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.

The Three Month Challenge

This photograph shows the road entering my village. Dry grasses crowd the sandy road. The cow crossing the path in the distance is evidence that this is a Fula village. Fulas are traditionally cattle herders, which means they were wide in their movement across West Africa. Today, they are settled in permanent villages, but many individuals still herd cattle. Farming (rice, coos, maize), is the main occupation now.

As a PCV, during the first three months in village, you are not supposed to embark on projects or do any real "work." It is called the "three month challenge" because it is the most intensive period of cultural integration and language learning. This time is crucial to get to know the community, learn what they have and do not have, and think about what knowledge would be beneficial to their lives. We are encouraged to develop project ideas and wait to implement them until we have a better understanding and grasp of the village. The most important activity during this time is building friendships with those in the village. Without these connections and village understanding, any project would be a failure.

I have spent much of my time visiting and hanging out in all of the compounds in my village. I sit beside the women while they prepare and cook lunch and dinner attempting to communicate in my broken Pulaar. Though I tend to speak in all of the wrong verb tenses and my sentences are jumbled, I can usually get my thought across. All of the villagers have been so patient and instructive with my language. While chatting, I usually shell peanuts, cracking them against a hard stone. The women, however, never let me crack peanuts for too long because they say it will hurt my fingers. They describe how they do not want my hands to become rough like theirs. Peanuts were harvested in December and January so since I have been here, peanut shelling seems to be a never-ending activity. Once shelled, many Gambians sell the peanuts at the markets for eventual export. Peanuts are Gambia's main crop and export. Also, a significant amount of the peanuts are kept for cooking in all of the meals.

This is Porti, a village elder, cracking peanuts during the afternoon. Seated on a rice bag under the shade of his roof overhang, he grabs peanuts from the orange bucket, cracks them, and then throws them into the pile by his leg. I spend much time in his compound with his two wives and their children. He somehow knows a little English and always attempts to speak English with me, which is amazing and hilarious.

Usually when I visit a compound, an adult sends one of the kids with 10 dalais ($1 = 27D) to the small shop in village to buy attaya (green Chinese tea) and a cup of sugar. Brewing attaya is the main social pastime of Gambians. The tea is brewed in three rounds of drinking, which can last one to two hours. A small tea kettle is used with two shot glasses. Creating foam in the shot glasses by pouring the brewed tea back and forth into each other is a large part of the experience. Lots of sugar is added and sometimes mint leaves making it delicious and very strong. My father will often brew attaya three to four times a day. Gambians are addicted to attaya like Americans are addicted to coffee.

Images from the Village:

Right now, in the months leading up to the rainy season, is the time for house and compound construction. This work is only done by men. Here a handful of men from the village are helping in the compound next to mine with hut roof construction. They will soon place this on top of the round hut in the background and then cover it with dry grass.



This is my sister's son, Ebrima. He is wearing my father's hat, which my father wears all the time even in 120 degree weather. Similar to women wearing headscarves, older men wear hats for religious purposes. Ebrima and my father are very close as they spend most of the day together. Grandparents call their grandchildren their husbands or wives so my father calls Ebrima "gorko," which means husband in Pulaar. Ebrima is also my shadow when I walk around the village and I can also always bribe him with treats.




These ladies are fetching water at the pump, which is only about 50 feet from my compound. I can finally carry water in a bucket on my head fairly successfully and the villagers are impressed. My sister is carrying the bucket on the left. She is around 8 months pregnant and continues with all of the work of the compound. Pregnant women get no breaks, which leads to a high maternal mortality rate and the high rate of anemia.




This is my wife, Fatoumatta, preparing fish with Hawa for lunch in our compound. Every morning my father rises early and bikes to the river, which is about 3K away, to buy fish from the fishermen. He then bikes to surrounding villages to sell the fish from the back of his bicycle. But before he travels to the other villages, he stops in our compound and hands Fatoumatta a string of fish for lunch. She brings him a tin cup with water to drink and to splash on the fish in his basket on his bike. We exchange the morning greetings and he continues on his way. He usually returns between 11-12:00 and will immediately start brewing his attaya.



Kids in our compound dancing, which is usually an hourly activity.

Two Months In

Hello Everyone!

I apologize for the delay in updating the blog. I know it has been awhile. I hope all is well in the States and that winter has subsided bringing warmer weather, and maybe a little less rain. It is getting rather toasty here with midday temperatures reaching 110 degrees. We are definteily into the hot season now and the temperatures will keep increasing until June when the rains come, which will be a glorious day.

Right now I am in Bansang, a small city, town rather, in the Central River Region, using the computer. Bansang is located on the main road that runs through the south bank of Gambia. My village is about 12k from Bansang in the bush. There is power here in Bansang, unreliably, from 9:00 am to 3:00 pm every day. Power means that I can drink cold chocolate milk and eat an icee (small plastic bag of frozen juice) while I type this blog- I am really living it up today. I usually come to Bansang every other week to use the computer, visit volunteers in the area, and buy vegetables for my family (onions, potatoes, cabbage, eggplant, okra).

I have been in village now for a little over two months and it has been really incredible. It is difficult to describe the strong connection I feel to my village and host family. Maybe the best way to illustrate this is through the feeling I have when I come home from a trip to either Bansang, Basse, or Kombo. It is a feeling of being settled and secure. Upon returning, as I bike into my village (Peace Corps gives all volunteers new Trek mountain bikes), the women at the pump yell "Fatoumatta" and wave as they balance heavy buckets of water on their heads, my son (He is my sister's son but also considered mine. If you are a female, your sister's children are your own.) runs from his compound to greet me on the path hoping that maybe I have brought back treats from my travels (he has a sweet tooth comparable to Nelson's). As I enter my compound, my father and mother begin extensive greetings asking about my travel, my health, the people from the place I just visited, the day, the work, and the heat. My brother's wife, Fatoumatta, comes to greet me with a big smile. Ebrima, her 7-month old son, is tied to her back with a towel. "Fatoumatta arti," she says, which means "Fatoumatta, you have returned." In conversation, much of the obvious is stated. I say "Nange na wuli" (The sun is hot) many times a day as it seems to be a requried part of the conversation, especially this time of year. These arrivals capture the energy and spirit of the village, which has made me truly happy here these past two months. There have been definite ups and downs because language and cultural adjustment are difficult, but the ups always tend to extinguish the downs.

My village is very small with only 14 compounds, maybe about 100 people. My compound is also small compared to the average Gambian compound. As I mentioned, there is my mother, Fatoumatta (Yes, there are three Fatoumattas in my compound. In Gambia, having the same name as someone else forms an instant bond between you. It is something special that you share. This is different than in American where it seems that unique names are commonly strived for. This is a small example of the difference between individualistic and collective cultures.), my father, Ebrima, my brother, Mamadou, and his wife, Fatoumatta, and their son, Ebrima. My father and mother are in their early 60's, my brother is 32 and his wife is maybe 17 or 18 years old. Fulas tend to marry girls very young, even at 14, 15, 16 years of age.



















This is my hut in our compound. I have a small backyard that contains my pit latrine, a small garden, and a bed for sleeping outside on hot nights.





This is my brother's wife, Fatoumatta, on the left holding their son, Ebrima. He is definitely one of the healthiest babies I have seen here (pictured on the right as well). She breastfed him exclusively for the first six months, which many women do not practice here because of lack of eduation. She also does not let him sit in the sand (which has animal and human waste, etc.) in the compound without putting a towel or cloth underneath him. This is revolutionary.






The boy on the right is my sister's, Babadou, son Ebrima and the other boy is from another compound. He is also named Ebrima. I posted this picture to show the ever-popular shirt and matching shorts that feature Obama's face. There are many many different versions of this here sold in all of the markets. My favorite is a shirt with a picture of Barack and Michelle dancing.




This is my sister, Babadou. I learned a few days ago, by looking at her I.D. card, that she is only 22 years old. Many Gambians do not know their age as birthdays are not celebrated so you have to ask to look at their I.D. cards to find out. I would have guessed she was close to 30 years old. She has two kids and is pregnant now. We have experienced very a different 22 years.

Note: The scars next to her eye are decorative scars characteristic of the Fula ethnic group. Both men and women have them and they are done when the individuals are young children.

I hope to update the blog again soon and tell you more of what I have been doing in village. Again, I hope all is well with everyone. Lots of love from Africa.

An Incredible Welcome

Before the end of our training, we visited our permanent sites for a few days to meet our families, get a feel for the village and area, and check out our houses. I couldn't be more happy. My village is very small with only 12-13 main compounds (around 150 people). My family is also small by Gambian standards . My compound includes my host father, Ebrima, mother, Fatou, their son's wife, Fatou, and her 5-month old son, Ebrima. Their son, my host brother, is currently in Senegal.

This village has never had a volunteer before so they are very excited. As soon as the Peace Corps Land Cruiser, in which I was riding, came into sight of the village, the children playing in the fields and tending to the cows began running behind the car yelling "Fatou, Fatou." One of my health counterparts (a female teacher in the nearby middle school), that I had met with previously, had told the village about me briefly so they knew my name. As soon as I opened the car door, the children grabbed my hands and brought me to a small gathering where women from the village had begun to bang on plastic bottles and containers with their hands. Everyone started clapping. Different women and children would move to the middle of the circle. They danced fast moving their legs and feet with more rhythm than I will ever have. I moved into the middle of the circle a few times to make a dancing fool of myself, flailing my arms and legs with happiness. After the drumming died down, my host father, Ebrima, presented me with gifts from the village: a chicken, bread, rice, and oil - all for dinner that evening. It was a really incredible welcome.

Bread and Sugar

It is really amazing to be living under a sky rather than a ceiling for most of the day. In training village one morning, Jenna (a fellow trainee) and I asked her host brother what time the naming ceremony in our village was going to be that day. He pointed to the sky and motioned to where the sun would be at around 11:00 am. With little light pollution, the night sky in village is incredible. I have now come to recognize changes in the moon. Never before has the shape of the moon affected my life (besides full moon superstitions), but now it determines whether I need my headlamp when walking in the village at night.

In training village one night after dinner, my host sisters, Fatou and Penda (Image: Fatou and Penda), and Fatou's children, Jenaba and Lamin, and I sat on a woven mat on the long cement step in front of my room. Someone from another village had brought bread (long french loaves) and sold them to Fatou. She bought the loaves and was selling them to people in the village for D5 (D27 = $1). The loaves sat in a long cardboard box on the cement next to us. Fatou asked if I wanted to buy a loaf. I opened the box and felt the thin loaves, which were still warm from their evening baking. I slipped my sandals on and went into my room, headlamp on, in search of D5. Along with the D5 bill, I brought out a small bag of sugar, which you can purchase from a local cornerstore for D6. Back on the mat, I untied the plastic bag and grabbed a loaf of bread from the box. I tore off a piece and dipped it into the sugar. I passed the loaf around to the others on the mat and we all took turns dipping the warm bread into the sugar. It was delicious. Penda asked me to take her back to America when I return in two years. In basic and broken Pulaar accompanied by hand motions, I said that in two years I would pack her in my suitcases and bring her to America to visit. I explained that she would need many jackets and that all I would let her do is eat and sleep, no washing clothes or dishes, no cooking or cleaning, no children. The night was simple and sweet under a blanket of stars.















This is in my training village compound. The hut in the background is used for cooking. There is little ventilation so the smoke from the cooking fires can be overwhelming. The women and girls of the compound spend much time in here; I can only imagine the effects of the smoke on their health. This is one of my host sisters, Jenaba, and my host twin cousins, Sani and Sana. Initially they were wary of me, but eventually I couldn't walk anywhere without them holding my hands.















All of these kids live in my compound. Life here is mainly outside. The kids (if not in school) are always roaming the village playing with any objects they can find to entertain themselves whether it be sticks, tires, pieces of trash, or batteries. Favorite activities are running while pushing tires and setting up a high jump with sticks.



This is my host son (my host sister's son), Yaya, and one of my host sisters, Fatou. Yaya is my absolute favorite.

Naming Ceremony

During our first week in training village, our village hosted a naming ceremony to give us trainees Gambian names. This is done for cultural integration and because Gambians often have a hard time pronouncing many American names. In Gambia when a baby is born, by tradition, the mother and baby remain inside the house for seven days. Villagers bring food and visit during this week. On the seventh day a naming ceremony is held for the child. The name is chosen by the elder village males who gather in the baby's compound, recite prayers led by the imam (village religious leader) and then declare his/her name. The imam then shaves the baby's head. Usually this is followed by a celebration with villagers and family that includes eating fried dough balls (which are delicious) and juice, dancing, giving money to the mother and father, and passing around the newborn.

Our host families each chose a name for us before the ceremony. Women and children gathered around the center mat and the male villagers, including the alkalo (village leader) and the imam, sat in front of the mat. When we were called, each trainee kneeled on the mat. The imam declared our full names and then mocked shaving the front of our heads. My name is Fatoumatta Bah and I was named after my younger sister. The women and children started clapping and we had to dance on the mat. The Gambians love our inability to dance.

In one of my anthropology classes senior year, we read about the joking relationships that exist between certain tribes and surnames throughout Africa. These established relationships built on humor and friendship help to decrease tension between these various groups and form partnerships. My surname in training village was Bah. The surname Bah jokes with the surname Jallow. Almost everyday in village I would joke with someone from the Jallow compound telling them that they love to eat or that their head has no water (common jokes). Just today in Kombo outside of the grocery store, I started talking with a Fula woman selling peanuts. Within thirty seconds of meeting her, I joked that she is a professional eater because her surname was Jallow. The joking and laughs form an instant connection between people. It is so neat because I read about these cultural phenomenons only six months ago and now I am performing and involved in them.

Village Life

"Community in Africa still works. The village is arguably the most stable and cohesive unit in West African society. Modern Africans may scoff at their village cousins, who produce a bumper crop of yams one year and give half of them away to relatives and friends instead of reaping the profits. But that's the beauty of Africa, that's the glue in the face of catastrophes like AIDS and ethnic unrest. In the village, noone falls through the cracks" (202).
Sarah Erdman, Nine Hills to Nambonkaha

Nine Hills to Nambonkaha is written by a Peace Corps Volunteer who served in the Ivory Coast. I felt that this description applied accurately to village life I have observed.

I lived in a small training village in the Central River Region with five other trainees and two LCFs (language and cultural facilitators). There were about 8 main compounds (120-140 people).

This is the long open area in the middle of the village with compounds located on each side. The trees (orange and mango) in the middle of this strip serve as gathering spots for villagers. In the late afternoon under the shade of the trees, men often brew attaya (chinese green tea) while women rest on the wooden benches or shell peanuts into large piles on woven mats. My compound was on the right at the end near where the woman in white is walking. In the foreground of the photo there is a small pile of coos (millet) that will eventually be pounded down by women and then prepared for dinner.

Pounding is a constant activity by the women in the village as coos is eaten usually for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. In the beginning, I compared it to eating sand, but now I have come to like it more. For breakfast it is served as a porridge with sour milk (milk that sits out for 3-4 days unrefrigerated) and for lunch and dinner it is served dry with some sort of green leaf watery peanut sauce.

Everyday I would wake up and fall asleep to the sounds of pounding in the yard. This photo shows my host sister, Fatou, pounding coos in our compound. Pounding is tiring and I am very bad at it. Entertaining myself and my host sisters, I would always attempt, and this would end quickly in laughter at my lack of strength and technique.


My host family in training village was large with around 20-25 people. This picture is of three of my host sisters, Besso, Fatou, and Penda in front of my door. One of our first cultural assignments was to construct a family tree. This proved to be a very difficult task not only because of my low language level at that time but also because family terms and relations are different than in the US. For example, if you are a female, your sister's children are considered your own. It also seemed that people do not consider family terms often. If you are living in the compound, then you are family and you contribute to the compound through your work. There seems to be a constant influx and movement of family and living situations. Because families are so large, there are normally members living in Kombo or in other regions to go to school. There is the added element of polygamy as well. By the end of training village, which was about a month, I had some grasp on how everyone was related. One aspect of the Gambian culture that I truly appreciate is the constant interactions of different generations because they share the same living space. In my compound, the youngest was a one week old baby and the oldest was around 70.

This is my host brother, Alieu (13), and my host sister, Kumba (8) right outside of our compound. Alieu is in eighth grade and Kumba is in third grade. Note the donkey. The first week in village I was awakened every night by its braying outside my window. Life here is outside, people mainly use their houses to sleep. Not only are people constantly interacting with other people outside, but also with animals (chickens, goats, sheep), which are constantly roaming around.

Happy New Year!

Hello All!

I apologize for the delay in updating. I have not had access to internet the past month and it has taken me a few days to collect my thoughts over all that has happened the past month and a half. As I have mentioned to a few people, much here has now become familiar. The normalcy I feel, though a positive indicator of how much I am loving it, makes it difficult to describe things here. Therefore, I have picked a few poignant moments to share that will hopefully illuminate different aspects of life here and my life here. We only have a few days left of training and then we swear-in as official volunteers on January 8. We move to our permanent sites on January 11. Crazy how fast time moves, especially when the days here are so long.

I hope all is well with everyone. You survived the holiday craze! I hope your holidays were filled with much family time, delicious foods and warmth by a fire or bundled under blankets. It is very strange to think of snow right now, but I am envious on the hot afternoons.

This past week we all visited our permanent sites and then traveled back to Kombo, which is where I am now. I traveled with four other trainees from Basse (main urban center in the east of the country) to Kombo by taxi, ferry, and gelly gelly (old vans almost broken by the road conditions stuffed with people). The travel time was about 12 hours and went fairly smoothly, but I was feeling quite nauseous the whole time, possibly from food poisoining. Upon arriving to Kombo, we were all tired. But I rallied to check my email and began reading your notes, messages, and comments. They were incredibly positive and contained so much energy that the long day of travel was instantly forgotten about. Thank you all so much. They are very much appreciated. Jeff, I am so glad to become part of your daily routine. Maybe you can relay all of this to Nelson as he is sitting in your hot tub.