Less dancing this time

It’s late. The brousse volunteers are all in town, all in various stages of snoring tossing sleeping in my courtyard. I do a last sweep of the yard: pick up drained coke cans, straighten bidons of slowly stagnating water, collect scratched DVDs, hide my laptop (a.k.a. home theater system) from the inevitable evening sandstorm, flick out the lights. I pad softly around my unconscious friends to wash up and finally sleep myself.

Entering my room, I slip off my sandals and forego the light. The bulb takes so long to sputter and spark into fluorescence and my toothbrush is in its familiar Tupperware container, easy to find in the dark.

Scuttle.

My ears hone in and recognize the noise immediately. Scuttle.

I reach for the last place I remember throwing a flashlight. Scuttle. Scorpion.

Fumble for the switch, swing the beam towards scuttle. Scorpion. There he is, tiny, golden, quick. I might need help. “Will?” I call out to my region mate, thinking him still marginally awake. “Um, I have a scorpion in my room.”

Will peeks his head in just as I empty a bucket and slam it over my pincered friend. “You get him?”

“Yeah, under the bucket. Didn’t kill him yet,” I admit.

“Want me to smash him?” he asks, removing his shoe.

Still feeling residual guilt from my previous tango with a scorpion, I turn my head and nod. Bucket up, shoe down, scorpion expired. Considerably less dancing than last time.

Thing is, I had just recently stopped meticulously scanning my floor for arachnids. Just stopped worrying if my light-less bedroom forays would end with a stinger in my toe. Just forgot why I finally had that fluorescent bulb replaced. With renewed awareness (read: fear), I wonder if scorpion sightings could ever become routine. Already, I’ve gone from dancing and surprised yelps to buckets and unwavering heart rates. For now, I’ll measure my calendar with rare events: scorpions and thunderstorms.

Drizzled lawn chairs

Drops melt rivers into soft blond bristles
And rivulets streak sand dusted cheeks
I sit on the roof
Until my skin puckers against the breeze
Sweet merciful weather patterns, 79 degrees is artic
Lightning scratches the panorama of Atar skyline
Rain trickles down my neck collecting salt
And sweat
Sending it to pool on the white plastic lawn chair beneath me

On the road, never bored

Atar in the summer. Everyone warned me about heat. “You think 40 [approx. 105F] is bad, you just wait,” they said with malicious giggles. In fact, their cruelty was kindness: upon arrival from the States in June, I harbored no illusions about the climate and its impending toll on my body. Highs of 117 in the shade and 136 in the sun: par for the course.

No one warned me about boredom.

School is out, kids are gone, the getna (date harvest) is in full swing and the city has emptied of locals. Temporary residents include hot shots from Nouahchott tearing through narrow alleys in shiny cars and gorging themselves on plates of goat meat, bowls of dates, cups of gravy and cream.

Wary of instantaneous arterial blockage, I avoid familial dining experiences that begin with sugary fruit dipped in butter and end with, “eat, eat, you hardly touched the fourth course of grilled meat!” Normally, I would resort to work. But with the schools empty, I am going to have to resort to travel. I have to get out of here. Again.

Between Jazz Fest in late May, America in early June, Nouakchott and Aioun conferences in late June, and EcoCamp in Kaedi in July, I have been on the road for seven weeks. I am here, temporarily, to look for housing for our incoming class of volunteers and do rounds of protocol (read: government schmoozing) with them for site visit. Come early August, however, I’m on the road again for medical interviews in the capital and training sessions in Kaedi.

Seven weeks on the road, four at site, four back out. It’s the perfect way to pass what would be an otherwise lethargic and unproductive summer. Living out of a suitcase is stressful, transient, but work-related travel is a guilt-free way to see the country, visit other volunteers, and spend multiple, sweaty hours in a bush taxi. I suppose I’ll ache to be home in my own bed, my own room in about a month. For now, I’m excited to escape the clutches of ennui offered by a lazy Adrar summer.