Vultures in boubous

I start Wednesday morning bright and early, not to meet a teacher, not to type a report, not even to check email. My early rising inspiration: grits. Buttered, peppered, cooked and devoured with my site mate K. Delicious.

I am interrupted mid-spoonful by a phone call. My stomach sinks: it is Saad ould Yaya, a morning meeting absent-mindedly scheduled and entirely eclipsed by the prospect of grits. In other words, I forgot. In other other words, doh. I beg forgiveness, reschedule, and regret indebting myself to this Yaya.

I reap my forgetfulness at four o'clock, at which hour the heat distorts your peripheral vision and the asphalt bakes feet through flimsy sandals. Saad arrives in an uncharacteristically Mauritanian ride: shiny, undented finish, air conditioner, power windows. I climb in, happy to cease melting on the cool, leather seat covers. He drives to Azougi where we talk in his swanky auberge bungalows. His French is impeccable, his hospitality professional. Sipping cold water and hot tea, he gushes forth with inspiring Peace-Corps-speak, e.g.

"dynamism and enthusiasm are the motors that will transform Mauritania," "if you knock on every door with hope, eventually one will open," and "you may not have a budget, but your energy is means enough to change people's minds."

Cheesy, but still proves that he understands volunteer mentality, a rarity in country. Saad wants to help with my Half Marathon next year, wants to make it organized, professional, a grand event.

Halfway through the meeting, he stands up from the table and lies on the floor. I was uncomfortable in the chair, he explains. His oily smirk asks the question before his voice does: "would you like to join me?" Reluctantly, and several feet away, I sit on the floor. Saad launches into a convoluted speech that can be summed in one breath: "I don't do administration, funding or details, only ideas, and don't think about collaborating with anyone else who might do administration, funding or details, because then you will be unlawfully sharing my ideas." What ideas, might you ask? The idea to do a marathon, to ask people to show up in Atar and run in the desert, to give them water at pit stops along the course, to time them and congratulate them at the end. You know, all the ideas I already implemented the first marathon a month ago. Ideas my predecessor implemented the year before. Ideas which now, apparently, are trademarked by Saad and the Auberge Oued Illij. Right.

Afterward, we tour his auberges, under construction but already showing great promise: beautiful stone inlays, blossoming bougainvilleas, slate pathways curving around young palms, and an incredible panoramic view of the Azougi plateaus. His generosity moves him to offer a discounted price to my future visitors. No admin or details, but he'll cut a few bucks off a room. I thank him and take my leave.

The next day, I am at Ecole 3. My friend Nouha saunters in, interrupting a clipped greeting with an accusation-cum-question, "where were you last night?" My larium memory stumbles, but eventually I remember my meeting. She has but one word of advice: "dangereux." I shoot a confused glance at my director who smiles and calls me to his desk.

"This man is… he is a, a bird," he explains in hesitating French. "You know the birds that fly in a circle, the ones that eat…"
"Carcasses?" I chime in.
"Yes! Or, or, even, who look for small birds. They wait till the birds fall…"
"From the air?"
"No… they are…" he flutters his eyes and clutches his heart. "They fall…"
"In love?"
"Yes! Or maybe they trust this big bird, who waits, he circles round, and then…" he snatches an imaginary bird from the air and devours it. I mock a gasp and he shakes his head solemnly.

I believe we call those birds vultures. Ironic, since my naïveté eight months ago evoked similar imagery of boubous descending on flocks of melifas. My director's advice dully noted, I set Saad ould Yaya's number to a silent ring tone and went about my small bird ways.

Raas-ik digdag

I forget things. I tried to explain myself on arrival to my Mauritanian colleagues and American site mates. I did not mince words: If I schedule ten meetings with you, I will forget three and arrive late to at least four more. Those are the odds, and I'm sorry in advance. "Don't be silly," they all laughed. "You are a super volunteer, together, responsible, dependable." I simply shook my head and braced for the inevitable.

Yesterday, I was in the Ecole 3 director's office, chatting, wrapping up a meeting. Because my hours are not fixed, I usually let him know when I'll stop in next. Sometimes next week, sometimes tomorrow, occasionally later the same day. As I left his office, I called out "à dimanche" meaning I'd be back on Sunday. Abdellahi nodded in recognition, stopped short and barked "non, non, non, demain, tu reviens demain pour chercher le clé."

Of course I am coming back tomorrow for the key. How else can I run English classes and ecoclub this weekend if I can't open the school gate? How many times have I forgotten the key Friday, only to frantically send a child Sunday to fetch it? Abdellahi smiled at me, fully, paternally, and produced the key from his boubou pocket. Sheepishly, I took the key, reasoning that I would have remembered, I had put it in my calendar. "Shuuv," look at the entry, I said. He laughed gently, called me raasik digdag, and waved me out of the office. I grinned, accepting my nickname which means broken head.

Later that afternoon, surprise surprise, I was running late. For the nth time to a volunteer meeting. Of course, I had a valid excuse: the labyrinth of narrow streets that wind aimlessly through old town had trounced my sense of direction. In short, I was lost. Standard tardy Ellen procedure dictated I send a text, something along the lines of, "ah ha ha, im lost in old town." My site mate K appropriately and cheerfully responded, "of course you are. hope you find your way out before we end our meeting." My broken head heaved a sigh. No sarcasm, no kidding, it made me happy to be so understood.

If my heart speaks French, my teeth sing Spanish

Went to Edebaye to meet a teacher Wednesday. He was not there yet, but oddly enough a touring Spanish dental organization was. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, underdressed hispanophone women (shorts, tee shirts, uncovered heads) ushered children between makeshift brushing stations in overcrowded classrooms. It was quite the production: brush teeth, up and down, front and back, now pose for the camera, smile, no don't eat the toothpaste, smile… flashbulb, line up for fluoride treatment, fun until the mouth guard feels too big, drool accumulates, now spit but don't drink water, I know it tastes bad but don't rinse out the fluori… ok, ok, go ahead and rinse, now come back for a photo op, flash those scrubbed but still far from pearly whites, take logo-adorned toothbrush, never mind you can't read the Spanish, another photo op, flashbulb and next…

The end of this assembly line was an enormous bus blocking the school gate, a portable practice offering abbreviated dental checkups. My teacher friend Salma – not about to be examined without a chaperone – yanked me toward the bus. Inside we found reclining chairs, oral hygiene tools, and a fetching young Spaniard posing as a dentist. He guided me to a chair, his lack of French counterbalanced by a disarming smile. I gazed into his eyes, he gazed into my mouth, and after two minutes of anonymous and detached intimacy, he shot me a grin that said either, "in my next life I will find you and I will know how to speak French" or "you're from a first world country, of course your teeth are healthy."

Finished, Salma, dressed in a moor veil, and I, sporting a crisp Pulaar complet, descended the bus stairs arm in arm. We chattered happily in Hassaniye and French, while the Spaniards looked from on high in their latex gloves and khaki shorts. Next appointment: six months. Or so.

Who’s on first?

In foreign countries, language difficulties extend beyond greetings and verb conjugation. They affect (infect?) every sector of life, including names. When baptizing a male baby in Mauritania, for example, the stock is well defined. White moors have their pick from Mohammed, Sidi, Ahmed, Ely, Abdellahi, Mouktar, or any combination thereof. Mohammed ould Mouktar1, Abdellahi ould Ely Ahmed, Sidi Mohammed ould Ahmed, Mohammed ould Abdellahi, Mohammed ould Ely Mouktar, Mohammed ould Sidi Ahmed, Mohammed ould Mohammed… et cetera.

The point is, my phone rings at least twice weekly with the following conversation:

“Hello?”
“Allo. Allo.”
“Hello, who is this?”2
“Allo. So, how are you?”
“I’m fine, who is this?”
“How are you? How’s the health? Are you fine?”
“Really, I’m great. Who is this?”
“Mohammed. So, how are you? Nothing bad?”
“Mohammed. Mohammed ould who?”
“Mohammed! You don’t know me? How are you, fine?”
“Yes, yes, I’m good. Mohammed who?”
“[shock] You don’t remember me…”
pause
“Mohammed ould Mohammed. The tour guide.”
“[fatigue] Mohammed the tour guide. Right. Where did we meet?”
“Mohammed! I asked you for private English lessons at your house.”
“Mm hmm, that narrows it down. [frustration] Where did we meet?”
“So, how are you?”
“I’m fine, but…”
click.

Ps. If you like The Killers, you will enjoy Interpol. Word to the wise.

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1: where ould means son of
2: My half of the conversation is usually in French, sometimes broken Hassaniye. Their half is invariably incomprehensible, Wendy’s-drive-through Hassaniye and/or broken French.

Everything is a bargain

My time in country does not necessarily correlate positively with my understanding of Mauritania. I have, however, made at least one revelation this month: everything is a bargain. I don't mean goods are sold on the cheap. I mean every aspect of daily life requires negotiation.

For a kilo of carrots, we lowball the tents at the vegetable market. For a claw hammer, we cut the merchant's proposed price in half. Buying a roll of tape is cause for suspicion (maa-hu waa'ir? - this isn't overpriced?) and a visit to the local tailor can be a harrowing hour-long ordeal. Volunteers even haggle for time: we schedule meetings days in advance to account for cancellations and postponements. If a week-long project needs to be done by June, we instinctively begin in April. Occasionally, this provides adequate "oops" time.

I liken it to my morning routine. I know I will slap the snooze out of my alarm at least five times, so I set my buzzer an hour early. You think it ridiculous, I find it Mauritania-typical. Despite the morning sun, the rooster crows, the morning prayer calls, my day begins with the "five more minutes" mentality and continues throughout a vigorously bargained day.