patient lambs don't understand foreign sympathy

Khayme in Sabualla

I find that every moment here is full, if not with activity, then with survival. My hours here in Sabualla are spent sleeping (uneasily thanks to the barnyard cacophony), eating (copiously thanks to my mom’s exaggerated conception of my stomach), and studying (futilely thanks to what seems like painfully slow progress). I am nailing vocab with my family and grammar with Brahim, but so seldom do they intersect successfully. I did, hoever, understand an entire conversation last night from beginning to end. Ironically enough, they were discussing my relative faculties in foreign languages. Although I understand French and some visitors at our compound speak it, we all stick to Hassaniye. It’s just as well; I need the practice.

I am rather happy here: healthy, well fed, learning much… but today is perfectly Mauritanian, i.e. paradoxical. My family had enough financial resources to buy a mango for lunch, but not enough to feed a small lamb that was born just this afternoon. The little guy searched for teats on my hands, knees and stomach before it gave up and collapsed on the matela (floor cushion). No one gives it milk or water or attention. I think I’m watching it wither and die in the Saharan heat. I don’t know what to do with this reality, other than accept it as a useful lesson on survival in Africa. It is tenuous at best, heart wrenchingly cruel at its worst. I don’t think I’ll write about this anymore.

[retrospective update: The lamb was not starving to death, but just waiting for his mom to return from the pastures. It was actually a heart warming (not wrenching) reunion to witness: lamb tied to the tent pole bleating frantically, mother sheep responding in kind running toward her new baby with milk and nuzzles. What was I writing about patience earlier…?]