Vultures in boubous

I start Wednesday morning bright and early, not to meet a teacher, not to type a report, not even to check email. My early rising inspiration: grits. Buttered, peppered, cooked and devoured with my site mate K. Delicious.

I am interrupted mid-spoonful by a phone call. My stomach sinks: it is Saad ould Yaya, a morning meeting absent-mindedly scheduled and entirely eclipsed by the prospect of grits. In other words, I forgot. In other other words, doh. I beg forgiveness, reschedule, and regret indebting myself to this Yaya.

I reap my forgetfulness at four o'clock, at which hour the heat distorts your peripheral vision and the asphalt bakes feet through flimsy sandals. Saad arrives in an uncharacteristically Mauritanian ride: shiny, undented finish, air conditioner, power windows. I climb in, happy to cease melting on the cool, leather seat covers. He drives to Azougi where we talk in his swanky auberge bungalows. His French is impeccable, his hospitality professional. Sipping cold water and hot tea, he gushes forth with inspiring Peace-Corps-speak, e.g.

"dynamism and enthusiasm are the motors that will transform Mauritania," "if you knock on every door with hope, eventually one will open," and "you may not have a budget, but your energy is means enough to change people's minds."

Cheesy, but still proves that he understands volunteer mentality, a rarity in country. Saad wants to help with my Half Marathon next year, wants to make it organized, professional, a grand event.

Halfway through the meeting, he stands up from the table and lies on the floor. I was uncomfortable in the chair, he explains. His oily smirk asks the question before his voice does: "would you like to join me?" Reluctantly, and several feet away, I sit on the floor. Saad launches into a convoluted speech that can be summed in one breath: "I don't do administration, funding or details, only ideas, and don't think about collaborating with anyone else who might do administration, funding or details, because then you will be unlawfully sharing my ideas." What ideas, might you ask? The idea to do a marathon, to ask people to show up in Atar and run in the desert, to give them water at pit stops along the course, to time them and congratulate them at the end. You know, all the ideas I already implemented the first marathon a month ago. Ideas my predecessor implemented the year before. Ideas which now, apparently, are trademarked by Saad and the Auberge Oued Illij. Right.

Afterward, we tour his auberges, under construction but already showing great promise: beautiful stone inlays, blossoming bougainvilleas, slate pathways curving around young palms, and an incredible panoramic view of the Azougi plateaus. His generosity moves him to offer a discounted price to my future visitors. No admin or details, but he'll cut a few bucks off a room. I thank him and take my leave.

The next day, I am at Ecole 3. My friend Nouha saunters in, interrupting a clipped greeting with an accusation-cum-question, "where were you last night?" My larium memory stumbles, but eventually I remember my meeting. She has but one word of advice: "dangereux." I shoot a confused glance at my director who smiles and calls me to his desk.

"This man is… he is a, a bird," he explains in hesitating French. "You know the birds that fly in a circle, the ones that eat…"
"Carcasses?" I chime in.
"Yes! Or, or, even, who look for small birds. They wait till the birds fall…"
"From the air?"
"No… they are…" he flutters his eyes and clutches his heart. "They fall…"
"In love?"
"Yes! Or maybe they trust this big bird, who waits, he circles round, and then…" he snatches an imaginary bird from the air and devours it. I mock a gasp and he shakes his head solemnly.

I believe we call those birds vultures. Ironic, since my naïveté eight months ago evoked similar imagery of boubous descending on flocks of melifas. My director's advice dully noted, I set Saad ould Yaya's number to a silent ring tone and went about my small bird ways.