A Fresh Start

Last Sunday Sunniva, Marianne and I had to break up our fabulous trio into three solos. That is, Marianne and I have moved away from our first family in neighborhood 4 of Bucraa. I left for neighborhood 1, and Marianne for neighborhood 3. I suspect you most likely are not very familiar with Bucraa, so simply put this means that we are about 500 meters from each other. And that to get to Sunniva’s family, I now have to take a left upon leaving my house, walk a few meters along a narrow pathway between some houses, take a right between a house and a heima (the big Saharawi tents) and then pass a broken Landrover from the last world war. If I at this point am walking towards a house with Arabic writing in white letters on it, I’m on the right way.
Before I reach this house I have to take another left, and I should now be able to see the Bucraa center where we teach. From there I know the way like the back of my djelabia (the male melheffa). I just go past the Taxi donkey, take a right, and I’m already welcomed by kids yelling “Ahmed!” or “Mohamed!” (the Hassania equivalents to Eivind) at me. Hardly any problem at all.

Marianne on the other hand I have no idea how to get to, other than that she lives somewhere quite close to our Arabic teacher, who lives somewhat in that (I’m indicating towards what I think is the south-west) direction. I’ll get to visit her with time though. She tells fantastic tales of a bed, a sink and something like a shower - tales that sound so incredible that they can only be verified by going there to see for myself.

Being put so suddenly into a completely new family brought back all the challenges we experienced together the first few days. You know, that awkward feeling when you’re so far from your comfort zone that you have absolutely no idea what to do or how to act, and you end up just sitting there. Sort of watching the family while feebly attempting to use your limited Hassania vocab. Not to mention the anticipation just before I arrived! I regret to say that I’m not exaggerating when I say it scared the shit out of me. In fact, the past few days I’ve been having some quite autonomous bowel movements, manifesting themselves rather aggressively in the lavatory. Thankfully, the family bears over with me, much thanks to my host brother and room mate, Dädäh, who speaks well Spanish, but also some English. We have decided to only use Spanish when it is strictly necessary, and otherwise speak Hassania and English so that we might both improve our language. It makes communicating more difficult, but it also relieves the pressure to have an actual conversation about something beyond the most basic - a pressure one often feels when one has a language in common with the other. Instead we are able to treat each other as toddlers who utter a word now and then, so that anyone in their presence with a somewhat developed command of the language in question cheer the little one on by reacting with happiness far beyond proportion to his deed.