How much protein do you get from eating baby bees?

I can’t believe that so much time has passed since I last wrote. I keep getting stalled, busy on projects. But I’m constantly thinking: I should update my life.

First, let me apologize that there are no photographs for you to look at. I spent several hours last week compiling snapshots from the past month but immediately afterward my laptop crashed. It still isn't fixed but I wanted to write something anyway. No pictures is worth the following one million words.

Today is the fourth day of a cramped belly, aching bones, desperate lunges to the toilet. I’m in the med unit taking doses of antibiotics for the dysentery I’ve been suffering through. My body goes through cycles of shivering cold that makes my stomach cramp and my lungs seize followed by bouts of feverish sweating that causes drops of water to drip from my pale, pasty flesh. Sounds dramatic. Yesterday’s attempt to drink a glass of water resulted in projectile vomiting. I’ve fouled my underwear more times than I care to recollect.

But I should say that I’m finally getting better. The Ciprofoxacin is killing the bacteria that made their home in my gut. I haven’t eaten anything for days so there’s hardly anything in my stomach to give me trouble. But when you’re sick like that, days go by like months and I can hardly remember staggering into the med unit covered in sweat, my face hanging off my head. Tammy says that I’m hilarious in my delirious yammering.

Before this, I was living for a few days at the nicest hotel in The Gambia: The five star Sheraton on the coast across from Ghanatown. We had our semi-annual All-Volunteer meeting where the Peace Corps Administration told us all how valuable we are, what we should improve upon, and how the new budget from Washington still doesn’t begin to cover our expenses. But going from grass mattresses to cloud-like pillows, bucket-baths to hot showers in glass enclosed bathrooms, the prickly heat of humid rainy-season Gambia to air-conditioned rooms with iced sodas will make anyone feel valued. Buffet dinners, pool-side beverages, ocean breezes.

I spent nearly the last two months on trek conducting the Feed the Minds sponsored “Freebee” training. It was truly a rewarding experience and I enjoyed the opportunities to work with beekeepers all over The Gambia. Many of the people we contacted were inexperienced but interested in learning about beekeeping. Others though had a lot to teach me. It gave me the chance to harvest from grass hives, log hives, and hives made from broken pounding bowls. I got to observe the difference in honey production from different regions here. Some places are densely forested with silk cottons and cashews while others are open savanna with a few baobab trees. Some colonies were old and some brand new.

I travelled with three of my Gambian counterparts- Karamu, Kaddy, and Gibril- and my very capable Bambara driver Abdoulie (who I once watched melt a broken car battery terminal over an open fire and then pour it into a mud mold to repair the one that had broken in our truck). We returned to all the villages we went to last autumn to see what people had been up to. On the first trek we had taught people how to weave grass hives and encouraged them to place them in areas where bee-fodder was available. This time we brought protective gear with us and took the participants out into the bush to inspect the colonies and to harvest honey. Sometimes the participants had built Kenyan Top-Bar hives (KTBs) or grass hives that we could spend time around demonstrating proper management techniques. For almost all of the people, this was the first time that they had really had the chance to inspect inside a hive. Even experienced honey hunters in The Gambia work in harried and quick-paced sessions with too much smoke on moonless nights due to their lack of protective gear.

We were able to take the time to show the difference between brood comb and honey comb, between capped and un-ripened honey. We are trying to teach people that the quality of honey will affect the price they can set and that by taking only the best capped honey they can make more money. Honey-hunting in The Gambia is traditionally done by men and older boys because of the associated dangers of wandering in the bush at night and the accompanying stings of harvesting. But we were able to convince several women to come with us and wear the veiled garments and rubber boots. It was especially rewarding to see the women get the opportunity to work with us and several of them seemed quite inspired by the time we were finished.

For my own part, getting to work around so many different colonies was highly educational. At one site, nobody had had any luck attracting colonies but we wanted to have honey and wax for the second day when we would teach about processing. Someone mentioned some wild bees high up in a baobab tree a little ways from the village. That night we went to the bush and spotted the colony about forty feet up in a tree that must have been over two-hundred years old. We decided that I should go up. We found a homemade ladder that was rickety and poorly constructed with too much space between the rungs and about ten feet too short. We threw a rope over a branch just above the hole where the colony resided. The ladder was tied to the rope and lifted until it almost reached the colony. I was placed on a man’s shoulders and lifted up to the ladder that was spinning and dangling from the rope. Of course being enshrouded in my beesuit, gloves, and rubber boots made me even more awkward than I would normally be clinging to a swaying ladder in the dark with angry bees circling me, sweat blinding me, and fear pounding through my veins.

From the man’s shoulders I reached high and grabbed the bottom rung of the ladder and pulled myself up. The baobab was all I could see because of the hooded veil. I hung there for a moment gathering strength and then slowly pulled myself up. Once I stood on the bottom rung I breathed deeply to try to calm down. I was scared of falling. There were at least twenty people gathered around below, the colony was still so far above me, and my heart was pounding out of my chest. I reached up to the next rung and pulled myself up. And again. The wind was blowing and my own movements were causing the ladder to swim around; banging into the tree and then thrusting away into the dark. Flashlights bounced around like klieg lights and a bon fire gave the forest a weird glow. I pulled myself up to the next level and then the next. My arms were weak and shaking, the rubber gloves filled with sweat, the ladder to and fro. Finally I reached the top rung but realized that it was too low. I’d have to stand on it and wrap my arm around the rope that I was dangling from to reach the hive. I pulled on the other rope which brought my bucket and smoker up to me. The bees were aggressive; the hive at eye level was huge and probably had never been harvested. It was quite a trick to keep one hand wrapped around the rope while I used the other to pump smoke into the hive. The bees smeared on my veil and the smoke in my eyes all but blotted out the night. For one brief moment I was able to look around at the night: Stars through the sparse limbs of the baobab, a sleight breeze, people below illuminated by the fire they’d built. My fear of falling subsided. I knew that this is what I had come here to do. I was doing something different; trying something that tested my physical and emotional strength. Though I had been stung a few times through my suit and could feel the burn, I felt strong and clear. I tried to cut comb away with my hive tool until I fumbled it and dropped it onto the head of one of the men below. Without it, I just grabbed at comb with my hand and lumped it into my bucket. Eventually I reached brood comb and stopped harvesting. I lowered the bucket down and then slowly brought myself back down the ladder. By the time my quivering body hit the ground, half the bucket of honey had been eaten.

On that trip I also did a few other things I had not yet done here. I harvested honey from wild bees who had built their hive in an abandoned termite mound. I inspected colonies hived in water jugs and baskets wrapped with rice bags. I learned bee-terminology in Mandinka, Serehule, and Wolof. At a water pump in a Fula village I found a small swarm that had probably lost their home in a nearby bush fire. They were clustered on the wet concrete at risk of being drownded and were remarkably docile- a result of being engorged with honey for their escape and most likely exhausted. The people pumping water thought this Tubob was insane as I reached my naked hand into the cluster of bees and gently moved them around until I found the queen. I lifted her and cupped her in my hand but she took flight. It took several minutes of frantic searching before I found her again floating in a bucket of water. I fished her out and Karamu helped me clip her wings. We returned her to the cluster until later that night when we married that small colony with a larger one that we were re-housing from a pounding bowl in the village to a KTB in the bush. I also finally ate some brood which is considered a delicacy that gives men their "strength." The raw brood straight from the comb is salty and too watery to be appetizing but I rather enjoyed the satisfying pop in the mouth of the cooked ones.

All in all, the “Freebee” training should be considered a success because we contacted so many people in the rural areas and taught many aspects of beekeeping. Men, women, and children attended the trainings and some seemed genuinely interested in getting involved. A few months ago, I wondered if we would even get the chance to work on the project because of budgetary and administration problems. And we finished just before the first rains fell in The Gambia.

Aside from that, I’ve been working on getting to know my new community. It hasn’t been easy since I’ve been away so much. Gunjur is pleasantly large and I am able to maintain a certain anonymity there that was impossible in my old village. For some, Peace Corps is all about integrating into a community and developing a strong relationship with their host family. For me, having come here as someone who hasn’t really set-root in any particular place and who left home almost 20 years ago, the desire to bond has never really been there. I am more comfortable roaming. I enjoy that my new guardians treat me more like a renter than a family member. Sometimes, if I were away from my old village for too long I would have to give small gifts and explanations to many people who wanted to know where I had been and why I was away so long. Now, I don’t feel so guilty if my work keeps me in Kombo or on the move elsewhere in The Gambia.

It’s not that I don’t miss being in Chewel because sometimes I do. The pace there was nice, the environment great for running in the bush or cycling, and I miss my friends there. It’s farming season and I remember fondly last year’s tiring days hunched under the sun weeding fields of rice, millet, and groundnut. I wonder whatever became of my biochar pit. And sadly, because of the All-Vol, I had to miss the wedding of Landing and Fatou, both dear friends who had taken good care of me while I lived in Manneh Kunda. My new home is more like an apartment and the back yard is a concrete slab. I'm away from home too often to even think about planting a garden and I have yet to find a place to put my compost pit.

But there is still plenty of work to keep me busy. The remainder of my service will be spent mostly on beekeeping related projects and helping with the Training for the group of Volunteers that will replace my cohort. They arrive in November. Three of my fellow Volunteers and I are shooting agroforestry training videos to be posted on YouTube and distributed to Peace Corps Volunteers. We've completed four of them thus far using the low-tech gadgetry available here. We've made videos about composting, garden bed preparation, transplanting, and organic pesticides. I'm also the co-editor and tireless contributing writer for our newsletter Natanial Fatty's Miracle Almanac which keeps me busy coming up with joke horoscopes and fake interviews. I am writing a new manual for Gambian beekeeping based on what I’ve been privileged to observe and experience here. I'm also working with some good folks who are trying to establish a non-profit venture here called BeeCause which is a three-tiered initiative directed towards people living in poverty. I'm sure you'll read more about that as time goes on. Finally, Tammy and I are planning a backpacking trip to Cape Verde.

Personal failure: The Hundred Push-Up Challenge. A couple of months ago, a few friends and I found this website that guarantees that you can do 100 push-ups without stopping if you follow the six week plan. Twenty-eight of us signed up in our own informal challenge. Of course, the author of that program failed to consider what affect a protein-poor diet might have on the push-uppers. How much protein do you get from eating baby bees?

Every other day I pushed-up until I collapsed- almost bloodying my nose a few times. Some days I did as many as 175 push ups in half an hour. Not bad considering that in my initial test I maxxed-out at 39 in a row. At the six week mark I did a progress test to see how close to 100 I could do. Ceremoniously I dropped to the prayer mat spread on the floor of my new house. I started strong and wasn't even sweating when I passed number 39. At 45 though my ears started ringing. Number 47 found me leaving either a pool of sweat or tears on the mat below my face. I couldn't tell which because I was "in the zone." I collapsed at 49.

As far as I know, only one of my fellow participants has actually completed the Hundred Push-Up Challenge. If I ever get my appetite back, I plan to try again.

My doctor just came into the room and told me that I am looking better but that she wants me to stay for at least a few more days to give my body a little rest. I told her that I really wanted to get back to work. She replied that the most important aspect of Peace Corps is the cultural exchange and that the work that we do here is a distant second. For me, learning about The Gambia has been an incredibly rewarding experience and having good relationships with my counterparts and friends here has made me feel like my service has been successful. It’s winding down. I’m thinking more and more about leaving and my Close of Service conference (also at the Sheraton thanks to off-season rates) is next month already. While I am fairly confident that I will push my leave date from December to April so I can complete a few things, I know that the end is coming. Having had the rural village experience for most of my time here and now a more urban one, I feel like I am getting to know this place fairly well. And with so much traveling, I now have a fairly broad perspective about The Gambia’s culture and environment. She’s right; the cultural exchange is certainly the most enduring aspect of Peace Corps service.

Bee-Sieged

As with most things that we hope and pray for, once we attain our strongest desires, we begin to wish for something else. While I am one who usually views droplets of rain as manna from heaven, today I am ready for the water to stop falling for a while. Just give me one day of clear skies that I might hang my clothes out to dry, air out my hut, and put my mattress on the roof. It has been raining non-stop for weeks. It rains all the time. My clothes are perpetually wet; some are rotting away as I wear them. My towel stinks of mildew, mold grows in my water bottle, I pulled my bed away from the wall and I found mushrooms growing there. Mud and mosquitoes and dripping ceilings. Wounds don’t heal; bacteria creep and crawl beneath the flesh.

Life is bursting everywhere. Millet, rice, cassava, groundnuts, sesame, maize, findi, sorghum, squash. Weeds. Weeds everywhere and I am constantly stooped in a field here or a rice paddy there. About the time I finish weeding a field it is time to begin again. I can usually last through five hours of hacking at the moist soil trying to see the difference between rice and grass before I have to walk away unsure of whether my back hurts more than my eyes. I have devoted over sixty hours to weeding the half-hectare rice field of Nerica that Landing and I planted. The plants look good, though not nearly as nice as the fields that Gambians planted around mine. Here is a photo of my half-weeded field so you can see what I'm up against.

I have spent a lot of time lately considering my real offerings here in The Gambia. Aside from the agroforestry work, the permaculture emphasis, and the general economic development that I hope to inspire in my counterparts. I think that my biggest contribution will be the work that I am doing with local beekeepers to advance the understanding of that art. I have been here for almost a year and have dedicated much of that time to researching traditional knowledge of the hive and the honeybee and to observing firsthand the behavior of Apis mellifera adonsonii. The thing that resonates most with me is that these little bees are considerably different from the bees that I have worked with before coming here. The most notable difference and the one that makes the biggest distinction is the sheer orneriness of these tenacious little bees.

Last week I was in a small village a short bike ride from my home where I meet with friends to weave traditional grass basket hives. Usufa Badjie and Bakary Colley are two skilled and experienced weavers who a few of my counterparts and I have been learning from. Generally between four and six of us show up for work twice a week and, while listening to BBC Focus on Africa on the shortwave, we weave dried grasses and the ribs of palm fronds into basket hives that we hope to sell to raise funds for our association to buy beekeeping suits.

Gallo, Malang, and I were weaving that day when we heard screams from nearby and, while we weren’t sure yet whether we were hearing a child or a goat, it attracted our attention. We stepped outside to investigate and saw that three goats tied near a silk cotton tree were frantically tugging at their ropes while running circles in circumference from the stakes to which they were attached. Suddenly one broke free and began to race towards the house where we were standing. I smelled the attack pheromone before I saw the tens of bees embedded in the goat’s hair.

The pheromone that is secreted by African bees is much more pungent than that of their European cousins and is a smell that both exhilarates and startles me- like the perfume of an ex-girlfriend. It is one thing that sets them apart from other, more docile bees. European honeybees have been selected by man through centuries of beekeeping efforts to be calm and easy to work with. The bees of Africa share little of that history of domestication. Working with Europeans, the beekeeper will notice a slightly sweet odor as his hive becomes aware that he is invading their secreted stores of honey. When working with Africans, the beekeeper’s nostrils will flare with the acrid and adrenaline inducing stench of angry bees.

And along with the pheromone, African bees attack en masse. While European honeybees are certainly loyal to their hive, Africans will assert every effort in defense of one of their sisters. If just one bee releases the alarm or attack pheromone (two separate and individually identifiable chemical compounds), tens- if not hundreds- of other bees will instantly investigate. This is what makes them the dreaded Killer Bee. While the sting of one bee delivers a significant yet non-life threatening (in most cases) amount of venom to the target, the stings of multiple bees can bring a six-hundred pound bull to his knees in a matter of minutes.

Before I knew it, one of those kamikaze bees had veered from her initial target and was now angrily tangling herself in my hair. Gallo and Malang had already run from the house but I remained to see what could be done for the goat. Along with her own disconcerting bleating I could hear other goats and sheep nearby trying to save themselves. The one shivering and panting near me had at least twenty bees tangled up in her hair and more in the air around her. I tried to go to her but another bee took notice of me and my nose tickled again with that unmistakable smell. I ran to my bike while beating my hand against my head where the one was still tangled in my hair. I started to ride as fast as I could but I knew that it was hard to outrun angry bees. Fortunately, they gave up the chase as I got to the outskirts of the village where I stopped and looked behind me. I could see that children wrapped in thick cloth were venturing toward their livestock but then giving up and running back out of range with arms flailing.

I rode home and collected my beekeeping equipment and raced back to the besieged village. I quickly donned my thick cotton full-body suit, knee-high boots, and leather gloves that come up to my shoulders. The villagers looked at me like I was some sort of space-age kankurang. I struck out for the silk cotton where the goats had been tied but in the time I was gone they had- in their panic- yanked their stakes from the ground and run home. I wandered around with angry bees trying to chew through my suit while I searched for any other livestock and then spent several minutes brushing away the bees.

Fortunately, a thundershower moved in and once the rain came, the bees- who cannot fly when wet- retreated to their hive.

What caused this seemingly unprovoked attack? Bees are typically more aggressive after a few days of rain because the industrious field bees are unable to fly and forage. Also, at this time of year in The Gambia, there are few sources of nectar and pollen available and so the bees are on edge wondering how they will provide for their colony. Perhaps this hive had been subject to robbing by bees from a stronger hive nearby and so was on high alert. Or maybe a bird or lizard had invaded the hive in search of a high-protein meal. And then there is the traditional explanation for why these bees attacked: The ancestors were asserting themselves as they are prone to do every five or eight years. I have witnessed three such attacks in the past two months and two of these involved feral colonies who had built their hives high in the branches of Spirit Trees. While most Gambians are Muslims, they still hold on to select animist beliefs from long ago and one of these beliefs is that certain trees contain the spirits of the ancestors. And sometimes those ancestors feel like reminding the people that they are still here.

As a result of the bee attacks that day, two goats died. This is definitely an issue for beekeepers to consider in The Gambia and might be an impediment to development aid focused on bees. People here are, rightfully, afraid of bees. One of my major tasks is sensitization but when something like this occurs, my persuasive “bees for good health and local wealth” falls on deaf ears. Sure, there are differences between feral colonies and well-managed hives, but the average Gambian starts swinging wildly anytime a bee buzzes nearby. Trying to convince them that people can keep apiaries of five or more colonies near their villages is definitely a tough row to hoe.

Still, there are opportunities that we can exploit. The National Beekeeper’s Association of the Gambia (NBAG) recently acquired funding for research into queen-rearing and hive splitting. I am one of the only people in the country with any experience at all with these subjects and so I am spearheading the operation. To be honest, my experience is more from observing commercial beekeepers in New Mexico than from practicing these techniques myself. But I have been reading trade journals and experimenting with some of the concepts these past few months and, now that the rains are nearly ending, I am embarking on the program. I have scheduled several excursions around the country to meet some of the more advanced beekeepers and to try to isolate some of the more manageable bee genes. I plan to travel mostly by bicycle for two weeks visiting the counterparts of some of my Peace Corps friends.

Another beekeeping opportunity presented itself a few days ago when a basket hive in a tree grew too heavy and fell to the ground in a neighboring village. This community is Jola and I have to admit that my Jola is limited to a few casual greetings. I had been informed by someone who had just passed through that village that some bees were causing a problem there and so I went to investigate. When I arrived late in the afternoon, the language barrier was only one of my problems. I finally located the owner of the hive and through a system of charades and broken Mandinka (a foreign language to both of us but the only one we have in common) we set out for the bush to take a look.

The rope that the hive was suspended from had grown weak and the hive fell about fifteen feet from the mahogany branch that had supported it and crashed to the ground in a patch of waist-high grass and weeds. The man who owned it is typical of some the Gambian beekeepers I have come to know. They are interested and eager, have quite a bit of traditional wisdom, but lack the equipment to effectively manage their hives. This one hadn’t been harvested before the rains when it should have been and so was heavy with honey and old brood comb. Honey is highly absorbent of atmospheric humidity and should be harvested only during the dry season lest it ferment and spoil. So he told me that if I brought the honey he would split it with me.

Because I would be working alone and since this hive is in the bush far from people, I took the opportunity to try something new. Beekeeping here is always done at night and even the most experienced beekeepers I have talked to insist that this is the only way. Traditional honey-hunters always work at night and so this practice has continued. Also, bees don’t operate well in the dark and so when the beekeeper is finished he can walk a short distance, brush the bees off with weeds, and feel confident that they will give up the pursuit. But I think that the intricate work of queen-rearing will require that the beekeeper work during the daytime so he can see what he is doing. In fact, good management in general and close observation in particular almost insist that we have a better look than we can get with small flashlights under the cover of darkness.

So at about six o’clock, still two hours from dusk, I suited-up and headed out to the hive. This was my first good look at the hive and the bees’ first good look at me. The basket was still intact but the lid had blown off with the impact and the sides were caving in. I expected more aggression considering that they could see me in the light but actually they didn’t seem too bad. I smoked the hive with my locally-smithed smoker and then cut the basket open. It was a great opportunity to get a good look at the arrangement of a natural hive; to see the combs for honey and pollen on the fringes and the brood towards the center where temperature can be more easily controlled. Mostly there was old comb that was crisp and dark but also some new comb had been manufactured and was white and pliable, still empty. The brood pattern was nicely arranged indicating a strong queen but I was unable to find her among all the others. I observed that the capped worker (female) brood was located high on the comb while the drones (male) were at the bottom of the oblong comb.

I figured that this colony would have a difficult time surviving in its present state given that its hive was ruined, brood would be lost, and honey was leaking into the earth. Even though many workers were devouring honey in an attempt to save what they could, I am unsure if the queen was alive and would be able to make the journey if they decided to abscond. I placed a good portion of capped honey comb into my bucket to take back to the village. Next, I gathered all the capped worker brood that was undamaged and placed it into the small “nuc” hive I had brought with me. Typically, a “nuc” (nucleus) is a five frame Langstroth hive designed to transport a queen, a frame or two of brood and honey, and about two-thousand bees. When I first started beekeeping in New Mexico, I bought three “nucs” from a commercial beekeeper in spring and by mid-summer I had three fully-grown colonies. In The Gambia, I have built three such boxes for my queen-rearing experiments and found this a great chance to try one out. I wasn’t sure if the colony would take to the “nuc” but if they found so much of their brood inside and had lost their old hive, they might inhabit this one to stay out of the rain. I finished my work just before dark and when I walked a short distance from the hive I was able to easily brush the bees off me and then head back to the village.

The next morning I returned and we processed the honey. This involves squeezing the honeycomb over a bucket that has a thin cloth placed over it and then waiting for the honey to pour through. Because this honey was thin, it hardly took any time at all. We also processed the wax by boiling it and then separating it from the water to be saved for later. We ended up with three liters of honey of which I took one and shared it with the people of my village who believe that njummri (Pulaar for honey) is a cure for malaria. The next day I returned to the “nuc” but was disappointed to find that the colony had absconded, leaving the brood to the maggots.


My host family bought an entertainment package last month. Does this seem odd to you? I have spent the last nine months writing about how poor we are and now we are the only family in town with a dvd player, television, and speaker system. Here is how it happened: My host father asked me to borrow him some money in July, to pay him August’s rent early so he could send it to his daughter’s wedding in Bumari. So I did. Then when August came he told me that he needed the rent to buy a bag of rice and I told him that I didn’t have it, that I’d already paid it. My host brother asked me too and I told him the same thing. After all, I am here to help these people with economic development but not to be a bottomless wealth of money to give. Maybe the best thing I can teach them is how to balance their family budgets and to save for the future.
So Landing went to Kombo for a few days and within twenty minutes of his return the entire village was sitting around my compound watching the fourteen inch screen. The whole system was connected to a car battery and they were watching a poorly pirated copy of “Delta Force” starring Chuck Norris. That lasted for about three hours and then the battery was dead and people went home to eat rice while we stared at the blank screen on the bare kitchen table. (Actually, we don’t have a table and eat out of a big bowl set on the ground, but you know what I mean.) Then my host father asked me to borrow him some money, to pay September’s rent early so he could get a bag of rice.

So what should I do? While I “killed my television” long before I came to The Gambia, I can appreciate that human beings have a need for entertainment. In my own hut I have a solar system that powers a battery and a laptop computer and an ipod. Do I have any right to say that they wasted their cash? We all make mistakes with money. Besides, seeing all those happy faces as Chuck Norris kicked the shit out of terrorists was rewarding. My stomach is empty but my heart is overflowing with American pride.

Recently a marabout visited my village from Cassamance. Marabouts are the traditional healers and spiritual leaders of numerous cultures in West Africa. Many Gambians still look to the marabout for guidance and counsel in difficult times and often pay the marabout a small amount of money for blessings, healing-work, and jujus. A juju, or gris-gris, is an ornament worn on the body for protection. It is usually some words written by the marabout on a piece of paper that is sewn into a piece of tanned hide and then worn from a string tied around the waist, bicep, or neck depending on what is prescribed. Children almost always have one tied around their waists; Peace Corps Volunteers proudly display theirs across biceps.

Knowing that I am about to place myself in harm’s way with all the beekeeping I intend to do in the upcoming months, I decided to visit the marabout. She was an old but healthy and spry woman staying with Nyepa and Junkong. I went to her accompanied by Njie, a good friend and spiritual man. He introduced me to Daa Penda and I explained my situation. She paused for a long moment considering my request and then shook her head slowly. She told me that she could give me a juju to protect me from knives and bullets. But when it comes to bees, there is no protection. Then she handed me some powder that she made from dried bark and said that if I used a little pinch every time I bathed, I would be free from hassles with the police. I gratefully accepted her gift. Then she instructed me on a small prayer that I should repeat three times as I prepare to go to my hives. Koo lu hua, aloa adun aloa, samadu, lammee aloo, wallam aludu, walla u koo lu hua, ka fon a doon. Upon completion of the third round, the individual should spray his palms with spit and wipe his body. Be sure to wipe away from the heart or you will be inviting the bees to attack rather than repelling them.

Thinking of spitting… A couple of weeks ago I could no longer stand the smells of mildew and dampness that have infused the air of my hut. I decided to devote a day to cleaning so I set about moving furniture, shaking out sheets and curtains, and gathering-up old papers and magazines from where they had come to rest. I lifted my bed and found numerous termite mounds and spider webs as well as a healthy crop of toadstools. Working my way to the corner, I stooped to lift a large box of training manuals when I came eye to eye with the large, black, hooded snake that was living there. In a lifetime of seconds my mind registered what my heart already knew: My face was sixteen inches from that of a cobra. Personally, I’m not actually fond of snakes but have maintained a healthy “live and let slither” attitude toward even the rattlers back in New Mexico. But this one- in its slick leather hood, with its green slits for eyes, poised in a defensive position that elicits fear and trembling in every witness- sent me hurtling backwards and averting my eyes. You know, in case this was the spitting kind.

Badly startled, I fumbled for my camera and made a couple of shaky and out-of-focus pictures before the five feet of snake abandoned its home two feet from my bed to take refuge under my book case. This gave me time to run out of the house and find Landing and Njie. “’How do you say big, ugly, poisonous devil-snake in my house!’ in Pulaar?” I asked breathlessly. Njie went for his machete while Landing went for Sanna who went for his shotgun and I went back home to tell Baa Cheike.

Gambians hate snakes. They are especially intolerant of those who come into the house. While I have tried to make peace with the beasts of the Gambian bush, cobras in my house get no sympathy. Sanna was out of bullets but he had a spear with a triple bladed point on the end. Within minutes the entire village was in my compound as men continued to arrive wielding machetes, clubs, and bicycle chains. It was a war and the battle-line had been drawn at my door. I tried to explain the layout of my house and gave a description of the perpetrator to the three men willing to go in. Just before we crossed the threshold, I looked down and shuddered at the fact that each of us was wearing flip-flops. Sanna said “Basi ala.” which translates to “No problem.” and he sprayed spit onto his feet. The rest of us followed in that action, though one of us- I’m not saying which- had a little trouble getting spit. Once inside, we crept on protected toes and sniffed the air like hound dogs. Sanna knocked over the bookcase vegetable seeds crashed in a clamor. Into the fray, the three of them started beating with their weapons blindly… I continued spitting on my feet. Finally, Landing whistled a cease fire and Sanna pierced the snake with his spear and they drug it outside for all the world to see. The whole world was there waiting. Njie quickly severed the head with his machete which was ceremoniously buried right where it fell along with the blood that poured forth. Someone whispered that it was a little one.

Ramadan began on the second day of September. For those of you who might not know, for thirty days a year Muslims abstain from eating and drinking between 5:30am and 7:30pm. As the Koran says, “Just be thankful for what you’ve got.” Or maybe that was Marvin Gaye, Massive Attack, or Yo La Tengo. No matter, the message is still the same. There are people all over the world who do not have enough to eat, who lack clean drinking water. In homage to them, Islam asks us to do without. Ramadan is to Muslims sort of what Peace Corps is to America: Taking time out of our lives and making personal sacrifices in order to relate better to the harsh realities of our world. Sure, I will never really know what it is like to be a Gambian, but through this experience I can empathize with them. If you have enough to eat, you will never really know how hungry a person can be.

So, this month in village, I am fasting. “Mi na hori. Mi namata, mi yarata.” Its not easy. Food is one thing, water is another. Even if the heavens open up and rain pours down upon our heads, we are not allowed to swallow. I begin my morning at five when I drink two liters of water and eat some rice. This obviously results in a stomach-ache that lasts all morning. The thing about thirst is that while it is possible to re-hydrate, you cannot really pre-hydrate. By nine-thirty I have peed six or seven times and by eleven o’clock, I am dying for a drink.

And I should admit that I am rather a hedonist. I love the taste of food and keep a well-stocked steamer trunk of sweets and meats that I buy in Kombo and send to myself on mailrun. But this is part of the point of Ramadan. To make us think about what we have, what we put in our bodies. Are we constantly trying desperately to satisfy our needs? Do we consume disproportionately? Can we do without?

The first few days were very difficult but it does get easier. You spend a lot more time thinking about hunger because, not only are you not eating, but the lack of food creates a depletion of energy and so diversions like work and play are less possible. Going without food and water leads to depression, mood swings, and lethargy. While normally I might work outside from 7:30 until 1:30 and then from 4:00 until 7:00, during Ramadan I am too tired to work nearly that much. I feel like I have to rest, sleep in the afternoon, stay out of the sun. I’m not running in the mornings like I used to. I ask myself “Did I come here to work or to participate in the culture? Can I do both?” While I do feel like this has helped to equalize my status in my village somewhat- many of my Muslim friends compliment my willingness to sacrifice- should I risk my emotional and physical health for someone else’s cause?

Ups and downs. Some of my Muslim friends tell me that they love this time of year while others clearly struggle. Sometimes I feel anxious and that this is absurd. Other times I feel calm and relaxed and stronger than I deserve to be. Allowing the digestive system to relax through the day can actually make one feel energized and clear of mind. Sure, you think about the thirst and the hunger but you also realize that you will survive. The hunger pangs at noon go away by the third day and you get used to being thirsty. You start to look forward to a simple bowl of rice and a cup of tea as if it were a three-course French dinner with a bottle of fine Spanish wine. By the time you break the fast with kuntari- half a loaf of French bread and tea from the leaves of a local plant- you are hardly even craving anything at all.

I admit that now that I’m not in village this week, I’m taking advantage of my anonymity and enjoying food and beverage whenever I want it. Thirty days is a long time.

I am working on planting my dry season garden of squash, lettuce, and tomatoes. Along with that is the maintenance on my fence; weaving thorny branches and filling-in the gaps. Of course I learned last year that the chickens and goats will try to devour my veggies but maybe I will have better luck defending it now that I know what I know and can get an early start.

Maybe by this time you are harvesting your own tomatoes and squashes. The growing season in America is winding down; the days are growing shorter and the nights might soon be getting cool. I miss those seasonal changes and I fantasized while fasting last week about such goodness as warm apple cider.

I arrived in The Gambia one year ago and have to say that every day still brings surprises, challenges, and opportunities. The one-year anniversary is a time when I and many of my peers are re-evaluating ourselves and our contributions here. Some of the Volunteers who came here with me have gone home. For me, I am beginning to think seriously about extending my service. There are many prospects in Peace Corps: I could stay here and continue with the work I have already begun or I could move to a different country-maybe even a different continent- and start over. I enjoy doing development work and am thinking of ways that I can continue to make a contribution. The work I am doing here is extremely fascinating and rewarding. If I should stay here I will probably do the greatest good because I already have the year experience and have a grasp on the culture and language. On the other hand, going somewhere new will offer a fresh perspective to development and will give me the chance to satisfy my wanderlust a little. It is a long way off yet it is never too early to prepare for tomorrow.

By the way, my good friend Andrew labored for hours to post some videos for me on You Tube. If the photographs aren't giving you enough of a visual impresion of being in The Gambia, perhaps you will enjoy seeing me fight a bush fire, ride in a crowded gelegele, or recover from beestings. Go to http://www.youtube.com/profile_videos?user=knucklewalking.

I hope that you have peace in your life. Why don’t you send me an email and let me know how you’ve been? I’ve been thinking a lot about you and wonder all the time how you are.