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| Nap time for Jarta |
I apologize for the long delay between posts. It is amazing how quickly the last few months have slipped by. Thanksgiving, going home for Christmas, New Years, returning to Senegal and now it is practically the end of February. How do I fit the last few months into a single blog post? I'll try to cover the highlights and try not to wax ad nauseam about how excited I am to go home, the plans I've made and the list of a million things I'd love to have time to do all at once.
Let's talk about what is going on in my little village.
Bad news first:
As I previously wrote, we've been having trouble getting the well at the middle school started. The hammer came down the end of January. When I returned from [my totally awesome] trip home for Christmas, I got together with the principal and Babacar, the president of the parent-teacher organization. On the phone with the principal was the government official in charge of all the planning for the school. Our simple well - standard, cement lined, rope-pulley system - just wasn't modern enough for their modern school. They asked me to up my contribution to 3 million CFA ($6000) or transfer the money I already had to buy supplies for the school. Both impossible for different reasons, but impossible just the same.
On January 31st, the principal handed back the money. It was one of those rare moments of Pulaar clarity that I have enjoyed twice, possibly three times in my entire service. Returning the funds was not simple or quiet. Two teachers, two chiefs from nearby villages, Babacar, and three community leaders were all present. The entire process - from my first question about a well at the school to the very last conversation I had with Babacar before I left for Christmas - was explained. They also went over all the efforts they made to find well diggers, negotiate prices and the thousand-and-one ways we'd all bent over backwards to accommodate the many, many, changes the school officials made.
We shared the same frustration: we'd all worked towards this for nearly a year and a half; we all wanted this school to have water. What's more, once the school building was announced, we all wanted the well to already be in place so when the masons needed water to mix the cement so they wouldn't be pulling it from the community. Building this school has required - at its height - nearly 500 liters of water per day. The government didn't bring in a water truck. The water came from the wells already in place. Water needed to drink, cook, do laundry, and take baths.
You can imagine the frustration on that point.
They were disappointed. Angry on some points, but mostly disappointed. We were all a team in this effort and it was a hard crash, even if it did seem inevitable in the end.
After everything was explained, they told me the reason why they had so many people from other villages was to make sure that no one - no one - could ever say that the people of Badion 'ate money intended for the school'. They then counted out the money twice, handed it to me and told me to count it as well. I told them I didn't need to, that I saw and heard as they counted before, but they insisted I do. So let me say this: all $500 was returned.
To all those who donated to this project, I am deeply sorry. The only consolation I can give is that the money you gave will make its way to other Peace Corps projects.
Moving on to better news:
Progress on the well in Sing Thiang Poullo. Before I left for this long stint in Thies and Dakar, I visited Sing Thiang Poullo. The diggers were only four meters short of hitting water and they'd already begun dismantling the upper cement section on the second well, prepping it for repair. I am really looking forward to getting back to village and going out to see how far they've gone in the last three and a half weeks.
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| Going, going, going....25 meters is a long way |
Close of Service conference (COS), All Volunteer conference, the West African Invitational Softball Tournament and final medical appointments took up nearly three full weeks. I can't believe it is finally the last few weeks of service. (7, to be exact, but who's counting? Right?...) I'm torn between asking how it could already be down to this last home stretch - literally the home stretch - and how it could have possibly taken so long for 2 years to go by. Everyone talks about the roller coaster of emotions during service, it isn't until the end that they mention how the very end looks like a richter scale recording.
I am so excited to go home. I'm ready to go home and move on to the next phase of my life. My belated birthday is pretty much planned. I know what I'm going to eat first. I'm going to spend a week and a half with my sister and brother-in-law down in California in May. I am over the moon, ready to have my cake and eat it to.
But the actual act of leaving my village terrifies me. Will I be a helpless puddle of tears? Will I be able to actually say goodbye to my brothers and sisters? My dad and moms? My best friend in village? My family and I haven't really talked about my leaving. We've joked about what I'll leave for them. My younger brother is getting my running shoes because his feet are the same size as mine. My multi-tool and knife will go to my dad. My sisters and host moms will have the pick of most of my clothing.
We have not discussed saying goodbye.
How do I say goodbye to a group of people that I genuinely love? Forever? It won't be the same as when I told my family in America 'goodbye'. It wasn't even really goodbye. Just, 'see you in two years.' I cannot make that promise to these people. My little brother, Jarta, who calls me 'mom', will not remember me. Nor will Alpha, or Saliou or any kid I've come to know and care about who are under the age of 5. It makes me sick to my stomach to even think about what I will say to them - or their mothers - on that very last day. "Take care of them, please, because I love them too."
My throat burns and my eyes are watering just thinking about it now.
I've screamed at them a couple times in the last 23 months. Wished to God that I was anywhere else and with anyone else. But they are and always will be my family. I love them, worry about them, and hope that every kid gets a chance to have a better life than just to live in Badion until they die. I want my sisters to go to highschool and college. My brother Adama is a genius with electronics and all things mechanical. Please, God, give him the means and the opportunity to study something like electrical engineering, or aeronautics or hydraulics. Wouldn't it be amazing if he put our little village on the map by inventing some awesome new device that could lift villages throughout Africa out of the dark with little more than wireless technology and well placed *insert name of awesome new invention*? This kid takes my dad's broken down radio and flashlight and makes his own working radio flashlight. Not exactly an iPod, but for a couple wires, string, well placed sticks and soddering via the heated handle of a spoon, he could put McGyver to shame.
The hardest step I have isn't the very last - getting on the plane in Dakar won't be difficult. The hardest step will come on or around March 30th, when I have to keep myself together long enough to put into words how I feel about the people in my village and say it to their faces.
You tell me, what would you say to this face on the last day, and not burst into tears in the process:
If you have an idea, let me know. Because I certainly don't have a clue.
Cheers,
Christine
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