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.
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.
posted by Mike | 5:39 PM
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