Casey Wiley
American Food #1 Texas
One can’t paint New York as it is, but rather as it is felt.
—Georgia O’Keefe
—Georgia O’Keefe
It was all slow, then very fast.
“Sidi!” my sister called from the steps of our hotel in Noukachott. She pointed to a dark man sucking on a tube that ran from the bed of a rusted Toyota. He wore a sky-blue tunic and head wrap and his skin was the color of coconuts. Just beyond the truck, hundreds of rusted cars—rebuilt Mercedes—and vans crammed with Mauritanians drove slowly around a wide traffic circle. The vehicles honked in bursts and bounced up and down slowly on old shocks and spun fine dirt into the air. Men hung off of the back of vans and waved and got off and got back on.
“Sidi,” Katherine called again.
Sidi spun around, spitting out a mouthful of liquid. He grinned widely and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sidi’s the best driver in Noukachott,” Katherine said smiling. “He’ll take us to my host village.”
“Welcome!” Sidi boomed. He stuck the free end of the tube in the truck’s gas tank. I leaned against the truck’s bed. The tube ran from a rusted gas can. Sidi spit out more gas and turned to me. “Hu-Yah!” he said, holding out his rough, dark hand.
“Sorry?” I said. I was imagining a mouthful of gasoline. He pumped my hand.
“Brother,” Katherine said, translating. “Hu-Yah,” she said looking from Sidi to me.
“Hu-Yah!” he said again. He did an impromptu jig in the gas-specked dirt. As he twisted and slapped his sandaled feet on the ground, his tunic rose and fell delicately.
“Hu-Yah?” I said, probably like a child would.
“Hu. Yah,” Sidi said, elongating the word. He dropped his arm over my shoulder. “Huuu-Yaaah.” He turned to my sister and said something in Hassaniyan.
Katherine laughed loudly and shook her head. I looked at my parents who I imagined were contemplating heading right back into the hotel. They stood close together like shaky animals.
“Let’s go,” Katherine said. She gave Sidi a thumbs up. Sidi grinned and patted the Toyota like one would a horse’s flank. My parents looked at each other, shook their heads, and folded themselves into the truck’s tiny back seat.
“Case, you’re up front,” Katherine said, holding the door open. She then squeezed over my mother’s lap and settled in between our parents. “Ready for a little ride?” she said laughing.
“What are the options?” my father grumbled, trying to adjust his legs.
The scene rushed through me, whipped by. It was in my head and in front of me. From the busy circle, Sidi exited to a road out of the desert city—the rows of huts and crumbling buildings the color of sand and clay, a cart with “American Food #1 Texas” painted in big letters, herds of skinny goats crossing the road, stopping, continuing—and then suddenly a sharp turn and we were fast on a wide road, wait no, an airport runway, slick racers, not as fast as a plane would have been, bumping along, but in a truck, this red Toyota, its edges crumbling.
No one said a word. Runways do not continue forever, usually ending abruptly at intersecting highways or power lines. This runway’s end dissolved at the Sahara, fast approaching. Sidi accelerated the truck, grinned and yelled “Hu-Yah!” again—one of the cluster of words he would teach me along the way: “goat,” “shoe,” “pretty woman.” He opened his mouth wide as if to swallow the words in the dry, rushing air, beaming and yelling, whooping. He slapped the dashboard to the sounds of an African man wailing high-pitched over a faint beat scratching from the truck’s tape deck, and then pointed a finger that looked like an old cigar at my cheek. “Hu-Ya!”
So this is Mauritania. Visit me for Christmas, my sister had implored, and yes, my parents agreed: we’ll then understand your sandy letters kissed with candle wax, colors of the country, to know your school teaching, the markets, cuscus, your host family, to know your world! My parents were stark white, gripping the Oh Shit! handles above the window, jostling about as if on the American Disney World roller coaster.
From the backseat, at first indistinguishable, then, “I never said it wouldn’t be off-road!” Katherine wailed, bouncing and smiling at this word twist, twisting my head around, parents ashen, trying to laugh. Scenery flashed by: two or twelve metal huts, a cluster of goats, white and sand-colored, all ribs, chewing at skinny trees. We were brief in their picture, and then flash, we were through their picture.
Ten hours, my sister had told me, to get to Kankossa, her remote village, the drive mostly off-road, mostly through desert. But Sidi’s the best driver in Mauritania, maybe even West Africa! There’d be no running water in the village, no electricity. The children would follow us in droves. We would poop in holes. Every rush and acceleration of the truck seemed to bring us back in time.
“hu-ya?” I squeaked, arms straight out, hands planted against the sticky-warm dashboard. I had already forgotten.
This is the land closer to the frankincense and myrrh land—yes! It must have looked like this. It must have felt like this! Sand packed into dry clothing, hair askew, wiped down with a wet-nap this morning, ohmygod, what will the photos look like? So this is the guidebook, glossy, but the picture comes fast, like a missile or a thousand of them.
We gained speed on the runway. The desert loomed. Sidi howled.
“Best driver?” my father yelled.
All of us, in and out of organized and individual religions, I think, prayed. Jostled words: “my Hu-Yah, the saints, lead us now, Hu-Yah, parting of the water, part this sand, Hu-Yah, what happens when nothing more happens, Hu-Yah above? Unblinking. Do-goats-remember-even-me, Hu-Yah?”
Slide. Slide. Skid, teenage burnouts. “When was the last time this had working shocks?” I screamed at the windshield. Then, vhoom. Sidi's mouth stretched wide, teeth exposed as if awaiting a wine-shower, dry-yelling phrases at the roof, the sky, his words mixing with the churning air from his open window. He held the wheel firmly with his left hand and punched his gnarled dark fist forward like a boxer, repeatedly punching an opponent to the beat of the music crick-crackling on the tape deck. He's cliff-jumping or rock-skiing, and I thought: rush. How is that translated? But. Tense limbs, clamped teeth, who's pulling on my face, hard, hard, stop it! And then, the desert.
The wind, I was told, whistled.
“Sidi!” my sister called from the steps of our hotel in Noukachott. She pointed to a dark man sucking on a tube that ran from the bed of a rusted Toyota. He wore a sky-blue tunic and head wrap and his skin was the color of coconuts. Just beyond the truck, hundreds of rusted cars—rebuilt Mercedes—and vans crammed with Mauritanians drove slowly around a wide traffic circle. The vehicles honked in bursts and bounced up and down slowly on old shocks and spun fine dirt into the air. Men hung off of the back of vans and waved and got off and got back on.
“Sidi,” Katherine called again.
Sidi spun around, spitting out a mouthful of liquid. He grinned widely and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Sidi’s the best driver in Noukachott,” Katherine said smiling. “He’ll take us to my host village.”
“Welcome!” Sidi boomed. He stuck the free end of the tube in the truck’s gas tank. I leaned against the truck’s bed. The tube ran from a rusted gas can. Sidi spit out more gas and turned to me. “Hu-Yah!” he said, holding out his rough, dark hand.
“Sorry?” I said. I was imagining a mouthful of gasoline. He pumped my hand.
“Brother,” Katherine said, translating. “Hu-Yah,” she said looking from Sidi to me.
“Hu-Yah!” he said again. He did an impromptu jig in the gas-specked dirt. As he twisted and slapped his sandaled feet on the ground, his tunic rose and fell delicately.
“Hu-Yah?” I said, probably like a child would.
“Hu. Yah,” Sidi said, elongating the word. He dropped his arm over my shoulder. “Huuu-Yaaah.” He turned to my sister and said something in Hassaniyan.
Katherine laughed loudly and shook her head. I looked at my parents who I imagined were contemplating heading right back into the hotel. They stood close together like shaky animals.
“Let’s go,” Katherine said. She gave Sidi a thumbs up. Sidi grinned and patted the Toyota like one would a horse’s flank. My parents looked at each other, shook their heads, and folded themselves into the truck’s tiny back seat.
“Case, you’re up front,” Katherine said, holding the door open. She then squeezed over my mother’s lap and settled in between our parents. “Ready for a little ride?” she said laughing.
“What are the options?” my father grumbled, trying to adjust his legs.
The scene rushed through me, whipped by. It was in my head and in front of me. From the busy circle, Sidi exited to a road out of the desert city—the rows of huts and crumbling buildings the color of sand and clay, a cart with “American Food #1 Texas” painted in big letters, herds of skinny goats crossing the road, stopping, continuing—and then suddenly a sharp turn and we were fast on a wide road, wait no, an airport runway, slick racers, not as fast as a plane would have been, bumping along, but in a truck, this red Toyota, its edges crumbling.
No one said a word. Runways do not continue forever, usually ending abruptly at intersecting highways or power lines. This runway’s end dissolved at the Sahara, fast approaching. Sidi accelerated the truck, grinned and yelled “Hu-Yah!” again—one of the cluster of words he would teach me along the way: “goat,” “shoe,” “pretty woman.” He opened his mouth wide as if to swallow the words in the dry, rushing air, beaming and yelling, whooping. He slapped the dashboard to the sounds of an African man wailing high-pitched over a faint beat scratching from the truck’s tape deck, and then pointed a finger that looked like an old cigar at my cheek. “Hu-Ya!”
So this is Mauritania. Visit me for Christmas, my sister had implored, and yes, my parents agreed: we’ll then understand your sandy letters kissed with candle wax, colors of the country, to know your school teaching, the markets, cuscus, your host family, to know your world! My parents were stark white, gripping the Oh Shit! handles above the window, jostling about as if on the American Disney World roller coaster.
From the backseat, at first indistinguishable, then, “I never said it wouldn’t be off-road!” Katherine wailed, bouncing and smiling at this word twist, twisting my head around, parents ashen, trying to laugh. Scenery flashed by: two or twelve metal huts, a cluster of goats, white and sand-colored, all ribs, chewing at skinny trees. We were brief in their picture, and then flash, we were through their picture.
Ten hours, my sister had told me, to get to Kankossa, her remote village, the drive mostly off-road, mostly through desert. But Sidi’s the best driver in Mauritania, maybe even West Africa! There’d be no running water in the village, no electricity. The children would follow us in droves. We would poop in holes. Every rush and acceleration of the truck seemed to bring us back in time.
“hu-ya?” I squeaked, arms straight out, hands planted against the sticky-warm dashboard. I had already forgotten.
This is the land closer to the frankincense and myrrh land—yes! It must have looked like this. It must have felt like this! Sand packed into dry clothing, hair askew, wiped down with a wet-nap this morning, ohmygod, what will the photos look like? So this is the guidebook, glossy, but the picture comes fast, like a missile or a thousand of them.
We gained speed on the runway. The desert loomed. Sidi howled.
“Best driver?” my father yelled.
All of us, in and out of organized and individual religions, I think, prayed. Jostled words: “my Hu-Yah, the saints, lead us now, Hu-Yah, parting of the water, part this sand, Hu-Yah, what happens when nothing more happens, Hu-Yah above? Unblinking. Do-goats-remember-even-me, Hu-Yah?”
Slide. Slide. Skid, teenage burnouts. “When was the last time this had working shocks?” I screamed at the windshield. Then, vhoom. Sidi's mouth stretched wide, teeth exposed as if awaiting a wine-shower, dry-yelling phrases at the roof, the sky, his words mixing with the churning air from his open window. He held the wheel firmly with his left hand and punched his gnarled dark fist forward like a boxer, repeatedly punching an opponent to the beat of the music crick-crackling on the tape deck. He's cliff-jumping or rock-skiing, and I thought: rush. How is that translated? But. Tense limbs, clamped teeth, who's pulling on my face, hard, hard, stop it! And then, the desert.
The wind, I was told, whistled.
