Ramadan

My horse seems very tired. I have such a love-hate relationship with him. One day he seems like he's the best horse around and the next, I wonder if I shouldn't sell him. Ever since Sarah's horse chased him around until he tried to jump over a six-foot fence and dislocated his knee and broke part of his pelvis, he just hasn't been the same. Now that they're both castrated, they get along fine...but the damage is done.

Sarah and Israel are far ahead. They are both riding bareback on Sarah's horse who has boundless energy. My horse can't even walk right. Every once in a while, when I get too far behind, I make him trot to catch up but it's like pulling teeth. Sarah's horse has to be held back to keep from galloping the whole time and mine won't even do a slow trot.

But the day is beautiful and we are headed out to an Arab village to celebrate the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month-long fast. The sun is out, the sky is a deep bleu with billowy white clouds, and there is a cool breeze. Our sandy path takes us through endless fields of meter high waving deep green rice divided by rows of tall grasses swaying in the wind. There is still water on much of the path but the water table is descending rapidly as the rains have mostly come to an end.

The horses eat like pigs and are constantly turning their heads to the sides to sweep, gather and tear of luscious heads of rice. They are in perpetual search of food and never cease to eat even at night. Eat like a pig? Forget it...eat like a horse is the true saying to describe a glutton!

We pass through the Nangjere section of Kouloum Goumdah accompanied by the usual cries of "Nassara lalé, nassara lalé" wrung from the throats of a thousand kids. Soon we exit the Nangjere part and enter open fields. The arab village is not really a village but rather a few small huts scattered around a huge central cattle enclosure. The Nangjere are cultivators and the Arabs are herdsmen. The cows are all out to pasture now. We wind through some huts
until Ahmat comes running to meet us.

The staccato, ritualistic Arabic greetings commence.

"Al salaam alekum"

"Wa alekum al salaam"

"Kikef?"

"Afe tayybin"

"Afe, bet afe?"

"Al hamdullilah"

"Machallah"

"Kullo afe"

"Kullo, machallah"

"Al hamdullilah!"

Ahmat leads us through the village to his small mud brick hut. The "fancy" mud brick hut is where is mom lives while to the side is a rounded hut made in the style of a tent with wood bent over in curves covered by cow skins with a low, three-foot high door in one side. Inside is a bed made of curved, twisted sticks with a cotton mattress covered by layers of ornate Arabic rugs. The dirt floor is meticulously swept and to the side there are piles and piles of cheap, metal pots with brightly painted designs wrapped around the top. Outside is a half fence of "sekos", woven reed mats, with a large wooden mortar and pestle for pounding millet into flour. A long, pointed Arab knife in a leather sheath hangs inside the door by an equally covered long machete.

Ahmat takes us to a shelter outside the door of his mom's hut. Four large, twisted branches have been stuck in the ground with cross pieces covered with mats making a three walled enclosed resting spot. On the ground are woven reed mats covered with Arabic rugs. We are invited in as the round of Arabic greetings repeats itself with Ahmat's wife and mother.

As we lounge on the mats, Ahmat's wife brings us tea and some "Beignets", or flour donuts cooked in peanut oil. Our day is spent like this, greeting people who come to welcome us, drinking tea from time to time, eating small things here and there (millet paste, rice with a tiny bit of meat sauce, etc.)

Sarah goes into Ahmat's mom's hut and Israel and I stay outside. The chief of the village comes and we get into a conversation with a visiting Arab who'd been treated at our hospital about why Muslims shouldn't drink alcohol and why he should quit if he wants to be a good Muslim. I ask him if he can imagine standing before Allah on judgment day with a glass of "Argyle" (millet wine) in his hand. He looks horrified and then laughs as it sinks in.

At 3pm we head over to the cattle enclosure where they have cleared off some brush to make a place for the horse races. Of course, Sarah is hyped up to enter. We are some of the first to arrive but there are already 3-4 Arabs with their horses all decked out in brightly colored ribbons around the neck and along the sides. The horses are prancing as they are whipped with short pieces of rope. They all have metal bits in their mouths and are in constant motion as their rides try to control them.

I can imagine their thoughts as they see Sarah ride up, a woman on an old castrated horse with only a rope around it's nose and no fancy accoutrements. The son of Abdoulaye, an elder in the village who had been treated for weeks in the hospital for an abscess on his hand, offers to race Sarah to start of the ceremonies.

Sarah pulls up next to him and they take off together in a slow walk to the end of the cleared off patch. There is quite a contrast. Sarah's horse is calm and easily controlled while the son of Abdoulaye his constantly tugging at the reins and whipping his horse to keep him in line. The horse is bursting with energy and there is no doubt that he will win.

Finally, they are just specks on the horizon about 300 meters away. Suddenly, they both jerk their horses around and they take off at a tremendous gallop. They are moving so fast that they rapidly regain size in a blur of legs and frothing mouths. The son of Abdoulaye is standing up in the stirrups not moving at all but seeming to glide towards us as his horse releases all his pent up energy.

Sarah has a white veil tied as a scarf around the top of her head that is streaming behind her along with her long curly red hair. The speed of the horses is actually frightening as they quickly approach without slowing down in the slightest. Finally, they both tug back and reluctantly,
fighting all the way the horses are brought to a halt as the crowd scatters wondering if they might get trampled. And, to the embarrassment of all, except me and Israel, Sarah has
won!

The races continue until sundown interrupted from time to time by herds of cattle coming in for the night. Crowds of little boys wearing new Arabic robes and crowds of girls wearing new dresses and veils play to the sides. Fires are started in the cattle pen to ward of insects. Sarah races a few more times and then we go back to Ahmat's.

Ahmat requested that we bring the Jesus film with us. He'd seen part of it once when he came to visit. He is HIV-positive and was treated for two months in the hospital for TB and continues to come to visit from time to time as he made a lot of friends. It was he who helped us get the horses. So when Sarah showed him part of the Jesus film in Arabic he was very impressed and came three mornings in a row before the feast of the end of Ramadan to remind us to bring the film.

So, we set up a sheet over the side of the shelter, hook up the generator to the projector and show the Jesus film in Arabic. Most of them don’t understand standard Arabic and their reactions are kind of funny. When they see donkeys, goats, cows, horses, etc. the kids get so excited and shout out the names. When they see some apples, they shout out "Mangos!" When they see old white people it seems to be the most hilarious thing they've ever seen...white people look so funny to them.

At the end, I ask Ahmat if he understood since they speak Tchadian Arabic and the movie was in Saudi Arabian Arabic. Ahmat says he understood everything and now he knows that "Issa" is the "grand marabout", or traditional healer. So, as I lie under the stars that night before falling asleep I wonder how much did he get out of it? Only Allah knows.

James