Tea Time

I couldn’t conceive of this country in the absence of tea. Tea is the catalyst of conversation. Any conversation outside of tea is mere small talk, or, simply, the recurring, obligatory greeting (how’s your family, your husband, your wife, your siblings, your children, your neighbours, etc). Malians in my town will joke sardonically that no one can find work so there is nothing else to do, but make tea. But, they’ll also tell you seriously that tea offers the occasion to have more meaningful conversation, it opens the table for discussion. I feel that we are often told as Westerners that there are many taboo topics in Africa, particularly in regards to sex. There is always the concern that these taboos hinder development in areas such as health. I’m sure this has been very true in the past and is still very relevant in the bush. In my large town, when I sit down to have tea with a group of people, I’m asked first if I’m married as a way of gauging where the discussion can lead – in the presence of a married woman, there are topics to steer clear of, out of respect. But, I do want to point out that ‘sex as a taboo topic in Africa’ is a bit of a blanket statement. Deep in the bush, in very traditional villages, NGO’s carry out theatrical skits against female genital cutting (FGC) - or female genital mutilation, the not as politically correct term. Furthermore, in my town, when tea is present, far from finding the topic of sex taboo, I find it’s exactly what I’m often asked about. People ask me about HIV/AIDS or condoms (which pleases me because contraceptive use is something around 7% here according to a UN stat.). Or, for example, the other day I greeted a young man in passing who invited me to tea. I sat down with him and his two friends. We exchanged names. The second boy asked me ‘I furulendon’ Are you married? ‘N ma furu folo’ No, not married. (Note: all topics open for discussion.) The third gentleman asked me with sincere curiosity (and in French now), “Do you know what causes impotence in men?” Not sure if that falls under my ‘expertise’ as a health volunteer.

In addition (in this little attempt to invert the common notion of a taciturn sub-Saharan Muslim country), I should add that I can pose any question to people I feel close to. I’ve had very detailed discussions about religious beliefs, conceptions on love, opinions and practices in relation to FGC, on polygamy and relations between multiple wives. And I think I have yet to cause offense. The only barrier hindering my curiosity is my lack of proficiency in French and Bambara.

Back to tea….Malians have a very unique way with their tea. They use little glass cups, two small tea kettles, and a tray. They pour the tea into the glasses from about a few feet in the air. Then, they pour it back in the kettle, and then back into the glasses. This is repeated over and over again to create a frothy, bubbly top layer. There are 3 rounds of tea (each consisting of about 2-3 sips per person) usually over a couple hours before starting with fresh leaves. The hum of pouring, the little clank of the glasses and kettle on the tray…these sounds are so constant, that sometimes when I’m dozing, I hear them in my head even when there tea is not present.

Most afternoons I’ll take my tea in one of two places. If I’m at home, I sit outside with a couple girlfriends. I never make tea because I don’t have the technique or a steady hand. Therefore, one of my friends will make the tea, while the other shifts shells over a woven mat predicting our futures and discussing problems occurring in the present. Quite comically, not one thing said has ever been true, unless it was something that I knew was prior knowledge. More often, I spend the afternoons in my second home, with my second Malian family (just a short bike ride away). It has been my safe-haven from my first week at site. I realized recently why I feel so at home there. It's a bit of a circus; a home for misfits like myself. First of all, a female is the head of the family, which is very rare. The 63 year old slightly physically handicapped woman was my first friend here (I’ll call her Ami). She has two adult sons; one is an existentialist/humanist/Rastafarian, the other, a conservative Muslim knowledgeable in the mystics of Islam. He’s convinced I know the real name of Moses’ mother, and that if I just shared this truth, would convey onto him such power as the ability to teleport (or ‘apparate’ like in Harry Potter). Ami also has four adopted children (one, I’m told, was found buried in the dirt with just his foot exposed). Ami’s orphaned niece lives there as well; she’s a little person. Another female tenant, clearly well into her third trimester, is still denying she’s pregnant. Ami’s 80 year old mother, who recently lost her husband, is confined to the house for 4 months and 10 days (as custom dictates for widows) wearing only navy blue cloth. And finally, the latest addition to the family, a deaf mute sex worker who was arrested by the police for nearly throwing her newborn into the river. Of course, Ami has adopted her newborn as well. Then, there’s me...as I practically live there. I’m still mystified by the forces at play that have led to this random American girl to share in the life of this particular Malian town.


...one last addition...homosexuality really is a taboo topic, as are masks (that ones takes some further explanation on superstituous beliefs particular to my region). It's hard to get any opinion on the former. I asked my friend Ami her thoughts and she said she had none, that was the first time she had ever talked about it.

Ramadan

Well into Ramadan...in a Muslim country such as Mali, I would have expected to find life drastically altered on account of this ninth month of the lunar year. Certainly life has quieted (aside from the call to prayer which seems to have lengthened and amplified in sound). People are driven inside particularly when the sun is out on account of the fasting which bans drinking fluids and even swallowing one’s saliva. So I decided to fast as well for a number of reasons, mainly just to see what life's like for millions of people on this Earth right now. I have to say, it’s been a lot of fun. It’s a good conversation topic, it’s cozy eating around the communal bowl under the stars and then going back to bed, and I love getting special treatment at the end of the day when the fast is broken. We break it with some hot tea made with fresh local leaves, fried dough balls, porridge, followed by a main course. After the first day, I was told that to fast and not pray was pointless. So, I learned how to pray as well. With just the Fatiha, one surat of the Koran, its possible to pray as a Muslim. I learned the seven Arabic lines, and the rest was simple; the correct way to perform ablutions, how to dress, kneel, touch one’s head to the ground, etc.

I can only admit to adhering strictly to the traditions for one day. I woke up at 3:40am to eat, went back to sleep at 5am, was rudely awoken at 6:30am to pray again. Went back to bed, woke up at 8am to bike to work. Prayed at 2:00 and 4:30, then biked an hour back home. Broke fast around 6:45pm, prayed at home immediately after, and again around 7ish. The final prayer of the day involved me getting dressed in traditional African dress + head covering, going to mosque with some friends, and performing 17 cycles of prayer (that’s touching my head to the ground 34 times). I’d like to note that I had asked a couple imams before that day if it was disrespectful to pray and go to mosque even though I wasn’t Muslim. Their response was to the contrary.

So I was a strict Muslim for a day, which reminds me how I’ve also played the part of a Sufi and Rastafarian. Ok, I didn’t do anything Rastafarian like, except give in to a couple friends insisting on braiding my hair. It took 10 hours over three days to braid the two meters of black fake hair into my own. One of the more painful experiences of my life. I tore it all out after two weeks in a moment of fury due to the itchiness – and lost half my head of real hair along with it. Anyway, everyone in town loved it, ‘it made me look beautiful.’ Incorrect. And it's not a question of subjectivity. I looked like an aged Rasta man.

ok, here's proof:

As for the Sufi role...Sufism is a mystical version of Islam. I encountered it first in Turkey, and I believe the mainstream image of Sufism is of whirling dervishes on the Anatolian plateau. I was thus excited to learn Sufism was practiced in Mali as well. I’d been told a Sufi chief lived just outside my town so one day I decided to pay a visit. He lived in a cave and hadn’t left the immediate area for 13 years. For 7 of those years, he was supposedly solitary. But he had since gathered a following and it had developed into a Sufi camp. I found the camp after a 30 minute stroll over flat-faced rocks with views of the Niger. I met the chief, seated on a mat in front of the cave, surrounded by young pupils and stacks of Korans. It would have perfectly fit my image of some tribal area on the blurred border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, but for the cell phones and large cylindrical flourescent bulb fitted to the rock face (powered by car battery).

Anyway, the chief was dressed in white shreds of cloth and had a great head of dreads. Very friendly, unassuming guy. He invited me to join their prayer session so I followed him into a fairly large cave where 30+ men sat on sheepskins with Koranic verses in hand. The chief sat at the back of the cave and the prayer commenced. Every man was reading the verses so fast that a hypnotizing hum rose in the air. It was stifling hot inside the cave. Sweat was pouring down from under my scarf-clad head. The chief appeared to be in his own altered state of consciousness, prayer beads in hand, dazed, his head kept dropping as though he was falling asleep, the boy standing next to him fanning him with increased fervor. At varying intervals, a man would shout something and everyone crossed their arms across their chests and touched their foreheads to the ground. I’ve been back a couple times since, but just to greet the chief and his wife in particular…we’ve taken a liking to each other...or maybe she just has me in mind as the future wife of her son.

More on the month of Ramadan...
On the 10th day, began a special part of the holiday known as Sala wali wali. Not completely sure of the significance, but for three nights the streets were teeming with gangs of children. Female groups carried a simple traditional instrument – a calabash set like a half dome over a bucket of water and a stick to drum with. At each house, they would hold a short performace and, in return, were given some spare change or dry couscous. Male groups went around with their faces painted white, large sticks in hand, and gave slightly more dramatic performances. One group arrived at my doorstep dressed in drag, the plump little boy leading the song and dance was dressed as a pregnant woman. I normally never give money out, but this particular kid made me laugh so hard I thought at least he'd earned it. All in all, I’d say this was the closest equivalent I’ve seen of Halloween outside of the US, except by the third night some of the older groups had become so competitive that fights broke out in passing. Then again, I’m sure I socked my brother once over a pack of Smartie's.