What I eat

One week I decided to write down all the meals I ate. I thought it might make for an informative, if boring, post that could give you some insight into the typical diet of my Gambian family and me. Little did I know that it would turn out to be a particularly atypical week. Potential reasons:

1. Amadou’s new wife, Jainabou, is now doing all the cooking; perhaps she favors different recipes?
2. None of the crops are ready for harvesting yet, so the family is short on money
3. Peanuts, in particular, are unripe, with the result that the local peanut butter is very expensive, with the result that we have rarely been eating the peanut butter and onion sauce that in a typical week would be eaten quite frequently.

Note: Portions this week were particularly small, so I supplemented the following meals with snacks of popcorn, Maria crackers, or oatmeal, and once, a full can of HEINZ BEANZ “Baked beans in a deliciously rich tomato sauce.”



1.

• Breakfast: None, Neene tells me later this was because we are completely out of rice. I bike to the market and buy some more.
• Lunch: Rice with sauce of peanut butter, onion, tomato paste, dried fish, Maggi cubes
• Dinner: Leftover lunch, but with the addition of fresh chili to nibble on

2.

• Breakfast: Rice porridge (gossi) sweetened with sugar
• Lunch: Rice with sauce of red palm oil, macaroni, dried fish, and potato (!)
• Dinner: Leftover lunch

3.

• Breakfast: Gossi
• Lunch: None, out of rice. But when I go visit my husband’s compound, Sinni’s mother invites me to share her bowl of rice with sauce of red palm oil, macaroni and fresh fish
• Dinner: Rice with baobab leaf sauce

4.

• Breakfast: Gossi
• Lunch: Rice with sauce of red oil, onions, macaroni, and fish balls
• Dinner: Leftover lunch

5.

• Breakfast: Sour milk poured over millet that had been cooked so it became a solid blob
• Lunch: Leftover breakfast and some of my husband’s food bowl (rice with sauce of red palm oil and okra)
• Dinner: Rice with sauce of red palm oil and a ridiculous quantity of onions topped with bitter tomatoes boiled so as to be unrecognizable. Seriously. At first I thought they were large pale fish balls, then I thought maybe biscuits, but they were too moist looking. Seafood of some sort? But scallops would be impossible. Oh…bitter tomatoes. Topped with crushed dried chili pepper to taste.

6.

• Breakfast: Gossi sweetened with sour milk
• Lunch: Bread torn into bite-sized pieces and soaked in sour milk
• Dinner: Rice with sauce of red palm oil, peanut butter and chili pepper

7.

• Breakfast: Gossi, unsweetened
• Lunch: Leftover breakfast, I thought, then the actual lunch was brought out: rice cooked with red oil and okra topped with bitter tomato and crushed dried chili pepper
• Dinner: Fatou Bobo’s mystery meal (I couldn’t see what I was eating but briefly). Rice cooked with red oil topped with bits of fresh fish (?) macaroni and leaves (??).

Then I felt like torturing myself, so I looked through the list of meals I’d eaten in Sweden. Here’s one week:


1.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwich of shrimp, mayonaisse, hard-boiled eggs, tomato and cucumber; coffee
• Dinner: Sauce of ground beef, tomato, onion and other vegetables; rice; salad of lettuce, watermelon and corn; cider
• Dessert: Strawberries with chocolate ice cream; tea

2.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwiches of caviar, liverwurst, ham, cheese, cucumber and soft-boiled egg; cider
• Dinner: Pork fillet baked with tomato and cheese; potatoes; salad of lettuce, kiwi, watermelon and corn
• Dessert: Princess tort; tea

3.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwiches of caviar, liverwurst, ham, cheese, cucumber and sausage
• Dinner: Curry chicken with apricots; rice; lettuce and tomato salad; red wine
• Dessert: Princess tort; tea

4.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Waffles with strawberries and whipped cream; milk
• Dinner: Fried egg; sausage; pickled beets; pickles; potatoes; crispbread with cheese; cider
• Dessert: Chocolate cake with whipped cream and strawberries

5.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwiches of lax; tomato soup
• Dinner: Meatballs; potatoes; lingonberry jam; cider
• Dessert: Chocolate and vanilla ice cream; strawberries; tea

6.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwiches of lax, liverwurst; hallonkräm; milk
• Dinner: Blood pudding; bacon; lingonberry jam; cider
• Dessert: Cookies; bun; tea

7.

• Breakfast: Fil with cornflakes, muesli, and sliced banana; orange juice
• Lunch: Open faced sandwich of egg and anchovy; pear juice; coffee
• Dinner: Salmon baked with crayfish and cheese; spinach sauce; potatoes; pear cider
• Dessert: Chocolate cake; tea

"Even a woman would be okay"

I met the man who painted Kairaba’s new house, which is now a nice shade of blue inside. The painter speaks some English, but we converse in a sort of Englaar or Pulish, with occasional French words tossed in to annoy me.

He asks if I could help him to have a correspondance with a painter-man in Europe. “Or even a woman would be okay,” he adds. I tell him I’ll see what I can do. He elaborates a little on how wonderful it would be if he could have a correspondence. I ask questions hoping he will explain what type of painter-man he would like. Someone who paints walls, or pictures, or...?

Instead of an answer I am reminded that, "Even if it is a woman, it is good... Actually, a woman would be better."

"Okay, I will ask..."

Naming Ceremony!

Baby Musa has been Musa for nearly ten months now. These photos are of the day he had been Musa for nearly one day. You will observe that he does not look nearly one day old. That's because he isn't. His naming ceremony was not until a few weeks after his birth.

Fatou Bobo and Musa receiving visitors
the morning of the ceremony.

Musa looks perturbed because someone drew him a set of eyebrows.



That cooking pot is FILLED with delicious benechin,
if I remember correctly.



Every time I removed my camera from its case, a group of
children would appear and pose themselves before me.
I didn't have the heart to say I'd wanted to capture general
pictures of the scene as whole, so I instead I have lots of
photographs of children. They're the same thing, really.

Ticks!

Isatou Pippi taught me the Pulaar word for tick and described how they will drink a dog’s blood until their body gets big. She asked if Levi had any ticks. I said he did not.

I tried to continue the conversation with an attempt to describe Lyme disease, which is all I really know about ticks. The best I came up with was “America also has ticks. But in America if a tick drinks your blood, you will be sick.”

Isatou Pippi had nothing more to say.

Neither did I.

Ticks make for really boring conversation.

D.I.Y: Mr. Mushroom Head!

Materials: a large mushroom, assortment of small twigs

Step 1: Poke the small twigs throughout the mushroom. Different twigs can represent different body parts, such as eyes and ears.

Step 2: Use a twig not already stuck into the mushroom to draw a nose by scraping an indentation into the mushroom.

Step 3: Find more mushrooms and make a Mr. Mushroom Head for everyone in your family!

"The mighty baobab is king of the savannah, punctuating the skyline."

I read the above quote in a travel guide to The Gambia and wanted to laugh hysterically. Perhaps this travel guide writer and I have seen different baobab because alll of the baobabs I've ever seen look a little ridiculous. Maybe "quirky" is a nicer word. Yes, a baobab is enormous, but that is not the same thing as mighty. It has a huge fat trunk but limbs that end in twiggy little branches. Its round, green, fuzzy fruits have long stems and dangle throughout the tree like Christmas ornaments. I once ate a ham, pineapple and duck sauce crêpe and it was the most delicious crêpe I ever ate. That's what baobab trees are like.

I continued flipping through the travel guides and must now warn you against taking the following advice:

"The terminal for the ferry to Barra, with its endless queues of lorries, the industrious hum of cargo being loaded and discharged, passengers boarding and disembarking and the continuous chatter of patiently waiting customers, is worth experiencing."

The above statement is riddled with falsehoods, and the falsehoods are these:

1. "queues"
2. "industrious hum"
3. "boarding and disembarking" (technically these processes are happening, but "disembarking," connotes order and civility. "spewing forth from the ferry" would be more accurate)
4. "chatter"
5. "patiently waiting"
6. "is worth experiencing"

The truth is:

1. "endless...lorries"
2. "cargo being loaded and discharged"
3. "passengers"
4. "continuous"
5. "customers"

Here are the guidebooks' opinions of the two places I love most:

• Basse : "no actual attractions."
• Fatoto : "'end of the world' type atmosphere"  "forgotten-by-time atmosphere" "it's a sleepy little place"

Here are Basse's attractions:

• The movie-poster-esque paintings on the side of that building
• The man who sells crazy Fula hats from Sierra Leone
• The London Disco Night Club *still unlocated
• The two bars serving "very drinkable" JulBrew
• The Swedish newspaper warehouse for bean sandwich vendors *still unlocated
• The strange fruits sold in the market
• The secret yoghurt sold in the market
• The soft-serve ice cream shop

And while I haven't been to many villages besides Fatoto, I wouldn't say it's more end-of-the-world, forgotten-by-time, or sleepy than any other village. Unless those adjectives were going to convince friends to visit me, in which case, yes, it is all those things.


Here is the guidebook advice for encounters with children. Follow this advice and I will throw rocks at you.

"Most will want a little something -- be it your plastic water bottle, a pen or some sweets. It's difficult to give one without a flood of others assuming you have an unending supply of whatever you're giving away. Still, you have to remember how little these children have and, especially up-country, how exciting it is to be given even small items that are a rare commodity in the local community."

I was amused to read, only four pages later, the following advice about encounters with monkeys:

"The authorities in The Gambia are trying to dissuade visitors from offerring food because in the long term it may cause monkeys to lose their fear of humans and they may develop a dependency on the handouts rather than hunting for roots, fruits and nuts in the wild. It may be worthwhile discussing these issues with your children before they get caught up in a situation where they just ache to offer a peanut or two."

English?

When Kairaba’s niece Kadijatou was staying with us, she claimed Mamadou can speak English. Not because she overheard him count to ten, which he can do. Not because he said “My name is Mamadou,” which he can also do. Nope.

Mamadou: Chapand!
Kadijatou: Heh! Mamadou hears English!

Photos: Once upon a time I lived in a desert

My surroundings no longer look like this, but six months ago they did.

One of the roads leading to the market.

A view of the lake (that little strip of blue in the distance)

I feel dry and crackly just looking at this.

 



Oh River!



Road from the market to the river.

Not only does the landscape no longer look like this, the
cows no longer look like this! Yay having-enough-to-eat!

Animals, Part 4: Marmoset!

Page three of the animal book has a photograph of a marmoset. Marmosets are the smallest monkeys in the world; they are found in South American rainforests and the Skansen Aquarium in Stockholm. I wanted to see the Skansen Aquarium marmosets but I did not want to pay an additional 100 kronor to enter the aquarium section of the museum. I did, however, photograph the two signs advertising the presence of marmosets. I also browsed the gift shop in hopes of finding a marmoset souvenir. I didn't.

http://goodnature.nathab.com/pygmy-marmoset-cutest-animal-ever/

You are probably wondering why I am writing so much about marmosets, unless you are the person whose website's URL includes "pygmy-marmoset-cutest-animal-ever," in which case you are wondering why I am writing so little about marmosets.

Sometimes I used the animal book to learn Pulaar animal names and sometimes I used it to teach English animal names. "Marmoset" is one of the animals I decided the village children needed to know. E.B. asked if it was a monkey and I said, "Yes, it is a tiny, tiny monkey. It is a marmoset." He repeated "marmoset" perfectly, which is particularly impressive because E.B.'s entire English vocabulary consists of the numbers one through ten. And now, "marmoset." Actually, I was a little worried. I thought "marmoset" might be a Pulaar word for something other than a microscopic monkey, given E.B.'s flawless pronounciation of the word, but he didn't seem horribly confused. I mean, he did reply, "That's not a marmoset," but he had been saying "That's not a..." to every animal I'd named, even the ones I named in Pulaar, even the ones with unquestionable identity. "Ko sondu." "O wona sondu!" ("This is a bird." "It's not a bird!")

However, E.B. soon accepted that the marmoset was a marmoset, and in subsequent viewings of the book was quick to announce, "It's a marmoset!" until all the children learned the name.

Animals, Part 3: Scorpions!

I do not know why, but circling your fingers next to your head is apparently a universal sign for "crazy." "Crazy" is what Sinni told me would happen to me should I be hurt by a scorpion. Specifically, one of the big, black ones.

"They are very black, so black and it will hurt. It will hurt until..." and it was at this point that she twirled her fingers beside her head.

I could always hope that I am mistaken about its being a universal sign for crazy. Perhaps the scorpion's sting will make my hair curly...

Animals, Part 2: Bush Goats!

Looking through the same animal book described yesterday, I learned (and remembered) the Pulaar words for earthworm, crocodile, giraffe, owl, iguana, and snail. I learned (and forgot) the words for zebra and butterfly.

Snail is "bambatayahde," which I like for two reasons.

1. Bambatayahde is one of the most complicated Pulaar words I have ever come across, yet snails are extremely uncomplicated.
2. "Bambude" means "to carry something (e.g. a baby) strapped to one's back." "Yahde" means "to go." Snails carry something on their backs as they go! Bambatayahde is now second only to the Spanish paraguas on my list of favorite compound words.   

I also like the word for giraffe, which directly translates to "bush goat." I've always found it amusing that Pulaar refers to so many wild animals as a "bush ____" with the blank filled in with the animal's closest domestic equivalent. Pigs, as another example, are "bush donkeys." I was further amused when I received this random trivia text from a fellow volunteer:  "The word 'porpoise' means literally 'pig fish' and 'porcupine' means 'pig with thorns.'" Ancient Romans (or Greeks, or whoever) were just like the Fulas!

Animals, Part 1: Turtles! and Penguins?

Last spring, I borrowed a book about animals from the school library and kept it for several weeks. During those weeks, I flipped through it many many times with assorted women and children. I learned many many Pulaar animal names. I also forgot many many Pulaar animal names. This is okay, because I was rarely certain that the animal name I was being told actually matched the animal picture I was pointing to.

However, I think I finally learned the real name for “turtle.” I’d always kind of doubted Cherno's ability to identify that plastic, turtle-shaped squeaker toy as a turtle, so although I wrote down "turtle = sowray," I avoided conversations about turtles. Fortunately, the animal book contained a photo of turtle, and thus, another opportunity to ask its name.

I pointed out the photo to the children who had gathered around. They immediately identified it as a hippopotamus. Fortunately again, Fatou Sowe was passing by and came to look at the "hippopotamus." She told us it is not a hippo, but an ambre. I trust Fatou Sowe's response because she is an adult and because she also said, "It lives next to lakes and rivers. It does this" and withdrew her head into an imaginary shell.

Then again, maybe I shouldn't trust Fatou just because she is an adult and told me true turtle facts. Sinni is also an adult and agreed to true penguin facts, but I would be incredibly surprised if there were a Pulaar word for penguin, even though she told me one. I'd shown her a picture of a penguin and she'd expressed recognition and told me the name. I was surprised and told her it is a bird that cannot go to the sky. She agreed and repeated the name.

I know there are penguins in Africa, so when I returned home that afternoon I flipped back to the penguin photo and read the caption: “Scientists have found remains of jackass penguins, from South Africa with bite marks from great whites.” So the penguin picture she saw was actually of a penguin species found in Africa. Still...I don't think even the most adventursome Fulas wandered all the way down to South Africa...

American Boy

Yes, I am still writing about stories that took place many months ago. This one is from June-ish.

It is the beginning or maybe the middle of math class. One student raises his hand to ask if Connecticut is near Virginia. I answer "yes," because this is a shorter reply than, "please ask me questions about America's geography after class."

 Next a second student declares that the geographically-curious student "wants to be an American boy." In response, the American boy straightens his shoulders as if to say, "so what if I do?" Two days earlier he had also been accused of wanting to be American, that time because "he is always trying to speak like an American." Except, the accuser elaborated, he sounds instead like someone who has been drinking alcohol. He accompanied this explanation with an imitation of drunken swaying--while remaining seated--and some garbled speech.

While it is distressing to learn some Gambians believe American accents resemble drunken speech, I am relieved to know the "American boy" does not have a speech impediment, which is what I'd previously mistaken his occasional mumbly-garbly speech for.

However, I have to wonder how much exposure these students actually have to American accents, given that the two actors I most hear about are Arnold Schwarzenegger and Bruce Lee.

Strange Fruits: Photographed!

I vaguely remember a poem about strange fruits from Anthropology of Food and Culture. Let me investigate... thanks Wikipedia! Anyway, these strange fruits are not those strange fruits, just to clarify.

After I ate these (by sort of gnawing off the flesh) I planted the seeds in my yard.
And now they're growing!
Sort of.

One day I was walking back from school and found some grapes lying on the side of the road.
Later that same day, Julia handed me a bunch of grapes her host-brother had given her.
When it came time for me to eat the grapes, I'd forgotten which bunch came from Julia, and which from the road.
So I ate them both.

I found these in the Basse market and bought them because I'd never
seen them before. But then I needed to figure out how to eat them.

I borrowed someone's pliers to crack them open, and then continued breaking off
chips and nibbling on that green stuff, which was kind of like nibbling on a sponge.

After all the green stuff had been nibbled away,
I found another shell, which the pliers would not break.
So I found club-like branch and smashed it open cave-man style.
Inside of that there was this purple seed that refused to be tampered with.

These are the not-a-rotten-mango fruits I wrote about!

And here are the innards!
(I was at the transit house in Basse at the time of this photo--there
is no countertop in my mud hut)

These are the Gummi Bear mangoes I ended up sort of liking,
thinking they were the last mangoes I'd eat for many months.
It turns out I ate many more mangoes, so I guess I could've
kept on disliking them.

This is a normal mango.

The part of this fruit that has been eaten has a texture like
freeze-dried ice cream and a taste like...sort of baobob-ish.
Now you just need to know what baobob fruit tastes like.

Moon and stars!

On the last day of Ramadan we are admiring the sliver of moon.

Musa: Did toubabs make the moon?

Me, pretty sure I must be misunderstanding his question: I don't know.

Musa: Didn't God make the moon?

Me: Yes.

Musa: Where is God?

Me: Isn't he there? [I point to the sky]


After dinner, Mamadou and I lay on our backs and look at the stars.

Me: There are a lot of stars.

Mamadou: Yes. Tomorrow they will pray.

Me: The stars?

Mamadou: Yes. Look, they are praying now. And now they are going for salibo. [Salibo is a trick-or-treating-like event that takes place at the end of Ramadan and during Tobaski. The children dress up in nice clothes and as they walk around the village, people give them candies, dalasis, etc.]

Me: They will ask, "Where is my salibo?"

Mamadou: Yes. You see that group, it is going now.

Close your eyes!

I learned how to say "close your eyes" in Pulaar.
Rugi: Pateh, close your eyes.

Pateh closes his eyes. Rugi starts to tell me something, but notices that Pateh has opened his eyes.

Rugi: Pateh! Close your eyes.

Pateh closes his eyes and covers them with his hands. Rugi whispers something unintelligible to me before Pateh uncovers his eyes and opens them.

Pateh: Binta, close your eyes, I will tell Rugi something.

I close my eyes. Pateh whispers something to Rugi.


At first I was not sure the unknown word, "muno," meant "close your eyes." For one thing, it seemed odd that the command to close one's eyes would be so short and simple, as if it were a command like "stop" or "help" that might need to be communicated quickly. For another thing, people do not usually need to close their eyes when nearby people wish to exchange mumbled communication. However, the next day different kids also instructed each other to "muno," and again eyes were closed, this time without the confusion of whispered secrets.

Lighter!

The nice part about rainy season is you get lots of chances to cozy up in your hut, light a bunch of candles (including the scented ones your aunt thought you were giving as souvenirs) and drink a hot cup of tea. The bad part about the rainy season is the constant damp makes striking a match difficult and/or impossible. On one particularly gross afternoon I really wanted tea, so I wasted over half of my matches before giving up.

After that afternoon I decided to buy a lighter. As the bitik owner handed me my lighter, he asked why I was buying it. He did not ask this question in the tone of voice you'd use towards someone buying ten bunches of bananas, which is a tone of What in the world?? curiosity, nor did he use the tone of voice used when someone is buying a box of fresh strawberries, a can of whipped cream and package of shortcakes, which is an Oh, strawberry shortcakes? How lovely type of curiosity. He asked it in the tone of voice used when a young child buys several large bottles of hot sauce. I have never witnessed a young child do this, but I imagine my curiosity would be of the What is that young child planning to do with several large bottles of hot sauce? Certainly nothing innocent... variety. He probably thought I was going to leave his store and smoke a pack of cigarettes, which would have been quite unseemingly as it was still Ramadan and I am a woman.

I would have liked to reply to his question with a mischievous grin and a gleeful "Light stuff on fire!" but I'm not sure that would have translated correctly so my actual reply was, "My matches are spoiled." Then he asked (in a tone of normal curiosity) what I needed matches for and when I said candles he tried to sell me a battery-powered lantern, with the warning that candles are not good for the house. I told him I like candles, and anyway, I still need to light my gas. I must have given an acceptable answer, because he allowed me to leave his shop with the lighter, and only the lighter.

Here are the reasons my lighter is amazing:

1. It works.
2. The mini-flashlight on the non-lighter end of the lighter is not actually a mini-flashlight. It is instead a light-up image of the president that can be projected onto any flat surface.

D.I.Y: Perfect Playing Cards!

Materials: discarded attaya boxes and other scraps of cardboard

Step 1: Tear the discarded attaya boxes and other scraps of cardboard into vaguely rectangular pieces of roughly the same size. The number of cards you create does not matter (even ten are fine) and will depend on how many attaya boxes and cardboard pieces you can find.

Done!

Here's how to play (you will need a basic understanding of Crazy Eights):

Deal your Perfect Playing Cards so that each player has roughly the same number of cards. Leave a stack of cards undealt to be the draw pile. Flip the first card of the draw pile over and place it next to the draw pile. All subsequent cards will be played on top of this one. When it is your turn to play, select a card from your hand and add it to the pile-next-to-the-draw-pile. You do not need to specify which card you are playing unless you want it to be a 2 (draw two), 8 (change), 10 (back), jack (jump) or joker (bomb). Play continues until one player runs out of cards--this player is the winner. For more challenging play, you may want to decide that you are unable to play any of the cards in your hand. You will then need to add a card from the draw pile to your hand. You will almost certainly lose.

Your choice!

Back before the rains came Sinni told me, “Binta, choice ma arri jooni.”

Not realizing she was mixing English with her Pulaar, since Sinni doesn't speak English, I assumed "choice" was a Pulaar word I'd never heard before. So I tried to figure out the meaning of "choice." In the context of the sentence, "choice," was something of mine that was coming soon. Hmmm...

I tried to ask Sinni some questions to learn the definition of "choice;" Rugi overheard and decided to help. She shouted, "Your choice is your friend!" but Sinni said, "No."

Then Sinni remarked that the cold weather would be coming soon. I tried to think how cold weather related to my belongings or to friendship (even though Sinni had answered "no" to Rugi's translation, I still assumed Rugi was on the right track). Sinni continued and asked, "Don't you think cold weather is better than hot weather?" and suddenly I understood. Cold weather is my choice! And Sinni knows more English than I thought!

Children!

Here are photos of children:

Isatou, Rugi and Salimatou were posing
for a photo of them writing, but then
Mariama came and made it a photo of
Mariama.

You know how usually in a group photo there'll be that one
kid who's picking her nose or sneezing or something?
Here's a group photo where every single child is that kid.

Even though neither Mamadou nor Pateh really knows how
to play cards, it was a very intense game.

I cannot remember what Rugi said she was drawing.
Possibly a person.

day one of travel: a hardboiled egg

Again, a post that is past its expiration date as it is about the time I spent in vehicles and airports before I got to Sweden. What follows are streamy bits of consciousness from a consciousness in assorted states of disrepair. This sounds artistic, like maybe you'll read something sad or true or beautiful. You won't, I promise. Probably, you'll be bored and stop before you finish. This is because nothing terribly exciting happened. Also, I haven't edited these notes-about-the-journey-scribbled-while-journeying-orginally-intended-for-editing except to delete some stuff.

National Paints Honda generator a sheet of corrugate. If I wanted to I could buy toothpaste or laundry detergent from a guy with a box round his neck like the guys selling hot dogs at American baseball games.
I left the house in Basse and went to the shack where Kumba sells hot beverages and sandwiches. I bought NesCafe sweetened with sweetened condensed filled milk, poured out the remaining water in my water bottle and poured in the NesCafe. At the ferry crossing I was bored (I’d already napped, called Amadou, napped, talked to some teachers, napped, answered a call from my mom, and napped) so I bought a hard-boiled egg from a man whose last name is also Jallow. I cracked the egg against the hood of the car. I’d like to buy water, but I’ve already sort of got to pee.

On the bright side:
the teachers’ gelle transport to ff was free
a teacher gave me a mango in jjb

Kids for awhile were staring at me through the car window. Faces pressed to the glass, fogging it up. One kid was also chewing gum and his chewing gum got pressed against the glass and now there’s a smear. Pulaar is useful for telling the kids no I won’t give you 200 CFA, get out of the car.

10:27 Stopped because the car has a flat tire. Luckily the driver had a spare tire. The buildings, some of them, have gorgeous terra-cotta shingled roofs. And I mean gorgeous in a dilapidated kind of way.

10:55 We recovered quickly from the flat tire but twenty minutes later the car slows to a stop. The men (aka everyone but me) tried pushing it to get it to start, but that didn’t work. So I am sitting on a fallen mile marker (or kilometre marker, I guess is more accurate) and it is in the hot sun but there’s not much shade at this time anyway. At least I brought a head wrap so I rearranged that to cover my neck since I neglected sunscreen. I’m not too upset by this stopping because it’s still fifteen hours until my flight leaves. The breaks are nice, but I wish I were near food vendors instead of a eucalyptus forest. I didn’t eat breakfast.

We’ve pushed the car further down the road so I’m not sitting in the sun but am instead standing in the shade. I would like to lean against the tree that is providing this shade, but it is covered in thorns.

11:35 We’ve still stopped. I’m still not worried, because I’ve got loads of time, but I’m not nearly as content because I’m tired of waiting and I’m hungry. At the start of the trip I was playing “Where is My Mind” on repeat because I was in that kind of mood, and when I finally grew tired of that I listened to Christmas music.

12:38 a new car comes to rescue us

2:38 we’re in some traffic which is something I forgot existed

2:57 I think the traffic might have ended

3:28 I change my mind

4:45pm six hours and fifteen minutes until I can check-in, and then another three hours before the flight leaves.

Now it is 6:17pm and I have learned that the airport will fill with mosquitoes. Thanks to Doctors without Borders I can understand that Orange cellphone service provider is an option without border. Not only is there no one else in sight wearing a sweatshirt, there’s no one else wearing anything warmer than a short-sleeved t-shirt. I predicted this would be a problem, but I hadn’t expected to feel too cold before even leaving Africa. I think I will people watch for a bit. Or nap. Or listen to Christmas music…I’m so cold.
Even despite the mosquitoes I can still pretend like the airport is toubabado and practice my readjustment skills. So far, I am failing miserably. I just put on my sweatshirt and the Easter bunny socks Grandma sent me. And just before that I none-too-discreetly picked my nose in plain sight of countless of people. Oh, and I can’t bear to remove my headwrap, even though the only other person with a head covering is one Middle Eastern woman whose child keeps coming over to admire my notebook and bottled water. For one, I’d feel naked without my headwrap. For two, it’s probably helping to keep me warm.

Now it’s 7:34 pm. I attempted napping but some people sat down on my bench and at one point tilted it so I almost fell off and so I decided napping is a dangerous idea. So I’ve been people-watching and I forgot just how fun that can be. Now I’m bored, however, and at risk of spending my remaining CFA on something to eat just because if I have something to eat that’ll be something to do. According to the 20:1 conversion, however, that bottle of water and ham sandwich cost me 200 dalasis. So I’ll wait until I’m 100 dalasis worth of bored before I do anything rash. Like buy a miniature quiche.
The Middle Eastern lady left awhile ago, but since then a couple of other women with head scarves have passed through. And, just now, a toubab with a yellow sweatshirt.

An hour to go, inshallah. Just discovered that even in pretend toubabado it is possible to buy mystery food. At least, it’s possible to do this if one doesn’t speak French, which I don’t. So I thought I was buying a cinnamon bun (because I was actually hungry, not out of boredom) but it turned out it was a savory bun filled with ham and cheese that at one point in time had been melted. Seriously, are ham and cheese the only things the French eat? Anyway, it’s better this way because I’m getting more protein and less sugar. However, my stomach is still too nervous to properly eat it. I ate about half the bun and even though I’m still hungry, I can’t bring myself to take another bite. Bizarre.

11:48 pm Past security and am sitting by Sortie 4, otherwise known as exit 4. In this room there are no mosquitoes, but it is uncomfortably warm. So I’ve removed my sweatshirt and my argyle Easter socks and yes, even the headwrap. It’s okay that it’s gone, though, because with the socks and sweatshirt also gone I can see my Fula anklets and the red scrap that keeps my soul safe. I am sitting next to the Swatch kiosk, which is next to Bijouterie Daymanko, which sells, among other things (tie dyed wraps, wooden statuettes) flip flops of the style and quality of those sold in any market. Any Gambian market, at least. Maybe they’re a rare find in Senegal. What’s nice about being in Senegal is that they can spell “salon” correctly and not make it sound like a place frequented by cowboys. What’s annoying about being in Senegal is that “salon” doesn’t necessarily mean a hair salon. It might be a “salon prestige” or a “salon t’eranger” and I don’t know what those might be. I’m tired of not being able to greet anyone.

Adjustment!

I should've written and posted this about a month ago, when I was actually in Sweden. Writing it now means it is: a) slightly irrelevant, though hopefully more-than-slightly entertaining and b) a reminder of where I no longer am. Anyway, here is a list of the instances I forgot, even while surrounded by blond children, even while eating strawberries, that I was no longer in The Gambia.

1. In the airplane leaving Dakar, I savored every bite of my plastic-sealed meal. Especially the raspberry jam.
2. In the airplane to Stockholm, the boy across the aisle from me, Jörgen, dropped his pacifier. I went to pick it up for him. I couldn’t reach the pacifier with my right hand so with some hesitation I picked it up with my left. I felt disgusting. I couldn't believe I was picking up a pacifier--an object soon to enter a child's mouth!-- with my left hand. I considered transferring the pacifier to my right hand before returning it, before realizing a) no one would notice which hand I used unless I awkwardly moved the pacifier from my left hand to my right hand to the outstretched hand of the Jörgen's mom b) the mom wouldn't immediately give her child a pacifier after it'd touched the floor c) my left and right hands were now equally clean
3. At the airport I wanted to buy an eight kronor Piggelin popsicle but had nothing smaller than a 500 kronor bill. As I handed over the 500 kronor I apologized to the cashier, forgetting that change would not be a problem.
4. On the bus I overheard two boys reading the passing street signs and was so impressed. Then I realized the boys must be at least seven or eight years old.
5. On several occasions, I alarmed people by responding "hep!" to news that was only semi-startling.
6. At least once I confused someone by answering "eyi" (Pulaar for yes) which sounds like a mumbled "nej" (Swedish for no)
7. I probably picked my nose more than appropriate while in polite company, but polite company being too polite to point this out, I can't say for certain.

Boo-boo the Monkey!

Amadou tells me that Kuri, the dog, went to the bush and caught a monkey. Actually, two monkeys, because the monkey had a baby. I asked if she ate the monkeys and he told me no, she just killed them.

Neene joins the conversation and tells a story about a monkey she used to know. The monkey belonged to someone from the family's village in Senegal. Its name was Boo-boo and he liked to pick the bugs out of the sheep's coats. He would pick the bugs out of people's hair, too. He was so funny! One day, it was a holiday, so the family slaughtered one of the sheep. Boo-boo screamed and screamed and when he was offered some of the meat, he refused to eat it!

And that's all I know about Boo-boo the Monkey.

Two candles for the devil

Neene lost her sight one day.

Her blindness wasn't a sudden, frightening BLINK and suddenly all you've ever seen disappears. It came about slowly and steadily, but probably just as scarily. 

After three days of darkness, it is decided that Neene will visit the hospital in Basse to see what the doctors there can do. Our own hospital can only provide some eye drops, but in Basse they might be able to operate. I tell the family that as I am going to Basse on Wednesday anyway, Neene can come with me.

Two evenings later, Amadou tells me that, actually, they will not need to go through with the operation. No-- he has consulted with a man at the market who has explained the problem: every night a devil has been flying to Neene and causing her eyes to spoil. If we give two candles as charity, the devil will go away.

Me, trying to keep from screaming out that this is the absolute most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, because even if I accept your assumption that devils exist, I cannot accept that two candlesticks will make one disappear and I can't believe that because if two candles is all that's needed to make a devil go away then why on earth didn't you take care of this problem months ago, before Neene lost her sight completely?!: Oh.

Amadou: Yes, it is a devil that is causing the problem.

Me: So the charity will cost how much?

Amadou: Just the two candles! We just need to give the man two candles.

Me: And the operation will cost how much?

Amadou: One thousand dalasis.

Me: One thousand?

Amadou: Yes, it is five hundred for each eye. And also there is the cost of the transportation to Basse.

Me: But I will pay for the operation; I can buy Neene's pass to Basse.

So then some thank-yous were said and everyone forgot about the devil.


Early that Wednesday morning, Neene, Amadou and I head to Basse. We've learned the operation will not take place this day, but the doctors will need to examine her eyes before a date for the operation can be set.

We arrive at the hospital and wait outside the eye doctor's office. There are a few other patients ahead of us, and many more arrive by the time the doctors do, several hours later.

There are two doctors. One is working mainly inside the office while the other is working outside, giving preliminary examinations with an eye chart. The eye chart is interesting because not only is the first letter E, so is every letter afterwards. The E's are facing in different directions but I am still confused because all I can think is, "these people don't know what an E is!" But the mystery is soon solved. Turns out, the patient doesn't need to know what they're looking at, they need only indicate, by motioning with his or her hand, which direction the "legs" are facing.

For patients whose eyesight was too poor for the eye chart to be of any use, the doctor used the classic, "How many fingers am I holding up?" test. Well, I always thought of it as the classic "How many fingers am I holding up?" test, but for one of the women, this was a new concept. No matter how many fingers the doctor held up or how near or far he stood, she always answered five. Eventually, the doctor gave an exasperated sigh and said, “How many fingers are there?” The old lady, equally exasperated, replied, “Five. A hand has five fingers.”

Ah-ha! The other patients rushed to explain, "He wants to know how many fingers are out; tell him how many fingers are out, not how many fingers the hand has!" The lady gives a "Well, how was I supposed to know" look combined with a "I couldn't have been the only one who didn't know" look and the doctor tries again. This time her answers vary, and are mostly correct.

Neene's appointment proceeds without problem; luckily Amadou could translate the doctor's Mandinka for Neene, who only knows Pulaar. One eye is determined beyond repair, but the other is scheduled to for an operation the following Wednesday.

I am still in Kombo when Neene goes in for the operation, but I return a few days afterwards. Neene, eager to prove its success, points out my facial blemishes.

Photos from training village!

These photos are now over a year old!

Certain relatives of mine read this blog and
complain that there are not enough photos of me.
So here is a photo of me.

Baba!

Neene!

We are so cool.

Hawa was rather pregnant and didn't want her photo taken,
so either Ousman or Sarjo snuck this one of her.
And then I put it online.

Ousman's bitik!



Tokara! With random child.



Sarjo, Ousman, and Momadou, who never did stop screaming
at me.

So I uploaded this picture sideways, thinking there was some way of  correcting the problem later. There isn't. Furthermore, I am no longer being allowed to press "Enter" without moving out of the caption, so I can't arrange this caption nicely. All of which is to say, tilt your head sideways to the left and see an awesome photo of Sainey dancing!

s

Suitcase stowaway: FOILED.

You will probably recall that I have quite an exhaustive list of people and animals who will be coming back to America with me in my suitcase. I have recently been informed, however, that this plan will not work.

When Gaye asked me to take him to America, Neene said I would take him in my suitcase and even leave it open so he would have air. Gaye, however, said this would not work, even though he saw it on a film. The reason it will not work is there is a computer and the computer will say there is a person inside.

This is bad news. Without my suitcase to rely on, how will I deal with peoples' requests to go to America? I tried telling Gaye that if the computer says there is a person inside, I would say the computer is lying. Gaye didn't buy it, but did wonder what my family would think if I opened my suitcase and saw a person inside. He told me, "You will say, 'I stole him from Africa.'"

Peanut-butter-machine: Acquired.

I know the suspense has been killing you. Did I locate the peanut-butter-making machines and a Fula shopkeeper? Did I discover more than two complicating factors? Was I abducted by aliens? Did the shrews get me???

The answers would be: yes, yes, yes, no and no.

I begin my quest to locate the machines by searching for the person most likely to help me. I walk past the clothing and shoes vendors because I figure they wouldn't know anything about making peanut butter. I walk past a woman selling jewelry because she is speaking Mandinka. Then I reach an intersection. Before I wander around willy-nilly and get myself lost (although this happened later anyway, naturally) I figure I should ask someone now. The man behind me asks, "Hoko falda?" I assum he is asking me what I want, but when I turn around and reply, "A naani Pulaar? (You speak Pulaar?)" he seems startled, so maybe he'd been asking the person behind me. Anyway, our conversation proceeds like this:

Fula Man: Yes.
Me: I don't want anything, but do you know where they sell peanut machines?
Fula Man: Here.
Me: Here? [we were standing outside an electronics shop]
Fula Man: Here. I will sell you one.
Me: Okay.


I follow him into the store. I still see only cellphones other stuff you plug in.

I greet the shopkeeper. He wants to know if I am from Guinea, because a few months ago another toubab came to his shop who spoke Pulaar and she was living in Guinea. I tell him I do not, and we talk about my life in The Gambia. I ask for the peanut machine. He hands me one. I ask if it is "model one." He remarks to one of the other men in the store that I speak English, but he does not answer my question. I try again, explaining that one person bought a machine for my mom that only lasted two years and another bought one that only lasted two months. This one will not break soon, will it?

No, no, no. This one will last three years.

I examine the box to see if there is a "1" anywhere. There is not, but neither is there a "2." There are only the words "Traditional Grain Mill" and "Victoria Grain Mill Red Box." There is also a large "V," and until just this moment I worried maybe it was the Roman numeral 5, but now I realize it must be a V for Victoria. The box also looks a bit squashed and has clear packing tape wrapped around it. One of the men opens the box for me and shows me all the individual pieces, as if I were a person who knew something about peanut machines and could distinguish a quality part from a shoddy one. I decide to carefully examine the individual pieces as if I were a peanut-butter-making machine expert. One of the pieces is made of plastic and I ask if it will snap. I am told it will not.

The shopkeeper tells me the machine costs  750 dalasis so I tell him I will walk around the market a little and see if I can find one that is not expensive. So he asks me what I want to pay and I say 500. He says 700. I say 525. Eventually we agree on 600. Perhaps this was too much to pay for a peanut-butter-making machine not guaranteed to be model one, but if it could just last a year, until I'm out of the country, I would count it a success. Sort of. But better a sort-of success than a failure!

I give the shopkeeper the money and two other men in the store set to work fitting the pieces back into the box and taping it together again.  One of the men asks if I want a receipt. I ask, "In case it breaks, or...?" His reply is, "You will be going to Basse?" "Yes." "The police will want to see the paper." "Okay, write a receipt."


This receipt is amazing. I have never loved a receipt more. For one thing, my name is on there as Binta Diallo (this is the French spelling of Jallow) and it states that I bought a "Machine à patte" (this must be the French spelling of "peanut-butter-making machine"). For another thing, the header reveals that the shopkeeper is a "Businessman In Electronic Such as DVD, fan, TV, Radio, Mobile Tape Etc." It does not reveal he is also a Businessman In Peanut-Butter-Making Machines.

The unexpected complication to my adventure was: a peanut-butter-making machine is really really heavy. It's not particularly large, but all the parts are made of iron except for the wooden handle and that random plastic piece. And instead of just calling my quest complete and leaving the market, I thought maybe I'd wander, just a little. This would not have been a problem if I'd been born with three arms. With three arms, one hand could have kept the peanut butter machine balanced on my head, one hand could have held my water bottle and kept my bag on my shoulder and one hand could have kept my skirt from blowing open and/or dragging in the mud. However, I have only the usual quantity of arms. I quickly decided the mud, heat, arm-shortage, etc. would not make additional market-wandering any fun, but by this time I'd already gotten myself lost.

Nothing exciting happened while lost and I un-lost myself relatively quickly--as evidenced by my typing this right now, this very moment, in front of the computer-- so...that's pretty much the end of my peanut-butter-machine adventure.

Peanut-butter-machine!

It was nice dropping off the face of the planet for a while, but now I'm back in front of the computer and will (hopefully) write more posts than this one to last until the next time I'm in front of a computer. I also need to go to the market and buy a peanut-butter-making-machine for my host family. Model one, not model two. Two previous Peace Corps Volunteers of the family also bought these peanut-butter-making-machines and will be forever remembered by the machine's quality. Adama's lasted two years, but Fanta's lasted only two months before it broke.

Maybe if the one I buy lasts five years, I'll be remembered for that instead of for the shrew-eating-frog-incident. So a lot more than peanut butter is depending on this.

However, this afternoon's mission has several complicating factors. And because I haven't used a numbered list in awhile, I'll use one now.

1. I am not sure where peanut-butter-making machines, model one or otherwise, are sold. Here's how my conversation with Neene to determine their location went: "Neene, do you know where they sell the peanut machines?" No answer from Neene. Maybe she didn't hear me? Maybe I forgot more Pulaar in a month than I realized? I tried again: "Does Serrekunda market have peanut butter machines?" "Yes, Serrekunda market has them. You know Fatou, Fatou Bobo? Her father when he went to Basse bought a peanut machine and it lasted ten years. When Fatou was a child he bought it and until now it is not broken."
2. I am not sure what language the sellers of these peanut-butter-making machines speak. If they speak English, perfect. If they speak the Pulaar, awesome, as long as they know occasional English words like "model one." If they speak any other language...not awesome. I would probably end up buying model two, or something, and be known as the volunteer who was scared of frog-eating-mice and incapable of buying quality machinery.
3. Okay, I guess there are only two complicating factors. I thought there were more...maybe I should make some up so my adventure sounds more perilous.
4. Alien invasion is always possible.
5. Ooh! Or maybe there's a type of mutant shrew that can live under mud and I'll stumble upon a colony of them and as I run to escape I'll trip and fall and they'll rip me to pieces and that would be sad.

Wish me luck!