Everyday I see many things, which I often have to remind myself I would not consider completely normal in the States. Sure men can pee where they want in the States, but normally, if they can help it they don’t. Not here. Women never touch a pot on a hot stove without an oven pad in the States. Not here. But even in the face of the unusual, I know there are just as many unusual things in the States. The source of the most absurd things though, I have is always people. Crazy people are shocking, and amusing, no matter where you are.
When telling stories I always torn between my instinct to save the best for last, and what I was taught as a journalist; give the important information first, because you may lose your readers. In most of my blogs, I go with the first, but for this one I am going with the latter, although this is not to discredit the second part of my story.
This morning I sat sipping my tea. It tasted so good, white pomegranate tea from Trader Joe’s—it arrived in a package last week. I took small sips, mostly because it was hot, but also because I wanted to savor the cup. As I waited for it to cool I took pieces of baguette, which Sophie (my brothers future wife) brought with her from Natitingou. I was content. Especially, since this time yesterday I was exhausted and in pain from “stomach pains.”
I hear a noise from the gate to my family’s concession, where I can be found most of the time, except when I am sleeping, or on my computer. The noise is repeated. I assume it is a greeting in Biali, the local language spoken here, that I am not familiar with, and continue to eat. The noise continues, and my Maman, gives no reaction, which is unusual; to not saluer is not proper. I look, and see the legs of a woman, but nothing else, a tree blocks my view. I look at my Maman, and she exchanges a few words with Sophie, who is grooming herself, and applying a semi-green shade of iridescent lipstick. I hear her say the word for crazy. I ask what is happening, and she confirms, it is a crazy person—points to her head, twirls her finger a bit. The woman enters the concession.
She walks in a path that allows for a tree not more than five feet in height to block her from my view. Then, like the Sasquash, she emerges from behind the tree. She is better than the Sasquash though.
I was not much interested in the words exchanged between the woman and my Maman. Normally, it would be because I don’t speak Biali, but at the moment, it was because I was fascinated and taking very mental details about what this woman was wearing and how she was wearing it, along with what she was holding. Also I was holding back a bout of laughter, behind the silver steel container holding my tea.
Adorn her head, was no crown, no wreath made of leaves and flowers. It was a flattened blue cardboard box. It had rained the day before, so the box was wet, and a little mangled. In her arm, she held two cans, one I could see clearly. It was an old can for powdered milk. In the cans were what appeared to be the ends of paint brushes, I can not verify this as a fact—I didn’t get close enough. She wore a blue-green color skirt, it hung to little past her knees. She was neither skinny, nor fat, but solid, in a squishy sort of way. I think what topped it off, for me, was the shirt. From the front it looked normal, but then she turned to leave. It looked like she had put on a shrug backwards, at least around the armpits, but at the same time it looked like a cardigan, that a child, who still didn’t know how to line up buttons had put on her—although on second thought I imagine it would be hard to button a cardigan when it is on backwards.
The only other crazy person I have seen here was a man. In my heart of hearts I can only hope these two people are married—it would bring me, and them great joy I am sure. During my first week, I befriended a woman, who knew the volunteer before me. She invited me to see her home, and we sat together. From the field of corn, emerged a man.
He made no noise, he simply jumped, or hopped rather. He would hop on one foot about three times, and then he switched to the other foot. Both feet never touched the ground at the same time. He made his way down the path, like Peter Cotton Tail, hopping down the bunny trail. He made his away around a tree, through the concession, out on the other side of the trail. To what destination I do not know. He was an old man, he held a stick, and had long wire-like hair, with white in it—very few men have any hair here, it is hot, and they keep it short. Around his waste was what looked like a tutu—I am reminded of the opening sequence of “Sex and the City”. But it has been fashioned from scraps of material, and trash, and hangs, covering up from his waste, to the middle of his thighs. I ask, Who is that? and the woman responds that he is crazy. She points her finger to her head, and twirls it.
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