5 months in Africa (just about)
3 the number of African countries I've been to
4 hour time difference
0 hot showers
2 times I've watched television
7 easily visible scars I've acquired
638 of times I've been asked for my phone number
4 times I've given out my number
1 hours commute to class each day (one way)
1 pair of shoes stolen
26 dalasis to a dollar
8 hours of electricity per average twenty-four hour period
4 papers written this semester that were longer than two pages
100 degrees Fahrenheit on an average day
3 liters of water needed a day, minimum
0 stomach viruses
1 nasty cold
1 (2?) ear infections
0 trips to Sheetz, McDonalds, etc.
2 more sleeps in The Gambia
1 more sleep in Senegal
1 sleepless night in the sky
2 people picking me up at the airport
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Friday, April 16, 2010
Run, Toubab, Run!
I went for a run today. I was bored with my usual route along Stadium Highway and sick of breathing in exhaust fumes, so I decided to try a new loop one of the other girls had shown me. This loop ran past a women's collective garden. It was much greener and much prettier.
As I huffing my along my way, I jogged past a group of little boys. "Give me dalasi!" called out one of the boys. "No money!" I said and kept on puffing along. A little farther along there was another group of boys. One of the boys approached me as he opened his mouth I cut him off. "You give me dalasi?" He gaped at me confused. I jogged a few more steps and another boy approached me. "Any minties?" I said. (Minties are what Gambian children call candy). "Any minties?" I repeat, hand outstretched. A few of the boys were very confused, but most of them laughed.
As I continued along my route, I noticed I had a shadow. The boy who had asked me for dalasis was running along behind me. When he saw me looking, he grinned. I grinned back and picked up the pace so that he wouldn't think I was a wimp. We got to the end of the road and I stopped. "Now we go back," I said to the boy, pointing back to the way we came. I started jogging again and he fell in behind me.
We got back to where his buddies were and they shrieked with laughter to see the two of us running together. I waved at them and kept running. Three more boys fell in behind me. With my bright green tank top I imagine looked like a scruffy and confused pied piper.
A woman working in one of the gardens seemed to have the same impression. She called something to me in a local language. I have no idea which language she was speaking, let alone what she said,but I imagine it was something along the lines of "Why are you kidnapping children?" Having nothing else to say I said what I always said in that situation.
"Asalamalakum," the standard Arabic greeting. I smile at her trying my best not to look like a kidnapper.
"Malakum salam," she replies, smiling back. "Suemolay?" Ah, she's Mandinka.
"Eebeejay," I answer back, thrilled to know the proper response. The boys are thrilled, too.
"Etonday?"
"Sarah!" Once again I am thrilled to know what she is asking. The boys laugh at my enthusiastic answer to a mundane question. "Etonday?" I ask the woman, grinning.
"Mariama," she answers laughing. At this point, I've exhausted my entire knowledge of the Mandinka language). I thank her ("Abaraka!") and wave good bye. She laughs again and waves back. The boys wave, too.
We keep jogging for another few minutes. We stop when we reach Stadium Highway. "I have to go home now," I tell the boys. "Did you have a good run?" They reply yes in way which could mean "Yes, the run was fun" or "Yes, I understand you are speaking English." Using a combination of Mandinka, English and hand gestures I find out their names. "Thank you for running with me," I say before crossing the street. When I look back, the boys are racing and shouting back up the road to their playmates.
All in all, I'd say it was a good run.
As I huffing my along my way, I jogged past a group of little boys. "Give me dalasi!" called out one of the boys. "No money!" I said and kept on puffing along. A little farther along there was another group of boys. One of the boys approached me as he opened his mouth I cut him off. "You give me dalasi?" He gaped at me confused. I jogged a few more steps and another boy approached me. "Any minties?" I said. (Minties are what Gambian children call candy). "Any minties?" I repeat, hand outstretched. A few of the boys were very confused, but most of them laughed.
As I continued along my route, I noticed I had a shadow. The boy who had asked me for dalasis was running along behind me. When he saw me looking, he grinned. I grinned back and picked up the pace so that he wouldn't think I was a wimp. We got to the end of the road and I stopped. "Now we go back," I said to the boy, pointing back to the way we came. I started jogging again and he fell in behind me.
We got back to where his buddies were and they shrieked with laughter to see the two of us running together. I waved at them and kept running. Three more boys fell in behind me. With my bright green tank top I imagine looked like a scruffy and confused pied piper.
A woman working in one of the gardens seemed to have the same impression. She called something to me in a local language. I have no idea which language she was speaking, let alone what she said,but I imagine it was something along the lines of "Why are you kidnapping children?" Having nothing else to say I said what I always said in that situation.
"Asalamalakum," the standard Arabic greeting. I smile at her trying my best not to look like a kidnapper.
"Malakum salam," she replies, smiling back. "Suemolay?" Ah, she's Mandinka.
"Eebeejay," I answer back, thrilled to know the proper response. The boys are thrilled, too.
"Etonday?"
"Sarah!" Once again I am thrilled to know what she is asking. The boys laugh at my enthusiastic answer to a mundane question. "Etonday?" I ask the woman, grinning.
"Mariama," she answers laughing. At this point, I've exhausted my entire knowledge of the Mandinka language). I thank her ("Abaraka!") and wave good bye. She laughs again and waves back. The boys wave, too.
We keep jogging for another few minutes. We stop when we reach Stadium Highway. "I have to go home now," I tell the boys. "Did you have a good run?" They reply yes in way which could mean "Yes, the run was fun" or "Yes, I understand you are speaking English." Using a combination of Mandinka, English and hand gestures I find out their names. "Thank you for running with me," I say before crossing the street. When I look back, the boys are racing and shouting back up the road to their playmates.
All in all, I'd say it was a good run.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"Potty" Break
Last weekend we took another trip up-country. A few hours into our journey, we pulled off at a gas station to use the bathroom. Gas station bathrooms are never a treat, but gas station bathrooms in a developing country achieve a class of their own.
The gas station manager walked us over to a shed, more a shack really. He opened the door on the left revealing a squat toilet and the overpowering stench of stale human waste. He then opened the right side door revealing a four walls and a wet floor that smelled slightly better. He explained that this side was "For urinate! For urinate!"
I decided to take whichever room (stall?) became available first. It turned out to be the "for urinate!" side. I took a deep breathe of the refreshing exhaust scented air outside and stepped in. The door didn't close all the way by itself, so one of the other girls held it shut for me.
It was dark in the shed, but still light enough to see. I looked around and tried to figure out the best way of doing things. There didn't seem to be any particular place "for urinate!" Rather, the whole place was wet and smelly. I picked a spot a decent distance away from the extra gross looking and smelling walls.
Being a woman and therefore not particularly talented at peeing standing up, I decided the best course of action was to just removed my shorts. It was a tricky process, keeping my balance without touching the wall and attempting to keep the grossness of the floor (and now the bottom of my shoes) away from my shorts. But I eventually did manage.
So, now that I was pants-less in a damp, dark shed in rural Africa, there wasn't much else to do but squat down and take care of business. While doing just that, I noticed that there was a sort of drain after all. There was a ground level hole in the wall that divided the "for urinate!" side from the squat toilet side. That meant all of the urine from my side of the shed emptied into the other side. Meaning that right now one of my girlfriends was peeing as the trickle of my pee sought its way to her drain. I pushed that thought out of my head after a brief moment of gratitude that I had ended up in the "for urinate!" side.
Having taken care of business, I was a little stumped about what to do with the toilet tissue. There was no trash can, certainly nowhere to flush it and I didn't exactly relish the idea of putting it my pocket to dispose of later. In the end, I just threw it on the floor. I did another complicated dance to put my shorts back on the least disgusting way possible and bid farewell to the "for urinate!" shed.
Once back out in the dazzling sunlight, I realized that despite my best efforts and wishful thinking, I had not entirely managed to avoid peeing on my own feet. No one else had either, so we passed around a pack of Wet Ones and agreed that this had been "an experience." Then we got back on the bush taxi and continued on our way.
The gas station manager walked us over to a shed, more a shack really. He opened the door on the left revealing a squat toilet and the overpowering stench of stale human waste. He then opened the right side door revealing a four walls and a wet floor that smelled slightly better. He explained that this side was "For urinate! For urinate!"
I decided to take whichever room (stall?) became available first. It turned out to be the "for urinate!" side. I took a deep breathe of the refreshing exhaust scented air outside and stepped in. The door didn't close all the way by itself, so one of the other girls held it shut for me.
It was dark in the shed, but still light enough to see. I looked around and tried to figure out the best way of doing things. There didn't seem to be any particular place "for urinate!" Rather, the whole place was wet and smelly. I picked a spot a decent distance away from the extra gross looking and smelling walls.
Being a woman and therefore not particularly talented at peeing standing up, I decided the best course of action was to just removed my shorts. It was a tricky process, keeping my balance without touching the wall and attempting to keep the grossness of the floor (and now the bottom of my shoes) away from my shorts. But I eventually did manage.
So, now that I was pants-less in a damp, dark shed in rural Africa, there wasn't much else to do but squat down and take care of business. While doing just that, I noticed that there was a sort of drain after all. There was a ground level hole in the wall that divided the "for urinate!" side from the squat toilet side. That meant all of the urine from my side of the shed emptied into the other side. Meaning that right now one of my girlfriends was peeing as the trickle of my pee sought its way to her drain. I pushed that thought out of my head after a brief moment of gratitude that I had ended up in the "for urinate!" side.
Having taken care of business, I was a little stumped about what to do with the toilet tissue. There was no trash can, certainly nowhere to flush it and I didn't exactly relish the idea of putting it my pocket to dispose of later. In the end, I just threw it on the floor. I did another complicated dance to put my shorts back on the least disgusting way possible and bid farewell to the "for urinate!" shed.
Once back out in the dazzling sunlight, I realized that despite my best efforts and wishful thinking, I had not entirely managed to avoid peeing on my own feet. No one else had either, so we passed around a pack of Wet Ones and agreed that this had been "an experience." Then we got back on the bush taxi and continued on our way.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
The Lake House
There's a lake outside our house. Okay, not a lake but a really big puddle. One of the water pipes sprung a leak. The pipes here are made of rubber, so that's not so uncommon. For about two weeks now, water has been gurgling up forming an ever growing puddle in the dirt road. The mosquitoes probably love it. It gives them a great place to lay eggs and wash down the blood they stole from me.
Because the water flow hasn't stopped, the government isn't going to fix the pipe. Which means that the pipe won't get fixed until we can't shower. Since the Gambian government isn't renowned for its quickness and efficiency, I'm crossing my fingers that the water keeps flowing.
In the mean time, we have a mini lake outside our house. It makes going anywhere a bit tricky, but a conveniently placed tire gives you enough to bounce over a narrower part of the puddle. I wanted to buy a gold fish for the puddle and train it to do tricks, but everyone told me it would probably die from all the pollution (supposedly there was a dead rat floating in it. I didn't see it and refuse to believe it exists because that is too icky).
Probably the oddest part of all of this is how normal I find it. If the pipe still works, why should the government fix it? The water's not really in our way, we can jump over it, after all. And in a way, does add a kind of afternoon-at-the-park feel to the compound. Well, maybe an afternoon-at-the-desert-park-located-right-next-to-a-huge-garbage-pile-where-sheep-love-eat-even-though-it-is-perpetually-on-fire.
I think tomorrow I'll make a fleet of paper boats and reenact the British defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588.
Because the water flow hasn't stopped, the government isn't going to fix the pipe. Which means that the pipe won't get fixed until we can't shower. Since the Gambian government isn't renowned for its quickness and efficiency, I'm crossing my fingers that the water keeps flowing.
In the mean time, we have a mini lake outside our house. It makes going anywhere a bit tricky, but a conveniently placed tire gives you enough to bounce over a narrower part of the puddle. I wanted to buy a gold fish for the puddle and train it to do tricks, but everyone told me it would probably die from all the pollution (supposedly there was a dead rat floating in it. I didn't see it and refuse to believe it exists because that is too icky).
Probably the oddest part of all of this is how normal I find it. If the pipe still works, why should the government fix it? The water's not really in our way, we can jump over it, after all. And in a way, does add a kind of afternoon-at-the-park feel to the compound. Well, maybe an afternoon-at-the-desert-park-located-right-next-to-a-huge-garbage-pile-where-sheep-love-eat-even-though-it-is-perpetually-on-fire.
I think tomorrow I'll make a fleet of paper boats and reenact the British defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Shower me with cleanliness
I really do not want to shower right now. I need to - desperately - as there is no way I can go to bed this dusty. But I'm having so much trouble convincing myself to face the shower.
To begin with, I'm dreading the cold water. Cold showers feel amazing in the middle of the day or when you've just come home from the bush taxi and you're over-heated and sweaty and just gross. They don't feel so good after the sun's gone down. I try as often as I can to shower when the cold water is a pro, but sometimes it's just not possible.
Tonight is one of those nights. I may be able to convince myself that the cold water isn't such a dreadful thing (you do adjust after the initial shock, after all), but I'm also very tired and not looking forward to shower aerobics.
The shower head is a sort of wand which is attached to a hose. The hose is about four inches to short for me to stand under. Or at least, it used to be. Our shower head broke and now we're left with the hose. So, washing my hair and anywhere above my shoulders requires a bit of work.
Showering is also very frustrating because it's very difficult (if not impossible) to get entirely clean. It's dusty and sandy here and the dusty sand seems to cling on to you, no matter how hard you scrub. It's very disconcerting and a little depressing as your scrubbing clean-looking feet to see that the soap suds gliding toward the drain are decidedly brown in color.
The good news is that the water pressure is always much better at night and I don't have to worry about not having enough pressure to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. The power has stayed on tonight so I won't have to shower by candle or flashlight. And the two girls who share my shower have already showered, so I'm free to shower whenever I can finally convince myself to stop putting it off.
All in all, I'm pretty lucky with my showering situation. The water pressure is so bad at my Swedish friend's house that some days there simply isn't enough to shower at all (on those days, he showers over here). And I only have to share my shower with two other girls as opposed to a whole floor (or a whole compound, which I suppose is the Gambian equivalent).
Even so, I'd give a lot to be able to have a hot standing up shower with real body wash and not the bubble bath I accidentally bought because the bottle was in Arabic and I couldn't understand it. Ah, well, imagine how much I'll appreciate my first shower back in America.
For tonight, I'll just savor the feeling of cleanliness. Until tomorrow when it's time to hit the (dusty) road.
To begin with, I'm dreading the cold water. Cold showers feel amazing in the middle of the day or when you've just come home from the bush taxi and you're over-heated and sweaty and just gross. They don't feel so good after the sun's gone down. I try as often as I can to shower when the cold water is a pro, but sometimes it's just not possible.
Tonight is one of those nights. I may be able to convince myself that the cold water isn't such a dreadful thing (you do adjust after the initial shock, after all), but I'm also very tired and not looking forward to shower aerobics.
The shower head is a sort of wand which is attached to a hose. The hose is about four inches to short for me to stand under. Or at least, it used to be. Our shower head broke and now we're left with the hose. So, washing my hair and anywhere above my shoulders requires a bit of work.
Showering is also very frustrating because it's very difficult (if not impossible) to get entirely clean. It's dusty and sandy here and the dusty sand seems to cling on to you, no matter how hard you scrub. It's very disconcerting and a little depressing as your scrubbing clean-looking feet to see that the soap suds gliding toward the drain are decidedly brown in color.
The good news is that the water pressure is always much better at night and I don't have to worry about not having enough pressure to rinse the shampoo out of my hair. The power has stayed on tonight so I won't have to shower by candle or flashlight. And the two girls who share my shower have already showered, so I'm free to shower whenever I can finally convince myself to stop putting it off.
All in all, I'm pretty lucky with my showering situation. The water pressure is so bad at my Swedish friend's house that some days there simply isn't enough to shower at all (on those days, he showers over here). And I only have to share my shower with two other girls as opposed to a whole floor (or a whole compound, which I suppose is the Gambian equivalent).
Even so, I'd give a lot to be able to have a hot standing up shower with real body wash and not the bubble bath I accidentally bought because the bottle was in Arabic and I couldn't understand it. Ah, well, imagine how much I'll appreciate my first shower back in America.
For tonight, I'll just savor the feeling of cleanliness. Until tomorrow when it's time to hit the (dusty) road.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
The Companion's Burden
Rudyard Kipling's "The White Man's Burden" is a beautifully written poem urging the United States to take over the Philippines, to assume their duty and bring the Philippines into the modern world. Although a racist poem, Kipling elegantly instills feelings of pride and honor about taking up a noble yet unrewarding task.
It's a poem used in history and politics classes to illustrate the mood and view of Europeans about colonization, which is essentially that the non-European peoples were not civilized and were incapable of existing in a modern world and it was Europe's moral obligation to help them along. We discussed it in our human rights class at the University of The Gambia.
"The White Man's Burden" was written in a different time for a very specific situation, but it has not lost its relevance even today. Today we speak in more politically correct terms, eschewing terms like "first world" and "third world" for the less egocentric "developed nations" and "developing nations." And we no longer assume that the reason for a country's developing or developed status is the color of its people's skin. But read through the poem again, replacing "White Man" with "Westerner," and the poem could speak for any number of aid efforts.
The IMF and the World Bank, various human rights groups, aid efforts like Live8 and an innumerable amount of NGO's, all \ are attempts by the West to develop Africa, to save it, to help its people progress enough to fully and fairly participate in today's modern globalized economy and world system. These efforts are sincere and earnest. We must help them not for our own gain, but because it is the right thing to do. However, sincere and earnest the efforts may be, there is still a sense that we, the West, must help poor Africa because they cannot help themselves.
Without a doubt, there are things that the West can offer Africa. But any help or assistance, be it in the form of monetary aid, equipment, training, human rights work or whatever, needs to be offered not from a benevolent giver, not from a wise mentor, not from a self-sacrificing teacher, but from an equal to an equal.
This is not an easy thing to do. It's easy to assume the role of the wise mentor, imparting wisdom and gently guiding Africa toward civil peace and economic prosperity. It's also easy to take on the role of admiring sycophant, extolling the virtues of communal living and extended-family based society.
What is difficult to do is to strike a balance. There are values the West can offer to Africa and there are values Africa can offer to the West. The trick is to appreciate and criticize each other's cultures as colleagues, rather than inferiors and superiors.
I can and should criticize the subordinate status of women in African society, and my Gambian peers can and should criticize the harsh individualism of American society which allows so many people to fall through the cracks. The value of any cross-cultural experience is being to view your own culture with new eyes, cherishing its strengths and working to improve its flaws.
I'll end this post with a slightly edited stanza of Kipling's poem. Viewed in the context of equality, it strikes an even more poignant note.
Take up the companion's burden--
Have done with childish days--
The lightly proferred laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!
It's a poem used in history and politics classes to illustrate the mood and view of Europeans about colonization, which is essentially that the non-European peoples were not civilized and were incapable of existing in a modern world and it was Europe's moral obligation to help them along. We discussed it in our human rights class at the University of The Gambia.
"The White Man's Burden" was written in a different time for a very specific situation, but it has not lost its relevance even today. Today we speak in more politically correct terms, eschewing terms like "first world" and "third world" for the less egocentric "developed nations" and "developing nations." And we no longer assume that the reason for a country's developing or developed status is the color of its people's skin. But read through the poem again, replacing "White Man" with "Westerner," and the poem could speak for any number of aid efforts.
The IMF and the World Bank, various human rights groups, aid efforts like Live8 and an innumerable amount of NGO's, all \ are attempts by the West to develop Africa, to save it, to help its people progress enough to fully and fairly participate in today's modern globalized economy and world system. These efforts are sincere and earnest. We must help them not for our own gain, but because it is the right thing to do. However, sincere and earnest the efforts may be, there is still a sense that we, the West, must help poor Africa because they cannot help themselves.
Without a doubt, there are things that the West can offer Africa. But any help or assistance, be it in the form of monetary aid, equipment, training, human rights work or whatever, needs to be offered not from a benevolent giver, not from a wise mentor, not from a self-sacrificing teacher, but from an equal to an equal.
This is not an easy thing to do. It's easy to assume the role of the wise mentor, imparting wisdom and gently guiding Africa toward civil peace and economic prosperity. It's also easy to take on the role of admiring sycophant, extolling the virtues of communal living and extended-family based society.
What is difficult to do is to strike a balance. There are values the West can offer to Africa and there are values Africa can offer to the West. The trick is to appreciate and criticize each other's cultures as colleagues, rather than inferiors and superiors.
I can and should criticize the subordinate status of women in African society, and my Gambian peers can and should criticize the harsh individualism of American society which allows so many people to fall through the cracks. The value of any cross-cultural experience is being to view your own culture with new eyes, cherishing its strengths and working to improve its flaws.
I'll end this post with a slightly edited stanza of Kipling's poem. Viewed in the context of equality, it strikes an even more poignant note.
Take up the companion's burden--
Have done with childish days--
The lightly proferred laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!
Monday, March 1, 2010
Tower of Babel
I've had a love affair with English since before I could talk. I love finding just the right word to describe something. I love that you can change the pattern and cadence of a sentence to convey different mood and feelings. I love that the rhythm and taste of words can be beautiful and their meaning wondrous.
However, I have found English to be a jealous lover and there seems to be no room in my heart or my head for any other language. I tried repeatedly to cram Spanish in and accomplished very little. I did manage to have some minor success with American Sign Language, but other than that nothing seems to stick.
In The Gambia, everyone is multilingual. The official language is English, but most people speak at a minimum two tribal languages and usually more. There was an add in the paper for a mobile phone salesgirl. Among other requirements, the applicants had to be fluent in English and at least two local languages.
The majority of people in The Gambia are Mandinka but many speak Wolof as well. Wolof is the more prevalent language in Senegal one of The Gambia's major trading partners, so it has become the language of commerce. Fula and Jola are also common languages in the greater Banjul area.
As part of our study abroad program, we've being taking Wolof lessons. From my trip I took to The Gambia this past summer, I have a few (that is to say three) Mandinka greetings under my belt.
It's incredible how powerful even these rudimentary bits of language can be. The children are especially tickled. When they shout "Toubab! Toubab!" after us and we respond in Wolof or Mandinka, it's almost as if a dog had begun talking to them. Some of the older kids will laugh at our accents and some of the very little ones stare almost frightened at us.
Shop keepers, taxi drivers and passersby are so excited to hear a toubab speaking a local language. It's like Christmas has come early. I feel like a thief a few minutes later when they find out that beyond inquiring after the health of their family and thanking them, I can't say or understand much else.
I've had varying responses to my bumbling attempts at Wolof. An old Muslim man lectured me that if I was going to live in another country, I should already know the language. A friendly taxi driver taught me how to say "I have a husband." A security guard drinking attaya (green tea) told me I should be learning Mandinka instead.
I would love to be able to fully grasp even just one local language. It's frustrating to realize that even the little bit that I do learn is pretty much useless outside of Senegambia. Guess that means I'll just have to come back someday...
However, I have found English to be a jealous lover and there seems to be no room in my heart or my head for any other language. I tried repeatedly to cram Spanish in and accomplished very little. I did manage to have some minor success with American Sign Language, but other than that nothing seems to stick.
In The Gambia, everyone is multilingual. The official language is English, but most people speak at a minimum two tribal languages and usually more. There was an add in the paper for a mobile phone salesgirl. Among other requirements, the applicants had to be fluent in English and at least two local languages.
The majority of people in The Gambia are Mandinka but many speak Wolof as well. Wolof is the more prevalent language in Senegal one of The Gambia's major trading partners, so it has become the language of commerce. Fula and Jola are also common languages in the greater Banjul area.
As part of our study abroad program, we've being taking Wolof lessons. From my trip I took to The Gambia this past summer, I have a few (that is to say three) Mandinka greetings under my belt.
It's incredible how powerful even these rudimentary bits of language can be. The children are especially tickled. When they shout "Toubab! Toubab!" after us and we respond in Wolof or Mandinka, it's almost as if a dog had begun talking to them. Some of the older kids will laugh at our accents and some of the very little ones stare almost frightened at us.
Shop keepers, taxi drivers and passersby are so excited to hear a toubab speaking a local language. It's like Christmas has come early. I feel like a thief a few minutes later when they find out that beyond inquiring after the health of their family and thanking them, I can't say or understand much else.
I've had varying responses to my bumbling attempts at Wolof. An old Muslim man lectured me that if I was going to live in another country, I should already know the language. A friendly taxi driver taught me how to say "I have a husband." A security guard drinking attaya (green tea) told me I should be learning Mandinka instead.
I would love to be able to fully grasp even just one local language. It's frustrating to realize that even the little bit that I do learn is pretty much useless outside of Senegambia. Guess that means I'll just have to come back someday...
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Mud Warriors
This Thursday was the Gambia's The next morning we all assembled for a nature walk. Professor Nagengast told us it was about 10 miles round trip. Many of my housemates are outdoorsy people who enjoy hiking, camping, back packing and even exercise. Since my idea of a good time is sitting on the couch, cajoling my sister into making me a brownie sundae, I was a little less enthusiastic about walking for several hours in the African sun.
But I went along anyway and had a fantastic time. In fact, by the time we reached the halfway point, I was ready to ring up my father and suggest that we take up hiking as a father/daughter bonding experience.
When we got to the halfway point, we found out that Prof wasn't really sure how to get back to camp without back tracking. We asked one of the children from
llow the shoreline of the river.Boy: That way is not good.
Prof: But can we take it back to camp?
Boy: It's not good.
Prof: Not good is good. We can take it back?
Boy: stares at the crazy toubabs and nods his head, ever so slightly
So, with that all settled and cleared up, we started heading along the shoreline. We only got a few yards before we realized it was far too muddy to walk through. (Remember that, the irony will strike you later). So, we decided to bushwhack and see if we could blaze our own trail through the woods. After wandering around in circles for a little while and getting covered in burs, we found the path we had walked on early. But again, backtracking is boring, so we sent some scouts, up to the top of a hill to determine if we was feasible to bushwhack in the general direction of camp. They said it was, so we headed through the woods, up a hill, scrambled down a steeper one and emerged in what was probably a lake during the rainy season, but right now was just some dried up sandy ground.
We marched on that for a while and then through some tall grass and then across a more marshy area. That's when the real adventure started.
For the most part, there were plants growing where we were walking and the ground was soft, but not too muddy. However, we reached a crossing where no plants were growing. Belle, one of the girls on this trip, walked across, started sinking, ran faster and managed to make t
o the other side, less her shoes. I'm incredibly unobservant and much less cool headed, so I followed her, sunk in the mud, freaked out, struggled, lost both my shoes, tried to turn around and head back, got stuck and had to be physically pulled out. I still needed my shoes, so I waded back in, rescued Belle's shows and one of mine, then freaked out again when I realized that I had no idea which of the many deep, deep "foot prints" (if it's still called that when I sunk up to my knees) held my right flip flop. I needed to find that flip flop because I only brought one pair of shoes to Tendaba and going barefoot in Africa is a terrible, terrible idea. Fortunately, Prof had a long stick which he poked in around in the mud to feel around for my shoe, after one false alarm, we found it and by reaching down into the mud past my ankle and pulling really, really hard, I was able to rescue my flip flop.I wallowed over to where Belle was and she helped yank me out of the mud. Being much more quick and clever about it, three members of our group, Kyle, Tiereny and Jonas ( a Swedish student that we've adopted), came over to join us.
The rest of the group looked at us, decided they didn't feel like getting filthy and said they were going across the way to a dryer passage. The five of us decided we had already gotten down and dirty and were going to continue on our muddy way. Before they left, the group took a picture of "
We continued along our very muddy way. We very soon discovered on our second mud crossing that under the mud which squished softly on our bare feet (wearing shoes was difficult, slippery and risked losing your shoes for good),were sharp sea shell rocks that sliced into our feet. Seeing red blood mix with the dark gray mud was even more worrisome when we stopped to think about all the different parasites that live in Africa.It was an adventuresome time, filled with many stupid choices, starting with the fact that I was making the whole trek in a skirt. Yep. A freakin' skirt. At one point, when I was crawling up a mud hill, I looked down and saw a bright red button in the dark gray mud. "Look you guys! A button! That means someone has come here before! And recently! Someone came through here recently!" I
t wasn't until a bit later that I realized the button has come from my skirt. In fact the weight of the mud and the strain of crawling, slogging and climbing ended up snapping all but two buttons off my skirt. It was now slit open all the way up; the long tank top I wore was the only thing keeping me from being entirely indecent.But we were
There were several times when I got absolutely stuck in the mud and would have remained there if Kyle and Jonas hadn't been there to yank me out. And one time when Jonas got stuck in the mud and kept sinking and pretty much almost died because he refused to abandon his water bottle. Not a good water bottle, mind you. A cheap plastic one you can buy anywhere in the Gambia.
At the end of our muddy path, we reached salvation: the road that would take us back to camp. After shouting across to the non-mud trekkers that we were okay, we headed home. My skirt was very heavy and was rubbing rather uncomfortably, since the day before I had gotten a scalding sun burn just about everywhere. Because it was pretty much pointless anyway,
All in all, we felt pretty damn triumphant.
Photos courtesy of Blair Saul and Tiereney Miller
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Old McDonald had a farm...and it was everywhere
I hate roosters. I HATE them. I never knew that before. If someone had asked me for my least favorite animal, I don't think I could have answered. Well, now I can. It's roosters. I HATE roosters.
There are chickens that live in our neighborhood. They run around avoiding getting run over by cars or stepped on by people. Mama hens peck the ground for food with little chicks following in a scraggly line behind. The roosters strut around, crowing - loudly. Growing up in suburbia and exposed to farm life mostly through story books or TV shows, I assumed roosters only crowed in the morning when the sun came up. That is not the case. Roosters crow whenever they damn well please.
Animals here are very different from animals in the States. Cats and dogs here mostly just roam around, eating whatever they can find. The cats seem to manage better than the dogs. The dogs are almost always skinny with torn ears, some other wounds, fleas and flies always crawling on them. Dogs around here are also terrible at crossing streets. I've never seen one hit, but I've seen some damn close calls.
In class the other day, we got into a discussion about animal shelters. There are no such things in the Gambia. It seems incredulous to many Gambians that in America someone pays money to take in strays and to feed and care for them until they're adopted.
To put this in a greater perspective, it's not just dogs, cats and chickens that roam around. Most live stalk have free reign. Mostly commonly you'll see goats (who are surprisingly good at crossing busy streets) sometimes sheep (sheep tails hang down; goat tails point up. That's the only way to tell the difference). It's pretty common to see a donkey or a group of goats grazing at the College campus. Yesterday, a group of cows was chowing down just outside the door of the administrative building. One farmer isn't going to have enough grass to feed all of his livestock, so they get to roam around to find their own food. And the interesting thing is, all the livestock comes home at night. Every goat knows where he lives and goes there.
They only people who find anything remarkable about this at all are we international students. For the Gambians, it's just the way things are. And who knows, maybe when I return the States, I'll be surprised not see any goats. Maybe the lack of farm animals will seem odd to me.
Maybe. But if a rooster moves in next door, I'm hitting it with my car.
There are chickens that live in our neighborhood. They run around avoiding getting run over by cars or stepped on by people. Mama hens peck the ground for food with little chicks following in a scraggly line behind. The roosters strut around, crowing - loudly. Growing up in suburbia and exposed to farm life mostly through story books or TV shows, I assumed roosters only crowed in the morning when the sun came up. That is not the case. Roosters crow whenever they damn well please.
Animals here are very different from animals in the States. Cats and dogs here mostly just roam around, eating whatever they can find. The cats seem to manage better than the dogs. The dogs are almost always skinny with torn ears, some other wounds, fleas and flies always crawling on them. Dogs around here are also terrible at crossing streets. I've never seen one hit, but I've seen some damn close calls.
In class the other day, we got into a discussion about animal shelters. There are no such things in the Gambia. It seems incredulous to many Gambians that in America someone pays money to take in strays and to feed and care for them until they're adopted.
To put this in a greater perspective, it's not just dogs, cats and chickens that roam around. Most live stalk have free reign. Mostly commonly you'll see goats (who are surprisingly good at crossing busy streets) sometimes sheep (sheep tails hang down; goat tails point up. That's the only way to tell the difference). It's pretty common to see a donkey or a group of goats grazing at the College campus. Yesterday, a group of cows was chowing down just outside the door of the administrative building. One farmer isn't going to have enough grass to feed all of his livestock, so they get to roam around to find their own food. And the interesting thing is, all the livestock comes home at night. Every goat knows where he lives and goes there.
They only people who find anything remarkable about this at all are we international students. For the Gambians, it's just the way things are. And who knows, maybe when I return the States, I'll be surprised not see any goats. Maybe the lack of farm animals will seem odd to me.
Maybe. But if a rooster moves in next door, I'm hitting it with my car.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Baby Mamas
At the University, there are women who set up little stations selling water, groundnuts, juice and oranges. One of our first days, I walked by an old woman selling oranges who was holding a little boy (maybe about 20 months). I smiled at her and the baby. She motioned me over and handed the baby to me. I was so happy. Older children will run up to and grab your hands and shout "Toubab" (white person) at you, but I had never yet had the chance to hold a baby. He was a sweet, fat little thing.
The Orange Lady (as we've affectionately dubbed her) spoke a little English, but not much. She said something in Mandinka (one of the local languages) and motioned for me to lean forward. When I did so, she put the little boy on my back and wrapped cloth around me so I could carry him the way the African women do. Talk about a high point in my day. I thanked the woman profusely and we bought several oranges from her.
The next day I was walking with my housemates and the Orange Lady saw us. "Come! All of you come!" she shouted at us. "Follow! One by one!" Then she began shouting at us in Mandinka. We had no idea what she was saying, what she wanted or where she was taking us, but we all followed her meekly and obediently, in a single file line. She lead us across campus to a small room, all the while chattering to us in Mandinka.
The room she lead us to was a sort of make shift nursery. There were mattresses on the floor and young women (Gambia College students) sat cuddling, nursing and playing with their babies and their friends babies. The Orange Lady pointed at different babies and insisted that we hold them. It was wonderful. I've been back a few times since. There's the fat little boy that I first held, this darling little girl and a teeny tiny three week old baby boy.
There are always girls hanging out, sometimes nursing, sometimes napping, sometimes just talking and laughing. I'm sure they're incredibly amused by us. I'm probably older than many of them, clearly baby obsessed, yet I have no husband, no children and am years away from having a real job (they're all in training to be teachers).
Most of the girls who attend University don't have children (I can't think of any that do), and I know that in the United States there are girls my age and younger who are married with children. Still, I feel so young and so incapable of being responsible for another tiny life.
The Orange Lady (as we've affectionately dubbed her) spoke a little English, but not much. She said something in Mandinka (one of the local languages) and motioned for me to lean forward. When I did so, she put the little boy on my back and wrapped cloth around me so I could carry him the way the African women do. Talk about a high point in my day. I thanked the woman profusely and we bought several oranges from her.
The next day I was walking with my housemates and the Orange Lady saw us. "Come! All of you come!" she shouted at us. "Follow! One by one!" Then she began shouting at us in Mandinka. We had no idea what she was saying, what she wanted or where she was taking us, but we all followed her meekly and obediently, in a single file line. She lead us across campus to a small room, all the while chattering to us in Mandinka.
The room she lead us to was a sort of make shift nursery. There were mattresses on the floor and young women (Gambia College students) sat cuddling, nursing and playing with their babies and their friends babies. The Orange Lady pointed at different babies and insisted that we hold them. It was wonderful. I've been back a few times since. There's the fat little boy that I first held, this darling little girl and a teeny tiny three week old baby boy.
There are always girls hanging out, sometimes nursing, sometimes napping, sometimes just talking and laughing. I'm sure they're incredibly amused by us. I'm probably older than many of them, clearly baby obsessed, yet I have no husband, no children and am years away from having a real job (they're all in training to be teachers).
Most of the girls who attend University don't have children (I can't think of any that do), and I know that in the United States there are girls my age and younger who are married with children. Still, I feel so young and so incapable of being responsible for another tiny life.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Taxi! Taxi!
While in the Gambia, I'm taking classes at the University of the Gambia (UTG). UTG is the only University in the Gambia and until it was founded ten years ago, there was no higher education in the country at all beyond a few colleges (which here are more like trade or vocational schools).
Prior to this year, UTG classes were held around the city of Banjul (where I live) in rented buildings. This year UTG moved out to Brikama to share a campus with Gambia College (a teaching school).
Unfortunately for me and other students (international and Gambian), walking to class is no longer feasible. The university only moved about 15 miles a way, but it takes about an hour to get there.
We travel to class using Gambia's version of public transportation: bush taxis. Picture a twelve passenger van that did not pass inspection. Make it 15 or 20 years older. Modify the hell out the inside so you can cram as many people in as possible. Bash the outside of it a few times. And maybe make the sliding door stick. That's pretty much a bush taxi.
Unlike buses in the United States, bush taxis have no set routes or times. They travel along wherever they think they can make a buck. You stand on the side of the road waiting for the bush taxi apprentice (a guy collects the money and hangs out the window trying to get customers) shouts out the name of a town in the general direction you want to go.
It costs 5 dalasis (or about 25 cents) for a short ride and 12 dalasis (or about 50 cents) for a long ride. Coming home from classes we often get dropped off about a mile from where we live. Sometimes if there's enough of us we can convince them to go an extra mile (for a price), but we have been choosing to save the dalasis and walk home.
You see a lot interesting things on the bush taxis. Yesterday, a woman brought two live chickens on that were tied together by their feet. She set them on the floor next to me and I was terrified they were going to peck my toes, but they were quite still and quiet. Another time, we were riding along and every seat was full. We stopped to pick up a bunch of school children and I was confused as to how we would fit them. The boys just climbed in and sat on whatever laps were available. My friend, Belle, caught a bush taxi to class. After driving about five minutes, the driver pulled over, got out, and sat down to eat his lunch. When he had finished up, he got back in and they went on their way.
Bush taxis have also made me more aware of how my comfort level shifts have shifted. The first time I rode in a bush taxi, there were three of us on a bench that was made for two people and I was squashed in between two Gambian men. I smiled and made small talk and had a very pleasant conversation. In America, if I had been squashed between two men I didn't know, I would have been uncomfortable, worried and maybe even a little scared. There certainly wouldn't have been any pleasant conversation.
It makes me wonder what the difference is. I wasn't any more or less safe on the bush taxi here than I would be on bus in the US. I thought perhaps I was judgmental and prejudiced against bus takers in America. Happily, I have realized that is not the case. It simply a difference of culture. Americans have a very large sense of personal space. It would be extraordinarily odd for two strangers - especially strange men - to sit that close to me, and it would be understandable for me to be creeped out. Gambians have a much smaller sense of personal space, especially on the bush taxis where the goal is to cram as many people in as possible. Here, I accept close quarters as a cultural norm.
Prior to this year, UTG classes were held around the city of Banjul (where I live) in rented buildings. This year UTG moved out to Brikama to share a campus with Gambia College (a teaching school).
Unfortunately for me and other students (international and Gambian), walking to class is no longer feasible. The university only moved about 15 miles a way, but it takes about an hour to get there.
We travel to class using Gambia's version of public transportation: bush taxis. Picture a twelve passenger van that did not pass inspection. Make it 15 or 20 years older. Modify the hell out the inside so you can cram as many people in as possible. Bash the outside of it a few times. And maybe make the sliding door stick. That's pretty much a bush taxi.
Unlike buses in the United States, bush taxis have no set routes or times. They travel along wherever they think they can make a buck. You stand on the side of the road waiting for the bush taxi apprentice (a guy collects the money and hangs out the window trying to get customers) shouts out the name of a town in the general direction you want to go.
It costs 5 dalasis (or about 25 cents) for a short ride and 12 dalasis (or about 50 cents) for a long ride. Coming home from classes we often get dropped off about a mile from where we live. Sometimes if there's enough of us we can convince them to go an extra mile (for a price), but we have been choosing to save the dalasis and walk home.
You see a lot interesting things on the bush taxis. Yesterday, a woman brought two live chickens on that were tied together by their feet. She set them on the floor next to me and I was terrified they were going to peck my toes, but they were quite still and quiet. Another time, we were riding along and every seat was full. We stopped to pick up a bunch of school children and I was confused as to how we would fit them. The boys just climbed in and sat on whatever laps were available. My friend, Belle, caught a bush taxi to class. After driving about five minutes, the driver pulled over, got out, and sat down to eat his lunch. When he had finished up, he got back in and they went on their way.
Bush taxis have also made me more aware of how my comfort level shifts have shifted. The first time I rode in a bush taxi, there were three of us on a bench that was made for two people and I was squashed in between two Gambian men. I smiled and made small talk and had a very pleasant conversation. In America, if I had been squashed between two men I didn't know, I would have been uncomfortable, worried and maybe even a little scared. There certainly wouldn't have been any pleasant conversation.
It makes me wonder what the difference is. I wasn't any more or less safe on the bush taxi here than I would be on bus in the US. I thought perhaps I was judgmental and prejudiced against bus takers in America. Happily, I have realized that is not the case. It simply a difference of culture. Americans have a very large sense of personal space. It would be extraordinarily odd for two strangers - especially strange men - to sit that close to me, and it would be understandable for me to be creeped out. Gambians have a much smaller sense of personal space, especially on the bush taxis where the goal is to cram as many people in as possible. Here, I accept close quarters as a cultural norm.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Yummy yummy in my tummy!
Food in the Gambia is not quite the center of life it is in the United States. Gambians eat a late breakfast of tapalapa bread (kind of like a cross between a bagel and french bread that is super, super delicious). They have a large lunch around 3 pm and then that's it.
Fortunately for me and my very western tummy, the eight of us American students living together haven't quite adopted that eating schedule. We have breakfast of tapalapa bread around 9 or 10 and then lunch around 2 or 3 pm. Lunch consists of whatever street food is around. Sometimes it's tapalapas with egg or beans or potatoes. Sometimes it's meat pies. Yesterday I was at classes during lunch time so I had an orange, some groundnuts (peanuts) and some frozen baobab juice.
Dinner for us is a real treat. Sunday through Thursday Mohamed cooks us the most delicious food that has even been eaten. EVER. Mohamed is our land lord, residence director, protector and local expert. Like I said, he is an excellent chef and everything he makes is the best thing I've ever eaten. Every night I wish he would make that same dish again for the rest of my life.
Friday and Saturday nights we try our luck at local restaurants, which requires flexibility and an open mind. Many local places don't have silverware, so you eat everything with your hands (chicken, salad, onions, whatever).
Yesterday we went to Kairaba Shopping Center to do some grocery shopping. This is what I bought:
However, the most important item on that list is probably the Raisin Bran. If you ever plan to spend time in Africa, pack your fiber supplements. Trust me on this one.
Fortunately for me and my very western tummy, the eight of us American students living together haven't quite adopted that eating schedule. We have breakfast of tapalapa bread around 9 or 10 and then lunch around 2 or 3 pm. Lunch consists of whatever street food is around. Sometimes it's tapalapas with egg or beans or potatoes. Sometimes it's meat pies. Yesterday I was at classes during lunch time so I had an orange, some groundnuts (peanuts) and some frozen baobab juice.
Dinner for us is a real treat. Sunday through Thursday Mohamed cooks us the most delicious food that has even been eaten. EVER. Mohamed is our land lord, residence director, protector and local expert. Like I said, he is an excellent chef and everything he makes is the best thing I've ever eaten. Every night I wish he would make that same dish again for the rest of my life.
Friday and Saturday nights we try our luck at local restaurants, which requires flexibility and an open mind. Many local places don't have silverware, so you eat everything with your hands (chicken, salad, onions, whatever).
Yesterday we went to Kairaba Shopping Center to do some grocery shopping. This is what I bought:
- Groundnut (Peanut) butter
- Local Organic Honey
- Tea
- Raisin Bran
- Magic-aroni EZ-Cheese
- A packet of lemon biscuits (cookies)
- One chocolate bar
However, the most important item on that list is probably the Raisin Bran. If you ever plan to spend time in Africa, pack your fiber supplements. Trust me on this one.
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