ways I rock

- I never fell off the back of a truck.
- Peace Corps language teachers say my Pulaar is "frighteningly good."
- I did not ET.
- I did not get administratively separated (and/or caught) for going to Senegal, bringing booze into Mauritania, or swimming in the parasite-a-plenty river.
- It has been a really long time since I've dropped the water bag into the well.
- I have refrained from shaking babies.
- I've mastered the serious-faced Pulaar picture pose.

ways I (don't) rock

- I failed at: milking cows, cooking lunch, making tea.
- I planted a dozen Moringa trees two separate times. Not one sprouted.
- I still suck at the "What is her/his name? Game"
- Western Europe on my world map is sketchy and blatantly incorrect. I still can't get the countries straight enough to even fix my mistakes.
- My feet are rough, cracked and so calloused I can pick a thorn out of my heel without feeling anything. Actually, maybe this is a way that I do rock.
- The health committee and I did not complete the dispensary stairs project, deal with a broken latrine door, or settle the rest of the community's cash contribution.
- I still don't like rice.

after the fire

I realized after posting the story about Cadjitu's house that I didn't explain how the village redeemed itself. Within a couple of months of the fire, the entire village helped Cadjitu and her family build a new house. Village funds paid for food to pay the volunteer workers. Donations of clothing, mats, and countless other household items helped the family back on their feet.

Maybe the reason people reacted so indifferently the day of the fire, is because they recognized a futile situation. As with many many things I have witnessed, I do not really know why people behaved the way they did.

the day cadjitu's house burned down

I was sitting at the women's cooperative, needle in hand, hunched over a "Koka Kola" (Coca Cola in Pulaar) bed cover. I was wearing a freshly washed white shirt and feeling pretty clean and happy with myself. The cooperative was pretty new at this point and I was forming the words to an announcement I needed to make about our next meeting. I wanted to establish the exact date so I wouldn't have to go around the village later, informing all thirty members.

I was thinking this announcement ("Jango enen poti wadde battu goddo. On jabbii?") when a flurry of action swirled on either side of the house where the cooperative meets. These flurries of intense action (usually fights or arguments) happen in Garly quite often. They are immediate and quickly gain momentum, as all drama happens outdoors and everyone becomes involved.

A woman bounded into the compound, spoke rapidly and with wide eyes. Cadjitu's needle and fabric dropped to the plastic mat, her feet slipped into her flip flops and she was running out the door as my brain processed the Pulaar.

There's a fire and it's at Cadjitu's house- my thoughts caught up with the moment as everyone jumped to their feet and started heading toward Cadjitu's house. Everyone except me. Why would I go to a burning building without water? I dashed to the well (out of breath due to an embarrassing state of aerobic shape) and claimed a discarded 40 liter bucket in which I started dumping water that I hauled from the well.

I was thinking three things. 1, the well has no water! the well has no water! what do they do for fires when there is no water?! panic mode 2, I haven't been in an emergency situation in a really long time. Wow, I am so incredibly good in an emergency. 3, So much for this clean white shirt. In about two minutes it will be soaking with sweat and spilled water.

I swung the massive pan onto my head and it wobbled with unsteady weight. I had never carried such a large bucket on my head and my neck creaked with the strain. I walked behind another water-carrying girl to Cadjitu's part of the village, concentrating on not spilling (unsuccessfully) and slowing my heart and adrenaline down (a little more successfully.)

I trudged through the sand, one hand on the bucket, the other holding my skirt- wet and clingy- away from my legs. I turned a corner and smoke was everywhere. A huge plumb hovering above intense activity. About thirty men were shoveling sand onto the round, burning hut. Twenty women were walking toward the smoke with loads of water, and away with relieved heads and empty buckets.

My heart sank when I saw the damage that was already done. The rounded house with a straw roof was toasted. The roof had caught fire, fallen in and was scorching all of the family's belongings below. I recalled Cadjitu telling me her brother was a jeweler, and stored all of his materials in that hut. Materials that melt and merge, erasing all form and hard work.

I reached the site with eyes squinted against the sting of smoke, had a man dump the water for me, and returned to the well for another load. I noticed about fifty people just standing around. Staring at the men throwing sand, the women struggling with unsteady buckets. Treating Cadjitu's increasing tragedy as a spectacle.

Fast forward through another trip to the well, another ten minutes of neck soreness and smoke in the eyes. As predicted, I am ashy sweaty dirty and very tired. The well is worthless and I am sent home. I pass a house with a bunch of men sitting around and playing cards. I reach my house where my host family is acting as if everything is status quo.

Aissata, my host sister, says how nice I am for bringing water to Cadjitu's. I saw her there- she was one of the masses just staring. I say it has nothing to do with being nice. It is "alay sago" of course, that one would help out another in this situation. I ask her why she would go to a fire without any means to help and she shrugs, brushes it off, returns to the battery-powered TV.

I think about Cadjitu's jewelry materials, burnt and squished into the ground. The tons of sand being thrown, the men's hands getting blisters, the devastation occurring only a two minute walk away. Shouldn't everyone be helping at the fire? I ask out loud, to no one in particular. I simply question, in quiet disbelief, a deep disappointment in my quaint village settling in. Maybe my up on a hill village is not so generous and selfless. I can’t wipe the men playing cards out of my mind.

I can’t accept Cadjitu’s loss and other’s obvious apathy as part of the same picture- the same tiny moment in a miniscule town.

journal entry- ramadan

Today is the first day of Ramadan and I hate it already. Malnourished, hungry and tired people have to be more hungry, tired and thirsty day after day for thirty days. It is true fatigue. I fight the urge to feel bad for my Garly people. I dread watching their collarbones emerge.
They are scared of Allah (their words not mine) so they submit to his word- there is no choice.

But my choice in the matter is my refuge. I tiptoe around the water cannery, gulping away the heat-induced thirst in the privacy of my room.

Already they are talking about the end of this month-long challenge. They say the halfway mark is almost here, and then it is basically over. Such optimism and mutual support- they say the days go by quickly- as their bodies fail to sweat in 120 degree heat and their stomachs grumble from 10am until night.

growing up garly

Most Garly kids don’t see beyond a two mile circumference surrounding their house. They will not visit nearby villages until they are old enough to have business there. They don’t learn geography or history in school and any insight about the outer world is gathered from snatches on TVs spoken in languages they will probably never learn to speak. Many kids think France is right next door and America is on another planet.

Kids strut in groups, herd cattle, play at the river and in the dirt. Garly is a sandy playground- 100% recess and familiar faces. They act out adult behaviors. Tiny plastic pails are dunked into puddles of muddy water, just like the women at the well. Little boys run with strings in their mouths (as a horse with reins) and are steered by their masters. Dolls made of rags and sticks are carried on little backs. Marbles are slammed through the sand and plastic lids are the major players in complicated soccer stimulation games.

If you’re not hungry, life here as a young child would be of the stuff heaven is made of.

But I don’t relate. By ten years of age I rode my bike a mile to school and vacationed several states away. My dad drove us to family reunions, took us to Shakespeare plays in the park, and picnics on the beach. My young world was huge and I explored it in our station wagon- even that changing from the big and blue to the small and red. I memorized the cracks in our front steps, but I felt the vastness of life beyond our sidewalk.

Such a chasm between my sports camps and field trips, and Garly children pretending to pray at sunset next to their parents.

fooood

Jolly ranchers are amazing. I don’t even like hard candy at home but this sour apple flavor is so intense. It reminds me of lollipops at Bryan Park Pool, sticky and sweet while sitting in the shade by the pool. My fingertips almost feel pruny- I can almost smell the chlorine.

Banana cream pie, just add water, takes me back to summer camp. Giant cans of banana pudding, slopped into plastic bowls, slurped up amid the beginnings of a food fight.

Clif Bars chock full of vitamins that don’t exist here. Each bite is so hearty I can feel it clunk in my stomach.

Sardines. A food I couldn’t imagine eating in America, and when I realized I was eating it here (sometimes you don’t know until they tell you) I reacted with revulsion. And then I realized such compacted protein is magical. The energy from one tin is palpable in my blood and bones and I thank Allah for such a nutrient packed creation.

boredom (sep 07)

I’m bored. I feel seven years old again and Mom says to stand on my head or clean my room if I’m so bored. And here, this lack of stimulation, I would become a gymnast if the clothes would allow the flips and jumps. And I just cleaned my room. So.

The work pace is creeping. Meetings are set two days from now and all the hours between now and then are just an empty expanse. I would twiddle my fingers if I knew what that was.

Even when we’re working its slow. If I’m digging holes for sweet potatoes in the field all I hear is, “slow down, Fatimata,” or “take a break, Fatimata.” I grit my teeth and laugh instead of scream in frustration.

There is nothing to do here! Straight from college and there are no clubs, speakers, classes, plays to be in, sports to play, movies to watch, restaurants to visit or wine to drink. No meetings, programs, trips, television, libraries, internet…

I’m digging up dirt, a little slower to please, and try to breathe deep. Try to believe that this is enough. I don’t need all that stimulation; all that stuff. I’ve got this hoe and this earth and it is enough. But don’t make me sit down and drink water. I need an avenue for all this extracurricular energy and it’s going in your soil and coming out in my popped blisters and sweat.

good-bye garly

I kissed my village good-bye. It was 2:30am and half the village was in my yard. We had eaten a goat that the health committee slaughtered. I had given away everything in my room and my walls were bare. My cheeks hurt from chit-chat talking, smiling.

Fleeting impulses to pull on the brakes had dissipated. I was ready, ready, ready to say good-bye.

I was ready for the end.
The end of arm-in-arm night walks with Isata to the boutique.
The end of saying "I'm full" and "No thanks" to tea.
No more boring hours at the dispensary, sunburned feet or tireless greetings.
I am done walking through herds of scary cows, noisy sheep, jumpy goats.
Good-bye, good-bye prayer calls, wind storms and plain bread for breakfast.

So long, Mariam with your throw-your-head-back laugh, and Demba who calls me La Binks and Bebe's endless dancing and Njariel's daughter who took two years to not be scared of me. So long, Ly's fancy clothes, Neene Mawdo's funny feet, Bambi's unfinished projects. I will miss when Maam knows I want to say something just by the way I breathe in. I will miss the Jaybo house for their heavy struggles, but strong laughter to balance it out.

I will miss standing in the middle of the market, greeting each woman by name and feeling like I climbed a mountain. Like I ran a marathon. I endured and put myself out there a million times in a million ways and have arrived.

I will miss that feeling of home, of having arrived, despite being in a place as different from my home as one can imagine.

I am ready. Done. Good-bye, so long.

(yet another) sad animal story

(I wrote this a long time ago, but censored it because aren't you all tired of animals getting beaten up? Oh well, now is the time to post all my old thoughts. Don't read this, Julie.)

On the BBC they’re chronicling some American football player who’s gotten caught with his hand fiddling with illegal dog fighting circles. It’s a big deal apparently, with animal rights activists enraged and pet-loving Americans horrified. How many sad stories fail to strike a sentimental chord with me?

Here, I am watching the a roly poly silky smooth puppy’s fate play out to a certain but slow death. No one wants the mutt that can’t be eaten, ridden or milked. Adults put children in charge of it- take it away- our house is full enough- it’s a girl and we don’t want it producing more worthless animals…

The puppy cries under the sting of the kids homemade riding crops and the kids scream at the sight of its baby teeth. They, as terrified children, are more dangerous to this gray haired big eyed pup than any number of gun-bearing big boned Western men.

Later I see Haby’s little boy with a bird tied to a string. It’s like a deranged, defeated balloon that’s from a freaky fair. The bird struggles to fly some, is dragged in the dirt mostly. I fire out protests but my futile objections are predictable and tiresome. Pulaar is as useless as English when it comes to animal rights here.

I see the boy/bird team a few days later. The bird is dead and bloated but the boy isn’t tired yet.

bandit husband

Mariam Jaybo came back from tracking down her husband.

She’d heard rumors about a second wife and he’d been a long time away so she bustled off to Senegal. In the name of respect or desperation I’m not sure.

She came back with jewelry and rice and the news that he didn’t have a second wife- according to his word. Mariam played with the new jewelry, chunky and crinkly gold on her wrists and dangling to her shoulders from her ear lobes.

“Someone must have been really sick to give this to a healer as payment” Mariam Ba observes.

Any thoughts of Jobe being a bandit and bad news are whisked away with the 6000 ougiya that he gave Mariam. I want to demand that Jobe be a better husband and come get to know little Faty and buy Bebe a pen for school. But I don’t. His job is crummy. His love is not enough so does it matter if it exists?

But I think of that light purple holey lingerie that Mariam Jaybo owns and my stomach hurts. Not fair, not fair, not fair my heart hums. For him to go away and not call and not send money and perhaps get married. I want to spit with indignation. But Mariam Jaybo doesn't have the room to make demands. What right do I have to voice emotions that no one has the power to express?

(yet another) morning post

I awake just as it’s light enough to read my watch. 5:45am and the prayer call is obscenely loud- throwing waves of throat noises over bundled and horizontal bodies. I lug my sleeping stuff into my room trying to be silent but I cringe as a cot leg clangs into the door frame. No one stirs- since birth these people are expert sleepers.

I head out away from the rising sun toward the rice fields. I crunch through the dry earth utterly blissfully contentedly alone. My mind flew to America as soon as my shoes pointed toward my well worn path. I hold my skirt up to my knees and watch my white shins flashing in and out of view. I smile fleetingly at various stateside thoughts but don’t have to smile here because nobody can see me. For this moment I am not the foreign mascot nor the agreeable visitor. I have no name so I am spared the choice between Fatimata and Laura.

Back at the house coffee beans are being roasted and dust is flying from Bebe’s broom. Bebe pauses, stooped over from sweeping and we acknowledge each other as if we have a secret. Which we don’t. But perhaps us being such good friends makes us feel mischievous. It doesn’t feel kosher. Bebe 13 years old and dark as the blackened cooking pot and Laura, twice her age and almost transparent white thanks to 30SPF sunscreen applied twice a day.

snapshots

A crowded ‘taxi brusse’ van with sun slanting in the windows and little leg room. The old man behind me has one eye and is fanning the back of my neck with his tattered plastic fan.

A cow is about to be slaughtered. They have dug a hold near its head to catch the blood and they bring the head backwards, hooking the horns into the dirt, exposing its long and wrinkly neck.

I fall into the irrigation system of the field as I walk with Mariam Jaybo. A thigh deep slowly moving channel of water. We laugh so loudly everyone tells us to give them some peace and quiet. We exchange dry clothes for wet ones and all drip home equally.

Greeting a sick old man at night. Feeling our way along the uneven path and Mariam Jaybo says “night time is scary.” Mariam Ba says moonlit nights are the worst, because if you are walking from far away, everyone can see you but you can’t see them. Really dark nights no one can see anyone else and that is much less creepy.

Mariam Jaybo shouting “wait for me to pray!” right before everyone wants to leave. She procrastinates praying like a school child with her homework.

I hired a man to announce my mosquito cream presentation to the entire village. I love hearing this guy move through the village in the dark, leaning on his can and bellowing down the dirt lanes about the field pump working tomorrow or the meeting at the mosque. He said for my announcement he would yell, “Before you’ve died of malaria go to Fatimata Saakho’s discussion…” He threw in the death angle but I approved.

I lug water and sticks and hack up fields and wash my own clothes and flip the fish in the pot. I cry over dead dogs and pour tea as it scalds my fingertips. I bounce on horse carts and forget to wear sunscreen and carry okra in a bucket on my head trying to balance without thinking about it.

"Angale"/English

I once made Demba a worksheet about the word “dude.” All the ways which one can use the exclamation. Frustaration: “Dude!” Disbelief: “Duuude.” In greeting: “Dude.” Little stick figures voicing the versatile one-syllable slang.

Harouna uses beautiful English. Words like “aloof, engaging” and “to make a long story short.”

I hear “Good morning!” at night. “How are you fine,” in typical Pulaar greeting fashion of simply talking, without pausing for responses.

I call Ballyl’s new baby “Chubby Cheeks” and say “bless you” after people sneeze.

“OK” was the hardest English for me to eradicate from my speaking habits. I learned the Pulaar verb “to be unable” just so I could use it in reference to my inability to stop saying OK.

People trip on “sh” sounds, so I tell them my last name is “Smit.”

I remember the moment when I realized I could think about something other than the situation at hand. I was at the well. Greeting other women, discussing lending my water-fetching bag, hauling water from the depths of the ground. But in my head I was tallying objects I needed to buy in Nouakchott for my Paris trip. What I needed to pack before I left Kaedi. I was thinking about things other than my Pulaar grammar and every single word others were throwing at each other, yet I could understand all actions that were occurring. I rejoiced internally at this realization. What freedom to be able to transport ones thoughts elsewhere without detracting from one’s participation and understanding in the current moment. What a gift to not have to be painfully, consciously, intently, processing each moment as it passes.

difficulties

There is so little in between time in Garly. I crave a life that is not so demanding, unforgiving.

The weather exerts its presence all the time. The heat, the sandy wind, the unavoidable sun, the humidity before the rain. Precious space without the grating, testing wail of a baby. Relentless children’s noises from shrieking and pouting to sticks drumming on tomato paste cans.

When life isn’t in my face with noise or temperature, my eyes swim in the visually intensive goings-on.

The environment either deadly barren or bursting with life. Goats chomping on torn scraps of fabric. Sand pulsating with heat and smothering anything green. Rocks everywhere, treeless landscapes. But after the rain, tiny red bugs scampering over the grass that shoots up in minutes. Huge bodies of water slowly begin to collect fish and serve as temporary rivers for their clothes-washing convenience.

Achingly beautiful or breathtakingly ugly. Women’s perfect posture, sculpted collarbones, bright eyes. Movement without the hesitation of self-consciousness. Hollywood cheekbones, strong hands. But then, a mouth lined with gaping black cavities causing its owner to scream in agony. I cringe at fragile rib cages quietly demanding in their detailed presence. Ring-wormed hair spots, yellowed, sun-tired eyes, heels cracked beyond repair cushioned only by a centimeter of show sandal foam.

Every scene pulls something from me. Pity for a tired body, awe at the instant greenness of the scenery, curiosity, compassion, the emotions are endless and instant. I feel quickly and at first glance, before I have the chance to slam my heart shut. (A heavy door, like one to a walk-in freezer. Air tight, with a lock. A heavy duty, defense mechanism-type necessity, is this door to my feelings.) It is impossible to maintain my wholeness when I am moved by every second- inevitably extreme in a collection of lives so precariously balanced on “surviving.” So I swing the door shut, feel relief at the last bit of air escaping as the cushion settles against the metal, heavy and secure.

Up and down. Up and down. Relief with a rainstorm. Frustration at another delayed meeting. A sad good-bye as someone gets married to a Senegalese. A giggle at a scandalous comment. Impatience for lunch. A repressed sigh at an annoying neighbor. Helplessness at loud signs of poverty.

It is this oppressing lack that is exhausting to live in, breathe in, feel every moment. A lack that is heavy. Weighs me down into a hardened crystal of guilt or cold, necessary denial and the blankness that comes when the door to my heart slams shut after a first glimpse of hurt, struggle, endless need.

There is so little in between time in Garly. I crave a life that is not so demanding, unforgiving.

time to eat/Pulaar is hard

The Pulaar verb for eat is naamde. Eat your dinner, come and eat this greasy meat, etc. The way verbs work in Pulaar is there are very few prepositions, and just a lot of changing of the verb. For example, to with with somebody is naamdude. To be about to eat is naamoyde. To eat for someone else is naaminde. That is a lot of verbs to use when you are just talking about straight up eating. (And is not including all of the various tenses.)

Now what if you’re talking about a different kind of eating? Such as chewing, sucking, chomping? In English, these are simply colorful words used in novels in order to add depth to a dinner table scene, or make a character’s eating habits interesting. In Pulaar, most foods require the use of only a particular eating verb. Below is just a sample. (Keep in mind that because the verb basically depends on the consistency of the food, depending on how something is cooked it will be in a different category.)

Yukude/To Chew- Bread, peanuts, anything crispy like little fried fish or fried sweet potatoes
Muudde/To mash slowly- Boiled sweet potatoes, any kind of porridge, dirt, food that implies a stickiness almost, between the teeth
Medde/Take a bite- Anything of which you just want a sample, used to entice someone to try something. (Like “try a bite” but it implies a hand motion because the verb “to touch” is memde.)
Yarde/To Drink- Porridges, Sauces without a carb to eat it with, milk with couscous
Muucude/To Suck- Frozen juices, fruit that is very ripe, anything eaten from the corner of a plastic bag (this is more common than one would think.)

Bon appetit!

the rain returns

Rain storms are often preceded by windstorms. I wake up balanced on my cot. The midnight wind moves a steady curtain of sand over the sleeping village. My face feels like sandpaper- every orifice is clouded with dust. I struggle to curl into a ball without toppling my rickety cot and cover my head with my twisted sheet. It is only from other's shouts that I noticed I can't see the stars due to the rolling clouds and relentless dust.

A calm compound only seconds ago jumps into half-asleep panic.

Flashlights sweep the ground like search beams, lighting on dinner dishes and plastic mats, all hurriedly dragged inside. Kids are hoisted into indoor beds and clothes are plucked off the clothes line. All the while sand is thrown everywhere and tree limbs threaten to detach from their trunks. Once possessions are inside, humans follow suit, retreating into the steamy sauna of safety.

Then the thunder and lightning are on top of each other, the hill and crashing onto the tin roof. This kind of weather gets me almost scared and I can feel my heart pumping with my slight mistrust of the construction of the house. My bathroom is full of water and its rushing into my toilet hole. I try bailing some water out, teeth chattering, rivers of rain running into my eyes and down my goosebumped legs- so accustomed to dryness and heat.

too much time

Us PCVs are really quite creative when it comes to filling the empty hours of a Saharan desert day. When it is too hot to leave the house, we have been known to undertake the following hobbies:

-improving our cursive handwriting
-perfecting cartoon caricatures of Peace Corps staff
-playing games of Scrabble using only local languages
-book writing and reading
-knitting, embroidering, painting

and now the latest addition of what a few Americans will do with a couple of hours and a digital camera:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naHGCh-StE8

-music video making

Just search You Tube for "village wrestling part deux" or Mauritania, Peace Corps, John Slattery. All will bring to view a somewhat embarrassing but ultimately entertaining montage we made yesterday.

We are pretty pleased with ourselves.

trash project completed

In less than one week the village of Garly constructed eleven trash consolidation sites out of cement, metal poles and fencing. This same project took another PCV over a year (and she's still not done.) Go team Garly!

Why so fast? Because there was no choice in the matter. I gave the village one week to complete the construction and spent my days running to various contacts carrying different messages and generally being a sanitation cheerleader. I called many meetings and plainly stated deadlines.

This all seems like a very simple and an effective way of running things. Why didn't I take this speedy quick approach for my lengthy latrine project? Or why is my fellow PCV given up on hers ever being completed? Projects here, simply put, are difficult not in a monetary sense- usually just a small donation is collected from each family. Nor is the manual labor difficult- carrying a few loads of sand a couple hundred meters ain't no thang.

It is unbelievably difficult, however, to get a group of workers together at the same time working toward a common goal. There are no calendars on which to set a date two weeks from tomorrow. There is no system of punishments or rewards for those who work hard or do not show up. (My women's cooperative has a fee for anyone who shows up late or doesn't give an excuse for absence ahead of time.)

That being said, Garly pulled through, and even personalized some of the sites to boot! (Check out the picture)