Not The Best...

Today started out like every other day has been for me. I first awoke to the sound of my host father’s voice booming over the loudspeaker at 5am, calling all fellow worshippers to join him in the mosque for the first prayer of the day [I live with the imam. He is wonderful]. I dozed off to the quiet Koranic humming until I heard the shifting of morning activity around 7am. My host mothers were gathering rice and beginning to pound it so they could make rice porridge for breakfast. This is usually when I attempt to climb out of my bed, dust the lingering bugs off my body, and walk out into my backyard.

The view never ceases to amaze me. I have taken several pictures but feel as if they don’t do it justice. I cannot begin to explain how amazing it is to take a shower outside, to the sweet melody of birds and to enjoy the majestic view of the African sun crawling over the horizon. Breathtaking.

I then walked the dusty path to Bakary’s house [my language facilitator/professor]. All was going well as we did our daily morning lessons, when suddenly we heard a scream. Hoards of people began running in the direction of my compound, and Bakary immediately followed.

When he came back, he has a somber look on his face… my host sister, Fatou [lovingly nicknamed LeLe], had died en-route to the clinic in Kwinella. The screaming was that of one of my host mothers. I was completely distraught; while I have only been in this village 5 days, this news was enough to break me. Fatou was only 2 and I didn’t realize how sick she truly was. Kwinella is 2km from Bumari [the village I am in]. To think they were steps away from a doctor shakes me to the core… this life could have been spared.

Needless to say, the funeral was the most heart-breaking thing I have ever been through. The women and men are separated… I was sitting adjacent my host mothers but was blocked by a tin door. After the prayers that were led by the men, several women began wailing. I got goosebumps and several of the PCV’s with me began crying. My mother began screaming, “Why, Why, Why?!” and it just did me in.

And now, I sit on my floor in my hut. My compound is quiet, too quiet. Doors are shut that are usually open like loving arms. The children are not running joyously about, kicking my pink soccer ball around the yard. Even the goats have stopped their bleating.

I feel terribly alone, and so sad. It is incredibly difficult, trying to give my condolences to my family, and having this steep language barrier.

I’m not sure when I will be able to post this entry, but I had to write it out while everything was fresh in my mind. These are the times when I miss home, and my ability to express emotions with people who understand me.

I miss you all terribly.