Easy as pie

The sun rises in a fury, matches the morning’s mood with brilliant fuchsia, scarlet, blood stained clouds. I sink my teeth into a ripe pear and wipe the droplet of juice trailing from my lips.

I wonder, sitting silent and pale, a nasraniye among garage hounds, if I smell more of visas or money.

A self appointed spokesman interrogates me brusquely, squatting before me, expelling his inquiries like rude spittle. The nasraniye is going to Aioun, he dutifully reports. The nasraniye is waiting for the first car. The nasraniye is writing. Within 15 seconds, I am surrounded by a blue cotton wall, leather belts swinging like phallic pendulums, eyes cast down over embroidered collars.

The single most imposing feature of the Mauritanian landscape is an entitled man in a boubou. Entitled? To share my business, my space, my attention. That I should write of them so frequently is indicative of their omnipresence, omni-influence, and omni-annoyance. I don’t so much fear them as cringe away from them en masse.

I suppose I’d cringe away from an imposing circle of questioning slices of meringue pie. But I imagine tolerating the bitter filling with more grace.

The flies aren’t the filthiest vectors

This entry written just before an 21-hour taxi ride to Aioun, a site in the eastern region that borders Mali. What could have been early morning tranquility was interrupted by a horde of Mauritanian men hurling questions and marriage proposals. It nearly overshadowed a happy glow from the evening before, spent serenely with charming company. Nearly.

How standoffish can my responses be? How weary my ma’asselaam? Nothing deters the barrage of questions, the innocent curiosity, the lecherous hovering.

I insulate myself within a thick memory of yesterday, of this morning, of chakry¹ and steeped tea, of coffee and gentle alarm clocks.

Absentmindedly, I brush a fly from my lip. It lands on a mound of fruit, vibrantly orange against a filthy taxi stand. The interrogators have finally quieted, the boubous dispersed, but their intention lingers: an unpleasant odor of bleak and limitless boredom.

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1: Chakry is the most delicious thing you can eat in Mauritania. Imagine fine Moroccan cous cous, cooked fluffy. Mix with a creamy yogurt, sweetened with vanilla sugar and spiced with nutmeg. Eat. Die. Go to heaven.

The best pickup lines are delivered by your wife

I have several “what is the deal” moments every day. Today for example: what is the deal with Mauritanian men making my connaissance, hitting on me obviously, pathetically, then peddling their wives on me?

I know this is a polygamous society, but why, after having met a full grown man’s barely post-pubescent wife, would I want to entertain more conversation? Much less enduring company? Or worse, some arrangement of wretched concubinage?

I am familiar with the drill: he makes his home “safe” for me to visit, I stop in for lunch, and then struggle in vain to spend ten seconds of face time with a timid (read: stone silent) wife. Meanwhile, he reaps the benefits of my company. Resourceful. Perhaps the first dozen times. But eventually, my patience wears as thin as his hair and I am decreasingly inclined to smile at random strangers.

I’d sooner boycott coffee. Permanently.

Nouakchott
Today, I’m tired of integrating. Usually, I cannot help but smile, be nice, start conversations, continue conversations, continue, continue, continue, continue… In Atar, it’s my job. But here, in the capital, it’s a distraction from an otherwise peaceful day. And by it, I mean an especially tactless and determined Mauritanian patronizing the café at the French Cultural Center.

I should have known better from the way he slinked up to my table and took an empty chair with a slick and imposing grin. I continued reading my book in silence and disinterest, which translated into “please, talk to me.” He was all too eager to oblige.
“I’ll teach you Hassaniye,” he eventually proposed. Clever, I’ve never heard that offer (read: come-on) before.
“My family has a huge house in Aioun.” Really.
“HUGE. It’s the uncle of my mother.” Intriguing.
“My mother’s side of the family.” Right, you mentioned that.
“Wearing the veil is easy.” Uh huh.
“You’ll get used to it in no time.” Glad to hear.
“Hassaniye is easy too. I’ll teach you when I come up north to visit…”
COULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME IN PEACE??

My brain shrieked it, my skull somehow contained it. How I held my tongue, I’ll never know, but the pressure is mounting, mounting, the conversations continuing, continuing, and why does this unkempt yokel think he has an ice cube’s chance in Mauritania with me?

Maybe it was my disinterested tone and annoyed inattention. I surely egged him on by not hissing at him outright and throwing hot coffee in his face. But honestly, imagine the scene. Holding a cold compress against his scalded face, he would sneak a glance with his good eye. After dropping my cup slow motion to the floor, I would stare him down. I would wait in hostile, expectant silence. And to my animosity, he would respond, “your accent is so pretty. Could I buy you another coffee?”

Rx: immediate vacation

The other day, I heard myself say, “I love having visitors at my house, but occasionally I need alone time to spend with Mauritanians.” Let me recap: when I’m not passing time with fellow volunteers or tourists, I’m using the limited amount of free time to integrate, speak foreign languages, eat cous cous, wave flies from babies’ eyes, drink tea, etc.

No wonder I’ve been stressed.

When my director Aw came up to do site visit in December, he was floored by the effusive praise I earned. In every office visited – the Mayor, the Wali, the Hakem, the director of the Ministry of Education, the Secrétaire Générale, the PTA presidents, the school directors – my colleagues gushed about my work ethic, cheerful demeanor, commitment to integration and unlimited availability. Aw was floored, but not speechless. His response: “I think you may be working too hard. You should take a vacation.”

In the last 45 years of Peace Corps history, this sentiment must have been conveyed to volunteers, but probably fewer times than I have fingers.

With suitors offering trips to Morocco, stays in Senegal, rides to Mali and flights to Dubai, the world is my destination. If only I could find and actually use my “me time” for me.