Never in my life have I felt comfortable talking about body functions. But this is Peace Corps. And now, my most frequent topic of conversation is about poop. And since I know you’ve all been wondering, let’s talk about poop.
My new niece was given my Gambian name, Fatoumata, and my host sister says she will call her “Jessica.”
Although a big river divides the country in half, an alarming number of Gambians don’t know how to swim. Superstitions and traditional tales have even inspired fear about the river and the crocodiles that hide in its waters.
My life of fro-yo, high-speed Internet and a trendy wardrobe is nothing but a distant memory. Everything in Gambia is different, including me. And somewhere along the line, dare I say, it all started feeling normal.
I usually sleep through the 5 a.m. call to prayer, having finally grown accustomed to the faint mutterings from the faraway mosque. But it’s never long until I’m forced awake anyway. My family, of course, owns the biggest cock on the block and the rooster never fails to crow at sunrise.
Auntie is my new little sister, a 4-year-old orphan my family cares for. And although she is less than a quarter of my size, she has appointed herself my body guard.
As I was moving into my new home, my father turned to me and relented that he wished the house could be nicer. Hearing those words from a Gambian as you step into what will be your living space for the next two years is a scary moment.
