After a sleepless night and overly wakeful morning, I am possessed to express how thankful I am. Ironic, I know. This country has surely ruined the chemical processes in my head.
First, I have a house. Oddly enough, after four grueling days of hunting, I have a house. House hunting in Mauritania is much like that in the United States, except three magnitudes more difficult and no similarities. Think language barriers, the unshakeable label of wealthy tourist, a feeble volunteer salary, landlords who offer “Arabic lessons” or “lunch at my place” or yes even “a ride far out into the country to see some beautiful property,” unpatched walls, broken locks, flooded toilets, rotting window frames, rusted security grates, repairs totaling two years of living allowance, bleating goats, screaming children, and so on. The point is, that after four days of all this, I found a house. The same one that had caught my eye during site visit but was not good enough for me to commit. Now, with enough hunting experience to last me a decade, this compound is more than perfect. Situated just north of the town center, chez Ellen is not more than ten minutes walk to the market, the best restaurants (I’m so domestic, right?), the hospital (God forbid this proximity is useful), all the volunteers en ville1, and my newest and dearest friend Nouha (to be addressed later in this list of thankfulness).
My house is not really a house in the American, four-walls-and-a-roof sense; instead it is a compound: a large 25x40ft courtyard encased by hand-packed cement walls which form three “bedrooms,” a “kitchen,” a “shower,” and a “bathroom.” I employ the use of scare quotes for honesty and comedy. Not that the amenities themselves are scary, but their defining characteristics in this country are loose at best. The bedrooms are huge concrete boxes, about 10x15ish, some with windows at knee height, some not. All are outfitted with makeshift curtains left by the previous volunteer, squeaky ceiling fans (mashallah), and a pastel pink paintjob. The kitchen is a kitchen by virtue that it is half the size of a bedroom and was once used as a kitchen. There are no appliances or countertops or sinks or faucets, just four concrete walls, a metal shelf and a lightbulb. The shower (for which I’m largely thankful, even though I prefer bucket baths to showers) is another concrete box, half the size of the kitchen with a window that opens to the street and a door that opens to my courtyard. With both window and door propped open, the desert draft is delicious (if not alliterative) and makes for a refreshing rinse. The bathroom is up a crooked flight of stairs above the shower and consists of four low (chest-high) cement walls, a rickety wooden door heavy with decades of paint, and a flat ceramic basin with a hold embedded in the (you guessed it) concrete floor. It is actually swanky for third-world-Africa, and despite my comical contempt, I secretly love my kebine mshacshac (pronunciation: kuh bean ah im sha sha, translation: bling bling toilet). Easy to clean, easy to use, above nose height – I couldn’t ask for more. From the bathroom or the compound in general. I am unpacking my bags happily into one bedroom (three is so big!), making plans for vegetable gardens and flower beds, and falling in love with light pink. I am thankful and I am home.
Second, but extremely close, runner up on my list of blessings is the aforementioned Nouha. By whatever name you call a higher power, she is descended from him/her/them/it. Befriended by former Adrar volunteers, Nouha is gracious and hospitable by even Mauritanian standards (set quite high by my host family in Sabualla and my language facilitator Brahim). Take for example yesterday afternoon: Kristen and I dropped in on her unexpectedly just to say hello and return her phone call. Within ten minutes, we were surrounded by a mouthwatering spread of hot tea (she makes it more bitter than sweet, delicious), cool zrig (a local milk drink that she has perfected) and frozen balle bastiques (small plastic bags filled with frozen juice, this time sour baobab). The range of flavors and temperatures was exactly what our spirits needed to face the afternoon sun.
Before we left to brave the elements, Nouha extended her hospitality further and offered to accompany us to the market in the morning. This was an amazing offer for two reasons. First, I am my mother in that I hate going to the grocery by myself. Somehow, a trip up and down the aisles with list in one hand, cart in the other is not just tolerable, but enjoyable when with a friend2. Second, the market in Mauritania is intimidating. With a capital I. Hell, all the letters are capitalized. Imagine narrow streets lined with garbage, goats, and buildings so densely packed there isn’t room for an alley. Imagine concrete walls punctuated by filthy pastel painted metal doors, swinging haphazardly open, barely containing the wares spilling from within. Imagine ramshackle tables covered in meat covered in flies, ribbons of crusted dates hanging above boxes of bruised tomatoes, waves of plastic sandals cascading from under displays of dusty, repackaged water meters and rusty nails and pipe fittings and imported radios and unidentifiable cosmetics and half-used paint cans and barrels of engine oil later used for barrels of cooking oil and musty jeans in teetering piles and plastic cups and bowls and pitchers and makarej in colorschemes that would shame rainbows right next to the rancid meat... Imagine all these items hocked in one hundred plus degree heat in at least three different spoken (shouted) languages, all without a single price tag. This, my friends, is a trip to the grocery. May God lengthen your life, Nouha, for alleviating the terror that is the Atar market for a newly-arrived etrangere. No wonder the current PCV frequents the local restaurants for every meal.
We are scheduled to meet Nouha in an hour, when she can hopefully navigate the crowded passages, our strange shopping lists (who in this country buys more vegetables than rice?), and the inflated nasrani prices3. Glad to know I have someone to hold my hand through the process and a place to put my bags when I'm done.
1: En ville (in the city) as opposed to en brousse (in the bush), i.e. small villages 30-360 minutes outside of Atar proper. With five volunteers en ville and six en brousse, the conservative, dry (alcohol and humidity), very Muslim, marginally inhospitable Adrar region is Peace Corps Mauritania’s most popular destination.
2: In fact, some of my favorite memories occurred in grocery stores thanks to the exceptional company. Dragging Mom to Krogers (yes, I pluralized it) since we have nothing for dinner and Gerry will be home soon, either curious over bare shelves or pleasantly surprised by full ones.
Braving the evil that is Walmart with my beloved Frances for cocktail weenies (great with grape jelly!... or… ew) against our will at midnight the day before my going away party and everywhere else was closed, we swear!
Running to the tiny market near our flat on Rue St Jacques with Ciara to splurge on crabsticks, granola, strong mustard (the only kind worth buying comes from France), Boursin (Colleen, that’s for you) and coconut drink.
Giggling though a world flea market in Blue Ash, picking up items for a dinner Jonathan and I barely know how to cook, but damned if we won’t eat it on placemats with napkin rings at our brand new dining room table with a bottle of wine recommended by the Times.
The mayhem caused by my brother and I screaming down the aisles (screaming as in speed and volume); pushing each other into displays of toilet paper and coffee and peanut butter; slamming the cart into each other’s kankles until Dad takes the wheel; catching up on college life in Boston, Chicago, Paris, Pittsburgh (yes, this bedlam was perpetrated when we were college-aged); shouting bids at the cash register, groaning when our guess was over, rejoicing when we hit the total within cents, impressed with the cashier’s knack for the Price Is Right Thriftway-style…
So long as I had a shopping companion, I’d happily live my life out in strings of grocery store moments.
3: Nasrani means white person or Christian, nearly the same thing in Mauritania. Our skin color falsely indicates a ridiculously large sum of money in our wallets. If only the merchants knew we worked for free.
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