Don't feed soup to a snowman
The most common thing people say to me about returning to Africa is "you must really like it there." When I lack an enthusiastic expository response, that is, for those times when I don't generically mention the beach and the sun and the cash savings, I'm sure they wonder why I'd go back. America has a lot of nice stuff, to be sure. Little Gambia shares a scandalously small line with Senegal for their snail's pace internet, hosts a glut of over-eager Rasta beach bums, and lacks a convenient source of high-quality coffee. But there's something else feeding me there, something I'm unable to define at the moment I'm asked. So, now I'm off to the airport (after disconnecting my phone) for the journey in reverse. If any dear reader needs a DVD copy of Banjul Cops or some birth-control fabric, you know who you are and you can let me know. I'll happily brave the horribly crooked post office to send a piece of love your way.