Life along the river Gambia

Feel sad you should not

2008-07-08T09:43:00.003Z

It was sort of like the cremation of Anakin Skywalker in Return of the Jedi. (Ok, insert nerd accusations here.) Mixed feelings of closure, sadness, life lived, and a hint of relief.

Standing next to a raging fire Daboe and I talked of unrelated topics, the planting of squash in The Gambia and the harvesting of pumpkin in America. We stood in front of the last two years of my life burning happily, a pile consisting of letters, cards, study notes, personal scribbles, newspaper articles, magazine cut outs and more. As orange flame swayed in the wind and turned pages to white ash, Daboe poked and turned the pile with a long cassava shoot. With each effort pages hiding from flame would reveal themselves, a letter from an ex-coworker talking about travels in Thailand printed in courier font, a box diagram depicting Mandinka prepositions, a greeting card from a friend in deep transition hopeful and decorated with art from StoryPeople.

These were fragments, snapshots of my life over the past two years all dissolving into dust. Closure, sadness, life lived, and relief indeed.

As I prepare to come home, one of the last things I will do is celebrate my 24th birthday. When I reflect on my adult life this scenario repeats itself, not by design but by coincidence. The last time I had a birthday stateside was when I turned 20 and I was preparing to go abroad for the first time in 12 years as a student in Vienna. When I compare the person then to the person now it is hard to believe so much has passed. Upon turning 24 I will have become in love with a time and place in Europe, an avid cyclist, reconnected with the land of my mother, a college graduate, accepted into a new family, and soon to be a returned Peace Corps volunteer.

On Sunday I will leave The Gambia and cease to be a PCV.

Ch. 62 Where a movie is watched, a home is built, and they visit new ground

2008-06-30T07:56:00.001Z

She says that the toys are alive, look and see. She tells the group that the toys are alive and when the people come they return to looking dead and lifeless, like toys. She tells the group to watch and see. Under the shade of a fruitless mango tree on small wooden benches sit my neighbors: three middle aged women come to fetch their evening buckets of water, five children frantically playing games before the last sunlight dies out, and my kids Buba and Amee. Kaddy and I stand behind the group and she translates the plot line to the group in Mandinka. The hodgepodge group huddles around a tiny 13” MacBook screen to watch the film Toy Story.

Kaddy has seen this film before and enjoys using her better understanding of English and storytelling to explain the events in Mandinka. I watch her explain to the group and watch the glow on her expressions, the laughter in her belly, and the broad smile on her face and know that she is truly in the moment.

I look in the background and I see Daboe sitting patiently on his own bench. I know that he might like to watch the movie but I know that his mind is on other things. I watch him as he directs the children to take their evening baths and I watch him as he performs the evening absolution, cleaning his face, ears, hands, and feet. He pulls out a small plastic yellow and tan mat decorated with a picture of a mosque woven into the middle of a crosshatch pattern. He stands on the mat, faces eastward, and begins to pray.

I look to my right and I see my host sister Maa pounding the evening rice. She is pounding rice and peanuts into a fine powder and I know that means we are eating Saatoe. I know that we are having it as a special treat tonight and I can’t help but feel as though my host family is trying to spoil me before I leave. The whole family loves the food and I know that I love it too and I feel as though I am part of the family.

I look in front of me and I see the character Woody fall onto a bed and fall lifeless. I see the children and women around me laugh and smile in delight and know that they understand what Kaddy has explained to them.

~

It’s the next day and it’s the afternoon with nothing in particular on the agenda. Amee and Buba are both home and they ask me if today we can build things. I remember the insightful gift that was sent by my parents and I tell them yes we can build things. I pull out a large red topped tupperware box and on my large mat I pour out a host of multicolored building blocks.

Amee tells me that I should build a chair and I tell him he can make one himself. He looks bewildered and I know he has seldom been given confidence to experiment in life. I know that this environment does not lend itself well to experiments, I think about the cost of failure in hunger, health, money, and lives, and I feel sad knowing that this is the place where the benefits of experimentation could be seen most.

I tell Amee that I will build something first but then he has to copy me. I place 4 small round pillars on the mat, then two long blocks across and Amee looks at me inspired yet confident. He copies my construction plan and makes his own less precise version of the chair. I look at his design and smile knowing that despite its rough edges he has improved since our last game. I add four more blocks perpendicularly across for a seat and add a few elongated pyramid shapes for a back rest. I tell Amee that I am finished then Amee does the same and looks up at me for approval. I tell him he’s done very well and that his chair is nicer than mine. He lowers his head to his left as if to inspect his workmanship and looks back up at me with a satisfied grin.

~

The weekend arrives and I know that I have few opportunities like this left in The Gambia. I know that we have been trying to go as a family to the beach and I know I want this to happen before I leave because Maa is 12 and Amee is 6 and both have never been to the beach in their life.

Amee is walking with Maa on the beach for the first time ever in their lives. Bouncing on the waves is a large group of fishermen on narrow boats coming in from the afternoon catch. A group of women sit on the beach scaling and cutting fish into large wicker baskets. To our left a group of old men silently thumb through their prayers beads and make their way to a holy prayer site farther down the beach. The waves crash a beautiful white as the sun shines blindingly on a deep but narrow diagonal strip of the Atlantic Ocean. Amee puts his hand on his mouth, his cheeks perk up and give a hint of redness, and he looks at his father and myself. There is an absorbed look to his eyes and I know that we are opening new worlds and possibilities.

Amee shifts his eyes directly to his Dad and gasps out the word, “Baa!” He yells, “Dad!” and we both wait curious for his next comment but it never comes. Amee waits a second, his mouth drops, and he looks back the ocean in bewilderment. I look at this little curious boy and I see him speechless for the first time ever in my two years knowing him.

It’s the end of my service and I hope these are the things I will remember The Gambia by.

Our responsibility

2008-06-23T09:05:00.003Z

Max Weber on the political vocation

Die Politik bedeutet ein starkes langsames Bohren von harten Brettern mit Leidenschaft und Augenmaß zugleich...

Politics is a strong and slow boring of hard boards. It requires passion as well as perspective. Certainly all historical experience confirms–that man would not have achieved the possible unless time and again he had reached out for the impossible. But to do that, a man must be a leader, and more than a leader, he must be a hero as well, in a very sober sense of the word. And even those who are neither leaders nor heroes must arm themselves with that resolve of heart which can brave even the failing of all hopes. This is necessary right now, otherwise we shall fail to attain that which it is possible to achieve today. Only he who is certain not to destroy himself in the process should hear the call of politics; he must endure even though he finds the world too stupid or too petty for that which he would offer. In the face of that he must have the resolve to say ‘and yet,’—for only then does he hear the ‘call’ of politics.

-Max Weber, Politik als Beruf (1919) (lecture delivered before the Freistudentischen Bund of the University of Munich)(Scott Horton transl.)

Reprinted from Harper’s Magazine June 2008

The Gambia is a country where due to a number of issues, basic information about and involvement in politics is hard to come by for the average citizen. In a country where a large population lives out of range of reliable cell phones, radio, television, newspapers and transportation, receiving political information is a near impossibility. Add to that difficultly in communication, whether it be crossing multiple languages and the low rates of literacy, it is hard for politicians to reliably spread their message. These realities leave a population unable to feel well integrated into the overall system.

This comes in contrast to the Western world and the United States in particular, where we are literally over-run with media. Overrun with so much media that we rarely have time to properly digest any of it. This macrocosm of information dissemination creates a different problem from the Gambian situation but with a similar result. Despite the abundance of basic information, we still lack understanding of the information or involvement.

The blame could be placed on the lack of depth that our news media seems to give to politics. It could be placed on the news ticker readings of CNN, could be blamed on the reliance on quotable zingers instead of in-depth review, or could be blamed on the popularity of Web 2.0 easy-to-read large font headlines.

However, we should not be so quick as to take some of the blame off ourselves and our own motivation. We could look at what might be the root. How willing are we as the average citizen to re-engage the world of politics? How much are we willing to trust that our involvement will lead to governance that returns back to the ideal, "Of the people, by the people, and for the people?" We must adjust our priorities and take time to read deeper into the issues that for better or worse will put a politician into power. We must be willing to openly debate their meaning, and respectfully compromise when someone has made the better argument. And finally, we must be willing to believe that if enough of us do this, the more important and pressing issues to everyday citizens will find their way to the surface and become the new talking points.

Uncertain yet promising

2008-06-16T08:11:00.000Z

“But this stuff is too much I think,” my neighbor Yama tells me.

Lying in front of us is a mishmash of household items: Rusted corrugate tin, blankets, small wooden stools, 20 liter plastic water jugs, clothes, and a mangled car tire. Our compound-mates, Daboe’s brother’s family, have completed their own compound and are moving out. What was a compound of 27 upon my arrival is now a compound of 8. I believe this is a reflection of the social mobility of the urban region of The Gambia.

Throughout the day the children have been loading everything from bed frames to firewood onto a donkey pulled cart, brining load after load of a lifetime worth of stuff to its new home. If you’ve ever gutted a house, you are aware of just how much stuff can pile up.

As they load the carts, the children are all singing. Singing upbeat workmen’s songs of motivation and hope. It makes me think of American settlers moving Westward, putting everything on display on the back of a cart and praying for the best, praying for guidance as the next chapter of a life begins, uncertain. I listen to the children sing and believe that it is the sound of their hope that sometimes helps us adults move forward.

“Who is this person we are meeting for the first time?”

2008-06-09T08:00:00.000Z

I bring all of this up to say that if you're someone who wants to make radio stories (or do any kind of creative work), you're probably going to have a period when things might not come too easily. For some people, that's just a year. For others, like me, it's eight years. You might feel completely alone and lost during this period ... And there are things you can do during this period of mediocrity that will get you to the next step, that will drive you toward skill and competence.
-Ira Glass from This American Lifeinterviewed here.

In my two years in The Gambia, I never acquired a satisfactory strategy for dealing with the barrage of everyday stressors. We are often searching for those appropriate outlets that would allow us to channel our frustrations and anger. Constructing a mental time bomb, I bottled feelings and emotions inside and, as some of my group mates will tell you, I’ve finally cracked. Flowing out uncontrolled, like an over pressured garden hose, feelings let themselves out in an unbalanced and wild manner.

I see myself snapping at and devaluing students who have failed to take responsibility for projects, visibly ignoring the man who’s been hissing to get my attention, or worst of all, giving up on people/projects upon unpredicted and inconsistent particulars. It’s all a bit shameful when taken at once in a rapid fire list. Perhaps it’s just two years on Mephaquin.

As I get to the end of my service, this is not what I want to remember, but it is most definitely flowing my current thoughts and actions down streams that drown.

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Posted are my responses to the Education Newsletter’s survey of my group at our Close of Service.

1. What’s one thing every volunteer should have?
Easy to make cinnamon rolls
2. Most creative way to satisfy hunger?
Any vegetables you can find and jimbo (MSG) in a pot
3. What is one skill/ability that you have lost?
Have become way more serious here then I was back home
4. What will you be remembered for?
Ridiculous smiles in pictures
5. The song/album ________ was the soundtrack to my service.
Gomez - “Get Miles”
6. The name of your ideal pirated from China 40 in 1 DVD collection:
Super Anime Robot Explosion
7. One love, one hate, one desire.
Love – that everyone in our group had no real skills but we still rocked this
Hate – extensive greeting
Desire – let my guard down

Ch. 54 In which relationships are set in stone

2008-06-02T07:45:00.000Z

Daboe writes a letter to my family in America. He writes it with such heart and effort that I can’t help but feel like my family here has espoused me into their lives. Daboe talks about how much the children have become used to my presence, how much we have opened to and shared with one another, and how there will always be a home for me in Jammeh Kunda. I think back to my original goals for joining the Peace Corps and I feel as though much of them are made complete by the meaning held within this letter.

The next morning I am walking to down my dirt and sand road to my school. 250 meters ahead of me is the paved southern bank highway which serves as the main pathway for most students. My vision is crowded with a sea students in their school uniforms, white shirts and navy blue pants or skirt dresses. There is little chatter from the crowds, everyone is still waking up. Pockets of noise erupt and break the silence between small groups of students, informing one another of recent gossip or teenage tales of success or betrayal. I see smoke billowing out of each compound and I smell the muted scent of rice porridge and I know that breakfast is almost ready for those still at home. I am in the moment and take it all in as the stylized picture of the early morning in The Gambia.

In the background, I hear a voice yelling my name and I turn to see Amee and Buba running towards me. Buba is still growing and his run has traces of a duck waddle, back and forth, back and forth, he bounces. I ask Amee where they are going and why they are alone and he tells me that they are going to their grandparent’s compound down the street and that it’s not far. I know that it’s only a few city blocks to the house but despite this I feel a hint of fear that they are going places alone. I look at them and they still seem like such small children, I still see them as I was introduced to them 2 years ago. Buba runs up next to me and grabs my hand and I look down at his face. He gives me a look that I can’t quite describe, not asking for help, not asking for assurance, rather, seeming just to say I want to walk beside an elder, that’s ok right? The kids are in no rush and approach the swelling waves of students with some apprehension. Amee, Buba, and I walk down the street in a shuffling turtle paced stumble and I can’t help but feel like this scene looks awkward and undesirable to the students ahead of me. I remember being a high school student and remember showing caring for family members was something a teenager seemed to be too cool for.

Still, the three of us shuffle down the street and all feels completely normal. I live in that present moment and I am content with what I have become.

The FACTOR Program

2008-05-23T14:48:00.000Z

As a child, my father often joked with me that I had a serious case of schadenfreude; taking pleasure in another person’s misfortune. I suppose that’s why I was in hysterics when one of my group mates told me about his FACTOR program.

At his middle school the spoken English and literacy rates are abysmal. This is not to say that the children are slow learners, rather it is a reflect of the fact that their education up to this point has been of dubious quality. Despite this, my friend has been posted to teach grade 7, 8, and 9 science classes. But how can one teach about biological diversity, gravity, or chemical reactions when the students struggle to read or comprehend English at a 1st or 2nd grade level? One of the most common questions we, as teachers, ask is, “Do we teach to their ability or do we teach to their grade level syllabus?”

“So, I decided it was time to tackle this problem. Teach the syllabus but try and improve their English by other means. I needed something with a catchy acronym, since all good things in life need a catchy acronym. Hence, FACTOR,” he said without a hint of sarcasm or cheekiness.

“Which stands for?” I asked inquisitively.

“FACTOR: Force a child to read,” he said plainly but with a slight smile of satisfaction. “You see, once a week I take them to the library, which otherwise would remain dusty and cobweb filled from underuse. I take them to a section of books that I think is at their level, which usually means picture books with a couple of sentences per page, and I make them read to one another. I force them to read together for 35 minutes. It’s a bit hectic with 50 children all mumbling aloud to one another, but it might be the only time during the school day when they are actually learning anything.”

I’m sure he does darn well as a science teacher, but how much more effective could he have been in improving his students’ education if he were left to FACTOR his whole school? I doubt he would even desire the position of administering forced reading to all, but I think it’s clear the long term impact it could have.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Laugh at the absurdity of the situation he has been put in, and the name he had chosen to improve the situation. Getting (forcing) a child to read in a library is something that we might have to do in America as well, but to give it such a name as Force a Child to Read gave the whole program such a policed and regimented feel that made me think of some sort of horrible punishment being struck upon these children. I imagined kids being led down the the library kicking and screaming in refusal. I imagined his face with a paternal look of tired frustration, as if to say, “You’ll thank me later for this...” Therefore, my laughter. Schadenfreude.

In reality, everyone in my group has been duly impressed with his work. The children are learning and they are doing so quite willingly. In fact, one might even say they look forward to reading time. My group mate has demonstrated an immense amount of patience and resolve to get students to read on a regular basis. Moreover, by bringing them to the library week by week, he is creating the habit of utilizing a place of education. With that success in mind, Mr. EA, FACTOR on.

The Art of Conversation

2008-05-19T07:44:00.000Z

When facing the prospect of spending periods of time with people in a car, going on a group bike ride through the country side, or sitting in a large group with no activity to occupy the time, I’ve often said in a sarcastic tone, “Well, we’ll just have to sit together and practice the fine art of conversation.”

I have said this phrase any number of times here in The Gambia, first as we were thrown into the media desolate area where our training took place. Later in my service lack of power, spans of free time, and a national culture of chatting have led me to repeat this phrase with a metronomic consistency.

I caught up on emails this weekend and upon reading a couple of short stories a good friend of mine sent me from her Graduate portfolio, it dawned on me that I would consider her a good friend despite the fact that we have barely ever participated in the fine art of conversation.

This contrast struck me particularly strongly in the face of such consistent conversation here. I reflected a minute and realized that even here, my own conversational willingness, is far from at national norms. Through heavy reliance on text message and email, I still remain rather impersonal and disconnected. In fact, I find I prefer text messaging someone to calling them. Yes, it is more economical to do so, but it is probably more deeply rooted in an avoidance to taking the conversation to a more personal level. I believe it is a reflection of an overall introverted personality.

The more I thought about my use of an electronic proxy to engage in conversation, the more I realized how many cherished relationships I have that have grown entirely without any physically close conversation. A friend I met studying abroad who kept in touch well after the program, or a friend from high school that only became close with personal and sincere emails. I don’t know if that’s something to applaud as a success of our technology or fear as a sign of a coming disunion between meaningful communication and personal interaction. Of course, these are fears that have preoccupied social critics since the dawn of electronic communication.

After two years many of my family and friends have stayed in touch with me through this Blog and e-mail. I would say that some have become aware to a side of my personality that was previously hidden; the same seems true in reverse. Where does our relationship lie now?

Building Blocks

2008-05-12T07:48:00.000Z

Community and togetherness are an integral part of society here. It is not uncommon for neighbors and family to stop by requesting to borrow a wheel barrow, stop for lunch unannounced, or a act as a temporary babysitter.

It is then a curious peculiarity of society in The Gambia that the pinnacle for a family compound is to have a high protective wall of stone surrounding the entire property. This shuts a compound off from other community members visually and mentally, as what would otherwise be a unconcealed peek into the comings and goings of the family, becomes as much of a mystery as why the child next to me has been crying for the past 40 minutes.

Remember when American homes had front porches? Or when you desired to know everyone in your neighborhood? Or when people became wealthy enough to buy everything they could ever need for themselves? The result of these factors has led to a move towards a secluded lifestyle, which I think some would argue has gone to an extreme in America.

In the recent months Daboe, little by little, has been buying and making a small collection of concrete blocks in an effort to bring the compound to the higher standard. What previously was a chest high concrete wall would soon be taller than most NBA players.

This is how it goes. Every few weeks there would be a new pile of sand sitting in the middle of the compound. It is then mixed with water and concrete until it has a fine batter like quality. It is then poured into a building block cast, and then set out to dry in the West African sun.

So it has been for about the past 5 months, a few hundred blocks being molded at a time. This past week construction on the actual wall finally began, and what once was an open view of my neighbors is quickly being cut off in favor of increased security and comfort.

I arrived home from our Close of Service Conference this past weekend and saw men hard at work raising the wall roughly 1.5 meters higher than it was before. I couldn’t quite believe my eyes. Time and time again as a volunteer I have asked people if they would make long term plans and then be vigilant to stick to them. I figured that with such a large project as this I would never see it get off the ground, literally. It was therefore a pleasant homecoming and a reminder that good things can happen, with clear goals, a positive attitude, a little effort, and the right people.

Americana

2008-03-31T15:42:00.000Z

I think a unique aspect of recent Americana has been the dissolution of the American home as a fixed physical place. In The Gambia families can live in a single home,a family compound as it is commonly referred to, for an indefinite amount of time. While the practice of moving between homes is common, especially amongst children, it is usually from one place of permanence to another. For example, over the course of their youth a Gambian might move between compounds owned by their biological parents, uncles and aunts, and grandparents.

It seems that home in American has transformed over the past few decades from a permanent state into a fluid state, shifting the majority of Americans at least once during their youth. Not only are we, like Gambians, moving between homes but we are also lacking the permanence that comes with generations residing in one home. There is a disconnect between the reality of home and home that gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling when you think it.

This phenomenon is particularly pronounced with people in their 20s as they move out of the bubble of collegiate life and try to start their own lives. At the same time, parents are often transitioning to a life with an empty nest and are moving out of the homes that the children were brought up in. Our permanent homes existing merely as a memory of time past.

Having said that, I am currently planning my own future which involves a move to Chicago in about 3.5 months. Most of my immediate family have moved to new locations since I have been in The Gambia, and it is an odd feeling to know that all of the homes I will return to I have never lived in. I imagine as a returning Peace Corps volunteer I will live in a quiet world of contrasts, emotions that won’t have appropriate outlets. One of the big contrasts will be trying to understand the shifting idea of home. During most of my stay here I have lived in the Jammeh family compound, a place where my host family has lived for 11 years. If I were to travel to visit Daboe or Kaddy’s parents home we would be traveling to a place that has generations of family history.

This will be a positive experience. I think all the change we put ourselves through is part of the enduring American spirit. We put ourselves intentionally in new and different situations in order to keep ourselves innovating. I hope as a nation we are able to keep adapting to new environments as we move into an age that has been labeled “uncertain and weakening.”

Lacking the words and therefore a title

2008-03-15T08:28:00.003Z

I’ve got about 4 months left in country and I’m in a strange place mentally. It’s a mix between finding my place here and becoming increasingly anxious about returning home. Still, I lack the right words, inspiration, or style to express what has been happening, but here is a try.

Recently work has been showing success, I feel like I’ve made some solid progress with my counterparts and students and now it’s just a refinement point. I can look back with some satisfaction on that aspect of service.

In the household I’ve been spending a lot more time with my host family, enjoying the bond we’ve formed over the past months. We’ve been trading cooking ideas, watching a number of cartoons, and I have been making more of an effort to do basic tutoring for the school going children.

A few days ago I asked Amee a question that I in my youth, I never thought carried any true weight or meaning, “What did you learn in school today?” He looked at me funny with inquisitive eyes as if to ask, “My what a strange question you’ve asked,” then he perked up and recited a prayer passage that he had learned. When he was done there was a smile on his face that glowed of pride and a successful completion. When I was younger, “What did you learn in school today,” seemed to carry little weight because it seemed like the thing that a parent does out of repetition of a social norm. Now, I see it carrying weight because it is a thing that a parent should say. Showing interest in what the child is doing and showing an interest in what they are putting energy into is a way of showing caring.

On the other side of the strange mental world I’ve entered is the closeness of home. I increasingly fear it, while at the same time can’t wait to get back. All the common fears of returning after a long journey are there, amplified in conjunction with the acceleration towards July. I fear silence from a lack of common discussion points, emptiness, feeling unfit to handle the speed and pace of home, inability to reconnect with old friends, and what to do with my future.

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In late February we added a new family member in our compound, Paa Malik Jammeh. Kaddy gave birth at the RVH hospital in Banjul. He is healthy and doing well. The following is a picture of myself, Kaddy, and the baby.

Put me in coach

2008-02-15T17:44:00.000Z

Daboe was gone for the weekend. This much should be noted, because it broke from a reliable months long notion that, along with the evening came his defining presence.

Daboe is the father figure of the compound and therefore has the power to set the tone of the evening. It’s not a power created out of repetition and consistency of a message. Rather, most nights he is quiet and reflective, letting the light of moon and stars and pure chance direct the mood. When he does exercise command, the power and impact of his words is a direct result of his typical lack of vocalization. Not that this power always comes in a disciplinary tone or is always directed towards children. in fact I fondly remember the first night he said, “Yaya, today the men are cooking the porridge. You will learn. Let’s go.” The evening and into night ended up not only being a simple and fun lesson, but brought out a joking relationship between him and Kaddy that I had never seen before. A relationship that played and poked with gender roles, accepting the traditional but stretched and pulled towards equality of responsibility.

But already I am missing my original point, Daboe, on this particular weekend, was gone. The lack of his presence shaped the night like a hacked tree, a mangled impression of something more animate. How do you repair those gaps of assurance and comfort when a family member is missing? Can they truly be filled?

If Daboe was home we would all be sitting around a warm bowl of rice, peanut, and sour milk porridge. He would be making sure the boys were holding their spoons correctly, making sure they weren’t spilling rice all over the mat, and he would be evenly distributing the milk to all sides of the bowl. On this evening, I took over those roles. The minutes of passing time it took to have dinner represented a small moment of integration that define a volunteer’s vitality. The bowl of porridge was set on my mat laying just in front of my door. Buba came and sat around the bowl as if nothing was out of place. I held a small flashlight over the bowl so that throughout the meal we could see where we were scooping. Buba patiently waited for me to distribute the milk and stir it into the porridge. He listened and made corrections when I told him to eat properly, and when he was finished he told me, “I’m full. Here is the spoon,” gave me the spoon, then got up and walked away.

Increasingly, as my service comes to the home stretch, these moments are what remains of my days. They are what I will take home.

It Never Entered My Mind.

2008-01-28T08:26:00.000Z

I increasingly feel like I’ve lost the ability to have an outsider’s view of this place. How does one keep their perspective fresh to an outside reader and do it in an appropriate variety of styles?

More and more the unique perspectives are coming from others. There is a shift towards more active listening, listening to comments from friends and family, reflective on myself, their lives, their intentions, and their hopes.

Here are a few of those reflections spanning a range of emotions.

“Todd, you are usually impossible to read. You tend to hide things well.”

“It was weird being home, trying to be the person she thought I was before I left for Gambia. But I’m just not anymore, I’m not.”

“I never realized how much of a role we were playing as cultural ambassadors. When my parents were visiting my village, this was obvious. Everyone has a better view of Americans because of my actions living with them.”

“In village I can’t even begin to turn on my brain for that kind of work. Have you ever considered editing writing as a profession?”

“So let’s say I wanted to switch my house to a completely solar set up, totally self sufficient. What kind of money are we talking about?”

“No, no, no. You see what she doesn’t know is that as a bachelor I used to cook all sorts of things for myself. If one can go to the market alone, why should they not be able to cook for themselves?”

“That boy, he was truly talented with his hands. He learned how to do woodworking quicker than any of my other students, but he just couldn’t get serious. I had to tell him to go.”

A Short Fairy Tale

2008-01-21T07:55:00.000Z

The eastern woods of the Western Region was a land that, for the city dwellers, seemed untamed and backwards. Logged forests, salted tributaries, and drought had desecrated the land over the course of many generations and no one seemed to remember it’s original fertility. The roads, ghosts of a rickety path set down by European colonists, were dilapidated to a point of preventing a positive flow of growth or prosperity. Driving down this road in a lonely and rusting vehicle, a quiet traveler felt as if he was in the precense of someone painfully lying on their death bed.

Within the confines of this region lies the small rustic village of Bwiam. Approaching from the east the village appeared to sit on a slight incline letting it’s visitors feel lifted up into it’s embrace. The change of emotion is much needed as the path to the village is far from inviting. Water-deprived moaning woods flank both sides of the road, and the tired traveler’s mind had been repeating this same scene of decay for hours.

As the car jumped and rattled around a slight bend in the road a large oval structure popped out of the tree-lines. Higher than any tree and bright reflective white in color, the structure appeared to be hovering in mid-air. Bending his head high and crunching his neck muscles together to view the sight, it seemed to want to fly off it’s four tiered skeletal base. The giant white bowl was smooth and round on it’s bottom half but triangular shaped at it’s top; it appeared like a giant flattened out toy spinning top. In comparison to the greys and browns of the dying woods, the shattered black and crushed white of the seashell gravel road, the bright shiny white structure appeared to the traveler as coming from another world.

The car approached clunking up and down, closer and closer. As the car moved along he forced his neck muscles to remain locked on the object, and it was then that the traveler realized he had been tricked by the magic of perspective. Indeed, the structure appeared to decrease in size and grandeur the closer and closer that he came. With a more intimate view it was obvious that it was something much more plain that his awe would suggest, it was a merely a water tower.

He looked up at this structure in it’s reduced state, a giant brought down by inspection, and realized it should not be reduced or thought of as any less momentous for it’s steady delivery of drinking water. Then he pondered if humanity would always find a way forward.

Flickering Flames from yesterday

2008-01-13T10:33:00.000Z

This past week has been a rather busy one being consumed in large part by participating with fellow volunteers, staff, and administration in a Peace Corps training design and evaluation workshop. The aim of the workshop is to increase the measurability of our training program and trainees and has come as a result of a world wide PC mandate to improve the quantifiability and quality of our training programs.

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The few days this week that I spent back at site reminded me of why this is my favorite time of year in The Gambia. The weather in the evenings is cool, and in the mornings, it is down right “chilly.” Of course this is all relative, my sister sent me an e-mail about Chicago using the same vocabulary, but with a distinctly different set of temperatures. I deal with cold at a low of 75 or 80 (I don’t really know absolute amounts anymore), whereas my sister would remark, “Funny how your perception of cold changes when you live in a city where 30 degrees is warm.”

Nighttime is particularly enjoyable due to the decrease in temperature. The stars come out as brilliantly and clear as ever. The inner stargazer in me is happy to see that Orion has made a return, starting eastward in the early hours of the night. The pattern in the sky is yet another reminder that my favorite time of year has come again.

The children of the compound celebrate “winter” with fire. Something about this seems more than fitting in the human context. Each night they sit around a large log fire, the wood slowly crackling and popping in that ancient but comforting sound. They sit and chat, sing songs, and play games with one another till late in the evening. I sit on my veranda and watch their shadows dance and hop on the wall of crumbling and aging concrete block.

This is my home in The Gambia.

Travel Diary

2008-01-06T17:38:00.000Z

The following is fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or places is purely based on speculation and inspiration from multiple people or personalities.

HOLIDAYS TO CHICAGO. 2010. Family Travel Diary

I've never written a diary before but Yaya recommended I write one for this journey. He told me that I will be able to read this some years later and gain much enjoyment out of it. So I don't know how this should be written, but here it is.

~ D. Jammeh Musa

Saturday 16th October
We have been looking forward to this day for the entire year and now it has finally come. It's been two years since we last saw Yaya and when he left we honestly never expected that we would see him again. Travel is difficult; this we know because getting our VISA alone was a serious problem. When he left Yaya told us that we would be invited for his wedding. To my surprise this January I received a letter at my office saying that he was not planning to be married soon, but he said he missed us and that it might be possible to sponsor a trip for Kaddy, the two boys, and myself to visit.

But I am writing too much on this which is now the past. What is important is that we are sitting at Banjul International Airport about to depart for the city of Chicago, America. I don't know exactly what to expect, but travel is always experience and learning. For that I am grateful to Allah, happy, and excited.

Yaya always tried to explain the feeling of a plane as it takes off from a runway. He said there is a feeling in your stomach that is unnatural but exciting. I am excited to feel this for myself.

Sunday 17th October
Why are airplanes so cold? We spent 7 hours from Dakar to Brussels and I was glad the women apprentices on the airplane were handing out warm tea and blankets. Yaya has warned us that Chicago will be very cold when we arrive and I can't imagine if it is much worse than the plane trip. The problem for me was that I could not escape from the cold, we just sit sit sit.

There were plenty of wealthy Senegalese people on the airplane. I think some business traders but mostly they seemed to be traveling to see relatives in the UK or Europe. When I look at the way they dress and their manners I think about the big difference between their lives and what I am familiar with. It seems like they have a much harder time making due with minor troubles or inconveniences. They seemed to be making many requests of the staff but since I don’t understand French I couldn’t understand all they were saying.

We are stopped at the Brussel's airport waiting for our flight to Chicago. I cannot believe how large this place is. Kaddy is a bit beside herself at the speed and size of what is going on at this airport. She doesn't seem to be outwardly showing any problems, but I sense her discomfort. Maybe it is because I am also discomforted but impressed with the size of this place. I worked for 3 years at the Banjul airport, but this place is something different entirely. We are sitting for our plane in a large waiting area. We are surrounded by the morning sun that is coming in the huge round canopy of windows. It’s like being in a big bubble made of a metal skeleton and glass skin. The ceiling must be almost 100 meters high. Buba and Amee are enjoying themselves because on both sides of the bubble they can look out and see not just one or two planes, but an entire fleet of planes. They are close and Buba keeps putting his hand on the glass as if he wants to run out and touch the plane.

We have to wait until 10pm for our flight to Chicago. I think there must be every nationality in this airport now. I'm surprised at how much of an outsider I feel in this environment. Everyone else seems to know where they are going, and I sit and try to understand the variety of everything in this environment.

Evening
I have decided that airports are interesting places to watch people and how they act. People running around from one place to another, some dressed in suits, others alone, some Senegalese in their Kaftans, others in these long coats.

I am anxious to get into an airplane again.

Monday 19th October
Afternoon
What a world this is. As our plane moved through the sky I watched a small television displaying how far we had traveled and what countries we were flying over. I was shocked when I saw Gambia as a small dot on the screen that was about 50 times smaller than the ocean we were crossing. It’s strange to think about how easy we are traveling this distance when at home traveling between Brikama and Basse would probably take longer and be more uncomfortable.

Amee and Buba enjoyed the television also. They got to watch some cartoons like the ones Yaya used to always watch at our compound.

I have a small headache from writing so let me close here.

Evening
We have arrived in Chicago. We were tired from our long journey but I was more than excited to see Yaya again and finally meet his sister that he has told us a lot about.

We were a bit lost to find the area where we would pick up our bags, but a friendly large man helped direct us. His face and body seemed like he had been enjoying too much Saatoe, bread, or meat, but that is something that I have noticed about a lot of the people already: they seem to have been eating very well.

We walked into the area where our bags were and immediately I saw Yaya in the distance with a friendly looking girl with him. That must be his sister I thought. They were both holding a poster board saying, “Welcome!” We left our bags on the belt and went to greet them. I was surprised when he decided to greet us first in Mandinka, I thought he would have forgotten everything by now! His accent was not right but he was still trying. The thing I noticed most is that he definitely looked older. You could tell in his face he had more years on him, but he looked younger as well. I can't describe it but he looked more fresh and more strong than I remember him when he was leaving The Gambia. It was good to see him again anyways.

We met his sister who was more than welcoming and she and Kaddy laughed about how hard it is hard to feel clean and presentable after a plane flight. Some women things I might never understand. I think they will get along well though. Amee and Buba are not used to American names and had trouble saying her name. Muh-lly they would say.

We walked to the garage where Yaya said that we would take a car to his apartment. I wasn't sure what transport would be like here, but I was surprised when we found two cars there for him and his sister. We were able to split everyone up into the two vehicles and drive to his home. Seku, Sarjo, and Yaya always said everyone in America has their own car, but I wasn’t sure of this until I saw for myself. I remember very well Yaya always telling me that back home he could drive and had been doing it for years. Still, I was surprised to see him driving us around.

It is strange to hear everyone referring to Yaya as "Todd." I always knew his American name, but simply never connected the face with the name in every day use. Anyways, it is all fine and I think if he doesn't mind I will continue to call him Yaya.

Tuesday 21 October
Kaddy is nervous about her English but she is doing fine. Still I know she is uncomfortable having to use it all the time. Buba and Amee still haven't gone through enough school to be able to say much in English. I feel a lot of pressure having to be the translator for everything, and my mind is tired after an entire day of speaking English. Still, we are enjoying ourselves and that is only a small disturbance.

The highways here. The highways are wide and fast. Each time we are out I am surprised at how many cars can travel so fast and so close to each other without accidents. Everything moves fast.

Wednesday 22 October
Cold. Horrible cold. This country is more cold than I could have imagined. It rained in the morning and I went with Yaya to put the rubbish in a large bin and I nearly died with the small bits of rain hitting my long sleeve shirt. We had to go to a shop today to buy more jackets and warm clothing for everyone.

At the shop we were trying to purchase the clothes but when it was time to pay Yaya shortly distracted by something. The woman asked me something in a quick voice and accent I couldn't understand at all. I told her “Pardon me, I didn’t get you”, but she gave me a look like I was stupid for not understanding her.

Yaya explained later that she was talking with what he would describe as a southern accent. He said that sometimes people from different parts of the country have trouble understanding each other and it is no problem that I had trouble understanding her. It made me think of Mandinka back home, the Foni Mandinka and Western Division Mandinka. There are differences but even then I think we can usually understand one another?

I think I like the trees here the most. There is a smell to the dying trees that reminds me a bit of the leaves around mango trees at the end of the rainy season, but this is more strong and powerful. Yaya says this is his favorite time of year because of the colours on the trees. I agree with him and we have been taking a lot of pictures of us with trees colored red, yellow, and orange.

Harper’s Index: 2007 Year in Review

2007-12-30T16:07:00.000Z

Total number of blog entries for 2007: 55
Intended number of blog posts per week: 1
Number of weeks missed: 5
Number of volunteers from the Education Group 2006-2008 that ET’ed or were administratively or medically separated in 2007: 0
Number to date: 2
Number of volunteers from the Education Group 2005-2007 who extended: 2
Number of recreational trips taken outside of The Gambia: 2
Number of recreational trips taken inside of The Gambia: 3
Number of trips inside of The Gambia that were to a previously unvisited village: 1
Perceived level of improvement in effectiveness as a volunteer as compared to 2006: 2.75
Perceived level of improvement in language proficiency as compared to 2006: 1.25
Estimated amount of times called "tubab" by children/teenagers: 5,568
Official population of Brikama in 1983: 19,624
Official population of Brikama in 2003: 88,870
Number of new volunteers within a 1.5 hour bike ride: 7
Number of new volunteers within a 10 minute bike ride: 4
Number of flat tires patched: 6
Number of replaced bicycle tire tubes: 2
Estimated amount spent on mobile phone credit in Gambian Dalasis: 2,860.00
Amount that would represent per month in US Dollars: 11.09
Percentage drop in the US dollar’s value since arriving in country: 28
Number of weeks the majority of banks would not exchange the US dollar due to its volatility: 5
Average amount of dollars spent per week for food, transport, and recreation: 17.45
Percentage chance of consumption of chicken in a given week: 20
Percentage chance of consumption of eggplant in a given week: 85
Percentage chance of consumption of carrot in a given week: 15
Estimated number of books read during the calendar year: 16
Number of books read from July 2006-December 2006: 17
Number of books that received a second reading: 2
New Peace Corps country directors: 1
New groups of Peace Corps volunteers: 3
New computers in my school's lab: 15
Average processor speed of those computers: 650mhz
Average amount in Dalasis for a bean sandwich, peanuts, and popsicle lunch at the school's canteen/market: 7
Amount of time in seconds to pour and tie a 1 Dalasi bag of peanuts: 9
Number of visitors from America: 2
Number of site mates who had visitors from America: 3
Estimated days until my flight to Indianapolis, Indiana: 192
Percentage chance that I will extend for a third year: 5
Percentage chance that I will be a mess of emotions when leaving The Gambia: 100
Estimated time in minutes that will be needed to finish a whole apple pie topped with vanilla ice cream: 3.5

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We will remember 2007 as a year of incredible effort and stress, paired against joy and success that defied description. Truly, it was a year where there was beauty in contrast. 2008 awaits, Happy New Year to friends and family, new and old.

There are things that happen and leave no discernible trace, are not spoken or written of, though it would be very wrong to say that subsequent events go on indifferently, all the same, as though such things had never been.

Two people met, on a hot May day, and never later mentioned their meeting. This is how it was.

From A.S. Byatt - Posession: A Romance

RUSH DELIVERY!

2007-12-23T09:34:00.000Z

Dear Santa,

This year I believe I have been a good boy, at least as good as I could have been. There are certainly other volunteers who better describe what a “good volunteers” is, but I humbly propose that I fall somewhere on the positive side of that definition. No, I can’t have deep conversations with my community leaders in Mandinka, but I do take a particularly passionate attitude towards my technical work. That should count for some good, right? I suppose ultimately you are judge and jury as to whether or not I’ve been good.

What would be nice for Christmas? Of course there is a whole host of physical goods that I might find nice to grace my little corner of the country, some are even a bit selfless, but they would just be icing on the cake. Let me name them just in case: First and foremost, the whole family compound could do very well with a connection to the national power grid. Sure it would serve entertainment purposes for watching French dubbed versions of Roots on VCD, but it would have other uses as well. With power we could finally turn on Kaddy’s refrigerator which now has to share time with other appliances at her family’s compound. We could also add lights to our showering areas providing the family with an extra layer of security, or we could finally use some stronger wattage light bulbs so that we could read books late into the night without burning our eyes from weak 5W fluorescent bulbs. What other goods would be nice to have? Well my bike’s in rather bad shape, so some spare parts for that, and I can always use new ear plugs for the music of village life, a replacement for my mobile which is coming to the end of its life, some collections of TV show seasons to bring back laughter, oh and don’t forget a new matt to replace the aging and tattered piece that sits in my living room.

Those are all things that would be nice to receive, but what I really want are a few guarantees. I know this isn’t exactly your department, after all how can you put “Happiness” or “Success” in a small box with ribbons and a tag with someone’s name on it? But I figured that if you could give “Holiday Cheer” and “The Spirit of the Season” on TV shows, perhaps you can also gift other abstract ideas.

So here is my real Christmas wish list, asking for a few guarantees. One guarantee that all is well with my family and friends back home, and that in 6 months they will welcome home and understand someone significantly tested and changed. A guarantee that for the remaining months in The Gambia I am able to focus on work, family, and friends which make me happy, and be at peace and like water with those things that bring stress. Thirdly, a guarantee that I find the confidence to be a supportive older volunteer and naturally transform into the roles that entails. Finally, a short term guarantee that I hope you can present a little bit early. Could you please give my stomach, which has become weaker and weaker in recent weeks, strength to heal now and then survive till the end of my service?

We’ll be sure to go to the market and buy sour milk from our favorite Fula seller and NICE brand biscuits from the bitik so that we can leave them out for you on Christmas Eve.

Sincerely,
Todd

p.s. Amee and Buba can’t write very well, but I’m sure they would enjoy some of your famous wooden toy cars, trains, people, or animals. You know, the kind of stuff people would depict you making in the early 20th century.

Our side of the ocean. A video...

2007-12-22T09:09:00.000Z

Tobaski in Gambia 2007. Daboe narrating most of the action.

I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams

2007-12-17T08:14:00.000Z

To my family, I wish I could be back home, but there are things to be done here before my time is over. With care and love, wishing you all a Merry Christmas.

“If you could ask for anything for Christmas, what would it be?” she asked. “Oh, and it can’t be any of that ‘Peace for everyone or a book for every child’ stuff,” she quickly added.

I wasn’t exactly sure how to respond, of course there were a million things that would be nice to have, but after a while in country one becomes content to deal with what they have so all those wishes don’t surface when called upon.

My eyes squinted a bit and shifted down and to the left as they tend to when searching for long hidden information. After taking probably one minute too long to respond, I said, “Well if it was something immaterial, then it would be nice to pick out a lot of favorite PCVs and put them in one place at one time.”

What I failed to grasp was that this already happened the night before at my very own home.

This past weekend my small concrete and wood home was transformed into a Peace Corps Christmas wonderland. Across my entire ceiling was a set of ornaments which gracefully alternated Santa figure - ball - Santa figure - ball. In the entranceway from my living room to my bed room was a large set of bells and ivy, quickly manufactured in a Chinese factory. My small laptop was playing Christmas music fit for a local Wallmart, but despite this was filling the air with sing along voices and holiday cheer. The entire house smelled of cinnamon and sugar, as they were the main ingredients in our holiday drink.

The task for the evening, decorate a small Charlie Brown Christmas tree as best as we could. By the end of the evening the tree was covered with a soft layer of cotton ball snow, a long garland made out of a glittery paper bag, a small matchbox present, old folders turned into gingerbread men, one Christmas star, and a hanging ball ornament created mostly out of a medical glove. It was classic Peace Corps, making the best with what we had, and it was absolutely awesome.

The party was well attended by some of my favorite people from my Education group as well as a number of my site mates. Of course, good company is what makes the holiday season so special and a special thanks and mention for my own memory should be given to all who attended. The day was a Christmas wish right there of our own making. The future was in our hands, uncertain yet promising.

Returning to the conversation with my friend I thought about my dead laptop battery, darkness in my bathroom area, and quickly fading 25 cent candle. At that point I added, “Of course, it would be nice to have current.”

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Next up for big events, Tobaski, which is this upcoming Thursday. Our market is absolutely packed with double the normal amount of creaky wooden stalls and shops selling everything from small bracelets and earrings to large stereos and speakers. Walking through the market I have to twist and turn as if I suddenly had the flexibility of Gumby.

Traditionally families will make a set of clothing in the same style for the holiday, the word used to describe this tradition translates roughly “uniformity.” Daboe, Amee, Buba, and I have already made our outfits, a bright sky blue color, and I hope that pictures will come soon.

Fingerprints in four sentences

2007-12-08T08:25:00.000Z

I must be dreaming, thought Shadow, alone in the darkness.

I think I just died.

He remembered hearing and believing, as a child, that if you died in your dreams, you would die in real life.

He did not feel dead; he opened his eyes, experimentally.

- Neil Gaiman from American Gods

Buba, barely up to my thigh in height, runs up to me and wraps his arms around my knee. “Yaya, look my mother bought me new shoes!,” he exclaims.

“They look very new Buba. This one here is your new shoe?,” I ask pointing to his right shoe.

“Yes and this one too Yaya, see this one too!,” he smiles pointing to his left shoe, and then he runs off with an enormously wide grin on his face.

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His morning breakfast was an egg sandwich so layered with oil that it seemed to swell out of the sides like a steaming tea kettle ready to burst. He had lost count of how many of these gooey concoctions he had eaten over his term of service.

There was a silence between him and the man he was sitting with, but not an uncomfortable silence, just an indicator to the fact that there wasn’t much else to say on the subject.

After the extended pause he said quietly and with a look of abandonment, “Yeah. I think the day I return home to America, that will be the happiest day of my life so far.”

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He had spent his morning frantically dashing around his office complex assisting the entire staff to print and compile hundreds of documents that were barely complete, proofread, or organized.

The lines under his eyes revealed a stress that had been quickly engraved into his face.

He looked to his American colleague and said, “It just doesn’t make sense, they’ve had months to plan this and still they are unprepared up until the last minute; very stupid.”

It was time for him to think about why he was doing the things he was doing.

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The old chain was pulled, warped, and tattered in such a way that it would make a medieval metallurgist throw up his hands in frustration. The new chain was a fine piece of craftsmanship, but something that one could find at any bike shop back home for $29.99.

The young bicycle repair boy, who must have been under the age of 13, stared at the new chain for a long minute, slowly nodding his head up and down in an approving fashion. He looked back up and exclaimed, “Wow, this, this is a chain!”

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Your first time in any new place is difficult, let alone when it is a place of religious significance. I was happy but admittedly nervous to be invited to our local mosque for the first time, just five city blocks and a few goats, donkeys, and chickens down the road.

When I first entered the mosque I saw one elderly man slowly shake hands and greet everyone inside one by one, while another two equally respectable looking men merely greeted those nearby to where they intended to sitting. I saw this contrast of manners as I took my first steps into the mosque and thought, how am I supposed to infer the culturally appropriate thing to do from that?

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There was life to be lived with the advice given, “Wherever you go and whatever you do, do so without fear but with confidence.”

It was nighttime, and despite the soft glow of the city, the stars were bright and maternally encapsulating.

On the rooftop, he was surrounded by those particular people that he could spend the day with saying nothing, and it would feel like the day had been spent in endlessly engaging conversation.

In spite of these facts, why was there an air of “sehnsucht?”

Movie Review: Who’s Cutting the Turkey?

2007-12-04T07:43:00.000Z

2007 20th Century Fox Spotlight
Director: Yaya Demba, Previous film credits: Pumpkin Pie
Playing: AMC West, Polaris Center, AMC 16 North
Summary: In a comedy of manners that gives a nod to the novel “Remains of the Day,” an old American expatriate suffers a stroke and is forced to come to terms with the fragility of his age and health. When his younger sister and son come to his home in southern Germany to help his recovery they attempt to convince him a life in America is a safer and happier place to live out his final years. He vehemently refuses and a timeless struggle is played out between the weakening body and freedom of one’s spirit.

Review: Gathering with your extended family this holiday season? Looking for a great family film that everyone can enjoy? Then run like hell away from Who’s Cutting the Turkey. Despite what you might think from the title, this film is one of the most depressing and honest looks at our relationships to our family young and old that I have seen in years.

Following the recovery of Jim (Jürgen Prochnow), an old clock-maker living in Freiburg, the film weaves through triumph and tragedy of recovery. The momentum comes when Jim’s son, Will (Tim Robbins) and younger sister, Mary (Ellen Burstyn), arrive in Freiburg to celebrate Christmas and help him with his recovery process. Upon seeing his condition they try to persuade Jim to come home so that they can keep a closer eye on him. He desperately refuses claiming he will be able to take care of himself and that they can’t take him away from the place where his best years of life were spent. His weakening condition and the time and distance of their homes force the three into a rushed discussion of his future.

The film’s biggest downfall is that it borrows a lot from the plot structure of many foreign films that are becoming increasingly popular. That is, there seems to be an entire lack of plot structure in the traditional sense. The film alternates between the challenging discussions about Jim’s future with more lighthearted excursions of Will and Mary into the town. In this less sensationalized view of the world, the film plays like a documentary of a tragedy that is more relatable to daily life than a Hollywood script. Somewhat frustrating but ultimately more intriguing for the viewer are the numerous points during the film where the characters’ dialogue should come to a firm conclusion, but instead the audience is treated to scene cuts that at first glance seem to offer no clear resolution.

This is a film that is being released during the holiday season, takes place during the holiday season, but will never become a staple of the holiday season. Don’t go to this film with your family, especially if your parents are in the mix. You’re better off seeing any number of the B-rate Christmas films like The Santa Clause 4: The Elves Rock! and going home with a smile on your face than seeing a film that moves you but doesn’t fill you with that holiday cheer. The film is open ended, asks questions that won’t be answered with one viewing, and you will most likely leave the theater with that empty feeling that comes after an emotionally demanding experience. With that in mind, Who’s Cutting the Turkey is a must see for those who enjoy a film that makes a difference and forces one to reexamine their moral codes, and for that reason it might just be the best, worst holiday film this year.

B+

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What do PCVs do to keep their mind off crying babies, skin rashes, and oily rice bowls? They make up movies in their head and like pawns, characters are moved across their imaginary theater stage. Without further ado, here are the thoughts and sketches that are behind the above fake film.

STORY BEATS

The film takes place over the course of the Advent season, roughly two and a half weeks before Christmas. The film opens with snowy and festive scenes of celebrations for of St. Nicholas day. The film cuts to a more bleak and sterile interior of a hospital where Jim awakes under the watchful care of nurses.

Jim has suffered a major stroke immobilizing him. The doctor’s prognosis is that Jim might not fully recover and it would be surprising if he will ever be able to work with his hands or move freely around town again. The doctor claims that the first three weeks of the recovery process are critical and Jim’s progress during this time will allow him to make a more accurate prognosis.

Upon hearing the news Jim’s son and younger sister rush to Freiburg to meet him and help him with recovery. They meet him on the first day that he is able to make slight movements to his body.

The film follows Jim’s recovery process as the family tries to bond together through adversity and celebrate Christmas as a cheerful celebration of life and togetherness.

Throughout the initial days Jim shows much progress and he is able to move around his bed and eat slowly by the time Will and Mary have gotten their bearings in Freiburg. He goes home in a wheel chair, but once he returns home his recovery is stunted and it remains unclear whether or not he will make any more progress.

The fragility of his condition prompts Will and Mary to begin talks of Jim’s return to America so that they can keep a better watch on him.

The coming of Will’s family exposes Jim’s weakened state as he is unable to even get out of his chair and hug his family. As the film moves on the discussions between Jim, Will, and Mary about his return becoming increasingly heated. In the end Will is forced to make a statement, “Dad. You can barely lock your door, turn on a stove, or brush your teeth. What do you want me to say? If you stay here alone we’re all going to be worried sick. If you aren’t going to get any better then you’ll have to come home.”

Jim makes further progress regaining some motor skills in his body but there is great effort displayed in the simplest of tasks like brushing his teeth or using a phone. The doctor reluctantly informs the family a few days before Christmas that Jim’s progress seems to be plateauing and it is unlikely he will be able to take care of himself.

The film comes to a close during the Christmas dinner. Jim thanks his family for coming together under such stressful conditions. Thanks God for a good life and painfully picks up knife and fork and cuts the turkey. It is unclear from the contrasts of his words and actions if he intends to return to America or despite the family’s plea, stay and fight on.

If he decides to stay it means that this is the last time they could all be together.

SETTING
Freiburg:The historic city is southern Germany’s Black Forest region, the city has roughly 220,000 residents and is best known for the Albert Ludwig University, one of the oldest in Germany dating from 1457. In the middle ages the city remained catholic and remained against the reformation. The city sits in the bottom of a hill valley and is surrounded by wooded rolling hills on all size. The city invests heavily in green technology. The city center holds the Münster, the city’s cathedral started in 1200, as well as the city marketplace which is a popular tourist destination. The city serves as a starting point for many tourists wishing to see the Black Forest region and is well known for its wood carving, particularly the cuckoo clock, which is said to have had its start here.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
These characters don’t like to move much physically or mentally, they are stubborn.

Traditionally the three do not see each other due to logistics.

Jim Meyer: The film begins with him suffering a massive stroke. He is treated at the medical facilities in his city of Freiburg in south western Germany. His health has forced him to choose between going home to America and staying where routine makes life simple for an old man. The repetition is medicine for the numbness of losing his wife, structure where there is otherwise a missing half. Became a (cuckoo) clockmaker famous to the region during his final period of stay in Freiburg. Married a native of Freiburg after meeting her while studying abroad. Born in 1936, visited Freiburg first as a student in 1957 as a Junior in college.

He married Eva, (b. 1939 Freiburg) who grew up in the ashes of post war Germany. As it struggled to rebuild her father taught music at the Freiburg Musik Universität, mother stayed at home. Growing up Eva grew up with a Germany that was trying to find something to be proud of and found that in it’s natural beauty, typified by the Southern Germany foothills as well as Austrian alps. At the age of 18 she was already working as a secretary for a small tourism company in Freiburg, at this point she met Jim who was then an exchange student at the University.

Jim married Eva and lived happily in Germany working with Eva in the tourism industry which took them around southern Germany. Jim picked up an interest in woodcarving, particularly the famous cuckoo clock style of the Black Forest region, and quickly excelled at the art. Eva’s parents died at an early age (in 1959 - Father and 1964 - Mother) and she was an only child, leaving no extended family in Germany. Jim loved Germany but thought their children should grow up in America because it would offer long term benefits on an international level. Jim also believed that America was the glory of the world after rebuilding Europe. He felt strongly that his son, William, should have a US education as well as get to know an extended family which only existed in America. Eva reluctantly agreed but did admit that she wanted to see and understand America at some point in her life, so took the move as temporary. They left in 1965 when their only son, William, was to be born in Jim’s home city of Philadelphia. There Jim lived a modest life running a small arts and crafts shop doing some small import and export business with Germany. His wife helped out and together they made a simple living until 1987 when they moved back to Freiburg because William was finished with college and Eva had become increasingly homesick.

Once back in Germany Eva began teaching in the local elementary school, specializing in English instruction. Jim went to work for a number of companies including numerous restaurants and travel agencies but finally felt the urge to get back to wood carving. In 1998 he joined a small woodworking and crafts shop just outside of the Freiburg’s main market specializing in cuckoo clocks. The old man of the shop he was in charge of adding detail and finishing works to be sold mostly to tourists.

Eva died in 2005 at the age of 66 and seemingly fair health. This rocked Jim who continued working heartlessly for 6 months and then suddenly quit claiming increasing depression. Going into retirement at the age of 71 he was well over the retirement age. He spends much of his days in routine. He is the old man who wanders the city taking a morning walk, buying his afternoon fruits and vegetables from the market, cooking lunch, watching TV, reading a book, and going to sleep after some tea. He lives for his Sundays Saturdays when he still goes out to the local market where he sells and trades wooden goods and chats with the young students and citizens of the city. He feels the end coming and never found a way to replace Eva.

He wants to remain in Germany because it is the place where his dreams for a beautiful wife and life became a reality. The image of a perfect life is glorified and frozen in a single state of mind, and as the end draws near he doesn’t want to die with that as a mere memory, but as a living image that surrounds him.

JIm’s younger sister, Mary Benjamin (Age 62), has three children, husband deceased the year before. Lives outside of Richmond, Virginia where she has spent her entire life. Is horrified at the thought of her own aging and is beginning to live life as if tomorrow were her last day. While she is careless with her own body, Jim’s health seems to be of major concern and she feels her brother should come home because a man should not spend his last days dying alone and far away from family. She has discovered all sorts of new ways to live life and doesn’t want him stuffed up in this old tired place that is all about history rather than moving forward. She hosts alcoholic dinner parties where she always takes one sip too many, drives a convertible at faster speeds than her reaction time can allow, is developing a weight problem from indulgent eating, and is constantly in financial trouble from living in luxury (despite what should have been a big insurance gain from her husband’s death). Her husband’s death left her with a spiritual hole that she is trying to fill with a hunger for material pleasures.

She wants to convince Jim that he should go home because it would make her mentally feel like she’s been a good sister. She would tell him how to live a more full life and where to go do it, just like she is doing. However, she is unwilling to offer much financial or social support because it would hinder her carefree life style. She is something of the classic and ignorant American who believes that the American way is the only way to get things done and the best possible way there could be.

William Meyer (Age 42), Jim’s son: Bewildered at his lack of influence on his father he plays serves as a sort of translator for the audience asking questions and pleading for “logic,” when he has no way of really understanding what aging is like.

The son loves the idea of Germany as his heritage but feels deeply American and sees Germans as “foreigners” rather than family. Is opposite of his mother and father who were talkers and socializers, he is more introverted and calculating. Created a life for himself in America with his wife (Katy) and two children (Claire, Rachel) in Philadelphia as the manager of a local beer brewing company. Isn’t angry with his parents for a modest and sometimes financially poor childhood but firmly remembers the harder times and demands economic stability for his own family.

Finds devotion to one thing a great virtue. He is a determined business man who divides his time for maximum efficiency. When around his family he is always up for a jolly time but when it is time for work he is by the books and focused. He seldom mixes the two.

Is now financially well off due to expansion of the brewing company throughout the East Coast. He achieved his position by brute force of good schooling, slaving away at the lower levels of the workforce, and once in the position, marketing the brewing company tactfully and strategically. Has stayed on with the same company for most of his career.

He is coming to terms with the last good years of his youthful adulthood and the transition into the maturity of adulthood. He has two children, two girls both in school age 15 and 12 and it will soon be time for him to become a friend and mentor to them rather than an regulator of rules and punishments.

His father’s stroke awoke a new sense of emergency in him. With his mother he was not prepared for her death and suffered greatly. Sees his father’s stroke as a warning that he needs to act now before it’s too late. Subconsciously wants his father in a place where there is constant surveillance and in a place where he can check in every once in a while. Like Mary is unable to see himself making a larger commitment to helping his father on a daily basis.

Will has spent most of his life in America with only short summer trips to Germany, his German is far from perfect and many of the interactions are a struggle, especially as he is expected to baby his Aunt Mary around.

Three short stories, three different people

2007-11-26T07:31:00.001Z

“For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.”

Note: This past weekend was filled with events including Thanksgiving, Peace Corps Gambia’s 40th Anniversary of uninterrupted service, and a very productive All Volunteer meeting. To get a good general view of what this entailed, check some of the Blog links to the right over the coming weeks (Or the master list, especially good reads will probably come from still energetic and chipper first year volunteers' Blogs).

I’ve mentioned before that there are times when it feels like I’m three different people. One person resembles how I was in the months leading up to departure, the other who I am as a member of my community, and lastly who I am in the bubble of Gambia PCVs. It’s rare to see the three of these combine into one greater whole, but hey if those evil construction Transformers could do it, why can’t any of us?

* One *

I have a buddy named Marc who my good friend Patrick (Hope all is well in Chicago...) introduced me to our last year of college. Marc was an exchange student from just outside of Munich and he always seemed up for seeing how far we could push American cultural norms. I remember one of his last nights before he returned home was one of those bitter cold winter nights that cries out for a warm log fire, hot chocolate, wool blankets, and the company of good friends. However, being college students, we were of course out getting drunk. For once we weren’t partaking in price to performance drinking consisting of guzzling trouble sold in square packs of 30 cans, we were instead being civilized and drinking in style. We were having a fine time at a “dress to impress” themed party and I think we had done rather well for ourselves in a solid set of suits made for far more important situations. As time wore on Marc began to feel like on his last night he should get out and see more, do more. He wanted to go out to the bars. But Bloomington bars are often filled with beer spilling, rude, undergrads dressed in anything from stuff that’s been sitting under the “to clean” pile for months to carbon copies of twenty-something magazine advertisements. We would stand out a bit in business suits. Unfortunately with the frigid temperatures it was too far to walk back and change, so Marc looked over at me and said, “Oh hell, let’s just go like this. We’ll have some fun with it and say that you just got out of a business dinner/interview for a German exchange program. You were accepted on the spot and we decided to just go celebrate right away.”

You know, that’s not such a bad idea I thought. Let’s do this thing after all, why not. I miss this sense of confidence towards the accidental and unplanned.

* Two *

Daboe and I were in the market the other day getting our clothes for Tobaski tailored. Tobaski is an important holiday in Gambia and the common practice is to get new clothes made and often families will get something made together so the whole family is wearing the same style clothing when they go to prayers.

Daboe and I had been bartering with the tailor who wanted us to have all our the measurements taken within the next couple of days otherwise he would become to busy with other work. Daboe and I realized that both of our schedules were going to be extremely busy and we had no time to bring the children, Amee (Age 7) and Buba (Age 2) to the tailor for measuring. I remembered that maybe there was a small portion of time when I was free and openly announced it thinking that maybe Daboe would be able to find time off work or know if Kaddy would be free to come with me. However, upon hearing my statement the tailor quickly said, “Oh well then great. Yaya at that time you will come with the two children and I can measure them then.”

Daboe and I gave a look to each other that for about a millisecond displayed a concession that this was our only choice in order to to get the clothes done. In the second millisecond our faces immediately switched to distinct looks of, “I know Yaya is integrated with the family but there is no way he’s going to be able to bring two children into the heart of a bustling urban market.” We held that glare for another second then Daboe looked back to the tailor and said, “We’re going to have to get back to you.”

These relationships and moments are what I like best about site.

*Three *

After our 40th Anniversary celebration the local brewing company agreed to host a small gathering for Peace Corps volunteers at their headquarters in the Kombo area. After 17 months in country Jul Brew tastes delicious but it might be better described to the reader back home with the description Jacob gave it on his trip to The Gambia. “Drinkable,” I think was the adjective he used. Jul Brew comes in a bottle that has a green color that for whatever reason reminds me of recycling. We were treated to two large refrigerators of recycling colored goodness hosted under a small patio area, filled with public park style tables, lit with fluorescent lights, and completed with music from a small portable speaker system connected to an iPod. There are small shrubs and bushes that surround the patio area and the factory is far enough away from the main road that you don’t hear too much highway traffic. I always got the feeling that the owner wanted it to at least somewhat resemble a small beer garden.

I miss people from my Education group and this was the last time I would see most of them until our Close of Service conference in May of 2008 (Shortly after which we will start to go home, one by one). I have a renewed sense of caring for these people and desire to strengthen friendships with them while we still have the chance. They became my focus for the evening, one in which many people were able to mingle and greet all, and for better or worse I held a mental checklist for my group specifically and tried to stick to just that small snippet of the great PCV population.

Somewhat brutally honest but our time and choices are limited. The pay off is that since group mates are most often the people one knows best, even small chats can bring you rather far in the relationship. I appreciate more and more the good people that they are and how close we’ve come.

* Transformers? *

For our 40th Anniversary Commemoration a few people in my region gathered to put together a theme for our outfits that we would wear to the event. Usually volunteers will do something like this for Peace Corps meetings but the designs will usually be more simple or traditional. But because this was the 40th Anniversary I think we all wanted to take it to that next level. A number of my site mates and I went to work and searched our market for something that would represent us as a region. We found a great blue fabric with forks and spoons scattered throughout, symbolizing not only our unquestionable cool factor but also that we don’t eat with our hands like the upcountry folk (Or as popular misconception might place on them). We all went to our respective tailors to turn the fabric into something great. I smiled and laughed for a long time when I decided to try and turn our burning blue fabric, accented with neon green forks and spoons, into an American style sports coat. In the end five of us showed up to our Anniversary decked out in some of the best outfits I’ve seen in my year and half here (No bias of course). There two classy professional business outfits and three incredible dresses that could probably even be used back home. Hopefully I’ll be able to track down some photos of the outfits soon.

This combination of people is what brings out the most happiness in my life.

This American Life

2007-11-20T07:24:00.000Z

MUSIC FADE IN “MULL OF KINTYRE” P. MCCARTNEY

Episode #319: From WFMB in Brikama this is a special international edition of This American life. Today we’re talking with a number of people who come from a large but often quiet segment of the US population, Peace Corps volunteers. We’re here in The Gambia because this week the country is celebrating it’s 40th Anniversary of Peace Corps cooperation.

Our show today in four acts, chronicling 40 years of impact the Peace Corps has had in this small West African country, past, present, and future.

... ... ...

MUSIC FADE IN “IT NEVER ENTERED MY MIND” -M. DAVIS

> NARRATOR:
Act 3: What are we doing here?

Helping change lives is all well and good, but what happens when a development agency stays in one place for too long? Should there be a count down timer that alarms as if to say, “Sorry but your time is up. Get out or else?”

As the current volunteers gathered for the anniversary we spoke with a number of volunteers who brought up these issues. What inner revelations and tranquility would be hiding in these people? Most of them seemed to be justifying their experience with a larger picture greater good.

Surprisingly we found that while most volunteers were highly opinionated on this topic, when prompted to simply talk about their experience the much more everyday was what came up first and foremost. That is to say, life goes on, no matter where the location.

SFX COWS, ROOSTERS, AND A LARGE GROUP OF WOMEN CHATTING LOUDLY

> DAVID:
Sorry about my home being a mess. The past few days I’ve been a bit under the weather.

> NARRATOR:
So go ahead and define under the weather for us.

> DAVID:
(Laughing) Well, I’ve spent the past four days getting rid of every last bit of food and water in my system. I’ve become very close with my pit latrine.

Health gets a bit tricky when you’re all the way out here. I live about 75km inland and about 15km from the main highway. It’s a pretty rural community that survives mostly on simple crops and selling cows’ milk.

If you did a Google search on Gambia you’d probably get some semblance of my surroundings. It’s pretty remote here. It’s a bit hard to accurately describe to someone who’s never been this far out. It’s hard to describe sensing personalities of large cattle,stars which actually twinkle, or the slowness of watching growing cassava or corn.

> NARRATOR:
This is the sort of world that many people envision when they join the Peace Corps. A rural, simple, and distanced lifestyle free of all distractions of American life. The ideal picture as David puts it. However, what happens when you need that connection with the world? What about those times when you are “a bit under the weather?”

SFX PRAYER CALLS, MORE ROOSTERS, CHILDREN CRYING, POUNDING BLOCKS

> DAVID:
I think the worst aspect of the past few days has been dealing with all those little things about life here that usually don’t bother me. We’re trained to put up with a lot of cultural differences and after a while they start being more like cultural norms.

But when you are sick all you can think about is what is hurting and why. You start to go a bit crazy and knowing that you’re this far out, you just have to take it. Any trip that would be worth your time in terms of medical attention is too difficult and too draining to even consider.

It began right as the first prayer call was being sounded around 5:30 in the morning. I woke up with an acing stomach and a pounding headache and my body automatically went in a b-line towards my pit latrine.

(SIGHS AND PAUSE) I was probably there a good hour or so when I finally crawled back into my house and collapsed onto the concrete floor. I think I was praying for any sign of improvement when there came a banging at my door.

SFX BANGING ON TIN DOOR FRAME

It was my host mother wondering what was the matter. I hadn’t opened my front door yet, and that caused my host family to worry. Usually I’m up early and out the door for breakfast, a run, or to go to the market. Something gets me up and out.

SFX BANGING ON DOOR LOUDER

So there I was lying prostrate on my floor sweating and in a haze. Your body just gets worthless when you’ve lost so much fluid in a short period of time. And, the thing is, I usually love my family’s sense of care and urgency for my well being. It’s just hard to appreciate that care when you’ve got a million woodpeckers chipping away at your head.

I remember at this point trying to stand but about halfway up I felt more food coming up so I did a sort of controlled fall down on all fours. (PAUSE) Looking back I wish I had a picture of it. I crawled like a baby to my door and just like a house pet sort of clawed my hand at the door handle.

SFX DOOR OPENING

I fell down on my back and rolled over like an oaf. My door swung open on its own gravity and there was a rush of light that burned my eyes a bit. There was my host mother standing in my doorstep with a concerned look on her face. She loudly asked, “Ousman, you are sick?”

> NARRATOR:
And at this point did you even have the strength to respond to that question?

> DAVID:
Well what you have to understand is that here it’s perfectly fine to state an obvious fact. Sp I’m still not really sure if she was just stating the obvious and I didn’t need to reply or if she was asking the question, but I’m sure I looked the pretty messed up. Just in case I did the universal sign of sickness: groaning and nodding. But the extra motion caused a bit more food to make its way up.

I closed my eyes and heard her say that she was going to help me fetch water. That’s about the last thing I remember for a while. I think that must have been when I passed out.

> NARRATOR:
Far away from any medical help David was pretty much stuck to get better the all natural way. At this point he’s strewn out right next to his front door, he’s dehydrated, he’s sweating and still losing water, he’s suffering from a migraine headache, and he’s in and out of consciousness. But life indeed does go on.

SFX PEOPLE WALKING SLOWLY TOWARDS MIC. MORE POUNDING AT DOOR

> DAVID:
I don’t know how long I was asleep but I was woke up with a rush of lightheadedness and by the most pleasing sound in the world: Banging fists on metal and people yelling your name.

My coworkers from the local clinic had heard the word that I was sick and were coming to check in on me. “OUSMAN, OUSMAN,” they yelled despite the fact that they were standing right in front of me. There’s something about the internal volume here that always seems turned up to about 105 decibels. “OUSMAN, OUSMAN, HOW IS IT MAN? YOU OK?”

I told them I was feeling “sick small” and I did a weak smile trying to say thanks and please I can’t really translate anything more than that right now. There was a pause. It was long enough that I thought I would fall back into my haze and maybe just maybe find more peace and less pain.

(SHORT PAUSE)

“THAT’S FINE. YOU SHOULD BE FEELING BETTER...

... SO YOU ALRIGHT, EH?”

... ... ...

Please listen to the original This American Life if you haven’t already. This rushed reproduction doesn’t do it justice. It might turn into the highlight of your week and comes in handy Podcast and/or Broadcast form.

Why does this week’s post seem meandering and out of focus? It was written in bursts and I mostly wrote what first came to mind, sort of like an interview should be. We’re also preparing for our Peace Corps Gambia 40th anniversary celebration, Thanksgiving, an all volunteer meeting, and of course I’m busy with work. I wanted to write up a much more detailed “Movie Review” of a fake movie that is brewing in my head (See the “Pumpkin Pie” post from last Thanksgiving). Last year the movie review proved to be so much fun and a creative challenge that I had to give it another go. Blog intertextuality rules, more to come.

A Harmony of Voices

2007-11-13T07:38:00.000Z

Delegates met to discuss gender issues and the future of African YMCAs

The week of November 5th through 9th the author spent with the crew of the YMCA Digital Studio recording the Africa Alliance of YMCAs 30th Anniversary celebration and gender workshop. The even was set in an overtone of pride in prolonged unity. The following are excerpts from moments that exemplified this impression on the author.
Photo Credit: Daniel Anundi, YMCA Digital Studio

In a continent where long distance travel often conjures up images of an epic adventure into the unknown, small miracles do happen. The 2007 African Alliance of YMCAs 30th Anniversary conference and gender workshop was able to bring together representatives from 15 African nations from Ethiopia to Zambia as well as representatives from four other nations as different as Norway and Bangladesh.

A group singing to a Nigerian song.

It is a curious consequence of history that these people from thousands of miles apart would be able to communicate with one another so well. Hold overs of the colonial era, the majority of the delegates had a commonality of English with translations in French provided for key meetings and lectures. However, it was not these Western languages that brought the range of people together with a common message, it was their music. Unity from music not only in the way that the Swahili or Wolof words created weight and form to the songs, but also in the tone, sway, feeling, and joy of the music that so many find this continent is rich with. I would see someone from Madagascar emphatically singing along to a Sierra Leonean song and I knew something must be right in the world. Listening to the music helped me redefine what unity as an idea or emotive quality can aspire to be.

The representatives were also unified religiously by a common belief in Jesus Christ. Those hailing from predominantly Muslim countries showed a particularly strong devotion. Their separation from mainstream society ties their mentality to the quintessential Christian figure, the martyr. Not that these people are actively persecuted against, but they are masked under the shadow of a cultural giant and their minority in society engages them as modern representatives of their savior.

Through the languages, musical connections, and religious unity the week was filled with genuine debate over how to move forward with the African Alliance of YMCAs as well as better integrate women in the organization.

Perhaps most encouraging from these debates was a shared feeling of faith that progress will happen once Africans have the confidence to put the future in their own hands (uncertain yet promising). From many of the representatives that hail from countries that have made significant progress in the last generation (South Africa as perhaps the best example of this), the desire and burning for a better future was clear. Their hard word, mixed with a little bit of luck, was bringing about visible change that they proclaimed through a patriotism and hope for their country that is utterly devoid from my generation of Americans. As we grow we must come to realize that we owe it to our home to create the conditions that foster a similar pride.

The author presenting the Digital Studio to delegates.

The warm and forward moving atmosphere of the conference also fell upon the crew of the Digital Studio. Never before had the crew undertook a week long on location shoot, nor sorted through dozens of hours of footage, or feverishly worked to meet a deadline for one final edit, but none of the crew broke with professionalism or dedication to the work at hand. During the week I saw the crew come of age before my eyes and I couldn’t be more proud of the work they accomplished. The long hours brought us together as only intensely stressful situations can, and I think I will remember the jokes, expressions, and quieter moments for the rest of my life. We were a team.

With so many voices, ideas, and beliefs being offered it is amazing that the resulting mix was harmonic. But with the right set of people in the right place and time, miracles of unity can happen.

Don’t fall through the stars

2007-11-04T15:36:00.000Z

A few days ago I had the pleasure of employing the power of the Internet to connect two friends living in far off and remote lands. I had a great but brief conversation with my old friend Laura, a fellow PCV currently serving in Mauritania (See blog link to the right, she has some great posts as of late). The end of the conversation died an unnatural death when my Internet connection gave out, but oh well this is West Africa and those things happen. One of her last questions she was able to send off was, “So, how the heck are you staying so busy?”

Well...

This past weekend I spent with the crew of the YMCA Digital Studio taping a music video for a superb Wolof hip-hop group named Poetic X. It’s interesting to see West African culture move to America, morph to inner city culture, and then move back home to West Africa. Many local artists who pursue rap or hip-hop merely copy what they hear on US tracks. Copy cat rapping is a dime a dozen here, and in my opinion a kid in Gambia rapping about, “guns in the streets, hoes, and social inequality” doesn’t sound very authentic or effective. Because their sound and message was so different from a US style is one of the reasons that meeting the members of Poetic X has been such a pleasure.

The song that we made a video for, “Wulajanara,” (Trans: A place that is distant) features a famous female lead signer for the chorus (I only know this because Daboe instantly said, “Hey I know that singer!”) while the verse lyrics focus on the importance of marriage as a bond between the man, woman, and Allah.

A small digression. In historical Gambia many people were forced into marriages based upon tribal or Kingship desires. People would marry for the economic or status improvement of their family. Often these marriages were forced upon man and more often woman by a father figure who was strategically trying to improve his position. As Gambia has Westernized many have cited this practice as a reason for the increasing rates of divorce. The old forced marriages are having trouble as people embrace personal independence. Specifically as men and women begin to see each other as equals and individuals who have the ability to choose their own fate, they see forced marriage as a burden and risk rather than an advantage. A family that is built on promises not between the people but between a social gain will struggle to stand.

So how is the artistic and social community approaching this collision of worlds and mentalities? The song “Wulajanara” from Poetic X and video we have just made is one response to it. It’s the voice of a younger generation who are asking their peers to think before they marry. It’s young people deciding issues that they fear for and hope to change and finding methods to get their opinion out there. They ask us to decide if our own marriage is (or will be) built for the health of the new family itself with Allah providing the groundwork.

We hopefully will be able to edit and distribute the video to some meaningful extent. The fact that this kind of work is even going on at our lower level demonstrates a significant evolution of media in The Gambia. Increasingly there are institutions and production houses in country that are going to let the public at large bring their ideas to light. Gambia could be on the verge of the birth of a quality locally driven media market. Seeing these trends first hand makes me appreciate all the media theory and history courses I took at Indiana University, for one can visualize the pieces falling into place and reasonably predict what will happen next.

In particular to our work, I served mostly as a supervisor on this project. Three of the people that I’ve worked with to train took the helm of the project and have done an excellent job with it. Their success has been one of the most successful parts of my service, that is knowing that I played a part in helping people bringing their own visions to life.

No, I’m not teaching sexual health, I’m not building wells, and I’m not improving crop techniques. These are all things that people might think of when they think of the traditional Peace Corps volunteer’s role. Peace Corps asks us to adjust to our host environment and find where we can be most useful and that is what I’m trying to do. To all fellow volunteers currently in the field, keep up the good work, our collective whole and the contrasts that entails makes us the positive change we all hoped we could be.

Would you like to see a menu?

2007-10-29T07:41:00.000Z

When I was a boy I was extremely picky about my food. “No Dad, I want my toast sliced diagonally not in rectangles!” I would wine and complain.

When I was a boy and living in Malaysia I loved the omnipresent durian fruit but hated raw carrots. As a boy in America I would demolish fresh grown Indiana corn but completely ignored leafy green salads.

During my youth my father would tell me, “Someday,” he paused checking the likelihood of the ensuing statement himself, “Someday you’ll grow to enjoy this stuff. Just you wait and see.”

I scoffed at my father’s prediction and continued my distaste of salad into my teenage years in where, conversely I loved strawberries and cream ice cream. Then I connected a few dots of evidence and realized I was lactose intolerant. Then I didn’t like ice cream so much.

As a college student volunteering abroad in Thailand I craved spicy vegetable and noodle soup but altogether ignored any plate with fish on it.

Looking back on my history of food choices I see a common human trait, adaptation and change. Partially because of a personal multicultural and multinational background and partially due to the melting pot that is American, we are privileged to have the choice and variety to even cultivate these preferences.

The average Gambian, in particular those living in remote areas far away from any urban center, do not share the same privilege of choice that many Americans have. The lack of choice keeps the culinary dimension of adaptation and change in a muted state.

When I was a PCV in The Gambia I tried introducing my host family and friends to a number of Western dishes. Hesitant from the stories of past PCVs failing miserably in this endeavor, I stubbornly decided to give it my best shot anyways. Surely there would be something that would be good enough to warrant a change in Gambian taste buds. I tried everything from fresh salad to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Cliff bars to mashed potatoes, meals of spaghetti to chicken noodle soup, and was met by reactions ranging from quiet indifference to chocking and forced swallows of death.

My buddy told me, “That’s nothing. You know how my family always makes the sugary rice porridge? They make it so much I’m beginning to think they’re having a passionate love affair with it. So I think, this is one thing I can Americanize and they will still love. I made the same dish only replaced oatmeal for the rice and added cinnamon and fresh cut apples. You know what happened when I served my family? My little host brother took one bite and instantly threw it all up.”

With a passive acceptance of past failures and I decided that if I couldn’t change the food itself perhaps I could at least put an American spin on the presentation of a meal and pray for an agreement of the mouth and stomach. Fear of continued failure ran high as memories came flooding back; have you ever met someone who was picky about how their steak is cooked? What about their eggs or what goes on their Hamburgers? I knew I had better rely on an old saying, “Keep It Simple Stupid,” simple and it just might work.

So, when I was a PCV and wanted to celebrate Halloween I served my family watermelon scooped out of the round green fruit ice cream style. This was in opposition to the Gambian norm of eating watermelon sliced into wedges, but hell, I didn’t care, I was on a mission to force the acceptance of a new presentation. But that was not enough, I wanted to celebrate Halloween as an American, so I scooped out the inside, carved a picture on the side, stuck a candle in the center, and lit it up. Minutes later everyone in the compound was enjoying scooped watermelon illuminated from the soft glow of a “skull and cross bones” patterned light.

When I was a PCV, I didn’t forget some of the things I did as a boy to celebrate the fun of the holidays.

To all friends and family,
Happy Halloween 2007.

Strangers from another planet

2007-10-22T08:08:00.000Z

12 days of recapturing a lost life showed me a path towards a new one. Remnants of an old self which has become foreign met the new and the increasingly everyday, the resulting mix a brew that is ripe for reflection and divergent roads.

Jacob and Dan spent 12 days in The Gambia and I think for the three of us the time mixing three distinctively different lives grounded us in our shared history and then asked for assurance in the direction we were going in life. Jacob patient and calculating, working database support in order to plan for the future and take care of student loans. Dan keeping a sharp focus on the music industry, vying for that one opportunity that will allow his years of Cello and Guitar playing to shine. As for myself, well, I guess I would say I’m still out trying to prove to myself I am capable of the once unthinkable.

The details of trip are a blur now. We spent time in the urban area relaxing on the beach, met a lot of fellow PCVs over unsatisfying JulBrew beer, went to the top of Arch-22 overlooking Banjul, traveled the moon-like roads of the South Bank highway, hiked with Chad to a bluff that overlooked the Gambia River valley, broke fast with spaghetti, eggs, bread, and oil, cooked Chicken Domodaa on a charcoal fire, took countless trips into the busy Brikama market, brewed Attaya tea, had a beach party with fellow teachers from my school, saw Jaliba perform at a local venue, and sat out on a concrete floor and played with Amee and Buba.

Of course through all of this the three of us joked and talked about our past escapades and future hopes. For the first time in The Gambia I laughed so hard that my stomach cried out in pain. Refreshing. Despite our different paths in life we shared a commonality of life in ones’ 20’s. Slowly finding what brings joy to life but definitely still wandering the empty space between the stars. Our chats reminded me of some advice my Aunt has bestowed upon me, “Some times its best to remember that the master plan is usually unclear. To some extent, no matter our age, we are all winging it.”

During the visit I also felt very much on display of my adaptation and socialization into Gambian society. Having an outside view critiquing my actions there was a distinct sense that I was not giving nearly enough. The shell that protects me from going insane with being out of my element has perhaps become a bit too opaque and thick. It reminded me that overall I am an introverted person, uncomfortable in a situation with a lot of people that I don’t know. For that reason life here, where greetings, visitors, and socializing with anyone and everyone is expected, is difficult. Because of the shell it can even be difficult communicating with fellow PCVs, despite our shared cultural background.

Specifics of the shell? A case in point would be my attitude to strangers and children. Dan and Jacob repeatedly would greet and chat with strangers or children in situations when I would have given a Scrooge-esque grumble or passing wave. Our large car park is often a breeding ground for endless hours of waiting. Endless hours of waiting while bored Gambian 20-somethings start conversations about America, why Gambia is nice, and the gamut of typical greetings. Dan handled this situation with a calm and openness that has been missing in action from my being. My neighborhood street plays like a broken record of children screaming my name, and during their visit Jacob and Dan’s name. I’ve internalized this as an annoyance but Jacob smiled, waved, and kindly approached most if not all of the kids. These contrasts played out time and time again during the 12 days. Beauty in contrast? Hope for thoughtful results.

As a result I had to ask, have we become so jaded and tired as to hide ourselves in a blackened shuttered hole?

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But don’t forget that the visit also brought laughter of abdomen burning levels, so here’s a simple little comic book collage featuring some highlights from the trip.

Featured: (from top left to bottom right) Dan pounding rice and peanuts for an evening dessert, Jacob fetching water from my open well, Carson and Dan posing for the camera after eating delicious Mango smoothies in Banjul, myself and Dan well on our way to being giddy, Chad, myself, and Dan after a long hike and weed whacking adventure to the “King’s Hill”, and finally Jacob and Dan being silly at the beach before digging into a plate of french fries which might have been their most enjoyable meal the whole trip.

Ch. 23 Where a few mysteries are explained but the conclusions are left to the reader

2007-10-06T09:05:00.000Z

In Thomas Mann´s book Tonio Kroeger, the protagonist goes through a series of definitive moments that shape his life. The moments are spread across his life but are described in detail, without showing the direct impact on Tonio. It is left to the reader to fill in the missing gaps of time and discern why the change was made.

These detailed moments of growth are the book´s leitmotif and are often highlighted when Mann writes, Damals, lebte sein Herz. This could be translated to, ¨At those times, his heart was truly alive.¨ The language isn´t done justice in the English translation and it should be noted that the surrounding text is what clarifies the phrase. When reading the passages in full the once vague phrase expands to include extremes of loss, pain, joy, desire, hope, and yearning.

I put the phrase on my Blog header before leaving home over a year ago. I never realized how much those few words would best describe my time in The Gambia...

To all those volunteers who have been beacons of friendship, kindness and understanding, and to the supportive people back home, you know who you are, my heartfelt thanks. 9 more months living the leitmotif.

* I know Ch.22, the previous post, was going to be the last for some time, but some mornings filled with emotion simply cannot be denied and they demand to find their outlet.

Ch. 22 In which small details set up much bigger events

2007-10-01T07:58:00.000Z

There is a garden worm which is desperately crawling across the road. Its head leaps forward, stubbornly demanding the rest of the body to follow. A push and a drag and the worm slowly moves to its ultimate goal. I look at the worm and it makes me realize that I’ve fallen in love once again with what keeps me going here, professionalism and determination to do our job. I realize that I’ve taken it to the extreme and am being hermitic with the idea, I realize I am not balancing devotion with breaks for the mind. (Es steht klar auf Deutsch wenn man eine Ganzheit sagen würde.
.)

And then the detailed memories come back.

It’s the third grade and I still feel like a foreigner. The transition from an International School in Malaysia to a small midwestern Catholic school leaves me wondering why American schools are so rigid and made up of the same type of person. I can’t take it anymore so by the end of the year my parents enroll me in the local public school where I meet Jacob. Jacob invites me to his house for a birthday party sleep over and while driving to his house I wonder why he lives so far away I wonder how it is that we go to the same school. The home is filled with other students from our grade at the public school and I feel out of place as friendships and clear lines are already drawn for who is best friends with who. The day wears into night and I have my pajamas in a small backpack and I’m not sure if you’re supposed to put them on at a certain time or if I was even supposed to bring pajama’s to an American sleep over. I feel completely out of place and am happy that at least I was invited to the party.

Dan I don’t really get to know until high school. It’s early freshmen year I’m 5’9” and due to lack of self control and the availability of fast food I weigh 200 pounds. This affects my high school career. For those of us with low self esteem there are still welcoming people and Dan is one of them. Dan has had a few girl friends and I am of course jealous. We are at his house with our mutual friend Cameron and we talk about whether or not one can have an opinion on a subject, like women, without having had experience. For some reason we stand firm in our views and we argue to the point of shouting and spiteful tones and I wonder how we ever got so violent about a small matter. But we are teenagers, and we are merely growing up through misunderstanding and argumentation over points that will seem silly years later.

I’m in the Gambia and I’m thinking about these things as I go to the airport with a good friend of mine from a few villages away. We are going to meet our site mate at the airport to welcome her back from vacation. Other PCVs ask with confused faces why we are doing this and I wonder what ever happened to friendliness. We enter the airport climb the flight of stairs to the wonderfully air conditioned restaurant that looks out onto the airstrip. She and I are both fasting for Ramadan and all around us are people merrily eating from little frosted cups of strawberry, chocolate, vanilla and mint flavored ice cream. We become a bit delirious and talk about the health benefits and delicacy of a boiled egg sandwich and wheat bread and we both laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. We wait for the airplane and both agree that there are meals we will truly appreciate when we return home.

We wait for about 30 minutes and a restaurant employee walks up to us and informs us that if we aren’t going to buy anything then he’s going to have to ask us to leave. We stand up, sigh, and start our exit from the the air conditioned respite. I think that he might have had mercy on us if he knew we were fasting but then I wonder if he would ever even think to ask two foreigners if they were fasting. I want to make a point of it but my mind is too tired to even start the process of argumentation.

I settle for something simpler and reflect on the day. I reflect on this life that I’m living and I can’t help but be a bit nervous as to what Dan and Jacob will think when they arrive here in a few days. I can’t help but be nervous but I also can’t help but feel incredibly excited for the much bigger events to come.

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Two of my best friends from childhood, Dan and Jacob, are coming this weekend. It will be a continuation of a story that has been now going on for some 15 years. I’m going to take this opportunity to take a break from blog posting and recharge my brain for writing. Expect postings again around the week of October 22nd-28th. Best wishes to all, Todd.

Time and trash water

2007-09-26T07:26:00.000Z

It’s rather akin to the type of deception and slowing of time made hilariously famous in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when the parking garage workers roar through the streets of Chicago in a blazing red Ferrari.

What effect can the same passage of time have on an individual? The common cliche is that to an Olympic sprinter a hundredth of a second is everything but to a child dancing in the autumn leaves it is absolutely meaningless. The concept of time, a trinity with speed and distance, is often thought of in mechanical units. Yet, this trinity also has an emotive quality as well.

650 BCE - Use of water clocks in Assyria

I had the distinct impression that time had entered our lives and gotten away with murder. This was three weeks back, when visiting three of my closest PCV friends in The Gambia. We looked as if we had been dragged along as Time played a game knowing full well the conditions for victory. This knowledge was of course to our eyes, buried in the sand.

321 CE - Constantine’s calendar uses 7-day week

There was a moment when the three of us were all quietly sitting together, lost in our own thoughts,that this impression was most vivid. I scanned the room and was met by faces that all looked tired, weathered, and aged more than the 14 months that we have known each other and The Gambia would otherwise suggest. It’s as if the weight of this direction in life had brought exhausting extremes of joy, failure, kindness, loneliness, and experience.

When I returned home I looked at a photo album containing pictures from the last few years of my life. I closed the album and looked in the mirror. The change was undeniable.

1202 CE - Mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci introduces Arabic numerals to Italy

If I let myself indulge in a pleasant fantasy, I would find myself studying the standardization of time in the Western sense and how it shaped our thinking of the world around us.

Cross cultural realizations; Americans perceive speed, as controlled by our own actions (Cars, Internet, Microwave ovens, Satellites), from a historical framework that has been growing for centuries. Sail ships, the pony express, steam engines, railroads, telegraph, automobiles, aircraft, electronic communication, the list is endless and increasingly moving towards speeds that can only be comprehended by the average person as abstract concepts. Microseconds not miles.

In the particular case of cars we live in a society that was eased into moving and controlling the high speeds that they provide. First eased in under the simple thought of excessive speed with steam ships and railroads and then to the autonomy of the motor vehicle.

1858 CE - First transatlantic telegraph cable

I still am not sure what the sequence of events that introduced automobiles to The Gambia was, but it seems a bit of a precarious position to force such a massive change on a society without proper preparation or education. It feels like it all happened at once, no slow historical precedent or socialization. It’s possible the general public has only been exposed to motor vehicles for the past 40 years. In terms of how one might contemplate the relationship of time, speed, and distance, the sudden availability of broken down boxes of Steel and Speed is rather like giving a four year old a old unreliable bike that has no training wheels and expecting him to ride it like a Tour champion. Impossibly high learning curve as cultures clash.

1961 CE - Soviet cosmonaut orbits the Earth

What are some observations on the result of this sudden jolt of speed?
Safety, many vehicles lack working speedometers and I fear the drivers rely solely on intuition to gauge their “safe” speed.
Appropriate warning, it is common to hear a passenger request, “Drive give me here” (Stop! I want to get out now) about two seconds from when the car would otherwise have passed the desired intersection. The driver has to slam hard on the brakes, dealing with an angry passenger yelling at him (female drivers are a rarity) for missing their stop. Brake lights tend to be broken on many vehicles...
Faster = has the right of way, pedestrians, donkey carts, bicyclists, older people with canes, all are supposed to yield to a person in a car. Why? The faster you go the more right of way you get. I’ve seen this cultural norm push old women into ankle deep muddy trash water*, boys on bicycles with no brakes run into each other and crash, and cars pulling risky two lane passing maneuvers on streets crowded with people going home form a football match. Sound familiar? As I last recall aggressive and foolish SUV drivers were experts in these arts.

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* This term was coined one lazy Sunday afternoon in college when my roommate Matt Meyer and I were in our back yard setting up a Whiffle Ball field. It had rained hard the night before filling up anything skyward pointing concave object to gather liters of water. We weren’t paying careful attention to our surroundings and knocked over an entire trash can which contained a number of old pizza boxes, beer bottles, moldy notebooks, Campbell’s Soup cans, and a whole load of rain water. What crashed, spilled, and flowed out of the trash can went all over our legs and shoes and was distinctly foul. After that second pause to accept the reality of the situation I yelled out in anger/frustration/laughter, “Damn it, trash water!?” Matt started laughing hysterically at me, himself, and the situation and it stuck ever since...

Just read the last post...

2007-09-19T07:31:00.000Z

...it was supposed to be this week’s post, but caught up in the chuckles and jokes when writing it, I couldn’t help but unleash it into the wild. Open the “Top Gun” link for the first time (or again) and witness some pure 80’s magic.

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We’re about a week into Ramadan and I find a lot more people display a greater interest in astronomy than during the other 335 days of the year. The moon is visibly growing, a reassuring if not completely expected symbol of the passage of time, and I’m sure its dependable cycle strengthens confidence in the permanence of life, religion, and God.

I of course still look at the stars and planets for their beauty. As the rainy season dies, the sky becomes filled with heat lightning. Flashes of light on the horizon, clear open skies, a brilliantly lit moon, and a chorus of stars twinkling with different magnitudes still make the evening sky a source of awe and wonder.

We broke fast last night with some cream of potato soup that I made. Yes, I still am limited by the skill set of the college male cook, but despite this the meal was pleasantly tasty. Kaddy and I shared a bowl so that we could add a ton of pepper (Thai style I thought to myself), while Daboe, who prefers a more plain taste, kept a separate bowl of mild soup.

Two of the new education volunteers in the area and I are fasting this month. A few mornings ago we chatted before we all ran off to our respective work places and agreed the worst thing about the fasting is: The early morning eating. Waking up at 5am and trying to stuff our stomachs puts us in a difficult spot. Eat and drink too little and the day is endlessly irritating. Eat too much and you not only feel sick, but you can’t even attempt to go back to bed for those 45 minutes of so before you have to wake up for the second time and truly start your day...

Prayer calls seem to have tripled in their intensity. They seem to have gained an omnipresent voice, which might just be the point of it all.

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There are some things that speak to you at just the right time...

...and there are some passages from The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro which struck me as fine examples of artistic brilliance. Of course they need to be fully appreciated in context, but perhaps this will compel one to find their local library and read the book for themselves. Special applause to Mr. Ishiguro who was able to control the tone and psychology of his main character masterfully.

“As I say, I have never in all these years thought of the matter in quite this way; but then it is perhaps in the nature of coming away on a trip such as this that one is prompted towards such surprising new perspectives on topics one imagined one had long ago thought through thoroughly.”

“I set off again, maintaining for some reason - perhaps because I expected further farm creatures to wander across my path - my slow speed of before. I must say, something about this small encounter had put me in very good spirits; the simple kindness I had been thanked for, and the simple kindness I had been offered in return, caused me somehow to feel exceedingly uplifted about the whole enterprise facing me over these coming days. It was in such a mood, then, that I proceeded here to Salisbury.”

“One could presumably drive oneself to distraction in this way. In any case, while it is all very well to talk of ‘turning points’, one can surely only recognize such moments in retrospect. Naturally, when one looks back to such instances today, they may indeed take the appearance of being crucial, precious moments in one’s life; but of course, at the time, this was not the impression one had. Rather, it was as though one had available a never-ending number of days, months, years in which to sort out the vagaries on one’s relationship...”

Cheers, as one might say across the pond.

WIRED MAGAZINE: HOW TO GUIDE (PCV Gambia Edition)

2007-09-15T11:33:00.000Z

Make it, mod it, hack it, wing it: We live in the age of DIY. So, with a little help from my fellow Education PCVs, we present the first annual How To Guide. Think of it as your manual for life in 21st century Gambia - advice on how to make big books, beat intestinal worms, and captain a softball team are all inside. From the Education group of 2006-2008 including two adopted members, extenders from the 2005-2007 group.

Bonus: Ed. Volunteers, see if you can find yourself. About 12 people were used.
Illustrations by Yaya.

---> HOW TO: WORK

How to: Extend for a Third Year
1 > Have a good reason. Strong projects, marriage, a new country of service, or specific aspects of your service that you feel are missing are all valid reasons. Avoid reasons that you forcefully have to justify such as: fear, not knowing what to do next, possibility of relationships/weak relationships, or laziness.
2 > Tell your APCD and CD! This can be an often forgotten fact as you involve fellow volunteers in the decision making process. Disaster could result from failure to adhere to this step.
3 > Get to know the group that came after you. They are your new family and you’ll need their help in many of the same ways that you needed the help of your own group.
4 > Take your month leave to go home, eat some Wendy’s, take a stroll through a neighborhood park, and relax. This is a deceptively difficult step since most people have a list of things to do that would take more time than what is actually alloted to them. Plan the trip well and be sure to include a few days of doing absolutely nothing, be prepared for them to end up being busy anyways.
5 > Get on the plane to return to The Gambia. Enjoy your last chance for the next 11 months to be sitting in air conditioning, being waited on by someone, and watching television. Travel back to site in a gele-gele and do your thing.

How to: Make Big Books
Qualified as ‘masters’ on the ABBA (American Big Book Association) Exam Becca and Rachel have made a name for themselves by creating the most colorful, detailed, and interesting big books. Their biggest piece of advice? Shade the backside of your tracing paper (the side that rests on your final book), that way when you trace a nice clear thick line will appear on your final book.
1 > Find time to create! Most people underestimate how long taking a big book will make, especially if it involves a lot of characters and detail. Allow at least one hour per page.
2 > Search for good source material. Unless you are the next Theodor Geisel or Mercer Mayer don’t rely on your own artistic skill. Mix and match pictures from books even if the style is somewhat different. As long as your final book is consistent it will work.
3 > Trace the source material. Don’t forget to trace the words if there are special fonts or effects required by the text.
4 > Transfer your traces to the big book.
5 > Stop. Take a break and chat with whomever is in the room with you. Your hands and mind need a break. Eat a snack and have a drink. The break will also allow you to see if you’ve left anything out. Suggested food and drink: Peanut butter and bread (You need your protein) and Foster Clark’s drink mix (You need your fruit flavor, vitamin C, and sugar).
6 > Colorize and fill in the pictures. Be creative, add landscapes, minor characters, hidden secrets, and color. Don’t detract from your original message too much unless your job is to create the next “Where’s Waldo” (In which case go crazy and add people dancing to boom boxes, Ancient Egyptian pharaohs , or a witch cooking with a bubbling cauldron).
7 > Present your big book to your school, community group, APCD, or other appreciating person.

How to: Successfully Switch Sites
1 > Have a good reason to leave. Too many volunteers aren’t willing to give their site a chance. Your site is what you make it, and you have to give it time to make it something you like. If it still is horrible after 9 months to a year, then and only then seriously consider switching.
2 > Talk to your APCD and make a good case for your move. Include cultural and work related issues since that makes up 100% of a PCVs job. Hint: Strong prepared arguments are best, ‘It just sucks, the people aren’t good’ probably won’t be convincing but ‘I think I could be more effective running after school programs at a school with a feasible science lab’ probably will.
3 > Move to your new site. Remember to do all the cultural things associated with a new member of a community. Give Kola nuts to the Al-Kalo (Village head), community leaders, the Imam, and host family heads. Go and greet your new host community members.
4 > Don’t be afraid to give up your previously learned language. If your new village is predominantly of another ethnic group learn their language as soon as possible. Bonus: If you can learn to adequately speak more than one language people will think your mind is ‘that much sweeter’ and you’ll probably get an according increase in the amount of marriage proposals.

---> HOW TO: LIVE

How to: Beat Intestinal Worms
Sarah has overcome everything from the flu to worms. She fears nothing and now can kill off disease by just staring it down.
1 > Remember that early on you don’t have Thundercat strength quite yet, so don’t rush into things. Most village food contains some bacteria or parasite, but until your body adjusts you can't kill them off naturally.
2 > Watch for symptoms. If your stomach is running too much or if it is running not at all, you probably have worms. Start to read books like “Where there is No Doctor” and become appropriately paranoid.
3 > As the pain increases don't give up! Listen to your PC medical officers and let them try traditional medicine first.
4 > If all else fails drink your worms under the table and out of your system. Hint: Worms apparently hate alcohol. Start downing beer like a college Freshmen and don't quit drinking until the worms pass through and you’ll have the strength of ten Grinches, plus two. Go out and celebrate your victory, Thundercats Hoooo.

How to: Be the Farthest Up Country, Have the Most Fun, and Have No One Know What the Heck You’re Up To.
1 > Be in a village far up country which will detract all lazy unadventurous Kombo volunteers from visiting. If this can’t be done try and find a site that is far off the main highway and hard to get to. Both these will maximize your seclusion factor and add to the mystery.
2 > Find your niche in the community and go out enough that when you walk the streets it seems like everyone greets you and recalls a story of their favorite experience with you.
3 > Have just enough people visit to show them how much fun you are having, but not give any details that would demystify the experience. Don’t let the visitor linger too long or they’ll discover too much!
4 > Let the mystery of your happy existence in The Gambia spread through the PCV gossip network.
5 > Live like a King, with everyone scratching their heads as to how you do it.

How to: Dress for Success
Dan has pulled off some of the most creative, attractive, and hilarious outfits throughout his year and a quarter in The Gambia. His stylistic epiphany apparently came during In Service Training when he realized that Gambian clothing was missing one important thing, America. So he combined Gambian style clothes with American Flag patterned fabric and came out with spectacular results.
1 > Buy fabric that speaks to you. Ideally you should pick something that speaks not only to your personal tastes but also to your country; spend the time to find cloth that is patterned with the American Flag, patriotic colors, George Bush, army camo, etc.
2 > Find your favorite tailor and tell him to make the outfit a ‘bit on the large size.’ This ensures that the outfit would best fit in an MC Hammer video making it awe inspiring on the streets of The Gambia. If you accurately tell your tailor ‘I want this to be oversized’ you risk receiving clothing that is large enough to be used as a small circus tent.
3 > Pick a venue and/or event to introduce your new ensemble. Wear like a suit made out of pure American pride. Smile and wave as you walk past people with gaping jaws of admiration.

How to: Live in Kombo and Still Save Money.
Terry is one of the most successful volunteers at keeping tack of his funds. No tricks here, just simple common sense. Live within your means, find the best deals for common items, and don’t give into the vices of the city.
1 > Survey the grocery stores and find the best deals for common items that you will be buying frequently. Stock up if you find particularly good values. Hint: Don’t forget to check Serrekunda market, sometimes items there can be bought in bulk for cheap. Have a plan when going in, wandering can be discouraging and distracting from your mission.
2 > Fail to plan and you plain to fail. Make a plan for how you want to spend your money. Include some discretionary funds for that occasional ice cream or night out for beers that you know you will be craving at some point or another. Follow how you are doing week to week recording your progress. At the end of the month compare the actual spent with your plan. Simple economics, period.
3 > KISS. Keep it simple stupid, don’t forget you are a Peace Corps volunteer. Do you really need that refrigerator, leather couch, Chinese dinner, or 60 watt light bulb?
4 > Cook for yourself instead of going out. With a little planning a crafty volunteer can usually make a better meal than local restaurants and save a significant amount of money. If you don’t know how to cook, learn quickly and don’t be afraid to experiment. Tip: Even if you are a poor cook you can start with some easy basics. Try vegetable soup mixes combined with chopped fresh vegetables and bread make a hearty easy meal.

How to: Show Gambians How to Rock Out Like an American
1 > Live in an adequately small village where your actions will be seen and heard by the entire community.
2 > Fly a huge American flag over your hut so that anyone in a 2km radius can see it clearly.
3 > Wear large sunglasses that depending on your expression can either make you look like you’re from “Top Gun” (Note: Soundtrack personnel included) or a bad-ass police officer.
4 > Go out to the fields and show Gambians how farming gets done in good old Iowa.
5 > Visit America to remind yourself where you came from, and don’t forget to pick up new shades. Come back and continue to rock out.

---> HOW TO: PLAY

How to: Prank Your Site Mate’s House
1 > Know your enemy. Find out what kinds of things a volunteer hates to love and loves to hate. This way the prank is aggravating enough but won’t get you killed. This is your site mate after all, you have to live with seeing them again.
2 > Get to know your site mate’s host family. Familiarity with who you are will allow you to get away with a whole lot more than if you are a stranger. Hint: Keys to doors or special entrances to homes are often kept with the family.
3 > Pick a time to pull the prank when you have adequate time to pull it off. Well planned pranks that take time to develop are usually the most rewarding and can be easily executed when the site mate is on a long vacation.
4 > Pull your prank. Example: Paint their house to look like a Kindergarten classroom including ABCs, a yellow brick road of knowledge, and animal pictures.
5 > Sit back and wait for the inevitable payback.

How to: Send a Baffling Text Message
1 > Live life for the inexplicable crazy moments, write them down, keep them in your head, or take a picture so that accurate details are captured.
2 > Open a new text message. Write the message based on one of your specific experiences and be as detailed as possible. Don’t give any hint as to the reason or meaning behind the message. Don’t write a question or imply any response is needed at the end of the text.
3 > Choose to send the message that you rarely talk to otherwise. The recipient’s confusion and lack of context to your message will create vivid pictures far off the actual mark.
4 > Sit back and wait for a puzzled reply.

How to: Captain a(n unsuccessful) WAIST Softball Team
1 > Select your team. No luxury of MLB scouts or talent here, these are PCVs we are talking about. Put names in a hat and pull at random. Better yet start the competitive spirit early and have potential team members play a massive rock, paper, scissors tournaments to weed out the elite from the unlucky.
2 > Get uniforms. Nothing fancy, this distracts from your game play. Simple fabric or tie and dye that can be obtained anywhere in country is fine. You need uniformity here not the latest sports wear from Nike.
3 > Start casual drinking approx. one hour before game time (even if game time is 8am). Create and open and fun atmosphere where it is OK to make mistakes. People go to WAIST to have fun, not to be yelled at.
4 > Don’t show up for your team’s final game. Tell people you were too hung over to make it, even if you weren’t, this is the most plausible and excusable justification. And hey your team might not care, without your leadership it’s likely they will win their only game of the tournament.

- 2007 HOW TO GUIDE: PCV Gambia Edition
All Respect given to the real Wired Magazine and their work

Next Stop: Jurassic Park

2007-09-12T07:48:00.001Z

Bringing your Computer Lab into the 21st Century

I’ve been meaning to print the following essay in the Education Newsletter, but my co-editor and I haven’t found a good place to fit it in. Since it might not ever make it in the newsletter, I thought I’d post it here on my blog. The essay was originally written to give an overview of current trends with ICT education in The Gambia, and was intended to help new volunteers create relevant and timely courses. The theory behind it might be useful to anyone doing ICT development work, so hopefully it’ll reach a wider audience.

As an educator we must remember to look at the overall trends. It seems as though the age of the personal computer is over and we have come of age in the world of the networked computer.

Footnotes for the American (or non-Gambian) reader are appended to the end of the article.

The upcoming year could bring about a sea change in computer education in The Gambia. With more reliable NAWEC (1) power reaching farther regions of the country, we now have an opportunity to create up-to-date and quality labs.

However, increasingly it will not be enough to teach the computer as a standalone box. If we observe the world around us it is the network which serves as the de facto reason of why one should learn to use a computer. By educating Gambian students about the computer and the network, we are no longer merely resurrecting the dinosaur, but also rebuilding the whole of Jurassic Park (2). Teaching the computer as a communication medium rather than as an independent box ensures that our students receive contemporary computer literacy training.

But how do we accomplish this as we transition from a world of struggles over FOIL (3), solar, or connection to the national power grid? Obviously getting the lab power is essential to the hands on experience, but even before that we can prepare our students for when the entire spectrum is available. Here, I have given a few suggestions of what you can accomplish in your lab without power, with power but no network, and finally with a network.

When dealing with a no power situation, try using physical models of a network that describe the basics of why a network allows for reliable and efficient communications. This could be done using drawings, or physical objects such as bottles tied together with string. Try creating small circles of students with their arms tied together to the person to their immediate right and left. Tell students to pretend that they are a computer. Try sending a piece of paper that represents the data/message to be sent. “Cut” the network by removing some of the students. Is the network still functioning? Next have them hold hands with someone to the right of them and also to someone across from them. Now “cut” the network. Can the message still be delivered?

If you have a computer lab with power your options are vast indeed. However, I often see lab classes limited to teaching Microsoft Word or Excel; do not sell yourself short of the entirety of what computers can do! Starting with network foundations can be simpler and an easier introduction to computers.

For instance you could build a small school website. Simple HTML web pages are easy to code and take up very little space. Uploaded to every machine in your lab it could efficiently simulate an online experience. Try building a homepage with a few links to various eBooks, information about Gambia, or better yet interactive Flash based games to create a sense of confidence through explorative learning.

You could also download software that answers the inquisitive mind of students who are going online. We currently use numerous free and educational programs that go across a variety of subjects and disciplines including dictionaries, software for science, math, SES, and many others (4). These programs go a long way to familiarizing students with not only using a computer but also with what a computer can do.

The best thing about these methods is that if they are set up correctly the student interacts within a simplified and controlled world. That is you can forgo the pains of teaching complexities of the Windows OS (5) and start with something much simpler, giving the student a true feeling of control over the computer.

Finally, if you can get access to the internet a whole new world of possibilities opens itself. I would still suggest beginning your courses with an online simulation as described above, so that the range of complexity of sites they visit can be monitored. After that the world is at their finger tips, and without careful guidance students can quickly find themselves lost in the bottomless sea of information.

In order to keep students on track, be sure to introduce the online experience through specific user forums and discussion groups that can ease students into the conventions and standards of the online community. This controlled method of communication could be well paired with weekly questions from a World Links School (6) or outside source or even with internal school discussions. Cross cultural discussions with specific questions would give many Gambians a more complete and accurate view of the lives and ways of people living in another country.

We must be sure to teach relevant computer skills to our students. The computer and the network now act in unison to bring the world together; this is the most powerful application of computers today. If we fail to show the power of this then our students, the backbone of The Gambia’s future, will fall further behind in the world of IT.

Feel free to E-mail, text, or call me about software or ideas mentioned in this article.
-Todd

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Footnotes:
(1) NAWEC - National Water and Electricity Company. Over the past year has brought energy to key cities up-country as well as improved reliability in the urban areas.
(2) Reference to an article all ICT volunteers are given during training entitled “Resurrecting the Dinosaur,” in which The Gambia’s first ICT PCVs described repairing and making old and outdated hardware operational.
(3) FOIL - Fuel Oil, gas in American English. The fuel for generators, and therefore is what many schools and organizations across the country have come to rely on.
(4) Much of this free software has been found with the help of the Website Educational Freeware (http://www.educational-freeware.com/) a great resource for any ICT development worker.
(5) Rather than being an attack on Microsoft, this should read, “complexities of any modern operating system.” The desktop metaphor we are so familiar with in the United States simply does not translate smoothly to West Africa.
(6) World Links - Peace Corps sponsored global pen pals and school collaboration agency.

Welcome to -The Broken Drum- Bar and Restaurant

2007-09-05T07:40:00.000Z

”Our eatery can’t be beat!
-From Terry Pratchett and the Discworld cast (Keeping me laughing and smiling through it all)

Harper’s Findings on Food and Drink:
> Mangos, high in fiber and essential vitamins, are quickly being consumed and current estimates say there is roughly 504 to 552 hours before stock supplies run out.
> Dinner parties are all the rage in the Brikama area. Birthday parties, welcoming new volunteers, or just silly fun are reasons cited as being in style and worthy of such a gathering. The Volunteer Happiness Index has risen to approximately Volume 5.8*.
> The holy month of Ramadan begins on the 13th of September. A famished and exhausted population is expected to reach its peak irritability rating by day 19, tapering off by day 28 when nutrient levels become too low to support mood swings or emotions.
> Domino’s Pizza (American Fast Food Pizza Chain) has introduced an OREO flavored dessert pizza. The pizza is made of a regular Domino’s crust, icing for the base layer, and chunks of OREO cookies for toppings. It is currently being sold for $3.99 if ordered with a qualifying “dinner” pizza. Doctor’s surveyed at 15 clinics at 12 of America’s largest cities from Los Angeles to Boston claim that American adult obesity levels have increased 38% over the past 10 years.

* As measured on an absolute scale ranging from Volume 5 to Volume 6. Visit the PCVs in the area and you’ll understand...

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One of the other volunteers that I work with at the YMCA is from California, and she recently came back from a month long vacation visiting family and friends. Of note all the vegetables and fruit must have been good for her because she looked appreciably healthier than any of the other volunteers I’ve seen recently.

As we chatted and caught up she made some subtly perceptive remarks. Chiefly among which was, “That the thing is, there is a general misconception of progress from both the Gambian and American side. Being in America and looking at all the $200 jeans and t-shirts, fancy cars, and means of communication, I realized that all the stuff we have in America is also here in West Africa, just different.” She stopped for a second to fully contemplate the inference to be made, “It just seems a bit funny that all over the world our basic technologies haven’t changed a whole lot since the late 19th century. For example why do we still use gas powered cars to drive a few miles to work, school, or to eat? Isn’t it odd that Gambians revere America as this technological utopia, and isn’t it odd that we Americans think that we are so far advanced?”

Indeed.

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We conclude this jumbled visit to The Broken Drum with a verbal painting.

The scene passed before my eyes like a distant spectacle. Perfectly Gambian in my own limited Peace Corps experience: removed but gigantic, lacking color value but Indescribable in audio and common sense. Best described as a sort of miss-mash of pieces that shouldn’t fit together, but like a small child with a challenging puzzle, forced, smashed, and bent into one.

It happened outside of a large Internet cafe surrounded by a familiar brown colored ground and Islamic green mosque spires. I was finishing a 30 minute conversation with my mother on my mobile**. The reception was thankfully not too terrible this time around, meaning only a 3 second delay and static fuzz every 3 minutes. A large 7 meter by 7 meter solar panel array stands inside the complex, slowly taking in the sun’s rays. A shirtless 16 year old Gambian male, wearing only brown pants and red foam sandals, is engaged in a shouting match with a fully clothed 25 year old. My conversation with my mother comes to an end as the boys take the shouting to the next level.

And without further ado let’s Level up! Round 2: Fist Fighting***.

The fists swinging and the shouts wailing last long enough for everyone to drop their jaw and admire the inexplicability of the situation. Then the theatrics are quickly pulled apart and quieted by friends, management, and customers. Each of the fighters are trying to maintain their manliness by giving one last gasp attempt to break free of the peace makers and throw in a final swing. Needless to say curses abound.

Throughout all of this in the background there is a large television hall filled with about 30 young men watching an English Premiership football match on full volume. They are chanting and cheering in tune with the game rather than the fight. Goals, fouls, and missed opportunities dictating the waves of noise.

A storm is brewing in the distance and clouds are rolling in without the usual silent thunder, but with a quiet confidence embodied in all things inevitable. It’s as if the clouds are looming and whispering, “We are coming. And yes, the storm will be big. Be ready.”

The final brush stroke of the image: goats. A small herd of five goats ‘baa’ing down the road, and being led by an quiet little lady who must have been well into her grand-parenting years. She looks on at all of the commotion, shrugs disinterested, and pushes her goats on past the fight, past the Internet cafe, past the cheering hooligans.

I get on my bicycle, an imported Trek from America, transportation that completely places volunteers further in the “white foreigner” lime-light, and ride off. The road is a muddy mess from the rainy season and my clothes make it home speckled with dots of mud.

** Yes, that’s mobile not cell phone. Other British English regulars (and their American counterpart): Rubbish (Trash), Rubber (Eraser), and Football (Football).
*** Steevo, being a nerd should be able to visualize the appropriate cheesy SNES/SEGA Genesis era Street Fighter II graphics I’m envisioning here. Ask him to paint you a picture, in the limiting tool set of Microsoft Paint if at all possible.

Schubert- Impromptu, G flat major, op. 90, no. 3

2007-08-29T07:54:00.000Z

The above piece reveals no particular meaning here unless you want it to. It was merely playing in the background as I wrote this blog entry. The music is burned into memory as the background music to one of my favorite movie scenes of all time. Rent the film GATTACA and look for the piano concert/detective interrogation scene.

It was a night that ended with a stumbling tip toe through a room of overstuffed travel bags and metal boxes. The grand finale being a climb to the top bunk of one of the PC Gambia hostel beds. As I lay in the bed, disoriented and exhausted, I felt happiness for being alive. And then I promptly passed out.

I realized that in all of my blog postings I’ve never said much about what life is like when a PCV stays at our hostel in the Kombo area. It’s an experience that every volunteer, even those who hate the city and are hermits in their village, have to have at one point or another. This past weekend, to celebrate the swearing in of the 20 new Education volunteers, I once again found myself checking into a bed at the PC hostel. I have mixed feelings on the hostel. I often want to get back to site when I’m there and therefore don’t stay there very often or for very long, but I do enjoy it because I always run into someone that I haven’t seen in a long time. This of course leaves possibilities wide open for meeting new people, learning new things about old friends, and in letting improbability in general rule the day.

The hostel is somewhat like a large collegiate greek house. Two stories high and filled with large open rooms, the hostel greets its guests with a rectangular garden in the front yard, a bare dirt back yard, and a quiet roof patio. There are about 8 rooms each with a number of bunk beds so that the rooms can hold anywhere from 4 to 8 people. Some of the rooms are air conditioned, some are not. There is a refrigerator, stove, oven, full set of kitchen appliances, and a charcoal grill. The hostel also has a much used TV and DVD player, a smorgasbord of card and board games, and a small library that at any given time can have a plethora of gems or nothing at all. Outside hangs long laundry lines that are softly shaded by large mango and banana trees. There are chairs and tables outside where PCVs often have breakfast, lunch, or a quick and quiet read.

Close to the hostel there is a small restaurant/bar where you can get cold Fantas, Cokes, JulBrew, and Guinness. It’s a bit of a hole in the wall sort of place, about the same size of your average small town coffee shop, and it’s only open in the evening. For food they sell a volunteer favorite dish of beans and cassava for dirt cheap, variations coming with only beans or cassava, a soup, or all of the above with fish. The atmosphere is usually laid back and there is a good mix of volunteers and Gambians making the place feel Gambian with a small dash of America for comfort.

This bar is where I found myself after a long day of celebrations with the new volunteers. I was in good company with my site mate buddy who I always get egg sandwiches with and one of my favorite PCVs of all time, a third year Education volunteer who helped trained us, and as I write this is enjoying her first week of home leave given to any volunteer who extends for a third year (btw, if you are reading this e-mail some updates on America now now, and don’t forget Short Circuit 2!!)

Swearing in nights are always funny in that in the beginning there is a sense that everyone should stay together, and rightfully so a sense of common accomplishment should be created. However, inevitably the group fragments along the lines of what people are interested in doing to celebrate that accomplishment. Some go out for ice cream, some out for an exotic dinner, some huddle in the office to e-mail people back home, some go dancing, some go drinking, a lot do a mixture of all of these things in one night. At any rate, the unity breaks up at one point or another, and it is at this point that the three of us decided to duck out and hit the beans and cassava bar.

It was one of those nights where conversation flowed endlessly and drinks along with it. The kind of night that lets you forget about the world around you and for one brief moment of time the laughter and joy in life is concentrated around the small table of your existence. Looking back on where we’ve been in the past year, and what we can achieve in the next was great for me and my site mate. Even better was being able to chat with someone who had been through all of year two and was coming back for more. We all had some transitions going on and all of us left the night ready to find out which of those transitions we wanted to take on and face up to in one way or another. In the end, the best thing about the conversation was that it was able to weave in and out of our experiences as PCVs and in past times. It was as if each of us were able to link on to our common threads of life and find the right intersections that would help put each other on the right path.

It was a night that would have, a stated above, a stumbling tip toe around new volunteers’ bags which were packed for their permanent site, and a confused climb back into bed where I could lay and reflect on it all. As far as alcohol is concerned it’s only the second time in Gambia that I’ve been suffering from that level of drinking, but not too shabby if it only happens once every swearing in...

The moon is up and over One Tree Hill

2007-08-22T08:18:00.000Z

I had a couple of people from my group visit me two days in a row and it was a nice compliment to rebuilding my mental health. I'm pretty much sky high right now when compared to the last few weeks. I can't help but smile and laugh at all the good memories formed in just 48 hours with these amazingly people. Our group doesn't have many rock stars, people who would create wild incoherent nights out at the bar, but we do have a ton of solid people that if you spend the weekend with them and get to really chat, you can't help but feel fully alive. Thanks to you two, and yes now you both know that I talk in my sleep and say embarrassing stuff...

And since there's not much to say and my camera died, I've gone out and stolen some pictures from other PCVs. Enjoy!

Fun times with Mr. Kamara, the school's wood working teacher from Sierra Leon. Here we are at the school's graduation/speech and prize giving ceremony. We're most famous for watching terribly dubbed over Chinese movies and making delicious spicy food (Gambian style has almost zero spice).

A rather expressive picture of me and the co-editor of the education newsletter. We're rocking out at model school helping the new trainees. She has an amazing ability to stay positive and improvise on the spot and makes up good nicknames for people. Note the bit of landscaping, real sidewalk, and corrugate tin roofing.

And congrats to all the new Education volunteers, you've made it.

Where do you want to be?

2007-08-19T16:52:00.000Z

It’s all about pulling weeds. The rainy season is here and our gardens are in full bloom with maize, cassava, and okra. The garden is also in full bloom with an overgrowth of weeds. Boys who were hired to come and pull the weeds decided that in the battle of Irresponsibility vs. Money, irresponsibility won with a haymaker induced K.O. That is, the boys never came and the garden went an extra week without weeding. This past weekend Daboe had seen enough and knew that the garden wasn’t just an ugly sight, it was becoming a killing zone for his crops. So we headed out in our work flip flops, old clothes, and hoes (the garden tool, get your mind out of the gutter!) and started pulling, digging, and uprooting all the threats to the soon to be delicious food of the future.

The actual task is pretty simple, pull out the weeds, rake clean the grass, and pile it all up into a nice little compost heap. The tricky part is not getting into so much of a rhythm with the hacking and slashing that you accidentally cut down the maize or okra (cassava is big enough that you’d have to be blind to miss). When I first started weeding I was falling into the trap of repetition and had quite the embarrassing moment when Kaddy, becoming aware of the damage being done, ran to the garden and more or less forgivingly yelled, “My okra!? It’s being ruined! Yaya, please be more careful...”

Like other times that I’ve ended up helping out around the compound, it seems to bring a certain clarity to life. Perhaps it is a remnant of my childhood, my father and mother making sure that my sister and I understood that helping around the house is not a favor, its an expected part of being in a family. Helping should be automatic, and as a result something about working with another family member feels right and lets my mind be at ease. A mind at ease is a mind that can be in the present moment and work things out, clarity realized. I was in the garden physically acting without effort and mentally in a world of open skies with near endless visibility.

That time in the garden was when I was able to begin working out my recent bouts of frustration and near depression. Self aware that I am a person who easily gets wrapped up in the singular, whether that be an upcoming event, task, or emotion. In this case I was wrapped up in a certain loneliness and frustration from feeling like life’s apple was lacking a core. That is the energizing, sweet, and refreshing aspects of life, usually created from the spirit of great friendship, love, and caring were sorely lacking. The simple truth is that a lot of PCVs feel this at one point or another, it’s a horrible feeling of longing, but we have to get over it or face a draining and relentless suffering for an entire two years. This is desire causing suffering in a pure form.

I worked it out slowly by understanding the problem comparatively. What was lacking in my take on the situation was that I was missing that while a lot of us do suffer from this incompleteness, we should not forget that there should also be excitement for the potential. Potential to build futures beyond our lives here (its easy to forget that we do go home after two years and that there can be continuity between Peace Corps and life back home); potential for friendships that will grow to fill the gaps and holes of today and pass the test of time, living on in joyful memories and realities. We often are so consumed in basic survival mode that this is easy to forget, focusing on what is obvious, meaning focus on what we lack. It took a couple days of weeding in the garden and a good long evening chat with my site mate (thanks by the way, I’d put your name here except I don’t know if that’s ok!) to realize this. As I’ve come to believe in time and time again here, beauty is in contrast, and the realization of these two outlooks typifies that expression. They both exist and if you fall too deep into the singularity of one, down a blinding and dangerous rabbit’s hole, it can be impressively damaging. When consumed by the two instead of the singular, life reveals its colors again. Something missing that does create incredible lack now, but leaves open the the future in our hands, uncertain yet promising.

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Thanks to all who have kept in contact as of late. I’ve gotten some rather splendid e-mails that have made me laugh, smile, feel connected, and have empathy for where we are all going in life abroad, in America, and in the soft fields of imagination. One e-mail in particular was perfect for my mental health right now, a reminder of my past strengths in creating group unity and support and to not forget to put it to good use here (Doug, I wish I knew you throughout all of college, your mentorship would have been invalualbe).

And yes Naima, we will be watching all the Kurt Russel movies.

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The 2007-2009 Education group swears in this week. On Friday, my group will officially be 2nd year volunteers and part of the old crowd. Agonizingly slow minutes turning into months that pass by with a baffling haste.

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Then there was humor in life. Just a reminder that in some cases, we simply don’t have any control, take life as it comes and make the best of it all.

“God does not play dice with the universe; He plays an ineffable game of His own devising, which might be compared, from the perspective of any of the other players*, to being involved in an obscure and complex version of poker in a pitch-dark room, with blank cards, for infinite stakes, with a Dealer who won’t tell you the rules, and who smiles all the time.”

* i.e., everybody

From Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman’sGood Omens.

Morsels of memories

2007-08-15T07:59:00.000Z

Intense dreams have returned. Perhaps as a result of a more active and restless mind, or perhaps because of restlessness from the returning humidity at night. As my friends and family back home prepare for the coming chilled winds, changing colors, and pumpkin pie of autumn we prepare for the worst segment of the year here: the end of the rainy season. By the end of September the rains will go away but the humidity will remain. Days, like cheap wax candles sold at bitiks, will melt away sluggishly, slowing time as if some cosmic pause button has been pressed. Then we will hit the month of Ramadan and just about everyone will be in a state of frustration and weakness from the days of fasting in 100% humidity. Into the quagmire we go... I suppose its the one time of year when you might legitimately say, “It’s not easy here in The Gambia.”

For now the intense dreams have made a startling comeback. The downfall of failed relationships, street life and markets in Eastern Europe, roaring downhill in a bicycle race, these are just some of the more normal subjects that have popped up. Of course there are still all sorts of strange ones as well that shift from making ice cream, to ghastly figures surrounding me, to living rooms shaded in bright neon colors. The common thread that links them is that they have ended inconclusively. That’s how most dreams end anyways, without a clear end, but these have been particularly vivid and as a result particularly frustrating in their lack of finality.

Right now I need something to grab onto and steady myself in The Gambia. Dreams that leave one wanting aren’t exactly high on the priority list. I can only sigh and look at the time that lies ahead.

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“Well then he should be beat!,” I yelled.

Only this time it wasn’t with my typical American bred reserve with the words, I meant it.

The situation was explained to me as such: One of the kids was running around at twilight, disturbing everyone preparing for their evening prayers. Then he said something to our grandmother that was a distinctive insult and severe show of disrespect.

So I said the words, confirming the punishment already being administered. A whap in the background and a yelled cry confirming the result. It was the first time I said those words and I felt the change in my body when saying them. A clenching and push in the gut revealing a confidence and belief in what one is saying. It was the first time it came out feeling like a statement from myself rather than a begrudging cultural concession.

After I said it I felt a shame and withdrawal coming from the depths of my body, 23 years of teaching being challenged with a few words. It forced me to remind myself of my own upbringing and keep in mind there are alternatives. My job here and throughout life is to keep the lessons of my parents in mind and at least give them a chance to the future. Show the alternatives in a constructive manner and open other eyes. It was from then on out that I have displayed a renewed energy towards a hands on approach to working with the kids. Using the consistency in action, words, and firmness to make a point rather than a fist and fear.

I forgot how much it takes out of a parent, relative, or friend to hold firm when teaching a lesson. The looks I have gotten from the kids when telling them what to and not to do have been heart wrenching. “Why are you being so mean to me? I didn’t do anything wrong. I refuse to obey you. I am openly defying you to test how far you will hold your ground. You don’t want to see me cry do you?”

If you are a parent then I’m sure you can appreciate these difficulties. For someone encountering these problems for the first time with any prolonged duration, they are indeed exhausting.

Change and growth in West Africa.

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The new Education group is finished with their segment of training that takes place upcountry in small Gambian villages. They are now visiting their permanent site and we are graced with three new volunteers in the area. The next month or so will be spent helping them make adjustments to urban life and simply making sure their mental health stays well. Sometimes hard to do when your own state is a bit topsy turvy but one can hope for the best.

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Here is a small piece I wrote and presented to the new Education group during a training session in which they meet their Gambian counterparts. It is supposed to be a reflection of what ICT volunteers do in the field and therefore give some guidance to new volunteers as to what they can expect.

As Peace Corps ICT volunteers in The Gambia our mission is to help develop the infrastructure and education of information communication technology. That could mean anything from setting up computer labs, developing income generating and sustainability ideas, or teaching literacy classes. In addition we strive to solidify ICT education in The Gambia, making it an integral part of the education system. To that extent we work with DoSE to assess and modify the proposed ICT education curriculum, and work with institutions of higher learning to develop and improve their ICT curriculum.

Furthermore, as PCVs it is our mission to overcome what has been called the bush taxi problem. That is, bush taxis exist and thrive despite old and incomplete raw materials based on a distinctive need for transportation throughout the country. The same should be said for the ICT industry, we should assess why it is needed and desired and focus our development efforts to target these needs and desires. Without this we will waste time and effort fulfilling a undesired need, in other words creating an unsustainable enterprise. This creates dependency and a lack of internal confidence that will severely block the development of an industry that demands a highly skilled and technical workforce. With this problem in mind an ICT volunteer’s mission is to understand why ICT materials are needed, how best to meet that need, and how to sustain that need.

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I would like to return to writing some fiction but as of late my mind is a bit too wandering to keep the groundwork ready for such an endeavor.

Ch. 21 In which much is said with few words

2007-08-07T14:45:00.000Z

There are still moments when I am speechless. The rains remold the landscape and bring about a fresh sandy mixture that is more like the ground of a soft quiet beach than the bleak hard dirt of West Africa. I see a large group of children playing and I don’t think to even glance at what game they are busy with. Amee shouts my name and asks me to look at what he is doing and I hear an excitement and tone in his voice that is often absent. I look down at the group and see they are digging, pouring, and shaping the sand into small sand buildings. They are busy making mountains, palaces, complexes, and homes and I can’t help but laugh and smile as memories of childhood come flooding back. I feel the thrill of watching young imaginations at work and I know I can’t say anything so I simply give the most honest smile I have ever given in The Gambia.

Then it all comes crashing down. We’re now into year two and inexplicably my optimism and cheerful attitude of June and July have given way to silent moments of dissatisfaction and contemplation. I give opportunity to opening my thoughts and finally allow myself the fore-promised chance to evaluate my service. I remember the chart that Peace Corps famously parades around trainees. I remember that there is a curve that undulates up and down along a two year path, supposedly representing your mood and general happiness, and I remember right after the year mark many volunteers take a dive into the deep bellows of unhappiness. I think about this as I evaluate and there is comfort in knowing that I am walking down a similar path as many before, a path so well tread that it has been statistically analyzed and put into a nice neat little graph for all volunteers to see.

There’s nothing in particular wrong but I decide part of it must be the lull of summer giving off a stench of incompleteness. I describe the overall tone to a friend and the best I can do is talk about tables. I talk about my time right now being like a table with three legs, totally functional but if pressure is applied it fails to hold up to the task.

I walk out in the community and end up greeting a large set of people as usual. I greet until I meet someone along the way that I have a rather superficial relationship with. He wants to greet as if we’ve been best friends since we were children. He makes the greeting uncomfortably repetitious and overly friendly continually proclaiming the common phrase, “Boy, it’s been a long time... I miss you too much,” that hits a nerve of irritation with people I don’t know well. I feel frustration sliding in and I know the table is leaning and falling under its lack of support. It’s not a fault of the man greeting its just a sign of my general imbalance right now, character flaws and all.

These small episodes and larger ones play out throughout the days and I feel the lack of comfort and the missing elements eating away in the back of my mind. I think about the table standing there unfinished, and wonder if I will regain that last leg anytime soon. Sometimes I wonder if I ever rebuilt it completely after going through training or if it was only a temporary illusion of my former self.

In the meantime there is respite in the silence. It gives me the environment to think clearly and it gives me time to say my thoughts through actions rather than words. I know that I’ve been gone from my town for a long time and I know I long for the chance to reconnect with my host family. The mysteries of life work their magic because it is in the middle of these thoughts that Daboe tells me that he needs help once again fixing our well’s concrete platform. We decide a weekend day to get to work and I know it will be a day of little talk but with everything said.

The day arrives and it turns out to be one that is incredibly hot. Most of our rainy season days so far haven’t been nearly as bad as the year before. I wonder if this is a side effect of being in country for so long or if its just an easy rainy season so far. But this day, this day is particularly hot. It’s hot and unpleasant and somehow that makes the work seem more meaningful and bonding. It’s a simple job we take on. We mix sand, concrete, and water, and plaster the rocky surface of the well’s platform. Its a simple job that takes time, so we stay out in the sun letting the common work do the talking. Letting the sense of community and family take over and once again I feel like I’m truly part of the family.

We come to the end of the work and Kaddy has made some mango porridge as an after work treat. We all sit together and take spoonfuls of the porridge with a smile. The soft and sugary bites are absolutely delicious and there is comfort in these quiet moments.

It’s the next day and I sit and read a half dozen Newsweek magazines. It’s another day and it seems as if the three legged table is coming back to haunt me.

It’s easy to get lost in the patterns of the covers. Lost in the reflections of the temperament of the American nation: National Security, Are We Still Safe?; Foreign Powers Rising, Are They a Threat?; Ecological Crisis, Who is Doing What? It’s sort of like CNN Headline News for most volunteers, and we know that there is not enough depth and contrast in the magazine, but we have to concede that it’s the only source of news we receive regularly.

I sit and read the stories that are accented with pictures of famous people in striking poses. Pictures taken by photographers trying to capture these people at their best and most identifiable. I become a bit lost in it all and begin to mindlessly flip pages reading article after article.

My trance is broken by a familiar shadow. Daboe is looking over my shoulder at the articles and pictures. The page rests on a picture of Bill Clinton offering an outstretched hand of support at a campaign rally. Daboe can tell something has been wrong with me as of late and he characteristically offers a few words that go a lot further than their letters suggest.

Like the sages of old he takes command and calmly speaks over the haze of Newsweeks, “Hey, a lot of big names in these books. A lot of people trying to get things, popularity, fame, money, power. But you know Yaya, don’t forget that sometimes it is enough to be a good father and love your children.”

Staring at nothing cause I can’t make up what it is. / Searching for something but I just don’t know what it is. / All we need’s a little more to send a little message to ya. / Gonna get out of here...
- Thank you Uncle Will for reminding me sometimes you just have to rock out and grin with confidence at the world in front of you.

There once was prose and style

2007-08-01T07:50:00.000Z

There is a literary and musical effect produced from repetition of theme, a leitmotif. In The Gambia sometimes PCVs feel as if we are a living through a narrow set of leitmotif streams. This is not to be confused with deja vu, with its vague parries into consciousness, rather these familiar tones strengthen themselves each time the sounds are weaved in and out of the story. This concept is littered throughout my blog in memories from the past and the events of life in West Africa. One I continually return to is keeping my eyes open to the surrounding world, letting new stories and insights peek out of their quiet holes into ones' own reality.

An insight: My new site mates were baffled to hear that I had never seen the rope game that girls play together. The game consists of a long circular piece of cloth (think a long tied together jump rope) being held leg high by two girls, while another skips one foot after the other from one side of the loop to the other. When my site mates asked me about this game I replied that I didn’t think I had ever seen it before in my one year in country. In turns out in fact the next day I was looking for it, I had my eyes open. It dawned on me that I had seen the game countless times, I just never saw it with the eyes I chose to look at the world through.

A story: Sometimes it is just a brief exchange that tells the whole story. A freeze frame of time that is priceless in its simplicity of message. The image here is of an unknown foreigner being chased by bored and persistent boys in the bustling market streets of Brikama. Walking past her in only a few seconds, exchanging a glance lasting only a split second, a glance of common frustration and empathy for the inescapability of the moment. A glance that lasts a split second, we went going about our own ways.

It has been two years since I spent a summer in the northeastern region of Thailand, but many of the images still remain vivid and comparable. The Gambia that is forming as fragment of memory reminds me in many ways of the Thai landscape, but The Gambia of every day existence stands many more miles apart than two continents and an ocean can describe.

Now that the rains have arrived the grass has turned a familiar Thai-rice-field soft neon green that was so characteristic this time of the year in Esan. Mangos are abundant and flourishing in Gambia as they were in Thailand. Of course the mango and sticky rice dessert delicacy of Thailand is sorely missing but as they say, "It's not easy here in The Gambia."

The situations I find myself in are also strikingly similar. Following the lead of the language exchange I did with my colleagues in the Academic Resource Development Centre, I will be spending the next month in The Gambia teaching English to disadvantaged students trying to get into High School. My mind quivers and slips out of focus when I realize the amount of work that lies ahead, but I chose to be teaching, and like I've said previously try to be strong and confident in the places you choose to put yourself in.

Then there are the things that I haven’t gotten over in a year. Things that I might never get over that simply bring me away from comparison to Thailand or anywhere else I’ve been. Non-comparatives like daily harassment in the streets. Non-comparatives like watching people suffer disease because they can’t buy the soap to keep their bodies clean. Non-comparatives like the joy of finally seeing one of the kids see the lines on a page translate into letters. I suppose in the end it’s good that these experiences can’t be directed and poured in any neat bucket of history; they are what make us grow.

I’ve recently been on a kick of reconnecting with some of the interests of mine that have been lying dormant back home. Paying attention yet again to fantastic sound design in movies, laying back and letting music guide my thoughts, or the re-emergence of peanut butter and banana sandwiches in my diet. It’s been great at the one year mark, not only for my sanity, but for reminding me what it’s like to be an American. Forgetting that I’m missing out on 1/3 of the Peace Corps mission.

Of course reconnecting with back home makes me wish I was spending more time writing and reading, admiring those timeless authors of Western myth and history, but my brain is admittedly tired. PCV service is a draining experience where you have to constantly evaluate your surroundings and how you’re handling them. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll still be able to fully enjoy things like a good wheat beer when I return home.

I need sleep...

2007-07-20T17:03:00.000Z

So I just returned from a Safety and Security training trip into Senegal. What is that you ask? It is a time for responsible PCVs (That's me and one of my site mates) who are the Security leaders of their region to check out their volunteer consolidation checkpoint in Senegal in case something is disturbing the peace within Gambia.

All in all great short little trip. Saw some monkeys, chatted with PCVs from Senegal that I met at WAIST, got to know my site mate better, spent a taxi ride watching music videos on a Gambians portable DVD player (How weird is that?), and worked on some French and Wolof skills. I also wasn't able to sleep from excessive mosquito bites (Senegalese ones are vicious...)

I also wanted to put a quick post up saying that I'll be gone for this upcoming week doing more training for the new Education group. I am looking forward to seeing them all again and their progress, but am absolutely exhausted right now so will have to dig deep for some extra strength.

Miss everyone at home. Sending my thoughts. Remember, beauty is in contrast.

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Because I was sent this link randomly and realized 11 years after I first heard those opening notes, how much I still enjoy listening to the band.
"One life
But we're not the same
We get to
Carry each other"
-U2 One

Riding Spinners and other throwbacks to a life long ago spent on two wheels

2007-07-18T08:13:00.000Z

Niche groups exist everywhere but by definition they are masters at hiding in the little pockets of society, undiscovered to the untested eye. Here in The Gambia I never thought that I'd come across Professional Cycling in any other form than clips and reports on international television. This proved to be a inability of mine to see my surroundings, rather than an actual lack. Over the past year the country has revealed its dedicated few, riding out on the quiet roads of the Western Region of The Gambia. Their days are spent spinning away at seemingly endless kilometers of landscape dominated by gently swaying palm trees, exotic silky blue colored birds, and small boys whipping their donkeys down the road. This is a group of professional cyclists in The Gambia.

Out on a simple ride on the countryside I came up behind one such cyclist and smiled broadly at the chance to catch up and chat. I pedaled up to his side and offered a greeting.

A thought experiment: Imagine you are a Gambian who has been on the road training for a few hours, about the time when the eyes start to blur and focus solely on the road. A figure passes you which is not accompanied by the standard clank and dings of a normal Gambian vehicle, rather by a whirring sound of spinning gears. On the bicycle is a foreigner wearing a bright white Trek helmet, sweating profusely, and moving his mouth in communication but not speaking English or French. Are you seeing things, weird individual visions meshing together in an inexplicable soup?

My guessing skills were off and starting to greet in Mandinka didn't work, the guy was a Fula from the urban area. So we ended up going through the normal routine of "Jam Tans" (Peace only) and then got down to the real business. The following is a simplified and condensed version of how the conversation went. Translations as needed are put in parenthesis with footnotes at the end.

Rider: How are you?
Myself: Fine. Nanga def (How is it? Wolof)
Rider: Mangi fi rek. (Peace Only) You can try for Wolof? That is nice.
Myself: Do you hear Mandinka?
Rider: No, Wolof and Pular only. I am a Fula.

Awkward Pause. Children screaming "tubab" in background. Cattle grazing on freshly growing grass, growing only because of our first rains.

Rider: So you only have a bumper*? You don't have this type of bicycle?
Myself: No only this kind. In my home, I am having your kind of bicycle.
Rider: You want my kind? I will sell it to you, 1,500 Dalasis.

Another pause. I think it over, not a bad deal really.

Myself: I will try for buying it, later small small. (Later small small. A non-commital way to say that you are interested and will see by the grace of God). Your shirt is very nice**, do you ride for a team.
Rider: Yes, my team is very nice. This weekend. We are having a race in Kombo. Westfield to Banjul starting at 9am, you should try for it. It will be very nice.
Myself: You have races here in Gambia? I did not know, that is very nice. I will try to come see you race. I would like to meet your team.
Rider: Yes, this weekend. 9am. Next week we are having a race on the North Bank, Barra to Kerewan. You should try for that also***.

I smile and nod and there isn't much else to say so we pedal. He is in much better shape then I am and I curse the day that I left cycling.

The whole thing was sort of brief and language was a mashed together into some awful combination that didn't resemble anything in particular. So we let the riding do the work, a universal like music, mathematics, or a smile. I point to his back wheel and position my bike right behind his and for the first time in a year enjoy the pleasure of riding with someone else. We begin to rotate who takes lead and quickly move into a rotational pattern that works with mechanical efficiency. It makes me smile, it makes me miss sport, and it makes me miss riding in a large group.

In the end nothing was said, nothing had to be said at this point. Cyclists have a language all their own.

* Bumper. I've never heard this before but I suppose its slang for a mountain bike.
** The man is wearing a true cycling jersey colored in African green, yellow, and red colored stripes that says Gambia large on the back and front with some sponsors on the back.
*** I just wanted somewhere to put: Steevo, you 5uck man. :) Good luck job hunting.

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I love this island but this island killing me.
Sitting here in silence man I don't get no peace.
The waves upon my shore take me away piece by piece.
Going to leave everything I know going to head out towards the sea.

Get miles away.

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Many of the education group of '05-'07, who helped make us what we are in The Gambia, are now finding themselves on airplanes headed back to the wild world of the United States of America, back home.

As my group transitions to year two volunteers there is definitely a sense of growing up. Time to prove oneself to the country and the inner drive to maximize one's abilities. I can't help but once again thank the outgoing group for their leadership, direction, and advice, and hope that we can provide the same to all others still in country.

I think we have the skill set and I think we have the attitude to make the most out of the entirety of the volunteers' skill sets. In particular, there are some volunteers who I admire because they present themselves to be true Confucian masters for their ability to fluidly change roles throughout life. From the volunteer at the community level, the teacher or mentor, a friend to a fellow PCV, a son or daughter who left home so long ago.

I recently visited a good friend of mine about half way up country who best exemplifies this mastery. His work as an ICT Education volunteer saw him seize opportunities not only at school computer labs but also branching out into other fields including working for one of the nation's best medical training facilities and numerous government offices. At the same time he is a hands on, fix-em-up guy who has helped out numerous other volunteers with alternative electrical systems and has the creative mind necessary to make a lot happen from a little. On top of all of that he has a great relationship with his host family and community, and is still able to switch into American mode to cook, laugh, and relax with other PCVs in the area. Fluid changes from one role to the next, brilliant.

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Yes nerdy book request here only. Hyperion - Dan Simmons.

Reach out your hand if your cup be empty, if your cup is full may it be again.

2007-07-11T07:46:00.000Z

We had our first rain! While it made transport impossible for part of the day, it was really nice to hear the pitter patter on the roof of my house and feel the cool breeze.

A few of us in the area got together for my birthday and we did it up in random Gambia style including giving out a bunch of pieces of date flavored cake, finding a bakery and chatting with the bakers, and greeting endless people. Thanks to all who made it great.

After talking with the others I have come to the conclusion that many of us are working on vastly different scales emotionally and work related. While my biggest problems are crying children making me go insane, others are dealing with issues of human rights violations. While my work is focused on the microscopic level of a few classes others are reaching out to their entire community. Not that one approach is necessarily better than the other, but I do admire those who are able to survive despite unbelievable challenges. One of the best aspects of my service has been meeting other PCVs who represent that group.

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At the end of each school year every school in The Gambia holds an event called something like the Speech and Prize Giving Ceremony. It's sort of a combination of graduation speeches, variety talent shows, and sporting MVP awards. After a prolonged final exams schedule, we finally closed the books on our own 2006-2007 school year, and were finally able to hold our Speech and Prize Giving Ceremony.

The ceremony took place inside of the school's assembly ground, which consist of a large open space, about half the size of a football field and covered in dusty dirt, and a concrete stage, about half the size of a basketball court and covered in cracks and chipped blocks. Corrugate tin shades the activities on stage, and there is a walled in backstage area for all sorts of costume changes, final preparations, and special guest speakers.

The audience section is made more cozy with a huge brown mustard colored tarp that hangs lazily on rusted metal girders, and in the gusting winds it shakes and creaks but does not give way. The waning metal support does its job the entire day, and the otherwise menacing wind is tamed into a natural air conditioner. Benefactors of the breeze sit under the tarp and metal on weathered steel and wood chairs, recently taken from the classrooms which served students all year long.

This sketch is how I, the teaching staff, administrators, students, Kaddy, Amee, and Buba found the assembly grounds on the 7th of July, 2007.

Harmony through contrasts is how I might describe the attendees. Like I've always written, my area of The Gambia is a mix of both cultures; traditionally rural and rapidly Westernizing. Here were old men serious in their traditional flowing gowns, children in dirty ripped clothing, students in black and white school uniforms, the vice principal wearing Indiana University crimson colored suit and tie, graduating senior girls in jeans, teenage boys in football jerseys, and a full range of other people that filled out the circus of colors.

The highlight of the day was surely the play by the hidden jem of the school, our drama society. I had no idea how dedicated, sharp, witty, literate, and energetic this group is, and I simply have to try and get involved in their activities come next school year.

The play itself was about the morality of commitment to marriage. Subplots of gossiping sisters and mothers led to messages of a live and let live mentality which is rarely seen in The Gambia, parents word and advice is paramount. Written by students under the supervision of the vice principal, the play included a whole host of local characters, caricatured just enough to make the whole thing absolutely hilarious. These included a local medicinal healer, a group of old men serving as the village council, a couple of bumsters, and a lot of crying children. Humor makes the serious light hearted enough to openly talk and discuss without compromising the reality of the issue at hand. The whole thing reminded me so much of the power of a well used stage when performing to an illiterate audience.

In particular this drama brought up a whole host of social taboos that I rarely, if ever in my year here, have seen or heard openly discussed. These included the following, with notes in parenthesis as to what I take the social norm to be:

> Kissing on both cheeks to show love. (Kissing in public or any affection shown seems strictly verboten.)
> A wife defending herself and fighting back. (It seems men have all the power in relationships.)
> Polygamy as something to consider economically and emotionally. (Traditionally it is a status symbol.)
> Cheating on a spouse. (As in the States, I think this happens behind closed doors, but obviously is not talked about.)
> Concern for a child's mental health. (Rather than beating as a universal solution to any problem.)
> Marabous as ancient healers who are not as relevant today. (They are transitioning as confidence in Western medicine grows.)

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Drawing circles. Who knew this could be the magical first step to teaching the kids to hold a pencil well. Admittedly it was only the first step into the labyrinth, but it was an important first step none-the-less. I've been trying for months to get the kids to work with some sort of structure with a pen and paper, and after much discussion with other volunteers (Thanks Rachel, Becca, and Colleen!) I had the students following baic shapes including circles, lines, and squigglys (Yes, that's a word now.) The big road block before that had been simply giving them the confidence that they could do it, meaning holding the pen in their hands and literally guiding their hand in mine through the motion. Mentally, the feeling that they couldn't write is the result of years of hearing, "This boy, he isn't able, he cannot" which is sort of the local way of saying he hasn't had any schooling on it. All the kids need is some positive reinforcement. I also realized I've always had backup support waiting to be called upon in the form of two older brothers (10 and 11ish years old) who can draw well. Their example and skill creates a healthy dose of competition between them that radiates to the younger kids and gives them something to aspire to.

Amee's favorite thing to draw the past few days has been a simple car. He's able to do the wheels and some of the bottom frame by himself, but I usually have to help him complete the top half of the vehicle. It's a bit testing to draw the same thing time and time again, but I couldn't be happier than to guide his hands through another door handle, glass window, or trunk.

One year.

2007-07-05T08:35:00.000Z

"The places you choose to go in life, go there without fear, but with courage, compassion, and honesty in yourself."

No time for a posting this week, as we celebrated the 4th of July by gathering all together for an all volunteer Peace Corps Gambia meeting. We then cooked hamburgers, ate potato salad, and drank a couple of beers. The whole experience of eating that kind of food and being with so many Americans grounded ourselves in good old American culture; it was nice for the refresher.

Tomorrow our group will celebrate our one year in country anniversary. Time does go by fast. Living up to the PC stereotype I finally feel like I am able to start truly helping my community and feel the goodness possible in year two.

I also have a tremendous sense of hope growing inside of me that I will be able to use this second year to reach out and help fellow volunteers in my area as much as possible. We live in a very unique situation in that there is a heavy mix of people urbanizing from the rural areas and some of the infrastructure and economic development of the Greater Banjul Area. This means that we have a population made of of people who are on the move: people who bring a variety of skills from all over the country, centralized them in one area, and are figuring out avenues to make their futures happen. We can see it all over the town, and it makes life as a PCV more encouraging for displaying physical evidence of life in motion. For those of us in the area, living within this framework, we have so much potential to do good. The success of those around me and their happiness is almost as important as anything else, for that culture alone will permeate throughout the years.

Good people making small but real gains, there to help and support each other. Here's to year two.

Ch. 16 Where we once again meet the hero Lovecraft

2007-06-27T07:42:00.000Z

"They did not know that beauty lies in harmony, and that
loveliness of life has no standard amidst an aimless cosmos save
only its harmony with the dreams and the feelings which have
gone before and blindly moulded our little spheres out of the rest
of chaos. They did not see that good and evil and beauty and
ugliness are only ornamental fruits of perspective, whose sole
value lies in their linkage to what chance made our fathers think
and feel, and whose finer details are different for every race and
culture. Instead, they either denied these things altogether or
transferred them to the crude, vague instincts which they shared
with the beasts and peasants; so that their lives were dragged
malodorously out in pain, ugliness, and disproportion, yet filled
with a ludicrous pride at having escaped from something no
more unsound than that which still held them. They had traded
the false gods of fear and blind piety for those of license and
anarchy."
-H.P. Lovecraft

The school year is coming to a close and I can feel transition racing towards me on a hulking coal powered train. I first became aware of the moving mechanical beast in the split second before impact: Keep my eyes open and look at the scenery around me or just jump right onto the speeding train and ride. It is rather odd that in more sedate moments our decisions can linger and sway like an infant tree in a raw howling wind, but in moments of sheer panic the human brain can display an amazing capacity to facilitate abrupt choice.

Summer projects are looming and I don't know if I should continue improving my computer courses by teaching summer classes, or if I should change my focus and try something completely new. I think back to my time teaching English is Thailand and my time teaching English here and my mind wanders to thoughts of the fun I have teaching anything to Amee and Buba. I look at all the other projects that PCVs in the area are involved in and I know that good things are happening in our little pocket of the country. I want to join in those efforts, but I know that I am also on the verge of producing a rarity in The Gambia, genuinely quality instruction on computers. The choice lingers and I wonder if I should choose fresh freedoms over refinement and I wonder if I'll be asking these questions for the rest of my life.

In my younger years, I had a friend who always told me that life is about adapting to change, there was nothing more complicated to it than that. This did not change the fact that the train was still steaming down the tracks and the conductor is blowing his whistle as if in inquiry to my idle stance. "What do you think sonny? My clock is ticking," I hear him saying in my head.

It's a Friday in June and I find myself stuck doing the same old computer stuff. My counterpart comes to see me in the morning and he tells me that one of our fellow teachers needs IT help in his home village. He tells me that the community group there needs a computer lab set up and that most of the hardware is there, all we have to do is reinstall Windows with English as the default language. I sigh and I know that this means old 486 PCs and limited resources. This will be a day of broken disks, watching progress bars tick from 5% to 6%, and of system updates snacking away at our time as if it was made up of some gooey chocolate bar. I know we probably won't see much progress on the first day, and I shudder to think that I will jump into more computer support instead of teaching or branching out.

Then I begin to look at the day from a cultural point of view. I see the branches literally sprawl out in front of me, my eyes were once again closed. I begin to see possibility in interacting in a new community and I feel a bit better. I tell my counterpart sure let's go and even break a smile at the prospect. He can tell that a change has occurred and he smiles back and tells me that a few of the other younger teachers will be there and we'll have a good chance to chat. We both get more excited to go out for the day and begin to pack our things.

A tested confidence in what one is doing is the building block for life. That friend, who now only lives in memory and faded moments, was largely successful because he adapted to the change and took lessons from how he adapted. He refined his results and began to make better and better decisions, it seemed almost text-book. He began to live with a confidence and glow to life. His moments of sheer panic were no longer uncontrollable specters floating through his brain, they were fully opaque figures he interacted with a passing ease.

Lamin is the geography teacher at the school and it is his community that needs IT help. The air is deceptively cool so we decide to ride out to the village on bicycles instead of taking public transport. The wheels begin to spin and we are lucky enough to pass the Peace Corps van rushing by bringing a gust of wind. It's full of the new Education training group heading out to training village, and my mind races back to a similar trip my group took all of one year ago. I smile and wave and I can't help but feel, for the first time, like an old volunteer. I get in one good look at the new group as the bus rolls by and in that instant I see great potential for the country. I see the potential and I find comfort and strength for all trainees in their impending arrival at permanent site.

The ride out to the village begins slowly enough but as we leave town and into the open roads the wind begins to increase to a bear's roar. Pedal strokes become worthless as the wind off the Atlantic strikes back at every inch of progress we make. There isn't much we can do to but laugh at our luck and take the delay as a long overdue opportunity to chat. Lamin explains that the area we are riding through is now used for military training grounds and it's always a bit scary when they are doing live ammo practices. He says that there are always radio and television announcements before they begin, but still people are caught off guard by the noise. He explains that most of the area was acquired by the government and people have been asked to leave their land for the better good of the nation. I tell him that the same thing happened in America on a large scale when the national Interstate system was being constructed, and I can tell that in that instant America a little bit more demystified.

We arrive in Lamin's home town and we get to work on setting up the computer lab. Windows CDs go in, cables are pulled, UPS switches fluctuate with the tides of the national power company. It's all too familiar and I can't help but slide back into thoughts of dooming myself to regularity. Earlier cultural hopes are dashed and I wonder if I am living life without appropriate enmity for the mundane.

My friend is now in India. He takes snapshots of the absurdly rich and the desperately poor as a freelance photographer. It's not something I would have guessed he would have done knowing him in our youth, but he adapted. He went out looking for things he was skilled at, and perfected his trade. His brain now lives for the moments of sheer panic. It lives for those moments that only happen for 1/500th of a second. He's asking me now, "I am going to push this button now, you tell me what will my results look like?"

It's not long after when one of our fellow teachers arrives. His arrival adds a new dynamic. It revives the day as a new opportunity to learn where I am and who I am with. He tells us he's here to brew tea and chat, and that we should not stress so much about the work. We are caught in the middle, but continue to plug away at the computers, Western work ethic structuring our day with its rigidity. Brewing his tea, the new arrival again breaks our blindness and reminds us that we are in mango town and tells us once again that if we don't stop the work to eat some mangos then we will be wasting the entirety of a perfectly fine day.

Its as if the grey clouds dissolve into nothingness and the skies reveal an entirely new day. The day finally transitions into one of freedom, one that is observant of the scenery around us. The day goes from routine to amusing in the instant of change of mindset, in that split second of time when everything is possible. We slowly ween off the work and we open up to discussion now between friends rather than co-workers or business men. It's not that we talk about anything deep or life altering that makes the day so amusing. It's that we talk about the everyday, the normal trials and tribulations of young people in The Gambia, that makes the day so great. It's that the conversation divulges into common male topics of loneliness for girlfriends, sports, or jokes about each other's appearance that makes the day hilarious. It's all a bit too much, but the freedom from choice is lingering and it made the day all the better.

"It's only a skeleton of a moment, too quick for our perception to flesh out," he tells me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and walks away.

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A top 40 radio style shout-out to friends and family.
Naima in Charleston, singing career? Updates?
Jim in Vienna, thanks again for the hospitality, good luck with the move to WI.
Steevo in Chicago, King Leonidas or Death Knight Arthas?
Courtney in West Africa, stop reading this and get back to being a volunteer!
Matt in Montana, how did you end up in Montana?

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And a random picture of me at a First Communion party... This country is 93% Muslim right? Kaddy is on the left in blue.

"Transform and roll out!"

2007-06-20T07:59:00.000Z

New Education volunteers have landed in The Gambia and all is well in the capital area. They are not only coming with teaching experience, but also the right attitude for service. That is, they are energetic about their new found possibilities with technical work, but do keep their potential success in perspective in relationship to the challenges they will face. I think most impressive is that they already show the ability to roll with the punches.

I was able to stay with them from Thursday, when they arrived in country, until Monday evening. It was one of the best things I could have done for my service, especially since I felt like the PCVs who were there for us in the beginning were some of the best people I have met in The Gambia, period (Thanks Colleen and Zac!) There is no better feeling than trying to repay a more than welcome favor.

Most of what Hannah, another volunteer from my group, and myself did was to comfort and advise the new trainees as they get ready to head out to training village. Training village is an intense two month experience where you are expected to learn more from your time observing village, rather than in a classroom setting. One of the most fun things was being asked on the last day to help give the demonstration on "How to take a bucket bath." Usually one of our Language and Cultural helpers is in charge of this, but this time around they said that it'd be better for a volunteer to do it, to de-mystify any perceived difficulty in an American doing it. It was funny to step outside of myself and observe how I was giving the lesson. I was missing all the finer points due to my natural routine and comfort with the bucket bath. I was going through the motions without explaining all the things that I should have been pointing out. For instance, placing the soap into a small container so that it doesn't get dirty, rinsing the soap off at the end, cleaning your scrubby and hanging it to dry, or scrubbing the feet thoroughly.

We were asked a whole range of questions but one that kept coming up was, “Have you done much traveling?” I have always known that I haven't done much traveling since I've been in The Gambia, and I always felt I had to defend myself somehow. Most volunteers take time to visit a number of West African countries. It was during the training, with the repetition of the question, that I came to terms with the answer. I remembered one of the big reasons why I came here in the first place, the human element. I wanted to come and make a strong bond with a group or family of people. I realized then that this feeling tied directly into how I have handled myself in relation to traveling, I stay at home to enjoy the relationship with my family. If I was traveling all the time, that relationship would be lost. They don't travel much, so I don't travel much.

Being with the trainees was also great to catch up with some of the PC Gambia Language and Cultural Helpers, who saved us from early terminating in our first months in country, and catch up with how much has changed in the past year. Brewing tea and sitting out late at night, after everyone else had gone to bed gave me the opportunity to catch up with Muhammadou, who was in my village during training. We talked about everything from nicknames for the cities in the upcoming mud of the rainy season, to the saturation of basic IT skills in The Gambia, to new ways that Peace Corps is trying to adapt to American language learning styles.

I think it was also a great experience for those of us who were able to take a step back and realize how much we were doing in the country. Yes, most of us are only reaching 10 to 25 students on any serious level, but when looked at number of students times the number of volunteers in my group, we are affecting at least 300 people significantly. We never know how many others we might be having at least a small to medium impact on as well, thousands? When explaining to the new trainees what kinds of projects we were all involved in, I was also quite proud to hear the diversity of things that everyone in my group is up to. It goes to show you the improvisation and adaptability that we have all gained during our year of service.

Given that the new group is coming in with a lot more technical skills than we did, I see tremendous opportunity for what is now possible. I was really impressed with the whole experience and it made me a better volunteer for it. A new culture of realistic hope might be growing here in country amongst the PCVs. Yes, huge frustrating challenges block our path, but complaining is slowly giving way to constructive talk that builds bridges over the other side. Perhaps it is just the one-year mark of optimism I am going through.

On my way home I looked at the calendar for the past two months, saw that I was gone in May for In Service Training, then gone at the end of May for vacation, then gone in the middle of June for the new trainees. It was sad to be gone from home so much during that period and it left me itching for, "the home people." By all means was the time away worth it, for it made me realize what I missed. The sweet is not as sweet without the sour after all. Returning back to my house to see a smiling family was the best feeling in the world.

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PC Gambia Cultural Note: The movie The 300 recently made its way to DVD/VCD and has made many a male PCV rather happy with its all American violent yet invigorating style.

Left hand blue. Right leg green.

2007-06-12T15:23:00.000Z

New volunteers are arriving Thursday night. I'll be helping out with the first week of their training and in the rush to prepare for their arrival there isn't much time to write. So I thought I'd let you all do the work this week. The following are directions for how you, gentle reader, all the way back in America can enjoy an evening Gambian style.

Noon-7pm
1. Open all doors and windows to reach the appropriate temperature inside the house. Close curtains so there is some shade. Try to not open too many doors that open out onto busy streets, the Western street noise will ruin the experience.
2. Download or buy a CD from Gambian artist Jaliba Kuyateh. This will be used later.

Sunset
1. Start playing the Jaliba CD on your home speaker system. If you have an EQ turn down the bass to simulate playing on a small portable stereo system.
2. Place a large matt/rug on the ground and sit/lay down.
3. Do no turn on any lights as the sun goes down, instead light a candle or two when absolutely necessary.
4. Begin to cook Saatoe. See as follows:

Directions for Saatoe for 2 to 4
2 cups white rice
1 cup plain peanuts
1 cup sugar
1 cup milk or yogurt

1.) Pound the rice and peanuts into a fine powder.
2.) Boil about 6 cups of water.
3.) Place the powder into the boiling water being sure to stir until the boiling takes over the stirring.
4.) Let simmer until the water evaporates and the water/power becomes thick and porridge like.
5.) Pour into a large bowl and let cool.
6.) Once cooled pour in sugar and stir.

Night time
1. Place the large bowl of Saatoe on the mat and put spoons depending on number of eaters.
2. Pour milk/yogurt on the Saatoe and have everyone eat from the same bowl. Add milk/yogurt as needed for flavoring.
3. After dinner pour water from the tap into a large bucket and wash pots and utensils with the water from that bucket.
4. Read or chat by candlelight.
5. Be sure that you do not give in and use the A/C, it's all part of the experience. If there is too much outside noise turn the Jaliba CD up. When the CD is finished have it play again on repeat until you go to bed.
6. Download sound effects for donkeys and before you go to bed play the sound effect 3 to 4 times.
7. Before going to bed be sure to roll up your mat or rug, blow out all candles, and lock all doors. Go to sleep without A/C.

Enjoy!

Life travels into the north and then back south again.

2007-06-06T07:51:00.000Z

I just returned home from a wonderful trip to see my family and some beautiful cities in Central Europe. The effect of the trip is still sinking in, but I have the impression that it will profoundly effect my Peace Corps experience. Being back in a Western culture grounded me once again in the myths and foundations that I grew up with, and seeing it in all its affluence made me more determined to respect the great potential for good one person can aspire to.

Above all walking around the airports, cities, subways, restaurants, parks, government buildings, etc. reminded me of some of the more noble aspects of development in Western society. The incredible work ethic, planning, skill, and community needed to organize and build the cities and structures that we have surrounded ourselves in, is essential to Western experience. Above all else there is the drive to move forward, to constantly challenge what we are capable of achieving, is a trait often lost to volunteers in The Gambia when we are chugging away at problems with bargaining for a good price on bananas. We lose one of our basic Western qualities, the constant desire to drive forward, because we focus only on the experience of being pushed back by the little things.

When I first stepped into the Banjul International Airport, roughly 10 months after I first got off the plane to start my Peace Corps service, I was overwhelmed with the speed of motion and the robotic inorganic direction in which everything flowed. People rushing around receiving tickets, tossing bags, and presenting passports was disorienting in its mechanical efficiency. In village we live on human time, the time of doing things without the fear of the hourglass.

Arriving in Brussels and then Vienna and Prague I almost instantly felt capable of socially acting in the setting but still oddly out of place. Everything was so familiar from my time studying in Europe, I could fairly easily navigate the physical environments of BMWs, marble floors, flush toilets, subways, and vending machines. Life in Europe came rushing back to me in huge waves of familiarity, and by the end of the week I was far out to sea. However, I also felt this incredible discomfort originating from comparing the European existence to one that I would have been experiencing a week ago in The Gambia. Not that one was better or worse than the other, the discomfort was from the knowledge of the mobility that I was being afforded. Knowing that in terms of being "Gambian" and blending in culturally I was on a one way street. I was on the trip, I would see things and thoroughly enjoy them, but always knowing this was a privileged situation I could not share with anyone else. Knowing that I was leaving all of my family members back at the cross roads and they would remain rooted in The Gambia, outside of my European experience. This was the discord that lead to discomfort.

Upon landing back in The Gambia I realized how much my life was rooted here. There was an overwhelming sense of being back home arriving back in my compound. I suppose that's the reality of Peace Corps service, or life in any singular place for a sustained duration. It does mold itself as a place of comfort and belonging, whether or not you actually would consider it to be a permanent home.

The events after my landing firmly reinforced the feeling of being home in The Gambia. Riding in a gele-gele, we were stopped numerous times by people requiring to exit exactly at their street junction, stopped by quasi threatening police check points, and finally stopped to help another gele-gele cool it's smoking engine with a jug full of water. As I arrived back in my town, went to get an egg sandwich from my regular guy and had a long Gambian greeting with him as well as a delicious egg sandwich. The roads were still dirty, the friends still cheerful, and the egg sandwiches still served with hot cocoa. All in all I was back home. I was back home with a new perspective on where I came from and where I should aspire to go. Back home with a renewed sense of a drive forward to better myself and my community.

That’s when the new feelings I’ve been having about Peace Corps began to come to me. It’s not just cross-cultural exchange or technical skills that make the organization worthwhile, it’s also the fact that the Peace Corps builds better Americans period. Builds better Americans by making them more adaptable, more humble, more caring for our fellow man, and ultimately more desirous to change things, to bring the human race forward.

Are you Peace Corps The Gambia - Education 2007-2009?

2007-05-21T16:33:00.000Z

Are you slated to arrive in The Gambia on June 14th 2007? Are you with the Education group for 2007-2009? If so, welcome to The Gambia from a soon to be 2nd year PCV. I thought I might post some of my thoughts on what you all should consider bringing to The Gambia. Of course, your mileage may vary, but hopefully this list might help make some decisions.

ICT Volunteer Specific
1. I would seriously consider bringing a laptop. Why? All the reasons back home for having a laptop still hold true here: official reports, entertainment, movies, music, photos, games, and more. For work in computer labs, having a machine that can burn copies of Windows, (Edu)Ubuntu Linux, Office, Open Source Software, etc. is invaluable, especially since burners here are not common and often break. Laptops can get damaged, stolen, or returned in poorer condition than they arrived but those cases are not the norm. Most volunteers, with some careful attention to safety and electricity, do just fine having a laptop and it is much more of a help than a burden. I wouldn't bring a new top of the line laptop, but if you have something less expensive or a year to a few years old that would be ideal. Something that if you did lose it would not be the end of the world.

2. CDs full of OpenSource software or otherwise obtained useful software Applications (Office Suites, Anti-Virus software and the latest definitions, Register Mechanics, Defragmenters, diagnostic tools, etc.) Other software to consider would be educational CD-Roms. All those mid-90's Encyclopedias and interactive storybook/educational CDs would work well here and packing a few extra CDs won't take up much space.

3. You might find yourself teaching in a middle/high school and in that case educational software is a must. I use a lot of software I have found on http://www.educational-freeware.com/ and it might serve as a good resource for you.

4. Some of you will end up at higher institutions or government agencies. I am not working in this field so I'm not exactly sure what goes on but it sounds like a lot of database and programming work. Whatever you might need to get this job done is important to bring!

5. Various portable Apps, Thunderbird and Firefox being the most useful. If you don't know what these are do a google search for portable apps and download what you need. Set them up before leaving home. Having your e-mail in one place offline or online, especially for upcountry volunteers, is a big help.

A general note: Most of us work in conditions that don't guarantee power or consistent classes. In addition, students by and large have never seen electricity, a mouse, a monitor, etc. You have to get into the mindset that for those who have never seen an office desk space the metaphors that we use in the Macintosh and Windows desktop don't translate well here. Try and think of creative ways you can overcome these challenges and bring software/teaching aids/materials that might help you in your time here.

General Notes
1. A USB Flash Key (The bigger the better). For volunteers in any sector this is an invaluable tool to have. A lot of good resources are only available when you come down to the urban area, and having those materials packaged and ready to go at your permanent site is quite helpful.

2. Rechargeable batteries. If you are planning on having a camera/radio/electronics, these are much easier than trying to get local batteries. Local brand names are expensive and local brands are horrible (i.e., One friend bought local batteries and was able to take two photos before his camera died).

3. A couple of good books. The first months of training village might feel like there is absolutely nothing to do at night but stare at a burning candle, and a good book can really help with this. Hopefully, others will have brought books and you can share.

4. A few juice flavor packets like Crystal Light. These are really popular with volunteers, and while you are given Gatorade, some different flavors in life are always nice!

5. A couple of Cliff/Power/Energy bars. For those days when you feel like rice isn't giving you enough nutritional balance (Don't worry over time you'll figure this out.)

6. Duct Tape. A million uses.

7. A few cassette tapes with your favorite songs. CDs don't survive on the crackled broken roads, and radio is slowly getting better, but doesn't reach the rural areas. You'll be spending a lot of time in transit in Peace Corps vehicles and having some good old fashioned American music will be a nice contrast with The Gambian landscape.

8. Positive attitude! You'll hear this a million times but it remains true. Many volunteers here get bogged down over time and don't maintain, so the more positive people we have the more we can turn things around.

I would also recommend a few days before you leave to pack yourself a care package of your favorite easy to make packaged food/spices/candy/juice mixes/cereal/etc. In addition put in a good book you've been meaning to read or some magazines that you always enjoy taking a look at. The package will most likely arrive about one month into your training, a time that can be difficult, and a few comforts from home might be just what you need to perk you up.

I might be one of the people to meet and greet you when you step off that plane at Banjul International Airport, so hopefully I'll see you all there safe and sound. Don't be surprised if all is a bit hectic and crazy when you step off the plane, follow what your APCD Yamai says and what the other volunteers who are there say and everything will go smoothly.

Be sure to enjoy your time in Philadelphia. I highly recommend going out for a couple of beers with your fellow volunteers and having a chance to chat in an informal way in a familiar setting. Starting the friendships now will give you stronger experience down the road, important in a place where friendships are a corner stone of mental health.

Best of luck, enjoy America, and see you all soon!
Baraka (Mandinka)
Jere Jeff (Wolof)
Jaa rama (Pulaar)

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And a small post on the weather

It's consistently about 130 Degrees Fahrenheit upcountry. The evenings are a container for the day's relentless temperature.
In the coastal regions we are still enjoying mild weather. Yesterday we were treated to something that I haven't seen in about 8 months, rain. It wasn't hot, it wasn't cold, but the air was filled with that thick warm smell you only get after a rain. I yelled in Thai fohn tohk, and with a big grin on my face I looked up at the sky at the small rain drops falling down on our corrugate tin roofs. The clouds had no definition, only a solid gray mass. Crickets chirped in the distance. The kids waded through small puddles splashing water on each other with small broken plastics cups, cracks running down their sides. It was our first rain in a long time. It began with a pitter patter on the roof then closed itself off teasingly. Then the rain came in a steady drizzle that maintained its presence for more than 20 minutes and brought us all a little closer to a heaven that can be contained in this world. Then the rain died away to the power of the hot season. Children continued to cry without end. This was my Sunday the 20th of May 2007.

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And off on a short vacation I go.

On Thursday I will leave for a much needed vacation to visit the family. I’ll resume posting after June 2nd. Cheers to life on the road…

We’re training.

2007-05-16T21:20:00.000Z

The education group of 2006-2008 is currently busy with our In Service Training. It’s a chance for our group to come together, share ideas, listen to new ideas, receive updates on our work and Gambian education, and catch our breath from a long haul of work. In the rush to prepare for the week of training there wasn’t much time to prepare a Blog post this week.

To make up for the lack of Gambia content here is a small snippet of a rough draft to a short story I was working on a while ago. I’m not sure what the goal was exactly (In a way its just thoughts and images put together), but perhaps lost in the world of The Gambia I wanted to write that reminded me of the complexity and strangeness of America as well.

My friend Sheriff, who I work with at the YMCA, is dedicated to improving the literature and literacy in The Gambia. He seems to always find the right connections to make this happen, and he and I recently met someone doing their PhD on Gambian literature. She told us that there is a literary festival coming to The Gambia in July. Quite possibly the first large scale showcase of world and Gambian literature we have heard of here. We were both rather thrilled with the idea. With these thoughts and events in mind, I thought all the more reason to post some of the scribbles that were written during my time here.

A Homecoming for Clarity

When I was a child I had an imagination that never let my mind rest. I lived in my own world that was filled with daily episodes of epic space battles, greedy trolls, magical castles, or fanciful journeys. My mother often would walk past my room and stop to peek in, and her face would squeeze into a mixture of pain, worry, and doubt. She would raise her raise her right hand, take in a deep breath, and just barely open her mouth to ask a question, and then her entire body would relax again and her mouth would close shut; it was as if her body reacted to the strange sight first and her mind stopped her from going any further.

I suppose she had reason to worry, or at the very least have questions. When I try to imagine the scenes she must have walked in on I think I would be a worried parent as well. I would lie flat on my bed, hands in the air creating patterns and shapes that helped fill in what my imagination could not. The whole world was created before me and it was easy to eventually let my eyes and hands fall back and let my mind take over for the rest. So it must have been that there would be a small boy on his bed, perfectly content, but starring off into space as if his brain had just gone dead. When I was a child, the world was painted in vibrant colors.

When I was 18 and I would gladly say now, still in my youth, I spent my weekends drinking away my cares. It’s not as if I had much else to do. It was 2004 and it was America, and in my little frame of the world I didn’t have much responsibility to weigh me down. Keeping my grades at a B average and keeping my spot on the school basketball team were the two things I wanted to keep, and keeping them was easy. Life simply breezed by and unchallenged with difficultly or strife, I watched it move through a window that was becoming smudged and tinted.

When I am honest with myself, I think I can say that period of my life is when I started to shut off to the world. I no longer observed what was going on around me, I just looked at the world as a person might look at paintings after spending four or five hours wading through a museum. I saw what was going on around me, and sometimes even told myself, “Oh that is nice,” or, “I don’t quite the emotions I get from that scene,” but I never internalized it. I never used it as a basis to keep my thoughts and imagination alive.

To make matters worse I was soon after in college. It was a small college in northern Wisconsin, far away from any big city or big attractions. That meant two things, bitter cold winters and absolutely nothing to do but stay inside. I would walk down the dark corridors of our two story dorm building and look at some of the other kids in their fluorescent lit rooms. I would pass rooms of people I didn’t like and stop at others I did. Jim, a guy I was taking Introduction to Western Philosophy with, often was glued to his room staring at a computer screen. He spent those winter nights playing God knows how many hours of one of those online games where you can become someone else. His world was no longer one of the movement and life, it was a static mechanical world, but one in which he seemed perfectly happy.

Then there were the rest of us. The rest of us who thought we were living life to its fullest. We were the ones who took our weekend high school drinking and made it an institution; we made it a definitive characteristic of our very being. We were the ones who would spend a January night, when the breeze of the winter air could tear and rip at your face, inside a small box dorm room drinking the kind of alcohol you can only find at the corner Save-A-Lot drug store.

I think back to that time and I don’t know if it was the way America had brought me up in ease, the, the amount of alcohol rotting away at my brain, or my own faults, but I do know now that it was the time when I fully stopped observing life and merely looked at it.

So the years of college were blurred, and it’s hard now, looking back, to think of how I could have changed that. I went through a hard three years hoping from one restaurant job to another, and ultimately those years too were blurred. It wasn’t until I spent those four weeks in the hospital, feeling every muscle in my body scream out in agony, that I began to see again.

Encyclopedic Knowledge

2007-05-09T07:52:00.000Z

Most of us go to one every day, more than once a day. I’ve mentioned their precense before, and I’m surprised it took so long to give a more detailed description of an institution that is essential to our daily lives, the bitik. A bitik serves as the one stop shop for many people who want a quick solution for breakfast, matches to light a candle, or soap to wash clothes.

So what exactly is a bitik? Well, Todd’s Encyclopedia of World Travels, famous within the foundtheriver.blogspot.com readership has this entry:

Bitik - Redirected from Boutique.

Common in West Africa, a bitik is a small store or shop that sells common household needs and foodstuffs. The name originates from the French word “boutique*,” but has since undergone a Gambian-ization and in Gambia is pronounced bih-tih-k. Bitiks are often run by foreigners or people belonging to the Fula and Wolof ethnic groups. Most commonly Fulas are bitik owners and often come have emigrated from other West African countries such as Mauritania, Senegal, Guinea, and Sierra Leone**.

Construction Bitiks are designed similarly to standard Gambian homes. Concrete blocks, wooden roof support, and corrugate tin forms the outer shell of the building while large double wooden doors open outwards, inviting customers to come inside. Inside of a bitik is usually dark and at night a small lantern, candles, or powered lights create a dim glow from within the shop. The customer stands in a small rectangular area, often with the comfort of a wooden bench for relaxation. Communicating with the owner happens between a wall of mesh wire screen that usally stands approximately 6-9 feet tall. The screens vary in thickness and quality and are meant as a security measure. Physical transactions occur through a small square opening in the mesh wire.

The bitik owner does most of his food preparation and money collecting on a long counter that faces the customer. On the counter are common foodstuffs (bread, bread spreads, eggs, etc.) ). Behind the bitik owner are tall shelves containing the rest of the items the bitik sells.

Featured Products Bitiks contain a large variety of ordinary household goods. Essential everyday items such as soap, thread, candles, matches, razor blades, and plastic bags are common, but bitiks each have their own personality often described by the variety of random grab bag style merchandise they carry. The grab bag items can be things such as balloons, pens, incense sticks, or envelopes.

Foodstuffs that are commonly available in bitiks include perishables such as loaves of bread, eggs, and potatoes, and permanent fixtures such as macaroni, tea, sugar, salt, oil, powdered and canned milk, mints, candy, peanuts, or tomato paste. A variety of bread spreads are available and highly popular with customers. Spreads include chocolate spread, margarine, and mayonnaise.

Most products come and go in a constant flow. There is no back storage or stock room. Rather, items are replaced when they run out. Customers often return home angry or upset that their certain product was not available at a certain time. This is most common with bread which is replaced throughout the day at certain intervals.

Classifications Bitiks come in, for lack of a better term, various skill levels of service. A level 1 bitik is the simple neighborhood bitik which holds only the essentials as listed above. Moving up to level 2 will include basic sandwich creation including the ever popular potato, MSG, mayonnaise, and bread sandwich. Next are level 3 bitiks which are more like small neighborhood diners. These bitiks often are fully featured sandwich shops preparing eggs (fried or boiled) or potatoes, as well as other foods of the owner’s choosing. Sometimes they will also have a local lady selling fried beans to be put into the bread. Level 3 bitiks often also make coffee, tea, hot chocolate, or an assortment of other warm drinks. Finally there are level 4 bitiks which are the same as level 3 but add a refrigerator. These are mostly found in the urban areas and offer cold drinks (small water sachets, Fanta, and Coke being most popular), juices, or yogurt.

A level 1,337 bitik with a staff of eternity and magic belt of protection is extremely rare to unheard of because the owner would be required to be an uber nerd, which does not exist in The Gambia***.

Culture Not unlike the Coffee House Culture that has sprung up in Western metropolitan areas, bitiks have created a culture of their own. Their location, time of day, and respective owners reflect what types of customers frequent the bitik and therefore the cultural aura surrounding the shop at that given time. For example, in the mornings it is common to see school age children buying bread for a breakfast snack. At this time the culture is one of chatter of the day’s gossip, thoughts on tests, or complaining about impatient computer lab teachers. In contrast, around twilight bitiks are frequented by groups of young males smoking cigarettes. These men are usually finishing a day of watching football at the local field and unready to go home to inquiring families. A culture of resistance to the home and slow movement characterize these times.

Waste Management Known or unknown to the recycling world of Europe, much of their paper waste comes to Gambian bitiks to be used as wrapping paper for the various items. The paper is probably originally deposited in bins labeled “Recycling,” with the users expecting that the paper will go to a factory where it will be restored and used again. Instead, the paper comes direct to the Gambia where it is ultimately burned. The paper waste comes in the form of old phonebooks and newspapers. A bored customer can read news from a few months ago or look at advertisements to homes and cars that won’t be available in the Gambia for an unforeseen amount of time****.

Price Structure Bitiks create their own price structure. There are some items that are so common that the price is known country wide. However, with less common items it is left to the discretion of the owner to set the price. This can result in items that are over priced, but will always be bought because the customers are in dire need of the item (candles, sugar, and tea are often victims of price hikes).

* Thanks to Laura Smith during WAIST for this clarification.
** For example the 3 bitiks I visit most commonly in The Gambia are all owned by Fulas, two from Guinea and one from Gambia.
*** Does not exist yet. For a further description of this type of nerd please read the entry in Todd’s Encyclopedia of World Travels entitled “Steevo.”
**** Provided you can read whichever Scandinavian language the recycled paper comes in.

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Last night while sitting on my mat the night was cool and rewarding after one of our first truly hot days. The stars were out, Venus shining particularly brightly in the early dark just after sundown. The moon is waning so it would be a while before its glow blurred out the rest of the stars.
Daboe and I were talking about the pains of Monday and I felt rather normal, as Mondays are horrible anywhere in the world. Here we have come to call them “Sanji Follo” or “the coming of the rainy season,” meaning it is when everything is new again and you see an unending field of work ahead of you.
I was drinking hot tea and having my bread (both bought from the bitik) when Buba, aged only 2 years, came up to me and grabbed my copy of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King that I am currently reading. Instead of slamming it on the ground, throwing it, pulling at pages, or trying to draw on the pages, he picked up the book and opened to the maps at the back. He stared for a moment as if truly reading them. He then took about 100 pages in his hands and used his little thumb and forefingers to flip through the pages in rapid succession. It’s something I usually do with books unconsciously, as if scaning for the thickness and contents. I couldn’t withhold my joy watching and realizing how his hand-eye coordination and dexterity just took one giant leap for Gambian kind. It made a lot of the frustration and anger that I’ve been having melt away. Small victories.

Red, orange, and golden leaves of change

2007-05-02T07:57:00.000Z

This past weekend author of Found the River was once again sick with a stomach virus. We took the opportunity to spend some time at his bedside for a candid and somewhat drug induced interview. Of life past college and adjusting to Peace Corps were the topics of the day and might serve as a guide for anyone who finds themselves in a similar position. Here are excerpts from that interview.

Almost one year ago you were attending your graduation ceremony at Indiana University. At the time how did you feel about your future in the Peace Corps?

At the time I was coming off of the complete high of finishing school and wasn’t realizing the weight of Peace Corps life. It was a wonderful senior year at IU, and I was honestly looking forward to rewarding myself to a small summer vacation. However, as time wore on and friends started to leave for their own jobs and new lives I could feel the longing to move on myself. I felt ready to get out and go, I felt as if I had taken myself as far as I could in Bloomington and the time was right to try something completely new. Of course I was sad to leave my family, a feeling that has grown exponentially since then.

Missing your family would obviously be a big challenge to life abroad. Can you describe some other adjustments you have made?

I would say the biggest shift is moving from a lifestyle where there was an even match between work and play to a lifestyle where work takes priority. When I was in school I worked hard on my school work, but being a kid in college also means that you are going to go out and have some fun as well. I could feel a draw to both sides of the coin and made the balance work. Here my social life is really limited, and in a lot of ways it revolves solely around my host family. They are my best friends and the people I go to for personal problems and general release. Having said that I do spend more time mentally concentrating on my work and the people I am working with. This is due in part to time commitment. Everyone in my family, myself included, works incredibly hard, and the few hours of the evening we are all at home together won’t match the hours [chatting, being, and working with others] that we commit to our jobs. I know this isn’t the same for all PCVs in The Gambia, but it’s how my life has shaped up here.

But a lot of Peace Corps is supposed to be about cultural exchange, do you feel like you are accomplishing that in the work setting?

Of course, working with people you get to see another side of their habits and commitment that you can’t see sitting in a family compound. Some of the most solid cross cultural moments I have had have been in the workplace.

Care to describe one of them?

Sure, I remember a time earlier this year when there was a passing period or free time for a lot of teachers. We found ourselves sitting under a patio when our school librarian brought out a new second-hand cell phone he had just bought. As people admired all its snazzy features a few people called him so that they could hear the ring tones, and we got into a big discussion about which network carrier each person had. The nation has two major carriers and the staff was split about 50/50 between the two, and our discussion quickly turned into a heated debate as to which carrier was better. Voices started jumping in support of one or the other, advertising slogans were used, jingles sung, prices compared, services judged, and everyone was laughing and smiling and yelling over an otherwise mundane aspect of daily life.

It was the kind of cross cultural experience that you wouldn’t read about in National Geographic or on a brochure for Peace Corps, but is rooted in daily life activities and finding joy in the company of others.

That brings up an important aspect of your service, technology. Working as a communications technology volunteer what resources do you find most valuable to have?

Before we came we were not told much of what we should bring. We were told that as volunteers we would have to improvise and that much of the IT situation here was undetermined and new. While this certainly holds true, I think a lot of us would have been happier having a few resources available.

A lot of IT volunteers here live and die by their Flash drives. It’s the only reliable way to get things around country since floppy disk drives have a lifespan of about 2 minutes and CDs seem to last anywhere from a couple of months to a year. In addition to that a lot of us did not bring software. We don’t have reliable access to the internet, and a collection of software would be wonderful. All those technical programs that you might use back home (Read: Virus scanners and definition updates, registry cleaners, back up creators, utilities, diagnostics, etc.) are invaluable to have here ready to go. The internet is getting better here, but is no where near US levels, so having a bunch of programs ready to go before you begin puts you a foot above the rest.

In addition to that is software that benefits the students. About half of us are working at upper level institutions teaching higher level computing where simple software packages don’t work. However, for myself and others, we are working with beginners to the computer. Many of our students have never seen a mouse before and are afraid to touch the keyboard. It helps to have simple games, programs, and other methods of breaking them into computer usage. Time and time again I have loaded up old games like Lemmings or Number Munchers, simplifying the computer to a few buttons and it works wonderfully as demystifying the machine. My biggest goal in the computer classroom has been to erase the image of the computer as a magic box, and part of that is giving them the feeling of control over the computer. I can’t describe in words my frustration when a student is working in Windows and suddenly an error message pops up out of nowhere, it leaves them directionless and feeling like the computer is guiding them, not the other way around.

It sounds like there are a lot of stressors there. How are you coping with all that?

As it commonly goes, there are good days and there are bad days. It helps to remember that everything was not peachy back home either. It is often easy to glorify your life back home and forget that life in any place is not going to be a cakewalk 24 hours a day 7 days a week.

Probably some of the most stressful moments are being sick because you have to sit and suffer with no idea of when it will all end. Worse yet is when some awful doppelganger is interviewing yourself for an internet journal.
Having said that, it is difficult, and my stress levels here are high. I try and visit with other volunteers when there is time; sometimes just talking to another American helps. Other than that working out often helps, I’ll ride my bike out to the beach and try and shut out what is frustrating me that day. Of course I also read much more than I ever did before, it offers temporary escape when you are lacking the internet, tv, radio, newspapers, etc.

So honestly, do you miss TV and radio?

I miss some of the shows that would make me laugh. The Simpsons, Aqua Teen, Daily Show they made me smile, something I don’t do as much here.

You’ve been in country for almost 10 months. Any thoughts on how best to maximize your remaining 26?

I keep reminding myself to stay positive. So many things can take longer than you expect them to, that it’s hard to take a step back and look at the overall picture. I think when I take that giant step back I see that I am doing best when targeting a few people. I want to try and focus more on those people that I am able to reach either in the classroom, or with my work at the YMCA. It might sound unmotivated or unsuccessful to someone outside of the situation, but trying to reach everyone here is draining and ultimately leaves the PCV weak. I have to put my energies where they are able to function at their maximum. It’s like I’d rather give a steady flow of support to a few people that will show enthusiasm, thereby restoring my water, rather than a steady trickle from thousands of holes that will never come back.

Tour de France and Rugby World Cup are both coming up. Seeing how both these sports mattered a lot to you, any early picks and predictions?

No idea with the cycling, I haven’t read enough background online or otherwise (Perhaps someone at home will send a magazine or two…) Rugby World Cup? Obvious choice is New Zealand, they have two starting XVs that could probably win it all. World Cup Final: New Zealand A Side vs. New Zealand B Side? I would love to see Ireland put together some consistency and get to the finals, but their 6 Nations run didn’t give me much confidence.

Anyone who has further questions are invited to post on the comments section of the Blog, and the author can retrieve and answer them when he has recovered. Till then thanks for chattin. Any final words?

Yes, tell Steevo sorry for the phone reception being horrible this weekend, hey it’s Africa. Also let him know he’s a true n3rd and his pain will be legendary when I return home.

Thanks for the interview.

You say it’s your birthday

2007-04-25T07:10:00.000Z

The world jumped into focus and everything looked suddenly bright and fresh and clean, as it does on an early morning with the sun on the trees, and there was newness everywhere, a feeling that I had been away a long time in a dark place and was now returning home to sunlight.
-Chaim Potok from The Chosen

This past week there was a new baby born in my compound. Last Friday was her naming ceremony, in which a large gathering of family friends, neighbors, and well wishers come to the house to hear the baby’s name be given by a village religious leader. Everyone then enjoys the day together chatting, eating, and enjoying.

For the first five days of my life I had no name. For children in other countries, I have heard, it is quite different. Those children might know months in advance of their birth what their name is going to be. Their parents might have built up expectations around that name, hopes and dreams of what kind of person the baby will become based on other people with that same name. They live with that burden, the burden of comparison before birth.

In my small country in West Africa I, like many others, did not carry the same burden as our Western friends. Like I said, for the first five days of my life, I didn’t even have a name. I cried, sucked, smiled, and gaa-gaaed through life purely as “child” or “baby.” My burden was patiently waiting to know who I was to be. I waited for a name to be bestowed upon me, completing my humanity and essence. I waited for my naming ceremony, our little country’s ceremonious way of naming a child that, in my opinion, gives the ritual due significance.

I awoke on that fifth day crying to the pounding sounds that shattered my peaceful slumber. Ever since entering the world my body has had to adjust to a sonic Gatling gun of noise that was once muffled in my mother’s protection. On that day the pounding of rice drove into my tiny skull thump, thump, thumping away in rhythm. I was tired from my busy fourth day of life, which mainly consisted of eating rice porridge, crying, and watching a carousel of people come in and out of my home. They would all follow the same pattern: Hold the baby (that’s me!), blurt out some random gooey words that belittled any intelligence, make some funny faces, smile at my mother, and then walk out with a content grin on their face.

So I was crying. But it was not the day to cry, although apparently someone had failed to give me the memo which would have read “It’s the day of your naming ceremony, NO CRYING ALLOWED”. I had to figure that out on my own when I was brought out into the bright morning sunlight and placed in my fathers arms. We sat on a large mat patterned in blue, yellow, and white boxes and lines, and together we sat surrounded by a large group of elderly looking men. For the next 30 minutes, I saw a steady stream people coming into our compound. Some younger and fit, all smiles for the ceremony. Others older, withered, slow in their step, and with an obvious weakness would wave their hands at the entire group and shake hands with my father. They then would walk to the nearest chair and in exhaustion collapse in slow motion into the chair’s soft cushions.

By this point I knew it was an important day. The crying had stopped. The pounding was finished. My father and I were surrounded by smiling faces, men clothed in long gowns of bright orange, green, and yellow, the women elegant in their patterned flowers and tones of purple, red, and green. The women were preparing food for the big lunch that was to come. Tomatoes, cassava, lettuce, fish, and a whole host of herbs and spices were being washed, cut open, dried, or roasted. The men were now gathered around me and praying together, slightly off beat with one another sounding like many more than were there. All with their palms towards the sky, they looked deep in concentration as if appealing to something that was beyond their capacity; was this religion I thought?

After the prayers were completed one of the elders grabbed a large white blob of dough, which had been resting on a large sheet of thick brown paper. They broke the dough off into smaller pieces giving each of the men a piece, but I noticed only giving to a few of the women. I watched the men carefully as they ate their dough. At first I didn’t think it was food, for the way they seemed to be playing with it in their hands. In their right hand palm they would hold the dough, slowing rolling it with their fingers, mashing and reshaping it over and over again. Whenever I did that sort of thing with food my mother would put on her angry face and start yelling incoherently at me. Placing the dough in their mouths they would slowly chew it, but so slowly that it rather seemed like they were letting it dissolve. The other children were jumping at their parents, begging them to spare a small morsel of the dough. That is how I knew the dough must be loaded with sugar.

After the dough was passed out I finally had my opportunity to become a full member of the world. A man wearing slightly better clothes than the rest approached me slowly and reverentially. He stood towering above my small frame and covered in his shadow he stared down at me and began to pray. He seemed to be following a pattern whereby he would say a few lines, pause for a breath, then continue on enchanted by a connection with peace. Words came out as pulses of life, followed by pauses of composure, all spoken with firmness of purpose; this was the man who was giving birth to my name. Then almost out of thin air he said two short words, which I assume must have been my name, for the whole of the compound erupted in cheer and elation. So loud was the good will that I wasn’t able to make out his final words, but apparently everyone else did because together they final prayer after the man was finished.

So there it was, my naming ceremony. Five days into life on this great Earth and I was given completeness in the world. My nature was always there, and now people had a way to reference it. The rest of the day must have been rather spectacular, for later that night I found many people still sitting around the compound smiling, eating, and chatting the night away. Of course, I missed all of this for something much more pleasing to my infant five day old body: Sleep.

One fish, two fish, three fish, blue fish

2007-04-18T07:27:00.000Z

In his slumber he awakes disoriented. He has tossed, tumbled and twisted in bed until he feels as lost as a child in a haunted wood. When he wakes up and wipes the crust away from his eyes he sees a shadowy figure filling the entire space between the mattress and the mosquito netting. The three foot tall phantom resolves into a small dwarfish figure who is smiling confidently as he swings his arm in attack at the slumbering man. Its not a harsh slap, rather one as if to say, “Wake up you dolt, we have much work to attend to.” He closes his eyes to internalize what has happened and when he opens them again the figure is gone.

- Larium induced dreams and memories

I don’t know when my hatred for fish began, but I suspect it was all the way back during my days in Malaysia. At the young age of 5 Kuala Lumpur, the capitol, was a wild palate of unplanned urbanization. I suppose my distaste for fish could have come from the smell in the alley way flea markets. In the crowded and often dirty corridors of the city, I often found myself clinging to my mothers hand as we walked past barrels of fish covered in a mist of swarming flies and pungent odors. But when I really think hard about my distaste for fish I am reminded of one precise moment in time. During that almost fabled time in my youth I would happily snack away on little fried fish that were no bigger than a toothpick. My mother would often cook them along with eggs, fish sauce, and rice to make what I remember being a rather delicious meal. Then one day I took a closer look at the food I was eating and starred straight into the eyes of the fish. It was then, looking reflection of human eye into fish eye that something struck me as thoroughly disturbing. I think it was the first time I realized I was eating an animal. Not that I claim to be a vegetarian but something about this realization destroyed my desire for fish.

Where food is scarce, wasting is especially rude for every ounce that doesn’t go to good use could help a malnourished child not get sick. Therefore, my overall dissatisfaction for fish is a bit hard to explain to Gambians. Sure, people have their likes and dislikes, but to not like fish, which is as basic to life as American’s “bread and butter” is a rarity.

Living in a town that is not far from two ocean fishing communities, I quickly realized that fish is the most economical way to put some protein into the diet. Begrudgingly I have grown to accept this as a way of life in The Gambia, but by no means should you expect me to come craving a fish and rice dinner.

This past weekend I made a trip to the fishing village of Tanji, halfway between my home and the capitol, and once again was reminded of the difficulties of having culinary scrutiny.

It was a rather fine weekend and Daboe had invited me to join one of his friends from work to go enjoy a lazy day in Tanji visiting his friend and picking up some fish. As we crossed out of the congestion of the city and broke onto the open roads Daboe’s friend pulled over and said, “Ok Daboe, driving lessons begin now.” Driving is so integrated into the American way of life, as well as feeling long enough since I started driving, that it was easy to forget that there are places where driving is still rather new and people of all ages are learning to handle a motor vehicle. The roads we were driving over were relatively flat and straight, a great place to learn to drive. However, the road did feature one big proverbial and literal road block: Speed bumps. It is hard to explain and much harder to put into practice the fancy footwork that is required to get a manual transmission to go smoothly over speed bumps. Moreover, it is almost impossible when the learner is trying to learn this skill in a car with an aging transmission and a poor suspension. It was quite the challenge and Daboe did his best. I can’t say that we had the most smooth ride of my life, but remembering how difficult it was for me to learn a manual transmission I have to give my hats off to his effort.

The landscape of the road to Tanji passes some smaller communities far enough away from the main tourist attractions to give a visitor the sense that they are in the “real Gambia,” but still close enough to civilization that most volunteers would not consider it an authentic experience. There are numerous small village museums, wood work shops, as well as mom and pop bar and restaurants. Construction was ongoing in the area and most unfamiliar were the two and three story buildings that were slowly but surely popping up around the landscape, showing a move to slightly more advanced architectural design. It was also amazing to also see how much of the land is unused and made me wonder why the tourism authority hasn’t gone to more trouble to market different sections of the coastal area. It only takes about one hour to get from Banjul to the southern edge of the Gambia, so why not have more than one tourism area?

When we finally arrived in the fishing village the pungent odor of fish immediately enveloped our bodies. Walking through the fishing village as the days’ boats were coming onto shore gave me the feeling that we were entering a world with its own enclosed ecosystem. Something small and specific, a world meant for insiders, and we were merely peeking through the looking glass. People moved about greeting others, avoiding some, bargaining hard with some people, while seeming to give free fish to others. It all played out on a rather picturesque stage of a cool ocean breeze, golden sunset, and buckets and boats in hues of red, orange, blue, and green. One of the boats stood out for proudly displaying a huge American flag painted onto the front of it. Next to the flag “Scream’n Eagle” was painted on, the name of the boat I’m guessing. As much as people talk about wanting to go to America, I don’t often see physical signs displaying a love of America, and the painted boat took me back home to the days of seeing WWII era planes in numerous history museums.

We took a small break to simply sit and enjoy the scene while Daboe’s friend went looking for a few more specific fish that he wanted to buy. When he came back he was carrying two big handfuls of smoked fish which he announced with a huge grin, “I have brought us some fish, now we eat.” Of course being the foreigner, he gave me one more fish than he gave himself or Daboe and told me that I should truly enjoy the food of the Gambia. What do you do when you are Todd and in a situation like this? Swallow your dislike for fish and chow down. Bones and ripped chunks later my stomach and taste buds were feeling rather upset, and half way through the second fish I had to ask Daboe to help me finish it off. I had done the best I could to look like I was enjoying the fish, but in the end I think I ended up with an upset stomach and appearing rather rudely to turn down the gift of smoked fish.

When I come home I think I will devour a nice big hamburger and french fries.

The Gap (Not referring to the company that had those cool swing/khaki pants commercials 9 years ago)

2007-04-11T15:04:00.000Z

This week the post is small as a result of exhaustion. Wee been preparing all through Easter break for a massive YMCA Digital Studio/Computer Training Centre marketing day, and I feel much like I would in the build up to a finals week exam. Or perhaps that isn´t quite fitting, it´s more like the final stages of testing a public beta of a massively multiplayer online video game right before unleashing the colossus out into the world*.

In an effort to promote the digital studio production capabilities as well as the entire IT department (computer training classes, internet cafe, and kids' ICT summer camp we are hosting a marketing day at one of the ritzy hotels along the coast. I have been preparing a demo video of our work so far, as well as trying to prepare a 30 minute speech and presentation of what we do. We will be marketing to a large number of NGOs hoping to build partnerships, and I feel overwhelmed at the showmanship, charisma, and general public speaking ability that will soon be required ot me as well as the netire staff.

Partially to take a short break and enjoy the holiday and partially to help prepare for the event I spent Easter visiting with one of my colleagues from the Computer Training Centre. He´s West African but not from The Gambia and we had an enlightening discussion on what it´s like being here as a foreigner, African or otherwise. One of the statements he made during the conversation will stay with me for a long time, and it was one in which I had no words of comfort to offer, ¨The most frustrating thing is traveling to Europe or America to do work with one of our YMCA partners. You know why you are going and you know you will be coming back home, but inevitably you almost always are delayed for a few hours or an entire day because the border patrol thinks you are smuggling drugs. I wish they would try and take it on a case by case basis, but I know that stuff is all figured from statistics. All I can do is do my job well, go home, and hope that respectful citizens will stimulate change.¨

I also discovered that he is one of the first people I have met in The Gambia who not only knew what Thai food is (or Asian food for that matter), but claimed it was one of his favorite kinds of food, especially if it is Phet Maak**.

The next day we had a chance to tour the hotel where the marketing day wil ltake place, and I must admit I was taken aback by the first class facility. Situated on a small cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean the entire design transported us to a sort of Gambian fairly tale village. The hotel, I decided, was a showpiece for the phrase, ¨You can do anything anywhere, as long as you´ve got the money honey.¨

Walking through the reception and guest rooms we were greeted by a soft orange and red atmospheric lighting, hard wood floors, air conditioning, plasma TVs, and a whole host of colorfully painted and textured walls. I found the solid execution of design impressive, which I can best describe as a mixture of western minimalism architecture and furniture design accented in West African colors and textures. It is probably what a lot of tourists want in their time here, a feeling of West Africa but still with western comforts. If that was the intention of the designers then I would have to shake their hands and say, ¨A job well done lads.¨

Of course the tour of fairy tale village reminded me once again of the huge gap between rich and poor here in The Gambia and the world at large. I´ve written about this feeling before, but it bears repeating because it is so easy to situate in one area and lose perspective. In my village I do consider myself rather lucky to have solar power and a chest high fence that offers some protection (what might be considered middle class), but then I went to see a new volunteer in my area who said of her abnormally comfortable home (super high class), ¨This place is nicer than my home in America.¨ Her house is about a 10 minute walk from mine and during the course of that walk I pass a few compounds without any protective fence and a constructed of simple mud brick and thatched roof. Going from the tour of the hotel to just my little section of village I went from the pinnacle of Western posh society to al llevles of Gambian society, contrasts alive and well.

Destructive desire and jealously can become consumption of one´s being. To be content to living within your own means and recognizing the gifts that you do have is the key. It is often forgotten by some in The Gambia as well as all over the world. I´m not sure if I will ever become comfortable with a common phrase that I hear in The Gambia, ¨You have money, take me to America where it is Babylon. There it is easy, not like here in The Gambia.¨

*For non gamers or n00bs, a similar feeling might be the public opening of a new restaurant that you´ve put all of your hopes into. Nerves are high and long term commitment is sinking in.
** Note for non-Thai speaking people, this means very spicy. Left in the original Thai to signify not just very spicy rather Thai spicy. In other words, turning up the volume meter to 11.

Ch. 10 Which is mostly about signs

2007-04-04T07:15:00.000Z

It's the end of a long day of work and it's also the beginning of the hot season. My transport arrives and I cram into the gele-gele van and begin the hour sauna ride back home.

There is a young boy next to me who is dressed in his white top black pants high school uniform and he is surrounded by a few of his classmates. It's the last day before Easter break and you can tell there is an air of excitement within the boys; no one likes a break better than school aged kids.

He looks over at me and says hello and asks if I am a Christian. I think he is assuming that I am Christian since most Gambians think foreigners are and when I tell him I once was a Christian there is a hollow and troubled look on his face.

You know you should be a Christian he says. He tells me that if I left the faith that means I must not know God and that if I truly knew him I would return to Christianity.

I am unaccustomed to of this type of conversation with a Gambian, and I wonder if this kid's life is hard being enclosed in a country that is 90% Muslim.

I tell him there have been many great teachers of peace and humanity and that Jesus was one of them. I tell him that all of the teachers must have known something of God, and that there might be a common thread to link them. I tell him until I feel from God otherwise I will respect that plurality by trying to uncover that thread.

Before I can finish those statements he repeats that I have not opened my heart to God. He tells me until I do and return to Christianity I will never get into heaven. He asks me if I know of God's heaven and if I want to go there when I die. He says this all in near perfect English, and I can't help but let my mind wander to questions of what school he attends, who his English teachers are, and how I can obtain their English lesson plans.

I am pulled back into the conversation by his echoes from the Apocalypse of John. He explains to me that now is the worst time in human history and if we don't find faith we are all doomed. He tells me people are doing wrong and behaving poorly onto each other more than ever before in human history. I am unconvinced of the scope of his claims, but can't help but be intrigued by his devotion in the midst of the majority religion.

We come to the end of the trip, and as we get out of the van he tells me he will pray for me to find Jesus in my life.

I walk home being mindful of the breaths and steps that I take.

***

It's the next day and I'm riding my bicycle down the same roads I traveled on the day of revelation. I think about the lack of directional choices in the Gambia and I wonder what Mr. Frost would have done with only one road in the wood, and I am reminded of the smallness of this country. One highway on the south bank and one highway on the north bank.

Daboe is riding with me and we are on our way to buy sour milk for our porridge dinner and a bag of rice. Both of our hearts are a bit sunk because we know that the price of rice has gone up 50 Dalasis. We know that no matter how hard we bargain we will not be able to get the old cheaper price, and that is the way of life here, prices go up. We ride down the road towards the market and despite the distaste of the price increase something else doesn’t seem quite right.

We come to the market junction and the eureka moment hits me and I see development standing tall and proud. Here is development smiling back at me in the form of a large metal sign post gleaming in the afternoon sun. It is so simple that it was easy to forget but gladly accepted, a street sign. On the top is a large pizza box sized advertisement for GT BANK and below it are two signs pointing in opposite directions: Banjul this way, Trans-Gambia highway this way. I look at the street sign in its freshness and function and I grin in content when I see that the bottom of the pole has been vibrantly painted in the colors of the national flag.

I tell Daboe I am impressed by the development and consideration of aesthetics and he tells me that it is very nice and must be new since you can still see the concrete drying.

It's later that day and the more we ride the more signs we see. We realize there are new signs all over for village names, speed limits, yields, children's crossings, and genuine octagonal bright red stop signs. I'm a bit speechless and remember my thoughts hen I first arrived, I remember thinking two years is too short a time to ever see tangible signs of development.

Then I stand in front of the bright red stop sign, its shadow covering me in geometric perfection, and I realize I will never understand The Gambia. I realize how much of a foreigner I still am, and how many positive and negative experiences still await me, and how much those experiences will not make one drop of sense.

We ride back to our neighborhood feeling like things are changing for the better, and I almost have to stop in disgust when we pass our village sign, less than 24 hours old, crudely defaced by a amateur and rushed bathing of white paint. I feel civic responsibility shattered and I want to “go native” and beat whoever did this. I look at the defaced sign and I look at the wide endless road and I wonder if this is what The Gambia wants, contrasts and contradictions.

I think back to my time at University and I remember Professor Robinson teaching us about the mentality behind the creation of the German autobahn. I remember its intention to compliment the natural surroundings, to beautify the landscape. I remember that it was supposed to be a civic project so unified with nature that it became an essential feature of the landscape itself.

I wonder how much people today consider the road in this way and I wonder if aesthetics are included in Westernization.

I look back at Daboe who tells me he didn't even notice the sign or the defacement of it.

Then I look out on the tin roofs, burnt desert yellow grass, and the old man riding by on a shambled bicycle, and I wonder who would worry about the essence of a road when the price of rice has gone up by 50 Dalasis a bag.

Classic textbook maneuver

2007-03-28T07:37:00.000Z

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Excerpt from “Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman

The day was hot, but ripe for adventure
Daboe and I crammed into the car awaiting the national football match
It would be my first time visiting the national stadium
Independence Stadium, a monument of Gambian footballing pride
Gambia against Guinea and it seemed that the whole country packed into that little stadium

Approaching the stadium we saw a sea of 65,000 people
Waving and pulsating, entering a stadium stating MAX CAPACITY 40,000
The rush to enter the stadium left the world in a blur of colors

The consequences of our tardiness sunk in
Our paces steadily increasing to a jog into the stadium grounds
Barbed wire fences, screaming and pushing were our greeters
People, mostly young males, were desperate to get in and were climbing over fences
It appeared as if the authorities sold too many tickets

Not that I was able to see the barricades come crashing down
But I had the feeling that this was as close as I might ever come
I told Daboe I had never seen a crowd so unanimous in their anger and desire

But alas, all the entrances were bolted, closed, and blocked
Held firm by armed guards from the army and police
I felt bad for the men in uniform as they shouted at their countrymen, GET BACK, ALL OF YOU GET BACK

But still the crowd surged forward, trying to break through the doors
Pushing and shoving until we reached the tipping point
And as we toppled we fell right into the guard’s retaliation

Using their belts as whips they lashed out at the crowd
Creating panic to some and boyhood glee in others
But the crowd burst forward once more, teasing the guards,
playing a game of chicken with the guards
The crowd volleyed their movements between inching closer and being driven back

We became a moving mass of desire
Desire to see a football game,
desire to be part of national pride and identity,
and we moved as one, one goliath figure that would not stand down
Pushing and shoving together, bound to one another by our desire

Against the bared doors the crowd was a wild mass of raw determination
My arms felt trapped, my body squeezed
I felt a hand in my pocket

I couldn’t react quickly enough
By the time I turned to see a face
The thief was long gone

It was a classic textbook pick pocket
A cell phone lost to the crowd of determination
A lone act in a sea of desire

We were locked out of the stadium the entire day
Our fashionably late arrival to blame
The Gambian national team lost the game, 2-0 on silly mistakes
Eating our rice porridge dinner we remembered what is important in life
That we had our health and food was in front of us

Sports and material goods would come another day
For now we had the simple joy of a quiet dinner
It was a humbling moment on a long journey to discover ourselves.

The good, the bad, and the horrifying.

2007-03-21T07:50:00.000Z

“This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”
PSALM 118:24 NIV

I’d say it’s about time for a general update on all the little things. After all, daily life does have progress worth noting, its just that it happens so slowly that it is easy to miss. Let us be happy for what is here and now.

Thoughts on the work situation: Spiders, sickness, and students’ smiles.

The YMCA Digital Studio has been providing me with a constant stream of work.

Unfortunately, the Anansi the Spider Animation project is on standby as my co-worker has come down with some medical issues. Before he became ill, we did see a lot of progress on finishing the first test episode. The voice over audio was recorded, some of the sound effects chosen, backgrounds painted, and about 90% of the animations were complete. During the process we realized how monumental a task animation was, and decided it would be a good idea to recruit anyone and everyone who was interested in learning computer animation. To that extent I will begin teaching an introductory class on Macromedia Flash starting this week. Giving students a path to express themselves creatively is one of the things I came here to do, it took about 9 months to get to this point, but hey I’ll take it.

On a side note, one of the frustrations in creating the episodes is that quality royalty free or fair use sound effects and music are terribly difficult to come by. For at least providing us with some avenues of choice, we have to give thanks to the Creative Commons foundation for the work they do with licensing work for fair use. They provide a way for artists of any type to license their work so that it reserves some or all rights, but allows people using it for fair use to go ahead and enjoy.

We also finished two short promotional/documentary pieces, one for the YMCA basketball team and the other covering a UNICEF launching of a water sanitation project. The next step for us is to put together a portfolio and distribute it to NGOs and businesses. Our hope is to sell ourselves as a complete multimedia studio and start being employed to create promotional advertisements or documentaries.

Work at the high school.

Our first term we struggled with secretarial tasks that bogged us down with so many papers to copy, type, and correct that we were unable give our energy to classes. Students would come into the classroom and at the same time teachers would come running in desperately asking us to type a report for them.

Our first step in solving the problem was refurbishing the secretary’s office so that they had the full capability to create all the documents that otherwise would have come our way. In addition, we gutted one of the unused rooms in the administration block, tidied it up, and turned it into a small teachers/secretarial lounge where anyone who needed a computer for small tasks could use one.

Then we finally had time to teach the classes. We only see each group of students once a week with each class lasting only 35 minutes. A lot is lost in the week between when we see the students so we counteract that by teaching only one concept a few weeks in a row. When we were trying to teach a wide survey of computer topics the students would become confused and lost week to week, forgetting everything we had taught them. It becomes a bit boring for us to be teaching the same thing week in and week out, but by pounding in only one concept in this manner, the students truly do learn it. The smiles on their faces as of late, showing that they understand and know they have power over the computer, is a wonderful thing to see. What kinds of concepts are we teaching? Well for example, right now we are working on how to format text in a word processor.

Think in small victories and approach the problem one task at a time is how the administration always told us to think of our work.

Thoughts on general life: Cold and ice.

We were entering into the thick of the hot season, suffering becoming daily routine, when all of a sudden we have been graced by a short reprise of the cold season. The past six days or so have once again returned The Gambia into “heavenly weather” mode and there are nights when you truly need to have a blanket wrapped around tight to keep warm. It reminds me a bit of the opposite effect of an Indian Summer. A short reminder of what delightful weather can be, right when it’s turning sour.

I have been helping Kaddy as much as I can to make the flavored ice treats, and during the Middle School lunch break helping her sell them. It’s a great way to hear all sorts of new language as the women joke, sell, and gossip about anything and everything going on in the school or their own lives. Of course I understand only a small fraction of what is being said, but if I learn just one new word a week, then progress is made. Probably the best thing I have learned through the process is a sort of official slang for what I can best translate as, “Leave me in peace gosh darn it.”

Overall my language skills have seen small improvements, but by no means am I confident in holding meaningful conversations. It seems like I am discovering my own brain’s strengths and weaknesses of learning language. As with learning German, I find myself not doing enough active speaking, rather only actively listening. The result is that when learning a language I gain solid skill in understanding a conversation, but am unable to say much in return. I think a sad point of my PC service has been that I have not given as much energy or progressed as much with language as I would have hoped during pre-departure.

Thoughts on the horrifying: Mice and moving walls.

The field mice that were mentioned in an earlier blog as the recipients of a rather cruel death by circular arm swings have come back in force. It seems like for every one mouse we get rid of two come back, and during the night time you hear them scurrying about the backyard area searching for who knows what. They have so far left the precious cassava crop alone, so there hasn’t been any re-runs of wrath and punishment. However, something tells me that in only a short time war paint will be applied and the hunt will begin.

Have you ever seen a scary movie where a pit of snakes engulfs a floor making it seem from a distance that the ground itself is alive? Or perhaps a swarm of bees so thick that it appears as if a black wall is approaching you? That’s exactly the feeling I had the other day from waking up from a peaceful nap.

As I rubbed my eyes open I looked into my bedroom at the white wall that usually is colored by a few magazine cut outs I have taped up. Then I saw a few dozen ants crawling around the higher parts of the wall and though to myself, “Uh oh, this can’t be good.” What looked like an inconvenience at first turned into a rather horrifying moment as my eyes began to scan the rest of the room that revealed my floor and half way the four walls was pulsating from the movements of hundreds of ants. The scene was not quite the scary movie scenario, but equally traumatizing. Luckily modern science has invented ant/bug spray and my inner Buddhist went quiet as I unleashed a whole can of spray on the infestation. Final result? The whole house reeked of that terrible chemical smell and it took a while to sweep up the freshly spawned graveyard.

When I asked Daboe what the heck it was all about he simply said, “There’s not much you can do. Every once in a while they’ll bring their eggs in the house because it’s cooler there, and when they are ready to hatch all the ants come in to get the eggs and disturb you. It all only takes a few days for them to come and go so it can be easy to miss.”

I suppose my weekly sweepings under all the buckets, large furniture, and trunks is not enough? On the other hand the whole episode is better than what my dad once told me about his Peace Corps days. Something about not checking his shoes before putting them on, only to unhappily discover that during the night a scorpion had taken residence inside of one.

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Happy Birthday Dad.

How is the morning?

2007-03-14T07:51:00.000Z

He couldn’t really help it. He had been brought up on the romanticism of the Disney classics, a place where dreams did come true and beauty was established through the phenomenal. It was Andrew’s peculiarity that these images had served as the archetype for all of the major events of his life, and this, his marriage proposal would be no different.

So Doreen found herself on a spring morning in the quiet of the south side park. Sitting on a bright red checkered picnic cloth under the shade of a giant oak tree she was trying her best to conceal the staggered pounding of her heart. At any moment the question would dance into the morning air, this was the moment she had been waiting for. Five fabulous years with Andrew by her side were about to be offered as a mere prologue to a lifetime of bliss.

She took a deep breath and forced a nervous smile at him. Every pause in their conversation provided an opportunity for the big question to reveal itself. Every pause lingered over the cool grass leaving her trembling with anticipation.

Do it now. The voice inside his head rang. He gulped, slowly closed his eyes, and opened his mouth, but he found his throat unwilling to cooperated and instead choked out an incomprehensible set of syllables. He let out a loud self conscious cough in an attempt to mask his folly.

He felt a tingle surge through his entire body. His face was glowing bright red, he opened his mouth one more time, and this time the words came, “Dooreen the last five years of my life have brought me nothing but endless joy. I can’t imagine anything better than to share the rest of my life with you,” he paused to gather himself, “Doreen will you mar--“

“Hey! Hey, Andrew,” an oncoming man yelled with a wide grin. And then he began his greeting, “Are you fine? Where are the home people? How is your brother? Are you hard on work? I hope there are no troubles. You look hard on it. So, I hope you are fine?”

Modern science is still trying to explain how at this precise moment Andrew’s entire body turned into a human black hole, rapidly slumping and deflating into itself.
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Greeting takes precedence over all else.

Learning the supreme importance of greetings in The Gambia is one of the first lessons in socialization here. However, by no means does one learn the ins and outs in one day or even six months; I still struggle with the finer points of the ritual. Of note is that greetings seem to take importance over anything and everything, including (as stylized above) a marriage proposal. Kaddy once told me that you could be at your parent’s funeral crying your heart out, and it is still important to greet, as greetings are an affirmation of caring and friendship for those suffering.

When writing the above story, I wanted to share it with Daboe to ensure I wasn’t being culturally insensitive and for general readability. From the moment I asked him if he would listen to a short story, to the time the actual short story was read, we were visited by two guests both of whom required extensive greetings. In the end I think it took over an hour to have the chance to read 300 words.

Greetings are the doorway to knowledge of whether or not a person is a good human being. There seem to be a few rules governing how to make a good impression. Above all else you simply must greet in some shape or form, if you do not greet that is one of the biggest insults of all. Secondly is the amount of time that you take in greeting. If you have never met the person, it is important for a long series of questions about their home, where they come from, their name, who their parents are, etc. and often the same questions will be repeated over and over. Finally, once acquainted with each other it is important to remember their name so that the next time you greet you can no only say hello, but call out their name.

Physically there are also a few rules, including the handshake as the most basic forms of respect that can be shown. When first meeting someone or if it is someone of importance you should shake their hand. If you already know them a handshake is not as necessary, but serves as positive reinforcement of your honorable character if you take the time to habitually shake. To make the shake even more respectful you can place your hand over the heart after the handshake. Should one find themselves in a rush, too far away from the person you are greeting, or unable to reach them for whatever reason it is acceptable to clasp your own two hands together high up in the air visually representing the handshake between two people.

What kinds of things are asked in The Gambia? I can only accurately speak for the Mandinkas, but I think the following list is fairly common to all the languages here. They all begin with the universal Islamic Salaam Maleekum. Greetings include: Do you have peace? Hope there are no troubles. Where are the home people? Where do you originally come from? How is the work? Where is your father/mother? What is your name? What is your occupation?

Overall, these rules are not too difficult to follow and vigilantly practicing them can take you from a near devil like figure to a saintly man of peace. It’s a bit of a shame then that I seem to constantly fail at one or more aspects of greeting. My failings are mostly from carrying Western mentalities with me, such as time is money. Often I am rushing to get somewhere and as a result do minimalist greetings, which gets the job done, but by no means makes me a “wonderful man” within the community. Furthermore, if anyone ever begins the greeting with “tubab” instead of “hello” or “Salam Aleekum” I will never greet back. This is a bit of a tricky point because for the ones shouting tubab the word is usually not said as an insult, but I take it as a robbery of my individuality turning it into an insult. Since my lack of response to the tubab greeting further gives the impression that I do not like to greeting, digging one layer deeper into my hole. Lastly on the list of my failings at greetings is the flaw that I am horrible at remembering names, so many times I find myself unable to greet and say their name, the greeting equivalent of icing on the cake.

Living in a more urban area presents a particular challenge for greetings because there is such a wide variety of ethnic groups and nationalities here. You wade through English, French, Wolof, Pulaar, Mandinka, and a bit of Joola. When greeting in the native language of the speaker you immediately gain a lot of respect. The trick then is to decide which ethnic group the person belongs to and greet accordingly. After some time in The Gambia you gain the ability to take an educated guess at ethnic groups, and therefore greet in the proper language. It’s one aspect of my time here I have been working on a lot in recent months, and I can now get by with greeting in all of the above languages.

I’m still not exactly sure who is supposed to begin the greeting process, but as a foreigner I think Gambians expect you to begin the conversation meaning that your guess at their ethnic group is even more important. When someone else does begin the greeting it is always a bit of a relief since I simply have to listen to the language that they choose.

One of the most frustrating things is trying to greet in a native language and the person angrily says back, “I can speak English. Why don’t you greet me in English?” Admittedly this rarely happens and it throws you off guard because more often than not the response is, “Oh my god, this tubab can speak (_fill_in_language_here_).”

Finally as a footnote, one area where it is completely acceptable to cut greetings short is cell phone conversations. It’s an aspect of life that has adopted the Western mentality that time is money, and when you excessively greet you take up minutes, and you take up credit, meaning you take up money. Wasting credit can quickly add up to a life with one fewer bags of rice, or kilo of potatoes, etc.

To sum it all up, I think it’s important reiterate the overall importance of greeting. When we first started language training, greetings were the first thing we learned and continually practiced. I can vividly remember my language trainer saying, “Today we will work on nothing but greetings, greetings, greetings, greetings. Why? Because they are the most important thing you can know here. Let’s begin.”
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New photos are up on my Flickr account.

And float in space and drift in time.

2007-03-07T07:47:00.000Z

I once knew a moment so pure it was bound to collapse under its own goodness. It was a river of warmth for her that I felt on those cool autumn nights, and it was under the purple tinged skies that delight and pleasure in life was quietly understood by the two of us. On the soft green grass we would lie together arm in arm smile for no particular reason other than the moment was alive with our presence. It was a moment so pure it only lives through whispers and dreams.

It was a moment so pure that it could only be broken by something so harsh, the harshness of the bells. Those irritating ringing bells, cling clang, wailing throughout the night air. Cling clang, and they beckoned me to their sound. The bells serving as the introduction and the chanting as the chorus. The chanting of all those monks sitting perfectly aligned in a row, and under the dim of the moonlight colored robes tinged blood-red. Those monks, they looked so peaceful, so tempting, like they had some quality unattainable by the rest of us. Clang, the bells went off one more time, and I got up from the green grass, got up from the comfort of her graces and I went for the bells vibrating through my entire being.

I went for the bells wanting what they were hinting and what the monks were emanating, I wanted to walk their mysterious path of life. Like a jealous little boy I went for them without much of a second thought. I walked through their temple, gleaming in golden spires stretching for the sky and soothing streams of fresh water. I found myself lost in the spirit of that temple. A cling of the bells, and I was no longer in control, feeling my way through a space where all time seemed to stand still.

It was at that moment when I felt my soul begin to burn as I saw those eyes. I saw the eyes of one lone monk sitting absolutely still at the very end of the row. His motionless eyes didn’t shed a blink for what seemed like hours, and as he stared at me I felt he was glaring into my very soul. The eyes were screaming at my being, rhythmically speaking into my ear, “Join us. join us.” Clang, the bells went off once more and I realized I was running with fear as my only guide. I ran. I ran out of that temple of gold until my breath staggered and my feet brought my entire body crashing to the ground.

I stood up and found myself once again under the calm of the purple night sky, staring down at the place where she once was. I felt empty staring at the place where I was once lying with the girl who had brought so much goodness to begin with.

I felt deceived. Deceived and direction less at who was at fault, but I could only look inside and feel a burning weakness.

So I did what anyone would do, I sat on the ground and let a tear fall from my eye. I saw one single tear fall onto the ground where a soft impression of where we once lay was still faintly painted on the grass. It soaked into the ground providing me with a temporary mirror. I saw a face that was devoid of emotion, completely hollowed out. The tear then began to split apart and fade shattering out into the world, moving uncontrolled and directionless, moving out like fragments of stardust.

Regards to Neil Gaiman and H.P. Lovecraft.
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So that’s a written account of a dream I had this past week. I woke up thoroughly disturbed asking, “What the heck was that all about?”

My guess leads me to remember that Larium is a powerful drug, and taken for a period of 8 months straight starts to affect your psyche in strange ways. My friend Neil recently had a horrifying hallucination during the middle of the night in which he saw an intruder in his house hovering over him grinning an evil Cheshire grin only to disappear into nothingness.

Ah modern medicine…

I suppose Freud, unaware that the patient was on long term medication, would have a field day with such cases.

It all comes full circle though as this week’s post is about relationships in Peace Corps, or perhaps only in PC The Gambia.

I had a hilarious encounter the other day at my local shop that was all about local love. The cast of characters included three of my neighbours, the local shop keep, a young man, and a young woman. Somehow it all came together beautifully despite roaming between four languages, English, Wolof, Mandinka, and Gambian English (I am convinced this is its own language). The man, young in life and still finding his way, was asking for the love of the woman because he was getting to the age where he thought it appropriate to have a wife. She wouldn’t accept the offer unless he essentially showed her the money. So they went back and forth with him claiming at first that he didn’t have the money, then conceding that it was there, then trying to convince her that he had bought her small gifts in the past (tea and things of that nature), and then finally as a gesture of his monetary support buying her a loaf of bread and chocolate spread. At this point she simply told him she’d consider, grabbed her bread and went happily along her way.

Throughout this whole conversation I was laughing, smiling, switching sides of support, and trying to get in a bit of Wolof when I could (A rather useful language in West Africa). In the end, I was confused as to whom the victor was, but it seems the short term battle goes to the female lead. We will see about the war.

So that is a small taste of the local situation. What about PCVs? I feel like we run the spectrum of solid relationships, to terrible break ups, to maintaining a holding pattern, but needless to say the increased pressure of life abroad, combined with an high population density of PCVs in The Gambia means that just about anything is possible.

The increased stress abroad really shows you what your relationship is made of, or if you are in the observing position the dos and not to dos of dating here.

For our Education ’06-’08 group we have the wonderful situation of having a married couple along for our tour. Seeming to have a great relationship when we all first met in Philadelphia they have really provided a fun and upbeat energy to the whole group, and their caring for each other shines through onto all of us. I think we all have learned a lot about paths to happiness from their example.

On the other end of the spectrum you have a lot of the same problems that you would have back home, only when they are compounded with travelling difficultly (many relationships here are more or less long distance because of travelling time) and stresses of Peace Corps life they cause relationships to crumble. It’s a sad fact because many might otherwise be able to be worked out under different conditions.

I think those fears leave a lot of us at bay, feeling like we have too much on our plate already and that a relationship would just make our goals of doing solid development work too difficult to achieve. Then again, with every new group that comes into country new possibilities open up, and sometimes things just land in front of you.

In any event if we are ever short of emotional distress we always can rely on our good old friend larium.

Public Health, now occurring once a month!

2007-02-28T07:57:00.000Z

After a weekend in Dakar where my life seemed to go back into its Western routine and a recent visit to my site by my Peace Corps medical officers I have refocused a bit of thought onto my own personal health. Those feelings happened just in time for another one of our national days of health education…

A few years back I was taking a course with the excellent Professor Carmichael of Indiana University. The class was on epidemics throughout history, and while not quite as solid as her Black Death course, I still found myself swallowed up in the material. The question I asked myself most in the class was how much do you inform the public about disease when you yourself are unsure of what it is and furthermore how sure do you have to be to enforce preventative measures? For a while I toyed with future paths in public health administration, but never went beyond some late night chats with my parents about it. Interest has again resurfaced again seeing the small impacts positive public health messages have had here in The Gambia. It is a geographically tiny nation, and therefore it is a place where so much progress is possible with the right kinds of policy.

Once every month the whole of The Gambia participates in President Jammeh’s “Clean the Nation” campaign. It is his attempt to bring together the nation under the notion that a strong and proud nation is a clean nation. It usually happens on a Saturday morning, once every month, unless of course the President’s will does not wish it. There doesn’t seem to be a set schedule of when these days occur and I never know they are coming until the evening before or the morning of. This is only significant because during a clean the nation day all business and life comes to a halt from 9am to 1pm just like if it were a national holiday. During that four hour period life in The Gambia shuts down so that all of the citizens of this small democracy can, quite simply, clean their nation.

The four hours of clean the nation sees the whole country mobilized not through any special propaganda or extreme measures; rather it is the turning gears of citizenry that puts the work in motion. The good citizen spends at least a little bit of time making his or her physical environment more tidy, clean, and habitable. Of course there is much work to be done since many such assailants on cleanliness present themselves. The top three offenders are animal droppings, trash, and dust/dirt.

Since many of the citizens of The Gambia are living in an agriculturally based society, the landscape is decorated with animals that contribute to farming productivity. Donkeys, horses, cows, chickens, goats, dogs, cats, bulls, etc. all have their place on the land and all have their own production of waste. With all the possible parasites, attraction to flies, or other such dangers that attach themselves to animal remains this poses a significant public health risk. Furthermore, many small children simply do not have presence of mind to avoid such hazards; running through the fields of knee high grass one does not pay much attention to what is on the ground. Nature does wash away the majority of the problem, but it takes the hard work of shovels and sweat to get it off the paths and streets. Probably the least overwhelming it is still nice to see animal droppings being cleaned up on clean the nation day.

Next on the list of usual suspects is human created trash. Trash here has no home, no where that it can go and be hidden from society. Back home most of you deposit your trash (which should be separated into Recyclable and not mind you…) into your bin, wait for a certain day of the week when the trash man will come, set it out on the curb, and then never think of it again. It is gone, disposed of, finished. Of course it does go somewhere, and I’m sure many of you have at one point or another visited your local landfill and seen the mountain of build up. Well, imagine that same mountain of expendables and scatter them across the countryside, that is more or less what we have here in The Gambia. It is everywhere and old food attracts scavengers, old plastics, cans, and bottles create a nice place for mosquitoes to breed, and old vehicle frames, broken chairs, or spare bicycle parts sit and create a museum of rust and dilapidation. What is done with these objects in a country without modern “trash removal?” On clean the nation day we gather them all up into big piles and then set fire to them. From 9am to 1pm many of the areas of the country seem to rain fire. I suppose it’s a scene that would make any rioter proud, and it does get rid of much of the waste, but it leaves the citizens chocking under poor air quality. I don’t even want to imagine the kind of toxins that must be released during the process of burning old batteries, plastics, paint, or metals.

Finally, there is the dust and dirt. This is prevalent throughout any day of the year as I have noted in earlier blog entries. The dry season sees tons of dust flying around invading your respiratory system and in the rainy season everything goes to mud giving ample room for parasites and mosquitoes to live and breed. While most of what you would consider our yards are simply a sandy dirt mixture every morning someone sweeps the ground and packs the dirt away all in an effort to minimize the excess dust that can enter our lungs and homes. During clean the nation day a special emphasis goes into making sure that every square centimetre is nice and brushed.

All in all “Clean the Nation” day is an event that monthly brings about national pride to many Gambians. It is a chance to feel like everyone is working together for a common good. While there are some questionable aspects to the methods of trash removal, getting health and a clean environment in the nation’s consciousness is a positive step. It is an idea that I wouldn’t mind being seen transferred back home. Sure there are plenty of small independent initiatives, such as groups and organizations adopting a street or city block to clean and care for, but nothing quite as regular or as large as how the Gambians get down to the dirty work. I would love to go back to a big city in America and find myself in a quiet residential neighbourhood that took the same kind of pride in the land they call home. Imagine how much nicer a city block could be in a place like Chicago if once a month all the residents got out of bed and did a little bit of house cleaning.

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Mariama was a wonderfully pleasant Dutch lady who I met on my way home the other day. She boarded the gele-gele on the way to Brikama and overheard me speaking to a man in Mandinka. She then joined the conversation greeting me in Mandinka, further more asking her children of mixed parenthood to also greet in Mandinka. The whole bus erupted in confusion, laugher, and joy as two tubabs were sitting chatting away about the home people, how the work was, if our home was still standing, what is our father’s name, etc. It was a classic Peace Corps moment that I was glad to experience in a small part for myself.

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With the gracious gift of rechargeable batteries (Thanks Dad and Valerie) I have been able to start taking some snap-shots again. I recommend for all future Volunteers in The Gambia who want to take pictures to be sure to bring along some rechargeable batteries, it makes life a whole lot easier. Perhaps someday I will gain the photography skills that my dad once displayed. I have uploaded some new photos to my Flickr Account, hope you enjoy them!

Quick post after being in Dakar

2007-02-21T08:32:00.000Z

Last night we returned to The Gambia after a wonderful weekend in Dakar, Senegal. PCVs and ex-pats from Mali, Mauritania, Senegal, and The Gambia were there for the West African Softball Invitational (WAIST). Our team got to the quarter finals, but then lost to a Senegalese team. Notes from the weekend:

1. Things are ¨easier¨ in The Gambia in terms of soil. The instant you cross the border into Senegal and the farther north you go the forests quickly disappear. Our terrain is much nicer than most Gambians think.

2. We had the opportunity to meet other PCVs from The Gambia and get to know them much much better. Usually we are limited to our training group or our assignment sector (Education for me). I had the chance to stay with two other hilarious education volunteers Taylor and Ernie, who are unfortunately closing service in June, and therefore, I won´t have much of a chance to see them again. Overall we bonded as a whole group, and it was nice to have a feeling of ¨PC The Gambia¨ as a whole rather than a disjointed patchwork of people. Our attendance was only about 1/3 of our volunteers so hopefully next year we can get more to come and enjoy the event.

3. Our homestay, Gerry and Rose were the best we could have ever asked for (Thanks!), and they provided us with a friendly atmosphere, wonderful lodging, hot showers, soft beds, great food, television, and even some video games. Their son destroyed us in no less than 5 different XBOX games. Strange how your video gaming skills go down when you live in an African village.

4. Got a chance to catch up and compare notes with Laura (Doing her service in Mauritania) and it is clear that our experiences have some similarities but overall are completely different. It seems as though they are much more spread out across the country and the PCVs truly take advantage when they have an opportunity to go out and have fun together. It was that sense of community that I was lacking in The Gambia until this trip. She goes home for a visit in a few weeks and I can´t help but be a bit jealous.

5. We had balanced diets and variety! We ran the gamut of food: French pastries, Ethiopian, ice cream, chocolate, hot dogs, Indian, Korean, American, and tons of great homemade food (Thanks to our homestay). I think my stomach felt normal for the first time in a long time.

6. Dakar has the feel of a large city without the infrastructure. Numerous districts, areas, tourist sites, and so on sprawl out with the city but there was never a plan for transportation. Traffic jams plague the city. On the other hand it has the feel of a big city so much more than our urban area, complete with public parks, expensive taxis, pick pockets, cool markets, an international flavor, and 747 jets flying overhead. I definitely want to go back again next year.

7. The transport there is a physically short distance compared to what many of the other volunteers from other countries had to do. However, it is still complicated and difficult as you transfer from taxi, to gele-gele, to a river Ferry, to a station wagon ,to more taxis and will traverse language barriers going from Mandinka and English to Wolof and French.

8. Coming back home I think we all had the classic experience of feeling glad to be somewhere familiar again. It gave us all a good perspective on what we like and don´t like about our own situation as volunteers and representatives of our country.

All in all it was a great experience and to all future W. Africa volunteers I highly recommend the trip.

Best wishes to all and Ernie and Talyor don´t forget I will give you 100 Dalalsis if you...

Animals and Presentations. A short story and a news clipping.

2007-02-14T07:20:00.000Z

Note: The post this week is a bit small. I am in a rush to get myself ready to head to Dakar, Senegal for a softball tournament, as well as try and secure some plane tickets to Europe. Hope all is well back Stateside.

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Aware of the suffering caused by exploitation, social injustice, stealing, and oppression, I vow to cultivate loving-kindness and learn ways to work for the well-being of people, animals, plants, and minerals. I vow to practice generosity by sharing my time, energy, and material resources with those who are in real need. I am determined not to steal and not to possess anything that should belong to others. I will respect the property of others, but I will prevent others from profiting from human suffering or the suffering of other species on Earth.

-Thich Nhat Hanh from Living Buddha, Living Christ

He hadn't been sleeping well. The dog in the compound down the street had decided the inhumane hours of 3am to 5am were the best times to howl and moan as if he were undertaking some ghastly werewolf transformation. His nights had been ravaged and he was running on empty. The exhaustion made the rustling in his backyard all the more startling as he stumbled outside to relieve himself. Peering through misty eyes he saw a small figure scuttle across the ground, underneath his thatched bamboo wall and into the darkness. You could say that moment was the catalyst that brought about the downfall of the kingdom.

"Darboe, I think we have some mice or some rodent living in our backyard," Todd explained the next morning. His eyes were a pale red and bloodshot from the lack of sleep. The only thing keep his spirits up was the wonderful aroma and caffeine of the spiced tea he was drinking. He reminded himself he would have to send written thanks to the wonderful gal who sent the tea to him, but for now he refocused on Darboe who was already half way through his response.

"... They're going to pay for eating all of my Cassava plants! I've got the trap ready look here," Daboe exclaimed holding out a large cage of steel.

The rusted cage of metal was the classic mousetrap, and by that I do not mean the children's game. A small piece of food hung as bait and a when the unfortunate creature reached for the morsel of food a large heavy door would swing down and seal his fate.

"We will put this in your backyard tonight, and then they will stop disturbing your backyard and all of my crops," Daboe further explained.

As the sun rose throughout the day and the heat began to swell, Todd's lack of sleep was beginning to catch up to him. The last thing he needed was another night of restlessness caused not only by the howling of the dog but also fear of mice running around his back yard. His face contorted as a horrible image filled his imagination, walking outside in the middle of the night only to be surrounded by dozens of mice swarming around his legs. The fear was perhaps caused by the vilification of the mouse king in The Nutcracker, or perhaps it was all those classes on plague and disease but rats, mice, and other rodents always brought to him an uncanny discomfort. Todd winced and knew the mice had to be stopped. He sighed and felt glad that a trap would be set later that night.

As evening fell he flipped the pages of a book his father had sent him, inattentive to the words, just trying to pass away the time until he could attempt to find peace in slumber. He became more focused flowing across the peaceful words of Thich Nhat Hanh and guessed at what would happen to the mice later that night. Surely Daboe wouldn't just let them go, they would simply return and continue feasting on his crops. No, Todd thought, no Daboe would do what anyone else would; he would send them back to meet their maker. At this thought Todd re-read the passage in his book and found it hard to imagine living in such peace that you strove to never bring any harm to anything or anyone. He had to temporarily reconcile by admitting that it is desirable enough to be on a path towards a goal, rather than actually achieving it.

When the waxing moon finally came out it illuminated the compound with a pale glow. The trap was set and the downfall of the kingdom of mice was about to begin. It took only four minutes before we all heard a tell-tale rattle of the cage. The first victim had been caught.

Todd and Daboe marched through the house towards the backyard, ready to begin the battle for the Cassava farm. As they reached the cage their eyes confirmed what the ears already knew, the capture of a large greyish-brown mouse, almost too big for the cage, and desperately hunting for a way out. It was squirming about grabbing, clawing, scrapping any means of escape.

Daboe brought the cage to the front porch and under the quiet of the moonlight a small crowd of the compound’s children gathered in anticipation. The mouse was feisty and seemed to have an intuition at what was going on, for it was grabbing and clawing at the metal grating with a rapidly swelling vigour. The crowd jeered, smiled, and poked in their temporary gain of the power of the Gods.

Daboe grabbed the mouse’s tail firm and yanked it out of the cage. At this moment all the children gasped in glee, the bloodshed would only be moments away now. Todd, unaccustomed to the sight stood behind the railing of his home watching with a blank stare revealing not emptiness rather an inner conflict of emotions. Daboe pulled the mouse out of the cage and started swinging it in a windmill pattern, around and around until the small creature was dizzy and confused. However, it was not about to give up so quickly and began squirming again, so Daboe gave it another round of windmills, this time adding some hard crashes into the solid dirt. Daboe’s motions were quick and required caricatured swings in order to achieve the desired effect. The flailing antics caused all in the compound to start laughing, pointing, and giggling wildly at the entire scene. The laughter was contagious, and even Todd, hiding behind the safety of his railing couldn’t help but break a smile.

After the second round of swinging Daboe grabbed a knife and called over one of the young for help. He and the boy, Lamin, held the mouse down, grabbed a knife, aligned it with the neck, and began to slice. It was over in a couple of seconds, a small puddle gathering around the neck of the animal.

For the next two nights this episode was repeated no less than six times, and by the end became eerily efficient.

By the end of it all Todd found himself lost in a random thought. If this was the way things are in more rural life, violence being a standard component, how much is the media to blame when a cartoon coyote gets blown up by a roadrunner? Is the comparative real world example much worse?

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6th February, 2007
EBO TOWN, THE GAMBIA

UNICEF in cooperation with the Government of The Gambia launched a water sanitation new country programme intended to help reach the UNDP Millennium Development Goals. The event was attended by the Vice President, although spectators were upset with the absence of President Yahya A.J.J. Jammeh who had been invited.

The programme was highlighted by many invigorating speeches, musical acts by local schools, a performance by Gambian Good Will Ambassador Jaliba Kuyateh, and a special dedication of a community water pump.

UNCIEF along with the GoTG have been working hard to make small impacts at community level to improve the conditions for all Gambians. The water sanitation project was started after a 2005 outbreak of Cholera in Ebo Town afflicted more than 40,000 people. Through global partnerships with UNICEF, the UN organization was able to organize the installation of treated wells, pumps, and community water taps.

On hand to cover the event were The Observer and The Point Newspapers, GRTS, and the YMCA Digital Studio.

Like still water.

2007-02-07T07:09:00.000Z

This is a world of contrasts. Walking home from work on my little dirt road I was first passed by a donkey cart carrying twigs and branches to be used as kindling, then one minute later a turn of the century (Yes I am referring to 2000-2001 era, and yes I think it’s now appropriate to do so) Mercedes no doubt with full A/C on, rolled past me kicking up dust in my eyes.

So in the spirit of contrast here is a work related Gambia Multiple Choice Question. Match these computer lab set ups with their respective institutions.

A. 1 central server that powers 25 work stations. Operating system, Ubuntu Linux 6.06 LTS release. Each workstation has a solid keyboard and mouse with a 15” LCD panel screen.

B. 10 un-networked workstations. Operating system, Windows 98. Each workstation has a working keyboard but the balls in the mice are degrading in quality. Various late 90’s 14-17” CRT monitors.

C. 1 server with 6 workstations, wirelessly networked. Operating system, Windows XP Service Pack 2. Each has a functional keyboard with new (but low quality) trackball mouse. 15” LCD panel screens.

1. The Gambia College
2. Marakissa Nursery School
3. NICE Internet Café

Correct Answers:

A. -> 3
B. -> 1
C. -> 2

“That’s the problem in The Gambia, where you expect the best it is the worst, and where it is the best it should be the worst.” – One Gambian’s answer to why such a world of contrast exists here.

One of the most frustrating things about ICT work in The Gambia is that donations and good will from NGOs lacks any coordination at a foundational level. That is how you get a nursery school with modern computers and The Gambia College struggles with Windows 98. This discrepancy exists despite the fact that it is The Gambia College is the place that trains all future teachers of The Gambia.

Now let’s take a look at computer lab –A-. In this case a Norwegian NGO has donated a complete set up for a new place called NICE Internet Café which bills itself as an institution that promotes “Energy Communication Education.” It’s a new operation and I their philosophy which is to create a computer lab completely powered by sustainable energy and software. The entire NICE building is powered by a large solar array which provides more than enough power for each day commercial of use. In addition they have chosen to use Ubuntu Linux meaning that all the software is free and updatable without any worries of Microsoft asking for serial numbers or piracy issues. I think Ubuntu is a project that has endless applications in the developing world, but as I stated in an earlier blog, I am not quite convinced that it is ready for the mainstream. Too many issues with limited off-line support documentation, installation of software, a cryptic filing system for the underlying system, and a heavy reliance on command-line tweaks to software still plague Ubuntu that is oh so close of its motto: “Linux for human beings.” It is close but no cigar, and in an environment when you need a darn good reason to go against the standards of “the big guy” close doesn’t make it.

The situation at The Gambia College is a real shame, and either the Government of The Gambia or a willing NGO should step in and make a donation to upgrade their system. There are plans to upgrade the computing system there, but they have been slow in coming and seem to focus mainly on server support. I think within the next year they hope to be able to give all staff and students a @college.gm e-mail address amongst other things. A focused upgrade to their labs where they instruct the teachers is also badly needed. A good PCV is on the job trying to coordinate all these things, but as everything else here it comes slowly slowly.

And then there is the nursery school that my counterpart, another PCV, and I have been working on setting up. The school is sponsored by a German city which has donated 7 recent laptops all sporting snazzy wireless networking cards. We have had a nightmare setting it all up, as is the Dao of Windows, but the fact that they have these machines at a nursery school leaves one feeling that they will be underutilized at such a low level institution. Yahoo! Mail here we come…

What does this all add up to? Like the Gambian’s quote above, I think I can sum it up in one word: Frustration. Where is the support for the larger institutions whose efforts will trickle down to the whole country? How much more effective would new computers be at The Gambia College versus a nursery school? Where is the top-level coordination to ensure that this doesn’t happen? Why do we have to continually “obtain” copies of Operating System, Office Software, and anti-virus packages when there are free alternatives? How can we promote close but no cigar Open Source software like Ubuntu Linux? Why isn’t Ubuntu Linux ready for the mainstream?

These are questions that are hard to answer and I feel like when asking them in rapid fire we risk a bunch of finger pointing. I leave with these questions open as I, along with the rest of the country, am still working on answers. I suppose that is why we are here as volunteers. And that my friends, is a focused look at a tiny part of ICT in The Gambia.

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The most incredible things happen in the world of contrast. When you are the most frustrated with the environment here, the magic seems to happen. I had a wonderful cross cultural experience the other day, the kind that I have been longing for since I came here, the kind I know is possible when one finds themselves abroad, and the kind that has been somewhat lacking during my time in The Gambia.

My evening runs have become a test of patience and mental focus, as the harassment I receive would otherwise overwhelm what is supposed to be a stress reliving activity. That means that I usually focus on my running and ignore the world around me. This past day I heard someone behind me yelling, "Hey man slow down, let me catch up to you. Hey! Please! Wait for me." I looked behind me and saw that it wasn't that I was going fast as much as he had a lot of ground to catch up. As he approached me his dress made him stand out from the rest of the typical, "Hey tubab, talk to me," type of disturbance, he was wearing running shorts and a running jersey.

We ended up running together for quite a while and his story was the type of inspirational material that would work well as an ABC after school special, if there was an ABC here. Like many Gambians will tell you, Sarjo said that life is not easy in The Gambia and his family is very poor. After compulsory school he decided it was time to try and help economically support himself as well as his family. He went into learning electrical systems and now is beginning to work on repairs in his village. He has been running in competition since 2000. Reading what little material he could find, he created his own training program that includes such rarities as an understanding of rest days and a healthy diet. He isn't able to travel far due to money constraints but he tries to enter as many competitions within The Gambia as he can. It was slow going at first, but recently he placed rather high in a competition and won a bag of rice and 500 dalasis. What did he do with the winnings? Like any good son who is thinking the whole before the self he gave the rice to his mother as well as a little bit of money.

I think one of the most fascinating things about the encounter was the honesty of his speech despite a lack of confidence with his English. When he spoke I could tell by the pacing of his speech and the way I could never interrupt him that he was nervous to trying English in such a casual setting. He would take time to formulate what he wanted to say in his head, and then just blurt it all in one long string of words. Despite his lack of confidence, he conversational English was quite good in my own humble opinion.

This kind of drive and determination I find lacking in many of the men his age, who seem to be more content listening to reggae and drinking tea than working for the betterment of their family, community, or country. If that sounds harsh, ask a Gambian who is older and I think they would say something similar. However, the picture does become a bit of a more ambiguous when you consider for the ever increasing mid-twenties crowd there aren't really a whole lot of job opportunities to be had. This is something the government will have to look into as a huge population boom has occurred here in the past 20 years or so.

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Check out some photos from my buddy just down the road. A couple of us on our Christmas tour of the beach are there.

Ch. 9 Where tribute to Frank McCourt is twice paid

2007-01-31T07:24:00.001Z

It’s a few days after getting violently sick and I sense that I’ve gained a new perspective on life. The dark shadows that have plagued my time here are passing. Anger and frustration give way to new emotions that have been lost since I left America. I wonder why I’m smiling and laughing more and I wonder if I am slowly recapturing the hope and joy that I found in life not so long ago.

I look around my house and I am so embarrassed by the biological disaster it has become that my cheeks burn red. I know the first step to coming back to life is to make my home and myself presentable again. My whole body aches from being chained to a routine of running between the pit latrine and laying in bed dazed and apprehensive of the next rush to the bathroom. I feel embarrassed to walk back to my pit latrine area which looks like a marshland created from the results of my sickness. I take a deep breath and start pouring water out of my bucket onto the floor. I grab a brush and start to scrub.

I know I’m a lucky man every time I come across freedoms that I have not explored. After being sick I understand how much freedom over my own life I was not taking advantage of. One thing I know will change is my dietary health. I ask Daboe to take me into the inner crevices of the local market so I can see it from a Gambian perspective. I want to know more about the foods available here and I want to see if I can start to cook more. My mind starts to wander to the recipes of my old roommate Steevo as I walk through the market. Items that I rarely see in the family food bowl or on the outskirts of the market pop out upon first sight. Varieties of beans, fresh lettuce, tomatoes, cassava, chicken, spaghetti, catfish, and a whole host of small spices and flavourings. I notice all are a little bit more expensive than the standard fare of potatoes, onions, small fish, and rice, but I know that Peace Corps provides us with the money to enjoy a little nutritional variety.

The first meal I cook is something that any of my college roommates would recognize as a Todd meal. I know I’m no culinary artist so I slop together a sandwich surprise of potatoes, onions, garlic, tomatoes, and peppers. My first bite is like a bit of heaven as I forgot how nice it is to cook your own food and know what went into the meal. I tell myself to keep trying new things and I don’t worry one bit about the quality because I know after being a college cook I can only go up in ability. I laugh at myself because I know I’ve got nothing but time to practice the art.

The next time I’m at the market I smile and think about Frank McCourt and know there is always comfort in “the world’s cheapest food,” bananas. I buy some peanut butter and indulge in the basics of a PB & Banana sandwich and I feel like the little boy in Malaysia again.

The hot season starts to creep back into our lives and I fear the pleasant fantasy of consistent 70 degree nights will go away soon. During the middle of the day we feel the oncoming hot season and lay around outside because there’s no where else to go to escape the heat, and I don’t know how people survive without air conditioning for their entire lives. Muslim New Year is approaching and Daboe has decided part of the celebration is to get our hands dirty and fix the concrete around our well. The existing foundation is crumbling away and there is just a small island of jagged and cracked stone remaining. He says that the concrete has to be fixed because it would help reduce the chance of someone tripping and seriously hurting themselves. I think about all the people who walk away from the skeleton of a foundation, balancing buckets on their head and realize just how dangerous it could have been to anyone not being mindful of their step.

It shortly after noon and the sun is beating down and despite this everyone is still ready to work. I look around at all the women who are for once able to relax and watch someone else do the work. I look at all the little children who are playing with the cement and wonder how popular play dough would have been here. I think about the opportunities for creativity and expression the kids could have if only the materials to do so were here. I feel the dark shadow coming closer as I think I will never understand what it’s like to grow up here and how the children challenge their minds. I see Daboe and the two boys who are old enough to help are ready to go, shovels in hand. One of the boys, Alieu, is only 9 and does so much work for the family I feel like he should get more respect but he’s only a boy and that means it’s his duty to be bossed around to do all sorts of chores. The other boy, Lamin, is older and is quieter. He does his work and then goes out to have his own life. I think it must be nice to be that young but not be bottom of the ladder like Alieu. But I know that it’s just the way things are here and I there’s nothing I can do about someone’s age.

There is a ring of concrete blocks that surround the well and by the end of the day we need to have cemented them together, filled the inside of the ring with gravel, and cement over all the gravel leaving a smooth and solid surface for people to stand on. I realize that this is my first time laying cement and I suddenly feel young again. The day is hot but the four of us feel content to be working. Alieu wants to show his maturity and keeps asking to borrow one of the two shovels. I know that he can do the work, but something inside of me also wants to show my commitment to the common good. We spend the day playing musical chairs with the shovels.

The women keep yelling that Oh Yaya, he likes to do work, and we see that now he is working. I want to shoot back at them that American’s know hard work as well as any Gambian. I want to tell them Yes, that I have held a shovel before, that I have built things before, and no, not all white men are weak and foreign to a hard day’s work. But I don’t. I don’t because I look down at my hands and I remember how they looked when I first arrived in The Gambia. I don’t because I remember how all the mothers in my training village would grab my hands and laugh at how smooth they were, delicate and barely a day old they would say. I look at my hands now and see the calluses, scars, cuts, and age in my hands and I know that I’m not in the right to say anything. Definitions of hard work are different for everyone and what do I know when I’m just a 22 year old Midwestern boy who’s never worked on a farm in his life.

The work is finished, and I tell Daboe that I don’t know what it is but I am finally starting to smile and laugh more. He looks back at me and says that it was the sickness. The sickness with all the vomiting and the diarreah; you were getting rid of the last bit of America in you. Now you are a true Gambian. He says that you smile because now you are one of us and understand that here we are all poor, but still happy. He says it’s the way things are.

I can’t agree or disagree so I simply smile some more and feel the dark shadows leaving my presence.
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So I can’t really write like Mr. McCourt, but I thought I’d give his style a try. Quick and blunt statements told in the first person and during my reading they certainly made an impact. I admired the pacing of his two books Angela’s Ashes and the slightly less engaging ’Tis. If you are curious for more, check them out and let me know what you think.
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You know you are in the Peace Corps when: Your Uncle sends you an independent local newspaper and you laugh out loud repeatedly at the witty Holiday season movie reviews even thought you have no idea what any of the movies are about.

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Want to be a part of this ongoing saga? Then join the author in The Gambia, West Africa from now until July of 2008! First 3 will receive a gift box filled with tons of fabulous prizes!

Our own personal Cheers! (Dust, Dairy and Donuts)

2007-01-24T08:24:00.000Z

In the center of town there is a small breakfast stand in which the rest of the outside world seems to stop.

Downtown essentially is a large right triangle, the hypotenuse running from north-west to south-east, the base side travelling east and west, and the height side north and south. It is the height side of the triangle that serves as the main artery into the wonders of the Greater Banjul area. Its importance as the main transportation-way has dictated this 2km or so stretch of road to host the majority of Westernization. A few banks have constructed branches here, a few restaurant shacks serve basic food, Pentium II class internet cafes reign supreme, and there are two gas stations which play host to so much traffic that they each warrant a mini-mart.

This stretch of road is also host to the major car park and transportation hub for the entire south bank of the river Gambia. Anyone who is familiar with travel on the south bank knows their journey begins here; a place that would make even the most hardened veteran of Mos Eisley space port shudder (If you understand that you are cool, but also officially a nerd.) This 500meter by 500meter parking garage is our center stage that day in and day out parades itself with a cast of characters including: Dust, smog, yelling, street vendors, pick pockets, dogs with rotting ears, hundreds of transit vans, up to thousands of people, and endless unforgiving heat. The heat generated by this flurry of activity is debilitating, and made al the worse by the common law of transportation here: If it ain’t full, it ain’t leaving. Pick your seat and be prepared to wait there for anywhere from 15 minutes to 2 hours. During the 11 months of the year when it is likely to be hot during most of the day time, the wait time in the car park can cripple an otherwise patient and hardy traveller.

All of the traffic and commotion is set against the backdrop of billowing dust that can be so choking that one would be sure to conclude there is some evil trickery at play. Then you look around you and you realize it is no trick, it’s just simple mathematics. You take poor soil quality and add donkeys, horses, chickens, goats, construction trucks, cars, taxis, market goers, and bicycles and you are sure to get the desired smoggy effect. This area is a living nightmare for someone with sinus problems.

In the middle of all this hustle and bustle is a small breakfast stand which is shielded by thin draped cloth curtains. This most simple of decorations is deceiving in its protective powers, for stepping behind the curtains is akin to stepping off your own personal lunar-lander and stepping into an alien world of comfort. The world inside is familiar in sight and south to the outside world, but brings about a relaxing feeling to mind and soul that does not exist a few centimetres in the other direction.

The breakfast stand seats around 9 to 12 in around a wooden horseshoe shaped table top. In the center of the shoe stand he store owner and his son, dutifully working away at their chosen art. In this store you don’t find opulent choices or delicacies, there are no pancakes, sausage, or donuts. Instead you have two choices 1. Do you want your eggs on bread or on a plate with bread on the side? 2. Do you want milk, tea, coffee, or hot chocolate? Curiously the eggs are stamped with the letters NL on the top with some numbers following, these eggs are imported from Holland. Why The Gambia can’t provide its own eggs is absolutely beyond me given that almost every family compound has at least 3 or 4 chickens running around. At any rate my buddy and I always go for eggs on the bread with a warm cup of hot chocolate and they are sublime. Not that the food is particularly healthy. The eggs are fried in a pool of oil, the only vegetable you et are small bits of onion, and the milk comes from a can that says “high fat/high sugar.” The owner, like many of the other shop owners here, seems to be foreign. He speaks Wolof, the common language of Senegal and always has his radio blaring French from the Senegalese national station. Good thing for us we speak English and Mandinka…

What makes this place so special is that it has become no only a source of tasty breakfast buut it is also an open chance to talk freely about the week, the highs and the lows. On weekends one of us will send the other a text message asking something along the lines of “egg? 9am?” That serves as an open invitation to a guaranteed solid discussion. Sometimes silly at other times serious, here are a few condensed thoughts or notes from our time eating egg sandwiches:

> So I am convinced that our method of child rearing in the US is completely different from that of The Gambia. Beatings serve as the end all be all method of doing things here.

> Do you have and close Gambian friends? I mean ones you could trust anything to? No? I did, somewhat by inheritance from the last PCV who was at my site. He was absolutely hilarious to chat with. Last he went into the hospital in Banjul. He died there yesterday.

> Have you ever seen someone play Dungeons and Dragons? Reading that book you gave me made me feel like I was watching a big group of gamers sit around and play D&D. So nerdy.

> The last time I was here they mistook “full bread” for “4 egg” and the whole place made fun of me for being the tubab who was too fat or hungry to be satisfied with 1 or 2 eggs.

> The system just isn’t ready. I gave the term 1 math test to all of my students last week. One class had only been reporting to school for 3 weeks before the test, a full two and a half months late. That whole class failed the test, along with 80% of the other students. We need a new strategy.

> Being sick here I was hit hard with the “freshness of it all” feeling. Everything was so painful and lifeless during the sickness that when I finally emerged from my concrete cell of a home the whole world seemed to bloom before my eyes. It was wonderful in that “I can appreciate the small things again” sort of way. It was almost worth it being sick for that experience… Almost.

> Yeah I know the feeling. I accidentally went off on someone the other day too. Sigh. It’s not easy here in The Gambia.

> You know… These egg sandwiches are just about one step below Godliness.

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Newsflash: Local papers have reported that President Jammeh has achieved divine power and can cure people of HIV/AIDs.