I never would have thought that the most epic Fourth of July
party I will probably ever attend would take place in West Africa. Peace Corps is full of surprises, and this
was one of them. Every year, Kedougou
volunteers host an Independence Day extravaganza for the rest of the volunteers
in Senegal. Altogether there were about
170 Americans in Kedougou. It was a bit
overwhelming, but a lot of fun. Everyone
went all out with costumes (Senegalese and American-made), food, and even
fireworks brought in special from Dakar.
My job was to make sure that we had ice to keep drinks cold, which
entailed doing a tour of the neighborhood and asking everyone with freezers to
put water in plastic bags and freeze so that we could buy it off of them on the
fourth. At one point, a woman said, “I’m
going to come to your party and eat your fish and drink your tea.” Although it might be hard for the Senegalese
to comprehend this, for us, for one day only, fish and tea were the last thing
on the agenda…
Pat getting festive with an American Flag haircut. Imagine trying to explain that you want your hair to be shaved into an American flag to your Malinke host brother who also happens to be deaf. Well that's what happened, which may explain the lack of stars.
Getting manly digging the pig-roasting hole...yep, that's right, a pig roast in Senegal. For this purpose, it is fortunate that there is a small non-muslim population in this area of the country.
Butchering the pigs (5 of them!)
Not tea and fish...macaroni salad, cole slaw, and potato salad plus yummy dips!
Almost our entire training group reunited! Here we are along the Gambia River
July 3: Heating things up for the slow roast
A sampling of costumes
Marie Christine, the housekeeper at the regional house, even got into the spirit!
When you request an American Flag outfit from a Senegalese tailor, beware, you might get stars of David
To appreciate this picture, you must understand the fukkijai. These are clothing vendors that have received the unwanted clothes from American thrift stores. It's amazing what cast off tshirts you will see very hip Senegalese wearing. Chip was presented with this lovely festive get-up, with "Chipie" embroidered on it, straight from a fukkijai in Tambacounda. Many costumes came from fukkijais or from the plethora of Obama gear that can be sold anywhere. You name it, there is something sold in Senegal with Obama's picture on it.
Rainstorm dance party!
So glad that I can have access to a bicycle built for two in Senegal...especially a patriotic one! (The Kedougou house now has a unicycle as well, built for the Fourth.)
Happy Fourth of July from the Gou Crew! If we can throw this shindig here, imagine what can be done in actual America!
It seems like every week there is some kind of ceremony going on in my site (trying to squeeze everything in before Ramadan), but a few weeks ago, our neighbor and friend, Fanta Damba, got married, and for the first time I didn’t feel like an awkward outside observer at the event. Also, the day before the wedding, a package arrived from my parents bearing an Africa-proof (ie dust-proof and sand-proof) camera, so I was able to take advantage of my non-outsiderness and take pictures.
Malinke weddings (and possibly Senegalese weddings within different ethnic groups—I still haven’t been here long enough to know whether things that I experience culturally are strictly Malinke or whether they are general West African phenomena) are three-day affairs, typically taking place on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. There are still so many nuances of this culture that I know I am just starting to understand, so this account of the wedding is merely my own observations. I still have a lot of learning to do about the why of these traditions.
In the book Poor Economics, the authors discuss the phenomenon that people in poor countries who do not have enough to eat will throw lavish parties. They conclude, "We are often inclined to see the world of the poor as a land of missed opportunities and to wonder why they don't put these purchases on hold and invest in what would really make their lives better. The poor, on the other hand, may well be more skeptical about supposed opportunities and the possibility of any radical change in their lives. They often behave as if they think that any change that is significant enough to be worth sacrificing for will simply take too long. This could explain why they focus on the here and now, on living their lives as pleasantly as possible, celebrating when the occasion demands it" (Banerjee and Duflo, 38).
Senegal calls itself the country of Teranga, or hospitality, and everyone is invited to weddings and baptisms. (This is how I have found myself at multiple weddings and naming ceremonies when I have had no clue who was getting married or named).
For this particular occasion for celebration, on the first day, Wednesday, a giant speaker system was brought in to the bride’s family’s compound. The Senegalese like their music, and they like it loud. They also don’t seem to mind continuous repetition of a select group of about seven songs, which played throughout the day at high, high noise levels. Guests come and go, depending on their other obligations of the day, but it was made clear to Pat and I that we were expected to be a pretty constant presence. There is dancing off and on during the day, mixed in with a lot of sitting around and drinking tea.
Chilling under the shade tree around the tea set
Women spend a good part of the day doing serious hair braiding and food preparation. Ceremony food is often a big step up from what we eat on a daily basis. A big chunk of this is cutting onions, using hands as cutting boards (this is foreshadowing, FYI).
Cooking fire in the cooking hut
About a week before the wedding, women come together for a "tugulo", or pounding party. This either prepares food for the celebration of is used as a dowry or wedding gifts...so many things to still figure out!
Sisters-in-law preparing the food for the guests. Practically every ingredient seems to get pounded at some point or another.
As night fell, a more steady influx of guests arrived. Fanta emerged from her hut, flocked by her female friends wearing one of four matching outfits. The amount of make-up she had on reminded me of the citizens of the Capitol in the Hunger Games. The women walked in formation around the interior of the circle created by guests chairs and took unsmiling pictures. I kept waiting for the groom to show up, since I hadn’t seen him yet…but he never did. That is the most surprising thing to me about Malinke weddings, is that there is no element of public ceremony with the bride and groom together.
The bridal party
Sira, my counterpart, was part of the bridal party. The women wearing her particular dress were mostly sisters-in-law of the bride
The bride in her night one outfit--this was my first time using my camera, so I hadn't figured out the night settings yet
After a delicious dinner of oily pasta and raisins, the speaker music cut out, and the women began drumming and chanting. Two griots showed up with djembes around that time and began a process of djembe preparation that I never knew existed in all my summers listening to djembe at camp in Montana.
Griots are the most visible caste in the Senegalese caste system. They tell stories and provide music at ceremonies and often ask for money or other gifts. At most weddings I have been to, bolts of fabric were given out…I thought the giving was at random, as I had received fabric for no particular reason. Well it turns out that my toxoma (namesake) is not a griot per say, but she is a niamaxalo, which is the larger grouping of castes that the griots are a part of. The Tiganas (her last name) are traditionally the metal working caste, but she does some griot-ish things like naming babies. Apparently I have received fabric because, since I am my namesake in their interpretation of the namesake relationship, I am also a niamaxalo, and close enough to a griot to receive a special gift. This was big news that I’m still trying to sort through. I have also been given small amounts of money on several occasions, I think for the same reason.
One of the griot women getting the dancing going
Djembe preparation
After the Djembes were sufficiently warmed, a procession (not including the bride or groom), went to the dondula (place of dancing, which turned out to be the basketball courts) and danced until late in the night. Since I am always exhausted and ready for bed at about 8:30, I did not stay long, but got rested for Thursday’s festivities.
Thursday I went over to Fanta’s compound mid-morning. She was preparing for the day by getting henna tattoos on her hands and feet, the only part of the bride that is shown when the guests show up in the afternoon. I spent a lot of time during this whole process thinking back on the day of my own wedding and the preparations the morning of, and how very different it all is.
Wedding day preparations: when your face won't show, you have to make your hands and feet look really pretty
After lunch, someone said, “The sisters have arrived.” I looked up to see a procession of women approaching the compound, singing and clapping. Fanta went into her hut and was led out sometime later with a wax sheet covering her head. She was laid down in the middle of the circle of dancing women. Her feet were washed and her hair was braided while drums pounded, women danced, and the griots told the stories of the last name of her new husband (who was nowhere to be seen).
Dancing is quite the thing here. I love watching women dance. This video is of Sira, my community counterpart and best friend in site, dancing like a maniac.
I have discussed with fellow volunteers about how dancing is a powerful tool for integration. People love you for putting yourself out there, and there is no verbal expression involved. So whenever I’m asked to dance, I typically go for it full force, as you can see here:
After the dancing calms down, all of the gifts were brought out to be counted as everyone watched. My host dad actually announced the counting of fabric, household goodies, and grain, and a griot would repeat everything he said. Prior to the wedding, the bride’s family typically gives things like cola nuts, an animal, or money to the groom’s family to seal the deal.
On the left is my host father, who would count the gifts. On the right is the griot that would echo the number in a louder voice.
After the gifts were counted, a crowd gathered around Fanta to escort her to her groom’s house, where he was waiting for her. As she was led away from her compound, her best friend was crying hysterically. Upon marriage, women traditionally go and live in the husband’s family compound. In this case however, her husband was living in a faraway city called Touba, and she would be leaving the next day.
The entourage of female guests plus Fanta's twin brother leading her to her new husband's home.
The third day of the wedding is held at the groom’s family’s compound. The men are more involved this day, and there are proclamations made and a goat slaughtered.
As usual, I had my pocket knife with me and was ready to go when the carrots started getting chopped. Most women think that I am incapable of doing the things they do (which is often true), so I’m always trying to prove myself. Well I proved that cutting boards are necessary when you use a knife that’s actually sharp. I sliced a chunk of my finger into the giant bowl of carrots and had to run home bleeding and humiliated.
All healed up now and I didn't even get a staff infection
The third day seems to be the most chill, however, so I don’t think I missed all that much. Pat and I went back as Fanta and her two kids were loaded into the car with her new husband, headed to a new life in Touba.
I definitely think I wasn't supposed to be smiling in this picture. Oops. Habit.
I learned so much about this culture and community by being involved in this event. However, another wedding was taking place right around this same time. Kristi and Nick’s wedding was the first major event that I’ve missed due to Peace Corps, and there are already four other weddings that I know I’ll miss, which breaks my heart.
Growing up as the daughter of my high school’s yearbook
advisor, one of my favorite times of the year was when the Seniors would turn
in their glamorous photos and the words of wisdom they had selected to go with
it. I loved getting a sneak preview of
what was to come and watching my mom roll her eyes at some of the more
ridiculous senior quotes, debating whether to make them change it. It’s funny what nuggets of childhood memory
stick with you, but I remember being really tickled with one senior quote,
which simply asked, “What if the hokey pokey really is what it’s all about?” Well, based on an experience I had this week,
I have decided that that just might be the case.
When looking at Senegalese and American cultural
differences, one thing that stands out to me is the differing views of
children. While children are very much
loved in both cultures, you might say that it is not expressed the same. Respect for elders is very important in
Senegal. Barely anyone knows their
numerical age, but everyone seems to know their relative age to each other. This puts kids at the bottom of the totem
pole. Anything you don’t want to do, you
can just have a kid do it. I have often
marveled at the nonchalance with which a mother will balance a baby on her back
to strap him into the cloth. It is the
opposite of helicopter parenting.
Corporal punishment is common. I
have been told to hit kids that were bugging me and had to try to explain in
limited Malinke that I just couldn’t.
Another thing is that adults don’t really play with
kids. (Well, I guess that’s a
generalization, but in my three months here, I haven’t observed any
intergenerational playing.) There are
eight kids in my host family’s compound, ranging from (I’m completely guessing
here because they don’t know) about one and a half to about ten. Besides my host father cuddling his two
littlest granddaughters in the hammock, which is the sweetest thing in the
world, the primary adult-child interaction in the compound is that of
reprimanding. Don't get me wrong, there is much love toward children, it's just not typically expressed through play. Being someone who wants everyone to like me and lacking the language skills to immediately ensure that with the adults of the family, one of my first moves upon arriving was to try to get in with the kids.
The gang's all here: These are the middling age range of kids. Khalifa, Jelemba, Samuro, Kounadi
Kounadi is crazy-excited about the camera that my parents sent in the mail
Getting my hair braided
Getting in with the kids played out through several
different strategies:
S1. Singing American songs by request. The most common requests are Shakira’s Waka Waka (known here as Tsaminamina) and Rhianna’s Rude Boy, which is so dirty that I feel super weird singing it to kids, but they love it and have no idea what I’m saying.
1
22. Duck,
Duck, Goose. I translated this classic into
Malinke as Frog, Frog, Snake, since I have no idea how to say either duck or
goose. I actually think it might be more
fun and exciting to get chased by a snake than by a goose.
33.Hide and seek, a la Senegalaise. The version of hide and seek that was taught
to me by the kids involves everyone hiding together and yelling out when the
group is ready to be found. This is my
least favorite game because it involves leaving the shade structure and venturing
out in the hot, hot sun.
44.Most recently, Hokey Pokey. This has been a hit with the kids as well as
the older students from surrounding villages. It has been good practice for
reinforcing the vocabulary of body parts.
In the last few weeks I’ve actually had to do some learning
regarding the setting of boundaries. It
turns out the kids like playing games so much that they come over to my house
morning, noon and night hoping that I’ll play with them (also just watching us
seems to be a fun activity). Since I
deal with a lot of “hut guilt” (feeling like I should be out integrating with
the community at all hours of the day and feeling guilty for being in our hut),
if I’m at my hut, it means I really need to be there, either to do work in
peace or to get some rest. When Pat was
in Dakar, I had an emotional breakdown about feeling overwhelmed by the
constant presence of a herd of kids at my hut and not knowing how to tell them
they couldn’t come over and thus not knowing how to preserve my sanity. Eventually, I just told them (in front of
their grandparents and parents) that (literal translation here) their house was
the place of playing and my house was the place of resting and working
only. This was actually quite effective,
and I think the adults in my family had thought that this was a long time coming. The kids still come over, but they understand
the boundary and don’t get mad if I ask them to leave so I can get work done or
rest.
So we do a lot of playing at the Cissokho compound. And lately I have even heard adults singing
the hokey pokey in a hinting way as if to request it. Then, a few days ago, something magical
happened. We were playing our afternoon
round of Frog, Frog, Snake, and it was Alamuta’s turn.
Alamuta is the cutest. She is captured here at one of the rare times she is wearing clothing.
Alamuta highly enjoys Frog, Frog, Snake, but she doesn’t
really get it. As she was walking around
muttering and hitting about every third person on the head, Diounkounda, the
mother of four of the kids, came over and took over from Alamuta. Every single kid squealed around the circle
squealed with the purest delight as Diounkounda ran from the snake she had
chosen. She was then chosen every time
as the snake. This was actually quite hilarious
because she was breastfeeding Oumou who kept trying to hang on to her milk source
for dear life as Diounkounda scampered around the circle of giggling kids.
Oumou trying to get in on the camera action as well
At Diounkounda’s request, we switched to Hokey Pokey, and
sang and laughed until we ran out of body parts. It was beautiful. As we were walking back to our hut later in
the afternoon, Pat said, “You know, we could leave tomorrow and feel good about
our service after what happened today.” I
am in no way trying to paint myself as the patron saint of playing with kids or
make any commentary on Senegalese parenting styles. (I am not a parent, despite the wishes of our entire for us to have a baby so they can give him or her a Senegalese baptism, and I can only make these observations as a childless
outsider who finds it easier to say “Frog, frog snake” than things you might
say when conversing with adults.) All I
know is that, on that afternoon, the smiles of those kids and their mom made me
wonder, “What if the Hokey Pokey really is what it’s all about?”
