A Day in the Village: Solemnity, Laughter & Cultural Observations

Today I spent out in the village - attending a baby-naming ceremony. The solemnity of the occasion being that the baby born is that of my friend Moussa who died in a vehicle accident earlier this month. It was a very different ceremony than I am used to attending, understandably, for the pall of grief overshadowed the day. I brought with me a bag of rice knowing that the feeding of all those who come for the day will be a difficult (if not an impossible) task for the widow to finance.

The room with the newborn and the mother was eerily silent - there was no chatting and the women sat for the most part averting their eyes to the ground. Sitting with the mother to lend the support in her grief to what is likely a day of rememberance to her late husband. The only sound is the occasional fussing of another young child. I am handed the baby to hold and I sit there trying not to cry - praying that the God of comfort will show His comfort to this family.

As I sit there I hear the small murmurings of a few women that the baby boy has not yet had his head shaven - a custom in the Fulani culture, whether the baby is a boy or a girl. It is a practice I shudder to watch - once I was asked to hold the baby during the procedure. As I am currently holding this baby, I hope that I will not be asked to perform the task! . . . I cut myself whilst shaving my legs with a razor safely ensconced in a razor head. There is no way that I will take a straight edge razor blade to the head of a newborn - or any child for that matter! I do not trust my 'skill'. Before the razor arrives, one of my 'hostesses' for the day calls me and I gladly follow her out of the room. As I hand the baby back the mother gives me a sad wave good-bye. Other than handing me her child, it is the only reaction to her surroundings I have seen.

On walking through the courtyard, I notice that the men's group sitting on the mats is much more subdued and quiet than usual as well. I enter another hut on the corner of the yard. The women greet me and I settle in on the corner of the bed which they have staked out for me as my real estate for the day. The greetings in Fulfulde fly around for a few minutes as each of the 8-10 women in the hut greet me and I them in return - our words flowing like a river around the hut in an continuous current of noise.

Soon the mid-morning snack is brought out - lecciri (lay-chee-ri). It is one of my favourite foods and is often served at ceremonies. Today's traditional mix (of steamed starch grains, onions, spices and tree leaves) has an extra addition. I am not sure which plant has been added, but it tastes somewhat like pickled celery with a slightly bitter edge. My fingers slyly work their way around this item in the mix as I make little lecciri balls in my hand to eat. While we are eating this snack, the lady next to me passes off some money and a bowl to a child and sends her running to purchase another snack from somewhere down the road. The child returns to the hut and the bowl and change is handed over to my neighbour. And here the laughter of the day begins, as we seem to be far enough away from the solemnity for the ladies to still tease each other.

The bowl is filled with what appears to be steamed cabbage and more tree leaves. It is covered in a multihued blanket of powder: spicy powder, maggi cube powder (oxo packet) and salt. There is talk of peanut butter, but nothing I see in the mix resembles this. My neighbour licks her finger and tentatively tastes each of the spice blends - finds one she does not like and proceeds to pick it out - the powder floating out of her fingers and blending in with the sand at her feet. I am then offered the first taste, which I decline while declaring the just finished snack of lecciri sufficient. It is quickly apparent that I am the only one not eager to eat this new snack, for the other ladies quickly protest when they are not offered a taste. Hands start snaking around and past me, and small morsels of food fly through the air, as all the ladies try to sneak a handful of food without my neighbour noticing!

She finally gives up and shares her bowl around the circle, without relinquising her tight hold on the bowl, saying over and over: "small small . . . small small". One of the older women in the group guilefully scrapes about 80% of the snack into a large ball in her hand - all the while regarding my neighbour with a twinkle in her eye - daring her to protest, knowing that my neighbour cannot do so without breaking her respect for 'her elder'. The 'thief' pulls her hand overflowing with the snack in to her chest and is quietly chuckling for she knows she has outdone my neighbour! However, as the bowl passes in front of her again, she returns the food to the bowl and takes a smaller and more appropriate portion.

After the snacking is finished, some of the women leave and the others get down to the business at hand - the shaving of the infant's head. At previous baby-naming ceremonies, I have noticed a stainless steel platter in the room - filled with some millet seed and some money.

I've never figured out what the meaning of this platter was and my tutor - a male - cannot venture a guess, having never sat in the women's area of a ceremony before. Today, as the group of women was quite small, there are now only 6 of us in the hut, I can easily follow the discussion. Today, there is also no millet, so I can see what is normally hidden. The women are collecting money with which to purchase the new razor blade and a new block of soap. Once the money is collected, a child is sent off to purchase the supplies and then a few of the older ladies leave to go shave the little guy's head.

While waiting for the lunch meal to descend, I chat with the few remaining ladies in the hut - it is much easier for me to engage 2-3 in a conversation versus a group . . . the larger the group, the more likely I am to just listen to their fast words like I am watching a tennis ball match. We talk about my family and I made a observation about cultural assumptions:

1. When I speak of my parents - I know and assume that I am speaking of my father and his one wife (my mother).

2. When they hear me speak of my parents - they assume that I am speaking of my father and the one wife of multiple wives who gave birth to me.

For when I mentioned that I was the youngest child - one of the women said, "Oh, the youngest of your mother and of your father with that wife?"

"Well, no", I responded, "The youngest of my father as well, he has one wife".

It is often the little things on which we make assumptions, forgetting that another culture has a different coloured lens through which they view the world. It is quite a paradigm shift for me to think of how I tell 'my story' in light of how their culture perceives my words - down to something as simple as how I speak of my parents!

The women enjoyed hearing that my nieces Madelynn and Michella love languages and ask me to teach them Fulfulde. It was interesting to see how the one lady proudly retold the story to a Djarma lady - relaying to her that not only does "she speak Fulfulde, but her nieces who live in another country can also speak the words: giraffe, hippo and elephant!"

Maddie and Michella - the village ladies love you!

Throughout the afternoon, different ladies drift in and out of the hut to lay down for a siesta - it is a hot afternoon, reaching +38 today. At one point, a street vendor wanders through the compound. I recognize him by his accent even before I see him carrying his silver tray of goodies on his head. I noticed that the majority of street vendors have the same accent - a rather low gravely timbre and slightly nasal. I am always surprised to see a young man as the sound of the voice equates more so to an older man in my mind. I keep meaning to ask someone if those who have this accent are of a particular ethnic group, or if the accent is a learned and practiced voice with which to instantly distinguish them in a crowd of people as someone who has merchandise to sell. It is now about five hours since my breakfast, so I ask if he has peanuts for sale. He does not, but passes over a little baggie of something he thinks is a good equivalent ("same same, but different" - reminds of what I have heard of Cambodia)! I have no idea what the food is, but decide to give it a try. It turned out to be more similar to popcorn, in cooking style at least; for my snack was "popped beans" - still warm, either from the fire or the sun!

Eventually, around 3pm, lunch is served! Around twenty to thirty ladies squeezed into the hut and the already high temperature rises accordingly! I am given my own bowl of food - a portion which I could never eat alone! But, the blessing of my own individual dish is that I can dig a hole while pushing rice around, appearing to have eaten more than I have, rather surreptiously and without being noticed by someone sharing my pot. The average Fulani individual can eat about five times amount the food I can - so really, no matter how much I eat, I will be told to keep eating! But, I figure if it looks like I've eaten a fair amount, can't hurt. (I've also learned to stop just slightly this side of full, knowing that at least on the first insistence that I keep eating, I need to cram in a few more handfuls.)

The ladies start looking for a spoon, but I convince them I know how to eat with my hand. I am tempted to skim the rice all around the top portion of the bowl - mostly because that portion comprises the yummy sauce, but also because the rice packed into the bottom of the bowl is the hottest and likely to burn my fingers. (I probably should take the offered spoon, but having just wiped my hand with an anti-bacterial towlette, I know that my hand is cleaner than any spoon they can find!) I also figure that whoever gets the leavings of my bowl to finish, when I finally convince them that I am done eating and full, will appreciate having sauce and not just a bowl of plain rice.

Mid-way through the meal, a huge storm whips through - blasting the sand through the holes in the hut. As the sand swirls around the air, I am the only one who scrambles to cover my food with my veil - or at all - the ladies around me keep eating! They are obviously more used to crunching through sand and grit in their sauce.

I am also tempted to not eat the meat. The Fulani rarely eat meat and only during ceremonies of weddings and baby-namings, so I know that they need the meat more than I. Yet, as the meat is so rare, to not eat this would be a huge insult. In the end, I eat half the meat and once my bowl is passed off to another circle, three ladies eagerly (and quite fast) grab at the meat I have left in an effort to be the first hand to grab the chunk. One lady gains the portion but the others do manage to tear off a morsel for themselves.

Following the meal, my friend is ready to go home and we head back to Niamey. It was a long day in the village, but an important day both for my language study and my relationship building!