Hands

I have become amazed and fascinated by hands.  They are vital to the culture and life in this community – more so than back at home. An average day at home involved driving, typing on a keyboard, using utensils to cut and prepare food, and greeting people without touching.

Eating here is done with your right hand.  You form balls of Ugali and scoop up meat and vegetables, trying to land everything in your mouth without dumping it on your shirt. Sylvia and Emmanuel make this look easy - I end up with a hand and face covered in food as if I've just participated in a giant food fight.  The meal always starts and ends with water being poured over both your hands as you wash them. 

You greet and say goodbye to people by shaking hands. There is also a form of high-five that turns into a handshake that people use if you’ve made a joke, or are great friends. It’s rude to leave without shaking someone’s hand and saying goodbye.  Princene, Sylvia and Emmanuel’s 2 and a half year old daughter, is still very afraid of me, but will place her hand in mine and quickly remove it.

People can tell I don’t work in the field by grasping my hand in theirs.  They show me their callouses and laugh at my soft pads.  Today I helped clean and rearrange Sylvia’s clinic, and someone walking by said they were surprised a Mzungu knew how to sweep.

Yesterday I shucked many ears of corn so Sylvia could cut the stalks down. They were placed in a big bucket and carried on top of the head of a small child back to the dining hall.  We removed the kernals with our thumbs, and I was given the softest ears – because my unseasoned hands could not remove the tough kernals from their homes.  I watched as all the small kids finished two ears to my one.  Sylvia told me to stop, worried that my thumbs would become blistered and sore, but I continued popping the pale yellow corn into the bucket.

When preparing food here, you place whatever you are cutting in the palm of your hand and cut away from it.  I attempted to make cole slaw last night, and cut cabbage as Sylvia instructed me.  The cutting and cole slaw (made with lime juice instead of vinegar) was a bit of a disaster, and Sylvia just laughed as she removed the cabbage from my hand and continued cutting.  I explained to her people used cutting boards and placed the item on the counter back home, she said they were trained to not cut themselves here (as slicing a tomato effortlessly).

The grandmother’s in this community have hands that are similar to my grandfathers’. They are gnarled and wrinkled, with years of work molding them into a bent position. I clasp their frail hands in both of mine when I say hello, and they smile toothless grins at me.

The students at ABBA study my hands, tracing the light blue veins that are visible through my skin and compare it with theirs.  They outline my nails, my ring, and point to the mole on my middle finger.  Some even touch my hand to their face, curious if it feels different than theirs.

Emmanuel took my hand after dinner one night and asked me to look at the difference my olive color and his deep coffee one, questioning if it was science or something God had done.  My scientific brain told him I was sure there was some scientific answer, but it also seemed like something unexplainable that had been done by God. He nodded in agreement.

Why has our generation divorced our life from our hands? What do your hands tell you about your life, your culture, you?