L is for Leaving

i should have started this alphabet thing a little earlier, i suppose. we're only at L and it's time for me to go! i left my village for good friday, within a day or so exactly 2 years from when i first arrived there. it was hard to leave, as i am sure you can imagine. there were tears, and not all of them were mine. saying goodbye is never easy, and in a situation like this where you don't know when or if you will ever see the person again, it becomes even harder. also, gambians have a different perception of how to say goodbye. they don't like to do it. a full half of my host family left the compound just minutes before i did, wordlessly, so they wouldn't have to see me go. the rest of them could barely look me in the eye. a few cried, and hugged me, but that was far from the norm. i am very glad i learned before that day they were not going to stay put for what i see as a normal goodbye, or i would have been offended. it's a sort of a compliment, it turns out, it means they are so upset they can not face you. otherwise they would stay. but very opposite from the american mindset, which is that goodbye is really important, and you could really offend someone by not saying goodbye to then, as it is a sign you are insignificant in their lives. i don't doubt, in any way, that i was a part of these people's lives.

i know i still am.

and now, i am finishing up the paperwork and the packing, getting ready to leave the Gambia. but don't put up your eyeglasses just yet, dear reader, for my african adventure is not over. from Gambia i will be going to Dakar (but only for 4 days) and then setting out to Ghana(!!!!!!!!!!!!) for 2 and a half weeks. Once Ghana has been good and seen, i'll continue on to Morocco (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), then take the ferry over to Spain (!!!!!!!!!!!!), where I will while away the days in as european of a fashion i can muster, before finally returning home (!!!!!!!!!!! !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) to my family. so as long as i'm still technically across the Atlantic (and maybe even a few weeks after i'm not) i plan on maintaining this blog. so keep on checking for the same infrequent posting schedule, and see if you'll be first to know whether or not i saw elephants in Mole, or sea turtles in Butre, or learned more Arabic in Fez. I might even post pictures of the dolphins that supposedly frolic in the wake of the ferry to Gibraltar.

if you're lucky.

K is for Kankaroung

This week's blog post is brought to you by the letter K.

K was a tough choice, mostly because I am completely brain-fried and can't remember anything that starts with the letter K. But never fear, I was struck by inspiration, in the form of a man dressed is grass carrying machetes.

Ah yes, the kankaroung (pronounced kang-ka-ron). Not only a cultural icon, but also the punishment threat to the many children residing in the Gambia, as there is no Santa Claus to pretend to call. Allow me to elaborate.

The kankaroung traditionally comes around during male circumcision ceremonies to keep women and girls away from the places in the bush where the initiates are. However, kankaroungs can also be called upon to ward off evil and generally scare the pants off of everyone. They also can assist the villages in getting rid of demons or lawbreakers. For example, if a man is known to be committing repeated acts of adultery with a powerful man's wife, he can call upon the kankaroung to drive the offender out of the village.

What makes the kankaroung so powerful? It is indeed a deep mystery. On the surface, it is a man dressed in a suit of grass (usually) wielding two probably dull machetes and roaming around moaning. Sometimes he is more elaborately dressed in a suit of leaves, which are rumored to be potent hallunicagins that he chews while he is in character. Sometimes he is tame, and attends ceremonies where he entertains the people by dancing and flying. Each village's kankaroung is usually 3 or more men who take turns donning the suit and walking the streets of the village at night (and sometimes during the day), keeping the evil away, and then waking the women up at the crack of dawn to cook breakfast for the boys being circumcised. They don't do anything quietly.

Kankaroungs are different in different villages. They have been known to beat women and girls who come to close to the initiates with the blunt end of their machetes. But usually they are more for show, creating a general hubris. When people hear the clanking of the machetes and the moaning of the kankaroung, they run into their houses and hide until he has passed by. One PCV's family had their lunch stolen by the kankaroung, as he made his rounds right before lunch time and they were cowering in their houses when he passed by. Children are generally terrified of the kankaroung, and some women as well. Most people laugh it off, but they would not like to meet one alone on the village paths at night. A male friend told me he never fears the kankaroung because he can call it by it's secret name and calm it (a name I shall not repeat here), but the kankaroung is best avoided when it's on the prowl.

And it's a great source of distraction. Often when a small child is crying or acting stubborn, an elder family member will shout "Kankaroung ka na lee!" (literally, the kankaroung is coming!) and sprint into the house. Sometimes the child is so distracted he or she will stop crying to look for him, or just run into the house. Mothers will even tell their children, "if you don't behave i'm going to have the kankaroung come here tonight." So it's similar to Santa, except with machetes instead of coal.

Sinister Santa.

In the past, the kankaroungs were a lot wilder. Now they are mostly symbolic, and much less of a threat to the average Gambian. Rouge kankargoungs still occur, but they are rare, and people always know when one is around, and give you fair warning. It is one aspect of the culture you have to appreciate from afar, but should be appreciated nonetheless.

J is Jollyphonics

Ah, developing countries. They are not easy places to live, but they are hotbeds of innovation. I recently read an EXCELLENT book, The Boy Who Harnessed the Wind, about a young Malawian boy who is forced to drop out of school because of his extreme poverty and uses his time to invent a windmill that brings his home electricity. He learns the principles by studying old physics textbooks. It's a truly inspiring story, and it got me thinking about how amazing the human mind is when it responds to adverse circumstances.

And then there's jollyphonics.

Jollyphonics were invented to help children learn the more difficult sounds in the english language, with an emphasis on the ones that don't appear in the local languages here. This is done by teaching the children songs that place an emphasis on the sounds (think that song from our preschool days, I like to eat, eat, eat apples and bananas). I think the concept behind jollyphonics is an excellent idea. When paired with explanations, sounding out words, and the other tools that help beginning readers and speakers, jollyphonics would be an immensely helpful tool in teaching youngsters to read and speak. However, once the teachers here learn jollyphonics, they typically (not all, but quite the majority) use only the jollyphonic songs and somehow manage to tune out the chaos around them and not do anything for the rest of the lesson. Another interesting twist is most of the teachers themselves do not pronounce the sounds correctly so the result is tainted from the get go. The kids generally manage to distort the true purpose even further, winding up with a song that is very far from the original.

But they love them. They love to sing the jollyphonics songs. Over. And over. And over again. Here's an example, for the letter "a"

Ants, ants, ants on my arm.
Ants, ants, ants on my arm.
Ants, ants, ants on my arm, they're causing me alarm!

Here is what my younger host siblings say:

Ats, ats, ats on me arm
Ats, ats, ats on marm
Ats, NTS, ats on marm, they cousin me alam!

So you can see they are missing a bit of the point. Now, it's not at all uncommon for people to misremember songs here (head and soldiers, knees and toes?) but when the entire point of the song is to pronounce things correctly and they butcher it, it's a little less amusing. That being said, I am not ready to give up on the idea of jollyphonics. They could be an excellent tool for all students if monitored properly. However, I am more than done with listening to them. Every. Day.

I is for Internet?

Internet?
We have it here in the Gambia. Sort of. Let me go over your options (assuming you're a PCV)...

1. The Peace Corps Office/Transit house.
your best bet, security-wise. could be the fastest, depending on the day/what everyone around you is down-loading.
pros-you can use pandora because it's on an american satellite.
cons-one location, can be lots of wait, no privacy for skyping (even though it's the best place for it)

2. the kombo (urban) internet cafe (byo laptop).
fancy. sometimes air-conditioned. a place to relax and use wireless from a sort of comfy chair or couch. often are in locations with delicious (yet expensive) food. as with all other internet here, can have really REALLY good days and really dismal ones.
pros-cute passwords (chocolat at the french bakery, etc)
cons-white collar bumsters (see earlier posts) who know how to find you on facebook

3. the kombo internet cafe (sans cafe).
clean(ish). rarely air-conditioned, though sometimes there will be a fan. internet here is reliably slow (open on tab at a time, give yourself 10 mins for attachments minimum, etc). you can gchat on a good day, i've even seen people skype.
pros-conveniently located next to major shopping districts
cons-hackers know it too. isn't it weird that all your contacts suddenly think you're stranded in nigeria and need 13,000 USD?

4. the up-country internet cafe (with dust!)
as dirty as you are from the travel it took to get there. give yourself an hour to wait and see if the current will be on today. if the electricity is there, the internet may also be there. hourly rates are cheaper than kombo ones, but you pay for it in time. it takes awhile for even emails to open, attachments? maybe if you've got nothing else to do that day.
pros-closer to site than kombo
cons-it's possible to wait all day and never get internet, meaning you left site for nothing

5. the stick (for the pcv on the go)
recently, 2 of the major cellphone networks here have come out with portable internet sticks. you plug them into your USB drive, and they connect to the internet via signals from the cellphone towers (aka there's a tiny man inside each stick on an even smaller laptop that invents everything you think the internet would tell you). these are apparently magical for volunteers who have a reliable laptop-charging source around their site and a little extra cash (like the phones here, you buy credit and pay as you go, so you can use it all up on one download). coverage can be sketchy but it beats trekking around, especially if you are working on your own computer and don't wanna travel with it.
pros-you can email your program manager about how hard you're working without getting out of bed
cons-even if you have to patience to load a youtube video, you definitely don't have the dalasis.

6. super-fancy internet phone
yes, they have them here. and i would assume they work exactly like they do in america, except a lot more slowly and a lot of incomplete coverage. all i know is they make people less social and squint a lot.
pros-a phone like that can probably also play akon
cons-crow's feet.

So there you have it. I is for Internet indeed. unless this post fails to load, and then i'll just have to write another one, i is for irate.

ps. my brother gets here today!! it's going to be quite an adventure. i will let y'all know how he likes the gam.

H is for His Excellency

I just upped the number of president's hands i have shaken in my lifetime from zero to one. Woo!

For those of you who do not have their fingers on the pulse of the Peace Corps community, PC is celebrating it's 50th year of existence. Yay for half a century of development! It also happens to be PC's 45th year in the Gambia, which is somewhat of a milestone in and of itself. PC countries worldwide have been holding celebrations all year to commemorate this occasion, and yesterday the Gambia joined in with an epic celebration thrown by His Excellency, the President of the Gambia, Sheikh Professor Alhaji Dr. Yahya Abdul-Azziz Jemus Junkung Jammeh.

And I shook his hand 4 times. Not surprisingly, he has an excellent handshake. I noticed during the event (which, all told, was about a 12 hour affair) that he does a lot of hand-shaking. He shook everyone in the Peace Corps' hand at least twice, and there are around 90 volunteers, not to mention all the staff. When he arrived (in quite a fanfare, marching band and shiny black SUV) he shook all our hands. After every speech-and there were a lot-the speaker would go over to where he was presiding over the ceremony-and shake his hand. He was extremely cordial the whole time, including at the end of the night WHEN HE GAVE US DRESSES! that's right, he gave each and every one of us a dress. it was amazing. I can never wear it for fear of destroying it. the men all received haftans (traditional long shirts worn by Gambian men) or shirts. It was incredibly generous, especially since he'd already given us a free motorcade to the event (travelling in a motorcade is approx 1,000 times greater then a gelly-gelly), lunch, dinner, a place to sleep, and a ride home. He also gave us a touching speech about how he is grateful not only to the volunteers who serve here, but also their parents who allow their children to live so far away for so long. As a public speaker, His Excellency is truly gifted. He really knows how to reach an audience and connect on a personal level.

The night was a celebration of Peace Corps, and the legacy each volunteer leaves. There is a story passing around Peace Corps, one told to pick up volunteers when they are feeling down. The story is about the President of a small, developing country who comes to America for diplomatic purposes. Upon his arrival to the White House, before meeting President Obama, his first request on American soil was to meet the Peace Corps volunteer who taught him English while he was in middle school.

And I think, really, this is one of the most beautiful definitions of a volunteer...the first American a host country national wants to see (even before the beloved Obama). And I hope I have been that American to at least one person during my service. This volunteer had no idea he was teaching a future president, he may have even thought he wasn't reaching his class. He may not even have been particularly close with the boy. But the impact he had on his life was impossible to predict. And that's what makes PC different. You have no idea the impact you have on someone, and sometimes you never know. But sometimes, if you're really lucky, you get a chance to find out.

G is for GAGA

Camp GAGA: Enduring Environmental Education for a Changing World

The wait is over. The planning, preparation, and anticipation are all a thing of the past. Camp Girls About Global Awareness, widely known as GAGA among the Peace Corps community, has come and gone. Basse (a center of the eastern end of the country) found itself playing host to an exceptional group of girls and teachers representing every region of the Gambia, from urban KMC all the way to the rural URR, and everyone went home richer for the experience.

Many things came as a pleasant surprise: the girls’ willingness to participate during sessions, the teachers’ enthusiasm for the topics we brought forth, the volunteers dedication to the cause, even the bearable climate (Basse was kind to a coastal girl that week). The camp began with an upwelling of support in the form of a visit from some embassy and PC staff (Cindy, Roberto, Suzy, and our own Heather) and this positive momentum continued throughout the week.

The girls were faced with some big new ideas; even the concept of decomposition was foreign to them. Thanks to our fantastic teambuilding coordinator, Abby, the girls learned a song, “Biodegradable,” which tied everything together, complete with some sweet dance moves. They learned the song Monday night and sang it often throughout the week, to give them a break in between sessions or just because. The volunteers had as much fun as the girls, leading them from the front of the bantaba and getting down to the song about garbage. Marta has kindly posted a video of once such performance on the Camp GAGA facebook page.

One of the most exceptional things about the camp was it gave many volunteers a chance to showcase their classroom skills, which became a form of teaching itself. The teachers, who spent the first few days observing, were wowed not only by the phenomenal teaching aids the volunteers prepared for each lesson, but also their very presence in front of a class. Catherine and Julie, who ably handled the teacher curriculum, based it around observations early, and, as the week progressed, expanded it to discussions not only about the content of the sessions (which the teachers could not get enough of) but also how the sessions were taught and how the teachers could apply these skills in their classrooms.

The camp ended with a talent show designed to get the girls thinking about how they were going to take home the lessons they learned that week. A talent show was a foreign concept, so Koko, Alex, Kelsey, Steph, and myself performed an impromptu one while they waited for lunch one day. Later, many of the volunteers performed a drama written by the tireless Erica (our life skills coordinator who never failed to ask the right questions and schedule the right sessions) that was so good I don’t want to spoil it…you’ll just have to see it at the 50th celebration! The girls, encouraged by meetings with the volunteer who accompanied them, put together acts in groups of two are more. The show itself was quite the affair…curtains, a banner, lights, cold drinks, even a DJ, and of course, honorable guest judges Saikou and Haddy. Modou from FAWEGAM (our community partner), Julia (my partner in crime) and myself rounded out the panel. Erin, our emcee and talent show organizer, kept everything running smoothly. The girls did dramas, songs, and poems about the environment and how to preserve it. Even the teachers favored us with a dance. The content of the acts was truly impressive, and the girls’ creativity was unprecedented as well. After the show, the music played and the girls danced the night away, at least until lights out at 10 pm. They had a long week, and plenty to take home with them, including a concrete plan made by each pair of girls and their volunteer for a way to apply the ideas learned at camp in their villages. I look forward to hearing the outcome of their plans to increase environmental awareness at home.

P is for Paul.

sadly, the post about funerals proved to be a little too prophetic. one unthinkable tragedy later and i'm here, mourning the loss of a good friend, and wishing against all wishes i could be there with his family and friends, as if my presence could make a difference in the cold truth. as if anything could change what happened.

but nothing can. last night, wrestling with the news, i found myself frantically racking my brain, asking myself...when was the last time i saw Paul? what were we doing? how come i fell out of touch with him, slowly, over the years?

and then i realized, all at once, that it didn't matter. that i don't clearly remember the last time i saw Paul because he was one of those friends, the ones that you'll have forever. that we had so many memories, so much of our formative years spent together, that each parting was just a pause until life brought us together again. that when i said goodbye to him that last time, i was in no way aware i was saying anything other then "till next time." because, with a friendship like we shared, the "next time" was implied.

so let me tell you about the Paul i knew.

he was a gawky middle-schooler, a handsome high schooler. in and out of college, he always managed to surround himself with friends. he had a band he toured with, and you could tell he thought that was the coolest thing ever. he was years away from realizing the incredible potential he really had. he was a phone call on Bob Marley's birthday. he was a righty who played the bass lefty. he was friday afternoon frisbee in the park. he was my best friend's boyfriend. he was an on-going game of Connect 4. he was the kid who never took english class seriously, who made you wonder why you took classes seriously at all. he wore shoes so big i could store my phone AND my keys in them. he skateboarded in those shoes (before they were a purse). he had this plaid suit my mother loved. he brought cereal to the fancy christmas dinner every year, without fail. he built fires in the rain and said the smoke didn't sting his eyes. he drove around town without using his brakes, coasting into turns and driving other motorists crazy. physics made him think about the world, about how it all worked. he made me think about teleportation. he climbed trees. he climbed rocks. jumped off cliffs. went off the rope swing. no one could ever say he didn't take chances. he was up for adventures. camping by the river. camping out on golf courses. eating the "s'mores" wyatt made. for late night treks around the jungle that is green hills. hiking to the electric light place, all of us, looking out over the city's nighttime scene. he had a flash-flight, and always wanted to throw it no matter how dewy the grass was. he wasn't afraid to attempt the gallon challenge. whole milk, never skim. he was a good hugger, just as good at goodbyes as he was at hellos. he was an amazing artist, whether the medium was markers, spray paint, or tie-dye. he was a vibrant patch in the colorful quilt our friends made, and nothing will ever change that. nothing can ever change that.

last night, alone in my house, overwhelmed by a deluge of memories, i was slowly overcome by something else, as well. the feeling that he was there, in my room, with me. it hasn't left. he walked the sandy paths of the village with me, enjoyed the wind in his hair as the gelly carried me towards the city, towards a link to the people i need to reach. he beat me to the abandoned computer lab, so i wouldn't feel alone. Paul is with me, even as i write these words. he's with all of us. the feeling that he is here doesn't keep the tears from coming, but it does provide some comfort to know that even though his body is gone, we can each carry a little piece of him with us.

paul cobb, you were, you are, loved.