amy abroad

I thought I was tired, but then my thoughts kicked in.

amywhoisawesome — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 00:09:13 -0400

11:45, turn out the light, close my eyes and try to fall asleep.

Hear cars driving past on the rain-soaked street not so far from my window and door, some of them louder and faster than is probably appropriate for so late at night, on such a rainy night. Think about how I could walk outside my door right now and immediately be on a church’s lawn. And imagine the children who might randomly run around that lawn, the sides of my house, my room, my window.

But this isn’t the Gambia. Children don’t run around so willy-nilly here. In the Gambia, children would literally climb our compound walls, hang onto the gate and call out our names, wanting us to come out and play with them. But here, children aren’t supposed to run after people they don’t know so well, they aren’t supposed to go knocking on doors and running around yards of people they don’t know, except on those designated holidays that make it okay.

And oh, the compound. What I realize tonight I truly miss. When my bedroom was on the ground floor but I still found comfort in those compound walls, never having the thoughts I have tonight about people poking about just outside my window. Knowing that if I heard someone outside my window, it was only Sainabou or Haddy or Mohammed, or perhaps a family member or good friend of theirs, never a stranger. And when my home was situated off of a main road, a street cars didn’t too often drive down, and even if they did it was so rocky and sandy that they had to drive at a turtle’s pace.

It’s not even that people have even been around that church lawn, near my window and encroaching on personal space (and funny, because personal space was something I had so much less of in the Gambia, yet I didn’t really mind that it was always invaded), but it’s a thought that still crosses my mind.

Overthinking everything.

amywhoisawesome — Fri, 08 Jul 2011 17:04:00 -0400

It’s Africell Orange Day and boy do I really wish I had an Africell t-shirt to wear. Alas, for some reason I failed to get one. I should go back and pick one of those up then, right?

It’s been one month since I left the Gambia and returned home. What have I done in that month? Well, not that much. I’ve volunteered a little at the Lexington History Museum. I’ve started research on my senior thesis topic (Drum magazine and identity in 1950s South Africa, for now anyway). Mostly, though, I’ve been reflecting on the five months I spent in West Africa, on what I miss and what I don’t miss and a million other things, and on what the whole experience means to me now and for my future. AHHH FUTURE. Don’t like thinking about that, but it’s all I seem to think about.

It’s funny: I thought that study abroad would help me narrow down what I wanted to do in after Juniata, that it would help me realize my capabilities and allow me to make out more clearly what my passions are. If anything, my semester in the Gambia has just confused me more when it comes to thinking about my future—which is frustrating, since this summer seems to be all about just sitting around and mulling over my options. There’s graduate school—I’ve even scheduled a date for the GRE (and should probably get to studying for that)—which is honestly what I always saw myself pursuing right after college. Again, I thought my experience abroad would help me figure out what I actually would want to study further in grad school, but instead it sprinkled even more ideas into my mind. Now when I browse listings of graduate schools and programs, I find my browser overrun with a million tabs ranging from history to development studies to international studies to ethnomusicology. I just can’t make up my mind anymore, which is funny because I thought I had a fairly good idea five months ago.

I’ve also started considering something like the Peace Corps. You know, when I was in Janjanbureh, shrieking over the mice in my bed and the monkeys stealing our food, I distinctly remember thinking, “Oh my god. How do the Peace Corps volunteers do it? I don’t think I could handle living in a village under these conditions for months on end!” But as much as I’ve had time to think about situations like that one, I’ve also had time to look at what I loved about West Africa, as well as the realities of life that I encountered there and that pass through my mind every day. The week before we left, we had dinner with Haddy Sowe, our Wolof instructor who also teaches Wolof to the Peace Corps volunteers in the Gambia. The discussion we had with her covered so many different topics, but of course one of the things she wanted to encourage us to do is to think about joining the Peace Corps. We expressed to her how not hardcore we were in comparison to the PCVs we’d met and heard stories from, and that we weren’t sure we were knowledgeable enough in the various fields that PCVs work in, etc. She stressed to us the extensive training that PCVs go through, that they don’t just throw us into situations blindly, and that yes, it’s hard, it’s insanely difficult and sometimes seems even downright impossible, but that she believed that each one of us would be able to handle it because of how we had handled our five months in the Gambia. And maybe it’s because I’ve had nothing better to do this summer than overthink all of these options, but the more and more “Peace Corps” runs through my mind the more and more I think that I might want to apply. And who knows if they would even take me, they could reject me… let’s be real here.

Or maybe none of the above for now—maybe I just need to discover other options, talk to other people about what they think or what they want to do or what they wish they had done or this and that and gah! I just don’t know. The future is scary and unknown but I guess that’s also its appeal: why always do the predictable? Why not do something you never thought you would? And I think it’s that latter option I’m starting to lean towards.

I guess don’t need to decide right this second, though. I have so many documents on my computer with information I’ve saved from various grad school ideas, and obviously every time I am wondering something about any other idea that springs into mind, I can just hit up Google and find an answer (and, inevitably, more questions). I know that I need to calm down, wait out the summer until the time comes to actually set things up. Instead of stressing out about my future now, I will try to think more on my reflections of my semester abroad, while trying not to burst into tears because I miss Club Toubab and La Parisienne and Alaedin’s and the beach and this and that and everything….

What can I say? I miss it all TOO MUCH!

In the words of our Swedish princess Matilda: “I want to...

amywhoisawesome — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 23:00:06 -0400

In the words of our Swedish princess Matilda: “I want to go to the beeeeeaaaaaacccccchhhhhh!”

…and watch lizards do push-ups.

One month ago…

amywhoisawesome — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 21:18:46 -0400

One month ago…

I am missing… fresh mangoes everywhere I go, grilling fish...

amywhoisawesome — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 08:23:00 -0400

I am missing… fresh mangoes everywhere I go, grilling fish in the middle of nowhere, and dance parties on the beach.

Random memory comes to mind:

amywhoisawesome — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 19:11:54 -0400

Last Saturday in the Gam, the seven remaining toubabs flag down a truck to drive us to the election house. We clamber into the truck bed and huddle around each other. All I could do for those five minutes was gaze at my friends and the stars in the sky, smiling all the while. “You guys,” I said to them, “this is the most perfect moment.”

I miss you, Gambia and Club Toubab :(

It is (almost) finished.

amywhoisawesome — Sun, 05 Jun 2011 06:50:36 -0400

It’s the day before I leave the Gambia, and I can’t believe that soon I’ll be back on the other side of the Atlantic, in a place where it rains regularly, where I’ll experience four seasons, where you don’t haggle for better prices and where men don’t push women out of the way for a seat on the bus.

What I’ll miss…

The weather. Until this past Wednesday, I hadn’t seen rain in months, and it didn’t feel weird at all. Now, even though I’m happy that I can say I experienced the beginning of the rainy season, we are all super uncomfortable with the humidity. I had forgotten how much humidity totally sucks, because five months of dry heat was actually kind of fabulous. And now I have to go home to humidity? Boo! But I love that I’ve never really needed to check weather.com to know how to prepare for the day. I can always expect the sun to shine here.
The people. I’ve loved chatting with my fellow students at UTG, getting their perspective on things that I used to never think twice about. I’ve loved meeting new people everywhere I go. There’s a reason that The Gambia is called the Smiling Coast of Africa, and for me it’s not only because everyone is smiling and friendly everywhere we go, but also because every day and almost everyone I meet gives me a reason to smile.
My regular venues for hanging out. I’m not gonna lie, I love going places and knowing the people who work there and chatting with them. There’s a reason we keep going back to so many restaurants and stuff: because the people are wonderful and make us feel welcome. And what’s not to love about that?
Fresh fruit. And actually, just the food in general. I love being able to walk down the street and get an omelette tapalapa or mangoes or peanuts. I love visiting places and getting cashew fruit right off the tree. I adore domoda and could probably eat it every day, and I’m sad that if I ever do try to make domoda myself it won’t be nearly as amazing as Haddy’s.
Hitchhiking. Why is hitchhiking illegal back home? Because I’m kind of in love with it. It’s economical, you meet interesting people, have strange or fascinating conversations, and it gets you to where you need to go. I think it needs a revival in the US. We all just need to be a little bit more trusting, and a little bit more trustworthy.
The market. Though I’m certainly not the best at haggling for prices, I love going to the market, searching for awesome fabric (which then gets made into wonderful clothes—another thing I love: the tailor! clothes made just for me! yay!) or jewelry or whatever my heart desires. You can find literally anything in the markets here, and it’s pretty great how it’s set up, how crazy it can be, how fun it is to just walk away from someone when you don’t like their price and have them come after you saying, “Okay okay, your price.” Why can’t shopping at the mall be more like trips to Serrekunda Market?
Club Toubab. In five months, I have come to adore the people that I live with, and I think that I am most sad to leave them and go our separate ways. They’ve been my lifeline here, and I don’t think I would have had nearly an amazing experience if it wasn’t for them. Even though most of us will be returning to Pennsylvania in the fall, who knows when we’ll all get to see each other again? Maybe if we’re lucky someday we’ll all find ourselves back here in the Gambia, reminiscing about this semester.

I was going to do a list of things that I am fairly excited to return to back home (movie theaters, air conditioning and hot showers, having consistent power), but to be honest, when I think about going home, I just get very sad because it means I’m leaving here, I’m leaving amazing people and all of my new friends, I’m leaving a place I’ve grown to love in all its imperfections. For someone as neurotic and shy as me, this place has been a true lesson in personal growth and what my own capabilities are. Gambia, I’ll be back someday, I promise. <3

No use crying over spilled water

amywhoisawesome — Thu, 19 May 2011 14:22:00 -0400

These past few weeks have been kind of weird and, well, maybe not the best overall (though I would by no means say I haven’t been enjoying my time here still!). There were the parasites in my thigh, and the mice that cuddled up with my legs in Janjanbureh. This week is no exception: on Tuesday, having finally decided on a topic for my culture paper (the final paper of the semester to write!), I joined Shelby and Holly at the Butcher Shop to grab lunch and utilize their wireless internet and electricity. Unfortunately, three computers on one table can cause some chaos, I guess, because as the waitress was setting down our water glasses, one of them tipped over and broke, and the water just so happened to inundate my computer. It wasn’t just that water got on it, but inside the computer as well. It wouldn’t charge anymore, nor would it turn on. I set it on a separate table to try and dry out, and the waitress, who was mortified, gave me the name of a place I could go to that could check and see if my computer was salvageable.

I think that how I handled the situation says a lot about how much more patient and maybe even understanding I might have become while in The Gambia. I knew that yelling at the waitress wouldn’t fix anything, because if I was in the waitress’ position, the last thing I would be able to handle would be a screaming, angry customer who would cause such a scene that she’d surely get fired. I’m guessing she needs her job more than I need my computer. She honestly looked more distraught about the situation than I did. Perhaps I am not truly Gambian, because we joke about how Gambians seem to yell all the time, but if anything I’m realizing that the things I would freak out about at home—a broken computer or charger or whatever—are things that, well, just don’t really matter that much in the end, especially when I realize that I’m lucky enough to know that when I get home, I’ll have a computer at home to use, and before the next semester at Juniata begins I’ll have a new laptop. Certainly not a lot of people here are able to say that.

After we left the restaurant, Holly and I decided to call a friend of ours who himself uses Apple products and thus probably has had to get some repaired in the past. We asked him if he could think of what we could do for my computer. He gave us about fifty different solutions, one of which was to go down to this one place, I-LINK, and ask for his friend Danny who could potentially help me out. We did just that, after grabbing some much-needed ice cream, and Danny said to leave my computer with him for a couple of days and he would try to see if he could do anything. I called back this afternoon and, sadly, he told me that it is damaged beyond repair.

Computers have been having some nasty luck here at Club Toubab. Dylan’s was stolen (along with his entire backpack, which included his iPhone and his journal as well) a few weeks ago, and Bridget’s is broken in that she can still use it, but if she tries to close it, the laptop will snap in two. Though, while it isn’t shocking that my computer went kaput here, I wasn’t expecting it to be because of a glass of water. I expected something more like a power surge.

And actually, it’s not just Club Toubab that seems to be having computer issues: one of my Gambian classmates at UTG texted me yesterday and told me that his computer screen broke and that he couldn’t study for his last final exam of the semester because of it, nor does he have the money right now to fix it.

It’s funny how we place such sentimental meaning on material items. I instantly began thinking things like, “Oh, this computer was bought with money made from my first job,” and “it saw the final draft of the essay I had published in RED,” and “it saw the writing of the novel I wrote in high school, and all of the papers I’ve written in college….” Is it silly to get sentimental about these things? Maybe I’m just crazy nerdy, thinking of all of these things, but I guess it just goes to show the value we place on things that, in the end, don’t matter so much. It’s only a computer. The files from my hard drive may be retrievable, and even if not, all of the important stuff was backed up months ago before I left for the Gambia. And the fact of the matter is that I know that I’ll get a new computer when I get home. I can’t say that my Gambian classmate is as lucky as I am in that regard, as he has to go who knows how long before he can have a working computer again. All I have to do is wait three weeks.

But you know what? This just means that I need to focus on making sure these last two and a half weeks are awesome and fun-filled. All I have is one more paper to write, and as you’ve probably guessed (since you’re reading this blog post that I obviously didn’t just handwrite and mail out), my housemates are kind enough to let me use their computers. Today, I used Holly’s computer and wrote four pages of my final paper. I think that’s enough homework for the next week now.

I paid a woman in a village 150 dalasi to cut me with a razor...

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 16 May 2011 17:59:00 -0400

I paid a woman in a village 150 dalasi to cut me with a razor and cover it in peanut ash. This is how it turned out. I’m pretty pleased with it! I am Gambian now.

Hi, Amy! I enjoyed reading your blog segments! What is the most memorable site that you have seen in travels in Africa?

Gwen

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 16 May 2011 16:10:47 -0400

This is a hard one to answer! So much of this trip has been memorable, and for so many different reasons.

Our second or third week here, we attempted to make it to the festivities of the Roots festival in Kanilai, President Jammeh’s home village, but our bus broke down on the way there. As we waited for the bus to get started up again, we danced with the women and children in the village we found ourselves in. Though we were stressed and exhausted from all of the craziness of the day, we were surprised and pleased with how that part of the day turned out—the fact that we could roll up to a village and be welcomed with a dance session.

In Dakar, Goree Island and the Monument of the African Renaissance both stand out to me. Goree Island, because of its history in the slave trade and of signares (prosperous women involved in trade and commerce in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries), and the Monument because of its immensity and frivolity (a multi-million dollar statue designed and commissioned by Senegal’s president—I’d call that frivolous, because I don’t understand why he would see the construction of that as more important than perhaps improving upon infrastructure, education, etc).

And this past weekend, when we stopped by the Wassu Stone Circles, it was a wonderful reminder of the richness of history in the Gambia, in West Africa, in the entire continent. When we learn about world history in schools at home, we really don’t look much at Africa. Even if you do, you generally learn some pre-history (our predecessors found in Africa, the archaeological excavations) and then skip right to colonialism. Even in my archaeology and pre-history class at Juniata, I don’t remember discussing the Senegambia stone circles, instead focusing on megaliths in Europe. Why is African history, and the African perspective, so frequently ignored or put on the back burner?

Everywhere I’ve visited has left some impression on me for different reasons. It makes me really sad when I remember that in three weeks I’ll be leaving, because there’s so much more I still want to see and do. I guess that just means I’ll have to come back, right?

Monkeys, mice and Fula scars

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 16 May 2011 13:07:07 -0400

This past weekend, we spent a few days up river in Janjanbureh, an area in the Gambia that, historically, was an integral part of the slave trade. Originally named Georgetown, the British there established the Gambia’s first church and schools. On the drive to Janjanbureh, we stopped at the Wassu stone circles, part of a larger collection of the Senegambian stone circles and one of the UNESCO Heritage Sites in the Gambia. They’ve been referred to as “the Stonehenge of the Gambia,” since that’s pretty much what it is: megalithic burial grounds. We hung around, got some group pictures, and continued on our merry way to Janjanbureh.

When we arrived in Janjanbureh, Dylan told a few guys there that we had been interested in getting Fula scars or peanut ash tattoos while we were up country, since we knew we were in the region that a lot of Peace Corps volunteers go to in order to get their Fula scars. To them, it’s kind of become like the mark of their time here, and we decided that we liked the idea of that. The guys told Dylan, oh yeah, there’s a woman in town who does that, we can take you. All of a sudden, something we thought we wouldn’t get the chance to do—since we didn’t know where the Peace Corps folks went and didn’t know where else we would go—became a huge possibility. After moving our belongings into our rooms and watching the boys take a quick dip in the river, we ventured back into town and into a random compound where we found the woman who would do our Fula scars. “This is all happening really fast,” I thought to myself, but I knew that if I actually had time to think all of this over, I would probably wimp out. No, I wanted to get the peanut ash tattoos, because I knew it would be a great way to remember this trip to Janjanbureh and the entirety of my time here in the Gambia. We walked into the corner shop, bought a pack of five new razors, and brought them to the woman who proceeded to cut the three lines into the five of us getting the scars—Dylan, Shelby, Bridget, Holly and me. The process was surprisingly quick and not that painful. She cut the lines, wiped away the blood and applied the peanut ash, all within a minute or two. Usually the Fulani, especially Fula women, get the tattooing (also usually elaborately designed) done on their faces, but we decided against that placement. Mine went on the back of my left shoulder, Dylan also got his on the backs of his shoulders, Bridget’s on her lower back, Shelby’s on her side, and Holly’s on her ankle. After we were all finished and had paid the woman for her work, she gave us more peanut ash to continue to rub into the scars for the next few days, and to kept them out of water until at least Monday.

The next day consisted of a boat trip, three hours to River Gambia National Park and three hours back to our lodge. The trip was relaxing, the cook came along and cooked us a delicious lunch, we spotted hippos and baboons (but sadly no chimpanzees), and generally relaxed along the river.

In all of our downtime at the lodge, we spent a lot of time reading and chatting and relaxing by the river as Gavin swam (none of the rest of us, since we had our scars to tend to), as well as playing with the monkeys. Gavin especially loved feeding mango pieces to them and made tons of friends of the monkeys. We met a Chilean couple spending a night there, who we talked to for a while (the woman used to be the Gambian country director of UNICEF)—when they sat down to breakfast the next morning, a monkey quickly ran up and stole half of the food off of one of their plates. We spent most of our meal times shooing them away, but the rest of our time at the lodge having fun with them and admiring the adorableness of the mothers and their babies.

However, the most memorable part of the trip—at least for me and Shelby—came from our first night, involving some middle-of-the-night critters. The night was off to a great start when Shelby nearly lit herself on fire tying to light our candle. She collapsed to the floor and we gave up on that endeavor, instead keeping to just my flashlight. That night, it was hard to sleep, what with the sounds of monkeys and bats and who knows what else outside our door. I’m easily freaked out by just about everything, so I mostly just wanted to go to sleep and sleep through every single thing that could possibly creep me out. Unfortunately, that didn’t quite happen, because at 5:30 I woke up and noticed Shelby shuffling over to the door and opening it. At that moment, I also felt something on my leg, and had for a few minutes already. I asked Shelby, “What are you doing?”

“I’m bringing the lantern in here, there’s something in my bed.”

“…was something touching your leg, too?”

“I think it was a mouse.”

I bolted out of bed and proceeded to freak out. Was that a mouse getting cozy with my leg? We looked around the room, didn’t find the mouse, but decided that we should vacate the room as soon as possible. We got dressed, gathered some belongings, and headed out to the riverside to wait out the sunrise. Of course, it’s pitch black, we can barely see anything even with my flashlight, and as we approach the table and chairs, a dog starts barking at us. Just what we need to soothe our frazzled nerves. We sit down, jumping at every dog barking and monkey screeching, watching as the night turns into morning. At 7:00, we decide to head back to our room because it’s light enough outside and we think we can handle the rest of the wait in there. Unfortunately, when I pulled out my mosquito net in order to sit on my bed but still with the possibility of making a quick escape, out scattered pellets of what was probably monkey poops across my bed. Great. So I crawled onto Shelby’s bed, reading and keeping watch for any mysterious activity in our room. Boy, were were excited when breakfast time finally rolled around. Exhausted, but ready to exit the room and never go back.

The next night, we tried to get ready for sleep in that room (with new, clean sheets on my previously pooped-upon bed) but decided that we were just too freaked out. We switched rooms and, while we still each had a terrible night of sleep, we at least had mosquito nets without giant holes and did not cuddle up with any mice.

"No one should have the luxury of pulling bugs out of their ass."

amywhoisawesome — Sun, 15 May 2011 13:07:21 -0400

When I say luxury, I of course mean horrible and terrifying experience.

Now, to be fair, the bumps (as I have been affectionately referring to them) were on my upper thigh, more like. But high enough up there to hurt like hell if I sat or laid down on my side in a particular way. And you know what? I like to lie on my left side when I sleep. So that sucked.

But let’s back up a little.

A week and a half ago, I noticed some curious bumps forming. They itched at first, so I thought, “Oh, mosquito bites, okay whatever.” Weird place for mosquito bites, but I let them go out of my mind until two days later, when they hurt something fierce and looked like giant blackheads. “Staph infection?” I thought, hoping it wouldn’t be that but at the same time hoping it was something that I could at least identify. After a day spent out on an excursion, I asked Mohammed if I could visit the doctor or the hospital to have my bumps checked out. He wanted me to try to put some vaseline and Neosporin on them for a few days first to see if that helped them out, but after letting Holly inspect them, we convinced him that no, I should probably just go to the hospital. The last thing we needed was for this to actually be a staph infection and to let it get worse.

The hospital visit was uneventful, nothing too special. I explained to the doctor my symptoms, when the bumps appeared, and then Holly popped into the room to help me out with explaining. She finally told the doctor, “Okay, yeah, you’re going to have to actually look at these.” Is it a good sign when the doctor looks terrified when the patient has to pull down her pants in order to get some mysterious bumps actually looked at? No, sir, you should not look terrified, this is part of your job. He told me, then, that he thought they could be bug bites, asking me if I had any idea what bugs could have caused it. No idea, I told him, I didn’t know of any bugs that would have bitten me on my upper thigh. Though he insisted that it was probably bug bites, he prescribed me Cipro, because Holly conveniently had some she said I could take.

In the car on the way home, Mohammed too decides to let me know that it could be bug bites—mango fly, to be specific, giving me the details on what the infection should look like and what you do to suffocate the little suckers. “Nah,” I thought, “I don’t think it’s bugs, I really hope it’s not bugs…” But at home, I grabbed my computer, read up a little bit on mango flies, and decided that along with the Cipro, maybe I should vaseline up the bumps just in case they happened to be housing some gross little mango flies.

Fast forward to a few days later. Wake up in the morning, check up on the bumps, which seem to be oozing pus. Um, ew much? But when I went to wipe away the pus, it didn’t turn out to be pus. Instead, I pulled out some larvae from three of the four bumps. The fourth one, which showed up a day later than the others, got a few extra days of heavy vaselining and Neosporining before finally admitting defeat. Staph infection? Not so much. Bugs residing in my body for a few days? Ew. Ew ew ew ew ew.

I have to say, the doctor probably knew that those bumps were mango fly infections. Why didn’t he say something more specific than, “Could be bug bites”? Sure, I came in thinking that they were staph infections and said as such, but you, sir, have probably seen mango fly infections plenty of times before. I really think you should have said something.

But as of this writing, the bumps are healing, and my body is no longer home to any larvae. I’m not entirely sure where the mango flies even came from, but I’m thinking it was my bathing suit, which went straight into the laundry bag this week. So, moral of the story: thoroughly clean your bathing suit and, in fact, all of your clothes, because you never know when they may just infect you with some nasty parasites that hurt like hell and can probably do some nasty stuff to you.

Tailor Time

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 02 May 2011 16:24:21 -0400

Something that I will definitely miss about going home is the abundance of fabric shops in the market, as well as getting clothes made. I know that fabric stores and tailors exist in the US, but it’s so different here. For one, the clothes are much cheaper to get made here than at home, and the fabrics so much happier. At home, you don’t get clothes made for you, you just buy clothes at the mall. But here, I’ve been having a lot of fun getting some super cute clothes made.

Our Wolof instructor originally was going to take us to the tailor that all of the Peace Corps volunteers go to, but back when we went to the National Assembly and I needed an outfit made in two days, we went just down the street to a nearby tailor. Since then, we’ve been going back quite often to get lots of stuff made. I’ve had three skirts, two dresses and one African outfit made since we’ve befriended these people, with one more shirt on the way. One dress I wore on Saturday night for my birthday celebrations, and I think I was looking fabulously shiny. Love it!

Now, the other day, I went in to pick up a dress and the head tailor—who only speaks French, mind you—was incredibly smiley. “Oh, well he’s in a good mood now isn’t he?” Well, right before I left, he walked into the back and returned with a newspaper-wrapped package. “Give this to Bridget,” the woman translating for him said, “tell her it is a gift from Modou.” As I walked out of the shop, some guys across the street started laughing. “This is awkward,” I thought and shoved the package into my bag. Back at home, Bridget opened it up—”Is this my blue dress?” “Oh, I don’t think so Bridget…”—and inside were two articles of clothing and a note from Modou, stating that he really appreciates her and hopes that it is not a crime (what might be the crime, we’re not sure, but okay, no worries Modou). Since then, it was a little bit awkward for a while going to the tailor, but since I’ve got crazy curves and need to get everything altered at least once, I had to get over that awkwardness due to my going there every other day.

But you know, a tailor is a great person to have as a friend/fan. I wasn’t super pleased with the prices that I paid for my dresses—Bridget got a ton of dresses made for 300D each, whereas I paid 450D for one and 350D for the other. Still not bad prices, admittedly, but I’ve become quite the cheapskate since I’ve been in the Gambia. (Another thing I won’t enjoy about going home: being jobless and really not being able to afford a thing!) But somehow out of all of this, I’ve gotten a free skirt and will be getting a free shirt as well. Bridget and I getting free clothes? There are worse people to have like you than a tailor. I may not be able to converse with him, but I think I can get over that if it means cute clothes in amazingly colorful fabrics that no one back home will have.

Bridget dancing on stage at the Viviane N’Dour concert!

amywhoisawesome — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:03:28 -0400

Bridget dancing on stage at the Viviane N’Dour concert!

Gavin doing flips on the beach.

amywhoisawesome — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:02:34 -0400

Gavin doing flips on the beach.

Lots and lots of salt at Lac Rose.

amywhoisawesome — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:01:22 -0400

Lots and lots of salt at Lac Rose.

Sand dunes roller coastering.

amywhoisawesome — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 17:01:00 -0400

Sand dunes roller coastering.

Club Toubab Goes to Senegal, Part Two

amywhoisawesome — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 16:55:44 -0400

Day two, met for breakfast at 9am. Plans for the day? Driving around Lac Rose, visiting a Fulani village, trekking across the sand dunes, and relaxing before heading out to Rufisque at midnight for the Viviane N’Dour concert.

Lac Rose, the Pink Lake, is a lake that has very high levels of salinity—but don’t ask me the scientific details, because I don’t know them. All I know is that as we drove by, the lake actually did look pink, and piles and piles of salt lay on the shore as men and women worked to collect salt from the lake. We also learned that Lac Rose was, for many years up until the race’s move to South America, the final stop of the Paris-Dakar rally. The lake also is known for its healing powers apparently, especially for women who cannot get pregnant. Matilda chose to float in the lake later during the day and we joked that she is now super fertile and needs to watch out.

Next, we drove into a Fulani village near the lake and saw various huts, met various people, played with the hoardes of children that followed us around. The village chief told Bridget that he had been looking for a second wife and that he had found her—Bridget, of course. Bridget then told him that she was married to Abu (Dylan), and the chief seemed quite upset. We shopped in the little village shop, filled with jewelry, wood carvings and clothing. All of the proceeds from the shop go to benefit the entire village, so I guess I didn’t feel so bad that I spent 5,000 CFA on a necklace and a bracelet. The chief basically wouldn’t let me leave without purchasing something—every time I picked something up, he wanted very much for me to buy it, but communicating was difficult as I do not speak French—and so I got an adorable, emerald-green necklace out of it. I guess if I am going to buy anything in Senegal, it should be something that will, in the end, benefit an entire village, right? Overall, though, the village overwhelmed us: the children were persistent in getting our attention and holding our hands and grabbing at our bags, and sometimes we just aren’t up for the challenge of dealing with kids.

So off we went through the sand dunes. Funny, as just the other day I had told someone, “You know, I could really go for a great roller coaster ride right now.” Well, I definitely got that. I was mesmerized by the sudden shift of landscape, from small farms and trees to sand, sand everywhere, sand dunes galore. Then our driver drove up a hill and paused at the top long enough for us to look down and see the steep drop below. “Oh god,” we cringed, and I braced for the plunge, excited and already hoping for more. And oh boy, more did we get. “Deedeet!” Holly screamed at the driver around the fourth or fifth crazy drop. “Oui oui,” he responded. Finally, he stopped atop one more hill and before us we saw the ocean, waves crashing onto shore just through the brush ahead that separated the beach from the desert, the desert that we didn’t even know existed until we drove straight into it from the lush area around the lake. How the landscape could change so suddenly amazed me. We pranced around the beach for twenty or so minutes, posing for funny pictures and watching Gavin and Dylan jump around before heading back to the hotel for lunch and relaxation time.

Now, about the French army. Let’s just say that the night before, the last thing we expected to see when we walked into the restaurant to pick up our room keys was tables and tables of men. But boy, did they seem thrilled to see us. Saturday night, we got stares and whistles galore. So on Sunday, of course they showed up at breakfast, and especially by the pool. And of course Bridget was the only person in the group who could effectively communicate with any of them, except for Patrick, the one who could speak English. I will be frank: these French men did not leave me with a good impression of French men, or at least not French military men. To use Matilda’s Swedish word, which we have all adopted as our own, they were just “oosh-y”. The men sporting their wedding bands did not hold back from making their advances, stating that they had an extra cot out in the woods waiting, or that they would certainly love dancing with us. No, sirs, no we will not have you.

As the afternoon turned into evening and evening turned into night, we had dinner, chatted, danced, avoided the French men unsuccessfully, and sat poolside when the French army decided to jump naked into the pool. Awkward, much? But finally, midnight arrived, we grabbed our friend John and headed along the very potholed roads to Rufisque to see Viviane N’Dour.

Senegal is cold. And when I mean cold, I mean it was windy and 65° at night and we were freezing our asses off. In Rufisque, we huddled outside the club, pulling our sweaters tight and shuffling around on our feet. John, the networker that he is—he seemed to know everyone, to our great luck—bought our tickets for us and before we knew it, he directed us through the doorway and into the club. Wait, what? We have VIP status? We’re in already? Now, the power in the club had actually gone out right when we arrived—the lights went out literally thirty seconds after we stepped out of our cars—so we knew that the concert wouldn’t be starting for a while when we sat down and waited for them to finish setting up. At one point, John walked over to us and said, “Everything is arranged for later.” Wait, what? Arranged? What is arranged? And why yes, we were still freezing our asses off. Dylan and I cuddled for warmth, probably looking particularly ridiculous to all of the fabulously dressed Senegalese men and women surrounding us. By the way, we looked frumpy. All of the women were sporting their short, sparkly dresses, while we had on jeans or leggings, cardigans or long sleeve shirts. At least Bridget looked pretty fabulous—she would have to for what happened next.

The crowd started pushing towards the stage and John told us to rush up. We were only a few “rows” back from the stage (though the idea of “rows” didn’t really exist in this situation), and when the music began, any skepticism I had towards how much I would enjoy the show disappeared. The music, the dancing, it amazed me so much I didn’t care that the crowd was crushing me with every move I made, that I somehow had to keep moving forward even when I thought there was no room left to do so, that the girl behind me wouldn’t stop clutching my shoulders and pulling my hair, that I could barely breathe at times the crowd was so thick. For the past three months, I had heard this kind of music on the radio—mbalax, a type of Senegalese music that utilizes a heavy use of drumming called sabar, a style popularized by Youssou N’Dour and what Viviane N’Dour mixes with R&B and pop music to create a very catchy sound. I was starting to grow tired of hearing this music, with its incessant drumming and strange vocals, but seeing it live gave me a new, different appreciation for the music. The drumming now seems and sounds much more vibrant, and I suddenly want to listen to it all the time. The performers themselves were vibrant, one drummer in particular smiling constantly, the dancers able to move in ways I didn’t know were actually possible, and the singers sounding amazing even though I couldn’t understand most of the words as they sang in Wolof and occasionally French. Viviane herself was gorgeous, and most of the guys on stage were pretty freaking attractive I had to admit. (Every time I made eye contact with one of them, I internally freaked out, of course.) Bridget was lucky enough to have Viviane choose her to get on stage to dance with her—tons of audience members had the opportunity, but Bridget was the lone toubab. She got the most time to shine out of all of the others, though, and the man who she “danced” with certainly seemed to enjoy her company. Let’s just say he was a bit suggestive (er, yeah, even Viviane tried to save her from him, haha), but all in all it was probably the most awesome part of the evening. Throughout all of the music, the amazing drumming and singing, I managed to keep trying to dance even though I could barely move; I couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop beaming. At times, Bridget and I bonded with a few people standing to our left as we would try to do some of the dance moves they were doing. I’m sure they found our super-toubabness hilarious, and I don’t blame them.

Around 3:00 in the morning or so, John pushed into the crowd to find us and tell us that we had to leave. We managed to squeeze our way out, after which John led us to the backstage area. We were going to meet Viviane! We stood next to many of the other performers in the show, and even saw her ex-husband, still-manager Bouba N’Dour (Youssou N’Dour’s younger brother) up-close and personal. Finally, Viv came backstage and said hello to us, shook our hands, kissed Bridget on the cheek, and squeezed in with all of us for a picture. The picture turned out horribly, but as we then left the club—much to my dismay, as I was ready to stay until it ended (which would probably be at least around 5am at the earliest), since we hadn’t even heard “Waaw waaw”!—my smiles didn’t falter, my laughter continued on, my heart kept racing, and I couldn’t emphasize enough how much I lived for nights like these, for concerts like this, for this kind of music and movement and magic. Could I just live forever in the world of music, actually? What I would give to learn those instruments, to surround myself with their sounds forever and ever and ever!

After an hour of sleep, Club Toubab ate breakfast, said goodbye to John and our hotel, and rolled out, headed back for the Gambia. By the time we made it home, we were all exhausted, ready to eat and roll back into bed and sleep forever. But I have to say, I enjoyed the trip so much more than I thought that I would. I had wanted to stay in Dakar and not by Lac Rose, but it turned out that our day around Lac Rose was my favorite. I would love to go back to Dakar sometime, though, and see more of the city, to explore and get lost and freak out a little bit in a city in which I can’t communicate with anyone or even read much of anything. In fact, I just want to see more of Senegal, and then more of West Africa, and then more of the entire of world. But I can stand to stick to just Senegal right now. I guess I should start brushing up on my French, though.

Monument of the African Renaissance.

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 18:14:54 -0400

Monument of the African Renaissance.

House on Gorée Island.

amywhoisawesome — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 18:02:24 -0400

House on Gorée Island.

amy abroad

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Hi, Amy! I enjoyed reading your blog segments! What is the most memorable site that you have seen in travels in Africa? Gwen

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Bridget dancing on stage at the Viviane N’Dour concert!

Gavin doing flips on the beach.

Lots and lots of salt at Lac Rose.

Sand dunes roller coastering.

Club Toubab Goes to Senegal, Part Two

Monument of the African Renaissance.

House on Gorée Island.

Hi, Amy! I enjoyed reading your blog segments! What is the most memorable site that you have seen in travels in Africa?

Gwen