on a hill village

peacing out

2008-08-05T07:28:00.000-07:00

In twelve hours I will be boarding my flight. Twenty four hours after that I will be coasting into Indiana. (As habit, I am now thinking, "God willing" in Pulaar, but hopefully I will be free of such thinking shortly.)

One souvenir I am taking back with me is the parasite Entamoeba Coli. If you Wikipedia it you will find that it is quite boring- hence that my symptoms have been similar enough to habitual disagreements with food that I haven't even noticed them.

Besides this third world souvenir, I am surely walking away with less tangible battle wounds, personal growth scars, and other I'm Growing Up stretch marks. However, at this point in time I am all self-reflected out.

This is me signing off, folks. No more blogging for me- woot woot! Thanks for reading, posting comments, sending letters. Thanks for caring about your long lost friend, sister, niece, daughter, yam-yamo. I can't wait to come home- I will see you all soon.

Amadou and ants

2008-08-04T09:32:00.001-07:00

The BBC spits out endless news of violence and death and oh my god terrible things that instead of talking about I will listen to grimly as I sweep my floor and then flick it off when my heart is tired of caring. Ants trail into my room, sending secret messages about something that holds their interest. Can’t imagine what it could be- my Metamucil, vinegar, dried okra? Miserable food collection attracting hordes of tiny pests that I do my best to exterminate one by one as they scurry in panic mode. I once had a one-man club dedicated to saving ants. I would swoop in between my mother and her victim, carefully placing it on the front crumbling sidewalk. Pleased as the ant strutted off, saved from a possible squashing.

I wanted to cry when Amadou, the man who made the latrine doors, asked for more money. He welded the beautiful metal doors basically for free and I didn’t have enough money to increase his payment. I explained this to him, and choked over the words, Thank You. Those words are too small.

an in between person

2008-08-04T09:30:00.000-07:00

How often does a person get to be alone like this? Alone in my work without a boss, grades, evaluation of any sort. Alone in my thoughts with no one knowing much of my personal life. No e-mail, phone calls only done by appointment, no messages or on-line texting. I am alone with my history, my English words scrawled in charcoal on my bathroom wall. Alone in Garly.

I grit my teeth during a painful car ride. I know the smell of the wheat porridge at the feeding center, and the feeling of Neene Mawdo’s dry hands as she clasps mine to say good morning. There is no witness to make this real, once I leave it. No one to stretch against under the mosquito net. No one to play euchre with during the swelling silent time between lunch and early evening prayer call. No one traveling back across the ocean next to me- exclaiming that we get cheese with dinner.

To you readers, my words about Garly only make as much sense as my words about America make to people in Garly. How do I convey the enormity of a goat slaughtering to an American who can eat a hamburger for 99 cents? How to show a Garly friend a picture of Canada without falling into the infinite abyss of things they don’t know about my luxurious life?

There is no bridge. I float between the extremes taking notes in my graph paper journal. I remember mini milkshakes and fancy dresses as my back smarts from digging at the ground. I am from the moon and have landed on Mars.

no more complaining

2008-08-04T09:11:00.000-07:00

I am tired of complaining about the hardships of life here. In all honesty, the hardest part about being here was not the weather, work frustrations or cultural clashes. My most difficult task was overcoming myself.

The first few months in Garly simply leaving my compound was a daily battle. Greeting people zapped my energy, walking around a bit took all of my concentration. I was so preoccupied with Mariam Ba’s expectations I made a chart once, graphing her behaviors, to see if I could figure cause and effects of my own behaviors. I obsessed over villager’s opinions- making sure to smile constantly and never complain.

I felt guilty about everything. I felt like I was a leech on my host family’s resources and time- needing guidance on daily living, requiring corrections on my language. I felt bad about my sturdy shoes, the rate at which my hair grew, my splendid education. I suffered over the gift of yearly dentist appointments and the frivolous opportunities that freckled my entire existence.

An excerpt from my journal: "I feel bad that these women can't read or write. That their feet are dry and full of cracks- that they don't know what they're missing in the world- that they don't know what their lives look like to me. I just feel bad. 'Help' is complicated and I don't think I could do it anyway. It's like we're playing Presidency [a card game] and I get to be the prez every time, and I think that by being here I am being generous- that I am closing the privilege gap."

I felt, at the beginning, that my life was intrinsically better than life in Garly. I thought the USA had the answers and I was so blessed to be from there, and these people were so not fortunate to live where they did.

Then I went back to the States. I saw on the news something called Prison Idol. Child obesity and worries about global warming engulfed me. Cheap and easy food was everywhere. Not to mention cheap and easy entertainment, clothes, transportation and distraction. To live a life of balance and moderation in America is a life consciously chosen and painfully stuck to. The choices were staggering, the consumption and consumerism overwhelming.

I was jolted from a make-believe superior place and blasted back to confusion in Garly. If I don’t know who is happier, me or them, then I can’t feel bad for them. If I don’t know what is a good or bad way to develop a third world country, I can’t feel bad for doing it my way. Realizing my utter cluelessness released me from the burden of myself. I let go of the pressure I held over myself- I don’t have to know everything or do it all the right way. I have never lived this day before- perhaps I don’t yet know the best way to live it.

How I get over myself? First, I admit that I don’t know. Then I go from there.

conflict resolution

2008-08-04T08:32:00.000-07:00

A small occurrence blew up into a month long mutual silent treatment between two women I live with. The incident was small enough, but it hinted at resentment and built up frustration that is usually dormant. Ballyl and Mariam Ba exploded into a fighting match on our front porch. The neighborhood came for the entertainment and told the women to stop yelling. I am used to raised voices but Ballyl’s eyes were bright with anger and to see Mariam Ba so riled up made my foundation here feel shaky.

As they yelled and the crowd grew around them, I jotted down vocabulary words quietly, as I picked the words out of their speech like one plucks flowers. That day I learned the verb, “to brag or show off” and it was this tendency of one of them that was the root of their disagreement.

They did not speak for over a month. Two grown women- mothers! They communicated through curt messages sent through the kids. They ignored the Ramadan tradition of forgiving and reconciliation- didn’t participate in the celebration’s lengthy greetings centered on such spirits.

This month of uncomfortable lunches (one bowl, two fighters= no fun) got me reflecting on my elementary school experience with conflict resolution. I used to visit schools’ after-school programs to teach about peer mediation. By the time I was twelve I embraced tendencies like listening to other people’s sides of a story, refraining from hitting and calling names. I was flabbergasted at the lack of problem solving demonstrated in Garly, and by women who were old enough to be my mothers!

But just when I feel superior, I am humbled. I look at my funny clothes and my job building shitters and I think, “Who are YOU, crazy girl with a baby’s vocabulary, to think you know better?”

Maybe this works for them. What do I know.

unwanted (and detested) attention

2008-08-04T08:09:00.001-07:00

My friend Neda is a magnetically beautiful person. Something about her face arrests the eyes. Maybe one looks for a flaw in the symmetry- eyes roam her face in search of a flaw to grab on. To no avail. Neda is accustomed to being stared at, admired, observed. The disarming amount of attention a white person draws in West Africa slides right off Neda’s consciousness. She expresses no rage over incessant greeting, no frustration at wide silent eyes intently observing the foreigner’s every move.

I, on the other hand, am average in just about every way. My height (a minor physical attribute) is the only way in which I exceed the norm. My history, family and self is average enough to never have commanded or received exceptional attention.

Until I brought my white skin to Africa. Simply being white here implies many wonderful, exciting, sparkly things. I am a manifestation of the West; liberal behavior, wealth, health. My otherness, my tantalizing foreignness is palpable in my every action. My mobility and money glaringly bright. No wonder everyone stares. I don’t blame them for their fascination- I do not detest the people for their interest.

But I really hate the staring. I feel a deep rage being the object of such wide eyes, such ceaseless awareness. I hate being observed, analyzed. Every action is taken in, every purchase memorized and reported. I am constantly monitoring myself, keeping control over the frustration that boils beneath my surface.

We say it is like we are clowns. Imagine if a clown were to move next door to you. Even if they wore normal clothes, the painted white face (big nose, funny shoes, the list goes on) would be unmistakable. Who could blame a clown’s neighbor for peeking over the fence to report that the clown is watering his flowers? Or, wouldn’t it be interesting to know what a clown cooked for dinner, how they sat in a chair, brushed their hair? Considering myself to be a clown is sometimes the only way to avoid exploding with annoyance on my unwanted audience. If you don’t like being watched, I remind myself, remember you placed yourself in the ring.

Enough of the internal Don’t Hate Them battle. I can’t wait to return to a place where it is the gorgeous Nedas who occupy people’s eyes.

The Nedas who carry the burden of being fascinating.

nouakchott encore

2008-08-03T01:04:00.000-07:00

With three days left in Mauritania, I am coasting through the hours in comfortable Nouakchott. Some things that are still special here that in a month's time will be old hat, status quo:
a diet coke
warm shower
air conditioning
elevators
wearing sneakers
crunchy apple as a snack
movies in english
a mixed salad for lunch (complete with cucumbers and cheese!)
the internet
americans!

And the things I will probably never see or do again:
a salon that specializes in rubbing ones body down in a steamy and wet open room
taxis with dragging bumpers, destroyed seat cushions and no headlights
apple soda pop
speaking snatches of multiple languages in one store (greeting in French, bartering in Pulaar with stander-by as translator, Thank you in Hassaniya.)
considering toilet paper a (unnecessary) luxury
exchanging money on the black market- shadow corners or middle of a crowd, usually
men selling underwear, sunglasses and plastic toys on one hand-carried contraption
knowing the time based on prayer calls
walking amid beggars, mounds of fruit, fish guts and garbage without missing a beat in my errands or conversation
scorching, unbearable, dangerous heat (at least I never want to see this again)

H-E-Double-Hockeysticks

2008-08-03T00:47:00.000-07:00

One need only compare my work tendencies in America to the work habits of Garly to get a sense of the inner struggle I battled for two years. Throughout my service I didn't dare delve into all of my emotional struggles at the time of hardship. My survival mode was in high gear and that didn't include the option of self pity.

So, below is a sketch of my work pattern in America during college. Realize this was a self-created world in which I lived pretty much exactly as I wanted.

-I did not pull a single all-nighter.
-I planned meetings and appointments weeks in advance and thrived in a super-organized environment.
-I hated procastinating or cramming for tests.
-I considered group projects to be slow and annoying. I often delegated and avoided actual collaboration during tedious paper-writing, Power Point presentation making, etc. (I recognized the worth of teamwork but cared more about efficiency.)
-I never said, “I don’t have time,” but used the more accurate, “That isn’t my priority right now.” I didn’t like excuses because I felt we were all choosing our actions therefore completing our work on time, or not, based entirely on what we wished.

Below is a list of Garly’s work habits. Note the fireworks type clash.

-Work took place largely at the last minute. People finished their specific jobs right before a meeting, simply to avoid being singled out.
-Nothing was ever done immediately. Work times were not set for “today” but for “the day after tomorrow in the evening.”
-My village work depended solely on group collaboration, teamwork, etc. Work days required rounding up people and dealing with endless reasons as to why they couldn’t make it or excuses as to low quality work.
-Something was always coming up- celebrations, weather complications, field work. A sense of powerlessness pervaded everything. “God knows, God willing, it’s in God’s hands,” talk certainly didn’t get things moving.

In a nutshell, for a person who thrives on action, efficiency and reliability, it’s a wonder such a slow paced work environment with little self-accountability didn’t drive me completely insane.

Or maybe it did, and you can be the judge of that in just a few weeks.

ways I rock

2008-07-29T09:49:00.000-07:00

- I never fell off the back of a truck.
- Peace Corps language teachers say my Pulaar is "frighteningly good."
- I did not ET.
- I did not get administratively separated (and/or caught) for going to Senegal, bringing booze into Mauritania, or swimming in the parasite-a-plenty river.
- It has been a really long time since I've dropped the water bag into the well.
- I have refrained from shaking babies.
- I've mastered the serious-faced Pulaar picture pose.

ways I (don't) rock

2008-07-29T09:42:00.000-07:00

- I failed at: milking cows, cooking lunch, making tea.
- I planted a dozen Moringa trees two separate times. Not one sprouted.
- I still suck at the "What is her/his name? Game"
- Western Europe on my world map is sketchy and blatantly incorrect. I still can't get the countries straight enough to even fix my mistakes.
- My feet are rough, cracked and so calloused I can pick a thorn out of my heel without feeling anything. Actually, maybe this is a way that I do rock.
- The health committee and I did not complete the dispensary stairs project, deal with a broken latrine door, or settle the rest of the community's cash contribution.
- I still don't like rice.

after the fire

2008-07-29T09:37:00.000-07:00

I realized after posting the story about Cadjitu's house that I didn't explain how the village redeemed itself. Within a couple of months of the fire, the entire village helped Cadjitu and her family build a new house. Village funds paid for food to pay the volunteer workers. Donations of clothing, mats, and countless other household items helped the family back on their feet.

Maybe the reason people reacted so indifferently the day of the fire, is because they recognized a futile situation. As with many many things I have witnessed, I do not really know why people behaved the way they did.

the day cadjitu's house burned down

2008-07-29T03:30:00.000-07:00

I was sitting at the women's cooperative, needle in hand, hunched over a "Koka Kola" (Coca Cola in Pulaar) bed cover. I was wearing a freshly washed white shirt and feeling pretty clean and happy with myself. The cooperative was pretty new at this point and I was forming the words to an announcement I needed to make about our next meeting. I wanted to establish the exact date so I wouldn't have to go around the village later, informing all thirty members.

I was thinking this announcement ("Jango enen poti wadde battu goddo. On jabbii?") when a flurry of action swirled on either side of the house where the cooperative meets. These flurries of intense action (usually fights or arguments) happen in Garly quite often. They are immediate and quickly gain momentum, as all drama happens outdoors and everyone becomes involved.

A woman bounded into the compound, spoke rapidly and with wide eyes. Cadjitu's needle and fabric dropped to the plastic mat, her feet slipped into her flip flops and she was running out the door as my brain processed the Pulaar.

There's a fire and it's at Cadjitu's house- my thoughts caught up with the moment as everyone jumped to their feet and started heading toward Cadjitu's house. Everyone except me. Why would I go to a burning building without water? I dashed to the well (out of breath due to an embarrassing state of aerobic shape) and claimed a discarded 40 liter bucket in which I started dumping water that I hauled from the well.

I was thinking three things. 1, the well has no water! the well has no water! what do they do for fires when there is no water?! panic mode 2, I haven't been in an emergency situation in a really long time. Wow, I am so incredibly good in an emergency. 3, So much for this clean white shirt. In about two minutes it will be soaking with sweat and spilled water.

I swung the massive pan onto my head and it wobbled with unsteady weight. I had never carried such a large bucket on my head and my neck creaked with the strain. I walked behind another water-carrying girl to Cadjitu's part of the village, concentrating on not spilling (unsuccessfully) and slowing my heart and adrenaline down (a little more successfully.)

I trudged through the sand, one hand on the bucket, the other holding my skirt- wet and clingy- away from my legs. I turned a corner and smoke was everywhere. A huge plumb hovering above intense activity. About thirty men were shoveling sand onto the round, burning hut. Twenty women were walking toward the smoke with loads of water, and away with relieved heads and empty buckets.

My heart sank when I saw the damage that was already done. The rounded house with a straw roof was toasted. The roof had caught fire, fallen in and was scorching all of the family's belongings below. I recalled Cadjitu telling me her brother was a jeweler, and stored all of his materials in that hut. Materials that melt and merge, erasing all form and hard work.

I reached the site with eyes squinted against the sting of smoke, had a man dump the water for me, and returned to the well for another load. I noticed about fifty people just standing around. Staring at the men throwing sand, the women struggling with unsteady buckets. Treating Cadjitu's increasing tragedy as a spectacle.

Fast forward through another trip to the well, another ten minutes of neck soreness and smoke in the eyes. As predicted, I am ashy sweaty dirty and very tired. The well is worthless and I am sent home. I pass a house with a bunch of men sitting around and playing cards. I reach my house where my host family is acting as if everything is status quo.

Aissata, my host sister, says how nice I am for bringing water to Cadjitu's. I saw her there- she was one of the masses just staring. I say it has nothing to do with being nice. It is "alay sago" of course, that one would help out another in this situation. I ask her why she would go to a fire without any means to help and she shrugs, brushes it off, returns to the battery-powered TV.

I think about Cadjitu's jewelry materials, burnt and squished into the ground. The tons of sand being thrown, the men's hands getting blisters, the devastation occurring only a two minute walk away. Shouldn't everyone be helping at the fire? I ask out loud, to no one in particular. I simply question, in quiet disbelief, a deep disappointment in my quaint village settling in. Maybe my up on a hill village is not so generous and selfless. I can’t wipe the men playing cards out of my mind.

I can’t accept Cadjitu’s loss and other’s obvious apathy as part of the same picture- the same tiny moment in a miniscule town.

journal entry- ramadan

2008-07-28T10:36:00.000-07:00

Today is the first day of Ramadan and I hate it already. Malnourished, hungry and tired people have to be more hungry, tired and thirsty day after day for thirty days. It is true fatigue. I fight the urge to feel bad for my Garly people. I dread watching their collarbones emerge.
They are scared of Allah (their words not mine) so they submit to his word- there is no choice.

But my choice in the matter is my refuge. I tiptoe around the water cannery, gulping away the heat-induced thirst in the privacy of my room.

Already they are talking about the end of this month-long challenge. They say the halfway mark is almost here, and then it is basically over. Such optimism and mutual support- they say the days go by quickly- as their bodies fail to sweat in 120 degree heat and their stomachs grumble from 10am until night.

growing up garly

2008-07-28T10:29:00.000-07:00

Most Garly kids don’t see beyond a two mile circumference surrounding their house. They will not visit nearby villages until they are old enough to have business there. They don’t learn geography or history in school and any insight about the outer world is gathered from snatches on TVs spoken in languages they will probably never learn to speak. Many kids think France is right next door and America is on another planet.

Kids strut in groups, herd cattle, play at the river and in the dirt. Garly is a sandy playground- 100% recess and familiar faces. They act out adult behaviors. Tiny plastic pails are dunked into puddles of muddy water, just like the women at the well. Little boys run with strings in their mouths (as a horse with reins) and are steered by their masters. Dolls made of rags and sticks are carried on little backs. Marbles are slammed through the sand and plastic lids are the major players in complicated soccer stimulation games.

If you’re not hungry, life here as a young child would be of the stuff heaven is made of.

But I don’t relate. By ten years of age I rode my bike a mile to school and vacationed several states away. My dad drove us to family reunions, took us to Shakespeare plays in the park, and picnics on the beach. My young world was huge and I explored it in our station wagon- even that changing from the big and blue to the small and red. I memorized the cracks in our front steps, but I felt the vastness of life beyond our sidewalk.

Such a chasm between my sports camps and field trips, and Garly children pretending to pray at sunset next to their parents.

fooood

2008-07-28T10:26:00.000-07:00

Jolly ranchers are amazing. I don’t even like hard candy at home but this sour apple flavor is so intense. It reminds me of lollipops at Bryan Park Pool, sticky and sweet while sitting in the shade by the pool. My fingertips almost feel pruny- I can almost smell the chlorine.

Banana cream pie, just add water, takes me back to summer camp. Giant cans of banana pudding, slopped into plastic bowls, slurped up amid the beginnings of a food fight.

Clif Bars chock full of vitamins that don’t exist here. Each bite is so hearty I can feel it clunk in my stomach.

Sardines. A food I couldn’t imagine eating in America, and when I realized I was eating it here (sometimes you don’t know until they tell you) I reacted with revulsion. And then I realized such compacted protein is magical. The energy from one tin is palpable in my blood and bones and I thank Allah for such a nutrient packed creation.

boredom (sep 07)

2008-07-28T10:24:00.000-07:00

I’m bored. I feel seven years old again and Mom says to stand on my head or clean my room if I’m so bored. And here, this lack of stimulation, I would become a gymnast if the clothes would allow the flips and jumps. And I just cleaned my room. So.

The work pace is creeping. Meetings are set two days from now and all the hours between now and then are just an empty expanse. I would twiddle my fingers if I knew what that was.

Even when we’re working its slow. If I’m digging holes for sweet potatoes in the field all I hear is, “slow down, Fatimata,” or “take a break, Fatimata.” I grit my teeth and laugh instead of scream in frustration.

There is nothing to do here! Straight from college and there are no clubs, speakers, classes, plays to be in, sports to play, movies to watch, restaurants to visit or wine to drink. No meetings, programs, trips, television, libraries, internet…

I’m digging up dirt, a little slower to please, and try to breathe deep. Try to believe that this is enough. I don’t need all that stimulation; all that stuff. I’ve got this hoe and this earth and it is enough. But don’t make me sit down and drink water. I need an avenue for all this extracurricular energy and it’s going in your soil and coming out in my popped blisters and sweat.

good-bye garly

2008-07-28T03:53:00.000-07:00

I kissed my village good-bye. It was 2:30am and half the village was in my yard. We had eaten a goat that the health committee slaughtered. I had given away everything in my room and my walls were bare. My cheeks hurt from chit-chat talking, smiling.

Fleeting impulses to pull on the brakes had dissipated. I was ready, ready, ready to say good-bye.

I was ready for the end.
The end of arm-in-arm night walks with Isata to the boutique.
The end of saying "I'm full" and "No thanks" to tea.
No more boring hours at the dispensary, sunburned feet or tireless greetings.
I am done walking through herds of scary cows, noisy sheep, jumpy goats.
Good-bye, good-bye prayer calls, wind storms and plain bread for breakfast.

So long, Mariam with your throw-your-head-back laugh, and Demba who calls me La Binks and Bebe's endless dancing and Njariel's daughter who took two years to not be scared of me. So long, Ly's fancy clothes, Neene Mawdo's funny feet, Bambi's unfinished projects. I will miss when Maam knows I want to say something just by the way I breathe in. I will miss the Jaybo house for their heavy struggles, but strong laughter to balance it out.

I will miss standing in the middle of the market, greeting each woman by name and feeling like I climbed a mountain. Like I ran a marathon. I endured and put myself out there a million times in a million ways and have arrived.

I will miss that feeling of home, of having arrived, despite being in a place as different from my home as one can imagine.

I am ready. Done. Good-bye, so long.

(yet another) sad animal story

2008-07-25T00:48:00.000-07:00

(I wrote this a long time ago, but censored it because aren't you all tired of animals getting beaten up? Oh well, now is the time to post all my old thoughts. Don't read this, Julie.)

On the BBC they’re chronicling some American football player who’s gotten caught with his hand fiddling with illegal dog fighting circles. It’s a big deal apparently, with animal rights activists enraged and pet-loving Americans horrified. How many sad stories fail to strike a sentimental chord with me?

Here, I am watching the a roly poly silky smooth puppy’s fate play out to a certain but slow death. No one wants the mutt that can’t be eaten, ridden or milked. Adults put children in charge of it- take it away- our house is full enough- it’s a girl and we don’t want it producing more worthless animals…

The puppy cries under the sting of the kids homemade riding crops and the kids scream at the sight of its baby teeth. They, as terrified children, are more dangerous to this gray haired big eyed pup than any number of gun-bearing big boned Western men.

Later I see Haby’s little boy with a bird tied to a string. It’s like a deranged, defeated balloon that’s from a freaky fair. The bird struggles to fly some, is dragged in the dirt mostly. I fire out protests but my futile objections are predictable and tiresome. Pulaar is as useless as English when it comes to animal rights here.

I see the boy/bird team a few days later. The bird is dead and bloated but the boy isn’t tired yet.

bandit husband

2008-07-25T00:43:00.000-07:00

Mariam Jaybo came back from tracking down her husband.

She’d heard rumors about a second wife and he’d been a long time away so she bustled off to Senegal. In the name of respect or desperation I’m not sure.

She came back with jewelry and rice and the news that he didn’t have a second wife- according to his word. Mariam played with the new jewelry, chunky and crinkly gold on her wrists and dangling to her shoulders from her ear lobes.

“Someone must have been really sick to give this to a healer as payment” Mariam Ba observes.

Any thoughts of Jobe being a bandit and bad news are whisked away with the 6000 ougiya that he gave Mariam. I want to demand that Jobe be a better husband and come get to know little Faty and buy Bebe a pen for school. But I don’t. His job is crummy. His love is not enough so does it matter if it exists?

But I think of that light purple holey lingerie that Mariam Jaybo owns and my stomach hurts. Not fair, not fair, not fair my heart hums. For him to go away and not call and not send money and perhaps get married. I want to spit with indignation. But Mariam Jaybo doesn't have the room to make demands. What right do I have to voice emotions that no one has the power to express?

(yet another) morning post

2008-07-25T00:40:00.000-07:00

I awake just as it’s light enough to read my watch. 5:45am and the prayer call is obscenely loud- throwing waves of throat noises over bundled and horizontal bodies. I lug my sleeping stuff into my room trying to be silent but I cringe as a cot leg clangs into the door frame. No one stirs- since birth these people are expert sleepers.

I head out away from the rising sun toward the rice fields. I crunch through the dry earth utterly blissfully contentedly alone. My mind flew to America as soon as my shoes pointed toward my well worn path. I hold my skirt up to my knees and watch my white shins flashing in and out of view. I smile fleetingly at various stateside thoughts but don’t have to smile here because nobody can see me. For this moment I am not the foreign mascot nor the agreeable visitor. I have no name so I am spared the choice between Fatimata and Laura.

Back at the house coffee beans are being roasted and dust is flying from Bebe’s broom. Bebe pauses, stooped over from sweeping and we acknowledge each other as if we have a secret. Which we don’t. But perhaps us being such good friends makes us feel mischievous. It doesn’t feel kosher. Bebe 13 years old and dark as the blackened cooking pot and Laura, twice her age and almost transparent white thanks to 30SPF sunscreen applied twice a day.

snapshots

2008-07-25T00:34:00.000-07:00

A crowded ‘taxi brusse’ van with sun slanting in the windows and little leg room. The old man behind me has one eye and is fanning the back of my neck with his tattered plastic fan.

A cow is about to be slaughtered. They have dug a hold near its head to catch the blood and they bring the head backwards, hooking the horns into the dirt, exposing its long and wrinkly neck.

I fall into the irrigation system of the field as I walk with Mariam Jaybo. A thigh deep slowly moving channel of water. We laugh so loudly everyone tells us to give them some peace and quiet. We exchange dry clothes for wet ones and all drip home equally.

Greeting a sick old man at night. Feeling our way along the uneven path and Mariam Jaybo says “night time is scary.” Mariam Ba says moonlit nights are the worst, because if you are walking from far away, everyone can see you but you can’t see them. Really dark nights no one can see anyone else and that is much less creepy.

Mariam Jaybo shouting “wait for me to pray!” right before everyone wants to leave. She procrastinates praying like a school child with her homework.

I hired a man to announce my mosquito cream presentation to the entire village. I love hearing this guy move through the village in the dark, leaning on his can and bellowing down the dirt lanes about the field pump working tomorrow or the meeting at the mosque. He said for my announcement he would yell, “Before you’ve died of malaria go to Fatimata Saakho’s discussion…” He threw in the death angle but I approved.

I lug water and sticks and hack up fields and wash my own clothes and flip the fish in the pot. I cry over dead dogs and pour tea as it scalds my fingertips. I bounce on horse carts and forget to wear sunscreen and carry okra in a bucket on my head trying to balance without thinking about it.

"Angale"/English

2008-07-25T00:31:00.001-07:00

I once made Demba a worksheet about the word “dude.” All the ways which one can use the exclamation. Frustaration: “Dude!” Disbelief: “Duuude.” In greeting: “Dude.” Little stick figures voicing the versatile one-syllable slang.

Harouna uses beautiful English. Words like “aloof, engaging” and “to make a long story short.”

I hear “Good morning!” at night. “How are you fine,” in typical Pulaar greeting fashion of simply talking, without pausing for responses.

I call Ballyl’s new baby “Chubby Cheeks” and say “bless you” after people sneeze.

“OK” was the hardest English for me to eradicate from my speaking habits. I learned the Pulaar verb “to be unable” just so I could use it in reference to my inability to stop saying OK.

People trip on “sh” sounds, so I tell them my last name is “Smit.”

I remember the moment when I realized I could think about something other than the situation at hand. I was at the well. Greeting other women, discussing lending my water-fetching bag, hauling water from the depths of the ground. But in my head I was tallying objects I needed to buy in Nouakchott for my Paris trip. What I needed to pack before I left Kaedi. I was thinking about things other than my Pulaar grammar and every single word others were throwing at each other, yet I could understand all actions that were occurring. I rejoiced internally at this realization. What freedom to be able to transport ones thoughts elsewhere without detracting from one’s participation and understanding in the current moment. What a gift to not have to be painfully, consciously, intently, processing each moment as it passes.

difficulties

2008-07-24T23:52:00.000-07:00

There is so little in between time in Garly. I crave a life that is not so demanding, unforgiving.

The weather exerts its presence all the time. The heat, the sandy wind, the unavoidable sun, the humidity before the rain. Precious space without the grating, testing wail of a baby. Relentless children’s noises from shrieking and pouting to sticks drumming on tomato paste cans.

When life isn’t in my face with noise or temperature, my eyes swim in the visually intensive goings-on.

The environment either deadly barren or bursting with life. Goats chomping on torn scraps of fabric. Sand pulsating with heat and smothering anything green. Rocks everywhere, treeless landscapes. But after the rain, tiny red bugs scampering over the grass that shoots up in minutes. Huge bodies of water slowly begin to collect fish and serve as temporary rivers for their clothes-washing convenience.

Achingly beautiful or breathtakingly ugly. Women’s perfect posture, sculpted collarbones, bright eyes. Movement without the hesitation of self-consciousness. Hollywood cheekbones, strong hands. But then, a mouth lined with gaping black cavities causing its owner to scream in agony. I cringe at fragile rib cages quietly demanding in their detailed presence. Ring-wormed hair spots, yellowed, sun-tired eyes, heels cracked beyond repair cushioned only by a centimeter of show sandal foam.

Every scene pulls something from me. Pity for a tired body, awe at the instant greenness of the scenery, curiosity, compassion, the emotions are endless and instant. I feel quickly and at first glance, before I have the chance to slam my heart shut. (A heavy door, like one to a walk-in freezer. Air tight, with a lock. A heavy duty, defense mechanism-type necessity, is this door to my feelings.) It is impossible to maintain my wholeness when I am moved by every second- inevitably extreme in a collection of lives so precariously balanced on “surviving.” So I swing the door shut, feel relief at the last bit of air escaping as the cushion settles against the metal, heavy and secure.

Up and down. Up and down. Relief with a rainstorm. Frustration at another delayed meeting. A sad good-bye as someone gets married to a Senegalese. A giggle at a scandalous comment. Impatience for lunch. A repressed sigh at an annoying neighbor. Helplessness at loud signs of poverty.

It is this oppressing lack that is exhausting to live in, breathe in, feel every moment. A lack that is heavy. Weighs me down into a hardened crystal of guilt or cold, necessary denial and the blankness that comes when the door to my heart slams shut after a first glimpse of hurt, struggle, endless need.

There is so little in between time in Garly. I crave a life that is not so demanding, unforgiving.

time to eat/Pulaar is hard

2008-07-24T23:47:00.000-07:00

The Pulaar verb for eat is naamde. Eat your dinner, come and eat this greasy meat, etc. The way verbs work in Pulaar is there are very few prepositions, and just a lot of changing of the verb. For example, to with with somebody is naamdude. To be about to eat is naamoyde. To eat for someone else is naaminde. That is a lot of verbs to use when you are just talking about straight up eating. (And is not including all of the various tenses.)

Now what if you’re talking about a different kind of eating? Such as chewing, sucking, chomping? In English, these are simply colorful words used in novels in order to add depth to a dinner table scene, or make a character’s eating habits interesting. In Pulaar, most foods require the use of only a particular eating verb. Below is just a sample. (Keep in mind that because the verb basically depends on the consistency of the food, depending on how something is cooked it will be in a different category.)

Yukude/To Chew- Bread, peanuts, anything crispy like little fried fish or fried sweet potatoes
Muudde/To mash slowly- Boiled sweet potatoes, any kind of porridge, dirt, food that implies a stickiness almost, between the teeth
Medde/Take a bite- Anything of which you just want a sample, used to entice someone to try something. (Like “try a bite” but it implies a hand motion because the verb “to touch” is memde.)
Yarde/To Drink- Porridges, Sauces without a carb to eat it with, milk with couscous
Muucude/To Suck- Frozen juices, fruit that is very ripe, anything eaten from the corner of a plastic bag (this is more common than one would think.)

Bon appetit!

the rain returns

2008-07-08T09:29:00.000-07:00

Rain storms are often preceded by windstorms. I wake up balanced on my cot. The midnight wind moves a steady curtain of sand over the sleeping village. My face feels like sandpaper- every orifice is clouded with dust. I struggle to curl into a ball without toppling my rickety cot and cover my head with my twisted sheet. It is only from other's shouts that I noticed I can't see the stars due to the rolling clouds and relentless dust.

A calm compound only seconds ago jumps into half-asleep panic.

Flashlights sweep the ground like search beams, lighting on dinner dishes and plastic mats, all hurriedly dragged inside. Kids are hoisted into indoor beds and clothes are plucked off the clothes line. All the while sand is thrown everywhere and tree limbs threaten to detach from their trunks. Once possessions are inside, humans follow suit, retreating into the steamy sauna of safety.

Then the thunder and lightning are on top of each other, the hill and crashing onto the tin roof. This kind of weather gets me almost scared and I can feel my heart pumping with my slight mistrust of the construction of the house. My bathroom is full of water and its rushing into my toilet hole. I try bailing some water out, teeth chattering, rivers of rain running into my eyes and down my goosebumped legs- so accustomed to dryness and heat.

too much time

2008-07-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

Us PCVs are really quite creative when it comes to filling the empty hours of a Saharan desert day. When it is too hot to leave the house, we have been known to undertake the following hobbies:

-improving our cursive handwriting
-perfecting cartoon caricatures of Peace Corps staff
-playing games of Scrabble using only local languages
-book writing and reading
-knitting, embroidering, painting

and now the latest addition of what a few Americans will do with a couple of hours and a digital camera:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=naHGCh-StE8

-music video making

Just search You Tube for "village wrestling part deux" or Mauritania, Peace Corps, John Slattery. All will bring to view a somewhat embarrassing but ultimately entertaining montage we made yesterday.

We are pretty pleased with ourselves.

trash project completed

2008-07-07T11:13:00.000-07:00

In less than one week the village of Garly constructed eleven trash consolidation sites out of cement, metal poles and fencing. This same project took another PCV over a year (and she's still not done.) Go team Garly!

Why so fast? Because there was no choice in the matter. I gave the village one week to complete the construction and spent my days running to various contacts carrying different messages and generally being a sanitation cheerleader. I called many meetings and plainly stated deadlines.

This all seems like a very simple and an effective way of running things. Why didn't I take this speedy quick approach for my lengthy latrine project? Or why is my fellow PCV given up on hers ever being completed? Projects here, simply put, are difficult not in a monetary sense- usually just a small donation is collected from each family. Nor is the manual labor difficult- carrying a few loads of sand a couple hundred meters ain't no thang.

It is unbelievably difficult, however, to get a group of workers together at the same time working toward a common goal. There are no calendars on which to set a date two weeks from tomorrow. There is no system of punishments or rewards for those who work hard or do not show up. (My women's cooperative has a fee for anyone who shows up late or doesn't give an excuse for absence ahead of time.)

That being said, Garly pulled through, and even personalized some of the sites to boot! (Check out the picture)

mosquito cream tour

2008-06-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

a summary in numbers:
2- PCVs on the road
4- days we toured the country side
10- bowls of milk we drank
1- goats slaughtered
40+ - glasses of tea dranken
8- hours spent fixing the broken car (broken due to excessive off-roading)
5- aprons neda made out of local fabric
72,000- ougiyas it cost to rent the car
5- friends and villagers brought along to help us
45- minutes of film recorded
3- naps i took on the road
countless- cigarettes smoked in secret by neda (women smoking is not culturally appropriate)
priceless- rocking it out to michael jackson on the tape deck, networking along the river road and remaining calm through various project adventures

chicken gore (not for the weak stomached)

2008-06-20T00:02:00.000-07:00

I watched three very alive chickens become lunch.

First, I carried the squawking meal across the village by their scaly legs. My arms achingly perpendicular to the ground- the chickens hanging far from my body to avoid the sharp poke of a beak. Relieved to arrive at the house, a knife was quickly sharpened and sliced along three struggling feathered necks. They didn’t run in the wide circles I imagined, but their posthumous dips and dives left a bloody battlefield of struggle.

Boiled water dumped onto three soft and still chickens. Immediately, they look smaller. Am thinking that there can’t possibly be meat on this fist-sized of an animal.

We pulled the feathers out, leaving little holes and bumps in their wake. Long feathers on the wings to tiny puffs on the head, I yanked until the flesh looked at last familiar. I could picture this in a squeaky Styrofoam container covered with saran wrap and a bar code.

I gripped the slippery rib cage as Ballyl pulled out strings of organs. The heart, stomach, and intestines, Ballyl said, as she tossed them into slimy good and bad piles. I worked bits of fat off the meat, plopping the yellow chunks into the bad group. I cracked apart joints and hacked off the feet. We cooked the head and the broken neck and as we ate, I easily identified it all.

In all this gore I waited to feel disturbed. How clearly I recall the repulsion caused by the cold and sterile Styrofoam, the bloodied tissue tossed into the trash and the slimy chicken legs my mother rinsed at the kitchen sink.

my friend howwa

2008-06-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

Howwa describes everything as exciting. At first I was flattered because she called me that. I think she’s wonderful and when she said “ada jirwi” I thought she reciprocated the feeling. My stomach flipped with the anticipation of a new best friend. Then I heard her say a television show (Spanish soap opera dubbed badly in French watched on a black and white screen) was exciting. And then the Burt’s Bees chapstick I gave her was described as exciting and I saw where I stood.

Sometimes I meet people I like so much I immediately want the privilege of being in their tightest circle of friends. Avoid small talk and jump over the gathering of personal histories. I want more of them. To know their thoughts, predict their actions and go on vacation with them to some remote island so I can have them all to myself.

Take this irrational impatience with my inhibited self of a second language and we have quite a situation on our hands. Comfortable and flowing conversation is hard enough to come by between two stranger Americans, about the same age and with similar backgrounds. Eliminate all similarities including race, religion, age, language and education and then how does one befriend another?

I guess you resort to giving Howwa your Burt’s Bees honey chapstick and hope she hears your sentiment.

white watermelons

2008-06-19T23:59:00.001-07:00

We were gossiping in the watermelon field.

My rubber band arms- exhausted from the task of hauling heavy loads of melons- were up to my shirt sleeve in watermelon guts. Albino watermelons were cracked all around us and we mechanically dumped the innards into a 20 gallon plastic tub. The melons had sat for too long since being broken on the ground with satisfying clunks and thuds. The days of waiting lured endless squirming maggots to infect our pile of fruit. Ribbed and white, the maggots blended in with what we were after, only making themselves known as tickles between my fingers, sending repulsed shudders down to my tailbone.

And still we gossiped.

You know Ablaye’s father is Adama, right? Oh you didn’t?
Njari was reaching into the trenches of village dirt. Suicide, infidelity, impotence- tales told simply to make my jaw slacken and my eyes miss a blink. I am not a difficult person from whom to get a reaction, so this was a fun game for Njari.

I tried to ignore the maggots clinging to my arm hairs and to stay steady on my tiny stool. I watched the ground for lunch time’s shadows to arrive.

i'll never be this way again

2008-06-19T23:54:00.000-07:00

“You get a strange feeling when you’re about to leave a place…you’ll not only miss the people you love but you’ll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you’ll never be this way ever again.” -Reading Lolita in Tehran

The way I am here is a collage of old Laura demeanor and new Mauritanian behaviors. I pondered the things I do and the way I am now that I will never do or be again…

-I feel triumphant when following radio theatre story lines. (And I listen to radio theatre in the first place!)
-I am outside about 100% of the time. I am indoors only to change clothes. Eating, sleeping, bathing, working, socializing all takes place in the shade of trees, under the moon or in the scorching sun.
-My ears perk at new verbs and useful adjectives, and my Pulaar dictionary is crumbling from infinite references.
-I often have a vague sense that I have done or said something culturally incorrect or inappropriate. The underlying doubt that I am fully understanding life is omnipresent.
-I have an intense awareness of the physical world. The moon’s phases, hours of the sun rise/set, wind direction, temperatures and the likelihood of rain. Never again will I have to notice, let alone care about such things.
-I deal with a restricting inability to pre schedule meetings or work days more than a day in advance. I am constantly engaged in a toggling of programs- shifting pre-planned events around weddings, funerals and “personal” business that is public in a village that does not differentiate the two.
-“Site guilt” pangs that unexpectedly hit after one too many days in Kaedi. This is a common PCV occurrence after idle days away from host families and integration opportunities. Our consciences tug us back to our true purpose of being in Mauritania- live with Mauritanians.
-Silent slow hours for writing, reading and self-reflection
-I buy impossibly small amounts of products. Ten cents of sugar, three bananas for a buck, a gulp of juice for a penny.
-I treat the internet like a rare tryst into paradise. I stay up all night scorching my eyes dry, overwhelmed by all the information, entertainment and endless e-mails.

the third thing

2008-06-01T02:07:00.000-07:00

I often say that the Peace Corps has given me three things. (This is usually said in a bitter tone because I expected more support and contact and information and training....the list goes on.) But these three things have been amazing:

1. Language. For ten weeks when we arrived here we were given 172 hours of language training. This is about 20 hours a week of pure learning. A part time job of priceless language acquisition, without which, my experience would have lacked an immense richness.

2. Money. It is the Peace Corps' monthly allowance on which I eat, travel and survive. While I may not be making money, at least I am not going into debt living abroad.

3. A social network.

It is this third gift that I have never really written about, but has been absolutely enormous in my Peace Corps experience.

The Mauritania PCVs meet up at each other's sites, ride for endless painful hours together in squished cars and in the backs of trucks. We smuggle alcohol from Senegal across the river and drink Oral Rehydration Salts as a hangover remedy. We insult each other in local languages, read out loud to each other from magazines sent from home, and text each other on our cell phones. At regional houses we talk in the middle of the night when its too hot to sleep, play Scrabble and make fun of each others laundry methods.

We don't have to explain anything because we already understand. We don't have to defend our anti-social or "unintegrated" behavior because we all know we're just trying to stay sane.

In other social scenarios there are destinations like restaurants, parks, bars, parties... walks one can go on, museums one can tour, etc. Here, the destination is nowhere. To leave the high walls of a regional house is to be subjected to taunts of "Toubab!" and the other million unwanted attention actions and words that are thrown at us.

It is with each other that we can forget where we are. And if we happen to remember, we know that we are all here together, and that seems to change everything.

creme bowdi

2008-06-01T01:54:00.000-07:00

The rainy season is on its way. The river is flowing faster because of heavy rains in Mali. Wind storms drive everyone indoors at night and leave us hoping for water to fall from the sky to break the unbearable heat.

My friend Neda and I do not just greet the returned season, but also one last round of "creme bowdi." ("Creme" being French for lotion and "bowdi" meaning mosquitos in Pulaar.) Neda and I are local experts on the production of a mosquito repellent created out of local materials.

Living only 15km apart, Neda and I have served as a priceless support system for each other for the past 20+ months and now we are collaborating on a project. Pictured above, she and I are doing a theater sketch on the radio about malaria and the concoction of "creme bowdi." In a few weeks time we will be traveling along the river, stopping in small, often overlooked villages, presenting our special lotion. We have matching aprons and are bringing village friends with us. We will conduct 100% of the "River Road Tour" in Pulaar and will rely on the various villages to feed us and house us for the week.

We say that this we are going out with a bang. That we have earned the opportunity to travel around like a mini theater troupe, sharing important information that we could recite in our sleep. After spending two years trying to avoid the spotlight and stares and draw crowds, Neda and I are now pursuing such attention. We are a circus act, comedians in strange skin, who actually understand the lives and language we embrace in order to teach.

We have arrived, we say. Just in time to go home, I think.

moussa the malian fisherman

2008-06-01T01:39:00.000-07:00

A half an hour before dawn, my friend Moussa dragged me out of bed. We walked side by side toward the slowly pinking sky, headed for a fishing hole about 3 kilometers from Garly.

Moussa and his traveling buddies from Mali spent two months living in my neighbor's house and by the end of their brief stay we were spending hours chatting in my second language and his fourth. (As two non-native Pulaar speakers, we were able to easily understand each other. Colorful slang doesn't get in the way and we don't care about perfect grammar.)

When we arrived at the seasonal lake, the light splashing from countless other fishermen could be heard, as they moved through the water checking their lines and nets. Buckets and sacks were slowly being filled with squirming silver fish as camels nudged through prickly branches of nearby trees.

Moussa stripped to a tank top and shorts and waded into the murky pond. He walked the mile of fishing line methodically and casually, as an expert moves through his motions. He sang under his breath and looked up and grinned every once in awhile. His perfect teeth a flash of bright against his midnight skin.

He says he can't go back to Mali until he has earned enough money- to return empty handed is embarassing. But he has been gone for two years already hasn't saved anything. Tramping from village to village along the Senegal River, dappling in countless languages and fishing methods. Applying for papers to work in different parts of West Africa and telling his family he will come home soon.

But he admits it will probably not be soon. Even though he misses his motor bike, the plentiful fruit in his home town, and being with his father.

the hot season returns

2008-04-19T14:33:00.001-07:00

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'

2008-04-19T14:18:00.000-07:00

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'

2008-04-19T14:16:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

(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

2008-04-19T14:01:00.000-07:00

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.

once a day

2008-02-11T08:08:00.000-08:00

While not an intentional part of my routine, I can count on certain things occurring every day in Garly. Here’s a taste:

-At least five times a tiny yet brutal “death star” will stick in my foot and I will pluck it out while saying “I’m dying” in Pulaar. (Death stars are little plant pods all over the ground- they are as small as a seed but serve no obvious purpose.)
-I will summarize my day’s events on a homemade calendar that I’ve created out of Sharpie markers and cardboard.
-The Moor boutique owner will remind me that we’re not friends anymore, since I stopped teaching him English. He ends our friendly chat in careful English, “Thank you very much.”
-I will grit my teeth at a baby crying in my house and fail at trying to think nice thoughts about babies.
- I will say “I don’t know” or “I don’t understand” about something concerning Pulaar.
-I will think about the food I ate in Paris.
-I will lie about somewhere I have to be in order to leave a house where I have run out of conversation topic.
-I will accurately guess the temperature and feel smug as I check the thermometer hanging on my clothesline.
-I will laugh about something no one else thinks is funny. I will say, “That’s sad, funny, good, scary…” (just insert any adjective) when no one else agrees. This shows despite my best efforts to integrate, my viewpoint refuses to conform.

bump in the night

2008-02-11T08:06:00.000-08:00

A sample of things I’ve woken to in the night:

- A woman giving birth right outside of my house. I ended up strapping my headlamp onto Mariam Ba’s head and giving the baby its first bath.
- People crying and walking to the house of a recently dead villager
- Drums for my friend Atcha’s wedding. I roused myself out of bed at midnight to stand amid the dust and the dancing, holding babies while their mothers danced under the moon in the circle.
- The newest member of my host family’s first cries in the room next to mine, about five feet from my head.
- Countless people seeking medical help from Mariam Ba.
- Cars, donkeys, dogs barking roosters crowing and the ever-dependable pre-dawn prayer call.

My Fifteen Thousand Hours of Fame

2008-02-11T08:03:00.000-08:00

You know you’re a celebrity when…

-People trade bits of information about you like facts on a baseball card. Competing for who knows your father’s name or what you ate for breakfast.
-Any physical ailment you acquire is pored over, every big (however personal) event is widespread knowledge, and people ask questions (about your recent whereabouts or market purchases) to which they already know the answers.
-Attention is easily thrown your way. You are constantly on the brink of close observation, judgment and being juicy gossip material. Any development from a loud laugh, to a speaking mistake, to a new outfit, and all present company leans in to be a part of the action.
-Your simple presence turns anything into an event. You sitting down turns an empty mat into a swarm of children. Your drinking tea turns a quiet conversation into a celebratory atmosphere. Doing what the locals do daily is magically interesting. Your hand is shaken for going to the fields, you’re exclaimed over for buckets on your head and henna on your feet.
- People pay 100UM to have a picture taken with you by the local photographer.
-In general, you sense an undercurrent of attention always on you. Eyes and ears are seemingly everywhere, felt in people repeating things you said or did. The idea of privacy feels like a distant memory.

phew

2008-01-22T08:51:00.000-08:00

The latrines are done. Totally built. Require no more tweaking or materials or trips to the well for water or walks to Hamedou's to ask about money or voyages with the donkey cart to get sand.

I allow myself now a big sigh of relief, and a look back at the more memorable moments:

When I began my study of West African latrine building, I toured several of the private latrines. The local mason pointed out to me all of the parts without cracking a smile at the fact that we were discussing one of the more private sides of life.

I recall picking up the 900,000+ ougiyas at the Kaedi bank. The biggest denomination is a 2000UM bill, so what I carried out of the bank literally filled a handbag. It was the size of several bricks and weighed about the same.

The many meetings with the elders of the village. Their fashionable red and white checked scarves thrown around their shoulders and their flip flops in a cluster at the edge of the mat. I just looked on while the committee informed the men they would each be expected to pay for the latrines in money and labor. All I ever said was "thanks" at the end of the meeting, and they always replied with, "you're a good person, Fatimata."

Standing in front of the first completed latrine (and pictured above) with three grown men- the mason, his helper, and the health committee president and us all agreeing that the latrine is a)gorgeous and b)likely to better hold up than most houses in Mauritania

I remember giving the brick throwers little donut balls for a morning snack, carrying sand for the latrine near my house, and late night meetings with the health committee. Someone always inevitably said "God willing, these latrines will get done" and someone else always replied, "It just may not be very soon."

My friend telling me that from now on, whenever anyone needs to poop they'll go to Fatimata's latrine and will think of Fatimata while doing their business. (Unfortunately, I am Fatimata.)

so that's what it looks like here

2008-01-21T07:03:00.000-08:00

Having visitors was a wake up call to my senses. I realized how many visuals I have learned to actively ignore, for better or for worse. This is what my American ladies helped me notice- and remember that I noticed this all before, in July 2006:

-Trash is everywhere. Stores in cities look like they are built on piles of garbage. Spaces in between litter and donkey dung are filled with dust, grime and sand. Ew.

-Trash doesn't end at the city limits. Plastic bags decorate the road side all the way to Timbuktu (I'm confident, that unless Mali's government is more diligent about litter, that this is actually true.)

-Animals fill the streets, climb through dumps, run through houses and poop on anything that doesn't move, or at least moves slowly. Animal and human spaces are, if defined at all, divided by very blurry and flexible lines.

-My village likes people first and asks questions later. I'd forgotten the open arms I'd fallen into.

-Garly is the best place to be in Mauritania. Any question I'd harbored about that is totally wiped away. Now, if I could return to my obliviousness to Mauritania's city messes, I'd be all set.

super trippers

2008-01-21T06:48:00.002-08:00

The first time I visited the Kaedi market I was so overwhelmed I failed to buy anything. People everywhere, human trash and animal waste in piles between tiny stalls and looming stores. My family, on the other hand, basically owned the filthy and bustling heart of my regional capital. They returned the Bonjour!s of kids I'd begun to ignore long ago. They bought funny presents and pointed the videocamera at all the action.

During the fam's Crash Course in Mauritania I can't recall a single complaint. Despite the first "toilet" they encountered in a Nouakchott alley. Despite a messy goat slaughtering and the inability to communicate with villagers.

Instead, they pounced on my one English speaking Garly friend with strings of questions I'd stopped answering. They pounded grain despite laughter at their technique. By the end, though we were all tired of the ol' four little ducklings in a strange land routine, I was nothing but thankful for the visit. Also impressed, if not surprised, by the superstar showing these Smith women put on.

my girls go to garly

2008-01-07T23:15:00.000-08:00

Despite my warnings of discomfort and culture shock, the women of the Smith clan (minus our newlywed who couldn’t tear herself away from either her hubby or her dog, we don’t know which) traveled back with me to Mauritania.

“Ugly,” was my mother’s first reaction to the country capital Nouakchott. “There’s trash everywhere,” the younger sisters chorused. Bizarre observations to me because I had stopped being aware of Nouakchott’s appearance long ago. Luckily, we spent a minimal amount of time in Mauritania’s unimpressive bigger cities. (Keep in mind even the word “city” is a stretch, seeing how I can count the number of paved rounds in Mauritania on two hands.)

We jetted out to Garly and were met with such hospitality and care that we all were moved to tears at various times. (My mother at the most inconvenient ones, such as when they meet the village chief.) The health committee called in drummers from Senegal and girls from the village wore costumes and danced for us. Village elders came to welcome my mother and sisters, some with presents and others with endless words of praise for yours truly.

The goat the health committee slaughtered for us served as a basis for every snack and meal. A valuable source of protein and an ironic gift for the two vegetarians (Michelle and Lisa) who had to pick carefully through every meal.

My girls learned to carry water on their heads, how to pick beans in the fields, felt the pain of riding in the back of a truck, carried young babies around (maybe even got peed on, thanks to the lack of diapers.) They slept on the ground without a complaint, helped my host family pound wheat and laughed easily at themselves and children’s choice of clothing (specifically “hood boy” who wore a t-shirt, shorts, and a winter coat hood.)

I feel blessed to have been able to share my village and life with four of my favorite females in the world. I had the pleasure (and pain) of serving as their voice and guide for several days in a strange land. A priceless, surreal experience of which only the pictures remain to those state-bound that they did actually experience

paris, week two

2008-01-07T23:07:00.001-08:00

I shifted from traveling as a party of two to a member of a gang of nine. We were Americans on a holiday excursion and had no shame in broadcasting that fact in all manner of behavior. We romped through gardens in our Crayola colored coats. We videotaped on the metro and crowded around Michelle’s articulate and lengthy lectures (her art history major has now served at least one useful purpose) at museums.

Everyone gained some kilos thanks to Charles’ pastry runs every morning and Drew’s delicious dinners. We laughed at You Tube videos and scowled at Lisa winning Blokus at night. (That girl is unbeatable at virtually any board or card game. So annoying.) We never turned on the TV and had a minimalist Christmas with just a few bare bones presents under the tree. We snuggled under gigantic fur blankets and rocked on the cow-hide chair.

Dad was in “generous mode” all week, tossing out Euros like candy in a parade. Mom sipped her wine and us girls talked about our boyfriends, much to Alice’s chagrin. Crepes were a constant hand-warmer as we strolled down sidewalks, linking arms and jostling for space. Not one to use many superlatives, I can safely say that this was the best Smith Family Vacation Ever.

city of lights, week one

2008-01-07T22:53:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago Kevin (aka The Boyfriend) and I flew from our respective countries of residence and met up in the city of romance. We stayed in the red light district with the Sacre Coeur and the Sexodrome looming in the distance.

Highlights included marveling at Notre Dame, a photo shoot at the Eiffel Tower and snacking on the most ridiculous looking pastries we could find. We worked the calories off by taking the metro only once a day and walking among many arrondisements (sections of the city) on any given day, and strolling down the fantastically lit up Champs Elysees. We drank wine and ate cheese until our stomachs hurt and made not very intelligent comments in museums. Unfortunately, yes, we were that American couple cocking their heads to the side and saying, “that’s weird,” about an incredibly famous painting or sculpture about which we knew nothing.

We vowed that the next trip we take will not end in a good-bye and plane rides to opposite sides of the world… “Inshallah,” I say. (“God willing,” for all you still slow on the Arabic uptake.)

How Laura Has Changed (a post from her big sister)

2007-12-24T03:30:00.000-08:00

I am spending the Christmas holiday with my petite soeur (read: little sister) in Paris. She has been in the Peace Corps for over 18 months and I think it's about time we get an outsider's opinion about how this experience has changed her, if at all.

My initial assessment is that Laura is, in essence, the same as always. She has seen things I would have never thought her able to stomach - she has witnessed the slaughtering of many animals and she's has always been one of the biggest lover of animals I've known. How could we forget the passing of our favorite cat, Henry? But she has also now been to several countries I've never been to (and I'm jealous like normal), and seen sights most people will never see. And, now she appreciates her family even more :) But she has also shrunk quite a bit thanks to her sparse diet, and today she is wearing Alice's jeans and needs a belt - for those of you who don't know our littlest sister, she is a tiny string bean of a person and fitting into her jeans would be a miracle for anyone!

I now know that it takes a certain kind of person to be successful in the Peace Corps and Laura is perfect for it. She doesn't seem to mind when things are out of her control and she has no idea what's happening around her, who those strange people are living in her house, what people are saying and thinking about her in Pulaar before she could understand. She's not a control freak - a personality that would probably struggle even more in the harsh climate and radically different society.

We can't wait to have her back home soon - away from those organ eating parasites in the Senegal River, malaria scares, etc. Next Christmas we won't get great gifts from Africa, but we will be together without hauling ourselves halfway around the globe to see her. Merry Christmas Eve!

white watermelons...

2007-12-24T03:09:00.000-08:00

...are not as tasty as the red ones. But, if you splash a little salt on there, these albino juicy fruits are pretty good.

Lately, I have participated in the task of saving the crops from the mighty melon vines that aim to choke the corn and suck the nutrients away from the beans.

The way we save the fields begins with hauling in the watermelons. The melons are the size of small bowling balls (like duck pin bowling balls) and are just as heavy. We rip the melon from the vine and clunk it into a bucket. Once the bucket is full, we climb out of the plants and lug the bucket onto our heads and walk the 50 feet to the dumping tree. Taking each melon individually, we throw it to the earth and listen to the satisfying crack of the rind splitting open. Each melon gets tossed and broken. What begins as fun destructive feeling behavior ends with hundreds of cracked melons piled beneath a tree, arms that feel like rubber and heads that feel like they've carried boulders for two hours.

Fast forward three days. We plop down amongst the melons that are in various stages of rotting. We pull the fruit open and dump the innards into a wide rimmed bucket. Ideally, one hand scoop should retrieve all the dripping watermelon guts easily. The seeds and the flesh are all together and still resembling a watermelon, however white. But, if your field buddy is a bit of a procastinator and you postpone the melon gut dumping until a week after the breaking, you have on your hands a bit of a maggot infestation problem. The smell of rotting fruit can become unbearable, and the previously inoffensive juice is now yellow and full of squirming white worms a couple millimeters long.

Handling the tickling of the maggots takes a mighty strong stomach, and a hard headed person to pursue the job to the end. Especially when one keeps in mind that once the bucket of guts is dumped, and dried in the sun, and the seeds are pounded into a fine powder, it is simply put into meals as a little bit of vitamin enrichment. After hours of head-aching lugging and tiring melon breaking, followed by maggot sorting and all we get is a little bit of vitamin C powder? Once again, all I can do is shake my head in amazement at all the work work work that makes Garly's world go round.

a throw back entry

2007-12-14T02:24:00.000-08:00

(From my journal a year ago)

I wasn’t aware of how accustomed I was to Garly until Neda and I pulled into Nouakchott and it was a buzzing metropolis. An electrified alive city with traffic and large glass windows displaying products I’d seen only in daydreams for half a year. Rows of toothbrushes, cereal, cleaning supplies, microwaves, jeans, peanut butter…had I really learned to do without so much? Upon seeing the hotel room (cable TV, shower, actual bed off the floor) Neda and I jumped and laughed and smoked a victory cigarette.

One average boutique offered more products and food than all the boutiques in Garly combined. I slurped soft serve at a pastry shop, inhaled a cheeseburger for a staggering 1000UM (don’t think about what this could buy in the village, Laura). Mexican food with tasty cheese and the unfamiliar tang of spicy salsa. I danced to jazz and drank beer at a bar, strolled under glowing streetlights at night, curving among the carnivalesque street vendors.

I gained 4kgs. The entire village reacted with a “Mashallah” (God is good) upon my pudgy return.

giving thanks

2007-11-25T03:32:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-02T10:13:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-11-01T08:11:00.000-07:00

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.

...time flies (part two)

2007-10-31T07:09:00.000-07:00

8:15-11:30 This is my "official" work time. I chill at the dispensary with my health ladies, dishing out wheat soy mush to the identified malnourished kids in the village. I hover over them like a mother bird, keeping their chirping to a minimum and their little mugs full. I talk shop with Faty and Mariam about upcoming health presentations or gripe about the village's cash contribution to the latrines (1/3 is collected but my impatient palm awaits the other 20,000UM).
11:30-12:30 Errand time. I drop torn clothes off at my tailors, I sit among the market ladies, getting talked into buying fried dough balls or soap. I go and say hello to friends I haven't seen for awhile and unsuccessfully track down the health committee president (he's always out and about with his abundant sheep herd, mashallah). All the while my skin is pricking with dis ease from the sun, I am stepping onto all sorts of small thorns (the plant that breeds these tiny "death stars" are brought by the rain) and generally suffering from the elements.
12:30-1:30 Sigh. Back at home and out of the sun. I either lay in a puddle of sweat in my room reading a book (most recently but do not recommend: Moby Dick) or I "help with lunch" by fiddling with the radio, sticking my hands in the rice or write in my journal while keeping Isata company. (I'm a very good lunch helper.)
1:30-2:30 Bucket bath time. Alhumdillilah. I am completely alone in my little bathroom space. Not required to talk or smile or hurry. I am simply cooling off in the 110 degree weather with a little well water. When a breeze comes and my skin develops goosebumps, I tell myself that it is 110 degrees and I am not cold. There is no way I am cold. (But I am.)

to be continued

trying to be a farmer

2007-10-31T06:54:00.000-07:00

This year's rainy season, as I've mentioned before, has been monsoon-like. I've already complained about traveling difficulties and praised the pluses of using rain water, and now I'd like to mention an after-effect of a good rainy season: farming.

Going to the fields is a Garlyan's favorite thing to do. After some bread is munched, some coffee slurped, and the horse cart loaded with picks and supplies for tea-making, all able and willing bodies head into the quickly warming sun to get cracking at their barely-income generating backbreaking work.

Everyone's plot of land, just months ago covered by the river, is slowly but surely coming back into view, as the river recedes back to its original size. Every couple of days, what was mushy gushy mud is now moist and fertile soil. It's time to jab poles in even rows for corn and beans. It's time to dig foot-wide holes for sweet potatoes. Roots are hacked away and already sprouted bean leaves are plucked to make the most (and only?) delicious meal in Pulaar land: hako.

This work requires a person to bend over, up to their ankles in mud. Dirt nestles into fingernails and the sun rises and rises, getting unbelievably hot in the cloudless, merciless sky, baking the backs of our legs and necks.

I can last about three hours. Almost everyone else has their lunches brought to them, so they can work and work and work and work until they want to drop. And then they walk home, eat the fresh hako and find the energy to socialize so loudly and so late into the night that their tired toubab can't sleep. The cycle begins all over again, the next day, as the sun is plotting its next energy-zapping attack.

how the time flies

2007-10-10T05:47:00.000-07:00

I often wonder where my day went, as the sun sets and my host family drinks for the first time since dawn. I find myself marveling that another day is over during which I did essentially nothing. This is as much for my benefit as for yours- a small exercise to answer the question: What do I do all day?

6am I wake up to roosters singing and haul my mosquito net, cot, and pillow into my room
6-6:45 I walk as the sun rises, usually thinking about everything but Garly, because for my next many waking hours I will be in the heart of Garly life with no escape
6:45-7:30 Walk down the hill with an empty bucket and up the hill with one full of water three times. The first hike is silent, but by the end we're awake and splashing water during the trek.
7:30-8 Breakfast. Alone-amazingly-in my room I munch on tasteless crackers, mix up some plain oatmeal, or drink yogurty cows milk that has been souring overnight. (This flavor takes some getting used to...)
8:00-8:15 BBC world news. My quarter of an hour contact with the outside, English-speaking world. I get many uplifting updates on countless wars, deaths and general violence. I thank Allah that I am nestled safely in my little Muslim village.

Phew-and I haven't even left the house yet. But my cyber cafe time is running out. I'll update this later, so stay tuned to see what my life is like beyond my sheep-ridden yard.

Ramadan Round II

2007-10-03T23:36:00.001-07:00

Last year at this time I wrote about Ramadan being like a game. Winners and losers and bonus points. Unfortunately, this year, I better understand how hard this really is for them.

As the gigantic river slowly retreats, the wet fertile soil calls for corn, bean and sweet potato planting. Going to the fields at this time is a must. Unfortunately, it is also a must that there is no drinking water or eating between the first and fourth prayer calls of the day. Pregnant women who can barely waddle to the well or hiking out to the far away fields just as hungry and thirsty as their unborn babies are.

This year I resent Ramadan for making difficult lives harder. I encourage pregnant and breast-feeding mothers to nourish their children rather than their religion. But their reasoning is that any on-Earth turmoil is worth a "get-out-of hell-free" card.

hiyo latrines

2007-09-08T06:57:00.000-07:00

Numerous late night meetings done by flashlight, countless gatherings of the elders of the village, and excruciating Peace Corps paperwork have all finally created results. The latrines are taking shape. Women are pulling water, adolescent boys are shoveling sand, and old men are drinking tea on the sidelines. As fellow volunteer John would say, "We're doing it baby."

For a year in Garly I was self-conscious about my purpose and worth to the village. I see now, as I walk with my head a little higher thanks to sand piles and bricks drying in the sun, I was the only one concerned about my work progress. I am finally starting to feel useful, but to the women in the market, I remain the curious girl/woman that I have been since the beginning. They were never as concerned as I was, that I prove myself.

So, with the construction underway, I have shed this desperate need to be worthwhile, and am simply glad that I've helped provide some privacy for pooping.

my own kind of rain dance

2007-09-05T08:01:00.000-07:00

We are in the middle of the rainy season here in southern Mauritania. The roads are washed out. The mosquitos are biting. There is so much water between my village and Kaedi I only got into town with the use of a brave horse and a motor boat. The breeze is cool and we drink, wash clothes in, and bathe with rain water. It's pretty sweet.

As egocentric as it may sound, it is me, actually, that makes the rain come. On nights when we can see the stars (not too cloudy) and there's a light breeze, I think to myself, it's pretty safe to set up shop for sleeping. I strap on my headlamp and begin the process of bed-readying. I lug out my cot, mat and sheet. I string up my mosquito net. I close up my bedroom and head outside to lay down.

This seven minute ritual is enough to invite the rains. By the time I settle onto my cot and tuck my net around my mat, ensuring a mosquito free slumber, the sky becomes less clear. People start tsking at the sky, saying it could easily rain tonight. Sure enough, my falling asleep does the trick and it's time to move all my gear back into my room.

My pre-bed routine can also prevent the rain. All it takes is me waiting for it. While I get sleepy around 9pm, I sit around drinking tea and chatting, waiting for the threatening clouds to begin their work. I watch the minutes tick by, struggling to stay awake for the start of the rain. It is on these nights, when I nod off to sleep, net-less, mat-less, waiting for the sweet relief of rain that I can ensure the storm does not arrive. At least until morning.

2007-07-07T03:37:00.000-07:00

I went to a wrestling match yesterday in Garly. Everyone wore their fanciest clothes and the wrestlers were decked out in Speedo-type bottoms with frilly decoration. I went to pay for my ticket as the drummers were doing their thing and the sun was setting.

100 ougiyas for kids, 200 ougiyas for adults, they told me.

I was stumped, and it was standing at the makeshift gate, the crowd pushing around me, that I realized the extent of my confusion concerning this question. What are you? A kid or an adult? In so many ways I am considered a child in the village. Some naive baby everyone is watching out for. In other ways I am ooooold and I am long overdue for some children of myself.

I have a job, but I am not married. I have the freedom and ability to travel and leave the village by myself, yet I need help performing the most mundane tasks in the village. I can't cook meals, prepare tea without wincing at the heat, and I play easily with the kids in my host family. But I have a brick of money in my room with which to construct latrines and I can sit with the old important men of the village without it breaking social rules.

It's all very weird and while I decided to pay the 200UM entrance fee, my place in the village remains as fuzzy to me as my job description.

One Year and Counting...

2007-06-30T02:19:00.000-07:00

I am in the regional capital of Kaedi. I arrived in this very city one year ago and had never heard a Muslim prayer call, eaten goat meat, seen a scorpion, been to a tailor, bargained for the price of oranges, made a free phone call to the USA over the internet, told someone that Toubab was not my name, and countless, millions, gazillions of other things that now feel normal.

It was with the arrival of the Newbies (the 80 something new Peace Corps Trainees) yesterday that I was able to see more clearly where I came from and where I am now. These bright eyed souls can not speak a word of a local language, Kaedi's bustling market is a source of terror and confusion, and the slooooow pace of life and work has not made itself known to these motivated and ambitious youngsters.

And I mean youngsters. In the health sector there is one person over the age of 23. I have a theory that Mauritania gets the most hard core and inexperienced applicants to Peace Corps. Physically, us twenty-somethings can handle the rough car rides, intense heat and amoeba-laden drinking water. Yet we lack any technical experience that would make us useful in a more developed country.

So, how do I feel about hitting the one year mark? Relieved, for the most part. It's all downhill from here, as they say. And as the people in Pulaar land say, "a year, if healthy, goes by quickly."

Inchallah, life will remain as sweet for the following 12 months as it has been for the previous.

Latrine Shizzle

2007-06-30T02:09:00.000-07:00

In case my loyal blog viewers were in the mood for a "real work" update, here are some interesting facts for ya:

176 sacks of cement, each weighing 50kg, are necessary for the latrines. This is literally TWO TONS of cement. Which doesn't even include the sand, gravel, and water, necessary to make cement bricks. This is just one example of the immense amount of stuff necessary for a construction project on this scale.

The brick makers do not speak French, English or Pulaar. Yet we seem to understand each other with the help of charades type talking. If good for nothing else, living in a foreign country has been excellent for my miming skills.

My good friend the mason underestimated the prices for basically everything we need to purchase including but not limited to wire, PVC pipe, and latrine doors. I am maintaining the "not panicking yet" mode that I have been able to hold on to since day 1, when I landed in the hot hell of Nouakchott. With this new budget surprise we are talking about reducing the number of latrines to 7.

Only Allah knows what happens from here.

Building a house for Ly

2007-06-29T04:09:00.000-07:00

Construction of new houses is in hyper mode all over the village. As we race to beat the rain, people spend hours every day pulling water from the well, lugging mud from a pit to the house, carrying dried mud bricks and drinking endless amounts of tea.

A typical day of construction includes the slaughtering of a goat and the preparing of several kilos of rice to feed all the volunteers. People show up with their work clothes and faces on, and chug through the physically demanding labor until exhausted. Tiny shots of sugary tea keep them fueled, but the hot sun prevents much work from happening after noon or one.

Late night excursions to the well use up any energy one has managed to store throughout the day. Moonlight isn't nearly as hot as sunlight, but as the Pulaar people say, the ground is never even at night, and with a bucket of water sloshing on one's head, it makes this exhausted American girl yearn for some of those nifty construction machines that she's seen in the past...

World Map Shennanigans

2007-06-10T23:58:00.000-07:00

Us PCVs often joke about what our resumes should look like versus what they will look like. We all know how to incorporate action verbs and impressive sounding accomplishments into the paper versions of ourselves, but more normal summaries don't sound quite so good.

For example, this recently completed world map will allow me to brag about the impromptu geography lessons, creative outlet, and general community-building opportunity that I provided. However, what really happened was that paint got dripped on everyone/thing, and most of the people who helped me did not know where Africa was, or that there was a lot of water surrounding the land of the world.

The contrast in amounts of knowledge about the world was astounding for a village of only 1,500 people. Some men were able to read my labels and point out to me where many countries were, such as Brazil and Italy. Other people thought America and France were both connected to Mauritania.

I see lopsided education in my daily math classes as well. I have students who do not recognize the number four and are unable to translate the numbers they have memorized in French to their ecquivalent in Pulaar. At the same time, I review with adolescent girls the rules for fractions, and remind them how to do the long division they learned last year. Half the time I am thinking Mashallah (thank god) and the other half I'm thinking what is going wrong with the schooling here?

Mariam (Mom/Ma) Ba

2007-06-10T23:49:00.000-07:00

People simply call Mariam, "Mom." Not because of what Mom means in English, but as a shortened word for Mariam. It is mere coincidence that a mom is exactly what Mariam is to me.

As a health agent for the village, Mariam works at the dispensary. She lives in the same building as me, just one room over. She cooks me meals, threatens the kids when they are bothering me, and teaches me Pulaar. If it weren't for me already having the best mother ever (mom, that's a shout out to you, in case you missed it) then I would have acquired that in Garly.

In this picture she is dressed up in classic Pulaar fashion. This is due to a little something I call the "jombaajo intrigue." If a woman's husband live outside of the village, when the husband returns for vacation, the woman is referred to as a newly wedded woman, or a "jombaajo." This means they dress up often, cook nice meals for their hubby, and get this: they don't leave the house.

I had an important latrine meeting while Ma Ba (what I call her) was serving her jombaajo duties and she didn't come. No one even questioned her absence at this crucial crossroads in the project- heck, she was jombaajoing it up.

Monday gloom and doom

2007-06-04T11:03:00.000-07:00

Attending an AIDS workshop in Africa is downright depressing. While Denison trained me well to be a statistic skeptic, I heard several today that if slightly skewed or not, made me want to weep for this continent.

One statistic was that 75% of the 20 million people (as of some time in 2006) who have died of AIDS were living in Africa. Also, Swaziland has close to 40% infection rate of HIV/AIDS. Almost half of the population is living with this deathly diagnosis!

I was hoping that I misunderstood these frightening numbers, since the program is entirely in French and by the time we got to the scary numbers portion of the day my brain was fried.

Unfortunately, my French served me adequately for this and other sad stats.

On the up side, it is considerably cooler on the coast than in the interior. And this five day workshop, intended to train and motivate various health workers in Peace Corps sites, is located in an airconditioned building. Mashallah.

Posh Corps

2007-06-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

Mali volunteers get bagels delivered to their front door. Ghana volunteers live among elephants in lush jungles. Some peace corps sites have satellite television, hot showers, and access to fruits and vegetables like any "normal" city. Posh Corps is the peace corps experience with a little extra cushion...

At this moment I am typing on a MacBook in the apartment of two volunteers in Nouadhibou, Mauritania. They have WIFI internet, a kitchen table with real chairs, and a television bigger than the one I had in my dorm room at Denison. I ate a hamburger today (with an egg and french fries in it = delicious) at the cafe that is in their apartment building.

This type of experience used to send me toggling between envy and self-righteousness. Neither feeling is all that great, so I've decided to simply embrace the camping-like atmosphere of my life and soak up my vacay days in posh style. While I can sit on couches and order cappuccino for the next 50 years of my life (inshallah/god willing) for now, I can handle waking up at 3am to goats fighting. I can write in my journal by candlelight and guess the time of day by the length of shadows.

There is no where I would rather be.

my zen retreat

2007-06-01T17:19:00.000-07:00

In one month I will have been in Mauritania for a year. I have been reflecting on these past eleven months and realizing I have achieved what is impossible in the states: truly getting away from it all. I am not distracted by television, pop culture, traffic, computers, magazines, graphic news stories, petty social dramas, beer binging... In two words I am pretty much on a personal Zen retreat.

I almost forget the challenges of my early life in Garly. I love that I see at the most a car a day. It's great that an entire village knows my name and that I drink fresh milk in the market and swap friendship bracelets with women of all ages. Even lugging water from the depths of the well has become a quiet kind of fun.

The only thing this retreat is missing right now is a bald monk showing me the path of peace, or whatever it is they show. So if anyone is interested in being my spiritual teacher, come on over. The hot season prevents any activity between 11am and 5pm, so bring some books.

On jaaraama no feewi (or, Thank you very much)

2007-05-05T02:53:00.000-07:00

There has been a small miracle. When one begins a project through Peace Corps Partnership (the fancy name for what I just did) one is told that for each $1,000 to expect about a month for the money to come in.

In less than two weeks from my request being posted, it has all been contributed. (Actually, right now there is $24 left, but hopefully I will snatch my credit card before someone else does).

I go on a daily walk at dawn, and the morning after I found out about this, each step I took I thought, Thank or You. Thank you, thank you, thank you, ran through my mind for an hour as I trekked across dry earth, watching the sun rise.

I am so touched by people's generosity and general caring spirits I feel about to burst. I am unable to know who has donated what, however, unless a certain box was checked when donating.... Please please step forward and e-mail me if you contributed. (laurajeannesmith@gmail.com) While I sent my gratitude out into the universe the other morning, I would love to direct these thanks at actual ears.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

My friend the butcher

2007-04-21T14:50:00.000-07:00

I actually remember Moutar the butcher's name, which is rare in itself, but mainly because of its similarity to the word "mustard" in French.

For Thanksgiving I bought a couple of kilos of goat meat from Moutar. Every day since (count 'em, that's a lotta days) he asks if today is a "fete Amerique" and if I want to buy some meat.

I stopped by his house recently and almost walked into a camel head (stripped of its skin except for right around the mouth) that he was storing for purchase. The camel head was about the size of my thigh- merely hinting at the size of the mammal it had been earlier that day.

He says for my next fete he'll butcher another one just for me. I'm thinking about celebrating Mother's Day by chowing down on a couple pounds of camel...

Latrine Project Underway

2007-04-21T13:23:00.000-07:00

It is now possible to donate to my current project of latrine construction. If you are interested in supporting the village in this endeavor, please go to this website and click on Mauritania:

http://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.volproj

Even a few dollar donation would make a dent in the request.

Thanks for considering contributing, and for taking the time to read my blog!

Tribute to Habs(a Ba)

2007-04-09T00:05:00.000-07:00

Helena, or Habsa Ba (her name in Bababe) is moving on to bigger and better things. Early termination of service is when people decide the clear and sunny skies of California, or other places in the US, are better than the dusty winds and 130 degree heat of Mauritania. In other words, the people that ET are probably a bit more sane than the rest of us. Hence, Habs is ETing.

Why I will miss Habs:

1. she actually knows something about health, so she keeps me informed
2. i like having pulaar contests with her- despite the fact that she always wins...actually, i will miss competing with her, but am glad that my pulaar is going to be waaay better than hers in 17 months
3. i will miss reminiscing about the strife of Bababe and all the ways we kept each other sane
4. i will miss watching her hair change from long and flowy, to mohawk, to crazy shaved-ness.
5. lastly, i will miss her amazing mix of being chill and a get 'er done-ness.

(love ya, habs. take care over there- and send us lots of packages.)

Did I mention it's hot here?

2007-04-05T05:08:00.000-07:00

I have been stranded for several days now, waiting for my luggage to leave New York. Yes, my bags experienced a "transfer error" in between Boston and NY, while I was busy traversing numerous countries. Oh well. I have been able, with this extra time, to learn how to make mango salsa and stare mesmerized at the Boghe regional capital house's thermometer.

This handy Weather Channel temperature taker is digital and with several cool characteristics. A humidity meter (today is around 30% although I don't know if that's high at all America- standards. I mean, I thought the Sahara was a dry heat?) and a smiley face/frowny face option. This face displays to the viewer if it is a nice day or a bad day, weather-wise. Mauritania will never, ever have the smiley face. Even on the coolest day in the winter. Every day it is that same unhappy face.

The temperature itself is a trip. The question of the day around here is- "Guess how hot it is now!" If it feels like 70 to me, that means I should guess about 80. If I would describe it as "warm," this generally equals low 90s. A shrugging "hot" is high 90s, but when it gets into the hundreds I am just baffled. I never guess above a 98, because it simply doesn't feel that hot. Yesterday, when it was 115 degrees, I was not even sweating.

I guess my body has acclimated to desert life, despite my brief fling with snow, rain and other amazing weather experiences in the States. However, with all this being said, it is at least 10 degrees hotter in the sun, and any sort of physical activity out in it, during the day, is asking for an overheated experience.

Send me mail

2007-03-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

At this address:

Laura Smith, PCV
Corps de la Paix
BP 222
Nouakchott, Mauritania
WEST AFRICA

This is changed from earlier. Also, just want to re-state that padded envelopes are less expensive and travel quicker than boxes. (My dad says thanks for being so good to me and taking the time and resources to send me cool stuff.)

Land of Plenty

2007-03-27T10:29:00.000-07:00

America is pretty much the beautiful and plentiful land I remembered it to be. I had forgotten one thing though: the overwhelming amount of choices.

Grocery stores, for example. The fruit section is humongous and split between organic and regular. Once you've decided environmentally-conscious or not, the type of fruit options is endless. Melons, citrusy stuff, crunchy types, pre-sliced, dried, packaged, free-floating. Fruit madness. The apples section on its own hosts about six different kinds. I have no idea how I ever chose anything before Mauritania, but I am incapable of it now- asking for guidance from the people unfortunate enough to accompany me to the store.

Dental hygiene products overwhelm me with the flavors and sizes and promises of whitening abilities or tartar prevention. Jeans shopping is a nightmare with limitless cuts and lengths and colors and shapes.

Coffee shops are insane. Everything from size, amount of sweetener (and type), level of caffeine, flavor shots, whipped cream or bald, frozen or hot, fatty or not- how do Americans order when the selection is so diverse and delicious?

Man. I'm ready to return to a land in which the choice for breakfast is bread or bread and the only refreshing and available drink is water.

Why Ithaca is a-ok

2007-03-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

I spent my first week in the states hanging in Ithaca, NY. Besides freezing my tail off and gaining 5 kilos, I got to see why that college town is almost as cool as my own Bloomington.

For example, "Dragon Day" is an event at Cornell in which the freshmen architects spend tons of time and money building a giant dragon which the engineers burn down as soon as it is complete. Kev and I thought standing in the snow and wind to watch a bunch of firemen put out some smoke was pretty sweet. Next time we'll be sure to get there in time to see the actual fire.

There's also a laundromat in which all of the dryers and washing machines have names. The washing machines are labeled with words such as Noah's Ark and things referring to water. All the dryers bear name tags referring to intense heat, such as Dante's Inferno.

If you take the time to visit Ithaca, I suggest stopping by a hockey game. We witnessed several fights and a monster mascot on ice skates. Also, the chemical engineering lab boasts some giant machines that do something that is totally beyond me. Just be sure, if you're passing through, to go the month of July. I think it's the only time of year there isn't a nightly frost.

Julie the P gets hitched

2007-03-27T10:08:00.000-07:00

Fancy toenails, mini milkshakes, beach backdrop and pre-ceremony cocktail hour...we couldn't have asked for a more appropriate wedding weekend for the oldest Smith sister. While my main reason for a trip to the USA was to eat a Big Mac from McDonald's, Julie's wedding provided a convenient excuse to catch a plane.

My personal highlight was watching Michelle and Alice weep in front of everyone, but many other people enjoyed the poem the girls wrote, so below is the final stanza. Cheers, to Jules and Drew.

"We couldn't be more thrilled with Julie's final choice
The two of you together is a reason to rejoice.
This day has been more special than any other,
Hey! It's about time we finally had a brother!"

WAISTing away...

2007-03-07T01:04:00.000-08:00

Peace Corps Mauritania had a few hold ups on the drive down (see above pic) but we made it to Dakar, Senegal in time to win a softball tournament for like, the 20th year in a row. This get away weekend was sprinkled with parties and pool time, but the highlight was definitely the homestay.
Each year, Peace Corps provides volunteers with homes of Americans in which to stay the few days. My host works for the embassy, and was pretty much awesome. He fed us cereal in the morning, and home made ice cream at night. I slept on a mattress and woke up to the smell of fresh bread. It was like a mini-America over looking the ocean.

I want to mention again that we were the champions of the tournament. (Todd, I hope you're reading this and recalling how much we dominated over the silly Gambian teams.) Despite standing in the outfield with beers in our hands, despite innings in which no one wore pants, Mauritania rocked the WAIST (West Africa Invitational Softball Tournament) world.

Valentine's Day

2007-02-13T00:55:00.000-08:00

I will be reflecting, on the world's most hated holiday (I mean, does anyone enjoy the choice between showering another with affection vs. wallowing in lonely despair?) on things I have come to truly love about my life here:

When seeing someone for the first time in a long time, people greet with a loud and long "heeeyoooo! heeyoo! heeyoo! heeyoo!" generally with some clapping. While intimate hugs are not the norm, this cheer of glee is giddy fun.

Mornings in general are clear and quiet. I wake up before dawn and brush my teeth in moonlight. I walk to the baker and pick up my warm bread while watching the sunrise. The family's sheep trample over each other and their babies while they fight for a turn at the water tub. The sleepy good mornings at the well remind me of mornings at the kitchen table when everyone agrees talking is unnecessary.

I love carting Little Laura around the village, telling everyone she's mine. She's not usually equipped with diapers so this can be quite a risky adventure- but it's worth it.

While I used to feel lonely laughing at life by myself, I've recently come to appreciate my own inside jokes. I will say sarcastic comments such as "that pot is really small" when it takes three people to lug it across the courtyard. Everyone thinks I have my adjectives wrong- they don't get the humor- and I just giggle to myself.

I said yesterday that I loved Mauritania. Seven months ago, in the miserable heat and the confusion of unknown language, I might not have believed you if you told me I would be saying that down the line. But as of the day before Valentine's Day in 2007, I am in love with this dusty, disorderly, clash of cultures, country.

C B Dubs

2007-01-29T18:35:00.000-08:00

(All right, Care Bare. You complained that I wasn't writing like I talk, so here ya go. A little bit of the Real Me among the censored shennanigans.)

Loyal blog readers, I want to inform you all of a sweet website in which you can make your own business cards.

It's free.

Carrie recently received her 250 free (besides paying for the shipping) business cards. Job title: Kayak Guide. Care, I was really impressed with your choice of background colors and overall style.

Carrie is the only person working for her company that has business cards.

Her boss, she says, is starting to act a bit envious.

40 Days of Fun: En Afrique

2007-01-28T12:30:00.000-08:00

For those of you in the dark as to the wonders of 40 Days of Fun (40FUN), let me fill you in. For many days, yes, 40, my friends and I made a conscious effort to put a little extra fun into our lives. The two times of 40FUN occurred the final legs of my freshman and senior years at Denison. Being the founder, director, etc. of 40FUN, I have decided to have my own solo go at the invented, extended holiday.

I have 40 days left in Mauritania, until I come home for the wedding. (After which, there is a staggering number of months, let alone days, until the end of my service, but we'll cross that bridge later).

Perhaps not entirely realistic, here are my current guidelines: (Feel free to try these at home)

1. Go on a rice-free diet
2. Pet as many goats, sheep and donkeys as I want. Social stigma, schmocial schtigma.
3. Eat cookies every day (Okay, so there aren't cookies in Garly, but I really would like to do this- it would be fun, and would remind me of vacations in Michigan when Dad would say we could eat as many cookies as we wanted...for breakfast)
4. Refrain from threatening kids with sticks. It's not nice OR fun to make small children run away screaming. (Although, it is kinda funny...but I'll stop)

and lastly,
5. Master the art of carrying water on my head without hands, increase the number of bubbles at the top of the tea cass when I'm pouring, and learn some better Pulaar insults.

I'm such a good Peace Corps volunteer- see how culture-integrated-focused my last "rule" is? All right, I'm off to have fun.

Ode to Pola

2007-01-28T12:17:00.000-08:00

Pola, the first dog I have ever really considered my pet, (thanks to the parentals being so anti-canine) got hit by a car. His back legs (or maybe whole back?) got broken. Along with those breaks, went his feisty spirit. He used to chase donkeys and wag his tail off when he saw me...he no longer does. I spend time baby-sitting him, force-feeding him water and rice. In an effort to battle hard times with humor, I wrote a limerick. (Perhaps the beats and timing aren't correct, it's been awhile since I took eighth grade English, in which I learned such things.)

Ode to Pola

Pola got hit by a car
Now he can't go very far
I'm starting to fret
He sure needs a vet
Cuz my doggie first aid is sub par

Where there's a well...

2007-01-17T09:42:00.000-08:00

...there's a way... to screw up.

In the past six months I have learned many things the hard way. Including but not limited to, when to accept or politely refuse a meal invitation (awkward if you choose the wrong reaction); I have no sense of direction (three aimless hours in the sahara desert is definitely the hard way); while eating meat, it is essential to chew slowly, in case there are bits of bones strewn about (in a word, OW, when a molar finds one of those buggers).

At the well I have been the cause of several disturbances. Ranking from least terrible to most:

3. Although many people shoo away the thirsty donkeys that wander around for puddles, one day I decided to pour a bunch of water into a cement container, for the nearest one. (They always remind me of the donkey in shrek and I just can't resist pretending it's my pet for a few minutes.) After luring in many donkeys, and exhausting my arms from hauling up water, some other people showed up at the well. They laughed at me, and got a bunch of spiky sticks and beat the donkeys away. Poor, spiky stick beaten animals. And as usual, I was the weird one out, wanting a donkey for a pet.

2. I dropped my water bag into the well. This is embarassing more than anything else, because other people need to use their bags, that are curiously made out of tire rubber, and immensely long ropes, to fish the fallen bag out. This incident only lasted about 10 minutes but my face burned red the whole time as I stared at my escaped bag. Called "baggle" in Pulaar- cute, right?

1. The worst mistake I made at the well, was, in a nutshell, borrowing a defunct bag whose rope broke when I was hauling water. It resulted in a two hour escapade of trying to get the baggle out, that had sunk allll the way to the bottom of the well. The sun was setting on the clamoring group of women that had commenced to fight about the etiquette of borrowing bags, and taking care of ropes. I stood useless to the side while the woman whose bag I had broken glared at me with her one good eye.

Desensitized or just a hardened person?

2007-01-17T09:24:00.000-08:00

Why I think I am not just "integrated" but something a little worse:

Today I walked around a young girl, squatted and sobbing in the middle of the dusty road. Not batting an eye, I didn't realize until later that I was so heartless to essentially not notice this tiny suffering person

After watching a goat slaughtering, and witnessing the skin being carefully peeled away, each organ slowly removed, the entire body dismantled...I uttered only the word, "cool."

I have adopted the short, commanding way of speech, characteristic of the Pulaar culture. Often I will demand of others to: give it to me, sit down, lend me that, that's not true, you don't know, you can't, etc. (In my defense, I would throw in nicer words if they existed)

Hopefully, I will be back in touch with the caring self that left America, when I return for Julie's grand ball in March. Sixty something short days, according to a reliable source.

Something's Fishy

2007-01-05T00:05:00.000-08:00

The way fish is done around here reminds me of Bubba in Forrest Gump.

Fish and rice
Fish and cous cous
Fish on a stick (ok, maybe this doesn't exist. sounds good though)
Deep fried fish
Ocean fish
River fish
Sun-dried fish (pictured)

Funny thing is, I didn't even like fish in America.

Senegal- where the grass is greener (really)

2007-01-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

St. Louis Senegal. They have bars with live music, window shutters, public transportation, a tourism industry, paved roads...the list goes on and on.

There is also a beach with white sand and cold water.

I could literally feel the increase in the amount of infrastructure and money in Senegal as compared to Mauritania. There was also less racial clashing between the Arab population and the black African population that one sees in Mauritania.

You'd think that all of this would make Senegal appealing. The weird thing is that a patch of trash and sheep guts on the beach made me miss the mess that is my home.

The pics are of my pals: Kristen's walking back to our "camping hotel" on the beach. We all stayed under a giant tent. Ritesh is hanging in the first park I've seen in six months.

Wish you were here...

2006-12-29T00:43:00.000-08:00

...When I see the kid who wears the infant-sized snowsuit walking around the village. With the light yellow hood up like an eskimo, and the puffy legs and sleeves reaching mid-calf and to the elbow, with the child's bony brown hands and feet sticking out...it's so lonely laughing out loud alone.

...When we have the same lunch for the 100th day in a row. Yellow rice, deep fried fish, with the rare vegetable warrants an eye-rolling, but no one understand the gesture or the meaning behind it.

...When I took a bite of pizza for the first time in six months- last night- and it felt so much like home it took my breath away. And then I looked at the women in veils at the next table over, and the man in the turban asking for money, and I wish someone had been there to help ease the transition.

...When it's 3:00am and the roosters are crowing, the dogs are barking, the donkeys are making whatever hideous noise it is that they make- and I can't sleep and I'm reading by candlelight and I would love to hear how it's going, being asleep in America.

Pulaar is Funny

2006-12-29T00:34:00.000-08:00

I get a kick out of this language every day.

The greetings are extensive- here's an example:
How are you?
Fine, how's your fatigue?
Fine, how's your work?
How are you with the heat/cold?
How is your family doing? Does your house still exist?
Did you wake up this morning? Did your legs wake up? Your kids?
Just fine, thank Allah
Peace only, thank Allah

The use of the word "death" is quite comical. If a child does something wrong, a parent will threaten them that they are going to die a "bad death." If a child falls down, everyone around him/her will state "you died" as calmly and blandly as one would say "I brushed my teeth."

There is only one word for "if" and "when" so anything concerning the future feels like it's hanging by a thread. When making plans, one says "If tomorrow comes..." or "If I wake up..." and this always sends me into a panic until I say in my head "When! Not if, Laura. When!"

Warning: Pics Are Boring

2006-12-26T16:02:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm sorry. I have added to my website but the pictures are mainly just portraits of people I love in Garly. I will work on spicing up my digi cam in the next few months. Here are some examples:

Check out the rest: http://laurajeannesmith.shutterfly.com

What I Got For Christmas

2006-12-26T00:25:00.000-08:00

Nouakchott is a glamorous, electrified city and offers a wide assortment of spas, restaurants, bakeries, western style clothing stores and grocery stores. I have pinched myself a few times to see if I'm dreaming. I can't believe I wrote back in June that this was a "tiny" place.

So far I have celebrated the season in the capital city with:
A cold can of beer
The movie "A Christmas Story" (indisputably the best holiday movie ever)
A hot shower
A bed that is off the ground, running water, rugs, tables- hotel room in general
Food that I haven't had in 6 months: pears, oranges, sushi, cake...all of my food daydreams have come true
Oh yes, and a Clemson t-shirt. Thanks collsie ballsie.
A classroom for pretending I can teach French. Pictured below

Oh right, work

2006-11-28T17:05:00.000-08:00

HOW I feel about starting work here: scared

WHY: Because no matter how hard I look there are no actual guidelines on how to improve the health and sanitation of an entire village. I googled it and everything...

WHERE I will go if things go as well as I think they will: home. By Christmas.

WHEN: Holy moly, I guess when I get up the guts to have a set time for learning

WHO: Hopefully someone will come to something I do

WHAT? In a nutshell, I am at a crossroads. My job is shifting from "integrate" to "do something great." I would be shaking in my boots if I was wearing sturdy apparel such as that, instead of these flip flops. Wish me "Bon chance"- I need it.

(I just like this picture.)

What Toubab Means To Me

2006-11-28T16:57:00.000-08:00

Webster tells me it's pretty straightforward: toubab means foreigner or white person

However, when kids say it in a loud (often incessant) voice, it means "I am annoying and want to disrespect you." (For children to address adults in public is seen as rude, so for me to acknowledge the shouts of toubab, even if I wanted to, would be allowing the kids to disrespect me. Big no no.)

If the person knows my name and chooses to say toubab instead- I don't know what it means, but it makes me feel weird. Like they are choosing to talk about the color of my skin instead of just calling me Fatty. (The latter being my nickname and way more funny and simply better). Short for Fatimata: my village name.

Generally, being referred to as toubab doesn't feel good. However, culturally speaking it isn't derogatory. Like so many other things in life here, I am unable to express my true feelings to my friends in the village, so they simply know that I "don't like" being called toubab. Oh well, I have two years to discuss this cultural term and perhaps my first project will be to wipe it out.

Thanksgiving "en brusse" (in the bush)

2006-11-28T16:47:00.000-08:00

Being away from the following things has helped me be THANKful (just going with the theme of the day, kids) for...

access to a washing machine
a variety of meals every day
pop music
tables
seatbelts
libraries
gestures such as a thumbs up and the shoulder shrug- both don't translate
noises such as "blech" for "that's gross" or "aww" for "that's cute- nope, don't translate either
lightswitches

The picture is of my Thanksgiving celebration. I bought 1.5 kilos of goat meat for the host family, and then deep fried balls of dough for desert. These girls have some dough (pre-fried) on their hands and check out the chicken...Welcome to the holiday season in Mauritania.

Tricks of the Trade- Traveling

2006-11-27T09:38:00.000-08:00

1. Grab a spot in the back of the pickup where you have ample leg room and something sturdy to hold on to. Just kidding- this is impossible. Just don't sit near the creepy guy.

2. Don't ever loosen your grip from whatever you have chosen as your seatbelt. Also, hang on to your hats- literally. I have lost 2 scarves to the dirt road thanks to an overhanging branch and a stiff breeze

3. Refrain from speaking too much Pulaar for the first chunk of the trip. Later, when you open your mouth and Pulaar comes out, the other passengers will realize you have been listening to them, and they will be thrown into a slight panic reviewing what they've been saying about the toubab for the past hour.

4. Thank allah for arriving in one piece. It really is a miracle every time it happens.

So You're Thinking About Visiting...

2006-11-06T13:59:00.000-08:00

Here are some facts in attempt to persuade you otherwise. If they do not scare you, please please come to my country and see for yourself the wonders of the third world.

1. it is so hot. it is just so uncomfortably hot.
2. traveling is physically painful and dangerous. everyone is jostled around, hanging on literally for dear life, piled on top of each other in the backs of trucks.
3. you will get diarhea. whether due to stress or change in diet, i repeat, you will get diarhea. it took me two weeks to not have a stomachache every minute of the day.
4. there are no beds, chairs, couches etc. hanging out comfortably is pretty much unheard of
5. you will be called toubab, children will want to shake your hand, and you will feel like the eyes of the world are resting upon you. this is not very fun when you don't know how to eat, talk, sit, stand, or do anything, the way everyone else does

ok. in a nutshell, visiting my village in mauritania is a flat out adventure. this is camping in it's worst form. normally, one spends a camping trip relishing the idea of the hot shower and squishy bed at the end of a few days. in this case, that comfortable end is in the distant, distant future. this trip would be an adventure physically, emotionally and intellectually. if you do not feel very fit in these three areas, do not come to Mauritania- you would be miserable.

On the flip side, this place will change your life.

New Pictures

2006-11-05T06:59:00.000-08:00

if you want to see me hanging out in my bathroom and with lots of little kids, go to:

http://www.laurajeannesmith.shutterfly.com

And read the two new posts...they are pretty lame, but I've been in the bush for 6 weeks and kind of forget what is funny and what is not.

It's Like Swimming

2006-11-05T06:48:00.000-08:00

My first two months at site were like learning to swim.

At first... I was simply gasping for air. Focusing on basic survival like eating and sleeping. Dealing with constant attention was exhausting and thinking everyone was looking at me was actually reality.

Then...I was able to tread water. Everything was still difficult, having to grasp some inner strength to leave my room and speak spotty Pulaar. Going to the market zapped my energy and memorizing names was a task

Now...I still don't know hardly any names, and it doesn't help that everyone has the same name! They are just referred to as "Little Fatimata, Old Fatimata" etc. It doesn't take all my energy to visit friends anymore, and so I think I am able to touch my tip toes to the ground.

Later... hopefully I will be able to stand on solid enough ground that I will be able to really look around at who all I'm swimming with, and what are the problems with this pool? I'm still too self-absorbed with my attempts at integrating to really get into working, but I'm looking forward to trying to give something back to this community that has been so generous.

The Game of Ramadan

2006-11-05T06:40:00.000-08:00

The Players: Anyone not too old, young, sick, or preggers

The Rules: Not allowed to swallow anything between sunrise and sunset

The Catch: It's hot here in Africa (didja know that?) and without water, your body doesn't produce sweat...this month is miserable!

Bonus Points: Even though I only fasted 2 days, people were very impressed with my willingness to suffer just the final weekend

The Losers: Me, because I would drink about a gallon of water at sunset, adding a new element to the stomachache I endured all day due to hunger/thirst. Everyone else just lost weight

The Winners: Allah, and all those able to worship through the heat and the pain and the general weakness.