The First Fistful of Rice

They're watching, but not really watching. But really, they are watching, to see how you take your first fistful of rice. Will you ball it up gracefully as they do with no stray grains and pop it into your mouth, or will the rice grains repel each other in your hand leaving an oily lump the shape of a small ginger root in a messy, defiant pile? This was me a few days ago, when I was invited to eat with Mariam, the tailor, and all her beautiful sisters. To be fair, the first ball is the hardest, because you're supposed to take only rice, with nothing but the oil it was cooked in. I did my best. I dove in fist first and scooped out what I hoped would be the exact amount necessary to make a mouth-sized ball. I'm out of practice. I haven't eaten maaru we khut (rice and fish) in a month, strangely. I did so badly they sent a small child out to find me a spoon. I told them I needed to practice without a spoon, which they found hilarious and then immediately turned back to their food, missing my second, nearly-perfect ball, formed with potato as the bonding agent. The funny thing is, I don't even know how I would eat maaru we khut with a spoon. It's a meal created with fingers in mind. How would I tear up the cabbage, or pull bits of carrot and potato off? How would I select a good chunk of fish and then daintily remove the bones, if not with my hand? Ironic. I feel like I'm making first impressions left and right all with similar results. People love to tell me how good the previous volunteers were with Hassaniya. I explain that they were here for two years, and after two years, I too, Inshallah, will speak it that well, but none of them seem to remember the awkward beginning phase that those volunteers must have had. Maybe that means they will forget all my mistakes as well someday... I can only hope.

Shwey Min Validation

I was in one of the farher-out boutiques, near the taxi garage, looking for harder to find items (you can get Sprite, Mountain Dew, coconut yoghurt, Quaker oats and Pringles). I greeted the shopkeeper as I came in, which is customary here. He was helping someone else, so when he finished I asked him how he was doing with the heat, a phrase I'd already used successfully 20 times that day. He stared at me like he didn't know what I was talking about. So I said it again; still the blank stare. "The heat... you know, it's hot out?" I said, and noticed a little boy had come in behind me. "It's okay. Um, how are you?" I tried. "Fine," he replied. Then the little boy, who'd heard the whole conversation said to him "You don't know Hassaniya!" and laughed. It felt like being on the Simpsons when that kid walks up and says "Haw haaw!" Except for once it wasn't about me. Glorious.

Can't Wait Till I Know What I'm Doing!

Sand in my teeth. Which means manure in my mouth, but I try not to think of that as I pull my sunglasses down and the font of my mulafa up over my mouth and nose. Mauritania meets America in the middle of my face. On days like these when the hot wind throws dust on everything it's good to be a part of a culture where wearing more is more. I've just come from the primary schools where I sat and showed my face and lack of language skills. The men in the director's office at school 2 (who weren't teachers, I asked) actually sat and laughed at me for several minutes. "She said she speaks a little Hassaniya and a lot of French, but she doesn't speak either one. She knows nothing!" Hearing and fully unerstanding what they were saying about me could have frustrated me more, but I sat and smiled serenely... people say these things to me every day, and although it is annoying, I tell myself that at some point I will have aquired enough skills to forget interactions like these ever took place. I seem to be doing alright at the other parts of my job, though, thankfully. After leaving the schools I bought a kilo of chicken and stopped at a phamarcy where a friend works. It's been a while since any of us have seen Tutu, so she was exited to welcome me in. She asked about Amanda and Ashley and I told her they were working. I told her Ashley was sick and pointed to my thoat."She can't talk, which isn't good if you are a teacher." I asked her if she had anything for that and she made me a bag of vinegar for her to gargle and tea to drink, no charge. So if nothing else, I can shop for food and successfully feed myself and make friends. The rest will come in time, I hope.

First Harvest

Our accidental garden turned out to be the first to come to harvest. Next to the faucet in my yard there is a tangle of bean plants and corn stalks probably from popcorn kernels and beans dropped by one of the former volunteers. These beans are actually Cowpeas or Blackeyed Peas. They grow locally and despite being an excellent source of protein, are not well-loved by Mauritanians. During training my host family would sometimes buy 10um bags (about 5 cents worth) and toss them in with dinner. 10 Ouguyia buys a slim handful... maybe about what I've got in my hand in the photo. I always made sure to eat the beans (and any other vegetable) when they were included, as I was grateful for any added nutrition. The corn didn't fare as well, as soon as the locust swarm moved in they mowed it down pretty well. I really hope the locusts are gone by the time my school garden is growing!

The End of Ramadan

As things came to a close for the holiday season, here in Aleg, we were filled with relief and anticipation. Relief that we can now walk around town and drink water in the open when we are thirsty (rather than hiding in alleys and abandoned houses to steal elicit sips and eat cookies). Relief that when we are welcomed and force-fed by strangers it won't be endless courses of food in the dark, but single plates of rice and fish in the daylight. Anticipation to start work and find housing when the other half of Aleg's population returns from their months of camping in the bediye or countryside... which is mostly desert.

Yesterday Lily and I decided to explore a part of town we hadn't yet seen--the name of the neighborhood ended up being Jdide, which, fittingly, means New. We were bismillah'ed into a couple homes, given large bowls of Zrig (sour milk watered down and sweetened with sugar), which you can't sip--gulping is the only polite way to drink here--cups of tea, and even bread and begnets (little donut balls). I felt like I was going to explode... I wonder what we'll be given when they aren't fasting anymore!

On the way back we hitched a ride on a donkey cart driven by a little boy wearing a Saddam Hussein T-shirt. Apparently giving rides to strangers is okay these days. Our last stop was at Rubiya's house. She's getting married tomorrow and after that will be living across the street from me. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. Some friends in life you seek out and get to know gradually, and others find you and claim you as their own... you can probably guess which type Rubiya is. She's great, really. She helps us with our Hassaniya and her khayme is always open to us. Sometimes we take alternate routes through town when we have things to get done so that she won't bismillah us and derail our plans. I laugh to think that after two years here the most efficient way from point A to point B won't be a straight line, but a circuitous trek around the town through thorny fields to avoid having to talk to everyone between here and there.

So, about that Hassaniya help. Lily and I thought Rubiya might enjoy hearing how the other night someone threw a cat in a plastic bag over the wall into Lily's courtyard. After slowly piecing together the story in Hassaniya, French and Charades, Rubiya looked astounded (animals are rarely treated like pets here, so she shouldn't have been too shocked). "Who did that... and why?!" she asked. We told here we didn't know. Now that we had her engaged in the story I thought it would be funny to wrap it up by telling her we'd named the cat Zazu, which means plastic bag, but as I heard myself saying it I realized that instead of saying "mush," or cat, I'd been saying "mus," which means knife. No wonder she was horrified--I'd told her someone threw a knife in a bag at Lily's house. Par for the course, as far as my Hassaniya's been going lately! The day before I was at the market and spotted some of the season's last melons. Knowing I'll soon be missing fruit I decided to test their ripeness in the usual way. By the third melon I looked up to realize I was actually being very unusual. "Allo?" said the vendor, indicating that I was playing telephone with her produce. We laughed. I thought I should explain my behavior, but I think what came out just made it worse: "I--I heard... sugar. This is delicious?"

I pledge here and now to never make fun of a foreigner's English in America. I will only laugh with them, and remember when I was in their place.