Ali says that people who don't pray 5 times a day will eat fire. That's the expression they use for going to hell after death- apparently just burning in it isn't graphic enough.
Ali is a driver of the car which goes back and forth between El Qidiya and Nouakchott, he lives there sometimes, and sometimes here. His ethnicity is mixed, his skin is like the color of caramel sauce. He's tall, probably six-two or so. He's funny and persistant and shrill (his voice can get shrieky). His hairline's receding, though he's only twenty-six. He's says I'm going to be charcoal, but he's my friend.
Everyone wants me to become a Muslim. They're convinced its the best religious option on the market, not that they've done much shopping around, and that the rewards are manifold -'Oh, when you become a Muslim, ' they exclaim, 'what a party we'll have! We'll eat meat and drink milk - everyone will come.' The downsides of not converting (the fire thing) speak for themselves.
Almost everyday, religion comes up in some fashion or another, although we are strongly discouraged from discussing it (no arguments here) The worst part is that debate about the existance of god, or any of the juicy and trivial particulars therein are null and void. God's existance is not in question. Everyone knows it, (of course) - to deny it is to be ungrateful, wicked, blind and sinful. The concept of non-belief in god has zero support. That means we're all obliged to profess our undying love for the Christian religion, something which makes me and many of my fellow Americans a little sick in the tummy. Every time I'm forced to say I'm a Christian (Nasrani) a little part of me shrivels and dies inside. Still, Christianity is one of the three 'religions of the book' mentioned in the Qu'ran and so is afforded a god-sanctioned modicum of respect. Supposedly. Although that argument rarely goes very far in my village.
'We're all people of the book' I say, 'you have your religion and I have mine.'
'Oh, yes, yes' they answer, 'But Islam is better. Islam is so gooood! Why aren't you a Muslim?'
Maybe all of this bothers me more than it would a person of actual faith. I have little patience and no respect for this unqualified, unsubtle and uneducated dogmatism in America, much less here.
'Do you know, ' I ask them, when they tell me I'm going to hell, 'that there are millions of people who are right now saying the same thing about you? But those people are awful,' I add, 'those people are stupid.'
'Of course they are!' they say, 'because we're not the one's going to hell.'
No, I think, but there's no way to explain it, that's not why....
Anyway, the other day Ali's evangelism was especially out of control. We were eating Hruub, grilled cowpeas in the pod, and he was starting to shriek. It had been going on all morning, all through tea, and none of my standard arguments were working 'But my family is Christian, how can I change?' and 'I pray, just not like a Muslim. I Jesus-pray.' and 'Why don't you respect me?' (this one's from the heart) 'I respect you!' Nothing going. Finally I had to step outside. I wanted to wash the garden mud from my arms and feet anyway.
I sat down against one stony side of the house, in the sun, and Lemrobbit brought the maqarresh over to me and waited while I rinsed off. Then he said 'Now watch' as he began to wash his arms and wrists and hands with a little splash of water scrubbed hard against his skin. 'Do you know this? How we wash to pray?' I said, 'No, please show me.'
He cleaned the patch of skin between each elbow and fingertips 3 times, his skin squeaking. He washed his face twice, his nose and cheeks contorting like a rubber mask under his finger's pressure. His skin gleamed, black and shining and he smiled as I watched him intently. He washed his long brown feet and ankles, the insides of his ears, the fuzzy top of his head. It was so beautiful, after Ali's screeching it felt like a sigh, so quiet and respectful and polite and innocent. Lemrobbit is just like that - a tall 19 year old with a wide smile and no malice. This is where Mauritania's goodness lies, this is why it is so hard to find.
When he had finished, I said, 'thankyou Lemrobbit' and I'm not sure if he knew why, but I hope he did.
Friday, December 29, 2006
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Rubber ducky
The other day I took a bath out in the open, near the well, under the date palm trees and the sun. Since then, I've done it three more times, though the weather has been progressively cooler so the bath becomes more than anything a battle between my wish to be not-filthy and my wish to be not-freezing. You never know how quickly you can get clean until the wind is blowing on your wet and naked hiny. Brrrr...
The bath itself is nothing to write home about (ironically) but if you want to be just like me, and take one Mauritanian style, first go out and find your nearest water-well. Then fill up a bucket (the cut-off bottom half of a plastic ten liter jug) Don't fall in! Find a secluded spot, away from the sheep, and soap up with your handkerchief and the brownest soap you can find. Then rinse, and jump back into your clothes as fast as you can. Yikes!
Unfortunately, the last time, as I was performing that final step, hopping around one-footed trying to put my pants on, I came down hard on a woody plant stem, still stuck in the ground, and it went straight through my sandal and 1/2 inch into my foot. I couldn't believe it!
Anyway, there I was, like a scene out of an old western, trying to pull the stick from my foot, like when they pull the arrow out of some cowboy-hatted ruffian. And because I couldn't grab it well enough with my fingers, I even had to yank it out with my teeth ( I know, right?!) By the way, it does hurt more coming out, in case you were wondering. I realized afterward when the wound began spewing blood, that it hadn't been such a grand idea to do that in the middle of the fields at 2 o clock, with no one around, but I didn't pass out or anything that dramatic, so crisis averted. Still, I've got to start looking where I put my toesies - every other day I run into the huge rocks on the ground everywhere and slice gaping holes in my feet. What a tool.
Later that day, Sidi Mohamed stopped by with his crappy boombox which played horrible dubs of Arabic dance music, and hung out for a while. He's been doing this a lot lately - I think he got the notion from somewhere that I don't have any music to listen to, or at least nothing with the entertainment value of his squealing jams in Arabic. 'Should I leave the boom-box?' he asks, when rising to go, 'No, you take it' I say generously, 'what will you listen to'
He has a repertoire of about five tapes, dusty cassettes with opaque plastic covers, which he keeps in the jiggling kangaroo pouch of his bou-bou. A few of them are recordings of authentic Mauritanian music, which I actually love. It's austere and acoustic, rhythmic and complex and mournful.
He has another one, filled with American hip-hop and club songs from about 3 years ago. He has M&M, and 50-cent and other soulful crooners, all playing at about twice their speed, and the other night he, a head-bobbing Lemrobbit and I listened to the thumping beats as the sunlight faded. It's strange to hear this blue-worded, sexualized music with such strict and pious people, but of course they can't understand a word of it. So whatevs.
Dancing is a limited sport here. Lemrobbit's adorable head-bobbing aside, most people dance, when they do, (in short, giggling bursts) like awkward eighth-graders. That is to say, when they try to imitate the way they think Westerners dance (how would they know? There are no televisions here. It's all heresay) When they dance the way they're supposed to, the way that comes naturally, the way that's evolved in the desert, it's lovely and sensuous and subtle and sexy (though they would never think it). All that extra cloth from their bou-bous and muleffas suddenly makes sense, it's like two more arms. But that's just me anthropologistizing. Mostly, they couldn't find the beat in a bucket.
What I like much better than the transplanted boombox tunes, is Sidi Mohameds one-string guitar, called a gimbra. It's not so much a guitar as it is an old metal bowl, covered with a calf-skin, stretched and hardened like a drum, with a stick jutting out. It's hideous; it's makeshift and marvelous. I can't believe that is produces any sound worth listening to but it does - Sidi Mohamed plays a whining and hypnotic ostinato, his fingers sliding the octave (finding harmonics - for real) tapping the brittle cowskin drum in rhythmic counterpoint. The tuning is maybe just an interesting accident - it's some sort of odd octagonic scale (for you theory geeks) The music is repetative, he plays five minutes of the same two bars, but the voice would twist and wind over top of it, if it were there. He doesn't sing, because he's too shy, but I can hear it anyway.
This inevitably brings up all of those questions, even if I don't know it, about what place music has in my life still, and what place it's going to have when I come back. Oh goodness. Luckily, all of that can wait a few years. Along with sodapop, plumbing and the rest of civilization.
The bath itself is nothing to write home about (ironically) but if you want to be just like me, and take one Mauritanian style, first go out and find your nearest water-well. Then fill up a bucket (the cut-off bottom half of a plastic ten liter jug) Don't fall in! Find a secluded spot, away from the sheep, and soap up with your handkerchief and the brownest soap you can find. Then rinse, and jump back into your clothes as fast as you can. Yikes!
Unfortunately, the last time, as I was performing that final step, hopping around one-footed trying to put my pants on, I came down hard on a woody plant stem, still stuck in the ground, and it went straight through my sandal and 1/2 inch into my foot. I couldn't believe it!
Anyway, there I was, like a scene out of an old western, trying to pull the stick from my foot, like when they pull the arrow out of some cowboy-hatted ruffian. And because I couldn't grab it well enough with my fingers, I even had to yank it out with my teeth ( I know, right?!) By the way, it does hurt more coming out, in case you were wondering. I realized afterward when the wound began spewing blood, that it hadn't been such a grand idea to do that in the middle of the fields at 2 o clock, with no one around, but I didn't pass out or anything that dramatic, so crisis averted. Still, I've got to start looking where I put my toesies - every other day I run into the huge rocks on the ground everywhere and slice gaping holes in my feet. What a tool.
Later that day, Sidi Mohamed stopped by with his crappy boombox which played horrible dubs of Arabic dance music, and hung out for a while. He's been doing this a lot lately - I think he got the notion from somewhere that I don't have any music to listen to, or at least nothing with the entertainment value of his squealing jams in Arabic. 'Should I leave the boom-box?' he asks, when rising to go, 'No, you take it' I say generously, 'what will you listen to'
He has a repertoire of about five tapes, dusty cassettes with opaque plastic covers, which he keeps in the jiggling kangaroo pouch of his bou-bou. A few of them are recordings of authentic Mauritanian music, which I actually love. It's austere and acoustic, rhythmic and complex and mournful.
He has another one, filled with American hip-hop and club songs from about 3 years ago. He has M&M, and 50-cent and other soulful crooners, all playing at about twice their speed, and the other night he, a head-bobbing Lemrobbit and I listened to the thumping beats as the sunlight faded. It's strange to hear this blue-worded, sexualized music with such strict and pious people, but of course they can't understand a word of it. So whatevs.
Dancing is a limited sport here. Lemrobbit's adorable head-bobbing aside, most people dance, when they do, (in short, giggling bursts) like awkward eighth-graders. That is to say, when they try to imitate the way they think Westerners dance (how would they know? There are no televisions here. It's all heresay) When they dance the way they're supposed to, the way that comes naturally, the way that's evolved in the desert, it's lovely and sensuous and subtle and sexy (though they would never think it). All that extra cloth from their bou-bous and muleffas suddenly makes sense, it's like two more arms. But that's just me anthropologistizing. Mostly, they couldn't find the beat in a bucket.
What I like much better than the transplanted boombox tunes, is Sidi Mohameds one-string guitar, called a gimbra. It's not so much a guitar as it is an old metal bowl, covered with a calf-skin, stretched and hardened like a drum, with a stick jutting out. It's hideous; it's makeshift and marvelous. I can't believe that is produces any sound worth listening to but it does - Sidi Mohamed plays a whining and hypnotic ostinato, his fingers sliding the octave (finding harmonics - for real) tapping the brittle cowskin drum in rhythmic counterpoint. The tuning is maybe just an interesting accident - it's some sort of odd octagonic scale (for you theory geeks) The music is repetative, he plays five minutes of the same two bars, but the voice would twist and wind over top of it, if it were there. He doesn't sing, because he's too shy, but I can hear it anyway.
This inevitably brings up all of those questions, even if I don't know it, about what place music has in my life still, and what place it's going to have when I come back. Oh goodness. Luckily, all of that can wait a few years. Along with sodapop, plumbing and the rest of civilization.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The spirit of democracy
Now they play loud music all the time.
In Tijikja, it came from right outside our compound, the same 10 second song fragment on a loop, blaring from ratty speakers under a white tent.
In the market there was another song playing, and as I wandered toward it like a rat through the rubbly maze of dirt paths, one gradually faded into another, after a clash of initial cacophony.
It followed me to El Qidiya (it was like a bad dream) and set up shop in big tents, store fronts and an abandoned house, newly splashed with the white-painted logo of the PRDR.
This is the 'campaign' . Supposedly campaigning is confined to the two week period between November 4th and 19th, in which the various parties (about 1 million) spew out their state apportioned cash on things like this, the tee shirts, the posters, the tents and the music.
These are the regional campaigns, but Kahn, one of my supervisors who came to visit tells me its the same everywhere. "In Nouakchott," he says, his hands to his head, "you can't sleep! It never used to be like this- why this music, all the time? This does not make me want to vote." Later, he returned from the market and reported on his inspection of the campaign 'headquarters' - "It was just some small kids and their tapes" he said. It's like the Wizard of Oz. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look behind the curtain?
Meanwhile, my return from Tijikja also found me moving out of my old house and into a new one. The day before the move, I dropped by my house, actually just one (10x20ft) room, to clean up. Its previous occupants had been animals, their dung, rusty metal bits and (a lot of) dirt. So me, and soon a few new little friends (they turn up like clockwork) started sweeping away, me with a grass hand broom, they with old palm fronds, making clouds of dust which swirled and gathered in the streaky sunlight.
The next day, I wrangled a donkey cart, and me and the 9 year old 'driver' loaded my junk onto the flat back, fastened it in with one tattered string, and we were off! (at a slow meander)
I hadn't been relishing the thought of parading through town with all of my crap -3 huge American bags, and the assorted other supplies I've picked up since coming here seems like an obscene amount of detritus for one person to have, when most families have less. Still, I needn't have worried, hardly anyone was out to gawk at me. It was after one o clock and the market was closed. BTW, donkey travel is pretty reasonable, a trip across town was only 200 ougiyas (about 80 cents) Still, I tipped the little rascal an extra 100, and gave him a miniature orange. Someone's lucky day...
My new house is almost identical to the old, except for a big hole in the corner of the roof and a missing door. And though it doesn't look like much, you'd be surprised what a few colorful plastic mats layed over dirt and bumpy concrete can do in the way of ambiance. Suddenly a barren hovel becomes livable. And if it doesn't... well, you still live there.
After two weeks of campaigning and loud music, the elections took place on November 19th. It's an all-day thing, everything stops. It's true by the way- they dip your finger in purple ink. Because we're explicity forbidden by Peace Corps to be involved in any and all forms of politicking, I never got much of an insider's scoop, but this is the first free election held in Mauritania after last year's military coup. The peacefulness and good faith with which this took place (the military actually did hand over power, like they said they would) got us a mention two, count 'em two days in a row on the BBC (no one ever talks about us), but if you'd lived here for a while, you'd understand why it couldn't have been any other way.
Still, it's also obvious that the details of the democratic process are, at times, unclear here. Again and again people would ask me if I was voting.
'No.' I'd reply
'Why not?' I'd stare at them for a moment.
'Because I'm not Mauritanian.'
Without flinching, they'd always ask the same question. 'Well what's wrong with you?'
Oh boy, I'd think, how much time do you have....?
In Tijikja, it came from right outside our compound, the same 10 second song fragment on a loop, blaring from ratty speakers under a white tent.
In the market there was another song playing, and as I wandered toward it like a rat through the rubbly maze of dirt paths, one gradually faded into another, after a clash of initial cacophony.
It followed me to El Qidiya (it was like a bad dream) and set up shop in big tents, store fronts and an abandoned house, newly splashed with the white-painted logo of the PRDR.
This is the 'campaign' . Supposedly campaigning is confined to the two week period between November 4th and 19th, in which the various parties (about 1 million) spew out their state apportioned cash on things like this, the tee shirts, the posters, the tents and the music.
These are the regional campaigns, but Kahn, one of my supervisors who came to visit tells me its the same everywhere. "In Nouakchott," he says, his hands to his head, "you can't sleep! It never used to be like this- why this music, all the time? This does not make me want to vote." Later, he returned from the market and reported on his inspection of the campaign 'headquarters' - "It was just some small kids and their tapes" he said. It's like the Wizard of Oz. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to look behind the curtain?
Meanwhile, my return from Tijikja also found me moving out of my old house and into a new one. The day before the move, I dropped by my house, actually just one (10x20ft) room, to clean up. Its previous occupants had been animals, their dung, rusty metal bits and (a lot of) dirt. So me, and soon a few new little friends (they turn up like clockwork) started sweeping away, me with a grass hand broom, they with old palm fronds, making clouds of dust which swirled and gathered in the streaky sunlight.
The next day, I wrangled a donkey cart, and me and the 9 year old 'driver' loaded my junk onto the flat back, fastened it in with one tattered string, and we were off! (at a slow meander)
I hadn't been relishing the thought of parading through town with all of my crap -3 huge American bags, and the assorted other supplies I've picked up since coming here seems like an obscene amount of detritus for one person to have, when most families have less. Still, I needn't have worried, hardly anyone was out to gawk at me. It was after one o clock and the market was closed. BTW, donkey travel is pretty reasonable, a trip across town was only 200 ougiyas (about 80 cents) Still, I tipped the little rascal an extra 100, and gave him a miniature orange. Someone's lucky day...
My new house is almost identical to the old, except for a big hole in the corner of the roof and a missing door. And though it doesn't look like much, you'd be surprised what a few colorful plastic mats layed over dirt and bumpy concrete can do in the way of ambiance. Suddenly a barren hovel becomes livable. And if it doesn't... well, you still live there.
After two weeks of campaigning and loud music, the elections took place on November 19th. It's an all-day thing, everything stops. It's true by the way- they dip your finger in purple ink. Because we're explicity forbidden by Peace Corps to be involved in any and all forms of politicking, I never got much of an insider's scoop, but this is the first free election held in Mauritania after last year's military coup. The peacefulness and good faith with which this took place (the military actually did hand over power, like they said they would) got us a mention two, count 'em two days in a row on the BBC (no one ever talks about us), but if you'd lived here for a while, you'd understand why it couldn't have been any other way.
Still, it's also obvious that the details of the democratic process are, at times, unclear here. Again and again people would ask me if I was voting.
'No.' I'd reply
'Why not?' I'd stare at them for a moment.
'Because I'm not Mauritanian.'
Without flinching, they'd always ask the same question. 'Well what's wrong with you?'
Oh boy, I'd think, how much time do you have....?
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Road notes
le 4 Novembre 2006
A few thoughts while traveling to Tijikja:
1 Travel in this country is a nightmare, it's like drinking bleach and being punched in the gut.
2 El Qidiya is 60k (2 hours) away from the paved road- that means the path is dirt, rock, sometimes lacking, sometimes impassable and in the middle of nowhere.
3 Cars go back and forth infrequently and irregularly. Plus time is plastic here.
4 Sometimes you have been waiting for a car to spontaneously arrive (for a long time) and when it does, the driver decides to grossly overcharge you (can you guess why?). In fact, this almost always happens, though the degrees to which they are money grubbing assholes, to which they are willing to negotiate, and to which I am prepared to refuse, vary.
5 Riding on top or in the back (with, on, or in the baggage) is dangerous and can be cold but there is a lot of fresh air and I feel less car-sick. Riding inside is usually hot, stuffy, cramped and awful, but safer, in that you are actually inside the car.
6 Is this girl in front of me puking because she's riding in this rollercoaster of a car, or is she traveling in it because she needs a doctor?
7 The drivers drive really fast.
8 I'm surprised these cars don't fall apart (this road is bumpier than Diane Rehm's voice. Just kidding, I love you Diane!)
9 Taxi brousse (renting a 'place' in a car) is glorified hitchhiking. Lets face it.
10 Sometimes gendarme guys can be cool. The one who snagged us a car tonite towards El Qidiya was friendly and polite, and I felt bad for him – its just him, his neat little beret and his cigarettes, pacing in the lonely dark by the road, boots clicking, waiting to stop every car that passes, for no particular reason.
11 Yes, yes. The stars are lovely, but the moon ….. Why don't I ever remember the moon being so eternally present before? The moon lights the world as though a pregnant stage, with a green, luminous half-glow which anticipates the spotlights.
12 Riding on the back of a wind-whipped truck can be fun for a while, even thrilling, as you clutch the metal bars for dear life, passing in flashes through the hot and cold air patches in the moonlit landscape, but I have to pee!
A few thoughts while traveling to Tijikja:
1 Travel in this country is a nightmare, it's like drinking bleach and being punched in the gut.
2 El Qidiya is 60k (2 hours) away from the paved road- that means the path is dirt, rock, sometimes lacking, sometimes impassable and in the middle of nowhere.
3 Cars go back and forth infrequently and irregularly. Plus time is plastic here.
4 Sometimes you have been waiting for a car to spontaneously arrive (for a long time) and when it does, the driver decides to grossly overcharge you (can you guess why?). In fact, this almost always happens, though the degrees to which they are money grubbing assholes, to which they are willing to negotiate, and to which I am prepared to refuse, vary.
5 Riding on top or in the back (with, on, or in the baggage) is dangerous and can be cold but there is a lot of fresh air and I feel less car-sick. Riding inside is usually hot, stuffy, cramped and awful, but safer, in that you are actually inside the car.
6 Is this girl in front of me puking because she's riding in this rollercoaster of a car, or is she traveling in it because she needs a doctor?
7 The drivers drive really fast.
8 I'm surprised these cars don't fall apart (this road is bumpier than Diane Rehm's voice. Just kidding, I love you Diane!)
9 Taxi brousse (renting a 'place' in a car) is glorified hitchhiking. Lets face it.
10 Sometimes gendarme guys can be cool. The one who snagged us a car tonite towards El Qidiya was friendly and polite, and I felt bad for him – its just him, his neat little beret and his cigarettes, pacing in the lonely dark by the road, boots clicking, waiting to stop every car that passes, for no particular reason.
11 Yes, yes. The stars are lovely, but the moon ….. Why don't I ever remember the moon being so eternally present before? The moon lights the world as though a pregnant stage, with a green, luminous half-glow which anticipates the spotlights.
12 Riding on the back of a wind-whipped truck can be fun for a while, even thrilling, as you clutch the metal bars for dear life, passing in flashes through the hot and cold air patches in the moonlit landscape, but I have to pee!
A Poem
le 1 Novembre 2006
It's the day of All Saints, for whatever its worth. (These saints, all of them, what is it they supposedly do?)
Anyway, the other night I returned to the bediya. The sons, the grown ones of this family, primarily the two called Cheikh and Jiddou, whom I talk to the most, are my friends. At least, I think they are, though every time I see them and have a little visit, I am progressively more unsure. These invitations, are they sincere? If so, how sincere are they?
These are the sorts of agonizing questions which creep up on one (foreigner) here – I thought for a while that I had left them behind in America, but now I realize they follow me everywhere - I'm never sure what translates and what doesn't, what is said and not understood, what is left entirely unspoken, and of that what is determined by culture, which by choice and circumstance. What does the body language mean? What do big white smiles, or the utter lack of them indicate? In a culture where men hold hands, what does it mean when they do, or when they don't hold mine? Are they held back by their own knowledge of my culture and the wish to be sensitive, or by a simple lack of intimate feeling?
My role as a foreigner, unfamiliar with culture and language, requires me to be almost constantly, obscenely vulnerable, for me to throw myself out there with a kind of naïve earnestness which asks pardon for all the blunders I am no doubt committing, and the inadequacies I can not surpass. Consequently, I'm never quite sure if this display touches their own reserves of honest emotion, or if they just smile, when they smile, because I'm an odd American who speaks with an accent. Maybe I'm asking too much. Does he like me? Does he really like me? This is the way in which I become a twelve year old girl. Sheesh .
Anyway, the other night I returned to the bediya, from the garden after watering. I rode with them on the donkey cart (shareet) in the gathering dark. Our gardens are under the palm trees and in the setting sun, their tall, lolling silhouettes are just spell-binding. And the moon was out –it's waxing now- so all the world had an unearthly glow, the kind which makes one's skin look lime green. By the time we reached the bediya I was half asleep from the rocking warmth of the donkey cart, and so they plopped me down on the softly blanketed mat, and we rested under the vast canopy of stars until the milk came.
I drank a whole giant cup of sheep's milk and one of cow's, and then we ate cous-cous and meat from the platter. Since I cook for myself since coming to El Qidiya, I've forsaken my hands and have been eating with utensils (I managed to find both a fork and a spoon in this country) and so that night eating cous-cous was not exactly a welcome change but at least it felt like coming home to a spouse whom you know intimately, though dislike.
After dinner Jiddou and I walked back to the village. I protested that he needn't walk all that way but he said 'I am afraid.' I said, 'What are you afraid of?' He said, 'I am afraid you will be lost.' So we strolled together in the moonlight, walking by all the things we had passed on the way: the rocky plains; the poisonous 'baby-boabobs';
the weedy, wild-peanuts; the white horse. I wanted to ask him so badly about his family, about how he likes Mauritania (really), how he feels about how blacks are treated here, what he wants to do with his life, if he feels he can do anything or only some things. But my language still falters, and so we just murmured about sillyness, or were silent in the windy dark.
It's the day of All Saints, for whatever its worth. (These saints, all of them, what is it they supposedly do?)
Anyway, the other night I returned to the bediya. The sons, the grown ones of this family, primarily the two called Cheikh and Jiddou, whom I talk to the most, are my friends. At least, I think they are, though every time I see them and have a little visit, I am progressively more unsure. These invitations, are they sincere? If so, how sincere are they?
These are the sorts of agonizing questions which creep up on one (foreigner) here – I thought for a while that I had left them behind in America, but now I realize they follow me everywhere - I'm never sure what translates and what doesn't, what is said and not understood, what is left entirely unspoken, and of that what is determined by culture, which by choice and circumstance. What does the body language mean? What do big white smiles, or the utter lack of them indicate? In a culture where men hold hands, what does it mean when they do, or when they don't hold mine? Are they held back by their own knowledge of my culture and the wish to be sensitive, or by a simple lack of intimate feeling?
My role as a foreigner, unfamiliar with culture and language, requires me to be almost constantly, obscenely vulnerable, for me to throw myself out there with a kind of naïve earnestness which asks pardon for all the blunders I am no doubt committing, and the inadequacies I can not surpass. Consequently, I'm never quite sure if this display touches their own reserves of honest emotion, or if they just smile, when they smile, because I'm an odd American who speaks with an accent. Maybe I'm asking too much. Does he like me? Does he really like me? This is the way in which I become a twelve year old girl. Sheesh .
Anyway, the other night I returned to the bediya, from the garden after watering. I rode with them on the donkey cart (shareet) in the gathering dark. Our gardens are under the palm trees and in the setting sun, their tall, lolling silhouettes are just spell-binding. And the moon was out –it's waxing now- so all the world had an unearthly glow, the kind which makes one's skin look lime green. By the time we reached the bediya I was half asleep from the rocking warmth of the donkey cart, and so they plopped me down on the softly blanketed mat, and we rested under the vast canopy of stars until the milk came.
I drank a whole giant cup of sheep's milk and one of cow's, and then we ate cous-cous and meat from the platter. Since I cook for myself since coming to El Qidiya, I've forsaken my hands and have been eating with utensils (I managed to find both a fork and a spoon in this country) and so that night eating cous-cous was not exactly a welcome change but at least it felt like coming home to a spouse whom you know intimately, though dislike.
After dinner Jiddou and I walked back to the village. I protested that he needn't walk all that way but he said 'I am afraid.' I said, 'What are you afraid of?' He said, 'I am afraid you will be lost.' So we strolled together in the moonlight, walking by all the things we had passed on the way: the rocky plains; the poisonous 'baby-boabobs';
the weedy, wild-peanuts; the white horse. I wanted to ask him so badly about his family, about how he likes Mauritania (really), how he feels about how blacks are treated here, what he wants to do with his life, if he feels he can do anything or only some things. But my language still falters, and so we just murmured about sillyness, or were silent in the windy dark.
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