Here's an update of highlights from the summer, I know it's been awhile since I've posted anything. Don't forget to check out the previous blog of my story about the St. Louis trip. Enjoy.
A few weeks after the Jazz Festival it came time in my village to host a Gamo, a huge reading of then entire Koran. People stay up all night reading together around the mosque with food coming even into the late hours… at least for the adults. For the younger generations it’s the biggest party all year. Youth from all over the region come to hang out and chat. Also, for some strange reason, this is the best chance for any of them to get some. Every one is at the mosque with the blaring loudspeakers and commotion making it very easy for couples to slips off into the shadows. I found it all oddly ironic that nothing made people hornier than the thought of everyone getting together to read a holy book with directions on how to live your life more holy, that's how you know it's a really amazing book. I guess it's the same thing with Church though, if you want to pick up girls, get involved in a youth group I mean man, those kids clean up. But I don’t want to sound insensitive, I’m just bitter as you well know from two blog entries ago; my walls are thin and I’m just a guy trying to get some sleep. As sleep slowly proved an impossibility I awkwardly made my way to the swarm of people at 3 in the morning surrounding the mosque. Thankfully as the night went on most of the guys my age had gone off to hang out at their places and chat so I joined a few and we all chatted till people started to pass out on the porches of the compounds near the mosque.
Weeks would pass as school closed for the summer until after Ramadan and the great sock fiasco would come. Since I’ve lived in Jiboro my host sister Siby has been helping me out a ton and washing my clothes as I am completely incompetent. Since coming to Jiboro though a day not a day has gone by that she hasn’t busted my balls about something. A few months back I had left a few of my soccer socks accidentally in my laundry, which is not culturally appropriate, like underwear, for your sister to wash. I apologized thoroughly and explained that it was an accident and I’d wash them on my own but she said, “no, no, no, really don’t worry about it, I’ll wash them. I don’t mind.” “Well are you sure??? Ok then thank you a ton!” When that load of wash came back she said she didn’t have time to take care of the socks now but would another day, so I didn’t worry about it. Weeks went by and every day I would go to the field to train with out socks. The boys would tell me everyday, like I didn’t know, “Demba, really you need to wear socks when you play look how cut up your legs are getting!” Till finally I went to Siby and explained, “Look don’t worry about it, I really need these socks. I’m completely capable of washing them on my own, thank you. Where did you put the socks so I can wash them?” “No, no, no, I just haven’t gotten to it yet but I’ll do it.” “Alright then but I really need them.” Several more weeks went by till finally, one day extremely sick and hallucinating with fever before I was about to go on vacation for a few weeks I needed these socks.
The night before I had been rolling in bed, freezing and half dreaming/half hallucinating. I was on a battlefield, bullets flying from everywhere with no real concentrating of fighting. I was being carried on to a stretcher and taken through the war torn plains to get medical attention. I screamed at the men carrying me, “Damnit don’t take me to that fucking rebel clinic! I want to go to a real American military hospital not a dilapidated, unsupplied, local clinic!!!! Nooooo!! I want to go to an American facility!” and I woke up in a pool of sweat. Still dazed that day I needed those socks, this wasn’t the day I wanted to get them back but I had no choice, I was traveling. “Siby, seriously, today is the day, I really need those socks” She ignored me for a few minutes until I finally got a confession out of her. She had lost the socks, every single pair of the only soccer socks I had brought to the country, gone. In the end though they were just socks, I was more upset that I trusted her as responsible to watch my things and I had already had a few situations of other people wearing the stuff they took of mine drying. She said she felt very bad and that I should talk to my host mother kotu-fatou.
I went to talked to her and she sighed and explained to me, from what I could translate, that they had been thrown by two of the trouble maker kids in my compound, into a pile that was to be burned and not seeing them they were lit on fire. This made me feel better as no one was really to blame, kids are kids, and they are just socks. It sucks but what can you do. This was the same kid who a minute after me giving him a kiddy shovel to play with took it and threw it down the pit latrine never to be seen again. Relieved a little that my trust had not been betrayed in my host sister I apologized and needed to sit down as I wasn’t feeling well. At this time all the boys were coming back from practice at the field and my good friend Malong came and sat down to tell me how training went. Then I start to explain the situation with these stupid kids who destroyed my good football socks when I look down. Malong was wearing my socks. I start to freak out, seriously what the fuck, he just sat there and listened to my entire story about my socks being destroyed thinking he’d get away with it. The screaming commenced, “Malong explain to me where you got these socks” he ignores me and starts walk away, “Where did you get those socks!? You know they were mine, you’ve seen me wear them” He responded, “Lika gave them to me” “Where does Lika live! He’s a thief and I’m going to have a little chat with him! *random curses*” A crowd begins form. “Malong where did he get these socks, explain it to me!” “No. Don’t go to his house!” and he starts to run of in fast Mandinka that I didn’t understand being sick and angry. The forestry worker who lives in my compound and is a complete and utter tool walks over. In a attempt to be the intermediary he begins in English, “Alright, alright, everyone calm down. First off you need to know two things about Demba (me)…. First he is selfish, and secondly he is immoral.” I snap. “IMMORAL!!!! IMMORAL!!! I am immoral? WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU!!?!? I swear if you say one more fucking word I rip the tounge directly out of your prick fucking mouth. I have been called many things in my life, but the last of which would be immoral.” He smartly walks away as Malang sister begins to to call me selfish and explain in madinka that if I were to just lend people my things this would never be a problem. “Hold up, hold up, I’m completely confused. So what you’re saying is that no one would have to steal my things if I just let everyone borrow them. I must have this mistaken are you serious?” She shakes her head yes. Wow I don’t understand this place at all and what does Malong have to do with this, he said Lika had them. I dragged Malong away from the crowd and into my house so he could calmly explain to me the truth.
He would go onto explain that hanging around the compound one day Lika and him had seen several pairs of my nice socks in the burn pile. They had assumed I didn’t want them anymore and took them as their own. This confused me considering it was Lika and him who had told me to wear socks in the first place at the field and asked what had happened to my nice socks… after of course I told them they were being washed. In the end they had made up this bogus explanation in their heads that I had legitimately thrown out my socks to validate them taking it and not asking; because they knew, if they were to go up to my door and say, “Hey Demba, you threw some really nice socks into the burn pile do you really not want them?” I would say, “Oh my, why thank you guys so much, no I never put them there but thank you for bringing them back” or if I had indeed thrown them there then, “Of course, go ahead I didn’t need them any more” This would be if they had the assumption that I was a typical rich white person who throws out perfectly good socks just because they get dirty. “Look Malang,” I began, “all you had to do was ask, you knew they were my socks, but I realize I shouldn’t have made a scene. I’m sick, and not feeling well, not to mention you’re a friend. Just return the socks and tell Lika to bring his back too and we’ll forget about it.” In the end if I had understood a cultural attitude in the Gambia this could have been handled differently. The truth of it is that yes they knew they were my socks, and yea they should of asked, but their excuse allowed them deniability. How then did I turn into the bad guy with a swarm of people, it was my shit of course that got stolen, yet I was selfish and immoral. In actually in the Gambia it is just far far worse to call someone out on stealing or to call them a thief in public than it is to actually steal to begin with. I know it sounds counterproductive the fact that it makes it easier of an environment to “borrow things permanently”. The shame though, of everyone knowing Malong had taken the socks with out asking, made me the criminal. Malong and Lika ended up returning my socks, we forgave eachother, and the situation blew over as an ignorant American who doesn’t understand how things work. To solve it the Gambian way I would have to either say it in public jokingly and lightheartedly that you had permanently borrowed my things and later they would bring it back or take them aside privately, still not calling them out as a thief, and saying “You have my stuff, I need it back.”
Later I would have a similar experience when I would find my athletic shorts missing, thinking they had just got misplaced I’d forget about it, but on the football field one day I would see it on another player. Now these were DEFFINITLY my shorts, I mean they still had my initials on them from summer camp as a kid. I told him after the game, “Lamin, (yes the same Lamin from blog entries at the start of my service, another “good friend” in village) I know those are my shorts *he laughs*. If you could just return them to me when you’re done with them that would be great. Thanks man, no worries.” I decided this time I was going to try it the Gambian way. He responded, “Oh, uhhh, I’ll explain to you where I got the shorts later.” “Ok”. Later came and he explained, “These are the shorts my brother in sweeden gave me, they are not your shorts.” Laughingly I say, “haha look Lamin, of course they are my shorts, they say my name in them… see S.S.. Lamin I know they’re my shorts, don’t worry about it, just return them when you get a chance.” I gave him a few days and after no show I went to his house at night to chat. It really was a nice evening, another friend from my compound was there and we watched American rap videos on his iPod touch (don’t ask me how he procured this). He bought eggs and soda for all three of us along with egg sandwiches, we ate till we were full and laughing and chatted with the family till it got late. In west African custom he walked me half way back to my home and on the way I mentioned calmly again, “Don’t think I forgot, when you get a chance I really would like my shorts back.” “My cousin gave them to me.” “Is that the story you’re sticking with? I will get my shorts back, they are my shorts, I think it would be better if you did it the easy way.” He laughed, and we said our goodbyes.
In conclusion it’s been months… he still has my shorts and short of me making a scene (doing it the American way) or going black ops and stealing them back my self I will never see those shorts again. He’s a clever kid, I tried it the Gambian way, it didn’t work. And it is my opinion and mine along, as culturally insensitive as this may sound, that this system ends up encouraging everyone to take everyone else’s things and only really harms people who actually have nice things, which is probably why it’s not a problem. If this situation was with a normal moral Gambian and not a punk little trouble maker with a shady reputation in town, unlike Malong, I would have received my things back in the normal local fashion, though maybe with the articles not in perfect condition. None the less, I believe you come to a point here where in the first year you let everything go. You label it as cultural sensitivity. The pedantic way people may talk to you, or a stolen sock or two, you’re the outsider and so you make a decision to just let it go, this is a new culture. Come your second year of service you wake up and find out, wait a second, some of those times people were being legitimately condescending or insulting to you; but hell there are assholes all around the world. Though at a certain point, you shuffle through the things, from your youth and from your experience, that you found to be the write and wrong way of doing things and some of those things won’t line up with other cultures but this is what defines your beliefs and your identity. There are things you may decide cross-cultural boundaries and are not cool where ever you are. For instance I come from an east coast American way of life, where if you don’t like someone, you tell them or just keep it too yourself. If you like someone, you let it known. And if someone steals your things, you either decide to let them get away with it or you don’t. I come from the belief that talking slander behind someone’s back is far, far worse than calling them those same things directly to their face; the complete opposite of Gambian methodology. I feel you’re not going to like everyone in this world and if they ask you should tell them the truth or don’t mention it to anyone. The Gambian culture has different ways of dealing with things and I understand that. Even so, to this day I would rather that a man call me an immoral infidel to my face (and deal with the consequences), than to go around and tell everyone in the village but me that he thinks I’m immoral. This is a very passive-aggressive society that for very positive reasons avoids confrontation at all costs, because of this though gossip is indirectly encouraged and calling someone out which would be typical in America is here far worse than then the initial crime.
On a different note, the rains have come again in full force. Actually it’s been terrible for the crops with such a large amount of rain with little break. Communities all over the country have fell victim to weakly built houses and flooding any many families have had to leave. Actually just the other day I was at Lamin’s house helping the family move all of their belongings to another house while they fix the roof that started to crack and collapse. One morning a sinkhole dropped out under the porch of the compound next door to me. Turns out about 30 years ago there was a well built in that spot that everyone had forgot about then they built the porch halfway over it. The well then dropped out about ~5ft down (not sure exactly but lets just say taller than you haha). A little girl even sprained her ankle bad falling in it thinking it was a shallow puddle instead of an old well that filled with brown-red water thru the night. Realize this was the most interesting thing that’s happened in the village in awhile so the whole community was standing around it watching a few small boys use buckets to take out the water best they could, even though it was pouring down rain completely negating their work, I think they just wanted to jump in the well. To make matters worse I found out that when they built the health clinic and hooked it to solar they had paid to run an electrical wire from there to the mosque on the other side of town which coincidentally ran right through this, soon to be found, old well. So the bottom was like 5ft but the wire was running across the middle of it about 3ft down and when it was filled with murky water the kids kept poking the hole with the business end of a shovel to see how deep it was. Thankfully they never split that wire or I would have been treating electrical shocks all morning. Recently I took part in a Football/Aids Education camp for young boys. It was set up like Take Your Daughter’s To work except with football and guys. Other than having to spend the week in an incredibly shady hotel room (which is saying a lot considering I live in a flea infested hut) playing camp councilor to kids who ranged from 12-29 (thank you Gambian NGOs for doing such a great job at keeping it in a tight age bracket) it went very well. I gave my communication lecture again which I’m getting incredibly good at and helped out with the coaching; I even somehow ended up being the adult male reprehensive for the lecture on healthy relationships, feel free to laugh.
A few quick snidbits before I call it an entry I was watching GRTS (Gambian news station) and they reported arresting 16 terrorists, 4 Gambian, the rest Senegalese, who were plotting an attack to destabilize the Gambian government. The only crime in this country is the petty kind so any violence to begin with is strange; what was stranger was that it was in the village right next to mine. Good to know. Also, I’ve had a few creepy run ins with a certain symbol popping up in my village, which is both humorous and creepy. One of the boys who used to work in the clinic went off and joined the Army. Back from training for Ramadan my host wife (my host brother’s wife, I think I’ve explained this) ironing his fatigues and I picked up the hat to look at it when I noticed a swastika on the underside of the bill. I explained what the symbol meant and how it was very strange to find it here in Africa on a military uniform. I know Dino (yes that’s his name, but it’s way better than the other kid in my village: Dodo) didn’t draw it but still I wouldn’t want to fight and god forbid die wearing that symbol as they were just as oppressively racist as they were anti-semetic. Then, 3 days later I was walking my site mate back to the main road and stopped at a shop to return some bottles when she laughed and told me I should look at something. 4 cute kids in my village were pushing a cart of several yellow bedongs (water containers) to fetch water. Each bedong had a large red swastika painted on the front. Obviously they’ve expanded the Nazi youth fan club to little ol’ Jiboro. I think it’s a big step that they’re accepting black people now. I’m actually quite pleased. Mauritania recently evacuated all of it’s Peace Corps Volunteers and we got 3 of the refugees wanting to complete their service. Also the new group of Education volunteers will be swearing in soon (and again I did an encore of the foni bike trip but in western region, we’re getting 4 new volunteers) and they’ve decided that they will be sending all of the people who were scheduled to go to Mauritanian and instead send them here, to the smallest country in Africa. Come November it’s going to get a little crowded in this place. Here comes the drama.
I was giving an impromptu wound care demonstration for the parents of all the pain in the butt kids in my compound who refuse to wear shoes, and yet wound them selves on a daily basis because of it, then the next day not wear shoes again. I used a boy Trodor (I like to refer to him as Trogdor the Burnanator) who’s big toe was cut up, as an example. I explained that he needs to start wearing shoes and stop putting his toe on the ground right after I just cleaned it, “Kana banko ma I seinkumba kuwo kola! Dukare” Please, I said, Don’t touch the ground after washing your big toe! Then, out of nowhere, I hear mockingly, in a high pitched voice behind me, “kana banko ma, kana banko ma, kana banko ma” A completely healthy middle aged woman was standing right behind me making fun of my accent. I look back at here giving her the death stare and in Mandinka ask, “What is wrong with you? Are you an adult?” She looked at me like, of course! What a stupid question. I went on, “Because where I’m from only children stand behind someone and repeat everything they say.” She walked away seemingly undisturbed. I mean seriously, If people want to make fun of me while I’m attempting to save their children’s future welfare what really is the point? But I carry onward. Trodor in the meantime had run off like a typical kid to go play in the mud. I sigh and look at him and his mother again. “Wash it, and call me when he’s ready” 10 minutes later, Trodor, completely naked and dripping wet from a full bath, walks into my house. Well at least they went above and beyond, though I really only meant to rewash the toe. I carried him back to his place so he wouldn’t, again, walk on the dirt and get the toe dirty and I bandaged it up. His mother thanked me and said she would keep it clean from then on.
…. The next day he was running around in the mud again, bandaid hanging off his toe. “TRODOR!!! Where are your shoes!?!?” and I watch him run off with a big smile on his face. I look at his mother. She shrugs a, “what can ya do”. Oh well, until tomorrow inshallah. “Domanding, demanding”
Good, finally you guys are updated. 7 and ½ Months to go.
