Neene lost her sight one day.
Her blindness wasn't a sudden, frightening BLINK and suddenly all you've ever seen disappears. It came about slowly and steadily, but probably just as scarily.
After three days of darkness, it is decided that Neene will visit the hospital in Basse to see what the doctors there can do. Our own hospital can only provide some eye drops, but in Basse they might be able to operate. I tell the family that as I am going to Basse on Wednesday anyway, Neene can come with me.
Two evenings later, Amadou tells me that, actually, they will not need to go through with the operation. No-- he has consulted with a man at the market who has explained the problem: every night a devil has been flying to Neene and causing her eyes to spoil. If we give two candles as charity, the devil will go away.
Me, trying to keep from screaming out that this is the absolute most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, because even if I accept your assumption that devils exist, I cannot accept that two candlesticks will make one disappear and I can't believe that because if two candles is all that's needed to make a devil go away then why on earth didn't you take care of this problem months ago, before Neene lost her sight completely?!: Oh.
Amadou: Yes, it is a devil that is causing the problem.
Me: So the charity will cost how much?
Amadou: Just the two candles! We just need to give the man two candles.
Me: And the operation will cost how much?
Amadou: One thousand dalasis.
Me: One thousand?
Amadou: Yes, it is five hundred for each eye. And also there is the cost of the transportation to Basse.
Me: But I will pay for the operation; I can buy Neene's pass to Basse.
So then some thank-yous were said and everyone forgot about the devil.
Early that Wednesday morning, Neene, Amadou and I head to Basse. We've learned the operation will not take place this day, but the doctors will need to examine her eyes before a date for the operation can be set.
We arrive at the hospital and wait outside the eye doctor's office. There are a few other patients ahead of us, and many more arrive by the time the doctors do, several hours later.
There are two doctors. One is working mainly inside the office while the other is working outside, giving preliminary examinations with an eye chart. The eye chart is interesting because not only is the first letter E, so is every letter afterwards. The E's are facing in different directions but I am still confused because all I can think is, "these people don't know what an E is!" But the mystery is soon solved. Turns out, the patient doesn't need to know what they're looking at, they need only indicate, by motioning with his or her hand, which direction the "legs" are facing.
For patients whose eyesight was too poor for the eye chart to be of any use, the doctor used the classic, "How many fingers am I holding up?" test. Well, I always thought of it as the classic "How many fingers am I holding up?" test, but for one of the women, this was a new concept. No matter how many fingers the doctor held up or how near or far he stood, she always answered five. Eventually, the doctor gave an exasperated sigh and said, “How many fingers are there?” The old lady, equally exasperated, replied, “Five. A hand has five fingers.”
Ah-ha! The other patients rushed to explain, "He wants to know how many fingers are out; tell him how many fingers are out, not how many fingers the hand has!" The lady gives a "Well, how was I supposed to know" look combined with a "I couldn't have been the only one who didn't know" look and the doctor tries again. This time her answers vary, and are mostly correct.
Neene's appointment proceeds without problem; luckily Amadou could translate the doctor's Mandinka for Neene, who only knows Pulaar. One eye is determined beyond repair, but the other is scheduled to for an operation the following Wednesday.
I am still in Kombo when Neene goes in for the operation, but I return a few days afterwards. Neene, eager to prove its success, points out my facial blemishes.
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 5, 2011
Photos from training village!
These photos are now over a year old!
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| Certain relatives of mine read this blog and complain that there are not enough photos of me. So here is a photo of me. |
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| Baba! |
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| Neene! |
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| We are so cool. |
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| Hawa was rather pregnant and didn't want her photo taken, so either Ousman or Sarjo snuck this one of her. And then I put it online. |
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| Ousman's bitik! |
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| Tokara! With random child. |
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| Sarjo, Ousman, and Momadou, who never did stop screaming at me. |
So I uploaded this picture sideways, thinking there was some way of correcting the problem later. There isn't. Furthermore, I am no longer being allowed to press "Enter" without moving out of the caption, so I can't arrange this caption nicely. All of which is to say, tilt your head sideways to the left and see an awesome photo of Sainey dancing!
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Sep 4, 2011
Suitcase stowaway: FOILED.
You will probably recall that I have quite an exhaustive list of people and animals who will be coming back to America with me in my suitcase. I have recently been informed, however, that this plan will not work.
When Gaye asked me to take him to America, Neene said I would take him in my suitcase and even leave it open so he would have air. Gaye, however, said this would not work, even though he saw it on a film. The reason it will not work is there is a computer and the computer will say there is a person inside.
This is bad news. Without my suitcase to rely on, how will I deal with peoples' requests to go to America? I tried telling Gaye that if the computer says there is a person inside, I would say the computer is lying. Gaye didn't buy it, but did wonder what my family would think if I opened my suitcase and saw a person inside. He told me, "You will say, 'I stole him from Africa.'"
When Gaye asked me to take him to America, Neene said I would take him in my suitcase and even leave it open so he would have air. Gaye, however, said this would not work, even though he saw it on a film. The reason it will not work is there is a computer and the computer will say there is a person inside.
This is bad news. Without my suitcase to rely on, how will I deal with peoples' requests to go to America? I tried telling Gaye that if the computer says there is a person inside, I would say the computer is lying. Gaye didn't buy it, but did wonder what my family would think if I opened my suitcase and saw a person inside. He told me, "You will say, 'I stole him from Africa.'"
Sep 3, 2011
Peanut-butter-machine: Acquired.
I know the suspense has been killing you. Did I locate the peanut-butter-making machines and a Fula shopkeeper? Did I discover more than two complicating factors? Was I abducted by aliens? Did the shrews get me???
The answers would be: yes, yes, yes, no and no.
I begin my quest to locate the machines by searching for the person most likely to help me. I walk past the clothing and shoes vendors because I figure they wouldn't know anything about making peanut butter. I walk past a woman selling jewelry because she is speaking Mandinka. Then I reach an intersection. Before I wander around willy-nilly and get myself lost (although this happened later anyway, naturally) I figure I should ask someone now. The man behind me asks, "Hoko falda?" I assum he is asking me what I want, but when I turn around and reply, "A naani Pulaar? (You speak Pulaar?)" he seems startled, so maybe he'd been asking the person behind me. Anyway, our conversation proceeds like this:
Fula Man: Yes.
Me: I don't want anything, but do you know where they sell peanut machines?
Fula Man: Here.
Me: Here? [we were standing outside an electronics shop]
Fula Man: Here. I will sell you one.
Me: Okay.
I follow him into the store. I still see only cellphones other stuff you plug in.
I greet the shopkeeper. He wants to know if I am from Guinea, because a few months ago another toubab came to his shop who spoke Pulaar and she was living in Guinea. I tell him I do not, and we talk about my life in The Gambia. I ask for the peanut machine. He hands me one. I ask if it is "model one." He remarks to one of the other men in the store that I speak English, but he does not answer my question. I try again, explaining that one person bought a machine for my mom that only lasted two years and another bought one that only lasted two months. This one will not break soon, will it?
No, no, no. This one will last three years.
I examine the box to see if there is a "1" anywhere. There is not, but neither is there a "2." There are only the words "Traditional Grain Mill" and "Victoria Grain Mill Red Box." There is also a large "V," and until just this moment I worried maybe it was the Roman numeral 5, but now I realize it must be a V for Victoria. The box also looks a bit squashed and has clear packing tape wrapped around it. One of the men opens the box for me and shows me all the individual pieces, as if I were a person who knew something about peanut machines and could distinguish a quality part from a shoddy one. I decide to carefully examine the individual pieces as if I were a peanut-butter-making machine expert. One of the pieces is made of plastic and I ask if it will snap. I am told it will not.
The shopkeeper tells me the machine costs 750 dalasis so I tell him I will walk around the market a little and see if I can find one that is not expensive. So he asks me what I want to pay and I say 500. He says 700. I say 525. Eventually we agree on 600. Perhaps this was too much to pay for a peanut-butter-making machine not guaranteed to be model one, but if it could just last a year, until I'm out of the country, I would count it a success. Sort of. But better a sort-of success than a failure!
I give the shopkeeper the money and two other men in the store set to work fitting the pieces back into the box and taping it together again. One of the men asks if I want a receipt. I ask, "In case it breaks, or...?" His reply is, "You will be going to Basse?" "Yes." "The police will want to see the paper." "Okay, write a receipt."
This receipt is amazing. I have never loved a receipt more. For one thing, my name is on there as Binta Diallo (this is the French spelling of Jallow) and it states that I bought a "Machine à patte" (this must be the French spelling of "peanut-butter-making machine"). For another thing, the header reveals that the shopkeeper is a "Businessman In Electronic Such as DVD, fan, TV, Radio, Mobile Tape Etc." It does not reveal he is also a Businessman In Peanut-Butter-Making Machines.
The unexpected complication to my adventure was: a peanut-butter-making machine is really really heavy. It's not particularly large, but all the parts are made of iron except for the wooden handle and that random plastic piece. And instead of just calling my quest complete and leaving the market, I thought maybe I'd wander, just a little. This would not have been a problem if I'd been born with three arms. With three arms, one hand could have kept the peanut butter machine balanced on my head, one hand could have held my water bottle and kept my bag on my shoulder and one hand could have kept my skirt from blowing open and/or dragging in the mud. However, I have only the usual quantity of arms. I quickly decided the mud, heat, arm-shortage, etc. would not make additional market-wandering any fun, but by this time I'd already gotten myself lost.
Nothing exciting happened while lost and I un-lost myself relatively quickly--as evidenced by my typing this right now, this very moment, in front of the computer-- so...that's pretty much the end of my peanut-butter-machine adventure.
The answers would be: yes, yes, yes, no and no.
I begin my quest to locate the machines by searching for the person most likely to help me. I walk past the clothing and shoes vendors because I figure they wouldn't know anything about making peanut butter. I walk past a woman selling jewelry because she is speaking Mandinka. Then I reach an intersection. Before I wander around willy-nilly and get myself lost (although this happened later anyway, naturally) I figure I should ask someone now. The man behind me asks, "Hoko falda?" I assum he is asking me what I want, but when I turn around and reply, "A naani Pulaar? (You speak Pulaar?)" he seems startled, so maybe he'd been asking the person behind me. Anyway, our conversation proceeds like this:
Fula Man: Yes.
Me: I don't want anything, but do you know where they sell peanut machines?
Fula Man: Here.
Me: Here? [we were standing outside an electronics shop]
Fula Man: Here. I will sell you one.
Me: Okay.
I follow him into the store. I still see only cellphones other stuff you plug in.
I greet the shopkeeper. He wants to know if I am from Guinea, because a few months ago another toubab came to his shop who spoke Pulaar and she was living in Guinea. I tell him I do not, and we talk about my life in The Gambia. I ask for the peanut machine. He hands me one. I ask if it is "model one." He remarks to one of the other men in the store that I speak English, but he does not answer my question. I try again, explaining that one person bought a machine for my mom that only lasted two years and another bought one that only lasted two months. This one will not break soon, will it?
No, no, no. This one will last three years.
I examine the box to see if there is a "1" anywhere. There is not, but neither is there a "2." There are only the words "Traditional Grain Mill" and "Victoria Grain Mill Red Box." There is also a large "V," and until just this moment I worried maybe it was the Roman numeral 5, but now I realize it must be a V for Victoria. The box also looks a bit squashed and has clear packing tape wrapped around it. One of the men opens the box for me and shows me all the individual pieces, as if I were a person who knew something about peanut machines and could distinguish a quality part from a shoddy one. I decide to carefully examine the individual pieces as if I were a peanut-butter-making machine expert. One of the pieces is made of plastic and I ask if it will snap. I am told it will not.
The shopkeeper tells me the machine costs 750 dalasis so I tell him I will walk around the market a little and see if I can find one that is not expensive. So he asks me what I want to pay and I say 500. He says 700. I say 525. Eventually we agree on 600. Perhaps this was too much to pay for a peanut-butter-making machine not guaranteed to be model one, but if it could just last a year, until I'm out of the country, I would count it a success. Sort of. But better a sort-of success than a failure!
I give the shopkeeper the money and two other men in the store set to work fitting the pieces back into the box and taping it together again. One of the men asks if I want a receipt. I ask, "In case it breaks, or...?" His reply is, "You will be going to Basse?" "Yes." "The police will want to see the paper." "Okay, write a receipt."
This receipt is amazing. I have never loved a receipt more. For one thing, my name is on there as Binta Diallo (this is the French spelling of Jallow) and it states that I bought a "Machine à patte" (this must be the French spelling of "peanut-butter-making machine"). For another thing, the header reveals that the shopkeeper is a "Businessman In Electronic Such as DVD, fan, TV, Radio, Mobile Tape Etc." It does not reveal he is also a Businessman In Peanut-Butter-Making Machines.
The unexpected complication to my adventure was: a peanut-butter-making machine is really really heavy. It's not particularly large, but all the parts are made of iron except for the wooden handle and that random plastic piece. And instead of just calling my quest complete and leaving the market, I thought maybe I'd wander, just a little. This would not have been a problem if I'd been born with three arms. With three arms, one hand could have kept the peanut butter machine balanced on my head, one hand could have held my water bottle and kept my bag on my shoulder and one hand could have kept my skirt from blowing open and/or dragging in the mud. However, I have only the usual quantity of arms. I quickly decided the mud, heat, arm-shortage, etc. would not make additional market-wandering any fun, but by this time I'd already gotten myself lost.
Nothing exciting happened while lost and I un-lost myself relatively quickly--as evidenced by my typing this right now, this very moment, in front of the computer-- so...that's pretty much the end of my peanut-butter-machine adventure.
Sep 2, 2011
Peanut-butter-machine!
It was nice dropping off the face of the planet for a while, but now I'm back in front of the computer and will (hopefully) write more posts than this one to last until the next time I'm in front of a computer. I also need to go to the market and buy a peanut-butter-making-machine for my host family. Model one, not model two. Two previous Peace Corps Volunteers of the family also bought these peanut-butter-making-machines and will be forever remembered by the machine's quality. Adama's lasted two years, but Fanta's lasted only two months before it broke.
Maybe if the one I buy lasts five years, I'll be remembered for that instead of for the shrew-eating-frog-incident. So a lot more than peanut butter is depending on this.
However, this afternoon's mission has several complicating factors. And because I haven't used a numbered list in awhile, I'll use one now.
Maybe if the one I buy lasts five years, I'll be remembered for that instead of for the shrew-eating-frog-incident. So a lot more than peanut butter is depending on this.
However, this afternoon's mission has several complicating factors. And because I haven't used a numbered list in awhile, I'll use one now.
- I am not sure where peanut-butter-making machines, model one or otherwise, are sold. Here's how my conversation with Neene to determine their location went: "Neene, do you know where they sell the peanut machines?" No answer from Neene. Maybe she didn't hear me? Maybe I forgot more Pulaar in a month than I realized? I tried again: "Does Serrekunda market have peanut butter machines?" "Yes, Serrekunda market has them. You know Fatou, Fatou Bobo? Her father when he went to Basse bought a peanut machine and it lasted ten years. When Fatou was a child he bought it and until now it is not broken."
- I am not sure what language the sellers of these peanut-butter-making machines speak. If they speak English, perfect. If they speak the Pulaar, awesome, as long as they know occasional English words like "model one." If they speak any other language...not awesome. I would probably end up buying model two, or something, and be known as the volunteer who was scared of frog-eating-mice and incapable of buying quality machinery.
- Okay, I guess there are only two complicating factors. I thought there were more...maybe I should make some up so my adventure sounds more perilous.
- Alien invasion is always possible.
- Ooh! Or maybe there's a type of mutant shrew that can live under mud and I'll stumble upon a colony of them and as I run to escape I'll trip and fall and they'll rip me to pieces and that would be sad.
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