the hot season returns

During the cold season, one easily forgets the misery of a Mauritanian summer. Here are some ways you know it is officially “ceedu.”
-Anything metal is warm to the touch. Anything that has been sitting in the sun one must avoid totally, especially water.
-I stay in shaded spaces for exceptionally long periods of time (be it under a small tree in the road or a random person’s house) in dread of being exposed to the sun. Along similar lines, I rule out any outside activity after 10am by simply asking myself if the sun time is worth what I will achieve while being in it. It never is.
-If doing laundry, one shirt will dry in the time it takes to wash the next one.
-Plunging my hand into a bowl of warm greasy rice is at its all time unappetizing.
-Objects get ruined simply by being in the heat. Candles melt into each other and soap congeals. Most impressively, the thermometer that had been so useful, was consistently at the 120 degrees mark (as high as it will go) until the mercury finally burst through the top.

What does one do during this time when sand storms make being outside unbearable, but indoors is literally an oven with a tin roof? Go to Senegal, the people of Garly tell me.

camel trekkin'

So I did the tourist thing in Atar, Mauritania. (Keep in mind, it’s a certain strain of hardcore might-get-heat-stroke tourism.) I, along with some PCV friends, rode camels three hours into the Sahara desert until we came upon an oasis. We drank cool water, ate tuna sandwiches and listened to music under the shade of palm trees.

As the sun began to ease, we set off again, rocking along the bump of the camel’s back (only one-humped camels…apparently the two-humped kinds are further north) until we found our campsite for the night. A spot with nothing but sand in sight, we sand-boarded and drank wine we had painstakingly lugged through hours of taxi rides from Senegal.

We learned several things on the trip. There can be a thirty degree difference between the sun and shade in the desert, camels have an air circulation system in their heads that keep their brains from overheating, and most importantly, six hours of camel riding is enough.

train ridin'

Every day, a train goes from northern I-can’t-believe-people-live-here Mauritania to the country’s “economic capital” Nouadhibou. This long slow train hauls iron ore in its open beds. Just think of black chalk dust that clogs pores, fills ear canals and basically makes anyone who chooses to ride in such a car look like the chimney sweeper in Mary Poppins.

It is not only free, but surprisingly legal to climb aboard at one of its few stops, nestle amongst the piles of iron ore and settle in for the overnight trek from desert to ocean. This is what we decided to do, thus beginning our fourteen hour train journey that my mother’s glad she didn’t know about until it was over.

In order to not ruin our clothes we all wore secondhand mechanics uniforms that we found in the Atar market. Armed with already filthy blankets and hats and scarves, we fell asleep to the sound of clanging train tracks and the gentle patter of iron ore specks landing on our heads. I awoke to (surprise!) dunes of sand as far as the eye could see and a sunrise obstructed only by the occasional burst of iron ore dust flying into my face.

close of service conference

(Also known as Closing up Shop Conference or I Can’t Believe We’re Still Here Let’s Drink Conference.)

Some comparisons between the staging in Philly, to the end of the line conference in a village south of Nouakchott:

-In Philly we listed things we were scared and excited about. At COS we listed “soft skills” (such as problem solving, delegating, etc.) that we’d acquired.
-In Philly we watched a video of a PCV dealing with unwanted attention. At COS we shared horror stories on the same subject and confessed to unhealthy ways of coping.
-In Philly we treated every meal as if it were our last. In COS we treated every meal as if it were our last.
-Philly conversations were composed of small talk at bars downtown, awkwardly sharing home towns and college majors. At COS we voted Who’s Most Likely To for many a topic, played competitive charades and re-told stories aimed to humiliate each other.

I learned my official COS date will be August 5th. Being one day after my birthday, I will have come to Mauritania as a 22 year old, and I’ll be leaving 25. While trying to get my mind around that fact, I will also be counting down the days until I’m back on US soil, and toggling between the two feelings that I’m running out of time, and that I have too much time on my hands.

solar power comes to garly

While a couple of the most well off houses have had solar panels for years, a new movement of inexpensive solar lighting has swept the village. Installed for less than $100 and accompanied with four long life light bulbs, Garly is glowing. No more buying messy, smelly and expensive oil to run hot, smoky lamps. No more rushing to finish work before the sun sets.

For 35 more dollars, one can invest in an outlet converter. No more watching a television that is hooked up to a car battery, or running appliances off of gas tanks. Garly is harnessing the most plentiful resource they’ve got and to that I owe an Alhumdullilah.

Unfortunately, the grandma of my house is scared of the light switch. So as the kids dance in the bright fluorescent lighting, “Neene Mawdo” sits in the glow of technology and laughs at the absurdity and slightly frightening changes in her house.