Mauritania: an introduction of sorts, parte deux

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

[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

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.

rn

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

All those things, la vie quotidienne quoi

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]

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

rn

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]

[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

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}

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

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

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

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'

[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

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

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

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!]