Jusqu'a la mort!

I heard the sound of the bells on their ankles and the whistles in their mouths long before I spotted them. People crowded to the edge of the village in anticipation. Before long, I saw the line of men snaking through the woods, approaching the village. What before had been a cacophony of noises soon became a cadenced rhythm as they came closer - stomp whistle stomp whistle stomp. These men - recently welcomed to manhood - with their goathair leg warmers and jelly shoes - were passing the torch. A new group of men would be initiated this weekend.

These people are Bassari and this means one important thing to a Peace Corps Volunteer: as Christian animists, they have no taboos about drinking. And it is this unique cultural experience that compelled 30 Americans and 1 Spaniard to sit in a hot bus, just to arrive in the village of Egath hours later covered in red dust.

Later, as the last of the whistles died away (they would be back and going strong until well past midnight, I soon found out), I sat under a tree with Josef, a Bassari man who works at the Baptist Mission in Kedougou. He told me about his initiation back in 1985 and how - now with pride in his voice - his two oldest sons recently went through theirs. He explained the confusion that ensued when a matrilineal society became colonized by a patrilineal one, and how he avoided some of this confusion by marrying a woman with the same last name. And then Josef outlined how the rest of the night would proceed:

Visitors walk from house to house, greeting the people of Egath. In so doing, they are given a cup of honey wine (or palm wine or millet beer). That first day, the alcohol would be free-flowing; the next day we would have to pay.

"Wow, so by the end of the night, after visiting every house in the village..." I trailed off.

Josef looked at me and smiled.

Chip, Janet, and I were in a language group together during training. It seemed fitting that now, a year later, we should have a reunion. The three of us broke apart from the rest of the group to tour the village together. And that's when our lives would be forever changed: we met Albert.

Chip, Albert, and Chrissie

Albert was a man about half my height. He carried a stick and had tucked something into the back of his pants to make a tail. This tail would swish as he swayed back and forth - something he did more and more often as the night progressed. Also, Albert was already three sheets to the wind at the time we met him and asked him to be our unofficial guide to the festivities. He was only too happy to oblige.

Albert was funny. He was dramatic. He would caution us to watch our step as we approached a leaf. ("Attention!" he would gasp.) Inbetween houses, we would throw our heads back and proclaim to the stars "We will drink palm wine jusqu'a la mort (until we die)!"

By the time we reached the last house, a small group of our friends had attached themsevles to us. In the circle we formed, passing the cup of honey wine, an old woman came out of her house and began dancing. She was so cute, I couldn't help myself. I danced, too. Sometime later I asked if she would be my Egath mom. She agreed. She said to come back the next day. I promised I would. Sometime even later, I fell asleep under the stars.

The next day was the day of the wrestling match between the older boys and the new initiates. Women are not allowed to attend this match, so as the men went off to the spectacle, the artisans rolled out their goods and the women went shopping.

I decided this would be a good time to visit my new host mom. I bought a pack of beignets and headed to her house. She was as sweet as I remember from the night before - offering me refreshment and a really delicious powdery concoction of pounded peanuts and sugar. There was only one thing I hadn't noticed before - my new mom and I didn't share a common language. Not a word.

They say blood is thicker than water, but is it thicker than palm wine? Could we traverse our differences? Could I tell her stories about my real mom in America, or she tell me about her childhood?

The answer is no, but it doesn't matter. I would visit her five more times that day; each time, the portion of honey wine and peanuts would become more and more substantial.

That day before leaving for Kedougou, I said goodbye to Josef, goodbye to my mom, goodbye to Albert - who was still wearing his tail, and goodbye to this experience I would remember jusqu'a la mort.

*Special thanks to Ashleigh Baker for contributing photos for this blog entry.

Do You Speak Pulaar?

Some say the Pulaars stretch as far east as the Sudan and as far south as the Congo. Others say it is the third most widely spoken language in Africa. Any way you look at it, it's a vast ethnic group, and Kedougou is lucky to have its own little slice of the pie, in the Pula Foutas.

This branch of the Pulaars hails mainly from Guinea Conakry. During the reign of Sekou Toure - the first president of an independent Guinea - populations scattered quite a bit. Toure was in perpetual fear of a "constant plot" against him at the hands of the CIA, Russians, Pulaars, and teachers. (A motley crew of rebellion if I ever heard one.) As a result, many Guinean Pulaars sought refuge in Senegal.

To see the layout of a Pula Fouta village is to get a glimpse of the effects of colonisation. This once-nomadic group settled into a sedentary life - it's hard to tax nomads - and the layout of the villages reflects this wandering lifestyle. As opposed to the Malinkes who live practically on top of each other in a smothering family kind of way, with fields on the outskirts, the Pulaar villages are spread out with plenty of room between each compound and the fields in the middle of the village.

There's another way in which Pulaar-land differs from Malinke-land: the natural beauty. In Koboye, where my friend Ashleigh lives, there is a cliff behind her house that looks out over the entire valley below in one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. It is peaceful and contemplative. Near Jamie's house in Lesfelo, there is a waterfall. In dry season, which is now, this is a water-less fall, yet even in dry season, it's not lacking in beauty. Here, with several other volunteers, we laid on the rocks, saw snakes and chimp nests, and talked about life. Contrast this to Malinke-land; there we have gold mining and prostitutes.

With ethnic tensions high right now between Pulaars and Malinkes in Guinea, I was curious to see the relationship between the same groups in Senegal. Senegal prides itself on being a peaceful country even when all the countries around it fall by the wayside. If any tensions exist, they must be subtle. For example, to ask a Malinke if they speak Pulaar, you say simply "Do you speak Pulaar?" However, if the tables are turned and a Pulaar asks someone if they speak Malinke, they say "Do you speak ceddo?" (Ceddo here means warrior, an interesting point to consider if you read my blog post The Outsiders.)

Also, Pulaars have some interesting verbs; for example, there's a verb that means to look at someone or touch them to get them to stop talking when someone enters the room. They also have the verb "domogol" - which means to show up somewhere just in time to eat. "Domo" is the Malinke word for eating. While it's not confirmed, I have a feeling the Pulaars are commenting on our eating habits.

The Malinkes, however, are nothing but kind and sweet to everyone. (Perhaps with the exception of the Wolof. See my blog post entitled Uncle Wolof.)

Regardless, Pulaar-land is a natural wonderland and well worth a visit. Just don't show up right before lunch - they may accuse you of being a warrior.