Origins unknown

Strange and shocking the frontier between Mauritania and not. I stroll into the airport not even hour before boarding, hardly checking my watch. I’ll make my flight, I think to myself, inshallah.

The random Mauritanian I met on the way to Matt’s house offers to drive me to the airport. Generously, he bypasses security to assist me with bags I’m pretty sure he won’t steal, and to chat it up with a guard (named Diene, I later learn) who will later personally escort me to the plane over empty tarmac.

In my carryon bags, I remember to remove all my swiss army knives, leathermen, and other assorted potential weapons, but I forget the Mauritanian blade engraved in delicate silver. It’s not really a knife proper, we think to ourselves, but the Air France representative places it in checked luggage all the same.

My personal escort informs me my flight is about to take off, “maybe we should get you to the gate.” My blood pressure barely spikes. Diene had delayed me with conversation, but surely he can delay an international flight to get me on board. It is a hybrid of entitlement and inshallah, both born and bred in Mauritania.

Not all outside world regulations and procedures are lost. I remember to pack my liquid toiletries in 3 oz. bottles in a 1 qt. bag, but forgetfully pad down the tarmac with a large bottle of water in hand. If Air France doesn’t reprimand me, have I broken any rules?

Far from scolding, the airline reps only greet me with surprise and delight: a nasraniye that speaks their language! I chat with the guards as they haphazardly go through my bags. “You speak better hassaniye than me,” the guard confesses as his electronic wand passes over my stomach. I laugh incredulously and wish him a good night. As I climb the stairs, I turn over my shoulder to say goodbye and catch myself rattling off a hassaniye greeting to group of disinterested Frenchmen. So the linguistic confusion begins.

The flight has not yet begun, the wheels not yet off the ground, and I already I feel too dirty to reenter civilization. Every seat is immaculate, every surface sparkling and sterile. The menu is on preprinted cards, high quality stock and my travel pouch includes prepackaged earbuds, earplugs, night mask, towlette and socks softer than any fabric I’ve felt in Mauritania, save the deteriorating tee shirt I am almost embarrassed to wear.

Wonders never cease, the gorgeous flight attendant (dead ringer for a RIM PCV, incidentally, except he speaks real French) brings me a hot towel. Hot. Towel. White, so crisp and white. I massage my face, feeling refreshed, cleaner, better, until I realize my Mauritanian dirt has defiled the pristine terrycloth. Mauritanian dirt or my dirt? It belongs, I suppose, to both of us. I get the impression the attendant is less than impressed by my half hennaed fingernails and shower sandals and African bag and browned skin and I wonder if reentry is simply culture shock is simply discomfort in a place you thought you once belonged. Or from a place you think you already do.

The city of Nouakchott fades dimly and winks into black ocean, and I miss Mauritania already. I am an expat, but of which country, I’m not entirely sure.