by Nigel Barley
Scarce had the last morsel of pungent flesh been swallowed than we heard the sound of slashing machetes; the millet was being cut. Matthieu whispered to me the secret of our host’s eagerness to please. The poll-tax was due for payment. He would be able to use my present to discharge it and so be able to avoid sharing it with any relatives in need.
Work continued throughout the day and I sat out in the fields watching and trying desperately to talk to the workers. They and I were mutually almost incomprehensible, sad proof of how localized my knowledge of the language was. There were long, awkward silences, not improved by the Dowayo habit, when confronted by a silent stranger, of crying, ‘Say something!’ This quite infallibly drives all thoughts of conversation from the mind.
The men and women laboured all day, perspiration running in rivulets down their faces and chests as they stooped and slashed, the millet keeling over with a dry rustle, the multi-coloured heads toppling the ten or eleven feet to the ground. Occasionally they would break off to gulp water or smoke a cigarette with me, none being in the least annoyed at my tranquil watch, but rather concerned lest the shift in position of the sun might not trouble me and make me unpleasantly hot. There was much speculation about the size of the harvest. It might be thought that since the evidence lay before them an accurate assessment could be easily made of the yield; nothing could be further from the truth. They spoke as if the actual moment of harvest lay far in the future, as if no accurate data was available on which an opinion might be based. The way the crop fell betokened good or ill, the way the heads reached up to a man’s ankle bone foretold this or that. There was great fear that witchcraft might rob them of the crop until the very last moment or deprive it of its ‘goodness’ so that a man might eat heartily of it yet still be hungry. To prevent such interference, the field and threshing floor where nature’s foison lay heaped up were heavily protected with spines and spikes to injure marauding witchcraft. Strangely, it was not taken as an omen that two of the workers trod on bamboo-spike remedies and injured themselves. Several brothers of the ‘true cultivator’ were busy about a fire and muttering to each other, as I inferred, arcane secrets of magic. I sent Matthieu up to offer tobacco and find out the subject of their conversation. They were wondering what remedy I put on my hair to make it straight and fair. Did women like such hair? Why did we not leave ourselves alone and look natural, the way God had made us, with black, frizzy hair?
With some ten or fifteen workers, all brothers or sons of the organizer, the work was completed in one day and all adjourned to rest and eat. Following the noise of singing, I wandered off a couple of miles towards the mountains to watch the funeral of a woman whose body, wrapped in hides and cloth, was being carried from her husband’s village to that of her father for burial. This journey would be via a path over the mountain and this, added to the Dowayos’ natural fear of the dark, made them eager to leave before sundown. Having been assured that no more would happen in the fields until daylight, I allowed Matthieu to go off with them in accordance with his kinship obligations. In a magnificent red sunset, with my stomach, unfed all day, rumbling ominously, we watched the party set off in a cloud of dust, singing and capering, the body hefted on an improvised stretcher. It was dark in the valley as they climbed the hill in sunlight and disappeared. From the fields came a sudden burst of singing. Something was going on.
I never established whether my exclusion from the scene was the result of guile or misunderstanding, or what role Matthieu played in the affair. It proved to be one of those matters where the more questions one asked the fewer answers one got. As I discovered from other harvests I attended, nothing of note preceded my arrival. The men had all gathered at the threshing floor, excluding women and children. Various vegetal remedies had been placed on the pile of millet heads and all were singing a circumcision song that women must not hear. No one seemed concerned either way at my presence. The beating of the millet began. The men, some stripped naked and wearing only penis sheaths, began a slow dance as they threshed. A stick was raised with the right hand over the head, seized with the left hand and brought down on the millet. All took a step sideways and the action was repeated. Hour after hour it continued, a steady chanting followed by a dull thud as the sticks hit the millet in unison. The moon came up and rose high and still the rhythmic beating continued, millet husks flying up and adhering to the streaming bodies. Even at this time of night the heat was suffocating and radiated from the earth itself.
The next thing I knew, it was dawn. The men were still working and chanting, sustained by copious beer. I was sprawled on a rock, to the great detriment of my buttocks, and leaning against a thorn tree. The general feeling of gross crapula was rather like the hangover from a night Channel crossing. I had clearly been woken by a large goat that was pensively devouring my field notes, having already eaten the autobiography of a U-boat captain with which I had been passing the time. Luckily I had acquired the Dowayo habit of hanging my possessions on trees and a quick check revealed that the only other damage was a half-eaten shoelace. Having peremptorily dismissed the goat, I rejoined the men who were now moving on to the next stage of the operation and winnowing the result of their threshing. From the sorts of jokes being bandied about, it was clear that some of them were not merely relatives but men who had been circumcised together. ‘There’s no wind!’ cried one of the men. ‘How shall we winnow? We must all fart.’ He poured the grain from above his head into a basket and the chaff was blown away. The remark provoked mass hysteria, and even I was affected. The winnowing continued apace. A chicken’s head was cut off over the grain and cooked wild yams called ‘scorpions’ food’ were thrown on the heap from all directions. My host, in festive garb, was fetched from the village and piled up the grain in a basket. To this he attached a red Fulani hat and fled at great speed towards the village. When the first grain was dumped in the tall, tubular granary the crop was finally safe; witchcraft could not hurt it now.
I cannot say at what point I began to analyse the data and see how it all held together, but little by little it began to fall into place. I was sure that what I had witnessed could only be understood with reference to circumcision. I had heard enough about the ceremony to realize that the whole threshing process was conducted in the form of a story called The beating to death of the old Fulani woman.
An old Fulani woman had a son. He was ill. He had run in the silkoh grass and cut himself. His penis swelled up and was full of pus. She took a knife and cut so the child was cured. The penis became beautiful. She cut her second son. One day she went for a walk through a Dowayo village and the Dowayos saw it was good. They took circumcision and beat her to death. That was how it started because Dowayos did not know circumcision. They forbade women to see it. But Fulani women can see it. It is finished.
The beating to death is re-enacted on several occasions, most notably during the circumcision of boys. A little play is performed, whereby the old woman is depicted moaning and complaining as she walks along the road where Dowayos lie in wait for her. She passes between them twice, on the third occasion they leap up and strike the ground with sticks, cutting off the leaves she is wearing. A pile of stones is set up on which are suspended the basket and red hat of the woman. The circumcision song is sung. Women and children may not be present.
The ‘scorpions’ food’ pointed to other links. I had heard of fertility cults conducted by, among others, the rainchiefs. Before any of the crops could be brought to the village for the first time every year, certain rites must be carried out or scorpions would invade the huts and attack people. No one had hitherto mentioned to me that the scorpions that had moved into my hut were taken as a sign that I had foolishly broken this regulation in bringing supplies from outside. Throwing ‘scorpions’ food’ on the crops leads the scorpions astray. They remain in the bush, just as throwing the exerement of the mountain porcupine at the skull ceremony would keep the dangerous ancestors clear of the village. Only much later would I learn that ‘sc
orpions’ food’ was also attached to people, a girl the first time she menstruated, a boy after circumcision. It was this that later confirmed that young people on the verge of adulthood are treated like plants about to be harvested. Do-wayos try to arrange that circumcision shall end with the entry of the boys to the village at the same time as the new crops are brought home. There is a common model for both.
I spent another night at the village to make quite sure that nothing else was afoot and pick up my wayward assistant who returned after dark, truly penitent. To make amends for his absence he showed me, in great secrecy, a magic stone that made pregnant women miscarry. For a successful birth they were obliged to come and offer money to the owner of the stone. His family derived a steady income from this powerful rock, but not as much as the people down the road who had one that caused dysentery. The existence of these stones was kept from the missionaries; apparently, they were held responsible for an attempt by a past French sous-préfet to destroy them. Dowayos were convinced that his real aim was to collect them all for himself and so become rich.
The next day we tramped back towards Kongle, the only incident on this long and very dull march being that I contrived to lose my footing while crossing a river and plunged headfirst into
a deep pool, totally saturating all the films I had shot of the harvest and ruining them. This depressed me more than a little. From the material point of view, the expedition had not been a notable success; I had returned without notes or film. Still, these are, or should be, merely a means towards ideas and I had at least acquired several of those.
As a treat we called in at the mission and stayed a couple of days until mail-day. After walking around unwashed for several days, sleeping on the ground and eating skimpily, it was marvellous to sleep on a real bed, having had a shower, a proper meal – and most of all, a conversation. There was even news, a concept almost entirely alien to a seemingly timeless Dowayoland. The sous-préfet was leaving.
It seemed that after fourteen years in Poli he was to be replaced. By the time I reached Kongle, everyone was agog with the news. There was an atmosphere of carnival and men had gathered to drink recklessly to celebrate the departure of a man they had long regarded as an enemy. It was a golden opportunity to gather gossip; there were many eager to tell me of past wrongs. Messengers were being dispatched at intervals to town to bring back the latest news. Zuuldibo volunteered to help the old sous-préfet move out. Why, he would even carry his furniture on his back to the crossroads. The sous-préfet, I was informed, on hearing of his posting elsewhere, had come to the Dowayos and asked for magical help to have the order changed. They had smiled sweetly and told him regretfully that all their plants had died so that they could not help him. Another man came from the town. He had spoken to the sous-préfet’s servants through the bedroom window. His employer had made it clear that this aged retainer would receive no farewell present. The sous-préfet had made the man, who had hardly a shirt on his back, burn all the old clothes he would not be taking with him. This aroused great outrage. I foresaw that I should have to satisfy certain expectations when my own turn came to leave.
The stream of visitors continued, each adding his pearl of knowledge to the common pile. Lastly came Gaston, whom the Chief had dispatched on his bicycle for beer and news. He looked somewhat the worse for wear. Dowayos love to tell a story and Gaston held the stage. Everyone settled back round the fire from which I had contrived to get as far as possible.
In Poli everyone was drunk (Zuuldibo looked envious). No one knew anything more. The sous-préfet had been seen packing. Gaston himself had gone to the market to see if he could pick up any information; it was full of prisoners from the jail. Poli was such an inaccessible hole that there was no possibility of their escaping, so the gaolers let them out so they could go fishing or drinking. Two of these men had been attacking a Dowayo girl when Gaston had wheeled his bicycle innocently onto the scene. ‘Now you’re for it!’ she had shrieked, ‘Here comes my husband!’ At this, the two desperadoes had loosed her and set about poor Gaston; the woman made her escape, laughing. Everyone else found the story hilarious too. Gaston collapsed with mirth at his own suffering. The evening ended in uproar. Only Zuuldibo was vexed; the prisoners had stolen his beer.
11
The Wet and the Dry
The dry season had now truly come and the land was becoming a parched wilderness of scrubby grass. The Dowayos also switched to a totally different lifestyle: agriculture had ceased until the next rains, except in the high mountains where irrigation was possible. The men would devote themselves to drinking, weaving and just sitting about, or to desultory hunting, the women would fish or make baskets and pots. Young men would go off to the cities in search of work and wickedness.
I had several projects in mind but these would have to wait for Christmas. I knew only too well how awful it would be to sit alone in Dowayoland at that most depressing of calendrical rites, and had arranged with Jon and Jeannie to join them at the mission at N’gaoundere. Here we enjoyed a simple but refreshing Christmas, rather more religious than most of my markings of this event, but alternately restful and frenetic. Walter was at his most manic, throwing himself into the festival with an energy worthy of a better cause. Hangovers were liberally exchanged and we somehow contrived to forget that outside the snow was not deep and crisp and even. There were, of course, poignant moments. One sturdy expatriate burst into tears when ice-cream was produced; another was visibly moved by a Christmas cake with dried mangoes and bananas in it. I mysteriously developed an attack of malaria after exposure to flashing Christmas lights but was back, revictualled and revitalized after a week, to push forward the building of my house.
This was an extremely onerous task. At one moment the earth was too wet, a week later too dry. There was no barrel to put water in. The grass for the roof was not ready. The man who should be directing the job was ill, or on a visit, or wanted more money. The contract was renegotiated with lavish histrionics three times. Unless I paid more, I alone would be the cause of starving children, weeping wives, unhappy men. After several weeks of this I did what a Dowayo would have done and asked the Chief to convene a court at which my case would be arbitrated.
Dowayo courts were open to all, though women and boys would be well advised to remember their place before the elders. They would assemble beneath the tree in the public circle before the village and the palabre would begin. Each would state his grievances in high rhetorical style, witnesses would be called and questioned by anyone who felt like it. The Chief had no power to impose his verdict, but both parties were made well aware of public opinion and would often accept his mediation. The alternative was to take the case to Poli where it would be decided by outsiders and where there was a risk of being sentenced to prison for troubling the administrators.
Being inexperienced in the subtleties of language and procedure, I merely introduced the case myself in a speech Matthieu had rehearsed me in. It ended, ‘I am but a small child among the Dowayos. I give my case to Mayo who will explain it.’ This went down rather well and Mayo was able to depict my adversaries as heartless villains, taking advantage of my lack of kinsmen and my good nature to cheat me. Arguments went back and forth with myself rocking on my heels and muttering, ‘It is so. It is good,’ at regular intervals. Finally, I agreed to pay about twice the normal rate for the work and everyone was satisfied. It is important to note that in doing so I was not allowing myself to be cheated. A rich man expects to pay more for everything; it would be unfair if he refused to. With this in mind I did most of my purchasing through Matthieu. Doubtless he availed himself of the opportunity to take commission, but I still ended up a nett gainer. The result was that my fine house with attached garden and shady patio cost me £14.
Another case that day was typical of the functioning of Dowayo courts, The matter in hand was the dispute between an old man and a youth over a sack of millet. The man claimed that the boy had stolen the millet from his granary; the boy
denied this. The old man had broken into the boy’s hut to recover his goods and found only the sack which he identified as his. The two parties began to insult each other. This was too much for a Dowayo audience. Gleefully they joined in, shouting ever sillier insults: ‘You have a pointed anus.’ ‘Your wife’s cunt smells like old fish.’ Finally everyone burst out laughing, including the litigants.
A man claimed to have seen the boy enter the man’s granary, but he was not present. The case was adjourned until his evidence could be heard. At the next session the boy and witness were present, the old man was not; anyway, the witness had seen nothing. At the next session an ordeal was proposed. The boy would pluck a stone from boiling water and the hand would be bound up; if after a week it had healed, he would be vindicated and entitled to compensation from the accuser. The old man refused to allow it. The boy now claimed compensation for the door of his hut. The old man denied breaking it; the boy had done it to spite him. Witnesses were called and again the matter was adjourned. At the next session the witnesses were there but neither of the litigants turned up. The case simply died on its feet. The two parties never seemed to bear each other any ill will.
The law court was regarded as a form of popular entertainment and Dowayos did not hesitate to use it for the most trivial matters. I only made one other appearance in a case brought by a local man against me.
Anthropological works are full of accounts of how the fieldworker fails to ‘find acceptance’ until one day he picks up a hoe and begins to dig himself a garden. This immediately opens all doors to him; he is ‘one of the local people’. The Dowayos are not like that. They were always appalled when I attempted the smallest act of physical labour. Should I want to haul water, frail old ladies would insist on carrying the jar for me. When I tried to make a garden, Zuuldibo was horrified. Why should I wish to do such a thing? He himself never touched a hoe; he would find a man to do it for me. So I acquired a gardener. The man had a garden by the river and so would be able to grow vegetables throughout the dry season. He refused to discuss payment; I should decide afterwards whether the work had been well done and fix a reward. Dowayos often use this technique to oblige the patron to be generous. I gave him some seeds friends had sent me: tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and lettuce. He would plant a little of each and see what would grow.
