April 20th, Friday

Friday am, April 20th. We come awake to the cacophony of bird calls and interweaving bird songs each morning. Roosters with no real sense of timing, doves cooing, little birds chirping in all pitches, and the trill of another bird whose sound always makes me smile. Today there is also a cell phone alarm nearby to remind its owner that it is time to pray. Such a mix of worlds. Through my hands this week, I briefly held a baby whose life left him in those first long moments, a baby who never breathed for himself though we tried to bring breath in, and tried again.  By my hands this week, another baby lived, that would most likely not have lived had my hands been tending to something else that moment. Perhaps another set of hands would have helped instead. It is humbling work. A baby for a baby, not a fair exchange. Never equal of course, especially for the mothers and families connected to these babes. Another baby born into the dirt on the dark road to the clinic last night,  placenta following easily, both scooped into a big tub and brought into the maternite. The baby's cord is still fat and full, he must have just been born. Healthy, chubby, and except for being a little cold, alive and well, big leaves, sand and twigs stuck in the vernix on his back.  Hazel and I take a nap together this morning. She tells me "lie this way mama", so she can snuggle into my arms. We sleep to the sounds of Kafountine, drumming and singing in the distance, roosters, still with no sense of timing, children playing and mothers calling. Maybe today we will walk to the ocean. I love the sun wind and water together. Hazel loves the white sand. We both love collecting the hard little red palm seeds on the way. "here is a good one, mama..."

April 13, 2012

13 April 2012, Friday, Kafountine Senegal.  This is my first chance to post, have not really figured out how to send pictures, so perhaps this will be a colorless blog until i am home and can share the pictures. I promise to send them out when we get back. Our trip from milwaukee through detriot and new york was straight forward, as was our long flight across the ocean to Dakar. Then a lovely break at the home of friends of the project, and then 12 hours by overnight ferry to a town 3 dusty hours from Kafountine our final destination. Hazel was great, did very well on very little sleep, and as I met up with more and more of our group, people helped us make our travels even easier. Now a week later, i have a little time to write. Today, maybe last night, was that first day of angst, as we used to say in our mediation trainings. Tears, we are missing our families, children back home are sick, missing their mamas, and the mamas here are missing their kids, their families. Hazel, normally delighted to go to her Tanta Nima, was quieter than her usual self, wishing she could come with me to work instead which was not possible. I did get an update that she was fine after I left. We have been here now for a week. Such welcoming people here, warm spirits, generosity, many children, beautiful women, vibrant clothing and textiles, long stretches of white sand and dust, wild rhythmic music, poverty and daily hardship side by side with life. Our first day we met many people, especially Awa, the most senior sage femme (midwife) --we witnessed her attend our first birth here, a very small, late preterm complete breech, slide easily out of her mother, give a lusty cry, beautiful and healthy... Then on our days off we settled into our new home away from home, walked the town and markets and went to the ocean. Wide and vast blue ocean, long wooden fishing boats, sun bathing cattle on the white sand and the sun, hot and glorious!  We sit here now, after loosing another baby, the first one was on our last shift, a double footling breech that probably died soon after the mother ruptured membranes.... We are being taught how to say "I am sorry", so sorry. This is her second baby, the other also died in childbirth.... We cannot really know what this does to a woman's life. We are so sorry. In Wolof, or even in all of west Africa, this sounds like "maasaah", I feel empathy for you, we say it when women have pain in labor, or we are told to say when a baby dies,"God is good"or "Trust in God". It does not seem adequate. There are no tears, adults don't cry in public... I gesture my empathy to the father's family. They understand.  We are seeing. Many things we don't normally see, somethings very hard to witness. Tired now. Debriefing with students. Hoping for a normal birth, maybe this evening. That would be good.  My love to all of you. Thank you for holding us in the light.

Hi all, we have been in Senegal since Saturday I think. Beautiful, dusty, friendly and very difficult to have Internet access. I promise I will write soon when I get my timing down to get to the cafe. Getting dark now, time to go home. Love to all of you. Marijke