Fantasy Island, Zee Plane Zee Plane

I have been in quite a whirlwind the last week or so. Soukeina, my APCD was in town and we had meetings with various and sundry persons, making many protocol visits here in Atar. I also took a little road trip to Chinguetti, lunching with the Hakem. After her departure, I spent the weekend at the Exposition des Produits Artisinaux, which I refer to as tent city. All the women speak Hassaniya not French. Luckily on Saturday morning, Kelsey, the volunteer in Tawaz who has studied Hassaniya, came with me and was able to make some conversation and translation. Saturday afternoon I went alone and spent the later part of the evening doing handwork along with Zeinebou. Who needs words when you can make fringe on the ends of your howli? Sitting there I couldn’t help but think how much Doris would have enjoyed this scene. Me covered in spent threads, the women conversing in Arabic about how my hands might look so nimble but are in fact all thumbs. Frankly, I prefer work that involves the use of a sledgehammer and the satisfaction of demolition more than teeny, tiny intricate work. A few French tourists came through. They had been on walking tours around the area. I was impressed not only with their 90K trek but their perfect English. They of course, thought I was also French, at least until I open my mouth. They were impressed that I, an American, was capable of uttering a syllable in a foreign tongue and indulged me in French for awhile. One sweet fellow, who after learning that I was with Corps de la Paix working with these women to combat poverty, tried his hardest to spend some money at our tent. After much browsing, he settled on a bracelet for 1500 ums. He only had a 2000 um bill and Zeinebou spent a goodly amount of time trying to find change for him. She finally scraps together 400 um, which is more than he wanted. He tried to give make a donation to the ladies or at least give me a cut of 200um. Naturally I had to decline. I also sold a few jars of date jam hopefully proving myself an asset to the enterprise. Not only can I converse with these tourists unlike most of the women, but the tourists seem overjoyed to purchase from me. Okay, a day well spent.

The next day, Sunday, I make a plan with the ladies to the airport because I wanted to see what goes on at that location. We are to meet at 9 at the tents. Mark and Kelsey come along too. We 3 were all in a twitter about our impending adventure. Not only would this be a new experience for us but there might be the added benefit of cute flight attendants. We arrived at tent city at 8:30, sat around, had some tea, saw some tourists. I tried to ask questions about who, what, where and when we were to leave. Through the translation of one of the guides who is there with some tourists, we determined that the women left for the airport plus tot, very early. Fill in your own expletive. How did that happen? I asked this question repeatedly, as did Kelsey. How did we miscommunicate? Crap, I hope we didn’t miss the planes, the opportunity, the flight attendants. Mark was 1 casse into the tea, but we had to leave. We hailed (not really hailed, more knocked on its window) a cab just outside and whisked off to the airport not knowing exactly what we are in for. Do the ladies have a place in the airport? Along the road? Will getting through security be a problem? One never knows who/what one will encounter in Mauritania. A little site note, cab fare has increased from 200 um to 300 um. If my math is right, that is an increase of 50%.

Anyway, we got there and all was well. Security was a breeze, just shouted out “Corps de la Paix” There were about 4 tents along the parking lot as well as a handful of vendors with their tables lined in front of the tents. There were 2 planes expected on that particular Sunday; one at 10am and the other roughly 1. 10:00 rolls by with no sign of planes but the departing vacationers are beginning to dwindle in. As do a handful of the locals that we’ve seen around town all of the time. The gentleman from the feeding center, described a few blogs back, is there. Apparently he is also in the tour business. The kid who runs the cyber in the evenings also shows up. Apparently he works at the money changing booth. As well as the handful of suspects that I did expect to see as I knew them to be tour guides. We wondered through the terminal, which is one room and were treated to the sight of a team of French Pompiers (firefighters) in their sexy blue traveling uniforms. Wow, flight attendants move over. More tourists trickle in. We speculated on their trips, their lives, their relations, just as the folks of Atar speculate about us. We were certain that one group is from a gay auberge and we vowed to find out more. Maybe there is some fun underground dance party happening here. Doubtful, but one can hope. Again, we inquired as to the planes scheduled arrival time and are told by one of the tour guides, who may be a bit better informed as he is meeting his clients, to expect them at 12 and 2. Scheduling miscommunications seemed to be the order of the day. Hum, a bit longer of a wait then expected but no worries. Why the heck do the ladies arrive here so early in the morning? I bought a bottle of water and a package of camel biscuits at extremely inflated prices and we adjourned to the parking lot. The three of us sat on the curb of the parking lot eating and watching the doings. This is another world. More and more tourists arrived for their departure, the terminal is jam packed. Most looked rather ragged. It was difficult to determine if they had enjoyed their sojourn in our fair Adrar. More and more locals that we know, who seem to be living a double life, arrived.

Suddenly, overhead, a plane. We are excited. New arrivals! We watch the plane land then head inside for the show. We wait and we wait and we wait. I have no idea what is going on but there is apparently a load of paperwork that this plane full of people have to fill out before they can be let into the terminal. Again, not to worry, Mark, Kelsey and I are front and center. Mark observes that we are like people at a pet store staring at the puppies, kids in a candy store with our noses pushed up against the glass. During this time I get to know a tour guide who is waiting to meet his next group of adventurers He is of European decent and is chatting me up, in perfect English. Note to self, when at the airport, be sure to edit my conversations as many of these people will speak, and more importantly, understand what I say. Most of the time, we volunteers use a secret language, English, which no one understands. It’s like having a super power. We are invincible. Who needs to leap tall buildings in a single bound when you can talk about someone right in front of them? Unfortunately, occasionally my superpowers have failed me and I have been caught by folks that understood perfectly well what I was saying. Here’s a story for you. Early in my life here, I was at the Chingatel office trying to determine if, in deed, I could send texts to the US as they claimed. The fellow behind the counter, the rare sighting of an attractive Moor, offers to let me send a text from his phone, which I do. I don’t remember the details, but for some reason I was sending him a text so that he would have my phone number in order to send the text to the US. It makes no sense to me now, but it did them. Anyway, in the body of the text I wrote “call me”, feeling impish and invincible. Just before I hit send, he repeats his number to me, only this time in English. I am not sure what went wrong but my brain did not register that he was speaking English fast enough, because sure enough, I send him that text. Michelle, who was co-conspirator in this prank, chimes in with “maybe he only knows the numbers”. No such luck. He knew exactly what that text meant. Great, just the reputation I need. Madame Toubab hits on much younger local Chingatel representative. Michelle and I could hardly contain our laughter until we got out of the building and onto the street. Anyway, back to European chatting me up….having being well schooled in this culture, I am wary of what might come out of this man’s mouth. I am politely engaged in the conversation (I think), but in the back of my mind I am wondering “Will this conversation, like the majority of them do, go on a tangent that I am not interested in taking. Will he ask the dreaded are you married or the even more subtle, do I want to go take pictures in the dunes?” He, of course, says nothing inappropriate and I am left reflecting that, after 5 months in this country, I am unfit for polite company. The only comfort I have is that I am fairly certain that I refrained from glowering at him as he was speaking with me.

As it turned out we could only stay long enough to watch a handful of tourists arrive as it was getting late. Much later than we expected considering we anticipated the plane landing at 10 and it was now past 1. Any who, we go outside and try to find a cab. No luck as all of the cars at the airport have been previously engaged. One of our Senegalese souvenir guys is there to exchange Euros, he will give us a ride if we want to wait till he is finished with his transactions. We can’t wait. We have lunch plans with another group of Senegalese souvenir guys and Kelsey has to go to the market before she heads back to her village at 5. So off we wonder trying to figure out how to get home. We ask the security guards at the entrance to the airport and they get us a ride in the bed of a Helix full of tourists with a tour guide with a familiar face. Off we go in true Peace Corps form. The 3 of us are riding high. We have had a good day, a good adventure and have a free ride back to town headed for some Chebujen. Life is good.

Merry Christmas to one and all
Expect my posting will be from my “posh” room in St. Louis Senegal during New Years. I’ll be at the Hotel Residence from the 12/30 – 1/2

By Jove

It is so very difficult to write these blogs as something less than a novel. Every single interaction, each event that I witness is worthy of some tale. I often wish I had some hidden camera, some Ed TV, to follow me around to document for you and for me, exactly what it is like here. Oh, where to start?

On Monday I had that follow-up meeting with my counterpart. Well, I show up and off we go to meet the coops. I thought I was showing up to discuss my fete idea and fix a time to meet with the cooperatives. Not what I expected. I am dressed in cargo pants and a mandarin collared, long button down tunic. Western but culturally appropriate, meaning my crotch is covered. Appropriate, I should say, for a meeting with my counterpart, a man accustomed to Peace Corps volunteers, but not as I would have dressed to meet a group of women for the first time. Oh well, what would one expect from the woman who runs around town bareheaded.

We walk around the corner and into a little boutique that I have passed many times but never noticed. He introduces me to a half dozen women, a couple of whom speak French. They are the principal’s of a Union comprised of 13 cooperatives, called L’Union des Femmes L’ Autosuffisane , Union of Self-sufficient Women (I think). Well, this is a good start. I like the idea. I am ready for a change from all of my, up till now, interactions with the men of this town. A group of women in a union of self sufficiency might just be the ticket. Just the boost I need. Please god, let things be looking up.

My counterpart, Mohamed ould sompin sompin sompin, (a most definite exception to the above statement) helps me with the translation. Note, he is translating from Hassaniya (an Arabic dialect) to French, so as you can imagine, I may or may not have my facts straight. The eldest woman, Zeinebou, does their marketing. Mind you, she might just be the oldest women in the world at this moment so I am curious as to her ability. But let me not judge a book by her cover. They are lovely, patient and engaging. We have tea. They show me an array of their handmade products: tie-dye, leather pillows (like the one my family in Boghe gave me as a parting gift), woven bowls, and some square quilted thing they kept calling a petit tante. A little aunt? It’s for infants. Do they sit the kid on it? Do they tie them up with it? Bear in mind that I am in Mauritania where infants are dragged around by an arm or a leg much like a sack of potatoes. Support their head? Are you crazy? What for? There is little supervision even for the littlest tike. Par example: one day Morella came rounding a corner and before her stood a toddler with a plastic bag on his head having a gay old time. There were loads of adults standing around, some watching. Now we’ve all seen the warning that a plastic bag is not a toy. But apparently they haven’t seen that particular warning here. The tike pulled the bag off, found it was less fun, and pulled the bag back on his head. Aghast, she marched over, ripped the bag off the toddlers head and lectured the adults, those that spoke French, that is was NOT a good thing. Very dangerous! Probably to no avail. Another day, Heather came home to her compound and found an infant all alone, tied to the leg of a chair, WITH A BRA. Possibly his Ma didn’t want him crawling off somewhere while she was away. So I have no idea what this contraption is for but I am certain this petite tante is not an enrichment toy.

The ladies explain that they are low on stock as they have a tent at the “exhibition” and also sell at the airport on Sundays. According to my notes, the exhibition is manned on Saturday and Sunday as well as 3 women go to the airport on Sunday with some goods. Wow, I am impressed. I have been thinking that the airport might be a good opportunity to capture the tourist market, but I have yet to go see for myself what the setup is like. I have been reluctant to go as I have been through 1 Mauritanian airport and have been here long enough to not get my hopes up when it comes to facilities. Also, I don’t want to be arrested for being at the airport without a ticket. (Not that I have heard that happens) Since I am the SED volunteer, I put on my business hat and try to ask some intelligent questions. How many members do they have? Do the members pay a percentage of their sales to the Union or a flat rate? The answer is flat rate. Do they work with the tour guides to bring tourists to them? Well, this question got a strong reaction. Mohamed was out praying, so I’m a little fuzzy on the reason, but the word moushkeila came up a number of times. It is one of the 5 Hassaniya words I do know. Aaron and Christine, volunteers in Akjoujt, (see flikr photos of S. African tourists in Halloween set) named their new kitten Mouchkeila. Moushkeila means problem/trouble. If I understood correctly, the tour guides try to negotiate the price of their goods too low. ChaChing, my business brain chimes. We need to build the value of these handmade goods in the eyes of the buyer. See boys and girls, all of those years of sales training were not wasted

The ladies are also anxious to meet our other volunteers and enlist their services. BINGO. As I have said in a previous blog, it can be difficult to find organizations with which one wants to work, and I may have just found one. I am conjecturing that Zeinebou has worked with us in the past as she asked specifically for a health volunteer and about Moringa. Moringa is a nutritional supplement that PC RIM supports. I got a whiff of some during training and it smells very similar to that Super Food stuff you purchase at Trader Joe’s for $50 a pop. Moringa contains loads of protein, vitamin c, iron, vitamin a, etc; so a couple of Tbs can boost the nutritional content of this cuisine. And, what’s more, the Moringa tree is supposedly easy to grow in this climate. Anyway, that Zeinebou is familiar with this product is intriguing.

I make a plan to go see the “exhibition” the next day at 10 and to return on Thursday at 4 with my health volunteer in tow. Not a bad day’s work.

It just so happens that my APCD, PC RIM staff person who runs SED, is in town the following day. She is new having just come onboard at the end of August. She comes along to meet our counterpart and visit this “exhibition”. Someone described this site to me as a place where a bunch of old women sit and sell their wares. In my mind, it is going to be some variation of the Senegalese souvenir shops that popped open for the tourist season. These shops are, frankly, full of crap. Wooden crap, metal crap, plastic crap. Mass produced crap. No wonderful little artifact with which to remember your Mauritanian adventure to be found amongst the crap. Reason number one that none of you have received gift. There is nothing to buy here but crap. Dusty crap at that.

Around 10 am, the Peace Corps car rolls up at the appointed location. We whisk away Mohamed and one of the ladies and off we go. The lady explains to my APCD that she will show me her cooperative, but won’t introduce me to the rest. I meant to ask her for more of an explanation as to why, but forgot. The exhibition is in a big sand lot with a high wall and contains 8 – 10 hyma’s (tents). It is an exhibition of “Femmes Artisan” (or something like that) but not much ambiance. Each tent houses a different cooperative or group of cooperatives, as my ladies are, sadly selling identical handmade items. But much to my delight, many of the items are quite lovely. They have wooden bowls, woven plates of various sizes made from some part of the palm tree. There are also woven funnel shaped things that look like hats, but are in fact steamers. Metal steamers are used in the south as the climate is more humid and I assume these organic steamers mold. But up here, the steamers are woven from, again, some part of a palm tree. In my defense, the town nut wonders around with one on his head, so truly they could and do double as hats. They also sell nattes. Nattes are big floor coverings. The nattes in my house (see flickr photos of Chez Moi and look at my floors) are made in China from plastic. These seem to be made of wood. As well as tie-dyed fabric, jewelry (nicer than what I have seen in the market), tea pots, tea casses, leather tom toms (drums), leather pillows and much, much more.

After about 45 minutes and a parting gift later, we take a tour through the rest of the tents. I learn more about the nattes and the other products. The nattes are hand woven, without a loom, out of palm and leather. The leather is sometimes painted with a pattern. One of the intricate ones, probably about 2X3 was marked at 20,000 um (250 um to a US$). At first I thought this was a big high, but then I learned that it was hand woven without a loom, then painted. See above, building value. I also saw a basket of what looked like skeins (can’t spell that), balls of yarn. DeDe, they were spun from camel hair/fur using a drop spindle. I believe that I impressed my APCD with my knowledge of textile arts. They knitted the camel yarn along with mutton yarn into a tent. Weaving, camel yarn, improving the lives of women by purchasing their handmade goods; by Jove, I might be onto something. My mind is reeling. The stage is set. The cast has most of its characters. It just needs a Director. I envision live demonstrations of how pieces are made, storytellers, dancing, drumming, tea serving, camel sheering (ok, that may be overboard). Here is my cultural fete waiting to happen. One little hitch in our giddy up. There is a communication gap between the Hassaniya speaking women and the French speaking tourists. Imagine that. But we don’t need much language. Picture in your mind story boards in French with photos about the cooperatives; the steps to fabricate these various pieces; explanation of the materials; each piece tagged with the name of the woman who created the piece. How do you say, “Made by Hand by Fatimatou” in French? Can one print calendars with photos in the RIM? If not, does Kodak ship to Mauritania? And if so, how much and how long? Let’s give these Frenchies something to buy with those lovely euros. Etc, etc, etc.

Next step, my plan is to observe the interactions with the tourists at the exhibition on Saturday. And on Sunday, observe what happens at the airport. Think leaflets with a map to the exhibition.

Praise Allah, I may have found work. Inshallah.

Happy Hanukah

Thanksgiving Celebration

I love my English class. I enjoy teaching adults. We spent 1.5 hours working on the pronunciation of –ed endings. Sometimes, as in Kissed, the -ed sounds like a t, sometimes as in saved, the –ed sounds like d, and after t and d sounds, the –ed ending adds another syllable and sounds like ed such as needed. Who knew that there were rules to govern that, but there are, and I found them, and we practiced them. Frankly I was tired of the class reading asked as if it were a 2 syllable word..as in “as ked”. I must admit, it’s sad to train their accent away because its adorable. They all sound like PePe Le Pew. Alas, they don’t want to sound like Mr. Le Pew. A couple even came up and thanked (pronounced as a D) me for the exercises. Of course for the last 30 minutes of class we read a text on the wikipedia definition of Thanksgiving. I also had a prop, Marvis, who works for MHC, makes little foam characters each holiday and one made it to me in a Mail Tuesday package. Shout out to Marvis and Teri. After a lengthy discussion of what a turkey is, who Benjamin Franklin was and which were the 13 colonies, we read the text and serv ed our mash ed potatoes…so we still need a little work. If anyone comes across any workbooks for teaching English as a Second Language (ESL), we sure could use them. We have a beginning and intermediate class.

Fast Forward a few days………

Coming up on Thanksgiving was tough on me and the rest of the volunteers. Knowing and hearing the plans back home and not being part of it can be a drag, but with the holidays, the draginess was far more pronounced. But the day of Thanksgiving was terrific. The Akjoujt group came up to celebrate like Halloween. They needed the break and we needed the injection, so a perfect match. Many thanks to all that sent goodies. Chris, Teri, Wendy and Michelle for their pie ingredients, Michelle for the stuffing and cranberries, and Mona for more stuffing. The menu was stuffing, mashed potatoes with roasted garlic, cranberry jelly, salad, fruit salad, chicken (with Survival Spice), deviled eggs and 5 pies. 2 pumpkin, cherry, apple pies and a chocolate flan. Emmanual, the new owner of the ritzy restaurant in town, let us use his oven (and kitchen) to bake the pies and roast the garlic. The chef was also good enough to let us use his rolling pin, graciously offered after he witnessed me trying to use a nalgene bottle for that purpose. He also brought out an array of cooking implements, tinfoil and parchment paper for our use. He could barely contain himself as we rumbled around his kitchen, but in a very good natured and generous way. In exchange we spent far in excess of our meal budget on a dinner at his place, L’Assiette. Morella negotiated the priced from 3500 to 1500 um, and he stripped away any of the extra’s for a lovely meal of poached fish, potato and fruit salad for desert, complete with sitting at a table in a chair with silverware and a napkin. Lord I’ve been saved!

Bright and early the next day we left for Chinguetti. The ride was quite an experience. 11 people, 11 backpacks + a goat in a Toyota 4 Runner. The goat was tied to the roof. We were stuffed in the inside along with the luggage. 2 hours later and many stops to re-secure the goat to the top, and we were in Chinguetti. (I might turn this adventure into a blog, or just a wild story over drinks the next time I see you) Between the goat nearly falling off of the roof while cruising along at 40 mph; its peeing all over the car, into the windows, and down Mark’s arm; and the orange dust covered V’s that emerged from the car looking like oompah loompahs, it is a story to tell. That being said, that evening we had another delicious meal of tagine, thanks to goat, made by another Moroccan chef. This was delicious. The meat was tender and topped with special Moroccan dates (prunes). I am truly integrating because after the meal, between casses of tea, I took a nap.

Bright and early the next day we left on the camel trek. It was 11 of us, 2 guides and 7 camels. I, being the village elder (no not village idiot) got my own camel. The others split a camel. This time, as opposed to the time mom and I went on a camel ride in Cairo, the camel didn’t seem quite so tall. Of course, between Cairo and Chinguetti, I have been riding Simon, a 16 hand horse so my point of reference has shifted. We were without injury but not without incidence, no thanks to those cantankerous camels. Jessica was bucked off, completely out of the saddle, which is about 6 inches deep. She went flying. In the camel’s defense, I think he got spooked. But as you can imagine, a fall or rather being thrown, from 10 ft up could have been a horrible injury. I witnessed all of this from about 20 yards back, high aloft my trusty steed. Then, Sharon, the other one, was mounting the beast, and before she was completely in the saddle, the camel stood up. They don’t seem to enjoy being forced to lie on the ground while we scramble up onto their backs. Well she was splayed out across the back of him barely hanging on. Luckily there were backpacks tied on as saddle bags and 2-5 qt pots as well (that had contained our lunch) that were supporting her shoulders, or else she would have been ass over teakettle too. To her credit, when the guide wrestled the camel back to the ground via a ring through the camel’s nostril, she settled in and went on about the ride. She even braved getting back aboard the next day. I can’t say the same for Jessica.

We just went on an overnight. The desert is amazing. We trekked for 3 hours in the morning, on and off the camels and spent the afternoon at an oasis. There we ate and napped in true Mauritanian style. We then hiked for another hour or so to our camping spot. During this excursion, I discovered that my Crocs are far better for trudging through sand dunes than my Keens. The enclosed toe of the Keen’s traps that sand around your toes making your shoes too tight. Whereas, the holes in the toes of the Crocs provide the perfect bilge for evacuating the sand that accumulates with each step. (To be fair, Keen’s are far superior for scampering over boulders on the hike to the swimming hole) Once at our campsite, the guides unburdened and settled in the camels while we threw around a football. As soon as the sun went down, the wind picked up and the temperature plummeted. Not that it has been that warm during the day. Even with hiking up and down sand dunes, sans camel, I kept a sweatshirt on for most of the day. We sat around a teeny tiny campfire and had dinner of tuna salad on the bread that the guides made in the sand under the coals. The bread was a bit tough, but pretty amazing.

At the last minute I threw in my Thermarest pad and believe you, me, I was glad. The only part of me that wasn’t on the Thermarest when curled into a ball, was my foot. The minute I adjusted, unfurl my limbs and my leg hit the sand, I was aware of how cold it was. The others, they had no such insulation and were very cold by the am. At 6am the temperature was 45 degrees-I know because I took my broken, Brookstone travel clock with thermometer. The jury is still out on the mummy sleeping bag. I was toasty, but I am a bit too wiggly for all that cocooning. It felt suspiciously like a straight jacket. Not that I have ever been in a straight jacket, but as I imagine a straight jacket would feel. What I enjoyed in the desert was the silence. Except for the wind there was just peace and quiet. I also enjoyed the lack of Mauritanians. Our daily life here is a grind from the minute one steps out one’s front door till one steps back home. One is routinely accosted verbally, emotionally and/or physically in the small 1-mile radius that is our habitate. We have had a couple of ugly incidents with locals that I won’t bore you with, but being out in the desert, away from the hordes, in western (American) clothes, felt like a vacation. We tried to come up with as many onomatopoeia as we could: boom, creak, pop, fizz, oppah (but I am not sure that counts). Even the name sounds rooted in Dr. Seuss rather than Latin. With all of that vastness, stillness, and sobriety, one can’t help but ponder the questions that have been lurking in the crevasses of ones brain. For instance, do one’s political leanings detract from on’es artistic creations? Does Wagner having been a Nazi (allegedly) make his music sounds less beautiful? Then I got stumped on all those McCarthy era Hollywood turncoats. Was it Billy Wilder who fingered someone or am I mistaken? I hope not, because I love his movies. Stuff like that roams through my brain; out of the blue; without warning or prompting when not otherwise occupied.

Anyway, we hike it back to Chinguetti without further incident and land back in Atar to more sweatshirt weather. I slept indoors for the first time evening before last. I was reluctant to do so as I love sleeping under the stars, but I had a scratchy throat and thought the cold night air was a bad idea. I have never really understood how ancient civilizations could be so aware of the night sky to create calendars, name constellations, plant crops. Now I do. I know what phase the moon is each night; I know if it is waxing or waning. I never miss a full moon or a new moon. I am aware when the moon is rising late or early as it impacts me. The moon is as important to my night as sunlight is to my day. I am afraid all that will be lost when I go inside. But the allure of warmth, good health and quiet is alluring. ((how’s that for waxing poetic? “allure is alluring”(folks, I do this free style without the use of reference books such as dictionaries or thesaurus, although I often want to reach for one - just my little brain powering these musings) So inside I slept. It was strange being in a dark, enclosed room. For the first little bit, I felt like I was in a mausoleum I also was remembering the roach in the ear story from site visit. But I slept long and well. No 4,5,6 am prayer call, no braying ass, no bleating sheep, just sleep. Except, of course, for the guy peeing outside my window.
I slept inside last night as well. It seems that I am slowly moving myself from the veranda to the warmth of the room. The temperature has fallen from daytime high 90’s to 70’s in a week. I don’t mind wearing the long skirt even with a slip, which I spurn during the hot months. I wear my jean jacket the whole day through. Praise Allah.

Pictures will be forthcoming. I need to gather them up from others as I left my camera at home. Stay tuned.

Update Good news, we have permission to go with Chingatel (the fast internet service), This being a government operation, a written request has to be submitted. Inshallah, maybe after the New Year, we’ll be on. Say your prayers because this f-ing dial up, which is not working as I am typing this, is making me nuts. I am trying to make hotel reservations in St. Louis Senegal (not Missouri) via the web and the process is actually taxing my proficiency in profanity, if you can imagine.

Progress on the Work Front

Progress on the Work Front.

I went to see my community counterpart yesterday, his name is Mohammed. If Mauritania was a drinking game, one would take a drink every time one met someone named Mohammed. I was very persistent in my quest as I tried to stop in both Tuesday and Wednesday morning, but his door was padlocked. We had had “protests” around town on those mornings, so his absence was understandable. Many Mauritanians were hanging pretty close to home on those days. I was finally successful on Thursday. I have been remiss in seeing him because 1. it is very frustrating to try communicate in French and b. I don’t want to put myself in a position to turn down his work offer. When I met him back in early August, during the site visit, he said he’d like me to come in a couple of times a week and do some data entry. It ain’t gonna happen because 1. we shouldn’t take a position that legitimately a Mauritanian could do for pay and 2. I dun wanna type. I must say, his French is getting much better.

I don’t know how he became involved with the Peace Corps but. He has been working with the SED volunteers in Atar for many years and is therefore, extremely patient with my bad French (unlike my landlord) and endless questions. See his picture on my flickr photos, I believe under the Site Visit album, or whatever the heck flickr calls them. He speaks very slowly, uses complete phrases (few pronouns as they are extremely confusing in French) and will re-explain something a number of times, using a variety of words, until I get it. He ought to be canonized. He occasionally throws in a bit of English, but that is cheating. He runs a lending program for Artisans and Small Businesses, which, if I recall correctly, is funded by mostly private funds, their origins I know not. We talked about the protests that had been going on around Mauritana, which are partly, a reaction to the high price of food and goods. And sadly, I believe, we concluded that there is no real solution to the problem which seems to be the result of the high cost of petrol. In my opinion, a little bit of competition in the supply chain couldn’t do them much harm either.

While I had his attention, I mentioned my idea of a cultural fair for the tourists which he thought it was a good idea. I don’t know if I have mentioned my festival idea before to you. During training I had the brilliant idea to create a weekly fair, exposition if you will, for the tourists. They fly in on Sunday via 2 charter plans from France, spend a night or two in Atar, then they hightail it out of town in their 4WD, off to Chinguetti and/or Oudane. Atar isn’t at first, second, third or forth glance, all that attractive of a place to spend much time. So off they go to spend their hard earned and valuable euros elsewhere in the Adrar. I assume that after a week of camel trekking, ancient ruin hopping and 4WDing through the dunes, they head back here. They must get in sometime on Saturday night, as the Market on Sunday morning is overrun with toubabs, before they catch their charter flight back to France. (Note to self, do not faire le marche on Sunday morning unless self wants to pay exorbitant rates for everything) Anyway, my idea is for the city to host a weekly festival, complete with music, food, tea making classes and vendors on either Saturday or Sunday evening. I need to gather the tour guides (quite a few are PCRIM friendly) as they know what the tourists want and will bring the tourists; the mayor’s office, as someone needs to fund the music, security, furnishings and other sundries; the police, of course there are 3 different law enforcement agencies, which agency I need, I do not know. What I do know is that if I include the wrong police force, this event will never fly. There is also a National Bureau of Tourism office and truck that drives around town but I can’t tell if it’s the governmental agency or just a travel agency with a lofty name. And last but not least, the vendors. How I am going to pull all of this coordinating off is beyond me? Hence the importance of local support and advise, like my counterpart. So far, all that I have run the idea passed have thought that it is a great idea. It’s not so far fetched as Atar usually holds a similar, albeit less organized, exposition on its outskirts when the Paris/Dakar Rally comes screaming through town in January.

Our goal as I understand it, here in the Peace Corps, is to bring and help implement ideas that the community deems useful. Creating a point of contact between artisans and tourists seems like a worthy project for a SED volunteer with a little shot of party planning on the side. I hope that after giving my counterpart a couple of weeks to ponder the festival, devise his own vision and possibly taking the bull or part of the bull, by the horns, in getting this idea off of the ground.

I have been reluctant to make this move; torn between waiting for my language to improve and diving in straight away. But if I wait for my language skills to solidify, the tourist season will be over, forcing me to wait a full year to implement a plan. I have a short WOO (window of opportunity) so on Thursday, I officially started the ball rolling. Let’s give those tourists a place to spend their money in our fine city. Wouldn’t it be great to have it written up in Lonely Planet? We are to meet again on December 3 at 4 pm. Inshallah.

Also on Dec 3, we are going to set a time for me to meet the presidents of the 44 women’s cooperatives here in Atar. Hopefully not all at once; how many Fatimatous can you meet in one day? I believe he wants me to bring along other volunteers when I meet with the cooperatives (either he feels that they could have something to offer these ladies or he is frightened of my French). I suggested our health volunteer, Kristen, and he thought that would be a great idea. She could hold some public health classes. We, PCRIM ATAR also need to get local women involved in and deeply committed to the GMC (girls mentoring center), so possibly these cooperatives would be a good source for those kinds of contacts as well. At least, that is what I think he said. (all in French)

The only sour not of the meeting was at the conclusion. I attempted to get myself invited over for lunch. All through training the trainers kept preaching that it’s okay to invite yourself to lunch. That is the way it’s done around here. They actually suggested going around your town, tasting everyone’s cooking, then selecting those households that you would honor with your presence at meals. I have found this part of integrating difficult. I just can’t quite bring myself to 1. invite myself to lunch and 2. commit myself to 3-4 hours of stilted conversation of if I am married and why not, along with the silence staring at each other as my French vocabulary runs dry. So I make the leap because the last and only meal I had at his house way back at site visit, was delicious. I blurt out a “How about me coming chez you for dejeuner”. Sadly, after I said it he responded with “Je ne comprends pas”. I don’t understand. This stopped me short. I tried again to say I wanted to “dejeuner chez vous avec votre famille”, just in case he thought I meant just he and I. Again, he looked oddly at me. Yikes, could he possibly think I am trying to get him alone; or, doesn’t he want me to come for lunch; or, I really butchered my French; it’s hard to speak off of the cuff. This didn’t seem likely as thus far, he had understood everything I had said in the last 45 minutes. Or maybe, just maybe, he was pretending to understand me…., and I didn’t really understand him,….so our conversation, which earlier seemed so clear, was actually an episode from the twilight zone. Either way, I dropped the subject, bid “a bon journee” and took my leave.

I’ll stop in again early next week just to say hi and confirm le 3 Decembre.

Happy Thanksgiving!

I love you and miss you all.

Keep those cards and letters coming

Other news and information:

The Mayor of Atar, who we just finally met, resigned.

We have many silversmiths here in Atar, but from what I have seen of their wares, it’s not so fashionable. Could someone or everyone, pop some magazine or catalogue of current styles in metal jewelry in the mail? Something I could show them that they could replicate. Something that the tourists would actually want to purchase.

Movie to watch for: En Attendant Le BonHeur
It was filmed in Nouadibou, Maritania. I understand the scenery, enormous sand dunes tumbling into the Atlantic, is spectacular and it gives a good picture of dress and environs of Mauritania. The story is not said to be too terribly interesting.

My trip to the Capital or I thought I was Immune

My trip to the Capital or I thought I was Immune

One bright and shiny morning in late October, I head off before dawn for my first trip to the capital, Nouakchott. I have to expedite some paperwork expeditiously to the States. I bet you think that overnighting a package using DHL, FedEx or UPS would be the same worldwide. Think again. I normally don’t sleep before I have a big trip or a big day ahead of me, so the night before my big solo excursion, I get little sleep. Because this trip is falling late in the week, I am facing the prospect of having to conduct business in unknown places with unknown companies encountering unknown obstacles on Friday, which is the holy day, and everyone works ½ day. Friday is generally very unproductive. I am up at 4:45 so that I can catch the first taxi south taxi that will get me into Nouakchott early afternoon on Thursday. . I have packed the essentials for travel: a liter of filtered water, aqua tabs, in case we breakdown and I have to find a less than fresh water source, a bandana, which can be used to filter guinea worm our of that less than fresh water source and lastly a handful of jolly ranchers to win the hearts of my fellow riders. Ellen has done me the enormous favor and secured a cab which is to meet me at her house at 6am. That way she can see me off and make sure all is according to Hoyle. Why is she doing this? Because, repeat after me, I can’t speak French. One of the crazy points of Mauritania is that everything thing is late. I don’t mean your acceptable running behind by 15 minutes; this place is really behind. 1-1.5 hours is not uncommon. However, if you do come across that rare Mauritanian who is punctual, they will allow you 3 minutes before leaving without you. So off I go at 5:50 just in case the taxi guy is one of those, so rarely seen, punctual fellows. I sneak into her place, because it is the crack of dawn, hoping to let her sleep as long as possible. By 6:15, there is no inkling of taxi man, so I wake her up. Par usual, there is no reseau (cell phone reception) so we are left to wait. We do until about 6:30 then we hump it over to the garage to secure another cab. We get there, find a fellow who claims to be the first taxi, pay him his 6K ums for 2 places. Not long after that, we get a call from taxi man number 1. It is 6:40 and he is irritated that we aren’t waiting for him at the house. We, or rather, Ellen, reiterates to him that she was very clear that we were too meet at 6. Not 7 or 8 or 8:30. In the meantime, taxi man 2 is a policeman who drives back and forth from Atar each weekend to see his family and pick up a little extra cash. He has just recently stationed to Nouakchott from Atar. This makes me feel secure. I love cops, particularly San Diego’s Finest. He is very familiar with Ellen and explains that she is a legend in Atar. The men of Atar sing songs of her beauty. “Why must she cover her legs” “she is just teasing them, hiding her beauty as she does”. She walks away to do something and he reiterates all of this to me as well. I concur, she is lovely and intelligent. When she comes back, he once again sings the praises of her beauty, her intellect and her ability. (he catches on quick) Okay, this serenade goes on for the entire 1.5 hours we wait for the cab to fill its remaining 4 places. During this time, taxi man1 has driven through the garage showing off that he is about to depart and will we change our mind about riding with him instead. Granted, he is leaving earlier than taxi man 2, but we do have our moral high ground to hold. However, taxi man 1 has a shiny new Mercedes and I wonder if I might be making a mistake in not jumping in. Shiny and new seems much less likely to breakdown on the side of the road. But, taxi man 2 assures us that the people in the car aren’t really passengers but other drivers he is parading through the garage to make us believe he is leaving.

Okay, so finally our taxi is full and we are ready to go. Somewhere along the line, taxi man 2 didn’t realize that I purchased the 2 places for me and me alone. He, lets call him Del, as that what I thought he said was his name, is truly disappointed to learn that Ellen isn’t coming along on the trip. By the way, no one in Mauritania is named Del. He implores her for her telephone number. She consents that I can give it to him. Aside from being awfully enthusiastic this early in the morning, he has done no real harm. And I am feeling safe in the presence of a cop who only has eyes for Ellen and therefore will treat me well too. There is nothing like being the wingman. I am happy with the station as I am constantly escorted or escorting a slew of 24-year-old beauties where ever we go. All here believe that I am a mother or aunt to one of the volunteers, so I am treated well by the men that are trying to win their affection. I pleasantly smile, while they are a bobbin and a weavin, tuckin and a rollin, through hordes of admiring men. I grin as they politely lob back those unwanted advances. What other sports analogies can I come up with? You get the picture.

Let me back up and explain the taxi system here. In a small Mercedes they transport 7 people. In the front are the driver and 2 people squished into the bucket seat of the passenger side. In the back are squished 4 and any infants riding on one’s lap. I am pleasantly surprised because we only have 3 people in the back; maybe another passenger purchased an additional seat as well. No such luck, before leaving town, we stop and pick up some more passengers, filling the backseat to the brim. So on this particular trip we have me in the front, as I bought those 2 places and 4 adults plus one enfant in the back, forcing a weathered old gal (wog) to be crammed up between the bucket seats. As we are leaving, the wog starts praying for our safe journey. At least I hope that is what she is praying for. Don’t be alarmed; this is a very common practice here. Before my little brother, Oumar left for his holiday to Nouakchott and Nouadibou, my mother said a prayer over him as well. As our journey gets underway, the driver pops in a cassette. Cassettes are big here. I have yet to see a cd player in a vehicle. One just pops into a boutique and buys a copy of some little ditty. I have no idea how they get around the copy write laws, but they apparently do. ;) Or, they just ignore them all together. Anyway, in he pops a cassette and out comes what I hear every morning at 4 am, which is what I believe to be someone chanting passages of the Koran. I believe I mentioned in an earlier blog, just how talented one of the “chanters” was in the wee hours of the morning in Boghe. This rendition was not quite so lovely. Of course once we got underway I was quick to note that we wouldn’t need quite so much Koran if we had a little more eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. He was all over the place. At one point he had me steer the car while he rewrap his howli. Oh, I need to mention that once we left the garage, he sported his howli throughout the entire trip leaving only his aviator sunglasses exposed. See Halloween costume of taxi driver in howli.

So for the first half of the trip, he is pointing out the sites along the way, what few there are to see. Extolling the beauty of Mauritania. Often, to my chagrin, taking his hands off the wheel, holding them outstretched. palms upright, imploring to Allah, as he sings along to his favorite passages coming from the speakers with WOG singing along. He gives me a cadeau, a cassette. Then he changes his mind about every 10 minutes of which cassette he is actually going to give me. We go through 3 rounds of this chicanery. I accept it knowing that he is just trying to win me over so I will give my report of his generosity to Ellen, his true love. During the ride, the conversation alternates between French, for me, and Hassaniya for the rest of the passengers. Believe it or not, I find it relaxing to not comprehend a word of what is being said. I can just space off staring out the window, watching the Sahara pass by, never staining to eavesdrop. I offer up my precious Jolly Ranchers to win the affection of my fellow passengers. After a couple of hours we come to a 3rd checkpoint. As with the other 2, he knows everyone working. I didn’t realize what a bonus this is until during the return trip home when every checkpoint guard that saw me, demanded to see my passport. At this one, checkpoint 3, Del gets out and finds a chap who he calls Duane, (his name can’t be Duane, no one is named Duane nor Del in Mauritania) because Duane speaks English. Yet again, he has Duane explain to me that he must have Ellen’s phone number. I explain yet again, that I understand. Je comprend. I try to change the subject and ask Duane if he lives way out here. No, he lives in Atar and works out here on one-week shifts. So off we go with a promise that when we get to Akjoudt I will give him Ellen’s number

Not long later, we pass taxi man 1 broken down on the road. We stop and Del tries to help them push start the car, but alas, we drive off leaving them to fix it as best they can. In fact, those men from this morning were his passengers, which made me a bit suspicious of Del, being that he said they were a rouse. Still, I had to work on not feeling smug and risk attracting bad karma

After another hour we pull into Akjoudt, which is about half way between Atar and Nouakchott. We always pull over here for tea and a rest. We have 4 new volunteers positioned here so I start texting them to see if we can connect on this brief pause. I would have texted earlier but there is no reseau from just outside of Atar until just at Akjoudt and then again promptly after leaving Akjoudt till you are in well into the outskirts of Nouakchott. We all tumble out of the car and I lug my laptop and satchel into the “Tea Salon”. It’s a square concrete one room building with a dozen or so matelas spread out for your relaxation. Del is already sitting inside and he pats the matela, indicating that I should sit next to him. This gives me pause as men and women aren’t supposed to interact so closely in a private area, and so far we are the only 2 people in the room. I pause, I think what the hell, and sit down. He wants Ellen’s phone number, which I produce as promised as well as mine. No big deal we are always looking for safe, reliable, not sketchy taxi rides. I am busy texting Ellen about my location; one should always let others know one’s whereabouts. I am also exchanging texts with the local volunteers as to my whereabouts and their availability. Also, I am busily exchanging texts with my compadre in Nouakchott, Will, giving him my estimated ETA.

During this time some random guy comes in and joins our group. We establish that I am Corps de la Paix. How long will I be in Mauritania, he asks? 2 years, I answer. Lo and behold, his brother, cousin, uncle has married a Peace Corps volunteers. Great, one of those stories. I asked the who, what and where knowing full well that I am going to have no clue who this girl is and they will have no idea where in the US that their cousin, brother, uncle now lives. Since 1967, Peace Corps has been sending volunteers to Mauritania and a handful have fallen in love and married a Mauritanian. Yet, the tales of these rare events spread and grow through the population like the story of the Loch Ness Monster. In reality, the vast, vast, vast majority of volunteers do not marry Mauritanian. Mix into the mess (or dream) that Western women are perceived as “easy” and it’s quite a conundrum. However, this is the dream/opportunity on which so many here hangs their hat. Someone once asked if the Peace Corps is a program set up by the US government in order to find us husbands. As if the Peace Corps is a mail order bride service. The mind reels at the absurdity of this idea. Don’t you become a mail order bride to secure a better life? I did explain to my brothers in Boghe that the women who do this, sacrifice 2 years of their life away from their family, friends and the Promised Land, risking illness and injury and enduring endless discomforts, have un grand idee, a big idea, to help the people of Mauritania and it’s rather insulting to reduce their work to finding a husband. Besides, if they wanted husbands, there are plenty of men in the US, why would they come here to do it? They got it but it’s going to be a long 2 years if I have to explain that to all 3 million Mauritanians. Marriage is the end all/be all in this culture. They CAN NOT understand why the volunteers are so laisser faire about their marital status. At 24 years of age, these girls are practically old maids. I can’t even imagine what they think of my situation.

So while we are in this room, about question number 4 that comes out of Del’s mouth is am I married? I hesitate. Try to decide, instantaneously if I should lie, but I don’t. This is a small country and everyone has family everywhere. The lives of the local volunteers are a constant source of fodder for their conversation and speculation thusly I am sure to be found out. So, I say no. All of the sudden, things change. You know how in cartoons when one character is really hungry and he looks at another character, and because he is soooooo verrrrry hungry, the second character morphs into an object of his desire such as a big juicy ham bone. In that instance, I must have morphed into a ham bone. I am a big ham steak. I wish I could remember the details exactly as they occurred, because they are priceless. Suddenly, all of the attention and enthusiasm that was being lavished on Ellen earlier in the morning is now aimed towards me. Can we have lunch when we get to Nouakchott? “No” Remember, this morning, I was in a huge hurry to get to the capital as fast as I could because I had work to do”. Okay. How about just tea, that will take no time at all, just an hour, just a half hour? “No” I haven’t a minute to spare once I arrive. This is a quick trip just in and out with lots to accomplish in between. Besides, he only has eyes for Ellen, which I reminded him. Oh Ellen. Oh well, they are just friends. He was singing her praises on behalf of ALL Mauritanians. It is his national duty. This man thinks I am daft. I say “J’ai ete au garage ce matin. J’ai vu, j’ai ecoute tout. I was at the garage this morning. I saw, I heard everything. Peut-etre, il aime touts les femmes. Maybe he likes all the women. He counters with the argument that he never asked if she was married, somehow proving that his interests in her were purely platonic. If he had a fiancé, he implores, his eyes would never gaze at another women. He emphasizes this point by covering his eyes with his hands as in “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. He mimes see no evil. Cultural lesson for me, I didn’t realize that asking about someone’s marital status was a sign of intention. This conversation is quickly going in a direction that I do not want to go. I am having a hard time making my points IN FRENCH. I also have to spend another 3 hours in the car with this fellow and feel that I need to tread lightly. At some point he calls Ellen, to prove his platonicness, to inform her, in front of me, of our whereabouts and my well-being. I guess also proving that he can have a civilized, non-flirtatious conversation with her. Somewhere along the line, he attempts to explain that he doesn’t want a young girl. He is looking for someone over 30. My guess is that he picked that number as to flatter me. I don’t know if this Yahoo realizes that he just called me OLD. Shortly thereafter, he also makes another call and hands the phone to me so that I am now speaking to some random women in French. All I can say is Allo, c’est Sharon and hand the phone back. It’s his sister, she is the one that we will have lunch with, so see, his intentions are honorable. As an added bonus, the “but wait there’s more” enticement, his father is the Mayor of Atar. Oh really I say, I met the mayor just yesterday. He says and he’s quick, The mayor is a relative, I have a large family. He infers that he has so much pull that if I want to stay a 3rd year, he’ll have the mayor write a letter on my behalf. To whom the mayor will write this letter, I don’t know. More icing on the cake, his parents live in Atar and he comes up every weekend so a relationship will be no problem at all. We should get together the following weekend. Where do I live? I give no reply. This is just great.

You know that other 3 women that I shared my Jolly Ranchers with, they have positioned themselves on the other side of the room, and are witnessing all of this. They do nothing to help me. I am fairly certain at least one of them understands French and is fully aware of my predicament. Possibly they think I encouraged this attention even want it by being foolish enough to sit next to him. I guess that’s what I should expect when I go getting uppity and sitting with the men folk.

Finally, praise Allah, it is time to leave this place and move on down the road. As we gather in the car and he presents me with gifts that he has just acquired. A lovely beaded bracelet, which I am wearing right this moment, and a package of cookies, the good ones. I look to WOG to see if it’s appropriate to accept these tokens as well as text Ellen asking her the same. Apparently it’s fine. I put on the bracelet and pass around the cookies. But as we are leaving he needs to know the answer, Oui ou Non? Oui or Non to what? I don’t remember a question. But his tone is terse, he demands to know Oui ou Non? “Don’t you understand”, he asks? Somehow, something that was said inside needs to be settled. I explain J’ai apprende le francais pour juste 3 mois et souvent je ne comprend pas les nuances. I have only studied French for 3 months and often I don’t understand the nuance. He accepts this and moves on both literally and figuratively. As we are pulling onto the road from the other side of a semi, so that we can’t see what’s coming and they can’t see us, he is busy looking and talking to me. Not wanting to die, I know I have to do something quick. I yell “Regardez la Rue”, watch the road. Keep his eyes on the road. Of course, I can’t say that exact phrase in French but I somehow get my point across with a lot of hand gestures. He spends the next 20 minutes proving to me that he can be responsible and drive reasonably which strikes me as a reaction that I’d expect from a teenager not a full grown man. For your point of reference, this man is in his 40’s. Whatever the reason, this newfound respect for the road is a relief because at least he is not plying me with questions. As I said, it only lasted 20 minutes. We pull off the road again and he runs in and gets water and gum. He gives me one of the bottles of water and hands the other to the folks in the back seat. I talk a slug and start to pass my bottle around too, but WOG and he both stop me insisting that it is my water and mine alone. I am to tuck it away in my bag for safekeeping. Remember fair reader, this is a communal society and all is shared, so this gesture seems significant. Also, it is clear that WOG is now in collusion with Del. He also gives me some gum. He is intent on proving to me that he can anticipate my every need, so as soon as I need a place to put my spent gum wrapper, he opens his ashtray for me to deposit it. Keeping to Mauritanian tradition, he throws his wrapper out the window. We drive on a little while longer. He decides he is going to show me how much English he can speak. His English is not quite on par with my French. He then makes the grand announcement that he will study English and I will study French and we will sail off in the sunset. He doesn’t actually say the sunset part, but if seemed part of the equation. I could see the gears turning in his head as he was envisioning our future together. I keep my gaze out the window as I can’t help but laugh and I don’t want him to see me smile as it might encourage him. As if he needs any encouragement from me because this is a party of one and it’s all going on in his head. For the second half of the trip he puts his attention on indoctrinating me to the finer points of Mauritanian music and dance as well as Wolof music. He takes off his watch, for which he paid $250 US, for my inspection. I have to steer the car while he puts it back on. Later, he runs off the road as he is looking out his window, backwards, so I grab the wheel and steer us back on the road. He explains that in the US, because there are so many cars it is very important to stay in your lane; but here in Mauritania, there are no cars, so you can drive wherever you want; this side, that side, down the middle, off the shoulder. I want to say that it can’t be good for the tires, but I don’t know the word for tires in French.

But wait there’s more, next weekend, when he comes up to visit, he is going to let me drive his car. My heart be still. Sadly it is interdit (forbidden) according to Peace Corps, for me to drive. If it wasn’t interdit, I would be driving meme moi (myself) to Nouakchott and not sitting in this bloody taxi. As we approaching the outskirts of Nouakchott, he points over to the dunes and says that tomorrow we will go out there and take a photograph. He apparently thinks that my staring out the window is due to the captivating scenery. It is settled, since I am busy while in the capital, he will pick me up when I am done with my work, bring me back to the garage and find me a solid, reliable ride back to Atar. During this time, now that we have reseau again, I am busy texting Will to let him know that I have arrived. I also call David, my chef (boss) as I describe him to Del, to let him know that I am in Nouakchott and should be at the bureau within the hour. A PC RIM rule is that before we (stinky, dirty, road weary) volunteers can show up at the bureau, we have to have freshened up at the hotel. I go through this dog and pony show so that Del understands that there are people, my chef (boss) waiting for me. I think that I am almost home free, but it is not to be. Del drops off every other passenger before me. As soon as the last one is out, he turns to me, takes off his howli and sunglasses so that I can see his eyes and gives me the “we have to talk” tone. Is he kidding me? What on earth can we have to talk about? Besides, who wants to have “a talk” after knowing someone for 6 hours? What is he? A girl! He wants true love do I, Oui ou Non? I say that I am not interested in marriage. News flash, neither is he, he is proposing a relation d’amour. I am floored. I have had a chemical reaction to a man, that has hit me like a bomb, but I have always attributed it in a big part to our witty reparte and charm. Apparently I have been mislead all of these years cuz I can’t make witty repartee en francaise. I tell him that alas, I can only offer friendship. the lets just be friends line. He’s not biting. He wants love or nothing. His offer is sacred. He has eyes for none but me; those young volunteers are dead to him. I counter that it is impossible to fall in love in 4 hours. Del, here, has watched way too many American Musical Theatre productions. Some Enchanted Evening comes to mind, but this taxi is no South Pacific Island. He isn’t a cultured Frenchman and I’m no little hick. I am at a distinct disadvantage at this precise moment, as I need to get to the bureau and he is the one driving. At this point, feeling like a hostage, I agree to anything. Sure, next weekend when you come up, Yeah, let’s get together, Sure, meet the family. Sacred promise, you betcha. Anything you say, just please I need to get to the bureau. I am slightly scared to let him know that I will be staying at the hotel right next to the bureau, as somehow, I see stalker stamped on his forehead. The last thing I want is to come back to the hotel later tonight, after a couple of beers, with Will (because he must escort me back), and have to confront this Nouakchott cop. I’ll just have to deal with that situation if it arises. He drops me off with the “sacred” promise that I will call him when I am finished tomorrow for our trip to the dunes, the garage, fly me to the moon, wherever, who knows. I am certain that Rice, Albright and Kissinger haven’t had to go through so much in the name of US foreign relations and diplomacy.

Folks, I just gave you the filet. This trip, start to finish, took 8 hours- choc a bloc full of juicy morsels. (I must be hungry)

Now I need to regroup, focus on my real mission in Nouakchott and get to the bureau.

Scene 2. I get to the bureau about 3. The last time I was here was after we landed, with no sleep from Philadelphia. I don’t know who is who much less where their office is located. David is on the phone, so I wonder around. I knock on Kris and Jen’s window and wave hello. They were volunteers in Atar until they recently moved to Nouakchott. I light in Cheike’s office; he is the volunteer service officer, VSO. As I am sitting there, Kris comes peeking his head around the corner, looking very concerned. Am I all right, he asks? Sure I say. Then I remember that I am still in the 3 month, can’t leave your site, period, so if I am in the capital it is either because I am really ill and need to be at the hospital or I have decided to quit and am on my way home. I explain that it is neither and all is perfectly fine. I just have urgent paperwork I need to expedite to the US. He is relieved. David is off of the phone, so I get started on my paperwork. Once done with that, David decides, after much deliberation, that DHL is probably my safest bet for securing the delivery of this paperwork. So off I go, a little apprehensive about my first business exchange in Mauritania, but after the last 8 hours, it can’t possibly be worse. And besides, business is what I do best. All goes well. I am much relieved. Having that important of an issue left unresolved for so many weeks has caused me unrest. I end up back at the bureau, desperately in need of a nap. Although I am worn down and wore out, I am drawn to the free, high speed Internet offered in the volunteer lounge. I have a blog to post, pictures to upload, software to update and in desperate need of an antivirus software. After all is said and done, I end up being the last one to leave the bureau that night. I am to catch up with Will after his French class at around 8pm. We are going to meet up with Kris and Jen and then decide where to have dinner. Chinese food and beer; beer and Chinese food; pizza and beer; beer and pizza; possibly all of the above. Will and I were in the same language class in Boghe and we, the 5 of us in that class, have developed a close bond. I won’t go as far as to say war buddies, as we never had bullets whizzing past our heads, but there were times when training felt life threatening. I am very excited to see him and hear all about his life in Nouakchott and his work. So I go check into the Hotel and am informed that there is another volunteer staying here as well. The bellman takes me up and tells me that she is in room 215. I decide to call her to see if she has plans, and if not, if she would like to join us for dinner. I call the front desk and tell them that I’d like to call room 215, they tell me to dial 139. I dial 139 expecting the hotel operator. A woman answers while I am practicing to myself that I’d like room deux cent onze, douze, treize, quartorze, quinze, which I have to count out on my fingers. I proudly annouce “Je voudrais chambre deux cent quinze”. I would like room 215. She just starts laughing and says Sharon is that you. She’s not the operator, she’s the other volunteer, Heather, and I have clearly impressed her with my command of the French language. Hey, don’t laugh, numbers are hard and I have had an even harder day. She is going to come to my room in about an hour and we’ll take off from there.

She shows up, lovely and youthful. She has been at the bureau volunteer lounge applying online to grad schools for the last couple of days. I regaled her with the tale of my new found taxi brousse love. When I get to the random suggestion that we go take a photo of the dunes tomorrow, she informs me that the dunes are where they go to have sex. I guess photography is a euphemism. Ick! As Haley says, what a horrible place to have sex, there so much sand and it’ll get places that sand shouldn’t. I shan’t go into my speculation as to his sexual prowess being one who comes from such a sexually repressed society. Lets just say that I imagine him to be as skilled and long lasting as your average high school freshman and leave it at that.

Heather and I head off to meet Will. We probably weren’t suppose to, but Will and I gave each other a huge hug, right on the street. In front of God and everyone. Mauritanians be damned. He looks great. His hair has gotten long and is kinda curly. Thank heaven that he has put back on some of the weight he lost during training. His parents and girlfriend will be glad to know that news.

We did a lot that night. Window shopping, supermarket browsing, talking over pizza and beer. There is a cultural center with real entertainment. I brought the program home to show the v’s up here in Atar, and their faces said it all. It was my reaction as well when I saw it. Eyes wide and mouth hanging open. There is a cultural center in Mauritania? There’s art? There is music? Where? Haley said it best when she said that she was still trying to get over the quality of the paper the program was printed on. It was a heavy weight paper, akin to would be given in a fine gallery in NY. I could barely take the difference between what was available in Nouakchott and what I was living. TaTa’s, the supermarket, had Camembert and Brie, a dairy section, an ice cream section, koo koo for CooCoo Puffs cereal, and home décor items. Atar has squat. All this time I thought that our scarcity was due to the fact that nothing could be had in Mauritania. But in fact much can be had, it just can’t be transported. This place needs a good dose of logistics.

That night, I slept in a bed with sheets and a pillow, indoors. Heaven, simply heaven! The bathroom had a flush toilet, toilet paper and a lighted mirror. I haven’t slept through the night nor seen my face up close in 4 months. These nasty volunteers that I live with had not bothered to tell me that I had grown a Guinness Book winner for the longest eyebrow and it was sticking straight out. They must be jealous of my beauty. Since I didn’t think to bring tweezers I had to work on the little devil with the pliers on my Leatherman. How’s that for a visual?

I get up an at’em the next day. Head off to a cybercafé for breakfast. Yes there is free wifi in the capital. Sadly, there wasn’t an electrical outlet to be had, poor design, so I had my CHEESE omelet and headed to the bureau. Finished up there, went to lunch and after a successful encounter with the wifi in a hotel lobby, where I downloaded an antivirus and updated windows, I hit the road. During this time, I get 3 calls from Del, none of which I answer.

As I am standing at the garage, waiting for my car to fill. I am fearful that Del is going to show up and make a nuisance of himself. I once again have purchased 2 places, gadam (Hassaniya for upfront). I can remember it because it sounds like God Damn. One of my fellow passengers tries to entice me into conversation by implying that he and I will share the front seat but I am having no part of him. We finally fill up after 1.5 hours, making us 4 men and another woman. I greet the women as to have her as my ally and off we go. All is going well. However, about 2 hours outside of Nouakchott, there is an awful smell, the backseat passengers explode in a fury of commotion and we pull off the road. The driver opens the hood and to me, it looks like we have run over part of a tire tread. But I was in the front seat and I didn’t see us hit anything. It turns out that one of those belts that are located on the front of the engine, I think it’s either the fan belt or an alternator belt, has broken. Doesn’t an alternator have a belt? Anyway, it is shredded. Crap. I quickly do a mental inventory of what I have in my bag that will allow me to survive a night along the side of the road in the Sahara. Even though it’s a remote chance, I don’t want to become a pile of those sun-bleached bones that we have been passing, lying in a heap by the side of the road. Surprisingly, the driver goes to the trunk and pulls out another belt. He then gets into the glove box and pulls out a little water bottle where he stores his wrenches. And by another stroke of luck, one of the gentlemen in the back actually knows how to change a fan belt. While he is at it he checks the oil and water too. This all takes about half an hour and off we go. I am wishing very much I had thought to bring along one of my few travel packs of wetnaps to offer this fine chap as his hands are filthy. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t find a man in a baby blue eyelet outfit masculine, but to me, at that moment, that tall handsome black African embodied all that a man should be. He came out of the blue to save the day. He is my Mr. Darcy. He is my hero. He has saved me from becoming that pile of bones along the side of the road in the Sahara, and I swooned. Here’s some insight into me, deep down, I just want to be rescued. Particularly when I have gotten myself in waaaay over my head. Think PC-RIM. I only appear to be independent and all know-ing (okay, maybe not all-knowing), I am actually a cockeyed optimistic romantic who has watched far too much American Musical Theatre and never fails to fall in love with the hero. It all started with a high school production of Carousel. Janet was playing in the orchestra so I had to spend all evening waiting for her. Every night, for weeks, I sat behind the conductor, waiting for her to finish, lost in the show. I believe I was 13 and still in Junior High. He was bad boy, Billy Bigalow played by Evan somebody or somebody Evans. Whoever it was, I fell hard for all 3 of them.

Once we are back in the car and moving, I turn around and give him a very sincere, heartfelt, “merci beaucoup”. The rest of the trip is rather uneventful. I say next to nothing. We made it in record time. As we were pulling through that same checkpoint where Duane came out to talk to me, I noticed that on the military truck was the sign, Duoune. The place is called Duoune not the dude. That gave me a chuckle. As we pulled into Atar, I said goodbye to my fellow female companion in Hassaniya, astounding all in the car that I knew some local dialect. Told all that that I was Corps de la Paix. I am sure to this point they thought I was some random tourists what that I was wearing pants and all. Then bid them a good day and got out of the car back to the safety of my bevy of 23 year olds. Cross your fingers that old Del doesn’t show up this weekend.

Enjoy, Love and miss you all.

Ps Please tape up your packages well. Example of abuse attached

A Day In the Life

A Day in the Life

What do I do everyday? That is difficult to answer, because as the time has rolled on, my activities have changed. I anticipate them changing even more as I get settled. But at the moment my days go something like this.

I get out of bed around 6:30 - 7, lug my bedding off of the roof and down to the veranda. The nights pass as they often do here in Mauritania, but all of that was imparted in an earlier installment. After the 2 night experiment sleeping or rather not sleeping in the courtyard, back up to the roof went I. I’m not only safer from the bugs but the neighbors have proven harmless. An added benefit to sleeping aloft is that the process takes 3 trips up and down the stairs, which are 3 flights. I do that 2x a day, morning and night, that's 6 flights of stairs a day. I am desperate to find exercise in this climate.

Next I brush my teeth in the yard. I may keep this up when I get back stateside. I rather like swishing and spitting in the Garden.

I re-wet the old skirt I use as my cooling system for my water filter, as it has dried out over night. This cooling system uses the evaporation from the old skirt that I have wrapped around the metal filter which I attempt to keep damp. The filter sits in a big plate. Its lip is sufficiently high to hold water, but not so high as to impede with the spigot. I work at keeping the skirt damp and the plate filled with water, which in turn cools the contents. The burlap on the bidons, which are plastic jugs that once contained vegetable oil or vinegar, works the same way. Keep them wet in a breezy, shady place and the contents remain cool by some miracle of evaporation from the wet fabric. You can also see goatskins hung up like a little hammock that work in a similar fashion. My guess is as the water seeps thru causing the skin to stay damp which creates evaporation and the contents cool. I, personally, don’t care to have the skin of anything 4 legged, or formerly four legged, strung up in my yard. I find them unsettling whenever I happen to see one. See my flikr photos of the drink station for a glimpse of all but the pelt.

If I have prepared the night before, I have breakfast at home using my stash of Weetabix, a piece of fruit and milk that I have left cooling in a bowl of water wrapped in a bandana overnight, again, using evaporation for cooling. How have I never known about this process before? Refrigeration has apparently kept me ignorant of the wonders of swamp coolers. Otherwise, I wait till my morning routine is complete, run by Cookie Door boutique and pick up a yogurt drink, banana and/or a hard boiled egg. Breakfast in this country traditionally is half a baguette and a cup of Nescafe, therefore, eggs and bananas can be difficult to find before the afternoon. As it is rude to eat in public in the RIM, I go to our bureau or the GMC to eat this repast. Mauritania is a communal culture and if you don’t want to share your meal with all who pass by, it’s best to find a secluded place to eat. Just yesterday, I sat down at a restaurant for lunch and a fella who was already settled to his meal, offered for me to share his dish. I declined, but am amused to imagine what he would do if I had actually stuck my hand in his bowl and taken a bite.

This is one example of the clash of customs between the tourists and the locals. They tourists gobble down their cokes, cookies, yogurt, bottled water in public (particularly irksome during Ramadan when the locals are hungry, thirsty and less inclined to understanding) and offer nary a thing to those around them. Then the tourists get irked because the children will ask for a bit of their repast, which to the children is a reasonable request. Neither seeming to understand why the other is acting so rudely. I choose to eat in private because I don’t want to share my food with all of those grubby little hands either nor do I want to offend. But I digress.

Back to my morning routine. Each day I sweep off the veranda as an enormous amount of sand collects on it each and every day.

After that, I will take a bucket bath or more often than not, just went my hair and wash my face. This will get increasingly difficult as the winter sets in. Right now, the water from the robinet is warmish, and adding a bucketful to the existing water in the tub, warms it sufficiently to pour over me. The bath is cool but tolerable. I also take a bucket bath in the evening; the cool water is brilliant for rinsing away the heat and frustration of the day. There is little better than crawling into bed all clean and fresh. Add some crisp white sheets and I’d be in heaven. Yeah, I know, it’s a lot of water considering I live in the Sahara but cut me some slack; I’ve given up furniture, nutrition, shorts, crisp white sheets on a mattress, a mattress and most adult pleasures in exchange for wasting a bit of a natural resource. I have never claimed to be a Saint nor without contradiction. But I digress yet again. Once winter sets in, bathing will require me to add boiling water to the mix as the overnight temperatures fall and some nights the water can actually form ice crystals.

As my hair is getting longer, I do a quick "blow-dry" it in front of the fan, just to give it some shape. So far I haven’t bothered with makeup. Praise Allah there are no mirrors or glass storefronts in this country. In my mind’s eye I am as fresh faced as my fellow volunteers. I use their youthful visage as my mirror. To date, no one has run screaming from me in horror. That’s if you don’t count the really small children who have been told that a toubab will eat them.

Next, I might also throw in a load of laundry. This is accomplished by filling a tub with water, dissolving the powered soap, adding the clothes, swish a bit and letting them soak for hours in the sun. I was told by veteran volunteers that soaking for hours in the sun is the only way to get your clothes clean. I don’t adhere to the scrubbing the fabric with itself until one has blisters and my irreplaceable, or rather, have to take a trip to the US to replace, clothes are worn with holes. Besides, I don’t get too dirty, just sweaty and dusty from the sand. Here’s a PC success story. I did get my socks so sparkling white I had to show them off to the other volunteers. Lots of Omo, bleach, soaking in the sun and a bit of scrubbing the soles worked wonders. Note to those who might try this at home, don’t soak your dirty socks in the sun with your less dirty whites. Everything turns grayish dull and requires a rewash. There is no such thing as a quick bit of laundry although some have tried. Volunteers have actually been stopped on the street to be informed of just how dirty their clothes are. How the Mauritanians, who are known for their fashion and many spend far too much of their budget on clothes, keep theirs so spotless? This is a mystery to all of us. Another mystery, why, when the detergent called Omo gets wet, does it heat up slightly burning your hand. Possibly one of you can do some research on that for me, but if it’s bad news, don’t tell me. Later in the afternoon, I will put them through the rinse cycle and hang them on the line, after the sun as abated, where they dry instantly. Yet again, I digress.

Back to my morning routine. Some time during the morning, I will make sure that all of my water containers are full. My house has a robinet which is a water faucet in my yard, like your outdoor spigot, which delivers city water, which is said to be potable. But as in most developing countries, utilities here are intermittent. It's not unusual for the water to go out for a day or 2, occasionally up to a week and sometimes weeks. So I try to have my bath bucket full and a dozen or so water bottles as well as any other water holding vessel filled. As I said, the water is potable out of the faucet, but I still opt to filter it through the Peace Corps issued filter. A, I can keep it cool in the filter and B. my immune system is already working full tilt, why tax it unnecessarily. Others have cisterns which are wells that they have filled bi-monthlyish by a water truck. Although a cistern is more reliable than a robinet, it's often full of debris and living organisms therefore not potable without some treatment. Futhering the insult, your water needs to be drawn one bucket at a time which is a different form of inconvenient. You ask about indoor plumbing? I've never seen any outside of the hotels and a restaurant where we ate in Nouakchott. Possibly some of the patron houses have it, but alas, as of today I have had neither the privilege nor advantage of meeting a patron and sadly have been unable to partake of their imagined comforts.

This is when my days diverge.

Today, Thursday, I met Ellen, a 2nd year volunteer, at the Mayor’s office to discuss a trash removal project. We have spent quite a bit of time at the mayor's office meeting with the Secretary General over that last month as we wanted to move our bureau to their facility. The Secretary General seems rather like a City Manager. I went along because I am affectated to his office and although my language isn't ready for much dialogue, poking my head in every chance I get can't be bad. Peace Corps wants the cities who have requested our presence, in which we work, to pony up our office space as a sign of support both fiscally and publically. Alas, there was no room in their building proper. This pains me greatly as that building is more secure than our current locale. More importantly, each office has 2 opposing doors which open onto covered, shady verandas, allowing a wonderful breeze to flow through. Ah a breeze. I long for a breeze. Our current bureau is akin to an oven, le four in French. But it is not to be as all of the offices in that building are occupied. He offered us the use of the Salle de Reunion with its 9 broken, unsecured windows. This would necessitate us having to move our desktop computer to a more secure spot, each day. It goes without saying, we regretfully declined. He did, however, offer another office in another facility. So we took it. It has a window, toilet, robinet and 24 hour, inshallah, security guard, all of which are vast improvements from our current location. During one of those meetings about the bureau, the Secretary General suggested to Ellen that he would like to work with her on a sustainable trash program. Over the last couple of years PC-RIM has had an annual trash clean up day wrapped around a ½ marathon here in Atar. In its current form, it’s not a sustainable event as the participants are solely the volunteers. Apparently it is so not a part of this culture to run/walk a marathon. As a matter of fact, during the marathon, the locals who pass in their cars, endlessly offer rides to the participants. They must think we are nuts. Anyway, not only does he want a trash removal system sponsored by the city, he also wants to have posters about and conduct sensibilazations (public education) on the problems of litter for the people of Atar. He also mentioned a need to educate the masses about the problems with having livestock living so closely with humans but that is a big row to hoe. Heifer International would find quite a calling here. Ellen suggested that they could start by working through her elementary school Eco-Clubs. He was very enthusiastic about this idea, even going as far as listing the items that they might need such as trash bags, masks, gloves, etc.

Another suggested that the Secretary General had probably read her 2nd year plan and taken the ideas from there. Honestly, who cares what muse gave him the idea. It appears that she is going to get to work on one of her 2nd year goals in cooperation with the city. As I understand it, up till now, there has been little interaction between the PC volunteers and that office. I’d like to think that this breakthrough is a direct result of my affectation to that office. I am the first volunteer affectated (posted to) to the mayor’s office thus giving us some leverage. Of course, they suggested that I should spend my time filing, so maybe not so much leverage. Nevertheless, this is a huge success.

At this same meeting she brings up another project on which she is working for facility improvements to 3 of the 15 schools in Atar. She has secured her part, the vast majority, of the funding for this project but is still waiting for word from the city regarding their portion of the cost of the improvements to the restrooms (latrines), robinets, etc. I’ll have to ask her where she secured the funding; I believe it’s from folks like you, our family and friends who heed the call to donate for our projects. Clever on the part of the PC, not only do we donate our lives but we also bring with us an entourage of the willing with a ready reserve of cash for some of the development needs. Although she has had a numerous conversations about and has submitted a written proposal including budget, the Secretary General doesn’t recall the project. Deciding it is more time efficient to have all parties involved in the room to move this forward, we set another meeting at noon when the Major Adjoint (Vice Mayor-ish, who is elected) is available as well. The Mayor Adjoint splits his time between his elected position and as an English teacher at the Lycee. This is a boon for me as I am to be working with him. He admittedly speaks better English than French, and as fate would have it, so do I. We return, fairly close to noon. The Mayor Adjoint is in but the Secretary General is not. The Mayor Adjoint remembered the project and will try to get us some answers. I am to drop off another copy of the budget on Monday morning, they are to discuss it amongst themselves then we are to meet again on Tuesday morning. Inshallah. Did I mention that this project was to have been completed before the school was back in session on Oct 1?

Another morning, we headed out on a trip to a newish feeding center in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Atar. The fellow that runs it has been trying to get the Atar PCV’s to visit since Spring, but due to travel and training schedules, this was the first opportunity. I can’t give you too many details because the conversations were held in French. I believe the center is sponsored, at least in part, by a French NGO, La Sante Sans Frontiers, or at least their literature is around. Let me give you a picture of the place. You walk in the gate and in the middle of the compound stands a large hangar. (Tent without sides) When we first arrived there were 20 or so children sitting rather quietly under the hangar. We walked past the children into the room that was being used for a kitchen. All rooms, regardless of their purpose here in the RIM look the same. There is no such thing as cabinetry so a room can just as easily be a kitchen as a bedroom as a salon. They are simply empty squares with 4 walls and usually some windows that can be at ground level up to normal window height. The windows at my house open at ground level. This particular room was the cleanest room I have ever been in here in Mauritania. It was well equipped relative to other places in Mauritania. Sitting (Indian style on the floor) with my back to the door, to my right along the far wall there was a long table with 2 shelves below that held the bowls and cups. Next to that was another table with a 2 burner propane stove with the large tank on the floor right beside it. The shelf under that table contained various plastic tubs storing the various ingredients for each meal. Across from me, on the other side of the room, to the left of the door, there were a number of bidons, buckets and other water holding vessels. I don’t recall what was on the left wall. There couldn’t have been much as on this morning, it was the tea station. We met one of the cooks and another gentleman who seemed to do odd jobs and errands around the place. We all sat in the kitchen, had tea, and discussed their work. As I said, all of this conversation was in French, so bits are missing from my understanding. Basically, they started in February and serve 110 children in the surrounding neighborhood. Monday through Saturday they feed the children breakfast which consists of bread and milk and lunch which on this day was a bowl of rice with bits of vegetables and possibly meat. I didn’t see the lunch prepared so I am not exactly sure of what was in the dish. As we are sitting around having this conversation, more and more children are starting to arrive. For the most part, except for a tussling match, they are sitting quietly under the tent, watching the doings in the kitchen (us). According to lead fellow, there are a number of feeding centers in Atar, but like so many services in the US, most aren’t reaching the population or actually providing the service they are intended. From our perspective, we are wary of the purpose of our visit. We are analyzing if this might be one of those unproductive centers masquerading as a useful endeavor. Skeptical that we were invited to visit in order to solicit funds, we look around with discerning eyes. As we are sitting there, another cook shows up. She empties 6-7 Kilos of rice into a bucket and disappears out the door into the courtyard, presumably to cook the rice. She returns far too soon, by my time clock, with a pot, I mean enormous pot, of food ready to serve. For as many mouths as there are to feed and with a kitchen full of visitors underfoot, literally, the place is amazingly calm. Possibly it’s because Mauritania is a culture of communal living and households often contain 20 or more individuals, cooking for 110 children is no big endeavor. The workers then proceed to portion it into 101 little bowls; we only have 101 children today, stretched out across that large table on my right. During this time another fellow is out in the courtyard filling a couple of basins with soapy bleach water. Each child gets up and single file washes their hands in the soap, many up to the elbows, then files to our station where we pour clear water over their hands to rinse. Some are more willing to have us perform this task then others. Remember toubabs eat children, but eventually all small hands get rinsed. The first half of the group filled the 2nd room in the facility where roughly 8 4X4 table clothes have been spread on the floor. The children take their place and sit quietly waiting for their meal to be delivered. This is astounding. There are 40 children in this room hardly making a peep. Meals are taken very, very, very seriously in this country. I remember for a few days during stage I was ill. I knew a meal of hot, oily rice was not going to be an answer so I skipped 3. My family was stunned and concerned. You’d have thought that a person skipping a meal was a person on their death bed. Rather than eat, I opted to lie down and try to nap during the long lunch break. Religiously, they showed up with a plate just to make sure I didn’t need food. Let me tell you, there is little that is less appetizing to a health stomach, let alone a queezy stomach, than picked over tieboudienne. According to Lonely Planet, spellings vary (pronounced che-bou-jen). But again, I digress.

The remainder of the 101 children that showed up this day ate under the hangar. When the first to eat were done they deposited their bowl into a tub of even more soapy, bleachy water. They then filtered back through the rinse station to rinse their hands as the end of line was still in their first cycle and yet to eat. By the way, they eat with their hands. Once done with eating, they lined up for a big slug of water, from a communal cup. At the end, off they went back to school or home with their bellies full and clean, bleachy hands. A success by my standards. This endeavor is a well oiled machine. There was nary a grain of rice on the floor of the room where 40 little children had eaten, unsupervised.

As a Peace Corps volunteer one seems to always be on the lookout for opportunities, people and places to do good, hopefully rewarding work. This nutrition center invited us to hold whatever classes we’d like at their facility or just come by and help, any day of the week. What better place to reach the people we want to serve than a successful nutrition center in the poorest part of town. I am finding that many days here are hard days when I feel that I have accomplished little. But this was a good day. We all left with our spirits lifted and with a glimmer of hope that we had found a place where we can do something useful.

Mornings, by far, are the most productive time. Mind you that I have been a tag along in the above events. These are all projects and opportunities that the 2nd year volunteers in Atar through their contacts and efforts have brought into fruition.

Another morning, Friday, the next day from above, I composed the rough draft of this blog from the comfort of my veranda while boiling my bissap. As the weather has turn hot AGAIN, I have only another hour before the heat necessitates that I put away my laptop. We had a few days reprieve from the heat and it was glorious. The day was cool enough that Mark and I went for a 3 hour hike which felt like heaven. My muscles objected to the mistreatment as they’ve been in repose for 4 months. I actually bought a blanket which I used. It was wonderful and although the heat returning has put me, for one, into a funk. The knowledge that the weather can be tolerable is reason to continue living.

A side note, one of the many things that I miss is a weather forecast. I have no idea, other than hot, what the weather is going to be. Is there a cool down headed our way? Rain? Wind? Interminable heat? What’s the forecast for the winter? Will it be mild? Severe? Who knew that brief 4 minutes each evening would be something for which I would long?

Lunch comes around 1pm. If we aren’t eating with a family, which will take the better part of the afternoon, we go to one of the 3 restaurants we frequent. Selection is easy as only cheyboujen at 200 um is served. I could get a camel sandwich, 200 um, which should be more aptly named french fry, mayonnaise and oily onion sauce on a baguette sandwich. There is nothing nutritious in it and I pay dearly, read diarrhea, for the indulgence. In truth, the camel sandwiches offered at lunch aren’t an indulgence; it’s just something other than cheyboujen.

After lunch, which takes 20 minutes, we might watch a DVD, read a book, take a nap, work on correspondences or blogs. I often must run home after lunch to use my latrine as it is the cleanest in town. Bleach is a miracle liquid and I go through a lot of it. In the summer that I have been here I have found that I can go hours between pit stops because of the sweat factor. Once it cools down I am going to have to figure out either the fastest way back to my latrine to pee or find some somewhat sanitary alternative. If I were a Mauritanian, old, young, male, female, I just cop a squat along some wall and do my business. But alas, to my American sensibilities, the world is not my toilet. Sorry if that is TMI in the States, but you’ve asked me for more specifics. Believe me; I am sparing you the details that an uninitiated have no need to know and little context in which to understand. Here, all of your bodily functions are a constant source of conversation and often amusement for your fellow volunteers.

Later in the afternoon, just at the time I am ready for a nap, I need to rally to head off to my French class at the French Alliance. I attend Monday through Friday 4 to 6. I’ll save the details of that for another blog.

After that, I wile away another couple of hours either by hopping online at the cyber if it has a connection and an empty seat, or preferably, at our bureau if it has a connection. I am heartsick about the wildfires in San Diego. Since news is sparse, I appreciate all of the information that you have been sending.

Dinner is around 8. We usually choose one of 3 restaurants, Sauce’s, Howa’s or Zeinebou’s. We almost had another Le Gazelle, but their plates far exceed our meal allowance. Sauce’s serves Couscous with a tasty Camel Stew Sauce or occasionally she serves Mafe, which is a peanut sauce over rice for 200 um. The place was dubbed Sauce’s because it offers both Soy Sauce and Hot Sauce with your meal. Howa’s serves the widest selection offering either a bowl of Beans- I believe black-eyed peas in a savory tomato sauce, Couscous with a meaty sauce, Rice and Sauce (kind of like chef Boy-ar-dee tomato sauce ((oh how I miss beefaroni and spaghettios. Comfort foods from my youth. Even those organic ones with the silly rabbits on the label)), Mafe or Spaghetti, which is spaghetti with a greasy oil sauce and bits of meat (we never order this) each for 200UM. On the nights you feel like splurging and are low on protein you can have Fried Chicken with french fries and a side of tomato or Beeftec, which is camel, with french fries and tomatoes for 500 um. (Information you need to really process this data. Our food budget is less than 700 um per day. I am always significantly over that with my breakfast splurge of milk and fruit- if I wrote a blog on my thoughts on the Peace Corps wages I’d probably get a quick ticket home. Middle class my eye!) The chicken is fried but not breaded and stuffed with a spicy paste, the same paste that is used in the fish cheyboujen, and it’s tasty. The beans, beeftec and chicken are also served with a big hunk of baguette. Not all dishes are served every night. I love the beans but more often than not they aren’t available. Each plate comes with an enormous cup of ice cold water. I remember well my first visit to Howa’s back in August. First came the cold water. Oh my god! So good! Then came the bowl of beans. After a diet of oily rice or couscous for every meal, the taste of something savory and delectable made me feel like I had died and gone to heaven? These dishes were and probably are the envy of all of the other pcv/t’s most of whom aren’t as lucky as to have a Howa’s at their site.

How is the ambiance you ask? It’s impossible to describe the interiors. We eat on long thin tables on long rickety benches. There are 3 positioned on each wall. Sauces furnishings are very similar to Howa’s except that the tables are pushed up against the wall so you are sitting, side by each, on the rickety bench facing the wall. Since Ramadan ended, both restaurants have spruced up their interiors, laying new, matching vinyl on the floor, tables and benches. All is held in place with a lots of thumb tacks. Howa’s is so a sauna. Its so hot inside that once you have taken a few gulps of the water you instantly break out with beads of sweat all over your forehead and more rolling all the way down to the small of your back. Did I mention that it’s hot here? You will also be entertained or surprised, take your pick, by the family of mice that scampers out to grab any morsel that has fallen to the floor. They seem to time their forage until after the offending patron has left. Maybe big feet keep them at bay. One afternoon, while sitting at lunch, we heard a loud car horn just outside the door. Suddenly a flock of sheep came tearing through the dining room, up the steps into the courtyard that doubles as the kitchen. After a few brief minutes, back came the sheep, down the stairs, back through the dining room and into the street. The patrons barely looked up. It’s astounding to me how quickly the absurd becomes commonplace around here.

We watched V for Vendetta the other night. I don’t know if you have seen it but there is a scene where the female character is being held captive in a cell. Her food is delivered and a rat comes out to eat it. I sat there thinking; only one rat, that’s not so bad. I usually eat with an entire pride of mice at my feet. (I don’t know what a group of mice are called pride/flock/pack/gaggle) Then the camera pans out for an aerial view of her room. She had a flush toilet with toilet paper. I am thunderstruck by the thought that she, in a scene meant to show deprivation, had better living accommodations than me. It still brings a smile to my face to recall that image for you. Forgive me for being so tangential today.

Back to supper options. Our last option is Zeinebou’s. She is a new friend. One of the volunteers moved to a new area of town and on his trek home he stumbled across her restaurant. He made some inquiries. Since she spoke a bit of English, was exceptionally friendly and said she served sandwiches (there is only one kind) we decided to try her place. She is an incredibly beautiful Wolof woman. We ventured to her restaurant for the first time just before Ramadan began. She also serves cheyboujen at lunch. She makes the cheyboujen at home then carries it on her head to the restaurant. Take a look at my flikr photos of life in Boghe and see the size of the pots they cook on and imagine carrying one of those down the street on your head. It is an impressive feat. Her sandwiches, which are her dinner fare, are incredible. They are light on French fries, reasonable on camel and contain tomatoes, hard boiled eggs and occasionally lettuce. Where the heck does she get lettuce? Every bite is a symphony. During Ramadan since she served neither cheyboyjen nor sandwiches, she offered Chakery, Bissap and Tejmardt. (no idea how that is spelled) Chakery is yogurt mixed with couscous and her recipe also has fruit. Yum! Oh my god it’s good and I imagine that it also contains calcium.. Bissap and tejmardt are drinks and hers are the best in town. We stopped by many a night for dessert. Sadly she dropped the chakery, bissap and tejmart from her menu after Ramadan because she’s a one man band and she can’t do it all. Now we have no where to go for dessert. Arrrrggghhhh the humanity!

That is it for the food offerings in Atar. For some perspective, outside of Nouakchott and Noudibou, we have the most and best food available in this country. This unfortunate fact is hard to believe because we are surrounded by the fine cuisine of Morocco and Senegal. The mind reels. My diet consists of beans, couscous & sauce, cheyboujen, sandwich and occasionally poulet and beeftek. It’s the lack of variety that drives a soul to…….

Most nights, after dinner I am ready to call it a day. A couple of nights ago we met briefly to go over some ground rules for the English classes we will be teaching. Sometimes we watch a movie or an episode of Lost at one of our houses. Season 2 isn’t nearly as good as Season 1. When I finally get home at the end of my day, I refill any water vessel that has been emptied during the day. Lord knows if the water will work in the AM and I have learned not to miss any opportunities. I wet my water filter cooling system, bissap bidons and set up the bowl and bandana to cool down the milk I lug out my bedding, take a quick bucket bath and go to bed wet and cool, via that same evaporation process. Then it’s off to dreamland. Inshallah.

PS. An update to my phone blog. Sad news, we can’t do business with Chingatel so the hopes for a high speed, free, unlimited, reliable internet have been dashed. Apparently the Sudanese government, what with all of their genocide, is a stakeholder in Chingatel thus Peace Corps will not do business with them. Unless some miracle has occurred at Mauritel, we are back to unreliable, costly, dial up at our new bureau. Boycotting is much easier when you have other similar options to use. It’s not so fun when its only real effect is to inconvenience you. I am sure Chingatel doesn’t give a rats ass, yes I said rats ass, about our piddly little account. AT&T certainly isn’t hurting from my 10+ year boycott of their services. But boycott we will. I have been saving all of the e-mail jokes to read when I had some leisure on line but that seems a pipedream today. Damn bad men screwing up my dream.

On an unrelated topic, I would like to get pictures of all of this up for your enjoyment. But bring out my digital in public is risky. I wouldn’t hesitate if I were a tourist; I don’t feel unsafe in that way. But being one of 6 toubabs in town, everyone knows where we live, so you don’t want to be flaunting your valuables. I certainly don’t want to give the impression that I live amongst a population of thieves. I do not. Most are charming and honest. Sadly it only takes one little bastard to ruin your day. It’s not the monetary value of the item that is at issue. It is that ipods, cameras, laptops, chargers, etc are unavailable for purchase here in Mauritania. Already, we have had a couple of v’s who have been burglarized and they are very, very, very sad. A laptop stolen with his journaling, the photos on his digital of his host family and time in training and his painstakingly selected collection of music intended to support him through this 2 year odyssey are all gone. It’s more devastating than you can imagine in the Promised Land.

Another bit of housekeeping. One of the other volunteers, Kelsea, who gets loads of phone calls from the states recommends getting phone cards at www.callingcards.com. Her family and friends use the African Safari card. You can check to see if they offer better rates than your current calling plan.

Lastly, I just finished reading The Curious Incident of a Dog in the Night-Time (or something like that). It is a quick read and quite brilliant. I highly recommend it.