Third world product reviews - The Closet of Narnia

This being the third world, occasionally we here in NDB find ourselves yearning for items that aren't readily available. English reading material, for example, or VHS cassettes of film classics such as "Smoke Signals" and "Elizabethtown." Sometimes our cravings become more exotic, and we find ourselves jonesin' for a 1986 economics textbook and a pair of used, red swimshorts. Back in the dawn of our time here, when Erin and Sam occupied the room that now belongs to Ousmane, it was not at all uncommon to find the three of us sitting, staring at each other, silently confounded that no one could find a 5-year-old printer box filled with suspicious, off-brand condoms and a stapler. They were hard times.

But lo, the sun has risen and shed its light unto the dark ages through which we wandered. Upon moving into their new apartment, which has passed through the hands of several volunteers, Sam and Erin became the unwitting guardians of an 8x4x2 ft. portal to a world of magic and intrigue.

Sam recalls, "I remember seeing the closet and thinking, 'Great, somewhere to put my many, many pairs of shoes.' Then I opened the thing, and the disappointment was excruciating."

"Sam just started tossing junk out of the closet," Erin explains. "But it never stopped. Crap streamed from the open door like a clown at a children's birthday party, pulling a never-ending handkerchief out of its sick, fat mouth."

Eventually, her husband disappeared into the depths of the closet, and Erin called me, frantic. When I arrived, she was standing in the middle of the room, knee-deep in satellite receiver boxes and copies of Newsweek dating back to 2003, which, judging by the sheer numbers, must have had around 63 months. It was a bizarre, worrisome scene, and I could only think of one thing to say. I looked at the girl, staring into the black expanse as if it was the edge of the universe. "Let's get something to eat."

We came back two hours later to find Sam lying barely conscious at the door, pants torn and a sizable patch of hair missing from the left side of his head. He kept muttering something about a lion, so I gave him some french fries. He couldn't really chew, so we dipped them in ketchup and just kind of laid them on his cheek.

Eventually, after watching ketchup drip into Sam's eye with no noticeable reaction, Erin and I realized the gravity of the situation and sprung into action. For weeks we nursed him back to coherence. Erin really proved the strength of their marriage vows, giving him daily sponge baths and regularly fixing an edible puree to feed him until he relearned how to feed himself. It was sort of like a fish and carrot milkshake. For my part, I spent a lot of time with Sam at the parallel bars as he took his first baby steps for the second time. We also read "Green Eggs & Ham," and he inched his way towards literacy. But for some reason, every time I brought out "The Cat in the Hat," he would cry softly to himself. It took a while to figure out why.

We kept Whitney Houston on constant, 24-hour rotation to give the whole thing a montage-esque quality. I don't think Sam even knew what was going on, but at the very least, I found it inspiring. And after three months - three long months of blood, sweat, and tears - he bounced back. It was an emotional time for everyone, and I think we all became a little bit closer.

During all of that time, those whole three months and then some, the door of the room with the Closet remained closed. Shut to the world, until one day, I asked Erin for a hammer. Without even thinking, she replied, "Why don't you check the Closet of Narnia?" So I did. And you know what? I found that hammer. And I found a light bulb, and some hot sauce, and some porn. We discovered that the Closet held just about everything we never knew we needed, and as long as you didn't venture too deep, it was relatively safe. Which seems like a shitty metaphor for life.

So I give our Closet of Narnia a 4 out of 10. I mean, sure it's a repository for all things known to mankind, but I'm using C. S. Lewis' version as a point of reference. We've got around 50 movies in there, but they're in friggin' VHS, and we don't even have a VCR. I'm pretty sure Lewis' would have had DVDs. Our Closet also loses points because Lewis' version (again, relatively speaking) of the magical world didn't have a giant, obnoxious lion that used weak, liberal sex-crimes legislation as an excuse to do unspeakable things to whoever wandered too far in. If it had happened to me, this thing totally would have been docked another point.

I Phantom (someone better comment)

I've been a bit bipolar for the last two and a half weeks. Starting when several good friends came to visit, I realized just how jaded I was getting with the grind. We then moved the party to Atar, where I promptly drained my precious endorphin supply until I was running on fumes, and finally, about a week ago, I returned to Nouadhibou.

Waiting for me were my students' second trimester exams, which only proved that either I'm a shit teacher or I'm teaching to blocks of concrete. It was a real low point, including repeated musings about what the hell exactly I'm doing here. I came knowing it wouldn't be Dangerous Minds, but that didn't really matter. I suppose I was a bit naive to think that even though these kids entered their 4th and 5th years barely able to string together a 4-word sentence (no exaggeration), I could somehow catch them up to the point the syllabus claims they should be at, and continue to aid them in their path towards fluency. Yeah. I know. Duh.

Anyway, I woke up a couple days ago and finally recognized the end of this leg trudging through the slough of despond. Actually, I'm pretty pumped about nothing in specific. And I want to hear from people, so this is a formal call for comments. I'm asking you to roll it out on this one, because otherwise, this is going to seem really, really pathetic. Remind other people. NYC, and specifically Brooklyn, I'm looking in your direction. 'Illadelph and Beantown, I'm looking in your direction. To the people grinding it out in the District's political, law, and liquor store machines, I'm looking in your direction. Chi-town, Bay Area, Portland and L.A., I'm looking in your direction. Paramaribo, London, Lahore, and everywhere in between, this means you. Hell, I don't even have to know you.

It takes about 30 seconds. Want a higher purpose? Consider it an apolitical way to show your support for a generation coming into power during a particularly crappy time in history. Prove the value of fruitless labor for the sake of the Good. Take the soapbox, or just say "yo." And if nothing else, answer the following question: It's 4:00 PM. Do you know where your moms' is at?

Silk Road

People ask how I stay sane, and I generally reference some form of writing, either read or self-produced. It's an easy answer, but I think it neglects a key escape. It's time you know about the Chinese restaurant.

This is a dry country, and as the axiom goes, you don't know what you've missed until it's gone. The Hong Kong sits between the port and the rarely-used municipal stadium, on a relatively insignificant stretch of paved road that connects with the main artery a bit farther south. Like most everything else here, it hides behind 3 meter walls of sand-based concrete, whitewashed into an inconspicuous uniformity. Out front there is a man selling phone cards to passers-by from a throne of garbage. One can count on at least one feral dog lingering nearby, teats wagging and head down in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary beatings from anyone in the mood. The pitiful eyes mostly evoke disgust, and given enough time, it almost seems as though it is awaiting its own death with the same resentful impatience of the rest of the city.

Inside the compound there are trees fighting through the concrete. Greenery is personal. Trees and bushes left in the public are inevitably cut down for charcoal, and new growth is hindered by roving goats and donkeys desperate to supplement a diet of trash. The trees have been decorated with lights, strung along anything that will support them. Below, there is patio furniture, a perfect target for cockroaches abandoning the leafy canopy. I generally choose to sit inside.

Follow the lights through the patio door and you enter a foyer-turned-bar. To the left are posters of half-naked animated women. To the right, next to the alcohol, is a calendar consisting of Chinese characters and a picture of Jesus. At the bar is the same sun-withered Spanish man jawing with the family that runs the place about who knows what. He punctuates his diatribes by flinging his greasy ponytail. If it is early enough, some members of the Spanish consulate will be eating and drinking whiskey and laughing about something. They used to become silent when I entered, but that has long changed. Now I nod and the conversation continues uninterrupted.

My seat is in the next room. The lights that lined Jesus and the naked women wrap into and around the dining area, ending their journey behind some fake leaves hanging like a limp rag from the corner of the ceiling. I always take my place at a table that affords a view of the bar and the dining room, because I am a spectator. Not to play up the excitement of watching people eat. I sit there because I can watch the Chinese family and the Spanish men and the Nigerian whores. Occasionally, there are Moroccans and Russians, and the din of five to seven languages occurring at once is refreshing. The aunt will bring me a can of beer adorned with characters and the phrase "Laotian Beer," while the uncle shakes my hand and offers me a cigarette from three different brands. Sometimes I eat, but usually I drink and read or watch.

Once the ships have docked, a familiar crowd of Spaniards trickles through the screen door, and the mother, a perpetual hostess who has recently taken to applying bronzer with the same zeal as someone painting their car, screams an enthusiastic "hola!" at anyone and everyone. She is a dynamo, and constantly directs traffic, shoving family members in the direction of anyone who needs attention. She seems friendly and impenetrable.

I am two beers deep, and the first of the Nigerian women have taken their places at the benches across from the bar. They are discrete, despite their wigs. The fact that they are moderately clothed overrides the bouncing knees. They will sit there all night, waiting. Sometimes they will drink a Coke. They are thick, and I can't tell if they are new to the work or players past their prime. If they are lucky, no other women will arrive, and the odds will remain in their favor. Good things come to those who wait.

One time I saw a fight. I don't know what happened, but the uncle was shoving a long-nailed woman out of the compound while she screamed and spit over his shoulder. Another woman stood at the door, antagonizing her. Maybe it was over money. Maybe the one at the door borrowed a book and wouldn't return it.

The daughter brings me another beer. That makes five. She looks around 16, and she reminds me of a bird. She is incredibly businesslike, and though she is the only one I ever speak to, our most in-depth conversation has only consisted of me quantifying how many drinks I want. But I watch, and I wonder what it's like to grow into adulthood in such a place. Aside from a furtive glance at herself in the mirror, she acts like no teenage girls I've ever met. I want to ask her hundreds of questions, but any deviation from the norm seems wildly inappropriate in such a setting.

One time a woman in a mulafa came into the restaurant. From the outset it was jarring. She traded greetings with me in Hassaniya, and then asked for a beer. As the people I was with shooed her off, I noticed a very young girl in a mulafa hugging the wall behind her. She was obviously mortified, and it wasn't until her mother had moved to a table of Chinese sailors that I realized what was going on. She goaded them for alcohol, and by the time she finally convinced them to give it to her, her daughter and one of the men had disappeared. About twenty minutes later they reappeared and the girl smoked a cigarette. The next time I saw the woman at the restaurant, the uncle kicked her out immediately.

Tonight she is sitting alone amidst the crowd, hopelessly outclassed. A slick, relatively youngish Spanish man has arrived with two women hanging over his shoulders. They are wearing incredibly tight, incredibly little clothing, with thongs sticking out above their jeans and glitter on every visible part of their bodies. They shine under the eternal Christmas, like oily, liquid sex. With their arrival the party has hit unseen heights, and Spanish dominates all audible noise. This is the zenith of their weekend.

I was quiet, switching constantly between book and bar. The daughter flitted around the crowd like a hummingbird among cacti, always working, always focused. The women slithered up and down the men, taking over as waitresses and plying their conquests with alcohol. The scene has never been this frantic. Maybe this is perverse, but I usually find it contenting. Though it is cliché, I like to romanticize the grime, and it is definitely not Mauritanian. I finished my beer and waited for the warm embrace around my chest that always cued departure. It never came, but I left anyway.

Tonight I went home profoundly sad.