CARGO: A story of friends, sprays and sumu!

C A R G O

A story of friends, sprays & sumu

I tell stories about my grandmother’s garden to anyone who will listen. Some Sundays I meet with friends to share stories. Our agenda, at the restaurant last Sunday afternoon, was to eat salads and talk about life. When the salads came my friend shouted, Jaman! - a Swahili expression calling attention to an alarming issue. She then said, “Do you know that in places where vegetables are grown, they are being sprayed. Nowadays, tomatoes, are sprayed with chemicals when they are as young as seedlings. Spraying is done at every stage; flowering, setting fruits, before harvesting and actually after harvesting so that they don’t go bad. Since I found this out, I don’t eat salads containing tomatoes”. 

Another friend gave us some interesting information on the field work she had done to assess crop pollination in vegetable growing areas around town. Her assignment was to count the number of insects visiting a designated square patch in selected farms in the area. He told us, “To my surprise and agony, I stood for more than one hour, in a flowering maize plot, without spotting a single bee. This story made my mind race back to my grandmother’s garden for shelter. But, I also remembered things I had read from newspapers abroad of places where pollination does not take place naturally and farmers buy colonies of bees to pollinate orchards. My mind went back to the wasps and bee-stings that were normal in my grandmothers’ garden and wondered whether what my friend was saying was really happening in my country. Back then, it would have been impossible to spend an hour not seeing an insect on every square foot of ground in the garden. I did not want to believe my friends story, but I’d say that one hour of apparently no life in the insect world is really a stretch of the imagination. That would simply never happen in my grandmother’s garden. 

“Not far from here”, another friend said, “I worked with a community where the farm owners insisted on spraying crops until a shadow mark was left on the ground and the leaves were soaked in tears”. “This”, she said, “had been going on for nine years”. I couldn’t imagine how many insects had been smashed out over this period. Communities have certainly become richer with more money to spend from casual labor even though they ingest the sprays, mix the chemicals and inhale fumes and droplets from the spray guns. One of my friends said, “Did you see the African eggplant farm we passed down the road? “Yes”, we replied in chorus. At the back of my mind, and of course to the best of my knowledge, African eggplants are among vegetables that are not sprayed along with potato leaves, cassava leaves, pumpkin leaves and local amaranth. My friend went on, “Actually, the egg plants were not sprayed, but they were sold on the ground where the spray was mixed yesterday.  

Three of our friends came in late for the meeting and joined our discussion midstream. One of them said, “Farmers are always encouraged to wear protective gear when spraying their crops because the chemicals are poisonous, but farmers are scared and don’t use them for many reasons. For one, the clothing brings too much heat, making people sweaty, sticky and slippery on warm days – which is most days of the year! The gear is not only uncomfortable, it is expensive too and some of the protective gear makes it difficult to go to the toilet”. The other late comer said, “Anyhow, many farmers cannot intellectually reconcile themselves to understand that they are being asked to spray food with unsafe chemicals they will feed their children, customers and friends. The Swahili word for these chemicals is “Sumu”. Sumu is used to kill things. Farmers wonder why they are supposed to use Sumu on food. Sumu is something to be feared, it kills, and has no alternative meaning, purpose or explanation. “In my family we use Sumu for rats”, said my friend, “and whenever Sumu was put in the kitchen or storerooms, vigilance was needed to ensure that nobody used the pots and edible food that was set as bait for the rats… The hunt, search and smell of dead rats was always unbearable. We called in my brother to do the undertaker job of removing dead rats…he would chase us all around the house holding them by their tails before throwing them into the rubbish pit”. The third latecomer said, “How can we safely use unsafe substances?”. How can Sumu be used to produce food, that is supposed to give health and well-being?” Nobody said anything.

It was getting late and I would have to leave the meeting soon, but none of my friends seemed ready to go home yet, so I stayed on. “During the harvest season”, my friend began, “the nickname for laborer’s who are hired to pick crops from the field are called “Cargo”. They are presumably called “Cargo” because they carry the crops from the field in buckets to weighing stations where they are paid every day, so long as they meet the stipulated seven buckets by the end of the day. If they do not meet the target, they are not paid a cent. But many are happy to get work on the farms anyway because they have families to feed and fees to pay for their school going children”. However, as we talked about life in the village where the “Cargo” lived, the conversation tuned in to the beautiful young women who were not giving birth. “They are not as strong as the women in my grandmother’s garden”, I said “do you see any young women in the Cargo squads?" But my other friend said, “it is because of the endless bending all day and the smell of the harvest spray… you can’t do this work and keep a baby... I know a man who is making so much money spraying crops for the market that he bought two motorbikes in three months… I hear he is planning to buy a pickup… but, people don’t know that he has another farm on which he grows food for his family to eat. On that farm he does not spray anything and he told his young wife never to visit the market farm… You know how people talk…. Someone told me that he has scales on his back from carrying the tank he uses to spray the crops for the market.”. Finally, I had to drag myself away from the meeting. I made the excuse that I had to get ready for work tomorrow. What I did not tell them was that they had given me a lot to think about.

© Angela Mkindi, 2023

Edited by Allan Bukusi

"Stories from our changing environment"

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my Grandmothers garden... a land I want my children to SEE!

 

my Grandmothers garden  

… a land I want my children to see. 

I grew up in the shadow of the tallest mountain in Africa. It was covered in snow from the top to the bottom of the clouds. It was always there, the mountain towering like a sentinel watching over my grandmother’s land. Looking back a few decades I see a series of changing events in that lively and vibrant country. One can tell that something very tragic has happened. The mountain is sad and dry. The dense views of landscapes, the dark colours of the soil, sounds and movements of millions of species of plants and animals are now rare to locate. Dark grey clouds that ran up the mountain and poured down clear water every day are no longer grey but smoky white. The ever-flowing rivers and forests, a far cry from the bare rock, are a story my children never get tired of listening to.“Mama!", they ask, "Was it a dream?  tell us once more about your grandmother’s country, was it real?”

Those who grew up in the rural areas can relate. There are still old men and women in the village who can tell this story. We saw bees, wasps, scorpions, birds and varieties of butterflies. These were our companions on the way to and from school. They told us the time, sunrise, midday and sunset. They wished us well and told us that God had given us the gift of another day. They supplied us with food and even pointed us to where more food and fruits were available. Going to school, we latter found out the functions of plants and animals in the environment. They were called “flora and fauna”, not that it mattered much to us. We just ate and enjoyed the plants and animals. But I tell you, in Africa, everything and everyone is related so we associated with plants, animals and insects as neighbours respect each other’s territory and share the general blessings of sun, rain and natures garden. We chewed shrubs and flowers, fruits and several varieties of plants. We could easily distinguish between the poisonous and edible. We were not clever. We watched the birds. If the birds ate the fruit, we would eat them. If the birds did not touch them neither would we. Thanks to instructions from elder brothers, sisters, uncles, neighbours, parents, and grandparents we understood that everything in nature had its place. We saw a kind of environment that we could not imagine would be missing in a few years to come. For you, young ones, I must tell you what happened in my grandmothers’ garden so that you may know it was true. I lived it, I loved it, I touched it. 

I experienced bee colonies flying from one corner of the garden to the other in perfect harmony, freedom like a buzzing whirlwind. They always announced their departure and arrival. They knew when to go and where to stay. Each beehive was established on trees some near roadsides and homesteads in my grandmother’s country. I remember a story of a cow dying of bee stings. My own brother was seriously bitten by bees in his attempt to harvest honey from a Jacaranda tree under the noon sunshine at the age of eleven. He knew there was need for smoke and he had a fire stick, and a container to harvest honey. He learned from our grandfather who would harvest up to six beehives per night, with his friend, using a certain type of smoke that would not actually kill all bees. Although in the process some would die of course. The knowledge about the best trees for bee colony establishment, techniques for averting bee stings and safe harvesting was a science my grandfather had mastered. He would tell us about the importance of planting trees, and taking care of insects, not only bees, by establishing and maintaining their habitats and for the sustainable harvesting of medicine plants. I remember the garden was full of thousands and thousands of butterflies. I even remember accidentally stepping on a slowly moving chameleon. I had not seen it as we walked on the trail - that made me very sad. 

When it grew dark, we had to change the paths we would use to get home because of the thick darkness in the forests. At night, you never knew what you might meet. The night belonged to the animals of the forest. People only came out of their homes at the announcement of the bird that saw the first ray of sunlight. I think that bird also told the animals that it was their time to go home. The oxen were called out to plough the fields from first light to the middle of the morning then let out to pasture. The aroma of freshly turned earth, roots, grubs and the morning dew is a far greater wonder than brewed coffee.   

Another is a story I remember is waking up to search for mushrooms from hotspots that we could easily locate in different parts of the garden.  We knew their varieties, and we knew the difference between edible and poisonous shoots. Some mushrooms grew in the middle of banana trees, this was one type. There were bigger ones in the forests, and still others in the open fields during the heavy rain season at around weeding time. There were also many types of edible foods growing naturally. Some looked like weeds, others like pods while other fruits ripened in specific seasons and were only available for a short time. We had to share the fruits with the birds. Anyway, like I said, if the birds ate them you knew they were safe. We would store the harvested mushrooms in water to avoid rotting before cooking them. In between planting and harvest season, the only things farmers carried along with them when going to the farm were hoes, knives, containers of some foods to eat close to the end of the farming day and empty bags. Empty bags were meant to collect food stuff growing in the fields and along the way home such as vegetables, bananas, pumpkins, and fruits that grew along the farm boundaries. There were times we would go looking for forest delicacies while our elders showed us the various medicine trees. Hoes were for cultivating and knives for chopping branches here and there in the field and collecting firewood on the way back home. Naturally growing and sown seeds helped fertilize the soil and filled the soil with humus. Yes, the soil was rich volcanic red, moist and softly dark crawling with worms, ants and I can’t tell you how many other ugly things. The soil was properly positioned to give different varieties of food during the year. It was a pleasure to feed from nature and its great variety of foods and medicine. 

In my grandmother’s place. We never missed ripe bananas, avocados, and peaches, which she rarely sold in the market. We enjoyed these fruits each time we went. Especially on Sundays when we passed by from school. She complained about some being stolen, but still, plenty were available. It was in the lower dank garden that we located ripe bananas by their aroma in the middle of a dense field covered by bananas, avocados, sugarcane, peaches, and many other seasonal fruit trees. 

When I stand in one corner of my grandmothers’ garden today, I see all four corners of the field. It was a fun place to play with so many things you could do and a lot of things going on under your feet. It was the busiest place I could imagine. Back then it was very big and took a long time to walk around. We never went to buy food from the shop, but sometimes we would ask or exchange food with the neighbours. There was enough for everybody. 

The sky was sea blue and the cotton white clouds rolled into balls of mist as it ran down the mountain side and turned into due that covered the grass, flowers, slugs, snails and snakes that crawled along the undergrowth. The air was clean, mint and pristine. Later in the morning, if you stood still in the fields, you would see Guinea foul, squirrels and mole hills, grasshoppers, termites and safari ants each going about their business like nothing else mattered. There was a place where the water came out of the rock. In the afternoon you could join in the warm laughter of the river as it ran down from the mountain over pebbles and into the stream.  In the evening, downstream, there were fish, frogs and all sorts of insects that would gather in chorus to welcome the evening sun. We always wanted to stay until sunset, but we knew we had to run because we had wandered far from home. That, my friends, was my grandmothers garden in my grandmother’s country... a land I want my children to see.

© Angela Mkindi, 2022

Edited by Allan Bukusi

"Stories from our changing environment"

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TWENTY TWENTY THREE IS HERE!

TWENTY TWENTY THREE IS HERE !

2023 is a blank exercise book I have been given to write my thoughts, my dreams and yes, my history. Problem is, it is already five days into the year and I am working hard to keep my thoughts ahead of my history. We may not always think of it like that and often wait for things to happen and the year to unfold and get old. Sometimes it feels a little stupid to want to set goals. But I want to do things differently this year. I want to ask God to give hope and meaning to my thoughts and give me the courage to set goals. I want to take up the challenge to help Him make them a reality. The truth is I believe I can create reality by my thoughts, words, works and deeds so that is why I usually spend December of every year thinking about what I will do with the next 365 pages of the book I am writing. I feel better when I write. I don’t always accomplish earth shaking goals. I am not a miracle worker. I am sometimes disappointed when I think I should have set higher goals or done a little bit better than I did last year. Sometimes each year, I have to forgive myself for being such a dreamer like a drunkard with my head in the clouds. I chastise myself for not doing what I said I would. But hey, I am always happy that I set out to do something I could be proud of at the end of the year! Some of those projects were houses, savings, getting an education or changing my behavior and the way I do things. Even though the disappointments come like COVID, wars, elections and economic meltdown or silly things like losing friendships - over which I have little or no control, I always set goals with hope and courage so that at the end of the day I can thank God for every chapter of my life. We have about 360 pages left. I don’t know whether your script is going to turn out to be a blockbuster movie, but I would pray that you would take charge of it, for your own sake – I hope you have a plan or at least some priorities. You will never regret that you set out to write your own story.

HAPPY NEW YEAR !!!

Allan Bukusi