Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite!

Get excited! I haven’t caught malaria or giardia! I haven’t any fungus growing on my body (yet).
Instead, I got bedbugs.

They started slow. I wasn’t even sure I had a problem. But then I had a guest leave with bites, and another. And I was getting more and more bitten. Not cool.
After consulting Where There Is No Doctor (a free consultation) I determined to remove the bugs I would have to remove the bed and frame, wash it in boiling water, and thoroughly clean the house.
Well that was no help! I can’t boil that much water! It would take all day with my little one burner propane stove!

I contacted the Medical Staff (aka Med Unit). Meanwhile the bites got worse and another guest left with bites. The Dr. advised me of and insecticide to buy at a pharmacy in Basse.
But none of the seven pharmacies I went to had it, nor the Bansang Hospital.

Ok.

So the Med Unit days they’ll send something for me when the APCD goes on trek.
I get the insecticide, but it spilled in transit and only 1/3 is left, and the words have been eaten off the label. This is toxic stuff! It comes in a biohazard bag with gloves and a facemask!
I made a local spray bottle out of an old juice bottle and doused my bed and mattress with the insecticide/water mix. (Per Med Unit instructions.) (Pic of Pondo, not dead, just sleeping!)

So now the bugs should be dead…
To dispose of the toxic bottle and bags I rinsed them and poured everything in the pit latrine.
Even the trash was highly toxic! Minutes later roaches come running out of the latrine, trying to escape the death trap I’d created. I killed 20 over the rest of the day and by nightfall those that hadn’t escaped were dead. So now my pit latrine is insect free, and the reaction of the roaches gives me hope that my bed is also insect free.

That night I laughed to myself, feeling quite trite, remembering the rhyme: Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite!

Duck Tales

So there I was, riding my bike alone through the Gambian bush, with 3 ducks in a rice sack tied to the back. Riding down a road I’d never been down before, guided by dubious directions, trying to find my way back to H.K.
Rewind to two weeks earlier. (cue flashback music) K. visits and mentions the giant flock of ducks she inherited from the previous volunteer. She’d like to sell a few since her family won’t eat them.
Shoot, I could have ducks. I’ve never eaten ducks, but you can. (Visions of a Thanksgiving tur-duc-en flash through my mind) My family might like them. They could raise them and sell the babies or the eggs. Get some Dalasis in the bank…
But I have to get them first. They are not homing pigeons; they will not fly to my compound. I cannot send them on mail run (though I considered trying). The best way to get ducks is in person. That way, I can visit my dear friend and work to end the troubles of H.K. by introducing ducks, the wonder bird, into their lives.
(cue flashforward to present)
The route to K.A. (K.’s village) is simple but long. Bike 20k to Basse, cross the river, follow the north bank road 40 to K.A. (60k total) It’s mostly flat-ish, there are no road signs to follow, just landmarks (turn left where the crazy man acting like a crossing guard stands), and the road is dirt. I started the ride early to beat the heat. But starting at 80° F, I think I’ve already lost that race at 6:45 am. Nevertheless, I arrived in K.A. at 10:30
K.’s village is great and her host family was very welcoming. I had a great cultural experience visiting the stone circles. We checked out her nursery school project and hiked along the river to a cliff band overlooking the river and eastern Gambia. K. let me help her with the nursery school and we painted a tree mural and chalkboards. Her APCD (boss) visited on trek and we rounded out the day meeting with the kaffo president.
And the ducks…
K.’s host brother picked two females and one male for me to take, and with help from the kids and dogs we caught them. Sounds easy, but it really took about 15 minutes, and the ducks lost a few feathers, and the kids and dogs weren’t so much a help, but it was pretty funny. We marked them for catching the next morning.
I had decided to try returning to H.K. by another, hopefully shorter route through the bush. Our villages are only about 15k and the river apart. 15k vs. 60k!? I’ll give it a try.
But first I had to get the ducks on the bike.
But first I had to get the ducks.
Early in the morning K. shut me in the duck house and with angry quacks, yelping (from me), feathers and dust flying I emerged with the three marked ducks. We dumped them in a rice bag and tied it on the bike.
“Um, will that fit?”
“Well it’s too heavy for the basket.”
“How about if you tie it to the top of your bag?”
“Maybe you can sling it over your shoulder.”
“We need some rope.”
So the duck sack was resting on my bag on the bike rack, not really tied on, more like suggested not to fall off.
We made it to a bitik to buy rope and tied the ducks more securely. Then with clear directions from K.’s counterpart (“Follow the highway along the river, stay right the whole time.”) I set off.
So this “highway” is no I-25. It’s not even US-36, or Main Street. Nope. One-ish lane; Dirt/sand/ruts deeper than the Grand Canyon. But I know it’s the road because nothing else looks more like the road. The river peeks through the trees to my right; a bird to green it looks like a flying lead flew off in front of me. A pack of monkeys crossed the road, which never ceases to amaze and surprise me.
I reached the river crossing where I wanted to! Amazing! Crossed and checked the ducks to make sure they were alive. The ducks were holding up well. I tried to inspire them by singing Duck Tales.
After the river it’s another 6k to home. During the crossing the rope contraption I tied loosened, and after losing the ducks on the road I gave up and finished the journey carrying them on my handlebars.
At home I dumped them out of the bag with Omar (2½), who started crying once he saw them. They quacked and rearranged their feathers and waddled around inspecting the new digs. I think the ducks will like it here.
Now all I need for the tur-duc-en are the turkeys…

Oh What a Day! Part 2

After the meat incident I was able to ride uneventfully to Kan. and K. eventually got a car to Basse (read about her adventures on her blog…)

I met up with volunteer Tara in Kan. for our usual bi-weekly visit. We turned the compost and spent the afternoon chatting with the women and preparing cassava leaves for sale at the market the next day.

Our counterpart Lamin asked Tara and me questions about simple things like American race relations, and the job market and economy. (Really, too easy!)

We tried our best to answer, but it can be hard when [according to Lamin] most Gambians: a) Think all white people are rich. Lamin- “90% are rich.” b) Think they all have jobs and it is easy to get a job as long as you are in America. c) Use Europe, the UK, America and Canada interchangeably. d) Call white people toubab to be respectful.

And we (foreigners) don’t usually give them any reason to think otherwise. Gambians abroad send enough money to make their families rich by Gambian standards, and report excellent job prospects. Visitors, aid agencies and NGO’s bring money and often spend it freely. I’m not sure if Lamin believed us when we told him there are poor people in America.

It’s hard to break down stereotypes with words. We can’t show Lamin poor people. How do you explain 300 years of slavery and oppression, civil rights, racism and equality from an American standpoint to a non-American? When we talk about slavery Lamin counters saying Africans had slaves too (and still do in some countries). Yes, but it was different for us… (It’s also hard for us to understand them.) It’s a slow and ongoing process.

Kan. has a lot of activity going on in their village. They are building a nursery school, a community banana plantation and a community women’s garden. I’m teaching them to compost and helping with the other projects with T. The work is challenging, but I think we’re making progress.

On the way back from Kan. I stopped on the roadside for fresh, hot pankettos (delicious fried dough!). The women sits by the road with here wood heated fryer and bucket of dough and fries while you wait. It’s a wonderful thing. I have fallen in love with roadside food. Alone on the highway a monkey ran across the road as I was biking! I rolled down the road to H.K. satisfied with the days work and amused with the morning’s events. But I’m able to take it in stride.

Sort of- a PAW on a platter! Random bush meat! Yikes!

Oh, What A Day, Part 1

Yesterday, Friday the 13th natch, was quite the day living in the Gambia.

K. was visiting (hooray!) and after unsuccessfully trying to get transport to Basse the day before, we headed over to the roadside extra early in the morning.

It was still cool(-ish) when we arrived at the bantaba, but the day promised to be hot as we greeted the other travelers and sat under the mango tree to wait for a car.

Soon we were distracted by a commotion. An argument had broken out between two men. As we watched it quickly escalated to yelling and shouting. Ruben Studdard’s body double (appearing right here in The Gambia!) had to hold back one of the men as he yelled “I know you like to fight! I know you like to fight!”

The men were arguing about work of some kind. I didn’t catch most of it, but soon the whole village had turned out to watch. The two men were yelling and trying to take shots at each other, calling names and screaming.

Finally, the men were restrained, but when it seemed like the fight was over they would start back in again. The alkalo (village leader) tried briefly to intervene, but then sat down to watch the show. (And keep in mind these men are in their 60’s! Not some hot-headed youngsters…)
A bystander made a comment about “The monkey and the dog will never get along. They will always fight.” (Sharing some Mandinka proverb wisdom)

The few cars that passed during this time were full, much to K. and my disappointment.

Soon after the fight ended and the villagers drifted back to work, up the road comes Jamboye. He lives in my compound and is my host brother’s uncle/cousin/relative somehow. Jamboye has this big platter with piles of raw meat. He’s selling it, and there are five equal piles arranged around the plate. (Keep in mind meat in The Gambia refers to almost everything underneath the skin…) One (probably) choice pile included the animals head.
“Jamboye, what is that?” There is a paw in the middle of the platter!
“Is that a dog paw? Is this dog meat?!”
“It is bush meat.”
“Yes, but from what animal?!” But he has already moved on. The mystery meat remains a mystery. Seriously, a paw on a platter! Ostensibly, so you would know what animal the meat came from. It could have been monkey, antelope, dog, or other yet-un-encountered animal.