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.

Culture (and other...stuff)

Another month is in the books here at post, making for a total of 138 days in-country thus far, and daily life in Guider has taken on a fairly predictable daily routine with a smattering of cultural nuances that can occur even before I step out the door in the morning.  Take, for instance, my first bout with stomach issues after a respectable run of almost four months (there’s a pun in there somewhere).  After a trip to the hospital and pharmacy the day before to dispense a ‘sample’ for testing and to buy some cipro for the malady, my family’s aging overnight guardian, who has a reliably upbeat demeanor every day, was waiting on the front step of my house at 6am to dispense some traditional medicine of his own.  Secrets are hard to keep around here, I guess, but I accept my family’s willingness to publicize my sickness as a sign of caring.  The remedy itself, which resembled the tobacco from a cigarette emptied into a wooden bowl of water, was only slightly less interesting than the process required to take it.  In the spirit of all the other food and drinks I receive from my family here, I assumed this was a quick drop-off and I could take my time on the consumption end.  Wrong.  It was at the same time that I reached out to take the bowl from him that he stepped into my house as if to say ‘the doctor is now on duty.’  As he told me to drink, once again I reached out for the bowl just before he lifted and tilted it towards me to drink at his command.  One small sip and then he pulled it back in close to his chest, chanted a prayer, which we then repeated twice more.  He then dipped his hand in the water and wiped a bit of water on my face, the front and back of my arms and legs, and my chest and back.  He declared the ritual complete with a Ça va and then headed back to his post out front.  While the Peace Corps regional coordinator suggested that I should have just pretended to take sips – probably a smart suggestion given that the water certainly wasn’t boiled or filtered – but it was still too early in the day to consider such practical matters. 

Staying in the compound with my family, I was also stuck for a week without any gas for my stove with which to make my precious coffee and (slightly less important) food.  As is the case for almost everywhere else in the world, the things you really need here in Cameroon are plentiful when you don’t need them, but are scarce when you do – in this case, it was the bottle of gas.  That left me overly dependent on four food sources that I have come to know and love here in Guider: beans & beignets (breakfast-lunch), street meat (lunch-dinner), grilled fish (dinner) and pity plates from my Cameroonian family (lunch-dinner).  Culturally, they still think its hilarious that I cook my own food and clean my clothes, dishes, and the house.  Anyways, the beans & beignets are a fairly simple, yet delicious, meal of beans and spices that are supplemented by fried dough balls that vary in size depending on the amount of dough ripped out of the giant mixing bowls by the Momma’s hand before dropping them into a vat of boiling oil.  The latest beignet Momma I’ve been visiting in the morning, now that I’m branching out from the comfort of the market Momma that speaks English, has been very amused by my greetings in the local language and rewards me by having her toddler deliver the golf ball sized beignets to me one-by-one.  Probably a good method to get a kid used to seeing a white person around, as it isn’t strange for little ones to start crying uncontrollably when I show up --- usually that draws a pretty good laugh from everyone around.  Only 200 FCFA later, or around $0.40, and I could probably go the entire day without eating again.  

Most of the dishes handed over from my family, however, are a slightly different affair that requires a minimum skill of utensil-free eating that I have yet to acquire.  Further complicating the issue is that eating with the left hand is widely considered to be a no-no because many people, uh, clean ‘stuff’ with their main gauche.  Not a good start for a natural lefty, but based on the tutorial I received from the family not long after my arrival, the process is clear.  In the case of the meal pictured below, which is couscous and a slimy green sauce called Boko (not sure how to spell it, exactly), the steps are easy:

1.       Wash hands

2.       Tear off small piece of couscous

3.       Shape couscous into ball and flatten it with thumb

4.       Dip couscous into slimy sauce and try to get as much of it as possible

5.       Eat and repeat until all is done

6.       Wash hands

Eating

In the case for my first time eating couscous and Boko, I also watched Return of the Jedi from start to finish for the first time.  And that’s all I have to say about that.    

Also included in the long list of plates and snacks that I have been given are candied peanuts, peanut sauce & baton de manioc (pictured below), Cameroonian gumbo, dried unshelled peanuts, and a paste-like melon dish (pictured below, at right).  Perhaps its an inherent willingness to try almost anything, but I appreciate and enjoy receiving the occasional knock on my door accompanied by a plate of something new and different.  And now that I’ve been living for a couple months in a compound with four Cameroonian women, one elementary school-aged girl, and an six month old baby boy (all pictured below), I think we could scrap together a better sitcom than what some network execs have been pushing in recent years.  

Baton de manioc with peanut sauce and a melon dish

The newest family.  In the Cameroonian tradition, there are two grandkids, two nieces and one daughter in law all surrounding Grandma in the middle.  Perhaps the only TC Beach Bums baby gear on the continent?

Food and family aside, the cultural aspects of the Peace Corps experience are interesting and fun, but can also be unpleasant at times.  Of the most interesting and unique, in my opinion, is our good fortune to have our big market day on Friday here in Guider, the most important prayer day of the week for Muslims – though all days are important to them, as demonstrated by the requirement that they pray five times per day at 4:30, 13:30, 15:30, 18:00, and 19:30 (ish).  Except for the large cities such as Yaoundé, or the regional capitals such as Maroua and Garoua, which have busy markets every day, most other towns and villages designate one day every week to have everyone gather in the market to buy and sell goods ranging from produce to knock-off designer shoes to buckets of all sizes.  Compared to any other day in the market, the one in Guider probably has a couple thousand more people coming from neighboring villages that fill the streets, alleys, and boutiques to near capacity.  And when the call to prayer beckons over the loudspeakers around 13:15, both merchants and shoppers alike take a break and grab a piece of earth to pray near the largest mosque in town.  I would estimate that the crowd of men gathering to pray (women pray in private) is at least 600-700, the sight of which is quite remarkable as they spill into the streets to stop traffic during their synchronized sequence of standing up, kneeling, and touching their forehead to the edge of their prayer mats.  Hopefully I’ll be able to get a picture from above of everyone gathered for prayer before my two years are over, as it would certainly make for a better one than I managed to snap a few weeks ago.   

Friday afternoon prayer time in Guider

On the less than enjoyable side of market day here in Guider, there will always be a certain amount of riff-raff that comes with having so many more people in town.  At this point, most of the shop vendors and many of the regular market visitors are accustomed to seeing me a few times per week.  On the other hand, the youth from the surrounding villages see me as a pretty good target for theft and not surprisingly, they managed to make off with my cell phone last month by sneaking a hand into my pocket when I was walking through the market.  While I employed the help of some friends in the market to call my recently departed phone, which was answered with the thief’s question of “do you want the phone or the SIM cards” --- I said BOTH, naturally --- I received neither and wound up buying a new phone a few days later.  Its all part of the deal here, as its not possible for the only white guy in town to be anonymous while walking through the market, so I’ll just have to be more aware going forward.  No suggestions needed, folks, everyone has already given me their suggestions about avoiding bandits.   

On the lighter side, I also managed to get a picture of the town’s best street sign on my way home from one Friday market.  Its good to know that no matter how many times I spend a couple hundred FCFA more than I should have for a pineapple, or how many times a young kid yells “hee-haw” at me, I’ll still get in a laugh on my way home…even though I will have to seek out another location if nature calls.

Don't go...don't