21 kitchen, speaking agitated French with someone on her cellphone. I guess “too hot” is the same in every language. I sighed. It was going to be a long night. *** “Senegalese food is delicious, and I can survive sharing a plate with four other people.” “Lunchtime!” Bryan, Jill’s husband, called out. The missionaries congregating in the tiled courtyard drifted over to the blue cloths spread on the ground in the few shaded areas. It was difficult to escape the coastal sun. One of the women, sensing my uncertainty of where to go, patted the ground next to her. Her husband joined us, as did Bryan and another missionary couple. As I sat there melting in the afternoon heat, I was handed a spoon, still dripping with tap water. Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let me get sick again. My head swam with memories of my trip to Kenya only a year previous, during which I had gotten badly ill from unclean water. I shook the spoon dry, hoping it would be enough. A few of the children carried over a huge metal platter piled high with spiced rice, whole roasted fish, carrots, cabbage, and potatoes. They set the plate on the ground, and the five of us circled around the dish. I swallowed hard as my heart pounded. As a longtime germaphobe, I wasn’t exactly keen on sharing a plate with four strangers.
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