tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-295760662024-03-07T15:44:07.903+08:00Dirt 'n SandStill movin'J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.comBlogger73125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-88492920378632276402008-12-28T16:16:00.003+08:002008-12-28T16:20:38.211+08:00Class 5<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0owuJVW9TCuMpRcu_zC3Hp4Sb46d0AfBd3gbgcT4EJy1hsalUKM4O1LrcYHOVceJIN5XlAFHad4ILza5xtYsA2EpYhfIjpi0nrdXKKDYnceiNndb6G0b9Ifkt1Q7_5SiQCdTF6A/s1600-h/Class+5+%26+John.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0owuJVW9TCuMpRcu_zC3Hp4Sb46d0AfBd3gbgcT4EJy1hsalUKM4O1LrcYHOVceJIN5XlAFHad4ILza5xtYsA2EpYhfIjpi0nrdXKKDYnceiNndb6G0b9Ifkt1Q7_5SiQCdTF6A/s400/Class+5+%26+John.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284752319991044834" /></a>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-45757622711325666772008-12-21T19:19:00.000+08:002008-12-21T19:20:08.574+08:00Heya!<a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7794299.stm">Freeeeeeeeedoooooooooom!</a>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-24738367462144848712008-12-20T18:43:00.003+08:002008-12-20T19:21:53.877+08:00Last I studied, "S" wasn't part of the GDP formula<a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/print/200812/fallows-chinese-banker">Sobering</a><br /><br /><a href=" http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/tv/news/chinese-classical-poem-was-brothel-ad-1058031.html">Simmering!</a>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-2158657463635417092008-12-13T16:41:00.003+08:002008-12-14T00:55:40.004+08:00Wish list<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkE3AFu4DwyuxugbVYGXPamq4PhhvTxNSOHoR41y0oZVEgkdRyF9RkQCt0XjNtJJurs5P0sBi8KuENydTmoj5U_ausO9x3_ik1qs5_jd8u5Mww64Cvdg9Wn6GYpKFKYwqagSr4rw/s1600-h/P1030787.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkE3AFu4DwyuxugbVYGXPamq4PhhvTxNSOHoR41y0oZVEgkdRyF9RkQCt0XjNtJJurs5P0sBi8KuENydTmoj5U_ausO9x3_ik1qs5_jd8u5Mww64Cvdg9Wn6GYpKFKYwqagSr4rw/s400/P1030787.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5279192358257759282" /></a><br /><br />Wellp, I've got a <a href="http://www.bhphotovideo.com/c/product/582791-REG/Apple_MB562LL_A_iPod_classic_120GB_Silver_.html">gift idea</a>. F.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-50232481382671077342008-12-12T17:44:00.004+08:002008-12-12T20:36:41.277+08:00The tortoiseThings I have eaten:<br /><br />Sparrow heads (beak on)<br />Bee larva<br />Cow vagina<br />Bull penis and testes<br />Duck head (halved)<br />Frogs (whole, skinned)<br />Sheep brain<br />Dog (skin on, bone in)<br />Milk<br /><br />This, of course, doesn't include all manner of organ meat. I've accepted both liver and intestine (cow and pig, respectively) as acceptable meals in the absence of a suitable alternative, though stomach and lung (cow/chicken and horse, respectively) are still completely unpalatable.<br /><br />Basically, I've really surprised myself at what I'll eat. I have, apparently, also surprised many locals. Upon receiving my declaration of openness to culinary abortions, I have been regaled with tales of literal abortions hitting the dinner plates in Guangdong province. That, and monkey brains, fresh from the open skull of a live creature, held down while boiling water is applied through a newly drilled hole. Hmm, perhaps I'll draw the line soooommmmeewheere.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bWNqfTj_AQBWOIk_C9iOBmz9zOliOqsu97YlYSuOkp_IYQQr7_LTCjwu3bXeQyadvWStxhBfDjDVhm5bhNOTZ8zavL2hoCCK9vbyyGakXdD-Eih74JGL0dnfwLX-05D73oBCaw/s1600-h/P1030697.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4bWNqfTj_AQBWOIk_C9iOBmz9zOliOqsu97YlYSuOkp_IYQQr7_LTCjwu3bXeQyadvWStxhBfDjDVhm5bhNOTZ8zavL2hoCCK9vbyyGakXdD-Eih74JGL0dnfwLX-05D73oBCaw/s400/P1030697.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278881006364626354" /></a>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-91399570180750314732008-05-18T21:16:00.001+08:002008-05-18T21:19:31.724+08:00I broke my left index fingerThree weeks ago. Who knew?J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-29579359132998627402008-02-28T23:25:00.001+08:002008-02-28T23:27:57.902+08:00The challenge continuesFour days down. I'm hungry. And considering beer costs 1000 ougiya, or two days' allowance, booze is out. Livin' like the locals!J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-77378661012100309622008-02-27T03:49:00.002+08:002008-02-27T03:53:51.663+08:00The millenium challengeSo in the name of experimentation and saving a few bucks, I'm going to attempt to live like the locals do. Which means I'm going to try to spend no more than 500 ougiya a day (not counting rent). That's about two bucks, and I think I can do it. How long can he last, you ask? Dunno. We're aiming for two weeks right now.<br /><br />This includes two meals: pasta with fully vegetable sauce (about four tomatoes, an onion, a pepper, some garlic, and some tomato paste), and scrambled eggs (protein). And wagers on how long I can do this?J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-83838282800754244342008-02-24T23:13:00.002+08:002008-02-25T00:15:10.696+08:00Updates updates updatesSo I'm back from Dakar, where I coached PC Mauritania's second string softball team at the West African Invitational Softball Tournament (WAIST). Despite my vast qualification, it was a learning experience, but I'm glad to report that the Swashbucklers won one game, effectively improving last year's winning record by infinity percent. What.<br /><br />As for the more significant news, I'm going to China. I wanted to refrain from discussing anything, because if I've learned anything from two years in this place, it's to not trust that anything will happen until it's already halfway done. And I haven't heard anything beyond "you're in." Seeing that dingy sparkle of skepticism in my eye during a brief visit to NKT, my country director assured me that it is indeed 100%. So now I'll pass on what I know, which isn't much.<br /><br />I found out that PC China (which is actually not PC China, but the America-China Friendship League of Happiness, or something) was interested in English teachers with a few years experience abroad and a Master's degree, among other things. Since I qualified for all points demanded except the degree, I thought I'd toss my name into the pool of candidates. Somewhat surprisingly, I was chosen. And so, for the next two years, I will live in a city in Western China, teaching as a university professor.<br /><br />My job will consist of teaching university level English, including literature and American culture courses. My students will be future English teachers themselves, the implicit respect and motivation for education being one of the major draws to me. <br /><br />This is very much still in the air, but I will tentatively return to the States around the end of May/beginning of June for a month before shipping out again on July 1st. And that, my friends, is basically everything I know. I suppose at some point in the near future I could discuss my feelings, reasons, etc. etc. if there seems to be any interest. Otherwise, plan on being free in June. I want to see you.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-61484869077610759352008-02-06T23:03:00.000+08:002008-02-06T23:07:13.133+08:00Perhaps I'll change the name of this blogI'm moving to China. I'll return to talk about my feelings when I regain control of large swaths of my brain and bodily functions. That will be all.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-21747624707228260412008-01-30T21:12:00.000+08:002008-01-30T22:58:03.264+08:00TabaskiHello. Camera dump time, which means you get to sodomize your brains with images of my Muslim holiday fun. But don't let such rapid updates either lull you into a sense of any kind of regularity here, or distract you from the questions posed yesterday. So look at the cute children, then check that warm, golden feeling with an image of a skinned goat head.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oQKJsfLaMU5YuAJV10WczQnfmx6aqHqx9D5Icv6RjexFJRbRvD_Wrhxyx6HjxiapEXRjy88o-n9f4DlBgtC7aJ5Fv14dCwsCFj0BXzWd6QoVDoeQRwjNALBIwNqJ9a7ACdkfRA/s1600-h/Preparation+1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oQKJsfLaMU5YuAJV10WczQnfmx6aqHqx9D5Icv6RjexFJRbRvD_Wrhxyx6HjxiapEXRjy88o-n9f4DlBgtC7aJ5Fv14dCwsCFj0BXzWd6QoVDoeQRwjNALBIwNqJ9a7ACdkfRA/s320/Preparation+1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161272520497418722" border="0" /></a>The death and the skinning.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EAJGPKdurQnFxrFS42bkjRDeZeTJKHHl6xmeAhf81Dq4qSCIFkBtsAgNDYWgTP__PrC7Somaq9Bm-JHax6w0uEKjl4qJZSqKcPE_HtgqwzNtchEZOYT9iCvMhua5nE5eesOxOw/s1600-h/Preparation+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8EAJGPKdurQnFxrFS42bkjRDeZeTJKHHl6xmeAhf81Dq4qSCIFkBtsAgNDYWgTP__PrC7Somaq9Bm-JHax6w0uEKjl4qJZSqKcPE_HtgqwzNtchEZOYT9iCvMhua5nE5eesOxOw/s320/Preparation+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161272816850162162" border="0" /></a>On the glorious blimp to the heavens.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_95AIItAPF9R8cphD7coQn4ndVXRq8rj26Cps7rqDxWHSZjkylnx7yx8dQ7Ji4aU05mBli5PnTrhcAL59bw1ZzeXQZX2jZYk1jkFJPeG4NIadUc_LvnVApeS7sHzVCsGOb2JGQ/s1600-h/Preparation+3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_95AIItAPF9R8cphD7coQn4ndVXRq8rj26Cps7rqDxWHSZjkylnx7yx8dQ7Ji4aU05mBli5PnTrhcAL59bw1ZzeXQZX2jZYk1jkFJPeG4NIadUc_LvnVApeS7sHzVCsGOb2JGQ/s320/Preparation+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161273173332447746" border="0" /></a>Or, perhaps, not so much.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWKwfHzgyrXyzlPT2Pi4S-iQ4lLkv9Uo_UuiS3MoIoNWM62F9dgWHQRe1jbk5CQ0ztpRQ0P36l59sVdrft7VmnRFX6iOqQAsnLchM7GZ_h9HjF2AHZiToLZX11o-yd1H7xm0ijQ/s1600-h/The+Meal.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKWKwfHzgyrXyzlPT2Pi4S-iQ4lLkv9Uo_UuiS3MoIoNWM62F9dgWHQRe1jbk5CQ0ztpRQ0P36l59sVdrft7VmnRFX6iOqQAsnLchM7GZ_h9HjF2AHZiToLZX11o-yd1H7xm0ijQ/s320/The+Meal.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161273542699635218" border="0" /></a>Said goat, approximately three hours later.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="350" width="425"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/TYIhqSVkHUw"> <embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/TYIhqSVkHUw" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="350" width="425"></embed> </object><div style="text-align: center;">Video, of the meal! More cute children!<br /></div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnVwzI908TwiReZ7gWbgH0yKyCe4kuVqz1bgtub3LjNwrz7-zrjraQb82oaBlwAQ6QZwHpK2qTAYv4qk9Fw2hxk4zZZTs3jXVMcKjmKnFifWR6QWi1riNM5lu31ph6b3sNNy-1w/s1600-h/The+Meal+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRnVwzI908TwiReZ7gWbgH0yKyCe4kuVqz1bgtub3LjNwrz7-zrjraQb82oaBlwAQ6QZwHpK2qTAYv4qk9Fw2hxk4zZZTs3jXVMcKjmKnFifWR6QWi1riNM5lu31ph6b3sNNy-1w/s320/The+Meal+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161275522679558706" border="0" /></a>Ousmane's sister-in-law, her daughter, Ousmane, and his wife.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GRHBRSiAwokA0kozN8XlyY8RxFxTEqHjvmJXbd4u6IZlqWajhBqnwM7DcZmICfXOeJ8GX8GHBEraBz8JZ7t7InI0zHAdnpGqAQos-FYdBR0PEVBYXRT_eG_yv7IJjdBKf8n5Vg/s1600-h/Leftovers.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7GRHBRSiAwokA0kozN8XlyY8RxFxTEqHjvmJXbd4u6IZlqWajhBqnwM7DcZmICfXOeJ8GX8GHBEraBz8JZ7t7InI0zHAdnpGqAQos-FYdBR0PEVBYXRT_eG_yv7IJjdBKf8n5Vg/s320/Leftovers.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5161276261413933634" border="0" /></a>The next day's meal. I went to NKT and ate a hamburger.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">So that's that. While you were caroling in a winter wonderland, we kept a goat on our balcony until is was coated in poop and pee (balcony, goat), then killed it and ate it. Merry Tabaski.<br /></div></div></div></div>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-42596686043815282012008-01-29T22:47:00.000+08:002008-01-30T22:52:09.263+08:00Your turn to postGlaring cultural differences. Couple questions/observations deserving comment. Your chance to post for me!<br /><br />1. The secretary's wife in a particular private school here died suddenly and unexpectedly during childbirth; a tragedy by any stretch. School was canceled so that teachers could pay their respects. I sparked the ire of my roommate, a teacher at said school, by telling him that, while I by no means intended to be callous, it seems to me that canceling school because of the death of an administrator's family member was rather neglectful of the students. It also reinforced the notion that education is secondary to the whims of whoever's in charge. That was about an hour ago, and he does not appear to be pleased with me, but I stand by my opinion.<br /><br />2. A certain white guy (not this one) was walking near my old apartment, and happened upon a man screaming at and attempting to force a woman holding a child into a taxi. The driver was at the wheel, attempting to hurry the resisting woman by occasionally rolling forward. The white guy, calling upon the noble gods of noble nobility, stepped in, grabbed the wheel through the window to indicate that the driver was to stop, and attempted to separate the others with his remaining hand. Meanwhile, he had his companion call the police. A crowd, previously disregarding the event, gathered as soon as the white man became involved. When the police arrived, the woman relented, literally tossed the infant at the driver, then climbed in the car herself. All parties went their separate direction. I stumbled upon the inevitable showdown a couple nights later, in which the local man warned the white guy that, should he ever get involved with something like that again, he and his friends would come and kill him. He then turned the situation into one of religious polarization, claiming this country to be Muslim (directly implying a connection between Islam and a lack of women's rights) and not like the white guy's Christian home. Thankfully, the argument went no further.<br /><br />I later told the white man that, having only been in NDB for about two months at that point, he had better reconsider blind displays of moral superiority. There was no possible good ending to the situation, but by getting involved in what was clearly a domestic dispute (a fact that would have been obvious with a bit more experience here), the whole altercation became East vs. West, Muslim vs. Christian. Furthermore, the woman was far more likely to be beaten later because of his intervention, and the chances that the police would get involved in her favor were slim to nil. This was about six months ago, and I maintain that his response was wrong, lacked foresight, and was generally just kind of cowboyish. Anyone agree, disagree?J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-47017673392069080332008-01-19T02:03:00.000+08:002008-01-19T02:27:50.010+08:00Sheer terrorI promised a post.<br /><br />So a French family was gunned down along Mauritania's main road, followed by the murders of some gendarmes in the north. Al Queda in the Islamic Maghreb has claimed responsibility for these acts of "terrorism," though they appear to be nothing more than amateurish, cold-blooded murders. Two of those responsible for the tourist slaying were caught in, and extradited from, Guinea-Bissau.<br /><br />Several months ago, a handful of terrorism suspects were arrested and detained in NKT. They were eventually released because, according to my roommate, Mauritania did not want to spark the ire of al Queda. Now, according to my roommate, they have discovered that at least two of the people involved in the recent garbage were among that earlier group.<br /><br />This has affected my life only so far as an increased number of police/gendarme checkpoints which take about four times longer to clear. My faith in authority here, as per recent experiences, is scraping bottom. And for the small handful who have not heard the story, several weeks ago the police attempted to arrest me twice in one night.<br /><br />Okay, the short version. My sitemates ET'ed (early termination), and we went out to celebrate on their final night here. We got a bit sauced at the Chinese restaurant, grabbed a bag of beer to go, and eventually left. Mere steps out of the restaurant, a shitty black sedan pulled up next to me, and a gendarme jumped out, ripped the bag out of my hand, and demanded to know its contents. Everyone else kept walking. Before I could answer, he told me to get in his car. He hadn't even looked in the bag. I laughed, told him there was no way I was going anywhere with him, and proceeded to tell him to give me my bag. He acted dumbfounded at my lack of acquiescence, repeated his demand, and again I laughed and told him to give me my bag. He called backup, and I found myself surrounded by three screaming men in military garb. I continued to laugh at all of them, and in retrospect, I'm slightly amazed that no one touched me. I called my director, told him I was being arrested, and handed the phone to the ranking officer. After a moment, he took the call privately in his truck, and the other two still-screaming men suddenly shut up. I started to ask where the problem had gone in Hassaniya. They ended up giving my bag back.<br /><br />The second incident was even less. Me and another guy were walking a girl home around 3:00 in the morning. Admittedly, we were being a bit loud, but respect for silence is nonexistent here. A gendarme appeared out of nowhere and grabbed the other guy's wrist. He demanded we come with him to the police station, so the guy ripped his arm from the gendarme's grip and we laughed and kept walking. The gendarme screamed "CIA dogs" at us all the way down the block.<br /><br />About 50% of the time I'm in a gregarious mood, and quite tolerant of the incredible amount of unnecessary bullshit and rudeness you receive on a daily basis. The other 50% of the time I carry a bit of a chip. I have a tendency to explode on people where at one point I would have walked away. I've spent over a year doing the hypersensitive cultural thing, in which one defaults all tense situations to personal error. But now, when someone gives me a shitty, taped, stapled 200um bill and refuses to accept the exact same bill the next day, I blow up so loudly and immediately that the argument is over before it began. It has made me enemies, and it has made me friends. And I find I'm more often treated with the respect that white people, as a rule, are not.<br /><br />Hmmm. Not to sound bitter. I feel the need to add the disclaimer, "But I really don't hate this place," to most of my correspondence recently. And it's true; I don't. There are particularly good moments, like being sandwiched between two Moors in the front seat of a Mercedes sedan containing seven adults on a five hour trip through the desert, trying to name all the states in the US with the two guys flanking me while sharing my iPod with the driver, who speeds up noticeably to Justin Timberlake while attempting to sing along to a language in which he knows four words. But I'm more often surprised by poor behavior than especially nice behavior, which makes me think that I still have faith in the general good nature of people.<br /><br />Allow me to end the ramblings with the promise of more structured post to come, and a shout-out to Kim C., who appeared from what seems like a previous life to brighten my inbox. Also, I've applied for a job in China.<br /><br />There you go, Kyle.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-20332707977873279552007-12-12T21:35:00.000+08:002007-12-12T23:45:16.284+08:00See alsoJust to clarify, reference points for the Overall Riot Rating scale are as follows:<br /><br />10 - Reginald Denny<br />1 - Dakota Fanning<br /><br />Also, please see Isaac Fitzgerald's new website, in which he solicits money to go dance for democracy in the jungle or something. Link is to your right, or you can be lazy and just click here: <a href="http://www.isaacfitzgerald.com/">http://www.isaacfitzgerald.com</a><br /><br />Finally, I went to Europe a few months ago. It was excellent. Here is a photo from Lisbon.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOaRM76AtrBWHl6Gu-EatrbvkVRSTwyXGA6koq98o-waIcGUFcuqnS05boOT9MlbUuLogF71d-O3hxrkeyChRr9Ve5KmndrvPAeMLSrbqBlfMvOcbnFXhOrS0WrSeMwONI9EeZCA/s1600-h/DSCN3988.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOaRM76AtrBWHl6Gu-EatrbvkVRSTwyXGA6koq98o-waIcGUFcuqnS05boOT9MlbUuLogF71d-O3hxrkeyChRr9Ve5KmndrvPAeMLSrbqBlfMvOcbnFXhOrS0WrSeMwONI9EeZCA/s320/DSCN3988.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143082309347785986" border="0" /></a>Gui Boratto - Chromophobia<br /></div>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-85948673607873031752007-12-08T23:14:00.001+08:002007-12-11T23:12:50.470+08:00Third world product reviews - Mauritanian Tear Gas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCl-TdXS67OmcX5-BdiMPqQOJneINgiJWp0n2zW3MaTra0S-D-vnUh26t3LdiC4_3ZE7Mqxt9slMEHevjGtlnA8mSbiWLUmgf8AqoEtQg7rKOqwgLI_AoA-VhaeJrQ5mdo7TXXA/s1600-h/TWPR+-+Tear+Gas.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCl-TdXS67OmcX5-BdiMPqQOJneINgiJWp0n2zW3MaTra0S-D-vnUh26t3LdiC4_3ZE7Mqxt9slMEHevjGtlnA8mSbiWLUmgf8AqoEtQg7rKOqwgLI_AoA-VhaeJrQ5mdo7TXXA/s200/TWPR+-+Tear+Gas.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5141622076301720818" border="0" /></a>Gorgeous scents of blackberries, truffles, damp earth, and choke. Opens up on the palate with an absorbing, chewy mouthfeel, and follows with notes of oak, chocolate, and tears. Though effective, probably can not stand up to its international competitors. Still, keep an eye out for this one in 10 years!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Race. </span>About two months ago, I had the opportunity to visit Cap Blanc, the northernmost boundary of the Banc d'Arguin national park on the southernmost tip of the Nouadhibou peninsula. It's slightly less than 20 kilometers from town, but involves about 10 kilometers of fairly rough off-road driving, so offered a spot in a 4x4, I took it. The area we visited is downwind of the SNIM port, Mauritanian iron ore's gateway to the world, so the sand and rocks looked nearly identical to images of Martian landscapes. Home to seaside cliffs, an old lighthouse, an enormous scuppered ship and the world's last remaining monk seals, the trip was well worth it. Of course, on the way back to town, when I regained network coverage and immediately weathered a deluge of calls from around the country demanding information on the race riots that I had apparently missed, I suddenly didn't really care if those goddamn seals got sucked backwards through a jet engine while being clubbed to death by pregnant teenagers. F.<br /><br />So, this is the story. A white Moor woman went to a black Moor butcher, and asked him how fresh his meat was (insert punchline). He claimed it had been butchered that day. Being the wary customer that any third world market demands, she smelled the meat, which highly offended the butcher. He yelled at her, she yelled back, and the whole exchange degraded into a screaming match which I'm sure looked not unlike every other interaction I witness in this country. And then the butcher slapped the woman, in the face, with meat. I imagine this is somewhat similar to the fateful beginnings of the Burr-Hamilton duel.<br /><br />The woman's husband had some connection with the gendarme, so when she cried "foul," four marines came to the butcher's shop, beat the living shit out of the man, and tossed him in jail. Livid that he had not been read his Miranda rights, the butcher demanded to see the police commissioner. It was a Saturday, and he was told that the commissioner would not be in until Monday, so the marines let the man go. Come Monday, the butcher returned to the police station with friends, several brandishing meat cleavers because, hey, a respectable butcher never confronts authority without large, sharp evidence of his career choice. The police would not let the man's posse into the compound (one can only speculate on their reasons), so they milled angrily on the street out front. Over time, they were joined by friends and rabble rousers, mostly black Moor.<br /><br />No one is sure what instigated the first act of violence, but rocks eventually became airborne. The gendarmes responded by throwing them back. (Sam and Erin have video of the gendarme's tendency to fight fire with fire, but are still working on getting it into a net-friendly format). From there, people dragged furniture, tires, and trash into the street and started a bonfire in the main intersection of town. One volunteer saw multiple cars being driven by white Moors which had had windows smashed. At least one shop was broken into, and minor looting ensued. But by the time I got to town, the only evidence of any of it was the deserted main road, save a few police. At one point on my walking tour of the aftermath, the wind changed direction and my face suddenly exploded into tears, which was the high point of the whole thing.<br /><br />Reflecting upon the incident, people around here almost universally point to a couple of things. The first is that the riot and subsequent looting occurred mere days before Eid, the celebration that marks the end of Ramadan. It's kind of like the Christmas season, because there are certain financial obligations expected of people; money was tight, and people saw an opportunity. The second is that the racial aspects really only existed between black and white Moors. African blacks (Pulaar, Wolof, Soninke, etc.) didn't really come into the mix, which is a blessing. Had that occurred, the unrest could have potentially spread beyond Nouadhibou. The country is still mopping up its mess from the events of 1989, and no one wants a reprisal. According to a journalist friend, the press even exercised a silent, self-imposed moratorium on stories about the event. Last I heard, the woman, the man, and the 4 marines were all in jail awaiting review. But it's been a while, and I think it's very safe to assume that there were few, if any, repercussions for anyone's actions.<br /><br />Overall riot rating: 4/10<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Money.</span> More recently, the whole country experienced a spate of riots in response to the climbing prices of almost all market goods, as well as gas. They reportedly began in a town called Kankossa, which is in the south of the country. The story that I heard was that a high school student was killed when gendarmes fired their weapons into the air in an effort to disperse rioters. A bullet descended and killed a kid. Now, I don't know if any of you have ever caught "Mythbusters" on A&E, but of the one episode I think I've ever watched, they disproved the idea that a stray bullet descending from the heavens could have enough force to kill anyone. My call based on my collected experiences with gendarmes in this country is that, while exercising more restraint than counterparts in several other neighboring countries, they consider themselves above the law, and go out of their way to protect their own. Just sayin'.<br /><br />On my way to a cybercafe one morning, I noticed an enormous crowd gathering at Carrefour Cansado, the place to grab taxis and start riots. It was roughly noon, and most of the people were young, so I assumed that school had let out and there was a natural rush for taxis. I continued to my destination, but was kicked out of the place within minutes. I went outside and watched, while students greeted me. Eventually, the crowd grew to a few hundred, and began to move down the street towards the mayor's office. Finally aware of what was about to happen, I took up a post at the corner of a building just off the intersection and waited. Soon enough, pickup trucks arrived with gendarmes piled more than a dozen to a bed. The game seemed obvious enough to me. The kids ran from the police because the police chased them, and the police chased because they ran. The occasional rock was thrown, but mostly, it was just wind sprints around the block.<br /><br />Finally, I heard a *foom* and found myself within feet of a freshly discharged tear gas disk (canister? puck? saltlick?). And I stood there listening to Final Fantasy on my iPod while I became enveloped in vaguely yellow clouds. The crassness of the cultural divide was not lost on me. I embraced it. But the gas was weak, and frankly, disappointing. Some kids tore around my corner and ran down the alley behind me, towards my house. The police were not immediate in chasing them, and I silently lauded their realization that it was an infinite, pointless loop, until a sizable piece of concrete landed suspiciously close to my back. I turned around, and the police sped past me while the kids disappeared into my alley.<br /><br />I thought I had witnessed the pinnacle of excitement, and was considering returning home when several pickups skidded to a halt in the middle of Carrefour Cansado. Gendarmes poured out of the back of them and indiscriminately started beating and arresting anyone standing around. I was far enough away to not be particularly worried about my own wellbeing, but I got a good show of police with batons beating the crap out of people that didn't really look like they deserved it. And after they had tossed a few hapless victims into the back of their trucks, they disappeared up the road. I went home with my expired souvenir.<br /><br />My first riot left me with a cheap feeling. It was incredibly dumb, ostensibly over increasing commodity prices that the whole world is experiencing and the government can do little to constructively control. And no one bothered making a point. You gleaned the origins from bystanders, but the actual rioters consisted mainly of high school aged boys running from wildly overaggresive police. No signs, no chants, just teenagers sprinting with insane smiles plastered across their faces, as if this was the most fun they had had in ages. Sadly, it probably was.<br /><br />This was all over a month ago, but fallout continues in NDB. Apparently, while chasing students past the high school at which I work, the gendarmes fell upon two unfortunate teachers who had happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They administered a good beating and then departed. My administration immediately went to the governor to demand retribution, and was told that the matter would be handled as soon as the rioting died down - they didn't want to anger the military when they needed them most. Well, the riots have long since died down, and representatives of the school had a meeting with the governor on Monday, in which, according to a fellow teacher, they were told to "fuck off" in so many words. And so, like every story in recent history, this is culminating in yet another day off from school, as there will be a citywide educational walkout, public and private, in support of the teachers who were beaten. Will this bring results? Judging from the way things have been going, probably just another riot.<br /><br />Overall riot rating: 3/10J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-59307476610363515132007-11-27T21:17:00.000+08:002007-11-27T21:58:35.899+08:00General gripesBecause nothing endears a reader like long periods of absence followed by complaining.<br /><br />Today I went to school, and the gates were locked. It is "Teacher Unity Day," a holiday seemingly arbitrarily created about a week ago, and in keeping with the standard operating procedure, no one told the white guy. While I like a day off as much as the next global citizen, my classes still have yet to gel, and made-up holidays don't really grease the wheels of a well-run educational system. Tomorrow is Mauritanian Independence Day, which also means no school.<br /><br />The election of a brand new president came with the predictable appointment of brand new ministers. This includes the minister of education, who promptly excited the country with talks of wide! ranging! reforms! Classes would be capped at 45 students. New materials would be available to students and teachers alike. The antediluvian (thanks Sam!) system of separating students along essentially racial lines will be discarded in favor of a mixed French/Arabic education. And school will start at full speed on the day it is supposed to.<br /><br />Well. They handed out some snazzy papers on nice card stock in which teachers were to record all info about their students. But two months into school, I still can't come up with a class list, for several reasons. The first is that they are still shuffling schedules, which means I've constantly got new students. Second, each student is assigned a number by the school, but many of my students don't know or have yet to receive their own. Third, the education system has failed these children so greatly that more than a handful of students in each of my classes (I teach the equivalent of junior year in high school) <span style="font-style: italic;">does not know how to spell his/her name</span>. Sure, my students are taught in Arabic, but one would think that by 18 years old they'd have a handle on the transliterated version of their own name. For example, I've got one student who has spelled his name Tidjani, Tigane, Tigone, and Tysoni. Paired with the penmanship of a 5 year old and shifting numbers, I spend about an hour each week for each class just trying to keep track of attendance and grades.<br /><br />One of my classes was eliminated a week or two into the school year, and the students distributed to other classes. A couple of weeks ago, the class was resurrected. When I went the following week to start class, I found that it had been eliminated again. And of course, I find all of this out from the students standing around, smoking outside of the empty room.<br /><br />My classes all have over 50 students. The new materials consist of one empty notebook per class. Students are still being divided by Arabic and French language ability, and they wonder why there were race riots here a couple weeks ago. And of course, school started two weeks later than intended, and I still have new students every week.<br /><br />The president and minister of education came to NDB a few weeks ago. They repainted the entire high school and half the town in an effort to impress. The minister stayed for less than 48 hours, neglected to visit any schools, and failed to even meet with the local minister of education - basically the equivalent of the superintendent for our city. She has promised compensation to all teachers for the inhalation of chalk dust to the tune of 15,000 ougiya per month, to be paid in one lump sum at the end of the year. That is a huge sum of money. My roommate is skeptical that it will actually come.<br /><br />There are simple and obvious answers to these problems. Registration and scheduling should be done at the end of the previous school year and during the summer. Instead of dropping money on a few meaningless supplies to every school that will inevitably be ignored within days of their arrival, they should train people in the implementation of real administrative reforms and send them around to oversee changes within the schools.<br /><br />But, of course, that means the people at the top would actually have to give a shit about their work.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-87643334016203819282007-10-27T20:43:00.000+08:002007-10-27T20:47:53.766+08:00Let's start a roll, slowlyRecent news:<br /><ol><li>Went to Europe. Had a good time.<br /></li><li>School started. Now I teach, but barely.<br /></li><li>Race riots in NDB. Tear gassy.</li></ol>I got photos, so patience. PATIENCE.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-75953879714363478152007-10-22T01:13:00.000+08:002007-10-22T01:14:56.011+08:00RevelationsFor the last year I have been eating beef almost nightly. Turns out, it was camel. Hmm.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-22497122403840835422007-09-06T02:09:00.000+08:002007-09-06T02:28:26.024+08:00Got some photos hereJust some random stuff from the past couple of weeks. Wanted to get something up before I leave for the grand European vacation. The site will be back at full strength upon my return.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-rdTNA2Tq8BXtc_9Z1zOjzJhDUCdUIowDCD3mAxl4zM83rL1E_5khwKrEnXiiAl6N0b59kQHI6DYPSQ14V9hgkjtXlhsqJWTA8fM3ztWUByE9opy2GWlXf19J273TDu9UljVuA/s1600-h/Demonstration.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-rdTNA2Tq8BXtc_9Z1zOjzJhDUCdUIowDCD3mAxl4zM83rL1E_5khwKrEnXiiAl6N0b59kQHI6DYPSQ14V9hgkjtXlhsqJWTA8fM3ztWUByE9opy2GWlXf19J273TDu9UljVuA/s320/Demonstration.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106785580429032194" border="0" /></a>NDB has demonstrations. I never manage to notice anymore.<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEita35itVPHRBeGqZgCLITG0uK5chHgBqb681kY-izo0BzbzwGRo6wtzfmfMPGrYvb1dnXl810CiRS8KNBd5r78LfKF1HL7xtxmlyrPnuZ69olAzOnuMT_6QFaru4GMcDm3NBhJVA/s1600-h/Garli+Village.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEita35itVPHRBeGqZgCLITG0uK5chHgBqb681kY-izo0BzbzwGRo6wtzfmfMPGrYvb1dnXl810CiRS8KNBd5r78LfKF1HL7xtxmlyrPnuZ69olAzOnuMT_6QFaru4GMcDm3NBhJVA/s320/Garli+Village.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106784931888970450" border="0" /></a>Garli, one of the villages I visited.<br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-Jc5t5hwV2us9EaiJC8aN6gnYbxNR9CkiXNGZX_vZTtZHymKy2TNtavbGjtzgD39bbLa0pcfxlrY4JrDbLMDmORl7dtOCnDcwA3GRNAmft9_3a5EWxfuivHBkjeKmFiPGNFoVA/s1600-h/Garli+Bird.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje-Jc5t5hwV2us9EaiJC8aN6gnYbxNR9CkiXNGZX_vZTtZHymKy2TNtavbGjtzgD39bbLa0pcfxlrY4JrDbLMDmORl7dtOCnDcwA3GRNAmft9_3a5EWxfuivHBkjeKmFiPGNFoVA/s320/Garli+Bird.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106785889666677522" border="0" /></a>More Garli. They've got birds.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKT8tEy1OyEb2qQsXuet-UJEjJbYm0dKMrScMA1MXONbSCT720CAgWtBP2mTgd6q3zyr595JwHOHIM2HSkd2uM3lU0wFxWXMowcnIcaqxUnvLQZ10QPHx-3zk1oS0Pr91CCOpLw/s1600-h/Amadou.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUKT8tEy1OyEb2qQsXuet-UJEjJbYm0dKMrScMA1MXONbSCT720CAgWtBP2mTgd6q3zyr595JwHOHIM2HSkd2uM3lU0wFxWXMowcnIcaqxUnvLQZ10QPHx-3zk1oS0Pr91CCOpLw/s320/Amadou.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106785120867531490" border="0" /></a>Amadou, one of the guys I stayed with.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-1S0ybVe3dC0gMdfH9JlVVtXu9yil1r6LZ4exIvPTRUY9xqZbmOM9m4R5PjnFzNwSEgK7A6iYdVCEY7-pF7w-zz6ma_BmD4URFXcEbBWuqJLsBSYC4KL8Lp2oz3lTa5M3SSxpg/s1600-h/Samba+Chicken+Head.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv-1S0ybVe3dC0gMdfH9JlVVtXu9yil1r6LZ4exIvPTRUY9xqZbmOM9m4R5PjnFzNwSEgK7A6iYdVCEY7-pF7w-zz6ma_BmD4URFXcEbBWuqJLsBSYC4KL8Lp2oz3lTa5M3SSxpg/s320/Samba+Chicken+Head.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106786628401052482" border="0" /></a>Samba. That's a chicken that we just killed.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgkXaWDkcSA1q_XgjeQXvN3kpjMHMnGCpJM3SoqFVu7fZ8bHKSoMI3awJrJ7yocxvEtZapD9CC-p7ePJsGvD8avcSRyH4oe7IuThUamg8fI3QQL-z2iJ02-Z_R9tuC8NzAbhbrw/s1600-h/Kids.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkgkXaWDkcSA1q_XgjeQXvN3kpjMHMnGCpJM3SoqFVu7fZ8bHKSoMI3awJrJ7yocxvEtZapD9CC-p7ePJsGvD8avcSRyH4oe7IuThUamg8fI3QQL-z2iJ02-Z_R9tuC8NzAbhbrw/s320/Kids.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106786022810663714" border="0" /></a>Forlorn children. I swear they requested this photo.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVUH1XGVF_GSvhFmTS-cdc0RF5uB-wbTMjqABVBOVSPJUswQ7svSNl5BL5maqngV5JYVZIbN4YzNJ0uB_B804cu-v7QuHqtu-7AJmOajeGK4Y4YvmIv0rYQBBS0oZ-WnFFhW3Pg/s1600-h/Band+Photo+Color.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVUH1XGVF_GSvhFmTS-cdc0RF5uB-wbTMjqABVBOVSPJUswQ7svSNl5BL5maqngV5JYVZIbN4YzNJ0uB_B804cu-v7QuHqtu-7AJmOajeGK4Y4YvmIv0rYQBBS0oZ-WnFFhW3Pg/s320/Band+Photo+Color.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106785339910863602" border="0" /></a>Back in NKT, Nick and I pose for our cd insert.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_MccLs5cH_aVTTNS4tLmpWXv6cJwiSnAkJoKlznm7U3BuCdwE-2sgvDvKosSFxgc7J2brVpg19IQmXSBq4Yvdlg9eux0w3ENNXzohCh8tZiaW5dWMLjIN-9q6pF0kUFKjuiKag/s1600-h/NDB+MTR.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB_MccLs5cH_aVTTNS4tLmpWXv6cJwiSnAkJoKlznm7U3BuCdwE-2sgvDvKosSFxgc7J2brVpg19IQmXSBq4Yvdlg9eux0w3ENNXzohCh8tZiaW5dWMLjIN-9q6pF0kUFKjuiKag/s320/NDB+MTR.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106786740070202194" border="0" /></a>We make NDB the wonderland that it is.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55aSXKafabEOYpmJGCD_0SyIzRIkfTdPzmaPxUQFHaYGFeBVeCGtUKOyKne1cekcMeP9a1mm-OxVJ6ZBNbUBHAVLakmtvVHIwv9_UboLQDX9OjRNjPMNJjqrOXTOGftFKdNMKag/s1600-h/Monolith+Graffiti.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj55aSXKafabEOYpmJGCD_0SyIzRIkfTdPzmaPxUQFHaYGFeBVeCGtUKOyKne1cekcMeP9a1mm-OxVJ6ZBNbUBHAVLakmtvVHIwv9_UboLQDX9OjRNjPMNJjqrOXTOGftFKdNMKag/s320/Monolith+Graffiti.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5106786271918766898" border="0" /></a>Enlightenment.<br /></div>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-37622275824865253812007-08-04T00:55:00.000+08:002007-08-10T22:53:37.639+08:00State of the union 2007Been a while. Let's shake the dust off, 'cause God knows there's about 14 metric tons.<br /><br />Q: Where've you been, slacker?<br /><br />A: Around. Mostly in Nouadhibou, but I spent a couple of weeks in Nouakchott, Boghe, and Kaedi a bit ago. Other than a trip to Atar back in the beginning of April, it was my only time out of the city since my arrival. Boghe and Kaedi are in the South, about an hour's drive from each other.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvrEI8EdoZENjpdc6JSPN-e-ENzHaNqzasUkdjUq_Z-fUkizr8m_BXJpIGoKt_68naW39PuHfFeyyJqy0JDq5G4BkoHUnFyppjpQIiqhAde_mP18TPuS-bDLVQTUaiUgINz8-Kw/s1600-h/Terjit.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvrEI8EdoZENjpdc6JSPN-e-ENzHaNqzasUkdjUq_Z-fUkizr8m_BXJpIGoKt_68naW39PuHfFeyyJqy0JDq5G4BkoHUnFyppjpQIiqhAde_mP18TPuS-bDLVQTUaiUgINz8-Kw/s320/Terjit.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097076775936352722" border="0" /></a>Terjit, an oasis outside of Atar.<br /></div><br />Q: And your excuse for leaving?<br /><br />A: Work. It is the magical time of year in which the volunteers arrive and commence their training, and I was on the committee that processed them through their first steps in NKT. In the actual day and half we spent with the "stagiers," I had perhaps two conversations that lasted over five minutes, and none that hit ten. Despite my inability to warm up to people in a short time, they seemed nice.<br /><br />A couple of weeks ago I returned to Kaedi to give a lesson to the education volunteers on teaching vocabulary lessons - a skill, ironically, I don't consider myself particularly good at. I had the opportunity to get to know some of the new folks a little better than I had, and my conclusion remains unchanged and just as vague; they seem nice. It seems odd that I don't really have any kind of feel for the new people, as four will be arriving in NDB tonight to get a brief idea of their new home for the next two years. They are more than doubling the volunteer population in our corner of the country, and I have mixed feelings that lean towards optimistic about the "surge."<br /><br />Q: We've got time for your "feelings" later. How was the glorious return to Kaedi?<br /><br />A: Actually, just that. It was great. You know how I wrote about the trash and the heat and the animals and the shit and the rain and the bugs about a year ago? Well it turns out the place is actually <span style="font-style: italic;">nice</span>. I assume that I don't need to go into the mechanics of the change in superficial perception that takes place in over a year, but after all that time, surrounded by your most accessible complaints, they tend to all but disappear. Or you go crazy and leave. And what's left are the good things.<br /><br />Here's what I notice: as you progress south, the sand shifts from a washed-out, bone white to a tan that I never would have considered, but now do, to be the very definition of rich. The farther you go, the more frequently it is punctuated by green carpeting and the occasional tree with the occasional leaf. By the time you hit Kaedi, the sand has gained the same tone as the sky ten minutes before sunset, and a few of the plants have strained upwards against all odds to provide a canopy. Full grown trees remain one in a million, but next to NDB (where greenery goes to die), it is profound.<br /><br />Q: Well this seems like an appropriate time to segue to Nouadhibou. You've lived for just under a year in one of the only two locations in Mauritania that ever gets any international press. Simply put, how's life?<br /><br />A: Until recently (and I'm still guilty of this), I had griped about the fact that, relatively speaking, NDB is a metropolitan place. Unlike many volunteers, I live in an apartment, not with a family. I'm not pressed with the urgency of "getting to know your community" in the way many other people are before they can get any effective work accomplished. There is the anonymity of city life, at once countered by the fact that I'm white, and rebuffed by the presence of dozens of NGOs. I've got only a small handful of people that I'd consider my friends, and I spend a large majority of my time alone. But I'm trying to embrace a proactive outlook. We'll see what happens in the coming year.<br /><br />I had wanted to go to a small, inaccessible village because I'm not predisposed to opening up to strangers, to putting myself in a potentially uncomfortable situation with other people. I had hoped that a different site would give me no other option, and I used the city as an excuse to remain introverted. Aware of that, I'm trying to rectify.<br /><br />As for NDB being a news hot spot, things are more low key than news organizations tend to portray. There has been a spate of articles recently, meant to elucidate life here, and they generally host at least a couple of inaccuracies in each. About a month ago, the New York Times ran an article about the iron ore train connecting NDB to Zouerat. The author referred to the day-long journey on the outside of the cars as "exquisite torture," a term so gaggingly flowery and far from reality that I questioned whether he actually rode the thing. He also mentioned the Chinese restaurant/whorehouse that I frequently visit (for the beer, thanks), but incorrectly located it in his description. Call me territorial, but that annoyed me. Maybe four months ago, BBC News ran an article about the underground meteorite trade in "lawless" NDB. I've been to the market and seen the goods, and while the article indirectly conjured images of the kind of illegal trades you see in a Steven Seagal movies, the atmosphere of high international crime and an utter disregard for morality is lost on the 60-year-old mulhafa-wrapped woman selling a bowl of rocks next to her incense and henna.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35VNRjMGywGRi-Vq8tOgq2cPoB42Yvx0oyDirqYu87DvL3f8lxro4Z3laMbjzYFOuIOyIxtPlWTtWLiDOZD8gH6V1_s8Wzg95rZ4lUQo5jLCLQCiTdiO8qNXYsRn412FtWFQ8Ig/s1600-h/Fish+market.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35VNRjMGywGRi-Vq8tOgq2cPoB42Yvx0oyDirqYu87DvL3f8lxro4Z3laMbjzYFOuIOyIxtPlWTtWLiDOZD8gH6V1_s8Wzg95rZ4lUQo5jLCLQCiTdiO8qNXYsRn412FtWFQ8Ig/s320/Fish+market.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097077098058899954" border="0" /></a>The fish market.<br /></div><br />Q: Don't you live with a Mauritanian?<br /><br />A: Yeah, Ousmane Ba. I've been meaning to dedicate at least an entire post to the man, but obviously never got around to it. He's in his mid-30s, Pulaar, and an English teacher at the school I work at. He married in January (side note: Mauritanian weddings annihilate American weddings on the tear-inducing boredom front), and his wife lives in Dakar currently pursuing a doctorate in chemistry. I suppose I haven't written anything about him because we get along so well that nothing stands out. He is a genuinely good person, a pious Muslim, and very interested in changing the country for the better. His recalcitrance in the face of the all-powerful status quo regularly inspires me to keep caring.<br /><br />Q: What's it like living with a "pious Muslim"?<br /><br />A: You know how sometimes you go to the zoo and watch apes throwing their own shit at each other for hours on end...<br /><br />Q: Whoa whoa whoa. <span style="font-style: italic;">Not</span> the direction I thought your were going.<br /><br />A: Well, I was going to say, it's not really like that at all. His daily religious routine consists of the five prayers and thanking Allah for any good fortune. I regularly invite him down to the whorehouse to tie one on, and he tells me to find God. I'd be mortified if he ever accepted my offer. He doesn't condemn me for the eight-year blunder that is U.S. foreign policy, and he defends me if anyone does. His open-mindedness (and the term has nothing to do with his tendency to agree with me, or me with him) easily makes him my most valuable friend here.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaQLqx_fSsvBgVjnJiCuaTQwRfSc7iWV02PnwlALUbp0voXdaqJ93TQqbEZfY-hJHZJwBFk0hDwfMvKR0s-vlrjD005Hl1Ma5h5hr_zdg68ZqyVj0oCbTRhIl0Ij_jNCz-1vxzw/s1600-h/Ousmane+%26+Madina.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaQLqx_fSsvBgVjnJiCuaTQwRfSc7iWV02PnwlALUbp0voXdaqJ93TQqbEZfY-hJHZJwBFk0hDwfMvKR0s-vlrjD005Hl1Ma5h5hr_zdg68ZqyVj0oCbTRhIl0Ij_jNCz-1vxzw/s320/Ousmane+%26+Madina.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5097076930555175394" border="0" /></a>Ousmane and Medina on our front step.<br /><br /></div>Q: What is the nature of your interactions with other Mauritanians? At the risk of stereotyping, do you have anything to say about them as a whole?<br /><br />A: As I said, I don't have a large number of friends. The people I do spend time with are exclusively teachers or reporters or both. They are all black (as opposed to white Moor-Arab), though the racial demographic of my friends was not a conscious decision. I've got several friendly acquaintances who span the gamut of ethnicities.<br /><br />Outside of social obligation my relationships are restricted to business. As elaborated in a previous post, I think my director is a prick. He's a black Moor, for what it's worth. It is white Moors who run things around here, and aside from a few scant exceptions, my dealings with the director of our bank, the local minister of education (the DREN), and anyone else in a position of power generally end up a little strained. And as a disclaimer, I don't think it's a race issue. I find that these people are more interested in projecting the power they hold than exercising it, and I am perhaps not as patient as I ought to be. I become tired of the muscle-flexing bullshit far quicker than the average local (something that I'm sure can be - and maybe is - perceived as Western entitlement), and more often than not, it makes my life more difficult. Conversely, I turn into a deferential pushover when people display a modicum of humility and acquiesce to the standard-operating-procedure demands I make of them. Then I reprimand myself. It's a tightrope, and I probably spend more time hurdling mid-air than remaining balanced. A constant learning experience. I'm interested in how it will affect interactions stateside.<br /><br />Generalizations. It's difficult to generalize about Mauritanians as a whole, because social identity is far more determined by race, tribe, and family than by nationality. I have trouble drawing relevant parallels to the States. White Moors are the most foreign to me. I've noticed one paradox though. Common interaction involves 90% talking and 10% listening. The greeting process is a great example. Salutations can go on for minutes in which the speakers ask about family, health, work, the heat, the wind, and just about anything else you can think of. Party B answers with a standard set of responses, and it quickly becomes clear than neither one is listening to the other as they swap between greetings and responses that have absolutely nothing to do with what was just said. People seem to yell at each other a lot. More than once I have marveled at the fact that anyone has any friends. "Please" and "thank you" practically do not exist. But for all the assertive, curt, and abrasive things people say to each other, confrontation is a whole other dimension. Authority is made clear in social interaction, and to challenge it throws everything into chaos. People criticize each other constantly, but the second you mean it is the second you need a third party to mediate. To me, on the surface it seems like people are refreshingly straightforward, but if you go any deeper you're neck-deep in it.<br /><br />Q: So just to be clear, how does the social hierarchy go?<br /><br />A. 1. White Moor<br />2. Black Moor<br />3. Pulaar<br />4. Soninke<br />5. Wolof<br /><br />And this does absolutely no justice to the intricacies of any of it.<br /><br />Much of this was solidified in 1989, a fateful year for the country. I know too little to say anything intelligent, so I will keep it topical. There was a push for national Arabization as far back as the 60s, which caused racial tensions within the country as well as between Senegal and Mauritania. In '89 Mauritanian herders and Senegalese farmers found themselves in a dispute that lead to two deaths and several injuries. From there, Mauritanians in Senegal were deported north, and somewhere in the realm of 250,000 black Mauritanians were stripped of their land and homes and sent south. Then, in 1990, claiming a coup plot within the army, the Mauritanian regime executed 503 people of Pulaar and Soninke decent, some rather violently. Killing and tension ensued for a few more years, but finally subsided with some diplomacy that included Senegal, Mauritania, and Mali. Most people have been repatriated, and the ongoing righting of wrongs is a major feature of the new administration's domestic policy.<br /><br />As I said, I know almost nothing, so my observations lack nuance, but in my experience I have noticed little overt discrimination, but regularly pick up on more subtle, deeply embedded preconceived notions about the different ethnicities.<br /><br />Still, contemporary racial struggles stateside pale in comparison.<br /><br />Q: Gosh, your perspective is so fair and balanced.<br /><br />A: Thanks. That means a lot coming from such an objective disembodied tool for the progression of a discourse involving only myself.<br /><br />Q: You implied that you occasionally take some heat for being American.<br /><br />A: It's extremely rare, and pleasant interactions deriving from the revelation that I am American far outweigh negative ones ten to one. Of the garbage that I have faced, almost all of it was directed at Westerners or English speakers in general, as opposed to a particular nationality.<br /><br />Q: How do you handle it?<br /><br />A: I still try to explain myself when it seems pertinent. But when I'm faced with someone who claims that America hates Islam, or just yells at me, I tell them that they are not accurate and leave the situation. At times it feels like I've got a dozen battles to choose from every time I walk out the front door, and those involving religion or politics will never have a mutually acceptable outcome. Better to stay quiet, do my job, and argue by example.<br /><br />Q: Is your time in the Arab world giving you any insight on American politics?<br /><br />A: The only profundity is that I have not heard a single profound viewpoint or had a single profound realization about any of it. American foreign policy is alienating the world, which has been clear for almost a decade, if not more. Neoconservativism is a massive failure. Misguided and seemingly purposefully ignorant unilateral policy has eroded worldwide respect for a country that once was an icon of the future. It's disgusting and hard to watch.<br /><br />In a dream, we would rebuild the out-of-control machine that is our government from the ground up. We would have the transparency the Democrats have promised and will never deliver. Lobbyists would find themselves out of a job. We would legitimize the international organizations that we had a major hand in creating by actually acknowledging them and adhering to their rules. Foreign policy would feature far more détente than containment, thus galvanizing actual, meaningful support for our interests. Domestic policy would hold corporations morally responsible, and actually collect on the billions in taxes so easily avoided by opening up a mailbox in the Caymans.<br /><br />I know that there are subtleties to governance to which I am not privy. But it is nauseating to watch the US insist on standards in war-ravaged holes while corruption and ethically-questionable activities are daily protocol at home. This is not partisan. While I tend to respect Dems a hair's breadth more than their elephantine counterparts, I think both sides of the aisle should be fired for gross dereliction of duty. As I bury myself progressively deeper in current events and foreign policy analyses, I am stunned at how many good, reasonable ideas seem like common sense, and how often they are completely ignored.<br /><br />Still, I'll come home and vote for the guy on the left.<br /><br />Q: You've got a little vein pulsing on your temple.<br /><br />A: Fuck.<br /><br />Well it's not to say that the US is the only one on the wrong track. Each country has its own little stake in fucking up the world in its own special little way. I'd move to Norway, but I don't want to pay half of what I earn in taxes, and I don't like death metal.<br /><br />Q: That soapbox you're standing on seems stressed to the breaking point, fatty.<br /><br />A: Despite concerted efforts to gain weight, I remain at least ten pounds lighter than when I arrived.<br /><br />Q: So your daily routine consists of eating. What else?<br /><br />A: When my months were not interrupted by several small trips out of the city, I would go to the gym for a couple hours in the morning. Then I spend an hour or two studying French and another few hours reading. At some point I wander to the office to check my email and loiter online, and sometimes I try to get some writing accomplished, which I have found to be largely impossible in front of a computer. Sometimes I take a nap, then I have dinner at the same restaurant I always do. The evening is when I get most writing/work accomplished. Then I go to bed.<br /><br />As for work, with no school for the summer I have to find things to occupy myself. I am putting together an exercise book geared towards the Mauritanian high school English curriculum at an incredibly slow pace. I have also just taken over the PC Mauritania newsletter as co-editor, which mostly means struggling to come up with content and producing much of it myself. I am the regional coordinator for NDB, which means that I occasionally pay bills, run errands, and deal with officials on the organization's behalf. And sometimes, I travel south to participate in the training of new volunteers. Reading back over that, it sounds like much more than it really is.<br /><br />Q: And your plans for the summer?<br /><br />A: Another trip to the south to visit several villages, and help out in this year's model school. Then it's back to NDB for a few days, and finally, sweet Jesus, vacation in Europe.<br /><br />Q: A vacation from vacation. Nice.<br /><br />A: You have no idea.<br /><br />Q: Well, am I forgetting anything?<br /><br />A: Probably. You never have been very organized. I'm open to questions should any of the five readers feel shortchanged.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-58403785524170771272007-08-01T02:28:00.000+08:002007-08-01T02:29:06.681+08:00SalutationsComing soon.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-82051344306415705752007-06-21T00:39:00.000+08:002007-06-21T00:42:06.345+08:00Disturbingly hilarious<a href="http://wonkette.com/politics/dept%27-of-capitools/hill-staffers-bravely-debate-which-party-is-uglier-269952.php">Introducing the cogs in our machine.</a><br /><br />Tim, how'd you ring in?J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-72382927112562321832007-06-16T02:27:00.000+08:002007-06-16T04:19:36.933+08:00One year downThis might be a little long and tedious and lacking in a sense of humor. Apologies.<br /><br />In early January I was elected "English department coordinator." I was flattered, but I suspect my ascent to departmental greatness had a lot more to do with no one wanting to do more work for no extra pay, than any actual qualifications I may possess. After accepting the offer, I asked the director and other teachers exactly what the job entails, to which they all similarly responded, "You coordinate the department if the department needs coordination." Right-o. Thus, I assume that the position was superfluous and just needed to exist in name - and that someone would tell me if I needed to do something.<br /><br />About a week before the second trimester exams, the director walked into the secretary's office where I happened to be standing with another English teacher. He informed us that the exams were to be the same across each level (this was not the case for the first trimester exams), to which I asked how that was possible with only a week's notice. He seemed surprised at my concern that there was no way all of the students would be prepared for the same material, and the English teacher immediately moved to defensive mode, saying that there had been no coordination. I stood there stunned, but nothing really came of it. We did our own exams for each class, and I finally learned what was expected of me. Yeah, I know the title is pretty self-explanatory, but when I asked what was expected of me, I got blown off.<br /><br />With about two months to go in the scholastic year, I hit my stride. I busted my ass to track down the elusive teachers (two of whom I had yet to meet) and arrange a meeting in which we would decide what would be on the final exam, essentially laying out the syllabus for the remainder of the year. As I sat on the cusp of finally finding a suitable time for a meeting that wouldn't conflict with anyone's schedules, my boss decided to come to NDB to see how everything was going. During the subsequent meeting I explained where we were, coordination-wise, to him and the director. In the presence of my superior - a white Moor who pulls quite a bit of weight in this country - the director suddenly gave a shit where previously there was not so much as a fart to be whiffed. Ignoring my work, he set our department meeting for the next day when every single one of us had a class to teach. I was annoyed.<br /><br />The next day we spent almost two hours deciding what to teach for the rest of the year. In front of my boss the director was in top form, feeding us milk and bread, taking everyone's phone numbers for easier communication in the future, etc. By now my opinion of the guy was pretty low. I watched him prostrate himself, and was disgusted at how transparent and child-like he was. I realized that I hated this guy as a representation of everything wrong with the system. But I thought I hid the sentiment well enough.<br /><br />Because the students are notorious cheaters, we decided to create multiple versions of each exam. I spent a few entire days putting them together and making sure they were of equal difficulty. Only Ousmane helped. Three days before the final, the secretary told Ousmane that the 4th level exams would be provided by the DREN (the state-level education ministry). I flipped my shit, and with Ousmane at my side, stormed the director's office. I had finally snapped on eight months of inconceivably shitty administration. First I asked how long he had known about the new exam. "Depuis longtemps." For a long time. The answer I expected, so I lit up like a firecracker, asking why, after sitting in our meeting, he had neglected to inform us that half of our (my) work was totally unnecessary. First, he blamed us for not coming to school (not true), then shifted the blame to the DREN, and finally settled it on the secretary. I asked why he hadn't called me and he denied having my number. The image of him writing it down was seared into my memory, probably in expectation of that exact situation. I called bullshit, and fed off the third English teacher writhing quietly in palpable discomfort directly to my left. The director told me to sit down, I yelled at him to listen. I consciously shifted all my addresses to him to the informal. And throughout it all, he continued to invite other people in to say "hi," punctuating our discourse with tacit periods of impotent rage. Ousmane then showed him all the versions of our test, and before he listened to our plan to curb cheating, denounced it as impossible. Ousmane diplomatically took over, and the director finally conceded. We would use our exams instead of the DREN's, and I would come in the morning of the final to collate and prepare everything. We were victorious.<br /><br />The final began at 10:00. I arrived at 7:50 to prepare. I just needed the director to give me the photocopies so I could start. He told me to wait, and continued to leave me waiting until 9:15. Then he handed me a box of about 1,200 exams, and I began. By 10:00 I had run out of 5th level exams because administration had not made enough. Proctors trickled into the secretary's office to pick up the tests. I had finished three of twelve 4th year classes, and by 10:20 people were getting frantic. I kept my head down and collated while teachers who had praised the idea of multiple versions the day before called it a failure. At 10:30 the director entered and screamed that if we had done it his way, we wouldn't have this problem. I informed him rather loudly that we wouldn't have this problem if he hadn't made me wait for an hour and a half for no reason. I finished at 11:00, an hour after the official commencement of the final. There were not enough copies for all of the students.<br /><br />I shouldn't have lost my composure the way I did. After watching the director capriciously and ineptly run our school for a year, I lost it when his ego ran over mine. I focused a year's worth of frustration at all incompetent higher-ups (from the bank, from school, from my office building, from the police, from the government) into the explosion in his office, and he fucked me. No one advances based on merit. This place runs on nepotism, and suffers for it. And it isn't my fight. I graded my exams (incidentally, a practice deemed "a waste of time" by a disturbing number of other teachers), filled out report cards, and left for four months.<br /><br />Next year ought to be fun. I suspect I'm going to leave the "coordination" up to some other sucker. I enjoyed the teaching, and will happily focus on that. My students did better than all others on their finals, and that was gratifying. But that doesn't seem to matter. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqi1mmK1tIuFZv_UoNBP6MvYH7YXPxuvWwuh21ZQIFDiRWgw8x_QCt4Rj_dGYmpax3oFLan8samN-IO8_mciiK88J23mdifzz4fLhddZ4y6DdXsX61EBVzaashi1PLnHcwUgc3tA/s1600-h/BAC+C%26D+07.JPG">This is a copy of this year's BAC</a> (similar in significance to the SATs). You'll notice, aside from several copy-editing errors, that one of the first questions is literally impossible. And this BAC is one of the best I've seen.<br /><br />I need a vacation. And some perspective.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQNp1WHmEpV0sfx-dH7pyjtS7cNrJz6Lm2WijOlWxwTAnEksc6WfMXWpK89E-TJkKjh7ophXpZJkPeyyx-kYktsl98-j_2KB5XESG6yHROkd9KcOb01bC1X48JVEBI24v9RNe_w/s1600-h/School+Compound.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihQNp1WHmEpV0sfx-dH7pyjtS7cNrJz6Lm2WijOlWxwTAnEksc6WfMXWpK89E-TJkKjh7ophXpZJkPeyyx-kYktsl98-j_2KB5XESG6yHROkd9KcOb01bC1X48JVEBI24v9RNe_w/s320/School+Compound.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076384690690088194" border="0" /></a>The school.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI03egcaAUZuRy_Gp3gxWPw-gTyX8xurgx-h7srx3wDe7z7yz_4yrMtmXQoTpMyKFfnvA64jJK9mYxKxlHZ3xb01nxXy2Ogf6E0Gllbe_ivNuT2MDLMOCgxbknSoCCjXS0z8MbLQ/s1600-h/Classroom+3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI03egcaAUZuRy_Gp3gxWPw-gTyX8xurgx-h7srx3wDe7z7yz_4yrMtmXQoTpMyKFfnvA64jJK9mYxKxlHZ3xb01nxXy2Ogf6E0Gllbe_ivNuT2MDLMOCgxbknSoCCjXS0z8MbLQ/s320/Classroom+3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076384935503224082" border="0" /></a>One of my classrooms.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf2tAQjGiFnR1_dstGuVqxwbwM_OsaMFpUceW4PEL1tilgge5qNU3_oBBteducj8mxXLaoqK_vJ0Je9Iz-2SqVAv6iVHa1Sm8fglQ11z290Q0kl2qXEBOG0M1HvqvVQBDKMGbT2Q/s1600-h/Classroom+2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf2tAQjGiFnR1_dstGuVqxwbwM_OsaMFpUceW4PEL1tilgge5qNU3_oBBteducj8mxXLaoqK_vJ0Je9Iz-2SqVAv6iVHa1Sm8fglQ11z290Q0kl2qXEBOG0M1HvqvVQBDKMGbT2Q/s320/Classroom+2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076386112324263218" border="0" /></a>I didn't write that.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYAhjFaaqLnADO3oLAZCdRubXfdx9b3wQ-cJYgpV36GydE3ZEY-dct3VBhq97SSAMdJxOj6ZP2ipaB6GPuiOmRFhkRIYK9i3LZNKqmFCLeXxJD5-vhFIKbcL00vGSEjW8IRA8sA/s1600-h/4CA+Class+Photo.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUYAhjFaaqLnADO3oLAZCdRubXfdx9b3wQ-cJYgpV36GydE3ZEY-dct3VBhq97SSAMdJxOj6ZP2ipaB6GPuiOmRFhkRIYK9i3LZNKqmFCLeXxJD5-vhFIKbcL00vGSEjW8IRA8sA/s320/4CA+Class+Photo.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5076386374317268290" border="0" /></a>My 4th year Arab class. Unruly lot, but fun.<br /></div>J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-21594931663796409072007-06-06T18:18:00.000+08:002007-06-06T18:27:13.521+08:00Jon says we "got cred"<a href="http://theroughguidetowestafrica.blogspot.com/">http://theroughguidetowestafrica.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br />Both of us are sitting atop the pile of linked blogs. I had several drinks with Roger Norum a few months ago at the ol' Chinese whorehouse, where he impressed everyone with a usable grasp of Chinese. He grilled the owners as to the contents of a bag that they seemed strangely excited about, and they were in turn very stingy with info. Weird.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29576066.post-26418643249509747752007-05-25T04:30:00.000+08:002007-05-25T04:35:47.756+08:00Thank you Sonal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-srJNmcZNHp7vtlI0aK4OEOggBXld798U6mYgptSTYlF5Tt-75gD8zOUlsFcKEd-pea4Y3oXySNc8zL9piMDba6m2JT2gyvWpXXQFgzGC3mlu07xUWi8gF-4L2HvJQEuLl733w/s1600-h/sonal+v+remix.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF-srJNmcZNHp7vtlI0aK4OEOggBXld798U6mYgptSTYlF5Tt-75gD8zOUlsFcKEd-pea4Y3oXySNc8zL9piMDba6m2JT2gyvWpXXQFgzGC3mlu07xUWi8gF-4L2HvJQEuLl733w/s400/sonal+v+remix.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5068228496806263538" border="0" /></a><br />I hope anyone's natural reaction to getting shot with a laser gun would be fisting a shark.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08021931915171311142noreply@blogger.com5