September 30, 2010

My host dad’s wives have been asking me for the past week to go to the fields with them, but between my language lessons, time at the health center and other things, I haven’t had a full day to devote to being out in the fields. Today, with my language lesson cancelled and not much going on at the health center, I decide to take them up on their offer.

Around 11am, the women are just finishing cooking the rice and saga saga (leaf sauce) to take to the men who are already in the fields. They are all grabbing the gigantic silver bowls of rice and lifting them effortlessly onto their heads. I ask what I can help with, and the women look at each other knowingly before handing me the smallest, lightest bowl, giggling softly. I consider protesting that my fragile tubab bones can actually handle a heavier load than this, but once the bowl is balanced precariously on my head I decide that it probably is best that I have the smallest one. This is harder than it looks.

We make our way off into the fields, a good 30 minute walk from the village. Of course I don’t talk much on the way, but it’s clear that this is the women’s social time–not just my host moms, but five or six other women, several with babies sleeping on their backs, or gossiping animatedly and laughing all along the narrow, rocky footpath surrounded by tall grasses. At one point, Mamu stops just in front of me, holding her one free arm out as I bump into her back. “Sa!” she yells. Snake. And sure enough, as I look around her I see a black, reptilian tail inching its way across the footpath and into the grass on the other side. Whew, close call. Note to self: always watch the road in front of you!

We finally make it to a clearing full of what looks like tall, dried grass piled very high–this is fonio, the tiny grains the women cut and add to different sauce to make the equivalent of a couscous-like dish. Some of the women set down the bowls. My mom Sambou spreads out a pagne and insists that I sit down and eat; the walk must have made me tired. I protest that I can help the other women with the actual work, but she just laughs and hands me her granddaughter, four month old Ba, instead.

Soon the men have arrived, a good fifteen of the able-bodied male population of my village, from teenagers on up. They gather around the gigantic bowls, wolfing down the rice and sege sege at superhuman speed while the women start to spread out into the surrounding fields, their backs bent to collect the long grasses and tie them into thick bundles. I alternate between watching them and cooing at Ba, who is a pleasantly plump bundle of  pure joy, constantly smiling and giggling, not at all scared of the tubab like a lot of babies are.

I lay on my back and place Ba on my stomach, content with listening to her little baby laugh. However, I make the critical mistake of forgetting to put a piece of fabric underneath me, as Malian women ALWAYS do–babies here don’t wear diapers, so you have to be prepared at all times in case your kid decides to do his or her business.

Well, Ba does. All over the front of my skirt. Laughing the whole time.

I look down and sigh. What can I say? The kids just love me here. At this point Mamu is coming back with several fonio bundles loaded on her head. She sees the big spot on my skirt and laughs, promising to wash my clothes with the rest of the family’s that evening. She says that Ba likes me so much, she’ll probably go back with me to Ameriki. Sure, I think. But only if she’s wearing diapers.

The women are there for another two hours or so; after fighting off the protests of my host moms I finally manage to be able to help a bit, collecting bundles into a broad circle to be loaded onto a donkey cart later. I make my way back as the sun is finally beginning to lose some of its scorching midday heat, and can’t help but have an even keener respect for these strong, graceful women I’m surrounded by. I’m certainly not cut out for the kind of work they do every day. They are the true physical laborers, the absolute bedrocks of their families. So many things. And I’m so glad to be living a little bit of their lives, through their eyes. It’s humbling and insightful, and I don’t think I can truly be of help to anyone here until I fully understand their realities.

Today, I understand a bit better.