Monday, February 25, 2013

Fête du Mouton

Looking all the way back to the end of October, the weekend of the 27th to be exact, the most distinct memory I have from celebrating the Muslim holiday Fête du Mouton, or 'Tabaski,' as it is called in many Francophone Africa countries, is the variety of different foods unlike anything I'm likely to consume after my Peace Corps service.  With what ended up being an accurate prediction that I may not be writing for whatever reason --- in this case, a busted computer was to blame --- my notes about what I ate during the fête could be confused with a buffet compiled by a Cameroonian, Forrest Gump, and a young bachelor scratching together whatever is left in the cupboard. The weekend's menu consisted of popcorn, ginger & folere juice, cake, beef, prawn chips, a dozen coca-colas (at least), rice & sardines in tomato sauce, tea made with cloves & lots of sugar, beignets, and almost every part of the mouton, including the intestines, tongue and brain. I imagine its hard to think about eating all of this, however, the cultural nuances accompanying this series of all-you-can-eat meals made me think more about how interesting it was to take part in the weekend's celebration, as opposed to trying to identify the dish that would have me running for the medicine cabinet.

As we do with most of our big events and holidays back in the States, the people here wear their best clothes and spend the day with family and friends, with the major difference being that most of the population here remain loyal to the typical five daily prayer sessions. Sadly, I missed what would have certainly been a great photo opportunity at one of the large mosques in town during the first prayer of the day when the men form a large group of organized rows and columns to pray together. Even after several months at post, I still find it very interesting to observe the concentration one has during this series of standing, kneeling and touching the top of his or her forehead on the ground while inaudibly repeating the prayers echoing from the speakers stationed high up on the mosque's minarets. And if a few lingering specks of dirt on one's forehead after the prayer aren't enough for you to identify one coming from prayer, many also have a permanent dark spot in the same place as permanent evidence of this devotion.


Collection on loan from James (pictured top right) in Mokolo, as he was smart enough to get pictures.  Very interesting to see the varying colors of the clothes, the synchronization of movements during prayer, and the elaborate outfit worn by the Lamido (the traditional chief) shown at bottom right.  

Before leaving my compound that morning, I was mid-preparation of my oatmeal when my Cameroonian family began their holiday weekend together in the area that separates our houses. And unfortunately for the mouton that had been roaming the compound freely for the past several months (pictured below), most of the activity was related to the preparation and consumption of as many parts of the animal as possible. The first order of business, however, was the dirty work of turning a live mouton into a not-so-alive mouton. As with all animals destined for a Muslim family's dinner table, each must be Halal, which generically speaking, is kind of like what Kosher is to the Jewish faith. As a result, my Cameroonian brother and the overnight guardian quietly gathered the white-haired mouton in the far corner of the compound, recited a prayer, and efficiently (and quietly) dressed the animal in a way that surprisingly seemed far more respectful and humane than carelessly grabbing something set on styrofoam and wrapped in plastic on the grocery store shelf.

Thanks, little buddy.
While this was certainly an interesting start to the day, the ensuing parade of food and drink over the next two days was something that has me counting down the days until this year's fête. Lunch at a friend's house seemed to be the complete inverse of how a typical meal is served, as cake, prawn chips, and sugary juices were served before the beef and mouton entrées. One plate after the next was an introduction to something different, all of which left me wondering why each wasn't more regularly served in the United States. After the parade of delicious entrées were finished, we took some time to visit with my friend's family. Though many Americans may find it strange the number of different branches from one family tree residing under one roof, it is more often than not to meet any combination of nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters, grandchildren, grandparents, and even multiple wives, all living together. In the case of my friend, two of his little brothers are living with him while finishing school in Guider, in addition to his two young boys and wife.  After a short time visiting with them, I excused myself so they could spend the rest of the holiday without my sloppy French and my socially frowned-upon use of the left hand while eating.

The next stop along the tour was another friend's house nearby, though this celebration could not have been any more different than the first. In what previously was a rotating menu of food and drinks alone with my friend at the first celebration, I was met with a large group of people and was served plate after plate of the most simple, yet perfectly prepared mouton --- in this amateur gastonomist's opinion, that is --- paired with round after round of cold Coke from glass bottles. It was at this friend's house where I was able to see more of the nuances of Cameroonian hospitality. Even with what seemed to be a constantly revolving door of friends and family, or the random sprinkling of people my friend admitted to not knowing at all who simply came to say 'bonne fête,' I would be surprised if even one of them wasn't offered food or drink. The rest of the afternoon was spent in a mouton and Coke-induced state of semi-consciousness, and highlighted by a twenty minute stretch whereby I was watching some of the most R-rated parts of 'Forgetting Sarah Marshall' with a middle-aged Cameroonian woman who probably understood about as much English as I do Arabic. Awkward moments foster vivid memories, that's for sure.

As for the rest of the weekend, the ensuing list of recipes shared with my family could be read by the prototypical American elementary schooler with the same amount of enthusiasm as brussel sprouts or cauliflower. If you were to tell me that sardines drenched in a tomato sauce accompanied by rice --- all of which was served on a giant platter with seven spoons --- would be the least exotic meal I would eat the entire weekend, I would have said you were crazy. Beignets and chai tea for breakfast? Normal. But add a soup made with the heard of the mouton? Not normal. Braided intestines, pieces of the esophagus, and lastly, the brain? Not normal, and no, none of it tasted like chicken. But since I've had more than enough time to reflect on everything I was invited to eat, none of which I ever thought about eating before coming to Cameroon, I would be more than happy and satisfied to have the exact set of meals for the 2013 celebration.  

Lastly, thanks to the remnants of superstitions learned from a lifetime in baseball, was the family's burial of the mouton's horns within the compound (the other mouton with horns, which was given away to neighbors, was not pictured above).  In order to ensure a happy, healthy and safe year ahead, says my newest Cameroonian Mother, it is important to fill the horns with a traditional blend of ingredients before burying them to start the clock on this year's good luck. And given the luck I received during 2012 in getting invited to work in Cameroon and finding new friends in the Peace Corps and new branches on my own family tree in Bafia and in Guider, I will probably need all the help I can get in 2013 to try and top that.