November 29, 2009
This past weekend was like the trifecta of parties. Thursday was Thanksgiving and my birthday (I turned 23) and Friday marked the start of the 3-day Islamic holiday of Tabaski.
Thanksgiving proved to be about as unconventional as one could get in a rural African village. I made green-bean casserole and candied sweet potatoes in my solar oven. The day before I made my first pie- a papaya “tastes like pumpkin” pie. We kept up with the African custom of carbs, carbs, and more carbs- the main dish was mashed potatoes with (gasp) real butter! We kept one very American tradition though- we all ate until we felt sick.
My birthday will go down as one of the most memorable- right after turning 7 anmd throwing up at TGIFridays with balloons in my hair and my 21st which involved roaming the streets of Portland barefoot. Thursday we killed the sheep for Tabaski. I’ll spare the gruesome details (and photos) but probably the coolest part was right after the sheep died they sliced a small hole in the skin and proceeded to inflate it in order to separate the skin from the muscles and fat. For lack of a better word, it was really gnarly.
We went to prayer on Friday morning. Everyone was in such a festive mood and wearing their best ensembles. And the village was excited to see me wearing my complet and hijab. We saw another sheep killed and made our way home to prepare for the feast that was coming.
My homologue’s family cooked lunch for us and it included: rice, boiled yams, beans, and more meat than I’ve seen since I’ve been in Africa. Needless to say, afterwards we all made our way to some kind of horizontal position and couldn’t move for the next few hours. We were dealing with some serious cases of the itis.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
December 13, 2009
My homologue’s Aunt died recently and the funeral was this weekend. Cousins from Ghana, brothers from Lomé, sisters fro who knows where- the whole family came to visit. I went over to welcome them and to pay my respects.
One time I heard my Dad describe my mom and her friends as hens clucking. He’s obviously never seen kotokoli women greet eachother (seriously, obviously). How to describe it-
After the usual exchanges of ‘welcome’ ‘How are you’ ‘and your health’ ‘and the work’ ‘and the children’ ‘and anything else I haven’t mentioned.’
One then launches into a succession of ‘yeah’ ‘yeah’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh.’ The greeting also involves bending at the knees to show respect. I see it as a game and try to see how long I can make this exchange last. Although this also means walking anywhere in my village takes 45 minutes.
There’s a joke about 2 kotokoli women who greet eachother in the street and ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ for so long they are both run over by a car.
So ther I was as more and more women showed-up and each time a spiral of greetings ensued. I smiled, happy to be welcomed to join in and proud to be able to exchange pleasantries. Sitting amongst the women donning their vibrantly-patterned pagne and colourful hijabs I became homesick for the clucking of my mother and aunts.
My homologue’s Aunt died recently and the funeral was this weekend. Cousins from Ghana, brothers from Lomé, sisters fro who knows where- the whole family came to visit. I went over to welcome them and to pay my respects.
One time I heard my Dad describe my mom and her friends as hens clucking. He’s obviously never seen kotokoli women greet eachother (seriously, obviously). How to describe it-
After the usual exchanges of ‘welcome’ ‘How are you’ ‘and your health’ ‘and the work’ ‘and the children’ ‘and anything else I haven’t mentioned.’
One then launches into a succession of ‘yeah’ ‘yeah’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh.’ The greeting also involves bending at the knees to show respect. I see it as a game and try to see how long I can make this exchange last. Although this also means walking anywhere in my village takes 45 minutes.
There’s a joke about 2 kotokoli women who greet eachother in the street and ‘uh’ ‘uh’ ‘uh’ for so long they are both run over by a car.
So ther I was as more and more women showed-up and each time a spiral of greetings ensued. I smiled, happy to be welcomed to join in and proud to be able to exchange pleasantries. Sitting amongst the women donning their vibrantly-patterned pagne and colourful hijabs I became homesick for the clucking of my mother and aunts.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
November 13, 2009
Scene:
Nicole arrives at the buvette.
Sam is already ½ a beer deep.
It’s 9am.
Sam: So, how was your week?
Nicole: Meh. You know, I did a whole lot of nothing.
Sam: Yeah, just another week at the office.
November 14, 2009
Today was my girls soccer team’s big tournament. We went to Wassarbo, a nearby village where another volunteer has a team too.
As soon as I told them the date of the tournament, 2 months ago, the village couldn’t stop talking about it. All 30 girls would regularly show-up for practice. We played nearly everyday. On the weekends they demanded that we play twice a day. “Nous devons gagner Wassarbo Nima” They wanted to win real bad.
Twenty-five of us crammed into a van early this morning. A few fans stowed-away on the roof. There was so much excitement in the air. Some of these girls have never left Kéméni. The ride was filled with lots of singing. It was all in Kotokoli so I didn’t undestand much. But it was jubilant and they kept repeating my name in the songs. I made a game out of guessing what they were saying. “Nima is awesome. Nima is the best. Nima has such pretty hair.”
It was a very hot day and I was proud my girls survived. They played their hardest and I was happy to provide them the opportunity. Even though we came in last, the ride home was filled with more songs and yelling out the windows and proudly displaying the certificate for participation. I couldn’t have been more pleased to call my little village home.
Scene:
Nicole arrives at the buvette.
Sam is already ½ a beer deep.
It’s 9am.
Sam: So, how was your week?
Nicole: Meh. You know, I did a whole lot of nothing.
Sam: Yeah, just another week at the office.
November 14, 2009
Today was my girls soccer team’s big tournament. We went to Wassarbo, a nearby village where another volunteer has a team too.
As soon as I told them the date of the tournament, 2 months ago, the village couldn’t stop talking about it. All 30 girls would regularly show-up for practice. We played nearly everyday. On the weekends they demanded that we play twice a day. “Nous devons gagner Wassarbo Nima” They wanted to win real bad.
Twenty-five of us crammed into a van early this morning. A few fans stowed-away on the roof. There was so much excitement in the air. Some of these girls have never left Kéméni. The ride was filled with lots of singing. It was all in Kotokoli so I didn’t undestand much. But it was jubilant and they kept repeating my name in the songs. I made a game out of guessing what they were saying. “Nima is awesome. Nima is the best. Nima has such pretty hair.”
It was a very hot day and I was proud my girls survived. They played their hardest and I was happy to provide them the opportunity. Even though we came in last, the ride home was filled with more songs and yelling out the windows and proudly displaying the certificate for participation. I couldn’t have been more pleased to call my little village home.
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