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.
Friday, April 16, 2010
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.
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