Written for Peace Corps The Gambias June Health Newsletter
Long ago when I was fresh out of training, new to my village and still trying to figure out what the heck I was going to do for two years other than sweat, eat rice and try to set the record for most consecutive boils, I read Nine Hills to Nambonkaha by Sarah Erdman, a former PCV in Cote d'Ivoire. I remember thinking a) this is a lot like being a PCV in The Gambia, b) she is much more funny and eloquent when it comes to describing her experiences than I am and c) the health competition that she does in her village sounds really f-ing cool.
So what was I to do but steal her idea and try to recreate it in Kerr Jarga, hence "Baby Mamas" or "Yow Yaay Yaay" (You are the Mother) was born. I decided that though I liked the model of the Hearth program, positive deviance and mothers learning from each other, that in my community where everyone is in each others business all the time it would be hard to run a program with such obvious benefits to the participants and limit it to ten or twelve women; a larger scale competition, incorporating the Hearth model, with incentives for participation seemed like a better fit for my village. But before I started I felt like I needed to gather more information about how community members perceived their personal health and the health for their children/family. So I invited potential counterparts and key village people (the VDC chairman, CHN, VHW, TBAs, alkali, district chief, literacy instructors and women involved in the skills center) to a village health assessment meeting. From this I was able to gain a better understanding of the health challenges faced by the community and realized that for most mothers of children under five there is a lack of basic knowledge about personal health. Not that the women are stupid--far from it--but they don't understand why things like exclusive breastfeeding or hand washing are important; additionally very rarely do people take the time to explain it to them in a way they can understand.
So from this starting point I developed a project proposal and budget, applied for a Peace Corps Partnership, begged my friends and family for money, received the money and realized, "Shit, now I guess I am actually doing this Baby Mamas thing."
The heart of Baby Mamas is six health lessons, each lesson to be taught twice, dealing with issues identified in the village health assessment, such as RCH and exclusive breastfeeding, nutrition, personal hygiene, environmental sanitation, malaria, and female reproduction and anatomy. For every lesson women attend they get two points if they are on time and one point if they are late. They also can earn points for attending RCH. Due to the women's lack of literacy I included lost of visual aids and games in the lesson plans to encourage better understanding and participation. In writing the lessons I wanted the information to focus on preventative health care and also on the women's personal health. So often they hear about how to properly care for their children but what about themselves? How are they supposed to care for themselves if they get a cut while cooking? Why should women make sure they are eating a balanced diet? And what in the world does the vagina actually look like? I wanted to give them the knowledge to make informed decisions about their health as well as the health of their children.
Once all of the lessons were written it was time to get the women actually excited to come to them. What better way to do that in the Gambia than have a program? After a few, mostly unsuccessful, village sensitization meetings we called everyone in the village for an "opening ceremony" and myself, my two host moms and a bunch of my neighbors kneaded, balled and fried twenty-five kilos of flour into panketo party favors. At the opening ceremony I gave every women who was interested and eligible a green scorecard for the duration of the competition and inshallah if they don't lost them or destroy them I'll collect them at the end to see who has accumulated the most points.
Since the opening ceremony in mid-May we've held three health lessons and we're on track to get the bulk of the lessons done by the end of June. I have been blown away by class attendance, usually around ninety women each day. My counterpart, Papa Sam, a Public Health Officer at the health center near me has been teaching the lessons and he has really embraced using games and visual aides in the health lessons. The other day at the end of the nutrition game he actually said, "That was fun." The women have learned that if they're on time they get more points so they have started actually showing up on time. Of course having ninety loud Wolof women in one room can be a bit difficult to control but slowly they are starting to embrace the four class rules, 1) listen 2) raise your hand 3) one person talks at a time and 4) work together.
So what have I learned so far?First, I've realized that readjusting expectations is healthy and necessary. I initially wanted a high level of participation for men in addition to women, sending the message that health is every ones concern, not just women's. That level of buy-in would be great but is a long way off. I've come to see that they lack of men allows the women to act more freely. They are less shy about raising their hands and speaking up; and men don't have a chance to dominate the conversation. They have taken ownership of their "school" and the lesson space as a place for them to be together and discuss things in a way that gender roles might not otherwise allow.Second, use your toubab power for good. Baby Mamas has worked because its a completely new idea and format for health education in Kerr Jarga and people know that I'm the one who has been organizing it. I used to be concerned because Baby Mamas events were always referred to as "Ramatoulie's" this or that but then I realized that labeling things in this way gave Baby Mamas a higher status than just another village program. People came and participated because it was associated with me. I think many people are still confused about how the competition actually works but they continue to come to the lessons because of the "toubab tipping point." They want to see what ridiculous thing I will do, what strange drawings I will have made on perfectly good rice bags or what Wolof word I will mispronounce. Rather than getting annoyed by the fact that I'm the butt of most jokes I am embracing this as just one of the ways I con the women in my village into learning more about health.Finally, I have learned "it will be what it will be" so just go with it, stressing out does nobody any good. All I can do is try to write good health lessons, explain to counterparts why I think health education is needed in my village, tell the women how important this information is to them, and then let the chips fall where they may. There have been lots of false starts and definitely a few failures because of this approach but for all of those there have equally been great successes. When the women realized that just because something is more expensive, i.e. sugar and bread, it doesn't mean its better for you or when all ninety women chanted "We should exclusively breastfeed for good birth spacing in Kerr Jarga" --well if that's not a Peace Corps fist pump moment I don't know what is.
With three lessons down and nine more to go we've got a lot more ground to cover, and that ground includes the vagina apron, but I'm confident that in the end the women in my village will have increased their knowledge about personal health and will have some rad, shiny new bowls, buckets and pans to show for it.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
25 Kilos of Flour Later....
Written on May 13th, 2011
Today after probably a year of working and thinking and hoping and doubting was the opening ceremony of my Baby Mamas health competition. As I had anticipated it was a busy and at times annoying and stressful day but despite the ups and downs and all the "Gambian-ess" along the way it happened and I do genuinely feel like the village is jazzed for the health competition. So though I don't usually do this I'm going to walk you through my day.
I woke up earlier than I wanted to--around 7 am--because for some inexplicable reason Mam Goor was wailing. I finally rolled out of bed and flowed through a little yoga while listening to Girltalk. After yoga was a quick breakfast of oatmeal with peanut butter and Gambian honey. As I was brushing my teeth at around 9 my Yaay Amie came to the door frantically urging me to hurry before the sun gets hot. So myself and my host aunt and two sisters rushed over to the skill center to pick up all the supplies to make "chapati" (which is basically a less greasy version of a donut hole). 25 kilos of flour were quickly up on my host aunts head and then deposited in our compound along with a HUGE cooking pot, two big buckets and sieve like spoon. While my moms sifted the flour I was off to the bitik for 11 kilos of sugar, a can of sweetened condensed milk and 100 sugar packets of "sucre vanile." By the time I made it back to my compound the flour was sifted and we were all sitting around in the dirt getting ready to make a quantity of "donuts" usually only associated with large bakeries. A side note on cooking here--everyone cooks basically the same ten dishes but despite that fact there is always much debate that goes on about how things should be made. I found out that this debate/argument is increased vastly with baked goods/seldom cooked items. So after much discussion and missteps, and thirty cracked eggs we were all elbow deep (and buy all I mean everyone but me because I "don't know" and "my arms aren't strong") in two large, maybe 2 feet in diameter, buckets full of dough, kneading it into a gooey, sweet blob. From there two big pots full of oil were set up over cooking fires and we set to rolling and frying our buckets of dough into small balls. It sound laborious and tedious, which it is, but it is also a ton of fun. Our compound was the place to hangout so women were coming by all morning to sit and chant and ball/fry some dough which they were at it. Kids run around playing and stealing bites, babies cry, attaya is brewed and we all sweat and chase shade because I don't know if you heard, the sun is hot. By lunch time we've taken 25 kilos of flour, 11 kilos of sugar, 30 eggs, 2 big cans of condensed milk and 10 litre of oil into three pans, two feet in diameter buckets, full of hot, greasy, sugary and delicious chapati. We all break for lunch, I hurriedly take a bath and then we form an assembly line in my house putting 4 to 6 chapatis into little plastic bags because "it is more civilized."
At 4:30 pm I rush over to the skills center. I'm only 30 minutes late for our "4 pm" meeting which means that really I am an hour and thirty minutes early. But god forbid my relatively easy morning of baked goods transition into a calm and easy afternoon meeting. A government agency has decided yesterday to have a meeting at the skills center today at 2 pm which means by 4 pm they had actually started and when people started coming for my meeting at 5 pm they were in the heart of their meeting. After a few tense moments and some needless freak outs over things like making juice and to make or not make attaya the meeting is dispersed and we set up chairs and tables at the back of the skills center. The women gathers around the table expectantly and we all sit in "civilized" silence waiting for the district chief to come. When he does show up he sticks his head out the back door and greets us all before taking his leave, which means finally at 6 pm we start.
Once the meeting had started I knew I was in the home stretch. I gave my preplanned explanation of the competition in Wolof and then our invited guests from the health center and ADWAC spoke. Afterwards everyone was given a chance to speak and the usual cast of characters added in their two sense but the most special thing (for me) was that my host mom Yaay Amie spoke about how grateful my compound is that I am here and helping them and the village. It was a big moment because Gambians are not ones to often or freely give praise, they tend to focus more on things that haven't been done (you didn't buy butter) or comparison (orange is a better flavor of juice than pineapple). So for here to praise me so publicly was really special especially because she never has said anything like that to me before. It was a very special moment for me. The big finale of the opening ceremony was giving the women their competition score cards and handing out the chapati and juice. Not surprisingly the score cards were kind of a shit show. But everyone who needed/wanted one got one. After the business part of the ceremony was finished the women gathered in a big circle and danced. Though brief (about 30 minutes) as they danced, shook their butts and flashed their thighs I could feel so much joy in the circle that it was worth all of the earlier work and frustration. The women kept exclaiming, "Look at Ramatoulie, she cannot stop smiling." and it was true.
Today after probably a year of working and thinking and hoping and doubting was the opening ceremony of my Baby Mamas health competition. As I had anticipated it was a busy and at times annoying and stressful day but despite the ups and downs and all the "Gambian-ess" along the way it happened and I do genuinely feel like the village is jazzed for the health competition. So though I don't usually do this I'm going to walk you through my day.
I woke up earlier than I wanted to--around 7 am--because for some inexplicable reason Mam Goor was wailing. I finally rolled out of bed and flowed through a little yoga while listening to Girltalk. After yoga was a quick breakfast of oatmeal with peanut butter and Gambian honey. As I was brushing my teeth at around 9 my Yaay Amie came to the door frantically urging me to hurry before the sun gets hot. So myself and my host aunt and two sisters rushed over to the skill center to pick up all the supplies to make "chapati" (which is basically a less greasy version of a donut hole). 25 kilos of flour were quickly up on my host aunts head and then deposited in our compound along with a HUGE cooking pot, two big buckets and sieve like spoon. While my moms sifted the flour I was off to the bitik for 11 kilos of sugar, a can of sweetened condensed milk and 100 sugar packets of "sucre vanile." By the time I made it back to my compound the flour was sifted and we were all sitting around in the dirt getting ready to make a quantity of "donuts" usually only associated with large bakeries. A side note on cooking here--everyone cooks basically the same ten dishes but despite that fact there is always much debate that goes on about how things should be made. I found out that this debate/argument is increased vastly with baked goods/seldom cooked items. So after much discussion and missteps, and thirty cracked eggs we were all elbow deep (and buy all I mean everyone but me because I "don't know" and "my arms aren't strong") in two large, maybe 2 feet in diameter, buckets full of dough, kneading it into a gooey, sweet blob. From there two big pots full of oil were set up over cooking fires and we set to rolling and frying our buckets of dough into small balls. It sound laborious and tedious, which it is, but it is also a ton of fun. Our compound was the place to hangout so women were coming by all morning to sit and chant and ball/fry some dough which they were at it. Kids run around playing and stealing bites, babies cry, attaya is brewed and we all sweat and chase shade because I don't know if you heard, the sun is hot. By lunch time we've taken 25 kilos of flour, 11 kilos of sugar, 30 eggs, 2 big cans of condensed milk and 10 litre of oil into three pans, two feet in diameter buckets, full of hot, greasy, sugary and delicious chapati. We all break for lunch, I hurriedly take a bath and then we form an assembly line in my house putting 4 to 6 chapatis into little plastic bags because "it is more civilized."
At 4:30 pm I rush over to the skills center. I'm only 30 minutes late for our "4 pm" meeting which means that really I am an hour and thirty minutes early. But god forbid my relatively easy morning of baked goods transition into a calm and easy afternoon meeting. A government agency has decided yesterday to have a meeting at the skills center today at 2 pm which means by 4 pm they had actually started and when people started coming for my meeting at 5 pm they were in the heart of their meeting. After a few tense moments and some needless freak outs over things like making juice and to make or not make attaya the meeting is dispersed and we set up chairs and tables at the back of the skills center. The women gathers around the table expectantly and we all sit in "civilized" silence waiting for the district chief to come. When he does show up he sticks his head out the back door and greets us all before taking his leave, which means finally at 6 pm we start.
Once the meeting had started I knew I was in the home stretch. I gave my preplanned explanation of the competition in Wolof and then our invited guests from the health center and ADWAC spoke. Afterwards everyone was given a chance to speak and the usual cast of characters added in their two sense but the most special thing (for me) was that my host mom Yaay Amie spoke about how grateful my compound is that I am here and helping them and the village. It was a big moment because Gambians are not ones to often or freely give praise, they tend to focus more on things that haven't been done (you didn't buy butter) or comparison (orange is a better flavor of juice than pineapple). So for here to praise me so publicly was really special especially because she never has said anything like that to me before. It was a very special moment for me. The big finale of the opening ceremony was giving the women their competition score cards and handing out the chapati and juice. Not surprisingly the score cards were kind of a shit show. But everyone who needed/wanted one got one. After the business part of the ceremony was finished the women gathered in a big circle and danced. Though brief (about 30 minutes) as they danced, shook their butts and flashed their thighs I could feel so much joy in the circle that it was worth all of the earlier work and frustration. The women kept exclaiming, "Look at Ramatoulie, she cannot stop smiling." and it was true.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Gossiping In Gambia
Written on April 21st, 2011
I am a fan of gossip. For better or worse this is a well known fact about me. When I began gossiping, in Wolof, to Gambians, this is when I knew that I had truly arrived here.
Last Saturday the Pulaar baker who rents the hut next to me came out of his house around 9 am and it was clear something was wrong. He looked up at the sky blankly and when we asked him what was wrong he didn't respond. He promptly left the compound but it didn't take long for word to get back to us that he was wandering around the village, walking around in circles, being followed by a pack of children like the Pied Piper. My host mom turned to me and very frankly said, "He's crazy now now." About an hour later he was finally escorted back to my compound by a group of men from the village. They got him into the house and quickly about fifteen people were crowding around the door, peering over each other heads trying to get a look at him. So--basically--in the span of a few hours my neighbor had gone crazy. I left soon after taht to attend a program in a nearby village but heard when I got back that he wandered about the compound all day and night. By Monday morning his older brother had come to pick him up and take him back to their home village. I haven't been able to come up with a logical/scientific explanation for what happened, maybe he took the wrong combination of traditional medicine and was on a really bad trip. But the explanation that everyone has been giving is that one of his brothers, who lives in Guinea Conakry, wanted him to come and help him farm and since he refused the brother set a voodoo spell on him. Seems just as likely an explanation as anything.
So where has the gossiping come in. I found myself telling my story to anyone who would listen, with my punch line being "Isn't that so strange!" So lets consider me publishing this story on my blog as an act of cross cultural and continental gossip.
xoxo Gossip Girl in The Gambia
I am a fan of gossip. For better or worse this is a well known fact about me. When I began gossiping, in Wolof, to Gambians, this is when I knew that I had truly arrived here.
Last Saturday the Pulaar baker who rents the hut next to me came out of his house around 9 am and it was clear something was wrong. He looked up at the sky blankly and when we asked him what was wrong he didn't respond. He promptly left the compound but it didn't take long for word to get back to us that he was wandering around the village, walking around in circles, being followed by a pack of children like the Pied Piper. My host mom turned to me and very frankly said, "He's crazy now now." About an hour later he was finally escorted back to my compound by a group of men from the village. They got him into the house and quickly about fifteen people were crowding around the door, peering over each other heads trying to get a look at him. So--basically--in the span of a few hours my neighbor had gone crazy. I left soon after taht to attend a program in a nearby village but heard when I got back that he wandered about the compound all day and night. By Monday morning his older brother had come to pick him up and take him back to their home village. I haven't been able to come up with a logical/scientific explanation for what happened, maybe he took the wrong combination of traditional medicine and was on a really bad trip. But the explanation that everyone has been giving is that one of his brothers, who lives in Guinea Conakry, wanted him to come and help him farm and since he refused the brother set a voodoo spell on him. Seems just as likely an explanation as anything.
So where has the gossiping come in. I found myself telling my story to anyone who would listen, with my punch line being "Isn't that so strange!" So lets consider me publishing this story on my blog as an act of cross cultural and continental gossip.
xoxo Gossip Girl in The Gambia
Will You Be My Baby Mama?
Written on April 17th, 2011
Here's a good Peace Corps riddle for you: What's a more motivating force than helping the people in your community???? Having friends and family in the US forking over $$$ for your community.
Not long ago as you all may remember I put out a plea for donations to a community health competition I want to organize in my village. The outpouring of support was amazing (Thank you all!!) and within no time I had the money I needed--at which point I found myself thinking--"Shit, I guess I do actually have to do this now." because so many ideas and projects here often tail to even make it off the ground I find myself often pleasantly surprised when things work out.
I already place a lot of pressure and expectations on myself to succeed. That is just who I am and here it is merely amplified by my sense of purpose and urgency when it comes to helping my village. However great this commitment of mine is the downside is that it leads me to set high expectations for myself and those around me that are most often incredibly difficult or impossible to achieve. Not that the Gambia isn't full of people with a sense of drive and purpose which makes it easy for them to go above and beyond expectations, yet the reality is that a motto I've had to adopt since I have arrived is "lower your expectations."
The process of actually commencing the "Baby Mamas" or "Yow Yaay Yaay" health competition has really necessitated and put to the test this idea. For example, this past week I called a village meeting to introduce the competition. I imagined a picturesque community meeting with 100s of villagers. The village elders would all sit on plastic chairs in their grand boubous with small children at their feet, the women would be animated and engaged and make profound statements about the struggles they face in maintaining their personal health. In reality, an hour and a half after the meeting was supposed to start we had one participant. Finally around 7 pm (the meeting was supposed to happen at 5 pm) we had about 30 old women (not our target group of mothers with children under 5), half of whom couldn't talk because they were so busy praying with their prayer beads. No men were there and in the end I had about 50 "old women" and 20 mothers, so much for all the village diversity.
So by all accounts this village meeting was very far from what I had hoped for and imagined. But it did cause me to check myself and not necessarily lower but readjust my expectations. While developing my health competition I had high hopes for what if would achieve. I wanted to teach the women of my village about health and I imagined packed meetings and lots of participation. I'm realizing though that maybe I need to focus on the fact that if I can get 10 women to come and truly participate, to ask questions and teach others than that is an achievement enough. I'm sure as this project continues I will find myself with many more situations of disappointment when what I imagined isn't what I get. But in the end I will learn just as much in the failures as I do in the successes. So stay tuned to the Baby Mamas saga--next up is the opening ceremony!
Here's a good Peace Corps riddle for you: What's a more motivating force than helping the people in your community???? Having friends and family in the US forking over $$$ for your community.
Not long ago as you all may remember I put out a plea for donations to a community health competition I want to organize in my village. The outpouring of support was amazing (Thank you all!!) and within no time I had the money I needed--at which point I found myself thinking--"Shit, I guess I do actually have to do this now." because so many ideas and projects here often tail to even make it off the ground I find myself often pleasantly surprised when things work out.
I already place a lot of pressure and expectations on myself to succeed. That is just who I am and here it is merely amplified by my sense of purpose and urgency when it comes to helping my village. However great this commitment of mine is the downside is that it leads me to set high expectations for myself and those around me that are most often incredibly difficult or impossible to achieve. Not that the Gambia isn't full of people with a sense of drive and purpose which makes it easy for them to go above and beyond expectations, yet the reality is that a motto I've had to adopt since I have arrived is "lower your expectations."
The process of actually commencing the "Baby Mamas" or "Yow Yaay Yaay" health competition has really necessitated and put to the test this idea. For example, this past week I called a village meeting to introduce the competition. I imagined a picturesque community meeting with 100s of villagers. The village elders would all sit on plastic chairs in their grand boubous with small children at their feet, the women would be animated and engaged and make profound statements about the struggles they face in maintaining their personal health. In reality, an hour and a half after the meeting was supposed to start we had one participant. Finally around 7 pm (the meeting was supposed to happen at 5 pm) we had about 30 old women (not our target group of mothers with children under 5), half of whom couldn't talk because they were so busy praying with their prayer beads. No men were there and in the end I had about 50 "old women" and 20 mothers, so much for all the village diversity.
So by all accounts this village meeting was very far from what I had hoped for and imagined. But it did cause me to check myself and not necessarily lower but readjust my expectations. While developing my health competition I had high hopes for what if would achieve. I wanted to teach the women of my village about health and I imagined packed meetings and lots of participation. I'm realizing though that maybe I need to focus on the fact that if I can get 10 women to come and truly participate, to ask questions and teach others than that is an achievement enough. I'm sure as this project continues I will find myself with many more situations of disappointment when what I imagined isn't what I get. But in the end I will learn just as much in the failures as I do in the successes. So stay tuned to the Baby Mamas saga--next up is the opening ceremony!
One Wedding and One Funeral
Written on April 5th, 2011
I got back to village on Monday morning after a two week jaunt around the Gambia with my mom and dad. I was expecting it to be a big and busy Gambian day but I didn't realize how busy or big it would be until I was walking into village, towards the skills center and my compound and I heard the wailing. A man in the compound next to mine who had been ill for a while had just died. Everyone was ashen and silent they sprung into action bringing chairs over to the compound and stringing up tarps for shade. To make the situation crazier a young women in the compound on the other side of mine was getting married at exactly the same time as all the funeral arrangements were going on. But this was in no way a fun rom-com starring Hugh Grant. I watched curiously as grief and happiness coexisted, as they often do in the Gambia.
The two programs were quickly divided between the young and the old. All the young people from our side of the village, including me, went to the wedding for the morning and the majority of the adults went to help with the funeral and burial. Not surprisingly everyone at the wedding was talking about the death and kept saying "Tey Kerr Jarga, neexoot dara." "Today Kerr Jarga is not nice at all." The wedding dd not feature any of the drums or dancing that traditionally accompany a wedding ceremony but the food was still plentiful and everyone got dressed to the nines. Around 1 pm we all went home and took a break from the wedding, I slept in the heat of the day and woke up at 5 pm as they were preparing to take the body to the village cemetery for burial. Men in traditional complets and women all with big shawls over their heads gathered in the compound and everyone started "wailing"--it sounds kind of like saying "laay laay eee laay laay" over and over again. The men took the body on a procession through the village and the women stayed in the compound and wailed. I watched from a respectful distance and thought about how much I admire Gambians sense of community--no matter how close you were to this person he was someones son, someones husband and his death is worth a little time and wailing to support his family. I also appreciate how no one here questions participating: you just go, give a small charity to the family, because that's the right thing to do.
After all the wailing passed I put on a complet and went to watch the bride get made up in all of her wedding finery. Makeup here is definitely what we would describe as over the top. Painted on eyebrows, bright coloured eye shadow last popular in the 80s and fake eyelashes. Somehow though, maybe I've just lived here to long, but they manage to pull it off. Photos of the finished product and then we were off to her new house in her husbands compound. Usually there would be lots of singing and dancing but this was a quiet and respectful affair. She greeted all the assembled guests and they showed off all the gifts she had brought with her to the compound. We ate rice and coos coos and I went home to reflect.
Though every commented about it in passing everyone just accepted that the two programs just had to coexist. Just as grief and happiness can go hand and hand in the Gambia, so too I learned can a wedding and a funeral.
I got back to village on Monday morning after a two week jaunt around the Gambia with my mom and dad. I was expecting it to be a big and busy Gambian day but I didn't realize how busy or big it would be until I was walking into village, towards the skills center and my compound and I heard the wailing. A man in the compound next to mine who had been ill for a while had just died. Everyone was ashen and silent they sprung into action bringing chairs over to the compound and stringing up tarps for shade. To make the situation crazier a young women in the compound on the other side of mine was getting married at exactly the same time as all the funeral arrangements were going on. But this was in no way a fun rom-com starring Hugh Grant. I watched curiously as grief and happiness coexisted, as they often do in the Gambia.
The two programs were quickly divided between the young and the old. All the young people from our side of the village, including me, went to the wedding for the morning and the majority of the adults went to help with the funeral and burial. Not surprisingly everyone at the wedding was talking about the death and kept saying "Tey Kerr Jarga, neexoot dara." "Today Kerr Jarga is not nice at all." The wedding dd not feature any of the drums or dancing that traditionally accompany a wedding ceremony but the food was still plentiful and everyone got dressed to the nines. Around 1 pm we all went home and took a break from the wedding, I slept in the heat of the day and woke up at 5 pm as they were preparing to take the body to the village cemetery for burial. Men in traditional complets and women all with big shawls over their heads gathered in the compound and everyone started "wailing"--it sounds kind of like saying "laay laay eee laay laay" over and over again. The men took the body on a procession through the village and the women stayed in the compound and wailed. I watched from a respectful distance and thought about how much I admire Gambians sense of community--no matter how close you were to this person he was someones son, someones husband and his death is worth a little time and wailing to support his family. I also appreciate how no one here questions participating: you just go, give a small charity to the family, because that's the right thing to do.
After all the wailing passed I put on a complet and went to watch the bride get made up in all of her wedding finery. Makeup here is definitely what we would describe as over the top. Painted on eyebrows, bright coloured eye shadow last popular in the 80s and fake eyelashes. Somehow though, maybe I've just lived here to long, but they manage to pull it off. Photos of the finished product and then we were off to her new house in her husbands compound. Usually there would be lots of singing and dancing but this was a quiet and respectful affair. She greeted all the assembled guests and they showed off all the gifts she had brought with her to the compound. We ate rice and coos coos and I went home to reflect.
Though every commented about it in passing everyone just accepted that the two programs just had to coexist. Just as grief and happiness can go hand and hand in the Gambia, so too I learned can a wedding and a funeral.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
What We Did On Our Winter Vacation
Written on April 1st, 2011 A special guest blog by Mam Lamin Cham aka David Green aka My Dad Most importantly, we made it. Three months and three attempts, but it worked. It did actually snow the morning we left but only flurries and we arrived on schedule to find Lindsey at the airport. We were all too excited for words. Then the fun really started. What does one do in the Gambia--The Smiling Coast of Africa? Settling In PCVs are given a chance to "settle in" so that's what we did. Three nights at Mama's--a typical local hotel run by a expatriate, with lots of walking and talking and meeting friends, and visiting Lindsey's haunts, both professional (the Peace Corps office, the bank) and personal (a local bar called with great irony, The Scottish Embassy). It was great fun to be a PCV again. Within 24 hours we were drinking beer (Julbrew) and talking about Gambian customs, digestion and food. From there we moved up country, local transport, to Lindsey's village--Kerr Jarga Jobe. Language and Culture In KJJ we were at Lindsey's mercy. There, she is Ramatoulie, and she speaks Wolof 24/7. It's amazing. She waggles her finger, shakes her pony tail and her butt , and makes jokes. The kids giggle as she tickles them, the teenagers demand to borrow her lotions and ointments, the old ladies joke about everything, and the moms correct her. Everyone chatters and joke. We spend hours--literally--walking about the dusty village, greeting everyone. Lindsey patiently explains culture, custom, language, good, agriculture and trades, while translating. We are in awe. Its hot, really hot, from 11 to 5 so we sit and chase spots of shade around the compound, drinking "attaya", green tea boiled, reboiled, and poured over and over again so it gets foamy and cool. Everyone welcomes us very warmly and naturally. They are honored to have us but treat us like family, just like they treat Ramatoulie. They take care of her in every way and she reciprocates. The kids are great--handsome and fun--and the Dad, Baay Waly, watches out for her and respects her at the same time. The whole trip is great but the four days in KJJ are really amazing. Culture and Development Being in KJJ with Lindsey we are reminded of so much, including the difficulties of cross-cultural understanding. She tells us of how she works with the skills center on planning, meetings, agendas, and organization. Then she walked in one day to find the staff cutting the meeting tables in half so they could use them for the sewing machines. She went home to read a book. A sensible reaction from all parties. This isn't easy stuff, but we keep trying to understand one another and that's what counts. Moving and Waiting Patience is key--we move, and wait, and wait and move. Everything is late and takes longer than anticipated. We leave KJJ to ride boats up and down the river. We look at birds which are incredible even for non-birders like us. Peggy and Lindsey catch up on girl time, which poor Peggy has surely missed for a year and a half. And we all think about Casey and we're sorry it didn't work out for him to come, but we think about him tearing it up in Peru and we know he'd be happy for us. Then She Ate What??? We spend quite a bit of time talking about, planning for, and eating food. Lindsey is decidedly no longer a vegetarian. She now renounces it completely and totally. She eats great quantities of everything and with great relish. She has dreams about bacon. Day-old goat is not an issue. She claims to have a super amoeba that trumps all the lesser amoebas. Even David blanches at the story about the monitor lizard--we are not making this up. And We Laughed and Laughed Most importantly, we had fun, and we laughed because ultimately that's what its all about. We got a brief but telling glimpse into another world and it was a lot of fun. We are grateful. The Gambians say good things are "nice-nice" and "its nice to be nice." Healthy sentiments. Jerejef--Thank you!
"Meaningful Work"
Written on March 19th, 2011 I spent last week at a Peace Corps The Gambia All Volunteer conference. We spent a lot of time talking about being a "high performance post," volunteers needing to have "meaningful work" and Peace Corps 50th Anniversary. All this talk, and an article from the New Yorker, written by Paul Hesser (just sent to me by my Dad) have caused me to pause and consider what the legacy of Peace Corps service is in Peace Corps countries, like the Gambia. I know it is probably a bit self-important to assume that my personal experience at one post can speak for the Peace Corps legacy as a whole. But in the spirit of 50th anniversary generalization I am going to take a risk and try my hand at answering the question--"What is the legacy of Peace Corps?" Since I cam to PC The Gambia I have heard a lot about PCV performance. When you research the Peace Corps you come across a handful of books and articles. These tell the stories of a small proportion of PCVs who, due to a combination of charisma, intelligence, infrastructure, resources and sheer good luck have served their communities in amazing ways and created visible change (they build schools, dig wells, start health centers) that they, or someone else, has been able to document and publicize. These volunteers are 1) amazing and 2) offer a great image of the Peace Corps to the world. But for every one volunteer who publish a book highlighting their amazing service there are hundreds whose service is not marked by measurable work or achievements but whose service and impact is no less important. I think PC has been around for 50 years because of both types of volunteers. One really cannot exist without the other. In my post alone we have volunteers with 9 to 5 jobs and projects to bring clean water to entire villages, we also have volunteers who spend their days socializing, go to sell milk at the local market with friends, play with babies and one volunteer who spent a large part of their service hanging out with one women, becoming such close friends that they were able to come out to the women before they left, in a country where homosexuality is extremely taboo. It is these stories of service that I most relate to and that I more and more am coming to see as Peace Corps 5o year legacy. I recognize the importance of meaningful work and a measurable impact as a way to ensure US taxpayer dollars are being spent effectively and that the talents of PCVs are being used but the reality is, often, we need to focus on the personal relationships we establish and see this as our legacy. I read somewhere recently that PCVs often get disillusioned with tradition notions of development and down play their impact, claiming "the people I served impacted me more than I changed them"--the author claimed that this all came from a place of unfounded modesty--I however can related to both these sentiments. And rather than coming from a place of modesty I think it all comes from a place which seeks to recognize the equality between the PCV and those they serve. I have an incredibly hard time receiving praise here because I feel my community members deserve equal (if not greater praise) everyday. So....taking all this into account, what is the 50 year legacy of Peace Corps according to Lindsey Green? As hippy-dippy as it may sound it is love and equality. If I leave anything behind I hope my family and community knows that I love and care for them. Despite the fact that I won some cosmic jackpot and was born an American it doesn't make me any better or worse than anyone else. By living in and becoming a member of a community PCVs attempt to serve from a place of equality rather than a place of outsider-ness or superiority. If the legacy of PC is anything it is that America is a country that produces many people who want to spread love and understanding through service. I would love to write a book about fundamentally changing the access to health care in my community but I would also be OK if my entire service could be summed up by simply drawing a big heart.
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