Pictures on the Walls

Stepping back, I look at the faces of my family and friends staring back at me from my walls. Now that I am in my own house in the town I will be in for the next two years, I can finally unpack all my bags and carve my place into this country. As I look a picture of my nephew Gavin stuck in a happy pose at a baseball game, cheering and holding a two-year-old fist full of hotdog toward the sky, I can feel the odd sensation spread over me once again. The realness of my situation continues to catch me off guard. The distance from the people I love and the proximity to the people in my neighborhood with whom I’ll form relationships. Not to mention the tragedy of that hotdog, something I won’t taste for a very long time... But unidentifiable ground meat becomes somewhat miniscule in comparison to the things I’m gaining here. Aleg, my town, seems to have a lot to offer me, and hopefully I’ll figure out what I can give in return.

My house is across the street from a Mosque and two doors down from my landlord’s boutique. I live in a small walled compound with a couple rooms, a small kitchen and a salon. The doors and windows, covered in bright blue cracked wood, obey the weather expanding and shrinking with Mother Nature’s commands. My bathroom and “shower” (place to stand in while I bucket-bath) are outside and laundry lines are strung about the yard. For now, there are small green patches on the ground, where sporadic grass and the infamous Death Star plants grow. Death Star is not, in fact, the real name of this macabre plant, only a name we have so lovingly assigned. Starting out rather beautiful, the Death Star dries up in the desert sun, creating tiny and very prickly balls of death, which stick into skin like an orb of splinters. Though the Death Stars are a negative, I am lucky to have electricity in part of the house, which works a good percentage of the time, and running water, accessed by a pump outside. My roof is tin and my walls are concrete and my kitchen counter was built with bricks and wood planks. My stove is a portable gas camp-style with one burner and is mostly used outdoors. It has already been used to create some rather delicious creations (Pad-Thai is very do-able here).

Every day the Mosque is my alarm clock, the sunrise call to prayer my morning wake up call. It is Ramadan this month, so the days are slow. Fasting (no food or drink – water included) is required between sunrise and sunset and the hottest and most unproductive time is between 1-3pm. Walking around at this time brings you face to face with a ghost-town. Store owners and produce vendors sleep in the shade, slowly rising if you ask for something. Eating and drinking in view of other Mauritanians seems rude and awkward, though it is sometimes forced upon you when you sit to talk with a fatigued family, as they understand many foreigners do not participate in their religious holidays. The children and oldest of old do not usually partake in the fasting, and those that do will not utter a word of complaint more than “it’s hot out today” or “I’m a little bit tired”. The dedication is empowering to see, especially given the climate. What must get them through is the wonderful event of breaking the fast at sundown. Women start preparing in the early afternoon, cutting and chopping slowly, getting things ready to drop in a pot and quickly prepare. When the Mosque announces the breaking of fast, the chanted song is only on the second syllable when cups are brought to parched mouths. What follows is amazing. I broke fast with a family one night and was in disbelief at the never ending bowls and plates set before me. There were dishes of beignets, dates, juice, water, milk, and a sweet cous-cous/water/milk/sugar mix brought out to start. A dish of meat and potatoes with bread to dip followed by a round of tea, and then even more drinks set before you. Finally there was a large dish of pasta and meat set out on a plate, followed by more rounds of tea. This celebration takes time, and I even made the mistake of trying to leave before it was over – thinking there couldn’t possibly be another course…. That night I would lay under my mosquito net in a food coma, staring up at the stars, happily stuffed and planning out another visit to break fast.

Walking through my town can take forever. I greet everyone in the Mauritanian way, which is to spit out as many inquiries as fast as possible. Included are things such as “How are you with the heat?” and “How are you with your health?” I am discovering my favorite people to sit and take tea with, and faces and names are easier with each passing day. I once walked back from the market with an empty trunk for my room, balancing it on my head with a hand, when I heard an excited greeting. I recognized that it was the mother of the family I broke fast with the night before. She beckoned me over and we went through the greetings – followed by the common “whatareyoudoing –whereareyougoing-wherewereyou.” I slapped hands and touched my heart doing my best to keep up with her Hassaniya/French. I told her I had to bring the trunk home, and she smiled and pressed a bag of beignets into my hand. When I asked her how much she waved my money away like an annoying fly, telling me it was a gift.

I know that not everyone I meet here will be as nice as her. Not everyone is willing to put up with my broken Hassaniya and cultural slip-ups. I have embarrassed myself many times already, and I know it’s only the beginning. Laughing is a good way to deal, because really, some of the situations I find myself in are simply ridiculous. Another is to always remember those pictures on the wall are always there, reminding me not of what I left behind, but of the people who continuously offer me support.