Take Me To Your White People

That was pretty much the situation three days ago when Amanda, a PCT
living nearby, and I ventured into a new neighborhood to try and track
down fellow trainees at their homestays. Since our combined French
and Hassaniya couldn't navigate us out of a cardboard box, we brought
her homestay brother Musa. We didn't know the house, so he basically
started asking children if they had seen any Toubabs, and where were
they living?

We did find the eventually.

Other newsworthy events incude Musa's attempting to teach us the
Mauritanian way to make tea and my attempts at gardening. The tea
episode ended in a mess, I'm actually not that bad, but Amanda is
hopeless. It sucks to be a south paw here.

As for the garden, it is important that it be level, or all the water
runs out of your plot. I learned this the hard way, and so was
already aggrevated when I went to fix it in the afternoon. The
children of the neighborhood are really amused by us, and press their
faces against the fence and shout at us in French while we work. That
day it was just me, so I had their undivided attention, and the whole
pack would follow me from the well to my plot and back, like puppies
in a pet store window. Finally, I got frustrated, at about the same
time I realize I need more dirt. So I toss down the watering can and
snatch the shovel in both hands, holding it like the swor of a samari
warrior.

And fifteen children run screaming into the street.

Sometimes it's good to be me.

Some days are fine, some are a little harder, and sometimes at 3
o'clock on Fridays, the holy day of Islam, I am still seriously
tempted to shanghai the loudspeakers at the Kaedi mosque and blast
Back In Black.

But I don't think that fits the Peace Corps definition of culturally
appropriate.

Nothing to do but sip mint tea until the impulse passes.