bon (longue) voyage

2pm, 30 June 2006, PC Bureau @ Nouakchott

I’m wanting to complete this journal entry, but my brain apparently has reached 106 degrees. Which means it has effectively cooked within my skull. I’ll give it a shot despite my cranial melt.

First, the journey across the lake. Of course, Peace Corps could not be bothered booking sixty trainees on a direct flight from Philadelphia to Nouakchott; logistically, that would have been too easy. Instead, we endured a three hour bus ride to JFK [airport adventures include a gate change, a mass exodus by foot with 60 people and 180 plus bags, blocked parkways, confused skycaps, luggage dumped in front of traffic, head counts, and overpriced overcooked pizza], an overnight flight to Morocco, an 18 hour layover in Casablanca, then a puddle jumper to Nouakchott arriving at three in the morning. It made for an excruciatingly long day, but an acceptable excuse to run around Casablanca uninhibited and unchaperoned. After being so closely supervised in Philly and herded in New York, it was a nice change of pace.

Casablanca was an exercise of resilience, unconsciousness. On Thursday, June 29th (I include dates for chronology’s and sanity’s sake) Rob, Rachel, Laura H and I weaved through crowded Moroccan streets, eeked through awkward French exchanges, received dozens of conflicting sets of directions, and finally found La Grilladiere, a highly recommended and thoroughly hidden restaurant. A pickled, peppered, spiced chicken sandwich later, we hiked sleepily along roadsides in the sun, digesting our lunch and activating our melanin. Sunburnt and sweaty, our posse navigated toward the second biggest mosque in Morocco. Or something-est mosque in Morocco. Or Africa. Or the world? Or don’t count on me to be to be your tour guide when you visit me in Mauritania. With or without a Lonely Planet, I’m incompetent at best… My only touristy victory: I found Rick’s Cafe. For those of you who have yet to see the movie Casablanca – myself included – apparently this cafe is culturally iconic. In person, it was less iconic than run down and dusty. It’s the Sahara; go figure.

[Semi-related tangent: I just went inside for my medical interview and returned to find my journal lightly dusted with sand. I was inside for all of five minutes… it’s the Sahara, go figure?]

A quick shower, a quicker nap (still Thursday, did I even sleep?), then a disoriented migration to the hotel lobby, to another coach bus, to the airport. This delirious trip was spent nodding off and questioning my activities on yesterday’s flight. While I had a riotous time running up and down the aisles, giggling with my seat mate Rob, and sharing inappropriate dead baby jokes and yes-no riddles with Preston and Ratesh, the ensuing lack of sleep was catching up to me. I was on the verge of either passing out or breaking down, when mercifully, we arrived at the Casablanca terminal. Of course, the airline computers were down and of course we nearly lost a dozen trainees waiting at the wrong checkout counter, but eventually, I snuggled with my carryon, and chuckled sleepily to Dane Cook videos (hilarious, but nostalgic – I thought of you, Frances) while we waited to board our second flight.

Cue arrival to Nouakchott, Friday, June 30th. Cue today! Major accomplishment: I made a PCV cry. It might be a new record, but thirty seconds after our first meeting, tears fell for the oreos I packed her in my luggage. She promised between sniffles that she would make it up to me, but her reaction was more than enough thanks. Yay for new friends. And no I didn’t buy this one. It’s the thought, not the $2.39 spent at Walgreens, that counts.

This morning, the trainees were subjected to an awkward but earnest introduction to culture differences, which primarily highlighted eating (never with the left hand) and bathrooming (always with the left hand). Directly following was a comical but refreshingly honest demonstration of the “butt pot” or, in local dialect, the makarej. Finally, the logistics of the bathroom revealed. First, identify location, which may consist of a porcelain flush toilet, a porcelain basin embedded in the floor, a hole in concrete, or a bush strategically placed. Second, do your duty. Third, clean up with the makarej – a plastic teapot filled with water – and soap. Drip dry, no toilet paper necessary.

Forgive me for my blunt approach to what is a supremely personal subject in the States. But here, consistency, frequency, abnormality, and technique are valid topics, breeched without reservation or shame. Some trainees are beyond shocked, their modesty affronted relentlessly (depending the intestinal ailment du jour), but I’m too curious to be surprised. The butt pot is less a hardship than a novelty.

10pm, 30 June 2006, Auberge @ Nouakchott

I bought a phone today. It is certainly one of the guiltier technological pleasures available to me during the next two years, but it’s not my fault: cell phones are highly encouraged as useful work tools, necessary for communication between volunteers, crucial to our safety. And safety is exactly what I think about as I send volunteers text messages and fiddle with my ring tones…

This will likely be a consistent theme over the next twenty seven months: Mauritania is a paradox. Only here, could someone have a cell phone, but no toilet paper. Only here could it be perfectly acceptable to urinate in public, but inconceivably obscene to expose a knee or – god forbid – a thigh. Only here could we charge our ipods one minute, only to grope around in an unprovoked city-wide blackout the next. (Aunt Jenny, I thank you, and so does my suitemate, who just took a “candlelight” shower with your windup flashlight.) Subjected simultaneously to first and third world, city and bush life, modern devices and outdated power grids, it’s an eclectic mix, that’s for sure true (NJG, I couldn’t resist…).

arrivee

have you ever had a moment where you realize you love exactly what you are doing with your life? where the universe is conspiring with you, helping execute what your life is supposed to be?

i am having strings of those moments. i love it here. i love africa. i love immunizations. i love the sand and the grit and everyting. intestinal and sleep complaints abound, but none from me. we drink bitter tea in the oppressive heat, sitting in bonded circles of sweaty volunteers. and since it is early, most of us are still pleased. enthusiastic even.

someone told me last night, "you will be a good person to hang around. you are so positive and full of energy." it is my goal to maintain that reputation. i think ill be relatively successful, especially if you send letters. lots. cause im already losing the competition. cmon people, show the love.

Ellen Brinkerhoff, PCT
Corps de la Paix, BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania
West Africa

JFK to Casablanca

12:05 pm, 28 June, on the road from Philadelphia Holiday Inn to JFK

This keeping a journal thing may be nearly impossible. I know I open many an entry with this sentiment, but it seems truer this time around. Each moment spent writing is a moment lost bonding with new friends, asking but not answering questions, lugging suitcases… even now, riding the bus, I ignore several conversations – and the onset of motion sickness – just to scribble this entry.

Training was long but useful, tedious only at times, and largely juvenile in a supportable but micromanaged way. While our adventure is absolutely of an adult nature, the fun and games and birthday party ice breakers reinforce my tendency to call the volunteers “kids.” I have yet to offend anyone with my unintended condescension, perhaps since we are all feeling a bit out of sorts and wondering if it was wise to have left the comfort of our mothers at home. Trepidation is usually the other side of the excitement coin, and I’m waiting patiently to suffer from either one. For now, I going to live ten minutes at a time, as is my style, and resume this thrilling game of spades on the way to JFK.

8pm, 28 June, JFK airport

Rachel: Your tastebuds change every seven years.
Rob: To what???
Rachel: Yeah, I’m serious, every seven years.
Rob: Is that why old people eat prunes?

(Re: the forever-elusive and unexplained bathroom logistics in Mauritania)
Rob: If I have to wipe my ass with this [airline] blanket, I WILL.

see you later

5:45am, 24 June 06, Cincinnati airport

Just checked in my bags, which were mercifully under the weight limit. A rapid debriefing for Mom went better than expected: she is more nervous than excited (oddly enough I’m not yet either…) but proud for sure. Goodbyes with Gerry were touching; he is as happy to call me a stepdaughter as I am to claim him as a step dad. His pride and worry were very evident, much appreciated.

6:20am, 24 June 2006, Cincinnati airport

Goodbyes don’t have to be painful; leave it to my crazy family to break the stereotype. At the airport, Mom can’t work her camera phone, and Joe and I poke fun, striking poses for an eventual photo. We quote Forrest Gump till the moment I walk through security (if you get in trouble, he advises in his brotherly slash fatherly slash Gumpy voice, run Forrest, run!). I walk down the terminal, painfully empty for want of early bird travelers, and turn to see Mom and Si. They watch me from the entrance, expectantly. I raise my hand casually and call out, “see you later,” as I embark on my journey.

I think I’m really going to do this. I am going to move to Africa. Just five minutes ago, I confessed to Mom I had no idea what I was doing. Glad I said it, since one, it’s good to be humble about your life’s trajectory; two, it eased her mind to know that I had doubts; and three, it’s the truth.

As I walk down the hallway, I notice two things. First, my mind is a slideshow, not of recent events, but of recent faces: Mom, Gerry, Si, Jon, Frances. I am filled to bursting with love and some preemptory missing. Blessed with their unwavering support, but robbed of their presence, I feel alone but prepared. Second thing I notice, my hands are shaking. Part of this, I attribute to the subzero temperatures in the airport. The other part surely belongs to nerves. Estimated percentages, 80-20, respectively. Subject of course, to future revisions.

10:40am, Philadelphia Holiday Inn

What a strangely serendipitous beginning to an amazing adventure. Morning showers make downtown Philly traffic unnavigable, forcing our airport shuttle through the suburbs in a full scale, cross-city tour. Luck would have it that three of four passengers are not pressed for time and that one of four passengers – who is a doppelganger for Mme Goulet, an enchanting professor I had in Paris – is silent in her frustration. As my frost bitten toes recover from the plane’s overzealous air conditioning and the damp morning, I share stories with an African American woman. She strikes me as thoughtful, dignified, maternal as she describes her recent visit to Senegal, a country just south of my own destination.

The driver pipes in over squealing windshield wipers and the low murmur of the BBC: he is originally from Ethiopia and how amazing to serve Peace Corps in Africa and he knows a thing or two about Mauritania… Suspended between a native’s account and a tourist’s perspective, Firew (pronounced Frey-yoo) bubbles over with advice on sand and heat, hints at future language hurdles (he barely knows the 80+ dialects spoken in his own country, much less the hundreds throughout the continent), defends the vibrant yet still conservatively Islamic music scene, and boasts of the African education system especially in regards to history and geography. It was a smorgasbord of factoids and enthusiasm that I digested as greedily as I could. My departure prompted well-wishes from all the passengers and the assurance that this experience would change my life. I’m banking on it.

insommia and procrastination, like peas and carrots

i have never really enjoyed sleeping. when i was little, going to bed was a prolonged battle, dads 5am alarm was an excuse to escape my linen shackles, and naptime might as well have been the apocalypse. as i got older, admittedly, i learned to appreciate the precious nine minutes afforded me by the snooze button and even the value of a mid-day nap. still, i have yet to embrace the concept of sun down, lights out, eyes shut.

as the clock ticks toward monday morning, my reluctance to sleep only increases. in closing my eyes, i close a day with which i was not quite finished. i speed my own departure by wasting hours in bed. not that sleep is entirely worthless, but i have to admit: its tough to bargain for more time while unconscious.

gastrointestinal health, pt 1

the following conversation trumpets one of the first - of what i assume to be countless - entries in the "gastrointestinal health" series. enjoy!

Jonathan: you need a before/after pic of your intestines
me: ahahahaahahahah
Jonathan: i was also wondering if you were going to name your tapeworm
me: ehehehehe i want to
Jonathan: you probably wont know the name until you get it
Jonathan: it could be cheryl or just as easily alabaster
you know?
me: id spit out my coffee if i was drinking any
me: those are ridiculous names
me: /dies laughing

if nothing else, the weather was good

ive been checking the forecast in kaedi, scoping out the climate, comparing and contrasting to weather chez moi. for example, todays high and low in kaedi: 115 and 79, respectively. in cincinnati today, it has yet to top 70, will likely hover around 80 for a high. allow me to illustrate this concept in made up computer speak:

max (kaedi) = 115
min (kaedi) = 79

now (cincy) = 69

now (cincy) < min (kaedi)

ill not belabor this point, other than to share the sentiment of certain unmentionable people¹: "mauritania wont be that bad, humidity is worse than dry heat." they conveniently ignore the fact that the human brain cooks at 106 degrees.²

...i plan to combat homesickness by recalling the smell of rain...

impending cranial fricassee notwithstanding, i have thoroughly enjoyed recent cincinnati weather. monday evenings stormy sunset was spectacular, with menacing wall clouds, unnaturally inky skies, and eventually a violent downpour.³ lazy sprinkles have since spattered the city, in sympathy (or mockery) of my droughty desert destination. i appreciate the precipitation, though, and will try desperately to solidify my olfactory memories; i plan to combat homesickness by recalling the smell of rain.

as an unrelated post script to this meteorological entry: friends and family constantly prod for updates, such as are you packed? ready? scared? excited? innoculated yet? going to come home at all? the answers, in order are not even close; sure; nah; not really since excitement is another side of the scared coin; not till i get in country; and maybe, if only to visit my dentist (sorry mom).

----
1: my dear friend f was added to the list of unmentionables as i was typing this entry. yep, its never too late to achieve internet fame. or defame. and yes, thats now a noun.

2: ok, so it doesnt actually cook... but i wouldnt taunt coma-worthy temperatures.

3: still looking for photos of this stormy display (06-19-06) - let me know if you find some?

the forbidden continent and lynyrd skynyrd

dear dad,

when my brother and i were growing up, there were very few rules in the house. in fact the only non-negotiable restrictions were:

1. no boys in my bedroom
2. dont go to africa

predictably, i wonder how you would react to my impending peace corps adventure. i recall our discussion circa 2001 about applying for a study abroad program in paris. your response started something like "why the hell?" but eventually softened to an understanding, acceptance, and even (maybe?) excitement.

what about a destination 2400 miles south?

in my minds eye, i imagine our discussion of mauritania, and the peace corps, and giardia and malaria and running water and and and... i replace france with mauritania, "why the hell" with a more forceful expletive, and "eventually softened" with... ? reluctantly resigned? furiously refused?

yesterday was fathers day and three days from now will be the 4th anniversary of your death. sandwiched between these two dates, i unrealistically ache for some sign of your approval. for some bit of wisdom you once offered that has become fortuitously relevant to my decision to serve in the corps.

expecting neither sign nor wisdom, ill muster my own courage, assume your blessing, and do my damndest to make you proud. and remember you howling to these lyrics over pots of early morning coffee:

boy, dont you worry... youll find yourself.
follow you heart and nothing else.
and you can do this if you try.
all i want for you my son,
is to be satisfied.

love, e louise

pre-staging entertainment

ive decided, i adore the peace corps volunteers in mauritania. why, you ask? because they write crude and/or clever haikus and hilarious songs in french. they write to pass time; i read to waste time. thats symbiosis people.

in other news, i decided i might need to start packing. the small pile of things i might take to africa (that was born just four days ago and contains things ive no intention of packing) cannot really be considered a "good faith effort"... seeing as the countdown is less than a week, ill go ahead and rate my progress as ridiculously insufficient. here is the scale if you were curious:

prete a porter! ou bien, a voyager. euhh... ouais.

ready or not, here i come

good faith effort

better than an amorphous pile on the floor...

ridiculously insufficient

they had the same questions as me, just 12 weeks ago

so my brain is absolutely spinning. last night, after a raucous evening of midnight bowling, i hopped on the computer for what was going to be a quick update to the journal. quick. ha.

somehow, i managed to find my brain as well as dozens of websites dedicated to peace corps volunteers traveling to mauritania. packing lists, how-tos, warnings, cook books, ... consider me ignorant, but i had no idea there had been so many resources nestled, hiding throughout the intarweb. i spent the entire night (and this morning) pouring through blogs from current and future volunteers, furiously scanning the google discussion group, and putting together a newly revised packing list. all this just eight precious days before departure. did anyone else go through an "im oblivious" phase? will my fellow trainees laugh at me once we meet, exchange blogs, and read each others naive pre-departure posts? i suppose that is what memories are made of...

now that the sun is up, i might as well get an early (if tired) start to my day. heres to accepting that i did not find these resources till now, but rejoicing that i did not find them next sunday night.

if you think you might be stagnating, you are. and this is for you.

i have been thinking about progress. my own, my brothers, my moms, my friends... not the type of progress to which scientific discoveries are subjected. nor the kind our nations politics seem to be so sorely lacking. instead, i have been thinking of personal progress, the process by which we, as individuals, grow.

tonight, as i navigated the seemingly interminable route from clifton to batavia, i caught the road behind me in the rearview mirror. technically - if i were so inclined - i could drive by looking in the rearview mirror. the scenery would unfold and i would observe the exciting places i had been. id turn my head periodically to steal a glance at where i was going, but for the most part, my path would weave idly as i absorbed the perhaps thrilling and beautiful, but haphazardly determined past.

as committed to progress as i am, i think i might have been operating in this way recently. i think ive been driving backward. and ill be the first to admit: the view has been gorgeous. comforting. safe. and - surprisingly - relatively on path (it seems my car instinctively knows the way to africa). im not sure what it will take during these next two weeks to turn my eyes to the road and consciously steer. or whether it is necessary. honestly, i plotted the general route east to mauritania, i jumped off the proverbial cliff (cary elwes fans can imagine me tumbling down a grassy hill, shouting "as you wiiiiish"), i actively decided my fate. regardless, i cant help but feel caught up in a whirlwind that i myself cooked up back in november. as the days tick down, the dominoes of my life topple, and i am swept up in my own amazing plans.

nominal guilt notwithstanding, i urge my friends (and myself), any of whom might be fixated on the scenery behind: look ahead. resist stagnancy. and if you cannot, plan so that the course of your life forces you to determine and follow a path of growth. for now, i weave along, largely directed, definitely inspired by some sage advice:

"you have to step outside comfort to grow though
thats kinda what this is all about?"

5:45am, 24 June 06, Cincinnati airport

Just checked in my bags, which were mercifully under the weight limit. A rapid debriefing for Mom went better than expected: she is more nervous than excited (oddly enough I’m not yet either…) but proud for sure. Goodbyes with Gerry were touching; he is as happy to call me a stepdaughter as I am to claim him as a step dad. His pride and worry were very evident, much appreciated.

6:20am, 24 June 2006, Cincinnati airport

Goodbyes don’t have to be painful; leave it to my crazy family to break the stereotype. At the airport, Mom can’t work her camera phone, and Joe and I poke fun, striking poses for an eventual photo. We quote Forrest Gump till the moment I walk through security (if you get in trouble, he advises in his brotherly slash fatherly slash Gumpy voice, run Forrest, run!). I walk down the terminal, painfully empty for want of early bird travelers, and turn to see Mom and Si. They watch me from the entrance, expectantly. I raise my hand casually and call out, “see you later,” as I embark on my journey.

I think I’m really going to do this. I am going to move to Africa. Just five minutes ago, I confessed to Mom I had no idea what I was doing. Glad I said it, since one, it’s good to be humble about your life’s trajectory; two, it eased her mind to know that I had doubts; and three, it’s the truth.

As I walk down the hallway, I notice two things. First, my mind is a slideshow, not of recent events, but of recent faces: Mom, Gerry, Si, Jon, Frances. I am filled to bursting with love and some preemptory missing. Blessed with their unwavering support, but robbed of their presence, I feel alone but prepared. Second thing I notice, my hands are shaking. Part of this, I attribute to the subzero temperatures in the airport. The other part surely belongs to nerves. Estimated percentages, 80-20, respectively. Subject of course, to future revisions.

10:40am, Philadelphia Holiday Inn

What a strangely serendipitous beginning to an amazing adventure. Morning showers make downtown Philly traffic unnavigable, forcing our airport shuttle through the suburbs in a full scale, cross-city tour. Luck would have it that three of four passengers are not pressed for time and that one of four passengers – who is a doppelganger for Mme Goulet, an enchanting professor I had in Paris – is silent in her frustration. As my frost bitten toes recover from the plane’s overzealous air conditioning and the damp morning, I share stories with an African American woman. She strikes me as thoughtful, dignified, maternal as she describes her recent visit to Senegal, a country just south of my own destination.

The driver pipes in over squealing windshield wipers and the low murmur of the BBC: he is originally from Ethiopia and how amazing to serve Peace Corps in Africa and he knows a thing or two about Mauritania… Suspended between a native’s account and a tourist’s perspective, Firew (pronounced Frey-yoo) bubbles over with advice on sand and heat, hints at future language hurdles (he barely knows the 80+ dialects spoken in his own country, much less the hundreds throughout the continent), defends the vibrant yet still conservatively Islamic music scene, and boasts of the African education system especially in regards to history and geography. It was a smorgasbord of factoids and enthusiasm that I digested as greedily as I could. My departure prompted well-wishes from all the passengers and the assurance that this experience would change my life. I’m banking on it.

spelunk!!

*squeal*

this is what ill be doing this weekend:

3.5 hrs; 250ft underground; free-climbing cave walls; lengthy crawls through areas as tight as 9 inches high; walking in a crouched position; hand and knee crawls over jagged rocks and dirt; crawling through wet areas; twisting into and out of tight crawlway openings; chest or hip measurement should not be more than 42 inches to avoid situations that impact tour for all participants; work or climbing gloves and long pants are recommended; helmets, lights and kneepads provided; high-top, over-the-ankle lace-up boots, with lug or deeply treaded soles, are required.



not that this has much to do with africa. or peace corps. regardless, i am SO HARDCORE.

philly - and no, not the horse

my departure city is philadelphia, so says the peace corps office. this means ill be munching on philly cheese steaks and bouncing around our nations historic capital during my last precious *cough* *giggle* *cough* days in the states. which is fabulous, considering the following:

1. i loved philadelphia last i visited. business trips can be good for several things, two of which are exploring new cities and finding crusty old bars that play delicious jazz.
   
   
2. it is relatively close to friends i have (or will have) on the east coast (namely , my ne partner in crime o silent escort, some long-lost high school peeps, and my dearest friend in the world mama margo). maybe i can pull a lunch or two?
   
   
3. some silly quiz decided it was the best city for me:
   

   if i lived in the states...

   80% Philadelphia

   75% Chicago

   70% New York City

   55% Boston

   55% Washington, DC

   Which American Cities Best Fit You?
   
   
4. any city would have made me happy, seeing as its one more detail about which i need not conjecture. yay for information. and impending departure dates.