Journey Across Africa

Below you'll find stories of my two year experience as a Peace Corps Volunteer in the small West African country of The Gambia. After my service I traveled solo, with only a small backpack, across West Africa; reaching N'Djamena, Chad after two months. Visa problems for Libya and Civil unrest in the Darfur region of Western Sudan made Chad my last stop.

Peace Corps Service: Aug. 2003 - July 2005

Journey Across Africa: July 2005 - Sept. 2005

Name:
Location: Boston, MA, United States

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

1/11/05

TUESDAY
JANUARY 11, 2005

The first priority of the morning was to go to the bank and get the American Dollars Dave left me exchanged to CFA to pay back Mary. After taking her up on her offer to eat the ice cream I had a bowl for breakfast. I believe the last time I did something like that was when I was ten, but it sure felt good! After my bowl full of chocolate-ice-cream-smothered-with-chocolate-sauce breakfast I left the house to the bank. I exchanged the whole $40, so I would have enough both to pay Mary back and also enough money to get back home, which would cost another $10 for public transportation.

With not wanting to spend any more money than what I had to, I stayed inside for the rest of the day watching more movies. Two movies, in particular, I liked. The first was one Dave recommended, The Bourne Supremacy. “When Jason Bourne is framed for a botched CIA operation he is forced to take up his former life as a trained assassin to survive.” The other starred Marlon Brando and Johnny Depp called Don Juan de Marco, “A psychiatrist must cure a young patient that presents himself as Don Juan, the greatest lover in the world.”.

Again, not wanting that ice cream to go to waste I had another bowl for lunch and continued watching movies. When dinner time came I again had my third, and last, bowl of ice cream. Not since I was ten years old have I had this much ice cream in one day, but it was worth every brain-freeze!

By 8:30 at night Mary came home as I was just starting to watch Moulin Rouge. I had watched all the movies I had cared to watch in her house and was now repeating. She apologized for being late and explained that a shipment from the The Gambia had arrived at the Embassy close to closing and only certain personal could transfer the items into the Embassy itself. Most had already gone home for the day, and so she stayed behind to help out as they called in saying they would be late.

She came into her room, which was next to the TV room, and as I watched Moulin Rouge she asked if I wanted to join her and her embassy friends to go out to dinner. A few things almost prevented me from saying yes. It was already approaching nine and I had to get up very early the next morning to catch transport and my money was running low than going out would almost break me leaving just enough for transport. I held out making a confirmation until she asked from the bottom of the stairs, as she was getting to go out the door, if I was coming. I made the best decision of the day by joining her.

She had called her friends and asked where they wanted to meet. It was only a few blocks away from her house, as we checked on the map, and despite being late we decided to walk it. Turning down this street, that street, backtracking, and, in general, getting lost we couldn’t find the restaurant. Mary stopped at a prominent apartment building, where some Embassy employees lived, and was asking the door-man in French where the restaurant was. As the man was telling her a van pulled up and she recognized her friends. They invited us in and I met Kristine and Princess for the first time. They drove around a block a few times to find a parking space and afterwards we walked into the restaurant, which we had passed earlier without knowing it.

The restaurant was a little bit above my price level and I ordered one of the cheapest meals I could from the menu and still have a good meal. The price on the meal was $10, and I made sure not to know what it was until after I ordered it, for the fun of the surprise. I tried ordering tap water but was quickly corrected by the embassy people into getting the bottled water.

Princess, which was her real name, was visiting Africa for the first time. She had arrived a week earlier to help out in this transfer and was assisted by Kristine, who worked in the American Embassy in Mauritanian and had been flown in to Banjul to help out. Originally they were suppose to have arrived the day before, but because of the ferry in Banjul one truck was stuck on the north side while the van was on the south side. Being stuck in the North Bank, and not seeing any restaurant, they had survived the night on Ritz crackers for their dinner. I was taken aback, as there is plenty of food available on the north side of the ferry.

“What about all the vendors?”
“What vendors?”
“On the street, selling bean sandwiches.”
“I didn’t want to eat those.”
“I eat those all the time!”
“You eat the street food?”
“Every morning. That’s how most Peace Corps volunteers survive if they don’t have a host family cooking for them, or if they are traveling. It’s quite good.”

The conversion then continued to living in Africa and some of the inconveniences. They had stories of not being able to find a toilet, while I had no toilet paper. They couldn’t find a vehicle while my vehicle caught on fire. They had to drink the city water while I drank yellow water in Guinea. Basically for every hardship they encountered I could one-up them. At the end of the meal as I was getting ready to pay for my meal Kristine told me to put my money away. They were paying for my meal.

This was not the end of the story, but only the beginning. During the meal it came out the Kristine and Princesses were heading back tomorrow.

“Back to where?”
“Banjul.”
“Banjul? You’re going to Banjul tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. Is it possible to get a ride if there’s room. I was going to take public transportation back.”
“Yeah, I think there’s room. Can you be at the Novotel Hotel at nine?”
“If there’s private transportation I can be anywhere at nine!”

I had secured myself not only a free ride, not only private transportation, but a diplomatic ride back from Dakar to Banjul! Plus they paid for my dinner. Free meal and transport, this was my day! On the way back from the restaurant I was almost kicking myself for thinking of declining the offer to go out to dinner. I almost passed up a diplomatic ride back home!

Friday, January 07, 2005

1/7/05 - 1/10/05

Jan 7th thru Jan 10th will, hopefully, be written by Dave since it was his special side-trip to Laland to visit Rebecca. I figured it was best to get it in his perspective.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

1/6/05

THURSDAY
JANUARY 6, 2005

I wanted to show Dave the usual place where I get my breakfast. It was just an ordinary bidick a few blocks away, which also doubled as a telecenter called “Barry’s Telecenter.” The location was perfect for them, being in the intersection of two secondary dirt roads, and they received a larger-than-normal amount of customers because of that. Only two guys, Alagie and Amadou, who start each day at five in the morning and end at one in the morning every morning, run the business. For most of the day they are working side-by-side, each one serving every-other customer. During the morning and late afternoon they are extremely busy making sandwiches. Most bidicks in town the fresh bread only arrives once in the day, in the morning. This business is doing so well that they get two fresh shipments, once in the morning, around seven, and another one twelve hours later. I have become a regular customer that, other than greeting them in the morning, I do not have say another word and I get my breakfast: a loaf of bread with potatos, eggs, mayonnaise, and a dash of Maggi spice. The added spice is just from a bouillon cube, and advertisements for Maggi can be found all over West Africa. Every morning I pay them twelve dalasi for their sandwich and eat it on the way to the office, or back home, depending on the schedule for the day.

Dave waited for me to run back home to get more money, as I forgot I had to pay for two people for the rest of the day. Arriving back at “Barry’s Telecenter” Dave had already paid for the sandwiches and was waiting on the half-decayed bench outside. Total bill for two sandwiches was less than a dollar.

Although people were interested the previous day in going to Abuko, the past twenty-four hours had changed some minds. When we arrived at the office only Nate, Tatjana and Andrea were there. Tatjana and Andrea had already seen Abuko during training, a fortunate circumstance which we did not have the opportunity. That left only Nate.

“Nate, do you want to go to Abuko?”
“When are you leaving?”
“Now. Well, in five minutes or so if you want to come.”
“Ah, Ok”

We got another person! Nate’s father was coming into town in a few days and Abuko was one of the Nature reserves he wanted to show him. Nate agreed to come along so the next time he would know how to get there while showing his father. Nate’s Wolof is one of the best in the country and he’s been compiling a database of proverbs and sayings in Wolof, along with jokes. His compilation is already over 4,000 general words; not to mention specific words relating to food, body parts, house, clothing, etc which he put separately for easy access. My favorite was that if you don’t believe someone you could say (in wolof) “Agreement over swollen testicles is only reached when the pants are dropped.” Its English equivalent? “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

From the office us three got a local taxi to Westfield and then grabbed a gelli-gelli going to Brikama, which Abuko would be a drop off. Throughout the half-hour ride Nate was talking to the passengers, with a few turning their heads trying to get a look at this toubob who speaks their local language. He explained who we were and why Dave only spoke English and me only “tutti rek” (small only). The day before I had called Scott explaining the one extra we had and if he would still be willing to be our guide. Scott said he would be there in the late morning, around 11 am, and we should just tell the guards to get him when we arrived.

The guard at the entrance of the park knew who Scott was, or more correctly, who Mussa Sanneh was; but he was in a meeting still and wouldn’t be out until later. Nate threw in some of his Wollof, while I showed my Peace Corps ID and we got in as a resident. Dave had to pay twice as much.

Walking across the park, we stayed on the trail and hadn’t seen any monkeys yet. We arrived at the “Charles Darwin Nature Reserve” and were able to see crocodiles in the distance, along with a few varieties of birds. Some bird watchers from Europe had the long camera lens to zoom in as close as possible and get a picture of the Speckled Thick-Knee or Northern-Carmine Bee-eater. We just pointed, clicked our cameras and said, “cool birds!”

Continuing around the park we passed the dens where the hyenas were located and a few of captive monkeys. Most of the monkeys that were caged were female. The male monkeys, still wild, would sometimes just come out of the wild and sit by the fence for hours.

Halfway through the park a man came up to us and tried to be our guide. He took us ten feet over to some more caged up monkeys, told some story and then asked for small donation. It was just a ploy to get some free handouts. Even the craftsmen selling wooden items and souvenirs in the middle of the park said they made their own stuff and that it would be good price. I found out later by Scott that some of them actually do make their own crafts, but when they tried selling you a bracelet for thirty dalasi where you know you can get it for five elsewhere you know their “good price” is “good for me price.”

We never did run into Scott, but we did see a lot monkeys, which was just as good. I promised Dave he was guaranteed to see monkeys. I never made it to Abuko before, but if this somehow failed I would have taken him to the small monkey park we just saw the entrance too yesterday. I’ve been to that place twice and you can even play small games with the monkeys there’s so many. A month previous Doug ’taught’ the monkeys a game of copying his drawings in the sand with a stick. He would draw a straight then, they would copy. Back and forth.

At the exit we got more vendors trying to sell their woodcarvings, or half rotten fruits and vegetables. We said no to all of them and crossed the street to get a ride back to Westfield.

We dropped Nate off at Westfield while we continued to Banjul. The entrance to Banjul is towered by the Arch 22. The arch was built for, and commemorates, Jammeh’s bloodless coup to the presidency on July 22, 1994. Technically speaking, it was not a coup. At the time Jammeh was a 29 year old lieutenant who was burdened by finances, like the rest of his comrades, due to lack of payments. The protest he organized was announced as a coup and the president at the time, President Jawara, fled to an American naval ship docked off shore Banjul. Seeing no one was in power when he entered the Presidential Palace Jammeh took control. For a few years after the government was military and it wasn’t until, due to outside persuasion from other countries, a democratic election did Jammeh get elected President by a vote.

We got off near the entrance to the city and went up the arch. The four supporting columns are big enough that one of them has a stairs and the other an elevator. Like most things, there is a fee to get in. D15 if you’re a resident, D50 if you’re a tourist. The guard wanted to charge me the tourist price.

“I am not a tourist!”
“You live here?”
“Yes. I live in Kombo. I am a Peace Corps Volunteer.”
“So you act like a guide?”
“Yes. I know Banjul. I know the Arch. I am not paying a tourist price.”

It went back and forth for a few minutes before he granted me the dollar discount. Dave still had to pay the tourist price. The stairs were a spiral staircase. The first floor we could get off was a museum and gift shop. It was poorly lit, had little items, and the check out girl was nowhere to be found. We continued up the stairs to the second floor. This had a very small restaurant, where you could get cold soft drinks for five times what they’re worth. Across the restaurant is the walkway between the two arches, where you could relax and watch the city drive by around you. We continued one more flight to the next, and last, flight. It consisted of more museum items; some obviously fake (after living here you recognize immediately what’s for the tourists). In the corner they even had the steel chair that Jammeh had sat on when he took control of the country, with a picture of the moment above on the wall.

On either side of the museum were two sets of stairs that led to the viewing area. The space was only big enough for five people maximum. Looking through one, southward, you saw the cars entering Banjul along its only highway and the cars exited the city. In front of the Arch is a huge roundabout, with a statue commemorating the bloodless coup, which all traffic have to circle around to get either in or out of the city. The statue is a military soldier holding a baby, signifying that we are safe in the hands of the military.

Looking north you look down upon the entire city, an island. In the far distance you can see the ferries shuffling back and forth from Banjul to the north bank. Only three buildings are dominant in that view. The Grand Mosque, located two blocks away from the Arch, towers over all the other buildings. The next is the radio antenna halfway across town that acts as a good indicator for directions when lost. The third, to the far end of town, was the Central Bank. The Central Statistics, where I worked for six months, was located on the top floor of that building, floor number five, before the offices were moved to Westfield.

After the Arch we walked all the way across Banjul to go to Ali Baba’s, my usual place for lunch in Banjul. I ordered a banana-milk shake. The whole place stopped when this one woman walked in wearing a skin-tight red dress. That never happened before! I was especially shocked because this was a Muslim country and most women pride themselves by not showing off, as is the custom for the religion. In strict muslim countries the women must be completely covered, with seeing through a veil. Maybe this woman was Christian, or a non-practising muslim, but it sure caused a stir! All conversations within the restaurant ceased until she left. In the US, this might have caused a few turned heads but nothing out of the ordinary. Here, in The Gambia, this was the equivalent of seeing a flying elephant down Time’s Square.

Some of the women volunteers don’t understand why the women have to cover up because it is the men who feel ashamed of looking or feeling desire. “They should just not look!” one female volunteer said, “why is it the women’s fault if the men can’t control themselves!”

During the meal Dave had to take his daily malaria pill. However, he accidentally dropped it and gave up searching for it after a few seconds.

“I don’t think the five-second rule applies here.”
“Yeah. Well, we’d have the five-minute rule.”

His point was that The Gambia was dirtier than in the US and he wouldn’t stick anything in his mouth that was on the floor for even a second. After living here, and knowing how dirty things can truly get, having something lying on the floor for five seconds is nothing. We eat peanuts off the ground while walking. Once you’ve eaten goat intestines with your hands, taking a pill off the ground pales in comparison.

After lunch as we walked down the dirty streets of Banjul I heard my name being called. It was Sarjo, the security officer in charge of Peace Corps. He was sitting inside a telecenter and Dave and I went inside to talk. Sarjo and I have a teasing relationship and each trying to ‘arrest’ the other one.

“What are you doing here, boy?”
“I’m on vacation. This is Dave, my friend, from the US.”
“No, no. No vacation for you.”
“It seems like you’re on vacation.”
“Yes, I can have vacation; but you, no. You must go to the post office.”
“Actually that’s where we’re going right now. Well, to the market behind it.”
“You’re showing him the market.”
“Yes, I figured he would like it.”
To Dave, “Don’t trust this boy. He is a criminal!”
“I’ll arrest you!”
“Get out of here!”

We continued along behind the post office to the market. At one stall we both saw a thinking-man statue that obviously stood out from all the rest. There was some character in the statue, some quality absent from the others - as if the maker added a little personal touch to it. Whatever it was, it was just enough to make it unique. I told Dave if he wasn’t going to buy it I would. He bought it so I took a picture of it with the seller holding it so I would have a reference to go back to in six months. His first offer was D1500. Thirty dollars! We got him down to D1200 which included more smaller statues as well.

After we bought the item, and wrapped it up in his bag we exited the market to head back to Kombo. We got in the local buses going to Westfield and then another one going to Bakau. Usually they would stop a few blocks away from Laybatos and we would just walk, but it turned shortly, because of construction, and went on towards Bakau. We got off and got on yet another vehicle, which ended up being the same one we got off on and continued down the route and got dropped off right on the corner.

Before we left Banjul, though, we tried calling Rebecca a few times, using multiple telecenters. Finally, on the third try Dave got through and was able to tell her we would be leaving the next day.

At Laybatos for dinner again we ran into Matt, Alexei and Nate (a different one than before). We had dinner consisting of vegetable pizzas. While we ate Dave went to the counter and bought a paper-made journal to give to Rebecca. The journals were locally made and all proceeds go to school children in the greater Banjul area. Also at the counter they could exchange money, so he gave me $60 so far for all that I’ve paid for since arriving in The Gambia.

After dinner we left and then went shopping for Rebecca. At St. Mary’s he bought a bottle of wine and now needed a box to put it in. Near the entrance / exit were a stack of boxes so we tried each one individually until we found one that box of the wine and book fit into and headed back home to get a few hours of sleep.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

1/5/05

WEDNESDAY
JANUARY 5, 2005

The next morning, as we were packing up to head to Kombo Courtney offered us a suggestion. If we were hungry for bean sandwiches there should some ladies down the path. One of them, Isatou, is a good friend of hers and if we should run into her we should greet her and buy our sandwiches from her. We thank her for the suggestion and headed out down the path towards Brikama. We passed the sign, now on our left, the water pump on our right, and the water tower before reaching back into Brikama a half hour later.

At the entrance to the city we saw some random bean sandwich ladies, picked one at random and ordered our breakfast. As we were sitting at the entrance to the bidick, with the ladies sitting outside with us, we started to chat. I casually ask her what her name was, in which she replied, “Isatou.” We had, by coincidence, gone exactly to the same lady that Courtney wanted us to go.

Further down the road was a sign that any other day I would have passed without a second notice, but Dave had his eyes out and noticed the name “Holland” on the sign. The Netherlands had a few projects set up in The Gambia and this sign proudly declared the country of “Holland” with the flag of Netherlands. Despite being from the city of Holland, we nonetheless took a picture of it.

When we were approaching the car park a man yelled from behind me, I turned around and recognized Mr. Fye who had worked with Peace Corps for years during training for the education group and is a headmaster of a Senior Secondary School upcountry. Unfortunately, on my part, I couldn’t remember all that then and so my conversation with his was brief; but I knew I recognized him and that he helped with training, but his name was lost at the moment.

After the brief meeting we found a car going to Banjul. Although we were not heading to Banjul it was cheaper to get in this vehicle and pay the partial price to drop us off early then to get a direct route. All those in the car going to Banjul paid the usual eleven dalasi while Dave and I, and a few others, just paid Westfield fare of five each. Five dalasi for what usually would be a half-hour trip, but that day it took upwards of an hour due to traffic. At Westfield, passed the Photopia business where I usually had my pictures developed, we told the driver we wanted to get off. He had to continue driving for a while since parking right near those businesses are illegal and there’s a specific spot those vans could park at. Having missed my usual junction by a few blocks I decided to risk it and just walk straight anyway down a road I never been on but should lead straight to a road I did know. We got lost going to my house in my own neighborhood, but once we found the Taiwanese Embassy I knew my location.

Between the main street in Kombo, where all the businesses are and which was the street we missed by a few blocks, and the street that the University is on is a secondary dirt road which is my main street. I do not technically live on the street, but two blocks off. Although I lived less than a hundred feet away from the University’s road I nonetheless had to backtrack and go out of my way to get on it. I live on a corner in the middle of a dead end next to church that wakes me up on Sunday mornings.

When we approached the entrance, as we were about to enter, the red-painted metal door sprung open and Kristen and Iven walked out. In the compound that I live in, there also lives another Peace Corps volunteer, Mary Ann; a shipping contractor, Edward, along with his replacement Thomas; and two Norwegian Peace Corps volunteers, Kristen and Oyvend. Although they are technically called Peace Corps it has no affiliation with American Peace Corps. Kristen and Oyvend come from different parts of Norway and are going to school to study music theory and music performance, with Kristen in vocals and Oyvend with percussion. Their organization, called “Fredskorpset” in Norwegian and “Peace Corps” in English, has three different sectors depending on your age. The main program, for those aged 23-35, they were too young to qualify having only turned 23 while being here. They instead enlisted in the Youth Program (18-25), which sent them to The Gambia to study African music. They had invited both Mary Ann and I a few times to their concerts and we had a great time enjoying both their signing and drumming. Iven, who we were now shaking hands with at the entrance, is Kristen’s boyfriend who was visiting for a few weeks.

I introduced Dave to both of them while she introduced Iven to Dave before they headed out to where they were going and we headed inside. When you enter the gate you see two small apartments to your left and a main house to your right in which I live in neither one of them. Mary Ann lives nearest to the gate and is occasionally woken up by my pounding on the door to get in late at night when the guard is asleep, while Kristen and Oyvend live together in the other apartment a few feet away. In the main house lives Edward, who is only here for a few months until his shipping company can find a permanent replacement, which ended up being Thomas. In order to get to my house you must turn right, as if your going to the main house, and then cut through a small enclosed hallway cutting through the space between the garage, which they don’t use for vehicles but for spare appliances, and the wall separating the compound from the church. When you are through the hallway you turn left and my house is the second apartment on your right, with the first apartment being empty and only occupied when the landlady decides to relax here before going home for the day.

The keys to most volunteers’ houses in Kombo are reminiscent of 17th century skeleton keys. They are big, bulky, and don’t quite fit into the lock. Each time I want to lock or unlock the door I have to kick the door at the bottom for the key to snap into place so that it can turn.

My house consists of one room, a bedroom, and a hallway that acts like a kitchen connecting the bedroom to the bathroom. When water is running, I have running water; when the power is on, I have electricity. This has a disadvantage sometimes of just leisurely reading and the power goes out for the night, or in the middle of a shower and the water stops. For the first scenario I usually just call it a night and for the latter I finish with the water I previously stored in four buckets. Although having water and power is considered good, it does cause a headache in those situations. I would rather have no power, no water and know with certainty I won’t have it, then for NAWEC [National Water and Electricity Corporation] to tease us with uncertainty.

After we dropped our bags down I gave Dave the grand tour, which lasted all of thirty seconds. There is a door connecting the bathroom to the hallway, but it never shuts. There is also a drape you can pull separating the bedroom from the hallway, which I never have pull closed since I had no use to. Now, when company is here and you want to take a shower or use the bathroom you should, and do, close the drape and then either keep the door closed with your foot, if you are going to the bathroom, or drag one of the buckets of water over to keep it shut. I took a shower first before going outside to read while waiting for Dave. He came out a few moments later.

“Mike, did you know you have a handle for your shower head?”
“I do?” My showerhead was one that you held while taking your shower.
“Yeah! I was taking a shower and realizing what a pain it was and so I looked up. There’s a handle, so I just put it in and you have an actual shower now.”
“Wow, I do!” I had lived in that house for almost six months and never noticed the handle that I could place the showerhead on. I walked inside the bathroom, and there it was, about a foot higher than my head it was attached to the wall. I now had an actual shower to use!

We walked down the dead end road, turned left to the secondary dirt road that led perpendicular to the main dirt road in which we turned right. Follow the dirt road for a few blocks and you’re now on the paved road that the old hostel used to be on. If you turn left on the road for three more blocks you arrive on Karaiba Avenue, the busiest street in The Gambia, and the main street for businesses, in which the Peace Corps Office is one of them.

A few months back, Jordan and I dropped Joe off at the airport for him to go home from finishing his service. After he had left, we walked around the airport parking lot trying to get a free ride back and save $10 between the two of us. A Canadian couple was nice enough to let us ride with them, up until the traffic light, which was only three blocks away from the Peace Corps Office. Throughout the drive they told us they’ve been here permanently for over 15 years and have seen the development that has happened. Kariaba Avenue, now the busiest in the country was non-existent fifteen years ago. It was not even a dirt road. The government put down a water pipe going through the fields to Serrekuda. The path the pipe went along became a footpath and then a dirt road, named Pipeline. A few years later they paved the road and businesses started to grow on it. Within five years of the formation of Pipeline the traffic was busy enough on the intersection that the first, and only, traffic light in the country had to be installed to control the flow.

The Peace Corps Office is guarded around the clock with security and there is only a small walkway you can use to get in, which is between the guard station and the six-inch-diameter metal rod they open and close to let the vehicles through. While we were at the guard station asking what the procedures were for visitors, as I had forgotten whether it was at this station or at the receptionists inside they had to log into, Alison came up to me. She lives near Basse and came into country the same time I did, as she was in our group but is a health volunteer. Our group was the last group to have both education and health together.

“Mike, I’m sorry” with her head down in mock sorrow and looking up with puppy-dog eyes to get the full affect.
“For what?”
“We had to cut the lock.”
“What lock?”
“For the package money.”
“I gave the key to Ed.”
“Yes, but somehow it got upcountry.”
“What? How?”
“We don’t know, and then they lost it.”
“So you had to cut the lock.”
“Yeap, and…”
“…and?”
“we lost eleven package slips.”
“Oh boy.”
“I’ll buy you a new lock. In fact, I have too since that was the only way Mustapha would cut it, if I promised I would buy a new one.”

I hadn’t even reached the building and already had work to do. The lock wasn’t a big thing; it just kept the money relatively safe. The package slips weren’t big either, just caused a little headache. The actual packages themselves were safe in the Post Office, we just had to ask them to cross-reference everything again for us to find out which 11 hadn’t been picked up in a while.

Once inside the office I introduced Dave to Famara and he showed him what forms Dave had to sign as a visitor and gave him a visitors badge to wear at all times while in the building. At the computer lab I asked if anyone was going to Omar’s for lunch, in which a few responded in the affirmative but in a half-hour or so. Dave wasn’t allowed to use the computers and so, after a little tour of outside and of the volunteer lounge, we gave Famara back the badge and exited the building.

The next building over is an Internet Café, which for D30 you can use for an hour. We both checked our e-mails while afterwards I sat and read a magazine as he finished replying. I paid for the both of us, since he had yet to get Dalasi, and we went back across the street to Omars where a few people were eating already. There was Alexei, who I last met at Christmas, Matt Selinske, and Nate Kettle. Alexei was recapping the baseball game we had at Kharafi during Christmas:
“My dad was playing outfield. He was yelling ‘Strike Out!’ over and over again. I yelled back ‘Watch this, old man, I’ll hit a home run right to you!’ He replied, ‘We’ll see who’s old when you can’t see the ball coming!’. I hit a home-run right at him! That shut him up!”

Alexei and his dad get along great and the teasing and mocking were all in fun.

The other two people, Matt and Nate, were both from Alexei’s group. Matt was the one I went to Georgetown with, along with Kelly. Nate lives in Fass, on the Central River Division, and is one of the best Wolof speakers in the country. There is another volunteer, M’Linda which can speak just as well and they have their individual strengths. M’Linda can speak more conversationally and the flow is better. Nate has better vocabulary and knows the Wolof words for strange things. For instance, take your right hand and make a tight fist. There is a piece of skin by your pinkie that hangs out from your palm. I have no idea what the English word for that piece of skin is, but Nate knows the Wolof word for it.

We talked for a little bit, and ordered our meals when Kate and Doug arrived making it a total of seven people. Dave asked the usual illness and sickness questions which each one giving his or her spiel and trying to upstage the last volunteer.

The only thing we had planned for today was the Rotary Club meeting. Other than that it was free sailing. Dave wanted me to put his camera in my mailbox, so he wouldn’t have to carry it around, and so as he waited outside I went inside the office compound to put the camera in the box. Upon exiting I noticed Mustapha was about to leave.

“Mustapha, where are you going?”
“To the hostel.”
“My friend is here, can we get a ride with you?”
“Sure.”

I waved Dave to come inside the compound and explained we had a free ride to the Hostel, which was on the way to the beach. I got in the front seat and Dave in back for the five-minute ride down the street. The new hostel has a very strict policy that nobody except for volunteers or immediate family members are allowed even inside the premises. During New Year’s the American Ambassador asked the Peace Corps Country Directory for a personal favor of having a volunteer take his teenage son out with other volunteers for New Years Celebration. Although he was the son of the American Ambassador, and it was a personal request from the Ambassador himself, he was not allowed inside the gate.

Dave and I rode with Mustapha and walked in

The guard asked “Who’s this?”
“This is Dave”
“Is he a volunteer?”
“Yes”
“Which site?”
“Basse”

There is Dave in country that lived in Basse, who is rarely down in Kombo so I figured I played it safe. However, inside the hostel I ran into Greta, who is married to the Dave who lives in Basse. We all knew the in’s and out’s of policies and how to get around them.

“Greta, if Kex asks, this is your husband, Dave”
“OK”

Inside there were just three people, Greta, Cheeta and Wendy. I wanted to introduce Dave to them all but he just stood in the doorway not wanting to get in trouble for being in the Hostel. Within a minute of arriving we left to head to Laybatos, the beach restaurant. On the way there we passed Sarah Grimm and her younger sister Christy, who her entire family was visiting for a month. At this moment the Fishbowl apartment was just two blocks away. Despite Sarah telling us no one was there I still wanted to show Dave where it was and with the hope that someone might have come home in the few minutes since they passed, so he could check out the inside. No such luck.

We walked for a few more blocks to Laybato’s, located on the beach. The restaurant is a nice vacation for volunteers, but due to increases of prices the number of volunteers visiting the establishment has dwindled. When I first entered country you could get a full vegetable pizza for only D45. Now, after almost two years it has tripled n price to D135. The outside has a relaxed atmosphere, comprised of a dozen hammocks and a half-dozen tables seating five that one may choose from. After five minutes of waiting for a waiter to come by I went inside to order our drinks. Inside the main hut, which the bar was located was Tatjana sitting in the corner. Her boyfriend was visiting and was actually leaving that night. They were relaxing for their last day before heading off to the airport.

Originally I wanted to bring Dave to the “Come Inn”, the hangout restaurant for volunteers. When most visitors come they invite the volunteers along to a meal and the Come Inn and the visitor can meet other volunteers and hear more stories and see that it’s not as isolated as one thinks. However, Laybatos was right by the water and a good break from the travels so far. It was quite by accident that another volunteer should happen to be there, as it wasn’t even the weekend but the middle of the week.

I called Dave over to the bar and we sat while talking to Jason and Tatjana. Jason was a Civic teacher in the US and was particularly interested in the editor that was killed, but was broad enough to talk about other interests. The following is Tatjana’s recollection of what we talked about:

--
yeah, I can remember an interesting discussion about worms and different types of diseases here.... and giligili rides..... and bumsters. jason was very much amazed by the complete lack of driving signs and meandering donkeys in the road. basically every part of gambian life was new to him.... but the worms that take a week to come out of the skin disturbed him the most.
--

As they took their last stroll on the beach together we left to go to Senegambia to go to the Rotary meeting. We obtained a taxi right at the entrance of Laybatos and paid him the D50 to bring us to Senegambia. We had a choice of either that or walking the half kilometers for a local taxi for D5, but we took the tourist route.

At Senegambia we had enough time to check out the location of the monkey park, but not enter it. We did, however, get a picture of Dave doing the monkey pose near the monkey-crossing sign. Walking back we crossed the sign posting for taxis going to Banjul or other places. Even Dave, being in country just a few days, but knowing transportation costs knew these were outrageous prices. Three hundred dalasi to go to Banjul and come back! I could get you there, round trip, for fewer than thirty. Granted, some tourists want this expensive trip for a variety of different reasons. Either they think that’s the normal price, don’t know how far Banjul is (and for the distance it’s not a bad price in American terms), or are afraid or nervous on taking Public Transportation.

We had an hour to kill before the meeting and we spent that hour laying by the pool and checking out the general vicinity. I never knew the hotel had a life-size chess board or even an observatory for astronomy, which unfortunately was closed.

We sat reminiscing about college, telling stories about Freshman year, how we didn’t even know we were from Holland until the very last night, and the past few years and how things have changed. From struggling to solve calculus problems freshman year to struggling to finding careers. Our biggest worry then was midterms and finals, now it’s bills and paying off student loans.

Down the stairs of the main building to the hotel was the conference room that would hold the meeting. Another woman was waiting to enter. Only a half-hour late the meeting started. The men, and women, took their seats around the table while Dave and I sat in the back part. A log book was passed around for the visitors to sign, and I looked through it to see if any other Peace Corps volunteers had attended a Rotary Meeting recently. Vickie and Mirlene were the only two that I found. We both signed our name, got our drink, and waited the meeting to begin. Dave told me later it was not like the rotary meetings in the US, this one was dry and spoke mostly of business and finances. The meetings in the US are livelier as those business aspects are taking care of earlier by the officers.

At the end of the meeting Dave gave a little presentation presenting the Holland Rotary flag to them in exchange for a flag of their own. While he presented them with the flag I took a snapshot so he could bring those back his club in Holland. They didn’t have a flag on hand in return and promised to mail one to either Dave in the US or me here in Banjul. To date, I haven’t received it on my end and I doubt Dave has either on his.

We took a taxi back to the Peace Corps Office, to get his camera, and walked back to my house for the night.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

1/4/05

TUESDAY
JANUARY 4, 2005

The alarm went off at 5:30 in the morning. The main purpose of an alarm is to wake you up. We were already awake because of the rats, so the alarm served its secondary purpose – time to get a move on. Usually there isn’t any power in Bansang, or very rarely if ever. Throughout the morning we were packing by candlelight. I first had to use my key-chain light to find the candles and then the matches. None of the girls were up and so we left without saying goodbye and walked the few blocks to the car park.

Only two cars were waiting for passengers. One of the cars was headed to Basse, only an hour ride away, which caused some confusion as to why people would want to leave so early. The other vehicle was heading west to Brikama, outside of Banjul, and would take eight hours. People were lined up to get on that van, as were we. The front seat was open and we were going to get it, but as we were handing our bags to the aparante to put on top someone else grabbed front seat. This meant that Dave would have no leg room for this trip.

The ghelli-ghelli’s are second-class vans that can usually fit around thirty people (plus screaming babies and/or squawking chickens) if full. Three benches facing the driver and front passengers, along with two back benches facing each other, is the usual layout. For each of the rows the last seat folds in our out, depending if a passenger needs to get through or not. When it is full you may wonder how the people even got in, as there is no aisle or passageway to be seen, as the folded up seat is now taken. The outsides are painted white with other decorations painted on in bright colors. The phrase ‘Alhamdulillah’ is usually painted on the front, right underneath the driver’s window. The phrase means ‘Praise be to Allah’. Although decorated in the Muslim style, with Arabic saying and praises to Allah, no ghelli-ghelli is complete without a matching set of pre-1984 Madonna stickers on the back window!

I liked what Mark Moxon had to say about Ghelli-ghelli’s:

--
Not only are the buses in this part of the world crammed to bursting point, they're also decorated with the most intriguing collection of stickers and posters. Along with the taxis, the buses have stickers plastered over the backs and sides, most of them proclaiming allegiance to a marabout brotherhood (in which case the sticker is of a guy looking suspiciously like the evil Emperor in Star Wars), or to Allah (in which case Koranic quotations are the order of the day). But a hugely popular and completely mysterious sticker is of Madonna in her 'Material Girl' period, bending her head back and blowing a kiss at the camera. She's dolled up in clothing that screams '1980s!' at you, and every time it's exactly the same sticker. It's a really common picture, and it's faintly disturbing; religion and politics I can understand, but 1980s Madonna? Goodness only knows where that fad came from!
--


After about an hour of waiting the car left around seven-thirty. The sun was up and the new day had started. The road from Bansang to Soma is very smooth by Gambian standards and the car drove on without much hassle. It was only about three hours later before we made it to Soma, the halfway point and stopped for lunch. The most popular place to eat in Soma, while at lunch break, is the one-man chop-shop on the main road. This guy had his table set out in front of a bidick, and had enough room for maybe eight people to sit around the material, spread across two tables. We watched him effortlessly make different orders of coffee and sandwiches simultaneously. Dave and I ordered two sandwiches and a coffee for myself. The coffee is made with instant powdered coffee (Nescafe), water, and a half-glass of sweetened condensed milk. The owner mixed the coffee not with the usual swirl that we do regularly in the US but with a chopping motion with a side twist to each down-turn that after being here a year I still can’t reproduce. However he did it, it produced a frothy foam.

Before we had put our bags on top I had taken out the roll of toilet paper and stuffed it in my pocket as you never know when you might need it. At lunch Dave had to use the latrine as a result I took out the toilet paper while another Gambian had to translate to the owner what we were requesting. The owner finished the drinks he was making, picked up a small bucket of water with a spout solely for washing the hands and escorted Dave to where the latrine was. A few minutes after he returned I had to go myself. The latrine was around the corner and actually in a family’s compound. I don’t know whether that compound was the owner’s of the shop or whether it was just the closest latrine and the family was used to random people using their facilities.

There was someone inside the latrine when I arrived so I passed the time away by playing with the kids, grabbing their arms and twirling them around to the delight of the parents, until it was my turn to use the latrine. When I got back to the shop there were two other white people sitting down. I recognized one of them.

“Hey Alicia!”

Alicia turned around and was surprised to see me. Her and I are the co-editors of the “The Oh-Fish-All” which is the official newsletter for the forty-some Education volunteers in country. While I live in Kombo she lives in Sare Alpha, which is not only passed Bansang, passed Basse, but she is, in fact, the farthest upcountry education volunteer. We rarely meet, and usually conduct business about the newsletter by e-mail as she’s only an hour’s drive away from Basse where there is Internet access.

“Hey Mike! What are doing in Soma?”
“Stopping for lunch. This is Dave, he’s my friend that’s visiting. We just came from Bansang this morning.”

Alicia also had one of her friends visiting Janelle. Dave shook two hands, Alicia shook one, I shook one, and Janelle shook two. Six handshakes from four people. We were heading from upcountry down to Kombo while they were heading from Kombo back to upcountry. We both met at the same spot at the same time. Although this spot is a popular designation for lunch and all cross-country trips stop in Soma for lunch it still reminded me of the popular math problem of a mountain climber:

“A man leaves his home at 2:00 p.m. Friday to begin a hike up a mountain. That night he sleeps at the top of the mountain and at 2:00 p.m. Saturday begins his journey down the mountain to his home. On both legs of the trip he occasionally stops to look at the view or to rest and pays little attention to the time. He follows the same trail on both days. Is it likely that sometime Saturday he would be at the same place on the trail at the same time of day as he was on Friday?”

The answer is 100%, certainty. This is analogous to Dave and I starting at Bansang at seven in the morning and Alicia starting at Kombo also at seven. There’s a 100% chance we’ll be at some spot at the same time. The spot here was this picnic table having lunch. Our paths crossed at the only place it was almost guaranteed to during transport on the south bank, at this small eatery.

For the next four hours we continued our journey on the dreaded south bank road. From Bansang to Soma it’s paved and goes by fast. After Soma it’s better off not to have been paved at all. The potholes add years to your vehicle and take years off of you and your back. From the car rocking back and forth, the gas fumes coming out, and the dust swirling around we both felt sick to our stomach and on a few occasions I thought I would vomit, despite the fact that I have traveled this road many times before. This is why, whenever possible I try to travel the north bank road; although dirtier, you save your stomach.

When three thirty approached we arrived in Brikama. This is Gambia’s third largest settlement, and the first proper ‘upcountry’ town you reach going inland from Banjul. Courtney said she would be in language class until four o’clock. We waited another half-hour by just walking around the market and teasing the kids who begged for money. It sounds bad, I know! It really isn’t. The kids are fine, they aren’t starving, despite some commercials you see on television. The have a family that takes care of them. It’s just a group of kids who see a white person and take a chance they’ll give them money. It only takes a few tourists giving away spare change to get the reputation going.

“Toubob, give me dalasi!”
“You give me ten and I’ll give you one.”
“OK. Give me ten dalasi.”
“No no no. YOU give ME ten dalasi and I’LL give you one.”
They figured it out, “NO!”

Having said that introduction, however, there are starving children in Africa and in The Gambia, as there are starving children everywhere in the world. I do admit that, but having lived in Africa, and in one of the poorest countries in Africa, I haven’t seen a single child die from starvation, or heard of one happening. That does not say it doesn’t happen - it’s just rare. Most children here are fed what the rest of the family eats and turn out fine. Only in the poorest families are the children malnourished or undernourished.

During the wait Dave bought some oranges. We tried teaching the kids how to juggle three oranges simultaneously. I failed, Dave succeeded briefly. I could do only two. After we played with the kids and found the telecenter we had another ten minute wait to go. A man was selling kola nuts next to the entrance and I gave him a Dalasi for Dave and I to each have one. The first time I had a kola nut was when we were heading to training village and the driver passed them out, all knowing the outcome. It’s like giving a kid a lemon before they know what it is. However, instead of being sour like a lemon, kola nuts are bitter like coffee. In fact they do contain caffeine and that is why the Gambians eat them on a regular basis – and their teeth show it!

Dave spitted out the first bite he took. I laughed as the drivers laughed at us beforehand. It goes in a circle!

At four o’clock I called Courtney on her cell phone using the telecenter. She had actually cancelled her language class and was just waiting for us to call. These are her exact directions to her compound:

“Get a taxi going to Manduar. You can either get a ghelli-ghelli for five dalasi but you might have to wait an hour or so, or you can do a town-trip. Tell them you want to go to the mosque, but you’re actually not going there. You’ll pass a water tower on your right. After that you’ll pass a water pump on your left. Past the water pump is a sign on your right. You’ll notice the sign. Get off at the sign and ask a small-boy where my compound is. I’m just a block off the road but anyone in that area will know where I live. If you’ve gone to the mosque you’ve gone too far.”

The price for the call was more expensive then I thought it should have been. I argued for a minute or so before it became clear that the owner was in the right. I had made a call from a landline to a cell-phone and therefore the units that the prices are set for go faster in one minute then a landline-to-landline call. Listed above the owner was the price of what each unit would be, but not how many units were in a minute! The chart was useless in my opinion.

In the US we are so used to giving exact addresses. I relayed the following, typical Gambian, address to Dave, “passed the water tower, the water pump, and stop at the sign.” We hired a private taxi to take us for D50. It was a ten-minute ride, interrupted for a few minutes by the driver who stopped to watch in the rear-view mirror a man tease a woman on the side of the road. He had her books and wouldn’t give them back. The woman’s reaction? She got a stick and ran after him! We drove off laughing as the man ran away.

We saw the water tower, the water pump and then saw ‘a’ sign. We figured that had to be ‘the’ sign she referred to and got off. Upon exiting we did exactly as she said and asked a small boy where “Fatou Bojang” lived. The volunteer who lived there previously, John Capuano, tried teaching his host family the song “Mr. Bojangles!” but they neither got the song nor the joke. Courtney didn’t try.

Courtney was surprised to see us so soon. She expected us maybe an hour later as she usually waits for public transportation, or as a last effort walks the forty-five minutes to her compound. She welcomed us in and introduced us to her host-family. Her compound had four main houses. Two were for the family themselves, one was for Courtney, and the other for a random West African who rented the room from the family.

She offered to cook us spaghetti for dinner if one of us went out to the bidick and bought some butter for the bread. I was tempted to have Dave give it a try, but I went instead. Outside on the main road was the nearest bidick. Before I had left I asked her what the Mandika word for ‘butter’ was. It was a good thing I did since they had no idea what I was saying in English, despite being an English speaking country, and I murdered saying the word in Mandika but they understood. The owner asked how much butter I wanted in a language I didn’t know. I also didn’t know how much was one unit. I searched quickly for some container that would work, so I could motion for him to fill it. None was found. If I said one, would that be one spoonful, one cup, one packet, etc. I had no idea. Having nothing to lose, the number that I picked was three. He did three knife-fulls of butter and wrapped them in a corner of an old newspaper.

As she was making dinner we each took a bath to clean off all the dirt we had accumulated throughout the day of traveling. Despite being in Africa a total of five full days now this was Dave’s first bucket bath. I quick gave him the instructions and the rules of the game. The main rule for taking a bucket bath is not to get the water dirty of dirt or soap. You use a cup, about a size of a liter, and just repeatedly scoop water out and pour it out over yourself. This doesn’t imply you have to use the whole liter at a time. Usually you would want to conserve water and so after a little practice you can get three baths completed with only one bucket of water. However, for someone who never took a bucket bath before, as all of us were before training, you might end up using the whole bucket full of water. Courtney had fetched more water just in case, one bucket for washing and one for drinking. In extreme cases you learn not to get your washing water dirty as that is also your drinking water.

I finished my bath first and then told Dave to go ahead and to let us know if he needed more water. The area to take the bucket bath was in the same area as the latrine. The cement gets wet from the bath, but evaporates quickly during the day. In fact, most of the times you cannot even take a bucket bath during the day lest you burn your feet, and must wear sandals. Both the outside area was fenced off, as per requirements of Peace Corps, as we must have our own private backyard; and also the latrine area was fenced off which regardless of requirements was the usual custom anyways. And so if a problem arose such as needing more water you could safely bring another bucket within arms reach without intruding.

As he was taking his shower Courtney and I jokingly debated if we should take a picture using his camera so he’ll have a picture of his first bucket bath in Africa. We didn’t. Dave came out a few minutes later laughing.

“I was taller than the fence! I could see the whole village! I was taking my bath and it was like ‘Hi guys’! They don’t make those fences tall enough!”

As we ate dinner we discussed the plans for the following day.

“Should we do Abuko first, then Banjul, then go to the Rotary Club?”
“Do we have to do everything in one day?”
“Well, we could skip something but if we’re leaving the day after we should do all that you want to do.”
“We’re not leaving the day after tomorrow. The following day. We have two days in Banjul.”
“Two? Oh. I guess I was a day off. Then there isn’t much a rush, then is there?”
“Not really.”
“Ok.”

That caused some relief and less stress. Tomorrow was Wednesday and our only obligation was the Rotary Club Meeting. The following day we could choose either Abuko Nature or Banjul, or both, to tour.

She laid an extra mat out on the floor and we slept on the floor in her living room for the night.

Monday, January 03, 2005

1/3/05

MONDAY
JANUARY 3, 2005

As usual I was the first one up, not between Dave and I, but among everyone. While they slept a few more hours I took my clothes from the day before, dirt and all, and tried to wash them in the bathroom sink. The dirt made the water turn brown and I had to repeatedly change the water. Before I had left for this trip I knew I would be taking very few clothes so I made a trip to the store to buy a bar of laundry soap to take with. The panel to the side of the sink had ridges built in which helped to hand wash my shirt and jeans. The shirt I came close to cleaning as good as it could get, but I gave up on trying to wash the jeans. Went outside to hang them to dry and then to the kitchen to get some coffee to wait the rest of the morning out.

By ten o’clock the cooks had made our breakfast and Dave was the last one still sleeping. I woke him up with “Hey, Dave, breakfast!” and he was out the room within two minutes. For breakfast was the usual of eggs, sausage and bacon. When someone says ‘the usual’ it usually has a negative connotation to it. If you don’t count going to Dakar, these breakfasts I get at Kharafi are usually some of my best in country. Only rarely, and I mean maybe three times in my entire service, have I gone out to a restaurant for breakfast. Most of the time it consists of a sandwich made at the local bidik. There is cereal you can buy, but for one box it costs 3% of your monthly salary. This is equivalent to if you make $10/hr in the US and paying $52 for a box of cereal. Multiply those numbers proportionally by your own wage and you’ll see what I mean. So, getting real eggs, real bacon and real sausage was a treat!

After breakfast and a shower Dave asked where the sink was to do his laundry. He just wanted to wash the one shirt and jeans he had on yesterday. I showed him how I had done it in the sink. After about ten minutes he realized he wasn’t doing a very good job. I told him there was a laundry lady in the compound that would do it for him.

“How much?”
“In Kombo we usually pay D1 per shirt, and D2 per pants. So that would be D3. If you don’t want to barter you can give her D10 she would do it, no problem.”
“How many dalasi to the dollar?”
“About thirty.”
“So, thirty cents for laundry.”
“Yeah, well, and we’re over paying her. She would do it for D3, or ten cents. But for D10 I’ll guarantee she’ll have them done by this afternoon.”

We took his clothes, still wet and dripping dust-filled water to the ground, to the laundry lady who was sitting outside. She agreed to wash them for ten dalasi.

She asked me, “What is your name?”
“Biran Sinan”
“Sinan?”
“Yes”
“Eh! My name is Sinan!”
“You are my sister!”
“You are my brother!”

In The Gambia, anybody with the same surname is your brother or sister. If they are older, for instance the next generation up, they are your mothers and fathers. That is why when someone says, “Come, meet my brother” you don’t know whether it truly is his brother or friend. The usual question we ask for clarification is “Gambian brother, or same mother same father?” Another tidbit of information about last names is between Bah’s and Jallow’s. They have a joking relationship. If you are a Bah and you meet a Jallow you can call him stupid, while in return he’ll call you ugly. It’s all in fun, and nobody takes it seriously. The Bah’s and Jallow’s are the complete reverse from America’s Hatfield’s and McCoy’s.

As she was walking over to get the bucket to start washing she asked
“Do you want me to iron them?”
I turned to Dave, “Dave, iron?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”

She brought out her plastic tub and started washing. Most Gambian women, especially in village, this is one of their primary jobs and so doing two pieces of laundry is nothing. Some volunteers feel guilty when coming back from trips as they have a whole bag full of dirty laundry. Kelly Packer, for one, had an interesting story. He came back to his village after traveling for two weeks and apologized as he handed them his laundry. They just said, “Is this all?” and with three girls working on it they got them all washed within five minutes!

After the laundry situation was taken care, and full from breakfast, we left for Georgetown. Right outside the Kharafi compound, in the middle of the road, were two donkeys trying to mate. It was a funny sight since they always had to move when there was a car coming, or got scared away when people were close. Naturally, it was funny enough I had to take a picture of it. A quick story about animal mating: One time during training Hilary went up to Bear and Erik and asked them what they’ve been doing the past two hours.

“Nothing…” with a bit of embarrassed look on their faces.
“Come on, what were you doing?”
“Watching the donkeys mate.”
“For two hours!”
“We were bored!”

Dave and I took the local ferry across and the captain came around asking for the pass. I paid for both, as Dave yet did not have any dalasi.

“How much was the fare?”
“D2 each”
“D4 total?”
“Yeap”
“Ten cents, that’s cheap!”
“I’m telling you! There are only two things that will break your wallet in The Gambia. Transport across country, maybe $6 per person, and Kombo; where everything is twice as expensive.”

I then went on to explain why upcountry volunteers are actually richer than Kombo volunteers despite the fact we get paid more. In the village there is nothing to spend your money on, and so they have loads full of money when they come down to Kombo, and always want to go out to restaurants and bars. The Kombo volunteers have to watch it, since even though we get paid more, we can’t afford to go out as often as them. One upcountry volunteer saved enough money from her two-year service to buy a brand-new laptop. Most Kombo volunteers are lucky if they break even each month.

After we crossed we walked up the dirt road towards the police station. Next to the station was an enclosed area that used to be a beautiful garden that another volunteer put together a few years back, and even had the Peace Corps logo painted on the side of the entrance. However, someone had locked the gate and no one could get in now. It was full of weeds.

Just a block down there was a street that you turned right on to get to Armitage Senior Secondary School. This is the only Boarding School in the country, and many successful people have graduated from this school on the island. The Chancellor to the University and the Vice President of the country are two alumni they promote the most. All three volunteers who live on the island either work at the school or at the Educational Office across the street. The Educational Office is similar to the Superintendent’s Office in the US.

One of the volunteers, Chris, actually lives on the grounds of the school. Since the school is a boarding school they have to also house the teachers that come here to teach. I knew where his house was since I had been there once before; last April I was the last minute substitute for the all-country mailrun trip. The volunteer who lived at the house before Chris, Charles, invited us in when we delivered his mail. Having already walked to Armitage, Chris was the closest volunteer to where we were and we should stop by.

As we approached his house it became evident he wasn’t home. We knocked, peeked through the window, and even went around the house to see if he was out back. He was gone. I took a scrap piece of paper lying on the ground and wrote a message for him, which I then rolled up and stuffed in the keyhole.

“Chris, I’m in Georgetown for the day with a friend from the US. We’re staying at Kharafi for the night but will be on the island for the day. Sorry we missed you. Mike”

Having left the note we turned around to head back to the ferry; not to leave the island, but to visit a restaurant I promised the owner a week before I would visit. The entrance to the restaurant was off the main trail and was almost hidden. Once you walked in you have to duck your head, otherwise palm tree leaves would be hitting you in the face at every step. The actual restaurant itself only consisted of room for maybe ten people, but it was right on the water. The employee, or the owner, you never know in The Gambia, was sitting down with three of his friends, smoking and just waiting for a customer.

He came over to us, “Would you like a menu?”
“No thanks. Do you have coffee?”
“Coffee? Yes. We have coffee.”
“We’ll take two glasses, then. Thank you.”

The employee then went about making the coffee. This entailed first getting the water, then lighting the gas burner to heat it up. He then had to run to the bidick to buy the coffee he said he had. That is common phenomenon through the country. Every restaurant has everything; since if they don’t they’ll go out and get it.

Five minutes later two cups of hot water were laid before us along with a brand new container of Nescafe Instant Coffee mix and a bowl of sugar. We sat there drinking the coffee and just enjoying the morning. It was around eleven now. When we were finished we paid and left to find Vickie’s house, the next nearest one on the island.

To get to Vickie’s house, the quick way, you just walk through the main street in town a few blocks and take a right at the garbage dump. Take the next left and that’s her compound. Her house was still locked and with broken English her host family told that she had left for vacation to Guinea just that morning. Two down, one more to go for a strike out. Only problem was, I didn’t know where Ariane lived. I stayed there for a weekend before but I came up from the south side of the island and didn’t know the reference from the north side.

As we were walking back down the main street a local man came up to us

“Hello. From which country?” The usual annoying greeting.
“America. We are Peace Corps.”
“Ah! Peace Corps. There are three of you on the island.”

Brilliant! He knew Peace Corps! Maybe he knew where Ariane lived? However, no one knows their American names, and I forgot what her Gambian name was. So I tried to get it out from him.

“Yes. One works at Armitage”
“Male?”
Not the answer I was going for, but a correct one nonetheless, “Yes.”
“Lamin.”
“And the female?”
“Mariama.”
“Yes! Mariama. Do you know where Mariama lives?”
“Yes. She is a good friend of mine” You never know when they say this if they are in fact friends of the volunteer or wish they were. I’ve had “good friends” just be friends so they could get a seat in the ghelli-ghelli I was taking.
“Can you show us?”
“Yes. Here, come.”

We followed him past Vickie’s compound again, twisting and turning at weird intersections. These streets were like the interior of a maze. After a few moments we arrived at Ariane’s compound. Her door was open and her friend announced that we were here. Apparently, they were good friends since she was glad to see him. Depending on whom you talk to, his name was Sako, Alaji, or some other name. He had told Ariane his name was Sako, told Chris his name was Alaji, and Vickie yet another third name different from the other two. None of them knew what his real name was, but they were still friends with him nonetheless.

Out came Ariane, along with Chris! He had gotten my message while we were having coffee and rode his bike to Ariane’s figuring we’d show up there sometime. He was right. I introduced Dave to both Ariane and Chris and she invited us inside. Ariane had just arrived an hour before from Kombo. The whole trip, which could be made in six hours if you’re lucky, took two days for her and 17 hours in a ghelli-ghelli. She told her story to us in brief verbally and later wrote it out. Below is her story.

--
17 Hours in a Geli-geli

I met Jessamy at about 6:30am. We quickly and painlessly got a town trip to Bundung carpark in Serrakunda. We got to Bundung and happily took the last two places in a car going direct to Bansang. Jessamy knew some of the people in the car, as they were teachers/headmasters from Bansang and sololo schools. I recognized another teacher from Armitage. I remember commenting to Jessamy that it was a nice thing we had a lot of friends in the vehicle... might come in handy if something bad happens.

We pulled out of the car park at about 7am. We both thought we were off to a good and early start. They had to push start our vehicle but that is nothing out of the ordinary for the Gambia. I should have realized what we were in for when we broke down in Brikama... barely out of the Kombos! I might even have jokingly said to Jessamy that this was a bad sign. But breakdowns happen a lot in the Gambia and I wasn't too concerned. They got the car started without too much of a problem and we continued on our way.

About an hour later we broke down again. At that point I turned to Jessamy and asked her if she had any bets on how many more times we would break down before we got to Soma... we decided to be optimistic and say only two. We developed a complicated scheme for deciding what counted as a breakdown. Did the car engine stop? If not then it only counts as a half breakdown. Unless it is more than a five minute stop in which case it counts as one. We had two half breakdowns and two more full breakdowns before we reached Soma at about 1pm.

At this point I was pretty motion sick and my body was tired from bracing myself and my bag against the constant bumps in the road. We got out in Soma and decided that maybe I would feel better after some food. We got our sandwiches (chocolaca on bread for Jessamy and potato and mayonaise on bread for me) and then walked over to the mechanic where are vehicle was being worked on.

Now I have been on vehicles with problems before. Usually what happens is that they try to repair the vehicle. If that doesn't seem to be working the driver will find another driver and another vehicle to take his passengers. The driver of the bad vehicle loses money over this (he has to pay off the other driver) but it is better than having a bad vehicle and getting stuck in the bush. I thought our driver might look for another vehicle for us, but he seemed to think they were fixing the problem. We hung out in Soma for about 2 hours and finally they decided we could were ready to go. I assumed the problem was fixed and we would arrive in Bansang later than expected but not too late. We got back on the road at 3pm.

30 minutes later the vehicle broke down again. It is my opinion that this is where the driver should have turned us around, gone back to Soma and found another vehicle to take us. I think there must have been another vehicle willing to take us there... Soma is a transport hub on the South bank. But our driver didn't turn around. He once again started the car and we went on.

Let me take a minute to describe what happened when we would breakdown: We would be driving along and all of a sudden the engine would die. Usually the driver heard it die and would pull over and brake before it totally died but sometimes we were just left rolling along the road to a stop. The driver and apparante would immediately hop out, open the hood and fiddle around for a while. Sometimes the driver would make some people get out so he could fiddle around on the side of the vehicle. I didn't really understand it and decided to just ignore it and sleep during these "rest stops." The easiest way to not freak out is to just not care at all what is going on around you... I figured they would get it going again eventually (and they always did... even if it took a while.) They would eventually start to rev the engine and eventually it would start. Then everyone would jump back in and we were off again. This would become routine over the course of our journey.

After Soma I lost count of the times we broke down. I know that we stopped in Burang (about an hour outside of Soma) at a mechanics for repairs again. I know we sat around for three hours waiting for them to repair it. I know I was pretty hungry and tired and worried whether we were going to make it to Bansang at all. We heard the 5pm call to prayer... the sun started going down... this is when I really started to wonder what would happen if we got stuck here. I thought for sure the driver would be looking for another vehicle. The repairs continued and at around 7pm we were given assurances that everything was fixed and we could load up again. Jessamy thought the engine sounded smoother... maybe.

Less than 20 minutes out of Burang, the vehicle died again. This time they couldn't get it restarted. It was almost dark and we were in the middle of nowhere. The driver was standing outside smoking a cigarette... he appeared to be out of ideas. I was very worried about getting stuck in the bush at this point. Having nothing else to do, I put my head down and went to sleep.

I woke up when I heard the words "push." All the younger men got out of the car and started pushing the vehicle. The driver started the engine and miraculously it started. I was happy. Everyone jumped in and we were off again. 45 minutes later it died again. So they got out and pushed again. We were off again. 40 minutes later it died again. This continued on for the rest of the journey. I was ok with this... after a year and a half in the Gambia I have somehow developed this very Gambian attitude that says, yes, the engine keeps dying... But they keep getting it started again so I will just keep hoping they get it started the next time. Muslims have a word for this attitude: Enshallah. If God wills it.

It was pretty late by this point but I had regained hope that we would make it to Bansang eventually, even if it was the middle of the night. All I really wanted was a shower and sleep. We made it all the way to Brikama Ba using the push start method. At Brikama Ba everyone started rushing out of the vehicle. Jessamy and I, both half asleep, asked one of the teachers what was happening. We were told we were changing vehicles. Ok... so we got out and followed everyone into another vehicle. But it was already full with other people. I was confused. We went back to the other vehicle, got back in and they drove a bit further up. Here we again got out but in a slightly more orderly manner and got into the other vehicle. They transferred all of the bags (and a motorcycle) that were on top and after half an hour we were ready to go.

I have no idea why we changed vehicles... I long ago stopped asking why things happen in this country. I accepted the fact that there was probably some very complex explanation for why we needed to change vehicles 40 minutes from our final destination when our vehicle was getting us there (albeit slowly.) So we were all loaded into the other vehicle. And the boys in the back pushed us to start it... and it died. And again. And again. I was laughing... what else can you do. What a fitting ending to this crazy day, I was thinking. Finally, after numerous tries the vehicle started and we were on our way.

After this the rest of our ride went smoothly. Jessamy and I arrived at the Peace Corps house in Bansang a bit after midnight. Both of us probably could have made it to our houses, but mine involved crossing a ferry (probably not running this late) and both of us wanted a shower, which we knew we wouldn't get if we went home. So we both decided to spend the night at the Bansang house.

We got to the compound and tried the door. It was locked. So we knocked... and knocked... and yelled. No answer. Hmmmm... Finally Jessamy scaled the fence (in a skirt no less!) and unlocked the door from the inside. We then managed to get into the house by breaking through the screen on the screen door and undoing the lock. It turns out there were other volunteers sleeping in the house, but they were fast asleep and didn't hear us pounding and yelling.

We both took showers and then conked out. I was exhausted. I hadn't eaten in 12 hours but didn't feel hungry. We made it at last.

It is 230 miles from Kombo to Bansang. It took us 17 hours to go 230 miles... only in the Gambia.
--

Those types of stories are the typical breakdown stories of transportation. Most are not that bad, but equally aggravating. She had one of those bad days where it seemed like you just found convincing proof of Murphy’s Law.

We all sat down in her hut, with Chris, Dave and I on her only couch while she sat on a wooden chair she brought from her bedroom. Her hut only consisted of two rooms, a living room and bedroom.
She started the conversation, “So how long have you known Mike?”
“Since freshman year of college. “
I explained a little further “We went to competing high schools in the same home town and didn’t even know it until the last day of freshman year when we were moving out.”
Ariane then continued, “I don’t know how much you know Mike but he’s full of surprises.”
“Oh yeah, we know.”
“He sure thinks outside the box.”
“I don’t even think he’s inside the box!”
They got a good laugh out of that. I took it as a compliment.
Ariane continued, “Yeah, we go back a ways. He’s the only person I know that sends physics problems on mailrun! I’m checking my mail, reading letters, reading magazines, and then I get a five-page essay on the Coriolis Force and Merry-Go-Rounds!”
That surprised me a bit. I thought she would like that, so I tried to explain myself a bit.
“I thought you would like that!” and turning towards Dave, “Ariane is also astrophysics, so is one of the few people I can talk physics with.”
Ariane then continued to tease me. “Mike, not on mailrun though! I joined Peace Corps to get away from all that physics stuff and then I came to The Gambia and met you!”
I smiled and just said “Your welcome!”
Chris then got into the conversation
“Oh! Speaking of physics. Mike, you might like this. The other week I was giving my final exam to my students. It consisted of only one question, and I gave it orally. It was: ‘An alpha particle has positive charge. What is the charge of an alpha particle?’ I received blank stares, so I repeated it again slowly ‘An… alpha… particle… has … positive … charge. … What …. Is … the … charge …. Of … an … alpha…. Particle?’ One kid raises his hand so I called on him. His response? ‘3 meters!’”
“Ouch!”
“Wait, it gets better! Another question. ‘Give me an example of a nuclear reaction.’ One student put down ‘Wonjo’!”

I started to laugh at that one and had to explain a little to Dave, that Wonjo was the local version of Kool-aid. So, basically the kid was saying kool-aid was a nuclear reaction. I envisioned bombs exploding when you put an ice cube in the glass and kool-aid getting over everyone.

Ariane joined in: “I got one. After teaching spreadsheets for a month I asked them to draw on a piece of paper a table with three rows and five columns.” She got up to go inside her room to get the responses. She held up three student’s answers pronouncing they were the best ones. On the pieces of paper were drawings of a table all right, a dining table. One even had a fruit basket on it!

After hearing these stories Dave made the logical guess, “So the education system is bad?”

Ariane about exploded “It’s terrible! They don’t learn anything! They only memorize! I ask them ‘What is Science?’ and they all repeat in unison ‘Science is study of observations, description, and theoretical explanation of phenomena.’ But they have no idea what any of those words mean! They simply memorized what they were told to memorize. There is no critical thinking in The Gambia! And you only need a 40% to pass, but never mind that! Everyone passes, even if they fail!”

For the next half hour we talked about the educational system and eventually, as it is natural in the Peace Corps, to illness and sickness while living in Africa. Dave wanted to know all about our stories.

One such story was of Alien Baby. This one girl, after finishing training, was in her village for just a few months before her stomach swelled up. By telephone the nurses just explained that it was the usual ‘rice belly’ and should go away in a week or so. It didn’t and actually got bigger to the point that everyone thought she was pregnant. She wasn’t. Peace Corps picked her up at her village and brought her to Kombo for the nurses to take a look at her. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong, despite her stomach now protruding out. She got medically evacuated to American where even the doctors were perplexed, but with some lucky combinations of drugs it reduced and eventually went away.

She ultimately got medically separated from Peace Corps because it took too long for her to get back into country. We have 45 days to return to our country, after leaving for medical purposes, before they separate us from our service permanently. What did she do after being separated? She applied again! She got accepted again into Peace Corps, and back to The Gambia! She arrived in country a month before her original group was completing their two-year term. She had to go through training all over again but is now enjoying her service. Throughout the Peace Corps volunteers, her nickname is ‘Alien Baby’. She is now perfectly healthy and enjoying her current term as a volunteer, and is actually posted the farthest upcountry than any other volunteer. She’s roughing it.

Another story, told by Chris was of ‘Oopsie Poopsie’.

An informal survey done during the last mailrun asked the question ‘You might be a Peace Corps Volunteer if…” Some of their responses were:

‘you assume the same position to eat and shit’
‘you wrap your leftovers in newspaper’
‘you use the backside of a CD as a mirror’
‘you wake up to donkeys braying’
‘you eat with the right, wipe with the left, and always wash your hands’
‘you attend a symposium on peace and you’re not surprised when the teachers beat the students within an inch of their lives to keep them quiet’
‘you have several infected wounds on your feet’
‘you openly discuss bodily function’
‘the plywood for your table top costs more than the solid mahogany base’
And Chris’ reply: ‘you no longer say ‘crapping your pants’, instead you say ‘Oopsie, Poopsie’”

According to Chris, every volunteer has an ‘Oopsie Poopsie’ story. With the inclination of above, of ‘openly discuss bodily functions’, he discussed his theory and his story. “You know, sometimes you think it’s just gas, but then you find out it wasn’t. That’s an Oopsie-Poopsie. I had mine while laying in bed, twice. Same day, two different pairs of underwear. That really sucks.”

Dave was laughing and asked if Ariane or I if we had our version of our stories. Ariane said yes, but refused to share. I shared mine.

Back in training, Sare Samba is only located about 3 kilometers away from the Senegalese border. One day I went with my two younger host-brothers, with their five-year cousin tagging along, to take to me the border. There is no marker or anything signaling you crossed it so I just kept on asking them “Senegal?” and pointing. They kept on saying ‘yes’ so I went further.

Pretty soon I felt I had to go so I gave up my first trip to Senegal to head back to the village. Luckily my compound is near the south side of the village. However, unluckily, we had a five-year-old tagging along that couldn’t keep up. My walk turned into a pace, then a run, then a sprint. I left them behind. I ran into my compound with my host-mother asking where her children were. I told her “In the fields!” as I tried to open my door. I was five feet away but didn’t make it. That was my oopsie-poopsie.

I now carry a roll of toilet paper in my bag at all times when I’m traveling, for that just-in-case moment.

After we had shared our illness, sickness, and bodily function stories, the conversation of the best way to get to Kombo started. Ariane suggested the best bet would be to travel to Bansang tonight and then get a car going to Kombo from Bansang the next morning. One thing to take into account is that Bansang is over an hour’s drive further into country. We’d have to backtrack to move forward. It made sense, though, since the nearest major transportation hub was in Bansang. We could have also taken the north bank road, but I promised Courtney we’d spend a night at her compound. She lived on the south bank, about an hour’s south of Banjul. Backtrack it was then.

On the way back to the ferry terminal we passed two other tourists from Europe. We chatted for a bit and realized they were on the same flight going out that Dave was going to be on. We wished them luck and continued on our way. By the time we got to the ferry the whistle was blowing saying it was leaving. We both ran to get on, being the only two passengers on the ferry. After running to get on board I sat down for the ride. The ferry operator made fun of me sitting:

“Ah, you are weak from running!”
“No, just wanted to sit”
“I train!” meaning, he works-out. ‘Training’ is their word for it.
Having nothing to lose, I offered him a competition.
“Ok. We have competition.”
“Ok!” He smiled and went to get two pieces of wood near the edge of the ferry. He sat one down next to me and the other near him. He then gave the description of the challenge: “pushups!”

As the ferry was crossing the river he and I were doing pushups as a competition on the ferry bed. It didn’t take long before I realized he was out-doing me. After just 15 pushups I declared him the winner, as he was already a half-dozen ahead of me. It was all in good fun and we laughed about it. The operator of the ferry was looking down at us and smiling through the window.

Near the end of the ride he asked Dave and I, “Do you know sex training?” We weren’t sure if we heard him correctly.

“Sex training?”
“Yes. Sex training.”
“S-E-X?”
“Yes.”
Dave wanted to make it perfectly clear what he was referring to: “Between man and woman?”
“Yes.”
Laughing, and not completely knowing what he was referring to Dave answered “Yes. We know sex training.”

Although we took it as a joke it’s actually a serious question. The Gambian males believe one must train for sex. You see them running, doing pushups and sit-ups. Some of the time you see the bumster doing them on the beach. Some of them are what we would call male-prostitutes. Sex tourism, it’s big business. During tourist season you see older European women with shirtless, ripped Gambian men. Equally bad, you see older European men with young Gambian women.

Whenever a volunteer wants to get into shape and runs in the village, or does push ups, they can’t say they are ‘working out’ as no one would understand that. They have to say they are ‘training’, despite the cultural implications of the phrase.

We exited the ferry and walked back to Kharafi. My clothes, which I washed that morning and hung out to dry, got scattered on the ground and were dry but not clean, the dust had dried on the wet clothes when it fell. Oh well. Dave got his clothes back from the laundry-lady. She had cleaned it so well that he was impressed to say the least, especially since knowing what it looked like before hand! I have had white shirts come back to me cleaner and whiter than what I bought them as. His shirt and pants, although not ironed, where folded so tight that they probably didn’t even stack up to a half-an-inch. I have to admit, hand-washing clothes gets them an order of magnitude cleaner than using a washing machine. This is not saying I’ll be hand-washing my clothes when I get back to the US!

Despite now just arriving back at Kharafi, we were here for just a short time. Having decided to head to Bansang that night meant we had to cross the ferry again, travel through Georgetown, and cross the other side. We just needed our supplies. Dave and I packed up our bags, clean clothes and all, and just rested for a half-hour before calling it good. We left Kharafi for the last time saying goodbye to the only person who was still there, Kelly.

We got back on the same ferry we got off of and crossed the river again, this time with no pushup competition. On the Island there were sometimes the occasional car that drove from one end of the island to the other, but we decided to just walk it. Georgetown consists of only one paved road. The road starts at the ferry terminal, goes through the center of town, which is actually at the water’s edge, and turns at a ninety-degree angle to head south to the southern ferry. After the turn and a few blocks there are no houses and it’s just a road for the next three kilometers.

On the south side of the island there was the pull-ferry. It costs one-dalasi per person if the engine is working and is free if the engine is not working as you would have to pull yourself across. If you had a good arm you could throw a ball across, it’s that short.

On the other side people were waiting for a car but Ariane told us it was better to walk to the main road and get a car there. We didn’t expect it to be a good half-hour walk. After the half-hour of walking we reached the junction of our street with the main south bank road. They call them ‘junctions’ here, not ‘intersections’ for some reason. At the junction there was the usual police stop, except now the policeman was on his mat praying. As we were waiting for him to finish praying a car came and I asked the aparante, “Bansang?” which they said yes so we got on. They then proceeded to drive down the exact same road we just walked! A good thing we did walk down it, though, because once it got to the end it was a madhouse for people waiting for it to get on! We watched the commotion from our seats.

After everyone was in the van it turned around and went back down the road and took a left at the junction. We were heading towards Bansang. About an hour later, around 5:30 we arrived at Bansang and walked into the Peace Corps house. The house itself is located at the bottom of a small hill and is completely enclosed in. In order to get in you first have to know a combination to open the hole made in the cement that holds the keys. Once you have the keys, you then have to open the front gate, which would allow you to open the front door. Again, the combination is written out in the open, in roman numerals, for all those wanting to use the house and can read the numerals. Luckily, all that was unnecessary as the door was already opened. The first person I saw I couldn’t recognize since she had a facemask on. I did a double take before recognizing it as Sara Hoffman. The only people inside the house were Sara, Connie, and Brooke and they were doing a female-beauty ritual that we just came in right in the middle of. Seeing what they were doing I made the truthful comment: “Making yourselves look prettier?”

Sara asked me, beneath her facemask, “I thought you were going to Sare Samba?” Her and I both had Sare Samba as training villages and I told her I thought Dave would like it. I hadn’t been back there since training and thought it would be a good village experience for both Dave and I. Before I had left for Christmas I talked it over with Sara and invited her to come along to Sare Samba when we visited. She wanted to but she felt obligated to stay at site for a while. The Sare Samba plan wasn’t definite, but it was a good place for a village to see. I didn’t care as long as Dave could have some village time.

“I thought so too. Change of plans. Dave here met a girl the first full day in country and so we’re going to her village instead on the way back.”
“Who?” All the girls perked up anticipating it might be someone they knew.
“A volunteer in Senegal.”
“Oh”. They sunk back down, disappointed. Despite The Gambia being completely surrounded by Senegal we know not a single Senegalese volunteer. We need to use vacation days to go up there and they would rather not come to The Gambia because of the roads, among other things.
I continued, “It looked like we just missed you two days in a row.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Were you in Kharafi two days ago?”
“Yeap.”
“We arrived last night.”

By now we’re all sitting around the table. Sara asked, “So, have you learned any Wolof?” in which Dave was about to answer “Only a …” before Sara interrupted, “I was talking to Mike.” I dropped my jaw, smiling, and pointed at her in mock disbelief. She just laughed. That was a good one, so I gave it to her.

It was getting relatively late so Sara suggested we better head into town to get dinner before the sun went down. We agreed and asked if they wanted anything, which amounted to a request of only two eggs, but I told them I’d pick up a surprise for them.

This was the first time I’ve been in Bansang with my camera. There was a hill on the edge of town you could climb and get a good picture from the top. The sun was setting so we decided to do that first before dinner. We walked down the main street, passed all the shops and one-man stores, before the road curved to go around the hill. We turned off the main road and onto a side-road and approached the compound we needed to enter in order to climb the hill. The compound was unique in that the only path up the hill starts at the back of this family’s compound. As such they are used to tourists and random Peace Corps volunteers who want to climb the hill.

The sun was about to set but we had just enough light to take a few pictures. You could see the river going through town and curving north, the town scattering more and more sparse as you looked south, and ghelli-ghelli’s with their lights on approaching from the West. After about fifteen minutes it was too dark to take any more pictures. We headed down to find a place that we could eat at.

Before eating we stopped at the local, and only, toubob shop. These are shops that are a bit richer than the others and carry things that we, Americans, usually like, for example toilet paper, alcohol, candy bars. I bought two packs of candles to donate to the house, as there’s usually no power, and a box of wine for the girls. They were drinking one earlier in the day so I figured just continue with the party. Boxed wine is the only type of wine you can get outside of Kombo. For the equivalent of a dollar you have yourself a box of wine. Other alcohol is more expensive, vodka will probably cost you two dollars. I also bought a bottle of water, again for the bottle.

Even though we asked Sara, Connie, and Brooke suggestions for a good place to eat we just sat down at my usual place that I ate at whenever I’m in town. It’s just a table and bench next to the car park. We would have to be at the car park the next morning anyway so getting Dave acquainted with the scene didn’t hurt. The one-man chef cooked us “omelets”, which are fried egg sandwiches.

Dave asked if there were any fruit nearby, as he wanted an orange. I got up to find some for him and didn’t have to travel far as they were across the street! Got two oranges for five dalasi. When I handed him the orange he didn’t know what quite to make of it. Gambians do not eat oranges by the slice, but whole. The seller uses a knife to peel the skin away, but leaves just enough so it won’t go bad and it’s still protected. When you buy it they chop off the top of the orange, a type of spherical cap. You are supposed to tear the cap off and just suck on the orange, tearing away if need be.

Dave held out the orange, “What is this?”
“An orange!”

I then proceeded to show him how we eat the oranges here. He followed suit, but didn’t like the idea much. It was too messy for him. For the rest of the trip if he wanted an orange he searched for one they didn’t peel and cut for him, and he ate it like we do it America. The oranges here are also green and a little smaller than in America.

As we were eating we noticed that not all of our friends would be comfortable in this situation. It was just eating dinner late at night on the side of the road next to a busy car park where you’re the only white guy in sight in the middle of Africa. I could see why it would trouble some, but it was an everyday sort of thing for me.

Looking into the bidick behind the sandwich man I saw some matches which would be good for the house and for the candles I just bought. I did know the Wolof word for matches, ‘almet’, but he didn’t understand what I was saying. I just got up, walked into his shop, grabbed the matches and paid him. After we had our fill with the sandwiches we bought the two eggs the girls requested and went back to the house.

I gave the girls the box of wine, which they mixed with Sprite. That drink, wine and sprite, is popular among the volunteers and is called a “Beautiful Lady”. The name originated from a restaurant in Kombo called the “Come Inn” that introduced us to it. A few months back we were all eating at the restaurant when Matt wanted to just try it but not pay for one. Someone said he should order one.

“Why would I pay for a Beautiful Lady?” was his comment.
The reply? “Because that’s the only way you can get them!” made it into the volunteer newsletter as an out-of-context joke.

While the girls were eating their dinner I made two phone calls. One phone call was to Scott and the other to Courtney. Scott worked at Abuko Nature Reserve near Kombo, a fenced-in wild reserve that is the best in the country and full of monkeys. He said to call him up anytime if we ever wanted a tour. I had figured that being that day a Monday, we would travel down the next day and was hoping for Wednesday for the Abuko tour.

“Hey Scott, this is Mike. You said to call you up if you can give a tour.”
“Yeah, sure. Any day! What day?”
“We were thinking Wednesday.”
A slight hesitant pause, “Any day except Wednesday. Sorry. I have to go Banjul.”
So that went our tour-guide for Abuko, or so I thought. I thanked him and hung up the phone to make another call.

The next call was to Courtney. She lives in Manduar, about an hour south of Kombo and I promised I’d visit her. I figured since we were headed that way anyway Dave could come along as well. She had language class roughly the same time we were about to arrive and told us that when we got to Brikama to give her a call, past four o’clock, and she’ll give us directions to her compound. Lodging for the next night was taken care of.

Dave’s initial reaction to the three girls upon entering was the Connie was shy, as she was sitting in the corner and didn’t say much, that Sara was the most outgoing, with Brooke in between. The actual truth, as he discovered while we stayed up and talked was that Connie and Sara were equally extroverted with Brooke not far behind. None of them were shy as initially thought.

Sara is another physics major that I can usually bounce ideas off, but the topic of the night between us two was Dakar.

She asked, “Mike, I have to pick your brains on Dakar!”
“You’re going there?”
“My parents are coming to visit. Sarah Grimm told me there’s a nice hotel to stay at.”

I brought out the book and we went over the map giving her names and locations. I was going to Dakar again before she would leave, so I promised I would go to the hotel and get pricing information for her since it was only two blocks away from where we were staying.

After discussing Dakar for a few minutes, she switched topics. In Kombo I live in the smallest house among the volunteers stationed there. What I didn’t know was by me saying that a few times I deterred people from visiting, thinking there wasn’t any room for them. In the village some of the mud huts are extremely small but the volunteers get visitors regularly. Sara caught on to this discrepancy of logic and asked, “How big is your house?”
I looked around the room, “It’s probably about the size of the living room.”
“That’s big! The next time I’m coming to Kombo I’m staying with you!”
I wasn’t going to complain. “Ok!”


We all sat around the table sharing stories of Peace Corps, and illnesses by Dave’s request. The conversation went around the table of everyone telling their stories of boils, diarrhea, using their left-hand, and getting worms. The usual. Brooke was the first to go to bed, then Sara and then Connie. All of the girls were leaving the next morning as well, but probably later. Before Connie went to bed she warned us, “Oh, and by the way, the house is infested with rats.” And left the room.

There were three main bedrooms in the house, and each one contained multiple bunk beds. Usually a group of friends would inhabit one room, but the girls decided to each take a bed in a different room. Dave and I chose the farthest room. There were two sets of bunk beds. Sara slept on the bottom of one, Dave on the bottom of the other and I had the top bunk that Dave was sleeping on the bottom of.

I put my glasses and watch underneath Dave’s bed and set my alarm for 5:30 and set it next to my pillow. Each bed had its own mosquito net that you crawled into and closed when you were in. The night started out fine, but then they came. The rats! We heard them running across the floor, chewing on boxes, knocking items down. I had no idea how many there were!

Eventually the rats reached under our beds. Dave was worried that they would climb the mosquito net and get in his bed. I got worried that the rats might take my glasses or watch from under the bed. I asked Dave to get up and put them on the top bunk of Sara’s bed. He wasn’t asleep yet and didn’t mind. For the rest of the night we heard the rats being so loud that no one could get any sleep. Sara even woke up and tried to kill a few as I chanted from my bed watching her, “Kill! Kill!” as she is slamming her shoe on the ground but always missing. She gave up and went back to bed.

By twisting and turning trying to fall asleep I even made my alarm clock fall off the bed behind me. The crash woke up whoever was lucky enough to actually be sleeping. Since the alarm was important, as we didn’t want to miss transport, Dave had to get up yet again in search of the alarm and the batteries that fell apart from it. From my bed I reset the timer and the alarm and tried to go back to bed.

Neither Dave nor I had any sleep.