Trop sensible: it doesn’t translate how you might think

The SUV winds over dirt paths between dunes and palm fronds. Rocks, small huts and makeshift fences provide an obstacle course for a Mauritanian man, his three-year-old daughter, a Frenchwoman and me.

The small girl has collapsed on my lap, suffering from fatigue and a bronchial infection. My hand rests on her chest which vibrates uneasily with raspy breaths and weak coughs. I understand, at least a fraction more, what it means to be a mother. Fatimatu depends on me to hold her, to rub her arm as her eyelids flutter closed, to support her head as it lolls into my neck, to steady her as the car veers around potholes and over gullies. I want to protect her, guide her. I love her. Suddenly, I don’t understand how a mother could have more than one child. I don’t understand how a wife could love her husband after giving birth. In this moment, I love her and only her. I am consumed and she is not even mine. I love this little girl and I cannot imagine loving anyone else more fully, innocently, or purely. I cradle her and she trusts me.

Meanwhile, the two remaining passengers are lecturing me. They compete for aural space, determined to be understood at the loudest volume possible. They are lecturing me on girls’ empowerment – or the futility thereof – in Mauritania. Girls here, they explain, shirk employment and depend (feed) on their husbands.

“Mauritanian women are not necessarily encouraged to seek work outside the home,” I counter. “You know better than me: most families expect girls to complete household chores before homework, to find a husband before a degree, to establish a family before a career.” I know this phenomenon exists, not because countless studies document it, not because an entire governmental ministry is dedicated to it, but because I witness it. In elementary school, in middle school, in high school. Girls in my ecoclub, at the Mentoring Center, and in the community are all subject to a reproduce-at-all-costs mentality. If they would choose it themselves, you’d never know; they want desperately for options.

“Not true!” the Frenchwoman shouts.
“What are you talking about?” the Mauritanian barks incredulously.
My response is immediately interrupted. The francaise scrambles atop her soapbox and waxes ineloquently.

“You have seen nothing, so let me explain to you.” I do my best to listen politely. She reports how, despite the available means to escape poverty and idleness, Mauritanian women prefer to stay (rot) at home. “I know,” she boasts. “I live a truly Mauritanian life.”

Right. Is that why she must broadcast every five minutes that she is Muslim-oh-but-I-hate-the-word-conversion-which-seems-less-organic-than-a-religious-epiphany? Is that why her claims of clairvoyance and supernatural healing powers are met with sideways glances and concealed smirks? Is that why her half cracked schemes to end Mauritanian poverty usually involve indifferent tourists who would speak no Hassaniye and have no translators? Who would clutch their Gucci bags and be carted around “the poorest, lowliest neighborhoods” by donkeys? Who would distribute blankets and operate a portable soda fountain? A truly Mauritanian life? How truly out of touch.

And she dares explain that she has seen little girls who want nothing more than to chase boys and wear makeup and get pregnant. And they do so against their parents’ wishes. Forced and early marriages? Those shameless sluts practically oblige their families to “get rid of them” via fortuitous marriage. “I know Mauritania. If you spent any time with families, you would see the truth.”

Any time with families? I have been eating lunch or dinner – often both – with a family everyday since I arrived in September. Any time? She speaks all of five words in a local language. I converse readily in two, greet in two others. Any time? My free moments are spent drinking tea with my host moms and sisters. Hers are spent crocheting purses out of plastic bags in solitude. “You just don’t understand Mauritania.”

This evening’s host, a Mauritanian man and father of two girls, agrees wholeheartedly. “Just open your eyes. They run about, they gossip, they don’t go to school. Girls here are lazy and lack ambition,” he laments. He tells me no well-educated Mauritanian family would persuade their daughter to abandon her studies to have children. On that count, we are in total agreement.

In exasperated sarcasm, I admit, “apparently I’ve seen nothing, having only worked with girls on a daily basis since my arrival. I should conduct better research.”
Knowingly, they nod in unison.
“I have understood and learned nothing over a year’s time of intimate contact with this country’s young female population. What a shame.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he generously bubbles. “To show you how Mauritania really is.” Quel homme.

He continues to rail against what is obviously no longer the fairer sex, as I cradle his daughter in my arms. She is still feverish and now exhausted from staying up all evening. I want to shield her from these slanderous predictions. I want to clamp shut her ears against a poisonous destiny already decided. I want to protect her from her father and this ignorant Frenchwoman. Fatimatu’s fingers curl around mine, then go limp and fall in my lap. Her head rests on my cheek; her sweat drips down my neck and soaks my blouse. I kiss her forehead and whisper in her ear. “Sleep now, baby. You can fight later.”

It’s not until afterward, behind the rusted iron door of my compound, that my sadness mingles with her sweat on my breast. My tears fall and I realize I might be too sensitive for this kind of work.

Falling from leaps of faith hurts less in soft, sand dunes

Mauritania is a game of trust.

For example, this morning, I needed to pay the electric bill for the regional office. Routinely, I give the money to Sid’Ahmed, the shop keeper next door who pays the bill for our building. Incidentally, he is also the son of my new adoptive host family. Since Sid’Ahmed was out of town, his sister, my friend Veyza agreed to help me negotiate the bill. “Come over tomorrow at 7am,” she instructed.

Dutifully, I set my alarm, forewent the blessed snooze,¹ and peeked my head in her house the next morning. Veyza was not yet ready, so “come in, come in, sit!” her mother Rabia called. When Veyza finally emerged, melifa neatly wrapped around her face, our conversation proceeded like a bad Monty Python sketch.

Ellen: So we will go to the cell phone butig to pay the electric bill?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: And Sid’Ahmed is there?
Veyza: Yes, since Sid’Ahmed is not there, I’m going to go to the shop.
Ellen: Wait, he is not there?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: Um.
Veyza: Well look, you don’t have to come with me, I’ll go find Sid’Ahmed. You know he’s not here.
Ellen: Right, he’s at the butig.
Veyza: No, he’s over there.
Ellen: Wait, where?
Veyza: Then we’ll go together.
Ellen: When are you leaving?
Veyza: One o’clock.
Ellen: One o’clock?² I can’t wait that long, so I’ll just go now by myself.
Veyza: Ok.
Ellen: Ok , see you later then.
Veyza: Ok, sit here and wait for me.
Ellen: Wait, what?
Veyza: Wait here. We leave in one hour.
Ellen: At one o’clock or in one hour?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: Um. I’m just going to go now, not a problem, I’ll go myself.
Veyza: Ok. Sit here and I’ll be right out.
Ellen: Um what?
Veyza: Ok.

I think to myself, will I ever dig myself from under this circular conversation well enough to leave? Trust.

On the way – yes, we finally left the house – Veyza gushed about her long-time, absentee boyfriend, “habibi” (her love) who speaks English and will someday run away and marry her. He is soo handsome and she is soo in love. “Do fairytales like this still work?” I wondered. Trust.

“Ooo,” she gasped. “What?” She cracked down on a small orange candy, removed a piece, held it to my face. I took it without thinking, popped it in my mouth. Will I inherit Veyza’s chesty cough? Trust.

We met several of her friends in the dusty market. I smiled politely and rattled off greetings while she paraded me proudly. She was especially friendly with a shop owner who eventually handed her an object she immediately handed off to me: a can of tuna. Why did she give me a can of fish? Will this be eaten? Shared? Explained? Trust.

Trust what exactly? I suppose trust that the incomprehensible will be explained. Or be at least happily tolerated. That my patience might hold up as well as my immune defenses. Better and better every day, I understand (read: reluctantly accept) the fatalism of “inshallah.” As god has willed it. Or, for the less religious, simply: as it has been willed. Passive tense, actor undefined, tomorrow unwritten.

---

1: I have a torrid love affair with my snooze button. I purposely set my alarm early so I can sleep in nine minute increments for at least an hour before I actually need to wake up. It’s sick really. And it has alienated former lovers, roommates, and overnight guests. I have so few vices, that I guard my right to periodically interrupted sleep. I’m allowed.

2: To both our credits, this specific misunderstanding is France’s fault. The phrase for one o’clock and one hour is the same: une heure. Mille mercis, l’Académie Française.

Chron-a-what? -cle? -ological?

Posted quite a bit, will provide links for backlogged posts. Stay tuned. elb

Solid

Last night, I looked through the stars. I saw a lot of black sky. I reached out to place my hand against the concrete wall of my house. It felt nice to touch something so solid.

Shame in tandem

She wore a crisp veil, jewelry and a light dusting of makeup, determined to make a good impression on the Mayor. If the merits of her school improvement project couldn’t woo him, perhaps her diplomacy would. As she approached the imposing concrete structure, she saw his door over the balcony: closed. Mission delayed. She decided instead to pay a visit to the Assistant Mayor’s assistant, Abderamane. She entered his office and began the standard greetings, a mix of French, Hassaniye and Pulaar: how are you, how’s the heat, it’s been a long time, how is Houleye? “How is Houleye?” a melifa snarled from the corner. “She knows your wife?” He grimaced icily. “Yes.” The volunteer tried to interpret his discomfort while the melifah bade them an extended goodbye. She and Abderamane were alone. “I wondered if I could stop by your house for dinner Saturday.” “That’s tomorrow.” “Right.” “You are always invited,” he explained warmly. “You know better than to ask.” She felt welcomed and relieved. “Thank you. Thank you, really.” “But never speak of my family in this office again.” His tone had shifted radically, as did hers. “I…” “My personal life is one thing, and my work is another.” She was silenced. After a few moments, she resumed her apology. “I am so sorry.” She felt the heat of his anger rise as embarrassment in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to mix your personal and professional…” she trailed off. Before, she considered him as close to a host father as was possible. Now, he was ashamed of her. His eyes burned into the trail of her melifa as she walked, head down, out of his office.

He bent over the dusty keyboard, hammering out a report. This work that belonged to the Assistant Mayor, conveniently on mission. Again. With each keystroke, he counted down the minutes until he went home to his family. Hinges creaked in the breeze as a woman stepped through his doorway. Another demand, no doubt, from another entitled melifa. He greeted her profusely and gritted his teeth for the impending request. Light steps on the balcony announced another visitor, Khadijetou the volunteer. Her Pulaar showed promise: “how are you, how’s the heat, it’s been a long time, how is Houleye?” “How is Houleye?” a melifa snarled from the corner. “She knows your wife?” He felt exposed. “Yes.” How would this melifa view municipal employees fraternizing with volunteers? She left without indicating what rumors would follow. “I wondered if I could stop by your house for dinner Saturday.” “That’s tomorrow.” “Right.” “You are always invited. You know better than to ask.” He wondered when she would feel comfortable enough to simply stop by. “Thank you. Thank you, really.” “But never speak of my family in this office again.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She looked wounded. “I…” “My personal life is one thing, and my work is another.” He had to protect himself from gossip. She had to understand, right? She was silent. After a few moments, she stammered, “I am so sorry.” He saw her eyes glass, her cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to mix personal and professional…” she trailed off. An innocent inquiry about his wife had gone wrong. Bad timing, bad company. Before, she greeted him almost like a father. Now, she was afraid of him. He watched helplessly as she walked, head down, out of his office.

How do I radio in for backup?

The transition from first to second year volunteer is unkind in so many ways. Sure, my language is improved, my standing in the community established, my professional and personal existence secured. Especially in contrast to the green volunteers newly posted in the Adrar.

The stark difference, which should otherwise be a source of pride, provides proof of a rude transition that occurs around mid September. On arrival, I was understandably naïve, hopeful, perpetually lost and culturally clueless. Now, as a second year, I am expected to be trilingual, a professional negotiator, real estate scavenger, cartographic guru, and otherwise inexhaustible source of knowledge, advice, and patience. From freshman to senior in one fell swoop.

I cannot complain too bitterly: I love teaching in any form – transmitting experience, recounting hard-won victories, making others comfortable and happy. My altruism is ten to thirty percent selfish, but it allows me to embrace my role as mentor cum expert.

Today, however, I hit a wall of frustration, fatigue, and fear. Suddenly, I needed someone to help me and come to my rescue. I didn’t want to face today alone. I wanted to be a freshman again so I could seek the strength of someone who knew better.

Eventually, I pulled my senior self together, finished a difficult conversation, negotiated my ninth property contract, and navigated relations with my previous landlord. In the end, it was just me, no backup.

I completed these tasks successfully but wearily. Afterward, I imagined myself falling into someone, hearing a heartbeat and warm advice echoing against my cheek, feeling embraced by arms stronger than mine, getting lost in a perfect hug. In the end, though, it was just me. No backup.

Self-realization at a premium, just eat your cheb

This school improvement project debacle is affecting me more than I realized.

Lunch at a teacher’s house today yielded an interesting discussion turned into political venting became a realization of futility. Over bissap juice, her husband railed furiously against Mauritanian political lethargy and the hesitation of his own people to rise against corruption, be it inflation of household goods in the market, election fraud and bribery, or the local embezzlement of school improvement funds.

As of late, it’s an issue close to my pay stub, if not my heart, so I asked what seemed obvious: what can we do?

I expected him to provide a solution like organized unions, parent teacher associations, town hall meetings, or even picket lines. He was so articulate about the deficiencies of Mauritanian bureaucracy; surely he had thought critically about alternatives.

His response: Nothing. There’s nothing we can do, not me, not us, not them, not you. What a sadness, he said.

And then, after disempowering every pronoun available to him, he washed his hands and ate his fish and rice. Washed his hands indeed.

Swallowing back tears and chebugen was too much for my fragile stomach. I asked again what seemed obvious: what, then, am I doing here? Between handfuls, he mumbled, “I don’t know. What a sadness.”

I am not entirely defeated. He had mentioned, amid his pessimistic predictions, several PTAs (or Mauritanian equivalents) in the south who, decades ago, had successfully raised funds to build entire schools. Between three schools in Atar, I could rustle up eight hundred parents who could surely afford 500UM each. This would more than replace the funds so disingenuously pledged by the Mayor.

And, hope of all hopes, when I tell the parents how the Mayor reneged, they might gather what little political prowess and concern they have and exercise it. The Mayor is elected and must be reelected to stay. Although beyond any number of inshallahs, I imagine Atarois rising to seize and shape their political and educational future. Or, at the very least, build some latrines for their kids.

Pad the budget, reupholster the couch

My funding has been pulled. Not that this marks the end of my Atar School Improvement Project, but it certainly slows its progress.

While I traveled to MBeca to canvass a site for next year’s EcoHeath Camp, my directors were charged with a small task: verify the Mayor’s intentions to fund our renovation project. Maybe I jinxed their mission with semantics. My directors were simply to have reminded the Mayor of a promise already made. Verify that he remembered the funds already earmarked to pay for one fourth of a project he should be single-handedly funding anyway. This is how the task should have been framed.

But the ambiguity opened an escape route. “Les financements sont bouffés.” The funding had, in effect, been eaten by the Mayor, may god shorten his corrupted life. What is one fourth of our budget? 250,000UM. 900 bucks. How little he had to provide. Enough to remodel one room in his already ridiculously outfitted house in Nouakchott. Or, renovate three schools and improve the lives of nearly 800 students. What a shameful trade.

To be honest, the news was hardly surprising. I barely blinked; my director hardly had energy enough to throw his hands in the air in frustration. After briefly lamenting this development, we immediately sought a course of action. Thank god you didn’t allow him access to the funds from America. Of course not. Right. What now?

I vowed to play hardball. The Secretary General wants a municipal trash collection system? He can advise his boss to fund our project. Collaborate with Peace Corps? Not on a foundation of withdrawn funds and broken promises. I must use the little leverage I have and assume the Mayor cares about anything other than lining his pockets.

The secret lives of cats

I am home and it is quiet. A miracle since my house has recently become a regional way point for urban and rural Adrar PCVs, visiting volunteers from Mauritania and abroad, and the occasional stray South African SUV caravan.

In this moment, however, I only hear donkeys braying in abandoned alleys and birds chirping from thorny nests in my neighbor’s acacia tree. For the first time in perhaps weeks, I am alone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sky on fire with vibrant pinks and rusty oranges. I dash up to my roof before the sun sets, hoping to see the shadows lengthen, lengthen, disappear. The catwalk bridging my roofs stretches perilously high: a perfect spot to perch, dangle my feet, and revel solitarily.

My concrete stoop looks west toward the wadi, a barrier built of boulders and concrete against unlikely floods. Couples walk slowly over the wadi, hidden behind folds of veils and boubous, lingering over loose rocks and stolen twilight. Just beyond, thick leafy trees border neat garden plots planted painstakingly, optimistically by local women’s cooperatives. The latest downpours have rewarded their optimism and (almost) given purpose to an absurd flood wall.

From my vantage point, I peer into neighboring compounds, empty and quiet like mine. Blindingly white satellite dishes break up the muddy skyline and fool my third world sensibilities. Is it wealth or disposable income being… disposed of? Intimately framed in a doorway, a young woman adjusts her veil deliberately, carefully and begins to pray. Her laundry flaps in the wind, licking the wall in concert with a prayer call echoing off plastic bidons¹ and rusted doorways.

I enjoy a few seconds more before I hear voices in the courtyard below me. Greetings, greetings, something, mumbles, nasraniye. I have been found out; such is my cue to descend. As I gather my boubou,² a mangy cat leaps impossibly over rooftops to sprawl on the ledge of a high wall. Covered in dirt, she blends in effortlessly, a furry brown ornament to a mud brick wall. I contemplate hiding among satellite dishes before slipping down my stairs, almost unnoticed.

------------
1: bidon – n. a 5-, 10- or 20-liter plastic jug, sometimes called a gerrycan, previously filled with oil or paint thinner, marginally cleaned enough to hold water, bissap juice or brousse wine.

2: Women can wear boubous too, more often in the south and in Senegal; they are called grand boubous (big boubous) and are more sheer and much more vibrantly dyed. It is a cooler alternative to the veil, but inevitably draws inconsiderate comments such as, “shuuv disquette w’il-bess-he coriye” (look at the slut and her southern clothes).

New digs

I moved! Not that I had anything against my old house. Nothing other than the demon-possessed children next door, a disintegrating mud wall, corroded door locks, a splintered front door, creepy late night alleys, and biweekly scorpion surprises. Yep.

Honestly though, my old house had really become, well, chez moi. I had settled, hammered nails in the concrete, hung pictures on the wall, collected the batteries flung over the wall by aforementioned demon-spawn, and made peace with my awkward neighbors.¹ It felt, in an odd, transient way, like home. Unfortunately, with the influx of volunteers newly posted to the Adrar – from nine to thirteen in the region – my mud brick three bedroom became painfully insufficient.

During posting, entirely in passing, I mentioned that I was tentatively on the market for a new house. No less than three days later, Bahenna and Rajel, two Peace Corps staffers, had tapped their connections in Atar and found me a veritable palace. Four huge bedrooms, a huge kitchen, a huge magasin², a catwalk connecting two roofs with full access, a huge shower room, a huge courtyard, a huge covered breezeway, and did I mention it was huge?

Sure, sure, you say, huge. But huge translates the same in French as Hassaniye as English: cher, waa’ir, expensive. Right?

Wrong. Thanks to Rajel’s request and a small bit of cajoling on my part, the landlord lowered the rent from 30,000 to 20,000 UM (~110 to 74 USD) and agreed to kick in all kinds of improvements. Within four days, the robinet (water faucets) had been installed, the kitchen had a counter and a sink³, and my front door had been reinforced and rewelded. The volunteers in town (save one… it’s a long story) helped me move all my things in less than four hours, and all of a sudden I was home. Again.

Although I barely had time to process, evaluate or reconsider, this new place should be fabulous. It is located just behind the mayor’s office, vastly closer to all three of my schools, around the corner from three volunteers’houuses, and spitting distance from Houleye and her family. In terms of commute, security, and general well-being – perfect. And I couldn’t ask for a better house. There should be room(s) to spare for Atar PCVs and broussies alike, and finally a communal (shaded!) space to share home brewed wine and indulge in late night episodes of Lost. It’s what we envied in the other regions, what we thought was not possible in Atar, what we, essentially, always wanted.

Mind you, this is not a regional house. Regional houses were outlawed in Mauritania within the last decade to avoid loud debaucherous parties, eliminate potential targets for violence/harassment, and encourage volunteer integration. But my house will be the natural location to converge, hang out, drop off bags, touch down for PCVs in from the bush, etc. We have yet to navigate the politics of dues, house rules, participation, etc, but with such an incredible space, who could refuse? (I know I just jinxed the whole deal, but I’m not deleting my optimism.)

So what’s next? Navigating Ramadan. Surviving the last few weeks of fasting. Getting accustomed to the new bumps in the night. Relaxing chez moi. Daar-i jedide, mashallah⁴.

------------
1: Rumor has it that my neighbors ran a brothel next door. The volunteer living in my house previously got “in trouble” for not having visited her neighbors in prison. The charges: prostitution.

2: magasin – n. a small, ant-infested shop set into a traditional Mauritanian compound from which the family sells bags of sugar, bars of soap, bottles of bleach, etc. for extra income. It often opens to the inner courtyard and outside to the street, providing an additional exit for mangy goats and children, an additional entrance for amateur thieves. Mine is cemented shut, mashallah.

3: Don’t get too excited, the counter is quickly crumbling concrete. The sink is at least metal, but bounces a bit when touched, and drains directly onto the floor. It looks professional though.

4: translation: my new house, as god has willed it.

Ode to G

Giardia, I hate thee.

Yeah, Mom, I’m still wishing my summers away

The first day of school! I’m giddier than a 3rd grader and can hardly contain my excitement. School! Despite the hunger pangs of Ramadan and unapologetic drafts off hot plateaus, students and teachers begrudgingly returned to class. Although all were let out by noon, shirt tails were tucked, books were distributed, attendance was taken, and this volunteer now has a purpose.

For any of you following my adventures, I have been on the road all summer: festivals in Senegal, vacations in America, conferences in Nouakchott, girls’ camps in Kaedi and Aioun, volunteer trainings in Kaedi, protocol in Akjoujt… Since May I had essentially lived out of a suitcase. I arrived, home, in Atar in September, only to fall flat on my face. My hectic schedule hit a wall and boredom threatened immediately. Desperate, I busied myself with meeting government officials, finding housing for out new volunteers, breaking fast with families, and moving myself into a new (and improved!) house.

But busy work is just that, and I was impatient to reestablish routines, reconnect with teachers, and mold¹ young minds. Finally, il hamdullilah, school started today. And what a superb first day.

I started at Ecole 3, my predecessor’s stomping ground, my official posting, my most problematic school. We yelled out greetings, flashed genuine smiles, slapped hands, revisited old jokes, arranged my impending marriage to a Mauritanian, and had a fabulous time. No matter that I arrived in the middle of the day, when teachers should be leading classes or, at the very least, disciplining the rugrats. Conveniently, I was seen by a local landlord, several inquisitive parents, and an inspector-type from the Administration. My presence screamed: yes, I am here, I am productive, and I might even teach your kid. Visibility is PR is Peace Corps Perfect.

I continued to Ecole 6, where fortune struck a second time. The first day of school is an important day to show up, but not the most productive. With parents cycling in and out with kids to enroll, the director was frazzled and the teachers continually interrupted. Greetings and smiles aside, I promised to come back and snuck out the door. Outside the gates, big wigs from the Administration were piling out of shiny SUVs, dressed to the nines, and looking important. Obligatory greetings paved the second opportunity to meet new bureaucrats and be seen. Khadijetou: 2, Idle summer: 0.

By the time I set out for Ecole 8, the wind had picked up (dust). Suddenly, the 20+ minute hike seemed too long, the sun too bright. Cue the Chef d’Enseignement Fondamentale, a large-ish title at the Administration. Sidi Ahmed beckoned me to his car, explaining he was on mission to visit Atar schools, he was on his way to Edebaye, and by the way did I have the number for Ecole 8’s director? Eye for an eye, ride for a number, I climbed in and we exchanged contact information and thank yous. “We are so grateful for your work here.” Nice to meet you Mr. Bureaucrat. That’d be a hat trick folks.

Ecole 8 yielded the warmest reunion; I had sincerely missed my counterpart Ba and his thousand-watt smile betrayed the excitement he tried to hide casually behind sunglasses. I fought every impulse to hug him, hoping he understood how glad I was to be near him. We moved quickly from canned greetings to actual conversation, only to be interrupted by unexpected visitors. Ba, ‘Ide, the director and I (in pure mimicry) rose awkwardly to greet two suits that had arrived in yet another set of shiny all terrain vehicles. After grilling the director on attendance, enrollment and other numbers he did not bother to record, he turned to me. “So,” he probed, “what have you done for environmental education here?” Not only did he know I worked there, but he knew my sector, and ostensibly my vocation as Peace Corps volunteer. I shot a knowing glance at Ba and proudly spouted the activities we had led together the year before and planned for the coming year. The suit had not expected such a well-articulated response and seemed impressed. I couldn’t have done better with a PowerPoint and a business card. Score.

An incredibly productive day and it’s not even noon. Later, I plan to hit up the mayor’s office, pay some regional bills, and break fast with my new neighbors. I suppose I’ve been just as busy these past few weeks, but it feels different now that school is in session. It’s my bread and butter, my comfort zone, my purpose. Once lost, now am found. Looking for Khadijetou? Go back to school.


----------------
1: i.e. environmentally brainwash; it’s ok, it’s harmless and effective!