Manyo-Yeah! (A Bridesmaid in Senegal)

I was summoned to my friend Tagui's wedding by the beat of drums issuing from her mom's house next door to me. I hoped I wasn't late. I had, after all, been invited to be a "hotesse," or bridesmaid, but had no idea what this entailed. When I arrived at the house, I found a large group of women standing in a circle clapping and dancing. In the middle of the circle were the drummers. It took me a minute to realize Tagui was also in the middle of the circle, lying on the ground under a sheet, while a musoo khoto (respected older woman) braided her hair.

When the drumming stopped and the griot (sort of like a bard) began singing the praises of the bride's family, the crowd wiped tears as they remembered those that had passed. When the hair was finished, I was summoned to the "washing place." I followed a handful of women - in the midst of which was Tagui - covered fully with a white sheet. The mysterious washing place turned out to be the middle of a field, where Tagui stripped down to nothing but a pagne wrap while the older women scrubbed her with soap and water.

 Newly clean, she was re-covered with the white sheet and we toured the village - Tagui and her entourage. Every time we passed an adult male, my friend would shake his hand and ask for money. Most people gave 100cfa, the equivalent of about 20 cents. Our tour ended at the mosque - an exciting prospect for me since I had never been inside the gates before. We left our shoes at the gate and circled the building three times while singing.

Back at Tagui's house, I got caught up talking with a group of women, when suddenly a great wailing arose from the hut where Tagui had disappeared into. Inside women were screaming and crying, shedding real tears at the prospect of Tagui leaving her mom's house to join her husband's family. The kids in the room, however, betrayed that perhaps this was all for show. They were giggling and wailing with much glee and exaggeration.

In one corner of the family compound were sitting many of the old men of the village, wearing important-looking kuufies. Tagui was sat in front of them, covered still, clutching a gourd spoon - the im portance of which we will revisit later - while listening to the old men's words. I did not listen, however, as I was busy with the women and the henna.

We now arrive at the Great Transition - the moment when Tagui was accompanied by a handful of women to Ibrahima's house. She sat beside him on bed in their bedroom while each of us curtsied to Ibou and we recited each other's last names. We left Tagui there on the bed next to her husband, looking terrified.

I visited my friend later that night. While friends and family danced to the loud music issuing from speakers outside, Tagui was confined to her room. She was not allowed to leave while people paraded in to give their blessings. In direct proportion to the number of adult women that were present, the more tears my friend shed. She told me she had a cold, but I saw her brush away real tears.

*******

The final day of the wedding always falls on a Friday. Friday is to the Muslim what Sunday is to the Christian. A marriage is not official until it is announced by the imam at the mosque; whether the couple is present or not is a moot point.

So now it is Friday, the final day of the wedding. (Weddings here are three days. I missed the first day due to the 4th of July.) People had already begun gathering at Ibrahima's house when I arrived. After some time, the music was quieted and the same old men issued more advice to Tagui, again sitting in front of them covered and holding the same gourd spoon. Then kola nuts were passed around and we shared them while congratulating the happy couple.

At some point, I was summoned to a back room and given my bridesmaid outfit. It's interesting to note the garrish bridesmaid phenomenon is worldwide.

We sat in the back room for hours while people gathered outside. I'm not sure why we waited so long, unless to give the bridesmaids more time to laugh at me while I practiced my dancing. (Despite their laughter, they did, in the end, declare that I was no longer a toubab, but in fact a "fatee fingo" or black skin.)

The mood in general on this final day was much more joyous and I was glad to see my friend laughing and joking again.

We at long last paraded out to the crowd to take photos.

As women must stay within their husband's compound for five days following a wedding, I would visit Tagui several times over the next few days. I noticed that same gourd spoon hanging from her ceiling.

"Munna? Why?" I asked.

A young girl piped up. "If Ibrahima beats Tagui, then she has to take the spoon down. As long as he doesn't beat her, the spoon stays up."

Tagui now seems to be enjoying her status as a married woman, even though most women here will tell you that the life of an African woman is very difficult. I was glad to note that the last time I was at Tagui's house, the spoon was still stuck in the ceiling.

Paper or Plastic?

Jaxanke reunion! Chip and Janet came to my village and stayed the night, on our way to our Peace Corps language seminar in Saraya. Chip is my nearest neighbor in Samecouta, a great village with a beautiful mosque and a phallic tower, situated right on a river. Janet came all the way from Tambacounda (another region that Kedougou broke away from recently to form its own region).

I took them to the health post for dinner. The family at the health post wins for best meal in the village. (There was one day that I ate all three meals at the health post. I just couldn't face the dry couscous without sauce that my family was assuredly serving that day.) So, as a treat to my friends, I invited us over for dinner at the health post.

Afterwards, in my hut, sprawled on the floor, we stayed up late into the night talking. Soon, the sound of the yellow horned gonfleck* began, a bird that I only hear at night and makes a sound oddly similar to a grocery store check out line. Everytime we heard its cry, my friends and I would name an item that we wished we were buying at a grocery store in the States.

Beep.

"Cinnamon toast crunch."

Beep.

"Cheetos."

Beep.

"Pizza rolls."

Beep.

"Bacon."

Beep.

"Broccoli." (This was not me. Janet offered up the idea of broccoli. She's from Berkeley, go figure.)

If words were actions, we would have cleaned out every aisle of that Kroger's.

This is the Peace Corps experience. An hour of listing items we'd like to eat from home, in tune to a nocturnal bird.

*I don't know if this is actually the name of the bird. I'm no expert. Be looking out for a blog in which Peace Corps Volunteer and local birding expert, Patrick Hair, is interviewed.

More Images from Senegal

Hut Sweet Hut

Fatumata with Sengalese Tresses

Cutest kid in my compound, hands down. Notice the gris-gris around his neck.

Termite Mound

My mom pounding corn for the morning mono (breakfast)

I was about to finish my next greatest masterpiece when Fode showed up without any pants.

My Slaves

"You and the afternoon."
"I acknowledge you. Are you with peace?"
"There is peace there. What's your last name?"
"Camara. And yours?"
"Camara! I'm a Damba. You are my slave!"
"If I'm your slave, you have to buy me something to eat."

As a white American from the South, I'm not completely at ease in referring to a West African as my slave. But, believe it or not, by doing this, I'm following a generations-old system put in place to keep social harmony. The system of cousinage, or joking cousins, sets up a joking relationship between people of certain last names. For example, I call Camaras my slaves. They, in turn, tell me my mouth is always full of bread.

My family name also has a relationship with the Dansokhos. You may recall the story of my last name - Danfakha - or buffalo killer - in which the men one day killed (fakha) all the buffalo (dan). You may notice a similar word in the name Dansokho - buffalo stabber, or poker. We make fun of the Dansokhos for being weak, or not getting the job done - they merely poked the buffalo, whereas we Danfakhas actually killed them.

So while calling people here my slave is not something Alex Haley would approve of, it is interesting being part of a tradition that has kept peace between families for years.

Now please excuse me while I stuff my mouth with bread.