Medina Coutas or Laboya as they would like to be known within GEN-Senegal, was my first traditional rural Senegalese village. While my dad had been here, the rest of the program had gone up to the village of Nder—where I will be living for the next four weeks—for a preliminary stay.

We pulled off the tar road just before the Parc National de Niokola Koba and bumped along dirt roads for a good half hour. We had been directed to Medina Coutas by an employee of TROPIS, an environmental NGO that also works out of Yoff and sometimes in conjunction with CRESP and GEN-Senegal. This employee had been born and raised in Medina Coutas and had gone back and worked with his native village through TROPIS and now wanted it to be accredited and join GEN-Senegal. As the Alham snaked along barely visible roads, I wondered how inhabitants of these rural villages ever left. Silly, I know. But after finishing what schooling is provided in a rural village, will one, still barely an adolescent, just strike out on his own and go away to high school? To university? Just walk to the end of the dirt road one day and await a Dakar-bound vehicle? Would he have trouble adjusting to the jostle of Dakar, to the many streets, to a different way of living—an adjustment distantly related to the one I had initially made? Despite the heat, my mind still whirred.

Medina Coutas absorbed us immediately. After dropping our stuff off at the small Biodiversity Campement, a TROPIS project now run by a visiting Diola man, we made our way to the village center where under the shade of a great mango tree, a meeting was held in our honor and the village chief welcomed us. Nearly all of the village elders—all men interestingly enough— wanted to extended their welcome and each greeting went something like this: I am glad you traveled in safety. I’m glad you arrived in safety. I hope you return in safety. Bless you. Welcome to Medina Coutas. We are happy to have you here. We are blessed to have you here. We feel very lucky to have you here. We look forward to showing you our village…..and so on and so forth. But, mind you, this was all done through translation.
Medina Coutas is composed of both Puul and Mendink inhabitants, but I think there were men from other ethnic groups present because, at one point, I counted three levels of translation taking place. Some unidentified tongue to Puul, Puul to French, and French to English. A small band of men formed to walk us to the Gambia River and the tourist campement they had begun constructing, another TRIOPIS project. I soon learned that the inhabitants of Medina Coutas are quite the cosmopolitan crowd. One of our guides spoke ten languages! And as we walked, he kept urging me to teach him words in English.

As we made our way toward the river, I actually took in this new landscape for the first time. The earth was a burnt red dotted by the occasional tree. Trees! Amid clumps of withering tall grass and mammoth termite mounds, misplaced glaciers of sorts, there were big trees and little trees. All bearing leaves. Leaves! No rolling hills quite yet, but green was a welcome color. And the air smelled better, sweeter—not just due to the lack of pollution or burning garbage, but a light pollen was detectable.

We did the perfunctory oohing and ahhing at the unfinished tourist campement and then made our way to the river’s edge and immediately spotted the two snouts of two large hippos. The Gambia was oh so verdant. “This could be New Hampshire,” I commented. To which Shannon said, “This could be Costa Rica.” And Lili, “This could be Austria.” Rivers possess a rare, universal beauty. We slid down the red banks to get a better look at the hippos and before trekking back to the village with a quick stop at the village’s one boutique, redolent with the gas used to power a small cooler. And there began my brief soda addiction. Having not imbibed any soda for the past five years, I did about three to four a day over the course of our trip. Perspiring heavily, I polished off a Coke in a few gulps and felt disgustingly American.

We took our bucket baths and dinner at our campement. Dinner was maize couscous with a thin, oily mafé sauce. Quite different from the millet couscous I’ve grown accustomed to, but good.

And then tam tam (drums) time! With flashlights in hand, we found our way to the center of the village where a small circle of chairs and benches had been pulled together, a man and his drum resting at one end. Just one drum and many many pairs of hands was enough for quite the lively dance party. All of us, toubabs and Senegalese, were shy at first. I was amazed by the villagers’ modesty as I was used to watching Senegalese go charging into the middle of dance circles to strut their stuff any time the opportunity arose. But we soon wound up in the middle of the circle and danced crazedly. An old woman took my arms in her hands and I became her personal puppet for one round of dancing. We imitated their fast-feet and they imitated our “It’s your birthday” jeers. A true cross-cultural exchange.

Back at the campement, we curled up on bamboo sleeping palettes beneath the large open-air shelter at the center of the campement. Can’t say the bamboo was very comfortable, but sleeping outdoors in the still, fresh air, a hen and her chicks clucking softly at my side….I felt truly at ease.

Oy. If I am ever to get through this I’m going to need to bring the pace up a few thousand notches. This is a blog, not a novel. And because Internet time is so short, I'm afraid I must depart. But I will return to bring you my spring break conclusion. I promise.