Singing songs about the southland

Yesterday, I visited Sabualla, my training village. Our trip only left time to evaluate trainee presentations and deliver a rare gift of bread, but it was absolutely rejuvenating. I feel so nostalgically happy there, so at home. I planned a repeat visit tomorrow, inshallah, before climbing into the white PC SUV with M. Even through a car window, the sun set was extraordinary. A massive thunderhead jutted mightily behind fluffed, flat-bottomed clouds dyed salmon, grey, oranged blue. Silhouettes of acacias dotted the incredibly flat and otherwise featureless horizon. Lightening and dusk illuminated marigots in a flashed melon hue. MT stretched his arms over the seat back, and we talked about futures and teaching and Columbia and New York and sunsets and perfect.

I gushed about my family to a luckily receptive audience; MT and the slightly creepy PC driver had already met and been charmed by my host family. Despite my fantastically productive service in Atar, I explained, the south would always encapsulate Mauritania. It would always feel… right. They nodded in the fading dusk, whether in understanding or agreement, I don’t know.