Tchatchou is a little Fulani village about 20 km from Parakou. By little village you should essentially envision a bigger group of relatives, in this case, several brothers, who live in very close proximity. All along the road for a few kilometers are groups of Fulani Christians. Jon graciously invited me and the Kennedy's along for a Fulani Sunday service this morning.
We pull up into an old missionary compound, the same wide variety of trees from mango to palm canopies a smooth dirt area, shading an already mellow day into a perfectly comfortable temperature. The area is empty although here and there people straggle in to a typical cement-walled building, painted bright blue half way up from the bottom and canary yellow on up to the sheet metal roof. A sign reads "UEEB-Union des Eglises Evangéliques du Bénin" which is SIM's partner here in Bénin, the Union of Evangelical Churches of Benin. The sign is in French but of all the people I venture to greet, very few return a word of French. Fiona and I take our place on the right side of the room, on hard wooden benches even more uncomfortable than those in the last church I visited but thankfully with backs for leaning on, and Garth and Jon file to the front and sit on the left. Little 2 year-old Daniel wanders between us, in and out the backdoor, at one point even up to visit the pastor as offering is being taken!
As the brightly-dressed women file in and back their bums five or six to benches probably intended for four, children who aren't being dragged by the hand stop and have a good look at us before finding their seats. My favorite thing is the way the women tie the babies so tightly to their backs with cloth that usually matches their dress. Little black feet stick around their sides, snoring heads bob as mom greets friends, bright eyes blink at the white faces in front of them. Several children point emphatically, one boy using me to stop a younger sibling from crying by inciting youthful curiosity. Slowly but surely people file in as the cheerful choir sings songs in familiar melodies, but the only word I recognize is Jesus, which in Fulani comes out sounding like Yésu. As in the last church, our bench remains empty for a long time. Finally a woman sits on the end and leaves space between us. I smile at people who don't smile back, try not to feel awkward when kids stare and go right ahead and sing the English words when I know a song. Fiona gets up to take Daniel outside and I'm left alone. The bench fills on my left, removing her seat. Just as the service is about to start, a man dressed in white (an angel?) slides in next to me. I'm surprised because there are clear sections divided by sex. He whispers, "Bonjour. Vous parlez français?" To which I smile and nod emphatically, understanding that he's come to interpret for me. Which, as you can all imagine, gave me immense joy on multiple levels! I asked him if it was okay for him to sit there. He didn't seem concerned and later I learned that his mom was the brave woman to first sit on the white people bench and not only that but I should have recognized him because he works at the garage/gate of the compound where I live. A guy my age in a white goalie shirt, but nonetheless my angel for the day.
During announcements he does what we French English interpreters call "chuchottage" or whispered interpreting and I feel as though I don't miss a word. I'm impressed but saddened at how natural he makes something I work so hard (and pay so much) to do look. A man stands up to announce Jon's departure and to honor him the whole place rises to their feet and then just as abruptly, sits back down. I hadn't known that he was going to preach, but after introducing me and the Kennedy's, he took to the pulpit. His intro was in Fulani and when he said, "Now I'm going to speak in French." everyone laughed good naturedly and I told my interpreter, Ousmane Osias, "Tu peut te reposer maintenant." Now you can relax a bit. A woman in front of me had her arm around the woman next to her, leaning in, doing chuchottage from a language I didn't recognize as Fulani into a language I didn't recognize as anything...she was able to do that because standing next to Jon was a man interpreting from his French into Fulani. To come from the US were no one knows what I mean when I say interpretation to a place where it's all around and part of every daily activity (albeit usually referred to as translation), gives me new passion when I think of returning to Monterey and getting back to work.
When we stood to leave, a doe-eyed 4-ish year old girl stared at me from behind a bench and then marched right up to me. I patted her tiny back and she stuck by my side to take my hand after only a few steps. I wondered where she'd lead me since after several reminders I still couldn't even remember the Fulani greeting and she clearly didn't know any French. But it didn't matter. Her tiny warm hand in mine, proudly marching out the doors into the crowd of kids around Fiona and Daniel made us both smile.
I knew what would happen and couldn't resist because kids are so much fun, so I whipped out the digital and started snapping away. One shot, show the picture, eruption of giggles. Another shot, show the picture, pointing and smiling. "Moi! Moi!" Ah, so we do know some French! Picture after picture, display after display, giggle after giggle after giggle. I could do it all day but the crowd around me got bigger and bigger. Kids happily pointed at each other or others who hadn't had their picture taken yet. One girl wanted her rattle in the picture so I took a movie that was just the miracle of miracles. They pointed to an old man. I took it. They yelled to him in Fulani, telling him what had happened. I took a picture of the church. They ooed and ahed as they had with every other photo. Finally, after some adults hazarded what I guessed would translate as, "Hey you kids, break it up!", using elaborate, obvious gestures I slide the camera into its case in my bag and showed my empty hands. "C'est tout. Fini." They seemed okay with it but became my faithful entourage over to the car where I was informed we'd start our tour of greetings in the village and attempted to send the kids away with an "Enjoy your day in peace" in Fulani which was met with blink, blink...blink, blink. I tried something else. None of us understood me. Finally a bossy older girl seemed to round them up and give orders to scatter and we settled with "Bye, bye! Bye, bye!" as they reluctantly went their ways. I always wonder if it's better to stick with gestures or if throwing out some words no one understands is somehow reassuring just to fill the air with the sound of a voice. In any case, the rest of the afternoon I decided to jabber away in French, to the blink, blink of many an eager child.
Together with three Fulani pastors we wander from house to house in the village, very briefly giving everyone an honoring greeting. Some houses are round, made of packed clay with straw cone roofs, others are cement squares with sheet metal, the proudest white roosters I've ever seen pluck around the scampering baby black goats and the typical skinny tan dogs that run to and fro. Women wash dishes in large metal basins or grind spices on stone tables with stone rollers. Men wave to us from the shade or pull up chairs for a 10 minute chat.
At one place we stop in the shade and I can't resist sneaking a photo of a little guy on a giant, spindly bike. He sees me and of course loops around to check himself out. This draws an ever-widening crowd. A little girl in a frilly purple dress with tinkling laughter like the most elegant silver bells is the first to need coaxing over and then the most excited with each new pose. "Moi! Moi!" someone says, then, "Lui! Elle!" Him! Her! They point at passing motos, girls balancing loads on their heads, the proud water pump that brings water from town. Each time a new photo is taken, gathering to point, laugh and suggest another possibility. I sense that not everyone is as amused as I am with this game (other more adult adults) so I reluctantly put the camera away and we move on our merry visiting way.
The last stop is the home of one of the pastors and we meet around a large cement table under a cone shaped sheet metal structure with wooden chairs placed all around. We chat some in French, Jon in Fulani and after a bit the three Fulani elders begin a lively conversation we can't and aren't meant to understand, so we carry on in English, commenting on culture and what we've observed. We've been invited to lunch and we know that each of their wives is at home preparing part of the meal. Daniel plays happily with whatever kids are around, eventually bringing us little tiny nuts the kids have given him to eat. His dad, Garth, sits happily eating them while Fiona thinks to ask if they are edible first. They in fact are. They're the nuts of the palm tree from which the staple palm oil is extracted. They're the size of a coffee bean and while the elders advise that they're too tough for Daniel, we bite right in and they are, as described, like miniscule coconuts. Who would've known? You know me, I'm thinking, wow, these are a perfectly portable snack food!
We are brought a bowl of water and a round mango-colored soap to wash before the meal. Each wife brings out a tray with her own matching set of western-style cookware. Traditionally, the men would share their own common bowls of food and afterwards the women would share their own, but we notice that plates are passed around, so we are each invited to help ourselves to our own plates. The women don't eat with us. Based on the relatively safe assumption that I'll be forced to take more and more until I'm stuffed and suspecting correctly that more was on the way, I didn't take an awful lot. The dishes were the following although I didn't get their names. A grayish colored rice mixed with tanish beans and onion (detailed I know, these are the technical epicurean terms) which was my favorite, followed by white rice with a bright orange fish sauce, my portion of which came with a lovely perfectly intact but lonely spinal cord the likes of which I didn't really think fish had, that I have to confess seemed to glare accusingly at me from the edge of my plate the whole meal, course two being spaghetti pasta piled on top of more white rice with a darker meat sauce. Jon advises me to take just one meat. But I'm no stranger to adventure, so I bravely pile two on my plate! The following description is given by the husband of the cook, "I don't know if it's tender or tough, but it's beef, that I know." Indeed. And a two inch chunk took me a good handful of minutes to chew down. The grand finale was ground yams. This is no brown sugar coated dessert we're talking, but a grayish paste piled in a smooth dome into which we each reached eager fingers to plop out several blobs on our plates to be covered with a third orange sauce. Texture aside, wasn't too bad. A comment is made on how little women eat...I'm thinking, "Here it comes. Force away, I'm prepared to eat!!" But they didn't. I was surprised but happy not to have to roll away from the table. Another bowl of water is passed around and for "lack of facilities" we are excused to return home and nap at our own places. Thanks are exchanged, another prayer is prayed and we head on our way.
8 votes 
