Gardening and Frienship

There are various aspects of the culture here that I find frustrating, either simply because they’re foreign to me or because I just don’t like the way that certain things work. Yesterday, however, I experienced a truly beautiful part of Babwisi culture. Since the rains have returned, for a time at least, and softened the soil, I decided to spend my Saturday starting work on building a garden. Throughout my life many a spring and summer weekend has been spent in the garden with my dad, or out in the fields, since we moved to a farm, so it felt like a good way to spend my day. I borrowed a hoe, the only tool for working the soil that I’ve seen in Bundibugyo, and set about trying to dig up the grass in a part of my yard without losing all the topsoil with it. I’d know exactly how to do this with a good shovel, but with this particular tool I was a little lost and was trying several different techniques, none of which were working terribly well. This was especially troubling since I was in clear view of my neighbor’s house and anyone else who might be walking around, and looking like an incompetent American wasn’t very high on my to-do list. When my neighbors saw me, they first called out, “Nathany, webale kukora!” which means “thank you for digging.” That’s one interesting aspect of the culture here – you thank people for everything. I was doing nothing that benefits them at all (unless they also harvest out of my garden, which is a real possibility) but they still thanked me for the work I was doing. This phrase was repeated by everyone who dropped in while I was working yesterday. But the truly remarkable things happened next. After only a couple of minutes, my two little neighbor boys, Gonja and Charity, who must be about 9-10 and 7-8 years old, respectively, came running over into my yard, hoes in hand, and started swinging them, pulling up sod and tossing it aside. Apart from just helping me, they instructed me on the proper way to use the tool for that purpose (often with laughs as I tried, and generally failed, to copy exactly their technique). But it didn’t stop there. Next, two girls who are in some way related to them and are both a bit older came over, hoes in hand, and joined in. Now we were really making progress. But it got better. In another few minutes, Charity and Gonja’s mother, and another woman who lives next door (probably the mother of the two girls, but family relations are very ambiguous here so I’m not sure), walked over to the growing patch of dirt and started working as well. Women here know how to work the ground, let me tell you. The two of them put all of the rest of us to shame in both speed and quality of work, as they pulled up sod, removed roots, and loosened the soil. Here in Bundibugyo the women do most of the gardening and cultivation, while men clear land and grow cash crops like cocoa and coffee, and it showed. In only a few hours, we (mostly they) had cleared the grass from the patch of ground that I had designated garden (which, as I found out halfway through, is right on top of one of the only underground water lines in the entire district. But we didn’t break it. Not yet anyway). By the time we were about halfway done I was getting the hang of it and kids were saying, “Nathany is a farmer!” and even paying me what I considered the extremely high compliment of calling me an American Mubwisi (a Mubwisi being one of the Babwisi people).

At one point early in the process I was thanking little Gonja for helping me, telling him that I was grateful and hadn’t expected his help. He looked at me with a look that seemed to combine confusion, impatience, and pity, and said, “No. I am your friend.” You help your friends when they need help, you work with them when they work. That’s just what friendship is here. Now, before I idealize this, friendship also often means that I am probably expected to give money to anyone who would be a friend whenever they need it, so it’s not all fun and games and easy decisions. But there was something beautiful about the way that, when they saw a friend and neighbor who could use some help, there never seemed to be any question of what the appropriate response was. There’s the chance that this will also mean that they will be entitled to a certain amount of whatever I grow – that might be a reciprocal aspect of the friendship. In the evening, after finishing work for the day, I took a bag of beans over to their house as a gift for two reasons: one, because I’m in the habit of giving them gifts from time to time as gifts are very important here; and two, as a way to help say thank you. Gonja translated between his mother and me, but he scolded me when I said something that must have made it seem like payment. Giving a gift was fine, but paying was not. He again insisted, “You are our neighbor.”

Two other things I experienced while working the garden were open blisters on the palms of both hands. They started early in the day, brought on by an unfamiliar tool and hands that haven’t been farming recently, and I knew that I should stop working before they got bad, but my pride wouldn’t let me. So I toiled on, eventually putting bandaids on my hands when they got bad enough, but stubbornly and stupidly continuing to work. Now, my hands are bandaged and just about every simple little task involved some amount of pain. I think this isn’t the first story I’ve told about stupid things I’ve done just because I have that typical tough-guy syndrome. But as of today, though it’s not finished, I also have the beginnings of a good garden, with soil that is dark and deep (significantly deeper than my blisters).