RIM VIPs

After a late dinner last night, the volunteers slugged back home, ready to crash. On the way back, Tyler’s curiosity was piqued by loud music and festive chants coming from a neighboring compound. He returned after a brief inspection: “it’s a dance party!” he told us, his revelation muffled as he pulled a boubou over his head and went for the door. I called after him to wait, yanked my melifa from my suitcase and wrapped it hurriedly around my shoulders as I followed him into the street. I chuckled to myself as we trotted down the alley toward the noise. Living life ten minutes at a time, I realized, made for crooked melifas but unforeseen adventures. It was a tradeoff I was willing to make as Tyler and I approached the throng of Mauritanians crowded at the party entrance.

Fearless, we pushed our way toward the door and were suddenly escorted to the front of the line and into the compound. Apparently the novelty of nasranis in local garb was the price of VIP admission. I tried to catch my breath as all five senses were throttled: the band amplified over bullhorns hung precariously from cockeyed posts; one hundred plus Mauritanians clapping, smoking, dancing, sweating, the scent of which was strong enough to taste; a colorful sea of heads veiled in wax print and tye dye melifas encircled by a mass of blue and white boubous; the bustling crowd enveloping Tyler and me… it was incredible.

My escort recognized someone in the mob and started a conversation in broken French, barely audible over the yips, yells and drumbeats. His friend led us toward the dance floor and its pulsing audience. He shouted in thick African French “you have to get closer to see!” I collected the folds of my melifa and shuffled deeper into the crowd. The women danced in their veils, seductively modest and stunningly beautiful. They were prey to their male counterparts flamboyantly flapping their boubous like great blue dancing vultures. I was so taken by this courtship that I forgot to notice my surroundings. Tyler was still by my side, but I, in my olive and plum melifa, was perched in a nest of blue boubous. I stammered a quick explanation and apology, stumbled into the now-unmistakable aisle segregating the men and women, and made my way toward the swarm of veils seated on the floor. The last thing I heard Tyler say was, “wow, you’re brave…”

I nestled myself between two women, gritted my teeth and greeted them in the clearest, loudest Hassaniye I could manage. Their reception was not immediate, nor was the conversation meaningful, but we did laugh and clap and cheer together. And it was wonderful. The obvious questions were asked and answered without episode: where are you from? Are you French? Do you like your melifa? And of course, is Atar/Mauritania/this dance party zeyn hatte? Wallahi, everything was very good.

We stayed until nearly midnight, refusing to leave until our eyes were closing, our chariots turning to pumpkins. Exhilarated, exhausted and dripping with sweat, we returned home, tiptoeing through the compound so as to not wake the other volunteers.