Call me an American-African. I think I am becoming Malian...

Dancing with the villagers during Daouda's wedding 'dunun' (traditional drumming). (Thanks to Dan with Engineers without Borders for the picture.)

Since the time I was last in Ségou for regional in-service training and Easter, it has been a busy and incredibly enjoyable time for me socially in village. I have always felt that I have been well-integrated into the community, but during this time I have made it to a level I never thought possible, to a point where this village truly feels like home, as I have made many friends that will remain with me long after I leave Mali.

During this period, I have hardly opened a book to read, which is a stark departure from the blistering rate at which I had been reading previously. I have spent all my time either working on projects or, primarily, socializing with members of the community. My language has improved to a level where I now feel fluent, which has allowed me to have conversations with the villagers on a similar level as I can with Americans.

Over the past several months, I have gotten particularly close to the young men of about my age in the quartier (region) of the village I live in. Daouda, one of these young men who is also a member of the Water and Sanitation Committee we just formed, as well as one of the men on the village's Pump Team, has become one of my best friends. His uncle had arranged a marriage with a girl from another nearby village, Sarata, approximately three years ago.

In the Bamanan culture, marriage is traditionally arranged by the young man's father, who must make a payment to the father of the wife-to-be. Daouda's father had died when he was very young, so that responsibility shifted to his uncle, who made the payment over three annual installments. The full price was paid off last year, opening the way for the wedding this season.

Prior to holding the wedding, the groom must build his new wife a house. I helped Daouda in doing this, by assisting in building the mud walls, compacting the dirt base for the floor with a wooden paddle, and mixing/laying concrete for the floor. His house was completed last Friday, May 6th, allowing him to hold his 'kɔnyɔn' (wedding ceremony) beginning the following Sunday night, lasting through late Monday afternoon.

I have previously provided a detailed post about how weddings are traditionally held in my village, so I will stick with providing only the details of my specific role in the proceedings.

In the weeks leading up to the ceremony, Daouda had asked me to be a 'kɔnyɔncɛ' for his wedding. This term is tough to translate, as it really has two meanings. 'Kɔnyɔn' means wedding ceremony, and 'cɛ' means man. Hence Daouda is the 'kɔnyɔncɛ' since he is the man to be married. But the 'kɔnyɔncɛ' also traditionally asks one to four of his best friends to go to the village of the 'kɔnyɔnmuso,' the wife-to-be, on the night of the 'kɔnyɔn' to take her to his village. These friends also go by the name 'kɔnyɔncɛ.'

Tayluru, another good friend in the village, and I were to take a 'wɔtɔrɔ' (donkey cart) to Sarata's village to perform this task. Since Engineers without Borders had just come to our village in a 'bashɛ' (small shabby bus/van) to work on the fish pond, we actually convinced the 'bashɛ' driver to take us. So Tayluru and I, along with another friend, Baysa, who joined us at the last minute, made the trip out to Sarata's village on Sunday night.

We arrived early thanks to the speedy transportation, and chatted with local villagers until the time arrived. Just before 1AM, we took the 'bashɛ' into the center of the village, where mainly a large crowd of women, but also some men and children, were gathered. Tayluru was given a gourd bowl, which he placed under one of the 'bashɛ's rear tires such that it would break as we drove away. We then had to fend off women who were trying to secure a free ride in the 'bashɛ' back to our village, so Tayluru finally stood guard at the door, only opened to a crack. We cleared an aisle through the street to allow the 'kɔnyɔnmuso' a travel-way.

As we were waiting for her arrival, the surrounding women kept reiterating what I had been previously told by people in Makili, that as a 'kɔnyɔncɛ' I would be asked to complete a task chosen by the women of the 'kɔnyɔnmuso's family. We would not be permitted to take Sarata until this task is done. The task in question, I was told, would be to roll in the dirt three times from where we stood to the Sarata's location, where she would be seated against a wall, and back.

Several minutes later, I heard a woman making an unnatural screaming sound similar to a police siren. A woman, Sarata, emerged covered from head-to-toe in white fabric, such that she could not see and was completely hidden from view. She was escorted by a couple of elder women, and an uncle who gave her to Tayluru and I.

Tayluru carefully helped her into the front row of the passenger compartment. Immediately thereafter, the women surrounding the 'bashɛ' began fighting their way in, and Baysa, Tayluru, and I quickly had to make sure we had a spot back home. I was taking blows from elbows, knees, and babies strapped to their mothers' backs during the struggle.

I believe that the 'rolling on the ground' part of the tradition was scrapped due to this ensuing may-lay. So we drove off, now with cargo of twenty additional women as Sarata continued to scream and wail for the duration of the ride.

Once back in Makili, we passed through the area near the pump where women were dancing to the traditional drumming of the 'dunun' as we crossed into the quiet center of the village. There, we let the women out, placed a white cloth against a wall, and sat Sarata indian-style upon the cloth. There they waited for Daouda's mother to come and lead them back to her house as we headed back to the 'dunun.'

The 'dunun' was status quo as I described in a previous post, with an organized dance circle about the drummers, until about 4AM. At that time, something just seemed to go off in the minds of the women.

A woman got up, wearing two sandals sticking up like rabbit ears from the sides of her head, tied with a headwrap, and danced wobbly back and forth with a blank stare on her face. The other women soon followed her lead. So we ended up with a large group of women, who as if in a drunken stooper, wobbled to and fro with no organization and flustered looks on their faces.

One sandal popped out, and a woman picked it up for her and slammed it back into place while pulling her head from front to back. Several women raised her arms in praise. One woman was dancing with an open bowl of water balanced on her head. She spilled half of the water onto the head of another woman, but both continued dancing anyways.

One woman brought out a wooden container and a large-diameter wooden stick that they use to pound millet out onto the dance area. The container was filled with water, and the woman aggressively pounded the water with the beat, casting water off to all sides. One particularly energetic woman was given a long string of beads, and began swinging it wildly, nearly decapitating one of my host mothers as she danced by.

The 'dununtigiw' (traditional drummers) at Daouda's 'kɔnyɔn' (wedding ceremony). (Thanks to Helen with Engineers without Borders for the picture.)

It was a wild scene, continuing until about 4:45am, and my friends and I just could not stop laughing. I've been joking with them ever since that, despite alcohol being forbidden in muslim culture, their women must be partaking in secret.

I slept for less than an hour before waking and sitting with Daouda and other men, chatting and drinking coffee inside a house that Daouda was banned from leaving throughout the duration of his wedding. In America, it is often said that weddings are more for your friends' benefit than for your own. Here in Mali, that is truly the case. He was not permitted to watch any of the music or dancing. My day was spent primarily in this house socializing with Daouda and other people, while eating several large meals of rice, sauce, and beef. During midday, the second round of 'dunun' was performed, which I thoroughly enjoyed dancing to.

Dancing with the villagers during Daouda's wedding 'dunun' (traditional drumming). (Thanks to Dan with Engineers without Borders for the picture.)

Around 4PM, some of the other young men called me over to where many sheets of fabric were being kept that were gifted to Daouda. We all draped the fabric across our shoulders and heads, and I was told we needed to show them to the 'cɛkɔrɔbaw' (elder men). We walked into the village to where the men were seated, and they said that the fabric was very nice, then said a long string of blessings over said fabric. These blessings did not particularly involve the fabric, but were traditional marriage blessings, such as 'may God grant you many children' or 'may swindles not interfere.'

Throughout this week, the villagers have been constantly discussing my role in the wedding. People have been frequently going up to me to thank me for what I have done, saying that I have done good work, calling me a good person, and saying that I am no longer a 'Toubabu' or an 'American,' but a 'Malian.' These acts have definitely earned me a large measure of respect within the village.

While pumping water one afternoon this week, I found Sarata waiting by the pump. She told me that since I am her 'kɔnyɔncɛ,' if I need anything I can ask her to do it and she must obey me as if I am her husband. This stems from the tradition where the family gives her to the 'kɔnyɔncɛw,' who then give her to the husband. So in affect, I was given a wife, and even though I later passed her along, she is still obligated to me, so says the culture. Except, as I was told, in bed.

While seated with Daouda the day following the wedding, he told me a joke that I find hilarious in the context of this country. Please note that this was said completely in jest. I was sitting with Daouda, Sarata, and friends in his concession the day after the wedding. Daouda pointed out a woman from Sarata's village, Batoma, who was walking by and asked me if I knew her name. He said her name is 'warimisɛnto' (which means change - in the context of money). I asked why, and he said that when you pay too much for your wife, the family will send you another woman as the change. Everyone laughed, including Batoma, who smiling, waved her finger at me while vehemently denying it.

With my participation in the traditional ceremonies this wedding season, my continued work with the Water and Sanitation Committee, the Women's Garden Committee, and the fish pond, and my improved language skills, which have resulted in numerous friendships, I find that I have attained a strong position in the village. Much of this is due to the cultural differences, which encourage a much stronger since of community than is found in the West. I am thoroughly enjoying my time here and cannot wait to see what new experiences await me as my service here continues.