Work is cancelled the day of the fête/festival in Mali because God knows, and your boss knows, you’ve got to get eatin’. On top of that, the day after the festival is also a work holiday. After all the meat ingestion, you need a day devoted to your bed -- and the toilet.
For la grande fête/festival/feast Aid el-Fitr, I was invited chez-Madame Touré, the secretary for our Keneya Ciwara office. She offered to fix me, her "fille Americaine"/American daughter, some fish on the day which is typically spent eating beef cooked in every which way.
"La vache"/the cow is slaughtered the morning of the festival, one cow per large family or neighborhood, and every single part is distributed out for consumption. When I told Madame Touré’s son Draman I was a vegetarian and don't eat beef, he said, “mais Liza, tu peut manger le coeur ou le pancreas, n’est pas?”/“but Leezuh, you can eat the heart or the pancreas, can’t you?” Non merci.
14-year old Draman, with the "etoile"/star he got shaved into his hair for the festival
I was still able to enjoy the artistry and tradition behind the slaughter and the subsequent cow part distribution. I had given my camera to Draman for that morning’s kill. He was able to capture these awesome, and super graphic, shots:
My personal favorite picture: the Malian flashlight
a.k.a. a lamp without a lampshade
Not for the faint-hearted, but can still be for the vegetarian if you're into gore:
...and voila! Ready for some cookin.
Now ever since Ramadan started, all of my friends and acquaintances have been talking about the outfits they were getting made for the big fast-breaking day, Aid el-Fitr. What kind of quality material, what style and cut, which tailor they had chosen for the important outfit, which embroiderer they would use for the details, where they bought the shoes to match...men and women alike got into this much detail on the outfits on a regular basis.
I had the boubou Fatime and her family had dyed and tailored for me, so I was ready for action in the formless mass of tinted cloth. I hopped in a taxi and headed toward Madame Touré’s.
When I walked into her house, I didn’t see all the women’s boubous and men’s basins that I expected. Instead, I saw women sweating in their tank tops, house skirts, and foullards (head wraps), and men in their wife beaters and jean shorts. I was absolutely over-dressed.
Regal Tubab Elizabeth
Please notice the girl getting her hair done in background. Definitely didn't need a boubou for that.
Apparently, the boubous and basins are reserved for after the beef-eating when you take a walk around the neighborhood to “see and be seen.” Because eating takes all day, boubous aren’t necessary until sundown. And no wonder, I was already sweating from the short walk from the taxi to inside Madame Touré’s house complex.
As soon as my Malian mother, Madame Touré, saw the first drop of transpiration, she offered me something a little more comfortable -- a pajama top. All day eating in your PJ’s...this was my kind of festival!
The bent-over cooking position...fanning the wood fire beneath the pot
While I had gotten there at 11, the food wasn’t ready until about 2PM. The women cooked in a bent over stance over their large pots on an open fire for the entirety of the mid-morning, and I along with the guys just sat around drinking tea. Every so often, a group of young kids would come by in their finest outfits, girls with their braids bedazzled and small purses in tow to yell “sambé sambé!”/“bonne fête!”. They would then give their blessings for the new year: may Allah bless you, your children, your parents, your brothers, your sisters...and so on. After they chanted this series in unison, they kind of hung around waiting for their “petits cadeaux”/“small gifts.” Some households gave out small plastic toys, hats, candies, or like our household, small money. Our 100 or 200 pieces of fCFA, the equivalent to quarters, went straight into the colorful bags of these festival house-hoppers.
Kid Krewe
The first round of eating finally commenced, and we all sat on our stools and low chairs to eat with our hands. With the meat, we were served the traditional “riz gras”(finally a French word you recognize!)/“fat rice,” which is made with tomato sauce, meat, and veggies...the equivalent of Louisiana jambalaya. I was right at home.
Eating some "riz gras" with that right hand
Immediately after we finished eating, Madame picked up and got to cooking again for round 2: “les brochettes de boeuf”/“beef cabobs.” Once she had gotten things rolling, she rushed to get washed and dolled up in her boubou for the adults' turn at home visits. This round 2 of door-to-door housecalls meant serious money exchange, 5000-10000 note fCFA, not the chump change handed out to the kids. Madame Touré had to make sure she was dressed to receive the big bills.
It was around this time that I started receiving the mass text messages of well-wishing and blessings:
"Dieu nous donne la longévité, la santé, la prospérité et le
bonheur."
“God give us longevity, good health, prosperity, and
happiness.”
“Bonne fete de Ramadan à vous, à votre famille, à tout vos
proche et collaborateur, que Dieu nous accorde sa grace à
travers nos prières et sacrifices. Amen.”
“Happy feast of Ramadan to you, your family, all your loved
ones and employees, may God grant us his grace through our
prayers and sacrifices. Amen.”
“Que Dieu te donne un bonheur croissant, une paix durable,
un calme divin, une santé inoxydable, et une foi pertinente.
Tels sont mes voeux pour l’Aid el- Fitr.”
“May God give you increasing happiness, a lasting peace, a
divine calm, stainless health, and a relevant faith. These are
my wishes for the Aid el-Fitr.”
The beeping of the texts were sounding the alarm to head out. Madame Touré was dressed to the nines, ready to go to her parent’s house and give some big bills to her mother. I had had enough beef exposure for the new year, and the fat rice had lived true to its moniker in my belly. It was the cook's turn to shine, and the eater's time to head home and take a post-feast nap.
La Famille Touré
When I arrived back at the house, I de-bouboued, and laid on my bed with my computer to read some news. On this amazing day spent celebrating the culture behind the Islamic religion, all over the international news were threats from extremist Christians to burn 200 Qurans, protests to the mosque being built near Ground Zero, and the exploitation of the return threats to kill Iraqi soldiers coming from the extremist Muslims.
Nothing was found saying “sambé sambé” to the millions of moderate, peaceful Muslims around the globe celebrating the end to their holy month of sacrifice to God.
So in response, I’d like to leave everyone with another one of the texts I received, from my Muslim colleague Tandina:
“En ce jour beni de Ramadan, je formule les voeux, que le
tout puissant pardonne nos peches, exauce nos prieres, et
nous donne la force de nous tolerer et de nous accepter les
uns les autres, malgre nos differences. Amen.”
"On this blessed day of Ramadan, I make the wish that the Almighty
forgive our sins, hear our prayers, and give us the strength to tolerate
and accept each other despite our differences. Amen."
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