Stephanie in The Gambia

No Pants!!!

2009-05-03T21:41:00.000-07:00

Below is a final tribute to Paabi...one of my favorite kids in my host family. This is a brief retelling of what I experienced the morning I said goodbye to my host family and village...

My things of two years passed are smooshed into the front room of my comfortable house. All linens are stripped from the bed, books stacked in boxes, and my belongings strategically packed into two bags and two trunks. Items are organized to be donated to other PCVs who requested them or the famous 'PC free pile' at the transit house. The 'stuff' that's coming with me were pushed against the far wall; the items, like worn, but still good, buckets and clothing, were placed on the other side of the room. Those items were to be left for my family. Early in the morning, I gave explicit instructions to my host mothers (3) and host uncle that they are to divide the items accordingly only once I've left the village. I did not give them much because I did not have that much to give, nor did I want them to expect anything from the next PCV who would be coming there next year. If there's anything I've learned these past two years, giving hand outs does not solve problems.

The PC driver, who's also a close friend, arrived 15 minutes earlier than he originally told me. He ordered the young, teenage boys to help him carry my belongings out to the truck. As we were loading items into the truck, Paabi, the 4 year old who I've watched 'grow-up' for the past 2 years, stood behind the open doors of the truck, with his mouth wide-open. His expression doesn't really strike me as odd as he's had this expression on his face for the entire two years I've been living in the compound. It's the epitome of Paabi---either his mouth is wide-open or he's dancing (with or without music).

However, as I looked down at him, merely trying to determine if he really knew what was going on (in that I was leaving...permanently), I realized that Paabi decided to give me a send off I wouldn't forget. Paabi, who's infamous for parading around the compound before bath time in the buff, decided to not put on any pants that morning. There he stood, with no pants, t-shirt on backwards, and face unwashed, staring blankly at my stuff disappearing into the back of the truck. I looked down at him and started laughing...

In Mandinka, I said---

'Paabi...Where are your pants?'

Blank stare.

'Paabi...where are your pants? Your wife (me) is returning home today, and you can't even put on your pants?'

Blank stare...near muttering of words as indicated by lips moving. However, no sound emerges...

'Paabi...I'm leaving in a few minutes, and if you want to join me (jokingly...we always joked I would take him back to America), you really need to wear your pants. You won't be able to enter the plane because you're not civilized.'

Blank stare, slightly bigger eyes, drool begins to fall from the corners of his mouth...at this point, Paabi's mother, Fana, yells at him to go and put his pants on. She, too, then tells him he's uncivilized. He hears her, but doesn't move and remains expressionless. She finally gets up from where she's sitting and drags him, with his mouth still wide-open, into the house.

A few minutes later, the truck is all packed, the doors are shut, and my host uncle gathers the family around the sitting area outside. Some neighbors (my friends and counterparts) are arrived to see me off. We sat my host uncle offered me prayers of thanks and for safe travels. I cried briefly, but not hysterically. My one host mother quietly cried, and a few others wiped their eyes, while mouthing to me 'Don't cry.' We said 'Amen'. And I shook hands, ran in my host mother's house to give goodbye kisses to Mero and Buba, two kids that were still sleeping, and hopped into the truck. As I hopped up into the passenger seat, Paabi stood by the passenger side door, in pants, with the blank stare still upon his face. His wife was really going.

I didn't take any pictures of my goodbye that morning as I wanted it to remain as a memory in my mind. I'd like to think that Paabi kept his mouth wide-open that morning as his way of absorbing or even capturing the last few moments of this 'stranger' in his compound. Perhaps his mouth was like the shutter of a camera, with the exposure setting left open just a little too long to capture all that he could, while he was able...

I miss you, Paabi...my dancing, no pants, little man.

A Sort of Homecoming

2009-04-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

And you hunger for the time...
Time to heal, desire, time....
And your earth moves beneath your own dream landscape...
Oh don't sorrow, no don't weep...
For tonight, at last I am coming home...I am coming home.
-A Sort of Homecoming, The Unforgettable Fire

On Saturday, April 4, I left my village, my home, for the past two years. Leading up to my departure, I had a month and a half of overwhelming emotions, frustrations, ups and downs, joys, and annoyances. Overall, though, I expected the worst and hoped for the best. I learned to be flexible and make the most of the moment. These 'mantras' helped me leave my host family and villagers after two years without too many tears and a feeling of contentment. I accomplished something, not necessarily anything large scale or even noteworthy to scrutinizers, but I achieved a lot in the sense of self-discovery and self-awareness. I am still the same 'Steph' that left the U.S. 26 months ago. I am the same merely because my traits that brought me to The Gambia, fundamentally, have not changed. I am still curious, compassionate, hardworking, and dedicated, but I am more assertive than I once was. I have the ability to speak up for myself and others. I am a bit more realistic, yet still remain optimistic. And maybe I'm just a little bit bolder and dare I say, brighter...

Leaving site was like, for lack of a better term, tearing off a Band-Aid. It was quick and painful for a mere second, and in hindsight, somewhat uneventful. It was better that way. I had no party, no program. I wanted to slip away, quietly. I told those that were close to me when I was leaving and made sure we said our goodbyes earlier in the week. I spent time with people, took pictures (check out the links), and just enjoyed people's company for one last time. Goodbyes are terrible in America, but they're worse here...either dramatic or emotionless.

Due to last minute medical clearances and prioritizing time with PC friends before my final departure from The Gambia (and a quick vacation to Spain), I'm now completing this blog post after being home for a little over a week. I am very glad to be back in America, but admittedly, I miss my Peace Corps friends and the kids from my host family. Readjustment will take some time, but I'm determined to enjoy all those 'things' I've missed for two years, while I try to figure out what's in store for the future...

Thank you, everyone, for your support and your interest these past years. Both have made a world of difference to me as I've walked through this journey.

Ticking

2009-02-20T07:54:00.001-08:00

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...

Random Videos I Couldn't Upload Until Now

2009-01-11T20:06:00.000-08:00

A taste...

Of what it's like on the road to Dakar, Senegal

Amadou Hops

Baby Paabi Dances-May 2007
(sorry, I recorded it with my camera being held vertically...oops).

Paabi Plays It Up for the Camera

Through the Window

2009-01-11T19:28:00.001-08:00

Many people have asked, how does it feel to be back home?

It feels wonderful, comfortable, and so familiar, but at the same time, it feels as though I'm looking through a window, and doing just that: looking through a window at a world that I'm not quite a part of. I don't feel this way because I feel unwelcomed, but instead, I've been realizing I have a life here and a life in The Gambia, and I just haven't quite figured out how to have the two of them merge. When will I no longer look through that window, but when will I open it and let the two worlds collide? I have a feeling I won't for a while, but oh, how exciting to think about the possibilities!

Gratitude and Grace

2009-01-08T21:19:00.001-08:00

As many of you know, I'm currently home in America, and my primary reason for coming home was to help celebrate my Grandma turning 100! There was a nice party, full of catching up, laughter, and even some tears. Not only was it amazing to spend such a day with my Grandmother, but it was wonderful to see and reconnect with so many relatives. Although the time with the extended family was short, it was just what I needed---a time to hear the latest family news, see how big the cousins' children have grown, and more personally, to flush out 2 years of my life and to reflect.

It was big news, knowing that the niece, or the cousin, or the granddaughter (depending on who was talking to whom) came 'all the way from Africa' to join in on the festivities of such a joyous day. I was asked the same questions, in different forms, with different accents, and despite the 'interviewer's' concerns, I honestly didn't get too tired of answering (maybe they got too tired of listening). And at times, I found myself saying things over and over again, but rather than it be redundant (to me), it was reaffirming. An affirmation that I lived to tell about my crazy two years of living in the middle of the African bush...no, no...just kidding. Seriously, my dialogue reminded me, that this whole experience, this 2 year life, will never be just that, but it is something that will be carried with me wherever I go. And I was also reminded that the influence of my Grandmother also travels with me wherever I go.

Valentina, or Val, is my Grandma. Believe it or not, she's one of the reasons why I decided to join the Peace Corps. Hearing her story always fascinated me when I was little, and it stills does today. She traveled, by ship, to America with her family, who wanted a better life from that in Russia; she arrived at Ellis Island, and settled in a foreign land. What a life. She couldn't speak the language, but learned it over time. She served as interpreter for her parents, and she worked hard because hard work yields benefits. 'What was it like back then, with no electricity or running water?' my sister and I would ask. 'How did you wash your clothes?' 'What kind of food did you eat?' And oddly enough, I, too, 97 years later after her stepping foot on American soil, I am answering the same questions about living in West Africa. My travels to Russia and Poland in high school and college always baffled Grandma. She never understood why I wanted to study the past so much. She was proud that I was returning to the land of our heritage, but for her, my studying the history of where we came from reminded her of days that were maybe not so romantic, but much more realistic and even, heartbreaking. But I told her I wanted to learn not only about the past, but more about how the past shapes people. When she heard I was going to Africa for two years, she was curious as to why, but expressed happiness and pride; she knew I wanted to challenge myself.

The day I arrived at Grandma's residence with my family, we sat in a private room off the dining hall. We caught up, my aunt's family and mine and Grandma, while eating lunch. Grandma was delighted to see everyone. However, the look on her face, five minutes after my sitting next to her in silence, when she realized that I traveled from 'all the way from Africa' to America for her birthday, was priceless. Her eyes lit up as it clicked in her mind, and we both smiled at each other, without saying a word. We knew what the other was thinking--- gratitude and grace.

There's joy in so many things

2008-11-30T11:20:00.000-08:00

I'm posting this picture because I like it. It's from a few weeks ago when I was visiting my host family that lives in Kombo. Every time being with other PCVs gets overwhelming, I'll stop by my host family members that live in Kombo and it gives me that village experience I love, without the hectic travel of going up-country. Sometimes, things just make me smile, even when I'm missing the people I love. Today happens to be one of those days when I realize even though I'm far away from people I love, I'm still really happy to enjoy the moment while it's here. Miss and love you all.

An Update (or maybe 10)

2008-11-29T05:53:00.000-08:00

Here are bits and pieces about recent events and upcoming happenings:

1.For all of you that shared your concerns about Mero, she's better and almost fully healed, with little scarring.

2.Exciting news! The work for the women's gardens is finally moving along. The land has been mowd down, literally with only one minor mishap. The tractor driver accidentally ran into the cement wall of one of the garden's wells. Ooops. I can't really blame him as it was an accident, but seriously the weed growth was over 1.5 meters high. Unfortunately, this project has moved slowly. For one, things really do move slowly here and rice planting interfered during the rainy season and then we had a month of Ramadan, where people are fasting for most of the day. In addition, my travel back and forth to village and Kombo also affected the progress. However, much to my surprise and happiness, the garden committees met during my absence and collected money from every woman in the village in order to pay for the tractor use. I was so proud of their ability to get the job done! And once again, thanks to all of you for your support.

After returning to site, I was fetching water one morning and someone approached me saying that the tractor arrived! It literally was like Christmas, except no one told me Santa was stopping by unannounced.

3. I have less than 5 months left here now. It's bittersweet. Then I hope to travel a bit with my sister.

4. I'll be home on Christmas and will stay for a 3 week vacation, primarily to celebrate my Grandma's 100th birthday!

5. The cool season here and I'm back to wearing long sleeping pants and using a top sheet at night. How glorious!

6. Thanksgiving was absolutely fantastic this year. And it was great to spend time with some of my closer Peace Corps friends and staff. Many Volunteers (including this one) helped to make food and bake delicious desserts. Our American Associate Peace Corps Director of The Gambia kindly opened his house for about 100 Americans (and a few Brits). It was great, and the turkey was amazingly. Despite all the food and the fact that it felt like it was America, the power went out at one point in time and we didn't turn on the generator, and we were reminded that even though we had our little America, we were still in Africa. It's great to be able to have feelings of thankfulness and gratitude and I think they become even more apparent when one is away from home. Despite a great Thanksgiving, I missed my family and look forward to celebrating in the U.S. next year.

7. Training is going well and in two weeks, I'll leave my site again to assist in a few more training sessions where I am teaching about Community Assessment Approaches. Then, my job as part of the PCV training team will be finished. While I'll miss it, it's nice knowing that we've hopefully made a positive contribution to this year's training and future ones.

8. I'm so excited to be heading to site for 2 weeks. I have a lot to do while I'm there, and despite the limited time schedule, I hope to be fairly productive. There's work with the garden committees, possible local beekeeping training with a few of my counterparts (we'll make local grass hives), clinic work, tutoring/mentoring of my host brother and his friend,
souvenir shopping, and the Muslim holiday of Tobaski, for which I'm very excited as I already have my fancy African dress made. Can't wait to don it!

9. I had another infection on my leg this week, but it healed fairly quickly. Woohoo!

10. I still miss you all...A LOT!

Love,

Steph

Thanksgiving and a Happy Birthday Shout Out to Mom

2008-11-27T04:42:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving! May you all enjoy good food, good company, and blessings! Thanks for all your support. Gobble, gobble.

I'd also like to say---

Happy Birthday, Mom!

I'm so thankful for you. Can't wait to celebrate with you when I'm home (so very soon!) Love and miss you.

Mero

2008-11-05T01:09:00.001-08:00

'Mero' is a term for an older woman here in The Gambia. But the sweetest, smartest, friendliest, littlest 2.5 year old you could ever meet is called Mero.

Let me tell you about Mero. When I return from being away, it's Mero that runs to me. She yells 'Jalika' (my Gambian name) and wraps her arms around my knees. Mero used to yell 'Jakali' because she couldn't say 'Jalika', but then she realized she could and despite this, still said Jakali because it brought her attention---she's definitely not stupid. Now, Mero calls me 'Binki' which is the term for aunt, since her father is my host brother.

Mero knows that I love her, and so does my family. I try not to treat her differently than the other little ones, but I do. I can't help it. At times, it's like she's not a Gambian child, but an American one. She plays, talks, mimics her mother's actions, laughs, and eats like no other despite her small size (she takes after her mother who is tiny).

The mothers and fathers in my compound are caring of their children (which at times, can be atypical of the other parents in the village). My host family (usually) listens to me when I tell them they need to tell their kids to put on their shoes, clean a wound, or feed them better food. And Mero's mother is especially attentive to Mero and to me. She listens.

But just like in America, careful and caring parents are not immune to things they can't control...like freak accidents.

I've always been afraid of dying in a fire or even being severely burned, yet I'm still fascinated by fire. It was to no surprise though that when I arrived in The Gambia and moved to my training village that I saw fire more as a danger rather than a source of life (cooking, warmth in the cold season, etc.) I've seen so many children burned by fire-related accidents here. I never witnessed one first-hand, but saw the burns after a few weeks. They became infected because of improper care, with children wincing with pain, almost cursing their parents and the world for letting it happen to them. Horrible burns when the dark skin is now light and there is pus and blood, but packed with soot and other 'traditional methods' of treating an injury.

Usually such burns occur when a child is playing near the 'kitchen' or a small charcoal burner (where green tea is boil and made into a sugary concoction called attaya). The kids are being kids---and fall over and sometimes fall straight into the fire or the coals. Hands, legs, chests, butts, and even genital areas are charred.

Some say I have a sixth sense (no, I don't see dead people...thank goodness), but I have these premonitions or thoughts of something that may happen in the future (usually it involves guys I've dated or been dating or situations with friends, etc.) It's just a feeling and sometimes a quick flash of thought that makes me remember that moment as a link to an even in the future.

Last year, with kids bouncing around the fire, either with attaya cooking or because the cold season settled in, I thought, 'Gosh, I hope one of 'my kids' doesn't fall into the fire. And if they did, I'd be destroyed and what would I do , how would I react, and how would my host family react if one of its children fell into the fire?'

Well, unfortunately, my thought became my reality last week. Little Mero was bopping around outside the kitchen with her playmates, Paabi and Amadou. Mero's mother had cooked breakfast, and she pour the corn porridge into the humongous, metal food bowl. She placed it outside the kitchen, on the ground to cool. She went into the house to add the sugar and somehow, Mero fell into the bowl of steaming hot porridge, while her mother stepped into the house for a few mere seconds.

I was in my house, sweeping and preparing my things to leave for a meeting in a village near the river. Then I heard it: the scream. Not the 'I want attention' cry, but a scream that conveys sheer pain. Mero's mother yelled her daughter's name, and I heard the rush of all of Fatty Kunda's women's feet running on the hard, compacted dirt.

I ran out, looked at poor Mero, and ran for cold water. I told one of my host mothers to get a bucket and fill it with cold water and to drop Mero in it. I didn't even know where the burn was at first. About 2 minutes of her sitting in the bucket, I saw it. Dark skin gone---white flesh exposed on a third of her back. I told them to go my counterpart's house, the Community Health Nurse, but said probably he wasn't there because he was deworming children at the schools in the area. If he wasn't there, they were to take Mero to the private clinic in the next village over, when I sometimes work.

As we pulled Mero out of the water, I saw the worst of it: burns on the inside of her legs, to her butt, and on her gential area, except the skin was still blistering. I held myself together, as did everyone else, except Mero's grandmother, NaLisa. She cried and wailed and everyone told her to stop. The look on Mero's face rattled every bone in my body. She is not Mero, I thought. Where did Mero go? She was in pain.

Mero's mother and I rushed to my counterpart's home, only to find, he had already left. Issou, Mero's mom, went ahead to the clinic by foot, while I returned to the compound to get my bike and tried to find Mero's health card, but didn't find it amongst Issou's things. NaLisa came with me (on foot) as Issou has a month and a half old baby to nurse and couldn't spend 2 hours at the hospital without nursing it.

NaLisa and I waited at the hospital for 2-3 hours. Mero only flashed a slight smile when I offered her an icee. My heart broke. Poor Mero. My clinic co-workers gave Mero medicine and antibiotics (by way of injection, which 2.5 year-old children already hate when they're well), and they cut the blister sacks open. NaLisa held Mero in her lap, as I held Mero's legs apart and still. The nurse punctured the blisters with a disposable bladed and dobbed up the liquid with an over-sized cotton ball. As the skin was drained, the skin was pulled away to expose a flesh of white.

As Mero screamed and I saw the flesh be cut away, I lost my control and started to cry and couldn't stop. The nurse looked at me and said 'You are crying.' and said the same to my host mother in Mandinka 'She is crying'. The nurse kind of chuckled to my host mother. I could have punched the nurse square in the face, but I was so weak and so drained, still crying, I just didn't care. NaLisa told the nurse (in Mandinka), 'Mero is like Jalika's own child. She hurts too.'

I sent Lisa with Mero and told her to buy the burn cream the clinic once again didn't have a supply of; NaLisa had to travel 7 kilometers on the gele-gele to purchase it at the pharmacy. And as she left to walk 2 kilometers to my village with Mero wedged on her front in a strategic way, so as not to irritate the wounds, I positioned myself under a tree on the clinic grounds. And bawled without any notion that there were patients and nurses staring as the toubab sulked in the shade. They know why...they've experienced the same pain, hurt, distress with their own children or members of their family. Mero is like my own child. She's in pain. And I know such an event of her falling into the porridge had a high chance of happening one day, yet I couldn't do one thing to prevent it.

Public Service Announcement (without guitar)*

2008-10-14T10:29:00.000-07:00

Hey Loved Ones and Random Blog Readers (i.e. Stalkers)-

I've posted a few random postings over the past couple months, ranging from ridiculous ramblings, atypical anecdotes, and images of indiscriminate infections. And I'd like to take the opportunity to send a shout-out to all of you for continuing to show your support (in ways that are seen and some that are not so visible). I appreciate it, and it means so much knowing how many of my 'home people' continue to cheer me on... You have been contacting me via cyberspace to let me know that you're reading my blog or checking out the pics. Thank you.

However, I must admit, the past few months, have been a bit bleak in terms of 'real' communication and snail mail. I know I'm in my second year now, with only a mere 6 months to wrap up this life in this strange, exciting, befuddling planet of West Africa, and the novelty of my being in this brave, new world has probably worn off by now to many of you (and I don't blame you because sometimes it has the same effect on me). But I can't stress enough how much an occasional letter or magazine or even a small little package filled with goodies from home means to me. I'm adjusted to this life, but you never can escape the memories of the one you left behind.

Now, I know that I've been a slacker on my end with sending out letters in the past few months, but I have been near the Internet more frequently this past year due to my training work in the capital. Maybe the instantaneous connection that I've been able to share with you via Facebook, GoogleChat, email, and blog posts have conjured the sensation of my being that much closer to you. And in fact, I have been, but in a virtual reality. When I'm in my hut, I reread all those handwritten or typed letters that were sent during my days in training village, 3-month challenge, birthdays, holidays, etc. Having something tangible really makes quite a difference when I'm having a bad day and questioning my role and purpose here, or when I really just miss going out for drinks with friends, watching a movie in the theater or just plain being home. I've got a great support network of friends and staff here, but nothing ever compares to those of you that knew me before I arrived here in February 2007. And for me, an old letter is a way I can give you a hug or even talk to you when the humid, dust haze prevents calls from getting through to my cell phone...

To all of you that have been loyal pen pals (you know who you are), I thank you. And for those of you who have tried to send out that package, but life just gets complicated (trust me, I understand), this is a public service announcement letting you know that you have only 6 months left. (Actually, it's more like 4 as come February, you run the risk of my not getting a package before I leave, and the Peace Corps mail room gods bequeathing it to some other PCV who still has yet to finish his or her service, but that you respect for what he or she is doing here, but don't know and probably never will.) And just think, when I open that envelope or box, I'll immediately think 'Hmm, what souvenir can I bring home for you?'

Anyways, in all seriousness, I can't ever thank you all enough for the support you have given me. It means so much and has really helped to make my experience here an enjoyable one.

I look forward to hearing from you...in whatever forms, means, lines, you may choose.

Miss and love you all.

Stephanie
Steph
Sticky
Stephers
Jalika

*Please note that this post was to be read as a funny little musing and had no intention to maliciously attack or hurt anyone's feelings.*

Triptych of Infection

2008-10-02T08:00:00.000-07:00

Since I didn't take any pictures of the infection on my face in August, I decided to take some snapshots of this month's latest infection: my foot. For all you people who must have a visual image to go with a literary one, reread the Infection post from August while glancing at the pics below. Then you'll have somewhat of an idea as to what the infection looked like on my face. Needless to say, descriptions of such images can be all captured by the use of one word:

UGLY

Elephant foot vs. Real foot. Gross, huh?

And you can see that my toe nail (removed in August) on the real foot is slowly growing back, but it's not very pretty...

And that's the original wound. Note the black permanent marker line denoting redness. That's to see if the swelling and redness increases or decreases.

Hot stuff.

Walking on the Sky

2008-09-11T02:47:00.000-07:00

I awake. Only to want to go back to my dream. Fall Back. To Sleep. NOW. I try and try to re-enter that world where I am somewhere else, but instead I feel wide awake and I can tell my mind's going to be flitting from place to place until 6:45am when I usually stir.

I glance at my indiglo watch my Dad sent-4:50am. Oh-not again. I woke up because I have to pee...AGAIN. Here I feel like an old woman-having to pee 2-3 times a night (usually). That never happened in America unless I'd been drinking alcohol. I attribute this constant whizzing to the Jumbo-MSG/bouillon flavoring added to every food item. I'm convinced it makes me retain water and eventually I have to let all that retained water out---like a dam that just can't do its job anymore. And the fact that I drink at least one flavored drink mix daily---you know those sugar-free ones; they make me pee a lot too, and I have a horrible habit of drinking a full liter before bed. What can I say? Old habits die hard.

My journey to the pit latrine is quick. No cockroaches lurking beneath its cover, probably because dawn is just on the horizon. My path from the latrine back to my house is short, but requires more effort than usual. All my energy is exerted to open the wooden door back to my house that is swollen thanks to the rainy season. I try to wish myself back to sleep, but to no avail. Streams of consciousness ricochet inside my brain like a ping-pong ball that's been hit too hard onto the table onto the basement wall only to bounce back and hit me square in the eye. Okay...I give up. I'm awake, with my thoughts and the sound of the corn leaves rustling as it gives warning of an approaching storm.
-I really hope Modou can make the shirt I designed.
-I hope Susan didn't steal all my 'going-out' tops. I want to wear them when I go home.
-I hope I make enough money when I get home to live on my own for once.
-Will I ever get married? Do I want to?
-Maybe I should take the Foreign Service Exam again, just for kicks. Can I pass it twice? Or am I pushing my luck?
-How long will I be home until I chop of my hair, my tan fades , and my blonde hair turns to dirty blonde/light brown?
-Is it going to rain on me at the lumo today?
-When will there be lettuce here again?
-Is it bad that I've rediscovered being a bookwork (it's been about 18 years)?
-How do I know when my backyard corn is ready to be picked?
-What's the name of the pizza place at the Marlton Circle? I can't believe I've forgotten. I want Salad Caprese.
-I love rainy season, but I can't wait until my things stop smelling like mildew.
-Does my village really like me or are they just pretending to?
-Why did Kendo (one of the girls I mentored last year) take a husband while I was in Kombo? How long are her dreams of going to school going to last?
-What happened to baby Mariama?
-Why are there so many crickets in my house?

Of course my thoughts---random, ridiculous, and raw---slowly wear me down and I'm tired again. As those ping pong balls ricocheted, I was in a state of being awake and being asleep. I could see an image of an apartment in Philly, or my house on a lake, or a commute into work, but those thoughts faded as the sounds of the wind stirring and the rain pelting the corrugate became louder in my distorted reality.

Get up and close the windows, you lazy bum. Hurry back inside before the family awakes and sees that I too, am awake.

I have 40 pages left of the novel I'm reading, and I fight the sleep that comes just as the sunlight filters through the blanket of morning rain clouds. My buckets are lined on the walkway, catching water from the roof. Believe it or not, I use it to bathe as it's cleaner than if I fetched water from an open well.

Some days, thoughts like the ones above dominate my mind. At night under the amazing sky of stars, I sit and think. My family says I'm quiet or I don't talk and partially that's true because I can't. I can't have the conversations that I'm used to. To talk about Tida Sama (which one?) and her rice field or that it's cold or we need a tractor just doesn't interest me after the 10th time. I used to feel bad about my minimal attention span, but I don't anymore.

I once was walking through the bush near my house with a PCV friend who was visiting. It was dusk and we were taking a short cut through someone's field, past an old graveyard of a old, now, non-existent village as marked by the huge baobab trees. We paused and looked west at the cloud formation and the sun's reflection off them. All the people had left except for one woman weeding her hectare. As we stared at the clouds, the enormous trees, and vastness of the flat landscape, I asked my friend, 'What do you think she's thinking about all day?'

I think about my future and how I can enjoy the present. I think about the past, the what ifs, and the how tos. I think about the goals, motivations, and the next step. People here live day to day- and those that think ahead usually 'build castles in the sky' while brewing attaya, never really doing much to get them there or even close. But they must think about nourishing a child, their children, or imagining a world based on what's been heard and seen on TV (if they have access to one).

One night, when laying under the stars with my family, I was talking to my host cousin (who I call my sister), Fanta. She's 16, no more than 18 (determining age is a problem here). I was looking at shooting stars, and I noticed one wasn't actually falling, but orbiting. I thought it was a plane at first (rare here as they only fly near the coast), but then Fanta asked if it was a satellite. I'm pretty certain she was right. So it turns out she was paying attention in science class---Yes!

Fanta began asking about my trip to Sierra Leone, and whether I took a plane or car. 'We flew, ' I said. And she said, 'Do planes fly, or do they walk on the sky?' And I realized that my thoughts that ricochet at night, in the morning, during sleep, in a meeting, a Mandinka conversation, are not so abnormal. And I tell Fanta 'Planes fly, but I guess it is like they're kinda walking on the sky.' I used to be embarrassed of some of the questions that entered my mind and even now I'm embarrassed when they tell me I can't weed or sweep. It makes me humble, but it makes me rediscover an innocence that only being here, in a different world and plunged into a world of my thoughts that I cherish. And from now on I equate flying with walking on the sky...because my thoughts and experience let me see the world in a completely different way.

Clash of Two Worlds

2008-08-18T08:42:00.000-07:00

After getting the approval from the PC nurse to go to Dakar 12 hours before our planned early morning departure, my two friends (both of which were lucky enough to travel with this chick), Brian and Bjorn, left the PC house at 6:30am, a few minutes after an hour-long torrential downpour. It was dawn and the streets were flooded with muddy puddles, which I was not happy about due to my wrapped, infected toe. Anyway, here, you just roll with it...and we did.

While waiting for the ferry in Banjul, we were asked by an abnormally unsketchy guy if we happened to be going to Dakar. Why yes we were! After negotiating a price, slightly higher than, a sept plas (seven passenger vehicle that's a step up from a gele-gele). It was the three of us, the driver and his no more than 5 year-old niece. As we sat on the ferry, we looked to our left and noticed a white, wooden coffin on the bed of a pick-up next to us. (Knowing funeral practices of Islam, the person inside probably died at the early hours of the morning and was being taking to its burial place as quickly as possible.)

We proceeded on our way with a minor freak out when car spun out on the muddy road from Barra to the border town of Almdalai. Brian and Bjorn handled it well and didn't even notice my hands gripping their thighs as I let out an 'Ahhh!' (I was sandwiched in the middle of them). We continued on our journey, full of bribing police officers for a unlit tail light, a bumpy, mud-ridden road, and a repeat electrical short, which later caused the car to stall when slowing down. After several pushes by a Senegalese Gendarmie officer, Bjorn, Brian, and useless bystanders, and a laborious hot-wiring the job, the car went on its way without any problems. We hit Dakar around 5:30pm, only to sit in horrific, diesel-exhaust fume-filled traffic for about an hour and a half. Our driver, FaKebba, dropped us off near our hotel, and Bjorn began using his Wolof skills so that we could survive our week long trip in Dakar. (Brian speaks Fula; I speak Mandinka; none of us speak French.)

We arrived at our hotel, recommended by our friends Ryan and Leslie (thanks guys!), and it was a nice treat. Hot water, running shower, spotless, air conditioning, fan and a pretty steady supply of electricity without the use of a generator. We had arrived. First task: money and food. Good food: no rice, palm oil, no peanuts.

During the week, we ate to our hearts' content. And after a week of what felt like gorging, I realized I felt the healthiest I have (despite my various infections) since being in West Africa. Why? I wasn't eating rice...in fact, Brian, Bjorn, and I made a pact to not eat rice the entire time we were there. (We broke it the first day as we were offered really cheap chicken yassa for lunch.) Salads, cheese, fresh bread, seafood (lots of it), and even Ben and Jerry's ice cream. (I ate half the container and still feel no shame.)

Traveling through the different parts of Dakar---Ngor Island, Goree Island, Alamides, Les Mamelles, Place of Independence, and more African urban parts, I was happy to be in this world of familiarity. Familiarity with West Africa---its culture, its transport, its frustrations, but at the same, famliarity with a world in which I've been disconnected in over 1.5 years...full of luxuries as menial as pastries, bus schedules, good cups of coffee, news, and even fashion. My two worlds collided, in a sense, and while it was great to be back in a life of 'luxury', it only made me realize how much I miss home. My family, my friends, the parks, the cities, and my bike. As Bjorn and I said goodbye to Brian, who was flying to the States for his sister's wedding, I realized I could have walked right on that plane too. New York was ALMOST right there. But I couldn't. I didn't. And I wouldn't. I'm not yet done.

For the next few days, more cheese and more baguette bread were eaten. More was explored and one day, we actually found ourselves on a bus, not really certain where it was going. At first we thought to ask the driver to stop the bus, but then we realized that it's okay to just ride around...see the neighborhoods, the universities, the people, the life. We spent about 3 hours riding around the city, and I thought to myself, would I ever do this in New York City or even Philadelphia? Probably not. But I think that will be on my list of things to do once States-side again. Ride the bus like a local, while acting as a tourist. Rediscover those places I've missed. and I can't wait.

Five days after our arrival to Dakar, it was time to return to The Gambia. Admittedly, I had mixed emotions. I could've stayed a bit longer, but I really couldn't. Funds were running low. After a ridiculously long check-out at the hotel (there was a minor error, but became a major task to fix), we hired a taxi to take us to the car park. We hoped for a sept plas, but none were available. So instead, we got a van that took 4 hours and 15 minutes to fill. It was by far the worst 'waiting for transport' experience of my time here. Passengers finally became angry after we waited for 2 hours for the last two passengers to arrive. After we finally left the car park, we headed out of the madness, hitting traffic and stopping every 50 kms for the same passenger to pee.

Then, it became dark, with people getting off and taking their luggage, which required 5 minutes to untie and retie the remaining baggage to the roof rack. Stop and go, stop and go. We hit the border around 8:45pm at night, checked out with Senegal Immigration and checked in with Gambia Immigration. The Gambian Officers assured us that we'd make the last ferry from Barra to Banjul. We arrived in Barra at 9:30, only to find out that that night, the Gambia Ports Authority decided to close the ferry early (the last ferry is at 11pm), due to the arrival of rain and some Raggae singer (who knows). We were stuck in Barra for an hour, surrounded by drunk men, trying to have us hire a small boat across, or trying to convince us to stay at the 'guesthouse' (ie. brothel). We sat at the police station, complete with ravenous mosquitoes and men being held in jail cells. Thankfully, a PCV friend that lives nearby helped bring a happy ending to our horrid day. She found a friend with a car, and they came to pick us up, and we stayed at her house for the night. All was well the next morning when we crossed to Banjul.

Despite my homesickness (and unsatiated desire for cheese and baguette and Salade Nicoise), I'm happy to go back to site in a few days. The rest of the year will be an exciting time---garden work, babies to be born in the compound, health talks, tutoring, Arts and Craft club, growing vegetables in my personal garden, biking the country, and maybe rediscovering The Gambia, before I leave to return to that other world.

Keep in touch. And know I miss you all.

Lots of Love,

Steph

Almamy and Mariama

2008-08-18T03:53:00.000-07:00

The sister of my wife (my wife is my host brother's wife) recently visited with her two small children.

Three days after her arrival to our compound, our guest informed her sister (my wife), that her younger child, Mariama, who is 11 months, had diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and a fever for 4 days. To my knowledge, she did nothing during this time. I looked at her makeshift UNICEF health card (a photo-copied piece of paper since the supply of the UNICEF blue cards has 'run out') and just by her weight of 6.7kg, she's on the verge of being classified as underweight and malnourished. In fact, such is the case for children here in The Gambia, and of course, all throughout Africa.

However, I don't want to mislead you, I'm not living amongst a sea of emaciated children, with sunken eyes and stretched skin across a skeleton. There is food here (although, we are told that due to the global food crisis, this time next year, many Gambians and Africans could be starving---more on that in a later post).

Food is available and plenty is here, but it is not prepared properly (to preserve nutrients) or the diet itself is not varied enough to provide adequate vitamins and protein. Far too many children die because they aren't making healthy weight gain, become sick---in most cases, either with diarrhea or malaria, and die, or they are born with an untreated illness that will ultimately end their lives early.

This time last year, I took a 2 year-old to the hospital with his concerned mother. The child, Almamy, was rapidly losing weight. His mother did what she could (from my humble observation and my counterparts'). She went to receive the food supplement bundle distributed by the Department of Health here and UNICEF, but the supply hadn't yet been delivered and was unavailable. When we went to the major hospital, the hospital said he was severely malnourished (which was obvious to just about anyone) and he tested positive for malaria. They prescribed medication, but didn't have the multi-vitamins in stock at the hospital's pharmacy. The pharmacy in town was closed, and we proceeded to the 'black market' of medicine, where former health workers buy medicine in the Kombos and resell them at an inflated cost to those who will pay anything because they desperately need it.

A few days after taking Almamy to the hospital, I had to travel to Kombo. Almamy was released from the hospital while I was away. But during my stay, Almamy died. His condition was already too far gone and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe taking him to the hospital gave him a few more days of life, or maybe it made no difference whatsoever. Sadly, I knew before I even took him that he wasn't going to make it.

So now, will the story of Almamy become the story of Mariama? Deep down, I hope not, but now I realize, one never knows. An innocent child born into this world (compounded with the struggles of Africa) was born merely to suffer---never to enjoy the feat of discovering how to go from a crawl to a walk, experiencing the sounds and shrills that eventually result in a muttering of 'Baba' (Daddy), or mimicking her mother as she carries out her daily tasks of fetching water, washing clothes, and cooking meals. For some reason, I feel like Mariama may become this year's Almamy.

As Mariama's mother, Jainaba, left my compound, my wife told me that they were going to go to the hospital the next day since the child was not better, even though we gave her medicine prescribed by my counterpart. As Jainaba, Mariama, and Mariama's brother left, I felt Mariama's forehead: it was hot---hotter than the day we took her to my counterpart's. Mariama can't talk as she's too young, but her whimpers and spurts of moaning (never really crying) translated clearly---HELP ME.

Infections!

2008-08-18T01:45:00.000-07:00

Greetings! The past month has been an interesting one...filled with rainy-season infections, village celebrations, gardening, rain (lots of it), and travel.

---

I arrived in Kombo about 1.5 weeks ago to attend a pre-Service Training meeting, have some skin infections checked out, and to head to Dakar, Senegal for a mini-vacation with two friends.

The ride down to Kombo was an exciting one, as I was toting my host sister (really my host cousin but everyone is a cousin of someone else here, so it's easier to say sister...plus, she's like the younger sister I never had.) Fanta, my host sister, is looking to attend Senior Secondary School in Kombo and came with me to speak to some headmasters and to talk to relatives about living in their compounds while she attends school for the next three years. This trip was exciting because 1) I had a traveling companion and 2) Fanta had never crossed McCarthy Island nor traveled to Kombo via the North Bank Road. I think I was more excited for her than she was herself.

A few days prior to my departure, I was at another PCV's place for a Friendship Day Party (August 3). While there, I developed a fever and became really sick to my stomach. In addition, I developed a weird rash/bite-type thing on my right arm. It became really itchy, like a mosquito bite, started to scab (without my even scratching), and then a large, puffy, hot red ring formed around it. The fever was gone in twelve hours, but my arm didn't improve. In addition, I had an infected toe for about 2 weeks prior to my departure to Kombo. It's an ingrown toenail, and chances are it be removed during my visit to Kombo.

The day of departure to Kombo, I had three large pimples (or so I thought) on the left side of my face. You know the kind that are deep, down under the surface, and they hurt like mad? (If you don't remember, think back to when you were 15 and actually had pimples. If you go to Africa in your mid-20s, you'll feel like your 15 again because they magically come back!) Anyway, I rode down to Kombo, without any problems, dropped my host sister off at our relatives, chatted for a while, and headed to the office. After a few hours checking email, I went to the PC house, took a shower, and immediately the entire left side of my face started swelling. It continued to swell, so much that I had to call the PC duty nurse. I took some Benadryl and used some cold compresses. The next morning, I walked quickly, with my head down (literally embarrassed by the size of my face), to the med unit only to be told by the Duty Nurse, that she wasn't going to do anything until the doctor saw me. I only (minorly) freaked out. My face is swelling up! Not to mention my toe is infected...

The doctor and my health nurse saw me and immediately prescribed aggressive antibiotics. The swelling went down slowly and continued to decrease, little by little each day. They have no idea what happened or what it was, but they were concerned it wouldn't respond to antibiotics, and they'd have to begin treating me for a staph infection (ON MY FACE!). Thankfully, the antibiotics worked.

Twelve hours before I was scheduled to leave with my two friends, the nurse gave me the approval to go. And I went...and so happy I did.

Thankfully, it's all better now...or it appears that way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn't take any pictures. Trust me, it was bad---looked worse than my wisdom teeth swelling and conjunctivitis pictures from training.

---

What's at the End of the Rainbow?

2008-07-13T12:14:00.001-07:00

A few days ago, my friend and I were walking to a car park, all the while trying to decide whether we should continue on to our destination despite a pending rainstorm. We decided to keep on going and figured that if we shower from buckets and go to the bathroom in a concrete hole, we could probably get soaked and deal with looking like drowned rats. It’s really not a big deal when you look at the big picture.

As we were walking, still kind of unsure about our decision, my friend noticed a huge, vivid rainbow above the Fajara War Cemetery. We stopped to take a picture because rainbows like this only seem to happen in Africa (I have vivid memories of the ones in Kenya). As we continued walking toward the car park, we noticed that the rainbow projected across the sky, with its end seemingly looking as if it were the Peace Corps office. However, after further observation and estimation, I decided that the end was actually, the American Embassy (note: you cannot see the Embassy in this picture as a photograph of it must be destroyed, but if you were imagine where the end of the rainbow would be, it’d be there).

My thought made me realize that the answer to my question ‘What’s at the end of the rainbow?’ is multi-dimensional. Personally, the thought of the U.S. Embassy as being the end of the rainbow to me, an American, living in this strange land that I temporarily call home, is rather overwhelming, yet comforting. It’s a place I walk by, every time I walk to my office/ As I pass, I think ‘America is right there.’ And it is…as soon as I step through the Embassy gates, I’m technically in the U.S. But, it’s just a building, where decisions on policies, aid, assistance, visas, and people’s lives are carried out. It’s powerful and humbling and chaotic and uncertain and bold and brave and sometimes intimidating...

But for many Gambians, the Embassy and with that, the idea of America---my refuge, my little piece of identity--- is hope, but also, sadly desperation for them. At least one person a day asks me to take them to America when I’m ready to home, or they want me to take their 8 month old baby back with me. Despite the daily annoyance of coming up with creative ways to respond to such statements (trust me…it’s difficult after a while), I realize that even though it’s annoying to me, it’s indicative of the desperation that envelops everyone here. They think of America as ‘Babylon’ (which oddly enough, think of what part of the world historic Babylon is today). They want to flee to Europe and America, and I understand why…I see it every day. But, if everyone leaves, then what’s left? More desperation, no hope, and a society that disappears into thin air.

Before I arrived in The Gambia, many of you know that I worked for a federal politician, handling constituents’ problems with Immigration Services and the State Department. I was exposed to people’s heartache, frustrations, and on some occasions, joys. To hear a person’s struggle, to make a better life for himself or his family, plays with your emotions. Each immigration case is different, but oddly enough, sings the same tune---seeking a better life, the desire to be with a loved one, escaping political persecution, fleeing a civil war…the situations are the same, but each story is a little different, which makes it all the more human.

Every time I get asked to take someone to America, I usually spit out a defiant ‘No!’. Then I realize that my reaction may have been a bit harsh (although in some cases, that’s not true). What I suppose causes me to react in the way that I do is the notion that people leaving isn’t the best solution. In many cases, those that leave and earn more money abroad (albeit their standard of living in their newfound country is still on the lowest rung, unless they are highly educated), they don’t necessarily return to help The Gambia or their home country. They send money. Money helps, most certainly, but it has no use if the allocation of that money is for a television and generator, but in a month’s time the family can’t purchase a bag of rice to feed its children.

I am not opposed to those leaving their lands to attain a better life, but I am disheartened that the notion of attaining a better life IS only by fleeing to a different land. Why is that? Is it because no one wants to work at a solution? Is there no feasible solution? Or is it because it’s the easiest way to get what they feel will make them happy? Is it worth it---risking one's life by crossing the ocean to Europe, in a boat made of planks, with extra fuel stored in 20 liter jugs, small food rations, and no protection from the elements? I honestly don't know.

Just as Julius Nyerere, former President of Tanzania said:

Man can only liberate himself or develop himself. He cannot be liberated or developed by another. For Man makes himself. It is his ability to act deliberately, for a self-determined purpose, which distinguishes him from the other animals. The expansion of his own consciousness, and therefore of his power over himself, his environment, and his society, must therefore ultimately be what we mean by development.

Should we encourage Gambians (and others) to continue to look for that U.Ss Embassy at the end of the proverbial rainbow, or should we try to work on reevaluating Gambians' value here, in their country, so that they can take ownership of their lives, families, and nation? Somehow I think it’s not only important to focus what’s at the end of the rainbow, but how we can improve the journey of getting there. And perhaps by doing so, they’ll be able to see that there’s a lot within the rainbow that’s worth their while and they don’t even have to travel too far to find it.

Catching Up

2008-07-13T11:32:00.000-07:00

Even though I previously posted about missing America on its birthday, I still managed to have a memorable 4th of July weekend. Besides the obvious missing pieces (friends, family, and fireworks), we managed to have a fun-filled weekend of Americana.

Thanks to one of our (American) bosses hospitality in (always) hosting us at his house for American holidays, we had a nice backyard BBQ on the 4th, complete with a makeshift slip ‘n slide, lentil burgers (for all those hippie PC vegetarians), and my homemade macaroons (definitely a hit, not gonna lie). The day after the big boss’s BBQ, a several PCVs got together for a wickedly fun game of pick-up softball. Three hours or 15 fifteen innings later, the team I was playing on (and yes I played---remember, I was a 2nd base player and a decent hitter when I was 10 years old) won 41-40 (no that’s not a football score, honest). I left with really sore quads and the realization that I really need to incorporate sprinting into my running routine. The following day, my PCV friend, Ellie, and I, organized an Open-Mic Night for all PCVs that were in town at a friend’s outdoor garden bar. Despite my worries, the night was an absolute success and a fun time was had by all (or so we’re told).

This past week, I was co-facilitating the 1st year health Volunteers In-Service Training. I believe it’s been going fairly smoothly so far (it continues through next week), but admittedly after 1.5 weeks in the Kombos (urban area), I am suffering from a multitude of ‘symptoms’, such as being easily irritated when more than 5 PCVs are in the same room as me, annoyed when taxi drivers try to pick me up while I’m walking in the opposite direction to which they’re driving, and just suffering from general restlessness of being ‘connected’ to American life, but not actually being there.

Despite my fun (and slight frustration) in Kombo, it’ll be fun to return to site next weekend as there is plenty to be done---rainy season has started and people are planting (have planted) their rice, millet, groundnuts and corn. The mosquitoes are breeding, and therefore, so is the malaria. And I realize this is my last rainy season, so I better buckle down and do all that I want while I can.

The village’s women’s gardens revitalization project is progressing, albeit slowly. Because of my schedule and the farmers’ necessity to sow their fields based on the arrival of the rains, the work on the garden has been delayed a bit. However, in all honesty, it’s better that way, as long as the

fence is completed by the end of August. Once completed, the women will be able to utilize it post-rainy season, which, admittedly, is the better time to actually sow certain vegetables. Posted are pictures depicting the miraculous (and certainly ridiculous)

transportation of 47 bundles of chicken wire and 60 kilos of nails 300 kms up-country, on a ferry, in a vehicle, across another ferry, and in a tractor-like vehicle from my friend’s hardware store (my version

of the Home Depot) to my village on a water-filled,

pothole-riddled road during a high wind, flooding rain storm. Just another day in The Gambia… Thanks again for all your support.

Churro Time

2008-07-12T16:27:00.000-07:00

In an attempt to make you laugh (or perhaps just grin), I decided that I would upload this video so you can see AND hear the delight that is the children of my compound. These two just happen to be the funniest kids under the age of 5.

Paabi (boy) and Mero (girl) are eating their 5:30pm snack of rice and peanut porridge (typically what we have for breakfast). And Paabi epitomizes the 'art of slurping' churro (or anything liquidy) and the noise one must make when 'drinking' from the calabash.

Missing America on Its Birthday

2008-07-03T04:42:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone-

It's been quite sometime since the last posting, and quite a bit has happened in these almost 2 months (wow, two months...time is flying.) Tomorrow is 4th of July and I'm in West Africa---not in Philly. Sometimes, I think I feel even more homesick, or maybe reminiscent, at this time of year than I do during the Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays. For all of you in the Philly area, or in the great outdoors somewhere this weekend, please know I'm thinking of you. Enjoy the fireworks and think of me when the cascading gold ones fall into the Delaware.

In the next few weeks, I'll be posting a few things about my thoughts on development (I've been doing a lot of thinking and actual 'working' these past months). Some postings may be not as jovial as usual, but don't think that that is my attitude now. The comments, thoughts, ideas are just raw conclusions that one forms after living and working in 'development' for over a year. I'm happy here, and I'm enjoying myself while I can and trying not to look too far ahead, although it's starting to freak me out about what my next step will be.

---
Musings from a late rainy night sometime during the week of June 22nd:

So many thoughts going through my mind as of late. The first thought is about home: I think about home all the time. Today, I was riding to a friend's house, 15 km away, and I realized when I was on kilometer 12 that I rode the entire way, thinking about 'America'. Now granted, I ride on a road that takes me to where I want to go as there are only 2 paved roads up-country. There is one junction where I must turn to get to the river crossing (where my friend lives). I traveled the entire way without even thinking about where I was going---on kilometer 12, I realized that this is place is just like home, in the sense that I do daily activities, mindlessly...just like traveling to the grocery store in America, without even thinking twice about putting on my right turn signal, and then my left, and stopping at the stop sign. I am here and I am living in the now.

My time here is fleeting and so I become somewhat bothered on those days when I become preoccupied with thoughts of home. (Of course, I love home and would teleport there everyday if I could), but I want to focus on the now. Focus. On. The Now. For the most part I do, and I have. But lately I just can't stop thinking of 'that place' where things are organized, simple tasks take little time, and people respect each other, their property, and rules. Maybe these thoughts have been conjured up by the change in weather. The rains have started and that immediately transports me to rainy days at home. The smell of honeysuckle (or something similar) as I pass by the monkeys while riding my bike reminds me of my 30 mile bike rides on the D & R canal.

Lately, I've been thinking about what life will be like post Peace Corps. I'm already anticipating experiencing some difficulties readjusting (to all of you out there, let this be your first gentle warning). But, I'm finally realizing that for the first time in my life, I haven't a clue as to what I want to do after Peace Corps. I've always had direction, and that direction has led me here, doing something I've always wanted to do. But my view of the world has shifted a bit. I still remain fairly idealistic and hopeful that things could change, albeit slowly, but a part of me adheres tightly now to the notion of what doesn't work.

'Development' is a tricky thing to discuss as part of me wonders, why, after all these years...are we still trying to get basic needs fulfilled for millions of people in the world? Shouldn't we find that appalling? Unacceptable? Disheartening and even depressing? I'm a first year Volunteer at my site and quite honestly, I've tried my best to go slowly... to assess what the community needs and wants and that they already have. 'Development', in my opinion, sometimes skips over this key step. Many Volunteers (both PC and non-PC) come to the developing world, thinking they're going to make radical, life-improving, and in some cases, life-saving changes in villages and communities. However, they're fooling themselves, giving false hope to villagers, and feeding culture that has become accustomed to receiving and taking.

If I were to ever head an NGO (non-governmental organization) or an international aid organization (in my dream world), I'd require it's non HCNs (home country nationals) to live for a least one year in actual village or community before they could do any development work. People can be appropriately helped if only they first are properly assessed. It's like going to the doctor in the States...if he doesn't give you a thorough exam, asking you your symptoms, their duration, medications, stresses, etc, then he could potentially misdiagnose your condition. You don't improve, get sicker, and before you know it, it's too late and all the efforts by the doctor were in vain. If only he had asked the right questions before giving you medication that had horrific side effects with another medication you were already taken. This type of 'haphazard assessment' happens, more often than not, in development. And as a result, failure after failure of development projects get added to the list. Aid agencies (not all, though) don't ask the right questions, observe, or even make an effort to understand the culture first. What worked in Kenya may not necessarily here? What worked in one village, may not work in the other. One can't ignore social structure, cultural norms, or political issues in order to just add another 'project' to the list.

Cultural integration is not taken seriously, but I feel it is the most important. Those who bypass it, have a total disregard, and therefore, an utter lack of respect for the people of that country. It is no better than ignorance.

Here money is a problem, which is what is said to me at least once daily. And many people ask me (and pretty much any other white person) to give them money or they ask 'Where is the money?' My usual reply is, 'I don't know...you tell me.' My initial reaction is to slap the person across the face, but deep down, I want to scream 'Money is not the answer.' Everyone needs money and they're preoccupied with it when they don't have it and again when they do (Human nature at its best, I suppose. It happens in the States, too...and probably even moreso when people do have money.)

There is money being poured into this and other countries, but it's not always used properly or appropriately. And that's where the problem lies---with the givers and the receivers. There is a lack of research by the donors and their dependency of 'giving because it feels good' . These actions only create a dependency on part of the recipients, as they receive something they say they want, or even in many cases, things they don't want OR need, and nothing ever becomes sustainable. Dependency continues to be encouraged by both sides and progress remains only short-term, or worse, non-existent.

Development should be based on what 'they' want, but more importantly, what they need and what they can use appropriately, according to their culture and their strengths as individuals and communities. Assessments should be based on interviews, observations, and being integrated with the community. Where their ideas and the development worker's knowledge and skills meet, then that's when and where development...slowly, slowly...can begin, or in rare cases, continue.

Trainer, Trainee, A Year Older, Vacationer, Volunteer-er

2008-05-13T01:04:00.001-07:00

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and primarily it’s because a lot has happened in the last month…so much that, at times, it’s hard to keep it straight. Unfortunately, I haven’t been journaling as much, and at the old age of 26 now, I, admittedly, have a hard time keeping track of things. Anyway, you’ll find a few highlights below, but before I forget:

I want to formally (is writing this on my blog, formal? Probably more public than anything, which is definitely different from formal) thank everyone who contributed to my garden project. I’m still trying to obtain a list of donors, but since there are privacy issues (thanks government), I’ve had a difficult time getting names of contributors. If you read this and donated, please email me and let me know if you did. I’d like to write you letters, and perhaps thank you formally and a lot less publicly. By no means, do I want your kindness to go unnoticed. Thanks. Work will hopefully commence late this month! I’ll post pics documenting the progress. Let’s hope it’s completed before the rains!

In addition, some people have been asking in correspondence if I need/want anything. Below, please find a list of things that are not necessary for survival, but would be appreciated:

-Bear Creek Soup Mix (any flavor)
-Archer Farms Trail Mix (or anything Archer Farms---it’s the Target food brand)
-Drink mixes (Crystal Light, 4C, Propel Target brand, etc)
-Lipton Pasta Sides
-Tuna packs (flavored or plain)
-Betty Crocker mixes (in the pouches)—Brownies, Breads, Biscuits, Cookies, Pancakes, etc
-Pictures of your special events during the past year
-News articles you think I’d enjoy
-Magazines (within the last year is fine)
-AA/AAA batteries are always great
-CLIF/Luna bars

---

Okay…back to the juicy stuff:

As I said, my last month has been busy. I assisted in the final days of Pre-Service Training for the new Health and Community Development Trainees. I also was a participant in the Agroforestry sector’s In-Service Training. There, it was reaffirmed that I really am a wannabe Agfo, but I just care too much about my own personal hygiene and that of others that I can’t switch to the deep, dark, dirty Agfo side. In addition to switching from role of trainer to trainee, I celebrated my 26th birthday. (Had a near nervous breakdown on my birthday eve, but that was cured by a day at the beach and many birthday wishes from you all. Thank you.) Can’t wait to celebrate with you all next year.

And finally, the big story of my month, is my ‘vacation’ to Sierra Leone. On April 27, I hopped on an unmentioned West African airline with three fellow PCVs to experience a place with topography for 10 days! Upon our arrival, we knew that our ‘vacation’ would be a unique one. In order to curb any undue mental duress to loved ones, I will provide the PG-13 version of my time in Sierra Leone. For those of you who think you can handle more or would like to verify that I am in fact a lunatic, email me and I’ll give you more details as to why.

The Sierra Leonean airport is located across from the capital city of Freetown, as that particular area is the flattest, which clearly makes it most suitable for an airport. Our options to get across are to either hire a speedboat, take a helicopter (supposedly flown by Russian alcoholics), hire a hovercraft (currently out of service), or take the ferry. Yay ferries! We can do that…we have to take one every time we want to get to Banjul from up-country. Piece of cake...

We realize that it’s Sierra Leonean Independence Day, thanks to the secondary school band members that are also on the ferry to Freetown. They are performing in a parade, but due to the late departure from the terminal, will be late for their performance. We befriend these students, ages 16-22. All four of us (all women) acquire an admirer during the hour long crossing. Mine was named Charles Jones. If you’re out there, I’m flattered, but taken (read old post about Paabi the 3 year old). Charles, I wish you all the best. Cheers.

We arrive in Freetown, scope out a place to stay, which is called a hotel, but is really like a hostel, but in actuality serves as a brothel. (Note: This is pretty normal when backpacking anywhere. My hostel in Sydney, Australia had this one beat, hands down, for being, let’s say, an interesting place, filled with interesting people and insects.) We stay one night, grab street food, and then head to the hills, literally.

Sierra Leone is absolutely beautiful. And while I was happy to return to the Gambia after 10 days (The Gambia felt like home), it was enjoyable to be in not so-hot-but-humid weather, with an occasional rain, and a green landscape, with water and trees. Anyway, we took a bus to Kabala. Kabala is a town, about 7 hours away from Freetown. The mountain range that spans Sierra Leone and Guinea-Conakry begins in Kabala, and much of the fighting, later in the war, occurred in and around Kabala. Unlike The Gambia, the bus fare was posted and it left on time. The road was smooth and it was evident that solid infrastructure was in place, even prior to the near-decade long war that ended in 2002. Perhaps this is why Sierra Leone was able to bounce back so quickly (in addition to the UN and numerous non-governmental organizations, whose presence could not go unnoticed, even in the remotest of places). The country is by no means developed, but it's definitely got lots of potential. Which direction will it go...it's too early to predict!

The drive was scenic and breathtaking. (Please look at the pictures link to view my Flickr pics). We couldn’t wait to hike! We arrived in Kabala, scoped out a place to stay, and realized that the street food is phenomenal. Fried chicken, spicy bean sandwiches that remind me of sloppy joes, butter cookies, fried/baked plantains, and AVOCADOS. Lots of them for cheap! We hiked a look-out hill, toured a World Bank funded clinic and maternity center, found locally made fabric, befriended a boy named Gibril, who became our unofficial tour guide, hiked a famous hill (AMAZING), met a former refugee who lived in The Gambia at the tail end of the war, befriended a young, Canadian NGO worker, and much to our dismay, came to grips with the murder of the owner of our guesthouse during our visit. (We don’t think we were present during the actual crime. It was a domestic dispute that had nothing to do with us, and honestly, could have happened anywhere. The girlfriend, who committed the crime, was taken to jail immediately. It merely took us by surprise, and if anything, opened our eyes to the similarities and differences of mourning and death in the cultures of The Gambia and Sierra Leone.) Thankfully, we took refuge in our NGO worker friend’s house. (Thanks for being there, Matthew!)

After hiking the high hill in Kabala, we reflected, relaxed and enjoyed the utter beauty of our time in a different place. We headed back to Freetown on the same bus that brought us to Kabala. We then returned to Freetown, in hopes to spend some quality time at the beautiful beaches. And we did just that…after a bit of a rocky start to our beach adventure (operators of a camp charging us too much), we still were able to relax and enjoy the sun, sand, surf, and mountains. We also befriended a couple, who were kind enough to let us stay in a house, for free, on a piece of property a family member owns. Yay to making friends! It was safe, and while unfurnished, was a welcomed change from our hostel experience. Thanks Fayez and April!

While I was on vacation, I still, at times, felt like I was working. It became apparent that Peace Corps has trained me to constantly ask questions. What’s the health care system like? What about the schools? What infrastructure was in place before the war? What still needs to be rebuilt? Where is the middle-class? Were you affected directly or indirectly by the war? However, I also realized that I don’t think I could ever take a vacation in a lesser developing nation, without asking those questions, merely because it’s instinctual and in some ways, imperative to my survival and understanding.

It was great to travel to another West African country as I found it neat to compare and contrast. It is apparent that sound infrastructure was in place prior to the war. Sierra Leoneans are resilient people, but also interact with caution, perhaps due to their past or perhaps I just was surprised by the lack of ‘toubabing’ and attention. It was a welcomed reprieve from the Gambian experience of bumstering, toubabing, and limited privacy. Sierra Leone is a beautiful country, that is on the brink of possibly becoming an amazing tourist destination. However, it still needs time. A middle class is non-existent, and outside influence is present everywhere you go.

Despite the crazy encounters, I want to return there some day…to dig a little deeper (and no not for diamonds), meet the people, and hear their stories.

I finally realized what I like doing best when traveling---hearing people’s stories---their trials and tribulations, their fears and dreams, and how they experience this thing called life. Usually it brings me back to the idea that we’re all so different and we have different stories, but that, oddly enough, the differences are what best connects us.

Here’s to digging a little deeper---in my garden, in my village, in others, and in myself. Peace out until July (I hope).

Miss and love you all.

April is the Month of Birthdays!

2008-04-26T05:03:00.000-07:00

Happy 27th Birthday, Niki!

April 29

To Niki-

Even though I can't be with you on your special day, please know I am thinking of you and can't wait to celebrate with you next year. Love and miss you (TONS).

---

Happy 30th Birthday, Sus! (Your Golden Birthday!)

April 30

Sus-

Happy Birthday. I am sorry I'm issing your special day, but I promise to throw you a 30 plus 1 party next year (or maybe we'll be celebrating in Morocco?). And by party, I mean cooking you a really nice meal and baking you a really awesome cake and maybe taking you out for some drinks. Anyway, I miss you and I love you. All the best and many more...

Buzzword: Beekeeping

2008-04-26T03:25:00.000-07:00

(This is not me, but a fellow PCV. )

For the past two weeks, I've been in the Kombo region, assisting with the final week of the Health and Community Development training (the newbies swore-in on April 18...I'm now a second-year Volunteer...woo hoo!) After those festivities (and a nice little party thrown by JulBrew, I shifted from the role of trainer to trainee as a participant in the Agroforestry sector's In-Service Training this past week. My primary objective of joining this training was to learn more about beekeeping and tree grafting, all of which could be successful in my village and surrounding communities. It was a great experience to get to know other Volunteers and to gain some invaluable knowledge. (Shh...don't tell anyone, I secretly want to be an Agfo, but I practice good hygiene, so I guess that automatically disqualifies me to be a member of the Dirty Agfo group). I also had the opportunity to meet some Volunteers from Senegal and Guinea; it was great to hear about their experiences.

In addition to being a trainer and a trainee, I purchased my visa and ticket for my upcoming vacation to Sierra Leone and celebrated my 26th year! What an exciting past few weeks. Oddly enough, I think I'll be looking forward to going back to my site and relaxing and waiting for the rains to come at the end of June. Rainy season is such a peaceful time here...and it'll be my last one, so I'll have to make the most of it.

Anyway, back to the In-Service Training...Learning how to properly harvest bees and then processing the honey are probably two of the most exciting things I've learned about here.

After learning the process, dress, and tactics used for harvesting bees/honey, our group broke up into smaller groups. We suited up at dusk, duct taped our shoes to our pants and gloves to our sleeves, and then entered the harvesting area, looking as if we were members of a strange moon-walking cult. Not too mention, the full moon added an element of eerieness to the whole experience.

We entered the apiary and began to work. I was the designated smoker, but then had the opportunity later to cut off the honey comb. Bees swarming, buzzing, close against your skin, tricking you to believe that they're crawling all over your skin. The suite provides protection, but they can still sting you. The adrenaline, the risk, the fascination that such small things---the bees---can produce such a glorious sweetness, while potentially being a huge risk to one's comfort and even one's life. I escaped without any stings (still never been stung), but left with an appreciation and new-found respect for something so small, but so important.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

2008-04-18T04:47:00.001-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!!!

Still partying with the best of them after all these years!

(Don't hate me for the pic. It's courtesy of Tim.)

Today is my Dad's birthday. And for the second year in a row, I'm not going to be home to share it with him.

However, we had the wonderful opportunity to celebrate family birthdays a little early this year, thanks to the fam's visit to The Gambia. (Yes, I'll be giving you the run down on the family visit soon. I have it written, but the pics take forever to upload).
---

Dad-

Happy **th Birthday! Hope you have a wonderful day. And please know how thankful I am to have you as not only my Dad, but my friend. Love you lots and miss you.

Bugsy

Greeting the Home People!

2008-04-01T10:38:00.000-07:00

So these people...

...travelled far across the ocean (not showering, not sleeping, and sitting in a purgatory-like place called the Yoff International Airport in Dakar) to meet these people...

---

Despite a few, minor hiccups (bag lost, but recovered; sweating profusely, but not melted; ate rice, but acquired early resistance to all things with rice (sorry, Dad)), the family's visit to The Gambia was definitely 'enjoying only'. (Note: Family, if you disagree, please state so NOW, NOW).

And now for some highlights:
*Family, if you feel any of the following accounts are inaccurately depicted...too bad, send me an email with 'your' account or better yet, write your own blog.*

1. When Susan's luggage did not arrive, Susan had to wear my clothes for 32 hours. Thankfully, after one year of being away from each other, the theory that Susan is still TOO tall to wear my pants. Even after one year, it's unanimous...I'm still short. DARN IT. (Side note: She still can wear my shirts, despite the increase of the size of my belly...thanks rice!)

2. I didn't realize how much I missed TV until I was able to watch day old Good Morning America in the hotel. Electricity = awesome; Electricity AND televisions = awesomer

3. My inability to properly turn on the hot water in the hotel shower after day 3 proved that one's capability to use modern-day technology diminishes after when one lives without amenities for 14 months. (Who wants to show me how to use a microwave when I get home?)

4. As if crossing the Barra Ferry wasn't stressful enough, it's even freakin' harder when there are no cars in the car park going to where you want to go and you have 3 very pale people watching your every move to negotiate with a driver while they try not to burn in the near-equatorial sun.

5. You know it's going to be a good trip when the family embraces the idea of a bean sandwich for lunch or their third day in the country.

6. Dad did not manage to acquire a huge bruise on his forehead, despite all the times he hit his head getting in and out of the taxis. (See all that extra padding on your fat head is good.)

7. Susan managed to thwart who wanted attention and thankfully, did not accept any marriage proposals from bumsters.

8. The parents are as equally cool in America and The Gambia, as voted by friends from home and in The Gambia.

9. Family successfully entertained 30 children while I made fishcakes and baobab juice.

10. After 3 days of being at my site, Paabi and Mero didn't run the opposite way screaming when seeing the 'toubabs'.

11. I can now refer to Dad as Demba, Mom as Hawa, and Susan as Mariama---all Fattys, of course! That's what you get for laughing at Jalika Fatty's surname for the past 12 months.

12. Who ever would have ever thought 300 plus people in my village of 1200 would wait by the side of the road for an hour to greet my family. AMAZING.

13. Realized that my ability to cope with things by use of humor is inherited from Mom and Dad. Thank goodness I got the humor genes and the youthful looking ones...:P

14. Despite my abhorrence for keeping pet monkeys as pets, they really are the crowd pleaser, especially when your Mom comes to visit and her name is Lois, and the monkey's name is Louis, which is not only confusing for Americans to decipher, but also Gambians.

15. Dreams and meditations of my sister joining me on my runs through the African bush were actually NOT nearly as good as actually having her run with me. Sweet!

16. Managed to save 5 whole delasis (ie. ONE quarter) while buying a Gambian soccer jersey in a packed Serrekunda market, while keeping hot tempers at bay.

17. Swimming pools are FANTASTIC, especially when paired with an ocean view.

18. Family vacations really can be fun, despite what most people say.

19. Oddly enough, my two worlds collided and everyone survived and maybe became a bit wiser, bolder, and crazier because of it.

20. My family never ceases to amaze me.

Thanks.

Let It Flow

2008-03-15T11:12:00.000-07:00

For the past three months, I've been traveling throughout the country quite a bit and it doesn't look as though it will let up until the end of April.

For the times that I'm in my village, which ranges from one week to two weeks at a time, I've been busily awaiting the arrival of my family. I finally received an additional bed/couch-like piece of furniture from the village's bamboo furniture maker. Unfortunately, it took me 7 months to receive it and lots of badgering, threats, and various individuals stalking the furniture maker's whereabouts. I've also recently purchased a chair (no more sitting on the floor mat!) and a nice desk/table. It finally feels like a home and at times, my retreat (although I still really like the silk cottonwood tree in the bush that I run to (literally) when I need a hiatus...but the tree doesn't fit in my house).

At nights, I've been heading to bed earlier than usual so I can come inside and paint a portion of one of my sitting room's walls that did not have blue paint on it (I ran out of it when I was painting last summer). Each morning, members of my family (old and young) have been peering through my door, seeing the sketch transform into a collision of colors, patterns, and designs. The painting (and room) is still incomplete, but I'm hoping to have the real family help me with filling in the blank spots of the walls, making candle holders, and sewing up some pillowcases I've made. My host family is so infatuated with this painting of mine (it's not even that good as I'm out of practice) that my 37 year old host brother wants me to paint a painting/mural in his family's house. I think I might try to paint a picture of Fatty Kunda...but that means, I'd have to paint all 65 members of the family. Maybe I'll just paint a landscape picture for them...Birds of The Gambia sounds good to me.

---

So it's been a while since I've posted and don't think I've forgotten about you all...I certainly haven't. Your emails, cards, letters, packages, and thoughts still accompany me throughout the days.

My family arrives soon, but it doesn't seem as though it's real. My host family seems to be just as excited about my real family's arrival as my real family is. I'm sure my family's time here will be quite the adventure and I've urged them to 'roll with it' with a sense of humor as that is how one gets through the not so normal things here. I've told my host family and Gambian friends that I will cry when I see my parents and my sister, and every time I'm told the same thing...'Why would you cry? You'll make them think life is not sweet here!' and I always respond 'I'll cry because I'm so happy.' The surprised Gambian then says, 'You don't cry when you're happy!' And I said, 'No...YOU don't...but I most certainly do.'

Being in the Gambia has certainly helped me to uncover or reveal things about myself that weren't always evident, but being here hasn't changed what makes me, ME. So I say...
Let the tears f l o w...

Safe travels Mom, Dad, and Susan..

A Great Opportunity to Directly Support My Village and Its Women

2008-02-04T11:40:00.000-08:00

I have been told that many of you have been asking how you can directly help me with my endeavors here in The Gambia...well, here is your chance:

Help Repair and Revitalize My Community's Women's Gardens

Above: Garden Fence

Proposal
The members of two women’s groups are requesting funds to repair the fencing of each group’s garden. Fencing currently exists, but it is in disrepair, due to a bush fire and general corrosion of barbed wire and nails. The funds will be used to purchase barbwire, nails and corrugate (for garden doors/gates and replacing roofing on pre-existing bathroom/rest house structure in one of the gardens). The larger of the two gardens has an area of 3.5 hectares (HUGE!). The smaller garden is 192 x 120 m. Repairing the fences will stop grazing animals and curious children from entering the gardens. Strong, durable fencing will help to ensure year-round gardening, which will aid in better nutrition and additional income generation for the women and their families. Total project costs are estimated at GMD 86,865/USD 3,948.42. The community will be contributing to $1,174 of the cost; I am seeking the assistance of interested family and friends in helping to fund the remaining $2,274. Donations can be made here.

For those of you interested in knowing more about my village and this current endeavor, please scroll below.

I cannot thank you enough for all of your support---letters, care packages, emails, inquiries to my parents and sister, and your donations. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

History
The population of my village consists of 1200 people. The village is located in the Central River Region of The Gambia. Mandinka is the predominant local tribal language spoken there; however, many villagers are also fluent in Pulaar as the surrounding villages are Fula. Two larger nearby villages serve as commercial and healthcare hubs for the region.

Above: One of the various rice fields

Citizens of my village work primarily in rice cultivation, self-sustainable farming, and fishing. Some villagers are also skilled in carpentry, blacksmithing, and tailoring.

The women of my community (and interested men) have utilized the active women’s groups to embark upon improving the nutrition and well-being of the women and their families, particularly their children. The women of the community are very industrious and hard-working. Produce grown is sold at weekly markets in surrounding villages for additional income generation. The women also take part in adult literacy activities and many are involved with the Parent/Teacher Association at the local Basic Cycle School (where I teach Grade 9 English). Both men and women maintain several beds in both of the women’s gardens, but the women of my village are the most involved, with approximately 250 women working throughout the year in both gardens. The gardens are already equipped with several wells. The 3.5 hectare garden has a total of eight wells, while the 192 x 120m garden has four wells. The water table in both gardens is quite high and easily accessible by traditional water retrieval methods. This garden has existed for approximately 20 years and about 100 women maintain beds.

Above: Garden Well

Existing Problems & Needs
Currently, the gardens are not being fully utilized as many of their members do not want to plant seeds without a safe and secure fence that can protect against animals and children. Villagers want to ensure that strong, durable fencing is constructed, prior to resuming work in the gardens. The women (and men) of the village are hardworking and have tried to balance both work in the rice fields (majority of villagers’ main source of income) and the gardens. In addition to improving nutrition and diet, many members supplement their income by selling their own produce. Growing vegetables is beneficial to the community both directly and indirectly.

Ever since my arrival to village eight months ago, its community members, especially the members of the two women’s groups, have expressed their desire to repair their existing gardens. On several occasions, I have met with leaders of the women’s groups, as well as interested males who oversee the labor for the repair and subsequent sustainability of the women’s garden. While the women are the main workers in the garden, the village elders and men are equally excited about the revamping of the garden. All parties are motivated and eager to start the revitalization project.

Happy Anniversary!

2008-02-03T14:39:00.000-08:00

I am once again back in Kombo after one week in my village. Since I pretty much spent most of January in Kombo, due to my being asked to assist with the planning for the arrival and training of the new Health and Community Development Trainees, I realized that I really, really do like village-life more than Kombo life. When I arrived in my village last week after my three-week work-hiatus away, my family graciously received me, and then began commenting on the following things:

Conversation #1 with Host Family
Family: Your body is not as big anymore. Kombo is not good for you; you've lost weight.
Me: (Smiling or more like smirking, which isn't always interpreted well)...It's because I didn't eat RICE for 3 weeks.

Conversation #2 with Host Family
Family: You stayed too long.
Me: I know; I had to, but I missed to see your faces.
Family: Don't stay that long again.
Me: I have to go back again in a week.
(They ignore that).
Family: Jalika, you like Kombo too much.
Me: No, I like here better.
Family: But there is sweeter.
Me: No, I don't agree. Here is sweeter because my family is here. I like it here.
Family: Next time, don't stay too long. You always travel.
Me: I know...I know...I know. (Deep Breath) I have to go back there in a week.
Family: What?!
Me: Sorry. I won't stay long, I promise, but work is there.
Family: But if you keep going there, you can't help the people here in village.
Me: I know. Traveling will stop soon, and then I'll be here.
Family: Don't stay long this time.
Me: I said I won't.

Despite these conversations that bring mixed emotions of my not being able to fully express that I really do like my host family and my village and want to spend as much time with them as possible and the fact that I continue to be questioned by everyone and their brother, second-wife, step-daughter, and family donkey where I've been, I have spent a lot of time this past week reflecting on the past year. ONE YEAR. One year has passed by since my arrival here. Time has moved so quickly, even though, for the first two months here, I wrote various desired achievements lists during what seemed-like an eternity of training; I sequenced 'Lists of Things I Want to Do Before I Die', 'Personal Goals for Peace Corps', 'Meals I Would Like to Eat that Don't Contain Rice', etc.

It's so weird to think that what was so abnormally strange has become so abnormally natural. When I'm in Kombo, I wonder if my arm strength will weaken due to my ability to turn on a tap and not fetch 20L of water and carry it on my head. When I'm in Kombo, I think about my host family, and baby Mero, who soon can no longer be called a baby. During my 3 week absence, I returned noticing how much bigger Mero has become. She can speak; she calls me by name and responds when I call her or ask her a question; she runs into my house and tries to help me sweep. Oddly enough, when I look at Mero, I can't help but realize how much I, myself, have grown since I've come here. It's incredible.

One of my good friends (who shall remain nameless here) said I look so much older or mature now. And I don't necessarily feel I look older, but I definitely feel older. I don't feel like a 25 year-old who is constantly trying to prove that I am old enough to have a job, working for a government official. Perhaps I feel old too because I'm constantly reminded (still) that I should already be married and have at least 2 children by now. But perhaps, I feel older, or rather more mature and more assured, that I can do things that I never thought I could possibly do. Or I am still doing this...and still with a (HUGE) smile on my face, even when Mero takes my overly large broom and scatters the neat pile of dust I collected in her efforts to help me sweep. Here's to another year of ups and downs, humility, joy, and discovery of self and the world. Perhaps this feeling of oldness should really be captured as coming into my own...

Naming Ceremony, Tobaski, Christmas, and New Year's

2008-01-06T03:27:00.000-08:00

Greetings! The month of December flew by, and it already feels like January will follow in its footsteps! The next few months have a whirlwind of activity---attending workshops, going to Dakar, Senegal for an ex-pat softball tourney, helping with the new H/CD group's training, and possible visitors from America! Plus, I have my normal 'job stuff' in village to take care of, such as getting funding for the Women's Gardens, starting my Arts Club, teaching at the school, and other village activities.

The latter part of December involved quite a bit of activity. Upon my arrival home from my trip to Kombo last time, I was informed that my host cousin, Jonesaba, delivered a healthy baby boy. (I was told prior to his birth that if the baby was a girl, they'd name it Jalika, after me, and I have a 'too-ma', or a namesake.) However, since the baby was a boy, the family told me that at the baby's naming ceremony, they would be give the baby the name of my real father. Now, there is a baby in a medium-sized, Gambian village, in West Africa, named after a tall, Slavic rooted, American, named Raymond.

The family calls the baby Ray, well actually "Bray" because they can't say 'Ray'. So Ray turned into Bray, which reminded the family of Braima, which is like the Muslim name "Ebrima". (A baby still has to be given a Muslim name, even if named after a toubab.) When the baby's health card is completed, I will make sure that it reads, 'Ebrima Ray Bayo' or 'Ray Ebrima Bayo'.

Needless to say, my American father was very happy to have a little Gambian child named after him. Mom and Dad: Make sure you bring some cute baby clothes when you visit...

A few days after Baby Ray's naming ceremony, we celebrated Tobaski. While some Gambians celebrated the holiday on Thursday, December 20, the rest of us, mostly in the provinces, celebrated it on Friday, December 21 (it's a long story).

Admittedly, Tobaski was a difficult holiday for me. Not only did I witness the slaughtering of two rams, was forced to take a picture of the two rams (named Sarjo I and Sarjo II), and was handed approximately 4 pounds of raw ram meat by my host father and host uncle, I was incredibly homesick.

I realized my feelings of homesickness early in the day, but couldn't really grasp why because it wasn't Christmas just yet. Finally, it hit me as I was holding sleeping Baby Ray, while my host brother was gutting dead Sarjo I, that I was celebrating a holiday with a family, which has traditions and was excited to be together with family. But while I was with my host family for which I love and adore, I was not with MY family or with MY traditions. It's weird to go through similar motions and activities, but for a whole different purpose and for something, like Tobaski, that has a totally different meaning. I had my breaking point after my family handed me the 4 pounds of meat. I literally threw it in a plastic bowl on the table in my 'kitchen'[consists of gas stove on the floor and a meter tall table, minimumly stocked with cooking utensils] and ran to my backyard and sat on my bathroom bench and bawled for about 15 minutes until a Gambian friend of mine stopped by to greet me. I shook off the emotions and reluctantly cooked 3 pounds of the 4 pounds of meat (gave the remaining pound away to my visiting friend) and actually came to really enjoy the rest of the day. After members of my family had a special lunch, with ram meat, rice, vegetables, and other goodies, we sat around listening to music until the evening. After the sun went down, people dressed up in their specially-made Tobaski outfits and walked around the village greeting and asking for 'salibo' (prayers or money are given to those who ask).

At night, I danced like a champ (is there any other way?) with all my teenage host brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, and cousins at the village's Tobaski dance.

Two days after Tobaski, I headed down-country to another PCV's site for Christmas. He lives in a Christian compound that raises pigs. So...my Christmas was a lot like home (minus the tree, church, and 24 screening of A Christmas Story), but we certainly did a lot of eating. Surprisingly, Christmas wasn't as emotionally hard as Tobaski had been a couple days earlier. I suppose being away from home during the holidays is a process and much like everything else, you get through it.

It was nice to relax and be near a more tropical part of the country (it was almost like an entirely different country). After Christmas, I visited two other PCVs at their respective sites and had a nice time, just relaxing and getting to know some other PCVs better. It's always motivating to return from someone else's site because we all do similar work here, but we all try different approaches.

I made sure to return to site for New Year's and passed up attending a PC party nearby. Instead, I stayed in my village and rang in the New Year with another PCV friend who came for a visit, coloring books, colored pencils, and my fellow PCV's iPod. Happy 2008!

A Recent Encounter* with the British-kind

2007-12-14T13:16:00.000-08:00

(*Not THAT kind of encounter---although, if it were, it’d be more interesting, wouldn’t it? Sorry to disappoint…)

---

This is a recent contribution I wrote for my sector's December newsletter...it is based on a real chance meeting I had with a British tourist in the middle of nowhere. I'm (obviously) the PCV in the story. I disguised my identity for the sheer purpose that I didn't want to have fellow PCVs ridicule my horrible storytelling abilities.

NOTE: This is best read if you imagine the sound of my sarcastic voice during the bracketed sections. If it's been too long for you to remember what my voice, albeit sarcastic tone, sounds like...then I suggest you either call me or better yet, come visit. Thought I'd slip a plea in there. If one wants something, she must ask for it, right?

Anyway...read on...before my nonsensical ramblings distract you again.

…Whilst riding home on my bicycle, an hour before dusk (i.e. the time of day when the sun falls down), in a large, dusty pothole (literally), somewhere in Fulladu West. There is a fellow cyclist in the distance, and my initial thought is that it’s another Peace Corps Volunteer, but I soon realize the rider was not wearing a helmet---a clear indication that it was NOT (Reminder: Wear your helmet!!!) I move out of the sun glare and realize the cyclist was a man, who stopped instantly and seemed even more enthusiastic than I usually am when stumbling upon a fellow ‘toubab’ who’s not throwing minties from a tourist bus. Thus goes our conversation (some of which may have been altered for maintaining interest of the audience…)

British cyclist tourist man: Hello!!!! Where you headed?

PCV : Home. [Secretly thinks: Anywhere you’re going, baby.]British cyclist tourist man: Oh, so you live here. Just thought I’d warn you that the road is really bad that way…

PCV: Yes, I know. What are you doing here?

British cyclist tourist man: I’m a tourist, just biking my way through Senegal and The Gambia, but I’ve gotten lost.”

PCV: Where are you supposed to be going now?

British cyclist tourist man: Well, I missed the turn for Janjanbureh. I’m staying there for the night.

PCV: You missed the turn? [Thinks to self: Dude, there’s only two roads here…both go east and west, one in the north, one in the south. How did you miss the ONLY junction? Oh wait, you’re a tourist.]

British cyclist tourist man: Yeah, can you tell me where I should go?

PCV: Go about 5km, look for the sometimes-there, sometimes-not-there-police checkpoint on your left and you’ll see the junction. Turn left and follow the road until you see the river. You can’t miss it (twice). To cross on the ferry with your bike is two delasis.

British cyclist tourist man: So why are you here? What are you doing?

PCV: I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer, working with Health and Community Development. You’re biking alone? [Want company…?]

British cyclist tourist man: Yeah, I did this trip in 2004, but wanted to do it again. I bought this bike (powder blue and orange, bike with mud fenders in Kombo---THINK: Trek bike meets a beach cruiser). I’m looking to do something and help here. I have an electrical engineering background, but I suppose that may not be too helpful here.

PCV: Well, it could be…you just have to be creative. I think the key is building relationships with people first and then assessing their needs. In fact, I just came from a meeting at the Regional Health Team’s office [fire the ambulance driver who stole the ambulance for two weeks already!] and am now heading to the school I’m working with. There’s a program there this evening because a Spanish NGO came today to “drop-off things” for the children---computers, laptops, solar panels, games, notebooks, pens. All those things are great, but the Spanish folks are leaving before all the solar and computers can be installed.

British cyclist tourist man: Hmm…I see. [Appears to be interested in aforementioned comments, but clearly isn’t, thanks to his abrupt change in focus to my RAD wheels] That’s a nice American bike you’ve got there. You come with that?

PCV: PC provides it…THIS [taps affectionately] is my baby. I love it---great stress reliever. Instead of punching children in the face when they ask me to ‘borrow them my bike’, I just say, ‘NO!’ and ride off as fast as I can [the kids can run really, really fast and sometimes I fear I can’t escape them! Or I ride as if I’m escaping hyenas who want to attack---it could happen.]

British cyclist tourist man: Well, I guess I should get going. Thanks for your help and good luck to you.

PCV: Thanks. You too! And good luck with the rest of your journey.

Both of us ride off into the sunset...wondering if we’ll ever meet again [cue romantic, yet dramatic movie music]…Well, actually I was riding into the sunset and he was going east and clearly riding away from it. But anyway, it was a classic Peace Corps moment---a chance encounter on the road less traveled...

Three days later (I kid you not…the below REALLY did happen)…

Riding in the back seat of a white Mercedes-Benz, with four other people, heading (rather quickly) towards the Barra Ferry Crossing.... Before we go to the vehicle weigh station, I see the outlines of a red cyclist’s shirt in the distance…and much to my amazement…it’s British cyclist tourist man! He’s pedaling his last few kilometers of his journey and I’ll be there [*crosses fingers*] to greet him…

My vehicle enters the loading dock for boarding the ferry, and I’m secretly excited to meet British cyclist tourist man again. I sit for a few minutes and desperately look for the children selling ices; today they are nowhere to be found. I look up after my brief disappointment of not having the opportunity to suck cold, juicy goodness from a plastic bag, and I see that British cyclist tourist man has crossed the imaginary finish line of his journey (no, he didn’t ride off the dock and into the water). I hurriedly get out of the vehicle to go and congratulate him on a job well done.

PCV: Hello…do you remember me? [He nods yes.] Congratulations…you made it!

British cyclist tourist man: Yes! I remember you. I’m finished and it feels great! I’m going to Kartong now to relax and eat. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight.

We continue to chit-chat, until Kanilai (the name of the ferry) docks and I rush back to the vehicle so that my driver doesn’t leave me in Barra. Before we load onto the boat, British cyclist tourist man gives me his email and his blog address and says “If you’re ever in London.” I hurriedly give him mine…The passengers of the vehicle ask “Is he your husband?” I laugh and say a defiant, “No!” [Images of our future together…our proposal, our wedding, our children flash before me and they’re gone, like the sunset…] We cross and as my vehicle leaves the Kanilai and enters Banjul, we wave… a chance encounter, twice lived…

Life here as a Volunteer, as you all know, is full of unexpected, unpredictable happenings and events. My encounter (times two) with British tourist cyclist man (whose real name is Jon) made me realize a few things:

1. Not all tourists like to throw minties out of tour bus windows. In fact, some like to brave it alone and when they get lost, they venture through villages to find their way and meet the people, Gambian and Volunteers.
2. Riding with a helmet still makes PCVs the coolest [and hoTTest] cyclists in all of The Gambia.
3. We should all ride our bikes more---we might meet some interesting people along the way.
4. Cycling is a great stress reliever.
5. Encounters like this reinforce the fact that The Gambia REALLY is THAT small.

Happy Tobaski, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!

2007-12-14T07:11:00.000-08:00

Before I head back to my village, I want to wish you all Happy Holidays! May you enjoy your time with loved ones and friends and know that I am thinking of all of you from afar and will miss you.

As for my holiday plans, I'll be celebrating the Muslim holiday of Tobaski (Tobaski info)on December 21 with host family and village. I will have a traditional African dress made (wrap skirt and matching top)and am excited to be having a nice party, with music and food. My host father has already purchased a ram. I just hope I'm MIA when my family goes to slaughter it. Travel throughout the country will be chaotic for the next week or so, and I've already begun to see rams (several) strapped to the roofs of gele-geles making the trans-Gambian journey.

For Christmas, I will be traveling West towards the Kombo area (but not entering Kombo)and will be staying with another PCV's Christian host family. There will be several PCVs there also celebrating. We will be eating bush pig (Muslims don't eat pork)and hopefully having some good Christmas cheer! As far as New Year's goes, I have no idea what I'll be doing, but it'll be worthwhile, I'm sure.

So for now, I wish you all a wonderful holiday season. I look forward to sharing more adventures with you in the New Year! Take care and all the best.

Love,
Stephanie

P.S. If you're sending me a letter, why not send me pictures too? I love receiving photographs from people.

To America and Back! The story of a long, lost letter...

2007-12-13T06:07:00.000-08:00

Almost 4 months ago, I sent a letter to the friends and family of St. Andrew's UMC in care of the church's secretary because I could not remember the zip code of the church. I had in my address the home address of the the church's secretary. However, I did not realize that the letter I posted was to the wrong address as she had moved (2 years ago, mind you). OOPS!

Once I had access to Internet in October, I asked the church secretary if she had received my letter and she said no. So, I wrote an email about my current happenings at that time and sent it to her. That email was then posted online and sent to church family and friends in its newsletter.

The other day, as I checked my mailbox at the Peace Corps Office, I saw my letter that I posted to St. Andrew's in August had made a trans-Atlantic journey...TWICE! I guess the US Postal Service's Return to Sender system is much more efficient than I ever realized. Anyway, for fun, I thought I'd post my original letter here:

August 15, 2007

Dear St. Andrew's Family and Friends,

Greetings! I hope this finds you all well and gearing up for the fall season and all of its many activities! I thought I'd send a little update from The Smiling Coast of Africa. But first, I'd like to thank the Missions Committee for the two AMAZING care packages that were sent to me earlier this summer. Your time and thought of putting them together is greatly appreciated. I also want to thank everyone for your continued support-whether it'd be prayers, cards, letters, or even just asking my parents on Sunday about how I'm doing (They do makre sure to tell me that I am being though of/asked about). THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

By the time this letter is received, I will be finishing my fourth month of life in my permanent village, called Pacharr. Overall, things have been going well here. Some dayss are still better than others, but I remind myself (daily) that this also occurs in the US too. MY host family is wonderful, but is quite large. My host uncle also resides in the compound with his three wives and their children. My family is loud as there is a lot of yelling, shouting, and crying (by the children), but there's also a lot of laughing (and no they just don't laugh AT me, although usually I am involved somehow.)

Although my language skills are still pretty horrible, I've begun looking into/working on a few projects in my village and surrounding area. (My language skills, or rather lack thereof, is my biggest problem/struggle right now.) For the past three weeks, I have been teaching a summer session at the primary and middle school here. I teach English to grades 7, 8, 9. (All classes aer taught in English, but the problem is that English is not spoken at home, so the children struggle.) At the end of grade 9, all students take an exam that is administered throughout countries in West Africa. IF students do not pass their grade 9 exam, they cannot continue onto Secondary School (unless families pay their way into it).

Teaching is a challenge here as many of he school teachers themselves have NOT completed their own Secondary School education/studies. Students are taught to memorize, not think freely. Working with the school and interacting with children in my village who are of school age, but whose parents do not send them or can't afford to send them has really opened my eyes to how fortunate I am to have a good education. In the coming school year, I will teach a few classes and hold special programs. I will also continue working with the school's agricultural department in starting its garden/orchard. I do not want be a full-time teacher here. (Plus, it's nice to have variety).

In addition to working with the school, I have been working with my assigned counterpart, who is a Community Health Nurse in my village. I help out on clinic days and assist with weighing babies and screening children under the age of five for malnutrition and immunizations. The work at the clinics can be mentally and emotionally draining; plus, the work is not sustainable. (Sustainability is a HUGE objective here and for Peace Corps.) My counterpart and I work well together, and we have decided to embark on some additional projects in the village, such as a montly environmental sanitation/clean-up day, an anti-smoking campaign, malaria preparedness, and HIV/AIDS education.

Other possible projects inlcude: creating an Arts Club for kids, expanding a community garden, revamping two women's group gardens, and restarting adult literacy classes. Many of these projects are still merely ideas, but as my language improves, I will be able to launch them.

To describe mylife or to give you perspective, here is just a brief account of today's morning and early fternoon: I awoke to one of my host mothers chopping firewood outside my bedroom window. The firewood was to be used to cook the family's breakfast of rice porridge. I got out of bed, used my pit latrine (top is cracked and soon may cave in due to the rains, despite it only being 3.5 months old), washed my face, using a cup and bucket full of wwater, dressed myself in a skirt made of local fabric and a t-shirt. I closed my windows and doors in case the August rains came while I was out. (Depending on the direction of rainy season storms, rain can easily soak my bed and wet my trunk full of "American" food as it comes in through an open window.) I greeted several members of my family good morning, which is cutomary here and one is considered dishonorable if he or she does not extend a series of extended greetings. I proceeded to walk two kilometers to school as my bicycle (Peace Corps issued-kind of like a company car-African style) has a flat tire, and I have yet to fix the puncture.

As I walked on and to the side of the pothole-riddled road, I briefly wondered why there were no school children laggin behind me. I stopped in a shop in the village where school is located. One of my students, whose father owns the shop, informed me as I asked for animal-cracker-like cookies that there was no school today as it was declared last night that today would be a Public Holiday---Assumption Day. I thanked him for telling me and walked out with my breakfast cookies, costing roughly 25 cents. I proceeded to the school to see if I could speak to my colleagues. Only a few students showed up for class and the decision was made to send them home. Apparently, those who showed up did not hear the public holiday announcement on the radio either. After confirmaing no school today, I walked back home, meeting some of my students along the way. Once home, I swept my house of the dust/dirt that never seems to stop collecting. Today I am feeling achey and nauseous and hope I am not getting sick, so I decided to rest. As I rested, the thick cloud of humidity overhead began to darken and the wind came. A heavy downpour began to fall as soon as I came inside from unravelling the rope that keeps my windows open. As I write this, I am sitting on my makeshift couch (a bamboo-like bed) and the rain is beating down on the corrugate roof overhead. If the rain stops this afternoon, then I'll head to the garden where I am helping a neighbor plant mango tree seedlings. Today we plan on finishing construction of the orchard's fence. (I nail the barbed wire to the tree posts.) IF I finish early, I will head to a soccer match that is the first for the village's summer tournament. (I've been appointed co-organizer even though I can only make out about 20% of what is discussed at the meetings.)

Well, I hope the little vignette of my day was able to briefly transport you to another world. Again, things are going fairly well here. Lately, I've missed home and its many people and things, but I remind myself that it will all be there when I return in 20 months. It also helps to know that I have so many people supporting me and praying for me, like the St. Andrew's family. Thank you.

With much love and thanks,
Stephanie (aka: Jaliika Fatty)

PS. The rats that live below my corrugate roof and above my rice bag ceiling have just woken up and have decided to play. Let's hope they don't come crashing through my ceiling!

PPS. My Mom has told me that many of you have asked how you can help me with my projects. Once more ground work is laid, I will be sure to let you know of any help/donations that are needed! Thanks so much!

Some Photo Highlights from Thanksgiving Weekend 2007

2007-11-25T09:32:00.000-08:00

40th Anniversary Peace Corps The Gambia Party Dress

Thanksgiving Sunset at the Ambassador's House

Chowing down on some Thanksgiving chicken at the U.S. Ambassador's house

Happy Birthday, Mama!

2007-11-25T04:34:00.000-08:00

Mom's Birthday is November 27. If you see her, give her a BIG hug for me and give her a delicious cake from Classic Cake.

Mommy-

HAPPY (??) BIRTHDAY!!!

Hope you have a wonderful birthday, and that you are able to enjoy your day.

I'm sorry that I'm not there to celebrate with you, but please know I'll be thinking of you (as always) and can't wait to celebrate many more with you when I get home (sooner than you think).

Anyway, have a wonderful day and know that I'm so thankful to have you as my Mom.

Pre-Thanksgiving, Happy Thanksgiving Wishes!

2007-11-11T00:59:00.000-08:00

I will be returning to the Kombos for Thanksgiving, as we are having a big celebration here. However, because there will be many Volunteers around, my access to the Internet may be limited...

So before I forget or in case I can't wish you well then:

HAPPY TURKEY DAY, EVERYONE!

I cannot express how thankful I am for all of your support, prayers, thoughts, packages, letters, and emails. You all continue to encourage me, and I constantly find myself amazed by all of you.

Thanks and make sure you eat extra cranberry sauce, stuffing, and mashed potatoes for me. (I don't really care about the turkey too much.) Wear a sweater at the dinner table too!

Time Warps

2007-11-10T02:33:00.000-08:00

As I write this, I'm listening to R.E.M's Monster, courtesy of a care package my sister sent a month or two ago. It brings me back to the days I would run, on my toes, up the Battery Hill hill at home, rocking out to Crush with Eyeliner as I conquered the 'mountain' after work on a warm, fall day. Oddly enough, I crave the day when I can sprint up a hill (an actual hill) since I've been running on the flattest tarmac on this continent for 9 months now. Although, I think I may have to bring a baboon back home with me and see if it spastically runs out of someone's yard as I round the bend...who wants a pet baboon? Anyone? You can tie it to a fence post in your yard and let it run loose every now and then; they'll eat your weeds...

Lately my thoughts have been on the future...followed by the past and meeting it again in the future (think: warm embraces and food and how glorious those things will be in two years, or 1.5 years now), and lastly the present. What will the next 1.5 years hold? What about when I return to the land of the free and the brave? Some say it's too early for me to toss around those post-Peace Corps thoughts, but I'm realizing that thinking ahead is a typical 'Steph' thing to do, so I'm happy to see that I'm still normal in that respect(phew!).

Initially, these post-Peace Corps thoughts entered my mind during training (so early, I know). I'm so determined to make the most of my time here and enjoy the moment, but I feel like many of my thoughts (when my host family tries to snap me back to reality as I stare up at the (shooting) stars at night) are devoted to the life beyond/after here. And initially, I felt guilty for having these thoughts. I like to think forward and always have...it's what makes me tick. Is it so wrong to know that worlds beyond the one that I'm living in, at that particular moment, exist?

However, I've slowly realized that my thoughts about the future (future love? job? place of residence? hobbies? house/apartment? car?) have reinforced that my journey here can only be attributed to prior journeys and experiences, in which I was inevitably thinking of 'what's next?'.

If my Father hadn't pulled a map out everytime something important happened on the news when I was a child, and if my Mother hadn't let me continue to talk to myself as I taught social studies and geography to my stuffed animals in the basement, and if Susan hadn't been a huge influence on my desire to know more about the things she was learning in school, even though she was a full four years ahead of me, then I would have never had a desire to travel to Russia in high school, or study international affairs in college, or volunteer in the States and here.

My experience here is just that...an experience...much like the other 'experiences' in my life; yet, somehow this one is so incredibly different than any other. I can't help but think how this one experience, in essentially, such a minute fraction of my life (2 years really isn't that long---really), will shape me, my career, my friends, my family, and my children (give that ten years).

So now I'm trying to grasp how to best deal with these overwhelming thoughts of the future and how I can make sure I can make the most of what I can while I'm here. I look back on college (soon it will be 4 years since I graduated) and realize that there are many courses I wish I could have taken, many activities I wished I would have been involved in, and many other things that I wish...I wish...I wish...BUT I've reached an understanding that while I do wish I did this and did that, I am simultaneously content with what I DID do.

My happiness here is dependent upon how I handled previous experiences, how I've learned to adjust to the 'abnormal' and how I've learned to adapt and be flexible, how I've tried to maintain my integrity, my values, and all those lessons I've learned. Using the past to help in living the present, I think, makes thoughts of the future all the more exciting. I love looking back at how I've changed and remained the same all these years; perhaps that's why I'm always looking ahead...

***

During a recent phone conversation with my Dad, he asked what I wanted for Christmas. First, I'm still trying to adjust to the idea that it's November as I still think it's July because of the heat (although cold season is coming soon, soon---I may even get to wear long-sleeved shirts in the morning!) And Christmas will probably be a emotion-numbing experience, so I think it's best not to think about it for as long as possible...

I asked that he and my Mama send me a teleporting machine, similiar to the little glass cars that the Jetsons would ride around in their space community. Much to my dismay, he said they were on backorder this year. I said, well, perhaps next year then...

I often express such teleporting desires when on the phone with family and friends, not because I want to go home (I really do like it here and want to finish the job that I came here to do), but that I really just want to go home to experience the little moments that are more important that I'd ever imagined they'd be---like tuna fish sandwiches on Sundays after church, running through Maria Barnaby Greenwald Park, backyard BBQs, shopping excursions with Susan, and conversations over a cup of tea with Mom at the kitchen table.

To all my engineering/science friends out there, can you get working on some kind of teleporting device, perhaps within the next year? I'd like to be able to fetch water at the pump, sweep my house, teach class at the school, garden with the women, bike 20 km for vegetables and be home in New Jersey in time for a Sunday lunch. Let me know of your progress soon, please...

My Trip to The Home Depot (sans donkey cart, unfortunately)

2007-10-02T16:02:00.000-07:00

26 September 2007

So my adventure today:

You know when you start a home improvement project (ahem, Mom and Dad) and don't realize that you've forgotten something until you're in the middle of it? So you stop what you're doing, get in the car, and drive the 20 minutes to The Home Depot and find all the other ninnies who've forgotten something too on a Saturday afternoon (my case, a Wednesday)? You buy what you need and find something else that you didn't need, but figured you might need eventually. You get in the check-out line and head to the parking lot and drive home. Your small home improvement project is soon done (unless you're my Dad and then it's not done until it's 'perfect' and that may take 10 years---love you, Papa!)

Anyway, today was kind of like that but with a twist---

My ceiling in my sitting room was made of rice bags, sewn together. My second-floor tenants (THE RATS!), were starting to build sizable nests and I was becoming afraid that the second-floor tenants would soon become my roommates. For this reason, I decided to replace my ceiling with cardboard and wood slats.
So after three trips to the thriving metropolis of the town in which there is a lumo every Saturday to purchase nails and wood the week before. (I had to transport the wood with the assistance of my Gambian friend, who hired a horse cart for me, so the wood could be taken 10 km to my village on a day when I was at the hospital, seeing that a malnourished, malaria stricken child was being care for properly.)

Anyway, my host brother said that he already had cardboard to replace my ceiling and I just needed to purchase the wood and the nails. However, my brother traveled and instructed my host uncle, who happens to be a carpenter, to fix my ceiling. After tearing down the rice bags, my uncle inspected the cardboard and realized it was no good, as the rats had chewed through it in the storage room. I immediately told my host uncle that I did not want to use rat-chewed cardboard for my ceiling and told him I'd venture to the hardware store to pick up some more. Here is where my experience, similar, yet not really, to every one's Saturday at The Home Depot, begins:

My host cousin, who speaks limited English and is enrolled in Koranic School, and I traveled to previously mentioned lumo town. I wanted to take a donkey cart (my family's )because 1) I didn't want to pay the equivalent of $2 to have the gele-gele driver load it on the roof for transport and 2) I still haven't ridden on a donkey cart and thought this could be my chance. Nope...shot down because it's 'too slow'. Hello...we're in The Gambia...SLOW is relative!

So...we took a gele-gele because it's faster. Surprisingly my cousin and I didn't have to wait long to catch a vehicle. We dropped at the town's 'car park' and then headed to Sala's and Sons Shop (i.e. MY Home Depot). If anything, I think PCVs in the area keep this guy in business. The owner of the shop, with whom I befriended, traveled to Senegal and some young punk kids were manning the shop (much to my chagrin). We bought cardboard after bargaining down (not by much), and flagged down a relative of mine, who is a gele-gele driver, to carry my boards to the car park.

My relative's vehicle was not yet ready to go when we arrived back at the carpark, so we switched vehicles and while unloading the cardboard panels off the one vehicle and onto the other, I realized that the 'manager wannabe' of the car park asked if my cousin was my husband. We both replied with a big NO. A large discussion as to why I haven't yet found a husband in my village ensued. Next came bargaining for the price of my cardboard a top the vehicle. Even though I paid 2 fares (me and my cousin), it was though I paid for 6 as they charged me the same price of fare for each piece of cardboard. BOO.

So we finally moved back to my village, once my gele-gele driver was able to have his door stay shut. We dropped the cardboard at the main junction and headed towards my house (all the way at the back of the village). We came to collect the donkey cart, but much to my chagrin, sans donkey. Needless to say, I didn't get to ride on the cart as my nephews were the ones pushing it. Donkey boys!

Once we arrived, work got underway and now my ceiling is up. Rats still renting, but hopefully, I won't lie awake at night, thinking tonight might be the night they become my roommates.

Random Journal Entries of Strange, Funny, Amusing, Frustrating Encounters

2007-10-02T15:11:00.000-07:00

All entries are random and in no particular order. Deal with it.

25 September 2007
approximately 3:15pm

Police officer and man get in Fulabantang ambulance on my way back from Bansang. It is not until 15 kilometers when we stopped at the police Post that I realized the man being accompanied by the police officer is HANDCUFFED and sitting right behind.

The ambulance driver laughed at me when I discovered the silver bracelets fastened upon the man's wrists.

20 September 2007
Listening to BBC-new reality show on CBS-children have to build their own society. It's called under question for child exploitation and I say----COME TO AFRICA!

23 August 2007 (an angry day---they happen on occasion)
1. Don't stare at me. I may be white, but I don't live in the middle of nowhere here in The Gambia. I know you've seen others like me before.
2. When I ignore you for 10 minutes, that's a sign that I 1) am busy; 2) don't like you; 3)have anything to say. (ie. SCRAM!)
3.If you tell me I can't speak Mandinka, just remember that you've been learning English for 8 years and you still can't speak it properly.
4. When you're in my house and my phone beeps, I know I have a text message. You don't have to tell me 3x that I have message.
5. Heaven help me if I pick up the habit of burping aloud and not saying excuse me, or farting and letting everyone know it was me (I'll still stick to not revealing that I did it.)
6. Heaven help me if I interupt other people when they are speaking or continue to greet even though there is clearly a discussion taking place.
7.If you stare at me, I will time you with my watch that I'm STILL not giving you, even after you've asked me 20 times for it. I still haven't changed my mind.
8.Again, Europe and America are not the same place. They are not synonyms. There's a big (freakin') ocean that separates the 2 continents.
9. If you have your bed nets treated, don't bring your small 6 year old child to carry three poisonous dipped nets home.
10. Your 6 year old child is clearly not strong enough to carry your 1 year old.
11. If your child is sick with malaria, don't let them sit outside so more mosquitoes that are possibly infected with malaria can bite them.
12. Yes, there are flies in America and weeds and rice.
13. I can't emphasize enough---learn your pronouns.
14. Don't say an English curse word if you don't know what it means.
15. Don't destroy my things...or else I'll just want to hit you and I'll resent you more. (Parents, if I give you something for your children to play with...remember I gave it to them through you. It belongs to me.)
16. Just because you see something on my couch, it doesn't mean you can do what you want with it. Instead, ask, "May I look at this?" That's polite.
17. I am not free labor.
18. A child under 10 should NOT carry a 20L jug on her head.
19. Don't say let you go after you've sat in my house for ten minutes, and I've ignored you. I'm, by no means, keeping you hostage; I don't want you here!

14 September 2007
Please tell your child that peeing where we eat dinner is not okay.

Approximately around 5:15pm yesterday, I was bathing after having a rest during the many sessions I had at the latrine (I had a bout of gastritis). A few boys on a horse cart, a high horse cart, rode by and I was in lala land (thinking of America) and after they passe (after making loud hissing sounds that I must have blocked out), I realized they passed and I pray that they didn't see me completely naked over my concrete wall.

Driving Along in My Mind

2007-09-30T04:44:00.000-07:00

16 August 2007

Another random writing

It has been brought to my attention that I haven't driven a car for almost seven months now. I have memories of cruising around (if you can call it cruising in my '94 Ford Taurus wagon with half its bumper missing-thanks drunk driver, hit and run!) listening to tunes.

Here, every morning I turn on my sort wave radio and listen to the Moroccan radio station (RIP iPod-read post). I have no clue what they're saying- "I don't speak French, but they play good music on occasion. However, on some days the music selection is worse than poor. There have been covers struggling artists. Covers of Rolling Stones, Bon Jovi, and even some Motown. MY favorite so far has been the mellowed "Sugar Pie Honeybunch" by the Four Tops. Whenvere I hear this song, it puts a smirk on my face for two reasons: 1) The cover is so pitiful that Levi Stubbs would be crying if he heard it and 2) I can't help but think of my mother driving the '88 Crown Vic around, listening to her Four Tops cassette tape. She'd sing "Sugar Pie Honeybunch" and remove her hands from the steering wheel (much to my fear and awe) and wave them around as if she were one of the groups long lost member. She'd have a smile on her face and be singing, both dimples showing.

Every time we rode in that car, she'd put the cassette in and we'd sing "Bernadette" or one of the other groups greatest hits.

Susan drives the Crown Vic now (or did you finally get rid of it?) and the tape deck likes to eat tapes. The past few years, Mom and I would take road trips to Pittsburgh, but now she drives the Buick and instead of the Four Tops, we listen to Morrissey...really loud.

Road Trip in 2009, Mom? I'll be ready...

Sorry Boys, This Chick Is No Longer Available

2007-09-29T01:11:00.001-07:00

*JUST KIDDING*...but read on...

This is my 'husband', Fodaiy Fatty, also known as Paabi. He's three and technically my cousin (his father is my uncle).

Just recently, our relationship has started to bloom. Since my arrival to my permanent village, Fodaiy, unfortunately, has been afraid of me. As soon as he'd see me, he'd run the other way---all the while laughing and screaming at the same time. Then he'd start to cry. I told him repeatedly that our relationship would not work if he continued to be fearful of me, but he never responded or even listened. Typical male---never listens or perhaps it's because he doesn't speak English and I don't really speak Mandinka well...who knows.

A few weeks back, however, Paabi, fell asleep in my arms. I'm not sure if he was delirious or if he was jealous of Mero (see picture links) who is constantly in my lap and being held. Now, Paabi will come to my door, and at times, enter my house. Maybe we really can be a happy couple despite the language barrier (and obvious age difference).

Let me tell you a little bit more about Paabi...

Paabi can hardly talk and when he does, he mutters things that are indecipherible, even by his native Mandinka speaking family. Paabi likes to eat and has a big belly to show for it, or it could be attributed to the fact that he neve wears shoes and may have contracted worms because of this. Paabi also has a weird eye twitch that no one seems to notice except me. But I really like my husband for his uncanny similarity to one of Rock 'n Roll's greatest legends...Freddie Mercury of Queen. Paabi's dancing talent is much like Freddie's. In fact, Paabi typically parades around the compound half-naked or even completely naked. On more than one occasion have I noted that Paabi's dance moves share a striking resemblance to Freddie's performance of Radio GaGa at LiveAID (check out the video). The sad part is that I am the only one that finds the humor in his likeness to Freddie. My family has no idea who Freddie is, nor Queen...nor anything of the sort. Regardless, we all laugh at Paabi and yell at him when he stops to pee in the middle of the compound and then continues dancing. I laugh, however, because Paabi has helped me bring a smile and chuckle to the faces of many old men and many young 'cool' Rasta-bumster wannabes in my village. When those groups ask me if I have a husband, I say yes and point to the dancing three year-old donkey boy. And for this, I remain forever devoted to Paabi...

The Sounds My Sneakers Make

2007-09-29T00:46:00.000-07:00

14 August 2007

While waiting for my students in Grade 8 English to finish an assignment on synonyms, I decided to write some thoughts down so as to not break down crying. On August 14, I was feeling kinda homesick...

The Sounds My Sneakers Make

My bicycle has a flat
Today I am teaching school
In August, there's always a chance of rain, but today, I'll risk getting drenched...I have to walk by foot.

As I pass through my village and onto the next, the children scream my name or variants of it.
They'll shout 'toubab' until my eyes roll back far into my head.
The children's shrieks and shrills are only white noise; my mind is somewhere else.

My ears are attuned to the beat, the rhythym of my sneakers on the tarmac.
As I try to avoid trampling and tripping through the water-logged potholes, the beat, the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement almost bring me to tears.

The sound, the humidity in the air reminds me of nights when I'd have 'dates with Dad'.
Mom would be working late, as she oftens does, so he and I would make some sort of 'feast' out of leftovers.
We'd watch cable news 'til we (usually just me) couldn't stand hearing the same headline for the **th time.

We'd look at each other as Chris Matthews or Keith Olberman would sign off and give each other the unspoken signal---time to take a (brisk) walk around the neighborhood.

Since I was little I remember him wearing New Balance sneakers.
From the time I began to play sports I'd wear the same brand too because I inherited his flat, wide feet and the different widths of New Balances accomodated this trait.

On our walks, I'd start off fast, following the momentum that our driveway's hill provided.
Dad would soon tell me to slow down, not because he couldn't keep up, but because he wanted to build his speed gradually, little by little...set the pace.

We'd chat about the past-his past-stories of his childhood and college days and his first years with Mom. I'd share memories of elementary school---memories usually triggered by things we passed by in the neighborhood---like...

The Buick Rendezvous parked on the street about 1/4 mile away from our house. I told Dad about a classmate's failed attempt at pronouncing 'rendezvous' in Mr. Del Rossi's 8th grade English class and how everytime I see that make and model, I can't help but laugh. (Note: I have not yet seen a Buick Rendezvous in The Gambia...nor a Buick of any kind. In fact, any American car is a rarity.)

On our walks, I'd tell him about my hopes, dreams, goals, and then we'd stop talking for a bit and I'd listen to the rhythym of the rubber against the pavement and the beat of the shoelaces against the tops of our sneakers-all in the peacefulness of our unspoken words.

Now during these days here, I'm feeling homesick again. I long for the familiar, for affection, for silence.

Each time I feel those feelings, I try not to cry, but try to remind myself that I used to talk and talk about how I wanted this adventure. This is not forever and I have waited so long for this opportunity.

And on many of those nights, walking with Dad---feet FLAT on the surface---I'd tell him of my dreams of being here (here not as in The Gambia specifically, but here in the moment)---challenging myself.

Isn't it funny how the sound of rubber on the pavement can automatically take you to a place where you wish you could be? I've wished to be here for so long...and now that I'm here, a part of me wishes I could be there, even if just for a walk with Dad.

My feet and my hopes and dreams take me to so many places, but I know that my feet are planted in the memories of the sounds my sneakers make.

A Disclaimer...Read Before Proceeding to New Posts

2007-09-29T00:44:00.001-07:00

The upcoming posts will be a mix of writings (my best form of therapy while here), journal entries, and storytelling (all true!) of my various encounters, experiences, and thoughts.

It is a random selection...so please forgive me for skipping around in advance.

You may continue as you wish.

I'm Back in Kombo!

2007-09-28T12:14:00.000-07:00

Greetings Everyone!

I'm back in Kombo for the next two weeks as I have meetings and a few other things to take care of here. I just spent 2.5 months in and around my village, and I must say it's nice to get away for a little while.

I will be posting many funny, weird, and sad entries over the next week or so. I've already uploaded a handful of pictures, but there will be more to come.

In these past two months, I have had many eye-opening experiences...taking a malnurished child to the hospital, trying to convince the mother of another child to take her malnurished child to the hospital, going to the Gambian Home Depot in the middle of a home improvement project, funerals of babies and young adults, and other lighter musings...

Miss you all...

Thanks for all the packages/letters/thoughts/prayers...I'll be sending shout outs to you all soon.

Peace Out Until Late September

2007-07-22T12:57:00.001-07:00

I probably won't be back to computer access until late September, so hopefully I'll have some updates then.

In the meantime, I'll be writing letters, keeping my journal, and hopefully will have some funny stories and some updates on the progress of my projects then.

Keep those letters (and packages if so obliged) coming and don't forget to send everything AIR MAIL/PAR AVION!!!

All my best.

Love and miss you all.

Requests and Dedications (Please)

2007-07-22T03:27:00.000-07:00

In a previous post, you found me pleading for all of you out there to send me CD mixes. I said I wanted anything, except country (again, I apologize to all you (secret) country fans*). However, since I've had a few days to think about this and still have computer access (until tomorrow when I head back to site for a good 6-8 weeks), I realized that I do have a few requests and perhaps by you fulfilling my request, it'd be like you're sending out a dedication to me, your friend who is afar, and I'd be ever so appreciative.

Requests
(Note: List not exhaustive---send me new stuff, top 40, your faves...my ears are open and your selections will help me 'readjust' when I return to the States.)

-Jeff Buckley
-The Police
-Editors
-The Shins
-Pink Floyd
-Belle & Sebastian
-Morrissey
-Guillemots
-Depeche Mode
-Interpol
-The Clash
-Sting
-The Kaiser Chiefs
-U2 (duh!)
-David Gray
-Hard-FI
-Counting Crows
-Incubus
-The Cure
-Modest Mouse
-Van Morrison
-Rolling Stones
-David Bowie
-Random dance mixes (ie. songs that remind me/you of going out or driving in the car (ie. Rav4))

**To Steve Hess, if you're inclined to make me a CD mix, I allow you to put country songs on it...but all of you should realize that he is the only one that is granted permission.

Yes, It Really Does Take 12 hrs 45 mins to Travel 350km Here

2007-07-19T07:55:00.000-07:00

I hope by now that those of you who periodically check my blog have come to the realization that I don't have access to the Internet unless I come to Kombo. There are locations closer to my site where I can use the Internet, but its availability is hit or miss or just downright frustrating, so I tend to not update when at site.

In light of this, I'd like to detail what it takes for me to get to Kombo so that one can better appreciate the blog updates in the future (not to say you all don't appreciate them now). So here goes...

The Roads
When traveling in the Gambia and living below the River Gambia, on the south bank, one has TWO options for roads to travel on...
Option 1: South Bank Road/TransGambian Highway (sounds sophisticated, huh?). Option #1 takes slightly less time than Option #2 (to be detailed later), but the road is riddled with gargantuan, man-eating potholes and has not been resurfaced since the 1970s. While the speed on the South Bank Road ranges between 60-100 km/h, one driving on the road cannot travel that fast as the vehicle's tire, shocks,and pretty much everything else, would be destroyed in a matter of minutes.
Option 2: North Bank Road.
Option #2 takes slightly more time than Option 1, despite the fact that the road is nicely paved (even has solid white line down the middle). The reason Option 1 takes more time is that there are two ferry crossings involved. One to cross from South Bank (where I live) to North Bank and one at the end of the trip to cross North Bank into Banjul, the capitol (which is an island).

The Vehicles
Although it is tempting to ride my Peace Corps-issued Trek bike (think: my company car for the next two years) all the way to Kombo (an adventure a few Volunteers do every year and I may try to do next year) to avoid the roads, I had to pick Option 1 or Option 2. I'd travelled Option 1 numerous times and so I decided that it would be best for me to learn how to travel via Option 2. The vehicles that travel on Option 1 and Option 2 are the same vehicles, gele-geles, which are gutted Mercedes-Benz vans (see earlier blog entry).

The Journey
So the day before my departure, I could not decide as to whether I should venture via Option 1 or Option 2 and by the time I went to sleep that night, I decided it would be a decision I'd make once I woke up the next morning. I set my alarm for 5:30am; I awoke. I laid in bed for about 30 minutes, contemplating what I should do. I finally decided to bite the bullet and to travel on the North Bank. I had all my things packed and hurriedly brought in my water buckets, pulled a few weeds (so as to not return to a jungle in my backyard), and close my windows. I said good-bye to my host family who wished me safe travels. I walked about 1/2 km to the road and sat and waited for a gele-gele (#1). I was able to catch a gele-gele after waiting only about 20 minutes along the road. I head west about 10km and got dropped at the carpark and quickly looked for a car to Barra, which is where the ferry station is on the North Bank. Unfortunately, however, there were none available. My plan to go North Bank was defeated, so I chose to look for a car (#2) going South Bank and would then cross at another crossing area further west to the North Bank. I got into a gele-gele and...waited and waited and waited...until the car became full. While waiting, however, a car (#3) heading to Barra magically appeared. Yay! I could try North Bank again. I switched cars and again...waited and waited and waited. After waiting for almost two hours, the driver realized that the car was never going to fill and he cancelled (don't worry, I got my money back).

In the midst of my waiting, I befriended an older Gambian gentleman who was working at the local school. He convinced me that I should try to catch a gele-gele going east (towards my village) and cross at the island crossing. I believed he had a good idea and opted to have a travel buddy for the day to show me the ropes. So, we both ventured onto another gele-gele (#4). Some of my fellow villagers were on the gele-gele heading back towards my village and were thoroughly confused when I didn't get off at my village but proceeded to the island. I just tried to explain to them that I was trying to get to Kombo. Bewildered, they got off and disappeared onto the dirt road and probably told my family that Jaliika was on the gele-gele and didn't stop...

So, we crossed at the island and plopped on the North Bank. We looked for gele-gele to Farafenni. The first one that we picked charged too much, so we got out and waited on another gele-gele (#5). The driver said it was going straight through to Farafenni, but once we were on our way, the driver stopped every now and then to not just pick up passengers (which is normal), but to also pick up 2 bundles of firewood from the side of the road and run whatever other errands needed to be done along the way. About halfway to our destination, the driver told everyone to get out and that we needed to transfer to another vehicle (#6), with no further explanation. In addition, he also tried to overcharge us, but my traveling buddy knew what was going on and demanded we have our money returned. We then quickly picked up a new gele-gele that experienced some mechanical problems and I was dropped at the side of the road about 40km from the destination. I sat with my traveling buddy, ate a mango, and tried to chat to the women who were sitting under a mango tree. Halfway through my mango, another gele-gele (#7) arrived and scooped us up and finally took us to our destination.

Once at Farafenni carpark, I was hounded by crazy drivers and their apprentices to get aboard a car to Barra, to cross at the ferry. By this point in the day, however, it was around 3:45pm and I did not want to risk getting into Kombo by dark, so I called a friend to ask if I could crash at his place. Thankfully, he said yes. I waited at the car park for approximately 1 hour and then finally, or so I thought, headed to my destination point for the evening. As we pulled out of the carpark, the gele-gele (#8) abruptly stopped once on the main road. The driver decided he wanted to add a few more passengers to an already filled car. He also needed to tie four (4!) goats to the roof of the gele-gele so that they could ride in style with their owners, my fellow passengers. In addition, a lady carrying a live chicken by its feet in one hand and a boombox in the other, boarded the vehicle. Underneath my seat (I got a special seat next to the driver thanks to my traveling buddy), was an old man's 3 kilos of dried fish tied in paper and string.

After about an hour on the gele-gele, I finally reached my evening's destination and waited on the side of the road for my friend to meet me. I was estatic to almost be in Kombo and to see a familiar Volunteer face.

Highlights
I cleaned the dirt from under my fingernails twice that day, and the cloth I used turned brown immediately. I rode next to chickens as if they're human passengers. I ate an entire loaf (small baguette-like) piece of bread with peanut butter for breakfast and lunch. I did NOT get seasick while crossing the ferry.

The next morning, my Peace Corps friend and I ventured to the Barra ferry (another 1 hour gele-gele ride) and crossed and then took multiple taxis to our FINAL destination.

While the day was long and took almost 13 hours to get to Kombo, I must say that transport here now doesn't seem to phase me. It's going to be an odd feeling to be able to travel 60 miles in 45 minutes when I return to the States...

So the next time you're stuck in traffic, think of me sitting by the side of the road, under a mango tree, waiting for my 7th vehicle and perhaps it'll make your time stuck in gridlock a little brighter...at least your car radio works...

The Answer Is NO.

2007-07-17T03:13:00.000-07:00

This week, I'm in Kombo to take care of some medical stuff (don't worry, I'm not dying), and this morning I went for a run to the beach. My runs to/on the beach in the past have been fairly mundane, with the exception of when one of my fellow Volunteers was bitten by a dog as we were running down a cliff trail. However, this morning, within the 40 minutes of my run, I was asked by four Rasta-bumsters if they could join me on my run. Instead of playing along with them and giving them a hard time back, I decided that I didn't have the energy to deal with them, so each time one asked, "Can I join you?" I simply replied, "NO." As I walked to the office this morning, I was greeted by a man coming from one of the cross junctions, who asked if I'd like to "take breakfast". Again, I replied a firm "NO."

Nonetheless, I think I'll be well prepared for my re-entrance into city life when I return to the States. I'll be able to handle cat calls, annoying taxi drivers, and crazy street merchants with ease.

Some of My New, New Hobbies

2007-07-16T15:59:00.000-07:00

(Above is my farmer friend, Mbille Ceesay-yellow shirt and funny hat. Mbille and I go to the garden every evening and try to build the fence and prepare the fence before the rains really come. Mbille is crazy, but a good crazy and he's hardworking.)

So in this journey called Peace Corps, I'm learning a lot about myself and my abilities/talents/qualities I never realized I had or recently acquired...

Since I've been at site now for almost three-months and I'm beginning (slowly, slowly) to embark on projects, with which I hope to put these new talents to use:

-Digging holes for fence posts with a lead pipe
-Laying eucalyptus tree logs into dug-out fence post holes
-Communicating in Mandinglish (Mandinka/English) with my crazy farmer friend, Mbille Ceesay
-Nailing barbed wire to wooden fence points
-Searching for chicken wire amongst the weekly market
-Having Mandinglish conversations on my mobile
-Waking up to the rains falling on my corrugate roof and running outside to close my windows whilst not getting TOO soaked
-Clicking my tongue as to express my disgust and disdain
-Scoring free fruit from the market sellers
-Talking to myself so as to keep myself sane (No really, it helps!)
-Wiping out on sand patches whilst riding my bike and having old men laugh at me as I stumble to the ground
-Instilling faith in the villagers that I'm an expert gardener, teacher, and health care worker.
-Walking peacefully with donkeys, cows, sheep, and goats
-Painting cement and plaster walls
-Weeding my backyard, weekly
-Pseudo beating-up my little brother when he speaks Mandinka too fast
-Hanging out under cashew trees in hopes that small children will NOT find me (they find me every, single time.)

Musings from Journal Entry # 5143 (Number Made Up), July 11, 2007

2007-07-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

Thoughts/Comments I Wish I Could Say (especially when temperamental)---
But Can't and Won't...

1. How many times do I have to tell you?---I will NOT go to the rice fields to work. I do know it is hard work, however. Better you than me...

2. Telling me that I can't do something or that it's too heavy or too far only encourages me further to prove to you I CAN do it and that it's not heavy and not far.

3. I still can't determine if you all are yelling or arguing when you speak to each other.

4. Turning the radio up at night only perpetuates shouting (see # 3) and worsens your hearing.

5. Learn and know your pronouns. (Sister = she; Son = he)

6. Fourteen to eighteen year-old boys are annoying, no matter where you live in the world.

7. Cocky fourteen to eighteen year-old boys are even more annoying. (see #6)

8. Laughing at me when I'm trying to speak your langauge only makes me want to hit you.

9. I sound the same in Mandinka as you do when you try to speak English, your national language.

10. No, I will NOT marry you.

11. No, I will NOT take you to America (even if you can point to it on a map).

12. No, I will NOT give you money.

13. While vomitting and diarrhea are signs & symptoms of malaria, it does not mean that everyone with those symptoms has malaria.

14. Instead of trying to have me take you to America (see #11), work with me in trying to improve your quality of life here.

15. Take care of the things I give you and try not to destroy them.

16. Fix the South Bank Road...please!

17. Stop picking up your children like mama monkeys pick up their babies (by one arm and heaving them on their backs). You'll dislocate your children's arms!

18. If you complain to me about not having money, please don't be smoking while doing so. All that money you spend on cigarettes could be spent more wisely.

19. Making a hissing noise as I walk by does NOT, by ANY means, entice me to turn around and look at you.

20. Speaking louder does NOT make me understand your Mandinka better. I may hear you better, but chances are I still can't understand you.

Send Me Music, Please!

2007-07-05T12:28:00.000-07:00

About three weeks into my stay at my permanent site, I was doing laundry in my backyard one morning and thought it would be a good idea to listen to my iPod while washing my clothes in a 20L basin. I thought I securely fastened the iPod to my wrap skirt; upon completion of my laundry, I was discarding the dirty water and tripped. The cord of my iPod caught onto the handle of the wash basin and in plopped my iPod. I retrieved it fairly quickly, but much to my chagrin, the iPod warning-triangle-caution man came flashing on the iPod screen and then it died. I tried to dry it out, tried to charge it, and tried to pray it back to life, but alas, my iPod is dead.

So everyone, here's where you all come in...if you happen to send me a letter, can you possibly drop in a mix CD too? I'd be ever so appreciative. At this point, I don't really care what type of music, just please don't send me country (sorry to all you country fans).

Thanks!

It Doesn't Matter Here

2007-07-05T11:38:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I helped my cousin, Fanta (yes, like the soda), who is 16, with her homework. Fanta is in grade 8, despite her being 16. Most children start school late here. In the Gambian education system, all students are taught subjects in English, but unfortunately, many of the students do not have mastery of the English language. Fanta, however, is pretty bright and I'm hoping, with my concern and support, will continue her education at least through grade 12.

As I was helping Fanta prepare for her science final, I came to the realization that my credentials here have no meaning. My time at a fairly reputable four year college, graduating with honors, etc and my job post-college with a public official mean absolutely nothing to those who now live around me. Even those who have completed their secondary schooling have no idea what any of the above means, but I realized, as Fanta struggled with the thought that an earthworm is considered a multi-cellular organism, that for the past five months, my so-called credentials have disappeared from my mind, and you know what...I like it.

At times it's as though I am a celebrity in my village---children yell Jaliika and say 'How are you?' to practice the only English phrase that their older siblings taught them. There are times, more often than not, that I wish I were invisible here. Villagers ask me for money (some jokingly, most seriously), my mothers tease me for not going to work with them in the rice fields, and I constantly get told that the 20L jug of water I carry on my head is too heavy, yet my 70 year old host mother carries a wash basin that holds the same capacity on her head several times a day. At times I'm treated as if I'm the wisest sage there is (when I actually have no clue) and other times I forget I'm 25, went to university, and had a job because by many here, my marital status, small stature, and 'baby face', I'm considered a little girl. (If I had lived here my whole live, I probably would have been married for seven years already and had at least three children by now.)

My degree, honors, and job don't matter here; the villagers don't care. How humbling it is when the 11 year old girl who pumps my water for me lifts the 20L jug on my head or my host mom shows me the art of pounding rice, that I still can't manage to do no matter how hard I try. Being here, I realized I've shed the attitude which accompanies many of my equals in the States. Here my status, on paper, is void of meaning, but perhaps I can now focuse on my credentials as a human being. Maybe my family will enable me to realize that the exchange of cultures, thoughts, experiences, provide more credentials than one could ever put on paper.

It's only been 5 months into my time here, and I'm already learning a lot about wisdom, perservance, patience, survival, happiness, and most of all, humility.

2 Month Challenge...DONE! 21Months to Go!

2007-07-05T10:54:00.000-07:00

Two month challenge is over and I survived, only having suffered 1.5 bouts of self-diagnosed giardia.

Life in my permanent village is good. Admittedly, though, some days are better than others, but on the 'not-so-good' days, I try to remind myself that I got through the previous 'not-so-good' days, so why would today be any different?

My host family is great, and I definitely lucked out with my family. The family is HUGE, in that I have an elderly father, his three (3!!) wives, their respective children, and their children's children. Overall, the compound is chaotic, with lots of yelling, screaming, and children crying for long periods of time (that's what Gambian children do---they cry for about three minutes and then they fake cry for about ten more. (I've been known to time them on occasion.) Despite all the chaos, my family really loves to laugh, so I fit right in!!! (I guarantee you they spend A LOT of time laughing AT me, but not ALL their time.)

My language is coming along...slowly, slowly, and I'd like to hire a tutor in my village, but I can't seem to pick out the right person. My work has begun and my two months of trying to assess what projects to embark on in the next two years have passed. (Of course, there's always time to reassess). Some potential projects include: working with the local school's agriculture department to better fence their garden, teaching English and health classes at the school, starting women's literacy classes in my village, helping my village's nursery school, expanding my village's garden, revamping two women's gardens, and hopefully starting a children's arts club. I also go on trek with the area's health unit to assist with clinic days in the village. I usually help weigh babies and screen children for immunizations and malnutrition.

Overall, site is good and when I go away for a few days, I definitely miss my host family. Despite them being far from the 'typical American family', they do provide a definite family feel. One of my host brothers already talks of my leaving in two years, and we've already decided that it'll be bittersweet.

Note of Thanks:
To all of you have written me letters and/or sent packages...thanks so much!!! They all are appreciated and the letters still mean soooo much.

New Pics Posted!

2007-07-03T12:27:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone!

My two-month challenge has ended and I arrived in the Kombos last Friday. I'm posting pictures in piecemeal as the PC office is very crowded with many Volunteers. New blog entries will hopefully be posted within the next few days. In the meantime, check out my picture link for a few new pics!

Hope all is well and for all of you in the Philly area, celebrate the 4th of July in style in the City of Brotherly Love for me! Oh how I miss it!!!

Love you all and thanks for your thoughts!

Celebrating 25---Gambian-Style!

2007-04-26T04:05:00.000-07:00

Thanks for all the 'Happy Birthday!' wishes!

I had a nice birthday and celebrated with Allison and Holly (my PC hostel buddies) by making a ton of food: quesadillas, salsa, taco-seasoned baked French fries, and bean dip, followed by dessert---make-shift chocolate milkshakes! (We didn't have a blender.)

It was great to hear from everyone, and admittedly I woke up in the wee hours of this morning feeling slightly homesick. I suppose that happens from time to time.

Miss you!

Just Kidding!

2007-04-26T03:34:00.000-07:00

I knew I posted my previous post too soon yesterday. About an hour after doing so, my boss called me into his office and advised me that I'm now moving to site on Sunday, April 29. I'm excited/nervous/scared/happy all at the same time.

Ready or not, here I come!

Good-bye Until July

2007-04-25T04:13:00.000-07:00

I received word yesterday from my boss that I will most likely be moving to my permanent site tomorrow, April 26. While this is not entirely set in stone, I'm pretty sure I'll be out of the Kombo area by the weekend. If you email me and I do not respond, it's probably because I've left, but rest assured I'll write you back eventually.

I will not be back in the Kombo area until early July for our group's reconnect/in-service training that also nicely coincides with 4th of July celebrations that Peace Corps is having for us. There is a rumor, however, that I may have access to the Internet at my friend's site, which is within a sizeable biking distance from my site. If this is true, then you may hear from me before July.

If you're interested, check my blog periodically and if you so desire, you can give snail mail a whirl! (You really have no idea how happy snail mail makes me.) I intend on writing lots of letters while I'm in my *now* 2 month challenge, so check your mailboxes!!!

I know I end my postings with cheesey thank yous more often than not, but I really can't thank everyone enough for your continued interest (my parents keep me updated and tell me that a lot of people have been asking how I'm doing) and your continued thoughts and prayers. Also, when you drink a cold drink, add a few extra ice cubes for me as my guilty pleasure over the next two months will be my trek to the bitiko to buy a lukewarm Sprite for 15 delasi.

Lots of love!

Stephanie
(wearing sunblock every day since February 1st)

It Is Nice to Be Nice

2007-04-24T10:08:00.000-07:00

While visiting my friend this past weekend, we met a Rasta-bumster variety, who invited himself into my friend's house. (Said friend's host sister and brother were in the house with us, so it was safe---no worries).

Rasta-bumster, Alex, lowered his shades as he walked into my friend's front room, and said "Hello Nice Girls." (Apparently, all those who are not Gambian are referred to not only as toubab, but also as nice girl/boy...as if the whole term were a noun, not an adjective and a noun.) He proceeded to talk in circles, ultimately trying to convince us to have conversation with him sometime (i.e. date). My friend, her host siblings, and I were thoroughly amused as Alex is the epitome of the Bumster variety. We finally got him to leave, but he left one lasting impression---this quote, which he repeated about 42 times during our conversation: It's nice to be nice.

---

Today, I walked back to the PC house and along the way, stopped at the Vegetable Stand to pick up some tomatoes and cucumbers for my lunch (I made bruschetta, by the way, and it was delicious!). The Vegetable Man that I befriended these past few weeks was not to be seen. However, his counterpart, Buba, remembered me and greeted me with a smile. As I picked out some tomatoes and a cucumber, we chatted. I asked him how much I owed him and he sheepishly said, "Just take it." To which I replied, "What?!" and again he said, "Just take it." I tried to offer him money, but he refused and said, "Just take it, please." I thanked him and he asked my name and of course, I said, "Jaliika" and then he asked for my 'really' name, and I told him. As I said thank you in English and Mandinka and Wollof, I hurried away as if the Vegetable Man were watching from a distance and was going to yell at Buba for giving me "free stuff" and yell at me for accepting it. As I rounded the corner, I saw the Vegetable Man chatting with the Shrimp Man. Thankfully, there were no repercussions.

Maybe the Rasta-Bumster, Alex, was right in his own way: It IS nice to be nice.

Lesson of the Day: Befriend and patronize (frequently) the Vegetable Man and he'll give you free stuff (on occasion) and if anything else, he'll always give a friendly "Salalameekum" when you pass by.

Marching Along the Road

2007-04-23T09:13:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday, I ventured to visit my friend (also a newly sworn-in Volunteer) at her nearby site. According to Gambian transportation experts (i.e. Peace Corps drivers), there were two different ways of traveling to my friend's site. I took the most direct route, which oddly enough had the most transport changes and was least expensive (Three vehicle changes in total, at a cost of 5 delasi each).

After my experience (recounted below), let me just say I'm glad I had much practice in NYC with flagging down taxis and navigating the subway (no subway here, though). Now, I'm not saying that Gambia's transportation system (or make-shift system) is by any means more difficult or complicated than NYC's---in all honesty, it's just different and that's the only way I can describe it.

*Note: I navigated all this alone.*

Scene 1: Don't try to rip me off---I'm NOT a tourist
So...the adventure started around 2:30pm when I left the PC hostel and headed to the traffic light (yes it's known as THE traffic light). There, I flagged down a taxi, with the hopes that I would only pay the five delasi fare in order to get to the next stop where I would flag down another five delasi fare taxi. Well, the first taxi driver I hailed assured me before I hopped in the vehicle that I would pay five delasi to the next stop. As we started driving, he proceeded to avoid confirming the fare as 5 delasi. (You know I asked him if the fare was 5 delasi several times, phrased in different ways, as I'm a person who needs to confirm things about 30 times). After a few moments, he stated that I had to pay a flat rate of 25 delasi. To which I said "25 delasi?!? No...5!" He then proceeded to drive me *almost* to the stop where I needed to go. He dropped me, literally at the side of the road (near another intersection, however, not the one where I needed to dropped). However, I am convinced that because of my *saucy* attitude (he told me I was "quite saucy" during our drive)and the fact that I made him feel pretty guilty about *trying* to take advantage of me, he didn't charge me ANYTHING at all. Score!!! Sometimes it's good to be "saucy".

Scene 2: Close encounters with the Rasta-kind
(Refresh: Taxi driver #1 left me by the side of the road.) I slammed the door of taxi #1 and looked for a group of people at my unintended stop to ask for directions/advice as to how to flag a taxi (that wouldn't rip me off). Unfortunately, the first people I saw were some rather suspicious looking characters (suspicious in that they were of the Rasta/bumster variety---look up bumster in a Gambian travel guide and come back and continue reading). I tried to scurry past them to a group of people beyond the suspicious looking characters, but I had no such luck as the suspicious looking characters were unavoidable along the path. They stopped me and asked me how I was. I told them where I needed to go. Conveniently and oh so coincidentally, one of the suspicious characters stated, he was a taxi driver! Rather than listen to his schpeal, I listened to my conscience which clearly told me that this guy was NO GOOD. Rasta-bumster man said I had to hire a taxi (with him being the driver, of course) and he'd charge me 100 delasi to take me to my friend's village directly. I immediately said "No way!" and asked him how far my 1st stop destination was. He said a ten minute walk, to which I said, "Thanks for your help. I'm walking. Goodbye!" He yelled, "If you would talk nicely to me, I'd take you for less than 100." I yelled back, "No way! You're not taking me anywhere!" and marched back to the road. (Picture Steph walking in the dirt alongside an urban West African paved road. It's like a movie, isn't it?)

Scene 3: Befriending a young woman with a baby
As I began my march towards stop #1 (yep, still hadn't reached my first stop yet), I smirked as I realized I just blew off Rasta-bumster man. Go Me! As I basked in my glory, I quickly snapped back to reality and realized that I *almost* missed the opportunity to possibly get another taxi that would take me to my first transfer stop. As a taxi pulled away, I yelled for it to wait and the driver pulled back over to the dirt shoulder. And guess what?! The taxi was headed where I wanted to go! I was taken to stop #1 wit no hassle and no problem. When I arrived to stop #1, the taxi driver directed me to the correct taxi for stop #2. As we rode to stop #2, I laughed at how ridiculously amusing, yet satisfying my life has become as at that moment. I was sitting in the backseat of a old Mercedes-Benz, painted yellow, with green stripes on its sides, between two very tall, thin Gambian men. Upon my arrival to stop #2, I befriended a mother, her young daughter, and the daughter's infant. Guess what?! They were traveling to my friend's village!

As I sat on a plastic mayonnaise tub, now filled with sour milk (the mother-daughter duo had been carrying it and placed it on the dirt for me to sit on), I practiced my Mandinka as we waited at the intersection for 30 minutes. My horrific, yet amusing experience in the beginning of my trek was now a distant memory. With the assistance of the mother-daughter duo, I caught the last transport vehicle to my friend's village. As I sat in the back of the gutted Toyota van, with my whiteness pervading through the windows so that every child we passed on the street could scream 'Toubab!', I realized that I was going to arrive in one piece and that I was living my dream, yet again. And more importantly, I took all the incidents in stride and with a smile on my face.

The recurring dream that I've had since I was about 15 years-old of navigating through an African country, communicating (albeit poorly), confidently, but cautiously, were now a reality. Something tells me I'm going to keep on livin' it...

(If only I could walk around filming these such incidents...)

You know those people who throw trash out of the car window while driving down the Interstate...

2007-04-21T04:39:00.000-07:00

I may become one of those after two years of living here...

This is a photograph that I sneakily snapped this morning (there were no small children around to bum-rush my camera!). I walk by (multiple times) this sea of trash every day on my way to vegetable/fruit stand and the PC office. Here, in The Gambia, (and in other parts of Africa), trash is disposed of differently than in the States---or rather, it's placed in a designated area that usually is fairly public, near residential living quarters or where children play, and is then burned. On several occasions, I've been told by fellow Volunteers, PC staff, and Gambians that I can literally throw my trash down to the ground at any time as it does not matter here. (I have never seen a public waste recepticle here on the streets).

After almost 3 months of being in-country, I still cannot yet bear to throw my trash out the window or toss it over my shoulder. I suppose one day I will break down and do it, but until then I eat my Mars bar (yes, apparently, you start eating candy bars when you lack protein), take the empty wrapper, and hold it tightly in my hand until I can throw it away in the trash bin at the hostel/my house. Deep down, I know though, that my trash, that I consciously tried to dispose of properly, is then collected and probably thrown onto the pile you see here and burned later in the week.

What can I do?

Beach Boredom

2007-04-21T04:28:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I ventured to the beach for the afternoon, as my house is still not ready. I decided that I owed it to myself to 'relax' for a bit and write some letters, catch-up on some news (thanks PC for my 4 Newsweeks in my mailbox!), and play in the water. Because I find my Teva flip-flop tan (and my feet in general) to be so attractive, I figured I'd post a picture. I haven't had a tan like this since I was ten!

Oh Lord, Won't You Buy Me a (Gutted-Out) Mercedes-Benz (Van)?

2007-04-21T04:19:00.000-07:00

Have you ever ridden in a gutted-out Mercedes-Benz van (geleh-geleh) with an old woman carrying a live chicken by its feet, a six year-old girlwho is puking because of motion sickness, and a driver who cannot go over 45 km at any moment because the road consists of 30 year-old asphalt that has eroded and is now riddled with potholes and red earth? You say you haven't?!? Then come visit me in The Gambia (this description entices you, right?), and I'll take you for a geleh-geleh ride! My trip, which was no more than 250 km, took two days (with a 5 hour journey each day) on 3 different geleh-gelehs total. Are any of my friends that are civil engineers currently looking for a project? I may have one for you.(Just kidding, The Gambia is working on it...slowly, slowly.)

In any case, I'll put a picture up of my experience soon.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PAPA!!!

2007-04-18T08:19:00.000-07:00

Today is my Daddy's (??th) birthday! I'm not there to celebrate it with you, Dad, but I hope that you have a good one! I miss you and I really, really hope we can all get together to celebrate your extra special day next year. Hope it's happy and I promise to make you my famous FUNFETTI cupcakes and mojitos when I come home in two years.

Enjoy Tortilla Press with Mom and Sus, and don't drink too much tequila (or better yet, you all should have some extra for me.)

I love you.

My Musings and Brain Farts from the Past 2.5 Months

2007-04-18T07:21:00.000-07:00

* One of my host brothers in training village, Yusefa, frequently wore a pink baby doll t-shirt that had the word 'TEASE' written on it. I was compelled to take a picture, but I thought that'd be mean. It made me laugh every time he wore it.

Journal Entry, March 7, 2007, 6:16pm
* I just came home from language class in village, and I have the impulse to "check my answering machine."

Journal Entry, March 7, 2007, 11:05pm
* I just used my pit latrine. I often wonder if I'll ever stop imagining the sound of a toilet flushing when I put the cover back on it. I kinda hope I don't, as it makes me laugh EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Journal Entry, March 8, 2007, 10:16am
* I think I should start singing "I always feel like someone is watching me" when using my pit latrine. (There were a few cracks in my fence and one day I found my little 5 year old brother peeping when I was sneakily eating cheese and crackers on my shower bench).

* When goats "baa" (do goats even baa?!?), it's sometimes hard to determine if it indeed is a goat baa-ing or a child that's crying/yelping. One day I thought I heard a goat yell "toubab". (Toubab is what white people are called here, particularly by little children who run after you while on your bike and scream "Toubab, give me minti (candy)!")

Journal Entry, March 20, 2007, 6:56pm
* I just rinsed my black bandanna out as it fell in the muck by the well where the cows hang out. When I squeezed the excess water out, it still smelled like the dryer sheets we use at home. HAPPINESS.

Journal Entry, March 21, 2007
* Kaniyleng (sp?) dancing (see above picture) is like the Philadelphia Mummer's strut on crack. (For all of you from Philly, this one's for you. I'll show you the actual video when I come home so you can see what I mean.)

*Rarely do I ever think to turn on a light switch. I guess all those years of walking around in the dark at home, Mom and Dad, really paid off. No, really it's because there are no switches to turn on.

Things I Miss in America & Things I Like in The Gambia

2007-04-18T06:20:00.000-07:00

Things in/from America That I Miss
* Mama & Papa's homecooked-food
* BACON
* Princeton
* Driving around in the RAV4 with its owner
* New York City, more specifically, the East and West Village
* Whole Foods
* PHILLY!
* Driving around in the TSX and looking for places to eat dessert
* Cold drinks (when at site)---although lukewarm Sprite has become the most fantastic treat when it's available at the village bitiko (shop)
* The D&R Canal
* MY Trek Bike with Disc Brakes (I get my own brand new one here, but it's just not the same.)
* Pittsburgh and all the people there
* Of course, family & friends

Things I Like in The Gambia
* The moonlight (and when it's full, I don't have to use my flashlight in the middle of the night in village).
* The stars---they're so much brighter here and more abundant.
* Running at sunrise on a dirt road in village
* Running on the beach/(mini) cliffs
* Bucket baths at sunset
* Writing letters by candlelight, with muted sounds of Senegalese music from a nearby compound in the background
* Biking and the release it brings me
* Homemade, natural peanut butter (for cheap!)
* The Art of Stating the Obvious (My host father used to say in Mandinka: "Jaliika, you are sitting." To which I'd respond in Mandinka: "Yes, I am sitting.")

Wish List Addendum

2007-04-17T04:25:00.000-07:00

So since I've been hanging out in Kombo these past couple days, I've been able to think of some more nice little treats for care packages. Again, my list is not exhaustive and feel free to add anything you'd like. Just remember to not send chocolate (except M&Ms). [Think of me licking the foil/wrapper clean. Yes, even I shudder at the thought of that...]

-Cheez-It snack packs (original flavor)
-pretzel packs
-tuna packs (pouches)
-assorted flavored drink mixes (may be a repeat, but it can never be over-emphasized)
-fig newton snack packs (assorted flavors, not just fig)
-gum
-(fun) candy
-Clean & Clear Blackhead Clearing Scrub (Target/CVS brands work nicely!)
-foot scrub/pumice stone (You don't really want me to put a picture up of my dirty feet, do you?)
-Columbia sunglasses (I apparently lost them or someone stole them) (I purchased mine through Campmor for a whopping $9.99). They were fantastic and I miss them terribly.
-L'Oreal GRAB (goop for my hair for when I venture to Kombo and want to look 'nice, nice')
-black (waterproof) mascara (for same reason listed as above; mine was contaminated when I had conjunctivitis).

THANK YOU.

Dream = Reality

2007-04-16T07:37:00.000-07:00

Occasionally, I have moments here when I realize images of past dreams in my mind are now a reality. Yesterday, I had one of these 'moments'. In the afternoon, I decided to venture from my hostel to the big market in Serekunda. My mission: Find fabric! I walked 30-40 minutes along the busy road (because I wanted to and when I explore on my own, I do a better job of learning my way around). I tried to use my languages skills as much as possible. About 2 hours later, I was 12 metres of fabric richer and pleased with the adventure I had. Why?...because for so long I've envisioned myself walking an urban market somewhere in Africa, holding my ground, bargaining, conversing, and asking peope how they can improve their lives instead of them asking me when I can bring them to America. Yesterday, I did it. My dream was no longer an image in my head---it became a reality.

I'm livin' it...

Waiting...Slowly, Slowly...

2007-04-16T07:23:00.000-07:00

It's official...I'm now an official Peace Corps Volunteer. My days in Kombo have not ended just yet. For reasons that I can't explain here, my permanent site has changed. My new site is just that---new, so therefore, my house is not ready. I'm not sure when I'll be moving to my new site, but hopefully sometime this week.

Overall, I'm relieved my that my site has been changed and is now located farther up-country, which is kind of exciting and transport is readily available.

The rest of my group left yesterday for their sites and only three of us remain here as we wait for our various site issues to be sorted out. Although I'm excited and anxious to get to my village, I'm told by 'older' volunteers that I should enjoy this extra time while I can. My morning consisted of buying toilet paper and candy bars for fellow group members who didn't get to make such purchases when they were here. Their packages of TP will be sent to them during mail run. What a feeling of accomplishment these past few days (note the sarcasm). Later, I think I'll head to the beach to write letters.

Send Letters (and perhaps a package...you have 2 years to send me at least one!)

2007-04-09T17:10:00.000-07:00

Please send letters to me as they really do mean a lot when they are received and I carry them in my journal and frequently re-read them. If you're interested and would like to make me even happier whilst (favorite word Gambians use) in village, you can also send me goodies such as those listed below. (Please note the list is not exhaustive).

-granola (bars/cereal)
-clif bars/power bars
-dried fruit (cranberries/apricots would absolutely rock!)
-travel-sized bottles of hand sanitizer
-travel-sized tissue packs
-barrettes
-toothpaste
-travel-sized bottles of shampoo (NO conditioner!)
-salad dressing mix (dry)
-italian seasoning
-cinnamon
-pringles/baked lays (small size)
-star chart
-fruit leather (can be found at Trader Joe's)
-goldfish snack packs
-small world map (Gambians think London is in America)
-gum
-candy (only send chocolate if they're m&m's as chocolate will melt in packages)
-Belkin Back-Up Battery Pack for Ipod
-Batteries (AAA/AA)
-photographs (of things in the past/trips and events I'm missing) I'll put them in my scrapbook that Sarah made for me
-books (wish list to come)
-Burt's Bees Foot Creme Lotion
-old magazines
-q-tips
-fun paper/crafts supplies (so I can send homemade birthdy cards home!)

The End of Training

2007-04-07T02:50:00.000-07:00

Hello Everyone!

This is just a brief post to let you all know that I am alive and doing well in The Gambia. After one bout with dysentery and conjunctivitis (in both eyes!), my ten week training period is coming to a close and if all goes well, I'll be sworn in as a Volunteer on Friday, April 13.

The last two months have been filled with a multitude of emotions, feelings, thoughts, and experiences. I am learning Mandinka, one of three major languages here. I've been living in a village with two other trainees and have studied/learned/practiced the language and tried to gain a better understanding of the culture. Some weeks were tough, some were great. Some minutes were fantastic and within the same hour, other minutes were unbearable. Emotions change quickly and so does one's outlook. Overall, though, I'm doing well here and trying to take it all in with a positive outlook. After all, this whole experience is what I make of it.

My host family during training was initially overwhelming---a father, two mothers (polygamy is practiced here), and a ton of children, ranging from 4 months-28 years old. All in all I had about 15 brothers and sisters in my compound. I'd grown to love my family and will miss them a ton when I move to my permanent site.

My diet consists of rice, fish, and peanuts (prepared in a variety of ways). Recently, I've been able to score some mangoes (there are a ton of trees all over here), bananas, and some green, leafy vegetables called 'jambo'. The days are hot here my house registered 104 the other day), and it will be even hotter in the next two months. The rainy season begins in mid-June; hopefully everything will be green/luscious by then. I can't wait! I've also become accustomed to fetching water carrying buckets filled with water on my head (yes, I'm serious), taking bucket baths at sunset, and writing by candlelight.

On April 15, I move to my permanent site, which is located directly in the middle of the country, south of the River Gambia. I'll be living in a fairly remote place, which is 7 km from the main road and I'll become a master at transport here and possibly even the art of hiring a donkey cart. My site is beautiful as there's forest, the River, and farmland all within a small kilometer radius. I'll be having to bike a lot and am looking forward to keeping in shape and even perhaps running along the various footpaths/dirt roads. My work at site is still kind of vague, and I will be entering a three month challenge upon swearing in. This time allows for me assess the needs of my village and my community. I'll be working with a community health nurse, public health officer, and the director of a regional health center. Although my job description is vague, it is nice to know that I'll be able to mold and craft my work here as something that is my own, and hopefully something that members of the community/need want.

In the meantime, please know that I miss all of you and there are many days that I think about my time back in the States with each of you.

Please check my blog throughout this week, as pictures will be uploaded and more blog entries will be posted. Care package wish lists and other musings will be posted shortly!

Meanwhile, I'll be enjoying this week---relaxing at the beach, eating ice cream, drinking cold drinks, and attending some more training workshops.

Happy Easter and all the best to everyone! Please know you are thought of and missed!

Love,
Stephanie

I have arrived!

2007-02-04T12:48:00.000-08:00

I arrived in Banjul, The Gambia on Thursday evening with 20 other fellow Peace Corps Trainees. We had two long plane flights, but we made it without any problems or delays. Our staging in Washington, DC went well and we definitely have a good droup. The past couple days have been fairly intense and will continue as such for the next 10 weeks. Today, however, we had a day off from our technical and language training and all went to the beach. One word: fantastic.

As of now, I feel somewhat numb and am anticipating the on-set of very different feelings later this week. This coming Friday, we will all head to our assigned language training villages to live with a host family, begin language immersion and technical training skills. We are told this is a very difficult leg of the 10 week training as we'll each be spending 3 weeks in with a host family in a compound. I will be in a village with three other trainees, but living separately. I have been assigned to learn Mandinka, which is the most commonly used language here in The Gambia. With this in mind, please don't worry if you don't hear from me in the next 3-4 weeks or if my communication is rather sporadic.

In any case, feel free to check out some new pics I've added. I suppose there will be more to come in the next several weeks. They are general pics of the area in which we are staying.

Take care and all the best.

Goodbye

2007-01-29T05:47:00.000-08:00

This morning, I leave for DC. The goodbye will be tough, but it'll be okay.

Please write me and if you send a letter or a care package (desires/wants will be posted once I get settled), please write 'AIR MAIL' on the envelope. Also, if you're sending a package, padded envelopes are best as they are not usually subject to customs' tax.

I will miss you all.

Take care and peace out. Next time I'll be talking to ya, I'll be on the smiling coast of Africa. :)

Final Days

2007-01-27T20:50:00.000-08:00

Well, I head to DC on Monday, and it still hasn't quite sunk in yet. I had a nice week of lots of eating with friends. I've been told that I needed this week to 'pork up' since I'll be living on rice and peanuts for the next two years and probably will contract some parasite (which will be named by yours truly). Anyway, I've had a nice time with everyone this past week. I can't believe I'll be trading this whole period of waiting and uncertainty for something that's slowly becoming a reality This new reality will also begin it's own period of uncertainty. I feel I'm ready for this challenge and I will do my best to step up and begin my 'dream'.

I will miss you all and I only hope that I can share with you my experiences in such a way that makes us feel closer and more connected, not only to each other, but to the world.

I'll be thinking about the all the memories and thankfully will be bringing lots of photos and momentos with me to bring me to the place I feel most comfortable during times of frustration. I love you all and thank you for all the support. Thanks for cheering me on.

I'll update as soon as I am able.

Reality Is Setting In...

2007-01-21T19:53:00.000-08:00

I now have one week before I leave for probably the most challenging leg of my life's journey thus far. Over the past week and a half, I have tried to gather things together, get things in order for packing, and tie up some loose ends. I still have much to do this week...wish me luck.

This past week, I finished work. I am happy that I had the position that I did and I truly am going to miss my co-workers and many of the people our office serves (as quirky as they may be). It was always a gentle reminder that there are many worlds that exist beyond mine.

Throughout the week, there were constant reminders of how blessed I truly am. Additionally, I am amazed by so many people's generosity and support. For all of those who have given me gifts-whether it be material or other forms: advice, wisdom, or support, I am so thankful.

If you'd like to write me while I'm in Gambia, please reach me at the following address:

Stephanie Stawicki, PCV
US Peace Corps
PO Box 582
Banjul, The Gambia
West Africa

Specific mailing instructions will follow in a later post.

Purpose

2007-01-02T17:24:00.001-08:00

I've created this blog so that my family and friends can sleep well at night knowing that I'm alive as I live in The Gambia, West Africa upon joining the Peace Corps. My staging for Peace Corps service begins on January 29, 2007. I fly to The Gambia on January 31, 2007.

I'll attempt to provide readers with stories and musings of my experience, but unfortunately, I may not be able to provide you with consistent updates. I look forward to sharing this experience with you, and I ask that you please keep me in your prayers.