I headed out to the field at 9:30am-ish which is really late to start farm work. Most start their work at 6:30 or 7am, ready to put in a full days work. I plan to work until 12pm or 1pm then call it a day knowing I cant last a full day. I arrived to the field and noticed two jobs being performed. First, 2 men were applying chemical fertilizer to the cotton rows. They asked if I wanted to help and I said "no thanks", not wanting to expose myself to the fertilizer which was multi-colored, granular with a lusty presence. So I grabbed my hand hoe and helped the women weed the beds already full with sprouting cotton plants. We all took a row, 20-30 meters long and started to weed, being cautious not to cut the immature cotton plants. It takes some time to weed properly and efficiently with a steady pace. The hand hoe is a serious tool consisting of a metal blade up to 6 inches wide lodged into a wooden handle, making it a perfect tool to rake anything that is in its path. But it has no mercy for things you dont want to rake, like plants you intend to grow or your foot, which I've seen some nasty wounds as a result of a hand hoe strike. But Malians are surgeons when it comes to effectively working with a "daba", exhibited when I watched them weed before I started my row to learn a little technique. I observed how they raked around a cotton plant, a good radius around it before moving closer to the plant, at times running the daba within millimeters of the plant, never damaging it. This precise method of weeding also was the most efficient for the time it took to weed. A definite skill that would take me time to learn. I started my row, working slow at first and being observant of the cotton plants to not cut them. As I started to get the hang of it, the process of weeding became familiar and I felt as though I was in a groove. Though much slower than others, my pace was good and the weeding was good for government. However by 12pm my back was aching. You are bent over the whole time weeding shuffling your feet along the row as you rake the ground never standing until you take a much needed break. Since I'm not used to this type of work, my back was telling me no more. As I observed for another hour under the shade of a palm tree, they continued working showing very little signs of the 7 hour morning they were putting in. Plus this is one day as its probably been a few days consecutively of doing this work. It was a humbling day of work and I left early with the utmost respect for them and what they do to provide food for themselves.
After taking a bath and eating something, I reflected on what a good day it was in the field. I got a few good hours of manual labor and enjoyed the company of some really good people, the whole time joking, laughing, and sharing time with them. A productive day that I could build on in the future. I was in good spirits until we had a tragedy occur in my commune that changed the mood for the rest of the day. A little girl died today, about the age of 1 1/2 to 2 years old. She was the daughter of the eldest man in our commune with the beautiful name of May. Her mother whose name is Janet, same as my mom at home, is one of the sweetest women in the commune, always has a warm greeting to give you when she sees you. May for a while has been sick and from what I've learned has always been sick since she was born. The volunteer before me remembers her being sick all the time as well, her legs thin and frail never allowing her to walk or stand. Her face was grown so you couldn't really tell her age and she always had a cough with her. She was a beautiful girl with big brown eyes that greeted you when there were no words to speak. The day she died, I had just seen her a few hours earlier. Janet and May had gone to the doctors in another town and returned the day before. I greeted them outside my house and I remember May asleep on Janets back, comfortable and quiet. She then woke up and was hungry as I was saying goodbye before heading into town. Not long after when I returned did I get the news that she had passed. I went to the eldest mans house to pay my respects.
As I arrived everyone was in silence, I sat down quietly and observed my surroundings. Everyone was quiet, barely saying a word. Women were sitting together all with somber expressions. Emotions are few in Malian culture. I've seen anger and laughter before but never sadness as crying is not expressed and at time not tolerated. But all this was exhibited this day as the women consoled each other, especially Janet. They were preparing the body for burial which a few were in charge of as the rest of us watched, gathering our thoughts. You could tell that this wasn't foreign to them, that it has happened before. They know what to do and with every step its a reminder of past events. While this was happening, the men dug the grave in the field. The area is located in the field where they have currently planted corn for the harvest. Weeks ago I noticed a plot untouched, overgrown with weeds. By this time all the fields were tilled and waiting to be sowed for the harvest. I asked why this plot was the way it was. They answered that its the place where my commune buries their deceased children. The person who I asked had buried one of their daughters there a few years ago. Once things were in order, the pastor said a few words before laying May to rest.
Visitors who came stayed until way into the night showing their support. Days after things are back to normal as life goes on here in Mali. It's a reality that death is always around, but everyone lives their lives to the fullest and making the best of the day. No one dwells long on what happened and life is still going. Fields need to be tended to, animals fed, houses organized, etc. Emotions aren't non-existant, but come and go, never to linger. It's the best way to cope and move on and to keep enjoying life each day at a time.
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