Culture Trek

July 9th

Straight to Work

I suppose I didn’t have to do anything other than rest my first day, but instead, I joined a boy named Julius on the well-worn wooden porch bench. Julius was busy with a thin stick applying strong smelling rubber cement from a coffee can to a printed and die cut piece of cardboard. He told me that he was making bags for tea.

I asked, “Can you teach me how to make boxes?”

He looked up from his work with a smile and a nod, appreciating the gentle hint, and agreed to show me. Applying the glue to the cardboard himself, he taught me to wait until it dried to the right consistency before folding in the edges and forming the box. We then pressed doubly on the glued portion to ensure a good seal. Before stacking the the finished product, I rubbed away the external dried glue to keep one box from sticking to the next. It didn’t take long before we had achieved a  rhythm working in tandem.

I wondered, as I dealt with the blank sides of the box, did they sell these to an outside tea company? Turning the product over to read the print, I then realized that production of this tea, a type called Moringa, is part of the EDYM Village program where I was to volunteer a portion of my time. What wasn’t clear was whether this household was part of the farm operation or had been subcontracted per se. These answers, I knew, would come with time.

We were joined by Jimmy and Salomey soon after my first stack of ten was complete. Salomey watched me work through the corner of her eye as she methodically prepared her own box. “Goood! You are tryyying,” she said with a voice as thick and smooth as sweet molasses.

Sitting on a short stool with elbows braced on knees and her skirt draped up over her lap, every one of her motions was slow, careful and deliberate. With a slight tilt of her  head she’d inspect her own work with the scrutiny of a skilled artist. I suddenly sensed myself mimicking her style, trying to achieve the same kind of patience, precision, confidence and grace.

This being their livelihood, I was concerned that my edges weren’t exactly straight. Sometimes, if I didn’t wait long enough for the glue to firm up, the folds would spring free and I would have to reset the ends. “Are these okay?” I asked.

“Yes, verrry nice.” The slightly upturned corners of her mouth and eyes offered confirmation.

It had grown quiet after we exhausted our small talk about me living in New York (but not New York City) and that my tea boxes were made well. Fluffy American conversation about travel and parties wasn’t going to fly here and I couldn’t immediately think how to adjust.

Finally, I asked Jimmy how old he was. When he told me he was 16, I thought he was pulling my leg. This boy looks no older than 13. Julius said he was 20 but he could pass for 16. Playing fair, I revealed my age of 37. Emmanuel offered up a proud 57 and then asked how old I thought Salom? was. I knew I ought to be careful. I tried for an accurate guess but, in the dark shadows of the porch, her sweet manner made her look very young.

“You must be 17.” I said placing great emphasis on the word must.

It seems I played this one right. I thought Jimmy would actually fall from his bench in a heap of laughter. Emmanuel too. Salomey, I finally learned when she recovered from her modest giggling, is 42. I suspect adults look so young because their honey brown pigment keeps the sun from aging their skin as quickly as mine. Sadly, I suspect Jimmy looks so young thanks to a different and less desirable cause: poor nutrition.

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