Machamba

I woke up to rooster crowing around 6:00 and tried to ignore the squeaky footsteps in the hall until 6:30. After peeling off the mosquito net and getting dressed in my favorite Brazilian soccer uniform I joined Dusty, Kailey and Kristen outside. We started the long walk down to the fields that lie behind our small neighborhood, after the large beer factory. This time we found a new trail behind that led along the narrow paths, the dew-covered corn stalks and the patchwork fields. It seemed to disappear into the thick African morning mist. Occasionally the kapulana-covered legs would arise and show their heads of wrinkled dark skin. All of the old ladies would arise and greet us, and when we greeted them back in Changana, the indigenous language, rather than in Portuguese, they giggled with delight and wonder.

We slowly found our way back to the fields behind the lake, where we worked last week with Dona Atalia, but today she wasn't there. We found another group of women cutting couve (kale) and as I approached them, carefully choosing my steps along the muddy furrow I said: "Dzi Shile Mama. Nidjula a cafuna oitzema m'couvo?" (Good morning mother (term of respect for older woman), Can I help you cut the kale?). She handed over her large knife and I went to work. The others saw and came over to join. We cut the whole rectangular section of the garden and began stacking it into the green burlap sack, stalks towards the outside, leaves towards the center, smallest on bottom, largest on top.

The people walking by on the path made their usual comments. "What are these white people doing here?", "Hey Mama, who are these people helping you?" "Good morning." they''d said in Changana, and when we responded they'd wonder aloud with amazement. After stacking the couve about hip-high, the packing and squeezing began. We placed another burlap back over the top of the stack and pressed downward with just enough force to compact the leaves without completely smashing them. Then we'd use the straps sown into the corners to cinch the bags together, twisting the lines and then tying them. Then two or three people come together and lift the bag up, and someone ducks under and then extends upwards, with the weight of the bag squarely on their head.

Dusty took the first bag on his head and walked to the highway to our north - about a ten minute jaunt He returned before we had finished packing the next two bags that belonged to Dona Alicia. The first of Alicia's bags went atop Kristen's head. The second, larger bag went on top of Kailey's. I had already had my first turn carrying the bag last week. The mud was thick and made balancing and walking treacherous. Africans have mastered a different walk - it comes purely from the hips and the torso and head remain motionless, simply sailing forward regardless of the load atop them. Alicia had told us it was a long walk, and had pointed south. All I could see were the fields and streams, occasionally interrupted by coconut trees melting into the mist. Nestled on the sides of this shallow valley, the city began. First homes hacked out of reeds, balanced on the mud, praying that the floods won't come, then the cinder block houses staking their claim in the sand, their tin roofs reflecting the sun, then roads and trees, bigger houses, bars and bakeries. Behind them peeked the large apartment buildings and granaries.

After a few minutes the couve bag had leaped from Kailey's head to Dona Alicia's and then on to mine, like an over-sized toad that refused to balance. You have to move the weight a little further back than you'd expect in order to see the road. The bag begins to sag and drip with your own sweat. The weight at first only pressed upon my skull, but slowly spread to my neck, trapezoids, shoulders and then torso. After nearly a half an hour, I wondered if the road would ever come. I couldn't see the people's faces anymore; I could just feel the sweat and the dirt dripping down, my sandaled feet spitting out dust and wondering where the road would appear. My body began to tremble and shake. I felt like the slaves from the poems I've been reading, but my burden was fake and ingenuine. I called out still "Dzi Shile Mama"and "Dzi Shile Papa" to each person that passed, and lied when Kristen asked me if I was OK or if I needed to switch with someone. My pride wouldn't allow me.

At last came the road, the crossover stairs and the trucks. The mob of women and colors and peanuts and sweat. Setting the bag down my head swirled with exhaustion and it seemed my balance had been sapped with my energy... but I had made it. Alicia looked at me and said in Changana and then in Portuguese, her wry smile winking through ivory teeth,

"You have the strength."