phew

The latrines are done. Totally built. Require no more tweaking or materials or trips to the well for water or walks to Hamedou's to ask about money or voyages with the donkey cart to get sand.

I allow myself now a big sigh of relief, and a look back at the more memorable moments:

When I began my study of West African latrine building, I toured several of the private latrines. The local mason pointed out to me all of the parts without cracking a smile at the fact that we were discussing one of the more private sides of life.

I recall picking up the 900,000+ ougiyas at the Kaedi bank. The biggest denomination is a 2000UM bill, so what I carried out of the bank literally filled a handbag. It was the size of several bricks and weighed about the same.

The many meetings with the elders of the village. Their fashionable red and white checked scarves thrown around their shoulders and their flip flops in a cluster at the edge of the mat. I just looked on while the committee informed the men they would each be expected to pay for the latrines in money and labor. All I ever said was "thanks" at the end of the meeting, and they always replied with, "you're a good person, Fatimata."

Standing in front of the first completed latrine (and pictured above) with three grown men- the mason, his helper, and the health committee president and us all agreeing that the latrine is a)gorgeous and b)likely to better hold up than most houses in Mauritania

I remember giving the brick throwers little donut balls for a morning snack, carrying sand for the latrine near my house, and late night meetings with the health committee. Someone always inevitably said "God willing, these latrines will get done" and someone else always replied, "It just may not be very soon."

My friend telling me that from now on, whenever anyone needs to poop they'll go to Fatimata's latrine and will think of Fatimata while doing their business. (Unfortunately, I am Fatimata.)

so that's what it looks like here

Having visitors was a wake up call to my senses. I realized how many visuals I have learned to actively ignore, for better or for worse. This is what my American ladies helped me notice- and remember that I noticed this all before, in July 2006:

-Trash is everywhere. Stores in cities look like they are built on piles of garbage. Spaces in between litter and donkey dung are filled with dust, grime and sand. Ew.

-Trash doesn't end at the city limits. Plastic bags decorate the road side all the way to Timbuktu (I'm confident, that unless Mali's government is more diligent about litter, that this is actually true.)

-Animals fill the streets, climb through dumps, run through houses and poop on anything that doesn't move, or at least moves slowly. Animal and human spaces are, if defined at all, divided by very blurry and flexible lines.

-My village likes people first and asks questions later. I'd forgotten the open arms I'd fallen into.

-Garly is the best place to be in Mauritania. Any question I'd harbored about that is totally wiped away. Now, if I could return to my obliviousness to Mauritania's city messes, I'd be all set.

super trippers

The first time I visited the Kaedi market I was so overwhelmed I failed to buy anything. People everywhere, human trash and animal waste in piles between tiny stalls and looming stores. My family, on the other hand, basically owned the filthy and bustling heart of my regional capital. They returned the Bonjour!s of kids I'd begun to ignore long ago. They bought funny presents and pointed the videocamera at all the action.

During the fam's Crash Course in Mauritania I can't recall a single complaint. Despite the first "toilet" they encountered in a Nouakchott alley. Despite a messy goat slaughtering and the inability to communicate with villagers.

Instead, they pounced on my one English speaking Garly friend with strings of questions I'd stopped answering. They pounded grain despite laughter at their technique. By the end, though we were all tired of the ol' four little ducklings in a strange land routine, I was nothing but thankful for the visit. Also impressed, if not surprised, by the superstar showing these Smith women put on.

my girls go to garly

Despite my warnings of discomfort and culture shock, the women of the Smith clan (minus our newlywed who couldn’t tear herself away from either her hubby or her dog, we don’t know which) traveled back with me to Mauritania.

“Ugly,” was my mother’s first reaction to the country capital Nouakchott. “There’s trash everywhere,” the younger sisters chorused. Bizarre observations to me because I had stopped being aware of Nouakchott’s appearance long ago. Luckily, we spent a minimal amount of time in Mauritania’s unimpressive bigger cities. (Keep in mind even the word “city” is a stretch, seeing how I can count the number of paved rounds in Mauritania on two hands.)

We jetted out to Garly and were met with such hospitality and care that we all were moved to tears at various times. (My mother at the most inconvenient ones, such as when they meet the village chief.) The health committee called in drummers from Senegal and girls from the village wore costumes and danced for us. Village elders came to welcome my mother and sisters, some with presents and others with endless words of praise for yours truly.

The goat the health committee slaughtered for us served as a basis for every snack and meal. A valuable source of protein and an ironic gift for the two vegetarians (Michelle and Lisa) who had to pick carefully through every meal.

My girls learned to carry water on their heads, how to pick beans in the fields, felt the pain of riding in the back of a truck, carried young babies around (maybe even got peed on, thanks to the lack of diapers.) They slept on the ground without a complaint, helped my host family pound wheat and laughed easily at themselves and children’s choice of clothing (specifically “hood boy” who wore a t-shirt, shorts, and a winter coat hood.)

I feel blessed to have been able to share my village and life with four of my favorite females in the world. I had the pleasure (and pain) of serving as their voice and guide for several days in a strange land. A priceless, surreal experience of which only the pictures remain to those state-bound that they did actually experience

paris, week two

I shifted from traveling as a party of two to a member of a gang of nine. We were Americans on a holiday excursion and had no shame in broadcasting that fact in all manner of behavior. We romped through gardens in our Crayola colored coats. We videotaped on the metro and crowded around Michelle’s articulate and lengthy lectures (her art history major has now served at least one useful purpose) at museums.

Everyone gained some kilos thanks to Charles’ pastry runs every morning and Drew’s delicious dinners. We laughed at You Tube videos and scowled at Lisa winning Blokus at night. (That girl is unbeatable at virtually any board or card game. So annoying.) We never turned on the TV and had a minimalist Christmas with just a few bare bones presents under the tree. We snuggled under gigantic fur blankets and rocked on the cow-hide chair.

Dad was in “generous mode” all week, tossing out Euros like candy in a parade. Mom sipped her wine and us girls talked about our boyfriends, much to Alice’s chagrin. Crepes were a constant hand-warmer as we strolled down sidewalks, linking arms and jostling for space. Not one to use many superlatives, I can safely say that this was the best Smith Family Vacation Ever.

city of lights, week one

A few weeks ago Kevin (aka The Boyfriend) and I flew from our respective countries of residence and met up in the city of romance. We stayed in the red light district with the Sacre Coeur and the Sexodrome looming in the distance.

Highlights included marveling at Notre Dame, a photo shoot at the Eiffel Tower and snacking on the most ridiculous looking pastries we could find. We worked the calories off by taking the metro only once a day and walking among many arrondisements (sections of the city) on any given day, and strolling down the fantastically lit up Champs Elysees. We drank wine and ate cheese until our stomachs hurt and made not very intelligent comments in museums. Unfortunately, yes, we were that American couple cocking their heads to the side and saying, “that’s weird,” about an incredibly famous painting or sculpture about which we knew nothing.

We vowed that the next trip we take will not end in a good-bye and plane rides to opposite sides of the world… “Inshallah,” I say. (“God willing,” for all you still slow on the Arabic uptake.)