The Boring Village

Monday 22 January

It is day 13 of nationwide strikes. Give up your Presidential power is the cry. As I was riding the5 km to use the nearby radio to check in with Peace Corps, I thought, I have seen my village. I have tasted its food. I have sat through its ceremonies, its deaths, it births, its religious rituals. I have experienced its generosity and hospitality. I have shopped in its market. I have played with its children and talked with its old. I have experienced a small part of Africa.

Is it time to leave? It isn’t as strange as I would have assumed sitting in the U.S. I haven’t eaten any insects, danced around any fires, seen any elaborate costumes, or strange ceremonies.

There isn’t any magic here in this village.

Today was a scheduled nationwide gathering to show the strength of the striking people. I asked if the village was doing anything. No way. We are in the country, not in the city was the reply.

Sitting on my porch on a stool, the floor as my table, scrubbing the dishes, I heard a distant drum. I have only heard a drum one other time when the village was called to pray during the end of Ramadan. Was this second drumming a call having to do with the strikes?

The children started jumping with excitement chanting, “Caillou, Caillou.”

Do I really want to go transport rocks from the hillsides to the courtyard of the mosque? I have nothing else better to do. Plus wouldn’t it be cool to leave something behind once I left Africa? How about a bowl full of rocks?

I followed some of my male students carrying a bowl of red stones upon my shoulder. I was afraid of the weight upon my head. At the mosque, I saw every familiar face of the village, everyone excited, everyone with a thank you upon their lips. I did two more trips with some of my female students, walking 500 yards to the hillsides, squatting in the brown dry terrain, gathering bauxite to fill the courtyard. The men enthusiastically grabbed my bowl spreading the rocks in the sacred yard, an area bigger than half a football field. Then I rested under a tree with 50 other females sitting on our overturned bowls.

I watched as 30 old women passed us bowls of rock upon their heads singing in Arab, one voice answered by the many. As they exited, they goaded us for sitting and I rose with the principal’s wife, Binta, to continue on with the group.

Reaching the hillside, we split off in multiple directions finding a spot rich with rocks. I followed the principal’s wife and we quickly filled our bowls. As I shoulder it to take off, she said, “Wait. We’ll wait here.”

The women regathered and then there was an uproar, a clucking of hens. I asked Binta to translate. She said, “Everyone’s yelling ‘Wait. Wait,’” scolding as one lone woman started to take off. When a mass of women had gathered, we started a slow steady walk, a tight group. I was in the middle of the tall female strength gazing between the pots of rock upon their heads, the towers of the mosque looming ahead. It was in that moment that I felt the magic of a community effort to build our mosque, finding the pleasure in being.

It isn’t the time to leave my village yet. There is more magic to be found.