Thanks for visiting my blog page. I will be unable to update it until sometime in April. Until then, please feel free to read my previous posts. I am sure by April I will have much to share and look forward to that time.
In the past few days, I completed the stateside training and met the other volunteers in my group. It has been enjoyable but exhausting to say the least.
Talk to you after in-country training.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
West African New Years
Yesterday started out without any plans. I was feeling a bit bummed. No plans on new years. At least I am not at work again this year. Sometime in the afternoon a good friend, Fatima, called to see what I was up to for the New Year. She suggested meeting downtown for food and seeing what we could find for festivities. Food, flexible plans, and good company –sounded like a good plan to me.
I made it downtown and found a spot to parallel park without having to pay for parking. This was exciting given the amount of people downtown for new years. As I put the Honda in reverse, BUMP! ‘Uhhhhh?’ I smiled; this was a first for me: a non-damage fender bump. ‘That is why they are called bumpers,’ I remember my Uncle telling me one time years ago. This was not foreshadowing of a bad year to come, but rather a lesson in driving and the ‘perfect parallel park’. This has nothing to do with the rest of my story, but it made me laugh at the time, so I thought I would share.
I met up with Fatima at a coffee shop and we walked to the clean Thai restaurant – cleanliness was one of the exceptional features along with the food and service (I could have eaten dinner in the bathroom it was so clean) that Fatima mentioned. Stuffed with curry and rice and good conversation we headed down to the fancy dessert spot. The queue filled the foyer and spilled onto the cold street. This was not ideal, but chocolate cake was our destiny and it loomed beyond the queue. We cut the line and went to the cake counter to get an order to go, thus bypassing the wait.
With a slice of cake in our hands we realized we had no more plans for the evenings and all the jazz and music clubs were sold out and a cheap bar was not the preferred destination. Fatima suggested we meet up with her family and celebrate the New Year West African style. Fatima is from Sierra Leon, I had never met her family, and it seemed like a grand idea.
After meeting her family, the conversation went to the Peace Corps. Her parents had both had Peace Corps English teachers while they were going up in Sierra Leon. Her father, Al, offered very encouraging words for me and my upcoming few years in South Africa.
About this time, Al, noticed that it was half past ten –only ninety minutes until midnight. I will use the term 'African Time' here with great caution, and only because Emma, Fatima’s mother used it with a big smile on her face, to explain to me that people would be arriving at all hours of the night and I would not have to worry about being late to the party.
So, we drove to Fatima’s ‘Auntie’s’ house and arrived at about a quarter past eleven. As we walked through the door, I heard someone say, “Salaam alaykum!” I knew right then that this was going to be a unique New Years experience and I would have a smile on my face for days to come – even as I right this now.
To our right sat a beautiful Persian couch, Nigerian rug made of cows hide and African artwork and wooden statues covered the walls and tables. Beautiful! Handshakes and hugs to every one of Fatima’s ‘cousins’, ‘uncles’, ‘aunties’. I wasn’t sure who was related to whom, but within a few hours I would find out that it did not matter.
Fatima and I walked downstairs to the sounds of West African music. Nobody was dancing yet, but soon I would be on the dance floor celebrating with everyone. On the basement walls hung beautiful African artwork, a picture of Lewis Farrakhan and a picture of Bob Marley.
I barely had enough time to take in the surroundings as midnight was minutes away and everyone had gathered in the basement to toast, say a prayer, and dance. With three minutes to go, Al made a toast lasting seven minutes, then another toast from the man who owned the beautiful home. At five minutes past midnight, Al prayed a beautiful prayer in Arabic (my Arabic is not so good these days and he spoke to fast for me to follow, but it sounded beautiful). And then everybody, probably thirty people stood up and hugged and shook hands of everybody else in the room. I did not expect anyone to shake the hand of an ‘op-t-ho’ stranger. But everybody did.
And then we danced. Children, adults, older adults, all danced. Men danced with their friends’ wives, women danced with their friends’ husbands, children danced, everyone danced and I danced. I actually had no idea who was married to whom, but it did not matter as everyone there was family. There was no wrong way to dance, everyone danced differently; everyone moved how they felt the music. My kind of dancing! – It was very similar to hippie twirling, but less twirling and tie-die.
People from Sierra Leon, Nigeria, Liberia and Ghana danced the night away with the ‘op-t-ho’ fair-skinned, dark-haired Oregonian. Music from all of these countries filled the room and Fatima would tell me which languages each song was sung in as the only songs I understood were one by Bob Marley and a Paul Simon cover.
Around two in the morning, Abdul, Fatima’s brother and DJ for the evening, stopped the music and a pregnant woman stood up and began speaking in Krio. Krio is a language that has English words in it, and listening to it I thought I understand it, until after three sentences of spoken Krio, I realized my mind was blank and I had no idea what was being said as people laughed in unison and I sat with a confused look.
With Fatima as my translator I began to follow the conversation with relative ease as the pregnant woman asked the owners of the house to be the God parents of her soon-to-be-born child. What a delightful moment. Everyone clapped and hugged. The music turned back up and all the women danced with the pregnant women and soon everyone else returned to the dance floor.
By two thirty I was growing tired, but enjoying the atmosphere of a close community of ‘family’ who welcomed with open arms an ‘op-t-ho’. Fatima’s introduced me to her ‘cousin’ and Fatima told her cousin, “Tell him what you said”. She said something in Krio. Fatima said, “She called you op-t-ho.” I was sure it was a term of endearment. Not that it is a term to the contrary, but in Krio, op-t-ho means ‘white boy’. The cousin, a bit embarrassed, had a few things to say in Krio to Fatima, and then left. She was wondering why Fatima had brought an 'op-t-ho' to the party, more out of curiosity than anything. Later she called me op-t-ho again.
Fatima said it was not a word intended to hurt people, and I had to chuckle about it, and now will proudly refer to myself as Op-t-ho.
It was approaching half past three and I was half asleep. Typically, Fatima told me, the party will go until seven in the morning. We left the enjoyable sounds of West African music to say our goodbyes. The owner of the house gave me a big hug and for the second time that night made sure I had an enjoyable time. “I had a wonderful time,” I told him with a smile on my face, still not sure what had actually happened during this time. I finally crawled in bed just before five in the morning with music still ringing in my ears.
For someone without any plans for the New Years, I had, perhaps, the most memorable and unique, for an op-t-ho, New Years of my life. I am sure this experience will translate to the next two years of my life in South Africa. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of this evening to accompany this blog, perhaps I have painted a clear enough picture.
Salaam alaykum, Happy New Year, may 2008 treat you all with love and happiness!
I made it downtown and found a spot to parallel park without having to pay for parking. This was exciting given the amount of people downtown for new years. As I put the Honda in reverse, BUMP! ‘Uhhhhh?’ I smiled; this was a first for me: a non-damage fender bump. ‘That is why they are called bumpers,’ I remember my Uncle telling me one time years ago. This was not foreshadowing of a bad year to come, but rather a lesson in driving and the ‘perfect parallel park’. This has nothing to do with the rest of my story, but it made me laugh at the time, so I thought I would share.
I met up with Fatima at a coffee shop and we walked to the clean Thai restaurant – cleanliness was one of the exceptional features along with the food and service (I could have eaten dinner in the bathroom it was so clean) that Fatima mentioned. Stuffed with curry and rice and good conversation we headed down to the fancy dessert spot. The queue filled the foyer and spilled onto the cold street. This was not ideal, but chocolate cake was our destiny and it loomed beyond the queue. We cut the line and went to the cake counter to get an order to go, thus bypassing the wait.
With a slice of cake in our hands we realized we had no more plans for the evenings and all the jazz and music clubs were sold out and a cheap bar was not the preferred destination. Fatima suggested we meet up with her family and celebrate the New Year West African style. Fatima is from Sierra Leon, I had never met her family, and it seemed like a grand idea.
After meeting her family, the conversation went to the Peace Corps. Her parents had both had Peace Corps English teachers while they were going up in Sierra Leon. Her father, Al, offered very encouraging words for me and my upcoming few years in South Africa.
About this time, Al, noticed that it was half past ten –only ninety minutes until midnight. I will use the term 'African Time' here with great caution, and only because Emma, Fatima’s mother used it with a big smile on her face, to explain to me that people would be arriving at all hours of the night and I would not have to worry about being late to the party.
So, we drove to Fatima’s ‘Auntie’s’ house and arrived at about a quarter past eleven. As we walked through the door, I heard someone say, “Salaam alaykum!” I knew right then that this was going to be a unique New Years experience and I would have a smile on my face for days to come – even as I right this now.
To our right sat a beautiful Persian couch, Nigerian rug made of cows hide and African artwork and wooden statues covered the walls and tables. Beautiful! Handshakes and hugs to every one of Fatima’s ‘cousins’, ‘uncles’, ‘aunties’. I wasn’t sure who was related to whom, but within a few hours I would find out that it did not matter.
Fatima and I walked downstairs to the sounds of West African music. Nobody was dancing yet, but soon I would be on the dance floor celebrating with everyone. On the basement walls hung beautiful African artwork, a picture of Lewis Farrakhan and a picture of Bob Marley.
I barely had enough time to take in the surroundings as midnight was minutes away and everyone had gathered in the basement to toast, say a prayer, and dance. With three minutes to go, Al made a toast lasting seven minutes, then another toast from the man who owned the beautiful home. At five minutes past midnight, Al prayed a beautiful prayer in Arabic (my Arabic is not so good these days and he spoke to fast for me to follow, but it sounded beautiful). And then everybody, probably thirty people stood up and hugged and shook hands of everybody else in the room. I did not expect anyone to shake the hand of an ‘op-t-ho’ stranger. But everybody did.
And then we danced. Children, adults, older adults, all danced. Men danced with their friends’ wives, women danced with their friends’ husbands, children danced, everyone danced and I danced. I actually had no idea who was married to whom, but it did not matter as everyone there was family. There was no wrong way to dance, everyone danced differently; everyone moved how they felt the music. My kind of dancing! – It was very similar to hippie twirling, but less twirling and tie-die.
People from Sierra Leon, Nigeria, Liberia and Ghana danced the night away with the ‘op-t-ho’ fair-skinned, dark-haired Oregonian. Music from all of these countries filled the room and Fatima would tell me which languages each song was sung in as the only songs I understood were one by Bob Marley and a Paul Simon cover.
Around two in the morning, Abdul, Fatima’s brother and DJ for the evening, stopped the music and a pregnant woman stood up and began speaking in Krio. Krio is a language that has English words in it, and listening to it I thought I understand it, until after three sentences of spoken Krio, I realized my mind was blank and I had no idea what was being said as people laughed in unison and I sat with a confused look.
With Fatima as my translator I began to follow the conversation with relative ease as the pregnant woman asked the owners of the house to be the God parents of her soon-to-be-born child. What a delightful moment. Everyone clapped and hugged. The music turned back up and all the women danced with the pregnant women and soon everyone else returned to the dance floor.
By two thirty I was growing tired, but enjoying the atmosphere of a close community of ‘family’ who welcomed with open arms an ‘op-t-ho’. Fatima’s introduced me to her ‘cousin’ and Fatima told her cousin, “Tell him what you said”. She said something in Krio. Fatima said, “She called you op-t-ho.” I was sure it was a term of endearment. Not that it is a term to the contrary, but in Krio, op-t-ho means ‘white boy’. The cousin, a bit embarrassed, had a few things to say in Krio to Fatima, and then left. She was wondering why Fatima had brought an 'op-t-ho' to the party, more out of curiosity than anything. Later she called me op-t-ho again.
Fatima said it was not a word intended to hurt people, and I had to chuckle about it, and now will proudly refer to myself as Op-t-ho.
It was approaching half past three and I was half asleep. Typically, Fatima told me, the party will go until seven in the morning. We left the enjoyable sounds of West African music to say our goodbyes. The owner of the house gave me a big hug and for the second time that night made sure I had an enjoyable time. “I had a wonderful time,” I told him with a smile on my face, still not sure what had actually happened during this time. I finally crawled in bed just before five in the morning with music still ringing in my ears.
For someone without any plans for the New Years, I had, perhaps, the most memorable and unique, for an op-t-ho, New Years of my life. I am sure this experience will translate to the next two years of my life in South Africa. Sadly, I do not have any pictures of this evening to accompany this blog, perhaps I have painted a clear enough picture.
Salaam alaykum, Happy New Year, may 2008 treat you all with love and happiness!
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