During such good times, a mediocre day is the pits

My brain is absolutely spinning, but so are the hands on my watch… I simply cannot postpone writing a journal entry, even though I can barely think.

Since I last “posted” I officially learned my site placement, met my counterpart (she slept through the welcoming seminar – not a good sign), saw who I’ll live with for the next two years, traveled fifteen hours to Atar, shook hands with officials and played nurse o’ the north. Can’t break it all down, but site placement activities in Kaedi deserves a more thorough chronicling.

Even though I had an inkling I’d be placed up north in Atar, hearing my name called out loud, standing on the map drawn in Kaedi sand, glancing wistfully south… it all became so… real. Stereotypical as my shock sounds, I still embrace it as part of “the Peace Corps experience.” I had prepared for geographical isolation, the inevitable melifa (I had more or less gracefully wrapped myself in one for the sake of practice), the dry heat and the sand. I failed to grasp, however, the loss I’d feel seeing my closest friends park it near the Senegalese border, fifteen to thirty hours from me. Implicit in this realization was the fact that I’d spend the next two years with near strangers. Retrospectively, I know my realistic-everything-will-be-ok self had been taken hostage by my what-will-I-do-spastic self, and I was just exaggerating and overwhelmed. Regardless, the location seemed unfortunate and the company unknown and I – on display in front of fifty six other volunteers, facilitators, staff, APCDs, and coordinators – did not have access to privacy in order to react and process.

Immediately after site announcement, southern trainees dispersed to celebrate their luck (something along the lines of “Senegal here I come”) while I was whisked away to a mat full of Mauritanians to speak broken Hassaniye (I use the word “speak” very loosely) and paw through pictures of what looked like a desolate desert town entirely devoid of green. This is where you’ll live, they told me, as excited as I was devastated.

Wouldn’t you know, when it rains it pours (Saharan irony, ha) and not a few minutes after I sat down, my language tester called my name. It was not yet 6:30 but he was ready to begin my mid-stage evaluation, so let’s go, maahi mushkile, hag? Rattled and dizzy with mental exhaustion, I stumbled through the hot sand towards a table decorated ominously in notebooks and my arch nemesis, the dreaded tape recorder.

Needless to say, I left my interview only slightly more disappointed than nauseous. Mortified and linguistically humiliated, I was sure I could never face my language facilitator again. It made perfect sense then, that Brahim, my facilitator, was the first person I saw on the way back to the refectoire. I put on a strategic smile long enough to hear his reminder to fill out stage evaluations before dinner, we need them right away, maahi mushikile, hag? No problem? Sure, what is another absolutely urgent request? Jamais de problème. In fact, I’d be thrilled to evaluate training now that I’m so perfectly positioned in this bottom-of-the-barrel moment……

While searching for a (relatively) secluded location to evaluate (read: calm down, breathe) I realized the uncanny correlation between stress levels and the inaccessibility of a “safe place.” Especially frustrating was my self-constructed, now self-inflicted reputation of bubbly cheer. Unequipped with my usual giggles, I received more than a few confused glances and incredulous inquiries, as if the trainees would sooner question the earth’s rotation than my perennial optimism.

Just writing about it is embarrassing and alien, so contrary to the me I have embraced here in Mauritania. Not that I am sporting a disingenuous front of happy, but PCT group dynamics paired with extreme physical and emotional conditions have surely influenced my personality. It makes me curious about the self-definition process occurring for all the trainees. I imagine we all feel prompted to find a comfortable niche to fill, a role to play, a way to be useful. Historically, I have been the giggly (slash flirty?) entertainer, but never have I been so relied upon for my energy. It is both daunting and flattering, provides both pressure and purpose.

In any case, since last Tuesday, which was easily my worst day in country so far, I have rediscovered my bearings and my optimism. Just in time too, since the Adrar group is rapidly falling victim to illness. About half of us (me luckily not included) are sick enough to skip protocol (essentially last minute, haphazard meetings with local government officials) and decline delicious Atar fast food (camel sandwiches and orange fantas). Runs are frequent: me to the nearby butig, i.e. Mauritanian convenience store, for ice and the sick PCTs to Tyler’s bathroom. Due to increased traffic, we affectionately christened it the shit pit. Note to self: while Tyler is a great example to follow, his toilet setup is not.