Motorbikes and mutton

We left our apartment last Monday to attend a party held by one of our friends (who is also a student of ours) to celebrate the Muslim festival of Tabaski. Little did I know that by 8pm that evening, I would be the one hollering louder than any of the party-goers.

As we journeyed to our friend's place, a mud-brick house situated among intricate rows of identical structures, our little motorbike, or moto, conked out. After several minutes we got it started again, only to break down about 20 metres from his house.

As the guests, we had no time to worry about the moto. One family member grabbed it to wheel it inside, while another started serving us drinks. Cathlin was even given a seat among the men, and within minutes we had a plate-full of food.

Tabaski, one of the most important dates on the Muslim calendar, is exceptionally interesting, and is concerned primarily with the roles of Abraham and Ishmael.

We ate salad, rice and for the finale, mutton. Cathlin was pleased she didn't see the thousands of sheep being killed in the streets of the capital earlier that day (usually one sheep for each family).

After we ate the mutton, the night started to wind down, and the gas lanterns were brought out. We were a little surprised to see tv antennas popping out of some of the houses, when it was a non-electric zone, however we were later to find out they use batteries to watch the odd big sporting event...normally football.

We used the traditional phrase to indicate we'd like to leave: "Je demande la route", which means "I am asking the way" (this doesn't translate well), and the whole party got up to see us off.

It appeared everyone had forgotten about the broken down moto, but after a few failed attempts to get it started we had half the neighborhood there giving their opinion. The next-door neighbor (a mechanic) changed the spark plugs, refused payment for his service, and the moto spluttered into action.

I knew if we stopped it wouldn't start again, as it didn't sound healthy, so we tried to make a quick get-away, only to be mobbed by about 30 kids who obviously hadn't seen a white person in their neighborhood for some time. They all wanted to shake our hands goodbye (we shook all their hands when we arrived hours earlier), but I decided I had to pick up speed. They thought this was a fun game and they literally started throwing themselves at us (Cathlin was on the back), grabbing at our arms and backs, as we made our escape.

We made it to the highway without too many dramas, before the moto started spluttering again...and we were still a good 8kms from home. "This is going to be a long night," I thought, contemplating having to push the moto home. Somehow, the moto continued, and we proceeded at speeds ranging from 5km an hour to 40 km an hour, depending on if the moto decided to click into gear.

I was concentrating (and praying) so much, that I almost missed the turn-off. Cathlin reminded me where to turn and as the festival goers 'yipped' and 'yahooed' on the side of the road, I let out a relieved 'whoopee' as we rolled into the mission compound.

Jon