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.