I have been in quite a whirlwind the last week or so. Soukeina, my APCD was in town and we had meetings with various and sundry persons, making many protocol visits here in Atar. I also took a little road trip to Chinguetti, lunching with the Hakem. After her departure, I spent the weekend at the Exposition des Produits Artisinaux, which I refer to as tent city. All the women speak Hassaniya not French. Luckily on Saturday morning, Kelsey, the volunteer in Tawaz who has studied Hassaniya, came with me and was able to make some conversation and translation. Saturday afternoon I went alone and spent the later part of the evening doing handwork along with Zeinebou. Who needs words when you can make fringe on the ends of your howli? Sitting there I couldn’t help but think how much Doris would have enjoyed this scene. Me covered in spent threads, the women conversing in Arabic about how my hands might look so nimble but are in fact all thumbs. Frankly, I prefer work that involves the use of a sledgehammer and the satisfaction of demolition more than teeny, tiny intricate work. A few French tourists came through. They had been on walking tours around the area. I was impressed not only with their 90K trek but their perfect English. They of course, thought I was also French, at least until I open my mouth. They were impressed that I, an American, was capable of uttering a syllable in a foreign tongue and indulged me in French for awhile. One sweet fellow, who after learning that I was with Corps de la Paix working with these women to combat poverty, tried his hardest to spend some money at our tent. After much browsing, he settled on a bracelet for 1500 ums. He only had a 2000 um bill and Zeinebou spent a goodly amount of time trying to find change for him. She finally scraps together 400 um, which is more than he wanted. He tried to give make a donation to the ladies or at least give me a cut of 200um. Naturally I had to decline. I also sold a few jars of date jam hopefully proving myself an asset to the enterprise. Not only can I converse with these tourists unlike most of the women, but the tourists seem overjoyed to purchase from me. Okay, a day well spent.
The next day, Sunday, I make a plan with the ladies to the airport because I wanted to see what goes on at that location. We are to meet at 9 at the tents. Mark and Kelsey come along too. We 3 were all in a twitter about our impending adventure. Not only would this be a new experience for us but there might be the added benefit of cute flight attendants. We arrived at tent city at 8:30, sat around, had some tea, saw some tourists. I tried to ask questions about who, what, where and when we were to leave. Through the translation of one of the guides who is there with some tourists, we determined that the women left for the airport plus tot, very early. Fill in your own expletive. How did that happen? I asked this question repeatedly, as did Kelsey. How did we miscommunicate? Crap, I hope we didn’t miss the planes, the opportunity, the flight attendants. Mark was 1 casse into the tea, but we had to leave. We hailed (not really hailed, more knocked on its window) a cab just outside and whisked off to the airport not knowing exactly what we are in for. Do the ladies have a place in the airport? Along the road? Will getting through security be a problem? One never knows who/what one will encounter in Mauritania. A little site note, cab fare has increased from 200 um to 300 um. If my math is right, that is an increase of 50%.
Anyway, we got there and all was well. Security was a breeze, just shouted out “Corps de la Paix” There were about 4 tents along the parking lot as well as a handful of vendors with their tables lined in front of the tents. There were 2 planes expected on that particular Sunday; one at 10am and the other roughly 1. 10:00 rolls by with no sign of planes but the departing vacationers are beginning to dwindle in. As do a handful of the locals that we’ve seen around town all of the time. The gentleman from the feeding center, described a few blogs back, is there. Apparently he is also in the tour business. The kid who runs the cyber in the evenings also shows up. Apparently he works at the money changing booth. As well as the handful of suspects that I did expect to see as I knew them to be tour guides. We wondered through the terminal, which is one room and were treated to the sight of a team of French Pompiers (firefighters) in their sexy blue traveling uniforms. Wow, flight attendants move over. More tourists trickle in. We speculated on their trips, their lives, their relations, just as the folks of Atar speculate about us. We were certain that one group is from a gay auberge and we vowed to find out more. Maybe there is some fun underground dance party happening here. Doubtful, but one can hope. Again, we inquired as to the planes scheduled arrival time and are told by one of the tour guides, who may be a bit better informed as he is meeting his clients, to expect them at 12 and 2. Scheduling miscommunications seemed to be the order of the day. Hum, a bit longer of a wait then expected but no worries. Why the heck do the ladies arrive here so early in the morning? I bought a bottle of water and a package of camel biscuits at extremely inflated prices and we adjourned to the parking lot. The three of us sat on the curb of the parking lot eating and watching the doings. This is another world. More and more tourists arrived for their departure, the terminal is jam packed. Most looked rather ragged. It was difficult to determine if they had enjoyed their sojourn in our fair Adrar. More and more locals that we know, who seem to be living a double life, arrived.
Suddenly, overhead, a plane. We are excited. New arrivals! We watch the plane land then head inside for the show. We wait and we wait and we wait. I have no idea what is going on but there is apparently a load of paperwork that this plane full of people have to fill out before they can be let into the terminal. Again, not to worry, Mark, Kelsey and I are front and center. Mark observes that we are like people at a pet store staring at the puppies, kids in a candy store with our noses pushed up against the glass. During this time I get to know a tour guide who is waiting to meet his next group of adventurers He is of European decent and is chatting me up, in perfect English. Note to self, when at the airport, be sure to edit my conversations as many of these people will speak, and more importantly, understand what I say. Most of the time, we volunteers use a secret language, English, which no one understands. It’s like having a super power. We are invincible. Who needs to leap tall buildings in a single bound when you can talk about someone right in front of them? Unfortunately, occasionally my superpowers have failed me and I have been caught by folks that understood perfectly well what I was saying. Here’s a story for you. Early in my life here, I was at the Chingatel office trying to determine if, in deed, I could send texts to the US as they claimed. The fellow behind the counter, the rare sighting of an attractive Moor, offers to let me send a text from his phone, which I do. I don’t remember the details, but for some reason I was sending him a text so that he would have my phone number in order to send the text to the US. It makes no sense to me now, but it did them. Anyway, in the body of the text I wrote “call me”, feeling impish and invincible. Just before I hit send, he repeats his number to me, only this time in English. I am not sure what went wrong but my brain did not register that he was speaking English fast enough, because sure enough, I send him that text. Michelle, who was co-conspirator in this prank, chimes in with “maybe he only knows the numbers”. No such luck. He knew exactly what that text meant. Great, just the reputation I need. Madame Toubab hits on much younger local Chingatel representative. Michelle and I could hardly contain our laughter until we got out of the building and onto the street. Anyway, back to European chatting me up….having being well schooled in this culture, I am wary of what might come out of this man’s mouth. I am politely engaged in the conversation (I think), but in the back of my mind I am wondering “Will this conversation, like the majority of them do, go on a tangent that I am not interested in taking. Will he ask the dreaded are you married or the even more subtle, do I want to go take pictures in the dunes?” He, of course, says nothing inappropriate and I am left reflecting that, after 5 months in this country, I am unfit for polite company. The only comfort I have is that I am fairly certain that I refrained from glowering at him as he was speaking with me.
As it turned out we could only stay long enough to watch a handful of tourists arrive as it was getting late. Much later than we expected considering we anticipated the plane landing at 10 and it was now past 1. Any who, we go outside and try to find a cab. No luck as all of the cars at the airport have been previously engaged. One of our Senegalese souvenir guys is there to exchange Euros, he will give us a ride if we want to wait till he is finished with his transactions. We can’t wait. We have lunch plans with another group of Senegalese souvenir guys and Kelsey has to go to the market before she heads back to her village at 5. So off we wonder trying to figure out how to get home. We ask the security guards at the entrance to the airport and they get us a ride in the bed of a Helix full of tourists with a tour guide with a familiar face. Off we go in true Peace Corps form. The 3 of us are riding high. We have had a good day, a good adventure and have a free ride back to town headed for some Chebujen. Life is good.
Merry Christmas to one and all
Expect my posting will be from my “posh” room in St. Louis Senegal during New Years. I’ll be at the Hotel Residence from the 12/30 – 1/2
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
By Jove
It is so very difficult to write these blogs as something less than a novel. Every single interaction, each event that I witness is worthy of some tale. I often wish I had some hidden camera, some Ed TV, to follow me around to document for you and for me, exactly what it is like here. Oh, where to start?
On Monday I had that follow-up meeting with my counterpart. Well, I show up and off we go to meet the coops. I thought I was showing up to discuss my fete idea and fix a time to meet with the cooperatives. Not what I expected. I am dressed in cargo pants and a mandarin collared, long button down tunic. Western but culturally appropriate, meaning my crotch is covered. Appropriate, I should say, for a meeting with my counterpart, a man accustomed to Peace Corps volunteers, but not as I would have dressed to meet a group of women for the first time. Oh well, what would one expect from the woman who runs around town bareheaded.
We walk around the corner and into a little boutique that I have passed many times but never noticed. He introduces me to a half dozen women, a couple of whom speak French. They are the principal’s of a Union comprised of 13 cooperatives, called L’Union des Femmes L’ Autosuffisane , Union of Self-sufficient Women (I think). Well, this is a good start. I like the idea. I am ready for a change from all of my, up till now, interactions with the men of this town. A group of women in a union of self sufficiency might just be the ticket. Just the boost I need. Please god, let things be looking up.
My counterpart, Mohamed ould sompin sompin sompin, (a most definite exception to the above statement) helps me with the translation. Note, he is translating from Hassaniya (an Arabic dialect) to French, so as you can imagine, I may or may not have my facts straight. The eldest woman, Zeinebou, does their marketing. Mind you, she might just be the oldest women in the world at this moment so I am curious as to her ability. But let me not judge a book by her cover. They are lovely, patient and engaging. We have tea. They show me an array of their handmade products: tie-dye, leather pillows (like the one my family in Boghe gave me as a parting gift), woven bowls, and some square quilted thing they kept calling a petit tante. A little aunt? It’s for infants. Do they sit the kid on it? Do they tie them up with it? Bear in mind that I am in Mauritania where infants are dragged around by an arm or a leg much like a sack of potatoes. Support their head? Are you crazy? What for? There is little supervision even for the littlest tike. Par example: one day Morella came rounding a corner and before her stood a toddler with a plastic bag on his head having a gay old time. There were loads of adults standing around, some watching. Now we’ve all seen the warning that a plastic bag is not a toy. But apparently they haven’t seen that particular warning here. The tike pulled the bag off, found it was less fun, and pulled the bag back on his head. Aghast, she marched over, ripped the bag off the toddlers head and lectured the adults, those that spoke French, that is was NOT a good thing. Very dangerous! Probably to no avail. Another day, Heather came home to her compound and found an infant all alone, tied to the leg of a chair, WITH A BRA. Possibly his Ma didn’t want him crawling off somewhere while she was away. So I have no idea what this contraption is for but I am certain this petite tante is not an enrichment toy.
The ladies explain that they are low on stock as they have a tent at the “exhibition” and also sell at the airport on Sundays. According to my notes, the exhibition is manned on Saturday and Sunday as well as 3 women go to the airport on Sunday with some goods. Wow, I am impressed. I have been thinking that the airport might be a good opportunity to capture the tourist market, but I have yet to go see for myself what the setup is like. I have been reluctant to go as I have been through 1 Mauritanian airport and have been here long enough to not get my hopes up when it comes to facilities. Also, I don’t want to be arrested for being at the airport without a ticket. (Not that I have heard that happens) Since I am the SED volunteer, I put on my business hat and try to ask some intelligent questions. How many members do they have? Do the members pay a percentage of their sales to the Union or a flat rate? The answer is flat rate. Do they work with the tour guides to bring tourists to them? Well, this question got a strong reaction. Mohamed was out praying, so I’m a little fuzzy on the reason, but the word moushkeila came up a number of times. It is one of the 5 Hassaniya words I do know. Aaron and Christine, volunteers in Akjoujt, (see flikr photos of S. African tourists in Halloween set) named their new kitten Mouchkeila. Moushkeila means problem/trouble. If I understood correctly, the tour guides try to negotiate the price of their goods too low. ChaChing, my business brain chimes. We need to build the value of these handmade goods in the eyes of the buyer. See boys and girls, all of those years of sales training were not wasted
The ladies are also anxious to meet our other volunteers and enlist their services. BINGO. As I have said in a previous blog, it can be difficult to find organizations with which one wants to work, and I may have just found one. I am conjecturing that Zeinebou has worked with us in the past as she asked specifically for a health volunteer and about Moringa. Moringa is a nutritional supplement that PC RIM supports. I got a whiff of some during training and it smells very similar to that Super Food stuff you purchase at Trader Joe’s for $50 a pop. Moringa contains loads of protein, vitamin c, iron, vitamin a, etc; so a couple of Tbs can boost the nutritional content of this cuisine. And, what’s more, the Moringa tree is supposedly easy to grow in this climate. Anyway, that Zeinebou is familiar with this product is intriguing.
I make a plan to go see the “exhibition” the next day at 10 and to return on Thursday at 4 with my health volunteer in tow. Not a bad day’s work.
It just so happens that my APCD, PC RIM staff person who runs SED, is in town the following day. She is new having just come onboard at the end of August. She comes along to meet our counterpart and visit this “exhibition”. Someone described this site to me as a place where a bunch of old women sit and sell their wares. In my mind, it is going to be some variation of the Senegalese souvenir shops that popped open for the tourist season. These shops are, frankly, full of crap. Wooden crap, metal crap, plastic crap. Mass produced crap. No wonderful little artifact with which to remember your Mauritanian adventure to be found amongst the crap. Reason number one that none of you have received gift. There is nothing to buy here but crap. Dusty crap at that.
Around 10 am, the Peace Corps car rolls up at the appointed location. We whisk away Mohamed and one of the ladies and off we go. The lady explains to my APCD that she will show me her cooperative, but won’t introduce me to the rest. I meant to ask her for more of an explanation as to why, but forgot. The exhibition is in a big sand lot with a high wall and contains 8 – 10 hyma’s (tents). It is an exhibition of “Femmes Artisan” (or something like that) but not much ambiance. Each tent houses a different cooperative or group of cooperatives, as my ladies are, sadly selling identical handmade items. But much to my delight, many of the items are quite lovely. They have wooden bowls, woven plates of various sizes made from some part of the palm tree. There are also woven funnel shaped things that look like hats, but are in fact steamers. Metal steamers are used in the south as the climate is more humid and I assume these organic steamers mold. But up here, the steamers are woven from, again, some part of a palm tree. In my defense, the town nut wonders around with one on his head, so truly they could and do double as hats. They also sell nattes. Nattes are big floor coverings. The nattes in my house (see flickr photos of Chez Moi and look at my floors) are made in China from plastic. These seem to be made of wood. As well as tie-dyed fabric, jewelry (nicer than what I have seen in the market), tea pots, tea casses, leather tom toms (drums), leather pillows and much, much more.
After about 45 minutes and a parting gift later, we take a tour through the rest of the tents. I learn more about the nattes and the other products. The nattes are hand woven, without a loom, out of palm and leather. The leather is sometimes painted with a pattern. One of the intricate ones, probably about 2X3 was marked at 20,000 um (250 um to a US$). At first I thought this was a big high, but then I learned that it was hand woven without a loom, then painted. See above, building value. I also saw a basket of what looked like skeins (can’t spell that), balls of yarn. DeDe, they were spun from camel hair/fur using a drop spindle. I believe that I impressed my APCD with my knowledge of textile arts. They knitted the camel yarn along with mutton yarn into a tent. Weaving, camel yarn, improving the lives of women by purchasing their handmade goods; by Jove, I might be onto something. My mind is reeling. The stage is set. The cast has most of its characters. It just needs a Director. I envision live demonstrations of how pieces are made, storytellers, dancing, drumming, tea serving, camel sheering (ok, that may be overboard). Here is my cultural fete waiting to happen. One little hitch in our giddy up. There is a communication gap between the Hassaniya speaking women and the French speaking tourists. Imagine that. But we don’t need much language. Picture in your mind story boards in French with photos about the cooperatives; the steps to fabricate these various pieces; explanation of the materials; each piece tagged with the name of the woman who created the piece. How do you say, “Made by Hand by Fatimatou” in French? Can one print calendars with photos in the RIM? If not, does Kodak ship to Mauritania? And if so, how much and how long? Let’s give these Frenchies something to buy with those lovely euros. Etc, etc, etc.
Next step, my plan is to observe the interactions with the tourists at the exhibition on Saturday. And on Sunday, observe what happens at the airport. Think leaflets with a map to the exhibition.
Praise Allah, I may have found work. Inshallah.
Happy Hanukah
On Monday I had that follow-up meeting with my counterpart. Well, I show up and off we go to meet the coops. I thought I was showing up to discuss my fete idea and fix a time to meet with the cooperatives. Not what I expected. I am dressed in cargo pants and a mandarin collared, long button down tunic. Western but culturally appropriate, meaning my crotch is covered. Appropriate, I should say, for a meeting with my counterpart, a man accustomed to Peace Corps volunteers, but not as I would have dressed to meet a group of women for the first time. Oh well, what would one expect from the woman who runs around town bareheaded.
We walk around the corner and into a little boutique that I have passed many times but never noticed. He introduces me to a half dozen women, a couple of whom speak French. They are the principal’s of a Union comprised of 13 cooperatives, called L’Union des Femmes L’ Autosuffisane , Union of Self-sufficient Women (I think). Well, this is a good start. I like the idea. I am ready for a change from all of my, up till now, interactions with the men of this town. A group of women in a union of self sufficiency might just be the ticket. Just the boost I need. Please god, let things be looking up.
My counterpart, Mohamed ould sompin sompin sompin, (a most definite exception to the above statement) helps me with the translation. Note, he is translating from Hassaniya (an Arabic dialect) to French, so as you can imagine, I may or may not have my facts straight. The eldest woman, Zeinebou, does their marketing. Mind you, she might just be the oldest women in the world at this moment so I am curious as to her ability. But let me not judge a book by her cover. They are lovely, patient and engaging. We have tea. They show me an array of their handmade products: tie-dye, leather pillows (like the one my family in Boghe gave me as a parting gift), woven bowls, and some square quilted thing they kept calling a petit tante. A little aunt? It’s for infants. Do they sit the kid on it? Do they tie them up with it? Bear in mind that I am in Mauritania where infants are dragged around by an arm or a leg much like a sack of potatoes. Support their head? Are you crazy? What for? There is little supervision even for the littlest tike. Par example: one day Morella came rounding a corner and before her stood a toddler with a plastic bag on his head having a gay old time. There were loads of adults standing around, some watching. Now we’ve all seen the warning that a plastic bag is not a toy. But apparently they haven’t seen that particular warning here. The tike pulled the bag off, found it was less fun, and pulled the bag back on his head. Aghast, she marched over, ripped the bag off the toddlers head and lectured the adults, those that spoke French, that is was NOT a good thing. Very dangerous! Probably to no avail. Another day, Heather came home to her compound and found an infant all alone, tied to the leg of a chair, WITH A BRA. Possibly his Ma didn’t want him crawling off somewhere while she was away. So I have no idea what this contraption is for but I am certain this petite tante is not an enrichment toy.
The ladies explain that they are low on stock as they have a tent at the “exhibition” and also sell at the airport on Sundays. According to my notes, the exhibition is manned on Saturday and Sunday as well as 3 women go to the airport on Sunday with some goods. Wow, I am impressed. I have been thinking that the airport might be a good opportunity to capture the tourist market, but I have yet to go see for myself what the setup is like. I have been reluctant to go as I have been through 1 Mauritanian airport and have been here long enough to not get my hopes up when it comes to facilities. Also, I don’t want to be arrested for being at the airport without a ticket. (Not that I have heard that happens) Since I am the SED volunteer, I put on my business hat and try to ask some intelligent questions. How many members do they have? Do the members pay a percentage of their sales to the Union or a flat rate? The answer is flat rate. Do they work with the tour guides to bring tourists to them? Well, this question got a strong reaction. Mohamed was out praying, so I’m a little fuzzy on the reason, but the word moushkeila came up a number of times. It is one of the 5 Hassaniya words I do know. Aaron and Christine, volunteers in Akjoujt, (see flikr photos of S. African tourists in Halloween set) named their new kitten Mouchkeila. Moushkeila means problem/trouble. If I understood correctly, the tour guides try to negotiate the price of their goods too low. ChaChing, my business brain chimes. We need to build the value of these handmade goods in the eyes of the buyer. See boys and girls, all of those years of sales training were not wasted
The ladies are also anxious to meet our other volunteers and enlist their services. BINGO. As I have said in a previous blog, it can be difficult to find organizations with which one wants to work, and I may have just found one. I am conjecturing that Zeinebou has worked with us in the past as she asked specifically for a health volunteer and about Moringa. Moringa is a nutritional supplement that PC RIM supports. I got a whiff of some during training and it smells very similar to that Super Food stuff you purchase at Trader Joe’s for $50 a pop. Moringa contains loads of protein, vitamin c, iron, vitamin a, etc; so a couple of Tbs can boost the nutritional content of this cuisine. And, what’s more, the Moringa tree is supposedly easy to grow in this climate. Anyway, that Zeinebou is familiar with this product is intriguing.
I make a plan to go see the “exhibition” the next day at 10 and to return on Thursday at 4 with my health volunteer in tow. Not a bad day’s work.
It just so happens that my APCD, PC RIM staff person who runs SED, is in town the following day. She is new having just come onboard at the end of August. She comes along to meet our counterpart and visit this “exhibition”. Someone described this site to me as a place where a bunch of old women sit and sell their wares. In my mind, it is going to be some variation of the Senegalese souvenir shops that popped open for the tourist season. These shops are, frankly, full of crap. Wooden crap, metal crap, plastic crap. Mass produced crap. No wonderful little artifact with which to remember your Mauritanian adventure to be found amongst the crap. Reason number one that none of you have received gift. There is nothing to buy here but crap. Dusty crap at that.
Around 10 am, the Peace Corps car rolls up at the appointed location. We whisk away Mohamed and one of the ladies and off we go. The lady explains to my APCD that she will show me her cooperative, but won’t introduce me to the rest. I meant to ask her for more of an explanation as to why, but forgot. The exhibition is in a big sand lot with a high wall and contains 8 – 10 hyma’s (tents). It is an exhibition of “Femmes Artisan” (or something like that) but not much ambiance. Each tent houses a different cooperative or group of cooperatives, as my ladies are, sadly selling identical handmade items. But much to my delight, many of the items are quite lovely. They have wooden bowls, woven plates of various sizes made from some part of the palm tree. There are also woven funnel shaped things that look like hats, but are in fact steamers. Metal steamers are used in the south as the climate is more humid and I assume these organic steamers mold. But up here, the steamers are woven from, again, some part of a palm tree. In my defense, the town nut wonders around with one on his head, so truly they could and do double as hats. They also sell nattes. Nattes are big floor coverings. The nattes in my house (see flickr photos of Chez Moi and look at my floors) are made in China from plastic. These seem to be made of wood. As well as tie-dyed fabric, jewelry (nicer than what I have seen in the market), tea pots, tea casses, leather tom toms (drums), leather pillows and much, much more.
After about 45 minutes and a parting gift later, we take a tour through the rest of the tents. I learn more about the nattes and the other products. The nattes are hand woven, without a loom, out of palm and leather. The leather is sometimes painted with a pattern. One of the intricate ones, probably about 2X3 was marked at 20,000 um (250 um to a US$). At first I thought this was a big high, but then I learned that it was hand woven without a loom, then painted. See above, building value. I also saw a basket of what looked like skeins (can’t spell that), balls of yarn. DeDe, they were spun from camel hair/fur using a drop spindle. I believe that I impressed my APCD with my knowledge of textile arts. They knitted the camel yarn along with mutton yarn into a tent. Weaving, camel yarn, improving the lives of women by purchasing their handmade goods; by Jove, I might be onto something. My mind is reeling. The stage is set. The cast has most of its characters. It just needs a Director. I envision live demonstrations of how pieces are made, storytellers, dancing, drumming, tea serving, camel sheering (ok, that may be overboard). Here is my cultural fete waiting to happen. One little hitch in our giddy up. There is a communication gap between the Hassaniya speaking women and the French speaking tourists. Imagine that. But we don’t need much language. Picture in your mind story boards in French with photos about the cooperatives; the steps to fabricate these various pieces; explanation of the materials; each piece tagged with the name of the woman who created the piece. How do you say, “Made by Hand by Fatimatou” in French? Can one print calendars with photos in the RIM? If not, does Kodak ship to Mauritania? And if so, how much and how long? Let’s give these Frenchies something to buy with those lovely euros. Etc, etc, etc.
Next step, my plan is to observe the interactions with the tourists at the exhibition on Saturday. And on Sunday, observe what happens at the airport. Think leaflets with a map to the exhibition.
Praise Allah, I may have found work. Inshallah.
Happy Hanukah
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