At the end of the road

There is a place that I visited recently that is like no other I’ve ever experienced before.  It feels as if it has developed as a stand-alone world, and it protects itself from change because it holds tightly to the belief that this is the best way and simply must be.

It is literally at the end of the road, with the end of the tarmac signalling that it’s time to turn and suggesting that this just might be the end. Of everything. There just might not be anything past this.

Before you get to the end of this road however, you must be duly prepared. For me, this meant that I had to get wrapped up into the customary covering that women there wear, with nothing but my face showing (and most women even cover most of that). I didn’t want to have to sit in the car wearing it for hours, so our convoy had to stop before the end of the road and with the assistance of some lovely female colleagues I was made ‘decent’. A number of them pulled out their phones and started taking pictures of me, which at first I played along with, but then the ragged edges of self-consciousness started to creep in. “Now you are beautiful” they said. Gee thanks. What was I before?

We piled back into the land cruisers, which had just recently been filled with singing and clapping. This all had to stop once we crossed the threshold. Radio silence was required. No singing would be allowed, no clapping should be heard. “Why” I asked? “No, no, you just can’t do that here”.

We arrived after dark and I was ushered off to a compound where I would spend the night, separate from the rest of the team for security purposes but mostly I suspect, for my personal comfort. There was no power on when we arrived so it appeared to me to be as normal a village as I’d ever been to, but I knew what I would experience the next day.

In the morning, wrapped up once again, I met the teams to review the plan for the day. We were visited by a community leader before we could proceed, who told us The Rules. The only ones that were translated for me? No earphones. Absolutely no cameras. Roger, copy that.

The culture in this area is similar to the village I wrote about earlier (where I got the death threat) but even more conservative. The women were dressed from head to toe in beautiful bright colours, with nose rings and bangles, as in the other village, and the men and boys were all wearing long white robes, some with dark cropped vests on top. But wait, something seems a little off. I can’t quite put my finger on it…

The truly interesting thing about this village still hadn’t sunk in. If your head is too busied thinking about the task at hand, surprisingly you almost don't notice it at first: in this village, men and women are separated. By a wall. Literally.

The area we were working in was the female side of the village. It contains all the living quarters, the women and the children. Since our survey was household based and we always want to talk to the women of the household, this is where I and my all female team had to be. Coincidentally, it’s the only part of the village where we could be.

On the men’s side, you’ll find the market, and the men.

In the middle, on the border, is the hospital. I assume it is split for men and women to be seen separately.

I’m not really clear on all of the logistics and parameters. Do the women ever get to leave the village?  Are there mosques on both sides? Are there schools on both sides? Not sure. (I suspect ‘no’ in the case of schools).

What I do know is that there is a wide sandy path on the edge of the female side, just beyond the female wall, and once you pass that wall, I couldn’t be blamed for wondering if I were the only woman left on earth. It was just all men. I had to travel along this path to get from where I was staying (and by that I mean that I was in a compound, on the female side of the compound, behind a wall) but I didn’t get out of the car until we were behind the wall – and even then our male driver had to back in so that I could get out without him facing into the female area, lest there were to be any women walking past.

In the evenings, after dark, husbands will make their way through the narrow pathways that wind around the huts to their wives. In the early hours of the morning (or sooner), they will depart once again to the other side of The Wall.

What happens if there is a man on the female side of the village during the day? (perhaps he’s a workman and has something he needs to fix). If a man is approaching, any women in the area are required to cover their faces with their hands, turn away from him and crouch down to the ground until he passes.

I found this to be the most amazing thing of all I think, but I simply could not wrap my brain around the fact that it is reality. For anyone, let alone for me for a 24 hour period on a warm day in November.

Alas, I never had to opportunity to find out if I could muster up the strength to abide by this rule because we didn't bump into any unexpected men during my few hours of walking around. A colleague who visited once however told me that she had to do it. She said she didn’t react quickly enough to actually crouch, but that her shoulders ended up shaking as she tried to stifle her uncontrollable laughter at how absurd the whole thing felt. Local colleagues who were with her and only saw this from behind, tried to console her, thinking that she was crying instead of laughing, “don’t be upset dear, I’m sure he didn’t see you”.

I expected to feel  different when I was there. Perhaps a little superior, a tad judgemental  - and probably a bit oppressed. I thought I would want to make silly jokes and pity them.

But interestingly I felt none of those things. I felt frustrated, because I couldn’t keep my clothing on properly and felt entirely inadequate having to spend a day tugging and pulling and adjusting and tripping over the lengths of fabric that were wrapped around me while all the other women moved with grace and ease, but otherwise I just thought it was all so interesting, and was rather pleased that in my lifetime I’ve been able to experience it. (And then got to go home.)    

It might not be my style, but I make this shit look good.