So, um, what were we talking about again?

It’s been roughly a week since I got back from La Brousse (not to be confused with Bruce), and… I’ve pretty much forgotten everything that happened. I’m serious. If I didn’t have pictures, I’d be sure this was some sort of Inception-esque dream-within-a dream thing. So here are just a few of the events I do remember. (I think.)

Saturday

• It was freezing cold. I was woken by a panicked donkey (or maybe he was just happy – since when have I been the Donkey Whisperer? Although if there were ever an apropos animal...) and a cramp that felt like an orangutan was biting my calf. I hobbled to the thermostat and found that it was 20°C. I thought of Western Canada in January and wept.

• We’d been told the wedding would start at 9:00am. We were horrifically late and got there around 9:15. I had a vision of walking in just before the bride (which would probably be the closest I’d ever get to walking down the isle) and the groom looking at me with I did not sign up for this! written all over his face.

• We met various and sundry pastors and other People Who Milled About, most of whom I would not recognize again if Sharon G, who introduced us all, held a gun to my head. I’m sure she’d have liked holding that gun because there are only so many times someone can say, “A togo ko Njagali. Bleepely bloop Canada. A togo ko Agent 21. Bloopely bleep America,” before wanting to send Njagali and Agent 21 to sleep with the fishes.   

• The wedding started at 10:00am. After myriad stares from slightly frightened children who’d previously thought that strange tubab-y demons would probably be warded away by the large cross in the church, everyone flooded in and the woman beside me started breastfeeding her child. This is normal. Baby’s hungry? Pop out a boob. Doesn’t matter if you’re discussing the importance of nuclear weaponry as it pertains to Europe or if you’re discussing a pastor’s conference with other pastors and their wives. No bra, no discreet blanket over baby's head, no moving to a corner of the room - just feeding time. Also, something about me (likely my appearance or pheromones or just ‘cause I’m so goshdarn uncomfortable with even typing the word ‘boob’ where everyone can read it) prods babies into heretofore unknown levels of starvation, thereby forcing Mom to bring out both her resources. Repeatedly.  

• Esayi (Isaiah – a pastor and recent graduate from the Bible college) and Neema (meaning ‘grace’) were married during a three-hour ceremony that involved much dancing (mostly on the part of her sweet Grandmother and a random man who specifically came to dance in front of the wedding couple as though it were his God-given right – which was weird even for the Malians) and singing of songs (as advice) for the couple. It was very sweet, the church was packed, and la-di-dah… Was I jealous of the gorgeous bride’s hair, veil, gloves, and snow-white dress (which was one of about three of various sizes brought over to Africa by Sharon G and another missionary specifically for repeated use – sorta like a rental)? Why, no, of course not! (Before you all converge on me and say I'm just pretending to be in Africa, this picture was not actually taken in 2004; Agent 21's top secret spy devices failed her.)

• We ate meat nsaame (the fried rice with veggies), which is not as good as the one with fish, but very good all the same. The Director of the Bible College or his wife always made it a point to pour the water (out of what looks like a giant blue plastic teapot) so each of us could wash our hands before eating, which is a nice custom. Not to mention it sure beats the heck out of reusing water in a basin that someone’s already washed in. (One closes one’s eyes, grit’s one’s teeth, and one does it. If one starts thinking about germs, one is lost. And if one is a mysophobe, one should die before coming to Africa.)

• After each person finished eating, they would say “Barkha” to each person at the… table (for lack of a better word, although we usually just sat in a large circle, and then split into small circles converging around a ginornous bowl over an upended bucket, from which everyone in the small group would share). The response, which must be given by each person in return, is “Barkha Ala ye.” Translation: Thanks. Response: Thanks be to God. It all sounds very rosy, but when you’re a singularly unassertive person, you meep in an uncomfortable sort of way until people take pity on you, stop eating/talking, and say the response.

• After a short rest, we visited the only other church in that town (the first being the one at the Bible college), drove along a road that is only visible to people who know it’s there, got to the Isla de Muerta… er, I mean – got to a nearby river, took many pictures, drove back, got stuck in a mud puddle along same invisible road, prayed harder than I ever have in my life (because I was wearing a whitewhite skirt), got out of mud puddle, arrived home.

• Ate tuna sandwiches fit for queens. 

• Slept. 

Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday are yet to come...