A Very Merry Fete

As a going away present, I threw myself a party.  Now I know this sounds super pathetic, but it's not.  It's culturally appropriate.  My family threw me a party when I arrived, and now I'm going to throw a party to say thank you.

Ramatou and Dienaba with the day's spoils.

This party was a very Senegalese party.  My host family was instrumental in making it a success, mostly because I had no idea what qualified as a successful party.  I made it clear that I didn't want to spend a ton of money (toubabs are made of money everyone) but was willing to do something small.

Kouta making cheb rice.

It did not end up being small.

My friends cutting vegetables.

A couple days before the party, my host Omar asked me what I was going to buy.  We went through a list of things needed for a successful party: 15 kilos of rice, 5 liters of oil, adja and maggi (seasonings), what seemed like an endless amount of onions, smaller amounts of vegetables, tea, sugar, juice, ice (bought in Kolda and transported village on motorcycles).  Originally I had wanted to buy a goat.  Part of the reason for this was because I wanted to tell people that at one time I had owned a goat.  I also wanted to name him Bottari, which is Pulaar for lunch.  He would have been delicious, but Omar pointed out that goats are expensive right now and don't really have a lot of meat on them.  I grudgingly conceded and we bout a lot of cow meat.

Nathan getting down!

The day before the fete we had already bought almost everything.  For the things that were left I gave Omar the money along with a meticulous list, and his older sister, who lives in Kolda, went out and bought everything the morning of. Omar also went to fetch the "sen," or speakers and DJ equipment from Kolda with his donkey and charette (wagon).

I was delegated to do other work: beautify.  Soso spent the afternoon braiding my air (I swear to God if I get compared to Sean Paul or Coolio one more time, I will curse you) while Dienabundi, one of the neighborhood girls, hennaed my feet and hands.

Mansata enjoying lunch.

Both of these processes take a long time.  Soso was braiding my hair for about two or three hours. My village was really happy to finally see me braided.  After two years of refusing, of telling everyone that I was scared of how much it hurt, of exclaiming how much stronger Pulaar women are than me, I finally embraced one of the things that makes a Pulaar woman a woman.  For days afterwards people would just stare wistfully at me, "Aissatou," with a wistful head shake. "You're just so weydi (pretty) now."  As if I had wasted two years of my life looking average when I could have been beautiful.  I didn't have the heart to tell anyone my American friends would ruthlessly laugh and sing Coolio lyrics at me.  I can be pretty today if you want me to be.


To continue with the weydiness of the day, I had two sets of matching outfits with two separate groups.  My Peace Corps friends and I got matching shirts, while the women in my compound finally got the fabric I bought them for Tabaski last year made into clothes.  This is a Senegalese tradition, and in Pulaar it's called nurolei.  It's often reserved for big weddings, but what the heck.  We looked awesome.

Soso, me, Ramatou, and Oumou holding baby Aissatou

The actual party was nothing really different from most Senegalese functions.  The night before the women arrived to help make fried dough (sans powdered sugar) for the guests.  They also arrived early that day to help cook.  They cut up the vegetables and meat, cooked kilo upon kilo of rice, made sauces and juices, and bagged the fried dough into individual baggies and handed them out to guests.  Soso, my neene, and Ramatoulaye, my host's older sister and child Ramatou's namesake, were in charge of running everything.

I just got to sit around all day and chat with people.  My VSA (Volunteer Support Assistant), Tidian Diao, who works too hard, was able to come, and that meant a lot to me.  My friends Nathan, Jim, and Brad were also able to come, and we looked pretty fashionable.  Friends from other villages came, and everyone from Sanankoro came.

Nathan, me, VSA Tdian Diao, Jim and Brad in our fete finest.

As the afternoon wore on the women went home to shower and put on their best clothes, and as dusk fell they slowly filtered back into the compound.  On the music had started there was no controlling the children- they were going to dance whether anyone wanted them to or not!  That was really fun to watch, but what was even more fun was watching the women dance.  I always feel inadequate when dancing next to some of these women.  Sira, who can bring her legs up ridiculously high, Nima, who has joints in her hips and maybe also her rear end, Mariama, who has the energy.

Dancing with strength.

They would pull me into the circle. "Aissatou! You must dance! Dance with us!" And since I love dancing, but hate being bad at it, I do.  Oumou looks over at me admiringly.  She's also not a great dancer, and gets embarrassed easily.  "You know, Aissatou, you may not have the moves down, but you dance with power."  I guess that's better than just being bad.

Sira showing us all how it's done.

We, the women and the children, danced until the gas ran out out he generator, and as if someone had snapped their hands and told everyone to leave, the compound looked deserted compared to what it was just ten minutes earlier.

Family photo.

Omar came up to me. "Great party Aissatou, you did good. Everyone is so happy."  And I was really happy too.