Ramadan, eh...

Ok, lets get the heart wrenching stuff out of the way first...

I went to the hospital in my village a few days ago to greet the doctor and others that work there. (The bulk of my day is spent “greeting” people. I think in America we call it “visiting.”) I talked to the doctor for a few minutes and he tells me to meet him in one of the examining rooms. He’s already in there when I arrive. I walk in while he’s putting gloves on, standing in front of a young woman sitting on the examining table, feet in stirrups, nothing covering the baby-maker. WHOA!!! Not what I was expecting! She doesn’t look pregnant, but he is telling her to push. He hands me a pair of gloves and tells me I can assist him. I can’t remember the last time that I felt this awkward. Obviously my job title involving the word “health” has led him to believe that I know something about something. I told him that I’m not trained or prepared for this kind of thing and that I feel pretty out of place. We all hear stories about how volunteers have seen women give labor here because a lot of times it takes place at home. All I kept thinking was, “Oh man, is this going to be the time I have to see this??? Ahhhhh!” She didn’t even seem like she was in labor. I had just decided I would walk out when the doctor took his gloves off and walked outside. I followed and once outside asked him what was going on. If she’s in labor shouldn’t he be in there? Why wasn’t he in there when I arrived at the hospital in the first place? That being said, he then explains to me in French, Pulaar and broken English that she is 5 months pregnant with twins that have died because her husband beat her. WHAT?!?! There was so much going through my head. Who is she? Does she live in my village? I’ve never seen her. Why is the doctor laughing? Is he messing with me (because they would totally joke about things like that)? I had no idea what to do. I mean, there’s really nothing I can do. Women are basically property of their husbands and its not like I know her or her husband OR enough Pulaar to bust up in a man’s compound and try to change his mind about the negative effects of beating his pregnant wife. So I just went home. Later my family told me that it was true, that she lives in a town about 60 km from us and that some men went to beat up her husband. Well that’s a relief, because violence solves violence, right??? (Sense the sarcasm) Welcome to my life.

So Ramadan is making it damn near impossible to get any work done. Its fallen on one of the busiest months for farmers so pretty much everyone in my village is in the fields all day and into the evening and by time they get home they are deliriously dehydrated and angry. This is not conducive for data collection. I wish it were, because normally going around questioning people would entail having to sit around drinking tea or them insisting that I stay for lunch. During Ramadan that isn’t a problem, but them being in the field all day is. So I came to Tamba 3 days earlier than I needed to. I tried to bike here and made it about 27 of the 35 miles before the doctor from my village stopped and insisted he drive me the rest of the way. He couldn’t fathom why I would be riding my bike for exercise when I could have taken a car straight from my village. Luckily there was some work I was able to help out with in a friend’s garden. After the first day of being in the PC house, the internet and cold drinks aren’t all that exciting anymore and its much better to have something to do. The garden was fun, but my skin quickly turned to bacon. I planted a few trees though, giving me a generic sense of giving life to something or another. Saturday we had a going away party for Austin, who when asked what he would like to do for his shindig requested that we start drinking before 7am. We did. I was back asleep by noon, hung over by 2pm.

I don’t really have anything too exciting to write about right now. I need to get this baseline survey done in the next month or two. I’ve decided that perhaps I shouldn’t work for myself in the long run. We don’t have anyone breathing down our necks or strict deadlines to meet. We start, maintain and finish everything on our own. I don’t know, well see. I think if I can find my niche, a project I’m super passionate about then I’ll be okay.

I’m going to visit a friend in the south of Senegal in the beginning of Sept. He’s one of the students I worked with when I was here in 2007 and we kept in touch ever since. When I left then I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be back and be able to see him so its super exciting to get to see him again. He’s an English teacher. Oh, I started my garden in my backyard. When I got home last time my backyard was completely covered in weeds, up past my hips. I hadn't even thought of that possibly happening but since it had been raining a little they sprung up. My dad and brother cut them all down for me. I haven’t started planting yet, but I’ve prepared the beds. I needed something to outline the beds, rock or sticks seeming like the best idea. When I started looking around the village for them I realized there’s so much trash everywhere and decided to outline the beds with broken plates, dead flashlights, broken buckets, broken shoes, etc. My centerpiece being a decent size animal shoulder bone. Yeah! My family thinks I’m crazy for always toting trash into my hut. I think it will look pretty cool. It’s the closest thing to recycling that my village has ever seen.

Ok that’s all I have for now. I hope everyone is doing well. xoxo