Wild horses

School started on October 2.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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