I love the
time I spend in the village with my friends.
Most Wednesday nights find me sitting by the fire at my friend Isatu’s
house. I am learning to cook over an
open fire for several reasons.
First, it
allows me to see people in a different setting than making them come to my
house. Second, it is a great way to
learn language and culture. Different
people walking by and different situations that happen on a daily basis in the
village are great conversation starters that lead to new words, ideas, and
customs on a weekly basis.
It also
allows me a peek into their lives, and frankly, makes me incredibly grateful
for how very easy my life is. It did not
take very long to erase any illusions I had that I would be able to survive very
long if I had to work as hard as my friends do.
The people
love to watch me beat rice, wash it, draw water from the well, pound stuff in a
mortar, and various other things that are required to cook a meal over an open
fire. Many times, they just stand and
stare. Last week was no exception. It makes me feel a part of life here and the
people seem to love that I take the time to figure out their lives. Last week, though, I was struck by how
different our lives really are.
I was
watching Isatu’s sister-in-law, Camara, and was struck how the scene at her
house was, in some ways, much like the scene in many homes in America. She had come home from the farm and needed to
make supper. It was late. She was tired. Her little kids were all around her
feet. She was warning them to stay away
from the fire. She was breaking up
fights between siblings and warning them to share.
But I was
also STRUCK by how HARD it is to survive here.
Yes, there are working parents in the US who come home tired and need to
get food on the table and get the kids cleaned up and in bed. But that is where the similarities end.
I watched
Camara. She had been working on the farm
all day, beating rice off the stalk and fanning away the chaff. Then she walked home, carrying the rice on
her head and her baby on her back. In
order to beat the husk off the rice for supper, it needs to be dry. But she had not had time to dry it in the
sun. So she built a fire, put the husked
rice in a pan over the fire, and stirred and stirred it until it was dry enough
to pound. Then she went back into the house and dragged out the heavy wooden
mortar and pestle and began to beat the husk off.
Her 1 year old baby was crying - begging to
be picked up. She pounded and pounded
the rice and then pulled it out of the mortar and fanned away the chaff – and
then repeated the process – over and over.
The minutes flew past and it was getting later and later. Finally the rice was ready to be washed. She went over to the well and drew up water
to wash the rice and to cook it and also for baths that night.
She built
another fire and got some water boiling as she washed the rice, removing the
stones and other debris that ends up in the rice when it is harvested. With the rice finally in the pot cooking (the
whole process probably took 1 hour start to finish) she could finally turn her
attention to the sauce for the top.
Since it was Wednesday (the end of the grocery week around here since
market is on Thursday) she was out of several key ingredients and sent her 4
year old off to buy some from a neighbor.
By the time I left at dusk, she was just getting the sauce cooking – and
the rice was still not finished.
Like I said,
I know that there are working men and women who have to come home and cook, but
really…. After a long day of physical labor?
And starting EVERYTHING from scratch?
And getting water from the well?
These people – women especially – are incredible. They work so hard- and
yet I rarely hear them complain. They don’t have take-out
and fast food. They don’t have
microwaves or fridges to store leftovers.
There are no crockpots. No store
bought bread for sandwiches in a pinch.
We really just have life SO easy compared to most of the rest of the
world. And so that is part of why I go
every Wednesday – because it reminds me to be grateful!
