Clearance sales in Mauritania

I’ve discerned two possible paths for me in Atar. Either, I become a cold-hearted crone who trusts no one and assumes the worst. Or, I give people the benefit of the doubt and end up assaulted, mentally for sure, physically for maybe.

Already, I’m well on my way down the former path, having unsuccessfully tried the latter. The whole “come have tea with ‘my family’” or “I was good friends with the last year PCV, what’s-his-name” bit got old quickly, as did my strategy to ignore my better judgment and hope against logic that these invitations were well-intentioned. All I got by entertaining their lies and mine was a grave dug deeper by the day and an expanding list of numbers I wish Mauritel [Mauritanian phone carrier] would block.

Cultivating naiveté is apparently a group effort since the other husband-less female PCV is having similar issues. She entertained a string of meaningless ca vas with [insert her current stalker’s name] at lunch which quickly escalated to “bonsoir, bon appétit” at dinner. And four phone calls. And three text messages. And a picture message. And an invite to his butig. All this in the span of one day. And she has the luxury of being “married” (i.e. her fiancé in Brazil doesn’t mind posing as Mr. for her protection’s sake). Unfortunately, cordiality at lunch negates wedding vows, leaving her, me, anyone open to “special friend” propositions and private tutorials on the “secret night life of Mauritanians.” Be still my trembling heart, before these romantic gestures. Opportunistic cretins.

Even [insert established PC friend], who I thought generous, kind, aloof, even simple, is driven by his libido, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Apparently, I am in his heart night and day. Oh, except when he is trying to woo the other female volunteer in Atar. Right. The only thing restraining the blunt end of my rage is [insert established PC friend]’s singular status as peanut butter provider. If I find tigadiga (Pulaar for peanut butter) elsewhere in Atar, God help me, my wrath will be swift and unapologetic.

It’s not that I’m bent out of shape having to share his undying love; in fact, I’d love to distribute the weight of his passionate SMS confessions. No, it is the sad realization that what was once endearing, if a little obsessive is revealed to be the pathetic attempts of a Mauritanian player. J’ai ton nostalgie [sic]? Je veut etre a cote de toi toujours [sic]? Substandard pick-up lines in substandard French. A wise Chinguetti PCV said it best: “wish I had a department store wall to throw that against. No clearance sale in hell would make me buy that shit.”

Between disappointments with [insert established PC friend] and failed tea with [previously inserted tour guides], random harassment at school and in the street, my mind is closing and my eyes are opening; I’m ready for bandits and alert for scheming. And don’t you know, if you look for something intently enough, you’ll find it. That’s called self-fulfilling prophesies, folks. Or conspiracy theory paranoia. Or the first step on a long road to embittered skepticism. Welcome aboard.

Honestly, I don’t mind my heart turning malignant and black for now; my gangrene is my protection. But I do wonder: will this rot follow me across the Atlantic? Will my deliberate embrace of bitter now prevent the eventual purge in 2008? Will “normal” American gender relations be sufficient to thaw my anger? Or will every potential suitor be a [insert established PC friend] in disguise? Is this sour isolation par for the course for two years and beyond? …