The Gambia is predominantly Muslim, and there are mosques everywhere. The call to prayer echoes through the town. I don't know what they're saying or what the words mean, but it's beautiful anyway. I suspect I will miss it in the fall.

I already feel cooped up here at Happy Camp. I didn't come to The Gambia to gaze over the compound walls. I came here to go to the markets, meet the people, get my feet dirty. I feel like I'm cheating. A ceiling fan rattles away above my head while women sit outside under trees, fanning themselves and selling mangoes. I want to know the names of the babies they have strapped to their backs. I want to struggle through Mandinka with them until they smile and laugh and call me "diyata," sweet.

I need to get out of Happy Camp, and I need to do it with only one or two other people. Wandering the streets in groups of 6 is almost worse than not wandering at all.

M be pasi kang. I am getting fed up.

I am beginning to hear sentence structure in Mandinka. I am starting to be able to make up my own phrases. I am trying to learn 60 or more words a day, along with the grammar we get in class. I'm hoping to be able to hold a simple conversation by the end of the week.