Spit

Thursday July 1, 2010:

Bryan and I woke up earlier than we might have otherwise. Our tent was pitched within the small ring of huts, and by six o'clock the world outside was stirring. When we emerged, Abdul's wife was sitting on the ground by the embers of a fire preparing the first batch of coffee of the day while her children played around her. Like coffee everywhere in this great country, every cup begins with green coffee beans. Abdul's wife picked coals out of the fire as mindlessly as if she were selecting dates out of a pile of fruit and tossed them into a pan with the beans. She then shook the pan back and forth, coaxing the beans over the coals until they were roasted evenly on all sides. The beans were then poured into a wooden mortar along with a piece of cinnamon bark and pounded with a shaft of discarded metal from an old tractor. From this point on the coffee was poured into a clay pot of boiling water and filtered back through plant fibers several times until the scalding black liquid found its way into our waiting porcelain cups with two inches of sugar at the bottom. I am not a big coffee drinker, but even I have to appreciate the finesse with which such a beverage is treated and how brilliant the results. Bryan thinks he's in heaven.
Although Garin was not set to begin until the following evening, we wanted to make an appearance at the mountain where it was to be held and present our gifts of coffee and sugar to the elders before the big occasion. Already neighbors and passers-by were chattering about who was coming in from where and how no one was going to sleep for days on end. You could feel the excitement.
We drove to the mountain nearby with Abdul which involved a fair amount of off-roading and ducking from thorn branches. As we passed through a relief of an open space we noticed a group of men sitting under a massive baobab tree on the far edge of the field. The shadow they sat in blurred features but even from a distance I could see bare skin, fur and feathers. Abdul laughed and waved at them while telling us, "Those are the Kujurs." The witchdoctors. I grew up in Africa, and spent a fair amount of that time in rural areas. Animism and witchcraft is familiar to me in some ways. I have met people who work in the dark arts. In spite of these things or because of them, I'm not sure which, when I glanced back over my shoulder and saw those fifteen men in animal skins and feathers sprinting towards our car waving wooden hunting clubs and yelling, I was terrified. Abdul told Bryan to stop the car and he did. I could hardly breathe as they surrounded us on all sides. They all wore leather loin cloths and wooden beads. Each had a small feather headdress on their forehead. The younger ones had denim shorts or tennis shoes on under the hides but the baboon, monkey, dog and genet skin satchels slung over their shoulders kept me from laughing. I tried to look friendly without making eye contact, expecting any moment to be reprimanded (or worse) for committing some unforgivable taboo. Instead the half-naked men greeted us heartily, shaking our hands roughly and asking about our families. A couple were men we had met the day before and they said they were so happy to see that we had actually shown up. We laughed nervously and someone mentioned that we were here to bring a small gift for the occasion. Just as I was beginning to relax into the moment however, we were asked to get out of the car. Bryan and I looked at each other, unsure of what to do. The request was repeated. Get out of the car. Bryan capitulated but I stayed put. Abdul chuckled and motioned me out of the car. "Get out. They need to do their work." Groaning inwardly I stepped out of the car. One of the Kujurs stepped forward and firmly grabbed the back of Bryan's head. Leaning in uncomfortably close he pulled Bryan's face towards him and with amazing precision, showered a thick spray of saliva and a yellow grit across both cheeks and forehead.
I'm ashamed to say it, but at this point I was close to tears. Praying for open-mindedness, forgiveness, wisdom or whatever was most appropriate (because I wasn't sure I knew) the witchdoctor stepped up to me and I closed my eyes. I heard him chewing softly and then felt a fine cool mist of spit and something sandy hit my face. The urge to wipe was excruciating. Thankfully, the grit had a faint smell of ginger and wasn't entirely unpleasant if you put your mind to it. Our arms were then stretched out in front of us and our fingers gently pulled. Our shoulders were twisted firmly to each side and then we were left alone. Goodbyes were said and we went on our way. As we left we asked Abdul what had just happened. "It was a blessing," he said. "They were welcoming you to this place." I had never been blessed like this, and was more than a little uncomfortable. But after some thought I decided God knows all our hearts and how blessings have been given and taken. I would just accept this one and move on. Nonetheless I couldn't help but wonder how long I had to wait before wiping off the blessing was considered appropriate.
The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. We delivered our caffeinated gifts of good-will and carried on with a quiet afternoon. All around us people were busy with preparations – braiding hair, stringing beads, washing clothes, oiling instruments, all leaving us wondering what tomorrow would be like. The day ended with a walk to the river. At an uninhabited spot Bryan and I carried our towel and soap down to the muddy banks and stripped down. The water was brown but still flowing which made me feel better for some reason. Besides, the one inch visibility level of the water also made me feel better for modesty reasons if someone meandered by. But no one did. We came out feeling cleaner, whether or not we really were, and headed back to the house for a dinner of sorghum and okra and another good night's rest.