A Day in the Fields
Aaron woke up at 5:30 this morning, much to my chagrin. I am a light sleeper and wake at the drop of a pin. My only consolation was that I could go back to sleep after faking my interest in helping him make coffee. He knows that I have certain social graces in the morning that are not to be taken seriously. I slept terribly the night before, wrestling with the sheets and finally resorting to a staring contest with the crooked panels on the window.
I sink back into my morning rem cycle just as I hear Aaron clunking back up the stairs. He usually doesn't do come back up after going down, for he is innately efficient. He doesn't make 5 trips upstairs in the morning like I do. He leans over the bed and tells me that I have to wake up and go out to the soy fields to take pictures. I assume he is joking as I slump forward and yawn. "You're not serious", I say and lay back down with a laugh. He is completely serious and I only have 30 minutes to get ready. I hate being rushed. We're off to another day with no plans and no structure. My routine is shot already. I crabbily hobble down the three flights of stairs and make a B-line for the coffee. Coffee sustains my life on this earth. I'm joking, but also kind of serious.
It takes 30 minutes to get out to the soy fields. I didn't really look outside the window as we drove so I don't have any poignant remarks about what I saw. I was still half-asleep. It's scorching as we get out of the car. I didn't know it was this hot in Kurdistan until I stepped onto that field. It's only 8:00 a.m. I wrap my scarf around my head to protect my scalp from the sun and begin to wake up. There's a beautiful chestnut horse with white-dipped hooves, bounding across the dry grass. A little boy runs after the horse hoping to catch him and spray him down with water. They're both wild creatures, captivating. To my left across the field is an oil rig with fire spewing from the top. It's a majestic, almost fearsome sight. I look down at my feet and see succulent soybean plants springing from the ground. They're garbed in green and their tips are laced in yellow. The ground is stiff and scratchy. I can feel little prickles against my feet. It's hard to believe my eyes; that there is so much growth in what I deem a barren landscape. On the contrary, this land is clearly fertile and mysterious.
A red dress flutters past the door of the farmer's small shack. We are leisurely summoned to chai. I walk up to the door of the small, concrete shack, slip my shoes off and tiptoe across the dusty floor. I sit on the brilliant red doshacks. They're flat and uncomfortable, but I recall how much I've missed sitting on the floor and I savor the moment. The woman in the red dress scurries into the room with a tray of cold waters. As a hostess here, you wouldn't be caught dead without a tray. I commit to memory her speed in getting us the waters, her timing in picking them back up and her humility as she bends to serve each of us. She is a farmer's wife. Her hands are worn, her hair is carelessly covered with a cheap scarf and her ankles are showing. She is not from the city and she doesn't have the time or the means to impress. She is unabashedly interested in us with genuine curiosity. I like her. I like people who seem to be more interested in others rather than themselves.
We finish waters, then we eat an onion melon. I don't know if this is really what it is, but we eat slices of cantaloupe that taste like salty onions. It's hard to swallow. Giant, hard-shelled beetles crawl out from under the doshacks. They lumber slowly across the floor and burrow under another cushion. The farmer's kids sweep them away and chuckle. Aaron tosses one at the young boy and he cracks up. The boy whom I thought was 8 or 9 years old is actually 18 years old. His face looks old, his voice is deep, but he looks exactly like an 8 year old. He has some rare birth defect. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. He wasn't a midget. he literally just stopped growing.
We are finished with fruit and on to the chai. Half of my cup is filled with sugar so I'm careful not to stir. We finish looking through their family albums and down the rest of the tea. The lady in the red dress scoops the cups up and whisks them away. We get up to leave but not before we see the fish pond. The woman in the red dress drags me over to look at the "massi" or fish. We climb the dirt hill to look at the pond. I don't see any fish. She seems anxious to show me that there really are fish. Her kids are crouched under her looking intently for bubbles. A few of the men throw bread into the water. Still nothing. I give one of my "aww, maybe next time" looks. All the sudden the kids scream! There are 5,6,10,20 fish fighting for the bread. We all smile and applaud. As we walk back to our cars, the woman in the red dress hands me a bundle of fresh mint from her garden. She mumbles something like, "they're not pretty but they smell good". I think that's what she says. I could smell the mint from across the field, it was so pungent and invigorating.
This morning was captivating, majestic, exotic, and downright magical. I'm savoring this day.
I sink back into my morning rem cycle just as I hear Aaron clunking back up the stairs. He usually doesn't do come back up after going down, for he is innately efficient. He doesn't make 5 trips upstairs in the morning like I do. He leans over the bed and tells me that I have to wake up and go out to the soy fields to take pictures. I assume he is joking as I slump forward and yawn. "You're not serious", I say and lay back down with a laugh. He is completely serious and I only have 30 minutes to get ready. I hate being rushed. We're off to another day with no plans and no structure. My routine is shot already. I crabbily hobble down the three flights of stairs and make a B-line for the coffee. Coffee sustains my life on this earth. I'm joking, but also kind of serious.
It takes 30 minutes to get out to the soy fields. I didn't really look outside the window as we drove so I don't have any poignant remarks about what I saw. I was still half-asleep. It's scorching as we get out of the car. I didn't know it was this hot in Kurdistan until I stepped onto that field. It's only 8:00 a.m. I wrap my scarf around my head to protect my scalp from the sun and begin to wake up. There's a beautiful chestnut horse with white-dipped hooves, bounding across the dry grass. A little boy runs after the horse hoping to catch him and spray him down with water. They're both wild creatures, captivating. To my left across the field is an oil rig with fire spewing from the top. It's a majestic, almost fearsome sight. I look down at my feet and see succulent soybean plants springing from the ground. They're garbed in green and their tips are laced in yellow. The ground is stiff and scratchy. I can feel little prickles against my feet. It's hard to believe my eyes; that there is so much growth in what I deem a barren landscape. On the contrary, this land is clearly fertile and mysterious.
A red dress flutters past the door of the farmer's small shack. We are leisurely summoned to chai. I walk up to the door of the small, concrete shack, slip my shoes off and tiptoe across the dusty floor. I sit on the brilliant red doshacks. They're flat and uncomfortable, but I recall how much I've missed sitting on the floor and I savor the moment. The woman in the red dress scurries into the room with a tray of cold waters. As a hostess here, you wouldn't be caught dead without a tray. I commit to memory her speed in getting us the waters, her timing in picking them back up and her humility as she bends to serve each of us. She is a farmer's wife. Her hands are worn, her hair is carelessly covered with a cheap scarf and her ankles are showing. She is not from the city and she doesn't have the time or the means to impress. She is unabashedly interested in us with genuine curiosity. I like her. I like people who seem to be more interested in others rather than themselves.
We finish waters, then we eat an onion melon. I don't know if this is really what it is, but we eat slices of cantaloupe that taste like salty onions. It's hard to swallow. Giant, hard-shelled beetles crawl out from under the doshacks. They lumber slowly across the floor and burrow under another cushion. The farmer's kids sweep them away and chuckle. Aaron tosses one at the young boy and he cracks up. The boy whom I thought was 8 or 9 years old is actually 18 years old. His face looks old, his voice is deep, but he looks exactly like an 8 year old. He has some rare birth defect. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. He wasn't a midget. he literally just stopped growing.
We are finished with fruit and on to the chai. Half of my cup is filled with sugar so I'm careful not to stir. We finish looking through their family albums and down the rest of the tea. The lady in the red dress scoops the cups up and whisks them away. We get up to leave but not before we see the fish pond. The woman in the red dress drags me over to look at the "massi" or fish. We climb the dirt hill to look at the pond. I don't see any fish. She seems anxious to show me that there really are fish. Her kids are crouched under her looking intently for bubbles. A few of the men throw bread into the water. Still nothing. I give one of my "aww, maybe next time" looks. All the sudden the kids scream! There are 5,6,10,20 fish fighting for the bread. We all smile and applaud. As we walk back to our cars, the woman in the red dress hands me a bundle of fresh mint from her garden. She mumbles something like, "they're not pretty but they smell good". I think that's what she says. I could smell the mint from across the field, it was so pungent and invigorating.
This morning was captivating, majestic, exotic, and downright magical. I'm savoring this day.
This is wonderful. The pictures, the writing, the people, the nature, the experience.
ReplyDeleteYou definitely have your mother's writing talent! I'm envious.
ReplyDeleteYou both are kind. Mrs. Nancy, it's been all these years and my mom is still teaching me.
ReplyDeleteI. Seriously. Love this. I know that's all I said before. But it's so dang good. All of it. And I'm jealous. Keep on.
ReplyDeleteYour story is amazing- a joy to read.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Natalie. Thank you for taking me to Iraq with you.
ReplyDelete