TravelStream™ news feed for member adminor on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/adminor en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Tue, 30 Sep 2008 13:38:14 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/2/1222709760/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/2/1222709760/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/2/1222709760/tpod.html Tue, 30 Sep 2008 13:38:14 -0400 Nine months (inshallah) in Morocco

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Rabat, Morocco

I sometimes forget just how forgetful I am. I can never seem to get a good reference point by which to judge where I'm at, because I'm constantly forgetting where I've been. Maybe that's why I need to write these blogs. But I had the good luck tonight to get a surprising, and very interesting reminder of myself last winter break. Shortly after returning to the States from The Gambia, I could find myself, nose in a book called The Caliph's House, curled up by the fire in my mother's house, surrounded by those comfortably familiar Christmas decorations that we unpacked like memories each year. But it was not the memories I was paying attention to. I was itching for my next opportunity to explore a new place, a place where I would be strange and out of place, where the people, language, religion, customs, and values would be completely unfamiliar to me. And there would definitely be no Christmas decorations, familiar or otherwise. For a series of arbitrary and practical reasons, Morocco was the particular spot on the globe my finger had landed, and upon entering the country into the "subject" slot of my local library's catalog, The Caliph's House was one of the first titles to appear. From the back cover alone I could feel that same itchiness I was feeling on the part of the British-Afghan author, Tahir Shah. He was determined to declare a break from normalcy (whatever that is) and ensure that his life, and the life of his young family, was full of as much color, consciousness, and education of the most diverse and direct kind by putting himself in a completely unfamiliar, and potentially even stupid situation. So he bought a dilapidated old Caliph's house in the middle of a slum in Casablanca, and then wrote about it.

This book was my first introduction to Morocco. When reading it, I was not sure whether or not I would actually be in Morocco this fall, because I had decided to stake all my hopes on a single scholarship. (Perhaps this was my own hesitancy at work, an unwillingness to take full responsibility for such a sudden and strange decision as leaving all my family and friends to go to a place where I had absolutely no ties.) Regardless, it was a well-written book with an accessible voice that served as a starting point for my own daydreams about this completely foreign country.

But Morocco, and more specifically Rabat, has been the setting of reality, rather than dreams, for me for about a month now. It is now the plane on which the mundane occurs, rather than the extraordinary. But tonight, I found myself around a large, glamorous conference table with professors, professionals, Oxford intellectuals, Her highness the Princess Lalla Joumala, and Tahir Shah, all discussing this book. The event was hosted by a local NGO called the Moroccan British Society, headed by the Princess, as an opportunity for exchange between intellectuals of two countries. One particular Moroccan Professor had written a long poem, or more closely a theatrical piece recalling an enthralling oratory style of storytelling, that seemed to even go beyond Shah's own liveliness, creativity, and passion in describing his Casablancan reality as it attempted to summarize the book.
Sitting slightly self-consciously in this high-ceilinged room, enraptured in this long poem, I got my thinking - why do I have to so clearly separate the perspective I had towards Moroccco from my mother's fireplace from the one I have from my Moroccan host family's salon? Have I let the gray wash of routine stain that wonderfully colorful view I can have in my imagination? That professor, as well as Shah, both seemed to maintain it, even in the face of reality. Maybe it's just their strange, literature-orientated brains, or theatrics for an (royal) audience, but I was inspired. I'll let you know the color of my next few weeks here.
I also found out today that I received an internship with the Moroccan British Society. As of right now I have absolutely no idea what this means. Hopefully it will give me a flexible opportunity to get involved in a small slice of the NGO world of Rabat, allow me possibilities to initiate my own ideas, and help me meet some interesting people. But, if nothing else, I'll be able to say I worked for a princess.
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Rabat, Morocco

Last night was leilat l-qadr, or "Night of Power," a special night on the 27th of Ramadan when the Qu'ran was first revealed to the prophet Mohammad. In commemoration, Moroccans today give this night special significance. Some Moroccans, primarily men, from my observations, go to the mosque to recite the Quran until midnight. I've been told others go to the cemetery to lay flowers and remember the dead, and still more stay outside, eyes pealed, hoping to see a flash of light representing the opening of the gates of paradise as angels descend onto earth for this special occasion, just as the angel Gabriel came to reveal the Qu'ran to the Prophet Mohammad some 1,398 years ago. But in my family, it was the flash of a camera that was the center of attention. I'm not exactly sure of the reason, but this day serves as a chance for children to get a quick foray into the delights of maturity - some will fast for the whole day, rather than the half-fast they usually perform (children who have not hit puberty usually fast only until lunch). After Ftour all the women in my host family, including a visiting cousin and her two-year-old daughter, Iman, helped my six-year-old host sister A'isha and Iman apply eye-liner, eye-shadow, and lipstick (several times before we could get it to stay only on their lips). Next, we hit the streets and went to a nearby shopping center so that the girls could have their hands and wrists covered in henna. Considering that Iman's hands are only marginally larger than golf balls, and henna must be carefully preserved for at least ten minutes until it dries, this was a little easier said than done. In what I imagine must also be a tradition, we then had to hold both the girls' arms out and constantly instruct Iman to keep her hands open as we steered the girls around a shopping center. It was a strange up-side down kind of world. Small children filled the hallways, with a mix of excited delight, bewilderment and tears in reaction to their unique outing. The little girls were decked out in heavy makeup, and all the children were in various stages of their transition from modern to traditional. Most of the boys wore starched-white robes with small red, flat-top hats, but others sported different styles, even the white head scarves of Saudi dress. Little girls tripped along in front of their mothers in long, shimmering robes in bright colors or intricately laced djlebbas and head scarves. And all this was taking place in one of those strange malls I've found unexpectedly tucked away around the streets of Rabat, a mix of the eclectic stalls typical in the old medina souq and the Western mall, where one can find anything from Nikes to wall-length framed quotes from the Qu'ran. Taking in the scene, I was not doing a very good job keeping an eye on A'isha, especially when we entered the main lobby of the mall. Here the children had swarmed around small electronic rides and video games. A little girl in a beautiful golden keftan with henna all down her arms and hands was giggling inside of a small, vibrating toy helicopter painted a glaring red white and blue with "US ARMY" emblazoned on the side in bright yellow. A group of little boys had their keftans pulled up around their knees, revealing their traditional point-toed yellow slip-on sandals, as they pressed around "Cruisin' World," one of my very favorite videogames. And a little girl lay helpless in her stroller, a small face with heavy eyeliner, blue eye-shadow, and bright red circles of rouge surrounded by brown curls completely enveloped in her lacy white dress that puffed around her and overflowed out of the stroller. The enjoyment grown up people get from seeing adorably miniature versions of adults is clearly a universal. I could have stayed and observed the scene for hours, but Iman was slowly progressing towards tears, and we had to scoop her up and head home. We were able to get one quick photo of Iman in a lacy black Djellaba and head scarf, her scarlet lips puffed in a confused pout before she broke into a ear-splitting wail and tugged the clothes off. Luckily A'isha quite enjoyed the attention, and instructed me how to take several photos.
After scraping of the henna and wiping off the make-up, the night was drawn to a close with an especially delicious traditional Berber dish of pancake-like bread with chicken in a spiced vegetable sauce. It has been added to a growing list of the meals my host mother has taken it on to teach me while I'm here.
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Rabat, Morocco

It has been almost two and a half years since I lived with my family, and even when I did, my homes were an environment of freedom, trust and personal responsibility rather than rules. And as the youngest (well, by seven minutes, but the point holds), I was never even witness to stricter standards. So any transition to a traditional family with young children was going to be a big adjustment. But this became a REALLY big adjustment when I decided to make this change in a culture built around the boundaries of 'haram' and the 'hillal', the forbidden and the honorable, where young, single girls especially must be carefully protected, and where I can't speak the language fluently enough to offer another opinion. This was something I was prepared for, and my desire to be in radically new, challenging situations even made it strangely desirable. But all the same, I think freedom is pretty strongly ingrained in me. I'm fine about setting rules for myself, but I don't want anyone else to tell me that I can't come, go, or do exactly as I please. I'm still in the process of negotiating a balance with my family, so that even as much as I love my homestay, it is sometimes absolutely necessary for me to leave the house immediately and just wander where I want, without anyone asking me where or why or how long. A large garden in the center of town and the crowded, winding lanes of the Medina souq serve this impulse perfectly. A real description of Rabat is lacking from my entries, so I'll give it here. This is the context for my wanderings:
Rabat has a reputation as the calm, political city of Morocco. You'll hear this used to explain its faults and charms, but while it may explain the personality of Rabat as compared to (what I've heard is) the bustling craziness of Casablanca, or the vibrant blend of historical and chic in Marrakesh, I think it sells Rabat a little short. Driving through this city you'll find yourself suddenly stumbling into centuries past-like the unfinished mosque of Tour Hassan whose uncovered pillars stretching over an area of a football field suggest the ambitions to greatness in historic Rabat. You'll see the crumbling remains of an Chellah, an old Roman city from around the turn of the century, which, like the great Kasbah (fortress) overlooking the coast, swayed to the needs of a variety of different conquerors and dynasties before settling into the modern landscape of Rabat. Amidst the constant construction and development of this city, these remains command more attention that the series of cranes dotting the coast, an impressive reminder about the past that prevents you from thinking only of the future.
I personally have still not gotten used to this particular contrast. (Morocco is so full of them!) Standing on the Rabat beach I find myself rotating in circles, looking out at the calming scene of the Atlantic's waves crashing rhythmically against the rocks and sand, then at the expansive cemetery that covers the coastline with graves from seemingly every century, then at the machines, temporary walls and debris of a massive development project stretching for miles along the coast and down the river, then at the crowded stories of Rabat's well-established business life, then, finally, at the Kasbah and Medina walls, whose reddish hue, winding asymmetries and signs of time passed demand distinction from the environment around them. (Though they may seem out of place against the modernity, I can't help but think they blend so much more smoothly with the blue of the surrounding ocean and sky.) It really is enough to make you dizzy. But that is just the beginning of it.
One could say that veiling of sort is a stylistic tradition in Morocco. The old city of Rabat, the Medina, is concealed behind the towering veil of its historic city walls. What goes on inside is clearly separated from that of the ville nouvelle and constantly changing neighborhoods of Rabat. And you get the impression that only those with the privilege of living behind the veil can ever know its depth. Upon entering one of the giant doorways into the Medina, you find yourself amongst a swarm of people and motorcyclists trying to maneuver around the series of goods displayed on the ground, tucked into stalls, under large covered roofs, or even in a multi-storied mall that seems to arise out of nowhere. I first took this area to be only a commercial one - a place where people from the outside came in to sell and buy a variety of different goods. It wasn't until I took to exploring more that I began to understand it really was a sort of self-concealed city. Though the stalls may seem sundry and disorderly at first, for someone experienced they offer a quick and convenient way to meet all of your needs. And If you turn off one of the main souq streets you find yourself in a quiet neighborhood with small children running and laughing between different doors. And this is where you find an even more enticing veil.
There is a rich architectural tradition of old houses called (Ryads), characterized by their winding stairs, labyrinths of rooms, open courtyards, lush curtains and couches and elaborate tiling. But these ryads are hidden from the casual passerby by drab, stained white walls and rusty tin coverings. A thick, carved door may be the only thing belying what lays inside. If you explore the narrow streets of the Medina you just may be able to catch a glimpse through a half-opened window at a high domed ceiling covered in carved wood with shimmering chandeliers hanging down. It's a wonderful stimulant for the imagination. But this is only behind the giant city walls, the chaos on the streets, the bootlegged DVDs, and the stained building exteriors with rusty tin.
Rabat was also chosen by the French to be the capital of the Protectorate, and it continued on as the capital post-independence. Thus, much of Rabat has a distinctly European feel, with wide, manicured avenues, fountains, parks, and a "Boulangerie" on every corner. It is one of those particular parks that I've taken to wandering to. It is in the middle of the city, a large oasis of twisting paths and sweet-smelling flowers. After a little bit of searching I can find a bench that hasn't already been claimed by a mother with her children, chatting students, or old men with newspapers. It is an amazing place for homework and even better for people watching. And though Westerners are hardly a rarity in Rabat, my presence is sometimes a source of special attention. Reading Fatima Mernissi, A Moroccan intellectual theorizing about the complex mix of allure and revulsion some Moroccans often feel towards "the West," I may have an middle age man proposition me to take him as a "Moroccan friend" in addition to my fictitious American husband. Or, on the other hand, I may have a Moroccan father shoot me a glare when I let a smile escape in the direction of his giggling little girl. There's always something to keep me thinking.
Night life in Rabat during Ramadan is a little on the quiet side. And considering I should be home around 11pm each night, this may be a good thing. There are plenty of cafes for coffee, tea, treats, and ice cream, and the streets are more active much later during Ramadan, since most people are only half awake during the day and spend so much time eating at night. But young girls still are distinctly out of place on the street after 10pm or so, and many cafes are strongly under the domination of old men. This is not to say there aren't girls out, or that there aren't slightly different options available. But the things that might be normal in the states are the activities of "bad girls" here.
After a typical night playing scrabble at a café with some of my other American friends, a café with curtained windows playing loud, upbeat Arabic music caught our attention. And from the door we even glimpsed something entirely new amongst Ramadan nightlife-girls dancing. Excited by a possible change of pace, we entered. I wouldn't say there was necessarily anything distinctly bad occurring - there was definitely no alcohol being sold, and the dancing, if comparatively provocative at times, was of a distinctly friendly nature. But even if the behavior was within the sanctions of a high school dance, the curtains were there for a reason-we were on the fringes of acceptable behavior. And for that I couldn't help but feel a little sketchy. I would not include this on my nightly list of activities in badly pronounced Darija for my family. Since we were there anyway, and had bought cokes at two times the normal price, we danced and actually had a good time making fools of ourselves and joined hands with some Moroccans nearby in a slightly ridiculous dancing circle. I anticipate it will be a complicated process finding my way within the cultural standards of Morocco, but I will reserve the rest of my efforts to do so for after Ramadan, and away from Rabat and my host family.
All in all, I may be getting anxious to see more of Morocco, and I may need the occasional break from my host family, but Rabat, even in the throes of Ramadan, has its charms for me. And after getting my fill of the city I'm more than happy to go back to my family and try to explain in Darija where I've been all day.
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Rabat, Morocco

Recently it has felt as if time has been put on pause, suspended in anticipation of the end of Ramadan, which will come on Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday of next week. (depending on the sighting of the moon Tuesday night, because the Islamic lunar calendar is used) I arrived in Rabat only shortly before Ramadan began, so I have very little conception of Morocco outside of Ramadan. I've found myself talking whimsically with other American students here about what it will be like when restaurants and cafes will throw open their doors and some wonderful energy will descend on the city. And it seems that so much is rationalized with the well-worn phrase, "well, it ­is Ramadan." But I think it these conversations belie something besides hunger - we are feeling restless. The shock and the awe have worn off the city, but it has not yet been replaced by the feeling of home. And I find myself hoping that when the restaurants open, I'll suddenly find the city and the country more open to me as well.
There is some truth to this. After Ramadan we will begin traveling around the country more-something I've been craving almost as much as I crave coffee. And I will be able to look at the city as a volunteer - though I'm not sure of the details yet, I will be working teaching English to low-income youths in the city, and potentially doing work with a British NGO. And there is a great deal of truth, I believe, to the fact that social opportunities will open up as well, when restaurants and beaches and clubs are no longer closed, when the day is once again a time of activity, rather than rest and anticipation, and the night not so much a time of family.
This undercurrent of anticipation does not mean I haven't truly enjoyed these past couple weeks, especially the emphasis on spending time with my family. Each night consists of a slur of language learning and cultural exchange, all wrapped up in that warm, fuzzy blanket of how much care they show me. Sometimes it is my father, sister, and brother poised, pencils ready as I teach them basic English greetings, or a late night translation and exchange of different proverbs with my mother and father, or a slow series of sentences and gestures as I try to cook with my host mom who speaks only Darija and Berber. These events have become everyday to the point that I don't even necessarily notice how much they mean to me. I have felt this ambiguous itch to 'get out' into Morocco-to see more of the country, to get involved volunteering and working, to surround myself with Moroccan friends, to do valuable research on Moroccan society, religion and politics and to enrich myself as much as possible and eek every benefit out of this study abroad experience that I've so looked forward to. My intentions might be good, but something in that term 'enrich' seems more than a little exploitative. I had quite a bit of excitement and anticipation leading up to this trip, and I think I might be feeling the need to ride that expectation to a climax by generating some sort of quantifiable progress here. But in reality, I hardly have to step out of my bedroom to have truly amazing experiences unlike anything I've ever had before in my life.
During my proverb exchange I translated a personal favorite of mine, "buy the ticket, take the ride" into Darija. I'm realizing that, while I succeeded in buying the ticket, I'm now stuck desperately trying to plan an itinerary and visit all the right places at all the right times and pack my photo album and my suitcase full of souvenirs. I'm extending this metaphor as long as possible because that is exactly the kind of trip I hate-tour busses evoke a gag reflex in me and I don't like to carry a camera for fear that I'll only see what's around me through a lens. (that's why you might notice this blog is decidedly short on pictures) And I really think the parallel may just fit. I bought the ticket, but I've somehow missed a very large part of Mr. Hunter S. Thompson's advice. I'm along for the ride here, and what happens, happens. I need to stop trying to make this the "right" kind of study abroad that conforms to all of my pre-planned goals. Not only is it a little laughable that I, who can barely communicate with a taxi driver, could make Morocco fit my agenda, I think I'll be so caught up in my futile efforts that I'll miss out on some valuable experiences.
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Rabat, Morocco

I have placed a very high value on the religious diversity in the United States, because of it my best friends growing up, even before an age where I began to reexamine the religious beliefs I'd been brought up with, offered a wide berth of perspectives: from a devout Mormon, to Catholic, to a Unitarian Universalist brought up without assuming the existence of God or truth of any specific religion.

But at the same time, I can't helped but be overcome by the experience of waking at four in the morning to the resonating sound of the call to prayer from the nearby mosque, swirling together with the calls from other mosques all over the city into a deep, heartfelt song accentuated by the festive rumble of cannons. In unified call it announced to each and every person of the city that Ramadan, the month of fasting, had begun. Because of the religious homogeneity, this country can experience such powerful experiences together, regardless of their other socio-economic, ethnic, gender, or geographical differences. And this call is only the very tip of this shared experience. For the rest of the month they will go through the arduous experience of a daylong, 17-hour fast knowing that each person they pass on the street is going through the same experience: and then share the same, often night-long rejoicing and feasting after the sun has gone down. It is an intensely personal experience turned into an annual, common struggle.

It's really a play of word choice and interpretation, thinking about this issue of a religiously heterogeneous or homogenous community, and it is lit on fire by politics, to the point that it's almost too hot to linger and consider the nature of both; one is forced to jump immediately to one side and declare their label loudly. After all, could a proud liberal ever let herself be taken in by the power of "religious conformity?" Could she ever recognize the benefits of a country where a king has vast real and symbolic power, including as the "leader of the faithful?"

I've been fasting for Ramadan so far, waking with my family at four in the morning for a small breakfast (called the sa-hor) of something like a pancake and sweet mint green tea, and then fasting throughout the day until the long-awaited "ALLAH AKBAR" is heard at sunset at which point the fast is broken with water and a single date before prayer. The fast-breaking meal, the ftour, only comes after each person in the house as prayed. (This excludes the six-year old, whose fast breaks at noon and who simply prances around the house, munching on the food her mom has been preparing all day without being able to eat, and mimicking the call to prayer before she can excitedly hand out dates.) It is a Moroccan tradition that this meal always include a spiced vegetable and chickpea soup called harira, but this is only one very small part of the meal: it is complimented by all sorts of sweets and heavy treats until everyone's shrunken stomachs are swelling. The very first day I happily indulged in each part of this one real meal of the day, nearing my host-father's expectations for how much I should eat for the first time. After a few hours of doing my homework the house had darkened, the parents had retired to their bedroom and the two girls were in various states of sleep in the salon. Thus, I was very surprised well after midnight when, after hearing the clanking of dishes, I entered the salon to find a full dinner laid out on the table. The rest of the family filed in shortly, and I prepared my stomach for the next step of this crazy food rollercoaster of Ramadan.

It took a little convincing - a few "vraiment's" and fi haqiqah's"-to convince my father that I really wanted to try Ramadan, but afterwards they seemed to get great enjoyment from my decision- the entire family came with big smiles to deliver me my first date. I love being able to share their traditions with them, and there is something really wonderfully reflective and purifying about the discipline of Ramadan, even though I'm not doing it for religious reasons. But, after just a couple days of fasting, I'm a little worried about fasting for the whole month. It can be a little exhausting adjusting to an entirely different culture and language and trying to take full advantage of the experience, while trying to learn three different languages on top of other courses. And I'm not sure if it was explicitly clear in my description of Ramadan, but fasting means that I can't drink any caffeine during the day. For me, this is kind of a deathblow. It scares me a little, but I really think the caffeine is harder to do without than the food.

I've been struggling with the language, and the soul-crushing feeling that I'll never be able to remember all the words, and will forever remain a stuttering, confused girl amidst what seems to only be babel. But it does seem, maybe, that some of the words are sticking lately, and that very possible, my pronunciations may be becoming intelligible to native speakers. I'm not quite sure, either, which is the more trying part: the language and culture adjustment, or the feeling that I have to learn, see, and do more so that I can fully realize this amazing experience. Perhaps in that way I need the calming effect of Ramadan simply to make sure that I don't trip over my own feet with anxious excitement.

I'd write more, but it's just about time for dinner number two, and I think I need to stretch before eating anymore.
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Rabat, Morocco

Alright. I've been putting off the decision for the past week, but I think I'm finally ready to commit; I'm going to write a blog. I'm willing to bet it will be irregular at best, but It's worth a shot. The chance to ramble in English sounds pretty attractive right now, as I'm taking a break from trying to cram a couple weeks worth of Arabic lessons into two days in order to be at the same level as the rest of the class and trying desperately to communicate with my host family that does not speak English (I can't help but feel stupid when my six year host old sister gets that face of disappointment each time I can't quite remember a word she's taught me).

There was a short interruption just then. I'm sure, because I'm writing this at my host home, that many more will follow. This particular one was a chaotic, festive kind of occasion as we moved 3 couches out to move two beds into the salon where I sleep with the 15 and 6 year old sisters in the family. (which also happens to be where we watch TV and eat meals.) As with everything that goes on in the house, it occurred amidst a surge of languages I don't understand-either Berber, of which I know nothing, or Darija, a colloquial Moroccan form of Arabic that I have only started learning a couple of days ago. The father and the oldest daughter do speak French, however, and so, for the first time ever, I'm in a situation where French is how I choose to communicate when I'm being lazy. With the mother, who unfortunately only speaks Berber and Darija, not the classical form of Arabic (called Fus-ha) that I learned previously, I rely on a few key words and lots of gestures and translations. I really look forward to the day when I can have a conversation with her, but for now she shows her kindness by nice acts and attempts to teach me new words. She also seems to get a lot of amusement out of my blank stares. As a whole, the family is an amazingly sweet, fun, and kind one. We were told in orientation material that it is often the case that the father will be absent or reserved. I have been lucky enough to receive a very, very warm, cheerful, and attentive father. He seems to get great joy from hosting me, for a reason I haven't quite discovered yet, and is vigilant that I am happy and fed. If my translations are correct, he considers it an insult to his honor that someone under his care would be skinny. The two daughters have also been a godsend. The oldest speaks French well, and so is key to helping me get acquainted with the family and the area, and the youngest is a crazy little bundle of energy that is determined to teach me darija, and gives me a playmate when the conversations in the room are unintelligible to me. With this family, and the constant relatives and friends coming in and out of the house, the family has a fantastic liveliness. It is pretty clear to me that they are sure to introduce me to entirely different perspectives on personal space, meals, family, and the overall idea of home.

At some point I had decided that it would be a good idea to try to learn three different languages at once, two of which walk that perfect line of being just alike enough to confuse me, without any real ability to compliment each other. I feel like my head is being filled with words and sounds that will never be sorted out but only get more and more jumbled together until my entire brain is just a giant, pretzel-like mess, and I am left unable to communicate in any language. I find myself muttering yet another language (Ndanka, ndanka: slowly, slowly) very often, just to remind myself not to get too overwhelmed.

But in general, Morocco has been absolutely amazing so far. I've gotten the chance to explore some of the souks and key monuments and historical areas in Rabat so far: from the royal palace to an old Roman city, to an unfinished mosque from centuries ago. I can already see just how many different influences have existed just in this one little part of Morocco for thousands of years and filled it up with a sensory overload of art, architecture, food, language, traditions, and people. I can pick up on some of the more superficial signs of how much change Rabat and Morocco are going through right now, like Moroccan girls in tube tops walking next to women in full hijab and constant construction and development on almost every street. But I'm still very much in the wide-eyed stage, and I can't say I understand my surroundings any more than I understand my host mother when (in Darija) she tried to explain to me this morning that it was actually only 6:30 am this morning, because the King had decided to end daylight savings time early so that when Ramadan starts tomorrow, people won't have to wait so long to eat.

Hopefully I'll be able to provide so more interesting descriptions soon, but for now I have some serious language studying to do.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815680/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815680/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815680/tpod.html Tue, 04 Dec 2007 19:51:38 -0500 The life of a Tubab

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Serekunda, Gambia

I'll be the first to admit that this blog has been a bit untended lately, but it has not been for lack of activity. After up country and Chloraquine treatment my body needed a few days to recover, but I was quickly revived by a very strange realization that has been hovering over me ever since:

I am actually leaving this place on December 16th.

Time is winding down, and when I return to the familiar scenery of middle-class America, the sights and events and attitudes that have become part of my daily life here will suddenly become far-away and foreign once again -fading memories at best. I haven't lost the acute appreciation (often humorous) I have for peculiarities of this place, like herds of adorable roaming goats, or women whose highly held heads support heavy loads of food and tools with dresses that know the true meaning of color, or smiling circles of people (often young men around an attaya pot), shouting greetings to everyone that passes by. But now I do expect to see these things, and I can only imagine how bare the well-paved roads of America will seem without them. One night I had one of those dreams that just leaves you with an irrational gloom all morning; I dreamt that I was home again, but when I greeted everyone with a warm "salaam aleikum," they only looked at me strangely and coldly. It was just a little bit heartbreaking to think about. This place has, in the short time I've been here, left a mark on me,. And come December 16th, I will be leaving it in a more drastic way than I've ever left a place before. It was not just a quick vacation. I will not be returning next season. This was my first real experience abroad. This became a home for me. I have gone through so many new things here, and it left a mark on me during the short time I was here. But I will very likely never see it or experience anything quite like it again. I'm at the point bow where I feel much more comfortable and confident with really exploring the country (though I suspect I might eternally place myself at this point, no matter how long I stay). But instead I am leaving it. So, besides just wanting to express these thoughts I've been having, I'm using them as a justification for why, in these last frenzied weeks, seeing and doing things has become more of a priority for me than reflection.
But, I have also just been a little lazy, so I am going to try to sum up some of the things I've been thinking and doing over the past couple weeks.

Jennie and I left for Tungbun Art village to meet a couple other St. Mary's students (home of Etu, and the subject of previous entries) after a rather hectic meeting with the Child Protection Alliance (CPA) one Saturday afternoon. The rickety gellies (if I haven't mentioned this before, these are large, cheap forms of transportation that are very convenient, as long as they don't break down on their route) took us along the coast, away from the city and towards the beautiful, surreal world of Tungbun. We made it to the nearby fishing village of Tanji, where the horizon to open up into a long, blue shore dotted with small fishing boats, just in time to see the large, burning orange sun sink into the ocean.
It was dark when we arrived, and we passed a slow night stargazing and chatting with Etu and some passing visitors. We wanted to get a good nights sleep to prepare for an amazing favor Etu had asked of us: painting one of the new huts he had built. In a normal place this might have meant adding a smooth beige color to the walls. At Etu's it meant converging on the outside walls of the hut with unrestrained color and creativity to make it match the rest of the village. The next morning after showing us the paint, Etu left us to our own imaginations and the "work" began. Though I am fairly well practiced in doodling, especially in the margins of all my notebooks, letting my designs loose on a house was a bit of a jump. But after we'd mixed the paints, we all started to loosen up, splattering a free-flowing bule and white base around the hut. It was a beautiful sunny day (as all days are in Gambia this time of year), and we were surrounded by incredible natural and made-made beauty, and it was hard not to feel a little inspired. We all split off to different sides of the hut and became engrossed in our own spontaneous creations. It was a glorious day's work, and as it reached the time for us to leave to bike back to Kanifing before night, we all stepped back from the hut a little shocked by the way all the different colors and designs had come together to occupy their own little corner of Tungbun. Etu showed his approval with a radiant laugh and clap of the hands as he circiled the hut, promising to name it after us. It was amazing to be able to give something back to him and the village for all the enjoyment we'd had there. It was amazing to be able to leave our own little mark on the village. It was amazing just to BE there. I hope we'll have time to go back once more, but time is really running low. In the end though, even if I never get to see Tungbun again, it makes me a little happier just knowing that a place like that exists, that such an enthusiastic, creative, eager man like Etu has been able to create such a remarkable reality in this small corner of a small country.
Our group has had a lot of experience with the education system here in The Gambia. Though not a single one of us has any real plans to become a teacher, it is one of our most common topics of conversation. This may improve our fluency on the topic, or it may just increase our bias. We are all teachers or volunteers at local schools we've experienced a variety of subjects, grades, and schools, even one school for mentally retarted children. And as students of Gambian higher education, we've been able to look at how the attitude towards education and children in general influences higher education.
In all, we've found that education, as an idea, is highly valued in The Gambia. Children are very aware of how important school is to a successful lifestyle, and the government itself understands that education is important for development of the nation as a whole. But between the idea and the reality, something seems to have been lost. New schools are being built, but what goes on inside that building has enjoyed less improvement. There are not enough teachers, it is not uncommon for students to sit in a classroom without a teacher. (Hence why we were quickly signed up to fill spots). Those teachers who are there may not even be trained, and those who are might only be teaching to save up some money to pursue a more lucrative career (teachers' salaries are very low), and thus often won't be very committed to their job.
What students do in these classrooms can be just as discouraging. The bulk of a student's day is spent sitting silently in their chair copying notes from a blackboard. Participation means regurgitating information just given by the teacher and it requires an absolute minimum of actual thought. If an assignment is actually given, very few of the 40 to 50 students who may or may not have their books and supplies actually understand as the teacher calls off the right answer during the 30 minute class. More than anything, these students seem to learn copying, and this "skill" seems to pervade everything they do. In art class, when told to use their imaginations to draw anything, the students tend copy one or two other people, who may also just be copying a picture out of a book. During tests or on homework, coping is rampant in our experiences. And during other classes, students are often so busy finishing copying notes from the previous class that they won't even listen to the teacher. (but according to them, this is not a problem, as all the necessary information should be on the board, and they can just copy that from someone else who was able to copy it off of the blackboard.) Something interesting happens when students reach higher levels of education, especially those who score high enough on standardized tests to go on to senior secondary school,(10th to 12th grade) and maybe even (though rarely) have the test scores and money to attend college (which focuses more on practical training for select professions) or university. Students are at this point encouraged to begin to speak with the same confidence and authority as their teachers do with them. Just listening to the way these students talk you can begin to see traces of this training. They tend to speak in a formal, structured format: addressing their audience, introducing themselves, listing their topics , and ending with a very general, prescriptive statement. In many ways these ca be very valuable, and there have been many times that I've been quite impressed by the presence some Gambian students have when they talk. But at the same time, I've seen plenty of examples of how this well-formed frame is just a diversion for the largely empty words inside of it. Or, continuing that ever-entrenched skill, it is just a slightly altered copy of someone else's words. This is by no means always the case, it is at best a tendency, but I do see it as evidence of something that is very troubling about Gambian education and the way it approaches learning and children. Students are in not sufficiently encouraged to think critically or to hold intellectual discussion, and the styles of student participation often only further entrench the authoritarian form of "learning."
In some of our university classes this pattern continues.
Discussion occurs rarely; if the teacher does provide time for discussion they may interrupt or even correct students' about their opinions, or do not seem to take students seriously. Also, other students often interrupt each other and listen so little to other students' opinions that discussion may be pointless. This is made worse when statements are so general and not based in fact that it is impossible to debate them. I'm not in the position to assess just how typical this situation is, and I definitely do not have the expertise to judge why it occurs, but from my perspective it is a dangerous and overly-common trend.

All of this was basically a very long introduction to an organization that is struggling - at some times more actively than others - to challenge these tendencies. The Child Protection Alliance is a UNICEF-sponsored organization promoting child rights in different countries through improved government policies and educational programs. There is one very interesting part of this organization - Voice of the Young - which has emphasized that it is the children themselves who should be empowered to speak for themselves against child rights violations. I was immediately attracted to this concept, it seemed like a great way to encourage leadership and positive, sustainable progress in child rights. But I have to acknowledge that this approval comes from my decidedly Western perspective, and that it is attracted to an idea that came from other Westerners and was then transplanted to the Gambia. On top of this, we also observed that it was Western volunteers (one from Canada, another from Britain) who were taking charge of the activities of the group, "training" the Gambian staff (often with a decidedly patronizing tone) who were not as familiar with the way such a program would be run.
I could dance back and forth with cultural relativity and generalizations trying to diagnose the problems with Voice, but no matter how you look at it, there is something remarkable about this organization where intelligent, motivated students came together by their own will to seek greater responsibility and knowledge of a complex, controversial issue. Regardless of the nuances, these kids are impressive. And it was this that made Jennie and I so determined to help there, even though we quickly noticed that this organization, struggling just to run smoothly, did not have many organized opportunities for impermanent student volunteers. So we decided to create our own forum to help - we proposed the idea of a weekend leadership and educational program that we organized, funded, and led by ourselves. Over the course of the next month or so we learned more about Voice and CPA, and received somewhat hesitant support for our idea - they seemed very used to foreign volunteers who were eager to help, but maybe not too committed in the long run.
For our own part, Jennie and I realized that even if we had some experience with similar activities in the past, organizing them in a developing country is entirely different. The CPA office didn't have internet or a copier, for example. Contacting the students is near-impossible. Students, especially girls don't have the kind of free afternoons that we do. And if you're hoping to run to a store for a last minute errand, expect everything to go wrong just as quickly. The fact that the day of our event was at 1:30 on a sort of national cleaning holiday, called Setsital, where the whole country shuts down and people stay inside until 1pm added plenty of difficulties for us. To account for these things we didn't have activities actually starting until 2pm on the schedule. This schedule became little more than a rough suggestion when the CPA representative didn't even show up to let us into the building until a little past 2pm. But perhaps this and organizing a day-long workshop for 30 kids in a foreign country would have been more stressful had we not adopted some of the "Gambia, no problem!" attitude over the past 3 months. It was fairly clear that something good would come out of the day, and we hardly knew what to expect anyway. And so we just let things happen. The day had our clear American mark on it; from our neatly designed brochure, to our art activities, to our group discussions, to the salad we served with lunch (mixed fresh vegetables is a strange idea for Gambians). But our expectations were flexible, and the children were remarkably open enough that, besides the salad that largely ended up in the trash, the Gambian and the American seemed to mix quite well. I'd been a little terrified that we would be left with a small, blank faced, silent crowd for the whole day, but almost every students who signed up arrived, despite the problems with transportation, and got involved in the activities. And thought there was the occasional amused look about some of our strange ideas, like arranging the chairs in a circle instead of a classroom format, the students went along enthusiastically and even participated.
It was good, very good, but by the lunch break I was a little frustrated by the way everyone tended to look to Jennie or me for approval, and the way the same couple kids would adopt that practiced presenter's posture and speak for the group when we asked questions. The next thing on the agenda was small group discussions leading into a big group discussion about different news articles we'd provided and the complex ways they were all woven together in the problem of child rights. It was not like the "draw a leader" kind of activities we'd had earlier. If people weren't actually thinking critically and discussing as a group it was going to crash and burn. Jennie and I decided to gamble and give more time to this and take out the next activity, hoping that it would make the discussion more productive and not just more painful. After some words about the importance of probing questions and open discussion we let them take charge of the activity. I can't say it went perfectly, there were definitely some bumpy parts, and the format was a little awkward for some of them, but at one point when new voices were popping up in the circle giving their own thoughts about the benefits and consequences of industrialization and especially its effects on children, I had to stop myself from laughing aloud with excitement. Without a word from Jennie or I they were pushing the discussion further, keeping it on topic, building on each other's comments, and making summative conclusions. College classrooms full of American kids who've had the Socratic style drilled into them since middle school, who've expressed their views to the point of arrogance for years couldn't do what these students were doing. It was an inspiring moment, just the kind that I really needed after weeks of work and uncertainty. Taken as a whole the process of organizing the workshop was a complicated one, it taught me intricacies of NGOs and cultural interaction and was often quite frustrating and even discouraging. But After that discussion and as the day wrapped up, I decided to take my happy ending. Maybe it was the overly simplistic conclusion, but I liked to think that over the course of our workshop and its planning we'd really shared substantial, real benefits with the students in Voice. Our experiences in The Gambia are often frustrating and confusing, and in the often overwhelming swarm of evidence of poverty and lacking public services and infrastructure, it does not really seem that we can have any real positive impact here. But it was hard not to feel hopeful after that afternoon, and I embraced the idealism after the cynicism that comes from so many of my daily experiences here.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1196815620/tpod.html Tue, 04 Dec 2007 19:51:37 -0500 The life of a Tubab

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Serekunda, Gambia

I'll be the first to admit that this blog has been a bit untended lately, but it has not been for lack of activity. After up country and Chloraquine treatment my body needed a few days to recover, but I was quickly revived by a very strange realization that has been hovering over me ever since:

I am actually leaving this place on December 16th.

Time is winding down, and when I return to the familiar scenery of middle-class America, the sights and events and attitudes that have become part of my daily life here will suddenly become far-away and foreign once again -fading memories at best. I haven't lost the acute appreciation (often humorous) I have for peculiarities of this place, like herds of adorable roaming goats, or women whose highly held heads support heavy loads of food and tools with dresses that know the true meaning of color, or smiling circles of people (often young men around an attaya pot), shouting greetings to everyone that passes by. But now I do expect to see these things, and I can only imagine how bare the well-paved roads of America will seem without them. One night I had one of those dreams that just leaves you with an irrational gloom all morning; I dreamt that I was home again, but when I greeted everyone with a warm "salaam aleikum," they only looked at me strangely and coldly. It was just a little bit heartbreaking to think about. This place has, in the short time I've been here, left a mark on me,. And come December 16th, I will be leaving it in a more drastic way than I've ever left a place before. It was not just a quick vacation. I will not be returning next season. This was my first real experience abroad. This became a home for me. I have gone through so many new things here, and it left a mark on me during the short time I was here. But I will very likely never see it or experience anything quite like it again. I'm at the point bow where I feel much more comfortable and confident with really exploring the country (though I suspect I might eternally place myself at this point, no matter how long I stay). But instead I am leaving it. So, besides just wanting to express these thoughts I've been having, I'm using them as a justification for why, in these last frenzied weeks, seeing and doing things has become more of a priority for me than reflection.
But, I have also just been a little lazy, so I am going to try to sum up some of the things I've been thinking and doing over the past couple weeks.

Jennie and I left for Tungbun Art village to meet a couple other St. Mary's students (home of Etu, and the subject of previous entries) after a rather hectic meeting with the Child Protection Alliance (CPA) one Saturday afternoon. The rickety gellies (if I haven't mentioned this before, these are large, cheap forms of transportation that are very convenient, as long as they don't break down on their route) took us along the coast, away from the city and towards the beautiful, surreal world of Tungbun. We made it to the nearby fishing village of Tanji, where the horizon to open up into a long, blue shore dotted with small fishing boats, just in time to see the large, burning orange sun sink into the ocean.
It was dark when we arrived, and we passed a slow night stargazing and chatting with Etu and some passing visitors. We wanted to get a good nights sleep to prepare for an amazing favor Etu had asked of us: painting one of the new huts he had built. In a normal place this might have meant adding a smooth beige color to the walls. At Etu's it meant converging on the outside walls of the hut with unrestrained color and creativity to make it match the rest of the village. The next morning after showing us the paint, Etu left us to our own imaginations and the "work" began. Though I am fairly well practiced in doodling, especially in the margins of all my notebooks, letting my designs loose on a house was a bit of a jump. But after we'd mixed the paints, we all started to loosen up, splattering a free-flowing bule and white base around the hut. It was a beautiful sunny day (as all days are in Gambia this time of year), and we were surrounded by incredible natural and made-made beauty, and it was hard not to feel a little inspired. We all split off to different sides of the hut and became engrossed in our own spontaneous creations. It was a glorious day's work, and as it reached the time for us to leave to bike back to Kanifing before night, we all stepped back from the hut a little shocked by the way all the different colors and designs had come together to occupy their own little corner of Tungbun. Etu showed his approval with a radiant laugh and clap of the hands as he circiled the hut, promising to name it after us. It was amazing to be able to give something back to him and the village for all the enjoyment we'd had there. It was amazing to be able to leave our own little mark on the village. It was amazing just to BE there. I hope we'll have time to go back once more, but time is really running low. In the end though, even if I never get to see Tungbun again, it makes me a little happier just knowing that a place like that exists, that such an enthusiastic, creative, eager man like Etu has been able to create such a remarkable reality in this small corner of a small country.
Our group has had a lot of experience with the education system here in The Gambia. Though not a single one of us has any real plans to become a teacher, it is one of our most common topics of conversation. This may improve our fluency on the topic, or it may just increase our bias. We are all teachers or volunteers at local schools we've experienced a variety of subjects, grades, and schools, even one school for mentally retarted children. And as students of Gambian higher education, we've been able to look at how the attitude towards education and children in general influences higher education.
In all, we've found that education, as an idea, is highly valued in The Gambia. Children are very aware of how important school is to a successful lifestyle, and the government itself understands that education is important for development of the nation as a whole. But between the idea and the reality, something seems to have been lost. New schools are being built, but what goes on inside that building has enjoyed less improvement. There are not enough teachers, it is not uncommon for students to sit in a classroom without a teacher. (Hence why we were quickly signed up to fill spots). Those teachers who are there may not even be trained, and those who are might only be teaching to save up some money to pursue a more lucrative career (teachers' salaries are very low), and thus often won't be very committed to their job.
What students do in these classrooms can be just as discouraging. The bulk of a student's day is spent sitting silently in their chair copying notes from a blackboard. Participation means regurgitating information just given by the teacher and it requires an absolute minimum of actual thought. If an assignment is actually given, very few of the 40 to 50 students who may or may not have their books and supplies actually understand as the teacher calls off the right answer during the 30 minute class. More than anything, these students seem to learn copying, and this "skill" seems to pervade everything they do. In art class, when told to use their imaginations to draw anything, the students tend copy one or two other people, who may also just be copying a picture out of a book. During tests or on homework, coping is rampant in our experiences. And during other classes, students are often so busy finishing copying notes from the previous class that they won't even listen to the teacher. (but according to them, this is not a problem, as all the necessary information should be on the board, and they can just copy that from someone else who was able to copy it off of the blackboard.) Something interesting happens when students reach higher levels of education, especially those who score high enough on standardized tests to go on to senior secondary school,(10th to 12th grade) and maybe even (though rarely) have the test scores and money to attend college (which focuses more on practical training for select professions) or university. Students are at this point encouraged to begin to speak with the same confidence and authority as their teachers do with them. Just listening to the way these students talk you can begin to see traces of this training. They tend to speak in a formal, structured format: addressing their audience, introducing themselves, listing their topics , and ending with a very general, prescriptive statement. In many ways these ca be very valuable, and there have been many times that I've been quite impressed by the presence some Gambian students have when they talk. But at the same time, I've seen plenty of examples of how this well-formed frame is just a diversion for the largely empty words inside of it. Or, continuing that ever-entrenched skill, it is just a slightly altered copy of someone else's words. This is by no means always the case, it is at best a tendency, but I do see it as evidence of something that is very troubling about Gambian education and the way it approaches learning and children. Students are in not sufficiently encouraged to think critically or to hold intellectual discussion, and the styles of student participation often only further entrench the authoritarian form of "learning."
In some of our university classes this pattern continues.
Discussion occurs rarely; if the teacher does provide time for discussion they may interrupt or even correct students' about their opinions, or do not seem to take students seriously. Also, other students often interrupt each other and listen so little to other students' opinions that discussion may be pointless. This is made worse when statements are so general and not based in fact that it is impossible to debate them. I'm not in the position to assess just how typical this situation is, and I definitely do not have the expertise to judge why it occurs, but from my perspective it is a dangerous and overly-common trend.

All of this was basically a very long introduction to an organization that is struggling - at some times more actively than others - to challenge these tendencies. The Child Protection Alliance is a UNICEF-sponsored organization promoting child rights in different countries through improved government policies and educational programs. There is one very interesting part of this organization - Voice of the Young - which has emphasized that it is the children themselves who should be empowered to speak for themselves against child rights violations. I was immediately attracted to this concept, it seemed like a great way to encourage leadership and positive, sustainable progress in child rights. But I have to acknowledge that this approval comes from my decidedly Western perspective, and that it is attracted to an idea that came from other Westerners and was then transplanted to the Gambia. On top of this, we also observed that it was Western volunteers (one from Canada, another from Britain) who were taking charge of the activities of the group, "training" the Gambian staff (often with a decidedly patronizing tone) who were not as familiar with the way such a program would be run.
I could dance back and forth with cultural relativity and generalizations trying to diagnose the problems with Voice, but no matter how you look at it, there is something remarkable about this organization where intelligent, motivated students came together by their own will to seek greater responsibility and knowledge of a complex, controversial issue. Regardless of the nuances, these kids are impressive. And it was this that made Jennie and I so determined to help there, even though we quickly noticed that this organization, struggling just to run smoothly, did not have many organized opportunities for impermanent student volunteers. So we decided to create our own forum to help - we proposed the idea of a weekend leadership and educational program that we organized, funded, and led by ourselves. Over the course of the next month or so we learned more about Voice and CPA, and received somewhat hesitant support for our idea - they seemed very used to foreign volunteers who were eager to help, but maybe not too committed in the long run.
For our own part, Jennie and I realized that even if we had some experience with similar activities in the past, organizing them in a developing country is entirely different. The CPA office didn't have internet or a copier, for example. Contacting the students is near-impossible. Students, especially girls don't have the kind of free afternoons that we do. And if you're hoping to run to a store for a last minute errand, expect everything to go wrong just as quickly. The fact that the day of our event was at 1:30 on a sort of national cleaning holiday, called Setsital, where the whole country shuts down and people stay inside until 1pm added plenty of difficulties for us. To account for these things we didn't have activities actually starting until 2pm on the schedule. This schedule became little more than a rough suggestion when the CPA representative didn't even show up to let us into the building until a little past 2pm. But perhaps this and organizing a day-long workshop for 30 kids in a foreign country would have been more stressful had we not adopted some of the "Gambia, no problem!" attitude over the past 3 months. It was fairly clear that something good would come out of the day, and we hardly knew what to expect anyway. And so we just let things happen. The day had our clear American mark on it; from our neatly designed brochure, to our art activities, to our group discussions, to the salad we served with lunch (mixed fresh vegetables is a strange idea for Gambians). But our expectations were flexible, and the children were remarkably open enough that, besides the salad that largely ended up in the trash, the Gambian and the American seemed to mix quite well. I'd been a little terrified that we would be left with a small, blank faced, silent crowd for the whole day, but almost every students who signed up arrived, despite the problems with transportation, and got involved in the activities. And thought there was the occasional amused look about some of our strange ideas, like arranging the chairs in a circle instead of a classroom format, the students went along enthusiastically and even participated.
It was good, very good, but by the lunch break I was a little frustrated by the way everyone tended to look to Jennie or me for approval, and the way the same couple kids would adopt that practiced presenter's posture and speak for the group when we asked questions. The next thing on the agenda was small group discussions leading into a big group discussion about different news articles we'd provided and the complex ways they were all woven together in the problem of child rights. It was not like the "draw a leader" kind of activities we'd had earlier. If people weren't actually thinking critically and discussing as a group it was going to crash and burn. Jennie and I decided to gamble and give more time to this and take out the next activity, hoping that it would make the discussion more productive and not just more painful. After some words about the importance of probing questions and open discussion we let them take charge of the activity. I can't say it went perfectly, there were definitely some bumpy parts, and the format was a little awkward for some of them, but at one point when new voices were popping up in the circle giving their own thoughts about the benefits and consequences of industrialization and especially its effects on children, I had to stop myself from laughing aloud with excitement. Without a word from Jennie or I they were pushing the discussion further, keeping it on topic, building on each other's comments, and making summative conclusions. College classrooms full of American kids who've had the Socratic style drilled into them since middle school, who've expressed their views to the point of arrogance for years couldn't do what these students were doing. It was an inspiring moment, just the kind that I really needed after weeks of work and uncertainty. Taken as a whole the process of organizing the workshop was a complicated one, it taught me intricacies of NGOs and cultural interaction and was often quite frustrating and even discouraging. But After that discussion and as the day wrapped up, I decided to take my happy ending. Maybe it was the overly simplistic conclusion, but I liked to think that over the course of our workshop and its planning we'd really shared substantial, real benefits with the students in Voice. Our experiences in The Gambia are often frustrating and confusing, and in the often overwhelming swarm of evidence of poverty and lacking public services and infrastructure, it does not really seem that we can have any real positive impact here. But it was hard not to feel hopeful after that afternoon, and I embraced the idealism after the cynicism that comes from so many of my daily experiences here.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194447540/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194447540/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194447540/tpod.html Sat, 10 Nov 2007 10:02:44 -0500 The life of a Tubab

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Tumani Tenda to Basse, Gambia

Upcountry

Here's a disconnected journal of my thoughts during our upcountry trip. There are a few days missing while I was sick (see entry 10), but I hope you still find something interesting in it.

29/10: Abuko Nature Reserve

The beginning of our upcountry trip started close to home at the Abuko Nature Reserve, with a presentation by a group there working to preserve and study biodiversity in The Gambia. Originally run by foreigner, it had recently switched into Gambian hands, an important sign of a growing pool of educated Gambians (President Jammeh especially supports science education), and independence in development. Over the course of our trip this, along with other distinctions in how aid is used would become increasingly noticeable.
Before going on a tour of the reserve to see the lushness of Gambia, along with some adorable monkeys, we heard about the really amazing range of Gambian landscapes. There are the beautiful, wide beaches, there are flat, open savannahs, there are overgrown forests, there are the distinctive mangrove swamps and extensive farmlands. We would see all of these during the days to come, on our little tour of the country.
The presenter also talked about what I'd expect to hear from an American environmentalist (overpopulation, global warming), except the more religious tone of Gambia did seep in when he explained Gambia's biodiversity as God-given. I really have to wonder how much the unchallenged, all-encompassing religiosity of this country affects his view of reality.

30/10: Tumani Tenda: meeting with the alkalo
This was the first of our several visits with the village leaders, or alkalos. These leaders have, since colonial times, been seen as the intermediaries between governments and the people. They are usually old and weathered, with a soft-spoken pride and reserve. Much different than the kind of charismatic, lively, booming public speakers that are more typical of national political leaders, even in Africa, these leaders clearly embodied the principle of respect for elders. I also cannot substitute 'men' with the word 'leaders,' as one of the alkalos we visited was actually a woman. Leadership is passed down a family, where the eldest living descendent of the founder of the village leads. Women are not excluded from this succession, as long as they have been married. Another form of leadership in the villages existed in the form of Village Development Committees (VDCs). These committees are required in all villages by law, and are supposed to assess, organize and oversee programs in the villages that will advance the social and economic well-being of the village.
Tumani Tenda was without a doubt my favorite village of the entire trip. It is truly a remarkable one for the strong communal foundations it has laid. In this developing country, villages find themselves in a tight spot. Often they suffer from rural-urban migration as youths leave the village to go to senior secondary school, and often don't come back, as the city offers them more opportunities to earn their own livelihood. (Though, unfortunately, they often do not succeed in this, and then find themselves in a poverty much different than they would have been in in their village, surrounded by family and friends). Other villages have felt negative effects from their contact with foreign countries. They may develop a sort of learned-dependency from a series of aid programs that are in the end unsustainable. Or even the smallest amount of tourism may alter their youth and culture, teaching their children to depend on handouts from tubabs while older youths adopt more intricate livelihoods of exploitation as bumsters. Either way, there seems to be a sense that any cultural pride and self-sufficiency is threatened by modernization, and that only adopting foreign influences will allow them to survive.
But Tumani Tenda seemed to have avoided this. The village is relatively young, about 40 years, established by the current alkalo's grandfather. It has grown to about 325 people, spread out among 22 different compounds (closed in areas with several separate houses and communal space and sometimes wells or other communal resources). A couple families followed the founder to the village, so there are now seven extended families making up the village. The village is based around communal land which all villagers work and share the benefits of. This communal aspect seems to touch on several different parts of life. Parents are expected to provide for their children, even after they've gotten married and established families of their own. This means that fathers must provide the new things necessary for their sons' new wives, and the children continue to come meet at their parents' house from their own compounds. This goes far to prevent rural-urban migration. The alkalo stressed that even after moving to the city for schooling, youths almost always come back, knowing that a life and a strong family establishment is waiting for him.
In addition to the communal land, families have their own individual farms, and often get money from small gardens or other goods. This allows several families in the village to actually put expendable income in the bank for future needs.
Beyond this, the village also set up a nursery school using village funds, and pays for the students' school fees and uniforms as a way to take care of children while their parents are working during the day. Also, the funds from the communal land go to pay the taxes for the entire village. The result is that in the end, all members of the village are provided for, and no hunger exists. Even things like malaria drugs are provided by the village. The social ties of the village as a whole are strong and productive, different age groups get together and do projects, like the women who crochet purses out of recycled plastic bags that can then be sold for village money, or the boys an girls group that rotate helping villagers on their farms. The whole village shows signs of this communal work; there are intricate, handmade fences, gardens and paths weaving through the compounds, school, forest, farmland and mangroves. Seeing the women working making soap together in their beautiful dresses, or students in their clean uniforms playing football in the schoolyard, it seems this village could thrive forever, with its own proud niche in the modern world. Though they have received outside aid, the village runs off of their own ingenuity and hard work. They have many creative projects running constantly, overseen by their village development committee.
And the most substantial grant they have had was one they actually won, based on their past projects. There is in general a different tone to this village. They have taught their children to see foreigners as neither benefactors nor aliens. We especially appreciated this. Rather than having children screaming "tubab, tubab, gimme five dalasi" after us, we could just play with them like normal children.
The village did complain of some water shortages during the dry season, but only their animals felt the effects of this, but as a whole the village looked quite well off, and every house we saw was made of mud blocks or concrete, with tin roofs and plenty of space. The children were well cared for. In the basic school in the village every student had textbooks for every subject, including one on environmental, social and communal values. The 6th graders seemed to grasp their assignments much more than the seventh graders some of us teach in the cities. Rather than struggling just to copy information of a story, they were responding to critical questions on it.
However, it must be acknowledged that this is not just a bucolic paradise. The only clinic is 5km away, and the emergency mode of transportation is a donkey cart. For this reason, elders tend to stick to herbalist treatments. There is no real record of medical cases or deaths. Also, the school at Tumani Tenda does not have enough qualified teachers for all of its classes, because the typical salary (500 Dalasi per month) for a trained teacher is not enough to lure people to the provinces after they've been exposed to the more modern city life during their schooling.
Also, this village was not immune to the problem of gender-based division of labor present in villages throughout The Gambia. Men consider themselves the cash-crop farmers (usually this means groundnuts). Women, on the other hand, are expected to help with the cash-crop farming, as well as grow other products like rice, maize, and garden vegetables, take care of the children, tend to the house, cook, collect firewood, and engage in crafts to earn supplemental income. So while men have little to do during the dry season, women are constantly struggling. One woman who was part of the village development committee spoke strongly and confidently on this, and everyone took notice as she talked. She called women the strugglers, who often found themselves providing for their families instead of their husbands. Though this may provide them with greater self-respect and freedom than they had previously, it was not a fair or intelligent system.

And though many seemed to embrace the communal refuge of the village, there were some who are still captivated by a wider world.

While showing us her house, one woman named Binta told us her story in clear English. She'd been born in the village and then went to senior secondary school in the city like many others. However, unlike the others, she met a rich man and married him. This took her far away from the tight, village community she'd grown up in. She entered enthusiastically into a wider world where community is more of a vague idea than a daily reality. She developed an appreciation for MTV and 'refined' her English by listening to it. She traveled beyond Gambia to see the world expand with her own eyes, even living in Turkey for a while.
But, after several years, her husband died and she slowly felt that ticket she'd had to a different world disintegrate until she was forced to return to her village. However, it seemed like Binta had been a little too far removed from this community to continue to be satisfied by it. She was very honest with us strangers that she was not happy with the small, communal village life. One of the only uplifting things she mentioned was her pride in getting 200 Dalasi on her own for the "garden eggs" (eggplants) she grew. Perhaps there is something true about Pandora's box when it comes to communalism. When you've experienced an individualistic world, enjoyed your personal successes amongst neighboring poverty, or suffered misfortune while your friends succeed, it might be impossible to be satisfied in a communal world ever again.

A man named Mr. Sidibeh was leading us on this trip, he was an old Gambian man who
had spent his life traveling around the Gambia collecting traditional songs, stories and cultural information to compile for the Gambian National Council for Arts and Culture before modernization diluted or wiped them away. The dark brown fedora he wore everywhere gave him a distinct classiness, and the slow way he walked and talked barely above a whisper seemed to emanate importance - you really had to quiet down and lean in close to hear what he had to say, and he had a lot to say. It is easy to make superficial assumptions based on the snapshots of Gambia we tend to see, but Mr. Sidibeh had detail after detail of the histories and truths below the surface in each village.
A few snapshots from Tumani Tenda, my favorite village by far.
While we were upcountry, the limited electricity (there were some lights powered by a generator for a couple hours at a time at some of the places we visited) made us much more acutely aware of the sunset and the coming of night. We all tended to gather around a source of light, and at Tumani Tenda this meant all of us around a fire and an attaya pot. Prompted by Mr. Sidebeh, we exchanged the stories, jokes and riddles we'd learned over the years with Gambian ones. Some awkward silences revealed just how difficult in can be to translate both words and cultures.
This communication barrier was no problem later when we entered the nursery school at Tumani Tenda. Rather than the zoo-like observation (from both groups) that we sometimes feel when we tour through different groups and organizations around the Gambia, we entered on a much livelier, interactive note. After we convinced the students to teach us "hands, knees and toes," complete with motions, we taught them "when you're happy and you know it." We hardly came off as students engaged in intellectual observation, especially as we sang "I'm a little teapot" in the next classroom, but we were satisfied with the experience.
There seemed to be a silent, content tone among the group as we were winding our way through the farmland, forest, and mangroves of the village. It was all lush and coloful, the nature was interrupted only by the marks of hand-made, simplistically beautiful fences, paths, and huts. It is a paradise, in an environmental sense, that this village lives in, that we got to marvel at for a couple of days.

31/10 (Halloween!) Juffree
Wow. Maybe it was just the ferry crossing and the long bus ride, but I did not find this village nearly so peaceful and hospitable as Tumani Tenda . We'd heard before that this village did not have quite the idyllic village tone. Instead of being based on communalism, it shows the taint of a tourist culture. This village, along with the neighboring village Albreda, were major British and French (respectively) trading posts, including for slaves. Alex Haley actually took the story of the slave Kunta Kinteh and traced his origins back to Juffre, from which the series Roots emerged. For this reason, a few tourists attractions have popped up in the town. Though little of the income of the town is actually derived from tourism, the taint of it shows clearly on the culture. The youth especially has come to depend on extracting money from tourists. Older youths become bumsters who generally hassle and sell sex, drugs, and other random commodities to tubabs. Younger children have learned to run in mobs after tourists, screaming "tubab, tubab," and extending their hands for us to hold before thrusting them into our faces and crying, "gimme!" If we do give them something, they will converge in a mob, and the smallest will undoubtedly come out crying. There was no sense of order like there was in Tumani Tenda, the parents are nowhere to be seen while their children run around, even till way past dark. The only people really paying attention to the children are the young men, who occasionally yell "Achey!" at them, the same thing you would yell at a stray dog to go away. And we happened to be there when the consequences of this tendency showed themselves in the worst way. A few of us were hanging out by the river one afternoon. We'd seen plenty of kids playing and washing in the river, but had paid little attention to them especially after they started up with the "tubab, tubab" shouting we were getting increasingly sick of. I was further from the water, though some of my friends were actually out on the pier when we heard the loud wailing of a woman come down the road. When we looked up we saw a large crowd - it must have been half the village - coming down the path. A passerby filled us in on what had happened: apparently at some point two of the boys in the water had started shouting because the third boy they were with did not come to the surface, but no one heard. They grabbed his clothes and ran back to his mother. We weren't sure if he had jumped and hit something, or simply been carried away by the surprisingly strong current that we'd seen move closer to the shore, but none of us had heard any shouting. It was a very, very disturbing experience, and it added a darker shadow to the village than it really should have had.
But there is something important to be said about the learned dependency of this village and others that are exposed to tourism. When there is a lack of self-direction, the results can really be horrible. Mr. Sidibeh, who had worked with Alex Haley during his research, saw clearly what happened when Haley and others tried to provide aid for the village. He told us that one year he brought 80 bulls and thousands of dalasis worth of seeds and farming equipment to the village. The next year when he visited, he found that they'd slaughtered all 80 bulls, used and spoiled all the seeds that season, and sold all the farm equipment. Though I did only see a limited part of these villages (the alkalos we met were not particularly talkative, and we stuck mostly to the historical attractions) they simply did not seem self-directed. They did not have the motivation or the pride to take their own development into their hands, or even use the aid they did receive in a sustainable way. I sometimes thought the idea of learned dependency was an excuse Republicans used to spend less taxes on welfare, but it seemed to be a very real factor in this village. There is so much talk of rural poverty and how they're falling behind in the modern economy, it seems easy for a village to assume they need the handouts of foreigners and forget about working hard to come up with creative programs on their own.

3/11: Daru School Project

This brightly colored school is nestled in a small village upcountry that we stopped by at on our way to our last stop upcountry, Basse. This lower basic school is 10 years old, with 311 students, 12 teachers and 10 different classes. We got the feeling this school was a little exceptional as soon as we entered the headmaster's office and saw the clean, organized lists of class and extracurricular schedules, and pictures of smiling villagers constructing the school. Whereas some schools have far fewer teachers than classes and sometimes simply do not hold classes, this school hadpecial teachers for agriculture and the environment, and organized drama, debate, and environmental clubs. The headmaster then pulled out a neatly organized binder of all the students standardized test scores since the school began, revealing some surprisingly high marks.
Before this school began, students had to sit on the floor in shared rooms for classes. Now, with funding from the Japanese embassy, the Implemented Action group, and the help of a Peace Corps volunteer, each class has its own furnished room and teacher, and the school provides textbooks for every student. In addition, there is a dining area that provides free meals daily for the students, and - we actually gasped a little when we saw this - a colorful library with books lining one wall and filling up another corner. The headmaster and the teachers we talked to were very passionate about the benefits this school was having for its students, they were very grateful for the aid they'd received, and were now doing their best to help the school thrive. However, as we've noticed in several projects, some of the aid was unsustainable, or could have been better administered. As with Tumani Tenda, which had received a generator for the village along with the grant they won, when the necessary maintenance was required for technology, they didn't have the expendable currency or expertise to repair. In Daru, this was demonstrated through the modern boy's and girl's restrooms provided by Unicef. Luckily, Baboucarr had a basic knowledge of plumbing and explained to the headmaster what needed to be done. Also, there were many books in the library that were far beyond the level of even the oldest students at the school. The oldest kids at the school would be 12 or 13 in 6th grade, and not completely comfortable with English, and they had The Sun Also Rises among their reading material.
But these were smaller issues. As a whole, the school is a model for other school projects around the country and an asset to the community. In fact, it served as a sort of root for the community. This Wolof village, like many other historical Wolof groups, was a migratory group that moved to where political and agricultural benefits were the greatest. Their housing at Daru still shows many signs of the impermanence of their homes. Yet, with the development of important, permanent structures such as the school, the village is morphing into a more stable, permanent community.

(Malaria Break, see entry 10)

Armitage Senior Secondary School in Janjangburree

This is the only boarding school in the entire country, a leftover from colonial times when the sons of village leaders and administrators were sent here. 600 students stay at the school and attend classes in the morning shift, while another 600 come from around the area to attend classes. It's location is hardly a central one - it is one of the farthest places we visited upcountry, and an Island that you must take a ferry to get to. But parents from all over the country send their children here to get a good education, and to be protected from some of the distracting influences of the city. The school is considered the second best in the country (surpassed only by one school in the city), and the West African secondary standardized tests (WASP) scores are improving. The school itself is nestled behind a fence among trees. There are different academic buildings and dormitories scattered about, as well as basketball courts (only sometimes with hoops) that are a rarity in this football-dominated country. The dormitories are divided by gender, and are made up of several large rooms filled with many neatly arranged beds. Some have curtains hanging alongside their mosquito nets, but many are not. Each student's haven is compromised entirely of his or her bed and the space under if for his or her things. Though these accommodations are considered fairly nice given that many are used to sharing rooms and even beds with siblings in their compounds. With all the family and the friendly, communal, compound life here in the Gambia, personal space is not quite so important.
Boarding schools seem to be a slightly strange idea here in the Gambia, where family compound life is so central. The headmaster explained that having no school to serve as a comparison in the country often made administration difficult, but that by far, feeding the over 1200 students was the biggest obstacle. The costs require that students' fees be much higher than that of normal schools (1500 Dalasi per year plus board, paid at once, not including books or a uniform), but the remarkable fact is that girls do not have to pay any of the actual tuition. The efforts by the current government to encourage female education mean that girls' school fees are paid by the government. However, in addition to the fees, students must do very well on the standardized tests the take at the end of upper basic school (9th grade), to be admitted into this selective school.
And once students are accepted, the receive the benefits of the best science equipment and labs in the country, as this is primarily a science school, especially now that President Jammeh especially supports science education. This means microscopes, personal sinks and burners, scales, measuring equipment, and other usual trappings of an American high school lab. But some of this equipment is quite old and not reliable. But still, the resources are breathtaking when compared with the schools we are used to seeing, which are comprised entirely of chairs, tables, and a blackboard (with chalk as the only equipment, if you're lucky) Also, they will have teachers who are committed to the school and its students as a career, rather than as a stopping point before university or business life. This is a large problem in schools in The Gambia, many teachers take advantage of the mostly free teacher qualification to earn money to go on to higher things (the base 500 Dalasi per month salary provided by the government is not incentive enough to stay, and thus teachers lack dedication to their jobs. However, Armitage supplements teachers' salary with free room and an allowance to motivate the teachers to first venture all the way upcountry, and then to stay at the school as a career job. And most of the 33 teachers with undergraduate degrees will stay at the school, and show those signs of commitment by working with students past class hours.
It is disturbing, however, that with all these resources, the rate of students who go on to university is only 40%.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194360900/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194360900/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/adminor/gambia_2007/1194360900/tpod.html Sat, 10 Nov 2007 09:58:18 -0500 The life of a Tubab

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Janjangburee, Gambia

The following will be a shamelessly self-pitying entry. If you want a more objective one move onto number 11.

It all started with a broken juju.

Gambians believe strongly in Jujus, charm-like accessories that give different benefits to the possessor given the different materials in them. I'd had a very simply good luck juju around my ankle. It seemed harmless enough, just a stitched leather strap with a little shell on it. But then the strap broke, and everything went downhill after that. I had my phone stolen, then things got progressively worse when we saw a young child get hit by a car. And for a very disturbing climax, while we were down by the river one day, unbeknownst to us, a little boy drowned. Other smaller misfortunes followed, but the one I'm going to delve into with plenty of self-pity is about my own health.

We left for a trip up country on Monday, to visit different villages and see rural life, looking specifically at education and development efforts. The opportunities to meet with the village leaders (alkalos), look inside the communities, and to just get out into the breathtakingly beautiful, diverse countryside were amazing. Unfortunately, on Wednesday I started to show symptoms of malaria (bad back and joint pain, weakness, and a fluctuating fever). The lack of fans, comfortable beds, and often, running water or electricity started to seem much less charmingly bucolic at this point. I was starting to worry I would have to cut the trip short to go back to the city for treatment. Luckily, the fever lowered by later the next day and the back pain wasn't so bad, so I didn't bother going to a clinic. I was more or less fine as we moved on to other villages, but on Saturday things got worse again, this time with a throbbing headache that made me very faint. After a long, bumpy bus and ferry ride back to the island where we were staying I was ready to pass out, but Baboucarr (our wonderful Wolof teacher and guide on the trip) insisted I go to the clinic. It turns out there was only one clinic on the island, with only one doctor. I'm still not quite convinced the guy I saw there was a doctor, he was very young, dressed in an old t-shirt, there were no certificates on the dirty walls, and at first I'd assumed he was just leading us to the real doctor. But either way, he asked my symptoms and informed me that they didn't have any sort of lab, but that he was going to clinically diagnose me with malaria. So, I popped down a series of pills, got my first shot of chloraquine, that dreaded drug us 12 St. Mary's students have had far too much experience with. Because there really weren't any facilities to this 3-roomed building that smelled like urine (it really seemed more to me like a drive-through for prescription drugs), I was not going to be admitted like the others who'd gotten malaria. Instead, I got chloraquine in the more concentrated pill form. So I went back to the dark, mildew-y room I was staying in and fell asleep.
I'd seen other people on Chloraquine, but now that I was actually on it I realized how powerful of a drug it is. It does strange things to people's minds, besides having a series of other side effects. Some of the others in the group got a little delirious, some couldn't remember chunks of the day, and everyone had very strange, vivid dreams. I got a mix of these symptoms, and looking back on it the whole experience was just a strange, semi-delirious mess of waking-dreams. Also, by Sunday I became very, very nauseous. Throwing up into a toilet that doesn't really flush is an experience I never want to repeat, but that I repeated several times over the next day. Ironically, I couldn't take any of the medication -- the painkillers, vitamins, Chloraquine, or even the anti-nausea medication I had - on an empty stomach. This created a very unpleasant situation, however, because I couldn't keep any food down. But I found myself taking my last dose of chloraquine on Monday morning, the day we were leaving to head back to our compound at Kanifing. So I loaded up onto the bumpy, crowded bus with anti-nausea medication and white rice, in the hope that it would be the first food I would be able to keep down. I was not. I ended up throwing up in the garden of a women's group we had stopped by at for lunch. That was also a rather embarrassing experience that I do not want to repeat. After a long, long, nauseas, semi-delirious trip we were finally back at our happy compound. My body was completely worn out from the malaria, the drugs, the lack of food, and the long trip and I wanted so badly to pass out in my own bed. But our program coordinator insisted I go to the dreaded Lamtoro clinic (the location of the past malaria horrors, including general bureaucratic inefficiency, misdiagnosis and almost-fatal overdoses of chloraquine). This was especially illogical because the malaria would have been completely wiped out by the chloraquine, or, if it were chloraquine resistant, would not show up again until my fever came back in a day or so. But I went, against all my better judgment and desires.
I had not been the only sick one on the bus trip, Sunday night Jenny had developed some malaria-like symptoms, and we were able to wallow in our discomfort together. So we both made our way to Lamtoro, and after waiting a while we saw the doctor. This doctor, Dr. Emanuel, was one of the truly horrible characters we have met here. He had that tendency we've seen of a complete lack of ability to listen to what others say, he was racist (he became indignant when our Sierra Leonean friend Muhammad tried to come into the room, but welcomed the very white Bryan), and he radiated incompetence. After starting to spell my last name (Minor) L-e-n and continually forgetting what we'd told him about our symptoms, he made us go through more tests than the simple malaria test we had asked for. Then, when looking at the tests, he was able to say that there wasn't malaria in either one of our blood samples. But, rather than let us leave at this point, he fumbled through our results and decided to diagnosis both of us with another illness and prescribe us a slew of drugs. Jenny and I, pissed off, tired and nauseas, tried to argue with him, especially because the drugs he was prescribing for us we already had with us from our local (competent) doctors. After several minutes of him getting increasingly flustered, he said he would let us go if we would come back the next day with our prescriptions. And to show us clearly that the clinic was just trying to drain us of money, the receptionist tried to make each of us pay 1,200 Dalasi, even though our insurance was also billing them the money. Through the ensuing argument I was running only on anger.
The next morning, still tired and weak, I made my way back to the clinic-3 different taxi rides and about a mile and a half walk. I was alone this time, because, to top everything off for Jenny, it was her birthday, and it seemed too cruel to make her go back to Lamtoro. After the usual period of waiting that is characteristic of this inefficient clinic, I was finally able to see a doctor. I was initially as short with her as I had been with everyone else, until I realized that she was not quite as unprofessional and inept as all those around her. After looking at her charts she confirmed, as we already knew, that the doctor had misdiagnosed us, and she apologized for our experience. However, I still needed copies of mine and Jenny's results (luckily there is no conception of patient confidentiality). This seems like a very simple objective, but not for Lamtoro. Apparently, there was only person who was capable of using the copier, and though she was supposed to be in hours ago, she was not. After they refused to let me use their copier, I convinced the security guard to go with me to the nearest copy place to make copies. But, of course, their copier was broken and the security guard couldn't go any further because he had to get back to watch the clinic, seeing as his partner had not shown up for work that day. So after insisting the receptionist call the copy-woman, it was back to the waiting room for me. During this time I also got to argue with the receptionist that there was absolutely no reason for me to pay 600 Dalasi for this visit before finally getting my copies and leaving.
The most frustrating about this entire experience was the complete lack of logic or reason that transformed an unpleasant experience into a maddening one. Gambians are able to accept this and so much more with a light-hearted smile, but I've yet to master that gift. In a few days I'll be able to laugh about the more ridiculous parts, but until then I'll just be the angry white girl in a clinic.
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