Wind Blows Deeply

Unpacking

There are two quotes that I often think of when I return from Africa or any far away adventure.

The first: Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
~John le Carre

I always find it difficult to sum up my experiences. This trip seemed to be fairly normal. I returned to familiar friends and colleagues, to familiar housing and transportation, to an ever increasingly familiar culture. Things happened more or less as expected.
Teaching the country’s first-ever class of pharmacy technicians was both an honour and a memorable experience. Being quite ill for half of my first week was frustrating but a good (forced) reminder that I need to slow down occasionally. ‘Remembering’ how to drive a) a standard, b) a LandRover, and c) in Africa was undoubtedly memorable for my passengers.

The second: Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.
~Margaret Mead

There was a mix of returning and new volunteers on this trip. Old friends who just ‘know how it is’. New friends who remind me to be excited and amazed at things that have become familiar.  The two University of Manitoba pharmacy students who began my trip with me remain in The Gambia for another two weeks.  They will be wrapping up their stay with some more continuing education sessions for pharmacy staff.


Class of 2013

One of my main projects in The Gambia was to teach the first set of lectures to the very first class of pharmacy technicians.  I shared on a variety of topics from ‘history of pharmacy practice’ to ‘pharmaceutical and medical terminology’ to ‘introduction to palliative care’.

Planning for this technician program has taken many years and I am very excited to see this first class graduate in a few years.



Recognition

I was honoured to receive a Commitment to Care and Service award in the category of ‘Charitable Work’ on November 29, 2011.
The award is “presented in recognition of exceptional volunteer work, contributions to charitable organizations, creation of a charity program, performance of a humanitarian deed or overall commitment to charity work by an individual or team.”
Visit the Commitment to Care and Service awards page to read more about my entry and the other award recipients.



Lend a Hand

You heard correctly. I’m off to Africa soon for a few weeks.
I’m not sure how much time I will have for all possible social media updates, so I am picking email. No Facebook. No Twitter. Possibly no blogging either.

So, if you want to hear about the sights, sounds and smells of West Africa please sign up for the email newsletter.

Home is…

… where the heart is?
… where everybody knows your name? [Cheers]
… where you hang your head? [Marx]
… where they have to take you in? [Frost]
… not where you live but where they understand you? [Morgenstern]
… where the skies are not cloudy all day? [Higley]

I’ve been away from Canada for about four months. Some things are pretty much the same. (Like the mess in my livingroom.) Some things are new. (Like babies.) Some things are expected. (Like the miraculous disappearance of snow and the greening of landscapes.)

I’ve been back in Canada for a bit over two weeks. I know exactly what you mean when you ask, “So, is it good to be home?” I always answer yes. And I’m telling the truth. But I have to explain that Africa has become a bit like home too. Those people are also my friends, my coworkers, my (adopted) family. I am loved and valued and welcomed into their homes. We exchanged hopes and dreams and fears and longings.

But my beloved Africa seems so very far away. Waking up in the morning to donkeys, roosters and children on my thin foam mattress, brushing aside my mosquito net. Pulling on the nearest skirt and T-shirt. Sweeping my hair up. Reading the next section in my daily Bible. Walking down the sandy street to the shop to pick up tappa-lappa for breakfast. Boiling water for coffee. Making the slow hour-long progression via local transport to work. Teaching or sorting or planning or encouraging. Making the reverse trek home in 35 Celsius humidity. Sweat literally dripping down my back, bracing my feet in the 15-passenger van to keep that remaining sliver of my body on the seat, listening to the latest Youssof N’Dour tune from the speakers, smiling at the baby on her mother’s lap, ignoring yet another guy asking for either a phone number or my hand in marriage. A quick stop at La Parisienne for some combination of free wi-fi, good coffee and air conditioning. Picking up some fruit from my fruit lady; the one who always throws in a little extra after I’ve paid. Arriving home to the exuberant welcome of darling A, complete with a hug around the knees. Being amazed at what new word she decided to utter that day. Seeing V still hard at work and admiring her boundless joy. Looking forward to the refreshment only a cold shower on a hot African afternoon can bring. Dinner of yassa or domoda or benechin or beans. Preparing for the next day. A quick journal entry. Another washing of feet before hopping into bed, securing the bug-net, and falling asleep to unending reggae.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. I don’t remember how dirty my feet truly got. I don’t remember the smell of burning garbage mixed with exhaust fumes. I don’t remember how to move slowly. I don’t remember how to be constantly in community. I don’t remember how to be acutely aware of monitoring water levels, awaiting electricity to come back on, dealing with running out of propane for cooking, needing to shop everyday for groceries, washing clothes by hand, being content with just the essentials.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. I drive my well-maintained car on smooth and paved roads. I don’t plan my day anticipating power-outages. I have access to an endless water supply and countless grocery store shelves. I can count on meetings starting on time and a schedule being followed. I am utterly and completely confused by these daylight extending events called dawn and dusk.

My beloved Africa seems so far away. Being in Canada seems so very normal. Neither place is better than the other. It is simply that they are different. I can recognize the privilege it is to live in Canada and the sheer abundance this country has to offer. I can recognize how overwhelmingly difficult it is to live in Africa despite its endearing charm.

I know exactly what you mean when you ask, “So, is it good to be home?” I always answer yes. And I’m telling the truth. But I have to explain that Africa has become a bit like home too.

Coming home from very lonely places, all of us go a little mad: whether from great personal success, or just an all-night drive, we are the sole survivors of a world no one else has ever seen.
~John le Carre

My last forty-eight hours are shaping up as rather African.

Electricity: or rather lack thereof. There has been about 8 hours of electricity in the last two days. Most of this occurs in the wee hours of the morning while everyone is sleeping. It makes things like printing my final report for the pharmacy department a little challenging.

Internet: also closely tied to the lack of electricity, internet access is somewhat diminished. Fortunately there are places such as La Parisienne that not only have free Wi-Fi but also serve wonderful brewed coffee (not the instant Nescafe that is so loved by Gambians), a vast array of fresh churned ice creams and truly delightful pastries. I am enjoying a cup of joe whilst writing this post.

Hitchhikers: on the way to Banjul and the hospital this morning, we decided to pick up a group of non-Africans we had seen before. Not only to be nice but also to find out who they were. They ended up being a group of short-term volunteers from South Korea who have been teaching at a secondary school in Banjul.

Music: I have been blessed with music today. The Korean volunteers broke out into wonderful harmonies during our trip to Banjul. The melody danced between different individuals as the group created a wonderful flowing base. All this softly rising from the back of the LandRover as we sped along. On my way back from Banjul, in local transport, three extroverted and bubbly women engaged me as I entered the van: Toubab-o. I tundi? — White one, what is your name? they asked in Mandinka. (Actually they asked much more but I am not near proficient enough in that language to converse.) Now knowing me as Jeneba, they too burst forth in traditional singing — complete with megaphone, clapping and a call-and-response pattern, all at a volume sure to carry into the mangroves along the road.

Missed photo ops: again while driving, two vehicles would have offered wonderful photos — had I had a camera with me. The first was a compact Renault traveling along the highway with a fully-assembled double bed frame tied to its roof. The second was a large transport truck (perhaps 5 or 6 axle) toppled on its side along the highway, with contents of its load spilling into the bush. (My favourite missed photo op was a few months ago — a woman with baby in bambo on her back carrying an incredibly oversized suitcase on her head. Truly impressive.)

Of course, it will be truly sad to leave this country that feels so much like home. At the same time, I am looked forward to returning to the prairies and seeing family and friends again. Four months is both long and incredibly short at the same time.