One Last Party

Paula Zoromski

Getting there can often be quite the task—and can prove more important than the “there” there.

All I wanted to do was go to the party. I was more determined to attend the Fulani fête than an American teen was to drive into the woods for his first beer party.

Hot sand and thorns had hardened my feet. The wind knotted my hair around its barrette and the sun browned my skin. I longed for a hot shower; even for a cold one. Water was scarce.

My African friends told me I had become ugly. My skin was too dark, my body too thin. A steady diet of millet and milk, long walks searching for grazing camels, and living in the Sahel had trimmed my body fat.

I never could understand how events were scheduled. It had something to do with the moon, tribal chiefs, and hungry cows. I told Gado and Mariama, husband and wife, that I had enjoyed the previous party. I reminded them of the day we had watched old men in straw hats race their camels across the desert. I told them how captivated I was by the young men with their yellow painted faces dancing, singing, and flirting with girls.

Gado told me that it would be very far away from our place. I did not know what he meant. I didn’t know if it was far or he simply didn’t want to go.

After a week of hints, Mariama told me that she wanted to attend the festival. Gado would not refuse his wife. The next night, then, he told me to prepare my things. We needed to leave early in the morning.

Mariama and I were ready before the sun rose. I tightly rolled my sleeping bag and mat, setting the bedding on my camera bag. I wiped my face with cold water and put on my favorite black shirt, one embroidered with bright, multi-colored polka dots around the neck and sleeves. I tied a piece of black fabric around my waist, African skirt style.

The temperature was quickly rising, and Gado was moving slowly. We couldn’t make the trip without his navigation. Finally, as the sun began to cook our part of the desert, he was ready. It was 10:00. The hottest part of the day had begun.

Hassane asked if he could ride with me. This made me happy because he was a good camel driver. I had never learned how to prevent my camel, Mai Chin Abinci (One Who Eats), from tasting every leaf and blade of grass within his reach.

We rode for a long time. The sun was beating down on us. My entire body was covered with black fabric: only my eyes weren’t covered. I couldn’t bear to have even my eyes exposed. The sun and wind hurt, sucking moisture out of me. I couldn’t hold my body upright. I leaned against Hassane and the camel. I spotted a bush with a tiny shadow. I craved shade and begged Hassane to drop me off by the bush. I told him that he could pick me up tomorrow.

Hassane assured me that we were almost halfway there. We were almost at the market where we would eat, drink tea, and rest. Hassane wasn’t lying. Soon, we were in a small market town filled with traders.

Gado told us that we could get down and have some tea. I could not respond. My camel thudded its belly down in the sand. I couldn’t unclench my thighs. Hassane climbed off the camel and pulled my left arm and leg. My legs were stuck in a grip on my camel’s sides. I pushed on the hump with my hand, and rolled off my camel’s back onto the hot sand. I couldn’t get up. I curled up under my black fabric. Mariama vomited from the heat. Gado brewed a healing tea and made us drink. We rested in the shade and ate meat. When the sun went down, Gado walked us both around the market. Then, he convinced us to get back on our camels and ride to the party.

We rode in silence.

Once we had arrived, Gado set up our camp and brewed tea. He added sugar and herbs to give us strength. After tea, Mariama met relatives, Hassane and Gado joined the camel racers, and I walked around by myself.

I was too tired to take a photograph, but I was happy to see the boys dance.

Paula Zoromski served in the Peace Corps teaching math in the Central African Republic and Niger. She got the travel bug at a young age and went to summer school in Mexico, traveled the Sahara desert on camelback with nomads, hiked the hills of Honduras, and danced in the streets with pink hair at Carnival in Trinidad. Paula, a world traveler, photographer, and writer, passed away in 2009 at the age of 41 from breast cancer.