Time Flies

Pictures:

1) My smallest host-siblings, Haidiara and Daouda

2) Who needs pumpkins for Halloween when it's watermellon season?

3) My host-mother, Awa, in the hibiscus fields

4) Awa, Odile, and Heidi

5) Me, gutting a turkey for Thanksgiving
6) Cekoroba (old man) with no shoes who led us to the Sikasso Falls

So I was somewhat disconcerted 2 weeks ago, when I discovered that my eight-year-old host-sister can swing an axe better than me. The fact that at eight years old she has had years more practice than me was of little consolation, nor was the fact that she doesn't even swing it that well - she hasn't quite got the precise aiming thing down yet. Still, as she swings it with the gusto that can only come with the confidence that you're not about to cut off your own foot, it's much better than I can manage.

On my ride back to site from Halloween (which seems like yesterday) I met an old man and we got to the usual conversation about why I was here, etc. Eventually he asked me if I go to church, which is a little less usual - before I knew it I'd agreed to come to church with him on Sunday. Well Sunday rolled around and found me wandering around trying to find the church - When all the buildings in town are made of mud, a church is much less obvious than it would be in New England. The vieux found me however, having come to pick me up at home after I'd left. We arrived a bit late (by then it was easier to pick out the church from the music ringing down the dusty streets). The church itself was unassuming - no visible crosses outside, just a big "AD" design on the apex of the building (for Assemblé de Dieu). The vieux parked his bike on the side, and I was horrified when he led me through a side-door at the front of the building, and motioned for me to take a seat directly beside the podium.

Music. Three different drums, tamborines, clapping, singing, and a large instrument made from a half gourd (maybe 15 - 18 inches in diameter) with shells tied all around the outside. It was more juggled than played, thrown back and forth between the hands and slapped in time to the music - it made a sound like a room full of people clapping together, but with a slightly sharper, more mechanical sound. I didn't understand much of the singing, which I assume was in Bambara, except for the occasional "Jesu" and "Allah;" Allah, of course, being the semitic (and Bambara) word for god or gods, is not specific to Islam. The beat raced along at a frantic 192 beats per minute (I counted). There were 3 columns of benches by the doors, with children occupying the ones on stage left and center, and the men on stage right. This created two aisles on the side rather than one in the middle, not unlike the Congregationalist churches of home. Perpendicular to these on stage left were another group of benches where the women sat. Flanking the podium on either side were 2 benches for the choir (males and females mixed) who wore white button-down coats with red trimand breast pockets, so that they looked a bit like lab coats except that they had "Chorale A" and "Chorale B" written on the back. The podium supported a microphone attached to a megaphone suspended from the cieling.

Speaking of dress, I was not out of place in my latest Malian outfit: pants a mix of hunter's orange and navy blue with a design that appears to be an alkaceltzer dissolving in a glass of water, and a shirt made of brown and white fabric with a design of eggs, chicks, hens, and severed chicken heads. I was neither the most colorfully dressed person there nor the least.

The service itself was likewise lively, and done both in French and Bambara, except for the singing which seemed to be all Bambara. Then suddenly it happened - the service stopped, and everyone turned to look expectantly at me. I was momentarily horrified, but luckily they only wanted me to introduce myself, which I managed with my limited Bambara. After all was over, the older folks filed out, while the rest of the congregation went up to the front for one last good dance.

Thanksgiving was incredible - far from being a bare-bones affair, we had 6 turkeys (one of which I gutted and deep-fried myself), a vat of mashed potatoes I could have took a bath in, stuffing, gravy, fruit salad, 10 pies (5 apple, 4 pumpkin, 1 cherry), 2 no-bake cheesecakes, and other things besides, such as a local squash (we'd planned on making this into the pumpkin pies, but some people recently returned from visiting the states brought pie-filling). With 62 volunteers there, we couldn't finnish it all. It was also my birthday, and I couldn't have asked for a better one - we'd celebrated the previous nite at a dance club, with the highlite being the DJ putting on Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and everybody singing at me at the top of their lungs - as it turns out this is a most satisfactory substitute for the birthday song.

The day after Thanksgiving a group of us headed out to the waterfalls outside of town. Despite some schenanigans from our drivers we eventually got there and had a wonderful swim, followed by a camp-out at the foot of the falls, roasting vegetables for dinner, and playing Mafia late into the night. The moon was nearly full, and made the falls shine silver throughout the night. True, we may all have schistosomiasis now, but it was totally worth it.