13 August 2016 , Around 6:00 am
It is early in the morning, and I am lying in bed or, I should say, on the pieces of wood awkwardly nailed together that have become my uncomfortable, yet deeply cherished bed. The songs and prayers from the mosque have woken me up, the roosters are screaming, and I feel too heavy to remove the mosquito net under which I hide, buried in sweat. My strange cocoon is dear to me. My bedroom is hot and dirty, and my net barely hangs above me. The traces of my attempts to repair its holes with dental floss are quite evident, but it is my precious tent. It did save me from all those spiders, scorpions and other night creatures. I cannot express how much I am thankful for that. I have been here for 74 days now, and I still do not have malaria. A miracle! I did catch cholera and managed to survive, had a few severe indigestion, including food poisoning which had me hallucinating, and lacerated my right thigh, which ended up in me having to get the most painful stitches ever in a dirty hospital where there was blood and flies everywhere, but that is a whole other story.
Today is Saturday, and I have so, so much to tell, but all of my thoughts are unfortunately indescribable. I can hardly name my own feelings. This eternal mixture of banality and extraordinary hurts me. I feel so many things at once; a perfect example of the sweet bitterness that has been inhabiting me for the last few days. I am already nostalgic for a time not yet gone, but already almost out of touch. I cannot believe the end is near. In less than 4 hours, I will be gone.
I feel bad and well and sad and so tired. Always, always, always. I am anxious. How will this last morning in the village go? I cannot help but reflect on these past months, on this routine that was often so boring, so frustrating, so aching. I miss it already. I do not leave the country today; I still have places to discover, meals to eat, people to meet. Today, I will not leave this country physically; I will move around. But my heart is long gone. My soul is no longer here. I remain in Senegal, but I’m not really in Senegal anymore, and it’s difficult. Much more than I expected that moment to be. I thought I was prepared for it. I mean, the summer was excruciating; I am more than exhausted, I’m losing my hair, and my overall health is in serious decline. But part of me wants to stay. Part of me wants to stop time, and enjoy every second left. I do not have regrets, but I do wish I had played more with the kids, learned more Wolof -the local language-, cooked more thiéboudienne and mafé, because I know too well I will want to eat them once I am home, and that these meals will never taste the same.
Last night, Fatma, my Senegalese mother, asked me if I wanted to eat chicken. Although I am a hardened vegetarian, I could not help but finally say yes. After all this time! That is because, for my last meal on the concession, I had no real choice but to accept this offer, and how was I right! Saying yes to that chicken made Fatma, the wives and the kids so happy. After I accepted her proposal, all the children screamed and ran around, chasing chickens. It was finally Seynabou who, after a good 10 minutes, ultimately (and fatally!) captured one big brown hen. She raised it high and broke its neck. Ouch! My little heart did not appreciate (although it was definitely less traumatic than the 2 sheep sacrifices I witnessed this summer). My vegetarian beliefs aside, it was still a funny, even touching, moment. So symbolic of my last months here, so Senegalese! I ate half of that chicken, and I ate rice with the family. Just like every day, the women, children and I were all sitting on the dirty floor around the big bowl, taking huge portions with our right hands, silently. Then, we drank tea. We were all full and eerily happy. No one spoke about my upcoming departure, but I could sense that something was off. I heard that they do not like goodbyes around here. So, we all tried our best to pretend that that night was just like any other night. We had a good time, trying to look at each other’s faces in the dark.
Later in the evening, I spent hours lying on the ground with the children; all of us entwined under a baobab to admire the rain of shooting stars and the glorious milky way for one last time. I would have given everything for that moment to last forever, despite the heat, despite the insects, despite everything. I did not want that whole evening to stop. The little girls dancing, trying to braid my hair for the hundredth time, singing songs in Wolof, hugging me, falling fast asleep in my arms which were unfortunately not long enough to hold every single one of theses precious souls close to me. The evening went by too quickly.
4:00 pm
This morning, the whole family pulled me out of bed at 6:30. They watched me eat the rest of yesterday’s chicken. I thought they would eat it last night, but no, they kept it for me. (Oh, and, do I have to mention that the chicken spent the night outside in the heat?) I forced myself to eat my “breakfast” painfully. I knew it made the family happy, I had to eat it. Then I packed my very few belongings, taking too long, trying to hold on to everything I could. After I finished to uselessly rearrange my clothes and medicine for the 12th time in my backpack, I stepped outside, reached my secret spot, and sat on my favourite rock for the very last time, my heart big and heavy; this morning was unbearable (I am pathetic, I know).
15 minutes later, I came back to my concession. I watched the animals, the children, the trees. I breathed the humid air. It must have now been 8 o’clock in the morning, and I was already too hot. Some of the girls looked at me sadly, with a fatality in the eyes that hurt me to the bottom of my poor little skeleton. Deï was avoiding me, her head down. Fatima was playing with my filthy bottle of chemically-filtered water. Gulin Gaye was breastfeeding Atta nearby, and then, all of a sudden, it hit me. It really hit. I had to go hide for a few minutes to cry, overwhelmed by this sudden flood of emotions, by this mourning that was beginning, by this crumbled heart.
After these few lonely tears (“lonely”, how strange! I think today was the first day I was left alone, the first time I had a semblance of intimacy, proof that something was wrong), I went back to see the others. Meyrem wanted me to take baby Fana in my arms. She wanted me to hold the baby one last time. And then, just before 10 o’clock, Fatma and I finally left together for the bus with my heavy luggage, which she insisted to carry despite my plea for her to let me carry my bags myself. Every family member was telling me “bye bye”, not “see you next time”, “see you soon” or “see you tomorrow”, no. These “bye byes” were real goodbyes. They even said “au revoir” to me in French. It was quite charming, but it still split my soul in two.
Fatma and I reached the spot where the bus would get me. I was holding in my tears. But when the bus arrived, she started sobbing. I could not stand that whole situation anymore. I began to weep as well. It was a big mess. I now realized she really liked me; she did not want to see me leave. I could not help but think to myself: What have I done? Why did I came here in the first place? Why break these people’s hearts? Maybe I exaggerate. Maybe they do not care about me that much. Who knows. Yet, I felt so weak.
In a few days, it will be fine, for all of us, I know it, I know myself. They will go on with their lives, and I will come back to Montreal where I will find a new job, and plan my next adventure. I will have pictures and videos to look at when I’m feeling nostalgic. They also have the photos I printed for them, and the gifts I gave them to remember me if they want. They are way stronger than me anyway. Those memories will be cherished by all of us, on separate continents, for years to come. That is perfectly okay. No?
I am in Kaolack now. Technically. Because I am also in N’Dinguiraye, my village. I do not know when I will come back, or if I will ever come back. That’s life, it’s alright. I will always be a little bit of “Rokhaya Touré”. This name that I was given when I first arrived in the village, welcomed by a ceremony of drums, chants and incense; the name that I adopted, which strangely suited me so well. Rocky!
Farewell N’Dinguiraye, farewell to the crazy Touré family! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. Tonight, I will try to change my mind. I will try to laugh, I will smoke on a roof, dance to the sound of tam tams, sleep under the black and silver night sky… I will do my best to embrace the moments left in the country, to enjoy Dakar with its busy streets and markets. I promise I will do my best to smile. I will forever be thankful for my 74 days in the village. How could I not? I learned so much from these strong women. Working with them was a pure blessing. They taught me patience, resilience and altruism. Thank you Fatma, Meyrem, Fatou, Maty, Alimatou… Thank you.
4 September 2016
My African journey is far from over in my heart, but a big page of my life has just turned. I am in Montreal, jobless and money-less. Nevertheless, my mind is at peace. I still do not understand why I embarked on this adventure, why I chose to live over there for a whole warm summer. I knew that I would become attached, that I would make connections, that children would become a little bit mine. I knew that. I also knew that there would be no way to recontact all those people who were oh so striking afterwards. That once I was gone, everything would be over for good, forever. Finished. And yet.
I am a better person now. No one will ever be able to understand all the frustration and wonder I’ve been through in my Senegalese village. But I know.
Dear family Touré, see you soon, Inshallah,
Chloé / Rokhaya
Bittersweet Travel Memories 