Tragedy

Before I begin this rather morbid blog post, I must once again apologize, for it's been almost three months since my last post about election night. I have been busy in those three months, hosting my friend Adam for two weeks here in Senegal, then a two-week trip home to Minnesota, then two weeks back in Senegal with my little sister. The two trips here were incredible, allowing me to see parts of Senegal that I hadn't yet visited, and share familiar parts with people close to me. The trip home was everything I had hoped it would be. It was filled with good food, good beer, and good friends. I can't wait to see you all again.


Hit and Run

On Friday, January 9th I witnessed a terrible accident in Thies. Following is what I wrote about it later that night. Another volunteer, Mandi, and my younger sister Nikki were also present, but here is the account from my perspective. A little background info first though: A talibé is a child who has been sent by his family to study at koranic school. The community is expected to support these kids by giving them food as they walk around when not attending class. So a young boy with a small bucket to beg with is a common sight in Senegal.

As Mandi, Nikki and I walked from Pamanda’s (a local bar) to the chicken dibby restaurant, we heard a loud, crunching crash. Our heads snapped to the right immediately beside us to see a talibé rolling away from the bumper of the taxi that had just run into him.

I instinctively ran straight to him, but quickly realized that I was ill-equipped to handle the situation. I got down and held the boys head still in my hands, not knowing what else to do. He lay on his side in the fetal position, writhing, screaming, and sobbing in pain.

Within moments Mandi came running over and said, “Andy, what do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know what to do! Call Etienne.”

So while she called Etienne and the fire service, I remained crouched next to the boy clutching his head as a crowd began to gather. Some diverted traffic, a few called for an ambulance, others tried to help me – although we were all clueless – and the rest simply watched. The cab driver had quickly disappeared after the accident.

When another man offered to hold the boys head, I looked down at my hands that I thought had been soaked by the boys tears, but realized they were covered in blood from the back of his head. I tried to tell the others but few people spoke French (I’m helpless in Wolof) and no one seemed to care.

Finally an ambulance arrived and a man jumped out, picked up the boy in his arms, jumped back into the vehicle and drove away.

A bystander saw the blood on my hands and pulled me away to his shop to wash my hands. I returned to the sidewalk as some boys threw dirt on the small pool of blood. A man asked the surrounding talibé questions about who the boy was. But the scene quickly dissipated as business in Thiès continued as usual. The three of us stood and stared for a few silent minutes, with nothing but the lumps in our throats as evidence of the horrific scene we had just witnessed.

I’ve never felt so helpless. I’ve gone through basic first aid training a few times in my life, but I felt completely unprepared and unable to deal with the situation. I know Peace Corps prefers that we don’t get directly involved in administering first aid, and I’m sure they have their reasons. But as a friend reminded me, it’s important to think about how I personally want to react to situations like these, and to make sure I'm prepared with the knowledge and skills I deem necessary to take the appropriate action.



Funeral of Yaya Camara

Somehow, this is the first funeral I’ve attended in Pondala, despite my fifteen months of living here.

We got word shortly after lunch, while I was napping in my new hammock, that Yaya Camara, the old man with the thick glasses had passed away less than an hour ago. I asked how he died and they just said that he had been sick for a long time.

Diangoba, my host father, and I went to the Camara family compound, where a small crowd had gathered, and we greeted everyone to pay our respects and then left for a few hours while the funeral rites were prepared.

When we returned, a large crowd of women had gathered just outside the gate of the compound under a shade structure. Some of them cried. The men were sitting under a shade structure and along the fence just inside the compound while a few of them dressed the body.

They had constructed a makeshift shade structure out of sheets of straw. In the shade and out of sight, they wrapped the body in white cloth, then a sheet of woven reeds. They brought in a bamboo stretcher and tied the body to it. Then they dismantled the shade structure and brought the body out in front of the group. Each person who wanted to took his turn to speak about Yaya and say a prayer. When everyone had finished the men stood up and all faced the body, shoulder-to-shoulder in three rows, took off their sandals, and said a prayer.

Then all the men walked to the cemetery on the outskirts of the village. The same men who dressed the body carried, and a few carried buckets of water on their heads.

When we arrived at the cemetery a narrow grave had already been dug. As we walked many men had grabbed leafy branches from the bushed on the path, which they threw into a pile next to the grave.

We all squatted on our haunches and more prayers were said before the body was untied from the stretcher and placed in the grave sideways, wrapped only in the white cloth. As some men put the leafy branches and a few long logs on top of the body, others mixed the water into the loose earth next to the grave.

The wet dirt was put on first, and then the rest of the dry dirt was mounded on top, filling the hot air with hanging dust that filled my nostrils and lungs. Another prayer was said and we returned to the Camara compound.

The women remained in the same shade structure. All were solemn, some were glassy-eyed, others still sobbed.

The men crowded back into the compound onto benches and plastic mats. Dego (a sweet rice paste) and kola nuts were distributed to everyone, a final prayer was said, and the service was over. Village life resumed its normal pace.


Thoughts

Both of these stories are of brief tragedies that passed without any lasting effect on most of the people in the respective communities. A small child was hit by a car, a large crowd gather, he was whisked away, and the crowd dissipated and the traffic jam thinned, all within fifteen minutes. Yaya Camara woke up on February 1st alive, but by the time Pondala went to sleep that night, he had become a memory.

The rate at which life continues to flow here despite tragedy has had two effects on me. At times it puts me at peace, able to acknowledge a balance in the world and the part that tragedy plays in it. But sometimes it frightens me.


Malinke Lesson of the Day

It's been a while since we've had a Malinké lesson, but here's a proverb I recently learned:

"Inin kilin kilin kunin." (Pronounce, eeneen, keeleen, keeleen, kooneen).

It means, "May we wake up one by one." They say it at the end of the night. The idea is that if there's some catastrophe during the night, we'll all wake up at the same time, but if everything goes peacefully, we'll all wake up one by one to the dawn (or the rooster).