Because I am forgetful and somewhat of a procrastinator, I failed to put together a nice Malian/Dogon outfit for the occasion. This usually requires a lot of fabric (hence “big clothes). Big is better, and if you’re a Peulh man, double it. The fabric should be brand new if possible, in fact the more creases from the packaging the better. Top it off with a rainbow umbrella, yellow tinted sunglasses, the ubiquitous prayer beads and a new fez (the popular one this year says 200E – not a tax document I realized but a design error).
Well, needless to say I looked like a bum. I had been without clean clothes and I opted for a yellow hued blue polo shirt and my cleanest dirty pants. However, I did have some Malian flair – a farmers beanie that looks like the type of winter hat that Charlie Brown’s mother would buy him, and my trusty turban/ scarf/ travel pillow/ towel that I never go anywhere without, or in other words my Linus blanket. So, Charlie Brown hat, Linus blanket, looking a little like Pigpen and – hey, I’m also growing peanuts. Coincidence?
Hadji and Binta would not stand for it. I had to represent the family, the Ba-Hassimi clan, and I was not going anywhere dressed like a bum. The facial expression from Binta reminded me a little of my mother’s when I would go to high school looking like I was going to jump a train to Reggae on the River. Hadji disappeared for a moment asking loudly where his other clothes were. Binta went in the house and emerged with a giant green tent leaving Hadji mumbling indistinctively in the darkness of the windowless rock house. It looked like a huge poncho. I slipped it on and marveled at the length. It was way too long on my 6 foot self and Hadji must be 5’7”. I bunched it up gently, lifting the excess up to my abdomen and we hustled to the prayer ceremony. I felt like a bride in her gown rushing to or away from her wedding.
Three or four rows of prayer rugs covered the sandstone. I joined the men at the back row of the ceremony while the women let out high pitched calls augmented by their fluttering tongues, something like a Norteno fiesta cry, but more reverent if that’s possible. The women do this for the dapper men. I felt honored and a little less foolish. The sexes are separated for the prayer ceremony so I sat as close to the women as I could while still being with the men. The sun was rising higher and we squinted at the Imam under a nest of umbrellas as the prayers began.
I have been to Muslim prayer ceremonies before and have been to the mosques of the village with friends and my host family. I still feel like I just do what the guy next to me is doing. That didn’t mean that I wasn’t performing my own type of individual worship on this particular day. True to my nationality and my generation I went with the flow while introspectively practicing my own individualism: patching together bits and pieces of Islam, Christianity and Eastern philosophy with a soundtrack by Bach and M. Ward and strangely... narrated by Alec Baldwin.
(photos are actually from last year, I forgot my camera this time)
