So we went caroling to various neighborhoods that loved us (singing English, French, and Bambara carols), had a gift exchange, went to la brousse (sort of) for Christmas, and visited some Malian families (some new, some we'd visited on our last trip to la brousse - the trip I... er... never really got around to blogging about). It was all very sweet and thinking about it makes me ever so slightly sad, so I shall, as per usual, focus upon a few, less important things because I have very few blog posts left in me:
- Salad: I don't think this is actually a Malian version of salad. It's more as though this family (a pastor, his wife, and three kids who've all lived in the States for a while) decided that this was what a salad should look like. The more athletic, wholesome, healthier of you may want to avert your eyes - Rated Yummy for the Unhealthy and Wan. Basically, it was a load of fries thrown on top of lettuce, onions, and tomatoes. Now this was a salad I could really get behind. The lettuce was oily with the grease of the fried potatoes and plantains. The only thing that would have made this salad any better (read: unhealthier), would be if there'd been some ranch dressing or mayo and a squirt of lime. Bon appetit!
- Sad things: I hate flies. And I hate sickness. And both of them are rampant in this country. Babies are usually tied onto their mothers' backs--
Note: I've never blogged about this, but now is the perfect time. How mothers get the babies on and off is a fascinating process. First, the mom bends forward at an angle slightly greater than 90 degrees and slings the baby on her back like she's about to give him a piggyback ride. The baby just sort of straddles his mom's back, regardless of whether he's restive, enraged, or comatose, until Mommy throws a scarf over him and ties two knots until he's in a sort of sling on her back. In the meantime, Mommy will have gotten a great deal on 2 kilos of eggplants and joked with her friend about the size of the nose on the brown girl staring at them. By this time, an Indian baby would have caused grievous bodily harm to himself, his mother, his grandmother, and all other unfortunate bystanders within a 5-foot radius. To get Baby down off Mommy's back, she simply unties the knots, reaches an arm behind her, drags the baby across her back, into her armpit, and out into the front. It's a great system. (Aside from bow-legged babies and the sheer, agonizing stress of throwing your baby on your back and tying him on with some cloth. But maybe it's just me.)
--with their arms trapped, so sitting through some unintelligible church services or sotrama rides has been an exercise in counting how many seconds I can wait between windmilling my arms frantically, scaring everyone around me, and getting thirty flies off a baby's face. (Don't worry, the fear would slowly turn to amusement. Which turned to annoyance. Which turns to 'Don't mind the crazy tubab - she's a prissy twit.') Sickness is also fairly common, which doesn't surprise anyone, I'm sure. Tuberculosis, typhoid, malaria... things that should be treatable and/or avoidable. Not to mention problems like sores and ulcers. People like MK, who've known these families since the moms went to grade school, makes a trip into the bush every so often to hand out medication, dispense donations, and visit with these people so that they know they haven't been forgotten. One of the churches we went to was a round hut literally the size of a kitchen.
Wow. that went from flies to babies, to sicknesses, to small churches. I think I should pat myself on the back for being a good writer who comes up with excellent, subtle segues. Speaking of which,
- Christmas: This involved a lot of singing and dancing. It was very joyful, but I was slightly disappointed because I'm not sure how much was really about Christ's birth. The church was absolutely packed, since non-Christians are invited to the event (just like many Christians were a part of Tabaski celebrations and customs - such as being asked for forgiveness for any real or imagined wrongs before sharing in the feast with their Muslim neighbors). The children went up and sang, the women sang, there were individual performances, we sang hymns as a congregation, the message was great - very evangelistic, or so I hear... but towards the end, tribal groups were asked to come up and do a traditional song and dance. It was superb! The way they sang and boogeyed up there? Fantastic! I got to a real glimpse of the huge variety of tribal groups in Mali and their unique cultures. Did it put me in mind of Christmas at all? Was I seeing the hosts of angels praising God, the lowly shepherds approaching in fear, the great kings bowing down before a baby in a feeding trough? No. None of the above. It could have just been because I didn't understand the language, though. And since the normally linguistically gifted MK didn't either, we just sat back and enjoyed the performances.
This was the same church wherein Esayi and Neema had been married, so all the performances were accompanied by the weird man who thought it his solemn duty to dance at the front of the church. His dance was hilarious, but when he was dancing in front of singing children, I wanted to grab his ear, pull him to a corner of the room, and give him a DUNCE cap. He was in a suit this time, still sweating profusely, and still dancing as through his very life depended on it. Apparently some members of the church had told him to kindly stop making a fool of himself, but he said that if they wanted him to come to church, they'd better give him a dance floor, because his boots were made for walkin'! Seems like an easy choice to me, but then, I'm more cruel than most. I'm not sure if this is a 'David dancing before the ark of the Lord,' thing, but... for the guy's sake, I hope so. Of course, this also makes me a forever barren Michel...
The decor of the church also left something to be desired. The podium was wrapped in Christmas cloth (churches gets bolts of a certain pattern of cloth - with a verse and a picture on it - for the congregation to buy; thus you may have a whole churchfull of people with the same Christmas cloth, but various styles of dresses/shirts/pants), which was quite lamentably hideous, and Christmas lights set to 'epilepsy' curled around the face of a slightly demonic, very salmon-skinned Santa. And what with MK and I trying to sing English and Bambara carols and having the girls sitting beside us egging us on as the power sputtered in and out... the whole effect was a bit surreal.
Although the night started off a little rocky with a few power outages, there was eventually a two- or three-hour service, and then an all-night song and dance fest outside the church! If I had just an ounce of rhythm in me, I would not have slept that night. As it was, I stood on the edge of the dancing circle, clapping my hands, stealthily creeping on some of the guys who were superb dancers, avoiding the awkward ones, and staring in awe at the mothers shakin' their thangs with babies slung on their hips.
I committed a minor faux pas by wearing my Christmas cloth (which I'd had made into a skirt) on Christmas eve, when it was truly only supposed to be worn during or after Christmas. However, that was the least of my worries that night. First of all, children found my long hair quite the novelty, and dared each other to go up, touch it, and run away. Possibly they thought that if I caught them at it, I would eat them. (Actually, under normal circumstances, I wish to bite people at the very least for touching my hair, but since they were kids, I thought it was very sweet.) I'm surprised they didn't just assume it was a weave. When the pre-teen girls did it, I was okay; when the boys started to do it, I felt a little dubious about the image I might be projecting. But Muso Koroba (MK - my delightful chaperone) quickly put a stop to that (no young man can bear up under the weight of a professional finger wag) and we scuttled to the opposite side of the dancing circle.
Next, I was propositioned. A young boy sidled up beside me. I smiled at him. This was my first mistake.
Boy: Freak!
Me: Uh... Well, yes. But I thought I'd been hiding it pretty well--
Boy: Freeeeeak! *points off into the darkness*
Me: Now this is just hurtful.
I prod my chaperone - Muso Koroba.
Me: MK, this child is getting agitated. I fear he may soon tie me to a wheel and throw fruits at me like they did to the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Please tell him that Jesus came to earth for freaks and ugly people, too.
Muso: Bleep bleepley bloop! (Kermit's mental translation: It's not her fault she's ugly. Leave her alone.)
Boy: Bloop freeeeeeak bleepely freeeak bleep! (Kermit's mental translation: Nice try, lady. But she's a freak. Multiplied by two. And I want her to leave. Forever.) *more pointing into the dark*
MK suddenly bursts into giggles. I stare at her forbiddingly.
Me: Kindly cease and desist.
Muso: *to the boy, through giggles* No! Nonono!
Boy: Freeeeeeak?
MK finally gains control over herself and projects enough 'finger wag' to send the kid packing.
Muso: He said that "Rick" wants to "take you."
Me: ...Take me where?
Muso: *through giggles* I'm not sure what he meant. The translation is "Take you!" *more giggles*
Me: ...Well, does he have a motorcycle? I'm not entirely sure what's so--
The possible meaning of that phrase sinks in and I enter a fugue state in shock. Muso Koroba tries to stop giggling long enough to reassure me.
Muso: I'm sure he wasn't Christian.
Great, now it sounds like no good Christian would touch me with a barge pole. I stare at her in deeper, more wounded shock, but she ignores me and keeps giggling. I want to make her stop.
Me: You could've at least let me have a look at Rick before you turned him down.
I win.
The music went on 'till quite late, and I fell asleep to the sound of a woman screeching her way through all the sharps and flats in a musical score created by Helen Keller.
Note: I don't think I've talked about the singing here before. Malian women sound perfectly fine in conversation. They'll speak and smile like any other women in the world. And then you hand them a mic and put them in front of a crowd. They purposely make their voices go bizarrely screechy! I have honestly thought at certain points that my ears might bleed. The best I could do was force myself to stop flinching at the new pitches they would attain because it's not as though there is a discreet way to plug both your earholes and stare blissfully up at the singer. The handy Steve once told me that the rhythm and blues started here in Mali. (I'm fairly sure that means that the music makes people depressive and suicidal. Although the men sound pretty darn good, I will admit, and their drummers are amazing.)
On Christmas morning, we enjoyed another service - much more reserved this time, and then shared a meal of meaty nsaame with most of the congregation and many street kids. MK eyed the few unfortunates who happened to be holding oranges darkly and muttered, "They're always after me lucky oranges."
I think this is because she never gets to taste the fruits of the orange tree in her backyard. (At least, I hope so.)
In other news. We saw Steve, Becky, and their kids off on furlough a few days ago, I'm contemplating my oddly-sewn outfits and bemoaning the absence of a small pendant in the shape of Africa, I'm writing this as I'm supposed to be packing, I'm supposed to wake up in about 3 hours to head to the airport with MK, and I'm fending off the weirdest texts from this guy whose poems I'm supposed to be translating.
It's been a great ride, people. I will possibly write one more post when I get back home to let you all know I'm still alive, and possibly to add anything I might have forgotten (like the monthly changing of the gas tank - an adventure and a half). Thanks again for all your prayers and support!
To those on the Far Side: See you soon!
To those on this side of the ocean: Hope to see you again someday!
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