She held my hand and wouldn't let go.
I think she's seen me around and has been wanting to talk to me. She asks me the questions I can answer in Hassaniya and thinks I'm Bilani (White Moor - a way of saying I integrate well). I don't stop her. She shows me her house and lets me know i'm welcome anytime. Her mulafe is pink like her cheeks.
She held my hand and wouldn't let go.
He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.
He has been in Aleg as long as I have and he struggles with Hassaniya. He does not know French, only English and his dialect from Ghana. His English is broken but he speaks in a genuine way. When I ask him about his past he says he doesn't know how to tell me. He falls silent with saddness in his eyes. His robe is white as a cloud.
He said he saw me and didn't know how to talk to me.
She wondered when I'd finally find her.
She is large and lays lazily in her botique. She gives me peanuts to eat and tells me I look Mauritanian. She asks me about my father. The mat on the floor is plastic and she gives me a pillow to lounge. She calls me an old friend. Her smile is as big as I remember. She tells me not to lose her again. Her hair is freshly braided.
She wondered when I'd finally find her.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Intelligence Test
A fellow volunteer and I went to the local Jardin D'Enfants to check out a Mauritanian Preschool one sunny day. We wandered through the streets and followed directions and pointed fingers along the roads until we came upon a small, rather governmental looking compound. Upon entering our eyes fell upon what looked to be abandoned playground equipment. There was a swing-set with no swings, a unidentifiable metal frame, a rusty slide and a short metal jungle gym set up on the dirt and gravel ground. There were obvious attempts at making the swing-set an actual play thing. A black cord was strung to the top and swung down in a loop as a makeshift swing (tied and tied again from what looked to be many breakdowns). Our snooping was interrupted by the groundskeeper who welcomed us with a shy smile and offered us a seat on the steps as he prepared for the day. He mechanically laid out a mat on the dirt and began sweeping out the interior of the school.
We watched the metal door to the compound as children trickled in. The first were two young wide eyes boys brought by their teenage brother. They wandered in and stopped as they saw us, wondering what kind of people would interrupt their habitual morning. the groundskeeper herded them onto the mat where they sat quietly staring at nothing in particular. It continued as such, small children with curious faces taking seats on the mat outside. The teachers began to arrive, dressed in fantastic Pulaar clothes with grand head-wraps and bright smiles. They sat next to us on the steps and chatted as the kids continued to come in and take a place on the mat. There was one small girl who began to cry as her mom set her down, a typical response for a 2 year old. She ran to the door and her mother, one step ahead of the game, slipped sneakily out and closed it behind her. The teachers giggled at the ways of children and one woman went to sit with the traumatized toddler on the mat. One small girl, perhaps 4 years old, wandered in by herself, carrying a back-pack and a small bottle of water.
The director arrived with a flow of energy, her mulafe flowing behind her and business in her eyes. She greeted us and began to show us around. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by the wonderful scent of stale urine. There were three rooms off the lobby, divided by 2-3, 3-4 and 4-5 year olds. The rooms were typical preschool, yet a bit more depressing. The only floor with a "carpet" was the youngest room, all others were small white rooms filled with small plastic kid-stained picnic tables. The walls were decorated with scribbles drawings and torn artwork from postcards and books. There were no toy shelves or counters filled with paper and crayons, only a chalkboard in the corner a drawing of a toothbrush and toothpaste. After a whirlwind tour she brought us to her office, just as a repetition song began, voices blending sweetly the way only children can achieve.
Once in her office she showed us cardboard boxes filled with a mess of wooden and plastic toys. With blocks, beads, and plastic pieces the torn box looked like the miscellaneous drawer everyone seems to have in a forgotten corner. She sat us at her desk and pulled out a large piece of cardboard with the edges cut out.
"An intelligence test," she said, motioning toward the wrinkled pieces "try it."
So we put the paper puzzle together (which, i might add, had us worried for a second). When she came back in she was delighted to see we were smarter than the average preschooler and quickly mumbled something about "velos". We were rushed into another room and slowly took in the mess of tricycle pieces on the floor.
"Can you put these together?" She asked.
Glancing at each other and checking the time, we agreed to take a look. We ended up back on the mat outside where the children sat in the morning with the tricycle parts to about 5 bikes lay scattered before us. The paper directions were torn and wrong, and we began to notice certain important parts were not present in the mess before us. The director came back out and handed us the tool she thought we would need.... a green and red plastic child's play hammer. I began to giggle at our situation. Sitting there with a tricycle puzzle in front of us, a bit harder than the cardboard pieces, and equip with a plastic preschool hammer. A little boy wandered out of the building and gazed at us for a while, wondering why were were having such problems when we had the best tool in the school.
After getting some of the bikes partially assembled we notified the director that while the hammer had helped a lot (we actually used it) that we had tools that would work better at our house and would return tomorrow to finish our work. We left the preschool as the children continued their rote learning repetition games. I could only wonder if we had really passed the intelligence test she had laid out before us, or if we would be forever failed in her mind - only achieving the initial cardboard stage of her tests.
We watched the metal door to the compound as children trickled in. The first were two young wide eyes boys brought by their teenage brother. They wandered in and stopped as they saw us, wondering what kind of people would interrupt their habitual morning. the groundskeeper herded them onto the mat where they sat quietly staring at nothing in particular. It continued as such, small children with curious faces taking seats on the mat outside. The teachers began to arrive, dressed in fantastic Pulaar clothes with grand head-wraps and bright smiles. They sat next to us on the steps and chatted as the kids continued to come in and take a place on the mat. There was one small girl who began to cry as her mom set her down, a typical response for a 2 year old. She ran to the door and her mother, one step ahead of the game, slipped sneakily out and closed it behind her. The teachers giggled at the ways of children and one woman went to sit with the traumatized toddler on the mat. One small girl, perhaps 4 years old, wandered in by herself, carrying a back-pack and a small bottle of water.
The director arrived with a flow of energy, her mulafe flowing behind her and business in her eyes. She greeted us and began to show us around. We stepped into the lobby and were greeted by the wonderful scent of stale urine. There were three rooms off the lobby, divided by 2-3, 3-4 and 4-5 year olds. The rooms were typical preschool, yet a bit more depressing. The only floor with a "carpet" was the youngest room, all others were small white rooms filled with small plastic kid-stained picnic tables. The walls were decorated with scribbles drawings and torn artwork from postcards and books. There were no toy shelves or counters filled with paper and crayons, only a chalkboard in the corner a drawing of a toothbrush and toothpaste. After a whirlwind tour she brought us to her office, just as a repetition song began, voices blending sweetly the way only children can achieve.
Once in her office she showed us cardboard boxes filled with a mess of wooden and plastic toys. With blocks, beads, and plastic pieces the torn box looked like the miscellaneous drawer everyone seems to have in a forgotten corner. She sat us at her desk and pulled out a large piece of cardboard with the edges cut out.
"An intelligence test," she said, motioning toward the wrinkled pieces "try it."
So we put the paper puzzle together (which, i might add, had us worried for a second). When she came back in she was delighted to see we were smarter than the average preschooler and quickly mumbled something about "velos". We were rushed into another room and slowly took in the mess of tricycle pieces on the floor.
"Can you put these together?" She asked.
Glancing at each other and checking the time, we agreed to take a look. We ended up back on the mat outside where the children sat in the morning with the tricycle parts to about 5 bikes lay scattered before us. The paper directions were torn and wrong, and we began to notice certain important parts were not present in the mess before us. The director came back out and handed us the tool she thought we would need.... a green and red plastic child's play hammer. I began to giggle at our situation. Sitting there with a tricycle puzzle in front of us, a bit harder than the cardboard pieces, and equip with a plastic preschool hammer. A little boy wandered out of the building and gazed at us for a while, wondering why were were having such problems when we had the best tool in the school.
After getting some of the bikes partially assembled we notified the director that while the hammer had helped a lot (we actually used it) that we had tools that would work better at our house and would return tomorrow to finish our work. We left the preschool as the children continued their rote learning repetition games. I could only wonder if we had really passed the intelligence test she had laid out before us, or if we would be forever failed in her mind - only achieving the initial cardboard stage of her tests.
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