Haben Read online

  Abby lifts her water bottle. “Haben, let’s drink.”

  My eyebrows knit in confusion. I’ve already been drinking, but okay. Hefting my large water bottle, I slide the top open and begin to drink. We need to consume at least a liter of water every hour to stay hydrated. Perhaps Simone is making the rounds reminding everyone.

  There are eleven of us American high school students. We traveled together from the Bay Area on this Trek for Knowledge. The program includes language lessons, cultural immersion, and of course, building a school.

  “Haben, are you ready?” Abby stands up.

  “You bet!” I follow her to the sand pile.

  Ho Ying hands the shovel to Abby and returns to the shade.

  “Here’s the shovel.” Abby presents me with the handle, and my right hand wraps around it. I nod, letting her know to continue. My dad taught me how to use a shovel years ago, so I feel prepared.

  “Here’s the sieve.” She taps the shovel against the sieve, then slides the blade across the surface. “It’s about three feet wide and four feet tall.” The shovel and Abby begin moving to the left. Still holding the shovel handle, I take a few steps to the left. “Here’s the pile.” She plunges the shovel into a large pile of sand. “I want you to scoop up sand and drop it through the sieve.”

  “Okay.” I nod again.

  Holding the shaft with my left hand while my right hand grips the handle, I lift the shovel from the pile. Through my hands I feel the weight of the sand and rocks on the blade. Stepping to the right, I move the blade through the air until I feel it touch the sieve. Tilting the shovel to the right, I dump the blade’s contents through the sieve.

  “Great! Keep doing that.” Abby walks back to the shady spot and sits down with Ho Ying.

  I push the shovel into the pile again.

  I can do this.

  The blade taps the sieve, and I pour the contents through.

  I’m building a school!

  Sinking the blade into the sand pile, I lift, step, and toss the contents through the sieve. I launch my shovel back into the pile, beginning the process all over again. My mind and body settle into the routine. Beads of sweat drip down my face and back.

  I’m competent. I’m capable. I’m building a school!

  “Okay, that’s enough. Let’s switch,” Abby says.

  Slipping into the shade feels so refreshing. The heat here triggers exhaustion faster than the physical work. I guzzle water until I have to stop and breathe.

  Over the course of the next hour, Abby, Ho Ying, and I take turns sifting sand.

  “We’re going to switch jobs now,” Abby tells us. “We’re going to go make bricks and another group will come here and sift more sand.”

  “So the sifted sand is used to make bricks?” I ask.

  “Exactly.”

  “Cool. Can I get more water? My bottle is empty.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” Ho Ying adds.

  Abby leads us to the large tent. Dozens of people work under the tent, their bodies and movements all a blur. Abby stops at a small table and takes my water bottle from my hand. She unscrews the lid, pours some water, closes the top, and hands it back to me. She fills Ho Ying’s bottle next, then her own.

  “I’m going to go check with Fatima.” Abby walks into the swarm of people under the tent. Fatima, a Malian, is buildOn’s local partner with many hats: translator, cultural liaison, construction manager, and much more.

  Several minutes later, Abby returns. “Ho Ying, come with me.”

  I continue standing by the table, wondering what to do next. Before me appears a maze of construction material and the foggy shapes of people working. Behind me stretches desert sand as far as I can see—which, admittedly, isn’t very far.

  The heat weighs down on my skin like several layers of wool sweaters. Raising my water bottle, I gulp down more water.

  Abby suddenly pops up beside me. “Haben, you’ve been drinking a lot today. Do you have a drinking problem?”

  I grin. “It’s this heat. It makes me want to drink all the time.”

  “I’m gonna have to keep an eye on you, girl.”

  I laugh. “What can I do now?”

  “Now we’re making bricks. Follow me.” Abby walks deeper into the tent. All around us people are shouting and laughing. “This is Oumar.” Abby stops next to a tall guy. “You’re going to work together to make bricks. I’ll be going around checking on everyone. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Awesome,” Abby pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck!”

  I look up at Oumar.

  He talks, his words tumbling together.

  I raise my hands in the universal sign of incomprehension.

  He guides my hands to a pole. His hands are on the pole, too, just above mine. The pole moves, and vibrations travel up from the bottom. My hands listen. The pole bangs against a small container, a container with a thick liquid.

  Oumar removes his hands. I continue stirring. The liquid sits in a two-foot-by-one-foot container. As I stir, I wonder what, exactly, are the contents of the container. Sand and water? Cement? Concrete?

  Oumar calls to me. I face him and raise my eyebrows. He sets the pole aside, then he crouches down by the short side of the container. Understanding hits me. I move to the opposite side, bend down, and grasp the edges of the container. I feel the container lift. My hands flow with the movement of the container, responding to Oumar’s shifts and turns. The container becomes an extension of his hands as we dance into the sun.

  We deposit the container in a field of baking bricks, then walk back into the tent. Oumar pours different substances into a new container. He hands me the pole, and this time I know exactly what to do. I stir and stir and stir. I want him and all the Malians to know that I’m eager to help, even though I don’t always know how. But stirring I can do. The thick liquid swirls in its container as I pull the pole around and around. Maybe they’ll call me the Stirring American…

  A voice shouts near my ear. “Haben!”

  I jump. Still holding the pole, I nervously turn to face the speaker.

  “I’ve told you twice already and you keep ignoring me! I’m just trying to help!” It’s Simone again.

  I take a deep breath. “Simone, I wasn’t ignoring you. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Then you should’ve asked me to repeat it. Why didn’t you say you didn’t hear me?”

  “I literally couldn’t hear you. I had no idea you were talking to me.”

  “Fine.” She sounds unconvinced. “Are you going to drink now?”

  My lips tense in a grim line. Handing off the pole to Oumar, I grab my water bottle, open the top, take a sip, and close it.

  “That’s not enough.”

  I stare at her with shock. Why is she picking on me? Fingers stiff with fury, I open the top, chug some water, and shut the lid. Putting the bottle down, I turn my back on Simone and resume stirring.

  “Haben, I’m just trying to help you. Abby asked me to make sure everyone drinks lots of water. You could get dehydrated. Just don’t wait until you’re thirsty—if you’re thirsty, you’re already dehydrated.”

  My hands grip the pole. “Simone, I know how to drink water.”

  “I’m just doing my job,” she says, already walking away.

  The pole bangs around the container as I stir. I don’t need reminders! Do they all think I’m incompetent?

  Let go of the anger, I tell myself; the fear, the resentment. It’s not worth the energy I should be spending on stirring.

  My hands relax on the pole as I stir away my frustration. I need to remember to stay humble. I’m a fifteen-year-old raised in the Bay Area; of course there are things I don’t know about staying hydrated in desert-like environments, and that’s okay.

  Sighted or blind, Deaf or hearing, each of us holds just the tiniest fraction of the world’s wisdom. Admitting we don’t know everything will aid us on this Trek for Knowledge.

  Chapter Nine

&
nbsp; Lost in the African Night

  Kegne Village, Mali. Spring 2004.

  “Want to play Go Fish with our host family?” I ask Ho Ying.

  “Sure,” she says. “But how are we going to teach them how to play? We can’t speak Bambara.”

  It’s our second evening in Kegne Village. Despite a long day of working in the field, I feel restless. Our eight-by-eight-square house has mud-brick walls on all four sides. We’re sitting on the only piece of furniture in our room—a large wooden bed, with our sleeping bags underneath us to function as mattresses. We sleep on top of them since it’s so hot here, even at night.

  “I know the numbers in Bambara,” I tell her.

  “Okay, but can you teach them the game if you just speak numbers?”

  “Maybe. We can try, right?”

  “I guess…”

  I scramble off our bed and kneel before my duffel bag on the floor. Fear crawls up my arm as I unzip the bag. The zipper should keep the critters out, but I still feel apprehensive sticking my hand inside. My hand feels shirts, pants, soap…I pull out the small box of cards, then zip the bag shut.

  “Hey, how’s it going in here?” Abby and another person are standing in our open doorway three feet to my left.

  “We’re good.” I stand up, holding the cards in my hands. “We’re thinking about playing Go Fish with the kids. Do you think one of the translators could help?”

  “Ibrahim is here with me and he can help for a bit, but after that we have to go check on the others. I see you already have cards. Lead the way.”

  Stepping outside into the warm evening, I turn to Ibrahim. “Can you ask the kids if they want to play a game?”

  “Sure. Where will you play?” His accent is vaguely familiar, reminding me of my family in the eastern part of the continent. The accent is definitely easier than the British ones at camp.

  “Here.” I point to a lone chair in front of our house. “Can you ask if they can bring more chairs so we can all sit?”

  Ibrahim walks over to another house ten feet away. Loud voices carry over to me. I know they must be speaking Bambara, but my ears can only classify speech into two categories: comprehensible or incomprehensible.

  Kids and adults appear in front of our house, some running, some carrying chairs. I gesture to them to put the chairs in a circle. Ho Ying, four of the kids, and I sit in the six chairs. A circle of ten people stare down at us, chatting and laughing with the kids.

  Ibrahim translates my explanation of the game as I pass out cards. “Okay, they understand,” he says. He and Abby then leave.

  “Do you want to start?” I ask Ho Ying.

  She looks down at her cards. “How do you say nine in Bambara?”

  I silently count on my fingers. Kele, fila, saba, nani, duru, wuru, woolanfla, shegin…“Kononton.”

  “Kononton,” Ho Ying says to a kid across from her. “Kononton?” She points at the kid. “Kononton?” She holds up a card, points at the card, and then points at the kid. “Kononton? Do you have kononton?”

  My face lights up in amusement. Sitting here reminds me of my days playing piano with the kids in Asmara. “Maybe they don’t have that card?” I turn to the kid. “Say, ‘Go Fish.’”

  “Go feeesh!” a girl yells.

  Ho Ying takes a new card from the main deck.

  “Your turn. Ask anyone,” I tell the girl. My hand gestures around the circle. I listen, waiting to see if the girl does anything. “Your turn.” I point at her.

  “Wuru,” she says.

  I give Ho Ying a quizzical look. “Who is she asking?”

  “You.”

  I laugh. My left hand holds my cards as my right index finger skims the top left corner of each card, searching for a six. Several months ago, I inserted a regular deck of cards into a braille typewriter, embossing the number and suit on the top left corner of each card. My family and friends play lots of card games, so my hands have plenty of experience fanning cards out with my left hand while my right reads them, all while holding the cards vertically so that the other players can’t see them.

  “She’s holding up a six,” Ho Ying says. “Do you have a six?”

  “Here is wuru.” I hold my card out to the girl, and she takes it. “I’m going to ask for her name. I togo?”

  The girl says something and they all laugh. I give Ho Ying another quizzical look. “What did she say?”

  “I’m not sure.” Ho Ying leans forward in her chair. “I togo?” Several kids shout responses. “I think they’re saying…Kanja?” The group giggles.

  “Kanja, your turn.” Smiling, I gesture around to the whole group. “Ask someone. It’s your turn.”

  Kanja and several people have an animated conversation.

  “She’s holding up a jack,” Ho Ying says.

  “Who is she asking?”

  “You.”

  I fan out my cards in search of a jack. I pull it out and hand it to Kanja.

  The kids continue to chatter around us. I hear Kanja say, “Woolanfla,” meaning seven.

  “She’s asking you for a seven,” Ho Ying announces.

  My right index finger skims over my cards. “Here’s woolanfla.” I hand it over to Kanja. “You’re doing great!” I smile and clap my hands.

  “Saba,” I hear from somewhere behind me. That’s my mom’s name. It’s also the number three in Bambara.

  “Saba!” Kanja shouts.

  I spin around. Five people are standing behind me, reading over my shoulder. “Stop!”

  They laugh. The kids in the circle laugh, too.

  I stand up, waving my arms in a shooing motion. “No! Ayi! Ayi!” The little group parts, chortling as they step away.

  Sitting down, I turn to Ho Ying. “They’ve been reading my cards out loud!” I check behind me. “Can you tell me if they come back? Next time I see Ibrahim I’m asking him how to say ‘cheaters.’”

  “Should we start over? Those points she just got don’t really count.”

  “True…” I whirl around. Two people are standing behind me. “No! Ayi!” They back away.

  These kids! They’re not stopping! I can’t keep looking over my shoulder.

  “You know what?” I remember stirring away my frustrations after the tense exchange over the simple act of drinking water. “Maybe I failed to fully explain the game, or something got lost in translation. It doesn’t matter who wins, really. The kids are having fun. I was having fun, too, until these guys—” I spin around and give them a warning look. They laugh. “We could make this part of the game. Go Fish and Spy.”

  “I guess…but I can’t see their cards.”

  “Me neither.” I giggle.

  “Saba!” The kids start chanting. “Saba! Saba! Saba!”

  “She’s holding up a three,” Ho Ying says.

  I shake my head, more amused than anything. “Here.” I pass her my three.

  Ho Ying and I continue playing with the kids. Every few minutes I spin around and shoo away the spies. When I turn my back, they return to their positions at my shoulder. Kanja—surprise, surprise—wins the game. We play three more rounds, and different kids win those. They work together, gathering and sharing information. The kids beat us at our own game.

  “I’m tired,” Ho Ying says. “Let’s tell them we’re done.”

  “Ka su hεεrε!” Goodnight, I tell the kids. Ho Ying and I start collecting the cards. When we have all of them, I wave farewell to the group before stepping into our house. “We’ll play more tomorrow. I ni ce.” Thank you.

  Soon after Ho Ying and I close our door, someone knocks. Ho Ying opens it, and I join her. Two adults stand in our doorway. “Come. Dansi,” one of them says.

  “Do you recognize them?” I ask Ho Ying.

  “One of them is our host father. I don’t remember his name.”

  “Yosef.”

  “Dansi,” he repeats. “Come.”

  Ho Ying waves her hands and shakes her head. “No, thank you.”

  “Come
. Dansi.” He points to our right, to a road that runs through the village.

  Shaking my head, I take a step back. “Ayi.”

  Yosef plays his walking stick like a guitar. “Come! Dansi.” He puts his walking stick down and dances around it.

  My resolve melts. “What if he’s trying to tell us that our friends are at a dance. I heard that they sometimes have dance parties here.”

  “But Abby would have told us if there was a dance party, wouldn’t she?”

  “Maybe they asked our host family to send us the message. It could be a spontaneous thing. I want to go—do you want to come?”

  “Well…Okay.”

  “Awo,” I tell him yes.

  Ho Ying and I step outside, closing the door behind us. The second guy walks away. Yosef turns right, toward the road, leading us down a path we’ve never traveled before. We walk beside him, curious, intrigued, Ho Ying’s flashlight illuminating the path ahead.

  We walk on a dirt road that seems to stretch forever. Far on my left, I can see the tall outlines of trees. To the right, the open bush. A light breeze soothes my skin, making the temperature just right.

  “Bolo.” Yosef points to the sky.

  “Bolo?” I look up. The dark sky sparkles with billions of stars. The specks of light look closer here than in the Bay Area. Somehow, my vision allows me to see stars, yet I can’t even see Yosef’s smile. Sight works in mysterious ways.

  “Wolo,” Yosef points at the sky again.

  “Wolo?”

  “Lolo.” He points at the sky.

  “Lolo?”

  “Awo,” he affirms.

  “Lolo.” I point at the stars, too. “Stars.”

  Yosef speaks, and I can’t quite hear what he says.

  “Stars,” I repeat.

  “Stars.”

  “Awo!” I laugh with delight.

  We continue walking, Ho Ying on my right, and Yosef with his walking stick on my left. After a while, Yosef points to the sky again. “Alo.”

  “Alo?” I ask.

  “Malo.”

  “Malo?” Exhaustion sweeps over me. The long day of working in the field, learning a new place, teaching the kids Go Fish, and now straining to hear Yosef—it piles up. Pushing myself through the constant stream of unknowns has drained all my energy.