You are a Fula?

Haddy: Binta, you are a Fula?

Me: Yes.

Haddy: Oh, I thought you were an English speaker.

Me: Yes, I speak English too. Both.

Eavesdropping: Staff Development Workshop Edition

• “Mr. Sowe! Do not sleep here…Go out and then come, or do push-up. If you do push-up ten, you will not sleep.”
• A teacher, on being the last to leave the food bowl: “He who laughs last laughs best.” Another teacher replied, “But what of this? The early bird catches the worm.”
• “I am on a fault-finding mission…Error detected.” (The "error" was an incorrectly written M)

NEAR SHELL PETROL STATION

The Kairaba Stationary & Office Equipments store, who gave me a free keychain after I bought some graph paper, has custom plastic bags. I am most amused by the address at the bottom:


P.O. BOX: 3222, KAIRABA AVENUE
NEAR SHELL PETROL STATION – THE GAMBIA

Bivouac!

“Army ants, found in the tropics, have no physical base to their colony at all. They simply hang in a cluster overnight, forming a bivouac around their queen.” I’d begun reading a book about ants so I could talk about it with my sister. What startled me more than the army ants’ lack of physical colony was the author’s use of the word “bivouac.” Just the day before, I had considered looking up “bivouac” in the dictionary, then decided it was a word whose meaning I didn’t need to know… But why was I thinking about bivouacs?

For several days, the teachers on break would begin watching Nigerian soap-opera-esque films as soon as the power came on. One day, they decided to watch an American film instead. The film had a title, The Hunt for Eagle One, but if anyone entered the staff room and asked what we were watching, the reply was always, “the American film.” The plot can be summarized, in the words of one teacher, as follows, “I understand American film now. Take two people arrested. Get people to free them. Abanta. Finished. People are arrested, then people free them. The film has been set. Abanta!”

This American film is filled with stressed-out soldiers, angry Arabs, guns, shouts, explosions, et cetera. Sensibly, someone had turned on the subtitles. At some point, I read the word “bivouac.” I remembered the word because I didn’t know the meaning and I hadn’t expected to expand my vocabulary while watching The Hunt for Eagle One. I thought about remembering to look the word up in a dictionary, but decided to save the brain space for other things because:

1. I wasn’t interested enough in the film to care what was happening
2. I was pretty sure ‘bivouac’ wasn’t a word I could incorporate into my daily vocabulary
3. Ooh—I should look up bifurcate, though, that’s a word I’m always forgetting! And it’s so fun to say!

Such went my train of thought. An incorrect train of thought, apparently, as “bivouac” was currently staring up at me from the middle of a paragraph about ant colonies.

Noun: bivouac ‘bi-vook,ak or ‘biv,wak


1. (military) temporary living quarters specially built by the army for soldiers

“wherever he went in the bivouac the men were grumbling”

2. A site where people on holiday can pitch a tent



Verb: bifurcate ‘bI-fur,keyt

1. Split or divide into two

2. Divide into two branches

“The road bifurcated”


Note: This story took place before my trip to Morocco. A few days after I first typed this blog post, I was looking through travel information about Morocco. A Saharan tour guide company advertised that participants in the overnight tour would sleep in a bivouac in the desert. So much for thinking I'd never need to know what a bivouac was.

Eavesdropping: Classroom edition

• “…spheres, such as sun, moon. Although some scientists are saying the sun is a circle, but the moon at least.”
• “Even women’s menstrual cycles can be represented using pie chart”
• “Miss Jallow, he placed mucus in my mouth!”
• “You must seize power. Because you are a boy.”
• “Today the lesson will be: define bread.”

Give me your guinea fowl.

E.B. wanted to see the guinea fowl. He said, “I’ve never seen a guinea fowl.”

This isn’t quite true, because he’d seen a guinea fowl the previous week, when he came to my house saying the same thing.

He watches the guinea fowl a little, then asks me to give him one.

Me: I cannot. If I give you the husband, the wife will be angry. If I give you the wife, the husband will be angry.

E.B: They will not be angry.

Me: But if the guinea fowl gives birth, I will give you one.

E.B: Guinea fowl will give birth?

Me: Yes.

Luckily for E.B, he has since moved to Kantaly, where  his neighbors across the street keep a roaming flock of guinea fowl.

Sandwich stories: Grisly!

 The piece of newspaper containing my sardine sandwich was, thankfully, torn through the photo captioned: “GRISLY: the headless decomposed body of the baby boy dumped at Tallinding. See story on page two.” Not exactly what I would’ve wanted to see while eating lunch.

Lettuce...

I went to Kantaly again and tried to avoid receiving lettuce.

Fatou's Mom: Should I go and get lettuce for you?
Me: No, don’t go.
Fatou's Mom: Should I go and get lettuce for you?
Me: Uh-uh.
Fatou: Binta, she is asking if she will give you lettuce. Would you like lettuce?
Me: No, don’t go.
Fatou's Mom: You will not eat lettuce?
Me: I will eat lettuce, but—don’t go.
Fatou's Mom: You like lettuce?
Me: Yes, I like lettuce.
Fatou's Mom: I will go and bring you lettuce.
Me: Okay. Thank you.

Then I tried to prevent another salad disaster by buying onions and vinegar before even returning home. I stopped at a bitik along the road, one I’d never been too. Luckily I noticed I’d forgotten my wallet after I’d already asked for vinegar, “No vinegar here,” and two onions. Only after two onions have been placed on the counter did the wallet not appear. Why was this lucky? If I’d noticed the forgotten wallet ahead of time, I would have continued home, and risked salad disaster. Instead, I was the recipient of one of those lovely little acts-of-kindness/clever-marketing-strategies unique to small towns. The shopkeeper told me to keep the onions and give him the money tomorrow. Then he gave me six dalasis so I could buy vinegar from the window down the road.
“I will bring the money later.”
“Or tomorrow.”

When I return the next day, the man tells me, “If you need something, come here to buy it.” And I would, too, even though his shop is farther away, except that the store is kind of dark and bare and devoid of anything except onions, exercise books, and what appear to be whoopee cushions.

Binta, good morning!

Man at the Market: Binta, good morning!

Me: Good morning.

Man at the Market: I am greeting you in English because you do not hear Pulaar.

If you bring a baby—

Oumu: Where is the clapping baby? (the wind-up monkey)
Me: In my house. I will bring it tomorrow.
Adama: If you bring a baby—

I interrupt to her remind her what I’d just told Oumu, “I will bring a baby tomorrow.”

Adama: Tomorrow??
Me: Yes.
Adama: You will bring a baby tomorrow?
Me: Yes, tomorrow I will bring the clapping baby.
Adama: No, not the clapping baby. A baby like this [she points to Musa]. If you bring a baby like Musa, name it Adama. And if it is a boy name it after your husband, Mamasaliou.
Me: Okay.
Adama: Do you have a namesake?
Me: Yes.
Adama, surprised: You have a namesake?
Me, realizing she might mean namesake in the proper sense of the word, not simply another person named Binta: In America?
Adama: Yes.
Me: No, I don’t have a namesake there.

And I'd never thought it strange before that I wasn't named after someone. Huh.

Sandwich stories: Do you know the groundnut boy?

A sardine sandwich came wrapped in a page out of a Gambian textbook. I can’t confirm, but I believe the answer to letter (i) is “was defenestrated.”

(d) I _ _ _ my hair yesterday.
(e) I _ _ _ very hard yesterday.
(f) My father _ _ _ the car yesterday.
(g) She _ _ _ in the market yesterday.
(h) Yesterday they _ _ _ to school.
(i) He _ _ _ out of the window yesterday.

* Here is a game to play.
Stand in a circle. Choose someone to be the groundnut boy or girl. He or she dances in the circle Sing the song.
Do you know the groundnut boy,
The groundnut boy, the groundnut boy?
Do you know the groundnut boy
Who lives in our compound?
Now the girl or boy in the centre chooses a partner. The two children dance and everyone sings.
Yes I know the groundnut boy
The groundnut boy, the groundnut boy
Yes I know the groundnut boy
Who lives in our compound.
Now the first boy or girl goes out.
Sing the song again.

Recipe: Amadou’s Spaghetti Lettuce Sandwiches

When Amadou was little, he cooked “every day” with one of the volunteers living here before me. “What did you cook?” “Sometimes African, sometimes American. When it was American we cooked spaghetti, like this.” So perhaps I have Bakary Jallow, of forgotten American name, to thank for the following recipe.

Amadou’s Spaghetti Lettuce Sandwiches

Serves: However many people show up.

Ingredients: Bag of lettuce, two cups vinegar, medium-sized onion, package of spaghetti, one of those packets of tomato paste, a cube of Maggi seasoning, four loaves of bread, two pinches of salt.

1. Put the lettuce leaves into a plastic bowl barely large enough to contain them all. Pour the vinegar on top. Cover with a plate.
2.  Boil water for the spaghetti. Add a pinch of salt. Stir occasionally using a “spoon which has nails.”
3. Slice the onion and mix with the lettuce. Cover again with the plate—the lettuce is not dead yet.
4. When most of the water has evaporated from the spaghetti, taste a little of the remaining water. “Are you having any more salt?” Add another pinch of salt.
5. The spaghetti is ready when someone who prefers her pasta al dente would call it a soggy mess. Turn off the gas. Leave the spaghetti in the pot. Do not drain the water.  
6. By now, both the lettuce and onions should have died. Uncover them, and sample a leaf. Sample another leaf. You think it is dead, but call your mother in to be sure. Have your mother sample a leaf. She will confirm that the lettuce and onion are both dead.
7. Add the tomato paste to the spaghetti and stir with the spoon with nails.
8. Crush the Maggi cube over the spaghetti and stir. 

To serve: Slice the bread lengthwise once, and then crosswise as many times as is needed to give each person a piece. Put some of the lettuce-onion-vinegar mixture inside, then put the spaghetti on top. When the bread is finished, eat the remaining sauce and lettuce with your hands.

Variation: If you have sardines and a cup of oil, you can somehow add these to the mix. It will be “very sweet.”

Lettuce!

Who knew lettuce could be such a production? One Saturday afternoon I visit Kantaly, where Fatou Sowe and her kids live now. Fatou asks, “Do you like lettuce?” or possibly, “Would you like lettuce?” The questions are said the same in Pulaar. I answer, “Yes, lettuce is sweet.” “My mother will bring you lettuce. Today Binta’s dinner will be sweet!” An hour later, Fatou’s mother returns, holding a bucket of lettuce leaves—all of which get transferred into a plastic bag for me to bring home.

I return home and present the lettuce to Neene, who is pleased. When Amadou comes home, he is shown the lettuce and starts discussing how we will prepare it. I thought we could just garnish our rice with it or something, but Amadou mentions vinegar, onions, tomatoes, oil, macaroni, bread. Neene asks how much all this will cost and he does some calculations. “We will do this tomorrow, in the morning. Breakfast tomorrow will be sweet!”

Breakfast tomorrow is millet porridge with a shortage of sugar. No one mentions the lettuce, until later in the morning when I overhear Neene mention it to Amadou and he says, frustrated, that if he has money he will buy the vegetables and vinegar and bread and we will eat the lettuce for lunch. Then he goes to the market to see if there is some sewing he can do.

Why didn’t I just give the money to buy the necessary ingredients for consuming lettuce? Unrelated story. But I wasn’t being mean, promise.

Sometime before lunch Neene exclaims that the mice have eaten the salad! Last night! Eaten all of it! I think, “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about buying vinegar and tomatoes anymore.” Neene brings out the bag to show me. A sizeable hole has been chewed in the bag and I can see that the lettuce has been nibbled on, but we must have different definitions of “all” because the bag is still stuffed with lettuce. I am hoping that there is no taboo against consuming rodent-nibbled food, because lettuce is lettuce and I wouldn’t have a problem with it, assuming Jainabou washes the lettuce and then tears it up so the chew marks are no longer noticeable.

I do not see the lettuce getting fed to the sheep I decide I can continue looking forward to eating it.

Lunch comes and goes and neither Amadou nor the lettuce make an appearance. I consider suggesting that, before the lettuce spoils, even if we don’t have vinegar or vegetables, we could eat the lettuce plain. I, at least, would eat it. But I decide to give it a little more time before suggesting so drastic a measure.

Night comes and Jainabou asks me to call Amadou and ask where he is. He says he is in Senegal, but he is coming right now. Jainabou, Neene and I sit outside and wait for him. Jainabou says, “I think Binta has forgotten about the lettuce.” Neene answers, “I do not think so. Binta, have you forgotten about the lettuce?” “No, I have not forgotten.”

Kairaba joins us and every once and awhile the conversation drifts back to the lettuce. Neene and Kairaba agree that this lettuce is tiring them, it’s a job to eat this lettuce. They talk about Koli Njie, who will often prepare lettuce and send it to her husband. They talk about a village in Senegal, where Neene went once, and they ate lettuce every day for dinner, with meat, and it filled her. Kairaba agrees that this will fill you.

Amadou has yet to return, but Neene takes out two dalasis and sends Jainabou to buy however much vinegar that will buy. We can take the vinegar and an onion from the four Binta bought yesterday, there are still three remaining, and we can eat the lettuce. This sounds like a wonderful idea.

Jainabou is gone for awhile and Amadou returns in the meantime. Then Jainabou returns. Amadou looks at the lettuce. He looks at the vinegar. He decides there is not enough vinegar. “This will not make the lettuce die.” He gives Jainabou money to buy more vinegar and sets off himself to buy the other ingredients. They return with the ingredients and Amadou asks, “Does your tank have gas small? We can cook this fast fast.” His recipe will be tomorrow’s post.

Plums.

Plums. They were for sale at the large fruit stand near the bank in Kombo. I stopped to stare. I really wanted a plum. I wondered how I could have forgotten about plums. I wondered how I could have gone a year and some months craving everything from muffins to the Barbie aisle of Toys 'R' Us and not craved plums. My mouth watered.

“A plum is how much?”

The response was some absurd price, over 100 dalasis for a half kilo, but I didn’t lose hope because after all, I didn’t need a half kilo of plums.

“But if I just want one, how much will it cost?”
“No.”
“I cannot buy only one?”
“No, half a kilo or a kilo.”

I sighed and walked away.

-----

In Morocco, however, they allowed me to buy a plum, just one. Ten dirhams. The sticker said it came from Cuba, but I didn't care, and the plum was as delicious as I'd dreamed.

Forgive me (for a big offense)

I’m walking to the transit house after a successful grocery shopping trip. I stop at a bitik on the corner, hoping for an egg sandwich. After spending some time explaining I’d like bread with eggs, no not an omelette, I am told the bread is finished, anyway. As I turn to leave, I notice boxes of what appear to be the “goat” attaya Gaye and Kairaba had been raving about. “How much is this attaya?” I ask. “Five dalasis.” I reach to pick up a box, which is when I notice that the antlered quadruped is not a deer, but an antelope. Not wanting to buy a cheap knock-off, I replace the box with a nevermind and continue on my way.

Next I enter the mini-mart farther down the road, the one that last time sold large-size bags of Doritoes. I’m told they no longer sell that size, although “these Doritoes are very good, aren’t they?” and it is suggested I buy several snack-sized bags instead. I buy two, one in each flavour, tuck them in my shoulder bag, and continue my walk towards the house.

Several minutes later, I notice I’m no longer carrying one of my grocery bags. Most of that day’s purchases were in the large shoulder bag, below the Doritoes, but there’d been some groceries that hadn’t fit. Luckily, I’d been only two places since leaving the grocery store. Even though the mini-mart is closer, I decide to first walk all the way back to the bitik—I have a memory of setting the bag down to examine the attaya, I’m sure I must have forgotten it there. Hopefully it’s still there. I try to think what I’d left in that bag. Not stuff I’d imagine the typical thief being interested in: deodorant, two button cell batteries, a postcard, a bag of muesli…


I arrive at the veggie stand: no bag.

“What do you want?”
“I am looking for the bag I forgot here.”
“You did not leave a bag here.”
“…No, I did.”
“The white bag?”
“Yes.”
“You took it with you.”

One man even proceeds to give a description of how I’d walked away after not buying the attaya, and specified which hand had been holding the bag. I was in Sherlock-Holmes mode, so instead of thinking, “Oh, that must mean I left the bag at the mini-mart after all” I think, “That’s suspicious…why would he have remembered all those details? Why, in particular, does he remember that it was a white plastic bag? I didn’t even remember that. He must remember because he took the bag after I left.” I’d never dealt with thieves before, but I try my best. I explain I hadn’t been anywhere else, so the bag must be here. Maybe somebody picked it up to move it out of the way or…? “No.” But it must be here! [I was getting angry now, or frustrated, or stubborn, or worried, or if there’s a word meaning a combination of those, I was that].

A customer comes over, a middle-aged man, and asks what the matter is. I explain I left my bag here but these men are saying I did not. The customer says, “Maybe you forgot it in the taxi.” I say, “I didn’t take a taxi, I was walking. After I left the supermarket, this was the only place I stopped. Then I continued walking and noticed I didn’t have one of my bags.”

By this point, I’ve essentially accused the bitik owners of having stolen my bag, or at least lied about its whereabouts. “Thief” and “liar” probably tie for the worst things you can call someone, without getting vulgar. I also realize that the situation is hopeless, anyway, because even if they did take my bag, it’s not like they’re suddenly going to admit this and hand it over now. But still unwilling to give up and walk away, I try asking one last time if maybe they’d forgotten and they’d put it away to keep it safe or…

No. They’re angry and the customer has become the mediator. They give the customer the order of events:

1. I came and put down the bag.
2. I asked about eggs and looked at the attaya
3. I didn’t buy attaya
4. I picked up the bag and walked away. 

The details again convince me that I was mistaken in thinking my groceries were not worth stealing, and also that it’s time to give up. I give a disbelieving sigh of “okay” meant to convey “whatever, I still don’t believe you, but I’m tired of standing in the hot sun” and turn and walk away.

I arrive at the mini-mart and figure I might as well hop in and see if the bag is there. Before anyone can answer my question—“Did I leave a …?”—I spot the bag, slumped next to a pile of cardboard boxes. Great…

Well, before that emotion there was relief and excitement, but that got replaced with a feeling of “Ugh…how embarrassed I’m going to feel when I go apologize…”

Okay, okay, I’ll admit, part of me is skipping along thinking, “Look at me! Doing the right thing, walking all the way back to apologize to people I don’t even like!” and part of me is delighting in the amusing story I’d have to talk about, but I think part of me is genuinely hanging my head in shame and hoping I could undo the horrible beginning I’d given to the men’s day.

As I trot back to the bitik, a line from the Pulaar language recording (that I’d downloaded and listened to before leaving America) is playing itself on repeat in my head. “Achu haake. Forgive me (for a big offence). Achu haake. Forgive me (for a big offence).”

I reach the bitik and apologize a thousand times. The men remain grumpy. They say they’d told me I’d taken the bag and why hadn’t I listened and did I think they’d stolen it? No no no, forgive me forgive me forgive me.

And I knew I didn’t deserve to be forgiven, and I didn’t really care if I wasn’t, but still I hoped maybe they could’ve been a little friendlier… As I’m standing there wondering how long I’m going to have to continue standing there (and thinking maybe it’d been a bad idea to return after all, because it didn’t seem like it was making anyone feel any better) the customer, now eating breakfast, looks up and says, “You can speak Pulaar?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you speak it before?”
“I did not think many people in Kombo spoke Pulaar.”
“But I speak Pulaar, they speak Pulaar.” “Yes, now I know.”

Then he wanted to know where I’d learned Pulaar and what my name was and he was a Bah so then we got to call each other fat. One of the men tries to interrupt again with another reminder about how I hadn’t listened when they’d been telling me the truth. I apologize some more and say I’d forgotten I’d gone into another bitik, please forgive me. The customer helps me out and reminds them I am apologizing.

Then I leave the customer to finish his breakfast, leave the bitik owners to sell imitation goat attaya, pick up all my bags and walk to the bookstore, where I inhale the scent of new books and buy an overpriced meat pie.

Psst...I'm back in The Gambia

No longer in Morocco, not that you really knew I was away. I tentatively promise photos in...a month? I have no means of uploading them at the moment, just as I have no means of eating a vegetable tajine or drinking fresh-squeezed orange juice.

How to draw a cow.

After helping Adama and Cherno write a letter to my cousin, I ask them to draw her some pictures. This they are more than willing to do, especially since I bring out colored pencils. However, Adama cannot think of anything to draw. I suggest she draw a house. She seems un-enthused with the idea (but Haddy, when she shows up, gets right to work and I have to cut her off at house number four so I can go home and bathe).

“Draw my husband.”
“I cannot. That is difficult.”
“That’s true. Okay, draw a cow.”
“A cow?”
“Yes, where Maggie lives there are no cows.”
“No cows?”
“No cows.”

There are, actually, plenty of cows where Maggie lives, but the lie gives cows the necessary appeal and Adama gets to work.
“These are its horns, horns that will poof-poof, stab you…This is its neck. Now remaining only its legs.”
“And it’s body.”

The cow is finished.

“Now what?” she asks.
“Draw a goat.”

But before she begins the goat she realizes the cow is not finished, actually, because she has not colored the cow. She needs to use every one of the available colors, including green. When the cow is for-real finished, Adama starts planning the goat: “Horns, a neck, and three legs.”
“Four.”
“Four?”
“A goat has four legs.”

Cherno interrupts to request a turn at drawing. Adama tells him he cannot draw. I say, “He can draw a mango.”

After Cherno draws some mangoes, Adama begins the goat: horns, neck, legs.

She double-checks, “A goat has four legs? Or is it three?”
“Four.”

Small like a star, cold like the moon

“So in America, how many days out of the year will you see the sun?” the teacher asked. I’d been observing his class, and he’d finished the lesson with some extra minutes he was devoting to explaining America. Specifically, how “not sweet” America is. This annoyed me. I may complain about America’s cold weather, selfish people, and mango scarcity, but what right did he have to call my country names?

I reply, “All of the days, but sometimes there will not be as much sun.”

One student, trying to comprehend this, says, “Oh, it will be like a star.”

“…I meant, some days the sun will be there but it will be covered by clouds. The sun is always there, but sometimes it is not hot.”

Says another student, “Oh, like the moon.”

Before the bell rings, the teacher explains that due to the lack of sun in America, everyone is suffering from vitamin D deficiency. “Isn’t that right?”

“Actually, vitamin D is added to the food. So when you drink milk, or juice, you will drink the vitamin D. You will not have a deficiency.”

The thought of vitamins being added to the food makes the students laugh. The bell rings.

Domoda!

Rugi screams for Mamadou to come eat lunch. She tells him it’s domoda. He tells her she’s lying. She replies he is lying. He replies that she’s the liar. She says no, he is the one lying.

Mamadou decides to walk home anyway.

I guess I'll move to Patagonia

A teacher wants to know: Where is better, America or Gambia?

Me: Different things are better in each country. Like the weather, is better in America.

Teacher: Hah, yes, in the hot season—I believe you experienced the hot season last year?—it can be unpleasant.

Me: But the mangoes are better in The Gambia.

Teacher: Mangoes are not in America?

Me: Mangoes are there, but they are not as many, so they are very expensive.

Teacher surnamed Baldeh: Binta The Eater! Only thinking about mangoes!

Me: Also, when I go back to America, I will miss the kossam.

Teacher: Ha-ha, the sour milk?

Me: Yes! Kossam is not there!

Teacher: If you return to America, you can buy a cow; then you will be able to drink kossam.

Me: No, I cannot buy a cow.

Teacher: There are not cows in America?

Me: There are cows, but my compound, there is not enough land, not enough grass for a cow. There is the house, and a little land behind. Then the next person’s house, and a little land behind.

Teacher: But I believe in South America they rear cattle.

Me: Yes, I believe so.

Teacher: You could move to South America.

Me: But, you know, in South America they speak Spanish or Portuguese. I cannot speak Spanish or Portuguese.

Teacher: You could learn.

Me: Okay.

Teacher: And then you will have kossam in America.

I should have posted these photos earlier, before they expired.

Iiley! And a puppy!

Me with one of the students who helped catch the guinea fowl.

Hawa, being quite because she is visiting. When I go to visit her, however, she bounces up and down on the bed.

Hajawa and Pippi Isatou.

Hairuna with another puppy!

Why, thank you.

Haddy, to Oumu as they watch me bring a bucket of water from the well for bathing: "Binta, even if she doesn’t bathe her legs are clean."

"Are you a witch?"

Mamadou cut his thumb while Jainabou was trimming his nails with a razor blade (a standard method of nail-trimming). Neene gasps with shock when Mamadou responds by sticking the injured thumb into his mouth. Mamadou, thinking she plans to beat him, jumps up from the bench and goes to stand by the mango tree, where he continues sucking his thumb.

“He’s tasting his blood?!?”

Amadou reassures her it’s okay, Mamadou is cleaning it, but Neene continues her disbelieving clucks.

“Licking the blood until it’s clean—hep! Are you a witch?”

"Parents are responsible for students' poor performance."

There were two debates scheduled this past term; the other topic, something along the lines of "teenage pregnancy is the girls' fault," was cancelled due to a sports competition. I'd hoped it would be rescheduled, alas, no.

For the motion:

• Parents are not encouraging or giving support at home. 
• Parents are not providing money for materials like textbooks and pencils. 
• Parents are taking domestic work as the priority for their children. 
• Parents support their children against their teacher to the extent of taking the teachers to the police (this is a problem because the teachers are trying to discipline the students so that they can teach them) 
• “My final point, that I want to release,” was something neither I nor the moderator, who summarized the arguments, could understand, a mumbled mess that I could see why someone would want to release because imagine keeping that inside of you. 
• Parents have a reluctance to pay school fees, especially for the girl child. 
• “Domestic work, in which student can sustain tardiness” also prevents students from studying at night. Parents deny child to go to study class. 
• Some men will have more than one wife and this will cause arguing which will disturb the student. Parents are not supportive. 
• Parents don’t answer teachers’ calls to discuss issues like poor performance and absenteeism. 
• Parents have a lack of concern and are not persuading students to commit to education. 
• “Poor parental care.” 
• If parents do not control the child, “leaving her like a butterfly” to watch television, spend time with boys, attend programs... 
• Lack of learning materials. 
• Students need good food to participate and perform well in class. 
• Students need to sleep well. 
• Students need ample time for studies. 
• Parents not concerned because the money for girls’ school feels is not coming from their pocket.

Against the motion:

• Equality of mankind. 
• Diversity of human being.
•  Lack of quality teachers. 
• Students are watching films instead of studying. 
• Parents struggle and deny pleasures in order to pay school fees. 
• Every parent wishes the best for their children. 
• Domestic work can’t be taken as excuse because that’s what parents use to pay for students’ education. 
• “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. Parents have done their best taking us to school, but they cannot open the head and put in the knowledge.” 
• “We are choosing to be failures in life.” 
• “In these modern times, as soon as the children grow-up, especially the girls, they start fumbling with the boys in the street...What will you do when your belly starts to show? Abortion is not allowed...Pregnancy outside of marriage is not tolerated Islamically.” You will not be on “the smiling side of tomorrow.”
• Students dodge school and get impregnated. 
• Parents buy pens, books, shoes and provide students with food, clothes and shelter.

"Present from Banjul ferry terminal?"

I’m sitting in the gelle waiting for it to board the ferry (but first the ferry needs to arrive and then people will need to disembark) when a lady approaches, trying to sell me beaded jewellery, or maybe a wrap-skirt? She speaks Wolof and assumes I can speak Wolof too. I nod and smile and shake my head no as assorted goods are held up for my inspection.

She also speaks English, and sometimes she decides to do this.

But she does not decide to go away.

I do not want to tell her the goods are ugly, and she wouldn’t believe I don’t have money, so I tell her I’ve already got bracelets and point to my wrists.

Yes, but don’t I want a “present from Banjul ferry terminal?”

Scissors!

I tell Pateh I will make him a car. I punch some holes in empty tin cans and bring out a pair of scissors to cut twine for tying the cans together. The scissors instantly become more exciting than the tin-can car. Pateh, proud that he could identify them: “These are ‘scissors,’ right Binta?” I show him how to use the scissors, which his small hands wield like gardening shears. After he’s cut the twine for me, he goes in search of other things to mutilate while I complete the car. He asks, “What kind of tree is this?” pointing to the scraggly remains of a guinea-fowl-destroyed seedling.
“I don’t know.”
“Can I cut it?”
“Okay.”

Halfway through snipping-off one-inch segments: “Binta!” he giggles, “Did you forget? This was the tree you planted!”
“Ee-yo! I didn’t forget! But, look, a guinea fowl ate all the leaves.”
“Yes, a guinea fowl ate all the leaves.”

 Pateh returns to pruning, which is only complete when a half-inch stub of stick remains. Now he needs to find something else to cut to pieces. He finds an unripe mango that’s fallen and cuts a gash through the middle of it. I decide it looks like a mouth and bring out my pile of used match sticks to turn it into a person. Mango Man gets a guinea fowl feather for his hair. I’m having more fun than Pateh now, and I make a friend for Mango Man, with a fuller head of hair. I seat the two mangoes in the car and they get driven over to the alkalo’s compound, where they’re soon abandoned—“Binta! Bring a book!” Left unattended, the mango men do not live long: two sheep approach and gobble the mango men, feathers and all. Pateh turns around with a gasp, throws a knife at the sheep, and runs to the rescue. I hadn’t thought Pateh had cared much about the mango men—there hadn’t been any smiles or hand-clapping at their creation—but he’s distraught at their destruction. Half of one mango man remains, slippery with saliva. Pateh tosses it away.
“Make me a new doll.”
I assure him that I will, tomorrow. Pateh stares at the abandoned mango man and stares at the knife. Then he picks up the knife and begins methodically slicing the mango to pieces. When he can slice no more, he starts hacking at the slices. This draws the attention of Ma Debbo, who tells him to stop playing with the knife, the knife is sharp. I assume she says this because she does not want him to dull the knife, only later thinking of the alternative possibility: that she worried he would cut himself. The former was the more likely reason, anyway.

Psst...I'm actually not in The Gambia

Actually I'm in Morocco, and typing on an extremely frustrating keyboard, but you will get to keep reading posts about The Gambia that I typed up weeks ago, yay! And maybe someday you'll get to read about Morocco! Thqtùs it; I cqnùt stqnd typing qny,ore:

"Do not allow the children to plait your hair."

Neene left for a marriage ceremony in a neighbouring village, so I think it’s safe to grant Adama’s request to braid my hair. Some days earlier, Neene and Fatou Bobo had both made it very clear that I was not to allow the children to braid my hair. “The children do not know how to braid,” “They will just play with your hair,” “You will be tired,” they said.

Adama finishes one braid and asks me to feel it. She’s attempted a style where the braid does a sort of zig-zag, the style she calls, “snake.” Another popular style is called “dwarf.” Before Adama can start the next braid, Neene returns. We’re all startled because she appears from behind, screeching for the children to stop what they’re doing! Get up! Get up! Neene picks up a dried coos stalk and starts waving it around. I try to protest. I go unnoticed. Look at that! That’s not pretty! Binta, she can’t braid. Binta doesn’t know what is pretty, what is not pretty. She will just let the children play with her hair, she will remain quiet, she will not say anything even when they climb all over her. Binta, unbraid your hair.

I obediently, silently, furiously, unbraid my hair. Rugi comes over to help me. Neene screeches, “GET UP! MOVE AWAY FROM BINTA!” and goes to smack Rugi with the dried-up stalk.

 “She’s unbraiding, she’s unbraiding!” I plead. I really want nothing more than to storm off in an angry cloud, or scream “ARGH!!!” at the top of my voice, or somehow pour out how frustrated I feel. But I don't; I finish unbraiding my hair and look up. I see Alieu Sowe, Jainabou and Amadou watching me with open-mouthed stares. “Gosh,” I think, “I must be looking as furious as I feel.”

I sit and stew in silence for a bit, tuning out Neene’s attempts to explain things to me; she wants me to understand that she needed to act that way, the children cannot play with my hair. “You know the children can’t braid?”
 “Yes.”
“They will just play with your hair.”
“Yes.”
 “Binta, what Adama braided, it was not correct!”
“Yes, I know…”

That night after dinner Amadou says, “Binta, I hope you are not angry, what Neene said.”
“No.”
“I explained to her that you enjoy playing with the children, you will not feel tired, but you do not understand.” Neene asks, “I hope you are not angry?”
“No, I am not angry.”
“She’s angry all right!” Jainabou chimes in.

Amadou explains the reason I cannot allow the children to braid my hair. “You know, the white person’s hair and the black person’s hair are not the same.”
 “Yes.”
As his explanation continues, I discover he is not referring to color or texture. Some people will, he claims, try to collect little pieces of a white person’s hair and then they will have money, a lot of wealth. They will be watching, they will see that the children are always plaiting your hair and they will send the children to cut a little of your “head skin” (I think: SCALPING?!) and you will not even know (I think: “I would notice if I’d been scalped, guess we’re not talking about that after all”) and they will bring it to the person.

“Do you understand?”
“Yes…but I do not understand what you were saying about the person wanting to get money.”

Apparently, the pieces of hair will be brought to a marabou, who will be able to make it so that the person will be very wealthy. “There was one Peace Corps before you, after he left a man paid me 350 dalasis if I would look for pieces of his hair.”
But Amadou did not find any hair.

And, okay, as creepy as that all sounds, it doesn’t seem like something that would cause any trouble to me. More of a win—win—not-lose situation. The marabou gets some money, the customer gets some happiness at the prospect of striking it rich, I lose a little hair, but not even so much that I’d notice. Amadou must sense that I’m unconvinced. He adds in a low voice, “And it is not only money. The marabous can even make it so that you will start to like someone very much. But it is not you who is choosing to like the person, it is because it has been made that way.”
“Okay, I will not allow the children to plait my hair.”
Neene smiles, pleased. “You understand?”

And you thought I'd stopped with the guinea fowl stories...

Adama, after stepping in guinea fowl droppings on her way to pick up a tin can from my backyard: “I don’t know who pooped here.”

“A guinea fowl.”
“Heh?! Guinea fowl will poop?”

 I always thought that picture book Everybody Poops was funny but unnecessary. I guess I forgot there’s a time in life before that's a fact.

Mint!

Adama tells me she’s going to the market to sell mint. “Follow me.” I decide I will, because it’ll be a nice walk at least, and maybe something interesting will happen. Her mother, Sinni, had tied little bundles of mint with pink string and piled the bundles neatly into a metal bowl. Adama takes the bowl and balances it on her head.

First we stop at the police station, where Adama reminds me, “It was here that my mom sat the day she fought with Fatou.”

She tells me her mom’s friend is here, so we should stop and he will buy some mint.
“That’s him, he is my mom’s friend,” she says, pointing to the officer behind the desk.

We greet her mom’s friend and tell him we’re selling mint. He replies that he doesn’t speak Pulaar and he doesn’t drink attaya, but he does us the favour of asking the other guys in the station if they need mint. One man asks, “How much?”
“One dalasi,” Adama replies.
“Only one dalasi?”

He hunts around in his pocket. No dalasi. Meanwhile, the police officer at the desk has struck up a conversation with me. He has seen me walking by sometimes. Yes, I teach at the school, maths. He never understood maths. And how long have I been here and how much longer will I be here and where am I from? America. “And do you play a sport there?”
“Yes, but I am not any good.”
“What sport?”
 I quickly try to think of a sport I could never be called upon to play. “Tennis.” This isn’t a complete lie. I do actually like tennis, even if I never learned the rules.
“Yes, the Americans like tennis. Especially the women.”
Some female Peace Corps volunteers break stereotypes by playing soccer with the boys and encouraging the girls to join too. Others reinforce stereotypes…oops, sorry.

Eventually I realize that the man has not found a dalasi and is no longer looking for one either, so after confirming that he is not going to buy any mint, I tell Adama we should continue. On the way out of the station she spots her mom’s friend (the other “friend” had been a case of mistaken identity) and we greet him, but cannot convince him to buy mint.

Highlights of the mint-selling mission:

• the woman who called us over so she could compliment me on my complet, but not so that she could buy mint
• outside of one of the shops that had closed for the day someone had hung a bag of water from a nail in the doorframe. Wondering if this was some sort of superstition, something to ward off evil perhaps, or bring fortune, I point it out to Adama. “Look.” “What?” “There, do you see? Next to the door, a bag of water.” “Yes, I see it!” “Have you ever seen that?” “No, I have never seen that. It’s only today I have seen it.” “Me too, it’s only today.” “Today what?” “Only today I have seen a bag of water next to a door.”
• the bitik owner who decided to mimic the children’s high-pitched voices while refusing to buy mint. Had it been me in Adama’s place, I probably would’ve run away sobbing and refused to ever sell mint for my mother again. Adama and the other girls, however, remained undeterred. “But you can buy it now and save it for tomorrow when you make attaya. This mint is very sweet,” the girls cooed. We passed by this man again, after we almost sold some mint to the lady at the end of the road (she changed her mind upon closer inspection of the mint: “This mint is not sweet”). The girls lied and said, “Someone over there bought mint, won’t you buy mint too?”
• the scrap of notebook paper the girls picked up from the ground. In pencil were three crudely drawn, anatomically complete, nude figures. The girls debated whether each was a man or a woman, but thankfully tossed the paper aside before anyone asked to see what they were so intently examining.
• the man who refused to buy our mint because he only buys the Serrehule mint.
• the man who called out, “I want you to be my wife!” to whom I replied, “And me, I want you to buy this mint!” He laughed with his friends, then repeated, as if to show that all joking aside, he’s serious, “I want you to be my wife!” To which I repeated, as if to show that all joking aside, I was being serious, “And I want you to buy this mint!” He didn’t buy any mint. I didn’t marry him.

As a matter of fact, no one bought any mint. The girls, however, were too distracted by a colorful pile of fabric scraps to feel disappointed.

Brazil v. Brazil

The conversation turns to football. I decide to continue conversing because Alieu seems passionate about the topic. I enjoy conversations with passionate people because:

1.  they’re all excited and rambling
2. I can stop fretting over awkward silences
3. I’ve learned a lot this way—about the history of medieval Germany, the purpose of masks in Japanese theater, the production of vulcanized rubber, and whatever that insect is my sister was researching. And now, football.

I’m treated to biographies of all the most important players, from date and place of birth (as bonus information, I’m also told which country and continent the hometowns are located in, as well as the national languages). I learn that all the best players come from Brazil, but most of them leave Brazil to play for the other teams. “So one day it will just be Brazil playing Brazil?” “Yes, even now that is happening.”

 I learn the final scores for several important games, as evidence for the most important fact: Barcelona is the best. By this point in the conversation I’ll admit I’m getting a little tired of it, so I’m hoping to stir up something when I turn to Amadou and ask, “Is Alieu correct?”

Amadou looks up with a start—he’d zoned out as well.

“Is Barcelona the best?”
“The best in Europe, yes.”

What follows is a disappointingly civil discussion in which Amadou points out that we don’t know how Barcelona will perform in some or other upcoming cup and Alieu asserts that we do know how they will perform, they will win. The debate ends with them laughing at what a lousy team Arsenal is compared to Barcelona. “Barcelona will use Arsenal as a bed. When Barcelona wants to sleep, they will play Arsenal.”

 ...

“But they don’t play football in America.”
“No, they are not as interested in football there.”
“It is only volleyball.”
“And basketball,” I add.

Also baseball, but then I’d have to explain baseball. And American football, but I need someone to explain that to me. So: volleyball and basketball, America’s favorite sports.

Eavesdropping: Staffroom edition

Some April Fool's Day amusement for you.

• “Even in the ant kingdom there is seniority, much less the human race.”
• “Let me wash my hands, my phalanges.”
• “Don’t get married, or you will over-strain your brain. Then you will go mad and they will take your wife away.”
• “If I will dance, even this room will not be enough for me. I will be somersaulting, and running. I can run like a snake.”
• “Thank you very very very very much. Until very can much you.”
• “You are trying to flabbergast the situation.”
• “They want to hijack me for their science classes.”
• “She will eat us! She will eat us like we are grass—we are not grass!”
• “Because some students, their morals are just like water.”
• SNEEZE “Sorry! Jesus Christ.”
• “Between yourself there is division of labor because you take in bread—(interrupted by laughter)—and release it as energy.”
• “Today Binta is a real African woman…without a husband.”