| Musings from Ben during a typical Saturday (April 20) - Haircuts, Bicycles and Generosity |
| Well, its gotten quite hot all of a sudden, ands our hair has been growing with abandon since we arrived here � which means we�re long over due for a haircut! When Kate�s parents were here, they gave us both a quick trim with scissors borrowed from Kate�s French hairdresser back home in NJ. Turned out pretty well considering, and hard to beat the price: free! But no, I don�t expect my future mother in law will be called upon to cut my hair when we get back to the US! There were, after all, extenuating circumstances. One Tuubaab hair cutter that was recommended to us at one of the tourist hotels had her hand in a cast when we went to make an appointment. Another whom we heard about later costs nearly 500 dalasi ($25), for which price he will come to your house. Cheap for Kate, but totally exorbitant for a man�s hair cut, in any country, let alone the Gambia. Last week I was getting irritated by the length and heat of the hair on the back of my neck. So on Saturday, off I went for a Gambian final solution � the buzz cut. Kate gamely took my picture as I headed out the door, making the following before and after shots possible. In these photos it actually doesn�t look all that long, but trust me, it was, as well as hot. Also, I suppose, the prospect of having to look presentable and respectable in a few months time egged me on. Over here, all the other male volunteers tend to shave their heads, as of course do the Gambians. Since I didn�t want to get a sunburn or go bald, I left a bit on. Found a Nigerian named Kenny who cuts some of my friends� hair, and he turned out to be quite skilled (in my view, but have a look for yourself). Not bad for 25 Dalasi ($1.20) either, although Kate claims she beat me by getting a hair cut for $0.60 (cents) in Hungary a few years back. Kenny has several clippers and all the various attachments to control the length, and he seemed pretty good with the scissors as well. Riding my bike back from Kenny the barber, I was struck for the second time that day by the generosity of ordinary Gambians. It�s so easy to feel that everyone wants something from us (from small children on up), that it was really refreshing to have people stop and offer to help without my even asking, and expecting nothing in return. On Saturday morning, we ran out of cooking gas. When I went to get a new bottle at the local Bitiko (for D175 or about $9), I found I couldn�t remove the valve joint from the tank. Several other customers tried to help me, and one even sent a boy to get a pair of pliers from the carpentry shop across the street. That boy tried and tried, and even went back and forth several times for tools � but all to no avail. So eventually another man suggested I go to the metal worker�s shop on the corner and borrow some pliers. (Interesting sidenote: the word for lend and borrow are the same in Wollof, as they are in French. Which is why we often hear over here: �Tuubaab, borrow me your pen�� It would be hard to translate Polonius� paternal advice over here � �Neither a borrower nor a lender be.�) The metal worker was happy to lend them to me, and didn�t ask for a security deposit or surety of any kind. When I got back to the bitiko, the same customer was waiting for me and insisted on helping me use the pliers (surely I didn�t look that clueless?). Turns out the carpenter had been hammering the valve the wrong way, and eventually my new friend and I got it off. When I eventually returned the pliers, after installing the valve on the new tank, the welder didn�t ask for anything in return. We exchanged pleasantries, a big smile and handshake, and then I was off. The second time I needed help that day was when my bike broke at the most desolate, farthest place from either our house or civilization. I was pedaling along on decent tarmac, looking at the swampland and listening to the birds, feeling the wind in my newly cropped hair when clunk!, my chain broke. I was facing a walk of at least 2 miles (having foolishly decided to take the longer, but more scenic route back home from Kenny�s). Little else I could do but start walking. Before I�d gone 25 feet, a white van coming the other way stopped, and the driver asked me where I was going. When he heard what my problem was, out he got to have a look. His hands were immediately covered in my bike�s chain grease (mixed with windblown sand from the Sahel its very hard to get clean), but he didn�t give it a second thought. He produced the necessary tools, and proceeded to remove the broken link, re-thread my chain, and pound the link closed once more. Turns out that he drives a taxi, and so is doubtless used to breaking down all the time. Not sure how many of us stop these days to render assistance by the side of a road (especially if the person stranded is clearly a foreigner and/or of a different race) � but I sure was grateful for his help. I offered him a banana (all I had), but he politely refused and sent me on my way, asking only my name. My breakdown had lasted all of 30 minutes, I�d learned how to fix my own bike, and my belief in the benevolence of fellow human beings was reaffirmed. Not bad for a basically typical Saturday morning in the Gambia. |