My trip to the Capital or I thought I was Immune
One bright and shiny morning in late October, I head off before dawn for my first trip to the capital, Nouakchott. I have to expedite some paperwork expeditiously to the States. I bet you think that overnighting a package using DHL, FedEx or UPS would be the same worldwide. Think again. I normally don’t sleep before I have a big trip or a big day ahead of me, so the night before my big solo excursion, I get little sleep. Because this trip is falling late in the week, I am facing the prospect of having to conduct business in unknown places with unknown companies encountering unknown obstacles on Friday, which is the holy day, and everyone works ½ day. Friday is generally very unproductive. I am up at 4:45 so that I can catch the first taxi south taxi that will get me into Nouakchott early afternoon on Thursday. . I have packed the essentials for travel: a liter of filtered water, aqua tabs, in case we breakdown and I have to find a less than fresh water source, a bandana, which can be used to filter guinea worm our of that less than fresh water source and lastly a handful of jolly ranchers to win the hearts of my fellow riders. Ellen has done me the enormous favor and secured a cab which is to meet me at her house at 6am. That way she can see me off and make sure all is according to Hoyle. Why is she doing this? Because, repeat after me, I can’t speak French. One of the crazy points of Mauritania is that everything thing is late. I don’t mean your acceptable running behind by 15 minutes; this place is really behind. 1-1.5 hours is not uncommon. However, if you do come across that rare Mauritanian who is punctual, they will allow you 3 minutes before leaving without you. So off I go at 5:50 just in case the taxi guy is one of those, so rarely seen, punctual fellows. I sneak into her place, because it is the crack of dawn, hoping to let her sleep as long as possible. By 6:15, there is no inkling of taxi man, so I wake her up. Par usual, there is no reseau (cell phone reception) so we are left to wait. We do until about 6:30 then we hump it over to the garage to secure another cab. We get there, find a fellow who claims to be the first taxi, pay him his 6K ums for 2 places. Not long after that, we get a call from taxi man number 1. It is 6:40 and he is irritated that we aren’t waiting for him at the house. We, or rather, Ellen, reiterates to him that she was very clear that we were too meet at 6. Not 7 or 8 or 8:30. In the meantime, taxi man 2 is a policeman who drives back and forth from Atar each weekend to see his family and pick up a little extra cash. He has just recently stationed to Nouakchott from Atar. This makes me feel secure. I love cops, particularly San Diego’s Finest. He is very familiar with Ellen and explains that she is a legend in Atar. The men of Atar sing songs of her beauty. “Why must she cover her legs” “she is just teasing them, hiding her beauty as she does”. She walks away to do something and he reiterates all of this to me as well. I concur, she is lovely and intelligent. When she comes back, he once again sings the praises of her beauty, her intellect and her ability. (he catches on quick) Okay, this serenade goes on for the entire 1.5 hours we wait for the cab to fill its remaining 4 places. During this time, taxi man1 has driven through the garage showing off that he is about to depart and will we change our mind about riding with him instead. Granted, he is leaving earlier than taxi man 2, but we do have our moral high ground to hold. However, taxi man 1 has a shiny new Mercedes and I wonder if I might be making a mistake in not jumping in. Shiny and new seems much less likely to breakdown on the side of the road. But, taxi man 2 assures us that the people in the car aren’t really passengers but other drivers he is parading through the garage to make us believe he is leaving.
Okay, so finally our taxi is full and we are ready to go. Somewhere along the line, taxi man 2 didn’t realize that I purchased the 2 places for me and me alone. He, lets call him Del, as that what I thought he said was his name, is truly disappointed to learn that Ellen isn’t coming along on the trip. By the way, no one in Mauritania is named Del. He implores her for her telephone number. She consents that I can give it to him. Aside from being awfully enthusiastic this early in the morning, he has done no real harm. And I am feeling safe in the presence of a cop who only has eyes for Ellen and therefore will treat me well too. There is nothing like being the wingman. I am happy with the station as I am constantly escorted or escorting a slew of 24-year-old beauties where ever we go. All here believe that I am a mother or aunt to one of the volunteers, so I am treated well by the men that are trying to win their affection. I pleasantly smile, while they are a bobbin and a weavin, tuckin and a rollin, through hordes of admiring men. I grin as they politely lob back those unwanted advances. What other sports analogies can I come up with? You get the picture.
Let me back up and explain the taxi system here. In a small Mercedes they transport 7 people. In the front are the driver and 2 people squished into the bucket seat of the passenger side. In the back are squished 4 and any infants riding on one’s lap. I am pleasantly surprised because we only have 3 people in the back; maybe another passenger purchased an additional seat as well. No such luck, before leaving town, we stop and pick up some more passengers, filling the backseat to the brim. So on this particular trip we have me in the front, as I bought those 2 places and 4 adults plus one enfant in the back, forcing a weathered old gal (wog) to be crammed up between the bucket seats. As we are leaving, the wog starts praying for our safe journey. At least I hope that is what she is praying for. Don’t be alarmed; this is a very common practice here. Before my little brother, Oumar left for his holiday to Nouakchott and Nouadibou, my mother said a prayer over him as well. As our journey gets underway, the driver pops in a cassette. Cassettes are big here. I have yet to see a cd player in a vehicle. One just pops into a boutique and buys a copy of some little ditty. I have no idea how they get around the copy write laws, but they apparently do. ;) Or, they just ignore them all together. Anyway, in he pops a cassette and out comes what I hear every morning at 4 am, which is what I believe to be someone chanting passages of the Koran. I believe I mentioned in an earlier blog, just how talented one of the “chanters” was in the wee hours of the morning in Boghe. This rendition was not quite so lovely. Of course once we got underway I was quick to note that we wouldn’t need quite so much Koran if we had a little more eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. He was all over the place. At one point he had me steer the car while he rewrap his howli. Oh, I need to mention that once we left the garage, he sported his howli throughout the entire trip leaving only his aviator sunglasses exposed. See Halloween costume of taxi driver in howli.
So for the first half of the trip, he is pointing out the sites along the way, what few there are to see. Extolling the beauty of Mauritania. Often, to my chagrin, taking his hands off the wheel, holding them outstretched. palms upright, imploring to Allah, as he sings along to his favorite passages coming from the speakers with WOG singing along. He gives me a cadeau, a cassette. Then he changes his mind about every 10 minutes of which cassette he is actually going to give me. We go through 3 rounds of this chicanery. I accept it knowing that he is just trying to win me over so I will give my report of his generosity to Ellen, his true love. During the ride, the conversation alternates between French, for me, and Hassaniya for the rest of the passengers. Believe it or not, I find it relaxing to not comprehend a word of what is being said. I can just space off staring out the window, watching the Sahara pass by, never staining to eavesdrop. I offer up my precious Jolly Ranchers to win the affection of my fellow passengers. After a couple of hours we come to a 3rd checkpoint. As with the other 2, he knows everyone working. I didn’t realize what a bonus this is until during the return trip home when every checkpoint guard that saw me, demanded to see my passport. At this one, checkpoint 3, Del gets out and finds a chap who he calls Duane, (his name can’t be Duane, no one is named Duane nor Del in Mauritania) because Duane speaks English. Yet again, he has Duane explain to me that he must have Ellen’s phone number. I explain yet again, that I understand. Je comprend. I try to change the subject and ask Duane if he lives way out here. No, he lives in Atar and works out here on one-week shifts. So off we go with a promise that when we get to Akjoudt I will give him Ellen’s number
Not long later, we pass taxi man 1 broken down on the road. We stop and Del tries to help them push start the car, but alas, we drive off leaving them to fix it as best they can. In fact, those men from this morning were his passengers, which made me a bit suspicious of Del, being that he said they were a rouse. Still, I had to work on not feeling smug and risk attracting bad karma
After another hour we pull into Akjoudt, which is about half way between Atar and Nouakchott. We always pull over here for tea and a rest. We have 4 new volunteers positioned here so I start texting them to see if we can connect on this brief pause. I would have texted earlier but there is no reseau from just outside of Atar until just at Akjoudt and then again promptly after leaving Akjoudt till you are in well into the outskirts of Nouakchott. We all tumble out of the car and I lug my laptop and satchel into the “Tea Salon”. It’s a square concrete one room building with a dozen or so matelas spread out for your relaxation. Del is already sitting inside and he pats the matela, indicating that I should sit next to him. This gives me pause as men and women aren’t supposed to interact so closely in a private area, and so far we are the only 2 people in the room. I pause, I think what the hell, and sit down. He wants Ellen’s phone number, which I produce as promised as well as mine. No big deal we are always looking for safe, reliable, not sketchy taxi rides. I am busy texting Ellen about my location; one should always let others know one’s whereabouts. I am also exchanging texts with the local volunteers as to my whereabouts and their availability. Also, I am busily exchanging texts with my compadre in Nouakchott, Will, giving him my estimated ETA.
During this time some random guy comes in and joins our group. We establish that I am Corps de la Paix. How long will I be in Mauritania, he asks? 2 years, I answer. Lo and behold, his brother, cousin, uncle has married a Peace Corps volunteers. Great, one of those stories. I asked the who, what and where knowing full well that I am going to have no clue who this girl is and they will have no idea where in the US that their cousin, brother, uncle now lives. Since 1967, Peace Corps has been sending volunteers to Mauritania and a handful have fallen in love and married a Mauritanian. Yet, the tales of these rare events spread and grow through the population like the story of the Loch Ness Monster. In reality, the vast, vast, vast majority of volunteers do not marry Mauritanian. Mix into the mess (or dream) that Western women are perceived as “easy” and it’s quite a conundrum. However, this is the dream/opportunity on which so many here hangs their hat. Someone once asked if the Peace Corps is a program set up by the US government in order to find us husbands. As if the Peace Corps is a mail order bride service. The mind reels at the absurdity of this idea. Don’t you become a mail order bride to secure a better life? I did explain to my brothers in Boghe that the women who do this, sacrifice 2 years of their life away from their family, friends and the Promised Land, risking illness and injury and enduring endless discomforts, have un grand idee, a big idea, to help the people of Mauritania and it’s rather insulting to reduce their work to finding a husband. Besides, if they wanted husbands, there are plenty of men in the US, why would they come here to do it? They got it but it’s going to be a long 2 years if I have to explain that to all 3 million Mauritanians. Marriage is the end all/be all in this culture. They CAN NOT understand why the volunteers are so laisser faire about their marital status. At 24 years of age, these girls are practically old maids. I can’t even imagine what they think of my situation.
So while we are in this room, about question number 4 that comes out of Del’s mouth is am I married? I hesitate. Try to decide, instantaneously if I should lie, but I don’t. This is a small country and everyone has family everywhere. The lives of the local volunteers are a constant source of fodder for their conversation and speculation thusly I am sure to be found out. So, I say no. All of the sudden, things change. You know how in cartoons when one character is really hungry and he looks at another character, and because he is soooooo verrrrry hungry, the second character morphs into an object of his desire such as a big juicy ham bone. In that instance, I must have morphed into a ham bone. I am a big ham steak. I wish I could remember the details exactly as they occurred, because they are priceless. Suddenly, all of the attention and enthusiasm that was being lavished on Ellen earlier in the morning is now aimed towards me. Can we have lunch when we get to Nouakchott? “No” Remember, this morning, I was in a huge hurry to get to the capital as fast as I could because I had work to do”. Okay. How about just tea, that will take no time at all, just an hour, just a half hour? “No” I haven’t a minute to spare once I arrive. This is a quick trip just in and out with lots to accomplish in between. Besides, he only has eyes for Ellen, which I reminded him. Oh Ellen. Oh well, they are just friends. He was singing her praises on behalf of ALL Mauritanians. It is his national duty. This man thinks I am daft. I say “J’ai ete au garage ce matin. J’ai vu, j’ai ecoute tout. I was at the garage this morning. I saw, I heard everything. Peut-etre, il aime touts les femmes. Maybe he likes all the women. He counters with the argument that he never asked if she was married, somehow proving that his interests in her were purely platonic. If he had a fiancé, he implores, his eyes would never gaze at another women. He emphasizes this point by covering his eyes with his hands as in “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. He mimes see no evil. Cultural lesson for me, I didn’t realize that asking about someone’s marital status was a sign of intention. This conversation is quickly going in a direction that I do not want to go. I am having a hard time making my points IN FRENCH. I also have to spend another 3 hours in the car with this fellow and feel that I need to tread lightly. At some point he calls Ellen, to prove his platonicness, to inform her, in front of me, of our whereabouts and my well-being. I guess also proving that he can have a civilized, non-flirtatious conversation with her. Somewhere along the line, he attempts to explain that he doesn’t want a young girl. He is looking for someone over 30. My guess is that he picked that number as to flatter me. I don’t know if this Yahoo realizes that he just called me OLD. Shortly thereafter, he also makes another call and hands the phone to me so that I am now speaking to some random women in French. All I can say is Allo, c’est Sharon and hand the phone back. It’s his sister, she is the one that we will have lunch with, so see, his intentions are honorable. As an added bonus, the “but wait there’s more” enticement, his father is the Mayor of Atar. Oh really I say, I met the mayor just yesterday. He says and he’s quick, The mayor is a relative, I have a large family. He infers that he has so much pull that if I want to stay a 3rd year, he’ll have the mayor write a letter on my behalf. To whom the mayor will write this letter, I don’t know. More icing on the cake, his parents live in Atar and he comes up every weekend so a relationship will be no problem at all. We should get together the following weekend. Where do I live? I give no reply. This is just great.
You know that other 3 women that I shared my Jolly Ranchers with, they have positioned themselves on the other side of the room, and are witnessing all of this. They do nothing to help me. I am fairly certain at least one of them understands French and is fully aware of my predicament. Possibly they think I encouraged this attention even want it by being foolish enough to sit next to him. I guess that’s what I should expect when I go getting uppity and sitting with the men folk.
Finally, praise Allah, it is time to leave this place and move on down the road. As we gather in the car and he presents me with gifts that he has just acquired. A lovely beaded bracelet, which I am wearing right this moment, and a package of cookies, the good ones. I look to WOG to see if it’s appropriate to accept these tokens as well as text Ellen asking her the same. Apparently it’s fine. I put on the bracelet and pass around the cookies. But as we are leaving he needs to know the answer, Oui ou Non? Oui or Non to what? I don’t remember a question. But his tone is terse, he demands to know Oui ou Non? “Don’t you understand”, he asks? Somehow, something that was said inside needs to be settled. I explain J’ai apprende le francais pour juste 3 mois et souvent je ne comprend pas les nuances. I have only studied French for 3 months and often I don’t understand the nuance. He accepts this and moves on both literally and figuratively. As we are pulling onto the road from the other side of a semi, so that we can’t see what’s coming and they can’t see us, he is busy looking and talking to me. Not wanting to die, I know I have to do something quick. I yell “Regardez la Rue”, watch the road. Keep his eyes on the road. Of course, I can’t say that exact phrase in French but I somehow get my point across with a lot of hand gestures. He spends the next 20 minutes proving to me that he can be responsible and drive reasonably which strikes me as a reaction that I’d expect from a teenager not a full grown man. For your point of reference, this man is in his 40’s. Whatever the reason, this newfound respect for the road is a relief because at least he is not plying me with questions. As I said, it only lasted 20 minutes. We pull off the road again and he runs in and gets water and gum. He gives me one of the bottles of water and hands the other to the folks in the back seat. I talk a slug and start to pass my bottle around too, but WOG and he both stop me insisting that it is my water and mine alone. I am to tuck it away in my bag for safekeeping. Remember fair reader, this is a communal society and all is shared, so this gesture seems significant. Also, it is clear that WOG is now in collusion with Del. He also gives me some gum. He is intent on proving to me that he can anticipate my every need, so as soon as I need a place to put my spent gum wrapper, he opens his ashtray for me to deposit it. Keeping to Mauritanian tradition, he throws his wrapper out the window. We drive on a little while longer. He decides he is going to show me how much English he can speak. His English is not quite on par with my French. He then makes the grand announcement that he will study English and I will study French and we will sail off in the sunset. He doesn’t actually say the sunset part, but if seemed part of the equation. I could see the gears turning in his head as he was envisioning our future together. I keep my gaze out the window as I can’t help but laugh and I don’t want him to see me smile as it might encourage him. As if he needs any encouragement from me because this is a party of one and it’s all going on in his head. For the second half of the trip he puts his attention on indoctrinating me to the finer points of Mauritanian music and dance as well as Wolof music. He takes off his watch, for which he paid $250 US, for my inspection. I have to steer the car while he puts it back on. Later, he runs off the road as he is looking out his window, backwards, so I grab the wheel and steer us back on the road. He explains that in the US, because there are so many cars it is very important to stay in your lane; but here in Mauritania, there are no cars, so you can drive wherever you want; this side, that side, down the middle, off the shoulder. I want to say that it can’t be good for the tires, but I don’t know the word for tires in French.
But wait there’s more, next weekend, when he comes up to visit, he is going to let me drive his car. My heart be still. Sadly it is interdit (forbidden) according to Peace Corps, for me to drive. If it wasn’t interdit, I would be driving meme moi (myself) to Nouakchott and not sitting in this bloody taxi. As we approaching the outskirts of Nouakchott, he points over to the dunes and says that tomorrow we will go out there and take a photograph. He apparently thinks that my staring out the window is due to the captivating scenery. It is settled, since I am busy while in the capital, he will pick me up when I am done with my work, bring me back to the garage and find me a solid, reliable ride back to Atar. During this time, now that we have reseau again, I am busy texting Will to let him know that I have arrived. I also call David, my chef (boss) as I describe him to Del, to let him know that I am in Nouakchott and should be at the bureau within the hour. A PC RIM rule is that before we (stinky, dirty, road weary) volunteers can show up at the bureau, we have to have freshened up at the hotel. I go through this dog and pony show so that Del understands that there are people, my chef (boss) waiting for me. I think that I am almost home free, but it is not to be. Del drops off every other passenger before me. As soon as the last one is out, he turns to me, takes off his howli and sunglasses so that I can see his eyes and gives me the “we have to talk” tone. Is he kidding me? What on earth can we have to talk about? Besides, who wants to have “a talk” after knowing someone for 6 hours? What is he? A girl! He wants true love do I, Oui ou Non? I say that I am not interested in marriage. News flash, neither is he, he is proposing a relation d’amour. I am floored. I have had a chemical reaction to a man, that has hit me like a bomb, but I have always attributed it in a big part to our witty reparte and charm. Apparently I have been mislead all of these years cuz I can’t make witty repartee en francaise. I tell him that alas, I can only offer friendship. the lets just be friends line. He’s not biting. He wants love or nothing. His offer is sacred. He has eyes for none but me; those young volunteers are dead to him. I counter that it is impossible to fall in love in 4 hours. Del, here, has watched way too many American Musical Theatre productions. Some Enchanted Evening comes to mind, but this taxi is no South Pacific Island. He isn’t a cultured Frenchman and I’m no little hick. I am at a distinct disadvantage at this precise moment, as I need to get to the bureau and he is the one driving. At this point, feeling like a hostage, I agree to anything. Sure, next weekend when you come up, Yeah, let’s get together, Sure, meet the family. Sacred promise, you betcha. Anything you say, just please I need to get to the bureau. I am slightly scared to let him know that I will be staying at the hotel right next to the bureau, as somehow, I see stalker stamped on his forehead. The last thing I want is to come back to the hotel later tonight, after a couple of beers, with Will (because he must escort me back), and have to confront this Nouakchott cop. I’ll just have to deal with that situation if it arises. He drops me off with the “sacred” promise that I will call him when I am finished tomorrow for our trip to the dunes, the garage, fly me to the moon, wherever, who knows. I am certain that Rice, Albright and Kissinger haven’t had to go through so much in the name of US foreign relations and diplomacy.
Folks, I just gave you the filet. This trip, start to finish, took 8 hours- choc a bloc full of juicy morsels. (I must be hungry)
Now I need to regroup, focus on my real mission in Nouakchott and get to the bureau.
Scene 2. I get to the bureau about 3. The last time I was here was after we landed, with no sleep from Philadelphia. I don’t know who is who much less where their office is located. David is on the phone, so I wonder around. I knock on Kris and Jen’s window and wave hello. They were volunteers in Atar until they recently moved to Nouakchott. I light in Cheike’s office; he is the volunteer service officer, VSO. As I am sitting there, Kris comes peeking his head around the corner, looking very concerned. Am I all right, he asks? Sure I say. Then I remember that I am still in the 3 month, can’t leave your site, period, so if I am in the capital it is either because I am really ill and need to be at the hospital or I have decided to quit and am on my way home. I explain that it is neither and all is perfectly fine. I just have urgent paperwork I need to expedite to the US. He is relieved. David is off of the phone, so I get started on my paperwork. Once done with that, David decides, after much deliberation, that DHL is probably my safest bet for securing the delivery of this paperwork. So off I go, a little apprehensive about my first business exchange in Mauritania, but after the last 8 hours, it can’t possibly be worse. And besides, business is what I do best. All goes well. I am much relieved. Having that important of an issue left unresolved for so many weeks has caused me unrest. I end up back at the bureau, desperately in need of a nap. Although I am worn down and wore out, I am drawn to the free, high speed Internet offered in the volunteer lounge. I have a blog to post, pictures to upload, software to update and in desperate need of an antivirus software. After all is said and done, I end up being the last one to leave the bureau that night. I am to catch up with Will after his French class at around 8pm. We are going to meet up with Kris and Jen and then decide where to have dinner. Chinese food and beer; beer and Chinese food; pizza and beer; beer and pizza; possibly all of the above. Will and I were in the same language class in Boghe and we, the 5 of us in that class, have developed a close bond. I won’t go as far as to say war buddies, as we never had bullets whizzing past our heads, but there were times when training felt life threatening. I am very excited to see him and hear all about his life in Nouakchott and his work. So I go check into the Hotel and am informed that there is another volunteer staying here as well. The bellman takes me up and tells me that she is in room 215. I decide to call her to see if she has plans, and if not, if she would like to join us for dinner. I call the front desk and tell them that I’d like to call room 215, they tell me to dial 139. I dial 139 expecting the hotel operator. A woman answers while I am practicing to myself that I’d like room deux cent onze, douze, treize, quartorze, quinze, which I have to count out on my fingers. I proudly annouce “Je voudrais chambre deux cent quinze”. I would like room 215. She just starts laughing and says Sharon is that you. She’s not the operator, she’s the other volunteer, Heather, and I have clearly impressed her with my command of the French language. Hey, don’t laugh, numbers are hard and I have had an even harder day. She is going to come to my room in about an hour and we’ll take off from there.
She shows up, lovely and youthful. She has been at the bureau volunteer lounge applying online to grad schools for the last couple of days. I regaled her with the tale of my new found taxi brousse love. When I get to the random suggestion that we go take a photo of the dunes tomorrow, she informs me that the dunes are where they go to have sex. I guess photography is a euphemism. Ick! As Haley says, what a horrible place to have sex, there so much sand and it’ll get places that sand shouldn’t. I shan’t go into my speculation as to his sexual prowess being one who comes from such a sexually repressed society. Lets just say that I imagine him to be as skilled and long lasting as your average high school freshman and leave it at that.
Heather and I head off to meet Will. We probably weren’t suppose to, but Will and I gave each other a huge hug, right on the street. In front of God and everyone. Mauritanians be damned. He looks great. His hair has gotten long and is kinda curly. Thank heaven that he has put back on some of the weight he lost during training. His parents and girlfriend will be glad to know that news.
We did a lot that night. Window shopping, supermarket browsing, talking over pizza and beer. There is a cultural center with real entertainment. I brought the program home to show the v’s up here in Atar, and their faces said it all. It was my reaction as well when I saw it. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open. There is a cultural center in Mauritania? There’s art? There is music? Where? Haley said it best when she said that she was still trying to get over the quality of the paper the program was printed on. It was a heavy weight paper, akin to would be given in a fine gallery in NY. I could barely take the difference between what was available in Nouakchott and what I was living. TaTa’s, the supermarket, had Camembert and Brie, a dairy section, an ice cream section, koo koo for CooCoo Puffs cereal, and home décor items. Atar has squat. All this time I thought that our scarcity was due to the fact that nothing could be had in Mauritania. But in fact much can be had, it just can’t be transported. This place needs a good dose of logistics.
That night, I slept in a bed with sheets and a pillow, indoors. Heaven, simply heaven! The bathroom had a flush toilet, toilet paper and a lighted mirror. I haven’t slept through the night nor seen my face up close in 4 months. These nasty volunteers that I live with had not bothered to tell me that I had grown a Guinness Book winner for the longest eyebrow and it was sticking straight out. They must be jealous of my beauty. Since I didn’t think to bring tweezers I had to work on the little devil with the pliers on my Leatherman. How’s that for a visual?
I get up an at’em the next day. Head off to a cybercafé for breakfast. Yes there is free wifi in the capital. Sadly, there wasn’t an electrical outlet to be had, poor design, so I had my CHEESE omelet and headed to the bureau. Finished up there, went to lunch and after a successful encounter with the wifi in a hotel lobby, where I downloaded an antivirus and updated windows, I hit the road. During this time, I get 3 calls from Del, none of which I answer.
As I am standing at the garage, waiting for my car to fill. I am fearful that Del is going to show up and make a nuisance of himself. I once again have purchased 2 places, gadam (Hassaniya for upfront). I can remember it because it sounds like God Damn. One of my fellow passengers tries to entice me into conversation by implying that he and I will share the front seat but I am having no part of him. We finally fill up after 1.5 hours, making us 4 men and another woman. I greet the women as to have her as my ally and off we go. All is going well. However, about 2 hours outside of Nouakchott, there is an awful smell, the backseat passengers explode in a fury of commotion and we pull off the road. The driver opens the hood and to me, it looks like we have run over part of a tire tread. But I was in the front seat and I didn’t see us hit anything. It turns out that one of those belts that are located on the front of the engine, I think it’s either the fan belt or an alternator belt, has broken. Doesn’t an alternator have a belt? Anyway, it is shredded. Crap. I quickly do a mental inventory of what I have in my bag that will allow me to survive a night along the side of the road in the Sahara. Even though it’s a remote chance, I don’t want to become a pile of those sun-bleached bones that we have been passing, lying in a heap by the side of the road. Surprisingly, the driver goes to the trunk and pulls out another belt. He then gets into the glove box and pulls out a little water bottle where he stores his wrenches. And by another stroke of luck, one of the gentlemen in the back actually knows how to change a fan belt. While he is at it he checks the oil and water too. This all takes about half an hour and off we go. I am wishing very much I had thought to bring along one of my few travel packs of wetnaps to offer this fine chap as his hands are filthy. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t find a man in a baby blue eyelet outfit masculine, but to me, at that moment, that tall handsome black African embodied all that a man should be. He came out of the blue to save the day. He is my Mr. Darcy. He is my hero. He has saved me from becoming that pile of bones along the side of the road in the Sahara, and I swooned. Here’s some insight into me, deep down, I just want to be rescued. Particularly when I have gotten myself in waaaay over my head. Think PC-RIM. I only appear to be independent and all know-ing (okay, maybe not all-knowing), I am actually a cockeyed optimistic romantic who has watched far too much American Musical Theatre and never fails to fall in love with the hero. It all started with a high school production of Carousel. Janet was playing in the orchestra so I had to spend all evening waiting for her. Every night, for weeks, I sat behind the conductor, waiting for her to finish, lost in the show. I believe I was 13 and still in Junior High. He was bad boy, Billy Bigalow played by Evan somebody or somebody Evans. Whoever it was, I fell hard for all 3 of them.
Once we are back in the car and moving, I turn around and give him a very sincere, heartfelt, “merci beaucoup”. The rest of the trip is rather uneventful. I say next to nothing. We made it in record time. As we were pulling through that same checkpoint where Duane came out to talk to me, I noticed that on the military truck was the sign, Duoune. The place is called Duoune not the dude. That gave me a chuckle. As we pulled into Atar, I said goodbye to my fellow female companion in Hassaniya, astounding all in the car that I knew some local dialect. Told all that that I was Corps de la Paix. I am sure to this point they thought I was some random tourists what that I was wearing pants and all. Then bid them a good day and got out of the car back to the safety of my bevy of 23 year olds. Cross your fingers that old Del doesn’t show up this weekend.
Enjoy, Love and miss you all.
Ps Please tape up your packages well. Example of abuse attached
One bright and shiny morning in late October, I head off before dawn for my first trip to the capital, Nouakchott. I have to expedite some paperwork expeditiously to the States. I bet you think that overnighting a package using DHL, FedEx or UPS would be the same worldwide. Think again. I normally don’t sleep before I have a big trip or a big day ahead of me, so the night before my big solo excursion, I get little sleep. Because this trip is falling late in the week, I am facing the prospect of having to conduct business in unknown places with unknown companies encountering unknown obstacles on Friday, which is the holy day, and everyone works ½ day. Friday is generally very unproductive. I am up at 4:45 so that I can catch the first taxi south taxi that will get me into Nouakchott early afternoon on Thursday. . I have packed the essentials for travel: a liter of filtered water, aqua tabs, in case we breakdown and I have to find a less than fresh water source, a bandana, which can be used to filter guinea worm our of that less than fresh water source and lastly a handful of jolly ranchers to win the hearts of my fellow riders. Ellen has done me the enormous favor and secured a cab which is to meet me at her house at 6am. That way she can see me off and make sure all is according to Hoyle. Why is she doing this? Because, repeat after me, I can’t speak French. One of the crazy points of Mauritania is that everything thing is late. I don’t mean your acceptable running behind by 15 minutes; this place is really behind. 1-1.5 hours is not uncommon. However, if you do come across that rare Mauritanian who is punctual, they will allow you 3 minutes before leaving without you. So off I go at 5:50 just in case the taxi guy is one of those, so rarely seen, punctual fellows. I sneak into her place, because it is the crack of dawn, hoping to let her sleep as long as possible. By 6:15, there is no inkling of taxi man, so I wake her up. Par usual, there is no reseau (cell phone reception) so we are left to wait. We do until about 6:30 then we hump it over to the garage to secure another cab. We get there, find a fellow who claims to be the first taxi, pay him his 6K ums for 2 places. Not long after that, we get a call from taxi man number 1. It is 6:40 and he is irritated that we aren’t waiting for him at the house. We, or rather, Ellen, reiterates to him that she was very clear that we were too meet at 6. Not 7 or 8 or 8:30. In the meantime, taxi man 2 is a policeman who drives back and forth from Atar each weekend to see his family and pick up a little extra cash. He has just recently stationed to Nouakchott from Atar. This makes me feel secure. I love cops, particularly San Diego’s Finest. He is very familiar with Ellen and explains that she is a legend in Atar. The men of Atar sing songs of her beauty. “Why must she cover her legs” “she is just teasing them, hiding her beauty as she does”. She walks away to do something and he reiterates all of this to me as well. I concur, she is lovely and intelligent. When she comes back, he once again sings the praises of her beauty, her intellect and her ability. (he catches on quick) Okay, this serenade goes on for the entire 1.5 hours we wait for the cab to fill its remaining 4 places. During this time, taxi man1 has driven through the garage showing off that he is about to depart and will we change our mind about riding with him instead. Granted, he is leaving earlier than taxi man 2, but we do have our moral high ground to hold. However, taxi man 1 has a shiny new Mercedes and I wonder if I might be making a mistake in not jumping in. Shiny and new seems much less likely to breakdown on the side of the road. But, taxi man 2 assures us that the people in the car aren’t really passengers but other drivers he is parading through the garage to make us believe he is leaving.
Okay, so finally our taxi is full and we are ready to go. Somewhere along the line, taxi man 2 didn’t realize that I purchased the 2 places for me and me alone. He, lets call him Del, as that what I thought he said was his name, is truly disappointed to learn that Ellen isn’t coming along on the trip. By the way, no one in Mauritania is named Del. He implores her for her telephone number. She consents that I can give it to him. Aside from being awfully enthusiastic this early in the morning, he has done no real harm. And I am feeling safe in the presence of a cop who only has eyes for Ellen and therefore will treat me well too. There is nothing like being the wingman. I am happy with the station as I am constantly escorted or escorting a slew of 24-year-old beauties where ever we go. All here believe that I am a mother or aunt to one of the volunteers, so I am treated well by the men that are trying to win their affection. I pleasantly smile, while they are a bobbin and a weavin, tuckin and a rollin, through hordes of admiring men. I grin as they politely lob back those unwanted advances. What other sports analogies can I come up with? You get the picture.
Let me back up and explain the taxi system here. In a small Mercedes they transport 7 people. In the front are the driver and 2 people squished into the bucket seat of the passenger side. In the back are squished 4 and any infants riding on one’s lap. I am pleasantly surprised because we only have 3 people in the back; maybe another passenger purchased an additional seat as well. No such luck, before leaving town, we stop and pick up some more passengers, filling the backseat to the brim. So on this particular trip we have me in the front, as I bought those 2 places and 4 adults plus one enfant in the back, forcing a weathered old gal (wog) to be crammed up between the bucket seats. As we are leaving, the wog starts praying for our safe journey. At least I hope that is what she is praying for. Don’t be alarmed; this is a very common practice here. Before my little brother, Oumar left for his holiday to Nouakchott and Nouadibou, my mother said a prayer over him as well. As our journey gets underway, the driver pops in a cassette. Cassettes are big here. I have yet to see a cd player in a vehicle. One just pops into a boutique and buys a copy of some little ditty. I have no idea how they get around the copy write laws, but they apparently do. ;) Or, they just ignore them all together. Anyway, in he pops a cassette and out comes what I hear every morning at 4 am, which is what I believe to be someone chanting passages of the Koran. I believe I mentioned in an earlier blog, just how talented one of the “chanters” was in the wee hours of the morning in Boghe. This rendition was not quite so lovely. Of course once we got underway I was quick to note that we wouldn’t need quite so much Koran if we had a little more eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. He was all over the place. At one point he had me steer the car while he rewrap his howli. Oh, I need to mention that once we left the garage, he sported his howli throughout the entire trip leaving only his aviator sunglasses exposed. See Halloween costume of taxi driver in howli.
So for the first half of the trip, he is pointing out the sites along the way, what few there are to see. Extolling the beauty of Mauritania. Often, to my chagrin, taking his hands off the wheel, holding them outstretched. palms upright, imploring to Allah, as he sings along to his favorite passages coming from the speakers with WOG singing along. He gives me a cadeau, a cassette. Then he changes his mind about every 10 minutes of which cassette he is actually going to give me. We go through 3 rounds of this chicanery. I accept it knowing that he is just trying to win me over so I will give my report of his generosity to Ellen, his true love. During the ride, the conversation alternates between French, for me, and Hassaniya for the rest of the passengers. Believe it or not, I find it relaxing to not comprehend a word of what is being said. I can just space off staring out the window, watching the Sahara pass by, never staining to eavesdrop. I offer up my precious Jolly Ranchers to win the affection of my fellow passengers. After a couple of hours we come to a 3rd checkpoint. As with the other 2, he knows everyone working. I didn’t realize what a bonus this is until during the return trip home when every checkpoint guard that saw me, demanded to see my passport. At this one, checkpoint 3, Del gets out and finds a chap who he calls Duane, (his name can’t be Duane, no one is named Duane nor Del in Mauritania) because Duane speaks English. Yet again, he has Duane explain to me that he must have Ellen’s phone number. I explain yet again, that I understand. Je comprend. I try to change the subject and ask Duane if he lives way out here. No, he lives in Atar and works out here on one-week shifts. So off we go with a promise that when we get to Akjoudt I will give him Ellen’s number
Not long later, we pass taxi man 1 broken down on the road. We stop and Del tries to help them push start the car, but alas, we drive off leaving them to fix it as best they can. In fact, those men from this morning were his passengers, which made me a bit suspicious of Del, being that he said they were a rouse. Still, I had to work on not feeling smug and risk attracting bad karma
After another hour we pull into Akjoudt, which is about half way between Atar and Nouakchott. We always pull over here for tea and a rest. We have 4 new volunteers positioned here so I start texting them to see if we can connect on this brief pause. I would have texted earlier but there is no reseau from just outside of Atar until just at Akjoudt and then again promptly after leaving Akjoudt till you are in well into the outskirts of Nouakchott. We all tumble out of the car and I lug my laptop and satchel into the “Tea Salon”. It’s a square concrete one room building with a dozen or so matelas spread out for your relaxation. Del is already sitting inside and he pats the matela, indicating that I should sit next to him. This gives me pause as men and women aren’t supposed to interact so closely in a private area, and so far we are the only 2 people in the room. I pause, I think what the hell, and sit down. He wants Ellen’s phone number, which I produce as promised as well as mine. No big deal we are always looking for safe, reliable, not sketchy taxi rides. I am busy texting Ellen about my location; one should always let others know one’s whereabouts. I am also exchanging texts with the local volunteers as to my whereabouts and their availability. Also, I am busily exchanging texts with my compadre in Nouakchott, Will, giving him my estimated ETA.
During this time some random guy comes in and joins our group. We establish that I am Corps de la Paix. How long will I be in Mauritania, he asks? 2 years, I answer. Lo and behold, his brother, cousin, uncle has married a Peace Corps volunteers. Great, one of those stories. I asked the who, what and where knowing full well that I am going to have no clue who this girl is and they will have no idea where in the US that their cousin, brother, uncle now lives. Since 1967, Peace Corps has been sending volunteers to Mauritania and a handful have fallen in love and married a Mauritanian. Yet, the tales of these rare events spread and grow through the population like the story of the Loch Ness Monster. In reality, the vast, vast, vast majority of volunteers do not marry Mauritanian. Mix into the mess (or dream) that Western women are perceived as “easy” and it’s quite a conundrum. However, this is the dream/opportunity on which so many here hangs their hat. Someone once asked if the Peace Corps is a program set up by the US government in order to find us husbands. As if the Peace Corps is a mail order bride service. The mind reels at the absurdity of this idea. Don’t you become a mail order bride to secure a better life? I did explain to my brothers in Boghe that the women who do this, sacrifice 2 years of their life away from their family, friends and the Promised Land, risking illness and injury and enduring endless discomforts, have un grand idee, a big idea, to help the people of Mauritania and it’s rather insulting to reduce their work to finding a husband. Besides, if they wanted husbands, there are plenty of men in the US, why would they come here to do it? They got it but it’s going to be a long 2 years if I have to explain that to all 3 million Mauritanians. Marriage is the end all/be all in this culture. They CAN NOT understand why the volunteers are so laisser faire about their marital status. At 24 years of age, these girls are practically old maids. I can’t even imagine what they think of my situation.
So while we are in this room, about question number 4 that comes out of Del’s mouth is am I married? I hesitate. Try to decide, instantaneously if I should lie, but I don’t. This is a small country and everyone has family everywhere. The lives of the local volunteers are a constant source of fodder for their conversation and speculation thusly I am sure to be found out. So, I say no. All of the sudden, things change. You know how in cartoons when one character is really hungry and he looks at another character, and because he is soooooo verrrrry hungry, the second character morphs into an object of his desire such as a big juicy ham bone. In that instance, I must have morphed into a ham bone. I am a big ham steak. I wish I could remember the details exactly as they occurred, because they are priceless. Suddenly, all of the attention and enthusiasm that was being lavished on Ellen earlier in the morning is now aimed towards me. Can we have lunch when we get to Nouakchott? “No” Remember, this morning, I was in a huge hurry to get to the capital as fast as I could because I had work to do”. Okay. How about just tea, that will take no time at all, just an hour, just a half hour? “No” I haven’t a minute to spare once I arrive. This is a quick trip just in and out with lots to accomplish in between. Besides, he only has eyes for Ellen, which I reminded him. Oh Ellen. Oh well, they are just friends. He was singing her praises on behalf of ALL Mauritanians. It is his national duty. This man thinks I am daft. I say “J’ai ete au garage ce matin. J’ai vu, j’ai ecoute tout. I was at the garage this morning. I saw, I heard everything. Peut-etre, il aime touts les femmes. Maybe he likes all the women. He counters with the argument that he never asked if she was married, somehow proving that his interests in her were purely platonic. If he had a fiancé, he implores, his eyes would never gaze at another women. He emphasizes this point by covering his eyes with his hands as in “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. He mimes see no evil. Cultural lesson for me, I didn’t realize that asking about someone’s marital status was a sign of intention. This conversation is quickly going in a direction that I do not want to go. I am having a hard time making my points IN FRENCH. I also have to spend another 3 hours in the car with this fellow and feel that I need to tread lightly. At some point he calls Ellen, to prove his platonicness, to inform her, in front of me, of our whereabouts and my well-being. I guess also proving that he can have a civilized, non-flirtatious conversation with her. Somewhere along the line, he attempts to explain that he doesn’t want a young girl. He is looking for someone over 30. My guess is that he picked that number as to flatter me. I don’t know if this Yahoo realizes that he just called me OLD. Shortly thereafter, he also makes another call and hands the phone to me so that I am now speaking to some random women in French. All I can say is Allo, c’est Sharon and hand the phone back. It’s his sister, she is the one that we will have lunch with, so see, his intentions are honorable. As an added bonus, the “but wait there’s more” enticement, his father is the Mayor of Atar. Oh really I say, I met the mayor just yesterday. He says and he’s quick, The mayor is a relative, I have a large family. He infers that he has so much pull that if I want to stay a 3rd year, he’ll have the mayor write a letter on my behalf. To whom the mayor will write this letter, I don’t know. More icing on the cake, his parents live in Atar and he comes up every weekend so a relationship will be no problem at all. We should get together the following weekend. Where do I live? I give no reply. This is just great.
You know that other 3 women that I shared my Jolly Ranchers with, they have positioned themselves on the other side of the room, and are witnessing all of this. They do nothing to help me. I am fairly certain at least one of them understands French and is fully aware of my predicament. Possibly they think I encouraged this attention even want it by being foolish enough to sit next to him. I guess that’s what I should expect when I go getting uppity and sitting with the men folk.
Finally, praise Allah, it is time to leave this place and move on down the road. As we gather in the car and he presents me with gifts that he has just acquired. A lovely beaded bracelet, which I am wearing right this moment, and a package of cookies, the good ones. I look to WOG to see if it’s appropriate to accept these tokens as well as text Ellen asking her the same. Apparently it’s fine. I put on the bracelet and pass around the cookies. But as we are leaving he needs to know the answer, Oui ou Non? Oui or Non to what? I don’t remember a question. But his tone is terse, he demands to know Oui ou Non? “Don’t you understand”, he asks? Somehow, something that was said inside needs to be settled. I explain J’ai apprende le francais pour juste 3 mois et souvent je ne comprend pas les nuances. I have only studied French for 3 months and often I don’t understand the nuance. He accepts this and moves on both literally and figuratively. As we are pulling onto the road from the other side of a semi, so that we can’t see what’s coming and they can’t see us, he is busy looking and talking to me. Not wanting to die, I know I have to do something quick. I yell “Regardez la Rue”, watch the road. Keep his eyes on the road. Of course, I can’t say that exact phrase in French but I somehow get my point across with a lot of hand gestures. He spends the next 20 minutes proving to me that he can be responsible and drive reasonably which strikes me as a reaction that I’d expect from a teenager not a full grown man. For your point of reference, this man is in his 40’s. Whatever the reason, this newfound respect for the road is a relief because at least he is not plying me with questions. As I said, it only lasted 20 minutes. We pull off the road again and he runs in and gets water and gum. He gives me one of the bottles of water and hands the other to the folks in the back seat. I talk a slug and start to pass my bottle around too, but WOG and he both stop me insisting that it is my water and mine alone. I am to tuck it away in my bag for safekeeping. Remember fair reader, this is a communal society and all is shared, so this gesture seems significant. Also, it is clear that WOG is now in collusion with Del. He also gives me some gum. He is intent on proving to me that he can anticipate my every need, so as soon as I need a place to put my spent gum wrapper, he opens his ashtray for me to deposit it. Keeping to Mauritanian tradition, he throws his wrapper out the window. We drive on a little while longer. He decides he is going to show me how much English he can speak. His English is not quite on par with my French. He then makes the grand announcement that he will study English and I will study French and we will sail off in the sunset. He doesn’t actually say the sunset part, but if seemed part of the equation. I could see the gears turning in his head as he was envisioning our future together. I keep my gaze out the window as I can’t help but laugh and I don’t want him to see me smile as it might encourage him. As if he needs any encouragement from me because this is a party of one and it’s all going on in his head. For the second half of the trip he puts his attention on indoctrinating me to the finer points of Mauritanian music and dance as well as Wolof music. He takes off his watch, for which he paid $250 US, for my inspection. I have to steer the car while he puts it back on. Later, he runs off the road as he is looking out his window, backwards, so I grab the wheel and steer us back on the road. He explains that in the US, because there are so many cars it is very important to stay in your lane; but here in Mauritania, there are no cars, so you can drive wherever you want; this side, that side, down the middle, off the shoulder. I want to say that it can’t be good for the tires, but I don’t know the word for tires in French.
But wait there’s more, next weekend, when he comes up to visit, he is going to let me drive his car. My heart be still. Sadly it is interdit (forbidden) according to Peace Corps, for me to drive. If it wasn’t interdit, I would be driving meme moi (myself) to Nouakchott and not sitting in this bloody taxi. As we approaching the outskirts of Nouakchott, he points over to the dunes and says that tomorrow we will go out there and take a photograph. He apparently thinks that my staring out the window is due to the captivating scenery. It is settled, since I am busy while in the capital, he will pick me up when I am done with my work, bring me back to the garage and find me a solid, reliable ride back to Atar. During this time, now that we have reseau again, I am busy texting Will to let him know that I have arrived. I also call David, my chef (boss) as I describe him to Del, to let him know that I am in Nouakchott and should be at the bureau within the hour. A PC RIM rule is that before we (stinky, dirty, road weary) volunteers can show up at the bureau, we have to have freshened up at the hotel. I go through this dog and pony show so that Del understands that there are people, my chef (boss) waiting for me. I think that I am almost home free, but it is not to be. Del drops off every other passenger before me. As soon as the last one is out, he turns to me, takes off his howli and sunglasses so that I can see his eyes and gives me the “we have to talk” tone. Is he kidding me? What on earth can we have to talk about? Besides, who wants to have “a talk” after knowing someone for 6 hours? What is he? A girl! He wants true love do I, Oui ou Non? I say that I am not interested in marriage. News flash, neither is he, he is proposing a relation d’amour. I am floored. I have had a chemical reaction to a man, that has hit me like a bomb, but I have always attributed it in a big part to our witty reparte and charm. Apparently I have been mislead all of these years cuz I can’t make witty repartee en francaise. I tell him that alas, I can only offer friendship. the lets just be friends line. He’s not biting. He wants love or nothing. His offer is sacred. He has eyes for none but me; those young volunteers are dead to him. I counter that it is impossible to fall in love in 4 hours. Del, here, has watched way too many American Musical Theatre productions. Some Enchanted Evening comes to mind, but this taxi is no South Pacific Island. He isn’t a cultured Frenchman and I’m no little hick. I am at a distinct disadvantage at this precise moment, as I need to get to the bureau and he is the one driving. At this point, feeling like a hostage, I agree to anything. Sure, next weekend when you come up, Yeah, let’s get together, Sure, meet the family. Sacred promise, you betcha. Anything you say, just please I need to get to the bureau. I am slightly scared to let him know that I will be staying at the hotel right next to the bureau, as somehow, I see stalker stamped on his forehead. The last thing I want is to come back to the hotel later tonight, after a couple of beers, with Will (because he must escort me back), and have to confront this Nouakchott cop. I’ll just have to deal with that situation if it arises. He drops me off with the “sacred” promise that I will call him when I am finished tomorrow for our trip to the dunes, the garage, fly me to the moon, wherever, who knows. I am certain that Rice, Albright and Kissinger haven’t had to go through so much in the name of US foreign relations and diplomacy.
Folks, I just gave you the filet. This trip, start to finish, took 8 hours- choc a bloc full of juicy morsels. (I must be hungry)
Now I need to regroup, focus on my real mission in Nouakchott and get to the bureau.
Scene 2. I get to the bureau about 3. The last time I was here was after we landed, with no sleep from Philadelphia. I don’t know who is who much less where their office is located. David is on the phone, so I wonder around. I knock on Kris and Jen’s window and wave hello. They were volunteers in Atar until they recently moved to Nouakchott. I light in Cheike’s office; he is the volunteer service officer, VSO. As I am sitting there, Kris comes peeking his head around the corner, looking very concerned. Am I all right, he asks? Sure I say. Then I remember that I am still in the 3 month, can’t leave your site, period, so if I am in the capital it is either because I am really ill and need to be at the hospital or I have decided to quit and am on my way home. I explain that it is neither and all is perfectly fine. I just have urgent paperwork I need to expedite to the US. He is relieved. David is off of the phone, so I get started on my paperwork. Once done with that, David decides, after much deliberation, that DHL is probably my safest bet for securing the delivery of this paperwork. So off I go, a little apprehensive about my first business exchange in Mauritania, but after the last 8 hours, it can’t possibly be worse. And besides, business is what I do best. All goes well. I am much relieved. Having that important of an issue left unresolved for so many weeks has caused me unrest. I end up back at the bureau, desperately in need of a nap. Although I am worn down and wore out, I am drawn to the free, high speed Internet offered in the volunteer lounge. I have a blog to post, pictures to upload, software to update and in desperate need of an antivirus software. After all is said and done, I end up being the last one to leave the bureau that night. I am to catch up with Will after his French class at around 8pm. We are going to meet up with Kris and Jen and then decide where to have dinner. Chinese food and beer; beer and Chinese food; pizza and beer; beer and pizza; possibly all of the above. Will and I were in the same language class in Boghe and we, the 5 of us in that class, have developed a close bond. I won’t go as far as to say war buddies, as we never had bullets whizzing past our heads, but there were times when training felt life threatening. I am very excited to see him and hear all about his life in Nouakchott and his work. So I go check into the Hotel and am informed that there is another volunteer staying here as well. The bellman takes me up and tells me that she is in room 215. I decide to call her to see if she has plans, and if not, if she would like to join us for dinner. I call the front desk and tell them that I’d like to call room 215, they tell me to dial 139. I dial 139 expecting the hotel operator. A woman answers while I am practicing to myself that I’d like room deux cent onze, douze, treize, quartorze, quinze, which I have to count out on my fingers. I proudly annouce “Je voudrais chambre deux cent quinze”. I would like room 215. She just starts laughing and says Sharon is that you. She’s not the operator, she’s the other volunteer, Heather, and I have clearly impressed her with my command of the French language. Hey, don’t laugh, numbers are hard and I have had an even harder day. She is going to come to my room in about an hour and we’ll take off from there.
She shows up, lovely and youthful. She has been at the bureau volunteer lounge applying online to grad schools for the last couple of days. I regaled her with the tale of my new found taxi brousse love. When I get to the random suggestion that we go take a photo of the dunes tomorrow, she informs me that the dunes are where they go to have sex. I guess photography is a euphemism. Ick! As Haley says, what a horrible place to have sex, there so much sand and it’ll get places that sand shouldn’t. I shan’t go into my speculation as to his sexual prowess being one who comes from such a sexually repressed society. Lets just say that I imagine him to be as skilled and long lasting as your average high school freshman and leave it at that.
Heather and I head off to meet Will. We probably weren’t suppose to, but Will and I gave each other a huge hug, right on the street. In front of God and everyone. Mauritanians be damned. He looks great. His hair has gotten long and is kinda curly. Thank heaven that he has put back on some of the weight he lost during training. His parents and girlfriend will be glad to know that news.
We did a lot that night. Window shopping, supermarket browsing, talking over pizza and beer. There is a cultural center with real entertainment. I brought the program home to show the v’s up here in Atar, and their faces said it all. It was my reaction as well when I saw it. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open. There is a cultural center in Mauritania? There’s art? There is music? Where? Haley said it best when she said that she was still trying to get over the quality of the paper the program was printed on. It was a heavy weight paper, akin to would be given in a fine gallery in NY. I could barely take the difference between what was available in Nouakchott and what I was living. TaTa’s, the supermarket, had Camembert and Brie, a dairy section, an ice cream section, koo koo for CooCoo Puffs cereal, and home décor items. Atar has squat. All this time I thought that our scarcity was due to the fact that nothing could be had in Mauritania. But in fact much can be had, it just can’t be transported. This place needs a good dose of logistics.
That night, I slept in a bed with sheets and a pillow, indoors. Heaven, simply heaven! The bathroom had a flush toilet, toilet paper and a lighted mirror. I haven’t slept through the night nor seen my face up close in 4 months. These nasty volunteers that I live with had not bothered to tell me that I had grown a Guinness Book winner for the longest eyebrow and it was sticking straight out. They must be jealous of my beauty. Since I didn’t think to bring tweezers I had to work on the little devil with the pliers on my Leatherman. How’s that for a visual?
I get up an at’em the next day. Head off to a cybercafé for breakfast. Yes there is free wifi in the capital. Sadly, there wasn’t an electrical outlet to be had, poor design, so I had my CHEESE omelet and headed to the bureau. Finished up there, went to lunch and after a successful encounter with the wifi in a hotel lobby, where I downloaded an antivirus and updated windows, I hit the road. During this time, I get 3 calls from Del, none of which I answer.
As I am standing at the garage, waiting for my car to fill. I am fearful that Del is going to show up and make a nuisance of himself. I once again have purchased 2 places, gadam (Hassaniya for upfront). I can remember it because it sounds like God Damn. One of my fellow passengers tries to entice me into conversation by implying that he and I will share the front seat but I am having no part of him. We finally fill up after 1.5 hours, making us 4 men and another woman. I greet the women as to have her as my ally and off we go. All is going well. However, about 2 hours outside of Nouakchott, there is an awful smell, the backseat passengers explode in a fury of commotion and we pull off the road. The driver opens the hood and to me, it looks like we have run over part of a tire tread. But I was in the front seat and I didn’t see us hit anything. It turns out that one of those belts that are located on the front of the engine, I think it’s either the fan belt or an alternator belt, has broken. Doesn’t an alternator have a belt? Anyway, it is shredded. Crap. I quickly do a mental inventory of what I have in my bag that will allow me to survive a night along the side of the road in the Sahara. Even though it’s a remote chance, I don’t want to become a pile of those sun-bleached bones that we have been passing, lying in a heap by the side of the road. Surprisingly, the driver goes to the trunk and pulls out another belt. He then gets into the glove box and pulls out a little water bottle where he stores his wrenches. And by another stroke of luck, one of the gentlemen in the back actually knows how to change a fan belt. While he is at it he checks the oil and water too. This all takes about half an hour and off we go. I am wishing very much I had thought to bring along one of my few travel packs of wetnaps to offer this fine chap as his hands are filthy. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t find a man in a baby blue eyelet outfit masculine, but to me, at that moment, that tall handsome black African embodied all that a man should be. He came out of the blue to save the day. He is my Mr. Darcy. He is my hero. He has saved me from becoming that pile of bones along the side of the road in the Sahara, and I swooned. Here’s some insight into me, deep down, I just want to be rescued. Particularly when I have gotten myself in waaaay over my head. Think PC-RIM. I only appear to be independent and all know-ing (okay, maybe not all-knowing), I am actually a cockeyed optimistic romantic who has watched far too much American Musical Theatre and never fails to fall in love with the hero. It all started with a high school production of Carousel. Janet was playing in the orchestra so I had to spend all evening waiting for her. Every night, for weeks, I sat behind the conductor, waiting for her to finish, lost in the show. I believe I was 13 and still in Junior High. He was bad boy, Billy Bigalow played by Evan somebody or somebody Evans. Whoever it was, I fell hard for all 3 of them.
Once we are back in the car and moving, I turn around and give him a very sincere, heartfelt, “merci beaucoup”. The rest of the trip is rather uneventful. I say next to nothing. We made it in record time. As we were pulling through that same checkpoint where Duane came out to talk to me, I noticed that on the military truck was the sign, Duoune. The place is called Duoune not the dude. That gave me a chuckle. As we pulled into Atar, I said goodbye to my fellow female companion in Hassaniya, astounding all in the car that I knew some local dialect. Told all that that I was Corps de la Paix. I am sure to this point they thought I was some random tourists what that I was wearing pants and all. Then bid them a good day and got out of the car back to the safety of my bevy of 23 year olds. Cross your fingers that old Del doesn’t show up this weekend.
Enjoy, Love and miss you all.
Ps Please tape up your packages well. Example of abuse attached
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