So, after 27 months, here I am. “Hantini” as the Fulas say. “Abanta” in the words of the Mandinkas. My time here is finished. Peace Corps The Gambia.

What was it all about? Did I accomplish much? Am I proud of what I’ve done? Would I recommend such a trip? Is The Gambia better off for me having been here? Am I?

The answer to all these questions is a resounding “Yes.” It’s been a tough and rewarding service. I’ve had an amazing adventure that I’ll never forget. I’ve made some incredible friends and I’ve fallen in love. I have a much better understanding of who I am, what I want from life, and what it means to be an American. I’ve traveled to Senegal, Guinea, and Sierra Leone. I now know how to hand-wash my own clothes (beat them against a rock), how to cope with amoebic dysentery (Ciprofloxacin), and how to eat sheep intestine from a communal food-bowl (spit it into your hand and throw it away when no one is looking). I’ve learned how to work with African bees, how to blend into a crowd of black people at an immigration checkpoint, and how to say Saalaamaaleekum.

I’d never heard of The Gambia before I was invited here to serve. I thought maybe I’d get to go to Tanzania or Madagascar when I initially spoke to the recruiter about volunteering in Africa. I’d never read Alex Haley’s Roots, never imagined I’d eat monkey meat, never heard of the illustrious President His Excellency Sheik Professor Doctor Yaya A. J. J. Jammeh and his plan to decapitate any homosexual found here.

I’ve struggled with the best way to end this with you, to describe the experience, to sum it up. I want to be able to relate to you-- through some exotic Wolof proverb perhaps—what this has been like. I wish I had some words of wisdom, the moral of the story. Wouldn’t it be great if I could tell you something that you didn’t already know?

We’ve all been here before: The end of one period of our lives and the beginning of the next. The bittersweet, the dichotomy, the complexity. (I’m afraid. I’m sad. I’m excited. I’m hesitant. I’m nervous. I’m unsatisfied. I’m exhausted. I’m proud. I’m larger than life. I’m ready. I’m pensive. I’m lonely. I’m hopeful. I’m hungry.) Part of us wants to stay safely where we are while another pulls us onward to the next adventure. These things are never easy. And we never really know what to say.

I’d like to say “Thank you.” Thanks to everyone who has made this possible. Thanks to The Gambia for hosting me: It has been an experience that I will never, ever forget. Thanks to the Gambians for everything they endure: Unfortunately, someone has to be some of the poorest people on Planet Earth. The Gambians are doing the best they can, they are trying to do it gracefully, and they maintain an incredible spirit in spite of their hardship. I wish them the absolute best and I hope that they can continue to improve themselves. Thank you to my host families. The Jallows in Kundong, the Mannehs in Chewel, and the Barrows in Gunjur. You kept me safe, you fed me delicious food, and you blessed me every night before I went to sleep. Thank you to Peace Corps: This is a huge operation and you have so much to do. President Kennedy had a remarkable vision. You are doing an incredible job at making that dream a reality. Thank you to all the ex-pats and ngo’s that I’ve worked with. You are making this world a better place for all of us. Thank you to that wild cat, that green vervet monkey, those chickens and guinea fowl and sheep and cows and fish. You gave your lives so that I could be sort-of not hungry. I’ve never witnessed the deaths of so many creatures. Thank you to all the Volunteers who I am so honored to consider my friends. We’ve gone through this together. You should be proud of yourselves. I’m very lucky to know you, especially those with whom I swore-in. We made it. Great job. I consider you my family and I hope to see you all again some day soon. Thank you to my family for supporting me through this. Mom and Dad, you came here and lived this life with me for a while. It required strength, it demonstrated courage, and it expressed love. I’ve never been so proud as when you told me how proud I’d made you. Thanks to the bees. Your honey is the sweetest. Thank you Tammy. It’s been great getting to know you here and I can’t wait to continue this adventure together. And thank you finally to all of you. Thanks for following my story. Abarka bakke. Jarama booy. Jere jef.

Official Description of Service (DOS)

After a competitive application process stressing applicant skills, adaptability, and cross-cultural understanding, Mr. Traucht was invited into Peace Corps service in The Gambia, West Africa. On September 27, 2007, he began a comprehensive ten-week training program centered on local language acquisition, culture, and technical skills for life in The Gambia. Through technical training (116 hours) and trainee directed activities (20 hours), Mr. Traucht obtained a greater understanding of the environmental challenges faced in The Gambia, and of proactive agro-forestry practices to combat these issues. His training also addressed improved agriculture and horticulture techniques, natural resource management strategies, and formal as well as informal environmental education skills.

Language training (150 hours) included formal classes in Pulaar and informal daily lessons with the residents of his training village. By the end of training he established a fluency degree of Intermediate in Pulaar; by the completion of service his language proficiency was graded Advanced in Pulaar and Novice in Mandinka.

Cross-cultural training (20 hours) was formally conducted in a classroom setting and supplemented with group discussions with other trainees and Peace Corps staff. Living with a Fula host family in his training village further enhanced the training experience. This training increased his awareness and understanding of Gambian culture, informed him of the history and politics of The Gambia, Islam in the Gambian context, traditional beliefs and taboos, gender roles, and non-verbal communication.

Health sessions (30 hours) included preventative health measures, self-diagnosis, basic medical treatment, and outlined Peace Corps medical policies. Safety and security sessions (8 hours) emphasized how to adopt a lifestyle that reduces risk at home, work, and during travels as well as dealing with unwanted attention and emergency evacuation from village. All training lessons were reinforced and put into practice in daily village life through interaction with the host family.

On December 7, 2007, Matthew Traucht was sworn in as a United States Peace Corps Volunteer in the Environment and Natural Resource Management Sector. He was placed in the rural farming village of Chewel, a small Fula village consisting of fewer than 100 people in eight family compounds, located in the Western Region two kilometers from the Senegal-Gambia border. There he helped rural residents plan and develop sustainable projects and liaised with local extension workers on agricultural projects.

Working with life sciences teachers and an extension worker from the Forestry Department, Mr. Traucht led environmental education classes at Kampasa Lower Basic School and at Wassadung Basic Cycle School. These classes met twice monthly to discuss current events and environmental issues (deforestation, gardening, and village sanitation) and to conduct practical work (construct mud stoves, collect tree seeds, participate in community clean-up). Mr. Traucht worked with both schools in their gardens and encouraged them to participate in the national All Schools Tree Nursery Competition. He also helped to organize and facilitate a field trip for some of the students and teachers to a local wildlife preserve.

Mr. Traucht worked in the Chewel women’s garden to introduce composting and intercropping systems. There he maintained several garden beds to study local growing conditions and to demonstrate improved practices. He also maintained a backyard demonstration garden, tree nursery, and half-hectare rice field. Mr. Traucht worked with Peace Corps staff, the Food and Agriculture Organization, and a local n.g.o. to introduce and distribute an improved rice variety. Matthew encouraged the farmers to save the harvest (more than seven times what was planted) for seed to be planted the following year. He aided local farmers with the sowing, maintaining, harvesting, and processing of local subsistence crops including rice, millet, maize, sorghum, squash, beans, and groundnuts. Matthew advocated that farmers implement perennial field crops and fruit trees into their agricultural systems. He informed the farmers about soil improvement techniques including composting, alley-cropping with leguminous trees, intercropping, and the use of bio-char.

Mr. Traucht also assisted the citizens of Chewel in home construction using natural materials (thatch roof, mud block), promoted improved mud-stoves to reduce the need for fuelwood, and engaged in soil protection initiatives including erosion control and rain-water diversion. Working with Christian Children’s Fund and the European Commission, Matthew labored on a well-digging project which eventually resulted in a clean drinking water source within the village thus eliminating the need for residents to collect water from a neighboring village. He participated in community clean-up projects and battery disposal drives. Matthew maintained a tree nursery with community members and liaised with Department of Forestry officials to bring woodlot trees including eucalyptus, mahogany, and gmelina trees. These trees will be maintained to protect the watershed near the village and for eventual income generation.

Mr. Traucht worked with the Mankana Development Association comprised of over 1000 members from seven local villages in The Gambia and five in neighboring Senegal. His primary assistance involved helping to establish, construct, and maintain a market pavilion for the weekly local trade of garden products, livestock, and honey. He also liaised between the Mankana Development Association and Concern Universal extension agents to establish a link with credit unions and to bring agricultural training to the area.

Mr. Traucht was very active with beekeeping activities throughout the Mankana area and he also worked with the National Beekeeper’s Association of The Gambia (NBAG) and Sifoe Beekeeping Kaafo in the metropolitan area known as Kombo. He worked with community members to establish the Mankana Agroforestry and Beekeeping Association (MABA). He taught the members of MABA about general biology, bee pollination to increase crop yields, and improved beekeeping practices. Mr. Traucht encouraged MABA to acquire a small parcel of land to establish a community apiary and helped them construct ten Kenyan Top Bar Hives to be placed in the apiary along with the planting of bee-fodder trees. In addition, he worked with several members to weave traditional grass hives providing skills transmission by linking young people with experienced weavers thus resulting in income generation through the on-going sales of those hives.

For the National Beekeeper’s Association of The Gambia, Mr. Traucht provided technical support as their apiary manager. He identified and offered solutions for problems in the apiary including pest control, yield improvement, colony division, and improved harvesting and processing techniques. Mr. Traucht wrote and submitted a grant to Concern Universal for research and development of beekeeping; the grant was approved in 2008. He liaised between NBAG and several aid organizations including Mondo Challenge (U.K.), Concern Universal, US Peace Corps, and the U.K. based charity Feed the Minds. In 2008, he worked on the preparation and implementation of the $10,000 Feed the Mind’s funded Freebee Training to introduce and advance beekeeping in twelve rural Gambian villages. He aided in securing and managing the funding, designed the training materials and syllabus, and implemented the training sessions with more than 300 participants.

In May 2009, Mr. Traucht changed his residence from his small Fula village to the large Mandinka town of Gunjur with a population of more than 20,000 people. He made this move in order to focus on his beekeeping projects at NBAG and Sifoe. He was promoted to NBAG’s National Coordinator of the Freebee Training which involved conducting two more modules in those twelve villages, researching local traditions and beliefs, advising on current and future beekeeping initiatives, and reportage to Feed the Minds. Matthew was responsible for hiring and paying Gambian trainers, organizing lesson-plans, and arranging all travel aspects to the rural training sites. He also produced a training manual with photographic illustrations to be distributed to Gambian beekeepers. Mr. Traucht worked with individuals from the U.K. and The Gambia to establish an n.g.o. called Gambia BeeCause which aims to continue research initiatives and training programs. At the Sifoe Beekeeping Kaafo, Mr. Traucht conducted beekeeping trainings and improved production and management.

Mr. Traucht participated as Peace Corps Volunteer Technical Trainer in one Pre-Service training and two In-Service trainings. He instructed Gambian Host Country Nationals and Peace Corps Volunteers from The Gambia, Senegal, and Guinea on gardening, tree and crop identification, soil improvement, appropriate technology, beekeeping, and food security. He was responsible for developing training materials to meet Peace Corps rigorous knowledge, skills, and assessment guidelines. Mr. Traucht revised Peace Corps The Gambia’s beekeeping manual by adding several new sections of technical instruction, traditional practices, and project ideas.

Throughout his service, Mr. Traucht wrote a number of technical articles for the Environment Sector newsletter and served as the co-editor in 2009. He was instrumental in the pre-production (research, writing, props), production (camera work, acting), and post-production (editing using Final Cut Pro) of six technical training videos. These videos, which are posted on-line for volunteers to view, serve as teaching aids of such agricultural practices as composting, garden bed preparation, plant care and transplanting, income generation, and beekeeping. Mr. Traucht served as the Volunteer Support Network (VSN) liaison for the Western Region in 2008 and 2009. He also participated in the international Against Malaria campaign by raising over $400 to purchase mosquito nets for rural Gambians. He posted regular updates to his internet site to satisfy the Peace Corps Third Goal of describing to Americans what life is like for a Volunteer in West Africa.

Red Monkey, Stinking Blobs, and Giving-Up on Not-Giving-Up

I am a little more than two months from being finished here. Where did the time go? And why has it taken me so long to write this entry? Followers of my blog have probably notice a marked decline in my entries. I wish that this would just flow; I wish that I could easily describe how I've been feeling. But it is remarkably complex. Being here. Leaving here. Telling you about being here and about leaving here. Maybe I should start by telling you about the hardest part of leaving: I'm not all that sad about leaving. Which, truth be told, makes me extremely sad.



I thought I would be sad when I was finally finished here. I wanted to be. When I signed up for Peace Corps, I wanted so much to be here. But now that I'm about to leave, I am equally as ready to go. That's probably not so difficult for you to understand. Twenty seven months is such a long time to live like you're camping everyday and every night. Such a long time to have crotch fungus that spreads from your nipples to your knees. Such a long time to miss your best friends, the birth of your niece, and the aging of your family. Such a long time to feel like you're failing, to feel like you are an outsider, to miss almost all of the jokes. Such a long time to smear the words across the sweat-soaked pages of your nightly journal entries. Such a long time to take weekly antibiotics to prevent malaria, to have no privacy, to be called a name that isn't yours.

A few nights ago, I was walking home in the dark and the rain had soaked me until I was shivering in spite of the humid heat. My leather sandals were disintegrating beneath my feet as I waded through ankle-deep puddles of mud and sewage. I fretted about the diary and electronics stashed in plastic bags inside my pack. Forty minutes after getting out of the rattletrap gelegele that had brought me to the outskirts of Gunjur, I finally made it home. My stomach had been churning for a while and I began to rush with the key to let myself inside. I shoved the door open and dropped my pack on the floor trying to get through my house to the pit latrine out back. My knees shaking, my thighs clenched, my stomach rolling I tripped over my pants trying to get out of them. I lurched out of the house naked from the waist into the rain but before I could get to the hole in the ground I shat all over myself. Stinking blobs ran down my legs and splattered at my feet. I slipped in one and fell to my knees. It kept coming and I kept going.

I came here for so many reasons. Many of those have long been forgotten, modified, and rearranged. Some were always unattainable and others were just plain absurd. But I never expected to be in these types of situations where I feel so physically and emotionally unhealthy. I came here because I wanted to see another part of the world yet, because of the conditions here, my world is smaller and more confining than it has ever been. I wanted to have an adventure, but living in a developing nation is often boring, slow, and mundane. I wanted to learn about a different culture. When in my own culture, I am free to reject the things about it I don't agree with. Here, I am obligated to remain "culturally sensitive" and non-judgmental. They tell you that Peace Corps will change you in ways that you never expected. I didn't used to, but now I get annoyed with people who constantly beg money from me. I didn't used to, but now I am skeptical of people's intentions. I didn't used to, but now I can't seem to write what I feel, can't seem to describe what this experience is like, can't seem to articulate my thoughts.

I didn't used to, but now it seems I've lost my sense of humor about this place. Now I am taking myself too seriously. Why? I was sitting today in meditation after a long session of yoga and I couldn't stop myself from feeling like I need to be more creative and open about my experience here. I keep feeling like I am losing something, someone, somehow. My head kept going back to it even as I tried to clear my mind and eventually I gave up. But how do you-- how can I-- just give up? The voice in my head kept telling me to laugh yet it was all I could do to keep from crying. These changes can't be avoided. I need to let go and relax and allow things to unfold. Why do I seem to be resisting everything that comes up? Friends leaving, projects ending, relationships shifting. Homeless, directionless, focus-less. Maybe this is the problem. Maybe it's not the here and now that is scaring me so much, leaving me so speechless and perplexed. Maybe it is what comes next that I am so worried about. Seems like, when I go back and reread many of the entries that precede this one, I was so excited and amused about this place because I was (mostly) fully here when I wrote them. But now I am so enwrapped in tomorrow that I can't focus on today. Ever since I decided that I wouldn't extend my service here a couple of months ago and started to think about leaving at the end of November, I am increasingly anxious about leaving.

I don't want to write right now that I've failed here. But haven't I? So many people told me that I would love this place... I've let them down. So many people said that I would really make a difference here, I have failed them too. Because I sometimes fail at cultural sensitivity, I feel like a failure when I don't agree with certain norms and behaviors. I wanted to be fluent in the local language, to improve someone's life, and to (somehow) find myself. Most of all then, haven't I failed myself? But I don't want to write about failure because it sounds so melodramatic, so self-deprecating, so un-happy. And that isn't quite at all what I wanted to write. Which is why, I think, that I haven't written for so long. Is wanting to leave-- is giving up-- failure? Or should I finally accept that it is time to go? Can I accept that I've done what I could and nothing less? Can I believe in myself that I gave it all my best? Now that it is finishing, there is nothing wrong with putting more into leaving than staying.



In the government-speak of the US Peace Corps, they call it Close of Service (COS) and it is more difficult than anything else I've done since submitting my application way back in the fall of 2006. COSing involves slowly withdrawing yourself from the relationships you've created. It means preparing to do something totally different somewhere completely away from here. It requires giving your projects over to somebody else and trusting that they will care enough to keep working on it once you've gone. COSing is about medical checks to make sure you aren't carrying some heebee-jeebies away with you, means completing hundreds of forms to quantify the work you did and the impact you had, and forces you to say goodbye to the people who have become your family. The Gambia is far from anywhere I plan to be in the near future and so I have to accept that this sort of life is something that I am also moving far from. The good and the bad.

Sure, I am looking forward to no longer living in a mud hut with no electricity and water pulled by hand from an open well contaminated with amoebas and gecko poop. I can't wait to no longer rely on dangerous and undependable local transport to get me where I want to be. I am so happy at the prospect that I might go somewhere and make some money and stop living hand to mouth with some of the poorest people in the world. But I am also saddened that I might never see most of these people ever again, won't have the Atlantic coast as my backyard, will no longer live among monkeys and monitor lizards. What will happen to the little girl who lives in my compound (I guess I actually live in hers) and still calls me the generic "Toubob" instead of (my Gambian-given name) Laamin or (my preferred) Matthew? How will things continue with the beekeeping projects I've started? Will the mango and cashew and moringa trees I've planted survive to bear fruit? When will I next see the Volunteers I swore-in with and how will we all have changed? Will things work out between Tammy and I once we are in "the real world"? This process is sort-of about giving-up; no wonder I am so apprehensive about it. Most of my friends are facing similar anxieties about leaving here.

A few days ago I wandered into the small Mauritanian-owned shop near my house to buy some eggs and bread for breakfast. There was a young woman standing at the counter and she instantly struck me as different than most of the Gambian women I see. Her head wasn't covered, her wrap-skirt was printed with cannabis leaves and Bob Marley icons, and she carried herself in a way that was, well, different I guess than what I've become accustomed to. The most remarkable thing about her was the unlit cigarette hanging from her mouth. Gambian women simply do not smoke. I guess I sort of was staring. She caught my gaze and scowled and then did something I didn't expect: She called me out on it. "What the fuck are you looking at? Never seen a nigger before, you Red Monkey?" I gulped and swallowed my embarrassment. I felt so strange all of a sudden. Usually I'm the one being stared at, feeling the scrutinizing gaze of some stranger. "Sorry. " I stammered feeling unsure of myself. "I was just standing here." She scoffed and turned her back to me and I walked out of the shop without my breakfast. Later, I told a few friends about the exchange and wondered why she was so angry. I thought about this damned Peace Corps life and felt sorry for myself, singled-out, and abused. I've come all the way to Africa to live like this (the constant itch of heat rash, the lack of intellectual stimulation, the inconvenience of it all) and the people who I've come to help treat me this way. I finally decided to just forget about her, forget about the weird exchange. It wasn't, after all, indicative of the way I am generally treated by Gambians. These people are usually some of the nicest I've ever met. Most Gambians will invite you to share in their meals, to live in their compounds, and to sample their lives. I should know better than to let one bad experience temper the way I actually feel about Gambians on the whole. Maybe she was just having a bad day.

And then last night I wandered alone into a bar near here to buy a beer. As my eyes adjusted to the dim room I noticed three men gathered around a woman-- the same woman-- and laughing drunkenly. She was dressed this time in a pink halter-top, a leather miniskirt, and high-heel shoes. And then it struck me: She is a prostitute. This time I averted my eyes immediately and wondered if she remembered me from that day a week ago. I half-expected her to call me out again in front of the drunk men. I even considered asking "Are you still so angry at this Red Monkey?" But then-- standing in this stinking place with peeling paint and broken furniture, standing in this third-world heat and humidity, standing waiting for my beer avoiding the gaze of angry prostitutes and their sorry clients-- I didn't say anything at all.


What did I want from this damned Peace Corps experience that I haven't gotten? I wanted to leave the USA and see something different. I wanted to challenge myself to learn a language. I wanted to have something to talk about. I wanted to meet new people and make new friends. I wanted to apply myself to the thrills and tests of the life-less-comfortable. I wanted to expose myself to African culture and customs. I wanted to learn about pre-industrial agriculture, permaculture, and beekeeping. I wanted to boost my résumé and improve my chances of getting into a decent graduate school. I wanted to travel. I wanted to simplify my life, to live without the modern trappings and conveniences, and to decrease my carbon footprint. I wanted to broaden my horizons. I wanted to put some things behind me.

I think it is finally time to leave here. Yesterday, a friend of mine who is also leaving soon asked me "What did you think Peace Corps was going to be like when you signed up?" I thought for a moment and then met his gaze. "Exactly like this."

I think I might be getting somewhere.

Time goes and nothing happens. My mind wanders back to easier times, times when it wasn’t so hard. Sometimes I read page after page of my thesaurus searching for words in my native tongue to describe to myself the way that I feel. But these are Fula times, I should be resorting to my dictionary of foreign terms. Sometimes I feel more nourished by the plants that died without ever being harvested, without seeing it through. Am I like this? Are these Kurtzian days and Quixotic nights food grown for the soul? I wanted to taste that papaya because it would’ve been the best one I’ve ever grown.

Time stands still and everything becomes. Sometimes I get so bored. I’ve spent these past weeks trying to feel better about the direction things have gone. Today, I should feel better because now things have gone finally. Relieved or proud or somehow personally rewarded by some small victory. But in this kind of life, is there any step forward that isn’t a step backward? And I run the risk of taking too personally these stumbling lurches.

But nowhere do they say that you have to be successful as you do these things. Just that you ought to try. And I’ve been trying, honest I have. This is not the first garden I’ve planted that I didn’t get to harvest. I’ve planted a garden of seeds that I’ve planted even as I knew when I planted them I’d never see them grow.

Fortunately I’m not alone through this. I’ve been kept company in that garden by people who have listened well, commented smartly, and inspired me to believe in myself. It’s easy; we all keep finding ourselves in these existential processes. Stories and songs hold us up. We agree with one another, this is not easy.

The three Goals of Peace Corps: Provide technical assistance to people who want it. Let Gambians get to know an American. Let Americans know what it’s like to live in a place not America.

Why do I feel like I’m not doing any of these things? Why have I been feeling like I’m failing? Sometimes I don’t give this credit for how hard it really is. Sometimes I feel like I don’t understand a single word that is spoken to me. Sometimes I find myself shouting just to be able to hear myself.

I’m working though, I’m really still at it. And I think I might be getting somewhere. This place is getting hot, dusty. I remember this. I think I might be getting somewhere.

Gutters and Strikes

When I first came to The Gambia, I had a Peace Corps friend in training who called himself The Dark Horse. There were many things here that he, having never left the continental US, struggled with. Harsh climate, cultural schisms, and dietary discomforts were among his problems. The thing he tussled-with most was the fact that he thought he’d come here and “know exactly what to do to help the world’s poor lift themselves up.” He found that in The Gambia, though people are malnourished, they are not starving; while people are living in poverty, they share a generally optimistic outlook. He was disheartened because he didn’t know how he was expected to help. What exactly did Peace Corps think he could do? When I would ask him how his day was going, he would invariably recite a line from the Coen Brother’s film The Big Lebowski. “Gutters and strikes.” His days were a constant toil as he tried to see the big picture but instead he allowed his smaller failures, say with language, get the best of him. Eventually, he decided to leave or Early Terminate (ET) in the jargon of US government anachronism, a month before we swore-in.

I won’t lie, I’m feeling a bit Dark Horsey these days. Since coming back from Sierra Leone, I’ve encountered several trials and tribulations and have begun to question-- more so than the usual Volunteer existential angst-- what exactly is my role in Peace Corps The Gambia. Harsh diet, weather schisms, and cultural discomforts are only a few of my complaints.

Upon finishing my vacation, I returned to my village to find my entire backyard demonstration garden had become an animal feedlot. The green vibrancy I left behind for a month had become a ruined, dusty whirlwind. The cassava plants were gone, the sweet potatoes gone, the beans and tomatoes and eggplants were all gone. The papaya-tomato-pigeon pea guild was nothing but a single gnawed-off stump in the silty oblivion. My demonstration had become nothing but an abstraction. A year’s worth of work and planning is now nothing but the shit of sheep, goats, donkeys, and cows scattered around as if to inform me of each of the ruminants who had ruminated. Tattered plastic bags, leaking batteries, and discarded broken sandals completed the appearance of neglect.

I asked my host family what had happened. First the gate had been left open, later the cows came in the night and trampled the bamboo fence. Ko nye yaaki they told me. The cows disturbed this. After the cows came the donkeys, the sheep, and the goats.

When I left a month earlier, I asked my family to look after my garden and tree nursery until I got back. They told me Basi ala, no problem. They understand (I think) that I’m doing this for them. I want them to take an active role in this project. Sure, a small ebony tree in the dirt is little more than a stick with a few leaves. But in twenty years, the timber from that single tree could bring them a larger income than a whole field of groundnuts. The papayas and bananas are easy money-makers and require little more than water and protection.

One of the objectives of Peace Corps is sustainable capacity-building. If the garden I have established is not valued by my hosts, is it a waste of time to work in it? No matter how beautiful the crops were, if I haven’t taught my counterparts to care for it I haven’t done my job. First I was disappointed in them but gradually I began to point the accusatory finger back at myself. This was my fault too, I was at least partially responsible. Not just because I went on a two week excursion to Sierra Leone when they cannot even afford a three day trip to Banjul; not just because I hadn’t done a good enough job reinforcing my fence. I too am culpable because I was unable to impress upon my people that this garden is worth the effort. What I’m doing is not just for my own pleasure but is valuable because it boosts their nutrition, provides a source of income, and improves the health of their environment.

Backyard gardens aside, at Nyambai I met with an even greater disappointment than I could have prepared myself for. Things at the National Beekeepers Association of The Gambia (NBAG) had deteriorated into, forgive the obvious metaphor, an upset hive of angry bees. The problem though was not with the temperamental Apis melifera but instead with the corruptible Homo sapiens. We had been witnessing an increasingly volatile conflict between the Board of Directors, the general staff, and the NGOs who provide financial support. Thus far, it has been a slow-burn but recently the drama flared-up with intensity. This finally culminated in the firing of the general manager (a good friend of mine), the withdrawal of Peace Corps support, and the call for an entire restructuring of the organization.

Again, my frustration initially was directed outwardly: What about all the work I’d done in that apiary, all the hive-management training I’d given, and all the plans I had for the coming year? What about the second module of the Feed the Minds rural trainings. What about the grant that Concern Universal just approved for me to conduct research in the apiary at NBAG in Nyambai? Many of us have worked long-hours with the staff to help make the honey operation a viable one. Now some have quit amongst accusations and back-stabbing, some have been sacked, and Peace Corps Volunteers are prohibited from going to the office and apiary.

It didn’t take long though for me to begin to feel like the problem was much larger than the obvious, more tangible inconveniences of this particular failure. The real problem seems to be something that I don’t have the capacity to improve upon. (Dissertations are written and critiques abound of development work in Africa. I haven’t the perspective or the education to begin to inform my readers about the inherent problems of aid and development work and so I will stick to a description of my own experience. It is not my goal to depress you, only to inform you of what I’m going through.) The real problem is that development work is impossibly difficult and often unrewarding. The real problem is that ultimately everyone must make for themselves what they will attain. Otherwise, what they are given will be meaningless and easily corrupted. I heard the old adage a very long time ago: You can lead a horse to water but it’s still gonna stink.

Dishonesty, fraud, and bribe-taking are the axis of evil in the war on poverty and malnutrition. Police officers will gladly look the other way if they are handed a wadded bill by the unlicensed driver of an overloaded car of people. The manager of my regional Christian Children’s Fund recently absconded with thousands of dollars leaving thirty people unemployed for three months and five-hundred children with no school to go to. Teachers remove girls from the classrooms to wash clothes for them; headmasters sell bags of beans donated by the World Food Program. And at NBAG, money that had been donated by the European Commission for the construction of three new processing centers went into the pockets of the staff and the Board. One senior member of staff paid another one to not tell on him and then accepted a bribe from this same person to return the favor.

It is impossible to say just how deeply ingrained this type of dishonesty is in the Gambian system. The money is just too easy and the temptation overcomes even the most trustworthy. The cash from Tubob-adu flows swiftly into the pockets of the people who are “committed” to making those funds work for the greater good. I can imagine that some resist the enticement of the cash for a while but eventually they realize that their honesty does not pay. Continued poverty seems the reward for doing the right thing.

Can you blame them? Can I blame people who are struggling to put food on the table if they eventually take a little off the top? Can I blame my friends and the people I trust? Can I blame the public servant who hasn’t received a paycheck in months for taking a little fist-money? One of the people who had accepted a “tip” at NBAG is struggling with the fact that his wife has been suffering health problems. He can hardly afford the most basic of services and has been living in poverty for his entire life. Can I blame him taking a little money upon his realization that he was the only person there who hadn’t already?

What goes on under the table is often obscured from Peace Corps Volunteers who come here with a sense of hope and goodwill. We form strong bonds with our counterparts and believe that they share the same goals and ethics that brought us here. Discovering that corruption can happen to even the best of them can bring feelings of frustration, sadness, and hopelessness to the Volunteer. Personally, the past few weeks have left me feeling disillusioned, exhausted, and distracted. These emotions have had a drastic impact on my work, on my attitude, and on my outlook. When your counterparts disappoint you and your projects collapse, it is hard to not take-it personally.

But then the inevitable happens. After throwing all those gutter balls I pick-up a 7-10 split on the seventh frame and follow it with a strike. (These analogies are indicative of the fact that I miss bowling most of all the American establishments that I miss at all. Development might be more effective if we just exported ten pins and a twelve pound roller to all these people and let them work the rest out on their own. If I ever return to the Western Hemisphere, you should plan on going bowling with me.)

The small group of beekeepers that I hang out with near my village has impressed me so much these past few weeks. They have been gathering twice a week to weave grass hives for sale to the President of this country and have almost completed a third of his order. They plan to take the first one-hundred to His Excellency by the end of the month. They are excited to get a little cash income for all the cramped knuckles and tender fingertips that accompany weaving grass into cones and cylinders. With steady work, one man can usually make a hive in about three days.

They have really done a lot of work while I was away. I stood in front of the pile of hives that they had made and scratched the dust into my eyes. Each hive was unique; some were a little wonkity and misshapen but most were tight baskets big enough to house a healthy colony all summer. I felt a little strange standing in front of all those hives, a little conflicted. My ego, already strained, was hyper-active. I was a little ashamed, I hadn’t made hardly any of these (and the ones I had made were weydani- not nice). Here was another of my personal failures. Sure, they had made beehives, but what did I have to show for myself?

But then it struck me as I sat down with them and began to weave for the first time in over six weeks: This is exactly what I have been working towards. This is sustainable. This didn’t happen because I made it happen. These men had worked for their own development and they took pride (quietly) in their work. I had helped them organize, I had urged them to make grass hives, and I had helped cut some of the grass. Sometimes the successes in life are the intangibles like this. The bigger picture is hopeful and I am optimistic that even without me, this project will continue to help these people alleviate poverty. And it looks like they can do it without me, like they are going to do it regardless of what I expect of them. They welcomed me back, asked a few questions about Sierra Leone, and then encouraged me to try to make something weydi, something worthy of being sold alongside theirs.

And when I’m not at Badjie Kunda splitting my fingers on palm fronds, I’ve been cleaning-up my demonstration area. I’ve repaired the fence for now. I’ve watered the banana plant and brought it back to life, for now. I’ve re-hydrated the cacti and burned the alluvial flotsam, for now.

And we are trying to repair our relationship with NBAG, trying to see what can be done to recover everyone’s efforts. Some of us feel that we’ve put too much into that operation to let it perish. Too much work? Too much money? Sure, those also have been invested. But I think the true investment that we don’t want to squander is our hope and our enthusiasm for the National Beekeepers Association of The Gambia.

We will try to go ahead with the Feed the Minds trainings because that is the sort of grass-roots work that NBAG was founded on. Their motto-- Good Health, Local Wealth-- is still the way that many of us feel about beekeeping in The Gambia. Through NBAG, aid and development resources have made it into the hands (and minds) of rural people. Peace Corps Volunteers, Mondo Challenge Volunteers, Concern Universal extension workers, and employees of NBAG have worked toward that end. There is still plenty of optimism.

Also, the papaya tree in my back yard has sprouted new leaves.

And I would be leaving-out another bit of happiness if I didn’t tell you about Minh-Tam. This blog isn’t just about the harsh culture, dietary schisms, and weather discomforts that accompany living in The Gambia. I met this girl. Tammy was a Volunteer in Bolivia until they were evacuated last Fall due to political tensions. Rather than quit Peace Corps after a year of service, she opted to try another country and so came here in October. She tells it best: http://tammytruong.blogspot.com/


But I mention it because I have enjoyed her company since we met on a dance floor in October. For those of you who’ve seen me dance, she is the only girl I’ve met who can actually hang with me. And she sings karyoke with verve (The last time I was in a bowling alley, some of Duke City’s finest entertained me while I waited for a lane to open.) and without self-consciousness. It has been pretty amazing. She is having a totally different experience here, and she has changed mine too. I’ve had the chance to get to know the people in her village and seen other aspects of agroforestry in The Gambia. She reminds me not to take the small rewards for granted. Her laugh is infectious. Still, it has been strange to court someone in this place: Kissing cousins come together in arranged marriages, husbands and wives sleep in separate rooms, we are apart for weeks on end waiting for transport.

I have experienced many different emotions over the past few months, to say nothing of the past year and a half that I’ve been in The Gambia. I’ve been here long enough now to have made very strong attachments to some of the people I've met. Two of those people are Nick and Amanda, and they are leaving soon. They have completed their work and are moving back to The States to see what sort of an impact they will have there.

Another of my friends, Kat has also left. She came here on the same plane as me and she was one of my closest site-mates. She’s moving to Tanzania to work on a project bringing light to rural people using bicycle-charged batteries.

I will miss Nick, Amanda, and Kat for the rest of the time I am here and I hope that, inshallah, they will be successful and happy. Yo allah ruta he jam.

Throbbing Thumbs and Dead Ducks

So I got this blister on my thumb. It happened while helping my host brother Landing thresh the groundnuts that he harvested while I was in Guinea.

Groundnuts are brought from the field on donkey carts and then piled in a place well-protected from hungry livestock who love the hay. The plants dry in the sun for a few days and then they are beaten with bamboo canes until the nuts fall from the roots.


The hay is stacked and will be sold to local herdsmen who will feed it to their livestock as the dry season makes wild plants unavailable. Groundnut hay is of higher monetary value than the nuts.


Threshing can only be done during the warmest part of the day when the sun is shining very hot. One bamboo cane is used for lifting the plants while the other is for beating. You can kick them a little to separate them. Landing said that I would soon be "qualified." I made twelve blisters on my palms and three on my thumbs. The one on the right thumb became infected. Maybe a splinter went in or possibly germs and weebeasties. My doctor from Sierra Leone told me that.

Groundnuts can also be harvested by hand. My host father loves groundnuts. One of my favorite things about groundnut harvesting season: While the legumes are still attached to the roots, the dry plants can be set ablaze.

Once the plants are burned, we sit in the dirt and eat roasted nuts until our teeth are blackened.



Harvesting is happening everywhere these days. The cool season is upon us and people are staying very busy. My rice field produced a nice harvest. From the four kilos we planted, we harvested almost thirty five which is a great return. We didn't even use fertilizer.

The rice is cut from the grass and then brought back to the village in bundles carried on the head.
My friend Malang Manjang is an exceptional farmer. He planted fields of millet, corn, beans, sorghum, and sesame this year. The sesame plants produce beautiful flowers.

Most of the folks I loaned rice to returned it to me once they harvested. Now I have over 100 kilos and I will save about fifty for planting next year.


I also have been harvesting other crops. I tried planting mung beans and had a decent harvest. Remember when I first started A Growing Sense and wanted to become Duke City's King of Sprouts? I bought mung beans and let them grow for two or three days and then sold them at farmer's markets. People loved them.

I also have been experimenting with growing a few other things. Tomatoes are much loved here but wilts, blights, mosaics, and nematodes usually destroy the plants before they can produce fruit. I heard that tomatoes can be grafted to eggplants which do not suffer from such problems.

But I don't really know if the plants will produce fruit. We'll wait and see.

I've been spending a lot of time at the NBAG apiary in Nyambai.


We are trying to correct the bees tendency to build combs across the top-bars rather than one on each. The cross-combing is a big problem here.
The process we are developing involves cutting the combs off of the bars.

And then tying them on to individual bars. We have switched to wire instead of cloth because the bees accept it more readily.



I went on an overnight boat ride on the Bintang Bolong. This is a small tributary of the River Gambia that is located near my home.
Tim, Jeff, Alex, and I borrowed dug out canoes called pirogues from local fishermen and set out.

I let Jeff paddle me because my thumb was throbbing. It was still just a blister at this point but I was becoming a little worried. It was painful and had swelled to twice the size of the other.

But the river was calm and very pretty. We had a relaxing time watching birds and listening to river sounds. There were pelicans and king fishers and hawks.


Because of its proximity to the Atlantic, the Bintang Bolong is tidal. When we started out we went around in circles because we were paddling against the flow. The pirogues are made from carved trees and tend to be a little wonkity in the river. Maybe it is just us: Gambians stand in them and throw nets and seem to do just fine. Jeff and I caused our boat to capsize while bailing water out with a small cup. We flooded and sank. The current was fast and we struggled to pull the canoe to shore. Jeff pulled at the boat and swam while I kept hold of our bags and the twenty liter bidong of fresh water we had for the overnight trip. It took about ten minutes to get everything to shore. Jeff's fishing pole sunk and I watched my camera in its plastic case float away. I ran down the beach cutting my feet on shells while stripping my heavy, soaked clothes to get ahead of it. I jumped in and swam out and saved it from the fast current. The case was water-tight and so the camera still works. It makes pictures like this one.

We camped on a serene little beach where we drank wine and ate canned meat. The next day we caught the tide and floated home.

When I arrived in my village I found that my duck had died.


I was saving that one for my parents' visit next week but now they will just have to have monkey meat, scrawny chickens, and billy goat. Also, my headlamp got wet when we capsized and the salt water ruined it. I had had that light for years and it has illuminated many New Mexican cacti and Arizonan coyotes and Gambian fruitbats. Now the only light I have by which to read at night is this locally-bought pen-light on the end of a disposable lighter. For some reason though, it casts an image of Saddam Husein which is discomforting to read by.


My thumb had continued to get worse. The blister began to ripen and turn black. I could feel my heart pumping like it wanted to explode the tip off. The pain was all the way to my elbow. I was scheduled to help train the new Volunteers who were at Tendaba Camp in Kiang. I rode my bike there and expected to find the Peace Corps nurse but she was still two days away. I called her and she started me on antibiotics and recommended hot water soaks.

The thing about helping with the Training is that it takes you full circle. These kids are where I was one year ago and it brought my service into perspective. I have learned a lot here and was happy to share some of that wisdom with these fresh faced (no sun-wrinkles) and idealistic (not jaded by the realities of development work) kids. It also gave me a chance to see how the tourist art at Tendaba Camp has transformed.
Above is the mural from November 2007 while below is the bustier one there now.


The nurse arrived at Tendaba and was quite impressed with my blister. Although I had already lanced it once with a sewing needle, she gave it another shot using a syringe. Unfortunately, it was unproductive as the pus was too thick to be aspirated in such a fashion. Also, it hurted.

We went back to Kombo and on Thanksgiving morning the darn thing was ripe as a plum and burning like hell-fire.

The nurse called the doctor. He works for the United Nations and so doesn't need the day off. He doesn't really care about pilgrims and cornucopias and turkeys. He thought that maybe there was some sort of foreign body in there like maybe a splinter from a bamboo cane or some bacteria from eating groundnuts that had been cooked in the dirt. Anyway, why not cut it open?



So that's what he did.

Getting whatever was in there out of there sure felt better. Now I'm healing.



Also, that mustache looked stupid and so I shaved it.