Chapter 1: Henna!
We called Mama’s favorite artist in for henna on our feet. With surgical tape and a razor blade (which made me very nervous before I saw how graceful with it she was) she sliced little strips of tape into beautiful designs on my feet. Then she coated my entire food in a cakey henna mixture and tied up my feet in the small black plastic bags that unfortunately cover on the streets of Sikoroni. She was an artist who wouldn’t even allow herself distracted by her little infant crawling around, getting henna on his forehead, and attempting to distract her the entire time. She spent about an hour on each of us- Caitlin, Julie, Cari, and I- and wouldn’t stop for a break or even eat the food Cari bought for her. After being incapacitated for a few hours, with plastic bags on our feet (Caitlin and I watched Sense and Sensibility), we began the long process of pulling off all the tape and scraping off the henna. The artist had wanted us to put on the second chemical after the natural henna- the dye that all the Malian women use so that their henna appears black. But according to the Peace Corps Volunteers, the black dye is also used for rat poison, so we all went with the natural henna color. All the Malian women that see my henna stop me and ask me why the jaba (henna) looks so orange. It’s just not worth trying to figure out how to explain in Bambara that I was trying to avoid poisoning my feet.
Chapter 2: The Cortège
At eight o’clock, the morning of the wedding, all the preparations were still in progress. The massive orange tent was still being lifted up by a group of teenagers to cover the entire street in front of the house, at least a dozen women were cooking rice in the largest iron pots I’ve ever seen in the field to the side of the house, and Mama was entertaining early arrivals without even having changed into her dress outfit. More and more family members and friends decked out in their most ornate Malian prints kept pouring into the courtyard, and Mama served everyone breakfast. She smiled and tore everyone off a chunk of bread, to be eaten with spoonfuls of mayonnaise, and handed out cups of coffee Malian style; lukewarm, intensely sweetened milk, with a small spoonful of Nescafé stirred in.
Suddenly, every one began filing out of the courtyard and packing into waiting cars, motos and sotramas (green buses) lined up outside the house. Niang had ordered a car for us, and since it came with two drivers for some reason, the five of us piled in the back seat. We were close behind Niang’s car, a massive white SUV, so we had a pretty coveted spot in the cortège. As soon as everyone had managed to pack themselves into a car or hop on the back of a moto, the cortège was off, honking and almost causing several accidents along the way. The line of cars drove through the Sikoroni market and about two minutes past the market, to Masi’s family home. In following the tradition of avoiding any pretence of privacy, we had only gone about a quarter mile but had managed to cause traffic jam and alert everyone in the quartier of Niang’s wedding. In Mali, double-checking the guest list is imperative, by nine o’clock that morning, everyone who somehow had’nt noticed the gaudy orange tent in the street had finally seen the cortège and realized they were missing out on the wedding of the summer.
At Massi’s, everyone tumbled out of the cars and into her family courtyard. No one really knew where to go (or at least I didn’t), so we sort of all packed into the courtyard to wait for Massi, and people began handing out sodas, until Massi was ready to hop into the white SUV and the cortege took off.
Chapter 3: Town Hall- A Place to be Seen
Five different corteges converged and the town hall, and the guests of five different weddings piled into the Salle des Fêtes (party room) of the mayor’s office. Five brides lined up, five veiled women wearing sparkling white gowns alternating with five beaming men in Western suits. The families crowded around them, but closest off all were the griots. Each wedding party came equipped with about four of them, and they began to get a little competitive in their singing when confronted by such a large and eager audience. The griots began to sing praises almost aggressively, and would elbow guests out of the way, pressing forward to almost shout their congratulations in the faces of the newlyweds.
The town hall was full of the most amazing brows and hairstyles I’ve seen in Mali. This was the chance to flaunt your hairdresser’s skill in creating a peacock-like sculpture on your head, and at the same time block everyone else’s view of the ceremony. A lot of women had their eyebrows painted in to match the color of their hair weave (purple was a popular choice) and others had gotten even more creative, adding sequins or tiny star jewels to their eyebrow design.
After about an hour, everyone began to grow tired of the griots, and the marriage processions all filed out of the hall. I think every single bride was sobbing as she walked out. Our cortege did a few laps around the mayor’s office, and finally our driver took us back to Masi’s, where one party was starting with dancers and koura players, and finally back to Niang’s.
Chapter 4: Back at Niang’s
I was relieved to see Mama was in her full splendor, in a flowing bessin complet, with an elaborate headdress to match by the time we had returned. (I think this means that she missed her son’s wedding in order to get dressed up.) When we had arrived back at Niang’s all of the chaos of the morning had disappeared. The guests flowed out of the sotramas, and immediately two dancers began to perform under the orange tent.
We were given fluorescent looking frozen plastic bags of pineapple juice. Normally, I never would have eaten something that probably will make my liver glow-in-the dark, but it was so hot, that anything frozen was amazing. We sat in tiny metal chairs that were dispersed through the courtyard, and watched the Senegalese dancers. Soon, the riz au gras (fried rice) began appearing in massive metal bowls from behind the house. The rice supply seemed endless, and a long line of women kept handing bowls through the crowd. Each bowl was enough food for about eight guests, so instead of having assigned seats at wedding tables, it was more like choose your own rice bowl, and bon appetit.
Chapter 5: The Real Party at the Boulangerie
Niang called Caitlin, and told us all to come down the street, to the newly opened boulangerie. To call it a boulangerie is an overstatement. Although the building has paintings of baguettes, croissants and delicious looking patisseries, it only serves one item-Malian style baguettes that are decent compared to most Malian food, but are essentially just Wonder Bread trying to masquerade as French bread. Anyway, the boulangerie has been under construction all summer, and I was dying to go in. There was definitely some miscommunication along the way, because there was no wedding cake, but we walked past the kitchen of the boulangerie, and in the courtyard, found the real wedding party. Behind the façade of the Boulangerie Moderne there was a courtyard with a dance floor, a DJ, and hundreds of chairs surrounding it. The entire courtyard was covered by straw canopés, and was filled with all of Niang and Masi’s young friends. Apparently, we had spent most of the day at Niang’s family party and had almost missed the real dancing and the party the bride and groom actually enjoyed themselves at.
Niang’s younger friends started breakdancing and as we sat and watched, we had dessert. Who needs wedding cake when you can have popcorn and prawn chips?
Chapter 6: The Konyoso
No comments:
Post a Comment