I woke up on the morning of Tabaski wondering what time it was. The previous night, Sainey had told me that he’d come by in the morning to gather me for the prayer, something I had shown an interest in attending. I knew it would be early, but didn’t know at what time precisely - not as if the precise time as you would find on a clock really matters around here: while people have watches, few adhere to them with the servitude most Americans would find compulsory. Time here you can tell by the sun: it is morning, afternoon, evening, or night.
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So, I finally finished Rhythm’s crate yesterday. Woo hoo! It came out better than I thought, the thing is really strong (I can sit on it), if you shove it around it feels as sturdy as a rock, and all the pieces fit together well enough that I’ve actually impressed myself, given the basic tools I’ve found with which to build it.
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Woo! My Education group arrived here in The Gambia exactly half a year ago last night, in the late evening of July 6, 2006. This means that as of now, I’m over one quarter of the way through my service.

Holy crap, where does the time go?

(Note: most Peace Corps Volunteers in the world serve for 27 months, but the Education group in The Gambia serves for 24 months. This has to do with training taking a little less time than it takes in other countries - I think because English is The Gambia’s official language - and because it doesn’t make sense for Education volunteers to stick around past the end of their second school term, which they would if their service was prolonged. So, 24 months, not 27. FYI.)

I wake up in the morning to the sounds of chickens and people busying themselves with various preparations outside. It’s rather dark in here, given that the only light comes from the back screen door and window of Sara’s domicile, and as it’s near the winter solstice, even at 7:30 the rays come in at such an angle that tall trees of the village scatter and dim the light to a near-twilight luminescence.
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We’ve been riding along in the gele now for about 30 minutes, heading southeast along smooth roads. We have long since left the busy crowded streets of Brikama, which have been replaced by islands of palm, baobab, and silk cotton trees in fields of tall grasses. We frequently pass through small villages, where old men in colorful kaftans relax on bantabas under the shade of mango trees while women sit at small tables at the roadside market, selling baobab seeds, bananas, coconut, spices, treats, and much else. Occasionally we will stop in one of these villages to drop someone off, or if the driver wants to buy some food, but otherwise we are one of the vehicles that roars on through the middle of town, kicking up lingering clouds of brownish-red dust behind us.
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Tabaski is, to put it bluntly, huge. It’s effectively the Muslim equivalent of Christmas, although beyond the scope of importance of the holiday, you really can’t draw any similarities. In any case, in all likelihood I’ll only get a chance to experience two Tabaskis in my life, so I decided to spend it in the best way possible: by going to visit a friend in the provinces (i.e., outside Kombo) for the small-village rendition that’s all the more authentic than what I might have found back home in Bakau.
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