So I've been in my village for five months now and after all the dark/black cloud/depressing posts I think it is time to relate some funny stories and the more light hearted good things that do actually happen in my village. I'll start with a few things that I've accomplished since I've been in Badion.
1. I killed a snake. With a hammer.
2. Ate six fresh mangos in one afternoon
3. Finished two village wide surveys
4. Been cramped in the back seat of a car for 16 hours straight
5. Lost twenty pounds
So, the snake. That incident happened fairly early on, in the first five weeks. People here are deathly afraid of snakes. For good reason: Senegal has mambas, among other poisonous snakes, so freaking out at the sight of a snake is a good idea. Me, on the other hand, I did the dumbest thing possible: after finding this long, dark snake underneath my duffel bag I pulled it out by the tail.
Yeah. STUPID.
No clue what kind of snake it was, but after I dragged it out into the open of my hut it slithered away into the opposite corner. I figured I would just put it in a plastic bag and then take it out side and ask my family for a shovel to kill it. Using my hammer to try and just push it into the bag, it tried to bite the bag. I freaked a little and then smashed its head in with the hammer. Not a pretty sight and I got blood all over my floor.
Using the hammer I carried the snake outside to ask my family what I should do with it. My brother, Ibrihima say me first, jumped up with a shout and ran over to me. The older boys and the man who works with my family quickly took the hammer from me, dumped the snake on the ground, dug a hole and then pushed the snake into the hole and buried it. Ibrihima jumped on top of it for good measure and then - much to my humiliation - finished off with a nice 'F--- you!'. In English.
Yes, I accidentally taught him that in an early fit of rage after catching a younger brother spying on me through the bamboo fencing as I showered. Ibrihima knows enough English to understand the context of the use. Not exactly the kind of culture the Peace Corps had in mind when they told us to share America. Woops.
Anywho, the snake was dead and buried and I gained a ton of bravery props for killing it on my own. A couple months later I found out, truly, why everything I did on that day was the dumbest thing I could have ever done. A young girl was working in the rice fields in another nearby village. She was bitten by a snake. The actual hospital down in the city of Kolda did not have any antidote. She died the next day.
I freaked a little when I heard that because all I could think about was my own encounter with a snake. Will never grab a snake by the tail again.
Rainy season is pretty crazy. For a lot of reasons. When it rains, it POURS. One night it stormed and poured for over six hours. The next morning I went outside and a benoir that holds about 8 L of water was nearly full. Streets turn to raging rivers and the area between my hut and the rest of my family’s huts turns into a giant lake. And the storms themselves are spectacular. I’ve watched storms back in the US, but there is nothing compared to literally being under one, where you can see the lightening strike the ground or a dead black night is lit up like day as lightening crawls across the sky right above you. And the sound: I woke up from a dead sleep one night as lighting flashed across the sky. The roar shook my hut. Scared the crap out of me first but now I love it. Totally going to miss the rain over the next nine months.
Other reason why it is crazy is the animals. Mostly bugs, but right now, in the last month or so, we’ve been suffering the plague of frogs. They hop through my room, hid under my backpack and hang out behind my bed. First I thought it was kind of funny, especially since the Senegalese are also terrified of frogs. I’d show up behind one of my siblings, tap them on the shoulder and say ‘look what I found’ and they’d jump back in terror. It was hilarious. But now they are just a pain in the butt. Doesn’t help that my cats don’t bother to try and kill them. Tennan will paw at them but she doesn’t try and get them like she does lizards and birds.
As for bugs. Oh dear Lord. Mosquitoes, flies, giant millipedes, dragon flies, butterflies, spiders, moths, hornets, ants, beetles, stink bugs…you name it. Mosquitoes and flies are the worst by far, though. The former believes I am a moving buffet while the latter is just DISGUSTING. And there are all different kinds, all different sizes. There was a period of about two weeks when my room would just be full of them (or so it seemed) and the background was just a constant humming of flies. So, so, so disgusting.
A large population of birds also take up residence during the wet season. Huge vulture-like birds, small bright red birds, gorgeous blue tailed birds, tiny sparrow like birds and these super annoying yellow birds called (I believe) Village Weavers. They weave hanging nests in Mango trees and never shut up from dawn to dusk. I have a mango tree right next to my hut, so as soon as the sun rises they are chirping. Ear plugs or no ear plugs I hear them early in the morning. Who needs an alarm clock when you have annoying birds?
The kids in my family throw rocks at the trees to make them flock away in a panic. Only time I actually cheer them on. I’d love some peace and quiet.
My dislike for children has grown a ton since I got here (as the Lord of the Flies model is proved on a daily basis) but there are some really fun times of playing soccer, showing them weird dances and then rolling in laughter as they try and copy, letting them watch Presto – the Pixar short film that has no words and is thus perfect for international audiences – on my iPod and chasing after them in the compound for tickling, throwing them over my shoulder and spinning them around, or ‘stealing’ them and dumping them in the middle of a field. It is also fascinating to watch my youngest siblings – Alpha at about a year old and Jarta at just over a month – develop. The way they learn, how fast they grow, the discovery of their feet or how chairs can be pushed over and then pushed across the ground, it’s like I’m in a spontaneous study of child development in the third world. Best part is: the development and growth is the same. Certain milestones in a child’s development are universal. Teething, crawling, walking, discovery of motion and manipulating their own hands to get food or successfully hold on to a ball – every single one of these things is universal in normal mental/physical development. I love coming back to my village after being gone because Alpha has learned something new and my family is eager for the little guy to show it off to me.
I never had younger siblings, so being the ‘oldest’ in this family with 16 younger siblings is a whirlwind of crazy, frustrating, maddening and funny.
They are also very funny about my cats.
When I first got Tennan (I think she was a month or so old when I got her) they were all scared to death that she would rip them to shreds with her teeth and claws. Now that she is older and they are used to her, most of them love to play with her, having her chase strings and such. But when I got Talata, at the tender fluffy age of five days old, they were even more freaked out than they were about Tennan. At five days old, Talata didn’t really even have teeth, but they still thought she would bite them. They would run and shriek when she got near. The noise would scare Talata and she’d arch her back and hiss, scaring the kids even more.
I continually asked them, “Why are you scared of her? She is five days old and you are a big human. Why are you scared?” After many excuses – including scratching and biting nonsense – most of them have gotten over it and now play with her as well. One girl loves to get Talata straddled over her foot and then lift her foot. While the play often annoys both of my cats after a point, it is good practice for the kids. They are learning to be gentle (at least with my pets, no change in behavior towards other animals unfortunately) and they are also learning to curb some of the more irrational responses. Run away screaming from a five day old cat? That’s ridiculous. And they are fascinated when I feed her with an eyedropper. This kind of care of baby animals is not done. If the mother dies or abandons the babies, those babies die. Now they see it is possible to take care of a small animal. They also see the results of such care.
The other cats in the village – save for a precious few – hate, despise, and fear humans. They are kept around only for getting rid of pests and are not treated well at all. Which makes those cats lash out and scratch when they are approached by people. Hence the belief by these kids that my cats would scratch their eyes out. But Tennan is a pretty good mouser, she also goes after lizards, scorpions, flying bugs and spiders. And she loves to be scratched under her chin. She doesn’t run away from people when they approach and doesn’t scratch their eyes out when they try to pick her up. She does her work and isn’t a danger to anyone. Tennan is also a source of entertainment for the whole family. Chasing after birds, the rope on escaped goats (her claw got stuck once and she got dragged halfway down the compound. My host sisters and I were in tears we were laughing so hard). She also once climbed up onto the roof of one of the shade structures, somehow managed to get herself under the roof and stuck between two poles as she tried to figure out how to get down. We all laughed at her as she slumped across one of the poles and looked down at my host dad as if it to say, ‘okay, I give up. Stop laughing and get me down.’
I’d say this kind of lesson to the kids is an important one, and hopefully it will continue and perhaps pass on to the larger animals like goats, sheep and horses. I won’t hold my breath, but it is something I will continue to watch for.
Workwise, things are slow to the point of not moving. Without school in session I haven’t been able to do anything for the well at the middle school or fixing the well at the elementary school, but the teachers are back now so that should change once I get back. Rainy season is also pretty much dead season since everyone is busy in the fields so trying to do anything is nearly pointless. School means harvest and the end of most work for the people in my village, so things might be easier to set up. Our new baseline survey is really going to take up most of my time up until I leave for the US (Dec 18th BABY!!!) as it has to be translated, tested, tweaked and then out to the village as a whole, then the information needs to be compiled and submitted. So I’ll be busy with that. Hope to fit in the wells in between and also talk about how I can contribute to the English club at the middle school and where I might fit in at the Elementary school. The principal is one of my closest friends so hopefully I won’t encounter a lot of resistance from the teachers themselves on stuff.
So I hope this shows the lighter side of life for you. Tomorrow I will begin the trek back to Kolda. I’m cutting it close since Tabaski is on Friday and it won’t be easy to get transport the closer that day looms.
Wish me luck.
Christine
Monday, October 22, 2012
Sunday, October 21, 2012
October
My original intent for this next post was to pour out some upbeat/funny stories to compensate for the dark gloom that has unfortunately dominated my last several posts. I remember doing an initial survey of people in my village, asking them what was good and bad about the village, and feeling a bit frustrated at how hard it was to get people to think and talk about what was actually good in Badion.
I really should take a long hard stare in the mirror, I told myself at the end of September, because there are a lot of good things/enjoyable things about living here.
And then October 1st came along and kind of blew that to hell.
On September 30th my younger sister, Kumba, at 16 years old (who was in Dakar for the equivalent of summer vacation), called my host dad to let him know that she'd be back on October 2nd. We were all really happy to hear this as she'd been gone since the end of June and everyone missed her, including me. The first five weeks of my stay in village was all the time I had to get to know her, but what I knew I loved. Feisty, smart with a great sense of humor (including towards herself) she remembered my off the cuff remark about how great it would be to have a cat for the mice that invaded my hut at night. Knowing she'd be gone by the time I got back from my fourth of July Kedougou outing she even made sure that my other siblings knew about it so I could have a cat when I got back. Which is why I now have Tennan, the crazy wacko cat that she is.
She was my friend. The only person who could braid my hair without making me want to cry from the pain. She was patient with my halting, horrible pulaar and helped me to learn how to laugh at my miserable language skills by laughing at her own ridiculous English. Five weeks - five extremely brief, culturally overwhelming weeks - that was all the time I knew her before we both went off for vacations.
The difference: she didn't make it back from hers.
On October 1st around noon my family was informed that Kumba had died in Dakar from some kind of stomach ailment. Here in Senegal - and most likely Africa in general - the 'stomach' is anything between the ribcage and groin. And for women it includes the uterus. With that in mind, it truly could have been any number of things. Malaria, unknown uterine cancer, burst appendix, etc. I have no idea if she had mentioned anything to her family about a hurt stomach or headaches or fever before this, so I can't even begin to guess at what happened. When someone asks about your health, the answer is either 'Jam tan' (peace only) or 'Aay, mino selli' (yes, I am healthy). Even between family members. Aside from a few elderly who take joy in detailing their ailments to anyone who asks, people just don't talk about being sick.
So Kumba may very well have not said a single word to her family even if she was in some kind of pain. Which made her death all the more shocking and horrifying.
Mourning, public mourning, is very different here in Senegal. There is a certain kind of shriek and wailing that happens when death occurs. It bores straight into your heart and there is no questioning what has happened. I tore open my curtain and found my neighbors and siblings running towards my host mother, Aisatou - who was Kumba's mother - wailing and crying. My host dad was just across the compound. He called to me and told me, "Kumba is dead." Even at a distance I could see his eyes were puffy and his voice was strained. I thought for a moment he meant his mother, who is named Kumba. "What?!" I shouted back in English. "Bobo [her nickname]. She is dead."
It still took a moment for my brain to process the reality. She was sixteen. Sixteen!! What the hell do you mean she is dead? I burst into tears, took a few steps back into my room and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter that I'd only known her for five weeks. This girl was my friend. She was my sister. She was my family. And she was gone.
I thought, 'she must have been in a car accident'. These damn overnight buses turn over after drivers fall asleep too often to want to think about. Sept places are held together with duct tape and the roads are horrible. Drivers are totally insane. That must have been it. No less devastating, but nothing else could be possible.
A fantasy pushed away when my counterpart, who is Kumba's uncle, came into my room to check on me. He's the one who got the call because my host dad's phone is so awful it rarely can receive calls. I asked him what happened and he said, 'her stomach hurt.'
"Wonna wullu," he said [don't cry]. "Ce n'est pas grave." [It's not bad]
I just stared at him. He got another phone call and left. I started crying again. Not bad? Not bad? Was he insane?!
But this is how death is here. Yes there is wailing and grief and sadness. But only for a short period of time and then the mourning must end. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered how the elementary school teacher told me 'this is Africa' back in April. Well, it is the same thing for death. It is Africa. Life is hard. God wills it, another popular explanation for misfortune. I couldn't accept that. I couldn't not cry. My entire compound was filled with wailing women and children. I didn't join the masses but curled my legs up against my chest, wrapped my around around my knees and sobbed as I sat there on my plastic mat. Maybe I should have gone out so they knew I was distraught with them. But I couldn't. I sat there and cried while Tennan paced around me, rubbing her body against my legs and back, 'round and 'round.
Finally I got myself out and sat in front of my door. Two of my younger brothers came and sat next to me. The hut where my host mom, Aisatou, slept was surrounded by women from all over the village. In front my my host dad's hut, under the shade structure, my dad was surrounded by men from around the village.
Men are not allowed to cry. They do not wail. They do not shriek. They do not throw themselves on the ground in grief and despair. They are expected to be stoic, reserved, and the balance to the dramatic response of women and children. They give prayers and condolences and they sit in silent support while my dad visibly fought back tears as he tried to figure out what happened and what would happen next.
Then everyone went silent.
The time for over dramatic wailing was over. Silence, eerie, uncomfortable silence fell on the compound as though someone had hit the mute button. Kids were shushed if they talked or tried to play. Babies who cried instantly had their mouths full of their mother's breast to silence them. No one spoke.
This is how mourning is done. There is an appropriate interval of time for crying, then after that, you need to pull yourself together and move on with life.
Until my oldest brother showed up.
The entire compound erupted again when Ibrihima came home and found out about his sister. At fourteen, he and Kumba were more than just brother and sister, they were best friends. My heart broke all over again as he screamed, "It's not true. It's not true. She isn't dead!" over and over again. Several men had to practically carry him into another hut as he fought and struggled to get away from them. He sobbed into a straw stuffed mattress, muttering her name. I held his hand, doing my best not to start crying again as the men told him to stop crying and be a man.
The rest of the week went by in a blur of family members showing up from all over the south and Dakar. Chiefs from other villages came. Friends and women from surrounding villages came. Huge pots of rice and sauce were cooked by my other host moms and some village friends for all those that stayed. Thursday, Oct 4, was the actual funeral, though Kumba, as is proper in Islamic law, was actually buried in Dakar the same day she died. I put on my nice green shirt I had made in Thies and awkwardly sat outside for hours along side fifty other women dressed to the nines as they watched sixty some odd men pray and chant together under the shade structure.
There are no speeches. No flowers. Three hours of chants and prayers. Then it is done. I imagine it is different when the body is present, but I can't picture it to be much more than what I witnessed.
The entirety of October has been consumed by this. While my village and my younger siblings (and other two host mothers) have moved on quickly and rather easily, Kumba's parents have not. For a week Aisatou rarely left her hut. My host dad hasn't been sleeping well and complains of headaches. Mamadou Mballo of October is not the same man he was in the previous months I've known him. "I can't sleep," he told me before I left for Dakar. "My head won't stop hurting. Kumba is in my thoughts all the time. I can't concentrate." I asked when he would be able to go to Dakar to see her grave, as he mentioned this desire previously. "I don't know," he said. "It is so expensive to go and I don't have the money."
Thankfully that situation has changed. I spoke to him a few days ago while I was at the health summit in Thies and he said he would be able to go after Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, which is this coming Friday. I pray that being able to stand at her grave will help him emotionally and spiritually.
As of right now I am in Dakar. I was sick for a while in village just before leaving for Kolda. Could possibly be because I've lost so much weight in such a short amount of time (20 pounds and no signs of gaining it back soon), but most likely from the emotional roller coaster of the previous weeks. My cousin back in the states is currently fighting an extremely hard war with Leukemia and losing Kumba shoved my anxiety over her to the forefront of my mind. My cousin is barely 30 years old and this is her second fight.
I will never accept the phrase, "God wills it" on these sorts of things.
Found out I got strep in my leg from scratching all my bug bites so I've been on antibiotics and such for nearly a week now. The doc said I caught it early and things already look and feel so much better in my leg that I am hopeful at tomorrow's appointment she'll let me head back to my village.
A week ago today I came up to Dakar, then went to Thies on Wednesday for the health summit where all Health Volunteers (nearly 100 of us) stayed for two days of sessions on projects and found out about our new baseline survey we need to do. Then came back to Dakar Friday night since I have an appointment tomorrow.
I've eaten more pizza in the last week than in the last 7 months. So maybe I've gained some of that weight back.
Dakar is a strange place. Not quite the west, but certainly not Senegal, it is in between. There is a mall with an Apple store and Italien Gilatto ice cream. A movie theatre, fancy restaurants run by French ex-pats that make good food and lots of wireless Internet places. I had a fried chicken sandwich about a block from the presidential palace and have eaten loads of ice cream. It is going to be strange to leave and re-enter the reality of Senegal in the next few days.
On another note for October, I have a new kitten. She was five days old when I got her and I first I thought Tennan would kill her but now they are best buds. Talata is her name and she still has to be fed with an eyedropper. Tennan is her overprotective, rough housing older sister, though there are times when I think Talata believes Tennan is her mother. Right now my new community counterpart is taking care of the little blue eyed fluff ball that is Talata - who I also call squirmy because she squirms around so much when I try to feed her - while I'm gone. Her best chance of survival is with Penda (my counterpart), who is great with her and feeds her easily. So I hope she is still alive when I get back.
This is Africa after all, and anything can happen.
Watching the two cats play is a unique joy and cheer me up in the darkest times. And there is something to be said for falling asleep with a two week old kitten on your stomach. They are just so damn cute.
Hope to post my fun stories soon. Until then, cherish your family, tell them you love them and take a moment to look around your home and appreciate even the smallest convenience.
-Christine
I really should take a long hard stare in the mirror, I told myself at the end of September, because there are a lot of good things/enjoyable things about living here.
And then October 1st came along and kind of blew that to hell.
On September 30th my younger sister, Kumba, at 16 years old (who was in Dakar for the equivalent of summer vacation), called my host dad to let him know that she'd be back on October 2nd. We were all really happy to hear this as she'd been gone since the end of June and everyone missed her, including me. The first five weeks of my stay in village was all the time I had to get to know her, but what I knew I loved. Feisty, smart with a great sense of humor (including towards herself) she remembered my off the cuff remark about how great it would be to have a cat for the mice that invaded my hut at night. Knowing she'd be gone by the time I got back from my fourth of July Kedougou outing she even made sure that my other siblings knew about it so I could have a cat when I got back. Which is why I now have Tennan, the crazy wacko cat that she is.
She was my friend. The only person who could braid my hair without making me want to cry from the pain. She was patient with my halting, horrible pulaar and helped me to learn how to laugh at my miserable language skills by laughing at her own ridiculous English. Five weeks - five extremely brief, culturally overwhelming weeks - that was all the time I knew her before we both went off for vacations.
The difference: she didn't make it back from hers.
On October 1st around noon my family was informed that Kumba had died in Dakar from some kind of stomach ailment. Here in Senegal - and most likely Africa in general - the 'stomach' is anything between the ribcage and groin. And for women it includes the uterus. With that in mind, it truly could have been any number of things. Malaria, unknown uterine cancer, burst appendix, etc. I have no idea if she had mentioned anything to her family about a hurt stomach or headaches or fever before this, so I can't even begin to guess at what happened. When someone asks about your health, the answer is either 'Jam tan' (peace only) or 'Aay, mino selli' (yes, I am healthy). Even between family members. Aside from a few elderly who take joy in detailing their ailments to anyone who asks, people just don't talk about being sick.
So Kumba may very well have not said a single word to her family even if she was in some kind of pain. Which made her death all the more shocking and horrifying.
Mourning, public mourning, is very different here in Senegal. There is a certain kind of shriek and wailing that happens when death occurs. It bores straight into your heart and there is no questioning what has happened. I tore open my curtain and found my neighbors and siblings running towards my host mother, Aisatou - who was Kumba's mother - wailing and crying. My host dad was just across the compound. He called to me and told me, "Kumba is dead." Even at a distance I could see his eyes were puffy and his voice was strained. I thought for a moment he meant his mother, who is named Kumba. "What?!" I shouted back in English. "Bobo [her nickname]. She is dead."
It still took a moment for my brain to process the reality. She was sixteen. Sixteen!! What the hell do you mean she is dead? I burst into tears, took a few steps back into my room and crumpled to the floor. It didn't matter that I'd only known her for five weeks. This girl was my friend. She was my sister. She was my family. And she was gone.
I thought, 'she must have been in a car accident'. These damn overnight buses turn over after drivers fall asleep too often to want to think about. Sept places are held together with duct tape and the roads are horrible. Drivers are totally insane. That must have been it. No less devastating, but nothing else could be possible.
A fantasy pushed away when my counterpart, who is Kumba's uncle, came into my room to check on me. He's the one who got the call because my host dad's phone is so awful it rarely can receive calls. I asked him what happened and he said, 'her stomach hurt.'
"Wonna wullu," he said [don't cry]. "Ce n'est pas grave." [It's not bad]
I just stared at him. He got another phone call and left. I started crying again. Not bad? Not bad? Was he insane?!
But this is how death is here. Yes there is wailing and grief and sadness. But only for a short period of time and then the mourning must end. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered how the elementary school teacher told me 'this is Africa' back in April. Well, it is the same thing for death. It is Africa. Life is hard. God wills it, another popular explanation for misfortune. I couldn't accept that. I couldn't not cry. My entire compound was filled with wailing women and children. I didn't join the masses but curled my legs up against my chest, wrapped my around around my knees and sobbed as I sat there on my plastic mat. Maybe I should have gone out so they knew I was distraught with them. But I couldn't. I sat there and cried while Tennan paced around me, rubbing her body against my legs and back, 'round and 'round.
Finally I got myself out and sat in front of my door. Two of my younger brothers came and sat next to me. The hut where my host mom, Aisatou, slept was surrounded by women from all over the village. In front my my host dad's hut, under the shade structure, my dad was surrounded by men from around the village.
Men are not allowed to cry. They do not wail. They do not shriek. They do not throw themselves on the ground in grief and despair. They are expected to be stoic, reserved, and the balance to the dramatic response of women and children. They give prayers and condolences and they sit in silent support while my dad visibly fought back tears as he tried to figure out what happened and what would happen next.
Then everyone went silent.
The time for over dramatic wailing was over. Silence, eerie, uncomfortable silence fell on the compound as though someone had hit the mute button. Kids were shushed if they talked or tried to play. Babies who cried instantly had their mouths full of their mother's breast to silence them. No one spoke.
This is how mourning is done. There is an appropriate interval of time for crying, then after that, you need to pull yourself together and move on with life.
Until my oldest brother showed up.
The entire compound erupted again when Ibrihima came home and found out about his sister. At fourteen, he and Kumba were more than just brother and sister, they were best friends. My heart broke all over again as he screamed, "It's not true. It's not true. She isn't dead!" over and over again. Several men had to practically carry him into another hut as he fought and struggled to get away from them. He sobbed into a straw stuffed mattress, muttering her name. I held his hand, doing my best not to start crying again as the men told him to stop crying and be a man.
The rest of the week went by in a blur of family members showing up from all over the south and Dakar. Chiefs from other villages came. Friends and women from surrounding villages came. Huge pots of rice and sauce were cooked by my other host moms and some village friends for all those that stayed. Thursday, Oct 4, was the actual funeral, though Kumba, as is proper in Islamic law, was actually buried in Dakar the same day she died. I put on my nice green shirt I had made in Thies and awkwardly sat outside for hours along side fifty other women dressed to the nines as they watched sixty some odd men pray and chant together under the shade structure.
There are no speeches. No flowers. Three hours of chants and prayers. Then it is done. I imagine it is different when the body is present, but I can't picture it to be much more than what I witnessed.
The entirety of October has been consumed by this. While my village and my younger siblings (and other two host mothers) have moved on quickly and rather easily, Kumba's parents have not. For a week Aisatou rarely left her hut. My host dad hasn't been sleeping well and complains of headaches. Mamadou Mballo of October is not the same man he was in the previous months I've known him. "I can't sleep," he told me before I left for Dakar. "My head won't stop hurting. Kumba is in my thoughts all the time. I can't concentrate." I asked when he would be able to go to Dakar to see her grave, as he mentioned this desire previously. "I don't know," he said. "It is so expensive to go and I don't have the money."
Thankfully that situation has changed. I spoke to him a few days ago while I was at the health summit in Thies and he said he would be able to go after Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, which is this coming Friday. I pray that being able to stand at her grave will help him emotionally and spiritually.
As of right now I am in Dakar. I was sick for a while in village just before leaving for Kolda. Could possibly be because I've lost so much weight in such a short amount of time (20 pounds and no signs of gaining it back soon), but most likely from the emotional roller coaster of the previous weeks. My cousin back in the states is currently fighting an extremely hard war with Leukemia and losing Kumba shoved my anxiety over her to the forefront of my mind. My cousin is barely 30 years old and this is her second fight.
I will never accept the phrase, "God wills it" on these sorts of things.
Found out I got strep in my leg from scratching all my bug bites so I've been on antibiotics and such for nearly a week now. The doc said I caught it early and things already look and feel so much better in my leg that I am hopeful at tomorrow's appointment she'll let me head back to my village.
A week ago today I came up to Dakar, then went to Thies on Wednesday for the health summit where all Health Volunteers (nearly 100 of us) stayed for two days of sessions on projects and found out about our new baseline survey we need to do. Then came back to Dakar Friday night since I have an appointment tomorrow.
I've eaten more pizza in the last week than in the last 7 months. So maybe I've gained some of that weight back.
Dakar is a strange place. Not quite the west, but certainly not Senegal, it is in between. There is a mall with an Apple store and Italien Gilatto ice cream. A movie theatre, fancy restaurants run by French ex-pats that make good food and lots of wireless Internet places. I had a fried chicken sandwich about a block from the presidential palace and have eaten loads of ice cream. It is going to be strange to leave and re-enter the reality of Senegal in the next few days.
On another note for October, I have a new kitten. She was five days old when I got her and I first I thought Tennan would kill her but now they are best buds. Talata is her name and she still has to be fed with an eyedropper. Tennan is her overprotective, rough housing older sister, though there are times when I think Talata believes Tennan is her mother. Right now my new community counterpart is taking care of the little blue eyed fluff ball that is Talata - who I also call squirmy because she squirms around so much when I try to feed her - while I'm gone. Her best chance of survival is with Penda (my counterpart), who is great with her and feeds her easily. So I hope she is still alive when I get back.
This is Africa after all, and anything can happen.
Watching the two cats play is a unique joy and cheer me up in the darkest times. And there is something to be said for falling asleep with a two week old kitten on your stomach. They are just so damn cute.
Hope to post my fun stories soon. Until then, cherish your family, tell them you love them and take a moment to look around your home and appreciate even the smallest convenience.
-Christine
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