LJI Entry Season 11, Topic 2............. A Real Pickle..........Janie and Alex, episode 2
This story is a piece of fiction. It is based upon some very real people. Names have been changed to bridge the gap between reality and creativity. The story was created as an entry in the Livejournal idol writing competition. Additional photos follow the story.
Hi, this is Alex.
I’m in a real pickle. I wonder if you can help me figure this out. As I told my sister Janie recently, by my reckoning, the problems seem to have started after I consulted the witch doctor back in Guinea. I was back in Africa on another one of my USAID projects, helping the locals find ways to wring more wealth out of their local resources, namely their honeybees. I was only supposed to be in that village for three weeks, but while I was there, my little buddy, Mamadou de Baro, stepped on a thorn while we were exploring termite mounds. I was wearing heavy boots so didn’t face the same risk, but he in his little four-year-old feet was not so lucky. He screamed like the devil when it happened. (Frankly, if I had had my heel punctured, I would have yelled, too, and I’m three decades older than Mamadou.) Anyway, the village, having a whole lot more experience with small feet and thorns, insisted that the doctor be consulted immediately. Even so, there was a great deal of pessimism about how the whole thing would turn out. I should have taken the warning myself.
(Photo description: Here you meet a very real little four-year old boy who is so enamored with the visiting beekeeper that he insists on dressing in his big black boots, wearing his big green rubber gloves, and carrying his smoker with which he magically calms the honey bees. His name is actually Mamadou and he lives in a family village in Guinea, Conakry.)
Mamadou’s uncle, Big Baro, invited me to squeeze onto the rear seat on his dirt bike after I insisted I wanted to help. (It had, after all, been kind of my fault we had been kicking in termite mounds in the first place. What can I say, we don’t have those behemoth dirt towers at home.) I clutched Mamadou in my arms as we sped through the thick green jungle dodging chickens and stray dogs, not to mention other small children. All along the way, Baro kept his hand on the horn to clear the path. The panic and concern the villagers had shown to Mamadou manifested in his screaming wildly all along the way. I’m not sure we really needed the horn.
Peering up ahead, we would occasionally see women walking the path to the next village. Like colorful birds, their brightly flowered skirts punctuated the gloom of the lush growth with their reds and gleaming yellows. They would scatter as they heard us coming, steadying the bundles perched on their heads with the slightest of finger touches. With every group we passed, Mamadou would renew his plaintive cries.
After a jarring thirty-minute ride, we spun into the clearing that was Mama Owusu Mkanni’s home. There was no need to announce our arrival, what with the horn, the screaming, the racket of the motorbike, and the disapproving squawking of the chickens surveying her yard.
Through a torrent of their native language of Pular, Baro explained the situation to the ancient woman. While listening, Mamadou felt compelled to howl to punctuate important words. Meanwhile, I stood there clutching the sobbing child. I felt really bad for him but he was starting to get heavy.
Mama Owusu’s brow furrowed and she shook her gray head.
Baro turned to me to explain in Guinean French, “She says the spirits can’t be rushed and they need certain requirements for the spell to work. Mamadou is to sit here and we will build a fire and also dig a hole.”
In no time at all, Mamadou had fallen asleep on the blankets I had set him down on. Baro built a small fire while I dug a hole. When Baro had described that I had to dig it This big and This deep, I feared we were preparing to bury Mamadou. Dread filled my stomach. Good thing the little guy had collapsed into a deep sleep from the panic and exhaustion.
Mama Owusu Mkanni had disappeared into her round hut. Eventually she emerged carrying a pot and a leather bag. She calmly strolled over to her well and ladled out some water into the pot. She then added pinches of powders and herbs from her leather pouch, all the while muttering phrases. Prayers? Incantations? Curses?
The last thing she held over the pot was a single bright red beetle. Holding it by one leg, she intoned several mysterious words and then she
Dropped it
Into
The pot.
She placed three rocks around the edge of the fire and placed the pot on top of them. Her muttering never ceased. As her concoction began to boil, she fetched two drinking gourds from her hut. One she handed to me while continuing her conversation in Pular. Baro explained to me that since I was involved with the misadventure, I would need to participate in the cure. “Well, of course,” I replied. I glanced over at the hole and wondered with a prickle just what all was going to be entailed. I shivered involuntarily.
“Wake him,” commanded Mama Owusu. She stabbed a stern look at Mamadou.
I gently shook his arm. He began to hiccup as he woke. His eyes widened as he saw the lively fire.
Mama Owusu ladled brew into the second gourd, but instructed me to hold it for Mamadou. Then she got a stout branch and used it to lift the pot off the fire. She set it to one side.
“Drink the medicine,” she commanded. She used enough hand signals that I didn’t need to understand her Pular words.
Bracing myself mentally, and remembering the red beetle, I cautiously sipped the steaming gourd. It wasn’t terrible. On the other hand…
Mama Owusu pointed at Mamadou. I blew on his “medicine” before helping him take a sip. He was about to spit it out when Mama Owusu began to scold him vehemently. With a pained look, he gulped it back. She waved her hands, urging us to finish our drinks. Not easy.
Mama Owusu turned to Baro and gave him a string of instructions. He dutifully got up and began walking in a crouch, stalking the chickens in her yard. After a spell of loud disagreements from the birds, he got the idea to sit down and hold out his hand with some crumbled crackers. One very hungry rooster overcame his distrust and cautiously approached the food. Baro’s hand moved like lightning to grab the old boy’s neck. Following Mama Owusu’s instructions, he then stood up and began swinging the gorgeous multi-colored fowl in circles over his head, breaking its neck. Inwardly I flinched.
Mamadou was instructed to cut the bird through its belly to release the guts into the hole. I knew Mamadou was especially fond of chickens and this would be hard for him, and he also had a great deal of trouble managing the big knife, so I stepped forward to help. I, too, am very fond of chickens, so, even though I had an easier time with the knife, I was still sad for the chicken.
Through all this Mama Owusu kept a running commentary to the spirits. She plucked several good-sized red and green and iridescent black feathers from the body and then dropped the bird in the pit. I was relieved to see her finally toss some dirt on top of the rooster in the hole. I guess Mamadou was not meant to be entombed. At least not yet.
Mamadou and I had to stand over the buried bird after the hole was refilled. Mama Owusu chanted and chanted.
Finally, Mama Owusu set Mamadou up in a comfortable seat and had him immerse his foot into the cooled pot of brew. She gave him a feather and then drank quite a bit herself. There must have been something about that brew because she went into a trance like I’ve never seen. Moaning, singing, some shrieking, and low cries, she carried on for the rest of the evening.
Now, here’s the thing. You remember I said I was real fond of chickens. That rooster had some magnificent plumage. While Mama Owusu drifted off in her delirium, I decided she wouldn’t notice if I took just one of the bird’s beautiful feathers. Hopefully she hadn’t counted them or something. I slipped the feather inside my shirt.
Mamadou and I both slept off our “medicines.” Mama Owusu undoubtedly slept hers off whenever she stopped chanting, probably very late that night.
Mamadou got better, no doubt thanks to soaking the foot and perhaps ingesting the brew. The chanting was picturesque, but we westerners don’t fall for that so-called magic, do we?
(Photo description: This photo is taken by someone looking down on Mamadou from above him. He is grinning up at the camera with a white ballcap sitting sideways on his head. His skin is chocolate brown, his eyes are glittering black, and his teeth are brilliantly white. They may be slightly worn down in front. Mamadou is wearing a pale brown T-shirt and jeans that are a little worn. His shoes show his toes, though maybe they are some kind of open-toed sandal. Mamadou is clutching his fists in front of his chest. He looks very happy.)
I prepared to go back to my home in the First World. But something came up, another assignment.
Things are different now.
Strangely, I missed my flight and received new, written instructions to remain in Guinea. Strangely, the note was written in blue-purple berry ink on paper. Strangely, my new mission was to search for an exotic creature called a bhuree, though I don’t know what that is. I am also to seek the elusive Toh, presumably a wise man with all the answers. Or it may all just be the ultimate meal, like manna from heaven.
I’ve wondered about my family back in California. I’ve wondered about my mates back in ’Straya. Years have gone by. I sent my sister a note, but never received an answer. Though it’s been perhaps three years since I left home, I did actually run into her on one of my missions to Slovakia. That was odd. But she kept fading out and her voice was very hard to understand. It really sounded like she was underwater. It was hard to tell. I thought she said “two weeks ago.” Two weeks and three years, maybe. I’ve wondered how long I’ve really been away. With one mission after another and frequent location changes, I may have been gone more like five years. I really can’t tell.
Maybe the strangest thing is that I haven’t had to cut my hair this whole time. My beard? The same. It’s like I’ve been caught in a time warp. If my hair isn’t growing, am I?
Everywhere I go is interesting. But I’d like to go back home. Sometimes there’s this person or thing following me. It’s very frightening. Especially when I hear the voices.
I’ve kept the feather. Somehow, I can’t get rid of it. It’s beautiful and it’s kind of a souvenir. Every time I think I’ll leave it behind, something makes me stop. And that’s one of the times I hear the voices.
ooOoo
(Photo description: This regal looking woman stops to have her photo taken. She has deep brown skin, is wearing a nice white blouse. Her skirt is the traditional brightly colored wrap-around cloth (blue, red and yellow). She is wearing a pearl-like bracelet and huge earring hoops. Most importantly, she is balancing a tray on her head without using her hands for support which holds as many as three dozen eggs as well as three tins which look like sardine tins. She is standing in front of one of the village huts. The hut looks fairly large and is supported by poles. The thatched roof does not reach all the way to the ground.)
(Photo description: A Guinean hut which, like the previous photo, is conical with a thatched roof that does not come all the way down to the ground. It is supported by poles. The floor is dirt which is at a higher elevation that the surrounding ground. There has recently been a rainstorm and the reddish earth is wet with large puddles. Standing at the peak of the roof are at least two chickens, one of which is a rooster. There is lush greenery beyond the hut and a man stands outside, smiling.) All photo credits: Kris Fricke
Hi, this is Alex.
I’m in a real pickle. I wonder if you can help me figure this out. As I told my sister Janie recently, by my reckoning, the problems seem to have started after I consulted the witch doctor back in Guinea. I was back in Africa on another one of my USAID projects, helping the locals find ways to wring more wealth out of their local resources, namely their honeybees. I was only supposed to be in that village for three weeks, but while I was there, my little buddy, Mamadou de Baro, stepped on a thorn while we were exploring termite mounds. I was wearing heavy boots so didn’t face the same risk, but he in his little four-year-old feet was not so lucky. He screamed like the devil when it happened. (Frankly, if I had had my heel punctured, I would have yelled, too, and I’m three decades older than Mamadou.) Anyway, the village, having a whole lot more experience with small feet and thorns, insisted that the doctor be consulted immediately. Even so, there was a great deal of pessimism about how the whole thing would turn out. I should have taken the warning myself.
(Photo description: Here you meet a very real little four-year old boy who is so enamored with the visiting beekeeper that he insists on dressing in his big black boots, wearing his big green rubber gloves, and carrying his smoker with which he magically calms the honey bees. His name is actually Mamadou and he lives in a family village in Guinea, Conakry.)
Mamadou’s uncle, Big Baro, invited me to squeeze onto the rear seat on his dirt bike after I insisted I wanted to help. (It had, after all, been kind of my fault we had been kicking in termite mounds in the first place. What can I say, we don’t have those behemoth dirt towers at home.) I clutched Mamadou in my arms as we sped through the thick green jungle dodging chickens and stray dogs, not to mention other small children. All along the way, Baro kept his hand on the horn to clear the path. The panic and concern the villagers had shown to Mamadou manifested in his screaming wildly all along the way. I’m not sure we really needed the horn.
Peering up ahead, we would occasionally see women walking the path to the next village. Like colorful birds, their brightly flowered skirts punctuated the gloom of the lush growth with their reds and gleaming yellows. They would scatter as they heard us coming, steadying the bundles perched on their heads with the slightest of finger touches. With every group we passed, Mamadou would renew his plaintive cries.
After a jarring thirty-minute ride, we spun into the clearing that was Mama Owusu Mkanni’s home. There was no need to announce our arrival, what with the horn, the screaming, the racket of the motorbike, and the disapproving squawking of the chickens surveying her yard.
Through a torrent of their native language of Pular, Baro explained the situation to the ancient woman. While listening, Mamadou felt compelled to howl to punctuate important words. Meanwhile, I stood there clutching the sobbing child. I felt really bad for him but he was starting to get heavy.
Mama Owusu’s brow furrowed and she shook her gray head.
Baro turned to me to explain in Guinean French, “She says the spirits can’t be rushed and they need certain requirements for the spell to work. Mamadou is to sit here and we will build a fire and also dig a hole.”
In no time at all, Mamadou had fallen asleep on the blankets I had set him down on. Baro built a small fire while I dug a hole. When Baro had described that I had to dig it This big and This deep, I feared we were preparing to bury Mamadou. Dread filled my stomach. Good thing the little guy had collapsed into a deep sleep from the panic and exhaustion.
Mama Owusu Mkanni had disappeared into her round hut. Eventually she emerged carrying a pot and a leather bag. She calmly strolled over to her well and ladled out some water into the pot. She then added pinches of powders and herbs from her leather pouch, all the while muttering phrases. Prayers? Incantations? Curses?
The last thing she held over the pot was a single bright red beetle. Holding it by one leg, she intoned several mysterious words and then she
Dropped it
Into
The pot.
She placed three rocks around the edge of the fire and placed the pot on top of them. Her muttering never ceased. As her concoction began to boil, she fetched two drinking gourds from her hut. One she handed to me while continuing her conversation in Pular. Baro explained to me that since I was involved with the misadventure, I would need to participate in the cure. “Well, of course,” I replied. I glanced over at the hole and wondered with a prickle just what all was going to be entailed. I shivered involuntarily.
“Wake him,” commanded Mama Owusu. She stabbed a stern look at Mamadou.
I gently shook his arm. He began to hiccup as he woke. His eyes widened as he saw the lively fire.
Mama Owusu ladled brew into the second gourd, but instructed me to hold it for Mamadou. Then she got a stout branch and used it to lift the pot off the fire. She set it to one side.
“Drink the medicine,” she commanded. She used enough hand signals that I didn’t need to understand her Pular words.
Bracing myself mentally, and remembering the red beetle, I cautiously sipped the steaming gourd. It wasn’t terrible. On the other hand…
Mama Owusu pointed at Mamadou. I blew on his “medicine” before helping him take a sip. He was about to spit it out when Mama Owusu began to scold him vehemently. With a pained look, he gulped it back. She waved her hands, urging us to finish our drinks. Not easy.
Mama Owusu turned to Baro and gave him a string of instructions. He dutifully got up and began walking in a crouch, stalking the chickens in her yard. After a spell of loud disagreements from the birds, he got the idea to sit down and hold out his hand with some crumbled crackers. One very hungry rooster overcame his distrust and cautiously approached the food. Baro’s hand moved like lightning to grab the old boy’s neck. Following Mama Owusu’s instructions, he then stood up and began swinging the gorgeous multi-colored fowl in circles over his head, breaking its neck. Inwardly I flinched.
Mamadou was instructed to cut the bird through its belly to release the guts into the hole. I knew Mamadou was especially fond of chickens and this would be hard for him, and he also had a great deal of trouble managing the big knife, so I stepped forward to help. I, too, am very fond of chickens, so, even though I had an easier time with the knife, I was still sad for the chicken.
Through all this Mama Owusu kept a running commentary to the spirits. She plucked several good-sized red and green and iridescent black feathers from the body and then dropped the bird in the pit. I was relieved to see her finally toss some dirt on top of the rooster in the hole. I guess Mamadou was not meant to be entombed. At least not yet.
Mamadou and I had to stand over the buried bird after the hole was refilled. Mama Owusu chanted and chanted.
Finally, Mama Owusu set Mamadou up in a comfortable seat and had him immerse his foot into the cooled pot of brew. She gave him a feather and then drank quite a bit herself. There must have been something about that brew because she went into a trance like I’ve never seen. Moaning, singing, some shrieking, and low cries, she carried on for the rest of the evening.
Now, here’s the thing. You remember I said I was real fond of chickens. That rooster had some magnificent plumage. While Mama Owusu drifted off in her delirium, I decided she wouldn’t notice if I took just one of the bird’s beautiful feathers. Hopefully she hadn’t counted them or something. I slipped the feather inside my shirt.
Mamadou and I both slept off our “medicines.” Mama Owusu undoubtedly slept hers off whenever she stopped chanting, probably very late that night.
Mamadou got better, no doubt thanks to soaking the foot and perhaps ingesting the brew. The chanting was picturesque, but we westerners don’t fall for that so-called magic, do we?
(Photo description: This photo is taken by someone looking down on Mamadou from above him. He is grinning up at the camera with a white ballcap sitting sideways on his head. His skin is chocolate brown, his eyes are glittering black, and his teeth are brilliantly white. They may be slightly worn down in front. Mamadou is wearing a pale brown T-shirt and jeans that are a little worn. His shoes show his toes, though maybe they are some kind of open-toed sandal. Mamadou is clutching his fists in front of his chest. He looks very happy.)
I prepared to go back to my home in the First World. But something came up, another assignment.
Things are different now.
Strangely, I missed my flight and received new, written instructions to remain in Guinea. Strangely, the note was written in blue-purple berry ink on paper. Strangely, my new mission was to search for an exotic creature called a bhuree, though I don’t know what that is. I am also to seek the elusive Toh, presumably a wise man with all the answers. Or it may all just be the ultimate meal, like manna from heaven.
I’ve wondered about my family back in California. I’ve wondered about my mates back in ’Straya. Years have gone by. I sent my sister a note, but never received an answer. Though it’s been perhaps three years since I left home, I did actually run into her on one of my missions to Slovakia. That was odd. But she kept fading out and her voice was very hard to understand. It really sounded like she was underwater. It was hard to tell. I thought she said “two weeks ago.” Two weeks and three years, maybe. I’ve wondered how long I’ve really been away. With one mission after another and frequent location changes, I may have been gone more like five years. I really can’t tell.
Maybe the strangest thing is that I haven’t had to cut my hair this whole time. My beard? The same. It’s like I’ve been caught in a time warp. If my hair isn’t growing, am I?
Everywhere I go is interesting. But I’d like to go back home. Sometimes there’s this person or thing following me. It’s very frightening. Especially when I hear the voices.
I’ve kept the feather. Somehow, I can’t get rid of it. It’s beautiful and it’s kind of a souvenir. Every time I think I’ll leave it behind, something makes me stop. And that’s one of the times I hear the voices.
ooOoo
(Photo description: This regal looking woman stops to have her photo taken. She has deep brown skin, is wearing a nice white blouse. Her skirt is the traditional brightly colored wrap-around cloth (blue, red and yellow). She is wearing a pearl-like bracelet and huge earring hoops. Most importantly, she is balancing a tray on her head without using her hands for support which holds as many as three dozen eggs as well as three tins which look like sardine tins. She is standing in front of one of the village huts. The hut looks fairly large and is supported by poles. The thatched roof does not reach all the way to the ground.)
(Photo description: A Guinean hut which, like the previous photo, is conical with a thatched roof that does not come all the way down to the ground. It is supported by poles. The floor is dirt which is at a higher elevation that the surrounding ground. There has recently been a rainstorm and the reddish earth is wet with large puddles. Standing at the peak of the roof are at least two chickens, one of which is a rooster. There is lush greenery beyond the hut and a man stands outside, smiling.) All photo credits: Kris Fricke