Bababe: Rain's a Comin'

[A scene from Bababe: A random piece of life from after a rain storm]

Looks like rain, I mumble to myself. It’s nighttime, and I’m lying outside, wholly fatigued, my body stretched over a matela – a single-person-sized mattress. I languidly gaze up overhead at the creamy paleness extended through the middle of the starry sky. I raise my head and notice again the darkness on the eastern horizon, slowly unfurling towards my way. Something wicked this way comes – I laugh under my breath. Heat flashes and lightening mingle in the distance, taking turns to light up the sky intermittently. And in those moments of light, I can’t help but notice the darkened fullness of the clouds.

My family has already begun preparations. My mothers pull down the tent and tie it up. The others begin gathering the extra matelas and mats and moving them inside. The shutters are closed and locked. There is more flashing as the blackness obscures even more stars from view. After all is made ready, everyone moves outside. The storm hasn’t reached us yet. My father lies down on a matela while my brothers and mothers either sit or lie on the crowded mat. I sit with them, sharing in the closeness of the moment. They all talk. My brother says something and everyone laughs. My younger mother says something else and the laughter continues. I laugh too, not because I understand them, but because it feels right and good.

I look up. The clouds have taken hold of the sky in its entirety. The wind picks up speed. In a few more moments the sand storm arrives. We all cover ourselves – the women with their mulafas, the men with their bubus. I cover myself with my bed sheet. I hear the wind and feel the sand hit my side. We sit there, enjoying the coolness of the approaching storm. When the rain arrives, we all move inside.

Raindrops pound the tin roof. It sounds like hail. I think to myself. It’s not hailing. It sounds like the end of the world. After a moment or two more, my father’s voice rises out of the obscurity until it seems to float on top of the thrashing sounds of the storm. He chants – pleading with God to keep the roof from falling on top of us. A woman’s voice, my mother’s, soon mingles with that of my father’s. Together they dance in and out of the storm. I close my eyes. I feel a drop of water on my face. I move my matela to avoid the leaking roof. And so it continues, in the dark, the storm, till I fall asleep.

Communication Woes

The lack of communication between me and my host family became the most difficult and frustrating during last few weeks of Stage. The following is a rant: unstructured, meandering and at times pointless. Sorry – but this one is more for me than for you all.

August 28, 2006

I fucking hate this! I don’t even want to see them! What’s the point of sitting down with a person if you can’t even ask the simplest of questions? We just sit there and stare at each other. Or they go on with their lives, talking and laughing, while I sit there like a damn fly on the wall! I don’t even know them! I mean, I’ve lived with them for two whole months and I know next to nothing about them!

I’m spending a lot of time in my room, by myself. They must think it’s odd. You’re not supposed to be alone here. People are always around other people. A Peace Corps language instructor once said that people in other parts of the world commit suicide because they spend too much time by themselves. Hence, to be alone here is to be…well, at the very least, odd. They asked me if I’m sick. I’m not sick. I’m frustrated! How do I tell them I’m frustrated? How do I tell them that I want have conversations, share my thoughts and ideas on countless of topics? I’ve never been a big talker. I tend to be quiet and reserved. I watch. But this is different. It’s like I have a leash around my neck. I try to pull away, as hard as I can, but I just get rope burns. I want to talk, but I can’t…


* * * * *

And on a more positive note – [I was having a better day when I wrote this part].

August 30, 2006

It does amaze me though, how even with the lack of verbal communication you come to feel close to a group of people…

The Beginnings: Stage

September 2, 2006

During my first night in Mauritania an ant bit my lip while I slept on the floor, and it swelled up [the lip not the ant] like mad. Within that week I also got my first taste of diarrhea – no, I didn’t eat it…you know what I mean. A month or so into training, I caught something bad and burned up with a fever of 105 degrees…and I thought I might die. Luckily, I didn’t die and the fever passed. Then, a termite flew into my ear. I could hear it munching on my insides. Munch. Munch. Mun…it’s really not a very comforting sound. I had to use tweezers to get it out. Everything was fine after that…well, almost. After two or so months of periodic diarrhea, I was getting slightly worried. It had been some time since my last normal bowel movement. But then the PC doctor told us not to expect normal looking shit for two years. So now I’m trying to get used to funny looking crap always coming out of my body, bugs included, while at the same time trying not to be overwhelmed by the new languages, intense desert heat and a culture that is the bane of my current existence. I cry sometimes…on the inside, of course, as a man should.

“Tough shit man…“Bienvenue à la Mauritanie!”


Damn it’s hot here. And I mean hot. Walking out from under the shade into the sunlight is like getting bitch-slapped…except not just on your face and repeatedly. It feels like burning. And the sad part of it all? This is the cooler season.

Aside from the heat, there’s the sand and dust that covers everything – including me for the better part of each day. [The first five minutes after my morning bucket baths are fucking awesome! After that, it’s all really downhill.] And to add extra some spice to daily living, the ground most everywhere is covered with heaps upon heaps of garbage and animal shit. Hooray! Trash collection is really still just an idea in Mauritania: why collect trash when you can just throw it out into the streets?! And animals – cows, donkeys and goats oh my! – get to pee and crap wherever they please. For those who may find this unfair – How come they can go anywhere and we can’t?! – don’t fret. People can pee and crap wherever they please too. Sweet! That’s right, don’t mind that man squatting down next to the veggie stand in the market, and don’t stare . . . he’s just taking care of a little nature call.

I’m currently in the process of training to become a Peace Corps Volunteer (i.e. PCV). For those of you who may not know how the Peace Corps is set up, here’s a quick rundown. Before one starts their two year service, they first have to go through three months of intensive in-country training, better known here as “Stage”. This period of time consists of approximately 180 hours of language classes and various sessions concerning culture and integration, medical, safety and skills. All sessions, with the exception of language hours, are held at a local lycée in the village of Kaédi that the Peace Corp rents out for the duration of the summer. Peace Corps Trainees (i.e. PCTs) are placed to live with families in various villages within the surrounding region. Language classes, held practically everyday, consume the vast majority of our time. The remaining hours are spent integrating with, or in some cases avoiding, our host families and moreover, and more importantly, attempting to maintain some level of saneness. All of the PCTs regroup once every two weeks in Kaédi to experience all the sessions not concerning language. These sessions are led by second year volunteers who, in my opinion, sometimes let the power of their positions get to their heads. Generally though, they’re a good bunch – always aware of the difficulties that we’re experiencing and constantly encouraging.

My training site is Bababe – a largish village dominated by Pular peoples with a smattering of black Moors. I live with a black Moor family at the foot of a barren and rocky hill [the highest point in the village with an amazing view]. I have one father, two mothers [that I know of…Come to think of it, there’s actually a funny story here that I’ll save for another time], and four brothers. I’m learning French. My family, while terribly nice, speaks only Hassaniya, an Arabic dialect – making living with them somewhat difficult simply because I can’t really talk to them.

My French class constitutes of me, another PCT by the name of Kristen and a middle-aged white/black Moor teacher, who regards himself to be one of the few “intellectuals” living in Mauritania. I use quotations because…well, I mean he’s “educated”, don’t get me wrong. He can speak better French than me. I just question him sometimes when…well, like after he tells me that things weigh less when they move fast – hence fast moving cars get into more accidents than slow moving cars…because they weigh less –and that AIDS is sanctioned by God to rid the world of all sinful peoples. [Note: For those who might argue – What about all those non-sinful people who die from AIDS? – worry not. They go to Heaven while the evildoer’s who gave them AIDS in the first place go to Hell. See, everything works out. Oh, and AIDS is genetic too…that’s how we get mother to child transmission.] Small things, I know. What can I say? I’m a judger.

Along with me and Kristen, there are three other PCTs in Bababe: Laura, Helena, and Rachael – all of whom are learning to speak Pular. Lucky dogs. I would much rather be learning Pular than Hassaniya, which I will have to learn after I finish butchering the French language. Not only does Pular sound better, but the Pular culture is so much richer than that of the Moors…but more on this later.

Stage is almost over; and while difficult, it has been a good experience. I mean, anything after this has to be a piece of cake…and any experience that allows you to say that has to be, well, character-building at least.

The beginnings of a masterpiece: The Arrival

The contact of the landing gear with the paved runway shook me awake. Peering through the window – shapes and shadows blended together into the darkness of the early morning.

The sun had not yet seared its way through the zenith of the sky.

We shuffled out of the plane, trying to keep our balance as men and women, garbed in bubus and mulafas, pressed themselves toward the exit door.

We were met by a handful of Peace Corps staff and volunteers. Those first hours were spent gathering and sorting luggage, taking rolls, piling into Peace Corps vans and getting shipped to local hotels.

We spent that first day in Nouakchott, all 57 of us bleary eyed, tired, a bit confused. The beginnings of 27 months, I think to myself.

[Booyeah! Tolstoy eat your heart out!]

Out to Lunch...Back in Two Years

Well, the time has come to say laters ya'll. For those who must worry, I promise to come back in one piece - older and wiser . . . and crisply blackened by the Saharan sun. I will miss you all very much.

Oh, and my contact information for the first three months will be

Corps de la Paix
BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa.
I'll email out my cell phone number when I get one.


Best wishes,
Ritesh

a poem

{on a bar stool}

gushing forth from red-veined eyes
lingering drops
that leave behind
trails that burn

a toast,
to scared hearts

rn