The Big Day passes by slowly in Village

Today’s the day of the big vote (7/11), the infamous day the whole country’s been waiting for since time immortal, the day where no cars are to be out on the road, where all citizens are supposed to stay close to home to vote, the day where anything can happen. Yet, here in the village it appears as any and every day - women are sitting out braiding hair and doing wash, men lounge around in the shade, just another lazy Sunday. I assume everyone got up early, made their 6am votes, and are now playing the waiting game once more (or did this game never stop?).  Yesterday I was admiring the impromptu billboard set-up on the corner with pages and pages stapled to it of names and faces for who votes where.  I kept my distance though because I didn’t want anyone to think I was inspecting or involved (although so many people have been asking me if I voted today – which makes me wonder their understanding of their own political system!)

            So this afternoon, seeing that the coast was clear, I strolled over to the house of Fatim, my new 16yr old friend. We planned for a language exchange after she harangued me into conversation yesterday as I was walking home from market.  Actually, I had started talking to her friends who were sitting outside, separating out by hand the bad parts from the rice grain, when Fatim came bounding up. Basically everyday I get offers from people to come hang out, practice language, be friends etc but I don’t go for them all.  Fatim has an encouraging and dynamic young spirit, and I love being around and befriending dynamic women, so I accepted her offer.

            Fatim’s at the house next-door when I arrive, but spots me almost instantly (yes, I suppose I stand out a bit, like the president randomly strolling through town).  She leads me in her gate and through her courtyard with big, shade-giving mango tree (complete with a group of elder men sitting underneath it. “Bonjour” I shout and wave over to all), into her house, and plops me down in her ‘salon.’ Stoic portraits of her grandfather, father and mother in their finest Muslim attire seem to shed their protective gazes across the room. I take out my notepad and begin to question her on Susu basics: “Hello,” “How much,” “make it cheaper,” “no I’m not married, but no I don’t want to marry you,” and useful phrases of this nature. Then we switch and I help her with English. Some little pestering siblings are looking over my shoulder at everything I write, I wouldn’t mind too much but they smell a little too, so I shoo them away to the other side of the room. Fatim’s friend Fifi comes in and pulls up a chair.  She’s all smiles and has thick tress braids like dreads.  I tell her that I like her style and she says its called “Bob Marley” with her comic village-girl-Afro-French accent. Dig it. Fatim hands me some popcorn in a plastic bag (which her neighbor sells) and we continue our lesson. We continue our practice thru the hot afternoon until we soak in enough foreign language that we can’t think any longer and decide to continue ‘Won Tina,’ tomorrow.