Scarred for Life

Facial scarring is a cultural tradition among several of the ethnic groups in the Gambia. Women (and men) cut small scars on their faces and blacken them with peanut ash for beauty. Several of the Volunteers have the traditional scars, but in places other than our faces! Kasey and I decided we wanted to get scars to commemorate 12 months in the Gambia. We had been discussing it for months, since July or August, and our one year mark was fast approaching!

Volunteers have a woman in Wassu they always go to to get scars, but I’m lazy and didn’t want to travel all the way down there. Plus, I live in an area with several Fula villages (the ethnic group most associated with scars) so there had to be someone nearby who would do it.

The week before we wanted them I discussed it with Chinese. We hopped on bikes and rode to Sare Sankule 3 k into the bush. Chinese explained our mission to several people and we were directed to the compound of the women who is best at scarring. She laughed at my idea to get scars, but not on my face (the women we met on the road all agreed that scars on my face would be very beautiful… no way says I!). We made an appointment for her to come up to HK the next week with her partner and do our scars. Success! Now where to put them…

November 7^th, 2009- The women arrive at our compound and it’s supremely awkward b/c I don’t speak Fula, and they don’t speak Mandinka… Do-de-do… And we’re waiting for Kasey to arrive. While we wait I burn the peanuts that will be put in my skin to blacken it. And prep the razor blades that will cut me open. Yikes! This is another moment where I say to myself ‘I hope this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.’

Kasey arrives on a donkey, and we scrub up and draw our scars on with a pen. B. taped the whole thing and I’ll try to find the video- it may be on Kasey’s blog.

Kasey got hers on her foot, and I got mine on my upper right arm. It bled a lot. Mixed with the blood was the peanut charcoal/oil mix. For it to stay, she really had to rub it in hard.

And then it was over. Don’t get it wet for 3 days, and rub more ash in tomorrow. Done and done. Later that day I called home to tell my parents the silly thing I’d done.

The scars healed really nicely and I’m very happy with them. Besides the memories of the Gambia, I’ll have my scars for the rest of my life- this isn’t a metaphor for my time here right!?