Goat Head Picnic

Greetings everyone. The weather in Kaedi is cool after a big rainstorm last night -- thunder and lightning and gusty winds forcing me to sleep inside my room, or oven as I prefer to call it. Everything is going fine -- I look forward to hearing from all of you, and my apologies if I can't respond to individual emails very effectively. Take care! -Luke, 222-688-0095

=== Goat Head Picnic ===

Last weekend I joined fellow trainees Jess and Jordy for a picnic in the country. Information was minimal as we headed out of town. “They slaughtered a goat.” “Somewhere outside of town.” “You’re invited.” That’s all I needed given the monotony of my routine the last couple weeks. Class, cous-cous, hang out at the deserted airport, a bottle of milk, more cous-cous, sleep… I realized I hadn’t left a 2 mile radius since arriving in Kaedi a month ago. So we piled into a 4x4 and rumbled out of town down a dusty road as jerry cans filled with water sloshed in the back. After 20 minutes we stopped at a large thorny tree and sat on mats. One of our hosts was already lighting charcoals next to a plate spilling over with meat. At the base of the tree, the remains of the goat rested ominously. Intestines, lungs, skin, still properly arranged. I tried a joke: “This goat looks sick.” As the cook went to work, we played cards, drank round after round of tea, and enjoyed the relatively cool breeze. The flat scrub around us was surprisingly green after the recent trains; I felt like I was on a poorly maintained golf course. After maybe an hour, one of the Mauritanians pointed up into the air. Hanging from a branch not 10 feet from our noses was the goat’s head. Now that’s a picnic! (picture of me with the goat head forthcoming)

The meat was good, the ice cold mango juice beyond description, and the company was great – six twenty-something Mauritanian guys, who all ganged up playfully on a seventh, a lot like my friends and I might do back home. He was a good natured and resilient character, with lots of catch phrases, such as “It’s good for your color,” which he said whenever he offered something to eat or drink. Every so often they’d wash and turn to the east to pray and I’d turn to the west and wave to America, or so I imagined.

In true Mauritanian fashion, we stayed a long time and drank gallons of tea. And also in Mauritanian fashion, when we roared off in a cloud of dust that afternoon, we left behind dozens of cans, bottles, bags, and other pieces of trash. The goats, or donkeys, or someone else will deal with it, I guess the thinking goes. Or perhaps with the lowest population density in all of Africa, there’s always a clean tree to sit under next time…

=== Blister Beetle Blues ===

A blister beetle lands on your arm. Three guesses as to what happens next… we were all told about this little beast upon our arrival, but I got to meet one face-to-face, unfortunately. Hanging out one evening, I felt something on my arm and looked over too late to catch the culprit… some redness, probably a mosquito bite, I thought (incorrectly). Had I washed the spot immediately I would have been fine, but some hours later I looked again and a one inch square blister had broken out, puffing up off my skin with a jaundicy yellow like make-up in a horror film. Ok, maybe not that bad. Taking the advice of some Mauritanian staffers, I waited about 24 hours and then popped the sucker. It was awesome! Ok, maybe not that good. (Don’t worry, I sterilized the entire city with alcohol swabs first…)

Though I thankfully haven’t yet seen some of the scarier insects Mauritania has to offer, I still feel as though I’ve been bitten or roughed up or harassed by pretty much everything you can think of… mosquitos, fleas, ants, beetles, and bugs I can’t yet identify. My sheets are already stained with the blood of the bugs unlucky enough to sneak their way into my mosquito net. I now feel like the “heroic” John Kerry when, posed with a death penalty question during a debate long ago, he apparently responded, “I know something about killing.”

=== Your teacher is crazy ===

Sydu is a 34 year old black Moor who works at a nicely stocked epicerie (like a 7-11, kind of) near the Kaedi airport. It’s on my way to town and language class and has a wonderful selection of refrigerated products including milk, water, soda, juice, and even frozen Western candy bars. So it’s inevitable that Sydu and I would have met, but the fact that we’ve become friends speaks more to his sense of humor/personality. We have fun. He speaks Hassaniya, French, some English, and even a few words of Spanish, so we communicate in a malange of four languages. “Mi casa, su casa” he said with a grin, as he offered me a chair. “Do you have change today?” I ask as a test, handing him 300 ougiyas for a 250 ougiya beverage. He pulls out a gem: “It’s your lucky day!” We both write down new words and phrases, but he has a knack for remembering almost everything I teach him, whereas I can scarcely remember the first letter of the Hassaniya equivilent of someone’s lucky day. He brings out his best new line when Peace Corps Business Trainee Meme (known as Nina back in Chicago) comes by. “Meme, you look like a million ougiyas today!”

=== A Toubab On The Wall ===

All eight or so business trainees were recently paired with local entrepreneurs to learn how the informal sector operates in Mauritania. I sat intently as counterparts were announced. A manager of a microfinance institution… a owner of a car parts store, a manager of a women’s tye-dying cooperative… and Luke, your counterpart is a… welder. A welder? What do I know about welding? What do I have in common with a welder other than that we both wear glasses at the office? I guess I would find out.

On my first visit, I followed PC Business Trainer Racey into the dark office of Mohamad Salek Ould Libchir, owner of the Menuiserie Metallique just off the main drag of the Kaedi market near the taxi park. Without looking at me, saying hello, or acknowledging my presence in any way, Salek turned to one of his workers and said “I’m going to the bank.” I stood confused for a moment, then stumbled up the steps from his office right into the maelstrom of a busy day at a welding shop. A power saw whined to my left as its teeth fought through a metal pole. To my right, a welding torch connected with a door frame, launching a cascade of sparks over my head. I slipped into a corner, hoping to observe the operations as a “fly on the wall” until Salek came back. That role was already taken by 40-50 actual flies buzzing around me, but I did my best. I met the employees one by one. A ragged bunch, ranging from 13 year old apprentice Hussein to 30-something Moussa. At Salek’s welding shop, bring your local language, because they don’t take English, or French if you want to be precise. Hopelessly lost in any conversation, I took in the noises and smells of the business. Metal dust filled my nose. The sounds of a sadistic dentist filled the air. After nearly an hour, Salek returned. I cornered him and asked him questions as he talked to five other people simultaneously. I struggled to understand his answers: between six and ten workers depending on the season, I’m the richest, best welder in Kaedi. Started in 1989, no, 89, no EIGHTY nine do you even speak French????, he seemed to say with his expression. I wrote furiously. He pointed at my pad of paper with a disapproving look. “So I can remember better,” I said. “You shouldn’t write with your left hand,” he said.

This relationship is going to take awhile, I thought…

=== Good Dog, Happy Man ===

Most Africans I know or have heard about aren’t much for pets. My Ugandan friends thought the idea a bit odd, an animal that serves no purpose and takes up resources. The story of the famous Ali-Foreman fight in Kinsasha goes that the Congolese were against Foreman from the beginning as he strolled off the plane with a German Shephard, the same breed the Belgians used as a tool of colonial oppression. So I was surprised to find that my host family in Mauritania has a dog. He’s nice enough, don’t get me wrong, though I would prefer he not crunch on a bone at three in the morning a foot away from my tent. But then one evening during dinner a neighbor’s cow wandered into our compound. A big, beautiful animal, with impressive horns, and a bellowing moan suggesting that he was a little lost. Our dog sprung into action, barking like mad, and guiding the cow out of the area. Ah, I get it, he’s a herding dog! It’s a herding culture. Sometimes it takes a while for things to click for me here. “Kelbne zein” I told my host father after the incident. Our dog is good! He nodded and grunted a little. No crap, he was probably thinking.