latrine and concrete landing area where I bathe. The sun bleaches it during the day so it’s nice and clean by night. There’s a neck-high fence of dried reed and no roof so I can stand naked bathing and see the fields and water pump besides my compound when there’s better light out, but not tonight. Black. The rain was not cold, but not warm either. The bucket of water was cold as hell so it was nice to get a little rain dropping on me to mix things up. All in all, totally recommend bathing outside at night in the rain, if anyone ever gets the chance.