First we stop at the police station, where Adama reminds me, “It was here that my mom sat the day she fought with Fatou.”
She tells me her mom’s friend is here, so we should stop and he will buy some mint.
“That’s him, he is my mom’s friend,” she says, pointing to the officer behind the desk.
We greet her mom’s friend and tell him we’re selling mint. He replies that he doesn’t speak Pulaar and he doesn’t drink attaya, but he does us the favour of asking the other guys in the station if they need mint. One man asks, “How much?”
“One dalasi,” Adama replies.
“Only one dalasi?”
He hunts around in his pocket. No dalasi. Meanwhile, the police officer at the desk has struck up a conversation with me. He has seen me walking by sometimes. Yes, I teach at the school, maths. He never understood maths. And how long have I been here and how much longer will I be here and where am I from? America. “And do you play a sport there?”
“Yes, but I am not any good.”
“What sport?”
I quickly try to think of a sport I could never be called upon to play. “Tennis.” This isn’t a complete lie. I do actually like tennis, even if I never learned the rules.
“Yes, the Americans like tennis. Especially the women.”
Some female Peace Corps volunteers break stereotypes by playing soccer with the boys and encouraging the girls to join too. Others reinforce stereotypes…oops, sorry.
Eventually I realize that the man has not found a dalasi and is no longer looking for one either, so after confirming that he is not going to buy any mint, I tell Adama we should continue. On the way out of the station she spots her mom’s friend (the other “friend” had been a case of mistaken identity) and we greet him, but cannot convince him to buy mint.
Highlights of the mint-selling mission:
- the woman who called us over so she could compliment me on my complet, but not so that she could buy mint
- outside of one of the shops that had closed for the day someone had hung a bag of water from a nail in the doorframe. Wondering if this was some sort of superstition, something to ward off evil perhaps, or bring fortune, I point it out to Adama. “Look.” “What?” “There, do you see? Next to the door, a bag of water.” “Yes, I see it!” “Have you ever seen that?” “No, I have never seen that. It’s only today I have seen it.” “Me too, it’s only today.” “Today what?” “Only today I have seen a bag of water next to a door.”
- the bitik owner who decided to mimic the children’s high-pitched voices while refusing to buy mint. Had it been me in Adama’s place, I probably would’ve run away sobbing and refused to ever sell mint for my mother again. Adama and the other girls, however, remained undeterred. “But you can buy it now and save it for tomorrow when you make attaya. This mint is very sweet,” the girls cooed. We passed by this man again, after we almost sold some mint to the lady at the end of the road (she changed her mind upon closer inspection of the mint: “This mint is not sweet”). The girls lied and said, “Someone over there bought mint, won’t you buy mint too?”
- the scrap of notebook paper the girls picked up from the ground. In pencil were three crudely drawn, anatomically complete, nude figures. The girls debated whether each was a man or a woman, but thankfully tossed the paper aside before anyone asked to see what they were so intently examining.
- the man who refused to buy our mint because he only buys the Serrehule mint.
- the man who called out, “I want you to be my wife!” to whom I replied, “And me, I want you to buy this mint!” He laughed with his friends, then repeated, as if to show that all joking aside, he’s serious, “I want you to be my wife!” To which I repeated, as if to show that all joking aside, I was being serious, “And I want you to buy this mint!” He didn’t buy any mint. I didn’t marry him.
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