12/31/04

FRIDAY
DECEMBER 31, 2004

New Years Eve! I woke up at my usual time of 7:30. Went downstairs, had breakfast, and then went back up again to watch more movies until Dave woke up. Mary had a huge collection of DVDs. I put each one in in-turn to watch the special features, such as the whole 2-hour special features of The Matrix. The guest bedroom had its own shower but I did not want to take one and have the noise wake him up. However, by 1:30 he still was not up. I took all my items to the next bathroom and took a shower. He finally woke up at two in the afternoon.



As we got ready to go out the door I realized that for the first time since joining Peace Corps I had new shoes! We took a picture of me holding up my decrepit duct-taped shoes, whose soles were breaking, with my brand new styling shiny Chacos! It wasn’t until I had them side by side did I realize how truly bad my old shoes were. The first order of the day was exchanging money. After exiting Mary’s house we took a left one block to reach the main street in this part of town, Avenue Pompidou – better known as Ponty. Although Dakar is a major city, the main part of town, called Dakar Proper was where Mary lived. It’s located in a small peninsula only about a mile and half at its widest point, going east and west. If you go North you go out into the outskirts of the city, and to the airport. Ponty stretched from one side of the peninsula to the other and is filled with local shops, restaurants, and tourist shops. It almost reaches to the other side of Dakar except for “Place de l’independence”. This park, three blocks long by two blocks wide was to celebrate their independence from France in 1960, just five years before The Gambia would become independent from the UK.

Walking down Ponty a few blocks, passed all the tourist items and shops we reached a bank that would exchange his money.

Along the road there was a place called Ali Baba’s, which we stopped at for lunch. The Gambia also has an Ali Baba’s in Banjul, so it was quite strange eating at a place that wasn’t even affiliated with the Banjul one, but had the same name. Been to two different Ali Baba’s in two different countries. They’re actually all over the place in West Africa as Ali Baba is a character in “Arabian Nights”, under the story of “Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves.” We sat down and tried to order the best we could, by pointing to a line on the menu, whether we understood what it was or not did not matter. By now I had been drinking tap water and did not bother getting bottled water. Dave had brought his Nalgene Water Bottle and filled it at Mary’s before we left. The waiter came back a few minutes later and after a few moments got the point across that they didn’t have what Dave wanted. He had to order another thing.

Children trying to sell stuff were by the window while I had my back to them and Dave, following his usual custom, had his back to the wall. The children were begging for either some CFA, to buy something, or to get our left over food. We ignored them completely.

While looking at the map and trying to find out what else to see, we decided to see the IFAN Museum, which stands for “Institut Fondamental d'afrique Noire.” According to Lonely Planet, IFAN “is one of the best museums in West Africa.” We walked the mile or so it took to get there and walked in. The only problem was that it was closed for that day, being New Year’s Eve. We gave up on that and went to our second choice, which Dave found on the map, the Netherlands Embassy. The museum was located on the corner of one of the streets in a roundabout intersection. The street the Embassy was on and the street we went on were different streets and we ended up on the far side of Dakar looking at the Ocean. End of the road.

We quickly brought out the Lonely Planet book, with a map of central Dakar, to see where our error was. Back tracking some more and turning down the correct street we found the Netherlands Embassy, which was right across the street from the American Embassy. We never did get to the Netherlands Embassy as when talking to the guards at the American Embassy they waved us through the blocked streets and onto the main street again. Plus, it was already past five and everything would be closed anyway; even if it weren’t New Years Eve.

The last thing we saw before heading back to Mary’s was the Cathedral. This cathedral is the largest one in Dakar and was only built recently, in the 1920s. We went inside and sat down for a few moments admiring the architecture, the paintings, and the nativity scenes they had on display. There was no on outside and very few people inside the Cathedral. Upon exiting we dropped a few coins in the offering box.

Almost four hours after we had left we returned back to Mary’s house. She had just got out of work for the day and was planning on going out to do her own thing. I introduced her to Dave and he thanked her for having us stay at her place. Being New Year’s Eve she had her own plans but we asked where would be a good place to have dinner. She pointed out a few on the map that were close, and some far away that we could choose from. Our first choice: Restaurant-Bar Lagon I. This was our one big night out and neither of us minded spending a buck or two on dinner.

Restaurant-Bar Lagon I, is located on the eastern side of the Central Dakar, on the water’s edge. It’s about a twenty-minute walk from Mary’s house. According to Lonely Planet, the restaurant itself is “done out like an old-style cruise liner, and comes complete with sails, planking, brass rails and lifeboats.” We walked the twenty minutes to the restaurant, passing Pompidou Avenue again, across Place de L’independence, and down the steps to the water’s edge of Corniche Avenue. The restaurant was dead, and looking at the set up of the tables, it was going to be a little too expensive of what we were thinking.

Again taking out the Lonely Planet book we found our second choice, Chez Loutcha located back from where we came from and only two blocks away from the house originally. The book advised “servings are very large, as is the menu (which runs to about 30 pages, with specials including flights to Praia!)” That was our restaurant for the night! Going from Lagon to Loutcha we again got lost and almost gave up on trying to find Chez Loutcha. On all accounts we were in the bad neighborhood of town. We were dead center in the red-zone that the Senegalese Peace Corps administration told me not to travel in, especially at night. It was now not only night, but New Year’s Eve and we’re in the red zone. We both felt safe, just wanted to find a place to eat! All this fuss I’m making about the red-zone is not to illustrate we were in any grave danger, just that it wasn’t the best neighborhood to be in. Throughout the two years being here I’ve been in order of magnitudes far worse neighborhoods with nothing bad happening.

Ali Baba’s came into sight when we finally did give up and were just walking around trying to find a good substitute. According to the map Chez Loutcha should be right around the corner. We continued in search of this restaurant and eventually found it.

While we were eating and talking we realized that this was the second time we’ve been together out of the US for New Year’s. The first was on a cruise in the Western Caribbean, and now in Africa! Maybe we should start a tradition of every two years be somewhere unique?

When we entered the restaurant we were going to just sit down at the closest table but they encouraged us to go on towards the back, which was hidden, but had plenty of other tables. It was relatively empty, as most people wouldn’t come until later. The table next to use was a couple that was speaking Dutch and Dave started to talk to them. We each ordered something we didn’t know what it was and all expectations were thrown out the window.

Halfway through the meal we noticed this piece of paper that the waitress placed on the table but we couldn’t figure out what it was. It couldn’t have been the bill, but she kept on leaving it there, and even her manager came and looked at it. At the end of the meal we finally figured out what it was. Someone had reserved the table we were sitting at and we were closing in on the time that they were about to show up! We took that as our cue to leave and left to go to the Peace Corps Hostel.

Upon exiting the restaurant a taxi pulled up and offered us a ride to “liberté six terminus de neuf” where the Hostel was for 2,000CFA but only if we would break a 10,000CFA for him. We agreed and I got in front while Dave got in back. The streets were already dark; the only light in the taxi was a small light near the glove box. We went on the highway, a route I didn’t take before, and was a little bit nervous. The driver assured us we were headed in the right direction and not less than ten minutes later we were right outside the Peace Corps Hostel. What next happened was a combination of distractions, slights of hand, low light, and confusion. Somehow I had gotten ripped off a few thousand CFA, with the breaking a 10,000CFA being the ploy. The exact amount is unknown, but it was probably around 7,000CFA or $14. I was mad about it for a while, this being a good amount on a volunteer’s budget and would have been a very nice meal at the most expensive Gambian restaurant; but then I thought of something which made it stand out in perspective. Yes, I got ripped off; but I didn’t get mugged, robbed, or stranded. I could stand to lose $14 without it being much of a burden, but it wasn’t fun to lose it anyway.

The party was just getting started when we arrived. A few of the girls I had met two days ago at the PC Office recognized me and were glad that I came. They asked if this was the friend I was picking up. I answered in the affirmative and we started to mingle around the room chatting to the other Americans. The second person Dave talked to went to school at Hope College, and another knew Dutch. This was the second random Dutch-speaker he met that evening. Dave mentioned that he had come halfway across the world to a continent very few people ever travel to, and now on his first full night in this continent he’s at a party full of Americans celebrating the New Year. It was like any other college party, and as if he never left the United States!

There is one significant difference between the capital regional house for The Gambia and the one for Senegal. In The Gambia there are three regional houses upcountry, away from the capital that one may go to if they are stuck upcountry. If we want to come down to Banjul to be at the capital regional house we have to take out-of-site days, which we have only two a month (officially). However, for Senegal, they have a half-dozen regional houses each with internet connections and computer set ups. You can get your work done in any region, and therefore if you wanted to come to Dakar they would take vacation days away from you. All volunteers would rather have out-of-site days taken away than vacation days as the latter allows you to leave the country and go on trips with your friends. So, most volunteers that we were partying with had taken vacation days to be here and were celebrating it as such. The only ones that don’t have to take vacation days are the ones nearest Dakar, since it is their regional house, as such one bedroom and cabinet space is dedicated solely for them.

Inside the bathroom had a note written on the wall: “Attention: If we are out of toilet paper … PLEASE use this sign. Thank you, Budget Cuts.” What was interesting was that it was ripped at the corner. I had to bring my camera into the bathroom to get a picture of it.

The occasional drinking game commenced, a chair or two got broken, free pieces of cake were passed out, and music and dancing occurred the whole night in the back. At midnight those who had fireworks let them off, since at this distance we couldn’t see the official ones that Dakar were displaying.

One of the people I talked to said he was a volunteer from Guinea.
“I was in Guinea last summer.”
“Which part?”
“We hiked in from Kedougou, stayed in Mali, traveled through Pita and Labe to Doucki and stayed there for a few days before heading back.”
“I live in Mali.”
“Wait, you’re the volunteer who lives in Mali?”
“Yes, why you couldn’t find me?”
“Were you at site at the end of July, beginning of August?”
“No. I was in Mali, the country.”
“You were the person we were trying to find. They had told us there was a volunteer living there but when we asked where the volunteer was they showed us to some older French woman. We had to stay at the hotel at the edge of town.”
“indigo?”
“That’s the one!”

We talked some more, about Guinea, Mali-ville, and other travelers he received while being posted there. All this before he left to go out to the bar with other volunteers who were leaving. By two-o’clock the place was winding down. Either half had left for the bar or were going to bed. By 3:30 I called it quits. I saw Dave was comfortable in the back so I left him at the party and headed back to Mary’s. On the way home I was fearful of being ripped off again and so when the driver requested his money I just placed it on the seat and walked away, even though he was asking, politely, for more since it took longer to get home because of traffic of everyone trying to get home.

All the doors and windows to Mary’s house are triggered to a bell. Every time a door or window is opened a buzzer goes off throughout the house. It’s a safety issue so she knows if anyone has broken in while she’s in her bedroom or watching TV. It also helps to figure out when someone has made it home. She knew I made it back around 4:00 and I knew Dave made it back around 7:30 by the buzzer that went off as he walked in.

Second Part: Dec 31 - Jan 3

This covers New Years celebration in Dakar, our journey into The Gambia, crossing Georgetown, and staying at the Bansang Regional House for the night. Also included are a few other volunteers’ stories of transport, sicknesses, thoughts of the educational system, and the answer to the question: “You might be a Peace Corps Volunteer if…”

12/30/04

THURSDAY
DECEMBER 30, 2004

For two years living in Africa today was the arrival day of my only visitor! He would leave Madrid at 5:55pm and arrive at Dakar at 9:35pm. I had a whole day of nothing to do but wait. Was there something to do? Not really. I could go to the Hostel again and hang out with the other volunteers for the day, but by living in The Gambia you’ve learned to be frugal a bit. The $4 it would cost to get there was a lot of dalasi, equivalent to a town trip from Banjul to my house in Kombo. I was still not in the mindset that I was on vacation. When Dave arrived then the mindset begun, but until then every dalasi counted.

It’s also kind of weird of how your interpretations of how much something is worth to you changes from which country you’re in. I understand there’s a price discrepancy between The Gambia and Senegal. Things are more expensive in Senegal, and I understand that. While in The Gambia I saved every dalasis, but while spending in Senegal it’s as if I’m throwing money around – what seems like it, if you convert it to Dalasis. A case in point: I don’t mind spending the usual price of $4 (~D120) for a taxi in Senegal, but I’ll refuse to pay an extra dalasis in The Gambia if they try and charge me more than the usual five, although I blown more than 20 times that amount for every taxi I took in Senegal.

The only thing I did that day was to go the local store and buy more soap to shower with. That, and a few Snicker candy bars, which I passed out to the guards and cleaners at Mary’s house to their sheer delight.

Around eight I left for the airport, a few hours before he was about to arrive. As I was about to leave I asked Mary.
“Mary, what’s the French word for ‘airport’?”
“aéroport”
“Oh, that makes it easy!”

When I reached the street and hailed a taxi he couldn’t understand what I was trying to say. I kept on repeating “aéroport” to no avail. The guard had to come forward and asked where I was going. I told him “airport” and he told the taxi driver “aéroport”, exactly what I had said! The driver now understood and the guard now acted as my translator / negotiator for prices. We arrived at the airport and he dropped me off. I was hoping there would be a waiting area; some place where you could casually sit, maybe read a little bit as I had brought my Lonely Planet Senegal / The Gambia guide book along just in case. There was no waiting terminal and people just crowded around the exit of the building. I was the only white person there! Dave shouldn’t have any trouble spotting me. One plane landed and people crowded up against the metal fence to get a look. When their person they were waiting for came, they moved out of the way, and I was able to move closer to the gate. By the time Dave actually arrived I was in the front row, looking through the gates like a prisoner.

About an hour or so later I saw a tall white guy in the distance. He must be Dave! The probability of having two tall white guys on this flight had to be low. I waved him to go outside where I would meet him. I thought he would walk the entire length of the gated trail to the taxis. He walked straight out and through the gate. I had to back track to get to him. He was carrying just two small bags. We shook hands as I proudly exclaimed to him: “Welcome to Africa!” It is not everyday you can say that sentence, and I meant every word of it.

The taxi ride was a thrill for him. He wasn’t use to African taxi drivers, especially ones in big cities. Anywhere in Africa, at least the places I’ve been, the drivers ignore every rule of civilized driving you can think of. What I got in trouble in doing in the US they do regularly here everyday, and even in front of the police! There is no such things as seat belts, everyone speeds, no one comes to a complete stop, yielding the right away means honking as your about to make your move, improper use of a lane as they use whichever lane is unoccupied, and failure to assure a clear distance ahead between them and the car ahead of them means the occasional fender bender might happen. All of these I have got caught for in the US at one time or another, and paid the consequences. For The Gambia, Senegal, and other West African countries there are no consequences. A police officer at police stops could hold out their hand in the command for them to stop; however, only those who have their proper papers stop. The rest simply speed on through.

I told the driver to go down near the cathedral that was on the other side of town. Technically I said “cathédrale”. We approached the Cathedral and the street Mary lived on, but her street was one-way and we couldn’t go down the two blocks we needed. In the middle of the night, at the border of the ‘red zone’ we got out and just walked those last two blocks.

Mary had already gone to bed and so he couldn’t meet her that night. I introduced him to guard so he would know to let him in and I showed him inside. His first reaction? “Mike, you said it was nice, but I didn’t expect this nice!”

We turned left and went upstairs to show him the guest bedroom where we would be staying the next couple of night. He started to unpack and out came my new shoes, extra money for us on the trip, and his water filter. It was the same water filter he had used in hiking, with iodine tablets and other tablets to get the iodine taste and color out. The new Chaco’s were better looking what I imagined, and it was only when I compared them to my old shoes were I able to truly compare how well used I had worn my old pair.

Mary encouraged us to finish all the ice cream that she had made for her Christmas party and they didn’t finish so I convinced Dave to come downstairs for a bowl-full. He might not have thought it anything special, but living in Africa and only getting ice cream maybe once every other month or so – or longer – it makes getting ice cream a real treat. I was going to take advantage of it! This also was different from his expectations. We had an air-conditioned room and were eating ice cream on his very first night in Africa. Compare this to my first night: The fan didn’t work, so no one could sleep well, the water was out so no one could take a shower, they gave us a bottle of water to last the night and food wasn’t going to be served until the next morning. He had a lot better than I did, but I knew the real truth of Africa would come in a few days and we’ll be in the same boat together. I was used to it, though.

He explained that when he was in NY at the Philharmonic he actually was sitting down at the concert hall. When he arrived in Madrid nothing was opened, even at eight or nine in the morning. He had to sit at a park bench for the first thing to open in order to eat something, at ten.
Within an hour of arriving at the house we went to bed.

12/29/04

WEDNESDAY
DECEMBER 29, 2004

By the time I woke up Mary had already gone to work. I helped myself to a bowl of cereal before starting my only goal for the day, to find Peace Corps volunteers. This was primarily for Dave so we could have some Americans to hang out with for New Year’s. Before leaving Banjul I printed out a map of Dakar from the University of Texas map library. Their library is pretty good! In fact, it is the only one I could find that had a map of Kombo, in The Gambia (although it was labeled Banjul). The map they had for Dakar had the Embassy labeled and also the PC office. It was about a mile away. I started walking. It turned out I passed it twice without realizing it.

After an hour or so of searching I started to ask some guards and police officers. Eventually I was led to some military office. At the entrance an officer exited and everyone saluted. He saw me among his men and asked, in English, if I needed help finding something. I explained I was trying to go to “Peace Corps”. He didn’t understand that, so I said the equivalent in French, which I learned while traveling to Guinea, “corps de paix”. He smiled an acknowledgement and told me to get in his car. Nice! A free ride! After driving a few blocks we reached a corner I was at beforehand and he showed me where the office was. In The Gambia there is no possible way to miss the PC office. It’s huge, white, gated, and stands out. In Dakar it’s an old building, brick, no doors except for one, and no letters announcing it is PC except for a small logo on the door. I thanked the officer and got out. Kiddy-corner across the street was a huge mosque that would become my landmark if I ever needed to find the office again. The mosque towered over the neighboring buildings and could easily be seen a few blocks away if need be.

To enter the PC office one must enter through the only door in the corner of the building. It was a metal door with just a small PC logo on it. Inside were a metal detector and three guards discussing some issue. After going through the metal detector without alarm and showing my Peace Corps ID that I was truly a volunteer they gave me a stack of papers to read concerning safety and protocol. I was so used to the Gambian office workers speaking English that it came as a shock that none of them, here in Dakar, spoke English. It wasn’t until after the entire trip was over that I realized how ridiculous a notion that was. It’s a French-speaking country! They had no idea what I was saying and I had no idea what they were saying to me. Nonetheless they gave the safety sheets, writing in English (thankfully). On the last page was a map of central Dakar with an area outlined all in red. This was an area we were discouraged to go as there had been reports of pickpockets in this areas at night. The only problem for me was that Mary lived right at the edge of the red-zone.

As I was signing the papers proving that I read the two papers two Senegalese volunteers came in and walked with me to the entrance of the main building. I was still in the guard station and hadn’t entered the compound yet.

At the office I ran into other volunteers at their computer lab. I asked what they were doing for New Years and they mentioned there was going to be a party at their hostel. My information on how to get there consisted of a phone number and a piece of paper with what to tell the taxi driver, “liberté six terminus de neuf” (with the ‘six’ pronounced like ‘seese’) which I had no idea what that meant. Still being early in the day I tried my luck at finding the hostel on my own. The taxi driver knew the general vicinity, but didn’t know the exact location of the building. We rode around until I saw a Peace Corps logo on the side of a wall, which was actually bigger than the logo that was on the office building. I paid the driver and approached the guard to let me in.

Inside the hostel was a girl sleeping on the couch that I accidentally woke up as I entered. She was also visiting, being Peace Corps volunteer stationed in Guinea. Her parents were flying into town that night so she was killing a few hours by just hanging out at the Hostel. We sat and talked for a bit before we turned our attention to watching a movie.

At lunchtime we walked around the corner to a small burger place that was stationed at the intersection of the two roads. There were only enough seats for maybe ten people for the entire place. It reminded me of small burger joints in NYC. She had to order for me since I didn’t know a single word in French other than what Mary taught me the night before.

The money situation in Senegal is quite interesting. There are two national languages spoken, although French is the official language. If you say a number in French then that is the price. However, for Wolof things are a bit more complicated since Wolof is a base-five number system. The number 6, for example, is “jaroom-benna,” which literally translates into “five one,” meaning six. As such, if you say a price in Wolof the actual price is five times as much. This can get quite confusing when you are saying a price in Wolof and they respond in French, for example:

Wolof: “How much?”
French: “1000”
Wolof: “I’ll give you 100”
French: “900”
Wolof: “150”
French: “Make it 800”
Wolof: “Ok, I’ll pay 160.”

The person then pays 160 times 5, or 800 as agreed upon. Not all numbers are easy numbers like those mentioned above. The skill to barter in French and Wolof is such a skill that it requires not only a prefiency in both languages but a quick knack of mental arithmetic. I know of only one person. The rest of us either use our limited French (no arithmetic involved) or write the numbers down in some form. I use a calculator for the added advantage of your able to do simple arithmetic on it that irregardless of language they could follow your mathematical progression.

The currency of Senegal is beautifully colored with different notes having different sizes. The currency of The Gambia is old, ugly, and feels like it’s going to fall apart in your hands. The D100 is the only one worth its weight as it is significantly more colorful than all the other notes combined.

After lunch and with a few more hours to kill we couldn’t decide on what the next movie should be. I tried being completely random about it. We each picked out four possible movies we wouldn’t mind watching and behind my back I scrambled them up separating four in each hand.

“Left or right?”
“Left”
The four on my right were discarded and the other four were split between the hands, two each.
“Left or right?”
“Left”
The right two discarded and the remaining one was brought from the left hand to the right hand, so there is only one in each hand now.
“Left or right?”
“Right this time.”

I held out the movie she had picked: Old School. It’s about three men that are disenchanted with life and try to recapture their college days. In both countries, whether it was Peace Corps Gambia or Peace Corps Guinea, this movie had been played so many times that volunteers quoted the movie in everyday life for a month or so. We had both seen it countless number of times and did not care to watch it again. The whole random assignment was over-thrown to her just picking a movie she would like to see as a favorite. My random experiment failed.

After the second movie I tried walking around the block to get my bearings. Passed a school, children playing, another mosque, different school, different children, … I got lost. How can you possibly get lost going around the block! I tried backtracking and still was lost. I was wondering around aimlessly for twenty minutes until I found the hostel again, this time recognizing the small sandwich shop we went to for lunch. By then it was getting to point of going back so I said goodbye and got a taxi back to Mary’s.

A few minutes after I entered, and while just eating a few snacks Mary came up and asked: “You know how you put your old clothes by the door for washing?”
“Yes”
“That’s where I usually put the trash, so it probably confused her.”

My laundry wasn’t done, but thankfully it wasn’t thrown away either. By first looks of it, it could have been mistaken for trash. I placed the dirty clothes right outside my bedroom door as opposed to near the entrance to the house. In The Gambia the volunteers have what is called the “Free Pile”. Any old clothes that either doesn’t fit or you don’t want any more you just donate to the pile. Every time volunteers come in from upcountry they rummage through the pile looking for “new” clothes. The clothes I laid out to be washed looked worse (just by the dirt) then the clothes in the free pile. It was bad!

Mary’s television was broken. During Christmas she had a few kids playing on the roof, which is a perfect flat top that could act like a roof patio. While playing dodge ball on the roof the ball hit the satellite and broke her cable. As such, no television. Since the TV connection was broken we just watched more movies.

By now you’re probably seeing a trend of watching movies. This is true. Whenever volunteers get in front of a television it’s alway becomes movie marathons. I’ve probably seen more movies in the last two years then in my whole collegiate career. When you’ve done all the exciting stuff in town, especially in Kombo, and have nothing to do but to waste time you watch a movie. The probability that a movie is being watched at the Peace Corps Hostel during the weekend is pretty close to certainty, however that does not mean that the probability that I, or anyone in particular, is watching that movie is high though. I’ve gone months without seeing any television, and then some days all I do is watch movies.

Mary let me check my e-mail again. Received two more messages from Dave, both of them as short as the other before. The first one was actually written the night before: “sitting in avery fisher hall about to see the new york philharmonic. Snowing outside.” I didn’t realize it at the time, but he told me later when he arrived that he was actually sitting in Avery Fisher Hall about to see the New York Philharmonic. I know that’s exactly what the e-mail had said, but I didn’t think he was actually sitting down in the Hall itself. He told he had a few minutes to waste before the show starting. What to do? E-mail Mike! He brought out his cell-phone, capable of trans-continental e-mails and sent me a quick e-mail telling me where he was. Kind of neat!

I clicked on the second e-mail, the last he sent: “on the plane leaving JFK, see ya tomorrow” We’re good to go!

His flight information tells his journey to get to Dakar, along with length of time of trip:

Wed 29 Dec 5:55 PM JFK NYC 7:10 AM Madrid 7h:15m
Thur 30 Dec 5:55 PM Madrid 9:35 PM Dakar 4h:40m

Mon 10 Jan 11:55 PM Dakar 5:05 AM Madrid 4h:10m
Tues 11 Jan 5:00 PM Madrid 7:30 PM JFK NYC 8h:30m

12/28/04

TUESDAY
DECEMBER 28, 2004

It was time to go! My plan originally was to wake up leisurely, have breakfast and head out to Farafenni and get a hotel room. That was it. A short four-hour trip that day and relax until the long ride the next morning. That was the original plan. It didn’t quite turn out like that. I woke up around eight and Kelly and I both got ready to leave. He was biking back to his site, just a few kilometers away, while I had to get a ghelli-ghelli to Farafenni.

I left around 8:30 in the morning from the Kharafi compound and after getting a ghelli-ghelli reached Farafenni at 11:30 in the morning. Usually I would either stay with Louis, except he was in America at the time doing Fellowship interviews, or at the old Kharafi compound; neither of which was an option now. I stopped at Eddies, a small but the only hotel they had in town. For the first time in my service they were booked! When I realized there wasn’t going to be any accommodation in Farafenni the next best thing to do was to go with the flow. The meant to head to the Senegalese border, and maybe stay in a random compound for the night and try to get the first car the next morning.

As I was walking down the main street, which goes north south away from the ferry terminal and therefore closer to the border, more and more people asked if I needed a ride. I knew the border was close, maybe a few kilometers, but I stopped to question one of the guys anyway.

“You going town trip?”
“I don’t need a town trip”
“No. No town. You going to town trip?”

I had no idea what he was saying and with nothing to lose I said, “Yes!”

He walked me over to the horse-cart and motioned for me to get on. It was then I realized he was going to drive me to the border. I was to be the only passenger, minus the driver who was sitting comfortably on a tire on top of the cart. We agreed on a relatively expensive price of D50, which he eagerly agreed to accept and I eagerly agreed not to bother with any bartering and just get going.

A few minutes into the trip we passed the old Kharafi compound that was on the edge of town. After we passed the compound he turned the horse to the right and went off-road and into the dirt roads and alleyways. I didn’t know what to think as the border-guards are on the main road, yet here we are almost going around them. Was he trying to evade the border patrol for some reason? Other horse carts were passing us going the other way, with as many as ten people on each cart with each one staring at me as I crossed their path as well. About 15 minutes into the trip we stopped at some random spot with some guy trying to tell me something. After a few minutes I realized he was asking for my passport, but instead of giving it to him I just said, “Yes, I have one”. All of this conversation was when I was still sitting in the cart. He shook his head and told the driver that we would have to turn around, go on the main road, and pass through the main border. We turned around and did just that. Had I known that was going to happen I wouldn’t have blown my chance to pass through one country to another on a horse cart while most likely getting my passport stamped while still on the cart! Alas, didn’t know.

At the main border, after getting off the cart and paying the owner his D50, I walked into the guard station. The guard took a look at me, and then looked down at my shoes. My Chaco’s were in bad condition now. For over a month they have been deteriorating in front of my eyes. At first the strap broke, so I stapled it. Then it broke more, so I safety pinned it, and then stapled it. That didn’t hold and then came the paper clips wrapped around like twist-ties. That fixed the strap problem for a while, until finally it snapped again and became unfixable. Not one to give up easily I found that if I strapped the over-strap under the cross-strap the tension would keep it on. That worked if it wasn’t for the sole that broke. My right sandal was technically in two parts now. Out came the duct tape. Half of my shoe was now this shiny gray color with strands of fabric straps hanging out the corners.

The guard looked up from my shoes.
“Peace Corps?” As if the question needed to be asked.
I smiled and nodded. He stamped my passport without saying another word. I thanked him and walked out to the car park.

By this time it’s around 12:30 in the afternoon. The attendants, and drivers, were saying that a car can still make it to Dakar and one would leave today. I wanted to get on, but one small problem was that I no cash. Well, more correctly I had enough cash just the wrong currency. This was solved by a fifteen-minute interlude of English, Wolof, calculators, hands-signals, and showing bills for different denominations to convince me of two things. I was doing the math wrong in my head AND on the calculator (Do I really have a math degree, I wondered?), and I wasn’t getting ripped off too much.

Before leaving for Christmas I had e-mailed Mary concerning the Senegalese currency. I had heard a rumor that they were switching currencies and worried that the day I was arriving into country, or the day Dave was, would be the new day of the new currency. What a way to not only get confused, but get ripped off. Her explanation helped ease the tension a bit:

--
currency: it is not a complete change over of currency, but all bills issued in 1992 are being recalled and will no longer be good after 30 Dec. So, when you arrive on the 29th, although I would hope that a legitimate money changer wouldn't try to shaft you by giving you soon to be worthless money, I would suggest you don't exchange too much right away. The only way to tell if the bills are from 1992 are by their color and pictures (no dates), so it can be complicated figuring it out.
--

Using her advice I checked the bills and they were the new currency. No one tried to shaft me, and all were honest to the degree that afforded them a comfortable profit. The bills were exchanged, the car paid for, my seat was guaranteed, and the waiting begun. All I wanted was a ñeebe sandwich, Wolof for bean sandwich but also universally understood throughout the country. None was to be found. They walked me over to this middle-aged woman, said some words to her, and motioned me to sit down. I sat down, with a hint of knowledge that I was going to get some food out of this deal. A few minutes later she served me a cup of coffee and half-a-sandwich. My bag was in the back seat of the car so I kept an eye on it while I ate my lunch. When I completed my meal I took out the smallest bill I had, a 1000 CFA note, to pay for my meal. This is equivalent to $2 or D60, a bit much for the meal but change would be given back. She shook her head and singled if I had any coins by jingling some coins in her hand and holding them in her palm while picking one out and showing me. I held out all the coins I had in my hand. I had no idea how much it was and don’t understand French. She took a few coins, made change, and gave me back a few smaller denomination coins. I still had no idea how much it cost, but I knew two things. It was less than 50 cents and even though she knew I had no idea of the price or language she was honest and gave me change.

By 1:30 a few more passengers arrived and with enough people to fill up the car we were on our way to Dakar! Five hours later we were slowly arriving, dropping people off in the outskirts of the city, when we got stuck in traffic. I didn’t mind much since there is no traffic jams in The Gambia. Well, there are traffic jams in The Gambia, but horses, donkeys, mules, and monkeys cause them. There was only three other people in the car. I made the best of it and bought some bananas from the street vendors outside who walked around carrying everything from bananas to bathroom scales that you can buy right through your window without ever having to leave the comforts of your car. It’s a good thing because so many people buy bathroom scales on impulse going home from work! I passed a banana out to each person and had the rest as my dinner.

A few minutes later we stopped to let out one of the passengers. He had to get something out the trunk. The driver got out to open it for him. As the driver got in I had a sudden urge to turn around and look for my bag. I did just that and sure enough, it was gone! Images of losing money, clothes, and passport raced through my head. Just as I was about to panic a person saying “Toubob” through the window caught my attention. He held up my bag and passed it through the window with an explanation, in English, “Sorry, I grabbed the wrong bag.” I knew by the tone of voice and the situation that he was telling the truth. Nevertheless, I kept my bag on my lap from then on.

After another half-hour or so it was just the driver and I left in the vehicle. He didn’t know where I wanted to go and I couldn’t quite explain it to him enough for him to understand. I tried looking at the map and saying “Cathedral” No. “American Embassy” Nope. “Pompidou” for the main street. Nope. Mary had given me her address, which worked wonders when trying to find it on a map, but was no help when trying to communicate it in two different languages I did not know. He drove on into the inner city to what I figured was most likely the car park. Sure enough, after we drove through neighborhoods of abandoned buildings we emerged into a huge cement slab called the Dakar / Banjul Car Park. He parked the car, got out, and signaled for me to follow. We walked around until he found someone that could speak English well enough to understand just the two words I decided to use as my point of destination: “American Embassy.” One person was found and introduced me to a new driver.

I waved the original driver goodbye and got into a new taxi to take me to the American Embassy. On the way there he went down Pompidou Avenue where I needed to go anyway and then turned down the street the American Embassy was on, which just so happened to be the street Mary lived on! Perfect. One block later I told him to stop as I was at her front door, without even trying. I paid the driver 1000 CFA for his help, got out, and asked the guard if Mary was in. By asking if she was in, it was more like the action of pointing to the house and saying “Mary?” with a stupid expression on my face. He shook his head yes and let me in. At the entrance he knocked on the door a few times before Mary opened the door.

A brief digression is in order here. The last time I stayed with her was in March, almost nine months back. In those nine months I had lost some more weight; in the last one month my shoes fell apart and were now held in place by duct tape; in the last week I hadn’t shaved; and in the last twenty four hours had not showered and got sprayed by the dust that blew past me while on the way up to Dakar. She didn’t recognize me!

I grinned, “Hi! Sorry, I’m a day early.”

A brief pause before some notion of recollection occurred. “Oh! Mike! Come in!”

At the entrance I took my bag down, which some dust blew in the air from the impact, took my sandals off and relaxed at the kitchen table while talking:

“Have you had anything to eat today?”
“Well, just a bean sandwich, cup of coffee, and four bananas.”
“Here, I might have something you can eat.” She went through her cupboards to find something that could be eaten very quickly without much preparation. Her outcome: “There’s a can of asparaguses here if you want it.”
Deal!

My meals for that day now were extended to a bowl of warm-up asparaguses.

After dinner I excused myself to the guest bedroom to take a shower and shave. In March she had a cleaning lady come in every day and if I had any clothes I just had to put them out bedroom door and they would be clean by the next day. I brought downstairs my jeans and shirt, now completely filled with dust and covered with a tint of brown and set them by the front door. I thought that was a safe bet that they would be obvious to the cleaning laundry to do them as laundry.

After dropping off my clothes I walked upstairs and we talked for a bit before I called it day and went to bed maybe only two hours after I had arrived. However, before going to bed I made sure to ask Mary a few questions.

“Mary, how do you say ‘American Embassy’ in French?”
“ambassade américaine”
“That’s probably why they didn’t understand when I told them to drop me at the ‘American Embassy’”
“That would do it”
“How about ‘Cathedral’?”
“cathédrale”
“They should have understood that! I was saying ‘Cathedral’ not ‘cathédrale’ but they’re similar. Oh, and also, no one recognized when I said Pompidou. Why?”
“You were looking at an English map?”
No further explanation was needed, but she continued, “Also, they just call it by it’s nickname, Ponty. Everybody knows Ponty. No one knows Pompidou. Same street.”

Those tips came in handy the following days!

She let me check my e-mail and I actually had one from Dave, the entire message consisted of “In chicago, good weather. En route to NYC.” I simply replied “In Dakar, waiting. Hot weather.” and went to bed.

12/27/04

MONDAY
DECEMBER 27, 2004

Nothing of importance happened on this day. We all sat around watching TV enjoying every minute of it!

However, when I tried figuring out what happened on this day I e-mailed Cheeta wondering what she remembered. Her story:

--
Hmmm... I'm thinking... I remember the day before was Jessica Goldman's birthday. On the 27th, I was there and so were Jessica W. and Mary. I remember Mary stayed so that we could all watch “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy,” and it was the one where the guy tried to do that dance move and forgot to cut the oysters from the shells. Most people had left Sunday for Kombo with Fred or to go to Basse. Other than that, I don't recall anything exciting about that day. We didn't have Chris's DVD’s so I don't think we had any other movies to watch and I don't remember being overly excited about ones on TV. Hope that helps!
--

The show “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” is a comedy reality show. From the internet the summary is: Five gay men who specialize in fashion, food & wine, grooming, culture, and interior design go to the rescue of helpless straight men with no sense of fashion nor anything else and do a complete make over. At the beginning of each episode they show the chaotic house of the straight guy with his closet full of tasteless clothes and trash all over. Show his terrible looking dry long hair. Basically a man who cannot cook, who is not very sophisticated culturally, and is clueless about using the space he lives in. These five gay guys show the man their perceptions of how to fix all the problems pertaining the correspondent specialties.

That was what we did all day. The highlight of the evening was watching five gay men try to teach a straight man how to cut an oyster and to do a dance move to impress his girlfriend.

12/26/04

SUNDAY
DECEMBER 26, 2004

Some of the volunteers the next morning, after a nice meal of eggs, bacon and sausage, left to go back to site. I had traveled the farthest to be here and planned on staying another day or two, volunteers staying here or not.

Cheeta convinced Braam to drive to Bansang to pick up the DVD player at the PC Regional House. This entailed driving over an hour, crossing a ferry, backtracking 15 minutes, picking up the DVD and doing everything again in reverse. Jessica went along while I watched TV with Kelly and the remaining volunteers.

ESPN was a big hit with most of them, while I was just waiting for something better to come on. When there was football on, or any other sport, I was more intrigued when the ball was in the air then when a team had control over it. When it was in the air only the natural forces of gravity took control. Thoughts of at first freshman level physics took over of Newton’s Laws and F=ma, with the ball being controlled at every second by a force; then thoughts of senior level classes where you learn another interpretation of Newton’s Laws saying the ball actually knows ahead of time which path it’s going to take. When the ball leaves your hand, there is something called the Hamiltonian Principle which states that of all possible paths the ball could go, the actual path it does take does so such that that a certain quantity is a minimum. It still bugs me to this day of things knowing in advance which path to take, that nature chooses the most economical path (in some sense) for every object to follow. Nonetheless there’s the ball flying to the receiver; exactly as Newton or Hamilton would predict.

I gave up watching football and went on to my dartboard problem which had bugged me since the first day arriving at Kharafi. Why was the numbers in the dartboard in the order they are in? If you look at a dartboard starting from the 12 o’clock position and go clockwise the numbers go in the pattern of [20, 1, 18, 4, 13, 6, 10, 15, 2, 17, 3, 19, 7, 16, 8, 11, 14, 9, 12, 5], why are they in the pattern that they are in? I thought of the question: What if you start with the 12 o’clock position and count a certain number of steps, going around repeatedly as needed, and that is where you place the 1. Go around that number of times again this time skipping the 1 each time you pass it, and after that many steps place a 2, etc. Is it possible to construct the sequence of numbers on a dartboard in that fashion?

For example, if you start at the 12 o’clock position you can go just one spot over to get to the correct position of ‘1’. However, you can also go around the whole board again, which would make 21 steps total, or around a third time for 41. Each one of the numbers [1, 21, 41, 61, 81, 101, 121, …] lands you on the correct position for the position of 1. After landing at 1, you now have to go seven more positions to get to the two. That, or 19 more since you’re now skipping the 1 when you cross it, so one less space to count. This leads the possible steps to get to the 2 from the 1 of [7, 26, 33, 40,…] It doesn’t look like it but the number 121 is on both lists. So, if you start at the 12 o’clock position and count 121 steps around you will get to the correct position of the ‘1’. Continue 121 more steps, ignoring the 1 that you placed now, and you get the correct position for the ‘2’.

Is it possible to continue with the 3? Yes. However, that’s where it stops. You can’t find a number that will correctly place the ‘1’, ‘2’, ‘3’, and the ‘4’, let alone all the rest of the numbers.

What if you worked backwards? You can get a little farther. Take an ordinary dartboard and take out all the numbers greater than 13, such that there are now empty spaces where the numbers were. Start at position 13 and count 243 empty spaces going around as many times as needed. That will get you the correct position for the 14. Continue on counting 243 empty spaces and you’ll get 15. That number, 243, is the smallest number that will place all the spaces from 13 to 20 in their correct positions. Any multiple of 840 added to 243 would also work, but 243 was the smallest.

If you try to find a number that will place all the numbers from 12-20 on the board you’ll find it’s impossible, but 13-20 is possible. The one course I had in college on Abstract Algebra and Number Theory came in handy! I never did like the Abstract Algebra part of that course, with topics ranging from Groups, Fields, and Rings. The Number Theory I kind of enjoyed, with prime number theorems and interesting proofs about numbers in general.

For example, given an odd number not ending in five you can find a string of ones such that that odd number can divide the other number. Pick one at random, say 7; 111111 can be divided by 7. Choose 37 for example; 111 can be divided by 37. Pretty interesting, but no application though.

A new volunteer, Greta, has her masters in mathematics in the one area I didn’t particularly like; Abstract Algebra. She’s been very helpful when I need to remember a theorem, or someone to bounce ideas off of.

After working on the Dart Board problem a little bit, and with the volunteers finally being bored of ESPN they switched to another channel. The show now being displayed on TV? A special on cannibalism. Any other day I wouldn’t mind if the channel was changed, but today was different. I had just read the book ALIVE, in which they had to eat the dead to stay alive, and was hoping it would be mentioned on the show.

Just as the show was getting under way Cheeta, Braam, and Jessica arrived with the DVD player and started plugging it in and testing it to make sure it worked. This was interfering with me trying to watch a show on cannibalism. At one point they were testing the DVD and switched the TV setting with the first sentence I heard was

“… another, more recent occurance of cannabilism occurred in Andes Mountains…”

I yelled “STOP!” and sat closer to the TV to hear the five-minute story about the true Andes survivors. I was then happy, and allowed them to again fiddle with the electronics. A somewhat perfect coincidence that the story I read the day before Christmas appeared on a documentary the day after Christmas.

The next six hours we sat, engrossed in three movies back-to-back:

ELF: After inadvertently wreaking havoc on the elf community due to his ungainly size, a man raised as an elf at the North Pole is sent to the U.S. in search of his true identity.

Dodgeball: A group of misfits enter a Las Vegas dodgeball tournament in order to save their cherished local gym from the onslaught of a corporate health fitness chain.

Miracle: Miracle tells the true story of Herb Brooks, the player-turned-coach who led the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team to victory over the seemingly invincible Russian squad.

I went to bed after the third movie.

12/25/04

SATURDAY
DECEMBER 25, 2004

It’s Christmas!
It’s Christmas!
I’m the first one up!
I looked around the room.
This wasn’t like Christmas back home.
Everyone’s passed out drunk!

Beer bottles were spread across the table, playing cards on the floor, and cushions in random places. I guess the real party happened after I went to bed! Slowly the zombies started to wake up. No Christmas music was played, as there were some complaints of headaches. Throughout the morning the music slowly got louder and eventually was regular volume as the headaches subsided.

The first few people up, myself included, helped picked up all the empty beer bottles and got the table cleared for breakfast. All empty bottles, like in the US, can be exchanged for a refund. There is one small difference, though. In the US they do the refund exchange to deter from littering and to encourage recycling. Here in The Gambia the bottle of coke you are drinking has been re-used a hundred times before. The sellers of the bottles, be it bidiks or stores, sell the bottles D2 more than regular price. If you return the bottle you get your D2 back. The owners then stack the bottles in crates until the next full shipment comes. They then get rid of the empty bottles, replacing them with new ones. The old bottles are simply returned the factory, washed out, and used again. And again, and again.

My water bottle was missing from the fridge so I had to get another one. I try to have at all times that I’m at Kharafi a water bottle in the fridge. Most people there drink the beer or coke in the crates about the refrigerator. I don’t want to continually go back and forth into the kitchen to get a drink of water, so I try to fill a bottle up each night to have a cold one all day long waiting for me in the fridge the next morning.

I walked the five minutes towards the ferry terminal to get another bottle of water; not so much for the water itself but for the bottle. At the bidick I noticed for the first time it had a block ‘S’ written in green on the outside. My alma mater logo! I needed to get a picture of it and the only way I could get myself in the picture was to have a Gambian take it. The only way a Gambian would take a picture of you is if you take a picture of them. I now have two pictures of the side of the bidick. The one with me in it is tilted at an angle, since the Gambian took it; and the one with the Gambian smiling is perfectly straight. He gave me his address to mail him his picture and his contact information if I ever wanted to “make a friend.” Not ten minutes after arriving back at Kharafi the Gambian came running forward with another piece of paper with the same address written on it; this time a little neater.

The group of 21 people brought together to celebrate Christmas was broken up into three groups: Sam and his helpers cooking the dinner, the card-players, and the rest just watching movies. I asked Sam if he needed anything from the Island.

“Yes! Ten loaves of bread, five eggs, and margarine.”
This was more than what I was expecting, as I expected maybe ‘one egg’ or something small that I could carry in my hands. “OK. I’ll go get my bag”.

While getting my bag I recruited Amy to come along to the Island. Amy was one of the newly sworn-in environment volunteers and is in the same group as Kelly from the day before. With the exception of myself, this party was almost exclusively environment volunteers.

Amy and I crossed the ferry and within ten minutes of exploring the market found the eggs and margarine. Bread ended up being a little bit harder. Amy went one way while I went another, down the main street into town asking every bidick if they had bread. Not a single one. A small boy came up to us and did the generic “Toubob, give me dalasi” routine.

I fell for it, and told him: “I’ll give you dalasi if we can find bread.”
“Bread?”
“Yes. Bread. I’ll give you one dalasi if we can find ten loaves of bread.”
“Here! Come! My father is the baker.”

In the Gambia, the term “father” does not have the usual definition of ‘a male parent’ but goes beyond that to include, what Americans would call, uncles and older men with the same last name. His ‘father’ was not his father, but nonetheless was the baker. The little boy zigzagged around the island, going in one alley, coming out another until the three of us reached a compound where his ‘father’ worked. In the back was a bigger-than-usual hut that served as the bakery.

The boy spoke to him telling him that we searched all over the island for bread and that he brought them here. We tried to communicate as well as we could with the Wolof we knew. I had my camera on me, since it was in the bag for the bread, I asked if I could take a picture. “No”. Two minutes later he found out we’re Peace Corps. “Ok. You can take the picture, then.” He paused just long enough for the kids to run behind him and I took a picture of him putting the bread in the mud stove with Amy in the background with the kids. This was my first time in a village bakery and I felt bad I had to act a little like a tourist, but that picture speaks a thousand words.



With Amy getting two more loaves of bread we stuffed the dozen loaves in my backpack and left to go back to Kharafi. We gave the kids a few dalasi for their help and even half a loaf of the fresh bread, which they split among themselves. Amy and I shared the other half; with this being the first time I’ve had fresh out of the oven bread since arriving in country. Upon returning to Kharafi Sam smiled in delight when we told him the bread was straight out of the oven and was still hot.

While the chef and his assistants were cooking, a group of us decided to play a Christmas game of baseball. We had nine people total for two teams. Scott had injured his knee the night before in a drunken stupor of jumping on a seat and landing his knees on the armrest. As such, he was our designated pitcher as he could only limp. The field was determined to be in the corner of the compound with the edge of center field being the corner post. Big stones or broken cement blocks marked the bases.

Four people were to a team. Originally, we had one person on each base and only one outfielder. This was changed when we realized first base was useless when trying to get people out, as we could concentrate on second base or third. The rule was changed to: If you throw it the pitcher (i.e. Scott) and he catches it then your out on first. By the first few times of doing this rule it had to be amended as Scott couldn’t move much because of his knee. New rule: If you throw in the general vicinity of the pitcher, in such a way that he could have caught it if uninjured, you were out on first.

At the end of the first inning with one-out and I’m on third base we were called in for Dinner.

My apologizes to the chef, but a very simplified version of that dinner was: Green salad with mustard vinaigrette, grilled lamb, and chopped potatoes. I asked Sam the actual names of the items, and tried to write them down, but three things hindered that effort: He told the official names of each dish, I didn’t know how to spell them, and neither did he. The “grilled lamb” had a real professional name to it, and tasted equally well. There were other side dishes, but I didn’t know what they were called.



To drink were twelve bottles of wine, crates full of beer and pop, and water. Everyone was going to chip in three hundred or so dalasi to cover the cost of the meal. I approached Sam after everyone had their full and were relaxing:

“Should we pay you or one of the Kharafi people?”
“Well, Mike, you don’t owe anything.”
“I don’t?”
“They’re not charging anyone for anything.”
“They bought all this for us for free!”
“It looks like it.”

These three people, Brom, Phillip, and Fred, had not only put up their place for 18 Americans to spend Christmas together, but also then paid for their celebratory dinner! Word spread around quickly and a few thank-you toasts were in order.

The rest the baseball game was continued after a short break. I got back on third base and ran to home as my teammate struck out going to third as the ball was thrown passed Scott who couldn’t catch it, but it qualified as an out. One other problem with having four people on a team is that when bases are loaded and your batting, you have to be your own catcher. If you get a strike or a ball you have to run and catch up to the ball rolling away from you every time. Another weird event was that I was on first base, one of my teammate got out that went after me, but the next person to bat was on third. I became the designated person to move from first to third, then run from third to home, then go back to what base I would have reached, second.

To make the game shorter another rule was implemented. A half-an-inning was when either three outs or five runs happened. Our team usually suffered from the three outs, the other team from the five runs. The game ended when the sun went down and the lights that were up on the compound weren’t powerful enough to continue the game. We lost 16-21.

At 10 pm, another dinner was served. The first dinner, being the formal one, was done early enough in the day that the cooks considered it to be our lunch and so they cooked eleven chickens for us and cut them in half. Still another interesting fact about being in Peace Corps is that we have a disproportionate number of people who are vegetarians than the usual population. With that being said, there was more meat for the meat eaters! The cooks don’t understand why some toubobs won’t eat meat. Their usual argument is “They can afford it, why don’t they eat it!” Most Gambians only have meat when they can afford it and so choosing not to eat a piece of meat when it is around causes a stir. Needless to say, there were enough meat eaters in the room to finish all the chickens.

When dinner was finished, and dessert served, I left to go to the island to call home. Before attempting to cross the river I asked a few of the volunteers if I could use their phone to try to call the US from it. A few of them gave me their cell phones, but only one of them could receive a signal and even then I couldn’t make a call out.

No ferry was running and only local fisherman were waiting or just chatting away. I negotiated a deal between one of the captains of a canoe. He would cross to Georgetown, wait one hour, and then cross back for D100. I didn’t want to deal with trying to find a canoe to cross back onto the North Bank an hour later so the D100 was to guarantee I had a ride back, more than anything.

I reached the island and went to the only telecenter I knew existed on the island. The phone was push-button but the dial tone was pulse. I tried calling the AT&T operator, but the computer couldn’t understand the pulses. I gave up in search of another telecenter, with ten minutes wasted. The only other telecenter was on the other side of the island and I wouldn’t have enough time to travel there, make the call, and travel back in under an hour. A thought occurred that maybe in the back of the phone there was switch no one knew about that would switch it from pulses to tones, so I went back to the same telecenter.

Ten minutes more were wasted just waiting in line as someone got in line before me inbetween the time I left and came back. There were only two phones in the telecenter and only one of them worked. Eventually it was finally my turn and I went inside, with the only light being one of a candle, to check the sides of the phone. There was no switch to toggle, or hidden button to push. With the option of not making the phone call lingering in my head I figured to try it just one more time before calling it quits.

“Press 1 for domestic, 2 for international”
I could do neither because of the pulses.
I waited.
“I’m sorry. I did not register the option you selected. Please press one for domestic, two for international.”
I waited.
“Or, you can say the number.”
A glimpse of hope! “Two”
“Thank you using your AT&T pre-paid phone card. Please type in your pin number.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry. I did not register your PIN number. Please type it in again.”
I waited.
“Or, you can say the number.”

I read each number out loud, clearly. The computer registered it and then asked me to punch in the phone number. Again I waited until I could say the number. After all that, it didn’t connect! Maybe I didn’t need to dial 001 for calling the US? I couldn’t remember. I hung up the phone and tried again. Each time I waited to say each number again. After five more minutes of saying nothing but numbers it again didn’t connect! My last shot was to try without the 001 country code for the US and also say it’s a domestic call. This is the same option as if I was calling from within the US. I again went through the routine of saying every number out loud.

First the three numbers I had to select just to make a call.
Second, the 12 digit PIN number
Thirdly, the ten-digit phone number, with area code.

This time I purposely said “one” for domestic, and it worked! The phone was ringing and my father picked up on the other end of the line. Not ten seconds later the proprietor interrupted our conversation and asked if I was talking on the phone. His problem? I was using a phone card and therefore his machine did not register that the phone was being used. He didn’t like this very much and interrupted asking if I was going to pay. Any other day I would have said no, but I was just so thankful I got through that I said yes I would pay.

I was able to talk to my family for a few minutes to wish them a Merry Christmas. It took a half-hour to make that connection. When I walked out, and paid the guy D50 just for the sake of him not interrupting the conversation again, I received a lot of weird looks. I then realized why there was a gathering and people were looking at me funny. For the past half-hour, minus the last five minutes or so that I was actually talking to my family, all the words I was saying were just numbers spoken clearly and being well spaced.

“Three… one … four … one … five… nine… two….six … five … “

There’s an old rumor flying around that Peace Corps volunteers are government spies, or CIA agents, spying on The Gambians. This is only strengthened when they find out we do, in fact, work for the government; but not in the high-profile job they think we have. And so, for twenty minutes my “cover” was blown as I was speaking in code into the telephone telling all the secrets of The Gambia to my CIA counterparts listening in.

“three .. five … eight … nine .. seven… nine… three … two … three.” With intervened the occasional “yes”, “no” or “correct”.

I just smiled at them, nodded, greeted a few, and went back to my captain who was waiting to take me back to the north side. The original plan was to call three people: My parents, Laura in Texas, and Dave to find out if everything was a go for his trip. With the phone the way it was I only made one call.

The Christmas Party was well under way. Not one for being left out, Scott pulled up a bar stool in the middle of the living room so he could be part of the dancing group. Although his knee still bothered him and he couldn’t walk without a limp he joined in the dancing by sitting on the stool and dancing while he sat. Christmas lights were aglow, drinks a flowing, and dancing going crazy.

I joined the card table.

I tried getting a game of euchre going but not everyone knew euchre, and so Tom (Alexei’s dad), Thao, and I played a game of Rummy. The winner was the first to reach 500 points. Tom and I were closely tied to be in the lead throughout the game. On one hand of play I had accumulated just face cards and laid them down all at once to go out, a risky move in case any of the others laid out first. It worked and I pulled ahead to 495, with Tom at 475 and Thao trailing at 335. Five more points and I would win the game.

Realizing the situation Tom told Thao, “Now, Thao, don’t give any face cards to Mike.”
“I know. I won’t”
“We can still win. He needs only five points. If I go out first and he gets negative I could still win.”
“OK.”

Thao apparently didn’t understand the concept of that the best opportunity for me to lose was for Tom to win, not her. She would grab cards that she herself would need, which Tom didn’t particularly like. I was dealt three aces to begin with, so I just teased them a while by throwing cards away and confusing Tom, which, being a good card player, kept track of which cards people threw away and picked up.

Finally it was time to lay them out.

“Oh shit!” was Tom’s first expression, followed by, “wait, wait, it’s not over yet. Even though he only needs five points if I go out before he does and he has enough cards in his hand to cancel the aces I could still win. Thao, you with me?”

“Yeap, let’s get him!”

She then proceeded to keep on doing what she was doing before. Tom did care and was now getting frustrated with his chances of winning, or more correctly, me losing, going down the drain. The game ended when Thao discarded a card Tom knew I would pick up. I did. I used it, and won.

As midnight approached I went to bed. The next day, the 26th, was Jessica’s birthday and I heard them singing through the walls when midnight struck. A few minutes later Thao joined in the going-to-bed-early party and walked in the room. We started talking a little, with me pointing out something that someone had pointed out to me earlier in the day.

“You know, someone pointed out today that I am the only education volunteer here.”

“Why would someone point that out! Who cares! This isn’t just an ag-fo party. Anybody was welcomed to join in. Most of the education volunteers go down to Kombo for Christmas, while we’re glad you came up here! ”

With that being said I went to sleep. My last Christmas in the Gambia was finished.

12/24/04

FRIDAY
DECEMBER 24, 2004

Christmas Eve!

Cheeta was playing her Christmas music in the background while breakfast was being served. Kharafi hired a local Gambian to cool for them while they were at the compound. If visitors arrive the cook just needed to know how many to cook for. For breakfast were eggs, bacon, and sausage. The first time I’ve had that good of a breakfast in a long time! Most time my breakfast consists of a bean sandwich or an egg-and-potato sandwich at the local bidick.

After breakfast Matt Selinske, Kelly Stephenson, and I left to go to Georgetown; a small island just a five-minute walk away to the river. As we approached the ferry terminal we had a choice of either waiting for a ferry, which could take upwards of an hour but it’ll only be D2 each, or pay for an entire canoe at D25 and leave immediately. We chose the latter and quickly found a captain to take us across. Matt paid the D25 for all of us.

The ride across is only a ten-minute ride, if that; and this is the longer of the two sides. The south bank side you have a rope going across so you could pull yourself across in case the engine breaks. Total time to cross the south bank: two minutes max. Across the ferry and onto the island there were two places to dock the boat. The main terminal was just for the ferry, or the occasional tourist boat, and the second terminal was for the local canoes. That is where we docked.

To our immediate left was a small restaurant and coke stand. We sat down and ordered half a sandwich and a drink while we relaxed at the table. The sandwich is what they call ñeebe, or bean, sandwich. We each liked it so much that we ordered another half each. Total bill was D25, which Kelly paid this time.

Kelly and Matt were on two separate missions for why going to the island. Matt needed to make a phone call concerning his parents arriving the next month and the nearest phone to us was on the island. Kelly’s mission: obtain some palm wine.

As we walked down the main street in town we saw the German Forestry Department. A former volunteer, Sean, worked for the German Forestry Department for a year. With his influence, and other volunteer’s locations and willingness, we now have a partnership with them. Matt had worked with them on a few occasions. During that two-minute walk down Main Street Matt got into a conversation with the locals and it was up to Kelly and I to introduce ourselves to the Gambians working with the Germans and ask for palm wine. Getting palm wine is not like going to a business in the US and asking where’s the nearest place to buy a beer. It’s a little bit more looked down upon then that, as it is quite potent and you see drunken Gambians passed out under its influence. As such, palm wine had a reputation and had to be asked about in small circles. Nonetheless it is easily obtainable if you wish to search and ask around a bit. We didn’t have much luck before Matt showed up and began speaking to his friends. Mission accomplished: come back later tonight and there will be two bottles ready for us.

After that mission accomplished we thought of a secondary mission, a baseball bat. This bat, which belonged to Sam, was in Vickie’s house just two blocks away. She wasn’t in town but her combination was written in roman numerals on the side. Gambians aren’t taught roman numerals and so it is the usual practice for volunteers to write their combinations to their houses in that manner near the lock so other volunteers can get in either if they get stuck in transport; to visit; drop off mail; or, in our case, to get a baseball bat.

We walked into her compound, greeted her family, and asked how they were. Then Matt opened up her door, went inside her house, and got the bat. It wasn’t unusual for the family to see this. In fact, in the process of breaking into her house her host brother showed us the skin of a rodent he had caught, killed, skinned, and cooked.

While walking down the street we now attracted every kid in sight since we were now probably the only people on the island with a baseball bat. Everyone wanted to see it, hold it, or use it. We didn’t give it up to anyone, but instead made a game out of it:

“Toubob, give me your bat!”
I smiled and jokingly said back, “You call me ‘toubob’ again I will beat you with this bat!”
“Toubob, give me your bat!”



I raised the bat up as if I was going to swing at them. Their faces quickly changed from smiles to fear as they ran away from fear, with their parents laughing in the background. As we passed the parents we greeted them, some by name, smiled, and continued on our way.

Matt needed to use the phone so Kelly and I went to the bidick. After the bidick we walked back near the ferry terminal where the local market was. Kelly was looking for different vegetables to put in tonight’s dinner while I was responsible for the bat. I just sat down on an overhang and whenever a kid came close I raised the bat up a bit as if to hit them. The kids soon got the joke and we smiled over it.

After a few minutes Matt came back:
“Sorry for taken a while. You know, I went to the bathroom before leaving this morning thinking that would be my only dump of the day. Nope. Didn’t have any toilet paper and so had to use my notebook paper”

We thought nothing of it. We all have been in that boat as mine was in Guinea where I was forced to use torn-out pages of the Newsweek magazine for toilet paper.

With Kelly and Matt already paid their fair share I paid the D25 to have us cross the river to get back to Kharafi.

Shortly after we arrived there was a commotion outside. It seemed as if Kharafi was getting their Christmas present as well. They ordered new furniture three months ago and it was just arriving. In the back of the truck there was, covered in dust, one couch and three comfortable seats. We had to slap each cushion to get all the dust off that fell upon it during its trip. Some of the guys helped out by carrying the sofa, chairs, and cushions. We had a fun time trying to rotate the sofa in such a way that it would fit in the door! We rearranged the whole living room so it actually looked like a living room. The couches were across from the chairs with both right angles from the TV. Made for some neck-bending times to watch the TV, but casual times when we just sat and talked the day away.



Throughout the day more and more people were showed up. One surprise was Alexei and his visitors. His father and sister were visiting from the US and were celebrating Christmas at Kharafi before heading out for New Years Eve from Dakar. Alexei introduced me to his father, Tom, and his sister, Toni. Their family is half Greek. A few months back Alexei even went to Greece to visit his extended family.

One interesting note about his family is that they all go by shortened names. Alexei is short for Alexander and Toni short for Antonia. His father immigrated to the US when he was nine and has been going by Tom ever since. Tom’s real Greek name was Athenasios, but no one ever called him that. He was fun to hang out with, and being a retired high school science teacher I could talk science with him! I also felt sorry for Toni a little bit. Although she was still in High School and this was a great experience for her to be in Africa, she was on Winter Break and had to bring her homework with her on her vacation!

Later that day Alexei, Matt, and Braam (one of the South Africans) went out behind back to play some baseball. I joined them later on and didn’t hit a single ball. So much for practicing for WAIST! After the pseudo-game we came inside to the girls putting more decorations up, Christmas music playing in the background, and a Poker game being played at the table. Shortly thereafter the Christmas music turned into dance music, the poker game ended and people started dancing.

One disadvantage of reading a good book is that you can’t put it down! The book that was supposed to last me the two weeks of traveling was not even lasting me two days. I had fifty pages to go and I wanted to finish that night. Stupid me, while the girls were dancing around I’m in the chair reading my book.
Even Brom came up to me, “Mike, For f---’s sake! Put that book away! It’s Christmas Eve!”
“I’m almost done!”
“I don’t care if you’re on the last f---ing page!” as he swiped the book from my hands and placed in on the table.

One thing is true about these South Africans. When they speak to each other they speak Afrikaan, but when they speak English they sure do swear a lot! The phrase ‘for f---’s sake!’ is heard a lot when hanging out with them.

I got up to get my book again and continued reading. He took my book away but wasn’t expecting I would jump over the chair after him to get it back. We both had a good laugh about that and the outcome was that I was free to read my book, but I went outside anyway.

The cooks were preparing our dinner, half-chicken and chips. As they were cooking it over a grill I sat in the corner near the house-light to get enough light to read. After another hour or so, roughly the same time that dinner was being set to start, around nine, I finished ALIVE.

I ate my dinner, put the finished book away, and joined the party. I was actually in bed before midnight. The room contained two beds and two mattresses on the floor. Cheeta and Jessica obtained the beds, since they were the first to arrive, as Thao and I got the floor. Bed or not, it’s air-conditioned!

12/23/04

THURSDAY
DECEMBER 23, 2004

The e-mailed completed I looked at the clock at the bottom of the computer. 4:30 in the morning. Time to head home. I packed the only clothes I would carry that would last me three weeks: two pants, three shirts, and five pairs of underwear. At anytime I could wash any of them in the bucket, like in training. The rest of the contents of my bag consisted of IDs, money, calculator, small bathroom supplies, and a bar of local laundry soap. That, and the book I was going to read, ALIVE.

By 5:30 the local security guard, hired by the landlord, walked with me to the highway to Banjul. After finding a local ghelli-ghelli I reached the ferry terminal on time for the first ferry, seven o’clock in the morning. The ferry was full to capacity of Gambians either going to work or traveling to their home village for Christmas (10% of the country is Christian). At the time I’m so tired that I just climbed in the back of a pick-up, without asking the owner, and went to sleep on top of the spare tire in the bed. Between the last three nights, two were of zero hours of sleep and only separated by one good night of rest. Needles to say I was exhausted. I knew it was time to leave the ferry when Gambians were shaking my shoulder telling me I had to get up since the car wanted to move.

While I walked down the ramp I heard somehow yell out my name. I turned and look and it was Chris and Meghan, two recently sworn-in volunteers, who were sitting in private car waiting to cross the ferry going to the other way. Chris had biked for two days from Georgetown, where I was heading, to get to Kerewan where Meghan lived. From there they had connections to not only get a private vehicle but to have that vehicle be one of the first on the ferry. We chatted for only a few seconds since the entire ferry was passing me and potentially getting my spot in the cars going upcountry.

I somehow managed to get front seat to a vehicle going to Kuntair. I tried to get a few hours of sleep while in transit but I have the driver to my left and someone else to my right and I kept on nodding off either to the right or left to their annoyance. Once I nodded off to the left, bumped the driver, woke up suddenly, moved my leg and accidentally shifted the vehicle out of gear. The car stalled while I apologized to the driver. That only kept me alert enough for ten minutes before I succumbed to the exhaustion again and went back to sleep.

At Kuntair we had a few hours to wait for a vehicle to come for Georgetown. I had just enough sleep to be able to read with comprehension and so I brought out the one book I brought for the trip: ALIVE, about the Rugby team that crashed in the Andes mountain and had to survive for ten weeks. While reading I saw a few shadows flying past me on the ground. I looked up and saw a small swarm of locusts! That was the first time I had seen a swarm of locusts, and it wouldn’t be my last.

Finally, a car showed up that was going, not to Georgetown, but to Panchang which was on the way. Basically there is only one road you just try to keep on moving in one direction, eventually you’ll get to where you’re going. I had been waiting in the vehicle for an hour and was rewarded with the front seat, along with another person. At Panchang the driver told me to get in another vehicle which was headed to Georgetown. I didn’t argue and didn’t know why I was switching cars, as I was the only one told to do so, but using the motto of ‘it’s going in the same direction’ I got in. The car pulled up at Georgetown and arrived at the Kharafi place at 3:30 in the afternoon.

Kharafi is a company owned by Nasser Al-Kharafi and Family from Saudi Arabia. They’re on the Forbe’s top 10 list of wealthiest families, with an accumulated net worth exceeding five billion dollars. The project the company is working on in The Gambia is a major 115 km, $25 million, complete reconstruction of the road between Farafenni and Lamine Koto. Most of the management crew come from South Africa and Peace Corps volunteers have been friends with them since Lisa, one of the girls I went to Guinea with, introduced herself to them and it grew from there.

For the rest of the day I helped Cheeta, Jessica, Mary, Sam and Scott put up Christmas Decorations. We had no real ones, but we made due. Jessica started pulling individual leaves off small tree branches she took from outside, and using one side of the tape stuck them together to make different layers of a Christmas tree. Next we used a knife to punch holes in bottle caps of Coke and Sprite to make hanging flyers, while Cheeta used old Newsweeks to make cutout snowflakes. The Newsweeks we get for free from the Government we’ve discovered have many additional uses. Most volunteers would rather receive The Economist, or some other “real” magazine, but you really can’t complain about receiving free magazines. Some volunteers have used their Newsweeks for paper airplane demonstrations for class, wrapping your sandwich or left over food in, to cut snowflakes out of, or, in desperate times as a substitute for toilet paper.

When most of the decorations were done I played referee to a game of darts between Sam and Mary. The game was just the first to hit every number. However, due to lack of practice and/or skill we also made a category for ‘door’ and ‘floor’ as well. Sam led in the ‘door’ category while Mary led in the ‘floor’, with hers just bouncing off the dart board and landing on the floor. It was at this game that I noticed no observerable pattern for the numbers around the dartboard as they seemed to go around like random.

Since the Kharafi compound had digital TV we took advantage of it and watched a few movies. Other then when I’m in Dakar, at Mary’s place, this is the only chance I have to watch true television. Movies are common throughout Peace Corps, but the option of changing channels or watching American shows we lack. After a while you learn not to miss it, but still crave it when you can watch it.

I was the first to go to bed.

12/22/04

WEDNESDAY
DECEMBER 22, 2004

My last mail-pick up before leaving for vacation was when the Christmas packages started pouring in. There was only one more pickup before Christmas and so we were asking the postal employees to check their back room and we would pay for any and all packages they had back there. A few managed to arrive, but most hadn’t been logged in the back room yet and so they wanted us to come back on Friday.

Later that day the mailrun crew for December came back into town consisting of Kelly and Allison. For the past week they had been traveling around the country delivering the mail to every volunteer. They named themselves the “Dengue Club” since they were the only two volunteers in our group to get Dengue Fever while being in country. Dengue fever also is called “breakbone fever” because of the severity of the pain in the joints. The two suffered all of the features of Dengue fever when they had it: high fever, rash, severe headaches, pain behind the eyes, joint pains, nausea, vomiting, and loss of appetite. Both had lost weight and the Medical Unit was actually buying high-caloric ice cream for them to eat. Kelly couldn’t even move his eyes and had to move his head to look in a different direction.

For mailrun it was debated whether it should be the usual five days or add another day for six. Kelly and Allison chose to do it in six days, but realized that extra day was unnecessary and so recommended Administration to continue with the five-day schedule.

The past few days Administration wanted me to go through old Hostel records and find out which volunteers hadn’t paid in the past year. However, both the old book and money lockbox was missing. It wasn’t until that night did they find them, the night before I was headed out for vacation. They would have to wait until after I come back.

Sam, the resident chef volunteer, was going out with Fred, a Kharafi employee to pick up food for Christmas dinner at Georgetown. I asked Sam if he needed any help, but none was needed. I learned later that Sam, being a chef, refuses all help of buying or preparing meals unless he specifically points to you and says “you chop, you buy this” etc. All comply with his wishes. They were heading out to Georgetown but I promised Heidi I would be here for her birthday, so I passed up on a free ride to stay up all night in celebration and take public transportation the following morning.

That night we celebrated Heidi’s birthday. About twenty of us went out to Churchill’s for a night of Karaoke. Usually we are the only ones there but since it’s tourist season we had to wait for seats to come available. The highlight of the singing was when all the girls did Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” while the last song that we sang before our group left was for the guys. All the guys, myself included, went up and sang Beach Boys “California Girls.”

The party at karaoke ended when the birthday girl decided to go to Aquarius for dancing. About half of us went while the other half went home. Seeing my hours of sleep diminish quickly I figured I had nothing to loose and I stayed up and went dancing with them. By the time we got back to the Hostel it was 3:30 in the morning. I was to leave in three hours. No sleep for me, and even worse, my bag was missing!

Inside my backpack had my passport, Resident ID, and money for the trip. The only thing I had to pack was my clothes. This being missing was quite strange. A brick and metal gates enclose the Hostel, with 24/7 security. All the volunteers know my bag, by the PC luggage tag which no one else has in country, and I trust them all implicitly. There’s been cases were a single one dalasi coin would be sitting on the table for weeks because no one knows who it belongs to. And now my bag is missing and I leave in three hours!

I knocked on the Hostel Manager’s door, a local Gambian that got hired by Peace Corps after intense interviews and screening. Modou is his name, roughly our age, and he is now responsible for making sure everyone is checked into the hostel like a hotel and supplies bed sheets and makes bills out. No one answered. I asked all those with me if anyone saw my backpack. They remembered seeing it before we left earlier in the night but it wasn’t there since.

Having no choice but to check every room I started turning on all the lights and in the process woke everyone up. If it were just an ordinary night I would have just come back in the morning. The first room had eght people sleeping in there, and no bag. Second room, six people, no bag. Third room, empty; except for Modou who was sleeping there even though he had his own room.

“Modou, have you seen my bag”
“Bag? No”

Turned the light off and continued searching. Upstairs (waking everyone up), empty rooms, kitchen, nothing. There was only one room left in the house, which was locked, and that was Modou’s own personal room. I went back to the empty room where Modou was sleeping

“Modou, are you sure you haven’t seen my bag?”
“Bag, no”
“I checked every room, except yours. Did you happen to find anything today?”
“Just a back-pack”
“That’s mine! My bag is my back-pack. It’s the same thing. Bag, back-pack. Back-pack, bag. Same item!”

He got up, went to his own room, unlocked it and I got my backpack back. I took my backpack, said goodbye to whomever was still awake, and left to go to the office to do one last emailing before setting off.

12/21/04

TUESDAY
DECEMBER 21, 2004

When seventy-thirty was approaching other people started to appear in the office. The first volunteer to arrive was Courtney, who wanted to get a good start on the day. Courtney and I talked about getting some breakfast at “Palais de Chocolate”, a small bakery a block away that sells croissants, waffles, and pancakes. I woke up Vickie to come along. During breakfast over pancakes I told Courtney about my friend who was visiting and she invited us to stay with her for a night or so, which I said I would try to do if time permitted.

This being the week before Christmas more volunteers were arriving from upcountry. I planned on taking the rest of the day easy and just do nothing but catch up on some lost sleep. However, when I went back to the office I ran into Sara Hoffman who just came back from village with her boyfriend, Rob, who was visiting from the UK. She invited everyone to the beach to relax, and to also have Rob meet other volunteers. An hour after the invitation was given I showed up to Laybatos. She was glad I arrived, as I was, so far, the only person to accept the general invite to relax on the beach.

Rob is going to school to be a lawyer in the UK and is in his last year of law-school. They had met while both were studying abroad a few years back in Australia. That year was one of Sara’s first years and Rob’s senior year. He had since went back to the UK to begin law school while Sara graduated college and joined the Peace Corps. Having spring break off he came to visit her just for the week. They had just arrived back from Battinjol, which they visited for just one full day. At the beach the three of us sat down on the chairs to discuss Peace Corps life and The Gambia.

I ordered a vegetable pizza and ate lunch as we talked about public transportation, and other stories. After an hour or so they got up to take a walk on the beach and go back to their hotel while I switched tables to where other volunteers were sitting. In the group was Laura Ploplys who, after two years, was going home that night. I sat with Laura, Tai, Rod, Isatou and her husband passing photos around that Laura’s boyfriend, Matt Judd, another volunteer, had sent from the US.

After just a half hour I got up to leave and said my final goodbyes to Laura and Tai. With having very little sleep I wanted to take an afternoon nap. The hostel was the closest bed so I went there. This is the new hostel that had been in progress for over a year. Diana had told us, over a year prior, that a new hostel would be opened and that we should be prepared. Within a month the alert died down, and within two months of hearing no news people stopped paying for their rooms seeing that the move should be imminent. Flash forward twelve months later and you finally have a new hostel ready to open and a backlog of over a $1,000 of payments unaccounted for.

The new hostel was located across town, nearer to the beach and farther away from the office by a few blocks and in the other direction. Compared to the old hostel it is an order of magnitude better. As you walk in you are facing what looks like a mansion. In fact, it used to be the former residence of The Gambia’s Ambassador to the United States. It is two storied with a walkout balcony surrounding the upstairs. Inside there is stairs (the old one had stairs in the outside, which didn’t work so well during the rainy season), and the living room was over triple the space of the old one. Peace Corps put an advertisement in the newspaper for a hostel manager and hired two to work full time. They had the first room in the house; despite a small apartment house in the far corner of the compound that was theirs, as they would be a live in manager. They hired Modou and Kakuta, better known as Kex. For the past few weeks they had been learning the volunteers faces and names as they arrived in town.

The price for the old hostel was D30 per night, and this one was D80 almost triple in price. However, most rooms were air-conditioned and the power and water were guaranteed to be on 24/7, whether they had to put on the generator or not. The old hostel, on the other hand, was prone to water and electricity troubles. Back in July, when all the volunteers were down for a meeting the water ran out so you had 50 volunteers unable to take showers, clean dishes, or flush the toilets for three days. It wasn’t a pretty sight. A latrine was recommended and two were actually built so another toilet-fiasco would not happen again.

The power was also terrible at the old hostel as the generator often failed. Eventually it was replaced with the loudest generator you could ever imagine. Whenever it was on you had to shut all the windows in order to hear yourself think. However, due to fuel shortages and it breaking down we were left with candles as light most of the time.

Whenever you come into the hostel, from out of town, you sign in with the managers and they assign you a room to sleep in. They try to fill in one room at a time, which can fit anywhere from four to eight people. I noticed that one of the top bunks in the largest room wasn’t taken up and so I kicked off my shoes, climbed the bed and took a two hour nap in the bunk nearest the corner of the room. Two hours later, as I stepped out of the room, the girls started asking me weird questions.

“How long have you been in that room?”
“I don’t know, maybe two hours or so.”
“You were in there for two hours! Where were you?”
“In the top bunk in the corner, taking a nap. Why?”
“Did you see anything?”
“See anything? No. I was asleep.”

The reason why the girls were questioning me was that of eight beds in the room, the seven girls had taken all but one of them. While I was sleeping they kicked out whatever guy was in the room, closed the door, and changed to go to the beach or shower. They didn’t see me since I was sleeping in the corner, and I didn’t see them since I was, again, sleeping in the corner. Even though they didn’t see me sleeping they knew I was telling the truth since they saw me at the office earlier and knew I had stayed up all night grading papers and I was half-asleep the rest of the day. I was honestly dead asleep and all worries were put to rest. That night’s dinner topic consisted of joking over the incident, and then I went home to actually go to bed again – this time for the night.