Can’t beat a Mauritanian sunrise

Day two of Ramadan. My alarm pierces the morning, the peace and near quiet, my sleep. In my half-consciousness, I remember: today is Ramadan. I am fasting from sunup to sundown. Must get up. If I am going to eat before 7pm tonight, must… get… up… I reach over and hit the snooze button.

Ten minutes later. Alarm shrieks out in what is no longer silence. Are those roosters crowing?! I am awake this time and in a semi-panic: must beat the sunrise! I plod sleepily but smartly across the roof in the dark, stumble down the steep concrete stairs to my compound and crash into the rusted metal door below. Silently, I curse the side effects of my malaria prophylaxis (god-awful balance and a strangely metallic taste on my tongue) and push my way into the compound. I scan the courtyard for a gas burner I borrowed from Tyler and realize I can see it by my bedroom door. By the faint light of the rising sun. Must. Beat. The. Sunrise.

I lug the stove into the kitchen and frantically measure out powdered milk, millet, water, strike match, light stove, burn the fine hair of my knuckles, drop lit match on floor, appreciate the layer of sand that extinguishes the flame, wait for water to boil, wait, wait, wait, duck my head out the rickety wooden door, contemplate time travel versus cheating on Ramadan, cook, stir, cook, burn hands on pot, slop porridge in cup, climb to the roof, sit down with still boiling liquid, prepare to chug. By this time, the sunrise is more than threatening; it is imminent, beckoned by the city’s resident flock of screaming roosters. The clouds, once inky black, become navy, drink my cereal, indigo, drink, royal blue, drink, drink, slate blue with the inkling of a golden sun, drink, finished.

I sit on my roof with my empty tin cup and a belly full of nshe watching – now leisurely – the clouds part to reveal a pale blue sky. The silhouette of mud brick houses assume their ruddy brown color in the new sunlight, the uniformity broken only by satellite dishes perched on roofs, brilliantly white and modern by contrast. Black feathery shadows of date palms in the distance breathe to life, increasingly green against the backlit plateaus. I am not from Kansas, but this is like emerging from Dorothy’s house, a Technicolor Atar.

I want to retrieve my journal and document this moment, but I can’t bring myself to walk downstairs and miss a moment of the sky’s palette shift. What is a perfectly accurate journal entry worth compared to a few more moments of early morning calm? It is the second time I hit my snooze button.

As I write these words (the pen and paper finally called me from my roof), the clouds continue to roll in. They are increasingly thick, blotting out the rocky formations that surround the city, then the outskirts of town, then the date palms a few blocks away. A small plastic bag blows overhead, higher than the flocks of agitated pigeons, and lazily rides an air current across the city. It’s unnaturally bright blue color fades in the dusty haze, falling victim to the incoming sandstorm. I squint my eyes against the gritty diamonds of sand kicked up in the gusts. My pen begins to crackle against the sand on my journal pages, and I realize it’s time to go inside. Already, I see the mountains coming back into relief a few kilometers out; the storm shouldn’t be long. Although my morning on the roof is cut short, I am thankful. Without this sandstorm to blot out the sunrise just a half hour ago, I would have never had enough time to cook and eat my breakfast. Seems as though, mercifully, nature has a snooze button of her own.