1 Septembre 2006
More potent potables:
People always ask me what time it is, though absolutely no on has a
watch or a clock, nor does anything in this village happen at a
specific time. (Why do you care what time it is?) My kids are always
trying to read the time from my watch, but they literally couldn't be
more wrong if they had rolled their guesses on dice.
When children are sleeping and you want them to move, you pick them up
by one arm and one leg, and plop them down in another place. They
never wake up.
All the boutiques sell the same ten things: Sugar, tea, rice,
cigarettes, camel biscuits (like animal crackers), oil, candy,
peanuts, sandals and batteries.
People here listen to awful music. Crappy tape mixes of rave-style
club grooves, dated American ballads or terrible Senagalese drivel.
Almost no one knows how old they are, and the ones that say they do
are either estimating or just lying. Very few people were born in
hospitals, and there is no other record of their birth. Even taking
into account the age distorting effects of malnutrition, their guesses
about this are also laughably wrong.
Our courtyard is made of dirt, (it's literally the ground)
and yet they sweep it off every day with a little broom. They sweep
the dirt off of the dirt.
You knew this already, but women, and sometimes men, carry incredibly
huge things on their heads, and they never fall off. I have a picture
I'd like to post sometime, and the caption will be, "Excuse me,
there's a tree on your head."
I can't use anything in public without being asked for it. I have
currently been asked for such things as: a band-aid, some duct tape, a
bandanna, my sunglasses, paper, some Kool-Aide, a pen and a Q tip.
You can burp (modestly) in public, afterward saying simply, "Sahe" (health).
Many of the young boys get their heads shaved periodically, and I'm
not sure why. I think it has something to do with a weird head
ailment, either from bugs or malnutrition, and related to this - my
nephews usually have gross, scabbed over sores on their heads. It's
fucked.
Another sign of malnutrition is reddish tinged hair, which at least 2
out of 4 children in my village have.
No one likes dogs, and the people who keep them only do so for
protection and such, and they never go near them. This might be
because all the dogs are either recently descended from jackals, or are
actually jackals.
Speaking of such, the place occupied by wolves in all of our
fairy-tales, is occupied by hyenas in all of theirs. Hyenas haven't
lived in this area for decades, and that's lucky, because those things
are assholes.
It's not cultural, but I hate goats. Simple as that.
You can get children here to do any sort of manual chore for you, and
they love it. Now, I will never go to the boutique myself, if there is
a child around. I don't even have to know them. They're like robots.
Have I talked about the greetings yet? Suffice it to say that the
greetings are ubiquitous, long, manifold and repetitive. It's the
equivalent of a giant "How are you?"
in which the answer is always "Not bad (lebess), thank-god"
The hours between 12 and 4 pm are dead time. It's too hot to do
anything, and no one does.
Humor translates. Sarcasm is widely understood, and people are
delighted when I tell little jokes poking fun at one's physical and/or
mental characteristics, and/or comparing someone to one or more forms
of comical animal life. I am hilarious here.
You can pick your nose in public. And we do.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Les cadeaux
I haven’t posted recently because I've been in the middle of nowhere, in my village, trudging through the first few weeks of my actual service, in my actual site, and for the few days I've been in the regional city with internet, it doesn’t work. I'm leaving today, and it just started up again. Bastard.
Things are complicated and very different but fine. There aren't as many children here. I haven't been eaten. I'm supernaturally healthy, although I once again weigh about three pounds. I don't have time to type much of an entry, but maybe in two or three weeks when I return.
Requests:
Yellow legal pads of paper for writing. Not just one.
Staff paper (in a spiral bound notebook, preferably.) Tony, do you remember the kind I like?
Flash cards. Just the white index ones, with lines on one side, the other blank. Not the huge ones.
Sharpie markers. Both regular size, and the thin kind. Don't they make those?
Pencils (mechanical ones, unless you want to send a sharpener).
Pens Pens Pens. They have extremely short lives here- Pilot g2s, or other ones similar to that.
GOOD ziploc bags. Which is to say, actual Ziploc bags.
The individual servings of drink mixes. Lemonades (pink and otherwise) slay me.
Deodorant. (Old spice solids, are real troopers.)
Disposable razors.
LETTERS. What is wrong with you people? If you can't find time in your busy schedule to drop me a paper note, then send an email (coltonmackenzie@gmail.com)! If you haven't sent any yet, then shame on you. If I haven't gotten them because of the mail system, then - I love you, send more!
Mix tapes/CD's. I'm dying here with only two.
Spices for cooking. Save space by zip-loc bagging them, but cinnamon, basil, hot pepper flakes, cumin, Mrs. Dash-esque things, (they save time, though I feel they are below me), also seasoning mix packets like those for fajitas, chiles, lemon pepper chicken, and the like, which you see in big multicolored displays in the grocery aisles. You know the ones.
Again, these are only ideas intended for people who want to send things. I'm not begging, except about the letters.
Good will.
Things are complicated and very different but fine. There aren't as many children here. I haven't been eaten. I'm supernaturally healthy, although I once again weigh about three pounds. I don't have time to type much of an entry, but maybe in two or three weeks when I return.
Requests:
Yellow legal pads of paper for writing. Not just one.
Staff paper (in a spiral bound notebook, preferably.) Tony, do you remember the kind I like?
Flash cards. Just the white index ones, with lines on one side, the other blank. Not the huge ones.
Sharpie markers. Both regular size, and the thin kind. Don't they make those?
Pencils (mechanical ones, unless you want to send a sharpener).
Pens Pens Pens. They have extremely short lives here- Pilot g2s, or other ones similar to that.
GOOD ziploc bags. Which is to say, actual Ziploc bags.
The individual servings of drink mixes. Lemonades (pink and otherwise) slay me.
Deodorant. (Old spice solids, are real troopers.)
Disposable razors.
LETTERS. What is wrong with you people? If you can't find time in your busy schedule to drop me a paper note, then send an email (coltonmackenzie@gmail.com)! If you haven't sent any yet, then shame on you. If I haven't gotten them because of the mail system, then - I love you, send more!
Mix tapes/CD's. I'm dying here with only two.
Spices for cooking. Save space by zip-loc bagging them, but cinnamon, basil, hot pepper flakes, cumin, Mrs. Dash-esque things, (they save time, though I feel they are below me), also seasoning mix packets like those for fajitas, chiles, lemon pepper chicken, and the like, which you see in big multicolored displays in the grocery aisles. You know the ones.
Again, these are only ideas intended for people who want to send things. I'm not begging, except about the letters.
Good will.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Baby Steps
Baby Steps, A New Post that was written but never posted, has been added under July 5th in the archives. Click on the title to read it, becuase it's a gem!
TLAs (Three Letter Acronyms)
Hello everyone! I hope you're all enjoying reading my posts, or that you at least feel like you're somewhat informed about what's happening in my life right now.
Also, because Peace Corps is a government agency, and as such, the language of its operation is riddled with acronyms and proprietary lingo, here's a little guide for any and all of you who have been confused by their use.
Bureaucracy--
PC: Obviously, Peace Corps.
CD: Country Director. The American head of Peace Corps in a specific country. Everyone's boss basically. Ours happens to be Obie Shaw, and he's just swell.
APCD: Assistant Program Country Director, (or something) Basically these are the heads of the particular programs of Peace Corps in a country, and ours are all Mauritanians. Mine happens to be Aw, and he's quite wonderful too.
Peace Corps Programs-
SED/ICT: Small Enterprise Development/Internet Something Technology
ED: Education
Health: Health
Agfo/EE: Agroforestry (that's what I am) and Environmental Education. EE works in the schools, and just for kicks, we call them Agfo-lite.
Regional Capitals-
Tijikja, Kaedi, Aleg, Atar, Nouadibou, Bogue, Rosso, Kiffa and others which no one cares about. These are the "big cities" in each of the regions of the country (aka territories), where there is usually a Peace Corps "office" (a room with a computer) and markets where you can buy the same crap you can in any other part of the country.
Languages--
Hassaniya (a dialect of Arabic), Pulaar, Soninke and Wolof. And French.
Language Facilitators: Our language teachers, who live in the village with us, and in whose house we have class each day.
Miscellaneous--
Sat Phones: Satellite phones, given to volunteers in places which don't have Reso. Don't ask me how they work.
Reso: from the French (and English) word Resolution, which is how they describe cell phone service. It's the bars on your phone.
Taxi Brousse: How everyone in the country gets from place to place. Its a car, into which they cram as many people as possible.
ET: Early Termination. When someone who is ill, disillusioned, or of a weak and inferior character quits Peace Corps before their service is over.
MedSep: Medical Separation. When you are terminated because you are really fucking sick. Or you broke your head.
AdminSep: Administrative Separation. When you are terminated because you did something very wrong.
HCN: Host Country Nationals, otherwise known as the people of Mauritania. But I find this phrase so robotic, I promise never to use it.
The Lycee: The Lycee is the place which is our home base during 'stage' (the training period which we've just completed). It's actually a school during the rest of the year, (hence the name, Lycee is (one of) the French words for school) for the students from the surrounding villages who are able to go. It's analogous to high-school.
Host villages/Families: the villages/families in whose beneficence we have lived the past few weeks, when not at center/lycee, and with whom we eat, speak language, and spend hours languishing in the heat.
PCMO: Peace Corps Medical Officer. The person who is paid to take care of us when we become sick, and who lives in this hell-hole of a country with us.
Well there's a lot more, but that's a start.
Also, because Peace Corps is a government agency, and as such, the language of its operation is riddled with acronyms and proprietary lingo, here's a little guide for any and all of you who have been confused by their use.
Bureaucracy--
PC: Obviously, Peace Corps.
CD: Country Director. The American head of Peace Corps in a specific country. Everyone's boss basically. Ours happens to be Obie Shaw, and he's just swell.
APCD: Assistant Program Country Director, (or something) Basically these are the heads of the particular programs of Peace Corps in a country, and ours are all Mauritanians. Mine happens to be Aw, and he's quite wonderful too.
Peace Corps Programs-
SED/ICT: Small Enterprise Development/Internet Something Technology
ED: Education
Health: Health
Agfo/EE: Agroforestry (that's what I am) and Environmental Education. EE works in the schools, and just for kicks, we call them Agfo-lite.
Regional Capitals-
Tijikja, Kaedi, Aleg, Atar, Nouadibou, Bogue, Rosso, Kiffa and others which no one cares about. These are the "big cities" in each of the regions of the country (aka territories), where there is usually a Peace Corps "office" (a room with a computer) and markets where you can buy the same crap you can in any other part of the country.
Languages--
Hassaniya (a dialect of Arabic), Pulaar, Soninke and Wolof. And French.
Language Facilitators: Our language teachers, who live in the village with us, and in whose house we have class each day.
Miscellaneous--
Sat Phones: Satellite phones, given to volunteers in places which don't have Reso. Don't ask me how they work.
Reso: from the French (and English) word Resolution, which is how they describe cell phone service. It's the bars on your phone.
Taxi Brousse: How everyone in the country gets from place to place. Its a car, into which they cram as many people as possible.
ET: Early Termination. When someone who is ill, disillusioned, or of a weak and inferior character quits Peace Corps before their service is over.
MedSep: Medical Separation. When you are terminated because you are really fucking sick. Or you broke your head.
AdminSep: Administrative Separation. When you are terminated because you did something very wrong.
HCN: Host Country Nationals, otherwise known as the people of Mauritania. But I find this phrase so robotic, I promise never to use it.
The Lycee: The Lycee is the place which is our home base during 'stage' (the training period which we've just completed). It's actually a school during the rest of the year, (hence the name, Lycee is (one of) the French words for school) for the students from the surrounding villages who are able to go. It's analogous to high-school.
Host villages/Families: the villages/families in whose beneficence we have lived the past few weeks, when not at center/lycee, and with whom we eat, speak language, and spend hours languishing in the heat.
PCMO: Peace Corps Medical Officer. The person who is paid to take care of us when we become sick, and who lives in this hell-hole of a country with us.
Well there's a lot more, but that's a start.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
A Sermon and The Gift Of Green
30 Aout 2006
Our trees have all flown the coop.
Two nights ago, we gave them to the women of the garden cooperative,
and in fact anyone else who wanted one, to plant and take care of
themselves after we have left M'Beidia this coming Monday. The day
before, we had given demonstrations about different tree - related
topics. Mine was about live fencing (why and how). Sarah did a
demonstration about how to transplant the tree seedlings from the
cozy, cylindrical bags of black plastic in which we planted them as
seeds, into the cold, hard actual earth.
Anyway, the next day we set up station in the garden, or rather sat on
the ground by our tree nursery, garage-sale style, as the women
eventually, and inevitably, swung by.
It was strictly first come, first serve, as we had neither the time,
language ability, or foresight to find cozy homes for the trees before
then. This would have been the best chance for their survival -
because what inevitably happens when free things are being given away
here is the same thing that happens when free things are being given
away all over the world - people want them, regardless of whether or
not they really want them. And if they don't care enough
about the tree to keep it alive, it will die. This is the desert.
That's the thing about development work that people (including myself
before I came here) don't understand. If you come into a community,
plop down money, tools and supplies, maybe build a well or two, those
things will probably be broken, squandered, pilfered or just gone
inside of two years. Not because of any societal or other flaws, but
because of the flaws which everyone is prey to, and which are part of
the integral tapestry of humans everywhere.
I keep thinking that the only difference (really) between American
society and this one, is that Americans are richer. It sounds
simplistic, but if people from an über-society, like say, Sweden (or
Saturn) came to America and started telling us how we could make our
society better, how we could have 100% literacy, and sustainable
energy and a living minimum wage, some people would probably be all
gung-ho and work with them, but many would naturally be despondent,
and be all like "I've got a barbecue, central air, and B average kids.
I'm good."
The same thing here: people seem happy for the most part, they've got
plenty of soccer and rice, and all that tea... Change is hard, change
works against the laws of (physical and) social inertia. But free
things aren't change. (I'm almost done preaching). Free things are
this fantastic invention wherein one gets something for nothing. Which
brings me back to the trees.....
We actually heard this conversation:
First woman - (who had just taken a tree) "Hey, do you want a Moringa?"
Second woman - "Yeah!... What's a Moringa?"
Anyway, Moringa and Tedum (Baobob) turned out to be the sexiest of the
seedlings, with their lusty green leaves, and when they were gone (I
barely got to save one Baobob for the Imam) the women cannibalized the
rest - a few lonely Tamarind Indicus and Jujubes. These people go
crazy over free stuff.
All in all, it was both not as good and not as bad as it could have
been. And if nothing else, we got to repay a few people for their many
kindnesses over these weeks, and their patience, and their overall
goodness, with TREES. What better gift is there?
Plus, earlier that day, as I scrubbed my clothes near the garden well,
2 boys came over wanting a few seedlings.
"Do your mothers want trees?" I asked.
"Yes"
"Do you know how to plant them?"
"Yes."
But I'm not stupid - people here answer 'yes' no matter the question,
so we sat there for ten minutes in the mid-day sun as I struggled
through the instructions in Hassaniya, and they bobbed their heads
like little dolls. As I sent them on their way, I had second thoughts
about giving trees to children, but then I realized that they are just
as likely, if not more, to listen to me than the adults are.
And that's that.
Our trees have all flown the coop.
Two nights ago, we gave them to the women of the garden cooperative,
and in fact anyone else who wanted one, to plant and take care of
themselves after we have left M'Beidia this coming Monday. The day
before, we had given demonstrations about different tree - related
topics. Mine was about live fencing (why and how). Sarah did a
demonstration about how to transplant the tree seedlings from the
cozy, cylindrical bags of black plastic in which we planted them as
seeds, into the cold, hard actual earth.
Anyway, the next day we set up station in the garden, or rather sat on
the ground by our tree nursery, garage-sale style, as the women
eventually, and inevitably, swung by.
It was strictly first come, first serve, as we had neither the time,
language ability, or foresight to find cozy homes for the trees before
then. This would have been the best chance for their survival -
because what inevitably happens when free things are being given away
here is the same thing that happens when free things are being given
away all over the world - people want them, regardless of whether or
not they really want them. And if they don't care enough
about the tree to keep it alive, it will die. This is the desert.
That's the thing about development work that people (including myself
before I came here) don't understand. If you come into a community,
plop down money, tools and supplies, maybe build a well or two, those
things will probably be broken, squandered, pilfered or just gone
inside of two years. Not because of any societal or other flaws, but
because of the flaws which everyone is prey to, and which are part of
the integral tapestry of humans everywhere.
I keep thinking that the only difference (really) between American
society and this one, is that Americans are richer. It sounds
simplistic, but if people from an über-society, like say, Sweden (or
Saturn) came to America and started telling us how we could make our
society better, how we could have 100% literacy, and sustainable
energy and a living minimum wage, some people would probably be all
gung-ho and work with them, but many would naturally be despondent,
and be all like "I've got a barbecue, central air, and B average kids.
I'm good."
The same thing here: people seem happy for the most part, they've got
plenty of soccer and rice, and all that tea... Change is hard, change
works against the laws of (physical and) social inertia. But free
things aren't change. (I'm almost done preaching). Free things are
this fantastic invention wherein one gets something for nothing. Which
brings me back to the trees.....
We actually heard this conversation:
First woman - (who had just taken a tree) "Hey, do you want a Moringa?"
Second woman - "Yeah!... What's a Moringa?"
Anyway, Moringa and Tedum (Baobob) turned out to be the sexiest of the
seedlings, with their lusty green leaves, and when they were gone (I
barely got to save one Baobob for the Imam) the women cannibalized the
rest - a few lonely Tamarind Indicus and Jujubes. These people go
crazy over free stuff.
All in all, it was both not as good and not as bad as it could have
been. And if nothing else, we got to repay a few people for their many
kindnesses over these weeks, and their patience, and their overall
goodness, with TREES. What better gift is there?
Plus, earlier that day, as I scrubbed my clothes near the garden well,
2 boys came over wanting a few seedlings.
"Do your mothers want trees?" I asked.
"Yes"
"Do you know how to plant them?"
"Yes."
But I'm not stupid - people here answer 'yes' no matter the question,
so we sat there for ten minutes in the mid-day sun as I struggled
through the instructions in Hassaniya, and they bobbed their heads
like little dolls. As I sent them on their way, I had second thoughts
about giving trees to children, but then I realized that they are just
as likely, if not more, to listen to me than the adults are.
And that's that.
L-I-F-E
28 Aout 2006
...And then, a wedding.
We had three days of celebrating recently, because of a wedding which
took place in a house next to ours. In fact, where the actual
'ceremony' happened, or even if there was such a thing, are questions
I can't answer. All I know is that the bride lives in the hut which
sits with its back to me whenever I'm out on my little porch, and the
people streamed through our streets each night, and ate mountains of
food under a tent during the day. Abu came back periodically with his
hand covered in rice. "What did you eat?" I asked him. He said, "Rice
and meat. And also milk."
I must be psychic, because somehow I knew that ......
The first night was the biggest (these things seem to slowly fizzle
out over time). There were big pots bubbling over glowing coals, and
smoke. There was singing and clapping, there were limbs and faces
glistening with sweat as the men danced in a circle by flashlight. I
abstained this time and only clapped, and tried to weave in and out of
the bodies without incident. At times like this one, it feels so
surreal here, as if its only a loud, smoky and impenetrable illusion,
and I am only a ghost.
Yet no matter what I feel about life here, which spans the range of
emotions from adulation to repulsion, I can always take joy in the
fact that children everywhere are basically the same. Two nights ago,
we sat on the hsera together and made faces at each other, by putting
our fingers in the various orifices of our heads and pulling. They
didn't do so bad, but I do a pretty decent saggy-eyed, snarling pig
snout if I do say so myself.
...And then, a wedding.
We had three days of celebrating recently, because of a wedding which
took place in a house next to ours. In fact, where the actual
'ceremony' happened, or even if there was such a thing, are questions
I can't answer. All I know is that the bride lives in the hut which
sits with its back to me whenever I'm out on my little porch, and the
people streamed through our streets each night, and ate mountains of
food under a tent during the day. Abu came back periodically with his
hand covered in rice. "What did you eat?" I asked him. He said, "Rice
and meat. And also milk."
I must be psychic, because somehow I knew that ......
The first night was the biggest (these things seem to slowly fizzle
out over time). There were big pots bubbling over glowing coals, and
smoke. There was singing and clapping, there were limbs and faces
glistening with sweat as the men danced in a circle by flashlight. I
abstained this time and only clapped, and tried to weave in and out of
the bodies without incident. At times like this one, it feels so
surreal here, as if its only a loud, smoky and impenetrable illusion,
and I am only a ghost.
Yet no matter what I feel about life here, which spans the range of
emotions from adulation to repulsion, I can always take joy in the
fact that children everywhere are basically the same. Two nights ago,
we sat on the hsera together and made faces at each other, by putting
our fingers in the various orifices of our heads and pulling. They
didn't do so bad, but I do a pretty decent saggy-eyed, snarling pig
snout if I do say so myself.
D-E-A-T-H
24 Aout 2006
We went to a funeral.
One of the old women who we interviewed recently, died the night
before last. I'm not sure why, I'm guessing old age, but she seemed
very healthy at the time. Still, the occurrence of any kind of medical
emergency here, like stroke, heart attack or knife-wound (it could
happen...) pretty much spells d-e-a-t-h. 'Cause whaddya gonna do?
Anyway, we glorious three, (no longer 4, now that Nene msheyt (left)
shewr Amerik and hamburgers) went over to the house to offer our
condolences. Nevermind that I didn't know the right Hassaniyan phrases
to use in such a situation. I never know what to say at funerals in
America (who does?) so there's no way I'm going to attempt something
like that in a language I've spoken all of a month and a half. So
instead I just sat there on the hsera beside Haddou, and tried to look
pensive in a melancholy way as he said a few things here and there. I
realized he's not much better at this that I.
Some of the men I knew (this was gender segregated grieving) from
sight, some I had never seen before. One had a big silver pinkie ring.
One had a giant goiter, self consciously covered, and spoke with
slurred speech. No one seemed that sad - there were no tears at all, at
least while I was there, yet neither was anyone overly exuberant (of
course not). All the emotions seemed somehow capped, or muffled. In
fact, it was exactly what I would have expected to see when someone of
a certain age dies for a certain reason in a society that sees all
events as the inevitable and inimitable will of God.
It's worth noting that I felt almost entirely comfortable, though
naturally somewhat out of place. Granted, I had Haddou as a buffer
against any unintelligible questions, (Poor Sarah - over there alone,
thrown to the wolves with all those chatty women) but still there was
something undeniably soothing about sitting on the mat under the Neem
tree, in the late afternoon, with a warm, easy breeze blowing, knowing
that it should feel so alien, and rejoicing that I think I could stay
here forever.
We went to a funeral.
One of the old women who we interviewed recently, died the night
before last. I'm not sure why, I'm guessing old age, but she seemed
very healthy at the time. Still, the occurrence of any kind of medical
emergency here, like stroke, heart attack or knife-wound (it could
happen...) pretty much spells d-e-a-t-h. 'Cause whaddya gonna do?
Anyway, we glorious three, (no longer 4, now that Nene msheyt (left)
shewr Amerik and hamburgers) went over to the house to offer our
condolences. Nevermind that I didn't know the right Hassaniyan phrases
to use in such a situation. I never know what to say at funerals in
America (who does?) so there's no way I'm going to attempt something
like that in a language I've spoken all of a month and a half. So
instead I just sat there on the hsera beside Haddou, and tried to look
pensive in a melancholy way as he said a few things here and there. I
realized he's not much better at this that I.
Some of the men I knew (this was gender segregated grieving) from
sight, some I had never seen before. One had a big silver pinkie ring.
One had a giant goiter, self consciously covered, and spoke with
slurred speech. No one seemed that sad - there were no tears at all, at
least while I was there, yet neither was anyone overly exuberant (of
course not). All the emotions seemed somehow capped, or muffled. In
fact, it was exactly what I would have expected to see when someone of
a certain age dies for a certain reason in a society that sees all
events as the inevitable and inimitable will of God.
It's worth noting that I felt almost entirely comfortable, though
naturally somewhat out of place. Granted, I had Haddou as a buffer
against any unintelligible questions, (Poor Sarah - over there alone,
thrown to the wolves with all those chatty women) but still there was
something undeniably soothing about sitting on the mat under the Neem
tree, in the late afternoon, with a warm, easy breeze blowing, knowing
that it should feel so alien, and rejoicing that I think I could stay
here forever.
Home economics
21 Aout 2006
Yesterday, I learned how to make tea. Or rather, at Sahaba's urging
(but gladly) I watched Fatimatou closely as she made it in a
demonstrative way, and helped a bit with the pouring. I think that's
the hardest part, it being necessary to mix, cool, and make-foamy the
tea, and to dignify its ceremonial aspect. Otherwise you're just
making tea all the damn time.
Sahaba is right though, I do need to learn how to make it for when I
go off on my own (what weird parallels are forming) so that I can have
guests and visitors, and all that good stuff. Tea drinking/making is
like THE lubricant of social intercourse in this country. It is
simultaneously the dinner by candlelight and the power lunch.
This being the case, it's a good thing I don't hate it, as do some of
my unfortunate counterparts, and in fact I've become slightly
addicted. The only bad thing about this is that tea has a way of never
being around when you want it, and then coming into existence when you
least expect it. As I'm walking out the door tea is being served. Tea
is being served at ten o clock at night. Tea by starlight.
At least 45 minutes is needed for all three rounds (usually much longer) and if you drink one, you may refuse the rest, but if you drink 2 you must have all 3 to avoid being rude. I say 'must' like I know, though I don't, because these are customs, and in the fashion of customs they fluctuate with circumstance and by region. And I say 'rude' by what is 'rude' when you, as a foreigner are running around being inadvertently rude all over the place. Let my respect for you shine through in other places. I am not going to miss class for your damn tea. I have it the same time every day - buy a watch bitches!
The newest amusement adopted by the kids on the path outside our hut
is the act of pushing giant, plastic yellow water jugs called bdewns
across the dirt. There was a whole line of them yesterday, first going
one way and then the other. At least one of the kids had no clothes
on. It makes a terrible racket. I think they're supposed to be cars.
Other things they play with include, but are not limited to: dirt,
dung, trash of various kinds, scrap metal, cans rolled on the ground
with a stick, dental floss, metal hoops, and live birds, swung by a
string tied at their leg (this last one, though incredible, is not
made up)
Halima came back from Kaedi with a bag full of goodies including
squeaky sandals and fried bread. The bread we chowed down on, in no
time it was gone, but the sandals started a bit of a circus. Joka
pranced around with them for a while, each step making a noise like a
dog toy, yet inevitably there ensued a circuit of fighting over the
sandals, throwing the sandals, beating others with the sandals, and
generally contributing to their immediate demise.
Meanwhile, I was trying to get Abu to buy me some chewing gum from the
boutique, but accidentally confused it with the adjacent word in our
make-shift, badly printed dictionary. There I was, saying " I want a
gun, do you understand? Here's 20 ougiyas, go buy me a gun! (Idiot)"
In other news, when the gum was finally, and without violence
attained, Abu wanted me to teach him how to blow bubbles. On his first
attempt, he ended up forcefully spitting his gum on the ground.
No worries baby, just brush it off and try again.
Yesterday, I learned how to make tea. Or rather, at Sahaba's urging
(but gladly) I watched Fatimatou closely as she made it in a
demonstrative way, and helped a bit with the pouring. I think that's
the hardest part, it being necessary to mix, cool, and make-foamy the
tea, and to dignify its ceremonial aspect. Otherwise you're just
making tea all the damn time.
Sahaba is right though, I do need to learn how to make it for when I
go off on my own (what weird parallels are forming) so that I can have
guests and visitors, and all that good stuff. Tea drinking/making is
like THE lubricant of social intercourse in this country. It is
simultaneously the dinner by candlelight and the power lunch.
This being the case, it's a good thing I don't hate it, as do some of
my unfortunate counterparts, and in fact I've become slightly
addicted. The only bad thing about this is that tea has a way of never
being around when you want it, and then coming into existence when you
least expect it. As I'm walking out the door tea is being served. Tea
is being served at ten o clock at night. Tea by starlight.
At least 45 minutes is needed for all three rounds (usually much longer) and if you drink one, you may refuse the rest, but if you drink 2 you must have all 3 to avoid being rude. I say 'must' like I know, though I don't, because these are customs, and in the fashion of customs they fluctuate with circumstance and by region. And I say 'rude' by what is 'rude' when you, as a foreigner are running around being inadvertently rude all over the place. Let my respect for you shine through in other places. I am not going to miss class for your damn tea. I have it the same time every day - buy a watch bitches!
The newest amusement adopted by the kids on the path outside our hut
is the act of pushing giant, plastic yellow water jugs called bdewns
across the dirt. There was a whole line of them yesterday, first going
one way and then the other. At least one of the kids had no clothes
on. It makes a terrible racket. I think they're supposed to be cars.
Other things they play with include, but are not limited to: dirt,
dung, trash of various kinds, scrap metal, cans rolled on the ground
with a stick, dental floss, metal hoops, and live birds, swung by a
string tied at their leg (this last one, though incredible, is not
made up)
Halima came back from Kaedi with a bag full of goodies including
squeaky sandals and fried bread. The bread we chowed down on, in no
time it was gone, but the sandals started a bit of a circus. Joka
pranced around with them for a while, each step making a noise like a
dog toy, yet inevitably there ensued a circuit of fighting over the
sandals, throwing the sandals, beating others with the sandals, and
generally contributing to their immediate demise.
Meanwhile, I was trying to get Abu to buy me some chewing gum from the
boutique, but accidentally confused it with the adjacent word in our
make-shift, badly printed dictionary. There I was, saying " I want a
gun, do you understand? Here's 20 ougiyas, go buy me a gun! (Idiot)"
In other news, when the gum was finally, and without violence
attained, Abu wanted me to teach him how to blow bubbles. On his first
attempt, he ended up forcefully spitting his gum on the ground.
No worries baby, just brush it off and try again.
Friday, August 25, 2006
El Qidiya
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.
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.
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.
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