season finales lose the plotline in melodrama

It looks as though my stint in Mauritania has come to an abrupt close.

As I prepared for my third year, an anticipated twelve months of national level projects, government official canoodlings, and frequent travel training dates, Mauritania hatched another plan.  One of military juntas, dismantled ministries, and slashed budgets.  In other words, my third year plans ... diminished.

With four precious days left before my required second-to-third-year-trip-home, I consulted my country director and made the difficult decision to close my service.  COS for all you Peace Corps acronym junkies, sea change for everyone else.

In record time, I completed my health clearances, acquired signatures on cancelled housing contracts, finalized project reports, and packed up a year's worth of life in two suitacses and a small box.  Seventy kilos, all told.  A process that usually takes three to five months was boiled down into 3ish% of that, and suddenly I was on a plane to Cincinnati, one-way, thanks for flying, buh-bye.

Not that administrative COS procedures necessarily take three to five months.  But pre-departure processing might.  I quickly scanned my fellow volunteers' online journals like a voyeur, peeking at how they prepared to leave.  To say goodbye to close friends.  To take last pictures of sites, to buy silly trinkets and memorabilia, to make a healthy break with what would soon be their former lives.  From the anonymous setting of the capital, these were luxuries I could not afford.  So, I looked out the port hole window of the plane and blinked a quick goodby to the RIM.

I didn't have the time to warn my family before touching down, so my permanent arrival was a most pleasant surprise for them, met with cackles of glee and violent embraces.  They did not entirely grasp the nuance of my situation.  Sure, I was glad to up into leafy trees, to sleep on a matress, to pet my cat, to drink a beer.  But the speed with which I was extracted from my previous life was ... destabilizing at best.

I continued with my homeleave as planned, meaning after a week of familial jubiliation at "home," I jumped on flights that carried me to DC, Taipei, and Chicago.  I am now several days back in Cincinnati, trying to figure out when and where I'll escape to next.

Admittedly, I have extraordinarily few constant readers, but I'd like to thank everyone who supported me through this intense journey.  There are some who followed my online musings from day one, others who perused occasionally, yet others who found me recently and pored through what I offered on these pages.  There are friends stateside who sent beef jerky, decadent soaps, miniature greeting cards, news, and love in flat rate boxes.  There are volunteers that shared text messages, rowdy parties, rocks and cadeaux and hugs and beetles in my eye.  There are Mauritanians who will never find this page, and if they do, will be unable to read it.  Vous allez me manquer, plus que je peux exprimer.  Or something eloquent like that.  Thank you seems inadequate, but it's what I got. 

Obviously, I can't summarize my service, my admiration, my gratitude in a few, inspirational, pithy statements.  But I did in a 160-some journal entries, which I will leave here as a digital marker for past-me in Mauritania.

Will I go back?  Dunno.  Not soon.  I'm still recovering from the rapid departure.  Chances are, however, that the most stable presence I'll have will not be geographically located.  It'll be somewhere online.

Till then,
e

my writing is increasingly disconnected

This reads relevant.  And sad on several levels in (during?) the time space continuum.  The same story spans several eras, rinse, repeat.

Ever marvel at the fact that "time zone" has little to do with time?  It's mostly geography, I think.

ms. chen said so

he was playing the guitar
serenading one of his friends
his feet were dirty, folded up underneath him on the bed
I sat at the desk and drew his feet

H2O

In Keelung, the air is so thick with moisture, trees sprout roots from their branches.  Exposed, they drink the humidity that drips down my neck.  Water becomes rust oxidizing cranes that lift moldy cargo and drills that rotate through wet earth.  Fast moving clouds flirt with the idea of sprinkles and this country needs a towel.

Juming was landscaped with toxic plants

hunk of rock molded from a mountainous cast
delicate power lines spanning the mouths of leafed valleys
and sandy shores pockmarked with skyscrapers of vertical lives
witness gaudy temples ornament dirty dumpling streets and convenient stores
globalism on a neon island
perfect nature and poison trees

Taiwanese photography

pictures I didn't take:

A line of two dozen scooters boasting an envious palette, lining a busy street of seven elevens and ginger tea. Neon signs of strokes and characters glitter off their pearly painted surfaces, and I quicken my pace to catch up with my guide, always three steps ahead.


His hair breeze blown at the crest of Wai Mu Chan. Behind him, a backdrop of misted harbor and salt crusted rock piercing a blue sky. Rusty ships skate across a calm surface leaving debris and bubbles in their wake. "Do you want me to take a picture of you two?" I laugh openly as his eyes roll at the thought of "pair." We pose artificially leaving awkward and empty in our wake.


Parade! A small man in a shabby white t-shirt mumbles "key" under his breath. Through the bus window, his eyes follow mine follow rain sprinkled trucks garnished in fresh lilies and he says "key" a little louder. Clothing racks dressed in ornate silver cloth and golden embroidery roll over sewer grates and puddles. "Key!" I glance behind me and catch his eye. His lids flutter and ask, "key?" Our gaze is broken by the blare of silver bugles and tassles swinging from pursed mouths and puffed cheeks. Key exits the bus and I absent-mindedly check my map.

le bien, le mal

A friend of mine thanked me the other day.  "You're a queen," he whispered.  Such a classy thing to say.

A beetle crawled in my eye.  Instead of escaping my furiously blinking lashes, it raced back and forth along my lower lid, trying to burrow into the corners of my eye.  Which was painful.  K rescued me, proving that long nails are almost as beneficial as a really good friend.

I swear, in a fortnight, I'm home

I'm guilty. Of false advertising, or something like it. I said I'd be stateside on Aug 30th. Turns out, my flight will not touch down until Sept 7th.

This delay is actually a gift, since my previous itinerary would have forced me to miss the swear in of our new trainees. This long-awaited gala is a celebration of ten weeks of arduous work, a kick-off for a new set of two year commitments to Mauritania. Beverages from Senegal, a rented sound system from Rosso, and imaginative menus designed by half starved trainees with full run of the market and a modest budget.

In short, a must-attend event.

So, consider my bags unpacked, my countdown reset, my anticipation deferred. And yes, some Americans actually use the word fortnight.

Far from urban pressure

Once, I got published. In an online newletter that belongs to this blog. I don't think I ever shared. So, here.


Ain Draham, Tunisia

For hours, we have been snaking along the cliffs of an enormous mountain valley - the kind where pictures come out hazy and ambiguously green. Stubborn trees with mangled limbs and mottled bark cling to the sloping crags; delicate guardrails keep our bus from rolling into whitewashed concrete villas below. Yellow flowers and ash green grasses frame rocky patches bathed in sunlight that drips from orchard leaves and down terraced farms. From the open window, an icy breeze pushes against my eardrums. They are begging to pop against the altitude, not realizing sea level is closer to the bus stop is closer to the airport is closer to no longer on vacation. What do my ears know?

digital cat's out of the bag

Now that my trip home looms so close, I am lapsing into my old ways. The ways of unadulterated consumerism. The ways of bag-lover-dom. Yes, before I ate, slept, lived on the floor; before I could move from one concrete room to another with a quick pack; before my spartan life as a Peace Corps volunteer, I had an affair. With bags.

Purses, clutches, shoulder bags. And my newest addition: computer cases.

Now, I happen to have a laptop which, in my life stateside, needs a swanky home. Not that I have illusions about Nouakchott life: any nice bag is sure to be torn up, stolen, lost or otherwise vanished from me. But how could I resist buttery soft cherry suede, ballistic nylon in snazzy fire red, creamy soft Rawlings leather in classic tan, chocolate with tangerine detail, or this retro number in deep coral?

So what if the cheapest of these bags costs a trip to Atar and back? Or that the most pricey is half a month's salary? These shoulder-riding beauties are calling my laptop, and frankly, she's at the phones.

ps. I should really get to work.

sally (not-)homemaker

I didn't take home economics in high school. So I never learned how to sew, make a perfect pancake, or take care of a fake baby. Looking back, I don't regret the hole in my curriculum. But it leaves me wanting, relative to some of my colleagues.

For example, several of my friends are sewing (or contemplating sewing) quilts. Quilts!

I am surrounded by amateur chefs who can whip up spring rolls with peanut butter coconut sauce, stuffed dumplings with a salty vinegar sauce, and fried chicken with sweet and sour vegetables. All this on a meager Mauritanian budget and with even more meager supplies. I ate this just two days ago. Delicious.

Mauritanian girls a third younger than me care for infants tied to their backs in multicolored wax prints, spines bowed as they prepare a steaming plate of fish and rice and darn a ripped boubou. Simultaneously. A trifecta I don't even pretend to accomplish.

So sue me if I'm not playing house quite yet. It would probably sabotage my wanderlust thing.

so really, who's counting?

The world of blogging is quite competitive. Copyblogger says so.

blog - n. Comes from brilliant combination of web and log, usually refers to an online journal updated periodically that readers can (or won't...) respond to in posts, i.e. what you are reading right now (definition courtesy of me)

linkbait - n. Editorial content, often sensational in nature, posted on a Web page and submitted to social media sites in hopes of building inbound links from other sites. Or, as Matt Cutts of Google says, "something interesting enough to catch people's attention" (definition courtesy of SearchEngineWatch.com).

Interesting? Sure, all (wannabe) writers strive for interesting. Apparently however, some writers post blogs entirely for popularity at bookmarking sites (del.icio.us and technorati and the like) and on internet search engines.

And I thought this was supposed to be an exercise in pouring out personal experiences semi-anonymously.

Guess my limited readership is evidence of my inability (disinterest) to write linkable, authoritative posts? Awkward to wonder if I lack the expertise to speak on my own life...

::Feels unauthoritative:: I need a visitor counter up on this thing.

a different sort of lust

wanderlust - n. very strong or irresistible impulse to travel

I'm slated stateside starting August 30th, but I'll not quite stay put. Forty five days is just enough to collect a couple stamps in my passport, a few cases of jet lag, and some airline stubs. In addition to my hometown of Cincinnati, I'm looking forward to Lexington, Chicago, Washington DC, and Taipei.

Want to see me? Call me. Or, wander yourself and meet me there.

To say I suffer from wanderlust would mischaracterize the word. Sure, it's irresistible and just beyond my control, but the symptoms are adventure and renewal and shift. If there is a cure, I hope it never finds me.

the camel jumped over the moon

Last night, the moon was "taken." So said Mauritanians during the deep partial lunar eclipse, an astronomical event that turned the moon a threatening crimson and inspired extended prayer calls and religious worry verging on terror.

Men left for prayer early and returned home late, loudspeakers blared from mosque rooftops begging God to release the moon, and dozens of tanned faced turned skyward to watch the sun's reflection dwindle to a sliver.

I broke a disgusting hours-long marathon of Heroes to watch celestial bodies veer in and out of reflective light paths. It was a grounding thing to do: crane my neck and appreciate the vastness and the spherical boulder that is my neighbor.

It eclipsed my father's birthday. I feel more guilty than forgetful.

normal packing tape won't be enough

I promised my mother, during my home leave, I would help clean the basement.

As compared to my other plans - baseball games and beer, music concerts, boat rides, medium rare steaks, movie theaters and amusement parks and green spaces, barbecues and thundershowers, transpacific trips, national and international zoos, crisp apples and buttery avocados, and maybe some dancing or hula hoops - it is not the most thrilling task. But frankly, half of her basement is remnants of lives that I helped pack, store, hibernate, or inter into cardboard vaults.

Generic wall hangings, scrawled-over notebooks, French lit novels, half-burned candles, Chicago Transit Authority passes, extra-long twin sheets, catnip, emptied bottles of nyquil, bug spray and university decals.

Duvets with winding vines and plum flowers, matching arrangements of un-life-like silk flowers, ceramic ladies with bustles and lemon chiffon bonnets, bottles of fluorescent pink nail polish and prescription pills, bedpans, orthopedics, and unopened jars of raspberry syrup.

Stacks of mildewed engineering books, warped reams of yellowed tractor feed printer paper (the kind with holes along the right and left margins), dusty cases of dull bifocals, ID badges encased in plastic, leather wallets and worn ashtrays.

Framed pictures of domestic smiles, ceramic vases from [insert suburban-boho-chic housewares store] cushioned in bubble wrap and leafed through newspapers, unfinished scrapbooks of photographed vacations, and tiny plastic tags from nursery-bought plants (half shade, medium water).

Tangles of woolen scarves and knit caps, pointed mules and pinstripe slacks, jars of tiny paper cranes, belly dancing costumes, DVDs (alphabetically arranged) in a misplaced library-style storage unit, late night folders of EPA paperwork, buzz clippers, and bright orange cans of goldfish food (RIP, I forget his name).



Donna D. Vitucci writes about a basement here at Juked. Her haunted piles of accumulation are like those waiting underneath my mother's house. I count down days until this task with a soundtrack of a ticking clock. The interwoven theme of a bomb in Vitucci's piece, then, spoke to me.

I also like this line:

"...she loved [her brother] the way a mother loves... with no help for it, with all hope packed tightly inside her and ready to detonate."

Maybe, in a cobwebbed corner of the basement, I'll find the wherewithal to lay these boxes to rest. Or find tape strong enough until I come back for spring cleaning.

made by the fate, inshallah

Contrasting mangled English with lucid prose, this blog entry is quite beautiful.

"Democracy here right now is a smashed boat in a sea of garbage."

Apparently even coups can have artistic value, provided someone wants to sell.

PCVs online: post, peruse, partage

"I dug some holes and watched the wind erase them."

I like this sentence. It lives here. He writes well; nothing grandiose, just streams of blunt consciousness.

I am equally enamored of this blog. It is no longer updated, but it is a lovely read. She lived an extraordinarily different service than mine. Her home was with a Mauritanian family in a small Pulaar village in the south; mine was a compound more often filled with American region mates than just myself in a large Arabic city in the north.

Differences aside, her experience is simply true.

It would speak to any volunteer, whether in north or south Mauritania, or even a country half around the world. She writes with an intensity and honesty that is exposing, engaging. I wish my own writing was like hers: more poignant, less jaded. The difference is subtle, but noteworthy. And worth a look-see.

definitely indefinitely?

As it turns out, elections in my own country are impending.

Like a good citizen, I registered at Vote From Abroad. To get my very own personalized registration form, I simply responded to a set of generic questions: name (see above), address (see above), party affiliation (nope), and the like.

Standard as the questionnaire was, I eventually came to a query I couldn't answer:
Should I open a running bet? A poll? And why does Uncle Sam need this information?

ps. I love you Mom.

Mauritania's glass house: under construction, Iran: her foreman

I have recently become a newshound, hungry for developments on what has been described as a benign coup. Imagine my surprise when I found this headline, a comic gem screaming through dozens of googlenews hyperlinks:

Iran calls situation in Mauritania worrisome

Giggling, I read the headline for anyone within earshot. We shared communal explosive bursts of laughter and wondered if that meant the coup was turning for the better.

Then, I realized, I didn't know the political situation in Iran. Who was I to guffaw in ignorance? So I immediately turned to the most reliable reference I know.

Wikipedia explained as succinctly as possible the hierarchy of elected officials (President, Parliament, Assembly of Experts), clearly non-elected officials (the Supreme Leader, Judiciary Head) and the convolutedly non-elected officials (members of the Council of Guardians are half appointed by the Supreme Leader, half elected by [elected] Parliament from candidates proposed by the Judiciary Head who is appointed by the SP). A handy organizational chart is available here.

All in all, not bad: elections and a system of checks and balances. Delve into the details, however, and Iran's politics become increasingly problematic. The Assembly of Experts, the body that oversees the Supreme Leader, is chosen by direct public vote and its members serve limited (8 year) terms. But how does "direct," "public," or "vote" play out when each member must be screened by the government?¹

Additionally, these Experts are endowed with the power to unseat the Supreme Leader if he "lobs one of the qualifications mentioned in Constitution" or turns out to have fibbed about having fulfilled such qualifications. Yet, never, in Iran's history of "expertise" (the Assembly was born circa 1983), has this group of 86 "virtuous and learned" clerics dismissed a sitting Supreme Leader. Nor have they ever challenged or even overseen a single one of his decisions. Either they have had supremely Supreme Leaders, or something is awry.

Oddly enough, there are as many sites dedicated to decrying Iran's policies as there are to following Britney Spears' antics. Despite wildly differing audiences and agendas, both fanatical followings tend toward jarring fluorescent color schemes and ungainly marquees with too many exclamation points!!!!!1.

Others, however (think more intellectual, less omfg), look to Iran as a possible hotbed of democracy in the Muslim world. In Democracy in Iran (2006), Ali Gheissari and Vali Nasr examine the potential for functional democracy to evolve from Iran's clerical autocracy. Reviewing the book, Prof Joel Midgal from University of Washington said it nicely:

"Iran keeps flirting with democratic governance, more than practically any other Islamic country in the Middle East, yet somehow always seems to fall short of sealing the marriage."²

Although four years old, Emadeddin Baqi's analysis reads as currently disappointed but hopeful too. His article "Hope for Democracy in Iran (2004)" cites the following promising indicators: extended higher education productively occupying youth; the addition of human rights in popular discussion and military colleges' curricula; an increase in female university students, journalists, and NGO leaders; as well as an increased divorce rate (sad but representative of a shift in traditional marriage).³

There is also a flurry of articles available at opendemocracy.net, one of which describes the current scene that will eventually lead to the presidential 2009 elections. It seems that political circles concentric to current President Ahmadinejad are decrying recent moves by the conservative military to discourage reformist candidates. Would be intimidators admit unapologetically that moderate rivals will never make it through the ominous government screening process, the Guardian Council (see footnote 1 below).

Unfortunately, however, the Supreme Leader Ayatollah Khamenei has embraced this military intervention and its intimidation tactics. Depending on your source, Khamenei has either silently acquiesced or has openly supported candidates who espouse conservative ideologies, especially those who "separate their line unequivocally from the enemy [the United States]." According to the article's author (Rasool Nafisi "Iran’s majlis elections: the hidden dynamics" 2008), the mentality is patronage of the poor, not fiscal responsibility; [vindictive] justice, not democracy.

If you were looking for political progress since the 2004 elections (during which the Guardian Council conveniently disqualified rival candidates, the government raised the voting age to disenfranchise probable moderate supporters, and ballot counters employed shady strategies to increase voter turnout statistics), you might be disappointed next year. More disturbingly, the rising power-bloc in Iran seems to be shifting from the traditional, conservative clerical base into a more radical military faction. I'm no expert, but this seems at best a troubled formula for democracy, and at worst a ripe environment for continued military political intervention.

It seems as though my initial impression, which is now largely more informed, was not too far from the educated truth. Not that emerging democracies are laughing matters, but Iran's scorn for Mauritania's recent hiccup is. Something about glass houses and stones I believe...

---

1: I was not the only one to have this paranoid thought. In 2005, just after the election of current President Mahmood Ahmadinejad, Iran's democracy was labeled a "sham" due to unelected clerics having inordinate sway over presidential candidates. This rigging seems an inherent flaw (or fortunate loophole, depending) in the Iranian democratic system.

2: Not that I condemn flirtation, even shameless variations thereof. But democracy is really the monogamous, take-home-to-your-parents-type.

3: Baqi (also spelled Baghi), a prize-winning journalist and advocate for democracy, human and prisoners' rights, was arrested in October 2007 for "spreading propaganda and publishing secret documents" and has been hospitalized several times since. News on his condition can be found here. For a taste of his style and passion, read his statement for the British Press Awards.

draught: taking a rain check on international aid

Blog update:
Apparently, blogger killed all the links in my previous post. They are up now, live, and perhaps a few days out-of-date.

Coup update:
There has been renewed action in the capital. Thursday, demonstrations for and against the coup disturbed the lazy quiet of Nouakchott. Police fired tear gas at 200-300 protesters while allowing a rally of over a thousand coup-supporters continue uninterrupted.

Former President Abdallahi's daughter is decrying her father's captivity, fearing that he has too much down time for reading (Bill Clinton's bio no less). Meanwhile, his wife Kahtou Boukhari is still trying to clear her name in the KB humanitarian NGO scandal.

The African Union has suspended Mauritania's membership for breaking several AU conventions that prohibit unconstitutional changes of government (one of which was not ratified more than a month ago).

Condaleezza Rice impotently urged Mauritania to release and reseat the deposed President. Putting money where its mouth is, the US has pulled all non-humanitarian aid, on the scale of 20 million USD, including military trainings and installations planned for my former site, the Milleneum Challenge Corporation program, anti-terrorism campaigns, and USAID programs which only recently had been reinstated in country.

Despite the international outrage, the coup's proud author General Aziz remains unmoved. He cooly blamed the ousted Abdallahi for having "toppled himself through a series of wrong steps." The General sees himself as some democratic savior and his military junta as the miracle that would lead Mauritania (for a second time, see Coup 2005) back to life, liberty and the pursuit of elected puppet officials. On Saturday, Aziz called for understanding:

"We ask our Arab brothers and our friends to understand the position and we will share our reasons with them. The problem that happened in Mauritania is an internal affair."

Internal? Hardly.

While the mood is relatively subdued, the Mauritanian people are realizing how this is about to hit them in the pocketbooks. This editorial hits the nail right on the head: Mauritania is one of the world's poorest countries and is hardly in a position to lose international support, either politically or financially. Between pulled aid, lost tourism and bad press, we have more than just droughts and food shortages to weather this summer.

bagging garbage, sacking presidents

The scene: the littered, sloppy, mud-caked streets of Rosso.
The event: a training session on trash management in Mauritania and West Africa at large.
The players: myself as Environmental Education Coordinator, my site mate slash partner in crime K as the Health Education Coordinator, our Assistants Keita and Dia, trainees (not really busy-tailed or bright-eyed anymore, but still on this side of optimistic), and the man in charge of Rosso’s municipal trash system (we’ll call him Mohammed).

We had spent the better part of two hours touring the city of Rosso, population: ~49,000, garbage-handling capacity: about half that. Trainees saw first hand what happens to garbage (it is thrown in more or less consolidated piles on the road), how municipal workers are protected (no gloves, no masks), and how medical waste is disposed of (in public, no incineration or biohazard containers necessary).

As bleak as this situation sounds, Mohammed assures us that it was “much improved” from just one year ago. Previously, trash management meant burning piles of sewage lining literally every street. As we squint our eyes against the sun and bake in the makeshift landfill, he lauds the recently elected Mayor who singlehandedly revamped the trash collection system, initiated the construction of flood-prevention canals, and other such municipal miracles. “By the grace of God,” he expounds in his most elegant French, “and the glimmer of hope and democracy, our Mayor has improved Rosso inestimably.”

At the very moment this praise escapes his lips, my phone rings. I duck between trainees and answer quickly, quietly, “allo?”

“So, you hear about the coup?” M asked.
“The what??”
“The coup d’état. Can you confirm?”

I am flabbergasted. A trainee, posted in the middle of absolutely nowhere, with no access to television, internet, much less electricity, is telling me the Mauritanian government is dissolving. “I’ll call the Nouakchott office and get back to you.”

Sure enough, as covered by BBC and AP Reuters, Mauritania's President and Prime Minister were indeed arrested, her government 100% overthrown.

After the session, trainees roamed the center, abuzz with rumor and uncertainty.
“Will we be evacuated?”
“Can we travel to the capital?”
“How exactly do you say coup d’état in English…?”

I immediately wrote home to proclaim my safety and even my disinterest in this event. My initial reaction was one of boredom: what will change when one classically empowered guy replaces another? We are not shifting ideology. There is no subversive message to be broadcast, no massive reform, no violence, no uproar. It’s lip service to revolution, a name change on a door. Barely tantamount to an interruption in tea service.

But upon further reflection (and discussion today with K), I realize I was wrong. The President, however typical his ethnicity, background, and socio-economic status, had been chosen democratically in a transparent election. Mauritania’s voter turn out was estimated between 65 and 70% (comparable to that of the US in 2004 and better by almost half in 2000). It was more than a baby step toward democracy. It really was a glimmer of hope.

Despite my early - more sarcastic - predictions, Mauritania has remained front-ish page news, having been internationally condemned by the US, United Nations, African Union, and various other protesters. What does this mean? In a nutshell, Mauritania is on the “bad guy” list. The international community is wary and, in the effort to denounce the coup, will likely pull various incarnations of support, e.g. tourism and international aid. This has real consequences on the Mauritanian people, immediately and continually.

While the timing of M’s phone call was comedic gold, I realize now how tragic it was that his inquiry should interrupt Mohammed’s sincere pride for Mauritania’s democratic progress. Consider that glimmer, at least temporarily, extinguished.

bringing fears to (not) life

For two years running, I have heard, endured, and been woken from dreamful sleeps by the frantic calls of midnight donkeys. Their unprompted brays pierce Mauritanian nights, threaten to shatter dusty car windows, and stir exhausted children from their thin mats.

I never thought twice to curse those beasts, honking and screaming without a thought to aural peace, until I heard secondhand from a Mauritanian the reason for their vocalized anxiety.

“Ils regardent tout.”

Donkeys see everything, she confessed in a hushed voice. “And when they yell at night,” she explained on a whisper, “it’s because they see the dead.”

Imagine, the afterworld, laid bare, with naught but your beaten, scarred colleagues to corroborate. Donkeys, scattered city-wide, chained to two-wheel carts, muzzled by grain sacks, crying foul that the boundary of life be so cruelly and selectively perforated. Ils regardent tout.

Tonight, I lost my way home. Rosso is still yet big enough that I’ve not scoured its hidden streets and outlying neighborhoods. Vainly, I sought landmarks in the blocks of houses going to rubble, ruinous piles of bricks and foundations blending in with muddy cesspools on the roadside. Not one bit of familiar color punctuated the flat skyline. I wandered the abandoned, dirt-packed roads and peered suspiciously though crumbled windows framed with rebar and hopelessness.

As dusk slipped beneath the horizon, I found myself in the ghastly remains of a fish market. Leaning frames of rotted wood creaked under cloth tarps steeped in the remains of today’s catch. Having marinated in the fierce afternoon sun, gelatinous innards, gutted market stands, even the gray sand beneath seemed saturated with rot and death. A perfect venue for wisps of undead to fester and wait for the next forlorn donkey.

Cautiously, silently, I padded though the frightened fish market, praying I’d not encounter one of these putrid, disgruntled spirits. More than that, I hoped no donkey would verify my irrational fears into existence with an ear-piercing, heart-shuddering bray.

writing career? seriously?

I am on the brink of being more serious about my writing. This resolution follows (lamely, slowly) on the heels of my first publication - in an email newsletter, limited audience, but still an accomplishment - and my accidental recruitment of a mentor. Incidentally, he steered me toward the newsletter which birthed my "writing career" (scare quotes indeed) and is currently editing some pieces that may or may not avoid a cyberspace cutting room floor.

To at least limit, if not avoid, future rejections, I decided to actively mould a pastime into a veritable craft. Part of this process includes hitting up blogs dedicated to writing, publishing, and the like. Some advice procured online belongs in the spam drawer; some encourages me to hone my pen (or keyboard, as it were) and produce something more-than-blog-worthy. Another part includes scanning journals and publications to research my peers, my competition, my golden standards.

If I find any gems, I might post them here. And maybe, I might just write my own gems.

training has begun! (i.e. one more reason why my updates are infrequent, irresponsible)

I have been consumed by a flurry of activity since late May. Well, make that late June 2006. But the most recent barrage started just over a month ago in Nouakchott.

In February, I applied for the position of Environmental Education Training Coordinator. A few short weeks later, my program director unceremoniously selected me for the position.¹ Despite the incredible workload that is Training Coordination (yeah, it deserves scare caps), we started four short weeks before the arrival of trainees. In late May, all the program coordinators² converged in the capital city for a quick as lightning debriefing and a "hope you remember your training from two years ago" encouragement pat. In under a week, we were shipped down to Rosso (along the river just before you cross into Senegal) and thrust into a summer of labor.

We did indeed remember our training, but enduring training (or rejoicing in it, as the case might have been) and coordinating training are two very different animals. As much as I paid attention, as a trainee I was painfully unaware that my Coordinator was toiling behind the scenes, pulling late nights, and scrambling to pull together sessions. Not to mention the "training of trainers" workshops, negotiating calendars, and prepping the training center before I even touched down in Mauritania. How did they ever have enough energy to be excited for my arrival??

While furiously coordinating the Welcoming Committee (WC)³ on the ground in Rosso, I worried I'd not have any ATP (c'mon 7th grade science) to spare for a smile or a handshake. But when the WC head arrived with buses full of wide-eyed trainees, a king sized bed at the Marriott wouldn't have lured me away. They were overwhelmed; we were thrilled; it was spectacular. And, as last year, with the largest trainee group to date (77, up from 72 last year) and a brand new training center, the WC was an unrivaled success. Better even than last year, due largely to my veteran status and the fabulous team of volunteers helping me with everything from sign making to envelope sealing.I had more than enough energy to smile; I was literally bouncing off walls, fixing logistical nightmares, and problem solving like a champion consultant. So much, that several trainees asked if I were the Director of Training (i.e. the top rung of PC RIM Staging). Although the promotion would have been welcome, I admitted, "I'm actually just a Training Coordinator." The truth dulled my sheen a bit, but the trainees still knew me as bubbly, responsible, and prone to make announcements before dinner.

We are now almost a week into training. I have since removed my Welcoming Committee hat and am focusing exclusively (finally!) on my sector. What, you might ask, does an EE coordinator do? I...

• poured through four to five years of training summaries and phase reports;
• sifted through dusty and mildewed boxes of mutilated training manuals, handouts and books;
• organized the new EE sector office and library;
• developed competencies and sector learning objectives;
• revamped the EE training manual (everything from formatting to content);
• create sessions (like interactive lesson plans), teaching tools, field trips and activities;
• coordinate scheduling with six other sectors plus Medical, Safety and Security, Cross Culture, and general Administration;
• program trainee-directed activities that require close coordination Agfo;
• interview trainees and negotiate site placement with my Program Director;
• arrange logistics and transportation for trainees, meals, and equipment;
• ensure (with Homestay Coordinator) the safety, linguistic support, and garden proximity of EE host family placements;
• tend a garden for technical demonstration (in 99% clay soil, mind you);
• evaluate the technical, cultural, and professional progress of all trainees (not just my own);
• provide technical and personal guidance to all trainees at (what has turned out to be) all hours of the night;
• wear a positive face for EE, Mauritania, and Peace Corps in general;
• and essentially guarantee the ten-week transformation of a batch of green trainees into productive, happy volunteers.

It's a heavy burden, if taken seriously. Luckily, I have Keita Diawaye, the EE Assistant Coordinator. Initially, I doubted his ability to assist or even contribute. He was behind the scenes during my training, so much that I barely saw or knew him. After having worked with him one short week, however, I am floored. I do not exaggerate when I say he is royalty in Rosso: known and respected by everyone, unable to walk five paces without greeting someone influential, and extraordinarily efficient. Keita has invited guest speakers, scheduled meetings with hard-to-reach teachers, purchased supplies, secured classroom locations, and even negotiated for me a new cell phone. All effortlessly. He is as amazing as I am lucky to have him.

I'm sure the bulleted list above will expand as I learn of and take on extra responsibilities. But after all the pre-training bureaucracy, I am relieved (and rejuvenated!) to be in front of our trainees, doing what I love: teaching. They are so eager, participatory, curious, driven, experienced, flexible and positive - simply meters and yards beyond my class and the class before them. I chalk it up to bad economics at home, rising unemployment rates, falling dollars. Peace Corps obviously has the luxury to be selective with an expanding pool of trainee applications. I'll try to remember, as I lament my lamed stock portfolio, that this is the best class Mauritania has ever seen and she will be better for it.

---

1:Unceremonious since I was, in fact, the only applicant. Regardless, I have anticipated serving as EE Coordinator since the early days of my own training, so the lack of competition did not make it any less sweet. For the record, last year, I was invited to take over training after the Coordinator left early for graduate school, an honor never before given to a first year. Basically, bruised egos aside, I'd like to think, even of a large pool of qualified people, I'd have been selected anyway.

2: As a reminder, Peace Corps Mauritania operates under seven sectors or programs: Agroforestry (Agfo), English Education (ED), Environmental Education (EE), Girls' Education and Empowerment (GEE), Health Education (HE), Information and Computer Technology (ICT) and Small Enterprise Development (SED). The list is in alphabetical order since, obviously, EE is the most crucial and productive sector.

3: The Welcoming Committee is the sunshine-y name we give the team of volunteers who conduct the in-take process for all trainees. This process includes vaccinations; interviews with Medical, Safety and Security, Program Directors and Training Coordinators; distribution of walk-around money, cell phones, Welcome Booklets, phone cards; and the (tedious, liability nightmare of) valuable collection and storage. Last year, I was the Welcoming Committee head and coordinator "on the ground" in Nouakchott. With the biggest trainee group to date and a brand new central office, Welcoming Committee went off without a single hitch. Other than elevated stress levels and perhaps a few years shaved off my life.

needing more time is such a generic wish

And every one wants to become a two. Every two would like a half
that grows to a one. Even if it is snatched off the lawn and distributed
at family functions around the table with mashed potatoes, asparagus,
maybe the desert. It is country style and that one needs to be tasted.
They always do.

-- Vonn Gilmore, featured poet at brainboxpress.com

I am pop-culturally disconnected. Exhibit number one: I only recently saw the critically acclaimed film, Juno. In said film, a teenage girl weathers a darkly comical, strangely beautiful pregnancy with her motley support crew of her straight-shooting father, puppy-obssessed stepmother, stereotypically ditzy cheerleader friend, oddly (and eventually tragically) matched adoptive parents, and adorable, aloof, impregnator slash best friend. The dialogue - like that of many movies and TV shows I enjoy - is too quick and witty to be realistic. The pace, however, of this often hilarious, sometimes poignant banter is justified. It succeeds in revealing the lighter side of teenage pregnancy, dicsipline, angst, and love.

After watching Juno, it's tough not to be charmed by the idea of carrying life and ultimately giving it to a couple who could not create "a half" themselves. And, perhaps unintentionally, this solidly soundtracked film suggests that keeping a new pink bundle might be ... [insert adjective encompassing fun, fulfilling, and not entirely farfetched].

Which returns me neatly to the title of this post: with what time? So many of us are consumed with the hilarious and poignant pace of our own lives, that creating and caring for another seems beyond reasonable. And chronologically more pressing is the troublesome process of "becoming two." Usually coupledom is a prerequisite for bringing halves to family picnics for cheek pinching and asparagus.

Ticking clocks notwithstanding, I appreciate Gilmore's stance that we all are (or should be) completed "ones" looking for another whole unit. I never bought into the whole "finding a better half" mentality. Nor do I subscribe to a destined "one," a la Prince Charming to find my abandoned shower sandal and sweep me off my calloused feet. Frankly, I'd prefer a tic-tac-loving, track-running, awkward best friend. Here's to the Junos out there: making happy mistakes and finding unlikely happy endings.

On my way to media stardom

Three days ago, I was interviewed by a Mauritanian radio station during "Rosso Day" (an event designed to familiarize locals with Peace Corps presence, goals, etc.). I spoke on our new Peace Corps training center in Rosso and on integrating environmental education (EE) into the national curriculum. Luckily I had an especially articulate French day: they aired my linguistic acrobatics twice.

Then, today, while doing research for my EE training sessions, I stumbled upon this June 13th news item at globe.gov. Under Near East and North Africa, I'm mentioned by name and quoted at length. Emphasis on length. Either this is a synthesis of several quotes, or I was feeling particularly verbose that day. Eep.

I don't know if these are just steps on the way to international renown or simply quotes that may eventually be taken out of context during some electoral or application process. Let's assume the former?

ad-ding meaning

I like this idea.

anticipating apples

 
Despite my current fruity coordinates, rumor has it I'll be visiting the U.S. in September 2008, or thereabouts.

I imagine eating a macintosh, a fuji, a jonagold, a granny smith, and, of course, an incomparable and perfect pink lady. Crisp, tart, sweet, paired with cheese and crunching leaves and oh, I love autumn.

Long lost entries are my hail marys

I am an irresponsible poster. Consider today my redemption. I have almost twenty entries that have accumulated since September. All but one will show up as the most recent entries.

For that lost gem, I considered conducting a scavenger hunt. On reflection, though, it seemed mean and unproductive. So you can find the little guy, written on September 7, here.

I have also written extensively on the PCPP Atar School Improvement Project, GLOBE conference in Doha, Qatar and the recent COS conference, just haven’t posted. Or found said entries. Serves me right for scribbling on scraps of paper. I will find and post update. And I won’t take six months to do it. Inshallah.

Until then, enjoy, comment, etc.

Haiku about deliberate contentedness

Funny thing: although
I never know what I want
I always get it.

Dear friend, ...

Dear friend,

Inspire me to do things I
Never have
Never would otherwise

Be near me when I
Embark, or
Come with me!

And if not, I
Hope admiration trumps
Envy.

Make me see things I
Couldn’t
Not for the forced art of rhetoric, but for
Clichéd things like
Progress
Happiness
And (long distance) friendships.

3rd Annual Atar Marathon and Trash Clean Up. Or, AAMATCU for short.

Oh marathon. We just put on the 3rd Annual Atar Marathon and Trash Clean Up and are reveling in the glory of an incredible Peace Corps project planned decently, executed miraculously. Here are some pride-worthy stats:

Thirty five volunteers from all over the country and over 50 Mauritanians (including veil-wrapped women, rake-brandishing men, and hyperactive children) assembled Friday to pick up the litter menacing Atar sand swept streets. Local participation was up 150% from 2007, a clear indicator that this event is gaining momentum, or at least infamy. We collected up over 500 bags of garbage, beating last year’s count of 450.

Saturday morning marked a blessed drop in temperature and the running component of the event. This year, we had 12 runners, 14 walkers and 9 helpers (i.e. distributors of water, first aid, and cheering). A Mauritanian won by a technicality with a time of 2h15min. Mark, my site mate who accidentally took the wrong route on Saturday, immediately re-ran the course on Sunday. He finished with a shocking time of 1h31h30s, officially shaving over 40 minutes from last year’s winning time. Technicalities be damned, that time is trophy worthy.

If I actually had awarded trophies. This year, as last, the prize for winning was hugely disappointing to our Atar residents. Apparently a mention on an internationally read web log and eternal, google-able fame was not sufficiently enticing.

The post-marathon party itself was incredible: beverages up from Senegal, volunteers up from everywhere, and the cool water of an inviting oasis pool. Commence piling skeletons in closets. For the stress accumulated throughout the year, it was the perfect remedy.

Writing this entry, I realize that I neglected to report on the 2007 Marathon. Let me say here that 2008 heralded a vast improvement

There was no transport debacle this year. I immodestly owe this to my own diligence. Last year, I bargained with my friend the garage chef, struck an oral agreement, and incorrectly assumed the price was conveyed to what became an irate chauffeur. His anger inspired him to call me incessantly, follow me to restaurants, drag me into the police station, and bring a truck full of his intimidating colleagues to have a “friendly discussion” over the going price of a 4x4 truck.

This year, I typed a formal contract, meticulously detailed my transport needs and the “no no’s” of the trip. As in, no overcharging for anything, no unauthorized (read: creepy) passengers in my truck, no Mauritanian (read: creepy) onlookers for oasis party, and no general tom foolery. I requested that the Prefect’s personal guard escort me to the garage to sign said contract and secure signatures from the garage chief and driver. As a result, this year, I was not inappropriately touched by young men; I was not cornered in an isolated tent; I was not harassed to tears. This year, I was relaxed, confident, accomplished.

Post-marathon effects are yet to be seen. Already, locals catch our attention, thank us for our efforts, and occasionally offer rogue bags of trash on our way to work. Whether they will maintain cleaned streets or begin clean up efforts of their own… well, the thanks and positive PR points will have to suffice.

Punctuality: luxury of the bored

"Few ever drop from overwork, but many quietly curl up and die because of undersatisfaction."
— Sydney Harris

How often do I hear the equivalent of “you work too much?” My site mates tell me to calm down, my mom begs me to find free time, even my program and country directors forced me to take a vacation. But I’d pay money to see the statistics on death by overexhaustion versus boredom. Twenty ouguyies says they would justify my double-booked lifestyle.

A chapter in the Peace Corps Career Resource Manual (from whence came the above quote) asked soon-to-be returning volunteers to list what had been the happiest days of our lives. Sure, I’ve had lazy mornings of coffee over sunrise, watching movies under snuggle-worthy blankets, and sleepy sun-drenched afternoons on pebbled beaches. But my happiest days were my most productive. See marathon entry. See PCPP entry. See Qatar GLOBE conference entry. Planning a project, guiding it to fruition, blushing under praise – this is my bread and butter. Or fish and rice, as the current culinary situation dictates.

I never particularly liked spring break, school holidays, or even snow days. The immediate rush of escaping responsibility is fleeting at best and usually transitions to unmemorable sloth. Allow me the brief indulgence of a snooze button, then please put me to work. Schedule meetings on top of lunch dates immediately before lessons: I’ll not be more than five minutes late, and it’ll be worth it. Sloppy and frenzied as the process might appear, my results are second to none: you get a quality [insert event/seminar/report] and I am neither quiet nor curling.

You can take the nomad out of the desert

Nouakchott

Mauritania: my final destination for twelve hours of airline travel from Tunis to Rome to Casablanca to home. I love this country. So dearly, in fact, that I have officially decided to extend my service for another calendar year. But today, I understand why it retains its third world status. Today, I understand why, despite countless resources and infrastructure potential, it remains in the developmental dark ages.

In the past two weeks, I have been through five airports. And in each one, I endured metal detectors, passport checkpoints, embarking cards, and other such security procedures. Of course, these measures ate into a shrinking day; traveling west shaved hours from my life (no matter what I gained traveling east two weeks prior). But at least they were part of a process designed with safety and order in mind. In Mauritania, not so much.

Once off the plane, passengers pushed their way through a narrow door to meet their bureaucratic fate. No yellow lines behind which arrivals should stand and wait. No rows of impatiently tapping feet and quietly shuffling passports. No vibrantly painted booths with sour-faced customs officials. Just one dirty, underventilated, overheated window around which hostile passengers elbowed each other and thrust dirty passports. One, overworked, underpaid, and (understandably) discourteous security officer whose most pressing question was, “what is your address?” Since when did Mauritania have addresses? Or street names, for that matter? Even a spoiled, capital-dweller should know better.

The baggage claim was, in effect, worse. Aggressive porters demanded I accept their “help.” Otherwise civilized people scrambled over conveyor belts, threw luggage on the ground, and politely requested more space to maneuver their suitcase by lodging it in my shin. And when my bags turned up missing, one, incompetent man with no superiors and no last name promised he would find them, inshallah. That was over 36 hours ago.

Why not form lines? Why not paint a yellow marker on the floor? Why accept that people should conduct themselves like animals? Why not have a fixed line for an international airport? Or a proper office to file a lost baggage claim? Why reduce a decently equipped facility to utter bedlam? Why abandon civility? Are these questions too much to ask?

It’s as if Mauritania shifts our mentality. We become desperate and vulgar. We forget how the rest of the world conducts itself in public places. We prefer force to order, and in an effort to speed our processing, we block the airport’s arteries like self-absorbed, uncivilized plaque. When the process inevitably goes wrong, there is no legal recourse because there is no legal anything. Everything is haphazard and jerry-rigged. And this is status quo at the airport, taxi stands, crowded city intersections, local markets, elementary schools… How, with this systematic, conceited, unprofessional disorder, can a country expect to advance? “Divided we fall” becomes more relevant than cliché, and I witness an entire nation scurrying to shoot itself in the foot.

Like I said – and will continue to repeat silently until I convince myself – I love this country. But I need more transition time for re-entry. And maybe a yellow line or two.

In nasrani Arabic, inshallah means maybe, walahi means of course

Gare du Nord, Tunis

I could dissolve into giggles for the idiocy of my dumb luck. Honestly, I don’t know how I get away with such lackluster planning, and get away so well. This morning, I woke leisurely, repacked my bags and had a lazy breakfast. I went to the train station with six bags in hand (and in other hand, and on back…) hoping to cram them into a rental locker. Would there be available lockers? Would they fit? Inshallah turned into walahi.

Then, ignorant of the train schedule, I approached the counter hoping to get a ticket to El Kef. No trains, go to Information. No information, go to Tourism Office. Finally, success: “You’ve got nothing to worry about, buses go to El Kef all the time.” Inshallah turned into walahi.

I took a poorly drawn map and strolled toward the metro stop. Crammed between dark haired strangers, I realized I had no idea where my stop was. Through scratched metro windows, I could see un readable dirt-caked street signs and worn places where station signs used to hang. Then, miraculously, hidden on some half hidden, wooden marker, Bab Saadoun. My stop.

I grabbed my bags, jumped on the platform, and commenced guessing. My poorly drawn map indicated a train station where one obviously did not exist. Donning my cutest “I’m lost” face, I asked a shop owner. He indicated the bus station is “hewn-ak,” or over there. I walked until my intuition got too nervous to continue. Stopped to ask at bank. Waited. Waited. Too many people. Stopped at bistro number two, whose recommendation was simply, straight ahead. Vague, but I contented myself with his directional certainty. In the distance, I saw large green Arabic script: a good sign. Beside me, women passed, burdened with suitcases: a better sign. I heaved a sigh of relief as the street opened up to a taxi-crowded lot. Inshallah turned, finally, into walahi.

With false confidence, I proceeded to the ticket counter, still ignorant of the bus schedule. “Is there a bus to El Kef today?” “Sure,” he grins broadly, “one leaves in a half hour.” Perfect. As I slipped a few dinars under the window, I returned the smile and wondered: would my providential streak continue? Inshallah. No, walahi.

For those counting, its sin #3

Carthage, Tunis

Too few dinars or too many desires? People would cheat each other for a few worn coins, swindle a stranger and lie through a grin. Universal dishonesty is as time-weathered as Carthage ruins, peppered with international phrases swearing by deities and mothers and graves. Will our avarice hasten us to the latter? Greed is my least favorite sin.


Edit: This entry’s passion almost erased the actual inspiring event from my memory. After reflection, I finally remembered the rash of swindling Tunisians that prompted such fury and disappointment. Note to future self: don’t forget the would-be tour guide at the Roman Amphitheater charging 600% the price for an unrequested tour and the “I’ll cut you very very good price, I swear” taxi driver who helped me curse the Amphitheater bandit just before he doubled his original asking price.

Layers of innuendo, humanity lost in translation

Recent conversation:

Him: [standing in a doorway]
Me: Isselaam ‘aley-kum.
Him: [mumbles]
Me: Shinhu?
Him: [steps from doorway to street, leans against car]
Me: [pauses]
Him: Si tu veux…
Me: Si je veux quoi?
Him : Si tu veux… [leans in] discuter…
Me : Discuter quoi ?
Him : Si tu veux discuter [leans in closer] quelque chose…
Me : [walks away]

Translation:

Him: [leers from a doorway]
Me: Peace be with you (i.e. hello).
Him: [mumbles]
Me: What?
Him: [prowls from doorway to street, leans against car]
Me: [pauses, waits for conversationally significant sentence]
Him: If you want…
Me: If I want what?
Him : If you want… [leans in] to discuss…
Me : Discuss what ?
Him : If you want to discuss [leans in closer, sneers] something…
Me : [shakes head disapprovingly, walks away]

Cultural translation:

Him: [salivates from a doorway]
Me: Hi. What are you looking at?
Him: [mumbles]
Me: I don’t really want to know, but what did you just say?
Him: [slithers closer to prey, strikes a menacing pose]
Me: [knows better than to stop, pauses regardless]
Him: I’d like to proposition you vaguely…
Me: Not interested but here’s a chance to backpedal into a civilized conversation.
Him : No thanks, I prefer the… [oozes closer] lecherous come on of ambiguity…
Me : Are you serious ?
Him : I couldn’t be any creepier if [closer, reeking of perversion] I groped at you…
Me : [unable to hide revulsion, walks away disappointed]