Bent knees, arthritic tendencies

Countless circumstances in Mauritania threaten my bachelorhood. I am white, unmarried, young and friendly. The first is enough to merit daily attention from would-be suitors who barely manage to stammer “m-m-m-madame, m-m-m-uh, m-m-m-marriage?” The second is icing on the third’s cake; who could pass up a girl, never hitched and ripe for the picking? The last: nails in my marriage proposal coffin. Since smiling comes more naturally than hissing, I am hopelessly doomed.

As a result, men ask for my hand in marriage every day. Without fail. Every. Day. I have incorporated these potential mates into a typical 24-hour period, right next to veiled women urinating in the public square, small children bounding down the street without pants, and grown men picking their nose as they dodge goats in rusted taxis. I have come to expect it. And accept the question for what it is. “M-m-m-marriage?” simply translates to “you’re a novelty, not too hard on the eyes, and since you don’t show outright disgust, perhaps I could hit you up for money, a visa, or at least some attention, later I might brag to my friends, what do you think?” My response varies, from “eynte” (when?), “wallahi” (but of course!), to feigned incredulity.

Last night, I received a real proposal. The first in my life. It was from a young man I consider an intimate friend. And his was an offer of neither opportunity nor novelty. “I will make you my fiancé,” he whispered. “I’ll follow you anywhere.” Deafening silence, I assure you, is not so cliché that it never happens. My incredulity was not feigned.

I launched into a lengthy explanation of why I was not ready for marriage, why I may never be, why it wasn’t him – cough, cliché – it was me. “But I’m in love with you.” It made me sad to think how little he knew of love, to say such a thing. Insult to injury, he cried when I refused. Layers of justifications followed, on his part and mine, but finally he accepted that I could not. Awkward does not begin to describe what will inevitably follow.

For having suffered proposals daily for almost seventeen months, I feel silly to be so rattled by his question so earnestly popped. My principal reaction is shock. It is immediately followed by feelings of pity, sadness, disgust, in that order. For whom, I don’t yet know.

Easy as pie

The sun rises in a fury, matches the morning’s mood with brilliant fuchsia, scarlet, blood stained clouds. I sink my teeth into a ripe pear and wipe the droplet of juice trailing from my lips.

I wonder, sitting silent and pale, a nasraniye among garage hounds, if I smell more of visas or money.

A self appointed spokesman interrogates me brusquely, squatting before me, expelling his inquiries like rude spittle. The nasraniye is going to Aioun, he dutifully reports. The nasraniye is waiting for the first car. The nasraniye is writing. Within 15 seconds, I am surrounded by a blue cotton wall, leather belts swinging like phallic pendulums, eyes cast down over embroidered collars.

The single most imposing feature of the Mauritanian landscape is an entitled man in a boubou. Entitled? To share my business, my space, my attention. That I should write of them so frequently is indicative of their omnipresence, omni-influence, and omni-annoyance. I don’t so much fear them as cringe away from them en masse.

I suppose I’d cringe away from an imposing circle of questioning slices of meringue pie. But I imagine tolerating the bitter filling with more grace.

The flies aren’t the filthiest vectors

This entry written just before an 21-hour taxi ride to Aioun, a site in the eastern region that borders Mali. What could have been early morning tranquility was interrupted by a horde of Mauritanian men hurling questions and marriage proposals. It nearly overshadowed a happy glow from the evening before, spent serenely with charming company. Nearly.

How standoffish can my responses be? How weary my ma’asselaam? Nothing deters the barrage of questions, the innocent curiosity, the lecherous hovering.

I insulate myself within a thick memory of yesterday, of this morning, of chakry¹ and steeped tea, of coffee and gentle alarm clocks.

Absentmindedly, I brush a fly from my lip. It lands on a mound of fruit, vibrantly orange against a filthy taxi stand. The interrogators have finally quieted, the boubous dispersed, but their intention lingers: an unpleasant odor of bleak and limitless boredom.

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1: Chakry is the most delicious thing you can eat in Mauritania. Imagine fine Moroccan cous cous, cooked fluffy. Mix with a creamy yogurt, sweetened with vanilla sugar and spiced with nutmeg. Eat. Die. Go to heaven.

The best pickup lines are delivered by your wife

I have several “what is the deal” moments every day. Today for example: what is the deal with Mauritanian men making my connaissance, hitting on me obviously, pathetically, then peddling their wives on me?

I know this is a polygamous society, but why, after having met a full grown man’s barely post-pubescent wife, would I want to entertain more conversation? Much less enduring company? Or worse, some arrangement of wretched concubinage?

I am familiar with the drill: he makes his home “safe” for me to visit, I stop in for lunch, and then struggle in vain to spend ten seconds of face time with a timid (read: stone silent) wife. Meanwhile, he reaps the benefits of my company. Resourceful. Perhaps the first dozen times. But eventually, my patience wears as thin as his hair and I am decreasingly inclined to smile at random strangers.

I’d sooner boycott coffee. Permanently.

Nouakchott
Today, I’m tired of integrating. Usually, I cannot help but smile, be nice, start conversations, continue conversations, continue, continue, continue, continue… In Atar, it’s my job. But here, in the capital, it’s a distraction from an otherwise peaceful day. And by it, I mean an especially tactless and determined Mauritanian patronizing the café at the French Cultural Center.

I should have known better from the way he slinked up to my table and took an empty chair with a slick and imposing grin. I continued reading my book in silence and disinterest, which translated into “please, talk to me.” He was all too eager to oblige.
“I’ll teach you Hassaniye,” he eventually proposed. Clever, I’ve never heard that offer (read: come-on) before.
“My family has a huge house in Aioun.” Really.
“HUGE. It’s the uncle of my mother.” Intriguing.
“My mother’s side of the family.” Right, you mentioned that.
“Wearing the veil is easy.” Uh huh.
“You’ll get used to it in no time.” Glad to hear.
“Hassaniye is easy too. I’ll teach you when I come up north to visit…”
COULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME IN PEACE??

My brain shrieked it, my skull somehow contained it. How I held my tongue, I’ll never know, but the pressure is mounting, mounting, the conversations continuing, continuing, and why does this unkempt yokel think he has an ice cube’s chance in Mauritania with me?

Maybe it was my disinterested tone and annoyed inattention. I surely egged him on by not hissing at him outright and throwing hot coffee in his face. But honestly, imagine the scene. Holding a cold compress against his scalded face, he would sneak a glance with his good eye. After dropping my cup slow motion to the floor, I would stare him down. I would wait in hostile, expectant silence. And to my animosity, he would respond, “your accent is so pretty. Could I buy you another coffee?”

Rx: immediate vacation

The other day, I heard myself say, “I love having visitors at my house, but occasionally I need alone time to spend with Mauritanians.” Let me recap: when I’m not passing time with fellow volunteers or tourists, I’m using the limited amount of free time to integrate, speak foreign languages, eat cous cous, wave flies from babies’ eyes, drink tea, etc.

No wonder I’ve been stressed.

When my director Aw came up to do site visit in December, he was floored by the effusive praise I earned. In every office visited – the Mayor, the Wali, the Hakem, the director of the Ministry of Education, the Secrétaire Générale, the PTA presidents, the school directors – my colleagues gushed about my work ethic, cheerful demeanor, commitment to integration and unlimited availability. Aw was floored, but not speechless. His response: “I think you may be working too hard. You should take a vacation.”

In the last 45 years of Peace Corps history, this sentiment must have been conveyed to volunteers, but probably fewer times than I have fingers.

With suitors offering trips to Morocco, stays in Senegal, rides to Mali and flights to Dubai, the world is my destination. If only I could find and actually use my “me time” for me.

Trop sensible: it doesn’t translate how you might think

The SUV winds over dirt paths between dunes and palm fronds. Rocks, small huts and makeshift fences provide an obstacle course for a Mauritanian man, his three-year-old daughter, a Frenchwoman and me.

The small girl has collapsed on my lap, suffering from fatigue and a bronchial infection. My hand rests on her chest which vibrates uneasily with raspy breaths and weak coughs. I understand, at least a fraction more, what it means to be a mother. Fatimatu depends on me to hold her, to rub her arm as her eyelids flutter closed, to support her head as it lolls into my neck, to steady her as the car veers around potholes and over gullies. I want to protect her, guide her. I love her. Suddenly, I don’t understand how a mother could have more than one child. I don’t understand how a wife could love her husband after giving birth. In this moment, I love her and only her. I am consumed and she is not even mine. I love this little girl and I cannot imagine loving anyone else more fully, innocently, or purely. I cradle her and she trusts me.

Meanwhile, the two remaining passengers are lecturing me. They compete for aural space, determined to be understood at the loudest volume possible. They are lecturing me on girls’ empowerment – or the futility thereof – in Mauritania. Girls here, they explain, shirk employment and depend (feed) on their husbands.

“Mauritanian women are not necessarily encouraged to seek work outside the home,” I counter. “You know better than me: most families expect girls to complete household chores before homework, to find a husband before a degree, to establish a family before a career.” I know this phenomenon exists, not because countless studies document it, not because an entire governmental ministry is dedicated to it, but because I witness it. In elementary school, in middle school, in high school. Girls in my ecoclub, at the Mentoring Center, and in the community are all subject to a reproduce-at-all-costs mentality. If they would choose it themselves, you’d never know; they want desperately for options.

“Not true!” the Frenchwoman shouts.
“What are you talking about?” the Mauritanian barks incredulously.
My response is immediately interrupted. The francaise scrambles atop her soapbox and waxes ineloquently.

“You have seen nothing, so let me explain to you.” I do my best to listen politely. She reports how, despite the available means to escape poverty and idleness, Mauritanian women prefer to stay (rot) at home. “I know,” she boasts. “I live a truly Mauritanian life.”

Right. Is that why she must broadcast every five minutes that she is Muslim-oh-but-I-hate-the-word-conversion-which-seems-less-organic-than-a-religious-epiphany? Is that why her claims of clairvoyance and supernatural healing powers are met with sideways glances and concealed smirks? Is that why her half cracked schemes to end Mauritanian poverty usually involve indifferent tourists who would speak no Hassaniye and have no translators? Who would clutch their Gucci bags and be carted around “the poorest, lowliest neighborhoods” by donkeys? Who would distribute blankets and operate a portable soda fountain? A truly Mauritanian life? How truly out of touch.

And she dares explain that she has seen little girls who want nothing more than to chase boys and wear makeup and get pregnant. And they do so against their parents’ wishes. Forced and early marriages? Those shameless sluts practically oblige their families to “get rid of them” via fortuitous marriage. “I know Mauritania. If you spent any time with families, you would see the truth.”

Any time with families? I have been eating lunch or dinner – often both – with a family everyday since I arrived in September. Any time? She speaks all of five words in a local language. I converse readily in two, greet in two others. Any time? My free moments are spent drinking tea with my host moms and sisters. Hers are spent crocheting purses out of plastic bags in solitude. “You just don’t understand Mauritania.”

This evening’s host, a Mauritanian man and father of two girls, agrees wholeheartedly. “Just open your eyes. They run about, they gossip, they don’t go to school. Girls here are lazy and lack ambition,” he laments. He tells me no well-educated Mauritanian family would persuade their daughter to abandon her studies to have children. On that count, we are in total agreement.

In exasperated sarcasm, I admit, “apparently I’ve seen nothing, having only worked with girls on a daily basis since my arrival. I should conduct better research.”
Knowingly, they nod in unison.
“I have understood and learned nothing over a year’s time of intimate contact with this country’s young female population. What a shame.”
“That’s why I’m here,” he generously bubbles. “To show you how Mauritania really is.” Quel homme.

He continues to rail against what is obviously no longer the fairer sex, as I cradle his daughter in my arms. She is still feverish and now exhausted from staying up all evening. I want to shield her from these slanderous predictions. I want to clamp shut her ears against a poisonous destiny already decided. I want to protect her from her father and this ignorant Frenchwoman. Fatimatu’s fingers curl around mine, then go limp and fall in my lap. Her head rests on my cheek; her sweat drips down my neck and soaks my blouse. I kiss her forehead and whisper in her ear. “Sleep now, baby. You can fight later.”

It’s not until afterward, behind the rusted iron door of my compound, that my sadness mingles with her sweat on my breast. My tears fall and I realize I might be too sensitive for this kind of work.

Falling from leaps of faith hurts less in soft, sand dunes

Mauritania is a game of trust.

For example, this morning, I needed to pay the electric bill for the regional office. Routinely, I give the money to Sid’Ahmed, the shop keeper next door who pays the bill for our building. Incidentally, he is also the son of my new adoptive host family. Since Sid’Ahmed was out of town, his sister, my friend Veyza agreed to help me negotiate the bill. “Come over tomorrow at 7am,” she instructed.

Dutifully, I set my alarm, forewent the blessed snooze,¹ and peeked my head in her house the next morning. Veyza was not yet ready, so “come in, come in, sit!” her mother Rabia called. When Veyza finally emerged, melifa neatly wrapped around her face, our conversation proceeded like a bad Monty Python sketch.

Ellen: So we will go to the cell phone butig to pay the electric bill?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: And Sid’Ahmed is there?
Veyza: Yes, since Sid’Ahmed is not there, I’m going to go to the shop.
Ellen: Wait, he is not there?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: Um.
Veyza: Well look, you don’t have to come with me, I’ll go find Sid’Ahmed. You know he’s not here.
Ellen: Right, he’s at the butig.
Veyza: No, he’s over there.
Ellen: Wait, where?
Veyza: Then we’ll go together.
Ellen: When are you leaving?
Veyza: One o’clock.
Ellen: One o’clock?² I can’t wait that long, so I’ll just go now by myself.
Veyza: Ok.
Ellen: Ok , see you later then.
Veyza: Ok, sit here and wait for me.
Ellen: Wait, what?
Veyza: Wait here. We leave in one hour.
Ellen: At one o’clock or in one hour?
Veyza: Yes.
Ellen: Um. I’m just going to go now, not a problem, I’ll go myself.
Veyza: Ok. Sit here and I’ll be right out.
Ellen: Um what?
Veyza: Ok.

I think to myself, will I ever dig myself from under this circular conversation well enough to leave? Trust.

On the way – yes, we finally left the house – Veyza gushed about her long-time, absentee boyfriend, “habibi” (her love) who speaks English and will someday run away and marry her. He is soo handsome and she is soo in love. “Do fairytales like this still work?” I wondered. Trust.

“Ooo,” she gasped. “What?” She cracked down on a small orange candy, removed a piece, held it to my face. I took it without thinking, popped it in my mouth. Will I inherit Veyza’s chesty cough? Trust.

We met several of her friends in the dusty market. I smiled politely and rattled off greetings while she paraded me proudly. She was especially friendly with a shop owner who eventually handed her an object she immediately handed off to me: a can of tuna. Why did she give me a can of fish? Will this be eaten? Shared? Explained? Trust.

Trust what exactly? I suppose trust that the incomprehensible will be explained. Or be at least happily tolerated. That my patience might hold up as well as my immune defenses. Better and better every day, I understand (read: reluctantly accept) the fatalism of “inshallah.” As god has willed it. Or, for the less religious, simply: as it has been willed. Passive tense, actor undefined, tomorrow unwritten.

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1: I have a torrid love affair with my snooze button. I purposely set my alarm early so I can sleep in nine minute increments for at least an hour before I actually need to wake up. It’s sick really. And it has alienated former lovers, roommates, and overnight guests. I have so few vices, that I guard my right to periodically interrupted sleep. I’m allowed.

2: To both our credits, this specific misunderstanding is France’s fault. The phrase for one o’clock and one hour is the same: une heure. Mille mercis, l’Académie Française.

Chron-a-what? -cle? -ological?

Posted quite a bit, will provide links for backlogged posts. Stay tuned. elb

Solid

Last night, I looked through the stars. I saw a lot of black sky. I reached out to place my hand against the concrete wall of my house. It felt nice to touch something so solid.

Shame in tandem

She wore a crisp veil, jewelry and a light dusting of makeup, determined to make a good impression on the Mayor. If the merits of her school improvement project couldn’t woo him, perhaps her diplomacy would. As she approached the imposing concrete structure, she saw his door over the balcony: closed. Mission delayed. She decided instead to pay a visit to the Assistant Mayor’s assistant, Abderamane. She entered his office and began the standard greetings, a mix of French, Hassaniye and Pulaar: how are you, how’s the heat, it’s been a long time, how is Houleye? “How is Houleye?” a melifa snarled from the corner. “She knows your wife?” He grimaced icily. “Yes.” The volunteer tried to interpret his discomfort while the melifah bade them an extended goodbye. She and Abderamane were alone. “I wondered if I could stop by your house for dinner Saturday.” “That’s tomorrow.” “Right.” “You are always invited,” he explained warmly. “You know better than to ask.” She felt welcomed and relieved. “Thank you. Thank you, really.” “But never speak of my family in this office again.” His tone had shifted radically, as did hers. “I…” “My personal life is one thing, and my work is another.” She was silenced. After a few moments, she resumed her apology. “I am so sorry.” She felt the heat of his anger rise as embarrassment in her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to mix your personal and professional…” she trailed off. Before, she considered him as close to a host father as was possible. Now, he was ashamed of her. His eyes burned into the trail of her melifa as she walked, head down, out of his office.

He bent over the dusty keyboard, hammering out a report. This work that belonged to the Assistant Mayor, conveniently on mission. Again. With each keystroke, he counted down the minutes until he went home to his family. Hinges creaked in the breeze as a woman stepped through his doorway. Another demand, no doubt, from another entitled melifa. He greeted her profusely and gritted his teeth for the impending request. Light steps on the balcony announced another visitor, Khadijetou the volunteer. Her Pulaar showed promise: “how are you, how’s the heat, it’s been a long time, how is Houleye?” “How is Houleye?” a melifa snarled from the corner. “She knows your wife?” He felt exposed. “Yes.” How would this melifa view municipal employees fraternizing with volunteers? She left without indicating what rumors would follow. “I wondered if I could stop by your house for dinner Saturday.” “That’s tomorrow.” “Right.” “You are always invited. You know better than to ask.” He wondered when she would feel comfortable enough to simply stop by. “Thank you. Thank you, really.” “But never speak of my family in this office again.” He hadn’t meant it to sound so harsh. She looked wounded. “I…” “My personal life is one thing, and my work is another.” He had to protect himself from gossip. She had to understand, right? She was silent. After a few moments, she stammered, “I am so sorry.” He saw her eyes glass, her cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean to mix personal and professional…” she trailed off. An innocent inquiry about his wife had gone wrong. Bad timing, bad company. Before, she greeted him almost like a father. Now, she was afraid of him. He watched helplessly as she walked, head down, out of his office.

How do I radio in for backup?

The transition from first to second year volunteer is unkind in so many ways. Sure, my language is improved, my standing in the community established, my professional and personal existence secured. Especially in contrast to the green volunteers newly posted in the Adrar.

The stark difference, which should otherwise be a source of pride, provides proof of a rude transition that occurs around mid September. On arrival, I was understandably naïve, hopeful, perpetually lost and culturally clueless. Now, as a second year, I am expected to be trilingual, a professional negotiator, real estate scavenger, cartographic guru, and otherwise inexhaustible source of knowledge, advice, and patience. From freshman to senior in one fell swoop.

I cannot complain too bitterly: I love teaching in any form – transmitting experience, recounting hard-won victories, making others comfortable and happy. My altruism is ten to thirty percent selfish, but it allows me to embrace my role as mentor cum expert.

Today, however, I hit a wall of frustration, fatigue, and fear. Suddenly, I needed someone to help me and come to my rescue. I didn’t want to face today alone. I wanted to be a freshman again so I could seek the strength of someone who knew better.

Eventually, I pulled my senior self together, finished a difficult conversation, negotiated my ninth property contract, and navigated relations with my previous landlord. In the end, it was just me, no backup.

I completed these tasks successfully but wearily. Afterward, I imagined myself falling into someone, hearing a heartbeat and warm advice echoing against my cheek, feeling embraced by arms stronger than mine, getting lost in a perfect hug. In the end, though, it was just me. No backup.

Self-realization at a premium, just eat your cheb

This school improvement project debacle is affecting me more than I realized.

Lunch at a teacher’s house today yielded an interesting discussion turned into political venting became a realization of futility. Over bissap juice, her husband railed furiously against Mauritanian political lethargy and the hesitation of his own people to rise against corruption, be it inflation of household goods in the market, election fraud and bribery, or the local embezzlement of school improvement funds.

As of late, it’s an issue close to my pay stub, if not my heart, so I asked what seemed obvious: what can we do?

I expected him to provide a solution like organized unions, parent teacher associations, town hall meetings, or even picket lines. He was so articulate about the deficiencies of Mauritanian bureaucracy; surely he had thought critically about alternatives.

His response: Nothing. There’s nothing we can do, not me, not us, not them, not you. What a sadness, he said.

And then, after disempowering every pronoun available to him, he washed his hands and ate his fish and rice. Washed his hands indeed.

Swallowing back tears and chebugen was too much for my fragile stomach. I asked again what seemed obvious: what, then, am I doing here? Between handfuls, he mumbled, “I don’t know. What a sadness.”

I am not entirely defeated. He had mentioned, amid his pessimistic predictions, several PTAs (or Mauritanian equivalents) in the south who, decades ago, had successfully raised funds to build entire schools. Between three schools in Atar, I could rustle up eight hundred parents who could surely afford 500UM each. This would more than replace the funds so disingenuously pledged by the Mayor.

And, hope of all hopes, when I tell the parents how the Mayor reneged, they might gather what little political prowess and concern they have and exercise it. The Mayor is elected and must be reelected to stay. Although beyond any number of inshallahs, I imagine Atarois rising to seize and shape their political and educational future. Or, at the very least, build some latrines for their kids.

Pad the budget, reupholster the couch

My funding has been pulled. Not that this marks the end of my Atar School Improvement Project, but it certainly slows its progress.

While I traveled to MBeca to canvass a site for next year’s EcoHeath Camp, my directors were charged with a small task: verify the Mayor’s intentions to fund our renovation project. Maybe I jinxed their mission with semantics. My directors were simply to have reminded the Mayor of a promise already made. Verify that he remembered the funds already earmarked to pay for one fourth of a project he should be single-handedly funding anyway. This is how the task should have been framed.

But the ambiguity opened an escape route. “Les financements sont bouffés.” The funding had, in effect, been eaten by the Mayor, may god shorten his corrupted life. What is one fourth of our budget? 250,000UM. 900 bucks. How little he had to provide. Enough to remodel one room in his already ridiculously outfitted house in Nouakchott. Or, renovate three schools and improve the lives of nearly 800 students. What a shameful trade.

To be honest, the news was hardly surprising. I barely blinked; my director hardly had energy enough to throw his hands in the air in frustration. After briefly lamenting this development, we immediately sought a course of action. Thank god you didn’t allow him access to the funds from America. Of course not. Right. What now?

I vowed to play hardball. The Secretary General wants a municipal trash collection system? He can advise his boss to fund our project. Collaborate with Peace Corps? Not on a foundation of withdrawn funds and broken promises. I must use the little leverage I have and assume the Mayor cares about anything other than lining his pockets.

The secret lives of cats

I am home and it is quiet. A miracle since my house has recently become a regional way point for urban and rural Adrar PCVs, visiting volunteers from Mauritania and abroad, and the occasional stray South African SUV caravan.

In this moment, however, I only hear donkeys braying in abandoned alleys and birds chirping from thorny nests in my neighbor’s acacia tree. For the first time in perhaps weeks, I am alone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the sky on fire with vibrant pinks and rusty oranges. I dash up to my roof before the sun sets, hoping to see the shadows lengthen, lengthen, disappear. The catwalk bridging my roofs stretches perilously high: a perfect spot to perch, dangle my feet, and revel solitarily.

My concrete stoop looks west toward the wadi, a barrier built of boulders and concrete against unlikely floods. Couples walk slowly over the wadi, hidden behind folds of veils and boubous, lingering over loose rocks and stolen twilight. Just beyond, thick leafy trees border neat garden plots planted painstakingly, optimistically by local women’s cooperatives. The latest downpours have rewarded their optimism and (almost) given purpose to an absurd flood wall.

From my vantage point, I peer into neighboring compounds, empty and quiet like mine. Blindingly white satellite dishes break up the muddy skyline and fool my third world sensibilities. Is it wealth or disposable income being… disposed of? Intimately framed in a doorway, a young woman adjusts her veil deliberately, carefully and begins to pray. Her laundry flaps in the wind, licking the wall in concert with a prayer call echoing off plastic bidons¹ and rusted doorways.

I enjoy a few seconds more before I hear voices in the courtyard below me. Greetings, greetings, something, mumbles, nasraniye. I have been found out; such is my cue to descend. As I gather my boubou,² a mangy cat leaps impossibly over rooftops to sprawl on the ledge of a high wall. Covered in dirt, she blends in effortlessly, a furry brown ornament to a mud brick wall. I contemplate hiding among satellite dishes before slipping down my stairs, almost unnoticed.

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1: bidon – n. a 5-, 10- or 20-liter plastic jug, sometimes called a gerrycan, previously filled with oil or paint thinner, marginally cleaned enough to hold water, bissap juice or brousse wine.

2: Women can wear boubous too, more often in the south and in Senegal; they are called grand boubous (big boubous) and are more sheer and much more vibrantly dyed. It is a cooler alternative to the veil, but inevitably draws inconsiderate comments such as, “shuuv disquette w’il-bess-he coriye” (look at the slut and her southern clothes).

New digs

I moved! Not that I had anything against my old house. Nothing other than the demon-possessed children next door, a disintegrating mud wall, corroded door locks, a splintered front door, creepy late night alleys, and biweekly scorpion surprises. Yep.

Honestly though, my old house had really become, well, chez moi. I had settled, hammered nails in the concrete, hung pictures on the wall, collected the batteries flung over the wall by aforementioned demon-spawn, and made peace with my awkward neighbors.¹ It felt, in an odd, transient way, like home. Unfortunately, with the influx of volunteers newly posted to the Adrar – from nine to thirteen in the region – my mud brick three bedroom became painfully insufficient.

During posting, entirely in passing, I mentioned that I was tentatively on the market for a new house. No less than three days later, Bahenna and Rajel, two Peace Corps staffers, had tapped their connections in Atar and found me a veritable palace. Four huge bedrooms, a huge kitchen, a huge magasin², a catwalk connecting two roofs with full access, a huge shower room, a huge courtyard, a huge covered breezeway, and did I mention it was huge?

Sure, sure, you say, huge. But huge translates the same in French as Hassaniye as English: cher, waa’ir, expensive. Right?

Wrong. Thanks to Rajel’s request and a small bit of cajoling on my part, the landlord lowered the rent from 30,000 to 20,000 UM (~110 to 74 USD) and agreed to kick in all kinds of improvements. Within four days, the robinet (water faucets) had been installed, the kitchen had a counter and a sink³, and my front door had been reinforced and rewelded. The volunteers in town (save one… it’s a long story) helped me move all my things in less than four hours, and all of a sudden I was home. Again.

Although I barely had time to process, evaluate or reconsider, this new place should be fabulous. It is located just behind the mayor’s office, vastly closer to all three of my schools, around the corner from three volunteers’houuses, and spitting distance from Houleye and her family. In terms of commute, security, and general well-being – perfect. And I couldn’t ask for a better house. There should be room(s) to spare for Atar PCVs and broussies alike, and finally a communal (shaded!) space to share home brewed wine and indulge in late night episodes of Lost. It’s what we envied in the other regions, what we thought was not possible in Atar, what we, essentially, always wanted.

Mind you, this is not a regional house. Regional houses were outlawed in Mauritania within the last decade to avoid loud debaucherous parties, eliminate potential targets for violence/harassment, and encourage volunteer integration. But my house will be the natural location to converge, hang out, drop off bags, touch down for PCVs in from the bush, etc. We have yet to navigate the politics of dues, house rules, participation, etc, but with such an incredible space, who could refuse? (I know I just jinxed the whole deal, but I’m not deleting my optimism.)

So what’s next? Navigating Ramadan. Surviving the last few weeks of fasting. Getting accustomed to the new bumps in the night. Relaxing chez moi. Daar-i jedide, mashallah⁴.

------------
1: Rumor has it that my neighbors ran a brothel next door. The volunteer living in my house previously got “in trouble” for not having visited her neighbors in prison. The charges: prostitution.

2: magasin – n. a small, ant-infested shop set into a traditional Mauritanian compound from which the family sells bags of sugar, bars of soap, bottles of bleach, etc. for extra income. It often opens to the inner courtyard and outside to the street, providing an additional exit for mangy goats and children, an additional entrance for amateur thieves. Mine is cemented shut, mashallah.

3: Don’t get too excited, the counter is quickly crumbling concrete. The sink is at least metal, but bounces a bit when touched, and drains directly onto the floor. It looks professional though.

4: translation: my new house, as god has willed it.

Ode to G

Giardia, I hate thee.

Yeah, Mom, I’m still wishing my summers away

The first day of school! I’m giddier than a 3rd grader and can hardly contain my excitement. School! Despite the hunger pangs of Ramadan and unapologetic drafts off hot plateaus, students and teachers begrudgingly returned to class. Although all were let out by noon, shirt tails were tucked, books were distributed, attendance was taken, and this volunteer now has a purpose.

For any of you following my adventures, I have been on the road all summer: festivals in Senegal, vacations in America, conferences in Nouakchott, girls’ camps in Kaedi and Aioun, volunteer trainings in Kaedi, protocol in Akjoujt… Since May I had essentially lived out of a suitcase. I arrived, home, in Atar in September, only to fall flat on my face. My hectic schedule hit a wall and boredom threatened immediately. Desperate, I busied myself with meeting government officials, finding housing for out new volunteers, breaking fast with families, and moving myself into a new (and improved!) house.

But busy work is just that, and I was impatient to reestablish routines, reconnect with teachers, and mold¹ young minds. Finally, il hamdullilah, school started today. And what a superb first day.

I started at Ecole 3, my predecessor’s stomping ground, my official posting, my most problematic school. We yelled out greetings, flashed genuine smiles, slapped hands, revisited old jokes, arranged my impending marriage to a Mauritanian, and had a fabulous time. No matter that I arrived in the middle of the day, when teachers should be leading classes or, at the very least, disciplining the rugrats. Conveniently, I was seen by a local landlord, several inquisitive parents, and an inspector-type from the Administration. My presence screamed: yes, I am here, I am productive, and I might even teach your kid. Visibility is PR is Peace Corps Perfect.

I continued to Ecole 6, where fortune struck a second time. The first day of school is an important day to show up, but not the most productive. With parents cycling in and out with kids to enroll, the director was frazzled and the teachers continually interrupted. Greetings and smiles aside, I promised to come back and snuck out the door. Outside the gates, big wigs from the Administration were piling out of shiny SUVs, dressed to the nines, and looking important. Obligatory greetings paved the second opportunity to meet new bureaucrats and be seen. Khadijetou: 2, Idle summer: 0.

By the time I set out for Ecole 8, the wind had picked up (dust). Suddenly, the 20+ minute hike seemed too long, the sun too bright. Cue the Chef d’Enseignement Fondamentale, a large-ish title at the Administration. Sidi Ahmed beckoned me to his car, explaining he was on mission to visit Atar schools, he was on his way to Edebaye, and by the way did I have the number for Ecole 8’s director? Eye for an eye, ride for a number, I climbed in and we exchanged contact information and thank yous. “We are so grateful for your work here.” Nice to meet you Mr. Bureaucrat. That’d be a hat trick folks.

Ecole 8 yielded the warmest reunion; I had sincerely missed my counterpart Ba and his thousand-watt smile betrayed the excitement he tried to hide casually behind sunglasses. I fought every impulse to hug him, hoping he understood how glad I was to be near him. We moved quickly from canned greetings to actual conversation, only to be interrupted by unexpected visitors. Ba, ‘Ide, the director and I (in pure mimicry) rose awkwardly to greet two suits that had arrived in yet another set of shiny all terrain vehicles. After grilling the director on attendance, enrollment and other numbers he did not bother to record, he turned to me. “So,” he probed, “what have you done for environmental education here?” Not only did he know I worked there, but he knew my sector, and ostensibly my vocation as Peace Corps volunteer. I shot a knowing glance at Ba and proudly spouted the activities we had led together the year before and planned for the coming year. The suit had not expected such a well-articulated response and seemed impressed. I couldn’t have done better with a PowerPoint and a business card. Score.

An incredibly productive day and it’s not even noon. Later, I plan to hit up the mayor’s office, pay some regional bills, and break fast with my new neighbors. I suppose I’ve been just as busy these past few weeks, but it feels different now that school is in session. It’s my bread and butter, my comfort zone, my purpose. Once lost, now am found. Looking for Khadijetou? Go back to school.


----------------
1: i.e. environmentally brainwash; it’s ok, it’s harmless and effective!

Happy, inshallah

I’m in love. I broke fast with one of my favorite families in Atar last night. It was an unexpected meal: I meant to return a borrowed broom, and they wouldn’t let me leave. Thankfully, since I was near death with thirst and hunger. The point of fasting for Ramadan is, of course, breaking fast with others who are as hungry and irritated as you are.

Houleye was lounging near her husband, Abderamane, looking contented, loved, but still famished. We sat in brain dead silence, flipping through channels of soccer matches, waiting, waiting, waiting for prayer call to authorize the impending feast. Finally, echoing over the city, blaring through bullhorns and loudspeakers: “Allah huwe ekbar!” God is indeed great, so long as we can eat.

We dove into dates, zrig, orange drink, cherry infused bissap (liquid heaven), and liters of ice water. Drained cups soon littered the floor as we held our cramping stomachs, counting down the minutes before we could comfortably consume more food and drink. I rolled my head off a pillow to see the youngest daughter bound into the room to steal a handful of dates. She is not yet three and absolutely adorable.¹ She could hold about one and a half dates in each hand; this, for her, was jackpot.

Without a spoken language in common, we have developed special greetings and games that communicate “hello, I like you, you are ok.” For example, she jumps in, stands on her head, I gasp in surprise, she giggles and runs out. Or, she plops down next to me, grabs my arm, and methodically counts my bracelets.² Or, she crawls in, places a fist on the floor, I place my fist on top of hers, she caps mine with hers, etc. Or, I pull off my headscarf, she runs in, places her hand on my shaved head, touches her own shaved head, giggles and runs out. Or, I roll over to her, pretend to take a bite out of her knee, she hides her knee, cackles wildly, then offers a second bite (I have learned to dodge flying knees ostensibly offered in friendship).

Tonight was no exception; hands brimming with dates, she caught me out of the corner of her eye. Unable to stand on her head, count my bracelets, fist fight, tussle my hair, or offer a knee, she threw her dated fists in the air and danced. Then giggled and ran out. This date-stealing dance continued throughout the evening, eventually augmented by her singing Senegalese reggae songs and traditional Mauritanian warbles. It was the first time I saw both Houleye and Abderamane engaged in full, hearty laughs. I joined them with abandon and clapped along with her bops and leaps.

Strangely, the scene reminded me of Christmas 2005. Mid December, I found myself leaning over the fourth floor balcony, watching a holiday festival unfold in the lobby of a government research facility. One of my colleagues had dressed as Santa, various divisions had baked and iced cookies of sleds and reindeer and bells and angels, and the walls were haphazardly strewn with tinsel. I watched the children from our daycare file in through the front door, bundled in thick downy jackets, each attached to the child in front by a rope or a hand. I remember how they tore off mittens and scarves and fuzzy topped hats to gobble cookies, slurp punch, and petition Santa for wrapped goodies. It was merry and fantastic and I couldn’t enjoy it. My current state of mind was... just short of jolly. All I could think was that someday, those kids were going to grow up, take an unfulfilling job, have mortgages and mutual funds and dead parents and this might be the last time they would feel so happy and simple and young. It was a rough Christmas.

Why would such a happy scene at Houleye’s remind me of this? Because in the middle of my little one’s dancing and giggling and singing, I realized I had been wrong. That day, nearly two years ago, leaning over a balcony, pitying these children who would have to grow up, I was wrong. There are always reasons to laugh, to sing, to dance, to play nonsense games with a little Mauritanian girl who has enough energy and love and hope to melt glaciers. And so, I’m in love. With her smile today, with the promise of her future tomorrow. I want her to grow up healthy. I want her to love school and remember her French numbers. I want her to make Houleye and Abderamane laugh after I have to leave. I want to know her name so if I ever pray for someone, I can send a special request up for her. I want her to be happy. Happy, inshallah.

----------------
1: Although I have eaten with this family for months now, I still don’t know this little girl’s name. The family calls her “the other one,” “the sweet one” and other such ambiguous variations. I worked up the courage once to ask her name, and they wouldn’t tell me. I’m sure my question was understood, but the conversation shifted and my courage faltered. She is “my little one” if anyone asks.

2: I have taught her French numbers almost through 13 and have begun English counting. She has an ear for languages; I have patience and bracelets to boot.

recap for the constant reader

I am digging up journal entries from bags packed in May, un- and repacked in June, July, August and September. Being on the road has made for absentee blogging and irresponsible chronicling of my adventures. Since I might not post in chronological order, I’ll leave a running list of recently posted entries up top.

Carryon knives: thwarting kindness at a checkpoint near you
June 1, 2007

Peace Corps perfect: improving atar one school at a time
June 06, 2007

On the road, never bored
July 15, 2007

Home is where the xxx is, tips for taking/surviving/enjoying home leave
June 18, 2007

Drizzled lawn chairs
July 26, 2007

Less dancing this time
July 27, 2007


Thanks for being patient. elb

Musically reminiscent

I was stuck in a car with newly sworn in PCVs on my way – finally after weeks on the road – home to Atar. Incredibly, the driver Dia had gotten his hands on an excellent mix tape. Not the usual warbling of local singers accompanied by erratic guitar plucking and off tempo drumming. No, this tape had been recorded by a recently COS-ed volunteer and featured everything from Johnny Cash to Counting Crows. The perfect mix for a road trip, the perfect tone for contemplation.

I remembered listening to Damien Rice, gossiping in my compound with the mix tape’s author. I remembered talking online to an old college friend while he sent me Iron and Wine mp3s. I remembered late nights at the Girls’ Mentoring Center and Donkey Kong over a soundtrack of Imogen Heap. I remembered “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” while driving to visit a childhood friend in New York with her dad, my almost-dad. I remembered making tea and banana bread in Paris while humming to Bob Dylan.

I felt, having too quickly departed from these pasts, left behind. Immediately, I had the impulse to find someone to comfort. Needing a hug, I wanted to give one. I looked around me and realized I was surrounded by a car load of people, my new site mates, who might eventually need a hug, some advice, comfort. Maybe they might, inadvertently, reciprocate said comfort.

To those with whom I originally shared these tunes: I’ll continue missing you. But I’m on a journey, and the car keeps moving forward.

printer's jargon for stereotype

I just watched Everything is Illuminated. Saying a film is "powerful" sounds terribly cliche, so I'll not say that.

It also sounds cliche to say there is worth in digging up the past. So I'll not say that either.

You should see the movie. Enjoy the rigid search and the fantastically nostalgic gypsy punk of Gogol Bordello. There are so many things to be sad about. But so many things worth finding.

Singing songs about the southland

Yesterday, I visited Sabualla, my training village. Our trip only left time to evaluate trainee presentations and deliver a rare gift of bread, but it was absolutely rejuvenating. I feel so nostalgically happy there, so at home. I planned a repeat visit tomorrow, inshallah, before climbing into the white PC SUV with M. Even through a car window, the sun set was extraordinary. A massive thunderhead jutted mightily behind fluffed, flat-bottomed clouds dyed salmon, grey, oranged blue. Silhouettes of acacias dotted the incredibly flat and otherwise featureless horizon. Lightening and dusk illuminated marigots in a flashed melon hue. MT stretched his arms over the seat back, and we talked about futures and teaching and Columbia and New York and sunsets and perfect.

I gushed about my family to a luckily receptive audience; MT and the slightly creepy PC driver had already met and been charmed by my host family. Despite my fantastically productive service in Atar, I explained, the south would always encapsulate Mauritania. It would always feel… right. They nodded in the fading dusk, whether in understanding or agreement, I don’t know.

Rollercoaster, a whoo whoo whoo

Several downs as of late. I’ll not dwell, but instead provide a quick laundry list:

• Agreeing to sleep in MF’s office to guard computer/money since lock was broken. Waking up with PC staff banging on the door “maa-hu zeyn, maa-hu zeyn.” B and I grabbing blankets and pillows to escape to shamed safety.
  
• Being paragraphs away from finishing my 14 page Annual Report. Watching my flash drive effectively eat it. Restarting from absolute scratch.
  
• Walking in the blazing afternoon sun for a scheduled appointment at the bank. Arriving to an empty building and locked doors. Twice.
  
• Spending an entire day without breakfast, lunch, or even a measly snack. Apparently, heat makes me hungry-grumpy.
  
• Waving goodbye to KG, my coordinator, predecessor, and friend, as he rode off to Nouakchott, to COS, to America, to incommunicado?

And for the ups (I think I just like writing html lists…):

• Talking to Niger RPCV who visited during Atar Marathon.
  
• Connecting via email with NJG after a long hiatus.
  
• Moving in to the Coordinators’ House; I am officially EE coordinator!
  
• Drinking the night away with PCVs in town. Pulling several stomach muscled in absolute hysterics.
  
• Finishing laundry, my kingdom for a washing machine.

What’s left? Tomorrow I have to:

• Finish my Annual Report, gassar amar-u.
  
• Write up and lead two EE training sessions.
  
• Review my Hassaniye speech to deliver at the Sabualla trainees’ Closing Ceremony.
  
• Shoot off some email.
  
• Eat three balanced meals and ward off grumpy.

Goodnight for now, task list, goodnight creaky fan and whispering tree leaves and clapping thunder. I’ll see some of you tomorrow.

soit vigilant!

Just wanted to give a quick heads up for anyone following security in Northwest Africa. The U.S. Embassy released a Warden Message today, August 23, encouraging American citizens to "take increased security precautions" in response to recent "reports of planned activities such as kidnapping by Al-Qaeda in the Lands of the Islamic Maghreb (AQIM)." More information on the al-Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb here. The Pan African News Agency (PANA) published the following yesterday:

Mauritania Alerts Western Embassies on Terror Plan
Nouakchott, Mauritania - Mauritanian authorities have alerted Western diplomatic missions here over credible threats, including abduction of their nationals, by a branch the Al-Qaeda terrorist group operating in the Arab Maghreb, diplomatic sources told PANA here Tuesday.

The source said the Mauritanian authorities had also urged the Western embassies to take the warning seriously and prevail on their nationals to move around only during the day.

It said the warning came after the arrest of at least five people suspected of having links with the terrorist organisation in Boutilimitt city, some 150 km south of Nouakchott.

The Salafist Group for Preach and Fight (GSPC) has been officially renamed by the organsation's second-in-command, Ayman Dhawahri, following its allegiance to the Al-Qaeda armed branch in the Maghreb in September 2006.

The GSPC claimed responsibility for the deadly attack against the northern Lemgheyti military command in July 2004. GSPC has rattled the Maghreb countries with recent attacks in the Moroccan and Algerian capitals.
Nouakchott - 22/08/2007
Panapress

I don't post to alarm, just to inform. And to brag on our Peace Corps office. PC Nouakchott notified volunteers mere hours after the PANA article was published. Moreover, the Warden Message appeared in my inbox before it was posted online at the Mauritanian U.S. Embassy.

So, volunteers are security-savvy, and you are now better informed. Plus, I'm currently in a relatively inaccessible region of Mauritania, eating good, being happy. In other words: no worries.

flexing, exercising

To dear friends who have marked my disappearance:

I am here, alternately worked and bored to death, however quite far from dead. I should have been writing in the interim, but I forgot rule number 5.

Suffice to say, you know who you are. I miss you. And updates are forthcoming.

forecast calls for.... rain?

After an afternoon surrounded by a half dozen volunteers, I am claustrophobic, slightly misanthropic, and looking for a way to hide. I escape from the climate controlled computer lab and retreat to the main room. It is unventilated, but four times as spacious and quietly refreshing. Under the outer door glows the promise of a storm: yellow-green light pouring into the dark classroom. My fingers push the door, just barely, and the wind catches it, tugs it open as a thunderclap rumbles overhead. It is raining.

Chalk it up to global warming, disoriented weather patterns, or larium-induced delusions, but precipitation has graced Atar skies all month. I used to measure my service with the rain: no, my kids performed a play just after the April rain. Or, site visit ended just after that one drizzle in September. Recent precipitation has caught me, pleasantly, off guard. Now, I marvel at the darkening clouds and struggle to remember a time when rain just did not fall here. Meanwhile, the locals cower in fear, fret under overhangs, and wish for a drier climate.

A soft mist cools my face as I step out the swinging metal door. The concrete wall has been baking in the sun all day; I lean against it and absorb the warmth, uncomfortable but comforting, like a rumbling dryer on a summer day. Over the wall, I see a young, shaved head climb to the roof. He sneaks a glance at me, then ducks out of sight. Cowering in fear, but not from the rain. Casually, I turn my head to the street, pretending not to notice his curious peeping from the roof. Hiding or not, we can enjoy this moment together.

Less dancing this time

It’s late. The brousse volunteers are all in town, all in various stages of snoring tossing sleeping in my courtyard. I do a last sweep of the yard: pick up drained coke cans, straighten bidons of slowly stagnating water, collect scratched DVDs, hide my laptop (a.k.a. home theater system) from the inevitable evening sandstorm, flick out the lights. I pad softly around my unconscious friends to wash up and finally sleep myself.

Entering my room, I slip off my sandals and forego the light. The bulb takes so long to sputter and spark into fluorescence and my toothbrush is in its familiar Tupperware container, easy to find in the dark.

Scuttle.

My ears hone in and recognize the noise immediately. Scuttle.

I reach for the last place I remember throwing a flashlight. Scuttle. Scorpion.

Fumble for the switch, swing the beam towards scuttle. Scorpion. There he is, tiny, golden, quick. I might need help. “Will?” I call out to my region mate, thinking him still marginally awake. “Um, I have a scorpion in my room.”

Will peeks his head in just as I empty a bucket and slam it over my pincered friend. “You get him?”

“Yeah, under the bucket. Didn’t kill him yet,” I admit.

“Want me to smash him?” he asks, removing his shoe.

Still feeling residual guilt from my previous tango with a scorpion, I turn my head and nod. Bucket up, shoe down, scorpion expired. Considerably less dancing than last time.

Thing is, I had just recently stopped meticulously scanning my floor for arachnids. Just stopped worrying if my light-less bedroom forays would end with a stinger in my toe. Just forgot why I finally had that fluorescent bulb replaced. With renewed awareness (read: fear), I wonder if scorpion sightings could ever become routine. Already, I’ve gone from dancing and surprised yelps to buckets and unwavering heart rates. For now, I’ll measure my calendar with rare events: scorpions and thunderstorms.

Drizzled lawn chairs

Drops melt rivers into soft blond bristles
And rivulets streak sand dusted cheeks
I sit on the roof
Until my skin puckers against the breeze
Sweet merciful weather patterns, 79 degrees is artic
Lightning scratches the panorama of Atar skyline
Rain trickles down my neck collecting salt
And sweat
Sending it to pool on the white plastic lawn chair beneath me

On the road, never bored

Atar in the summer. Everyone warned me about heat. “You think 40 [approx. 105F] is bad, you just wait,” they said with malicious giggles. In fact, their cruelty was kindness: upon arrival from the States in June, I harbored no illusions about the climate and its impending toll on my body. Highs of 117 in the shade and 136 in the sun: par for the course.

No one warned me about boredom.

School is out, kids are gone, the getna (date harvest) is in full swing and the city has emptied of locals. Temporary residents include hot shots from Nouahchott tearing through narrow alleys in shiny cars and gorging themselves on plates of goat meat, bowls of dates, cups of gravy and cream.

Wary of instantaneous arterial blockage, I avoid familial dining experiences that begin with sugary fruit dipped in butter and end with, “eat, eat, you hardly touched the fourth course of grilled meat!” Normally, I would resort to work. But with the schools empty, I am going to have to resort to travel. I have to get out of here. Again.

Between Jazz Fest in late May, America in early June, Nouakchott and Aioun conferences in late June, and EcoCamp in Kaedi in July, I have been on the road for seven weeks. I am here, temporarily, to look for housing for our incoming class of volunteers and do rounds of protocol (read: government schmoozing) with them for site visit. Come early August, however, I’m on the road again for medical interviews in the capital and training sessions in Kaedi.

Seven weeks on the road, four at site, four back out. It’s the perfect way to pass what would be an otherwise lethargic and unproductive summer. Living out of a suitcase is stressful, transient, but work-related travel is a guilt-free way to see the country, visit other volunteers, and spend multiple, sweaty hours in a bush taxi. I suppose I’ll ache to be home in my own bed, my own room in about a month. For now, I’m excited to escape the clutches of ennui offered by a lazy Adrar summer.

Home is where the xxx is, tips for taking/surviving/enjoying home leave

After two and a half weeks in America, I was ready to get back to Mauritania, get back to work. Don’t get me wrong: I thoroughly enjoyed bowls of chili with old family friends, coneys and baseball games with my brother, swimming with young cousins, grilled chicken sandwiches, coffee with cayenne pepper and cream, family reunions, barbecue dinners, putting faces to emailed names, empty dance clubs and cardboard box warehouses, cold beers and fireworks, pancakes and goetta, omlettes and salsa, triscuits and apples and cheese. Few things beat hugs from my brother (kid’s built like a fridge) and my step dad (warmest, most generous man I’ll ever meet). Hula hoops and giggles with Frances made up for strange nights on the Northside. And killing time with my mom, even if we were just watching bad TV and eating ham sandwiches, was lovely.

These delights notwithstanding, being back in Cincy was… exhausting. Nostalgic? Poisonous? Old faces from a past that won’t stay passed, memories from haunts that I no longer frequent, attitudes and mindsets I had long since forgotten… I had launched from Atar with incredible momentum: integrated, comfortable, fluent (80% French, 15% Hassaniye), productive, happy. Imagine my surprise, in no less than three days, I was incapacitated and uninspired as I had been pre-departure. I had taken twelve months forward, and immediately eighteen months back.

In my distress, I made the mistake of calling Mauritania “home.” Upon further reflection, however, I realized it was not necessarily a mistake my tongue made despite my brain. Home is such a curious concept. Is it where you were born? Where you spent most of your life? Where your family lives? What if your family is splintered all over the country? Or the world? Is it where you are happiest? Most comfortable? Where your work is? Your bed? Your heart? Twenty four hours of transatlantic flight was not enough time to sort these questions, much less answer them.

I do know that, since I sold my father’s house, and maybe even before then, I have been unable to pinpoint “home.” Usually, where I’m going merits the title. In college, going to visit for Thanksgiving made Cincinnati home. Just after holiday in Cincinnati, returning to school: Chicago. Taking a quick Halloween vacation in the states: Cleveland. Returning to my flat in the cinquième: Paris. Buying tickets in Atar: Cincinnati again. Two weeks later: Mauritania. It is simply too fluid a concept to nail down geographically, permanently. Much to the chagrin of family, neighbors, and credit card companies trying to offer 0% APR.

In any case, on June 17th, I was absolutely ready to hop the Atlantic, hunker down in West Africa, and get back to work (home). Now that I’m settled in Mauritania (still on the road, but no longer in the air), I offer advice for those taking “home” leave.

To Plan
Buy your ticket, call your folks, and move on. It is so easy to spend time counting down days, trading anticipation for work. This will result in at least several unproductive months and unrealistic expectations for your vacation. Don’t overhype the trip and don’t forget obligations on the ground. Work like a dog up until the moment you take off and you won’t have time to fret, second-guess, or repack for the 10th time.

To Do
Write a To Do list. Consult it often. Worship it. Enforce it. So many items on my “to do,” “to buy” and “to eat” list were abandoned for the sake of being polite and easygoing. Going home is for your family, for your lover, for your friend. It is also for you. Your time is limited, your desires are many, so be egotistical. Plan to eat sushi, Indian, Thai, and spicy chicken sandwiches at Wendy’s. Go to the local amusement park. Copy music on your iPod, burn DVDs. Go shopping for earrings, cliff bars and dried cherries. If your friends want to see you, they can meet you there.

To Socialize
Inform family, friends, etc. when you will be home. Surprises and last minute trips lead to hurt feelings and forgotten lunches. Your time is limited, their desires are many, so be practical. Plan a huge party; invite everyone. If your friends want to see you, they can meet you there.

To Apologize
Two weeks, two months, it will not be enough. You will not see as many people as much as you (or they) wanted. Your time is limited, your unintentional faux-pas are many, so be apologetic. Before, during and after, seek forgiveness of those with whom you would spend 24-7 if only you could self-replicate. Then, let go of the guilt, and enjoy your vacation.

To Eat
Once in the states, you will forget how badly you wanted that steak. Or strawberry rhubarb pie. Or grilled cheese sandwich. Eat these things, savor each bite, and write off the pounds gained as collateral damage for a vacation well spent.

To Pack
Once in the states, you will forget how badly you wanted those Reese’s Pieces. Or skittles. Or Cliff bars. Or beef jerky. Buy these things even if you aren’t in the mood, put them in a suitcase or a care package (from you to you, ingenious!), and revel in the treats once you are home. Er, back in country. You know what I mean.

And finally…

To Re-enter
How is it that you need a vacation from a vacation? Best not to dilly dally with re-entry. Hit the ground running and cram your schedule full of conferences, work projects, and assignments. This way, you remember your trip fondly but aren’t incapacitated or dazed with the temporal/geographical/cultural shift.


I was only able to follow the first and last recommendations; the other middle bits were lessons by failure, trials by fire. Good luck to those hopping the pond and congratulations to those who already survived the trip. My next ETA stateside: September 2008, inshallah. Length of stay: undetermined.

peace corps perfect: improving atar one school at a time

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Since my arrival in September 2006, I have given Atar my sweat, tears, enthusiasm, and ideas. The contributions I've made have been with my hands, not my wallet. And I have emphasized time and time again: I'm not a bank. I don't have money.

So what's this about a huge funded project you ask? Read on.

You can read a detailed report here, but the skinny is: my schools are public health and education nightmares. Latrines are caving in, chalkboards are peeling off walls. The kids are taught to wash their hands in facilities with no running water. And these shameful conditions are flaunted before NGOs to solicit funds (read: handouts) that never quite make it to local schools.

The Peace Corps Partnership Program (PCPP) is different. PCPP provides funding assistance for community-initiated projects and surpasses traditional international aid mechanisms in several ways.

First, an NGO is not dispersing funds from a distant office building. The design, construction, timing, and funding is determined by local stakeholders. Second, money is spent according to a predetermined project plan or returned to the donors, avoiding any "redirecting of funds." Third, because PCPP requires local funding, approved projects are collaborative accomplishments and sources of pride for the community.

In September 2007, with PCPP funding, my community will begin a School Improvement Project. Plans include renovated latrines and chalkboards, running water faucets, hand washing stations and school gardens. Small donations are welcomed and in fact preferred. Many people contributing small amounts is an indicator of a successful project (according to Peace Corps Washington and grassroots common sense). With your contributions, we can fund improvements conceived, budgeted, and built with Mauritanian minds and hands. You and I facilitate locally-driven development. It's capacity building, it's sustainable, it's Peace Corps perfect.

Interested?
Please donate here.
And thank you. From me, my kids, Atar, and Mauritania.

Carryon knives: thwarting kindness at a checkpoint near you

I touched down in Cincinnati, finally, after 24 hours in the air and 6 on the ground for a sleepy Paris layover. Unbelievably, the last security checkpoint nearly kept me from home. Northern Kentucky/Covington Airport (CVG) does not differentiate between passengers who are arriving in Cincinnati and those who are catching connecting flights; we all go through the same security. After scanning my luggage for containers of liquid for at least the third time, I stepped up to the x-ray machine.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes,” I responded, still unsteady speaking in English.
“Is this your bag?” she asked, tired as I was and certainly more peevish.
She rummaged through my purse, a small carryon that had gone through security once in Nouakchott and twice in Charles de Gaulle. What she was looking for was beyond my guess.
“Is this your knife?”
I was speechless. One of the many knives I usually carry in Atar was hanging from her gloved fingers. I hadn’t found it when packing for the states, neither had three rounds of security checkpoints and guards. I stammered out an apology and explained that I was arriving in Cincinnati after a day of travel, could we just pass the knife through and I could go home no problem?

Anger better intended for negligent security across the ocean lashed out: she was furious I had “smuggled” a weapon onto two flights. “You wanna keep this?” she spat. I had to backtrack to customs, miraculously find my checked luggage before they sent it to baggage claim, and ask a guard to place the knife inside. Inside a bag that would travel 30 feet on a conveyor belt and immediately back into my possession. I could see baggage claim through the glass doors. I imagined my mother standing on the other side of those doors, waiting. I petitioned again, to no avail. I looked at the small pocket knife, a beautiful, compact blade that had weathered bush taxis and desert hiking and Mauritanian cooking and then looked back at the glass doors. The promise of a shower and a nap was too strong. “Just keep it,” I sighed, gathering the scattered contents of my bag. “It’s just not worth the hassle.”

The security agent should have been pleased that the system worked. Here was an unsuspecting passenger robbed of her unintentionally packed weapon, too tired to protest. Instead, she looked all the more perturbed that I wasn’t willing to endure the system 20 minutes longer to keep my knife. She seemed defeated, unable to (further) impede my progress through the maze of airport security. I slipped my toes into Mauritanian shower sandals and stepped through the glass doors, in search of my mom, her air conditioned car, and a nap between crisp sheets.

Good morning Paris

Deep blue haze mottles a dark sky
Competes with fluorescent reflections
Harsh and glaring against my window

No more than a blink
A furtive glance at the steward
A survey of the cabin
And the sky explodes
Palest blue turns to
Peach melba turns to
Blood red boiling on the horizon

Reflections of this fiery rainbow
On the smooth frozen edge of a plane’s wing
Voluminous ashy clouds hide
Villages
Towns
Cities on the edge of sleep and morning
Angry orange light punches through dense haze to compliment the sky
Greet her, complete her

Bonne journée Paris, you are melon haze, you are sleepy eyes, and African limbo

Origins unknown

Strange and shocking the frontier between Mauritania and not. I stroll into the airport not even hour before boarding, hardly checking my watch. I’ll make my flight, I think to myself, inshallah.

The random Mauritanian I met on the way to Matt’s house offers to drive me to the airport. Generously, he bypasses security to assist me with bags I’m pretty sure he won’t steal, and to chat it up with a guard (named Diene, I later learn) who will later personally escort me to the plane over empty tarmac.

In my carryon bags, I remember to remove all my swiss army knives, leathermen, and other assorted potential weapons, but I forget the Mauritanian blade engraved in delicate silver. It’s not really a knife proper, we think to ourselves, but the Air France representative places it in checked luggage all the same.

My personal escort informs me my flight is about to take off, “maybe we should get you to the gate.” My blood pressure barely spikes. Diene had delayed me with conversation, but surely he can delay an international flight to get me on board. It is a hybrid of entitlement and inshallah, both born and bred in Mauritania.

Not all outside world regulations and procedures are lost. I remember to pack my liquid toiletries in 3 oz. bottles in a 1 qt. bag, but forgetfully pad down the tarmac with a large bottle of water in hand. If Air France doesn’t reprimand me, have I broken any rules?

Far from scolding, the airline reps only greet me with surprise and delight: a nasraniye that speaks their language! I chat with the guards as they haphazardly go through my bags. “You speak better hassaniye than me,” the guard confesses as his electronic wand passes over my stomach. I laugh incredulously and wish him a good night. As I climb the stairs, I turn over my shoulder to say goodbye and catch myself rattling off a hassaniye greeting to group of disinterested Frenchmen. So the linguistic confusion begins.

The flight has not yet begun, the wheels not yet off the ground, and I already I feel too dirty to reenter civilization. Every seat is immaculate, every surface sparkling and sterile. The menu is on preprinted cards, high quality stock and my travel pouch includes prepackaged earbuds, earplugs, night mask, towlette and socks softer than any fabric I’ve felt in Mauritania, save the deteriorating tee shirt I am almost embarrassed to wear.

Wonders never cease, the gorgeous flight attendant (dead ringer for a RIM PCV, incidentally, except he speaks real French) brings me a hot towel. Hot. Towel. White, so crisp and white. I massage my face, feeling refreshed, cleaner, better, until I realize my Mauritanian dirt has defiled the pristine terrycloth. Mauritanian dirt or my dirt? It belongs, I suppose, to both of us. I get the impression the attendant is less than impressed by my half hennaed fingernails and shower sandals and African bag and browned skin and I wonder if reentry is simply culture shock is simply discomfort in a place you thought you once belonged. Or from a place you think you already do.

The city of Nouakchott fades dimly and winks into black ocean, and I miss Mauritania already. I am an expat, but of which country, I’m not entirely sure.

ohio

out from my window, across from the city, i have whats considered
a good view
two blocks from the subway, three from the fountain, where i walk
to break in new shoes

she stands on the sidewalk just waving at taxis like horses in parades in passing
i ask where she's headed, she tells me "ohio, ive not seen my mother in ages.
its been a long time,
a real long time."

a real long time.

...

out from my window, please hear me ohio, your daughter
wants to come home
she longs to be with you, to hug you, to kiss you, to never
leave her alone
and ive gotten to know her, to live with to love her, its hard
to see her leave
she belongs to her mother and the state of ohio, i wish she belonged to me
see you sometime
see you sometime



--ohio
damien jurado

Vultures in boubous

I start Wednesday morning bright and early, not to meet a teacher, not to type a report, not even to check email. My early rising inspiration: grits. Buttered, peppered, cooked and devoured with my site mate K. Delicious.

I am interrupted mid-spoonful by a phone call. My stomach sinks: it is Saad ould Yaya, a morning meeting absent-mindedly scheduled and entirely eclipsed by the prospect of grits. In other words, I forgot. In other other words, doh. I beg forgiveness, reschedule, and regret indebting myself to this Yaya.

I reap my forgetfulness at four o'clock, at which hour the heat distorts your peripheral vision and the asphalt bakes feet through flimsy sandals. Saad arrives in an uncharacteristically Mauritanian ride: shiny, undented finish, air conditioner, power windows. I climb in, happy to cease melting on the cool, leather seat covers. He drives to Azougi where we talk in his swanky auberge bungalows. His French is impeccable, his hospitality professional. Sipping cold water and hot tea, he gushes forth with inspiring Peace-Corps-speak, e.g.

"dynamism and enthusiasm are the motors that will transform Mauritania," "if you knock on every door with hope, eventually one will open," and "you may not have a budget, but your energy is means enough to change people's minds."

Cheesy, but still proves that he understands volunteer mentality, a rarity in country. Saad wants to help with my Half Marathon next year, wants to make it organized, professional, a grand event.

Halfway through the meeting, he stands up from the table and lies on the floor. I was uncomfortable in the chair, he explains. His oily smirk asks the question before his voice does: "would you like to join me?" Reluctantly, and several feet away, I sit on the floor. Saad launches into a convoluted speech that can be summed in one breath: "I don't do administration, funding or details, only ideas, and don't think about collaborating with anyone else who might do administration, funding or details, because then you will be unlawfully sharing my ideas." What ideas, might you ask? The idea to do a marathon, to ask people to show up in Atar and run in the desert, to give them water at pit stops along the course, to time them and congratulate them at the end. You know, all the ideas I already implemented the first marathon a month ago. Ideas my predecessor implemented the year before. Ideas which now, apparently, are trademarked by Saad and the Auberge Oued Illij. Right.

Afterward, we tour his auberges, under construction but already showing great promise: beautiful stone inlays, blossoming bougainvilleas, slate pathways curving around young palms, and an incredible panoramic view of the Azougi plateaus. His generosity moves him to offer a discounted price to my future visitors. No admin or details, but he'll cut a few bucks off a room. I thank him and take my leave.

The next day, I am at Ecole 3. My friend Nouha saunters in, interrupting a clipped greeting with an accusation-cum-question, "where were you last night?" My larium memory stumbles, but eventually I remember my meeting. She has but one word of advice: "dangereux." I shoot a confused glance at my director who smiles and calls me to his desk.

"This man is… he is a, a bird," he explains in hesitating French. "You know the birds that fly in a circle, the ones that eat…"
"Carcasses?" I chime in.
"Yes! Or, or, even, who look for small birds. They wait till the birds fall…"
"From the air?"
"No… they are…" he flutters his eyes and clutches his heart. "They fall…"
"In love?"
"Yes! Or maybe they trust this big bird, who waits, he circles round, and then…" he snatches an imaginary bird from the air and devours it. I mock a gasp and he shakes his head solemnly.

I believe we call those birds vultures. Ironic, since my naïveté eight months ago evoked similar imagery of boubous descending on flocks of melifas. My director's advice dully noted, I set Saad ould Yaya's number to a silent ring tone and went about my small bird ways.

Raas-ik digdag

I forget things. I tried to explain myself on arrival to my Mauritanian colleagues and American site mates. I did not mince words: If I schedule ten meetings with you, I will forget three and arrive late to at least four more. Those are the odds, and I'm sorry in advance. "Don't be silly," they all laughed. "You are a super volunteer, together, responsible, dependable." I simply shook my head and braced for the inevitable.

Yesterday, I was in the Ecole 3 director's office, chatting, wrapping up a meeting. Because my hours are not fixed, I usually let him know when I'll stop in next. Sometimes next week, sometimes tomorrow, occasionally later the same day. As I left his office, I called out "à dimanche" meaning I'd be back on Sunday. Abdellahi nodded in recognition, stopped short and barked "non, non, non, demain, tu reviens demain pour chercher le clé."

Of course I am coming back tomorrow for the key. How else can I run English classes and ecoclub this weekend if I can't open the school gate? How many times have I forgotten the key Friday, only to frantically send a child Sunday to fetch it? Abdellahi smiled at me, fully, paternally, and produced the key from his boubou pocket. Sheepishly, I took the key, reasoning that I would have remembered, I had put it in my calendar. "Shuuv," look at the entry, I said. He laughed gently, called me raasik digdag, and waved me out of the office. I grinned, accepting my nickname which means broken head.

Later that afternoon, surprise surprise, I was running late. For the nth time to a volunteer meeting. Of course, I had a valid excuse: the labyrinth of narrow streets that wind aimlessly through old town had trounced my sense of direction. In short, I was lost. Standard tardy Ellen procedure dictated I send a text, something along the lines of, "ah ha ha, im lost in old town." My site mate K appropriately and cheerfully responded, "of course you are. hope you find your way out before we end our meeting." My broken head heaved a sigh. No sarcasm, no kidding, it made me happy to be so understood.

If my heart speaks French, my teeth sing Spanish

Went to Edebaye to meet a teacher Wednesday. He was not there yet, but oddly enough a touring Spanish dental organization was. With enthusiastic smiles and hand gestures, underdressed hispanophone women (shorts, tee shirts, uncovered heads) ushered children between makeshift brushing stations in overcrowded classrooms. It was quite the production: brush teeth, up and down, front and back, now pose for the camera, smile, no don't eat the toothpaste, smile… flashbulb, line up for fluoride treatment, fun until the mouth guard feels too big, drool accumulates, now spit but don't drink water, I know it tastes bad but don't rinse out the fluori… ok, ok, go ahead and rinse, now come back for a photo op, flash those scrubbed but still far from pearly whites, take logo-adorned toothbrush, never mind you can't read the Spanish, another photo op, flashbulb and next…

The end of this assembly line was an enormous bus blocking the school gate, a portable practice offering abbreviated dental checkups. My teacher friend Salma – not about to be examined without a chaperone – yanked me toward the bus. Inside we found reclining chairs, oral hygiene tools, and a fetching young Spaniard posing as a dentist. He guided me to a chair, his lack of French counterbalanced by a disarming smile. I gazed into his eyes, he gazed into my mouth, and after two minutes of anonymous and detached intimacy, he shot me a grin that said either, "in my next life I will find you and I will know how to speak French" or "you're from a first world country, of course your teeth are healthy."

Finished, Salma, dressed in a moor veil, and I, sporting a crisp Pulaar complet, descended the bus stairs arm in arm. We chattered happily in Hassaniye and French, while the Spaniards looked from on high in their latex gloves and khaki shorts. Next appointment: six months. Or so.

Who’s on first?

In foreign countries, language difficulties extend beyond greetings and verb conjugation. They affect (infect?) every sector of life, including names. When baptizing a male baby in Mauritania, for example, the stock is well defined. White moors have their pick from Mohammed, Sidi, Ahmed, Ely, Abdellahi, Mouktar, or any combination thereof. Mohammed ould Mouktar1, Abdellahi ould Ely Ahmed, Sidi Mohammed ould Ahmed, Mohammed ould Abdellahi, Mohammed ould Ely Mouktar, Mohammed ould Sidi Ahmed, Mohammed ould Mohammed… et cetera.

The point is, my phone rings at least twice weekly with the following conversation:

“Hello?”
“Allo. Allo.”
“Hello, who is this?”2
“Allo. So, how are you?”
“I’m fine, who is this?”
“How are you? How’s the health? Are you fine?”
“Really, I’m great. Who is this?”
“Mohammed. So, how are you? Nothing bad?”
“Mohammed. Mohammed ould who?”
“Mohammed! You don’t know me? How are you, fine?”
“Yes, yes, I’m good. Mohammed who?”
“[shock] You don’t remember me…”
pause
“Mohammed ould Mohammed. The tour guide.”
“[fatigue] Mohammed the tour guide. Right. Where did we meet?”
“Mohammed! I asked you for private English lessons at your house.”
“Mm hmm, that narrows it down. [frustration] Where did we meet?”
“So, how are you?”
“I’m fine, but…”
click.

Ps. If you like The Killers, you will enjoy Interpol. Word to the wise.

---

1: where ould means son of
2: My half of the conversation is usually in French, sometimes broken Hassaniye. Their half is invariably incomprehensible, Wendy’s-drive-through Hassaniye and/or broken French.

Everything is a bargain

My time in country does not necessarily correlate positively with my understanding of Mauritania. I have, however, made at least one revelation this month: everything is a bargain. I don't mean goods are sold on the cheap. I mean every aspect of daily life requires negotiation.

For a kilo of carrots, we lowball the tents at the vegetable market. For a claw hammer, we cut the merchant's proposed price in half. Buying a roll of tape is cause for suspicion (maa-hu waa'ir? - this isn't overpriced?) and a visit to the local tailor can be a harrowing hour-long ordeal. Volunteers even haggle for time: we schedule meetings days in advance to account for cancellations and postponements. If a week-long project needs to be done by June, we instinctively begin in April. Occasionally, this provides adequate "oops" time.

I liken it to my morning routine. I know I will slap the snooze out of my alarm at least five times, so I set my buzzer an hour early. You think it ridiculous, I find it Mauritania-typical. Despite the morning sun, the rooster crows, the morning prayer calls, my day begins with the "five more minutes" mentality and continues throughout a vigorously bargained day.

Walking to school only takes ten minutes

As the title suggests, walking to one of my three schools only takes ten minutes. You’d think this is hardly enough time to assemble a montage of weird. But you’d be wrong.

8:45am
Leave my house. Wave to neighbor children who chant – in no particular order – aleykum (half of “peace be with you”), bien (well), bonjour (hello), ca (half of “how are you”), isselaam (the other half of “peace be with you”), madame (me), monsieur (decidedly not me), and va (the other half of “how are you”).


8:46am
Continue down my street. Two children catch up to me, match my pace. "Miyeteyn?" one proposes. This means two hundred, as in ougiye, as in gift comma please give me. I shake my head and respond in Hassaniye, “I don’t have any money.”

He repeats himself and offers the large green, slightly decomposing bundle he is carrying. I ask him what he’s got; it’s food, he says. I ask if it’s for people or for animals.

“For animals,” he says.
“I don’t have animals at my house.”
Incredulously, “you don’t have animals?”
“Nope.”
“Miyeteyn?”

I look at him puzzled. He offers simply: you could eat it. I laugh in spite of myself, and he joins me, understanding his proposition is ridiculous. His younger companion is slower to catch on, and interrupts our laughter with “miyeteyn?”


8:47am
Pass the bakery. A slightly post-adolescent male beckons from the doorway, “monsieur.” I correct him lightheartedly, “madame.” His response is in French, simply: “five.” I ask the obvious: “five what?” He gives me what could only be called “the eye” and asks me in a sultry Arabic accent to come inside. I respectfully decline.


8:51am
Almost to the center of town. A group of melifahs approach, all forty-something. I notice one looking intently at me. Further inspection reveals a large carrot in her hand, half hidden by the folds in her veil. She is holding it near her crotch making extraordinarily phallic gestures. I say the first thing that comes to mind, the Arabic word for “welcome.” Volunteers often use this word in such unsavory contexts, and the local women love it. Together, we erupt in peals of laughter. Incredulous, I realize I just shared a penis joke with Mauritanian women in veils. I shake my head, continue toward school.


8:52am
Pass the town square. Someone calls my name. I turn my head to see a small Mauritanian man bounding down the stairs from the amphitheater. It’s Jacouba, one of my English students and a teacher at the French Alliance. He lands in front of me, greets me in his normal exuberant style.

We talk for thirty seconds before my skin begins to complain under the morning sun. I realize Jacouba has not broken a sweat. This is all the more impressive that he is dressed for late autumn in Ohio: undershirt, polo tee shirt, long sleeved button down shirt, and a vest. He is talking about how English classes are so interesting, so fabulous, such an interesting social tool to gather people of different professions, languages, cultures, countries, but I can barely concentrate. I am still processing his multi-layered outfit. He finishes praising the volunteers, fires off a cheery greeting, and I am still left speechless, hotter having witnessed his fashion sense resist melting.


8:54am
Almost to school. A car whizzes past me. The driver screams in Doppler from the window: "nti zeyne!!". I was and am still unsure how to translate this. Hassaniye is not the richest language, and zeyn has a number of meanings: good, beautiful, cute, breath-taking, delicious, etc. Think of a positive connotation and zeyn covers it. I am thinking “you are delicious” is not what the driver intended, but one never knows…


8:55am
Cue end credits.

St. Patty’s Day, part 2: eleven arguments against open-toed shoes

Sunday night. Finally. I force my key into the lock, step into my courtyard, my space. After hiking over boulder-strewn canyons, fitfully dozing on unforgiving dirt surfaces, teaching in classrooms dusty with sand and chalk, all I want is a shower and some sleep. I walk into my bedroom and flick on the dim light attached to my fan (my overhead light has been broken for months). While slinging my bags on the floor, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I shine my cell phone toward the noise. Yes, movement, I’m sure of it now. I creep across the room, armed with a phone and the scarf I just peeled from my head. Scuttling across the concrete floor, my visitor darts into the light. He is armed with two pincers, eight legs, and one thick, muddy yellow-colored stinger. He is three inches long, which is significant in a scorpion-sized world. He does not know how to find the door.

My stomach sinks. I’m exhausted, I’m dirty, and how on earth am I going to get this arachnid out of my house without one, killing him, and two, getting his venomous tail lodged in my flesh?

First things first, I need a light. Better quality than my nokia torche¹. I immediately call KM, meet her in town, and borrow her 21-led burn-your-retinas flashlight². I enter my house, much more cautiously than before, hear scampering clicks of tiny legs, and lunge for my mattress. A mere six inches off the floor, I realize this will afford me significantly less protection than I’d like. If my little friend can climb, I’m as good as stung. At least I’ll see his stinger administering the soup: I’m now armed with a spotlight, a large cup and a broom. We chase each other around the room a bit, I yelp, he pinces, I dodge, we dance, we both get rather agitated. Finally, he gets caught in a cloth in front of my bookcase, and I come to a conclusion. I heave a sigh and begin conversing with my house guest.

“Look little guy. I’d try to scoop you in this cup if I could. I’d throw you outside and let you sting someone else to your intravascular system’s content. But frankly, you are pissed, and I am an all-too-easy target for your vengeful little tail.”

I pause, waiting for an improbable response to ease my guilt and insulate my karma. Instead, he scratches and scurries under the cloth.

“So look,” I continue, “I’m sorry. I’m going to have to kill you. With this broom. Several feet from my vulnerable toes. But I’m sorry. Really. I’m sorry.” And then I beat the little bugger to death.

The scorpion is still in my house, bludgeoned, messy and hidden under a laundry basket. I can’t bring myself to throw him away, and I irrationally expect to meet his friends by moonlight in my courtyard. Strange that Saturday night’s worst fear was Sunday’s night’s after-dinner debacle is now every night’s paranoia. In a few weeks, I’m sure my arachnophobia will fade and my conscience will recover. For now, at the end of the day, walking through my doorway, I’ll step lightly, slightly guiltily.


1: The nokia torcheis the Target brand of West African cell phones: dependable, no-frills, cheap. The “torche” refers to the dim little bulb embedded in the phone. Diurnally, my nokia is communication; nocturnally, it is protection against stepping in a pile of Mauritania (e.g. goat droppings, fish heads, diapers, open cesspools).

2: This astonishing flashlight has the rumored ability to “blind God” and is the first step in the “blind first, then stab” defense policy of female Atar volunteers.

St. Paddy’s Day, part 1: a party, on the rocks, shaken and stirred

Volunteer life, I have realized, revolves around holidays. In Mauritania, fêtes come in many flavors: Muslim (Ramadan), Christian (yep, kids get off for Christmas and Easter), national (Mauritania’s Independence Day), international (Women’s Day) and even secular (each cacophonous election cycle). Essentially, RIM PCVs count down the days to the next socio-culturally sanctioned reason to skip work. We then celebrate heartily, return, recuperate, and immediately begin planning the next holiday. Don’t misunderstand, we are yoked oxen in the meantime, working seven days a week, planning and executing substantial projects, and accumulating street credit on behalf of all future volunteers. That said, we revel in our holidays.

This past weekend, we honored Saint Patrick. Born circa 389 A.D., he brought Christianity to Ireland and provided mankind an excuse to drink heavily beginning 7:30am, every March 17th until the Kingdom happens to come. Unfortunately, my work schedule prevented an early morning start, but by 1pm, the Adrar volunteers had packed into a 4x4¹ bound for Teyaritt, an oasis ~15km outside of the city.

Our fearless driver Momo, who had flown recklessly over dunes and destroyed roadway, lost his nerve at the entrance of the canyon. Brittle acacias armed with thorns wove between enormous boulders littering the canyon floor. The only flat surfaces visible were large, black faces of rocks jutting perpendicularly skyward and the ceiling of the sky itself – hardly drivable terrain. After securing a ride back the next day (a “maybe”-turned-shaky-“inshallah” from Momo), we took our tuna, bread, beverages² and green tee shirts into the gorge.

The canyon walls were several degrees steeper than sheer. Looking up, up, up, the cliffs bowed with incredible weight and threatened to collapse over our heads. Red-brown rock dominated the landscape, filled every inch of our peripheral vision. We vaulted over boulders, stumbled into ravines, and bruised tanned elbows. The hike lasted just short of 45 minutes, but in the heat of 2pm Mauritania desert, it felt considerably longer. Just when the ligaments in my knees could take no more rock-hopping impacts, I heard someone gasp ahead of me, “it’s paradise.”

It was indeed paradise. We had taken a fork at the end of which was a blue green pool, sparkling in the sunlight. Water dripped from walls dressed in green, leafy vines. The rock faces seemed taller, more majestic now that they framed a hidden, perfect lagoon. We immediately stripped down to suits and plunged into the icy water. Refreshing barely begins to express the moment.

We dove off pocked ravine walls, followed warm currents of water, scrambled over algae-covered stones, and let tiny fish nip at our toes. Eventually, our core temperatures sufficiently chilled, we headed for the shore to administer music (a playlist thoughtfully named “have a Guinness”) and beverages. Swimming, giggling, photographing, and fire building ensued. Rumor has it that a few of us tried high altitude cliff diving, some had an Irish-Scottish accent war, another had an involved fight with a sticker bush, and yet another fell asleep with her feet soaking on the pool shore. I will neither condone nor claim any of these feats, on my or anyone else’s behalf. Just anonymous skeletons in the closet of our future political careers.

From one perspective, the party was pretty tame. True to Mauritanian form, when the sun went down, so did we. In fact, the fire lasted longer than I did. Around midnight, I woke with my head precariously close to long-dead coals and my feet… let’s say precariously close to the water. Freezing, still clad in a bathing suit, and flummoxed by the zipper on my sleeping bag, I inched my way up the shore and bundled up best I could. Unfortunately, the nylon cocoon only works when zipped. As a result, I was exposed to chilly breezes (the hypothermia from which I could have sleepily ignored) and would be attacks from phantom scorpions (the fear of which kept me in a half-conscious, paranoid stupor until sunrise).

The sun did finally rise, and I found myself on a 45 degree incline, my feet braced against a rock, my face and shoulder in the dirt. My sleepless night no longer a mystery, I clambered further up the bank to seek level, dry ground and a few winks before everyone else braved the crisp morning. I found a small patch of sand, rehabilitated my zipper in the faint of dawn, and promptly drifted off.

Eventually, the sunlight, blinding and persistent, demanded my attention. We ate a piecemeal breakfast of hardboiled eggs, peanut butter, bananas and bread. Reluctant to leave (and still frozen, stiff from last night), we bottled and treated water for the hike back and sunned ourselves poolside for a few more hours. Only an overnight vacation, but memorable, certainly. Well, mostly.

The hike back out was uneventful, rocky, sweaty. And, mashallah, Momo arrived at the canyon entrance just as we did, smiling and waving from his dust covered truck. We barely arrived in Atar just in time to write a lesson and go (directly and unshowered) teach an English class. The increasing temperatures mean decreasing attendance lists, so KM and I combined our depopulated classes and taught “party vocabulary” tag-team style³. Productive, professional, if a little pungent. And a great segue from a festive Teyaritt getaway into a fruitful work week in Atar.


1: 4x4 is pronounced “cat cat.” Naturally, this should strike me as French (as in quatre quatre) but more often than not, it strikes me as cute in that small feline sort of way.

2: Um. Beverages. St. Patty’s Day. This is what we call “duh.”

3: Party vocabulary in an English class taught to Mauritanian adults included phrases such as “to invite guests,” “to prepare food,” and “to clean up the mess.” St. Patty’s Day vocabulary (“accent war” or “homebrewed brousse wine” for example) was less relevant, less tame, and thus excluded from the lesson.