16 Aout 2006
Much to tell, much to tell.
Today is the first day back at center, after we journeyed wide and far over the country-side for a site visit. My village is called El Qidiya (the 'Q' is actually a sound that doesn't exist in English, and only ever appears when one is swallowing or gagging). It's very secluded - 58K off the gudrone (paved road), over terrain both rocky and barren, and it's an oasis in the desert, nestled at the foot of a mountainous ridge, lush and green with date palms, a seasonal lake and waterfalls. Wow. It takes forever to get to, even the place where one turns off the gudrone is a barren wasteland. One would never imagine that people could live that far out, but that's just one of the many things people do in this country which make them seem like Aliens.
We got stuck in the mud, about 3 or 4 times in fact, the first time going in as the sun was setting, the other times trying to get the hell out. Another thing Mauritanians (our driver) don't do well is get unstuck from the mud, and so we ended up staying the first night with some man, randomly found as we wandered around from place to place in the dark. He gave us mattelas and tea, noodles, and water to drink. This is not in fact uncommon: hospitality is (supposed to be) a thing around here.
In the morning, he gave us porridge and tea, we bought bread, cobbled together a meeting with the mayor (don't let that word fool you) and toured the town a bit, mostly by car - it's strange how and why they drive these enormous landrovers through even tiny village walkways.
Then we were put up by the president of the "PTO" (I couldn't get a more accurate translation of his position from anyone), who fed us zriig (fermented, sweetened milk), and more zriig, and milk, and dates with butter, and tea, a sheep (not the good parts) and rice.
One thing though: this man has 3 black moors in his household, about my age, though he is white-moor (Arabic-looking), and thinking about their actual status in the family makes me queasy. Maybe they are paid laborers, and maybe I'm just jumpy, but they could be slaves. Slavery exists here, and though it's been officially illegal for many years, it still happens. It doesn't look like what we think slavery looks like, hence my hesitancy to identify it. It's social and mental, it's societal slavery, and therefore much harder to stop. So I'm really hoping that this isn't the case, and that slavery in general doesn't exist in my village.
The next day, after we had seen all the boutiques, the lake, the waterfalls, climbed the mountains, and seen the cave paintings (for real!), we tried to leave and spent another 5 hours getting unstuck from the muddy river dividing the two sections of town. Then, having run out of options, we decided to follow some other intrepid travellers (The chief of some village - a hideous, fat white moor with walrus teeth and an almost comically villainous look, his short little director of schools, and their beautiful young black-moor driver) who knew another way out of town. We dodged a few puddles and mudtraps, and after 40K (2hrs) over the rocks, we ran into a gigantic dam that had flooded all over the adjoining planes, and which they had somehow forgotten to mention. Mauritanians don't think ahead, ever. Since the sun was setting fast, and we were running out of options, we all piled into our white chariot, me squished in the rear (a night-mare) and headed for a (mythical) village 20K back, which the cheif knew of, allegedly. The paths, which are never more than simple tracks in the dirt, wind and twist and run together with others, and generally tend to get lost, especially at night. Inevitably of course, we ended up driving around in circles at night, through mud-fields and turga scrub-forests, in a vehicle now somewhat commandeered by the pushy village chief (even minor authority figures get big egos). Eventually we found the village of '5 Baobobs', (whether through skill or providence I'm not sure), a windy little collection of houses in the middle of nowhere. We didn't know the people, they didn't know us, but we slept and ate with them, because that's what you do. Part of the thing about living here is getting used to almost never knowing what's going on.
Anyway, the next day we made it back to El Qidiya, then left it again by our original route (it was now dry enough to pass) and made good time to the gudrone. I will never look at a paved road the same way again. As a bonus when we were approaching the road, I saw a man riding a galloping black horse over the desert, with his blue bou-bou billowing out behind him. It was epic.
This post brings me up to date, I suppose, but I go back to M'Beidia tomorrow which means no updates for a few more weeks, After that comes Swear In! where I officially become a Peace Corps volunteer, we have a big party to celebrate (alcohol has been rumored to make an appearance) and I start doubting my effectiveness as a human-being again. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.
I hope you all write me soon. I love you. Be good.
Ma'selaam.
Friday, August 25, 2006
Noble Savagery
5 Aout 2006
Yesterday we went to visit some more old folks, in order that we might practice our language and sample some of their tea - it all tastes pretty much the same to me, and even the differences between rounds (more bitter, more minty and sweeter) usually go over my head. Nevertheless, we stopped under the tent of a nice old couple, along with various other neighbors, relatives and such characters as that. I think the old man and woman are the parents of my maternal aunt's daughter's husband, but I could be wrong - familial attachments around here are about as entangled as my little niece Amtee's hair. And that stuff's a bitch.
Anyway we sat and talked as well as we could, we answered questions, laughed at Haddou and told stories. I told the one about when Meghann and I were little and Bud Trumble chased us with a snapping turtle (slightly embellished for dramatic effect of course). They seemed to like it, and were the friendly sort to meet us halfway when our language failed. I guess also that the experience of having the nasrani say the words for head, ear, house, tent and big stick never gets old. In fact, the first few days here, and now whenever I meet someone new, I feel like the best toy ever. Although, this has its merits.
I don't know how to explain the old couple (Khadaisia and Abdelai). They're just like everyone else here, so strange and foreign, yet so familiar, well worn and comforting, kind, earthbound, wise (or unwise) and so colorful that I'm continually wondering why it doesn't feel stranger to be here. I suppose such is our ability to adapt.
Khadaisia had the largest, most pendulous breast I had ever seen (a glimpse of). Some women don't wear anything under their mullefas, which are nebulous, breezy and open articles of clothing. Still, breasts aren't scandalous here; they're seen as about as sexually charged as a couple half-gallons of 2%. An ankle though, a calf or god forbid a thigh, could send someone over the edge. Go figure.
Anyway, she was a large woman with old and strong hands, dyed with henna, an active face and voice (when she sung it was like a woman half her age), she danced a little from her seat and used her mulaffa like a tool, or an appendage as she told stories about animals who used to live here, like lions.
Abdelai wore a wrinkled black gendura with white sirwaal. He had out-of-control cheekbones - the key to looking youthful forever. He had fuzzy white close-cut scrub on his head, and a tiny white patch of hair jutting out from his chin. He had most of his teeth, but those that were absent were conspicuously so.
{By the by, I'm actually surprised that anyone around here has any teeth at all. No one brushes them, except with their finger and water, or with the twigs of a tooth-brush tree, which they chew on and scrape against. On top of that, they drink sugary tea all day long and eat white rice with everything. Plus no dentistry (or medical care for that matter). But considering everything, they have amazingly in-tact teeth, and many might even have nice ones, if I could only hold them down long enough to scrape that brown shit off the surface.}
Anyway, back to Abdelai: He said his father once rode a lion into town, and steered it by the ear from his perch on its back. He couldn't hear very well, and told me the names for local trees twice. Everyone was lovely, and we had a nice, if mutually unintelligible time until Ismaila's father broke up the party by beating him and chasing him into our midst with a knotted rope. Oh well. Time to go folks.
I've been watching the ballon team practice each night in the field outside the garden after I've finished watering, and the air is cool. It's strictly a male arena - the girls can't even come to watch, lest scandal ensue, so I'm trying to take advantage of my position in this society as, unquestionably, a man. During practice, the younger boys sit in front on the sand; the babies and the brothers. Last night one of them got hit in the face with the ball, and cried to the amusement of all. Many of the young ones tend to watch me, instead of the game, or only watch the game until I've looked away, and they can resume staring. This behavior usually decreases with age, as the older ones of certain years are often too cool to pay me much attention at all. It's fine though, it really only ever takes one clever remark from the soft-voiced nasrani, and they're laughing too, repeating it to everyone. In short, I don't feel unwelcome - just largely, as of yet, unknown. And that's 100% true.
I don't know too much about soccer, but the players seem pretty good - at least they're organized and there's a man with a whistle, so that's got to count for something. They play shirts and skins, old-school style, and true to form they're all tightly muscled despite the lack of good protein here, and thin with broad shoulders. It's hard not to feel my own inferior make while watching them, so thank god for the lack of mirrors, and that the only reflection I ever see is in the dull, rippled tin of my latrine door.
It's tempting too, to let one's mind follow the psychology of 'noble savagery', and to assume that because some people are poor or disadvantaged, they are somehow better, by default, than those of us who take privilege and riches for granted. It's not true of course, people are the same everywhere, regardless of economics, but when you watch these tall, skinny young men playing soccer in their makeshift shoes, the socks with strappy sandals, maybe taped together or paired with ratty cleats on one foot, and showing their painfully clear earnestness; their regal chins, their brotherhood - it's tempting to feel ashamed of one's birth, in a way. They've had to earn everything they've gotten, much more than me. Still, cynicism, hopelessness and self-pity are all indulgences, and therefore a complete waste of time. Mashallah.
Yesterday we went to visit some more old folks, in order that we might practice our language and sample some of their tea - it all tastes pretty much the same to me, and even the differences between rounds (more bitter, more minty and sweeter) usually go over my head. Nevertheless, we stopped under the tent of a nice old couple, along with various other neighbors, relatives and such characters as that. I think the old man and woman are the parents of my maternal aunt's daughter's husband, but I could be wrong - familial attachments around here are about as entangled as my little niece Amtee's hair. And that stuff's a bitch.
Anyway we sat and talked as well as we could, we answered questions, laughed at Haddou and told stories. I told the one about when Meghann and I were little and Bud Trumble chased us with a snapping turtle (slightly embellished for dramatic effect of course). They seemed to like it, and were the friendly sort to meet us halfway when our language failed. I guess also that the experience of having the nasrani say the words for head, ear, house, tent and big stick never gets old. In fact, the first few days here, and now whenever I meet someone new, I feel like the best toy ever. Although, this has its merits.
I don't know how to explain the old couple (Khadaisia and Abdelai). They're just like everyone else here, so strange and foreign, yet so familiar, well worn and comforting, kind, earthbound, wise (or unwise) and so colorful that I'm continually wondering why it doesn't feel stranger to be here. I suppose such is our ability to adapt.
Khadaisia had the largest, most pendulous breast I had ever seen (a glimpse of). Some women don't wear anything under their mullefas, which are nebulous, breezy and open articles of clothing. Still, breasts aren't scandalous here; they're seen as about as sexually charged as a couple half-gallons of 2%. An ankle though, a calf or god forbid a thigh, could send someone over the edge. Go figure.
Anyway, she was a large woman with old and strong hands, dyed with henna, an active face and voice (when she sung it was like a woman half her age), she danced a little from her seat and used her mulaffa like a tool, or an appendage as she told stories about animals who used to live here, like lions.
Abdelai wore a wrinkled black gendura with white sirwaal. He had out-of-control cheekbones - the key to looking youthful forever. He had fuzzy white close-cut scrub on his head, and a tiny white patch of hair jutting out from his chin. He had most of his teeth, but those that were absent were conspicuously so.
{By the by, I'm actually surprised that anyone around here has any teeth at all. No one brushes them, except with their finger and water, or with the twigs of a tooth-brush tree, which they chew on and scrape against. On top of that, they drink sugary tea all day long and eat white rice with everything. Plus no dentistry (or medical care for that matter). But considering everything, they have amazingly in-tact teeth, and many might even have nice ones, if I could only hold them down long enough to scrape that brown shit off the surface.}
Anyway, back to Abdelai: He said his father once rode a lion into town, and steered it by the ear from his perch on its back. He couldn't hear very well, and told me the names for local trees twice. Everyone was lovely, and we had a nice, if mutually unintelligible time until Ismaila's father broke up the party by beating him and chasing him into our midst with a knotted rope. Oh well. Time to go folks.
I've been watching the ballon team practice each night in the field outside the garden after I've finished watering, and the air is cool. It's strictly a male arena - the girls can't even come to watch, lest scandal ensue, so I'm trying to take advantage of my position in this society as, unquestionably, a man. During practice, the younger boys sit in front on the sand; the babies and the brothers. Last night one of them got hit in the face with the ball, and cried to the amusement of all. Many of the young ones tend to watch me, instead of the game, or only watch the game until I've looked away, and they can resume staring. This behavior usually decreases with age, as the older ones of certain years are often too cool to pay me much attention at all. It's fine though, it really only ever takes one clever remark from the soft-voiced nasrani, and they're laughing too, repeating it to everyone. In short, I don't feel unwelcome - just largely, as of yet, unknown. And that's 100% true.
I don't know too much about soccer, but the players seem pretty good - at least they're organized and there's a man with a whistle, so that's got to count for something. They play shirts and skins, old-school style, and true to form they're all tightly muscled despite the lack of good protein here, and thin with broad shoulders. It's hard not to feel my own inferior make while watching them, so thank god for the lack of mirrors, and that the only reflection I ever see is in the dull, rippled tin of my latrine door.
It's tempting too, to let one's mind follow the psychology of 'noble savagery', and to assume that because some people are poor or disadvantaged, they are somehow better, by default, than those of us who take privilege and riches for granted. It's not true of course, people are the same everywhere, regardless of economics, but when you watch these tall, skinny young men playing soccer in their makeshift shoes, the socks with strappy sandals, maybe taped together or paired with ratty cleats on one foot, and showing their painfully clear earnestness; their regal chins, their brotherhood - it's tempting to feel ashamed of one's birth, in a way. They've had to earn everything they've gotten, much more than me. Still, cynicism, hopelessness and self-pity are all indulgences, and therefore a complete waste of time. Mashallah.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Iyaak Il-Khayr
2 Aout 2006
Lots of interesting things have been happening in the past few days:
for starters - yesterday the ballon (ballon meaning 'ball' and
therefore soccer) team left for Kaedi to play in a tournament there,
what exactly is meant by the word tournament in this case is, as of
yet, unclear to me and my fellow nasrani. In fact, until yesterday we
didn't even know that they had a team in the normal sense of the word,
rather than that of a random sometimes conglomeration of disaffected
youth (I kid). Nevertheless, yesterday two vans pulled out of M'Beidia
(one filled with the team, clad in actual numbered uniforms, and
topped by an assortment of teenaged supporting stars - water-boy types
and the like - and one packed full of fans going to cheer on the good
fellows. At around 3 pm we went to see what all the commotion was
about, and with practically the remaining populace of M'Beidia, saw
off the team with clapping and singing and that weird trilling call
they make with their tongues (I did not partake of this).
In class, for the second day in a row, we went to see and interview
some of the most elderly inhabitants of the village, to get a history
of M'Beidia. Part of the difficulty in speaking neither the language
of the interviewee, nor the language of your TRANSLATOR (thanks
Haddou), is that responses tend to be boiled down to an
un-illuminating few. In general, "life used to be better", "the young
don't respect the elderly" and "we never used to have the problems with soil/water/rain/crops that we have now" came back again
and again. No kidding folks. I could have gotten that response with a
few substitutions, from any crotchety old person on any street in
America. Nevertheless, we did get a few intriguing facts about a
long-ago drought, deforestation, the killing-off of animal species,
and horse-racing (for real).
Later in the evening, after tea at Maimouna's and my mini-makaresh
bath (it was lovely), a growing ruckus of a crowd signaled the return
of the team. Did they win? Did they not? Well, I would later find out
that it was only the fan-van come-back so far, and not the footballers
proper. Regardless, still wet from my shower, I followed the children
(it was twilight) and a wildly galloping loosed horse (this happens
strangely often) to the place where the action was.
After a few minutes of crowd wandering and clapping and hand-holding,
a man took my hand and led me back to his porch in a very 'you
shouldn't be standing amongst the children' sort of way, and we spread
out a hsera on his porch and sat in the (now) moonlight. His is one of
the nicer houses in town; we walk by it everyday on our way to water
the garden. His name is Mohamed I-can't-remember (last names are
tricky here) He's thirty, lives with his family, owns a shop in
Senegal and likes soccer. Big surprise there. He's very stern looking,
like many of the men here, but he was very nice and we had a good
little chat, such as my language would provide.
It's strange that I'm almost never afraid of anyone here, (meaning
afraid of talking-to) like I was in America. I thought that the
foreignness, and the language barrier would make it worse, but so far
it's only made it better. Maybe it's just that everything is so new
and different here that I can't afford to be afraid.
After our chat, Abu came and got me and we ate dinner (couscous and
cow-peas) with Habiba, and when I was finished, all the kids pounced
on the bowl to eat before the (now) gathering sandstorm. You can see
it on the horizon; it blocks out the stars like a dark gas. After we
put away everything inside, we sat out in the wind and dust. Habiba
and crazy-eyed, afro-ed Joka were still eating couscous from the bowl
by the glow of a flashlight, even with the sand flying everywhere. How
fucked-up is that?
Anyway, when the dirt and wind got too bad, I hid Abu's and Habiba's
faces in my chest, protecting them from the sand with my shirt. When
we finally went inside and Sahaba put me in my little house, and
stuffed up the windows, the last thing she said was "Rgid Mohamed"
(sleep Mohamed), "Iyaak il-khayr" (I hope there is peace) That last
one they use to meaningless extinction in their greetings 500 times a
day, but this time it actually seemed to fit.
Of course, it turns out that the rain totaled 6 drops and all the
soccer rowdiness was for a tie score (1 to 1). But oh well. Let the
people have there fun. Mashallah.
Lots of interesting things have been happening in the past few days:
for starters - yesterday the ballon (ballon meaning 'ball' and
therefore soccer) team left for Kaedi to play in a tournament there,
what exactly is meant by the word tournament in this case is, as of
yet, unclear to me and my fellow nasrani. In fact, until yesterday we
didn't even know that they had a team in the normal sense of the word,
rather than that of a random sometimes conglomeration of disaffected
youth (I kid). Nevertheless, yesterday two vans pulled out of M'Beidia
(one filled with the team, clad in actual numbered uniforms, and
topped by an assortment of teenaged supporting stars - water-boy types
and the like - and one packed full of fans going to cheer on the good
fellows. At around 3 pm we went to see what all the commotion was
about, and with practically the remaining populace of M'Beidia, saw
off the team with clapping and singing and that weird trilling call
they make with their tongues (I did not partake of this).
In class, for the second day in a row, we went to see and interview
some of the most elderly inhabitants of the village, to get a history
of M'Beidia. Part of the difficulty in speaking neither the language
of the interviewee, nor the language of your TRANSLATOR (thanks
Haddou), is that responses tend to be boiled down to an
un-illuminating few. In general, "life used to be better", "the young
don't respect the elderly" and "we never used to have the problems with soil/water/rain/crops that we have now" came back again
and again. No kidding folks. I could have gotten that response with a
few substitutions, from any crotchety old person on any street in
America. Nevertheless, we did get a few intriguing facts about a
long-ago drought, deforestation, the killing-off of animal species,
and horse-racing (for real).
Later in the evening, after tea at Maimouna's and my mini-makaresh
bath (it was lovely), a growing ruckus of a crowd signaled the return
of the team. Did they win? Did they not? Well, I would later find out
that it was only the fan-van come-back so far, and not the footballers
proper. Regardless, still wet from my shower, I followed the children
(it was twilight) and a wildly galloping loosed horse (this happens
strangely often) to the place where the action was.
After a few minutes of crowd wandering and clapping and hand-holding,
a man took my hand and led me back to his porch in a very 'you
shouldn't be standing amongst the children' sort of way, and we spread
out a hsera on his porch and sat in the (now) moonlight. His is one of
the nicer houses in town; we walk by it everyday on our way to water
the garden. His name is Mohamed I-can't-remember (last names are
tricky here) He's thirty, lives with his family, owns a shop in
Senegal and likes soccer. Big surprise there. He's very stern looking,
like many of the men here, but he was very nice and we had a good
little chat, such as my language would provide.
It's strange that I'm almost never afraid of anyone here, (meaning
afraid of talking-to) like I was in America. I thought that the
foreignness, and the language barrier would make it worse, but so far
it's only made it better. Maybe it's just that everything is so new
and different here that I can't afford to be afraid.
After our chat, Abu came and got me and we ate dinner (couscous and
cow-peas) with Habiba, and when I was finished, all the kids pounced
on the bowl to eat before the (now) gathering sandstorm. You can see
it on the horizon; it blocks out the stars like a dark gas. After we
put away everything inside, we sat out in the wind and dust. Habiba
and crazy-eyed, afro-ed Joka were still eating couscous from the bowl
by the glow of a flashlight, even with the sand flying everywhere. How
fucked-up is that?
Anyway, when the dirt and wind got too bad, I hid Abu's and Habiba's
faces in my chest, protecting them from the sand with my shirt. When
we finally went inside and Sahaba put me in my little house, and
stuffed up the windows, the last thing she said was "Rgid Mohamed"
(sleep Mohamed), "Iyaak il-khayr" (I hope there is peace) That last
one they use to meaningless extinction in their greetings 500 times a
day, but this time it actually seemed to fit.
Of course, it turns out that the rain totaled 6 drops and all the
soccer rowdiness was for a tie score (1 to 1). But oh well. Let the
people have there fun. Mashallah.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Dear Santa
29 Juilliet 2006
I want a bou-bou like its my job.
I want a flowing white chunk of fabric to wear and wrap around me, to
fidget with and constantly adjust, and to make me look like something
out of ancient history, as so happens when they're worn by the native
people here. I want a bou-bou. I want a man-dress (a gendura). The
trouble is, somewhere in the garbled, tangled puzzle that is the
genetic line of us white-European descended peoples there is a nasty
little stowaway whose ultimate effect is this: we cannot wear these
clothes. We cannot wear them. We look comical at best, and more often
than not, totally grotesque. Such is one of the great sadnesses of my
life now. I want one so badly! Consider this: with a bou-bou, shirt
and pants are optional (you must wear a knickers-like garment called
sirwaal lest your bare-ass be exposed through the wide-open sides)
With a gendura, all other garments appear to be optional! Including
underwear! Do you know how much easier it is to do one's business in a
hole when you're not wearing underwear? Pray you never find out. (Just
kidding, just kidding)
For real though: I'm asking Santa for the ability to passably wear a
man-dress, 'cause I'm totally getting one.
Sometimes I have a few young pals who come to visit me at night,
practice English, and speak at me in their (exceedingly) bad French.
The other night, in an attempt to keep the conversation going, I,
needful of verbs, pointed out qmaar (moon) and dilegaan (cowpeas) in
English. My friend Moussa leaned back on the mat, looked up at the
sky, and tried to memorize: "Cowpeas-moon, cowpeas-moon" he repeated.
Also in his and his sidekick Hassan's repertoire are 'stomach, chest,
cheek, nose and mouth' in addition to most of the numbers from 1 to
20, excepting 12, which is perpetually pronounced 'twelven'. You're
ready for America buddy!
Last night, the subject in which they seemed most interested was what
went on when I went to Kaedi for Center Days.
-'Did you listen to music?'
Yes
-'Was any of it Michael Jackson, and/or Fifty-Cent and/or Ja-Rule?'
(Well...no. But) sure, why not.
-'Did you dance while there?'
(Again, no. But) sure, why not.
-'Boys and girls?'
Mmmhmm.
-Together?
(sensing their interest) Yes.
- Let me get this straight, les garcons AVEC les filles??!
Of course!
Therein ensued the equivalent of 'wow', and a long low whistle. Yes, I
have officially become cool in the eyes of the teenage boys of
M'Beidia.
Today, after the rain, I took advantage of the coolness to take a nap
inside (for once), and listen to my iPod a bit. When Habiba came to
investigate with her quizzical look, we dance a little together - me
lying on my mattella, she looking puzzled in the doorway. Good times.
I want a bou-bou like its my job.
I want a flowing white chunk of fabric to wear and wrap around me, to
fidget with and constantly adjust, and to make me look like something
out of ancient history, as so happens when they're worn by the native
people here. I want a bou-bou. I want a man-dress (a gendura). The
trouble is, somewhere in the garbled, tangled puzzle that is the
genetic line of us white-European descended peoples there is a nasty
little stowaway whose ultimate effect is this: we cannot wear these
clothes. We cannot wear them. We look comical at best, and more often
than not, totally grotesque. Such is one of the great sadnesses of my
life now. I want one so badly! Consider this: with a bou-bou, shirt
and pants are optional (you must wear a knickers-like garment called
sirwaal lest your bare-ass be exposed through the wide-open sides)
With a gendura, all other garments appear to be optional! Including
underwear! Do you know how much easier it is to do one's business in a
hole when you're not wearing underwear? Pray you never find out. (Just
kidding, just kidding)
For real though: I'm asking Santa for the ability to passably wear a
man-dress, 'cause I'm totally getting one.
Sometimes I have a few young pals who come to visit me at night,
practice English, and speak at me in their (exceedingly) bad French.
The other night, in an attempt to keep the conversation going, I,
needful of verbs, pointed out qmaar (moon) and dilegaan (cowpeas) in
English. My friend Moussa leaned back on the mat, looked up at the
sky, and tried to memorize: "Cowpeas-moon, cowpeas-moon" he repeated.
Also in his and his sidekick Hassan's repertoire are 'stomach, chest,
cheek, nose and mouth' in addition to most of the numbers from 1 to
20, excepting 12, which is perpetually pronounced 'twelven'. You're
ready for America buddy!
Last night, the subject in which they seemed most interested was what
went on when I went to Kaedi for Center Days.
-'Did you listen to music?'
Yes
-'Was any of it Michael Jackson, and/or Fifty-Cent and/or Ja-Rule?'
(Well...no. But) sure, why not.
-'Did you dance while there?'
(Again, no. But) sure, why not.
-'Boys and girls?'
Mmmhmm.
-Together?
(sensing their interest) Yes.
- Let me get this straight, les garcons AVEC les filles??!
Of course!
Therein ensued the equivalent of 'wow', and a long low whistle. Yes, I
have officially become cool in the eyes of the teenage boys of
M'Beidia.
Today, after the rain, I took advantage of the coolness to take a nap
inside (for once), and listen to my iPod a bit. When Habiba came to
investigate with her quizzical look, we dance a little together - me
lying on my mattella, she looking puzzled in the doorway. Good times.
Scoot-Butt
27 Juilliet 2006
Right next to the shady chi-lih (porch) outside my house, a group of
older ladies regularly gather on a mat under a Neem Tree to discuss
god knows what. They're chatty and loud, they make tea, and an
indeterminate number of them may or may not be fictionally related to
me. The one that permanently resides next door we call
'scoot-butt': I've seen her scoot slowly across the ground with her hands
rather than getting up (though I know she can walk). Once, I took a
picture of them all sitting there with my digicam and they got a good
twenty minutes of fun out of pointing out each other on the tiny
screen. -Yes that IS Minetou on the camera, and here she is in real
life! (It's a miracle!) I know I'm purely stroking my own western ego
with delighting my family and friends with American wonders like (no
joke) duct tape, and clip on metal beaners, but I do it anyway. It has
no positive effect whatsoever other than a few minutes of comedy, but
sometimes when you're sitting there being stared at for hours on end,
you can begin to feel a need to entertain.
Today is pretty haami hatte (very hot), and a good majority of last
night's clouds have burned off already. This (only barely) sub-Saharan
sun is a wicked bitch.
Strangely enough, I've barely gotten a tan, excepting my spectacularly
farmer-tanned arms, because only fools and those who have no choice
spend time in the mid-day sun.
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed and brushing my teeth in
the dark street, I walked over to the troupe of young men who were
gathered around a thumping, Usher-pumping boombox 10 meters away. We
were talking, dancing a little and laughing for no more than two
minutes, when Sahab walked over to collect me, and pointed to my
mosquito net as if to say "Go to bed, young man." Well, nevermind that
I'm twenty four and American: "Yes ma'am"
Right next to the shady chi-lih (porch) outside my house, a group of
older ladies regularly gather on a mat under a Neem Tree to discuss
god knows what. They're chatty and loud, they make tea, and an
indeterminate number of them may or may not be fictionally related to
me. The one that permanently resides next door we call
'scoot-butt': I've seen her scoot slowly across the ground with her hands
rather than getting up (though I know she can walk). Once, I took a
picture of them all sitting there with my digicam and they got a good
twenty minutes of fun out of pointing out each other on the tiny
screen. -Yes that IS Minetou on the camera, and here she is in real
life! (It's a miracle!) I know I'm purely stroking my own western ego
with delighting my family and friends with American wonders like (no
joke) duct tape, and clip on metal beaners, but I do it anyway. It has
no positive effect whatsoever other than a few minutes of comedy, but
sometimes when you're sitting there being stared at for hours on end,
you can begin to feel a need to entertain.
Today is pretty haami hatte (very hot), and a good majority of last
night's clouds have burned off already. This (only barely) sub-Saharan
sun is a wicked bitch.
Strangely enough, I've barely gotten a tan, excepting my spectacularly
farmer-tanned arms, because only fools and those who have no choice
spend time in the mid-day sun.
Last night, as I was getting ready for bed and brushing my teeth in
the dark street, I walked over to the troupe of young men who were
gathered around a thumping, Usher-pumping boombox 10 meters away. We
were talking, dancing a little and laughing for no more than two
minutes, when Sahab walked over to collect me, and pointed to my
mosquito net as if to say "Go to bed, young man." Well, nevermind that
I'm twenty four and American: "Yes ma'am"
My Finest Hour
26 Juilliet 2006
I want guacamole with chips and Mexican beer.
I want seven kinds of pie with French vanilla ice cream.
I want anything that is not rice, cous cous, fish or meat.
I want fat sandwiches of lunchmeat with good bread and cheese. I want
soup.
I want candy.
Last night my toothless Abu took a bath for the first time since I've
been in the village. At least he pranced around naked in the dark, was
led away by his mother, and then returned 3 minutes later, wet. You do
the math.
Speaking of children, the babies here are all tied with a scarf to
their mothers' backs, poking out bobble-headed like tiny monkeys from
atop their mothers' huge rumps. Its sort of amazing that they never
topple out, but they're perfectly content, and never cry.
We've been bringing out my wind-up shortwave radio at night and
listening to local stations, or the BBC or some Reggae on its tinny
speakers under the stars. It makes me miss all my geeky NPR
programming which I love so much.
Yesterday afternoon I came home from class to find that my mother
Sahaba had locked a chicken in my house.
I haven't been locking my door, except that Sahaba told me to give her
a key so that she could lock it whenever necessary. Giving someone
else a key sort of defeats the purpose of having a key, but she seemed
to think it was a grand idea, so no biggee. Anyway, as soon as she
unlocked the door, out comes the squawking chicken, which upon further
inspection of my room, had shat in it several times (of course).
Luckily, as of now, I have yet to come upon any other specimens
unexpectedly. Inshallah.
All the women in the garden seem to get a kick out of me hauling
water - I think its probably considered women's work. At least in the
garden it is, where I am the only man who's ever there. That's
excepting my 18 year old friend Amida who's only ever there
specifically to see me and hang out a little, while trying to look
cool in the decidedly un-cool garden.
And lastly, because the bread that Caleb brought us from Kaedi seemed
about to expire, leaving its canned-tuna partner without a mate, and
because sharing is all but mandatory here, and because I didn't want to
share, yesterday night found me huddled in a dark corner of my room,
flashlight in armpit, shoving bread-scooped tuna into my mouth as fast
as I could chew. Needless to say, it wasn't my finest hour, but such
is life here in the RIM.
I want guacamole with chips and Mexican beer.
I want seven kinds of pie with French vanilla ice cream.
I want anything that is not rice, cous cous, fish or meat.
I want fat sandwiches of lunchmeat with good bread and cheese. I want
soup.
I want candy.
Last night my toothless Abu took a bath for the first time since I've
been in the village. At least he pranced around naked in the dark, was
led away by his mother, and then returned 3 minutes later, wet. You do
the math.
Speaking of children, the babies here are all tied with a scarf to
their mothers' backs, poking out bobble-headed like tiny monkeys from
atop their mothers' huge rumps. Its sort of amazing that they never
topple out, but they're perfectly content, and never cry.
We've been bringing out my wind-up shortwave radio at night and
listening to local stations, or the BBC or some Reggae on its tinny
speakers under the stars. It makes me miss all my geeky NPR
programming which I love so much.
Yesterday afternoon I came home from class to find that my mother
Sahaba had locked a chicken in my house.
I haven't been locking my door, except that Sahaba told me to give her
a key so that she could lock it whenever necessary. Giving someone
else a key sort of defeats the purpose of having a key, but she seemed
to think it was a grand idea, so no biggee. Anyway, as soon as she
unlocked the door, out comes the squawking chicken, which upon further
inspection of my room, had shat in it several times (of course).
Luckily, as of now, I have yet to come upon any other specimens
unexpectedly. Inshallah.
All the women in the garden seem to get a kick out of me hauling
water - I think its probably considered women's work. At least in the
garden it is, where I am the only man who's ever there. That's
excepting my 18 year old friend Amida who's only ever there
specifically to see me and hang out a little, while trying to look
cool in the decidedly un-cool garden.
And lastly, because the bread that Caleb brought us from Kaedi seemed
about to expire, leaving its canned-tuna partner without a mate, and
because sharing is all but mandatory here, and because I didn't want to
share, yesterday night found me huddled in a dark corner of my room,
flashlight in armpit, shoving bread-scooped tuna into my mouth as fast
as I could chew. Needless to say, it wasn't my finest hour, but such
is life here in the RIM.
Beaner Clips N' Telly
My cell phone number is actually 011 222 458 7862 (don't call the one
I previously posted or you'll get my friend Preston. Or hell, give him
a call if you want)
Anyway, since my permanent site, (where I'll be for two years starting
three weeks from now) has no Reso (cellphone coverage) you won't be
able to call me on it except when I'm travelling periodically. So,
there's that.
Also, an addition to my wish list: little beaner clips. They're really
cheap at sporting goods stores.
I previously posted or you'll get my friend Preston. Or hell, give him
a call if you want)
Anyway, since my permanent site, (where I'll be for two years starting
three weeks from now) has no Reso (cellphone coverage) you won't be
able to call me on it except when I'm travelling periodically. So,
there's that.
Also, an addition to my wish list: little beaner clips. They're really
cheap at sporting goods stores.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Kulturschock
25 Juilliet 2006
NOTES
A few cultural notes today.
--The mosque is the most hooked-up place in town, in every town in
fact, and has battery powered electricity at night, large gatherings
of men at varying hours, and is ten times more beautiful than any
other 'building' in town. In fact, it is beautiful.
--Everyone drinks everything out of little plastic bags, which are
tied at the top and bitten at one corner to suck out of. They are the
equivalent of plastic or paper cups in the US. They sell oil in them.
They sell water in them. They sell juice, and at the lycee, one of the
cooks sold frozen peach yogurts out of a bucket- 1 plastic bag of
goodness for 100 ougiyas.
All the children here have rhythm that American Symphonic
percussionists would kill for. An overturned plastic drum and their
hands and feet are enough to create impromptu concerts, yet they're
unable to master a simple patty-cake. What gives?
They have different words to mean 'shoo' depending on the animal being
'shooed'. Chickens are 'kss, kss', goats are 'tkk,tkk', and donkeys
are 'errr! errr!'. It's unreal.
Everyone here does a back-of-the-throat tounge click to signify an
affirmative answer (yes, right, okay, etc), and its counterpart, the
tooth-sucking 'No' sound. I love them, and because I think they are
slightly stigmatized as 'provincial', hearing some of the more
educated people (our teachers) slip them in once in a while is
adorable. These aren't the clicks like the language of the Bushmen,
nor is it part of their language in this way. It's like a head nod.
I've been practicing.
Everyone has to take their shoes off to walk on the mats which they
place on the ground for eating and sleeping. However, if you haven't
been wearing shoes and the bottoms of your feet have trodden all over
the shit filled ground, you're golden; you can go from one to the
other with no trouble.
Everyone EVERYWHERE drinks tea all the time. My family, at least, buys
it daily in little tiny packets from the boutique, and though larger
amounts would obviously be more economical, it isn't available. It is
made in little tiny pots and poured in little tiny glasses, from which
it is poured, one to the other from great heights, to cool it and make
foam.
There is sand in all the food.
All the food, besides bread and peanuts, is fried to within an inch of
its life.
Mauritanians go crazy for having their picture taken, and don't smile.
They make stupid poses. It is impossible to get candid shots.
They don't understand the concept of personal property, and will
borrow your things without asking.
Men hold hands with men and women with women. They lie on mattelas
together, and sit very close and stroke each others' hands and arms. It
has no sexual connotation and signifies close friendship and
brotherhood.
They talk very very fast all day long. My family repeats a lot of
things in the course of one sentence.
No one saves anything. My family can fit their belongings in a net
attached below the roof of their house. One does not acquire money
with age, and the only social insurance is an abundance of children.
Even the rich can be poor if their families are big enough to suck
them dry.
They are sufficiently content to pass the time staring at me, no
matter what I'm doing.
NOTES
A few cultural notes today.
--The mosque is the most hooked-up place in town, in every town in
fact, and has battery powered electricity at night, large gatherings
of men at varying hours, and is ten times more beautiful than any
other 'building' in town. In fact, it is beautiful.
--Everyone drinks everything out of little plastic bags, which are
tied at the top and bitten at one corner to suck out of. They are the
equivalent of plastic or paper cups in the US. They sell oil in them.
They sell water in them. They sell juice, and at the lycee, one of the
cooks sold frozen peach yogurts out of a bucket- 1 plastic bag of
goodness for 100 ougiyas.
All the children here have rhythm that American Symphonic
percussionists would kill for. An overturned plastic drum and their
hands and feet are enough to create impromptu concerts, yet they're
unable to master a simple patty-cake. What gives?
They have different words to mean 'shoo' depending on the animal being
'shooed'. Chickens are 'kss, kss', goats are 'tkk,tkk', and donkeys
are 'errr! errr!'. It's unreal.
Everyone here does a back-of-the-throat tounge click to signify an
affirmative answer (yes, right, okay, etc), and its counterpart, the
tooth-sucking 'No' sound. I love them, and because I think they are
slightly stigmatized as 'provincial', hearing some of the more
educated people (our teachers) slip them in once in a while is
adorable. These aren't the clicks like the language of the Bushmen,
nor is it part of their language in this way. It's like a head nod.
I've been practicing.
Everyone has to take their shoes off to walk on the mats which they
place on the ground for eating and sleeping. However, if you haven't
been wearing shoes and the bottoms of your feet have trodden all over
the shit filled ground, you're golden; you can go from one to the
other with no trouble.
Everyone EVERYWHERE drinks tea all the time. My family, at least, buys
it daily in little tiny packets from the boutique, and though larger
amounts would obviously be more economical, it isn't available. It is
made in little tiny pots and poured in little tiny glasses, from which
it is poured, one to the other from great heights, to cool it and make
foam.
There is sand in all the food.
All the food, besides bread and peanuts, is fried to within an inch of
its life.
Mauritanians go crazy for having their picture taken, and don't smile.
They make stupid poses. It is impossible to get candid shots.
They don't understand the concept of personal property, and will
borrow your things without asking.
Men hold hands with men and women with women. They lie on mattelas
together, and sit very close and stroke each others' hands and arms. It
has no sexual connotation and signifies close friendship and
brotherhood.
They talk very very fast all day long. My family repeats a lot of
things in the course of one sentence.
No one saves anything. My family can fit their belongings in a net
attached below the roof of their house. One does not acquire money
with age, and the only social insurance is an abundance of children.
Even the rich can be poor if their families are big enough to suck
them dry.
They are sufficiently content to pass the time staring at me, no
matter what I'm doing.
Shopping List
Everyone who wants to send me things, here are ideas:
Double A batteries
Ziploc bags (good ones, don't cheap out. There are sandstorms here)
Beef or other Jerkies. Protein intake is low here.
Individual dose KoolAide, Gatoraide or crystal light packets (to put
in my 1 liter nalgenes)
Excedrin
LETTERS
Neat paper games, or things I can teach my kids (cats cradle, magic
tricks, card games, other fun diversions)
Pens (the pilot G-2 is my absolute fave)
Mix tapes, and or CD's (CD's can go in my walkman, tapes I can share
with others on boomboxes)
That's all for now. Love you.
(and remember, no boxes, only padded envelopes. The address from the first post is:
Colton Hubbard
Corps de la Paix Americain
B.P 222 Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa)
Double A batteries
Ziploc bags (good ones, don't cheap out. There are sandstorms here)
Beef or other Jerkies. Protein intake is low here.
Individual dose KoolAide, Gatoraide or crystal light packets (to put
in my 1 liter nalgenes)
Excedrin
LETTERS
Neat paper games, or things I can teach my kids (cats cradle, magic
tricks, card games, other fun diversions)
Pens (the pilot G-2 is my absolute fave)
Mix tapes, and or CD's (CD's can go in my walkman, tapes I can share
with others on boomboxes)
That's all for now. Love you.
(and remember, no boxes, only padded envelopes. The address from the first post is:
Colton Hubbard
Corps de la Paix Americain
B.P 222 Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa)
Milk And Honey
24 Juilliet 2006
The night before last, we returned to M'Beidia from Center Days at the
lycee, at little behind schedule, and in the windy dark. We had spent
Saturday in the gardens of Rinjiao (us blessed Agfo and EE peeps), a
large government preserve with every kind of tree in evidence and
verdant greenness everywhere. Its hard to believe that this actually
is Mauritania, but the bacteria ridden waters of the Senegalese River
are only twenty meters away, so just barely. Its funny, the green life
that IS Senegal starts even before the water reaches shore - 3/4 of
the way across, it starts to bloom and grow on any little scrap of
land floating in the water. It like it just can't wait to get to get
there. Senegal, if you haven't noticed, has the reputation of being
the land of milk and honey (and beer) among us Mauritanians.
The night before we left for Rinjiao it rained again. Actually, the
night before that too- along with awesomely weird displays of
horizontal lightning. But this night was the first real storm- it came
down in torrents, and the sand almost instantly flooded, forming huge
lakes in the lycees courtyard. Some of us, the sillier ones, deigned
to sand-mud wrestle, but I declined. I had gotten thoroughly wet and
was FREEZING. As soon as the rain starts around here, the temperature
drops precipitously about ten degrees. I'm not sure what my cold
threshold is now, but since I've adjusted somewhat to the heat, I
probably get the goosebumps somewhere around 80 degrees. Brrrrr....
Anyway, we're at rain number three of the season, and counting.
After Rinjiao, we of M'Beidia-is and Sebwalla-ic origin waited around
for the car at the home of Rinjiao's Pulaar facilitator
'I-can't-remember-his-name'. The children, though Pulaar speaking,
were pretty much the same, by turns shy, curious and brazen. We
patty-caked for a while, and then retired to the house, which compared
to Haddou's dump of a mud hut, is a palatial villa, with it's actual
walls with color, cement floors and greater than TWO rooms. By
American standards, I guess its still a barren, dusty furniture-less
shack, but whatever.
Later me mingled on the roof, the seven of us and the facilitator's pals,
amidst the great breeze, and views of donkeys and Senegal. One of the
friends was an English teacher and spoke it Excellently, so we chatted
for a bit. He was very handsome, kind, and smelled great. So that's
fun.
By the time Mohamed came in the car to pick us up, it was dark and we
ended up turning randomly off the road into the desert to (purposely
or not) enter M'Beidia from another way. I had a small escort home of
tween boys, a good thing too, considering I lack their apparent
ability to see in the dark. Sahaba was joyed to see me again after my
absence, smiling in the firelight and patting my hand. Abu was so
happy he could hardly speak, and just came to sit in my lap instead.
The night before last, we returned to M'Beidia from Center Days at the
lycee, at little behind schedule, and in the windy dark. We had spent
Saturday in the gardens of Rinjiao (us blessed Agfo and EE peeps), a
large government preserve with every kind of tree in evidence and
verdant greenness everywhere. Its hard to believe that this actually
is Mauritania, but the bacteria ridden waters of the Senegalese River
are only twenty meters away, so just barely. Its funny, the green life
that IS Senegal starts even before the water reaches shore - 3/4 of
the way across, it starts to bloom and grow on any little scrap of
land floating in the water. It like it just can't wait to get to get
there. Senegal, if you haven't noticed, has the reputation of being
the land of milk and honey (and beer) among us Mauritanians.
The night before we left for Rinjiao it rained again. Actually, the
night before that too- along with awesomely weird displays of
horizontal lightning. But this night was the first real storm- it came
down in torrents, and the sand almost instantly flooded, forming huge
lakes in the lycees courtyard. Some of us, the sillier ones, deigned
to sand-mud wrestle, but I declined. I had gotten thoroughly wet and
was FREEZING. As soon as the rain starts around here, the temperature
drops precipitously about ten degrees. I'm not sure what my cold
threshold is now, but since I've adjusted somewhat to the heat, I
probably get the goosebumps somewhere around 80 degrees. Brrrrr....
Anyway, we're at rain number three of the season, and counting.
After Rinjiao, we of M'Beidia-is and Sebwalla-ic origin waited around
for the car at the home of Rinjiao's Pulaar facilitator
'I-can't-remember-his-name'. The children, though Pulaar speaking,
were pretty much the same, by turns shy, curious and brazen. We
patty-caked for a while, and then retired to the house, which compared
to Haddou's dump of a mud hut, is a palatial villa, with it's actual
walls with color, cement floors and greater than TWO rooms. By
American standards, I guess its still a barren, dusty furniture-less
shack, but whatever.
Later me mingled on the roof, the seven of us and the facilitator's pals,
amidst the great breeze, and views of donkeys and Senegal. One of the
friends was an English teacher and spoke it Excellently, so we chatted
for a bit. He was very handsome, kind, and smelled great. So that's
fun.
By the time Mohamed came in the car to pick us up, it was dark and we
ended up turning randomly off the road into the desert to (purposely
or not) enter M'Beidia from another way. I had a small escort home of
tween boys, a good thing too, considering I lack their apparent
ability to see in the dark. Sahaba was joyed to see me again after my
absence, smiling in the firelight and patting my hand. Abu was so
happy he could hardly speak, and just came to sit in my lap instead.
Just Another Day
14 Juilliet 2006
Schedule
So what is a typical day in M'Beidia like? Well since the calendar of
events for most of the native inhabitants is so light as to be almost
nonexistent (breathe, drink tea, eat, nap in the shade, repeat) I'll
tell you about mine, which is only marginally different.
At about six or six thirty in the morning, I'll wake up in my (now
usually sand filled) mosquito net, to the sound of roosters crowing (a
noise which, forgive me, possesses no redeeming qualities) and/or the
braying of donkeys (a sound whose redeeming qualities stem only from
the animal's beatific, sad eyes, and its childhood associations with
Eyore, of Winnie the Pooh fame). Then I'll lay in my tent for another
few minutes, the only place in the country I can (somewhat)
respectably lounge in my fruit of the looms (its fucking HOT people)
Then my mother Sahaba will beckon to me to get up, so I can put away
my tent and mattela, and sit on the ground for a few more minutes of
nothing at all
Then I'll eat breakfast (mburro/bread and gerte/peanuts) and tea, study
a bit and practice my verbs, until the kids start to rally round for
some sitting in my lap, or staring at me, or speaking at me
unintelligibly, or some being tickled, or fake growled at, or some
trying on my glasses. Repeat, repeat.
At quarter to eight or normally later, I'll head out to Haddou's house
for class, but no longer am I trailed behind by an escorting army of
children, Pied Piper fashion. Some of the novelty appears to have worn
off, but what could have stolen the spotlight from three crazy white
people in this village, I'm not yet sure. Still the catcalls continue
everywhere: "Hamed, Mohamed, Mohamed!!" That's my name folks, don't
wear it out.
At class we have four hours of language in the heat and sand of
Haddou's crumbling house, a little English chatter in the breaks (a
relief), a lot of confusion as we struggle to elucidate concepts
through a melange of English, bad French (on my part) and Hassaniya.
My smattering of French, and Haddou's sprinkle of oddly pronounced
English do not a complete match make. Still, we get by.
At noon, we break for our houses and families, eat maaro we il huut
(fish and rice, every day), play with my kids, drink some tea,
practice stringing together phrases such as "Do you have a donkey? Is
your donkey dirty? Does it make tea? (pause for laughs) Do you like
cats? Why?", and have a siesta if I can, but usually it's too hot, or
too sandy or too dirty or crowded to have much of a sleep.
Our afternoon class from four to six is usually pretty loopy,
afterwhich we repair to the garden until seven or eight, when it
starts to get darker, breezy, and lovely. Then dinner in the dark by
flashlight, a rest, a look at the stars, and then sleep. Enough about
my day, how about yours?
Schedule
So what is a typical day in M'Beidia like? Well since the calendar of
events for most of the native inhabitants is so light as to be almost
nonexistent (breathe, drink tea, eat, nap in the shade, repeat) I'll
tell you about mine, which is only marginally different.
At about six or six thirty in the morning, I'll wake up in my (now
usually sand filled) mosquito net, to the sound of roosters crowing (a
noise which, forgive me, possesses no redeeming qualities) and/or the
braying of donkeys (a sound whose redeeming qualities stem only from
the animal's beatific, sad eyes, and its childhood associations with
Eyore, of Winnie the Pooh fame). Then I'll lay in my tent for another
few minutes, the only place in the country I can (somewhat)
respectably lounge in my fruit of the looms (its fucking HOT people)
Then my mother Sahaba will beckon to me to get up, so I can put away
my tent and mattela, and sit on the ground for a few more minutes of
nothing at all
Then I'll eat breakfast (mburro/bread and gerte/peanuts) and tea, study
a bit and practice my verbs, until the kids start to rally round for
some sitting in my lap, or staring at me, or speaking at me
unintelligibly, or some being tickled, or fake growled at, or some
trying on my glasses. Repeat, repeat.
At quarter to eight or normally later, I'll head out to Haddou's house
for class, but no longer am I trailed behind by an escorting army of
children, Pied Piper fashion. Some of the novelty appears to have worn
off, but what could have stolen the spotlight from three crazy white
people in this village, I'm not yet sure. Still the catcalls continue
everywhere: "Hamed, Mohamed, Mohamed!!" That's my name folks, don't
wear it out.
At class we have four hours of language in the heat and sand of
Haddou's crumbling house, a little English chatter in the breaks (a
relief), a lot of confusion as we struggle to elucidate concepts
through a melange of English, bad French (on my part) and Hassaniya.
My smattering of French, and Haddou's sprinkle of oddly pronounced
English do not a complete match make. Still, we get by.
At noon, we break for our houses and families, eat maaro we il huut
(fish and rice, every day), play with my kids, drink some tea,
practice stringing together phrases such as "Do you have a donkey? Is
your donkey dirty? Does it make tea? (pause for laughs) Do you like
cats? Why?", and have a siesta if I can, but usually it's too hot, or
too sandy or too dirty or crowded to have much of a sleep.
Our afternoon class from four to six is usually pretty loopy,
afterwhich we repair to the garden until seven or eight, when it
starts to get darker, breezy, and lovely. Then dinner in the dark by
flashlight, a rest, a look at the stars, and then sleep. Enough about
my day, how about yours?
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Village Life
11 Juilliet 2006
Let me tell you how in love I am with some of the children here. My
two favorites are my little niece Amtee and my nephew Abu who are both
not possibly older than 7, and cuter than any two beings have a right
to be. Bursting with personality they are: Amtee with her half and
half hair (one side in braids, the other left to its defenses in a
wild Fro) and Abu with his missing front teeth (four on top, four on
bottom) with which he constantly self-consciously fidgets. Also
Crystal's Abu (they are standard issue here) who is silent and
morosely un-smiling, and then shy and lisping Damaak of the giant buck
teeth, beautiful teen Halima, spunky Habiba- all of them. These people
are GORGEOUS, they won the genetic lottery, like some sort of
consolation prize for living in a 100 % shithole (J/K, J/K.......)
The houses: the houses are made of mud, or rather a mixture of mud and
something else which makes them rather strong-ish. Some are made of
cement like blocks, but regardless they are all the color of the
ground, which is dun or light tan. Truly, there is very little color
here, save for the pastel yellow and blue windows of the madrasa, or
the green of a few trees (Neem, and Balinides Egyptica mostly). There
seems to be no planning involved in the village's structure- in fact
even the word village conjures images in the American mind which are
much more centralized than this will ever be. There are some places
with many huts clustered together, and some huge empty spaces with
nothing but trash for meters and meters. Nothing is parallel: the
paths, such as they are, are all winding and jagged. Geometry of
buildings is limited: minimalist rectangles, and/or asymmetrically
chic shapes seem to be the in- thing. I personally think it is so
last-season, but whatevs.
Last night, Caleb and Saman and Bolol came to visit and check up on us
in a big Peace Corps white cariot. We met in the garden, where our
plots were almost dug (beautiful, beautiful) and where we had just
lost our water hauling bladder down to well's dark abyss. Then on to
my house's front porch for a little chat, some cookies and cold cokes
(a thing of beauty) and a little ubiquitous etaay (tea) Then a storm
started to move in on the horizon, in dazzling swirls of dust and
filtered light which darkened the sky; it was bitchin'! My family
laughed because I wanted to sit out amidst the dust and watch it.
I was totally willing to be blown all around with dust because the
rain was supposed to follow the storm, and I, accordingly would frolic
nekked in it. But no rain. Motherfucker. And no one seems to know why
"Maa narav" (don't know) they say. Well, thanks for nothing.
Let me tell you how in love I am with some of the children here. My
two favorites are my little niece Amtee and my nephew Abu who are both
not possibly older than 7, and cuter than any two beings have a right
to be. Bursting with personality they are: Amtee with her half and
half hair (one side in braids, the other left to its defenses in a
wild Fro) and Abu with his missing front teeth (four on top, four on
bottom) with which he constantly self-consciously fidgets. Also
Crystal's Abu (they are standard issue here) who is silent and
morosely un-smiling, and then shy and lisping Damaak of the giant buck
teeth, beautiful teen Halima, spunky Habiba- all of them. These people
are GORGEOUS, they won the genetic lottery, like some sort of
consolation prize for living in a 100 % shithole (J/K, J/K.......)
The houses: the houses are made of mud, or rather a mixture of mud and
something else which makes them rather strong-ish. Some are made of
cement like blocks, but regardless they are all the color of the
ground, which is dun or light tan. Truly, there is very little color
here, save for the pastel yellow and blue windows of the madrasa, or
the green of a few trees (Neem, and Balinides Egyptica mostly). There
seems to be no planning involved in the village's structure- in fact
even the word village conjures images in the American mind which are
much more centralized than this will ever be. There are some places
with many huts clustered together, and some huge empty spaces with
nothing but trash for meters and meters. Nothing is parallel: the
paths, such as they are, are all winding and jagged. Geometry of
buildings is limited: minimalist rectangles, and/or asymmetrically
chic shapes seem to be the in- thing. I personally think it is so
last-season, but whatevs.
Last night, Caleb and Saman and Bolol came to visit and check up on us
in a big Peace Corps white cariot. We met in the garden, where our
plots were almost dug (beautiful, beautiful) and where we had just
lost our water hauling bladder down to well's dark abyss. Then on to
my house's front porch for a little chat, some cookies and cold cokes
(a thing of beauty) and a little ubiquitous etaay (tea) Then a storm
started to move in on the horizon, in dazzling swirls of dust and
filtered light which darkened the sky; it was bitchin'! My family
laughed because I wanted to sit out amidst the dust and watch it.
I was totally willing to be blown all around with dust because the
rain was supposed to follow the storm, and I, accordingly would frolic
nekked in it. But no rain. Motherfucker. And no one seems to know why
"Maa narav" (don't know) they say. Well, thanks for nothing.
Strange Nasrani
7 Juilliet 2006
HI PALS
Good morning! Here I am at my homestay family's, after having just
woken from my first night in the village. We're all lying on a mat on
the ground (ubiquitous here), me on my side writing, with about 7
filthy children all staring and smiling at me, a few feet away. Nobody
understands a word I say, everyone speaks Hassaniya, except for the
few I've found who speak even worse French than I do. Everyone who
speaks Hassaniya sounds like they're working so hard, and when I try
to replicate the sounds, they get stuck in my throat.
Anyway, we arrived yesterday and after meeting our mothers at Haddous
'house' (mud hut) we three set off in separate directions for our
respective homes, trailed by literally tons and tons of filthy,
crowding children, grabbing at my pants, touching my arms and legs,
holding my hands, and giggling at the strange nasrani (white person)
with all the kooky gear. On the way, I taught them "Hello" and "How
are you?" and they repeated it back in robotic fashion, not
comprehending.
When we got home, they ambushed me again, and I sat on the porch
surrounded by a thousand pressing bodies, as I pointed to my shirt, my
eyes, my toes, my watch, and anything else I could possibly touch/see,
and scribbled down their en masse responses as best as I could notate.
I'm so tired now. I slept fairly well, but this whole experience has
been so incredibly draining.
HI PALS
Good morning! Here I am at my homestay family's, after having just
woken from my first night in the village. We're all lying on a mat on
the ground (ubiquitous here), me on my side writing, with about 7
filthy children all staring and smiling at me, a few feet away. Nobody
understands a word I say, everyone speaks Hassaniya, except for the
few I've found who speak even worse French than I do. Everyone who
speaks Hassaniya sounds like they're working so hard, and when I try
to replicate the sounds, they get stuck in my throat.
Anyway, we arrived yesterday and after meeting our mothers at Haddous
'house' (mud hut) we three set off in separate directions for our
respective homes, trailed by literally tons and tons of filthy,
crowding children, grabbing at my pants, touching my arms and legs,
holding my hands, and giggling at the strange nasrani (white person)
with all the kooky gear. On the way, I taught them "Hello" and "How
are you?" and they repeated it back in robotic fashion, not
comprehending.
When we got home, they ambushed me again, and I sat on the porch
surrounded by a thousand pressing bodies, as I pointed to my shirt, my
eyes, my toes, my watch, and anything else I could possibly touch/see,
and scribbled down their en masse responses as best as I could notate.
I'm so tired now. I slept fairly well, but this whole experience has
been so incredibly draining.
Homestay
Firstly, I got a cell phone and this is my number 011 222 774 7039 (or
possibly a 1 at the end) If it doesn't go through don't be surprised-
cell phones are horrid here. Just thought I would post it if anyone
wants to try. Also, remember I'm four hours ahead.
Some more old journal entries:
5 Juilliet 2006
HOMESTAY
Homestay sites were announced tonite, and I'll be living in a village
called M'Bedia (about 500 people) I'll learn Hassaniya with my
sitemates Crystal and Sarah, and though many things could change, it
makes it more likely that my permanent site will be in the north I'm
not sure how I feel about this. I don't know enough to know how I
should feel, except to say that I'm a little disappointed I won't be
learning Soninke, but that's only because of the gigantically tall
Soninke teacher, Biri, who I think is neato, and because of the
dancers. So boo hoo.
Anyway, before the announcement, we had our short sessions with our
APCD Aw (pronounced like the thing you do when you stub your toe)
whom I love due to his absolute cuteness, and good little nature. And
after the session we met with our language facilitator Haddou, who
doesn't speak English, and our evaluator Bolol, to exchange names and
get faces, so we would know who we were when we all ride together to
our village tomorrow. In his capacity as translator tonite, Bolol
translated a short speech from Haddou (French to English) in little bits, as
we all leaned in to hear this soft voiced black African in his red
glasses tell us about the people of M'Beidia- how the people are 'very
serious, but generous' how this will be very hard work, but he will do
his best for us, and how he knows Americans are a hardworking people
who never give up. I hope that last part is true.
Then we had a little skit about what to expect tomorrow (lots of skits
here : all the Africans are total hams ) and then a short speech from
our fast talking, tiny little gray haired homestay coordinator Faal,
who apologized for his absolutely just fine English. That's sort of a
thing here: most of the staff speaks English fairly well, but
sometimes they get tired of it, and launch into French, at which point
someone else translates, whether PCV or staff. It's really quite
wonderful. I love just hearing them speak, like the other day at the
market where all I could do was stare at two young men telling me
something unintelligible about soccer, thinking 'please don't stop
talking, please don't stop talking' It just makes me so happy. Also,
African French (when not crappy, which is often) is pretty much clear
as a bell, being mostly free from all the back-of-the-throat goings
ons which tend to stop up French-French.
Also, Macire, our adorable Moor security Coordinator, gave us a
presentation today about security methods, in his fatherly-over
protective way. He's marvelous and chestnut skinned with great
eyebrows, and when he gets tired of speaking his curiously and
inconsistently accented English, or when he gets the English word for
'things' par example, his purple clad assistant takes over. He also
assists him in demonstrations about how to poke an assailant in the
eyes, or kick him in the balls. It's wild.
Then there's Cynthia, our blond and sassy PCMO with here sage and
beautiful Indian-ish sidekick Amel, to give us shots, medkits and
powerpoint presentations on diseases ( worms, bacteria, pooping,
everything) Cynthia is very no nonsense and extremely direct, and her
response to complaints about our finger-pricking lancet demonstration
was (Allegedly....) "Tough shit, you're in Africa" I can't believe
this is all true. Bye now.
possibly a 1 at the end) If it doesn't go through don't be surprised-
cell phones are horrid here. Just thought I would post it if anyone
wants to try. Also, remember I'm four hours ahead.
Some more old journal entries:
5 Juilliet 2006
HOMESTAY
Homestay sites were announced tonite, and I'll be living in a village
called M'Bedia (about 500 people) I'll learn Hassaniya with my
sitemates Crystal and Sarah, and though many things could change, it
makes it more likely that my permanent site will be in the north I'm
not sure how I feel about this. I don't know enough to know how I
should feel, except to say that I'm a little disappointed I won't be
learning Soninke, but that's only because of the gigantically tall
Soninke teacher, Biri, who I think is neato, and because of the
dancers. So boo hoo.
Anyway, before the announcement, we had our short sessions with our
APCD Aw (pronounced like the thing you do when you stub your toe)
whom I love due to his absolute cuteness, and good little nature. And
after the session we met with our language facilitator Haddou, who
doesn't speak English, and our evaluator Bolol, to exchange names and
get faces, so we would know who we were when we all ride together to
our village tomorrow. In his capacity as translator tonite, Bolol
translated a short speech from Haddou (French to English) in little bits, as
we all leaned in to hear this soft voiced black African in his red
glasses tell us about the people of M'Beidia- how the people are 'very
serious, but generous' how this will be very hard work, but he will do
his best for us, and how he knows Americans are a hardworking people
who never give up. I hope that last part is true.
Then we had a little skit about what to expect tomorrow (lots of skits
here : all the Africans are total hams ) and then a short speech from
our fast talking, tiny little gray haired homestay coordinator Faal,
who apologized for his absolutely just fine English. That's sort of a
thing here: most of the staff speaks English fairly well, but
sometimes they get tired of it, and launch into French, at which point
someone else translates, whether PCV or staff. It's really quite
wonderful. I love just hearing them speak, like the other day at the
market where all I could do was stare at two young men telling me
something unintelligible about soccer, thinking 'please don't stop
talking, please don't stop talking' It just makes me so happy. Also,
African French (when not crappy, which is often) is pretty much clear
as a bell, being mostly free from all the back-of-the-throat goings
ons which tend to stop up French-French.
Also, Macire, our adorable Moor security Coordinator, gave us a
presentation today about security methods, in his fatherly-over
protective way. He's marvelous and chestnut skinned with great
eyebrows, and when he gets tired of speaking his curiously and
inconsistently accented English, or when he gets the English word for
'things' par example, his purple clad assistant takes over. He also
assists him in demonstrations about how to poke an assailant in the
eyes, or kick him in the balls. It's wild.
Then there's Cynthia, our blond and sassy PCMO with here sage and
beautiful Indian-ish sidekick Amel, to give us shots, medkits and
powerpoint presentations on diseases ( worms, bacteria, pooping,
everything) Cynthia is very no nonsense and extremely direct, and her
response to complaints about our finger-pricking lancet demonstration
was (Allegedly....) "Tough shit, you're in Africa" I can't believe
this is all true. Bye now.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Baby Steps
5 Juillet 2006
Last night for the fourth of July fete, we were treated to plates! forks! and American-esque food. Personally, I thought the plates and forks were sufficiently decadent. Nevertheless, the cooks made us corn and creamed-corn, pasta salad, cucumbers and tomatoes, a cole-slaw like thing, and a ball of beef, like a cross between a hamburger and a meat-ball. Some of the dishes were even served with spoons. Everyone was very appreciative, so much so that we freaked out a bit, and had trouble forming lines.
Before that, I had gone out into town for the first time, something I had been consciously and unconsciously avoiding somewhat. Every step of the way, since getting on the plane in New York, has found me out of my comfort, having to force myself to go forward every step of the way. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I've given in to the momentum of my life now, every event leading naturally to another and another.
Regardless, everyday I am at least a little afraid, I take a step, I feel a bit better, and so on and so on. This is the way we form our lives; this is the way we become stronger and truer and finer and more lovely creatures than we ever could have if we had only done the things we knew already. I want to be strong and true, and lovely too, so we went to the market.
The Lycee is, in fact, a compound, and outside of its walls is something not to be feared, yet something so fascinating in its detail as to be overwhelming.
The structure of the city seems without much design. I can't picture it clearly in my head, yet there was a giant hill of sand, worn semi-mineral with fleets of feet, with trash all strewn everywhere. It's everywhere. I'm not sure I even have a handle on how to describe this: the market is incredible, but not in-credible. It's just so alien in its color; it bleeds it. Lots of fabric and rugs and flip flops, and crappy looking vegetables, and meat with flies on it, and awful fish out in the sun, and sunglasses, and cigarettes, junky knick-knacks, little plastic mirrors with Chinese women on the back, little tart cookies in wrappers, cokes, bootlegged Sony boom-boxes, suitcases - who knows? Everything, probably, if you looked long enough. I got my first "toubab" (white-person) though, which was exciting, from four little girls who called Laura "Madame" and waved out their arms to brandish a rainbow of tie-dyed fabrics.
Then Ginger and I set out to buy cigarettes. I was her 'bait', and she, my 'translator'. The cigarettes were supposed to be for me, because women who smoke here are whores, basically. So we strolled around looking for Marlboro lights (only American Legends were in evidence) with me mumbling morosely at the store owner, and she 'translating' in her marginally better French, until we finally found some which I stuck in my pocket for safe keeping. Everyone was so friendly though, smiling a lot, and a few hundred greetings go a long way. All the beautiful little children (hundreds and hundreds) and youths with their huge white smiles and giant teeth, and casual French. I got to use a few of my greetings, in Pulaar and Soninke, at which they laughed and smiled, and said "Hi, how are you? How old are you?" in turn.
It was lovely, lovely. But not sad, because no one seems sad here despite the poverty. And truly, the issues are so much more complex than simple things like poverty. I mean, yesterday on our walk, Ginger and I were talking about how much nicer this place could look if they would just pick up the (fucking) trash, and how it would be (relatively) easy to come up with a system, and an infrastructure. So therefore, the real issue becomes, not that they haven't done it, but why they haven't done it, which is something that I suspect involves a complex interaction between HEAT, poor climate, the legacy of patronage and handouts, bizarre veins of westernization, fatalism, Islam and basic human flaws too numerous to mention. Still, it bears mentioning that I find this place, trash and all, strangely beautiful.
Last night for the fourth of July fete, we were treated to plates! forks! and American-esque food. Personally, I thought the plates and forks were sufficiently decadent. Nevertheless, the cooks made us corn and creamed-corn, pasta salad, cucumbers and tomatoes, a cole-slaw like thing, and a ball of beef, like a cross between a hamburger and a meat-ball. Some of the dishes were even served with spoons. Everyone was very appreciative, so much so that we freaked out a bit, and had trouble forming lines.
Before that, I had gone out into town for the first time, something I had been consciously and unconsciously avoiding somewhat. Every step of the way, since getting on the plane in New York, has found me out of my comfort, having to force myself to go forward every step of the way. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I've given in to the momentum of my life now, every event leading naturally to another and another.
Regardless, everyday I am at least a little afraid, I take a step, I feel a bit better, and so on and so on. This is the way we form our lives; this is the way we become stronger and truer and finer and more lovely creatures than we ever could have if we had only done the things we knew already. I want to be strong and true, and lovely too, so we went to the market.
The Lycee is, in fact, a compound, and outside of its walls is something not to be feared, yet something so fascinating in its detail as to be overwhelming.
The structure of the city seems without much design. I can't picture it clearly in my head, yet there was a giant hill of sand, worn semi-mineral with fleets of feet, with trash all strewn everywhere. It's everywhere. I'm not sure I even have a handle on how to describe this: the market is incredible, but not in-credible. It's just so alien in its color; it bleeds it. Lots of fabric and rugs and flip flops, and crappy looking vegetables, and meat with flies on it, and awful fish out in the sun, and sunglasses, and cigarettes, junky knick-knacks, little plastic mirrors with Chinese women on the back, little tart cookies in wrappers, cokes, bootlegged Sony boom-boxes, suitcases - who knows? Everything, probably, if you looked long enough. I got my first "toubab" (white-person) though, which was exciting, from four little girls who called Laura "Madame" and waved out their arms to brandish a rainbow of tie-dyed fabrics.
Then Ginger and I set out to buy cigarettes. I was her 'bait', and she, my 'translator'. The cigarettes were supposed to be for me, because women who smoke here are whores, basically. So we strolled around looking for Marlboro lights (only American Legends were in evidence) with me mumbling morosely at the store owner, and she 'translating' in her marginally better French, until we finally found some which I stuck in my pocket for safe keeping. Everyone was so friendly though, smiling a lot, and a few hundred greetings go a long way. All the beautiful little children (hundreds and hundreds) and youths with their huge white smiles and giant teeth, and casual French. I got to use a few of my greetings, in Pulaar and Soninke, at which they laughed and smiled, and said "Hi, how are you? How old are you?" in turn.
It was lovely, lovely. But not sad, because no one seems sad here despite the poverty. And truly, the issues are so much more complex than simple things like poverty. I mean, yesterday on our walk, Ginger and I were talking about how much nicer this place could look if they would just pick up the (fucking) trash, and how it would be (relatively) easy to come up with a system, and an infrastructure. So therefore, the real issue becomes, not that they haven't done it, but why they haven't done it, which is something that I suspect involves a complex interaction between HEAT, poor climate, the legacy of patronage and handouts, bizarre veins of westernization, fatalism, Islam and basic human flaws too numerous to mention. Still, it bears mentioning that I find this place, trash and all, strangely beautiful.
July 4th!
4 Juilliet 2006
My feet are blistered. It makes everything feel hot. Today we had goat again (maybe) with rice. I've gotten tolerably skilled at making the rice balls. It takes practice, but it's not brain surgery, after all. The food is still good, but its getting progressively worse. I think they're preparing us for homestay. Hunger, we've been talking, is very different from malnutrition. There is very little hunger here, but malnutrition is rampant:The children have skin which stretches like old peoples'. So I stuff down the food, even after I'm sated (everyone's appetite is lessened in the heat) I gnaw at the bones to get every piece. It's sort of thrilling to act this way. We eat out of things, and drink out of things, and touch things we may not have before. There is simply no choice now.
Yesterday, we had Culture Fair, which was 2/5ths lame, and 3/5ths very excellent. I sat and watched Ellie play a sort of sand-mankala with Le Generale (Bidi), one of our teachers. She speaks excellent French, and just watching them mumble a few things here and there was very enjoyable. Then she translated what I couldn't get, and her and I played a game- what a graceful series of pick-move-drops that is, especially with the sand sifting through one's fingers.
When the Soninke girls started dancing, they grabbed us up one at a time. (The music and dancing) is just as thrilling, and wonderful and earthy as you think it is and more. I had a feeling I was next, and sure enough a beautiful, bespectacled Soninke young man pulled me up. Everyone was cheering and laughing, and I felt my face burning, (and I probably looked like an ungainly fool), but it was so electrifying (it's soo hard!) There was lots of stamping and arm waving, and as I face him (silver rimmed glassed, and regal) I mimicked his motions. First arms shakes, wild and jabbing with stamping feet, then he grabbed his pants (short, ballooning trousers called sirwal) and said "Comme ca" (like this). He pulled and shook and jerked and grabbed, and I did the same, hiking up my pants as we spun round in circles. Then we were back to back, bumping asses, 'competing', it was incredible.
After the dancing we had snacks (sugared peanuts, roasted peanuts, hibiscus and baobob juice) Moor dancing (much more subtle, sensuous and arabic sounding). This time, we all went onto the sand together, and I faced off with two 9 or 10 year old boys (skinny little things) but they ran circles around me.
Then some Egyptian Ratscrew (the best card game ever!) with a few pals, dinner, a shit, a shower, a shave and then bed. Phew.
My feet are blistered. It makes everything feel hot. Today we had goat again (maybe) with rice. I've gotten tolerably skilled at making the rice balls. It takes practice, but it's not brain surgery, after all. The food is still good, but its getting progressively worse. I think they're preparing us for homestay. Hunger, we've been talking, is very different from malnutrition. There is very little hunger here, but malnutrition is rampant:The children have skin which stretches like old peoples'. So I stuff down the food, even after I'm sated (everyone's appetite is lessened in the heat) I gnaw at the bones to get every piece. It's sort of thrilling to act this way. We eat out of things, and drink out of things, and touch things we may not have before. There is simply no choice now.
Yesterday, we had Culture Fair, which was 2/5ths lame, and 3/5ths very excellent. I sat and watched Ellie play a sort of sand-mankala with Le Generale (Bidi), one of our teachers. She speaks excellent French, and just watching them mumble a few things here and there was very enjoyable. Then she translated what I couldn't get, and her and I played a game- what a graceful series of pick-move-drops that is, especially with the sand sifting through one's fingers.
When the Soninke girls started dancing, they grabbed us up one at a time. (The music and dancing) is just as thrilling, and wonderful and earthy as you think it is and more. I had a feeling I was next, and sure enough a beautiful, bespectacled Soninke young man pulled me up. Everyone was cheering and laughing, and I felt my face burning, (and I probably looked like an ungainly fool), but it was so electrifying (it's soo hard!) There was lots of stamping and arm waving, and as I face him (silver rimmed glassed, and regal) I mimicked his motions. First arms shakes, wild and jabbing with stamping feet, then he grabbed his pants (short, ballooning trousers called sirwal) and said "Comme ca" (like this). He pulled and shook and jerked and grabbed, and I did the same, hiking up my pants as we spun round in circles. Then we were back to back, bumping asses, 'competing', it was incredible.
After the dancing we had snacks (sugared peanuts, roasted peanuts, hibiscus and baobob juice) Moor dancing (much more subtle, sensuous and arabic sounding). This time, we all went onto the sand together, and I faced off with two 9 or 10 year old boys (skinny little things) but they ran circles around me.
Then some Egyptian Ratscrew (the best card game ever!) with a few pals, dinner, a shit, a shower, a shave and then bed. Phew.
Chairs
3 Juilliet 2006
There are no chairs anywhere. I just want to sit in a goddamned chair. The closest I've come in weeks is sitting on the steps or the crook of a tree. I've tried infinite variations of cross-legged, cross-ankled, elbow-leaning, Indian style supine positions. My cocyxx hurts. My spine is tired from holding itself straight; leaning against a wall is heaven.
We all sit on mattelas (thin foam mats) but lying in public is strictly organized. Men may only lie on their backs, and women only on their stomachs. To do otherwise would be seen as odd and provacative. Either sex may lie on their side, but I personally think it is the most 'come hither' of the three.
This morning we went out to the garden again, in the cool and the breeze; it rained a little bit. We passed through the beat-up turquoise door in the wall and played a game on the mattelas about which vegetable we would be, if we were consigned to that fate. I would be a carrot.
We learned about pick axing, double-digging the soul, enriching with manure, and then we dug out our 1 by 3 meter beds with loving (and firm) care, manured them, watered them, and now we wait.
The animals here make the worst noises. Donkeys and goats mostly, their calls sound like a murder.
Speaking of death, last night we watched the cook slaughter a few goats for our dinner. Five total, I think. He skinned them by shoving his hand underneath the skin to separate it from the muscle, the way one might season a chicken.
I should say how fond I feel of many of the people here. It's strange, but good. Also, the flies here are everywhere, yet not aggravating like they are in America. Bye for now.
There are no chairs anywhere. I just want to sit in a goddamned chair. The closest I've come in weeks is sitting on the steps or the crook of a tree. I've tried infinite variations of cross-legged, cross-ankled, elbow-leaning, Indian style supine positions. My cocyxx hurts. My spine is tired from holding itself straight; leaning against a wall is heaven.
We all sit on mattelas (thin foam mats) but lying in public is strictly organized. Men may only lie on their backs, and women only on their stomachs. To do otherwise would be seen as odd and provacative. Either sex may lie on their side, but I personally think it is the most 'come hither' of the three.
This morning we went out to the garden again, in the cool and the breeze; it rained a little bit. We passed through the beat-up turquoise door in the wall and played a game on the mattelas about which vegetable we would be, if we were consigned to that fate. I would be a carrot.
We learned about pick axing, double-digging the soul, enriching with manure, and then we dug out our 1 by 3 meter beds with loving (and firm) care, manured them, watered them, and now we wait.
The animals here make the worst noises. Donkeys and goats mostly, their calls sound like a murder.
Speaking of death, last night we watched the cook slaughter a few goats for our dinner. Five total, I think. He skinned them by shoving his hand underneath the skin to separate it from the muscle, the way one might season a chicken.
I should say how fond I feel of many of the people here. It's strange, but good. Also, the flies here are everywhere, yet not aggravating like they are in America. Bye for now.
A bit about eating
2 Juilliet 2006
Communal eating, which is not every meal, is incredibly satisfying and strange in an ancient sort of familial way. It fufills some sort of need in us. It's also extremely uncomfortable and awkward. Eating with the right hand requires that to tear meat, which is piled in chunks near the center of the dish, requires that you ask another person for help. "Hold this" you say, and each of you pulls hard at the (mostly) fat and gristley goat meat, trying not to slip. We tear at it like animals. See what I mean? How crazy is that? I sit on my left sometimes, so as not to be tempted to use it. After washing before meals, with peanut soap and the water filled teapot called the makarresh, on holds one right hand in the air, away from any potential soiling entities. After eating, one licks one's hand clean (it's polite) before washing again. Don't mistake this for the common American practice of finger sucking. It's way more obscene. It makes me uncomfortable.
Communal eating, which is not every meal, is incredibly satisfying and strange in an ancient sort of familial way. It fufills some sort of need in us. It's also extremely uncomfortable and awkward. Eating with the right hand requires that to tear meat, which is piled in chunks near the center of the dish, requires that you ask another person for help. "Hold this" you say, and each of you pulls hard at the (mostly) fat and gristley goat meat, trying not to slip. We tear at it like animals. See what I mean? How crazy is that? I sit on my left sometimes, so as not to be tempted to use it. After washing before meals, with peanut soap and the water filled teapot called the makarresh, on holds one right hand in the air, away from any potential soiling entities. After eating, one licks one's hand clean (it's polite) before washing again. Don't mistake this for the common American practice of finger sucking. It's way more obscene. It makes me uncomfortable.
A bit of news
(while the internet holds, I'm typing past entries I've written but not posted)
1 Juilliet 2006
This morning we arrived at 2 O clock from Nouakchott, in our white land cruiser caravan tumbling over the ruleless roads at 60 mpg through the desert and desolation, and trash and villages. Ten men were packed into my gender segregated car, stuffed tightly like sardines in the desert heat, sitting face to face along the sides, paratrooper style. They/we waxed by turns philosophical and crude, each like an embodiment of some distinct demographic: wise, worldly and Yogic D, sweet blond Preston from Salt Lake, avuncular Nick and others.
I saw sand dunes! I saw camels! I saw riding donkeys. And at 2 oclock I saw Kaedi and the Lycee, and the whole of our sundry welcome party (there were a lot of them) We were let in through the gates and piled out of the cars. Several million handshakes, Bonjours, Aselemu Aluykums and Ca Va?s ensued.
The lycee is set up like a big compound. In through the gates is a huge courtyard area but without landscaping, stones or grass. Its all sand of course, with a few big trees for shade (you wouldn't believe the diff in temperature between sun and shade) Around the perimeter are many rectangular white or tan colored buildings of unequal size. They are all trimmed with turquoise- green, the doors and windows, which open like wings in mid-flap.
1 Juilliet 2006
This morning we arrived at 2 O clock from Nouakchott, in our white land cruiser caravan tumbling over the ruleless roads at 60 mpg through the desert and desolation, and trash and villages. Ten men were packed into my gender segregated car, stuffed tightly like sardines in the desert heat, sitting face to face along the sides, paratrooper style. They/we waxed by turns philosophical and crude, each like an embodiment of some distinct demographic: wise, worldly and Yogic D, sweet blond Preston from Salt Lake, avuncular Nick and others.
I saw sand dunes! I saw camels! I saw riding donkeys. And at 2 oclock I saw Kaedi and the Lycee, and the whole of our sundry welcome party (there were a lot of them) We were let in through the gates and piled out of the cars. Several million handshakes, Bonjours, Aselemu Aluykums and Ca Va?s ensued.
The lycee is set up like a big compound. In through the gates is a huge courtyard area but without landscaping, stones or grass. Its all sand of course, with a few big trees for shade (you wouldn't believe the diff in temperature between sun and shade) Around the perimeter are many rectangular white or tan colored buildings of unequal size. They are all trimmed with turquoise- green, the doors and windows, which open like wings in mid-flap.
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