"It is a small world. You do not have to live in it particularly long to learn that for yourself. There is a theory that, in the whole world, there are only five hundred real people (the cast, as it were; all the rest of the people in the world, the theory suggests, are extras) and what is more, they all know each other. And it's true, or true as far as it goes. In reality the world is made of thousands upon thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver."
So it is only proper that at this young age the cast should still be growing, and likewise the extras are cementing themselves as nothing more than the background noise.
"So are you from the U.K. or what," the student inquired? His deliberate seating by my side cast an impending shadow of doom.
I was not in the mood for this, no not today. It had been a particularly angry day due to the heat, the kind of heat where you aren't just perspiring, rather the kind where you can wipe off the glaze of sweat as if it were a coating of jelly. "No," I grumbled, "I am from America."
"Uh huh," came the lifeless pre-programmed reply, "So which European nation do you come from?"
I sat for a minute making sure that his last statement registered correctly. "Well um... I'm not from Europe. I told you, I am from Amer-i-ca," I replied, my voice growing more disinterested with each syllable.
A silent pause graced the air giving me hope that the Peace Corps Gods were being merciful today.
"So then," a pause as if double-checking with the computer for a DOES NOT COMPUTE reply, "you aren't from the U.K.," asked the stranger?
"No," I mumbled.
"Oh you know, because you sound like someone from the U.K.," he replied with a renewed conviction.
I sat quiet. I was struggling to compare my Indiana home and this new position. I was searching for some sign that whatever Hoosier twang I had cultivated from my youth had in four short months been magically replaced with the accent and dry wit of an Englishman. No, definitely not there, I thought as I peered back at this boy, lost as to the right words to end the overstayed exchange.
"Listen I've got a lot of work to be doing," was my clichéd reply more pulled from the office cubicle of pop-culture than my own mannerism. With that I stood up and took my leave. Cultural insensitivity: 1, my patience: 0.
Stumbling back home I knew it was time for a rejuvenating siesta. Taking off my drenched button down long sleeve I chuckled as it brought back memories of an appearance rather fitting of an afternoon at the Kings Island water park. Lying down on a concrete floor using a mat as the only padding, you never are at rest; you merely find the best position that averages out to the least amount uncomfortable body parts. By the time you wake up you look more belonging of a cubist painting rather than composed of the natural curves of the human body. At any rate, Picasso-sleep is better than no sleep.
"M baang, m baang, M BAANG (no, no, NO!)," declared Amee with a scream! Being woken up to the sound of a restless six year old reminds one that this job is 24/7. Emerging like a slumbering troll from my house I quickly realize what is the matter. Amee is trying to fight off the other children from the food bowl. Like a knight holding off a fire breathing dragon he has the bowl in one hand viciously swinging it side to side as if saying, "Back foul beast," and slowly takes calculated steps backwards away from the advancing children. Of course he is supposed to be sharing this meal with the other kids, but when you are the largest kid on the block you want to have your cake and eat it too.
The small drama in front of me is broken by the mega phoned roar in the distance. "Alllaaaaaaahhhhh," blares the 5 o'clock evening prayer call. Gee, church bells sure are pretty I think to myself. The evening routine is about to begin, and with it comfort in knowing the pacing of the night. I grab my bucket and from our hundred-foot-deep well I fetch two large buckets of water for the more than necessary evening bath.
On my way inside I watch Darbo gliding in from work on his bicycle. Somehow always chipper after a long day of work he strolls in and lifts his boys high in the air as they yell, "Daddy is home, daddy is home!"
"Yaya. Good evening, hope there are no troubles," he asks of me, as is Gambian custom.
"There are no troubles. You are hard on the work today Darbo," I reply complimentarily and also with an admiration of his enthusiastic energy.
Out of the concrete house comes Kaddy to greet her husband and to begin cooking dinner, a task that will take over two hours and really be more work than anyone should be expected to do at the end of a long day.
"Do you want any help tonight," I ask Kaddy, knowing the reply?
"Oh maybe just with small things," she replies meaning maybe she will ask me to cut an onion or two. I resolve to someday find a way to force more help upon her.
Under the shade of a papaya tree and the clear view of a setting sun I take my bucket bath. There is a cool breeze skimming the skin so that under the shade and splashing water I feel a hint of cold. It's not North American autumnal cold, but it's probably the closest I'll get to it, now if only the trees were changing colours...
After the bath I return to the front porch for a bit of relaxation time. I pull out the copy of Angela's Ashes my dad sent to me from home, and furiously try to read as much as I can before the daylight fades on the horizon. The dipping sun is both a curse and a blessing for the loss of reading light will give way to the night sky which presents us with the calm and wonder of the celestial waltz.
"You know Yaya, these candies are the best," Darbo says with a smile, jolly rancher wrapper strewn by his side like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. He adds, "Next time you are having access to e-mail pleas tell your parents that."
I laugh and in earnest reply, "No problem, the next time I'm there, that's the first thing I'll do."
-Todd Diemer is a United States Peace Corps volunteer currently serving in The Gambia, West Africa. He has written no books and published no articles. For more information please visit http://foundtheriver.blogspot.com/
2 comments:
I like your writing ...
... made me wonder;
If you talk with an Afro-American, do you ask him where he comes from? Wouldn't he answer you politely with the name of an African country? IF you arent a Native American ... is it possible your ancestors came from England?
;-))
toddles. am trying to read your whole blog, but you have so many words. your house is a mansion compared to mine. i daydream about shelves. i don't know if this means i should be jealous of you, or vice versa, since clearly i am the more hardcore one here.
would love to hear from you. i'm in kaedi till wednesday. was in the bush for 6 weeks and turned into an insomniac. no kidding. it's 3:30am here and i'm bustling with adrenaline. sooooo...take care.
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