A productive village trip? What?

I’ve done my village duty and am now off the hook for the next month! As far as village trips go, this one was pretty smooth and productive. Before I get into that, check the last post, which I wasn’t able to post a few days ago because for some reason the internet wasn’t working at the radio.

Thursday morning, Oumar and I were on the road by 7:30. As usual, the motorcycle trip was half exhilarating, half terrifying. Driving in sand is such a nightmare. The motorcycle swerves left and right, trying to find traction, but Oumar is a good driver and can keep control with his feet. The worst thing you can do in sand is panic, because then you lose concentration and control and you’re bound to fall over. I kept thinking, “Il faut poser l’esprit, il faut poser l’esprit” (You have to place [calm] your mind).

We left the motorcycle at the base of the cliff, then hiked our way up. It wasn’t too hot, so the whole trip was nearly pleasant. The village felt almost deserted when we got there around 11; the kids were at school, the women were in their houses preparing lunch, and there was some meeting at the town hall that claimed all of the men. Little by little, people began trickling in, greeting me with their usual joy and exuberance. Ramata’s mother called out to me from over by her house, and when I went over to greet her, she gave me a big hug and kept holding my hand. She ushered me into her house where M. le Maire was eating a delicious lunch of millet paste with a couple other people. I sat down and joined them, scraping off handfuls of paste and dipping it into a viscous baobab leaf sauce. Really, it’s not that bad, I just don’t know how they eat it every day at every meal.

Luck was on our side this trip, because Ramata’s grandmother had brewed a huge vat of millet beer. Like good Dogons, we spent most of the day sitting in my house chatting over beer with M. le Maire and the director and Oumar and whoever else wandered in. Millet beer is great. The only ingredients are millet and water, but somehow it tastes rather sweet. It probably is only 3-5% alcohol, so you can drink a lot and feel fine. Oumar doesn’t speak any Dogon, so he and M. le Maire chatted in Fulfulde a lot while I just enjoyed the company.

Ramata’s mother prepared food for us the whole time, bringing us meals of rice or pasta at the oddest times of the day. 10:30 am? Is this lunch? Breakfast? No one, not even she, had any idea. We just ate when there was food and drank when there was beer.

It was market day, so we went at the approach of evening with Bureima and his friend. Evening is when things really pick up at the market here, unlike Douentza. It’s when all the young people come out and flirt and enjoy each other’s company. Other than company, there’s not much to find at the market of Tedie. Oumar and I left them there to their devices and went back to eat some dinner. They stumbled by later, completely drunk off of millet beer and in good spirits. Maybe they talked to pretty girls.

That evening, sitting outside under the brightest moon I’d ever seen, I had this strange sensation. It was familiar, uncomfortable, but I couldn’t place it for a second. Then I realized, “Oh yeah, this is what it feels like to be cold!” There was a breeze whipping up there that cut right through your clothes. I bundled up in my light jacket and Kevin’s turban and a long sleeve shirt, but still sat there shivering. Truth be told, it was probably only about 60, but after non-stop heat, even 70 would feel cold.

As usual, Ramata’s mother came over around 8 and wanted to chat. Sometimes our communication works great, sometimes it’s a wreck. Always it’s tiring and a little bit frustrating. So around 9, I decided I’d had enough and just went to bed, where I slept snug under my flannel sheet.

The next day was remarkably productive. While I usually go with a plan of words to find and then can find no one to work with, the people I needed (Bureima and Ramata’s mother) were quite at my disposition. I started out the morning learning gun vocabulary. I learned a lot of English words that way too. Bureima does a fair amount of hunting (though there’s not a lot of game left, just some birds), so he brought over his modern gun that takes cartridges and an old fashioned musket that takes gun powder and bullets (rocks). I got lots of pictures of rifle mechanism, learning what was the cock, the flint, the trigger, the gunpowder chamber, etc.

Then from the extreme stereotype of masculinity, I moved to the stereotype of femininity as Ramata’s mother brought over a little plastic bucket of all of her jewelry. These were probably the bulk of her wealth and her prized possessions. One by one, she showed them to me and told me their names while I took pictures. Beautiful necklaces of agate beads and some silver bracelets and earrings. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable asking her to show me these things before, being so precious, but now I feel she’s taken me on as a daughter and I can ask her just about anything.

All of this was achieved before noon! That was all I had planned for the village, figuring it would take me a whole day to track down, but the mission was accomplished before lunch. Thus, the afternoon passed slowly and lazily as everyone in the village went about their business. Bureima chatted for a while and M. le Maire brought more millet beer.

Looking at all the villagers, this time for some reason it really struck me how poor they are. Maybe it was Bureima that did it, dressed in completely torn and dirty clothing, but that’s just about all they own. The director’s little 3 year old, Samba, stood out from the other children in his clean blue jean overalls that actually fit, though he too has the distended Buddha-belly of malnutrition. And yet despite this poverty, people are so full of joy, and that’s why often you don’t notice it. As sad as it is, that’s how life is for them, so I guess they don’t waste any time mourning it.

I’d brought some little gifts with me from Ghana for the people I’m closest to. I gave Ramata’s mother a bead bracelet and a strip of woven cloth to the chief, who was quite pleased. He held out his wrist and proudly displayed the $10 watch I’d given him in August; I guess it was the first time he’d worn it, since he doesn’t know how to tell time, but for the duration of my stay this time, he and that watch were inseparable. To M. le Maire, I gave a carving of the Ashanti symbol for wisdom. He was really touched and taken by it, turning it in his hands, admiring it, saying, “Really, this is a great souvenir, something we can’t get here. Without wisdom, life is nothing. I should take this with me when we discuss conflicts as a reminder that wisdom is essential.” I gave another symbol to the director, one representing that we can always learn from our mistakes, and he too was pleased.

It was another cold night, another night of struggling through Tommo-So conversation with Ramata’s mother. It was a relief to both of us when Bureima came over and could translate a bit. She asked if Kevin would take another wife in the US, and I said that no, where we are, you can go to jail for having two wives. She asked, “But aren’t there a lot of women?” and I told her it was half and half, one man for one woman. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but people here claim there are a lot more women than men, so for all the women to be taken care of, men need to take multiple wives. I don’t know if all the boys die or leave the country or if it’s just an excuse or what. I think maybe the younger generations are beginning to see here, though, that multiple wives and a zillion kids just leads to a lot of problems as opposed to a lot of happiness. Maybe someday it will change.

Again, I went to bed early and slept great, except for hearing the little scrambling of a mouse somewhere in my ceiling. Ramata’s mother prepared some delicious beans for breakfast to give us strength for the walk back. I tried to give her 1000 francs ($2) for having cooked for us, but she refused, saying either that just like she prepares food for Ramata, she prepares food for me, or that because I prepare food for Ramata in Douentza, she can prepare food for me there. Either way, I told her it was very nice, and told her in Tommo-So, “Neegay, u mi naa-n.” “Now, you are my mother.”

As I was saying my goodbyes, I feel as though I sounded like Yoda, but I don’t know if that’s because my Tommo-So is bad or because direct translations of Tommo-So just sound silly in English. For instance, I wanted to tell the chief I was very happy to see him, which in Tommo-So translates to something like, “Having seen you, my heart is sweet.” They always just laugh amiably, repeat what I said, and shake my hand. We all smile and I go on my way.

Since tomorrow is Douentza’s market day, the path back was full of women carrying piles of sacks on their head. It’s 45 kilometers one way, and they do it all by foot. Oumar told me that everything they have on their heads might sell for 1000 francs (remember, $2), yet they walk 90 kilometers for it. Given, in the local currency, that might be more the equivalent of $10, but would you walk 90 kilometers for ten bucks? I sure wouldn’t.

I was grateful coming back for everything I have. I was grateful for my health, for being 22 and not having kids, for being from a wealthy country. Two days in the village feels like a month, but I can check out after 2 days and return to my electricity. The villagers are lucky if they ever get to check out.