We were sitting
Not moving, again.
For a long time
My impatience
Swelling, sweltering as still air
sun beating down.
I watched the man
Moving boxes and bags
And satchels and suitcase,
His whole life maybe,
In a grey peacoat
Against the nonexistent cold.
I woke to the rumble
Fading as the engine switches
In gear it doesn’t shake so bad-
The bus sways
Lumbering: a pregnant camel
Darting mouselike in traffic.
Soft whisper breeze!
The top is open, the air
sidles in
Caressing sweat-beaded skin.
I can breathe, and patience
Whisks in with my friend
Wind.
We are moving fast now.
Past endless rows of eucalyptus trees
Dusty green leaves, blood red trunks spindly
Rooted in the pale earth,
reaching skinnily for the pale sky.
Scant shade hunches under the branches
Herds cluster there in tight sheep scrums
But how can they breathe all smushed?
The breeze brings
Outside smells in
Hot pavement, hot dust, hot treebark
Pungent, fresh, medicinal.
The girl, she was next to me.
The one with the pristine white towel.
She is carsick.
See it in her haste, the way
she holds her cheeks?
She is vomiting,
Quietly, quietly.
No smell, no sound.
Only the mika betrays her
Rustling.
She will wipe her mouth with the towel
Tie up the bag and go to sleep.
Will I betray myself?
When I see him
Maybe I will give him a hug
Smile in his eyes
And hope no one I know
Was on this bus
To carry tales of the hidden forbidden
Back to where they matter
Maybe-
I will just take his hand
And we will slip away
Hiding in the city,
Wind crouching behind the leaves,
Among the trees
Slipping slowly by my window.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Arabic Lessons
It finally happened! As fate, or God, or luck would have it, I had pretty much nothing to do with it. I don’t care, it’s still AWESOME!! 30 some odd women, adult women, are now taking Arabic lessons! They have committed to trying to reduce illiteracy in our little village by becoming literate themselves. For many, this means they are stepping into the classroom for the first time in their 50 some years of life. For others it means picking up the chalk and pencil after a much extended break.
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
The reasons women in my village stop going to school are many. These days, it’s mostly because they have finished all the schooling that is readily available for them. Most families are not comfortable sending their pubescent and pre-pubescent daughters away to school, so once they finish the 6th form, they are done, for good. Those who really care about and are lucky enough to have family somewhere where the girls can safely stay while they study may choose to allow their daughters to continue. However, many don’t have that option. A few families still choose to pull their daughters even earlier. They may need help around the house, or help running the semi-nomadic tents out in the grazing grounds. This is still a vast improvement over days not so very long gone by. It used to be a family would choose maybe one or two kids out of the 6-10 they had to go to school at all. My tutor was one of the only children his parents sent to school. He has shared his literacy with both his younger sister and his wife. He is also a school-teacher here, passing on the gift to some hundreds of kids.
Last week, after months of suspense, the women’s literacy classes started. They started with the generosity of an association from Boulmane, a nearby city. The local preschool teacher got in contact with them (on her own!!!!), and then beat the dirt paths (on her own, between the classes she already teaches!!!!!!!) gathering women’s names and ID numbers so the association in Boulmane could be confident of interest levels. This association then called in the regional Ministry of Agriculture, and together they put up some money. I watched as they handed out the goods so the women could get started. Slates, chalk, pens, pencils and THREE books for each woman! Level 1, Level 2 and an educational reader about agriculture and agricultural science. It was so much fun to see them take the books, and then to come to their first class two days later… bright, excited eyes. Books carried carefully. The odd baby strapped to a back, while it’s mother shifted endlessly from foot to foot to calm it, pen in hand ready to learn. Shy and a bit self-conscious, they didn’t know what to do when the teacher wrote the first letter of the Arabic alphabet on the board. “Aleef! Ah!” she said and turned around to awkward silence. “What… do we… do?” muttered one voice, and the entire room burst into laughter. She hastened to explain, and off they went (like a herd of turtles…). I learned a bit myself, but soon found that I could be of more help guiding hands unused to writing into the proper way to make a circle with a tail on it (“Wa-oh! Oww!).
Just a couple days ago I dropped in on a family that I like to hang out with. They are very, very kind, insisting that I am like another daughter to them, and point blank refusing to let me leave the house without some form of sustenance either in my hands or my belly. Friendly, full of laughter, and out-spoken; they are a good antidote to the unfamiliar families who are still quiet and modest around me. The mother of the family is one of the women studying Arabic for the first time. She was one who had a very difficult time forming the letters that first day. I hadn’t been back for a while, but while we sat by the fire warming our hands, she said “Wait!” jumped up and disappeared. She returned with a sheet of paper completely covered with the number 8 drawn over and over and over and over and over… You could see on it the progression of 8’s. They started out huge, lop-sided, scratchy and barely recognizable. They ended neat, small and quite clearly “8”! She was so proud of herself, yet still self-effacing. She started working on the number 9 while I was sitting there, and her 10-year-old son watched her, giving helpful criticism respectfully and proudly. He too, is happy to see his mother studying. This is one family where the older children have gone on to high school if they wanted, girls and boys. Now, finally, their mother is joining them in the ranks of the educated. I am so happy for them I could shine!
10 November 2009
Autum ambles to the ending…
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
It’s late fall, the harvests are almost all in. Only the olive trees still wait for gathering. The people are feeding tree clippings to their animals. They do this before all the leaves fall off, so as to more efficiently use the produce of the trees. This doesn’t allow the soil to be enriched by as many decomposing leaves, but most of the soil in farm fields here in my site is carefully husbanded, so it seems to work out anyway.
I helped with the corn harvest again this year. Not nearly the ordeal it was last year… Last year the corn harvest was done in the rain (it started raining in September and I swear it didn’t stop until December last year). So, the river was at flood and we had to go the really long way around to the bridge (tack on 12+ km roundtrip), and all the paths were slippery with mud. The fields were deep mud, too. The mules sunk in up to their hocks and knees. I remember I slipped and fell on a steep path and the mule I had charge of almost ran me over before I could get a hold of a strong enough tree branch to pull myself up.
This year it was a gorgeous, sunny fall day (we have had many of those this year!). I started helping late, so mostly I just carried a mid-morning snack to the workers who had been there all morning. Then, we finished pulling the corncobs of the stalks (by hand… corn leaves give the best paper cuts you have ever seen), loaded up the mules with bags of cobs, and a few stalks for quick fodder for the cows and sheep, cleaned up from the snack, and hauled it all back to the house. The system of harvest is: the men cut the stalks with short hand-scythes, and lay them on the ground in loose bundles. Then the women follow pulling the corncobs off the stalks, stuffing them into bags and carrying them to the mules. Everyone loads the mules up, and a couple men take the mules from field to house over and over until the corn is all gathered in. The corn is then all piled up somewhere, and whoever has spare time (old men, women of all ages, girls, kids) shuck the corn by hand. The shucked cobs are carried up to the roofs in bags by the able-bodied women, and piled in narrow, long, thin piles to dry in the sun. In my host family’s house this is a communal task completed mostly by extended family. My host father is too busy with his other work (he’s town sheikh, and traditional healer for the region), and my host mother is not able-bodied. They use me when they can, when I remember to offer. I’m sturdy, and not afraid of big, hairy, smelly (but generally very gentle) mules. Besides, I kind of like helping out with harvests. Even in the states I’ll help drive a tractor chopping corn if I get the chance. The smells of corn, corns stalks, and mud all remind me forcibly of Wisconsin in the fall. It’s like a little gulp of home.
Corn in general, actually… in the summer I’ve been known to go sit in a corn field for half an hour just to hear the whisper and rustle of corn leaves growing in a light breeze and full sunlight. It smells good, and sounds better.
It’s getting cold now. After a long, mild fall, it is finally getting chilly. For three days we had powerful winds blowing through. Winter winds. They call it “atho”. The “th” is a soft, emphatic “t”—a sound we don’t really have in English. It’s an apt name though, strong and hard. Atho is unpleasant… it cuts through the thickest of layers, picks up grit and dust and throws it everywhere. If you don’t shut up the house, a fine layer of it coats everything quickly. Today we are granted a reprieve: warm sunlight and a soft breeze again.
I did my laundry and hung it to dry maybe two hours ago. Most of it is already dry! It’s amazing how quickly things will dry here… in the summer my bandanas are dry within 10 minutes of being hung up. My skin is dry, too… fingers peeling and cracking. It’s not gonna get any better with the cold winter months. I apply lotion multiple times daily, and try to protect my hands from harsh soap by wearing gloves for laundry and dishes, but… Well, thus far the dryness just comes and goes, comes and goes. I remember my doctor in the states—2 and a half years ago—looking at my hands, giving me hydrocortisone, and saying “Use that three times daily, and we’ll hope it doesn’t become chronic.” Chronic, that would definitely be the word!Nonetheless, I generally like this weather. Warm and fuzzy clothing is comfortable again! I huddle under warm blankets, relish steaming tea, and contemplate purchasing a better gas space heater. I enjoy the warmth of my computer on my lap! I go to the hammam and sit in the steamy heat and soak it in, not worrying about heat exhaustion like I would in the summer. Fall is a good season. And here it is, almost over. Farewell, fall!
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