peacing out

In twelve hours I will be boarding my flight. Twenty four hours after that I will be coasting into Indiana. (As habit, I am now thinking, "God willing" in Pulaar, but hopefully I will be free of such thinking shortly.)

One souvenir I am taking back with me is the parasite Entamoeba Coli. If you Wikipedia it you will find that it is quite boring- hence that my symptoms have been similar enough to habitual disagreements with food that I haven't even noticed them.

Besides this third world souvenir, I am surely walking away with less tangible battle wounds, personal growth scars, and other I'm Growing Up stretch marks. However, at this point in time I am all self-reflected out.

This is me signing off, folks. No more blogging for me- woot woot! Thanks for reading, posting comments, sending letters. Thanks for caring about your long lost friend, sister, niece, daughter, yam-yamo. I can't wait to come home- I will see you all soon.

Amadou and ants

The BBC spits out endless news of violence and death and oh my god terrible things that instead of talking about I will listen to grimly as I sweep my floor and then flick it off when my heart is tired of caring. Ants trail into my room, sending secret messages about something that holds their interest. Can’t imagine what it could be- my Metamucil, vinegar, dried okra? Miserable food collection attracting hordes of tiny pests that I do my best to exterminate one by one as they scurry in panic mode. I once had a one-man club dedicated to saving ants. I would swoop in between my mother and her victim, carefully placing it on the front crumbling sidewalk. Pleased as the ant strutted off, saved from a possible squashing.

I wanted to cry when Amadou, the man who made the latrine doors, asked for more money. He welded the beautiful metal doors basically for free and I didn’t have enough money to increase his payment. I explained this to him, and choked over the words, Thank You. Those words are too small.

an in between person

How often does a person get to be alone like this? Alone in my work without a boss, grades, evaluation of any sort. Alone in my thoughts with no one knowing much of my personal life. No e-mail, phone calls only done by appointment, no messages or on-line texting. I am alone with my history, my English words scrawled in charcoal on my bathroom wall. Alone in Garly.

I grit my teeth during a painful car ride. I know the smell of the wheat porridge at the feeding center, and the feeling of Neene Mawdo’s dry hands as she clasps mine to say good morning. There is no witness to make this real, once I leave it. No one to stretch against under the mosquito net. No one to play euchre with during the swelling silent time between lunch and early evening prayer call. No one traveling back across the ocean next to me- exclaiming that we get cheese with dinner.

To you readers, my words about Garly only make as much sense as my words about America make to people in Garly. How do I convey the enormity of a goat slaughtering to an American who can eat a hamburger for 99 cents? How to show a Garly friend a picture of Canada without falling into the infinite abyss of things they don’t know about my luxurious life?

There is no bridge. I float between the extremes taking notes in my graph paper journal. I remember mini milkshakes and fancy dresses as my back smarts from digging at the ground. I am from the moon and have landed on Mars.

no more complaining

I am tired of complaining about the hardships of life here. In all honesty, the hardest part about being here was not the weather, work frustrations or cultural clashes. My most difficult task was overcoming myself.

The first few months in Garly simply leaving my compound was a daily battle. Greeting people zapped my energy, walking around a bit took all of my concentration. I was so preoccupied with Mariam Ba’s expectations I made a chart once, graphing her behaviors, to see if I could figure cause and effects of my own behaviors. I obsessed over villager’s opinions- making sure to smile constantly and never complain.

I felt guilty about everything. I felt like I was a leech on my host family’s resources and time- needing guidance on daily living, requiring corrections on my language. I felt bad about my sturdy shoes, the rate at which my hair grew, my splendid education. I suffered over the gift of yearly dentist appointments and the frivolous opportunities that freckled my entire existence.

An excerpt from my journal: "I feel bad that these women can't read or write. That their feet are dry and full of cracks- that they don't know what they're missing in the world- that they don't know what their lives look like to me. I just feel bad. 'Help' is complicated and I don't think I could do it anyway. It's like we're playing Presidency [a card game] and I get to be the prez every time, and I think that by being here I am being generous- that I am closing the privilege gap."

I felt, at the beginning, that my life was intrinsically better than life in Garly. I thought the USA had the answers and I was so blessed to be from there, and these people were so not fortunate to live where they did.

Then I went back to the States. I saw on the news something called Prison Idol. Child obesity and worries about global warming engulfed me. Cheap and easy food was everywhere. Not to mention cheap and easy entertainment, clothes, transportation and distraction. To live a life of balance and moderation in America is a life consciously chosen and painfully stuck to. The choices were staggering, the consumption and consumerism overwhelming.

I was jolted from a make-believe superior place and blasted back to confusion in Garly. If I don’t know who is happier, me or them, then I can’t feel bad for them. If I don’t know what is a good or bad way to develop a third world country, I can’t feel bad for doing it my way. Realizing my utter cluelessness released me from the burden of myself. I let go of the pressure I held over myself- I don’t have to know everything or do it all the right way. I have never lived this day before- perhaps I don’t yet know the best way to live it.

How I get over myself? First, I admit that I don’t know. Then I go from there.

conflict resolution

A small occurrence blew up into a month long mutual silent treatment between two women I live with. The incident was small enough, but it hinted at resentment and built up frustration that is usually dormant. Ballyl and Mariam Ba exploded into a fighting match on our front porch. The neighborhood came for the entertainment and told the women to stop yelling. I am used to raised voices but Ballyl’s eyes were bright with anger and to see Mariam Ba so riled up made my foundation here feel shaky.

As they yelled and the crowd grew around them, I jotted down vocabulary words quietly, as I picked the words out of their speech like one plucks flowers. That day I learned the verb, “to brag or show off” and it was this tendency of one of them that was the root of their disagreement.

They did not speak for over a month. Two grown women- mothers! They communicated through curt messages sent through the kids. They ignored the Ramadan tradition of forgiving and reconciliation- didn’t participate in the celebration’s lengthy greetings centered on such spirits.

This month of uncomfortable lunches (one bowl, two fighters= no fun) got me reflecting on my elementary school experience with conflict resolution. I used to visit schools’ after-school programs to teach about peer mediation. By the time I was twelve I embraced tendencies like listening to other people’s sides of a story, refraining from hitting and calling names. I was flabbergasted at the lack of problem solving demonstrated in Garly, and by women who were old enough to be my mothers!

But just when I feel superior, I am humbled. I look at my funny clothes and my job building shitters and I think, “Who are YOU, crazy girl with a baby’s vocabulary, to think you know better?”

Maybe this works for them. What do I know.

unwanted (and detested) attention

My friend Neda is a magnetically beautiful person. Something about her face arrests the eyes. Maybe one looks for a flaw in the symmetry- eyes roam her face in search of a flaw to grab on. To no avail. Neda is accustomed to being stared at, admired, observed. The disarming amount of attention a white person draws in West Africa slides right off Neda’s consciousness. She expresses no rage over incessant greeting, no frustration at wide silent eyes intently observing the foreigner’s every move.

I, on the other hand, am average in just about every way. My height (a minor physical attribute) is the only way in which I exceed the norm. My history, family and self is average enough to never have commanded or received exceptional attention.

Until I brought my white skin to Africa. Simply being white here implies many wonderful, exciting, sparkly things. I am a manifestation of the West; liberal behavior, wealth, health. My otherness, my tantalizing foreignness is palpable in my every action. My mobility and money glaringly bright. No wonder everyone stares. I don’t blame them for their fascination- I do not detest the people for their interest.

But I really hate the staring. I feel a deep rage being the object of such wide eyes, such ceaseless awareness. I hate being observed, analyzed. Every action is taken in, every purchase memorized and reported. I am constantly monitoring myself, keeping control over the frustration that boils beneath my surface.

We say it is like we are clowns. Imagine if a clown were to move next door to you. Even if they wore normal clothes, the painted white face (big nose, funny shoes, the list goes on) would be unmistakable. Who could blame a clown’s neighbor for peeking over the fence to report that the clown is watering his flowers? Or, wouldn’t it be interesting to know what a clown cooked for dinner, how they sat in a chair, brushed their hair? Considering myself to be a clown is sometimes the only way to avoid exploding with annoyance on my unwanted audience. If you don’t like being watched, I remind myself, remember you placed yourself in the ring.

Enough of the internal Don’t Hate Them battle. I can’t wait to return to a place where it is the gorgeous Nedas who occupy people’s eyes.

The Nedas who carry the burden of being fascinating.

nouakchott encore

With three days left in Mauritania, I am coasting through the hours in comfortable Nouakchott. Some things that are still special here that in a month's time will be old hat, status quo:
a diet coke
warm shower
air conditioning
elevators
wearing sneakers
crunchy apple as a snack
movies in english
a mixed salad for lunch (complete with cucumbers and cheese!)
the internet
americans!

And the things I will probably never see or do again:
a salon that specializes in rubbing ones body down in a steamy and wet open room
taxis with dragging bumpers, destroyed seat cushions and no headlights
apple soda pop
speaking snatches of multiple languages in one store (greeting in French, bartering in Pulaar with stander-by as translator, Thank you in Hassaniya.)
considering toilet paper a (unnecessary) luxury
exchanging money on the black market- shadow corners or middle of a crowd, usually
men selling underwear, sunglasses and plastic toys on one hand-carried contraption
knowing the time based on prayer calls
walking amid beggars, mounds of fruit, fish guts and garbage without missing a beat in my errands or conversation
scorching, unbearable, dangerous heat (at least I never want to see this again)

H-E-Double-Hockeysticks

One need only compare my work tendencies in America to the work habits of Garly to get a sense of the inner struggle I battled for two years. Throughout my service I didn't dare delve into all of my emotional struggles at the time of hardship. My survival mode was in high gear and that didn't include the option of self pity.

So, below is a sketch of my work pattern in America during college. Realize this was a self-created world in which I lived pretty much exactly as I wanted.

-I did not pull a single all-nighter.
-I planned meetings and appointments weeks in advance and thrived in a super-organized environment.
-I hated procastinating or cramming for tests.
-I considered group projects to be slow and annoying. I often delegated and avoided actual collaboration during tedious paper-writing, Power Point presentation making, etc. (I recognized the worth of teamwork but cared more about efficiency.)
-I never said, “I don’t have time,” but used the more accurate, “That isn’t my priority right now.” I didn’t like excuses because I felt we were all choosing our actions therefore completing our work on time, or not, based entirely on what we wished.

Below is a list of Garly’s work habits. Note the fireworks type clash.

-Work took place largely at the last minute. People finished their specific jobs right before a meeting, simply to avoid being singled out.
-Nothing was ever done immediately. Work times were not set for “today” but for “the day after tomorrow in the evening.”
-My village work depended solely on group collaboration, teamwork, etc. Work days required rounding up people and dealing with endless reasons as to why they couldn’t make it or excuses as to low quality work.
-Something was always coming up- celebrations, weather complications, field work. A sense of powerlessness pervaded everything. “God knows, God willing, it’s in God’s hands,” talk certainly didn’t get things moving.

In a nutshell, for a person who thrives on action, efficiency and reliability, it’s a wonder such a slow paced work environment with little self-accountability didn’t drive me completely insane.

Or maybe it did, and you can be the judge of that in just a few weeks.

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!