Clash of Two Worlds

After getting the approval from the PC nurse to go to Dakar 12 hours before our planned early morning departure, my two friends (both of which were lucky enough to travel with this chick), Brian and Bjorn, left the PC house at 6:30am, a few minutes after an hour-long torrential downpour. It was dawn and the streets were flooded with muddy puddles, which I was not happy about due to my wrapped, infected toe. Anyway, here, you just roll with it...and we did.

While waiting for the ferry in Banjul, we were asked by an abnormally unsketchy guy if we happened to be going to Dakar. Why yes we were! After negotiating a price, slightly higher than, a sept plas (seven passenger vehicle that's a step up from a gele-gele). It was the three of us, the driver and his no more than 5 year-old niece. As we sat on the ferry, we looked to our left and noticed a white, wooden coffin on the bed of a pick-up next to us. (Knowing funeral practices of Islam, the person inside probably died at the early hours of the morning and was being taking to its burial place as quickly as possible.)

We proceeded on our way with a minor freak out when car spun out on the muddy road from Barra to the border town of Almdalai. Brian and Bjorn handled it well and didn't even notice my hands gripping their thighs as I let out an 'Ahhh!' (I was sandwiched in the middle of them). We continued on our journey, full of bribing police officers for a unlit tail light, a bumpy, mud-ridden road, and a repeat electrical short, which later caused the car to stall when slowing down. After several pushes by a Senegalese Gendarmie officer, Bjorn, Brian, and useless bystanders, and a laborious hot-wiring the job, the car went on its way without any problems. We hit Dakar around 5:30pm, only to sit in horrific, diesel-exhaust fume-filled traffic for about an hour and a half. Our driver, FaKebba, dropped us off near our hotel, and Bjorn began using his Wolof skills so that we could survive our week long trip in Dakar. (Brian speaks Fula; I speak Mandinka; none of us speak French.)

We arrived at our hotel, recommended by our friends Ryan and Leslie (thanks guys!), and it was a nice treat. Hot water, running shower, spotless, air conditioning, fan and a pretty steady supply of electricity without the use of a generator. We had arrived. First task: money and food. Good food: no rice, palm oil, no peanuts.

During the week, we ate to our hearts' content. And after a week of what felt like gorging, I realized I felt the healthiest I have (despite my various infections) since being in West Africa. Why? I wasn't eating rice...in fact, Brian, Bjorn, and I made a pact to not eat rice the entire time we were there. (We broke it the first day as we were offered really cheap chicken yassa for lunch.) Salads, cheese, fresh bread, seafood (lots of it), and even Ben and Jerry's ice cream. (I ate half the container and still feel no shame.)

Traveling through the different parts of Dakar---Ngor Island, Goree Island, Alamides, Les Mamelles, Place of Independence, and more African urban parts, I was happy to be in this world of familiarity. Familiarity with West Africa---its culture, its transport, its frustrations, but at the same, famliarity with a world in which I've been disconnected in over 1.5 years...full of luxuries as menial as pastries, bus schedules, good cups of coffee, news, and even fashion. My two worlds collided, in a sense, and while it was great to be back in a life of 'luxury', it only made me realize how much I miss home. My family, my friends, the parks, the cities, and my bike. As Bjorn and I said goodbye to Brian, who was flying to the States for his sister's wedding, I realized I could have walked right on that plane too. New York was ALMOST right there. But I couldn't. I didn't. And I wouldn't. I'm not yet done.

For the next few days, more cheese and more baguette bread were eaten. More was explored and one day, we actually found ourselves on a bus, not really certain where it was going. At first we thought to ask the driver to stop the bus, but then we realized that it's okay to just ride around...see the neighborhoods, the universities, the people, the life. We spent about 3 hours riding around the city, and I thought to myself, would I ever do this in New York City or even Philadelphia? Probably not. But I think that will be on my list of things to do once States-side again. Ride the bus like a local, while acting as a tourist. Rediscover those places I've missed. and I can't wait.

Five days after our arrival to Dakar, it was time to return to The Gambia. Admittedly, I had mixed emotions. I could've stayed a bit longer, but I really couldn't. Funds were running low. After a ridiculously long check-out at the hotel (there was a minor error, but became a major task to fix), we hired a taxi to take us to the car park. We hoped for a sept plas, but none were available. So instead, we got a van that took 4 hours and 15 minutes to fill. It was by far the worst 'waiting for transport' experience of my time here. Passengers finally became angry after we waited for 2 hours for the last two passengers to arrive. After we finally left the car park, we headed out of the madness, hitting traffic and stopping every 50 kms for the same passenger to pee.

Then, it became dark, with people getting off and taking their luggage, which required 5 minutes to untie and retie the remaining baggage to the roof rack. Stop and go, stop and go. We hit the border around 8:45pm at night, checked out with Senegal Immigration and checked in with Gambia Immigration. The Gambian Officers assured us that we'd make the last ferry from Barra to Banjul. We arrived in Barra at 9:30, only to find out that that night, the Gambia Ports Authority decided to close the ferry early (the last ferry is at 11pm), due to the arrival of rain and some Raggae singer (who knows). We were stuck in Barra for an hour, surrounded by drunk men, trying to have us hire a small boat across, or trying to convince us to stay at the 'guesthouse' (ie. brothel). We sat at the police station, complete with ravenous mosquitoes and men being held in jail cells. Thankfully, a PCV friend that lives nearby helped bring a happy ending to our horrid day. She found a friend with a car, and they came to pick us up, and we stayed at her house for the night. All was well the next morning when we crossed to Banjul.

Despite my homesickness (and unsatiated desire for cheese and baguette and Salade Nicoise), I'm happy to go back to site in a few days. The rest of the year will be an exciting time---garden work, babies to be born in the compound, health talks, tutoring, Arts and Craft club, growing vegetables in my personal garden, biking the country, and maybe rediscovering The Gambia, before I leave to return to that other world.

Keep in touch. And know I miss you all.

Lots of Love,

Steph

Almamy and Mariama

The sister of my wife (my wife is my host brother's wife) recently visited with her two small children.

Three days after her arrival to our compound, our guest informed her sister (my wife), that her younger child, Mariama, who is 11 months, had diarrhea, vomiting, loss of appetite, and a fever for 4 days. To my knowledge, she did nothing during this time. I looked at her makeshift UNICEF health card (a photo-copied piece of paper since the supply of the UNICEF blue cards has 'run out') and just by her weight of 6.7kg, she's on the verge of being classified as underweight and malnourished. In fact, such is the case for children here in The Gambia, and of course, all throughout Africa.

However, I don't want to mislead you, I'm not living amongst a sea of emaciated children, with sunken eyes and stretched skin across a skeleton. There is food here (although, we are told that due to the global food crisis, this time next year, many Gambians and Africans could be starving---more on that in a later post).

Food is available and plenty is here, but it is not prepared properly (to preserve nutrients) or the diet itself is not varied enough to provide adequate vitamins and protein. Far too many children die because they aren't making healthy weight gain, become sick---in most cases, either with diarrhea or malaria, and die, or they are born with an untreated illness that will ultimately end their lives early.

This time last year, I took a 2 year-old to the hospital with his concerned mother. The child, Almamy, was rapidly losing weight. His mother did what she could (from my humble observation and my counterparts'). She went to receive the food supplement bundle distributed by the Department of Health here and UNICEF, but the supply hadn't yet been delivered and was unavailable. When we went to the major hospital, the hospital said he was severely malnourished (which was obvious to just about anyone) and he tested positive for malaria. They prescribed medication, but didn't have the multi-vitamins in stock at the hospital's pharmacy. The pharmacy in town was closed, and we proceeded to the 'black market' of medicine, where former health workers buy medicine in the Kombos and resell them at an inflated cost to those who will pay anything because they desperately need it.

A few days after taking Almamy to the hospital, I had to travel to Kombo. Almamy was released from the hospital while I was away. But during my stay, Almamy died. His condition was already too far gone and there was nothing that could be done. Maybe taking him to the hospital gave him a few more days of life, or maybe it made no difference whatsoever. Sadly, I knew before I even took him that he wasn't going to make it.

So now, will the story of Almamy become the story of Mariama? Deep down, I hope not, but now I realize, one never knows. An innocent child born into this world (compounded with the struggles of Africa) was born merely to suffer---never to enjoy the feat of discovering how to go from a crawl to a walk, experiencing the sounds and shrills that eventually result in a muttering of 'Baba' (Daddy), or mimicking her mother as she carries out her daily tasks of fetching water, washing clothes, and cooking meals. For some reason, I feel like Mariama may become this year's Almamy.

As Mariama's mother, Jainaba, left my compound, my wife told me that they were going to go to the hospital the next day since the child was not better, even though we gave her medicine prescribed by my counterpart. As Jainaba, Mariama, and Mariama's brother left, I felt Mariama's forehead: it was hot---hotter than the day we took her to my counterpart's. Mariama can't talk as she's too young, but her whimpers and spurts of moaning (never really crying) translated clearly---HELP ME.

Infections!

Greetings! The past month has been an interesting one...filled with rainy-season infections, village celebrations, gardening, rain (lots of it), and travel.

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I arrived in Kombo about 1.5 weeks ago to attend a pre-Service Training meeting, have some skin infections checked out, and to head to Dakar, Senegal for a mini-vacation with two friends.


The ride down to Kombo was an exciting one, as I was toting my host sister (really my host cousin but everyone is a cousin of someone else here, so it's easier to say sister...plus, she's like the younger sister I never had.) Fanta, my host sister, is looking to attend Senior Secondary School in Kombo and came with me to speak to some headmasters and to talk to relatives about living in their compounds while she attends school for the next three years. This trip was exciting because 1) I had a traveling companion and 2) Fanta had never crossed McCarthy Island nor traveled to Kombo via the North Bank Road. I think I was more excited for her than she was herself.


A few days prior to my departure, I was at another PCV's place for a Friendship Day Party (August 3). While there, I developed a fever and became really sick to my stomach. In addition, I developed a weird rash/bite-type thing on my right arm. It became really itchy, like a mosquito bite, started to scab (without my even scratching), and then a large, puffy, hot red ring formed around it. The fever was gone in twelve hours, but my arm didn't improve. In addition, I had an infected toe for about 2 weeks prior to my departure to Kombo. It's an ingrown toenail, and chances are it be removed during my visit to Kombo.


The day of departure to Kombo, I had three large pimples (or so I thought) on the left side of my face. You know the kind that are deep, down under the surface, and they hurt like mad? (If you don't remember, think back to when you were 15 and actually had pimples. If you go to Africa in your mid-20s, you'll feel like your 15 again because they magically come back!) Anyway, I rode down to Kombo, without any problems, dropped my host sister off at our relatives, chatted for a while, and headed to the office. After a few hours checking email, I went to the PC house, took a shower, and immediately the entire left side of my face started swelling. It continued to swell, so much that I had to call the PC duty nurse. I took some Benadryl and used some cold compresses. The next morning, I walked quickly, with my head down (literally embarrassed by the size of my face), to the med unit only to be told by the Duty Nurse, that she wasn't going to do anything until the doctor saw me. I only (minorly) freaked out. My face is swelling up! Not to mention my toe is infected...


The doctor and my health nurse saw me and immediately prescribed aggressive antibiotics. The swelling went down slowly and continued to decrease, little by little each day. They have no idea what happened or what it was, but they were concerned it wouldn't respond to antibiotics, and they'd have to begin treating me for a staph infection (ON MY FACE!). Thankfully, the antibiotics worked.


Twelve hours before I was scheduled to leave with my two friends, the nurse gave me the approval to go. And I went...and so happy I did.

Thankfully, it's all better now...or it appears that way. Unfortunately, or fortunately, I didn't take any pictures. Trust me, it was bad---looked worse than my wisdom teeth swelling and conjunctivitis pictures from training.

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