The more things seem to change, the more they stay the same

In Africa, people still laugh when you trip over yourself. I found this to be true during a Mauritanian dust/rainstorm the other night as my host family frantically ran around the rooms of my house. They quickly put buckets under the leaks, closed up the broken, splinter-wooden windows and pulled the blankets off the laundry line in the courtyard. While my host mom – Hadij – and her friend folded up the dirty carpet in one of the rooms I tried to jump over some buckets into the wet room and slid across the muddy floor, lanky arms flailing, and caught my balance before I tumbled onto the ground. I looked over at Hadij with wide eyes fixing my long skirt and adjusting my head wrap. The thunder of the storm couldn’t compete with the thunderous laughter that came from those two ladies. For a while the rain that clanged and poured through the tin roof onto the muddy concrete floor was forgotten as repeated impressions of my stumble ensued. I came to the conclusion long ago that when I trip in a new country, it’s a good sign. And good sign indeed. Mauritania is growing on me.
Mauritania isn’t a place that awes and amazes an onlooker – rather it’s a place that can very easily shock and disgust. But you have to look past the dusty, garbage covered ground and beyond the dilapidated concrete houses. You must understand that burping and spitting are expected and eating with your hands is necessary. You have to expect that the kid in the torn t-shirt dragging the goat by the leg across the street is probably on a dinner mission. (probably). When glanced at, it’s hard at first to see that tires and cassette tape guts are great toys, and difficult to tell the difference from a designated garbage dump site and someone’s courtyard. I’m slowly figuring things out.
My name in Mauritania is Noura. Noura Fall. My host mom Hadij promptly assigned it to me within the first two minutes of meeting me. When I first arrived the moment was almost overwhelming. I pulled up in a car to what seemed to be a house on a dusty road and my car was immediately surrounded by a large group of children. “Bonjour Madame! Ca va, ca va ca va?” The screamed as they fought to shake my hand. After a sternly barked order from a woman who was obviously the authority, the children scattered like ants and I was escorted out of the car. I was then pushed into a room where I encountered smiling faces of some plump looking women wearing thin cloths that covered their hair and extended to wrap around their body like a dress (called a Mulaffa). They chattered to each other and laughed at the sight of the new Toubabs (American’s or foreigners). I was handed over to my mother who, short, stout and smiling with melted chocolate skin and mischievous eyes, named me Noura.
Hadij grabbed my bag and we walked along the dirt-sand road through a maze of a neighborhood, stopping periodically to chat with neighbors; when I say ‘chat with neighbors’ I mostly mean to show me off - her Toubab and the latest fashion accessory. We arrived at my new house and stepped over a large pile of sand and pushed open a rusty door – held closed by a stretched string of rubber attached to the ground. I was greeted by my new friends – a fat goat, a scruffy dog and a mangy cat. I soon met my nephew Jacob, who is 15 and a soccer playing feign, and my cousin Salem, a tea-making expert. They showed me to my room, which is a extreme sun-faded yellow, has four walls, two windows, lots of ants and a foam mat on the floor. I stood in my room and smiled as the afternoon sun shone a dusty strip in the air. Having my own place in this large foreign place was comforting.
I’ve been stripped off most of my American ‘comforts’ and I have already gone through extreme change. The lack of: toilet paper, English language, showers and air conditioning are just the beginning. I live among stark poverty. I see people stricken with Malaria and children with tomato cans beg for money and food. I see goats lay down to sleep with people and small girls with babies tied to their backs. There are so many things different from what I was used to. But, there are also card games and tea, family meals and morning coffee (instant Nescafe still counts!). There are jokes and laughter, there’s complaining and praising and dancing to music and drums. There are friendships and family ties. I look forward to figuring out more as I become a part of my community and share culture with culture. So many things different, and so many things the same. I think I tripped into the right place.