One of the kids

iddaar Teitta, muudet isshaab (in Teitta’s house, during the rain)

I have been a PCT (trainee, not yet illustrious volunteer, I sometimes forget) for exactly one month. The anniversary approached quickly and is passing pleasantly. Today, I manage to ignore the livestock alarm clock and sleep in until 7:15 – a lazy Saturday morning. I share biscuits and tea with Teitta before a quick bucket bath and a round of laundry. A shadow of my laundry-hating self in the States, I find laundry in Sabualla calming if not entirely enjoyable. A bucket of recycled bath water is my washing machine; my dryer is frayed and rusted wire strung up on fence posts. I absent-mindedly rub peanut soap into my clothes while the sunshine tans my forearms and warms the wash water.

“Khadijetou!” my mom bellows across the compound. Elbows in laundry suds, I shout back, “kbiire wella sqiire?” The big one or the little one? “Sqiire!” My little sister’s ears perk up and she shrieks out a “YAHHHHH??!?” which translates loosely to, yeah I’m here, what do you want? Teitta needs help burying the tent poles unearthed by last night’s storm. She clearly needs more help than my eight-year-old sister can provide and renews her request: “Khadijetou!” I know she means kbiire this time and I holler out a perfectly timed “YAHHHHH??!?” inspiring giggles from my family under the tent.

The tent repaired, the laundry hung, we sit on the platform enjoying an unusually cool breeze. Teitta turns toward the horizon and points. Her trademark gesture needs no vocal confirmation, but I wait for her to say it anyway. “Isshaab jaaye. Isshaab we irriyah.” Rain is coming. Rain and wind. Is it strong, I ask? She answers with a disinterested shrug which paradoxically calls the entire family to immediate action. Everyone not working in the fields begins preparing for the worst. After gerry-rigging a laundry line in my room, I join the pre-storm festivities. Preparations begin slowly, lazily, Teitta picking up a bowl here, Aicha tying down a string there. But as the storm approaches, we realize it is indeed mtiine, much stronger in fact than we realized. Not but a kilometer away, wind is kicking up walls of dust and the clouds look poised to dump on the arid landscape. Accordingly, our pace accelerates, children now racing through the compound, animals increasingly restless, the volume and urgency of Teitta’s commands rising, rising, rising. The drops begin to fall and wind whips the just moistened sand around our ankles, knees, hips… Now it’s a race against the elements. Can we tear down the tent, stuff the windows with empty rice sacks, herd the livestock and run inside before the downpour is no longer navigable?

Today, we just beat the rain. I giggle with my little sister and our cousins, all of us huddled under the half-disassembled khyme (tent), wrapped in a tattered melifa (full body veil) for warmth. Khadijetou sqiire opens her eyes wide and chatters her teeth for emphasis: “il baarid!!” It’s not cold, I challenge as I toss the melifa from my shoulders. The cousins stare in silent amazement, baffled at my arctic survival skills. I see Teitta poke her head out the door to witness the giggles and chatters and meteorological debate. The rain, now a light drizzle, drips from the door frame onto her braids, disheveled from the storm. As she ducks inside, I catch a smile. In it, I read a mix of “you crazy American, snickering with Mauritanian children in the rain” and “my kids, Muhammed Lemine, Muhammed, Hamoud, Jacob, Khadijetou kbiire and sqiire, all my kids are safe and happy.” It’s exactly the balance I want to strike.