Eye patches, Scars, and Diseases you get in Oregon Trail

Exclaimer:
“I’m sure you’re wondering, Steven, Steven, what the hell did you get yourself into this time? And in love of my worrying mother I shall inform you before going into the whole story that I am indeed perfectly fine and healthy now, at least physically, and that I will try not to get into any more trouble in the future… yeah. Again let me reiterate, mother I am fine and healthy and you need not worry, though I still miss all of you dearly. Can I use dearly in a sentence with out losing huge man points? Well hopefully the proceeding tale of pain and mild adventure will win me back at least a few; and so I will begin the tale of Eye patches, Scars, and Diseases you get in Oregon Trail.”

It was a dark, and stormy night, and the westerly winds whistled haunting lullabies through the trees. Alright so it wasn’t dark, and it hasn’t rained in three months but the wind did whistle through the Mango trees as the leaves began to fall. The nights, and days for that matter, had started to get significantly cooler. My host family would even don their heavy down jackets and children would zip up their hoods like there was a blizzard outside. Tourists came and went, a few even suffering from mild heat exhaustion from some imaginary heat they were exposed to. European girls sporting their tank tops and gravely inappropriate tight slacks and European men walking around with short shorts and t-shirts. Seriously, short shorts are never cool, I’m no Miles Davis but unless you’re playing for the 1985 Knicks you should not be wearing that crap… sigh. I in all of this was quite content. The weather for me was beautiful; I even made a habit of wearing long sleeves throughout the day and at night even broke out the sleeping bag. Clear blue sky and a cool breeze, Oranges beginning to ripen, and my work finally picking up again I decided to (not at all on a whim mind you) to travel back up to Kerewan then take a trip up to Wassu with Tara and Travis to get a local scarring done. A Gambian Peace Corps tradition for many years (not that that justifies it, but we can debate my actions later); in local Fula tradition they symbolize tribal identity when their done around the eyes, in Mandinka tradition they’re said to ward off evil, a type of body Juju. The decision seemed quite simple at this point.

Kerewan was nice as usually. I ended up getting stuck at Jenni’s compound for an hour or so waiting and thinking again how fun and cool it was to be able to just shoot the shit in Mandinka for a few hours with complete strangers. Tara was a great host and I got the entire history of South Africa one evening sipping red root tea and chowing down on some Velveeta Shells and Cheese® (where are mine by the way?). This is about the time in the story I started to feel a cold coming on. The next day we attempted to get to Olivia’s village who would be throwing a Spanish themed party that evening. The thing is there is only one car that goes to her village every day, that car departs her village at the butt crack of dawn, goes to Barra, then anywhere between 1 and 6 o’ clock it will pass by Kerewan so that we could hitch a ride. That means that as we started waiting out there around 2 there was the potential to end up waiting out there all fucking day for this car that would never be coming or have already passed. So I was slightly ticked off to say the least, I really have zero patience and to this day am curious as to why the Peace Corps saw me fit to be a volunteer. By the grace of god we did end up catching the ride and the next thing I knew was making tortillas and downing tequila shots at Olivia’s.

The prior mentioned ass crack of dawn hence came and what I found out was that contrary to popular belief the consumption of alcoholic beverages (especially those made in Mexico) only temporarily relieve cold symptoms and might as well have put a gun to my immune in regards to my developing flu. That mixed with the stresses of travel and the added anxiety of the fact that the next day I would be allowing a woman to cut my shoulder open and stuff ash into it, in turn put my illness in full bloom. Now this is the part where any normal man may take it upon himself to contemplate the possibility that maybe, just maybe, a higher power out there, was trying to tell him something. A neon sign if you will that says, “Hey buddy, why don’t you wait another time to get those scars and head back to a nice air conditioned room and let your body heal”, but that of course would be a very expensive sign. As I’m sure you have figured by now though, my incisive readers, is that that would also not make for a very great story line and thus our protagonist would therefore venture onward upon his journey to Wassu.

Wassu is however very far, and being the college educated group that we were decided to stay overnight at Kristin’s site who lived just south of Wassu. They spent the night chatting nervously as I drowsily moaned and groaned for the entire night in a Nyquil© induced slumber, waking occasionally to either blow my nose or put my two cents into a conversation, which mind you I will never be too sick for. I am, as a site-mate recently concluded, “The most opinionated person she’s ever met” which I will not deny. Back to our story though somewhere in between my feverish bouts of sleep we drew lines as a guide for the woman the next day to follow as she cut us. Travis on his calf, and in strange act of spontaneity decided to put another pair on the base of his thumb (my idea actually mind you but it really does look great there); Tara then with a little help drew three lines on her shoulder blade, and I then drew mine on the front of my shoulder. Kristin had actually gotten her scars done the year before on her foot and after some more anxious deliberations regarding logistics we fell asleep.

Morning comes, no relief on the cold front though I lie to myself and say my fever has gone down. This time it is only the partial ass crack of dawn and we, still half asleep, waited by the side of the road. Time passed, slowly, as it usually does waiting for a gilly gilly. Many cars it seemed were going east, but none were headed west. A east bound car an hour and a half later ended up stopping and said to hop in, that they were on their way to Barra (which would pass Wassu) but that they had to swing by Janjanburri Island first. Not wanting to wait any longer we hopped in the van and headed east. The road goes right up to the shore of the Gambia where cars hop onto little ferries for the short ride to the island. We didn’t have to wait long till we were looping around heading back west to Wassu. It seemed to me it was a tad early in the morning to be trying to see how fast they could drive the car. Clunk, ka-clunk! Everyone looked back. “What was that?” one said as the apprentice and the driver start to scream at each other in Pulaar. The car screeches to a halt and we all instantly bang out heads into the people in front of us. As the apprentice jumps out of the car people finally begin talking in languages I understand and I find out the delinquent apprentice didn’t tie the bags to the top of the car and a few were lost in transit. A few minutes later the bags are recovered and 10 minutes after that we would finally reach Wassu.

Wassu, alright so no offence to any poor volunteer who ever gets placed there but it’s sort of a shit hole of a town. If you are from there, I don’t apologize either, because you should know and have done something about it. In a blurry benedryl induced daze I attempt to drunkenly follow Kristen and the others through the town to try and find a so called, Fatou Ceesay. We greet a compound near the center of Wassu and they send a kid to take us to her place. A mango tree shelters the entrance of a typical Gambian mud brick compound. We greet again as a child runs in fear of us. A younger woman with her child on her back guides us in to a smaller room on the right and we sit on a bed with the mosquito net tied up, again nervously greeting Fatou. An older woman maybe in her early 70s, short, and sporting only a pair of pearly white incisors and a left canine in her mouth but smiling always like she doesn’t mind. “Your friend came here a week ago for scars on her back, she took very long to find me and said she had been walking the entire village all morning. The children do not speak the Fula language, only Mandinka.” she says in a gentle Mandinka as we laugh anxiously. Another Peace Corps friend, Ana, had come a week before but only speaks Pulaar and didn’t have as easy a time finding Ceesaykunda as we had. Finally, after a little bit of small talk and greetings we show her where we would like our scars done and Tara and Travis run to the shop next door to buy a razor. I had come prepared with a ready-to-use disposable surgical scalpel and the old Vietnam med kit I took from the back of my dad’s car.

In the back room she prepares a wooden stool and looks over the razors familiarizing her self with the edge of the blade. She ties back the mosquito net in the back room and motions us all to sit. She begins to rustle through a few dirty sheets to pull out a blackened, partly charred rams horn. It had been hollowed out to become a primordial flask of deep indigo peanut ash; and it sent a chill down my spine. Tara was very nervous, also, and asked to go first so she didn’t have to watch. Fatou sat her down on the bench and shaking took off her tank top to allow Fatou to access her shoulder blade. I prepared some first aid materials to bandage her when she was finished and Travis and I sat and waited for her to begin. Unflinchingly and with a kindred familiarity she took the razor to her skin as a drip of blood fell down her back. One after another in a matter of a few seconds she had finished the three cuts and reached for the ash-laden horn. I tried to hide my cringe from the others as Fatou began to shove the now cavernously black ash into the wound. I pulled out a few bandages from the med kit and covered the black square on her back with tape and gauze. Tara began to turn pale and we helped her lie down as Travis propped his foot on the bench.

Again, with what seemed like a lifetime of experience this kind and toothless old woman began, without hesitation, to cut into my friends calf. This time though as the blade made the first cut the skin sprawled out widely from what I could only surmise was due to the tightness of the skin in that area. Blood began to run heavily down his leg, much more than Tara’s, which only came in drops. Travis though, twiddled his thumbs like he had been cut in the middle of nowhere Africa by random old women hundreds of times. Once more she pushed the ash from the horn into the wound then she moved on to the two cuts at the base of his thumb. I spaced out as my mind began to run in circles, finding every way to rebel against the intrusion the knife would soon make through my skin. “Hey Steven, it’s your turn. You ready boss?”, Travis said coolly, “Fuck no I’m not going! Are you fucking kidding me!?” I exclaimed. I walked out into the back yard for some fresh air and paced for who knows how long. I can only assume they were saying something to calm me down but I did not hear them, I was in my own world. I paced for what seemed like forever, but in the end I gathered all the will power I had and decided to go through with it. So I sat, slowing my breathing so that I wouldn’t shake, took off my shirt and gave her the scalpel. “Domangding ding ding! Ya moy?”, I explained, “a jamfata backe bari a booka cunta jamfa le…” trying to in a cloud of contemplation and cold medicine explain how I wanted the cuts done, and the other two were thankfully able to help translate.

It was over. And as we sat waiting for our car to leave for Barra I exhaled. I was drained completely, emotionally exhausted from fighting with myself in the back of that hut, physically drained by hunger and flu, and mentally void of any lust for thought other than dreaming… “shit!”, I swore as I woke up an hour or so later as my head bumped roughly against the metal door when the car hit a bump. I took a few bites of some street pancatoes and slowly began to feel stronger. Pancakes are to me like spinach is to Pop-eye. We were in Barra now and I had to put my mind back together to prepare myself for the mess that is the ferry crossing. Then, we were sailing and the salted breeze blew against my face from the top tier of the ferry; I was able to get some sugar in me from a boy selling cold sodas for 15 dalasi. Now, a taxi ride from the ferry to the transit house in Fajara as time passed in exhausted sections. The driver blared a really terrible political comedian from either south Africa or India, I couldn’t tell, in what I could only guess was early 80s UK. “You do realize this is not poignant nor funny at all right? There are so many better political comedians from that time, this is truly agonizing to listen to.” I stated, again never to exhausted or sick to put my two cents into a conversation. And I awoke in the transit house a few hours later feeling a million times better, though it would still take a few days of eating good food in the capital and some time in a hammock on the beach to fully recover.
The wounds healed rather quickly, because my cuts were long but not very deep. It would take Travis’s a few weeks later to heal. For me though I was feeling well enough 3 days later to go to a Softball tryout for the competitive Peace Corps team that would compete in a tournament in Dakar in February. The tournament is called W.A.I.S.T., West African Inter-legit? International? Softball Tournament, but what is really a bunch of Ex-pats, Marines, and crazy Peace Corps volunteers getting drunk for a week and playing softball (but that blog entry will come later). Anyways it was great to get out there and play softball with some Americans and I’m stoked for February. That afternoon was thanksgiving and we were all invited to one of the AgFo sector staff’s really nice house where for about 250 dalasis we got to eat American imported turkey and a few homemade dishes. I still miss a real American thanksgiving, but I think we did it right here, minus my friends and family back home. The next morning came the all-volunteer meeting. A clutter of paperwork and logistics, the entire health sector met together and then we were left open to attend a training session of your choice put on by fellow volunteers. I went to both the bee keeping intro and woodlot construction for timber harvesting, both of which I hope to implement in my village in the upcoming few months, but details later.

We would have one more softball practice that Saturday. I felt guilty for having been away for so long on my trip that I was really debating even staying for it. But in the end decided to stay one more day and play. I was on fire that day, let me tell you; any athlete will tell you that there are some days when you’re just in it, unstoppable. I don’t remember dropping one ball in the outfield, and out of all the times I was at bat only didn’t touch base once. That evening all the volunteers still in the transit house were invited to a RPCVs house who was staying in the Gambia now and throwing a small shin-dig. All night though my eye was bothering me and I couldn’t stop rubbing it. By the time we were heading back to Fajara I had to completely close my left eye. I woke up in the middle of the night and it was terrible, I could barely open my eye, it was tearing up all night and the least bit of light sent me running. By morning I could barely see out of it except for a white cloud, which scared me to death. The health unit made me an appointment but it was Sunday by then and the eye clinic wouldn’t open till Monday. Never get sick on a weekend. I spent the whole day like a vampire huddled in a dark room watching movies on my laptop and trying to hold off a nervous break down. I held it off till about 4 o’ clock that Monday morning.

So there I was, hunched outside the health unit at 6am. I guess I passed out because I woke up around 9, past my appointment mind you and curious why I wasn’t woken sleeping on the tile porch of the health unit. The nurse cleaned my eye out and patched it up, commence pirate jokes, though be careful because I may cast ye to de depths of Davey Jones locker, arrrrrrr. The eye doctors was a huge waiting room of about a hundred people… all mind you staring at me, because though I may not have been the only one in an eye patch, I definitely was the only toubab with an eye patch and clothes that looked like they had been slept in a few nights… which they had. Physical appearance is very important here, especially when you travel or go to a public place; people will dress up and flaunt their beautiful dresses and halftons; and I would have looked like a bum in downtown Philly let alone in a doctors office. This is also about the point where I realized in my nervous break down at 4 in the morning I had chose two pairs of different sandals. One pair of crocs and on the other a cheap bitik sandal which actually now that I’m thinking about it wasn’t even mine. Diagnosis a few hours later was a corneal abrasion in the left eye. I would have to remain looking like Moshe Dayon for a day then would be stuck in the capital for another three days. Nothing will make you go crazier mind you than staying in a COMPLETELY EMPTY Peace Corps transit house for three days squinting the whole time. It sucked, but all things heal in time and by Thursday I was released to go up to Soma with a Peace Corps vehicle and teach a Life Skills Training Course to the new Peace Corps Trainees. It went super well and the new group, like usual, is a great group of people; but any group who are able to help me engage the entire bus in singing STYX classics are alright in my book.


Tabaski came a week later by the time I made it back to village. Tabaski is a Islamic holiday which juxtaposes the fasts of Ramadan repentance; during Tabaski you kill as many Rams as you can afford and pray for a year of peace while giving charity to those in need. Children will go around and ask for Salibo, a sort of trick or treat in my village where you can give either a prayer, candy, or money… though let me tell you do they get pissed when you give them a prayer. How messed up is that? Maybe it’s my bad luck but even older woman decided I was free game to ask for Salibo also. That morning I was also invited to the naming ceremony of one of a teacher at the schools compound. Nothing gets your stomach ready for a big breakfast like helping a few boys your age kill a baby goat and skin it. I ended up passing on the goat and ate a few pancatoes on the way back to my compound. Five hours later I would help my compound kill our ram (I’m posting a video online). Thankfully this ram didn’t cry as much as the baby, actually it sort of just exhaled and said screw it with out so much as a yelp. I guess it would be ridiculous to think that it realized in some way it’s body was being sacrificed as a ceremony to honor God but from the looks of it it had. “Demba come over here and try this”, my host brother said as another was squeezing out the fecal matter from the intestines “Be careful, if there’s a hole it will squirt shit on you” He hands me a still smoking piece of meat, “Try it, it’s the liver I think.” “Well OK!”, I said sarcastically but Judging by the still smoking plate I figured it had been cooked well so why not. “Oh my god this is gross”, I thought as I think I put on an Oscar winning performance of sheer joy. “This was cooked well right Elbou?”, “Well it was put over a fire for a bit”, “Elbou, I think it’s still bleeding.” “Could be.” I think I’m going to hurl.

That’s the part that sort of put me over the edge. I had been feeling pretty terrible for the past few days before Tabaski, and I will spare you the details on the variations of my bowel movements but lets just say by that afternoon I was diagnosed over the phone with Dysentery. “Dysentery!?!? Are you serious? I thought you could only get that disease playing Oregon Trail on the computer. You know, Charlie broke his leg, Sally has got Dysentery, you must caulk the wagon or attempt to ford the river.”, I protested. “Well you just got it. Take your anti-biotics till the bottle is finished and we’ll see you the next time you’re in the capital”. Oye vey. Thankfully though as soon as I started taking the medication I felt much better; and that brings us to the present. Alright so I’m going to give it a break for now before my hands get carpel tunnel. Once again I send my highest greetings to all of you, I miss you all, and mother as far as you need to be concerned I made this entire entry up.

Haunted Peanut Factories and Rock Music

After taking a break from a little house marathon on my laptop in the hospital I’ve decided to write a thing or two for the blog. Which by the way if you’re ever in the situation of watching a house marathon in a hospital in a west Africa village, do be careful not to find yourself saying sarcastic, asinine statements to patients in Mandinka. Sarcasm really doesn’t translate well here (nor do dead baby and black jokes for that matter mind you), which is a real shame. What should be smart, ironic, musings, really just turns into them thinking you’re a huge ass. Being dark, mysterious, and sarcastic isn’t advantageous here I guess. Oh well, House is still my hero.

So let us go back a few weeks in time to where I left off in my last entry. The days went by and I took a lot of time for myself to get readjusted; maybe far more than I should have, but that can be debated. I visited friends sites, found things to do in the capital, and did anything really to readjust healthily to African life positively. I went up to Kerewan, a village on the north bank to visit a friend and ended up meeting the head governor of the entire region… and then subsequently deleting all the pictures off his camera. He had wanted Tara to help him delete some pictures for awhile now, Tara though was busy like usual so I said I wouldn’t mind helping him. “Sir, you are sure you want to delete all you pictures?” “Yes, they tell me I need to make space on my memory card.” “Alright sir, so you go to menu here, then go to delete, then delete all and click OK. Again are you sure you want to delete all your pictures?” “Yes.” “Well here you go, have a nice day”. As we begin to walk away he asks, “You didn’t delete all my pictures did you?”… sigh. “Just keep walking”, Tara declares. I truly hope he was making a joke but I really couldn’t tell.

In Kerewan I also got a chance to sit in on a meeting of the entire area council. Typical government bureaucracy, I’m so glad the integrity of western democracy has translated well here. On another note I got an opportunity to be a radio DJ for a two hour long session at prime time Friday night on a station that broadcast to the entire region. My alias, DJ Warrior, blasted some American classics from STYX to Journey, then rocked everything from Matishyahu to Sublime. I think the song that put the show over the edge was the lovely addition of “Baby Got Back”, I was pretty much crossing my fingers with every caller that we weren’t getting taken off the AIR. Thankfully in the Gambia the local FCC hasn’t learned to sue yet. It was probably two of the greatest hours since my time here and I really wish you all could have heard it. I did commentary on all the artists and even did a little on air beat box session. I was pretty much the Miles Davis of Kerewan for two hours, end point.

Dawn on the 31st of October came quickly and I had previously decided to go up country with a few of the girls from my group to a site in Kaur where they were throwing a Halloween party. It sounded the creepiest thing I could do for Halloween in west Africa: spending the night along the banks of up country Gambia river next to a spooky abandoned peanut factory. You may not think peanuts are frightening but tell that to that kid in your 6th grade lunch hour with a peanut allergy and nothing but PP&Js in site. The factory was full of rusted equipment and ladders, mixed with African undergrowth over modern industrialism. The night was beautiful under a crescent moon and fog.

Back home I got back into the grove of site and once again began the old fun of finding procrastinations to not have to actually look over my Mandinka note cards. Old habits die slow. Well one of these days I will! So I found myself instead of studying the copious amounts of Mandinka vocab words in my hut glued to my laptop watching the sequel to the vampire action film with the hot chick in leather, Underworld. Lightning and thunder flashes on the screen, werewolves growl, and I see a shadow dart past my peripherals. Probably my cat, which by the way has recently grown testicles, obviously I about saying it was a man from the start but I can still be persuaded to think it went to Serrakunda to get a sex change. As you, my intelligent readers, I’m sure can elude from my rant, the shadow in the corner of my eye was not my cat. “Oh shit, is that humungous rat back from 6 months ago, or maybe it’s one of those flying locusts, or worst of all, a butterfly *shutters*”, I thought. Turns out the increase in global warming or the switching of the earth magnetic centers or what ever other junk sent a lone bat into a small crack in my hut. Vampire films and a bat in my house, oh sweet irony. It left eventually; in the mean time I finished my movie, which had added bat immersion factor.

The day after was “National Clean the Gambia Day”. So in light of this I decided to go to the Alkala of my village and ask to declare a day where our own village could do a big clean up project, as “National Clean the Gambia Day” was really only considered a holiday for the capital. The Alkala doesn’t speak any English and as my typical translators were busy I was forced to actually use my local language skills. Amazingly it turned out super well! My idea was taken into consideration and Sunday was proclaimed village clean up day. We talked for awhile and then I left with a smile on my face, the glow of a small but important victory. Peace Corps all about the little things you’ll find. The Alkala although being incredibly old is really a clear speaker; he spoke slow and enunciated and we actually had a great conversation. I should really hang out with him more often. Well that afternoon I had to travel but when I returned I found, although not the whole village, my quarter of it very clean. I’m considering it a win. On my trip though I noticed some duchebag in typical Gambian fashion throw his plastic bag out the window of the car. “You do realize it’s National Clean the Gambia Day right?”, I said darkly “uhhhhh, what?”… asshole. Thankfully his friend figured it out and ridiculed him for it too.

The next weekend the new crew of health volunteers came in and the usual suspects came in to go to the traditional ‘meet the newbies’ bar night. Like usual it was another group of amazing people, and I can wait for them to all, cross your fingers, make it through training and do a lot of great work. I’m going to be teaching the Life Skills session it turns out in a few weeks, which should be interesting; and everyone’s hoping for at least one more Julbrew party before they phase it out. So I wish to all of them the best of luck and pray that I was able to at least convey a few small words of wisdom and encouragement for their journey, like stories about being careful to not show the women at the pump your testicles etc (see previously written blog entries for the story). It’s not the easiest of roads but man is it amazing to look back on everything since I’ve come here, but then it’s scary as shit looking ahead at how much further I have to go. Ariel Sharon once said as prime minister of Israel that while he was in his fields planting with his father he would be frustrated by home much work he had to do. His father would lift his head up and remind him how far they’d come and how much they had already accomplished. Looking back on how much we’ve done, he said, gave him all the motivation he needed to keep going. It’s easier to look back than it is forward some times the Gambian way of living for today makes it easier. Seems like forever and yesterday at the same time I was writing a blog about the airport in DC and my first thoughts of Africa. I encourage all of you to go back and read some of the old entries… I mean if it’s late and you’re bored sick of surfing the Internet and downloading porn.

Like usual most days in the afternoon I “go for train” as they say here, aka me playing football at the field by the school with the boys. This day though I was invited to play a game with the teachers vs. a local club called Black Star F.C. A friend of mine comes up to me, “Demba how is the work? How is the afternoon?” “Just fine thank you” I replied. “You are not a teacher, you shouldn’t be captaining the teacher’s team” he said half jokingly half accusatory. “I do teach at the school, a life skills class every Tuesday thru Thursdays and help with the drama club!” He shakes my hand and says simply, “I went to the marabou (the village “medicine man” if you will), and he said that if I touched hands with you this day you would be cursed for the game and not play well”. “Uhhhhhhh, thanks. Luckily I’m a toubab and thus immune to such superstitions (and yet not immune to Jewish guilt for some reason)” I replied, and the game began. Not that I’m saying it has anything to do with this because I still think it’s absolutely ridiculous, but the day before I had banged up my knee pretty bad, so by no leap of logic I obviously played like shit! Really I should never have played but if you know me you know I can never turn down a football game. Thus I probably injured it worse and as much as it pains me to say, indeed the marabou’s prediction came true. I still figure I have the shield of the chosen people on my side or something though. It’s kind of a downer but after that game and the successive pain medications taken and knee wrapping I’ve decided to take at least a week or so off from football, my PCMO will be relieved.

Walking back from the hospital a few days ago I had an epiphany. I will build a hammock! It’s always the talk of conversation in Peace Corps, “Man a hammock would be great, to bad they don’t make them locally” or “Found a cheap hammock online a few days ago and ordered it. Should be here in about 4 months, I can’t wait”. Well I really can’t wait, for anything for that matter. Alex and I had even put a friendly wager on the thing for the first to actually build one; I considered myself pretty handy so it was just about waiting for that day I was bored enough to actually go find the material. So like Noah built his ark I shall build the grandest hammock in all the land. My epiphany turned into a calling once I returned to my compound to find my host wife holding a large sheet of discarded rice bags and asked me if I could do anything with it. “Uhhhhh are you serious, of course I’ll take it.” Two hours later I had persuaded the local tailor to help me sew it onto two small logs as ends and bought two 10ft pieces of rope for D20 at the local corner shop. Strung it up on the front porch and in no time was reading a book by the dwindling twilight. Paradise. Now all I needed was a margarita.

This upcoming weekend before the huge all volunteer meeting, Tara, Travis, and I have decided to be the first of our group to brave the Fula scars up in the village of Wassu. It’s an old Gambian PC tradition based off of the local practice of facial scaring. Most PCV guys end up getting it on their shoulders and girls these days like to tramp stamp it or get it on their neck or shoulder blades. What it entails is going halfway up the country to a historic area in the Gambia (the stone circles), paying a lady whose been cutting PCVs for years 150 dalasi or so to make 2 or 3 cuts on your body with a razor blade, then shoving peanut ash (which mind you still probably contains the blood of all those PCVs) in the wound to dye it blue. Mom, I’m sorry, but I have to show Jared up. No way in hell my brother gets a cooler ‘tat’ than I do. Wow I pray to god she doesn’t mess up. Next blog entry I’ll have photos and details as long as I don’t wus out; but considering I’m the one having to keep the other two from wusing out I think I’ll have to go through with it. Wish me luck.

Dakar, America, and back again by popular demand

So I’m back. It’s been awhile since my last post and in between my trip to Dakar, the three weeks I spent back in the land of roads and television and my recent lack of motivation to update this blog, I’ve lost a lot of time. Now I guess is as good a time as any to update you all.

To save on expenses my flight back home was booked out of Dakar, Senegal and for many weeks I heard the plethora of horror stories involved in the trip from Banjul to there. Bad roads, tourist prices, which are pretty much highway robbery in the third world, border police and customs, and to make the cesspool of hassle worse it seems no one in all of Senegal speaks a decent amount of English or Mandinka, which only accentuates situations that would normally be easily alleviated. So you can see how I was more than relieved to hear that a few of the guys from my group were excited to accompany me there and check out Dakar for a few days. The trip had it’s issues: forgotten passports, west African border police with superiority complexes, overwhelmingly annoying car park children, bad roads in a tight car, and French gravely lost in translation; the journey though was well worth it.

Dakar is a bustling African metropolis that’s littered with elegant French, Lebanese, and Asian cuisine, a breath taking coastline, and a bustling music scene. This city on the tip of the Dakar peninsula has the very best western luxury has to offer with a distinctly African flavor. The city completely juxtaposes the surrounding towns on the way north from the Gambia which still maintain the village feel and look that is typical of the region; in some ways it seems there’s very little outflow of money from the city. After living in the Gambia for eight months though we dove into the city life without hesitation, pigging out at ice cream shops and eating at those expensive French restaurants that boast about their fine dining but give you a plate that has more flair than sustenance. I mean hell I could go to IHOP and stuff my self for five bucks, but here I’m paying my right arm to dabble a little ‘jinee sequa’ on my palette. Regardless though we ate in three days what we hadn’t eaten in weeks, and loved every minute of it. The atmosphere is amazingly friendly to tourists compared greatly to our experiences in the Gambia. It seemed even with the hustle and bustle of the big city, if even slightly, Dakar was able to maintain that relaxed and refreshing feel typical of West Africa.

Sadly, you can only eat for so many hours before it becomes less enjoyable, so we decided to set off towards one of the peninsula’s greatest treasures; an island wildlife refuge off the coast called Isle de Madeline. The island, because of it’s status as a wildlife refuge, is completely uninhabited and trips to and from the island must be taken by a small motor boat. We spent the day there swimming in a blue lagoon eating watermelon and climbing black rock cliffs for views of the city on the mainland. It was epically breathtaking and could only be rivaled, maybe, by the stunning beauty of the Greek isles. A must see while in Dakar, though I recommend spending the night camping there and coming back in the morning. It would not only save you on an expensive hotel room in the city for a night but also be a nice break from city life.

Why is this starting to sound like a travel documentary, I assume you all read this blog to be entertained by the ridiculous trouble I get myself into on a daily basis and like always fortunately I am able to again acquiesce your requests. Before hopping on the rickety boat over to the island we were all stuck in the midsts of trying to negotiate not having to pay to take a tour guide with us to the island. My first argument was justly with the fact that we would be paying for a person to explain the intricacies of the island to us… in French, as no one spoke English this was ridiculous. I’m sure you are asking of course how we were able to negotiate in the first place and I will say “negotiating” is a broad term as it was more part interpretive dance mixed with broken French and Gambian Wolof with a hint of Mandinka thrown in thanks to a few local Cassamance natives. My second argument was then of course the fact that I was to proud and all knowing of a zoologist to have to be taken on a freshman exploration of island ecosystems; and secondly was too ADD to sit through another arduous tale of French colonialism in west Africa. Of course though our efforts turned out to be futile and in accordance with Senegalese Parks Authority law we were forced to be escorted by the guide and still be given an explanation of the island in what to me only sounds like gibberish…. I ended up just walking off for the private Robinson Caruso tour of the island, aka me wondering aimlessly in search of shade, geckos and a flat rock to skip… but back to the shore. After the payment for our passes to the island were secured we waited for the boat to be brought in when a movement from behind an old beached canoe caught my eye. Around the stern came a red striped monkey of which it’s species name had completely escaped me *makes small pout towards charismatic mega-fauna*. I thought, “hmmmm, let me befriend this small creature and using my two decades worth of experience watching national geographic documentaries and that one semester of Animal Behavior Junior year I got a B+ in should be sufficient enough to win this less than intimidating monkey’s trust”… sigh, will I ever learn? So here was my plan, go in very submissively as to not be seen as a threat, crouching and inching near it slowly avoiding eye contact but showing a strong posture to not be perceived as fearful, which in my defense I’m sure might have worked if not for the fact that this monkey was tied to that boat and would soon precede to defend his small amount of territory aggressively. It was going alright at first, he came up and smelled me several times and would nibble on my thigh then walk away. The park ranger walking by then proceeded to antagonize said monkey by swatting at it with a stick. Said monkey then lunged at said thigh and firmly sank its fangs into, by the grace of god, the thick wallet in my pocket that was thankfully filled with enormously oversized west African currencies. Then surprisingly calmly I stood up and walked the few steps out of range of the monkeys lease. In conclusion I am an idiot, but an idiot who lives to see another rabies free day. :-D

The rest of the trip went by relaxed and refreshing and entailed three nights at a recommended hotel happy hour bar drinking giant mugs of local brews and hitting on, at the time, ravishingly hot French women and a goddess of a bartender. We hit up an array of, in retrospect way to expensive, foreign restaurants ranging from Korean to French to Lebanese. We relaxed in quiet little coffee shops down town and may or may not have rented 5-dollar motorcycles for a few hours… and the next thing I knew I was struck frozen staring strait at the sheer ridiculousness of the Starbucks in JFK. There I was, America.

Getting picked up by my brother’s overly unnecessary Ford F-150 Supercab truck and driving over the Ohio river to the beautiful site of the Cincinnati skyline was more than shocking, and that first time I stepped back into a grocery store definitely had me puzzled for which of the gazillion types of bread I should end up buying; but other than that it seemed I got in the groove of American life rather quickly, or at least the part that involves watching TV and surfing the internet until 3 in the morning then trying to get up in time to make McDonalds breakfast menu… I’d like to say I took part in the brightest sides of American culture. Nothing beats actually recent episodes of South Park and the Daily Show, or the fact that the internet is actually half decent in my house. I voted, ate in hopes of gaining at least 20 pounds (cheesesteaks, hot dogs and pancakes mostly), and tried really, really hard to find the motivation to help my mom out around the house; but it seemed the pace of life I was so use to for the past 8 months in the Gambia didn’t really translate well to the states. Sadly it’s just not as socially acceptable in middle class suburbia to sit under a tree all day, drink tea, and shout “TOUBAB!” as white people pass by. I got a chance to go to an amusement park and ride roller coasters that I am sure would put most of my friends in village into a coma, if not on the ride then at the site of the food prices when they got off.

I ate some extra McDonalds and a decent slice of New York pizza in JFK as I awaited the journey back to Africa. The flights were long and mostly uncomfortable with my mind racing of readjusting back into things, but thankfully a couple bad airline movies, liquor, and a good conversation with a rock climber from South Africa kept my mind off of things. I flew back into Dakar around 4 in the morning and it took a good dose of will power to keep my self awake and alert to avoid taxi driver harassment outside the terminal until I could check in at 9 or so. In the long 5 hours of slapping my self and trying not to look stupid half falling asleep with my eyes open I met a very interesting character. For the purposes of this blog we will just call him, ‘Spazy McGee’ though later I would find out his real name was Stephan. Spazy was a late 20 or so French speaker from southern Belgium and had to be on some high dosage of speed and or had just injected adrenaline strait into his veins in the bathroom because this man looked as though he was a 5 foot 6 4th grader suffering from a complex assortment of both ADHD and touretts. “Bonjour!” he exclaimed, “I’m sorry sir I do not speak French, do you speak English?”. He signed what I could only assume was, “are you on the flight to The Gambia and I really need to take a piss can you watch my shit because I don’t trust the several other people on the other side of the terminal who happen to be black.” I shook my head yes. On his return I assumed that that would be the end of our unimaginably uncomprehendable ability to have a conversation; but I had strongly underestimated Spazy McGee’s willingness to try and/or do anything but have to sit there snapping his head back and forth like he just got out of the jungle chased by rebels. So there we went, most of which I just shook my head in agreement; because though I had no idea what he was saying in French and odd sign language I found it refreshingly amusing to try and translate. This went on for the next few hours with a mix of attempts at conversation and minutes of silence till it got to the point where we obviously were on completely different pages in translating each others questions. I broke off into conversation for a few minutes with a nice Malian fisherman living in Seattle who spoke English very well and who I tried to greet in Sarahule. All I really ended up catching from Spazy’s rant was that he was going to The Gambia for a few days, something about him not liking Dakar taxi drivers (but who does), his mom sending him money to live in Dakar longer and him heading back to Belgium; oh and a little on the history of southern Belgium but during most of which were memories of the amazingly unsatisfying and dinky Belgium Waffle I had ate in the Brussels airport 8 months prior (see third blog entry or so). The next thing I knew I was waiting to get on the airplane and chowing down a sandwich and soda that cost me 4000 freaking cefa. Stephan, if you ever learn English and come across this blog I’d like to both apologize and thank you for keeping me awake and entertained with the conversation.

There I am, passing out then jerking awake a second later then back asleep in the terminal waiting to board, meanwhile the morning sun is blaring in my face as if to mock me, “Welcome back to Africa”. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in days and this journey hasn’t been exactly the most pleasant of cross Atlantic flights. The clock ticks down, and I’m thinking, When are they going to let us on the freaking plane? Finally the doors open and people push to get in line to get on the shuttle that will take us to yet another line to board the dinkiest of propeller planes which may or may not also serve in Senegal’s air force occasionally. Why now I ask you, the reader, is it necessary to push and shove, scream and yell, in order to be the first one on a plane which you have already been granted an assigned seat? Then after all this effort put forth to be the first on the plane would it be crucial to scream and get really offended when someone accidentally, out of his lack of sleep for the past few days and long flight sits in your seat, having dyslexiclly misread the seat number? Why? The last, and I mean THE LAST, thing I really felt like doing at that time is dealing with some bitch of a lady who just has to yell at me for accidentally sitting in the wrong seat, I mean seriously what is wrong with you when you have to push and shove to get on an airplane? Oh don’t worry, it gets better, stick with me here.

After the ordeal and finally having to wait till the plane is near take off to get back to my seat through the crowds of people in the isles I decided that I really should do everything humanly possible to pass out, short of smashing my head into the window, for the 50 minutes of sheer terror I only assume will be the flight. It must have been calm because I only woke up in short spurts of jerking awakenings, I must have looked like I was crazy or deathly sick, especially to the couple who had followed me on all my flights from JFK; who by some act of god seemed to be completely fine and lucid. What drugs were they on, and did they get them from Spazy? The plane lands, after many prayers from me, and I’m reminded why Senegalese Airlines brags about their 80% satisfaction rate on billboards. I’ve returned to my temporary home in the Gambia again and this time during the day, so I was able to see the landing onto the thin strip of tarmac in the middle of the bog as opposed to the darkness of the previous trip. I’m instantly relieved as I step down onto solid ground and hop in the shuttle. I feel safe here in the Gambia, now I can use my language ability to negotiate things again vs. in Dakar where I’m just a tourist; and Peace Corps rightfully receives respect here as well as being a household name I can drop. But my little adventure home was not over yet. Man, I really had to take a piss, maybe I can just walk off real quick to the bathroom before customs. It’s a tiny gas station like bathroom and I go into a stall and do my business… relief… then I’m greeted by a middle aged woman who looks to be cleaning the bathroom, and with my passport and paper work in hand she graciously asks to hold it for me as I wash my hands. I finish washing and she refuses to give me my passport back instead asking if, ‘I have anything for her’. “uhhhh nope, nothing, why what did you do for me that deserved payment other than a kind gesture between human beings?” I take my passport and papers and sensing a second wind head off to customs. I feel much more awake than I had, my short 30 minute power nap had obviously done wonders. My paper work had been rushed which said wonders on how much I really gave a shit now for these formalities and I was asked to go back and to please re-fill out the information fully this time. With a sneer I did, and in the end the officer just filled out his own information. “Where are you staying?” “Jiboro”, he looked up again in surprise as he obviously figured I would be staying at a hotel in the tourist region like most travelers. I ask him in Mandinka if he’d ever been there… he’s not impressed and says again in English, “What is your business in Jiboro?” “I’m a Peace Corps volunteer, but I traffic drugs and weapons to pass the time”. Great, I get the one guy who has no idea what Peace Corps is. He begins to quiz me, he obviously doesn’t believe, even with the presented work visa, that I really live in a little border village “Which Jiboro do you live in?”. Which really was a good question because some people don’t know that it’s actually broken up into two villages, New and Old Jiboro. I told him. “Alright sir, you can go” “Why thank you”.

I dodge the many “airport workers” who attempt to help me with my bag and respond merely with, “I’m completely capable enough to hold them thank you, It builds character” (something I’m sure I have too much of). Crossing my fingers I collect my bags on a cart and head to the X-Ray machine for my bags. The man at the end of the conveyer belt thankfully knows Peace Corps very well, as we get to talking cordially I find out he had a PCV in his village as a child. He has me open my bag for him and explain what I was doing with a fog horn, “I want to prank my host brothers, is that a crime?” “Nope you’re good, but I will have to charge you for bringing two laptops into the country, it’s our policy.” GOTCHA! …sigh. “Well sir thankfully one’s not technically mine but my late father’s and the other is strictly for use on saving malnourished Gambian children; but I completely understand, let me just make a quick call to Peace Corps office to sort this out” “No, no, that’s ok, this was just a warning anyways but next time you come back into the country I will have to charge you” “Don’t worry sir there will not be a next time” “Why is that?” “Well the next time I plan on going back to America will most likely be at the end of my service, and if I ever make it back here I will sure as hell not be bringing two laptops. Have a great day though sir.” Surprisingly, at this point I’m still very positive and feeling oddly awake, he was just doing his job anyways. I did end up checking up on the legitimacy of the “two laptop charge” and turns out it is actually valid. Some Gambians come in from Europe with several laptops to sell back in West Africa and who could blame them.



After clearing customs and the security check I proceeded outside to walk, what I thought was a few 100 meters, to the airport junction with the main road where you can catch a bush taxi for about 10 dalasis to either of the major town north or south. I walk out side am instantly confronted by about a dozen taxi drivers each trying to give me the, “Set Price” of the taxi ride to one of the nearer towns; 400 dalasi, about 20 dollars, pretty much high-way robbery when if you’re able to make it to the junction it’ll only cost you 50 cents. Now you should realize that I only brought one travel bag to the US but ended up coming back with two 50 pound bags, mostly containing gifts for my host family. And the plan was to just walk to that junction, which I would soon find out is a several miles. It also may help to visualize the environment at the time. It’s noon, in west Africa, clear day except for the sun which is taking up half the sky, during THE hottest month of the year, October, right after the rains have ended but before the cool winds of December have blown in, so it’s still humid as hell. There’s no trees for shade, no casually floating cumulous clouds to block the sun, it’s me, two 50 pound bags, my backpack, walking down the airport road which is in the middle of a wetland. But don’t worry, I wouldn’t have to walk the journey alone, I was soon accompanied by those taxi drivers, who feeling slighted at me saying I’d rather walk the little bit than pay that ridiculous standard price, decide to follow. But this was not a “little” bit at all and the taxi drivers had more than enough time in their schedule to follow, and berate me, the entire way. Since I had told them that I live here, and wouldn’t dare pay that tourist price (in Mandinka) they responded with, “Don’t you understand I have a family to feed, why can’t you just pay the 400 dalasi’s and we’ll take you to Birkama” “Don’t get this confused. Me walking away is not a bargaining technique, I legitimately don’t want a taxi, now if you could leave me alone that’d be greatly appreciated.” “You can’t just walk out of the airport, you HAVE to buy a taxi, this is my living and I know you have the money white man!” “Seriously, bro, I’m not negotiating and I really don’t have the money, Peace Corps doesn’t pay me much, just leave me alone and let me do this death walk on my own. Now if you’d be willing for 50 dalasi to take me to the junction that’d be appreciated, but if not please give me a fucking break.” But they continued to walk with me, watch, and suck up my suffering like vampire bats to a pool of blood. “Alright, bro, leave me the fuck alone, this is really not helping. And by what logic do you actually think that I’m just going to say, ‘you know what, that sounds great, I will just pay the money and go?’ You obviously gravely underestimate the extreme levels of pride I have. I would rather take all day to walk this road, sleep the night here, then walk the rest of the way to my village in the morning than to give you one butut. Eat shit.” This cursing back and forth continued, a few drivers even pulled up in there cars to watch and one offered me 100 dalasis to the junction to ease my pain; but, by the grace of the almighty, two eastern European gentleman in an old land rover passed, stopped about 100 meters up and backed up to my rescue. The door opens and he tells them to leave me alone in Mandinka, “Peace Corps right?” THANK YOU!

I hop in and they explain how the taxi drivers have a history there of not being in the least bit helpful to PCVs who really can’t pay the 400 dalasis out of the airport. I later found out that it’s more than 5k to walk that road and that most Gambians just wait at the terminal for someone to have left a car there or picked up by a family member. A few days later at the peace corps office I would ask about the laptop debacle and about the taxis and both the security officer and the country director said, “Why didn’t you just call, we would have just came and picked you up.” …sigh. I ended up walking at least a quarter of the way and will never forget the kindness of those two strangers. It didn’t take long at the junction to catch a big van and a kid going to school even helped me carry my bags to where the van was. The apprentice in the gilly only ended up charging me 25 dalasi for what really is at least 40 dalasis worth of baggage but I handed him the 50 I had in my pocket and thanked him.

Birkama was a mess, something big was going on because a large crowd was gathered in the streets, it was loud and I even thought I saw smoke in the distance. What happened? I didn’t hear anything coming in and I had already texted my boss to tell him I had got in. He hadn’t said anything. Thankfully the situation was not near the car park and I went on with the day thinking nothing of it. I texted a friend later that afternoon and the response I got was, “Whats up! Glad to hear you’re back! Oh yea there was a big riot in Birkama, some Fula kid from Guinea got beat nearly to death for not having paperwork and running from the police. They actually texted all the volunteers to tell them not to go through that way for a few days, you didn’t get the message, heard they fired tear gas even?!?” … no, I did not get the message, thanks. (I think I have to say now that I or the United States Government have absolutely NO political opinion on the situation what so ever and to be quite honest I have no idea what really happened anyways, I am only stating that something happened, I wasn’t suppose to go through the town that day, but not knowing I ended up going through and being fine. I mention the event merely for purposes of my story and again have no opinion what so ever on the matter.)

At the car park I’m greeted by a few familiar faces, “INDOKE!! A be nyadi?” “KOTOKE!”, pay for my ticket, and begin to sweat my balls off in the van as I still have my cotton long sleeve shirt on from the plane and the death walk out of the airport. I pass familiar villages, I really was seeing The Gambia again with slightly more rested eyes and a full belly; it really changes your point of view dramatically let me tell you. Everything was so much greener and the sky seemed a deep, deep shade of blue and the smells of Africa brought everything back; then, in the middle of that little dirt road to my village… our van broke down. Welcome back Demba ;). You know what though, this is going to sound strange, but it was actually really nice. I joked with driver about how terrible of a vehicle he owns and I just sat, in some random ladies compound, drank some water, and chatted. Some times you forget how quintessential a conversation can be. I never understood it before Peace Corps. We sat, and chatted, and 3 hours later we got the van running again with a push start from some local kids. Pure, sublime, Gambia. Then, finally, my miny odyssey was done. I had made it to my village, only about 27 hours later.

By the time we made it to my place it was just me and the driver left and we pulled right up to my hut. I lengthily greeted my host family and butchered my Mandinka really bad (I still haven’t recovered, I really need to study one of these days). Open my door and I find out a few of the people from my training group had broke in while I was gone and graffitied the walls blue with messages like, “WELCOME HOME! Hope you enjoyed your 711 and ice cream in America!” it oozed of fresh sarcasm. I’m greeted by my cat, who thankfully is not pregnant yet. I look in my back yard and my jaw drops. My walls had fallen down and I wouldn’t be able to use the bathroom until I rallied about a dozen boys to help fix it for a few hours, did I mention Jarjukunda is amazing. It’s great to be back, at least now I don’t have to feel super guilty all day for eating good food, instead I get to suffer and feel much better :-P. I went back to the capital the next morning, it was tough to go strait to village off the plane, and in retrospect was probably a terrible idea. And so America came, and America went, and I found myself again in my little border village drinking sweet tea under the mango tree and talking about the weather. I love and miss you all.

Achieving Normality, musings during Ramadan

Things have been slow for the past month and I find myself again apologizing for not being able to update my blog. Life here in an African village has, in the scariest way possible, become normal. Things that would have, and probably should now, be freaking me out seem extremely normal to me. Around my training group this has been the majority of the conversation, this completely oddity at the fact that nothing really is odd any more. First coming to the Gambia everything was new and exciting, and throughout trainings challenges we were continually assaulted by this new way of living. With that was that thrill of adventure and anticipation of the unknown that with pissing us off a little also fueled our advancement; even getting to a new site, meeting new people, chatting and spending hours psychoanalyzing our village and friends for potential counterparts and hard workers presented a test. Now though I’ve become a part of the family here in my village. Everyone knows my name, work has been dull even with the influx of patients due to the rainy season I am still awaiting the shipment of our lab and computers from Holland to start the majority of my work, and though school is in session most parents won’t send their kids back to school until after Ramadan. My family here no longer celebrates my arrival from weekend trips to the capital. Typically my comings and goings if even for a day trip would warrant sobs of, “We will miss you very much” to songs on my return with chants of, “DEMBA NAATA! DEMBA NAATA! DEMBA FELEE!” *Demba has come, Demba has come!*. Original this saddened me, that maybe they just grew tired of my silly jokes and magic tricks, but after further evaluation I found quite the opposite; that this was proof of my village integration. I was no longer the stranger to which celebrations were necessary but now a member of the family. Though I am still swarmed by the 10 small children that live in my compound every return it is humbling in a way to have been absorbed into this village.

All this though, as I mentioned previously, has presented a problem for some of the members of my training class. Some things that happen on a regular basis in village should still be weird to me. Shouldn’t they? When I see odd nostalgias of west African culture my mind reminds me I should be weirded out by them as an American… but I’m not. The Gambia has it seems become a home away from home and as the nostalgia of living in an African village has warn off coming to grasps with the normality of everything though seems incredibly easy is actually incredibly difficult. It’s odd how the best people for Peace Corps service are actually the worst. Most PCVs are restless travelers who seek daily new adventures and sceneries and the mere mention of settling in one place for any brief moment in time brings nightmares. Yet a two year service, in one village, in one job, with one family is probably the most difficult thing for this personality scheme. Even though it takes a person like that to make the plunge into Peace Corps service it seems most volunteers soon become subdued and calmed by the quite family life and are forced to fight and focus their own free spirits.

Again, enough of my rantings. With the arrival of two Dutch medical students from the University of Utrecht work has been much less stressing. I have two people to assist in health talks, more recently one on HIV and Aids, age mates to chat with and shoot the shit on western life, and the chance to learn so very odd card games from the Netherlands that involve farming and pigs. Plus it’s always great to look sweet speaking the local language and being the typical badass I am on a regular basis… or maybe just ass, that’s still debatable. Though the summer was tough in the food department the month of September was actually surprisingly pleasant with some extremely gracious care packages from family and friends back home. The month of Ramadan is a month of fasting during the day light hours so I cooked for myself most of the time, I am too proud of a Jew it seems to fast this year, I do particularly enjoy the opportunities I receive when I tell people that I am not fasting until Yom Kippur and that no, not all white people are Christian. I could take this opportunity to reflect on the beauty of the holiday of Ramadan but this was already the topic of several of my recent letters home and so I will leave you to them and wikipedia until next year.

The new group of trainees for the Education sector were sworn in recently and I again found myself on national television sporting a borrowed blue button down shirt and the intimidating Oakley’s I jacked from my brother before leaving… thanks bro. My host wife in the compound was particularly jealous as she said, “I’ve lived in the Gambia (pronounced Khambia) for 24 years and you come here for 8 months and have already been on the tele’ three times!” With the new swear in came once again another addition of the drunken debauchery that is the Julbrew party (read same titled blog entry from several months ago for more details). Though this time it seems it was subdued quite a bit even with the addition of a new “Julbrew Strong” lager added to the assortment of free booze (a new addition which had twice as much alcohol content as the regular Julbrew). The party started, 3 hours went by, and then all the beers were cut off. Either things got a tad out of hand, which I don’t believe at all as most people had their shirts on in comparison to last time and if polled most Julbrew veterans would have rated it anywhere from “completely tame-quite lame”. Or maybe it was the overall consumption of exorbitant amounts of booze, which I also don’t believe was the case as last Julbrew’s party lasted long into the night as apposed to this ones… plus I wasn’t remotely intoxicated yet so this couldn’t be the case. Rumor was (as the rumors fly in the peace corps community) that Julbrew had gone under new ownership and thus would be phasing out the amount of parties, which if so would warrant a long amount of sighing and possibly even tears from this tragedy among a community of young volunteers who lived for these epic parties of rejuvenation from village life. But instead I at least have decided to place the blame on the large amount of American Undergrad students studying abroad here and the young MRC (medical research center) workers, however hot some of those British girls were, who unturned crashed the party; crashing the party it just so happens, successively coincided with the cutting off of the booze. Damn red coats and frat boys! ARG!

Back at the home front a series of powerful storms has laid siege to my back yard. I wake up to find that the bamboo that protects my bare ass every morning from the entire village seeing me had fallen down in the storm almost destroying most of my Maringa trees; and, as is just my luck, found myself really having to use the bathroom. In opening my door to investigate the area my cat darted out of the door cracked open but I had no time to chase her. Immediately I grabbed my gear and walked briskly to the hospital and attempting to avoid the entire village who today wanted to have long morning greetings and chats with me. 100 meters away, I round the corner of the hospital compound and let out a sigh of relief to the porcelain throne that awaited me. To my amazement though the clinic staff was running all over the place apparently attempting to figure out some situation of which I could care less about. I greeted briskly, placed my stuff in the addmisions cubical and ran to the bathroom door. “Demba wait, you can’t use that. The rain all this morning didn’t allow the water pump generators to fully charge so the water has been turned off” … fuck. I ran inside in hopes there would still be enough water to flush but in witnessing an already used and unflushed spectacle I ran to each of the hospital wards in search of a clean toilet. After this proved unsuccessful I ran to the one “indoor” pit latrine we have at the hospital which did not need water… it was locked. Sometimes drastic measures need to be taken so that a grown man does not shit his own pants as I hope some of my audience can relate. Picking the only decent looking toilet left in the hospital I decided to just go and pray the water would come on soon to flush it. This being I’m sure not the last of an endless supply of poop stories.

After a recent attack by a former Peace Corps Country Director in Camaroon criticizing the effectiveness of the Peace Corps program I find it extremely necessary to stress how much good work peace corps volunteers are doing in this country. I hope to later put in a segment of comments from colleagues working as PCVs here with me, who are by far more poignant and insightful in such matters of debate than I, to discuss the ex-directors letter in a later blog. Though I did find most of his observations on the peace corps true and observant, none of them by any means concluded that the peace corps as a government program was unnecessary, if anything it stressed the importance of more data collection into effectiveness before any more budget cuts. I will repeat though that you be guided to some of my colleagues websites who have unlike me read his entire paper and come from educational backgrounds that are more apt in responding to such documents, unlike an over opinionated zoologist and part time jester. To diverge though I’ll update you a bit more on my local work projects: I went to the capital to escape village life for a few days a week ago and to talk with a friend of mine, located in a village east of me, about a program we just started to brainstorm. It would bring a new and more logic/critical thinking based class to the local school systems. I hope to base it off of something like the odyssey of the mind programs put on in America which focused on using the imagination and creative thinking to solve problems and Alex would like to add a bit more small business logic and skills to the program all of which are more than necessary in the lower education of the Gambia today. This included with some self esteem and team building exercised I think make it an after school activity that’s true importance is immeasurable. It’s something that I am really excited about and hope to update you all on later onto it’s progress.

I truly wish I could update you all on recent developments as I have a few really great stories to tell; but, ironically, these tales turned out to be a little too amazing to put in this blog for several reasons that I dare not go into, though I will briefly say involve border police late at night. Maybe one day when a movie is made on my stories, with me played by a young Harrison Ford mixed with a tad less wimpy Zack Braff, I will be able to fully reenact the tale. Until then I will continue to eagerly await my arrival back in the states for a few weeks and will bid you all adios until my next blog entry which I promise will be less lectury and more exciting as it will involve my trip to Dakar and inevitable culture shock with returning home and back to the Gambia. I will leave you then with a recent account of ridiculous t-shirts I’ve caught Gambians in my village wearing: “Mecca Casino, pimp’n” because not only am I sure the center capital of the Muslim faith indeed has a casino but it would inevitably have to be “pimp’n”. Shit… as I was typing this I just missed for the second time the chance to witness a delivery in our maternity ward! I walked in and she had already given birth. At least I got to say Mazel Tov. Maybe next time, I have no better chance to witness a baby delivery than working in a clinic in the fertility capital of the world, sub-Saharan Africa. I love you all, word to my homies, Metallica rules, Alhumdileligh.

Don't Mess With Texas

It’s been awhile since my last entry and for this I apologize. I’d also like to extend my deepest thanks to those who have sent the care packages which have, sometimes literally, kept me alive the past month as food is definitely becoming a problem for me. On that account I will again offer an apology for my lack of promptness in returning letters, there are no excuses, but please be patient, they will come.

Now that the necessities have been taken care of let me quickly update you on what I have been up to. Since getting back from Fajara for two long weeks of IST (inter service training) we were all completely drained. Most of the time going to the office and staying at the stodge are relaxing and refreshing… staying there for two weeks on the other hand turned the place into “Real World: Fajara edition”. To much silly drama then is usually necessary, but our group is close and we made it through unscathed. My birthday was mostly uneventful; we were taken out to eat at a Chinese restaurant in town by the country director Mike. He was recently quoted in the global peace corps magazine asking Condoleezza Rice about the upcoming food crisis in the region and it’s effect on the Corps. After dinner a few of us decided to crash a UN housewarming party: free booze, nice home, women with European accents, how could we refuse.

Coming back to village was difficult after actually eating well in the capital for two strait weeks but it was nice to see everyone. It’s weird and very humbling to realize you have a little nook in the world where, whether you’ve been gone for two days or two months, every one in the village, “missed you long time” and greets like you’ve been gone far too long. I was also greeted by a package that came on mail run the day after I arrived. There was no address and no name, the old box that looked like it had been reused several times, had a message that read, “Cincinnati, HELLZ YEA!”. I was confused, it could only have been sent through someone in the Peace Corps who knows the mail run system. I opened it slowly, maybe it had trace amounts of anthrax, or maybe it was the Cincinnati riots in a to-go bag or worse, Marge Shot, God help us. To my surprise though I found some Cincinnati loving in the form of seven cans of Skyline Chili, I cried a single man tear of joy. Somewhere in the Gambia, I had a guardian angel.

The Annual Jiboro Kuta and Jiboro Koto football tournament has started and that has been the talk of the town. I’m playing for a local club in my compound with a few boys I know from the town team. The team’s called ‘Babylon’, don’t worry I’ve already relished the irony. In training for the tournament I was invited to practice with a professional team in Birkama, a 30 minute bush taxi ride from me. They want me to come back and I would more than love to play with them but it’s difficult to get up there that often for practice, good group of guys though.

The rains have been pouring almost every other day lately and the place is littered with green. I’ve been helping my host family and team weed their farms. Work wise I’ve put on a Nyme cream presentation (which I’m proud to say I did at least partially in Mandinka even with the copious amounts of translators at my disposal). Nyme cream if you’re not familiar was developed by a Mauritanian PCV which uses leaves from the nyme tree along with water, oil, and soap, to create a natural mosquito repellent. The women’s groups at the skill center were amazingly supportive. Almost 40 of the older women came to learn and I was even given a proposal by the local Christian Children’s fund chapter to come and teach it again.

Recently I’ve been taking things a day at a time. Relaxing and taking time to hang out with my host family and neighbors. This ended in me getting punched in the eye; so I’ve come to the conclusion I should just go about my own damn business. In retrospect always remember that when horsing around with host sisters never, by any means, trust their “extensive” karate training. Needless to say it was lacking in the depth perception department and now, for the second time in my peace corps service, I have a black eye… in the other eye this time to even things out. The day after I thus decided maybe today would be a good day to take a little bike ride. The new bikes came in and I had been aching to muddy this shiny new thing up a bit. Up till recently I believed my closest site mate was Katie, 10k up the main road from me but it turns out I have an even closer site mate only 4k away and another one 5k from her, problem is they are along what I previously considered a, “treacherous” bush roads in the middle of nowhere which occasionally and often unknowingly likes to veer across the southern border with Senegal. In spite of this fact I decided today was the day I would set sail on the wings of fortune, go forth onto a new adventure, and attempt to locate my nearest site mate’s villages. “Dr. Livingston I presume?” After making it 4k to the village I then quickly bent north too my other site mate because frankly, with the few conversations we had had, I felt she was an utter bitch, and thus went onward on my heroic quest through the green forests of southern Gambia. I’m really lucky my region is amazingly beautiful and the muddy road and quaint little villages and rice fields along the way only heightened the experience. I made it there and back that afternoon and it seemed for that moment the riggers of village life faded just a little.

That night, in celebration of my recent victory in learning the back roads of the Gambia I decided to use the rest of the juice in my laptop to watch a bootleg copy of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Being enthralled with watching Indy kick serious Nazi ass with merely his whip and cunning wit I didn’t catch word till the morning that the Alkala’s (the chief/mayor of sorts) brother had died in the night… probably around the time when the “grail cult dudes with fezzes” had been chasing Dr. Jones through Venice. I did later wonder why when I went to lock my door at the end of the night my compound was strangely empty. I’ve been to way to many funerals since being here, more recently one of the TB patients at our clinic, a very nice man I had watched a few football games with, who passed right before IST. It doesn’t feel like they get any easier either. Thankfully though, my life is never with out a pinch of humor. The Imam, the religious leader of the area, gave what I could only assume was an immensely inspirational speech in a prophetic tone that is almost unheard of in the public speaking class I teach at the school. I only picked up a few sentences, something about “when it’s your time there’s no medicine the white doctors can give you that will save you”, added references to the Quran’s goodness and saving grace, and I thought something on the subject of begging and immorality. Then in the corner of my eye I noticed a familiar symbol. The flag of the great state of Texas was being displayed prominently on the shirt of an avid listener with the words, “Don’t MESS with Texas” splayed across the front. I couldn’t help but let out a short snicker through piercing stares. I’ve described Gambian funerals before so I won’t go into details again but later as we all sat in the cemetery praying over the loss of this man, a loud “Ribbit, Ribbit!” “Ribbit, Ribbit!” emanated from my pocket. The croaking was the ring tone for the two consecutive texts I so aptly received in the middle of the ceremony and an embarrassed grin streaked across my face.

I guess the last event recently occurring in my life has been the absolutely random arrival of an older American woman who was a peace corps volunteer 20 years ago in the village of Bakau. She had made arrangements during her service to have a young girl transported to Shriner’s Burn Center in Boston for the severe burns she had suffered in a house fire. Now she says she is doing fine and living in America but 20 years later the woman wanted to return to the Gambia to see her family with the retired American volunteer. Her village just happened to be about 1 and a half kilometers north of me. I was just sitting at my desk, minding my own business when she came, the nursing staff at the peace corps office had given my name as the closest volunteer to the girls village. I gave an impromptu tour of our hospitals facilities and the village when she informed me that her son would be coming in a week or so to “hang out” in village and would probably be stopping by to hang out with me. Flash to present day. The woman has returned home to America and now I’m left with a young California hippy in his freshman year of college loitering the streets of my village. Being a freshman is a forgivable sin, but by no means is being from California forgivable. Not to mention being a guitar playing hippy… sigh. I guess if I wanted to run away from hippies though the peace corps was a dreadful idea. Honestly I don’t see this mysterious kid very often and in the end I doubt he considers himself a hippy, I occasionally spot here him coming from the “toubab alarms”; dozens of children chanting, “TOUBAB! TOUBAB! TOUBAB!”, alerting me of his presence. I can’t help but think of challenging him to a duel at noon in the center of town. There’s only room for one white man in this village!

Linguistic Anecdotes

One of the most remarkable things about living in west Africa is it’s diverse languages. There are many, over a dozen including several dialects, in the small country of The Gambia; they are all highly unique having evolved through centuries of culture and traditions, originating from diverse regions on the continent only to find a modern home along the Gambia river today. It amazes me on a daily basis the amount of linguistic acuity the people here have of multiple distinct languages. To top it off these are languages that for thousands of years has never been written down, and yet many of the people here, with out the aid of books, are able to comprehend several of these languages proficiently merely by spoken word. Histories and cultural tradition have been handed down orally for generation. I have decided because of this to give my own, relatively short, reflection on a few of these ethnic groups I’m exposed to here.

Let me start by trying to help you grasp the multitude of ethnic groups that have, for my peace corps service at least, become my family away from home. As you well know I, like most Peace Corps volunteers around the world, have been granted a local Gambian name. This is probably for two reasons, one, to facilitate a family like acceptance into the local community, and two, because it’s pretty much like trying to get a brick wall to do the hokey pokey that a Gambian will be able to pronounce, “Steven Snyderman” correctly. Thus I was so appropriately dubbed, “Demba Barrow”. The Borrows, of the ‘man na si’ lineage to be specific, (literally translated to, “the Borrows that never sit” a reflection of their history as hard workers or ADHD was secretly rampant in the family) who have always been of the Mandinka tribe. My ‘tooma’ or namesake, Demba (which I like to always mention means ‘warrior’) on the other hand was a punk little kid who spoke Mandinka but was actually of Sarahule origin, a tribe known for being smart and wealthy businessmen, yes I know, the Sarahule-Jewish irony is uncanny. As I moved to my permanent village I took on the Surname of my gracious hosts the Jarju’s (pronounced “Ja-ju”). Thus I’m currently known as Demba “warrior” Jarju… even says so on my “official” hospital name tag.

Jarju is a very common surname of the Jola tribe. The Gambian Jarju’s come from three distinct lineages, but the family of with I live go under the Jarju ‘mam bori qura ning bunyango’ line; ‘man bori’ meaning “the Jarju’s who don’t run”, which I can only assume means we are just way to smart to have to run anywhere, and thus send small children to run for us, and ‘qura ning bunyango’ refers to both the metal anvil base and pliers respectively used by blacksmiths, in lieu of the family’s history as metalworkers. Though my family here is Jola a majority of the modern Jolas have assimilated into Mandinkas. Jolas were the first to truly settle the lower Gambian river but when the Mandinkas of the powerful Mali empire traveled west they brought most of their culture with them, to the victors go the spoils, which is why the majority of the Gambia now speaks Mandinka. The village along the border where I live though was founded by Fula cow-herdsman in attempts to find better grazing land. Like most of the modern Gambia everyone is family, I’d like to reiterate it’s a very, very small country. Thus I like to think of myself as an assimilated Jola who speaks Mandinka living in a traditionally Fula village with a Sarahule namesake. Alright let’s speed things up a bit, frankly I’m a terrible teacher of history and rather than to let you all fall asleep reading lets just move on. How’s that for the worst literary transition ever, English teachers around the world cringe.

Fula.
The language to be politically correct is known as “Pulaar” and the people who speak it are known as Fula. They are a minority in the Gambia as well as pretty much every country in sub-Saharan Africa from Senegal to Mozambique. The Fula people are known to be highly nomadic and one of the few ethnic groups in west Africa to domesticate and care for cattle; because of this they’ve picked up a few undeserved stereotypes for being cow stealers and people will commonly joke by reminding you to tie up your cattle at night so the Fula’s don’t steal them. Also the Fula people have, like the Sarahule developed a clever knowledge of business and to this day are the sole owners of, I’m sure others would attest, almost 95% of all Gambian village shops or bitiks as they are called locally. Fulas are known to be incredibly smart and most are fluent in several local languages; as a requirement of nomadic life I’m sure, picking up languages has had to come easier for them.

Each of these languages are incredibly distinct, so to more clearly display my point I will take the words for “yes” and “no” in each as a constant. Yes, in the language of Pulaar is pronounced, “Eh”, and so I have amply christened it “the language of the Fonz”, ehhhhhhhhhhh *snap fingers in air*… I may have unintentionally dated my parents. No, then in Pulaar is “Ala”, and yes it bares a striking resemblance to the Arabic word for God, though Pulaar was already hundreds of centuries old by the time Islam graced it’s borders. The language seems to roll off the tongue smoothly and I’ve always found it quite easy to hear spoken even with a typical west African bluntness. More commonly the Fulas are known for a specific type of traditional scaring done either right below the eyes or along the temples which signifies the pinnacle of beauty. Peace Corps volunteers like to get it done as a sort of tour of service tattoo but usually on the shoulders or legs.

Wolof.
Wolof, or ‘olof as it’s said more commonly is considered the business language. This is because the Wolof’s originated in Senegal and is the most spoken language next to French in Senegal today. Due to the shared border and many shared cultures with the Gambia and Senegal when doing business it is almost always in Wolof. All this “business” on the other hand takes place in the capital where the majority of the Wolof people live. Due in turn to this fact, wolof is also the official language of Gambian television. Though Wolofs are by no means the majority in the country, they are the majority of TV owners. Let me diverge a bit. Gambian television maybe the most hilarious thing you ever watch on screen, not because of their extensive comedic talent but more along the same ways watching your high school’s rendition of the news recorded via handheld. I mean this by no offence, but when the weather reports include, “So today there will be clouds flying above the country, and our temperature will be hot.” It makes you think a little. At least they don’t lie like American weather channels. What’s even better are the commercials. The Wolof language, if I had to place it, most closely resembles Klingon and if you aren’t a star trek fan then the best way I can describe it is sounding like a person choking to death on chicken bone. So when you have the luxury of listening to this, let’s use the word unique, language spoken by a rather hefty older Wolof woman trying to sell you canned food on the TV, you should thank god that there is very little milk in the country to be bought that you could have been drinking and then spewed out your nose.

I will say that peace corps volunteers here usually end up learning a variety of languages. Most are trained in Mandinka, Wolof, or Pulaar but occasionally I’ve met some PCVs who are able to have the opportunity to learn Jola and Sarahule and more; because of this we’ve started a fun little rivalry between our ethnic groups. The Wolof volunteers will ask the Fula volunteers where they put their cows when they stole them the night before, the Fulas will scrutinize the Mandinkas for being so damn inept at language, then in turn the Mandinkas, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, love to give the Wolofs a hard time about their less than sweet sounding language… at least in peace corps circles. Eugene, or “data” as Alex and I like to call him (you know the wacky Asian kid from the Goonies that has all the cool gadgets), a Wolof volunteer living in north bank is usually our daily joke mate as we were all in the same training class. Alex and I have started poking fun of the wolof morning greeting that sound something like, “SUPA SEPI SEAAA!” and we proclaim this when ever we see him with company. Eugene, bless him, just shakes his head. In the end he has the last laugh as Wolof is probably the most useful of all the languages.

As I said I would use the words “Yes” and “No” as a constant for the eclectic nature of these languages I will proceed. Yes, in Wolof is: “Wow”. No joke, you couldn’t write it better yourself. It honestly never gets old to hear people walking around the street saying “wow” this or “wow” that, you’d think Serakunda market was just the best damn place since Disney world. The word for no, on the other hand is only slightly less amusing: “de-det”. I’ll end this section by giving you the most offensive thing you can say to a Wolof, which I learned only two well because at the time I felt it was amusing to say to annoying children, it went something like, “I will circumcise you ten times over if you don’t leave me alone”. The children then proceeded, though I was only told through translation, to threaten to beat me to death. This is probably a great time to state the Wolofs are known for their proficiency in wrestling. Truth be told every year there is a tournament of the strongest Wolof fighters, and iron men from around the world come to compete in one of the oldest and most difficult wrestling matches in the world next to ancient Greece.

Jola.
This is probably the only ethnically Gambian culture and language found in the country today. The Jola people never migrated from far away lands or expand through military conquest; they were the first inhabitants of the banks of the river Gambia long, long ago. The president himself a “Dr.” (insert copious amounts of titles here) Yaya Jammeh is a Jola. Jolas are mostly found now a days along the lower river region of the Gambia and are known for some pretty unique rituals. One includes a combination of High School disco party and sub-sequential gang bang held every few years. They’re also known for some very unique culinary dishes which most people find highly palatable… I though will in this case humbly disagree. Sadly I haven’t had the opportunity to learn much more about Jola culture but I do very much hope to in the future. It’s hard though when assimilation has forced a good number of them to find niches in Mandinka communities (even their words for yes and no are the same in Mandinka) though like all minorities there is a good group of them that has stayed very true to their cultural heritage and traditions; which is why these same people really shun their children from speaking other languages in the home as a pretty good defense against assimilation. I have learned several useful phrases in Jola: the general greetings which always come in handy and are a necessity if you proclaim your last name as Jarju, and of course “penuggi” which means, I will beat you…my only defense against annoying Jola children.

Mandinka.
If I’m familiar with any language here it’s my roughly basic yet highly utilitarian comprehension of the Mandinka language. The true ethnically Mandinka trace their lineage to the ancient Mali empire. Which is why even today if you study Bumari, a major Malian language, sounds like another dialect of modern Mandinka; sort of like Spanish is to Portuguese if Spain was Mali and Lisbon, Banjul. Mandinkas, due to the very powerful, influential and in turn imperialistic Mali empire around the time of Timbuktu, can be found from the tip of west Africa in Dakar all the way across sub-Saharan Africa to the Jungles of Uganda.

There is one place in the Mandinka language that sometimes my friends in village get confused when I speak. Often I am fronted with openly comical inquiries such as, “let me borrow your bike” or “when will you take a Gambian wife” and not to exclude the, “Take me back to America”s and “America is pretty much paradise isn’t it?” of which I will always respond with, “Ha!”. This presents a particular problem, because the word for yes in Mandinka is coincidentally, “ha”. So I have more than often had to clarify that I was actually just laughing and not agreeing with the said statement. No, then is “hani” but a useful early concept to learn was that of strongly agreeing or disagreeing with something by adding a, “de” (pronounced: day) to the end of yes and no. So, “Ha-de!” or “Hani-de!”. One other very interesting little snidbit is the word “Baa”. “Baa” works in the same sort of way you can use the word “fuck” in so many diverse ways (I refer you all to one particular George Carlin routine) except Baa is by no means derogatory word. Baa can mean almost a dozen different things which includes but is not limited too these few examples: to go at, mother, river, goat, the sea, a form of large or big, great river, father, termites, man, and a common local surname. It gets so ridiculous that there is a completely grammatically correct sentence you can say though few rarely do that goes something like, “N ka taa Baa baalu baa, baa baa baa Baa aning Baa”… yadda yadda yadda I forget how it was first told to me but roughly translated to going to the big river with your goats and your father.

You can find these linguistically confusions everywhere, I remember keenly when I was learning Hebrew accidentally telling a girl she should perform cunnilingus on me when honestly trying to talk common and completely innuendoless American smack talk on the soccer field, “your going down” in this case was unfortunately taken literally. Sadly I would be humbled by these types of common confusions following me to west Africa. I’ll start with “understanding”. This concept is difficult in Mandinka I’ve found as I must look like a complete idiot on a regular basis as I repeatedly use the phrase, “M ma moy”, I did not hear you; but to the natural Mandinka speaker they would translate that to, he didn’t understand, he didn’t hear, while I always mean it literally, I did not hear you. This is because in Mandinka when you talk about speaking a language you talk about hearing it, not understanding it. Hearing here is understanding; but to a westerner the concept of hearing something does not necessarily have any precedence on if you’ve understood it. So now being here a while I know that if I want to say I didn’t hear you with out looking tremendously inept at the local language I must say, “e ko nyadi?”, You said how? (how in this case meaning what)

It doesn’t stop there because if someone in the community tells you to do something “teriyaki” they are not asking you to head to the nearest Chinese restaurant but telling you to do something, “quickly”; and be careful when you call something un-healthy because locally that’s known as calling it crazy. Be careful always when being clear you are discussing farming and not sleeping. Just the other day a woman called me lazy because, exhausted after a long morning of weeding in the family garden, I had been walking home and asked by a passing woman, “E taata minto?” Where are you coming from? And I responded with, “M be nung sinoo.” I was sleeping. The word for farming being “senoo” (pronounced seh + no) and the one for sleep, “sinoo” (pronounced sea + no). As far as the woman was concerned I had slept till one in the afternoon. These same misconceptions can be taken for the words: Pepper and Love (Kaanoo and Kanoo), and a Crow and the word for Don’t (Kaanaa and Kana). Where lengthening the last syllable could mean the difference between telling a child to throw a bird or telling him not to throw things. This goes with stating how much you like peppers or accidentally saying how much you’d like a little loving. “Fing” means something is black, but “Feng” means a thing. Not to mention the word for to forget and to say something is beautiful are almost impossible for a foreigner to differentiate properly. To this day when I’m saying I forgot something I have to pretty much scream the first syllable to the point where it’s not even worth me using the word and I get around it by negating “to remember”. On that fact no one really uses the word “bad” they just say it’s “not good”… then again few people ever utter the word please either.

These though are not the worst confusions you can make, I’ve found that the last thing you ever want to do is to talk about your water bottle, firstly, because this is a stereotype of white people, always carrying their water bottles, and secondly and more importantly you may confuse that word for water bottle, “Jeakabo” with, “Jukabo” roughly meaning your anus. Not exactly dinnertime conversation. I’ll end with this, when in The Gambia never ask someone to take a hike in the woods with you, the bush is only used for hunting, cashew picking, circumcisions, and fighting and it will probably be assumed you want to do the latter of the two.

Though I joke, language is known in many circles as the new endangered species, as spoken languages on a yearly basis fades into oblivion along with the thick culture that it protected. They’re lost to assimilation, religious conversion, and modernization; history is written by the victor it is said after all. In some cases no fault can really be placed. Certainly some words had no place in an ancient world; words for airplanes and bicycles, modern medicines and electronics, it gets to the point where it becomes easier to slowly use English words if you in the least bit want to be excepted in a modern world and grant your children the same advantages in education as others are given. It is because of this that I hope all of you, in your own way, seek out and explore these lesser known languages and the cultures they reflect. Traditionally these cultures have been known for a long line of story telling as histories were passed down through the generations orally. Unfortunately because of this twenty years from now they may not be there to be appreciated and the protectors of their histories long laid to rest.