Ticking
Returning to The Gambia
So it's been a while since I posted, and it turns out, I'm back in The Gambia. I've been back for about 1 month now and quite honestly it feels as though my visit home was forever ago (possible reasons for that detailed later). I was excited to be coming back to The Gambia for I felt like I wasn't quite finished here yet. After a long, sleepless flight from New York to Dakar, and another dusty, yet speedy car trip from Dakar to Banjul, I returned to 'my home'. Sadly though, despite a fairly flawless trip to and from America, I knew I returned to The Gambia as soon as I walked across the border from Senegal to The Gambia. If it weren't for the shouts of small children exclaiming 'toubab! give me pen!' or a government official bothering me instead of doing his job, I would have thought I was still in Senegal. Thankfully, I kept my cool during my 20 minute taxi ride and 45 minute ferry ride because I wanted to be happy when I was picked up by a few of the people I missed most while I was home.
After a short time re-readjusting to The Gambia, via visiting a reptile farm with fellow PCVs' high school current events group and eating some very fancy cuisine at some top restaurants, I headed back to site. I was near tears as I wandered into my compound. The kids turned and cheered as I stepped through the space of the non-existent gate and grabbed by bags. It felt good to be back.
Later in the day, I made sure to greet all my family members who were not present when I arrived. And after I just sat with some of the teenage girls. Admittedly, it was weird, not because I felt uncomfortable, but because I realized I had just re-entered a life so different from the place I just came from (America). And for the first time in a long time, I realized how humbling life really is here.
After an hour of sitting and chatting, my host father awoke from his afternoon nap. My host mothers called me into his house for me to greet him. I tried, but the old, frail man was incoherent. Sitting up, he tried to talk to his wives' and to this day I have no idea if he even realized I was home. He'd open his mouth and gurgled. 'Gosh,' I thought to myself, 'he's not going to make it this time.' I'm not a doctor, but it was apparent, he was dying of pneumonia. The next morning, my host father BaAlaghie Saikou Fatty, died. I was sullen and my compound was sad, yet loud thanks to intermittent wailing when a new mourner arrived. BaAlaghie lived a good, long life for someone who's life expectancy is approximately 55 years old in this country. My host father was at least 75. May he rest in peace.
Re-readjustment
Admittedly, returning to my host father's death was not quite the welcome back I had expected, although I've always had in the back of mind that he could possibly pass away during my service here. My family compound is complex and is comprised of two separate families, that do not necessarily live peacefully together. However, there usually is no arguing, but it is more passive-aggressive behavior that indicates tension within the compound. After my host's death, my host uncle became head of the compound. And based on cultural and religious practices, one is to not do anything without notifying the compound head. This became a problem when I had to pay my January food money to my host (formerly my host father). Unfortunately, I got caught in the middle, but after much advising by Peace Corps' language and cultural trainers (thank you!), I managed to uphold an agreement and follow the appropriate cultural customs without ruffling any feathers (that I know of). And I'm still very impressed with how kind and diplomatic my host uncle remained during the whole situation. He's one of my favorite men here.
Even though I was not close with my host father, his absence is felt at the compound. My host mothers are still in their 40 day mourning period. But oddly enough, right after his death, the family seemed somewhat relieved. Perhaps they were celebrating his life and felt he was now in a better place. They were able to see family from all over the country and even the world, as my host brother working in Spain flew home for the funeral and to take care of compound business. Needless to say, I didn't handle the mourning process very well. My family is Muslim; I am not. For Americans, death is something that is held close and is private and personal; for Gambians, it is private and personal as well, but theirs consists of a cultural practice of wailing that can make you doubt one's sincerity during the mourning process. I'm not saying it is wrong, but just different and quite jarring when it happens in front of you. It was a tough time.
Close of Service Conference
Amidst all the chaos in my compound, I left my village a mere five days after returning to attend my Close of Service Conference with 14 of my fellow training group members. On that cold day in Washington, DC in late January 2007, we started with 21 people; there are now 15 of us remaining. What can I say...Peace Corps is a challenge and for those that left early, for whatever reason, they gave it a whirl, and that's a pretty big deal right there. (You were all missed at the conference.)
Anyway, the Close of Service Conference was to assist us in reviewing our service and accomplishments and to begin resume writing and post-Peace Corps plans. It was a great conference and it was wonderful to catch up with group members and talk about the future.
Frustrations in Village
After the end of the conference, I returned to village, to find that the stresses I left at my compound had not yet been resolved. However, after a few sleepless nights at site, they were and I could move forward with my work. Progress on the women's garden has been phenomenal and even more so that they took initiative to finish the project during my absence. However, it was the little things, like organizing a work day without notifying me, or telling me that my presence is requested to help build the garden gate, when I was just about to go for my evening run. Or having a difficult time reading the expressionless faces of some members (not all) of my host family when I presented them with my traveling gifts from America. Or when one of the girls I mentored asked if I brought everyone a mobile. Or lending my bucket, knife, cups, and bowls in a time of need only for them to be returned to me (with my asking for their whereabouts) broken or cracked or not clean. Or a trusted counterpart being fired for eating money that was to be used to buy supplies for the clinic. Or just feeling like I've been taken for granted.
Turning the Page
Alas, however, I got over it. I'll always have a few doubts about my service, role, and purpose here, but I'm still a big proponent that I've made an impact on a handful of people here, who do respect me, honor me, and trust me. And for me that is enough for I have grown and matured and perhaps become a bit more realistic about the world and its challenges, but they're all part of what makes us tick. So I'll just keep on ticking, making the most of it while I can...
So it's been a while since I posted, and it turns out, I'm back in The Gambia. I've been back for about 1 month now and quite honestly it feels as though my visit home was forever ago (possible reasons for that detailed later). I was excited to be coming back to The Gambia for I felt like I wasn't quite finished here yet. After a long, sleepless flight from New York to Dakar, and another dusty, yet speedy car trip from Dakar to Banjul, I returned to 'my home'. Sadly though, despite a fairly flawless trip to and from America, I knew I returned to The Gambia as soon as I walked across the border from Senegal to The Gambia. If it weren't for the shouts of small children exclaiming 'toubab! give me pen!' or a government official bothering me instead of doing his job, I would have thought I was still in Senegal. Thankfully, I kept my cool during my 20 minute taxi ride and 45 minute ferry ride because I wanted to be happy when I was picked up by a few of the people I missed most while I was home.
After a short time re-readjusting to The Gambia, via visiting a reptile farm with fellow PCVs' high school current events group and eating some very fancy cuisine at some top restaurants, I headed back to site. I was near tears as I wandered into my compound. The kids turned and cheered as I stepped through the space of the non-existent gate and grabbed by bags. It felt good to be back.
Later in the day, I made sure to greet all my family members who were not present when I arrived. And after I just sat with some of the teenage girls. Admittedly, it was weird, not because I felt uncomfortable, but because I realized I had just re-entered a life so different from the place I just came from (America). And for the first time in a long time, I realized how humbling life really is here.
After an hour of sitting and chatting, my host father awoke from his afternoon nap. My host mothers called me into his house for me to greet him. I tried, but the old, frail man was incoherent. Sitting up, he tried to talk to his wives' and to this day I have no idea if he even realized I was home. He'd open his mouth and gurgled. 'Gosh,' I thought to myself, 'he's not going to make it this time.' I'm not a doctor, but it was apparent, he was dying of pneumonia. The next morning, my host father BaAlaghie Saikou Fatty, died. I was sullen and my compound was sad, yet loud thanks to intermittent wailing when a new mourner arrived. BaAlaghie lived a good, long life for someone who's life expectancy is approximately 55 years old in this country. My host father was at least 75. May he rest in peace.
Re-readjustment
Admittedly, returning to my host father's death was not quite the welcome back I had expected, although I've always had in the back of mind that he could possibly pass away during my service here. My family compound is complex and is comprised of two separate families, that do not necessarily live peacefully together. However, there usually is no arguing, but it is more passive-aggressive behavior that indicates tension within the compound. After my host's death, my host uncle became head of the compound. And based on cultural and religious practices, one is to not do anything without notifying the compound head. This became a problem when I had to pay my January food money to my host (formerly my host father). Unfortunately, I got caught in the middle, but after much advising by Peace Corps' language and cultural trainers (thank you!), I managed to uphold an agreement and follow the appropriate cultural customs without ruffling any feathers (that I know of). And I'm still very impressed with how kind and diplomatic my host uncle remained during the whole situation. He's one of my favorite men here.
Even though I was not close with my host father, his absence is felt at the compound. My host mothers are still in their 40 day mourning period. But oddly enough, right after his death, the family seemed somewhat relieved. Perhaps they were celebrating his life and felt he was now in a better place. They were able to see family from all over the country and even the world, as my host brother working in Spain flew home for the funeral and to take care of compound business. Needless to say, I didn't handle the mourning process very well. My family is Muslim; I am not. For Americans, death is something that is held close and is private and personal; for Gambians, it is private and personal as well, but theirs consists of a cultural practice of wailing that can make you doubt one's sincerity during the mourning process. I'm not saying it is wrong, but just different and quite jarring when it happens in front of you. It was a tough time.
Close of Service Conference
Amidst all the chaos in my compound, I left my village a mere five days after returning to attend my Close of Service Conference with 14 of my fellow training group members. On that cold day in Washington, DC in late January 2007, we started with 21 people; there are now 15 of us remaining. What can I say...Peace Corps is a challenge and for those that left early, for whatever reason, they gave it a whirl, and that's a pretty big deal right there. (You were all missed at the conference.)
Anyway, the Close of Service Conference was to assist us in reviewing our service and accomplishments and to begin resume writing and post-Peace Corps plans. It was a great conference and it was wonderful to catch up with group members and talk about the future.
Frustrations in Village
After the end of the conference, I returned to village, to find that the stresses I left at my compound had not yet been resolved. However, after a few sleepless nights at site, they were and I could move forward with my work. Progress on the women's garden has been phenomenal and even more so that they took initiative to finish the project during my absence. However, it was the little things, like organizing a work day without notifying me, or telling me that my presence is requested to help build the garden gate, when I was just about to go for my evening run. Or having a difficult time reading the expressionless faces of some members (not all) of my host family when I presented them with my traveling gifts from America. Or when one of the girls I mentored asked if I brought everyone a mobile. Or lending my bucket, knife, cups, and bowls in a time of need only for them to be returned to me (with my asking for their whereabouts) broken or cracked or not clean. Or a trusted counterpart being fired for eating money that was to be used to buy supplies for the clinic. Or just feeling like I've been taken for granted.
Turning the Page
Alas, however, I got over it. I'll always have a few doubts about my service, role, and purpose here, but I'm still a big proponent that I've made an impact on a handful of people here, who do respect me, honor me, and trust me. And for me that is enough for I have grown and matured and perhaps become a bit more realistic about the world and its challenges, but they're all part of what makes us tick. So I'll just keep on ticking, making the most of it while I can...
posted by Stephanie at 7:54 AM
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