Mob Mentality

This afternoon I went to see the big Bol celebration out by the Chief’s place. Since the new moon lasts 3 days, so does the fete. I went with the PE teacher and one of the elementary school teachers, who are members of my adult class. We all mutually decided to take today off and go check out the dance.

There was a large crowd of men and boys gathered in front of the Chief’s place, where he sits and has his audiences. I was one of very few females in the crowd. Maybe some of the horses were female. Does that count? There were about 10 guys on horses. The horses were decked out with fringed leather blinders and tasseled here and there. The riders wore deep blue grand boubous, vests and the little pill box/fez hats that are all the rage in the Sahel these days. The men and the horses wore what seemed to be enormous book-sized versions of the “grisgris” that children wear. I’m assuming that these adult-size gris-gris were also verses of the Koran written on paper and wrapped in leather.

The horsemen waved their swords in time to the weird music that wavered between hypnotic and irritating. There were four men with drums and two men with horns. The horn was a piece of dark wood, about the length of a clarinet. It sounded very reedy and oboe-like, but had an enormous toilet plunger-esque mouthpiece and the musician puffed his cheeks out like Dizzy Gillespie, or maybe in this case, Mahamat Gillespie. Haha. Their warped little drum major did a weird bouncy bendy backward dance while waving around his dagger. Every once in a while, one of the horsemen would rare up his horse and prance it around, while the other men continued their sword waving. 8 or so women in beautiful voiles stood in front of the horses, swishing the ends of their voiles back and forth, as if shooing flies.

Eventually the chief came out with his entourage, shaking their fists and canes above their heads. He and his brother sat in armchairs off to the side while their subordinates sat on a faux-Persian rug, or in the sand.

Chadian crowds are not known for their manners. When the circle pushed in too far, an old man came around with a horsewhip or the men pranced their horses around, nearly into the crowd, so that the first row (which was comprised largely of dusty children) had to run backwards to not get crushed. A fight broke out between some high school boys and people streamed over – not to break it up – but to watch. Later one of the voile women got knocked over by a horse and again there was the mad dash to huddle around and get a glimpse of some blood. After that, I left, since the Chief’s place is allll the way across town from my house and it was getting dark. Ramadan or not, this chicky does not go out after the light fades for fear of dagger wielding ghosties. By the hospital, I ran into Moustapha, who painted my house back in April or May. It was his sister who’d been knocked down and they’d taken her to the hospital. I said something like, “Oh, my gosh! Is she okay?” To which he replied, “Eh, She’s okay. She’s not married anyway, so it’s not serious.” Huh? Tell me I’m misinterpreting that! Tell me there’s some explanation other than that he thinks his sister being knocked down by a horse isn’t serious because she isn’t married. Moustapha, come on!

All in all, it was really cool to see the celebration. It’s impossible to describe how beautiful it really was in the setting sun and the white sand and the crystal clear desert sky. I have a pretty cool job, huh?

A word about the chief – the “chef de canton”. The “chef de canton” is a French creation. Before colonization, the area around Bol was ruled by the Kanem-Bornon Empire. The sultan was (and is) in Mao, my closest volunteer neighbor to the north. So CD (before colonization), there was no big chief in Bol. The French came and dismantled Chad’s kingdoms. In their place, the French created official prefectures for government, but also “traditional” cantons. A canton is an area that encompasses the main stomping grounds of a specific ethnic group. In Moussoro, it’s Gouram; in Bol, it’s Boudouma (the island people). The Boudouma in Bol are ones who have left the islands for “terre firme.” They’re really not that numerous in Bol and often assimilate into the Kanembu. But the Bol canton also encompasses the islands, so the Frenchies made it Boudouma land. The French chose men who would cooperate with their colonial agenda and made them the chiefs of these cantons. Now the position is hereditary and highly respected. The Chef de Canton is not really a part of the official gov’t, but rather solves inter-family disputes, or land disputes, or gives advice or does other chiefly activities. The Bol Chef de Canton is also the Chadian Ambassador to Niger, so when he’s next door in Niger, his bro takes his place.

So here we are, two weeks after I wrote my corruption-and-wild boys rant; I’m feeling much better these days and things are looking up. I’m starting my English club tomorrow and Girls’ Club Tuesday. And you know, don’t you get frustrated with America and its SUVs and billboards and Muzak? Maybe occasionally being annoyed with your environment is part of life. And no place is perfect.