Friday, February 19, 2010

The Wrong Person to Help

On the bus from Arusha to Moshi a few weeks ago, a young woman carrying a baby sidled down the aisle with umbrella, baby blanket, and purse. As she headed toward the back where I sat, I put up my hands to show I could hold her purse and blanket while she folded down the aisle seat. The soldier on the other side of her did none of these things, nor did the two mamas in the seat in front of me. Her face brightened at my offer, and she handed over her huge umbrella with lethal metal point at the end, the blanket and purse. She folded down the jump seat and loudly harrumphed in Kiswahili that it was a sad day when the only person on the bus to help was the Mzungu. The two mamas in front of me jerked their faces toward the window and fumed. The soldier beside her continued to look apathetic.

After she situated herself and her baby beside me, the young mama happily chattered even after I explained in cave-man grammar that I didn’t really know Kiswahili. The bus stopped, and the people in the back row behind the young mama needed to get off. She stood up and waited for the soldier to fold up her seat, but he had no idea that he was to do anything except sit in his own bubble of solitude. Perhaps it was the way she harrumphed again when she folded up the seat, but the second and third and fourth times she had to get up, he caught on.
At some point, the woman began to nurse the baby. Another someone from the back row shouted that they needed to stop at the next point, the bus bounced to a stop, and suddenly the woman unhooked the baby and stood up. By then the soldier was trained to help, but the woman was half naked in the process of getting herself arranged to stand aside. She returned to the seat again, and to nursing the baby. The mamas who had been fuming earlier now stared at her, breast and all.

By the time we arrived at the Moshi bus stand, she must’ve stood up more than five times. She charged out of the bus with the baby, leaving me to gather up the blanket, purse, and umbrella. When I found her outside the bus, she was arranging a kanga, a traditional cloth, around the baby on her back.

I’ve seen this done alongside the road. The mother bends over, while another woman holds the baby against the back. The bending mother ties the kanga in front. The helper makes sure the baby’s feet are free so that the kanga cups the baby’s bottom.

As the young mama bent over, I knew I was supposed to act the helper. But I was no more effective than the soldier and the two fuming mamas. I knew the part about the feet, but exactly where should the baby fit on the mama’s back? Below the shoulder blades? At the shoulder blades? And then the head wobbled as the woman walked away. This did not look good. I stopped another woman and asked for help. She rearranged the head, but then rearranged it again and said it was fine. The three of us parted ways, and as I turned to say goodbye, I saw the little head bouncing again.

Clearly that young mama lived in a world of apathetic and pathetic helpers.

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