Drumbeats

The sound of drumming is echoing from somewhere in the tangle of buildings across the road from where I stand. From behind my right shoulder the clinking and clanging of a motor-king draws ever nearer, and as it passes my eyes are drawn to the young boy who stands in the bed of the vehicle dancing along to the ghostly drum beats. With one hand loosely gripping the rail in front of him his feet are ever steady as he is shaken this way and that as the driver speeds over the potholes that decorate the small strip of paved road amongst all the dust.

I am standing in front of a small wooden table, covered in a large cooler full of spaghetti, Talia it’s called. Also on the table are several flats of eggs, some assorted bowls of sauce, and a few onions, tomatoes, as well as a partial cabbage. There is a girl, maybe about 15, behind the table who has come to know my face, my name, and how many eggs I like in my Indomie (think Ghanaian ramen). As I parked my bicycle minutes earlier, she ran over from her sitting place in the shade, started cracking eggs, and began lecturing me about how I had not been to visit her for some time. It’s been almost 2 weeks since the last time I made the journey from my small village to the district capital where she sells her food.

It had been so long because my bike tire had spoiled. Some small piece of metal had wedged itself through the tough rubber which is wearing smooth from the sand and rocks it must constantly work against as I travel to and fro around my small home. 2 days before when I had been at market, a man in a makeshift stall with a roof of woven grass had pulled the metal piece out of the rubber and fixed the hole it had left behind.

I worry my bi- (or sometimes tri-) weekly trips to visit the young girls who run all my frequently patronized stores may be drawing to an end. The sun has come with such a fury that some days it feels almost as though there is a God or God’s somewhere pushing the bright star closer and closer to the surface of the Earth. The leaves of the shea tree that serves as the teacher’s room at school have dried and fallen to the ground, leaving patchwork shadows we must try to contort our sweating figures into to find some small relief. The wind blows hot, the lights flicker on and off more frequently, and the water levels fall back a little more with each passing day.

They’re saying there are about two and a half months remaining until the rains we have been missing since October return to us. What was green and vibrant when I first came to this region is now brown and dry. Each footstep in the dry earth sends a cloud of dust out into the air. And still there is joy to be found.

Those who have grown up their whole life in this pendulum of a climate are not immune to the heat, but they find no sadness in it. The past few weeks have brought more drums and dancing that I have ever seen. Women carrying firewood on their heads that adds another 3 ft to their frames sway their hips to the music that beats constantly in the background, syncing the heartbeats of an entire community. We (And I say “we” now as I find my footing in this uneven soil) are not lost in the haze that covers the horizon line most mornings and evenings. As the sweat drips down our temples, and soaks through our clothes, we find more than ever there is hope and love, and most importantly, new life begining to blossom all around us. Laughter echoes as often as the drum beats. And I am no longer just surviving, WE are thriving.

Cheers.

Popping the Bubble

Sweat is pooled on my upper lip from the bike ride down the flooded roads which took me from my own small community to this new one. Here is where my friend’s family lives, here is where the celebration is happening. Leaving our bicycles under a shady tree we visit the homes of those he knows from childhood. On the edge of one compound, surrounded by a small mountain of ground nuts sits a woman whose eyes shine pure white from underneath he sagging eyelids. She moves methodically, breaking open the shells of the legumes on the hard concrete beneath her. I sit on a plastic tub that once contained margarine, fielding questions as well as I can from those in the compound. Eventually the drums call us away, leading us to a small open patch of dirt and into a crowd.

Seven men march in a circle around a small pile of leaves and branches. There is also a small goat. It’s legs are tied together tightly so that it can do nothing but stare, eyes wide, at the circling group wielding knives and horns while the drummers beat furiously in the background. I stand among the children. They are calm as the energy grows in the space before us. When the knives swing downwards, they do not look away. I do. Two gunshots ring out loudly from next to the crowd. The green leaves of the pyre now dripping red. Slowly, each man bends down, hands tucked behind his back, drinking from a hollow gourd full of a cloudy liquid which sits next to the sacrifice. Then they begin to dance. Around and around the pyre, some spin, others move slower from the weight of many years of dancing. Eventually they start on their way, leading a parade of which I feel the only somber member, towards one of the compounds we have just come from.

Here is much of the same. Except where I am made to squat is merely feet away from where they let the blood drip onto pieces of the new yam. The elders offer me to drink from the calabash they all sip from, hopefully they were not offended by my knee-jerk reaction to decline the clouded water inside the dish.

There is a sound like a drum with no echo which rings out in no particular rhythm over the community. It is the sound of large pestles hitting the bottom of the hollowed-out tree trunks which hold slices of the newly blessed boiled yam. At each house, women surround these giant mortars, breaking the very smallest pieces of the yam down so that it comes together once again in a completely new texture. This is fufu. This is lunch. This is a meal to be worked for, sweated over, and shared with all who we know as family in this small place. I am glad to dip my fingers in the boiling liquid, letting the heat of the pepper singe the back of my throat long after the plate sits before me. The warmth of the food and community sits deep within my stomach as we leave this place, riding our bikes to the next community, passing by a small clinic focusing on maternal health where I hope to volunteer during my time here.

The sun just about to begin its descent when I pulled my bike up to the front gate of my compound. Strapped to the back sits a pile of eight yams which were gifted to me by several people along my journey. I do not know yet what I will do with them. For now they sit in a pile in the corner of my room, next to the plastic barrel which holds the water it is safe for me to drink.

I cannot pretend to understand or appreciate what I have seen. My stomach will never stop turning in summersaults at the memory of the day. The sounds of struggling goats resonates in every corner of my brain. But, while I cannot understand, I also cannot judge. I cannot pass judgement on these people, on their rituals, on their ways of life. The joy and excitement of the day is palpable in contrast to the dark cloud I fear hangs too low over my head. I try to bat it away, to paste a smile over the uneasiness which is plastered across my face. So for now I hold my place on the outskirts as a silent observer, focusing on the people, not the ritual, the joy and togetherness that each festival breathes new life into. This will not be the last time my brain has troubling understanding what is before my eyes. And for that I am grateful. There is much to this world that my tiny bubble butted up against. There’s so much more to the human experience than the western world I have called home for so long. I hope to feel uncomfortable as often as I feel anything else.

So far this has held true.

I suspect it will remain that way.

A World on Fire

A shot rings out from the black powder rifile leaving a ringing in my right ear as the flames burst to life. All around me children and women dip bundles of dried grass into the fire watching them ignite. They sprint off into the darkness waving their makeshift torches wildly around their heads, unafraid of the sparks that fly to and fro scattering themselves upon the dry ground, interested only in the cleansing power of the smoke. I stand still. Awestruck. Opening my eyes wider and wider so as not to miss a moment, to drink in each movement, each cheer and shriek as we all take off down the road.

I do not run as the others do. My feet don’t find the uneven road so easily and my sandals slip and slide on my feet when they hit the soft mud that has become most of the path. They still give me a flame, and with the burning bundle in my right hand and a branch of a healing tree in my left we march onwards.

The drums are beating in the background of our torchlit dance down the street. Each beat a song, each song a meaning. I try so hard to remember but they become muddled and mixed in my brain. They talk to us. Tell us what to do, where to go, what to sing. Eventually they shout out in their earthy tones to turn around, to return to where we started. Through the dark sky the half lit torches soar into the shadowed trees. A woman takes me to the edge of the road, she counts down, and together we toss the last of the fire from our hands to the bush, leaving only the newly rejuvenated embers deep in our bellies, stoked to burn brightly again this night.

From the door of the chiefs palace they are tossing buckets of water. There is a swarm at the arvhway, weilding the branches they have collected not as weapons but as a sort of sheild. With each spray of water the beaches stretch and strain, yearning to be touched by the droplets that will bless them. Only then can the leaves be stripped down, and made into the medicine and bathwater for the small souls born in the past twelve months in this place.

Off they run again, this time in pure and utter darkness, no fire to light their way. Branches waving above their heads they visit the door way to every home, blessing it with their dampened leaves.

I have migrated to the front of a small shop to watch a video in a language I don’t understand when they next run by. Encircling me in their souful relay, droplets hitting my skin and arms, one twig tearing a small gasp in my skin. That wound will heal. I hope if scars. One last reminder of the vibrant drums and dancers which formed a circle I could not avoid being pulled to the center of.

Following the beats my feet moved in time, arms swinging, eyes gazing upwards into the cloudy night skin. I cannot help but laugh and gaze in awe of those around me. When the drum beat slows so do our feet, only to quicken again as I am pulled to the small palace where a man sits on a raised block, surrounded by elders. The chief. We tell him of my dancing, there is more laughing, not the kind which pulls your spirit down, but the kind that lifts it to the highest heavens. The kind that lets you know you’re doing something right.

I hope to learn to laugh like that forever.

P.S. photo is of my new pup, he still remains nameless but he is cute regardless