While in village a few weeks
ago something strange, amazing and somewhat offensive happened to me. I was
chatting away with a group of men when out of the corner of my eye I saw a man
raising his hand to his mouth in a drinking gesture. I had never seen this man
before; he was clearly just passing through the village. It was a hot day per
usual and he looked very thirsty. However, as I was clearly in the middle of
something, and he clearly wasn’t signaling for me to bring him water, I
ignored him. After about a minute, he moved into my line of sight again and
continued making the “bring me water” gesture. I was astounded. While I see men
make this gesture to women all day long, no one had ever made it to me.
Normally, when I see women forced to immediately abandon whatever it is they
are doing to bring a man water, I am offended, but only in a passive,
cultural-difference sort of way. My toubab mind thinks, “You have feet, you
walked all the way to this compound, get your own water.” However, now I was
faced with a genuine predicament. This man was gesturing for me to bring him water. Even while being
offended and mildly perturbed, I also felt a sense of pride and accomplishment.
After two years of trying to belong, had I finally made it? Does being ordered
around just like all the other women in my village mean I am finally culturally
integrated?
As outsiders, I feel we are
often toeing the line of being ourselves and being culturally appropriate,
suppressing outbursts concerning certain cultural differences so as to not lose
the respect of our community members. But then there are times where we can use
our role as outsiders as an opportunity for sharing and teaching. A host
country national once described PCVs to me as genderless or even a third gender.
I feel that this is an apt description. While I am a woman, I am very different
from all the women around me. And while I mostly work with men, I’m not one of
them either. I’m something in-between: a third gender. As a member of the third
gender, I can talk about things to both genders; things neither gender can talk
about with one another. This is a unique and powerful role.
So, did I use this power
position to teach that man about how we do things a bit differently in America?
I’d like to say I did, but I didn’t. I simply ignored him until he caught the
eye of another woman and had her bring him water instead. I’ve thought about
that missed opportunity many times in the weeks since it happened. Sometimes I
think we work so hard to fit in that we become afraid to step outside of the
more traditional gender roles at our sites. Now, towards the end of my service,
I know I will never truly fit in; I will always stand out. That being said, I
think we can all share pieces of our culture with our community members, even
if it makes us stand out just that much more. Whether it be talking to my moms
about the fact that I am not married but not a virgin, or telling the teachers
at the school that some men in America stay home and take care of the kids
while their wives go to work. Or simply telling that man, “You have feet, you
walked all the way to this compound, get your own water.”
My mom and my aunts Bev and Monie also contributed the following article to the newsletter at the end of their wonderful visit. It was well received and definitely worth a share.
Could our bra-burning mothers who started demanding equal
pay for equal work in the 70s have envisioned their grand-daughters as agents
of change in the 21st century on another continent with something as simple as
a water tap? We can take it all for granted as American women in 2013. But here
we are in Changai marveling at the idea of taps for water seeding a women`s
liberation movement in West Africa.
Drawing water is a back-breaking, central part of every
woman's day in Mariama's village. In her compound, three wives and a pre-teen
helper head out before sunrise and make several trips to the well about 400
meters away with a variety of empty containers: the ubiquitous Gambian wash
buckets along with recycled cooking oil containers we've seen put to a variety
of uses from one end of the Gambia to the other. When repeated use has worn
holes in the bottom of the bidongs, their useful lives are extended with
plastic bags stuffed into the holes. The women from each compound appear to
have assigned water times but they also rely on a complex scheme to fairly
allocate the labor and its fruit. There are women of all ages gathered at the well.
Three women on one rope, they work in rhythm to smoothly lower and raise the
bucket more than 100 meters roundtrip…more than 15 times just for Mariama's
compound of 10 people. Mariama's moms graciously allow each of us to join a
team for a pull but freely laugh at our ham-handedness and un-calloused palms.
There's camaraderie and cheerfulness in the air belying the brute force
required to provide something so basic...household water.
We made the trip from Banjul to Changai with Seedou, the
water wizard from Kombo. Mariama and her counterpart, Mahmad, have laid the
groundwork for his visit by assessing the village's needs, defining the
project, and applying for a SPA grant to cover the cost of having piping laid,
and taps and a pump installed to provide water on demand at several locations
in Changhai. All for a mere $10,000, less than a small used car in America, but
enough to transform the daily lives of the women (and girls) in Changai. The
water project is explained by Seedou at a village meeting on Sunday morning
around 10. People are slow to gather, visiting and gossiping taking precedence
until some sort of signal is given to begin. Seedou provides an overview with
the assistance of a Pulaar interpreter. The men are sitting close. The younger
people, looking disinterested like teens everywhere, sit farther away on a
circular stone wall. The women sit even further away in a large group behind
Seedou. If they are listening, it is hard to tell. They are busy scolding
children as needed and attending to babies bound to the backs of moms. An
observer would not guess that the topic was one that will affect their lives
most dramatically of all.
Just when it seemed to us outsiders that the women's input
and reactions were irrelevant, a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned to
an elderly woman sitting quietly behind us. The male leaders have spoken and
repeatedly expressed their gratitude to Mariama, but now everyone wants to hear
from one of the oldest and most respected members of the village. An elderly
woman with a nearly toothless smile clearly has clout that makes her words
important as the village plans for the project. Such respect for an older
woman's opinions was as foreign a concept to us as the idea that three
middle-aged white women traveling to Changai was to them.
We are left to ponder just how the arrival of water taps in
Changai might change the lives of two of the village's newest female members
might be. Cathy, named in honor of Mariama's American mother, and Oumou,
Mariama's youngest Gambian sister, might grow up believing that water always
came from a tap. But will that mean that they will have equal access to an
education? Will they be able to pursue a career if they want to? Follow dreams
and aspirations that may take them beyond Changai and maybe even beyond the
Gambia? Will they be free to choose whom to marry or even whether to marry?
That seems as unknowable as the idea of a woman candidate for president might
have been for our mothers four decades ago. We will need to wait and see.
