The Painted Boys of Ramadan

Ramadan is a difficult time for the landlocked Saharan country of Niger. On top of the regular fasting, it is peak hot season with daily temperatures regularly exceeding 45°C (113°F). Sleep is hard to come by in such temperatures and further inhibited by suhoor and iftar, the pre-sunrise and post-sunset meals respectively. Typically affable Nigeriens maintain their friendly composure, but a tense undercurrent runs throughout the country due to the volatile mix of hunger, fatigue, and heat.

Ten days into Ramadan, just as this system has become the new normal, young boys, painted white with shirts hanging out the back of their shorts and beard-like cotton swabs on many of their eager faces begin appearing. They sing. They dance. And they rattle discarded water bottles filled with rocks. It’s a uniquely Nigerien tradition called Tobey Tobey or Rabbit Rabbit in the local language, Zarma.

Several other Muslim country have traditions along a same vein in order to reward children for successfully completing an abbreviated Ramadan fasting period, generally lasting for the first 10 to 14 days of the Islamic festival. This celebration, which goes by a variety of names such as Quranchasho, Hag Al Laila, or Gergaoun depending on the country, has evolved into an almost Halloween like festival with children dressing up and being rewarded with sweets.

Tobey Tobey likely shares similar roots to these other celebrations, but the animistic heritage of Niger has added its own unique element in the personification of local animals. No other celebration singularly encourages its participants to dress up as animals and none have as deep a connection to rabbits as Tobey Tobey.

Rumors swirl of children dressing up as lions or other animals, but only rabbits seem to appear on the streets of Niamey, Niger’s capital city. When asked why rabbits, one child responded “In the days of our grandfathers, they dressed as rabbits. Our father then dressed as rabbits and now we dress as rabbits.” The sense of tradition runs strong for some while others participate for more two dimensional reasons. “We dress as rabbits because that’s how you get the sugar” another participant blunty states.

Traditionally, these leporine children smear a water and clay mixture onto their bodies bodies goes on as a muddy yellow color before drying into a brilliant white. They then travel door to door in their village drawing people outside with their repetitive chants of “Rabbit. Rabbit. Give us some sugar” and rattling of pebbles in repurposed water bottle shakers. The ultimate goal being to receive treats whether those be dates , literal sugar cubes, or money.

As with much in Niger, rapid urbanization is bringing about changes in the way Tobey Tobey is celebrated. Children have added performing at traffic lights and soliciting treats on street corners to their sugar-collecting repertoire.

In the end, the precise origins of Tobey Tobey are obscured in the memory of many participants who do it more out of a mixed sense of tradition and an affinity towards sugar rather than a deep understanding of its history. But still, stories are told of the ancient Nigeriens, here when Islam first arrived in this part of the world. It’s said they struggled to fast during the month of Ramadan. They were tired, hungry, and hot due to the demands of fasting in an already inhospitable environment. Tobey Tobey is told to have been developed as a way to bring some joy and laughter back into their lives as they adjusted to the demands of this new festival.

Best of Morocco

Lately I’ve been fascinated by what other people like in my photos vs what I like. So as my trip to Morocco has come to an end, I thought I’d present my top three photos from the trip as ranked by the Instagram hivemind and by myself.

Instagram Hivemind Top 3                                 My Top 3

#1

#2

#3

A Study in Place and Time

I’ve been living in Niamey, Niger for well over a year now and this is the longest I’ve lived in one place since I started grad school back in 2012.

1 year in Rochester, NY. 1 year in Zambia. 1 year in Rochester. 6 months in Antarctica. 6 months in Rochester. And now here.

I still desire to travel and see new sights, but I’m learning adventures can also be had by staying put. The sights may stay the same, but the view certainly does not. This is both in terms of changes to the terrain through development and the course of nature, but also through coming to a deeper understanding and appreciation for the places I interact with on a daily basis.

Goudou’s Pottery House

Location: Boubon, Niger

We stepped out of the harsh morning sun and into the dimly lit hut constructed out of misaligned cinder blocks and crumbling slabs of dry mud. As our eyes adjusted, we made out the smiling face of a middle aged women. Her slight paunch emphasized her jovial expression and her laugh was exactly as you would expect from a woman of this demeanour and stature.

Her nephew, who had been the one to invite us into their home in order to witness the Nigerien pottery process, offered us a seat on the raised bed platform. He introduced his aunt, Goudou (Goo-do), as we shifted trying to find a comfortable position on the thin grass mat separating us from the intertwined sticks and rope that made up the bed.

Goudou casually used her hand to scoop out a shallow depression in the dry sand floor as she conversed with us, using her nephew to translate from Zarma into French. She pulled a small grass mat over the hole and plopped down a shapeless lump of wet, river clay onto the mat with a satisfying squelch. Muddy water droplets scattered everywhere, accessorizing the mat’s intricate chevrons. Goudou sprinkled a coarse powder onto the clay and as she worked it in, she explained it was the crushed and pounded remnants of imperfect pottery which is used to strengthen the new clay.

Maybe ignorantly, I had anticipated the use of a pottery wheel during at least some portion of the experience, but with none to be seen around the dim interior, I was left to watch incredulously as Goudou slowly worked the clay with a small, curved press. To begin, her experienced hands shaped the powder infused clay into a elegant sphere which she gently laid to rest in the depression. She used the press to firmly crater the sphere. Slowly deepening the center, making the walls both thiner and higher as she went.

When satisfied, Goudou produce another shapeless lump of clay. She deftly folded it out into an elongated rectangle which she then wrapped around the opening of the pot. The resulting neck was as grotesque and out of place as that of Frankenstein’s monster. Unfazed, Goudou plucked a protruding piece of straw from the wall with one hand while wetting the pot neck with the other. Using a practiced precision, she transitioned the wet clay of the neck almost seamlessly into the body.

Not unlike an over-enthused cooking show host, Goudou set aside the freshly formed pot and produced a similar, but dry one. She explained the pot she had just finished would need to sit in the sun for almost a week before if could be painted and fired in the communal village kiln. As she walked us through the drying process, her hands worked on autopilot to bring out several cracked and splattered containers from their various nooks. With no regard to her work station, she splashed indiscriminate amounts of water into each container to mix with the materials caked on their respective bottoms.

Sensing the confusion in the room, Goudou’s nephew emerged from the shadowy doorway in order to explain these were the paints with which Goudou decorates the pots. Each one is made from a local mud or crushed rock and applied to the pots with a discarded millet stalk.

The stalk applied the paint with an incredible ease and flow. After several coats, Goudou literally cut in each painted band using a knife in order to achieve the fine lines impossible with even the most delicate of stalks.

Goudou also used the knife to repeatedly cute white diagonals into the darkest layer, creating an eye catching and high contrast design.

As Goudou put the final touches on the pot, we could see pride swell in her eyes. She knew her work was neither perfect nor refined, but she knew what sat in front of us now was something she had created out of nothing. This is the way her family has made pots for generations. The practice is how she supports her family, how her mother supported their family, and how the generations before had supported theirs. It is a practical trade for Goudou, but it is also a connection to both the land on which she lives as well as the generations before her who have toiled in the exact same manner.