embracing the possible

I have found myself. Or rather my purpose. And not a week too late.

This past month or so has been a little tricky. I was stymied at work, isolated at home, severed from family miles and holidays away, and desperate for confidantes that didn’t exist in country. For the first time, I began to question: why was I here? Why did I leave the states? Was my service worthwhile to me? To Mauritania?

And then, a sea change. “What happened?” my mom asked. “Your voice, your spirits, I hear the difference.” It’s tough to pinpoint, but I see it as a culmination of events and successive epiphanies. Let me explain.

First, I suppressed my cultural instinct. Imagine walking down the street. Imagine, then, someone hisses at you. Gut reaction: disgust. Is it so difficult to speak in coherent sentences? To utter even two words? Hiss at animals, talk to people, right?

Wrong. In Mauritania, hissing is a perfectly acceptable means of gaining an audience with a friend, a stranger, a coworker at school, a potential customer or candidate for marriage. It’s not rude; it just is. What I interpreted as dehumanizing harassment was their way of saying hello. Suppress cultural instincts, minimize irritation, maximize interaction. Where I had previously felt attacked, I now feel welcomed. Where I had offended my neighbors with disinterest and disgust, I now reciprocate their attempts at friendship. More simple than easy, but well worth the effort.

Second, I ignored seasoned advice. Dozens of American volunteers and Mauritanian PC staff warned me against children. Most are disrespectful, truant street urchins, they explained. Talking with them will only undermine your credibility with Mauritanian adults who would never deign to converse with a young child. Moreover, nine times out of ten, they are only begging for handouts: money, pens, purses, glasses…

Children, I realized however, were not the problem. Nine times out of ten, these “urchins” were urged on by greedy parents. On several occasions, I witnessed a mother pushing her child toward me, whispering “donne-moi cadeau, donne-moi cadeau” (give me gift). Brats or not, credibility be damned, I was unwilling to ignore smiling, waving children. How could I fault them for impolite conditioning?

Instead, I began engaging children in the street, requesting their friendship before they requested a gift. It worked. I walk down the street now, greeted by name. Children approach me with “donne-moi cadeau” on their lips, and catch themselves, realizing they shouldn’t ask Khadijetou for 100 ougiye. They ask me how I am. They shake my hand. They yell at their friends for spitting nasty Hassaniye phrases at their teacher, their friend. It is better than the stereotypical Sally-Struthers-surrounded-by-children-singing-Kumbayah visions so many Peace Corps volunteers entertain before arriving in country. It is better than confirming seasoned advice. It is wonderful.

Third, I embraced the possible and let go of the impossible. I live in a big city. I cannot begin to express what a disappointment it was last summer to move from an isolated, welcoming, herding village in the south to a massive, touristy city in the north. Atar’s climate was infernal, the reception frosty. The carpet of small-town integration was pulled rudely from under my feet. My posting seemed less a deliberate attempt at grassroots development and cultural exchange and more like a psychological experiment. Could a volunteer cut it in Atar? Eh, we dunno, let’s try it out.

The answer, I am currently proving, is a resounding yes. Not only cut it, but productively and integratedly so. The impossible is a forty-person village, drawing water from wells, waking to cocks crowing, sleeping under crystal clear skies and drinking milk by the liter. As much as I loved Sabualla, I am letting it go. The possible is three schools, eager to work with a relatively inexperienced but vastly enthusiastic volunteer. The possible are families who, despite urban anonymity, invite said volunteer to dinner and tea. The possible is a cooperative school administration and welcoming municipal officials, all of whom gush over my projects and jump to provide needed resources and support. The possible are gardens and ecoclubs and girls’ centers and English lessons and Trash Clean-ups and Marathons. I embrace my busy schedule and the metropolitan environment that makes it possible. I am embracing Atar.

All these epiphanies mere days before I pack my bags for Christmas in Nouakchott and New Year’s in St. Louis. It is fortunate that I leave Atar on the highest note I’ve sung since stage, but it makes me… wary to leave. A Senegalese vacation will likely curb the momentum I’ve picked up at site: an unfair and unwelcome trade. I will approach the holidays with cautious optimism and take solace in the fact that, come January 2nd, I’ll be ready to return to Atar. Return home.