Why Life Here is Amazing

These are some pictures of children in my family and in the compounds next to mine. Everyday they make me smile.

When I first arrived at site, Caddy was deathly afraid of me. Every time she saw me, she would run screaming to her sisters or parents. Now she is always not far away.

This is my father holding my brother's son, Ebrima. While Ebrima's mom, Fatoumatta, is preparing dinner, I usually carry Ebrima on my back until he falls asleep. It is part of our routine now.

Caddy

Ebrima, Babadou's son

Feet off the Ground

My parents recently sent me a care package which included a basic swing they had constructed. They used a thick yellow plastic cover from a large bucket and strung a sturdy rope through the middle, placing metal rings on either side of the rope hole. When bringing the swing back to village, I had put it aside in my hut, forgetting about it until I began prepping to paint the interior of my hut. On a whim I took it out into the compound, not sure what the reaction would be. Interested? Scared? Unsure? Sitting next to Babadou and Fatoumatta on the wooden bench, I explained to them what it was. They were both curious, flipping it over, checking out the various parts. They, along with many of the men who walked past the swing throughout its five-day debut, seriously examined the rope. Holding it in their hands, each time the men said “Fatoumatta, a sodani dum ga” (Fatoumatta, you did not buy this here in Gambia). They were impressed with the strength and diameter of the rope. Babadou and Fatoumatta were familiar with the idea of a swing. They explained that swings made by people in the village were not strong so therefore unsafe.

Muhammadou, my host brother, was trimming the branches of the large neem tree in the middle of our compound with his machete so I handed up the rope to him. He wrapped the rope around a strong branch a few times and then tied it into a complicated knot. Ebrima, Babadou's son, Babadou was the first to volunteer. His balance was a little off at first so he kept falling backward. But he quickly learned to lean forward, which helped both his and his mother's fears. She pushed him gently, repeating "Nangu ha tiddi" (Hold the rope really tight). Soon many of the children that do not attend school came to watch. After Ebrima finally agreed to get off the swing, the others tried. At first they did not go very high, but they quickly gained confidence and began requesting higher pushes.

The afternoon was mayhem. By this point all of the children had returned from school and people in the village had heard or seen that we had set up a swing. A large crowd gathered in the compound. The kids all fought to be next, as the adults watched and laughed anxiously, a little nervous. A few brave adults tried. One after another, the kids swung; some hitting their bare feet on the above leaves and some staying close to the ground. Both Babadou and Fatoumatta tried as well. It was so much fun watching them experience getting off the ground and floating in the air. Remember that elementary school feeling of going up and coming down, flying with your feet towards the sky? They were really laughing and so was I. While laughing, Fatoumatta nervously cursed in Fula the entire time she sat on the swing. After running inside my hut to change from my wrap skirt into pants (afraid the wrap skirt would be too revealing), I climbed on and swung high.

This excitement lasted for the next five days. However, on the sixth day, the swing could no longer hold its flyers and the plastic cover cracked. But Gambians’ ingenuity solved the problem through the addition of some metal bars to the bottom. Now the swing is now still in use, but reserved only for children.

Efo (nickname for Fatoumatta) flying high.

Babadou slowly pushing Ebrima, her son.

After much fighting as to who was next to use the swing, a line finally formed directed by the older girls.

A Collection of Fabric

My sister, Babadou, gave birth in late April. I was traveling back to village from Kombo when I received a call from Samba, a friend in village, telling me that she had given birth the night before. I was so excited and so relieved that the delivery was successful and that both she and the baby were healthy. The gelly gelly (bush taxi) dropped me off in Bansang and I rode quickly home on my bike skirting through deep pockets of sand and around the cows blocking the path. Reaching her compound, I jumped off my bike and parked it against the compound fence. I ran into her hut, where she was staying for the week following the birth (Fula tradition: After giving birth, the woman has to stay inside her hut and backyard area until the naming ceremony occurs on the seventh day following the birth. I think it's great because it means a lighter workload for the mother while she is recovering from the birth and more focus on the newborn). I sat with her on the bed as she breastfed her new daughter. I asked her many questions about the birth (how painful and long it was, was there much blood, did she cry or yell, were there any complications). She laughed at my questions and very simply told me that she gave birth in the backyard with my mother and her husband's mother present. And "No," she said, "I did not cry or yell. It was not painful." I looked at her with doubtful eyes. She just smiled and handed me the tight bundle of a baby who was wrapped in many blankets. Her eyelids fluttered as she drifted back into sleep, fingers curled tightly. I tried to express to my sister how brave and incredible she was to give birth without assistance on the dirt floor, but she just laughed again.

This is my sister's daughter at three days old.

Everyday I sat with my sister and her baby (later named Fatoumatta) in her hut, often accompanied by other women in the village. Throughout the week, women carried water for bathing, laundering, and cooking to her compound because she could not leave to go to the pump. They refilled her large clay pots that hold water for drinking and, at mealtimes, they would bring extra food. Many of the older women would come to sit with Babadou in the early mornings asking about her health and Fatoumatta's health. They watched as she breastfed her and offered words of support. Before they left the hut, they would recite short prayers for both the her and Fatoumatta. One or two of the older women would return at dusk to bathe Fatoumatta with soap and water.

Women from every compound brought Babadou pieces of fabric during the week. They brought tattered shirts and skirts and other worn cloth, not having money to buy new material. Babadou layers this fabric under Fatoumatta to cushion and support her when she lays on the bed (see above picture). The layers of fabric also protect the bed sheet from getting spoiled when she goes to the bathroom. Pieces of this collection of fabric are also used to wrap Fatoumatta when Babadough is carrying her or tying her on her back. One day while we were sitting in her hut, she pointed out to me who gave her each piece. She spoke with pride when explaining that these worn but beautiful fabrics now belong to her daughter. This sharing and exchanging of fabric that occurs at each birth symbolizes, to me, the communal raising of children by the village.

Breastfeeding

The other day I was sitting with one of my good friends in village, Takko, who is in her early 20's, and her 5-month old baby, Aminata. We were shelling peanuts under the shade of the mango tree in her compound before she had to start preparing lunch. Aminata is slightly underweight for her age so I wanted to incorporate the subject of exclusive breastfeeding for the first six months into the conversation. While talking about Aminata, I told Takko that I was breastfed for the first 6 months exclusively. I then explained what foods I was fed in addition to breastmilk after six months of age and up to two years. With my hands, I motioned how large I was, but she did not believe me.

Many women here believe that women in America feed infants formula instead of breast milk, which they believe is better for the baby. When something is bought, it is often seen as being of better quality than something available for free. I explained that the majority of women in America actually breastfeed and she was very surprised. Most women in the Gambia breastfeed, but will add water and other foods before the child is six months due to a lack of knowledge.

Remembering that I had pictures of me as a baby, I ran to my hut, grabbed my photo album, and brought it back to Takko. She laughed and laughed at my very chubby baby pictures. One specifically, I am in the sink at Keene Farm being bathed by my dad. The picture does an excellent job showing all of my large rolls. Many other villages came to see what Takko was laughing at. They peered over our shoulders to get a glimpse of the picture and couldn’t believe it was me as a baby. This was also a really neat moment because it allowed me touch upon gender roles in America and how they differ from the gender roles in Gambia, which are incredibly strict. Childcare is the task of women here so to observe my father bathing me in the photograph was very intriguing for them. I went on to explain that my dad cooks, cleans, and does laundry. They thought this was very funny as these are strictly female activities. Through the laughter, I was hopefully I able to get the point across that men are capable of doing these tasks. My most effective work here will be based on conversations and interactions like these between friends where we exchange information and stories and build trust and respect by learning from each other.

This is Aminata with her father, Saidu.

Bubble Wrap

In one of the generous and amazing packages I received while at site, bubble wrap was included. I remembered how much I used to and still do enjoy popping the small pockets of air. I brought the plastic sheets out into the compound hoping the kids would discover the same satisfaction of hearing and feeling the clicks underneath the weight of your feet. They were wary at first. The concept of mail is unfamiliar to the children so I had a hard time explaining the purpose of bubble wrap. But once I demonstrated how to pop the bubbles, they quickly laid the plastic sheets on the dirt and began jumping and dancing on them. Once deflated, they used the plastic sheets as head and waist wraps displaying their new items around the village. They definitely enjoyed their bubble wrap experience and I had a great time watching them play with this new and strange thing.

Nursing Homes

I was talking with my host dad and mom in our compound after dinner a few nights ago about family systems here and in the US. My father asked about my family and specifically about my grandparents. He was very impressed with my grandmother's age and health. He asked if she lived in the same compound as my family in the US. I explained that she lives by herself in a house in a different state. They were taken aback. “Ndeer cuddi makko he hai goto kono oo?” (In a house by herself?) they kept asking, seeming rather alarmed. “Eyi” (Yes), I replied, “But family is always visiting and live close," I explained. This seemed to lessen their anxieties slightly, but they were still concerned. The idea of someone living alone, especially an older person, is very foreign to them. The compounds here are living entities. Within their fences, compounds house family members across generations. This system is one of strength, support, and security. The older individuals depend on the younger individuals for their physical labor, childbearing, and income generation. The younger generation depends on the older generation for decision making, advice, childraising, and social ties.

Feeling adventurous, I then attempted to explain nursing homes.
“Suudu money he mawbe hewbe” (Many old people live in large houses with many other old people), I explained.
“Are they related?” they asked. (This conversation continues in Pulaar, but I will leave out the translation.)
“No,” I replied, “many do not know each other.”
“Are they sick?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“Where are their families?” they asked concerned.
“Some visit, some do not,” I explained.
"Who takes care of them? Who cooks lunch and dinner?"
"There are people that work at these homes who cook, clean and take care of them, like my mom. She is a nurse at one of these homes."
"The old people must be sad there - no children, no family, no life."
"Yes," I said. "Many times they are."

This then gave me the opportunity to explain what I think is a great aspect of Gambian culture: how elderly are cared for, respected, and incorporated into society. They are not isolated, disregarded, and medicated as is often the case in the states.

Here people always ask me about America and express their desire to get a visa and live there. Their fantasy of America is solely an image of wealth and easy living. While praising America, they always criticize and depreciate Gambia by saying that it is an ugly, poor, and unpleasant place to live. It is hard to explain that life in America is not always as easy as they think. This conversation on nursing homes was one instance where I was able to express serious admiration for their culture and I hope they were able to recognize this difference and appreciate it as well.

Time

The topic of my anthropology senior seminar class was time. We studied many different aspects of time, the most relevant now being the experience of time. My personal experience of time in the village seems to be time as a constant flow. The day is continuous and not broken into appointments or scheduled commitments. I think about the future to some degree mainly when I am thinking about my work but it is never overwhelming and I do not find myself becoming absorbed or entangled by it. Because I am constantly learning (language, culture, how to cultivate groundnuts, peoples' names, etc.), I am very aware of and involved in the present moment. In this way it is similar to being in a constant meditative state. It is so refreshing and invigorating, but also very tiring.

Because I have been living in this continuous flow, I decided it was not necessary for me to be wearing a watch. The same day I took off my watch, Fatoumatta, one of my good friends in village, received a new one. Her husband bought a black Casio digital watch for her at the weekly market. She was and still is excited about it and loves to check the time. It is interesting because a watch does not serve her much purpose. She has been living under the sky for fifty plus years so she understands the movement of the sun and she has been doing about the same routine for all of these years as well. However, now she has the knowledge of time, which she, along with many other Gambians, believe is very important information to have. I think they have gleaned that awareness of and adherence to time is a characteristic of Western culture, which they see as the ultimate culture. It struck me that as I am trying to integrate further into their culture, they are also trying to assimilate to Western culture. I attempted to free myself of time and its constraints and she welcomed this new knowledge with hope and excitement.

This is Fatoumatta and her son, Musa.