What a blur this weekend has been. This past month has been. EE model school was Saturday, was success. To see a “real” class situation was nothing if surprising. The lesson plan preparation, students’ responses, teachers’ questions, volunteers’ involvement in games and learning – I could have predicted none of it. Eventually I would have been introduced to the Mauritanian educational system, but I am thankful to have been seated next to my coordinator during my first exposure. Keith communicates enthusiasm and confidence like a disease; if he couldn’t answer our questions, he at least shared in our confusion. As much as I want to fly, the sky looks ominous from my nested vantage point.
And number one reason to fear leaving the nest: gender relations. Characteristically, I goofed another male-female interaction, a recurring and I’m afraid enduring issue. After only fifteen minutes, my assigned counterpart in model school asked for my number. Although my coordinator offered sage advice – give him the wrong number – I caved when Yebde caught me with my phone in hand. Great, he said in Hassaniye, I will call you right now and test the number. Guess he was savvy to the wrong number tactic.
He has since called five times. In one week.
It’s not that I mind ignoring advances or screening my calls, but I worry that professional relationships will be thusly impossible with male counterparts in Atar. I was wholly prepared for rejection due to cultural differences and yet-unachieved integration. I could not have predicted that my inappropriate behavior and RIM-naivete would result in proposals and come-ons. Surely, I could have withstood rejection better than this constant unsolicited attention. Likewise, I could support “unwanted harassment” à la Peace Corps trainee videos from strangers better than deliberate, directed affection from coworkers. Not sure how this will pan out… maybe I’ll just buy a new SIM card?
Lesson plans went so smashingly, Keith rewarded his EE girls with the zenith of Mauritanian eats: pizza. Three of them. We were gluttonous pigs and we didn’t share and we didn’t feel bad. Indigestion notwithstanding.
For all my anxiety, CBT animations elicited much praise from our coordinators, but my self denigrating tendencies lead me to question their approval. Was tree transplanting successfully presented or was my ego was mercifully stroked? Was our Hassaniye coherent or were we simply humored by Peace Corps and Sabualla alike? The truth may never surface, but it’s just as well: whether I did ok or failed miserably, my ability will be laid naked in Atar. And I suspect I’ll find my footing just in time for me to COS1 and relinquish my position to the next volunteer.
1: COS, another blessed acronym, stands for close of service, that fateful day when I turn in my hippie Peace Corps badge and return to the daily grind of corporate America. Mine happens to be 28 Sept 2006.
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