Mamans of Altonodji

Meet: Deoulemgoto Marie
Marie is one of the ten "Mamans" who live here and take care of the 120 orphans at Altonodji. She was born here in Moundou and was raised in a family of 8 children, though one sibling died while she was still young. Marie attended school for a full ten years in Moundou and in another town called Bangor. I'm amazed by the amount of English Marie has retained since she studied back in the 70s.. She often tells me she wants to learn and the first time that I tried to teach her some basic phrases such as, "I am preparing the boule for dinner," I was impressed that she could do it with little instruction. Marie was married in 1976 and the couple had one daughter, but today both her husband and her daughter have died. In 2007, when Marie heard that there was a school being designed for orphans and widows, she applied to come live with the orphans. She likes living here. "At our homes," she says, "we have many difficulties. But here, it is calm. Despite all the work that we have to do, there are not the same difficulties." Marie values her role here at the school. Her responsibilities include preparing food, giving advice, and educating the children on subjects of how to be obedient, to work hard, and to be respectful to others. I asked Marie if she had a message she would like to send to America and she said,"A number of years ago Americans came here to the school with gifts for the orphans and the widows, but they haven't come for a while..." I asked if she was saying they should come bring gifts again and she just nodded!

Meet: Mandebeye Marthe
What a sweet woman! The first thing I want to say about Marthe is that I love her smile, and it feels like such a shame to me that when I pull out the camera she quickly wipes it off her face. (I feel bad but I'm  using a picture where she turned away to laugh.) I will remember Marthe as one of the Mamans that came into my living room my first night here at Altonodji and immediately hugged me and started dancing with me.
Growing up, Marthe had 8 brothers and sisters. Unlike Marie, she stopped school after only a few years. Instead, she decided to take up a trade. According to Marthe, she ordered a dress to be made, and upon seeing the quality she lamented that the
tailor had done such an awful job, saying, "You know what, I can do this myself!" She began apprenticing at the tailor's shop and by the age of 18 she was working herself. Marthe has been working here at Altonodji since 2012, but she has a full life off campus as well. She has 8 children in school, 2 of which attend here, she continues to sew dresses, and she teaches Sunday school at her church.i also just learned that Marthe is the official "chief" of the Mamans. I love that title. Marthe loves children and has a particular love for orphans and feels called to help take care of them.

Meet: Toualeyo Debora
Debora is a maman I was happy to get to know a little better because, like many of them, she doesn't share a language with me unless you count a handful of Ngambaye phrases. However, after my first two interviews, I was told that she was excited to participate too.
Debora was born in the town of Koutoutou (my spelling) in 1953. This means that she spent her first decade living under the French colonists, but she was too young to remember how things were different due to that. Debora had a very large family, with 10 brothers and sisters. Her parents were farmers, and instead of attending school she learned from a young age how to help them in the fields. The fields were far from their village, but each day she walked with her family and worked cultivating sorghum, millet, and other grains. She loved working in the fields, and during our interview she spotted a gardening tool and promptly grabbed it to start demonstrating. When it was time to get a picture of her, she marched straight out of the kitchen and into the garden where she bent down and started breaking apart the soil.
Eventually Debora stopped working in the fields to get married and move here to Moundou. She had 11 children of her own and worked to raise them. Now, she is here at Altonodji where she is very happy. When asked why, she listed the things that make her happy in the same way someone might rave about their recent Caribbean cruise. With a big smile she said she is at peace here... She eats BOULE, she drinks BOUILLE (water, sugar, flour, rice) she SLEEPS, she has a good HOUSE... she is happy. She made grand gestures as she listed each of these things and had everyone around us smiling and laughing with her.
When Debora found out the meeting was over, she seemed like she wasn't finished. I asked what else she would like to say and she said she didn't go to school, but she went to church and there she learned to read and write in Ngambaye. She is thankful to God for her education through the church. I'm thankful for Debora!

Selected Snapshots

For a preface to these January snapshots, check out my previous post.. The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical."

January 4- I see dozens of people wearing masks to protect them from the dust, which today made the world a dream as I could not see clearly 50 feet in front of me. People have asked me to tell them the word in English for dust that floats so heavily in the air that it creates a fog. I can't say that I had an answer for them. Also, it's creepy to see people walking around with medical masks like doctors, miners, or nuclear bomb survivors, but I think I'm mostly envious as I take in the thick, chalky air.

January 8- I went out to fill up on water at the pump. It's about a minute walk from the guest house. Before I'd even gotten off my front porch with my two buckets, two little boys intercepted me and insisted on fetching me water. They are allllways together, and I get the sense that the slightly bigger boy, Calis, is the other's protector. He appears to be about 6 but is a natural mentor. Even with me, he always speaks to me slowly and in Ngumbaye, as if he were a kindergarten teacher speaking to a student. The younger boy, Semplice, is half his size and the kind of kid that makes you want to constantly say "awwwwwww." For my first week here he said not a word, but smiled from behind his bigger friend whenever I saw him. I forced him to be my pal the other day by sitting down and coloring with him, putting markers in his hand and guiding his wrist to draw smiley faces and stars until finally he was drawing enthusiastically on every surface he could find. Since then he has been following me around, miming a drawing hand. Anyway, I gave them my buckets and let them go. A minute later, I saw Calis on his way back with the bucket on his head, and tiny Semplice still at the pump, being assisted by an older student who was gently positioning the bucket on the little boy's head. I met Calis and deposited his bucket in my living room. Then I turned to Semplice, who was painstakingly making his way towards us, being positively showered with water from his bucket. His friend went to relieve him, and by the time the bucket had changed hands, the second boy also had a huge dripping wet patch in his belly, the bucket was 1/3 full, and both of them had eyes dancing with laughter! I thought maybe he would be embarrassed, but both seemed nothing but pleased with themselves for helping me out.

January 9- I was just minding my own business outside when the same two boys and a little friend started following me around saying stuff in Ngumbaye. First I thought they were telling me I needed a shower. Then I decided they were trying to teach me how to talk about needing to take a shower. Eventually I realized they were imploring me to give them buckets again, so I sent all three off to get water that I didn't actually need.

January 11-  I've realized that when my host mother talks about food, she rates it based on how filling it is. Whereas at home we might marvel that a meal is delicious and low-calorie, or high fiber, or locally grown, she will brag about how you can eat a little and not be hungry all day, which is not exactly what I want to hear. The main staple, boule, is made by mixing different kinds of flour or ground meal with hot water. As I have been learning to prepare it myself, I'm learning that certain types of flour go better with certain proteins, whether you are eating little fish or big chunks of beef. When trying to discern why we were using sourgum verses corn flour, I though some talk of flavor would ensue, but the explanation that I received was that sourgum makes you soooo full so it's the best option!

January 14- This morning, during a lovely bike ride out of the city into Village Altonodji, I passed several students walking to class. As I passed one little boy, it was clear he was going to be very late- I still had about 10 more minutes of biking- and he asked if he could ride with me. I agreed just to see what would happen. Before I could slow down my bike, I heard his steps quicken behind me and swiftly he swung up on the bike rack. He had clearly done this before. It turns out that with my ever-flattening tire it was doubly difficult for me to bike with a second passenger, even a tiny boy. We went for about five minutes, with me pushing with all my might on the slight incline, before we passed some friends of his and practically without my noticing he slid off and joined them on foot again.

January 16- Women here are so incredibly tough! It's not only that they can carry enormous loads of anything on their heads, or stir massive vats of boule, but they seem to be able to tolerate unbelievable degrees of heat. Rarely do I see women in my house use any kind of pot holder to lift heavy, hot metal pans from red flames. I often marvel at this aloud, and on Sunday Mama Kiri announced to me that it is only a matter of habituation, and it is about time I learn. So as we prepared lunch she would nonchalantly announce to me that I was to go over maybe lift a scalding hot lid to check on the sauce, or take something off the flame, and then she would look at me out of the corner of her eye to see my reaction. Both she and Béné would then laugh as I would try, either playing hot potato or half-throwing/half-dropping whatever hot thing I was supposed to be holding. My goal is to be able to walk on hot coals by the time I return to the States.

January 17-  The boarding students at my school do not turn up their noses at the idea of eating rodents and other wild creatures. Young boys tote slingshots and traps with every intention of eating their kills. I've seen many a rat being carried across campus towards the open kitchen. What was remarkable today was peering into a pot which held the biggest lizard I have ever seen in the wild! I don't know who found it or where, but it had to be shaped into an "o" to fit inside the large pot. I regret that I didn't take a photo.

January 21- There is good news and bad news. The good news is I'm not afraid of mice or rats. The bad news is that mice and rats have been trying to terrorize me, mostly beginning this month, in both of my abodes. The list of things that have been eaten entirely or nibbled significantly in January include: three rolls, a tomato, a banana, an onion, the outside pocket of my backpack holding a fully wrapped granola bar, half of the granola bar, the change pouch in my new handbag that held a few peanuts, the peanuts that were contained, a tablecloth that had been hiding my fruit overnight, and now, most recently, a big patch in the belly area of my nice shirt. I guess I'd spilled a bit of sauce on it or something... (Edit: two weeks later, this list ought to have several more things on it, including two bowls of poisoned tomatoes. Still, it haunts me..)

January 22- I was just biking from town to Altonodji and, amid unrelenting cries of NASSARA!! (white person..) I heard one that made me smile a little extra. A small voice, filled with breathless awe, gasped at me, "Chinoise!" I hope he never finds out the truth that that girl racing by on her bike was not Chinese, because it truly sounded like his life would never be the same.

January 23- this week I KILLED THE CHICKEN! It felt like such a coming of age moment, seeing as how my first exposure to the ordeal elicited it's own epic blog post. I still made a cultural faux pas by naming the chicken (Paul the Poulet) when I first met it, which you don't do to something you're about to murder. But yes, I announced I was going to do the butchering, and since Mama Kiri has decided I'm Chaddian enough to hold scalding metal dishware, she also didn't hesitate to give me the knife, holding down the chicken's wing with her foot. It was only after I'd made the first several sawing motions that I remembered that this particular knife so dull and not serrated so you can hardly even cut carrots. So here I was, utterly inexperienced, barely breaking the skin of poor Paul's neck with the realization this was going to be a really unpleasant death for him, so then I started crying out for someone to take the knife, but I didn't stop my undirected sawing for fear of prolonging its suffering anymore, and nobody was taking the knife, so I just continued to shriek while desperately pushing the knife harder and harder while blood started ever so slightly trickling down its neck. Finally, FINALLY, it was cut enough for someone to snap the neck back, and then Mama Kiri grabbed the knife and slashed its jugular in two. So maybe it wasn't 100% me and maybe doesn't demonstrate that I've come particularly far in 5 months, but there it is.

January 29- Today I walked in on a few teachers having a serious discussion in the break room. One of them turned to me and said, "these girls in the orphanage.. many of them..They are very sick." Later from my house I could see dozens of kids crowded around some bedrooms. I heard wails. Outside, I was met by a group of small students who warned me against going over there. What they told me is that four or five girls are filled with bad spirits, demons. I started asking all kinds of questions and they just kept repeating "spirits! Bad Spirits!" Then a passing student offered to try to translate but I had to insist that I did in fact understand what they were saying but I just wanted to know more. They were completely floored that this was new information for me, and suddenly it felt bad of me to let on that, for me, the belief in demons and possession is a fascinating cultural illustration. It would be akin to telling a child, "Who is this Santa that you're talking about? Hmm, I've never heard of him and he doesn't bring me presents, but that's interesting." Like everyone on campus, I would like to go over and see for myself, but after that initial conversation with the boys in which I just felt like an insensitive spectator, I haven't asked any more questions, but rather avoided that side of campus.

February 1- Rough English translation of part of a song we are learning in church choir, "Driving in your car, you can die. Sitting in the kitchen, you can die. Washing yourself in the bathroom, you can die. Laughing about your exploits, you can die."

February 8- I've been preparing tomorrow's course in my room, but it finally became too dark to continue. I stepped outside to watch the fading light, and noticed that through the space between our house and the trees, I could see a parade of bats heading across the sky in the same direction. Not a flock really, but definitely not by accident that they were passing by at the same time. I sat down in a chair and began to count. 1..........2........345......6..7......................8. It was soothing... like counting sheep. I heard the safe sounds of a radio to my right, water being drawn from the well to my left, crickets beginning to sing all around me. 25.... 26 27 28 29.......... 30. For a few moments I forgot all about myself and my students and thought just about the bats. Where are they all trying to get to all of a sudden? It was like they had a curfew.   101..102. I sat until it was just dark enough that I couldn't see the outlines anymore. 511.

The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical"

This blog post is primarily an admission of failure. For the last days of December and a large part of January I had every intention of writing a post entitled, "Christmas: the Musical" and it was going to include all sorts of cute tidbits about my very song-and-dance filled holiday season. It was to start with the paragraph: "Have you ever had that dream where you are on stage, facing a large audience, and you realize that very soon you will be expected to recite the lines of a script that you don't remember having rehearsed? Maybe sing a solo? That dream where everyone else is adequately prepared, and they seem to expect the same of you, but for the life of you you can't remember ever being through this before? Why am I even asking this? Of course you have! And that's why it shouldn't be too difficult for me to convey to you the events of Christmas Day. I think I'll back up a moment."

From there I was going to regale you with tales of a 24-hour church choir rehearsal, a concert planned seemingly by chance for Christmas Day, technical rehearsals held in a bedroom inside of a bank, choreography performed with a group of pre-teen girls donning matching dresses, evenings filled with cramming French and Ngumbaye song lyrics into my head by lamplight... all of this leading up to 4:00 on Christmas Day when I came out on stage with my worship group, "Les Semeurs," nervous as if it were a final exam to evaluate how much I had retained after all the whirlwind weeks of cramming. And the first thing that happened was we started singing a song I had NEVER heard before. And of course I was standing at my own microphone and of course multiple people were standing at the foot of the stage filming me exclusively. After illustrating that, I might have included some positive moments from the concert to redeem myself, and probably some thoughtful "meaning of Christmas" conclusions to tie it all together.

That was what I was GOING to write, but I don't know. Maybe it was too painful to relive for you (probably not, because Christmas was actually quite a good time!) or maybe I was just too busy having new experiences to spend too much time dwelling on old 2014. In fact, while I was adamantly not finishing my blog post, I was already throwing myself into documenting 2015. My New Years resolution was to, "for each day of January, note an observation, thought, or experience that might otherwise go unrecorded." There are so many little quotidian happenings that, for me at least, do a better job of capturing the special parts of my Chaddian life than the big Headlines. For that reason, in the following post I present you with some selected January snapshots. If you are members of my family or close friends, which you probably are, you have already received these in weekly installments, but you'll find a couple February snapshots at the bottom because this habit of daily journaling has been hard to break.