giving thanks

My voice traveled across the ocean and was broad casted on my family's cell phone, speaker phone style, on Thanksgiving. We exchanged thoughts on things for which we are most grateful, but I couldn't think clearly. All day long I had tallied for myself all the small wonderful things I noticed during the day: squishy bread, sunglasses, remembering somebody's name- but I blanked on the big whopper.

I didn't say the thing for which I am most thankful, that I would share with the family before taking a bite of turkey. The part of my life that most amazes me and bowls me over and I feel blessed blessed blessed and could mull over it while inhaling pumpkin pie- I hadn't put my finger on it for the crucial moment during the international holiday phone call.

But I know it now. I am most thankful this year for the support from America.

Letters full of rambling thoughts and encouragement. Facebook pokes and messages of missing me. Encouragement in an out-of-the-blue e-mail. Carefully prepared packages that feel like Christmas and a surprise birthday party all in one. Monetary donations for projects and people asking my parents how I am doing. For people working hard on not worrying too much. For those exercising patience for my return. My faithful blog readers and an elementary school in New York who mailed me art supplies.

Thank you so much. Thank you, you wonderful unconditionally supportive and encouraging people. Without you there would be no list of tiny pleasures to be thankful for in Garly, because without you all rooting for me in America I could not be here.

Happy Thanksgiving and thank you for being the biggest blessing in my life.

it's all in the numbers

2.5 - hours it takes to cook lunch
200 - dollars I earn per month
1 - times I've panicked and called my doctor to say i thought i had malaria
3 - number of chickens I bought, carried across garly, killed, cleaned, and cooked
$4 - cost of a fancyish delish dinner in nouakchott
60+ - books read since July 2006
5 - average times daily I think a cow is trying to kill me (those horns are fierce!)
2 - times I've eaten pizza in Mauritania
2000 - times I've daydreamed about eating pizza in Mauritania
10 - minutes it takes dripping wet clothes to dry mid day
2 - times I've not recognized the person on the cover of current People Magazines
1 million - times I've explained I don't want to marry you or give you money to strangers
200 - estimated hours I've spent waiting for cars
20% - current early termination (ET) rate for my class
9 - kids under the age of 16 that I live with
16 - babies called Laura in my presence
1 - babies actually named after me (Laura/Faty)
less than 10 - times worn jeans in Mauritania
0% - PCVs who successfully live, eat and drink moderately while in the capital city
18 - freckles I counted on my arms day one in Kaedi, so I could monitor early signs of skin cancer caused by the scary African sun
16 - months I've looked at my life and thought I probably can't do this another month
16 - months for which I'm glad I've hung in there

time flies (part three)

2:30 Lunch time. I wash my hands with soap while everyone else does a little sprinkling of water to rinse their grimy hands. We dig into the communal bowl, tearing off chunks of fish, sharing the squash. I have surrendered to this daily meal but I have yet to learn how to enjoy it. I still daydream about sandwiches and salad.

3:15-4:30 Chillaxation with the hostfamily and many visitors that drop by. Three rounds of tea are made and distributed. The radio is tuned to Senegalese music or Pulaar theatre. The old women nap and I write in my journal or read. Toward the end of this afternoon break I help Mariam fill tiny plastic bags with sugary juice, that we will later freeze in her gas-run refrigerator. (Later, Kumba-a host sis- will walk around the village with the tiny frozen drinks in a plastic cooler, reminiscent of an ice cream truck).

4:30 Early evening prayer call signals for me the end of (boring) rest time and the beginning of my evening rituals. I head to the well one last time, preparing for my evening bath and to top off the house's drinking cannery.

5:00 Depending on the existence of the feeding center, I either head over to the dispensary to doll out the evening mush, or head out on a walk. On the walk, rather than seeing nobody like in the mornings, I cross paths with many herders and tired workers coming in from the fields. Always they ask "where are you going?" When I say I'm just going on a walk they nod, smile and think "what in the world for?!"

7:00 Evening prayer call, sunset and night time bath where there is no chance at convincing myself I'm not cold. It's about 100 degrees at this point and I am allowed to use soap this time. (Soap, according to Pulaar people, increases one's heat during the day, so they recommend just a rinse off. I don't question an African's wise words about heat.)

8:00 Lay on plastic mats under the stars and count shooting stars. I see at least two a night, so I make many, many wishes. Isata-host sis- tells me classic Pulaar tales about a rabbit and a wolf. The rabbit always outsmarts the wolf because "the only thing the wolf is good at is eating" according to Isata.

9:00 Dins. Pray to Allah it's hako. If not, I deal with a warm and mushy rice and milk drink or fried fish cooked specially for me by Mariam. Eating this late is not easy for me, after being raised with a 5PM supper tradition at home.

9:30 After a bit more bonding time under the stars, I hit the hay. I am almost always the first one asleep, and will be the first one awake tomorrow, when I start this predictable routine all over again.