When Will the White Girl Visit Again?

I followed my African friend down the narrow dirt path. We worked our way farther and farther from the busy market. We followed the tiny path and weaved our way through the village passing pieces of cardboard and tin pieced together; the local houses. I passed scrawny chickens picking at the dirt, tons of chocolate-skin-colored kids playing soccer in the road, and haphazardly observed naked little ones bathing in their plastic buckets. I looked around and noticed men urinating on the side of houses, women cooking over open fires, hair being braided, and children playing. I was off the beaten path, out of the city, and headed to the village of PO PO Beach. Everyone I passed stared at me. Few people in Africa are accustomed to seeing white people, especially where I was now walking. My friend told me I was entering the ghetto, or "crossing the tracks" into "the OTHER side of town." Not that the place I was going was dangerous, but it was remote, not where most white people go. I was in the part of town where white is the color your t-shirt used to be; not a skin color. The stares continued, but instead of keeping my eyes toward the ground, I made eye contact with the people and as soon as I smiled and waved, the cold hard stares broke into huge toothless grins. After rounding one last corner and traversing another muddy pool of stagnate water; we had arrived at our destination. We were at the humble home of Emmanuel, one of the day workers from the ship. Emmanuel and his wife quickly stood from the two plastic lawn chairs they were sitting in, welcomed us, and insisted we sit. They then took their place on the dirt next to us. Reluctant to take a chair from one older than myself, but not wanting to offend my host, I sat on Emmanuel's prised piece of furniture. There were children playing in the dirt across from me. They giggled and quickly looked away as we made eye contact. An elderly women was cooking corn on the cob on a grill, over an open fire. A man walked past carrying gallons of water on his head. The entire village appeared to be going about their business, but they were all very aware of my presence. I then spotted two sets of root beer brown eyes peering at me from behind a tree. I smiled... they ran... it became a game. They would sneak up behind the tree, then the metal post, then closer until I saw them... and they would run away laughing. The crowd playing the game grew. Each time they ran away, they would bring a new young friend. It seemed as if they were almost daring each other to reach the white girl, but they would always run away. I stuck my tongue out at them and winked, they almost fell over with laughter and they ran away again. The game carried on for at least 30 minutes. Eventually, they ran off giggling, snickering, and sticking their tongues out at me. Around the corner from where I was sitting, I could see a group of people assembled in a somber manner. I was told the group had just returned from a funeral. The woman in the center of the group had just buried her husband. I watched in silence, observing the intense mourning of the widow and her family and the strong cultural ties of relations that brought many in the community to visit and just sit with the family. A man carrying a beautiful baby girl walked past where I was sitting. My African friend could not help but notice the way my eyes sparkled when the wee baby came closer. He observed my interest in the baby and called the stranger over and asked if I could the child. Next thing I knew, the child was thrust into my arms and I was privileged to hold that precious baby girl for the next hour as her dad sat behind a tree content as could be even though a strange white girl was holding his baby. After an hour of visiting with Emmanuel and his wife Margret; Margret excused herself to do house work and Emmanuel sent his children to fetch water. I offered to help. The Africans laughed at me, wondering how I could possibly help. I said I would try. My friends said I did not need to help, but they were not going to stop me. I jumped up, grabbed one of the 25 gallon buckets from Emmanuel's children, and I followed them 1/2 mile to the water pump. I mean how hard could it really be to carry water? If the 7-year-olds can do it, I should be able to, right? We reached the pump and started filling the buckets, they filled fast and it was soon time to carry them back. My tour guide promptly lifted the bucket onto her head and was ready to go. I attempted to lift mine, but before I got it off the ground, I saw my African friends behind the nearest building. They quickly came to my side and insisted that they should carry the water. Wanting the real African experience in everything, I heaved the bucket, with help, onto my head, and soaked myself because the cap was not on tight. I balanced the bucket for about 30 seconds and finally admitted my weakness. I do not know how they carry things that are so heavy and odd shaped. I guess my head is not flat enough. With the help of the guys, we made it back to the village with the water. I am going to have to practice a lot more before I am village material! While we were gone, Margret had started washing clothes. She was working so hard, my heart went out to her. I wanted to help lighten her work load for just one day if I could. She had a large basin filled with water. She would put soap on each item of clothing, get it wet, and scrub it on a wash board. I decided to try and help. Margret showed me the basic process involved in washing each item and I went for it. She laughed so hard, watching me try to scrub her clothes. I would not give up, I was determined to get this task and skill down. You rest the washboard on your knees. Then steady it with your hands, by pushing down on the board with your hands and forward on the board with your knees, all while scrubbing the item of clothing in your hands as hard and you can. If it sounds complicated, it is! We are talking an old metal wash board like in the movies. I never was coordinated enough to scrub with both hands. I had to steady the board with one hand and scrub with the other. I wanted to finish the entire load of laundry for Margret, but between the laughter and soap suds that were soaking my pants, I had to turn the task back over to the pro. But, not before everyone in the village saw me and had a good laugh. I sat back down, wet and exhausted. All too soon, the time came for us to return to the ship. I said goodbye to my new friends and assured them I would visit again. A few days later, I ran into Emmanuel on the ship, he said all the neighbors wanted to know when the white girl would visit again. Keep checking the blog to see if the white girl visited again...