Dogs!

Levi puts his paws up on the small bantaba where Neene and I are sitting. I scratch his head. Neene shouts, “Levi! Get down from there or I’ll beat you till you poop!” I push Levi down. He attempts to return, but Neene reminds him of the consequences. He stalks off without a backward glance, pushes open the door to my house and walks in. The door swings shut behind him.


I tell Neene that Levi is angry. She exclaims that he heard what she said! I mention the girl who the day before yesterday asked if Levi heard English and then told me her dog understands French. Then I tell her about the dog I saw on T.V. in America that will sit with a biscuit on his nose until the owner tells him to chew and then the dog will toss the biscuit in the air and catch it.


Neene sounded impressed, and told me about a dog in the Senegal market. The owner will write a letter and put it in a bag with money and tie the bag around the dog’s neck. Then he will tell the dog to go to the market and buy meat. And the dog will go until he gets to the person selling the meat and then he will just stand. And the person will untie the bag and read the letter to see if he is buying one kilo, or two, or a kilo and a half. Then he will put the meat in a bag and tie it around the dog’s neck. And the dog will walk home. Won’t the dog eat the meat? No. Even if someone asks, “What do you have there?” the dog will not stop.


My story of the biscuit-eating dog suddenly sounded lame.

Bean Sandwich Stories: No one ever found...

A delicious bean sandwich came wrapped in a scrap of notebook paper scrawled with the following:


“Thief No noe ever found the dook Marima and the other chil dren in ther class could not reda [torn edge] read about the daodad tree”


For those people disinclined to decoding, I believe this message should read, "Thief. No one ever found the book Mariama and the other children in their class could not read about the baobab tree."

Good Morning Girl!

I’ve only ever seen Good Morning Girl from a distance. She goes to the elementary school, and the first time she greeted me, she impressed me with her loud and clear, "Good morning!" "Wow," I thought, "this girl speaks English really well!"

A few days later, I recognize her voice again, "Good morning!" This time, however, it is unmistakeably afternoon, well after lunch.

And some weeks later, as I walk home one night from a village program: "Good morning!"

Greetings!

One morning I followed Neene to a neighboring village where we greeted:

• My formerly-pregnant tokara and her six day old baby, asleep and adorable
• The lady with the swollen hand
• Two girls named Isatou, side by side
• Two boys named Alieu, side by side
• The woman who clapped and danced and then dressed herself
• The woman who fed us sour milk with sugar and coos

That afternoon I go to the market where I greet:

• The men on the bantaba who accused me of thievery
• The girls who ask if I have a lot of money and who, when I say, “No, but I think you have a lot of money” give me three hundred dalasis in imaginary invisible money

On the way home from the market I greet:

• The women sitting in the shade outside a bitik who inform me the sun is hot
• The group of boys who ask where my dog is. I say, “He followed me to the market but when I left I did not see him. He is lost.” Their eyes open wide with concern. “He is lost?” “Yes.” They ask his name and tell me they would look for him. One boy asks, “If I find him and bring him to you, you will give me lots of money.” I say okay because I doubted the boys would actually find Levi, and it’s always nice to imagine you’re about to acquire a large sum of money.
• The woman getting her hair braided. I say, “You are getting braided.” She says yes.
• The baby of the friend of the woman getting her hair braided. He is kind of splotchy and lumpy. The woman getting her hair braided asks if he is beautiful. I say yes.
• The men playing checkers and the men sitting on the bantaba behind them. One of the men would like to borrow my dog because “It has been a long time since I have chewe—met a squirrel.” I reply that I do not think my dog will be any good at hunting, and anyway, he is lost.
• The people in Julia’s compound. I’d wanted to see if Worokia would greet me or grin and walk away but she wasn’t around.
• The people in Sinni’s compound. My husband shouts, “Binta Jallow!” because he is talking now, and Buba shows me the “pit latrine” he is digging with a stick.

Back from the market I greet:

• Levi, who is wagging his tail and looking completely unapologetic about having left the market without letting me know.

Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas!

Last Christmas I received an amazing Christmas card. When you open it, a Christmas tree pops out and red and yellow lights start flashing and a voice sings “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas.” For nine months, I kept the luminary and musical properties of this card a secret. I feared mass chaos, shredded paper, screams, shrieks, and sobs. I pictured the card’s torn pieces fluttering into the waiting mouths of goats.

Then I realized, even if the card were destroyed within minutes of my revealing it to the children, this fate would not be any worse than the one of hanging silently on a wall, collecting dust. So one day in September, when Mamadou asks about the reindeer on the cover of the card, I decide to open it. Mamadou loves it. He brings it outside to show Diomboy. Diomboy loves it. And I love that I’m hearing “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” on a mid-September morning in Africa.

When Gaye is shown the musical card, he responds with, “Ay, the toubab.”

At night, Pateh likes to shove the card close to his face so that he lights up, literally and figuratively, exactly as an American child would walking into a living room containing a fully-decorated Christmas tree. Pateh requests to see the card by referring to the book that goes “hum-hum-hum.”

The adults also like to see the card. It had lasted through several viewings in my compound without harm, so I decided to venture with it to Sinni’s compound. It entertains adults as well as kids! Fama paused braiding someone’s hair to open and close the card. My gold-toothed tokara liked to open and close the card several times in quick succession, but Fatou Sowe liked to pause and forget about it for long periods of time. Every once and awhile a conversation about broken water taps or the shortage of medicine at the hospital would be interrupted by, “…but have a cup of cheer!”

The best response, though, was Isatou Pippi’s. Mamadou, Diomboy, Pateh and I were opening and closing the card one night when I saw someone walking towards our compound. I shut the card and whispered to Mamadou, “Give Isatou the card and say, ‘open it.’ She will not be brave!” I wasn’t sure if Mamadou would understand my intention and follow my instructions. I worried maybe he’d take the card from my hands and open it immediately, or announce beforehand, “Isatou, listen to this!” Luckily, Mamadou understands a prank. He executed it flawlessly and Isatou jumped back in fright. Then we all started laughing, including Isato Pippi, who told me, “I thought it was a mouse.”

D.I.Y: Super Scrubber!

Material: Portion of a mesh onion bag

Step 1: If your portion of the onion bag does not contain any of the label, you’re done! Otherwise, proceed to Step 2.

Step 2: Use your fingernails to remove the label. Expect to spend a long time scratching and scraping it away…persevere! When the label is removed, your scrubber is complete! Use it with soap to make bathing and dishwashing a breeze!

Dung beetles!

The day I learned the Pulaar words for dandruff, dung beetle and fur was, perhaps not-coincidentally, that kind of day. As opposed to the type of day you imagine for someone who learned the words for daffodils and cream puffs. I think I’ll refer to days like these as “dung beetle days.” That way, the thought of dung beetles will make me burst out laughing, and my day will improve!

Bah!

Bubacarr Bah comes to our compound in the evenings to eat dinner with Gaye and to tease all the Jallows. I am excited to have found someone who loves the joking relationship as much as I do, and I’m also excited for all the new material I’m gathering to use on the Bahs and Baldehs at the school.

• When Jainabou Jallow and Bubacarr Bah call each other to come eat, she will say, “Wolf, come eat” and he will reply, “Hyena, come eat.”
• Jainabou will cook frogs and mice for us to eat because Jallows are hyenas.
• Bubacarr Bah will enter the compound and greet me, “Binta Bah! Good evening.” “Uh-uh. It is Binta Jallow. I do not accept Bah. Bah is bad!” “No, I bought your surname. You are Bah now.” This is one of his favorites, and one night I came up with what I thought was a pretty good comeback. It was something along the lines of, “You could not have bought my surname because all your money will buy bread.” I wanted to burst out laughing at my own joke, but no one else did, so I kept quiet.
• Neene explained that while “jallow” is also the word for “hoe,” and thus associates Jallows with farming and hard work, “bah” is the initial sound for words such as “baali” and “bai,” sheep and goats.

"Now Saliou’s wife is beautiful!"

After Fama braided my hair (this happened before my haircut), Saliou’s dad said, “Now Saliou’s wife is beautiful! Saliou will not need another wife, he will have just one.”

Then I must do this: make weird faces

The title of this post comes from a little girl who once sat behind me on an airplane. Apparently, the desire to make weird faces is universal.

Hen!

The big news one morning was Neene’s missing hen. Neene pointed out the semi-grown chicks perched on the edge of a bantaba and said, "Their mother is lost." Neene thinks she was stolen and I think, but do not say, that at least it was considerate of the thief to take the hen whose children are semi-grown and not the one whose children are still fuzzy yellow puffs. But before lunch Neene finds the mother hen, sitting in the open field where the goats graze.

A rather anticlimactic ending.

Michael Jackson!

At a  naming ceremony, an eight- or nine- year-old girl sits down next to me and in English asks me to dance. 

Girl: Dance.

Me: I will not dance. 

Girl: Dance. 

Me: But you don't see? Only the children are dancing. 

Girl: Yes. 

Pause. 

Girl: Dance. 

Me: Will you dance?

Girl: No. 

Me: If you will dance, I will dance.
Girl: Do you know Michael Jackson?

Me: No, I have never met him. Have you?

Girl: Yes. He can sing. I have a cassette. You know Michael Jackson?

Me: I know who he is, but I have never met him. I think his brother came to Gambia?

Girl: Do you know Michael Jackson?

Me: No. 

Girl: My father is in Angola. 

Me: Is my father in Angola? No, he is in America. 

Girl: My father is in Angola. 

Me: Who is in Angola? 

A pause, in which I realize she is referring to her own father.

Girl: He is a toubab, like you. 

Me: Has he been there a long time?

Girl: Yes.

Me: Is he working in Angola?

Girl: Yes. My mother is dead.

Me: Who are you living with?

Girl: My sister. Fanta. 

The girl looks around, trying to spot Fanta.

Girl: I want you to meet; you will be like this [she holds her two index fingers side by side]

At this point in our conversation, Fatou Bobo is summoning me away to a different corner of the party, so I conclude:

Me: What is your name?

Girl: Haja. 

Me: Haja?

Girl: Haja Jallow. I think you are also Jallow?

Me: Yes, Binta Jallow. Okay, I am going now.

Recipe: Sweet bread

Sweet Bread (but not this)

Ingredients

Lots of sugar
Some water
Half a loaf of bread


Fill a medium sized bowl with about an inch worth of lukewarm water. Pour the sugar into the bowl. Stir the mixture with your finger until the sugar dissolves. Break the bread into large chunks. Add the bread chunks to the bowl of sugar water. Wait until the bread has absorbed most of the liquid, then enjoy! Serves 2 to 3.

Circumcision Ceremony Photos

These photos are so old! From...last April? Earlier? Later? They're so old, I can't remember how old they are! But anyway, enjoy!

No, it was not cold outside.  Not even a little.

I do not know why Mamadou decided to lift Pateh up sideways, but I am happy he did.

A professional photographer also took this picture and one of these ladies bought the print. Random people at random times will refer to it, but not a single random person has decided to show the photo to me. However, I imagine it looks remarkably similar to this.

Sinni and my husband Saliou

The children claim this man is a konkoran. I find this difficult, but not impossible, to believe.

Hypocrite!

Levi has gobbled down his dinner and is looking questioningly up at Mamadou. Mamadou answers Levi's silent "Please sir, I want some more" by jokingly shouting, "Levi! You're never full!"

Neene turns to me and says, "Bono wii, mbotu kuli."

It takes awhile, but I eventually learn "Bono wii, mbotu kuli" is a proverb that means something like, "The wolf (or was it hyena? I don't remember) said the leopard (or a large, spotted cat of some sort) eats too much." Neene said it because Mamadou, like Levi, is never full.

What I have not figured out is whether this is a proverb you use anytime someone is being a hypocrite, or only in those instances someone is being a hypocrite about food.

Count!

Mamadou, Diomboy and I are lying on our backs after dinner. 

Diomboy, to Mamadou: Count the stars. 

Mamadou: Heh! Diomboy, no one can count all the stars. 

There is a pause, some silence and some talk of other things, then--

Diomboy: 1,2,3,….40. I cannot.

Halting conversation!

It is dark and the compound is empty and quiet. I am sitting on the main bantaba, Jainabou is sitting on a nearby bench and Neene is lying farther away on the second bantaba. I try to think of something to talk to Jainabou about, but all I come up with is lightening. It is a short-lived conversation. 

Me: I forget what this is called in Pulaar. 

Jainabou: Mmmm hmmm. 

Me: What is it? 

Jainabou: What? 

Me: In the sky, what does ch-ch-ch…there! (I point to the lightening in the sky) 

Jainabou: Lightening? 

Me: Yes. In America, it is also there, but not a lot. 

Jainabou: Water? 

Me: Uh-uh. That. I forget… there! 

Jainabou: Lightening. 

Me: Yes. 

My second attempt at conversation, after a long and awkward pause, began after a dog barked. 

Me: Today I sat there, my husband’s compound, and a white dog came and it, Kuri and the white dog, they fought and I did this—huhh!—and I ran because I was not brave, and my husband ran, but Cherno, he just laughed. 

Jainabout: Mmm… 

My third attempt at conversation, after an equally long and awkward pause, took place after Jainabou finished shining the flashlight on her toes and was instead aiming it at random places on the ground. 

Me: You don’t see a frog? 

Jainabou: Where?! 

Jainabou frantically scrambles to bring her feet up onto the bench and rapidly shines the light to and fro. 

Me: I’m just asking, I’m just asking. I do not see a frog, I did not know if you saw a frog.

Neene explains, “She was just asking if there was a frog. Binta is not afraid of frogs.”

I add, “But if it enters my house…” 

And then Neene and I, but mostly Neene, tell the story of the mouse and the frog. Jainabou doesn’t laugh. Maybe you had to have been there. Or maybe she was still recovering from her fright.

Horoscope!

I was bored, so I decided to see what would happen if I selected Horoscope/Love on my phone’s Africell Menu. I was given these options:

1. Horoscope
2. Star Match
3. Love Meter
4. Love Quotes

I selected Horoscope and was instructed to choose my astrological sign. Shortly afterward, a message from "Leo" arrived in my inbox: “If possible, make one room in you home or apartment into a study, reading, art or computer room.” I checked my phone’s credit balance--this worthless bit of advice had only lost me one dalasi. Also, it had relieved about twenty seconds of boredom, and reminded me of the time I opened a fortune cookie and read, “Buy new shoes.” This memory relieved another fifteen seconds of boredom.

Anyway, I was soon bored again, and now that I knew these things only cost one dalasi, I decided to see if the Love Quotes could provide any hilarity. Alas, not really: “I heard someone whisper your name today but wen i turned around to see who it was i noticed i was alone so i realized it was my heart tellin m how much i miss U.”

Then, still bored and not realizing PrayerTime was a function that cost money (on the menu it’s listed last, far from FunRing/Logo, News/Sports and Horoscope/Love) I wasted a third dalasi to be informed: “FASTING BEGINS 5:28AM; FAJR 5:43AM; ZUHR 2:00PM; ASR 5:00PM; FASTING ENDS 7:00PM;”

The whole experience was kind of like putting fifty cents into one of those slots and twisting the knob and not really expecting to get anything great but still expecting something better than the horse-shaped charm necklace you remove from the dispensed plastic capsule, so against all logic you insert another fifty cents and receive an equally dissatisfying plastic-capsuled trinket.

Rabbit!

Before dinner Fatou Sowe toasted what I later learned was a rabbit. All I saw at the time was a slab of meat roasting on the fire; the sight and smell intrigued me, so I continued seeing and smelling. After the rabbit was finished roasting, she cut it into bite-sized pieces, carefully counting out the pieces, but excluding me. I did not realize I was being excluded until all the pieces had been distributed and my hand remained empty.

Buba walked over and asked, “Binta, you will chew meat?” I said yes. He tore off a sliver of his and handed it to me. I overheard Fatou say that she had not given me a piece because she did not think I would eat it.
Mamadou, following Buba’s example, pulled off some charred bits and placed them in my open palm. E.B. handed me a bone with some clingy strands of meat available for gnawing off. Then Mamadou and Buba did the same. 

And yes, I accepted these offerings of charred, fatty, stringy, partially-chewed rabbit meat. I did not even worry about saliva-borne pathogens, not even a little. I briefly imagined a cute and soft bunny hopping gently through an African forest, but even that did not deter me from enjoying every morsel.

______!

One morning after it had rained a little but before it rained again I let Pateh scribble with chalk. Illie and Muhammed soon joined. When it was Muhammed’s turn he just held the chalk so I suggested I draw a person.

He drew this: _____.

Then I asked if he could draw a goat.

He drew this: ______.

I asked, where are its legs?

He drew this: ______.

Beverages!

On various occasions, I have consumed the following:



Is a tamarin a squirrel-sized New World monkey from the family
 Callitrichidae in the genus Saguinus? Yes, yes it is. In English,
at least. Good thing this juice bottle was written in French,
a language in which "tamarin" means "tamarind."






I bought the JIP juice firstly because the box was a
triangular prism and secondly because it color-coordinated
with the NICE biscuits. As a bonus, I thought I'd be drinking
something banana and chocolate flavoured.
Good thing I cared more about the packaging than the product,
because as I learned, ananas is pinapple and coco is coconut.
Oh well.



Usually false advertising dissapoints,
but not when the packaging advertises brake
fluid.  (at time of purchase, this bottle was
actually filled with cold wanjo juice.
as an aside within the aside, I learned
wanjo juice is made from hibiscus flowers)

Creepy-crawlies!

Some photos for your enjoyment! If you are a person who derives enjoyment from photos of wiggly-squiggly insects, arthropods, and whatever those larva-like things are.

This is a photo of Gregor. Every cockroach I come across is  named Gregor, actually, but this is the Gregor I found dying and twitching in my bed one morning, so I was particularly pleased to discover these ants dragging his torn body out of sight.

I don't know the name of this insect, scientific or otherwise, but he looks pretty cool.

This is a dead bee I found lying in my yard one day. Very strange, but at least I got the opportunity to photograph a bee.

Sometimes huge piles of these things just appear in my yard.

Don't look at Levi, look at what Levi is looking at! Looking at it now, I'm thinking "awesome!" but at the time, as it scurried past just a few feet away from my feet, I thought "GAH!" and then ran to get my camera.

This is the joke that never ends, yes it goes on and on my friends...

Towards the end of this past school year:

I am sitting at the teacher's table when I notice one of the teachers, a Baldeh, acting as if he is going to take something from my bag.

"Baldeh! I know you are hungry, but bread is not there!"
"Oh, no, no, I am not hungry..." he replies, and slinks away. The slinking should have aroused my suspicion, but for some reason did not.

Next, I overhear him asking to borrow the vice-principal's mobile and mumbling something about needing to locate his mobile. The vice-principal hands Baldeh a mobile, a number is dialed, and soon an unfamiliar ringtone is playing from my bag.

I open my bag, extract a mobile, and put it on the table.

Baldeh shouts, gleefully, "But there is another one!"

I open my bag again, extract a second mobile, and put it on the table.

"You stole it!"

And thus commences several rounds of Jallow/Bah jokes. Baldeh even calls a teacher, a Mr. Bah, who'd left the school at the end of the first term, to retell the story and then passes the phone to me so I may continue to assert that I am not a thief.

The same thing happens the next day. I mean, the very exact same thing, except he didn't call Mr. Bah again, probably to save on phone credit.

The day after that, the same thing almost happens. Only by chance did I spot an unfamiliar mobile in my bag and remove it before someone had the chance to ring it. As I put the mobile on the table, Baldeh confides that he had wanted to call the mobile and make it ring like yesterday--"and the day before that," I want to add--but I was too quick.

Maybe I should buy some bread and stuff it in his bag...

Eclipse!

The night of the lunar eclipse, many nights ago by now, was a bother. The previous night had been bright enough to leave the lantern off, which had been wonderful because the cloudy days had left the solar-powered lantern poorly charged.

On the other hand, I should probably forget the minor annoyance of not-being-able-to-see because I'm not sure I've ever witnessed a lunar eclipse before.

Unless I have and was similarly unimpressed.

I learned how to say “eclipse” in Pulaar, though, so that’s cool.

Social studies!

Pippi Isatou handed me a Gambian social studies book she'd picked up from the ground. She wanted me to talk about the pictures inside, so I did, to the best of my ability. And for once I was grateful that Gambian culture does not often ask "why" because my explanations left much unanswered.

• Tourists in a swimming pool playing volleyball = "White people who came to Gambia, they want to see Gambia...it is not a river, but they are in a lot of water...they are playing, it is not football..."
• Tourists gathered around cannons at a historical site = "It will kill people, but now it will not kill...the people want to look at it"
• Cargo ships loaded with cotton (according to the caption) = "This ship will go from Gambia to America. Inside the carton is...I forget what it is called. It is white, it is soft... people will farm it...before you have fabric, you have it..." Sinni had joined us and she is never satisfied when I trail off after an unknown word. I love her for this, but I wished I knew how to say, "Trust me, this doesn't matter, there's really nothing exciting inside those cartons." She called over an older girl who speaks English well, but I disagreed with her translation of "cotton" so we consulted Sinni's father-in-law, who is an English/Pulaar dictionary I too often forget about. Sinni doesn't seem terribly disappointed with the answer, but just to make sure, I told her that in the river between Gambia and America live large fish that eat people.
• Gambians dressed in white aprons and chef's hats before a stove = "They are cooking. If white people come to Gambia, they will not want to eat domada or benechin every day. Some will eat but some will not. That is why they are learning to cook food white people like."

Of course, the book discussed more than the tourism industry, but the photos where I answered, "that man's name is ________" were not worth recounting.

After we go through the book twice, the girl who mis-translated "cotton" brought over an American social studies book she had borrowed from her school library. It's the same one she'd shown me a few months earlier, so it's possible "borrowed" is the wrong word.

The book contained too many pictures to discuss each individually, so I only needed to provide explanations for those specifically questioned. This I was able to do for all but birthdays, snow and Native Americans (Sinni declared the animal-hide wigwams pretty).

I enjoyed the pictures showing situations that showed similarities between America and The Gambia. Cornfields, for example. Actually, the book didn't specify the crop being harvested, so I just called it corn. I forgot that, even if I cannot recognize corn stalks, Sinni certainly could. She asked, "American corn?" and if she also thought, "American corn sure looks a lot like _____" she kept it to herself.  I said, "Yes."

Malaria

The visit to the hospital went like this: Fatou Bobo, Rugi, Musa and I take our places at the end of the row of benches outside the doctor’s examining room. Only Rugi and Musa are sick—Fatou Bobo came because she is their mother, I came because Fatou invited me along. We sit silently; I contemplate the handwritten cardboard signs labeling the offices.

Rugi suddenly stands up, staggers over to the edge (the waiting area is outside and raised above a sort of large dirt ditch) and starts vomiting. Fatou gets up, hands Musa to me, and walks over to Rugi. She pulls her down so she can squat on the ground and finish. A man walks by and I gather he is reprimanding Fatou Bobo for allowing Rugi to vomit in the middle of the hospital and informs her that Rugi should go over there, in the trees past the banana sellers. Fatou tells Rugi to go over there, to the trees past the banana sellers and Rugi slowly walks off. Fatou returns to the bench and takes Musa back. I am glad because she says his stomach is running—diarrhea—and I don’t trust cloth diapers.

We wait.

A pigeon lands on the roof by a solar panel. It is the most amazing pigeon I’ve ever seen, including the really beautiful speckled ones I watched during lunch on my eighth grade field trip to Boston.

After a little while Rugi comes back and sits down on the bench. The line has moved forward a little so we are no longer at the very end. Fatou asks if I gave her the money she asked me to lend her. I say I did. She keeps looking for it and soon finds the five dalasi bill lying on the ground next to the bench.

Rugi gets up again and stumbles to the edge of the wall and vomits. Fatou gets up, brings Rugi to the ground and walks her over to the trees. She is clearly not in the mood to be twice-reprimanded. She returns and asks me to go sit with Rugi—she’ll come get us when it’s our turn for the doctor.

We wait.

Some former students of mine are selling bananas but I do not buy any.

A little later Fatou comes over with a large wanjo juice icee. She hands it to me, tells me to taste some and when I’m done to give it to Rugi. Rugi sips at it slowly slowly. She’s finished maybe half of it by the time a little girl comes over and tells us to go back.

Now Fatou has moved to third or fourth in line. Rugi goes and lies down on the bench. Fatou tells me to go sit on one of the benches in the lower waiting area. Rugi vomits again, but this time does not even attempt to move off the bench, so red wanjo juice ends up all over the bench and the floor below. Fatou hands Musa to the girl sitting next to her and goes in search of a rag. She returns and mops up the mess.

The doctor examines Musa first. She takes his temperature, asks some questions and scribbles some stuff on a slip of paper. The she does the same for Rugi. I am particularly curious what Rugi’s temperature will be, because when I’d picked her up, I could not believe how warm she was. 38.9 degrees Celsius. Where There is No Doctor says this is a Fever, but not yet a High Fever, which goes from 40 degrees to 42 degrees. The book does not say what is beyond 42 degree.

I tried to decode the doctor’s further scribblings, but all I could make out was “lab.” The doctor directs us to the benches on the lower level, outside a closed door and curtained window labeled with a cardboard sign. I forget what the sign labeled the room as, probably “Lab.” Fatou asks me to take Rugi and wait over there; she needs to go elsewhere with Musa.

We wait.

Other people are also sitting and probably, waiting.

Fatou and Musa return and she asks if anyone is inside. Someone answers “no.” The door opens and the lab technician, Yaya, steps outside and reads out some names. People step forward and collect the slips of paper in his hand. Yaya directs Rugi to enter. Fatou tells me to hold Musa and starts to pass him over, but I tell her I’ll take Rugi, so I pick her up and bring her inside.

Yaya is now on the phone, but he instructs me to close the door behind me. The room is cool; there are two ceiling fans blowing. Rugi and I sit down on two cushioned office chairs. She continues sipping her wanjo juice icee, which is no longer frozen. I say, “If you want to throw up, tell me and I will open the door.” She nods. Yaya turns to tell me that no food is allowed inside. I ask Rugi to give me the plastic bag. She hurriedly sucks up the remaining drops of juice.  

Yaya has finished his phone conversation and tells me to sit over there, motioning towards a metal stool. He sits down across from Rugi and asks first my name and then why I have chosen to be a Fula. I reply, “Fulas are the best.” He asks, “Are you insulting me? You are saying I am not the best.” I say, “No, I am not insulting you. But it is the truth that Fulas are the best.” “You know, in English there is ‘good,’ ‘better,’ and ‘best.’ You are saying I am ‘better.’” “Ha ha, yes, you are better but Fulas are best.”

Then he fills out a paper, asks Rugi her name, cleans off her index finger with an alcohol swab, asks her a question about school, pricks her finger and squeezes out enough blood for the malaria test. Rugi squirms and wants to cry; he presses a cotton ball to her finger before instructing us to leave.

Rugi lies down on the bench and I fan her with Musa’s health record, which I have removed from the plastic folder Fatou keeps it in.

We wait.

Yaya emerges, hands Fatou a paper and we return to the doctor. The doctor instructs Rugi to step onto a scale and I only understand later it is to determine dosage. Then we walk over to a barred window labeled “Pharmacy” where Fatou slides over some slips of paper to the woman behind the window. In return, Fatou is given Coartem tablets “for children 15kg – 30kg” and is told Rugi should take two every morning and evening for three days.

I pick Rugi up in preparation for walking home, but Fatou says wait, she will go and buy bananas. So I lay Rugi down on a random cement block until Fatou returns with three bananas. Then we walk home. We pass a tap and Rugi begs her mom to be allowed to go and take a sip of water, but Fatou says, “No, you’ll puke, wait until we get home.”

Back home Rugi is given two tablets to swallow, allowed to drink a little water, and made to eat a bite of banana. Then she falls asleep.

The next day, she barges into my hut, greets me good morning, and demands to see both my wind-up monkey and playing cards.

Pseudo-konkorans!

None of the following are real konkorans.

Last konkoran season, the boys would
gather bits of dropped konkoran hair,
put it on their heads, and call themselves
konkorans.

Rugi saw this calendar and screeched,
"Oooh, Binta! I'm scared! A konkoran!"
I tried to reassure her, "It is not a konkoran.
It is a woman."
"Yes, it's a konkoran! A woman konkoran!"

 

After the real konkorans left, the boys needed something to
run screaming from, so they created a konkoran out of
rice bags and gave him sticks for machetes.

Forecast!

Regardless of how sunny the morning seems, if not a single Gambian woman is doing laundry, it will rain by mid-afternoon. I began doing laundry with high hopes that the sunshine and cool air would dry my clothes before that mildew-moldy smell could develop. Now ninety percent of my laundry is drip-drip-dripping in my hut and the remaining ten percent is sitting outside, unwashed, in a soapy bucket of water.

I CAN abide them even now and then

For those of you who never sat backstage listening to Kiss Me, Kate rehearsals while in high school, the title (of this blog post, not of Kiss Me, Kate) alludes to that song Kate sings about hating men. It begins something like, "I hate men/ I can't abide 'em even now and then."

I think I've been writing (particularly the last few days, but I arranged that on purpose) too much about particularly irksome encounters with men considering how often I've written about pleasant encounters with men. This happened because irksome encounters are more entertaining to read about. However, I did a lot of traveling recently (and by recently I mean this past summer...I am typing this September 7) and in my travels I revised my opinion of Gambian men, even the young-adult ones, but still not the ones with sunglasses.

"But, ladies, you must answer too, what would we do without 'em?"

1. On my way to Farafenni I rode in the teacher's gelle that was bringing teachers from regions 5 and 6 down-country after schools closed. If there'd been a schedule, we would have been several hours behind by the time we reached the Janjangbureh ferry. We got out of the gelle and I went in search of peanuts. The lady selling peanuts was also selling mangoes, which looked like just the sort of sweet refreshment I needed. As I received change for my peanuts, a teacher asked if I wanted a mango while handing me one of the two he had just bought. Then he walked away. No questions about my name, country of origin, or marital status. What would I have done without him? I would've bought a mango myself, experienced extreme disappointment at discovering how under-ripe it was, and lamented my wasted dalasis for the rest of the trip.
2. When I took a car from Farafenni to the car park in Senegal, the driver found me a car to Dakar and helped me figure out the correct quantity of money to hand over, even though he could've just dropped me off and turned around. What would I have done without him? Probably gotten shouted at in French and spent too much of that sly Senagelese CFA.
3. After the car to Dakar broke down and we'd waited by the side of the road for two hours, a new car finally arrived and we all piled in. One of the men had walked all the way to the nearest bitik and we picked him up on the way. After revealing he'd bought a liter of orange soda and some plastic cups, he offerred some to everyone in the car. What would I have done without him? Drank the remainder of my warm water and sat in misery.
4. At the Pompi car park in Dakar, a man named Jallow was selling NesCafe. He sold me delicious NesCafe, then flagged down a taxi for me, told the driver I was going to the airport, negotiated the price and showed me exactly which bills to give the driver. What would I have done without him? Without the sugary NesCafe, I quite possibly would've collapsed, because it'd been about 24 hours since I'd eaten anything, except for that orange soda. And since the taxi driver I ended up with spoke neither English nor Pulaar, who knows where my collapsed body would've ended up.
5. At 3 a.m. in the Dakar airport, after being there for an hour, I met a driver who neither tried to overcharge me, nor tried to rush me to the car park before cars would actually be there. He said, "Wait for me until five, I will take you there for 3,000 CFA." At the car park, he found me a car to Barra, negotiated the fair price (not that I could have paid more anyway, having had exactly enough CFA). What would I have done without him? I would have had to exchange even more dalasis to CFA and paid the 7,000 CFA other drivers were charging. When I arrived at the car park, I probably would've gotten lost.
6. The morning I left Brikama to return to village it only stopped pouring minutes before I left the house. The Brikama roads collect water and I'm grateful it was still dark outside so I didn't have to see just how filthy the mud and water I waded through was. Also, I was carrying a suitcase and two backpacks because I'd just returned from Sweden. More than once, a flip-flop got stuck in the mud and I needed to find a dry spot to drop my baggage while I crouched down and felt around in the water until I found it. A couple of times I could tell I my flip-flops would get suctioned in, so I removed them beforehand, then prayed not to step on broken glass or a bottle cap. Eventually I came across two men who told me I was going the wrong way. They tried to describe the route I should take, but it was clear I was not understanding their directions. So they offerred to show me the way and they each took one of my bags--the heavier ones. Also, I thought I'd just gotten a little lost. Nope. We backtracked for awhile. What would I have done without them? I seriously don't even want to think about this. I would have kept wandering towards who knows where until past sunrise and missed my opportunity to ride back to Basse with the Peace Corps vehicle. At some point my arms would've grown too tired to carry my luggage and it would've slipped into the mud. At some point my legs would've grown too tired to walk and I would've slipped into the mud.
7. On a trip from village to Kombo, I arrived at the Basse car park and found my friend already waiting by the car that would take us from Basse to Kombo. We couldn't leave yet, however, because I needed a restroom. I told the man, who I assumed was our driver, "I need a pit latrine." He led me through a complex maze to the public pit latrines AND paid the one or two dalasis fee! I felt just like Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany's. Men giving me money for the powder room--imagine! Also, it turns out the man wasn't even our driver, just some random dude at the car park performing random acts of kindness. What would I have done without him? Asked someone else for directions to the pit latrine, paid the fee myself, and not felt like Holly Golightly :(

"But if you beat them, they will not be happy"

The following conversation arose after we tired of retelling the morning's story of Isatou Pippi running to our compound with the failed hope of escaping a beating.

Kairaba: In America, if a man's wife is bad, won't the husband beat her?

Me: Some men.

Kairaba: He will beat his wife??

Me: Some men. Not many men. But if a man beats his wife, many people will be angry. They will say, "Heh! You beat your wife?!"

Kairaba: But if I have a wife from America or France, I will beat her.

Me: Heh! You will beat her?

Kairaba: I will beat her.

Me: But if you beat her, she will be angry.

Kairaba: Okay.

Me: She will go and she will say, "Now Kairaba is not my husband."

Kairaba: Okay.

Me: If she goes, you accept?

Kairaba: Yes. If she goes I will find another one.

Me: ...Okay...

Kairaba: I am just playing! If I have a Gambian or a Senegalese wife I will not beat her.

Me: It is good.

Kairaba: If you give them money, they will be happy. If you give them food, they will be happy. But if you beat them, they will not be happy.

Till forgetfulness do us part

One day a guest of Neene's tells me that if he goes to America he would like to find a wife there.

Guest: But she must speak Pulaar.

Me: But in America, people do not speak Pulaar. Women who speak Pulaar, they are not many.

Guest: But you can speak Pulaar!

Neene: But all volunteers do not learn Pulaar. Most learn Mandinka, some learn Serrehule...

Guest: Yes! I knew one white person who was living in Garawol, she spoke very clear Serrehule.

And the guest, thus distracted, rambles on about the amazing encounters he used to have with the Serrehule-speaking toubab. I'm not even sure the guest spoke Serrehule...which probably explains his amazement.

I am assuming he did not bother me about being his American Fula wife because he'd been duly informed about my husband Saliou. Never has a child been more useful.

Unless...I forget about him.

On a different afternoon, a man enters our compound and greets us. His greetings to me include the standard, "Do you have a husband?" I forget my standard response and reply, "No."

If life were a movie, I would have forgotten about Saliou because the stranger's devilishly good looks disarmed me so Fate could foreshadow that this man was to be my destiny. I'm not. I hope. I don't know the real reason I forgot Saliou after months of his impeccable service. Maybe I'd been lost in a daydream. What I do know is, I instantly wanted to pound my head against a wall for its memory lapse. If I'd remembered Saliou, we could've finished up greeting and the guest could have gone and chatted with Kairaba. Instead, I got stuck defending my right to not marry the guest.

I'm not going to recreate the conversation here. It involved me answering about a dozen questions, all variations of, "Why won't you be my wife?" as well as listening to half a dozen remarks along the lines of, "I want an American wife."

If I'd been in a better humour, perhaps I would have requested a herd of cattle, but...

I really just wanted to watch the clouds.