A house; a home

It's been a rough few weeks.

And that is by all standards putting it mildly.

Since September I have lived in the one-room guest quarters of a much larger house in Dar El Barka. The beautiful big house sits empty almost always, but three weeks ago a woman about 40 years old arrived from the capital, Nouakchott. She told me her father had just died, and she was so distraught that she'd left the city and come here to her mother's home village to escape for a bit. I felt sympathy for the woman, naturally, so when she insisted that I eat dinner with her that night, I agreed. And then when she insisted I spend the night with her in the big house, I again obliged.

Within half an hour she already felt comfortable enough to sit completely naked in front of me. Decidedly not normal here -- but I didn't want to judge. She rambled incessantly, pausing only for drag after drag on her cigarette. It was overwhelming to say the least, but I kept her company while she cried and cried through the night.

The woman quickly began to treat me somewhat like a servant. She asked to borrow my cell phone, and my gas burner, and she asked me to go fetch her things from the little corner store. I still felt bad for her, so I continued to obey even though I was getting a bit annoyed.

Fast-forward a few days -- and I was at my wit's end. The woman had declared that she hates everyone in Dar El Barka (except me, inexplicably), and she would stand up on her balcony with or without clothing and scream at children passing by. She hired cars every single day to drive her the hour to Boghé because she simply couldn't survive without icy Cokes. And when she left, she would order that I stay at the house to "watch" it and not let a soul come in. I felt like some bizarre Cinderella. She returned from one such trip with a huge new stereo and car battery to power it, and then she began blasting music each day -- ALL day long, from 6 in the morning to after midnight. She had my cell phone almost continuously, but I had trouble refusing her because she kept transferring huge sums of credit to my account. And if at any point I did try to say no to her, she would inevitably cry, "My FATHER is DEAD!"

In general, she wouldn't leave me in peace. After a few truly absurd incidents, I was at a tipping point. I couldn't live my life anymore. She wouldn't even allow me to visit my family (as if she had that authority!), because she told me they were bad people and thieves. Some of my sisters tried to come greet me one night, but this woman screamed and yelled at them to stay away from her house.

It was too much. Finally I really put my foot down, and we had some strong words. I told her calmly that I was not her slave -- but she flipped and called me an "American imperialist" and then accused me of making this into "the Cold War." She stormed off, and I took this as my opportunity to flee to my family's house for the evening.

I decided I just needed to coexist with this woman while she stayed in the village -- one or two weeks, she'd said -- and then everything could go back to normal. So for the next several days, I was nearly invisible. While at home, I stayed completely locked up in my room, quiet as can be, and I slipped out at times to head to school or to my family's house. This crazy woman continued to blast her music, but I slept with earplugs. An inconvenience, but I felt empowered. I felt in control. Hold on for one more day...


Last Saturday morning I was in my room, happily enjoying some America-sent chai tea and oatmeal, listening to the BBC and doing a crossword -- a.k.a. the perfect start to a day in Dar El. At around 9, this train wreck of a woman came banging on my door. I opened it, and she was standing there with my counterpart (Peace Corps liaison in the village). He greeted me, then stepped back in hesitation. The crazy lady started railing on him: "You tell her now. You tell her right now!! This is not a hotel, this is not the Hilton." What could she possibly be talking about? My counterpart approached me again with some reluctance and announced: "You need to get all your stuff and come up to the mayor's, and we will look for a room." What?? I said I didn't understand, so he switched from Pulaar to French. No, see, I understood -- but I just don't understand.

Finally the woman tired of this and marched over to me herself. "Take your things, come on!!! They'll find you a room." But where, I asked? "I don't know where, just do it!!" In hopeless confusion, I asked: "But --" "There is no but!!!" "I just want to know why," I said. "THERE IS NO WHY!! Now, come on!!" Right now? "Yes, right this minute!! I'm trying to go somewhere, and now I'm going to be late having to wait for you so I can lock this up. Let's go!!" And with that, she just haphazardly started grabbing things off my floor and scattering them all on the ground just outside my doorway. Are you serious?

Too, too many thoughts rushed through my head. Her behavior was entirely irrational and inappropriate, but at the end of the day there wasn't much I could do about it. The room is technically her property. She declared that I had to be out in five minutes. I barely had time to comprehend. Everything. Everything that had made this room my home. My curtains, my photos, my calendars, my clothes line, my beautiful window screens that I had installed myself. In a daze, I threw it all in random bags and boxes and tried unsuccessfully not to cry.


The room was empty in 15 minutes, an unbelievable feat. My counterpart appeared again and said we should take everything up to the mayor's, next-door. It felt degrading and depressing to carry all my things out of this place I had treated so well. Some young girls, about 11 years old, watched us from under a tree for the first load or two, and then they scampered over to greet me. "Raky, we want to help you," the ringleader said. Fine, I sighed, just be careful. Looking at my mess of stuff, she picked up a cardboard box -- and balanced it on her head to carry. Because that's how you carry heavy things here. For some reason, seeing this almost broke me.

And so it has been a long week since then. I have been offered another room in an empty house next to the mayor's, but the door is not secure and needs to be replaced. In the meantime, I have been staying in the mayor's living room, with all my possessions. It's less than ideal, although his house does have some amazing perks like electricity and a real shower.

Please do not mistake this psychopath for being representative of the sort of people I interact with typically. She is anything but. Everyone in Dar El has been exceedingly kind to me throughout this ordeal. Several people, including the village chief himself, have sought me out specifically to apologize for this woman's behavior and declare that she is just out of her mind and no one knows what to do with her. They've also told me that I'm better off away from her -- and, of course, they're right.

May 16, 2008, was my last night at my apartment in Austin, Texas. From that time until I left for the Peace Corps, I didn't have a room of my own.

But stone and wood don't make a place home.

So, a new era. Inshallah.