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.
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.
2 comments:
I recently found you blog and read it with great interest. Your photo albums are great, too!
Good luck with your work in Mauritania .. I look forward to more enjoyable stories :-)
Hey there Sharon. Just signed up for Google alerts for Mauritania, and your blog made it high enough on the list of Mauritania blogs to remind me to visit. So here I am; let the reading commence.
In other news, our wine turned out quite drinkable, and NDB is freezing for significant portions of the day.
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