Smokey Bear would not be proud, but my Dad might be

I always try to be open-minded in the village.
Someone tells me we're going to the bush and I say, "Why, yes, I'll go!" And I don't really ask questions.

So I didn't ask questions when Ouly asked me if I wanted to go to the bush yesterday. I saw Ouly grab a rake and watched her take a few pieces of millet stalk out of the fence. Fanne didn't bring anything along (other than her 9 month old daughter tied to her back).

We walked about 2 kilometers out into the "bush", really to the women's wet-season garden area. Enjoying the late afternoon. A nice stiff breeze cooling us down as we walked and had a good cultural exchange: A Wolof passer-by says "jerejef" to the worker in the field, the worker responds "jamm rekk". A Pulaar du Nord passer-by says "adjarama" to the worker in the field, the worker responds (ooops...I wasn't paying attention well, I forget their response, it is, however, not "jam tan" which would be the logical response). And, yep, that's right, folks, we Americans don't say "thank you!" to the worker in the field. Ever. Nope. We never show our gratitude toward farmers. And a farmer seldom feels inclined towards thinking "peace only" while in the field. Ouly and Fanne are completely confused that we don't automatically yell "Thank you!" when we see a farmer at work in America.

So. What was our mission? What were we going to do on this breezy afternoon? Oh. Right. Burn a bunch of thorns.

We could have been doing anything... using a rake to knock random fruits out of a tree, clearing a field, preparing a garden bed... And we did not have a 5 gallon bucket of water or a shovel. Which I have always been taught is needed before stricking a match. Thankfully, we were burning dead thorns about 2 weeks after other people have. Which means that there was green grass surrounding everything. Still. Stiff wind. Ouly breaks up some of the millet stalks to have some tinder. Fanne takes off her head wrap for me to hold as a wind break while she strikes a match.

Soon, I realize that my short-lived anxieties were purely that. The thorns are creating a bramble that flames cannot reach. The wind is pushing the fire away from the brush and into the grass, where it is promptly dying. The problem is not the potential of a massive burn, but running out of matches! I found myself wishing for a quart of fuel to toss on the thing.

I start working with the situation. Gathering up some dead grass and leaves to coax the fire on the north side since the wind was coming from the south. Finding some sticks, rearranging the brambles. Vaguely saying "uh huh" to the "Thorns hurt!" "It is hot!" "Maybe you should sit in the shade" "Careful!" comments coming my way. Soon, my little fire is gaining ground (so to speak) and I am quietly bringing large branches of thorns over to feed my fire. The fuzzy voice that I've been zoning out says, "Ouly Cisse, she can burn things!"

I'd forgotten what it felt like, hearing someone tell you you CAN do something. I've gotten pretty used to not being able to speak Wolof, not being able to eat with my hand, not being able to farm, not being able work in the sun....you name it, I'm told that I can't do it.

And I got to explain why it is that I can burn things. How did I acquire this amazing knowledge?

I sat back, felt my eyebrows to make sure they were still there, and I was reminded of a time that seems not so very long ago. When it was me and a couple of my pyromaniac sisters traipsing through the little horse pasture setting rose bushes on fire.

It felt that good. Life is good. Pyromaniacy is good.