hyaati vi sabualla

Sabualla, beyti (my room)

So much to write, so little energy. I took a quick and dirty ride down the route d’esprit (i.e. the highway from Nouakchott to Aioun, in between lies Sabualla) with thirteen other people. We only fit in one car because Kristin Morella and I laid across the trainees laps. As we sped over the paved terrain, I saw the world flash behind me in delayed moments of discovery. The upright trainees gasped in horror as the driver wrecklessly dodged herds of clueless camel; I stared at the back window until I saw the scene unfold ten seconds later. It was a bit surreal but enjoyable nonetheless.

One by one, the trainees unloaded at their respective sites until Donna, Erin, Ginger and I remained, the four of us on the no-longer-paved road to Sabualla. Brahim, our facilitator, received us at a tent in front of his house, as did a chicken who thought it proper to poop on the sra (floor mat) to signal our arrival. We muddled though as much Hassaniye as we knew (basically a “hello” and “peace be to you”) and listened in awe to the chorus of mumbled “lebaas” and “mashallahs” and countless other foreign salutations that flew from the lips of these Moor women. When Mauritanians say hello, they essentially murmur dozens upon dozens of greetings and return appropriate stock responses, without really listening. This process can take several minutes, or longer, if the weather is especially hot, the question especially urgent, or the PCT especially tired. In this instance, the greeting was absolutely interminable.

I was paired with Teitta (Mint Buedio? I think? I should really learn my new last name…), the most immediately welcoming of the homestay moms. She immediately took my hand, greeted me for a few minutes and shared my nervous laughter. Sitting under the tent, the Mauritanian women began rechristening us with Hassaniye names, now newly “minted” into their families (mint translates to daughter). Donna became Aichetou, Erin Miriam, Ginger Zeynabou, and me Khadijetou. I learned soon after that I shared a name with my little sister, making me Khadijetou kbiire (big) and my new sibling Khadijetou sqiire (small). Alternatively, my homestay mom calls me Khadijetou beydha (white) and her Khadijetou hamra (red).

After being shown my room, a concrete box with a decent paint job, and the latrines, a concrete box with no roof and a hole, Teitta took me to a communal room and we began an extensive vocabulary lesson. Objects like gethe (bowl), kuwe (window), and muus (knife) were pointed at, thrown around (literally), named and repeated. I learned countless body parts, much to the delight of umti (my mom) and her sisters, and even managed to remember some verbs. It was wonderful if overwhelming.

When lunch came, I ate with Khadijetou sqiire while umti Teitta looked on. Knowing the Mauritanian propensity to overfeed house guests and especially small framed foreigners, I ate as slowly as I could and used a new vocab word to signal I was full: kaavi (enough). Teitta helped me wash my hands (always once before and once after the meal), giving me the impression that eating was a fait accompli (done in snooty French). Imagine my surprise when she placed a second dish between us to share… Luckily dinner and breakfast are light meals: bosi (cous cous in milk) and nshe (millet cereal in milk) respectively. I think I could adjust to the afternoon smorgasbord.

At 4pm, the PCTs trekked to Brahim’s house for our first language session, during which we four displayed varying levels of linguistic capacity and environmental resilience. Suffice to say that I am elated and was able to tell my family as much in their native tongue! Teitta is singular in her attention and care, talking to me constantly, bedecking me with gifts (a pair of earrings right from her ears!), and tirelessly reviewing vocab. The other familes, by comparison, seem inaccessible, leaving the other trainees isolated and unhappy. My excitement, therefore, was neither well received nor contagious during these first few days. I’ll remain cheery regardless, in the off chance that eventually I’ll wear off on my site mates. And because I am just cheery. Permanently so, if only because I actively decided to be.

Despite my optimism, I am currently suffering my first illness of stage. Not too bad (yet, knock on wood) but I feel conspicuous using the latrine so frequently when my family ostensibly never does. I should try to sleep it off (aane ndur nurgit) but will write more soon.

[retrospective update: The communal room where I was first introduced to my family and Hassaniye is actually my family’s bedroom, although no one sleeps there unless it is raining too hard to sleep outside.

Umti actually means your mom; possessives are near impossible to learn and teach without a common language. Imagine Teitta and I in a room. She points to my hand and says “your hand.” I hold up my hand, look at it quizzically, and repeat, “your hand.” Teitta is so proud that I learned the word for hand, she lets the mislabelled possessive slip. And so on. Every body part I learned was “yours:” your head, your hand, your foot…

Oh, and after ten weeks of language training, I have no idea what a gethe is. I don’t think it is a bowl… Riveting details, I know.]