Etran Finatawa & Me

In lieu of eggnog and mom's butter cookies, I spent last night eating meat on a stick and listening to Taureg music under the stars. My options for the evening were Poker & Porn night with the Peace Corps volunteers who have definitely been in country too long, or an evening out with three Fulani men that I had met in town. Although sure to disappoint some of you, I chose the latter. I had met Mohammed while house hunting and he is a young Fulani guy who dresses a bit like a rasta and actually knows Tamara, a girl from my Peace Corps group who served here in Niger before doing another tour in Senegal.

Mohammed walked me over to his house since it was time for the prayer and he wanted to change his clothes. He lives in the little grass hut village completely in the center of town that is comprised of mostly Fulani peoples who have been unable to survive in the countryside due to periods of drought and the price of millet. I pass by the little village almost daily and have wondered how and when I would be able to enter. The village at night is (to me) magical. I lose all sense of depth perception and start walking like a Lipizzaner horse. People speak quietly and are focused on what they are doing, and rationed light from gas lanterns peeks out from the walls of organic material. You can't tell what things are exactly, but there are fantastic shadows everywhere. We passed one hut and Mohammed pointed out that it was the local cinema- kids of all ages were sitting in chairs, pouring out into the path, all fixated on the tv screen inside the hut.

We met up with his cousin and brother and headed off to the Taureg Music Festival held on the other side of town. I wish I had brought my camera. It was incredible. There were many Taureg bands form all over the country, including Etran Finatawa whose CD you can get in the US. People were dressing in traditional garb, meaning that the men were cloaked in white and deep purple indigo robes, heads and mouths covered in dark turbans. Dancers brandished swords and other blades and swirled in the sand. One of the guitarists went by the name "Bob"- a tribute to his rastafarian phase, although last night he was covered head to toe in indigo cloth. So picture this- a intimidating goup of folk to the Western eye- a crowd of turbaned men with black eyes peeking above dark cloth. And one by one they pick up a cherry red electric guitar and rock the house. The bands were amazing. And in a predominantly Muslim country, surrounded by people who fit a physical sterotype that would sadly threaten most Americans, the musicians celebrated the advent of Christmas and every one wished for peace and unity among people of different cultures. Although family and friends were greatly missed (not to mention cinnamon buns), it was a very special Christmas Eve. I hope that your has been as memorable in other wonderful ways.

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