Whacking Day

or at least that's what I've decided to name it. I don't know the actual name of the fete I attended this weekend. I've learned not to expect what will happen in any given day here. On Friday, family from all over Togo started arriving- sons and daughters who have moved to the big cities. Which is why I heard more 'anasara' whispers than usual. Saturday the village gathered in the usual spot under the big mango tree and next to the Mosque. These fetes are always akward for me because I have to sit with all the village elders. A young white woman with all the old men who can't communicate with each other beyond salutations. The teenage guys came out in pairs and taunted each other with sticks. They made extravagent gestures and swung at the air. From what I can gather, they went around all night threatening each other- African Ghost in the Graveyard! Saturday night was 'la danse da les femmes.' Two guys drumming on some overturned metal bowls while women moved their feet just as fast, kicking up the dust. I just laughed at how I could find the same beat on a corner in Chicago. But even I can admit I can't dance like that. Sunday morning was the climax of the fete - when the village gathered again to watch the guys beat each other with sticks. No joke. They always stopped before someone got hurt. But it was still hard to watch. And yet part of me wanted to drag Mr. Creepy McBecome-my-second-wife-even-though-I'm-43 into the circle and beat him, gaurdian angel style. There was no clear winner and it just ended abruptly and everyone left. This is why I'm still so confused about what happened this weekend: there were noticably more elders at the fete, but I didn't have to wear my complet. And there was electricity! For two glorious nights! I didn't sleep because I was too excited I had the opportunity to watch all the DVDs I got for Christmas. And Colbert Christmas was absolutely worth the wait.