Korité

Korité marks the end of the month of Ramadan, and is determined by the first sighting of the moon. Therefore, no one really knows exactly when it will be, though I gathered that they really do know, and the suspense is for tradition’s sake. Either way, there was something in the air the days leading up to it. People were getting excited. I felt like even the traffic was moving faster, coupled with the taxi drivers becoming more obnoxious and hard to dodge (when crossing the street or not). Everyone was talking about, “La fête! La fête!” So I was expecting a big party.

Tuesday night the moon was sighted. I was in the market at dusk, having spent the last few hours pushing and shoving my way through the crowd to a decent price on fabric. Content with my finds at 500CFA per meter, I was finding my way back to the main road to catch a taxi, just as it was getting dark and the final day’s fast was being broken. I thought I caught the smells of festive foods wafting through the air. Back on the main road, I was utterly surprised to find that no taxi would respond to my outstretched hand, because as I mentioned, lately they had been particularly insistent in their honking and signaling. Yet, none came to my call. Then I realized that it was because they all had passengers already, and I assumed it must be Korité and people were out and about with no work or school the next two days. Finally I caught a packed bus back to Yoff, and upon arriving home I was informed by mother that yes indeed the moon had been sighted. I am still not entirely sure how they knew, because my mother told me they saw it as 7:00 p.m. and at 7:00 p.m. it was barely dark. At 10:00 p.m. when I looked at the sky I could not see the moon. But what do I know? Whatever sign was needed was received.

My family had told me that the morning of Korité we would go to the mosque, after which feasting and festivities would begin. From what I understood, it was a day of celebration marked by cooking food, wearing nice clothes and visiting with family and friends. Now I am not sure if the misunderstanding came from the language barrier or some other barrier but clearly I was left misunderstanding. I woke up Wednesday morning and donned my white “boubou,” loaned to me by my family the night before. I had been told that I needed to be dressed all in white to go to the mosque. Feeling a little uncomfortable in my Senegalese outfit, I exited my room for breakfast. My family seemed very content to see me dressed as I was, and it made me relax. That is, until I asked when we would be leaving and my mother offered to show me the way. “Je vais toute seule?” I asked, trying to mask my incredulousness. And I was informed the following:

All of the women in my family were on their period. The Koran forbids women to pray at this time of month. So they were not going. The father, having been sick, was also not going. And the brothers were going to a different mosque, and besides, they had already left. So there I was, alone. Understanding that I didn’t want to go by myself, not to mention that I didn’t know where the mosque was, or what to do when I got there, my mother suggested I go with the neighbors. Fine. Going with another Senegalese family would be just as well. I was not expecting to go with a single, middle-aged man, who didn’t look at or speak to me. I literally followed him like a dog, winding down little side streets that I would have no idea how to find again. It must have been a funny sight, a Senegalese man leading a Toubab dressed in a boubou shuffling behind him (I say shuffle because my skirt was a bit restraining for my legs). But by now I was very curious as to what would be next in my morning so I obediently followed.

Upon arriving, my escort disappeared in the crowd. Now I was completely alone. The mosque was situated looking out at the ocean and was surrounded by a huge, sandy arena. I quickly saw the thin rope dividing the men’s side from the women’s and made my way appropriately to the left. I found a place to sit down and wait. Five minutes passed and I watched as people poured in through the gate—men, women and children of all ages. Fifteen minutes more of the same. Thirty minutes later I was fighting the urge to dose. The sea of white-clad people was growing and covering the arena. I was probably at the mosque for a total of an hour and a half and no more than fifteen minutes of it was spent in prayer. Finally I was nudged by the women next to me to stand. What proceeded was a series of short prayers, during which I followed those around me as best I could. While I could not understand, I found the prayers very beautiful, and the sound of hundreds of people chanting in unison, and the image of their bodies bowing in unison, was quite remarkable.

When the prayers were completed, the crowd turned into a stampede as everyone pushed their way through the [relatively] small gate and into the streets. I squeezed my way through and once out in the street, proceeded to find my way home by guessing and a general sense of direction. Like I said, having been led down back allies and side streets, it was impossible to retrace my footsteps. But having a pretty clear idea of my whereabouts, I was not too worried. As it was, I went a street too far and had to back track a little. But because Yoff is based along one main road, anything is pretty easy to find with enough sniffing.

The rest of the day continued largely without incident. The pomp and circumstance I had been expecting was unfulfilled. They did dress me up in a second outfit, resembling something someone might wear for Senegalese Easter (see photo). But the “feasting and festivities” were manifest in eating what we always eat—thiebu diene, a dish with a base of rice, topped with root vegetables, fish, and a spicy pepper sauce. Granted, it is very good, but after almost a month of the same thing, my palette starts to crave new stimulus.

I spent the rest of the day with two friends, and we celebrated Korité by making cheese/apple/vinaigrette sandwiches. Delicious! As we sat on the balcony that night, we saw a few pitiful firecrackers shoot up in the sky, only to quickly fall to their end. So a grande fête it was not. But an interesting day for me, culturally rich and informative, it was indeed.