When I first came to Kiffa, I found a house some two miles away from the center market and the health dispensaire. The house was large, sandy brown in color, with a bedroom, a salon, a kitchen and bathroom, and a concrete structure – a one-room “house” with two walls and no ceiling – capable of supporting a tent during the hot season. The compound was large, with high walls, a gate, and several trees – a rarity in these parts. The house had electricity and while no running water, it had a large water basin for storage. In truth, aside from the distance, everything about the house was almost perfect. Living here alone, within the confines of the compound walls, I found oftentimes than not, as awkwardly trite it may sound, serenity.
A better offer came, though, a few weeks before I left for Christmas in Nouakchott. The French equivalent of the Peace Corps had three volunteers stationed in Kiffa when I first moved here. The frenchies, as we like to call them, live in a white cement house located practically in the main Kiffa market. The house – with four bedrooms, a large salon, a kitchen, an indoor bathroom and a rooftop – is not only massive and fantastically situated but is also entirely paid for by the French government. This is very much unlike the Peace Corps where we volunteers have to pay for housing ourselves, from our very meager salaries.
Then, sometime in November one of the frenchies, tired of a humdrum and oftentimes less-than-enjoyable existence in this dry, dusty place, decided to terminate her two-year contract early. She left the country teary eyed, sad yet glad and with memories both fond and not so fond…but more importantly, she left behind an unoccupied room…Can you see where this is going?
Josef, a frenchie who started his two year service in July 2006, offered me the room – at a price almost half of what I paid for my house – during a weekend soiree chez Maggie in December. I immediately said yes, obviously. The following week I explained to my landlord, in my very limited and poor Hassaniya, I would be moving come January. He seemed to understand, and I was glad.
In truth, though, I don’t think he understood me that first time. After returning from vacation, it took me three weeks, as well as the help of several Assabe volunteers, my Peace Corps director, the Kiffa police, and the Kiffa Justice department to convince him that I was moving, that I could do so according to the lease that we both signed, that I would not pay him extra to move out, and that he would have to reimburse me for two month’s worth of rent that I had paid in advance.
While the experience was an ordeal, I believe no major party was entirely at fault. In the end, I feel that my landlord – an elderly white Moor man who cannot read or write and is capable of conversing only in Hassaniya – signed the contract, which is written in French, without fully understanding its contents. He held out with me as long as he did because he did not want to be cheated out of his money. This said, I must point out that the individuals who he involved during the process to speak on his behalf were very slick and cleaver men, who tried their best to weasel from me as much money as possible. One particular white Moor went as far as to say that I, being a Peace Corps volunteer here to serve the poor and old, should fulfill my duty and give my landlord, who is both poor and old, 50 000 UM. That comment, in particular, made me uncharacteristically livid.
As they say, however, All’s well that ends well. My landlord reimbursed me. I live in a good house with good people. And I now have a rooftop where I can finally start my very own nightclub. Good times lie ahead mes amis, good times indeed.
Next time on Adventures in Puddles: “Sidi Mohamed Has Two Mommy’s” – a riveting interview with famed children’s book author R.N. on the latest addition to his “It’s Getting Hot In Here” series.
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