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.

Le club d'anglais

All school year long, I've wanted to start an English Club. After-school activities here are an entirely alien notion, but I was determined to get one off the ground for the sake of my really bright students. Of course, there is a certain chain-of-command one needs to go through before making something like this happen. Namely, I needed to speak with my school director. Sounds simple enough, right?

The gentleman who had been our director last year was due to return in October -- but he never did. We were assigned a new director, with whom I spoke right away. He was enthusiastic about my club plans, right up until the time that he got re-assigned a few weeks later. For a while, we had no director, and then #3 came along. I was certain I was off to a bad start with him when in our very first meeting I had to ask off for Thanksgiving.

Then this director disappeared. No one really knew where he was. The surveillants (disciplinarians) and teachers begrudgingly had to schedule our Trimester 1 exams ourselves. I returned from December break to a still-directorless school. With no single person in command, week after week I could not get approval for my club.

February at last marked the return of Director #3. My next task was trying to make this man understand what exactly were my intentions. It's amazing the amount of red tape there was to go through at a school with only seven teachers. The director said I needed to talk to both "coordinators." No one had even told me we had such a thing!

But after many conversations and repeated explanations, plans were laid. While in Boghé I typed up and printed out formal invitations to the club for a total of 20 of my best students in 3rd and 4th years. I presented these during class, calling out each one's name for all to hear. These kids never get any kind of honor or recognition for their hard work, and I wanted to make it seem like a big deal, something they should be proud of.


Each school day runs from 8-noon and then 3-5, so I figured if we had club directly after that, all the kids would already be there anyway. Many of my students live in nearby villages, not in Dar El Barka, so they have to walk long distances to get to school and back. So my idea was to meet every Tuesday at 5pm.

But that was only an idea... The very week I'd set to begin, the school decided that from now on, we'd have classes from 8-2 straight and be done. Meaning that now my 5:00 club was NOT immediately after school. Wonderful. Like I could really expect kids to trudge all the way back to school in the worst heat of the day -- for an optional activity? I started counting the strikes against me.

The big day arrived. I left my house and walked to school, entirely prepared to be let down one way or another. I had informed the director, both so-called coordinators, the head surveillant, as well as all the kids... but I expected to find an empty schoolyard, and no one around to open the gate. "Oh, you meant today?"

But I found the groundskeeper and after a few minutes I was in a classroom. I checked my watch. Still a few minutes to spare. I sat down at a desk to wait. On the chalkboard in front of me was a science lesson taught previously that day. It was about electricity. It seems cruel to make kids learn about it if they don't even have it. But I digress.

I totally psyched myself out: It's so HOT right now. And anyway, they probably forgot. I didn't even remind them! It was over a week ago that I gave out those invitations... But, one girl had seen me earlier that day and asked me about it. So maybe if just she comes, at least it'll be something...

My thoughts were interrupted by a skid in the dirt just outside my door.

One of my kids, on his bike.

It was all I could do not to LEAP from my chair. And he opened a small floodgate. Sixteen kids showed up! I was beside myself!! I wanted to hug every one of them.

We've now met twice. It may be the highlight of my week. Mainly I've been teaching them how to use a French-English dictionary, so that we can do more fun activities using them. I've accumulated seven dictionaries now (but I humbly beg you to send more!), so I drag them all with me in my backpack. These kids have never seen a dictionary in their lives. They're 16 years old and don't know what alphabetical order is. These books are magical to them. On my way out of the schoolyard, I walked behind two of my boys, chatting to each other in Pulaar: "Dictionnaire ine moyyi dee!"

My own rendering? "How sweet is that dictionary?!"

La fête Pâcques

I write to you from inside my mosquito net, in the yard of the Boghé house. I hear: rap cassettes that neighbors blare loudly every night; the shuffling of feet and a pair of Pulaar voices (I can't hear the words, but the cadence is obvious); the insistent crickets; an occasional car whooshing by; a donkey braying in heaving gasps; the clip-clip of a horse's hooves pulling a cart on the pavement. It is late, past midnight. The moon is up, waning gibbous, which I can tell you without looking. Bailey, the house dog, is asleep at my feet -- if I'm fortunate, we'll make it through the whole night without her waking up and insisting to be let out of my tent. But probably not.

It's Saturday night, and Easter is tomorrow. That's why I'm in Boghé again, even though I was just here last weekend. On Thursday I mentioned to my host family that I was planning to head into town the next morning (weekends start on Friday, Muslim-style). "Tomorrow?!" They were incredulous. "No way, you'll never find a car." They proceeded to tell me that there was going to be a huge festival in Dar El, with mayors and village chiefs in attendance from many surrounding areas. There was to be music and singing and dancing and even theatre, they claimed. "Tons of people will be coming here," they vowed, "but no car will possibly be leaving."

But it's a religious holiday for Christians, I tried to tell them, very important. "Oh, I get it," they responded. "So you will eat lots of food! For three days!!" -- because that's what a religious holiday means to them. Food is part of it, I thought dryly, but so are photographs with gigantic rabbits, and joyful searches for chicken eggs -- oh, but not regular ones, ones that we've painted bright colors, and put candy inside of. Think these concepts will translate culturally?

As the idea sunk in that I might not be able to spend this special day with other PCVs as I had originally planned, I grew increasingly sad. I let my mind wander over memories of other Easters. When had I not been with family or close friends? When had I not been to church? It almost seemed like a cheap shot to try to pray to God to let me find a way to Boghé, like a "come on, I'm doing this for you!" But could I really spend it this year as just another day in my village, while everyone else goes about their business? The thought depressed me.

Not one to give up easily, I still got up before dawn on Friday to go sit by the road and search for a car. I'll spare you the gritty details, but let's just say not only did I find a car, but I made it to town in probably the fastest time ever. I was here by 8 AM. Alhamdulillah -- thank God!! (Is it sacrilege to say I actually thought, "It's an Easter miracle!")

So, we bought some eggs, blew out the yolks, decorated and dyed them (and dyed Bailey's tail baby blue). We will hide them tomorrow for a competitive big-kids hunt! Along with PCVs Yates and Mark, I've planned a nice little Easter meal. I have some canned turkey (about as close to ham as we can get in an Islamic republic). And thanks in part to American care packages, the menu will also comprise stuffing, mashed potatoes & gravy, okra casserole, buttered corn, bread, and jello. Can't wait! Right now I'm listening to a favorite playlist of "Jesus tunes"... so that's sort of like church? Take what I can get.

Quick school update, because I know I haven't mentioned it much lately. I feel like we're always on vacation -- which isn't far from the truth. Trimester 3 is underway, but not for long! The other trimesters lasted 12 or 13 weeks, but this one had already been cut short by over a month because of presidential elections scheduled for June 6th. (Since August this country has been run by a military usurper, do you recall?) But now, the buzz among teachers is that final exams will be pushed up even earlier. Essentially, I will probably only see each of my classes five or six times this whole trimester. It's crazy. And sad.

I have fun with them. Last week I taught agreeing and disagreeing vocab with my 4th-years. I offered some statements, which they could raise their hands and agree or disagree with. I started with generally accepted truths, like "Akon sings wonderfully" and "English is fun" (they agree emphatically!). Then I threw some curve balls: "Barack Obama is ugly." "To drink alcohol is good." These kids freaked out! "NO, TEACHER!! Sorry, but I disagree! That is NOT true!" You have to smile.

Pulaar and Hassaniya speakers alike refer to the school spring break with a French phrase, "la fête Pâcques." This literally means "the Easter holiday" (despite the fact that spring break was two weeks ago). I'm no Islamic scholar, but in my understanding Muslims revere Jesus as a prophet -- but not as one who rose from the dead to take away the sins of the world. So, they know the word Easter, but have no idea what it means.

Some things here are worth explaining, and others you just let go. "Yes," I told my family. "We will eat lots of food, for three days!"

Bonnes Pâcques à tous!

The hierarchy of pests

#10. LOCUSTS. That's right, locusts. I know what you're saying. I too thought they were a biblical plague sort of deal, not really around anymore. Wrong. Picture legions of ginormous grasshoppers (Honey, I Shrunk the Kids-style), and they keep senselessly jumping and flying into your face. They are awful. But fortunately, they are not around for the majority of the year.

#9. SCHISTOSOMA. Schistosoma is a microscopic flatworm responsible for causing schistosomiasis, the second most devastating parasitic disease (after malaria). They are found in tropical fresh water. The bottom line: because of these little guys, Peace Corps forbids me to swim in the cool and beautiful river 20 yards from my front door. It is a painful thing.

#8. MAURITANIAN STREET CHILDREN. Oh, wait. Should they not count as "pests"?
#8. CREEPY MAURITANIAN MEN. Still no? Fine...
#8. ROOSTERS. They start crowing long before dawn. I've developed a fantasy of punching one in the throat mid-cockadoodle. But really, the roosters are tolerable since I get woken up by the prayer call most mornings anyway.

#7. LIVESTOCK. This includes goat, sheep, and cattle (they're longhorns, shout-out to Texas!). These creatures comment and protest loudly all. day. long. What do you imagine to be the sounds of an African village? Joyful native songs and an occasional elephant trumpet? Not for me. It's all "MEHHHH!" and "MOOOO!"
// EDIT: I don't even know how I forgot about the god-forsaken donkeys. Their gasp-screeching is in a class by itself.


#6. TERMITES. They eat all our books. It's tragic.

#5. TOADS. At dusk, the "running of the toads" commences and I see scores of them come hopping out of every crevice and shadow. Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud. (Again, the biblical plagues are brought to mind.) The thing I can't get over is that they are so DUMB! I often discover a toad that is holed up in a corner of my room, too confused to find its way back to the door. And almost daily I have one floating dead in my latrine (or a live one still squirming in vain). Pretty gross, but I figure if they're stupid enough to keep falling in the same hole, they probably don't deserve to live.


#4. ANTS. They are a definite nuisance, but I confess that deep down I really respect them. They are SO GOOD at finding food! Constantly they impress me. Favorites are anything with sugar, nuts, or meat (i.e. beef jerky). I have to have my food SEALED, or they will immediately swarm! Ziploc bags are no match -- only Tupperware and buckets with airtight lids get the job done. Sometimes I leave a candy wrapper in the middle of my floor just to see how long it takes the ants to find it. I am at peace with them because at least they have a clear purpose in life. Oh, one other thing, though: when they bite you, it KILLS.


#3. MICE. I don't have them in Dar El Barka (alhamdulillah -- thank God!), but we have a serious mouse problem at the house in Boghé. Now, as I just said, I have to keep all my food locked up tight because of the ants anyway. But mice are peculiar little beasts. Food is not the only thing they're after. They'll chew through thick plastic bags and cardboard boxes to get to... A bar of soap? Toothpaste? Moist towelettes? The rubber grip on a pen?! Nothing is sacred.

#2. MOSQUITOES. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about a mosquito. They whine up close to your ears. They bite you so discreetly that you don't even notice, until that unmistakable itching starts burning a minute later. AND on top of all this, they spread an incredibly deadly disease, malaria! I put on insect repellent every single night, and I sleep inside a net, but still I get bitten on average 10 times a day. The only reason mosquitoes are not #1 on my list is because at least they are relatively slow enough that you can clap them dead in your hands if you see one.

And the bane of my existence:

#1. FLIES. You know those infomercials on TV when they show the "starving kids in Africa," and there are flies just all over the place? This isn't added for dramatic effect. They are everywhere, at all times. They buzz around incessantly and land on your food. Ryan had a theory in our Pulaar class that it was always at his most frustrated when a fly would land square on his face. The worst is that they are really fast, so they're hard to kill. They laugh in the face of fly paper, I've learned. My mom sent me a fly swatter, and fortunately that's been really helpful. I'm putting no dent in their population, but swatting gives me a profound sense of satisfaction. As I watch them struggle in their final moments, I often ask them aloud, "What was your life worth?"

Homecoming

When you travel out of town for the weekend, how do you get back home? Let's say you don't have a personal vehicle... Do you buy an Amtrak or Greyhound ticket, carefully checking the scheduled departure times?

Here's how I get home from Boghé (where I am able to use electricity and internet to write these lovely blogs for you). It's never the same thing twice, but this is what happened last time.


In the morning I walk the 15 minutes to the market, which is the center of activity and home to the "garage" for cars heading out of town. (So it is called anyway, even though it's just a dirt clearing that serves as a parking lot.) I search for "my" driver Moctar, who lives next-door to me in Dar El Barka and drives to Boghé daily for supplies. He lost his cell phone a couple months ago, so now looking around for him in person is the best way to get a hold of him.

Today, as many days, my search is in vain. I do, however, spot another vehicle that I know to be headed to Dar El. It's a big white van resembling a paddy wagon -- indeed, PCVs call them prison vans. This one in particular is more deluxe than most and has careful lettering painted on the driver's door: "Air Dar El Barka," a man's name, and a phone number. (Don't ask me why it says "Air," in English no less. No one would mistake it for a plane.) I save the number in my cell phone.

I walk back from the market, still hoping against hope to spot Moctar. He has a nice pick-up truck, and since he likes me, he always saves me a seat in the front with him (the other option is hanging on for dear life in the bed of the truck). But still no dice today. Air Dar El Barka it shall be. I dial the number, and with my best Pulaar I explain my situation. I ask the man if he's leaving this afternoon. "Of course, of course," the driver tells me. I ask what time, knowing full well that this question is foolish since it means nothing -- as you will soon see. He says, "1:00, or 2:00." Fine by me.

At 12:15 my phone rings. It's the driver: "Come to the garage, we're leaving right now!" Fortunately, I've been here long enough to know that I still have some time to spare. I finish eating my lunch and gather my things. Then, just in case this guy is really serious about "right now," I spring for the luxury of a taxi back to the garage. The fare is 60 ouguiya, about $0.24 USD. (FYI, "taxi" is defined as any vehicle that you can successfully flag down. In America this is typically referred to as hitchhiking.)

I spot my prison van, and I talk to the driver. "Yup, no problem," he says. I find a spot in the shade to sit down on my backpack and wait. Next to me a girl, aged 14 or so, is selling cold drinks out of a small cooler. She takes one look at me and immediately says in French, "Give me a present." I force myself to remember that this is acceptable behavior here and not considered rude. "No," I tell her flatly. I've gotten pretty good at this.


Then I have an idea. "Do you know Barack Obama?" I ask her in Pulaar. "Of course!" she brightens. "He's the President of America!" I pull from my bag the special inauguration edition of Time, which my mom has just sent me from the States. The girl scoots toward me eagerly. For the next full half-hour, we pore over every single photograph. The girl is full of questions: "Is he really black? Is he Muslim? Is that his house? Is that his wife? Is her hair real, or a weave?" We attract a small crowd, but the girl protectively smacks away the hands of other children who try to turn the pages.

When we finally finish, she thanks me profusely. Then, as an afterthought, she tugs off her ring and thrusts it toward me. "A present?" I ask. Her eyes light up as she nods. I proudly put it on my finger. It's hideous, bright orange-y fake gold. I love it.

It's now past 1:00. About an hour later, the driver tells me he just needs to go pick up some supplies and he'll be right back to get me.

At 4:30, I board the vehicle.

The other passengers and I sit on jugs of oil and 50-kilo rice sacks that cover the floor from wall to wall. One man has in his lap a baby goat, umbilical cord still visible. We all pay our fare so that the driver can buy enough gas for the trip. We pull out of town at 5:15. I walk through my door at 6:30.

I take time at my house only to drop my things and find my gifts for my family. I always bring them back something from Boghé. This time it's mandarin oranges (a true indulgence) and ever-needed tea. I hustle over to their house.

"HAI-YO!" exclaim Faasidi and Goggo when they spot me. (It's not a Pulaar word exactly, more a sound effect expressing delight at someone's arrival.) They run over and engulf me in hugs -- a gesture that really has to be earned here. Everyone falls over themselves greeting me. "How are you? Are you healthy? You returned safely? Are you tired? How was the trip? How is everyone in Boghé? Are they healthy? Welcome, welcome!" Everyone has been sitting on a thin woven mat on the dirt ground, but they bring out a large foam pad for me. The children, starved for attention in my absence, commence a cartwheel contest for my adjudication. "Raky, Raky! Watch me!" Three-year-old Fatimata drapes herself across me and accidentally calls me "Mommy."

Over 6 hours to go 40 miles. But it's so good to be home.