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.
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.
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