It was ordained that I was to live in Diitabiki. The Ndjuka national holiday, the day they officially won their freedom from their Dutch slave masters, is my birthday. A series of competitions, a cooking extravaganza, and speeches by national leaders on the history of the Ndjuka people, made for quite a celebration. Women wore colorful embroidered skirts called pangies, and a friend lent me a traditional cross-stitch cloth to hang over my shoulder. People from the entire river, including Amerindians, came to celebrate. A six-on-six soccer tournament was the highlight of the event for many. The island brought in a shipment of government oil for the electricity generators for the occasion, and for a few weeks afterward, the lanterns were put away and the reggae reverberated throughout the village.
Great entertainment was had and exaggerated stories told for weeks when Diitabiki’s Peace Corps volunteer fell behind significantly in the canoe race. Losing was a given, for the Ndjuka seem to learn to paddle before they can walk, but to participate in the name of freedom, was well worth getting laughed at in light of Ndjuka canoeing proficiency.
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