Pre-Blackberry Society

I vaguely recall a time, when I was still living in the US, when scheduling a meeting was an arrangement, not a sport. I would call the person I needed to meet with, or maybe a secretary. I would hammer out a time and day that met everyone's needs. And we would both know that that block of time was now occupied.

Here in the RIM, scheduling a meeting isn't quite so simple. I call, or visit, the person with whom I want to meet. We arrange a time and date. I might be asked for a follow-up call, a reminder that we have an arrangement (maybe I should add "secretary" to my resume). Then, when I arrive at the meeting place, with my materials in hand, at the appointed time, I might have to wait a half hour for my counterpart to arrive. If I am lucky. More often, the meeting never occurs. I will wait for a half hour, leave a note, and go home.

This frustrates the hell out of me. I tend to feel that, if I have made an appointment, if I have taken the time out of my day to discuss a subject of mutual interest, then it is only courteous to call to cancel. Not coming or asking me to act as a secretary don't thrill me. If I am meant to be a colleague, I prefer to receive the respect of a colleague.

My frustrations have come to a head lately, as I have been working on several projects that require the input of several local activists. But then, I found a situation where this failure to schedule played to my advantage. I needed to talk with two of the most influential men in Hodh el Charghi, the "state" in which I live. The first was the Wali (governor), and the second was the Hakem (state appointed regional representative). Clearly, planning ahead in the RIM doesn't often yield significantly better results. So after I finished my morning program at the health center, I wandered over to the Wali's office. I shook some hands, told the secretary that I would like to see the boss if he had a minute, and before I had time to sit down, I was ushered into his office.

Describing my arrival at the office of the Hakem would be repetitive.

The meetings themselves are usually the same, too. Shake hands, exchange five minutes of greetings. "How's the weather, how's the health, how's the family, how are you," and so on. I'm never sure which greeting I'm saying, since it is all in Hassaniya, but I'm told that those are the main points. After repeating the same greetings several times, I explained why I had come. Both officials thanked me for coming to see them, said that my ideas were good, and wished me luck.

After fighting to talk with private individuals, this seems both too easy and counterintuitive. In the US, a meeting with local politicians a weeks notice. If I wanted to meet with my Congressional Reps, well, that would require plenty of planning. I never managed to get in to see the President.

Usually, I like the structure of American living. I schedule a meeting, I have a meeting. I plan work, I do work. That sentiment is often lacking here. But I finally found that this cavalier attitude towards the calendar doesn't have to be so bad. As long as I can use it to my advantage, that is.

Caution- Capitalism At Work

Visiting friends, the welcome is usually the same. I'm shown the salon, where I watch TV and wait for dinner. Anyone with a TV has a satellite dish, which brings in dozens of channels from all over West Africa, Europe, and the Middle East. My host might pull out his or her Motorola Razor to take some pictures, or play me a favorite music video. It's almost enough to make me forget that I'm sitting on a thin foam mat on a concrete floor in a mud hut.

Not quite enough, though. Try as I might, I can never quite forget that the satellite TV sits in a house that will crumble into the ground in the next 30 years. Or that the person holding the phone and playing music videos for me is almost certainly malnourished. The goat bleating bleating in the front yard or running through the salon tends to interrupt my reverie.

The scene doesn't make sense to me. I wound up asking myself how a place like this could exist. I can understand how the most important things can be in terrible repair and the least important be state-of-the-art. I've seen that all over the US. But how can a country with a negligible GDP support the import of these things? Mauritania doesn't have an industrial base. The main exports have historically been fish and iron. Lately oil has been added to the list, but the oil reserve found offshore was small enough to be ignored for years. It will not make Mauritania into Saudi Arabia.

All the same, the money apparently exists. Enough to make Mauritania an attractive market, anyway. TVs and high-end cell phones come into the country and are snatched up by families eager to engage in modern life. They watch their new TVs and enjoy dubbed shows from Latin America, the US, and Europe. They see what life is apparently supposed to be like. They see advertisements for other things that they should be buying. Usually the ads are for small, cheap things, like MSG to flavor their dinners. Ads for expensive things wouldn't be profitable. The TV required sacrifice; a car is out of the question.

So my friends sit in the salon and watch TV. They see the nice homes in the US and in Europe. The remark on how beautiful the home is, how the furniture all matches. They laugh and they sigh, and we eat a dinner of rice or couscous with just enough vegetables to add some color to the plate. On my next visit there might be a new DVD player.

The Trust Funds I Never Knew

For the past six months, I've been mistaken for a Rockefeller more times than I can count. Everyone thinks that I have money and influence, and if I am not asked about those things, I am asked for them. My first week in Nema, I asked a man I took to be a friend for help in the market to get the right prices. I felt betrayed when he demanded a fee the service, insisting that I could afford it, that I should just draw on all of my American money.

Usually, inquiries into my finances aren't quite so blatant. Maybe it will happen when I am talking about something that seems mundane. Here, where family is valued, I assume that it is understood that I plan to visit my family. But when I mention this to friends, the response is one of deep interest. Not that I would want to visit my family, but that I could possibly have the means to go all the way to America, and then to come back again. Wealth like that doesn't come around every day.

My status as an American citizen is of similar fascination and envy. Hardly a day goes by without some question revolving around my accidental membership in the most popular-yet-unpopular club in the world. A woman will ask if I am interested in marrying her, or her daughter, or if I will call the ambassador to request VISA. Will I be returning to the states when my service is done, and won't that be wonderful. The message is always the same. To be a Mauritanian is good, but to be American is beyond compare.

The ability to speak English is similarly in demand. Very few people were ever impressed by my ability to speak English until I came here. Now, everyone wants me to teach them. Students and teachers want to practice, ranking government officials want lessons. I'm not even a good teacher, but everyone wants me to bestow on them this gift, the ability to speak another language. My friend Mamadou, who has a very good job directing the regional operations of an international NGO, explained that if he knew English, he could go anywhere, work anywhere. Apparently that is what everyone assumes of me.

At first I was annoyed by the attention (mostly the money questions); later I was amused. But yesterday, as I was walking home, pondering my latest VISA discussion (with a teacher who speaks some English and who has had five VISA applications rejected), I realized that a Mauritanian's fascination with my advantages isn't particularly funny, and it is natural enough that I shouldn't be annoyed. In me they see someone who has been bestowed with gifts that they can only dream of. Any money I have from America is worth considerably more here. When I am done, I can go home to America without the hassle of trying to get a VISA, searching for the path that will allow me to enter the US and work. Wherever I go, I will have my English to help me blaze a trail. And no matter what I do, I will always have those advantages that I received at birth, advantages that the people of Mauritania will regard with envy and awe.

The Women Did It

"C'est les femmes qui ont fait ca," Moilida proundly proclaimed, a smile on her face and her arm in the air a la Jude Nelson at the end of the Breakfast Club. She had a right to be proud. Here, in a country where women's work is cooking, cleaning, childrearing, and selling things in the market, a collective of women have opened an auberge, a small hostel. What had made her so proud was the tilework in the bathroom, but the entire auberge was really fantastic. You could hear the energy and excitement in her voice as she explained that the women expected western guests, and so they had designed the facilities as a westerner would expect them to be.

World Women's Day has come and gone, the 8th of March. Here in Nema, we celebrated with a march against AIDS, an informal "farmers market," where women brought clothing and goods that they had made. The women led health sensibilizations, ate lunch together, and made it clear that women are important, that they can do amazing things, and that their place in society must be equal to that of men. Next year it might be nice if men would attend; as it is, the event is really a showpiece, a demonstration that Mauritania cares about its women.

Here in Mauritania, an event like this can make one reflective. Mauritanian society is very much split on women's issues. The government has enacted very egalitarian laws, laws regulating marriage age, laws ensuring that women and men share equal rights (with the exception that men can have four wives, but women only one husband). And this is often very visible. The Minister of Education is a woman. One of the schools here in Nema is a woman. And in a foreshadowing of the current Democratic primary in the US, the last Mayoral election in Nema was between a black man and a woman, amazing in a white moor town (the black man won, but it was very close).

In the home, matters are very different. When I visit my friends, I am often uncomfortable sitting with the men, talking and watching television, while the women sweep around us, cook in the other room, bring in the meal, clean up afterwards, and then do the dishes. My offers to help are greeted by laughter. I've spoken with men who believe in the Mauritanian laws, but more often the men believe in society as it is, with women cooking and cleaning and men calling the shots (even if a woman works, her income is subject to her husband's discretion). One Mauritanian man even told me that, if the director at his work was a woman, he would quit.

Life is often like this. A government will develop in a certain direction out of need, or because of outside influences. Meanwhile, the internal culture is left stumbling along behind, resulting in a social dissonance between the laws and the mores of society.

It is this social dissonance that makes women like Moilida so amazing. A wife and mother, responsible for her household and her children, she still finds time to work with Sante Sud, to volunteer with the Femmes Relais (who give health lessons to women in the town twice a week), and to manage and own an auberge with nine other women.

So what did she say to me about the auberge and the tiles? "C'est les femmes qui ont fait ca!" "The women did it!"

I Think, Therefore I Am (Inshallah)

Over here, every proposal or suggestion is followed by "Inshallah" (God Willing). At times, it can be tough to always hear that, particularly when I'm trying to keep a schedule. "So we'll meet here tomorrow at 5:00, right?" "Yes, Inshallah." To my American ears, and to so many volunteers, that sounds more like, "Yeah, if there's nothing good on tv." Early on in my service, I even heard one American angrily reply, "No! No Inshallah! Take responsibility for your actions," or others refer to the "Inshallah Mentality."

Given how many Americans have adopted "Inshallah" as a nice way of saying, "When hell freezes over," it's easy to understand why we would assume the same of the Mauritanians. But to be fair, there is an understanding that "Inshallah" can mean, "no, it really might not happen." If a Mauritanian knows that something might come up to keep him from an appointment, he will respond with "Inshallah." And since one can never know for certain that nothing will happen to delay the meeting, it is just best to acknowledge that yes, one's schedule is in God's hands.

So when will my co-worker be back from the capital? Next week, Inshallah (it was next week, Inshallah, for about five weeks). You'll be by to pick me up for dinner tomorrow afternoon? Yes, Inshallah (nothing came up to prevent it from happening).

Apparently, this bemusement with a regular follow-up phrase isn't one sided. Some Mauritanian Anglophones have remarked on an American phrase- "I think." How many eggs do you need? "8, I think." Will you be by tonight? "I think so." After a conversation about "Inshallah" and "I think," it was decided that they amounted to the same thing- a qualifier.

The difference seemed more important as I gave it more thought. In Mauritania, Islam is central to everyone's life. Mosques and prayer calls are ubiquitous, prayers are said five times a day, and God is fundamentally in charge of making things happen. The Ultimate Mover and Shaker. Whereas in the US, I am the Mover and Shaker. For myself, anyway. I am responsible for myself. A mistake was made? No, I made a mistake. Lateness occurred? No, that was me, too.

I think that the connection between "Inshallah" and "I think" is very telling about our cultural differences, and that the difference in word choice actually highlights the differences between a religious and a secular society.