Last night was tougher than most. I crawled under the mosquito net covered in the usual sheen of slimy sweat and sand around 10PM. The air was absolutely thick, utterly stagnant. My sheet and pillow case absorbed the stream of moisture yet another night without complaint as I wrestled my way to sleep.
I’m in a big plane, maybe on my coming flight to Tanzania. The take-off is incredibly vertical, more like a rocket shooting into the air than an airplane. Suddenly the plane is falling at an equally abrupt angle, only we’re not crashing. We have to go back to the airport for something, something I’ve forgotten.
I wake sweating even more profusely than when I lay down, feeling like I am going to be sick. My stomach was the airplane and I parted the bug net to make my way to the toilet. I shivered as I removed the cover to the hole and counted the drops of sweat that fell from my nose into the darkness. I set my headlamp down next to me as I felt my dinner coming up. As I started to throw up I had the distinct feeling that it was a shame that I was losing the beef and rice that only a few hours earlier had been such a treat. Too much oil for the system, maybe the meat wasn’t the best. I poured water down the hole hoping I had enough in my storage bucket to refill the basin. I sat down on my cement stoop feeling better but still wishing someone could have been there to ask me I was okay. The stars winked at me and I laughed at my want for reassurance. The wind picked up and broke the humid air with a cool authority I was happy to submit to. My shutters flapped back and forth with the gusts and I shut them reluctantly, disappointed that the breeze that brought relief to my stagnant night also brought its own set of complications.
I wake the next day find out that my complications weren’t without company. A thief came to the village in the middle of the night with a gun and robbed Pa Fall, one of the wealthiest men in the area and the father of Modou, our local charettier, or horse cart driver, a guy that asks me to help him with getting a visa to the US whenever I see him. The thief held the old man up at gunpoint demanding his stash of money. As he took off, Modou chased after him and the robber fired his gun twice, grazing Modou’s shoulder and foot, but not seriously injuring him Thank God. The robber made off with a purported 16 million cfa, over $30,000. I learn all of this when my mother Fatou wakes me up from my difficult night, babbling her way through the story twice so I can understand clearly.
Only a few days ago Modou had smiled at me from behind his attaya rotted teeth asking me if I had been to the US embassy for him yet. I’ve tried to explain to him that since September 11th, it is increasingly difficult for people to get in to the country, particularly those with no money, no English, and no prospects. Though I’m sure the US government would officially disagree, it probably doesn’t help that Modou has an obviously Muslim name. Not to be discouraged, he put his hands over his heart and tells me that he was physically in pain at the news of the attacks on the US. He said he didn’t care if he had the chance to go to Spain, France, or Italy, that he wanted to go to the US of A or nowhere.
Poor Modou. Was my episode the night before somehow related to what happened with the thief? I couldn’t help but wonder. My gut, literally and figureatively, knew something was amiss. That a robbery at gunpoint would occur in my tranquil, unelectrified village with someone I know and speak to actually shot blows my mind. It is ironic because my father Adama and I had been having an ongoing conversation about his desire to buy a gun to protect the house and family from robbers. I kept telling him that I couldn’t believe there were robbers in Mouit, that most people were poor, and what would someone take, a sheep? Sure enough, only a few weeks earlier, someone had stolen three sheep from a Pulaar family in Ricote, the village behind Mouit; and low and behold one of our neighbors was sitting on a small fortune. It turns out that Pa Fall has many fields in cultivation and has hired help or field hands like Ibrahima and Alle who lived right next to me in our family compound. These workers would have been most likely to know that the old men didn’t use a bank, or so the villagers suspect.
It makes me wonder if a thief ever targetted the one American in Mouit, would he believe that I’m actually broke?
I’m in a big plane, maybe on my coming flight to Tanzania. The take-off is incredibly vertical, more like a rocket shooting into the air than an airplane. Suddenly the plane is falling at an equally abrupt angle, only we’re not crashing. We have to go back to the airport for something, something I’ve forgotten.
I wake sweating even more profusely than when I lay down, feeling like I am going to be sick. My stomach was the airplane and I parted the bug net to make my way to the toilet. I shivered as I removed the cover to the hole and counted the drops of sweat that fell from my nose into the darkness. I set my headlamp down next to me as I felt my dinner coming up. As I started to throw up I had the distinct feeling that it was a shame that I was losing the beef and rice that only a few hours earlier had been such a treat. Too much oil for the system, maybe the meat wasn’t the best. I poured water down the hole hoping I had enough in my storage bucket to refill the basin. I sat down on my cement stoop feeling better but still wishing someone could have been there to ask me I was okay. The stars winked at me and I laughed at my want for reassurance. The wind picked up and broke the humid air with a cool authority I was happy to submit to. My shutters flapped back and forth with the gusts and I shut them reluctantly, disappointed that the breeze that brought relief to my stagnant night also brought its own set of complications.
I wake the next day find out that my complications weren’t without company. A thief came to the village in the middle of the night with a gun and robbed Pa Fall, one of the wealthiest men in the area and the father of Modou, our local charettier, or horse cart driver, a guy that asks me to help him with getting a visa to the US whenever I see him. The thief held the old man up at gunpoint demanding his stash of money. As he took off, Modou chased after him and the robber fired his gun twice, grazing Modou’s shoulder and foot, but not seriously injuring him Thank God. The robber made off with a purported 16 million cfa, over $30,000. I learn all of this when my mother Fatou wakes me up from my difficult night, babbling her way through the story twice so I can understand clearly.
Only a few days ago Modou had smiled at me from behind his attaya rotted teeth asking me if I had been to the US embassy for him yet. I’ve tried to explain to him that since September 11th, it is increasingly difficult for people to get in to the country, particularly those with no money, no English, and no prospects. Though I’m sure the US government would officially disagree, it probably doesn’t help that Modou has an obviously Muslim name. Not to be discouraged, he put his hands over his heart and tells me that he was physically in pain at the news of the attacks on the US. He said he didn’t care if he had the chance to go to Spain, France, or Italy, that he wanted to go to the US of A or nowhere.
Poor Modou. Was my episode the night before somehow related to what happened with the thief? I couldn’t help but wonder. My gut, literally and figureatively, knew something was amiss. That a robbery at gunpoint would occur in my tranquil, unelectrified village with someone I know and speak to actually shot blows my mind. It is ironic because my father Adama and I had been having an ongoing conversation about his desire to buy a gun to protect the house and family from robbers. I kept telling him that I couldn’t believe there were robbers in Mouit, that most people were poor, and what would someone take, a sheep? Sure enough, only a few weeks earlier, someone had stolen three sheep from a Pulaar family in Ricote, the village behind Mouit; and low and behold one of our neighbors was sitting on a small fortune. It turns out that Pa Fall has many fields in cultivation and has hired help or field hands like Ibrahima and Alle who lived right next to me in our family compound. These workers would have been most likely to know that the old men didn’t use a bank, or so the villagers suspect.
It makes me wonder if a thief ever targetted the one American in Mouit, would he believe that I’m actually broke?
posted by Nat Parker | 11:37 AM
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