Wealth and Potential

25 Apr 12

It’s a beautiful quiet and slow day at the eco loft, just a bike ride away from the training village.  Here the grounds are calm and peaceful.  There’s a lush garden and plenty of shade offered by a cluster of cashew trees.  Otherwise there’s a diversity of trees throughout the lodge and the peaceful sense that nothing could be wrong in the world as the number of varying birds share their different calls and as the gentle breeze keeps the air cool, at least in the shade.

Less than a mile from here there are thousands of people getting ready to enter a very hungry year.  Crop production this year is expected to be down 62% from last year and down 50% over the last five year average.  Just to provide some examples, as well as data for those amongst the readers interested in such, in 2010 (sorry I don’t know how to do tables on blogger!) in the upland, swamp, and irrigated regions, there was 793, 973, and 853 kg of rice grown compared to 2011 of 167, 375, and 164 kg giving a percent difference of -79%, -61%, and -81%, respectively (to feed a population of 1.5 million and growing, fast where the average Gambian eats about 125 kg per year and a rice bag is 50 kg). 

Roughly 20% (1 in 5) of the population under age five are malnourished. 

I see this in my own family where reasons can extend beyond those accounting for the poor food production including drought, desertification, poor soil nutrients, soil salinity, poor agricultural practices, pests including insects, goats, and humans, etc.

I had come home from a full day of trekking through the desert experiencing the varying ecosystems of The Gambia over a 24 km distance.  We trekked through brush forests, gardens, desert, swamp and mangrove forests, and even 500 m or so of wading through The Gambian River (near the salty end where schistomiesis, hippos, and crocodiles aren’t an issue as they are up river). 

PC provides us lunch in our training villages to ensure we’re at least getting one decent meal a day, sympathizing for us for the other meals which include bread and butter in the morning, and cold white rice with left over fish and sauce in the evening (for me, but different for everyone-ish).  We call this our LCF food bowl as we eat with our LCF.

Anyway, our LCF food bowl was saved for us even though we got home well after dark.  We got some bread and peanut butter, an apple and a chewy bar and canned meat, for those interested in that, during the trek which was lovely as well as amazing baked streusel and chocolate banana muffins by our most wonderful PCVLs for breakfast.  But needless to say, after an entire day under the West African sun, over the 12 or so mile distance, it was wonderful to have that food bowl to come back to, even if it was cold.

I arrived to my house well after dark and after dinner time.  I went in to say hello and good night to my family when I suddenly feel as if I walked in on a funeral wake.  My mom asked me if I ate dinner and I replied that I did and ask if they did when she tells me about a goat and knowing that there was a ceremony going on in the village I figured that they had eaten some goat and exclaimed excitedly for them knowing that must be a nice treat.  The expression on my mom’s face informed me that my Wolof isn’t as great as maybe I’d like to think.  When she repeated the story I understood that the goat (or goats) ate their dinner, not that it was the dinner.

It was late, and they probably hadn’t eaten since 2pm, some seven hours ago.  My four year old brother was near to tears pleading for anything to put in his belly.  I didn’t know what to do or even what could be done.  I was completely out of my element.  They don’t train us about back up plans for pesky goats.

I literally had nothing that would have been substantial for a family of four, or nothing that they would have liked anyway.  I felt as if I was under a spot light all of a sudden (I suppose I should accept that I’m probably never not going to be under that light, at least for the next two years) expected to put on my magic toubab cape and save the day, rescuing them from their extremely unfortunate fortune. 

For that’s what a toubab or tourist, I should say, did that very next day.  She came from England, probably, into our village with her camera and took a photo of my family and the neighbors for goodness knows what reason, and then paid my mom roughly $8 or 250 Dalasi which is a LOT of money here.  Two hundred and fifty D is what we get for one week of walk-around money during PST. 

At first, especially after the goat thing, I was so excited for my mom that I celebrated with her for this miracle that just strolled through our compound… it didn’t take long for that initial elation to deflate to the realize the reality of what just happened.  In one fell swoop the woman (It’s probably poor form to call her toubab) undid all that we as PCV’s try to do by giving money like that, reinforcing the stereotype that all “toubabs” have and give money for charity). 

One thing is that charity is a part of the culture here.  It is believed that the more charity you give, the more you will see of that in the afterlife, as I understand (I am not however an expert by any means on Islamic faith). 

All of this led to the rather awkward conversation my mom and I had that night after the charity giving where I gathered that toubab’s always say we don’t have money when we do have it and that Gambia is very hard and thus bad, and that she is scared about providing a future for her children including education and food.

This was one of those valuable teaching moments, or would have been had I the language enough to communicate ideas that are already perhaps difficult or challenging when you both speak the same language fluently.

I tried to explain in my “Wolish” (Wolof and English) that this is why Peace Corps is here, to help with food security and education.  I wish I could have opened up a conversation about what good charity would provide for the long term.  The point of the matter is that yes, for all intensive purposes, I do have money.  I don’t have a ton of Dalasi to my name but I have property and family and the means to make it through my education and experience.

This is how my Gambian mom (from Training Village) helped me better understand the meaning of wealth.  The other point of the matter is that PC really makes it so that I can’t afford to give out much charity; I can barely make ends meet myself on our low PST earnings.  But even if I could, it would help her for a day, maybe two, depending on how wisely she used it.  But it wouldn’t provide her the same way education and training would.  I’m aware here, more-so than I’ve ever been before, the power of the skills to read and write.  I know I mentioned it before.  But with those two basic skills, you literally have access to a plethora of knowledge that can help provide you with information and training to ensure income depending on the choices you make as to the skills and trades you learn, etc. 

And this is where the potential part of the post comes in.  Below, if I can remember the link, I have another one of my favorite TED vids to emphasize these points, illustrating just how powerful the ability to read is from this boy’s adventure in learning how to harness the wind, on his own!  Let me also state that only the brightest and most impressive or talented known individuals are invited to give TED talks, it’s a huge honor.

To backtrack a bit, from our marathon march, we went through one of Gambia’s protected forests which is actually protected.  It was a legitimate forest.  There was dense foliage, ground cover, biodiversity, birds, and lots of shade.  The entire country has the potential to be a cashew and mango forest, or a baobab forest, or just a forest of lots of different types of trees spread out all throughout the country.

The people have the potential (and not just Gambian people) to manage those resources appropriately to both benefit from them while giving back to their environment which in turn continues to give back to them.  Meaning, more trees equals a higher water table, equals more an easier time for more vegetation, equals more transpiration, which can ultimately lead to, over time, more rain, and thus again more trees, and more products from those trees, be it cashews, mangos, honey (as bees rely on the flowering trees for pollen and nectar to produce honey to feed the queen and bees which the trees rely on too for reproduction), fuel wood, etc.

This is one of the most frustrating parts about being an environmentalist, which I hate that I am at times.  It would be so much easier not to care.  But I simply do, and don’t know how not to.  And what is difficult or a conundrum is being the species that is causing the very destruction that pains me.  It’s a constant moral and ethical internal battle.  But the other part to that, is knowing that it is quite possible to be a good steward to this planet, that we have, again, the potential to give back, perhaps even more than we take, given we follow the best and most gentle practices of living here.  But given the way of the world, the pace, the various and diverse and uncompromising cultures, it doesn’t seem like that potential will be met anytime soon.  Except, with the acceleration of population and the continued unpredictability of climate, we may have no other choice but to bend our cultures to adopt these better practices if we want to continue to be here.

Regardless, my village (at my permanent site, yay!) is completely on board with agriculture, so they say.  They are still very connected to and dependent on the land and thus care very much about achieving the appropriate practices and are very happy to have an “expert” in their midst (oh boy).  The enthusiasm is so different from that of the States that I’m a bit taken a back but am thrilled to do my best to help them help themselves plant trees and grow food, and turn it all into a research paper, somehow, inshallah.

Kernals of white rice

19 Apr 12

Some bread and butter, a couple apples (thanks to my LCF and hard to come by here!), and the name of the title are most of the foods that have sustained me the last couple of days, and diluted Gatorade (cheers again bro!).  After a month being here and not getting sick, I thought, ‘why not make it the entire time without getting sick, how wonderful that would be!’ and then I got sick.  But I’m pretty stubborn and hate throwing up, so I think I make myself suffer more by keeping it all inside accounting for tummy aching that lasts just 24 hrs or so, where the pain is much more manageable when I’m horizontal versus vertical.  Other than that I’ve had it pretty darned good. 

My family has been over the top supportive of ensuring a speedy recovery.  I found it rather ironic that while filling out one of my TDA’s on clean water and sanitation practices and technologies used here, my namesake offers me some juice as medicine that they just made from unfiltered and un-cleaned water likely from the pump and thus safer than from the open well, but still, comical timing.  I drank most of it.

Regardless, I’m on the mend and hope to stop daydreaming about food that doesn’t exist here, soon.  The night that I missed dinner, I heard extra voices outside and was almost certain in my given state that the one night I sat out on dinner was the night they were eating chicken fried steak with gravy, steamed local veggies of carrots and broccoli and peas, and a fresh cut salad with tomatoes.  With plenty of salt and pepper and mashed potatoes and butter of course, and freshly baked dinner rolls, all around romantic candlelit lighting.  I was almost certain of it and found myself pouting in my bed that I was missing it.  Fasting and food sickness does funny things.  As do the anti-malarial meds which I think can be thrown in as an excuse to any oddity these days.  True story: one of our fellow trainees thought the mouse CHEWING HER HAIR was a mephalaquin dream and so tried to ignore it until she realized it wasn’t a dream.  She told one of our volunteers that has been here over a year and her response was, “And you didn’t ET? I think mouse in the hair might be where I draw the line!”  ET by the way stands for early termination I think, referring to leaving your post or assignment by your own choice, before the two year agreement.  Other ways for early termination to occur include medical separation and administrative separation, where it wasn’t your choice to leave but some medical reason, or Peace Corps administration deciding for you to go home for say, you not taking your prophylaxis, or other reasons.

Also, I think it’s important to note, keeping this post on the random and jumpy side of things, that I’m a vegetarian and don’t even really like meat.  But what I’d give for some country fried steak!  Or even fish and chips from good ‘ol Great Britain, and I definitely don’t fancy fish (damn you Neil Gaiman!).  I also can’t wait to stop imagining that every other building in my village is a cheap hole in the wall Mexican food place wanting to serve me cheese enchiladas and potato tacos, because they aren’t!  And I’d be surprised if I could even find Mexican food in this country let alone, region of the world (Mexican food that would meet an Arizonan’s standards that is, where believe it or not, the place I dream most about is a hole in the wall in Fairbanks Alaska that serves delicious cheese enchiladas and potato tacos all for under $5 US if memory serves me right!  That’s impeccable for Fairbanks or AK in general). 

One thing that always works incredibly well though, is to go outside and look up at the backwards sky.  A friend sent me a link to a PCV’s blog from Ethiopia who wrote about the realities of PC in Africa, beyond the holding of hands of kids, which is there too.  But they wrote about going outside and letting Africa save you when you needed it to, and thus far I haven’t been disappointed yet. 

Now if the critters could just stop making so much noise in the sacks above my head, I’d just be peachy, but don’t want come off as too needy! 

BOOKS!

17 Apr 12

I love them.  I can’t remember the last time I read for fun!  Although I do love A Sand County Almanac, and the research I do, otherwise I wouldn’t do it, but there’s a distinct difference when the purpose is for “work” etc. 

My brother, god bless ‘em, sent me everything I requested from my care package list suggestions.  I am still rather speechless about it barely able to remotely come near to expressing my vast gratitude.  He knows I didn’t intend for any one person to send ALL of that stuff, but he’s an incredibly lovey and wonderful brother that I think can relate to being thrown into rather uncomfortable situations having gone through basic training for the Air Force etc.  The support truly means more than anyone can know, unless I suppose, you’ve been there.

Anyway, getting to the point, he sent me Farenheight 451 as I requested classic books that I somehow missed out on during my childhood and education.  What a perfectly appropriate book to break the fast of reading for fun!  He mentioned that he had recently read it and that it leaves you wanting more, which it does.  Ray Bradbury is genius and I hope to discover more of his works floating around our PC collection of books from volunteers. 

I was able to find some other good reads there as The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman, one of my favorite authors and The End of the Earth by Peter Matheissan chronicling his voyages to and around Antarctica.  I still wish I had some picture books so that I could share my joy of reading with the kids here.  I tried to read a bit of Bradbury’s book out loud to them but that only held their attention for so long.  They know some English, but not that much.

But even if the books were printed in perfect Wolof, I’m not sure they’d be able to read them anyway.  Another ability and skill I’ve taken for granted my whole reading life even though it was a skill I’ve struggled with from the beginning (thanks to Dad for making me read a book a week and to Mom and Dad for reading out loud to us as tots, no one can quite bring the BFG as to life as my mom, or anyone else’s parent as just being read to by your mom or dad is one of those treasured childhood joys I don’t think I’ll ever forget).

I’m very mildly dyslexic, something that tons of practice and awareness has done to alleviate but I still find the occasional bule in my notebooks instead of blue, wondering what on earth a bule is until I realize what I’ve done. 

That “simple” skill though, to connect letters to form words to form sentences, to put it altogether in a comprehensible manner, opens up entire worlds.  I feel like if I could only teach one kid (or point them in the direction of being educated on) how to read while I’m here, especially if she is female, I may as well be educating an entire village.  It’s powerful stuff but any teacher knows it’s a challenge, especially when you add limited time, learning disabilities, and perhaps a lack of motivation, for, where are these kids going to easily get their hands on good books anyway?  What are the chances that they can even go to school past the basic levels when more important tasks linger as growing food, cooking food, and raising children around the obstacles of desertification, deforestation, drought, food borne illness, HIV/AIDS, malaria, pests including goats and children ruining the crops, etc and so forth? 

It leaves me inspired and deflated all at the same time and never-the-less grateful to be able to read and write as I can.  I’m no Bradbury by any means, but hopefully I can at least make sense once in a while with only a few miss-spelled worlds in the wake of my jabbering’s.

In the meantime, I hope I can continue to land good reads for myself, including stories with pictures that I can share with my newly acquired Gambian relatives.  I think they think it looks really weird to watch this “toubab” stare at books on end for “fun” but maybe they’ll be curious to see what magic can be found within those written words.

I’m inspired to keep a book list of books I read during service as my friend has done in her PC blog.  I think I’ll just go ahead and post that under this post and add to the list as it hopefully continues to expand.

Happy reading and imagining of far off places and lands with fictitious charming and wondrous characters.  And savor the fact that you can, if you can, as so many in our world, can’t, yet.

~*~`~*~`~*~*~`~*~`~*~*~`~*~`~*~*~`~*~`~*~*~`~*~`~*~*~`~*~`~*

Farenheight 451 by Ray Bradbury, «««««

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman, ««««

The End of the Earth by Peter Mattheisan

And then there was no light

15 Apr 12

Tonight there is no moon to be found but the red glow and brilliant bright shine from Mars and Venus respectively, keeping the night sky in good company.  We eat outside by the light of our electric torches powered by cheap batteries that might last a few months.  The food is cold, I’m pretty sure it’s left over from lunch.  I get my own bowl here and a spoon, and the kind company of my new Gambian family.  It’s a new training village which was prior to Gambia, referred to as CBT in Senegal.  After crossing the Gambian border, we’ve tried to let go of the Senegal PC lingo that doesn’t apply here.  Unlike Senegal, all of us trainees are in proximity to each other in three neighboring villages called training villages or TV.  The bike’s we are given enable us to see each other and the ocean, as we wish, given the free time which is only really given to us on Sundays. 

I wasn’t nearly as anxious to come here as I was for the first CBT in Senegal.  But those feelings of angst and uncertainty of being plunged into a drastically foreign world, again, reached the surface as we neared our villages.  Again I’m amazed at how much a person can grow or at least learn to accept after just getting through one night. 

It’s not as bad as it might sound and maybe worse than that.  To each individual is their own experience and what they make of it.  I’m thankful I’ve had similar experiences travelling in other parts of the developing world to lessen the shock of what would otherwise be many surprises. 

I have a lovely two room set up with my own private pit latrine out back.  One lesson learned today, was no matter how bad you have to go, don’t go running outside barefoot, your feet will burn!  I get a lovely pink mosquito net that my mom wanted to wash.  But I nicked it back so that I could have it the first night so that I wouldn’t be too paranoid of rat piss leaking through the calcium (“Calcuim”) carbonate sacks that line the tin roof ceiling.  I like to imagine that cacophony in the late evening and early morning is attributed to  cute lovely birds that nest there, or maybe even curious lizards; but when the nibbling and gnawing starts, it’s hard to picture anything else but giant rabid foaming-at-the-mouth rats.  I’m sure they’re much cuter than that but hope I never get the opportunity to disprove my vision. 

But I have to admit, Rachel Carson would have been disappointed in me earlier today.  Thinking originally that I wouldn’t get the net that first evening, my LCF instructed me to spray my room with insecticide hours before I needed to sleep there.  Knowing Rachel Carson was somewhere sending a frown my way, I sprayed the interior of my room anyway, as well as window screens trying to justify it with sorry excuses that just boil down to me being a bit of a baby when it comes to creepy crawlies.  I later tried to dust the window screens with my gifted twig broom from PC when a spider/crab looking thing jumped out at me.  Thankfully my foolish running around trying to brush it off occurred in my “back yard” where no one could see.   It’s true that behavior change is hard.  I know better, but sprayed anyway.  From here on out, unless there’s a serious problem, I hope to rely on the lemongrass oil and other tinctures alone and leave the nasty who-knows-what causing chemicals alone (if anyone wants to send drier sheets I hear they dissuade the rats!).

But tonight, there is no insect spray and the fears are at a minimum.  There is just a the creaking of the window covers, the occasional strong draft, and the Jamaican or island-ish sounding music, when not lost in the wind, there to keep me company in this dusty donkey town (as the donkey brays in the not so distant distance).