FML

Volunteers love exchanging FML stories, partially because it makes us seem hardcore, and partially because hearing about the time you accidentally ate cow poo makes me feel a little bit less awkward about the time I had an alien growing out of my eye.

These past 48 hours in Linguere have given the whole staph debacle an run for its FML money.

Wednesday evening: Cat sitting and watching the World Cup at the missionaries' house. The power goes out 15 minutes from the end of the game. As I stumble around in the dark trying to make sure everything is unplugged and turned off before I go, Barney and Billy decided to use my computer's power cord as a chew toy.

Thursday morning. Electricity comes back. I test my power cord. It's definitely broken. I'm sick. My body aches and my stomach is making alarming noises. The power goes out again, so I lie in a puddle of my own sweat on the floor. I try to eat some rice and fish. Big mistake. My stomach starts running (a Senegalese euphemism for G.I. distress).

Thursday afternoon. Stomach is now sprinting. I've got a 101 degree fever and an achy body. Sparky, our sweet new dog from the missionaries, throws up his lunch. I barely have the energy to turn my head.

Thursday evening: Still sick. Fever is spiking. A rainstorm floods the house. Electricity goes out again, and the water gets cut.

Friday morning: Feeling marginally better, but the water's still out, so I can't shower or flush the toilet. I'm still sick, still haven't done my laundry, and still can't accomplish any of the long list of computer-related tasks on my to-do list this week. Suffering is a full-time job here, you know.

Friday afternoon: Still lying inside trying to recuperate. Children have climbed on top of our fence to harass Sparky. Sparky bolts towards them and crashes into the gate, opening it. He runs away. I chase after him, scandalously dressed in my sick clothes (drawstring-less shorts that are falling off and a tank top) and looking just as disgusting as I feel. Every time I get within five feet of Sparky, he runs further away. At one point he gets into a fight with another dog and I ineffectually and embarrassingly stand there crying and yelling his name. I don't know what else to do. I am so frustrated by Senegal and life right now. So angry at the children, and the world by association.

I am helpless as I seem to stand outside of my body, watching myself warp into one of those bitter old hermits who allows herself to be tormented by children. The last 48 hours of my life have been human hardening at warp speed.

Sometimes I feel like life here is just one big test--how much can Senegal pelt at out protective shells in two years before we crack? I want to think I'm stronger than the assaults on my body and mind, but in all honesty, I'm cracking. They're not deep fissures, but small chips stolen from my best self. The great paradox is that in trying to be good, I am less generous, patient, compassionate and positive than I ever have been.