The Tomato Paste Incident

Before I get too far into this story, I want to share that the other morning I woke up at 5 am FREEZING cold. Later that day I found out another friend of mine had also awaken at that hour, and she had checked her thermometer. It was 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Some days the human body and its ability to adjust fascinate me.

Unfortunately my integration has not progressed quite as quickly as my body has adapted. This story is proof:

I moved to Chinguetti a few weeks ago, and thus far all has gone quite well. I found a place to live, met some neighbors, and still feel royally lost with Hassaniye. However, after being in Chinguetti for two days, my site mate told me she was leaving for two weeks. My site mate Jessica is the only other person here who speaks English. Most don't really speak French, either. The first morning after she left I worked up my courage and headed to the market. I was going to try to cook a simple bean, tomato, and onion mixture, and I just needed some tomato paste to hold it all together. The main three ingredients were going to be easy, and Jessica has assured me that tomato paste was easy to come by, so I headed for the nearest boutique. Unfortunately nobody was there. I called and greeted in the customary manner, and when no one answered I decided to wait it out until the shop owner came back. I saw the tomato paste sitting on a nearby shelf, picked up a small can, and kept waiting. Shortly thereafter a woman entered the store and she greeted me and asked what I wanted. I remembered Jessica telling me that this boutique was run by a brother and sister, so I thought perhaps this was the sister. I said I wanted the tomato paste, and that I was also wondering if there were any can openers. She gave me a funny look and asked what I meant. I motioned that I needed the can to be open, and asked how to do that. She left the store laughing.

Confused, I decided I would wait a few more minutes before finding another boutique. Within less than a minute the woman came back holding a knife and a rock. She took the paste from me, held the knife on one edge of the can, made a motion with the rock as if she were going to wail on the knife and said, “Like this?” I asked her if she could do it. I had never done opened a can with a rock and knife before.

Five seconds later I was covered in tomato paste. [There is a picture to prove it, but I'm still trying to figure out how to upload the picture. If there is a picture in this post, it worked. Otherwise, you'll have to believe me.]

Apparently tomato paste is canned under very high pressure, so whenever you open a can a fair amount squirts out the top. The woman was not fazed at all by this. So there I stood in the middle of the boutique without the shop owner (this woman had in the meantime told me she didn't own the boutique) covered in juices from an unpurchased can of tomato paste. I asked the woman if there was any water, to which she just said, “I don't know,” and she walked away. I started wiping the sticky substance off my face and licking my fingers, but then the woman came back over to me screaming. “Not good! Not good!” Was the tomato paste expired? “Eating is bad. It's Ramadan.” In trying to clean up I had committed a major faux pas: eating in public during Ramadan. So, I trekked back across town, taking mostly back allies and sidestreets so people would not see my tomato paste covered face. Many people stopped me and asked if I was hurt. “No, it's just tomato paste.” Finally, back at my compound I took this picture, cleaned up a bit and made my afternoon meal in the privacy of my home. I'm pleased to report that since then most daily activities have been far less eventful.