Sick in Senegal

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Dear Family and Friends

Since my last update my life has been an utter whirlwind, a massive maelstrom running through my life. So to update you on my activities I have had my first encounter, a prelude, firing of cannons off the bow if you will, with this continents micro organism. Up until last week, my stomach was an iron cask, stalwartly and stoically resisting all that the street food of Senegal had to offer. I had been drinking tap water from the first day of arrival, eating fruit unwashed, little or no concern for hygiene, and no fear of exotic foods. Thus despite the odd stomach ache my intestines took it all with out complaint like a man. Unfortunately, my digestion tract finally caved in the face of the enemy. Apparently eating a greasy, disputably unsanitary burger from a fast food joint in Dakar is not greatest idea.

After several days of shitting my brains out, I lost most of the meager amount of nutrients from my meager my diet and combined with the overall dysfunction of bowel movements, I contracted a cold. Africa's microbiology's ways of saying enjoy your weekend/Senegalese holiday.

Onwards to the Senegalese version of Christmas known as Tobaski. This Muslim tradition involves Senegalese families to purchase a male sheep, which is than sacrificially slaughtered on the chosen day and than gorged upon in a feast of mutton. The several weeks preceding it there was a constant din of sheep, who were crying out against the injustice of impending doom. It was odd to walk down the street and gage family’s wealth by the number, or size of the male sheep tethered in the front of their houses. The more affluent families were determined either by quantity or quality. Unsure of what the preferences, eg the pros and cons between multiple medium sized sheep, or a giant fuck off sized sheep… Anyways, I was invited to spend tobaski with a friends family, thus a whole troupe of us westerners arrived, in traditional Senegalese clothing, known as the boubou, which the women made last minute adjustments to make us considerably late, but apparently more importantly to make them look sexier on one of the most important a holy religious Muslim holiday. You gotta love western values. We spent much of day talking, eating, and smoking, but no drinking, which is strictly prohibited.

In the mean time my work has become far more complex, complicated, interesting and at times bizarre as time has gone on. I have a hard time explaining exactly what I am doing as 1. I am not exactly sure what I am doing, 2. waist deep in my projects thus am very engrossed in them 3. really what I am doing I find very exciting, but does not really make a good story.

So in short I am working as a developmental consultant for a group called Daara Vision Senegal. I am advising them on organizational structure, helping with paperwork, and conducting research with them. It started off on a deranged idea to map all of the Daara’s in Saint-Louis, which oddly enough is progressing. With my preliminary work I will be presenting my research at a development and technology conference in Dakar this next weekend.

On a very sober note, I feel that this blog is about me, a venue where I can share my life to the people that I know and love, thus I feel for my emotional well being and healing I shall share this information. Last night, (Friday) was/is the last night for my mate Dan who is going back to England. Well celebrating it I received a text from my mother that my grandmother, Ellie who has recently been diagnosed with cancer and rapidly has been declining in health, just passed away. With this grave news I took my beer and borrowed packet of cigarettes and sat on the balcony to digest this information. I smoked cigarettes continually staring off into the distance to somehow settle my upset stomach of emotions. Fortunately the miracle of international communication technology can ease/facilitate the grieving process. While I sat on the patio of a bar on the other side of the work in Sub Sahara Africa, with a click of a button I can instantaneously contact my bereaved family and share in our mutual loss and pain. I should mention that in the midst of my somewhat self destructive grieving process, which was compulsively inhaling the very things that killed my grandmother, a very drunk Senegalese man asked to use my lighter and tried to strike up a conversation. I politely explained why I was alone and not in the bar full of my friends having a grand time. Fortunately, this chap was very understanding and in a rather drunken cinematic way offered me a shot of his small bottle of gin in condolence, a clumsy, yet touching, way of one drunk acknowledging the other in a moment of despair.

I am sending out love to all my family members in the Jones clan.

Love

Jan

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