Voyage au Village

A large woman pulled me through the crowd and pushed me through the entrance of a small mud house. It took several seconds for my eyes to adjust the sharp contrast in light, with the large figure of the woman blocking the light behind me, and more importantly my only escape. This woman was clearly a woman of power within the community, in more ways than her size, and I recognized that she must be one of the village witch doctors. She grabbed me by the shoulder and pointed to my camera, and while I could not understand the forceful words she was speaking, the meaning was made very clear by her gestures and facial expression. Even in the dusty light of the dark room, the fear in my eyes was surely visible, as I hurriedly stuffed my camera in my bag, trying to explain apologetically in French that I meant no offense.

Suddenly the woman let out a loud laugh as her face broke into a big smile, and now she motioned for me to bring my camera out again. Somewhat confused, I turned to look for my friend, hoping for a French translation of what had just taken place. Noelie poked her head through the hut’s entrance, squeezing around the large woman, and laughing she explained that the woman was just teasing me with her menacing threats, and she really wanted me to take her picture. I was still sweating profusely (hot hut), but I managed a nervous laugh as the large woman continued to chatter on and slap me on the back, clearly quite pleased with her practical joke. My pulse returned to normal.

The air was heavy, but I could now see that this was where the women elders (or witch doctors) of the village prepared the fetishes and bowls of potions for the burial ceremony and rituals taking place outside. The women were very happy to have me take their pictures, and then insisted I give them immediate prints of the photos. I could see that they were disappointed as I tried to explain that my camera was not a Polaroid, so I instead showed them the digital images on my camera screen. The women were as excited as young children seeing themselves in a mirror for the first time as they passed my camera around, pointing at each others’ images on the screen (and leaving large, smudged fingerprints all over the lens…). Successfully satisfying the women’s requests for pictures, I quickly exited the hut, relieved to step out into the scorching sun and bright air, ah…

A few weekends ago I had the honor of accompanying a friend to a local burial ceremony. Actually it was more of a memorial service I suppose, the body had been buried over a week ago in accordance with Muslim customs, and now the family was honoring her spirit through the traditional animistic rituals. It was certainly an interesting occasion to witness, especially as a guest of the family, this was definitely the first time I have ever attended something like this. At first I was hesitant to even pull out my camera, but the family members encouraged me to video the ceremonial dances and requested that I take pictures of the guests and family, so I gladly volunteered my amateur photography skills. The first thing I noted from the night that I arrived was that this ceremony was no somber or sad event, and even the immediate family of the deceased cheerfully referred to the event as a party. The day was filled with food, many different courses of pâte (porridge-like substance) and sauce, pounded yam, rice and sauce, fried chicken, roasted goat, etc. I couldn’t keep up with all the food, but it was truly amazing as more and more dishes were served to the many guests stopping to pay their respects.

I arrived in the village the night before the “fête”, and spent the night with the family as women prepared the food for the following day. I didn’t really have any skills to contribute to the food preparation, so I busied myself with learning the greetings and phrases in the local language, Bariba (or Baatonum). Interestingly enough, the father of the family is Bariba, but both of his wives are from different tribes, and so the family communicates in a mixture of Fon, Bialie, Bariba, and French – making it all very confusing to follow (even if I could understand any of the local languages)!! The region is Bariba-speaking, so I decided to focus on that language for the weekend so that I could at least make an attempt to greet the other guests and locals in their own language.

Some of us went to bed around midnight, being rather exhausted from the week and the trip to get to the village, but the compound and village was far from quiet at this time. The women were still pounding yams, singing and dancing as they prepared the food for the day to come, and the men eating, listening to the radio, and smoking tobacco (or some sort of local “weed”, I didn’t quite understand the description in French). We slept inside the cement walled, tin-roofed house (or solar oven) with only two slatted windows, which seemed to radiate more heat than fresh air. I lay down on the fleecy/wool blanket beside my friend, who of course fell asleep as soon as her head touched the floor. As I lay sweating on the hot cement floor, my body feverishly hot, I could almost feel the heat rash forming on my back and neck. My bare legs felt as though they were on fire, and I sat up several times to confirm that my legs were in fact not burning, and it was then that I realized I could create a breeze by moving my body. So I tried to cool myself by doing exaggerated sit-ups, flailing my arms and legs hoping to generate a breeze to douse the flaming heat, but of course this activity only made me sweat more. I’m not sure why, but everyone seemed to think it was ok to sleep with the lights on, but from my perspective even the single 60 watt light bulb was contributing to my hellishly hot and sleepless night, so I promptly turned the light out as soon as the others had fallen asleep. Now in the dark, I was still hot, and sweating profusely on the wool blanket with not a single breath of air movement. Ah yes, I even tried blowing on myself to cool down, but eventually had to quit as I started to feel light-headed.

Morning came too soon with the 5 AM call to prayer from the very nearby mosque. The call was so blaringly loud that at first I was certain that I was perhaps sleeping in the same courtyard in the mosque; was it possible that the family had their own personal mosque and prayer caller?! When I finally did wake up and venture outside, I noticed that the mosque wasn’t quite in the same compound, but just across the street with the surprisingly clear loudspeakers aimed directly into the courtyard.

I don’t think I slept more than an hour altogether, but thankfully with the morning came a refreshingly cold bucket shower and a steaming hot bowl of Tim Horton’s coffee. Hm, yes I still have my “emergency” travel packets of Tim Horton’s – oh what would I do without my Tim Hortons?! Well, I’d probably drink Nescafé, but I’d rather not think about that until I have to.

As we prepared for the ceremony, my friend told me that my usual wrap-skirt and t-shirt was not suitable for such an occasion, so she graciously provided me with a proper outfit (traditional “boubou”) – see picture below…

Apparently it was a hit because I got many marriage proposals (especially when they found out I could say “hello” in Bariba – big seller) and also many demands for the flashy accessories I was wearing. My friend loaned me the blue bracelets, and these were surprisingly popular among the village women. Thankfully since I didn’t technically own the bracelets, it was ok for me to say that I could not give them up; had I actually owned the bracelets, it would have been culturally-appropriate to give the bracelets to the women when they asked for them. Even the witch doctor did a “song and dance” (literally) asking for my bracelets, but thankfully my friend was able to explain that the bracelets belonged to her and no, she would not give them up (phew!). That seemed to appease the witch doctor and I think she left in good spirits, I couldn’t understand what she was saying to me, but it was happy-sounding and she was smiling, so I don’t think she put a curse on me for not giving the bracelets to her…!

This trip I had managed to bring enough bottled water with me for the overnight trip, so didn’t risk drinking the local water. I did get to sample various delicacies during my stay, being a guest of the family, I was privileged enough to be offered goat’s head and hoofs… hm. I gingerly tore off a strip of tough, leathery meat from the shrunken skull of the goat, and the men of the village nodded in encouragement as I smiled and began to chew the meat. If you’ve ever tasted goat meat, you’ll know that it has a rather strong and distinct taste, and the skull meat is no different just much stronger, like chewing the actual hide of the animal. My stomach was literally doing flip flops in protest of the overpowering odor and taste of the meat, as I concentrated on chewing and swallowing the meat, praying that my stomach would accept it without further upheaval. It was on my second helping that I noticed that my friend was not eating any meat from the goat’s head, so I asked her why, and to my astonishment she shook her head in disgust and said that she didn’t like the taste! What?! Well, had I known that was an option…! After a few more polite samplings (and what felt like HOURS of chewing), I decided that I also preferred to eat only the flesh part of the goat (not its head, hoofs, tail, or hide). Actually I don’t think I’ll be eating any sort of goat meat for awhile, maybe just stick to vegetable dishes if I can…

All in all, a very enjoyable weekend in the village, the family was very hospitable and it was a real treat to take part in the preparations and festivities.

My friend and I made it back to the city in yet another dilapidated, overcrowded Peugeot taxi, and I collapsed into my soft bed under the cool breeze of my ceiling fan.