Exploited young women

Child sex trade

 A midwife’s work is to help to safely welcome the newborn of every society and to assure, as best she can, the well  being of that child.  This baby, nested within its mother’s arms is held  by the family and community in layers of tradition, earth and well being.  To do this safely,  girls must be guided into puberty and child bearing with the deep respectt, love and protection of that society.  Each child must be of equal worth and each child helped to find their own best way to help and protect the community they live in.  Midwives, therefore, become natural protectors of young women and their right to choose partners who are healthy and committed to their growth and well -being.  Nowhere is this more violated than in the case of the child sex trade and prostitution.  This story is the collective story of several stories I have collected over time in many countries, including the city where I live in the United States. 

Currently it is estimated that there are 80,000 to 100,000 prostitutes in Cambodia with 17,000 of them in Phnom Penh. It is believed that 30% are under 18 with an estimate that there are over 5,000 child prostitutes in the country. 

For many men, having sex with a virgin or young girl, is believed to make them strong, successful in business and have greater health.  It is seem as an inevitable  part of society.  A young woman who is orphaned or left without a mother is at greater risk of ending up being sexually exploited.   It is the community midwife’s work to protect young girls from exploitation and to take away the many causes that may contribute to its existence.

I come from the countryside…..

It is dark at the health center.  We sleep in the patients beds in case a woman comes ready to give birth.   Our dreams are interrupted  by  loud  voices .  I rouse myself quickly and grab  pants and a flashlight.  Stumbling outside, I go to see who has come.  There is  a car and not a moto.  It is big, black Lexus; a car we see frequently in Phnom Penh but never out in the countryside. There is no gathering of sisters, mothers, and aunties who  accompany a woman in labor.   A man ,in a suit, opens the back door and motions for us  to look inside.

Crumpled  on the back seat is a very young girl lying in a pool of blood soaked sheets and rags.  She is still and makes no noise as I gently pick up her limp hand and feel her pulse.  The midwife asks the man questions and he answers nervously as he lights a cigarette.   Another man sits in the passenger side seat and does not get out.  He stares straight ahead into the sleeping countryside.

We tell them we must start an IV and give her medicine, even before, we try to move her.   He is pointing to his car and the blood and yelling at the midwife. I call for the translator. This is clearly not a husband or a miscarriage.  He motions for us to take her.  

As she is given fluids and oxytocin, the man tells me she is his maid and got pregnant.  He tells me she took a pill she bought at the market and started bleeding.   I say she is wearing pretty fancy clothes for a maid in the middle of the night.  Her nails are painted bright red.   I ask about the marks on her face and he sneers, “Maybe her boyfriend hit her.”  

I ask how old she is and he shrugs.  I ask how she came to be his maid. 

“Look, we bring them from the countryside and give them a place to live and more food than they have had in  their whole life.  We send money to their families each month.”

She opens her eyes and looks in my own.  It is too much work and she shuts them again. Gently we lift her off the smooth leather seats  and carry her to a bed.   We find water and rags to wash her, trying to be gentle where the blood has dried and stuck to  her skin. Outside the Lexus and the two men pull away and vanish into the night.

The midwife shakes her head, “They brought her all the way out here because the police in the city are watching them.  They have brought too many women to the hospitals there so they have to keep going further and further out.”

I hold her hand and put cool cloths on her forehead.  The midwife skillfully suctions the failed miscarriage from her so that she will stop bleeding.  

After the suction, we rub her utereus and the bleeding stops. The baby was over twelve weeks .  She tries to get up and go outside and find the men.

“They will beat me if I run away.”  She cries.  We tell her they left her and not to worry. 

We bring her fruit and some crackers we packed in our bag. Slowly she tells us her story. 

“I am the second daughter and was in school in my village.   My mother died after my little sister was born.  The family had no money for school and we were very poor. A man came and said he would take some girls to work in the clothing factories.”

“I did not want to go. I wanted to stay with my family.  I begged my father. I said I would work in the rice fields and not go to school. “

I ask what grade in school she was in and she answers,  “I was in seventh grade.  I was a good student.  I wanted to be a nurse.”

She says she believes she was twelve when she came and is now fourteen.  She has never seen her family again.  If she stops working there will be no money for them. 

Her pulse is becoming more regular and the bleeding has all but stopped.  

She begins to cry.   “They will tell my father I was a disgraceful daughter and ran away with a man.  My family will never accept me again.”

“You can stay here until while we figure something out.” I say as I stroke her forehead as my mother once did for me.

She shuts her eyes and sleeps.   The translator and I lie down beside her.  It is dark and the rooster crows.  There are crickets and the sound of small frogs.

When I wake up, the bed is empty. I ma afraid but  she is outside bathing by the large, clay water jug.  She looks up and smiles shyly.

I hurry her back to bed and go get her warm tea with sugar, banannas and later a bowl of warm noodles.    When I touch her back, I feel the bones of her back and she cringes.

“They said I would work in the factories but then they said there was no work and I stayed at the man’s house to clean.”

She looks down and straightens the sarong we have given her.

“One day the man brought me to a room and forced me to be with him.  I screamed and cried and he hit me many times. When he was done, another man came in. They did this for many days.  I cried and cried but they did not care.  They said I could never marry now and was ruined. “

Outside the monks are chanting in the temple.  It is the anniversary of the king’s death.  I ask.  “Wasn’t the king a supporter of the Khmer Rogue?” She does not answer.

Young, beautiful girls ride their bicycles to school.  I consider that  she was once one of those girls; a clean white shirt and blue skirt; laughing and talking with friends. 

When she recovers, we bring her to the guest house to help with small chores so she can eat and rest and feel safe.

We learn that she worked at a dance club but she will not tell us where.

“They will kill me.”

One day the big black Lexus returns and a man gets out of the car and asks at the health center for her.  I watch from the upstairs porch as another volunteer hides her.   He is screaming at the midwife who is shaking her head and I can see  her saying she does not know where she is.   We watch as the car stops at the chief’s house.   We hold our breaths. 

We sit, in the evening, peeling the small fruit of the logan tree; each one white and lovely like a pearl.

“Not all the men” she begins, “were unkind. Many were lonely and old and wanted someone to dance and talk with. They said their wives were not nice to them and they were sad.  Some were worried about their businesses or their children or the government.   They cried in our arms.  We all tried to get a rich man to favor us so that we would be treated better and our families would get more money.  I thought of my younger sister and hoped that she would have a better future for my sacrifice. This is how I survived.  “

“But what about diseases.  Didn’t you get STD’s?”

“We were given medicine every morning to prevent pregnancy and disease but sometimes it did not work.  Every night we washed the inside of our private parts with lemon and water.  Sometimes we were sent to health centers for a test.”

We were all quiet.  She was fourteen.  

“Once” she continues, “a group of people tried to come and get us but they found out and were waiting.  They shot at the people. Many were Barangs. I wondered why white men and women were coming to get us and I was afraid of them too.  We hid and did not run away with them.  Some girls left with them but I was afraid and did not.  They say they helped them but I was afraid and there was much shooting.  Later I thought it might have been better to be shot or take my chances with the Barangs. “

We light incense in the spirit house and leave a bunch of bananas.  She asks that we pray for her future and we do. The spirit house is connected to a small solar panel that lights the small house each night.  We stand and watch the twinkling lights; silent in our own prayers.

The next morning we hide her in the bottom of the car and the driver takes her to  to live in a temple.   We beg her to let us contact an NGo but she says it is better to live in a temple for awhile.  

After her abortion, the nurse throws the contents of the pan in the tall grass out behind the center.  The baby spirits visit the spirit houses looking for candy and small toys.   I had asked when they tried to explain this to me, “But who are the baby spirits.”

They shrug.  “Just babies who wander around looking for a little treat.  If you leave one they will protect your house.” 

I think of all the baby spirits and leave a small candy for the little gang of baby spirits roaming around together in the night.

Every baby girl born beautiful

Ramyana runs back in the house to get her scarf to cover her face.  We are going out to do home visits in a tuck-tuck .  I wait with another translator; a young, Khmer woman with deep, lovely dark skin.  Ramyana rushes to catch up with us.   “ I don’t want to get black”  

The darker of the two translators sighs,  “ I am already dark and there is nothing I can do about it. “  she explains with disgust.

“You are beautiful.”  I assure her.

Ramyana says,  “ Cambodians like light skin, not brown skin.”    The brown skinned girl shakes her head sadly.  Neither is married and both have professional goals for themselves as well as ones of love and family.

I tell them that every baby girl is born beautiful, just the way they were.  I can see they think I cannot possibly understand.

I tell them  that there will never be peace or democracy in Cambodia or the world unless we believe this with all our hearts.  I show them the pictures of the many shades of my children and grandchildren and great grandchild.   I tell her that they are all beautiful and they can see that but say, “not in Cambodia.”

I argue, “Bu the Khmer people are dark.”   They say, “Yes, but men want to marry light skinned Chinese girls.”  

I think of how society’s sense of female beauty has hurt women and continues to hurt.   When my daughter was little and played outside all day long, if an Asian adult saw her they told me with a shake of the head, “She is turning black.”    She looked at their disapproving gaze and could not help but take it in.

I tell my new young friend, Ramyana, that in the United States young woman go to tanning booths to get darker.  I tell her that they are hurting themselves and getting skin cancer.  I say perhaps everyone should accept the color of skin they are born with and see it as beautiful.    She is intelligent and kind.  She believes me but also believes she is getting older and no one will marry a dark skinned woman.

Large numbers of women all over the world lighten their skin with products tat contain dangerous chemicals.   Some of these products are illegal but, as often is the case, the poorest countries are exposed to chemicals and harmful products long after the developed countries have stopped using them.  

Skin whiteners are harmful, in pregnancy.   Some are full of mercury, which causes nerve damage, retinoid can cause the fetus to be paralyzed and hychroquinone can cause long-term cancers and damage to mother and baby.   Despite how harmful they are to mother and baby,  over 40% of women in Asia use them regularly. 

I am told, women do not want to have a vaginal birth or breastfed so they can stay beautiful.  They must bleach their skin.    The dangers of being beautiful so great.

A father calls his daughter, “sry mao” or “black.”   I put my arm around her shoulder and tell him she is beautiful and perfect.   

The women, in my country hurt each other and themselves by focusing on weight, skin color and fashion.   Women gain positions of power based on sexual appeal aimed at supervisors and people in power.   Some women tan and some use lighter in a crazy battle for ideal beauty.

When we go to the beach, the women stay under the cover of the shelter and rest in hammocks.   No one swims or wants to even walk in the waves.  “We will get black.”  So I walk out into the beautiful water of the South Thailand Seas getting wrinkled and brown; washed in seaweed and warm salty water.  It is delicious.

I tell Ramayna every baby girl is born with just the right skin color- and this week when I talk with the doctors and midwives at The Russian Hospital in Phnom Penh, I will talk too about this. I will tell them that embracing all skin colors as beautiful will save a million lives.  We will stop wars based on skin color, discrimination, abuse and the harmful use of chemicals  and tanning beds on the bodies of women and unborn babies. 

King Naga and the first people of Cambodia

Kamba and Soma
Cambodia’s First People

A myth is a traditional story, that most often tells us the early history of a people. The story is often connected to the landscape in which that history takes place and may give us insight into geological changes in the landscape. Although it often involves supernatural beings or events, they may take root in real events and reflect the actual relationship the early people had with the landscape they inhabited.   Because our human history is rooted in migration, myths often include a journey and help build respect for the natural world.  When I  am on a journey and want to learn about a new place, I like to begin by understanding the physical place and then by beginning to listen to the first stories of the people.  From these I begin to discover relationships, what was valued and what the role of women was in those stories.  Many of the earliest histories of humans involves creation and the bringing together of different entities to create a new one.  In many ways, this is the heart of giving birth.   I offer you this story of the first people Khmer people that may have, as myths do, other versions.   I first wrote this as a story for my grandchildren because I am far away and miss them.

Once upon a time there lived a great king who lived in a beautiful floating forest of
rivers, lakes and waterfalls.   He was a kind king who lived within the form of a cobra so that he might easily travel throughout his kingdom visiting the many animals and plants who shared the earth in peace and harmony.   He had seven heads to represent the colors of the rainbow and they each shown brightly in the sunlight after a warm rain.   These colors also represented the seven races of humans who would  one day find each other and be re-united in peace and wisdom.

The good king, Naga, knew that his people were dependent on the rains and the flooding of the rivers  to feed and care for all the creatures of the kingdom.  He helped them to care for the great rivers and thus each other.  He had heard that were many other kingdoms in the world and would  watch quietly as humans walked through their land.   Sometimes they were in a hurry with heavy packs of things to sell and trade.  He wondered where they were coming and where they came from.  Others seemed wounded and tired and looked as if they were searching for a home.   He noticed these things and wanted to keep his kingdom safe from the many things that seemed to burden the travelers.

One day a young man stopped and slept on a small piece of land emerging out of the river..  He could see that he was very tired.  His boat was old and in bad repair as if it had come a long, long way. His young daughter, feeling pity for the young human,, picked many fruits from the forest and left them by his side.   The King wanted to be rid of him  but the daughter begged him to spare his life.

When the young man woke up, the great Naga King and his daughter were watching him.  The King demanded know why he was traveling through their kingdom.  The young man explained that he was a Brahman from India and that there was a terrible drought where he lived.  His wife had died and he had set out on a journey to find a  new home  with rain and fertile land.  He feared that his people had angered Shiva who had destroyed their land.  He apologized that he had nothing to offer the king and his daughter but the stories of his land.

And so, each night, the king and his daughter brought him food and each night he told them the stories of his land.  In time, the daughter fell in love with him and he with her.  They asked the King if they might be married and he consented. The young man promised that he would build a kingdom, with his new wife that would be a stepping-stone to heaven.

They promised to bring his knowledge of art and writing and architecture and she would bring her father’s love of the natural world. Together they would give birth to a new people who would forever honor both nature and culture.

After the wedding, the good King, took in a deep breath and swallowed much of the water that covered the land so that the new people could grow rice and build homes.

The King grew old and happy as he watched his many grandchildren grow strong there in the forest by the river.  These people thrived in the land of lakes and rivers and waterfalls.  Throughout  the land fruit and flowers grew in all the colors of the rainbow to feed the children and each year the rivers and lakes were refreshed with great rains so the people could fish and grow rice

One day he called his daughter and her husband to sit beside him by the river on the great smooth rock that captured the morning sun and warmed his ancient body.  He told them that the time was coming near for him to find a resting place in the cool waters of the great river.  He said his spirit would always be with them but they would need to take care of the earth and all its creatures.  He told them that as long as they cared for the rivers, lakes and waterfalls there would not be any droughts and the people would have food.   He told them to always-welcome guests, as they had welcomed his son-in-law so many  years ago.   High above, the birds sang,  The gibbons played in the trees and the dolphins swam beside them.   The people rested  in hammocks before their homes.  The water was clean and sweet.

 His voice grew tired and weak,  His seven heads shone in the morning light ;the seven colors of the rainbow worn on the great King Naga’s  head; one for each color of the rainbow and one for each of all the human races.  

Soma and Naga bowed their heads to the old king and promised to care for the land, the rivers and all the people of the land.  Their children became the new kingdom of Cambodia.   They honor their ancient king with carvings of his image

The Midwives of Angkor Watt

The Midwives at Angkor Watt

Ramyana and I sit on the porch of a health center in rural Cambodia with a group of midwives, nurses and women from the village.   It is warm and is shoes are scattered in a pile by the steps where we have, according to custom, left them.  They have put down brightly colored woven mats for us to sit on.  It is afternoon and everyone has returned after the usual two-hour midday break for lunch and a rest.

I have brought with me plastic babies that Ramyana fills with water; one is brown and one is white.  They think one is Khmer and one is Chinese.   The company that makes these does not have one to represent the many shades of in between that exists within Cambodia and the world.  They can see that they are not the same as either baby I have brought but somewhere in between.  The lungs and heart that can be simulated with a small hand held pump amuse them. 

I have come to teach “Helping Babies Breathe”; a global initiative to teach basic skills to help babies breathe in the first minute of life.  I also have brought, with the help of many people, a new bag and mask and suction to each health center and hospital I visit. 

But first I must sit with them, in a circle and say their names.  I ask them to tell me when they became a midwife and for how long.  I ask if their mothers or grandmothers were midwives and how they learned.  We talk about the hardest thing and the funniest thing and the scariest things.  We talk about midwifery before and during and after the Khmer Rogue.  We talk about the customs they love and the ones they are losing.  Slowly they inch closer to squeeze my arms or legs and touch my hair and ask me questions about my life, my children and being a midwife where I have come from.

In this way, we pass many happy hours sharing stories as well as practicing the art and science of helping new babies to breathe and to get off to a good start in their mothers arms.  

My translator is a young woman who went to a Korean nursing school in Kaput Province near the border of Vietnam.  She knows English well and cries when the older midwives tell the stories of how they came to be “called” to be a midwife.  She becomes skilled at getting air into the babies and becomes a much-appreciated co-teacher.  I am sorry when we have to part ways when I return to the city.

These stories hope to capture the rich history of Cambodia as seen through the eyes of mothers, babies, families and their midwives.

The Midwife at Angkor Watt

The women in the health centers here, as well in most colonized countries, give birth flat on their backs on small, metal tables.   They are free to walk around until they are ready to give birth and can often be seen outside or on porches with family and friends.  The delivery rooms are often very small and may lack privacy.  They climb on the table.  If they are ten and not pushing they are given some Pitocin and perhaps am episiotomy.   This is not very different from my own country’s hospitals except that the bed can go up and down and let the woman sit and she more than likely has a epidural as well and certainly is not allowed to walk around outside in labor. 

Once a woman has Pitocin in labor, both her and her baby are at increased risk for complications that have been well researched and documented.   Women bleed more, after the birth.  Babies do not come out breathing as well. They have more jaundice and thus more problems with breast-feeding.  Midwives, from experience, know that if a woman lies flat on her back the baby’s heart rate goes down.  In my country’s hospitals women are put on fetal heart monitors and can be given a C-section, more Pitocin or have a vacuums put on the baby to get him out quicker.

In Cambodia, the heart tones are rarely taken and yet the woman is laid flat on her back with Pitocin.   I am here to help babies survive in this country; not just at birth but also for the first year of life.  I am here for such a short time so what can we tall about that might make a difference.

They say all Cambodians give birth flat on their back and always have.   A woman from Australia says, “Women is Cambodia always gave birth on their backs.”   And yet the midwives tell me they are terrified of babies getting stuck and dying; either as a breech or shoulder dystocia. 

After several days I consider all this and then I remember the carving of midwives at Angkor Watt.  The woman is squatting; being held up by two women on either side while the midwife kneels to catch the baby.  I bring a print of this ancient carving to the trainings.

Angkor Watt is an ancient kingdom in northern Cambodia that existed in the twelfth century.  It is a wonder of the world with exquisite architecture, pools and carvings.  Thousands of tourists visit it and it is the national pride of Cambodia. 

Most Cambodians have not and cannot go there.  It is free, for them but it is far away from where I am.  But they know they word and are quiet when I show them that there were midwives, like them, carved on the great wall so Angkor Watt.  They stare and consider this.  An older midwife says, “So squatting came from Cambodia and not the west.”   I tell her that all women, everywhere in the world, most likely were in some upright position for some part of pushing, all over the world. Or that at least it was a tool midwives used when they needed to get a baby out.  

I show them hands on knees, rolling on their side and bringing the legs way back when a woman I son her back.  Everyone laughs as we practice delivering babies. 

I offer them the wisdom that was not mine but was their birthright and history all along.  I offer that if the babies are ever stuck they can think perhaps of moving the mother or if she can’t push to get her up.  

There is no memory, even amongst the TBA’s of giving birth upright.  It is hard to know when it was lost or shamed out of them or became out of style.  In other countries the old midwives had women up and about for birth but here even the oldest midwife says they always delivered the babies with the woman flat on her back.  

I do not really know.  Did the French bring this to Cambodia’s royalty and then it became the custom from there?  

How did it become the custom in my country? 

A young midwife asks me if women in my country have C-sections and give bottles o they look cute?  I consider this and say no doctor is supposed to do this but I suppose some do. They look for a medical reason, I say.  She says if you have enough money a doctor will do that there. I explain that this is dangerous and no one should be doing it anywhere for that reason. 

 I show her again the picture of the carving at Angkor Watt and say, “this is the wise way.”   She smiles and we all tell more stories and laugh and wave good-bye.

Home visits

Home visits

Each day the volunteer midwives climb aboard a small, motorcycle  driven tuck-tuck to visit women who have recently had a baby.  We drive down small, sandy roads with rice fields on either side, twisting and turning until we arrive at the mother’s home.  The driver, who was born and raised in the commune where we are working, comes to know each home and village.

The country of Cambodia is divided into provinces.  Each province is divided into a district and each district is divided into a commune with about eight to ten villages.  Each commune has a health center with a small birthing room and about five government paid midwives.  Each district has a referral facility which takes higher risk mothers and each province has a hospital that can do c-sections.  Each commune has a vehicle for transports.  The commune health centers appear to be about 10 to 20 miles apart but I am sure it varies throughout the country.    The commune center also has a government office and a central market.   They do not have doctors for general consultations but rather men who have some basic healthcare training.  There is a limited pharmacy and no lab.   There are special days for immunizations, eye checks and other special testing.  The system seems efficient, well spaced throughout the countryside and well accepted by the community. 

All the home visits I have done, so far, have been out in the villages where we find a cluster of homes; one of which may have a very small front yard market.  Some business men ride bicycles out to the villages to sell some things. 

The typical house is on stilts ( the higher the better ) with various ladders to reach the main part of the house.  They are made of tightly woven banana leaves that are lovely to look at from inside.  The roofs might be woven, wood, tile or cooregated metal.   The floors are wooden and lined with colorful bamboo mats.  When we visit, the new mother, is inside resting on a mat.    The upstairs is one large room for communal sleeping; bedrolls rolled up for the day and mosquito nets hung on the wall.   There do not seem to be many personal posssessions.  

Other women are sitting on a large platform under or next to the house where much of the day’ activity takes place.   They are platforms to keep children, cooking, resting up out of the dirt and rain and are the center of activity.   There are almost always several hammocks for afternoon naps and rocking babies.  All cooking is done outdoors with a small wood fire.   There are large clay pots for collecting water during the rainy season.  The more pots you can afford, the less water you will have to carry when the dry season arrives. 

The cows sleep under the house and are highly prized.  Children gather grass for them and make a hay from the rice stalks.   They are only eaten for meat and not milked.  They are large, white animal who are integrated into family life.  At night, someone sleeps beside them in a hammock.  Children walk with them to the fields.

At night they build fires to keep them from getting mosquitoes.

When I go with the midwives to visit a baby that everyone was worried about, all the village women and children were at the home, sitting on the platform and visiting.  The translator said they all get together to play cards in the morning.  I am not sure but they are all there, watching my every move with an entertained smile of amusement.  There is free education but it seems to be for very few hours of the day so children are always around.   The schools are far away and always there are parades of children on bicycles going to and from school.

This baby has a heart murmur.  I try to explain that he is okay now but needs to see a doctor.  She took him to the health center and was given a medicine.  I look and see that it is liquid Tylenol.  I explain  that this will not help the problem and she will need to go at least to the Province Hospital or even Phnom Penh.  The cows move in closer to the house and stare at us.  They are a middle class Cambodian family. They have a house that does not leak, many cows and a bicycle but I can see that going to a doctor seems unlikely.  She is young and beautiful with a daughter who climbs into her mothers already full arms.   There are grandmother and aunties and cousins. 

In Cambodia, one in eight children will never reach their 5^th birthday.   Worldwide millions of children never reach their first birthday.   They die at birth from prematurity, at birth because no one helps them to breathe, from infection, dirty water and anomalies.   Although most will die within 24 hours, many more will quietly die in their mother’s arms in a small village with no clear reason why.

The babies, born at the health centers, leave and do not return for 6 weeks.   Without home visitors to encourage breast feeding and help assess problems, the mothers and babies and village women are left to sort out the babies as best they can.   Because many of  the village women come to the homevisits, it becomes a perfect opportunity for education and support.

Many women have not been given a basic education in anatomy and have little understanding as to how one gets sick.  Like women everywhere denied an education, they are forced to turn to the supernatural to explain the presence of disease.  They look to spirits to protect them and so each child wears the familiar red string around their wrist and each home has a small alter to protect the house and the family.   Many of these customs are very precious. I myself, have several red and orange strings blessed by monks around my wrist.  I love the spirit boxes outside each house but the thought that another person or a spirit could cause you  harm ( as well as a lack of doctors and education ) leaves this and other babies vulnerable.   Blame is laid, not on the mosquitoes or contaminated water or lack of safe sex but on the individual or a spirit. 

If this baby dies, it would not have been because of an easily repaired heart problem but because of some lack of piety towards the ancestors or spirits.  

The baby’s stomach is swollen and tight.  It is not normal for a breastfed baby.  I ask if the baby has been given anything else.  I see the mother look at her own mother with worry and answers, “no.”    I suspect he was given something, as is the custom.

The children who gather show signs of malnutrition; the red in the hair, swollen bodies, sores but not starving.  There is a seasonal pond in front of most houses with lotus flowers, cress and fish.  They seem to serve as a place for rain to go during the rainy season; ancient bioswales.   During this season there is more food but not enough to last all year long.  The cows, well cared for, are a lifeline.  It is no wonder then that they sleep with the family. 

Another baby is congested from the fires that burn under the house.   Children have runny noses. 

The homes we pass are lovely and have been designed to preserve and protect through the dry and rainy seasons.  They collect rain water, have bioswales, fruit trees and bicycles.   Light filters through the roof into the family sleeping quarters. 

Those who can, have a small business outside their home, selling something as a way of making a little extra money.  Beyond the village are rice fields as far as you can see.  We bump along from house to house, white women coming to visit.  The babies are weighed, blood pressures taken and questions answered as we rest in sweet delight with the women of the villages.  

In town, the space under the house, is crowded with motorcycles, cooking and storage.  In time, some have been filled in to make a downstairs with doors and windows.  As the factories claim more and more women, these lovely homes where women and children gather each morning will fade.  The large airy sleeping lofts  become bedrooms and beds replace the bamboo mats.