Pulaar Weddings

Excerpt from a letter I wrote to a friend:

"Yesterday I spent the whole day at my local sister's wedding: it was AWESOME! I've never seen so much of the wedding as I did here. First I was sitting with her mom, aunts, grandma, the "women of the family" and these four singing ladies sang the bride's genealogy, sang her praises, and sang her many blessings. One woman sang the lead and played a beat with two dried out gourds tied together, with her rings adding to the music as she drummed the gourds on the ground. The next three sang the echo; two of which were clapping and one was banging a small cooler like it was a drum. The four of them were sitting mixed in with the rest of us, so we had surround sound! Meanwhile people were coming in the room to give gifts for the bride: eating bowls, straw mats, mixing bowls, pitchers with cups, tea sets, buckets (tons!), clothes and fabrics, a broom and everything she'll need to start her new home. Ghana (the bride) is turning 17 years old this year (and she's gorgeous! I swear 90% of the villagers could be models in the states!)

Later we all ate lunch: rice topped with beef (killed that morning), slices of green and yellow bell peppers, onions, tomatoes, and carrots. Then I went with some cousins to the khaima (say it: hi-ma) for music and dancing. Everyone sits on the ground under these huge tents propped up on poles and face the middle. As people are moved by the music, one, two or three people will dance to show off how fast, smooth, and well they can dance. Their heads could be balancing water, but their legs are bouncing along, their butts sticking out, back, left, right, and even up! It's so artful!

Then I "snuck out" to get pictures of the bride with her bridesmaids: they were stunning! A crown of two braids, with gold earrings pinned in the front of a braid, big metallic blue eye shadow, and matching dresses. Ghana had tons of braids, gold hanging everywhere from her hair, neck, hands and body, henna going up her arms and feet, and a very detailed tie-dyed dress.

I sat with the older women as they gave Ghana's mother 500 or 1,000 Ouguiya (about $2 or $4) to help her with the "loss" of her daughter from the house. As the sun was setting people left; there was apparently a dinner and more dancing that night but I was tired, don't like to go out at night, and had stuff to do on-line. The next day Ghana will be leaving to her new husband's house. Well, his family’s house. I didn't even see him the whole day! He didn't come to this half of the wedding!

...

Issa is Ghana's new husband, and their home is a veritable mansion! When I got back to the bride's house I found people looking at photos: the photographer got his pictures printed so the people could buy them. All the photos were being passed, handled, traded, etc. Around 5pm, as people were packing the 3 taxis with the wedding gifts, Ghana started crying, wailing, and I thought, "How dramatic!!" But really, she's never left her home town and now she's leaving her home, her parents, and her family, to go to her new husband--to be with a man for the first time.
So we pile into the 5 seaters, fitting 8 people in each car, take a canoe, a van, and get to Issa's house. A man, I'm not sure who since its night now, picks up Ghana (who is totally covered so no one can actually see any part of her body), puts her over his shoulder and lays her at her new grandma-in-law's feet, to rest her head on grandma's lap. Then her new mother sprinkles her with dried flowers while blessing the woman, and a liquid (smelled like milk), to bless the marriage. Then we--the bride's 8-woman entourage-- lead Ghana to her new mother's room to bring good luck and blessings to the marriage.

We then showered, ate dinner (meat and potatoes, also killed that morning), and hung out until around 1am while her "mothers" prepared her room (aka burning incense, putting on clean sheets, etc). Then the bride (who is still covered head to toe) was taken to her room.

After dinner I was talking to the groom, Issa, and found out that he's been living in Ohio for the past 11 years and came back to find a wife. About a month ago he saw Ghana, fell in love, asked her father's permission, I don't know what the whole process was, but they all agreed, and now, only 3.5 weeks later, she's married to him!

So I slept on the roof (very common) with her 3 cousins--all 17 or 18 years old (the four of us were the bride's "company" here to talk to her, keep her company, and help her with household chores so she can just relax)--and Anna, the youngest, couldn't sleep because she was so worried for Ghana's pain. We stayed up talking until 3am, as she was sure that Ghana would cry out, come running out, or start cursing Issa and his family.

...

So this morning the bride woke up and her husband gave her $200 and fancy gold jewelry--for being a virgin. Her new in-laws danced, sang out that "Tokomadji has married into the village, a good woman joined the family, and they're so blessed."
THEN more women came, started drumming on upside-down bowls, dancing, singing, and putting money into the mother of the bride's head scarf!
Now I'm sitting with Ghana, telling her how birth control IS good, no matter what she's heard in the streets (that she'll bleed to death or become sterile if she takes it). She has to stay in this room for a week! (It's like a honey moon: she does no work, just lounges around eating for seven days).

...

Women keep randomly dancing, singing, and drumming in the hallway outside Ghana's room.

...

The next day (a full 4 days since the wedding began at Ghana's parents' house) they "displayed the gifts" meaning they took out ALL the bowls, buckets, brooms, and gifts, set them out in front of the mother in law's house, and everyone came to see. Again, they were dancing, drumming, and singing as the mother of the bride, the mother in law, and 2 aunts divided up all the gifts: one pile for Ghana to start her new household, one for the mother in law, and random gifts given to the family members until ALL of it is claimed by one person or another."

........
And then I came home to Tokomadji. I know that Ghana is just about to end her week of being served while she's confined to her new room, then she'll be treated like a queen (inshallah) by her rich, American husband.

Obviously I love Tokomadji, my little on-the-Senegal-River village of about 1,000 people, complete with dusty roads, repetitive meal choices, and funny clothes. But I guess I took it for granted that my FAMILY from the UNITED STATES of AMERICA would be able to too, as well as overlook the heat, flies, communal aspect of EVERYTHING, eating--well, really licking-- food from the hand, squatting to do anything, and doing everything on the ground all the time.

It was a very typical African start to things: we somehow got split up going to the bus station, so my English/Spanish bilingual family (good on 3 continents) was TOTALLY lost in a French/Woloof/Pulaar/Bammbara/Hassaniya bus station. Then there was trying to keep tabs on them all as they tried to ward off peddlers, "watch" the baggage as its being put atop the car, and pile into the back of a 5-rowed, 19-seater "mini bus." After teaching them their first word (yuuni, meaning enough. say it: you- knee) to keep off the begging children, we started our 19-hour ride from Dakar to Matam, complete with trying to sleep in the stiff confines of stinky students, uncomfortable seats, and holding "carry-on" items in our laps.

Fortunately, we were greeted at the river by two brothers that SWAM ACROSS because they were so excited when they saw us coming! If only you could see them climbing into the canoe fully clothed, dripping wet, next to my grandma as she's sitting on the edge with her behind only 2 inches from the river's flow, my mom as she's bailing out water by our feet with half of a left over water jug, my dad as he's keeping an eye on the bag with the lab top to see if it--or any of the stuff--is getting wet, and the poor guy rowing, alone, all of us with all of our suitcases as well as the locals that needed to cross over.


When we landed all the kids in my house were there to carry our stuff, my host mom and 'dad' came running down the bank, showering us with hugs and greetings. As they were settling in, my family was welcomed to the village by hundreds of neighbors, elders, children, and a few crazy people, as I attempted to explain weeks of training, months of trial and error, and years of technique refinement to them in the space of a few hours.
Like how to tie a wrap skirt so your underwear (or lack of it) isn't showing, how to sit without flashing people, how to pour water from the cannery into the satela (say it sat-elle-ahh) aka "butt pot", where to sit according to age, sex, and social status, how to shake hands, say hello, say good bye, and what to generally expect from people during a quick greeting and welcoming to the village.

My favorites are seeing Penda hugging my mom, Neene Booli (Mother and say it: bowl-E) hugging and kissing my grandma (and grandma's shock!), translating (like, constantly) for my family to the villagers...and the villagers to my family...and my family to the villagers...and, you get it, right? and my "Twin", Djeewo (Jay-oh) calling my dad uncle (a sign of respect) in Pulaar: Kaw (say it: cow.) So he called her nalel (say it: ñ-ahh-lil') which is Pulaar for calf.


They really did it (almost) all! The prayer call before sunrise, the braying donkeys that wake up with the call, unknown bugs crawling on you in un-reachable places, sharing un-washed cups with everyone present, drinking from canneries to keep water cool, sleeping, eating, sitting, receiving guests, etc. all on the same straw mat, licking food from your palm to your finger tips,
bathe in the river (or in river water that I brought them back on my head), ...I love them for trying it all!

Common questions: 1) How was it? A: Good, stressful for me, but I'm so glad that they came out, know my family here, understand what I'm going through, and took way better pictures than I did.
2) Did they get sick? A: No! Just once, one person had the runs, but with well-cooked food and filtered or bottled water it was all good!
3)What was hard for them? A:Eating with the hand (it spilled en route), wearing the clothes (I think some people saw more of America than they ever hoped for), the tiredness (they looked literally beat up by life when we got them back to the airport), the flies (really do land on your face, food, butt, etc.)

And the Winner is....

The things I'm MOST excited for when my family comes:

1.Seeing the joy on Gogo Penda's (my local mom) face when she meets my US mom.
2.Watching the shock and final understanding of my US family when they meet my Mauritania family and see our home.
3.Teaching my mom and dad how to properly squat over the poop hole (you know, so they don't fall over, pee on themselves, or...miss)
4.Laughing at my sister trying to sweep the dirt with that puny little hand-held broom.
5.Showing "the women" aka Kelsey and my mom, the way to balance 10-20 liters of water on your head, walk up the steep river's bank, get to our house, and pour it all into the cannery...without spilling any on your shirt.
6.Letting my dad help kill, butcher and eat a goat. hahaha, hehehe.
7.Waking up with my sister next to me, at sunrise, dragging her tired butt off of the bamboo "bed", and showing her off as we go buy the breakfast bread at Mary's house by the Mosque.
8. Showing how Mauritanian women don't use tables for cutting, cooking, preparing anything... The knife is so dull that your hand is all you really need for everything: chopping onions, preparing meat, peeling potatoes, etc.

9.Hearing the "local-English-teacher-who-has-never-actually-left-Mauritania" try to speak with my grandma....even HE speaks better English than my grandma! (yeah, he still doesn't believe me when I tell him that....)
10.seeing the joy on their faces when the kids start to drum and dance around my family... or the fear!
11.Loading baggage, suitcases, and family into a canoe to paddle across the river to get to our village as the sun is setting.
12. watching the wonder as Africans learn that "America" does not mean the United States alone, nor does it mean "white"
13. Helping my parents eat dinner with their HAND. from a BOWL with like EIGHT people around it!

14. Making the parade through town to show off my family to my new (Mauritanian) family and friends. You know they'll be taking pictures of the first-ever entire American family to come to Tokomadji.
15.trying to teach my mom, grandma, and sister how to do laundry by hand so that it squirts water out and squeaks as you wash.
16. BATHING IN THE RIVER!!! without showing anything from your armpits to your knees


17.Putting these CLOTHES on my family!


18.Getting their hair braided and their hands/feet henna-ed. It'll take at least 3-4 hours of just sitting really still.
19.Letting action-based, pantomimed relationships form that will transcend culture, age, ability, social status, distance, and language. Seriously half of the village already knows the FULL name of each person coming to visit... along with their age, job and/or school year, types of food they like, and favorite color. They're excited!
20. being the connection that allows people new experiences: priceless.

It's Not a Third World Paradise

With my parents getting ready to come out and visit me in Tokomadji (that's right! they're coming here! and my little sister...and my GRANDMA!!!) I'm constantly thinking of things that I will have to tell them to prepare them for a week in an African Bush Village. I know that I love being here and have learned to look past a lot of things that would bother most Americans, but how do I explain things like asking for gifts (ie your watch, hat, clothes, shoes, etc) from random strangers is totally acceptable? Or "washing" your hands before eating with them doesn't always include soap? And I know the bathroom sounds funny, but really, we're in Africa! Most Americans can count the number of monthly solid #2's they make on one hand!

So really this is for my mom, grandma, dad and sister:
As visitors expect to be ripped off at the airport getting your taxi.
Next, if you thought those 10 hour drives down to Baja were intense, just wait: at least you have your own car, snacks, air conditioner, music, space, and you've all showered within a 36-48 hour period. In Mauritania the ride is about 15 hours, squishing 10 non-deodorized people in the 8-seater, no music, snacks if you brought them and don't mind them being on your lap the whole time, broken seat belts, windows down, a cracked windshield, and random pee stops behind bushes with no toilet paper or water. And you'll probably be mooning someone somewhere! I think we'll rent a 7-seater for the 5 of us.

When we get up to Matam, Senegal to cross into Mauritania, I'm not really sure about the timing: boats usually stop when the sun goes down, but we may be getting there after that. I'll have to ask a local boat owner (and find out who it is!) if they can be ready for our phone call to come pick us up. When we get to Tokomadji the kids will be clamoring around, touching and hugging everyone, offering to be the best kid possible and carry all of your bags up to our house. Of course little 7, 8 or 9 year olds are going to try to carry your big 50+ pound bags ON THEIR HEADS. And they can do it, too!

My family will all be so excited to meet you guys! Mama, my 21 year old Mauritanian brother, is convinced that my little sister in the US is made for him. Penda, my host mom blesses the woman that birthed me, and I'm sure will be all over her new best friend. Uncle Siley (mauritanian) has been learning English pretty much since he found out my family is coming, and will be so eager to try out his new skill with my dad. And Mama Fati (the very old, grandmother next door) I'm sure will be ready to host my grandma and make sure her fellow senior citizen is going to make it in this place.

We'll eat:
gosi (say it: go-see)(kind of like rice pudding, but a little different),
couscous and milk,
couscous and boodi (say it: booty) (like a soft cucumber),
haako (say it: haa-ko)(bean mush, looks like baby poop),
rice and fish (the usual),
maafe (say it: maa-fey)(on rice: vegetable sauce with spices),
kele kele (say it: kelly kelly)(better-than-American- sweet potatoes cooked in a salty sauce, served with fish),
vermisil (gross pasta served in oil. that's it),
niri (say it: nee-ree)(over-cooked rice that sticks together with a tomato base. It's dipped in pure, freshly made cow's milk oil.)

Eating is the coolest thing: All of my friends will be over to greet and meet you, so they'll stay for lunch (probably). But of course having so many people over is hard on the family, so their respective families will send over plates of food from their own households to share with you, show you how good the food is, and show that they honor and respect you.

Remember, it's not a third world paradise! Your stomachs will then be so upset at you, run like crazy, and even disturb your mosquito-filled nights. We'll be going to the wells and the river to get water for ourselves, sweeping the dust in the mornings, filling our noses with nastiness, and sweating worse than a fat kid running. The hot season will be starting, people will be asking to be sent to America, asking for marriage (either me, Kelsey or Dad: he could use another wife or two, right?), laughing at how weirdly we do things, and expect us to be unable to do pretty much anything.

Leaving will be a sad affair: people will be sorry to see you go, and waiting for your next visit.
Any questions about the itinerary?

Djenaba's Travels--That's Me!

Did Djenaba ever travel! (the D is pronounced like a J; my name is said: Jen-uh-buh, or read it like it's a name in Spanish)
For the past month I have literally traveled half way up Mauritania and half of the entire width of the country for the holidays, training, and visiting friends' villages.
The first amazing thing is the car ride from Kaedi to Nouakchott: 8 hours to go 400 kilometers! On the bright side we had some sheep going with us on our taxi ride and I was able to share with 11 Mauritanians their first ever Oreos. In our 8-seater Volkswagen we had the standard 11 riders: three in the front seat, four in the middle row, and four in the back row (and of course the 2 rams!) It's always interesting being a white, Christian woman in the Muslim Republic of Mauritania: as a woman I should be in the back (thus going along with the popular view that men are of greater status than women, who should be obedient), but as a white person it's obvious that I'm not African, so I'm a guest, and they'd like to treat me extra special to show that they appreciate having a guest. But I'm still a woman. So on this particular ride I was in the very back row, but the 3 others were sure to give me as much room as possible. (Though it could also be due to the fact that a man was sitting next to me, and he's not religiously allowed to touch me. At all. Even in a car.)
Being in Nouakchott was like being in Ensenada or Rosarito (Mexico): restaurants for the Westerner's tastes, huge buildings made by private international organizations, people walking around in all kinds of western clothes, all mixed in with the trash every where, dirty little hole in the wall cafes, dusty kids holding out their cans asking for money, and the strange dichotomy of wealth living with poverty.
But we did eat hamburgers, pizza and Ben & Jerry's!

After Christmas with the PCVs in Nouakchott (including my friends Sara Cate and Ava, as seen here), I spent the New Years with my host family from training in Rosso. New Years, or "the 31st" as its called here, was apparently outlawed by the government in the 90's, thus forbidding large parties or celebrations as they are not officially on the Muslim calendar. This was explained to me just before Midnight as we sat on the ground just outside the house. There was a small party going on in the next village over, but none of my friends or family went because, in this culture, married women don't go out at night without the husband's permission, teenage girls (the ones that aren't married yet) don't go out unless they want a tarnished reputation, and the men can do as they please. So we brought in the new year with me learning about life here as we ate tangerines under the stars.
Seeing my host family was amazing! I got to experience real Pulaar hospitality. First everyone is ridiculously excited to see you, running out to the car, giving hugs, holding your hands, carrying your bags, women and children touching your arms, back, legs (for the shorter kids), just to stay near you. Fresh milk is brought out, tea is made, the questions about health, peace, family, friends, work, life are never ending as they want to be positive that there is "only peace" in your life. Getting there in the afternoon it was a given that I'd spend the night, so me and Mariam shared a huge blanket on our side-by-side matelas. (Sleeping is according to gender and age: there are so many people in one household with three rooms, so we split it: mother and little children in one room, teenage/unmarried women in another, and young men in the third). I knew I'd be staying one night, so I brought just my tooth brush, face wash, and deodorant. (Everyone lives and sleeps in the same clothes for 2, 3, 4 days), but when I was trying to leave the next day, they were so kind, welcoming, and insistent that I stay longer... so I stayed 3 nights! And they were still sad to see me go on the 4th day!

After several days of agricultural training with the Peace Corps, I headed East to Selibaby with two other volunteers to see their region, the capital, their villages, and their gardens (always work related!) Because the only way to take paved roads in Mauritania would take us north 6 hours then back south 8 hours, we decided to go straight across, in the most direct line possible, which is only available through Senegal. 2 days, a ferry ride, 6 cars, 1 metal bed for 3 people, lots of waiting, and one canoe ride later we were back in Mauritania, about 200 miles to the east of Rosso!

Selibaby is right in the "crotch" of Mauritania, the little dip that is bordered by the Senegal River: the Sahel is in full swing, baobabs abound, and I was singing the soundtrack to the Lion King about the whole time. Tim, Shelby, Sari and I climbed a fallen baobab tree as the sun rose in the cold morning--yes, it IS cold!

Later that day Tabatha, Tim and I went out to Koumba Ndow (say it: coom-bun-dow), Tabatha's Soninke village to see an Ag/fo volunteer's dream: huge, lush gardens, shallow wells easy for getting water, motivated people, and budding fruits. I even spoke Spanish with about 5 or 6 guys that live/work in Spain!
After 2 nights in Koumba Ndow, Tim and I went to his Moor village, which is only slightly changed from the traditional living from hundreds of years ago. Firstly, they have a phone. Secondly, they no longer move their tents, but use mud bricks to make a sturdier, longer lasting tent frame. Thirdly, they have wells.

The coolest thing about going all over, visiting 3 different cultures, and meeting so many people is seeing that although the Pulaars, Soninkes, and Moors are all distinct, they are also similar in certain ways: the hospitality, giving nature, curiosity about foreigners, and overall kind heartedness.





Can you find the Pulaar, Soninke and Moor women just by looking at their clothes? Hint: Moors use a mulafa (say it: moo-laa-fa), like a sheet, to completely cover everything but the face, hands, and feet. Soninkes have a head wrap in addition to a shawl, as do Pulaars, but they also have different kinds of facial scaring for beauty.

I'd like to tell you a story...

So I have a field. Not the "hills are alive with the sound of music" kind where little birds and bunnies frolic merrily by your feet. No, this is the work-for-your-food and pray-that-you-harvest-enough kind of field. It's four plots, each roughly 30 feet squared.

When I first got to Tokomadji my host mom Penda would take me to the fields to show me how they "weed" the fields, we'd work together with her two sons (Mama, 21 and Demba, 12), and it was a good learning, bonding, working experience for me. I had to learn how to distinguish between the grassy weeds and the tiny shoots of millet that look pretty much identical to the weeds, and how to recognize bean leaves--then not kill them. It was great! Then about two weeks into it we're out in the field when Penda turns to me, earlier than usual, and says, "Lets go home, I'm tired." I told her that I wasn't tired so if she wanted to go home, go and I'll stay to finish the parcel that was left. She said she didn't want to leave me, so we both stayed until it was done.

That night, after spending the afternoon puking and feverish, she was officially diagnosed with malaria. The next day, not knowing what to do with myself, I went to the field and kept weeding. For 10 days I was the only one to go to our millet field (Mama and Demba, both still considered children in this society--and act like it--didn't go because their mom didn't tell them to). Of course what took me 10 days would have taken any experienced person about 2 or 3, but at least I was kept busy!

From then on, Penda's been referring to it as "Jenaba's field" (that's my local name! say it: Jen-uh-buh or Jenna-ba). After not going to the field for a while (the Muslim holiday Julde, I went to Kaedi, had an ear infection), I came back to find the little ankle-height shoots taller than me! I was totally lost in the cooperative's fields and couldn't find "my" field: Penda had to show me where my babies were!

Just when I thought I had seen it all, it came time to water my little ones. Oh, my gosh, what a job! A rusty water pump on the Senegal River is heard throughout the whole village as it pushes tons of water up the river's bank (about 25 feet) in huge pipes to the canal system so it can flow into each man's field.
(Yes, I said each man's field: only men are allowed to own a field in the village's cooperative. We have three fields: Penda's deceased husband's, her uncle's, and her father's. None of which are next to each other). Watering goes by sections; within each section each person allows the water to go past their field and those furthest from the pump open the small door to their field to let the water in. Once their field is thoroughly flooded, they close their door, stopping the flow to the field, and the next person opens the small door to their field, and so on until all people in a given section of the cooperative have watered/flooded their field.

It takes all morning: watching for leaks in the sand-and-mud divisions between people's fields, faulty doorways, breaks in the canals, people going out of turn, people not paying but still watering, and anything you can imagine that could go wrong! The fun part is taking off your flip flops, hiking up your skirt, and going nearly knee-deep (on me, I'm short) in the mud and water, back and forth the entire length of the field as you check for possible problems, leaks, etc. Ideally, we water once every 20 days or so (which, from an agricultural point of view, is NOT ideal).

Hey, people like millet, right? So do the birds! We had a 3-4 week battle with the birds as they would come and attack the fields and we would defend them by throwing rocks at the little buzzards and yell at them our war cries (literally we yell--birds don't like loud noises!). Again, poor Penda got malaria and I was the only one to come to our field's rescue (this time all of the kids were at school, learning. How can I argue with that!?) I quickly learned the rightways to yell at the different kinds of birds, how to use the "sling shot" (two arm-lengthed ropes connected with a palm-sized piece of cloth where the rock sits. You wind up over head like a lasso cowboy-style, then at just the right spot you let go of one side of rope, sending the rock into the millet, scaring the birds away). Also, the best looking millet got nifty outfits: they were wrapped in cloths to keep the birds out.

Yelling became my favorite part: my friend Djeewo (Say it: je-woah) and I were the youngest out there (only middle-aged women and grandmas came out). We would yell all kinds of greetings in all kinds of languages, sing, yell, dance, shout, and just have a great time even though there were about 2 fields between our own and most of the time we couldn't even see each other!

It was a sad day when Djeewo and I couldn't dance and sing at each other in languages the other didn't understand, but that day came: we harvested. You keep a long, toothed, curved, handled knife in the right hand, grab the head of millet in the left, and chop it off. We'd chop, throw it on the ground in piles, then later collect with huge sacks, and send them by horse and cart to our house. Now the millet is sitting on top of a storage room, drying out, waiting to be stored for eating or local selling later, or shipped to Kaedi to be sold in the market.

Any foods we don't grow in our fields or gardens is bought in the market with the money made from our fields. For lunch we eat rice (or lachiri, a grain derived from the millet we harvest!) with fish (one is 70UM Ouguiya, say it: oo-gee-yuh; we usually have 2 fish for 6-10 people) and veggies. If they're bought in the market it's about 200UM worth of veggeis: 1 or 2 small eggplants, 3/4 cups of tomato paste, 1 cup of Mauritanian pumpkin, 1 cup of Mauritanian cucumber, 1 cup of sweet potato, 5 small okras, a small chili pepper, and 2 onions.

Right now we also have in our field/garden space: pumpkin, cucumber, sweet potato, okra, and a thing we call folere (say it: fol-le-re, pretend its a word in Spanish, and there you go!). I have no idea what this is in the States!
Finally, my field is being harvested down to the roots so that our 8 goats and their 10 kids can eat the leaves and the 2 calves can eat the stalks. Nothing goes to waste!

P.S. When we keep the birds out of the fields, its an all day thing: we go there 7am, lunch is brought to us, we nap, do laundry, bathe, brush our teeth, make tea, chat, and work until sunset around 6pm.