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.