Showing posts with label village life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label village life. Show all posts

4.1.22

Blue plastic burns green and other things I shouldn't know

Before covid, Greta Thunberg was making headlines pretty regularly. Once the pandemic took over, all thoughts of climate change and what we could do to save ourselves dissolved into the more immediate concern of how we could save the Western world from suffering. 

I think of Greta a lot these days. I've recently displaced myself to Gemena, a little village town in northern Congo, and am having to learn all new things. The most pressing: cooking on charcoal. I've compiled a list of secret tips for cooking with charcoal, although I am not sure who else will need them. I don't mean the fancy backyard grills lighting up American holidays or summer weekends. I mean the kind of charcoal that comes directly from burnt wood. 

A Google search turned up these images

But my new stove looked like this

My first weeks in Gemena were filled with challenge- a list so long I filled two notebook pages with the many ways Gemena was winning. She really beat me up the first two months. It didn't help that, between navigating water access- both drinking and washing, which don't come from the same source- and food foraging, I was also trying to secure electricity and internet connection to keep my doctorate studies going (under the haze of malaria.) Way too much to handle, especially since I could not figure out how to light the charcoal.  

My goal was one match, one bag and I can definitively say, after weeks of practice and perseverance, I have achieved that goal with consistency. But I still think of Greta often. Because the secret to lighting charcoal in Africa begins with a plastic bag. Before moving here, I was very energy conscious. Very plastic conscious. I had cloth grocery bags even for produce. I stuffed multiple fruits and vegetables into one bag, confusing and annoying the store clerks. I selected my purchases according to packaging and tried to do all the minor things that now seem very insignificant in the face of millions of women lighting thousands of plastic bags every day across the continent. 

While Greta is jetting around the globe in eco-friendly travel,  I'm busy releasing dioxins into the air every night to prepare my evening meal. The small black bags are the most common, but I don't fare well with them. They burn too quickly. Lighting charcoal with black bags is pro-level. I am still at intermediate. The (plastic) water bottles I purchase by the 6-pack come wrapped in the most desirable plastic for burning. It is heavy and thick. It sustains the flame long enough to ignite even the largest pieces of charcoal. The medium sized plastic bags are usually yellow (those seem to disintegrate in seconds) or blue. I have occasional success with the blue bags. The blue plastic burns a bright green and melts into thin rivulets that streak the sides of the charcoal. Once a piece of charcoal has some melted plastic adhered to it, it will burn for awhile. The green of the flame is mesmerizing. 

The thing about lighting charcoal, like most activities of village life, is that it takes total attention. There is no quick turning on the stove and heating up some water while you type a few last sentences of your term paper or tidy up the living room. No, with charcoal, you must sit and be attentive. You must be present. 

Initially, I was able to view this as meditative- a necessary and potentially healing moment in my day- a complete pause to do nothing but....well, burn toxic plastic, which did take away from the truly peaceful aspect. But flames are seductive. And blue bags have the most seductive burn. 

In order to achieve the one match, one bag goal there are a few preliminary steps. You have to choose the right charcoal. A mix of large and small pieces works best. Hollow out a little center area in the middle of your pile, creating a volcano-like dome. Prepare the plastic by holding the bottom, cupping your other hand around the bag and pulling it through. This creates a funnel like shape. It is important for the bag to be condensed enough to hold the flame but not so tight that it smothers out. Everything about fire is like this- a delicate balance between not enough and too much. 

Once the bag has a good shape, tuck it into the volcano. Nestle the charcoal in closer and light the bag. This part seems easy enough, but if you are using matches made in Congo, you can expect that several won't light, or the tips will spark and die out, the wooden stick might splinter, or the scratchy side of the box won't have enough phosphorus. Once you do get flame to bag, the trick is to make sure it catches with a living, growing fire. If the angle is not just right, the plastic will melt rather than catch fire. Melting plastic does not heat up the charcoal. You need the plastic to achieve a long burn with a steady flame. Once this happens, choose small, thin pieces of charcoal to gently place atop the fire . This is similar to a game of Jenga, removing pieces from the bottom to build up  around the top. You want the flame to have direct contact with charcoal. It is completely possible to have a slow steady burn that never actually gets the charcoal going. This is the attentive part. You cannot leave the charcoal to do it's own thing unless you gingerly, lovingly arrange all the pieces. You cannot achieve one match, one bag without proper set-up.

A strong steady burn

After the flame is going, whether green or orange or red, you then have the task of helping it spread. I think the next steps are optional. I imported these techniques from Kinshasa, where everyone is in a hurry. In the village, I don't really see anyone fanning their flames, but it's a tried and true from the city. A good fan will be made of cardboard or a stack of flat paper grouped together. Fanning your charcoal will help the heat spread faster and get you closer to the actual cooking part. It can take awhile to get the hang of fanning, as a technique, because too much oxygen kills the fire. Strong fanning motions can revive a flame that has gone out. It is very satisfying to bring back dying embers. 

After the charcoal is securely burning, you are ready to cook. It is helpful to have all your ingredients and meal plan prepared in advance. You have to think ahead. If you want warm water for bathing, or hot water for drinking tea later, or if you plan to make a two part meal- sauce and rice, for example- you should have everything measured and stirred and ready to go. In the beginning I experimented with two stoves, but that quickly evolved into the two pot method, since there are only two of us eating and we don't need to cook that much. Traditionally, people are preparing large pots of food for big families so they can't fit two pots on one flame. I think I can get a patent on the two-pot method.

One stove, two pots

The trickiest challenge of cooking with charcoal is having no refrigerator to store the food. Maybe not a problem for those large families, but for the two of us, avoiding food waste can be difficult. We have the most success with pizza, with or without cheese. It makes just the right amount for one meal. 

It took a few tries to perfect pizza over the open flame. A google search was helpful in this case. Best tip: cook one side of the dough and then flip, like a big pancake. After you flip, add sauce, cheese if available, and other toppings- like pondu, which is the most widely available vegetable here. Pondu, or manioc leaves, are eaten across Africa, though it goes by many different names and just as many recipes. In Congo it is mostly prepared with red palm oil, garlic, onions and occasionally dried fish or sardines. I've been advocating for pondu pizza since early Kinshasa days and I still believe it has the potential to be a great hit as a healthy snack item. 



My saga learning how to cook with charcoal was long and frustrating. Some evenings, I just couldn't win and my neighbor had to come over and light it for me, or bring some of her charcoal already warm and glowing. One night, a boy popped out from between a bamboo fence in the back. Apparently he'd been watching me struggle and came with a tool. It was a tin can with both ends removed. I didn't really understand how it was supposed to work, but he assured me it would be helpful. I wondered how many nights he'd seen me failing. Or heard me talking to myself, wondering why it was so hard, wondering if we were going to eat that night or not. He might not have been able to understand my English, but surely my body language and tone communicated everything. I was a stranger struggling to master an everyday occurrence. I can cross charcoal off my list for now, but it's a long list and there is much to learn.

21.4.18

Sacred (secret?) misison

On our way back from Segou, we took a detour from the main route in search of a marabout. Our guide and colleague is a Malian who is getting ready to move on to another position in a different country. While he kept describing the marabout as an "African fortune teller" I understand them to be more of a spiritual guide. Someone who is sensitive and aware. However you look at it, its a good idea to visit the marabout before undertaking such drastic life changes. His family (mother) likely insisted on it before his long journey. The family marabout happens to live in a village sort of on the way from Segou and so we incorporated this into our trip. (Or rather, we incorporated a trip to Segou into the visit to the marabout.)

The detour was a bit longer than we all expected I think. The road a dusty dirt road that seemed to go on and on, very little traffic and lots of open fields and expired farming tracts. Dry. We had to pass two villages before arriving at the one we were searching for. The remoteness of the villages is hard to describe.
We passed many dry fields

Red road to the village
We passed goats and sheep, which became an inside joke after having determined the difference between them (they have a surprisingly similar appearance here, the sheep devoid of the fluffy round coats we associate them with in colder climates.) We ran through the names of the US states (in alphabetical order,) named the regions of Mali and played "guess-that-country" using clues about weather and latitude/longitude (go mobile phone car games.) We still hadn't arrived.

The villages we passed were an assemblage of mud houses, lots of traditional round granaries and the usual assortment of children playing games - tree climbing, rolling tires and mucking around.  We even passed an official village playground which was a new sight for me. It was surrounded by a mud wall and shaded with a few large trees. Inside children were see-sawing, swinging, climbing and having a good time on equipment made from tree limbs and natural forms. Delightful.

Finally we arrived. The third village. We asked a few people sitting in front of their stores or workshops who were easily able to direct us to the right house. A few children ran ahead serving as extra guides. We left the cool climate of the car interior to sit under a thatched roofed stall. Some men were having tea, a few children loitered around and this magical horse ate from a nearby trough.

One of the best fed horses I have seen since arriving in Mali
The chair I was offered had a metal frame with nylon cords barely hanging on. These chairs, in this state, are a common sight, but this particular chair, under this particular shade was one of the most comfortable things I have lounged in lately.  We went in to visit the marabout one by one, each of us taking about 20 minutes or so. The rest of us sat around watching village life. Not much going on. Little chickens amused Mbalia. A few dogs wandered about and women came in and out doing chores. Some kids rode by on bikes or motorcycles. The dust stirred.
Village view from the shade

Bricks at angle make an interesting pattern on a hot afternoon

A few loitering animals pass by

The marabout himself was seated on a prayer rug on the floor of a small cement room. The walls were almost blue and there were two couches on either side of him. A small TV sat caddy corner on a dusty table and it wasn't clear if it was useable or not. A child with a round belly and runny nose wandered in and out.

Our colleague was along for translation purposes, which was necessary but also made the session less private than might have been helpful. I inquired about general things, health, relationships, the state of my future. And I reserved one question of a particular nature concerning a family member.

I watched him write squiggly lines on a piece of paper and then go back and add vertical lines here and there and here again. After some time he began to share his impressions with me. Overall, nothing too surprising, nothing too personal, and yet things that fit me exactly. He was pretty adamant that I worry too much, and even gave a cluck of his tongue and a shake of his head. His words didn't need translating. Really, he emphasized, you worry too much.

His remarks were helpful to hear, helpful to remember. He took me a bit by surprise with two particular things he mentioned, but again, it is good to keep these things in mind and perhaps I had gotten too comfortable. Too blasé about some things. Take nothing for granted.

He assigned me a few tasks- sacrifices, in a sense. We had been discussing the assigning of sacrifice. Our colleague's son kept repeating, "Oh, you just have to kill a goat or something," (actually this is a lot less severe than it sounds. Sacrificing a goat in Africa generally means you buy a goat and take it to the place where they slaughter them - with prayer, halal style- and then donate the meat to a mosque or to a family or share it at a gathering of people. Essentially, you are providing people with food.)

My sacrifices were not so dramatic. I've been tasked with offering someone 100 red and 100 white kola nuts and bringing a kilo of dates to 4 different mosques. In order to do this, I have to find the person who calls the prayer and offer them to him.

I didn't really have to think over whether I would do this or not, after all, feeding people is never a bad thing and offering gifts to the mosque can't do any harm. It can only be positive, so I set about my new quest.

Acquiring the goods was fairly easy.  My nounou was able to buy four packs of 1kg dates in the market. And my drum teacher agreed to go in search of the red and white kola nuts. I have a feeling I need to be the one to take care of delivery.

My drum teacher helped me to lay out a plan. Apparently each neighborhood has a mu'addhin. And my friend assured me that the mu'addhin wouldn't think it strange at all if I showed up with gifts. He would know what to do. I didn't need to explain anything.

After my dance class, I asked Makan, the proprietor of the studio (the amazing Maison des Arts, of which I have yet to share the photos- a beautiful design of architecture and decoration) if he knew where I could find the man who calls the prayer.  I'd forgotten to bring a scarf and was lamenting this while he went to see if he could send me with his wife. In the end, I didn't go with her because she was lamenting her clothes ( a modern style dress.) At least I had on a pagne, Makan observed.

We rounded a corner and walked a block and found the mu'addhin reclining on a mat under a large tree, a baby girl sitting next him. Makan offered greetings and introduced me. I handed over my package of dates and that was that. Kind of un-ceremonial, but positive.

Later that afternoon, in another neighborhood with another artist friend, I went again in search of the neighborhood mu'addhin. We waited under the shade of a tree exchanging small talk hoping to run into him on the way home from prayers. It seemed an uncertain method of encountering him and so we walked a bit and asked around. We were directed further down the main road (I say main road, but lest your vision get too grand, we are still talking dusty, red earth, donkey carts and motorcycles.)

Walking with Drissa,  walking with any artist in their neighborhood actually, is a bit like walking with a superstar. Everyone wants to say hello and it's actually quite difficult to make progress, and this is with him choosing who to stop and exchange extended greetings with. I heard him promise a few people he would be back to talk properly and a few more beckoned from the opposite side of the road, which were easier to evade. We stopped to exchange real greetings and introductions with 3 people, the most important or the ones he knows best, I assume.

Eventually we arrived. There was an older man sitting on a mat outside his home. He had on a crisp, white kufi and traditional flowing robes. A set of prayer beads lay just to the side and a stove for tea off to the back. He was much older than the first mu'addhin I had visited and a bit friendlier. He offered me blessings and we tried a little exchange, Drissa translating the Bamankan and helping me with the expected responses.

This definitely felt more ceremonial, more formal and yet friendly too. The kind of welcoming friendly you expect from a spiritual person. A relieving friendly. We said several goodbyes which left both of us grinning.

My sacred mission is not yet complete (I am not actually sure how secret it is supposed to be) but I am well on my way. Purpose is good and it's inspired all kinds of other thoughts about simple deeds I could be undertaking. This is probably the real meaning of the sacrifices. A gentle reminder that it is easy to do good work and we should probably do it more often.

17.11.15

Bowing to Kings

A mere 5 or so days after getting my computer back- all fixed and fresh with a crisp new screen- I broke it again. Yup, I broke it this time. I could get into the why's and how's and but it wasn't fair's, except that will only lead me down the road of discouragement and despair.

The positive thing about not having a computer at home is that I don't work all evening, every evening. It's not possible. When I go home at night to be with my family, the work stays in school- where it rightfully should.

Of course, it occasionally makes it hard to keep up with deadlines and I don't really enjoy spending every Sunday in my classroom- complete with cute little bunny in tow. It certainly makes writing for pleasure ever harder to get to, but...yeah, I was trying not to go down the road of despair.

The only things that offer true release from the world of work (aside from my little sunshine's laughter) is the world of dance. And drum. Music has a way of pushing all other things aside and claiming complete control.

I remember dancing in Congo- forever remember the zombie analogy- and see how far I have come. I actually miss Congolese dance, for one. The style and rhythms have helped me grow as a dancer in general.

My early teacher- a source of frustration for me at the time- has exploded into an amazing video choreographer and is working with a fabulous team in Belgium. I applaud her talent, her reaching for her dream and her success. Jolie is the shining star in many a video!

I am actually surprised at times by how much I miss Congo- and it's rhythms- especially since I recall the first year or so when my mind was colored by all things Guinean. It was hard to appreciate Kinshasa when my heart was aching for Conakry. But I am growing now and have found that loving dance and art and culture is a bit like being a parent. There is always room for the new and the old and the yet undiscovered.

These last few weeks, however, the drummers have been treating us with rhythms that remind me of my birth into the world of traditional dance. Oddly, I end up feeling a little nostalgic about African dance in New York. Moving across the floor as my body replays those steps from another time- it is like a warm and welcoming friend come to visit. When the teacher points me out to her group of young recruits and says, "She- she gets it. The only one." I know it is not fair. I want to tell her that the moves are good friends of mine. We go way back. I learned them long before coming to this class, this country, this time and space. But I remain silent, keeping our relationship hidden, secret and therefore all the more sacred.

At the same time, I have come to know some of the Ivorian dances pretty well. We are not lost in the jungle, bent-kneed and straight-backed zombies. Now- now we are peasants and villagers. We sow. We harvest. We cook and serve. We entice and praise. We dance with all the ordinariness of daily life and turn it into beauty. Most of the movements are low with a forward bend. Our backs pulse and arms circle out and around and in again. The movements are fluid and smooth, a perfect accompaniment to the drums. But we are never low enough.

"Get down,'  our teacher will say. "You are bowing to kings."  I've been keeping this piece of humility in mind as my reality spins out its tale. Yes, I am bowing to kings here in Abidjan.  There are so many ways to interpret this- and currently my state of affairs fits them all.

19.4.10

the poet from Mwene Ditu

I met him in Lubumbashi
A boy from the village
of Mwene Ditu
Where they live 60 kilometers
From the diamond mines
But don't have running water
Inside, No electricity
Where bicycles run
Like cars

I met him in Lubumbashi
Selling cases of Coke
Primus, Skol and Fanta
from a run down depot
with a broken window and
a metal door
his cot rolled up
behind

He arrived in the capital
Kinshasa
with just one suitcase
a few clothes, some photos
and papers from his past

Yesterday, as we walked
home from the pool
where he's taught himself to swim
I saw him carrying
One of his old school notebooks

What are you reading
I wondered.
Philosophy,
he said.
Descartes, Marcel, Plato
Do you know Socrates
he asked