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.