Going Bananas: A Day in the Life of a Banana Farmer

All that we purchase is a snapshot of the lives of the producers and the transporters of that product. Unless we expend that which we ourselves cultivate and harvest at our homes, we become part of a complicated and inter-woven chain of production and consumption. I was fortunate to see the origin of the chain that brings bananas from paradise to our local markets. (Technically, the bananas I saw growing will end up in either the Senegalese market or in Europe because the U.S. imports its bananas from South or Latin America.) Having spent four days with a family of banana farmers, I glimpsed a world of hard-working, simple people whose labor brings pleasure to people all around Senegal and the world—particularly Europe where the majority of Senegalese vegetables and fruits are exported.

My contact in Tambacounda is the president of a cooperative of banana farmers called Co.R.Pro.Ba.T (Regional Cooperative of the Banana Producers of Tambacounda), which comprises over 40 different economically oriented groups of farmers who join together to pool resources and wield market power over the selling price of their bananas. During my stay, I discovered a well-managed project that aids its members in retaining the dignity of their work and in making a living wage from their efforts.

My host, Marguerite, was an expert at watering the banana trees. She moved with grace and fluidity to perform her work efficiently.

The village where I stayed is called Nguène, and the group with whom I participated had divided its fields into 50 by 50 meter (55 by 55 yards) plots for the men and 25 by 25 meter (27 by 27 yards) plots for the women, taking into account the work the women do at the home and in the market. In general, the women are the ones to bring their produce to the market and of course, they are in charge of the household duties, such as cooking and laundry. Men are jacks-of-all-trades and masters of none, as the saying goes: they are builders, masons and weavers of fences and barriers. In the village, men and women share a partition of labor that is rather egalitarian: everyone is tired at the end of the day.

My role was one of participant observer: definitely more observer than participant because there exists a fine science in the work of banana cultivation that one cannot grasp in two days time. (I arrived on a Friday and spent Saturday and Monday in the fields; we rested on Sunday and fellowshiped with their church community.)

Meeting underneath a mango tree, which provides a shelter of fresh and cool air from the hot afternoon sun

With a system of irrigation tubes, my hosts watered their fields. I discarded my shoes in favor of imitating my hosts, and I walked through the gloriously squishy mud of the banana fields. I tried my hand at watering, but my hosts were careful to survey and quick to correct me when I did not give the plants enough water and when I deviated from the routine pattern of irrigation. The pump ran from 7 am until 11 am and again in the afternoon from 3 pm until 6 pm. Each economic group owns several pumps, which serve its particular community of farmers. My hosts ran to and fro controlling the flow of water and detaching and attaching the tubes to lengthen or shorten in respect to the configuration of irrigation needs.

The daughter of my hosts, Regina, has her own field and runs it as expertly as her mother. She even brought the family's laundry to the field to use the water and avoid the extra work of drawing water from the well.

Another one of my hosts, Roc, is in the process of removing the banana stumps to replant and start a new field. This is men's work; if a woman's husband does not have time to remove the stumps, a person is hired for stump removal at 25 cents a stump.

The banana fields are located in a central, communal spot, requiring the farmers to leave their homes at 7 am or before to commute a couple of miles on foot, by bicycle, motorbike or donkey-cart. I walked and I took the donkey-cart, although I must say I preferred walking since my hosts’ donkey way stubborn to the point of being crazy! There I was, bouncing away on the cart when the harness fell off, and the donkey decided to run away with me. My host jumped down to get the harness, and I was charged with keeping the donkey stable; well, I never said I had a knack for animal control. He ran away with me, faster than I imagined a donkey could run. All in a day’s work, I suppose. No harm, no foul; and what a memory!

Tip #15 for Surviving in Senegal: When there is no electricity in the village, meaning there are no fans to dispel the hot, stagnant air inside the house, bring your mattress outside where the air is cool and pure and sleep on a homemade bamboo- or wood-slatted bed. My hosts had graciously given me my own room; but due to the fact that Senegalese homes are built with cement and akin to an oven by the end of the day, sleeping outside—on the ground or otherwise—is preferable veritably advised. With the ingenuity of basic village resources, I slept like a queen underneath a mango tree, waking with the faint rays of sunlight and the sounds of braying donkeys, cock-a-doodle-doing chickens and the rustling of goats around the yard: heaven, really.