me & me

unpleasant post

I bludgeoned a kitten to death this morning. It wasn't for kicks, the poor thing had a broken back and needed to be put out of it's misery.

I was a little rude to the family that lent me the firewood that I used as a club. I felt so guilty that I went back after my bike ride and brought them a little tea and sugar I had bought to make amends.

Please realize that they were being really annoying. There I was wringing my hands, hoping the poor thing would die on it's own before I did the deed, while they all just stood around staring at me and whispering. People do that all the time. It's irritating even under the best of circumstances.

I wish I were more patient. In this case, it would even have saved me a little money. 

That poor little kitten.

he's come home

A strange homecoming is taking place right now. I'll try and make this as simple as possible: Bala's oldest nephew has come home.

Actually, Siradou didn't come home - he as fetched home from the Ivory Coast. He moved there to find work for a little while. That was 15 years ago. He didn't come home once in the interim, not even when his mother died.

The volunteer who was here 15 years ago sent money for Bala to bring him back to the village. Bala hopped in a car right away to travel over 1,000 kilometers to the Ivory Coast, missing one of the biggest holidays of the year.

Bala told me he worked fast because he didn't want him to change his mind. I guess Bala didn't bring enough money for Siradou's wife and child, because he left them behind to send for later. Well, as we've learned, “later” can be 15 years, so I sort of doubt his wife is feeling good about the new developments.

I'm told Siradou wanted to come home but could never afford it, so this was a rescue of sorts. But tonight I heard Bala say that when he found him in his home, he had two fans in his room and tons of baggage. Two fans is pretty posh.

Maybe this guy had money all along and just didn't want anything to do with his family? I can understand that. Anyway, everyone is gathered about 20 feet from my door, lining up to greet the long-lost son/nephew/uncle/cousin/neighbor. It's odd. They are taking turns kneeling in front of him and weeping into his lap.

I've sort of gotten used to these emotional displays, but this reunion has me stumped. I'll probably never get the whole story. Oh, and I am named after this new guy's mother. So, per tradition, he's calling me “mother.” I wish he wouldn't do that. He's already shown he's capable of bucking tradition, why not in this case, too?

Korite

Korite, the holiday marking the end of Ramadan, was Sunday in my village. It's a national holiday, but not everyone celebrates it on the same day because the local imam has to see the moon. If he sees it they beat the drums and everyone knows the next day is a party.

I went to bed before the drums went off and didn't hear them (earplugs), so I just woke up to the holiday. I've been in a bad mood lately (see earlier post), so didn't bother going to the mosque for prayer. I didn't get a new outfit either, but put on the one I wore last year. This was a minor faux pas, because Korite is the one day of the year where everyone wears new clothes. I don't actually like wearing Senegalese clothes though, they're uncomfortable. Also, I have to have a new outfit made soon anyhow because there is going to be a triple baptism in my compound, and one new outfit is more than enough.

Here's a picture of me with Maim. As you can see, I didn't make much effort with my appearance.

 

And here is a picture of the family eating in my hut, which has become a holiday tradition that I enjoy. That is pasta with onion sauce – the only other time we had it was a year ago on Korite. It's a big deal.

 

Here is my neene and aunt. I took a photo then sort of jokingly scolded them for always looking angry in photographs. I was absolutely shocked when my neene stuck out her tongue. It's the one time in my life I've managed to capture a memorable moment in a photo. Of course it was expressly for the photo, but whatever.

Oh, and here is a photo of me greeting my Tokara (a tokara is someone who has the same name as you – in this case, Hawa - and you have a special relationship I don't feel like ep). I'm including it because you can see that she was having the time of her life riding around on the motorcycle. Hawa really likes bikes.

stay away from me

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I have been a total wench lately. I'm irritable with everyone in the village for no good reason. I'm trying to protect everyone from myself by staying in my hut and reading during down time. There's no point in subjecting others to my company.

There has been one upside to my current mood so far, and it arrived at my hut yesterday in the form of a guy named Omar. He is a “cousin” who has been harassing me with texts for months. I was polite at first, but when he started asking me to tell him about my fiance (yeah, remember that guy who doesn't exist?) I stopped responding except to repeatedly ask that he stop contacting me. Fortunately he lives in Dakar so I don't have to see him, but yesterday he made a special trip to my village.

Part of me almost feels sorry for Omar. Almost being the operative word, because the mean part of me wishes I could do it again. I didn't raise my voice, but I delivered a stinging lecture in the iciest possible way, and I think I do icy pretty well. Dorothy, my site-mate, was visiting at the time, and when I walked in she was looking a little shell-shocked at what she had overheard. She deemed it “harsh but effective."

Other news … there is not much food in my compound lately. We have been eating with 12 people to a bowl. That is very, very crowded. I try not to sit next to 12-or 13-year-old Amadou, because he's started eating with a spoon – most people eat with their hands here, pressing the rice into a ball – and he's awkward with it, blocking my access to the bowl. I'm not the only one trying to avoid Amadou, so inevitably I end up near him because I'm the worst when it comes for jockeying for positions.

Two nights ago we had maffe gerte, my least favorite food in the world. I was hungry though and excited to get called to a bowl with not a lot of people. I ended up next to Nduru, a cute but perpetually sick 6-year-old whose snot sometimes drips into the bowl.

Everyone in my compound is sick, and I can't fault them for that because they seem to have no grasp of germ theory, despite my best efforts. But as I said, I've been feeling bitchy lately, and after the fourth person coughed on my food I left the bowl, announcing everyone had dirty habits.

OK, I didn't phrase it quite that harshly. But I wanted to!

better him than me

He's digging this by hand, one bucket at a time. Again, if you would like to fund similar projects, go HERE.  Someone already donated. I don't know who you are - but thank you!

Raaaaiiiinnnn!!

I might have said this before, but I am in the minority (among other volunteers) because I love, love, love the rainy season. I get to stay in my hut, wrap up in a sarong, and read a book with no guilt.

Another bonus, showering in the rain. When I was a kid, swimming in the rain with my brothers and sister was the world's most fun activity. Usually mom would yank us out of the pool because of lightening, but until she spotted the first bolt we made the most of it. Mom's not around though (shame, I miss her), and I can stay out in the storms for as long as I want.

Here's Kumba the other day. I had just done the same thing (in the privacy of my backyard) and was happily reading in my hut when I heard her repeatedly calling my name. After about three minutes I decided she wasn't going to shut up until I opened my door. I'm glad I did.

(To my knowledge I have no young male readers so I think it's alright to post this photo.)

I'm babbling here...

So, it's still Ramadan, which explains how I came to be eating a secret lunch in my hut. Seriously, this holy month could give you an eating disorder.

I made a popular concoction here for breakfast/lunch; chopped cucumber and onions, sprinkled with pepper and a bouillon cube, swimming in vinegar.

If that doesn't sound good, well all I can say is I've lost my reference, because it's delicious.

I just finished a bowl though, and there's is a lot of dirt, even a small pebble, at the bottom of my bowl. I didn't put that there.

In other news, I was ecstatic to get packages from mom today containing, among other things, bagged meat.

I've been eating a lot of sardines lately. The sardines here come from Morocco, and I give them a failing grade. They don't remove the spines, and because they are exceptionally large (in my opinion), they are also really crunchy. It's gross.

Know what else is gross? Fish heads before 5 a.m., you can really taste the eyeballs at that hour.

I know I'm getting older

Last night Ibraihma was trying to figure out how old his son, Omar, was. He thinks he was born in 2003, and guessed that would make him 6, but he wanted to check with me.

“Well, what month in 2003?” I asked.

Every one was silent for a beat, before Mariama said, “We're not toubabs (foreigners/white) Hawa, we have no idea.”

Age isn't really a big deal here, which baffles me because I am painfully aware of the fact that my so-called prime years are slipping past. My family was a little surprised as first when I tried to celebrate everyone's birthday with a box of crevettes. They've gotten used to it now, and assume I know the dates of baby Foude and Nana's birthday's too.

Thing is, I don't. I'm combing my old diary, and they seem to have just appeared one day. I'll make something up.

Update: I made Mariama get out her official identity card and she is Andrew's age – 30! So she was married with a child at 15 or 16 (verifying that would have required hunting down another identity card) to a man in his 30s, Bala. I CANNOT believe we are only three years apart.

Here is a photo of Mariama with her mom, and two of her four children:

is it possible?

Can a horse die on it's feet, and then just remain standing indefinitely? I'm genuinely curious. I was in a car yesterday, stopped at a police check point, when I noticed a horse not far from the side of the road.

The horse looked like it was once white, but no longer. And I swear, there were rotting, moldy patches all over it's body. No, not dark patches on it's coat, but some sort of growth indicating rot.

I probably don't need to say this, but the horse was completely motionless for the duration of the police check. Had there been any movement I would not be asking this question. I think a live horse could have a fungal problem with it's coat.

In other surreal news, there are watermelons growing on people's roofs. I don't have pictures, but the vines cling to the grass roofs, and they prop a ladder or something under the watermelons so they don't fall. It's cool and if I remember I'll take a photo.

Instead, here's a picture of some little boys hanging out in a tree.

 

Labor Day

I hope everyone is enjoying their long weekend. I am going back to site today. I'm just hanging around my computer waiting for people to wake up at home and report to me on yesterday's party.

We had a party here celebrating Maria's birthday. Unfortunately, no one noticed what a poor background choice the moldy wall made for the obligatory cake photo, but that's the rainy season for you.

 

Maria is done with her service and leaving in the next few weeks. She's a good time and I'll really miss her.