Lazy Saturday

It was a typical Saturday. I had woken up with the first prayer call and groggily ate my P&B sandwich and drank as much water as possible, as quickly as possible so I could crawl back into bed till a more reasonable hour. I firmly believe that people are not meant to rise before the sun (with the sun, fine, but not before), and that belief holds true even if I am living in West Africa and observing Ramadan along with the rest of the village. I'll wake up to eat, in order to alleviate later pain, but I don't have to be happy about it.
I finally roused myself, with the aid of the always helpful roosters and the women pounding coos, around 9:00 and set about to be productive. I did some laundry then took some fabric to the tailor to get some wrap skirts made. Three skirts for $1.10, not bad. The tailor's compound (Corr Kunda (Corr is their surname and Kunda means kingdom in mandinka but is what everyone uses to call name their compound) is one of my favorite families. The compound is huge, with about 8 adults and close to 20 children ranging in age from 6 months to 20 years. Corr Kunda has an open door policy, a large chunk of the children are nieces and nephews that have been shipped off to go to school in this village or have just been inherited through the crazy complicated familial relations here. Despite the chaos that comes with close to 30 people living in close proximity, Corr Kunda radiates warmth and love. The women of the compound are a jovial bunch and get along amazingly well for co-wives, sister-in-laws and daughters who all have to share resources and work to make this large family function. The warmth of the women is reflected in their children and each time I approach the compound, or even come within 50 yards of it, I am greeting by a dozen little voices calling my name and greetings in a variety of languages. Sereer for the smallest ones, Wolof for the over fives and English for the school going kids. As I near the compound Ous and Ebrima, two little boys age 2 and 4, run to tackle my legs followed closely by Sainabou, a little girl age 3 or 4, who is a little slower because her legs are so chubby follows. Jainaba, age 8 and de facto mom most days, usually sweeps down to scoop them up before they reach the road and chastises them for getting to near the dangerous path of fast moving cars. Of all my greeters, I am only 100% sure who the mother of Ebrima is, she is Ami - rival wife to my good friend Jabou (who is Jainaba's mother). Ami is only just now warming up to me and only because Ebrima is so fond of me. She and Jabou share the only visible animosity in the compound, and for good reason, being a co-wife isn't easy!
Following the morning greetings at the entrance of the compound and the ongoing joke that little Ous is ugly but I should take him to America anyway, I enter in the compound and go and sit to chat with Jabou and her daughter who are busy doing laundry and roasting groundnuts for a Ramadan gift. After chatting for awhile, Jabou rises and says she is going to the garden and jokes that I should come help. I call her on her joke and say I will come and try to be useful. She asks again to clarify and make sure I hearing her Wolof or that I am not delusional with the fasting and the heat and what not. I confirm again that I will come and she just laughs and shakes her head, then we are off!
We wind our way through the village, stopping to greet and chat with a couple people. We walk slow as Jabou has to stop every once in awhile to kneel before men or older women in the villages as she greets them, as is Sereer custom. I mumble my greetings as well, feeling awkward that my sweet, strong friend is keeling before men. But Jabou doesn't even think about it, she's been doing it since she was old enough to walk and all the other women do it too, so what is there to think about?
We continue on our way and are joined by other woman as we wind through the village compounds. We chat on the way and all the women are very amused that Jabou has brought her toubab. Possessive form. The women warn me that the work will be painful. I nod in agreement, knowing from experience that I won't get to share in their pain. They will let me try the work a couple times but then will pronounce it to hard for me and they will take over as I stand by helplessly observing.
The chatting turns to why America is sweeter than Gambia. "The work is not heavy there. There is no sickness, no mosquitos. Everyone has money. The sun is not hot." I nod in agreement with some statements and correct the misguided ones, conceding that American mosquitos are nice since they don't carry malaria. We all grow quite after that statement. We are at the end of the rains and malaria is attacking people in droves. Hospitals are filled, medicines is gone and the old and young are dying. We turn the conversation to happier things and MaamJoof says she has 4 children in America, 2 boys and 2 girls. I say she must miss to see them. She just smiles a bewildered smile and shakes her head, "they are in America!" The final prize.
By this time we reach the gardens on the outskirts of the village. A Caterpillar has come through and felled the trees and bush for a new track of land for the upcoming dry season's gardens. The white man's machine has done work in a day that would have taken the women of the village months with their machetes. They marvel at the work machines can do as they surround a couple of the largest trees. Fifty women vigorously chop at the massive tree. Young, old, ancient, babies on their backs, machetes glistening in the hot sun, they chop. The mood is light though the work is heavy. They joke and chat and gossip. They let me try and then we all laugh at my inability to accurately wield a machete. I am no match for the tree so I allow the work to be handed off to more able hands. They seem to enjoy that I try. I chat with the women I know and greet the women I don't.
We are so different, these women and I. Neither one of us has any of the skills of the other. I see these 50 women surrounding a tree, collectively working at a task that will benefit them all. I am filled with conflicting thoughts and emotions. I admire their community, their hard work, their connectedness. But I am saddened that these strong women have to kneel before men, work all day in the hot sun during the fast while the men sit at home. I am angry that they will never read books to their children or have the confidence to say no to their husbands when they are tired of having babies. They pity me too. They are ashamed and shocked at my inability to cook, do laundry by hand, or gut a fish. They love that I love their children but can't understand why, in the name of Allah, that I don't have my own. At my age! We go about life so differently, but we somehow find common ground. These women know their world is changing. They want a different life for their daughters, if not for themselves. Maybe they welcome me into their homes and their lives because they know I am a vehicle, a teacher, a way to help get their children the new life. I don't know if I deserve all that credit. I often feel I learn far more here than I teach. These women remind me to value hard labor, community, support, friendship through bad times and even worse times when you can't feed your kids. Their life is so hard, but they accept it and make the most of it. My life is so easy by comparison. But easy or hard, the lives are interconnected. I can't erase the difficulties from their lives, nor they mine, but together we can get through them by reminding each other in subtle, unspoken ways that there is always another way to approach a task, a problem, the world. And maybe that other way is what we were looking for all along. We just have to be still and listen.