Inch by Inch, Row by Row

When I first rode onto the Village Altonodji campus in September, it was an obstacle course for my host father’s vehicle. The rainy season deposited enormous puddles on the roads and side streets that were a fixture for the first month of my stay. In our drive from the front gate to the chapel in the middle of campus, Samuel navigated effortfully, making sharp angles, though it was a relatively straight driveway, to avoid the deep pools of rainwater. I remember looking out at the campus, which was half hidden by tall green grasses. To walk from building to building, I was almost lost. I would search for an opening in the grass and follow the carved paths to see if they would deposit me where I needed to be, or if they would just lead me to water blockades.

I thought campus was beautiful. It was an adventure to navigate, and I remember it even smelled fresh and exciting! I eventually learned to walk slightly to the sides of the path, which were grassy and protected my feet from mud. I got used to rinsing my feet off before stepping inside. And I loved sitting around and watching the showers.

Then, rainy season ended. As a fellow MCC-ers described it, it was as if someone above us had just turned off the tap. The puddles dried up once and for all, and things slowly became less and less green. One Saturday in December I stepped out of my guesthouse, prepared to teach classes, when I was informed that it was “cleaning day” and there would be no classes. Following the groups of students to the academic side of campus, I found everyone taking turns with machetes and shovels, clearing the grasses from the yard and carrying them to be burned elsewhere. By the end of the day, the ground practically bare, though matted with a carpet of fallen grass.

In the months after that, the majority of the large campus became brown and mostly lifeless. The only stuff flying through the air were heavy clouds of dust… no more sweet droplets of refreshing water. As this happened little by little, I hardly noticed the transition. I became accustomed to this new landscape, and for most of my relationship with Village Altonodji, this is what I saw and what I grew to love.

Then, things started changing. I first saw it on my way back from the pump, bucket in hand. Two little boys, 6 and 8, were splashing a small plot of dirt with water from their buckets. I wandered over and asked what they were doing. They said it was a garden. Charming! I thought. I splashed some water with them and was on my way again.

A couple of days later, out my window, I saw boys and girls, some in their teens but many yet in primary school, scattered about with shovels, doing something with the land. They were digging furiously, lugging bucket after bucket of water to dump over the churned-up land, and shaping beautiful, rectangular mounds of earth. Within days, these mounds of earth were fertile beds, sowed with the seeds of beans and greens. I would stand there, practically with my mouth hanging open watching these tiny children creating life in the corners of campus. There were zero adults supervising, beckoning orders, helping with the shoveling, anything. The ten Mamans who live on campus were simply going about their business over yonder. This was entirely kid-initiated and kid-executed. I loved the combination of determined work-ethic and a child’s gift for having fun in all situations as I watched them at work, digging, screaming, and laughing. I would go out and watch, feeling awed and embarrassed that they were so self-sufficient and had no need for my presence.

However, being sweet and inviting little kids, they saw my interest and quickly prompted, “Why don’t you make a garden?” They pointed me to an empty plot right next to my house that they had arranged, they brought me seeds that they had acquired, and half a dozen hands helped me to sow the seeds. I was thrilled to have my own opportunity to cultivate life on campus, and also to have a reason to be out with the children in the gardens. I had just revisited the story of The Secret Garden in an audiobook version, and had been thinking about the magic that comes with tending to a project. Along with the kids, I lugged my bucket to the pump, but was always intercepted by a child or two who would pump for me and carry it back with me and splash my garden. Each morning when I woke up, I saw them already at work, my garden sitting there shiny with water.

Despite all their help, I have had the pleasure of tending to my garden from time to time. I water it each evening, I’ve set up beds of dried grasses to protect it from the harsh sun. And I admire it while I am out marveling even more at the other workers. There is so much to admire. Now, the gardens are rich with green leaves. They expand all over campus. The children are so innovative. The cans of MCC canned chicken that have been sent to feed the children at the orphanage have been put to great use. They poke holes in the bottoms and use them as watering cans. The older boys, in a single day, dug three great wells on campus for more easy access to water. They give consistent attention to the gardens and use them as an enterprise. I’ve learned that when they yield food, the Mamans actually purchase the goods in order to make the school’s meals.

There is nothing about the garden project that I don’t love. They have made the campus an oasis of life nearly half a year after the last rains have fallen in Moundou. The magnificent bright green colors, standing out against the dry sand and the dusty air is a beauty so poignant I can’t help but stare. And then, there’s this feeling of being part of a project that will yield results even after my departure. It reminds me to consider the seeds that I’m planting elsewhere on campus, in the minds and the lives of my students and my hundreds of little friends/helpers on campus. As the end of the school year looms oh-so-close, I am hopeful that any impact I have been able to make here does not stop when I leave, but will continue to grow and produce fruits long after.