Rachel and Carson - Peace Corps In The Gambia

2008-06-25T10:40:00.001-07:00

We are home! Our experience already feels like a dream. Our trip to Ireland was absolutely gorgeous. It was 60 degrees, green, and the Guinness made you feel lucky to be alive. It has been pretty easy settling back into our comfortable lives of luxury: supermarkets, high-speed Internet, strawberries, avocados, driving, malls, credit cards, HBO, and sleeping in the A/C.

We are thankful that we have this blog to keep our memories alive. We feel as though we are still straddling two worlds, and The Gambia is fading fast. We called Aja a couple of days ago. It didn't feel like we were an ocean away. Just chatting about the weather, the kids, and how much we already miss each other. We hope our Mandinka stays sharp...

It took us no time to adjust to the cool mornings of 70 degrees. Whenever we are hot, it brings us back to those painful afternoons in Kerewan. I have no tolerance now for it; if I'm hot I run to the A/C, because I can! And don't tell the greenies, but I took the longest, most glorious hot shower!

With this adventure behind us now, we are in awe of how we made it out and still like each other. As we left, many people told us that we are the exception: a married couple completing a full two year service. A tough situation just makes a good couple great. But we couldn't have done this without the support of our family and friends. We want to take this space to show our deepest appreciation for your support, patience, listening ear, and humor. We can't wait to see all of you in person or hear your voices on the phone! It's our relationships that make all of this matter, so cheers to you!

Christmas in a Whorehouse

2008-06-25T10:39:00.001-07:00

Jan. 13, 2008

by rachel
After the scars, we went way up river to most eastern city, Basse. It’s the wild west of The Gambia, where, even in the cold season, the afternoon is a blazing hot dusty mess. The main street is full of people, full of life, full of “others:” Sierra Leonians, Guineans, Nigerians, Senegalese, Jahonkas, Mauritainians. So we walk through the bustle in peace, in peace as just another “other.” We ebb and flow with the chaotic energy that cuts the exhausted sandy haze. We stop for delicious meat pies and frozen yogurt, true gems worth traveling 300 km up river for. MTV videos featuring beyonce, shaggy, 50 cent blare from the small TV perched on the counter next to the meat pie box. We watch, hypnotized by the flashy, loud, sex-ridden images – bombarded and overloaded.

The vibe of this far away town in tiny Gambia is refreshing, inspiring almost. It’s not until we walk just past the outskirts of “downtown,” that we get barraged by Gambian children, yelling "Toubab!: The peaceful daze cut short.

We came to Basse for Christmas and to hang and visit our fellow PCV, Evan. Saying he’s a cool guy is an understatement. We chill in his round thatched roof hut during the day, moving as little as possible to evade the heat. In the evening we set off to the main drag, about a 2 km walk. He leads us on a detour to one of the three hills in Basse. A hill! It was glorious to walk on an incline more than ten degrees. I looked down and saw corrugate roofs dotted with trees and mobile phone towers sheathed in the dirty haze laying low on the horizon. I felt the unfamiliar: elevated, far away, hidden.

Later we stop to eat chicken and spaghetti and then head to one of the local bars. So there we were, Christmas Eve, me and the guys, drinking the cheapest brandy, gin, and local beer, so cheap you feel a headache coming on before you even fall asleep. The place was crowded with middle aged men and much younger women. The bouncer was a stern old man with a stick. We sat, chatted, raised our glasses to another holiday that doesn’t feel like the holiday should.

During the dry season fires in the distance are common, but as we looked up to a mushroom cloud of black smoke coming from the market, we knew this wasn’t the usual trash fire. This one was close and grew fast. A mob of people filled the pot-holed streets and sprinted towards the action. We got up, left our drinks, and joined the rush; anything for some unscripted excitement. The fire blew through a cassette shop, the next store over, and then to the open air stalls just behind. We stood there right in front, mesmerized with the flames, as the firemen hastily dug in the ground for more water. But it’s the dry season and everything is crisp and parched, even under ground. I kept asking how the fire began. Arson? A cigarette? The pummel of flames reflected a deep orange in the stunned faces. We then stopped to think for the first time since joining the mob running towards an out of control fire late at night, and immediately got the hell out of there.

We sauntered back to Evan’s place, shivering as the frigid cold of Basse’s nights in the cold season fell upon us. For us, it was so cold as we attempted sleep, that even jeans, socks, and a sweatshirt covered with a sheet couldn’t stop the heat from the day escaping our bodies.

Christmas day did not feel like anything special, except phone calls from home. We met up with other PCVs who were around for the holiday. We ate potatoes, turkey, some salad, and then Evan took us to a whorehouse. It was just a bar in a compound three blocks from downtown. We had no clue what nice little surprise Evan had in store, but as we sat down with our boxed wine, we noticed six rooms in a row. Some with doors open, some with doors closed. Young women and older men came in and out. It was all very matter-of-factly and understated. The bar itself was nice with truly cold beer and soda. Women and men were dancing to Shania Twain and other country greats, followed by reggae and other Bob and 50 cent wannabes. (The local music here is cool with the kora over some latin like beats, but when they try to copy “the west,” it just atrocious!) So there we were laughing, chatting, singing, all the while soaking in the comforts of a local whorehouse on that saintly day of Christmas.

The Snake, the Prostitute and my Mobile Phone.

2008-06-25T10:38:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Mom, don’t read this.

Sorry guys. I wish more than any of you that I had a single story to encompass the whole title. Instead, here’s a few of the more entertaining incidents in what I would otherwise maintain is a quiet life.

The Snake

I almost stepped on a snake. It could have been a spitting cobra, but I can’t make that claim. I was running on a pretty wide utility track through the bush just as the sun set low. Almost to my turn-around point, I looked down to see the ground move. There it was, 12 inches from where I planted my right foot - a snake. Maybe two and a half feet long, slate grey with an orange underside; much like the spitting cobra on our “Harmful Snakes of The Gambia” poster.

As a rule, Gambians hate snakes. When they corner one in a clump of grass, everyone picks up a stone or stick and makes mulch. Consequently, there aren’t really many snakes around us. The last and only other time I saw a live one was during training when our group came upon a Beauty Snake (non venomous) eating a lizard. We all leaned in closer and closer until all of the sudden it decided that the threat of us outweighed the benefit of its meal. It uncoiled, hissed, made a wide circle and slithered into the grass faster than we thought possible. Everyone in the group jumped back but I jumped straight up and screamed, in a really high pitched voice, “Shit Monkeys!” Honestly. I think Rachel might have stepped forward to defend her helpless husband. Life and death situation and that’s what I yell: shit monkeys. This time around, on my own in the bush, with not a single other soul to witness my proximity to DEATH or bear testimony to my courage, and I calmly stepped away and breathed a manly, “Woah!” Honestly.

The Prostitute

I was at the main office a few weeks ago, taking advantage of the open computers late at night. It was 10:30 and time to eat. I stepped out onto the quiet street and walked a short way to one of the Lebanese owned fast food places on the main strip. As I walked in the door, an attractive waitress snapped at me “Ki Fii!”, Wollof for “Come here.” I don’t speak much Wollof, but I still want some credit for knowing a local language, so I replied with the Mandinka equivalent, “Naa naa bang!” “No, you come here.”

So it began. I quickly ordered my shwarma as the three waitresses gathered around testing my language. Flirting doesn’t really work for me. In fact, it makes me incredibly uncomfortable. This was compounded as I realized that I was the only customer in the place and so there were no potential distractions to pull them away from me. Amidst the interrogation, I briefly wondered, “why are so many waitresses working when there are no customers?”

The Lebanese owner who was manning the grill walked by, completely ignored me, grabbed the first waitress by the arm and whispered something in her ear. She walked back to me and asked if I was interested in something-something. Like I said, I don’t speak Wollof, but somewhere in my head a slow, heavy gear made a quarter turn with a loud clicking sound and some dim understanding dawned. I hate awkward situations so my eyes scanned the room. Shwarma almost done, check. Exact change in my pocket, check. Clear path to the exit, check.

“I don’t know what that means,” my voice cracked as if I were thirteen.

“Do you want sex” she coolly clarified.

“Ummmm, no, not today, but thank you for the offer,” I stammered as I less-than-deftly stood up, strode to the grill, snatched my food from the Lebanese pimp just as it hit the bottom of the bag and left my Dalasis in mid air. The next day my girl (her name is Kadi) waved amicably to me and Rachel and asked our friend if I was married. Thank God.

My Mobile

My mobile was stolen on the ferry on Saturday. How many times have I felt hands probing my pockets. One of the busiest travel days of the year leading up to Tobaski and I don’t bother to put it in my bag. Sheesh.

Allah dorong (God only)

2008-06-13T07:13:00.000-07:00

Babies are adorned in a web of jujus (animist charms). Little Lisa wears four necklaces: one for healthy teeth, one to ward of sickness, one to prevent vomiting, and one to provide fragrance. On each ankle she wears an anklette: one to protect her from genes and one for good fortune. Other babies wear their jujus on their waist, five to eight small charms tied to a black synthetic rope. All charms come from the Maribous, the traditional/animist healer. Some charms are Arabic writings from a Maribou that provide protection from any ills, good fortune, or the ability to not be harmed by a bullet or knife (for adults usually), wrapped in leather. Others are a piece of a root or plant, while a few are special beads, cowry shells, or coins.

Aja’s Baamutar wears a single leather charm around his waist. The only time I noticed it was when she was putting a cloth diaper on. He glistened from freshly applied baby oil, smooth and untangled from the lack of jujus. I asked where his others where. She looked at me with her hard caring eyes and chuckled, “Mothers put these on their babies to keep them from getting sick and dying, but they still get sick, they still die.” She paused, perhaps to think about her lost child, Jaa, who died at the age of three (most likely from Malaria). Aja pointed her finger towards the hazed sky, pierced her face to clarity, “Allah dorong. God only.” Baamutar wiggled spastically as she tied that last of diaper. She picked him up, pushed his face to hers, stood him on her tired and stretched stomach, and let out a smile meant only for those moments for mothers and their newborns. Her eyes are the most hopeful when she plays with Baamutar.

The week leading up to our last moments in Kerewan involved many tears, prayers from Allah, and traveling gifts. Like a baby in its first year, we were tangled in the Gambian ceremonial goodbyes. The Saaba and Kerewan nursery schools gave both Carson and I full outfits. All the Kerewan nursery school staff cried and cried as they were thanking us for our work. Carson and I looked at each other shocked at the site of Gambian men and women crying. Grown men bawling, like my counterpart Bruama. I have always been told not to cry from Gambians and now I have seen enough tears to last another year.

In between the emotional send offs and from community members along the road, were the granting of Allah’s prayers. May God grant you a long and healthy life. May God allow you to arrive home in safety and good health. May God grant you a healthy family. God will repay you for all that have done and will do. God will protect you. Every prayer sung to us wove the fabric of our community for these past two years, a keepsake of their majestic acceptance.

Two words capture how one will miss you. The frequently used famo means I miss seeing you. But we heard a new one as we were saying goodbye. “Moo kidoota!” they kept saying, “People in loneliness.” It was quite ironic response when we told them we were leaving in a couple of days. Kerewan, like The Gambia, is full of people, too many people. I have never felt physically alone here, never truly able to be alone. But they meant loneliness in the emotional sense. The first I have heard of this notion here. They will miss us; they will miss the emotional connection however small or big. Or perhaps it is like the rehearsed prayers, the habitual response to some leaving for a long time. When Aja said it, I knew she referred to the former.

At midday the white Peace Corps SUV pulled out of the compound and I kept crying. That was it, we were going home. The whole neighborhood was in our house as we loaded up our bags and metal trunks. Aja just stood there against the wall and started cry. I tried not to look at anyone around me. I was about to loose it. When the car was all packed up, it was time. After two long years, it was time. I hugged everyone around me, my toma, Dabo, all the kids, Fatou who was bawling, and then lastly Aja. We looked at each other, crying too much to say a word. I gave her a hug and could only say, “M bee kumandi ning m bi taa fly la. I’ll call you before I leave on the plane.” I held her hand tight and Carson pulled me on the car.

My stomached dropped. I cried for Aja. She’s my person. Carson whispered to me, “We’ll be back, you’ll see her again.” As we drove over the bridge and further and further away, my readiness to go home came over me. But I kept going back to Aja’s pointed finger upward and her determined face to look through all of the jargon and superstition around her, seeing only God. To trust only what she has seen and done in her thirty years of back breaking living. She pointed to what keeps her living.

Life’s little pleasures (Part III)

2008-06-13T07:07:00.000-07:00

Each year, Kerewan celebrates the 24 hour reading of the Koran, Quoran karango. This year the holiday was held in May. I assumed this as a truly religious day, where people go to the mosque, sit, and listen or recite the holy Koran. What I say was yet another aspect of this culture being corrupted by western and hip hop culture. All relatives come back from the city or aboard. They come in their flashy cars, SUVs, Jeeps, BMW and Mercedes sedans, wearing their flashy jeans and sneakers, talking on their flashy sleek mobile. The women wear the most expensive fabrics and embroidery with metallic gold or silver pointy heals and matching clutch. All to just go to the mosque for a couple hours, undoubtedly to show off their wealth. Yet another day of prayer corrupted by materialism. The funny part of this all was:
Seeing four 60-70 year old men wearing their Muslim kaftans, with the traditional Muslim cap, riding in a gleaming gold Jeep Cherokee blasting gansta hip hop music.

Muhammed, the five year son of city relatives walked around the compound hold a skinned, sheeps head by its nostrils. It oozed fresh blood and the eyes balls were still intact

While judging the regional girl’s scholarship pageant, the DJ blasted Britney’s, “Toxic,” for the intermission. At that moment I looked over and saw twenty men performing their five o’clock prayer.

On yet another interminably hot afternoon Carson says to me, “Don’t rub my back, it’s sticky and it will chafe.”

Our twelve year old host brother comes to the door asking, “Where’s the book of Obama?” In reference to the Newsweek with a picture of Obama on the cover.

Seeing a baby donkey just after birth trying to take its first steps while walking to school.

Having to stop for the herd of cows to cross while on my morning run.

Seeing a Fula nomad, wearing a turban, chya pants, and all walking his cow over the bridge while talking on a razor phone.

Play fighting with Amie while fetching water at the pump. This time her three year old son, Moo Lamin, came up defending his mom by kicking me in the shins and spitting on me. It was hilarious!

The first rain on June 1st! Carson and I ran out with the kids to play in the rain. We jumped in puddles, let our feet squish around in the mud, and eventually were soaked to the bone. Of course all the adults in the compound thought we were crazy… again. That day it was brutally humid with the temp spiking at 110. When the rain came the temperature dropped to 80 degrees and we were freezing!

Watching Carson come alive when he’s out of the stifling heat. It’s like Popeye after popping a can of spinach.

Thanks to Carson, our host brother Karama has memorized his multiplication tables. Most grade twelve students don’t even know them.

Lying on the cement bantaba (like a gazebo without a roof) at night with Aja and the kids watching the stars. The kids around me are almost all asleep with the bit of relief the night brings after yet another hot day. Sometimes I wish they would turn off the outdoor light so I could soak in all the constellations. But why turn off a light with the town’s power station is on?

At night on the bantaba Aja and I talk about anything and everything. Just a couple of days ago I explained how fast planes fly: rather it taking six hours to get to Dakar from Banjul, it takes only a half hour. It takes six hours to get to Europe, and another twelve to get to America. At the moment she understood how far America truly was. For an uneducated women, she is so smart and sharp.

Why Gambian men are sometimes creepy:

2008-06-13T07:03:00.000-07:00

I received a call from a man I used to work with in the beginning of service at the elementary school. He was very difficult to work with and made me very uncomfortable. He then texted me this three days ago after not talking or seeing him for a year and a half:

Text number 1: “I’m not difficult to work with. My reason is that, I love you in every way. Since very day I saw you. I just don’t know why? And you are married. I was afraid of inconvenience in my own community.”

Text number 2: “Lisanding know that I have never seen a woman who won my emotion as you did. I just don’t know why? AND you are married. Both of maintain the respect we deserved. I, an ideal main of divine mission. My loving you is natural. Whether you like it or not. Greet me family back home.”

Text number 3: “Have patience. Be reassured that I’m one of the most trustworthy, faithful person you’ve ever met. Know that we all have a believe. BUT I love you in every way. AND I DON’T KNOW WHY YOU STAY IN MY HEART WHEN YOU KNOW THAT YOU ARE MARRIED.”

We're Outa Here!

2008-06-09T05:01:00.000-07:00

Rachel and I are on the LandRover. Peace Corps is done. Not an hour earlier we were saying a tearful goodbye to our family and friends but all of that gradually gave way to the realization that we had just accomplished what we'd dreamed of three and a half years earlier when we first decided to join the Peace Corps together. It's been a truly remarkable experience and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Lisanding! Hear Her Roar!

2008-06-09T04:57:00.000-07:00

This... is Rachel's namesake, Little Lisa (Rachel's

Gambian name is Lisanding). To pass the time I like to count her fat rolls.

Mamud and Me

2008-06-09T04:53:00.000-07:00

Mom, Dad, look what we're bringing home! I wish we could. Mamud is the most hyper active but entertaining little kid in the world.

2008-06-09T04:51:00.000-07:00

Here's a great pic of Rachel and Karamo in front of the Samateh's house.

2008-06-09T04:47:00.000-07:00

Painting the nursery school in Saba was the last project that Rach and I took on. It was also a lot of fun. We painted a really good alphabet with pictures on the front wall, the months of the year and days of the week on the side and this mural on the back. It was such a great experience and the staff was so supportive of our work. A big thanks to Mr. Balajo, Sarjo, Awa and Kaddi.

Mbaa Suwareh and Rachel

2008-06-09T04:36:00.000-07:00

This is Rachel with her surrogate grandmother, Mbaa Suwareh. This woman was so amazing to us throughout our service. I can't explain the depth of the relationship and understanding between these two.

Mathematician in the Making

2008-06-09T04:28:00.000-07:00

Karamo is smart. He's really smart. In fact, he was the one saving grace of the "year of May". Despite being at the top of his grade 6 class, he still hadn't mastered his multiplication tables. In fact, many of my grade 12 students haven't. So, Karamo and I spent some quality time understanding not only multiplication, but fractions too! This kid's gonna kick ass.

2008-06-09T04:23:00.000-07:00

Aja and Rachel are standing in front of our door as we were loading up the Peace Corps LandRover with the whold compound and half the neighborhood standing around. I think everyone was crying and they had just wiped their eyes for one last photo. Transitions are never easy and this was harder than most.

Fatoumata and Alieu

2008-06-09T04:08:00.000-07:00

This is a really beautiful pic of Fatoumata. Alieu is out of focus, squirming around on the bantaba in the background.

Vacant and full of gems

2008-06-07T04:44:00.000-07:00

posted by rachel
June 3rd

I sit panting in the suffocating heat as it sits stale on my overheated skin. This is it, our last week in Kerewan. We’ve been waiting for this moment, ever since arriving late Thursday night to the sandy, incomplete, irrelevant city of Kombo two years ago. The secret to getting through this experience is knowing that you will be home in two years. So we all just stick it out, ride this complicated and uncomfortable adventure.

It hits after just six months here, when you realize that you will never truly be able to tell your story so that everyone you love and know will understand. It’s not shitting in a hole for two years or living the “authentic” Africa experience, it’s understanding that we, the donor franchise, the voyagers, the white people, the romantics of “development work”, our position on this continent is “irrelevant, impotent, and a contradiction” (quoted from George Packers The Village of Waiting). We spend the next year and a half trying to justify our existence in this country, to create a lifestyle that doesn’t feel fraudulent or absurd. In that time, while trying to do something that is “sustainable” and “builds capacity,” (all words that are used to revamp the flawed franchise of development, to somehow eradicate the dependency development has created on this continent), we are the ones who have truly developed.

Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. I feel vacant, as like The Gambian youth’s spirit and creativity is beaten out of them at home and in school, my spirit and idealist hope has suffered the blows of realism and defeat. The incessant harassment that never failed to remind me of my white privileged skin - whether it be children wailing Toubab, young men following me and asking for marriage, entitled educated men embodying every aspect of a sexist pig, women asking for the clothes off my back, and the constant charade of praise and love for the white person that in the end is sad and mocking - chipped away that naïve isolated idealistic liberal from Boston into a hostile, cold realist that would support a complete pull out of all NGOs on this continent to finally give Africa a chance to develop itself.

I get a nervous shiver up my tired spine every time I am left alone with my thoughts here. My entire world view has been turned upside down. I want to throw rocks at tourists who stampede through villages passing out bowls of rice to help with the food crisis, when if they stopped to think, seeds for dry land rice would have been an incomparable better idea. But there I go blaming others for my own discomfort in my skin.

In this jarring, mundane, depressing, dulling experience the gems kept my appetite for compassion and humility satiated. As I say over and over that I am ready to go, that it’s time, as I ride this glorious wave to home, I fail to let myself understand what leaving these gems truly means. Aja and the kids, my toma, Dabo, Mbaa Suwareh, the girls in girls club loved me for me, and not my white skin. They are my friends, my anchors to approximate normality in this absurd place. Their relationships allow me to feel less of a fraud or a charade, but a person who is living in a strange place in need of a family to trust and love. They were the only aspects of this experience that reaffirmed one of my core beliefs: true relationships make somebody matter in this world.

I recently figured out why this country works the way it does and it made me appreciate my gems even more. Accountability lacks in every corner that I look here, thus corruption both insidiously and blatantly seep into everything. No one held anyone accountable and passed blame on to anyone but the self. But I realized I only looked in the places where Americans hold accountability: the public life of work. Here, it is the exact opposite. Accountability exists inside the family. If a taxi driver does stop to greet and/or eat with his wife’s family as he passes through their village with a van full of twenty overheated passengers, then he is shamed and has to answer to his father-in-law. A teacher, posted 100k from her Mandinka village to a foreign Wollof village, misses weeks of work to attend a family ceremony or to take care of family business doesn’t even consider time off from work. Her family holds her accountable not the parents or community in the alien Wollof village.

When western development imposes accountability in the public sphere, Gambians laugh at such futility. One is a good worker if they sit all day or initiate after school homework clubs. Fulfilling the expectations of your family is work in itself. In America we don’t have to share our monthly pay check with twenty of our extended family members. Our individualistic society allows us to invest in our future. Gambia’s communal society never lets anyone fall through the safety net, but doesn’t let anyone pull ahead either.

This is not to justify corruption and inefficiency, it’s merely my belated attempt to understand it. Why here and not there? Why does an inept dictator steal the governments money to build fancy hotels and a zoo in his hometown? Because his home people will hold him accountable. Why are my attempts at teacher training met with plastic smiles and inane nodding of the head? Because since when does the white girl hold the man of the Sanneh family accountable?

With accountability in the corners of walled compounds, the culture of blame blankets the big fat notion of progress. When men can’t bring in enough money for the family, they blame the wife for being wasteful and stupid. When a women becomes pregnant outside of wedlock, her family disowns and curses here while the male impregnator continues without having to act the least bit responsible. The women bear the brunt of all societal ills, yet no one every stops to truly hear what they have to say. And the charade of “development” goes on in quarterly reports and fancy white NGO SUVs, while the people wait.

People in America tell me that I am so brave for doing all this. But, I am the one who can just wisp in and out of here free from the waiting game, with only my conscious holding me accountable for my actions. The brave ones are my gems who protected me from the defeats that they absorb daily. When I was being bothered, they were the ones who stood up for me. When I had a problem or needed to figure out a situation they were there to help. When I was in over my head, they were there to bail me out. They sympathetically listened as I attempted to hold full conversations in Mandinka. They looked past my inability to say the correct phrase and understood my compassion for them. They are the brave ones, because they did all this in face of familial accountability. They stood up for me to their relatives, to older men, for me. Now, for the first time I feel and understand the quiet female solidarity that exists in pockets here. I do see women blaming other women just like the men, but it’s the brave ones who risk empathy for the otherness.

I worry about this country. I worry that it won’t exist in fifty years with the rising sea levels. I worry of this culture in limbo between the desire to embrace all that is western and traditional culture that roots Gambian in a sense of place and history. As traditions wear thin to hip hop culture and accountability to the self, will The Gambia become like Nigeria, where no one and in no aspect of society is held accountable? I worry that the desert will over take my home here in the next ten years and forcing everyone to leave for a dwindling forest to the south. I worry about how no one here believes in this food crisis. When in six months the price of a bag of rice will be over 1000 Dalasi (half of an average civil servants monthly salary), people will finally believe in the crisis but it will be too late. I worry that the donor enterprise will come in and save the day per usual and Gambians will never learn to solve their own problems.

I want to somehow honor Aja, Mbaa Suwareh, Dabo, my girls club girls, my toma and her mother. I am humbled by their tenacity and sheer strength. I worry about them, and worry that when I go, I will vanish and be sucked back into the American bubble. For Aja is my person, my best friend here in The Gambia. She is the only one who truly understands my plight here, she gets my needs. I am indebted to her understanding. She kept me alive. Her and her six children, Lamin, Karamo, Binta, Fatou, Alieu, and Baamutar brought light, beauty and encouragement to this difficult experience. Most of all they brought me security. Mbaa Suwareh was like my Grandma here. She filled a void in me that I have had since my last surviving grandparent passed on five years ago. Her slow, crippled walk and her adorable lived face warmed my heart every time I saw her. She was the one who berated any child who dared to disrespect me. Funding her false teeth is one of my most proudest accomplishments. Dabo is the hardest working Gambian women I have seen. She is reserved and talks in circles. But when I came home crying from the gardens because the girls were harassing me, she took care of it. From that moment on no one every bothered me again. Havibg little Lisa in my life here brought a sense of belonging, though somewhat still marred by being an outsider, it was enough to keep me going. She is the fattest baby I know, but whose smile of recognition every time she saw me, makes both of us shine. My girls taught me to love every part of myself (although that is still a work in progress), how I look, what I do or say. Everything. As I advocated for their rights to empowerment, success, financial independence, and safety, they taught me how to appreciate mine. Their resilience and inklings of hope for their future, in spite of all they are up against, rekindled my hope and idealism for girls all around the world.

As the dark cloak of this big picture we have come to figure out snuffs our optimism leaving room only for frustration and angst, we cling onto our gems. They come in all shapes and sizes, all shades, each for different purposes. Some of my other gems include relaxing over a couple of beers and ice cream with our close Peace Corps friends, like Becca or Todd, Jim, Dan, eating cookies with Carson after yet another attempt of cooking dinner in the bush while waiting for BBC’s News Hour to come and racing to guess if it's Julian Marshall or Owen Bennett Jones’ voice that comes in after the trumpet fanfare, waking up to French pressed Pete’s coffee, and that first night of sleeping in the A/C in Kombo after months of hot interrupted sleep. We come to the end exhausted in every way possible, feeling as though we aged ten years too soon. But we lived through the raw absurdity of this place and never felt more alive. Now, holding those bag of gems close, it’s time to go home.

Questions from Mr. Smith's Six Grade Class!

2008-06-07T04:14:00.000-07:00

Mr. Smith is a good friend of ours. He had his sixth graders create creative and artistic letters to us talking about what they have learned from reading our blog and asking two questions. We were overwhelmed by their writing ability compared to their Gambian counterparts. Each letter/card was a work of art taking shapes of Africa, The Gambia, geometric shapes, some were interactive or 3D. We love reading them! Thank you all for your insight and good wishes. We are touched. Here are most of the questions asked. There were a bunch so I hope I got most of you. If you have anymore questions, feel free to email me! Also, you each are very lucky to have such a creative and enthusiastic teacher like Mr. Smith.

Life in The Gambia

What does a Dalasi look like? -Sarah

Notice the five dalasi that is shredded in the corner! Money here has a much longer life and will stopped being used only until it nearly crumbles away!

When crops go dry, do Gambians get water from the river? –Beckett
Half into The Gambia, the river is still salt water. So people don’t use it to water their crops. Where the river is not salt water, Gambians use it to water crops, do laundry, wash dishes, and for bathing. Here in Kerewan, there are deep wells, some as deep as 20 feet. Women fetch water from these wells to water their gardens during the dry season. But in the rainy season (June to September), Gambians rely on the rain to water their peanut and millet farms.

Do they have lions down there? –Beckett
One hundred years ago, lions lived in The Gambia. But now they either moved south or died because their habitat is gone. The Gambia is one of the densest countries in the world. There is no room for wildlife such as lions, elephants, or leopards. (There are still monkeys, bush pigs, and lots of birds.) Another reason why the wild animals are gone is desertification. Gambians need wood to cook and build houses, so they cut down trees. Now there are not many trees left. When that happens the land becomes like a desert. Dry with very few plants. Without trees, there is less rain. With less rain, people can’t farm. When people can’t farm, there is less food. So it very important to preserve and plant trees!

Were the children you taught English to enjoy you being there to help them or did they think of it as a pain? –Emy
English is very difficult for the students in all grades here. Imagine if you were raised speaking English, but you were taught only in Spanish at school. Very frustrating I bet.

Why is Gambia sometimes called The Gambia? –Naomi
You know, I ask myself that same question. Perhaps it’s because the country is named after The River Gambia. Let me ask you: Why is it The United States of America and not just United States of America?

Who is Alieu? –Victoria (who drew an amazing picture of Alieu), Issey
Alieu is my host brother, or host nephew rather. He is about two and a half years old. He is the son of my host sister, Aja, who has five other children. He is so cute and is now starting to talk. He says my name with such excitement whenever I walk into the compound.

What languages are spoken in the Gambia? –Aaron
There are 10 languages spoken in The Gambia: Mandinka, Wollof, Fula, Serer, Serehule, Johanka, Manjago, Jola, Aku, and the official language is English.

How do you live with those bugs? –Megan
Eventually you get used to it. It was difficult at first to see cockroaches coming out of our latrine at night or termites eating at our door frame. But now it is just part of life here. Even the flies and mosquitoes don’t bother us as much. When the mosquitoes come out in the summer in Boston, it bothers you at first, but you get used to it.

What are your favorite places in The Gambia? –Amanda
Our site, Kerewan, is near a tributary. In the evenings we like to walk to the river side to watch the sunset. Our small two room house is like our mini-America. We like to go to the city and eat at our favorite restaurant that serves crepes, pizza, and ice cream. We also like to go to Kartong, which is a deserted beach where you can sleep in tree houses at a local hotel.

How much of their language did you know before you traveled there? Can you speak fluently with them? –Ben
We didn’t know any Mandinka before we came here. The minute we arrived we underwent 10 weeks of intense language and technical training. We had language classes for four hours everyday. Now we are very proficient, not quite fluent.

Will you stay in touch with the people in The Gambia? –Lily
Yes! I can call my host family and some of my work counterparts have access to email.

Insight into this experience and Africa
What is it like helping people you don’t know? –William
At first, it was very difficult for me to work with people who are very different from myself. But as I learned the language better, their perspectives, and customs I was able to be successful in some projects. The real learning process for me was leaving my American ways of approaching or judging a situation to the side and truly understanding and valuing The Gambian way of solving problems.

Do you ever wish you were in the USA? –Megan
I have a moment everyday when I wish I were home in the US. I miss my family and friends. I miss eating salads, berries, cheese, ice cream. I miss be able to walk outside and not be a celebrity like I am here. I miss the cold weather and my bed at home. But then I realize that this experience is not forever, just two years out of my whole life. I then start to think about what I like about living here, like my host family, eating delicious mangoes, and taking a bucket bath under the stars.

How did it feel having your parents come from halfway around the world to visit you in Africa? –Sam
I felt so loved! It was so special to have my parents come here to see what my life is like. Although they have both done Peace Corps and traveled the world, they have never been to Africa before. It is so cool that I got them to come over here.

Do you like it better in Africa or here in America? Are there any reasons why? –Issey, Dan
I get asked this question everyday here. They say, “Jumma le diata, America woronto Gambia? Which is more sweet: America or Gambia?” I tell them that I like both equally. They then look at me in disbelief and go to tell me all the reasons that my country is more sweet. The main reason being more money, flashy cars, just a better life. The women like America because they hear of all these machines the wash dishes, clothes, iron, and cook food. I agree with them on that.
I can’t speak for anyone but myself. That said, there are some things that I like about The Gambia. I like how everything you do here is such an adventure. Traveling in an old, almost-ready-to-breakdown bush taxi, bartering at the market, teaching thirty nursery school kids how to line up, or planning a two day program with ever speaking English. These moments I feel so alive and humbled at the same time. I don’t get that in America. But America is home, and home will always be the best place for me. I love to travel and won’t stop after this experience ends. I appreciate America so much more now. I appreciate our public transportation system, food, health care, universities, A/C.

What do you think has been your greatest accomplishment? –Dina, Lilly
Wow, what a great question! I have been thinking about this lately, as we are leaving soon. Personally my greatest accomplishment is doing and completing this adventure with my husband,, Carson. This has made us stronger and a better team. Another personal accomplishment is the caring relationships that I have fostered with Aja and her six children and my neighbors. I have learned their language, customs, and social norms in such a way that they have accepted me into their community. I hold that very dear to my hear.
Professionally, my greatest accomplishment has been my middle school girls club. Once a week I meet with thirty ninth grade girls to talk about setting goals, their role in their community, sex education, HIV/AIDS, teen pregnancy, decision making, and their right to safety and empowerment. The girls create skits and put on debates for their school. We also have an annual two day leadership camp with another girls club from 60k away. The girls raised the funds on their own with luncheon sales and raffles. I am so proud of them. Now they know how to stand up for and want their right to education, making their own decision, making their own money, and choosing their own person to marry. All of which girls like you in America have the opportunity to do. So don’t let anyone and anything stand in your way. Girls around the world have the right to follow their dreams and be who they want to be!

What are your opinions of current day Africa in general? –Simon
This is a complicated question for me. The Africa that I know is somewhere in between those newspaper articles about the latest African dictators or the horrific images of a continent stricken from HIV/AIDS, malaria, famine, war, and genocide. The Africa I know is women carrying plastic buckets full of water on their heads for laundry, washing, or cooking. Women are the life of this place, they keep everything going. The Africa I know blames women for just about everything while the men are held accountable for very little. The Africa I know is fatherless homes, where men go to the city, to another West African country, or even to America or Europe to find work; because according to them, “anywhere is better than here.” I see a country in limbo between the traditional culture of thousands of years and the modern western culture permeating since colonization. The Africa I know are communities in waiting for something better, something they know as ‘development.’
Africa is dynamic, complex and difficult place. I have found such beauty and warmth in the people I have meet while living and traveling in Africa. Africa has been horribly mismanaged by the colonizers and now the current governments. The result of this is governments who cannot provide basic necessities for their people, like electricity, good roads, and proper education. Another layer added to all this is that Africa is developing in a globalized world, meaning their standards of development have to be just like the US and Europe. This is impossible. The US developed on its own terms, it developed its own way. Now Africa, whose societies are more communal and less individualistic that ours, is being forced to become something that it is not.

Do you think there is any need for America to step in and help the Africans? –Simon
Another great but complicated question! Honestly, I think the only time America should step in is in a time of great crisis, such as war, genocide, or massive famine. Any other time, Africa should be left to develop by Africans. There are so many foreign groups and organizations here that are giving so much money without any accountability, meaning no one is holding anyone responsible for how the money is spent. Now The Gambians are dependent on these foreigners for all sources of income and ways to solve their problems. I would never have thought this before I came here. Now I see that all that food aid, old clothes, and just loads of money have a good short term solution but a long term negative effect.
I feel that sponsoring someone’s education is a great way to help here. With education, you, Americans, Gambians, Africans, can grow and develop themselves. Also fighting to stop global warming is another good contribution. The effects of global warming will most likely hit poorer nations before we truly feel it in America. With desertification, drought, floods in Africa, people will not be able to farm and therefore not be able feed themselves. So do what you can locally, in Brookline, to stop global warming. Buy from the local farmers market, walk or take the train more. Ask about solar power and more efficient ways to use energy. What is your school doing to use energy more efficiently?

Are you treated any differently there because you are white? –Max
That is very insightful question. Yes I am and I hate it to be honest with you. I am treated like a celebrity. A white person is called toubab. So every time I travel or even step outside my home children and adults alike scream, TOUBAB! at me. So countless times a day I am reminded that I am different because of the color of my skin.
In my workplace, people assume that I have loads of money to give away, which makes sense as Gambians see hordes of white people passing by to shell out huge sums of money. This stereotype is all they know. So I have been working these past two years to educate people that I am here to transfer skills and be a part of the community. I am not just another white person coming in to tell them how to run their school, town, or country.
Culturally, I have an honorary male status. This means that I can eat with the men or join their circle during holidays. I prefer spending my time with the women. After this experience, though, I feel that I have a little more insight into how it is to be in the minority. It has been very tiring, maddening, and frustrating for us here in that sense. I can’t wait to be home to my family and friends who know me just for me and not just another “white person in Africa.”

Is the prominent religion in The Gambia Islam? –Max
Yes. Eighty five percent of the country is Islam, and the remaining 15 percent are Christian, which are mostly in the city. Look up The Gambia on the CIA fact book online to find more accurate figures.

How does teaching in The Gambia differ from teaching in the United States? -Jacob
In The Gambia, there are very little resources. In America, there is an abundance of resources in the classrooms, namely computers, paper, copy machines, crayons, glue, learning aids, textbooks, furniture, electricity. Here, teachers make do without any of that, and only a blackboard and chalk. Also, the majority of parents care about their children’s education. Parents are involved in the school and their children’s progress from the very beginning. In America we have a culture of literacy. So teachers in The Gambia have a lot going against them and do the best they can.

Is The Gambia one of the poorer places in Africa? –Eli
Yes it is. It is one of the poorest countries in the world. It ranks 155 out of 177 countries for food insecurity. Go online and find some other facts about The Gambia’s economy, GNP, infant mortality rate, illiteracy rate and then compare it to other African countries such as South Africa, Kenya, Senegal, Ghana, Egypt. Then go on to compare those numbers to America, France, England, or Germany.

Does the weather change quickly and how many degrees did the temperature drop? What do Gambians wear in the colder seasons? –Fred
The cold season does come quickly. The Gambia does not have middle seasons like spring or fall. It happens in one day when the wind picks up and changes direction. The humidity is gone and the nights are cool. The coldest it gets at night here in Kerewan is 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Now compared to American winters that is very warm. But compared to the hot season where the temperature rises to 120 degrees Fahrenheit, 60 degrees is quite cold. In the mornings I see Gambians huddled around fires wearing big puffy ski jackets. But during the day it sill gets very warm, sometimes up to 90 degrees. I have gotten used to the hot weather, so I also wear my fleece when it gets that cold. I wonder I will survive in a real Boston winter!

Peace Corps
How and why did you decide to do Peace Corps? Is it hard work in the Peace Corps? –Aaron, Emily, Mary, Erik, Joshua, Mikaela, Michelle, Beatriz, Ilana
Both my parents were Peace Corps Volunteers way back in the late 1960s. So it has always been a part of my life. Both Carson and I new we wanted to do Peace Corps sometime after college. So after we got married we applied! We were attracted to Peace Corps service because it was an amazing opportunity to live in a country, amongst the people, learn the language, and help out a bit. We knew we would have the chance to truly understand the world from a totally different perspective. It is difficult work to live in an underdeveloped country for two years. All those physical challenges, such as the bugs, heat, and no electricity fade away to the emotional challenges of being an outsider and being far away from what you always knew to be normal.
I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything. I have learn so much about myself and this world. I have been forced to react to situations I would never have in America, and because I this I am a stronger and more confident person.

Do you get paid for going to the Peace Corps? –Naomi
As a volunteer, we do not get a salary. We do get a living stipend each month to be able to pay for rent, travel, and food. Upon completion of our service you get a readjustment allowance which, I believe is 6,000 USD before the government takes out taxes.

When you leave The Gambia will you not be able to be in the Peace Corps again? –Lily
–Beatriz
You can extend your two years of Peace Corps service to up to four years. Many choose to go to a different country for the other two years. I know of people who have served in four countries with Peace Corps throughout their lives.

How long do you plan to stay in The Gambia? How long have you been in Peace Corps?–Libby, Sappho, Jacob, Lilly
A Peace Corps Volunteer serves in their host country for two years. Carson and I will be leaving in three weeks! I thought these two years would feel like forever. But time goes by wherever you are. To be honest the days go by more slowly here, but the weeks melt away.

Do you think that this experience will help you later in life? –Bela
Definitely! Graduate schools and employers look very highly to Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs). Peace Corps also has scholarships for RPCVs at a lot of graduate schools around the country. Personally, I am more confident and know that I can work with groups of people of who are different from me. I will have more patience and sympathy for when things don’t work or in difficult situations. I also know that I want to work with advocating for girls education as a career.

Where are you going next? –Jasmine
We are moving to Washington DC. Carson will be attending Georgetown Law school and I want to work with an women’s or education policy organization doing research or advocacy.

How many places have you traveled with the Peace Corps?/Have you traveled anywhere else in West Africa –Ilana, Jacob, Jewel
Carson and I traveled to Ghana and Senegal. Ghana was beautiful. The roads were better and the bush taxis were more efficient. They even sold ice cream on the streets! Senegal is more developed than The Gambia. Dakar, the capital city of Senegal has skyscrapers, fancy restaurants, bakeries, and an ice cream parlor. It is like the Paris of West Africa.

Were you teachers before you joined the Peace Corps? –Aidan
I was a second grade reading tutor in southeastern Ohio for Americorps and Carson was a chemist. Upon arriving we had an intense technical training about teaching in The Gambia.

How old do you have to be to join the Peace Corps? –Bela
You have to have a college degree to join. I have fellow volunteers that are over 60 years old.

Why did you choose to go to The Gambia? –Mary, Sappho, Sara
We did not choose The Gambia. When applying we request a region that we would like to serve in. The region we choose was Africa, so there were many countries we could go to. Peace Corps matched our skills and availability with what a specific country requested, so that’s how we got to go to The Gambia. We had to look it up on a map when we got our invitation letter to serve!

2008-05-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

As usual, it's been a while since I've posted anything. Today seems like a good day to break the silence because it's been a very good day. Rach and I are doing well as we cruise into our last few days of service. Among other things to look forward to, we're planning a few day lay over in Ireland before rushing home to see the families. I can't wait to wake up in a B&B, walk over to the cafe, drive, run, hike and walk around the small towns and countryside before settling into a pub for the evening. Until then we're busy preparing to leave. There are so many relationships and friendships that we'll be leaving behind and so many jobs and obligations to finish and a few things to pick up to remember our time here. It's been a hard month for me, not so much because of all that but because of the heat, so I don't think sentimentality's going to hold me back from pushing people out of the way to get on that plane... but I will miss the mangoes.

Today, however, was the perfect end to my service... and it was a surprise. I coerced some students to enter an essay contest sponsored by the American Embassy. Five of them hand-wrote the most substantial piece of writing of their lives: a three page essay on African American or Gambian history. I didn't do much, just read over them and typed final drafts for submission. It was a great exercise for the students and I encouraged the Embassy and Peace Corps to offer more of these national competitions. That was that.

Then one of my students, Binta, was selected as a finalist and invited to the Embassy in Banjul for a ceremony. I didn't feel comfortable chaperoning a female student alone (though she's married with a two year old son) so I made Rachel come down with us. As we were sitting under the pavilion in the Embassy with a table of beautiful American snacks nearby, they read the 3rd and 2nd place essays and then.... Binta WON!! A stack of books for the school, a stack of books for her and an envelope with some serious money inside. They interviewed her on national TV (it's a small country, but still!), we took her to buy a mobile phone, printed out some photos at the shop across the street and called it a day. Heck yeah.

2008-05-10T09:39:00.001-07:00

Here's Fanding, our favorite bitick (shop) owner in Kerewan! Look at all the the fabulous buys. The blue tub in front is mayonaise and the one next to it is butter...

2008-05-10T09:35:00.000-07:00

Rachel carrying little lisa while waiting for water at the tap. The next day my back was killing me. I don't know how Gambian women carry their children on their back while at the gardens or rice fields. Absolutely humbling. I got some pats on the back from the neighborhood women, which felt good.

2008-05-10T09:33:00.000-07:00

Rachel carrying little lisa, who is not so little, on her back while fetching water. Yes, it is not easy, deh!

2008-05-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

Here we are at Bamutar's naming ceremony. He's almost three months now! Time goes!

2008-05-10T09:29:00.000-07:00

January 2008

Dan, Rachel, Blair, and Carson walking in bush on Jonjonbureh.... I think we were trying to look cool, but it just ended up being a bunch of goofy dorks!

Almost ready to exhale...

2008-05-10T08:34:00.000-07:00

posted by rachel

So here we are, a little more than a month to go. We just had our Close of Service conference. It was great, talking about resumes, evaluating Peace Corps, and hanging with the group. As I traveled down to the city, I kept thinking how surreal it will feel, being at that conference. But the minute we got started, it felt deserved. Our group of 18 are all ready to go home, move on, get a job, go to school. We are not extending, or trying to hold out one more year as a PCV in another country. We are ready. I don't know why our group is so focused. Maybe its the 9 to 5 work week being a teacher, maybe its our determination, maybe its our resilience.

While eating fabulous meals, some of us realized how drained we felt. How we feel as though we are running on low. Two years living in Africa will do that, I suppose. The weekend leading up to the conference most of us went to Kartong, a beautiful beach south of the city. We slept in tree houses, grilled some burgers, and just partied without a care. I loved the beach because there was not one bumster on the beach, there was no one in fact, just your stray cow or two. The peace was refreshing and empowering.

Tomorrow Carson and I will head back to Kerewan for a mere four weeks and then its homeward bound. It is going to be hard to say goodbye to the family and the people who truly love and take care of us. But, it feels natural to being going... to be going back to our families. I know I will be able to call, but I also know that sometime down the road we will lose touch.

I worry about leaving just as the food crisis hits. A bag of rice rose 25 percent in a month. It will double not too far down the road and then only the very rich can afford it. Who knows how Gambia will handle this. Perhaps they will go back to growing their own rice, instead of relying on cheap imported rice, because now its not so cheap anymore.

I thought I would be asking myself questions like: "how do I say goodbye to all this." But I feel a sense of calm and readiness. I am not wondering how I will react or how I am supposed to feel. I remember before coming to Gambia, I was all kinds of flustered, not knowing how I should feel or what should I expect. It is quite the opposite right now. We have to pack up the house, finish up work, right a bunch of reports for Peace Corps, and say goodbye to our loved ones. There will be feelings of loss and sadness, but I know once we are on that plane home, we can exhale. It sounds so narrow and cold, but perhaps this is how I have learned to deal with such transitions.

2008-04-30T02:26:00.000-07:00

Here's us with the Director of Peace Corps Worldwide, Ron Tschetter. He and the director of Africa region, Lynn Foden, came to visit us in little ol' Gambia! Carson and I were a part of a small group meeting with the the director. Tschetter and Foden were motivating and affirming of our service here. Lynn almost had us almost convinced to continue with Peace Corps in Rwanda or Liberia! But, don't worry folks stateside it is for a little while yet. It was such a treat to talk to such a big wig.

Bare

2008-04-30T02:20:00.000-07:00

A white blaze mantles the blue sky. The sun is a pale shade of cement gray from morning to evening. It is light without texture or color, simply lighting and heating the day. The sun’s insidious rise and fall all but burns the arid insipid landscape, leaving nothing for an on looker’s imagination. No autumn golden light at sunset, no sparkling sunrise over a crisp cold morning. Such trite descriptions melt in the dingy glow of this April sun. From top to bottom it is a palate of drabness, stealing color schemes from a 1970s rug, parquet floor, hospital wall, school cafeteria, trash can, laundry mat, warehouse, grandma’s bathroom, and basement cubicle. Uninspired backgrounds that slow time, staling all energy and creativity that make a day possible.

Perhaps, the women and men wear such bright, textured color to clash against such a lifeless background. A splendor of flowing, sequenced, patterned, bold fabric paint the landscape with Monet’s brilliant strokes. Beautiful botanical gardens and water lilies sway and rise as women banter at the market or wait in line at the hospital. The true show of color comes with the ceremonies. Women and men replace their everyday clothes with cloaks of royalty as they stroll to a naming ceremony or gather for Tobaski. To be trite, they shine and inspire brilliantly like the golden autumn sun igniting the yellow, red and orange maple leaves.

Life’s little pleasures, continued...

2008-04-30T02:18:00.000-07:00

Carson and I were taking care of Bamutar. He was crying of course and we couldn’t calm him down. So in comes his namesake, an old, petite, fiery man, who wisps Bamutar from my grasp while switching his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to another. His grace and silliness shine as he attempts to calm his toma with hums, clucks, coos, and reprimands. We watch in speechless awe as he undresses the baby, changes the diaper, and baths him. Cigarette still in mouth, he walks back to his mud bricked house with a smiling, quiet baby. Clearly my maternal instincts have a long way to go.

Janke, the co-wife of my toma’s mother, told me that I looked bigger. Apparently living in Kerewan for two years has served me well she explained. Rather than taking it to mean that I have gained weight, as Americans would of course, I took it as a compliment. I am stronger, wiser, and aged-gracefully.

Mamud uses Carson as his climbing wall on a daily basis. Carson flips, throws, twirls, that little guy for a good half an hour. Mamud could go all day.

The shyest girl in my neighborhood, Binta, always perplexes me. When most kids are in our faces for whatever reason they seem pertinent, she simply says hi and walks away. But when we are passing the football with Alieu and Ehmed, she comes charging through. Always the first one to the ball, kicking with force and intensity. She leaves all the boys in the dust.

Carson eats an average of five mangoes a day. Every morning I am reminded of his overabundance while he labors over the pit latrine. Ask Carson exclaims, “Consequences be damned!” (Kaboom...)

Carson and I making a list of all the must have items in our apartment come August. Olive oil, dark chocolate, and brazil nuts to name a few.

Being ok with talking all about the near future. Reading all about DC and Georgetown, jobs that I could apply for, is helping us get one foot out the door. We are ready. We are ready to go home.

Alieu stills scream bloody murder when Aja gives him a bath.

Karamo coming in to use our laptop. I teach him how to write while he learns how to type.

Buying fabric in the city for tailor made suits that will come out to cost less than a third of the price at home. Carson getting six shirts tailored, because this is the first time he has shirts that truly fit. (And he can’t stop talking about it.)

After realizing that his facial hair is a similar texture to that of African hair, Carson took a hint from the local barbers, coupling a razor blade with a comb, to trim his beard. He’s super jazzed.

Figuring out that we can make humus here!

Going to open our door in the morning just after waking up and finding Ehmed squatting across the compound. I ask him what he is doing and he replies “Buwo, buwo,” (taking a crap). The next morning, Ehmed was out again doing his business when Alieu stumbled out of his house. He walked four feet and squatted. While both took their morning crap, they conversed in their two year old gibberish, clearly talking about the troubles of the world.

Carson’s boss telling him to omit the existence of his first wife to convince a white woman to come to The Gambia just to marry him.

A girl's right

2008-04-30T02:08:00.000-07:00

Girl according to The Gambia:
A girl is a female between the ages of 9 and 30. A girl becomes a woman when she marries and bears children. This could be at age 12 or 26, 16 or 19, rarely are girls over 27 not married with children. If a girl 23-35 is not married, it is strange. I am still called a girl, even though I am 26 and married, because I do not have children. Womanhood comes with motherhood, period. A girl lives in the family compound until she marries. Then the girl goes to live with the husband’s family where she will become a woman. That is usually the only change expected by girls.

Fifteen years after the government began providing free education for girls, life is beginning to change. A girl gets outside of the compound to learn with her peers. She has the opportunity to complete school to grade 12 free of charge. If she has good grades and exam scores, she can then go on to university. The opportunities are available for girls and it is now becoming the norm for families to send their girls to school. But if the girl fails her grade nine exam, she perhaps goes to a vocational school, where she learns tie and dye and soap making. Or her family marries her off since she will not keep going on with her schooling. I usually see single professional women in the city. When I see them working and living here in Kerewan, I am thrilled that they can be a different kind role model for the girls. Genders norms are beginning to change. For the first time here in The Gambia, the next generation of girls will have mothers who also went to school.

Girls will be Girls (Part 2): Girls’ Club Two Program!
Girl’s all over the world have the right to live without harassment and the other ills of sexism. That’s what thisu program was about, showing them that they don’t have to put up with it, that they have the will and ability to stand up for themselves and their friends. In teaching the girls about their bodies, sex, and being assertive we hoped to foster a dialogue and framework for the girls to value and protect themselves. To in the end learn how to stand up for their rights to a safe future.

So we pulled it off, a second girl’s club sleepover program. Becca brought her club to Kerewan on Friday, April 11th. We had a two day program held at the Kerewan Middle School titled, “Our Bodies, Our Minds, Ourselves.” Fifty energized girls attended, two amazing Gambian women, and three of my favorite women in Kerewan cooked four meals. Mary Louise Sambou, a teacher from Becca’s school and Isatou Bah, a leader in the Youth Action Movement and employee of ADWAC, joined us in facilitating the program. Becca and I felt more prepared than the previous year’s program. We knew how to talk and relate to the girls better. We knew what issues surrounded them everyday. We both fundraised with our clubs by raffling off soccer balls, holding luncheon sales, asking government and NGO offices for donations, and personally contributing.

We planned four sessions between getting to know you and trust games, meals, relay races, football, volleyball, and basketball. The first session was having the girls get to know each other and their place in the community. Becca had the girls write a “Day in the life” calendar for both girls and boys. What we all found was that girls did more chores and boys had more time to play football, study and hang with friends. This affects the girl’s ability to exercise, study, and be with their friends. Isatou immediately stood up and told the girls that they had to change the attitudes of their parents. Show them that they, the daughters, deserve more time to study and exercise. As an outsider I couldn’t say this, and that’s why having Isatou and Mary Louise part of the program was so crucial to its success. After the program, one of the Kerewan girls, Tida, said, “Now I can differentiate between what boys do and what girls do. Before I couldn’t.” Kaddy added, “I see the difference. Girls cook. Boys don’t cook. We all go to school. Boys play football, but girls don’t.”

That evening we played sports. I attempted to play volleyball (the girls call it volley volley). The girls laughed at me, but some weren’t that much better. We didn’t care, it was just us girls. I stopped to look around the school compound to see all the girls playing sports, talking, walking, just free to be teenage girls. Becca’s girls played basketball. Some girls passed a soccer ball around the circle of them. Nyimasata came in and out of the circle while washing and putting straightening cream in her hair. She’s a firecracker.

The Kerewan club raised their own money for a DJ. Having a dance party at the school is a big deal. All the girls got decked out. They mostly wore western club clothes. Tight jeans, cute tops, and skirts above the knees. A bit scandalous, yes, but girls will be girls. They were beautiful and confident, dancing from the minute the music began. They glowed, laughed, chatted, ran from one group to the next. Becca and I insisted on a girls only dance. We did not want boys to come and harass the girls. We also didn’t want to be responsible for any unwanted pregnancies. The girls didn’t want the boys to come either. Kaddy said, “ I don’t like it when boys are at the party. They chase you and call you. When you don’t come they insult you. I get angry.” Kas commented that the boys are “tough, tough, they are not serious.” Tida went on to confirm, “I like that, no boys. They will disturb us. Tell us this and this.” Denying the boys entrance proved to be was one of our most difficult life experiences.

We stood behind the faded red iron doors in the shadows of the street lamp. The two oversized doors served as the main entrance for the school. There was no clasp, nothing to ground the metal sheets to the soft sand. The doors were a simple tease, a mere symbol for protection. Stones pounded the already battered door creating familiar sounds of a blacksmith molding a spade. Stones came through the lacking doors, soaring through the middle opening as we let the girls enter. Sticks whipped our fingers as we closed the doors against the weight of the mob. Leaves and dirt putter down over our heads from the walls next to the doors. Verbal abuse and mocking ricochet against the lifeless door permeating the tense dead air. We looked at each other and said, “So this is what happens when boys and young men are told ‘no.’” Those doors never did come to life, swallowing the angry male mob. Those doors just shriveled away, failing us, refusing to tell the male mob no. We were the only ones. The boys and young men wanted to come for the dance party, we told them no, girls only. We told them no. So they, as young as eight years, attacked.

Becca and I were on the fronlines, protecting the girls’ right to a safe space. The male population just couldn’t believe that girls can enjoy themselves without them. We were stoned standing up for these girls’ right to be, for their right to be free of sexual harassment, their right to have fun, to dance without boys lurking around trying to touch girls inappropriately. Girls need to know that they have the right not to be touched when they don’t want to be. Eventually at midnight, we couldn’t hold the male mob back. They had been jumping over the fences and hiding in the shadows. With an hour left in the program, Becca and I walked away from the door. Isatou and the Kerewan girls came over, worried and upset that the boys were being to rude and awful. I remember Tida saying, “Liisa, let’s go, come and dance, these boys will always be rude. I don’t want them to hurt you.” So we reluctantly pulled back. We still walked around keeping the boys away from the girls. But the girls didn’t even talk to them, they just stayed with each other. Luckily it took forty-five minutes for the boys’ shyness to wear off. Fifteen minutes later we turned off the music. There was a moment when Becca and I simultaneously pounced a boy who touched a girl’s butt. We looked at each other as we finished reprimanding the boy and said, “Since when did we become the chaperones of a middle school dance?!” We plopped down feeling like the older, responsible adult that we never thought we could become.

We managed to get some sleep between the girls chatting and the heat. The next day we had a packed schedule. I knew it would be tough with the lack of sleep and the oppressive heat. We began with relay races to get everyone’s blood flowing. Isatou led the second session of the program: Adolescent Sexual Reproductive Health. She talked all about STIs and pregnancy prevention. The biggest issue she emphasized was “proper use of condoms,” not just use of condoms but proper use of condoms. She knew that some of these girls were already sexual active, so why only talk about abstinence. Isatou is a true progressive here in The Gambia! We did a proper use demonstration – checking the expiration date, putting it on, putting it in place, disposing of it – with my hand (too wide and not long enough, but it worked). Nyima reflected, “I liked the session with Isatou about STIs and properly using condoms. I learned that sperm makes a girl pregnant. I did not know that before.” Other girls echoed this. Nyima continued, “I learned how STIs and HIV/AIDS are transferred.”

We then covered the reproductive system. I led the group in a body mapping activity. The girls traced each other’s entire bodies. They then had to label the parts they knew. Some girls even labeled their breasts and vagina. I asked what made us girls, they shouted out hips, breasts, my privates, one even said hair is certain parts. I then placed a picture of the reproductive system on one of the bodies. We learned all of the parts and what their functions are. Isatou had a great diagram of a penis entering the vagina. It just helped make everything more clear and available. Tida explained, “Now I can label all the parts of my reproductive system. Before, I could not label it.” Binta said, “I learned about my body, my… internal body.” I enjoyed teaching sex education to the girls. Knowing our bodies empowers each of us to know how to protect and keep ourselves safe and healthy.

The third session was about the myth versus truth when it comes to sex, pregnancy, and STIs. Some myths include pregnant women can’t eat eggs, if you wash yourself after having sex you can’t get pregnant, oral sex can’t give you an STI, you can’t get pregnant before your period, and so on. The best part of the session was Isatou and Mary Louise validating that these myths were crazy and should not be taken seriously like many other Gambians do.

Our last session talked about being assertive and making the right and safe decisions. We wanted the girls to know and fight for what is best for them. I wrote up some secenarios where they had to make decisions about whether to have sex, walking alone with a boy, how to be assertive, stand up for oneself, and what strategies they can use to stop abuse or avoid unsafe situations. They can’t say no with a smile. They have to say it with power, say it like they mean it.

When I talked to a couple of the girls a week later, we talked about why it was good to not have the boys at the dance party. Kaddy stated, “Boys, they disturb us… telling us I love you.” Tide interrupted, “We say to them an assertive ‘no!’ No! No! NO!” Tida’s clear and steady voice grow louder and more powerful. I smiled and thought to myself, “this is the greatest moment of my service.”

By the end of the last session the girls were spent. The heat seeped into our muscles. We ate lunch and cleaned up the classrooms we slept in the night before. While cleaning, I realized that my mobile was stolen. Who knows who stole it, people walk through the school all the time. My club immediately went and searched the other girl’s things. Then Becca’s girls got offended. So it was a little dicey as we wrapped up the program and said our goodbyes. My girls were just protecting me, it was really cute. I hate that it was at the expense of offending others, but it was what they do, protect your family.

I look back to being stoned. Neither of us were seriously hurt, but boys were throwing stones at us. I have never been so disrespected, so under attack. So whenever I hear the devastating reports of women under attack all over the world, being raped, assaulted, stoned, murdered, disenfranchised, undermined, I will know that Becca and I truly stood up for these girls. We played our part in the fight for a girl’s and woman’s freedom to be.

Photos of the Girls' Club Sleepover Program titled, "Our Bodies, Our Minds, Ourselves."

2008-04-20T09:24:00.000-07:00

It is probably best to view these pictures from the bottom up.

One of the last sessions we did was called, "Knowing how to fight for what's best for me." We had ten secenarios where girls had to make decisions or be assertive to protect their right to safety and empowerment. We talked about the different strategies, language, and body language to use.

2008-04-20T09:15:00.000-07:00

Isatou talking about her life experience. She grew up in a traditional Fula family. Her father refused to send her to school. It was her mother who supported her schooling from the small money she made selling at the market. Isatou was in the top of her class and wanted to go to the city to attend of the best high schools. Her father forbade it wanting her to marry. Isatou refused and was kicked out of the compound. She was at the top of her class, of course, excelling against all odds. She was active in the community, volunteered for the UN, committing herself to community work. Now she is the only one in her family working. Of all her brothers that her father sent to school, none of them have a steady job like Isatou. She was welcomed back into the compound and still refuses to marry until she is ready. Isatou is a true example of how changing attitudes can empower girls. I was left speechless after she talked, just so grateful for her existence and active participation in this community.

(At this point is was two in the afternoon. Alot of the girls barely slept the night before. Between the heat and the lack of sleep it was hard to keep them engaged as we can see with the girl sleeping in the back.)

2008-04-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

Becca discussing what's true and what's false when it comes to issues of sex, abortion, STIs, and pregnancy. The discussion crossed both traditional and religious boundaries, but the girls were so into it.

2008-04-20T09:08:00.000-07:00

Girls placing their content on their cards in the true or false category. Becca asked them to look at it very briefly and immediately decide whether it's true or false in order to get a gut reaction.

2008-04-20T09:02:00.000-07:00

Becca getting ready to lead a Fact versus myth session. There are so many incorrect myths about sex and pregnancy and STI prevention. Some examples: birth control makes you baron, if you wash yourself after sex, you can't get pregnant, pregnant women shouldn't eat eggs, you can't get an STI if you have oral sex, and so on. The girls perked up for this session, some in disbelief that what they hold is true is actually false. It wasn't Becca or I who convinced them, it was Isatou and Mary Louise (our Gambian counterparts for the program) who stood up and defended the truth.

2008-04-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

After the girls put the parts of reproductive system together and labelled them, we checked each others work to make sure we all know what exactly is inside of us.

2008-04-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

Isatou talking about what happens when the egg is fertilized. She had this great picture of the penis inside the vagina; one that I had never seen during my sex ed classes.

2008-04-20T08:53:00.000-07:00

Talking about our menstruation cycle and what exactly happens down there and why. You can see the final products of our body mapping in the back. For this activity the girls had to match the action with the picture. For example: The womb lining breaks apart and blood flows through the vagina.

2008-04-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

Body Mapping! There's Isatou sitting towards the back in the red head wrap.

2008-04-20T08:43:00.000-07:00

We did a body mapping activity to begin our discussion about the anatomy of a female, what makes us women and girls. The girls had a great time. Here they are identifying the parts they know. Most of them identified the breasts and vagina. From there we talked about what inside of us makes us female. And thus a great session of the female reproductive system, which I got the pleasure of leading.

2008-04-20T08:36:00.000-07:00

Here is Isatou Bah, also known as I.B. She is just fabulous. She works at ADWAC and is the national chair for the North Bank region for the Youth Action Movement. She is a mover and shaker and one of the few role models for these girls. She lead a session about Adolescent Reproductive Sexual Health, talking about preventing pregnancy, STIs, and the reproductive system. Isatou advocated for "proper condom use" not just use condoms. I volunteered my hand to demonstrate putting on a condom properly and disposing of it. Most of the girls were a bit taken aback. It is probable that they are sexually active, we can preach abstinence to a group of girls who have already had sexual relations. She is one of the few Gambians that get that and is not afraid to say and teach it. She is my role model!

2008-04-20T08:30:00.000-07:00

The morning of say two we had relay races to get the blood flowing. The night before my club rented a DJ and we were all up until one thirty. Becca and I tried to fall fast asleep while the girls chatted until the wee hours of the morning. Some girls were very competitive, but some just fell over laughing. The linked arm relay was a great way to show how a little teamwork can go along way. The dust rose from their hurried feet while the sun began to threaten with another hot day.

2008-04-20T08:26:00.000-07:00

Tida presenting her groups "Day in a life" calender. Becca is in the back listening. We took turns running the four sessions. She took this one and of course rocked it like always. We tried to get the girls to stand up and present as much as possible throughout the two days to help foster their public speaking skills.

2008-04-20T08:20:00.000-07:00

Girls making "Day in the Life Calenders" for girls and boys in their communtiies. The group found that girls have more work and obligations than boys. This is no new revaltion, but we thought it would be a great excercise see and put in writing this fact. Becuase they have more work and chores, girls have less time to study, exercise, attend peer clubs, programs, and other meetings outside of their school schedule. Girls as a group are the most isolated in these communities.

2008-04-20T08:14:00.000-07:00

Njongon girls mixing with the Kerewan girls ready to embark on a session about their roles in the community and taking care of their needs.

2008-04-20T08:08:00.000-07:00

Tida laughing it off after leading the group in People to People. It went something like this: Hand to hand, ear to ear, lopi to lopi(mandika and wollof for butt), knee to knee, foot to foot. You can see very slightly the power of her smile, of her walk, of her charismatic intelligence. Her maturity beyond her years waiting to burst into a hopeful, promising future. She gives me hope, she makes me want to be a better woman.

2008-04-20T07:55:00.000-07:00

People to People, a twister like game without the board. A great ice breaker and warm up game. The girls loved it. Keeping it light and fun makes the program go much smoother.

Mangoes and Heat-Rash

2008-04-19T05:46:00.000-07:00

Posted by Carson

2 months and counting!! Every day and every week gets a little more challenging as the end of our service approaches. I know I'll miss almost everything here, but I'm so anxious to start the next chapter of our lives. I'm tired of the same old trials and tribulations that we've dealt with from the beginning. I'll miss it when I don't have it, but I can't wait to walk out of our house or apartment without being the center of attention. Of course, I also can't wait for all the amenities, media, colder weather, food and all that, but mostly I just want to be normal and ordinary. No more 6 year olds following me around like the paparazzi, shouting my name over and over as I go to the water pump. Yeah, I'll miss it too.

In the mean time...

It's that time of the year. Every day is hotter than the last as we ramp up to the rainy season. Volunteers farther up-country have it worse, but it's still unbearable in Kerewan. Just like last year, our candles melt in the shade. I've gradually cut out any work during the mid-afternoon, opting instead to lay around the compound sweating. We're in Kombo/Banjul for the weekend and it's still beautiful here. There's an ocean breeze and the nights are actually a little chilly! Sunday we'll be back in Kerewan and I'll be miserable for all but the first and last two hours of the day.

On the plus side, mangoes and cashew fruit are in season... with a vengeance. I eat six a day, consequences be damned! So delicious. And there're different sizes and types too! My favorite is the third largest, about the same as a supermarket mango back home, but tree ripened and picked by the local boys. Everyone sits around between classes or work and just eats mangoes right off the tree. I'm so glad we get one last fruit season before we leave!

Our plans for "reentry" are coming together. Rach and I are going to Ireland for 5 days on the way home for some decompression. Volunteers who've been there describe it as the antithesis of the Gambia. I think we'll rent a sports car and drive to a B&B. It's basically just a layover on our already paid for flight home, so it'll be a really cheap trip for us. Then we get ready to move to Washington D.C. in the fall. Rachel's following some great leads for research jobs and I'll be at Georgetown Law (we made our final choice!).

If all else fails, just breathe.

2008-04-14T05:37:00.000-07:00

by Rachel

Disclaimer: This is my attempt to compartmentalize all the things that has made my experience here difficult. I want to figure out some way to leave all this behind when we board our plane home in two and a half months. I want to bring with me everyone and everything that kept me going and gave me unconditional love and acceptance. This is my way to get all these difficulties that weigh on my shoulders buried below the scorched earth. But in reality it is these difficulties that have taught me the most about myself and this world. So I apologize if this is hard to read, or if I offend, but it is my truth.

April 1, 2008
For the past two weeks I was submerged in everything I hate about The Gambia: sexual harassment, obnoxious and vile mocking from children, the suffocating and explosive heat, and institutionalized sexism. One layering one top of the other brought me to an unsteady mental space. My saving graces were small moments of good, friends, and chocolate cake.
I trekked up to Jonjonbureh (JJB), the island 250 K up river, to teach at another term of Face to Face. I worked with my same class of teachers in training from the Christmas term. This time the English group taught writing, specifically all the mechanics of sentences. Teaching writing to fifty ESL adults was ‘not easy’ (to coin the famous Gambian term). The majority of their writing was at a third to fourth grade level. The top ten can write pretty well. But none of them know how to use quotation marks or edit an incorrect sentence. I gave them ten writing assignments over the course of the two weeks. They never wrote so much and I never had to mark five hundred assignments in such a short time. I like this program because the work is stimulating and challenging. I came to the island in the dead of the hot season because of the work. I came to the popular tourist spot because of the work. I came to the town of ‘bumsters’ and vulgar men because of the work.

I hate tourists. I know it’s awful to say, but tourism makes my life unbearable at times and it fosters a culture of begging. Tourism is the top income generator for the country, but it also creates and fosters so many problems. Children understand that the only reason white people come here is to pass out sweets, pens, or money. Schools, villages, community groups just sit and wait for a white donor. Between development and tourism, this has become a country in waiting. Development is a sham; it fosters dependency on outsiders and discourages empowerment from within. JJB just puts on a show for the hordes of tourists wearing their short shorts in a conservative Muslim country. The kids come up and dance for you. They always beg for money. I was constantly toubabed and hissed at. It’s as though JJB has ceased to be a real community and morphed into one of those fake villages, where people just act for the visitors to show what a ‘real African village’ is like.

I hate the sex tourism. Those older European women coming down to rendezvous with a Gambian boy for a week or so. It is these women that promote a culture of sexual harassment and objectification with white females. All white women are assumed to be here for sex or marriage. So I walk down the street in JJB and men scream out me to marry them, calling me ‘boss lady,’ ‘nice girl,’ or ‘hey sexy.’ I tell them in so many words to get lost and then they stand up a pump their crotch. I past an eleven year old boy peeing on the side of the bush road as I walked to my class. He called out, “You want to sex me? Come and sex me!” I scurried away suffocating with shock and anger. I hear that is the city a bunch, but never up country like this.
One of my most difficult obstacles is figuring out how to work with institutionalized sexism. The education system is dominated my men. Men that are educated and entitled. There are some great ones that I work with. They are the gems that keep me going. But, mostly the dynamics of sex, race, and class color all my work interactions. The men at this teacher training program are headmasters, hold positions at the Dept of State for Ed, or work at The Gambia College. These are men with status. Men with status here do not listen to women, unless she is their direct boss, but even then. Men with status are entitled to this job and therefore do not have work for it. Men with status do not need to be held accountable for anything. So here comes a much younger white women trying to meet them in the middle with creating a student-centered lesson plan that requires more work from them. Criticism in any form is met with burning defensiveness. It gets hairy. Sometimes we are undermined. Sometimes they bring out, “well you people don’t understand.” I don’t blame them. If they don’t want us here, then fine. But this program wants us for our knowledge about student centered learning. What they don’t want is our criticism of how things are run and organized. Well, you can’t have one without the other. So heads butt, a lot.

I thought as a married woman, I would have an easier time working with the men here. In actuality, this is not the case. Many volunteers have been able to work well with the men by using the flirtation to their advantage. They have been able to be nice and welcoming to men who blatantly flirt with them. By socializing The Gambian way, they have been able to wrap the men around their finger. Thus, they can actually get somewhere working in these male dominated offices. More power to these vols, I just could never do that. I’m married. So I am just cold to all the men who want to belittle me. And for that, I’ve gotten nowhere working in these offices. I am realizing now that this is how I have dealt with institutionalized sexism. I just shut it out the minute I stepped into it. I walked away. I refused to figure out how to use it to my advantage. It was yet another obstacle that I did not want to overcome. Now, after almost two years, I get that. I get that I need to socialize with the men before I can actually work with them. I get that it’s just how this place is, male dominated in every aspect of society.

While negotiating through all of that shit, I was living in an oven. The heat. The unbearable, rather-shoot-yourself-in-the foot heat. Each day was between 105-120 degrees. It was more humid because we were surrounded by the river. The mosquitoes were relentless. I couldn’t sleep through the night without waking up in a puddle of my own sweat. The afternoon sun burned to the bone. My head was on the verge of combustion. I had to move is slow motion to exert minimal energy. Sweat rolled down by searing body from my neck to my belly to my behind to my ankles. I was a sloth dripping sweat going in and out of delirium. I could barely think, breathe, or move. I cursed the burning Sahara winds. I was a fugitive to the unyielding sun.

The first of my saving graces was just us four women, Colleen, Blair, Liza and myself on the island trying to get by. Peace Corps women braving the elements while saving each other in the meantime. We spent our days searching for cold bags of water, grading papers, supporting and processing the difficulties of working in the program, being teacher dorks, and cooking dinners of humus, tacos, dumplings, curry, and canned baked bean sandwiches. I would have gone crazy without them!

The moment that kept me going was when Carson surprised me with a really amazing chocolate cake for my birthday (March 15). He phoned in the order and went down to the capital to pick it up. He showed up the day before my birthday with a huge metal pot. Somehow that cake made the nine hours of travel in this hot season. The secret was freezing it the night prior, but still not even a dent in its perfect icing job. This cake was absolutely delectable by home standards. Rich, moist, dense chocolate cake with a chocolate thick fudge icing. I was so happy I cried. He told me I was too easy to please. I said to him well then keep the love coming. Him, us, mean the world to me. I love how we have grown here together. For a tough experience makes a good marriage stronger, better, and lasting. I feel whole.

My other saving grace was that the work was worth it all. My class was awesome. I knew all there names by this term, which helped with classroom management. We had two weeks full of big and stacked lessons. The class welcomed the challenge and worked hard. Of the forty-seven, fourteen were women. After every two hour class, I was spent. I was acting as a cheerleader most of the time to keep them going in the heat of the day. We went through all the nasty details of the English language. I even had trouble answering some of the questions: why was the verb ‘be’ so irregular, why can’t you say ‘borrow me,’ but you can say ‘lend me.’ Now I truly understand how it is to be an ESL adult learner. English sucks!

The moment that made those two weeks worth while was the praise I received from the class. They said, “Liisanding, you are a great lecturer. Very clear and to the point. You are kind and understanding. We rate you number one out of the rest.” I almost fell to the floor. I beamed. It takes a lot of energy to speak slowly and clearly enough, to word my instructions correctly, and have the patience while marking their papers. Their honesty and gratitude shone like the big dipper pouring the night sky. I was elated the entire ten hour ride that consisted of a flat tire, ferry mishaps, military checkpoints, and filthy hot wind, all the way down to the capital.
Now I am back in Kerewan. I can breathe. Mercifully the weather is not as bad as JJB. It is still hot, but not hot as the throws of hell. I am back in my routine. I savor my gems. Aja and I chat through the afternoon heat. She is already talking about how much she will miss us. She is one of my true friends here. No matter how limited our conversations can get, she gets me and I get her. I baby sit her one month old, Bamutar when she goes off the gardens. I go to the market, barter with the vendors. I fetch water, sweep the house, do the laundry. I go to the nursery school. Mba Suwareh, who is like my grandma, gives me a Wollof lesson. I watch Bruama teach his students how to do puzzles as they all bunch around on the mat. I go and paint learning aids on the Saaba nursery school. I meet with my girls’ club. Those girls never cease to amaze me. They are raising money on their own to get a DJ for the program this coming weekend. They are so motivated and driven. Like a said, a force on their own. I go and visit my toma, who can sit up on her own! I have never seen a baby with so many fat roles on her legs and arms. She is a honker, but so beautiful and charismatic.

As I roll with the beauty of this place, I realize that it’s the shit storms that force you to grow. I am here reacting to things I would never have had to at home. I surprise myself a lot here. I am edgy. I am angst ridden. I lay into people, tell them exactly how I feel. I am realist now. All that ideological hoopla, that kept me bright eyed and bushy tailed, is gone. I learned how to stand up for myself. I learned how to take care of my self. I have truly learned the Zen of patience. You have to pick your battles in life, or else you’ll fry. Life is not worth worrying about what others think of you. I have to know that here, in a culture where people tease, insult, and talk all about you as you are standing right in front of them.

What I do worry about is those that have opened their homes and hearts to protect and love me. All of their suffering, I have let it in and it chips away at me everyday. Honestly, I want to go home to get away from it. It is depressing. I would rather embrace the out of site out of mind theory. But I fear it will be with me, always. I want to go home because I miss home. I can’t stand being an outsider anymore. I want to go where I can blend in as I walk down the street. And just thinking that brings so much guilt. I can go back to a place where I am not harassed based on the color of my skin. I can go back to my community and my family. Carson can go back to attend law school. We can go back and rent an apartment, start a family. I can go back and get a good job. I can go back and go to school. I can go back. I can go back. I can go back.

This is complex, trying to compartmentalize two years living here. For this place, this experience is so complex. All of it webs together cloaking my shoulders, my conscience, my space. So day by day, I will be fetching water, praising Carson’s cooking, sweeping the floor, doing Pilates, going for runs, hanging out with my loved ones, savoring the moments that breathe life into this parched, dust shrouded hot season.

2008-03-31T04:31:00.000-07:00

Wedding ceremony at Jarju Kunda for Titi (one of my girls from last years club). It seemed like all the women of the town showed up to really get down and party.

2008-03-31T04:24:00.000-07:00

Aja at the wedding ceremony with

cutie Bamutar.

2008-03-31T04:15:00.000-07:00

Kids will be kids. The neighborhood kids keeping themselves busy during the wedding ceremony. There's Yonkuba falling over the iron staff of the ox cart. He's been made infamous by the wet mark left on our couch.

2008-03-31T04:04:00.000-07:00

Rachel being thrown into the fury of a feet stomping mob. Dust was flying, the sun was creeping below the horizon, and the women were infusing energy into my tired body.

2008-03-31T03:52:00.000-07:00

A wedding ceremony at Jarju Kunda. Neither the groom or bride were there. It was basically a party for the bride of the groom, Janke (front left, wearing black and yellow). Janke is one of my favorite people here.... and she can dance. All these women can dance. It is so electrifying beautiful!

2008-03-31T03:35:00.000-07:00

Rachel and her Toma, Liisanding! She is a big baby for six months. It was rough carrying her on my back. This was during a wedding ceremony at Jarju Kunda, so I took care of her for most of the day. I was a true Gambian women, fetching water and doing all the chores with little Liisa tied to my back.

Girls will be girls

2008-03-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

by rachel

I am surrounded in their buzz of comradery. They are loud, rambunctious, screaming at the top of their lungs about anything and everything. They have a pulse, a rhythm that I ebb and flow with. This is their show. But, what else would you expect from 20 fourteen year old girls.

This year’s club is on it. We’ve talked about sex, puberty, menstruation, safety, setting goals, delaying sex, cultural changes and gender roles. They help me, teaching me all the relevant terms in Mandinka and translating to those girls who don’t understand me. We hold mini debates. I have the girls stand up in the beginning of every club meeting to state their name and answer the question of the day. The question can be what they wore for the holiday, where they feel safe, how their best friend supports them, or what their favorite time of day is. Four out of the twenty stand up straight, speak loudly and with confidence. The rest are really shy: they barely stand up, laugh with shame, cover their faces, and speak inaudibly. A lot of this has to do with not having a command of the English language, but the huge reason is a cultural shaming of girls. Girls are taught to not speak openly in public and in front of male elders. I see a lot of men play this up, condescendingly talking to young women and girls, making fun of them as they try to speak or answer. So every Wednesday, we practice speaking in front our peers in hopes to find their voice.

The Girls’ Club Sleepover with Becca’s club will be in mid-April. We are hosting it here in Kerewan want to raise some funds locally. The girls decided to put on a luncheon sale. Everyday at break time women come to the school and sell bean sandwiches, acra (fried beans) sandwiches, a local soup called ebe (mostly cassava and palm oil), fish pies, and iced juice. On the first Tuesday in February we came instead of the usual vendors. The experience was tiring, to put it mildly.

The girls are a force on their own. Each member contributed 25 Dalasi for ingredients and I covered the rest. Two girls went to a big market 25 K away to find ingredients that are not find in Kerewan. Ten girls and I spent all of a Sunday afternoon criss-crossing Kerewan for flour, butter, tomatoes, onions, jumbo, salt, pepper, etc. We put in an order at the bakery for one hundred a ten loaves of bread. At every shop, the girls erupted in an intense hasty banter about money, the items themselves, who’s responsible, and the cost. They sauntered slowly in the blazing sun between errands. I realized fast that I exerted too much energy trying to have them do it my way: quickly. (This is what I learned here, my way (the American way) is not the only way to get things done.) So I let them take the reins and eventually everything got checked off the list.

The next 36 hours were insane. The girls arrived at my compound Monday afternoon to begin cooking. Oumie, whose mother teaches third grade, arrived first with three bundles of bowls, oil, beans, and iron pots. She the shortest in the group, but the most level headed. Oumie is calm, dependable, and goes nowhere without wearing her hijab. She is also the best cook in the group. Shortly after, Nyimasata arrives, words ringing from her booming voice. She is tall, thunderous, and incessantly talking about something. Nyimasata is a natural leader, one who I often look to in the meeting to help get my point across. Majula is trailing behind with a graceful poise and inviting face. She is super shy, but is the one girl who I have seen go from follower to leader since I have known her. So much potential hides behind her unassuming mannerisms. When she gets talking and doing, Majula shines. Kaddy, also known as “Kas,” rolls on through. She is tall as Nyimasata, but much more of a tomboy. Kas commands an audience with her lofty stance and her full and soothing baritone voice. Tida joins us as we have all started to shave and cut the cassava for the ebe. Her intellect rises through her gleaming smile and curious eyes as she walks with a purpose. Tida is balanced, responsible and caring. Eventually fifteen girls arrive as we prepare the fires, make the dough for the fish pies, mix the ebe, ground the dried fish, and cook the beans.

We started cooking at three in the afternoon and didn’t finish until ten at night. There was a light energy amongst all of us. The girls divided the cooking tasks, all the while gossiping at full speed and volume. I watched, in awe of there innate ability to cook for hundreds. It was wonderful to learn how to cook these dishes and see them interact outside of the school setting. They are even more chatty and animated. As dinner time came and past and the sky turned from blue to black, we all realized it was time to go home.

I woke up before dawn on Tuesday with a rush of nervousness. The sale was later that morning and we still had to make the acra. Oumie was the first to show up again, and eventually throughout the next hour other girls arrived. We were tired and excited. I stepped back and let them organize themselves. We had to be at the school at ten. We barely made it. The bakery was late getting out the bread, and it was less than we thought. I didn’t realize a dozen meant half a dozen. We only had two tables to hold the monstrous bowls of beans, acra, fish pies, and ebe soup. Students began to trickle out of there classrooms. It was good. The girls were handling serving and collecting the money. Then the swarm came.

In a country were the people refuse to queue, the bustle turned into madness. The students surrounded the tables. Elbows, money, beans, acra were flying. Carson and I tried to maintain an order, but per usual failed. We could have set up the tables a better way, spread out the food. But we didn’t have enough bowls. Then the bread ran out. We hastily sent someone to get bread, but break time was coming to an end and there was still a pack of students who didn’t get a sandwich. The bread came too little too late. Despite the battle we did make some money.

We all headed back to my compound exhausted. We had to wash the pots and bowls. I think we were a little freaked out from the selling experience. The girls just sat there. So I started to wash and then one by one they got up to do the same. Their talking became louder, tense but still joyous. I heard some tough Mandinka being thrown around. I looked up and there were two girls attacking each other. A full out fight! I rushed in and pulled Mariama away, surprised with my strength to keep her from going back in. All the other girls formed a wall between them. I was bewildered! Why the hell were they fighting?! A very pregnant Aja comes running in to bring order to the situation. Mandinka is flying out of everyone’s mouth. I am lost in this situation. I asked again and again, louder and louder what this fight was about. One of the girls insulted another’s mother. I lost it. I started screaming at them. This was supposed to be for them, they were supposed to work with each other, to support each other. I threatened to call it all off, cancel the club, send them all home. I began to cry, so tired from not having a moment to recharge in the past 24 four hours. I stormed out, not knowing what else to do. They all stared at me, shocked. People don’t cry here. Aja follows me to my house. She told me to stop crying, that this is how we are different. Whenever there’s a program here, people quarrel and fight. I was humbled by Aja’s understanding of my reaction. She gets that I am in unfamiliar territory. But, ashamed that I couldn’t handle this on my own and had to drag her tired body into all this.

Then I started laughed at myself. How could I not expect this from a group of teenage girls? They are like this all over the world, full of energy and hormones. What a learning experience! They are so strong together, so loud and obnoxious. But yet as individuals, they are so vulnerable. I walk back, embarrassed that I lost my cool. They quickly surrounded me and stated their discontent with the fight. Nyimasata announced on behalf of the others that anyone who fights will have to pay 25 Dalasi to the club. I laughed appreciating their initiative and creativity. I breathed a sigh of relief that they still accepted me as their teacher, after losing it in front of them.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Oumie and Tida cooking more sauce for the afternoon sale. I sat by them listening to the oil crackle in the searing iron pan. At the end of the day we made 1000 Dalasi. The next week I told them their earnings at our club meeting. They roared with applause and accomplishment. I then told them each to stand up and say why we need each other. I wanted to tell them that they have made my service worth it. I need them, for they are my teachers, helping me understand what survival truly is in our relentless world.

Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

2008-03-08T04:31:00.001-08:00

Posted by Carson

Sorry guys, It’s been a long while since I’ve written. Lately, everything in my life has been going either extremely well or extremely poorly. Looking for something that I can have more control over, I’ve concentrated mostly on the here and now. In The Gambia, this can be the most exhausting of all. Sometimes the absurdity can weigh me/us down. It doesn’t help that we now have an official Close of Service date: June 15th. For anyone who likes to count, that’s 100 days exactly until Rachel and I can come home, see family and friends, prepare for the next step and be a part of some important things back home.

Mutar Peed In My Face

2008-03-08T04:29:00.000-08:00

Posted by Carson

As Rachel mentioned earlier, our host Aja had a baby boy! I must admit, newly named Mutar is certainly cute and he hasn’t learned to cry very loudly or for very long yet. At least not while he’s camped out on our couch in the late afternoons. He really has been a learning experience (refer to title). Following are some pics of his naming ceremony and some other good stuff.

Pudgekins

2008-03-08T04:17:00.000-08:00

But first, behold in all her glory, Rachel's namesake, little Lisanding. Perhaps not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, but I like to think she'll grow to be... well, she'll grow. I'm a little mean, but it's really a great honor for Rachel to have a namesake and we're very proud.

Get a Haircut, Son

2008-03-08T04:11:00.000-08:00

Here he is, our host's latest baby boy: Mutar. He came with a fair complexion, just like his grandmother and one older sister, and dark bags around his eyes. On the 7th day after

a baby's birth, the elders decide on a name and shave the baby's head. Mutar is named after the Tailor who has lived in our compound, Samateh Kunda, for many years. He's become a member of their family, so they are honoring him as such with a "Tooma" or Namesake.

2008-03-08T04:00:00.000-08:00

Here are the two elders, preparing to give the new baby, Mutar, his first shave. Notice the bowl of kola nuts in the back. They're always given as travel gifts or during ceremonies.

Karamo and the Old Men

2008-03-08T03:50:00.000-08:00

Here's Karamo looking out from our front porch as the old men pray for the new baby, Mutar. You can also see the big, blue, goodie-stuffed, seran-wrapped plastic tub that Rachel got them as a gift. These are always given for a first child's naming ceremony, but by the sixth or seventh people tend to loose enthusiasm. Mutar is the only child born in our compound while we're here, so Rach went all out.

Big Money

2008-03-08T03:30:00.000-08:00

Everybody donates a little money to the new baby's family during a naming ceremony. Here the women are counting the collection.

Emmed and the Ladies

2008-03-08T03:12:00.000-08:00

Here's Emmed, short for Mohammad, in the forground looking as he usually does while the women pray and chat in the center of the compound. This kid is cute, but he NEVER wipes his nose.

Rachel with the Women

2008-03-08T03:07:00.000-08:00

Here's Rachel in the back of our home, Samateh Kunda, with the rest of the women cooking lunch for the ceremony. The women all have on their best outfits and you can see the giant 3-legged cooking pots they use for cooking rice.

Who IS that 6 ft tall white guy?!

2008-03-08T02:54:00.000-08:00

Here I am hanging around the naming ceremony. I usually feel profoundly uncomfortable at big gatherings because I can never remember the names of extended family and get tired of them quizzing my Mandinka. Instead, I try to sit with the other men who tend to huddle in the corner as the women compare outfits.

Harmattan Sunset

2008-03-08T02:37:00.000-08:00

The Harmattan trade winds blow south from the Sahara across West Africa during the dry, cold season. By the time it reaches The Gambia, it's usually a mild but dusty, hot breeze. Sometimes we see a great sunset as a cloud of dust and sand rolls across the sky. This pic is from the back of a gele-gele bush taxi.

Homeward Bound

2008-03-08T02:27:00.000-08:00

Here we are looking haggard on the way from Banjul/Kombo back to Kerewan. As they say, "it's not easy." It's only about a 55 km ride over smooth, paved road from the ferry terminal, but coupled with fighting your way through the terminal, the hour long ride across, negotiating Banjul and taking a series of public tacis to the towns of Kombo, it is, in fact, not easy. It'd be worse if we lived further up-country.

Rachel's Pitching at W.A.I.S.T.

2008-03-02T07:06:00.000-08:00

Here's Rachel taking the mound at the annual West African International Softball Tournament (WAIST). I wish we had more pics but our camara has finally bit the (harmattan) dust. Besides, most of the other pics are of bad tan lines and volunteers "napping" by the pool. It's a hard life, afterall.

Aja's new baby!

2008-02-25T08:12:00.000-08:00

Aja gave birth to a baby boy on Thursday, February 21 at four in the morning. This is the seventh time she has given birth and she’s only 30. As usual, I didn’t know she was pregnant until she was six months in. The night before she had to walk a half a K at two in the morning to the local clinic to give birth, we were outside talking about how the mice keep her up at night. She realized that she has not slept well for the past two weeks. I asked her how many months she has been pregnant for. She took a minute to count. Nine, she said. I looked at her tired and swollen body and said, “Soon, then.” She smiled. Up until Thursday night she has maintained her busy workload, going to the gardens, cooking, cleaning, doing the laundry, and so on. She has a couple hours of respite in the afternoon. I would always feel so bad, that she is doing this on her own. Her husband is not around to help her out and her kids still just want to be kids. Other women are doing the same, just going on business as usual while carrying a baby to full term. Just imagine the pain, the aching, the discomfort that they have to stomach each day.

We went to visit Aja and the new baby in the clinic about five hours after she gave birth. Aja was glowing, smiling, and sitting up relieved in a way. The baby was tiny with huge eyes just like Alieu’s. She was telling us that her deliveries are always fast. This time, she came into the clinic at two in the morning and gave birth at four. I went back in the afternoon to bring her cold juice. She was waiting to be discharged. The other bed was occupied this time. A young woman, maybe even a teenager, gave birth at one in the afternoon. She looked a bit traumatized. The birthing room at the clinic was what you would expect to find in the developing world: drab walls, sparsely furnished, no sheets. But it was clean. When she finally was able to return home, she gave me the baby boy to walk back with. Alieu was there with her and had to be held. So here I was walking with a baby, just hours old, in the heat of the afternoon, hoping not to drop it. And there’s Aja walking at a good clip beside me carrying her two year old son. The resiliency astounds me, humbles me.

The best part about women giving birth here is that they have to stay inside the house to rest for seven days, until the naming ceremony. So finally Aja can rest her body, her joints, her feet. I go and sit with her and she tells me her body is not used to resting, that it feels sick and tired. I caught her yesterday doing some laundry and the cooking. She can’t keep busy hands idle, I suppose. She has her younger sister in town helping out with the work. Lamin and Binta go to the gardens. And Alieu wines, screams, and cries because he does not like this new baby in the house. He’s has been known to kick the poor little thing. He always has to sit on Aja’s lap. That means I get to hold the baby.

This past month alone, about ten women that I know and talk to regularly have given birth. Tis the season, Carson says. His fellow teachers told him that this was a busy time for naming ceremonies. Some many newborns around me, strapped so sweetly on their mother’s backs make my maternal clock tick just a little louder. Not a day goes by, when someone wouldn’t ask Carson and I about when it’s baby making time. We go back and forth between stories: We really want to have a baby here, but the Peace Corps won’t let us; Carson is afraid of babies; I want to finish my work and school, so not until another five years down the road. Gambians don’t like that last one.

I’ve had some great talks with Aja these past couple of days, mostly about being a woman in this world. We compared breasts, talked about breast-feeding, how her body feels after birth, what birth is like in America. She showed me pictures of all the kids from when they were real little. We talked about how each of her kids was different. We admired Alieu’s stubbornness. We enjoyed cold juice. We were there together sharing womanhood through motherhood. She makes me a stronger woman.

Dakar

2008-02-25T08:09:00.000-08:00

by rachel
Feb 21

We are exhausted…. From a fabulous long weekend in Dakar! The 35th annual West African Invitational Softball Tournament (W.A.I.S.T) came and went in a montage of cheap beer, breakfast spreads, dancing all night, crazy uniforms, swimming, laying by the pool, eating pastries, ice cream, eating, eating, and more eating. Oh and some softball; we lost three and tied one. Our uniform was a mesh shirt with a print of The Gambian flag. We were bumpsters, you know the guys that hassle all tourists. So, on the sidelines we were all doing the “bumpster workout,” which consists of incorrect push ups, lunges, ab work, sprinting, and so on. We were having a great time pretending to hassle the other team just like bumpsters hassle us. The tournament proved to be a safe channel to vent our frustration of daily life in The Gambia, chat with volunteers from either Senegal, Benin, Mali, Mauritania, or Guinea, and to just kick back soaking in the sweet rays of life.

Traveling to Dakar for a third time made us feel like an old hat on the block. We knew where to go, what the local price of taxis were (and not the “white” price), how to negotiate ourselves it what seems now to be the “Paris” of West Africa. Dakar, with roughly three million people in and around the city, is booming with contrasts. High rises against infested slums, patisseries against street vendors, open air bustling markets against posh upscale shops. PCVs in Senegal told us that each rainy season, Dakar sees an outbreak of cholera. Who knows why measures have not been put in place to prevent such an outbreak, the usual laundry list of African development complexities come to mind. It was obvious that the money was layden in the vast construction of roads, overpasses, five-star resorts, mega malls, rotaries, beautification (lining the new ocean-side road with palm trees), and sidewalks. In less than a month Dakar will host the Islamic Conference, in which all heads and kings of Islamic states will attend. The Senegalese government has already postponed the conference twice. It is now or never, but even the road to the airport is still a steamrolled dirt maze.

In light of hosting the conference, the Senegalese government arrested a handful of people for performing a gay wedding. Homosexuality is strictly illegal in Senegal (Gambia, as well, where people deny that it even exists). It is said that other Islamic states look down on Senegal’s “lax practice” of Islam. While we were playing in our shorts and enjoying beer and hot dogs, riots broke out downtown after, due to severe international donor pressure, the people arrested at the gay wedding were released. People took to the streets against homosexuality, and perhaps against the big bad western influence.

I contrast our weekend’s activities to that of the rioters to portray the complexity of difference here in the Africa that I have come to know. Just in Dakar, we saw the fancy ex-pat community, the street sellers, the boys begging, the dynamic taxi drivers, women doing laundry on busy street corners, professional men and women huddled into local bush taxis, waiting for the bus service, or walking the streets of downtown. Even in the built up Independence square downtown, with the tallest buildings I have seen in the two years here, there are piles of broken concrete, sandpits where there should be sidewalks, and trash collecting in the once unnoticed cracks and crevices. Dakar is a city in limbo, on the brink, going from a sandy capital to a concrete metropolis. So while there are homosexuals practicing civil disobedience and rioters standing up for what they know as right, there are fancy sidewalks to worry about and overpasses to build. And it is these gaps, these cities and countries in limbo, these contrasts are what make up Africa today. They represent, perhaps, the bright future in store for far away, after years, even decades, of growing pains.

Dakar dwarfs The Gambia and I yearned for the understated city of Kombo and the slow pace of Kerewan. In this past weekend we created a mini America from what we know and love: sports, beer, and food. It was exhausting, especially in this context. I had a glimpse of the things I will miss once we go back to Toubabado (the land of the whites) for good: our compound, Aja, the mornings, the kids, and the familiar little place we carved for ourselves here. But in the end, it is great to be back in the sway of life here, exhausted from having truly lived, Touabab style…

The ferry

2008-02-25T07:48:00.000-08:00

Here's the infamous ferry. We have to cross it every time we need to come into the city. It is an 8k stretch that takes about an hour to cross because usually only one engine is working. Going to the terminal in Barra (on the north bank) to buy tickets, get into the holding pin, and loading the ferry is always an adventure. The ticket window is swarmed with people, elbows, bags, everything flying around you. We run to get on the ferry, because it has been known to leave without letting all the people on. We weave our way through massive trucks and fancy UN cars. Ten years has been taken off our lives from all the exhaust we inhale each and every time. There is just no system, so each time we expect insanity. There is always a mob of people, cars, trucks, wheelbarrows, motorcycles encircling one another. Pushing, shoving, tripping, yelling, and always smells of rotten food, manure, the tide, salt, and fish. The ferry is such a raw in-your-face set of moments.

2008-02-25T07:39:00.000-08:00

The parents with Aja. I love how Aja is smiling. Usually Gambians never smile in pictures. It is interesting how our candid way of taking pictures is so deeply rooted in our cultural values.

2008-02-25T07:27:00.000-08:00

Carson, Steve, Georgia, and Rachel. My parents got local outfits made. They wear them well! I am so thankful for them, for coming all the way to TG to check out our scene.

2008-02-25T07:13:00.000-08:00

Little Liisa and Rachel in matching shirts. My parents sent Carson and I shirts with our Gambian names written on it as a Christmas/Hannukah gift. When they came to visit they brought my toma one as well. Little Liisa's mom, who didn't go to school, didn't know what was written on her duaghter's shirt at first. My mom thought it would be a great literacy campaign to get everyone shirts with their names written on it.

2008-02-25T07:06:00.000-08:00

Mr. Jawara giving Rachel a chicken in thanks for sponsoring his daughter's high school education. Sally was a leader in girls' club last year. She is smart, well-spoken, and hard working. She place eleventh in her grade 10 class this past term!

2008-02-08T02:37:00.000-08:00

Here's Rachel with the 'rents on a boat tour of the The Gambia River! Just like the "African Queen," as my father kept saying.

2008-02-08T02:23:00.000-08:00

Rachel with the Jarjus! Look how big little liisa is getting!

Top from left: Junkuba (father), Mariama (Liisa's mother, and second wife), Janke (first wife)

Bottom from left: Yankuba, Janke, Moo Lamin

N faama aning m baama (my dad and mom)

2008-01-25T02:58:00.000-08:00

by rachel

After ten days of trekking around, eating food bowl style, being hassled by bumpsters, riding in bush taxis, motor boating down the river, using a latrine, making do with no running water and sporadic electricity, dodging the brutally hot sun, my parents took off back to the land where money grows on trees and roads are paved with gold. They were cool and tough. The went with the flow of both the chaos and the severe down time. They are rock stars!

It was a great change of pace hosting the 'rents. Everything that is home to Carson and I here, we were able to show and explain. It was surreal to have American home people here, but so eye-opening as well. Having both done the Peace Corps in the late sixties, being here reminded them so much of their experiences. They time travelled a bit, through their own experiences.

The best part of their trip was visiting Kerewan. We were floored by the hospitality. All of our good friends and co-workers came and offered food. They sat with the 'rents and talked for hours. My friend Njatu, who makes acra (fried beans), sent a huge bowl every morning. Friends brought groundnuts. The father of a girl we are sponsoring brought over a live chicken. Aja made beautiful lunches. Better than I have ever tasted. My parents and locals exchanged praises about Carson and I. Mom and dad even got local outfits! This isn't a culture that shells out compliments. I have never had a co-worker tell me if I am doing a good job or the right job even. But when the 'rents arrived to the primary school, nursery school, and upper basic school, my co-workers laid on the compliments. It was really awesome to hear, much more validating than a wall erected or a room painted.

We will post some pics later. There are some cute ones of little Liisa in a pink t-shirt with "liisanding" written on it, as well as mom and dad in African dress! Oh and also, we saw a lot of monkeys when visiting a nature reserve, so Carson was jumping with giddiness and joy.

Thanks mom and dad!

Working on the island

2008-01-13T05:04:00.000-08:00

I had a great time taking part in the teacher training program in Jonjonbureh. JJB is an island up river. It is the capital of the Central River Division. JJB is beautiful. We stayed right on the river, where there was a constant cool breeze. The nights were crisp, clear and so chilly! The Gambia college and an outside donor put on this program for five hundred unqualified teachers in the central river division. It is a part-time three year program, that will end in participants receiving a Primary Teacher Certificate. I had a class of fifty teachers, ranging from grades one to six. For two weeks we covered how to teach students how to comprehend what they read, asking the right questions and such. Each class lasted for two hours. It was really interesting working with adults in this venue. For the most part, they were easier than some of my grade one classes. I'm hoping to do it again in March, where we'll teach writing skills.

There were some students in my class that couldn't read or write in English. They shouldn't be in the program or teaching for that matter. But with many development projects, there are quotas. The international donor has their own development markers to meet, never mind what is actually going on on the ground. People who failed the first year are supposed to be weeded out, but then the quotas would not be met. So what all the students see is that whatever grade they get, they are going to get certified. Where is the accountability in that?

I did the program with Jim, Dan, and Colleen. So we had a rad time working together and making meals together. A bunch of people were around for the new year. Carson and Becca came up. It was a nice and rousing party. We celebrated in style of course with Julbrew and cheap gin!

2008-01-13T04:47:00.000-08:00

This is a picture from Koriteh. I love this one. Binta is carrying Alieu on her back on the way home from the mosque.

2008-01-13T04:19:00.000-08:00

Here's the market that I go to everyday. It's right on the main road, with the drainage ditch in front. This is one of my favorite moments here, chatting it up with the women and picking through the produce.

2008-01-13T04:03:00.000-08:00

Here's my toma! Isn't she fat for three and a half months! But so cute. Little liisa hasn't taken to the camera yet either. Here she is all dressed up for Tobaski!

2008-01-13T03:52:00.000-08:00

Aja getting Binta ready for the evening. The kids go around and ask for what is called "salibo," or one or two dalasi coins, some times a five dalasi bill, or sweets. But all the kids and teens look just fabulous!

A little side note: That morning I helped the women cook. Aja and I cut the raw mounds of meat as the men were bringing it in from just slaughtering the ram. Jaa, Aja's sister-in-law, first grilled up the liver and kidneys, that is custom. So there I was cutting up bloody raw meat, dirty intestines, while eating grilled liver.

2008-01-13T03:47:00.000-08:00

Binta (R) and Fatou (L). Binta is not an anrgy child, she is just super shy! And of course Fatou is such a ham, the beauty of the family, and she knows it too.

So cute!

2008-01-13T03:35:00.000-08:00

Look how big Alieu is now! He's looking slick in his Tobaski suit.

2008-01-13T03:25:00.000-08:00

Rams for Tobaski! The most colorful Islamic holiday, where families sacrifice rams, dress up fancy and flashy, and grill meat, organs, and testicles for two days straight. Here are some Senegalese selling rams in Kerewan on the main road. That stop sign is brand new, as the road is finally finished, three years later.

We got Fula scars…

2008-01-13T02:48:00.000-08:00

Yes, that means tribal tattoos, and yes, they are permanent! Here in The Gambia, the scars used to mark one’s tribe, but these days they are more a symbol of beauty. Women of different ethnic groups, Mandinka, Wollof, and Fula, have them on there cheeks, on both temples, or on the forehead. They blacken the area from the bottom lip to the point on the chin. Women also blacken their gums. I am not sure of the extent men are scarred.

So we hopped on a bush taxi and rattled 100 km up river to Wassu. We trekked across the wind blown, scorched sandy roads to find Fatou. She lay in her mud brick two room home, resting her elderly body. We are not the first Peace Corps volunteers to come and “get scarred.” In fact, she is quite famous in our circle. I’m sure we bring in good income, as she charges D100 per head (about 5 bucks).

It hurt for a couple of seconds. I yelped and Carson was stoic as stone. We are marked by this experience. We felt that we earned these battle wounds living here for a year and a half. And just five and a half months to go. Call it crazy; we call it a milestone, an adventure that will be with us for life.

Nine to five

2007-12-15T05:22:00.000-08:00

By rachel

This past week, I've been working a nine to five and I am beat! We had the planning meeting for the Face-to-Face teacher training program that will take place this holiday break. We had to plan for two weeks of class. I am in the English group with three other PCVs, one VSO (British version of PC, sort of), a Belgium whose been living here for three years working at the Gambia College, and four Gambian men. The dynamic was interesting, painstaking at times, but we have a scheme of work focusing on reading comprehension. Getting all of us on the same page while trying to understand each other's understandings of certain teaching methodologies was difficult. But alas, all of that is part of this intense learning experience we embarked on one year and a half ago.

Being in the thick of the city life for a week is also exhausting. I was a commuter! I took an hour to go 12 K through the neighborhoods of Kombo (the name the refers to all the fast growing towns that sprawls form the main drag in Kanifang). The streets and sidewalks are filled with people, produce, second hand clothes, Mercedes, exhaust, taxis, construction, shop after shop lined sidewalks, more exhaust, concrete, sewage, men slowly riding bikes, women sitting side by side on the edge of the road with their produce stacked into neat piles splayed in front of their overworked bodies, and professionals waiting for a taxi. It has the packed, congestive, dirty feel of "African cities." The growth is noticeable after just a year or so. The traffic never moves at a constant rhythm, its jarring and sporadic. I look down the single road through connecting these municipalities and the smog that rises to the scorching sun infuses every breath. People are everywhere, men are every where calling out to the white woman; you are surrounded by it all. It give us hope. Hope that here is a viable organic economy growing.

As we head back to site to today, I am so grateful that we don't live in the city. The harassment would be unbearable. That alone would want to make me leave this country. We have our compound, our family, our kids, our neighborhood. It all provides a sense of belonging, a sense of protection, however small in the scheme of life. But it's there. And as we look down these next six months to the ending our service, this sense of place will again change.

2007-12-11T10:55:00.000-08:00

Brian. Food. One can never be without the other.

2007-12-11T10:45:00.000-08:00

So here is Todd. Awesome Todd. Here he is at the 40th Anniversary ceremony wearing this lovely wax fabric featuring our dear eating utensils, spoons. (Do you see the army band way in the back?)

2007-12-11T10:40:00.000-08:00

Rachel and Jim being ridiculous. But look at that sunset! That's what we got to watch as we pigged out. Jim is rad.

2007-12-11T10:32:00.000-08:00

Carson and Rachel reveling in it all!

2007-12-11T10:27:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! Becca and I enjoying some quality grub. Look at that chicken and those green peas! Oh and the cranberry sauce! Happy times.

2007-12-02T06:56:00.000-08:00

Mamud during Tobaski. I wanted to say he looks like Yoda, but I guess the similarity stops after the him being three feet tall in a robe. Either way, this kid is the Jedi Master of the 3 year olds.

2007-12-02T06:43:00.000-08:00

Alieu and Mohamed ("M-ed"). The picture says it all... except that, yes, they bathed this morning.

Pilates

2007-12-02T06:34:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is exactly what it looks like. Rachel's teaching Lamin and Ibrima pilates. Don't worry, the novelty faded.

A Bonanza!

2007-12-02T06:00:00.000-08:00

And that it was. Thanksgiving weekend was packed with events. The Deputy Ambassador hosted all Peace Corps and Embassy staff for T-day at the Ambassadors mansion. It is massive with a pool (that we swam in!), overlooking the beach. It was a big pot luck. So loads of chicken, some stuffing, peas(!), mashed potatoes (though not as good as mom's), and cranberry sauce. Oh and pie, lots and lots of pie! We were thrilled and stuffed.

The next day was the 40th anniversary commemoration ceremony of uninterrupted service (no civil unrest or war, bloody coups, or natural disasters. So good for The Gambia that they are a peaceful country, but not yet where it needs to be self sufficient. Sorry, I have been a little down on development, on massive amounts of international aid pouring into Africa, on leftovers being donated that flood the markets... But it's all complex and we are trying the best we can, little by little day by day. And I wouldn't trade any of this experience for anything. Whoo, ok. But, the ceremony was really special. Secretaries of state were there. We all got to speak about our work. The Director of all of Peace Corps sent in a video to us. So we felt appreciated.

The next day was a productive all volunteer meeting. The best part was catching up with fellow PCVs. One night, the local brewery, Jul Brew, threw us another party. More free beer! But it was all about lightening up, having fun, and chillin' with your pals. Probably the next time our education group will be all together is at our Close of Service (COS) conference in May and thereafter we will all be heading out one by one. We have loads of pics that will come soon soon.

This week is the last of classes. These terms are so short with all the holidays and staff meetings in the middle of classes. Tobaski, the big one of Muslim holidays, is Dec. 20, so the shopping season has begun. During break I will be working with the Face-to-Face program that trains unqualified teachers that are in the schools right now. The program takes place during the summer, Dec., and March breaks up country in Jonjonbure. I'll be there for a couple of weeks working with teachers on teaching reading and writing. And then... my parents come out for a visit in mid-January!

Happy holiday season! Happy Hanukkah, eat some chocolate covered matzoh and latkas! Our thoughts are with all our fam and friends. It never feels like the holidays here, so kick back an extra cup of spiked egg nog for us. Isn't it amazing how much we identify food with every event, person, holiday, routine, and past time? I love it!

2007-11-22T04:59:00.000-08:00

More Reading Mentors in action. Here I am at one of my favorite moments of the week.

2007-11-22T04:56:00.000-08:00

I love this one! Lamin Keita is in grade 12. He is one of our favorite people. He is kind, committed, driven, and just amazing with the kids!

2007-11-22T04:53:00.000-08:00

Reading Mentors in action!

2007-11-22T04:48:00.000-08:00

Our Reading Mentors Program. This is by far our favorite endeavour! A group of high school students come and read to the nursery school students for about a half hour here in Kerewan. We hope it will help foster a culture of literacy in the community.