Amadou explained the reason he will prepare in Africa before going to Europe or America America
Mar 31, 2011
Mar 30, 2011
Spelling bee!
One morning after class I return to the teachers’ table and discover a shiny black truck parked outside the school next to piles of complicated electronic equipment. Several people in Q-Cell shirts are milling about, including a woman in tight checkered pants and a pony-tail. I soon hear they've arrived for the spelling competition Q-Cell will be hosting.
Students start to swarm outside, relocating chairs from classrooms to the auditorium. A man who’s with the Ministry of Basic and Secondary Education introduces himself. After the students have finished the chair-relocation, one of the teachers says, “Let’s go,” and I follow him into the auditorium.
The auditorium has been transformed. The stage is overflowing with five large tables draped in orange tablecloth and a large plastic poster behind it says “Q-Spelling Test” or something like that. In front of the stage are a pair of large speakers and a man testing a microphone. On the right- and left-hand walls of the auditorium, the maps of The Gambia and the world, painted by a former Peace Corps Volunteer, have been covered by enormous posters reminding us that Q-Cell is The Gambia’s only 3-G network and also has the cheapest tariff.
Two men start to distribute Q-Cell baseball caps and pens to all the students. The students immediately don their caps, even the girls, who place the caps on top of their head-wraps and veils. The man with the microphone gets everyone calmed down and we hear speeches from the principle, the man from the Ministry of Education, and a representative from Q-Cell. Then the lady in checkered pants explains the rules and prizes. The rules were pretty straightforward; the only kink was that British English spellings only would be accepted. This made no difference for most of the words, but for all the students’ talk about rubbers and cellotape, they refused to spell “demobilise” without a zed. So would I.
I think I could have spelled all the other words, though, except for annihilate (which I now can spell), opulent (I think it deserves two p’s) and abominable (every time the pronouncer repeated the word “abominable,” I heard “abominator”).
[Unrelated aside: is it only Gambians, or do British people also pronounce the “ch” in “architect” as you would the “ch” in “charcoal” and not as you would the “ch” in “school”? Because it grates on my nerves even more than the British pronunciation of “schedule,” no offense to people fond of those pronunciations.]
At the end of three rounds, prizes were distributed and all the teams had their photos taken with the lady in checkered pants. The man with the microphone shouted “Hip, hip” and all the students shouted “Hey!” because even though the twelfth graders know the definition of “hooray,” I did not expose them to the word in that context.
Then one of the women’s groups from the village came to the front of the auditorium and said a bunch of stuff in Mandinka that must’ve been hilarious and then they started singing, drumming, and dancing. Before they walked away the man with the microphone gave them Q-Cell hats. Then everyone left the auditorium to buy bean sandwiches or cooked cassava.
And that's how my first-ever spelling bee went.
Students start to swarm outside, relocating chairs from classrooms to the auditorium. A man who’s with the Ministry of Basic and Secondary Education introduces himself. After the students have finished the chair-relocation, one of the teachers says, “Let’s go,” and I follow him into the auditorium.
The auditorium has been transformed. The stage is overflowing with five large tables draped in orange tablecloth and a large plastic poster behind it says “Q-Spelling Test” or something like that. In front of the stage are a pair of large speakers and a man testing a microphone. On the right- and left-hand walls of the auditorium, the maps of The Gambia and the world, painted by a former Peace Corps Volunteer, have been covered by enormous posters reminding us that Q-Cell is The Gambia’s only 3-G network and also has the cheapest tariff.
Two men start to distribute Q-Cell baseball caps and pens to all the students. The students immediately don their caps, even the girls, who place the caps on top of their head-wraps and veils. The man with the microphone gets everyone calmed down and we hear speeches from the principle, the man from the Ministry of Education, and a representative from Q-Cell. Then the lady in checkered pants explains the rules and prizes. The rules were pretty straightforward; the only kink was that British English spellings only would be accepted. This made no difference for most of the words, but for all the students’ talk about rubbers and cellotape, they refused to spell “demobilise” without a zed. So would I.
I think I could have spelled all the other words, though, except for annihilate (which I now can spell), opulent (I think it deserves two p’s) and abominable (every time the pronouncer repeated the word “abominable,” I heard “abominator”).
[Unrelated aside: is it only Gambians, or do British people also pronounce the “ch” in “architect” as you would the “ch” in “charcoal” and not as you would the “ch” in “school”? Because it grates on my nerves even more than the British pronunciation of “schedule,” no offense to people fond of those pronunciations.]
At the end of three rounds, prizes were distributed and all the teams had their photos taken with the lady in checkered pants. The man with the microphone shouted “Hip, hip” and all the students shouted “Hey!” because even though the twelfth graders know the definition of “hooray,” I did not expose them to the word in that context.
Then one of the women’s groups from the village came to the front of the auditorium and said a bunch of stuff in Mandinka that must’ve been hilarious and then they started singing, drumming, and dancing. Before they walked away the man with the microphone gave them Q-Cell hats. Then everyone left the auditorium to buy bean sandwiches or cooked cassava.
And that's how my first-ever spelling bee went.
Mar 29, 2011
Chameleons, continued
I learned why a chameleon’s bite is dangerous. It is not because being bitten by its four teeth will be particularly painful, but because you might be bitten by its “bad luck” teeth and suffer bad luck for the rest of your life. It is also possible that a chameleon will bite you with its “good luck” teeth and you’ll forever have good luck, but that is probably a chance no one is willing to take.
Mar 28, 2011
Sandwich stories!
The real reason I love bean sandwiches so much is the paper they’re wrapped in. One day it was a page from Murder in the Cathedral, which is a play whose characters include First Knight, Second Knight, Third Knight, and Thomas. Here are lines 111 and 112: “Saving your ambition is what you mean/ Saving your pride, envy and spleen.”
Mar 27, 2011
Gecko! (or something like it)
I have a pet gecko. He lives behind my calendar. I like him better than my pet cockroach, who lives in my pit latrine. Fatou, however, does not like my pet gecko at all. She spotted him crawling along my wall one day and took off a shoe so that she could attempt to beat it to death. “Binta,” she said, “do not accept this inside your house. It is not good. It will pee.” Personally, I’d rather have a little pee on my floor than the splattered body of a gecko plastered against my wall.
On the other hand, my pet gecko is sort of destructive. I often need to sweep small chunks of concrete from my floor and one day I discovered it was the gecko who was knocking the pieces of concrete off the wall and to the floor.
Mar 26, 2011
Grrr...
One afternoon there were good-sized pieces of chicken in our lunch food bowl. I was enjoying one of these good-sized pieces of chicken when a live chicken ran by and snatched the cooked chicken from my hand. Sometimes cannibalism is really annoying.
Mar 25, 2011
Urgent!
I need to find a husband before I return to America
Mar 24, 2011
Gone with the wind!
The bees came with the wind. One morning, a few minutes after the strong winds started, Rugi screams. "A bee!" "Grab your dog and go inside!" I obey, until it's time to teach the Saturday computer class. Shortly before I leave I hear another child screaming from a bee sting. I’m slightly terrified, but I make it to the school and back without incident. When I return home only Kairaba is sitting outside.
Me: The bees have not gone yet?
Kairaba: No! Today all the villagers did not go outside, did not do work.
Me: Because of the bees?
Kairaba: Yes, the bees.
The next night, Fatou points out the HUGE fire underneath the baobab tree a few compounds away. One of the branches is also on fire. I'm told they are burning the bees.
So actually, the bees were "gone with the fire," but whatever, I'm not changing the post's title.
P.S. The entire tree did not burn down.
Me: The bees have not gone yet?
Kairaba: No! Today all the villagers did not go outside, did not do work.
Me: Because of the bees?
Kairaba: Yes, the bees.
The next night, Fatou points out the HUGE fire underneath the baobab tree a few compounds away. One of the branches is also on fire. I'm told they are burning the bees.
So actually, the bees were "gone with the fire," but whatever, I'm not changing the post's title.
P.S. The entire tree did not burn down.
Mar 23, 2011
Things fall apart
One afternoon, while sitting at the teachers' table. We're speaking English only.
Teacher: Binta, where is your iron hose?
Me: What did you say?
Teacher: Where is your iron hose?
Me: Where is my what?
Teacher: Iron hose, iron hose.
Me: Where is my iron hose?
Teacher: Yes.
Me: Still I do not understand. I am hearing all the words you said, but I am not understanding.
Teacher: Your bicycle.
Me: Why did you not just say “bicycle”?
Teacher: [silence]
Me: ?
Teacher: It is a word not used in spoken English.
Me, indicating the dictionary lying on the table: Is it in there?
Teacher: It is a word used by writers. Also, “devil horse.”
I realized he must have been saying “iron horse,” not “iron hose."
Teacher: Writers like Chenua Achebe.
Me: He wrote Things Fall Apart?
Teacher: Yes.
And I think our conversation ended there, because I could remember nothing more about Things Fall Apart aside from Chenua Achebe and that the copy of the book I read in 11th grade was incredibly worn (in the Condition Issued column I'd wanted to write “falling apart,” but I wasn’t brave enough to deviate from New, Very Good, Good, Fair, Poor).
Teacher: Binta, where is your iron hose?
Me: What did you say?
Teacher: Where is your iron hose?
Me: Where is my what?
Teacher: Iron hose, iron hose.
Me: Where is my iron hose?
Teacher: Yes.
Me: Still I do not understand. I am hearing all the words you said, but I am not understanding.
Teacher: Your bicycle.
Me: Why did you not just say “bicycle”?
Teacher: [silence]
Me: ?
Teacher: It is a word not used in spoken English.
Me, indicating the dictionary lying on the table: Is it in there?
Teacher: It is a word used by writers. Also, “devil horse.”
I realized he must have been saying “iron horse,” not “iron hose."
Teacher: Writers like Chenua Achebe.
Me: He wrote Things Fall Apart?
Teacher: Yes.
And I think our conversation ended there, because I could remember nothing more about Things Fall Apart aside from Chenua Achebe and that the copy of the book I read in 11th grade was incredibly worn (in the Condition Issued column I'd wanted to write “falling apart,” but I wasn’t brave enough to deviate from New, Very Good, Good, Fair, Poor).
Mar 22, 2011
I'm on a quest!
I asked the teachers how the vendors get Swedish newspaper for wrapping the bean sandwiches they sell. Mr. Baldeh replied, "There is a warehouse in Basse."
Locating this warehouse is my latest goal in life.
Locating this warehouse is my latest goal in life.
Mar 21, 2011
"He's lying!"
One afternoon I noticed that someone had sloppily applied red nail polish to the fingernails on Pateh’s left hand.
Me: Pateh, what is here, on your fingers?
Pateh: Blood.
Me: Pateh, what is here, on your fingers?
Pateh: Blood.
Mar 20, 2011
A synonym for "toubab"
My family and neighbors, even the children, understand that I dislike when people call me “toubab” and believe this dislike extends to the word “toubab” itself. In actuality, I'm only upset when people use it as a substitute for my name and then demand candy. Sometimes there are perfectly legitimate instances when a person could say "toubab," for example, to tell me that a group of white people biked through the village the other day. To overcome this obstacle (of referring to white people without saying "toubab"), my friends and neighbors have decided that “toubab” and “Peace Corps” are synonymous. For example:
Musa, pointing to my hair: This hair is…how do you call this hair?
Isatou: Binta’s hair.
Musa pauses; while it is true that “Binta’s hair” is one way of referring to my hair, what he really wanted was a word to refer to toubab hair in general.
Musa: … Peace Corps hair is beautiful!
Another example:
Hawa: How many days does a toubab month have?
Me: What?
Fatou: How many days does a Peace Corps month have?
Me: I still do not understand.
Fatou: How many days?
Me: Thirty one.
Fatou: Thirty one days and then it dies?
Me: Who dies?
Fatou: Thirty one days and the month dies? It leaves?
Me: Yes. I thought you said a person died. I thought, “Who died?!”
Hawa and Fatou: Hah, Binta thought a person died.
The above conversation also illustrates how awesome Fatou is—notice how many different ways she was able to rephrase the question until I understood.
Musa, pointing to my hair: This hair is…how do you call this hair?
Isatou: Binta’s hair.
Musa pauses; while it is true that “Binta’s hair” is one way of referring to my hair, what he really wanted was a word to refer to toubab hair in general.
Musa: … Peace Corps hair is beautiful!
Another example:
Hawa: How many days does a toubab month have?
Me: What?
Fatou: How many days does a Peace Corps month have?
Me: I still do not understand.
Fatou: How many days?
Me: Thirty one.
Fatou: Thirty one days and then it dies?
Me: Who dies?
Fatou: Thirty one days and the month dies? It leaves?
Me: Yes. I thought you said a person died. I thought, “Who died?!”
Hawa and Fatou: Hah, Binta thought a person died.
The above conversation also illustrates how awesome Fatou is—notice how many different ways she was able to rephrase the question until I understood.
Mar 19, 2011
Non-disaster!
One afternoon I went to watch the football game with Rugi, Adama, Mamadou and Omar. I was the only adult. The excursion could have been a disaster, but thankfully (and unexpectedly) the kids were pretty well-behaved. Their misdeeds were limited to climbing too high in the cashew tree, pulling off a wrapskirt (Rugi), eating an unripe cashew, throwing Omar’s share of the honey on the ground (they’d climbed a tree and somehow found clumps of beeswax and honey without getting stung by bees), and the usual pushing and shoving.
Mar 18, 2011
Another conversation with Adama: America!
My little neighbor Adama is convinced America is right next door.
Adama: Did you go to America?
Me: Hmm?
Adama: I said, did you go to America?
Me: Yes, I will go to America, in two years.
Adama: No, did you go to America?
Me: I’m from America, yes.
Adama: [frustrated sigh] Where did you go yesterday?
Me: I was here. Yesterday I was sick and today I am a little better.
Adama: Ah-ha…
Adama: Did you go to America?
Me: Hmm?
Adama: I said, did you go to America?
Me: Yes, I will go to America, in two years.
Adama: No, did you go to America?
Me: I’m from America, yes.
Adama: [frustrated sigh] Where did you go yesterday?
Me: I was here. Yesterday I was sick and today I am a little better.
Adama: Ah-ha…
Mar 17, 2011
D.I.Y. Staple without staples!
Materials: A twig whose diameter is roughly that of a toothpick’s, papers to be stapled together (not more than two)
Step 1: Snap off a 1"-1.5” length of twig.
Step 2: Align the papers you wish to staple.
Step 3: Poke the twig down through the top of the papers and then back up again, leaving some space between the two holes. The action is the same as stitching with needle and thread.
Step 4: Repeat step 3 once more (i.e. create a second stitch) if the twig is long enough.
Step 1: Snap off a 1"-1.5” length of twig.
Step 2: Align the papers you wish to staple.
Step 3: Poke the twig down through the top of the papers and then back up again, leaving some space between the two holes. The action is the same as stitching with needle and thread.
Step 4: Repeat step 3 once more (i.e. create a second stitch) if the twig is long enough.
Mar 14, 2011
Cuteness! (with unrelated text)
It's my last day in ice-cream-land, and I've only eaten two ice creams. It's a mystery, but I just don't crave ice cream like I used to. Or chocolate. Or cheese, even. Before I left site I thought all I really really wanted was a slice of chocolate cake, but then I ate that and realized I didn't particularly miss that, either.
So (at the moment) I'm not sad to be leaving Kombo food behind and I've actually sort of missed eating rice. Even rice served only with the boring peanuts sauce that I eat for ninety percent of my meals. But I'll miss being Sonja, and there's always that awkward transition of becoming Binta again. And I mean that in a deeper sense than remembering to respond to a different name.
It'll also be weird returning to site because Fatou, Rugi and Pateh left for Senegal the day after I left for the Kombos and they'll be gone for two or three months. So there'll be no more new conversations with Rugi for awhile and even though Pateh throws rocks at people, I'll miss him too.
Okay, you can go back to looking at Levi now.
Mar 13, 2011
Chocolate-covered raisins!
Today in the supermarket (I'm still in supermarket-land) I bought a bag of chocolate-covered raisins. My sister is probably excited, thinking I've remembered, for once, that March 24 is Chocolate-Covered Raisin Day. I did not. I saw the chocolate-covered raisins first, vaguely remembered Chocolate-Covered Raisin Day is sometime in March, and looked up the exact date on Google.
I will, however, not be mailing these raisins to my sister. I will be eating them all by myself eleven days from now. I could cite the reason as the expense, or the very high likelihood of the raisins arriving both melted and stale, but the real reason is that I'm exceptionally greedy.
I will, however, not be mailing these raisins to my sister. I will be eating them all by myself eleven days from now. I could cite the reason as the expense, or the very high likelihood of the raisins arriving both melted and stale, but the real reason is that I'm exceptionally greedy.
Mar 11, 2011
The computer's not being a tortoise!
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| Things are looking more dry and scraggly now that the hot season is beginning. |
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| Konkoran! |
 |
| Sadly, the henna has long since faded from my feet. |
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| Isatou (the one I've secretly named Pippi), Mariama and Ebrima |
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| My husband Saliou and Buba, dressed in the clothes of the newly-circumcised |
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| I'm wearing the asobi for the circumcision ceremony I attended, but have not yet blogged about. I don't know who this guy was, but he wanted a picture with me. Coincidentally, I also wanted a picture with him. |
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| Levi! |
Mar 10, 2011
Puppy!
After weeks of waiting for my host brother to find a puppy for me around the village only to be told, "the time of the dog is over," I finally have a puppy! Another volunteer found it for me and brought it on the most recent mail delivery a couple of weeks ago. Best mail-run ever!
He was name-less for a few days before I looked through the index of Guns, Germs and Steel and decided on the name Levi. I figured it's a nice, happy-sounding name that reminds me of blue jeans and the Levi E. Coe library in Middlefield, Connecticut. I forgot, however, that "v" is not a sound found in Pulaar, so his name is Levi in theory only; in practice it's Leebi. Oh well.
I have been asked twice whether or not I will cut his ears, to which I firmly replied, "No, I will not cut them. Not even a little. I like his ears. His ears are nice."
But are you even reading what I'm writing? I wouldn't be. I would be looking at the adorable puppy above this un-adorable chunk of text.
Mar 9, 2011
Bumster!
Today was non-exciting, in the filing taxes sort of way, because that's what I did after this morning's meetings were finished. So there's not much to write about in the way of today, except for the bumster I met while walking back to the office. I would repeat the conversation, but it was quite long and I've forgotten much of it. I kept trying to shake him off by telling him I was a busy person with much work to do. This only encouraged him to tell me that he, too, was a hard-working person. So I asked, if he was such a hard-working person, why was he walking next to me instead of doing some hard work? He answered that it is not yet time for working in the fields, which is true, and that he will return to his village in the rainy season. Then he talked on and on for awhile about how wonderful and loving his village is and how none of the villagers ever buys anything. This part of the conversation I remember.
Me: People there do not buy anything?
Him: There is only one store in the village and it is very small. People will not spend more than five dalasis.
Me: Only five dalasis? But that is not true.
Him: No, it is true!
Me: But I think you will need to buy ataya.
Him: Yes.
Me: And that is more than five dalasis. And sugar! That also is expensive.
Him: No, but...
Me: The people in your village do not drink ataya?
Him: Yes, they drink ataya.
Me: Then they are buying ataya, sugar...that is more than five dalasis.
Him: You are a smart woman, that is why I like you.
I didn't shake him until we passed a group of three young women who asked me why I was not talking to him. "You should talk to him." I replied, "I do not want to talk to him. He is bothering me," and finally finally he turned down a side street and I was able to walk in peace and finish eating my chicken sandwich.
Me: People there do not buy anything?
Him: There is only one store in the village and it is very small. People will not spend more than five dalasis.
Me: Only five dalasis? But that is not true.
Him: No, it is true!
Me: But I think you will need to buy ataya.
Him: Yes.
Me: And that is more than five dalasis. And sugar! That also is expensive.
Him: No, but...
Me: The people in your village do not drink ataya?
Him: Yes, they drink ataya.
Me: Then they are buying ataya, sugar...that is more than five dalasis.
Him: You are a smart woman, that is why I like you.
I didn't shake him until we passed a group of three young women who asked me why I was not talking to him. "You should talk to him." I replied, "I do not want to talk to him. He is bothering me," and finally finally he turned down a side street and I was able to walk in peace and finish eating my chicken sandwich.
Mar 7, 2011
Maybe you missed me?
I'm back! Actually, I could have written a post on March 5th and not let even one post-less day pass, but I was too busy throwing confetti into a fan. And I could have written yesterday, except not really because after a day of traveling the most I can say or write is "blebleblah," which is a word I know how to say in Pulaar. Or used to know, until I forgot. I've written it down somewhere.
Unfortunately, I've got lots of other important computer-related tasks I should be accomplishing before I write any more here, so this is more of a hello, goodbye.
Unfortunately, I've got lots of other important computer-related tasks I should be accomplishing before I write any more here, so this is more of a hello, goodbye.
Mar 4, 2011
Interesting possible-fact:
There are a ton of varieties of Pulaar, some so different from each other that one Fula can't understand another. That is not the possible-fact, that is an actual fact. I will get to the possible fact later. These varieties are annoying because someone will ask me "where are you from?" and I'll have no clue that's what they're asking and I'll slump my shoulders and agree that yes, I don't hear Pulaar yet.
Anyway, so another volunteer's host dad was talking about these different Pulaars and how even the words for mother and father are different, which is interesting because in the anthropology textbook I've been reading (please, keep your judgements to yourself...I wish I could blame the limited selection of books at the school's library, but...I'm just the sort of kid who reads textbooks in her spare time) it says that similarity in the names for family members and body parts are how you can identify the similarity in origins between languages. But "neene" and "daa" sound nothing alike, and those are just two of the different words for mother.
However, and this is the possible-fact because it is only according to someone's host dad, who is an actual Fula but not a researcher of the Fulas, the several words for milk (fresh, soured, etc) and the word for "cow," are exactly the same among all the different varieties of Pulaar. So I could go to Burkina Faso and find a Fula, who I would recognize by all of the cattle roaming around him, and although I would not be able to ask where his mother is or how his father is doing, I could talk about cows.
I find this absolutely fascinating, and I only wish I knew for certain it was true.
Anyway, so another volunteer's host dad was talking about these different Pulaars and how even the words for mother and father are different, which is interesting because in the anthropology textbook I've been reading (please, keep your judgements to yourself...I wish I could blame the limited selection of books at the school's library, but...I'm just the sort of kid who reads textbooks in her spare time) it says that similarity in the names for family members and body parts are how you can identify the similarity in origins between languages. But "neene" and "daa" sound nothing alike, and those are just two of the different words for mother.
However, and this is the possible-fact because it is only according to someone's host dad, who is an actual Fula but not a researcher of the Fulas, the several words for milk (fresh, soured, etc) and the word for "cow," are exactly the same among all the different varieties of Pulaar. So I could go to Burkina Faso and find a Fula, who I would recognize by all of the cattle roaming around him, and although I would not be able to ask where his mother is or how his father is doing, I could talk about cows.
I find this absolutely fascinating, and I only wish I knew for certain it was true.
Mar 3, 2011
Textbooks!
I love reading the front covers of old textbooks, the part where students fill in their name, year, and the book's condition. I like to read the names and imagine where the people are now, what they did with their lives, whether or not they remember their middle school pre-algebra class. But mostly I just like reading the names.
Holt Pre-Algebra © 1986: Mount Logan Middle School
Issued to: Year Used: Condition
Issued Returned
Leslee Gorn 1985 New Fair
Kimberly Holdaway 87 Fair Fair
Shane Harris 87-88 good Fair
Brock Hansen 88-89 Fair crappy
Sarah Johnson 90-91 fair Poor
Trina DeSpain 91-92 Poor Poor
Lyrtis Earl 92-93 Bad Worse
Also, according to another algebra book that I found, Modern Elementary Algebra, “Steve Smith stinks”
Holt Pre-Algebra © 1986: Mount Logan Middle School
875 North, 200 East
Logan, Utah 84321
Logan, Utah 84321
801 752-4755
Book No. 10
Issued to: Year Used: Condition
Issued Returned
Leslee Gorn 1985 New Fair
Kimberly Holdaway 87 Fair Fair
Shane Harris 87-88 good Fair
Brock Hansen 88-89 Fair crappy
Sarah Johnson 90-91 fair Poor
Trina DeSpain 91-92 Poor Poor
Lyrtis Earl 92-93 Bad Worse
Also, according to another algebra book that I found, Modern Elementary Algebra, “Steve Smith stinks”
Mar 2, 2011
Not really a poem
The following is going to look like a poem because I've separated short phrases by lines. However, this is because it looks prettier than connecting them with a series of commas and/or semi-colons. This non-poem is attempting to describe the scene at my compound several weeks ago (but only last week at the time I originally typed this up) when the sun had just set and everyone but me was moving around each other, but absorbed in individual tasks.
Sellu halfway finished praying
Amadou swinging a basket of coals
Fatou strapping Musa to her back
Hawa breast-feeding Sarjo
Bubacarr fetching water
Neene tying up the goats
And Rugi on her back, balancing a dalasi on her lips.
Mar 1, 2011
Two uses for socks
Fatou is preparing to apply henna to my foot, which is a gloopy, Play-Do-ish texture that's smeared on the skin and left there for several hours.
Fatou: Binta, bring the tape and the kawasi.
Me: I do not know kawasi.
Fatou, pausing to think how to explain: …When you play football, you put on kawasi and shoes.
Socks!
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