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…).