Happy Birthday to Me!

But first, another reappearance of my fiancé, and a village visit – yay!

First of all, the day after my last post commenting on his faithlessness, my fiancé showed up again and talked very frankly and honestly (his words) about when I was leaving, when I would meet his elder brother,  and when he would be able to join me in Canada. He tried to put me in a taxi, despite my protests that I was waiting for a sotrama, and only listened when I refused to step in the taxi. He left me his number and packed me in a sotrama (the wrong one, but by that point, I was in a morbid fear that he would follow me home, so this was fine by me) with a parting volley of “I love you.” 

Some schoolgirls sitting in the sotrama started giggling.

Giggling should be outlawed and punishable by a sharp smack on the arm.

Realizing that the whole situation was slightly out of control, I handed over the number (with the guy’s name – and, hey, I was shocked by how close my guess was!) to the fearless Steve and Becky and asked them to deal with it.

On Thursday, the tireless SG and I visited a retired pastor’s house along with a Malian woman (we shall call her Rahab) who works at a sort of halfway house for prostitutes.

SG, Rahab, and the pastor and his wife had all worked together for many years, back when SG was still relatively new to Mali. They seemed to be the best of friends, and I stuck out like an oddly-colored thumb. But it was a really nice visit, all said. The pastor’s very small, very grubby grandson wandered around the whole time staring at me a little warily, but I’m always scared to get too close to little kids unless they make the first move.

‘Traumatize African babies’ is not high up on my bucket list.

After washing up with the ever-present all-natural soap that leaves your hands with that fresh ‘just dipped in slime’ feeling, lunch was served: tiga diga na (peanut butter sauce), which I am actually not too fond of anymore, with chicken. And during lunch, I committed a minor faux pas.

(You know me – an apologetic bull in a universe made entirely of china.)

I snagged a piece of chicken and ate it, assuming that once it was in the giant communal bowl, it was up for grabs.

SG: Put down the chicken.

Me: What? ‘S not polite to hiss at people across the ta-- bowl-on-the-floor.

SG: Stop eating the chicken.

Me: …SHAN’T!

(Take a moment to imagine me – chicken in hand, looking like Bilbo Baggins when Frodo keeps the ring from him at Rivendell.)

Apparently you’re not supposed to take the meat until your host says you can. Who knew, for goodness sake?

(This is a Malian eccentricity that I honestly had no clue about. Usually a lot of ‘Indianisms’ transfer to other cultures, but this is something I’d never expected to hear. This is just like the time I tried to haggle by saying that another shop had the same item for a lower price:

SG: *bulges her eyes violently at me*

Me: Uh, SG, is something… I mean… Are you prone to seizures?

SG: You’re not supposed to say that!!

Me: About the seizures? Well, it was a little cheeky, I’ll grant you, but-- Oh, you mean the haggling? But… it really was cheaper at the other-- you’re making that face again.   

I lost that particular battle.)

So I quickly disposed of the evidence (i.e. discreetly nudged the piece of chicken back into the curry) and continued eating the blobby rice.

(Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t complain – at least there was no green, leafy curry that looks like mouthwateringly delicious palak paneer, but tastes like… nightmares.)

After lunch, we went to the ‘creek,’ which, as far as I could see consisted of the remains of a cornfield and a few glorious mango trees.

Me: *surveying the land like Christopher Columbus* Where is the creek?

Pastor’s Wife: Here!

Me: Good, good. Now, where are the ‘shrooms I need to eat to see the creek?

Apparently, the creek disappears during dry season. Which is fair enough, but then we need to stop calling it a walk ‘to the creek,’ don’t we? We need to start calling it a ‘sheep-infested, sweaty walk to the dry piece of land with no water on it,’ don’t we?

And then we had a nice drive back, despite the fact that one side of the floor in the backseat of SG’s car was utterly drenched in the water we’d taken to drink, but ended up spilling.

The next day was my birthday, so I got a frogilicious card, fudge, hot chocolate, got sung at a couple of times, went to the BCA Christmas Concert (which was fantastic!), learned some British sign language, helped with the snack table, lost a pretty ring (woe), got sung at again, and then went home. ‘Twas a great day! The best birthday presents? The fudge and learning that Steve called my fiancé and informed him that the wedding was off. From what I hear, the conversation went something like this:

Steve: No.

Jaka Banana-Fo-Fana: Fair enough.

Steve: Not cool.

Jaka Banana-Fo-Fana: Speaking as her dad, or as competition?

Steve: …Definitely the first one.

Jaka Banana-Fo-Fana: She should have said something.

Steve: Yeah, probably. The way these girls say, “Non, je ne veux pas,” TOTALLY sends mixed signals.