Dreams of Different Colors

The culture in front of me is bold. It is bright. It is sacred. A father teaches his children how to pray, quietly whispering time-old secrets into their ears. A mother sifts couscous, tossing the grains into air and letting it fall into the waiting bowl. A sister shifts her baby brother on her back, old enough to stand tall, young enough to not feel the burden. A brother laughs without reserve, head tossed to the sky, as his friend chases a goat through the dusty streets. Here, a person must wait to uncover the mysteries of this sandy world, it will not happen immediately. I would never have known the secrets of fabric if I had not sat and watched, wide-eyed, as they danced in front of me. The light shone golden into the room through barred windows and outdoor children pressed their faces against the rusty metal to get a glimpse – smiles and eyes illuminated. Women step surely, carried by the Arabic strings and drums, swirling multicolored mulafes. They fix their faces into a rather proud poses, arms waving with attention to the fingers. Occasionally they cover their face with cloth, more often, they expertly shake their butts, ticking and swishing in time with the scratchy cassette tape. The men are like birds, and with their grand bou-bou’s spread like wings they fly around the room with ease. They flutter around the women, showing off the solid steps and hopping lightly with the beat. They swirl and mix, tangle and part. Laughter bubbles as they show off their moves and minutes fold into themselves.
Sometimes it seems like the sun shines too bright, or too much sand blown into your eyes to actually see. But, I suppose that is why we have five senses. I will always hear prayer call echoing through the labyrinth streets and smell lunchtime as rice and fish simmer over fire. I will feel the touch of a greeting hand and taste the bitter sugary tea from a sticky glass. I’m learning to quit making over-assumptions, and to let things go quickly. I’m learning to take it slow and to enjoy the quiet. I’m learning to laugh in a different language.
School began this week, but once again, culture morphs something so familiar to me into the unidentifiable. On the first day of classes I wondered, as I gaze at the empty school yard before me, occupied by wandering donkeys, if I’ll ever understand completely. I find the school director, Ahmed, in his quiet office. Wise and quite official looking he is dressed in a bou-bou surrounded by papers on his desk. He smiles and tells me that maybe tomorrow he’ll have the schedule ready. And – he adds – you don’t have to come by tomorrow if you’re tired. The back to school vibe is still there, I can see it when I visit the market. Children pour over carts of notebooks, choosing their colors importantly. They walk down the streets with blue UNICEF issued backpacks, the glow of newness alive in their struts. I suppose a week from now I’ll be in the swing of things. Classes will begin and students will trickle in, switching from lazy summer days to pencils, pens and notebook paper.
I have decided to move in with a Mauritanian to try and catch some things I might be missing. She is a bright spunky woman who has a three year contact with an international organization in Aleg. One year into her contract, she will finish her time in Aleg right when I will. Her name is Fatou and her family lives in Nouakchott, with her adorable son. She lives alone in a house, very similar to the one I live in currently, except that it is two minutes away from the school. She has created family here and they have welcomed me into their lives with ease. We speak in French mostly, though she knows Hassaniya (and Wolof… and Pulaar!) and helps me figure things out. I sat in a boutique late one night with her as she visited her friends. They behaved like sassy schoolgirls and we joked and sipped tea and let the night seep into our bones.
My dreams have a new shade to them. They have taken on a new tone. I see broken toothed smiles and wrinkled expressive hands. I see swirling fabrics and piles of onions on sheets. In my sleepy minds eye there are blue backpacks, wise men and unfinished schedules.