The African Bath

I'm seated in the courtyard of a modest cement house that is surrounded by mud huts that are all about the same size and colour. I'm contemplating how I'll ever meander my way back to the one assigned as my sleeping quarters, the one where we deposited all our baggage.

hummm .......... didn't I walk through a patch of corn to get here ?

No matter. It's all good, so very, very good ! 

My three travelling companions and I have just passed a very long night travelling from Guinea's capital of Conakry into the interior of the country and eventually finding ourselves in this charming village of Komboyu. We came by bush-taxi. I'm not sure how many miles we covered but it took roughly 14 hours. In many areas, road conditions were so poor, we moved at a snail's pace.  I think I could safely say, had we had good roads for the duration of the trip, we might easily have arrived in half the time. Truly true ! And to add to the total pleasure of the journey, we were literally crammed into a passenger van designed to seat 12, comfortably.  There were 17 of us, seated UNcomfortably; oh yes, 18 counting the baby. But who was counting. (probably only me !!!)

Gosh, life is taking place all around me; lots of kids, hens with chicks in tow, baby goats bouncing and butting one another, ducks with ducklings scurrying through the dust being kicked up by a rambunctious group of boys ...

they giggle and laugh behind clenched-fits-to-mouths at this 'fote' (white person).
            
I have become the entertainment of the moment.

Bintou calls to me and I turn in the direction of her voice. She's holding a brightly colored plastic bucket; "m'fafe-na" (Come) ! I rise and follow her, leaving lambs, chicks, ducklings, and kids behind, past the two young girls pounding rice in a mortar with pestles larger in diameter than their skinny little arms ...

pound  - pound - pound -  pound

No wonder these people are so full of rhythm,
everything they do is with rhythm !

Bintou places the bucket in the center of a grass enclosure that's about 5 ft. in diameter; I can just see over the tops of the fronds in places. She ties a piece of fabric splattered in a riot of color and African patterns at the door to afford me privacy. I look up into cloudless blue sky and catch a glimpse of ripening avocados on the neighbours tree.

I bend and scoop up a cup full of delicious warm water .... the perfect African bath !

Surely I've died and gone to heaven.  Truly-true.

I Am A Girl

bright, able, soft-spoken, out-spoken,

                

serious, spirited, adventurous, curious and strong.

I am me.

I follow.  I learn.  I lead.  I teach.

I change my clothes, my hair, my music and my mind.

I have a voice that speaks, ideas to stand on 

and a world to step up to.

I matter.  And so does she.  

She may look different and talk different, but she is like me.  

She is a girl.

And together we will rise up. 

Because while we are strong, together we are stronger.

And together, our voices will change our world.

You see a girl.

WE SEE THE FUTURE

Peanuts and tea

POP - POP - POP - POP

flying fingers, nimble fingers, tiny fingers

I'm watching a group of children shelling peanuts; harvest must be good as there seems to be peanuts everywhere I turn! Mostly spread out upon sheets of plastic on the ground drying in the hot sun.  I join the children, taking a seat beside them.  They're delighted and eager to show me their simple technique; up-end the peanut between thumb and forefinger and give it a good whack on the cement. Voila! I'm soon keeping up with the fray but eagerly cast any nut that doesn't co-operate with me back into the bowl.  This affords them a chance to show me up, which I happily let them do.  We've soon made short-order of emptying the contents of the bowl and one of the little girls sweeps the entire kit-and-kaboodle into a shallow, woven tray.  She bends at the waist and with her tray canted at a slight angle proceeds to toss the contents into the air; here's that rhythm-thing going on again 

up-down ..... up-down ..... up-down .......

Soon chaff and shell is blown away, leaving only the peanuts in her tray.

She feels generous and offers her tray to Abou who is in the process of pouring Attaya into 5 tiny glasses, each glass already half-full of a creamy froth.  Attaya, that strong, sweet tea prepared and shared wherever men gather for a chat.  It's a tradition and I don't think you'd be considered a good African man if you hadn't mastered the art of preparing a good Attaya (but that's just a personal opinion).

And it certainly seems that a good 'froth' is as important to a glass of Attaya as a good 'froth' is to a glass of Guinness. 

As Abou pours the liquid into the glass the froth rises to the top; he takes the peanuts offered and drops 3 or 4 into each glass.  It's going to be good Attaya today and I'm offered the first drink !  Now it's not uncommon for these little glasses to appear as though they haven't seen soap and hot water in a 'month-of-Sundays' because they probably haven't; as a matter of fact, there are always more men than cups and you'll generally be served two glasses of tea of an afternoon.  So the little glasses go round and round and round and round, a little swish, a little swirl of cold water and off they go to the next guest. 

The making of Attaya

I've been served Attaya by total strangers in the market place, along side the road at taxi stops, under trees and awnings, in the rain and in the sun but it's most common to be served amongst friends.  I will never refuse an invitation to drink Attaya for it's truly a type of communion, an invitation to come and partake; you're one of us!  

WONTANARA !  We are together !