What I Learned While Waiting for the Sunrise

I hiked out of town to a hill overlooking the city a few mornings ago with a friend. We left the house at 4am to be sure we wouldn't miss it, and the walk took us about an hour. We got there with plenty of time to spare, so for a while I just sat in the dark and thought to myself. I listened as things woke up. The donkeys never really go to sleep. They bray all night long, which can be especially creepy if you happen to unknowingly walk past one in the dark. Next a few roosters initiated a city-wide crowing contest. As more time went by my eyes got accustomed to the darkness and I could pick out roof tops. The beetles started landing on and around me, and next a swarm of flies began to buzz under a tree behind me. Next were the chirping birds (Mauritania is actually well-known for bird-watching), a baby crying, a goat and then a cow in quick succession. Lastly were the doves cooing. The locals had been up since we left in order to break fast before dawn.

Sitting there in the dark, enjoying the sounds of a city waking up, I thought about how many dawns go by without my notice. I'm inspired to be more deliberate about mornings; appreciate them rather than revile them. I think in order to do this I need to live somewhere beautiful, or maybe just appreciate the beauty wherever I am. I ache to remember the cool, fresh, cobblestone mornings in Alsace when I would wake up to the sound of church bells ringing... can I ever get back to that place?

Somehow in the black, waiting for the sun to burst forth and impress us, I let go of some fears and rewrote some resolutions. I'm going to keep on walking away from parts of myself that have held me back--shed them like clinging onion skins--and step forward into the warm glow ahead of me.

Worse than your average pothole

The day after the first big rainstorm the streets of Rosso looked like they’d been used for a monster truck rally. It was hard for me to imagine how a team of Peugeots, Mercedes and donkey carts came together and made the mess of canyons and hills of muck that were suddenly present that day. I could have stood in one of the valleys (if I had wanted to contract schisto, hook worms and any number of other nasty maladies found in such cesspools) and the accompanying hills would have reached chest height. The landscape looked deceptively like a geological formation you’d travel miles to visit and then I remembered its composition: not only mud, but at least three types of manure, animal parts tossed out by butchers and fish mongers, and the oddest assortment of trash I’ve ever come to know. By know, I mean that I am intimately acquainted with the vacuum of waste management that is most of Mauritania. Not only have I attended Environmental Education tech sessions devoted to the subject, but I’d say that there is only a small part of my day that doesn’t revolve around waste in some way. Where do I even begin when it comes to trash? I did a quick survey as I was walking through the market today, as I often do unconsciously, of what types of trash I could see on the ground just within a ten foot radius of where I stood in a well-traversed alleyway. I catalogued one dirty diaper, a bottle cap, a goat jaw and several other unidentifiable bone fragments, plastic bags (which are so prevalent I almost don’t notice them anymore), and a couple tiny candy wrappers. I also commonly spot discarded razor blades, batteries and the occasional syringe. I’ve only seen the syringes in proximity to a health clinic or hospital, which would indicate that they were likely used in a legal manner. Mauritanians aren’t big into substance abuse. Trash is very telling about a society—what it values, what is doesn’t—and Mauritania wears this information on its sleeve. In America we like to throw things away, and by doing so hope that we never have to face our refuse again. Here we strategize as to how to best dispose of each tiny pile of waste (during CBT I only saved up about two grocery sacks worth, which was over the course of 10 weeks) without it being dug through by our neighbors’ children. Fact: Mauritanian children play with trash and little else. Sometimes they build little cars with tall steering wheels out of bottles and cans, but usually they just play with the trash in the state that they found it. My two-year-old host brother was a prime example. I got used to seeing him with blades, batteries, large sticks… basically anything an American parent would say “NO” to made up the entirety of his playthings, aside from one broken plastic lion toy and a deflated soccer ball he shared with all the cousins. My first day back in Aleg, a giant breath of relief after two months of training, culture shock and general drama, my region mates and I sat on the patio of my new house and enjoyed the remaining crumbs of two tubes of Pringles—you drink the crumbs here, and crumbs usually make up at least half the can, when you can find Pringles, that is. We then disposed of the cans in the popular manner: chucking them over the wall of the compound into the “trash depot” (which is an area unofficially designated by the neighborhood to dump trash until someone, someday, comes to get it… with a truck our town doesn’t have, and brings it to a landfill that doesn’t exist). The next day I heard a rustling as I walked past the empty lot on my way to meet the Peace Corps vehicle that was waiting to take us for a day of Aleg protocol. I figured it was a goat, but was surprised to see a girl in a malafa going through the latest tossings. She jumped up with her prize: the two Pringles cans, now rain-soaked, a drink mix packet and a strip of film. As we got into the car and waited we watched her join her posse of friends, open the containers and wipe out whatever moist potato chip dust remained and eat it. Next she licked the drink mix packet while stretching out the filmstrip and, along with the other children, tried to discern what was on each of the cells. In the car we sat, horrified, and somewhat violated. I can speak for myself and maybe some of the others when I say that at that moment I became acutely aware of my own undying privilege—that even on a Peace Corps stipend I can afford to occasionally eat potato chips or mix myself a fruit flavored beverage. Even here, as I complain to myself about the towel and toiletries bag I lost in transit and may never get back… it’s not to the point where I have to lick someone else’s garbage to experience a flavor representative of a life I have little to no chance of ever replicating. I find that each day, to some degree, I thank God for what I was undeservedly born with, and curse the “patrone” image I try so hard to hide from the locals around me.

I hope this little taste is sufficient to make up for the months of neglect when I had extremely limited internet access. My situation now is improved, but still a bit of a challenge. We have internet access through the Aleg PC beaureau, but it is not Mac compatible. So if you are reading this, I found a creative way to transfer the text from my computer to another. Eventually I’ll need to get my own USB jump drive so I can make the switch more efficiently. Until then, I wish you all well! Enjoy the changing of the seasons and step in some dry leaves for me!!