Haben Page 8

  “Yalo,” Yosef points again.

  I shrug and shake my head.

  We walk in silence down the road, trekking farther and farther from the village. The tall trees vanished long ago, back near the start of our journey. Ho Ying’s flashlight illuminates a flat emptiness stretching all around us, and beyond that, a heavy darkness full of unknowns. Stories from my parents creep into my thoughts: lions, hyenas, and snakes.

  “Where is he taking us?” Ho Ying asks.

  My throat tightens, but I try to stay calm. “I don’t know.”

  “There’s no one out here!” Ho Ying sounds upset. “I haven’t seen a house in a long time.”

  While preparing for this trip, I read stories about men who steal kids from villages, forcing them to work on plantations. My heartbeat rockets to a full panic. What if he’s kidnapping us? He could be looking forward to a handsome payment from the plantation owners. He could have told us all this and we simply didn’t understand, just as we don’t understand where we’re going.

  “Maybe we should turn back,” I suggest. “All we have to do is follow the path back.”

  Ho Ying stops and swings her flashlight back toward the way we came.

  Yosef points his walking stick forward, gesturing for us to continue. My breath catches as I realize that he may have multiple uses for his “walking” stick.

  Ho Ying turns, shining her light forward. “I think I see a compound up ahead.”

  The path brings us to a village studded with small, one-room houses just like ours. Their presence feels like protection from the open bush that stretches for miles all around us. I relax a bit. Here, at least, there are people within shouting distance.

  Yosef steers us through the maze, weaving around houses. Up ahead, a huge light emits smoke and heat—a fire. As we come to a stop right in front of it, I notice a group of people sitting around the scorching flames. Several of them stand up and greet Yosef. They direct greetings to Ho Ying and me, but we shrink away. What now? Who are they? What are they going to do to us?

  One man walks up to Ho Ying and me. He points to a house next to the fire. Yosef points at the house, too. Both men put their hands together, tilt their heads, and rest their heads on their hands.

  Terror squeezes my heart. “They want us to sleep there!”

  “I’m not sleeping in there! Whose place is that?”

  “I don’t know! I’m not sleeping there, either!”

  Ho Ying is shaking her head and waving her hands. “No, no, no!”

  I step back from the men. “No!” Yosef has crossed a line. There is no excuse for this. No cultural misunderstanding, no language barrier, no possible explanation for thinking two girls would agree to sleep in a random house. The Bambara word for no comes rushing back to me. “Ayi! Ayi!”

  The door opens.

  “Hey!” someone calls from inside. “It’s Haben and Ho Ying! What are you guys doing here?”

  “Zakiya!” Ho Ying rejoices. Zakiya is part of our group, another student from America. If this is her host family’s house, then Jocelyn is probably in there, too. We’re still in Kegne Village!

  “Our host father brought us here,” Ho Ying explains. “We didn’t know you were here. What are you doing?”

  “Jocelyn and I are trying to sleep. I just came out here because I heard a commotion.”

  “Sorry for waking you up,” Ho Ying says. “Can you tell Yosef to take us home?”

  “Sure!” Zakiya talks in another language. Maybe Bambara, maybe French.

  Yosef leads us back, gliding through the maze of houses.

  My feet drag on the ground as I trail behind him, every step pulsing with embarrassment.

  The assumptions nondisabled people make about people with disabilities plague every aspect of my life. Turns out I need to check my assumptions, too. Anything can get lost in translation.

  Chapter Ten

  Guarding a Secret from

  the Village

  Kegne Village, Mali. Spring 2004.

  The construction site bustles with activity. Days of shoveling and brick-making in the intense heat have coated my skin in a layer of sweat and dust. The limited water supply here means we can only shower once a week.

  “How’s it going?”

  A man’s voice. I turn and then look up. His large sombrero adds to his height, tipping me off to his identity. Dennis is in his junior year at a Bay Area high school.

  “Hey, Dennis. I’m, um…” My face goes hot with embarrassment. I don’t want him to know what’s going on. “Abby,” I mumble. “I’m looking for Abby. Could you help me find her?”

  “Yeah, I see her.” Dennis disappears inside the construction tent.

  I wanted to fix this problem myself, but now I’m committed to talking to Abby. Part of coming to Mali was to prove to my parents that I can take care of myself. Does asking for help count as taking care of myself? I’m still a competent, capable, responsible woman. Right?

  Dennis arrives. “Here’s Abby.”

  “Thank you.” Guilt churns my stomach as I slowly turn away from him to face Abby. “Can I talk to you? Privately?”

  “Privately, huh?” Abby leans in. “You have a secret?”

  My face explodes with burning mortification.

  “I’m just teasing! Okay, let me see where we can go.” She leads the way out of the tent. We pass rows of bricks baking in the sun. About a hundred feet from the bricks, Abby stops by a tree. “All right, no one can hear us here.”

  “Okay. So…” I swallow.

  “Let me guess—your water broke?”

  “My water bottle works fine.” I give her a puzzled look.

  “Sorry, bad joke.” She switches to a more serious tone. “What’s going on, Haben?”

  I take a deep breath. “Remember how you said everything we bring needs to be biodegradable? Soap, toilet paper, everything. Well, I did that.” I breathe, summoning my courage to say it. “The biodegradable tampons I brought are not working.”

  “They’re not working?”

  “No.” My face begs her to stop asking questions.

  “Well, you know what the women here do, don’t you?”

  I blush. Abby stands there, waiting. “They use strips of cloth that they wash and reuse. If I have to, I could do that, but I really hope I don’t have to. Can you help me?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you! I’ll be okay either way. I’m capable of taking care of myself. It’s just that, if there’s anything you could do, if you happen to have any extra products, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about you. You’re doing great. Now some of those other kids…”

  I perk up. “What? Who? What did they do?”

  She laughs. “Oh, Haben.”

  “Yes?”

  “I won’t say. But believe me, this is nothing. I’ll see if I can find you anything. Can you keep working here?”

  “I’d like a shower, if that’s possible.”

  “Sure. I’ll ask Fatima.”

  Abby goes to find Fatima, and the two women talk among themselves. I wonder how much Abby tells her. Asking for help feels like losing control of a situation. It increases the likelihood of a secret becoming public knowledge. I trust Abby and Fatima, though. The three of us will keep the information contained, and no one else will know.

  Fatima and I walk back to the compound. A few trees line the road from the construction site to the village center. The trees remind me that, despite the horrendous heat, this isn’t even the desert.

  At the compound, Fatima talks with another woman. The woman leaves, then returns with a bucket.

  “Okay, here is water,” says Fatima. “You can use this for your shower.”

  “Is there a cup or something I could use to pour water from the bucket?” I ask.

  “Yeah, it’s in there.”

  “Okay, great.” I smile. “So where do people shower?”

  “You shower in the bathroom.
”

  The bathroom is a small roof-less room comprised of four short walls and a hole in the ground. The open hole emits an awful stink that assaults any nose within ten feet. Inside the bathroom, the stench becomes a breath-stopping beast.

  I try to hide my dismay. “Okay, I think I can take it from here. Thanks, Fatima.” I turn to the other woman and thank her in Bambara. “I ni ce.”

  I walk to my room, strolling by two other houses before I reach mine. It’s a short walk—about thirty feet—one that I’ve completed many times. Drinking lots of water has its consequences.

  I change from sneakers to flip-flops. Feeling through my duffel bag, I pull out clean clothes, a towel, soap, and a new frustrating, flimsy, biodegradable tampon. It was probably designed by men. Honestly, no woman would have designed something so important to be this useless.

  Hugging my gear to my chest, I walk back to the bathroom. Stepping inside, the stench hits me like a physical force. I stop breathing. My lungs begin to hurt. I take a tiny breath, struggling to just breathe through my mouth.

  It takes effort to accept the smell. I tell myself it’s human.

  I put my clothes and supplies on top of one of the brick walls. People have to squat over the hole to use it. Since the space is designed for squatting, the walls are only about five feet tall all around. I realize that people must have to squat while showering, too. Talk about awkward.

  I step outside, take a huge gulp of air, and then haul the bucket into the stink room.

  Later, Abby drops by my house. “How was your shower?”

  “Hmm…the water felt refreshing.”

  “Awesome. I found you some rags.”

  My mouth starts to turn down in disapointment, then I catch that judgmental thought, reminding myself to respect the local customs.

  “Thanks.” Taking the bag, I turn it over in my hands. It’s tampons! I laugh with relief.

  “These should work better. If they don’t, let me know and we’ll figure something else out.”

  “Thank you!”

  “You bet. Was that all? Do you need anything else?”

  “Yeah, it would be nice to wash my clothes,” I tell her. “I brought laundry soap. I just need more buckets of water.”

  “I can ask. I’m guessing you’ve washed clothes by hand before?”

  “Yeah, in Eritrea. My grandmother had a washing machine, but she never used it. I think it was broken, or maybe it only worked when there was enough water in the water tank on the roof. I don’t remember the exact reason, I just remember that we did all the laundry by hand.”

  “So you’re a pro! Maybe you can do my laundry, too.”

  My face warms. “I’m not an expert or anything, but if you need tips, I could give you some.”

  Abby laughs. “I’m kidding! Let me go find you some buckets. I’ll be right back.”

  Ten minutes later, I follow Abby to a bench stationed against the wall of the house next door. A woman is sitting there.

  “She’s offered to do your laundry for you,” Abby explains.

  If she does it, she’ll know I’m on my period. And if she knows, the whole village will know!

  “No, ayi.” I shake my head emphatically. I point to myself and point to my bag of laundry.

  The woman stands. She and Abby talk for a while, and then the woman leaves.

  I breathe a huge sigh of relief. One of the articles I read said that some villages segregate women on their periods, sending them away to a separate part of the village. They wouldn’t send me away, would they?

  “Need anything else?” Abby asks.

  “Nope, I’m good.”

  “Okay, see you later.”

  Pulling out a pair of pants from my bag, I dunk them into the first bucket and get to work.

  Water splashes my arms as I wash, scrub, rinse, and wring. Cool, soothing, refreshing water. A scandalous thought pops into my head: I’m doing laundry and enjoying it!

  Doing laundry blind is easy—it’s all about having a system. Ideally, I would have a third bucket for a second rinse, but I don’t want to use any more of my host family’s water than is absolutely necessary.

  I finish washing my clothes and lay them out on my bed to dry. The heat will dry them in an hour, maybe less. I carry the buckets behind the house and dump the dirty water. I feel happy knowing that the laundry soap is biodegradable.

  A person walks by. A man, probably part of the host family. I hand him the buckets.

  He takes the buckets and walks away. Five seconds later he marches over to me, yelling.

  My heart jumps. Shame glues my feet to the ground as I contemplate the source of his fury.

  He yells again, gesticulating with a bucket.

  My arms rise and fall in a part question, part apology. “Sorry?” I remind myself that loud voices sound angry to me. This could all be a big misunderstanding.

  Still shouting, the guy thrusts the bucket in my face.

  Tilting my head, I peer down at the bucket. My eyes don’t see anything amiss, so my mind searches for answers. Maybe he’s mad I dumped the water? Maybe the laundry soap changed the color of the bucket? Maybe there’s a red stain?

  My body tenses with mortification, and my heart pounds wildly. He knows! The whole village will know!

  This desperation to keep my period a secret has seeped into every interaction, triggering harmful and exhausting worries. I don’t actually know why he’s upset or what’s wrong with the bucket. Some cultures stigmatize menstruation, but I can choose to embrace it. After all, almost every woman experiences menstruation.

  I straighten my back, look up at the man, and use a strong, firm voice. “It’s biodegradable.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Latrine

  Kegne Village, Mali. Spring 2004.

  “Hi!” I call over to the group. Two people rest in the shade of a tree while a third person sifts sand.

  “Hey, Haben,” the person closest to me says. “It’s Simone and Elizabeth.” Elizabeth is an English teacher at a high school in Berkeley. She’s super thoughtful and is always ready to answer whatever questions I have.

  I sit down on the sand next to them, grateful for the shade. “Guess what?”

  “What?” Simone asks.

  “I’m now your water boss. So, are you two drinking your water?” My playful tone masks the seriousness with which I take my job. I intend for the day to end with everyone still hydrated and still speaking to me. The memory of my impatience with Simone on our first day makes me cringe.

  Simone and Elizabeth drink.

  “I can’t believe we’re leaving tomorrow,” Elizabeth says. “It’s going to be so hard to leave. I’ll miss working here with you guys. I’ll miss my host family and playing with the kids.”

  “Me, too.” I rotate the water bottle in my hands. “Do you think we can hang out in the Bay Area? When we get back?”

  “Yeah, definitely!” Simone says. “You’re really nice.”

  I give her a puzzled look. “You sound surprised.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that! I guess I was kind of intimidated. I thought you were too smart and wouldn’t want to be my friend.”

  “Simone, I don’t think I’m smarter than you at all! Why would you think that? Did I do or say something?”

  “I don’t know, really. I think it’s because back at the pre-trek meeting, whenever Abby asked a question, you always knew the answer.”

  I’m perplexed. “That’s because I did the reading. All of her questions came out of the reading packet they gave us.”

  “That’s the thing—no one else did the reading.”

  My eyes widen with disbelief. “Really?”

  “Haben, you were the only one who knew the answers. No one else did the reading. There were so many articles. I meant to read it, I tried to read it, but I didn’t have time…”

  “I had no idea. Wow.”

  I try to process the news. The bulging packet had all kinds of articles in it, explainin
g the history of Mali, the basics of Bambara, the recommendations for eco-friendly travel gear…Wait a minute! If no one else read the packet, then was I the only one who brought biodegradable products? All this time, the other girls used their regular products while I suffered and struggled and sacrificed. This is the last time I ever read anything.

  Simone continues, “You obviously did the reading, and I felt bad that I didn’t, and I guess I just assumed you wouldn’t like me because of it.”

  I sigh. “I can’t see and hear as well as you do, so I had more to lose if I skipped the reading. I studied the materials because I wanted to be useful to the team—like a human version of Google.”

  “I didn’t think about it that way.”

  The swoosh of the metal shovel sliding through sand fills the awkward silence.

  I slowly stand up. “I should get back to work. Hey—I noticed a bunch of people going over there.” I point to the left corner of the construction site. “What are they doing?”

  “I don’t know,” Simone replies. “Want me to go with you?”

  “Sure.”

  Simone turns to Elizabeth. “Is it okay if I go with Haben?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine. John and I will take turns sifting sand.”

  As Simone and I walk to the far-left corner of the work site, my eyes catch sight of a two-foot high brick wall. I’m swept away with awe—my hands made some of those bricks! My hours of shoveling, sifting, stirring, and sweating, created some of those bricks. In two months, this village will have a schoolhouse to serve eight hundred eager young learners, and the thousands to come after them. This fifteen-year-old Deafblind girl from Oakland has actually made a positive impact in the world. The realization gives me a boost of optimism.

  We walk past the foundations of the schoolhouse and reach a group of people standing around. Simone chats with several of them while I look around, hunting for a visual or audio clue.

  Fatima steps in front of me. “Haben, how about you?”

  “Sorry?”

  Fatima turns and faces the whole group. “Haben, no. Meisha, no. Simone, no. Only Dennis! Why aren’t any girls helping?”