WELL PROJECT IS FULLY FUNDED!!
In under two months you donated just over $1700 and I could not be happier. Best news in the world to be in my inbox when I came to Kolda for and illness three weeks ago. Not only was it fully funded, but the money was already in my bank account, waiting for me to pluck it out. When I returned to village I immediately talked to Kebou (the man who pretty much arranged the whole project) and he was ecstatic. Apparently he'd been fending off some not so nice things being said about me since the wells weren't being dug immediately and he couldn't wait to rub this in their faces.
His joy was nothing compared to Moussa's when he came around my hut later the next day just to greet me. He had come to Badion to pick up medicine for their Health Hut (the lowest level of medical facility in Senegal) and had to return with it, but said he'd be back in the next couple days to talk over the plans, get the village's money together and start this ball rolling. As with everything in this country, the few days were stretched into several weeks (Tabaski, the largest Islamic holiday, in the midst slowed things even more) but when I return to village we will be going to a city called Velingara to buy all the materials and get transport for it all. My hope is to break ground by the end of the month. Optimistic? Probably. But at this point I figure it couldn't hurt and as long as we start by mid November we should still be on a timetable that will fit with my departure in - now - under six months. Paperwork and all.
That's another bit of news. I'm in the last quarter of my service. I remember last year feeling as though I would never make it to this point. Staring down the long line of 17 months is daunting. Six months, less so. Now I worry about getting all my work done before I leave, whereas last year I was worried about being bored out of my mind since I had none.
What a difference a year makes.
Though, in some cases, a year doesn't seem to make any difference at all. In fact, some things repeat themselves.
Last year I wrote about the tragic death of my 16 year old host sister, Kumba. This year, I must right about the loss of my 10 1/2 month old baby host brother, Boubacar.
He'd been sick for several weeks. Extremely high fever, diarrhea, vomiting and refusing to eat. This was common with a lot of young kids in my village. The other two 'babies' - one year and two year old - in my family were also very sick. They all went to the health post and got medication. But Boubacar didn't respond in the same way. He'd get better a little and then revert. Five times in a month my host mom - his mother - went to the health post and got different medicine for him. None of it worked. In the last few days Boubacar, the little boy everyone teased was my husband, was a shell of his former, fat, healthy self. The soft spot on the top of his head was sunken, his eyes were big and sunken. His body looked too small for his head and his mouth and tongue were white. His body was always hot to the touch. Not just warm, but hot. He couldn't sit up. He would just lie on his back, or his side, or his stomach - whichever position he was put in, for he no longer even rolled over - and stare out. He stopped making fussy noises. Didn't cry.
The day he died, the 14th of October, my host mom mentioned that she needed to take him to Velingara, to the larger, better equipped hospital 30km away. But it was too late. Around noon, as his mother thought he was asleep, his little body gave out. He died under the shade of a mango tree.
I was on a walk for most of the morning and came back around 12:30 or so. Everything was oddly quiet in the compound and my host mother's mom, Turi, was sitting under the mango tree next to my hut. My host dad's big yellow mat was laid out in front of my hut. My host brother, Ibrihima, sat in a chair, bent over his knees with his face in his hands. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the dark forms of many women in my host mother's hut. "What happened?" I asked.
"Boubacar died," replied Turi.
My host dad came out of his hut a second later. I stared at him as he repeated the same thing that Turi just told me. No matter that I had finally, verbally, acknowledged that Boubacar was dying that very morning - I was stunned. I sat down next to one of my sisters and did my best to hold back tears as a few more people trickled in and my friend and neighbor, Hawa, sat next to me. She briefly put a hand on my shoulder in support before starting the typical greetings.
There is nothing more surreal than hearing the response 'Peace Only' after someone asks how the kids of your family are. That is, I think, the Senegalese in a single phrase. No matter what is going on, you and your family are always at peace. It made me angry to hear it. All I wanted to say was 'Things are not good. Things are awful. A baby is dead. That is how my family is.'
But I didn't. I said 'Peace Only' and continued to sit, feeling just as helpless and utterly unprepared to face death in this culture as I did a year ago when I was still new. I can never remember the phrases and prayers that are said to a person in a time of loss. For the same reason I can never remember the phrases and prayers that are said for holidays like Korite and Tabaski - the situation for their use just doesn't arise often enough for me to remember them.
That day was nothing like the day we found out Kumba died. There was no theatrics. No un-ending wailing. My host dad didn't cry. Our compound wasn't beset with a hundred people coming from the surrounding villages. No distant relatives made plans to visit the family. Under Islamic tradition, Boubacar was wrapped in white fabric (white is the color of death here) and the men - and men only - went to the graveyard and buried him that afternoon.
For the rest of the day I listened and observed. I played the part of the foreigner who couldn't understand the language being whispered around me. I heard (or perhaps merely understood) for the first time questions of blame, what happened, what lead to the death and if it could have been prevented. On the whole curiosity about what Boubacar died of didn't exist. In America, one of the first questions out of our mouths is 'What happened?/How did he die?/What was he sick with?' Here, such questions make no sense because the answer doesn't mean anything. Knowing isn't going to change the fact that this child is dead, so why does it matter how he died?
But even those whispers were few and brief. Devine Will is a cornerstone of Senegalese culture. People live, are sick, get well, and die by the Will of Allah. No human has any right to question His methods or reasons. What is done, is done.
Even knowing that, I still couldn't help but question why there was such a huge difference between the reaction to Kumba's death and Boubacar's. The conclusion I came to is this: Boubacar was sick for a long time. Mine could not have been the only acknowledgement that he was dying. I was probably a late comer to that particular revelation. Infant and child mortality is high - relatively speaking - in Senegal. Most especially in rural, moderately remote villages like mine. Culturally, pregnancy is not spoken of because that life does not yet exist. A baby is only alive after it is born and even then, it doesn't get a name until a week after birth. This is one of the many obstacles to getting pregnant women to go to pre-natal visits. Acknowledging the pregnancy and recognizing the life within as truly alive is going to take a while to take hold.
This particular cultural aspect may have also played into the subdued post mortem atmosphere: Boubacar hadn't really started his life yet. He barely recognized himself in a mirror. Kumba, on the other hand, was a vibrant, vigorous, rambunctious 16 year old, bubbling over with life and personality. She had demonstrated so much potential.
A loss far more shocking and tragic when looked through these filters.
My family made it through another Tabaski on the heals of death. Full of oily rice, goat meat and macaroni noodles. My host mother's absence was the only real evidence that anything had happened. My host siblings were playing and fighting like usual. My host dad was smiling and enjoying the holiday like everyone else. Boubacar's clothes were passed to his brothers. He'd been a fat baby so his clothes were big enough for Jarta - the one year old - and he even had one outfit that he could swim in that now fits my two year old brother, Alpha. It felt strange to see the two of them in clothes I had seen Boubacar wearing only a few days before.
Life must go on.
So it does.
As I look towards the end of October and the beginning of November there are lots of things to fill the space. School will open this week, despite the fact that it was supposed to open 2 weeks ago. So my scholarship girls will finally be back in village, supplies will be in boutiques for me to buy and we can have a nice little ceremony for the girls and pass out certificates. I'm looking forward to that day. Hopefully my principal will be back so I can plan it with him.
The new Agriculture volunteers have arrived, making my stage the oldest group of volunteers in country. An extremely odd notion. We've already been saying goodbye to several Ag volunteer friends here in Kolda who are heading home with 2 years of service completed. I hated saying goodbye to the last Health group. This is no easier. They've been our mentors, councilors, friends and guides through the last year and a half. Ours was the group that made theirs no longer the 'newbies'. Their departure now makes our group the 'oldies'. It is said that we don't choose our friends here in the Peace Corps. The Peace Corps chooses our friends for us. Seems to me that the Peace Corps chose rather well for us down here in Kolda. We call ourselves a family, and in many respects we are.
It isn't easy to say goodbye to family members who move away.
The well project, as I mentioned in the beginning, will hopefully move forward smoothly enough and I've got about 2 weeks or so until I sit the GREs. I haven't been able to do as much studying as I hoped, but I'll make do. By that time I'll have just a hair over a month until I head to America and home for Christmas.
I plan on posting pictures as the well project moves along so stay tuned.
Cheers to all and a Happy Halloween.
Save me a few Reece's Peanut Butter Cups.
-Christine
