adventures in puddles

A retort to J Bryar (Grafton, Vermont)

2008-01-29T11:47:00.000-05:00

Please keep in mind that my opinions about the Peace Corps are based solely on my experiences here in Mauritania. I cannot speak for all volunteers and do not claim to know their experiences. Many Peace Corps volunteers around the world have remarkable services. There are others, however, who constantly struggle through their two years. It is important to understand both experiences and is something that I cannot offer: this post is biased.

I have come to the realization that there exist at least two different and opposite camps in the Peace Corps organization. There are those, like me, who think that the institution should be changed and improved to better fit the needs of volunteers and host countries, and there are others who think that the Peace Corps is fulfilling its original purpose and hence should not be modified. In response to my post [At the midpoint: opinions on the Peace Corps], J Bryar made several good comments, and at first I began to doubt my originally held opinions. But upon further reflection I came to the conclusion that most of J’s statements are too idealistic and impractical.

Let me count the ways.

The Peace Corps from my experience, tends to emphasize cultural exchange too heavily. An “extended encounter session between the peoples of the U.S. and host country” may sound nice, but is it worth our while? Does it help anyone? And who benefits? I would think Americans, both volunteers and the political establishment, reap more from this exchange than do host countries. We volunteers are young, many lacking experience both professional and life, and this is an opportunity for us to better understand not only ourselves but also the world at large. For some, this experience will serve as a foundation for future international or political work. The mere existence of the Peace Corps, moreover, demonstrates American good will on the international stage at a time when such a thing is severely in need. The host countries, on the other hand, get to meet Americans, yes, and maybe enjoy the fruits of a handful of simple grassroots projects and community educational sessions if they succeed, but overall the benefits are nothing substantial.

In his comments, J cited the Chinguitti hospital as one of the positive impacts Peace Corps volunteers have had in Mauritania. I admit that the work some volunteers do is not insubstantial. After spending some 19 months in this country, however, I have yet to encounter one successful volunteer initiated project that has lasted through the years. And yes, many volunteers do provide language, technical and business skills classes that would otherwise be unavailable to host country nationals. However, little follow-up is ever done to ensure that these skills are utilized afterwards or if people find them useful in the first place. This is true in general of the institution itself. The true impact of the Peace Corps on host countries sadly cannot be assessed because the organization does not evaluate the activities of its volunteers and their consequent effects on host countries.

Regardless of what the objectives of the Peace Corps were at it’s beginning, it is important to realize that the times have changed. A two-year “encounter session” doesn’t cut it anymore. The world is a much smaller place than it was in 1961. In fact, one-half of the encounter session has already usually happened before volunteers ever get into their host countries: with the spread of radio and television, host nationals are evermore increasingly aware of American and European cultures. Also, over the past few decades, developing countries have become flooded with (mostly ineffective) aid organizations, causing their citizens to develop a “we are poor and deserve donations, so give it to us” mentality. This is one reason why volunteer-led grassroots projects in Mauritania consistently fail. In such a world climate, it’s important and necessary for the Peace Corps to reevaluate its mission and approach in order to be more effective.

In my opinion, for example, Mauritania needs a more effective Peace Corps organization, one that takes into account the not only needs of the country but also the technical expertise of its volunteers. This especially applies to Master’s International volunteers, like myself, who join the program expecting to apply their graduate level classroom lessons to real world situations. This, however, does not happen. There have been several cases where community needs and volunteer skills were only vaguely considered before volunteers were haphazardly placed into their sites without clearly defined jobs or projects. Consequently, whatever greater impact the Peace Corps could have had remained untapped.

Next, I feel it was offensive of J to state that many volunteers join the Peace Corps with the “arrogant naiveté of a 19th century missionary.” This is not true. I, for example, joined the Peace Corps to do work. I imagined myself working hard side-by-side with host country nationals, hands dirty and face dripping with sweat, and coming back home at the end of the day blissfully exhausted. I did not join the Peace Corps to spend two years of my life shooting the breeze with my friends and neighbors. I joined for the same reason that many people volunteer in the United States, to make a difference for the better.

Finally, I personally intend to pursue a career in international public health. The lessons that I have learned here in Mauritania about development work and how international aid organizations work have been invaluable. I appreciate my Peace Corps service up to date but wish that it had been more. I am indeed, at this point, more than halfway done with my Peace Corps experience. If I am wise and lucky, I will do great and good things in my lifetime, but come August 2008, the Peace Corps, for me, will come to an end.

In addition, there is a great op-ed piece in the New York Times regarding the Peace Corps and its current state, written by the former Peace Corps Country Director of Cameroon. He does a better job of arguing than I do. I urge anyone who’s interested to read it. The name of the article is “Too Many Innocents Abroad” by Robert L. Strauss.

Coming up next: RNN is pleased to present to you our Sunday Night Movie “Nobody Puts Baby in the Corner”. Dakotta Fanning stars as a single mother who must race against time, global warming and horrendous traffic to save her child from three major tornados, an end-of-the-world-like hurricane, and an Al-Gore-look-alike serial killer! Will she make it? Stay tuned…

A Stone-Cold Heart Have I (or the Realities of a Developing Country)

2007-12-13T12:42:00.000-05:00

Some may say that I have a stone-cold heart.

I am not sappy. I am not one to make large emotional outbursts. I prefer calm and steady to turbulent and rocky in all situations. In addition to this, I consider myself a realist. And above anything else, I refuse to have a bleeding heart.

The States is so shrouded in a sea of wealth and utter comfort that people sometimes forget that life is a struggle. It is meant to be difficult. It is also meant to be unfair. That is human nature. Millions of people around the world break their backs and even sell their souls – daily – just to have a chance at seeing the next sunrise. This is reality. We, as a whole, will never be able to rid the world of this hard-working and abused subset of people. If the world is continued to be run as it is today, i.e. in a capitalistic fashion, we will always have people at the bottom rung of the ladder. It is unavoidable.

Some people get such a sickness of guilt when they think about the poor developing world that it makes them ill. You can see their eyes flood with tears as they watch the images of poor third world villages flash onto their television sets. They sit there and stare, in absolute sadness, at the starving children covered in flies, and they feel deep down, such sorrow. If they are so bent, they will get up from their comfy form-fitting sofas and chairs and make the five minute call so that they, too, can donate but pennies a day to save some unfortunate child halfway across the world. And after they put down the phone, they feel better. They have done something, however small, to make the world a better place.

I am not heartless. I want to help people, help to make their lives better and happier. It sounds idealistic, and it is idealistic. This is what I’m realizing during my time in Mauritania. I have seen how little those ‘pennies a day’ do when they finally reach Africa. I have seen the work of bleeding hearts, seen how they make bad situations worse, seen how emotionally charged people rush into doing something because “Something has got to be done, now!” I have seen all of these good intentions pave a dark and gloomy path.

What exactly is better and happier anyways? What might be better and happier for me is not necessarily true for others. Things are not always as black and white as we would want. I can’t save everyone. I can’t make everyone happy. I frankly don’t even care about everyone the same. If I must choose between bettering a friend’s life over that of a stranger’s, I wholeheartedly choose my friend’s.

Some people take for granted the superficial-ness of ‘plastic America’. They automatically feel sad for those things that we have learned to feel sorry for – starving kids in Africa, for example – and they worry not about those problems that our society wishes to sweep under the rug – the psychological problems that most youth in developed countries face on a daily basis, another example. We all are in fact conditioned so well, that even I find myself fighting a gut instinct to deem the prior more worthy than the latter. Is it really? – I ask you.

Before I ramble on even further, here is my message. Love and care about everyone around you. Don’t have a bleeding heart for Africa because it is Africa. If you want to make a difference in someone’s life, start at home. Make a difference in the lives of the people you already know and care about – your family and friends. Everyone has problems. They might not be as “sexy” as AIDS or prostitution or starvation or etc. (note: I mean “sexy” as in issues that get the most press time, the most attention, the most hype, etc.), but they are problems just as important and life threatening as those aforementioned. Get to know your family and friends. Ask them questions. Care about them and show them that you care. Show them that you love them. We all have but this one life – as far as anyone has been able to prove to me – so why not live it trying to make a difference in the lives of those closest to us first.

I’m terribly sorry about this. I’m not one to make soapbox speeches, but I wrote this while angry an impassioned. Since is it now written, and since I have nothing else to post, I post it grudgingly. Again, I’m terribly sorry. I will refrain myself from further such outbursts.

Morocco

2007-12-13T12:37:00.000-05:00

I’m too exhausted, not to mention lazy, to delineate all of the tantalizingly juicy events from my Moroccan travels. What follows then are but some fleeting excerpts – not unlike the state of my writings in general.

The Arrival: I arrive into the Casablanca Mohamed V Airport at six o’clock in the morning. I stay there until seven in the evening, waiting for Lakshmy to arrive on her jet airplane. In the meanwhile, I read Thoreau’s “Walden” – a surprisingly wonderful book filled with insightful observations and commentaries that hold true for life especially today; I find the perfect sleeping chair, a small padded metal of a thing placed in a small room off into a corner, turned towards the glass window so that you can watch the clouds roll across the sky; I taste test all of the coffees being sold at the local vendors; and, of course, I people watch.

I realize sometime around one in the afternoon that Moroccans in general are very fashionable. Men choose to wear tight form-fitting clothes, even when their form is not exactly form-fittingly appealing while women opt for beauty over comfort and add flare to their tight blouses and skirts (or designer jeans for the more young and trendy) with matching heals and jewelry. It hits me as I turn to my imaginary Toto: I don’t think we’re in Mauritania anymore. The hours pass, and I continue to watch the ebb and flow of people: some hugging with tears of joy streaming down their faces while others weeping out promises to call when they arrive at whatever be their final destination. The day is beautiful outside. My eyes follow the sun’s path through the baby-blue sky, our existences separated only by large glassy windowpanes.

Lakshmy arrives sometime after seven in the evening. It makes me giddy to see her after such a long while. We hug and laugh and catch up. We head to the train station and then to our hotel and catch up some more over dinner before eventually heading off to bed.

The Mountain: The following day we make our way to Imlil, a tiny village located in the High Atlas Mountains. We reach the place sometime in the late afternoon. After some confusion about the location of our hotel, Lakshmy and I finally follow two old women, both hunched over with massive packs of grass on their backs, up a lengthy and steep incline to a house jutting out from the hillside, the top floor of which is our lodging. We drop our bags in our rooms and step out onto the balcony-porch.

The place is beyond all description: breathtakingly beautiful. The stars twinkle overhead, drumming is heard from a distant village over the mountains, and below us lies the darkened village of Imlil with a stream gurgling through its midst. I’m exhausted after a day of traveling. The dinner, soup and tagine, is hearty and delicious. The night chill feels good against my skin as I cup my glass of warm mint tea. We eat leisurely and soon thereafter, and grudgingly, retire to bed. I feel giddy again as I fall of to sleep.

The next morning Lakshmy and I wake up early and begin our trek to Nelter Refuge, the base camp located just below Jbel Toubkal, which at 4,167 meters is the highest peak in all of North Africa. Along the way we meet and make friends with a Moroccan family who is hiking to Sidi Chambouch, an Islamic pilgrimage site and home to a powerful witch doctor, located halfway between Imlil and Nelter Refuge. We reach the Refuge sometime in the afternoon. We find some food and rest up. We will climb to the summit of Toubkal the next morning. In the meanwhile, we meet some Moroccan Peace Corps volunteers, a somewhat crazy English-Paki girl planning on climbing the peak by her lonesome, a young German woman who was abandoned by her parents on a commune farm with her brothers and sisters when she was 16 and her climbing partner, a Dutch man who hates the Netherlands for its culture of forced and insincere politeness. The five of us – Lakshmy, myself, the Paki, Dutch and German – have a good enough time together that we decide to form a small climbing party amongst ourselves for the following morning.

That night I lie in bed, trying to fall asleep. I feel some trepidation about the following morning: I don’t have hiking shoes with me but only a pair of Chaco sandals. I imagine all the gruesome possibilities the climb may hold for me as I toss and turn and toss and turn and toss and turn...

We get up at four in the morning and grab some breakfast. By the time Lakshmy and I get outside, however, our climbing party has left without us. We start climbing hoping to meet up with them. Not twenty minutes into the climb, however, I find myself stuck halfway up a scree, on all fours and on the verge of tears. I can’t find any footholds; everything I touch begins a rock slide, and I look down the steep slope and imagine my demise. As it turns out, Lakshmy and I had taken a wrong, a very wrong, turn. We eventually manage to get off the scree, and we continue on our way, fully determined to reach the top. The climb is difficult, but we manage. After hours of stumbling over rocks and whatnots, we reach the ridge of the mountain and see the summit some 100 feet off into the distance. Lakshmy and I, however, choose not to pursue the peak, as we can’t find a suitable path to the summit, and frankly, making a wrong turn at this point could turn very disastrous. From where I stand, I can see the other side of the mountain: it is a steep and very long and straight fall to one’s death. The height had also given Lakshmy a bad case of the nerves. All in all, we decide we did all right for our first mountain climbing adventure. We look at each other, smile, turn back around and slide down on our asses all the way back to the Refuge, literally.

After a quick lunch, we climb back down to Imlil, exhausted. The sunset through the mountains, however, is – much like everything else so far in this country – amazing. We change our itinerary and decide to spend an extra day in Imlil enjoying the fresh mountain air. I am sorry to leave when we do, as we make our way to Marrakech.

The Passport (Marrakech): The day begins with Lakshmy retrieving money from her ATM account. We then head off into the market and wander aimlessly. Lakshmy is not soon thereafter lured into a harmless looking boutique selling postcards. I interest myself in cookbooks in the meanwhile. After paying the man for her purchases, we continue on our way and rediscover a clothes store where Lakshmy had wanted to buy some outfits. After choosing three or so and bargaining down to a reasonable price, Lakshmy reaches into her bag to get her money out. She, however, finds nothing of the sort. She had forgotten her money, along with her passport and credit cards, at the postcard store. We hurry back to the place only to find that there is no sign of Lakshmy’s moneybag.

The rest of the day is spent going from police station to police station. No one seems to want to help. Eventually I lapse into a foul mood and do a poor job of hiding it. At the sound of the evening prayer call, we return to the Djemma El Fna square and head back to our hotel. We refuse to let the situation dampen our spirits any further and head off into the square again as night falls. We pass the remainder of the time in Marrakech shopping and eating. Lakshmy, who had gotten more money out of the ATM, even makes a trip to a local hammam and comes out thoroughly refreshed and relaxed.

Fes: We follow Marrakech with Fes, where we meet up again with the British-Paki girl we had met on the mountain. She, in the meanwhile, had decided to travel out into the desert – in a moment of madness, as she later recounted – spent the night on a dune with a handful of Frenchmen, and had grudgingly refused an attempted seduction, as her heart already belonged to another.

Fes is a wondrous place. The medina is built into the hillsides, with narrow alleyways rising and falling, winding this way and that – all of it leading to some unforeseen sight or smell.

While there, we file a fake police report for Lakshmy’s passport, buy obscene amounts of embroidered products, and visit an overpriced McDonald’s. All in all, a good time is had by all.

Meknes: After Fes, we travel by train to Meknes. We spend some time walking around the medina and doing last minute shopping. Our time in Morocco is almost up.

Lakshmy unfortunately gets sick, and we can’t go to the ancient Roman ruins of Volubilis. I spend the day wandering the streets of Meknes, getting to know the city, while Lakshmy lies in bed. The British girl leaves us that day to catch her plane back to the UK. We all exchange emails and whatnots. It’s sad to see her go.

The Heart-to-heart and Goodbye: The following day, Lakshmy and I come back to Casablanca a day earlier than we had planned at the beginning of the trip. Lakshmy needs to go to the American Embassy to get an emergency passport.

That afternoon, Lakshmy and I take the grand tour of the third largest mosque in the world, an obscenely ornate building that is beyond any description I could provide. We also meet up with Ellie, a fellow Mauritanian Peace Corps volunteer. After a few quick hellos, Lakshmy heads off for her final hammam experience. I pass away the afternoon lying under a shady tree in a park and chatting the hours away with Ellie.

That night, after we send Ellie back to her hotel, Lakshmy and I find ourselves locked out of our own hotel room. While the hotel manager attempts to break down the door, we decide to grab a late night cup of coffee. Over coffee, I decide to spill my guts to Lakshmy and confess my sins, so to say. I had been in a somewhat tartish mood of late and wanted to apologize for my behavior as well as explain myself. It’s a good talk and after some time, we head back to the hotel to find that the door has been broken open. It is late, and we eventually fall asleep.

Lakshmy leaves early the next morning. We hug and say goodbye.

I go and see Ellie again before I leave for the airport later that afternoon. We spend the day walking around and eating good food. At 5 in the afternoon, I say goodbye for the second time that day and start my voyage back to Mauritania.

All in all, it has been a very good time. No regrets, whatsoever.

Well, there you have it folks, my adventures in Morocco! Laters ~

At the midpoint: opinions on my service and the Peace Corps

2007-07-04T12:37:00.000-04:00

The Peace Corps is a volunteer-based organization. Individuals leave their homes for a period of two years for the opportunity to serve peoples around the world. It sounds idealistic, but is it? Who truly benefits from the Peace Corps?

Before I joined the Peace Corps, I had grand visions of doing some real good in the world, making peoples lives better and happier. I envisioned myself working hard under the burning sun, hands dirty, and sweat running brown down my face. Once I became a Peace Corps volunteer, however, I was immediately told that three-fourths of the organization’s mission is “the exchange of cultures”. Translation: the vast majority of a Peace Corps volunteer’s time is spent shooting the breeze with the locals. Actual work is not a priority.

Before joining the Peace Corps, several former volunteers with whom I spoke portrayed the in-country volunteers as lazy, drunk, white people. They explained that many volunteers do minimal, if any, work during their two years of service.

Mauritania is different. I feel that most volunteers here try very hard to find work. In a country lacking alcohol, work is the next best cure for depression. I’ve noticed, in fact, that the most content volunteers in this country are those who have the most work. If nothing else, work provides a means with which to pass the time. This is not to say, however, that work is abundant here. Some volunteers try as hard as they might never find or accomplish any substantial projects during their service. And if they voice the lack of work to their superiors, they are often reminded again that three-fourths of the Peace Corps mission is “the exchange of cultures”.

While work is sometimes difficult to find, it is important to note that overall, volunteers successfully finish a handful of projects, some of which are large and substantial, during their brief stints in the Peace Corps. These projects, while supposed to be sustainable, however are usually not, and they fail as soon as the volunteers leave the country. Sustainability, by the way, is a complex beast of a thing that I will comment more on later.

So, who does benefit from the Peace Corps? Is it the volunteers who get to experience the developing world in all its glory, or is it the local population who we, as volunteers, are supposed to serve? At present, I vote that the Peace Corps is a largely selfish endeavor on the part of Americans, and especially American youths. The actuality of the Peace Corps does little to improve the livelihoods or lifestyles of the people in those countries where it serves. The young American volunteers, however, gain experience and insight – if they choose to do so – of the culture and mentality of the developing world. Some volunteers may argue that there exist exceptions to this generalization: some locals are greatly changed through their contact with the Peace Corps. I don’t argue with this. As a whole, however, an American’s two-year service with the Peace Corps has minimal impact on the lives of those who he “serves”.

Are we helping?

Mauritania is a difficult place to work. Over the past 40 years, international aid donations have helped fashion a culture that refuses to be self-sufficient: the people demand for handouts as if they are owed such contributions from the developed world. People here survive with the bare minimum, but yet they are, as far as I can tell, content with their lives. They snub at being told how to better their lives especially if it means that they have to work just a little bit harder. It’s not that they are lazy. No, they simply don’t see the point of working harder if they are already living, in their eyes, satisfactory lives. And why work if donations are so easy to come by? This attitude is partly to blame for the lack of sustainable Peace Corps projects within the country. Locals simply refuse to continue the work started by volunteers during their services. It is in this way that several past “successful” Peace Corps projects have met their ends.

Teach a Mauritanian to fish, and he will curse you under his breath. Hand him a fish, and he will appreciate you and put out his other hand.

The Mayor of Kiffa once told my former housemate, Josef the French volunteer, that he prefers the French to Americans because Americans hate to give others their money. I feel that this attitude can be found throughout the country. So I ask again, are we helping and if so, who? We are in a country where no one wants our help. Even if we do something good here, will it last?

* * * *

All is not bad with the Peace Corps. As I start to work more closely with the various UN organizations here in Kiffa, I am realizing how little the people at the top truly understand what happens at the bottom. This lack of understanding results in the implementation of ill-formed projects that waste resources and encourages corruption. The Peace Corps, on the other hand, works from the bottom up. Volunteers understand the ins and outs of daily life and have a greater appreciation for which projects will actually benefit the communities.

I feel that other international aid organizations should look to the Peace Corps as an example to follow in this regard.

* * * *

As for I, I have been thus far adequate in my work as a Peace Corps volunteer.

All right, honestly, I don’t know people. It’s hard here. I’m not complaining. It’s partly what I wanted when I joined the Peace Corps – a challenge. And I’ve found that. Each day is a challenge for one reason or other. I also wanted to grow as a person, and I feel that I’m doing that too, slowly but surely.

I have no idea what kinds of changes my Peace Corps experience will have on me, and I will most likely not recognize these changes until I return home at the end of two years.

All in all, the Peace Corps experience has been a good one thus far {i.e. I’m still alive} and I’m looking forward to the second and coming year {i.e. I expect not to die by the end of the second year}.

Till we meet again, in that place where time has little sense and life full of meaning…

VAC and the Welcoming Committee

2007-07-04T12:36:00.000-04:00

I have been given the immense honor, my friends, to be the Assabe Regional Coordinator for 2007-2008. Apparently, my good nature and impressive work ethic has made such an impression on other volunteers that, in a surprising act of democracy, I was voted to be the next coordinator…Oh! The power that I now wield: great forces will bow down at my RC mercy; no army will be strong enough to withstand my brute RC strength; and no damsel will be able to resist my infallible RC charms. Oh! The power!

Actually, no one else wanted the position, and I showed the slightest enough interest to be nominated and voted upon. The job is nothing glamorous. It entails being a “conduit”, as the Peace Corps terms it, between my fellow regional volunteers and the Peace Corps headquarters in Nouakchott. I also have to manage the regional Peace Corps bureau, i.e. pay bills and so forth. It sounds easy, but thus far in my first week on the job, I have managed to bankrupt the regional bank account and lose the regional bureau through unresolved rent negotiations {the owner wants to raise the rent and I refuse to let her do so!}. So, on the bright side, there might not be any need for my job relatively soon.

* * * *

Each quarter, the regional coordinators gather together to form a Volunteer Action Committee (VAC), the purpose of which is to communicate volunteer concerns and issues to the country Peace Corps staff. The first meeting was held at the end of June, a week before the arrival of the new Mauritanian Peace Corps trainees. The meeting went smoothly: the staff readily agreed to most of the improvements suggested by the VAC.

* * * *

Following the meeting, the VAC was given the task of the Welcoming Committee. The regional coordinators worked long and hard arranging the logistics for the arrival of the new class of trainees. Worry not, for we partied hard also. We didn’t want any repeats of The Shining (“All work and no play…”), especially with new blood on the way.

The trainees arrived into Dakar, Senegal on Wednesday morning. A group of us, me included, flew down from Nouakchott in a rented jet plane, all bleary-eyed at three in the morning, gathered the trainees and flew back to Mauritania. The following day and a half consisted of herding the new ones from their respective hotels to the Nouakchott bureau for official paperwork, medical exams, cultural presentations and so forth. I am relieved to report that no one died before they all headed down to Kaédi for the beginning of Stage 2007.

While the trainees were generally in good form, some appeared weaker than others. I have found, however, that outer weakness often hides inner strength. Everyone seemed to be in a cheery mood and glad, strangely, to be in Mauritania. I feel that most don’t know yet what they are getting themselves into. It will be interesting to see how many of the 72 survive this summer and become official volunteers. I hope that they all do, but I know that some people will terminate their services before then. It’s just how it goes.

Up next time: “One year done! What comes next?”

Jazz Fest ’07, Nouadhibou, and AIDS, AIDS, AIDS

2007-07-04T12:31:00.000-04:00

Oh! Jazz Fest: a festival of jazz if you will: jazz, being that melodious rag of a thing that wanders into some smoke-filled room {the smoke: gray swirls wafting higher and higher into the darkness), settles onto a wooden crate, and slowly lulls you into an unpunctuated dream of easiness smudged with the grittiness of shattered hopes.

Oh! Jazz Fest! The experience had is nearly perfect: good people, an amazing venue, a lively nightlife, and the lack of actual jazz. The last, by the way, is what makes the event nearly perfect and not entirely so.

St. Louis is, in my opinion, a piece of paradise here on earth. The air is cool, the beach is warm, the streets are lively with the hubbub of daily activities, and people are smiling and singing. Sounds like paradise, no? Indeed.

During the festival, the RIM volunteers stay at two different hotels. One, located in the center of town, provides easy access to the seemingly never-ending nightlife, which by no means are restricted solely to nighttime hours. The other hotel, where I stay, is a 45-minute walk from the town center and only minutes from the beach. My few and precious days are spent relaxing on the hotel’s rooftop veranda, relaxing at the beach, relaxing at the RIM booth (where we “sell” Mauritanian produced odds and ends) and just plain relaxing.

There’s nothing more I can say about the trip, as the rest is better told in person…{A quick note though - a warning, if you will, bore out of my individual experiences: it is highly ill-advised to get smashed the night before one has to travel many a miles in cramped and most definitely uncomfortable conditions, as such a personal circumstance invites nothing but additional misery.}

* * * *

After St. Louis, I head north to Nouadhibou to help at the local Girls Mentoring Center – a Peace Corps run venture focusing on the education and mentorship of young Mauritanian girls. Nouadhibou is nice, but a little too nice. It is so nice in fact that I forget I’m in Mauritania. The weather is damp and cool, almost like the Northwest. The beaches are breezy and empty: Mauritanians don’t like going to the beach. Scattered on the shorelines are countless shipping boats, some – beached and rusted – look ghostly. At nighttime, we go to the Chinese restaurant, openly famous for it’s booze and prostitutes. The food is good, too.

I enjoy my time there, for the most part, but by the end of the trip I’m ready to leave and return to Kiffa. I think, dare I say, that I’m homesick…but I can’t. I come back to Nouakchott for a weeklong AIDS workshop organized by my boss. Kiffa, sadly, will have to wait.

* * * *

“Everyone has AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS! AIDS!”

The AIDS workshop is held in Nouakchott and consists of a handful of volunteers and our counterparts. The workshop is run by two very enthusiastic Gambians and a Peace Corps staff from Washington D.C. The information presented is already familiar to most of the volunteers, but this matters not, as the aim of the gathering is to better equip the counterparts in educating the populations of their respective towns and villages on HIV/AIDS.

I notice early on that the room is oddly black and white: most of the counterparts are Africans and not Moors, the more conservative of the two groups. I, having no great like for the Moors, let out a slight smile at the observation.

The workshop is long and tiring. The counterparts are bossy, making group work difficult. In addition, the counterparts are too comfortable sharing various parts of their sex lives that I, frankly, find neither relevant nor appropriate for the workshop and venue. {I don’t want to know that you practice polygamy because you love sex, or that during the middle of foreplay you open a condom with your teeth, or that you married you underage cousin who later cheated on you, or…and it goes on.}

In the end, however, I feel that the workshop has been useful and educative to the counterparts. We spend the last day making plans for what we will do with the information that we have learned once we return to our respective sites. I hope that everyone will follow through, or at least make an attempt in doing so.

That’s all folks! Come back soon for another whirl around the Mary-go-Round! Wheeeee!

Summer 2007: plans and so forth

2007-05-23T13:37:00.001-04:00

So here’s a quick update of my life as I approach the year mark in my Peace Corps service.

[My living situation]

The French volunteer that I have been living with since the beginning of this year has decided to terminate his service a year early so that he can be with his girlfriend. I’m sorry to see him go, as he is one of the few people in Kiffa who make me feel at ease. But with him gone, I need to move yet once again. Luckily, the second year volunteer in Kiffa is vacating her house in middle August. So I’m planning on staying at a friend’s house until August when I can move into my new, and hopefully final, residence in Mauritania.

[My working situation]

Work is coming along. I currently have three projects in Kiffa. First, I’m starting a preventive health education program at the Health Center. Second, I’m starting a health library, also at the Health Center. Third, I’m working with the World Food Program to help start and monitor community-based feeding centers.

Hopefully more projects will develop towards the end of summer.

[My traveling situation]

I’m planning on taking a few trips during this summer, and they are as follows:

June: St. Louis, Senegal – Jazz Festival (beginning of June) and a tentative trip to southern Senegal/Mali/Benin (end of June)

July: Kaédi, Mauritania – Eco/Health Camp (Helping out at a weeklong summer camp for young Mauritanian girls; beginning of July)

August: Casablanca, Morocco – Traveling around Morocco with Lakshmy (beginning to middle August)

All right, that’s all I can think of at the moment. Entries and emails may become somewhat few over the next few months, but I’ll try to write and update every so often. Ya’ll take care now…

Trying to understand the Mauritanian mentality

2007-05-23T12:52:00.000-04:00

What follows is an attempt on my part to understand the mentality of the Mauritanian people.

[Per Diem]

Mauritania is flooded with foreign NGOs and international aid organizations. These groups often hold educational seminars. In some strange twist of history and behavioral conditioning, however, it has become necessary here to pay the individuals who attend these seminars simply for attending. This often sizeable payment is referred to as per diem. If those attending the seminar are required to travel, there is usually a traveling reimbursement that is separate from the per diem. If there is no per diem, it is unlikely that anyone will come to the seminar. Contrast this to the developed world where those who attend seminars have to pay in order to attend, the idea being that they will learn something and that they must pay for this information.

Some people hold the opinion that Mauritanians don’t value knowledge; that intelligence in this country gets an individual nowhere; that all the people in power have attained their positions through nepotism and corruption and that knowledge, if not burdensome, is unnecessary.

I agree with this partially. I think that Mauritanians have been conditioned to undervalue education because it does give any immediate wealth. Like the United States, people here are driven by instant gratification. But here, in a country that is ruled and ruined, in my opinion, by corruption, it is better to have cash jingling in your pockets and some abstract knowledge stuffed in your head.

[Ca n’est pas ma travaille]

My latest idea has been to start an educational program at the local health center. I want to use the health technicians who have small workloads to start leading educational sessions with the patients who come to the center. Preventive health education is something that is lacking in this country. Most of this education in the United States happens in the schools. The school system here, however, is so defunct that the little health education that is supposed to happen in the classrooms often does not.

I briefly mentioned my idea to the health technicians sometime last week. One of the technicians responded to my idea by saying that the activity is not part of her job description. [Just quickly, her job is to attend to severely malnourished children and then educate their mothers on how to prepare well-balanced meals.] I replied that education is very important and that while it may not be part of her job description, it is important for the community as a whole. She responded quickly by turning her head to the side and starting a conversation with someone else in another language. She managed to ignore me until I began to pack my things to leave.

I don’t understand it. I mean, here I am, giving two years of my life to help people in a different country who I probably will never see again, and yet she refuses to help the people in her own community just because it requires her to do just a little more work on her part. And on that last note, she currently does next to nothing – the malnutrition center, staffed by three technicians, receives only about ten children per month.

This is a specific example, but the same mentality exists throughout Mauritania. Nobody ever goes out of their way to do something if they do not get rewarded for it.

[Donnez moi cadeau]

Children in the streets, when they see a white person, scream Donnez moi cadeau! This holds true everywhere that I have been, including Senegal and Mali. I sometimes wonder if the kids think is a greeting, but then they put out their hands expecting a gift. And then I wonder if anyone ever really gives them anything as I smile and say Non! and walk away.

I feel white people get harassed more than I do. I tend to blend in with the locals here. Other volunteers, however, constantly complain about the children. From what little I have experienced, I pity the other volunteers: the children can easily become overwhelming. They’re like things constantly scratching and picking at your person, stretching and wearing you thin until you just can’t take it anymore, and then you break.

[The art of encouragement]

White Moors do not seem to understand the concept of encouragement. They are always quick to judge and to criticize.

While in Bababe during stage, I tried to teach the young boys my family how to draw. I gave them simple drawings to copy. They drew poorly, but I smiled and encouraged them on. One day, one of the mothers passed us where we sat on the floor. One of the boys got up to show her his drawing. He was excited and smiled so that his teeth showed. She looked at the piece of paper and said that it was not good. The boy’s looked down and sat next to me. I looked at the mother and said that the drawing was very good. She shrugged her shoulders and walked away.

The mother, in no way, was trying to be mean to her boy. I think encouragement in general does not exist in the Moor culture as it does in the Western world. Of course this is an overgeneralization, I know, but I notice more often than not Moors criticizing each other, putting each other down, laughing at each other and so forth. People generally don’t become upset, but they do get embarrassed.

During stage I also came to realize a lack of creativity in the Moor culture, and I wonder if this is due to the lack of a fostering society where individuals keep from trying new things for fear of being humiliated.

Mauritania is an interesting place, that’s for sure.

All right all, there’s much more to write, but I’m tired and the stars are shinning brightly tonight. My rooftop calls me to sleep.

Up next time…Hung up, time goes by so slowly – the Kiffa Music Mix 2007.

Mauritania: an introduction of sorts, parte deux

2007-05-02T08:21:00.000-04:00

The following is the introduction to my master’s thesis. I wrote it some months ago and haven’t yet edited it so please pardon any and all mistakes.

Land and Climate

Situated in northwest Africa, the Islamic Republic of Mauritania is a largely desert country, measuring 1 030 000 square kilometers in size with a shoreline some 700 kilometers long. It is bordered by Morocco and Algeria to the north, Senegal and Mali to the south and east, and the Atlantic Ocean to the west. The large expanses of flat plains that cover the northern and central regions are occasionally interrupted by ridges, sand dunes and rocky plateaus, which are often rich in iron-ore. The most significant of these deposits occur in Zouérat, in northern Mauritania. The southern portion of the country is mostly flat scrubland.

The rainy season occurs from the months of July to September; average annual rainfall in the Sahara region is less than 100mm while that in the south is approximately 600mm. The limited rains allow for some cultivation. Desertification, however, is a severe problem. The Sahara, which covers approximately 75% of the country, including Nouakchott, is slowly expanding southward. Wood has become scarce, with most cooking now being done on kerosene stoves. Further cause for environmental concern comes from increasing livestock herds, which as a result of additional wells and human population growth, is contributing to overgrazing.

Mauritania has recently experienced several natural disasters. Some 150 000 square kilometers of land were transformed into desert during the droughts of the 1970s and 1980s, causing a mass migration of peoples towards the south. Apart from the Senegal River, surface water is scarce. This, along with a recent worsening of the water crisis has led to food insecurity, damage to infrastructures caused by advancing sands, and various health problems. In addition, drought stricken lands often become submerged in floods during the rainy season. These conditions have fueled urban migration, resulting in a 53% increase of the urban population and the appearance of several squatter settlements around urban centers within the recent past [Red Cross Annual Report: Mauritania {14 July 2006}]. Consequently, today only some 10% of the population is officially nomadic, compared 83% in the late 1960s.

Government and Economics

Mauritania is administratively divided into 13 regions, 53 departments and 218 communes. Despite its size, the country’s approximately 3 million people are limited mostly to towns and cities and a few fertile areas. Access to most of the population is limited, however, due to a lack of adequate roads.

Mauritania’s economy has languished in the recent past. The country is one of the poorest in the world, with a gross national income (GNI) per capita of US$560. This dismal situation is further exacerbated by a high national growth rate, which will see the country’s population double in the next 20 years.

More than three-quarters of its population live by traditional subsistence activities, predominantly animal husbandry. Agriculture along the Senegal River contributes to one-third of the gross national product (GNP). Use of irrigation systems is increasing; however, the government encourages cattle-raising and rain-fed farming methods, traditionally Moorish activities, to the detriment of black Mauritanians. While the fishing and iron-ore industries account for over 90% of export earnings, uncontrolled fishing practices and a weakening world iron market are devastating them.

Economic growth has also been undermined by political instability at the national level. Mauritania is currently in the process of ‘controlled democratization’, with a non-violent coup d'état occurring in 2005. It is hoped, however, that the first presidential elections, currently being held, in addition to recent debt relief and oil production will markedly improve the nation’s economic situation.

People

The Mauritanian people, almost exclusively religiously Islamic, are composed of a diverse array of ethnic groups. Socio-economic and cultural differences, however, between the traditionally nomadic Arabic-speaking Moor herders – who dominate the central and northern regions of the country – and the Afro-Mauritanian sedentary cultivators of the Halpulaar, Soninké and Wolof ethnic groups – who are concentrated mainly in the south – have given rise to racial discrimination and conflict. The most severe of this occurred in 1989 when some 40 000 to 50 000 black Mauritanians were expelled from the country on government orders. Racial tensions exist to current day.

Next time on “Adventures in Puddles”: What’s yellow and flies in the air? A fly with a gold tooth! – Reporter R. N. investigates French humor.

All those things, la vie quotidienne quoi, parte deux

2007-04-30T07:49:00.000-04:00

[All the pretty things]

An inside joke –
Q: What will a Mauritanian do if you give them something pretty?
A: Probably burn it.

I’m not being judgmental...really, truly. All right, fine, maybe I am. I just find it really hard sometimes, I mean really hard, to help myself. The joke is actually pretty funny, if you’re in the right mood – i.e. after you’ve had a really bad day and you just want to scream. It’s also especially funny, in some twisted way I suppose, when on those particularly bad days you hear yet another story of Mauritanians destroying something functional built or organized by another volunteer or foreign NGO.

[Latrines]

Going to the bathroom consists of finding the local hole in the ground, i.e. latrine, and doing your business. The latrines are often small rooms with doors, thus allowing for privacy, and usually no roofs, thus allowing the midday sun to sanitize the place with its burning heat. There is no toilette paper, so people resort to washing themselves – using the left hand only – with water carried in large plastic kettles. Soap is always essential. In the countryside however, it’s often difficult to find a latrine. In such cases, you usually walk out into the middle of nowhere, find a spot where you feel comfortable and do your thing. Soap is also limited in these places, and so one has to be creative when trying to sanitize one’s hand afterwards.

On a side note, I hear the squatting pose is good for the leg muscles...

[Laundry]

Laundry is done by hand. The whole process – including soaking, scrubbing, rinsing and hanging – takes f o r e v e r. And while it is a good stress reliever at times, oh Lordy, Lordy! – How I miss washing machines! Plus, I can never get my clothes entirely clean. Come to think of it, I should just pay a local child to wash my clothes for me. I hear African labor is relatively cheap nowadays. And not only will the kid do a better job than me, but I’ll also be helping the local economy! As I see it, all pros and no cons...

[Prayer Calls]

Prayer calls happen five times a day, starting at the godforsaken hour of five o’clock in the morning. Sometimes I manage to sleep through it. Other times, the loud and raspy, and usually unpleasant, male voice blaring on the blow horn startles me awake. It’s not always so unpleasant though. Sometimes, especially in the afternoons, the prayer calls are filled with such a feeling of humbled joy that it makes me pause and appreciate all that is around me.

[The night sky]

The night sky in Mauritania is almost always amazing. It’s hard not to stare up into the stars and the darkness that surrounds them and not get lost in thoughts of hopes and dreams and questions about everything big and small. The few city lights that exist in Kiffa never dull the moon’s brightness, and one of the most enjoyable times for me is walking back home late at night with my moonlit shadow leading my way.

[Music]

Hassaniya music is not very nice to Western ears. At first, it sounds like it might be a torture device used by top secret agents to elicit important information from distrustful individuals leading to the eventual capture of some notorious evil-doer. It often consists of a high-pitched and tangy sounding guitar, accompanied by a rhythms section with a peculiar fascination with syncopation – sometimes even the syncopated beats are syncopated {Don’t ask me how; I just know it happens.} – and a shrill sounding singer with a preference for atonal melodies.

After some time, though, the music does grow on you...to some small yet noticeable degree.

[Walking]

RIM volunteers tend to walk everywhere, as we tend to lack the money to afford transportation. I don’t mean to complain, as I tend to enjoy walking. The whole process is very satisfying, with a beginning, middle and some final destination achieved. It’s not usual for volunteers in Kiffa to walk up to an hour in each direction to accomplish some random task. The only annoying bit is the midday heat, which usually takes a serious toll on the body and sometimes the mind. Otherwise, there is no other better way to travel, except by cars and motorcycles, of course, but Peace Corps won’t allow us to drive those...so walking it is!

Coming up next week: An in-depth interview with Dr. R. N. on his recent self-help phenomenon “How to Drink a Gin and Tonic Before You Apologize”.

After Emily Dickenson, but not so good

2007-04-30T07:42:00.000-04:00

The stars are ageless.

[Sunset Boulevard]

Because the sun refused to rise,

The darkened sky remained.

Queer stillness spread upon the place

Like hands, on breasts, ashamed.

The snickering stars wept but lies

Of immortality.

And those tears, to certain demise,

The youth drank in folly.

Pride, grinning on the grassy field,

Casually noticed not

The fading moon somewhere yield

A sad sigh to his lot.

And beneath the orchard’s cover,

The old laughed at the sight;

That youth will come like his lover

And fade into sunlight.

Cheers! – To the continuance of boredom and poor poetry!

All those things, la vie quotidienne quoi

2007-04-11T11:22:00.000-04:00

Here follows a sparsely elaborated list, of all those things, that have become, over time, the not-so-out-of-the-ordinary. This is not so entertaining, so be forewarned.

[Sheeps, goats and donkeys; cats and dogs, also]

Sheeps and goats, with beady-eyes and stern faces, rule the streets. They will eat anything green that stumbles into their paths, gardens and trees included. They also eat trash and chase dogs. They are oftentimes dumber than they look and can be easily gotten rid of by the utterance of “Chee!” and the throwing of rocks {I prefer the big ones as I imagine they hurt…I mean to say, scare, more…}.

Donkeys are responsible for pulling carts. They are often badly abused. It is not unusual to see several donkeys, over the course of a half-hour stroll, with bloodied bruises and with sadness in their eyes.

Children kill cats and dogs. They can be seen chasing the animals through streets and alleys with rocks in their hands. The parents dislike cats and dogs and do nothing to stop their children’s actions. The whole thing is, in effect, a win-win situation, unless you happen to be the cat or dog.

[Taxi brousse]

People are shuttled from city to city in taxies brousses: Frankenstein-like cars too old and broken to be driven in any sensible place. Seating is always scarce, and so travelers are oftentimes squashed together into unbelievably small places. In an ordinary four-door passenger car, four people sit in the back while two squeeze into the passenger seat. In mini-van type vehicles, people, without count, are stuffed into the back, along with their luggages. If driving off-road, one must take a Helix truck, where one has the option of seating in the cab or the bed. The last Helix I rode in was with 26 other people; all of us sardined into the truck bed and sprawled on top of the cab. The ride was painful. I had a friend sitting on my lap, a young man’s legs around my torso, and luggage and various feet on my legs, and all this over bumpy terrain lasting for some six to seven hours. In short, travel in Mauritania is…an adventure.

[Urinating]

Men urinate in public. They find a wall and squat and pee. Women also urinate in public but not as frequently as men.

[Making Tea]

Mauritanians make tea for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and in all the times in-between. Tea is made, strong and sweet, in small teapots over charcoal or gas fires. It is served in a small casse, similar to a shot glass, in customarily three rounds. This is one of the few traditions in which Mauritanians seem to take intense pride.

C’est tous pour aujourd’hui : je suis fatigue.

Mais la prochaine fois, un secret, « le week-end perdu »…

[lonesome at sunset, he]

2007-04-11T11:17:00.000-04:00

lonesome at sunset, he

stoops over cigarette smoke –

the warm expanse greeting stillness

steady-eyed, he gasps to

be touched, desperate for

passion, cut hotly like blindness

time comes to all, in time,

he reminds that part of him

that prides reason, above all else

and the last drag inhaled,

he descends, skin thick and dry,

from the dusk to open waters

This is what happens when I get bored…really bad poetry.

Oh shoot, they burnt it: Tall-tales from the frontier, in a RIM-like fashion [Part I]

2007-04-02T15:11:00.000-04:00

[The Occurrence of Blue]

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away – known only vaguely by its name of Kiffa, Mauritania – a strange thing happened early one morning. Leah on that day she found herself at Maggie’s residence, doing whatever one does at Maggie’s residence. The day was warm, sunny, pleasant; things, however, were to take a turn for the not so better.

Not much time having passed since her arrival, Leah soon heard the sounds of yelping off in the distance. She grabbed herself from her busied work. “I think someone’s hurting a dog!” Maggie looked up her book as Leah flew out the door. Leah no sooner came across a group of young boys with “Children of the Corn”-like looks in their eyes. They were surrounding a blue and brown colored dog tied to a post. She asked, “What are you doing?” and they replied smilingly, “We’re killing him,” pointing to the canine. Leah in a flash threw herself in-between the dog and children and screamed for Maggie.

{Maggie later commented that when she heard Leah scream, she thought Oh shoot! They’re killing her! – Such was the horror-struck tone of Leah’s plead for help.}

Maggie dashed out of the house and toward Leah’s voice. She found her surrounded by dark-skinned children, with her arms clasped around a bruised and injured dog. Maggie pushed her way to Leah and with the exchange of only looks, understood the situation. She helped her free the animal. They told the children, “This is our dog now.” The children, naturally, started negotiating for a price. Leah and Maggie, wide-eyed in disbelief, glanced at each other and then the dog. The looked at the children and said again, “This is our dog now,” and walked away, with the battered animal in their arms, to Maggie’s house.

At the house, the two realized that the boys had colored the dog with blue dye, evidenced by its blue-splotched coat and blue-tipped ears. Leah proceeded to wash off as much of the color as possible while the canine, still terrified, tried his best to flee from her. He soon calmed, however, and lay down. Leah, and later I, soon fell in love with the dog. She named him while he slept, and that is how it came to be that a dog named Blue lives on in Kiffa.

[A Car Chase]

Once upon a time, Maggie found herself wandering through the Kiffa city market. Perhaps Clarice, a fellow Kiffa volunteer, was with Maggie, but I – being neither present at the time of these occurrences nor having a fully functioning memory of the tale Maggie narrated to me some weeks ago – tend to forget details.

In any case, it was morning and the place bustled with activity. The streets and alleys overflowed with people: individuals drifted through the scene, greeting friends and neighbors with toothy smiles and jostling one another as the hour climbed and the need to finish daily tasks mounted. Young boys with wooden planks balanced on their heads – the boards covered with thin loafs of bread baked earlier that morning – weaved in and out of the crowd; women dressed in mulafas sat on sidewalks, their fruits and vegetables arrayed before them, greeting and bargaining with passerby’s; and neighboring butcher stands displayed fresh cuts of meat already being swarmed by a sea of flies.

Maggie, completely absorbed in the wondrous commotion of it all, was suddenly stopped in her tracks by a white Moor man with whom she was previously acquainted. He was in his car and asked if he could give her a ride. Maggie stood for a moment, undecided. The sun was high in the sky and her fatigue considerable. Eventually, heat and tiredness combined and reasoned Maggie to accept the offer.

Not much time passed since she entered the car, that while momentarily parked in the crowded street, a man in a yellow truck pulled up beside them. He shouted, out of his window, asking Maggie if she knew Spanish. He was pleasantly surprised when she said “Yes.” Their exchange of Spanish pleasantries was rudely interrupted, however, when the car in which Maggie sat lurched forward and noisily hurried away. Confused and angered, she turned to the white Moor driver and said, “The man in the truck wanted to talk to me.” He did not respond and continued to drive. Maggie soon thereafter surmised that they were being followed, tailed in fact, by the yellow truck. “Oh shoot,” she nervously mumbled to herself.

The white Moor, viewing this action as a challenge to his manhood – and that in the presence of a beautiful American female – pushed down on the gas and drove faster yet. Pedestrians and donkey carts dodged and darted out of the speeding vehicle’s path. Maggie frantically screamed at the Moor “You don’t want to share me?” He responded “No!”

Soon, with enough space between himself and the truck, the white Moor pulled into an alleyway and watched a yellow blur zoom past. He pulled the car out onto the road, and Maggie asked if he was taking her home. He shook his head. “Oh shoot,” she nervously mumbled to herself, again. She felt her stomach fall. He said needed to fuel first and started driving towards the gas station. In the meanwhile, the yellow truck had turned around and was driving back from in the direction of the gas station. The two men soon spotted each other. What followed was some crazed game of chicken as the two speeded towards each other. Suddenly, the truck driver swerved his vehicle sideways such that to block the Moor’s car from passing. Maggie sat terrified, white-knuckled hands on the door handle, ready to jump and roll. The Moor, being ever so clever, jetted off of the paved road, onto the sand and, having bypassed the truck, back onto the road, and all this at some rather maddening speed. A small smile spread across the Moor’s face. Maggie continued to sit, unflinching and dry-mouthed.

The Moor bought gas and drove Maggie to her house. She did not speak. He said good-bye. She quickly opened the door and, without looking back, walked through her front door.

[To Lose a Phone, and a Rake, in a Latrine]

It was a relatively well-lit and not so stormy night in Kiffa. Still unaccustomed to the desert heat, Ritesh – a somewhat tall, dark and rather handsome young lad – had spent the evening gorging himself on water. I love water, he thought to himself. Water, however, was not to return the sentiment. Most likely because water is an inanimate object incapable of humanly emotions, but I suppose that’s getting too technical about the whole matter. In any case, not much time had passed before Ritesh needed to use the facilities. Lacking a flashlight, the all too clever boy decided to use the light on his cell phone to guide him to the latrine, located outside behind the house.

He dashed out towards the hole-in-the-ground, as he liked to call it. As soon as he closed the door to the small room, he found himself marveling at the amount of light given off by the moon. “I don’t even need the phone tonight,” Ritesh mumbled to himself. At that precise moment, without concentration or thought, he opened the hand that held his phone and watched it fall silently into the dark and deep hole. The phone landed vertically, with a splat. It stuck into whatever one finds in a latrine and was held there. The light from the phone continued to show brightly, mockingly. A light at the end of the tunnel, Ritesh momentarily thought to himself, before breaking out into a long series of “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my...” while running around in circles.

After calming some, he uttered out loud, “Oh shoot! Where’s the rake?” The boy was determined to retrieve his phone, and he had a plan. He ran into the house and grabbed the rake out of the utilities room. He ran back to the latrine and managed to push the length of the rake into the hole. “Oh shoot! This latrine is deep!” The rake reached only midway. Ritesh ran back to the house and after a few frantic moments, found a lengthy stick. Ingeniously, with the use of duck tape he attached the stick to the rake. He ran back to the latrine and stuck his new device into the hole. It’s rather hot and humid in here, Ritesh thought to himself as he put his arm into the hole. The new stick barely reached the bottom. The boy tried and tried to retrieve the phone, in the process knocking it over and submerging it slightly into the darkened sludge, but he could not get it onto the rake. Eventually, somewhat angered and frustrated, his maneuvering of the rake device became, in a word, violent, and in a matter of seconds, the duck tape failed. He watched the rake fall silently to the bottom of the latrine, joining his phone. “Oh shoot! I lost the rake.”

Ritesh, not knowing what else to he could do, walked back to the house and took a shower.

A cautionary note: These stories are only “based on true stories,” not unlike similarly cautioned Hollywood screenplays.

With that, till next time…

A Marriage in Kiffa

2007-03-12T11:37:00.000-04:00

Douglas & Beverly Dale, Zeinabou & Cheikh Sow

are honored by your presence

as we celebrate the marriage of Leah and Mowdou

...and so read the invitation.

Leah Dale is the second-year volunteer in Kiffa. Over the past six-some months, due to the constraints of space and time, I have spent countless hours together with her, enough to fill days and weeks and maybe even months – and so consequently, we are now friends. Sometime last year, before my time in Mauritania, Leah found herself in the presence of Mowdou, a young Mauritanian Pular man with a slight resemblance to Usher, the singer, and fell madly in love with him soon thereafter.

A few months ago, Mowdou proposed to Leah at the nearby abandoned airport, at nighttime. The stars blanketed the sky and city lights showed off in the distance. She took the ring – upon which were engraved the words la fleur de mon cœur – with tears in her eyes and a smile upon her face, I imagine.

The wedding, a two-day affair, took place this past weekend in March. The schedule was as follows –

Friday evening, March 2^nd – Bachelor/bachelorette party {chez Maggie}

Saturday evening, March 3^rd – Dinner and wedding vows {chez moi}

Sunday, all day, March 4^th – Traditional Pular wedding {chez Mowdou}

Here are some highlights, in no particular order or in any great detail, from the happenings of that weekend.

Thursday/Friday/Saturday: Some 30 to 40 volunteers arrive into Kiffa. They are quickly put to work helping with meals, decorating and running various errands.

Friday: Leah gets smashed and chain-smokes. I am talked into doing a strip dance for the bride. I convince a friend to strip alongside me – such that to lessen any attention I would otherwise attract. We both strip sober. I go down only to my short-shorts and wife-beaters. Never again, I promise myself.

Saturday: I spend the day decorating my rooftop, cleaning my house and aimlessly running around town. Ginger, a fellow volunteer from Kankossa, takes charge of cooking and, amazingly, manages to create a feast for the evening. Brook, a volunteer from Aioun, bakes the wedding cakes – themed black and white, as chosen by the bride. Dinner is served at 5 in the afternoon. Vows take place on the rooftop at sunset. It is very windy and I fear that something – or worse someone – will catch on fire from one of the many candles we have used in creating an “atmosphere”. Luckily, no fires take place. [We do have buckets of water ready though, just in case…seriously.] Vows are followed by cake cutting and later, by Leah and Mowdou’s first dance. Leah is still ill from the night before, suffering from a possible case of nicotine poisoning. At ten o’clock, members from Mowdou’s family numbering in the fifties or so, crash the party and steal Leah away, as is tradition. With the bride gone, the party ends, and I soon retire to my mattress.

Sunday: Traditional weddings are, well, rather dull. People sit under tents. They chat, stare blankly or if nothing else, sleep. Some people help cook meals. There is some dancing and merrymaking but not much. I am thoroughly disappointed. Leah spends the day getting hennaed and braided in a small crowded room. Once properly groomed and dressed, she makes her grand entrance under the tent sometime in the late afternoon. We are served lunch and then dinner, after which the wedding, as far as I can tell, is over. I go back home and sleep.

Next Time on Adventures in Puddles: How to lose 30 lbs in 30 days! Secret dieting techniques from Mauritania!

WAIST in Dakar, Senegal {February 15 – 20, 2007}

2007-02-28T07:37:00.000-05:00

Americans from all over West Africa gather once a year in Dakar, Senegal to take part in the West African International Softball Tournament, better known as WAIST. The tournament has two divisions, one competitive – for teams who actually practice – and the other “social” – for teams who, well, don’t practice. Peace Corps Mauritania, better known as the Pirates {Arrrrrgh!}, takes part in the social league and is, in fact, the reigning champion. With the exception of a very few individuals, all RIM volunteers – whether they choose to play or cheer – make their way to Dakar for a weekend full of looting, pillaging, drinking and other unmentionable whatnots...and, oh yes, for some good old fashioned softball quoi. For some volunteers, this is the social event of the year, and they live each precious day like it is their last.

What follows are some of the highlights from WAIST 2007.

Safety and Security in Nouakchott: Before we, the volunteers, depart for Senegal, we gather together in Nouakchott for a day of safety and security talks. {Basically: Senegal is a dangerous place! You can die! So, be careful!} Most of the day, however, is eaten up by a Peace Corps administrator – she’s here all the way from Washington D.C., impressive! – currently in the country to help organize a new sector focusing on girls’ education and empowerment. I am not impressed with her presentation. Honestly, I’ll be astonished if the sector succeeds. The administrator, while having good ideas and intentions, seems to lack a basic understanding of the real-life situations that most Mauritanian girls must face. I feel that this disconnect between the top and bottom will be the downfall of the program, just as it has been the downfall of many others before.

Bus Ride to Dakar: The following morning we, the volunteers, load onto two buses at precisely 5:15 {an awfully premature hour!} hoping to get into Dakar some nine hours afterwards. Unknowingly, we rise early in vain. The trip takes us not nine but 18 hours. Why? Let me recount the reasons. On the way down to Senegal, just kilometers away from the border, in a heroic effort to avoid a wheelbarrow on the edge of the road, the bus driver of the larger of the two buses swerves and drives directly head-on into a sand dune. Not only are we stranded on the side of the road for two or so hours, but it also turns out the bus driver was unsuccessful in his attempt to avoid the wheelbarrow. At the border we sit in the hot and steamy buses for an hour and a half or so, waiting for our passports to be cleared. {They have to make sure we’re not spies, quoi.} We then stop in St. Louis, Senegal for lunch, after which we get lost trying to get out of the city. During all this, the second bus gets stuck in the sand for half an hour and must be shoveled and pushed out. We arrive into Dakar at nightfall. Our bus driver, being half blind – seriously, drives in the middle of the two-lane highway, successfully drives a large truck off the road and attempts to do so with several other buses, trucks, and cars, almost getting us killed far too many times to be counted. We also make several illegal turns, including a three-point turn in the middle of a busy intersection.

Oh, yeah, and I saw a car on fire driving down the highway...

We get to the Club Atlantique, the center of all activity for the tournament, and meet the ex-pats who are kindly allowing us to crash at their homes for the weekend. We all go to their homes and crash.

The Games: Peace Corps Mauritania has three teams: the Pirates, Buccaneers, and Swashbucklers. The Pirates play to win while the other two teams play to have fun. At each game, pirate flags fluttering overhead announce our presence. Also in attendance is a Whiskey Wench, in full pirate gear, responsible for maintaining the team’s morale and ensuring good pirate form by passing around bottles of liquor. I demonstrate my support for the games by sporting a double Mohawk for the weekend.

The Pirates win all of their games and are again crowned champions.

The After-parties: I go to only one party during the three days we are there. Thrown by the Marines responsible for guarding the Embassy, it is a low-key affair and somewhat bland. The high point, if anything, is when a group of individuals, consisting mostly of RIM volunteers, streak through the party. The party ends early, and I walk back home.

The remaining parties are nothing exceptional, from what I gather. They are as one would expect, with some dancing and brawling and much drinking and passing out.

And finally, the city of Dakar: {Interesting fact: the population of Dakar is more than three million; the population of Mauritania is just shy of three million.} On the last day, I am able to make it out to one of the four markets in the city. Called Sandaga, the market is an immensity of a thing itself. I am taken on a tour – given by a rather nice local – and walk through the streets and alleys, filled with small vendors of various sorts, and a massive building with a spice and fish market on the first floor, a vegetable market on the second and people cooking and selling food on the rooftop.

Dakar is located on a tiny peninsula, surrounded by water on three sides. As a matter of fact, one of the tournament softball fields is located on a cliff-like place overlooking ocean. Amazing stuff, especially at sunset.

And so there you have it, a quick summary of almost everything that happened – a refreshingly nice trip. Nothing terribly exciting, I know, but a pleasant break from daily Mauritanian life.

Till next time...

Mauritania: an introduction of sorts

2007-02-05T14:12:00.000-05:00

Where can I start in describing this place – a place and people so unlike anything I have ever before experienced?

Mauritania, while vast, is one of the least densely populated countries in Africa. The land varies from sun-drenched sand dunes, which occupy much of the country, to lushly vegetated – comparatively speaking – riverbanks to the south and seasides to the west.

The peoples are themselves divided into two diverse groups, the Moors and the Africans – and within these groups, the Moors into the blacks and whites and the Africans into various ethnic tribes.

To begin to understand this place, I suppose one first has to begin to understand its people, and more specifically, the Moors, the dominant group in Mauritania. Once nomadic, the Moors have become more sedentary over the past few decades, due to droughts and other various climate changes. The transition from nomadic to city life has been, in my biased opinion, sluggish. The Moors still seem to romanticize the nomadic existence, and somewhere deep in the underbellies of their minds, they refuse to give it up. The old ways are perhaps still too fresh in their consciousness: their old lives still lingering and hovering over their daily thoughts and activities. It is my personal hope that future younger generations will, if not embrace change, be more accepting to it – such that, if not for anything else, to better develop their cities and the general infrastructure within the country.

Another important facet of Mauritanian life is racism, nowadays a natural aspect of daily living – like taking a breath or tolerating the heat. Organized in a caste-like fashion, white Moors put themselves on lofty pedestals. More often than not, under-qualified Moors get high-ranking government posts and contracts. One will almost never lay their eyes on a white Moor performing manual labor; they choose instead to run small boutiques and businesses. Black Moors, on the other hand, are given all jobs menial and strenuous. Often poorer than white Moors, black Moors are generally denied all the privileges that come with a lighter toned skin. Black Africans, viewed by the white Moors to be highly undesirable, are often well educated and pride themselves in their culture. They are generally more welcoming and generous than white Moors – a biased opinion, I will admit. More willing to learn French than white Moors, black Africans generally dominate the staffs of foreign aid organizations and NGOs.

Racism here is not like it is back home: it is not so hostile here, not yet. Change will come, however – I have seen and talked with younger generations of angry black Africans who are more willing to act and speak out against the current racial attitudes of this place and its people. Yes – change will come, of this I am sure, but at what pace is difficult to tell.

That’s all for now…a rather brief and not terribly thought out introduction, I admit – but hopefully it’s not altogether terrible.

* * * * * * * *

And now on a personal note, I want to say this…

I came to the Peace Corps looking for something – to understand and to determine my worth, to grow and to mature: I came here for these things, among other such fleeting and intangible things. Over the course of the past half-year, I have come to realize though that I miss home very much, and that – more importantly – home lies with friends and family. I miss people the most, much more than I had ever anticipated. The conversations, the laughter, the sad moments and even the angry ones too – all of it, I miss it all.

C’est comme ça – c’est la vie, though, I suppose…I’ll be home soon.

In the meanwhile, to those who may read this, don’t have too much fun while I’m gone…

The Hassles of Moving in Mauritania

2007-01-29T18:52:00.000-05:00

When I first came to Kiffa, I found a house some two miles away from the center market and the health dispensaire. The house was large, sandy brown in color, with a bedroom, a salon, a kitchen and bathroom, and a concrete structure – a one-room “house” with two walls and no ceiling – capable of supporting a tent during the hot season. The compound was large, with high walls, a gate, and several trees – a rarity in these parts. The house had electricity and while no running water, it had a large water basin for storage. In truth, aside from the distance, everything about the house was almost perfect. Living here alone, within the confines of the compound walls, I found oftentimes than not, as awkwardly trite it may sound, serenity.

A better offer came, though, a few weeks before I left for Christmas in Nouakchott. The French equivalent of the Peace Corps had three volunteers stationed in Kiffa when I first moved here. The frenchies, as we like to call them, live in a white cement house located practically in the main Kiffa market. The house – with four bedrooms, a large salon, a kitchen, an indoor bathroom and a rooftop – is not only massive and fantastically situated but is also entirely paid for by the French government. This is very much unlike the Peace Corps where we volunteers have to pay for housing ourselves, from our very meager salaries.

Then, sometime in November one of the frenchies, tired of a humdrum and oftentimes less-than-enjoyable existence in this dry, dusty place, decided to terminate her two-year contract early. She left the country teary eyed, sad yet glad and with memories both fond and not so fond…but more importantly, she left behind an unoccupied room…Can you see where this is going?

Josef, a frenchie who started his two year service in July 2006, offered me the room – at a price almost half of what I paid for my house – during a weekend soiree chez Maggie in December. I immediately said yes, obviously. The following week I explained to my landlord, in my very limited and poor Hassaniya, I would be moving come January. He seemed to understand, and I was glad.

In truth, though, I don’t think he understood me that first time. After returning from vacation, it took me three weeks, as well as the help of several Assabe volunteers, my Peace Corps director, the Kiffa police, and the Kiffa Justice department to convince him that I was moving, that I could do so according to the lease that we both signed, that I would not pay him extra to move out, and that he would have to reimburse me for two month’s worth of rent that I had paid in advance.

While the experience was an ordeal, I believe no major party was entirely at fault. In the end, I feel that my landlord – an elderly white Moor man who cannot read or write and is capable of conversing only in Hassaniya – signed the contract, which is written in French, without fully understanding its contents. He held out with me as long as he did because he did not want to be cheated out of his money. This said, I must point out that the individuals who he involved during the process to speak on his behalf were very slick and cleaver men, who tried their best to weasel from me as much money as possible. One particular white Moor went as far as to say that I, being a Peace Corps volunteer here to serve the poor and old, should fulfill my duty and give my landlord, who is both poor and old, 50 000 UM. That comment, in particular, made me uncharacteristically livid.

As they say, however, All’s well that ends well. My landlord reimbursed me. I live in a good house with good people. And I now have a rooftop where I can finally start my very own nightclub. Good times lie ahead mes amis, good times indeed.

Next time on Adventures in Puddles: “Sidi Mohamed Has Two Mommy’s” – a riveting interview with famed children’s book author R.N. on the latest addition to his “It’s Getting Hot In Here” series.

A Timeline

2007-01-21T10:45:00.000-05:00

In these beginnings of the year two thousand and seven, I am forced to admit that I have been obscenely careless in updating my journal on any regular basis. In an effort to keep true to my resolution to write something every week, I start with a timeline, to outline the major events that have shaped my Peace Corps experience thus far.

Those final days of June 2006 – [Orientation] I arrive in Philadelphia for my Peace Corps orientation. The short days are filled with various icebreaker and “how-to-be-culturally-sensitive” games and activities. I ask myself, seriously, for the first time – What in the world am I getting myself into? – when the clean-cut man dressed in a dark suit shakes my hand and thanks me for my service, as if I have just signed up to serve in the Army. The final day we are given vaccinations and shipped off from the JFK airport to Casablanca, and from there, to Mauritania. The orientation began with 58 of us but ended with 57, as one poor Jonathan was sent back home due to medical and administrative reasons.

The beginnings of July 2006 – [Stage] After being greeted in Nouakchott by a handful of current volunteers and staff, we spend the first day in Mauritania at the Peace Corps headquarters. The following day we crowed into various vehicles and drive four hours to Kaédi. It is here that we begin Stage, three months of language and technical instructions. After the first week, everyone is placed to live with a family for the duration of the training. I am sent to Bababe, a small town about an hour north of Kaédi. I live here for three months, butchering French by day – butchering as one butchers meat with a dull knife, messily – and acclimating to the Mauritanian way of life by night. I return to Kaédi every two weeks for technical sessions and much need recuperation.

September 4^th, 2006 – [It’s Official] After three tumultuous months, I’m officially sworn in as a Peace Corps Volunteer. Boohyeah!

September 6^th, 2006 – [Kiffa] I leave Kaédi for Kiffa, my new home away from home for two years. My first few days at site are spent looking for housing and becoming accustomed to the layout of the city. I find a house located some two miles from the center of town and the health dispensaire, to which I am effectuated. With few other options available, I take it. The landlord is nice, but as I would only later realize, very much illiterate and too much a white Moor.

October 13^th-15^th – [Ashram] Maggie and I visit Whitney, our friend and the sole volunteer assigned to Ashram, a small desert town on the Route de l’Espoir, found somewhere between Aleg and Kiffa – on the cusp of prettiness.

We travel down in the back of a van, cramped in with 13 other people, a few sacks of baggage and a handful of gas cylinders. Arranged overhead on the roof is the remainder of the baggage, along with five or six live goats stuffed into rice bags. The back door of the van does not shut, and I fear more than once that we will lose the young passenger sleeping on the edge of the bench directly in front of the door. As the van struggles to climb the few hills along the way, the door is pulled open, and I imagine the young boy sliding off of the bench, through the open door and tumbling down the road back to the bottom of the hill. Worry not: he survives the trip. The moon casts a ghostly shadow onto the desert, and each individual we pass on the road, their clothes trembling in the night wind, seem like phantoms from some past ancient place.

Maggie and I arrive in the night and find our way to Whitney’s compound.

White Moors populate Ashram, almost exclusively, and I find it difficult to avoid them. Luckily, we spend the following day with a Senegalese family, the only black Africans in all of Ashram. We talk for hours with the mother and daughter – who, I later discovered through Whitney, has a fondness for paint chips –, mostly about how much better life is in America and Senegal than in Mauritania. Maggie and I applaud Whitney, for surviving Ashram and continuing to do so. We both concur; she is much stronger than either of us.

Maggie and I depart the following day, in a cramped car, with two passengers in the front – I sit between the driver, trying to mind his hand as he haphazardly reaches from time to time for the stick shift, and another male passenger. Maggie sits in the back seat, surrounded by three other Mauritanian women passengers. The ride is uncomfortable but lasts for only a few hours, mash-Allah.

November 25^th – [Thanksgiving] We celebrate Thanksgiving at Maggie’s house. All the new volunteers in the Assabe region are there: Clarice, Maggie and I from Kiffa; Donna and Ginger from Kankossa; and Whitney from Ashram. The day is oddly cool and overcast: almost perfect Thanksgiving weather. Each person is assigned to prepare a dish or two. I make chicken and chocolate ice cream for dessert. We cook everything on two gas tops and a toaster oven, amazingly. We invite seven or so Mauritanians to our feast, for a grand total of 14 people. For entertainment, Maggie, Whitney and I belt out les chansons such as Jolene, My Heart Will Go On and the like.

At nighttime, after the Mauritanians leave, we eat ice cream for dinner and afterwards hold a dance party, in the dark, with music barely blasting through half-broken computer speakers. All in all, good times…

December 7^th-9^th – [Kankossa] Maggie and I hitch a ride with a Peace Corps SUV down to Kankossa, a two to three hour roller-coaster drive on an unpaved sandy road filled with dips and swerves of all degrees. It is a thrilling, even enjoyable, drive for the first hour or so. The following two hours, however, consist of partial screams, mumbling to my neighbor “Mommy, I want to get off now…” and motion sickness.

Kankossa is a small town located somewhere just south of Kiffa. The landscape is defined by a dune and even more drastically by a slender lake, stretched and pulled through the middle of town, which becomes a river during the rainy season. The commercial half of the town, situated in between the lake and the dune, is where one can make the acquaintances of Donna, a first-year environmental education volunteer, and Jeremy, a second-year education volunteer. Across the waterway on the agricultural side of Kankossa, is where one can find Ginger, a fellow Master’s International volunteer specializing in agro-forestry.

In comparison to Kiffa, Kankossa is comme la paradis. It truly does amaze me how water can change even the dreariest of landscapes into something of beauty. Rays of sunlight falling through trees, the chirping of birds in the distance, the sound of life on the water . . . I feel as if one can simply lose themselves here, when things become too hard, off in some little corner secluded from foreign sounds and peoples and customs – for a while at least.

Kankossa is not all perfect, however. Jumbled in with the sand are thousands upon thousands of prickly seeds. This in effect makes walking a rather tedious affair. One has to stop every few minutes to scrape the oftentimes-painful pricklies off of the bottom of one’s feet.

Maggie and I spend two days in Kankossa, one night with Donna and the second with Ginger. We take tours, explore, lounge and eat good Mauritanian food, a rarity; overall, we have a pleasurable retreat on the lake.

Pickup trucks leave Kankossa for Kiffa everyday at five o’clock. A traveler has the option of being cramped inside the cab or being herded into the back of the truck with the luggage. Maggie and I choose the truck bed: it’s cheaper and sounds somewhat adventurous. The back is filled, brimming in fact, with luggage. Everything is tied down with rope netting. Maggie and I climb, along with ten or so other people, onto the luggage, which is piled on higher than the actual bed of the truck. Maggie hangs off the left edge of the bed while I take a seat on the very back edge. In fact, I’m not even on the truck. One of the pieces of luggage is a metal railing, too big for the bed, partially hanging off the back, and it’s on this that I sit. If I look down, I can see the ground between my legs. The trip is more adventurous than either Maggie or I could have guessed. I grip the netting, knuckles brownish-white, as the truck swerves and dips with the road. Everyone jumps from their seats several times. Thorny branches from trees on the side of the road scrape our arms, faces and legs as the truck whizzes past them. At one point, the truck gets stuck in the sand. I help, along with every other male on board, to push the truck out. We finally reach Kiffa after nightfall, the sky overhead starry, the city calm and quiet. Maggie and I grab our bags and walk to our houses, bodies scratched, aching and tired.

December 21^st-27^th – [Christmas] Christmas takes place in Nouakchott, at chez Obie, the mansion-like home of the Peace Corps country director. All the volunteers are here with, however, some exceptions. Two first-year volunteers are not able to escape from their village, due to the lack of transportation from their site to Nouakchott, for three days and consequently, and sadly, miss the Christmas party.

The party is a delightful reminder of home. It’s also nice to see old friends again, everyone a little bit older and somewhat wiser. There’s much to eat and drink. Regrettably though, I eat and drink only moderately. Shockingly – no, not really – but more importantly miserably true, I’m sick yet again with a case of diarrhea and nauseas. I ignore my stomach aches for long enough, though, to get my “groove on” for at least a few songs before retiring for the night.

I spend most of Christmas day in Obie’s home theater, gorging myself on leftovers, Arrested Development and classic Christmas movies. I also partake in a white elephant gift exchange and receive a chess set. All in all, it is an excellent Christmas.

The rest of the time is spent exploring Nouakchott, eating at restaurants and watching satellite television – a good life, indeed. I am sick for all but two of the days I am in the capital. I get better just as I leave for Senegal for New Year’s, but good health for me, like an unbeaten Mauritanian donkey, is a rarity.

December 28^th-Janurary 2^nd, 2007 – [New Year’s in St. Louis] After spending a night in Rousseau – a port city located on the Senegal River – we cross the border into Senegal and make our way to St. Louis. The drive is long and tedious, but patience is a virtue.

St. Louis reminds me of New Orleans. The streets are small and lined with bars, restaurants and various arts and crafts boutiques. I arrive in town with fellow volunteers Maggie, Whitney, and Chris and Jen, a married couple from Atar, a dry and dusty place found far north of Kiffa. We check into a hotel in the middle of town and quickly find our way to the fire station – where we spend the afternoon enjoying French-dubbed samurai movies and American music videos on the télé while consuming cheap, cold beer. I admit, it is somewhat strange having firemen on duty serve you alcohol but c’est la vie je suppose – just have to go with the flow.

Shockingly – but no, not really – I become sick, again. This time a large hard bump develops on the side of my neck. At first I only have massive headaches, but eventually the pain becomes so severe that I can’t turn my head. I try to hide my discomfort as much as possible, not wanting others to worry about me or to ruin their vacation, and spend the better part of my time in St. Louis lying down and sleeping.

After the first night, I resettle into Hotel Dior, an outdoors camping-like lodging located on the beach. I spend my days lounging in the sun and my nights sharing a large tent with the other Peace Corps volunteers.

Even though not well, I do enjoy my time in St. Louis, and I hope to come back several times, if possible.

Janurary 5^th, 2007 – [An Early Birthday Party] After St. Louis, all the first-year volunteers return to Nouakchott for in-service training. We sit through various lectures and presentations for two days. They are generally somewhat educational and informative.

I also get the opportunity to show my bump to the Peace Corps medical officer. She asks if she can feel it. I say yes. She says, it’s a bump. I say, I know. She says she doesn’t know what it is. I say, figures, Africa – the Dark Continent. She chuckles, yeah, the Dark Continent. I reply, it’s not funny. She gives me some anti-inflammatory to make the swelling go down, and amazingly, over the course of a few days the pills have a desired effect. I end up leaving Nouakchott just as I came, happy and healthy, mostly.

On my last night in Nouakchott, some friends decide to celebrate my birthday early. After dinner and dessert, we go to Casablanca, a sit-down bar with live music. Almost all the volunteers are there. The atmosphere is jazzy and pleasant, mellow yet still inspiring with energy. And the live band is beyond amazing. It is most possibly one of my most enjoyable birthdays. Towards the end of the night, the band improvises for me Happy Birthday that goes on for a good five minutes – slightly awkward after the first minute but all in all, amazingly good times.

I leave Nouakchott for Kiffa the next day, sad to depart and already eagerly planning my return.

The beginning days of 2007 – [Back in Kiffa…and so begins the new year] I am back at site where life goes on one day at a time, but as always, it is bearable and even enjoyable more often than not.

There’s much to write about Mauritania, and myself.

While it is more obvious than not that I cannot change this place, I feel that it is changing me. And if not for anything else, that is why I came here, to grow and to change, to find something in myself I have not yet discovered. And all of these changes, I hope to capture here, as they come forth to light. So, on that note…

This concludes our program entitled Timeline. Please tune in again next week, same time, same place. Till then, can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street.

Bababe: Rain's a Comin'

2006-11-20T04:56:00.000-05:00

[A scene from Bababe: A random piece of life from after a rain storm]

Looks like rain, I mumble to myself. It’s nighttime, and I’m lying outside, wholly fatigued, my body stretched over a matela – a single-person-sized mattress. I languidly gaze up overhead at the creamy paleness extended through the middle of the starry sky. I raise my head and notice again the darkness on the eastern horizon, slowly unfurling towards my way. Something wicked this way comes – I laugh under my breath. Heat flashes and lightening mingle in the distance, taking turns to light up the sky intermittently. And in those moments of light, I can’t help but notice the darkened fullness of the clouds.

My family has already begun preparations. My mothers pull down the tent and tie it up. The others begin gathering the extra matelas and mats and moving them inside. The shutters are closed and locked. There is more flashing as the blackness obscures even more stars from view. After all is made ready, everyone moves outside. The storm hasn’t reached us yet. My father lies down on a matela while my brothers and mothers either sit or lie on the crowded mat. I sit with them, sharing in the closeness of the moment. They all talk. My brother says something and everyone laughs. My younger mother says something else and the laughter continues. I laugh too, not because I understand them, but because it feels right and good.

I look up. The clouds have taken hold of the sky in its entirety. The wind picks up speed. In a few more moments the sand storm arrives. We all cover ourselves – the women with their mulafas, the men with their bubus. I cover myself with my bed sheet. I hear the wind and feel the sand hit my side. We sit there, enjoying the coolness of the approaching storm. When the rain arrives, we all move inside.

Raindrops pound the tin roof. It sounds like hail. I think to myself. It’s not hailing. It sounds like the end of the world. After a moment or two more, my father’s voice rises out of the obscurity until it seems to float on top of the thrashing sounds of the storm. He chants – pleading with God to keep the roof from falling on top of us. A woman’s voice, my mother’s, soon mingles with that of my father’s. Together they dance in and out of the storm. I close my eyes. I feel a drop of water on my face. I move my matela to avoid the leaking roof. And so it continues, in the dark, the storm, till I fall asleep.

Communication Woes

2006-11-20T04:55:00.000-05:00

The lack of communication between me and my host family became the most difficult and frustrating during last few weeks of Stage. The following is a rant: unstructured, meandering and at times pointless. Sorry – but this one is more for me than for you all.

August 28, 2006

I fucking hate this! I don’t even want to see them! What’s the point of sitting down with a person if you can’t even ask the simplest of questions? We just sit there and stare at each other. Or they go on with their lives, talking and laughing, while I sit there like a damn fly on the wall! I don’t even know them! I mean, I’ve lived with them for two whole months and I know next to nothing about them!

I’m spending a lot of time in my room, by myself. They must think it’s odd. You’re not supposed to be alone here. People are always around other people. A Peace Corps language instructor once said that people in other parts of the world commit suicide because they spend too much time by themselves. Hence, to be alone here is to be…well, at the very least, odd. They asked me if I’m sick. I’m not sick. I’m frustrated! How do I tell them I’m frustrated? How do I tell them that I want have conversations, share my thoughts and ideas on countless of topics? I’ve never been a big talker. I tend to be quiet and reserved. I watch. But this is different. It’s like I have a leash around my neck. I try to pull away, as hard as I can, but I just get rope burns. I want to talk, but I can’t…

* * * * *

And on a more positive note – [I was having a better day when I wrote this part].

August 30, 2006

It does amaze me though, how even with the lack of verbal communication you come to feel close to a group of people…

The Beginnings: Stage

2006-11-20T04:53:00.000-05:00

September 2, 2006

During my first night in Mauritania an ant bit my lip while I slept on the floor, and it swelled up [the lip not the ant] like mad. Within that week I also got my first taste of diarrhea – no, I didn’t eat it…you know what I mean. A month or so into training, I caught something bad and burned up with a fever of 105 degrees…and I thought I might die. Luckily, I didn’t die and the fever passed. Then, a termite flew into my ear. I could hear it munching on my insides. Munch. Munch. Mun…it’s really not a very comforting sound. I had to use tweezers to get it out. Everything was fine after that…well, almost. After two or so months of periodic diarrhea, I was getting slightly worried. It had been some time since my last normal bowel movement. But then the PC doctor told us not to expect normal looking shit for two years. So now I’m trying to get used to funny looking crap always coming out of my body, bugs included, while at the same time trying not to be overwhelmed by the new languages, intense desert heat and a culture that is the bane of my current existence. I cry sometimes…on the inside, of course, as a man should.

“Tough shit man…“Bienvenue à la Mauritanie!”

Damn it’s hot here. And I mean hot. Walking out from under the shade into the sunlight is like getting bitch-slapped…except not just on your face and repeatedly. It feels like burning. And the sad part of it all? This is the cooler season.

Aside from the heat, there’s the sand and dust that covers everything – including me for the better part of each day. [The first five minutes after my morning bucket baths are fucking awesome! After that, it’s all really downhill.] And to add extra some spice to daily living, the ground most everywhere is covered with heaps upon heaps of garbage and animal shit. Hooray! Trash collection is really still just an idea in Mauritania: why collect trash when you can just throw it out into the streets?! And animals – cows, donkeys and goats oh my! – get to pee and crap wherever they please. For those who may find this unfair – How come they can go anywhere and we can’t?! – don’t fret. People can pee and crap wherever they please too. Sweet! That’s right, don’t mind that man squatting down next to the veggie stand in the market, and don’t stare . . . he’s just taking care of a little nature call.

I’m currently in the process of training to become a Peace Corps Volunteer (i.e. PCV). For those of you who may not know how the Peace Corps is set up, here’s a quick rundown. Before one starts their two year service, they first have to go through three months of intensive in-country training, better known here as “Stage”. This period of time consists of approximately 180 hours of language classes and various sessions concerning culture and integration, medical, safety and skills. All sessions, with the exception of language hours, are held at a local lycée in the village of Kaédi that the Peace Corp rents out for the duration of the summer. Peace Corps Trainees (i.e. PCTs) are placed to live with families in various villages within the surrounding region. Language classes, held practically everyday, consume the vast majority of our time. The remaining hours are spent integrating with, or in some cases avoiding, our host families and moreover, and more importantly, attempting to maintain some level of saneness. All of the PCTs regroup once every two weeks in Kaédi to experience all the sessions not concerning language. These sessions are led by second year volunteers who, in my opinion, sometimes let the power of their positions get to their heads. Generally though, they’re a good bunch – always aware of the difficulties that we’re experiencing and constantly encouraging.

My training site is Bababe – a largish village dominated by Pular peoples with a smattering of black Moors. I live with a black Moor family at the foot of a barren and rocky hill [the highest point in the village with an amazing view]. I have one father, two mothers [that I know of…Come to think of it, there’s actually a funny story here that I’ll save for another time], and four brothers. I’m learning French. My family, while terribly nice, speaks only Hassaniya, an Arabic dialect – making living with them somewhat difficult simply because I can’t really talk to them.

My French class constitutes of me, another PCT by the name of Kristen and a middle-aged white/black Moor teacher, who regards himself to be one of the few “intellectuals” living in Mauritania. I use quotations because…well, I mean he’s “educated”, don’t get me wrong. He can speak better French than me. I just question him sometimes when…well, like after he tells me that things weigh less when they move fast – hence fast moving cars get into more accidents than slow moving cars…because they weigh less –and that AIDS is sanctioned by God to rid the world of all sinful peoples. [Note: For those who might argue – What about all those non-sinful people who die from AIDS? – worry not. They go to Heaven while the evildoer’s who gave them AIDS in the first place go to Hell. See, everything works out. Oh, and AIDS is genetic too…that’s how we get mother to child transmission.] Small things, I know. What can I say? I’m a judger.

Along with me and Kristen, there are three other PCTs in Bababe: Laura, Helena, and Rachael – all of whom are learning to speak Pular. Lucky dogs. I would much rather be learning Pular than Hassaniya, which I will have to learn after I finish butchering the French language. Not only does Pular sound better, but the Pular culture is so much richer than that of the Moors…but more on this later.

Stage is almost over; and while difficult, it has been a good experience. I mean, anything after this has to be a piece of cake…and any experience that allows you to say that has to be, well, character-building at least.

The beginnings of a masterpiece: The Arrival

2006-11-20T04:51:00.000-05:00

The contact of the landing gear with the paved runway shook me awake. Peering through the window – shapes and shadows blended together into the darkness of the early morning.

The sun had not yet seared its way through the zenith of the sky.

We shuffled out of the plane, trying to keep our balance as men and women, garbed in bubus and mulafas, pressed themselves toward the exit door.

We were met by a handful of Peace Corps staff and volunteers. Those first hours were spent gathering and sorting luggage, taking rolls, piling into Peace Corps vans and getting shipped to local hotels.

We spent that first day in Nouakchott, all 57 of us bleary eyed, tired, a bit confused. The beginnings of 27 months, I think to myself.

[Booyeah! Tolstoy eat your heart out!]

Out to Lunch...Back in Two Years

2006-06-23T23:27:00.000-04:00

Well, the time has come to say laters ya'll. For those who must worry, I promise to come back in one piece - older and wiser . . . and crisply blackened by the Saharan sun. I will miss you all very much.

Oh, and my contact information for the first three months will be

Corps de la Paix
BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa.
I'll email out my cell phone number when I get one.

Best wishes,
Ritesh

a poem

2006-06-12T06:33:00.000-04:00

{on a bar stool}

gushing forth from red-veined eyes
lingering drops
that leave behind
trails that burn

a toast,
to scared hearts

rn