I san bee san bee!
It’s a rare day in village when people case aside their financial concerns and everyday worries and have an all-out good time. The festival of Tabaski, a three-day annual Muslim celebration, is one of those few times each year when villagers really splurge to enjoy themselves, and I had the pleasure of spending my first Tabaski in Mali–actually, my first Tabaski ever–in my village.
You can tell it’s a special day as soon as you step out the door and see what people are wearing on the street. As I walk to my jatigui’s house for breakfast, I pass a portly woman in a stiff, brilliant magenta tie-dyed boubou and a little girl in a frilly, glittery pink dress, the creases from its original folding still visible. It must have been just taken out of the shrink-wrap packaging kids’ clothes come in here. At my host family’s house, my moms have not yet put on their new clothes, but I am happy to see my mom Mamu proudly wearing the stiff, shiny headwrap I’d found and bought for her at the market the previous weekend. With rainbow foil cutouts of Mali and the number “50” all over it (for Mali’s 50th anniversary), it’s anything but subtle–and thus perfect for Malian fashion sensibilities. The women ooh and aah over my outfit a bit–a matching blue and green top and skirt I had sewn at the tailor’s in Kita, along with the obligatory matching headwrap, sticking up from the head at odd angles (the crazier the headwrap, the better). Then we sit down to eat. Instead of the usual millet porridge, siri or moni, today we get beans cooked in oil and sautéed with onions, and some actual seasoning! (I tend to forget that exists here.)
After we eat my host dad asks me if I’m ready to go to mosque. He frequently jokes with me about going to mosque, but I have yet to actually go. Today, since it’s one of the most festive days of the year, I decide I might as well take him up on the offer. “An ka taa!” (Let’s go!) I say in Bambara. He looks a little surprised but tells my mom Sambou to grab a headscarf for me from inside the house–like all women, I must have my entire head covered to enter the mosque. We head over to pray–the mosque is right behind his house, and I can already hear the Imam sounding the call to prayer over the loudspeaker the broadcasts all the prayers to the whole village: “Allah Akbar, Allah Akbar!” (God is Great!)
As is custom, Sambou and I take our shoes off at the back door of the mosque; before we enter she drapes the silvery scarf over my head and crosses it over my shoulders so that none of my hair is visible. I follow her lead and enter the mosque. Looking around, there is not much in the small, airless room in terms or ornamentation, and certainly not all of the symbolism you would expect to find in a church–Muslims don’t favor elaborate symbols the way Christians do. The floor is covered with rows of colorful mats which are starting to be occupied by people trickling in from village. Soon people are shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip on the mats. I vaguely wonder whether all these people usually come, or if there are “Tabaski Muslims” the way there are “Christmas and Easter Christians” who only come for the good stuff. Food for thought. Women dressed in what seems like miles of bright, shiny, or even glittery fabrics and head scarves take over the back of the room, where the front is occupied by the oldest men, in white or striped boubous and wool skull caps, some tottering in on canes (old age and apparent infirmity does not stop anyone here, as I’ve learned from seeing my ancient village chief, nearly blind, strolling around village like he’s half his actual age, which I‘m fairly sure must be approaching 150). The people-watching alone seems reason enough to enjoy the mosque: with all the crazy new get-ups you never know what you’re going to see next. I take a moment to ponder which is my favorite: the old woman in the gigantic boubou covered in sequins, or the man with the 50 Cent (yes, the American rapper) T-shirt with “gangsta” emblazoned across the back. Tough decision.
I suddenly realize that I’m probably the only person in the room right now who is more interested in people’s outfits than in Allah. I chide myself to pay more attention and try to understand some of the prayer, but since I have absolutely zero experience in a mosque I can only blindly follow my host mom’s lead. When we are officially packed like sardines, which happens at 9:17, seventeen minutes after the service was supposed to start (not bad for Mali), the Imam begins the communal prayer and everyone follows in perfect unison. First there’s a simple head movement, up-and-down-up-and-down. Then bending at the waist, and finally getting onto all fours and bringing one’s forehead to the floor until the back is in the air. All this while chanting in Arabic. Go through the movements a few times and you’re good to go. Everyone knows exactly what to do and is entirely focused; my presence, when it is noticed by a few women to the left of my in my row, generates a few long glances, but does not cause so much as a hiccup in the proceedings.
After the prayer the Imam begins his sermon in Malinke, and at this point I feel okay about letting my mind drift a bit, since there is not a chance of me understanding his rapid-fire speech. I start to notice the soles of the women’s feet as they are sitting on their haunches–all elaborately decorated with jabi (black henna) for Tabaski, adorned with swirls, flowers, criss-cross designs. They’ve got their best beads on, necklaces and bracelets and earrings to match their complets. Some even have beads weaved into their braids, although these are not visible underneath their scarves. Whatever you might have to say about Malian’s loud and unsubtle fashion aesthetic, their attention to detail and bodily ornamentation is striking.
Within 20 minutes the room has become hotter than Hades in August (or, similarly, Mali in April). The Imam hands two men and two women big, floppy straw fans, and they serve as primitive air conditioning, fanning row after row in hopes of keeping the poor mosque-goers from passing out. A couple of the kids are stirring impatiently, but the other women around me remain perfectly still and seem entirely unfazed by the stifling heat. I catch the eye of my homologue’s beautiful and well-respected mom, Makouto, and she gives me a knowing smile. You’re definitely not used to this, huh? After the sermon comes another round of prayer recitation, and before I know it I am following Sambou out of the mosque. The old ladies pull down their veils and shake my hand, asking me in Malinke if the mosque was good and if I am going to become a Muslim now (a joke, as everyone here knows I am a Christian and is very open and tolerant of other faiths). I jokingly respond that now, they must go to church with me.
After mosque I make the rounds to greet the dugu tigi (village chief) and Imam with my host dad. It basically involves shaking hands, saying “I san bee san bee!” (good feast!) and wishing the person’s mother/father/wives/husband/kids/second cousins/cows/donkeys a long and prosperous life. Depending on how many blessings you utter the exchange could take five seconds or five minutes, but the important thing is that you greet and bless everyone you see.
Lunch is lambs which were slaughtered that morning by the young men in the village, along with some macaroni on cheese I insisted on making to contribute to the meal as a member of the family (“It tastes good!” my dad insists as he pours on piles and piles of salt). They use meat here very efficiently, and just about everything gets eaten. Although it takes a lot of effort not to think about what part I am actually eating (a tongue, perhaps? This one’s a little rubbery…maybe intestine), I manage to eat a respectable hunk of lamb before announcing that I am full and sitting back in my chair for a little post meal dozing, as is familiar to all males in Mali (the women are too busy actually doing things).
Around 3 about 15 of the sassiest women in village, including my host moms, gather in front of my host dad’s house to go do greetings around the village, which basically involves going house to house with a few drum players, dancing and carrying on at each house, and collecting a little spare change in return. Mamu says I have to come along and watch, although I have a strong suspicion that they have ulterior motives and are going to try and sucker me into dancing. Which will, of course, be very entertaining for the villagers. And….I’m right. When we reach the first house and the drum players start pounding, Sambou pulls me by the forearm into the center or the circle and claps expectantly, until I finally forget about how silly I feel and start moving. The peals of laughter begin and don’t stop for the next 3 hours as we move from hut to hut, collecting anywhere from 30 cents to a dollar per household for the local women’s group. The entire time I am either a)dancing, or b) holding some woman’s baby so that she can dance, or c) holding onto two of my favorite munchkins in village, Dabi and Nasira, who stick to me like glue. My favorite part is watching the oldest of the old women dance. You would think that those 70 and 80 year old bones would be aching, but some of these women shake and sway with the best of them, even while carrying grandchildren or great-grandchildren on their backs. You go, grandma!
By the time we stumble back to Sambou’s concession, after 6pm, we’ve collected an impressive amount for the women’s group–people are generous on Tabaski. I stick around for a dinner of yet more meat and manage a few token dance moves at the village “soiree” that evening before going home and practically falling into bed, exhausted. The music blares until well past 3am. Yet again, I have been out-partied by practically everyone in my village. I guess you have to work your way into fully celebrating Tabaski, from early morning through late-night soiree and doing it all over again for 2 days after that. Still, I think, not bad for my first go. Not bad at all.
