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.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
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:
*
*
*
*
*
*
*vivid dreams, nightmares
*
*
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.
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