recess in mauritania

The volunteer knocked softly, unsure her polite raps would be heard over the chaotic din inside. To her surprise, the school yard door swung open immediately to reveal four wide grins in various stages of toothlessness. Smiling herself, she imagined a tooth fairy leaving ougiye coins under their matelas and made a mental note to try to import that bit of Americana to Atar. The boys – surprised in their own right, they were not expecting a nasraniye in a melifa – stepped aside in half-gawking wonder and let the young woman pass. Her veil fluttered in the winds pouring off the dunes and the sandy gusts left in the wake of sprinting children underfoot.

Cautiously, she approached the classroom which, during recess, served as a lounge for the female teachers. Although dressed in conservative Mauritanian clothing and decorated in gaudy Mauritanian jewelry – the epitome of integration! – she felt as protected in the hen house as an open sack of grain. Peeking in, she spotted Miriam. Miriam was appointed a “counterpart” in English, un homologue en français, a life line in the realm of Regis Philbins and million dollar games. In other words, a teacher specifically assigned to help the volunteer navigate the local language, culture, cuisine, educational system, eager tour guides and rock-tossing children. In two months, however, Miriam’s navigational help could be summed into one “how are you, how is the weather, how is [insert last year’s volunteer], why don’t you wear a melifa everyday, and I’d love to help but I’m so busy.” The volunteer was not entirely bitter, not entirely afraid, not entirely discouraged, but a noncommittal mix of the three.

She waved at Miriam and the other women, responded politely to the canned greetings – peace be with you, and with you, what’s new, nothing’s new, is there goodness, is there peace, yes nothing bad, there is goodness – and lingered long enough appear involved in their rapid-fire, i.e. unintelligible, Hassaniye conversation. After a few minutes of half-interested hovering, she opted for door number two, the director’s office.

There, scattered on the floor in boubous and collared shirts, she found the male teachers and the director. Some seated on the carpet, some propped against a wall, others on their backs entirely, the men were passing around bowls of cold zrig and loaves of fresh bread from the bakery. She had barely entered the room when the loungers, caught in casual if not compromising poses, began to clear their throats, collect their papers, and rise to greet the volunteer. Over the shuffling of boubous, she could hear one of the female teachers mutter through the wall.

“Hiye…[something]…rajil…[something].”

Although “she…[something]… man…[something]” should have been incomprehensible, the volunteer recognized it as a reprisal of last week’s dig: she thinks she is a man, snicker snicker. Resignedly, she accepted the strange truth that to choose work over gossip was to renounce her gender. She gathered her veil, slipped off her sandals, and entered the director’s office.

A chorus of salutations rippled through her male colleagues and she responded in kind, touching her hand to her chest to acknowledge each greeting. Out of the frying pan, she thought, and into the fire. Mauritanian men are friendlier, but sometimes treacherous in their cordiality. Unable to decipher potentially-loaded smiles or determine possibly left-of-center motives, she suddenly longed for the squawking hen house.

Between a visit from her program director the week before and hiking through dunes over the weekend, the volunteer had not visited the school in eight days. Already, a chasm of unfamiliarity had opened between her and the school director. Disapproval and distance flashed in his eyes as he mumbled a greeting and shifted his eyes to the floor, to his colleagues, and back to the floor. A Monday morning visit would have been impossible, she silently reasoned: she had been riding camels last night and a taxi brousse this morning. School had been first on her agenda, though, even before unpacking her sand-filled bags. Tuesday was not that much later than Monday, right? His shifting glances said otherwise. His shifting glances said, even if you came every morning, we’d still wonder where you were in the afternoon.

Eventually recess wound to a close. The teachers, both men and women, retreated to their classes, and the volunteer was left with her slighted director. He traded his place on the floor for a more dignified station at his desk. She sat opposite him and braved the topic she came to discuss in the first place.

“Mudiir,” she began. They always conversed in a mix of French and Hassaniye. “Je veux te parler de Miriam.” Director, I want to talk about Miriam. She recounted the failed attempts to garner an audience with her counterpart during Ramadan, during the elections, during her week-long headache. She didn’t want to be rude, but it was nearly December and half her projects had stalled in the wake of Miriam’s busy schedule. Slowly, the pinched line of his frown softened into comprehension, into concern. He too had noticed Miriam’s flagging work ethic. Had he been waiting impatiently for the volunteer to take action? Waiting knowingly for her to seek counsel?

“Shuuvi.” Look, he said. It’s simple: you tell her you want to begin your projects. If she wants to help, great. If not, she can step down as counterpart. She can’t hold the title without taking the responsibility.

“C’est tout?” It’s that easy? she asked reluctantly. “It’s not impolite?”

“Work is work. Work isn’t polite or impolite.”

The director went on to explain how pleased he was with the volunteer’s work, how motivated she was (despite counterpart-related delays), and how he was always available if she needed help or backup in this particular situation. She silently kicked herself for having waited so long to breach the subject. His candid advice at once eased her mind, authorized her to seek Miriam’s cooperation, and exonerated her week-long absence. Her thanks were genuine and profuse.

Suddenly, screaming. A woman stormed into the director’s office with the ear of a young boy in one hand, a belt in the other. Between the mind-boggling speed and ear-bruising volume, the volunteer understood nothing save the woman’s very apparent anger. The director, forever calm, assured her he would take care of it. “Whatever ‘it’ was,” the volunteer thought as the woman quit the office in a fury of fabric and curses.

“Wahaay.” Come here, he motioned to the trembling youngster.

The director commanded respect from behind his blue desk, but exuded compassion as he leaned over to rest his hands on the table, his chin on his hands. Now face to face with the boy, he whispered, “why don’t you want to come to school?”

Apparently, the boy had been caught truant by his reactionary mother, who had suggestively provided the director with a belt for any necessary disciplinary action. The boy’s eyes brimmed over with terrified tears, convinced he would face the leather before his lessons. To his surprise, the director hid the belt under the desk and offered a handshake instead. “Let’s agree,” he suggested “to come to school. I am your friend, right?”

Still in the gentle grip of their handshake, the boy reluctantly nodded at the director.

“And she,” pointing to the volunteer, “is your friend.”

She beamed; he nodded.

“Just like all the teachers here. Git-lak, tell me, do you have chalk and a writing board?”

The boy did not, so the director led him to the storage closet, provided him a clean chalkboard and fresh chalk, ruffled his hair and sent him to a classroom.

Words failed the volunteer. The director had empowered her against Mauritanian professional reluctance and stunned her (and the boy) with a compassionate authority. Feeling as if her hair had been gently ruffled too, she left the office, walked lightly across the school yard and thought simply,

“He is a good man.”

Can’t you smell that smell?

I am a bad volunteer. I left a kilo of tomatoes in the bureau. The hot, stinking bureau. For a week.

The fellow volunteers tried to help with a friendly reminder here, a text message there. And each time, I’d gasp, thank them profusely, and swear to remember the sack of what was becoming unidentifiable organic matter. And then, I’d promptly forget.

Today, someone (not me) finally chucked the sopping green bag outside. Although I scrubbed the carpet and apologized ad nauseum, the tomatoes stain my record. I am unreliable, forgetful, and now painfully aware of these shortcomings just three days before my APCD is scheduled to visit Atar.

Tomatoes have little to do with environmental education, but they are indicative of my harried state of mind. Juggling three schools, girl empowerment activities, ecoclubs, out-of-town seminars… Tyler suggested I cut back, better to do a few endeavors well instead of many less-than-well. I took his advice and promptly excluded breakfast, journal writing, leisure reading, and sleep from my schedule.

I have no idea if my APCD will appreciate, or even acknowledge, my cramped calendar. If all else fails, I’ll take him to the bureau. Work-induced madness and fatigue smells faintly of rotting tomatoes.