I Called the Witchdoctor

Living abroad, regardless of what country or culture you're in, can be challenging at times.  The weather, the food, the language--they all contribute to the creation of this other world.  However, over time, one learns to adjust.  After almost a year in Gambia, my body has somehow learned to tolerate the 100 degree temps, I find myself craving some local foods I once turned my nose up at, and Pulaar is sounding less and less foreign to me by the day.  But, there are other differences that as an American, or at least as a Meghan, I don't know if I'll ever quite buy into.

One of these things was previously unknown to me, but due to unfortunate circumstances and poorly tied shoes, was brought to my recent attention.  One day in early May, I was exercising in my backyard when, in the midst of doing high-knees, I came crashing down into the dirt.  I lay there for a moment gathering my thoughts--The first of which was a string words so vulgar, I'll spare the details, the second was, "No way! I can't do crutches again!" and then finally, straight denial, "I'll walk it off; it's probably fine."  Upon inspection, though, I determined I had, without a doubt, badly sprained my ankle.  It was swelling up quickly and when I attempted to pry myself up, I was struck with the reality-check of excruciating pain.

With no ice packs at my disposal, I resigned myself to lie down outside, prop my foot up on a big pillow and gently overdose on some painkillers.  Hours later, my ankle was huge and my family and neighbors started to chime in with their thoughts.  A few insisted it was serious and I needed to find a doctor, but most most were telling me I must do something...with a woman...while giving birth to...twin babies?  "Umm..okay. What the hell has that got to do with anything?  Do they think I'm having twins and that's why my foot is swollen?  How depressing," I thought.  It took a while, but after some explaining, I finally got it.  Apparently, the moment someone gives birth to twins, they are instantly blessed by Allah with the ability to heal.  Villagers with broken bones, sprained what-have-yous, or even whip lash go to see the woman nearest them who's been bestowed with this mystical gift.

My host-mother insisted I go, but I was skeptical, terrified even.  I'm not letting some random lady pull on my freaking ankle! I was rushed with visions of me, post-amputation, explaining to a physician why I would ever allow some tribal voodoo to be performed on me, and being told how if I'd only called a doctor, I could have saved my foot.  And so, stubbornly, I sat.  Evening soon arrived, and Hawa confronted me again and yelled in Pulaar, "Fatoumata, I know you are scared, but you are just sitting, doing nothing.  Try it. Go!" With that loving, albeit rather aggressive nudge, I decided to go. Satisfied, Hawa handed me a pot full of a local oil-based salve to give the woman, and off I went, hobbling into the dusk.

When I arrived to the woman's compound, it didn't look a thing like I'd imagined.  There were no bones hanging outside her door or cauldrons of viscous potions bubbling away.

Actually, she was wearing a Sponge Bob t-shirt and she was cooking dinner.  One look at my pathetic limp, and she put down her spoon and walked over to me.  Motioning for me to sit, she grabbed a small stool and crouched down in front of me, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.  With a dip of her fingers into the lotion, she immediately began her work.  She held my foot in one hand and pressed, tugged, rolled, massaged and flexed my ankle every which way.  A crowd of children had, of course, gathered to watch the foreigner receive her treatment, and there were excited, whispered announcements made at my every wince and groan.  (Also..I'm pretty sure some were placing bets as to whether or not I would cry.) I thanked her, and while wiping her hands on her skirt, she nodded and told me to return in the morning.

That night, I slept with my foot elevated and, like a good patient, arrived for my follow-up appointment bright and early the next day.  I was shocked to see that not only had the swelling gone down, but my entire foot was now dark army-green, signaling that the healing process was now well underway.  I was impressed.  I've had my fair share of sprained ankles, but never have I had one improve as quickly as this.  Maybe the magic is real.  I judged myself immediately for even entertaining the idea--I don't believe in all that hooey-stuff-- but then, without ice, crutches, or the ability to stay off of it, how was it able to heal so quickly?  It's a question I don't have the answer to, but I've decided I don't need one.  People here have been climbing trees and breaking bones for much longer than we have, and while I'm sure no Western medical book would endorse the "just lube it up and smash it around" course of treatment, it seems to be working.  #wheninRome