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.