im staying

in the doorway of beyti vi Sabualla

Today was a day of extremes. I realize I should expect as much, given my usual temperament and current location; regardless, my mood swings never cease to surprise me. Today, tired of learning, my site mates opted instead to complain. Never one to turn down an afternoon siesta, our facilitator was all too quick to consent. I took the break as an opportunity to bond with the girls, find commonalities, and commiserate if I could muster any misery. Despite my best efforts, it was a failed attempt. Sure, we laughed, recorded memorable quotes, shared similar motivations. But in the end, our brief moments of joy did not yield the lasting friendships I had originally hoped. I claim the failure as exclusively mine: I am too intent on finding goodness in unlikely situations, opportunity in suffering, motivation where there should otherwise be none. Unfortunately, my energy – fuelled no doubt by ridiculous naïveté and blind optimism, I know – is so quickly drained by those who would wallow in unfamiliarity and discomfort.

Dad used to say you always have two choices: stay or leave. I chose the latter...

Post-bitching session, then, I walked away. I could not bear anymore negativity. Dad used to say, “you always have two choices: stay or leave.” I chose the latter and, in the middle of a full-fledged sandstorm, ventured out on the dune to reflect. The violence of wind laden with fine particles was almost soft. I felt it whip around me, scrape my neck, irritate my eyes, and coat my skin. I felt the scorching sun muffled by thick clouds of dirt and sand and dust. I felt useless. Why was I here? Ten minutes before, I had vehemently defended the impact of Peace Corps, of developmental aid in general, of cultural exchange in a herding village in the middle of the Sahara… I had been so sure, but their criticisms became my doubt became daunting. Maybe they were right.

I placed my hand into the sand, sifted the granules through my fingers, and felt bitter… temporality, … cosmic insignificance, … obnoxious melodrama. My work here in Sabualla was temporary like my handprint and as inconsequential. Why was I here? In Sabualla? In Africa? In the universe? And why the hell had I already resorted to questioning the purpose of existence?!?! Aren’t these questions reserved for drama queens and second year volunteers?? Sigh. It felt so early to feel discouraged and Dad’s dichotomy appeared increasingly relevant.

My response came immediately, simply: walk away. Again. I returned to class, told the girls I was going to spend time with my family, and left my negativity in the dunes.

I was not in my room more than two minutes before Khadijetou sqiire popped her head in my window. Although I had deliberately closed myself in for some quiet (lonely?) reflection, her innocent, smiling curiosity reminded me of what I really needed: crayons. Not specifically crayons, but time with people, little people, Mauritanian people, understanding and patient and generous and loving and laughing people. People like my family in Sabualla. I threw open my door and called in Khadijetou sqiire and my little three-year-old brother Muhammed to color with me on the concrete floor. American crayons, Mauritanian paper, cross-cultural giggles. Immediately cheered, I vowed that this would be the first and last time I lock my family out.

Later in the evening, I was skimming my cultural manual, searching for previously missed tidbits, newly relevant passages, and much-needed advice. Nestled in an academic analysis, I found my tidbit, my motto, my answer.

In a study about how different cultures perceive and use time, Edward Hall compared two systems: monochromic time and polychromic time. Americans operate according to monochromic time, or m-time; culturally, we strive for methodical completion of identifiable, individual goals. By this perception, time is a commodity that should not be wasted. In p-time culture, e.g. Mauritania, several goals can be achieved simultaneously, seeming haphazardly, with allowance for tangents and interruptions. Of course, this study is intended to warn volunteers: your Mauritanian colleagues might be late and seem unfocused; this is a question of culture, not manners. But I found a more valuable take home point in the text: for members of p-time cultures, “their involvement in people is the very core of their existence.”

Indeed.

That is my answer. That is why I’m here. In Sabualla, in Africa, in – melodrama be damned – the universe. To connect, to share, to talk, to exchange, to love. It is the core of my existence. The involvement in people is the very core of my existence. I sat back, pleased to have found the meaning of life so succinctly articulated. I expect it to buoy my spirits during the next two years of reflective sandstorms.

Which brings me to now, writing this wordy, weighty journal entry. The moon has not yet risen so each star shines brilliantly against the black sky. I drift toward unconsciousness tonight knowing that around each star might be a planet, whirling and bustling, full of beings for whom involvement in “people” (I use the term loosely) is the very core of their existence. We are thus connected, sharing interstellar ambitions, idealism and hope. May the universe bless us, volunteers, trainees, and Mauritanians alike; we are in this together.