Bandiagara, Part 8a

Feasting and dancing and music.

Mamadou closely observed the Captain and Inara over the course of the day. He spoke to his wife, and Nana agreed with his conclusion. What his cousin Juju had said was true. It was clear as daylight that the Captain was in love, and that the lady returned his regard. Over the course of the day, the two indicated in hundreds of subtle ways how close, how intimate they were. Mamadou caught them in several tender gestures—nothing unfitting, oh, no—but the kind of touches exchanged in public only by people who are physically intimate in private. He concluded that they were newlyweds, and although disappointed of a Bandiagaran wedding, he thought a Bandiagaran celebration was in order.

. . .

Nana spread the large mat on the ground. White fish benachin was a very festive dish, and she'd spent a good part of the day preparing it. The freshly caught fish was cleaned and gutted, then she'd stuffed it with spices and prepared the cassava, pumpkin, cabbage and bitter tomato to accompany the fish. She softened the dried tamarind, and boiled some bissap leaves. The bissap she ground in a mortar, with spices. The tamarind was added to onions, pepper and garlic, and pasted into another sauce. She set out the colorful platter in the middle of the mat and covered it with a mountain of cooked rice. She seated her guests around it, then presented the cooked fish with a flourish, distributing the fish and vegetables equitably, adding bissap paste and crunchy rice from the bottom of the cooking pot to garnish the dish, and drizzling the tamarind sauce over the whole.

"Enjoy," she said to her guests, with a big smile. "Bon appétit."

"Thank you for your hospitality, Nana, Mamadou," Mal said on behalf of the whole crew, as he dug into the dish in front of him with his right hand. "I washed it," he whispered to Inara.

She nudged him in the ribs, then reached in with her own right hand. She'd washed it, too, of course, and she sincerely hoped all the others sharing this platter had done so. Especially Jayne. She watched with contained amusement as Ip searched in vain for an eating utensil of some sort and did a double take when he realized there was none and that he was expected to eat with his hands. The young man's Core upbringing (and Inara had to admit, hers as well) had not prepared him for a situation like this and he nearly committed a social faux pas when he reached toward the platter with his left hand. Inara watched as River intercepted Ip's hand and wordlessly directed him to a more socially acceptable solution. Inara realized Mal shared her quiet amusement, and looked at him.

"Hardly seems fair," he said in a low voice. "Dr Ip's left-handed, now he's got to eat gracefully with the wrong—that is to say, the right—hand."

"I'm lucky I'm right-handed," Inara replied, also low. "My schooling didn't cover how to eat a formal dinner politely with your hands. I've been improvising."

"Your schooling clearly covered how to pick up on social cues, Inara," Mal returned. "You're as graceful in eating with your hands as in everything you do." He saw that their hostess was closely watching their exchange, and turned his attention back to Nana. "What is the name of this delicious dish?"

"White fish benachin," she answered. "It's my specialty."

"My Nana makes the best benachin in Fajara," Mamadou boasted.

"Best I've ever tasted," Mal answered with a wink, and everyone laughed. "What kind of fish is this?"

"It's a local river fish," Nana replied.

"River. Fish," River stated abruptly. "Fish, River!" She began to titter. "Captain cooked in a sauce."

"What is it called?" Mal asked quickly, to distract from River's odd behavior. Shut up, Albatross.

"Capitaine grillé." Nana thankfully had not noticed, or chose to ignore, River's stifled giggles.

Mal directed a blank look at Inara, but it was Ip who translated the strange language for him. "It means 'Grilled Captain'."

. . .

"I hate to tell Jayne, but bissap ain't alcoholic."

Dinner was over, and the celebration had carried on into the dark evening, with the village griot—a storyteller, praise-singer and historian all rolled into one—and a band of traditional musicians coming to brighten the festivities, which took place around a flickering fire in one of the village gathering spaces.

"What is it, then?" Inara asked. She sipped her own glass of the beverage, but it was unlike anything she'd ever tasted. Floral and spicy and exotic. She leaned back contentedly against Mal's solid body.

"Hibiscus flower tea, with a few other things thrown in. They don't do alcoholic beverages here in Fajara." Mal looked over at Jayne, who was getting increasingly uninhibited as the evening wore on. "Hate to spoil his fun."

"He seems to be getting drunk on the placebo effect," Simon observed.

"Oh, he's just havin' a good time bonding with the guys." Kaylee had her own suspicions, having grown up in a much less sheltered way than Simon, and—she realized with surprise—the Captain, who'd been a good boy on a puritan world before the war, and even Inara, whose Academy training, though wide-ranging, was all about refinement and good taste, and likely didn't involve lessons in how to sneak illicit liquor past the noses of authority. She didn't know how they'd done it, but she reckoned those fellas—and there seemed to be fellas like that anywhere—had found themselves some kinda way to brew some hooch, despite the no-alcohol culture of the village. She was as near certain as 牛屎 niú shǐ their pitcher of bissap was spiked. No wonder Jayne had gravitated their direction. 'Course, it was still funny, 'cause Jayne had no idea the village was dry, and he was assuming everyone else's juice cocktails were high-test as well.

. . .

Zoe leaned back and sipped the fancy drink out of a tall glass. It was a multi-hued orange and red concoction with swirling layers that mixed like the colors of sunrise. All it needed was a little pink umbrella sticking up out of the glass and she could imagine she was reclining at a resort spa—say, on Rio Beach.

"The hell, Zoe, thought you wasn't s'posed to drink that stuff when you're all knocked up," Jayne slurred at her, swaying pleasantly to the music.

"The hell, Jayne," she returned, downing her drink. She wasn't about to tell him that it was mango and pomegranate juice, artfully presented. Let him imagine it was exotic liquor. Zoe requested another drink, this one dangerous green in color. She knew the principle ingredient of this one was ditah juice.

Jayne stretched his eyes. "Should tell the Cap'n, I should," Jayne said. "You'll stunt the child's growth."

"I know how to kill you with my pinky finger," Zoe replied, gesturing menacingly with said digit but otherwise not moving a muscle.

Jayne threw in the towel. "The hell is that, anyhow? Absinthe or somethin'? Can I get one?"

. . .

River fashioned a tiny pink umbrella out of folded paper, and set it in the edge of her glass. The musicians kept up a steady, infinitely varied rhythm with djembe, dumbek, and shakera, while the kora player worked a musical pattern on his strings, a kind of riff with variants prescribed and improvised, over which lay the melodic rhythm of the susa, a stick-fiddle with a resonant gourd, played with a bow. The singer—the griot—improvised verses over all of it, verses whose words River didn't comprehend. They were in Wolof, the local language, and she hadn't yet heard enough of it to decipher much. The words "Serenity" and "Reynolds" featured prominently in the griot's song, and River knew he was telling the story of the ship's arrival and the treasures in her hold. She didn't comprehend. She understood.

There is a time to mourn, and a time to dance.

Time to dance.

She handed her drink to a surprised Ip, and got up to join a small group of dancers around the fire. River began to move, her complete understanding of the local style evident in her movements, as she used her body to express exactly what the music was saying. Ip watched her, mesmerized.

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glossary

牛屎 niú shǐ [(cow) shit]

So, what do you think? Good feast? Can you hear the music? Comments and reviews welcome.