How to revive a chicken

Pateh almost killed a chicken one afternoon. Not a full-grown chicken, or an almost-grown chicken, but one of those cute, soft, fluffy, Easter-yellow ones. He whacked it with a stick and it sort of crunch-flopped to the ground and Rugi screamed that Pateh had killed a chicken and Neene screamed that she was going to beat Pateh until he peed and Pateh looked at the chicken and looked at Neene and ran into the house.


But the chicken ended up being okay-ish. Fatou picked it up and brought it over to the mud stove where she was cooking lunch and when she sprinkled some water on it, it opened up its eyes wide and stopped hunching over like it wanted to die. Then she kept sprinkling water on it until it was soaked, and then she put it on top of the stove to dry. It still limped around for the rest of the day, but it didn't die!

Library!

The library at my school is amazing. It is amazing amazing, in that there are shelves of books, tables, electric lights, and a librarian who sits at a desk; but it is also amusing amazing in its selection of books and their place on the shelves. Macbeth, The Scarlet Letter, The Adventures of Robin Hood, and Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret are mixed in with the dozens of paperback romance novels. Beneath a row of psychology, sociology, and anthropology textbooks ( amongst which I found a fascinating collection of articles about cannibalism, voodoo, and the sleeping patterns of Dutch babies) is a collection of Ogden Nash poems illustrated by Quentin Blake and assorted Roald Dahl novels. The book selection also includes a Pippi Longstocking book, several Goosebumps books, a cookbook of West African recipes, World Bank papers about the Grameen Bank, multiple copies of Antony and Cleopatra, and a Spanish textbook.


Most of the books were donated by schools in England or America, but I did come across a couple of German books. I, unfortunately, cannot read (or speak) German, and I only knew the books were in German because all the nouns were capitalized. Perhaps there is another language that capitalizes its nouns. Perhaps that is the language those books were written in.

And you know that Pink Floyd song about school and teachers and in the music video the kids get turned into sausages? I found the book that must have inspired that song; it is a mathematics book from England and in the back there are several activities for students to try. “Activity 2: Find the number of bricks in a wall.” I’m serious. And that’s the entire activity, brick-counting.

I like to wander the library in my free periods, inhaling dust and watching the lizards disappear into hidden cracks. Once in awhile I’ll find a book to take back and read, usually a textbook (although I’m a little afraid of becoming like Frankenstein, who, if I remember correctly, taught himself science from outdated books and messed a lot of stuff up) and I now know lots of interesting conversational tidbits should the conversation ever turn to cannibalism, voodoo, Dutch babies, chimpanzees, smallpox, or vocal cords. I wish more conversations would.

Conversations with Rugi: Zac Efron!

One day I was helping Rugi fold laundry. Her mom had plopped down an armload of clean laundry and said, “sow,” which I first thought was her saying, “sorry,” because some of the clothes hit me as the pile plopped, but then I realized she was saying, in Pulaar, “fold.” One of the items to be folded was a large bed sheet with a High School Musical pattern.


Rugi, pointing to whoever the girl singing next to Zac Efron is: Woman.
Me: Yes.
Rugi, pointing to Zac Efron: Woman.
Me: No. He is a man.
Rugi, angrily and insistently: NO. Woman!

“It can urinate any time.”

This is the reason Amadou avoids holding babies. It is a valid one.

Slow tape!

Amadou: Binta, are you having any slow tape?

Me: Any what?
Amadou: Slow tape. My uncle wants to buy sugar for these people.
Amadou holds up a 25 dalasi bill that’s nearly torn in half
Me (to Amadou): Yes, I have.
Me (to myself): What the heck is slow tape? But Scotch tape will work.
I give Amadou a roll of Scotch tape
Me (to myself): A-ha! Cellotape!

While I had been recording this dialogue in my journal, I began to wonder what Americans call Scotch tape if they wanted to refer to Scotch tape not actually manufactured by the Scotch company. Luckily, I am a thrifty person and had purchased some non-Scotch Scotch tape manufactured by Staples. It is “invisible tape.” But I like “slow tape” better.

The Mathematical Method of Scorpion Killing

One day I entered the 11th grade classroom and found a tiny scorpion in the doorway. I thought that one among the group of students crowding around after I'd pointed it out would simply stomp on it. Instead, one of the boys found a small stick and poked it through the middle of the scorpion, then kicked the scorpion out of the door and stomped on it.
After class, I told the teachers about it. One of them replied, “That is the mathematical way of killing a scorpion.” Another one said, “Was it a red one or a black one?” Apparently, in addition to the small, orange scorpion I’d spotted that day there are also black ones that are much bigger. I'm just a little frightened. If I actually seen one, I'm sure I will be much more frightened.

Chameleons!

Gambians are terrified of chameleons. I forget the reason why. One afternoon Fatou Sowe, a neighbor, spots a chameleon crawling on a piece of clothing she's hung out to dry. She screams, runs away, flails her arms, and yells at Fatou Bobo to do something about it. Fatou Bobo grabs a long stick and gets the chameleon to climb on it. She wants to transfer it to the tree, but the chameleon is moving too quickly in the wrong direction, towards her arms, so she instead throws the stick and the chameleon into the field.

I related this amusing story to my neighbor Sini, complete with flailing arms. Then I attempted to learn the reason for this mysterious fear.

Me: I think Gambian people are scared of chameleons.

Sini: Yes!
Me: But American people are not scared. They will have them inside their houses.
Sini: Inside?!
Me: And feed them.
Sini: Inside houses and feeding them?!
Me: Yes, but inside the houses they are inside a…[I struggle to figure out how I can explain the word “cage” after forgetting even the word for “fence”]
I gesture a rectangular shape with my hands
Sini: A cardboard box?
Me: Yes.
Sini: Eelie, eelie! The American people are not scared.
Me: But Gambian people are scared. I do not understand. A chameleon will not chew you?
Sini: No, it will not chew you. But it will ngat.
Me: It will ngat?
Sini: Yes!
Me: I do not know what is ngat.
Sini: You do not know? This.
Sini bites her finger.
Me, remembering that "ngat" means “bite”: Yes! I understand! A chameleon will bite you?
Sini: Yes! It has four teeth!
Me: Only four teeth?
Sini: Only four teeth!

I laugh, and when Sini realizes I was emphasizing "only," she laughs too. This was the end of our chameleon conversation, so I am no closer to solving the mystery, but I'm still incredibly happy to be living in a place where the trees contain chameleons.

Recycling!

In The Gambia, a 20L container of 100% pure vegetable oil can be many things. Among them:

• a place for storing drinking water
• a chair
• drums
• with the top cut off, a rubbish bin
• with the top cut off and a handle attached, a bucket for fetching well water
• cut in half lengthwise with a piece of rope tied to one end, a wheel-less wagon for children
• a container for motor oil
• a container for vegetable oil

Conversations with Rugi (and Adama): Toubab!

Adama: I am a toubab.
Rugi: Me too, I am a toubab.
Me: Okay.

A little monkey

Omar: Take out your bandel.

Me, asking Amadou: What is “bandel”?
Amadou: Bandel? It is a little monkey.
Me: ?
Omar: Your necklace.
Me: Yes! It’s true!

My necklace has a charm on it; it is a little monkey.

Teletubbies!

Mamadou, amazingly, identified the Teletubbies pictured on his shoes as people. He can also count them. There are eight.

"But I was not brave..."

One afternoon Fatou told me about the time Fanta (one of the previous volunteers) and her friends cooked American food.


Fatou: They cooked American food, but I didn’t know what it was. They said, “eat!” and I ate a little only and said I was full. But I wasn’t full. But I didn’t know this food. That’s why I didn’t eat it.
Me: What did they cook? Bread and what also?
Fatou: I don’t know. Macaroni and vermicelli and a packet. But I didn’t know what the packet was.
Me: A packet?
Fatou: You add oil and you add water and you add the packet…
Me: And you eat with the macaroni?
Fatou: Yes.
Me: I know it!

I’ll bet you anything it was mac and cheese Fatou was not brave enough to eat. I would be scared of macaroni and cheese too, if I were her. Or even if I were me.

It is like NesCafé...but it is not NesCafé

One night around the campfire we talked about the dangers of smoking and the American love of coffee, which I tried and failed to explain was not the same as NesCafé. I also tried to explain iced coffee, but didn’t know how to explain ice that’s just frozen water and not frozen mango juice. Neene thought I was talking about soda.

D.I.Y: Ruin a spoon!

Materials: a small quantity of butter wrapped in a plastic baggy, one of those plastic ladle-like spoons used for drinking porridge, fire

*Note: works best at night, hen you can’t see what’s happening

1: Place the butter, still wrapped in the bag, into the spoon

2: Hold the spoon over the edge of the fire. You should be holding it mostly over hot coals and small flames, not the large flames, which will burn the spoon and your hand

3: Continue holding the spoon until you think the butter must be sufficiently melted. If you headed the advice to undertake this project at night, you will not be able to monitor the state of the butter as it is melting.

4: Success! You will have melted to the butter to a consistency drinkable by a month-old baby (who will shortly be fed the butter to make him fall asleep) AND you will have melted the spoon!

"The eleventh grade boys think, 'Here is a white lady who cannot ride a bicycle'"

I have disproved the rumor that Ms. Jallow cannot ride a bike by riding, at great risk, a bicycle to school while wearing a skirt.

Words!

I love going to the peer tutoring classes because I learn all sorts of interesting information. Maybe I already mentioned that I learned the plural of “oasis” is “oases”? I thought that information would never come in handy, but then the other day I was completing a crossword puzzle and wouldn’t you know—the solution to 20 ACROSS, “Fertile spots,” is “oases.” Anyway, I also learned, during a lesson on nouns (nouns can be people, places, things, or ideas) that “air” is an idea. In another class, the tutor was talking about adjectives and correctly used the word “lucrative.” He explained that he’d read it in a book and then looked it up in a dictionary. I normally let the tutors do their thing, but when he was running out of examples of adjectives ending in “-some,” I suggested “awesome.” This was a word they’d never heard before. Hopefully it will catch on and I’ll start hearing both my favorite words all the time (the first favorite word being “hooray”).

D.I.Y.: Fix a flashlight!

Materials: broken flashlight, lump of wax left-over from burned-out candle, fire

1: Hold the wax near the fire so it becomes soft, but not so soft that it starts melting uncontrollably

2: Smear some of the wax onto the wires that have come out of place in the light

3: Mold the wax so it holds the wire in the correct place.

4: Repeat steps 1-3 until all the wires are back in place.

Konkorans!

*Ever since elementary school I've sufferred from the incurable problem of unintentionally changing between past and present tenses while writing a story. I'll try to edit this, but I'm also terrified of the power shutting off before I click "Publish Post."

Konkorans could probably be a character on Sesame Street if it weren’t for the whole machete-wielding, terrorizing villages thing. They look sort of like a cross between a yeti and a scarecrow. If you are hard of hearing, you will see one and run into your house. Otherwise, you will not wait until it is within eyesight to flee, you will hide at the sound of its screams, or the clanging of its machetes, or an urgently whispered rumor that the konkorans are at Camara Kunda now and will come here soon soon.


I, however, did not want to run. I had been in The Gambia for seven months and not seen even a glimpse of a konkoran and I did not want to gulp down my lunch, go to my house, lock the door, “not open it for anyone,” and miss the konkorans. I was especially anxious to see one because they’d been keeping me up at night with their wailing. So one Friday afternoon, while Neene, Fatou, Rugi, Mamadou and Pateh ran into the house, I kept sitting outside. Their friend Gaye also kept sitting outside. Neene yelled to Gaye from the house. He turns to me and says I’ve got to go into my house. I sigh. I obey.

Fortunately, if I stand on the cement block that’s been built into my pit latrine/ bathing area I can peer over my corrugate fence, so that’s what I do. I see that the neighbors were also peering over their fence. I see the konkorans approach, three of them. They're accompanied by herds of boys and young men, some of whom were part of the konkorans posse and clang sticks together and others who'd try to run as close to the konkoran as possible and not get hit. The konkorans, for their part, mostly walk but sometimes run, and sometimes stop and shake their head up and down while whacking the ground with their machetes. The konkorans don't come much closer and in my photos they all appear as tiny little reddish-brown dots. All in all, quite disappointing.

Finally Neene gives the all clear and I move outside. The konkorans reappear about ten minutes later, but they seem like they're sticking to the field so I'm allowed to stay outside. Then! A konkoran and his posse (including one of my 12th grade students shouting, “Busy, busy!”) approach our compound. Neene runs into my house and yells at me to follow. Again, I really don’t want to, but multiple people are yelling at me so I obey. But when I go into my house, Neene is nowhere in sight. My hut is a perfect circle. It is not big, and there are not many possessions. How does it lose a grown woman? I imagine that she must have left and run to her own house—then I spot her behind my bed, in the little curved gap between the bed and the wall, peeking out of the curtain. I leave my corrugate door open but I lock the screen door. A boy stands outside demanding 50 dalasi if I want a photo of the konkoran. I refuse.

Konkoran rumors: One Konkoran a few days ago took a bicycle and rode it to chase after someone. The Konkorans went to the police and got a paper that allows them “to beat you until you die” and if you tell the police, the police won’t do anything.

The next day I am told there will be nine, no twelve, no sixteen, no seventeen konkorans.

I absolutely refuse to miss this konkoran extravaganza so I tell my host family that when the konkorans arrive I’ll go to Julia’s compound because Julia is not scared and I am not scared and we will sit outside and watch the konkorans. Neene laughs, but accepts. I told her Julia has sat outside before when the konkorans came, so maybe Neene thinks Julia’s got some sort of konkoran-deflecting powers.

After lunch Neene tells me I must go over to the Njie compound (where Julia lives) NOW. I ask her if the konkorans are coming. She says yes. I tell her I do not see or hear the konkorans. She says if I wait until I see or hear them, it will be too late—they will chase after me.

The first konkoran is spotted approaching the Njie compound and everyone dashes inside. Julia and I are told we must go inside, too, because Julia is still finishing her lunch and if the konkorans see the food, they will take it. But later we return outside and more konkorans pass by and we don’t dash inside every time and for five dalasi a konkoran walks into the compound and doesn’t threaten anyone and I take a few photos of him, which I will post if the internet ever starts working and the power doesn’t randomly shut off again.

Hooray!

One morning in the 12th grade math class, I wrote “Hooray!” on the board after I’d completed an example on the board (I wrote hooray because we’d checked our answer and found it correct). I rubbed it away and started writing a new equation on the board when Musa raised his hand.


Musa: Miss Jallow, what was the word you wrote on the board?
Me: Which word?
Musa: The one you rubbed. It started with an “h.”
Me: With an “a”?
Musa: “H.” H-O-O-
Me: Hooray.
Musa: Yes, what does that word mean?
Me: When you’re happy about something, when you’re excited, when something is fantastic, you say, “hooray!”
Class: Hooray!
Me: Hooray!
Musa: It’s an English word?
Me: Yes.
Class: Hooray!

It has been several weeks since the class learned “hooray,” and they’re still not tired of shouting it several times throughout a lesson and loudest at the end. And now if I meet a twelfth grader outside of school they are more likely to greet me with “hooray!” than with “good afternoon.” I love it.

Buba! (and that's a long "u," like "boo")

Buba’s new favorite word for about a month now has been “haani,” which means “no.” He will drag the “a” out really long so it’s the equivalent of “nooo.”


Me: Buba, is it sweet?
Buba: Nooo.
Me: It is not sweet?
Buba: Nooo.

"This morning your husband was burned"

I can't remember if I mentioned that I have a husband now. In case I didn't, or in case I did and you've forgotten, his name is Saliou and I think he is 15 months old now. I can no longer remember the exact details of how he became my husband, but Sini, Saliou's mom, suggested it. I think she was saving me from some annoying dude who didn't understand that men want me to take them to America all the time and I no longer find jokes about marrying a total stranger even a little bit funny. Now conversations with annoying dudes go something like this:
Annoying dude: Where are you from?
Me: America.
Annoying dude: Do you have a husband?
Me: Yes.
Annoying dude: In The Gambia?
Me: Yes.
Annoying dude: ?! What is his name?
Me: Saliou.

And if Saliou is nearby I will point to him and the annoying dude will laugh but usually stop bothering me. If he says I'm joking and Saliou is not my husband I'll reply, "No, Saliou is my husband and I don't want two husbands," and then he'll laugh again and stop bothering me.

Anyway, here's a story about my husband.

Adama and I are sitting at the Tostan declaration (the one I bought asobi for), which hasn’t officially started yet.

Adama: This morning your husband was burned.
Me: My husband?
Adama: Yes, your husband was burned. And he cried and cried. Go and see him!
Me: No, I am going to sit here. I will see him later. What burned? The fire?
Adama: No, they cut it.
Me: Cut? What?
Adama: Cut.
Adama demonstrates cutting by pretending to slice the tip of her finger.
Me: What? His finger?
Adama: No.
Me: What did they cut? My husband was burned and cut this morning?
Me, to myself: I am SO confused. I wish I could understand what Adama's trying to tell me. How does a child manage to burn and cut himself before noon? Was he simultaneously playing with knives and fire? Where was his mother?
Adama: And Buba also.
Me: And Buba also?!
Adama: Come see.
Me: No, I’ll sit here. I will see them later.
Me, to myself: ???

Turns out, the words for “burn” and “circumcise” are awfully similar to each other. And at the time of this conversation, I hadn’t learned the word for circumcise yet. Poor Adama must have been just as confused as I was…

I'm back!

I'm in front of the computer at this very moment, but I will not be for much longer. I came yesterday and typed up enough blog posts to last until March 3, got money from the bank, and ate some yummy food, but today I'll be leaving very soon because there's a workshop I need to be at tomorrow and Tuesday in Janjangbury, or however you spell that town. You might hear from me in person again when I stop in Basse on my way back from the workshop, or you might not.

Conversations with Rugi: Popcorn!

One day Rugi offered me some popcorn crumbs from a small plastic bag.

Rugi: Binta, will you chew some beans?
Me: No, I will not.
Rugi: What will happen if you chew it?

Normally, people do not ask "what will happen" if you decline to eat or drink something, but it is actually a very reasonable question for Rugi to ask of me. I cannot drink the water she offers me because my stomach will hurt. I cannot drink the ataya she offers me because I will not sleep. My body is simply full of pecularities.

The popcorn story continues. Rugi and I have returned home and she shows her mom the plastic baggy with popcorn crumbs. The italicized words were said in English.

Rugi: Mamadou bought beans, don't you see?
Fatou: That's not beans, it's puff corn.
Rugi: [slowly, as one does when trying out a word for the first time] Puff corn. I didn't know! Puff corn.

Sardines!

A few weeks ago, Rugi started a sardine can collection for me. At one point I had three identical, empty tin cans that previously contained "Olivia Sardines in vegetable oil", or if you look on the other side, "Sardine a L'Huile Vegetale."

She would use the collection as an excuse to come into my hut, where she could admire the postcards hanging from my wall or run in fear of the gas burner ("Binta! What is that? I am not brave!"). One day she noticed the plastic wind-up monkey I've got on my desk and wanted it. I told her she could not have it, and she must have realized it was one of my nicer items because she decided to request a rubber band instead. I could not give her that either without hearing requests from every village child that he or she also be given a rubber band, and besides, I'd already given her several glow-in-the-dark Silly Bandz. I said no.

Rugi: I gave you cans! You should give me a rubber band.
Me: No, I cannot.
Rugi: Give me back my cans.
Me: Okay.

Rugi seemed pretty shocked when I handed over my entire collection of used sardine cans. She tried to hand them back, but I insisted she keep them.

More asobi adventures!

I should just stop agreeing to buying the matching fabric for these events. Two weeks ago my village held a Tostan declaration, to celebrate the wonderful things Tostan has done for them and to declare that they will abandon FGM and early/forced marriage. The women decided to wear asobi for the event and said if I wanted to, give 100 dalasi to Hawa and she would go to the market and buy it. Sure!

The fabric looks like it's been covered in melted Swiss rolls or beheaded slugs.