It's warming up over here and I do not welcome the change. I loved curling up in my sleeping bag at night, with socks, flannel pj pants and my thick UW hoodie on. How quickly those days slipped by. Apparently the cold season doesn't go on hold while you're away for a month. More's the pity.
Though I certainly wouldn't give up being home in America for a few extra cold nights/mornings in my hut.
Three weeks at home. Three weeks that flew by faster than should be allowed. I remember sitting on the plane on the return flight thinking it had all just been a dream like any other I've had in my village: being home in my own bed, eating my mom's spaghetti, seeing friends and family and being able to open a refrigerator and pull out the makings of a turkey sandwich. It wasn't a dream of course. The extra suitcase full of food and gifts and the ten pounds I gained were no flight of fancy. And if that wasn't enough proof, all the changes in my cats and babies back in village was certainly proof enough.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
There is nothing to make a person appreciate even the smallest convenience more than to be deprived of it for an extended length of time.While the usual suspects of running water, electricity, limitless internet access and enclosed bathrooms with normal toilets are on that list, there are many other things I never thought of before I couldn't have them.
Like making my own decisions. Food decisions is primarily - what I am going to eat, or not eat. The ability to say, "This really does not taste good." But also decisions on work. I've been in Senegal for 11 months now and I haven't done a single thing in terms of work. In America, working is pretty much life. One works to live (and for some, live to work). In some ways it is the same here: farming is essential since there is no other means of income or putting food in the mouths of children - outside of charity rice - so during the rainy season and harvest people are in the fields every day working their butts off in the hot, hot sun. But once that is over, work dries up as fast as the grass. People struggle to find other small means of making money so they can buy tea and food. Since arriving in my village I have been asked (and pestered and demeaned) about my work. "When are you going to work?" "Why aren't you going to the fields to work your father's crops?" "If you aren't a farmer, what use are you?" (That last question has made me dabble in the possibility of being replaced by an agriculture volunteer once my service is up)
Now, I've tried to explain up, down, sideways and until I am blue in the face that my work is different from theirs. It is asking questions, finding needs and working with the community to address those needs and help people have healthier lives. They'll laugh, or nod their heads, shake them or shrug and continue on with their work and leave me to mine.
While a 8-5 job may seem monotonous or mechanical, at least one knows what to do and has something to do every day. Being able to go to work in the morning and pick the project I am going to prioritize and get started right a way is a blessing compared to waking up every morning knowing that I'll be doing the same thing I did yesterday: nothing.
Another aspect of life in America (and in 'western' 'developed' nations as a whole) that I never truly appreciated was my privacy. No shouts across the street asking, indignantly, why I didn't greet a total stranger. No constant pestering about what I bought, where I went or why I am doing this, or this or this. Reading a book outside doesn't illicit questions of 'what is that?' 'Can I see?' or the ever present 'Give it to me' demand. When I shut my door in my room, my parents didn't come banging on the door asking for the stuff in my room or assume I'm sick or angry. Not to mention seventeen siblings which don't exist in my little home town that walk into my room and just stare at me.
The freedom to just be, without any explanation or excuse. It is amazing. There is no way to understand what life in a fish bowl is really like until you live it.
I now pity my childhood goldfish.
But about my actual vacation:
It was wonderful. My sister and her fiance flew in. We went to Seattle and found her wedding dress in under an hour before heading down to a small family gathering at my cousin's house. Saw the Hobbit (twice), Les Mis and Lincoln (if that film doesn't sweep the oscars then there is no justice in the world). The first two weeks were a flurry of traveling to see family, shopping and Costco going (which nearly gave me a heart attack from pure joy). Mom and I had fun searching for baby clothes for the babies in my village family. I got my bride's maid's dress after much searching and purchased the plane ticket to get to California in May for the wedding. Mom, dad and I had our usual New Year's eve movie marathon and junk food eating night. Got to catch up with my former coworkers and best friend whose wedding I missed back in August.
Surprise snow capped off a great vacation and I took pictures to show my family back in village. And then much too soon it was over and my alarm was going off at 4am so I could get to the airport on time.
The flights were unduly uncomfortable, but I arrived in Dakar, met up with one friend who had just returned from America and another who was leaving that day before starting the long trek back to Badion. I forgot how heavy my laptop is and how annoying traveling through this country is with more than one bag. Arguing prices from taxis to sept places is another blessing in America - that they don't exist. But before long I made it back down to Kolda, unloaded some food and the items a friend requested I bring from America and tried to call my host dad to tell him I made it to Senegal.
Couldn't get through. To anyone. I tried and tried, but no answer. Couldn't call to let my family know that I would be arriving a day later than I anticipated because I was getting a ride from a USAID car that was going to my area. Tried over and over but never got through. Only found out why after I arrived.
The cell phone tower closest to my village is down.
So I couldn't even let my parents know I made it to my village alive and well. It was not a pleasant feeling. (Not to mention my internet key is worthless since it depends on phone reception. Oi)
But my family was overjoyed at my return. I got crushed by a wave of kids and all my host mom's were smiling and saying how happy they were I was back. I broke out the almonds and lifesavers mints and more smiles and crush of hugs. It was a bit surreal.
I ended up spending nearly three weeks in village after arriving. Greeting my friends, handing out gifts, cleaning my hut and worrying about my cats (Tennan is very pregnant and Talata is a crazy, energizer bunny on crack who likes to eat cockroaches in my hut). The well project for the middle school is stalled thanks to a very greedy well digger so they are looking for another one and the pump fixing could end up not happening since that particular program is shutting down in April and we are nowhere near close to getting the required money. I got back into the swing of things, starting spending my mornings studying math for the GREs I plan to take in November (it's been ten years since I studied geometry) and going for long random walks in the late after noon.
Then last week happened.
Wednesday night around 830 or so two of my brothers got into a fight about a soccer ball - or so I think; I wasn't exactly paying close attention. Anyway, arguing, name calling and mean spirited pushes and smacks from my older brother Ibrihima to the younger Moussa (at 6 or 7 years old). One host mom was yelling at them to stop but they didn't until Ibrihima decided he was done.
Rocks have a very distinct sound as they are flung through the air.
Blinded by anger and humiliation Moussa decided to throw a large rock at Ibrihima. In complete darkness. Towards a group of people which included my 15 month old brother Alpha. He missed, as usual for total darkness and 7 year olds, and hit me in the knee instead.
In the split second before the pain registered I had a wacko, almost out of body, experience where I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "Holy crap that is a big rock". And then the pain hit me like a train and I started cursing up a storm. To my knowledge I've never felt that much pain before. Like my knee had exploded. I tried to get up (I was sitting) and promptly went to the ground. I couldn't move my leg, could hardly breath and too surprised to be angry.
As I look back on it now there was another strange part of the whole incident: no one did anything. It was so dark out, no one saw what happened. To the minds of everyone there (save Moussa and perhaps Ibrihima) I had spontaneously burst out in cursing and cries and fell to the ground. I kept hearing 'what happened?' being asked all around me. Neighbors came by, drawn by my very loud cries, yells and curses, and asked the same questions. Finally one of my host moms started to piece things together, and helped me get up. "Get up, Aisatou," she told me. "Let's go to your room." So I hopped to my hut and promptly collapsed on my floor. Several men came by, someone apparently went and got my host dad because he showed up a bit later. We pulled up my pant leg to see the damage and I wanted someone to knock me out right there.
My knee cap was too far to the left (this is my left leg, by the way) and I had a small gash where the rock had hit me. My brain was not in Pulaar mode at that time, so I kept asking for someone to go get my counterpart Penda, who can speak pretty darn good English, so I could explain things better.
I know, this is turning into a novel so I'll try to wrap up the ending.
My host dad searched around on his motorcycle for reception and then came back for me so I could call the Med Office. When I got on the motorcycle and straightened my knee so I could get my other leg over, the worst scrapping feeling I've ever felt along with another nauseating wave of pain shot through my leg. Knee cap now back in its rightful position.
Got to the middle of a field and after several attempts at getting through to the doctor on duty it was decided that I would leave for Dakar the next morning (where I am now) to get xrays and figure out just what happened.
Verdict: bad contusion. No permanent damage. Cure: rest, massage of the contusion and slow and easy exercise as the swelling goes down and to re-stretch the muscles and tendons. No biking or running for a while. That was a week ago. Tomorrow I will have one last check to make sure everything is okay (which other than some soreness and hard time bending my knee all the way without pain, it is ) and I'll be out of the med hut in the Dakar office and move to the regional house as I wait for the All Volunteer conference and WAIST (West African Invitational Softball Tournament) to begin next Wednesday. I may not be able to play in the softball game, but I will be able to eat the hot dogs and nachos served.
Gone for a month, in village for two and a half weeks and then gone for another three. February will nearly be done by the time I get back. Then two months and a smidgen more and I'll be in California for Julisa's wedding. By which time I'll have less than a year left in service.
God, please let me have work to do by then.
So there it is. Christmas and my return to village and my unexpected absence from village. The last week has been a nice, relaxing experience of good food and watching Game of Thrones (to which I am now firmly addicted) and I bought the series of books to read on my kindle as well. Now on the third book and firmly engrossed. Can't wait until the third season of the HBO series comes out to see it all come alive.
So, peace to you and yours and take a moment to look in that refrigerator and maybe make a turkey sandwich in my honor.
Cheers!
Christine
