I’ve heard many a horror story of the first days on your own in country; I disregarded them haphazardly though as for weaker men. Looking back on it though, it probably was one of the scariest days in my life; and the weeks that would follow would test not only my patience but my mental fortitude… to the limits of my dedication. I know what it’s going to take to stick out these two years and do a decent job (which is the key, because if you’ve met some of the volunteers these days you’ll see they’re here in body… but not in heart); the problem is trying to put away all the hurdles we’ve all brought with us, our good friends at home (some of which still haven’t wrote me… I know who you are), our family (who at times I’ve felt I’ve abandoned at the most crucial moment), and the ever popular “what if” factor. I pray though, for both my loved ones back home and myself that I can find the strength and heart that brought me here to Africa, to accomplish my goal as a PCV. Ew this has turned into a journal entry more than some good stories I wanted to tell. So anyways back to my story (I really need to stop running off onto tangents, I can see Shari and Sugs screaming at my lack of any written focus).
I was the first to be dropped off that day in my group. I had woke up late and as usual was not ready to depart for site. Rushing to hurry up and gather my things, which included a rather large wicker shelving unit I had purchased by the beach, Peter our driver was encouraging me to move faster. We hadn’t ate breakfast that morning as we were now peace corps volunteers, and thus fully capable of finding our own food… damnit. Peter stopped the car at a stoplight and we screamed out the window at a young girl selling pancatoes, who literally had to throw about 15 of these balls into the car when the light turned green. As usual the road from Katie’s site to mine was atrocious and it’s a good thing I don’t get car sick. To demonstrate the extent of the roads disrepair I visited Katie the other day by bike and passed several cars on the road; it’s sad when it’s significantly faster to just ride your mountain bike than attempt to take a taxi. Due to my lack in haste this morning we were in a rush and after greeting my host family we pretty much tossed my things onto the porch. In turn I was forced to take the before mentioned trip to Katie’s site to retrieve my forgotten things. The next thing I know the old peace corps land rover was driving off in a cloud of dust… and so it began.
I thought I would come home to see some repairs made on my house, mainly my rice bag ceiling, but no worries. If there was anything I had absolutely no right to complain about it was my house; which by Gambian mud-hut compound standards was a freaking mansion. I was still in need of a bed but would have to wait till my next pay check to afford it. Currently I barely had enough to pay for the gilly-gilly ride back to the bank to even get paid. I began unpacking my things and trying to take this whole thing in, which as you can imagine was fairly overwhelming. The next thing I know I here a scampering of claws across my tin roof and then the indentation of a rat in my rice bag ceiling… the same ceiling that is barely hanging to the wall on tiny nails. I feared the worst, that the weak ceiling would give way, the rat fall down directly onto my bed, and me have to fight it to the death. Sadly though in many ways the actual result was far far worse. I proceeded to poke the bulge with a broom but the rodent did not move. Instead it pissed itself, and I watched a stream of golden liquid leak through the bags and directly onto my mattress. Welcome to West Africa Steven. Just perfect.
The next morning I awoke to breakfast with the family and received a spur of the moment invitation from my teenage host brother to go hunting with a few of his buddies in the bush. I just couldn’t pass that up. I threw on my shoes and off we went. Relatively few people in the Gambia actually own a gun so I wasn’t surprised to find out we were going squirrel hunting with the family dogs. The way it works is that the boys take a leisurely stroll in the woods (a mosaic of palms, termite mounds and mango trees) collecting cashew nuts until one of the dogs spot a squirrel. In which case we all start sprinting through the bush trying not to impale ourselves on branches or run into a bull. Most of the time (from my obviously extensive experience in hunting here) the dogs don’t catch the squirrels but run them into a termite mound. The boys would then light a fire on the mound in attempts to smoke the squirrel out. Needless to say that day we came back empty handed in the squirrel department, though collected a backpack full of cashews which we later roasted and ate with fresh oranges. All that was missing was naked women fanning me and feeding me grapes… maybe one day.
I stayed up late that night drinking ley with the family and listening to American rock and r&b songs on my Ipod. Ley is made like attaya but with milk. I think it was the milk but the next morning I awoke at day break to the wonderful feeling of intense nausea. From 6:12am to around 11:30am, I continuously emptied the entire contents of my digestive system. Don’t worry, I plan on describing it to you. As the thought earlier in the night of myself butt naked crouching over my pit latrine for 4 hours was to much to bare, I took my bathing bucket and put a plastic bag over it so as I could throw up if I had to from the comfort of my rat piss stained mattress. Ironically my throw-up closely resembled a few of the rice porridge breakfasts I had had weeks before; the balls of white rice still fully visible at the bottom of the plastic bag. As I threw up I could feel the undigested rice spheres pass through my esophagus. Alright I’m sure you’ve had enough. Nothing can quite describe the feeling of being ill in a foreign land where you barely speak the language. In the end though I was strangely not in bad spirits but on the contrary the day I was stuck inside my hut sick all day, was a welcome relief to the stresses of introducing yourself to an African village. It was nice to just sit and read, and I should be allowed if for not just one day to be anti-social, as if I am anything it’s the antithesis of xenophobic. My counterpart and neighbor, bless his heart, thought I had malaria, thankfully though I think I just came down with a short but potent case of food poisoning. In conclusion, God bless the man who invented Pepto-Bismol. Coincidentally all that hurling in the end caused me to burst a few blood vessels in my right eye, it looks wicked badass, though I think the children now believe I’m Satan. In turn I’ve been forced to wear sunglasses all day long, I look like a white Stevie Wonder.
Feeling better the next morning I went to a meeting of the elders in the community and the local chapter of a well known NGO: Christian Children’s Fund, which I am convinced films its late night infomercials in the Gambia. The meeting took place on west African time… aka it’s suppose to start at 9 but doesn’t begin until noon while the sun is directly over head. The meeting was also in Mandinka spoke at speeds which I am sure crossed over the sound barrier and were thus actually in light form. After understanding barely a quarter of the conversation I managed to cut out early giving the excuse I had a “meeting with the principal of the school”. I did actually meet with the principal that day, but not until later that afternoon. The meeting went very well though with the principal, whose English was far faster and meticulous than I could understand. A very good man though I think. We talked about the schools needs and he is allowing me to teach a “life skills” course at the school, where I hope to teach self-esteem building, team work, individuality, and public speaking; as well as help fine tune the library, which now is more like a dark closet with a pile of books in the center. Doey-decimal system here I come.
Since I got here I’ve been playing football (soccer) with the boys every afternoon. They’re super good by American standards but definitely play a different style of football. It’s very flashy but not as fast passing and thought out as the western game. A few days ago though I started teaching proper stretching techniques to the team after running. That progressed into leading a little bit of the training workouts so I put a little American Football flavor to it, up-downs, pushups, and suicide runs. Maybe a few Indian runs when I get the time too, they’re going to despise me but will be better players because of it. The next day I even gave a pretty much dead on “inspirational sports movie speech”: “win one for the gipper”, “soccer is 80% mental”, “soccer isn’t in the shoes, it’s in the heart”. THANK GOD we’re not in American or that speech would have been doubly tacky and unoriginal. Here though it came off as one of the most inspirational game day speeches to ever grace this village and it took all the constancy I possessed to contain my laughter.
Well due to the lengthiness of this entry I’ve decided to cut the stories short for now. I’ll conclude though with the introduction of a new member of my hut. I’ve named him Dango Nino (which means rat hunter in Mandinka) and he’s a 2 month old kitten who was born around the time I came to the Gambia. He’s white with black speckles over it’s body, a black tail and very cute. Shy yes but I hope that’s just because he’s still a kitten and has only been in my house a few days. I’ve never owned a cat before so didn’t know how the whole “Litter-box” thing works, in America, let alone here in the Gambia. So I Macgyver’ed myself a large flat box and filled it with sand. The kitten hasn’t pissed on my floor yet. Though I’m sure I’ll find a turd filled shoe one day. Also In recent news to be brief, the elders of the community have made me the official coach of the town’s football team, we have a tournament tomorrow, wish us luck.
Also it'd be wrong of me if I did not express how sad we all are to lose Dan from our PC team. You will be missed, we'll see ya again I'm sure. Take care of yourself and don't forget to stop by a Skyline Chili on you layover in the 'nati.
I was the first to be dropped off that day in my group. I had woke up late and as usual was not ready to depart for site. Rushing to hurry up and gather my things, which included a rather large wicker shelving unit I had purchased by the beach, Peter our driver was encouraging me to move faster. We hadn’t ate breakfast that morning as we were now peace corps volunteers, and thus fully capable of finding our own food… damnit. Peter stopped the car at a stoplight and we screamed out the window at a young girl selling pancatoes, who literally had to throw about 15 of these balls into the car when the light turned green. As usual the road from Katie’s site to mine was atrocious and it’s a good thing I don’t get car sick. To demonstrate the extent of the roads disrepair I visited Katie the other day by bike and passed several cars on the road; it’s sad when it’s significantly faster to just ride your mountain bike than attempt to take a taxi. Due to my lack in haste this morning we were in a rush and after greeting my host family we pretty much tossed my things onto the porch. In turn I was forced to take the before mentioned trip to Katie’s site to retrieve my forgotten things. The next thing I know the old peace corps land rover was driving off in a cloud of dust… and so it began.
I thought I would come home to see some repairs made on my house, mainly my rice bag ceiling, but no worries. If there was anything I had absolutely no right to complain about it was my house; which by Gambian mud-hut compound standards was a freaking mansion. I was still in need of a bed but would have to wait till my next pay check to afford it. Currently I barely had enough to pay for the gilly-gilly ride back to the bank to even get paid. I began unpacking my things and trying to take this whole thing in, which as you can imagine was fairly overwhelming. The next thing I know I here a scampering of claws across my tin roof and then the indentation of a rat in my rice bag ceiling… the same ceiling that is barely hanging to the wall on tiny nails. I feared the worst, that the weak ceiling would give way, the rat fall down directly onto my bed, and me have to fight it to the death. Sadly though in many ways the actual result was far far worse. I proceeded to poke the bulge with a broom but the rodent did not move. Instead it pissed itself, and I watched a stream of golden liquid leak through the bags and directly onto my mattress. Welcome to West Africa Steven. Just perfect.
The next morning I awoke to breakfast with the family and received a spur of the moment invitation from my teenage host brother to go hunting with a few of his buddies in the bush. I just couldn’t pass that up. I threw on my shoes and off we went. Relatively few people in the Gambia actually own a gun so I wasn’t surprised to find out we were going squirrel hunting with the family dogs. The way it works is that the boys take a leisurely stroll in the woods (a mosaic of palms, termite mounds and mango trees) collecting cashew nuts until one of the dogs spot a squirrel. In which case we all start sprinting through the bush trying not to impale ourselves on branches or run into a bull. Most of the time (from my obviously extensive experience in hunting here) the dogs don’t catch the squirrels but run them into a termite mound. The boys would then light a fire on the mound in attempts to smoke the squirrel out. Needless to say that day we came back empty handed in the squirrel department, though collected a backpack full of cashews which we later roasted and ate with fresh oranges. All that was missing was naked women fanning me and feeding me grapes… maybe one day.
I stayed up late that night drinking ley with the family and listening to American rock and r&b songs on my Ipod. Ley is made like attaya but with milk. I think it was the milk but the next morning I awoke at day break to the wonderful feeling of intense nausea. From 6:12am to around 11:30am, I continuously emptied the entire contents of my digestive system. Don’t worry, I plan on describing it to you. As the thought earlier in the night of myself butt naked crouching over my pit latrine for 4 hours was to much to bare, I took my bathing bucket and put a plastic bag over it so as I could throw up if I had to from the comfort of my rat piss stained mattress. Ironically my throw-up closely resembled a few of the rice porridge breakfasts I had had weeks before; the balls of white rice still fully visible at the bottom of the plastic bag. As I threw up I could feel the undigested rice spheres pass through my esophagus. Alright I’m sure you’ve had enough. Nothing can quite describe the feeling of being ill in a foreign land where you barely speak the language. In the end though I was strangely not in bad spirits but on the contrary the day I was stuck inside my hut sick all day, was a welcome relief to the stresses of introducing yourself to an African village. It was nice to just sit and read, and I should be allowed if for not just one day to be anti-social, as if I am anything it’s the antithesis of xenophobic. My counterpart and neighbor, bless his heart, thought I had malaria, thankfully though I think I just came down with a short but potent case of food poisoning. In conclusion, God bless the man who invented Pepto-Bismol. Coincidentally all that hurling in the end caused me to burst a few blood vessels in my right eye, it looks wicked badass, though I think the children now believe I’m Satan. In turn I’ve been forced to wear sunglasses all day long, I look like a white Stevie Wonder.
Feeling better the next morning I went to a meeting of the elders in the community and the local chapter of a well known NGO: Christian Children’s Fund, which I am convinced films its late night infomercials in the Gambia. The meeting took place on west African time… aka it’s suppose to start at 9 but doesn’t begin until noon while the sun is directly over head. The meeting was also in Mandinka spoke at speeds which I am sure crossed over the sound barrier and were thus actually in light form. After understanding barely a quarter of the conversation I managed to cut out early giving the excuse I had a “meeting with the principal of the school”. I did actually meet with the principal that day, but not until later that afternoon. The meeting went very well though with the principal, whose English was far faster and meticulous than I could understand. A very good man though I think. We talked about the schools needs and he is allowing me to teach a “life skills” course at the school, where I hope to teach self-esteem building, team work, individuality, and public speaking; as well as help fine tune the library, which now is more like a dark closet with a pile of books in the center. Doey-decimal system here I come.
Since I got here I’ve been playing football (soccer) with the boys every afternoon. They’re super good by American standards but definitely play a different style of football. It’s very flashy but not as fast passing and thought out as the western game. A few days ago though I started teaching proper stretching techniques to the team after running. That progressed into leading a little bit of the training workouts so I put a little American Football flavor to it, up-downs, pushups, and suicide runs. Maybe a few Indian runs when I get the time too, they’re going to despise me but will be better players because of it. The next day I even gave a pretty much dead on “inspirational sports movie speech”: “win one for the gipper”, “soccer is 80% mental”, “soccer isn’t in the shoes, it’s in the heart”. THANK GOD we’re not in American or that speech would have been doubly tacky and unoriginal. Here though it came off as one of the most inspirational game day speeches to ever grace this village and it took all the constancy I possessed to contain my laughter.
Well due to the lengthiness of this entry I’ve decided to cut the stories short for now. I’ll conclude though with the introduction of a new member of my hut. I’ve named him Dango Nino (which means rat hunter in Mandinka) and he’s a 2 month old kitten who was born around the time I came to the Gambia. He’s white with black speckles over it’s body, a black tail and very cute. Shy yes but I hope that’s just because he’s still a kitten and has only been in my house a few days. I’ve never owned a cat before so didn’t know how the whole “Litter-box” thing works, in America, let alone here in the Gambia. So I Macgyver’ed myself a large flat box and filled it with sand. The kitten hasn’t pissed on my floor yet. Though I’m sure I’ll find a turd filled shoe one day. Also In recent news to be brief, the elders of the community have made me the official coach of the town’s football team, we have a tournament tomorrow, wish us luck.
Also it'd be wrong of me if I did not express how sad we all are to lose Dan from our PC team. You will be missed, we'll see ya again I'm sure. Take care of yourself and don't forget to stop by a Skyline Chili on you layover in the 'nati.
