Ain't no party like a Bissau party...

I am writing on the occasion of having attended what I would call my first “real” Bissau party-that is, devoid of other expats save Osmin, who doesn’t really count as he seems to get along with everyone, regardless of age or nationality. He had mentioned earlier that a colleague of his from the Armed Forces had planned to have a party. I went, expecting another bland expat event, but instead we drove into a popular area spotted with humble houses, driving the UN jeep right through the midst of a soccer game in progress, and parked under a gnarled tree tinted red by the dust. As we stepped out of the car, there, on the wall of a house, was a hand-painted, yellow Wu-Tang sign, above which there were several announcements concerning the “Ruff Ryders”, though Osmin was moving along at such a pace that I didn’t have time to inquire of this so-called organization.

The party was already well underway when we arrived, with the Guinean smooth-rocking beat played loud from an old black boom box. Several Guinean women in both western and African dress were getting down to the sounds in what would be called in Brazil the “quintal” (or little yard, thought it consisted of little more than a muddy square fenced in by woven slats of palha (palm frond). Plastic chairs were jammed into this small space, as were many bodies of varying shapes and sizes, but all in a general state of happiness. Aminata, Osmin’s colleague, had been recognized that day for her contributions to human rights protection in Guinea-Bissau. This certificate was treated as a grand honor, and more than a worthy reason for a yard party.

As soon as we arrived, plastic chairs, cold beers, and a very dubious plate of meat were quickly presented. Having spent the entire weekend in and out of the bathroom, alternatively vomiting and having dismal spells of diarrhea, I eyed that plastic plate with both fear and respect. One of the women, one of the many hosts of the party (who, consequently, I later learned did not live there) explained gleefully, “It’s goat!” and I knew this was a big deal, yet I had to swallow several times to let the nausea pass. Osmin, as it turns out, once again, was my savior. He leaned forward and spiked the most gristly, fatty and suspicious-looking chunk of goat on his fork and chewed on it, satisfied, “It’s good!” He put a napkin over the plate to keep away the flies (they are incredibly aggressive, they will continually land on your head or food and refuse to move) and continued to munch away. I stuck with my beer, while fending off the friendly but insistent requests by the other guests for me to dance.

Meanwhile, a large, effusive man in a white Guayabera, leaned over and bellowed, in my general direction,

“HEY! DO YOU LIKE BEER?”
“Yes, I like beer,” I responded, rather uncreatively.
“REALLY?”
“Yes!”

“YOU MUST COME TO A PARTY ON FRIDAY!" He yelled. Gesturing to a woman in a mustard colored dress with egregious pit stains, he screamed “HEY! ARE YOU GOING TO SERVE US GOAT OR WHAT?!” My heart was already sinking, although I commended myself quietly for having eaten some fish pastries along with my beer.

“HAH! Goat? Pffff! No, I’ll give you a chicken.” At this response, he shook his head and scoffed, choosing to call her bluff.“HEY!” he said, directing the attention back to me, “DO YOU LIKE GOAT?” and all of a sudden the conversation quieted and all eyes were on me. “Well, I’m not quite familiar with it,” I said, hoping my semi-truthful answer would be accepted. “WHAT??!!!” He said.

“I mean, YES! I LOVE GOAT!” Everyone smiled and shook their heads in agreement, laughing, he declared,
“AH, GOOD, WE WILL TAKE SOME GOAT AND PUT IT ON SKEWERS, WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

“Splendid! YES!!” I was imagining those chunks stuck on a spit, grease popping in my eyes and flies perching on my ears. The deal was sealed, but the conversation was far from over.

“Where are you from?” Again, conversation stopped and at least ten people were riveted, awaiting my answer.
“United States.” “Ahhhhhh….” And there was a pregnant pause. “But I didn’t vote for Mr. Bush, but I will vote for our future president, Mr. Obama!”

With that, they burst into exclamations of support and enthusiasm, and I was handed another cold beer. My initiation was complete.