Okay, I take back what I said about wanting the people I live with to shut up between the hours of 11 and 6. The night I wrote that the 2-year-old, an adorable little boy named Mohamed, had a sickle cell crisis.
Poor Mamadou started screaming around midnight and didn’t stop until his voice gave out around 4 a.m. I’ve really never heard anything like it. All night his mom Ndeye held him in her arms, trying to calm him down while he screamed that his hands and feet hurt. The pain is caused by too much activity during the day, and being a baby he doesn’t understand he can’t run around like other kids.
I don’t know much about sickle cell anemia. I knew it was serious, but I am embarrassed to admit I thought it was treatable. I’ve since learned Mamadou’s got a bad case, his cousin died at the age of 6. He was in a lot of pain that night, but I guess there was no point in taking him to the hospital. Either they can’t afford it, or I don’t know. If they can save the money, his parents want to take him to France in a few years for treatment.
Mamadou is the youngest of five kids in my host-family. The oldest girl has a less serious form of sickle cell, but all the others got lucky. Ndeye said they “won the genetic lottery.” Ndeye’s brother and his wife, the ones who lost their 6-year-old, divorced after they realized they both carried the gene.
Mamadou hasn’t cried for a few nights, but last I noticed his right hand was still crimped and he held it as his side for two days because it hurt too much to use. Tonight he is starting to limp, I hope that doesn’t mean another night like last time.
April 11:
They told us our villages today. Rather, someone swept off the basketball court to reveal the faded map of Senegal painted there. We closed our eyes and a staff member took us by the hand and led us to the area of the country where we will be living, presumably for the next two years. The map isn’t really the most accurate representation, and we had to keep our eyes closed until everyone was in place, so there was some unintentional groping of fellow volunteers (sorry Annicka) and readjustments from faceless staff before the big reveal.
It was a mixed-bag of reactions, but I was a little under whelmed by the combined effect. I had read somewhere that after hearing “you can open you eyes” there is a pregnant pause, followed by loud crying. I’m not saying I wanted people to be unhappy, not at all, but I was having a bad day and would have appreciated the distraction of a little drama.
I knew the region of the country where I would end up, but not much else. Turns out I got lucky, landing in a “posh” town of 5,300 about 30km from Velingara. Looks like I will have electricity but no running water - as of today drawing water from the well is still a novelty. An added bonus is there will be another volunteer about 3km from me, which doesn’t always happen. My next-closest neighbor was decidedly less pleased with his site placement, a town of 200 about 20 km further down the road from me.
I am leaving to visit the area for 10 days next Thursday. I don’t know if I will get to see my town, but I’ll let you all know how it goes. So far all I know about my living situation is that I have a one room hut with a cement floor (okay, it’s dirt, but I am told that will change) and a private little backyard in some family’s compound.
Another cool thing is I am going to be working with middle school students. The majority of the environmental programs are with elementary aged children, and while I think little kids are as cute as the next person, I think it will be fun to work with kids who are older because there will be more of a conversation. Oh wait, I have to learn the language first.
I am going to the beach tomorrow with most of the other volunteers in my stage. Looks like I am missing a party at my house I didn’t know about until I announced I wouldn’t be attending. It’s not clear whether they forgot to tell me, or if they did what language it was in - but either way I am missing it. No big deal, it’s for my host father’s military buddies and their wives (I think).
My host father’s a nice guy (he didn’t correct me during the first two weeks when I was calling him by a woman’s name), but we haven’t had much interaction and I am shy around him. He works in Dakar, about two hours away, and is only home Friday night through Sunday evening. It’s not like I see him much when he’s home either. As the man of the house he is served his meals separately in another room, so not much chance to talk. I was actually invited to eat with him and some other adults once, but unwittingly asked to sit at the kids table instead. That was a little embarrassing, but the truth is I prefer the kids table. Less chances to screw up.
Update:
Wheee! I am going to the village where my host family is from! I should have known, almost every contact listed on my sheet has the same last name as them. My host-uncle just told me the coolest part will be the nearby city of Diaobe, which every Wednesday draws thousands of people to the largest market in Senegal. That means vegetables can be found a mere 8 km from my hut!!!! I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but veggies aren’t popular here and when they do end up in the dish it is mainly for decoration.
All the other volunteers in my stage say they are going to grow their own vegetables, and while I plan to do that I have some private reservations about my abilities. I once kept an aloe plant alive for a couple years, and was sort of proud of it until Julie told me they are nearly impossible to kill. Admittedly, there were a few rough patches during which it almost ended up in the trash, but instead I decided to add water just to see if anything would happen. They really are indestructible.
I don’t really have any personal affection for plants either, which might work against me. All Julie’s plants seem to flourish (she has orchids for God‘s sake), but she also has a personal relationship with each and every one of them. Once I realized that aloe plant didn’t need me anymore I abandoned it in someone’s backyard.
Another update:
We, the environmental education volunteers, placed ash around our the perimeter of our tree nursery today. Did you know ash is like ground glass to termites? Me neither. It was a visual I could have done without.
I’m back again because I like you guys so much and have tons to say…
So this party is a communal effort. While the women in my family were busy getting new hair, Ndeye’s friends came over and as I write this are sitting on stools around the kitchen plucking chickens, pounding garlic, etc…
The new hair everyone is sporting is pretty cool, but my host sister Mami outshines them all. Since I’ve known her she’s had a short bob, but today she went and got “Linda” hair. It’s long, curly and touches her butt. Quite the change. She was waiting for me in the street when I biked home today and I didn’t recognize her until I was right there. I knew she was getting the new hair because she showed me the package last night. I thought the look was called “Linda,” (that’s what the packages says) but she says it’s Spanish and means cute or something. I don’t know, I don’t speak Spanish and I prefer to think she is wearing Linda’s hair.
My host mom’s looking pretty snazzy as well; she’s got gold paint in her hair. But I don’t know how long that will last.
A side note, there are a naked chickens in the kitchen right now. In case you didn’t know, Senegal is a poor country. I was surprised to learn, what with them being all over the streets and all, chickens are really expensive. My host family only has it twice a month for that reason. They pair it with Moroccan couscous and it’s sooooo good because it’s not fish.
Comments