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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.