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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
