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!