Dirt 'n Sand

Class 5

2008-12-28T16:16:00.003+08:00

Heya!

2008-12-21T19:19:00.000+08:00

Freeeeeeeeedoooooooooom!

Last I studied, "S" wasn't part of the GDP formula

2008-12-20T18:43:00.003+08:00

Sobering

Simmering!

Wish list

2008-12-13T16:41:00.003+08:00

Wellp, I've got a gift idea. F.

The tortoise

2008-12-12T17:44:00.004+08:00

Things I have eaten:

Sparrow heads (beak on)
Bee larva
Cow vagina
Bull penis and testes
Duck head (halved)
Frogs (whole, skinned)
Sheep brain
Dog (skin on, bone in)
Milk

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.

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.

I broke my left index finger

2008-05-18T21:16:00.001+08:00

Three weeks ago. Who knew?

The challenge continues

2008-02-28T23:25:00.001+08:00

Four days down. I'm hungry. And considering beer costs 1000 ougiya, or two days' allowance, booze is out. Livin' like the locals!

The millenium challenge

2008-02-27T03:49:00.002+08:00

So 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.

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?

Updates updates updates

2008-02-24T23:13:00.002+08:00

So 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Perhaps I'll change the name of this blog

2008-02-06T23:03:00.000+08:00

I'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.

Tabaski

2008-01-30T21:12:00.000+08:00

Hello. 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.

The death and the skinning.

On the glorious blimp to the heavens.

Or, perhaps, not so much.

Said goat, approximately three hours later.

Video, of the meal! More cute children!

Ousmane's sister-in-law, her daughter, Ousmane, and his wife.

The next day's meal. I went to NKT and ate a hamburger.

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.

Your turn to post

2008-01-29T22:47:00.000+08:00

Glaring cultural differences. Couple questions/observations deserving comment. Your chance to post for me!

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.

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.

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?

Sheer terror

2008-01-19T02:03:00.000+08:00

I promised a post.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There you go, Kyle.

Third world product reviews - Mauritanian Tear Gas

2007-12-08T23:14:00.001+08:00

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!

Race. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Overall riot rating: 4/10

Money. 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'.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Overall riot rating: 3/10

General gripes

2007-11-27T21:17:00.000+08:00

Because nothing endears a reader like long periods of absence followed by complaining.

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.

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.

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) does not know how to spell his/her name. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

But, of course, that means the people at the top would actually have to give a shit about their work.

Let's start a roll, slowly

2007-10-27T20:43:00.000+08:00

Revelations

2007-10-22T01:13:00.000+08:00

For the last year I have been eating beef almost nightly. Turns out, it was camel. Hmm.

Got some photos here

2007-09-06T02:09:00.000+08:00

Just 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.

NDB has demonstrations. I never manage to notice anymore.

Garli, one of the villages I visited.

More Garli. They've got birds.

Amadou, one of the guys I stayed with.

Samba. That's a chicken that we just killed.

Forlorn children. I swear they requested this photo.

Back in NKT, Nick and I pose for our cd insert.

We make NDB the wonderland that it is.

Enlightenment.

State of the union 2007

2007-08-04T00:55:00.000+08:00

Been a while. Let's shake the dust off, 'cause God knows there's about 14 metric tons.

Q: Where've you been, slacker?

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.

Terjit, an oasis outside of Atar.

Q: And your excuse for leaving?

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.

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."

Q: We've got time for your "feelings" later. How was the glorious return to Kaedi?

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 nice. 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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

The fish market.

Q: Don't you live with a Mauritanian?

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.

Q: What's it like living with a "pious Muslim"?

A: You know how sometimes you go to the zoo and watch apes throwing their own shit at each other for hours on end...

Q: Whoa whoa whoa. Not the direction I thought your were going.

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.

Ousmane and Medina on our front step.

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?

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.

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.

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.

Q: So just to be clear, how does the social hierarchy go?

A. 1. White Moor
2. Black Moor
3. Pulaar
4. Soninke
5. Wolof

And this does absolutely no justice to the intricacies of any of it.

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.

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.

Still, contemporary racial struggles stateside pale in comparison.

Q: Gosh, your perspective is so fair and balanced.

A: Thanks. That means a lot coming from such an objective disembodied tool for the progression of a discourse involving only myself.

Q: You implied that you occasionally take some heat for being American.

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.

Q: How do you handle it?

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.

Q: Is your time in the Arab world giving you any insight on American politics?

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.

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.

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.

Still, I'll come home and vote for the guy on the left.

Q: You've got a little vein pulsing on your temple.

A: Fuck.

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.

Q: That soapbox you're standing on seems stressed to the breaking point, fatty.

A: Despite concerted efforts to gain weight, I remain at least ten pounds lighter than when I arrived.

Q: So your daily routine consists of eating. What else?

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.

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.

Q: And your plans for the summer?

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.

Q: A vacation from vacation. Nice.

A: You have no idea.

Q: Well, am I forgetting anything?

A: Probably. You never have been very organized. I'm open to questions should any of the five readers feel shortchanged.

Salutations

2007-08-01T02:28:00.000+08:00

Coming soon.

Disturbingly hilarious

2007-06-21T00:39:00.000+08:00

Introducing the cogs in our machine.

Tim, how'd you ring in?

One year down

2007-06-16T02:27:00.000+08:00

This might be a little long and tedious and lacking in a sense of humor. Apologies.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. This is a copy of this year's BAC (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.

I need a vacation. And some perspective.

The school.

One of my classrooms.

I didn't write that.

My 4th year Arab class. Unruly lot, but fun.

Jon says we "got cred"

2007-06-06T18:18:00.000+08:00

http://theroughguidetowestafrica.blogspot.com/

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.

Thank you Sonal

2007-05-25T04:30:00.000+08:00

I hope anyone's natural reaction to getting shot with a laser gun would be fisting a shark.

Playlist du jour and one big question

2007-05-08T19:38:00.000+08:00

1. Good listens in rotation.

The Bronx - Heart Attack American
Future Sound of London - Papua New Guinea (High Contrast Mix)
Alan Braxe - At Night
Cut Copy - Zap Zap
Stereolab - Percolator
TV on the Radio - Wolf Like Me
Curtis Mayfield - Move On Up
Cannibal Ox - Atom
Ugly Casanova - Things I Don't Remember
Tom Waits - Alice
Palace Music - New Partner
Thievery Corporation - Exploration
Sufjan Stevens - For the Widows in Paradise, for the Fatherless in Ypsilanti
Brian Eno - An Ending (Ascent)

2. Back at the gym, and want to gain weight. Caro thought hearing about my attempts to become a fatty would be hilarious, but I don't even know where to begin. Somehow even though half of America seems to have mastered the technique, I have to ask, how do you gain weight? Seriously.

More points of note, and a mystery

2007-05-07T18:06:00.000+08:00

1. There was an article on BBC a couple of weeks ago about a clandestine meteorite trade right here in NDB (if I find one, I'm buying, much to the chagrin of scientists everywhere). The article itself was of moderate interest, but the most interesting thing I noticed was that the writer called my fair city "lawless." I scoffed at the idea. I see police everywhere, though admittedly, a few of those times involved them demanding bribes from some unsuspecting immigrant. But that's standard operating procedure for Africa, and I shrugged it off as just part of having a police presence in the city.

Well I scoffed a bit too soon, because the latest buzz about town is talking about the plane that stopped at the airport 5 minutes from my apartment last Wednesday on a massive heroin run, with the consent of higher-ups in the police and several patron businessmen here in NDB. According to my reporter friend and the Moor guy that eats dinner at the same restaurant as me, a policeman came to the control tower and told them to allow the plane to land. The pilots waited for a contact at the airport for about half an hour, while someone else employed there thought that the plane had landed unannounced because there was some sort of emergency. So said random worker called the hospital, which sent a couple of ambulances. The sirens frightened the pilots, who promptly reboarded their aircraft and flew straight into the desert. They abandoned the plane, chock full of millions upon millions of dollars of heroin and disappeared into the ether. Supposedly the police are going to bring the drugs back to NDB and burn them, but all parties consulted seemed fairly certain that much of those drugs will disappear again. And to add to it all, the son of one of the presidential candidates was implicated in the whole matter. Excitement!

2. When I lived in Paris and people would ask where I'm from, I'd get this little ball of awkward shame in the back of my throat as I feebly said "the U.S." and immediately followed with an apology. All but one time it didn't really generate a negative reaction, and in retrospect, I'm slightly annoyed that I felt so timid about my origin. It's not my fault the administration follows each terrible idea with something inconceivably worse, and actually, I'm kind of happy to be from the States. It beats being from 97% of the rest of the world. But French people still shit all over Sarkozy because he envisions a decent relationship with the States. I say, he may actually do you some good.

3. So now, when I'm eating dinner, and the nice Moor guy next to me starts telling me about how much he doesn't like any English speakers, I smile until I taste bile. And when he tells me that he supports bin Laden (though the September thing was terrible), because Bush responded by murdering far more people than "the terrorists" ever could, I actually empathize a bit. But then he checks my empathy by making blanket claims that all Americans only care about money, that we're withholding a cure for AIDS from Africa because we want to see people die, and that we hate Islam, and I refrain from saying, "You know, that sounds an awful lot like me telling you that all Muslims are terrorists." But the fact of the matter remains, there is a ridiculous number of people in the world that hate us, and those numbers are in direct correlation to the foreign policy of the Bush administration. So somehow, I come out feeling proud and defensive of my country, and hating the people in power with a previously unknown passion, because their actions are indefensible.

4. We got animals. Tons of them. Everywhere. Goats, donkeys, cats, children, dogs, mice, chickens, cows. I can't leave my apartment without seeing some pathetic procession of creatures down my street, chewing on whatever plastic bags they can find. And I've been witness to some miracles of mother nature (have you ever sat and watched a goat give birth? 'cause I have, and it's disgusting), and I've seen her savage cruelty. I've seen cute baby animals playing with each other, and I've seen them lying dead on the side of the road. I've seen a dog eat a kitten. But what I've never seen, and at this point it's such a mystery that I'm hyperaware of the situation wherever I go, is a baby donkey. They're all exactly the same size, and they all look haggard. Maybe they just kind of sprout, full-sized, out of the ubiquitous mounds of donkey poop, or maybe all the animals got together and agreed to stop breeding because their lives were just so miserable, but whatever it is, baby donkeys elude me and everyone I know. Figure that one out.

Third world product reviews - The Closet of Narnia

2007-04-25T03:08:00.000+08:00

This being the third world, occasionally we here in NDB find ourselves yearning for items that aren't readily available. English reading material, for example, or VHS cassettes of film classics such as "Smoke Signals" and "Elizabethtown." Sometimes our cravings become more exotic, and we find ourselves jonesin' for a 1986 economics textbook and a pair of used, red swimshorts. Back in the dawn of our time here, when Erin and Sam occupied the room that now belongs to Ousmane, it was not at all uncommon to find the three of us sitting, staring at each other, silently confounded that no one could find a 5-year-old printer box filled with suspicious, off-brand condoms and a stapler. They were hard times.

But lo, the sun has risen and shed its light unto the dark ages through which we wandered. Upon moving into their new apartment, which has passed through the hands of several volunteers, Sam and Erin became the unwitting guardians of an 8x4x2 ft. portal to a world of magic and intrigue.

Sam recalls, "I remember seeing the closet and thinking, 'Great, somewhere to put my many, many pairs of shoes.' Then I opened the thing, and the disappointment was excruciating."

"Sam just started tossing junk out of the closet," Erin explains. "But it never stopped. Crap streamed from the open door like a clown at a children's birthday party, pulling a never-ending handkerchief out of its sick, fat mouth."

Eventually, her husband disappeared into the depths of the closet, and Erin called me, frantic. When I arrived, she was standing in the middle of the room, knee-deep in satellite receiver boxes and copies of Newsweek dating back to 2003, which, judging by the sheer numbers, must have had around 63 months. It was a bizarre, worrisome scene, and I could only think of one thing to say. I looked at the girl, staring into the black expanse as if it was the edge of the universe. "Let's get something to eat."

We came back two hours later to find Sam lying barely conscious at the door, pants torn and a sizable patch of hair missing from the left side of his head. He kept muttering something about a lion, so I gave him some french fries. He couldn't really chew, so we dipped them in ketchup and just kind of laid them on his cheek.

Eventually, after watching ketchup drip into Sam's eye with no noticeable reaction, Erin and I realized the gravity of the situation and sprung into action. For weeks we nursed him back to coherence. Erin really proved the strength of their marriage vows, giving him daily sponge baths and regularly fixing an edible puree to feed him until he relearned how to feed himself. It was sort of like a fish and carrot milkshake. For my part, I spent a lot of time with Sam at the parallel bars as he took his first baby steps for the second time. We also read "Green Eggs & Ham," and he inched his way towards literacy. But for some reason, every time I brought out "The Cat in the Hat," he would cry softly to himself. It took a while to figure out why.

We kept Whitney Houston on constant, 24-hour rotation to give the whole thing a montage-esque quality. I don't think Sam even knew what was going on, but at the very least, I found it inspiring. And after three months - three long months of blood, sweat, and tears - he bounced back. It was an emotional time for everyone, and I think we all became a little bit closer.

During all of that time, those whole three months and then some, the door of the room with the Closet remained closed. Shut to the world, until one day, I asked Erin for a hammer. Without even thinking, she replied, "Why don't you check the Closet of Narnia?" So I did. And you know what? I found that hammer. And I found a light bulb, and some hot sauce, and some porn. We discovered that the Closet held just about everything we never knew we needed, and as long as you didn't venture too deep, it was relatively safe. Which seems like a shitty metaphor for life.

So I give our Closet of Narnia a 4 out of 10. I mean, sure it's a repository for all things known to mankind, but I'm using C. S. Lewis' version as a point of reference. We've got around 50 movies in there, but they're in friggin' VHS, and we don't even have a VCR. I'm pretty sure Lewis' would have had DVDs. Our Closet also loses points because Lewis' version (again, relatively speaking) of the magical world didn't have a giant, obnoxious lion that used weak, liberal sex-crimes legislation as an excuse to do unspeakable things to whoever wandered too far in. If it had happened to me, this thing totally would have been docked another point.

I Phantom (someone better comment)

2007-04-18T23:55:00.000+08:00

I've been a bit bipolar for the last two and a half weeks. Starting when several good friends came to visit, I realized just how jaded I was getting with the grind. We then moved the party to Atar, where I promptly drained my precious endorphin supply until I was running on fumes, and finally, about a week ago, I returned to Nouadhibou.

Waiting for me were my students' second trimester exams, which only proved that either I'm a shit teacher or I'm teaching to blocks of concrete. It was a real low point, including repeated musings about what the hell exactly I'm doing here. I came knowing it wouldn't be Dangerous Minds, but that didn't really matter. I suppose I was a bit naive to think that even though these kids entered their 4th and 5th years barely able to string together a 4-word sentence (no exaggeration), I could somehow catch them up to the point the syllabus claims they should be at, and continue to aid them in their path towards fluency. Yeah. I know. Duh.

Anyway, I woke up a couple days ago and finally recognized the end of this leg trudging through the slough of despond. Actually, I'm pretty pumped about nothing in specific. And I want to hear from people, so this is a formal call for comments. I'm asking you to roll it out on this one, because otherwise, this is going to seem really, really pathetic. Remind other people. NYC, and specifically Brooklyn, I'm looking in your direction. 'Illadelph and Beantown, I'm looking in your direction. To the people grinding it out in the District's political, law, and liquor store machines, I'm looking in your direction. Chi-town, Bay Area, Portland and L.A., I'm looking in your direction. Paramaribo, London, Lahore, and everywhere in between, this means you. Hell, I don't even have to know you.

It takes about 30 seconds. Want a higher purpose? Consider it an apolitical way to show your support for a generation coming into power during a particularly crappy time in history. Prove the value of fruitless labor for the sake of the Good. Take the soapbox, or just say "yo." And if nothing else, answer the following question: It's 4:00 PM. Do you know where your moms' is at?

Silk Road

2007-04-14T04:55:00.000+08:00

People ask how I stay sane, and I generally reference some form of writing, either read or self-produced. It's an easy answer, but I think it neglects a key escape. It's time you know about the Chinese restaurant.

This is a dry country, and as the axiom goes, you don't know what you've missed until it's gone. The Hong Kong sits between the port and the rarely-used municipal stadium, on a relatively insignificant stretch of paved road that connects with the main artery a bit farther south. Like most everything else here, it hides behind 3 meter walls of sand-based concrete, whitewashed into an inconspicuous uniformity. Out front there is a man selling phone cards to passers-by from a throne of garbage. One can count on at least one feral dog lingering nearby, teats wagging and head down in an attempt to avoid any unnecessary beatings from anyone in the mood. The pitiful eyes mostly evoke disgust, and given enough time, it almost seems as though it is awaiting its own death with the same resentful impatience of the rest of the city.

Inside the compound there are trees fighting through the concrete. Greenery is personal. Trees and bushes left in the public are inevitably cut down for charcoal, and new growth is hindered by roving goats and donkeys desperate to supplement a diet of trash. The trees have been decorated with lights, strung along anything that will support them. Below, there is patio furniture, a perfect target for cockroaches abandoning the leafy canopy. I generally choose to sit inside.

Follow the lights through the patio door and you enter a foyer-turned-bar. To the left are posters of half-naked animated women. To the right, next to the alcohol, is a calendar consisting of Chinese characters and a picture of Jesus. At the bar is the same sun-withered Spanish man jawing with the family that runs the place about who knows what. He punctuates his diatribes by flinging his greasy ponytail. If it is early enough, some members of the Spanish consulate will be eating and drinking whiskey and laughing about something. They used to become silent when I entered, but that has long changed. Now I nod and the conversation continues uninterrupted.

My seat is in the next room. The lights that lined Jesus and the naked women wrap into and around the dining area, ending their journey behind some fake leaves hanging like a limp rag from the corner of the ceiling. I always take my place at a table that affords a view of the bar and the dining room, because I am a spectator. Not to play up the excitement of watching people eat. I sit there because I can watch the Chinese family and the Spanish men and the Nigerian whores. Occasionally, there are Moroccans and Russians, and the din of five to seven languages occurring at once is refreshing. The aunt will bring me a can of beer adorned with characters and the phrase "Laotian Beer," while the uncle shakes my hand and offers me a cigarette from three different brands. Sometimes I eat, but usually I drink and read or watch.

Once the ships have docked, a familiar crowd of Spaniards trickles through the screen door, and the mother, a perpetual hostess who has recently taken to applying bronzer with the same zeal as someone painting their car, screams an enthusiastic "hola!" at anyone and everyone. She is a dynamo, and constantly directs traffic, shoving family members in the direction of anyone who needs attention. She seems friendly and impenetrable.

I am two beers deep, and the first of the Nigerian women have taken their places at the benches across from the bar. They are discrete, despite their wigs. The fact that they are moderately clothed overrides the bouncing knees. They will sit there all night, waiting. Sometimes they will drink a Coke. They are thick, and I can't tell if they are new to the work or players past their prime. If they are lucky, no other women will arrive, and the odds will remain in their favor. Good things come to those who wait.

One time I saw a fight. I don't know what happened, but the uncle was shoving a long-nailed woman out of the compound while she screamed and spit over his shoulder. Another woman stood at the door, antagonizing her. Maybe it was over money. Maybe the one at the door borrowed a book and wouldn't return it.

The daughter brings me another beer. That makes five. She looks around 16, and she reminds me of a bird. She is incredibly businesslike, and though she is the only one I ever speak to, our most in-depth conversation has only consisted of me quantifying how many drinks I want. But I watch, and I wonder what it's like to grow into adulthood in such a place. Aside from a furtive glance at herself in the mirror, she acts like no teenage girls I've ever met. I want to ask her hundreds of questions, but any deviation from the norm seems wildly inappropriate in such a setting.

One time a woman in a mulafa came into the restaurant. From the outset it was jarring. She traded greetings with me in Hassaniya, and then asked for a beer. As the people I was with shooed her off, I noticed a very young girl in a mulafa hugging the wall behind her. She was obviously mortified, and it wasn't until her mother had moved to a table of Chinese sailors that I realized what was going on. She goaded them for alcohol, and by the time she finally convinced them to give it to her, her daughter and one of the men had disappeared. About twenty minutes later they reappeared and the girl smoked a cigarette. The next time I saw the woman at the restaurant, the uncle kicked her out immediately.

Tonight she is sitting alone amidst the crowd, hopelessly outclassed. A slick, relatively youngish Spanish man has arrived with two women hanging over his shoulders. They are wearing incredibly tight, incredibly little clothing, with thongs sticking out above their jeans and glitter on every visible part of their bodies. They shine under the eternal Christmas, like oily, liquid sex. With their arrival the party has hit unseen heights, and Spanish dominates all audible noise. This is the zenith of their weekend.

I was quiet, switching constantly between book and bar. The daughter flitted around the crowd like a hummingbird among cacti, always working, always focused. The women slithered up and down the men, taking over as waitresses and plying their conquests with alcohol. The scene has never been this frantic. Maybe this is perverse, but I usually find it contenting. Though it is cliché, I like to romanticize the grime, and it is definitely not Mauritanian. I finished my beer and waited for the warm embrace around my chest that always cued departure. It never came, but I left anyway.

Tonight I went home profoundly sad.

Couple things

2007-03-27T01:55:00.000+08:00

I was sitting next to my mother, mid-flight. We were probably a couple thousand feet over central Asia - Russia, China, Mongolia, I don't know. There were trees and grass, so my guess is that it wasn't the Gobi desert. There were several intercom announcements detailing how the world's biggest powers, Russia, China, and the U.S., were fully mobilizing for war. The urgency was ever-so-slightly muted by the glaring absence of a reason, but nuclear war being a zero-sum game, I was nervous nonetheless. The sky had turned dark despite the fact that it was daytime, so I started to contemplate life post-nuclear holocaust. It seemed like the kind of thing one plans for. And as I worried about the future of all existence, the plane flipped into a downwards barrel roll, and we headed straight for the ground at 600 miles per hour. For about 7 seconds I considered the possibility that the plane could right itself, probably knocking everyone on board unconscious in a 4G sudden change of direction. Then we died.

1. Pat has been trying to "geolocate" me with Google Earth ("It's an art." - Pat Opet, Mar. 25, 07), based solely on the scant photos I have provided. After much discussion, we have decided to turn this into a contest, open to all. Not that anyone but him will participate. Anyway, I'm going to take some photos of my apartment. Then I'm going to take some photos of various landmarks around the city, looking at said landmarks from the direction of my apartment. That way, by drawing some lines and finding out at which coordinates they intersect, you can divine exactly where on this brown blob of misery dripping into the Atlantic I live. And, as always, we're open to suggestions.

2. About a month ago, Ousmane Ba moved in with me. He is an English teacher in NDB, and as of two weeks ago, he works at the same school at which I work. The man is in his mid thirties, just got married in January (his wife is finishing a doctorate degree in Dakar), and is Pulaar. He speaks 4 or 5 languages, and is relatively progressive. So I put forward the following proposition: come up with some questions for Ousmane, and comment or email them to me. I will then make a brief video in which he answers said question(s), and if there are enough, it will become a semi-regular feature. Don't be shy about the content - I will take care not to offend his delicate sensibilities.

3. G. Jane and G. Bob, please check your email. Because I sent an email. To your email.

4. Larium. It's a different adventure every night.

Second trimester exams - will you pass?

2007-03-21T00:15:00.000+08:00

It's about that time again, which means many of you have seen me online for upwards of six hours a day while I crank out seemingly endless variations on several exams in an attempt to curb the rampant cheating that somehow became "part of the process." In the spirit of giving, I share with you now a sample exam, cobbled together from the tests of four different classes (about 16 total). I also invite you to enter any and all answers into the comments section to prove to the world how well you are at English!

And no cheating.

Part 1: Simple Present/Present Continuous
Directions: Conjugate the verb in parentheses in either simple present or present continuous tense.

Where (Jim, go) _______________ every night? I can never find him.

In the evening, Faty (make) _______________ dinner for her family. This evening, however, she (help) _______________ her father fix his Mercedes.

A: What (you, do) _______________ right now?
B: I (write) _______________ a story about a boy who can’t read.
A: (it, be) _______________ a sad story?
B: Yes.

Every day Mark (go) _______________ to school, and if he has the time afterwards, he (meet) _______________ his friends.

A: The phone (ring) _______________!
B: I’ll get it. It is your sister. She (call) _______________ from Vegas.
A: What (she, do) _______________ in Vegas?

Part 2: Simple Past/Past Continuous
Directions: Conjugate the verb in parentheses in either simple past or past continuous tense.

A: (you, make) ____________________ the cake that we’re eating?
B: No, I (have – negative) ____________________ time. I (buy) ____________________ it at the bakery.

They say Carly Simon (write) ____________________ "You're So Vain." I'll bet you (think) ____________________ the song was about you.

Jack had a great day yesterday. First, he (go) ____________________ to the market, where he (find) ____________________ a very nice jacket. Then, as he (leave) ____________________, he (see) ____________________ one of his best friends.

A: How (you, break) ____________________ your legs?
B: I (walk) ____________________ down the stairs when my dog (run) ____________________ under my feet.

Last week we all (travel) ____________________ to Atar. While we (ride) ____________________ camels through the desert, a sandstorm (come) ____________________ and we had to leave.

You have two hours to finish. Turn off your cellphones. And I want everything off your desks. Good luck.

People I have known: Wul Choud

2007-03-17T01:59:00.000+08:00

“Hey, Big Daddy.”

I was standing in one of the offices at school, talking with a couple of administrative staff members about the upcoming vacation. No one had any plans that were of particular interest to the other parties involved, and so we had reverted to the usual repetition of questions about work and family. I heard it behind me. Ibrahim, one of the people I had been speaking with, was looking over my shoulder. He speaks English, but I had never heard him speak it with anyone other than myself. The look on his face indicated that the bizarre salutation was not addressed to him, and I quickly realized that I was “Big Daddy.” I repeated the address to myself. “Am I ‘Big Daddy’?” “Did he just say ‘Big Daddy’?”

“How are you, Big Daddy?”

Turning around, my hand inadvertently met his. In retrospect, it had no choice; he was standing incredibly close, and his hand all but rested directly on me during the uncomfortably long journey from my lower back, along my left side, around to my abdomen as I rotated to face the greeting. So I grabbed his hand and shook, because to do otherwise would have been a matter of grave effrontery.

My eyes were fixed waist-level, on the hand that had traced a hemisphere of my torso, the hand that I was now holding. His palm was very sweaty, and as my hand became increasingly moist I ventured my gaze upwards to meet the visage of my new acquaintance. Small chin, tenuous smile, aquiline nose, and two beady eyes, set noticeably close together under a protruding brow. And above, above, his forehead soared upwards in all directions. Not one single hair on his gleaming pate, and all I could think of as I struggled to keep my eyes from lingering so far north of their destination, was lightbulbs. He was a rabbit burrowed into a mountain, and my hand was wet.

I smiled and responded in French, fairly sure that no regular English speaker would refer to me, or anyone, as “Big Daddy.” He continued in English.

“How are you, Big Daddy? Nice to meet you.”

Despite the fact that there are a number of students at the high school who have long forsaken their teenage years for a cyclical and repetitive young adulthood of academic mediocrity, this man was not a student. I would have put him in his early to mid 40s, allowing a certain amount of leeway for general weathering by years of living in a desert. Thus I assumed he was a teacher. Ibrahim clarified, introducing me to one of my colleagues, Wul Choud, the English professor.

***

I had finished classes for the day, and was walking out of the compound. Passing a doorway, I looked in and made eye contact with Wul Choud. He was exactly halfway through an English lesson, and immediately diverted his complete attention to the departing figure.

“Hey, Big Daddy. Nice to meet you.”

By the third time I had learned to accept my fate, and found that embracing it yielded a far more enjoyable experience than trying to rush it along. As I had done several times before, I turned to address the man calling me “Big Daddy.” We did the hello’s, the how are you’s, the how’s work’s, and found ourselves in the familiar position of having run out of things to ask about. This time, Wul Choud picked up the slack and told me, rather unexpectedly, that he had lived in the United States.

“I lived in Kentucky for three years, and I worked as a dishwasher at a Cracker Barrel.”

I was struck by the vast difference between a life as a professional in Mauritania and a life working Stateside in a grimy interstate-exit buffet-style restaurant. But as the story of his life in the States continued, the walls of the yawning chasm separating those two lives eked closer. He told me stories about the people he met, regarding the American people as, for the most part, uniformly gracious.

“I went one time to take a break in the restroom…”

Wul Choud caught the reflection of his malapropism in my eye, and corrected himself.

“…I was taking a break one time, and I went to sit down in the breakroom, and some lady said to me ‘What are you doing? You can’t sit here.’ You know what I said to her, Big Daddy? I said, ‘Hey, fuck you, I can sit wherever I want to sit.’”

His emphasis on the “fuck” betrayed some amount of stylization – evidence that this phrase popped up with a dependable regularity. He continued.

“And I’ll tell you, Big Daddy. One time I was talking to this woman, trying to begin a relationship with her. Ooh, Big Daddy, she was very hot. So I am talking, trying to begin a relationship, when another woman comes and asks, ‘Hey, why are you talking to this man? He is no good for you.’ And you know what I said, Big Daddy? I said, ‘Hey, fuck you, she can talk to whoever she wants.’”

Most of Wul Choud’s stories ended this way. Still, he remained very generous to Americans as a whole. And any time that he asked if I knew what he said, the answer was generally “yes.” He explained it to me thusly:

“You see, Big Daddy, I have a higher level of English than the other professors because I lived in the United States for three years. Some of the others are no good, but I know the phrases; how to speak like an American.”

I thought back to my time as a cook at Western Sizzlin’. My immediate superior was an ex-convict with a walnut-sized keloid hanging from his left ear. He called it his “bump,” and I sometimes wondered, if you had cut it open, if you’d be able to count the rings and divine the number of years since his wife had stabbed him in the side of the face. I then thought about the 27-year-old mother of two who spent her time over a bowl of instant mashed potatoes alternatingly lauding the subtle pleasures of crack and asking me for legal advice based on the fact that she had heard my mother was a divorce lawyer. When my attention returned to Wul Choud, he was still talking about his sizable advantage as an English teacher because of his experiences in America. ‘Yeah,’ I thought, ‘that sounds about right.’

By now his class was becoming restless. We had been talking for over 15 minutes, and I suspect that if I hadn’t claimed that there was somewhere I needed to be, the conversation would have continued unabated. When he turned to resume the class, I caught the words “horseback riding” on the board.

***

A few weeks later I decided to spend an evening at the Chinese restaurant reading and drinking beer. It was as dead as the dead of winter gets in Nouadhibou, and the city had long been lacquered in the opaque blackness of a moonless night with no streetlamps. About a block away from my apartment I heard a voice from the darkness.

“Hey, Big Daddy, how are you?”

I found Wul Choud’s hand hovering near my right hip. This was the first (and only) time I had run into my coworker outside of the educational setting, and it had a profound effect on our topic of conversation. Forsaking his immediate dinner plans, he began walking with me in the opposite direction. When our eyes had adjusted to absence of light, he pointed out the book under my arm.

“When I was in the United States, everyone was reading. Everywhere I went, people with books and newspapers. Here, everyone is lazy. No one reads books. No one cares what is going on.”

After eight months, I still don’t know how to respond when people attack their own country. I’ve struggled with the policies and people of my country, but have come to appreciate a certain amount of national pride. Point of origin is an inescapable factor of identity, and deriding it seems as productive as calling yourself an asshole. But his rant about the superiority of America’s reading habits eventually segued into a condemnation of Mauritania’s educational system, and I felt the tickle of anticipation at being able to voice my own concerns about how things are run. My list was exhaustive: no generally agreed-upon syllabus for any of the classes, a shoddy, inaccurate, and out-of-date student registration system, no formal communication between administration and staff whatsoever, very little transparency as to how national educational allocations are utilized and no accountability when the funds inevitably disappear without a trace, no supplies, no resources, zero nationwide uniformity concerning scheduling (or anything, for that matter), and perhaps as an extension of the last point, a total inability to plan for anything more than a week in advance. I quietly waited for the opportunity to bond with a colleague over mutual grievances. He started with the teachers.

“They are no better than students. You saw them in the staff meeting. The director couldn’t even speak because they would not stop talking.”

I couldn’t disagree, but the meeting was so pointless and needlessly dominated by an unfocused, authoritative pomp and circumstance that I couldn’t blame people for not paying any attention. His attack on the teachers moved on to their lack of commitment, and eventually, qualification. The teachers, however, are perhaps some of the most qualified professionals in the country. They attend about six years of schooling beyond high school, get paid relatively little, and exist at the whim of a capricious and overly-nationalized system. I attempted to voice my disagreement, but he did not seem to register my input. At best, my comments redirected his ire towards the students, and Wul Choud fell back on the universal, albeit genuine, concern over “kids these days.”

“Listen to this, Big Daddy. The other day I saw a student of mine sitting on the street with a girl, and they were holding hands. Such disrespect! When I was a student, you would never be so disrespectful of a teacher. When you saw a teacher, you left. That was it. Now they say ‘hello’ to me as if I was one of them. And in my classes, I often see them sitting on the back of their chairs. I tell them to sit down in the chair correctly, and they continue to sit on the back of the chair.”

The heartfelt nature of his plea softened my growing distaste for the conversation. Wul Choud was visibly distressed that students occasionally regarded teachers with a modicum of familiarity, and that this was the first chink in the foundation of Mauritanian society, the global society even. He expounded on his perspective for many minutes more, and my fervent disagreement slowly gave way to a comical acceptance. We parted ways smiling.

***

The last time that I saw Wul Choud was in the teacher’s lounge, a concrete room with a table, reserved for drinking tea, mostly. I rarely spend any time in the lounge, but joined dozens of other teachers that day in finishing up grades for a noon deadline imposed only two hours before. I sat in a corner, concentrating on my work, while conversation stormed around me in at least four languages. English is never one of these languages, so when Wul Choud entered, I knew he was talking to me.

“Hey Big Daddy, you getting the pussy?”

Considering the question that was just lobbed to me across a crowded room, over the voices of at least 15 other teachers, I would regard my calm as “zen-like.” Since our evening chat about the state of mankind, Wul Choud had begun to speak to me with a familiarity not unlike the dishwashers did back at Western Sizzlin’, and this question had joined the gamut of other questions one asks when greeting a colleague. Usually it directly followed an inquiry as to how my family was doing.

“Hey, Big Daddy, how are you? You getting the pussy?”

He realized that I had heard him the second time, because I was laughing, because I am a child. I had heard this question before, but never in front of anyone else, let alone a roomful of coworkers. I shook my head at him, indicating (poorly) that this was an inappropriate occasion for said questions.

“What the fuck do they know? They don’t fucking speak English.”

And for the most part it was true. While I wallowed in crippling embarrassment, no one else so much as turned their head.

***

When I returned from Dakar, Ousmane, a close friend who also happens to be an English teacher at another school in Nouadhibou, announced that he was being transferred to the high school. He informed me that Wul Choud had left, and that he was taking his place. I called Ibrahim to get the details.

“Yeah, it’s true. Wul Choud went to Nouakchott last weekend, and on Monday called the director to tell him that he had been transferred to a high school in Nouakchott. I couldn’t believe it. People try for years to get placed in Nouakchott, and he pulled some strings over a weekend, and just like that he was gone.”

I expressed my surprise. I openly wondered about the fate of his newly abandoned class, how they would respond to such an abrupt change. Ibrahim seemed to think it was probably for the best.

“Wul Choud. There was something wrong with that guy. He just wasn’t right in the head.”

And that was the last we ever spoke of him.

This is pertinent, right?

2007-03-16T01:14:00.000+08:00

Sure it is.

I promise there is a very large post on its way within a day or two. In the meantime just sit back, have someone bind your arms to your office chair, staple your eyes open, and watch the video of adorable(!) children until your brain bleeds rainbows.

More cute children

2007-03-07T02:16:00.000+08:00

Annd, I'm out of videos. I guess I'll actually have to come up with some new content. Still, adorable!

My host family

2007-03-02T02:49:00.000+08:00

Got me some video here. These are the two youngest children of the family I lived with for two and a half months. Madonna would trip all over herself to rip these things out of the hands of their unwilling parents. Adorable!

Please bear with my technical ineptitude. Yes, I know I mounted the sun-blocker incorrectly. And the sound doesn't appear to be aligned that well either. I'm in Africa. What the hell do you want from me?

I'm finding it difficult to believe that this was over six months ago.

On another note, I finally received a great package from Geoff, including the digital voice recorder my heart was o so set upon. Thank you Geoff. I am trying to figure out how to get down to all the refugees who are still being held at the port a mere kilometer from my apartment. We will see if the Crescent Rouge continues to stand in my way.

The Dakar rally

2007-02-24T19:32:00.000+08:00

As previously mentioned, on Feb. 16, Mauritania lumbered south for the enormous softball clusterfuck that is W.A.I.S.T. With three full teams (A Team: Pirates, B Team: Swashbucklers, C Team: Buccaneers - no one knew what a "Corsair" was), and a full cadre of spectators (the unofficial D Team: Seamen), PCRIM dwarfed all competition. So large was the whirlwind, nay, hurricane of unbridled team spirit and alcohol, that several team members from PC Senegal and PC Mali began rooting for their northern oppressors. Stockholm Syndrome is far more epidemic when the entire population is lacquered in booze.

Preston, Rob, and Gregor. 8:30 AM. Day 1.

Sam. Day 3.

Saman, Kate, and Preston. Day 3.

Team uniforms included T-shirts featuring one's individual team name, mohawks, and incredibly stupid/sexy facial hair. Sirwhal/chiya (neither of which is spelled using the Latin alphabet) were also a prominent feature. Frankly, most of us find the baggy pants/shorts so incredibly awesome that there may be an extremely misguided attempt to wear them in the States. Fair warning.

Pat. Day 1.

PCRIM plays in the social league, as opposed to the competitive league. It has taken a bit of heat for winning the trophy three years in a row, but remains adamant that a yearly changing roster and the opportunity to practice no more than twice before the tournament makes them more than qualified for social play. And while teams like Senegal (not to be confused with PC Senegal - these were locals) took the competition entirely too seriously, especially for the social league, we kept it light and airy, like a Dan Brown novel. If the fact that bottles of filthy, cheap Senegalese whiskey were passed between players during gameplay doesn't disqualify us from the competitive league, I don't know what does.

Preston. Day 1.

The Pirates. Day 3.

The social league consisted of 22 teams, three of which were PCRIM. PC Senegal, PC Mali, and PC Gambia each fielded teams, but other teams consisted of military and embassy personnel, international school students and teachers, local Senegalese teams, and our very favorite opponents, Christian missionaries. I have no idea whether the Buccaneers or the Swashbucklers actually won a single game, but it was of no importance. The money was riding on the Pirates.

Todd, Maggie, Kris, Mike, and Pat. Day 3.

I can't really build up any suspense, because the Pirates won all 8 of their games. A few were uncomfortably close, but most were easily manageable. And despite a combined BAC of 800.03%, we are proud to report that the Pirates and its fans regarded all play as friendly competition.

Haley, Kieth, Todd, and Saman. Day 3.

Zach. Day 1.

Pat. Day 3.

The moment of glory.

Victory.

More sweet victory.

Following the win was, of course, more celebration. I'm a much better celebrator than player. I blame it on genetics, probably to the chagrin of many family members currently reading this.

Me, Matt, and Kris.

Mike, Kristen, and Leah.

Caryn.

I really don't know.

Me and Neda.

Rob, Me, Jon, and Erin. Probably the hardest laugh I've had in 5 years.

So that was W.A.I.S.T. Pete "The Frenchman" is alive and well, and sadly I have no images of him in his impressive uniform. Photo credits are pretty evenly divided between me and Erin, and apparently someone else got a hold of my camera at some point. I personally have somewhere in the realm of 150 photos, and there are hundreds more floating around elsewhere. Should there be any interest, I will track down links.

As for Dakar itself, any relevant observations will require another trip. It was a short three days, during which we hardly left the fields and club, so I'll have to save the cultural experience for another time. It was pleasantly jarring, however, to be in a city that felt remotely developed.

Though the similarities between our version and the Official Version of the Dakar Rally extend only so far as the name of this post and the fact that our trip to the capital of Senegal involved vehicles, I savor the ubiquitous differences; namely, that our version didn't involve the deaths of any children. I think.

Nigeria: like Disneyland, but with RPGs

2007-02-08T02:03:00.000+08:00

I read the VQR article this morning, and thought the coincidence too strong to ignore. Figured I'd be the one to concatenate these stories.

1. The What.

2. The Why.

Part of me wants to visit, but the one Nigerian I know doesn't really understand why.

Third world product reviews: Barf

2007-02-03T17:33:00.000+08:00

Listen, I don't think there are unicorns in Mauritania, but being one never to pass information unless 100% positive, and having enough free time to pursue this endeavor, I think it's high time we decide conclusively whether or not they exist. To note, desert crocodiles were only discovered about 100 years ago, and living examples only within the last few decades. Maybe unicorns burrow.

So what I'm proposing here - and this is mainly directed at whoever's in charge of operations at the companies providing hi-res satellite images for defense departments around the world - is that we coordinate said satellites to capture one continuous photo of Mauritania at one, single moment. Pat, Chris, I may need your help on this.

Now, like the passing of inaccurate data, I'm also not one to look a gift-horse in the mouth, but one sat won't suffice. For an accurate assessment on the existence of unicorns, I think we're going to need, at farthest, a 1:20 shot of all of Mauritania, including Southern Algeria, western parts of Mali, and most of Western Sahara. We cannot count on unicorns as stationary creatures; surely they would have been discovered by now if they were. A patchworked compilation of individual frames can't ensure that the imaginary (or are they?) beasts didn't migrate out of the range of the camera between shots (I know, we're going to have to put up a lot of satellites to cover the world in one take - baby steps). This is assuming, of course, that unicorns don't live off the coast as ocean-dwellers. The fact of the matter is, I just don't know.

While I'm thinking of it, the sats should have thermal imaging so that, in the the event that there are vast underground colonies of unicorns, they won't go unnoticed. I intend to put seismologists on this as well.

Finally, one can't overlook HUMINT. I have not failed to acknowledge the value of a small but persistently transient network of nomads and camel herders migrating throughout the Sahara. These men are hyperaware, desert-crawling machines, and are quite adapted to extended voyages into a harsh climate that a team of Johns Hopkins researchers could never endure. Trained in the latest and most effective unicorn-tracking techniques, our indispensable correspondents could mean the difference between accusations of "Photoshopping" and other falsifying chicanery, and the long-sought acceptance of the scientific community.

At this point, allow me to proffer a guess as to what you're thinking. "So we find unicorns. So what?"

Line up that venture capital money and shove it in your fat, doubting maw, cause this is what: unicorn polo.

Take everything wrong with the current state of polo (outdated, inaccessible, steroids). Now add a foot-long railroad spike to the front of these confused and precariously-steered animals. Suddenly we've got a sport capable of attracting millions, maybe billions. Combine the traditional wit and strategy of polo with the guaranteed impalements of, at the bare minimum, five rich people per game, and at least 96% of the world will tune in. Simple as that. I don't even know why I continue to waste time explaining. This is where you can send money:

c/o John Langdon
Corps de la Paix
BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania
West Africa

The point I'm meandering towards is this. Any way you look at is, unicorn polo is going to be a messy game. Between dirt and grass stains and any number of different bodily fluids, those animals are going to leave the field looking like Pollack on a meth bender. And Barf will remove those stains. I've tried four or five different detergents in this dusty, dirty country, and Barf has unquestionably made my whites their whitest. The box highly recommends that you wash your hands thoroughly after using, but I prefer to regard those bubbling sores on my hands as proof that the product is working. Faced with the completely unfounded but entirely plausible possibility that all unicorns are white, the immediacy of a non-bleach, high-powered detergent makes itself abundantly clear.

Additionally, Barf is made in Iran, which makes me optimistic that they'll have few qualms about sponsoring a sport like unicorn polo.

Happy birthday, dad

2007-01-29T00:51:00.000+08:00

Punctuality isn't really my thing. Happy birthday, nonetheless. I got you an African child, which seems to be the gift of the year. He's been shipped, but I may have forgotten to punch air holes in the box. Details aren't really my thing either.

Praise be to ye

2007-01-21T02:37:00.000+08:00

Medical made a recent trip to our fair city, covering administrative bases and generally making sure that we were "still alive." Perhaps the most substantial portion of the visit was the arrival, at which point we were doused in Christmas letters and packages that failed to make it during my time in NKT. Thank you to the following.

Grammy Jane and Grandpa Bob, who sent 36 delicious oatmeal cookies, a Hershey's bar, and some packages of beef jerky. This box has been the most molested to date en route, arriving with multiple holes and the general appearance of a worn accordion. The powderized oatmeal cookies were tasty (I poured them directly from bag to mouth - cuts down on the whole "masticating" thing), and I attempted to ration the beef jerky, extending its life to a whole 40 hours. Still, overall grandparent feelgoodness arrived fully intact. Thank you very much.

Isaac gets a superstar award for a sweet hardcover version of "What Is The What," wherein we will see if Dave Eggers can redeem his former glory after the disappointing sophomore effort of "You Shall Know Our Velocity," (or whatever he subsequently renamed it). This thing now officially ranks among the nicest possessions I own here, and I will vigorously guard it from the light fingers of other book-starved volunteers. Isaac, thank you from the bottom of my dry, dusty heart.

Letters from Lizzie, Caroline, Meg, and Katie. Correspondence is still worth its weight in platinum ("ice," if you will). I'd be disturbed that more of my male friends don't write me, but the one-sidedness makes me feel cool. All cards are prominently displayed in my apartment, where my one visitor a month can bask in their Yuletide glory.

Marc, I am at this very moment trying to restrain myself from punching a hole through the monitor as I listen to Cyantific's "Cover Story," and, ahem, rock the fuck out. I just finished downloading all the music you posted, and now cry nightly that I don't have my turntables over here. DT8 Project's "Narama," Photek's "Age of Empires," DJ Marky & XRS, and good ol' Laurent Garnier bounce me into a hyperactive trance at least 14 times a day, and for this, I am thankful.

Such is the never-ending Christmas here in Africa.

On a more bizarre note, a spider roughly the size of a small flatbed has taken up residence in my room, Omar has disappeared, and almost every morning I find empty cockroach husks strung up in my shower. I don't know whether to be disturbed or consider him a useful new pet, but the guy is seriously large and I have no doubt that in a fight against Omar he could pull the gecko limb from limb while killing three roaches simultaneously and doing a crossword. I guess I'll decide when I wake up to find an egg sac forcefully injected into the side of my face.

Answers to questions that I have received

2007-01-18T02:20:00.000+08:00

1. There are still reports of locust infestations in the northwest, which is where you are.
Do people talk about them?
Do you see them?
Are they recognizably different than big grasshoppers, or only in their aggregate behavior?

I have not seen a single locust/grasshopper since my arrival in NDB. There was a series of photos on the BBC News website yesterday highlighting how people in Nigeria are eating them, if that's of any interest. They actually looked kind of tasty.

2. The news sources have nothing but praise for the elections.
Is that the local feeling also?
Did it seem a big deal?
Was there any discussion of the exclusion of Islamist parties?

So far, the only elections to occur have been the mayoral and, I believe, legislative representative elections. They certainly did seem to go rather smoothly for this being a first go at a "truly" democratic race. I have discussed the hiccups in the NDB race, which finally ended with a runoff win by the favored old mayor's opponent. Apparently in Kaedi the race was also too close to call, and required a group of men to decide who won. Since one of the members of the ultimate deciding panel, who coincidentally would have cast the decisive vote, failed to show up, they concluded that the elder of the two should be mayor. People are reportedly not particularly bothered by the utter flaunting of the democratic system, but I don't really need to underline that this is a much different place.

Regarding the exclusion of Islamist parties, I did not gather much dissent about the decision, however, as I've stated before, NDB is "cosmopolitan." Many of the Islamist candidates aligned with other parties, so the election was definitely not free of them. Mark (old volunteer) predicted increased anti-Israel rhetoric (Mauritania is one of the few Islamic countries to acknowledge the existence of Israel, and there is an embassy in Nouakchott), in an effort to galvanize votes on an easy, hot-button topic, and we'll see if that is the case with the larger, upcoming elections. The few people with whom I have discussed the matter, or more specifically, those who have abruptly shared their opinions with me, have told me that they think it is a good thing that the Islamist parties have been excluded. Citing Hezbollah and Hamas, they declared that solely Islamic parties are more trouble than they're worth. The few times it happened it seemed like an instance in which, though they may have truly believed what they were saying, they were attempting to appeal to my "American" side.

Anyway, it would be ignorant to declare Mauritania free of those for whom Islam is the only correct way of life. Again, Nouadhibou is not where one would have felt the ire over their exclusion from the race. There are several locales in-country that are notoriously anti-West, and I suspect those would be the places to go to really observe the effects of said exclusion. For the most part, they don't request volunteers and my organization doesn't send volunteers to them, but I will ask around to see if there are any other opinions or experiences. Emotions will definitely become clearer and more pronounced with the approach of the presidential race.

3. Refugee migration is increasing again, especially along the coast. Apparently there is a detention center near Nouadhibou.
Do you hear about this?
What are the local feelings about them?

Shanty towns are expanding throughout the city, though how many of them consist of refugees and how many consist of those partaking in the great rural exodus is unclear to me. It is general knowledge that the immigrant community is growing in NDB, and the only really visible effect I have paid any attention to has been an increase in the number of restaurants and barber shops and languages I hear on the street.

I have heard recently that there has been a crackdown on the illegal attempts to boat to the Canaries. Subsequently, the refugees have reportedly been moving north of the city, up into Western Sahara. I don't know how true any of this is, but it appears to be the local gossip. As for their sentiments about the new arrivals, I really haven't heard very strong opinions on it. For what it's worth, there is very little crime, and all vagrancy I run into is purely homegrown.

There is apparently more than one detention center in NDB. I have visited one of them, not very far north of where I live and work. It is run by Mauritania, with support from the Red Cross/Red Crescent, and it exists basically as a collection point for those they find stranded in the ocean, where they are provided food and shelter, and then are eventually shipped back to their respective countries. The facilities were pretty basic, but considering no more than 100 meters away people were living in houses made of old washing machines and refrigerators, they were definitely sufficient. I went with a local friend, Ousmane, and we talked shortly with a gendarme who was guarding the compound. In a complete reversal of the norm, he was far more talkative than the Spanish man planted in the Red Cross/Red Crescent office, who acted more suspicious of us than anything.

4. There are economic reports about impending oil revenue.
Do people talk about this?
Is it influencing anything that you can see?
Have you noticed any effects on the PC operation?

Life is pretty unaffected by reports of impending oil revenue. Teachers nationwide recently received a very significant raise, which could perhaps be attributed to the expected profits, but I have no proof for that. It has had no effect on PC operation. The US, as far as I can tell, has little direct interest in the Mauritanian oil exploration, as the main companies with stakes in the project are Woodside (Australian), Hardman Resources (Australian), Premier Group (UK), Roc Oil (Australian, though it may be under Mauritanian administration locally), and BG Group (UK, trades on the London Stock Exchange and NYSE).

For the month of December they had hauled an oil platform into the bay for reasons unknown to myself, and at night, if you looked to the left out of my front door you would see a glowing Eiffel Tower rising out of the water.

The score(s)

2007-01-14T23:50:00.000+08:00

First trimester exams are in, and the scores basically tell you exactly what 5 minutes in any of my classes will tell you: the Math kids are the best students. Additionally, the average score for each class acts as a perfect ranking system for the order in which I enjoy them. NB, however, that my male/female lists for each class aren't perfect. The next time around I will have more detailed stats on gender, race, and absence/participation in class. For now, enjoy the chewy goodness. Also, any suggestions on data collection or analysis would be appreciated.

4CA (4th year, Math track, Arabic)

My one and only Arab class. It also happens to be my largest, and by extension, most unruly class. I see them once a week for two hours. The language barrier definitely doesn't help the learning process, seeing as I know all of 30 words in Arabic, none of which can be strung together to make a coherent sentence. Very occasionally I can directly translate a word they don't understand, but that's the extent of it. Attendance is pretty good; I'd estimate at least 45 of 57 students come on a regular basis. This was also the class that had a series of scheduling problems at the beginning of the year, causing us to lose at least a month's worth of work. I compensated, however, by spending the first trimester going over material that they should have seen at least a few times before (10/20 is the passing cut-off, by the way). Ahh well.

Totals
26/57 Passed
29/57 Failed
2/57 Did not take the test
Average score: 9.07/20

Female
9/22 Passed
13/22 Failed
Highest Score: 15/20
Average Score: 8.05/20

Male
17/33 Passed
16/33 Failed
Highest Score: 19/20
Average Score: 9.76/20

4CB (4th yeah, Math track, French)

Funny enough, this has been the class that has managed to make me the angriest. They are bright, but there are a few kids that really know how to push my buttons. Aside from that, however, I have them learning the exact same things as my 5AB class, and they generally pick things up much faster than their year-older counterparts. I see them for one two-hour session each week. It's a pretty equal mixture of kids of Arab and black descent, which isn't the case with my other classes. Attendance is pretty good, though there are a few kids that almost never show up. I've just begun to actually penalize them for it, since the administration appears to do nothing.

Totals
14/29 Passed
13/29 Failed
2/29 Did not take the test
Average score: 10.67/20

Female
2/6 Passed
4/6 Failed
Highest Score: 19/20
Average Score: 10.67/20

Male
12/21 Passed
9/21 Failed
Highest Score: 17/20
Average Score: 10.67/20

5AB (5th year, Language track, French)

My only non-math students, this class is kind of a low point. Attendance is terrible; I'd estimate around 15 of 44 students show up with any regularity. Three of them are male, the rest are female. They scoff at the same assignments I give my 4th year classes, claiming that they are "impossible." When I showed them the results from their tests, a number of them laughed when they found out they had failed. Sadly, I kind of enjoyed informing them that this was their trimester final, which they hadn't realized. It wiped a few smiles off a few faces. It is, save for one Arab student, entirely of black descent. I don't really have any disciplinary issues with them, perhaps because the students that would cause problems just don't show up. I see them twice a week, for one hour on Tuesdays and two hours on Thursdays. Two of my favorite students are in this class, though they have no idea who they are.

Totals
15/44 Passed
26/44 Failed
3/44 Did not take the test
Average Score: 7.78/20

Female
9/25 Passed
16/25 Failed
Highest Score: 17/20
Average Score: 7.36/20

Male
6/16 Passed
10/16 Failed
Highest Score: 19/20
Average Score: 8.44/20

5CB (5th year, Math track, French)

These guys are the superstars. I enjoy this class, because I don't have to waste so much time with discipline, and can actually let them get away with a lot more than the other classes without the whole thing spiraling into mass confusion. Of the 24 students, I'd estimate about 7 of them are black, and the rest are Arab. I don't have the numbers to prove this, but I believe the black male students did markedly worse than the rest of the class. They were the ones begging me to redo the test when they saw their scores. On the other hand, the two black female students held the highest scores for the girls. Like the other fifth year class, I see these guys for three hours a week, divided into two sessions.

Totals
17/24 Passed
7/24 Failed
Average Score: 12.38/20

Female
5/5 Passed
Highest Score: 18/20
Average Score: 14.6/20

Male
12/19 Passed
7/19 Failed
Highest Score: 19/20
Average Score: 11.79/20

Happy birthday, mom

2007-01-13T23:36:00.000+08:00

Yeah, I'm a day late. Let's blame it on the fact that I'm in Africa, instead of my perennial inability to recognize the date of the day in which I currently exist. Once again you set the standards for gracefully aging 29-year-olds everywhere (please disregard the fact that my mother is 4 1/2 years older than me - it caused enough problems during elementary school PTA meetings). Keep on keepin' on, mom.

The holidays

2007-01-08T22:09:00.000+08:00

As I stated in yesterday's brief and inadequate note, I spent the holiday season in a state of transience. I figure a bit of explanation is due, but I'm going to keep it short.

The week following my last posting in December saw the administration of "compositions," the official end-of-trimester exams in which I discover how little I've taught my students. I wrote the tests myself, and created 4 different versions for each class in an effort to cut down on the rampant cheating that seems, to the very vocal chagrin of teachers who then appear to do nothing to combat it, to be ingrained as culturally acceptable. It took a very long time to first write the exams, and then make sure that they were all equally difficult, but in the end it was worth it. There's nothing quite so satisfying as being able to tag a fat "0 - Good Job!" at the top of a test in which the student has copied directly from his/her neighbor, answering questions that didn't even exist on his/her own page. Makes my job a lot easier (and no, I didn't actually write "Good Job!"). Anyway, I've got the scores and a few other stats compiled by hand, and within the next few days I'm going to toss them onto Excel, make some snazzy graphs, and let you soak in the numbers.

On December 22nd, I left NDB for the first time since my arrival, and it was wonderful. I stayed in NKT for about a week, during which Christmas came and went, and I basically just ate and drank and participated in an explosion of debauchery that has been building for quite some time. I spent one or two of those days walking around and discovering my country's capital, and had the pleasure of experiencing my first example of undisguised anti-West sentiment. There is an enormous Saudi mosque across the street from our new bureau. It's beautiful, and while Neda and I were admiring it from across the street we were bitched out for even looking at it by some asshole mid-departure. It was shitty and racist, and I didn't so much as frown because I was already reflecting on the bizarre mixture of helplessness and anger and understanding that immediately arose within me. Neda tried to tell him that the mosque was pretty, but he didn't give a shit.

Somewhere around the 27th I made the impromptu decision to huff it to St. Louis, Senegal with several other volunteers for a New Year's celebration. I took a few photos, but it's not much.

The street. Breathtaking.

Rob and Nick, in that order.

St. Louis' very own rollerblade gang. I too was at a loss for words.

A brief aside: you haven't seen a lot of photos because I'm hesitant to pull out the camera for a few reasons. In Senegal specifically, there is no shortage of theft. Safety is about the only advantage Mauritania has over its neighbor to the south. Someone with whom I was traveling was pickpocketed as soon as we got onto the ferry to cross the border. Thus, if being white doesn't make me a target already, revealing a very nice digital camera ought to do the trick. Secondly, there is a general aversion to white people with cameras, because, as it was explained to me, the photos have a tendency to end up in magazines and on the internet (ha). Part of it is a pride issue, part of it is a cultural issue, and part of it is a little excessive, but whether I like it or not, if I accidentally capture another adult in the frame of a shot I'm taking, there's a 50% chance that I'm going to have to deal with an uncomfortable situation.

I was in Senegal for four days and three nights. I slept in a tent on a beach on the Atlantic ocean, and I'd easily qualify New Year's 2007 as the best I've ever had. Well worth the hours upon hours of unnecessary border hassles and the bribing of officials. I also happened to be in town for Tabaski, a Muslim holiday that, among other things, requires everyone to slaughter a sheep/goat. Nick and I happened to be walking around the less touristy neighborhoods at the exact moment when the sacrifice took place, and were witnesses to the deaths of 30+ animals. The streets literally flowed red with blood while hundreds of goats gargled one final, collective death knell. Way more interesting than post-Christmas sales. And, of course, before I'd even realized where I was, it was time to go home.

Returning to Mauritania, I spent a final five days in NKT, attending an in-service training with the rest of the first-year volunteers. We took the opportunity to share experiences and teaching strategies and lament the fact that during this vacation we ripped through more money than Ted Stevens on a pork binge. All said and done, it was probably the most necessary vacation I've ever taken. In about one month I will be returning to Senegal, this time to Dakar, for W.A.I.S.T. (that's West African International Softball Tournament), where I will connect with Pete "The Frenchman" from Mali and do everything to uphold the PC Mauritania reputation as being borderline insane. Until then, of course, I will do my best to mold fragile young minds into fragile young minds that can speak English and don't hate white people.

Other notes:

Ye masses have spoken, and the gecko's name is Omar. I really thought Spaghetti had a chance, and I'm not-so-secretly disappointed Yasmine Bleeth didn't give a better showing. Hopefully his newly acquired name will not inspire him with enough confidence to set forth in this cruel world and abandon his domestic duties chez moi eating the army of cockroaches that moved in in my absence. I need you Omar. I need you.

Big-ups to mom and dad for the package, including about 11 books that direly need to be read. You have given me about two months more of entertainment, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Further big-ups on the package from Kristin Ann and company. That includes, from what I could tell, Lizzie, Chris, Cuban Mike, Ian, and others (tell me who I'm forgetting, because I couldn't figure out exactly who was involved). Many of the things you sent came immediately in handy. Also, yo-yos are fun.

And final big-ups to Pat and Kyle, who both called me on Christmas. It was unspeakably nice to hear from you personally. More people should take the cue.

That about sums it all up. A heartfelt "thank you" to everyone.

Back online

2007-01-08T00:27:00.000+08:00

Happy 2007. I've been in Nouakchott and St. Louis, Senegal, blowing off enough steam to fuel a year-long cross-country trek. Now I'm back in NDB, and reality is quickly descending all around me. Check back. There should be something of relative significance posted within a day or two.

Third world product reviews: Brousse Wine

2006-12-15T21:14:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

Ingredients:

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

The process:

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

Note:

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

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

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

2006-12-14T22:28:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

And that's about all I can think of.

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

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

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

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

Re: Overreaction

2006-12-10T21:30:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

-Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again

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

Um, patience, again

2006-12-07T02:44:00.000+08:00

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

Third world product reviews: Millac

2006-12-06T00:12:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Overreaction

2006-12-02T22:26:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Duly noted

2006-12-02T03:11:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

Let the surveying commence

2006-11-23T00:21:00.000+08:00

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

Now you know, and knowledge is power!

I have no idea what any of that means.

Never too soon for an update

2006-11-21T02:56:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

2006-11-21T01:18:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

The obligatory interview.

Men queuing outside of a voting station.

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

EU election supervisor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They're loud

2006-11-19T01:35:00.000+08:00

BBC News Day in Pictures

Remember that time you slept on Wyoming Avenue?

2006-11-16T02:48:00.000+08:00

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

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

That will be all.

Your patience please

2006-11-15T03:09:00.000+08:00

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

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

2006-11-06T20:38:00.000+08:00

/Part1/Listen/Superlatives>

Beautiful Celebration of the Perverse:

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

If I Drive I Get Kicked out of the Country:

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

The Party Must Commence:

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

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

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

Misc. Good Listening:

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

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

Music I Still Require:

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

/Part2/Look/PhotosNDB>

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

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

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

Points of note

2006-11-03T04:19:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Yep, A class.

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-10-24T20:56:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Wild horses

2006-10-13T20:37:00.000+08:00

School started on October 2.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kenny

2006-10-06T18:44:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

State of the Union

2006-09-25T22:46:00.000+08:00

[begin transmission]

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

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

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

Q: I don't. Please elaborate.

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

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

Q: What's a blister beetle?

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

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

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

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

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

Q: So how's your Hassaniya?

A: Total crap, Bob.

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

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

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

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

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

Hopefully, you get the idea.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: So what now?

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

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

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

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

Q: So that's that, huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

That will be all.

[end transmission]

Daily routine

2006-09-16T00:49:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

Rindiao

2006-09-16T00:31:00.000+08:00

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

Just a reminder

2006-09-01T21:54:00.000+08:00

Yes, I'm still alive.

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

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

Keep it utterly real.

Breakfast of champions

2006-08-06T23:06:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cause your mom needs to know where she stands

2006-08-05T18:07:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cuddlehands

2006-06-26T16:39:00.000+08:00

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

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

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

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

Japan vows to cure world of crippling whale epidemic

2006-06-19T15:04:00.000+08:00

More info here.

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

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

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

Color me: Created.

2006-06-12T09:42:00.000+08:00

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