Jessamyjoy's travel blogs:
- Senegal 2007
- Two months translating, interpreting and... 2005
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Coffee Break
Entry 19 of 33 | show all | print this entry |
In Africa, "pause café" means much, much more than "coffee break". It means taking time from the pursuit of money or the focus on daily perceived needs and stepping away from the boss of time, gathering around food and drink, greeting with a hand shake and smile, teasing and laughing and focusing on what's really important, relationships with other people. When I arrived in Parakou, I was passed on the tip that generally only men gather for the pause but that it's not unacceptable for a woman to join them. I'm constantly reminded, "Since you speak the language..." in reference to what a great advantage this gives me in social situations, from bargaining in the busy bustle of the market to asking for help to, as in this case, pulling up a chair and joining in the lively banter of the guys. If you know me, and you do, you'll know that if anything I'd take the timid tips I'm given as a challenge, but mostly I'm just excited to jump right in to whatever's in front of me. So, on the first day, I let the office door slam behind me and set out determinedly for "la paillot". I was a bit...less than comfortable, not knowing anyone and hearing the unfamiliar tones and cadences of Bariba, Fon, Deinji and the thick, slow African French whirling around under the straw shelter. I didn't know anyone until another guy from the office came. No need to say I was the only white one. I ate my three pancakes with the clear sugar syrup from a little plastic bowl in the kind of foreigner silence that sticks out but nods and smiles in a gesture of solidarity with the conversation you're not completely a part of. People gave me a friendly nod or curious glance. I admit, I felt like I "survived" that first day.
I've gone back every day since.
Now I have friends. The riotous-center-of-attention-great-evangelist-and-all-around-overly-friendly Pastor Daniel is always good for a hard slap into a firm hand shake, a pat on the shoulder and giving you a good, hard time. He welcomes me like a queen, just like he welcomed all the princes around me. Pastor Jeremy, who was among the welcoming party at the airport, forgot my name for the longest time and just started calling me his. So I welcome him with, "Bonjour Jessamy, comment ça va?" and ears raise around us, joining in the joking. His brother, Elie, couldn't remember my name either until he figured out that it was his brother's name with a letter switch, so between the three of us we've got the names down. Julienne, who serves the pancakes that are fried up inside the guesthouse, has a warm smile and twinkling eyes and always answers happily that her children are doing well when "Et les enfants?" comes into the string of "ça va"s that I offer her way. She remembers how many pancakes (which, by the way, is the word used because, well, that's what they are), whether it's coffee, tea or hot chocolate and what degree of powdered milk or sugar each person takes and doesn't put up with any hassle from the men if she overlooks them or slips and gives them the wrong thing. She's usually the only other girl around. Then there's Armand Juste, the "coiffeur" from across the street. (Barber if you're beating your brain.) Probably a couple years older than me, he speaks a bit of English and has the distinguished job of teaching me Fon. This, my friends, is funny. I have a dirty, water rumpled sheet with columns for Fon, English/French and pronunciation. Not that the third column does me a whole lot of good. So far I can say (without looking mind you!): hello, how's work, fine and good bye. Thank you is hard and you're welcome is on its way to my memory. Yesterday, however, our little game was joined by a Dendi speaker who decided hello and how are you were more than enough and took the pen from my hand to make his own columns. From my right pipes up, "And Bariba?" So, we tacked that on there. I scrunch my forehead, lean forward and ask for repetition, focus my eyes on the mouth that's giving the instructions, pause, hesitate, throw my hands up in despair and we all laugh. But it's agreed that greetings are the most important thing and something that you absolutely must know. If in the just over a month that remains, I can greet in three African languages, everyone agrees it will be a good thing.
Today, after a long, hard day of editing, translating and language learning, I was looking forward to my first experience of street vendor food. As the menacing clouds rushed in around the city, the wind picked up, billowing the black plastic sacks given at every stand and store around in the cool dusk air, sending goats and children rushing to nowhere in particular. Ted, a missionary from Canada, rushed into his house for a dish, because you bring your own for them to serve you in, and we walked quickly out the gates of the compound, already tight on time for how long they're cooking, but casting furtive glances at the ever-storm-darkened sky.
As we walk, kids yell out, "Baaturé! Baaturé!" White man! White man! We wave and they smile, go about their business. Vendors are closing up their sheet metal shops, women are sweeping the stubborn constant dust from small, uneven slabs of concrete, zemijans have begun to turn their headlights on and everyone moves faster than the usual African pace as the sky begins to spit. First stop, we jump across a three-foot deep cement divide to stand beside a woman seated on a stool next to a fire braving the whipping wind to boil the oil in a shallow black pot. She recognizes Ted and they chat. The rain picks up and she points us to a rickety shelter where two little boys have just hidden themselves under a bench, offering us the same as she vigorously whips a bowl of white bean paste, preparing to drop it from a spoon into the waiting oil. We thank her and take shelter from the wind and rain, continuing to greet everyone who passes by. I take a picture of the boys peeking out but they don't seem as enamored as usual, so I let them take one of me and then ask who it is. "C'est toi!" They get it. When we step out to get our fried bean cakes and yam fries, the boys are dancing around the woman, telling her about the photo, so I take one of her and show her all the ones I've taken. "Jolie!" she agrees. It's a good photo. At first she'd mixed me up with the missionary who left just before me (happens all the time) and this led us to discover that Ted knows her brother from the hospital at Bembéréké, two hours from here. We'd keep chatting but the wind and rain are getting serious and we wish each other a good night and a watch out for the rain!
Next stop, meat. A make-shift wooden table next to a 50 gallon drum outside of a café with umbrellas flapping in the gusts. The drum is lidded with cardboard and the large chunks of what I'm told is lamb sitting on top are occasionally lit with bursts of orange glow coming from the fire and coals inside. Ted asks for the best he has and the guy pulls a big chunk from the fire and with precision like a surgeon begins to cut it into bite sized chunks that he places in our bowl. Ted asks how I am. His scalpel is a worn-out machete that he yields calmly as he whacks the meat and Ted steps back to avoid the splatter. He extracts gleaming white bones and works quietly, complementing the meat with two small handfuls of mysterious orange spice and a bag of red. We thank him and head toward the compound. Am I alright? Excited and famished.
Just as we step into the shelter of the guesthouse the real thing comes and the downpour sets in. Rushing and roaring, pushing all thoughts out of our minds with the sound of the storm around us. Ted keeps asking how I am, but I couldn't be finer. I love food and I love new things and here was both on the plate in front of me!
The bean cakes are the definition of grease and so good I could hardly restrain myself in time to avoid a full stomach ache. The yam fries are made of big, brown, knobby yams that can be mistaken for sticks all piled on the women's heads, but they taste an even middle between Idaho potatoes and the sweet orange potatoes of home. In the end, I could have thrown more of the threatening spice onto my meat, but it was all excellent and I can't wait to go back. The best part, I write this from a perfectly healthy day after!
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