Busted Burms

field journal

Gardening took longer than I expected tonight. Watering and weeding, usually uneventful, was tainted with an unpleasant discovery: someone tore up Ginger’s plot. The perfectly straight lines dug through her burms and rows seemed deliberate but entirely illogical to our American gardening sensibilities. Territorial maybe? Perhaps by “feel free to use this space for your plots,” the women’s cooperative really meant “you can use this space until we feel the need to reclaim it with picks and hoes, thanks.” We will ask Brahim about it tomorrow; I’m sure something has been lost – and can be recovered – in translation.

We mourned the destruction with a late hike, chatting about host families and food and sexual frustration and melifas and affectation and everything. Each day, we find something more in common, forget past misunderstandings, become closer. This makes me feel so collectively accomplished, like we had an unspoken, unidentifiable goal and we all rose to the challenge. Dumb as it sounds, I had the time of my life trudging up a grassy dune discussing which breakfast cereal we missed the most. Dodging turga, livestock and issbil (manure); sighing over a spectacular sunset; groaning with nearly forgotten culinary cravings… it doesn’t get much better than this.

I felt bad getting home so late post-hike since I had to renege on two promises: milking a sheep with my mom Teitta and cutting my little brother’s hair. We rescheduled both activities for tomorrow night, maahi mushkile (no problem) and opted for a late dinner with a side of conversation – my favorite.