5) Rosie The Riceter
As seasons change, so do the types of crops that need planting. While rice serves as the mainstay in Gambian cuisine, the variety depends on whether the grain was grown in the wet or the dry season. Early July marked the harvest for dry season rice; planted anywhere from January to early March, this variety doesn't require nearly as much water and is identified by its shorter, more narrow stalks. Last year when I helped with the harvest, I was hoisting seven or eight foot lengths over my head, but this shorter variety proved much more my style,as they maxed out around four feet, although unfortunately, the blade-sharpness of the grains did not decrease in tandem with the lengths..#winsomelosesome
One important aspect of planning for this years' harvest was accommodating the challenges of Ramadan. As this Islamic tradition follows the lunar calendar, the month in which it falls continuously changes. This year, the month-long fast began in mid-June, right smack in the middle of the harvest. Working in the fields means long hours in the burning sun, and without food or water not only tires a person out, but is potentially dangerous, so in attempts to combat this problem, those who can afford it hire non-fasting Christian women from the city to work their fields. The payment for this work is not money, however, but the rice itself. An average-sized family of about 10 people typically goes through one bag of rice per month. With each bag weighting in at 50 kilos, that's a lot of rice. A full day's work can earn one bag to every nine going to the owner of the field, and because many city dwellers don't have the cash to purchase the scarce and therefore expensive land for fields of their own, this work provides a wonderfully rich opportunity to take in enough food to feed their families for an entire year.
So, mid-morning on July 2nd, I set out on my bicycle with a giant metal food bowl strapped to the back. The plan was to take lunch to the two women my host father had hired to complete most of the heavy-lifting, and then offer to help carry out any duties a fairly unknowledgeable and comparatively weak human being could possibly manage. Once I arrived and delivered the lunch, I was given a job: pick up piles of rice stalks and stack them next to the woman in charge. She then took the plants fist-fulls at a time and beat them repeatedly against large drums that once held oil imported from Mauritania. (If you can say one thing about Gambians, it's that they are savvy in the business of re-purposing.) This thrashing breaks the encased grains of rice off from the rest of the stalk, so part two of my job was to collect the empty shafts, throw them to the banks of the shallow rice paddy, and sweep the millions of tiny grains into bag-able piles. As simple as this all sounds, it's not an easy job, and I cannot fathom doing it every day for weeks on end. I did it only two days in a row and was sunburned, scratched up beyond belief, aching, and totally exhausted. I felt pathetic next to these women-especially compared to my Aunt Nopay, who worked all week even though she was not only fasting, but going home to cook dinner for her family as well. That said, my ego was partially restored as my host father came to help bag up some rice for just a few short hours and spent the entire evening on his back in pain.
It's little moments like these that are so telling about a culture. Firstly, that a man would so willingly give props to the girls for their hard work starkly contrasts to our culture, where a stereotypical man would sooner pass out from exhaustion than to admit "defeat" by a female. Traditionally, any sweaty manual labor is left to the men in western society, but in Gambia, chopping firewood, slaving away in the rice fields, and vigorously pounding grain for hours a day is considered women's work. It just goes to show that we are all truly equals, and that it's simply our social norms that shape our perception of "men's work", "women's work", and just who is capable of what. #wecan(all)doit
4) Oh, Baby. More Babies.
Remember when I wrote about the new addition to the family...the little princess named after my mother? Well, Batchi's been busy, ya'll. My second mother just recently delivered another tiny lady who they've named Fatima, a variation of my Gambian name, Fatoumata. She had her at the hospital on July 3rd, and both baby and mommy are doing well. It's been amazing watching my first mother, Hawa, help Jenaiba with the baby, teaching her how to bathe, swaddle and feed her. As is customary, the naming ceremony should be held seven days after the birth, but as this fell during Ramadan, it was postponed until the end of August. Details on that extravaganza to follow.
3) Survivor: Independence Day
Just because we weren't in America for the 4th didn't make us any less excited about the prospect of a celebration. One volunteer from nearby Janjanburreh had an idea. Let's have a mini triathlon, then engage in more typical celebratory activities such as drink beer, listen to music, and grill stuff. So, on the morning of the 4th, about 15 volunteers met up to carry out this race-party fusion. This running was eschewed by some, the biking by others, but due to the magical combination of the suffocating heat and the downright fun of it, most participated in the swimming. We jumped off the dock of the river-side lodge that we'd talked in to hosting our shin-dig (even though they were technically under construction) and swam to the other side of the river and back, cautiously watching for the area's notorious hippo population. Death-by-hippo: not that patriotic.
This fun aside, we were unknowingly being tested by the gods to see just how patient, and-in one specific case-how tough, Peace Corps service has made us. As I mentioned, the lodge wasn't really in operating form, but knowing PC standards are a bit, uh...lower...than your average tourist, the staff thought they could pull it off. Since I live to tell the tale, I suppose they were right, but if anything it was by the skin of their teeth. No drinking water, cold beer, or alcohol as promised proved the least of our problems as one volunteer, upon trying to use the composting pit latrine in her tent, felt the floor collapse from underneath her, leaving her to grab the edges of said latrine and pry herself out like the demon girl from The Ring. Thankfully, because the lodge and therefore the latrine had been out of use for so long, there were no close encounters with any fresh "compost", and other than a few scratches (and being totally scarred for life) she came out fairly unscathed. After this incident, most people relaxed and adopted the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" philosophy. The rest of the evening was spent sipping bathtub whiskey with packets of Crystal Light out of tiny candle holders provided in lieu of cups, eating a meat melange with silverware most probably found buried in the construction site once housing a dining room, taking bucket baths with river water scooped up in our hands (cups: no. candleholders: occupied) and peeing in the woods to avoid any further unintended explorations of the underground.
What's more surprising than all of this going wrong in one day was that no one--not even the poor victim of the The Great Pitfall--really complained. It was nice enough to enjoy the holiday in the company of others and to realize what actually makes things fun are the people and the stories and the memories. Pretty glasses are nice, but they're easy to forget. Having no cups and falling into human waste are not nice, but I'll never have another 4th of July that I don't think about snorts of laughter while swigging awful whiskey from random candle stick holders.... Happy Anniversary, America. :)2) Ramadan: The Good, The Bad, and the Guilty Conscience
Last year, as we had just arrived in country when the 30-day fast began, Peace Corps prohibited us from participating. Our bodies were already going through too many shocks for it to be healthy. However, now that we've had time to adjust to the climate, the diet, and the culture, we are not just allowed, but encouraged to see what fasting is all about. Some volunteers take it very seriously, fasting from food and water every day, while others sneak bits of water here and there, and the rest, like me, just give it one or two days and go back to life as usual. For those of you wondering why some people do it, regardless of their religious beliefs, I can only say that for me, it was a way to bond with my host family and village. I wanted to know what it's like for them to fast all day and still have to go through the motions of life, raising babies, fetching water, cooking dinner. Every day at the well, women asked me, "Are you fasting today?" and when I said no, a part of me did feel terribly guilty, even though I'm not Muslim at all.
On the first day of Ramadan this year, I chose to take the plunge. My host father was thrilled that I wanted to experience it, so he called me at 4:45 am to make sure I woke in time to take my water, tea, and morning meal before sunrise. I went back to sleep and woke, feeling alright. The day was overcast and my body was still blissfully unaware of what I was trying to do. After spending a few hours at school, mostly chatting with the teachers about how terrible fasting is, I lazily shuffled home, stripped down, and proceeded to lay on the floor of my hut....for the next 5 hours. I tried reading, but my eyes were too heavy; I tried writing, but I just couldn't be bothered. I tried any other conceivable thing one can do in a superbly dehydrated state, but lay there was all I had.
Around 7:00, I got up and started to prepare for break-fast. I had my water bottle filled, my two eggs cracked and whisked, and my can of green beans on the burner. I brought my things outside to count down the minutes with my family, which are precisely calculated by a location's distance from Mecca, and waited. At exactly 7:34, my family and I broke fast. I, ever the amateur, chugged my entire 1.5 liters down in one eager gulp, and immediately felt so full I needed to lie down again. They laughed at me, explaining how I should only take "small, small" so as not to get sick. A while later, I tried to eat my goodies, but was only able to manage a few bites without feeling awful. How disappointing. I even had the good hot sauce.
Deciding to take the next day off, it was a slippery slope; Each day brought a new excuse as to why is was a bad idea for me to fast. But I want to work out later...I'm going on vacation soon...But I'm alllreaddy thirsty...Either way, I'm glad I tried it as it did give me an insight into the strength needed to pull through this trying month. Perhaps next year I'll give it another go, I don't know. What I do know, is that Lent ain't got nothin' on Ramadan.
1) Tick Tock, Morocc
Since going to Kombo involves a long day of travel and because I love any excuse to visit my lovely friend about two hours away from the city, I decided to make the trip to the airport a two-parter. I stopped in the village of Sibanore where Jess lives with her family in a Jola community. We strung beads to make bins bins, or necklaces that women wear around their waists, we ate break-fast with her host family, and we listened as the neighbor boy sang out the call-to-prayer in the dark of night beneath stormy skies in the middle of her compound. It was a special night made even more so by the knowledge that I was going to meet my real live American mom in just a couple of days.
After boarding an early bus, I arrived in Kombo in time to pick up a few dresses I'd had tailored for vacation, pop into the bank, hit the local hotel and spa for a little humanizing before the flight, and have a nice dinner with friends. I was ready, packed, and primped for Morocco...To Be Continued.
Wonderful story of a few days in July. Can't wait to hear the debrief on your Moroccan adventure with your ever important birth mom! Love you!
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