killing time and putting shoes to rest
My shoe broke this afternoon and I’m considering giving it a Mauritanian farewell by taking it out and leaving it in the street. That is where broken shoes go. Snapped heels and ripped soles, bleached by sun and half-eaten by a goat. For all the single shoes I see I would expect to see more single-shoed people, hopping around, asking for help or something. But I don’t. The other option would be the shoe-repair guys, the ones set up on the side of the street behind a low table, re-sewing the straps of those shoes whose owners did not orphan them to the sand. I could take my broken shoe here and see what happens to it… It might not be pretty but it will give it some character. Besides, slowly all the things I have leftover from the states have been getting some Mauritanian addition or replacement part: last week this guy demba made me a new leather watchband from scratch. I just commissioned the silversmiths to make a new bar for my ear after I lost the bit that screws in the end. So the shoe could be the next thing on the list… Hmmm.
The fact that I’m even spending time thinking about this, seriously considering the origins and resting places of shoes manufactured in China and worn by Africans, and what happens to things in general when they break or wear out-this is an indication of how slowly time is passing. I have five weeks and one day until teaching is over, five weeks and one day until exams are over, and five weeks three days, let’s say, until all my grades are in and je ne suis plus professeur. Today, I have roughly an hour and forty-five minutes of daylight left, then maybe another two hours before dinner, and one more hour, if I can stretch it, to not fall asleep before Alassane, the four-year old.
I slept in until 6:33 this morning. I thought it was late because it was already bright and people were moving around. 6:33 on a Sunday morning. I got up and went for a run, because by running I know that I am moving, even if time is not. It (time) has always passed a little bit, maybe an hour and a half, although I feel like my watch should read at least an hour later. Soon it’s hot. It’s hot by local standards now. People wilt. I pick up the same book I’ve been reading for a week and read two pages before I fall asleep. It’s a book in French by a Moroccan author, the story of a boatload of illegal immigrants who never make it to where they’re going, and how they die, and how they are found on the beach. It’s a depressing book, and at this rate they are never going to get it over with. My lethargy is prolonging the death of fictional characters. I feel sort of guilty.
Six weeks until I’m no longer a Selibaby volunteer! That doesn’t mean I’m closer to coming home… for whoever missed that announcement, I’ve decided to stay another year. But it will be in another city (Nouakchott), in a different job (gender & development-related), and so I’ll have the pleasure of figuring out a new situation this summer. Write a new routine, quoi.
Here are a few things I will miss about life in the Guidimakha: bucket baths right before dark, hanging out in the teachers’ room/fighting for chalk, and being assailed for not coming to visit someone’s family in a week (“They’ve been asking for you…”)
The first thing will be replaced by a shower.. the apartment I am set to rent comes with plumbing, and a water heater. (Mooovin on up…) As far as the second thing, the new job description does not include belittling oneself in front of 15-year-olds on a daily basis. (Alhamdulillah). And the last part-well-that will probably only be absent for awhile. The wonderful thing about a country with a third of its population concentrated in the capital is that everyone knows someone there. All of my friends in Selibaby have promised to set me up with their aunt or brother or friend’s brother’s aunt’s family, even offering for me to stay with them there. (No no no. How can I convey how much the possibility of a shower means to me? I can’t. I had better just say thank you.)
But see, I can’t start thinking about this stuff now. Because that doesn’t make my watch tick faster… I love those last two days when you’re in a place, when you forget how much and how long you’ve been ready to move on, and you get all heart-sick and promise you’ll miss it forever. Only five weeks and a day til I’m there.
The fact that I’m even spending time thinking about this, seriously considering the origins and resting places of shoes manufactured in China and worn by Africans, and what happens to things in general when they break or wear out-this is an indication of how slowly time is passing. I have five weeks and one day until teaching is over, five weeks and one day until exams are over, and five weeks three days, let’s say, until all my grades are in and je ne suis plus professeur. Today, I have roughly an hour and forty-five minutes of daylight left, then maybe another two hours before dinner, and one more hour, if I can stretch it, to not fall asleep before Alassane, the four-year old.
I slept in until 6:33 this morning. I thought it was late because it was already bright and people were moving around. 6:33 on a Sunday morning. I got up and went for a run, because by running I know that I am moving, even if time is not. It (time) has always passed a little bit, maybe an hour and a half, although I feel like my watch should read at least an hour later. Soon it’s hot. It’s hot by local standards now. People wilt. I pick up the same book I’ve been reading for a week and read two pages before I fall asleep. It’s a book in French by a Moroccan author, the story of a boatload of illegal immigrants who never make it to where they’re going, and how they die, and how they are found on the beach. It’s a depressing book, and at this rate they are never going to get it over with. My lethargy is prolonging the death of fictional characters. I feel sort of guilty.
Six weeks until I’m no longer a Selibaby volunteer! That doesn’t mean I’m closer to coming home… for whoever missed that announcement, I’ve decided to stay another year. But it will be in another city (Nouakchott), in a different job (gender & development-related), and so I’ll have the pleasure of figuring out a new situation this summer. Write a new routine, quoi.
Here are a few things I will miss about life in the Guidimakha: bucket baths right before dark, hanging out in the teachers’ room/fighting for chalk, and being assailed for not coming to visit someone’s family in a week (“They’ve been asking for you…”)
The first thing will be replaced by a shower.. the apartment I am set to rent comes with plumbing, and a water heater. (Mooovin on up…) As far as the second thing, the new job description does not include belittling oneself in front of 15-year-olds on a daily basis. (Alhamdulillah). And the last part-well-that will probably only be absent for awhile. The wonderful thing about a country with a third of its population concentrated in the capital is that everyone knows someone there. All of my friends in Selibaby have promised to set me up with their aunt or brother or friend’s brother’s aunt’s family, even offering for me to stay with them there. (No no no. How can I convey how much the possibility of a shower means to me? I can’t. I had better just say thank you.)
But see, I can’t start thinking about this stuff now. Because that doesn’t make my watch tick faster… I love those last two days when you’re in a place, when you forget how much and how long you’ve been ready to move on, and you get all heart-sick and promise you’ll miss it forever. Only five weeks and a day til I’m there.