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!]

Out to Lunch...Back in Two Years

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

{on a bar stool}

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

a toast,
to scared hearts

rn