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
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