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.
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.
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