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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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 We have long since left the busy crowded streets of Brikama, which have been replaced by islands of palm, baobab, and silk cotton trees in fields of tall grasses.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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Every morning, I wake up at five. Five. That’s AM: it’s still dark out. Why, you might ask, why would someone wake up so early every morning? This question is one you might ask unless you have the pleasure of living close to a mosque (such as yours-truly).
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I’ve been here for almost exactly three months now, and I’ve been posting updates on all kinds of things. One of my goals here is to help inform people about not just The Gambia, but about Gambians as well (for what is The Gambia without its people, other than a bird-crazy region around a big river in West Africa?). To this end, one of my friends from back home, Karen (who last year returned from her Peace Corps service in Romania with her husband and good friend of mine, Jeremy) asked me to comment on the culture in a bit more detail. So, without further ado, I will try to answer your questions, Karen, as best as I can.

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