102.6 degree fever. Mmmmm boy.
Not to say that I didn't expect something of the sort to occur at some point, but really now. Everyone else just vomited once or twice. Being the overachiever I am, I contracted a bacterial gastronomical infection and landed myself on three medications. Never fear (mom, dad, grandparents, tia ruth, et al.) I went straight away to the doctor and now, 36 hours later, am fully hydrated and eating for the first time. Things happen quickly here in Senegal.

This sickness offered a new perspective on many aspects of life here, in the form of many questions.

• How close am I to my new aunts? Answer: not as close as I had thought. Preferred to give self-care.
• Just how well can I speak french when feverish? Answer: Better than expected. Survival instincts kicking in?
• Can I convert Fahrenheit to Celsius? Answer: Not when feverish. Rough translation of my explanation of my fever: "It's Very very high. Very hot. Dangerous. I need to call a doctor." I realized the point might not have translated completely when my aunt responded: "Well, you have money. Walk down the street to the tellecenter."
• Mange? (Eat?) Yes. Apparently this isn't only a nightly declaration, but a life mantra. Eating, my family seems to think, will cure anything. Including nauseau. I spent my first ill night politely refusing several containers of milk, spicy beef and rice, and an entire bowl of sugary sweet pudding.
• Does Senegalese Tarenga (famed kindness and hospitality) truly exist? Answer: YES. My uncle said to me a few nights ago that he heard once that if you fell over in the street ill in America, you might lie there for hours, or even days, before someone helped you. I had to tell him that yes, perhaps in some places, that was true. Appalled, he explained that in Senegal that would never happen. This very situation was played out almost word for word yesterday. Coming out of the doctors office, I found myself too weak to walk to the street - some ten meters away. I paused in a chair on the doctor's porch, gathering my energy and trying in my feverish state to make a plan as to how I could land myself back at school. After several minutes, I plunged ahead. The world blurred and smeared a little bit. The sun was impossibly bright. As I neared the sidewalk and the edge of the road, I felt my limbs falling limp below me. The sidewalk, cool and stable, was quite unexpectedly supporting my torso, knees, and hips. Suddenly, a mans voice: "Madame, you are sick?" Yes. "There is a doctor not ten meters from here! I will take you." No, merci, I just came from there. I...I need a taxi. "I will help you. Stay here." This mirage of a man walked into the street and within thirty seconds returned with a taxi. He helped me in, then made sure the driver knew where to go and wouldn't charge me too much. As the taxi began to drive away, I heard him saying "You will be well, Inchalla."

So yes. My uncle was right about Senegalese Tarenga. I just had to find out the hard way.