When Aaron asked in his post for "Words English needs but doesn't have," I thought of a Wolof word to add to the list, but I don't know how to spell it. enday san? n'day san?

The word is used for expressing sympathy, but much more than an "I'm sorry." It's like a combination between "I'm sorry," "I feel for you," and "That's too bad."

It's a good for tossing around if someone stubs his or her toe or loses his or her life's fortune.

I don't know how to spell it because when I was learning Wolof as a Peace Corps volunteer in The Gambia, Wolof was mostly an oral language and not widely written. Therefore, the two Wolof language trainers had their own versions of spelling and kept harping at those of us learning Wolof to listen instead of whining, "We're Americans. We're visual learners. Write it on the board."

I still know what the word listen is in Wolof, but I don't know how to spell that either.

Most of the Wolof I know, I never saw in a written format. I added vocabulary and phrasing over my two years of service by asking questions, writing words the way I thought they sounded and paying attention to context clues.

As a health education volunteer, I mostly learned health related conversations. I can whip out the "road to good health" talk on cue, but as for writing it down correctly, forget about it.

When Aaron asked for the word list, I did a Google search to see if I'd find some answers. Although I didn't find n'day san, or whatever it is, I did find this online course for learning Wolof.

Wolof, spoken in The Gambia, Senegal and Mauritania, is grammatically easy and flexible. There's one section of the Web site with audio samples. If you can pick up a few words, you'll so delight vendors that you'll be able to bargain like a champ.

What is one of the most important words to learn? Jërejëf "Thank-you." That is the correct spelling. I learned it from the Web site. Click on the word to hear how it sounds.

For those of you who find books handy, the one in the picture is one I came across in my search. Here's the link with the description.

Whoa! Wait a minute. How can that be? Where have I been? I keep thinking I have more freedom of movement about the world than I actually have. Here's one more place I can't go.

I just read that at the Phoenix Country Club women are not allowed in the men's grill room where the serious business deal making and dining occurs. No, the women who want find food to nosh on are pushed off into the women's grill which is smaller and without the buffet, the bar or the lovely view of the golf course. The women's grill has a hotplate.

There's a bit of a fuss going on at the country club since some members want to move on into modern times where a couple can eat eggs together for breakfast, for example. Some of the men are as appalled by living in the days when women weren't allowed in saloons--"respectable" women mind you and are having a time of it for standing up for their wives. This is true. Here's the article that covers the details. The story involves peeing on a pecan tree as well as other juicy grammar school-like tidbits.

But before you go to the article, consider this. Several years ago, and I'm talking many--when I lived in Columbia, South Carolina during middle school, my mom took my brother and me to a roller skating rink. When we found out we had to be members in order to skate, we decided that rink wasn't for us. Why not? Becoming members had to do with religion and skin color. We just happened to be the right religion and and the right skin color, but we didn't like the rules. We thought the rules should change.

Since then, I think, rules have changed. But, I often live in La-La-Land where we all get along, so I can't say if this is 100% so. *Before those of you from the south start sputtering, let me assure you I loved so much about South Carolina. Seventh grade was my Renaissance year and I was sad to move.

But, this story is about men and women and not race and religion--so perhaps, they aren't similar. After all, there are men's clubs and women's clubs--and most people wouldn't argue about that, so what's the difference?

Wildlife one comes across in ones travels is one way to know you've arrived somewhere new. In Singapore, it was the geckos that climbed on our walls to take refuge behind the artwork.

In The Gambia, it was the pouch rats that jumped over the corrugate fence in my back yard or the enormous snake that I can still see in the circle of my flashlight as I was walking to my latrine one night--or that monkey that makes for a terrific tale. Later for that one.

If you're driving across West Virginia, you might see a black bear dash across the road like I did last summer when I was heading to Washington, D.C.

If you had been in Noonamah Tavern in Noonamah, Australia last Sunday, you'd have been drinking a beer with a crocodile acquaintance. Noonamah is near Litchfield National Park not far from Darwin.

The crocodile might have been underage though since it was only two feet long. According to the AP article on Salon.com, a grown-up can be 16 feet, much harder to get into a bar.

Three guys who saw the crocodile outside the tavern thought it would be neat to bring it inside and have a few. The crocodile didn't drink, though. They taped its mouth shut. Not a particularly hospitable way to treat a guest, but it was a crocodile with sharp teeth after all.

Happily, the story ends well. There is not a drinking and driving accident to report or anything like that. The salt water crocodile, a protected species, is now at a crocodile farm where it may have come from in the first place.

I wonder if it has come up with any jokes yet? "There were these three guys in a bar. . ."

The news of the recent ferry accident in the Philippines reminded me of the many ferries I've taken in my travels. The journey across the wide mouth of the Gambia River between Banjul, the capital, and Barra, on the side of The Gambia where I lived, comes to mind the most.

Sometimes I made the trip in a large open wooden boat called a pirogue that would have given my mother a heart attack if she had known what I was up to.

When traveling in countries where bridges are scarce, ferry crossings are necessary. If you want to get from here to there, you step on. Generally, thoughts of accidents and the lack of life preservers are fleeting. Instead, one enjoys the thrill of watching one shore grow further away as another comes closer.

In the Gambia, a ferry is filled with people, cars, trucks, animals, motorcycles--basically whatever can be crammed on. It's a mish mash of no order in particular. I always headed to the top deck to escape the crush.

Of all the crossings I've made in my life--and I'm not sure I could count them all, there's only one that I should have never tried. Once, in a hurry to get to Banjul and not willing to wait for calmer waters, I climbed into one of the large wooden boats as it rocked furiously on the churning river.

Today I helped a Japanese friend of mine clean a turkey. She and her family are moving back to Japan in two weeks after three years of living in the U.S. She's not too thrilled with the move since she fits well into life here. Plus, there's the turkey.

As we pulled off the left-over meat from the bird she cooked for us as a good-bye lunch, and I explained how to make turkey stock from the bones, she said this would be the first and last turkey she'd cook. It's not that she didn't like cooking the turkey, but in Japan she won't have an oven big enough. There she'll have a microwave/oven, possibly not even big enough to cook a small chicken.

This got me thinking about the foods we enjoy when we live in another country that we either can't cook or don't cook when we arrive back home. For me, it's the chura gerte (pounded peanut and rice porridge) I used to eat for breakfast in The Gambia. I don't have a large wooden mortar and pestle for pounding the peanuts and rice together. I suppose a food processor would do, but there was that thwack, thwack thwack sound of women pounding grain in the early morning that added to my chura gerte experience. Perhaps, it's the aesthetics of how it's cooked that makes a dish a so special when we travel elsewhere.

After I put the bones in the pot, filled it with water and turned on the heat, I cleaned off the wishbone and gave it to my friend explaining the tradition of making a wish. In her case, the wishbone is going to Japan with them, intact as a souvenir. If you want to cook a turkey Japanese style, stuff it with sticky rice and put it in an oven bag to cook it. Yum!

Two of my favorite possessions are drums. One is a talking drum that used to belong to a friend of mine, a renowned griot in The Gambia. I made a trade to get it. What I offered: a bed, a thermos, and a new drum form. What I got: the drum and memories of Ebou playing it at naming ceremonies and other village gatherings. The other is similar to the djembe drum, although smaller. I acquired this one from a dance group in Nigeria. This first video shows how the djembe drum is made. The second one is of the talking drum being played. The pitch of the drum changes depending on how tightly the player is squeezing the strings between his side and inside arm.

We've written about Rick Steves before. Neil hates him. (Not really, just jealous as all get out) and Aaron explored Steves' guidebook writing know-how. Not long ago, Justin put some light on Rick Steves' rap talents, or lack thereof. I catch Rick Steves from time to time on NPR and have some jealous pangs myself.

Recently, I came across this video of Steves on YouTube where he talks about the importance of traveling with meaning. Listening to him talk about what travel means to him provides insight into what motivates any of us to head to a place that is different from where we live. In Steves' experience, there is an aspect of a spiritual endeavor in the travel he does. "Travel to me brings people together," he says. "If you are an independent traveler, to me, it's a spiritual experience." To him, there is more than going from one tourist spot to another. Admittedly, I tend to agree with him, although I like the tourist hot spot travel from time to time.

Every Peace Corps volunteer in The Gambia was given a copy of the book Where There is No Doctor: A village health care handbook so we could find the answer to our prayers in its pages. When one lives off in a village without easy access to medical help, one has a lot of prayers. Rashes, infections that won't go away, stomach ailments, fevers etc., etc. Knowing how to pay attention to one's body just to see if "this too shall pass" in a day or two and how to treat ailments oneself--or if a visit to the Peace Corps nurse is needed was part of the two year job that was once called, "The toughest job you'll ever love."

I poured over that book. Once, just a week after I moved to my post, convinced that I had maleria, I read the book to check my symptoms, began treating myself and took the next possible vehicle to Banjul, the country capital where the Peace Corps office, thus the nurse, was located at the time.

The journey was a combination of a sedan car taxi service from my village to Kerewan, the province capital, a ferry crossing at Kerewan, a pick-up truck style taxi ride (in the back of the truck) to the mouth of The Gambia River and then another long ferry crossing from one side of the river to the other, and then another taxi ride to the Peace Corps office. I can still feel every bump of the road and taste the red dust that dusted me by the end of the ride. I looked and felt like hell.

Gambia's great, Senegal plagiarized, and Libya didn't even try. So says a fun new evaluation of the flags of every nation in the world. In an admittedly unscientific ranking of the world's flags, high marks are given for good color schemes and originality, while grades are lowered for the presence of weapons, writing, and "too many stars."

Here's the unflattering commentary on Saint Lucia's flag: "Best corporate logo. Makes me want to invest money there."

The flag of Turkmenistan is described as vomit inducing, while the lowest-ranking flag, that of the Northern Marianas Islands, "appears to have been constructed from clip art."

I've always been partial to the flag of South Africa, while I find the flag of Guam to be hideous beyond comprehension. In my book, Bhutan's flag (seen above) wins the award for most bad-ass, barely edging out Mozambique's, which features an AK-47.

Check out the highly entertaining rankings here, in order from best to worst. The ranking methodology is described here.

One of my Peace Corps friends emailed me a couple days ago. He reminded me that today is Tobaski. That's what this Muslim holiday is called in The Gambia. Perhaps you've heard it called Eid Al Adha--or just Eid. This is the day when Muslims celebrate when God told Abraham not to sacrifice Ismail (Issac)but a sheep instead.

Today every married male is supposed to kill a sheep if he can afford one, if not , than a goat, and if not that --a chicken. The food is cooked to be shared. A portion is to be given to poor people, meaning those without. A portion is shared with friends and family who stop by for a visit and a portion is kept for the family who bought the sheep. Most is given away. When the sheep is killed there is a blessing said to Allah (God).