Monday, July 19, 2010
Rainy season: what does it mean?
Being back in village during rainy season (which is also my summer vacation) has given me a lot more time to relax during the spurts of rain that come every other day or so. Rainy season means the villagers are out at their farms planting and cultivating in the morning. It means the pitter-patter of sprinkles on my aluminum roof. It means occasional great big thunderstorms that seem so much more intense than in the states. They seem to shake the ground up to my insides, scaring me but also giving the feeling that I am so close to something dangerous. It gives the feeling of being alive. Rainy season means cooler weather (about 80 degrees) and steam floating off of the mountain and intermingling with the dark clouds above. It means green grass, green fields and green plants; it doesn’t look so much like desert anymore. It means more bugs, mosquitoes and creepy crawlers creeping into my house and me being thankful for mosquito nets. It means more flies, flies that stick to your skin, flies that after a while you just stop bothering to wave away. It means the electricity is cut more often, gone for days at a time. It means more time to read, write, watch movies (when there is electricity) and reflect. And it means more time to write blogs such as this.
Rewind: sometimes it goes by so quickly I’ve got to look back and see what I missed to tell you.
Let’s back up to the month of May, when this occurred.
The chief of the village is whom we call the Lamido. He is the big man, a grand, the head honcho of my village and a couple surrounding villages. I met him a couple times when I first arrived but it was easy to see he was very old and feeling it. His scrawny limbs rested on a mattress inside while I greeted him from the outside steps. At every fete, there was a chair dedicated to his place but it always remained empty. He was soon sent to Douala for medical reasons, after several months he returned to Lara in May to die within a week. I missed the funeral but knew it was customary to stop by the chief’s palace to give my condolences.
The palace of the Lamido.
I went one evening to find several large rugs placed outside in various spots filled with sitting Muslim men. It is how they show their respect for the dead, by sitting outside of the house for days and nights included. I can actually tell when there has been a death in the village by this act alone. Once I arrived, I realized my nervousness of not knowing what I was doing or what was protocol. I knew I should give my condolences but I didn’t want to insult the Muslim religion. Luckily I saw a man that I knew sitting down, the president of the parents’ association, so I walked toward him. He waved me over, refused to let me take my shoes off (another custom), exchanged greetings with me and offered up his son to lead me throughout the palace compound. I entered into a main room where several more men were sitting talking; I presume by the tone it was a serious discussion within family members. After greetings I was lead to the back of the compound and through a maze of walls and mud huts. Everywhere I looked there were groups of people, mostly women and children, doing various activities. I gave my condolences to the three wives of the deceased chief, who sat mourning quietly on mats, reminiscing in their heads. I made the mistake of offering my hand to the first wife, who refused and I immediately realized I offended her. The boy leading me around could see my embarrassment and told me not to worry about it but needless to say, I did not do it again with the next two wives. I greeted other groups of female family members who also sat on mats but chatted and gossiped and thanked me for coming. I saw other people walking around but was not sure of their purpose. As we came to the end of the tour, a large group of women were in the various stages of mixing and kneading dough to bake. Upon inquiry, my guide told me that on the 8th day after the death, the Muslim tradition is to make a special kind of gateau (cake) for all of the family to eat. I just happen to be there on that day. Ya know, once you took away all the bright-colored pagne, sitting mats and mud huts, it wasn’t much too different from our own way of funerals in America. Just family all meeting together to mourn and commemorate the death.
Two weeks after the death of the old chief, a board of important community members elected a new chief for the canton of Lara. He is only 27 and still a student at the university. I went to the election and it seemed like the majority of people were very pleased with this decision. It was only afterwards when I started hearing that he was too young and people must have bribed for the vote. I never know what to believe with the rumors here so we’ll see what decisions he makes for the village in the upcoming year.
The chief of the village is whom we call the Lamido. He is the big man, a grand, the head honcho of my village and a couple surrounding villages. I met him a couple times when I first arrived but it was easy to see he was very old and feeling it. His scrawny limbs rested on a mattress inside while I greeted him from the outside steps. At every fete, there was a chair dedicated to his place but it always remained empty. He was soon sent to Douala for medical reasons, after several months he returned to Lara in May to die within a week. I missed the funeral but knew it was customary to stop by the chief’s palace to give my condolences.
The palace of the Lamido.
I went one evening to find several large rugs placed outside in various spots filled with sitting Muslim men. It is how they show their respect for the dead, by sitting outside of the house for days and nights included. I can actually tell when there has been a death in the village by this act alone. Once I arrived, I realized my nervousness of not knowing what I was doing or what was protocol. I knew I should give my condolences but I didn’t want to insult the Muslim religion. Luckily I saw a man that I knew sitting down, the president of the parents’ association, so I walked toward him. He waved me over, refused to let me take my shoes off (another custom), exchanged greetings with me and offered up his son to lead me throughout the palace compound. I entered into a main room where several more men were sitting talking; I presume by the tone it was a serious discussion within family members. After greetings I was lead to the back of the compound and through a maze of walls and mud huts. Everywhere I looked there were groups of people, mostly women and children, doing various activities. I gave my condolences to the three wives of the deceased chief, who sat mourning quietly on mats, reminiscing in their heads. I made the mistake of offering my hand to the first wife, who refused and I immediately realized I offended her. The boy leading me around could see my embarrassment and told me not to worry about it but needless to say, I did not do it again with the next two wives. I greeted other groups of female family members who also sat on mats but chatted and gossiped and thanked me for coming. I saw other people walking around but was not sure of their purpose. As we came to the end of the tour, a large group of women were in the various stages of mixing and kneading dough to bake. Upon inquiry, my guide told me that on the 8th day after the death, the Muslim tradition is to make a special kind of gateau (cake) for all of the family to eat. I just happen to be there on that day. Ya know, once you took away all the bright-colored pagne, sitting mats and mud huts, it wasn’t much too different from our own way of funerals in America. Just family all meeting together to mourn and commemorate the death.
Two weeks after the death of the old chief, a board of important community members elected a new chief for the canton of Lara. He is only 27 and still a student at the university. I went to the election and it seemed like the majority of people were very pleased with this decision. It was only afterwards when I started hearing that he was too young and people must have bribed for the vote. I never know what to believe with the rumors here so we’ll see what decisions he makes for the village in the upcoming year.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)