For Tobaski, the celebration of the end of the Hajj, Wurokang just about doubled in size – all the bumsters came back to play. The city folk definitely stand out, with clean white sneakers and blue jeans. Also lots of 50 Cent clothing and one brand new Cannabis t-shirt. The night before Tobaski the village was humming with women pounding rice for the following day and the little girls getting mesh braided into their hair.
We woke up in the morning and I put on my nice dress and sat on the road with my family. After breakfast, my host mom handed me a pink salibayoo outfit. I guess my American dress didn’t quite cut it. I put it on with a headwrap and headscarf and followed most of the villagers to the mosque. Everyone sat in front of the mosque, outside, on mats with the men in front and the women and children behind. There was a group prayer and then the elder men of the village stood and draped themselves in a sheet and prayed for about 15 minutes. All of a sudden it was over and everyone shook hands and dispersed.
The rest of the day I wandered around kind of aimlessly, not sure what exactly this holiday meant. The men slaughtered a goat by slitting its throat and then dissected it for our lunch time feast. The women cooked fried rice with potatoes, onions, and eggplant. It was tasty. I avoided the goat.
Toward evening time, all the little boys and girls and the women got dressed up in fancy new clothes and walked from compound to compound asking for prayers and minties. One little girl had shoes that were way to big and had to waddle to keep them on. A speaker system was set up at the water pump by the mosque and people stayed up late into the night, dancing and drinking attaya and lait.
And I thought that was the end but it wasn’t. The next say was kind of like a giant hangover until the evening, when people did the whole thing all over again. And the next night. A little more of a holiday than I expected.
Little girls all dolled up for Tobaski
We woke up in the morning and I put on my nice dress and sat on the road with my family. After breakfast, my host mom handed me a pink salibayoo outfit. I guess my American dress didn’t quite cut it. I put it on with a headwrap and headscarf and followed most of the villagers to the mosque. Everyone sat in front of the mosque, outside, on mats with the men in front and the women and children behind. There was a group prayer and then the elder men of the village stood and draped themselves in a sheet and prayed for about 15 minutes. All of a sudden it was over and everyone shook hands and dispersed.
The rest of the day I wandered around kind of aimlessly, not sure what exactly this holiday meant. The men slaughtered a goat by slitting its throat and then dissected it for our lunch time feast. The women cooked fried rice with potatoes, onions, and eggplant. It was tasty. I avoided the goat.
Toward evening time, all the little boys and girls and the women got dressed up in fancy new clothes and walked from compound to compound asking for prayers and minties. One little girl had shoes that were way to big and had to waddle to keep them on. A speaker system was set up at the water pump by the mosque and people stayed up late into the night, dancing and drinking attaya and lait.
And I thought that was the end but it wasn’t. The next say was kind of like a giant hangover until the evening, when people did the whole thing all over again. And the next night. A little more of a holiday than I expected.
Me in my salibayoo
Killing the goat
Little girls all dolled up for Tobaski
4 comments:
Love the photos and all the little touches, Downie!
"One little girl had shoes that were way to big and had to waddle to keep them on."
I never know what the drinks you describe are. Can you describe attayoo and lait?
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