My Closet

Among the things I have loved aboutSenegal is the clothing. I love the colors. I love the pizzazz. I love that most things are just big mumus that feel like going to work in pajamas...

I know that I've failed as a blogger in being able to keep up with posting but I thought I'd at least give you a last minute tour of my closet because I'm in the process of packing it all up.

This is me sporting an urban-style "complete" (say it with a French accent) which means that the outfit has top piece and a bottom piece). The specific style of complete is more commonly seen in bigger cities. Beside me in the photo are the head nurse and the head skilled midwife of the Saraya Hospital.

This complete quintessentially represents Malinke style for special events. The fabric is called "wax" after the production method that uses wax blocks to create the pattern on the cotton base. There are several qualities of wax available but this one is fairly high quality because it is thicker and the colors are more sharp. The woman next to me is Cira Kante, a woman that sells fish and produce in the Saraya market.

This dress or "robe" was a gift from my host family in training. The style is youthful and urban but still appreciated in the village setting. The fabric is also a high quality wax but by the time of this photo had been worn so much as to be faded and  torn and it was accidentally shrunken in a clothes dryer in Dakar when I forgot dryers do that to cotton.

The style of the dress in the last photo was so well liked among volunteers that they went to tailors and had copies made in multiple other fabrics, including myself.  You can see the same style in various wax prints - yellow/red/gray, red/black/yellow, me and green, red, yellow. This photo was taken at the engagement party of the volunteer in the blue wax robe in the middle of the photo who is now engaged to a man from her village.

 

I love this complete because it is like wearing a giant poncho. The fabric is a light cotton which is great in hot weather and the design is done as embroidery. The man beside me is my husband who is really my namesake's husband but is referred to as such in Malinke culture.

This is a jaxasee complete with "jaxasee" meaning that it uses a mixture of fabrics. The black and white is a high quality wax and the pink is a two different shiny fabrics whose names I don't know but who remind me of Disney princess dresses. The man, Sega Danfakha, refers to me as his "second wife" so I return the favor and call him my "second husband" and tell people that the spot for my first husband is reserved.

This is my absolute favorite complete and so it is a shame that I do not have a photo that displays it well. It is the first complete I ever made during training in Thies and it is made with a gorgeous royal blue, red and yellow wax. Beside me in the photo is Diabou, my namesake, on my first Korite.

This complete was sewed for me by the tailor whose shop is just in front of my house. Its hard to tell in this picture how poofy the sleeves are but I assure you they are very poofy and very Malinke.

The complete here is actually one I borrowed from a fellow volunteer for my first Tabaski so that I didn't have to pay to have one made myself but I really like it so I included it here. The skirt is difficult to see here but is made of a sort of doiley-looking fabric called brodee and the top is simple cotton with red embroidery.

This was also a borrowed complete. It was a little big, hence the belt, but the purple wax matched the pink-purple hair.

Most people that are connected to my facebook or instragram have probably seen this complete. It is a jaxasee with a high quality patterned wax and another solid yellow fabric called bazen. In general bazen is considered very fancy and people will make full completes with just that for big holidays. I refused because it is very expensive and very hot to wear but I liked mixing it in here. The style with the ruffles on the arms, around the belly and on the skirt is generally adored in the villages.

This is another one of my favorite completes because of its simplicity and color scheme. Here I am wearing the tunic with pants during a training but there is also an accompanying skirt.

A New Perspective on Senegal: Enhanced Suspension and Children that Don't Whine

This past December I had the privilege of receiving the second set of visitors during my service: my dad and step-mom.

Taking these two around was a real pleasure because they were simply interested in everything. Questions didn’t stop at the inquiries about food or dress or culture but plowed on through to wondering about the scaffolding on under-construction water towers and the location of auto part stores (I bet you can guess who those both came from). Granted, I often didn’t have all the answers (I haven’t gone auto part shopping myself although I would say that the plastic rope from a regular hardware store and a jug of water can “solve” about 75% of the issues i.e. doors don’t close, hoods don’t close, engines falling out, everything overheating, etc.) but I was grateful for the spirit of questioning. After spending over two years of my life here, dedicating myself to my work here and having made innumerable, inexplicably wonderful relationships with people that have entirely different languages and cultures than my own, it’s heartening to have guests that come for such a short time but make such a concerted effort to try to see the beauty I’ve come to see that shines through the dust and the trash and the poverty that is more superficially apparent.

I also must say that I am very proud of my two guests. Neither is a particularly experienced traveler but they suffered through several unending car rides without complaint, conquered a 1000 km climb in 95 degree weather, danced in the village drum circle (yes, my dad danced), learned how to greet people in Malinke and only got bamboozled into giving a small child a generous sum of money once.

I asked them both to write guest blogs because I felt like they both had such a unique perspective on what they were seeing given their respective backgrounds and areas of interest. I hope you enjoy it.

 

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Some thoughts from my dad…

A Visit to Senegal in the "Cold" Season

Truly, “hot” and “cold” are relative to what you are used to. Coming from California in December, cold wasn't 90° - not to me anyway. Thus, it was quite amusing to see a taxi driver wearing his down jacket to stay warm.  Senegal was, like this, a land of contradictions and paradoxes - not for them but for me visiting from the other side of the planet with a view of normalcy founded on the other side of the planet. It's where the roads are dusty but the women wear brilliantly colored dresses just walking down the road to the market. The people give me a scowling look like they don't recognize my species but always make long greetings and are the friendliest people I've ever met. They share what they have with strangers though they may not have much.

The mud huts with thatched roofs are what everyone outside the big cities live in – just like National Geographic. Somehow I really didn't expect that to be the norm. It was like being in an Indiana Jones movie.

Everywhere Sarah took us was spectacular, exceeding my expectations. The waterfall that reached out of sight, the remote village where they pierce their noses with porcupine quills and make corn “wine”, the Bedouin moteling and camel rides, the African dance party, donkey carts and termite hills, food and fabric markets, her host family and the kids, the Baobob trees, warthogs, monkeys and African deer, and just the routine car travel through another world filled us with awe and questions that we fired at Sarah.

The Senegalese don't speak English. If you don't speak French (or even if you do), you better have Sarah as your guide. I'm very proud of the work she does with the Peace Corp in living conditions that most of us only experience when backpacking. She has adapted to the challenges and thrives like a native. I only saw her in the “cold” season (wearing sweaters). I can't even imagine what she does in the hot season.

Wearing my Mechanical Engineering, Environmental Consulting and Risk Management Hat

Sarah originally asked me to write a blog post from an engineering perspective, mainly because I kept asking her many questions from that point of view. So here it is.

In the bottling plant I work in we used the term “run to failure” or “RTF”. It refers to a part or piece of equipment that is not critical or is not economical to keep expensive parts on-hand for because they can easily be obtained in a short time. In college we learned that designing a part for a million cycles basically made it last forever. In Senegal, RTF means running equipment to way beyond their million cycle design point, welding it back together when it breaks, and continuing to use it until it seemingly disintegrates and is consumed by the red sand. Maybe that's why the sand is red? I am talking mostly about vehicles: taxis, buses, trucks, and donkey carts – although donkey carts are really where the bones of cars go for a last life.

Of the many taxis we rode in only one had more than the gas gauge working and one other had an intact windshield. The impressive part was the suspension, obviously worn way out of tolerance, but still functioning. I am still in awe of the 20-person buses jammed with 30 people and a few goats and piled high with cargo and people on the roof rack. Now THAT is suspension.

Disabled trucks are a frequent occurrence on the highway. I didn't say “pulled over and off” the highway, I said “on” the highway. I was intrigued by the number of trucks I saw with a hydraulic jack under the engine (on the highway) – not sure what the fix was there.

Senegal is a place where everything gets used to completion. While there's plastic in the garbage (even the west hasn't really figured that one out) what is interesting is what's not there – not much else. It gets used, reused, repurposed, reformed, rebuilt and used again.

We had a running conversation throughout the trip about some simple things that could be made that would make life easier for the residents. The challenge would be making them with stuff you could find. And, well, that is slim pickings. A simple stove made from ½ a barrel and a pipe would vent the cooking smoke outside, away from mom & swaddled baby on her back, and reduce the deforestation of burning wood. But where do you get the materials?

If you were born in Senegal you would think there are only four kinds of cars and trucks in the world: Renault, Peugeot, Toyota and Land Rover. Land Rover & Toyota are rare and usually diplomats. Everything is diesel. None of them would come close to passing a smog test. They seem to run forever (or at least a million cycles) but they pollute the air. I guess that's why you never see Renault and Peugeot in the US anymore…

Water is the precious commodity and is the limiting factor in many situations. I don't know if anyone is monitoring groundwater levels (volume). I certainly don't think they are monitoring water quality: chemical or bacteriological. And the medical monitoring isn't robust enough to link any illness with water quality issues.

The riskiest thing we did all week was riding in cars. Yes, there’s the whole RTF thing above, but that's not what concerned me. Nor was it that rarely did the seat belts function. There's no emergency help: no fire department, no ambulances, no 911. With trucks that break down on the road (two lane highway) there has to be some horrible crashes with no emergency response. Thankfully we didn’t see any.

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Some thoughts from my step-mom…

The Children and More

Senegal…so many beautiful images and exquisite memories come to mind…writing on a specific topic seems beyond me.

Sarah took excellent care of us, from the moment we timidly ventured past the customs area at the airport in Dakar until the moment she dropped us off again as we prepared for our journey home.  And what did we do in response to her thoughtfulness? We pelted her! We pelted her with question after question, after question - asking non-stop about everything we saw, to the point where I do believe we all had parched throats from so much talking, (thank heavens for the luscious frozen pouches of delicious nectar available along the roadway by vendors tapping on the taxi windows!).  An amazing array of visual stimulation filled every moment on the eight hour drive with which to formulate those questions…the distance from Dakar to our first stop in Tambacounda, a charming oasis of air conditioned rooms and mixed drinks in the dining room.  Sarah, without you we would not have experienced a true sense of life in Senegal, but of course without you, we would not have ventured forth on this grand experience, and for that, we thank you whole heartedly!!

The children.  I couldn’t help it; I was enamored with the children.  One would think that someone who has spent all of her adult life working as a teacher and then childcare provider would find some relief in other aspects of the incredibly amazing adventure we had in Senegal, and there were definitely some incredibly revitalizing moments, but… I keep coming back to the children. Perhaps it was that I could simply enjoy the children and the fact that I was not in charge of them.  At all. (=

I have spent time with a lot of children in my life...a lot.  However, I was thoroughly enchanted by the children we met, and the ones we simply saw but did not meet. The beauty, the seriousness, the wonder in their eyes was something not to be discounted.  Shy?  Yes.  Timid at times? Yes.  Full of exuberant happiness?  Yes, when they were able to let down their guard and let you in to their world. We saw pure joy, in spite of the fact that they have little, and I mean little, in the way of possessions.  Little at least compared to our ‘standards’ and what our children had when they were young.  We saw a willingness to share themselves, to join in the silly fun and games of these people (us) from a different land, wearing different clothes, speaking a different language, and overall just plain old different.

“Different” seems to be a word that puts fear into many people.  Yet once a hand is stretched out with a camera showing a picture recently taken of them, the eyes of the children (and truth to tell, even the adults) light up and suddenly, BAM!  You are a friend for life, or at least for the duration of your visit.  Simple joys, simple pleasures, aw, that life should be so simple for all of us (though I hesitate to think of what our feelings would be were we to step out of our world for any extended period of time, such as have Sarah and her Peace Corps compatriots, and share in that ‘simple’ life).  Yet, children here are the same to some degree, are they not?  I have often reflected on and wondered about this, why life seems so wonderful and carefree and then suddenly, it is much less so.  And it seems to happen at a very young age.

Innocence.  That is what I was enamored of.  Their sweet trust, their willingness to sit on a lap belonging to someone they met moments ago, to stand up and dance to the music by guest musicians in the village which Sarah arranged for us, in spite of the fact that it seemed that children were not encouraged to interact that way in the village celebration, simply because I stretched out a hand in invitation to them to join me in the circle, and to try their hardest to learn the simple hand games being taught by a very happy but linguistically challenged guest. (That would be me.)

Observing a true ‘village’, the village caring for the children at large was an incredibly eye opening experience.  Certainly that is something we hear spoken of quite a bit, but how often do we really see it put into action?  The children respecting and responding to the adults, whether they were being shooed away to their various homes as evening waned, or being taken by the grandparents for dinner hour while the other adults in the family dined together.  Never once did I hear whining about “that’s not fair”, or “but I don’t want to!” (Not that I could have understood that that what they might be saying, mind you…but a whine is a whine in any language, and over a span of 10 days I was aware of none.) How is it that the adults in the village of Saraya have a handle on the child in some ways better than the adults in these oh so entitled and educated United States?   I don’t know, I could speculate, but I am not going to go there in this already overly long missive.

The children of Saraya are beautiful and seemingly very happy.  In spite of the runny noses which never get wiped, in spite of the fact that they run around bare foot or in broken flip flops which they somehow manage not to trip in, in spite of the fact that they run around on dirt streets – though because their clothes are so exquisitely made with bright colors the dirt is not evident on their clothing, (but quite evident on the clothing which some children in the village were wearing  from our country…the often bland and neutral tones…) and in spite of the fact that there are little of the spoils of life with which we are accustomed to here in the United States.  They are happy, they are lively, they play games, they show joy, they - simply put, appear to love life. A charming and what will be a very long lasting picture in my mind of our trip to Senegal.

(And don’t EVEN get me started about the young lad - no more than ten years old - who graciously hauled me up the last 500 feet of a steep mountain to visit a remote village, while carrying MY back pack, because I was overcome with heat…the awesome breakfast sandwiches, the ‘to die for’ spiced coffees {not even Peet’s, at that!} the taxi rides -no seat belts for the most part, the multi-use roadways -cars, people, horses, donkeys, you get the idea, the glorious fabrics, the camels, the amazing tents on the gorgeous sand dunes…another story for another time.)

 

Speaking Malingo, Being Malingo

Malinke is a funny language in that it has immeasurable meaning expressed through a limited number of words, the result of which makes it a little like Legos; blocks of standard size and color are put together in varying directions and quantities to create awesome masterpieces of art (“Everything is awesome!”). The example that I always give to non-Malinke-speaking Senegalese people when discussing the complexity of the language is the word “ba”. This one-syllable word means: father, big, powerful, goat, river, sea, and lake (potentially among other things). The contextualization is further complicated by the fact that both inseparable possession and description are formulated by lining up two words together. So, “ba-ba” could mean: big father (head of the household), big goat (goat of the household?), father’s goat, goat’s father, father’s river, goat’s river, river’s lake, lake’s goat, etc. Every phrase you create has some nPk potential of meaning. Thus, you really have to pay attention.

Recently as my ability to communicate has blossomed into a new level of fluency and comfort, I have been receiving what I believe to be one of the higher compliments of toubab-foreigners – “Diabou le kourata malingo!” Loosely translated it means, “Diabou is done with Malinke!” This is about a million times more encouraging to hear that the tired old, “Diabou ma malingo me foloo” or “Diabou doesn’t hear Malinke yet” that I heard repeatedly through my journey of learning and grew to truly despise as it was a confirmation of my weakness and insecurity.

I find the phrasing of the compliment interesting through. The word "malingo" is the Malinke word for the name of the language, Malinke, but it has another meaning. "Mali" is the country to the east of us where the Malinke ethnic group purportedly originated from, and "ngo" means "person".  So when they tell me that I finished "malingo", it can also mean that I finished becoming a "Malinke person".

This idea has been further corroborated by some other recent compliments from some of the same people who have told me, "Diabou mu malingo sayiin" or "Diabou is Malinke now" and have referred to me as "Malingo mousso" or "Malinke lady".

I don’t know whether there is some causal correlation between being able to speak the language and being accepted as a member of the tribe, or if both are merely the product of the same independent variable: time. But both compliments I accept with the highest level of internal flattery (because it’s taken so long to get here but it feels so good to have made it) and the highest level of external suppression or denial (because being Malinke, this is how one is expected to receive compliments publicly).

Recently I had the opportunity to show off just how Malinke I could be in celebrating Tabaski (known as Eid al-Adha in other parts of the world), the second, more important of the two holidays following Ramadan in the Islamic religion, and the biggest party of the year in village. The Malinke Tabaski celebration is a kind of combination of prom and Thanksgiving with religious undertones and a river of blood seeping from the sheep obligatorily sacrificed in every compound.

Preparation for the holiday begins several weeks before. Three to 5 weeks before the big day, budget permitting, everyone will go purchase fabric to have 1-2 outfits made for each member of the family and take the fabric to the tailor before he gets so overwhelmed that he has to turn away business. Generally for such an important holiday, the appropriate fabric is something called bazen that is kind of like a papery, starched silk and comes in a variety of solid colors. The tailors who sew your outfit will dress it up with embroidery in the shape of flowers or waves, or just in general blocks of color and patterns.  This year my toxoma (namesake), Diabou, my brother’s wife, Dande, and I were in cahoots to get matching outfits made together. I am not a big fan of bazen myself because it is expensive and hot to wear so I purchased a fancy cotton wax for us to share with bits of bazen to mix in to dress it up and Diabou and Dande conspired to design a classy Malinke outfit.

In addition to outfits, jewelry and shoes are of critical importance for Malinke women. Gawdy gold or silver and bling are preferred. Since I had recently been home to the US on vacation I was able to obtain some cheap, gaudy gold hoops and bracelets from H&M for the three of us, as well as some gold, dangling earrings and a super gaudy gold necklace for my host mom. They loved all of it. Shoes though, we purchased in Kedougou. They had to be heels, obviously, and they were bedazzled in little fake white crystals.

 With 2-3 weeks left before the holiday, Malinke families, again budget permitting, will purchase the ram they are going to sacrifice as a part of the religious ceremony. This sacrifice is an act performed all of over the world by Muslim families on this holiday because the holiday itself celebrates the willingness of Abraham to sacrifice his son at God’s command. According to the story, when Abraham went to cut his son’s throat, he found that God had intervened and that his son had been replaced by a ram. Sacrificing a ram, thus, is done in remembrance of this act of faith and devotion. Rams are raised all year for this occasion by people dedicated to doing so, sort of like the people that own year-round Christmas decoration shops. With what money you have you try to get the fattest, healthiest one possible. You may even get more than one if you can afford it.

Lunch-to-be

 In the last week before the big day, new clothes are fitted and picked up from the tailor shop and the final touches of beauty are applied. Women often apply henna to their hands and feet. Unlike henna done in the U.S. or India where henna is used like a pen to draw on patterns, Malinke women create the pattern in the negative space. Women use medical tape to create patterns and the henna is applied on top such that when it is all removed, the foot or hand will be mostly black with pattern the color of natural skin. I personally don’t have the patience for this since you are forced to sit with your feet or hands up and wrapped in bags, unable to use them for several hours while the henna sets in, but the other women and girls in my house did it. I just painted my nails instead which is also acceptable for Malinke women.

Additionally, men make a trip to the coiffure to get their heads shaved and women head to the salon to get their hair done up in extravagant braids and weaves. Ironically, while I use hair-dos to make myself look more Malinke to fit in in this context, many Malinke women use hair-dos to look more western since western style in a strong influence on perceptions of beauty and the long, fine, straight hair typically found on the heads of light-skinned women is central in that. They often have their hair braided in short, tight braids but sew in long, wavy hair pieces over it, or attach buns or long, faux pony tails to the back of their heads.  I on the other hand, go for the braids. I guess the net effect is we meet somewhere in the middle.

Upper Left: Saraya's own famous hairstylist, Aminata Sila, and myself - Upper Right: The finished produce - Bottom: A beautiful example of Senegalese-style henna (I don't actually know whose feet these are)

When all that is prêt (ready), we are set to fête (party).

Tabaski morning, unlike Christmas morning, is usually a slow ease into the day. People generally just mill about without doing too much until it is time to bathe and make your way to the mosque.  Who attends the mosque service varies by family and by religiosity. In my family it is often only my host mom that attends. Around 10am she puts on her finest bazen, lays a shroud over her head, grabs her prayer mat and heads for the basketball court where hundreds of women gather for the outdoor version of the service. My host dad would normally attend the service with the other older men at the mosque but he has trouble walking these days so he never really leaves the compound. The other adults in my house are either lazy or they don’t attend because they feel like my host mom is holding down the fort and has everyone covered already.  Either way, in her absence the rest of us don our first Tabaski outfits, the less-fancy morning outfits, along with our jewelry and our make-up and we await her return.

The Tabaski Trouble Makers (Dande, Diabou (me) and Diabou (original))

Toubabs in Saraya

Upon her return, my toxoma’s husband, Wujari, slits the throat of the ram and lays it out to let it bleed for a while before skinning it and removing certain organs. Much to my privilege (aka revulsion), this usually happens on the ground just outside the door to my hut.

Upper Left: The Slaughter - Upper Right: Onion-dicin' for days - Bottom: Girls helping out

The rest of the morning the women spend cooking. Together they dice up barrels and barrels of onions, peel and chop potatoes, and clean and carve the mutton. Some older women who are no longer in charge of cooking for their household and many of the men will go from house to house to greet friends and family members and bless them on this holiday.  The Malinke blessing ceremony between two people usually goes like this:

Friend:                Diabou, kori ñiima salita? Diabou, did you pray in peace ?

Diabou (Me):     Iyo, nñiima salita. Kori fanaa ñiima salita ? Yes, I prayed in peace. Did you also

                           pray in peace?

Friend :               Iyo, nñiima salita. Allah mu salii siyaala. Yes, I prayed in peace. May God give

                             you a plentiful prayer day.

Me :                     Amina. Amen.

Friend:                Xa jaritaa ita kendo la. May He grant you health.

Me :                     Amina. Amen.

Friend:                Xi se kee soto anin i se dindingolu soto. May he give you a husband and children.

Me:                      Amina. Amen.

Friend:                Xila baaro noxoyaa. May he make your work easier

Me:                      Amina. Alla mu salii siyaala. Amen. May God give you a plentiful prayer day.

Friend :               Amina. Amen.

Me:                      Xa jaritaa ita kendo la. May He grant you health

Friend :               Amina. Amen.

Me :                     Xa idingolu balula. May he grant your children long lives.

Friend :               Amina. Amen.

Me:                      Xa ining kee soumounta me la. May you and your husband enjoy a long time

                             together.

Friend:                Amina. Amen.

Me:                      Xa heero faa la ila luo ma. May peace fill your household.

Friend :               Amina. Amen.

Me:                      I xa yamfa ma. You forgive me (for anything I’ve done badly to you)?

Friend:                Nyamfata. Ite fana xa yamfa ma. I forgive you. You also forgive me?

Me:                      Nyamfata. I forgive you.

The prayers may vary from person to person but the gist is the same and you get really good at it because you have to say it to every person individually who enters the compound or who you see outside of the compound throughout the whole day of Tabaski, which is a lot of people. I tend to get a lot of compliments on my Malinke-ness in this ritual because I have an exhaustive list of prayers I go through that not even many native Malinkes generally say.

When the mutton-onion-potato stew is ready, generally not until 3 or 4pm, it is served into a number of bowls of various sizes by the lady chefs along with chunks of bread. Traditionally the meat is supposed to be divided into three parts; the family retains a third while the second third is given to relatives, friends or neighbors and the last third is given to the poor and needy. In practice I don’t believe that the division is so precise but we do share it with a lot of people. Before anyone can sit down to eat at the bigger of the bowls, the little bowls are dispatched with small children to be delivered to specific people around town.  When one does sit down to eat, it is with whatever gender/age group that person belongs to. I eat with the middle generation men and women in my family, all between the ages of 18 and 40, like I do for my normal meals. My host parents eat together along with the grandchildren. This isn’t a particularly normal food bowl division by Senegalese standards which usually demand men and women to eat separately and the male head of household to have a bowl to himself, but it works for us.

Hungry hands finally digging in

Unfortunately this year, our food was not good. I don’t know whether the meat was not cleaned well enough or not cooked enough or what, but nobody seemed to like it. After just a few bites my toxoma’s husband excused himself with the excuse of being sick and being unable to eat a lot. Next a guest excused himself saying he was full. Then my host brother declared “this tastes awful” and got up and left. I found myself alone with just Dande and Diabou left at the bowl, the two women who had slaved the most over the food all morning and my bestie Tabaski partners in crime. It is not in the Malinke culture to tell a white lie in order to protect someone’s feelings but I couldn’t stand the level of ungratefulness after they had worked so hard. I insisted that the food was delicious and forced myself to eat 4-5 whole potatoes that tasted like arm pit, just to prove the point. 

When we’ve stuffed our faces (or pretended to), someone usually buys some cold, sugary drink to share – often orange Fanta or Sprite or juice of some kind. It is bought in 1 liter bottles and little bits are poured into plastic coffee cups that are passed to someone in the group and then refilled before being passed to the next person again and again until everyone has enjoyed some.

Now into the late afternoon as the food and drink is cleared away, people generally rest. They may make traditional tea with friends. They may go visit the households of friends and family. Eventually they will bathe again and don their second outfit, usually the fancier of their two outfits, and get ready for the evening greeting tour. I generally take this time to go visit with friends from the hospital and enjoy a second, more lavish, Tabaski lunch with them that generally has way more vegetables and way less scary meat. This year it was perfectly roasted chicken (a Christian midwife had prepared it), french fries, onion sauce, tomatoes, bell peppers, cucumbers, carrots, olives, bread and no trace of arm pit. It was magnificent.

Arm-Pit Food

Magnificent Food

When the heat of the day breaks, nearly everyone ventures out to go greet the people they haven’t seen yet. I went out with Diabou and Dande on their rounds after dark. As most of my friends know, I am in no way anything beyond proficient in my ability to walk in heels but walking with these two ladies made me feel like a supermodel. They so badly wanted to wear heels but were very awkwardly chunking along in a sort of a stiff waddle-walk. We had an adventure navigating the uneven terrain and dirt trails, giggling at our obvious ineptitude, and called it quits after visiting just two of the more important compounds.

A casualty of our short adventure on rough terrain

At the end of the day, those who are still hungry may have a light dinner in the form of leftover mutton-onion-potato stew or basic rice porridge. Teenagers that come alive in the dark make their way to the community center for a dance party soiree. Everyone else retires to their rooms, a day well spent, ready for a break from the hype and a return to normal life until next year.

Obviously I don’t think that I speak Malinke perfectly yet; there are plenty of times I find my vocabulary to be lacking or I can’t understand what someone is trying to communicate to me. And I know I’m not actually Malinke all of the sudden either; I am about 50 shades too white (ahem, not gray), I’m not Muslim and I am still the daughter of a “Mollenkopf” and a “Kogon”, not a “Tounkara” or a “Danfakha” or a “Cissokho” or anything else.  But I do appreciate the honorary title. And it’s pretty fun when holidays like Tabaski come around to pretend like it is true, to abandon my American aversion to too-too, gawdy jewelry or matching shirt-skirt outfits with poofs and frills and bright colors, to don the otherwise preposterous hair-do and crystal-studded heals, to make house calls to wish the best to friends and family through prayers in a religion I don’t belong to, to eat arm-pit potatoes and scary meat for the sake of tradition and community and to generally go all-out celebrating like a true Malinke with my Malinke family in a Malinke community. It is a singular experience.


Also, I've had a lot of attention on my hair style and a lot of opinions shared about my doppelganger. I'll leave it to you to decide. Let me know what you vote for...