...time flies (part two)

8:15-11:30 This is my "official" work time. I chill at the dispensary with my health ladies, dishing out wheat soy mush to the identified malnourished kids in the village. I hover over them like a mother bird, keeping their chirping to a minimum and their little mugs full. I talk shop with Faty and Mariam about upcoming health presentations or gripe about the village's cash contribution to the latrines (1/3 is collected but my impatient palm awaits the other 20,000UM).
11:30-12:30 Errand time. I drop torn clothes off at my tailors, I sit among the market ladies, getting talked into buying fried dough balls or soap. I go and say hello to friends I haven't seen for awhile and unsuccessfully track down the health committee president (he's always out and about with his abundant sheep herd, mashallah). All the while my skin is pricking with dis ease from the sun, I am stepping onto all sorts of small thorns (the plant that breeds these tiny "death stars" are brought by the rain) and generally suffering from the elements.
12:30-1:30 Sigh. Back at home and out of the sun. I either lay in a puddle of sweat in my room reading a book (most recently but do not recommend: Moby Dick) or I "help with lunch" by fiddling with the radio, sticking my hands in the rice or write in my journal while keeping Isata company. (I'm a very good lunch helper.)
1:30-2:30 Bucket bath time. Alhumdillilah. I am completely alone in my little bathroom space. Not required to talk or smile or hurry. I am simply cooling off in the 110 degree weather with a little well water. When a breeze comes and my skin develops goosebumps, I tell myself that it is 110 degrees and I am not cold. There is no way I am cold. (But I am.)

to be continued

trying to be a farmer

This year's rainy season, as I've mentioned before, has been monsoon-like. I've already complained about traveling difficulties and praised the pluses of using rain water, and now I'd like to mention an after-effect of a good rainy season: farming.

Going to the fields is a Garlyan's favorite thing to do. After some bread is munched, some coffee slurped, and the horse cart loaded with picks and supplies for tea-making, all able and willing bodies head into the quickly warming sun to get cracking at their barely-income generating backbreaking work.

Everyone's plot of land, just months ago covered by the river, is slowly but surely coming back into view, as the river recedes back to its original size. Every couple of days, what was mushy gushy mud is now moist and fertile soil. It's time to jab poles in even rows for corn and beans. It's time to dig foot-wide holes for sweet potatoes. Roots are hacked away and already sprouted bean leaves are plucked to make the most (and only?) delicious meal in Pulaar land: hako.

This work requires a person to bend over, up to their ankles in mud. Dirt nestles into fingernails and the sun rises and rises, getting unbelievably hot in the cloudless, merciless sky, baking the backs of our legs and necks.

I can last about three hours. Almost everyone else has their lunches brought to them, so they can work and work and work and work until they want to drop. And then they walk home, eat the fresh hako and find the energy to socialize so loudly and so late into the night that their tired toubab can't sleep. The cycle begins all over again, the next day, as the sun is plotting its next energy-zapping attack.

how the time flies

I often wonder where my day went, as the sun sets and my host family drinks for the first time since dawn. I find myself marveling that another day is over during which I did essentially nothing. This is as much for my benefit as for yours- a small exercise to answer the question: What do I do all day?

6am I wake up to roosters singing and haul my mosquito net, cot, and pillow into my room
6-6:45 I walk as the sun rises, usually thinking about everything but Garly, because for my next many waking hours I will be in the heart of Garly life with no escape
6:45-7:30 Walk down the hill with an empty bucket and up the hill with one full of water three times. The first hike is silent, but by the end we're awake and splashing water during the trek.
7:30-8 Breakfast. Alone-amazingly-in my room I munch on tasteless crackers, mix up some plain oatmeal, or drink yogurty cows milk that has been souring overnight. (This flavor takes some getting used to...)
8:00-8:15 BBC world news. My quarter of an hour contact with the outside, English-speaking world. I get many uplifting updates on countless wars, deaths and general violence. I thank Allah that I am nestled safely in my little Muslim village.

Phew-and I haven't even left the house yet. But my cyber cafe time is running out. I'll update this later, so stay tuned to see what my life is like beyond my sheep-ridden yard.

Ramadan Round II

Last year at this time I wrote about Ramadan being like a game. Winners and losers and bonus points. Unfortunately, this year, I better understand how hard this really is for them.

As the gigantic river slowly retreats, the wet fertile soil calls for corn, bean and sweet potato planting. Going to the fields at this time is a must. Unfortunately, it is also a must that there is no drinking water or eating between the first and fourth prayer calls of the day. Pregnant women who can barely waddle to the well or hiking out to the far away fields just as hungry and thirsty as their unborn babies are.

This year I resent Ramadan for making difficult lives harder. I encourage pregnant and breast-feeding mothers to nourish their children rather than their religion. But their reasoning is that any on-Earth turmoil is worth a "get-out-of hell-free" card.