Voyage au Village

Our training group is split into two very distinct groups: those of us who can speak French, and those of us who cannot speak French. The non-speakers, like myself, are mostly secondary education volunteers. We are learning French, which we will use in the classroom, and teaching techniques. The French speakers are all girls education and empowerment (GEE) volunteers; they are spending training learning local languages so that they can better communicate with families in the villages. These trainees are getting an extra dose of cultural assimilation by living in rural villages while the SE volunteers live in the relative luxury of the city.

Last night many of the SE volunteers visited GEE volunteers in their villages. We left for village K around 6pm. Despite the complaints from the “village people” as we lovingly call the GEE trainees, the bike ride was quite nice. We followed the main road (gravel) for about 15 minutes after leaving the city then turned off into the bush. Really, there are only two ways to know where to turn: a pole about 50m before the turn, and a large hill in the distance. Once you are on the road, you can tell that it is a path, but if you didn’t know it was a path, it would be very easy to miss. The next half hour took us towards and around the hill and into K. It’s really a beautiful ride. The landscape is well-populated with trees and brush. You can see forever but can make out no villages or huts. The sky was a mixture of purples and pinks with a perfectly circular setting sun and a lightening storm brewing in the distance.

K has a population of 285 people and is geographically composed of five or six groups of huts, about 5-10 minutes walk from each-other. C, my trainee hostess, lives in the group of huts furthest from the main road, so we had a 10 minute ride after saying goodbye to the other village people.

Once we arrived at her hut circle, we met C’s extended family. She had a dad, two moms, and a bunch of siblings/cousins/who knows what. They were all extremely excited to see me and M, C’s other guest for the night, and we were promptly ushered to meet the elders. Due to the looming storm, our introductions were cut short, and we ate a quick dinner. C’s brother makes all of her food, and I am surprised to say that dinner (rice with a sauce of cabbage, tomatoes, and onions) in the village was one of the best meals I’ve had since burgers and beer with my real family in Minneapolis. As we ate, we watched the storm come in. The wind picked up, and it started to drizzle. I felt completely at ease, completely peaceful in the serenity of the village- cows, goats, and chickens clucking all over. Donkeys next door.

Actually, the cows and goats made me a bit jittery. They practically ate dinner with us, and when I went to take a bucket bath, I had to chase three goats out of the shower. But I could get used to it.

M, C, and I hid in C’s hut as soon as the storm began. We were quickly joined by ten relatives and began a ridiculous game of “Go Fish” en francais. After “Go Fish”, the locals taught us a game similar to “Crazy Eights” or “Uno”. It went very well until the end of the first round when we were counting up points based on the cards we had left in our hand. C had an ace; they gave her 11 points. OK so far. I had a 5, 10, and 2. After much debate, the family decided my cards were worth 37 points. Huh? I told them that I am a math teacher and their point system makes no sense. They didn’t seem to care and just laughed it off without an explanation. After the second or third round, we decided that the white people were getting “nasara points” similar to the inflated prices we pay as foreigners in the market.

When the storm died down, we decided to make the trek to Y’s to enjoy the box of wine one of the trainees had purchased at the supermarket (don’t get too excited, the supermarket is about the size of my bedroom). C had been in the village for two weeks and knew the way to Y’s hut, right? Nope. She had it narrowed down to “somewhere over there…or over there”. Good. We set off into the pitch dark Sahel with our flashlights and goblets (for the wine, of course) after politely declining an escort. Sand. Trees. Bushes? Pretty soon we could see neither our starting point nor our destination. Luckily Y’s family saw our flashlights and came to get us. We weren’t too far off target…

We joined the rest of the nasara club sitting on straw mats in front of Y’s hut. The wine was decent, but the company was better. We were surrounded by 15-20 members of Y’s family, talking to each-other, laughing, and watching the crazy nasara. A little ways away cows, goats, and donkeys said their good nights. The wind blew, and lightening flashed in the distance. After a short visit, Y’s family told us that we must leave because the rain was coming. From what we could see it was still a beautiful night. However, when they told us a second and third time, we decided that they (the locals) have never been wrong about the weather. They have timing down to within minutes.

C, M, and I took off across the fields. We hadn’t gone more than 100m when Y’s family started yelling. Apparently we were drifting too far left. We corrected our course and walked uninterrupted for another few paces before cries of “Nasara, nasara, a DROIT” drifted across the fields, telling us to correct our trajectory yet again. Glad to know they’re looking out for us. C’s circle of huts magically appeared in front of us, and we made it inside with seconds to spare before the rain. Never question the locals.