Life in Coco: In the hands of my friends; part 2

The soft foam mattress sucked me in and I was immediately asleep. But I was awakened by a loud thudding, what seemed like only minutes later. I noticed that it was just starting to get light, so it had been at least an hour and a half. The thudding continued, loud and rhythmic. Then it dawned on me—someone is pounding grain. (The W.African women have huge mortars and pestles that they use to pound grain.) Sure enough, minutes later I heard the clatter of dishes coming in through the window. I looked over at Luther, who didn’t even seem to be stirring with this noise. I tried hard to just ignore the noise and go back to sleep.

I drifted back to sleep for maybe a half hour, when I awoke again, this time with Luther’s toes on my feet. I was still tired, but toes touching my feet, I just can’t sleep through. I rolled over noisily and this was enough disturbance to send him back to the other side. I had just fallen back to sleep when he did it again. This was quickly ending my sleep. In college, my friends and I would often share a hotel room on trips, and it was fine to share a bed with them. However, one time, the whole wedding party stayed in one room and I slept next to one of my married friends. He kept rolling over onto me all night long. You can’t trust married men—they don’t wake up when they touch you. And I’m here to tell you, you can’t trust African men either.

I drifted in and out of light sleep till about 7:30, when we had to get up for the wedding. I crawled out from underneath the mosquito net and stood up, still tired and a bit dizzy. Luther followed and then asked, “You want to wash again?” I agreed, so we grabbed a bucket, and this time I used all the water. It was cold and really woke me up. (Interestingly, they were constantly offering me the opportunity to wash whenever I came back to the house. Did that mean I stunk? Did they think Americans take 4 showers a day? Do they really wash that often? Or was it just politeness? Probably.)

We were a bit rushed because we were trying to make it to the mayor’s office at 9am. (First service. Always one at the mayor’s office and then a longer, more formal one at the church.) Not knowing where this was, I had no clue what time we needed to leave. Had I any clue, I would have laughed at the thought of us actually trying to make it. After my shower I put on my still-wet pants (which still had a dirty spot on one knee) and my wedding shirt. (Same one from the last wedding. There was no official fabric for this wedding, so the hospital employees decided to use their same outfits.) Luther sent his little brother down the hill with the moto to get the tire fixed, and we sat down for a quick breakfast of tea and bread. We didn’t leave the house until 9, and had to walk down the hill and wait 20 minutes for the moto to be ready. So by the time we were really on the road it was 9:30. We would be lucky to make it to the church on time.

We stopped along the way to get directions, and made it just before the service started. As we pulled up, other people were arriving and everyone was greeting each other with such joy and excitement, and it felt like old friends getting together to celebrate. Luckily some of the other hospital employees had saved us seats. So we tucked into the back corner of a very packed church sanctuary. I’m not the best at guessing numbers, but I would say there were over 500 people seated at this point. (Later, they set up another 50 chairs in the annex and packed in more behind us, so by the end of the wedding, there may have been more than 600 people there.) The stage area was elegantly decorated with huge white and orange sashes. Two choirs sat on either end of the stage area. And minus the fact that I was the only tubabu in the whole crowd, it felt like weddings I’d been to in the States.

The service started with the processional and lots of singing. After the signing, they started into long speeches in Jula, which I don’t yet understand, so I contented myself by playing with Noel (the baby of one of my coworkers). She was pretty wound up and smelled like perfume and a dirty diaper. But her noisy playing and excited cooing were taken in stride by those around us, and only seemed to add to the ambient noises of the crowd. The speeches continued and Noel started to get tired. She laid her head on my shoulder and slowly fell asleep. It was all precious, and I began to feel warm, like I was surrounded by family, and I began to think that this really was my family, and then suddenly, I realized that my eyes were closed. I woke with a little start, having no idea how long I had been out. No one around me seemed to notice. (In fact, half of them looked like they could be sleeping too.)

In danger of falling asleep again, I gave Noel to her mom and began to try to take pictures. Now, in general, I detest taking pictures. I much prefer to go with people that enjoy photography and get copies of their pictures afterward. This is probably because, much like rhythm, the artistic eye needed for good shots just isn’t my thing. But being the only one from the hospital with a camera, I felt a certain responsibility to bring back pictures. So, I tried to convince my coworkers (some of whom have never even taken a picture) that they should get up and shoot photos. Some made feeble attempts. Luther handed the camera out the window to a complete stranger and asked him to go up front and take pictures of the bride and groom. He returned with one really good shot and a bunch of half cut-off ones.

At this point, two of my coworkers, Lidy and Rebecca, leaned over and noisily insisted that I go to the front of the church and take pictures. “It’s not a problem, it is expected,” they insisted. They didn’t seem to get that being the lone tubabu in front of 600 people was a little conspicuous (one of these doesn’t belong…), and I wasn’t sure why I was so reticent. So plucking up my courage, I crawled over a whole line of people, out to a side aisle. I walked crouched-over till I reached the front benches. Fortunately, there was a woman sitting on a chair in the aisle. So guerrilla-warfare style, I hid behind her, peeking around to shoot pictures then tucking back into hiding. After several decent photos, I hurried back to my seat.

No sooner had I crawled over everyone and sat back down, than Lidy and Rebecca started in on me again. “They are going to exchange rings soon. Get back down there and stay there until the end of the service. And this time, go all the way up to the stage!” I sighed, giving them a look that said, “please don’t make me do it mommy.” They looked at each other and then I heard them whisper Paul’s name. This is great, I thought. They will make Paul go down to the front and do it for me. Normally, I wouldn’t want to seem so helpless that I need my friends to do everything for me, but… this whole weekend had been an exception so far. So I quickly passed my camera up the aisle to Paul, who turned around, looking puzzled. Rebecca started loudly instructing Paul, who was several spots down and two aisles up from her, to take me down to the front. Ok, ok, I’m not going to be so childish as to need someone to take me by the hand to do my job, I decided. So I crawled over the row of people again and walked down front. Luckily there was a group of photographers amassing up front, in preparation for the ring exchange and the kiss. So I joined them and stayed there for the rest of the service.

Two and half hours after starting, the service finished. We joined the greeting line, took several group pictures, and then headed to the after-party. This was at the same location as the pre-party. It was the home of the groom’s father. Across from his house was an empty lot that had two tents put up. The dancing and music had already started under one tent, and people were packed under the other, attempting to escape the mid-day sun. The rest of us grabbed chairs and just lined the streets. Food was brought out in big bowls around which several people sit eating communally with their hands. Afterwards, we relaxed and talked. Much of the conversation took place in Jula, with someone occasionally translating for me.

About 5 pm, everyone was looking and feeling tired, so the crowds began to disperse. Luther had to take his fiancé home, so he called his little brother to come pick me up. We headed back to the house, and I crashed for a quick nap. I woke up an hour later and made small talk with Luther’s two brothers. I was still exhausted and wasn’t feeling great. At nine-thirty, Luther called his brother to tell him that he was still at his fiancé’s place. So his younger brother brought out another meal of fried potatoes and plantains. And then, since I was going to take the morning bus back with Paul and Asim, I decided to turn in early. Luther’s brothers asked if I’d be ok alone, since both had plans that evening. I assured them I would, but felt a little bad for refusing their invitations to go along.

I had just lain down in bed, moments after they left the house, when it hit. I knew I deserved it—I had eaten everything set in front of me and downed more water—coming from who knows what source—from communal cups than was wise. The rumbling in my stomach told me I would pay. By this time I had found the outhouse, so grabbing my stash of wet-wipes (since there was no toilet paper), I rushed out of the house for the glorious commencement of my traveler’s diarrhea. I returned to the room, took a cipro and a pepto-bismal tablet, and prayed it would stop before the seven hour bus ride in the morning.

I fell soundly asleep, and at midnight Luther woke me up so I could let him back into the house. We had both lain down, when I had to make another mad dash to the outhouse again. And it continued. And continued. Every hour, at least. And all my self-congratulating for being so brilliant as to bring wet-wipes was all in vain because I had long-since run out. Did I discover why the left hand is considered unclean in W.Africa? You bet I did!

At six, I could no longer sleep. I felt miserable and dirty and somewhat humiliated. Now I had to make a decision—risk a miserable seven hour bus ride this morning or stay here waiting for the afternoon bus, hoping this would pass. I decided to make a mad dash for toilet paper and running water. So I did what any responsible medical professional would do. I over-dosed. I took a cipro, two immodium, and four pepto-bismals, and swallowed it all down with the prayer that nothing humiliating would happen to me on the bus.

I took a shower, packed my things, and said goodbyes. Luther’s little brother took me to the main road where I caught a taxi to the bus station. Along the way, Paul called to ask about my progress. I was ten minutes away, I told him, wondering what his hurry was. It wasn’t even 8 and the bus wasn’t scheduled to leave until 9. I pulled up to the station at 8:05, was immediately met by Paul and crew who rushed up to the ticket window. I wasn’t sure what was being said, but instead of buying tickets, Paul turned around and we started walking out of the station. At the same time, a bus was pulling out. The next thing I know, as if it is the most normal thing in the world, Paul grabbed my arm and started running after the bus. We boarded the bus while it was still moving, through a half closed door. On-board, the bus was packed, and all four of us were forced to sit in seats scattered throughout the bus. My seat was provided by a child that was forced to sit in the aisle on a bucket.

I turned around to look at Paul, who nodded reassuringly and then indicated that I needed to pay a guy who was carefully working his way down the aisle. I paid him, wondering if we were even on the right bus—thinking that it would not be at all funny if I ended up in the wrong city, or worse the wrong country today. Then I figured that maybe there was some kind of connection that we had to make in the capital and that the Coco bus left from another station. About two hours later, I decided that this was indeed our bus. Only after arriving in Coco did I find out that in the capital, when the bus is full, it leaves. Possibly the only thing in all of Africa that is ahead of schedule, and I was fortunate enough to make it!

The ride passed, thankfully, uneventfully, and we pulled up to Coco after just over six hours. I walked home from the bus stop, and moments after I entered the door, the torrent hit. But I didn’t care, because I had toilet paper and running water, and it could be typhoid or cholera for all I cared. I was home and I had had an incredible weekend, with a story to tell.

[You can check out pictures of the wedding at: http://www.facebook.com/p.php?i=589640293&k=Z51265W3W2WNUECCRE3TUU ]