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.

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.

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"

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.