20 21 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW could have cried. “Welcome to Senegal!” Jill said, wrapping me in a hug. We collected our bags, and Jill led us through the gate, across the yard, and into the house. She handed us each a cold bottle of water from the fridge and directed us to sit on the couches in the living room. As I sank into the faux-leather cushions, the weight of arriving on the other side of the world settled over me. I could feel panic bubbling in my chest— What was I thinking, coming on this trip!? It’s so hot and I’m so overwhelmed and I’m exhausted and I don’t even speak French! And it’s just so stinking hot! As if reading my thoughts, Jill grabbed a remote from the coffee table and turned on the A/C unit overhead. Delightfully cool air drifted over us weary travelers, and for a second, my fears diminished. “Your rooms all have A/C units, too,” she said with a knowing smile. “Just make sure you turn them off when you leave. We’ve only got a limited amount of electricity available.” That night, as I lay beneath my mosquito net, I thanked God for air conditioning for the first time in my life. As I prayed, the whir of the air conditioner overhead suddenly went silent, and the lights flicked off. Within minutes, the air in my room took on a damp, oppressive heat that made my thin, cotton top sheet feel like a woolen blanket. I heard Jill moving about in the 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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