Digging a Garden

Two days after the computer fiasco I felt I needed some manual labor to take my mind off the computer's uncertain fate. Our country cottage on Dodson Hollow must have been calling to me because I decided to dig a garden. Peace Corps encourages us to dig gardens. It saves us money on vegetables, and sharing extras with neighbors is a great way to make friends. However, as you may remember, I live on a sand dune. The soil has few nutrients to speak of. Water soaks into the sand immediately. Gardens are tricky business in the Sahara. Some PCVs in my region had been trained to dig gardens though, so after consulting them I set off on my mission. I needed to dig a large rectangular pit, remove the largest rocks, and use goat manure from neighbors as fertilizer. Other PCVs assured me that if I showed up at neighbors with a shovel, explained that I was building a garden and that I needed manure, and asked where their goat pens were, my neighbors would gladly oblige. They clearly have never tried this in Chinguetti: my neighbors were wholly confused.

My first problem was that I didn't have a wheelbarrow. A bucket would have worked alright, but it would have required too many trips. Let's be serious, it's hot here and I'm lazy. Nevertheless, I figured it wouldn't be to difficult to find a wheelbarrow. I showed up at my host family's (I had conveniently given them a goat earlier that month, so I didn't feel bad asking for a little manure), shovel in hand, and explained my objective to the servant, Aziza, in tentative Hassaniye.

“I'm going to make a garden. I need fertilizer. Can I have some goat manure?”

“Yes of course!”

She then led me to her own garden and stared at me expectantly.

“...uhhhh... the goat pen?” I asked.

“Why do you need the goats?”

“For fertilizer...” I was beginning to question my accent, and I had looked up the word for fertilizer in our Peace Corps Hassaniye dictionary, but I wondered if the word had been wrong. That happened a lot.

“I don't understand. You should wait until Aishitou [host mother] returns.”

“Okay, thank you.” While leaving I realized I still needed a wheelbarrow. Except I didn't know the word for wheelbarrow. “Do you have a wheel...” [Insert “pushing wheelbarrow” motion.]

“Yes!” She led me over to the wall, where sure enough, instead of a wheelbarrow there was a large old wheel resting against the building.

“Alright, nevermind, thank you.”

Thinking perhaps I might have more luck with another neighbor, I headed down the street. After trying to explain what I was after, I was shown another garden. Something wasn't clicking.

Finally, I asked my site mate to help me. She gave me a different word for fertilizer and a “more used” word for “goat manure.”

I headed back to the first family. This time I was much more successful, and they gave me a old rice sack to carry the manure. I loaded the sack to the brim and began to head to my house.

“What are you doing?!” Aziza screamed at me.

“Uhhh... making a garden. I needed fertilizer... you said I could have this.”

“But what are you doing with the manure?”

“I'm using it as fertilizer.”

I started to leave again, but she continued to scream at me:

“What's wrong with you? What are you doing with the manure?”

Something still wasn't clicking. So I called my wonderful site mate Jessica (who has been here a year already and whose Hassaniye is much better than mine) and asked her to explain the situation over the phone. Two seconds later Aziza said, “Okay.” And handed me my phone back. “What did Jessica say?”

“She said you were making a garden and needed the manure for fertilizer.”

...I'm still not sure where my accent got in the way of the communication, but I'm pleased to say the garden is now done and packed full of goat manure. This is just a small example of the communication fiascoes that can occur even when I think I have the vocabulary to explain myself. Oh Hassaniye.