I enjoy being anonymous in my private life; I am content to be relatively invisible. I do own some dressy clothes: a tie (one), a pair of black dress slacks, a few decent dress shirts. My mom would have referred to them as church clothes as opposed to the slightly less formal school clothes. (She also made a distinction between going out for dinner, and eating out. The former required that I be presentable -- school clothes and a comb; the latter allowed for shorts, a t-shirt, and flip flops. The former typically included a waiter, who escorted you to your table, cloth napkins and coffee in a cup with saucer; the latter featured wait-to-be-seated vinyl booths, paper napkins out of a dispenser, and coffee in inch-thick mugs.)
I own some dress clothes, but not many, certainly not a suit. I had a suit. My parents made me wear it for something, when I had to impersonate somebody important.
I own a brown belt, but my church slacks are black. I have two pairs of shoes: a pair of junky sandals, still wet with saltwater, and a pair of sturdy, dusty hiking shoes, brown. There is no matching outfit here: red tie, blue shirt, brown belt, black slacks, brown hiking shoes -- a nice combination if you're going to church, then camping.
So when G., an ambassador (not from the US), invited me to accompany he and his son to the Gamou in the holy city of Tivaouane amongst the elite of the Tijaniyyah Sufi Brotherhood, I was both flattered, but hesitant. "But G.," I said, after he suggested that I wear a suit for this formal occasion, "I don't own a suit. But I do have a tie . . . I think."
The Gamou refers to the birth of the Prophet Mohammed, which is celebrated on the eleventh day of the third Muslim month. Nightlong prayer vigils (and street parties) are organized by the four Sufi Brotherhoods in communities throughout Senegal. The town of Tivaouane, holy city of the Tidjane Brotherhood, draws a million pilgrims for the celebration of the Gamou.
I was working in the dark here, cretan that I am. I had never heard of the Gamou, Tivaouane, or the Tidjane Brotherhood. I had never attended a formal event of this type, or any type, other than my high school prom. Here I was, traveling by motorcade, escorted by Senegalese police, out of Dakar, zipping past diverted traffic. We were dignitaries being whisked off to a formal gathering of very important people, for a very important occasion, in the heart of a holy city. And there I was, in my mismatched outfit, pretending to be one of the gang.
Once in Tivaouane, we -- the dignitaries (ahem) -- were guided into a large tent by a cadre of men in green boubous, disciples of the Tidjane Brotherhood. We were seated and offered refreshments. While G. chatted with other diplomats, I hung out with one of G.'s assistants, behaving like two kids who'd snuck backstage for the Grammy Awards. The fried spring rolls were to die for. We should have brought doggy bags. Hey, we could load up our pockets?! No, the grease would probably bleed through. And then someone might notice my brown belt and black slacks.
I was happy that I'd worn black socks without holes. G's son, Y., explained that we might be in a setting where protocol required removing one's shoes, and the last thing I need was a big toe sticking out of a sock.
After snacks, refreshments (this isn't Denny's, Tod), we were escorted into another large tent where the main event would take place, which would consist of speeches and prayers by religious leaders. I kept my eyes lowered as I walked along the red carpet, lined with onlookers, probably thinking to themselves, brown belt, black slacks, you've got to be kidding me, or, he must be the ambassador's mechanic.
We were seated up front, in a section reserved for visiting dignitaries (ahem). G. sat in the front row, we had B seats, three rows back, but who am I to complain? We got better seats than a bunch who arrived after us. Too bad. Programs were distributed, but we -- Y., G.'s support staff and I -- were not offered one. I suppose we were outed from the start.
The program was LONG, but the milieu was fascinating. We were surrounded by religious leaders, many quietly reciting prayers while awaiting the arrival of the most important marabouts. As speech followed speech followed speech followed speech, Y., an exceptionally thoughtful student in my 6th grade class, gradually began loosing it. He squirmed and slouched and twisted and made shadow puppets in the lights of the television cameras, which roamed the audience, the images broadcast live, including to a JumboTron screen outside the venue. I found Y.'s disintegration quite humorous, a nice counterpoint to solemnity of the event. I wondered how many around were wondering the same thing: a chocolate shake would taste pretty good right now.
On the way back to Dakar after the event, Y. complained that he was s t a r v i n g . Truth be known, we were all starving, but leave it to the kid to state the obvious. To his plea to stop at a restaurant on the way home, dad reminded him that we'd have to remain in the convoy. Y., ever the inquirer, uncovered a forgotten box of holiday treats in the back of the car, so we all shared marshmallows, chocolate bars, and sugar wafers -- a sweet close to a very pleasant and interesting afternoon.
Randi was asleep in bed by the time I arrived home, despite the all-night Gamou-related festivities taking place in our neighborhood.
I think I'll pick-up a black belt this summer. Skip the suit.
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