So today, as I was walking home from school, I realized that it was the first time in months I had returned home from youth group without unbridled rage leaking out my ears. That thought process somehow led me to the fact I haven't posted in a while, and here we are.
Well, truth be told, I really only have two stories to tell, but I'll probably find some clever way to meaningfully connect them together to wrap up at the end. First, on Tuesday, we went to an African friends' house to celebrate Tobasci. In case there is someone reading this who has not previously made themselves familiar with traditional Senegalese...traditions, I will tell you what this is. Tobasci is the most popular Senegalese holiday, and is usually celebrated by eating sheep. And since there is no frozen mutton lining the shelves of the Dakar Market Basket (Is he kidding? Is he not? You may never know.), everyone also kills and prepares said lamb. And now you know more about culture, and have taken the next step of being a man/woman of the world. You're welcome.
Now, here's another conundrum I'm faced with. In recent months, I have noticed that my stomach is considerably weaker than I felt it once was. I cannot decide whether that is truly the case, or that the smells and sights here are truly that much worse than in Quebec or Franklin. No matter which, I will tell you that the basic "city smell" of Dakar is unearthly. The smell of the cooking of the apartment below us has nearly sent me into convulsions. Also, I won't get into the details of the traditional Wolof preparation of lamb, but I will say that multiple Africans wringing sheep intestines into a metal bowl on the ground is not pretty. And I thought The Jungle was bad. So that was my day off Tuesday, but then I got to eat some lamb! With some lamb hairs on it and everything, just like mom used to make.*
Another weird thing happened to me, on Wednesday this time. During gym, we were over in this area of the "field" (see: square of sand) where chunks of cement are more frequent than blades of grass, practicing running for the Olympics thing they do at DA every year. All of a sudden, a girl in my class points behind me and screams "Rat! it's a rat!", and before you can say R.O.U.S., 6 or 7 males in a 5 yard vicinity had aforementioned chunks of cement in their hands and a somewhat hungry look in their eyes, sprinting after it and hurling rocks at it. They nearly hit it a few times, but the 2-foot-wide monstrosity withdrew into its hole before 15 seconds had passed.
I still don't know why this happened. This is a perfect example of me being completely out of place here. There is an exclusive Missionary Kid club, and am not-and have no interest in being-a member. The screaming of the presence of a rat I understand, but why everyone tried to kill it and why everyone knew everyone else was going to help try to kill it is so far beyond me it just passed the Andromeda galaxy.
And these two reflect on my experience so far in Africa...because...rats...and lambs...are both...mammals.
-Will
"Rodents Of Unusual Size? I don't believe they exist."
*Mom, your cooking is delicious. This was a joke.
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