Where the babies come from

I have found out that in this culture women cannot say the word “pregnant” in front of men, or tell the male members of their family they’re expecting a baby until the fellow figures it out for himself (husband notwithstanding). It’s an interesting social evolution for a place where every woman will have an average of seven pregnancies. Then I found out about certain prudery in my own culture before I was born. Apparently I Love Lucy was shocking the first time it openly discussed pregnancy, and my 53-year-old colleague has a story about a time when as an adult, his mother seriously corrected him for not saying “in a family way.”

In October, my office hosted a training for a course in infant and maternal health. The MO of the course is to demonstrate scenarios that can put mother or child at risk before, during, or after the birth. Through drama and storytelling including the experiences of women taking the course, then reviewing basic health principles with simple drawings, housewives are trained in the best ways to help sisters, daughters, and themselves during pregnancy, and when to go to a clinic or the hospital.

For the drama, we have all sorts of accessories: red cloth for “bleeding,” a plastic basin for squatting, cloth to staunch “bleeding,” a hand sewn baby doll complete with detachable placenta, medicines for pain, blanket for keeping the mother warm, soap and soap dish to simulate hand washing, clean clothes for the mother. You get the idea. All things are stored in a big metal box that until yesterday we’ve kept unlocked at the office. It’s in the same room as we eat lunch.

Yesterday we had a group of special guests come, colleagues from our other projects, and therefore had the special/raisin/carrot rice, sauce, bread, and fruit. We even managed to convince our uncles, the 50-year-old guards, to join us on the floor for lunch. Near the end of the meal, one of them decided he needed a cloth for wiping up. I don’t know where he got the idea, but he opened up the metal box and started rummaging through our supplies.

Because of this pregnancy taboo I’ve just described, we watched in heightened anticipation of horror. All of us ladies knew what was in that box: every form of birth control, a stuffed placenta. Our visitors were unmarried men from the most conservative part of the country.

The uncle pulled out a scrap of red cloth before our giggles deterred him. He restarted his search, but at that point, five of us were laughing in earnest, trying to hide our faces in our scarves, except the expat man. If it hadn’t been to the uncle’s shame, we would have been rolling on the floor. Finally to everyone’s relief, he stopped his search. It was a close call.