Festing and resting

This village trip, while fun and not too long, was not quite what I expected. Oumar and I left bright and early on Thursday morning and got to the village by 10:30. I was thankful that the hike was not as hot as I expected it to be.

My house was all swept and stocked with water, since Ramata had gotten there the day before and knew I’d be coming. I greeted people as they trickled in, par for course. It was then I was told that the festival hadn’t started on Tuesday, as I had previously been told, but rather started the next day, Friday. I figured this was no problem, since I would still get to see a dance either way.

The millet beer started early. In fact, my first stop in the village after my house was Ramata’s grandmother’s house. This little old lady makes all of the beer for the whole village. Needless to say, she is a popular destination for young and old alike. We sat around in the dim light, surrounded by clay jars full of fermenting millet beer, and passed around a gourd-ful ourselves.

Afterwards, I went with Ramata to her mother’s house. She was glad to see me, as always. Ramata’s older brother Oumar had gotten back from Cameroon, where he had been for at least three years, so his wife seemed to be happy. I must have given her some sort of knowing look, since she got all embarrassed and laughed and smacked my arm. I swear I didn’t do anything on purpose.

I spent some more time reading and drinking millet beer later. Unfortunately, come evening time, I wasn’t feeling very well. My head hurt and I thought I was going to throw up. I made an attempt at eating a little bit of dinner, but I had no appetite. I didn’t push my luck. 7 o’ clock, my mosquito tent was set up outside and I was in bed.

It wasn’t too hot at all to sleep. I think it’s hotter in Douentza than up on the mountain. I slept peacefully, cooled by a night breeze, until around 3 in the morning when my least favorite dog in the world started up its usual racket. Finally that abided, and I drifted back off to sleep, only to be woken up by puffed up roosters and early sunlight. I dragged my mattress inside and lay down for another hour.

Friday passed slowly. Reading, chatting with Oumar and Bureima, drinking bits of millet beer, etc. In the evening, I discussed my solar panel plans with the school director. He seemed very enthusiastic, saying that the school would never forget my name. We decided it would be best to try to get 2 ceiling fans in each classroom in the new building, then light for the director’s office and one classroom, so people can work at night. Everyone was in agreement that lights wouldn’t do much during the day, and I have to take their word for it. Anyhow, when I go to Sevare, I think this week, I’ll start buying supplies and get as much as I can within my budget.

The problem with village festivities is that they start way too late at night. Their market no one goes to until around sundown. We went with the others, milling around the small market place, Oumar taking pictures with my camera since I would feel awkward about doing it myself. While my head was better, my stomach was upset about something else that day, so I eventually had to dash back to the village and camp out for a while.

The dance itself didn’t start until maybe 10 or 11 at night. By this time, I was exhausted and in no mood for festivities. But Ramata came by and brought Oumar and I over to the dance ground, near the elementary school. My spirits were lifted by the sight of chanting stomping groups of men, some carrying burning poles and millet stalk torches. We watched them dance around for a while, each group from a different village (Kendenno, Entaka, Tongo Tongo), until they joined in a large swirling circle of stomping men surrounding a smaller inner circle of clapping teenage girls. It was very cool to watch at first, and I attempted to get video, even though it was clearly too dark. However, it just went on like that, not changing particularly, though evidently the songs were changing.

The point of Ondom Piri (the festival) is to sing about the wrongs people have done in the last year: lies, cheating, stealing. I guess if you understood the songs, perhaps it would be more interesting, since you’d be getting all of the village gossip from the last year. But I didn’t understand them, and I couldn’t even dance, since it appeared only to be men. Eventually I got tired and went to bed.

Everyone was disappointed, since apparently the good dance, where everyone (probably still men) carries millet torches and dances in a spiral, would be happening on Sunday. However, no one told me this before I got there, and I couldn’t stay. I have Fulbright papers Dave printed for me to mail today, and I was told he’d be leaving Douentza tonight or tomorrow. They said it was okay, that it left something to see next time I come back.

Oumar and I hit the road this morning around 8 and were back in Douentza by 11. It was a hot walk back, but not intolerable. As always, it feels good to be back in Douentza. I had an extremely cold soda and a yogurt. Phil, Dan and I all got back into Douentza around the same time, and Ashlely and Dave were already here, so we’re quite a crew. Apparently a car full of other volunteers I met on St. Patty’s will be passing through on their way back from Timbuktu, so I’ll probably get to say hi to them.

I’m kicking around the idea of going down to Sevare on Tuesday to spend a few days before Steve gets here. I’m hoping my computer battery got there and I’m feeling ready for some more good internet. That way, the following weekend I can go plan on going to Ngouma to see Phil’s village and maybe have a goat roast. Just a little over a month to go in Douentza.