Wedding Season during the Rainy Season

Rainy season - the quintessential equatorial African experience, with moody skies, billowing thunderheads and sheets of rain that soak you to the bone. Summer is the rainiest time of the year here in Mali. Water can destroy life as easily as foster it. Here in Bamako, a single thunderstorm can flood a whole field of crops as easily as sustain them, and can turn streets into rivers in seconds as the runoff negotiates its way back to the mother Niger River. The humidity is constant - I am trying to get used to the musty odor my clothes are fostering from never being able to fully dry. Yet, when compared to the other nine months of the year when Bamako's air is thick with urban smog and the sand whipped up into the atmosphere from the Sahara desert, one can't help but feel blessed by the rain. If I'm home, I often find myself storm watching from the family's roof. There are fewer more peaceful moments in this chaotic, industrial African capitol.

Summer in Mali, like many other parts of the world, is also wedding season! Weddings are typically Thursdays and Sundays. City traffic, while being absolutely insane anyways, is regularly made impassable by wedding motorcades that honk their way through town. Yet, Malians appear to LOVE wedding season. It is as great an honor to host a wedding as it is to attend one. The host feels particular pride in feeding as many people as possible - sometimes entire neighborhoods in addition to wedding guests - and the guest whether family, friend, or stranger is quick to make many meaningful blessings of prosperity to the wedding party and their family. What results is an impressive communal connection that builds ties and nurtures relationships across ethnic groups and social classes alike. 

In any case, weddings usually have three phases, including a civil, religious, and traditional ceremony. The civil ceremony takes place at the courthouse and concludes with a big party. The religious ceremony is more private and happens at the mosque. And the traditional ceremony happens in the home. The bride and groom usually only see each other during the civil ceremony, as the rest of the time celebrations are segregated between men and women. And, while I can’t speak to the civil or religious aspects of wedding ceremonies here, I was able to attend and participate in traditional ceremonies myself this past weekend as Gie and I celebrated our fifth anniversary with a belated Malian celebration. 

As you can expect, the traditional marriage ceremony is rooted in ritual. From the groomsmen stitching rolls of linen together to form the bedding for wedding night, to the aunties and griots encircling the bride in song and dance as she has her hands and feet washed by her grandmother, these customs have been practiced for generations. 

The night before my traditional ceremony, I was also treated to having henna applied to my hands and feet. The process took several hours, during which a steady stream of neighborhood ladies stopped by to meet me and congratulate my mother-in-law on her good fortune of marrying off her eldest son.  As drums played and many blessings made, Tante Tu delicately taped designs on to my hands and feet, applied the henna, then wrapped my limbs in plastic bags to help the dye “cook” for over two hours. The end result however was well worth the effort. When the plastic bags and tape were finally peeled away, a lovely, rich ochre lattice of flower petals and filigree was revealed. More than anything, Tante Tu’s meticulous care made me feel truly welcomed and accepted within the family. 

The morning of my ceremony was laid back, even while everyone hustled and bustled around me with preparations. Cooking, washing, cleaning… oh my! I did try to help and put myself in close proximity with the women cooking the feast but Mama Coulibaly told me it wasn't good for the bride to be out in the rain. I have a sneaking suspicion though it was to get me out of the way, since I’m guessing I looked clearly lost. In any case, relieved of any duty, I got to sit back and marvel most of the morning. 

By 1pm it was showtime. I hopped in the shower and donned traditional robes – a beautiful indigo blue – laid out for me by Mama Coulibaly.  I was then escorted out to greet the guests and start the feast – red rice with vegetables stewed with mutton and a side of spicy hot pepper sauce. Delicious! 

Griots performers were the entertainment for the afternoon, singing and dancing the history and achievements of the Kone and Coulibaly families respectively. Griots are the artists, musicians, and storytellers of the Malian people. It is socially acceptable for them to joke, jest, and create in ways that is considered too crass, emotional, or inappropriate for other more stoic ethnic castes within Malian society. They thus serve a purpose in not only passing on oral histories for generations of Malian families, but to create a vibrant cultural memory. Every family has a griot that will show up to big family events such as weddings and funerals. And while our particular family griot had a prior engagement on my ceremony day, there are plenty of entrprenurial griots looking for work.  Sometimes you even have multiple griots showing up to a single party, practically leading to a duel for the appreciation and sponsorship of the hosting family by lauding the family’s achievements and magnificence. The three griots that showed up to my traditional ceremony literally brought megaphones to out-laud their competition. And for their obsequiousness, family members usually slip money into the griots’ hands which in turn increases the volume of the flattery. Everyone ends up having a WONDERFUL time – the Griots go home with pockets full of money and the hosting family feels honored, valued, and important. 

With my ears ringing however, I was happy to escape the attention of the griots via requests from many of my new aunties and cousins for a quick photoshoot.  It was only a brief reprieve. 

The next phase of the traditional ceremony was to bathe (again) and don a second outfit of customary robes. The first outfit usually gets donated to a local family in the neighborhood while the second outfit gets bestowed to my mother (hi mom!). After changing outfits, Tanti Fifi checked my appearance and when satisfied draped a black headscarf over my head so that it hung over my eyes and wrapped loosely around my neck and shoulders. I was warned that now that the scarf was on I could not take it off until after sundown. I was then paraded out with song again for the last part of the ceremony – the washing of the hands and feet.

The washing of the bride’s hands and feet symbolizes a connection to the past as well as a fresh beginning. An elder woman from the community guides the bride and has her sit upon a stool with her grandmother or auntie seated besides her.  The elder woman then washes the bride’s grandmother/auntie’s hands and feet before turning focus to the bride. Many blessings are made during this time. As I did not have any of my family members present, Tante Iya requested to be my person. Suddenly however, as Tante Iya was being washed, my sinuses –  which had been stuffed up all day from a headcold – opened and began flowing! Unable to blow my nose and trying to discreetly wipe away the clear snot running down my face, the elder woman sharp as a tack caught me in the act and declared to the audience “Aww, she’s crying!” To which everyone cheered. I of course understood absolutely none of this because the entire ceremony was in Bambara, so I just kept smiling and internally cursing Sudafed for working too well. 

In any case, the ceremony continued onwards. My hands and feet (and face!) washed, my final task was before me - to stand and kick over the stool behind me. I had one chance to get it or risk a lifetime of bad luck, elder woman declared. Still not being able to see anything, I channeled my inner mare and gave it a good hind kick with follow through, like I really meant it. I heard a thud and massive cheers erupted again. To end it all I was escorted back into the house and over the following hour the party slowly began to break up. People came to me with their praises, prayers for many babies, and lengthy goodbyes, with Gie as always kindly translating everything for me.  By the time the last guest left I was absolutely exhausted. Yet Mama Coulibaly was positively beaming, making the many trials worth the craziness. 

Let me tell you, I don’t know how Malians have the energy to go to two of those crazy parties a week for three months a year. It’s a whole new level of commitment. And yet, in a country where there are no guarantees – where surviving the daily grind is an act of rebellion – where even the rain can wash away your livelihood – it’s no wonder that Malians take the time to cherish and solidify their connections to one another. I am thankful that I have been able to honor my new family by observing and respecting their traditions, as well as taking the time to celebrate our (second) wedding.   

Keeping up with Kone-Coulibalys

Our first weekend in Bamako and we are being kept to a busy schedule! From 9am to 7pm Gie and I are on the road, with trusty Abou behind the wheel, visiting the dozens of family members around the city.  Since Gie has been away from Mali for nearly 15 years, it was important for him to pay respects to his elders and also present me for a sort of unofficial evaluation as his wife. 

Upon arriving at a relative's home, Gie leads the way and makes the introductions. We are greeted with hugs and handshakes. We take off our sandals at the door as a sign of respect. Then we take our seats as a younger member of the household, often a young woman, pours water into a communal cup and offers us each a drink. I smile alot following the exchanges as Gie speaks in a combination of Bambara (his local dialect) and French, exchanging some of life's biggest life updates with aunties, uncles, and cousins. We stay maybe 15 to 20 minutes at each home before offering our thanks and moving onto the next. 

These brief encounters offered so many impressions. From the unique blend of Islam and west African culture to the mashup between the rich and poor, Mali challenges all assumptions about what it is or should be. 

But most of all, I am finding Mali's culture to be overwhelmingly heirarchical, balanced by the nurturing of incredibly complex social relationships. By complex social relationships, I mean knowing and understanding everyone's standing within the family from sibling to great aunt and third cousins. Everyone has a role to play, especially in arbitration. While you may never outright question the decision or speak against those older than you, a wise Malién will regularly work the back channels to have their concerns expressed to the person in charge without suffering the consequences of dissent. In other words, if I disagree with a decision of the patriarch, one could talk with the aunties who talk with their husbands who then meet with their brother (a peer) to make those concerns known. 

To an American who was raised on a strong sense of individualism and direct often times blunt communication, this process still amazes me! Americans would likely find this cultural practice maddenly passive - yet I have a feeling the rest of the world would label it artful diplomacy.  And while it's not the first time I've witnessed this sort of cultural phenomenon, it is the first time it's personal. Gie's role as the first born son of the oldest child on his father's side puts him in a leadership position automatically, which vicariously means that as his wife I am also allowed some privileges. But those privileges also come with specific duties and expectations. Essentially, these first few days I am trying to learn all those unspoken rules, perform certain roles, speak a new language and avoid as much embarrassment as possible. 

Least to say I'm exhausted. 

Despite navigating a different social currency however, I must clarify that my various cultural bumbles have been treated kindly and gently corrected when necessary. My husband's family has truly welcomed me with open arms and incredible hospitality. Thanks to them the culture shock is much less than it would be otherwise. I will keep on smiling until I simply can't any longer. 

Bamako, First Impressions

Our first day in Mali, we arrived mid afternoon after 23+ hours of flight time. I felt such relief seeing the red dirt with cinderblock houses and specks of white sheep come into focus as we made our descent through the clouds.

At first glance from the ground, Mali is poorer than Mozambique and absolute chaos. And of course, opportunists look for, well, any opportunity. We got shaken down for bribes pretty much the minute we stepped off the plane even with Gie and Abou, his brother, speaking the local language. Apparently, customs suspected food in our bag and this guy offered to "help", grabbed one of our bags and led us to the customs guys saying "they are with me." Of course it was a setup. Immediately I got suspicious and started waving him away, telling the guy to back off, telling Gie to tell him to back off in Bambara. But he wouldn't leave us alone. He then demanded payment for greasing up the customs agent for us. When we refused to pay, he got irate and followed us all the way to the car berating and cursing us. I let loose some Portuguese/Xitswa reflexively, from another lifetime. Anyways, Abou got us in the car and pulled around to the exit but as we went to finally leave apparently we didn't get the "right ticket" to pay. So poor Abou had to walk back to the airport to get the ticket that allowed him to pay! A perfect TIA (This Is Africa) moment... and one heck of a welcome! 

We took a collective breath and put all that behind us though once we started driving. Gie and Abou were chatting nonstop making up for 15 years of lost time - pointing out things that were the same, things that had changed. I loved this homecoming moment for my husband. And it allowed me to just take everything in. So many things feel familiar - the humidity that leaves your skin constantly dewey, the contrasting red dirt and bright green of rainy season, the trash absolutely everywhere, and all the half-completed abandoned projects strewn across town - skeletal evidence of temporary, fleeting wealth bartered for dreams. As far as driving goes, the four lanes of traffic acted as mere suggestions rather than rules. It was not uncommon for Abou to tap the horn mildly, politely in the face of an oncoming vehicle crossing into our lane, or motor bikes buzzing past us in packs. I tried to imitate Abou's level of chill - if he's not worried, I won't be either. Still there's a reason car accidents remain to be one of the top causes of death. TIA.  

We finally arrived home, and it was the homecoming Gie had been dreaming of for so long! We pulled up to the big iron door gates and with an impatient beep of the horn we are let into the compound and immediately surrounded. Big hugs to brother Zanah, a firm handshake to his father, and a mother grasping her son in happy tears. "You really are a man now" she told him finally stepping back and taking him all in. I also got the universal mama bear hug. "Welcome to your home, daughter" she said and with that we all paraded into the house for a tour. 

The rest of the evening was spent eating supper and lounging in the living room, telling stories. I told them that I felt bad not learning French to communicate and it was waved off by his mother saying, "Don't worry, you need to learn Bambara instead, French is not really our language." Take that colonialism. Bamabara it is.

So here we are! This is bound to be a month of culture shock, integration, and adventure. But I did tell Gie when we married that I wanted anything but a dull life. He's certainly keeping to his end of the bargain. 

Mali: the prologue.

Well, hello again! I'm "dusting off" this blog for another adventure of a lifetime. Next week, Gie and I are headed to Mali, West Africa - a trip many years in the making. 

Life has been a whirlwind since the last time I wrote. I'm happily married. I finished nursing school and am entering my second year as a critical care nurse in a local hospital.  We've survived 2020 and the Covid pandemic (so far). All those big dreams I wrote about and agonized over in that little grass hut in Mozambique have come to pass. And now, I'm gazing toward the horizon of the next adventure - getting to know the life, language, culture, and customs of my husband's country. Most importantly I'll get to finally meet my husband's family in person - a much overdue tradition after Skyping them into our wedding almost five years ago. We'll be gone for around a month - a privilege that working so much overtime during the pandemic has ironically granted me. And I'm excited! But also, a little nervous? Uncertain? I expect many of the sights and smells I have stepping off the plane will feel familiar. After all, I will once again be attempting to integrate into a place in which I am blatantly an outsider. Not that my Malian family will make me feel that way. In fact, I expect quite the opposite.

That's my bread and butter though in so many of my international experiences - "cross cultural integration" AKA how-to-make-friends-and-build-a-life-with-minimal-social-competence-and-the-charity-of-others. Deep down, I believe I will welcome that lost and humble feeling again, even though this time there's more anxiousness attached to it than the care-free fearlessness (i.e. naivety) of my 19-year-old self who jumped on a plane to Zimbabwe so many years ago alone and only minimal planning (I realize now my parents were saints, let's be honest). 

At least this time, I'll have Gie. 

 So, watch this space guys. I will definitely be journaling, and I will try to post a couple times a week depending on the amount of connectivity we have. Would love to hear your questions and feedback.