Crazy Adventures in the Life of a Redhead

My host brother's school is in the background and his students grace the front of the picture From Tambacounda and the banana plantations, I traveled to a place where villagers plant their feet in two countries—the Gambia and Senegal—in terms of commerce, telephone networks, currency and pop culture, without a particularly strong identify in either. One of my host brothers is a teacher in the small village of Siñthiang Medina Manafi (SMM), grouping 457 inhabitants in a lost rural milieu of farmers and simple tradesmen. Similar villages incarnating the bygone work of agricultural living dot the landscape, creating a master work of art of idyllic, albeit disconnected and physically exhausting, living. My journey to the edge of Senegal involved one cramped hatch-back, two rickety mini-buses and a broken-down motorcycle, necessitating an overnight stay in a friendly village about eight miles from my destination. The village chief was only too happy to let us stay; I set up camp usi

All that we purchase is a snapshot of the lives of the producers and the transporters of that product. Unless we expend that which we ourselves cultivate and harvest at our homes, we become part of a complicated and inter-woven chain of production and consumption. I was fortunate to see the origin of the chain that brings bananas from paradise to our local markets. (Technically, the bananas I saw growing will end up in either the Senegalese market or in Europe because the U.S. imports its bananas from South or Latin America.) Having spent four days with a family of banana farmers, I glimpsed a world of hard-working, simple people whose labor brings pleasure to people all around Senegal and the world—particularly Europe where the majority of Senegalese vegetables and fruits are exported. My contact in Tambacounda is the president of a cooperative of banana farmers called Co.R.Pro.Ba.T (Regional Cooperative of the Banana Producers of Tambacounda), which comprises over 40 different ec

The interns arrived this week, which has completely changed the tone of the Beersheba Project (www.beershebaproject.org); in fact, the presence of the 14 interns, who will learn about agriculture and work the land during one year’s time, has actually completed the tone. The three couples that started this project had a vision to help the surrounding churches take part in restoring the deforested land of Senegal while spreading the Gospel of Jesus Christ. For more than one year, they had been in the preparation stages of working the farm and searching for possible partners in their effort. Finally, all the pieces had come together, and they decided that the time was right for them to welcome their first batch of interns. Building a temporary hut, until the dorm rooms are finished, out of materials found on the Beersheba property, for two of the students who are married. With the extra many sets of hands to do the manual labor a farm necessitates, I was made a little superfluous; h

After an uneventful plane ride (the best kinds) back “home” to Senegal, I landed in the early morning, in the darkness. I grabbed my bags and set out to find a way home. (You would think that maybe I would have hailed a taxi at the airport given the time, but I am always out looking for a cheaper means.) I found a communal taxi that took me to a more visible spot where I hailed a cheap cab back to Pikine. No one really knew when I was to arrive, so the surprise was quite fun. Exhausted and a bit jumbled, I fell into bed for a few hours. It was Election Day and no one knew what would happen. Everyone was praying for the best and expecting the worst. Fortunately, the elections were peaceful and Abdoulaye Wade, the current president, conceded to losing the first round of elections, which necessitates a second round to be held on March 25. This pronouncement was significant and about 75 percent of the people hope that the opposition, Macky Sall, will win the victory. In order to mitigate

I guess I had always imagined, in my darker thoughts I must admit, that one day I would have to board a plane to return home from whichever country I was visiting or in which I was living to attend a funeral of a loved one. Upon reaching the conclusion of that horrendous thought, I would pray protection over all my loved ones. Never did I imagine that one of my loved one’s loved one’s would be killed and that this event would affect me so deeply as to fly home on a whim to be with her. I heard the news about Shaun Wild’s death—my friend Esther McCarty’s boyfriend— while checking my e-mails at the house of one of the directors of the Beersheba Project. The Internet had been down in Sandiara for several days, so I asked if I might use the Wifi at his home. At first I did not know how to react to the shocking e-mail I received from my friend’s dad. He asked for prayer and all I could think about was whether Shaun’s death meant Esther and I would not be meeting in Europe come April. I