Gorgeous scents of blackberries, truffles, damp earth, and choke. Opens up on the palate with an absorbing, chewy mouthfeel, and follows with notes of oak, chocolate, and tears. Though effective, probably can not stand up to its international competitors. Still, keep an eye out for this one in 10 years!
Race. About two months ago, I had the opportunity to visit Cap Blanc, the northernmost boundary of the Banc d'Arguin national park on the southernmost tip of the Nouadhibou peninsula. It's slightly less than 20 kilometers from town, but involves about 10 kilometers of fairly rough off-road driving, so offered a spot in a 4x4, I took it. The area we visited is downwind of the SNIM port, Mauritanian iron ore's gateway to the world, so the sand and rocks looked nearly identical to images of Martian landscapes. Home to seaside cliffs, an old lighthouse, an enormous scuppered ship and the world's last remaining monk seals, the trip was well worth it. Of course, on the way back to town, when I regained network coverage and immediately weathered a deluge of calls from around the country demanding information on the race riots that I had apparently missed, I suddenly didn't really care if those goddamn seals got sucked backwards through a jet engine while being clubbed to death by pregnant teenagers. F.
So, this is the story. A white Moor woman went to a black Moor butcher, and asked him how fresh his meat was (insert punchline). He claimed it had been butchered that day. Being the wary customer that any third world market demands, she smelled the meat, which highly offended the butcher. He yelled at her, she yelled back, and the whole exchange degraded into a screaming match which I'm sure looked not unlike every other interaction I witness in this country. And then the butcher slapped the woman, in the face, with meat. I imagine this is somewhat similar to the fateful beginnings of the Burr-Hamilton duel.
The woman's husband had some connection with the gendarme, so when she cried "foul," four marines came to the butcher's shop, beat the living shit out of the man, and tossed him in jail. Livid that he had not been read his Miranda rights, the butcher demanded to see the police commissioner. It was a Saturday, and he was told that the commissioner would not be in until Monday, so the marines let the man go. Come Monday, the butcher returned to the police station with friends, several brandishing meat cleavers because, hey, a respectable butcher never confronts authority without large, sharp evidence of his career choice. The police would not let the man's posse into the compound (one can only speculate on their reasons), so they milled angrily on the street out front. Over time, they were joined by friends and rabble rousers, mostly black Moor.
No one is sure what instigated the first act of violence, but rocks eventually became airborne. The gendarmes responded by throwing them back. (Sam and Erin have video of the gendarme's tendency to fight fire with fire, but are still working on getting it into a net-friendly format). From there, people dragged furniture, tires, and trash into the street and started a bonfire in the main intersection of town. One volunteer saw multiple cars being driven by white Moors which had had windows smashed. At least one shop was broken into, and minor looting ensued. But by the time I got to town, the only evidence of any of it was the deserted main road, save a few police. At one point on my walking tour of the aftermath, the wind changed direction and my face suddenly exploded into tears, which was the high point of the whole thing.
Reflecting upon the incident, people around here almost universally point to a couple of things. The first is that the riot and subsequent looting occurred mere days before Eid, the celebration that marks the end of Ramadan. It's kind of like the Christmas season, because there are certain financial obligations expected of people; money was tight, and people saw an opportunity. The second is that the racial aspects really only existed between black and white Moors. African blacks (Pulaar, Wolof, Soninke, etc.) didn't really come into the mix, which is a blessing. Had that occurred, the unrest could have potentially spread beyond Nouadhibou. The country is still mopping up its mess from the events of 1989, and no one wants a reprisal. According to a journalist friend, the press even exercised a silent, self-imposed moratorium on stories about the event. Last I heard, the woman, the man, and the 4 marines were all in jail awaiting review. But it's been a while, and I think it's very safe to assume that there were few, if any, repercussions for anyone's actions.
Overall riot rating: 4/10
Money. More recently, the whole country experienced a spate of riots in response to the climbing prices of almost all market goods, as well as gas. They reportedly began in a town called Kankossa, which is in the south of the country. The story that I heard was that a high school student was killed when gendarmes fired their weapons into the air in an effort to disperse rioters. A bullet descended and killed a kid. Now, I don't know if any of you have ever caught "Mythbusters" on A&E, but of the one episode I think I've ever watched, they disproved the idea that a stray bullet descending from the heavens could have enough force to kill anyone. My call based on my collected experiences with gendarmes in this country is that, while exercising more restraint than counterparts in several other neighboring countries, they consider themselves above the law, and go out of their way to protect their own. Just sayin'.
On my way to a cybercafe one morning, I noticed an enormous crowd gathering at Carrefour Cansado, the place to grab taxis and start riots. It was roughly noon, and most of the people were young, so I assumed that school had let out and there was a natural rush for taxis. I continued to my destination, but was kicked out of the place within minutes. I went outside and watched, while students greeted me. Eventually, the crowd grew to a few hundred, and began to move down the street towards the mayor's office. Finally aware of what was about to happen, I took up a post at the corner of a building just off the intersection and waited. Soon enough, pickup trucks arrived with gendarmes piled more than a dozen to a bed. The game seemed obvious enough to me. The kids ran from the police because the police chased them, and the police chased because they ran. The occasional rock was thrown, but mostly, it was just wind sprints around the block.
Finally, I heard a *foom* and found myself within feet of a freshly discharged tear gas disk (canister? puck? saltlick?). And I stood there listening to Final Fantasy on my iPod while I became enveloped in vaguely yellow clouds. The crassness of the cultural divide was not lost on me. I embraced it. But the gas was weak, and frankly, disappointing. Some kids tore around my corner and ran down the alley behind me, towards my house. The police were not immediate in chasing them, and I silently lauded their realization that it was an infinite, pointless loop, until a sizable piece of concrete landed suspiciously close to my back. I turned around, and the police sped past me while the kids disappeared into my alley.
I thought I had witnessed the pinnacle of excitement, and was considering returning home when several pickups skidded to a halt in the middle of Carrefour Cansado. Gendarmes poured out of the back of them and indiscriminately started beating and arresting anyone standing around. I was far enough away to not be particularly worried about my own wellbeing, but I got a good show of police with batons beating the crap out of people that didn't really look like they deserved it. And after they had tossed a few hapless victims into the back of their trucks, they disappeared up the road. I went home with my expired souvenir.
My first riot left me with a cheap feeling. It was incredibly dumb, ostensibly over increasing commodity prices that the whole world is experiencing and the government can do little to constructively control. And no one bothered making a point. You gleaned the origins from bystanders, but the actual rioters consisted mainly of high school aged boys running from wildly overaggresive police. No signs, no chants, just teenagers sprinting with insane smiles plastered across their faces, as if this was the most fun they had had in ages. Sadly, it probably was.
This was all over a month ago, but fallout continues in NDB. Apparently, while chasing students past the high school at which I work, the gendarmes fell upon two unfortunate teachers who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They administered a good beating and then departed. My administration immediately went to the governor to demand retribution, and was told that the matter would be handled as soon as the rioting died down - they didn't want to anger the military when they needed them most. Well, the riots have long since died down, and representatives of the school had a meeting with the governor on Monday, in which, according to a fellow teacher, they were told to "fuck off" in so many words. And so, like every story in recent history, this is culminating in yet another day off from school, as there will be a citywide educational walkout, public and private, in support of the teachers who were beaten. Will this bring results? Judging from the way things have been going, probably just another riot.
Overall riot rating: 3/10
The death and the skinning.
On the glorious blimp to the heavens.
Or, perhaps, not so much.
Said goat, approximately three hours later.
Ousmane's sister-in-law, her daughter, Ousmane, and his wife.
The next day's meal. I went to NKT and ate a hamburger.
