Gone but not forgotten

I have been in America for exactly 49 days. The most surprising thing to me is how not surprising the whole experience has been. For hours upon hours, we Peace Corps Volunteers had sat around in Mauritania and described in great detail all the American foods we missed. I was sure that the first time I entered a supermarket or Wal-Mart again, I would probably pass out from over-stimulation.

But truth be told, things haven't been that weird. In fact, it's disturbing to me how difficult it actually is to remember that that other whole WORLD really exists -- still, and always. I'm wandering the grocery store, and Fati is walking to the produce market. I'm eating on-demand pizzas and Chinese food and ice cream, and Aicha is preparing rice with fish, again. I'm surfing YouTube on my MacBook, and Abdoul is dancing while his sister keeps the beat by banging on a plastic cup.

How is that possible?

Two weeks after getting home, I ended up in Atlantic City for the first time in my life. It was OVERWHELMING. I didn't want to be a drag on any of my friends, but I absolutely could not enjoy myself. I stood on a balcony and looked out at the crashing ocean waves and tried to comprehend that those same waters touch the shores of Mauritania. I looked up at the full moon, and all it meant to me was that Ramadan was half over. I stumbled in a daze through the casinos because I couldn't make my eyes focus on anything. Ka-ching. Ka-ching. I saw a happy African-American family hustling back to their hotel room, and I actually thought, Do you know what your life could have been? Is it even appropriate to have thoughts like that?

But America's great. Of course it is. Do I love electricity, hot showers, air conditioning, endless endless endless food, online shopping, driving, jeans, my piano, my cat? Sure. Those things are awesome. But I guess now I just know that that's not all there is, and that it's pretty possible to live without them -- though admittedly very, very different.

I had been planning a three-week trip to America to participate in two weddings and reenergize a bit before the new school year in Mauritania. Because of the circumstances in which we left Africa, it turned out that I got to be here for a total of seven weeks. All things considered, I am glad that it ended up that way -- because somehow even with twice as much time I feel like I've had barely any free time. America is BUSY! I don't even know where the time goes! But I saw countless familiar faces and ate countless amazing meals (and oh, desserts!) and went to a Red Sox game and reunited with some Mauritania friends in Ohio and drove from Texas to New Jersey and -- and so I guess that's where the time goes. It's been a blast.

That being said, I'm ready to go now. Running all over the country to play with friends and be part of beautiful weddings and spend money I don't have is probably not real life, and certainly not sustainable. So I'm looking forward to returning to Africa, in a big way. I'm glad that I had this buffer period to process my emotions and mentally say goodbye to Mauritania, and now it's time for the next chapter.

I am super psyched about Rwanda. I've been doing my homework, and the verdict is that there is a lot of exciting stuff going on there right now. Every other day I find another article online lauding all the progress Rwanda has made in recent years. Stuff is happening, and they want English teachers to be a part of it. That's pretty cool. I fly out this Wednesday.

So, with this entry I will end my blog on Peace Corps Mauritania. Thanks to all you faithful readers, and I invite you to continue following me in my future home. I have set up a new blog site with a new look. Farewell to austere desert; on to green and gorillas. Find me here:

http://JACinRwanda.blogspot.com
(My improvements include an option to sign up to receive
an email each time I update with a new entry, if you're interested.)
Perhaps the saddest part of leaving Mauritania was that I have so few pictures of my family and friends and life in Dar El Barka. In fact, I have more from my six weeks living at the training site in PK7. I had planned to take a bunch of photos right before I went back to America. You never know. So my beloved Jobalel -- the family patriarch who was known as "Baaba," but whom in my mind I always called "Old Man Winter" -- will be remembered solely in my mind, and journal entries. But I guess it's fine because he will always be something different to me than anything you could get from looking at a photo.

Here is a smorgasbord of memories. Goodbye, Mauritania. (I'd write that in Pulaar, but of course there is no word for goodbye.)


(View album here)

Moving forward

On Monday, August 10th, I was told that the Peace Corps would be suspending its program in Mauritania, and I could not return to my village to collect my belongings or say my goodbyes.

On Monday, August 17th, I was at my mom's house in Kennett Square, PA.

Really weird.

All last week was a whirlwind, to say the least. Paperwork upon paperwork, medical screenings and blood draws and skin tests, psychiatric counseling, all the while trying to relish my very last moments with the other RIM PCVs who have come to mean so much to me over the last 14 months. And then the question of the future: where to go? What to do? The Peace Corps Washington staff presented a lot of options to us...

I could direct-transfer to another country (most likely West Africa, they said) immediately, and I'd be there in the next week. I could go home to collect myself a bit and re-enroll in a new country within the next 12 months, although there'd be no guarantee that I could get a contract for only one more year -- I might have to start a new full term of 27 months. I could participate in a short-term commitment abroad called Peace Corps Response. I could use my status as a Returned Peace Corps Volunteer (RPCV) for non-competitive eligibility for federal positions, like working at Peace Corps Headquarters or with the Civil or Foreign Service. Or I could just call it a day and start grad school apps.

Oh, and please make this decision in the next 48 hours max, thanks.

It was tough. But I am very, very happy to announce to you that I will be continuing my Peace Corps service as an English teacher in Rwanda.

Immediately I feel the need to defend my decision, because I know what thoughts it inevitably invokes in most people's minds: she's been evacuated from a place with a growing presence of al-Qaeda -- and now this is what she's chosen as her next step? Out of the frying pan, into the fire?

I would like to cite Fareed Zakaria, respected author and current editor of Newsweek International. Just a month ago, he was interviewed by CNN and spoke of why Rwanda is "Africa's biggest success story." He says:

You remember what happened in there just 15 years ago -- over a period of 100 days 800,000 men, women, and children were killed -- most of them slaughtered with knives, machetes, and axes by their neighbors. It is perhaps the most brutal genocide in modern history. By the time it ended, one tenth of the country's population was dead. Most people assumed that Rwanda was broken and, like Somalia, another country wracked by violence, would become a poster child for Africa's failed states. It's now a poster child for success.

President Paul Kagame wants to make Rwanda into the "Singapore of Africa." In recent days he has made incredible reforms and is ramping up a huge push towards science and technology. He plans to make the entire country WiFi-ready in the next few years. He has outlawed plastic bags.

Additionally, President Kagame nixed the colonial French as an official language and declared that all instruction (beginning in primary school) would be henceforth conducted in English. Slight problem: shortage of qualified English teachers.

Enter the Peace Corps, which reopened its Rwanda program in January of this year after suspending it in 1993. On October 5th, I will be leaving with at least 12 of my fellow RIM PCVs, including some of my closest friends: Ryan, Mark, Matt, Scott, Ashley, Megan, Colleen, Brandon, Michele, Lindsay, Austin, and Marta.

It's crazy! It's fast! It's, yes I know, RWANDA! But I assure you that it is a safe place for us to be (U.S. News and World Report agrees), and I am so unbelievably excited about the coming year. We will be arriving alongside some brand-new PCVs and going through the language training to learn Kinyarwanda. The other RIM PCVs and I will be helping to conduct the technical training (Model School, etc.) for the new class, since Rwanda is a new program and does not have any veteran volunteers to offer assistance.

I will continue to blog and will inform you when I have the new site set up and ready. In the meantime, I intend to post a few final photos/videos on this blog as I say farewell to my time in Mauritania.

It's surprisingly hard to be back. For months and months we had all dreamed of being in that far-away, magical place called America. I had always thought I would be bursting with joy when my feet hit the ground, but when I stepped off the plane in Dulles I felt overwhelmed and empty and confused. Where am I? How did I get here? Is this real? I was so out of practice with flying that I forgot to put my precious Leatherman knife/multitool in my checked luggage and had it confiscated.

I forced my feet to shuffle through the airport, and I spotted a popular Peace Corps advertisement. Perhaps you've seen it:


And I almost stopped in my tracks. It's not true, I wanted to tell everyone around me! That's not a promise! I joined the Peace Corps, and there's still so much I "should've" done. I should've given my clothes to my sisters, I should've taken a video of my little brother singing and dancing, I should've emptied my local bank account and distributed it among all my friends in the village...

But in this life, you never know. All I can do is move forward.

A final enormous _THANK YOU_ to all of you who have contacted me in the wake of this. Your support has been humbling and amazingly sustaining, and I appreciate it, more than you know.

So long, PCRIM.


Leaving Atlanta -- June 20, 2008


Goodbye dinner in Dakar -- August 12, 2009

Not what I had planned

All of Peace Corps Mauritania arrived to the Senegal training center in Thiès on July 28. For a few days, we had some legitimate professional development sessions. But then we kind of started running out of things to do... It's no fun to live in limbo, and I for one was really wishing there was any kind of timeline for how soon we would receive the verdict on Peace Corps Washington's security check of our country. I cannot be ungrateful for all the nice amenities available to us at the center, but we were getting a little antsy.

It was like one big summer camp, as we tried to fill our time as much as possible. We had two big volleyball tournaments. A Senegalese drum troupe came and performed for us, and I tried my hand (and feet) at a little African dancing. We visited a famous tapestry museum/factory, where they reproduce beautiful local paintings onto large-scale wall hangings (to the tune of about $6,000 USD apiece). Several of us attended mass at the Keur Moussa monastery, which has artwork of biblical scenes depicted in an African style while the monks sing in native languages with traditional instruments. We went to the Lac Rose, a lake that appears pink in color due to the high salt concentration of the water. And then we went down to a beach town called Popenguine, where we rented out a gorgeous ocean-front house for two nights. We even bought a live pig and had a roast!

We returned from the beach to Thiès on Saturday evening. Dinner was served, and then staff announced that we'd have a quick meeting. At 9 PM? We joked to each other that it was probably just a meeting to tell us we were having another meeting tomorrow. What could be sooo important that it couldn't just wait 12 hours?

Well, this: we were informed that two hours ago, a suicide bomber had blown himself up in front of the French embassy in Nouakchott. [Very informative video on France 24]

My chest seized up. Everyone's faces were shock, only shock. There were a few palpable moments of silence, just the rain continuing to fall, and fall; just the thunder.

And in my mind? Game. Over.

I had held such hope up to this point -- and not falsely, I felt. We had talked about the "possibility" of not returning to RIM, but I had not really thought this would happen. If anything, I predicted that Washington would recommend we close the far northern and eastern regions of the country and consolidate us to the Senegal River (where there is no history or evidence of any extremist trouble). But this was a whole new story. A punch in the gut. You don't shake this off, dust it over. In that one sentence, my hope plummeted to 0%. That night I couldn't even sleep. My head swam.

Today we moved from the training center to Dakar, because Senegal's new training class arrives in a few days and they needed to prepare the space. We arrived to a luxurious hotel, and with my poolside room and more high-speed wireless internet, it seemed this strange "vacation" would continue at least a few more days.

We were to have a briefing at 5:30 PM, so we all gathered. When we walked in the conference room, there were Cheez-Its and Double Stuf Oreos waiting on a table for us. Odd as it may sound, that's when I knew it was all over. That stuff doesn't exist in West Africa, and the fact that it was here was not a good sign.

Then out walk about eight white people we've never seen before. Not a good sign. One is introduced as Jody Olsen -- the national director of the entire Peace Corps.

Not a good sign.

Ms. Olsen begins by telling us how much she loves Mauritania and how dear it is to her heart. She personally traveled around there two years ago, and she speaks fondly and enthusiastically of it often. (This is not lip-service; I know this to be true.) She goes on: "That is why it makes it all the more difficult for me to tell you that you are not going to go back there."

I knew it was coming -- we all knew, really -- but hearing those words was unpredictably paralyzing. It's like having many of your friends die AND your house burn down, all at once. What do you do? Tears spilled down my face. And wouldn't stop. Even our country director was crying, and hugging everyone after the meeting.

Starting tomorrow, we have a four-day "transition conference" led by the aforementioned white people, most of whom flew in from Washington to assist us. There are a lot of logistics to figure out, and many options for us to choose from. We can go home, or we can direct-transfer immediately to another country, or we can take the middle road and go home but re-apply for a new country, essentially jumping the queue of current applicants. Whatever we choose, we will all be done with Peace Corps Mauritania by this Friday. I still have a lot to process and think about.

No goodbyes. My host family in Dar El Barka (all 20+ members, many of whom I don't have so much as a photo -- you don't take pictures of the day-to-day living). The mayor, who was so kind to me. My coworkers at school. My students, my precious precious students. My neighbor, who I was teaching English. Our tailor. Our landlord. My Boghé driver. My Pulaar teacher. My host family from training in PK7.

This is the last photo I took in Dar El:


They're just living life. Fatimata is braiding Thillo's hair, while Thillo separates the hair extensions in her lap. Mariam's baby Samba sits and amuses himself nearby, probably with some trash he picked up. Fati Sidi sits in the middle, next to her mosquito net-covered "bassinet" of sorts. It holds her newborn Kadia Moussa, born July 3rd. Molel, on the left, has just given toddler Papa the communal cup of water. When he's through, she will replace it on the clay pot serving basin, and head back to the kitchen hut to check on lunch's progress.

I know that they performed variations of this scene today, and they will do it tomorrow, and the next day, and next month. But I will never again be there for it.

Just when you thought...

It was all going so well. Our interrupted-service folks cleared out of Mauritania, and while it was quite sad, we were all moving forward. Those of us who had chosen to stay were renewed with energy to face the tough year ahead, albeit with reduced numbers. The worst was behind us... or so we thought.

It is true that Mauritania has been making international headlines as of late for less than desirable events. The biggest controversy surrounds the shooting and killing last month of an American citizen in Nouakchott. I didn't mention it on this blog because quite frankly I feel that, while lamentable, it was not any direct challenge to my personal safety. The individual in question was known for Christian "proselytizing," an illegal act in an Islamic republic. (Foreigners in Mauritania have every right to their own religion, but they are prohibited from trying to convert others.)

Unfortunately, there has been a lot of media hoopla in the wake of the murder, and whenever the name "al-Qaeda" starts to be thrown around, people (perhaps rightly, perhaps not) tend to get anxious. Peace Corps Washington are among this lot. Two weeks ago, unbeknownst to us, our country director got a call saying that Washington wanted to shut down our program here. He protested on our behalf, and the agreement reached was that PC Washington would send a team over to do a countrywide safety and security check. The catch? They wanted all PCVs to be out of our sites while this investigation takes place.

Cut to me, in Boghé, last Thursday afternoon. I'm preparing to head to Bababé, a town 30 km to the southeast, to help with a three-day Eco-Health Camp. About 50 girls and their chaperones from all over Mauritania would be in attendance. I cannot take any credit for the planning of this camp, but many PCVs -- in particular, Zach Swank -- spent hours and hours coordinating the logistics. He had collected matelas (sleeping pads) and mosquito nets, had spent several full days digging holes for tree-planting, and had ordered 5,000 beignets (small donuts) and 200 balbastiques (frozen juice in a bag) to be prepared. Everything was ready to go.

Then we all get word: the camp is cancelled. All of Peace Corps Mauritania is going to Senegal, for an undetermined amount of time but "a minimum of 10 days." Be in Nouakchott by Monday. Oh yeah, and also, we are going to "test" our Emergency Action Plan, so pack up all your belongings "as if" you are never coming back.

What?!

Needless to say, we were all pretty surprised and confused. A friend in Boghé graciously gave me and another PCV a ride out to our sites on Saturday so that we could gather our things. I had explained the situation to my host family as best I could in Pulaar, but they still didn't quite understand. "Can't you at least stay for lunch?" they asked. Sorry, not today. "You will be back, inshallah," everyone agreed. Inshallah, I repeated to myself. I snapped a few photos with the kids, and we were on our way back to Boghé.




Thus, yesterday the 50-strong legion of Mauritania PCVs descended on the Peace Corps training center in Thiès, Senegal. With a population of 300,000, this place dwarfs any Mauritanian towns but the capital. And the training center here is essentially a tropical oasis. We were near drooling as we breathed it all in after our 13 hours on the bus ("shouldn't" have been quite that long, but unsurprisingly we broke down once or twice). For this indefinite stay here we are blessed with a plethora of amenities not offered at our own center in Mauritania: high-speed wireless internet, actual mattresses (not foam pads) on wooden beds, private rooms, air-conditioning AND ceiling fans, Western flush toilets with toilet paper, showers -- and oh, these green, green trees! (I am reminded of a García Lorca line from a Spanish lit class in college: Verde que te quiero verde -- Green, how I love you, green!)


As for the presidential election in Mauritania, victory went to General Aziz, who led the coup last August. Being an employee of the U.S. government, I am advised not to voice a position on local political issues. Instead I will let you form your own judgment of this man, with the following Wall Street Journal excerpt published just prior to the voting here:

A small, mustachioed man portrayed on posters wearing mirrored sunglasses and banker suits, Gen. Aziz has turned the breakup with Israel -- a popular move here -- into a centerpiece of his campaign. At one recent rally, the general said he is "honored" to be considered a "foe of the Jewry." In speech after speech, he has accused challengers of plotting with American Jews against the Mauritanian state.

"If I win the election, I will give them plane tickets so they'd go to that Zionist state that they love so much," the general thundered last weekend. At the entrance to the shuttered Israeli Embassy, Gen. Aziz's campaign has planted a tent festooned with his portraits next to a crossed-out Star of David.

(Wall Street Journal, 17 July 2009)

His personal beliefs aside, the important thing about Aziz's election is that the U.S. now accepts this government as legitimate, which means sanctions will be lifted, which means Americans should begin to be issued visas again. U.S. Ambassador Mark Boulware had a Q&A session with us in Nouakchott before we left, and he is optimistic about the future of U.S.-Mauritania relations. Aziz is supposed to swear in August 5th, so after a bit of lag time, our diplomatic relations ought to be back to status quo before the coup d'état.

In conclusion, I'm just hangin' and livin' the good life in Senegal until Peace Corps Washington decides whether Mauritania is a safe place to be. Our director feels certain that our country is not dangerous with regard to, for example, Islamic extremists (and certainly not more dangerous than some of our neighbors like Mali and Niger). And I can honestly say I have never felt unsafe -- I was more at risk walking the streets of Boston or Austin than Boghé or Dar El Barka. But we shall see what the final word is from on high.


Got my per diem and I'm good to go. Welcome to Senegal...

Picking up the pieces

Unexpectedly, it has been a very busy couple of weeks. A total of 20 PCVs from the 71 in my class decided to "interrupt" their service and head home, and in their wake I've been all over the place helping to pick up the pieces. We each came to this country with an 80-pound luggage limit -- but you wouldn't believe how much stuff one can accumulate in a year!

I went overnight with Yates to her village Olo Ologo (only 17 km from mine) to give a hand with her things there. The one passenger vehicle that services that area didn't get us in until 7:30pm, so most of our laboring was done by the light of one flashlight hanging overhead. We made piles: stuff to leave with her host family, stuff that needed to go back to Peace Corps in Nouakchott, stuff to donate to the other PCVs in Boghé, stuff that I claimed for myself (ah, the few bittersweet perks), and just one duffel bag of things that Yates wanted to take home to America. While we sorted, her work partner sat with us and made conversation. "Maybe once the elections are over, and things are more peaceful, then you can come back here, right? You'll come back here to live?" We shook our heads; it's not that easy, we repeated. Then her host father came over to talk with me and expounded on all the virtues of Koumba Demba (Yates's Pulaar name). "All this time she has lived with us, and I never once saw her get upset, I never once saw her get frustrated. She is so good to us." I know, I said. I wanted to cry. "Please come back and visit us," they all insisted to me. "Because if we see you, it's almost like seeing Koumba Demba."


Me, Yates, and Teresa with the Peace Corps security guards at Christmas
We awoke before sunrise, and the car taking us to Boghé pulled right into Yates's compound so we could load up her baggage. A small crowd gathered around us. No one likes goodbyes, of course, but in Mauritania it's a whole new level of awkward for me. To start, it doesn't help that the word "goodbye" literally does not exist in Pulaar. Everyone just keeps saying, "Thank you, thank you," and if they're feeling especially emotional, they will ask you to greet people on their behalf -- greet your parents, please, greet your family, greet every person in America (yes, that one gets used). On top of this, Mauritanian culture shuns physical affection, so there are no hugs. Most people don't touch you at all, but if you're close with them they will shake your hand and hold it a few seconds. So I shook my share of hands and promised, yes, to greet every person in America. Then we climbed onto the big white van, and we left Olo behind.


Unfortunately, that morning I came down with giardia, a fun little parasite that seems to afflict almost all PCVs at one point or another. Truthfully, the biggest surprise is that this is the first time it's gotten me. So during my last precious moments with Yates, I was curled up in a fetal position, moving only to run yet again to the bathroom -- which, I remind you, is just a hole in the ground. Without being too graphic, I'll just tell you that I graced that hole with my presence 19 times in 24 hours. But Peace Corps is really great about getting us the prescriptions we need, so once I took my round of meds and a healthy portion of Gatorade, I was back on my feet. And probably a few pounds lighter.

Since then life has been a hurricane of cleaning and sorting, packing and unloading, organizing and trashing. Everyone who went home (Interrupted Service folks as well as the 60-ish PCVs who are now finishing their two years) left behind loads of goodies. As I consolidated their bequeathals, I also did a grand, two-day clean-up/clean-out of the Boghé house. There are only a few options for trash disposal here: burning, burying, or throwing it over the wall to be cherished by street children. I used all three methods, though I will say that burning is the most satisfying. I personally inherited a wealth of treasures: all kinds of clothing (American and Mauritanian both, including a fancy outfit for the next big holiday), all kinds of precious care-package food, really nice toiletries, two battery-powered handheld fans (such luxury!), 10,000 francs CFA (about $20 USD), and... drum roll... many, many buckets.

(Aside: now, I realize that as a Westerner in a developed country, you probably do not get all jacked up about buckets. I don't blame you. But oh, the humble bucket! You may ask what cause one has for a bucket, but the question is more what can't you do?! They come with and without lids, in many colors and sizes, each serving a different purpose. Take today as an example. I did the dishes, with four buckets as usual: one with the dirty things, one with soapy water for washing, one with clean water for rinsing, and one to set the finished things in to dry. Next I did my laundry, using two buckets -- wash and rinse. For both of these activities, I got my laundry detergent out of a sealed bucket. I hung the clothes on the line, and when they were dry, I collected them in a clean bucket. Then I got some food and spices for lunch out of a few ant-proof/mouse-proof buckets, which I sorted through while sitting on another bucket.)


My region has gone from 12 PCVs last year to 6 for the coming year. As we start this new chapter, Mauritania too looks toward the future. The presidential election will, inshallah, take place this Saturday, July 18th. This excerpt from a good article paints an accurate portrait of the palpable fever over here:

[The] electoral battle, a novelty in a ramshackle capital which is more used to coups, has enthused its residents, as much as anyone can be enthused in temperatures of 43 degrees centigrade. Its streets, where sand drifts across the tarmac, are plastered with posters, and nomadic-style tents have been erected in every suburb. Blaring loudspeakers praise the rival candidates at such volume that passing camels and donkeys pulling carts are sent into a panic. With six days to go, diplomats consider the race too close to call.

(from The Telegraph, 12 July 2009)

Should be very interesting. Thank you, everyone, for your support during this tough time of rebuilding! Peace Corps Mauritania: the few, the ostensibly insane.

It's going down

Back when we were just hearing whispers of Americans being denied visas to come here, PCVs speculated all kinds of possible outcomes. Of course, we hoped (and frankly, assumed) that in the end our new class would be granted their visas, and training would go on as planned. We also toyed with crazier ideas -- what if we all get sent home? What if we get offered a new assignment? But we agreed that the most difficult thing would be if our training class got canceled, AND the rest of us were expected to stay here.

Turns out there was one scenario still tougher than that.

These past 10 or so days have been a whirlwind, roller coaster time of confusion. We started hearing of some nebulous threats to Americans, but truthfully I felt (and still feel) perfectly safe. In the midst of that, due to continued difficulties with visas and the somewhat uncertain political situation here, our training class was officially canceled. Up to this point, Peace Corps had been hoping just to postpone the class until after elections July 18th, but now all those applicants are receiving new placements in other countries.

The blow was devastating, heartbreaking. I was in my village, and I learned the news from various phone calls and text messages. For the next day or two, I lived in what I termed a "waking coma." I had absolutely no motivation to do anything. No new volunteers. No new blood. No one with whom to share our hard-earned wisdom. I went through my calendar and crossed out essentially all my plans for July and August. We will not be hosting newbies in Boghé for Site Visit (when they get to see their future homes for the first time -- a really emotional and exciting time). I won't be helping at Model School or other Q&A training sessions. And there will be no swear-in, around which I specifically had planned my vacation.

I wanted to just dust myself off and say, yes, this is unfortunate, but things change and you need to make a new plan. But how could I when I felt like I didn't have any idea what was going to happen? There were so many rumors still floating around that maybe all PCVs would be leaving, or being re-assigned, or who knows. No one had any answers. In the days following that news, I jumped every time I heard my phone sound, because I thought at any moment I was going to get word that I should pack up and leave.

Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. I went through life in a daze, slowly-so-slowly coming to terms with this new reality.

Then Tuesday, crash.

Our country director officially announced the offer of "interrupted service." What this means is essentially two choices: stay and finish as planned, or leave early with the full benefits of having completed your two years of service. If you go home, you can opt to be done with Peace Corps, or you can re-apply for a new assignment.

I had had a lot of time to think, and I knew what I wanted. I'm not ready to leave yet. I'm excited about my classes next year, I adore the kids in my English Club, I feel like I finally know Pulaar, I have an amazing host family, and it took me this long just to understand how things work in this country. I know where to buy things, I know how to go places. I want to stay.

But everyone's situation is different, and there are many PCVs who are choosing to leave. They each have their reasons, and I respect them. But that doesn't make it any easier as I'm hearing, one by one, the names of other volunteers who have given their official notice. It looks like they will all be out of the country within two weeks, some sooner. My dear friend Yates leaves Boghé in five days. She was planning to visit my village next week, and she has care packages on their way here for her birthday. I got a phone call from Summer, who announced, "I'm just calling to say goodbye." Because her site is so far away, I will not even get to see her before she goes. So much is changing so fast.

At the beginning of June, Peace Corps Mauritania numbered about 130 volunteers. Between the second-years finishing, the cancellation of our new class, and the group choosing interrupted service, my best estimation is we may be left with less than 50 by the end of this month. At least 13 Girls' Mentoring Centers across the country now have no PCVs assigned to them. There will unquestionably be a nationwide shortage of English teachers. Financially, too, there will be strain on all of us -- those who are left to pick up the pieces.

Could use your support and prayers. Don't know what else to say.

Dogon: doggone good

// June 21, 2009 (my one-year anniversary of arriving in Africa!) -- EDIT: I originally posted this a few days ago, and then yesterday Blogger sent me an email saying they'd had a bug in their system that affected 0.05% of their users -- including me. It reset the addresses of ALL the photos I'd posted, which is why they've been appearing as broken links. It took me a while, but I was able to fix everything just now so the pictures should be properly showing again. //

Most likely, you at some point in your life have suffered the hassle of a delayed flight. The crowd groans as that dreaded announcement is made. A few irate passengers start yelling at the attendant behind the desk (as if that poor soul has anything to do with the postponement). "This is an outrage!" "I have a very important meeting!" "I've been here two hours already!" "I want my money back!"

But eventually, you give up fighting, and you go grab your double tall iced nonfat caramel macchiato, and you hunker down with your laptop and the free wireless internet. In the air conditioning.

In Africa, however, delays do not go quite as such. The bus ride from Bamako, capital of Mali, back to the border of Mauritania ought to take something like six hours. It's a straight shot, all on a newly paved road. We left our hotel at 7 AM. We crossed the border around noon -- the next day.

The long-distance buses in Mali were not exactly kind to us. Sure, I expected them to be hot, I expected them to be uncomfortable, I expected the tattered upholstery, and I certainly expected utterly nonsensical delays -- but a few of our experiences went above and beyond. My patience found new heights never before realized. You want to cry, then you want to scream, then you do scream, and you do cry, and then you’re finally so beaten down that you just go numb. And I force myself to remember that sometime soon, this will all be a memory.

Example: we had hoped our ride from Bamako out to the Dogon Country would put us into our destination before nightfall. But the bus stops constantly, and the passengers pour off, going to relieve themselves or grabbing bread and cold drinks from roadside vendors. There is absolutely no sense of urgency.

At 11 PM, the bus pulled over and the engine was cut, with no explanation. We were no more than halfway along our route. After some inquiry, we learned that the driver was tired and intended to sleep here for the rest of the night, and we could continue at 7 AM. Despite our best efforts, Teresa and I could not get any money refunded to us, but we did successfully procure our bags from the storage chambers. We flagged down another bus, where we had to pay again, and we reached our stop at 3 AM.

We had to wake up our tour guide to come fetch us from the bus station, and as if we didn't feel bad enough about that already, we later found out that he was very ill with malaria at the time. Then after arriving at his house -- sweating, filthy, hungry, exhausted -- we discovered that my bag was open and had been looted on the bus. Among the random things stolen were all my contact lenses (a three-week's supply of dailies) AND my glasses. I was so worn down I couldn't even think about it, so I just collapsed on my mattress pad outside to fall asleep.

But then it started raining.

Also, this was Teresa's birthday.

What are you gonna do.

All that misery aside, however, I absolutely loved our trip to Mali. Bamako is a really neat city. As much as I appreciated Dakar in Senegal, it is just SO big and SO much more developed than anything else in West Africa, so it feels more like Europe. Bamako is big and has a lot to offer, but it is unquestionably Africa. People dress similarly to the Pulaars of Mauritania, and almost everyone is Muslim, but it's not quite as conservative. Certainly attitudes toward females are more open -- it's not strange to see shoulders (shock!), and many women scoot around on ever-present motorbikes. We found some excellent restaurants and a surprisingly well-presented national museum, and we oohed and aahed over all the beautiful green trees (curse that creeping Sahara in Mauritania!). Oh yeah, and alcohol is not illegal. Overall, big thumbs up for Bamako.


And then there was the mystical Dogon Country -- hailed by Lonely Planet as one of the "top 10 places to see before you die." How to describe it? Visually reminiscent of the American West, but with ancient African villages thrown in the mix. Sheer soaring sandstone rock faces, with straw-and-mud huts nestled protectively into the cliffs. We hiked through the area for three days. It was physically exhausting as we climbed up and down under the relentless sun, but worth it for the breathtakingly beautiful sights. My photos do it no justice, of course, but they can give you an idea. (These uploads are brought to you courtesy of the internet in glorious Nouakchott, far faster than that of poor little Boghé.)


Teresa and I after we finally made it to Dogon... with our Malian beers










This is how we crossed the plunging gorges: by scooting over a few little sticks. Looks pretty safe, right?


Houses built into the cliffs


A Dogon girl looks out over her village, split into three sections for animists, Muslims, and Christians


Collection of "fetishes," that is, skulls and furs and other animal parts used for traditional medicine and rituals


...thus, this monkey is perhaps not long for this world.


Traditional mud-built mosque


The Dogon are known for their indigo dyeing


These girls were very excited when they discovered their reflection in Teresa's sunglasses


Baby crocodiles! Eek!


Some villagers enjoy watching an amazing video on Joe's camera of a grown-up crocodile eating a chicken


Ta-da!
Unfortunately, while in the Dogon, we received news that was something of a one-two punch: first, the Mali-Mauritania Peace Corps soccer game had been cancelled, due to some potentially dangerous political goings-on in Mali. A big bummer, especially since we fully intended to return home victorious.

But worse news than that: our new training class, who were due to arrive in-country today, June 18th, has been pushed back indefinitely. We had heard rumors for some time that the Mauritanian government was refusing to issue visas to Americans, a result of the unstable political situation since the coup last August. We were all hoping this could be cleared up in time for the new trainees, but needless to say, it was not. All the current PCVs are very disappointed. The presidential elections that were supposed to take place June 6th were postponed until July 18th, but it is not clear what will be the result of that. We’re all watching and waiting...

Very good to talk fine and beautiful

A lot is happening! I have a new room, so that's a huge blessing. I've gotten pretty much settled, although I have a few things to buy here in Boghé this weekend to put on the final touches. Figured I might as well use this unfortunate situation as cause for some re-decorating! Photos of Room 2.0 will be up sometime in the near future, inshallah.

This school year is all but OVER! So hard to believe. Classes finished the week before last, and final exams began this past week. I will give my tests on Sunday and Monday, and then once I submit my final grades I am pretty much a free agent until school resumes in early October. I will be undertaking some minor projects in my village, and I'll be helping to train and welcome the new class of PCVs, who are slated to arrive June 18th. (We are so excited to receive them!)

But I will also have some time to relax and to travel a bit. First order of business: MALI! It's the largest country in West Africa, and it borders us to the east and south. Peace Corps Mauritania will be playing Peace Corps Mali in the "Olsen Cup," a soccer match for the ages. It would seem a shame to travel such a great distance and not sightsee a little, so a few friends and I plan to visit the capital Bamako and the legendary Dogon Country. Wish me well -- over the course of a week I will be braving more hours of public transportation than you could possibly imagine! ;) Game on...

I will greatly miss my English Club kiddies, some of whom are graduating on to high school. To close out the year I held an essay contest, with two questions to address: What are your plans for the future, and why do you want to learn English? The results were precious. Some said they wanted to be doctors or soccer stars, and many said they wanted to study in America. There was no shortage of heart, if grammar perhaps was lacking. I quote: "I do like to learn English. I learn English, because, English is tongue nationality world English is very good to talk fine and beautiful to write and to talk, thank you." This one in particular touched me: "Next month school will finish unfortunately I will miss my teacher english woman's because you love student and explanation clearly and speak as student are understood well, I LOVE ENGLISH AS I LOVE MEAT AND RICE."


For our final meeting of the club, every student was in attendance. I was so happy -- they didn't know it, but I had a huge surprise in store. I had printed up "certificates of excellence" for them when I was in Boghé. Each was emblazoned with the student's name in fancy script. I knew this was going to be a really big deal to them, since most of them have barely ever even seen a computer, let alone had something printed personally for them. (Keep in mind, this is a place where official school report cards -- and schedules, and everything else -- are all written by hand.)

But it doesn't end there. Due to the generosity of some very kind donors, I had 18 fresh, new French-English dictionaries to present to these students as gifts. To unveil the big news, I wrote a short paragraph on the blackboard. The kids started copying the text obediently -- and an excited buzz mounted as understanding dawned. I handed one book to each student, and they were beside themselves. When I asked if I could have a photo, they were so enthusiastic that you may have trouble even finding me in the shot...


A few days later, I went to my family's house for lunch as usual. There was a man sitting next to my father, but I didn't think much of it because it's not odd for us to have guests. The man greeted me. I responded dutifully -- and he exclaimed to my father in disbelief, "She really speaks Pulaar! It's so amazing!" A minute later, someone called out to me by name. The man again got worked up. "Your name is Raky?! They gave you that name here? How incredible!" I started to wonder what this guy's deal was. I thought most everyone knew me by now.

We all ate in silence, as is polite. After the bowls had been cleared, the man greeted me once again. Then he said, "Do you know why I'm here? I'm here for you." My immediate reaction was a churning in my stomach: not another hopeful suitor! But this guy seemed much too old for that. Maybe I had misunderstood?

No, I had heard him correctly. He went on to explain that he is the father of one of my students. I recognized the boy's name immediately -- he is one of my brightest, and a faithful member of English Club. The father told me he'd heard so much about me that he just wanted to come and greet my family. "You're a good person," he said. "Thank you so much, SO much."

Suddenly I realized why the man didn't know me. That kid doesn't even live in Dar El Barka. The father had traveled from another village, in the heat of the day, just to make this visit.

I did the appropriate thing by averting my eyes and mumbling, "Mashallah, mashallah" -- all things are from God -- but I couldn't help my cheeks flushing as across my face crept an unshakeable grin.

A house; a home

It's been a rough few weeks.

And that is by all standards putting it mildly.

Since September I have lived in the one-room guest quarters of a much larger house in Dar El Barka. The beautiful big house sits empty almost always, but three weeks ago a woman about 40 years old arrived from the capital, Nouakchott. She told me her father had just died, and she was so distraught that she'd left the city and come here to her mother's home village to escape for a bit. I felt sympathy for the woman, naturally, so when she insisted that I eat dinner with her that night, I agreed. And then when she insisted I spend the night with her in the big house, I again obliged.

Within half an hour she already felt comfortable enough to sit completely naked in front of me. Decidedly not normal here -- but I didn't want to judge. She rambled incessantly, pausing only for drag after drag on her cigarette. It was overwhelming to say the least, but I kept her company while she cried and cried through the night.

The woman quickly began to treat me somewhat like a servant. She asked to borrow my cell phone, and my gas burner, and she asked me to go fetch her things from the little corner store. I still felt bad for her, so I continued to obey even though I was getting a bit annoyed.

Fast-forward a few days -- and I was at my wit's end. The woman had declared that she hates everyone in Dar El Barka (except me, inexplicably), and she would stand up on her balcony with or without clothing and scream at children passing by. She hired cars every single day to drive her the hour to Boghé because she simply couldn't survive without icy Cokes. And when she left, she would order that I stay at the house to "watch" it and not let a soul come in. I felt like some bizarre Cinderella. She returned from one such trip with a huge new stereo and car battery to power it, and then she began blasting music each day -- ALL day long, from 6 in the morning to after midnight. She had my cell phone almost continuously, but I had trouble refusing her because she kept transferring huge sums of credit to my account. And if at any point I did try to say no to her, she would inevitably cry, "My FATHER is DEAD!"

In general, she wouldn't leave me in peace. After a few truly absurd incidents, I was at a tipping point. I couldn't live my life anymore. She wouldn't even allow me to visit my family (as if she had that authority!), because she told me they were bad people and thieves. Some of my sisters tried to come greet me one night, but this woman screamed and yelled at them to stay away from her house.

It was too much. Finally I really put my foot down, and we had some strong words. I told her calmly that I was not her slave -- but she flipped and called me an "American imperialist" and then accused me of making this into "the Cold War." She stormed off, and I took this as my opportunity to flee to my family's house for the evening.

I decided I just needed to coexist with this woman while she stayed in the village -- one or two weeks, she'd said -- and then everything could go back to normal. So for the next several days, I was nearly invisible. While at home, I stayed completely locked up in my room, quiet as can be, and I slipped out at times to head to school or to my family's house. This crazy woman continued to blast her music, but I slept with earplugs. An inconvenience, but I felt empowered. I felt in control. Hold on for one more day...


Last Saturday morning I was in my room, happily enjoying some America-sent chai tea and oatmeal, listening to the BBC and doing a crossword -- a.k.a. the perfect start to a day in Dar El. At around 9, this train wreck of a woman came banging on my door. I opened it, and she was standing there with my counterpart (Peace Corps liaison in the village). He greeted me, then stepped back in hesitation. The crazy lady started railing on him: "You tell her now. You tell her right now!! This is not a hotel, this is not the Hilton." What could she possibly be talking about? My counterpart approached me again with some reluctance and announced: "You need to get all your stuff and come up to the mayor's, and we will look for a room." What?? I said I didn't understand, so he switched from Pulaar to French. No, see, I understood -- but I just don't understand.

Finally the woman tired of this and marched over to me herself. "Take your things, come on!!! They'll find you a room." But where, I asked? "I don't know where, just do it!!" In hopeless confusion, I asked: "But --" "There is no but!!!" "I just want to know why," I said. "THERE IS NO WHY!! Now, come on!!" Right now? "Yes, right this minute!! I'm trying to go somewhere, and now I'm going to be late having to wait for you so I can lock this up. Let's go!!" And with that, she just haphazardly started grabbing things off my floor and scattering them all on the ground just outside my doorway. Are you serious?

Too, too many thoughts rushed through my head. Her behavior was entirely irrational and inappropriate, but at the end of the day there wasn't much I could do about it. The room is technically her property. She declared that I had to be out in five minutes. I barely had time to comprehend. Everything. Everything that had made this room my home. My curtains, my photos, my calendars, my clothes line, my beautiful window screens that I had installed myself. In a daze, I threw it all in random bags and boxes and tried unsuccessfully not to cry.


The room was empty in 15 minutes, an unbelievable feat. My counterpart appeared again and said we should take everything up to the mayor's, next-door. It felt degrading and depressing to carry all my things out of this place I had treated so well. Some young girls, about 11 years old, watched us from under a tree for the first load or two, and then they scampered over to greet me. "Raky, we want to help you," the ringleader said. Fine, I sighed, just be careful. Looking at my mess of stuff, she picked up a cardboard box -- and balanced it on her head to carry. Because that's how you carry heavy things here. For some reason, seeing this almost broke me.

And so it has been a long week since then. I have been offered another room in an empty house next to the mayor's, but the door is not secure and needs to be replaced. In the meantime, I have been staying in the mayor's living room, with all my possessions. It's less than ideal, although his house does have some amazing perks like electricity and a real shower.

Please do not mistake this psychopath for being representative of the sort of people I interact with typically. She is anything but. Everyone in Dar El has been exceedingly kind to me throughout this ordeal. Several people, including the village chief himself, have sought me out specifically to apologize for this woman's behavior and declare that she is just out of her mind and no one knows what to do with her. They've also told me that I'm better off away from her -- and, of course, they're right.

May 16, 2008, was my last night at my apartment in Austin, Texas. From that time until I left for the Peace Corps, I didn't have a room of my own.

But stone and wood don't make a place home.

So, a new era. Inshallah.

Le club d'anglais

All school year long, I've wanted to start an English Club. After-school activities here are an entirely alien notion, but I was determined to get one off the ground for the sake of my really bright students. Of course, there is a certain chain-of-command one needs to go through before making something like this happen. Namely, I needed to speak with my school director. Sounds simple enough, right?

The gentleman who had been our director last year was due to return in October -- but he never did. We were assigned a new director, with whom I spoke right away. He was enthusiastic about my club plans, right up until the time that he got re-assigned a few weeks later. For a while, we had no director, and then #3 came along. I was certain I was off to a bad start with him when in our very first meeting I had to ask off for Thanksgiving.

Then this director disappeared. No one really knew where he was. The surveillants (disciplinarians) and teachers begrudgingly had to schedule our Trimester 1 exams ourselves. I returned from December break to a still-directorless school. With no single person in command, week after week I could not get approval for my club.

February at last marked the return of Director #3. My next task was trying to make this man understand what exactly were my intentions. It's amazing the amount of red tape there was to go through at a school with only seven teachers. The director said I needed to talk to both "coordinators." No one had even told me we had such a thing!

But after many conversations and repeated explanations, plans were laid. While in Boghé I typed up and printed out formal invitations to the club for a total of 20 of my best students in 3rd and 4th years. I presented these during class, calling out each one's name for all to hear. These kids never get any kind of honor or recognition for their hard work, and I wanted to make it seem like a big deal, something they should be proud of.


Each school day runs from 8-noon and then 3-5, so I figured if we had club directly after that, all the kids would already be there anyway. Many of my students live in nearby villages, not in Dar El Barka, so they have to walk long distances to get to school and back. So my idea was to meet every Tuesday at 5pm.

But that was only an idea... The very week I'd set to begin, the school decided that from now on, we'd have classes from 8-2 straight and be done. Meaning that now my 5:00 club was NOT immediately after school. Wonderful. Like I could really expect kids to trudge all the way back to school in the worst heat of the day -- for an optional activity? I started counting the strikes against me.

The big day arrived. I left my house and walked to school, entirely prepared to be let down one way or another. I had informed the director, both so-called coordinators, the head surveillant, as well as all the kids... but I expected to find an empty schoolyard, and no one around to open the gate. "Oh, you meant today?"

But I found the groundskeeper and after a few minutes I was in a classroom. I checked my watch. Still a few minutes to spare. I sat down at a desk to wait. On the chalkboard in front of me was a science lesson taught previously that day. It was about electricity. It seems cruel to make kids learn about it if they don't even have it. But I digress.

I totally psyched myself out: It's so HOT right now. And anyway, they probably forgot. I didn't even remind them! It was over a week ago that I gave out those invitations... But, one girl had seen me earlier that day and asked me about it. So maybe if just she comes, at least it'll be something...

My thoughts were interrupted by a skid in the dirt just outside my door.

One of my kids, on his bike.

It was all I could do not to LEAP from my chair. And he opened a small floodgate. Sixteen kids showed up! I was beside myself!! I wanted to hug every one of them.

We've now met twice. It may be the highlight of my week. Mainly I've been teaching them how to use a French-English dictionary, so that we can do more fun activities using them. I've accumulated seven dictionaries now (but I humbly beg you to send more!), so I drag them all with me in my backpack. These kids have never seen a dictionary in their lives. They're 16 years old and don't know what alphabetical order is. These books are magical to them. On my way out of the schoolyard, I walked behind two of my boys, chatting to each other in Pulaar: "Dictionnaire ine moyyi dee!"

My own rendering? "How sweet is that dictionary?!"

La fête Pâcques

I write to you from inside my mosquito net, in the yard of the Boghé house. I hear: rap cassettes that neighbors blare loudly every night; the shuffling of feet and a pair of Pulaar voices (I can't hear the words, but the cadence is obvious); the insistent crickets; an occasional car whooshing by; a donkey braying in heaving gasps; the clip-clip of a horse's hooves pulling a cart on the pavement. It is late, past midnight. The moon is up, waning gibbous, which I can tell you without looking. Bailey, the house dog, is asleep at my feet -- if I'm fortunate, we'll make it through the whole night without her waking up and insisting to be let out of my tent. But probably not.

It's Saturday night, and Easter is tomorrow. That's why I'm in Boghé again, even though I was just here last weekend. On Thursday I mentioned to my host family that I was planning to head into town the next morning (weekends start on Friday, Muslim-style). "Tomorrow?!" They were incredulous. "No way, you'll never find a car." They proceeded to tell me that there was going to be a huge festival in Dar El, with mayors and village chiefs in attendance from many surrounding areas. There was to be music and singing and dancing and even theatre, they claimed. "Tons of people will be coming here," they vowed, "but no car will possibly be leaving."

But it's a religious holiday for Christians, I tried to tell them, very important. "Oh, I get it," they responded. "So you will eat lots of food! For three days!!" -- because that's what a religious holiday means to them. Food is part of it, I thought dryly, but so are photographs with gigantic rabbits, and joyful searches for chicken eggs -- oh, but not regular ones, ones that we've painted bright colors, and put candy inside of. Think these concepts will translate culturally?

As the idea sunk in that I might not be able to spend this special day with other PCVs as I had originally planned, I grew increasingly sad. I let my mind wander over memories of other Easters. When had I not been with family or close friends? When had I not been to church? It almost seemed like a cheap shot to try to pray to God to let me find a way to Boghé, like a "come on, I'm doing this for you!" But could I really spend it this year as just another day in my village, while everyone else goes about their business? The thought depressed me.

Not one to give up easily, I still got up before dawn on Friday to go sit by the road and search for a car. I'll spare you the gritty details, but let's just say not only did I find a car, but I made it to town in probably the fastest time ever. I was here by 8 AM. Alhamdulillah -- thank God!! (Is it sacrilege to say I actually thought, "It's an Easter miracle!")

So, we bought some eggs, blew out the yolks, decorated and dyed them (and dyed Bailey's tail baby blue). We will hide them tomorrow for a competitive big-kids hunt! Along with PCVs Yates and Mark, I've planned a nice little Easter meal. I have some canned turkey (about as close to ham as we can get in an Islamic republic). And thanks in part to American care packages, the menu will also comprise stuffing, mashed potatoes & gravy, okra casserole, buttered corn, bread, and jello. Can't wait! Right now I'm listening to a favorite playlist of "Jesus tunes"... so that's sort of like church? Take what I can get.

Quick school update, because I know I haven't mentioned it much lately. I feel like we're always on vacation -- which isn't far from the truth. Trimester 3 is underway, but not for long! The other trimesters lasted 12 or 13 weeks, but this one had already been cut short by over a month because of presidential elections scheduled for June 6th. (Since August this country has been run by a military usurper, do you recall?) But now, the buzz among teachers is that final exams will be pushed up even earlier. Essentially, I will probably only see each of my classes five or six times this whole trimester. It's crazy. And sad.

I have fun with them. Last week I taught agreeing and disagreeing vocab with my 4th-years. I offered some statements, which they could raise their hands and agree or disagree with. I started with generally accepted truths, like "Akon sings wonderfully" and "English is fun" (they agree emphatically!). Then I threw some curve balls: "Barack Obama is ugly." "To drink alcohol is good." These kids freaked out! "NO, TEACHER!! Sorry, but I disagree! That is NOT true!" You have to smile.

Pulaar and Hassaniya speakers alike refer to the school spring break with a French phrase, "la fête Pâcques." This literally means "the Easter holiday" (despite the fact that spring break was two weeks ago). I'm no Islamic scholar, but in my understanding Muslims revere Jesus as a prophet -- but not as one who rose from the dead to take away the sins of the world. So, they know the word Easter, but have no idea what it means.

Some things here are worth explaining, and others you just let go. "Yes," I told my family. "We will eat lots of food, for three days!"

Bonnes Pâcques à tous!

The hierarchy of pests

#10. LOCUSTS. That's right, locusts. I know what you're saying. I too thought they were a biblical plague sort of deal, not really around anymore. Wrong. Picture legions of ginormous grasshoppers (Honey, I Shrunk the Kids-style), and they keep senselessly jumping and flying into your face. They are awful. But fortunately, they are not around for the majority of the year.

#9. SCHISTOSOMA. Schistosoma is a microscopic flatworm responsible for causing schistosomiasis, the second most devastating parasitic disease (after malaria). They are found in tropical fresh water. The bottom line: because of these little guys, Peace Corps forbids me to swim in the cool and beautiful river 20 yards from my front door. It is a painful thing.

#8. MAURITANIAN STREET CHILDREN. Oh, wait. Should they not count as "pests"?
#8. CREEPY MAURITANIAN MEN. Still no? Fine...
#8. ROOSTERS. They start crowing long before dawn. I've developed a fantasy of punching one in the throat mid-cockadoodle. But really, the roosters are tolerable since I get woken up by the prayer call most mornings anyway.

#7. LIVESTOCK. This includes goat, sheep, and cattle (they're longhorns, shout-out to Texas!). These creatures comment and protest loudly all. day. long. What do you imagine to be the sounds of an African village? Joyful native songs and an occasional elephant trumpet? Not for me. It's all "MEHHHH!" and "MOOOO!"
// EDIT: I don't even know how I forgot about the god-forsaken donkeys. Their gasp-screeching is in a class by itself.


#6. TERMITES. They eat all our books. It's tragic.

#5. TOADS. At dusk, the "running of the toads" commences and I see scores of them come hopping out of every crevice and shadow. Sometimes it makes me laugh out loud. (Again, the biblical plagues are brought to mind.) The thing I can't get over is that they are so DUMB! I often discover a toad that is holed up in a corner of my room, too confused to find its way back to the door. And almost daily I have one floating dead in my latrine (or a live one still squirming in vain). Pretty gross, but I figure if they're stupid enough to keep falling in the same hole, they probably don't deserve to live.


#4. ANTS. They are a definite nuisance, but I confess that deep down I really respect them. They are SO GOOD at finding food! Constantly they impress me. Favorites are anything with sugar, nuts, or meat (i.e. beef jerky). I have to have my food SEALED, or they will immediately swarm! Ziploc bags are no match -- only Tupperware and buckets with airtight lids get the job done. Sometimes I leave a candy wrapper in the middle of my floor just to see how long it takes the ants to find it. I am at peace with them because at least they have a clear purpose in life. Oh, one other thing, though: when they bite you, it KILLS.


#3. MICE. I don't have them in Dar El Barka (alhamdulillah -- thank God!), but we have a serious mouse problem at the house in Boghé. Now, as I just said, I have to keep all my food locked up tight because of the ants anyway. But mice are peculiar little beasts. Food is not the only thing they're after. They'll chew through thick plastic bags and cardboard boxes to get to... A bar of soap? Toothpaste? Moist towelettes? The rubber grip on a pen?! Nothing is sacred.

#2. MOSQUITOES. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about a mosquito. They whine up close to your ears. They bite you so discreetly that you don't even notice, until that unmistakable itching starts burning a minute later. AND on top of all this, they spread an incredibly deadly disease, malaria! I put on insect repellent every single night, and I sleep inside a net, but still I get bitten on average 10 times a day. The only reason mosquitoes are not #1 on my list is because at least they are relatively slow enough that you can clap them dead in your hands if you see one.

And the bane of my existence:

#1. FLIES. You know those infomercials on TV when they show the "starving kids in Africa," and there are flies just all over the place? This isn't added for dramatic effect. They are everywhere, at all times. They buzz around incessantly and land on your food. Ryan had a theory in our Pulaar class that it was always at his most frustrated when a fly would land square on his face. The worst is that they are really fast, so they're hard to kill. They laugh in the face of fly paper, I've learned. My mom sent me a fly swatter, and fortunately that's been really helpful. I'm putting no dent in their population, but swatting gives me a profound sense of satisfaction. As I watch them struggle in their final moments, I often ask them aloud, "What was your life worth?"

Homecoming

When you travel out of town for the weekend, how do you get back home? Let's say you don't have a personal vehicle... Do you buy an Amtrak or Greyhound ticket, carefully checking the scheduled departure times?

Here's how I get home from Boghé (where I am able to use electricity and internet to write these lovely blogs for you). It's never the same thing twice, but this is what happened last time.


In the morning I walk the 15 minutes to the market, which is the center of activity and home to the "garage" for cars heading out of town. (So it is called anyway, even though it's just a dirt clearing that serves as a parking lot.) I search for "my" driver Moctar, who lives next-door to me in Dar El Barka and drives to Boghé daily for supplies. He lost his cell phone a couple months ago, so now looking around for him in person is the best way to get a hold of him.

Today, as many days, my search is in vain. I do, however, spot another vehicle that I know to be headed to Dar El. It's a big white van resembling a paddy wagon -- indeed, PCVs call them prison vans. This one in particular is more deluxe than most and has careful lettering painted on the driver's door: "Air Dar El Barka," a man's name, and a phone number. (Don't ask me why it says "Air," in English no less. No one would mistake it for a plane.) I save the number in my cell phone.

I walk back from the market, still hoping against hope to spot Moctar. He has a nice pick-up truck, and since he likes me, he always saves me a seat in the front with him (the other option is hanging on for dear life in the bed of the truck). But still no dice today. Air Dar El Barka it shall be. I dial the number, and with my best Pulaar I explain my situation. I ask the man if he's leaving this afternoon. "Of course, of course," the driver tells me. I ask what time, knowing full well that this question is foolish since it means nothing -- as you will soon see. He says, "1:00, or 2:00." Fine by me.

At 12:15 my phone rings. It's the driver: "Come to the garage, we're leaving right now!" Fortunately, I've been here long enough to know that I still have some time to spare. I finish eating my lunch and gather my things. Then, just in case this guy is really serious about "right now," I spring for the luxury of a taxi back to the garage. The fare is 60 ouguiya, about $0.24 USD. (FYI, "taxi" is defined as any vehicle that you can successfully flag down. In America this is typically referred to as hitchhiking.)

I spot my prison van, and I talk to the driver. "Yup, no problem," he says. I find a spot in the shade to sit down on my backpack and wait. Next to me a girl, aged 14 or so, is selling cold drinks out of a small cooler. She takes one look at me and immediately says in French, "Give me a present." I force myself to remember that this is acceptable behavior here and not considered rude. "No," I tell her flatly. I've gotten pretty good at this.


Then I have an idea. "Do you know Barack Obama?" I ask her in Pulaar. "Of course!" she brightens. "He's the President of America!" I pull from my bag the special inauguration edition of Time, which my mom has just sent me from the States. The girl scoots toward me eagerly. For the next full half-hour, we pore over every single photograph. The girl is full of questions: "Is he really black? Is he Muslim? Is that his house? Is that his wife? Is her hair real, or a weave?" We attract a small crowd, but the girl protectively smacks away the hands of other children who try to turn the pages.

When we finally finish, she thanks me profusely. Then, as an afterthought, she tugs off her ring and thrusts it toward me. "A present?" I ask. Her eyes light up as she nods. I proudly put it on my finger. It's hideous, bright orange-y fake gold. I love it.

It's now past 1:00. About an hour later, the driver tells me he just needs to go pick up some supplies and he'll be right back to get me.

At 4:30, I board the vehicle.

The other passengers and I sit on jugs of oil and 50-kilo rice sacks that cover the floor from wall to wall. One man has in his lap a baby goat, umbilical cord still visible. We all pay our fare so that the driver can buy enough gas for the trip. We pull out of town at 5:15. I walk through my door at 6:30.

I take time at my house only to drop my things and find my gifts for my family. I always bring them back something from Boghé. This time it's mandarin oranges (a true indulgence) and ever-needed tea. I hustle over to their house.

"HAI-YO!" exclaim Faasidi and Goggo when they spot me. (It's not a Pulaar word exactly, more a sound effect expressing delight at someone's arrival.) They run over and engulf me in hugs -- a gesture that really has to be earned here. Everyone falls over themselves greeting me. "How are you? Are you healthy? You returned safely? Are you tired? How was the trip? How is everyone in Boghé? Are they healthy? Welcome, welcome!" Everyone has been sitting on a thin woven mat on the dirt ground, but they bring out a large foam pad for me. The children, starved for attention in my absence, commence a cartwheel contest for my adjudication. "Raky, Raky! Watch me!" Three-year-old Fatimata drapes herself across me and accidentally calls me "Mommy."

Over 6 hours to go 40 miles. But it's so good to be home.