06 March 2006 - 12:31
I’ve known for several years now that crazy people are attracted to me (Exhibit A: The girls I’ve dated), but I don’t know why EVERY SINGLE NUTJOB in Tidjikja feels like they have to talk to me. Here’s an introduction to a few of the people who keep my life interesting…
Black Boubou is an older gentleman. Word on the street is that he used to be pretty rich, and then something went down with his wife and he lost her, his cash, and his mind, all in one fell swoop. Here up North, boubous (the traditional bedsheets that Moor men wear) only come in two colors – white and blue. BB got a black boubou from somewhere, and he wears it every day. Fortunately, this makes it easy to spot him in the distance so that I can take a detour to avoid him. Recently, he began to sew (by hand) several white trees on the back of his boubou, but he claims that the police ordered him to stop, so he never got to complete his project. He also wears a red turban, another odd color for these parts. Strangely, he speaks pretty decent, although always rapid-fire, French (most people here don’t), and every time I see him, he has a story to tell me, usually along the lines of “I went to the market this morning and a man wanted to wash my feet but I knew that he wanted to steal my feet so I told him no because you can’t just steal someone’s feet and they’re my feet and he can’t have them because how could I walk if I have no feet but he tried to wash my feet anyways so I had to run away (at which point I say, “Good thing you had your feet to run away with!”) and I was too fast for him to wash my feet…”
Whispers is a skinny, middle-aged man who wears hilarious costumes of cast-off Western clothing in odd combinations and apparently can’t speak above a whisper. Greetings in Hassaniye sound pretty ridiculous as it is, but it’s even sillier when they are spoken in a voice that conveys a sense of secrecy. He’s harder to spot because he darts around so quick, and almost impossible to get away from. Anytime he sees me, he dashes over to greet me, and then hangs around while I do my shopping or whatever it is that I happen to be doing at the time. At least BB pretends he has important business to take care of when I try to brush him off. Whispers lost the “I’m being brushed off” part of his mind, so I can never shake him except by going home and shutting my door to him. A typical Whispers outfit consists of no shirt, bomber jacket (unzipped), clown-sized sunglasses, a “Jesus Lives” cap, neon 80s short shorts, and mismatched flipflops. He also looks a bit like a rat. He’d be scary, but fortunately he’s also about the same size as a rat, and I know I could take him in a fight.
Birdman doesn’t wear pants. Ever. He only wears a torn-up boubou that flaps around and shows his butt every step he takes. And he has crazy-man hair (the thin, wispy kind that looks like he got electrocuted). He has never actually talked to me, but he’s followed me a few times, grinning like he just met the pope. I’ve often wondered if I could pull off walking around without pants here myself. We call him Birdman because he chases birds occasionally. He doesn’t like to walk, so he runs around instead. He’s harmless, but it’s always a little disconcerting to be walking down the road and have a guy run past you with his butt hanging out of his outfit...
