We leave for church shortly after nine. We drive past people streaming into town balancing rope beds on their heads, swinging chickens by their feet or leading donkeys with full sacks of sorghum on their backs. Everyone is heading to town for market day. Even as we drive in we see the lorries with ostrich feather hood ornaments and outrageous paint jobs barely disguising metastasized rust loaded down with gunny sacks full of onions and limes. Men with scarves tied around their heads toss the sacks off of the vehicles to other men who carry them on their backs up stairs and into shops. They whistle and shout at each other while they work.
At the city square we turn down an alley and leave the simmering energy of town behind us. We park in the shade of a neem tree and walk into the courtyard of the dilapidated stone building. I can’t remember if the structure was originally built as a church or not, but during the war it passed hands several times and was even used as a goat pen once. Now, despite the fact that it is usually full to overflowing, it still brings the word “crumbling” to mind. The energy inside, however, speaks of anything but decay. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. The room is long and narrow and the only light filters in weakly from the windows along the walls. A group of nearly thirty is singing loudly over the pulse of a drum and I suspect I am taking one of the singer’s seats as I squeeze into a school bench next to three other girls. When the song ends and people shuffle to wedge themselves back into the crowd, another language group is called and a dozen more men, women and children make their way to the front to sing in their mother tongue. On and on the musical chairs goes until every language represented has been given the chance to sing. When we all stand to sing together, in Arabic, English or even Kiswahili, we must overlap our shoulders like a handful of cards to make room for each other.
After church we make our way back to town for lunch. Under the green awning of our favorite restaurant we greet the smiley cook who is partially hidden behind a veil of smoke and steam bubbling from metal pots and clay incense holders in front of him. We place our order and step inside, crossing a greasy floor to the nearest free table. On the table is a red plastic bowl full of salt and a pitcher of water. We sip our cold Fantas and casually greet the men sitting at neighboring tables. We watch piglets and goats root at rotting tomatoes in the square outside. In an unlit room behind us a man rolls out sheets of filodough on a rack, preparing the sticky sweet basta for the evening crowd. Our food is brought on an aluminum tray as wide as our table by a boy in a well worn apron. Beans topped with jibna (a cheese much like feta) and diced onions are surrounded by an assortment of round bread and folds of sorghum kisra. There is a dish of vegetable soup and another of grilled meat. We tear off pieces of the bread and kisra and dip them into communal bowls of beans and greens. The food is good. Better than I ever imagined it could be the first time I tried it. We eat together, occasionally bumping knuckles over the hot peppers or limes and I think that whoever said food eaten by hand tastes better because it involves one more sense was probably right. After we eat we wash out hands from a tap in a barrel outside and carry on to the market.
Selling kisra
As is often the case, things have slowed by the time we get there, though dozens more mats than usual dot the ground of the market like a melted checkerboard. On the mats in the sun are piles of onions, tomatoes, limes, garlic, potatoes, eggplant, peppers, watermelons, soap, and clay coffee pots. Some men sit under umbrellas but most simply squat in the heat shouting out the price of each precarious mound in front of them. We pick our way through the maze, asking prices of some things, the names of others, slowly filling our guffa with groceries for the week. I am delighted to see a woman with a basket of eggs for sale, and even happier when she says they are not yet boiled. I am already thinking of the banana bread and pancakes we will have this week as she picks them out of their grassy bed and places them carefully in a sack for me. Women in gaudy tobes make the rounds too, scoffing at unacceptable prices and bargaining loudly. Small boys weave their way through the crowd with wide trays of roasted peanuts. Donkeys nibble at purple onion skins while their owners pile rope beds or sacks of flour onto the cart at their backs.
As we finish up our shopping and head back towards the ATV I feel a hard slap on my back which makes my stomach drop for a moment. But even before I turn I know who it is. Jema is standing there smiling broadly in his dirty white jallabiya and holding out his hand for a warm hello. I don’t know Jema’s story but I suspect either autism or something darker from the large round scar on the side of his head. I continue to be amazed by people’s gentle incorporation of him into daily life, and have watched him deliver tea to shop keeper’s porches or help the man at the “gas station” pump fuel out of large barrels. Today he answers my simple questions with silted grunts and dramatic gestures, a part of some story I can’t hear but wish I could understand. Eventually he ushers us on our way and we continue towards home.
At home we play a round or two of “Settlers of Catan” with Dan and Laura, and Dan wins again. We later try to skype family but the internet is moody and we can’t get through tonight. The day ends much as it began, with a light supper of fruit and maybe popcorn. The sun sets and the mosquitoes come out so we retire to the safety of our tent. We read in bed but after a while we begin to doze so we turn off the inverter for the night. Everything then is dark and quiet except for the drone of a neighbor’s generator. We drift off to sleep and wait for Monday.
No comments:
Post a Comment