Dress me up in pink and call me Momodu

It has been ages since I have been to the internet.  I have written up a few posts, I have edited them, and left what was most complete and pressing.  After this one, there is one that follows, that is of course a few weeks older.

Where will I live for the next two years? 

I just found out.  They took all of us into a room with a giant map of the Gambia with arrows to all the places we would go, and then announced things about us like a game show until we guessed who it was. We were then called up and had our pictures put next to our site for the next two years.  I will give you the extremes, of which I am one of them.  I am either the only volunteer to end up in the city or I am the most remote volunteer they have ever had, residing in the Jonkoro swamp some 15 hours away from civilization.

My mom already knows the answer to this question if you really want to find out, but I would like to leave you hanging. 

Anyhow I would much rather share with you now the story of why my name is now Momodu.  I will tell you soon where I end up.

Dress me in pink, call me Momodu, and make me dance!

If I ever write a book, I think it will have this title.  For I have in fact now been named Momodu by fate and some semblance of choice.  It has only been a few weeks in the village and I was informed that I would be given a Gambian name to assist with my integration into society and culture here. 

I am a baby here, only a few weeks old, and for a true rebirth, Gambian children are not named till some time after they are born.  At these ceremonies the whole village attends and pays homage, the baby is named, his head is shaved, and then the whole village dances for some time.  So, I was given a small amount of choice in this matter, but I would have to be named after someone in the immediate family.  All Peace Corps volunteers get named after someone in their host family, and in my case I live with a small family and was left with only three choices.  Amat – my host father who is nice, but speaks not a word of English and mumbles Wolof in a rough slang at hundreds of words a minute (needless to say I have not had many meaningful interactions with him), Malik- my younger host brother, he is about 8 and is adorable.  I have taught him to give me high fives, telling him “Jox ma Jerome” which literally means “give me five” which prompts him to follow me around giving me endless hand slaps.  Finally we have Momodu, he is 20 and is finishing senior secondary school, the equivalent of our senior in high school.   Despite incredible adversity is 2^nd in his class of over 50 students, this is made even more impressive by the fact that ever year a large percentage of students are cut from school if they cannot make a high enough grade on a standardized test, which means that he is the cream of the crop.  He speaks incredible English, probably the best in the village aside from our teachers, and wants to be a meteorologist if he can get enough money for university.  I love this kid.  He spends every night helping me with Wolof, and he is always asking me American life is like. 

            So when Haddy told me I had to pick from these three names, I chose Momodu to honor him and our friendship.  I had to make Haddy assure me that I was being named after Momodu, because I understandably had misgivings about being named after the Wolof equivalent/pronunciation of Mohammad.  I told her that I was was generally uncomfortable because I didn’t want to represent a religion of which I have no part in.  Anyway, I attending a naming ceremony where most of the women of the village and some of the men came to watch the peace core trainees of the village, of which there were 8, be given their new identity in the village under their new name.  This of course included authentic African dance.

 In our case, the village was too poor to afford a real drum, so women talently played on empty water jugs called bidongs.  After sitting in a chair and having a man pretend to shave our heads clean, as if we were new babes in the village.  We sat and watched some incredible dancers make their moves in the circle.  Eventually, we were asked to come up one by one and dance in the circle.  This was terrifying to most of us.  Mike was perhaps the most awkward, as 6 ft 5 inch mammoth of 250 pounds, he thundered about and did the slow un-rhythmic tubob stomp. 

As for myself, I had been eagerly awaiting this moment for a year.  After a semester of African dance, a summer of practicing African dance, and another 6 months dreaming of what dancing in West Africa must be like waited till last.  And then when my time came, I went about as crazy as I possibly could go in the middle of the circle.  I danced every move I had ever practiced and gave every bit of myself to that circle.  This was shocking to everyone there, I am certain that the expectation was that another thundering Toubobasourus rex was going to go stamp stamp boom and then sit down.  Everyone went wild, I was quickly mobbed by children and was asked to go up and dance 3 more times with other dancers from the village.  I was nowhere near as good as many of them who had been dancing their whole lives, but I am quite sure that my spectacle was more a function of them never seeing a tall white American man dance African before. This was also enhanced because on the day of my naming ceremony, I was given a bright pink ceremonial dress called a Kaftan, and when this all came together, it made for perhaps the single most incredible cultural experience I have ever had, and certainly the most cultural exchange I could ever hope to deliver.  I am finding that the form of communication that is universal is music and dance. Despite the fact that I cannot communicate in words, I can however dance.

My fellow PCVs have mentioned that their families will constantly talk about my dance spectacle, and I am now followed by kids everywhere who yell “fechal fechal fechal” which is dance dance dance in wolof.  There is endless detail and joy in that day of dancing, very little can be remembered and transcribed in the short time that I get to knock this out on my laptop with a tiny battery life and no electricity, but I hope I gave some life to an experience that truly touched my life.

What I once thought was foreign

“Look, a pack of feral dogs” I commented to Blaine.  Feral dogs in the Gambia seem to be everywhere; they are mangy, covered in fleas, have bent tails and are so sick and malnourished that they are more pitiful than threatening.   Blaine and I were walking to our morning language lesson with our dedicated language teacher Haddy.   As we were walking, I thought how weird it would have sounded to make off hand comments about feral dogs just a few weeks ago.  Now it is already starting to take on a very common, even home like feel.   The rusted tin roofs and sandy front yards, the man hauling logs on a donkey kart, the herds of children everywhere, some with bellies protruding from various deficiencies, the bucket bath of well water, and even the pit latrine do not seem like the horror story I once feared and rather seem only like a different way of life.  The only burden I am feeling is that of expectation in trying to help these kind and generous people.  The task is of such enormity that it is already a little discouraging.  I feel like I have only a few buckets to add to the ocean of service needed to fill The Gambia full.  Health, education, environment, all have so many areas where one could dedicate years in one village to planting trees, improving hygiene practices, educating people, everything.  It is strange to say, but these people paradoxically need very little.  They already have happiness and a kind spirit, so in this way I feel it is more important that we learn from them. Disease, environmental degradation, and education are all areas in desperate need of assistance; however the people are already happy with their way of life, and with making do with what they have.  I was asking what to do with my trash to a long time volunteer and she told me to give it to the kids.  A ball of trash becomes a soccer ball and a bottle with a string tied to it will be drug through the street with laughter for hours.  Here exists a community that has bonds.  “Forget facebook, come to my compound and drink atiea (a strong and sugary green tea brew) with me.” Said Haddy, as me and Blaine described the differences of American and Gambian culture. There is a family and community unit here that is very sacred, everyone gathers outside in the front yard at all times of the day, and everyone is always greeting everyone.  

It fact greetings are the most important thing in The Gambia, if you want to get something done, you must first greet.  How are you?  How is the afternoon?   How is your family?  Is anyone sick?  How are the kids?  Does your body have peace?  There are so many greetings and they are so important that we are taking days to learning all the different ways to greet people. I am only 5 days in, but already I have started to have relatively coherent exchanges in wolof where I pick out the few words I know and then counter it with the few words I know mixed with hand gestures.  I was so excited that I was able to tell my host family that I went to the city and had a wolof lesson today, and that I was about to go run and then take a bucket bath and that then I would sit down.  It was a proud moment.

  As for the run, I have already achieved a yeti status in my village, white people are quite rare, and kids will run with me for entire miles before they get tired yelling toubob toubob (which means both outsider and white skin).  I will dedicate an entire blog post to it soon, but being called toubob all the time everyday is a little taxing.  Peace Corps volunteers who have been here a while, come up with elaborate ways of saying “I am not a tubob, I am a person, my name is ,,,  so scram kid unless you want to be polite to me” all this is of course said in a native tongue.  

          My running does allow me to greet everyone in the village and practice my wolof.  I also have kids constantly gesturing for me to come play football (soccer as I hope you know) with them.  I so far have refused because if I play soccer with kids who can somehow still play with balls of trash and tennis balls, I am certain I will lose badly.

The nights are still a bit restless; I had a nightmare about the gecko.  Mr. 15 minutes of sleep is all I can have you save on your ceiling insurance was at it again, and has taken to a loud munching sound after squeaking for a while.  This is enough to have me hallucinate in my dreams that after slamming the ceiling he came down half crazed and started chewing away at my mosquito net trying to bite me.  The nightmare lasted a good 10 minutes and included a struggle where I tried to smother it with my pillow when it finally got through.  After waking up, I went outside to empty the bladder.  At 4 in the morning, it is eerie to go outside in a West African village, it is almost deafening.  The sound of animals, feral dogs howling and snarling, goats baying, and most distinctly the donkeys. Almost every family has one, and they create a symphony in the night that was described by ET, a long time volunteer who visited us as. the tuskan raiders.  To my surprise, this is exactly what it sounds like, a whole tribe of tuskan raiders eeeehhhrrrrr hrrrrrrrrrr hrrrrrr hrrrrr hrrrr.  This gave me a good chuckle as I went back to my 15 minutes of sleep, followed by my ceiling slamming Geico commercial

Mangee Janga Olof bi, dnuka dnuka.

I am learning the Wolof language slowly slowly.

This is my after note. A few things, I am finally sleeping after finally being habituated to the gecko and I would like to say that I really want to make my next post about what village life is like here and with my family.  Also, I am hoping that I can get pictures up soon of all that I am experiencing.  I love you all and would love to hear from you in the form of letter or email, though I will say that internet is an oasis that rarely appears in this desert.

I'll trade you my wolf spider and raise you a geko!

I got to say goodbye to the little America that Peace Corps orientation had become, and hello to the most profound experience of my life.  In one day I went from not knowing what language I would be learning or where I would be going, to sitting in a small yard covered in sand with chickens and goats.

We have lost one Peace Corps trainee to medical separation.  She was sent home for medical reasons with no warning.  It was a shock for she seemed fine.  There of course was no explanation for privacy reasons.  One can speculate, but I won’t.  One of my favorite fellow volunteer s has been also kept overnight at the med ward with another volunteer for having the flu.  I shared a room with him and now worry that I may be next, but so far so good.

Back to profound experience, late yesterday I found out I’m learning Wolof.  Me and a handful of others were among just a few not to learn the more widespread language of Mandinka.  The idea of the exotic language thrills me, and I hear  in is actually quite useful, as most of the big city speaks wolof as well as the markets, public transportation, and the country of Senegal.  Before I knew it, the next day I was shipped out and was sitting with a small family who aside from the children who knew a few basic phrases of English knew only Wolof.  After basic greetings and introductions (Salaam alekum, Amelekum Salaam , Nanga Def?  Jamma Rek.  Neconga tudda.  Xander la tudda.) I ran out of ammunition and we sat for a long time, I was just pointing at things getting the words for basics, goat = beh, chicken = ghana, water = nou (for this one you make a choking sound at the end).  It was incredible though, and by far the most authentic cultural experience one could ever have.

Hadi our language cultural facilitator told the family everything about me before leaving.  My host mom, Kumbajuuf told me through Hadi that I was now part of the family after I did my best to thank her in the local language and in English through Hadi.  Before leaving Kumbajeef gave Hadi a few worried looks and urgent sounding phrases to which Hadi nodded and looked at me solemnly and said, they did their best to try and kill it but couldn’t… you have a geko in you ceiling I of course not knowing that this was serious said “no problem, I like gekos, their cute.” 

After dinner, I hung my mosquito net, filtered my water and added a few drops of bleach (the water came from a well 10 minutes walk away), I used the pit latrine (literally a hole in the ground where you squat), and climbed in my bed.  Just as I was getting to sleep WEE WEE WEE WEE WEE WEE… the nocturnal geko started screaming… staring our game of Whack O’ Geko that we played all night… I would get up and slam on the ceiling and the geko would go scrambling around in the insulated rafters, I would then try to sleep before he began heckling me again. 

 Enough with humor, I need to get back to the profound and life altering J

I have very little time for this post, so I will sum it up in a poem I wrote this morning.

Tin rusting slowly

Chickens peck the sand

A goat stumbles slowly through the yard

I sit and eat with a beautiful family the dinner of

Ground peanuts and mashed rice

Served in one bowl

We all eat the seasons harvest

The children smile

I am at peace

Yesterday morning I had no idea what I would learn.  I am now living with the last remnants of our tribal roots.  Today I have two more immunizations one in each arm to make about 10 total.  Tonight I have a date with a geko.

Bathroom protocol means finding the wolf spider

Of the 1000 new things that are both wonderful and horrifying, searching for the spider is one of them.  Our room, which is a triple split among three of us PCT (peace corps trainees) has a small bathroom, it has become my practice to find the wolf spider (don’t know if it is, but wolf sounds vicious enough).   It is about the size of a 50 cent piece and scuttles at high speeds to a new corner every time one enters.  At night, pulling back the mosquito net and navigating through the pitch black blind originally produced fear, now produces very little emotional reaction for us, as the giant wood wasps, the vultures that hang out in the trees, the fear of stepping on the deadly Puff Adder, and a general desensitization to all that is foreign is already setting in.  The wolf spider has recently gone missing, leading me to check the toilet seat before I sit.

We are currently undergoing intense daily training sessions that include daily lessons on culture, gardening, language, religion, wildlife, and history.  Yesterday we learned more than we could ever wrap our heads around about sustainable gardening using urine, trash, and animal dung as fertilizer and compost.  Today we learned about the different ethnic groups and languages of the Gambia, and I immersed myself in the different  general greetings and expressions of Wolof (a language which I may learns but just enjoy the rhythmic sound of) Maan chikawaw ndunka ndunka is a common expression saying “I’m on it slowly slowly,“ in response to “How goes the work?” Naka ligeey bi? I will give more updates once I know the language I will be studying which as of now has three possibilities: Mandinka, Pulaar, or Wolof.

Our group is bonding quite well.  It is surprising just how people from the entire spectrum of age, background, and culture have found their way here. On the extremes we have 21-65 year olds, more conservative Christians, and some covered in tattoos smoking smuggled cartons of cigarettes.  We are certainly still figuring each other out and there has been no clear bonding that is exclusive in the group, everyone seems to be relatively free from exclusive friends and the relations are fluid and ever changing.

Technology has been null, I get occasional electricity at our training lodge when the generator is turned on, and there is nothing for many miles outside this place, only small villages and the African bush.  I was shocked to see the extreme expression of poverty here in The Gambia.  Donkeys and carts everywhere, tin huts, poor waste disposal leave trash and broken down vehicles piled on the side of the roadway, and what I believe would be the height of tourist development was really a collage of eroding concrete structures only one or two well built resorts.  The only advertisements on the side of the road are for cell phone companies, they provide interesting incentives such as “Sign up for a plan and win a ram” (an honest incentive, for the touboski rams are highly prized for sacrifice during the touboski festival) and “10 hajj prize packs” (Free trips to Mecca for the pilgrimage).

Tomorrow is a big day, I will interview with the head of the environmental program and we will determine what sight will be the best for me and what I want to do.  Eco tourism, bee keeping for a local community, starting sustainable community gardens, and education projects in schools are all possible directions my Peace Corps service could take, and I am incredibly excited after I have seen the level of training and skill that we are given before we make our journey into our assigned village.

Mostly, I love the people already.  They are incredibly kind and full of love.  They are in touch with their inner animal; they know the sun, the way of growing things, their bodily functions, pests, and predators so well.  And I being only a tuabob (a pale skin as we are called) am just discovering this side of myself for the first time, I feel alive and on the boarder of deep self discovery.

I will hopefully get a phone tomorrow and be able to send this post out on the internet at the Peace Corps head quarters, I will try to include pictures of what I have taken so far. 

About being able to contact me, if want to write me a letter, I would be ecstatic and do my best to respond to anything written to me. My address is as follows

Alexander Kent, PCT (PCV starting march!)

PO Box 582 c/o The Peace Corps

Banjul, The Gambia

West Africa

I would appreciate hearing from home. Email will also work, but the prospects right now seem infrequent. Also, once I have a phone, I would love to hear from you from Skype, I’ve been told it is the cheapest to do a skype to phone connection where you call me, (30 cents a minute is as cheap as I can find sorry) Once I get my number, I would love to hear from you, and promise to bring something back for you for your effort and lost $.  There are some prospects of me dropping big bucks to get a mobile internet card where I could get internet anywhere, but I believe there is much $ involved and the difficulties in charging this beast.

I love you all and will send out a post as soon as I get more word on my language, assignment, and phone number.

Jaama rek (Peace only),

Xander

In a Chicago airport

May I say, i have a wonderful group of enlightened and impassioned people. Every moment brings conversations of life, yoga, meditation, and social activism. Here is a home away from home, a place where the people are of kindred spirit and adventure. In these moments of waiting, there has never been moments of fear, only anticipation. To step outside yourself and find people ready to embrace you on these first intense steps. My plane takes off shortly, I'll be in Gambia soon!