Colours, Sand and People
I couldn't capture it all for you in a few minutes of writing, nor would I want to because it has to be experienced first hand, but I can describe a few moments for you in hopes that you are interested, and that maybe you will email me.
Well, let's start with the colours. At times, Dana and I will be in a car on the road for several hours at a time. Often we are squashed 4 to a back seat of a beat-up Mercedes, sometimes we ride in the back of pick-up trucks. Whatever's going our way. I say to Dana, "each car has it's own personality." He understands: its own cracked windshield, bumpy tires and interior decoration. So we wizz by humungous mountain passes that stretch black and firm like an African fist puching through water. The rest of the roads in this country are surrounded by red, white or yellow sand and it can very dramatically with the time of day and rock type. When the wind blows, it picks up off the ground and fills the horizon with "poussiere" or dust, but the French word is nicer, I think. Sometimes the wind is so strong that the desert so vast that a haze builds to partially block the sun's rays and our view of the sparce green that surrounds the highways and towns.
Yet, there are oases. And in one such oasis town of about 300 people (says the town-elder, Ali, with whom we sat for tea) green foliage abundantly pushes above the sand as the water is close to the surface. In the towns and cities, colours fill the day. Taxis match the colour of the Mauritanian flag, Green and Yellow. Mint leaves, tomatoes and a rainbow of goats and sheep (dead and alive) fill the markets.
The men wear white or baby-blue "boo-boos" which are loose gowns with no sleeves. A distinguished mode of dress, even more so if it has elaborate embroidery on the chest. The boo-boo is usually worn over African pyjamas of any colour or patern, or a western-style colar and dress pants. Turbans, black, white, blue, green or brown cover men's heads to protect from sun and sand.
But by far, the women control the eye of colour in Mauritania. Their shalls are anything from teal to tope and could have paterns of the sun, leaves or geometric shapes. They capture the faces, but leave the arms bare for work, perspiration and easy access for breast feeding.
But maybe, more than the colours, the sand should be a topic to write about. There is sand everywhere in Mauritania. Sand in my pockets, ground into the fabric of my clothes, between my toes, under my fingernails, in the lines on my hands, like lice-eggs in my hair, in the food, in the water, at the corner of my eyes. I've learned to get used to it, and like it. It's like living right by the ocean, vast and variable, entirely careless. Moreover, we use sand to clean our pots and pans, and to bury our shit, we agree upon price by writing in the sand. It's our matress and our pillow.
Dunes are a perfection of movement. They leave waves that mark the wind's direction and strenght, they bury houses and date palms (now I know why palms grow up and not out), they are next to impossible to climb because each step takes you as third as far as you want to go, but once you do climb it, you're in raven territory. The black birds circle and squlk to let you know you are on their perch. But the Saharan sunrise is too sweet to leave just yet. I take a morning breath and try not to forget that the same wind blows snow off the Rockies.
Otherwise, the people continue to be excellent to us. Hospitality is a huge thing, and so is the community. People help each other here. Rides are given for free to everyone except tourists, people sit and lie on mats together for hours on end just discussing. Electricity is fairly rare, and comes in sprurts, usually after sunset for a few hours, but people cook with carbon or gas, and sit with candles and flashlights. The stars shine bright even in big cities. Everyone says "Bonjour" or "Salam Aleykum" or the Pular, "Bada eh tam pereh" which literally translates to, "how's the fatigue?"
I told my friend, Diop, that instead of filling the first minute or two of a conversation with hellos and how's your familys, we talk about the weather, in Canada because is changes so often. "Hi how are you? It's sure beautiful outside. I'm glad spring is around the corner." Here, a season change means slightly more rain, and a change in migrant workers and tourists, not much.
That should do it for now. I'm living it up here, eating, sleeping and sharing everything with locals like Kals and his wife, Umu. They are new parents to Mohammed who is five months of the cutest little-ness in the world. It reminds me of why those who raise you from that age when you're bathed in the sink are able to love you most profoundly.
With that said, I miss you all from my grandparents and parents, to the people I met just last year. Life is good, "insha-allah" and it will continue to be good when we cross into Senegal tomorrow morning. That should be about two weeks and then back up to Morocco for our second crossing of the Sahara.
From the heat of Bogue, Mauritania, on the Senegal River. Peace, Salam, Shalom.
I couldn't capture it all for you in a few minutes of writing, nor would I want to because it has to be experienced first hand, but I can describe a few moments for you in hopes that you are interested, and that maybe you will email me.
Well, let's start with the colours. At times, Dana and I will be in a car on the road for several hours at a time. Often we are squashed 4 to a back seat of a beat-up Mercedes, sometimes we ride in the back of pick-up trucks. Whatever's going our way. I say to Dana, "each car has it's own personality." He understands: its own cracked windshield, bumpy tires and interior decoration. So we wizz by humungous mountain passes that stretch black and firm like an African fist puching through water. The rest of the roads in this country are surrounded by red, white or yellow sand and it can very dramatically with the time of day and rock type. When the wind blows, it picks up off the ground and fills the horizon with "poussiere" or dust, but the French word is nicer, I think. Sometimes the wind is so strong that the desert so vast that a haze builds to partially block the sun's rays and our view of the sparce green that surrounds the highways and towns.
Yet, there are oases. And in one such oasis town of about 300 people (says the town-elder, Ali, with whom we sat for tea) green foliage abundantly pushes above the sand as the water is close to the surface. In the towns and cities, colours fill the day. Taxis match the colour of the Mauritanian flag, Green and Yellow. Mint leaves, tomatoes and a rainbow of goats and sheep (dead and alive) fill the markets.
The men wear white or baby-blue "boo-boos" which are loose gowns with no sleeves. A distinguished mode of dress, even more so if it has elaborate embroidery on the chest. The boo-boo is usually worn over African pyjamas of any colour or patern, or a western-style colar and dress pants. Turbans, black, white, blue, green or brown cover men's heads to protect from sun and sand.
But by far, the women control the eye of colour in Mauritania. Their shalls are anything from teal to tope and could have paterns of the sun, leaves or geometric shapes. They capture the faces, but leave the arms bare for work, perspiration and easy access for breast feeding.
But maybe, more than the colours, the sand should be a topic to write about. There is sand everywhere in Mauritania. Sand in my pockets, ground into the fabric of my clothes, between my toes, under my fingernails, in the lines on my hands, like lice-eggs in my hair, in the food, in the water, at the corner of my eyes. I've learned to get used to it, and like it. It's like living right by the ocean, vast and variable, entirely careless. Moreover, we use sand to clean our pots and pans, and to bury our shit, we agree upon price by writing in the sand. It's our matress and our pillow.
Dunes are a perfection of movement. They leave waves that mark the wind's direction and strenght, they bury houses and date palms (now I know why palms grow up and not out), they are next to impossible to climb because each step takes you as third as far as you want to go, but once you do climb it, you're in raven territory. The black birds circle and squlk to let you know you are on their perch. But the Saharan sunrise is too sweet to leave just yet. I take a morning breath and try not to forget that the same wind blows snow off the Rockies.
Otherwise, the people continue to be excellent to us. Hospitality is a huge thing, and so is the community. People help each other here. Rides are given for free to everyone except tourists, people sit and lie on mats together for hours on end just discussing. Electricity is fairly rare, and comes in sprurts, usually after sunset for a few hours, but people cook with carbon or gas, and sit with candles and flashlights. The stars shine bright even in big cities. Everyone says "Bonjour" or "Salam Aleykum" or the Pular, "Bada eh tam pereh" which literally translates to, "how's the fatigue?"
I told my friend, Diop, that instead of filling the first minute or two of a conversation with hellos and how's your familys, we talk about the weather, in Canada because is changes so often. "Hi how are you? It's sure beautiful outside. I'm glad spring is around the corner." Here, a season change means slightly more rain, and a change in migrant workers and tourists, not much.
That should do it for now. I'm living it up here, eating, sleeping and sharing everything with locals like Kals and his wife, Umu. They are new parents to Mohammed who is five months of the cutest little-ness in the world. It reminds me of why those who raise you from that age when you're bathed in the sink are able to love you most profoundly.
With that said, I miss you all from my grandparents and parents, to the people I met just last year. Life is good, "insha-allah" and it will continue to be good when we cross into Senegal tomorrow morning. That should be about two weeks and then back up to Morocco for our second crossing of the Sahara.
From the heat of Bogue, Mauritania, on the Senegal River. Peace, Salam, Shalom.
posted by Adam Popper at 3:48 p.m.
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