I woke up on Monday the 14th with my eyes dry and tight like I had cried in my sleep. I don’t remember any of my dreams. I know I slept deep from my travel fatigue and the last thing I remember was straining to hear Bilali’s cries from next door. That afternoon I passed by to see if he had gotten any better since I last saw him two days ago and he had not; his legs thinner, round belly shrunken and eyes vacant, unfocused. As I sat there with Hauwa, his mother and my best friend in village, I asked about his condition and she showed me the five medications he was taking, none of which he could keep down. I told her that it was a good sign he was crying, for although he is sick he still had enough energy to cry and that she should worry when he ceases to cry. As I lay asleep that night maybe I knew then and already mourned his death in my dreams or maybe I knew yesterday that this time he wasn’t going to get better. As a child he has suffered much. At 1 ½ he still wasn’t walking or talking because of previous illness. The next morning already in a melancholy state from work problems, five children showed up at my front door looking down at their feet avoiding my irritated attempts to get them to speak. They brought the news to my ears and it wasn’t shocking. When I entered Hauwa’s yard she was already surrounded by crying women, her own eyes half closed and puffy. I went directly and sat behind her on the mat spread out for all the women who were soon to come. I was sitting so close to her, wanting to reach out and hug her in my grief and hoping it would help her to grieve. We sat in silence with the occasional greetings tossed back in forth with lackluster. I couldn’t bring myself to say anything, French was eluding me and still worse Fulfulde wasn’t an option. What does one say here? What does one say to a mother who has lost her second child before the age of 20? What does one say to a mother who has lost her child to a preventable illness? I’m trying to be angry and at the same time I’m not. I could blame many people for his death, but I’m not the one to judge. I think of all the things that could have saved him and I just end up blaming everyone, because we are all to blame.
The flies buzzed not even giving us a moment’s peace. As I sat I thought about how I am going to miss holding him and how in these last weeks he would reach out for me when I went to pick him up. I cradled his feverish body against mine, his head leaning against my chest and my chin on his head. I’m going to miss his smile, it was so infectious. It made my anger dissipate and Mandama seem hospitable. I’m going to miss the joke Hauwa made at least ten times a month about how Bilali was going to return to America with me in my luggage or my pocket depending on the day. And I hope that when I think of how Hauwa always called me his second mother I won’t cry like I am right now. I know people die here more often than they do in the West, but that doesn’t mean the hurt is any less, it just means that people here are more adept at dealing with loss. I see nothing wrong with crying. I feel like we all have a certain amount of tears stored up for certain people and when it’s time to let them fall it’s good to get them out. One should cry, grieve and carry on and be happy knowing that the one you loved is no longer suffering and is in a better place.
May we count our blessings everyday...
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Sorry I'm back!
Wow how the time passes. I have to say right off that I had a blog written and a rather lengthy one at that about a traditional marriage I had attended, but when I tried to save it to a computer in the capitol something happened and I lost it. I was discouraged for a while and thought it best to just leave the blog alone until the pain and anger subsided, which took all of about a day. After that I just found myself busy and away from the internet. Then I found myself at home preparing for and attending my sister’s wedding and then the mad rush to make sure all the people in my village would get their American gifts. In all that rush and meticulous list making and crossing out I forgot the most important person in my village, my chief. With little rearrangement (he got my counterparts gift) my chief is now the proud owner of a tiny desk clock, not digital cause that isn’t classy. He even told me where he put it, right above is bed, on the wall, attached with some double-sided tape I gave him (also from America). I couldn’t help but prod over how I could have forgotten my Lamido, my chief. I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Middle March by George Eliot that states how this world could never really survive, even with all its problems without all the people who make the little differences and do it quietly and without the need for recognition. That is my chief to a T. He is a very quiet, unassuming man who doesn’t lord over you with his presence. He is always quick to give me his chair and is constantly busy with his own farm or the health centers vaccination campaigns. He is there when I need him, but otherwise he slips from my memory until I need him again. There exist others in my village I wouldn’t have dared to forget or else I would have never heard the end of it. So I want to take this time to thank all the nameless heroes, the ones who make my job bearable “…and rest in unvisited tombs.”
…but back to the gifts. I even heard that a policeman offered my moto driver, who I bought a watch for with his money, five times what I paid for the watch. I told the story to my neighbor Hauwa that I bought the watch for the equivalent of $10 and that it was made in China like nearly all the watches you find here. I have noticed a difference in American made China products and Cameroonian made China products though. I would say the difference is Chinese made for American sell is slightly bettered made crap that will last you maybe a year longer than it would in Cameroon. It wouldn’t have mattered what I got anyone. What matters is that I got it in America and that an American thought enough of them to lug a gift all the way from the other side of the world. I guess for me that’s what would mean the most too.
I guess I have to talk about my experience home and whether or not there was some great change or cultural shock I experienced. It was like I thought. You can’t erase 26 years of your life by spending one of them outside the country. I slipped back into a routine as easily as I slipped in between 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and slept like a baby. Of course I remarked on all the new development in the area like the huge Sam’s club and Super Walmart that replaced the old Florin Mall I used to go to as a child. Walking in those stores didn’t seem overwhelming. I was excited about the choices I had rather than confused or overwhelmed like so many said I would be. I must confess there was a time when I did get overwhelmed by choice and it was in Big Lots while trying to pick out a hair brush for another volunteer. I stood there for 10 minutes testing brushes for firmness, durability, and handle grip until I thought myself ridiculous. I guess when it was a choice I made for myself it was an easy decision. I even had a list of things to eat, people to see and things to bring back, which I stuck to pretty well considering I am the queen of making lists I rarely stick to. Now enough of the States, I presume you are not reading this to hear about hairbrush firmness and cotton sheets.
Since I got back I have been running around, which I knew I would be. It seems like I couldn’t get any of my projects set until after I had been here a year. I think it was mostly due to my own mental block, but every time I would start I would hold back from some sense that I didn’t really know the community that well and I needed more time. As much as I didn’t want to be dragged into a large project I find myself smack dab in the middle of one and trying to remind the community that all I said was I will look into it, not “yes you are getting an ambulance and solar panels for the hospital.” I have to quote something to help you better understand my situation and my frustration. This is from East of Eden by John Steinbeck, “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observations from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect” (pg. 214). Now most people in village fall under the opposite category in that they only see what they expect. They see my light skin and my Americaness and immediately associate that with money. I can’t say that it is entirely their fault. So many people have come into their villages with huge projects like wells and pumps free of cost, and free of work. I keep trying to reinforce that if they want something they have to give something, monetarily and physically if they want to work with me. Some people are starting to get it, while others just nod in my direction that they understand, but then show up at the next meeting asking “so when are you getting the money from the States?” It all comes back to the old adage of “give a man a fish, let him eat for a day, but teach a man how to fish, let him eat for a lifetime.” I would also like to add that we also need to instill in that man the importance and value of fishing otherwise when you walk away he may just give it up and go back to his old habits.
From now on I am going to add a reading list to the end of each blog. I feel like the books I read are helping to shape my experience and if you feel like reading along let me know. I would be happy to send you a list of what I have already read and discuss any of the books with you.
Since I returned on October 28, 2009:
Slaughter House-Five Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha Hermann Hesse
The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath
East of Eden John Steinbeck
The Stranger Albert Camus
The Monkey House Kurt Vonnegut
…but back to the gifts. I even heard that a policeman offered my moto driver, who I bought a watch for with his money, five times what I paid for the watch. I told the story to my neighbor Hauwa that I bought the watch for the equivalent of $10 and that it was made in China like nearly all the watches you find here. I have noticed a difference in American made China products and Cameroonian made China products though. I would say the difference is Chinese made for American sell is slightly bettered made crap that will last you maybe a year longer than it would in Cameroon. It wouldn’t have mattered what I got anyone. What matters is that I got it in America and that an American thought enough of them to lug a gift all the way from the other side of the world. I guess for me that’s what would mean the most too.
I guess I have to talk about my experience home and whether or not there was some great change or cultural shock I experienced. It was like I thought. You can’t erase 26 years of your life by spending one of them outside the country. I slipped back into a routine as easily as I slipped in between 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets and slept like a baby. Of course I remarked on all the new development in the area like the huge Sam’s club and Super Walmart that replaced the old Florin Mall I used to go to as a child. Walking in those stores didn’t seem overwhelming. I was excited about the choices I had rather than confused or overwhelmed like so many said I would be. I must confess there was a time when I did get overwhelmed by choice and it was in Big Lots while trying to pick out a hair brush for another volunteer. I stood there for 10 minutes testing brushes for firmness, durability, and handle grip until I thought myself ridiculous. I guess when it was a choice I made for myself it was an easy decision. I even had a list of things to eat, people to see and things to bring back, which I stuck to pretty well considering I am the queen of making lists I rarely stick to. Now enough of the States, I presume you are not reading this to hear about hairbrush firmness and cotton sheets.
Since I got back I have been running around, which I knew I would be. It seems like I couldn’t get any of my projects set until after I had been here a year. I think it was mostly due to my own mental block, but every time I would start I would hold back from some sense that I didn’t really know the community that well and I needed more time. As much as I didn’t want to be dragged into a large project I find myself smack dab in the middle of one and trying to remind the community that all I said was I will look into it, not “yes you are getting an ambulance and solar panels for the hospital.” I have to quote something to help you better understand my situation and my frustration. This is from East of Eden by John Steinbeck, “You are one of the rare people who can separate your observations from your preconception. You see what is, where most people see what they expect” (pg. 214). Now most people in village fall under the opposite category in that they only see what they expect. They see my light skin and my Americaness and immediately associate that with money. I can’t say that it is entirely their fault. So many people have come into their villages with huge projects like wells and pumps free of cost, and free of work. I keep trying to reinforce that if they want something they have to give something, monetarily and physically if they want to work with me. Some people are starting to get it, while others just nod in my direction that they understand, but then show up at the next meeting asking “so when are you getting the money from the States?” It all comes back to the old adage of “give a man a fish, let him eat for a day, but teach a man how to fish, let him eat for a lifetime.” I would also like to add that we also need to instill in that man the importance and value of fishing otherwise when you walk away he may just give it up and go back to his old habits.
From now on I am going to add a reading list to the end of each blog. I feel like the books I read are helping to shape my experience and if you feel like reading along let me know. I would be happy to send you a list of what I have already read and discuss any of the books with you.
Since I returned on October 28, 2009:
Slaughter House-Five Kurt Vonnegut
Siddhartha Hermann Hesse
The Bell Jar Sylvia Plath
East of Eden John Steinbeck
The Stranger Albert Camus
The Monkey House Kurt Vonnegut
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