Ramadan

It's mid-September already, nearing the end of the rainy season. Most of Tamtala's millet, sorghum, beans and sesame crops have "given birth," as they say, and harvest is a short way off. The greenness has cooled the countryside down considerably during the past few months. When I think back to how miserable it was here in May, I realize just how much rainy season has contributed to my happiness. But enough about that. We know all about that.

Arguably more important than the impending harvest, last week marked the beginning of Ramadan, the monthlong Muslim fast. During our sessions on Islam at the training center in Hamdallaye, we were told that Muslims everywhere observe Ramadan - during which they neither eat nor drink from sunup to sundown - in order to increase their compassion for those people in the world too poor to have enough to eat.

In case this has not been made clear, I am living in the poorest country in the world, in which NGOs routinely hand out food as they would during "food shortage emergencies" and "famines." The very people who the rest of the world has largely forgotten are the ones who observe a fast intended to make the rest of the world remember them.

The irony of this, of course, is lost on the average villager. Upon quizzing several Tamtalans as to why they fast, I got no more sophisticated answers than "because Allah wills it," or "Mohammed said to." Perhaps they believe there are people somewhere - maybe in Sudan or Iraq - who are worse off than they. That or this attitude is a vote in favor of the generalization that bush Nigeriens raise their children to obey without question, and these children grow up to be adults who seem to lack some pretty standard critical thinking skills.

Those literate in Arabic (and thus able to read the Qu'ran) would be the only ones with the potential to understand what Ramadan is really all about. But most villagers just mentioned being thankful. It's convenient that this year Ramadan falls during "hungry season," that pre-harvest time during which last year's grain has run out and this year's isn't quite ready yet. Maybe we'd be having smaller lunches than usual anyway. Might as well fast (for my part, I'm thankful this is happening now and not during the hellish month of May).

Ramadan habits and discipline seem to vary village to village, perhaps along the lines of piety. For example, when I ask my villagers if they suffer going without food or water when it's a hundred degrees out, they say no, not at all, of course not, Ramadan is sweet. When my friend Kate asks the same questions of her villagers, they own up - heck yes, we're thirsty. This is hard. The adolescent girls sneak new beans when no one is looking.

Ramadan came one day earlier than I'd expected it, while I was in my nearest big village, Sansane Haussa, staying with a current trainee who is going to be posted there.* We had gone to see a woman she will be working with, and I was gulping water in the midmorning heat when the lady tactfully informed me that last night someone had glimpsed the first sliver of a waxing moon: the first night of the month. Oops. No need to flaunt my infidelity and make things harder for anyone - I apologized, and we ate lunch inside, out of the sight of the villagers.

I walked back into Tamtala two days later, after having been gone for far too long (again). "Me-how" was the word on everyone's lips. "Me-how" is the Zarma name for Ramadan, and it literally means "mouth tied." The breaking of the fast (and the name of the month following Ramadan) is called "Me-feri," or "mouth open." Standard greeting inquiries after one's health and that of the children now included "How's me-how?" I answered with the catch-all avoidance response of "Praise be to Allah," which is what one says when one does not wish to lie but still has to be positive and thankful.

My curious villagers, however, want to know more. "Sakina, did you see it?" is the way of asking if I am observing the fast. After a day or two of saying no, no, I'm not a Muslim (which they already know), I decided I'd give it a shot. If I'm supposed to be a "child of the village" I, of all people, should skip lunch for a couple days in order to know what my neighbors are going through.

Maimouna discouraged me; she and at least two other women laughed and said the same thing when I told them my intentions: "You, you are always drinking water, small small from your bottle. You should not me-how, you will suffer."

Now I'm determined to do it. On Friday night, after the village men had arrived home from spending the holy day at the big mosque in a neighboring village, I told my chief I was going to try out me-how.

"Ah, ni ga taba me-how," he said to me - literally, "You are going to taste Ramadan." You are not going to taste so much as your own saliva (the good Muslims spend all month spitting), but you are going to taste the sweetness of the fast (ostensibly). "Ah, ni kokary, Sakina." Sakina, you try.

Saturday morning I woke up with everyone else at quarter after four, when the sky was still inky black. Every morning during the fast at that time my friend Djamila's dad walks around the village yelling in Zarma and Arabic and banging on something, called konku. My first few minutes of consciousness listening to the noise were spent trying to figure out what it was: is there a special drum for this purpose? No, it doesn't sound that sophisticated. Could it be as rudimentary as whacking a stick on a water jug like the toddlers do? I haven't yet found out - as most of you know, mornings are not my prime time.

I groped for my water bottle in the blackness and slowly drained it. Lying back down and dozing, I heard the imam call for the first prayer of the day. Faced with the option of giving up now (who in their right mind gets up in the middle of the night?), I berated myself like a good Catholic, located my flashlight, and dragged myself into the house to refill and force more water into my body.

I cooked up a double helping of my standard breakfast of oatmeal, honey and powdered milk with a dash of cinnamon. Apparently we're allowed to eat from first prayer until just before six, but as soon as I'd finished eating and drinking (2.5 Nalgenes worth) I went straight back to bed.
On advice from the villagers - "if you lie down, rest, nap, you don't suffer" - I slept late. When I woke up from some dream about shopping for a Halloween costume, I reached for my water again - a bad sign. Recoiling, cringing, and steeling myself, after bathing I went out to the village for morning chats. It was mercifully overcast.

I spent the first part of the morning at another Djamila's house. She is the sister of a girl I knew, Bellacisa, who was recently married. Cisa already had a daughter, and was not therefore marrying "up" as she might have hoped to do otherwise. I remember being at her house for the bride's half of the wedding, when the groom's friends come to bring her back to his village. The old ladies of Tamtala were arranging Cisa's things for transport on the groom's donkey cart as it got dark. We waited and chatted. I took an inventory of Cisa's belongings: a few pagnes, a new bucket and kerosene lamp, some enameled pots,a new pillow (a luxurious gift). The whole pile would have fit into my backpacking sack, except for the bucket. This was what she was bringing for herself and her two-year-old girl to start her life as a married woman in a village half a day away. The men finally arrived as it was fully dark and took Cisa and her daughter away. Old Fatimata went along too. I haven't seen Cisa since. I heard a few weeks after the wedding that she was doing fine but that her baby had died.

Cisa's sister, Djamila, the new mother, had just given birth to a girl and had several neighbors and cousins around pounding grains and bringing water for her. This is standard practice in the village and is a great example of the way people take care of each other. I hung out with the ladies, who decided that since I was fasting, they weren't going to ask me to pound.

The sun came out angrily at midmorning and I fled to the shade of a neem tree, under which I sat chatting with the women pounding there. "Hey Sakina, where's your water bottle?" they asked. "Ooooh it is far from you, because you're tasting me-how. You try!" I had plenty of time to sit there and space out, alone in a group, and wonder why the heck I was doing this. Do I feel guilty? Left out? Am I really just that respectful? I helped an old lady slice up the first of this season's okra, using an old 2x4 as a cutting board and a handle-less knife. Girls braided each other's hair. I chatted with another old woman about her son in Ghana. I asked her which city. "GHANA," she repeated. Ahhh, I understand. Apparently an ignorance about African geography is not limited to American minds.

A third old woman brought me a pinch of fragrant seeds in a bit of plastic bag, explaining that I should put it in my water when I break my fast so my stomach won't hurt. A young woman asked me how much it costs to go to America, and I explained it's a million cfa and you must take a plane. Explaining air travel to villagers was particularly entertaining, seeing as though most have never seen a seat belt or had an entire seat to themselves on a bush taxi. They explained alzan-na to me. A particularly sharp woman was able to define the criteria: if you do ten things, and seven are good and three are bad, when you die you will go to alzan-na. The teenaged girls dozed on the sand. Everyone spat periodically.

Ali, one of my male neighbors, happened by the tree and we greeted him. "How's me-how?" I asked, and he giggled. "I don't see it," he said. I didn't understand. Why? Is he sick, or traveling, or breastfeeding? Those are the only sanctioned excuses as far as I know. No, he said. He just can't do it.

I turned back to the women once he'd left. "Will he still go to alzan-na when he dies?" They didn't presume to know. Some people can't do it, they explain. That's all. One of the women isn't fasting either. She explains that when she goes to hell she will just kick at the dogs dragging her into the fire and she will be fine.

Okay, I think, maybe I will eat lunch.

Around one o'clock a baby named Safura peed on me so I had to go home and change my skirt. I looked longingly at my water filter and had to leave the house immediately to avoid temptation. My neighbor Saouda had just returned from walking all the way to the millet-grinding machine in Lossa - a 14-kilometer trip in the angry sun with no water. She was sitting in the shade with Ramatou, my cheif's first wife, who was pounding millet. Since she just had a baby she is exempt from the fast for now and will make it up sometime in the next year. They asked how everything was going and I had to break the standard everything's-fine custom and say "I'm thirsty!" They laughed.

Just before 2:30 prayer Maimouna came by wanting to study, so we went back to my concession and hung out. She read and I sewed, helping her with difficult words. She's getting really good. We chatted about giving money to your family if you go on exode, having babies (they prefer boys - boys bring in more money), and whether I would, as an adult, ask my parents to give me money just because they have a lot and I don't (no). It was a little frustrated...

Maimouna stuck around until it was time for her to go prepare food for her kids' supper. I actually asked her not to go because I knew I'd be tempted to go inside for some water. I didn't even feel hungry. Just so thirsty. So I followed her out and greeted her neighbors. I puttzed around the village, certainly no longer spitting, until it was getting close to me-feri time. When the suspense was too much, I sought solace at the concession of Samira, my favorite three-year-old.

I went back to my house to bathe, telling Amirou as I went in to yell at me as soon as I could drink water. When I was back taking my bucket bath, I heard him finally yell: "Sakina! Drink water!" And I had to laugh. Day one. I made it.

After guzzling two Nalgenes worth of water and treating myself to some freeze-dried REI food and fried millet cakes with sugar from a tray carried on a village girl's head, I was relaxing waiting for the last call to prayer, at which I would go to mosque. It was dark again, my quiet time, when no one is supposed to visit, so I was startled when I heard a voice: "Salaam Alekuym." I come in peace.

It was Haoua, a 15-year-old who attached herself to me immediately when I arrived in the village. I'd gone to work with her and her sister in their okra fields a couple of times. She alternately drives me insane and makes me feel guilty for thinking she's anything but perfectly deserving of my devotion. This time she'd come to bring me "Treetop" - a West African Kool-Aid, which of course I couldn't drink because it had been mixed with well water, and kooko, millet mixed with well water and sugar and heated. I boiled the kooko to drink it, though I had no desire for anything else in my stomach. Haoua's particular brand has tonko (hot pepper) in it - not so delicious. I told her the next day I'd bring her Ameriki Treetop.

At safo, the last call to prayer, I donned my long headscarf and went over to the mosque. Women are permitted at this time (about 8:15pm) during Ramadan, though of course they are relegated to the last two rows of prayer mats. I didn't pray, but watched because I'd been invited. I was congratulated by my villagers on the drinking of water, and everyone asked when I was going to start praying. Uh-oh.

*For the long version of this "Live-In" experience, as it's called, send me an email. The story is rather short on diplomacy and is therefore inappropriate for public posting. Current trainees swear-in next week.