Aging Across the World

11-22-08
I asked my neene once when her birthday was. She looked at me oddly and I repeated and rephrased. She said she thought maybe some time in the cold season. December? January? Or wait, was it March? She shifted under my wide eyes, poked the fire, and said she knew she had it written down... somewhere. Maybe.
When I asked my same-ish-age-mom how old she was she said 24. In a later conversation, 26. When neene spoke of her she figured she had to be at least 29. They tick fingers, blurt out numbers, and throw up their hands. Even their official ID cards sport dates that mean nata. I've seen several proclaiming the bearer's birthdate as 00-00-00. Who keeps track of these things anyway?
I don't really try to explain the American mindset to birthdays. Whole days and huge parties and presents all for one person... It sounds ludicrously selfish instead of individualistic. Here, they focus on family and communitities and using their time for more encompassing purposes than throwing parties for oneself. I shudder to imagine seeing something like "My Super Sweet 16" from a villager's eyes.
Although, on my (real) mother's birthday in September, I tried to explain. All day, they'd been promising to guide me up the mountain we have to climb in order to get réseau (phone service). They had me wait out the heat and then it was dark and they said morning was better. I said but it's her birthday. No reponse. I said she'd be sad. Stirring. Because I was so far away from her. At this, brothers were summoned and up the mountain we went, darkness and all. Birthdays may be ridiculous but moving away from one's mother is just barbaric.
I respect this philosophy. But it doesn't mean I'm not celebrating. I'm an old dog; it's too late to change! And it doesn't mean I wasn't ecstatic to wake up in the middle of the night to Heather's traditional phonecall!
The day is no grand masquerade, but I've decided to pamper myself in every place I'd otherwise think "I shouldn't." So I'm indulging in real coffee sent by my dad, real cheerios sent by Erin, and real milk sent by Mrs. B. The coffee fills to the brim and I play a secret game-- since I'm at the mature age of 24, I must be able to carry it across the room without spilling a drop. I can. I add two sugar cubes and the meniscus domes dangerously over the edge. I lift it to the other side of the table. I impress myself. So far, 24 is good. I may just be unstoppable.
The Cheerios taste fantastic, though when I find my taste buds searching for something, I remember my childhood habit of topping them off with cheese. In sentimental moments in high school and college, and to the bewilderment of friends, I reinstated this practice. If I was nostalgic then, you can imagine how the feeling multiplies as I find myself aging in a remote nook of Africa. But mostly I just wish I had cheese.

The rest of the day got even better than Cheerios, if such a possibility is even conceivable. Roxy, Matt, Andy, Thomas, and Aaron joined me on the Gambia. We floated down the shisto-riffic currents, punctuating the sparkles with laughter and cries as we "found" submerged rocks and bushes. (When se stopped off at an overhanging tree, I was only minorly disappointed at the sign of my aging that I didn't want to try to lug myself up for a jump of questionable safety).
Later, a Fancy dinner at the Bedik-- the hotel that doesn't serve warthog and to which we therefore never go. Fish, fries, wine, crépes, awesomeness. When the crépes came, everyone started sketchily saying, "Uhh.. we need.. forks..." Matt got up to talk to the waiter and I joked that he was asking them to sing and clap to me and bring me a sombrero. It was funny to imagine anything like that here. But then out came a grinning server with a special crépe and three scoops of ICE CREAM. The PCVs sang and put 2-4 candles on top! Whoa! I was shocked speechless. This in addition to an American junkfood basket, a 6-pack of Killians, and other related amazingness brought from Dakar pampered me perfectly. This was NOT what I pictured in my first African birthday!
It's crazy to think I might not set foot in the US for the whole age of 24. But if Doritoes can keep miraculously finding their way to me, I think it's possible. And starting off scrumptiously.