When you take those exciting trips to third world countries (as you should), do us all a favor. Don't givethe cute kids candy. Don't give the skinny beggers money. You've got extra coins and granola bars, sure, I get it. You're onlythere for a few days. You think- why not? They want/ need it, you don't. They'll smile and you'll feel fuzzy inside. What's wrong with that?
Too much. There's the incessant expectant ringing of, "Donnez-moi un cadeau!" (give me a present) that will assault the ears of any and all westerners that come after you. NOT TO MENTION the poor innocent volunteers who are JUST TRYING TO LIVE IN FREAKING PEACE WITHOUT KILLING ANY OF THESE ANNOYING KIDS. But beyond that, there are larger issues of not-so-developing nations. There is so much work to do, living is HARD and tiring and uninspiring. And America represents a kind of fairy land of money piles, swimming pools, ice cream, and amazing doctors. The differences of our worlds are astounding and we all know it.
It's easy for the 3rd world people to believethat the reasons for their poverty and America's wealth are inert-- Americans are smarter, god favors white people... It's easy to lose hope, decide things will never change and stop trying.
And the problem with well-intentioned foreign aid or cadeau-givers is that they reinforce these feelings of dependency. Throwing lollipops out your car window or throwing up a water tower that will break in a month (sound familiar?) may seem to do more good than harm. But it makes the floating-through foreigners the capable heroes, and the third world residents the damsels in distress.
You may be thinking candy has nothing to do with empowerment, but that's where it starts. Kids see the white skin and stick out their hands. How nice that they seem to like you and think you're generous, right? Wrong. It may sound cold, but this starts kids on the path of thinking that things can be handed to them. Then to water towers, adults see that foreigners gave it, so they start to think that's how it works. That they can't do it themselves. (And once it breaks, maybe if they just wait, the people who know how to fix it will come... But they don't. True story.)
I'm not saying that people shouldn't help people everywhere. I'm saying that just dropping off gifts doesn't help. Talking to people, working with them, listening... ok well I guess that sounds like the Peace Corps... but back to you tourists:
You've got extra money and candy. Don't teach kids to be obnoxious, stick their hands in your face, and be forever expectant of other people helping them. Shake their hands and be on your way. Put the candy in school houses and check out. Leave the money anonymously. Don't pretend to be a hero. You're not.
(I'm not either. I've given out plenty of granola bars before leaving a place forever. But now that I'm staying, I'm starting to see what this really does. Furthermore, it would be AMAZING not to be harrassed everywhere...)
As I write this from the Dakar regional house, I hear right on cue, "Toubab, donnez-moi un cadeau!" (always this exact phrase! remarkable!) I can tell whenever another volunteer is coming because this shout rings as dependably as a doorbell.
MAKE IT STOP
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
a product of rain smells
soak me, wet me through, fill my bones
with a rain that plays morse code
promises of life
wetting wood smelling like rotting tool sheds and
pearl-beaded grasses of vermont
clinging clothed children with mud
for shoes tapping their mouths with
their hands to make politically incorrect
indian calls under silver strings
threaded through shining trees
dripping, plunking, slapping
the air is clean mud
immitating the changing rooms of
connecticut's cream hill lake
where ghosts of my mother's sisters and
cousins snapped straps of bathing suits that
never had time to dry and whispers
that never give way to silence years
later when wet wood carvings of ancient
dates, love declared boldly in swiss
army graffiti the water can't wash
away
and today
heating tea sighs steam that meets the
moisturized african air and feigns disappearance
as black feet shuffle to boombox beats
every color of loudly mismatched cloth
silenced by the volume of laughter
echoing in a world hollowed out by
the weight of long-awaited rain
attaaya leaves couple with beads of sugar
and cling to the wet wood scent of
water from the sky
just another rainy day
that tells me I've lived a thousand
lives and my blessed bones only
make room for more.
with a rain that plays morse code
promises of life
wetting wood smelling like rotting tool sheds and
pearl-beaded grasses of vermont
clinging clothed children with mud
for shoes tapping their mouths with
their hands to make politically incorrect
indian calls under silver strings
threaded through shining trees
dripping, plunking, slapping
the air is clean mud
immitating the changing rooms of
connecticut's cream hill lake
where ghosts of my mother's sisters and
cousins snapped straps of bathing suits that
never had time to dry and whispers
that never give way to silence years
later when wet wood carvings of ancient
dates, love declared boldly in swiss
army graffiti the water can't wash
away
and today
heating tea sighs steam that meets the
moisturized african air and feigns disappearance
as black feet shuffle to boombox beats
every color of loudly mismatched cloth
silenced by the volume of laughter
echoing in a world hollowed out by
the weight of long-awaited rain
attaaya leaves couple with beads of sugar
and cling to the wet wood scent of
water from the sky
just another rainy day
that tells me I've lived a thousand
lives and my blessed bones only
make room for more.
I am Paris Hilton
I'm feeling a strange affinity for Paris Hilton. Indeed, I NEVER thought I'd say that. But I feel here the way she must feel in most places outside her circle. People staring completely, utterly, unbelievably unabashed like I'm a TV, men with empty proposals of empty love because they think I could fulfill a world of unattainable possibilities that have nothing to do with my character... And Paris, too, is probably unused to being made fun of to her face (though I can't relate to internet scandals), but that doesn't mean people don't want to-- very much like a toubab woman waiting with a group of tired senegalese to pull water with her softunworked hands that could hold a plane ticket to escape whenever she wills it. Like the witch-faced woman who laughed and laughed once she heard I cried when I was lost. "You cried?!" she repeated over and over. I still don't even know her name. And the woman who say, "You can't speak Pulaar," when I struggle, even though they know I can understand that. Do babies cry when they see Paris Hilton? Maybe not, but surely someone must. And girls must look up to her with no idea why-- like the ones who looked at me, giggling embarressedly like I was a boy they liked. Then they'd unugol extra hard if they thought I was watching, clapping the whole way, as if I were a talent scout who might sweep them away on a toubab horse to an American castle. And the conversation circling around and whispered behind poor poor Paris. Oh and how could I forget the dciding similarity: our ineptitude at anything and people's simultaneous forgiveness and resentment for this. Indeed, I imagine she'd look very much like me carrying water on her head. Lastly, if Paris were here in my stead, I think our thoughts would match better than her shoes and dog purse. Hotel sheets with mints on pillows, movie theaters with giant tubs of popcorn we couldn't finish, airconditioned rooms with recliner chairs, chocolate chip cookie dough milkshakes, fancy restaurants in brand new dresses...
I tried to analyze my absurd fixation with frappucinos and I think I came up with something semi-profound but forgot it under the pull of the fantasies. I didn't even have them that often in the US. I was joking when I said I'd miss them the most... but now I hear myself making promises that I'll some day live a life in which I'll have one every day. I brainstorm career options which would allow me to afford that. What is wrong with me?
Even Paris would have more class.
I tried to analyze my absurd fixation with frappucinos and I think I came up with something semi-profound but forgot it under the pull of the fantasies. I didn't even have them that often in the US. I was joking when I said I'd miss them the most... but now I hear myself making promises that I'll some day live a life in which I'll have one every day. I brainstorm career options which would allow me to afford that. What is wrong with me?
Even Paris would have more class.
We Are Bengure
Sene-Stats:
Senegal now boasts the country with the most people who have seen me cry (mostly from the last entry), most requests for shoes, toothbrushes, hairbands, clothes, water, money, and food than ever imagines; most sweat per (ueven more than tae kwon do tests), and more sitting than ever before. I'd also venture to say that I've now surpassed my total starbucks beverage intake with cups of ataaya (senegalese tea). This is no easy feat.
So Senegal-- the somewhat infamous Kédougou region en particulaire-- presents some unforseen challenges. For example, rude awakenings by chickens in my bed (this morning), or trying to relax in a hammock only to have a hard-horned cow run into you full speed (yesterday). And of course all the other things about which I complain. (Still waiting for Bill Gates/ NGOs to read this and get my town some WATER.)
But for all my venting, it's awesome. Those of you who have known me long enough will remember my Native American obsession in childhood. Well I feel like I'm satisfying that part of me now, in my hut without modernities or electricity, living by the hands of nature... Even more, my world has taken on a Swiss Family Robinson/ Neverland's lost boys' tree-house type of quality. We climb trees to eat, all available surfaces become drums, and homemade slingshots are the best toys. As I watch my brothers, I try to place them in those distant dream-worlds of Walmarts and McDonalds and if I can even get close, it sends shivers down my spine. I love this and them in their own rights.
Here's the fam:
Assamau: Quite possibly the cutest baby I have EVER met. She's always naked and poos on the ground which is only gross because it looks exactly like the food before we eat it... She's always singing the same song and laughing. Unlike Ami in Thiés, she stops crying when they give her to me. Love it!
Saliu: So ugly and unintelligent-looking that he's cute. So much fun to throw around, worships me, pets my hair. He serves tea to me on a platter like a servant and licks the platter while I drink. After the third round, he and Boobs chew the tea leaves and spit them out like dip, grinning with leaf-teeth. I thought I had caffeine problems!
Boobacar (Boobs): same age-- around 5-- and also worships me. Beautiful face and lashes, and a healthy stature (thus making him the fattest family member). He is hillariously petrified when I put the flmashlight under my chin, hair over my face, and growl. I was worried this wouldn't be as scary because they have never seen scary movies, but it still works.
Omar: Also beautiful and smart. Has the sweetest face and knows he can get away with more because of it. Inspires me to continue shaving my legs as he likes to pet my leg hair if it grows out.
Selu: Always drumming and singing, fast flashing eyes, easy smile, ball of energy. I think he's technically an orphan.
Fatou aka Binta: Beautiful like her mom, going through puberty, but with a shirtless unselfconsciousness I can't imagine from my American perspective. Smart-- picked up juggling basics faster than anyone else, and has perfected every task of Senegalese women... but I want so much more for her! Is also incredibaly nice and mature. I painted her toenails as a sister-bonding thing. Then ALL the boys asked for it too. Since I have a male friend in country who had some trouble after he got henna, I was a little hesitant to stir up anything if it was taboo. So I compromised and gave them each toe nails. They brighten my day every time I see those flashes of polish...
Amadou: I love his voice most of all, quiet, sweet, measured in thought. Great with the younger siblings. Also might technically be an orphan.
Yousefa: Long lashes, shy smile. Like Amadou, thoughtful and mature beyond his years. I chalk this up to being well-raised by the Imam.
Selu (another): hardworking, shy... but as I'm still trying to figure out cross-gender friendship boundaries and all, I'm trying to stay away from guys of this age...
Diari: My same-age mom, and mother of Salu. Loud, mouse-like face, ready for a laugh. I think she'd be the same person in the US, which I like about her.
Lera: Mother of Fatou, Omar, Boobacar, Assamou. Small with round eyes and dark lashes. She continues to work, cook, sweep, wash, etc. while Assamou tugs on her breast to drink, to the point where it seems like a detached thing behind her. I'm not sure she even notices.
Hadiatou: First wife and my namesake neene. Oldest, but beautiful, mother of Selu, Yousefa, and kids who have moved out. Conveniently the most mother-like, nurturing, and ready for a chat. My favorite memory with her is when she was teaching me words as we sat in the moonlight after dinner. The words including "stretch" and "bend" if I understand correctly from her leg motions. The words may in fact only apply to legs? Anyway, she asked for the english but absolutely cannot in any capacity pronounce "stretch." Listening to her try made me laugh so hard it brought tears to my eyes. She said it like "shwesh?" sounding remarkably like a very drunk old woman missing all her teeth.
Alpha Mamadou: My baaba; I'm astonished with how much I like this religious senegalese man with three wives. He is loving, hard-working, fatherly, thoughtful, helpful, and appears unbelievably to not be sexist. My favorite memories with him include the time he was so impressed with my offhand paper people chain that he set to making one himself. The task was not offhand to him-- as if he were learning surgery, he concentrated hard on awkardly maneuvering the scissors, furrowing his brow, sticking out his tongue, and even drawing little smiles on each figure. It made me ADORE him so much more. Another time, his old friend told me he wanted to marry me and I used my regular, "Oh, I see, you're dreaming" line. My dad laughing so hard that he literally dropped all the sticks he was carrying and had to hold on to a beam for support. The fun only continued when his friend asked to learn english and I started with "old... that is what you are." I love this culture. Mostly.
Senegal now boasts the country with the most people who have seen me cry (mostly from the last entry), most requests for shoes, toothbrushes, hairbands, clothes, water, money, and food than ever imagines; most sweat per (ueven more than tae kwon do tests), and more sitting than ever before. I'd also venture to say that I've now surpassed my total starbucks beverage intake with cups of ataaya (senegalese tea). This is no easy feat.
So Senegal-- the somewhat infamous Kédougou region en particulaire-- presents some unforseen challenges. For example, rude awakenings by chickens in my bed (this morning), or trying to relax in a hammock only to have a hard-horned cow run into you full speed (yesterday). And of course all the other things about which I complain. (Still waiting for Bill Gates/ NGOs to read this and get my town some WATER.)
But for all my venting, it's awesome. Those of you who have known me long enough will remember my Native American obsession in childhood. Well I feel like I'm satisfying that part of me now, in my hut without modernities or electricity, living by the hands of nature... Even more, my world has taken on a Swiss Family Robinson/ Neverland's lost boys' tree-house type of quality. We climb trees to eat, all available surfaces become drums, and homemade slingshots are the best toys. As I watch my brothers, I try to place them in those distant dream-worlds of Walmarts and McDonalds and if I can even get close, it sends shivers down my spine. I love this and them in their own rights.
Here's the fam:
Assamau: Quite possibly the cutest baby I have EVER met. She's always naked and poos on the ground which is only gross because it looks exactly like the food before we eat it... She's always singing the same song and laughing. Unlike Ami in Thiés, she stops crying when they give her to me. Love it!
Saliu: So ugly and unintelligent-looking that he's cute. So much fun to throw around, worships me, pets my hair. He serves tea to me on a platter like a servant and licks the platter while I drink. After the third round, he and Boobs chew the tea leaves and spit them out like dip, grinning with leaf-teeth. I thought I had caffeine problems!
Boobacar (Boobs): same age-- around 5-- and also worships me. Beautiful face and lashes, and a healthy stature (thus making him the fattest family member). He is hillariously petrified when I put the flmashlight under my chin, hair over my face, and growl. I was worried this wouldn't be as scary because they have never seen scary movies, but it still works.
Omar: Also beautiful and smart. Has the sweetest face and knows he can get away with more because of it. Inspires me to continue shaving my legs as he likes to pet my leg hair if it grows out.
Selu: Always drumming and singing, fast flashing eyes, easy smile, ball of energy. I think he's technically an orphan.
Fatou aka Binta: Beautiful like her mom, going through puberty, but with a shirtless unselfconsciousness I can't imagine from my American perspective. Smart-- picked up juggling basics faster than anyone else, and has perfected every task of Senegalese women... but I want so much more for her! Is also incredibaly nice and mature. I painted her toenails as a sister-bonding thing. Then ALL the boys asked for it too. Since I have a male friend in country who had some trouble after he got henna, I was a little hesitant to stir up anything if it was taboo. So I compromised and gave them each toe nails. They brighten my day every time I see those flashes of polish...
Amadou: I love his voice most of all, quiet, sweet, measured in thought. Great with the younger siblings. Also might technically be an orphan.
Yousefa: Long lashes, shy smile. Like Amadou, thoughtful and mature beyond his years. I chalk this up to being well-raised by the Imam.
Selu (another): hardworking, shy... but as I'm still trying to figure out cross-gender friendship boundaries and all, I'm trying to stay away from guys of this age...
Diari: My same-age mom, and mother of Salu. Loud, mouse-like face, ready for a laugh. I think she'd be the same person in the US, which I like about her.
Lera: Mother of Fatou, Omar, Boobacar, Assamou. Small with round eyes and dark lashes. She continues to work, cook, sweep, wash, etc. while Assamou tugs on her breast to drink, to the point where it seems like a detached thing behind her. I'm not sure she even notices.
Hadiatou: First wife and my namesake neene. Oldest, but beautiful, mother of Selu, Yousefa, and kids who have moved out. Conveniently the most mother-like, nurturing, and ready for a chat. My favorite memory with her is when she was teaching me words as we sat in the moonlight after dinner. The words including "stretch" and "bend" if I understand correctly from her leg motions. The words may in fact only apply to legs? Anyway, she asked for the english but absolutely cannot in any capacity pronounce "stretch." Listening to her try made me laugh so hard it brought tears to my eyes. She said it like "shwesh?" sounding remarkably like a very drunk old woman missing all her teeth.
Alpha Mamadou: My baaba; I'm astonished with how much I like this religious senegalese man with three wives. He is loving, hard-working, fatherly, thoughtful, helpful, and appears unbelievably to not be sexist. My favorite memories with him include the time he was so impressed with my offhand paper people chain that he set to making one himself. The task was not offhand to him-- as if he were learning surgery, he concentrated hard on awkardly maneuvering the scissors, furrowing his brow, sticking out his tongue, and even drawing little smiles on each figure. It made me ADORE him so much more. Another time, his old friend told me he wanted to marry me and I used my regular, "Oh, I see, you're dreaming" line. My dad laughing so hard that he literally dropped all the sticks he was carrying and had to hold on to a beam for support. The fun only continued when his friend asked to learn english and I started with "old... that is what you are." I love this culture. Mostly.
Monday, June 16, 2008
The Day I Didn't Die (Part 2)
(Sorry it took so long haha, didn't mean to make you worry!)
continued:
...But what else to do but press on? I'd been telling myself it was inevitable, but when I at last saw an elderly man in swiss cheese holely clothes, tears flowed with relief. In a shaking, broken voice, I tried to sound normal in reciting the greetings. He answered with a face so impossibly kind that I thought about guardian angels. Shock of shocks, he said I was going the wrong way. He didn't even recognize the name of my village but knew of Ségou which is next to Daniel's village. "Very, very, very far!" he repeated. Then he scanned my mud-caked body and spotted the pooling crimson where a foot should be. "You're hurt!" The genuine worry in his voice made me cry, nod, and, I think, laugh. This set the precedent for the next leg of my journey in which he was unfathomably kind and I was unable to produce words or sounds without welling up.
For a large chunk of time- an hour? two? more?- he walked my broken bike ahead on tiny nondescript bush paths. I trudged behind, focused only on keeping up and staying conscious. Our labored steps were interjected only with him saying, "Really, it's very far," and me trying to thank him and then breaking off into sniffles. How many complete strangers would walk HOURS out of their way in the blistering heat to help and ask for nothing in return? I wanted to give him something without cheapening his kindness. I had no money. A pen? Floss? I had nothing, but as he seemed to be saving my LIFE, nothing would be enough anyway.
When we parted, he told me the road to Ségou connected to the path straight ahead. Now he had to go the other way. He spoke carefully, embarrassed by my tearful gratitude and watched me start off, like a nervous father. I wish I could meet him again.
Unfortunately, it couldn't be that easy. Five-ten minutes later, the path split into a fork of four, none of which seemed "straight." I stared at the emptiness around me and wanted to just lay down and sleep right there forever.
I took a middle path even thought it was small. An hour later I was over 90% certain I would die. My body hurt everywhere. The last drops from my nalgene literally burnt my tongue. I had to support my stooped body on my bike and kept tripping over rocks as I was losing my peripheral vision. Once the chills started making waves over my body and raising goosebumps even under the scorching sun, I knew it was dire. I took another rest in semi-shade (I'd been taking many, but kept worrying about darkness coming and forced myself back up).
Another blessing came in the form of three bars of réseau (cell service). I called Daniel with a shaking hand. I tried to sound as normal as I could, suddenly thinking I MUST be right next to Ségou and was probably psyching myself out into feeling weaker than I was, and what could he even do anyway? "Give me a pep-talk," I answered. And he did, but I could still barely move. In an attempt to keep it light, I wailed, "I just want a starbucks frappucino!" It doesn't sound so light when you start sobbing after saying this... Then I found out I didn't even have enough water to produce tears. Ouch.
Nicholas called back on the emergency line. OOPS, I thought at the same time as YES THANK YOU SAVE ME. Guilt and sillines and immense relief. I wanted to be sure of life again. I wanted water more than I've ever wanted anything. I can't recall or really imagine what I sounded like to him.
In the end, I made it to Ségou, hunched over the bike, staggering, clutching the phone. "I see a bigger path... I see a fence..." More tearless crying.
"Good, good, keep going. Where there's a fence, there will be people and water."
"A... motercycle." My voice cracked. I tried to straighten up and dropped the bike.
The two riders stopped with alarmed expressions (I can only imagine how horror-movie-victim I must have looked.) As I myself could barely speak english, I handed the phone to the driver and let myself crumple on the ground, shaking. After talking to Nicholas, they went to get water and returned with at least 10 children and a couple of teens I thought were school-teachers at the time.
The water was beautiful. Unfiltered, unbleached, debris-filled elixer of life. I threw it in my mouth and choked, already better for a dry voice in my head to comment that I would die on the water that's saving my life.
Tears came back with a vengence and all I could say to the wide-eyed crowd was, "Thank you" (also means"hello") and "Sorry" and laugh nervously.
They brought me to a compound, gave me lots of water, let me sleep, fed me fruit, washed most of the mud away, and even found alcohol to sting my wound. Even though I'd been having hours of dark thoughts about leaving Africa if I made it, but being sure I'd die, at the end of it all, I loved it even more here. Clearly not for the heat, lack of roads, bounty of struggles, and the suspicion that any form of comfort with elude me for two years. But knowing the people here are truly special. The whole deserted stretch between Tepéré Jam Tun (the town beyond the lake where I saw the old man literally translates to "Foot Peace Only." Ha.) and Ségou, I knew that I had opnly to find any village or Senegalese person to survive. They'd help me, feed me, let me stay even without money. Not because I'm a toubab celebrity, but because I'm a fellow human who needed help. How amazing is that? Imagine that happening in Fairfield County (especially with the colors reversed)?
I was constantly touched as the people of Ségou fussed over me and I couldn't stop the tears that answered every kindness. The old woman washing my disgusting feet with her bare hands, moving stick beds into shade, offering to fix my bike... I still cannot express how I love these people and how they saved me in every way.
Meanwhile, the "Gou Crew" hired a car, filled everybody's own waterbottles, and came to rescue me. They didn't make me feel at all ridiculous and showed only respect instead. I was overwelmed with all the kindness the world suddenly had for me-- and still am. I ended the night laughing and squeezing hands under cool clear stars as 3 guys, a med kit, a bucket of water, a roll of duct tape, a leatherman, and a bottle of whiskey cleansed and wrapped my wound. (OK, the whiskey was for the pain... it was basically identical to that scene in Braveheart.)
Starting in Ségou, whenever someone asked me how I was, I answered, "Mi mayataa!" ("I'm not dead!") At first with disbelief, then with a smile getter wider as time went on. Even as flame-sterilized metal objects entered my foot ("Dude, is that a rock or like a blood vessel clump?"), I could only feel it because of one wonderful not-so-guarenteed reason. Mi mayataa. That's all I need to know. (And that I owe this place, these people my life...)
continued:
...But what else to do but press on? I'd been telling myself it was inevitable, but when I at last saw an elderly man in swiss cheese holely clothes, tears flowed with relief. In a shaking, broken voice, I tried to sound normal in reciting the greetings. He answered with a face so impossibly kind that I thought about guardian angels. Shock of shocks, he said I was going the wrong way. He didn't even recognize the name of my village but knew of Ségou which is next to Daniel's village. "Very, very, very far!" he repeated. Then he scanned my mud-caked body and spotted the pooling crimson where a foot should be. "You're hurt!" The genuine worry in his voice made me cry, nod, and, I think, laugh. This set the precedent for the next leg of my journey in which he was unfathomably kind and I was unable to produce words or sounds without welling up.
For a large chunk of time- an hour? two? more?- he walked my broken bike ahead on tiny nondescript bush paths. I trudged behind, focused only on keeping up and staying conscious. Our labored steps were interjected only with him saying, "Really, it's very far," and me trying to thank him and then breaking off into sniffles. How many complete strangers would walk HOURS out of their way in the blistering heat to help and ask for nothing in return? I wanted to give him something without cheapening his kindness. I had no money. A pen? Floss? I had nothing, but as he seemed to be saving my LIFE, nothing would be enough anyway.
When we parted, he told me the road to Ségou connected to the path straight ahead. Now he had to go the other way. He spoke carefully, embarrassed by my tearful gratitude and watched me start off, like a nervous father. I wish I could meet him again.
Unfortunately, it couldn't be that easy. Five-ten minutes later, the path split into a fork of four, none of which seemed "straight." I stared at the emptiness around me and wanted to just lay down and sleep right there forever.
I took a middle path even thought it was small. An hour later I was over 90% certain I would die. My body hurt everywhere. The last drops from my nalgene literally burnt my tongue. I had to support my stooped body on my bike and kept tripping over rocks as I was losing my peripheral vision. Once the chills started making waves over my body and raising goosebumps even under the scorching sun, I knew it was dire. I took another rest in semi-shade (I'd been taking many, but kept worrying about darkness coming and forced myself back up).
Another blessing came in the form of three bars of réseau (cell service). I called Daniel with a shaking hand. I tried to sound as normal as I could, suddenly thinking I MUST be right next to Ségou and was probably psyching myself out into feeling weaker than I was, and what could he even do anyway? "Give me a pep-talk," I answered. And he did, but I could still barely move. In an attempt to keep it light, I wailed, "I just want a starbucks frappucino!" It doesn't sound so light when you start sobbing after saying this... Then I found out I didn't even have enough water to produce tears. Ouch.
Nicholas called back on the emergency line. OOPS, I thought at the same time as YES THANK YOU SAVE ME. Guilt and sillines and immense relief. I wanted to be sure of life again. I wanted water more than I've ever wanted anything. I can't recall or really imagine what I sounded like to him.
In the end, I made it to Ségou, hunched over the bike, staggering, clutching the phone. "I see a bigger path... I see a fence..." More tearless crying.
"Good, good, keep going. Where there's a fence, there will be people and water."
"A... motercycle." My voice cracked. I tried to straighten up and dropped the bike.
The two riders stopped with alarmed expressions (I can only imagine how horror-movie-victim I must have looked.) As I myself could barely speak english, I handed the phone to the driver and let myself crumple on the ground, shaking. After talking to Nicholas, they went to get water and returned with at least 10 children and a couple of teens I thought were school-teachers at the time.
The water was beautiful. Unfiltered, unbleached, debris-filled elixer of life. I threw it in my mouth and choked, already better for a dry voice in my head to comment that I would die on the water that's saving my life.
Tears came back with a vengence and all I could say to the wide-eyed crowd was, "Thank you" (also means"hello") and "Sorry" and laugh nervously.
They brought me to a compound, gave me lots of water, let me sleep, fed me fruit, washed most of the mud away, and even found alcohol to sting my wound. Even though I'd been having hours of dark thoughts about leaving Africa if I made it, but being sure I'd die, at the end of it all, I loved it even more here. Clearly not for the heat, lack of roads, bounty of struggles, and the suspicion that any form of comfort with elude me for two years. But knowing the people here are truly special. The whole deserted stretch between Tepéré Jam Tun (the town beyond the lake where I saw the old man literally translates to "Foot Peace Only." Ha.) and Ségou, I knew that I had opnly to find any village or Senegalese person to survive. They'd help me, feed me, let me stay even without money. Not because I'm a toubab celebrity, but because I'm a fellow human who needed help. How amazing is that? Imagine that happening in Fairfield County (especially with the colors reversed)?
I was constantly touched as the people of Ségou fussed over me and I couldn't stop the tears that answered every kindness. The old woman washing my disgusting feet with her bare hands, moving stick beds into shade, offering to fix my bike... I still cannot express how I love these people and how they saved me in every way.
Meanwhile, the "Gou Crew" hired a car, filled everybody's own waterbottles, and came to rescue me. They didn't make me feel at all ridiculous and showed only respect instead. I was overwelmed with all the kindness the world suddenly had for me-- and still am. I ended the night laughing and squeezing hands under cool clear stars as 3 guys, a med kit, a bucket of water, a roll of duct tape, a leatherman, and a bottle of whiskey cleansed and wrapped my wound. (OK, the whiskey was for the pain... it was basically identical to that scene in Braveheart.)
Starting in Ségou, whenever someone asked me how I was, I answered, "Mi mayataa!" ("I'm not dead!") At first with disbelief, then with a smile getter wider as time went on. Even as flame-sterilized metal objects entered my foot ("Dude, is that a rock or like a blood vessel clump?"), I could only feel it because of one wonderful not-so-guarenteed reason. Mi mayataa. That's all I need to know. (And that I owe this place, these people my life...)
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Day I Didn't Die (Part One)
I debated heavily over sharing this story because I don't want people (mom) to freak out... But not sharing it makes me feel disconnected from home and also, it has a happy ending!
It feels like I'm trying to recall a ridiculous dream. I'm struggling in the attempt to keep this from sounding melodramatic, while being true to myself and state of mind at the time. Don't think I can do both...
The bike-trip to my village from Kédougou is a bit over 40k, and has few spots that qualify as roads. While beautiful, the ride is tricky enough to prompt my mountain-man neighbor, Danial, to repeat, "We are so more hard-core than the navy!" It takes a couple of hours, at least 2 litres of water, and should not be attempted between the hot hours of 11-3.
Last week, I came up to Kédougou without Daniel to accompany my counter-part to various medical facilities in a (failed) attempt to do something about her breast cancer. I was set to bike back on the 28th.
The morning started off-kilter with some drama at the center through which I stayed and waited for someone to buy me a bean sandwich. Therefore, I left at 9 when I should have left at 6. Still, I wasn't too worried about cutting it close to the hot hours. The headwind was bad and slowed me down right away. I distinctively remember pedalling fiercely 5 minutes into the trip thinking, "Ugh, this trip already sucks!" Mmm-hmm.
I was slow-going, chatting to other travellers as the sun got hotter. By the time I'd made my first turn off the main road, I'd probably already drunk half my bottle of preemptively home-made ORS. (Good call there!)
From here, my memory starts to fuzz. I was distracted by wandering thoughts-- Mariama's cancer dilemna, a death in my village, learning that a well-respected senegalese colleage has said he doesn't like me... I took a wrong turn.
I knew as much later on, scanning for familiar terrain and road rivulets. But it all looks the same. What made me nervous were the unfamiliar mountain ranges in the distance. As noon approached, the sun seemed to sit smack on top of my head and I had no idea which way east and west were. I still didn't worry because I kept running into people-- a construction worker, a sheep herder, a nice older man who invited me to lunch (non-sketchily). I told them where I was going and they pointed the way and said it was far and the sun was hot.
Idon't know when my brakes stopped working. It's possible they hadn't the whole day and I didn't know because I just hadn't needed them. My front ones here off because they'd been sticking before, but when I put them back they still didn't work. I fiddled around with my super-tool and tightened things. No luck. I finished the ORS. It was so hot and I was already tired. I gave up on the brakes and resolved to talk it downhills and ride it slowly on uphills and level ground.
This worked splendidly enough for quite a ways. I kept getting off, expecting certain hills I remembered, only to find new ones instead. I pressed on because there are only so many places these roads could go. Surely they'd meet up with mine. Daniel's village-- Dinde Fello-- features a touristy waterfall which is even listed in the Lonely Planet guide. So all roads had to go where the tourists go, right?
Huffing and puffing up a tricky incline, steadying the bike over large loose stones... the downhill leaped out before I knew what was happening. I scanned the perilous eindy rocky slope I was headed down and knew it wasn't good. I stuck my feet down to stop the bike but the speed had already built up. If I kept going and tried to maneuver my racing broken death-trap I knew it would not end well. I was going to crash one way or another. This split-second reasoning pointed me into a tree.
Then I was on the ground and my bike and shoes were points of a star, almost comically far away. I patted my good old helmet that people make fun of me for wearing and didn't notice the blood until I'd limped to my first shoe. The poor flip-flop with its sad fading american flag and twin towers picture (this design is bafflingly all over the country and are said to be the best ones here) became a shiny red horror movie prop. I poured some nalgene water over the wound, saw a flap of skin, a flash of white, embedded gravel, and the blood that flowed across the towers and already red african earth. The tears came gratefully to answer the sting. It was only my second cry in country and long over-due from all the stressful times when I pushed them back saying NOT NOW NOT NOW, LATER. Later had arrived. I felt relief to let loose as I thought about people dying and starving and how hard my life was and how it still wasn't as hard as other peoples'.
I felt sorry for myself realizing I still had who-knew-how-long to go with a brakeless bike and a red-flowing foot. I texted Roxy and Daniel short semi-serious messages about life sucking. Daniel generously asked if I wanted him to come. I did, but wouldn't have asked him to even if I thought it was possible for him to find me. I mean, how far could I be?
Ha. So I limped and huffed and the hours came and went like indistinguishable termite mounds on the path. I lost the phone service and began to fiddle with apprehension. I was sure the mountains were wrong, but didn't want to go back the whole way I'd come. The sun stubbornly stuck in the center of the sky and I just hoped I was at least going south.
A glimmer ahead looked like a mirage. Oh beautiful cool full lake! And the thought that piggy-backed: this means i'm Definitely in the wrong place. A delirious laugh rang in my head singing, "Where there's a water, there's a loooong ******* way to Pellel!" Not definitively so, a meek little hope argued. Daniel's village has a water fall... I COULD be close! And anyway, it was still around noon which still gave me about 6 hours of daylight to stumble to my village. Really, the responsible thing to do would be to cool down the body temperature. (I was already too dehydrated to sweat and knew it had to be at least 130° F.) And with such a beautiful lake-- who knew-- maybe some rich toubab tourists would come with a jeep and rescue me with fellow toubab-alliance.
I steered off the footpath, towards the glimmer. Monkeys scattered away and I had to appreciate the beauty of the secluded shaded grove despite my fatigue. And thanks to the saud exhaustion, I lacked the energy to panic when some angry baboons hooted at me like gang members, flashing their teeth, pounding themselves and the ground. I just froze with my bike, unable to force myself to think. Maybe my worn-out face and bike are intimidating because the gang soon ran off and up trees. Dazedly, I continued, too tired even for retrospective concern. Cows and goats stared as I slowly stepped down the embankment and stared at the unreal mass of water. Too beautiful.
Truly. It really was too good to be true. I stood for a while, pondering this. Why were none of those animals drinking by the water's edge? Really, that was strange. What was wrong with it? I threw in some twigs. No acidic burning. No pirahna feeding frenzy. What else could I test? Obviously, I wouldn't drink the water. Just get wet enough to cool me down as I continued on.
Satisfied that I had adequately agonized over the possibilities, I took a step to the chocolate cake-like ground just before the water's edge. And the earth ate my leg. As it was more muddy in make-up, I guess it wasn't technically quick-sand (someone google this for me?) but same idea. I screamed as my leg was swallowed and flung myself back to the embankment. I recalled reading you have to swim to get out of quicksand, so I did, with all my strength. My twin-tower shoe didn't make it, but since it was for my injured right foot on which I still had to walk who-knew-how-far, I quickly grabbed a root from the bank to support myself as I shot my arm in the already closed-up space where my leg had been. This time it was harder to get out, but I held on to the root and screamed and cried and somehow fell back with a muddy broken shoe held by a muddy broken body.
I may have laughed, I know I cried. Whose life was this? REALLY? Let's pause to curse out loud and shake our heads. Also let me insert here that people may have started calling me INDIANA STONES and I may be okay with that.
OK, back to the quicksand/mud I'd just escaped (flame-throwing pymies to come). But seriously, I was truly panicking now. I don't even know how I stumbled up the bank, slippery with mud and blood and one shoe. I didn't have time to worry about the mud and whatever else was now inside my wound. And I didn't have the water to pour more than a little over it. I sucked in my breath as I used twigs and leaves to get out the big stuff and clean off the flip-flop so I could put it back together. Then back through the monkeys and out of the glimmery grove that really was too good to be true.
As I trudged weakly on, I forced myself not to think about home and friends, but couldn't help but think about death. I didn't even know what country I was in, how much longer I could go without passing out, if anyone would find me, if I could survive various frightening wildlife for a night in the bush...
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME I HAVE COMPUTER ACCESS
SPOILER: I'M ALIVE AND WELL
It feels like I'm trying to recall a ridiculous dream. I'm struggling in the attempt to keep this from sounding melodramatic, while being true to myself and state of mind at the time. Don't think I can do both...
The bike-trip to my village from Kédougou is a bit over 40k, and has few spots that qualify as roads. While beautiful, the ride is tricky enough to prompt my mountain-man neighbor, Danial, to repeat, "We are so more hard-core than the navy!" It takes a couple of hours, at least 2 litres of water, and should not be attempted between the hot hours of 11-3.
Last week, I came up to Kédougou without Daniel to accompany my counter-part to various medical facilities in a (failed) attempt to do something about her breast cancer. I was set to bike back on the 28th.
The morning started off-kilter with some drama at the center through which I stayed and waited for someone to buy me a bean sandwich. Therefore, I left at 9 when I should have left at 6. Still, I wasn't too worried about cutting it close to the hot hours. The headwind was bad and slowed me down right away. I distinctively remember pedalling fiercely 5 minutes into the trip thinking, "Ugh, this trip already sucks!" Mmm-hmm.
I was slow-going, chatting to other travellers as the sun got hotter. By the time I'd made my first turn off the main road, I'd probably already drunk half my bottle of preemptively home-made ORS. (Good call there!)
From here, my memory starts to fuzz. I was distracted by wandering thoughts-- Mariama's cancer dilemna, a death in my village, learning that a well-respected senegalese colleage has said he doesn't like me... I took a wrong turn.
I knew as much later on, scanning for familiar terrain and road rivulets. But it all looks the same. What made me nervous were the unfamiliar mountain ranges in the distance. As noon approached, the sun seemed to sit smack on top of my head and I had no idea which way east and west were. I still didn't worry because I kept running into people-- a construction worker, a sheep herder, a nice older man who invited me to lunch (non-sketchily). I told them where I was going and they pointed the way and said it was far and the sun was hot.
Idon't know when my brakes stopped working. It's possible they hadn't the whole day and I didn't know because I just hadn't needed them. My front ones here off because they'd been sticking before, but when I put them back they still didn't work. I fiddled around with my super-tool and tightened things. No luck. I finished the ORS. It was so hot and I was already tired. I gave up on the brakes and resolved to talk it downhills and ride it slowly on uphills and level ground.
This worked splendidly enough for quite a ways. I kept getting off, expecting certain hills I remembered, only to find new ones instead. I pressed on because there are only so many places these roads could go. Surely they'd meet up with mine. Daniel's village-- Dinde Fello-- features a touristy waterfall which is even listed in the Lonely Planet guide. So all roads had to go where the tourists go, right?
Huffing and puffing up a tricky incline, steadying the bike over large loose stones... the downhill leaped out before I knew what was happening. I scanned the perilous eindy rocky slope I was headed down and knew it wasn't good. I stuck my feet down to stop the bike but the speed had already built up. If I kept going and tried to maneuver my racing broken death-trap I knew it would not end well. I was going to crash one way or another. This split-second reasoning pointed me into a tree.
Then I was on the ground and my bike and shoes were points of a star, almost comically far away. I patted my good old helmet that people make fun of me for wearing and didn't notice the blood until I'd limped to my first shoe. The poor flip-flop with its sad fading american flag and twin towers picture (this design is bafflingly all over the country and are said to be the best ones here) became a shiny red horror movie prop. I poured some nalgene water over the wound, saw a flap of skin, a flash of white, embedded gravel, and the blood that flowed across the towers and already red african earth. The tears came gratefully to answer the sting. It was only my second cry in country and long over-due from all the stressful times when I pushed them back saying NOT NOW NOT NOW, LATER. Later had arrived. I felt relief to let loose as I thought about people dying and starving and how hard my life was and how it still wasn't as hard as other peoples'.
I felt sorry for myself realizing I still had who-knew-how-long to go with a brakeless bike and a red-flowing foot. I texted Roxy and Daniel short semi-serious messages about life sucking. Daniel generously asked if I wanted him to come. I did, but wouldn't have asked him to even if I thought it was possible for him to find me. I mean, how far could I be?
Ha. So I limped and huffed and the hours came and went like indistinguishable termite mounds on the path. I lost the phone service and began to fiddle with apprehension. I was sure the mountains were wrong, but didn't want to go back the whole way I'd come. The sun stubbornly stuck in the center of the sky and I just hoped I was at least going south.
A glimmer ahead looked like a mirage. Oh beautiful cool full lake! And the thought that piggy-backed: this means i'm Definitely in the wrong place. A delirious laugh rang in my head singing, "Where there's a water, there's a loooong ******* way to Pellel!" Not definitively so, a meek little hope argued. Daniel's village has a water fall... I COULD be close! And anyway, it was still around noon which still gave me about 6 hours of daylight to stumble to my village. Really, the responsible thing to do would be to cool down the body temperature. (I was already too dehydrated to sweat and knew it had to be at least 130° F.) And with such a beautiful lake-- who knew-- maybe some rich toubab tourists would come with a jeep and rescue me with fellow toubab-alliance.
I steered off the footpath, towards the glimmer. Monkeys scattered away and I had to appreciate the beauty of the secluded shaded grove despite my fatigue. And thanks to the saud exhaustion, I lacked the energy to panic when some angry baboons hooted at me like gang members, flashing their teeth, pounding themselves and the ground. I just froze with my bike, unable to force myself to think. Maybe my worn-out face and bike are intimidating because the gang soon ran off and up trees. Dazedly, I continued, too tired even for retrospective concern. Cows and goats stared as I slowly stepped down the embankment and stared at the unreal mass of water. Too beautiful.
Truly. It really was too good to be true. I stood for a while, pondering this. Why were none of those animals drinking by the water's edge? Really, that was strange. What was wrong with it? I threw in some twigs. No acidic burning. No pirahna feeding frenzy. What else could I test? Obviously, I wouldn't drink the water. Just get wet enough to cool me down as I continued on.
Satisfied that I had adequately agonized over the possibilities, I took a step to the chocolate cake-like ground just before the water's edge. And the earth ate my leg. As it was more muddy in make-up, I guess it wasn't technically quick-sand (someone google this for me?) but same idea. I screamed as my leg was swallowed and flung myself back to the embankment. I recalled reading you have to swim to get out of quicksand, so I did, with all my strength. My twin-tower shoe didn't make it, but since it was for my injured right foot on which I still had to walk who-knew-how-far, I quickly grabbed a root from the bank to support myself as I shot my arm in the already closed-up space where my leg had been. This time it was harder to get out, but I held on to the root and screamed and cried and somehow fell back with a muddy broken shoe held by a muddy broken body.
I may have laughed, I know I cried. Whose life was this? REALLY? Let's pause to curse out loud and shake our heads. Also let me insert here that people may have started calling me INDIANA STONES and I may be okay with that.
OK, back to the quicksand/mud I'd just escaped (flame-throwing pymies to come). But seriously, I was truly panicking now. I don't even know how I stumbled up the bank, slippery with mud and blood and one shoe. I didn't have time to worry about the mud and whatever else was now inside my wound. And I didn't have the water to pour more than a little over it. I sucked in my breath as I used twigs and leaves to get out the big stuff and clean off the flip-flop so I could put it back together. Then back through the monkeys and out of the glimmery grove that really was too good to be true.
As I trudged weakly on, I forced myself not to think about home and friends, but couldn't help but think about death. I didn't even know what country I was in, how much longer I could go without passing out, if anyone would find me, if I could survive various frightening wildlife for a night in the bush...
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT TIME I HAVE COMPUTER ACCESS
SPOILER: I'M ALIVE AND WELL
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