Relief, Rindiao, revenge

field journal

The mutederribaat (trainees) vi Sabualla have done a 180 in the past few weeks. Where I assumed would be animosity is now friendship, where I feared permanent personality clash is now a gracious tolerance. Beyond mere civility, we pass entire mornings cursing goats and dogs together, laughing at and with each other, and even pre-emptively missing each other imagining service after affectation. This was a hard-won peace that we all hoped for and can now all enjoy. Relief.

I officially love the boys in Rindiao. Erin got a text today explaining that Patrick had swum across the Senegalese River for booze and been administratively separated (different from ET, an admin sep is the equivalent of being fired). I was crushed. Patrick was hilarious, an asset to our class and now a tragic loss. Why in God’s name would he leave his site unauthorized, swim in shistosomaiasis (a nasty parasite that loves the Senegal River), cross a national border AND smuggle alcohol into a dry country?? So many illegal activities, so much stupidity, so early to sabotage his service. The next text Erin received released us from our horrified disappointment: April Fools. In July. Jerks. Perfectly executed and absolutely revenge worthy. Rindiao, watch your back.

Meteors are wishes that haven’t happened yet

field journal

TODAY WAS RIDICULOUS. Ahahaha we had so much fun. Brahim had not returned by morning so the girls packed as much water and shovels as we could carry and set out in the general direction of where we remembered Brahim’s car to be. The day was becoming unbearably hot and 5-6km seemed less adventurous and more stupid with each passing minute. Suddenly, in the distance, I heard a car. Brahim? We started screaming at the top of our lungs, waving shovels and water jugs. Luck would have a man on horseback see the car, see us jumping and yelling and make the logical connection. True to the obliging spirit of Mauritania, he ran the car down and sent it hurtling toward us. It was indeed Brahim in his dirty little Mercedes – not much worse for the wear – with huge smiles and hugs. “Let’s go to Mbedia!” he shouted. We shrugged, piled our sweaty bodies (and shovels and water and bags) into the car.

The trip to Mbedia was not without incident, of course. The rainy season had left even established “roads” (I use the term loosely) an absolute mess. After sliding several hundred feet and dodging calitropis, we finally made it to the gudron (Mauritanian version of a highway).

Visiting Mbedia was a great idea, decently planned and wonderfully executed. I love seeing how other volunteers live, meeting their families, changing my own pace. We devoured three or four huge bowls of food between the seven of us (I fully enjoyed my healthy appetite, only recently recovered). After gorging ourselves Mauritanian style, we secretly scarfed some cookies and mango juice in Crystal’s cavernous, hobbit-like beyt (room). As an added bonus, Keith stopped by with some trainees – a fortuitous coincidence and a veritable party. Such a shame they couldn’t stay longer than a passing conversation, but honestly, we didn’t have enough snacks to host the onslaught of guests!

By the end of the day, we were adventured out and glad to return to Sabualla. Despite my exhaustion, I had a surprisingly coherent discussion with my family about my future site and my next two years in Mauritania. Teitta is so patient and genuinely interested in what I have to say (or try to say…). How could I not share with her every detail I could articulate? How could I not want to share my future with my family?

Brushing my teeth in the backyard, watching for shooting stars, I was beyond content, beyond exhilarated. What a perfect trip, a perfect weekend. When I finally found my star streaking across the sky, I wished a similar happiness and belonging for everyone I could picture in my mind’s eye. Hopefully, intentions like this transmit across oceans, language and culture barriers, time zones and lifetimes.

not too arid for mud

field journal

Saturday revelation: Mauritania and pens are like socks in the dryer: periodically one eats the other, and you just have accept it as a part of life.

Saturday happenings: what did not happen today? First, we did not stay in Sabualla. We also did not travel by foot, despite the flooded conditions of the bush. We also did not second guess the off-roading abilities of Brahim’s Mercedes in the rainy season. Nor did we bring enough shovels. You can perhaps devise how we spent the afternoon. It was not in Boghe drinking cold cokes as we had originally planned. The mutederribiin (trainees) of Sabualla did have a great time, however, shoving copious amounts of decomposed shit under Brahim’s rapidly sinking tires, meeting three random nomads en brousse willing to push a car two inches in two hours without complaint, cursing and shortening the life of Brahim’s Mercedes, and eventually catching a ride back home on a horse cart in the dwindling sunlight. It was quite a day. We had to leave Brahim; he wanted to stay with the car and brainstorm solutions. The sky is threatening rain, so he better brainstorm quickly. It looks as though tomorrow’s planned trip to Mbedia may need rescheduling.

One of the kids

iddaar Teitta, muudet isshaab (in Teitta’s house, during the rain)

I have been a PCT (trainee, not yet illustrious volunteer, I sometimes forget) for exactly one month. The anniversary approached quickly and is passing pleasantly. Today, I manage to ignore the livestock alarm clock and sleep in until 7:15 – a lazy Saturday morning. I share biscuits and tea with Teitta before a quick bucket bath and a round of laundry. A shadow of my laundry-hating self in the States, I find laundry in Sabualla calming if not entirely enjoyable. A bucket of recycled bath water is my washing machine; my dryer is frayed and rusted wire strung up on fence posts. I absent-mindedly rub peanut soap into my clothes while the sunshine tans my forearms and warms the wash water.

“Khadijetou!” my mom bellows across the compound. Elbows in laundry suds, I shout back, “kbiire wella sqiire?” The big one or the little one? “Sqiire!” My little sister’s ears perk up and she shrieks out a “YAHHHHH??!?” which translates loosely to, yeah I’m here, what do you want? Teitta needs help burying the tent poles unearthed by last night’s storm. She clearly needs more help than my eight-year-old sister can provide and renews her request: “Khadijetou!” I know she means kbiire this time and I holler out a perfectly timed “YAHHHHH??!?” inspiring giggles from my family under the tent.

The tent repaired, the laundry hung, we sit on the platform enjoying an unusually cool breeze. Teitta turns toward the horizon and points. Her trademark gesture needs no vocal confirmation, but I wait for her to say it anyway. “Isshaab jaaye. Isshaab we irriyah.” Rain is coming. Rain and wind. Is it strong, I ask? She answers with a disinterested shrug which paradoxically calls the entire family to immediate action. Everyone not working in the fields begins preparing for the worst. After gerry-rigging a laundry line in my room, I join the pre-storm festivities. Preparations begin slowly, lazily, Teitta picking up a bowl here, Aicha tying down a string there. But as the storm approaches, we realize it is indeed mtiine, much stronger in fact than we realized. Not but a kilometer away, wind is kicking up walls of dust and the clouds look poised to dump on the arid landscape. Accordingly, our pace accelerates, children now racing through the compound, animals increasingly restless, the volume and urgency of Teitta’s commands rising, rising, rising. The drops begin to fall and wind whips the just moistened sand around our ankles, knees, hips… Now it’s a race against the elements. Can we tear down the tent, stuff the windows with empty rice sacks, herd the livestock and run inside before the downpour is no longer navigable?

Today, we just beat the rain. I giggle with my little sister and our cousins, all of us huddled under the half-disassembled khyme (tent), wrapped in a tattered melifa (full body veil) for warmth. Khadijetou sqiire opens her eyes wide and chatters her teeth for emphasis: “il baarid!!” It’s not cold, I challenge as I toss the melifa from my shoulders. The cousins stare in silent amazement, baffled at my arctic survival skills. I see Teitta poke her head out the door to witness the giggles and chatters and meteorological debate. The rain, now a light drizzle, drips from the door frame onto her braids, disheveled from the storm. As she ducks inside, I catch a smile. In it, I read a mix of “you crazy American, snickering with Mauritanian children in the rain” and “my kids, Muhammed Lemine, Muhammed, Hamoud, Jacob, Khadijetou kbiire and sqiire, all my kids are safe and happy.” It’s exactly the balance I want to strike.

Redemption, delusions of grandeur

field journal

Predictably, I am not dead. Nor am I even residually sick. As a result, my previous entries seem – at least in retrospect – a bit melodramatic. I feel pressed to recount some of the sunnier details of the last two days, details my exhaustion and illness tried to effectively erase from my memory. For shame: I know that even on wretched days, there is always something redeeming.

First, my mom feels my pain. While I hate the saying “misery loves company,” it is comforting to hear Teitta admit that she is not happy when I am not happy. Her concern is beyond a formal responsibility to keep the Peace Corps trainee alive. She notices and appreciates my energy, sympathizes when I have none. I am really digging this integration thing and will be sad to leave it for more urban pastures after affectation (placement at permanent sites).

Second, despite my lacklustre days, the past few evenings were wonderful. A month ago, the moon was new and I would paw frantically though my dictionary, grasping for words in the soft moonlight. A month later, the moon is full again, but my vocabulary comes more naturally, without my dictionary. My confidence has led to a new night time routine or starlight discussions with Teitta and whoever has the patience to decipher my three-year-old Hassaniye. Luckily, I have so little shame, half sentences and mistranslations don’t phase me. Practice is practice is eventually perfect.

Third, I have set two language goals for myself, one vague and attainable, one specific but unlikely. Yesterday, Brahim was bragging about the language competencies of his former trainees, specifically mentioning one who had given a speech in Hassaniye at the volunteer swear in ceremony last year. My overactive, overachieving imagination immediately envisioned me at a podium in September.

Hence, my two language goals. Non-specifically, I want to get good at this language. I have performed in spite of my natural abilities and want to continue improving. Specifically, and unrealistically, I would not mind honing my pronunciation enough to deliver a swear in speech. It would be the perfect linguistic culmination to stage and Brahim would be so proud. I am currently of the opinion that delusions of grandeur are acceptable, so long as I can fall from hopes so high. Update will be available post-September, assuming survivors.

Finally, I have begun a mental list, several categories deep, intended to help me document my cultural assimilation. Categories include at present:

1. Things Americans take for granted at home that I won’t anymore, e.g. 1/4lb burger with BBQ sauce, cheddar cheese and bacon paired with a pint of Guinness, cool but not cold.

2. Things I take for granted in Mauritania that visitors wouldn’t, e.g. body functions and parts are natural and acceptable, meaning little boys can run around without pants, women without shirts, no problem.

3. Things I hope to never take for granted in Mauritania, e.g. the inevitable hilarity when my mom asks God to shorten the lives of her goats, chickens, dogs, children…

4. Things I hope no one ever takes for granted in Mauritania or America, e.g. twinkling stars on a clear night or sharing a glass of milk with a child and singing him to sleep.

To be continued.

two of these, call me in the morning

field journal

Good lord I am sick. With neither reseau (cell phone coverage) nor antibiotics, I might be in trouble if this doesn’t clear up. My mom is upset biyhe illi anne maa mitmewnke (because I’m not my chipper self). I don’t really have enough language to reassure her I’ll be ok. The reassurance would be more for me anyway, if I could muster it…

This morning was so horrible, that as bad as I feel now is still a respite. Teitta keeps trying to explain that sickness is maluum (good and healthy) and will make me mtiine (strong). That I should consume milk and tea and all the things the medical handbook said will irritate my stomach. Her advice would be comical if I didn’t feel like I was going to die.

Here’s hoping for a better tomorrow. Unwelcome as this is, I feel like a true PCT. Enduring illness is a right of passage. Assuming this passes.

Ups and downs on the plains of Mauritania

field journal

My stomach: not pleased today. My body equally pissed. Guess I couldn’t stay healthy forever? Will try class today, though I’d rather skip. Desire to learn language > need to pass out, with scales rapidly tipping…

…

Gah, Keith came to visit today and I nearly missed it. I’m so glad I braved class today. My anticipation for site placement tripled over the course of twenty minutes… like finding the Christmas presents in November, hints were dropped and I am thrilled for what is to come.

Interaction with kids today surprisingly pleasant and discouraging. Had a fabulous, if disjointed, conversation with my brother Lemine. He tutored me on numbers and explained the field work now that the rainy season is here. Lemine is so thoughtful for thirteen; I never realized what an asset and friend I had in him.

Had a less than fabulous, if disturbing, run in with some local Sabualla kids. A pack of wayward boys, just younger than Lemine, intercepted us on the way to the garden. They wanted to show us some birds they had caught. And by caught, I mean pelted and gashed with a slingshot. With the most wounded victim, the boys devised a game of tossing it in the air, laughing as it tried to pump its bloodied wings. The bird plummeted to the ground each time, only to be snatched up and launched again.

Feeling wounded myself, I decided to try to distract them. Eywe, shingalu jigrej haddhe? Shinhu esmu? I offered them my tree seeds, asked them if they knew the names. Their response: the word for penis in Hassaniye and a chorus of vicious giggles. Where is Lemine when I need a well-mannered, thoughtful boy to beat the bloody hell out of a bunch of ruffians? Sufficiently disturbed, I told them I was going to the garden, you can come along if you want to help work. This was the most successful tactic; they dispersed immediately.

Once in the garden, we came across another group of kids, different faces, similar tactics. At first, we provided entertainment for a silent audience, soon after a target for childish taunts and eventually poop. At that point, our patience was exhausted – no slinging poo at the trainees please – and we told them to scoot. As offensively as our language skills would allow. Hopefully our garden does not become the object of their retaliation later. Do Mauritanian children exact vengeance on personal property? Or are there enough feeble birds to occupy their aggressions?

Home stay coordinator visited Sabualla to check up on the trainees, was a nice break from evening routine and an opportunity to seize yet another Hassaniye victory. Fall asked Teitta dozens of questions, from did I lock my door to was I eating enough. I understood each question, each response – it was miraculous. I was so “on” that I caught the difference between tipki and tibqi and had to chime in: Anne nipki ebeden, wallahi, anne nibqi userti! (Of course, I never cry, I like my family!) They got a kick out of my interruption, which indicated comprehension and good humor. Score one for me.

Finding a balance

field journal

Language review after Kaedi was encouraging, showed us how far we have come in just two weeks. That I can articulate entire ideas more or less coherently is a miracle; I never expected such success. It is especially triumphant for me: I love learning languages but my brain does not. French was hard won as is Hassaniye now, making the victories that much sweeter.

Feeling off… health-wise I mean. I wonder if it is simply fatigue from the busy weekend. As part of a conscious effort to tone down my enthusiasm, I am allowing myself to be sick instead of ploughing through it with a forced smile. I think my sitemates are relieved to see that I am indeed human, that I occasionally fall ill.

Perhaps “invincible Ellen” was both unsustainable and unwise as an integration approach with other trainees. Everything in moderation, right, including enthusiasm.

Homecoming

notes from field journal

Arrived in Sabualla late last night and something just didn’t seem familiar. Now that I’ve seen my home in the light, wow. The rainy season makes the previously sandy wasteland a veritable oasis. My backyard was peppered with poo and calitropis last week, now there is poo, calitropis and of a prickly green carpet deathstars (like burrs at home but capable of lethal wounds when underfoot). Green is green, though and I’ll never curse ground cover, spiked or no.

My garden, as expected, is mostly trashed. There might be a melon and something that looks like okra. An okra. Singular. I planted ten. Donna and I helped weed and water each others plots and managed to compose our fist EE song. It is meant to be performed by Jack Black and is dedicated to our foul-mouthed coordinators:

Cowpeas!
Why did you have to die?!?
Wasn’t my love enough for you?!
I paid my dues
I spread poo for you
I walk a kilometer or two…

More verses to come, including a bridge about a tender tendressa (a spiky thorn from the death star plant).

So much happened during center days in Kaedi. In short, I was eaten alive by mosquitoes, had to skip my first meal due to illness (not bad after a three week healthy streak), bellydanced for the talent show despite illness, and ran around semi naked in the rain. The last bit certainly redeemed the rest, as did an encouraging interview with the Country Director, Obie. He strikes me as so genuine and unapologetic, and was a perfect brain to pick about early termination, the infamous ET for short.

Sometimes, volunteers wake up in the morning and realize, “I don’t want to be in Africa anymore.” I cannot imagine this sentiment, but it is common, especially here in Mauritania. We boast one of the highest drop-out rates on the continent, if not in all of Peace Corps. Irrationally, it wounds me personally when someone considers leaving, as if I did not do enough to make them stay. I have talked several people off the fence but am unsure if my encouragement is simply unwelcome guilt and inadvertent peer pressure. Obie’s stance was clear: don’t stay if you are miserable, the condition is contagious. Leave now or suck it up. I wonder how his candor rubs other trainees, but for me, it was refreshing and thought-provoking. I’ll have to process it and come to my own conclusions. For now, we are 55 trainees from a class of 60.

Field trip to Rindiao on the way home from Kaedi was fabulous – palm and mango trees, grapefruit, shade, and good company. Lots of food, lots of giggles but most striking was an EE session in which I imagined life as a volunteer. I was in a classroom teaching (or rather helping teach) and forming sentences in French and executing lesson plans and interacting with professors and begging for resources. I’m thoroughly excited for the challenge, not yet scared of the inevitable pitfalls.

life is like a fedex box of chocolates

Kaedi dorm stoop

Kat just passed out chocolate Cadbury eggs. Stale little candies from Easter. Delicious little candies from Easter. God love you Kat. Our ensuing joy shocks us as we stuff our mouths with the chalky, half-melted treats. Small comforts from home mean more and more every day, especially since I packed so few in my luggage. On a related note, mail came today, another coveted import from the States. It came for some of us anyway… From my tone, you might gather, I am not of the postally loved group of trainees. Sigh.

Today is hot enough that I haven’t the energy to complain or greedily inspect other trainees’ packages. In fact, I have exactly enough calories to sit, sweat, and lift stale chocolate to my lips. Pass those eggs Kat.

…

Ah, the roller coaster that is stage. I go from culinary elation to gloomy perspiration and back again not five minutes later. Please enjoy the quote that released me from my funk, courtesy of the beloved Kat:

“I have something called the fifteen minute rule. If it’s been on the floor for under fifteen minutes, I eat it. If it’s been on the floor for over fifteen, I blow it off and eat it. That’s how I got into the Peace Corps.”

bidhaniye, taqriben

notes from field journal

- I got HENNAED today! That, and I’ve no idea how to spell the verb “to henna” in the past tense. Teitta and Khadijetou sqiire sat me under the khyme at lunch and colored my feet and hands. Though muddled and slow, we eked through a conversation that will remain with me throughout my service.

“Today, you are not American. You are a beautiful Mauritanian.”
I thanked her for the henna, explaining how jealous the trainees would be in Kaedi.
“I want you to stay in Sabualla. I don’t want you to leave. The family really likes you here. Anne nibqi hatte hatte.”
“I really really like you too Teitta.”

I love integration.

- Damned goats ate my cowpeas!!!!! Gassar amarhum! (may God shorten their lives) The melon survived but I expect to find sad nubbins with I return from Kaedi. I guess I’ll see when I get home. Home. I love using that word to describe my khyme in Sabualla. I love knowing my family lives here and is waiting for me to come back. I love – in that awful competitive way – that Teitta is so proud of my linguistic progress, she boasts to my family, her neighbors, the other trainees, random herdsmen… It’s like a proverbial refrigerator: look, mom, what I did in school today!

sustainable enthusiasm, finally freedom

notes from field journal (becoming more personal than field)

- Keith came to visit today!! He arrived bearing gifts: mangoes, juice, candy, bread (so rare here) and more importantly a smiling mug. Every time I see him, I count my blessings: he is so motivated and encouraging, a great coordinator and friend. Keith lifted my spirits with the confession that during his stage, he too was the bouncy, excited, over-chipper volunteer that everyone loved or loved to hate. To see his enthusiasm sustained over two years is a great comfort to me. It dispels the myth that my mood is not just a mix of adrenaline and denial (a prognosis given me by a fellow PCT) but a genuine well spring of optimism. It also means that he knows what sympathy pains I have for unhappy volunteers, wanting so desperately to be joyously contagious. He endured them and survived. And so will I.

- I am now an agriculturist extraordinaire. No, no, save the applause. I was the first trainee with sprouts, three modest sprigs of cowpeas. The rain – or some other divine force? – smiled upon my wee germinating seeds, leaving me victoriously greened. Keith offered some great advice, basically, revel in my own victories and don’t stake my personal success on the attitudes of others. In other words, I am allowed to be happy, I am allowed to cheer my cowpeas, and others can do the same or not. I feel freed.

Peace Corps time, inshallah

9am, 15 July 2006, chez Brahim, Sabualla language facilitator

Peace Corps time is a curious thing.

We were told to arrive at Brahim’s house at 7:30 sharp to catch a PC car to Kaedi for training at the center. This instruction was interpreted and executed in several different ways. Donna and I, for example, seated ourselves quietly next to a dozing Brahim just before 7:30am. Ginger and Erin were slightly delayed, arriving at 8am. Brahim, not yet moved to get out of bed, is tossing gently on his matela. As you may note, it is now 9am. And we are waiting. And I am not convinced we will leave before lunch.

Before I said goodbye to my family in the compound this morning, I considered giving my mom an ETA (estimated time of arrival) so she knew when to put dinner on. On my way to becoming a seasoned PCV, I thought better of it and opted for a vague, “I’ll return this afternoon, inshallah.

PC facilitators and coordinators tell us repeatedly, inshallah does not mean maybe; it translates to “if God wills it.” Sitting at Brahim’s, covered in ants, waiting for my noisy Land Rover chariot, I just cannot appreciate the difference. Perhaps I will understand a few months from now? A few years? Inshallah?

10am, 15 July 2006, still chez Brahim

Yep, still here. Occupying the same indentations on the same floor cushions listening to the same interrupted reception on the same shortwave radio. My impatience fades to dull apathy, ironically enough, as anxious calls trickle in from the center. Despite two years of service on PC time, the agfo coordinator Caleb called anyway, exasperated that we had not yet arrived. Not yet departed, my edgy friend, not yet departed.

If we never leave, I wonder, will PC come to Sabualla and pry my desiccated corpse from these cushions?...

[retrospective update: I think we did finally leave just before our families would have served us hot lunches. Nutrition is overrated. Nearly as much as punctuality. Oh the bad habits I’m nurturing, ha ha…]

soy is good for you

14 July 2006, notes from field journal

I slept well!! I feel wonderful without making a concerted effort to overcome my fatigue. Zing. Plus we go into Kaedi tomorrow for training – I’ll visit with trainees, confirm rumors, and maybe splurge on a soymilk.

Desert mysteries revealed

on the mat vi Sabualla

Some realizations about the desert:

1. Sand. It is everywhere, on everything, in every orifice and pocket and bag. As a result, “clean” is a ridiculously relative term. As is “stinky.” I find my tolerance for odd (read: ripe) smells increasing daily (I apologize in advance to Frances and any other olifactorily sensitive readers…). Rule of thumb: if I can shake it out, flick it off or ignore it, it’s wearable/usable/clean.

2. Ants. Ants serve an invaluable service in the desert: they eat what I won’t. More often than necessary, my mom Teitta gives me a handful of camel biscuits (think animal crackers but rounder, crunchier, drier, blander). I am chronically overfed so the biscuits are secretly stashed for later. Typical destinations include the folds of a paisley bandana, my daily head covering of choice. Or between the sandy fabric of a Peace Corps-issue matela and a pile of letters I can’t send home because the post office in the regional capital closed. Or an already-tattered courier bag (good purchase by the way, Ma’am) over stuffed with Hassaniye dictionaries and unreliable Mauritanian pens. Or, rarely, in a dusty corner on the cement floor of my room. Inevitably, though, the biscuits reach their final destination: often not my belly, but that of a resourceful ant. When I first arrived in Sabualla, I greeted ants with the bottom of my shoe. Now, I welcome them in my home, my bandanas, my book bag. Eat those camel biscuits you persistent little nmil (ants). Thanks to you, I’ll neither stockpile cookies, nor suffer the stench of rotting food: a fair trade-off in the communal desert routine of Mauritania.

3. Ishshems. Or, sunlight. The sun here baffles me. At its most direct, it does not burn. It heats my body to feverish levels but also cools my water bottle (akin to July 3rd entry re: makeshift air conditioning). It warms the stagnant Saharan air but creates fierce jet streams and cooling thunderstorms. Prominent as it is in the natural landscape, there is no Hassaniye word for “sun;” instead they name the sunlight shems (likewise, they name the moonlight qamal but not the moon). If the Inuit have dozens of names for snow, you’d think sahelian nomads would christen the flaming ball of fire that makes the desert The Desert. Instead, I find myself riding through the desert under a sun with no name… [trails off into song]

im staying

in the doorway of beyti vi Sabualla

Today was a day of extremes. I realize I should expect as much, given my usual temperament and current location; regardless, my mood swings never cease to surprise me. Today, tired of learning, my site mates opted instead to complain. Never one to turn down an afternoon siesta, our facilitator was all too quick to consent. I took the break as an opportunity to bond with the girls, find commonalities, and commiserate if I could muster any misery. Despite my best efforts, it was a failed attempt. Sure, we laughed, recorded memorable quotes, shared similar motivations. But in the end, our brief moments of joy did not yield the lasting friendships I had originally hoped. I claim the failure as exclusively mine: I am too intent on finding goodness in unlikely situations, opportunity in suffering, motivation where there should otherwise be none. Unfortunately, my energy – fuelled no doubt by ridiculous naïveté and blind optimism, I know – is so quickly drained by those who would wallow in unfamiliarity and discomfort.

Dad used to say you always have two choices: stay or leave. I chose the latter...

Post-bitching session, then, I walked away. I could not bear anymore negativity. Dad used to say, “you always have two choices: stay or leave.” I chose the latter and, in the middle of a full-fledged sandstorm, ventured out on the dune to reflect. The violence of wind laden with fine particles was almost soft. I felt it whip around me, scrape my neck, irritate my eyes, and coat my skin. I felt the scorching sun muffled by thick clouds of dirt and sand and dust. I felt useless. Why was I here? Ten minutes before, I had vehemently defended the impact of Peace Corps, of developmental aid in general, of cultural exchange in a herding village in the middle of the Sahara… I had been so sure, but their criticisms became my doubt became daunting. Maybe they were right.

I placed my hand into the sand, sifted the granules through my fingers, and felt bitter… temporality, … cosmic insignificance, … obnoxious melodrama. My work here in Sabualla was temporary like my handprint and as inconsequential. Why was I here? In Sabualla? In Africa? In the universe? And why the hell had I already resorted to questioning the purpose of existence?!?! Aren’t these questions reserved for drama queens and second year volunteers?? Sigh. It felt so early to feel discouraged and Dad’s dichotomy appeared increasingly relevant.

My response came immediately, simply: walk away. Again. I returned to class, told the girls I was going to spend time with my family, and left my negativity in the dunes.

I was not in my room more than two minutes before Khadijetou sqiire popped her head in my window. Although I had deliberately closed myself in for some quiet (lonely?) reflection, her innocent, smiling curiosity reminded me of what I really needed: crayons. Not specifically crayons, but time with people, little people, Mauritanian people, understanding and patient and generous and loving and laughing people. People like my family in Sabualla. I threw open my door and called in Khadijetou sqiire and my little three-year-old brother Muhammed to color with me on the concrete floor. American crayons, Mauritanian paper, cross-cultural giggles. Immediately cheered, I vowed that this would be the first and last time I lock my family out.

Later in the evening, I was skimming my cultural manual, searching for previously missed tidbits, newly relevant passages, and much-needed advice. Nestled in an academic analysis, I found my tidbit, my motto, my answer.

In a study about how different cultures perceive and use time, Edward Hall compared two systems: monochromic time and polychromic time. Americans operate according to monochromic time, or m-time; culturally, we strive for methodical completion of identifiable, individual goals. By this perception, time is a commodity that should not be wasted. In p-time culture, e.g. Mauritania, several goals can be achieved simultaneously, seeming haphazardly, with allowance for tangents and interruptions. Of course, this study is intended to warn volunteers: your Mauritanian colleagues might be late and seem unfocused; this is a question of culture, not manners. But I found a more valuable take home point in the text: for members of p-time cultures, “their involvement in people is the very core of their existence.”

Indeed.

That is my answer. That is why I’m here. In Sabualla, in Africa, in – melodrama be damned – the universe. To connect, to share, to talk, to exchange, to love. It is the core of my existence. The involvement in people is the very core of my existence. I sat back, pleased to have found the meaning of life so succinctly articulated. I expect it to buoy my spirits during the next two years of reflective sandstorms.

Which brings me to now, writing this wordy, weighty journal entry. The moon has not yet risen so each star shines brilliantly against the black sky. I drift toward unconsciousness tonight knowing that around each star might be a planet, whirling and bustling, full of beings for whom involvement in “people” (I use the term loosely) is the very core of their existence. We are thus connected, sharing interstellar ambitions, idealism and hope. May the universe bless us, volunteers, trainees, and Mauritanians alike; we are in this together.

patient lambs don't understand foreign sympathy

Khayme in Sabualla

I find that every moment here is full, if not with activity, then with survival. My hours here in Sabualla are spent sleeping (uneasily thanks to the barnyard cacophony), eating (copiously thanks to my mom’s exaggerated conception of my stomach), and studying (futilely thanks to what seems like painfully slow progress). I am nailing vocab with my family and grammar with Brahim, but so seldom do they intersect successfully. I did, hoever, understand an entire conversation last night from beginning to end. Ironically enough, they were discussing my relative faculties in foreign languages. Although I understand French and some visitors at our compound speak it, we all stick to Hassaniye. It’s just as well; I need the practice.

I am rather happy here: healthy, well fed, learning much… but today is perfectly Mauritanian, i.e. paradoxical. My family had enough financial resources to buy a mango for lunch, but not enough to feed a small lamb that was born just this afternoon. The little guy searched for teats on my hands, knees and stomach before it gave up and collapsed on the matela (floor cushion). No one gives it milk or water or attention. I think I’m watching it wither and die in the Saharan heat. I don’t know what to do with this reality, other than accept it as a useful lesson on survival in Africa. It is tenuous at best, heart wrenchingly cruel at its worst. I don’t think I’ll write about this anymore.

[retrospective update: The lamb was not starving to death, but just waiting for his mom to return from the pastures. It was actually a heart warming (not wrenching) reunion to witness: lamb tied to the tent pole bleating frantically, mother sheep responding in kind running toward her new baby with milk and nuzzles. What was I writing about patience earlier…?]

hyaati vi sabualla

Sabualla, beyti (my room)

So much to write, so little energy. I took a quick and dirty ride down the route d’esprit (i.e. the highway from Nouakchott to Aioun, in between lies Sabualla) with thirteen other people. We only fit in one car because Kristin Morella and I laid across the trainees laps. As we sped over the paved terrain, I saw the world flash behind me in delayed moments of discovery. The upright trainees gasped in horror as the driver wrecklessly dodged herds of clueless camel; I stared at the back window until I saw the scene unfold ten seconds later. It was a bit surreal but enjoyable nonetheless.

One by one, the trainees unloaded at their respective sites until Donna, Erin, Ginger and I remained, the four of us on the no-longer-paved road to Sabualla. Brahim, our facilitator, received us at a tent in front of his house, as did a chicken who thought it proper to poop on the sra (floor mat) to signal our arrival. We muddled though as much Hassaniye as we knew (basically a “hello” and “peace be to you”) and listened in awe to the chorus of mumbled “lebaas” and “mashallahs” and countless other foreign salutations that flew from the lips of these Moor women. When Mauritanians say hello, they essentially murmur dozens upon dozens of greetings and return appropriate stock responses, without really listening. This process can take several minutes, or longer, if the weather is especially hot, the question especially urgent, or the PCT especially tired. In this instance, the greeting was absolutely interminable.

I was paired with Teitta (Mint Buedio? I think? I should really learn my new last name…), the most immediately welcoming of the homestay moms. She immediately took my hand, greeted me for a few minutes and shared my nervous laughter. Sitting under the tent, the Mauritanian women began rechristening us with Hassaniye names, now newly “minted” into their families (mint translates to daughter). Donna became Aichetou, Erin Miriam, Ginger Zeynabou, and me Khadijetou. I learned soon after that I shared a name with my little sister, making me Khadijetou kbiire (big) and my new sibling Khadijetou sqiire (small). Alternatively, my homestay mom calls me Khadijetou beydha (white) and her Khadijetou hamra (red).

After being shown my room, a concrete box with a decent paint job, and the latrines, a concrete box with no roof and a hole, Teitta took me to a communal room and we began an extensive vocabulary lesson. Objects like gethe (bowl), kuwe (window), and muus (knife) were pointed at, thrown around (literally), named and repeated. I learned countless body parts, much to the delight of umti (my mom) and her sisters, and even managed to remember some verbs. It was wonderful if overwhelming.

When lunch came, I ate with Khadijetou sqiire while umti Teitta looked on. Knowing the Mauritanian propensity to overfeed house guests and especially small framed foreigners, I ate as slowly as I could and used a new vocab word to signal I was full: kaavi (enough). Teitta helped me wash my hands (always once before and once after the meal), giving me the impression that eating was a fait accompli (done in snooty French). Imagine my surprise when she placed a second dish between us to share… Luckily dinner and breakfast are light meals: bosi (cous cous in milk) and nshe (millet cereal in milk) respectively. I think I could adjust to the afternoon smorgasbord.

At 4pm, the PCTs trekked to Brahim’s house for our first language session, during which we four displayed varying levels of linguistic capacity and environmental resilience. Suffice to say that I am elated and was able to tell my family as much in their native tongue! Teitta is singular in her attention and care, talking to me constantly, bedecking me with gifts (a pair of earrings right from her ears!), and tirelessly reviewing vocab. The other familes, by comparison, seem inaccessible, leaving the other trainees isolated and unhappy. My excitement, therefore, was neither well received nor contagious during these first few days. I’ll remain cheery regardless, in the off chance that eventually I’ll wear off on my site mates. And because I am just cheery. Permanently so, if only because I actively decided to be.

Despite my optimism, I am currently suffering my first illness of stage. Not too bad (yet, knock on wood) but I feel conspicuous using the latrine so frequently when my family ostensibly never does. I should try to sleep it off (aane ndur nurgit) but will write more soon.

[retrospective update: The communal room where I was first introduced to my family and Hassaniye is actually my family’s bedroom, although no one sleeps there unless it is raining too hard to sleep outside.

Umti actually means your mom; possessives are near impossible to learn and teach without a common language. Imagine Teitta and I in a room. She points to my hand and says “your hand.” I hold up my hand, look at it quizzically, and repeat, “your hand.” Teitta is so proud that I learned the word for hand, she lets the mislabelled possessive slip. And so on. Every body part I learned was “yours:” your head, your hand, your foot…

Oh, and after ten weeks of language training, I have no idea what a gethe is. I don’t think it is a bowl… Riveting details, I know.]

in the words of nutter, "call me"

under a tree in the Kaedi compound

The locals tell us the heat season peaks this coming week. My internal body temperature tells me if it gets much hotter, I’ll loose mental and physical capacities. The hours-long training sessions atrophy butt muscles, twist spines, and run over into meals that start late anyway. The successful trainees are those who no longer mourn certainty and punctuality. Our dearly departed friends have no place here in Mauritania, in Peace Corps.

And neither do expectations in general. Today, in fact, I shared a chuckle with my APCD about expectations. As CBT site announcements draw nearer, trainees are expressing elaborate wishes for certain locations and particular languages. Aw and I concluded that expectations were good for exactly two things: securing your own disappointment and establishing your naivete. How could Peace Corps possibly cater to the language preference of one trainee out of sixty? Similarly, how could a trainee have a location preference when she has seen all of 100 square feet of a country? Expectations seem futile and frustrating and I plan to avoid them entirely. The expression “come what may” is my mantra, flexibility is my strength.

I called home for the first time since I landed on continent. The conversation was too short, the calling card too quick. One call for one minute blew 1000 ougiyes, about four dollars. I will buy more cards when my wallet allows and will look for calls from people stateside when my hope allows. For reference, my number is 011 222 609 3915 as dialed from the states. Of course, no expectations.

playing in compost, sans hipscarf

Kaedi refectoire

Theme of the day: information overload. Paired with agroforestry kids, environmental ed learned how to plant seeds and make compost. In all honesty, learning these tasks was simple. Executing them successfully in the middle of the Sahara, however, will be challenging at best. If I could just remember to space seeds 10cm apart, water with two cans, space compost layers 10-15cm apart, water with one can unless its dry or check every week or day or every other day… damned devil in the details. I was happy to learn that 10cm is approximately the wingspan of my thumb and pinky finger, otherwise known as the length of my hang-loose-Hawaii symbol. Which I plan to flash and wiggle in the garden. Daily.

After playing in compost for an hour, Caleb and Keith assigned us homework for our homestay sites. Upon arrival, trainees are to start gardens and compost pits. Translation: I will dig a hole in front of my family, fill it with poop and goat food (i.e. kitchen scraps), and explain why in a language I don’t speak. I didn’t catch any giggles or smirks on the part of our illustrious coordinators, so I have to assume they were serious. Feasibility notwithstanding, I’ll give it my best shot come Thursday.

After session and a quick bucket bath (compost dust is just not fashionable), I met with Victoria and Alison to rehearse for the talent show. Today’s temperature, needless to say, was not cooperative with our belly dance choreography. I blame the arid desert climate and our hot moves, the latter of which will be revealed tonight for an audience of trainees, volunteers, and facilitators. Although we will be sporting more clothing than I’m used to, our number should prove sufficiently scandalous. Eight counts Egyptian, twelve counts Turkish shimmy, sixty entertained Americans, twenty shocked Mauritanians. Ey-ah-wah…

ps. Miss you F, this shimmy is for you.

embracing the unknown

Kaedi music stoop

Local fauna does not provide much in terms of aural stimulation; luckily the imported wildlife – read volunteers – has much to play, sing, pluck, beat and shake. I am nestled among the makeshift band on what I have affectionately called the music stoop. Haley and Jon Katz on guitar, Maggie on mandolin, Lee George on harmonica, Rob on keyboard, and Jon Slattery on egg. Yes, egg. He plans to break out an egg solo at the upcoming talent show. We warble out folk melodies and half-hearted harmonies, hoping to avoid mosquito bites and bed time.

Earlier tonight, I finally passed on my USA treats: oreos to Jess to take to Miriam in Nouakchott and pudding to Michael to take Rachel when she arrives home from Ghana. Trainees and volunteers alike seem shocked that I would one, ask for requests, and two, actually import “emergency items” from the States. I expressed the sentiment (the hope?) that future trainees might take pity on me next year and bring me goodies. The unanimous and pessimistic response: unlikely. Still, I don’t yet crave pudding, and if I did, I’m sure someone back home would send some. (please?) For now, my fixes are local and include boxed UHT milk and mango juice.

The mango juice was not my idea, but a recommendation from Alicia, a PVC who took me to “downtown” Kaedi today. She said plainly: treat yourself occasionally, your sanity will suffer otherwise. I owe her for the advice, the juice suggestion, the fabulously haggled price on peanut soap, and the quality bills she demanded from the merchant (change is often given in the form of perilously mutilated bills, barely held together by foreign-made scotch tape).

Kaedi was a welcome outing after my semi botched language test this afternoon. I began eloquently enough, but the facilitator finished the interview with a “whew”… The meaning of this utterance is yet undetermined, but it signified either he was hot, or he was glad to be rid of me and my mangled French tongue. Either way, I felt unsettled and unaccomplished.

This feeling, with time, should subside. Especially with continued linguistic encouragement from Aw, my APCD. During our meeting this afternoon, I confessed my shame over the language test. Aw offered to conduct our future meetings in exclusively French. I reluctantly accepted, stammered out a few sentences for evaluation, and was showered with compliments. Generously, he explained what an advantage my foreign language skills would be in country. I would be just fine, he assured me. To which I whispered under my breath, inshallah.

In miscellaneous news, I took a shower (rare), did some laundry (rarer still) and discovered the art of makeshift air conditioning (i.e. wearing just-laundered, still dripping wet clothes). Other than the rashes threatened by fellow volunteers, this will completely work. The sun radiates heat, but it also evaporates water. Giveth and taketh away, please.

I added another element to my increasingly complex cooling system: I reshaved my head. Thanks to Crystal’s hairdressing and Jon Katz’s clippers, my head is fuzzier, breezier. A new round of reactions followed, including oohs, ahhs, scalp massages, admiration, astonishment, jealousy and comparisons to Sinnead O’Connor or G.I. Jane (depending on how musical or military I happened to be at the moment).

In summary, I loved today. I’m feeling recovered from yesterday, ready to face the heat, the half-functioning showers, the peanut soap laundry, the sand, the squatting, the unknown, the unknown.

the sahara is waiting for rain

Kaedi refectoire

After much tossing, turning, moaning and despairing, I finally fell asleep last night. Although I was not entirely cognizant of that sweet transition into unconsciousness, I was infinitely thankful.

Why so much tossing? The short answer: because I’m lazy. The long answer: late in the night, I awoke to the sound of tropic screen mosquito nets drug through the sand, disoriented curses mumbled over an increasingly strong wind. My obvious question “what the hell is going on?” was answered by a sleepy chorus of noncommittal sandstorm warnings. Despite the uncertainty, I decided to collapse my mosquito net. And by collapse, I mean forcefully drag it, half assembled through the narrow door of the dormitory. Too disoriented to reconstruct it, I threw the mass of netting and tent poles to the floor and tromped outside to tell any remaining trainees to come in out of the storm. There was debate on the source of the warnings, Mauritanian meteorological patterns, and uneducated guesses as to the impending quantity of sand and rain versus the impending quality of sleep to be had in a cramped, non ventilated dorm. In short, my attempt at courtesy was met with squabbling and complaint. My response: Stay out here, get wet. Go inside, be hot. I. Don’t. Care.

I covered my exhausted, sweaty self with the dismantled mosquito net, which proved to have impressive insulatory qualities. Hence, the tossing.

Imagine my joy to wake up this morning comfortable. Comfortable is of course a relative term, but the air was cool, I felt a gentle breeze through a gap in the wall, and was not soaked through with sweat. It was indeed, a beautiful morning.

The day remained cool, perfect for our tech sessions in the garden – we learned how to dig a seed plot, fertilize it, level it, and relevel it. A refreshing drizzle mid-dig redeemed all the hot days that had come before, and even the excruciating mugginess last night. It was exactly enough to turn my entire mood around, something as inconsequential as an afternoon sprinkle.

I overheard a volunteer once say if you have a string of seven irredeemable days, consider going home. Even at my lowest points, I am hard pressed to find nothing redeemable. Which is a good thing, since I’m in this for the long haul. Humidity do your damndest, I’ll just wait for the rain.

sometimes it's muggy, even in the desert

Kaedi, hot, stuffy, stinkin tent

Two confessions. First, the location of this journal entry is mostly bitching for humor’s sake. Second, regardless of my humorous vent, today was my first semi disappointing day. We had an enlightening tech session during which Environmental Education (EE) and Agroforestry (Agfo) volunteers learned the futility of our sectors (I should have known: trying to hug trees in a desert… duh, right?). This was followed by a very detailed overview of EE’s history in Mauritania. Since 1960. Very. Detailed. I won’t lie, it was not the most thrilling presentation ever given. Thorough, but not thrilling.

To make matters worse, I was culturally ostracized for the first time during that very session. Why you ask? For wanting to lie down in a hammock with Haley (my neighbor on the car ride with Nati and fellow EE volunteer). A few days ago, the facilitators informed us of the cultural faux pas possible when reclining: women are not to lie on their back, men cannot lie on their stomach. Apparently these activities are promiscuous, whereas the inverse (women on their stomach, men on their back) is entirely appropriate. Haley and I assumed some leeway on this cultural requirement, given the then present company of two PCVs (current volunteers), two PCTs (trainees), a Mauritanian co-coordinator who shook my hand without flinching just days before, and Kaedi lizards. Surely no one here would take us for prostitutes; we thought, laughing in the hammock. Au contraire. A PVC promptly chastised us for cultural callousness: “Actually, I’ve been told leaning back in a hammock can seem very promiscuous.” Again, we dissolve into chuckles, sure that the rebuke was delivered in jest. “So,” I eeked out between giggles, “do we get up, or just not care?” If there were crickets dumb enough to brave the heat (105 degrees in the shade today), they might have filled the icy silence with awkward chirps. No one but Haley found my comment funny, and even she stifled her laughter, shocked by the volunteers and trainees, unanimous in their scorn and disgust. We sat up immediately, straight-faced for the remainder of the session.

Cultural appropriateness is – and likely will continue to be – one of the most difficult hurdles here in country. This fact is evidenced by the daily reminders (admonishments) that the female trainees are being indecent (slutty): our shirts are too tight, our skirts are translucent when backlit in a doorway, our heads are not covered, etc. etc… A favorite lesson of mine was administered today: we are allowed to sleep topless, but cannot walk to our tents in shorts. Somehow nipples are more offensive than knees. The way my body is built, I beg to differ, but then, no one asked me.

I am by no means miserable, just hot and deflated, frustrated and not my normal bouncy self. Which makes me angry at myself. Which doesn’t do too much for the bounce. I feel like I’m breaking one of those inalienable rules: don’t be too hard on myself. Or, always have fun. Or, allow myself the entire spectrum of emotions, anger or frustration included, without self-flagellation.

It’s tough though, when sand is embedded in your scalp; sweat coats every square inch of your body every moment of every day; mosquito bites grace your knuckles, arms, stomach, feet; and you have to crank your flashlight every two minutes just to write a journal entry… My light is fading, and it’s not anything to do with the crank. I’m going to sleep on it and see how things look in the morning.

P.S. We might get a sand slash rainstorm tonight. I’m actually looking forward to rain, since it is always preceded by an intolerable mugginess which subsides after a good downpour. And to those who said Mauritania only had dry heat, I’m currently living in a river valley. It’s anyone’s guess as to the humidity, but I’m going to venture a modest estimate of 110%.

Supervolunteer

field journal

SQUEAL! I am an absolute dork but sometimes I cannot suppress my own giddy, nonsensical outbursts. Bahenna, my evaluator, was scheduled to visit Sabualla at 3pm, which of course means closer to four o’clock something, inshallah. The trainees dutifully assembled chez Brahim and passed time browsing though old pictures stored on digital cameras. Unbeknownst to us, during our failed trip to Boghe, Ginger had been filming from the back seat. She captured our reckless weaving between turge, incredulous giggles (“is this really a road, Brahim?”) and the clairvoyant cursing just before our tires sank into the mud. We watched the video and rewatched it until we were sobbing with laughter.

As if that bonding moment was not enough, my interview with Bahenna went spectacularly as well. He finally arrived to room full of cackling, tear-stained faces around 5pm, not bad for an inshallah.

When Keith raved about my PCV potential, I believed him, but a self-denigrating piece of me always wondered if he was just overly proud of his sector. Doubt is never really pretty. But Bahenna echoed the praise during my interview, and showered me with compliments and congratulations. Everyone enjoys my company, appreciates my cheerful demeanor, and thinks me competent to boot. At one point, he assured me I would be a super volunteer, an appraisal I immediately combined into a compound word and paired with tights, a cape, and a trusty Nalgene bottle: SUPERVOLUNTEER. Nothing short of a theme song, I had become a comic book hero.

I am relieved to have made such an impression, not only with my coordinator but with the entire Peace Corps staff. A tinge of modesty slash doubt reminds me not to be pompous, proud or self-satisfied. I’ll try not to rain on my own parade while still keeping my head to a manageable size.

inshallah, learn it, live it, love it

under the health tree in Kaedi

My bowels are regular. If my only news was this, dear readers, it would be enough for jubilation. There are volunteers who cannot get over the squatting-over-a-hole thing. Others haven’t done – won’t do? Can’t do? – the deed since Philadelphia. Still others refuse to reveal personal details of any nature, moved by fear, prudishness, selfishness (it is a PCV duty to commiserate, share details and suffering), or an unmentionably bad ailment. Luckily, I fall into none of the above categories. However, in these extreme conditions where even a trip to the bathroom is uncertain, I am beginning to understand the phrase inshallah (meaning “as God wills it” – a popular utterance that follows nearly anything, such as “session will start at 4:30, inshallah” or “we will pass out vitamins before next year, inshallah”).

The facilitators subjected the volunteers to far fewer powerpoint presentations today. Instead, we got a brief session, an intro to language, and approximately 40 kilos of books. The weight requirement from Headquarters suddenly makes so much sense; by abandoning my precious novels in a forlorn pile on my living room floor, I made space for “Culture Matters,” a non-specific catch-all guide to navigating foreign customs as a PCV; “How to Grow More Vegetables,” an optimistic guide that ignorantly assumes access to rainfall; and three hundred plus pages on how to integrate environmental concepts into a rigidly programmed educational system. I might have unloaded another jar of Noxema for this literary goodness…

On a less sarcastic note, I learned my first Hassaniye, Pulaar, Wolof and Sonnike this afternoon – it was my meal ticket at lunch time. We were taught the local greetings and were expected to use them (all four of them!) before we could enter the refectoire to eat. Don’t quote me on the spelling, but here’s a taste of these percussive and bouncy salutations. Each pair represents a hello and the appropriate response (a hello back, if you will):

Hassaniye: assalaamu aleykum - waaleykum assalaam

Wolof: nanga def - mangifi req

Sonnike: omoho - ma jaam

Pulaar: noumbagda - komoado

Cuffs and chivalry

refectoire @ Kaedi

Today during session, we learned that PCVs have no diplomatic status, i.e. we are not exempt from local Mauritanian laws. I raised my hand and ask Sidna – Director of Stage? Director of something – if a list of Mauritanian laws will be posted at the center or distributed to the trainees. His answer, which was as lengthy as dodgy, was essentially no, to which we responded with nervous laughter and shifty glances. Caren offered her two cents to break the tension: “Watch spitting be illegal. Cuffs motherfucker.” Needless to say, I love Caren and her inappropriate way of expressing a very appropriate sentiment.

Bahenna greeted me after session in French and my coordinator Keith came to my rescue, discouraging him from overwhelming the stagaires (fancy PC name for trainees) with too much language after too much traveling. While the gesture was sweet, I am happy to admit that Keith cared more than I did. To be honest, I was feeling resilient enough to banter en francais, at least through a greeting or two. Here’s to hoping my boundless energy is sustainable…

try anything, enjoy everything

4:30pm, 1 July 2006, Kaedi girl’s dorm

Up early for voyage into Kaedi. Ok, so it’s only 8am, but after two days of sleepless travel and twelve hours of training and innoculations, it feels crack-of-dawn-like. We pile into the same truck that herded us from the airport to Nouakchott Auberge two nights before. I am crammed into a gear shift, the 4-wheel drive lever, fellow volunteer Haley, and a non functioning air conditioning vent. I could not be happier. Strangely chipper in the oppressive heat, I immediately introduce myself to our driver, Nati, who is more than keen on conversation. Between my garbled French and his light hearted banter and blagues (jokes), we make five hours and five hundred kilometers fly by.

At the border of each region are gendarmes (police), high on power trips and desert fumes. They monitor (read: impede) traffic, inspect passing vehicles, and request paperwork or bribes. Nati waves his Peace Corps travel authorization at the guards and saucily requests that they mange ca (eat this) as we drive away in stitches of laughter.

I squint into the sun and take in the desert, my prankster friend, this journey. Nati’s lightly stained boubou – once white, now dingy cream – blends in to the pale sand, his wiry limbs and gnarled beard are grey with dirt and age. He points to the seemingly empty landscape, unfolding in expansive sandy patches and reminds me that this is not a “real” desert. Too many trees, he says. I double take out the window. To be honest, the dunes lining the route to Kaedi are peppered with more trees than I expected, little scraggly things with waxy leaves and crusted bark. Green, but pitiful. I am shocked – if not frightened – to hear Nati describe a Mauritanian location with even less greenery, roads, cars, people and livestock.

Oh, the livestock.

Anyone who has done long distance driving with me – be it backwoods Ohio, mountainous Vermont, Costa Rica or Ireland – knows my love for livestock. Happily, sheep and cows are everywhere, but the bread and butter of Mauritanian herding culture are goats and camels. So many camels. Nati teaches me animal names in French (chevres and chameaux) and wows me with a gruesome desert story. Stranded in the Sahara, a group of nomads were faced with scorching heat and impending dehydration. With no other options, one of the men opened up a camel for water. Just killed it, cut it open, removed the stomach, and used it as a water bottle. I look at Nati, incredulous, and ask him where he heard this story. I didn’t hear it, he explains, I was there. Je l’ai vu. Apparently, his desert survival skills are not limited to camel water bottles; Nati can also tell perfect direction without a compass, survive weeks in the desert without dying (no small feat, I felt sufficiently drained after just an afternoon), direct a caravan of volunteers with limited bladder capacity and tolerance for arid climates, manipulate a gear shift while someone sits on it, pee inconspicuously five feet from the road in about five seconds, and keep an American girl giggling for hours in 110 degree weather. I consider him my first friend made on the continent. And if I ever make it to Nouakchott (his workplace) or Oudin (his hometown), I’ll be sure to look him up.

We arrive in Kaedi, dazed and salty – from the sweat or sand, I can’t tell – and are greeted by the entire Peace Corps staff, lined up like a baseball team, ready to shake our hands. It is a gracious, if not confusing, welcome, and I take the rare opportunity to shake hands with the men. As a woman, this kind of cultural boundary might not be breeched again…

The volunteers heave already dusty bags onto mats spread over the dormitory floor and trudge to the refectoire (fancy Peace Corps name for cafeteria). Exhausted, we are corralled into lines at small plastic basins, each adorned with a makarej and soap. The first person washes his hands, then with his left hand, holds the makarej to help the second person wash his hands. The hand washing is assembly line-efficient and, like all things Mauritanian, communal. We guard our clean right hand, awkwardly suspending it in mid air, and stumble on to the floor around mats. Five or six people share a plate of goat, rice, peppers, tomatoes, olives and oil, eating with their right hand, leaning on their left. Khorou – a staff member seated next to me – wonders how I find Mauritanian eating. I nod vigorously, my mouth still full of delicious, if foreign, food: “it’s great” I mumble, as I go in for another handful. He is shocked that I am not shocked, surprised that I am not disgusted. Perhaps my cultural curiosity is novel? I make a mental note to remain willing to try anything, if only for the amusement of the locals.

Immediately following lunch, I run to my first training session in country. As in Philly, I have no idea what is going on or what to bring, but at least I have a time and place. I count myself lucky and make a second mental note to remain patient. I feel in tune with Mauritania and the local proverbs hanging on the walls of the refectoire:

“Little by little, the bird makes its nest.”
“Patience leads to success.”