Third world product reviews: Brousse Wine

Today's special edition of TWPR (yeah, I know there are only two) is dedicated to one Kris Webb, brewer par excellence, who helped me with the logistics of this whole affair. Using a very marketable talent honed in the breweries of New Mexico, he has taken the formerly savage PCV custom of making homemade hibiscus wine (hereforth known as "brousse wine") out of the desert, taught it how to speak and act properly, and reintroduced it to high society as a cultivated art form. Kind of like a shitty version of "My Fair Lady." This is the go-to product for those looking to kill the pain of living in a dry country among goats and donkeys and that one person per day who thinks that you came over here solely to dole out visas to the person who lays it on thickest.

Until this past weekend, I had yet to indulge in PC Mauritania's most clandestine custom. The taste? Surprisingly, it's pretty good. Depending on how much sugar gets transmuted into the sweet nectar of deadened feelings, you'll be drinking anything from sugar water to Kool-Aid with a kick. This batch featured a mixture of younger and older vintages, leaning towards youth, and remained somewhat sweet. While you can't taste the yeast (at least, I don't think you can - I have no frame of reference), it will give you a mean case of the runs if you don't let it ferment completely. Be warned.

And just so you can have the whole "African armchair experience," I am providing the recipe below. Not that I expect anyone to really go through with it, but if you do, please let me know how it goes.

Ingredients:

• 20 liters of water
• 1 kilogram of hibiscus leaves
• 3.5 kilograms of sugar
• 4 tablespoons of baker's yeast

The process:

1. Soak the hibiscus leaves in the 20 liters of water overnight. Strain to remove the foliage.
2. Add the sugar.
3. Boil the water for about 10 minutes (this kills any critters that may have wandered in with the hibiscus leaves or sugar, and reportedly improves the taste).
4. Let the water cool, and place it in a gerrycan. Think 20 liter gasoline canister.
5. Boil a small amount of water separately, and let it cool (again, this is a sterility issue).
6. Sprinkle the yeast on top of the cooled water (this rehydrates and essentially preps the yeast to work at maximum efficiency once submerged in the wine-to-be).
7. Let the yeast soak for about 10 minutes.
8. Add the yeast to the gerrycan (you can just dump the water in with it, which is why you only want to use a small amount).
9. Slap a condom over the opening, and place the gerrycan somewhere cool (not your fridge - your goal is to keep the fermentation from topping 75 degree F).
10. If you've done everything properly (which isn't difficult), within 24 hours that condom will be fully inflated with the resulting gases of fermentation. Let the gerrycan sit for about 4 weeks, and you've got yourself 20 liters of palatable homemade wine.

Note:

• Sterility is key. Clean everything that will come into contact with the wine with bleach, and rinse thoroughly, because bleach kills yeast.

Personally, I'm picturing whole families gathered in a Christmas setting (soft-focus camera shot), with small children handling large pots of bleach and boiling water while mom and dad continue to swig their homemade booze, telling the kids that they're just "making sure" the last batch came out well. Happy holidays.

Ends to be tied, because, whether you realized it or not, they were, in fact, loose

Well, as should have been expected, I was wrong about the outcome of the mayoral elections. Apparently, NDB's top municipal spot is mired in controversy (and I always thought being "mired" required some amount of humidity), as the leading candidate failed to gain a majority of staggering enough proportions to claim uncontested victory in the elections. The runner-up, losing by only a paltry few electoral votes, is claiming that number one has no right to the throne. The solution? What the fuck, let's make them both mayor!

Clearly, this answer is totally unsatisfactory (though nevertheless in effect at the moment). Here's where it gets mucky: these two mayors are members of the same coalition. Apparently, with 30+ parties vying for political dominance, some decided that, in order to maximize votes among other things, they would form coalitions. So down in NKT, the coalition leaders are refusing to make a choice between the two, garnering all kinds of invective from the individual supporters and people who, while not actually taking sides, think that the whole thing is a bit ridiculous and embarrassing. Further voting with the next round of elections promises, if not to solve the problem, at least to offer the opportunity for further voting. Still, daily life on the streets of NDB remains the same: dusty.

In the personal arena, I was promoted to head of the English department in a staff meeting about two weeks ago. It was an elected position that I neither campaigned for, nor really knew even existed. It's not much more work, and no more privilege, but the recognition is nice. Of course, being the only English teacher who can speak English might have had something to do with it.

Oh yeah, and someone requested I post a Christmas list. So, this is what would be nice to have, most likely for Easter:

• Flash drive.
• Voice recorder. (small, preferably digital)
  
• Good books.
• Beef jerky.
  

And that's about all I can think of.

Also, the email subscription box on the right, if you haven't figured it out, appears to be working. Let me know if there are any issues with the email you receive. The same goes for feeds.

And finally, I have decided that donkeys, which once occupied only the highest sphere of humor (I believe that I'm not alone on that one), are in fact the most profoundly sad and depressing animal on the face of the earth. I am convinced that the worst of karmic outcomes is to be reincarnated as one of these creatures, and I am dunked in a veritable septic tank of catharsis every time I see one, which is about every 20 meters.

So that's that. We're reformatting the office computer, so it's up in the air as to whether I'll be on in the next couple of days. But there's a fresh Third World Product Review in the pipe, and this time you'll be able to experience the magic at home. Suspense...

PS: Get the votes in on that survey, because it's going to end in the next couple of days in favor of another questionnaire of slightly more significance. The heated arms race between Omar and Spaghetti continues, and I for one am utterly crushed that Yasmine Bleeth is only a very distant third. Get your act together, people.

Re: Overreaction

"The politician, for example, would never have us think that it is love of office, the desire for the notorious elevation of public place, that drives him on. No, the thing that governs him is his pure devotion to the common weal, his selfless and high-minded statesmanship, his love of his fellow man, and his burning idealism to turn out the rascal who usurps the office and betrays the public trust which he himself, as he assures us, would so gloriously and devotedly maintain."

"So, too, the soldier. It is never love of glory that inspires him to his profession. It is never love of battle, love of war, love of all the resounding titles and the proud emoluments of the heroic conqueror. Oh, no. It is devotion to duty that makes him a soldier. There is no personal motive in it. He is inspired simply by the selfless ardor of his patriotic abnegation. He regrets he has but one life to give for his country."

"So it goes through every walk of life. The lawyer assures us that he is the defender of the weak, the guardian of the oppressed, that champion of the rights of defrauded widows and beleaguered orphanism, the upholder of justice, the unrelenting enemy, at no matter what the cost to himself, of all forms of chicanery, fraud, theft, violence, and crime. Even the businessman will not admit to selfish motive in his money-getting. On the contrary, he is a developer of the nation's resources. He is the benevolent employer of thousands of working men who would be lost and on the dole without the organizing genius of his great intelligence. He is the defender of the American ideal of rugged individualism, the shining exemplar to youth of what a poor country boy may achieve in this nation through a devotion to the national virtues of thrift, industry, obedience to duty, and business integrity. He is, he assures us, the backbone of the country, the man who makes the wheels go round, the leading citizen, Public Friend No. 1."

-Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again

Why take myself down a notch when Thomas Wolfe (not to be confused with our markedly less talented contemporary, Tom) does it so much more eloquently?

Um, patience, again

Fixing some coding bugs with that email subscription box on the right. Until then, I suggest Valium and a few Miller High Lifes.

Third world product reviews: Millac

Welcome to the first installment of what will hopefully become a semi-regular feature on this digital monument to spare time. To further acquaint the reader with the mind-numbing minutia of existence without a TV, I have decided to begin a chronicle of the various goods and services that I have occasion to use. Basically anything that I spend money on is subject to inclusion, so if anyone has any particular questions/suggestions, just comment them on over. In a year and a half, maybe we'll even have a budget Gridskipper (Marcin, allow me to direct your attention to the middle of today's front page) or Superfuture on our hands. Ahh, irony.

On to the goods. What is there to be said about a product whose name so perfectly embodies the very essence of its being? Say it aloud: Mil-lac. As your tongue rolls into the second syllable, you can almost feel the thick, white, mucusy whole-milk saliva collecting in the soft, fleshy back section of the roof of your mouth. Mil-lac. Spit bubbles fortified with lactic enzymes, grown up and capable of life independent from the lips. Mil-lac. Taste the resultant bubble born of overeager pronunciation immediately post-libation.

I remember one early afternoon, sitting with the Miller family around Kyle's couch, pounding McDonald's, in which Katie turned to me and asked (to paraphrase), "John, why are you drinking a half-gallon of milk?" and Kyle immediately interjected, "John always drinks milk." From that statement was born a golden glow in my heart of hearts, as I knew that with this acknowledgment milk and I had created a bond, inseparable, undeniable, forever tied in a holy matrimony that even a move to the Dark Continent couldn't tempt with divorce.

Inland, electricity is often far from reliable, and refrigeration is an unfathomable luxury. Hence, in Kaedi dairy products were limited to the long-life variety. The ol' pasteurized, homogenized variety would arrive steaming in the back of a pickup, in a consistency whose only defining feature could be described as "unpourable." Faced with hardcore dairy cravings and a total lack of options, and after much thought, I lowered my standards and accepted my new milk. And she grew on me. Oh Rose milk, the times we shared...

Nouadhibou being a cosmopolitan epicenter, not only is fresh cow's milk available, but there is camel's milk as well (stay-tuned). At the earliest chance I quickly re-embraced my former lover, and it was good. We shared a passionate honeymoon, tacitly intensified by the unutterable knowledge that the magic couldn't last. Then the rolling blackouts commenced. I continued to purchase the "fresh" milk in frenzied self-denial, flinging money at the cashier with the contumacious air of one who could not be bested by the city's ailing power grid. But the end was nigh, and I knew it. I would open each carton breathless, and as I took the first tentative sip the sickly sweet smell of death would rush my nostrils before the liquid even touched my lips. Sometimes I'd continue to drink, hoping beyond hope, and the chunks would lumber across my tongue like pallbearers under the weight of a wasted existence. And finally, after days of the same, twisted waltz, emotionally exhausted, I decided that continuing to sleep in the same bed as the corpse of your dead lover just isn't healthy.

Now I drink Millac. Soccer moms could leave this stuff in the back of their Plymouths until the little ones have a B.A., and still serve it at the graduation party. Of course I didn't wander pell-mell into another heartrending relationship; I shopped around for a variety of long-life milks, and decided that Millac tasted least like its chemical life-support system. Also, according to the box (proudly stated directly below the picture of two ridiculously Aryan children), it's good for the heart, which I think is important in these trying days. With time, maybe it will make good on its claim and begin to repair mine.

Overreaction

I feel a response is necessary to the Chomsky-esque comment posted yesterday. I want to make the following very clear.

I did quite a bit of self-examination, soul searching, etc. before I decided to go ahead and work for the organization that I work for. Not only is the role and utility of development subject to arguments at every extreme, but Western interest in the third world should also be closely examined. As a citizen of the world's richest, most powerful, and most aggressive nation, I had to determine whether I was comfortable representing said force, and to what ends I would be doing so.

My organization goes out of its way from the very commencement of the application process to screen out individuals who have ever been/ever intend to be part of the intelligence community. As I recall, at least two pages of the 16 or so page application concerned personal and familial three-letter affiliations, and simply stated that, depending on the level of involvement, it is necessary to wait for anywhere between 10 years and eternity for acceptance. In addition to asking my recruiter why this was so (and receiving the expected answer of "because we don't want people to think that we're all a bunch of CIA hacks"), I discussed this once with a man who had been in army intelligence during Vietnam and had subsequently turned to aid work. He went through the application process twice but never ended up joining, and now works for Ashoka. He explained that there is likely some legitimacy to claims that individuals in my organization were involved in intelligence gathering during its infancy. Somewhere along the line, however, there was a very concrete decision to completely disconnect any ties between us and the three-letter community.

Budgetary information also indicates how ridiculous the suggestion of intelligence operations is. I'm too busy wondering why I have to pay for my own poor ass to join, literally, six other Mauritanians in a circa-1983 sedan for a five and a half hour drive to Nouakchott in early January to even take the time to report to my superiors at the CIA. The $344 million in budgetary resources available for FY 2006 (to the whole organization, not Mauritania) gets spread transparently thin just about as quickly as you'd imagine.

Hot topics in US intelligence gathering in Mauritania likely center around 1) the shifting government, and 2) Algerian terrorists, who have a tendency to leak across the border. 1: If anyone would like a copy of any of the various emails admonishing the volunteers to do everything in their power to stay away from polling stations, to refrain from all political and religious conversation with locals, and to by absolutely no means show any support for any of the parties operating in their locales (violators subject to termination), I will make it available. 2: NDB is the northernmost posting, hundreds of kilometers south of the more conservative and potentially volatile areas that would be of interest to the US intelligence community. Anything that smells of interest to the three-letter agencies generally smells like endangerment to my organization, and volunteers are yanked before they even discover a threat.

The organization does provide a reason to place US citizens into small communities it would not otherwise have a reason to "infiltrate." I know people who are convinced that there is a black helicopter following my every step, and that's fine. It probably keeps me safer anyway. But it's as far from the truth as one could get. The fact of the matter is, management is extremely laissez-faire, and as the administrative go-to guy for NDB, my rare conversations with the higher-ups consist entirely of me bitching at them to send us our mail.

There is a distrust of Western, and especially US, involvement in Africa. It's healthy, and completely understandable. First colonialism saw Europe raping the third world, and then we took our turn during the Cold War. Some of the people we supported (and subsequently, governments, policies, and actions) in an effort to stymie the spread of Communism were out and out criminals - thieves, murderers, and rapists - and people have every right to harbor reservations about our intentions. However, unsubstantiated rumor is also a way of life in the absence of credible sources of information. Having dinner with an educated neighbor the other night, he looked me level in the eyes and told me that eating the skin of a chicken will give you cancer. Right buddy, find that one in The Lancet?

But what disturbs me is that someone who does have access to the available information could actually make that statement in all seriousness.

I resent being in any way regarded as an ignorant pawn in some kind of global spygame. I spent (and still spend) a large amount of time considering my involvement here. Yes, anything is possible. Maybe the NSA planted bugs in all my clothes and listens to the political conversations I have with locals despite the emails, but I'm not willing to take such a cynical standpoint. I have all the tolerance in the world for cynical jocularity, but if I couldn't believe that some people were genuinely interested in the well-being of others, I would have killed myself years ago.

Duly noted

Had breakfast with the acting ambassador this morning (Dawn Liberi awaits Congressional approval). Yet another perk of living in Nouadhibou is that, in addition to being to my knowledge the only Americans up here, we are living in a city that actually garners direct US attention. Thus, when the official US convoy rolls north, we get a few stolen rays of State department sunshine to make us feel a little more important than our village counterparts (psshaw, my Rolodex is full of presidential appointees). Ambassador Twining (link should be a photo) was, well, a man who seemed to retain a surprising and refreshing amount of Kennedy-era idealism. While, for reasons that I have yet to really articulate to myself, I will refrain from completely recounting our conversation here (believe me, there was nothing said that would qualify as profound and/or unprintable - just going with a gut feeling), I will say that he was pleasantly straightforward with my questions and our conversation. Details available to those curious enough to email me. I will say this: incredibly nice guy; he struck me as the product of a substantially different era.

Additionally, number two in charge seemed to take an interest in my labors at the Lycee Nouadhibou, and will be coming up in about a week with an unverified number of English novels and texts to start an English section of their library. He also asked me to scout around for potential homes and staff for an NDB branch of an American Center (computers and books and general information about the pastoral glory of America), and we will be meeting next Friday.

In other news, the misspelling on the survey submission redirect page has been, ahem, "duely" noted. Also duely noted is Sam's egregious flaunting of a spell checker. Because I felt that my voice in the survey is irrelevant (I do wield the power, of course, to toss the votes entirely and decide to name the little bastard "Steven," should I so choose to abuse the democratic process), I had yet to actually check what the voter was presented with upon successful submission of his/her vote. Lo, I will henceforth trust all copyediting to myself. Please reinstate me in your collective mind as the infallible example of proper syntax that you know I am.

Let the surveying commence

Appreciative acknowledgment to one Sam Riesland for getting that survey running. Because so many of you are interested, I'll let you know what the problem was. Sam had to write a Java servlet to database all the responses from the survey, and he is doing me a favor by hosting this on his webspace. However, not only is his webspace provider running an outdated version of Resin (the Java compiler), but it's running an old version of Java. As Sam codes only in the newest and the sleekest, we had a number of "permission" errors.

Now you know, and knowledge is power!

I have no idea what any of that means.

Never too soon for an update

No more than 5 minutes after posting that last entry, I was greeted at the office door by a wall of car horns and people banging on their doors, hoods, and any other resonant surface within arm's length. It would appear that the former mayor from before the coup has successfully regained his status as man on top.

But I could be wrong. I've seen weirder shit happen around here.

Vote for me and I will make you happy that you don't have a woman and you will not cry

The first round of elections are over, allowing me a month or so reprieve from bullhorn-strapped cars driving around town at all hours of the night blasting one of the following, in decreasing order of frequency:

• No Woman, No Cry
• That relatively new Shakira song
• Something Mauritanian (I can't distinguish one song from the next)

Conceivably, these roving noise machines could be used to spread the message/platform for one of the plethora of candidates. Mostly, according to translation by a few Mauritanian friends, they promised that voting for "so and so" will make your life nicer and happier. Coupled with Bob Marley's classic song of, um, not crying about not having a woman(?) or Shakira's latest muy caliente tune (I've heard this so many times I'm just going to assume it's the national anthem), I personally can't fathom why you'd even consider other candidates.

Sarcasm aside, things did seem to go off pretty smoothly in NDB. One of my friends up here is a reporter for a national paper, and he was covering the election for our fair city. Unfortunately, I was/am forbidden to have anything to do with politics around here, and was discouraged from even showing my face anywhere near the voting locations. Respecting the rules, I bravely lent him my camera so he could snap a few for the "Nouakchott Info."

The Wali (governor) of Dakhlet Nouadhibou casting his vote.

The obligatory interview.

Men queuing outside of a voting station.

Women queuing outside of a voting station. Cultural note: men and women never stand in line together. Their genitals might accidentally touch.

EU election supervisor.

Should you be interested in poorly researched facts, here's what I know. There are somewhere in the realm of thirty parties running candidates for the series of three elections in Mauritania. This election covered the mayor and a few legislative posts. The parties are largely divided along racial lines. Some represent people who were in power before the 2005 coup, some are Islamist, and 95% have thrown the word "Democratic" into their name. Considering I hang out with mostly black Mauritanians, most of the political arguments to which I was privy concerned whether or not they should vote for a black candidate or the person who had been mayor of NDB before the coup. It is reported that he A) didn't put up with people who didn't take their job seriously - this includes corruption, and B) was responsible for most of the city's modernization that has occurred to date.

Candidates are given roughly two weeks to campaign, immediately followed by elections. Specifically, campaigns commenced on the 3rd of November, and ended with yesterday's elections. Campaigning consisted of the aforementioned car-noise-bombing and the ubiquitous erection of enormous tents. The tents also produced an impressive volume of Bob Marley, but other than that, I really never saw anything happening in them. Ads ran in newspapers, and unfortunately I have almost no access to television, so I didn't have a chance to see how it was used.

I personally know one of the legislative candidates who was running for the DIN - Democrates Independants de Nouadhibou - party. When I pressed her on the pertinent issues to which a voter should be attuned, however, she had no answers. At that time (three days into the campaign) they had yet to identify a platform. I also know one of the main campaign organizers for the DIN, who, asked about his party's platform, gave the following explanation (to translate and paraphrase):

"There are the people who held power before the coup. They are running in an attempt to reclaim that power. There are also people at the other extreme who are running solely because the first group should not have power. Our party [the DIN] is moderate. We are interested in the well-being of the people of Nouadhibou, and not simply in power or defeating the other parties."

Reading the look on my face (the one that said, "you really didn't answer my question at all"), he smiled and admitted that the mayoral candidate is an old friend, and that his heart's not really in the election so much as it's in helping out a friend. I don't condemn that, but I'd like to underline that this is a major campaign organizer in one of the most popular parties.

Anyway, I wasn't nearly as involved in observation and information gathering as I intend to be for the next set of elections (somewhere around January-February). The campaigns came and went rather quickly. Filter me out and extrapolate what you will about new found democracy. I think things went pretty well, but it became strikingly clear that just handing choice to people doesn't mean that they're going to make an informed decision.

They're loud

BBC News Day in Pictures

Remember that time you slept on Wyoming Avenue?

If I had a 40 (Steel Reserve, High Gravity - of course), I'd pour one out for Rummy. Then I'd hose off the driveway and try to imagine a world in which he had never existed.

A slightly belated congratulations to one Tim Persico and, as long as I'm tossing them around, his political man behind the curtain, Patrick Murphy, for making PA's 8th district a nicer shade of blue. Tim, I feel much more comfortable with the American political machine now that you're a cog.

That will be all.

Your patience please

More to come. You can click on that survey all you want; it doesn't work yet. But seriously, go for it to your heart's content. It's still better than doing the work you're inevitably being paid to do at the moment.

6 letter word that begins with “F” and ends in “iller”

/Part1/Listen/Superlatives>

Beautiful Celebration of the Perverse:

Neutral Milk Hotel – King of Carrot Flowers Part One
Xiu Xiu – Clowne Towne
Sufjan Stevens – John Wayne Gacy, Jr.

If I Drive I Get Kicked out of the Country:

Vitalic – My Friend Dario
Mylo – Muscle Cars (Reform Reprise)

The Party Must Commence:

Black Leotard Front – Casual Friday
Royksopp – Poor Leno
Gwen Stefani – What Are You Waiting For?

Intensity in 10 Cities (in increasing order of said intensity):

Jason Forrest – Spectacle to Refute All Judgments
Vitalic – La Rock 01
Death From Above 1979 – Little Girl
M83 – Unrecorded
Death From Above 1979 – Go Home, Get Down
Primal Scream – Kill All Hippies

Misc. Good Listening:

The Books – Lemon of Pink Part 1
Serge Gainsbourg – Melody
DJ Crystl – Mind Games
Fennesz – Transit (featuring David Sylvian)

Proper acknowledgment flows in a fraternal direction for introduction to much of this music.

Music I Still Require:

DJ Shadow – The Private Press
FC Kahuna – Hayling
Depeche Mode – John the Revelator (The Beav, I know Ariel has this. Email it.)
Telefon Tel Aviv – What Is It Without the Hand that Wields It?

/Part2/Look/PhotosNDB>

S&E live in the tallest building in Nouadhibou. One day I took some photos from the roof. Here are a few.







This is the “Carrefour Cansado,” perhaps the busiest intersection in NDB. This is the place to find cabs to go to either of the two other main neighborhoods of the city – Cansado and Numerwoatt. Notice the lack of any signage or persons controlling traffic in any manner. I cross this street an average of four to six times daily, and each time consider the fact that I could be run over.



One of the various shantytowns consisting of people wishing to get the hell out of Africa. I intend to get a closer look and some better photos eventually, but I am waiting for a Mauritanian friend to escort me. Something about being the white guy wandering aimlessly with a camera worth more than a year’s wages keeps me from going it alone.

Points of note

1. Every other day, usually from my apartment, I hear the violent screeching of tires as someone realizes that leaving your life at the will of Allah and driving like a complete fucking prick might actually mean you could die. About half of these screeches are followed by the disturbingly satisfying crunch of multiple cars reducing their volume by about half, while simultaneously (and something tells me this isn’t coincidence) doubling their density. Mass stays about the same, minus, perhaps, the guy who flew through the windshield.

I apologize for my dismal take on a tragic situation. The crunch is disturbingly satisfying only because it seems like the logical conclusion of the deadly melody. Kind of like hearing most of a song that cuts out right before the climax. I’m sure the day I actually witness one of these bangers face-to-twisted metal, I’ll be singing a wildly different tune. I wish no death upon anyone, but when I’m the guy in the back seat, or the poor bastard walking along the side of that fateful road, I generally appreciate it when a driver respects my silly American self-determination. As it is, the general trend in NDB driving technique is to disregard absolutely everything that is not directly in front of you, and even then, to assume that you have the right of way. I’ve been led to believe that this is not a localized situation.

2. Class sizes have grown substantially, as predicted. A month into school, class rosters still have yet to be generated, making attendance to my classes an arbitrary matter. I’m also beginning to notice an interesting crack in the foundation of the educational system, and by extension, society.

Each class, that is, grade, is divided into three sections – A, C, and D. The “A” group consists of students of language and literature, and classes are weighted appropriately in determining final grades. Those in the “C” group are mathematics students, with a different emphasis in their coursework. Finally, students in the “D” group study sciences: physics, chemistry, biology, etc. All students generally have the same classes, but they spend different amounts of time in each, and grades are weighted to reflect their section. At what point do students choose which path they will take on their way to a bright and shiny future? Never.

At some point along the line, the top third of students are simply put into the “C” group, the second third into the “D” group, and the bottom feeders into the “A” group. This is according to overall GPA, regardless of individual strengths. Thus my C classes are intelligent and motivated. My A class protests that the same assignments that I give my other classes are “impossible” (c’est impossible!), and instead of asking questions or even just trying, spend large amounts of time bitching and moaning in French and Pulaar that no one ever taught them how to write a sentence in English (this is 5th year English, folks). Unlike my C classes, which is a veritable rainbow of skin tones ranging from coffee to ebony, almost every single person in the A class is black. Two days ago I kicked my first student out of class.

Yep, A class.

Interestingly, if you ask me with whom the brightest future for Mauritania rests, I would place it in the hands of black Mauritania. My experiences are relatively few, but in the short time that I’ve been here, I have noticed that the black citizens are almost universally more progressive. This may, of course, be partially determined by the rung they occupy in society. However, in Kaedi, my best students were black, and this is a generally accepted rule outside of the city. Even in NDB, it is the black girls who show up to the Girls’ Mentoring Center after school to continue their studies.

I don’t know how it will all work out, and I suspect that I still lack a bit of information and perspective. But I can’t help but think that there are some major kinks to work out of that educational system.

3. I appreciate the continuing suggestions of names for my gecko, but I remain uninspired. Respondents are not limited to one suggestion. Think outside the box.

4. Took a little trip to Western Sahara, from NDB to the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve been told it’s roughly two miles, but an hour haul through absolute nothingness has the tendency to seem a bit longer. Lunar and beautiful. Number one thought: I hope I don’t step on a landmine. Number two thought: if someone decided to kill me out here, it’d be a long time until anyone else found out. It wasn’t like a pleasant stateside stroll through a deserted field or forest; I couldn’t shake the idea that I was completely vulnerable. But I did take some pictures.















5. I know I’ve been promising a lot lately, and I have been pretty absent, but I really am working on a few posts of substance. They’re coming, I insist. Don’t give up on me yet.

Because Ramadan wasn't a good enough excuse to get absolutely nothing accomplished

Despite having no groundbreaking news, I'm doing this because I feel vaguely responsible for putting something up here, even if it is fairly airy and insubstantial. Just in case you were genuinely worried, I've got some ideas for future posts at various stages between "steaming curry-flavored marination" and "half-baked too-gooey-to-eat without inevitably dropping a sizable chunk on your freshly-pressed white collar." Unfortunately for you, they still require a day or two at 350 degrees.

Yesterday and today mark the end of Ramadan, that month-long festival in which we are all reminded that not eating during the daylight hours can indeed bring a country's infrastructure to its sandy, scraped-up knees. School has slowed to an almost complete stop, allowing me time to reflect on the fact that the most I've gotten accomplished in the past month and a half is the reading of some twenty-odd books. This is, of course, more than I can say for whoever's working to power the city of Nouadhibou, as we've been plagued by rolling blackouts, effectively dunking my darkness-loving-insect filled apartment in blackness on an average of 1.4 times a day. This wouldn't be so much of an issue, except that water makes it all the way up to my second floor apartment by way of an electric pump. Lights go out, toilet doesn't flush. Also, I have bedbugs.

So what's in store for my three loyal readers? Well, I've been meaning to create a video tour of my apartment, which hasn't happened, because really, how interesting is a dirty apartment? Also, I'm waiting for the rights to Greenday's "Time of Your Life" for the tearjerker soundtrack. I've also been meaning to actually leg it around this city and take a few photos, which I also have yet to do, because I am lazy. Municipal elections are due for November, which promises to interrupt school and hopefully make for some good writing and reportage. I've also got a little ditty on the whole social atmosphere around here. Finalement, I'm about to start reading the Koran, which promises to be an exciting journey of spiritual awakening. Oh yeah, and I'm tossing around the idea of a total overhaul of this website.

Things continue to chug along over here on the East Side. Next week is predicted to be the unofficial beginning of school, and my class size should grow exponentially. Tomorrow NDB will officially be left in the hands of the fresh-faced 2006 volunteers, and your's truly is the PCVR[egional]C[oordinator], a whole lot of letters meaning I'm responsible for paying the rent on our office.

Yep, sooo, that's about it. I've got an ftp set up with the help of Sam, to which you can upload music (slowly) and I can download it (even slower). Send me an email if you want the login and password, and I'll happily fire it over to you. While I'm thinking about it, I could sure use "Turn on the Bright Lights," (the whole album, please) which, shamefully, I neglected to procure prior to my departure. Also, I'm inviting some more input into this site. See the comments button? Click on it and say something. Please. And I'd like a few more suggestions on the name of the gecko. Interestingly, Carl and Steve are a pair of characters that I often use in dialogues when I start my English classes. Weird.

Wild horses

School started on October 2.

Number of hours assigned to teach per week: 10
Number of hours taught so far: 6

I spent the week previous worrying about procuring a schedule, a syllabus, a class list, and whatever else I assumed was necessary to embark on a year of teaching fertile young minds. Simultaneously, I was told by no less than three teachers, a librarian, and a Ministry of Education official to relax, sometimes in all seriousness and occasionally with a chuckle at my silly American ways. After having spoken with other teachers from around the country, who all told me that most of their administration and teachers hadn't even returned from vacation, I decided to take the advice and go to the school on the 2nd like everyone else.

On Monday I stepped into the hallowed halls (note: there are no actual hallways; the school consists of single concrete rooms in a sandy compound) of my place of employment, invigorated by my noble charge and the fact that literally hundreds of people were staring at me and whispering to each other. I walked purposefully to the opposite end of the school, where administrative offices hid behind some of the only foliage on the premises, and maneuvered my way through the crowd of teachers receiving their schedules. Head held high, I entered the office of the school director, prepared to make an assertive, lasting, and above all, good, impression on him. Before I had introduced myself, I was berated in front of a room full of people for failing to appear the previous week. I was then thrown a schedule, told that because I neglected to show up the week before I had no say in it (this was bullshit; I was sitting in view of a veritable swarm of teachers creating their schedules at that very moment), and finally, asked my name.

Filled with the white hot rage of 10,000 horny stallions (I use this image not because I was sexually aroused, but because you do not stand in the path of even one horny stallion, lest you suffer unspeakable consequences), I left the compound, informed that classes would not start until next - this - week. As I stood there trying to find an appropriate channel for the black anger of humiliation coursing through my veins, I alternately considered choking the kid whispering and giggling behind me (Nathanael West - The Day of the Locust) and kicking a donkey in the face. I settled on going to the internet cafe, where I practiced godlike restraint and refrained from posting.

Over the ensuing weekend I was heartened by the soon-finished veteran volunteer here, who told me that intimidation is the director's modus operandi, and that I simply shouldn't take it too seriously. I prepared for my upcoming classes with a lighter heart and the resolution to restrict all interaction with the man in charge to a bare minimum.



With no classes Monday (buckets!), I returned to school on Tuesday, went directly to my classes, and taught the shit out of those kids. I did the same on Wednesday and Thursday morning. At this point I'd like to direct your attention to the three hour break in the afternoon. I returned at 3:00 on Thursday, ready to introduce myself to my new 4th year class, only to find the school utterly deserted, except for the disciplinarian. He informed me, laughing, thank Christ, that there is no break. I informed him that admin failed to tell me, and thanked him for the clarification. Guess I'll see you next week kids; thank your director for yet another unnecessary hiccup in the chronic indigestion that is your desperately-needed education. I woke up bright and early Friday morning, ready to end the week with a bang, only to find upon my arrival that I was double-booked with physics, and physics always wins.

I popped into the Directeur des Etudes' (scheduling) office to let her know that there was a conflict; she said thanks and that she'd let me know how it will be resolved. My week's work abruptly finished (buckets!), I beelined for the exit. Standing next to the gates, of course, was the school director. I braced myself for all the fun of accidentally getting locked in a dryer. I said hi. He berated me once again, this time for not checking in with him every morning - no one does this - and I smiled and left my sunglasses on, thinking three things: 1) ain't gonna happen, guy, 2) we're probably going to come to blows before the end of the trimester, and 3) at least I'll have some content for the blog. When his tirade was finished he calmly asked if I had class now, and I, disarmed by his sudden change in demeanor, stupidly told him about my overlapping with physics. He told me to follow him, and I watched in awe as he treated teacher and student alike with a stunning condescension, yelling at everyone within sight to get somewhere, anywhere. Before I could let him know that I had told the appropriate parties of my situation, he had his leg calf-deep in the Directeur des Etudes' ass. Thus I sat in her office while she frantically shuffled through papers looking for information she didn't have, apologized no less than ten times, and left.

In the end I have discovered that, except for perhaps Nouakchott, no other teachers in the country have received their schedules, let alone started teaching. Due to Ramadan, my classes are a mere fraction of their actual size, but at least they've commenced. I reluctantly and grudgingly give it to the director for taking things a bit more seriously than the rest of the system. This does not excuse him in my mind from acting, like almost every single person with a modicum of authority here, like a total prick, but it does chalk up a point on his behalf. And for the record, it took four total rewrites of this entry to drain the cynicism down to a palatable level. My foray into the Mauritanian professional community has been eye-opening, to say the least.

In other news, I have discovered that there is a gecko living in my room. I'm fielding suggestions for a name.

Kenny

Somewhere over the last three months, I contracted malaria. I have no actual empirical evidence for this, but odds are on my side, and it makes for a good "hook," which according to English teachers from grades 7 - 12, is necessary. Accordingly, I am on a weekly malaria prophylaxsis known as "Mefloquin," branded "Lariam." Taken each Wednesday, this miracle drug doesn't so much as keep me from getting the cell-popping disease, as much as it keeps the protozoa from getting drunk enough on red blood cells and liver to actually engage in a Caligula-like orgy of self-reproduction at the expense of my internal environment.

A propos Mefloquin, from the most recent edition of the Health Handbook: "It is, however, a somewhat new drug, but is considered relatively safe. This does not mean that it is without side effects, but the alternative in Mauritania is the possibility of dying from Malaria." I say, what's a drug taken on a regular basis for two and a half years without side effects? A curative breath mint, that's what. Let's take a look at what they list:
*upset stomach
*headache
*abdominal pain
*nausea
*itching
*hair loss
*vivid dreams, nightmares
*blurry vision
*less acute sense of balance
I generally scoff at the first four; I don't think I've seen a drug ad that doesn't warn about these. As far as I'm aware, I'm not exceeding the average amount of itching, which I assume isn't that much in the first place. I've been afraid I've been losing my hair since I was 15. My vision remains fine, and I have yet to spontaneously fall down the stairs, which leaves us with one glaringly unformatted side effect.

I used to read volunteers' blogs while sitting at work with nothing better to do. I remember one in which a girl told a story about eating fried chicken in a convertable with Kenny Rogers. Much to my dismay, it was just her intro to an entry about Lariam dreams. Given the certifiable shit that goes on in people's heads while they're asleep, I found nothing particularly remarkable about her recollection. What I failed to either notice or appreciate was the level of detail in the story, and this is where I can begin to relate. Yeah, my dreams have been ratcheted up from mid- to high-weirdness, but one of the most striking effects of this drug is that not only can I give you a fully detailed narrative about the sugar plums dancing in my head last night, but I can cover each night for the last week and a half, at least.

So if that's one of the most noticable side effects, what's the other? Well, allow me to put it this way: if I had dreamed that me and Kenny were hangin' out, pounding chicken in a convertable, someone would have inevitably opened the passenger side door, grabbed a leg of the ol' honey barbecue, and tried to forcibly remove poor Kenny's face and vital organs with it.

This is why I've decided against actually relating any of my dreams. Almost all of them have an undercurrent of violence. Not all the time - probably five nights a week, on average. Anyway, before you go calling Mauritania's finest and having me strapped to a stretcher in a padded room, know that my experience has been corroborated. A good friend has had recurring dreams of her sister hanging by her lips from meathooks, and another married couple recently switched to the daily malaria prophylaxsis because the Lariam was giving them psychotic thoughts. Fortunately, my nighttime craziness has yet to transcend the boundry between dream and waking thought, so I think I'll be alright for now.

And Kyle, regarding Sunday night's dreamland adventures: if you get married anytime soon, don't invite Kenny to the wedding.

State of the Union

[begin transmission]

Alright, I've been meaning to do this for long enough, that, flying in the face of accepted laws of physics, my total lack of inertia has spurred me to action. Reading back through this nonsense, I'm noticing a distinct lack of information regarding just about everything having to do with my life here. This will be my attempt to tackle that. I have the urge to demand a collective renunciation of procrastination as I begin, but I suspect that more than one of you is at work as you read this.

Q: So guy, you've been in Africa for almost three months. What have you been doing all this time?

A: I'm so glad you asked. In the short version, I arrived, spent a miserable week adjusting to the miserable climate, spent the next ten weeks in training, then moved to Nouadhibou. Please feel free to consider this answer comprehensive.

Q: I don't. Please elaborate.

A: Fine. In the more detailed version, I came to Nouakchott via Casablanca. Go see the big mosque there. I slept all day, but everyone else said it was quite nice. I spent the following two days in NKT doing protocol in a compound I was not allowed to leave. After that I was herded into the back of a Land Rover with ten other people, and we drove for six hours, much of it through the Sahara, to Kaedi. This was where I began to realize that I was actually in Africa. Giant orange dunes, bleached bones, and somewhat interestingly, seashells.

The next week in Kaedi was spent in another compound (the high school - Lycee - during the appropriate part of the year) with the rest of the trainees. Until now I had yet to actually wander freely anywhere, but the beginnings of cultural adjustment took a back seat to getting used to the environment. We came in the midst of the rainy (read: hot as fuck) season, occasionally seeing the thermometer hover around 120 degrees F. While mentally I took the heat in stride, my body had altogether different ideas, and my hands and feet immediately exploded in a heat rash that, in addition to looking not unlike some amputation-warranting disease, left my appendages swollen and sore. Paired with generally filthy surroundings, ubiquitous mosquitos, blister beetles, and sun burns, my discomfort was soaring to new heights.

Q: What's a blister beetle?

A: "Blister beetle" is the local, anglicized name given to a number of species of beetles that appear during the rainy season along the Senegal River. Like your average bug, they occasionally land on unsuspecting people, though they don't appear to actively hunt out other creatures. Their name is derived from the fact that when said unsuspecting person brushes it off him/herself, the beetle sprays acid. Within a few hours, the affected skin blisters and fills with some caustic fluid that, if it comes into contact with unaffected areas of skin, causes further blistering. More obnoxious than the actual wound is the constant fear of every single insect that lands on you, of which there is no shortage.

Q: Would you like to offer any ruminations on discomfort?

A: I haven't even gotten to the food, the disease, the flies, the animals, or the people. Patience.

After a week in the womb, I was eventually birthed into a black Moor host family, given the name Adama, and tossed into the routine of my next nine weeks. My host father's name was Baba, his wife was Sahara, her sister was Howa (a note on relations: everyone regards everyone else as a sister or aunt or cousin or nephew; actual blood relation is an arbitrary detail - hence, in the end I still had no idea how anyone was related), and the four daughters, Aicha, Ami, Tarba, and Tselem, all under the age of ten. Baba spoke some French, everyone else spoke solely Hassaniya. For those of you unfamiliar with Hassaniya, imagine a dialect of Arabic spoken 50 decibels louder than the average language. When someone is inviting you to sit down, it's not difficult to mistake their welcome for overt, vituperative, condemnation.

My general routine consisted of Hassaniya classes for between six and seven hours a day, Monday through Saturday. As training continued, the length of the classes gradually diminished, but language acquisition was unquestionably one of, if not the, main intentions of the pre-service time.

Q: So how's your Hassaniya?

A: Total crap, Bob.

Depending on how you look at it, my rudimentary knowledge of French was a boon or an impediment. My host dad took a vacation for the majority of my time there, and partly due to cultural norms, I had little interaction with anyone in the family over the age of six. Thus, I spoke and still speak French, primarily.

Back to Kaedi. One of the first things I noticed was the fact that there is no garbage disposal, and accordingly, 65% of land mass is covered in a delicate patina of trash. The second was that animals roam everywhere. Goats, cows, dogs, sheep, and donkeys all added to the aroma de vie. While they were probably the most effective force counteracting the encroachment of garbage across the landscape, just about anywhere you stepped was within a foot of some dismembered animal part: a hoof, a tail, a horn, etc. Anyway, if there's anything I've pointed out adequately before now, it's the litter situation. I'll assume you get the point; let's move on.

Q: Well, your life sounds like it was miserable.

A: It's all relative. My recollection focuses on miserable things because nothing forces itself to the forefront of one's consciousness like misery. Contentment is far more subtle, and there was plenty of that as well. I think one of the things to keep in mind while reading is that America is the zenith of comfortable existence, and it is my only frame of reference. Hence, everything is a step down. Even Paris struck me this way. And after a while, you learn to step over the trash, or wipe your ass with your hand, or choke down the goat brains. After a few weeks, you don't think twice about the bloated donkey carcass blocking traffic.

Contentment just isn't always as overt. Realizing that I was no longer bothered by the environment was contenting. Small breakthroughs in communication were contenting. Relationships with other people, volunteer or local, were contenting. This was contenting:



Hopefully, you get the idea.

Q: Alright fatty, anything else to add about Kaedi?

A: Yeah. I'd be remiss if I didn't toss this one up for you.



If you knew how many times John and I stood in the middle of those things singing Darude and doing the robot, you probably wouldn't be friends with me.

A note about the other trainees here. It's truly amazing how close you become with people who you've known for mere weeks when under these circumstances. For two and a half months the majority of us lived in various corners of Kaedi, spending much of our free time together. I had always looked at my move to Africa as a very personal and solitary experience, and up until now it has been shared with a number of others. And after those two and a half months are over, you've got new best friends who you're going to see all of three times a year, if at all. And if they ET - early termination - they just drop off the radar, as if you've never known them. It's all very bizarre.

Q: Let's get back to what you were actually doing. Aside from language classes, what did training entail?

A: Every few weeks we'd spend a couple days at the Lycee as a group, getting lectures and courses on medical issues, cross-cultural adaptation, security, and most importantly, our areas of expertise - in my case, teaching. For the latter group, everything culminated in a two week "model school," in which area students showed up for school in the summer. Considering the attendance record during the actual school year, I'm still not clear on how they got the kids to come. Each person taught a class each day while area teachers and other trainees critiqued them. I was blessed with fourth year English, which is the equivalent of eighth or ninth grade. I rule my class with an iron fist.

The end of model school basically coincided with the end of training. A couple of days later I packed up and said goodbye to my family, who I always regarded with a bit of detachment, but for whom I have infinite respect. My host father, who had returned home a couple of weeks before, bought me a Bubu (traditional Mauritanian garb) and called me Mauritanian, which was a pretty liberal call. Then we took photos, which appears to be the national pastime.



On September 8th, I was sworn in and officially became a Volunteer.

Q: So what now?

A: I was assigned to teach English at the Lycee in Nouadhibou, my new home for the next two years. Despite the fact that I specifically requested the harshest conditions possible, I was given the poshest assignment available in Mauritania. I have mixed feelings about this.

Nouadhibou is nice. It's situated on a peninsula on the northernmost portion of Mauritania's coast, and the economic capital of the country. It is a hub for the fishing and iron ore industries that keep this economy afloat, and home to a number of NGOs from Spain, France, and the Canary Islands. It has the Western amenities unavailable in the rest of the country, and I'm paid over twice as much as volunteers anywhere else in Mauritania. There is a bay in which dozens of ships have been abandoned, which is eerily beautiful. And as an added bonus, it actually gets cold during the winter.



However, I can't get over the sneaking suspicion that A) someone thought I couldn't handle a more difficult site (which have caused a couple of other volunteers to ET mere days after arrival), and that B) I'm missing out on the experience I thought I was signing up for. I'm definitely isolated from the rest of the volunteers, but I was in no way anticipating an urban existence. My ego has been stroked ad nauseam about why I've been sent here, but it just doesn't eliminate the hunch that I'm missing out.

Anyway, I've got a two bedroom apartment, which I'm sharing with Erin and Sam, a married couple who are the only other volunteers up here. They are staying with me until the veteran volunteer, Mark, moves back to the States at the end of October, at which point they will take his apartment. Erin has degrees in graphic design and education technology, and will be developing curriculum with the higher-ups in the Ministry of Education. Sam is a software engineer who will initially be working with a local technical school. They are interesting people, and I'm glad to be up here with them.

Q: So that's that, huh?

A: You got it, chief. I find out my schedule for the rest of the school year tomorrow. Oh, and Caro, in case you were worrying that I'm a total lard now, I've lost 22 lbs. Lucy, I got your package, and you are definitely in the lead on coolest thing received. Coming in a close second is the Beav with her graphic recollections of her life in 'Nam. My address remains the same for now, so please don't hesitate to send the following:

* Booze (Shipping glass is foolish. Put it in plastic.)
* Pictures
* Old war stories
* Articles about that guy from N'Sync coming out
* Powdered Gatorade
* Books (I prefer classics, but I'll read something new if you put your heart into the recommendation.)
* Cheap Aviators (As many as possible.)
* Music (See below.)

c/o John Langdon, PCV
Corps de la Paix, B.P. 222,
Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa

As for music, I've got an iPod and access to a computer, so it'd probably be best just to send things on a CD in MP3 format. I'm specifically interested in the following:

* The Mars Volta
* Pavement - Brighten the Corners
* Zero Zero
* Stan Getz
* Fela Kuti
* Benny Benassi - Satisfaction
* Tiesto - Delerium (Pat, I need this.)
* DJ Sets (House, D&B, breakbeat.)
* Tortoise
* Belle & Sebastian - Dear Catastrophe Waitress
* The Bronx

That's all I can think of for now. Pat, let me know what you're interested in sending, just because if it's not new within the last three months, I may have it.

That will be all.

[end transmission]

Daily routine

Setting: Early afternoon. The sun that pours through the window to my left has slowed to a trickle, no longer illuminating the floating dust that has driven me through an entire box of antihistamines in four days. As a reminder of exactly how filthy my apartment is, it pales in comparison to watching the evening breeze actually blow the dust into small piles across my floor.

Each morning as I lay on my matella, the only furniture in my room, I regard the microcosmic feats of gymnastics with about as much concern as a bedridden cancer patient watching his most recent visitor finish off a Marlboro Red and extinguish the butt in the tray that, an hour previous, contained his breakfast.

Get up. Gotta piss. I drag my finger along the doorframe of the bathroom. Palm-sized chunks of lead-based paint crackle and drop to the floor, suicide bombers in a war I didn't start and have no real urge to continue. They shatter on impact, adding reinforcements to the sand drifts at my feet. I'll clean up tomorrow.

Outside, the call to prayer is reminding me of what a bad Muslim I am. Aim, urinate. "Hi John." Somewhere in the Benadryl-induced haze of the past couple days I must have taught the dust to speak. "Hi," I write back.

Rindiao

Now that I have access to a connection capable of uploading pictures, I might as well show you where I spent the last three months. The photos are landscapes from a small village, called Rindiao, about 7 kilometers outside of Kaedi. Rob and I took a long walk one morning and spent a great day with the other volunteers training out there. I took these from the top of a small mountain lovingly named "Owls' Peak" by John and Pat (think rank owl caves).

Just a reminder

Yes, I'm still alive.

Upon my reluctant return from Nouadhibou, my new home for the next two years (this deserves a post of its own), I have discovered that the owner of the internet cafe has up and left for Nouakchott, and Kaedi has indeed become one notch crappier. In about a week and a half I will be at site, and this message will be moot.

Anyway, keep the love coming. I read it and become happy on the inside. I'll be back on in the time stated above, with pictures and maybe even movies. Nouadhibou has DSL.

Keep it utterly real.

Breakfast of champions

There was a storm yesterday afternoon. It didn't seem to last much longer than average, but it somehow managed to drop more water than I had yet to see. Within less than an hour, the tent under which I waited was an island.

Water has never really been much of an issue. I wasn't in New Orleans when nature made an entire city its bitch. I remember watching the relentless coverage with overwhelming detachment. The few people I knew who lived there had enough money and/or sense to leave, and in the end their belongings remained dry anyway.

Since I've been here, I've watched neighborhood after neighborhood be forcibly submerged. Wetness isn't really the primary issue when you watch kids playing in the newborn lakes filtering through enormous piles of trash and shit. I stepped out of my front gate to one of my first strikingly poignant scenes. The street in front had become a river, with a distinct stream of goat feces bobbing along like little black Corn Pops. Wading against the current was a girl no older than four, one ragged strap of her dress resting on her forearm, the other teetering precariously on her shoulder. Her fist was firmly in her mouth, and her eyes were set wide, as if she only observed, and processed nothing.

I went to get my camera and took a few subsequent pictures, but they're all fucked, because apparently the appearance of a camera sends out a subsonic signal to all children within a three mile radius to jump in front of me and punch each other until I futily cuss them out in English and put the damn thing away.

Anyway, I'm glad, because they would have turned out like a print ad for the Christian's Children Fund. The look on the girl's face said everything; she was utterly unaware through what she walked. Interpretation of the photo would have made her look like a victim, and she wasn't. Within minutes of the photo I was helping my host family dig a ditch to drain the yard, and ended up spending a disturbing amount of time in the same water. When we were finished, I removed my sandals and extracted the goat shit from between my toes.

The point? No one complained. Sometimes it rains, and them's the breaks. People old enough to know better busted their ass to avoid walking in that water. But they still throw their trash in the street and let animals roam wherever they please. And when it comes down to it, they'll go knee deep in that toilet of street if they have to. The poignant scene was striking because it was so matter of fact, not because it was sad and depressing. It was my first realization that not everyone believes so strongly in self-determination.

Moving on, it's going to be at least a week and a half before I'm back on here. In a day or two I'm finding out where I'll be serving for the next two years, and a day after that I'll be spending a week wherever fate tosses me. So someone send me an email or something.

Current easy listinin' keepin' me sane: BIG - Respect, Blonde Redhead - Messenger.

Cause your mom needs to know where she stands

Let me first state that I can't believe I've actually managed to get this posted.

Frustration is an integral part of daily life. If I didn't spend at least half of my time completely annoyed at the heat/mosquitos/flies/goats/donkeys/children/overall quality of life, I'd probably be kind of bored. Anyway, I've resolved to attempt to do this a little more often, so please, don't give up on the blog yet.

It's been a jarring month, and I'm at a bit of a loss as to where to begin describing it. I feel as though everything requires, at the very least, a preliminary description of my environment, but I've got over 20 pages of written material, mostly just explaining the animals around here. Thus, I'm going to keep it topical and leave the in depth diatribes for future posts.

We are one with nature here. Life is dictated by its whims, and it's an aspect of existence that I hadn't really fully considered before my arrival. During the just over a month that I've been here, I estimate that I've spent a collective 6 to 7 hours indoors. I sleep outdoors, take language classes outdoors, bathe outdoors, and generally spend about 5 minutes a day changing my clothes inside. Houses double as ovens, as the heat absorbed by the mud walls during the days seeps out in a hot, languid ether of discomfort.

I'm about halfway through my training, in a small city called Kaedi, next to the Senegal river. It being the rainy season, we are blessed two or three times a week with a veritable deluge. Watching the thunderstorms and sandstorms literally roll over the landscape and overcome everything in their path will instill the fear of God in anyone. Unlike the storms I saw in the states, in which the sky just turns kind of gray and drizzles turn gradually into downpours, the storms here can be seen from miles away. They are preempted by a gorgeous, nonstop display of lightning.

Let's see. I managed to get what some people were calling dysentary, and I shit blood for a few days. That's a good time.

For my birthday I ate a sandwich, and I consider it one of the best birthdays I've ever had.

Some of my better friends here are a married couple. Their family has a slave.

Got some mail from Katie. A reply is slowly creeping through the Mauritanian mail system. Please send, because I've got plenty of time to reply to everyone.

My Hassiniya is still terrible, but it's coming. Otherwise, I speak French almost all the time. At the very least I'll come back fluent in something.

And I'm not going to try my luck much farther than that. Keep the comments coming, because I devour them. Questions are welcome, and I'm going to try to return tomorrow with a more substantial post on a smaller topic.

Keep it real. Cause I have no choice over here.

Cuddlehands

It's late and I can't really sleep, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to make a few shout-outs. Tomorrow, before I leave and while I'm feeling a bit more enterprising, I will give a report on my weight (total fatty) and skin color, assuming that there is some kind of quantifiable measurement for how little melanin I possess. In the event that such a quantification is unavailable, I will probably make tired metaphors involving snow and/or Sean Patrick Flanery. Then, on the off chance that I actually update this thing for two and a quarter years, I will have a marketable new diet and an explanation for the dinner plate-sized tumor growing out of my back.

Last night was the blowout it was supposed to be, which means that I have no idea what happened and I didn't really say any final goodbyes to anyone. I kind of like the idea of glossing over the fairly standard farewell histrionics, but I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't feel as though something weren't complete. The number one question I've received is are you nervous?/what's on your mind? By sheer repetition I've become convinced that I'm supposed to be well within the grips of a new found profundity, but the truth is somewhat underwhelming. I'd love to well up some tears and tell people that I'll think of them constantly, but, while true, that isn't really my speed. I was going to list all the specific names of everyone I feel as though I'm leaving, but I'd undoubtedly forget someone. So Matt, thank God you're finally going to be free of that restaurant, and John, Alexis was a delightful lady - an absolute lady.

To the four immediate members of the Miller family, I'll stand with Tim on the legitimacy of our relations. I really do consider you a surrogate family. Dysfunctional, with a tortured history of domestic violence and addiction problems, but a loving family nonetheless.

So that's that. When I sat down to write this, I thought there'd be a bit more blubbering, but I'll spare you. I'm going to miss everyone more than they likely realize, and definitely more than I implied. Knowing that I'll eventually return to a bunch of reprobates-turned-productive members of society gives me a warm feeling in the chest region. Although that could be cancer.

Japan vows to cure world of crippling whale epidemic

More info here.

Personally, the conservation of biodiversity seems about as relevant as a one point extra credit problem at the end of a 400 page exam on quantum theory.

In other news of questionable importance, I remain subject to Western culture for one more week, during which time there will be a brief trip to central PA and a final blowout in DC. If you're reading this (ha.), I want to see you.

Again, I promise more substantive posting in the near future.

Color me: Created.

Welcome to our primary means of communication. Stateside for two more weeks, and then off to Mauritania. More to come.