me & me

It happened

My counterpart is one of my favorite people in village, and he called to tell me his wife, Mariama, died Saturday. She was a really nice woman, but has been in obvious decline since I got here. (I blogged once before about her here.)

I don't know from what technically killed Mariama. People just get weak and die, for obvious reasons cancer isn't really discussed. But I feel awful for Omar. He wasn't as stoic about death as I've come to expect from Pulaars. Needless to say I also missed the funeral, because the body is usually carried out immediately afterward.

I've been sick, but I plan on going back to the village tonight or tomorrow morning. I guess I'll bring them a kilo of sugar and some kola nuts. I took this photo of Mariama and printed it up while I was in the states. I'm really glad this didn't fall into the "lost" batch. People are still mad at me about that.

More on gree gree

Read the post below so you know what I’m talking about, but I have one more comment on gree gree. It's terrifying, but every woman here puts gree gree around their children's necks, even the infants. 

I’m sorry, but does that sound like a horrible idea to anyone else? Myself, I’m sometimes nervous around babies because they can die easily. I remember writing a newspaper article once about an infant whose arm was caught on something outside his crib, and he managed to wrap it around his neck, choking to death.

Then I hold babies like this one, Abby:

 

He's got two around his neck and is chewing on one. Maybe my new project should be about the dangers of good luck charms. 

interesting

I am rereading the Poisonwood Bible, based in the Belgian Congo about 50 years ago, and it’s even better this time around because I get a lot of the African references. The women dress the same, markets are similar, koala nuts are like currency, etc…

Something that jumped out though is the gree gree. If I’ve written about them before here, I probably wrote 'gris gris' but I'm going to defer to Barbara Kingsolver on this one.

They come in different forms and are like good luck charms, but better. They ward off sickness, bad spells, lots of good stuff. Sometimes people wear leather straps around their waists. But they can be worn in a lot of forms.

I don’t know why I lumped them in as a Muslim tradition. Maybe it's because some people's gree gree include a picture of a Muslim religious leader. If I had stopped to think about it I would have come to a different conclusion. Obviously the gree gree is an African tradition, but it's hard to know sometimes what traditions came with Islam a couple hundred years ago and what predates that.

Not again

I wash obsessively in the village. I’m so dirty by the end of each day that I don’t get into bed without bathing first. This is a good policy, because my sheets only get washed once a month. Also, dirty people here get skin infections – trust me.

In the city though, I’ve been known to just brush my teeth, wash my feet and fall into bed with my clothes on. (The foot habit developed after I spent a night in Costa Rica sharing a room with Heather when I was a kid. She might remember my insisting that she wash her feet because she had been hiking for weeks and I was suspicious.)

I’m getting off track. Last night I went to bed with my clothes on. The clothing is a practical dress I had made from some remarkably ugly wax fabric.  I woke up this morning and the print is tattooed to my skin. All over. I can’t get it off. I look like a circus freak and I’m getting really strange looks.

This has happened before. The first time mom and I dyed sheets together I ignored her warnings about the toxic chemicals and just happily splashed the dye wherever. I ended up with rainbow colored legs for a week (and maybe cancer in a few years). I hope this doesn't last as long. The rainbow legs were a little fun, but this isn't even a pretty pattern. 

Oh my!

I finished up that 3-day workshop on teaching HIV/AIDS prevention to villagers. The most interesting part of the workshop came at the end when they needed a volunteer for a condom demonstration. I swear to you, I thought this was going to involve a banana at the most. Also, I hadn’t been participating much that day so I raised my hand.

Imagine my surprise when I walk to the front of the room, a room filled with Muslim villagers mind you, and the trainer plopped three large dildos in front of me. I’m talking huge rubber dildos, the kind you see in sex shops, with the exception of a large wooden one that looked like it may have been locally crafted.

Flustered, I automatically tried putting the condom on the wooden one, but recognizing I was losing composure fast I downsized to the smallest size, the only white dildo on the table. Are white dildos always smaller than black ones?

The workshop was by Africa Consultants International, and it was very well done even if it did run long at times. Unfortunately that can make me impatient and bitchy. In a simulation where seven people were just informed they had HIV, my response tended more toward realistic than nurturing (maybe my blood sugar was low).

That actually hurt my counterpart's feelings. I genuinely feel bad, but I had no idea he he was so caught in the moment. I'm going to suggest he join our village's local theater group. They teach STD and HIV prevention through skits, and I think he could be a good addition. Plus, he shared his sex history during the simulation (told you he was invested) and I think he could bring some real-life experience to the otherwise young group.

Here's a tip I picked up in closing: If you want to buy condoms here you go to the pharmacy and either say "There's no sugar at home," or just plop 150CFA on the counter and the pharmacist will quietly take care of you.

notes from home

Since my brothers don't read my blog I can write whatever I want about them. They're great though and Andrew was the first to use my new cell phone number (have you?).

I just got in from a few weeks of traveling and this pithy little email was waiting from Grayson. It shouldn't be funny, but is:

The economy is awful over here. There's no America to come back to so you might want to think about planting some roots over there.

Love,
Grayson

I gave up

All right, I just got a new number. It is the same country code of 221, but now it is 77 320 3285. Use it!

Most of the time it's great

I like living here. I really do. Still does it have to be so freaking hard to get my cell phone fixed (would put a question mark here, but that seldom-used key isn't working on this particular keyboard).

I just talked to my so-called cell provider three times and finally someone promised to call me back next week. Fabulous, but maybe they should have asked for some information first because I can promise you they don't know who I am. So I guess I won't be counting on that call. Orange is a South African company, and today is the first time in my life I wish I spoke Afrikaans.     

I am supposed to be at a workshop teaching villagers about HIV and AIDS prevention right now. Instead I am trying to fix my phone while I am still in the city. Never let it be said that I don't know how to prioritize.

The big night

It was the big WAIST party last night. I had a great time, but I have a bite mark on my arm for my efforts to help get a drunk girl upstairs to a "hotel" room. We all have our vaccinations though, so that's cool.

All in all, it was a good party and I had fun.

WAIST update

So this WAIST thing is fun. I have to be honest, it's not the mind-blowing, "ohmigod this is the best time of my life!" fun I was told to expect, but it's fun.

Last night was the Marine Party. Basically that means a bunch of  Peace Corps volunteers went to the U.S. Marine's house, and all four of them played bartender. Their house looks like a frat house, no joke, just better maintained. Some people said that bothered them, but I think they were just jealous. It didn't bother me at all - give the guys a better house! If I was stuck living with the same three other people for I don't know how long, I think the pool and pool table would be a very good idea.

In addition to that, they played bartender to a couple hundred Peace Corps volunteers with a smile, and were nice enough to place the "tips" jar on the refrigerator behind them. Peace Corps people are cheap. Take my word for it.

The party was all right, but I didn't drink and woke up at 3 a.m., sick anyway. I think it was the Moroccan dinner I had. I won't speculate too much, because who wants to hear that? It just seems unfair. That's all I'm saying.