I love Dramétou!
I went back to my original village this week for Tabaski, and it was one of the best times I've had in Mali. There's not a lot of phone reception there, and not many people have phones, so prior to my actual arrival only one person in village even knew I was back in country. After borrowing a bicycle from another volunteer in Bafoulabé, my old market town which is 9 kilometers away, I met the first Dramétou-ite while crossing the river. Mahmet and I were pretty close during my time there, so the look of shock quickly turned into a big grin as we shouted our greetings across the water. We were going in opposite directions, so I climbed out of the boat and headed off on the still familiar trail into the bush.
Once I was within sight of village, my excitement was tempered by nervousness. Most people didn't know I was coming, how would they react? Also, had any of my friends moved away or died? Things don't change very quickly in rural villages, but they do change sometimes, and I hadn't had any contact with Dramétou for over a year.
A young girl saw me right before I passed the first group of huts and started sprinting into town. I couldn't make out what she was saying, but a few people emerged from their compounds to see what the fuss was about. Two men intercepted me in the road, their mouths open in surprise. When I told them I had come back to celebrate Tabaski they rattled off numerous blessings and continued on their way. The first compound I entered was Sané's, one of my old homologues and the one person I had been able to reach by phone. She had gone out to work in the fields for the day and would be back in the afternoon, her niece told me, so I continued on to Modibo's, my other homologue. He also wasn't around, but his second wife was there taking care of the children. Her hand flew up to her mouth in surprise, 'Eh Allah!' We exchanged greetings and I continued up the path towards my old huts. I stopped to say hello to one of my host sisters and her family. She jumped up from her stool when she saw me and her husband's other wife started shouting to the next compound over that I was here. After exchanging greetings, I extricated myself and continued on to my old compound. The reaction there was the same as everywhere else and a small crowd gathered to escort me to my host family's. When I got there most of the family was off working, but my favorite two host sisters were there and my two favorite host nephews as well. My sisters' mouths literally fell open. I spent the rest of the day hanging out there and napping as person after person came through to greet me and welcome me back. At one point in the day, an older man that I didn't know very well came over and told me how good it was that I had come back for the celebration. 'I've been really sick and I was going to get better,' he told me, 'but now that you've come back I will.'
The next day was Tabaski itself. I got up, put on my fancy new complet, and had my favorite breakfast of moni, then went out to the prayer area with my host mom. Since Tabaski is the biggest holiday of the year, the village mosque isn't big enough for everyone and instead we all headed out of town to an area designated for Tabaski prayer specifically. I sat down on a mat in the back with the women, and the leaders began the ceremony up in front of the men, draping a light cloth over their group and leading prayer in Khassonké. I mostly observed and took pictures, but also stood and kneeled with the group, throwing in an 'Amiina' (amen) every once in a while. There was a sadness to the proceedings this year, as our Imam (muslim religious leader) had died the previous week. I didn't know the ceremony well enough to notice much difference, as I had only gone once before, but on the way back to my family's compound we stopped to sit with his family briefly and deliver funeral blessings. Similar to the old man the previous day, one of the Imam's good friends told me how grateful he was that I had come and blessed Dramétou again after it had suffered from this loss. Throughout the day, we all ate a ton of meat, and different families exchanged bowls of food so that you could have a little bit of everything (if your stomach could handle it all). The evening was capped off with a traditional dance party in the middle of town. My sisters and I arrived pretty early and chose our spot on the edge of the circle as boys began hauling brush to the opposite end, where it was lit to make a bonfire. After the drums had been rolled over to the fire and heated, the music began. The women danced and sang while I watched and clapped along with them, everyone showing off their new clothes and dance moves. Unfortunately the party got cut short when a little girl got sick, with promises to restart in a couple days. Also unfortunately, I would be gone by then...
The next day, Tuesday, was my last day in village, for this visit at least. I spend most of the day hanging out with my host sisters, then went over to Sané's in the afternoon. I ended up going out to the peanut fields with her, which seemed very appropriate for my last day of village. We sat together on the ground pulling the nuts from the plant and chatting until the sun started to set and we had to head back into town. That night I kind of wanted to stay up with my family, but everyone, especially myself, was so tired and full of good food that I didn't make it past 8pm.
The next morning I got up and got my things ready to leave. Sané had come by the evening before after I had gone to sleep and delivered a big bag of peanuts that we had harvested together. Fortunately, I was about to make some extra room in my bag: it was time to deliver gifts. Before I had left the US I had gone to get some simple gifts for my host family and close friends in village, knowing that I couldn't go back to Mali without going to visit Dramétou. That morning, I handed out the hats, fingernail polish, and squirt guns and then tied my bags on the back of my bike. As I prepared to leave, my family and friends gathered around and shook my hand to say goodbye, even getting the legendary left hand handshake from both my host parents: in Mali the only time it's appropriate to shake the left hand is during leave taking, the premise being that it's wrong, therefore you must come back again someday to make it right again. Some people took their leave as I left the compound, but a group of women and children walked me out past the edge of village to the first bend of the road, apologizing for not taking me further. It was as if I was getting the goodbye that I hadn't gotten last year, and I felt incredibly loved.
Now, as I sit in Manantali writing, I am so thankful that I was able to have the village and the experiences I did. Hopefully I'll be able to go back again before I leave Mali, or later on in life, but this visit is going to sustain my love of Mali for awhile.