Cataracts Out of the Bag

"Oh the iris is coming out, dat's really not good..."

Four health workers took their vacation from the US (originally Hungary x2, Jamaica, and NJ) to Senegal to perform miracles. A 5 minute simple cataract surgery in the US has never occurred in Kedougou. Thus, many blind or nearly-blind citizens of the surrounding area who never would have gotten the chance otherwise, can now see. Being a part of it is probably the coolest thing I've ever done.

And what exactly did I do? Did it involve a crescent blade and lots of "oops" peppering my speech?

A Day in the Life of Me/ Restoring Sight to Blind Lepers

(OK OK, that may sound slightly pretentious... In actuality there was only one obvious leper.)

-I start by donning scrubs of a beautiful blue that splatter with iodine and eye fluids hourly. I also get a hairnet and face mask and can't wear outdoor shoes on the operating room floor.
-Wipe down everything with alcohol. It's weird trying to reconnect with my American germaphobia after losing all standards of cleanliness in this country.
-Next I fill syringes with nerve-blocking drugs. I tap them in the air and feel cool.
-Run around and open packets of things like wexel sponges, miostat, various blades, needles, syringes, gloves, drapes, provisc, satures... during the surgery as well. The first couple of days this stressed me out (WHAT are you saying to me and where is it ahhh?!) but I got the hang of it.
-Find patients' correct lens (for which they'd been previously measured). Most go posterior cortex, but if something goes wrong and the posterior is injured, I run and get an anterior one.
-Dress patients in scrubs and a hairnet that may or may not already be wet with eye liquids, saline, blood... (we don't have a lot to work with!) If the patient's last name is Camara, my joking cousin, I will at this point tell them not to steal the scrubs. Hilarity ensues.
-Lead them to the OR and assure them 200 times no one will steal their broken flip flops and dirty head rags while they're gone. Help them climb up on table. Tell them not to fall because we only feel like doing one operation for them.
-If Dr. Donald McDonald II is operating (he and Judith switch off), he's probably singing by this point. I will make fun of his voice with the patient and we'll have a lovely little private giggle.
-Clean the eye area with iodine swipes and explain why they should not move during the surgery and that we can give them more medicine if it hurts.
-Standby to counterpush microscope as surgeon places a sterile cap on it. If anyone touches this or the drape or nurse's table or gloves, they will freak out and have to change everything.
-Give patient a drop of viximox, turn on the microscope light, and hold up face drape so patient doesn't suffocate. I use an old cut out box to make sure they maintain breathing capacity. I'm not sure how any OR has ever functioned without me.
-Watch as surgeon clamps open the eye and threads through back of eyeball and clamps it down so that it's looking down, enabling him/her to make a cut above. Sometimes this already hurts the patient and I have to hold them down and tell them we'll give them more painkillers. Then make said painkillers.
-Next, the surgeon snips the main cut above the iris through which (s)he'll do most of the prodding/ extracting/ inserting. The line of this cut is then cauterized (burned) so that it stops bleeding. Sometimes it smokes and smells, but is otherwise quite cool. This is extremely painful if the patient's nerves have not been properly blocked.
-Stand around gawking (I was glad to have a face mask the 1st day while I couldn't shut my mouth) as surgeon enters eye, spins milky full moon of cataract to surface, and drags/ sucks it out of the entry wound. That is the most exciting part and the lens's always surprise me with how big they are. They look like odd gummy candies until they dry out. I collected them one morning to show the others, so they rattled around in a little box.
(By the way, the "others" are doing lamer jobs like handing out glasses, testing eyesight (harder than it sounds for people unused to characters inked on paper. Even the villager-geared version with pictures of snakes confuse them to the point at which they feel like that have to explain to the idiot toubab that that is actually NOT a snake, it is a squiggle on paper...) The worst job, though, is telling people who travelled who-knows-how-far that they actually have glaucoma, not cataracts, we can't do anything for them, they'll never see, and they should not continue to seek help.)
-Surgeon removes clouds from eyes and replaces the old yellow (once- black!) lens with a new one. I open it with a flourish over the nurse's table, careful not to touch anything.
-Opening things, moving chins, table, microscope magnification, pleading with patients to stop moving, watching everyone working there roll their eyes over their masks for various reasons....
-When the lens is in, the edges of the iris hydrated to seal, the suture sewn, and the pupil pressure appropriately low, tbe silken stitch is removed, the eye rolls back, and we're done.
-Put in 4 eye drops, remind surgeon to inject steroids (they're allowed to forget this one thing when I'm there to remind them-- they don't do any of this stuff in America which a machine does it all!)
-Patch up eye with gauze and tell patient not to take it off, come back tomorrow morning EALRY, Dr. will remove it and give medicine... If Allah wills it, they will see a little tomorrow, more the next day, and so on for a moon.
-Patient thanks profusely, blesses us, and asks where the shoes are. I lead him/her off the bed (one lady jumped and I had to catch her...) and away. They get their stuff with advil and instructions. We're all happy.
-Repeat 9-15 times a day, sometimes for 12 hours. Mentally apologize to feet.

(Of all the surgeons and fellow nurses, I'm the only one who attended every single one of the 107 surgeries! Am I an expert now? Anyone wanna let me take a stab at their eye?)

At first I felt useless and insultingly unqualified to be there. What could I possibly offer? But I began to realize: a lot.
Doctors tend to be people who care, of course. But to reach the point at which you cut peoples’ bodies like a machine, you have to detach yourself. It’s hard to operate on your mother because you can’t just think of her as a body that will have to handle the pain of your cuts. But when you can’t speak the same language or communicate anything, it’s easier, sometimes automatic. You have to emotionally cut them off and stop trying to empathize or you’ll drive yourself crazy. Here’s where I could contribute.
I couldn’t translate everything the doctors would normally explain in the US. There are no Pulaar words for “cataract,” “lens,” “cortex,” “anesthesia,” “implant…” But I can get the point across in villager-terms. (She is removing your malady and replacing it with new thing for your eye. It will help you see.) I could ask how much it hurt; tell them it was going well; that they are brave.
It’s a terrifying experience to have an operation anywhere. But these poor souls have been blind for who-knows-how-long, missing fingers and toes due to related accidents, have never been to a hospital, are hearing fast foreign chatter and laughter and shouts all around them, don’t understand these physical medical explanations, most likely remember their last operations were genital cutting, are at the mercy of strangers they can’t see… TERRIFYING. I was glad to be there and make bad jokes and dance as I led them out once it was over.
During these surgeries, too, I held shaking fingers. The first times I did, the surgeons and nurse each individually noticed and said things like, “Oh! Good idea!” (Back to the empathy block.) I loved that I could do this, knowing it’s probably never done in Senegal. Here, doctors are powerful men who explain nothing and comfort less. Furthermore, I liked defying the anti-physical affection rule. I was especially crossing the standard line when I held men’s hands. But they squeezed back after a minute, hopefully slightly less terrified. I may not be qualified to operate, but I can still help!
The best part, of course, is telling people (Inchallah!) they will see again. They’re ecstatic. I well up. I asked a few people what they wanted to see and got these answers: the road, my wife and kids, Hadi Souare’s beautiful face! (“You’re blind; you don’t know that I’m beautiful!” “Yes, but I still know it.” Aww!)
It’s awesome awesome awesome. These surgeons are miracle machines and I was honored to be part of the magic. (Also honored to have the opportunity to work in an OR without all the years of study and sleepless nights that usually precede… sorry med students! You should’ve joined the Peace Corps!) People can see who thought it was impossible.

NOTABLE PATIENTS
(now that I’m done with the heart-warming part)
-A really old senile guy kept laughing and moving every part of his body. I had to clamp down his head so hard it made my arms ache. His son and Michele held his arms and feet. Sometimes performing miracles is hard work.
-A guy kept saying I was his wife and then praying extensively. When we finished, I couldn’t get him off the table for 5 minutes while he prayed enthusiastically and blessed us (amina…)
-One adorable tiny old lady kept saying, “Thank you thank you!” (always 2x) loudly and joltingly especially when the surgeon gave her a shot or made a cut. I had to keep saying, “You’re welcome, but please stop talking…”
-As I was explaining to one lady that she should tell me if anything hurts a lot, she said, “Just don’t hurt me!” I laughed, but she continued to say that everyone said it hurt a lot. I asked for names and she answered, “EVERYONE!” Judith was crushed when I translated and I told the woman she made the doctor sad. “Good,” she retorted. “She hurts people.” But, alas, at the end she had to admit it didn’t hurt so much, and she was thankful, and fine, she’d pass on the word that it wasn’t so bad.
-When we were about to start on one woman, we were talking (in English!) and we laughed about something. So did the woman. We looked at her in surprise and laughed harder. So did the woman, blind, under a drape, without a word of English in her head. On and on, and we all laughed harder for a good long minute, unable to stop and operate. I, of course, was the last one to stop.
-One old man smelled worse than the normal bad smells and we found out why. He started shouting something I couldn’t understand so I got his son to come in, thinking he was just scared. Then he took out his penis. Somehow, my first reaction was embarrassment for him as he’s probably a Muslim who wouldn’t want four women witnessing this. He had to pee. Judith was literally in the middle of his eyeball. Michele and I frantically thrust a kidney tray at him. He filled it and when Michele reached for it, he just dropped it on us instead. Rather than help the peed-on toubab girls, the Senegalese doctor who’d been watching rushed the son out of the room. He later explained that it was traumatizing for a son to see his father’s penis. This pee-throwing happened two more times. This guy had a lot of pee and apparently was unable to interpret our screams of agonized disgust as “Don’t do that!” Thank Allah for scrubs.
-The next day, more pee. But not thrown at me, just on the floor. I couldn’t get mad at that. These people are old, blind, and used to popping squats anywhere. Instead I got mad that no hospital worker would clean it up.
-One lady got turned around of the operating table and refused to be led out the door. She didn’t believe it was the right way and got semi-violent. She said she’d just sleep there since the door was apparently so far.
-Everyone’s favorite lady was an adorable slightly chubby tiny woman who couldn’t go 5 minutes without giggling. Her giggle made our hearts melt like snicker bars in Senegal. Unfortunately, we had to cancel her operation. Once on the table, she had a panic attack and her giggles turned to sobs. We brought in her daughter, duct-taped her head down, and tried everything, but she wouldn’t stop thrashing. So, she’s still blind. However, I felt better when she started her giggles up again as she walked out the door, holding our hands. I apologized and she said, “Don’t be sorry, I’m happy to be off the table!” Seeing isn’t everything, I guess.

(But it’s pretty fantastic.)

Ndota Yangu

My heaven would have fields of coffee growing in coffee-colored soil. Avocados, citrus, mangoes, flowers, and green as far as the eye can see. Women hold on their heads bundles of bananas fanning outward like giant pinecones. Music that can lift you while the drums keep you steady. Perfect weather, ease with strangers... Tanzania.
Along the slow trails of the mountain of peoples' dreams, thousands of people sigh in disbelief. They stack rounded rocks on top of each other: towers of anonymous evidence. Circles on circles, the porters climb with stangers' bags on their heads like moving stone tower testaments. The line between life and rock blurs in the haze of the sun whom you climb to meet.
In the green valleys below, a different dream. It sings a song your body knows, that your memory had forgotten. Sound of music mountains make an arena of the Ngoro Ngoro crater. Elephants, gazelles, waterbuck, water baffalo, zebra, hyenas, lions, rhinos, hippos, babboons all dance among each other and a bird for every feeling you have yet to feel. The zebras pose modern art against a backdrop of water color impressionism. Taking it all in settles you. This prehistoric Eden recalls some biological memory of the real world before mechanical buzzing overpowered its song.
Turn up the hoofbeat, let the grasses aplaud, listen with awe as your bones sing along.

Kill-A-Woman-Jaro

Alternate Title: My Dad's Idea of a Vacation

Day 1
Am impressed with state of alive-ness. Would recommend m&ms to any future climbers. Saw white-tailed colobus monkeys with haunting faces. Am already cold. Spent at least 5 minutes gushing about the reviving powers of ORS (Oral Rehydration Solution) to dad. He must already think I'm off my rocker. I may terribly jinx things by saying so, but it looks like I may be more comfortable and well-fed and lazy on this climb than in daily village life. We only walk at granny-pace for a couple hours and then laze around in tents eating popcorn and tea. It's awesome. Our trail is called Rongai and I'm impatiently awaiting an opportunity to use the punchline, "You've got the Rong-gai!"

Day 2
POPCORN, AVOCADO, ORANGE, POTATO-CARROT-PEPPER BISQUE, LEEK SOUP, TOMATO-TALAPA RICE, TEA, TOAST...

Ramson is our awesome guide who isn't even sketchy to me. He said he guided 2 women before the US election who angrily said Obama will most certainly not win. We asked where they were from and while he was struggling to remember, I suggested, "Texas?" Correct. We explained people can be stupid. He said they were not very nice. We explained people who are stupid are often racist. We were disappointed to hear that they both made it to the summit.

Other conversation ranged from: education, Muslims (who are not well-liked here! I'm trying to be quick in reporting how AWESOME my Souree family is), tree-grafting, farm subsidation, unmarried people, crops, economies...

We're apparently doing decently. We passed a girl today who had to go back down and call an ambulance.. Hatari! (Danger)

Day 3
Woke up full of snot but with a great view of the snowcaps to compensate. Got chips AND popcorn AND the most awesome fried banana AND pancakes! WHAT IS GOING ON?! WHERE AM I? The men (everyone else) sang spirituals.

In the middle of the night, I starting shaking with laughter... I was remembering baba yangu (my dad) ask about toilet paper. He's an avid student of the ways of African wiping. He's impressively open about it considering the first time he heard about it was from me a few days ago. He keeps asking me to explain again, but I appreciate his efforts and willingness to adapt. We realized they probably did carry t.p. for us though, so he went to ask. Awkwardly. "So, do you have the, uh, toilet paper... or do you just do the, uh, you know, with the water?" (mimed wiping butt as befuddled guides and porters stared on.) He repeated it a couple times before looking to me for help (as I was holding in giggles). In that moment with all helpless and confused eyes on me, after we'd all just watched my dad stutter about water and wiggle his fingers around his rear end... I has a decision to make. What I really wanted to do was tell my dad I'd made the whole thing up and that's why they didn't understand. Can you imagine? Instead I took the lamer route and said clearly, "Toilet paper or water?" And the guy said, "Ah, you want toilet paper!" and gave us some.

(Apologies to my dad for including this...)

People I know of Who've climbed Kilimanjaro:
Dana: my friend, but also an insane fitness type. Runs every day, IN SENEGAL. Is otherwise intelligent. Said when she reached the summit, she sat down, cried, and thought she would die. Also that she'd love to do it again...
Emily: Smoker. Said it was a mountain of diarrhea and to bring imodium. When she returned, she had long-lasting lung problems
Kevin: Former marine
Mandy: A better version of myself, but also comparatively normal
Family of Cindy's friend: My mum tried to comfort me with the tale of how this Whole Family made it up, Quote: "And they're not in any GREAT shape... well... they do all have their own personal trainers, but..."
Obese Woman in Girly Magazine: Fulfilled her lifelong dream of losing enough weight to climb to the top. I wish she were the only person I knew about. I think of her often. I would send her flowers if I could.

Day 4
Passed a gravesite, and dad left. His heart didn't take to the altitude well, and there was no reason to risk it, and every reason not to. So I have his warm jacket, headlamp, energy "gu", and half an empty tent. And a midnight wake-up call to embark on the final stretch to the top of Kilimanjaro.

Day 5
I will never come back to Kilimanjaro.
It was epicly gorgeous. The sun rose over a whole half of the earth as if I were watching from a space ship. The glaciers were too massive to be real. Snow, valleys, mountains, world beyond. Amazing. Too bad I was rather distracted by the difficulty I found in living to appreciate it all even half as much as it deserved.
It snowed in the night-- a foot that covered the tent I had to myself. I didn't sleep a wink before I was summoned at midnight. We ended up leaving 20 Minutes late but somehow I channeled my Herculean side on the way up and passed everyone else. So we were the first to reach the crater edge with still over an hour before sunrise. Without a moon, it was pitch black except for the strings of headlamps below that crawled like snakes of pearl or broken Christmas lights. Then the stars came our and I was encouraged to see a meteor while Ramson turned snow yellow. He kept complimenting my speed. Then I couldn't breathe.
I guess there's a height which just flips my acclimatization switch. One minute I was singing, "Hakuna Matata" in my head and the enxt I felt like the grim reaper was slow dancing wiht me. A lot of it must have been mental-- once I stopped blocking out every thought that wasn't "One foot, Next foot, breathe, Hakuna Matata...", I unintentionally gave myself free reign to freak out. I suddenly realized I was light-headed, dizzy, exhausted, and colder than I've ever been in my life. I had hand-warmers that are not supposed to go directly on your skin because they could burn you-- and I couldn't even feel them! I thought they didn't work until several hours later once I'd descended to warmer weather. It was good I had my dad's jacket, but I remember thinking there could never be enough clothes to combat this.
This is when I started hating Ramson. More specifically, I wanted to stab my ski pole through his torso. I could tell he'd been bragging to the other guides as we passed them about my speed. At the time it fed my ego, but I was starting to realize this was not what I wanted from a guide. He was sure I wanted to get to the Uhuru sign like all his other clients, get the proof-picture, and then give him a big tip. Actually, I honestly just wanted to makle a beline for the nearest bed. Instead I wimpered weak protests as he dragged me. Then I couldn't keep my eyes open. The sign was apparently on the other side of Africa. Every time he revised his description of its location (see that light? there. no, just beyond that bend... no, past those rocks), my grip tightened on my ski pole. I would have cried if I weren't so tired.
Seeing the sun rise over such a massive curve of the horizen, past mountains, cities, countries-- is something I'll never forget. The glaciers can't be described, even by photo. It truly was the most spectacular set of views anyone could ever see without drugs. Still, I was panicked about never being able to walk my body away from the scene to give it all my awe. The rest of life is more beautiful than any mountain top.
My guide seemed to disagree. When my battaries died and he couldn't take my photo, he refused to leave until someone else gave us their batteries. I allowed the crazy search at first so I could rest. But once I realized he had no intention of letting me leave-- even after we fought-- I worried. I accepted a Dutch couples' offer to take and email me my photo. I hope they don't. I could not look worse that I must have in that photo. I can't emphasize this enough. I honestly wouldn't be surprised to see it on some joke bad-picture website instead of in my inbox.
Ramson was still not happy that I didn't have my own copy of the famous photo that gets him more tip money. When I yelled at him a final time to let it go and get me off this blasted mountain, he took off in a huff. Now I wasn't exactly missing his company, but I still didn't appreciate that this speck in the distance had all my water, food, belongings, and was supposed to be keeping me from plummeting to my death. I was already tripping over my own two feet even when I did have my eyes open. Luckily, he seemed to get over his tantrum before the crater. Then he went back to yelling at me to go faster. (This was actually necessary for my own health to get to a lower altitude.)
As we descended in a frighteningly fast straight slide down, breathing returned to my repetoire of autonomy. The dragged-by-elbow-tripping-over-rocks-miraculously-not-twisting-ankle method has claimed my legs' and knees' lives for the time being, but we made it. (I lost Dana's bracelet in the snow around this point, but this appeals to her poetic sense. I just miss my pretty bracelet.)
I am never coming back here.
We met up with my dad on the Merangue route. I struggled to explain to him that maybe his way was better. Although I have a certain sense of accomplishment and bragging rights, the climb really wasn't fun-- especially without company (Ramson doesn't count). I know he's disappointed, but even scenes of suns that rise like dreams-- aren't worth a heart attack. I'm disturbed by the importance people put into reaching the summit. The annual deaths, the more plentiful ambulences, the tears, the gravesites... Why are we so obsessed with reaching signs that seem to say, "I came as close to dying without dying to reach this sign!" Thumbs up, christmas card, gift shop tee-shirt... It's sick, really.
As I was putting myself through it, I thought about all the pain I've put myself through this year. I decided pain that gives people mosquito nets or tells a girl that she can go farther= worth it. Pain for fame/ a bad photograph= not worth it.

Day 6
Life is beautiful again. The way down was a beautiful walk at the end of which was beer. In beer, as in life, I'd recommend "Safari" over "Kilimanjaro."
I smell awful.

For the Girls

Destination Motivation

Red dust everywhere. Ancient suffocating cruel red dust. It paints my face as though for war, and my hair, and neck, and arms, and clothes. With an overpowering dark force, it penetrates the doors and the trunk, and the zippers of our bags. When we open the bags at night to change into fresh clothes, these too are covered in red dust. It overtakes each barrier and claims and consumes every hidden away scrap. It clouds the air and obscures the world until everything is red dust, oxidized history, undying earth, evil choking dirt.

I wear sunglasses and a blue scarf wrapped over my hair and face completely. The world is blue and I wear a stuffy shroud. Still the dust comes through.

The roads are like the surface of an uninhabitable planet. We lurch and soar and plunge and break down on its craters. The dust-covered batteries, alternator, projector, and speakers in the trunk strain to remain above ground. They weigh us down like our suffering. We repeatedly bottom out and hit out heads, too weary to groan audibly.

And this, all to arrive at decrepit schools that seem to buzz in midday heat. Poor hopeless African children, poor hopeless African children, poor hopeless African children. I find myself repeating the label when they seem too evil, overrunning everything like hungry dogs, like flies, like red dust.

The novelties of a movie in a school without electricity, and white people send them into a frenzy. They shout, crowd, and push, climbing over benches and through windows. The laugh, scream, trample, and bang everything they can bang. At first it seems amusing that the boys are so desperate to break into the Girls’ motivational stay-in-school SeneGAD movie. But once we start and they repeatedly thrust open the windows and slats to stick in their hands and grinning faces from outside, I feel attacked on behalf of the girls. Of course, they don’t even know what they’re disrupting, but still it comes across as another step of battle.

I crumble more, all too easily when they express the patriarchal stereotypes that I knew existed and that are why we came. Boys are better students, girls don’t want to go to school, the girls aren’t here because they’re all sick today, they choose to stay home, it’s best for all of us, only girls can do chores, girls can’t succeed, it’s how we were made, it’s how it’s meant to be…

But I say, “Would you rather have a sister who’s a doctor or who’s a mother at 15?” and choke on from there. Often they just nod. What difference does it make? The few girls stay silent and sullen in the back. They will probably be teased for all this later. They don’t have to be told their lives suck and their choices are nonexistent. I ask for 10 boys and then 4 to sit down, to show the 60% who attend school in Senegal. It’s pointless to try this with the girls—I can’t even find 10 to stand up in the first place.

The boys giggle at ideas of equality. The girls are quiet. I’m choking on dust. But I must remind myself, these boys will be fathers one day, and maybe their daughters will get to go to school. And the quiet girls are listening. I was a quiet girl in the back once too. Must. Not. Lose. Hope.

But when the boys are so far gone that they laugh in my face when I tell them to step back, it’s hard. I find myself extending my arms against their throngs, like a police barrier while they poke at the procession of girls entering the class. It reminds me of the first black students entering the white schools. It’s hard not to lose hope. It’s hard to remember the feminist zeal I had at Hamilton. It’s hard to even convince myself that I’m equal anymore. Why is patriarchy so contagious? Men and women may be fundamentally equal, but patriarchy is stronger than feminism. (For those of you still incorrectly versed, “feminism” means “equality,” not “Amazonian man-eating”.)

We have a little speech down after talking about the AMAZING women in the film (made, by the way, by PCVs, completed just last year. It’s titled Elle Travaille, Elle Vit.):
We ask which boys have sisters in the school system. Do you want your sister to succeed? (Of course!) Is it possible to succeed if you don’t have time to do your homework? (No.) Is it you or your sister who does all the housework? (My sister. My sister. My sister…) Does she have time after her chores to do her homework? (No.) Is So if she doesn’t have time to do her homework because of chores, and you want her to succeed, what could you do? (Blank stares…. Have my mother do the work? Get hired help to do the work?) How many of you have a mother with enough free time to do that work, or enough money to hire help? (No one raises a hand.) (Wait for a timid voice to suggest that the boys could maybe possibly help their sisters.) Is it possible for boys to do this? (Some one will always say, No.) What are girls’ duties? (write on board the answers: pounding, cooking, washing dishes, sweeping, laundry, pulling water, caring for babies…) Is it possible for a boy to pound? (invite one of the boys who said, “No!” to come up front.) Is there a P.E. class here? (“Yes.” Consider his physique dramatically. Ask him to flex.) Oh, what strength! I think it is possible for you to pound! (Pause for laughter.) Now, raise your hand if you’ve ever swept… pulled water… etc. Aha! So it is possible! (Often a kid will now say it’s not what is done/ traditional.) OK, well, is it possible to change a habit? Let me share with you some American history. We had very much the same problem of inequality in the States. Women could only stay at home, and men worked. Then came WWII; has anyone heard of it? The men had to go fight, but still needed materials like weapons, clothes, and vehicles. But if men weren’t there to work in the factories, what do you think happened? Who worked in the factories? (Amazingly, they say, “No one,” almost every single time.) The women. And they worked well. When the men came back, they say for themselves it was possible. Up to that point, the economy had been advancing little by little. Bit once women joined men on the work force, it improved dramatically. Now, America is one of the wealthiest and most powerful countries. [Put your economic hysteria aside; it’s still true] Do you understand this? (No.) If there is a broken truck on the road, can 10 people move it? (Maybe, very slowly.) Would 20 people make a difference? (Yes, it would be easier and faster.) So you see, double the people working, and more can be accomplished. (Read the statistics of boys vs. girls attending school in Senegal: 60% vs. 40%, and area specific percentages—they are worse for Kedougou.) If you doubled the education in this area, do you think development would come more easily? (meek “yesss..”) Or would you rather wait for America, Europe, or some NGOs to help? (“noo…”) Would you rather have a sister who’s a doctor, or one who’s a mother at 15? (Dr.) Why? Is it good for your family? (Yes.) So it’s better for your family, the region, and Senegal for her to succeed? (Yes.) So every time you help your sister with her chores, it’s like an investment. Every time you say, ‘Leave it to me; you go do your homework,’ you’re not just doing her a favor, but your family, community, and country. Last question, for the girls: who has a dream (job)? Dr? Nurse? Teacher? Flight attendant? Lawyer? Business woman? Chauffeur? (clap after each one)

So despite the dust, the technical difficulties (try holding up a little laptop screen for 300 kids to watch), transportation troubles (I hitch-hike like it’s my job… because it is), having hordes of hundreds of horrid hooligans set loose by unhelpful teachers, language issues… Where was I going with this? Something positive, right?

Just kidding, it was worth it, absolutely. Just wipe away the dust...

and don’t make me do it again.

Been Running Around Instead of AfriKate-ing...

1/23 I WILL Eat You

My strict pre-Kilimanjaro exercise regimen included a one-time jog in the village. It was actually quite enjoyable. It’s not hot season yet, I got to be alone, I was able to have short manageable conversations with people excited to see me, and I saw loads of cool monkeys and trees.

The best part, however, was coming upon a house outside of which a woman and three kids were holding clothes. They saw me running from a soccer field’s distance away and panicked like I was an oncoming tornado. They dropped the clothes , she picked up a kid, dragged the others, and they all ran with a speed you rarely witness from a villager. At first, they hid behind the huts of the compound. But as I slowed and neared and they knew they’d been spotted, they ran inside and slammed the doors.

In a culture that places the utmost importance on civil greetings, this could be taken as offensive. I, however, laughed my ass off. I couldn’t just leave them with that, so I entered the compound. Obviously, I toyed with ideas of growling, pawing at the doors, and stomping around shouting, “FI FYE FO FUM, I’m going to eat you!” But they were already hiding behind closed doors, so if I did scare them even more, I wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing the results. I mean… it would be mean. So I walked around, trying to keep my giggling to a minimum and said, “HELLOOO? I saw you all run, but you don’t need to be scared! Maybe you’ve never seen a toubab before? But it’s okay, I live with Imam Alpha Mamadou! I come to greet you only! Will do one greet me back? Really, you don’t need to be scared… OK, OK, I’m going…” They never made a move or sound. The doors remained shut. I flashed back to my days as an RA… HILARIOUS!