O, Africa...

I meant to write about my day last night while soaking my feet and listening to the BBC - but once I started pumicing I had my hands full.

So I was on my way home from the health center, feeling especially sly and clever after evading a dozen 7 yr. olds by hiding behind someone's hut until they had run to the other side of the field yelling "Nasara! Ca va!" before realizing I had changed direction. Haha, suckers, I thought as I waved and continued happily unaccosted on my way. I actually felt proud for having outwitted a bunch of 2nd graders - this is what four years @ McGill has prepared me for.

Almost to my door I hear Aminata calling for me to come over. Across three courtyards and over a small field, "Come!" she yells repeatedly until I acquiese and trudge through the sand in her direction.

One recurring cultural phenomenon we've noticed is the prevailing theme of "too many chiefs and not enough indians." Accordingly if anyone in a group has the slighest bit more experience than anyone else than they are automatically the self-proclaimed expert. By using the phrase, 'Il faut que...''It is necessary that...' or by simply telling someone what to do it implies a sense of authority and wisdom on the part of whoever is doing the telling. This explains why I will never fix a hole in my own bike tire because within minutes of taking out my bike repair kit every boy over the age of 10 is magically also a handiman - and why Aminata feels perfectly justified in commanding me to come. She's in her own courtyard making her the chief, it's cultural I tell myself, as I assume the role of indian.

After the typical greetings she asks me if I'm going to watch the dancing. When? I ask. Right now, she says. I hesitate remembering my plans to go for a run, do some much needed laundry (this indian has been going commando) and wash the dishes form this morning - welcome to my world, thrilling, I know. I only hesitate a moment thanks to one friend's words of wisdom, "If you're ever invited to go somewhere, accept!" So I did. I dropped my bag off at home, locked the door and announced I was ready. Aminata decides to wait until I am done to tell me she has to change clothes. So we trudge back to her courtyard where I sit with her grandmother, making small talk and shaking hands all the while until Aminata announces it's time to go. Next we head over to her friend's courtyard to make one final costume change (she decided on the irridecent green mumu instead of the blue soccer jersey, good choice) and put on makeup. This entails taking a mini bottle of talcum powder, pouring it on an old t-shirt and rubbing it all over your face achieving a paler complexion and lovely, if not over overpowering, scent. Next comes the eyeliner in the form of charcoal mixed with water in an empty plastic cylinder. This concoction is applied around the eyes, tear-like lines under the eyes, and a dot between the eyes all using a toothipck sized stick. If I had one word to describe Burkinabe people, resourceful. I was then told to hold still as they played 'dress up the nasara' and gave me the blackhead looking dot and the prison style tear lines, but I was spared the eyeliner.

All glammed up we hit the trail and as we near the market center can hear the drums and whistle blowers getting louder. We come upon a circle three people thick with an oval space cleared in the middle for the dancers. In pairs they start from one end of the oval and using simple gestures keep time with the drums until they've reached the other end and then do a little catwalk to get back to the starting point. Two couples alternate this dance/fashion show increasing intricacy and rhythm of their movement with the increasing tempo of the drums. By the fifth turn the men are shaking in a full body "shimmy" and the drums are going full speed until it all cuts out and there is a few minutes pause before 2 new couples volunteer or are pulled out of the audience to participate. Throughout the catwalk dancing there is full on audience pariticipation as women throw their scarves to the man they choose and he carries/ wears them and continues to dance. Women and children intermittently walk in the arena to put candy or cigarettes in the dancer's hands to encourage them. At the end of each turn they drop the candy in a box in front of the drummers, but hold on to the cigarettes.

This is all a very well regulated event with 2 drummers banging on empty oil barrels with an animal hide stretched over the top. Then there's the two whistle blowers who helps keep the beat, motivate the crowd to clap and maintain the size of the dancing arena with long branches that sing through the air as they whip the ground along the border and consequently any child sitting too close to the edge. There is always a frenzy as they reinforce the periphery and the crowd resembles a punk rock mosh pit where the average age is 9. Standing next to Aminata I am trying to decide if someone is grabbing my butt on purpose before realizing it is just my western concept of personal space that has no merit here as Aminata spits in her friend's face for throwing her scarf in the ring and still laughing, her friend spits back. I can't help but smile and apply my former residence's national anthem to modern times, "O, Africa."