Quest: Find the Fulas

I originally wrote this post on my new blog, but then I figured, since people are still reading this one, I might as well include it here, too. 

My Pulaar language skills are fast deteriorating and I'm still no closer to locating the Fulas of Connecticut. I've joked about posting flyers around town--A faami ko mi windii? Mido yiddi ma!--but that may be the serious next step. I had high hopes for last Friday night: a West African dance performance at Wesleyan University. Sure, it would be performed by Wesleyan students, but someone had to teach them, right? And maybe that someone would speak Pulaar! In preparation, I even wore the guinea-fowl patterned shirt from last year's Tobaski outfit. Actually, paired with jeans and with a cardigan to cover the space age sleeves, it didn't look that ridiculous. Maybe.

I enjoyed the dancing, but I never got a chance to approach the teachers, real-life Ghanians. Which was okay, because their last names (according to the program) revealed them to be Probably Not Fulas. Oh well.

Wait, people are still reading this blog?

Okay, guess I'll write a post.

“The logic of the Peace Corps is that someday we are going to bring it home to America.”

President John F. Kennedy

I took that quote from the Peace Corps website, the part of the website discussing the Third Goal, "to help Americans understand the people and cultures of other countries."

This blog would be one example.

Walking around rural Maryland in traditional Gambian dress would be another. Sort of.

The contemplation of it

“I only thought that I had never seen the country so lovely, as if the contemplation of it would in itself be enough to make you happy all your life.” --Isaak Dineson, Out of Africa

I think I’m finally ready to write my final post, which is good, because I leave for the airport in nine hours. And I wish I hadn’t calculated the number of remaining hours just now, because a jolt of panic just ran through me.

There were lots of stories left to write, that I guess at this point will remain unwritten. Also lots of adventures left to have, that I guess at this point will remain un-had.

I never did find the Swedish Newspaper Warehouse.

Or go to church.

 Or see the Wassu Stone Circles.

Or photograph the Janjanbureh dragon.

I contemplated writing a post about what it felt like to leave my village, but realized it could be summarized like this:

Now I’m feeling more like this:

And what’s annoying is, everyone keeps asking how I’m feeling and while it’s nice to be cared about, it’s frustrating that I don’t have an honest answer less confusing than “I feel like Picasso’s Family of Saltimbanques.” So I’ve just been telling lies.

People have also been asking what’s the first thing I’m going to do in America, which is silly, because obviously the first thing I’m going to do in America is walk up to that man behind the glass and hand him my passport. I hope he says, “Welcome home” like he did when I got back from my semester in Hong Kong, because even though he says it to everyone, it still felt nice.

And some people like to ask about my Future and I sort of wave my hand and mumble something about the circus and change the subject.

But I guess the note I would like to conclude on is this:

When I said goodbye to the imam, part of our conversation went as follows:

Me: “Tomorrow I am leaving; I am going home to America.”
 The Imam: “I’m happy.”

And I thought about it some, while all my dearest friends reminded me that after I left Fatoto the people would be sad, they would cry, and their hearts would not be happy.

And I thought about it some, while I sat in the car that was taking me away, leaving home to go home. And I realized, with tears streaming down my face, that I’m happy too. So happy.

I’m happy I joined the Peace Corps. And ended up in The Gambia. And had so many adventures. But most of all, more than anything, I’m happy I got to share two years of my life with the people I did–the people in my village, the students at my school, my fellow volunteers. That sounds like the start to a speech, sorry, and I also think I've over-used the word "happy." But if it were a speech, here's what I'd tell them:

"You will not believe how glad I am that I have met you."

 I wish I’d thought of that, but it’s something I once read on a magnet. It’s true, though. Saying goodbye is never fun, two years pass too quickly, but I will always be glad to have met you, Gambia. It will be enough to make me happy all my life.

[Oh, I nearly forgot: www.sonjasblogg.wordpress.com is the address to my new blog. There is exactly one post at the moment, but no, it's not the default one. The straightforward title is so I can stop creating a new blog every time I have a new adventure. The extra 'g' is to make it less boring and more Swedish.]

“Eh, Binta. Children are fast to grow up.”

We are sitting outside Mango and Fatou Bobo sends Musa with a plastic cup to fetch water from the jibida on the porch.

As he runs over I say, because it is on my mind and I might as well let people know how much I’m going to miss them, “When I came to Fatoto, you hadn’t given birth, and now Musa can run.”

“Eh, Binta. Children are fast to grow up.”

Superstitions!

I was super-excited when the conversation turned to superstitions, although considering I was the one who brought up the topic, I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised.

I remembered that I’d once wondered if Fulas had an unlucky number, and I realized I still wondered this, so I tried to ask my question by explaining the American dislike of 13—the absent hotel floors, the missing airplane rows, the dread of the thirteenth day of a month.

Ousman said he’d heard of this. There was a footballer from Germany whose number used to be 13 but when he went to England the team started to lose so they made him change his number. That is why Ousman likes 13 and whenever they are choosing shirts he will choose 13 even though no one else wants it.

This fascinating bit of football trivia didn’t answer my question, however, so I pressed on. I said in China they dislike 4 because it sounds like their word for “death.” He said in Mandinka it is the same: “four” and “lose” are the same word. He did not, however, say that as a result of the words being the same, Mandinkas avoid the number four. Maybe not every culture has an unlucky number. Or maybe the Gambian unlucky number is too unlucky to even talk about.

However, there are plenty of non number-related superstitions that he then explained for me. I’d heard most of them before, but until now had never been given any reasons.

• A pregnant woman should not eat eggs because it will give the unborn child a skin infection. 
• You should not call a person’s name loudly at night because evil things will hear it and repeat it and you will answer. Then I forget what happens but I guess the evil spirits will know where you are and do whatever evil spirits do. 
• You shouldn't whistle at night because it’s bad luck. 
• You shouldn’t buy soap or needles at night, or rather, the shopkeeper shouldn’t sell them to you because it will be bad for his business. 
• If you hold your hand beneath your chin, both your mother and father will die. 

Ousman said he doesn’t believe the superstitions and he told his mother so. He said it just doesn’t make sense. For example, why shouldn’t a pregnant woman eat eggs? There are many good things about eggs.


But: there was a compound with a cow and this old man came and looked at the cow. And this old man was very good at seeing things and he said they should sell the cow or somebody will die. But they kept the cow until a close relative passed away, and then they sold the cow. There are people like this, who can look at an animal in a compound and know. I wanted to know, since the family had been instructed to sell the cow: who would buy a bad-luck cow? But Ousman didn’t know either, I guess, because when I asked that question he just repeated the bit about some people knowing when an animal should be sold.

How do you recognize a bad-luck cow?
Don't ask me.

Fill 'er up!

Yes, that is a donkey cart being filled up at the gas station.

Probably my new favorite picture.

A woojere bit me.

Little Susana: A "woojere" bit me.
Me: When?
 Little Susana: Today?
Me: Where?
Little Susana: Here.
Me: On your head?
Little Susana: Yes.
Me: But where were you? In your house or in the village or in the bush…?
Little Susana: It jumped and bit me.

I am still no closer to understanding what a woojere is. It is either a rabbit, a squirrel, or, apparently, something that jumps up and bites little girls in the head.

Babies!

Who doesn't like babies? No one I want to know.

Banjul!

"Wander aimlessly around Banjul" was on my to-do list. Except for one trip to Banjul during training, exploration of Banjul had been limited to the distance between the ferry terminal and the bus. I also hoped to skip several steps in my Swedish Newspaper Warehouse Quest and simply stumble upon a newspaper-loaded barge pulling into port. Success? No.

But I did find this church. I was afraid of photographing something I shouldn't (it is the capital, after all) but I figured a church would be okay.

After wandering down a street that looked like it would lead to the ferry terminal, I wandered back, turned down some other road and somehow found myself in front of an archway labeled "Royal Albert Market." Inside: all the usual market items, that have now become so usual, I can't recall a single one. Except clothespins. I remember there were clothespins because I bought some. But towards the back, past tables of vegetables, I found the tourist section of the market. I almost turned away, but remembered that, in fact, I had souvenirs to buy and was, therefore, a tourist.

I admired carved elephants and tie-dyed sarongs; smiled, nodded and greeted. One woman, after an especially loud and friendly greeting, rummaged through her necklace display, pulled out two beaded strings and gave them to me. "A gift. Thank you for helping our country." I paused, trying to remember if I'd even told her I'm a volunteer, then remembered to  her. And then, for some reason, the other shopkeepers followed suit. Only Aunty, as she told me to call her, gave me something for free before I'd bought anything, but by the time I'd emerged from the market, I'd accumulated the following free gifts:

• a multi-colored beaded bracelet
• a necklace with a cowrie shell charm
• a leather keychain in the shape of a sandal
• a bird carved out of wood

Of course, the non-free gifts I'd accumulated were far more numerous. Luckily, I had enough money left for a shawarma-and-smoothie lunch.

Not a shawarma. Or a smoothie. They're Fulas! In statue form.

A playground!!

The fourth, and final, photograph of the day. I thought the students painted on the wall were kinda cool.

And then I came across a Peace Corps vehicle heading back to the office, so I decided to take the free, air-conditioned ride and end my Banjul adventure.

Traditional Wedding!

Day 2 of the wedding is the traditional wedding. This time, the bride would be coming to the groom's compound, so we got to watch some of the preparations.

 They're preparing rice in a way that makes it cous-cous-esque.
Served with sour milk.

While I'm watching the cooks an unfamiliar toubab appears. She is Anna from Holland and she will be in The Gambia for a couple of weeks. After learning a few more details of her life ("I have always felt like I belonged in Africa, since I was a little girl..." "But then I married a Belgian") I leave with the trainees for Tanji (an adventure you read about last month) and we don't return until evening, by which time Anna is back at her hotel.

After dropping off a bag of fresh fish, fetching water and bathing we return to the groom's compound. I'd heard sounds of music and dancing when I'd left my house, but when we arrive everyone is sitting quietly and not-listening to music. After some moments of awkward standing about, we're brought to a room where a woman is slicing onions in one corner, a boy is brewing attaya in another corner, and everyone else is sitting and watching bugs swarm around a dangling light bulb.We take breaks from bug-watching to talk to each other, slap the bugs that have ventured to our ankles, and look through a stack of Musa's graduation photos.

When the room gets too hot, we go outside and watch more cooking.

A vat of hot oil and rice.
Yum?

As I start to wonder if anything's going to happen before I fall asleep, several cars arrive, horns honking. They stop in front of the compound, then continue driving. As far as I can see, no one leaves the cars. "The bride is here!" my tokora (the groom's younger sister) shouts. We follow her and a couple of her friends along muddy moonlit paths to the compound where she claims the bride has been dropped off. Then:

1. We stand around awkwardly in the dark.
2. It starts to rain.
3. We sit around awkwardly (surrounded by old women and children) on the porch.
4. It stops raining.
5. We're told, "The bride is not here." 
6. We return to the "wedding."

As Maimuna, or maybe her name wasn't Maimuna...As Somebody-Who-Might've-Been-Named-Maimuna said, "This is the culture of the Fula Futas; it is complicated. In the culture of my Fulas the bride comes, the groom comes, they go in the house. But the Fula Futas...your Fulas..."

Shortly after the non-arrival of the bride, the honking cars return and I again hear shouts of "the bride is here!" And again, the cars continue past the compound. This time, we don't follow. More people have been showing up at our compound and stomping-clapping-dancing has begun--the trainees and I inevitably get pushed into the circle for a turn. [I couldn't figure out how to upload my videos of the dancing before accidentally deleting them, but if you turn off the lights and then stomp your feet while clapping your hands, you'll see what you would've seen had the videos uploaded.]

Finally a car pulls up to the compound and stops. People swarm around the vehicle and it's only after much squeezing and then climbing up on the low wall surrounding the porch that I manage to take the photo below.

I thought I would catch a glimpse of the bride stepping out of the car, but someone explains that the bride won't get out until the groom's family has paid the bride's family five-hundred dalasis. I am assured that when she finally does leave the car, my location will allow me a glimpse, but all I have a really good view of at the moment is a large bucket of water that has been placed next to the porch.

"Why is the water there?" I ask, wanting to learn the cultural significance behind everything.
"For the bugs."
"For the bugs?"
Someone else laughs at this explanation, but does not offer a new one in return. As I watch, a steadily growing number of bugs fall into the bucket and drown; it seems the bucket of water is for the bugs after all. To pass the time, I film them. Perhaps it's best I lost those videos.

"The bride is still in the car?" I ask.
"No, now I think she is over there."

I squeeze my way over to the porch. If I stand on tip-toe, I can glimpse a figure draped in a white sheet. Luckily, I'm again given toubab-with-a-camera privelages and people tell other people to move out of the way until I have a front-row view.

Normally the bride remains hidden, but one of the women says
"Remove the fabric. Just a little. So the toubab can take a picture."

For a long time the bride sits on the porch. For a long time she is fanned by the women beside her. For a long time bugs swarm around the light bulb. For a long time people crowd around to see all this.

After the bride sits on the porch for a sufficient amount of time, she is brought into the house in the following way: she is carried piggy-back by a cousin of the groom  who runs in a circle three times before walking into the house.

Other assorted people enter and leave.

Some announcer-type man with thick-rimmed glasses announces things while holding up the various complets the groom's family is giving the bride.

"What is the reason they give the bride complets?" I ask Somebody-Who-Might've-Been-Named-Maimuna.
"To make her happy."

The nice part about the camera lights is that they allow you to see.
The not-nice part is that actually, they don't allow you to see.

Then: here comes the groom! He approaches slowly, but I don't know if that was tradition, or for the benefit of the camera crew.

Then he, too, takes his place on the porch formerly occupied by the bride.

Luckily he's not covered by a sheet, leaving him and the men next to him free to use their mobiles.

After a sufficient amount of time, he enters the house in the following way: he stands up and walks through the door.

Other assorted people enter and leave.

Then my tokara and I share a plate of particularly oily benichen.

Then I take this picture:

Sarjo and Ousman

People keep telling me to wait for dancing, but I feel steadily less-awake. After waiting long enough so that it doesn't seem like I just stayed for the food, I go home.

There was also a Wedding: Day 3, but I was already back at the transit house. I hear it was mostly prayers, followed by dancing.

Western-style Wedding!

Were you wondering about those random two days in July where, without explanation, I gave you nothing new to read? Probably not, but I'll explain anyway: I forgot. I thought I'd set this post to appear on July 25. Obviously, I didn't.

Anyway, here are some photos of the first day of the wedding in Yuna, the "western" wedding. It reminded me of the time I ordered ham and eggs in Hong Kong: served over rice, eaten with chopsticks.

Western wedding guests still wore non-western clothes, though of the sparkly, special-occasion variety.
One of these women is named Rugi.
The other woman is not named Rugi.

The wedding is [side note: someone once complained about the confusion I cause when writing in the present tense. I tried to write this story in the past tense, but on re-reading it, I realized I'd switched tenses half-way through. so: I give up] not taking place in Yuna, so I get into Bubacarr's car, along with Rugi-from-Yuna, Not-Rugi, and Mata. After dropping Mata off, picking someone else up, calling some people, buying some Africell credit, sitting beside a football field, complaining about "time wasted" and waiting for some more men in cars to arrive, we drive up to a compound where festivities seem to be happening.

The festivities are:

• Enter various, ornately decorated rooms. Sit on couches.
• Greet various, ornately decorated people. 
• Watch old men and women drumming with ladles on over-turned metal bowls.
• Eat ebbe (a spicy soup) from non-over-turned bowls.
• Drink juice from a glass (not the usual plastic cup) 
• Pretend to see the bride dancing. "Do you see the bride?" "No." "There." "Where?" "There. She is wearing gloves." "Ahh..yes. I see her."
• Get back into the car.

I think: the end. While disappointed that I'd spent more time in a car than at a wedding, I'm pleased I'll be back before sunset after all. I'm about to call my host and tell her I'm heading home when Rugi-Yuna turns to me and says, "Do you remember the compound we drove through, with the music? That is the bride's compound." I'm confused, since I thought we'd just left the bride's compound, but it definitely seems that this new compound we've arrived at is also prepared for festivities.

On either side of the road are rows of white plastic chairs, as well as some wooden armchairs and a couple of school benches. Priority for seating goes to old women, women with babies not strapped to their backs, and the toubab. Other women alternate between sitting and standing. I don't know where the men are. Lurking in the shadows? The children, I'm pretty sure, are closer to the music source (large speakers set up in the compound) dancing.

Then--here comes the bride!

1. A line of cars pull up with horns blasting. Someone near me says, "the bride is here!"
2. The bride and groom, followed by a lot of women and girls dressed in blue satin, step out of the cars and start walking down the road towards the entrance of the compound.
3. Walking backwards in front of them are the camera crew: a couple of men with huge lights and another man with a large flashing camera. 

And then it starts to rain. I think: the end.

Rugi-Yuna and Not-Rugi lead me back into our car where we sit and get bitten by mosquitoes. They speak to each other to Wolof and I pretend to be entertained by my mobile (even though that's impossible since it doesn't have that Nokia snake game). I assume someone will be by momentarily to drive the car, realize that's unlikely since our driver is the groom, wonder if we're going to spend the rest of the wedding in the car and scratch at some mosquito bites. 

Luckily, Not-Rugi says she's going to get out and asks if I want to come along. I do.

It's still raining, but not pouring. Grown-ups are crammed under the...what do you call the part of the roof that overhangs the porch? They were crowded under that. The children were dancing in puddles. I follow Not-Rugi to a room so crowded it takes me awhile to realize it's where professional photographs are being taken of the bride, groom, and assorted guests. People let me sneak closer, I assume because I am a toubab with a camera, but the real reason becomes clear when I hear Bubacarr shout, "Binta! I was waiting for you!" and then I am shoved next to the bride and groom and large cameras are flashing in my face.

The bride and groom.

Off to one side were a pile of wrapped (in actual shiny wrapping paper) and labeled presents. I took a photo but it was especially blurry so I didn't bother uploading it. I was hoping the bride would open the gifts, but she must've waited until everyone left. I was especially curious to see the gifts because in all the traditional ceremonies I've attended, the only gifts have been crumpled five or ten dalasis bills, or in the case of a new baby, bars of soap.

Asobi? Or bridesmaids? 

Oh, and random something I just remembered: while I'm standing watching others being photographed, someone behind me calls, "Miss Jallow," and sure enough, it's one of last year's grade twelve students, hundreds of miles away from Fatoto.

Sort of like being inside a prison, except the people clinging to the barred windows are the ones outside.

After the photos, we were served bowls of vermicelli noodles cooked with onions and chicken. YUM. Then we were served juice from disposable Dixie cups (as novel, to me, as the glasses we drank from earlier).

And then comes dancing in the rain.
Maimuna grabs an umbrella and becomes the first of the grown-ups to join the children in rain-and-mud dancing.
More women follow.
And the men.
Sainey does a splashing, arm-flailing dance in a large puddle.
There is music and screaming and happyshouts.
And the bride and groom dance.
And Musa grabs my arm and we dance.
And my tokara turns up and we dance.
And Maimuna claps for me and we dance.

And dance.

Take as evidence these mud-covered shoes.
Also, the fact that I didn't get home until well past 1a.m.