“Iowa’s just a random hick state.”

“Iowa’s caucuses don’t matter at all – it’s just one state.”

“Why do we let Iowa matter so much?”

Statements like these reappear every four years. Perhaps they’re just a reaction to the status quo - against a feeling of powerlessness in political processes. Maybe they're a product of coastal disdain toward any states between the Appalachians and the Rockies. In any case, every four years Iowa begins the candidate selection process, and that quirk isn’t likely to change soon. So what can we learn from last night?

One surprise from four years back, Mike Huckabee, provides a starting point to analyze yesterday's events. Like Santorum, Huckabee emerged at the last second as a “true conservative” alternative to Mitt Romney. Interestingly, last time John McCain was the "moderate" voice, and many Romney supporters flocked to Huckabee at the last second. How is Romney the moderate voice this time around?

Anyway, both Huckabee and Santorum spent fractions of what Romney spent and emerged at the last second to beat out, or nearly beat out, Romney. While Romney’s campaign seems stronger than ever, this should worry him. Polls in the past few months show widespread grassroots discontent with Romney. New candidates emerged frequently as a “Romney alternative”: Bachmann, then Gingrich, then Paul, and in the past few days Santorum. Has Romney ridden the storm? Will he emerge successful? Probably. But why are people so determined to find anyone but Romney? Are people put off by the same “distance” they feel with Obama? Do people distrust his history of extreme privilege? Is it that he’s more moderate (at least during his tenure in Massachusetts - less so now in rhetoric), which doesn’t work well in primaries/caucuses? Could there be an anti-Mormon bias?

Four years ago Huckabee’s campaign was easy to dismiss: he had the fleeting appeal of a populist. He wouldn’t last the election season. I mean, goodness, he told Chuck Norris jokes in his ads. Santorum hasn’t been quite that laughable, but his recent ads are hilarious because they use doublespeak to highlight his biggest fault: Santorum has no chance of beating President Obama.

Santorum isn’t as ridiculous as Huckabee was, but his appeal seems likely to fade. Santorum already spent quite a bit of time in New Hampshire, but he is still polling terribly there (10% to Romney's 47% this morning - even after his performance in Iowa). He comes across as a wide-eyed fundamentalist. But he won’t peter out as quickly as Huckabee did, and in a season when momentum matters, perhaps he shouldn’t be written off yet.

Santorum is the best alternative for Perry and Bachmann’s former supporters. (Here's assuming that Perry drops out in the next few weeks - after even hinting at dropping out last night, his funds will dry up immediately.) Gingrich seems determined to take Romney down after his ugly fight with Romney’s Super PAC. Both of these points will help Santorum. Plus, who doesn’t love a folksy underdog? Maybe Santorum’s newfound media attention will bring undecided voters to his camp. ...but, if I had to make a prediction, I’d say Romney emerges victorious. Perry’s and Bachmann’s supporters were few, and Gingrich is easy to dismiss as angry and erratic. Furthermore, unless he suddenly performs amazingly (unlikely), Huntsman will probably drop out soon too and throw his support behind Romney (a la Giuliani supporting McCain in '08).

Most worryingly for Santorum, Romney’s Super PAC will likely focus all its Gingrich-busting resources on Santorum. And let’s not forget that according to polls Romney is the only one that has a chance of competing with President Obama. Even bastions of the “liberal media” – the New York Times and the New Yorker – have run pieces in the past week praising Romney. Is this because he’s the most centrist? The most pragmatic? Or is he just running the most effective (and expensive) campaign?

What about Ron Paul? The former libertarian candidate – and arguably the only Republican candidate who appears both intelligent and principled – did very well with younger voters last night. Overall he finished close behind Romney and Santorum. While his supporters have the zeal of recent converts, his populist appeal only seems to grow over time. Is Ron Paul a feasible candidate? My hunch says no. He’s too extreme in too many views to win the Republican ticket. While people may like his ideas theoretically, people will start getting scared by the drastic changes he proposes. My prediction is still Romney.

Last night highlights the extreme divisions within the Republican Party. Three hugely different candidates each received a quarter of the votes. Could we see a disgruntled candidate leave the race and run as a third-party candidate? Such a move would be amusing, mostly because it would ruin Romney’s chance of beating Obama.

Election season is just beginning folks, and it’s going to be a good one. And yes, it felt great to write this entry and barely mention Michele Bachmann.

Hey everyone -

Sorry, it's been a bit. Quick update: Morocco was grand, I took a little vacation in Italy on my way home, and now I'm in Jersey, living in what could aptly be described as "Hogwarts." Many thanks to Mom and Dad for driving me and all my stuff out! My sentiments are something between anxious and excited for the semester to start.

I find myself thinking most days about the political transitions going on throughout the Arab world. Just under a year ago, I wrote several personal statements detailing that I wanted to study political transitions and reform in the Arab world, and within mere months the Arab Spring began. The Egyptian Revolution was a fascinating event to experience. Now I find myself wondering if I shouldn't be back there studying the current transition on the ground this year. Princeton is, of course, an amazing opportunity, and I don't regret coming here. But excitingly, I can live vicariously through three of my former co-Fulbrighters who are traveling back to Egypt to document the current transition and upcoming elections. Except, unlike every major news outlet, they aren't doing it from Cairo or Alexandria, they're doing it from the region that claims an overwhelming majority of the Egyptian population: the Nile Delta. They all lived in the Delta this past year, speak respectable Egyptian Arabic, have good contacts in their respective cities, and could do a really fantastic job with this.

Now my friends are just looking for a little funding. Fortunately, the entire project shouldn't cost very much, and they're going to produce a book and DVD that will be available to funders at the end. They're also talking about setting up Skype interviews with schools or organizations that help fund the project. More details are here:

http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1252875534/the-delta-project

In less than a week they've achieved almost half their fundraising goal, and in the next two weeks they hope to raise about $3000 more. Let's make this happen! Also, just so you know, if you pledge money through this site but then they don't reach their goal by Sept 21, you will not be charged; the pledges will only turn into donations if the project moves forward.

Finally, if anyone knows of any organizations or grants that might fund projects like this, please e-mail me or leave the info in the comments section. Thanks!

Part two of my summer Arabic extravaganza has started! Last week I moved to Morocco to enroll in Al-Akawayn University's summer Arabic program. Al-Akhawayn (click link to see wiki page of university and a picture) It's a beautiful place. We will have class 5 hours a day, and apparently there will be about that much homework as well. Hopefully it whips be back into shape before I head to grad school this fall - I fear I've gotten lazy in the past couple years. I will have a Moroccan roommate (don't know this person yet), and I don't have internet in my room, which should be great for studying but terrible for keeping in touch and staying afloat with world affairs. I promise to respond to any e-mails I'm sent though, so keep in touch!

Minnesota’s recent push to vote on a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage is not a move to “let the people have a say,” it is bigotry in its most raw form. The best part of the debate is that the two sides are talking past each other when they don’t have to: attacking the Republican argument directly better highlights the contradiction therein.

Democrats have a host of familiar, and very valid, arguments. Voting on the rights of a minority is not appropriate. Lawmakers should be using the last weeks of the season to focus on the budget, not passing constitutional amendments targeting minorities (especially when there is already a state law banning gay marriage!). And when one Republican said, “People have indicated they would like the opportunity to define marriage. They don’t want to leave it up to the courts,” Democrats rightly retorted: That’s what courts are for - not allowing populist sentiments to target minorities. But if we dissect the Republican argument, we see it for what it is: an embarrassment to the great state of Minnesota, driven mostly by fear.

Republicans are coyly using populist rhetoric to get away with doing something very shameful. They know that the only time a state beat a constitutional amendment banning same-sex marriage was in 2006 in Arizona, where two years later a similar amendment passed. But such amendments won’t be possible forever, and the ones that do pass thankfully won't be around forever either. Public opinion is quickly swinging. That’s why there has been a mad-dash by Republicans nation-wide to stall the inevitable advent of marriage equality. Republicans know that the amendments aren’t passing by overwhelming majorities anymore, and that the number of people nation-wide who approve of same-sex marriage rises every year. Republicans are running out of time to enshrine hatred. So they resort to constitutional amendments. Why? Constitutional amendments are more difficult to overturn than mere laws.

Republicans don’t just want people to vote on marriage equality (which is heinous in and of itself), they want people now to dictate morality to future generations. Republicans are arguing that people in 5 and 10 years don’t deserve the same “say” that they’re demanding now. In 5-10 years, the law would likely be overturned, either by popular vote or a court. Writing discrimination into the constitution will make it much more durable.

Most exciting of all, this amendment is a tacit admission that Republicans are on the wrong side of history. They see the momentum and know what's coming, and yet they're still choosing to stand on the side of hatred and intolerance, hoping to delay same-sex marriage for a couple extra years. They acknowledge that they've lost the war. Otherwise, they'd trust future generations to make their own decisions. That's how uncomfortable they are with LGBT people. And this discomfort has a name: homophobia.

There are no arguments against same-sex marriage that are not grounded in hetero-centric bigotry and homophobia. None. If you can think of one, please let me know.

Our nation’s courts – comprised our country’s legal experts – are finally figuring out that LGBT people are an historically marginalized minority. People nation-wide are meeting LGBT friends and family members and seeing that they're totally normal people too. And instead of welcoming this process – a process that recognizes that love is something to be celebrated, and that will inspire fewer teens to kill themselves every year – social conservatives are doing what they like doing most: subjecting their neighbors to their supposedly heightened sense of morality through legislation that will embarrass our grandchildren when they look back and wonder how we could have been so backward. Republicans in Minnesota aren’t motivated by wanting “the people to decide” – they’re driven by fear of the future, a rejection of loving families, and a distrust of legal experts. Minnesota, you deserve better. It’s time to say no to bigotry. It’s time to beat this amendment.

Let’s take a break from Egypt. I could bore readers with tales of life here; seriously, my life isn’t terribly exciting: it consists of going to Arabic class, studying Arabic, spending too much time online, exercising (but not enough), and getting in quick trips to Cairo or Zagazig on the weekends (much to the chagrin of my perpetual intentions to Study All Weekend). Instead, I'm going to talk about pop culture.

Since first heading to the Arab world almost three years ago, I’ve become something of a connoisseur of all things trashy and stereotypically American. Things I never really enjoyed when I lived in the USA – stupid comedies, trashy pop, French fries, soda – suddenly became remnants of a life I missed and desired, even though I didn’t partake when I was there.

Partway through Peace Corps, one such obsession emerged: Lady GaGa. Poker Face mystified me. I still laugh hysterically every time I watch the music video for Telephone. She was “the next Madonna” with only a few singles released. Her songs break records instantly. I’ve studied, memorized, and analyzed her lyrics and beats, and gotten giddy waiting for new songs to be released. But some are starting to wonder if GaGa has already peaked.

Born This Way was hyped to be the anthem for our generation. I wouldn’t go that far, but I wasn’t as disappointed or underwhelmed as some. I found it genuinely catchy. It lacked the intentionally vapid quality that always hid something slightly sinister – an ability to convey a message and an attitude while ostensibly just writing about fame, fortune and individuality. This was a quality I liked and respected in her music. She branched out. It’s a nice feel-good song. It was perhaps just overhyped.

Some felt Born This Way was a remake of Madonna’s Express Yourself. I’m not sure that's true, nor if it matters. Madonna has always been one of GaGa’s biggest inspirations, and GaGa has not apologized for it. Born This Way was something new: it was, unquestionably, the most LGBT-friendly song to ever hit mainstream pop culture. I can think of no other hit song’s chorus that includes the word “transgender.” “Don’t be a drag – just be a queen.” GaGa is still pushing the envelope, and I love her for it. But then I felt like she was merely pandering to her base, and I became a little annoyed.

There seem to be two mainstream analyses of Mother Monster and her relationship with her fans: that she is an artistic and musical genius who is decades ahead of her time – and that anyone who doesn’t like her doesn’t understand her; or, that she is a great marketer who now has fans that will gobble up any garbage she produces, convincing themselves they should like it. I guess I’m somewhere between these two camps. I do think her marketing is par none, and while I haven’t been blown away in a little while, I am certainly still engaged and impressed. (I hope she makes an acoustic album sometime – that girl’s piano remake of Viva La Vida is my #1 most played song on iTunes.) She keeps coming up with new ideas for costumes, grand entrances, and even wackier explanations for what her actions really “mean.” Some don’t make sense, but they certainly make you wonder if she’s a genius or if she might just be insane.

Judas, in my opinion, shows some of GaGa’s best qualities, but it also highlights some of the concerns people have expressed about her. It is catchy and edgy, beyond a doubt. Many people are already up-in-arms with a variety of analyses: is it a love song for Jesus from a Mary Magdalene who relates well with Judas, or a praise song GaGa herself is singing to Judas, or, perhaps a love song Jesus (with strong self-references that one could be forgiven for thinking imply she’s comparing herself to Jesus) sang to Judas? And by love, she doesn’t mean, “love as a brother or sister in Christ.” The language is fairly explicit and sexual. And if you’re offended, “wear an ear condom.” GaGa is going to f*** with your mind, whether you want it to happen or not. All you can choose is if you want to get “infected.”

References to a sexual Jesus aren’t always taken well. References to a sexual Jesus from a potential male lover who betrays Jesus – that’s straight up scandalous. Again, not the first time it’s been done, but certainly one of the first times a pop icon has written a mainstream song about it. She says it’s merely the next step from Bad Romance – a story of being in love with someone who’s really terrible to you. But her refusal to analyze her own lyrics further when there is so much ambiguity is a return to her intentional vapidity with dark undertones, taken to new extremes.

GaGa’s confession that the song is influenced by Bad Romance raises concerns that she might not be a true creative genius – heck, her songs already sound the same. (Seriously, there are some chord progressions that I know I’ve heard before and that lyrics from Bad Romance fit eerily well over.) That said, given her recent appearance in an egg and her new protruding cheek bones, I don’t think we’ve seen the last of this woman’s creativity. The other fear is that the fame is already going to her head and, if she wasn’t a little wacky to begin with, that she might be going truly insane. Only time will tell there. For now, I look forward to Just Dancing several nights away to Judas and several other songs that will be released on her new CD in just over a month.

Until then,

A Little Monster

I'm back in Alexandria, not with Fulbright, but studying Arabic privately. Couldn't pass up this opportunity to be back in Egypt during the current political transition. Holla now, ya hear?

A week ago, Fulbright contacted us and told us that we aren't being invited back... at least not yet. Things apparently haven't stabilized sufficiently. Granted, I'd feel totally safe in Zagazig, and I'd even love to be in Egypt during the current political transition - seems like a fascinating period - but the majority of the other Fulbrighters are in Cairo, which Fulbright (or the people Fulbright takes orders from) feels is still unstable enough to preclude our return.

I'm sad about this. I adored my town, my classes, and the UNESCO English club. I will miss these things terribly if we do not return. Unfortunately, it seems like the things Fulbright is concerned about are "uncertainty" and "instability" - things that don't disappear in the short-term. So, it's probably time I start looking for some way to pass the time between now and this fall when I hope to enter graduate school. I was thinking about heading to Damascus to study Arabic, but I'm starting to feel like this might not be the greatest time to head to a country in the middle east known for violently repressing dissenting voices. Morocco might be a better choice for the summer. For now, I may just stay in Chicago. This city is fantastic, and with some luck I might even be able to find some sort of temping gig until the end of May, when I hope to head to Morocco.

Dear Morocco,

Please don't go the way of your North African neighbors.

Love,

Carl

Dear Mssr Qaddafi,

I don't understand what you've been thinking these past couple weeks. You are going to lose. It's inevitable. You are going to go down in textbooks as a murderer. Or be tried in international courts for heinous crimes against humanity. Why condemn yourself to such a fate? You have seen the protests in your neighboring countries just swell in the face of government crackdowns; what makes you think that those in your country will be any different?

This interview with the BBC/ABC certainly was amusing, but do you even realize that everyone is laughing at you? Do you believe the things you say? Have you surrounded yourself with so many yes-men then you really think you are still serving your country well? That people like you? Or are you a straight-up liar?

What really scares me is that you seem to think that you can tell the international community that all your people love you, that there are no protests, and that the only people against you are Al-Qaeda members, and you actually expect us to believe it! Do you realize that this is the 21st century? Do you realize that half of your constituents have facebook profiles and phones that can record videos? Do you think that by simply denying the protesters' complaints and killing them they will go away? Because they won't. When you began your presidency, that might have been an option, but it isn't any longer. It isn't even a viable intimidation technique any longer. People will oust you. You're in trouble. I hope you realize this sooner rather than later - it's the only option that will avoid unnecessary killings and international shame.

Last week President Obama declared that the US would be willing to intervene in Libyan affairs if the crisis worsened. Mssr Qaddafi, this is big. Nobody likes a nation-builder. It's horribly out-of-fasion. If a man who championed himself as the anti-nation builder is saying he'll intervene in your country if things worsen, you should know that you've done something terribly wrong.

So, what should you do? Well, you could flee. Oddly enough, that's probably your most dignified option. Sticking around, even on the off-chance that you might try instituting some reforms (which you won't) is no longer an option. You really might be killed if you stay much longer. And you won't die a martyr. History will view you as a tyrant who oppressed your North African nation. So seriously, just get out. You probably won't leave, which is dumb of you, but I hope you realize what you are condemning yourself and your country to by staying.

Cheers,

Carl

Congratulations to my Egyptian friends. After Mubarak's poorly received speech yesterday, he resigned a little bit ago. I'm a little surprised he'll be staying in Egypt. I hope he doesn't become a target for disgruntled protestors.

Let's hope the coming transition is peaceful and meaningful. ...I might return to Egypt yet! Again though, no viable transition is in place. The protesters have rejected the VP who is now in power (with help from the military). That said, the biggest rallying point was hating Mubarak. If he's out, things could return to normal-ish.

As I mentioned yesterday, this may mean more unrest for the region. Other countries in the Middle East/North Africa now have Tunisia and Egypt to look to for inspiration.

Ladies and gentlemen, the fun isn't over yet.

Since returning to the States, a number of people have asked me for any insider points of view I might have on the situation in Egypt. I've hastily brushed off all such requests. "How do you feel about being back?" Fine. "Do you think you'll go back?" I have no idea. "What do you think will happen next in Egypt?" Your guess is as good as mine. "Do you think this unrest will spread to the rest of the Arab world?" Not sure. Probably not outside countries like Algeria and Yemen, but I was also shocked when Egypt exploded as quickly as it did, so I'm probably not the best person to ask.

...but then usually something unrelated will set me off, and I'll go on an unorganized rant about the entire situation. I apologize to any friends who have suffered this mindless prattling. Again, I'm no expert on what's going on. My guesses on the future of Egypt are typically just based on anecdotal evidence and hunches. But in an attempt to sort out my thoughts, mostly just so I don't end up doing so verbally with friends (think "word vomit" from Mean Girls) I've decided to sort out my thoughts a bit each day with a journal entry/blog post. If any of you feel motivated to read my disorganized schpeals, go ahead. I just can't promise they'll be worth much. Don't quote me in any intelligent conversation. I should reiterate from my last blog that I may tone down my language - I hope to head to Egypt or another even more repressive state in the Middle East to study Arabic this spring/summer, and I don't want my visa chances shot by a stream-of-consciousness-style blog entry. If any of you actually make it to the end of these posts and would like to ask more questions, feel free to e-mail me at carl(dot)westphal(at)gmail(dot)com. Again, no guarantees my answers will be brilliant, or even cogent. Okay, enough qualifiers. Here goes nothing:

Today, I'd like to start with President Mubarak's shocking afternoon speech. After two weeks of escalating protests - tens of thousands of people are still pouring into Cairo's Tahrir Square by the day - Mubarak announced he would give a speech this evening. Most assumed he would step down. Top military officials in Egypt said that "the protesters have won." Even the head of the CIA thought Mubarak was going to resign. Instead, in an amazing show of defiance and digging one's heels further in, Mubarak reiterated that he would stay in power. He promised to transfer some power over to the (not terribly popular) new Vice President.

Mubarak has often cited his "responsibility" to the country of Egypt as his reason for sticking around until the election in September. He frequently threatens that the region would descend into chaos without him, namely in reference to Israel. Scarily, one doesn't know how far off-base this threat is. Mubarak's regime receives a lot of money each year from the US to like Israel, and Egypt carries a lot of clout militarily and diplomatically throughout the Arab world. Egypt also is at the other end of a bunch of tunnels often used to smuggle arms into Gaza, and while Egypt has typically closed these tunnels as they've been discovered, these tunnels might become more acceptable under a new regime. Whatever democratically elected leader replaces Mubarak likely won't be as nice to Israel because, well, people in Egypt are really, really pissed off about the entire Palestine/Israel conflict. Last fall, even after a round of embarrassingly rigged parliamentary elections, most Egyptians I spoke with didn't seem too riled up about the country's political climate (which is one more reason I was shocked to see such grassroots anger explode in the past two weeks). Mention Israel, though, and you got a lot of impassioned Egyptians. I never really encountered much anti-Americanism during my tenure in Egypt. Unless one somehow started talking about Israel. Then people were pissed.

I'm not even going to try to delve into Palestine/Israel in this entry. Too hard. Too messy. All I'm going to say is that Egyptians are pissed about the mess, largely at Israel and, because of the aid we give Israel (nevermind that Egypt is the second highest recipient of US aid in the world, after Israel), they're also mad at us.

So, how does the US respond to the current situation in Egypt? By doing just what we've been doing: acknowledging the protesters and affirming their complaints as legitimate, but by not saying much more. Why? Well, first off: Mubarak is digging in his heals. Part of Mubarak's speech today was dedicated to rebuking any outside powers who want to mettle in Egypt's future. Furthermore, we have no idea what kind of power vacuum would be created if Mubarak did suddenly leave office. Mubarak's days are numbered. But creating some sort of transitional government is the best way to ensure an orderly transfer of power. It may mean that the new government is largely a reshuffling of the old one. But maybe some decent political reforms (term limits for future presidents, greater autonomy for the Supreme Constitutional Court, more oversight and accountability during elections) can be snuck in in the process.

Furthermore, the United States has been rebuked for engaging in too much open nation-building as of late. It's horribly out-of-fashion. Making conclusive statements about who should or should not be in power is a great way to make enemies, especially when nobody really knows who will be in power in six months. It's also a great way to end up fielding the blame when the person we do endorse turns into a dictator. Furthermore, given the lack of leadership or organization in the protests, there aren't a ton of viable candidates to promote. So maybe staying silent-ish is the best option. Push for constitutional reforms with a nice mix of soft power and that multi-billion dollar aid package we throw at Egypt each year and hope for the best.

Unfortunately, this plan isn't helping the US's credibility with the Egyptian people. Since we aren't pushing for change, at least as outwardly as Egyptians are, we're seen as agents of the status quo. And if there's one things Egyptians do agree on, it's that the status quo needs to be over, yesterday.

When the protests in Egypt first started, some uninformed, alarmist reporters State-side (*ahem* Fox News) warned that Egypt could go the way of Iran. That's unlikely. Egyptians don't want that to happen. And I'm confident that Egypt's rather strong army would step in if the government in Cairo started resembling that of Tehran. Sure, power vacuums are scary. And the Muslim Brotherhood isn't a huge fan of Israel. But that doesn't mean that Egypt will be the next Iran. Again though, it could mean that a new regime is not as friendly toward Israel, which is scary because it could upset a very precarious balance of power in the Middle East/North Africa.

So here we have it: the most intense version of the balance we try to promote with our foreign policy - democracy and stability. Nobody wants Egypt to descend into chaos. I would hope that even Mubarak doesn't want that, though given his nearly sinister response to the protesters as of late (seriously, molotov cocktails? being thrown at peaceful protestors?) one can't be positive. I hope that he really is just understanding the region's intense need for a stable Egypt. Sure, he's overstayed his welcome by using stability as an excuse. And hopefully the protests don't get much more violent (...tonight might be scary after his speech). Furthermore, if Mubarak proves resilient, it may dampen the other protests in the region; if he goes, other countries might be inspired to pull a Tunisia. But are these excuses to keep a leader around when an alleged million people are calling on him to leave?

All things considered, I really don't know what will happen next. I don't know if the region will plummet into chaos. I'd like to think it won't. At least not in the extremely repressive (Libya, Syria) or wealthy (Saudi Arabia, the Emirates) states. (Again though, I didn't think Egypt would turn this violent, and I was obviously wrong there. Imagine the grassroots anger that must have been present for a leader-less group of protesters to organize a million people, especially after the internet was cut nation-wide and cell phone reception blocked in Cairo.) I don't know what will happen with Israel. But as someone hoping to study political transitions in the Middle East/North Africa, I must admit that the whole situation is at least fascinating. Before coming to Egypt I remember lamenting that I would be there the year BEFORE the presidential election next September. I thought any interesting transitions would happen then. Good thing I'm not a professional analyst: I totally failed with these predictions.

It's true: We've been evacuated. Is that verb supposed to be passive? I'm beginning to hope that "being evacuated" doesn't happen to me too often in life. Twice has proven plenty.

Fulbright informed us last Tuesday evening that we had to leave Egypt. After 84 hours of traveling and 2 lost bags, I'm back in Chicago, safe and sound. Fulbright will decide within a month if the situation has improved enough to bring us back.

I'd love to offer some sage insights about the current situation in Egypt, share some thoughts about what might happen next, or at least speculate about whether the Fulbright program will be reinstated. Unfortunately, my understanding of the situation is just as dependent on CNN as anyone's. I'm also hesitant to say too much on a public blog. I have no idea who will be in power in a month or how receptive this person will be to critiques of Mubarak's regime. However, given the chance to return, I hope to.

For now, please send your thoughts and prayers to the people of Egypt. The suffering in Tahrir Square - blocks from where my ETA companions and I lived during training in Cairo - the incredible damage to infrastructure, and the uncertainty surrounding the future of the political system there... very stressful and scary. All we can do is hope and trust that things will get better, eventually.

As today’s other entry mentions, the Fulbright ETA crew headed to Jordan last week. One salient characteristic of Jordanian society is the apt security force. When we arrived in Amman, a suspicious metallic object was placed under the visas in our passports (tracking devices?), and we had to put our eyes up to something that looked like I imagine a retina scanner would. I didn’t really think anything of it – the security was for my safety, right? – until one evening when some friends and I experienced an odd quirk in the security apparatus.

Our third night in Jordan, before joining the other Fulbrighters at a local bar, two of my best friends here (Ella and Alex) and I decided to enjoy a bottle of wine in our hotel room. Lacking a corkscrew – we hail from Egypt, after all – we called down to the front desk and a man promptly appeared to open our wine. In the interest of not mincing words, let’s just say the situation could have looked... well, sexual, especially to someone from a country where girls don’t hang out alone with boys and most people do not consume alcohol. Even in Egypt, unmarried, opposite sex couples often aren’t allowed to share hotel rooms. So the situation could have seemed odd: two guys and a girl were sitting around in a dimly lit hotel room, listening to Kanye’s 808’s and Heartbreaks album (arguably his smoothest and slowest compilation), and drinking wine. Moreover, across the Levant nicer hotels are often venues for businessmen and politicians to host escorts. Our uncorking friend could perhaps be forgiven for assuming a ménage would soon be underway.

About half an hour later, Ella looked up and said that she saw the reflection from a mirror under the door. The mirror disappeared, and by the time Ella made it to the door the hallway was empty. I hastily dismissed Ella’s analysis of the situation – why on earth would there be a mirror peeking under our doorway? – and Alex and I suggested several possible alternative explanations: someone with metallic shoes had walked past, a service cart had rolled by, etc. Ella remained insistent for a moment or two before we all internally decided not to ruin the wine/music with silly debates.

Another half hour later, Ella pointed Alex toward the door, and this time Alex also saw a rectangular object peeking underneath, reflecting light from the hallway in a concentrated beam that caught different objects around our room. Alex started walking toward the door, the light disappeared, and by the time Alex was in the hallway our sneaky friend must have absconded into the service closet, elevator, or a nearby room. There was no uncertainty in either of their minds: a mirror had been placed to allow outsiders to see into our room. Upon closer examination of the door, we discovered that the bottom inch was sawn off (haphazardly, I might add) and that, if someone wanted to they could lay down in the hallway and see into the room. There were also mirrors placed in the entryway that allowed one to see nearly the entire room from the doorway. Lacking anything to conceal, we weren’t too worried about it; nevertheless we did finish our libations quickly and left, intentionally informing as many hotel staff as possible of our departure by asking inane questions about directions and taxi fares and whatever else we could come up with. Again, it’s not that we had anything to hide: Alex and I just didn’t want anyone deciding to enter the room when the lights were turned off.

And now, the burning question in everyone’s minds: why on earth would the hotel staff care even if we were having a threesome? I still struggle to wrap my mind around it. But the frequency with which the mirror appeared (every half hour) suggests that the hotel staff could not have been merely doing a routine check of every room in the hotel. Something was wrong with our room, and that something began when our friend opened our wine. In a conservative region of the world, perhaps sinful actions like threesomes are not tolerated by the government, or at least by certain hotel staffs. I’ve heard of opposition candidates in the Middle East being blackmailed with photos and movies taken in hotel rooms, so some level of surveillance isn’t entirely uncommon. Or maybe we just had a pervert on our hands. Yet one more mystery from our time spent in this region.

Fulbright brought all the ETAs (English Teaching Assistants) from across the Middle East and North Africa to Amman, Jordan for a four-day mid-year conference. The conference itself was nice. Uncle Sam put us up in a swanky hotel, gave us some money to spend (even though all meals were covered) and, using as many euphemisms as possible, encouraged us to drink with our fellow ETAs and share stories and strategies discovered during our first semesters as professors. We also attended a semi-professional conference by day, but like most public-sector trainings I’ve encountered, this was at best a bit underwhelming, and at worst a shameful waste of money. Enough ranting: I did have fun. Fulbright even let us stick around several extra days and do touristy stuff.

One thing that struck me was the amount of history such a small country can boast. We saw remnants of civilizations spanning several millennia. A favorite was Petra. One of the new seven wonders of the world, Petra is an ancient Nabataean city carved into rocks that you may recognize from an Indiana Jones set. Also impressive were Jerrash – a well-preserved Roman city – and an Arab fort used to defend against the Crusaders in Ajlun. We waded into the Dead Sea and dipped our fingers in the Jordan River where Jesus is believed to have been baptized. We tore across the desert in a Jeep to see ancient carvings (of dubious veracity), find shards of turquoise stones (ditto), and let our vertigo trip alongside gigantic crevices that descended deeper than my eyes cared to venture. Jordan is yet another part of the Middle East/North Africa with a unique, fascinating history. I highly recommend a visit if you ever get the chance.

Nevertheless, it was nice to return to Egypt. In the short 24 hours since returning, Nick and I have experienced Cairo’s smog, argued for what felt like hours with taxi drivers about fares, nearly died in rickety cars speeding across the Nile Delta and, most importantly, reconnected with friends in Zagazig who one would swear thought we went to America for several months instead of nearby Jordan for eight days. Egypt also has an impressive history, and over the next two weeks Kathryn Nishimura – a good friend from Peace Corps – and I plan to explore as much of it as possible. Updates to come.

A few people have expressed concern over my safety since the church was bombed in Alexandria last weekend. I just want to take this moment to assure everyone that I’m really fine. I mean, to be honest, it was a bit rattling – we had been at a nearby church a week earlier for Christmas Eve – but I’ve also been amazed by our Egyptian friends’ reactions. They’re as horrified as we are. Here’s a decent piece in the Times that shows the outrage.

I’d like to corroborate that piece with a personal anecdote:

Tonight is Christmas Eve in the Coptic Church. A year ago there was a shooting outside a church on Christmas Day. Tensions are high. After the bombing a week ago, there were reports that the Coptic Pope was going to cancel Christmas this year. Many churches are still holding services. And in an amazing show of solidarity, many of my Muslim friends here in Zagazig are going to the Christmas Eve services. The assumption is that nobody will blow up a building packed with Muslims. And then Copts can still have Christmas. This inspiring act shows the extent to which Egyptians will go out of their way for others. It’s an intense example of the attitudes Nick and I have encountered in Zagazig since day 1. No, we’re not Egyptians, we’re not Muslims, and while we do our best to peter around with Arabic, we’re certainly not natives. But it really doesn’t matter. The residents of Zagazig have smothered us with genuine care. They do more than just respect our differences – they embrace them, and us. In four short months, I’ve fallen in love with this town. And we still have five wonderful months left here.

So Merry Christmas everyone. Let’s all say a quick prayer for a safe evening.

My sitemate Nick offered an excellent blog entry on the (truly spectacular) concert we went to last weekend. Check out his entry – there’s a link to his blog under “Fulbright Egypt Friends” over on the left. His blog is titled, “Makin’ Qahawa.” I’ll just add that I left the concert with various bumps, bruises and gashes, and a heel that is entirely blue. At one point, I fell in a several-feet-deep hole. My phone fell (/was taken?) out of my pocket and shattered on the ground, and I’m still trying to buy all the required replacement pieces. On a more serious note, one section of seating collapsed at the concert and 61 people were taken to the hospital. But yes, Nick and I are fine, and I think I speak for both of us when I say, “That concert was amazing.”

PEANUT BUTTER!

No, Carl. Restrain yourself. You don’t have much left.

PEANUT BUTTER!

Ugh. Really? Again? It’s 8 am. And you ate two dollops right before bed last night. Is there anything else you’d like for breakfast?

CHEESE!

You don’t have any cheese in the house. Cheese here is either bad or expensive. Try again.

OLIVES!

For breakfast? Ugh. Fine.

WITH PEANUT BUTTER!!!

For some reason I’ve never had much of a sweet tooth. Fats, salts and proteins have always possessed a much stronger pull. Don’t get me wrong, I love all things ice cream and dark chocolate. But I don’t often find myself craving even them. Fat, on the other hand, always sounds delicious. Bacon? Yes please! Avocados on everything? Sounds great, preferably also smothered in olive oil… (I have yet to find pork bacon or a decent avocado in this country…) My favorite Mauritanian food was “backfat,” literally: the extra tender fat from around the spine of an animal, lightly toasted over a very sketchy tire-fire. And in the winter, I crave extra fat: likely my body’s attempt to stay warm.

Now, I’ve done winters. I grew up in Wisconsin. Went to school in Iowa. Last year I lived in Chicago and Minneapolis. I don’t miss winters at all. Sure, snow and Christmas are great. But frigid blasts sweeping across Lake Michigan and fingering through the streets of Chi-town will ruin any holiday spirit. Waiting for the bus at 46th Ave S and Bryant, in a foot of snow, became especially grueling when the bus was running late. Conversely, here, people started whipping out thick coats when the temperature dropped into the 60’s. Last week it slipped into the upper 40’s overnight, and people freaked out. Our Arabic teacher looked like an Eskimo. All things considered, winters here are great.

That said, I’m often cold here. The insulation in most buildings is painfully lacking. The windows and doors in our apartment don’t even form an airtight seal when they’re closed. And the only real heater in our place is in Nick’s room (jealous.) so our common room often resembles a refrigerator by nightfall. (No worries Mom, I bought a small space heater for my room so I don't freeze overnight, but I'm scared it will start a fire, so I tearfully unplug it before falling asleep.) While I can’t complain about the weather outside hovering in the 50’s most days, I must say that it kind of sucks feeling constantly chilled. There’s no way to get warm. I have taken to scalding showers, but the icy world outside the bathroom brings me right back to winter in Egypt. My body isn’t happy. Soooooo, my cravings have gone hyperactive.

This new wave of cravings is note-worthy due to its intensity. I’ve always been a pretty big eater. As I child, I shopped in the “hefty” section at Kohl’s. In Mauritania I earned the nickname “trash man” (shout out to my fellow trash ma’am, Lindsay Hansen, who coined the term) for my uncanny ability to finish everyone else’s food. At Best Buy, I won an eating contest by consuming three 14” medium-crust pizzas in one sitting. But the cravings these past few weeks have been embarrassingly prominent. And constant. If I find out that, after having eaten already, Nick hasn’t eaten dinner yet… then yeah, I’d love to eat again! Two hours since second-supper? Sounds like time for a nightcap of the fattiest thing I can find. And when I amble out of my bedroom in the morning, my first stop is our (nearly empty) fridge and (equally barren) cupboards. After teaching for an hour or two, I’m pretty sure it’s time for lunch. At lunch, I stop myself after consuming a slightly larger-than-normal portion, even though I’m not full. And then I begin snacking. Repeat 5 times. Veg on the weekends. And there you have it: a typical week. I doubt I’ll be losing 35 pounds this stay in the Sahara.

I attended my first Egyptian wedding this weekend. There were all sorts of interesting superficial notes: for example, instead of guys and girls dancing together at the party, the guys all stood in one circle and proceeded to grind on each other, and the girls did the same at the other end of the ballroom. Even married couples didn’t dance with each other. Only the couple getting married danced together. (An aside: given how much Egyptians love sugar, I really shouldn’t have been surprised to see several people serve themselves eight pieces of cake unabashedly. But it was still funny.)

The wedding was certainly an interesting experience, but it got me thinking about how each of our cultures has determined one should find a mate. It’s almost like different cultures just have different “mating dances,” with clearly defined rules and expectations.

In Egypt, especially outside of Cairo and Alexandria, couples are often set up by their parents. They may meet a few times – probably with a chaperone – before the big day. But for the most part the two kids (I say kids because many are younger than me) are total strangers when they wed. Divorces happen but are not encouraged, and it’s difficult for a woman to initiate a divorce unless she can prove her husband has been unfaithful. So you get married, and you’re kind of stuck. And yet, that’s how entire populations do it.

Conversely, in America, you are groomed to find someone on your own. Parents offer feedback when they meet their child’s significant others to try to condition their children into picking an acceptable mate, but most parents wouldn’t dream of trying to “veto” an adult child’s choice in a spouse – at least not explicitly. If anything, there is pressure to approve outwardly of anyone your child chooses. As an adolescent you are taught to search for someone with similar values, a personality that stretches yours, and maybe someone who induces a Disney-like sense of “love.” There are a number of things can kill a relationship before you ever walk down the aisle. If one of those things happens, you move on and find someone else.

Now, I must admit, I love having choices, especially regarding whom I will marry. I have seen American friends enter into truly remarkable marriages that likely never would have happened if their parents had been responsible for finding their children's partners. Egyptian parents are also much less likely to choose appropriate mates for our LGBT brothers and sisters. I'm glad I grew up in the American context. But maybe there’s something to be said for sucking up your pride and deciding that you’re going to be happy with someone because you don’t have a choice.

I remember when I first arrived in Chinguetti with Peace Corps. I didn’t know my sitemate at all. I think she and I would both admit that we had some major personality clashes early on. But neither Jessica nor I had any say in who our sitemate would be, so we just quit feeling sorry for ourselves, and before long we became something like best friends. We provided each other with support on tough days, we saw each other cry, and we celebrated victories together. We endured all that Mauritania could throw at us – and believe me, it was a lot – and we came to respect each other a lot in the process. By halfway through my year in Chinguetti, I was already dreading the day that Jessica would leave. In my 15 months since leaving Chinguetti, I have kept in contact with Jessica regularly, and I miss her dearly.

It’s amazing how much you can come to value someone just by deciding you have to. When you spend enough time with someone, you find things to value in that person. When you find enough things to value in a person (even if sometimes you have to remind yourself of those things often), you find intimacy, companionship, and even “love.”

Now I have been assigned a new sitemate on the other end of the Sahara. Nick and I planned to live together before ever having a conversation with each other. And, once again, it’s been totally great. We have different personalities, different living styles (somehow he hasn’t killed me for my messiness yet), and we are even at different points in our life. He’s just out of college: the world is his oyster. I’m a couple years out of college, I’ve worked in three vastly different settings, and I have a definite plan for after Fulbright. But we can still relate.

Experiences like this make me think that if we had no choice about who we spent our lives with, maybe we would make it work, just for sanity’s sake. Maybe there isn’t something morally superior about searching around for your “soulmate” for years. Maybe there’s wisdom in sucking up one’s pride and just deciding to be happy. Maybe this is just another style of “mating dance” that humans have developed to foster intimacy… or at least to propagate the species.

That all said, I’ve also seen some marriages fall to shreds here. But marriages fall apart in the States too, and I’m not willing to chalk up all Egypt’s marital problems to a flawed Egyptian “mating dance.” Furthermore, I only spent one year with Jessica, and I will only spend one year with Nick – hardly the same as spending the rest of my life with someone. Sometimes there are very legitimate reasons for ending a marriage, and I don't mean to downplay those. I also don't want to make it sound like a relationship that lasts forever is "successful" while one that doesn't is not. I think these are important notes because I don’t want to sound like I’m idolizing the Egyptian method of selecting a spouse. This was just a theory. I’m still trying to figure out how much I believe it myself.

The rest of this entry will be filled random notes on friendship, dating, and sex and (dare I say it?) pornography in Egypt:

It bothers me that when Nick and I hang out with friends here, we are always hanging out with just guys. It wouldn’t be appropriate for girls to join our group. How could Egyptians go through their entire life without being friends with anyone of the opposite sex? In the words of one friend here, “We don’t know what we’re missing, so it doesn’t really bother us.” Other Egyptians will insist that guys and girls can be friends here, but the examples they give of other-gendered friends are often co-workers that they never see outside of work. “We can work together without any problems – see, guys and girls can be friends!” When I try to explain that some of my dearest friends are girls, and that there’s nothing romantic between us, they usually either don’t believe me, or they insist it could never work in Egypt.

An interesting note is that in Cairo and Alexandria, the largest cities in Egypt, it’s becoming increasingly popular for couples to date, even with their parents’ blessing, before they get married. When I arrived, I chalked this up to the superiority of the Western system for finding a mate. As different systems entered the “marketplace of ideas,” our system was emerging as victorious. Condescending? You betcha. But aren’t most holders of progressive ideas at least a little condescending?

Also interesting has been observing how frequently groups of guys will discuss sex here, often very explicitly. Maybe guys really are the same everywhere in the world. One often wonders whether these discussions are merely reflections of their high school counterparts in America – I think back to awkward conversations where guys not only offered up any insights they had gained through experience (or at least watching explicit movies), but also tentatively waffled on meatier topics because they didn’t want to say something that might be called out as a lie. How many of our guy friends here are as experienced as they say? How many really have nine girlfriends? And interestingly, do these men really just view their current (secret) girlfriends as sex objects to be enjoyed until their parents set them up with someone respectable? Or is there an emotional connection there too? More likely, are they just trying to show off by seeming experienced, when in reality they haven’t spent an hour alone with anyone of the opposite sex in their entire lives?

A final noteworthy bit is the prevalence of pornography here. I noticed this same phenomenon on the other end of the desert. Mauritanian men watch porn together. A lot. Sometimes at work. So it shouldn’t have been too shocking when my Egyptian guard (see: two entries back) whipped out his cell phone to show me pictures of two naked women having sex with props. He did not understand when I recoiled in shock. So apparently, Allah doesn’t care about porn, but guys and girls aren’t allowed to be friends. Makes total sense.

Really, what all this emphasizes is how impressed I am with anyone who dates or marries someone from another culture. I’m not talking about when an American dates a Western European, either. There are cultural differences there too, sure. But when even the processes of meeting significant others are culturally defined, and those processes are defined very differently, how does one even begin? Somehow people from totally different cultures date, get married, have kids, and live happily ever after. It happens. Last month we met a former Fulbrighter who married an Egyptian man and now wears a niqab (full body covering for women). Could I ever do that? Well, thank Allah I wouldn’t have to don a niqab, but would I make any sort of similar commitment/sacrifice? Would I move to a small village and contentedly spend the rest of my life there? I’d like to think I’m open-minded enough – but frankly, I doubt it. And I’ve been groomed in our Western tradition of having a choice in who my spouse will be, so if I don’t want to marry someone from a culture totally different from mine, I probably never will.

That said, I left the wedding this weekend with a rose from the wedding bouquet – a sign that I will get married soon. Maybe I shouldn’t rule anything out. :)

Egypt’s food situation isn’t too terribly exciting. The common dishes are totally adequate and fine, and a definite step up from Mauritanian cuisine, but for an aspiring foodie, it leaves something to be desired. Even expensive restaurants in Cairo really aren’t that impressive. I stopped trying after discovering that one of the “best” Italian joints in town really just served bland-ish pasta. Common foods: Tameyya – felafel’s less-flavorful and more stringy cousin, stuffed in a bland pita; foul – refried fava beans, also stuffed in a bland pita; koshary – plan pasta and rice with a dash of tomato sause and a spattering of lentils. Again, these foods are totally adequate and a definite step up from sandy couscous. But sometimes one just wants something interesting to entertain one’s taste buds.

I like trying new food. Over the years I have gotten to try some fun stuff: chicken hearts in Brazil, intestines in Argentina (though I must admit I never really “loved” those), really spicy food in Ethiopia and India, raw meat in Minneapolis, “ass butter” in RIM (milk fermented and then turned into butter – it never spoils, but always smells like the maker forgot to wash her hands after using the bathroom). Heck, up until about four years ago, I didn’t even really like wine, olives, or tomatoes. Now they are staples of my diet.

When Egyptians feel adventurous with their consumption patters, occasionally they venture into liver. I really like liver. Last night a friend asked if I had ever had camel liver, ostensibly the “best” liver in the world. I figured his bias had more to do with the Arab’s love of all things camel than with the actual quality of camel liver. I mean, I get it: camels were the primary signal of wealth, and they were also terribly useful as pack animals, for thousands of years. Linguistically, this is reflected in several hilarious verbs, likely millions, that have to do with specific actions related to camels. Why yes, actually, I DO need a single word to describe having tied my camel up at a rival tribe’s watering hole so that it could go into labor and then getting in a fight with the local tribe over who owned the baby camel. Really, it’s useful vocabulary, I promise.

In Mauritania, camels were similarly revered. Camel milk was considered “better” than its bovine counterpart, its meat a symbol of wealth. Heck, even dowry’s are paid in camels.

So when my friend asked if I had tried camel liver, and he subsequently raved about how amazing it was, I figured I should take his praises with a grain of salt. I mean, I was sure it was probably fine, but worth the adulation usually reserved for wines too expensive to justify? Surely not. But then he asked if I had tried “brains.” Hmm. “Nope.” My immediate impulse was to say, “And I don’t really want to.” But thinking back to chicken hearts, I inquired further: were they stringy? rubbery? Nope, very “soft.” They’re cooked, right? "Of course!"

I was going to try brains. A wave of jitters and excitement took hold of me when walking to the restaurant. My thoughts ranged from, “I wonder if I’ll like them” to “Gosh I hope I don’t get some weird disease and die.”

Camel liver was unsurprisingly underwhelming. It’s flavorful, sure, but it’s also the toughest and most rubbery liver I’ve ever encountered.

Watching the cooks bring out fresh brains, bread them in front of me, and then drop them in a vat of boiling oil, was pretty exciting. Sure enough, brains are really “soft.” A better word might be “gooey.” They aren’t quite chicken hearts, but they were fun to try.

The highlight of the night though was when my sitemate, Nick, decided to eat a plate full of veggies covered in crushed red pepper. “They aren’t bad.” Sure enough, the tomatoes and cucumbers weren’t nearly as spicy as they should have been considering the layer of spice smothering them. A minute later, the server brought out a medium-sized pepper sliced into strips. Much as I like spicy food, I get scared of random peppers that are set in front of me, especially in foreign countries. Nick unhesitatingly grabbed the biggest piece of pepper on the plate and stuck nearly the whole thing in his mouth. “Dude – is that a hot pepper?” I tried to squeak in before it was too late. He was already chewing. “Nah…” And then, something almost cartoon-like happened. After about 5 seconds of confidently chewing and rubbing those little seeds all over his tongue, I heard him mutter, “Oh no…” His face became red (and perhaps a little swollen?), tears welled in his eyes, and he was nearly hyperventilating. Everyone in the restaurant thought it was pretty funny (I might have too afterward...). They were also very accommodating – they brought him bread and milk, chuckling at the American who actually ate the spicy pepper.

We decided on the walk home that from a utilitarian perspective, his five minutes of extreme suffering were likely outweighed by the joy that it brought everyone in the restaurant, myself included. I promptly offered to douse all his food in random spices, and he politely declined.

What the Egyptian food scene lacks in flavor, it makes up for in stories like this one.

Egypt puts a lot of money into its military and police. Well, the US gives Egypt a lot of money to put into its military and police, but that’s not the point. The point is that, sometimes, in the name of “security” (i.e. keeping an eye on foreigners?) private security officers are assigned to follow foreigners everywhere. Nick and I were the lucky recipients of a string of gun-wielding “friends” to “show us around.” In their defense, they were often quite friendly and engaging, and they thought it was pretty fun to teach us inappropriate phrases in Arabic. But the whole situation has been a little bizarre.

The first night we had a guard Nick and I were a little confused. A man just started following us, and he had a gun. When we tried to get into our friend’s car to go to a restaurant, the man motioned to join us. Our friend and the new security officer exchanged a couple words, the officer whipped out a badge. “Apparently someone in Cairo told him to go everywhere with you.”

Fortunately this guard was quite friendly . Sure, it was inconvenient to have to check in with guards every time we went to the supermarket, but we had heard stories of similar incidents, so for some reason we weren’t too concerned. It almost became “normal.”

A few weeks back, I traveled to an oasis west of Alexandria with Fulbright. We had told our security officers where I was going, so I was pretty surprised when I received four phone calls on the road from Egyptian friends. “Where are you? Saad (security officer) is crying.” I’m going to Siwa with Fulbright, I told him that. “Saad knows you’re not going to Siwa – he heard you are going to Sinai. Why did you lie to him?” Ummm… I didn’t lie. I’m really going to Siwa. “You must report back with the name of the bus company you’re traveling with, the names of all your drivers, a list of every hotel you’re staying at, and how many security officers you’ll have with you at all times.”

This was getting excessive. So I told Fulbright. Turns out Nick and I probably shouldn’t have “gotten used to” having an armed guard with us at all times. Turns out that’s likely not appropriate at all.

This began one of the most complicated, political, and offensive series of encounters we’ve had yet. People at our English center were mad that Fulbright had gotten involved. “Why didn’t you tell us – why did you report us to Fulbright?” The security officers backed off for a night or two, but then began following us everywhere again. Some security officers – some of the most friendly, actually – were “let go.”

But our security situation didn’t entirely end there. One night a friend called us and asked if we wanted to go to a wedding. Yes, of course we did. We were going to leave at 8 pm. At 7:30, our security officer showed up, asking what our plans were for the evening. “We’re going to a wedding with Bassim.” Our security officer said goodbye and wished us a pleasant evening. Ten minutes later, we got a call from Bassim, “Your security officer stopped by. He said you can’t go to the wedding because it’s in Cairo and you aren’t allowed to leave Zagazig.”

1- Cairo’s only an hour from Zagazig.

2- There was absolutely no rule “confining” us to Zagazig.

3- Our security officer didn’t even confront us about it, he just told our friend he wasn’t allowed to take us, so he didn’t.

We walked out of our front door later that evening to discover our security guard waiting for us. “When are you going to the wedding?” Seriously dude?! He then followed us around the rest of the evening, and we subsequently complained. Since then, we have not had a guard follow us anywhere, but not for lack of effort. Fortunately the guards have grown to accept that we are perfectly safe in Zagazig. Funny encounters still occur though. Here’s one:

This morning I rolled out of bed at a lazy 11 am. It’s Saturday and I had been up late talking with friends online. Feeling terribly hungry, but not having much to consume around the house, I barely dressed myself and, hair still disheveled, I went to buy some bread from a bakery around the corner. Any friends from college who have seen me in the first five minutes after I wake know I’m hardly coherent and usually not fit for public viewing.

When I stepped off the elevator, I was greeted by a guard. “Are you going to the university now?” I looked down at my barely-appropriate attire and shot back a confused look. It’s Saturday. No, I’m not going to the university. “Where are you going?” To the bakery. “Just the bakery?” Yes. “Do you want me to come with you?” That’s really not necessary.

When I arrived, the bakery was out of bread. It was, after all, already 11 am. So, I swung by a boutique next door and purchased a package of ramen noodles. I walked back toward our apartment building, where the guard was waiting for me. “Where did you go?” The bakery. [He looked down at my package of ramen noodles and pointed at them, accusingly.] The bakery was out of bread, so I went to the boutique – you know, the one between here and the bakery – and bought this instead. “The bakery was out of bread?” [More accusing glares.] Yes. The bakery was out of bread. “Okay, where are you going now? To the university?” No. It’s Saturday. I’m not going to the university. “Are you going downtown?” No, I’m going back to the apartment. “Just to your apartment?” Yes. “Will you go anywhere later today?” I don’t know, probably? “Where is Nick? Did he go downtown?” No, Nick is sleeping upstairs. “Sleeping?” Yes, sleeping. “Why is he sleeping?” Because he’s tired? “Will he go anywhere later?” I’m really not sure.

That was an extreme example. Usually we just tell them where we’re going, they ask us if they should come, and we say, “No.” It’s kind of funny to think that several people are employed just to sit by our apartment building and ask us where we’re going. But I guess these are jobs people need, and it’s a result of a bloated security force propped up by a foreign superpower. Thanks US government, once again, I totally agree with the things you spend money on.

I'm going to try to offer bits from my first six weeks in Egypt over the course of several entries.

First off, I'm thrilled to say that I survived intensive Arabic, moved to site, found an apartment, and this/next week should begin teaching. My site is a delightful town with incredibly friendly people. By far the smallest of the sites to receive Fulbrighters, Zagazig has a certain charm that was lacking in Cairo. No, we don't have the options for entertainment we had in Cairo - symphony concerts, amazing museums, the pyramids and the Sphinx were wonderful diversions - but after two short weeks here I already feel surrounded by a community of teachers and neighbors that have made us feel incredibly welcome.

My sitemate, Nick, is a native of Ohio who graduated from Case Western. His Arabic skills far surpass mine. We found a roomy three bedroom, 1.5 bath near the Center for English where we work. There's plenty of places to host passers-through!

A couple highlights friends in Zagazig have introduced us to:

- bumper cars - the kind that haven't been maintenanced since the last time I rode bumper cars, at least a decade ago. It adds to the fun, I promise.

- Basaam bakery. Sorry RIM, we have chocolate on this end of the Sahara. Good chocolate. I didn't taste chocolate this good during my entire stay in Cairo. Allah knows I looked.

- hot dog crepes. animal parts and gobs of cheese (yes RIM, we have cheese on this end of the Sahara, too) are slathered into a crepe that, for $2 apiece, is going to be a cheap way to pack on pounds this year. There's a stand across the street from our apartment building. Ugh. I still haven't found a gym.

- Haysim. An entire entry will be devoted to this man soon. He has shown us true Egyptian hospitality, given us a crash course in every insult the local dialect has to offer, and introduced us to new people every night. I'm confident that this man is the reason Nick and I are having such an amazing time - especially when I speak with other Fulbrighters in other sites (larger cities) who are struggling to make friends. Thanks Haysim.

We're six weeks in. This is supposed to be the low point on the "culture shock" timeline. I'm still having a blast.

This is going to be a great year.

Hey everyone - I've decided that I'm going to continue my same blog for my next North African adventure. This time I'm heading to Egypt on August 20 to teach English and American culture classes at Zagazig University. I'll only be there for one school year, but I'm hopeful that I'll have better access to the internet this time around, so insh'allah (Allah willing) I'll update this much more regularly than I did during Peace Corps. No worries, I promise to keep my entries short like always.

Oh, and if anyone knows of anyone in the Twin Cities who might offer private Arabic lessons, please let me know. Modern Standard Arabic or the Egyptian dialect would be great. Thanks!

Due to security issues, Peace Corps Mauritania has been suspended for a bit. I'd like to pretend it was a huge surprise... but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. I'm now in the hustle and bustle of looking for a job state-side while keeping options open for another Peace Corps service somewhere else, though likely not for another entire 27 months. Chinguetti, I'll miss you. Thanks to all who read this blog over the past year. Peace out.

Top 10 reasons being in Peace Corps Mauritania is like being homeless in America:

10. The world is our toilet.

9. We sleep outside on the ground.

8. We bum meals most days.

7. We pick our noses, hawk loogies, and discuss diarrhea in public, unabashedly.

6. We don't eat fruits or vegetables for days at a time.

5. Our clothes are all tattered (I have no hole-less pants left, and I wear pants everyday).

4. We go for weeks without showering, and we don't wear deodorant.

3. We have few definite life goals or plans.

2. We survive on a generous $200/month from Uncle Sam; and:

1. Nevertheless, we still find money for alcohol (only while in Senegal, of course.)

First, I must apologize for the dearth of blog entries. I aim to ameliorate that situation pronto.

One might assume that, therefore, I will talk about projects at site, offer pretentious cultural insights, or reflect on my year since starting service with Peace Corps.

One might be dead wrong. I don't feel like talking about Mauritania. It's hot here. My teeth are rotting thanks to the copious amounts of sugar I consume, and my family thinks vegetables are "bad health". I suppose that my next couple entries will likely reference Mauritania because, you know, that's where I live and spend 99% of my time. But for now, I'm going to share stories from my wonderful week south of the border in Saint Louis, Senegal (henceforth referred to as "heaven").

Heaven is a beautiful little town that occupies both sides of a small bay, as well as a large island in between. The middle island is the touristy part. Walking around the island, one's senses are bombarded by hundreds of stands selling spicy sandwiches and fruits of all varieties, booths blasting vibrant music, and, most importantly, no sand dunes or sandy couscous.

Each spring heaven hosts Jazz Fest, a four-day funfest offering excellent music, food, beaches and company. Peace Corps Mauritania generally invades heaven twice each year: New Year's and Jazz Fest. This year I decided to skip New Year's, so my first trip to heaven was aided by friends who already knew the best restaurants, the boutiques with the cheapest, coldest beers, and the best places for evening festivities.

Weather-wise, heaven was perfect. Mornings were cool, comfy. Afternoons were warm but not uncomfortably so. Evening breezes made me want to sit outside at every restaurant.

Food was cheap, filling, and everywhere.

Waves on the beach were so large that they knocked you on your butt.

My legs are still peeling after long afternoons spent next to pools and the ocean (curse you, fair skin of mine!) but let me assure you that I relish each fleck of dead skin I peel away - souvenirs from a better place. I'll miss you heaven. Until I return, it's back to couscous.

A few changes from the past couple months, just to keep everyone on their toes:

- The Mauritanian election, originally set for June 6, was postponed a month. All opposition parties (I believe) have agreed to this new timetable. This should make for a smoother transition.

- Our new Peace Corps Volunteers were set to arrive next week. However, due to some visa issues, they will (hopefully) come in August. Keep your fingers crossed here. We (Peace Corps Mauritania Volunteers) are anxiously awaiting this new class.

- We were supposed to travel to Mali for a soccer game vs. Peace Corps Mali. Yesterday I arrived in Aioun - a city near the border of Mali where, coincidentally, I was supposed to work until my site was switched at the last second to Chinguetti - to discover that the soccer game was canceled and that the border with Mali is now closed to US citizens (there's a rumor that the latter statement is just a rumor).

SOOOOO, I will likely be returning to site a little earlier than expected. I'm still very excited to catch up on stories (and food!) while I'm in the States during August. And as always, in the meantime shoot me an e-mail update whenever. It's a blast to hear from people back home.

I recently purchased a plane ticket to return to the States for most of August. I'll be making a mad-dash between Chicago and Minneapolis during the first three weeks, and between DC and Boston during the fourth. Let me know if you'll be in either of those regions so we can meet up.

For the first time in my life, I hate traveling. It's awful. Several months ago I wrote about traveling to and from Atar each month in the back of a pickup. That was bad enough. Traveling to Nouakchott – the capital city where one finds cold beer and cheese – is sheer torture.

The first time I watched people climbing into a bush taxi, the typical mode of transportation, I thought back to late-night Wal-Mart runs during college where perhaps ONE extra person was squeezed onto a lap or into a truck. However, the first time I watched four grown adults climb into the back seat of a standard car, I thought there must be some mistake. They were going on a seven-hour journey. No, it wasn't a mistake. That's how people travel in Mauritania. Then I watched two people cram themselves into the front seat. This wasn't one of those cars with extra seating space between the passenger and the driver. It was a bucket seat. The poor souls cradled each other, praying the rickety doors didn't pop open.

In winter, layers of clothing take up precious breathing room. But those layers of clothing also provide some cushion between bony hips. During summer there is little padding. Each time your neighbor moves a leg, you feel the muscles contract and relax. Hip bones remind you that at a certain point it's impossible to squish yourself any narrower: four adult pelvises simply take up a certain amount of space.

Summer's an extra treat: 130 degree temperatures ensure that you sweat all over everyone until you no longer know whose juices are whose. If you are lucky enough to travel in a vehicle with functioning windows, and if the other passengers in the car are nice enough to roll down their windows to let in a breeze, then you are guaranteed to be covered in a thick layer of sand by the end of the day, which coagulates with your group-sweat until you are swimming in a small pool of mud. Nevertheless, that's still preferable to an airtight car [read: oven]. For some reason many Mauritanians insist it's hotter with the windows rolled down. The only possible explanation is that they are so dehydrated that they don't sweat, and they therefore don't realize how good the breeze feels.

I feel bad for my companions: my 6'5” frame is no nimble figure with which to coexist. But, they grin and bear it with no complaints, at least not to my face. I'm also thankful for my physical health. A good friend of mine has a bad knee and has to stretch every couple hours. I'm amazed he goes anywhere in bush taxi.

If we fill a car with six Americans the drive is more tolerable. Moors are not great about using soap. This makes their juices less enjoyable.

I'm thankful I'm not a girl. Since this is an Islamic Republic and people are so conservative, most Mauritanians refuse to sit by anyone of the opposite sex. This works out well for small-statured males. Females, though, are notoriously large (the bigger the better, right?). I can't imagine sitting between three grown Moor women in the back of a compact. My female friends do it all the time. Again, in the winter it's not so bad. I've been told the cushioning is preferable to bony hips. Summertime is quite a different story. Extra layers of skin mean extra heat, sweat and smell.

Every time I cram myself into a back seat I think, “Oh, this isn't as bad as last time.” I plug in headphones hoping to drown out the noise that is “Moor music”, pretending to be in my own little world, even though my body knows otherwise. My knees begin to hurt. My buttcheeks fall asleep. One time the entire lower half of my body fell asleep. If I move, I must check with my neighbor to make sure his or her ribs can still expand sufficiently to breathe. My neck begins to ache from being hunched over. And then I remember why I hate traveling so much.

Nevertheless, after a certain number of hours you develop an unspoken understanding with your neighbors. You've each moved a little, much to the others' chagrin. You've all got each others' sweat smeared across your faces, arms, thighs and legs, so there's no point in apologizing anymore. You know each other's contours as well as their most intimate partners. And when you finally peel away from each other at the end of a voyage, you taste freedom together. You leave with the sense of having endured some great hardship, and you're pretty sure that the only reason you survived is because your neighbor wasn't a total inconsiderate ass along the way. You still dread the next trek, but that won't stop you from going. Cold beers and cheese are calling.

Just after Thanksgiving three PCVs and I went on a camel trek in the dunes outside Chinguetti. It was absolutely incredible. It made me fall in love with my site all over again. We headed out early in the morning, trekked for three hours, spent the afternoon at an oasis, slept overnight on the dunes, and returned the second morning.

The camel saddles themselves are horribly uncomfortable. We all bruised our inner thighs. The temperature overnight dropped into the high 30s – who knew the desert got so cold? – but despite the discomforts it was a blast.

After three hours of trekking we arrived at the oasis, where we unloaded a snowboard and some ski boots donated to us by tourists who passed through Chinguetti. We planned to board down the dunes. I have never snowboarded so I was a little nervous, but thankfully sand produces a lot more friction than snow, meaning we didn't go very fast.

A dozen children spied on us as we first mounted the dune. As soon as they saw us board down the dune though, they ran at us shrieking and giggling. Our resident expert snowboarder had gone first, and just as soon as he removed the board the kids grabbed it from his hands and started carrying it up the mountain of sand. When they arrived at the top they deferentially handed the board to the two of us waiting at the top.

From then on, each time one of us darted down the sand the kids ran and rolled after us, snatching the board from our hands and bolting up the hill again.

After a half hour we started chatting with the kids, excited to show off our basic Hassaniye skills. We also decided we would turn the snowboard into a sled and we asked if they wanted to join us. However, when they responded we realized their dialect of Hassaniye was distinct than anything we knew. This oasis in the middle of the desert, and the four families who lived there, was so removed from the rest of Mauritania that their language had evolved on its own.

Perhaps it was because the kids didn't understand our words, or maybe they were just nervous about these white people and their weird toys, but none of the kids joined me on the first sled ride. But as soon as they realized what I was doing they scrambled after me and jumped on the makeshift sled en route. I suddenly had twelve kids lunging at me, each trying to secure a place to sit, until we all fell off the the board and watched it continue down the hill without us. Now I joined the chase, and for the first time I ran down the dune's steep slope. My feet sunk further into the sand with each step; the sand was soon swallowing half my lower leg each step until, unable to budge, I fell. I became a jungle gym instantly.

From that point on the kids joined us on every trip down the hill, dutifully carting the board back up for us. The kids even argued over who would carry the board each time, each trying to prove his or her physical strength to us and to the other kids. We didn't mind. Walking up the dune was tough enough without carrying the board.

That night we returned to the desert to sleep. We exchanged treats with our camel guides: we made mochas (Nesquik and Nescafe) and they made bread by burying dough in a pit of coals. We then bundled up – I wore a fleece, a wool sweatshirt, two pairs of pants and two pairs of socks, and I was huddled inside a large blanket and a sleeping bag – and went to sleep. There was no moon, but the sky looked almost grey because there were so many stars littering the black backdrop.

In the morning we returned to Chinguetti via camel, though three of us walked because we were still sore from the previous day's trek, and that same afternoon my friends returned to their respective sites.

If I weren't so scared I'd get lost in the dunes (a death sentence) I'd try to return to the oasis on my own. I guess I'll just have to wait until the next time I have visitors who want to go on a camel trek. Any takers?

This past month I began teaching computer classes in Chinguetti. We only just got 24/7 power, but computers are quickly appearing throughout the city. Rumor has it we will soon get an internet cafe in Chinguetti as well, at which point I hope to recruit the individuals I'm currently teaching to train other people in the community.

The mayor asked me to teach his secretaries the basics of typing, Word, and Excel. The secretaries are all quite motivated and bright, and they come to class excited every day. It makes teaching easy. And they're slowly getting comfortable with exploring the computers on their own and figuring out how to do their own projects. It's really fun to see. However, I must add that the first couple classes were... well, interesting. I blame myself for approaching the classes assuming they would have a general concept of what computers are and what they do. Chinguetti only recently got power; how could I expect them to understand some of the concepts we learned long ago? They never had entertainment or gaming systems. Using a mouse or keyboard and expecting the computer to respond to your instructions are all new concepts. Moreover, they speak very little French, so my limited Hassaniye and their limited French makes some of our encounters quite entertaining. That's why I've decided to share some highlights from the first couple lessons. Enjoy!

I entered the mayor's compound the first day with a typing program on my flash drive and several pre-made images painted in Paint for them to copy. The secretaries had assured me they “knew” computers, so I hoped the simple exercises in Paint wouldn't be too easy. My fears were assuaged when they didn't know how to turn the computer on. We went step-by-step through computer start-up and began with a simple exercise: doodling in Paint with the mouse. After a few minutes I asked them to try and write their names. That went alright, but it was difficult to convince them that the mouse needed to remain pointed forward instead of pivoting and rotating on the desk. After a half-hour lesson on single vs. double clicking, we explored some of the other shapes and colors Paint can make. Finally, after a few hours, I decided we were ready to try to copy pre-drawn pictures. We opened a file that contained a copy of the Human Rights Campaign logo. I figured this would be a simple place to start: the HRC logo is a blue square with two yellow rectangles inside.

We opened a blank Paint document and I waited to see how they would do. The first girl turned and looked at me. “What do I do?”

We re-opened the file containing the HRC logo, re-looked at the picture, I reiterated that she should copy the picture using the shape and color tools we had been working with, and after she reassured me she understood we returned to the blank document.

She turned and stared blankly at me again. “What do I do?” I began wondering if my limited Hassaniye was the problem. Perhaps she was just being polite and telling me she understood the task. I asked her what the first step would be. “What first step?” To re-draw that picture. “What picture?” So we re-opened the other document and looked at the picture. This time I had her do all of the mouse-moving and clicking.

“Go to Fichier” [French for 'file'] I said as I pointed at the upper-left hand corner of the screen. “And now Ouvrir” [Open]. Except she hit “Nouveau”[New] instead.

“No problem, just hit 'Annuler' [Cancel], Back up to Fichier and Ouvrir.” Except she hit “Nouveau” again. “No problem, just hit 'Annuler' again.” Then we reviewed that we wanted the second option under “Fichier” to be highlighted blue.

She hit “Nouveau” again.

I was trying really hard not to laugh outloud... or shriek. We then had to go over an important concept: The TIP of the mouse's arrow is the important part. We want the TIP of the arrow to be over the second option. Clearly she would have no reason to know this. But as soon as we had gone over that, she understood. We opened the other document, re-examined the HRC logo, and returned to our blank Paint page, again. Then she turned and asked what to do.

Well, what are we trying to do? “Draw that picture.” She re-opened the picture on her own. Yes, that's what we want to do. How would we start? She clicked on the blank screen and drew a black line. “Like that?” ...ummm...does that look like the original picture? “No.” Remember when we made shapes a half hour ago? How did we do that? “These things over here [she pointed at the left side of the screen].” Exactly! And do you remember how to pick a new color? “Down here?” There you go! So she clicked on the circle icon, clicked on the color brown, and she drew a hollow brown circle. “Is this what we want?” Does that look like the original picture? “...No.”

We continued like that for the next hour, and finally the first day was over. She had drawn a blue box and a white rectangle... By the end that seemed like a good compromise.

The first day of typing was similarly entertaining. Remember, their French is not strong, so typing on a French keyboard when one girl doesn't even know the French alphabet very well is difficult.

We loaded a typing program onto the computer (after they had started the computer themselves!) It was a simple typing program that started by teaching the keys 'd', 'f', 'j', and 'k'. After each secretary completed the first level, we re-started it and I held a piece of paper over their fingers to make sure they weren't looking at their fingers.

The first girl started well enough. This specific typing program waits for you to type the correct letter before moving on to the next letter. It beeps when you press the wrong key. But pretty soon the computer was beeping after every single letter. I lifted the sheet of paper to see what her fingers were doing.

She was pressing all five keys we were working on ('d', 'f', 'j', 'k', and 'space bar') at the same time. In fact, she was pounding on the keyboard. So at each letter she was TECHNICALLY hitting the correct key, meaning the program was moving on to the next letter, but she was also hitting all the incorrect letters, meaning the computer was beeping after each letter as well.

I decided we had moved too quickly. We needed to make sure we knew the alphabet WELL before I expected anyone to type. Except the second girl was a natural. She understood the concept of typing, and she accepted that she shouldn't look at her fingers. So then we switched back to the first girl.

We repeated the first level again. This time she navigated the keys better. It was obvious that the letters were starting to make more sense. But halfway into the program I started hearing the error beep after every letter again. This time she was hitting 'space bar' after every single letter. I explained that we only wanted 'space bar' every time there was a gap between two strings of letters. “Okay. What do I press now?” Which letter is highlighted on the screen? “Space?” Is that a space? “No, it's a J” Okay then press J.

“Space now?” Is that a space highlighted on the screen? “No, it's a D.” ...Okay... hit D.

“Space now?” Is that a space highlighted on the screen?

...you get the idea. I am pleased to report that since the first week we have made considerable progress. They can now start the computer and get into the typing program by themselves. The two secretaries also started each holding a piece of paper over the other's fingers. Once I arrived to the evening lesson and they proudly reported that they had practiced by themselves all morning. I'm excited to return to site and see what they have tried on the computer. I'm also excited for them to teach computers to others, partially because I hope they get a taste of how frustrating it can be. :)

Two days after the computer fiasco I felt I needed some manual labor to take my mind off the computer's uncertain fate. Our country cottage on Dodson Hollow must have been calling to me because I decided to dig a garden. Peace Corps encourages us to dig gardens. It saves us money on vegetables, and sharing extras with neighbors is a great way to make friends. However, as you may remember, I live on a sand dune. The soil has few nutrients to speak of. Water soaks into the sand immediately. Gardens are tricky business in the Sahara. Some PCVs in my region had been trained to dig gardens though, so after consulting them I set off on my mission. I needed to dig a large rectangular pit, remove the largest rocks, and use goat manure from neighbors as fertilizer. Other PCVs assured me that if I showed up at neighbors with a shovel, explained that I was building a garden and that I needed manure, and asked where their goat pens were, my neighbors would gladly oblige. They clearly have never tried this in Chinguetti: my neighbors were wholly confused. My first problem was that I didn't have a wheelbarrow. A bucket would have worked alright, but it would have required too many trips. Let's be serious, it's hot here and I'm lazy. Nevertheless, I figured it wouldn't be to difficult to find a wheelbarrow. I showed up at my host family's (I had conveniently given them a goat earlier that month, so I didn't feel bad asking for a little manure), shovel in hand, and explained my objective to the servant, Aziza, in tentative Hassaniye. “I'm going to make a garden. I need fertilizer. Can I have some goat manure?” “Yes of course!” She then led me to her own garden and stared at me expectantly. “...uhhhh... the goat pen?” I asked. “Why do you need the goats?” “For fertilizer...” I was beginning to question my accent, and I had looked up the word for fertilizer in our Peace Corps Hassaniye dictionary, but I wondered if the word had been wrong. That happened a lot. “I don't understand. You should wait until Aishitou [host mother] returns.” “Okay, thank you.” While leaving I realized I still needed a wheelbarrow. Except I didn't know the word for wheelbarrow. “Do you have a wheel...” [Insert “pushing wheelbarrow” motion.] “Yes!” She led me over to the wall, where sure enough, instead of a wheelbarrow there was a large old wheel resting against the building.

“Alright, nevermind, thank you.” Thinking perhaps I might have more luck with another neighbor, I headed down the street. After trying to explain what I was after, I was shown another garden. Something wasn't clicking. Finally, I asked my site mate to help me. She gave me a different word for fertilizer and a “more used” word for “goat manure.” I headed back to the first family. This time I was much more successful, and they gave me a old rice sack to carry the manure. I loaded the sack to the brim and began to head to my house. “What are you doing?!” Aziza screamed at me. “Uhhh... making a garden. I needed fertilizer... you said I could have this.” “But what are you doing with the manure?” “I'm using it as fertilizer.” I started to leave again, but she continued to scream at me: “What's wrong with you? What are you doing with the manure?” Something still wasn't clicking. So I called my wonderful site mate Jessica (who has been here a year already and whose Hassaniye is much better than mine) and asked her to explain the situation over the phone. Two seconds later Aziza said, “Okay.” And handed me my phone back. “What did Jessica say?” “She said you were making a garden and needed the manure for fertilizer.” ...I'm still not sure where my accent got in the way of the communication, but I'm pleased to say the garden is now done and packed full of goat manure. This is just a small example of the communication fiascoes that can occur even when I think I have the vocabulary to explain myself. Oh Hassaniye.

Here are a couple articles on Mauritania's current political situation. Peace Corps is by nature apolitical, so while I have no stance on these issues whatsoever, I wanted to share these bits of info with others who may find them interesting:

http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5h0kiCBydiq2FIX51yYcp9gLXSBsQ

http://www.themedialine.org/news/news_detail.asp?NewsID=23751

http://africa.reuters.com/wire/news/usnN19471436.html

The day after I was introduced to my new office, Chinguetti received some more wonderful news: we were finally going to get electricity, 24 hours/day, 7 days/week. I went to the office that morning, excited to plan new computer classes for the mayor. However, when I first arrived at the Tourism Bureau, the electricity was out. Turns out there had just been some kinks in the new system, but the mayor assured me the power would be up and running that morning. Sure enough, an hour later, the lights flickered on. I was apprehensive about plugging in the computer – there would likely be surges when new houses were “turned on” to the system throughout the day. However, the mayor assured me the power worked wonderfully, and I proceeded to plug my computer in. As soon as the cord was plugged into the wall, the cord erupted in smoke. I immediately unplugged the computer again, packed everything up, and left for the day. I was terrified the computer was fried. That would make teaching computer classes much more difficult. It would also put an end to my computer-based Arabic studying. I was hopeful though that my Dell cord with a built in surge protector had saved my computer. That night I found out that the power company had “accidentally” sent 380V electricity through Chinguetti the first day of the new power system. The mayor's computer was completely fried – the monitor erupted in smoke – and many families lost their cell phones. After I heard this, I was less optimistic about the fate of my own machine. The next day, as I was volunteering at a French-run elementary school feeding center, I mentioned the story to a French friend of mine. The most frustrating part about all of this is that my house was not scheduled to be hooked up to the new power system for several days, so I would have no way to test the computer. “You should just come by our compound and try it there,” he suggested. So, that afternoon, I popped by with my fingers crossed and with the computer in tote. I plugged in the computer, though I assumed at least the cord was fried. To my surprise, the small light on the computer flickered: the computer was charging. I quickly turned on the computer, ecstatic it still worked. However, as the computer was loading, it turned off again. The “charging” light was no longer on. Then, a second later, the light turned on again. I tried turning on the computer again: this time I was greeted by something a friend calls “the blue screen of death.” “Windows has been shut off to protect your computer. Please bring your computer to your local Dell service agent.” Shit. Nothing about this can be good. The description of the problem implied something was wrong with the battery. I then shut down my computer, packed it up for two weeks, and waited until I came to Atar to test it with a friend's Dell power cord. I hoped – though I was not optimistic – that the blue screen of death had appeared just because the battery was completely dead and I repeatedly tried turning on the computer while the cord was shorting out. Worst-case scenario: the computer's battery was in fact fried. That would have made my job more difficult over the next 20 months, but not impossible. The mayor had one other computer that had not been plugged in so I could teach computer classes on that computer, and in my travels to Atar each month I could type up anything that was absolutely necessary. With great pleasure, however, I can now say that the computer works fine. As soon as I get a new power cord in the mail (thanks mom and dad) I will be able to study Arabic again and I twice as many people will be able to sit in on the computer class. I'll also be able to make advertisements for the English, computer, and accounting classes that will be starting up in the next month – Alhamdulilah! (Arabic: Thank God)

A couple weeks ago I received a wonderful surprise. I was sitting in my compound, just starting some laundry, when I heard a loud, persistant knocking. I went to the door where a man told me that the “mere” (French for “mother”, pronounced like the English word “mare”) was waiting for me. “Who?” The “mere”, over there on the other side of town. Neither of my host mothers lives on the other side of town, but I thought perhaps I had misunderstood, so I asked him to wait for one second while I put on more appropriate clothing. He said, “No problem.” But he walked away. I called after him to wait, but he did not. So I quickly dressed and left. I walked around my section of town thinking perhaps someone was looking for me. But nobody was out. Then, for some reason, I wondered if maybe he meant the “maire” (French for “mayor”, pronounced the same), who was on the other side of the town. I had been trying to meet the mayor since I came to Chinguetti. In Mauritania it is very important to meet with all local officials frequently to show the proper respect and to keep them informed about your projects. It helps ensure they don't feel like we are working behind their backs – a common fear. However, the mayor of Chinguetti was never around. Two months into my stay and I had not yet met they mayor because he was always either in Nouakchott or “attending meetings.” So, that day, I figured I would swing by again. Perhaps the mayor was waiting for me, but if he wasn't it would be a good idea to try to meet him anyway – I hadn't stopped by in a couple weeks. I arrived at the mayor's office and was greeted by the man who had come to my door. Sure enough, the mayor had been waiting for me, and he quickly informed me he was looking forward to my work in the tourism industry and he said he wanted to show me my office. My office? “Offices” aren't common for Peace Corps Volunteers, so I wasn't expecting too much. He then led me to the “Tourism Bureau” located within the same compound as the mayor's office, handed me the keys, and said I was to report to work at 8:30, Sunday through Thursday. He handed me all the keys for the office, and I asked if anyone else would need these keys. “No, just you work here.” The tourism bureau has a television, a DVD player, 24/7 power (Chinguetti only has power three hours per day, if that). None of it has been used since the bureau was built. Besides the fancy equipment, the office was full of random postcards. “You will sell those for 200 um [about $0.90] each,” the mayor said. He also asked if I could teach computer classes or English classes. “Both.” I'll be starting in with those classes, as well as accounting classes, in the next month. Turns out the television and DVD player were not able to reach the single outlet in the room, so they have likely never been used. Sorting through old papers there, I discovered the tourism bureau (and the entire mayor's compound) had been built by the European Union, which explains why the building has such fancy equipment that is completely unused: nobody knows how to use the equipment. Furthermore, DVDs are not even available in Chinguetti. In any case it will be nice to have a working space so close to the mayor, though I must admit I hope he doesn't expect me to sit and sell postcards all day. If anything this new space will give me a place to organize other projects, and it will provide a place for these classes.

I killed my first scorpion two weeks ago. It had been terrorizing my house and yard by night for weeks. Now that the weather is cooling these nocturnal creatures are becoming more active. Talk about motivation to keep your room clean: lifting a dirty article of clothing to find a scorpion underneath is enough to make a 21 year-old man jump and scream like a school girl. Believe me, it happened. Several times. You may know of my irrational fear of spiders. Well, scorpions are like spiders - except they've got a stinger. And huge pincers. And they move crazy fast. They should probably go extinct ASAP. I had seen this specific scorpion a few times in the prior couple weeks. At first I responded by avoiding the situation entirely: I slept outside on a raised platform where I hoped the scorpion could not get me. Unfortuantely it has since grown too cold to sleep outside. (Oh what I would give for the good ol' days of 100 degree nights!) One night it dropped into the upper 50s, which those of you have read The Tomato Paste Incident (September 2008 entry) will know is far too cold for a body grown accustomed to 120 degree scorchers that has lost 30 pounds of insulation. I began sleeping inside the night before the night I rid myself of this nasty specimen. That first night posed no problems. I neither saw the beast nor heard it scuttling about my one-room house. Somehow I fell asleep, and did not think about it at all the next day. However, that night, just as dusk was settling, I was sitting on my matela (a piece of cloth-covered foam used for sleeping by night and lounging by day) and writing in my journal when I heard a familiar faint scratching not far from me. I looked down and saw the gigantic heinous creature 18 inches from my hand, crawling between the wall and my matela. Its sickly brown, pointed legs were touching my matela... I sleep on that matela... Nasty. After shrieking, flailing, and fleeing the room, I regained my senses. Kind of. The creature had to die. I grabbed a big rock and re-entered the battleground. At first I didn't see it, which left me especially terrified: it could be anywhere, and it was about to become too dark to see properly. My room at this time was rife with objects under which the nasty bugger could hide (read: my room was a mess, as usual) and I began carefully picking up miscellaneous items. Then, I caught a glimpse of it in the distance. It hid behind my row of books in the corner. The rock would not fit between the books and the wall so I agitated the books and scared it out into the open. In the center of my room I carefully danced around it with the grace of an elephant avoiding a mouse. It successfully avoided several rounds of real-life Whack-A-Mole before disappearing once again.

I was reasonably convinced for a brief moment that this was in fact a magic scorpion that could make itself invisible because I have NO idea where it went. One second it was in the middle of the room running toward a corner, and the next, it was gone. I scoured the room in vain, carefully lifting each article of clothing and every book strewn about. At this point I was already half an hour late for dinner, so I decided to leave and to resume the hunt later, in the dark. During dinner my host family could tell I was gloomy, as could my sitemate, Jessica, and I relayed the story to all of them. My host mom became very solemn and serious – she obviously understood how terrifying magical scorpions can be. Jessica resolved to help me hunt after dinner. She had killed two scorpions during the year she already spent in Chinguetti, and she even sounded chipper when she added, “I like killing scorpions.” We returned to my house and re-searched the entire room. No scorpion. I would have just given up if I hadn't been so scared that this fiend would re-appear after I fell asleep and that it would snuggle up next to me in bed. I left the room to look again outside, and thank Allah, it appeared immediately. It was on a rocky bit of ground next to the kitchen. I wailed for Jessica to bring her scorpion-hunting prowess and, more importantly, the giant rock she was holding. “Holy cow, it's a huge one!” “Uh, yeah, I know. That's what I've been telling you all along.” She then dropped the rock on top of the scorpion, but the crafty little bugger had nuzzled up next to a rock on the ground and was safe in the small triangle between the rock Jessica threw, the rock on the ground, and the ground itself. That was when the scorpion made its fatal assumption. Over the course of the previous weeks I had whined and run away every time I saw the thing, and it had become arrogant. It thought it could scare me again. It also probably assumed we didn't have another rock. Actually, it probably just wanted to make a mad dash for its home, which involved running directly at Jessica and me. Jessica, who had been standing in front of me and who was now sans weapon, shrieked and backed into my chest. I grabbed another rock, and with a light in one hand and a rock in the other, I awkwardly ambled around my sitemate and came face-to-face with the beast. It continued to run directly at us. It chased us out of the rocky area and onto the smooth, sandy part of the yard. With a soft thud, the rock from my hand ended the monster's reign. I wish that were the end of the scorpion saga at chez-Carl. I naively assumed my scorpion days were over that night. If Jess had only killed two during a whole year, certainly I would not see too many more, right?One week ago I found another. It was stealthfully scrambling over the same rocky area where the first took refuge moments before its demise. The new one was much more moderate in size. It, however, ran the other way and scuttled into a crack the moment my light discovered it. I haven't seen it since. Hopefully it doesn't use its magical scorpion powers to snuggle with me at night.

Hypothetical situation: If someone decided to send me something via snail-mail, and that person asked me for mailing instructions, I'd first give them a address. I'd then tag on a request to write my address in red ink and draw Islamic religious symbols on the envelope or package. The new Peace Corps Mauritania Volunteers were told by former PCVs that Mauritanians are quite superstitious and that the mail service will not dare mess with any package that has been addressed as such. Nobody really knows if this is true anymore; it's just something that keeps getting passed down, and everyone keeps passing on those instructions to friends and family assuming that someone who knew this fact started the rumor, while of course acknowledging that there's a decent chance it doesn't make any difference at all. Here in Mauritania one encounters several habits and customs like this – customs that have been handed down for generations that nobody questions. That explains why my host mother, a traditional doctor, poured goat's milk into my host sister's eyes when my host sister complained of her eyes hurting. Her eyes have since digressed considerably (though doubtfully due to the milk), and she's going to Nouakchott, the country's capital, to see a regular doctor. She's lucky she has the means to do so. This same host mother once boasted of how “healthy” her diet was while she was pregnant with her youngest child. She ate plain couscous, and ONLY plain couscous, for the last seven months of the pregnancy. This may also explain why I listened to a mother scold her daughter, telling her not to use soap to wash her hands before eating because... the daughter was sick. I briefly asked for a clarification – surely I misunderstood something in my limited Hassaniye – only to have the mother repeat that she did not want her ill daughter to wash her hands with soap. Before I could ask any follow-up questions the mother left the room to bring in the meal. The encounter was especially alarming since we then all ate from a communal bowl with our hands, and this daughter sat immediately to my right. I carefully avoided making any facial expressions, but I also carefully avoided any bits of rice she may have touched.

In Mauritania this type of logical reasoning, this trust in someone who hopefully knows better, is especially apparent to individuals who have been inundated with scientific studies on nutrition and health. But these studies are not readily available here. Chinguetti has not even had electricity for the past month, how could one expect people to be up-to-date on the most current trends in diets and hygiene? After all, aren't those “theories” about “germs” and “vitamins” just western trends anyway? Furthermore, changes in patterns can be especially unnerving. If my “red ink” theory is accurate, and if someone sent a letter addressed in black or blue ink that did not come through, I would be heartbroken (if I ever find out about it). Changes in patterns can be risky. My host family in Rosso certainly agreed. They became uneasy one night during a lunar eclipse. Back in August we had a total lunar eclipse during a full moon. I watched it and kept expressing how cool and beautiful I thought it was. My host mother was horrified. In her limited French and my limited Hassaniye we had a very basic conversation: Host mother: Look at the moon. It's bad. Carl: Why is it bad? HM: Because, look at it. It's bad. C: But what's bad about it? HM: Because Allah did that. He's punishing us. We must pray now. It turns out that many PCVs had similar conversations with their host families that evening. And, sure enough, near the time they started praying, the eclipse began to recede. This only cemented the notion in their minds: Allah had been punishing them, and their praying helped solve the problem. Similarly, my belief in the mail superstition was only reinforced when I received a package from my parents that had been addressed in red ink and had an Islamic star and crescent on the top flap. I received the package just fine, so clearly my theory had worked, right? I should qualify this entire entry by stating that I am not trying to make Mauritanians out to be uneducated or uninformed peoples. Furthermore, I have since encountered many Mauritanians who understand perfectly the nature of “eclipses.” I will say though that it has made for some interesting encounters. After the eclipse, for example, I tried offering that “lunar eclipses” were natural phenomena that occurred when the Earth's shadow landed on the moon. Nope. That was clearly wrong. What a stupid American. Returning to the “red ink” theory: I have no idea if addressing packages in red or adorning them with Islamic symbols actually helps or not, but on the off-chance that it does, I wouldn't want to risk not getting a care package. I've only ever heard of one PCV not receiving a care package, and sure enough, this package had not been addressed in red ink. Again, this is far from any sort of empirical proof. But when accurate information is not cheaply and readily available, superstitions will take hold. Some are even accurate. My host mother told an extremely overweight woman who appeared to be suffering from diabetes that she should be more active and walk more often. Other times it results in goat's milk being poured into eyes. I have no idea if the “red ink” theory is one that happens to be true or not, but I'll continue endorsing it religiously.

If you are at all concerned about my safety here in Mauritania, perhaps you should skip this entry :) Traveling is always an experience in country, and it looks like I'll be doing my fair share of it over the next two years. Every three or four weeks I travel into Atar, my regional capital, to check e-mail, get mail, post on my blog, and re-stock foodstuffs not available in Chinguetti. This trip is marked by gorgeous scenery (see pictures above), but it still makes me a little nervous every time I hop into the back of a pickup truck (called a “taxi brousse” or “bush taxi”) already crammed full to begin the two-hour ride. Yes, I could sit in the cab, but I save $3 each way by sitting in the back. Totally worth it. Plus, there's more head room. The first and last thirds of the journey we travel at full speed through sandy Saharan plains. I'm sure I've ingested gallons of sand already, but as a friend said, “At least [my] skin gets exfoliated.” The middle third of the journey though is my favorite. Chinguetti is on a huge plateau, so to go from Atar to Chinguetti I travel up the side of some gorgeous mountains. Precariously perched in the back of the truck, which slows down to about 10 mph for this leg of the trek, I sit and soak up the beautiful scenery. This is another reason I love sitting in the back of the truck: the rock ledges feel close enough to reach out and touch (sometimes they are), the steep cliff to my right gives me a slight sense of vertigo, and the multi-colored rocks are different than anything I've ever seen before. Mauritanians look at me a little weird when I hop in the truck's bed. That's the budget way of traveling; as an American they tell me I surely have tons of money. It provides a good chance to explain Peace Corps and dispel rumors about Americans all driving around in Hummers and owning mansions. Even after explaining Peace Corps I still receive many confused glances. “Who is this kid?” They seem to be wondering. Sometimes they follow with questions that circumnavigate the question, “Are you a spy?” (“The United Stated government pays for you to come and live here, they purchase all your food, they pay for your language instruction, and you really expect to be called a 'volunteer'?” [Touché.] ) At the end of the day I arrive at my destination safe and sound, though typically quite dirty. It's fun! C'est la vie dans la Mauritanie... especially when all you've got is “bush taxi.”

I've received several questions about “Ramadan” and “fasting” and what that entails for me since I am not a Muslim, so I'm briefly going to explain the situation here. The holy month of Ramadan just ended, and during this month Muslims were fasting all day, every day. Fasting, though, doesn't just mean “not eating.” It means not drinking any liquids – yes, in the Sahara – and according to my host family not using sunscreen, chapstick, lotion or shampoo. You cannot use anything but regular unscented soap and water to wash your skin before you pray. It's intense. Then, at sundown, the call to prayer sounds, and my family breaks fast by eating fresh dates and drinking zrig (a combo of sugar, water, and milk), inshe (basically gravy, though not meat-based; in my opinion it's a little heavy after a whole day of not eating or drinking anything, but it contrasts the sweetness of the dates nicely), and bissap juice (basically kool-aid, but a little less artificial tasting. It kind of tastes like slightly fruity sugar cane juice). Then they pray for 40 minutes. This is followed by “snack”, which consists of some sort of starch and a little meat, and if you're lucky some veggies. Then they pray again. Finally they socialize for a few hours until “dinner”, which is almost always just plain coucous, though sometimes it has goat intestines on top. After dinner they sleep for a few hours and wake up either once or twice during the night to eat more. Often these meals involve zrig, rice, or more couscous. I originally planned to fast. I thought it would be a good way to show my “cultural solidarity”or something like that, as well as a general respect for Islam. I also figured that it the evening festivities would be a good chance to connect with families and to practice French and Hassaniye during my first month at site. However, I planned to drink water during the day. I knew it that meant I wasn't technically fasting, but I couldn't imagine not doing so. My body's already adjusting enough in this new environment, and I didn't want to cause it any unnecessary stress by dehydrating myself. I also didn't know at the beginning that one who is fasting isn't allowed to use sunscreen – and my fair-skinned self certainly uses sunscreen. So when I got to Chinguetti and told my family my plan, they basically said, “But that's not fasting.” It wasn't like, “Oh, you're trying to get to know our culture. Thanks for 'kind-of' fasting.” It makes sense, really. I mean, if you can't drink water all day in the Sahara, and some new American kid comes along and is like, “I'm going to fast too – except I'm not going to do the hardest part,” I could see getting a little irked. I proceeded anyway with my original plan, clandestinely consuming water in the privacy of my own compound. Then after a few days I got really sick, and my body wasn't really liking waking up every couple hours all night, and I was running every other morning meaning I was in need of even more calories, so I said, “Screw 'kind-of' fasting.”

I still didn't eat or drink at all in public, obviously (except for the minor incident of the tomato paste incident as detailed below), but since then I've enjoyed figuring out the market and discovering the limits of my simple kitchen. I now make a mean Brazilian rice and beans, and a pretty decent mac and cheese - an impressive feat without cheese or refrigeration. Who knew that if you heated condensed milk and added a splash of vinegar, the result would rival Kraft?

Before I get too far into this story, I want to share that the other morning I woke up at 5 am FREEZING cold. Later that day I found out another friend of mine had also awaken at that hour, and she had checked her thermometer. It was 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Some days the human body and its ability to adjust fascinate me.

Unfortunately my integration has not progressed quite as quickly as my body has adapted. This story is proof:

I moved to Chinguetti a few weeks ago, and thus far all has gone quite well. I found a place to live, met some neighbors, and still feel royally lost with Hassaniye. However, after being in Chinguetti for two days, my site mate told me she was leaving for two weeks. My site mate Jessica is the only other person here who speaks English. Most don't really speak French, either. The first morning after she left I worked up my courage and headed to the market. I was going to try to cook a simple bean, tomato, and onion mixture, and I just needed some tomato paste to hold it all together. The main three ingredients were going to be easy, and Jessica has assured me that tomato paste was easy to come by, so I headed for the nearest boutique. Unfortunately nobody was there. I called and greeted in the customary manner, and when no one answered I decided to wait it out until the shop owner came back. I saw the tomato paste sitting on a nearby shelf, picked up a small can, and kept waiting. Shortly thereafter a woman entered the store and she greeted me and asked what I wanted. I remembered Jessica telling me that this boutique was run by a brother and sister, so I thought perhaps this was the sister. I said I wanted the tomato paste, and that I was also wondering if there were any can openers. She gave me a funny look and asked what I meant. I motioned that I needed the can to be open, and asked how to do that. She left the store laughing.

Confused, I decided I would wait a few more minutes before finding another boutique. Within less than a minute the woman came back holding a knife and a rock. She took the paste from me, held the knife on one edge of the can, made a motion with the rock as if she were going to wail on the knife and said, “Like this?” I asked her if she could do it. I had never done opened a can with a rock and knife before.

Five seconds later I was covered in tomato paste. [There is a picture to prove it, but I'm still trying to figure out how to upload the picture. If there is a picture in this post, it worked. Otherwise, you'll have to believe me.]

Apparently tomato paste is canned under very high pressure, so whenever you open a can a fair amount squirts out the top. The woman was not fazed at all by this. So there I stood in the middle of the boutique without the shop owner (this woman had in the meantime told me she didn't own the boutique) covered in juices from an unpurchased can of tomato paste. I asked the woman if there was any water, to which she just said, “I don't know,” and she walked away. I started wiping the sticky substance off my face and licking my fingers, but then the woman came back over to me screaming. “Not good! Not good!” Was the tomato paste expired? “Eating is bad. It's Ramadan.” In trying to clean up I had committed a major faux pas: eating in public during Ramadan. So, I trekked back across town, taking mostly back allies and sidestreets so people would not see my tomato paste covered face. Many people stopped me and asked if I was hurt. “No, it's just tomato paste.” Finally, back at my compound I took this picture, cleaned up a bit and made my afternoon meal in the privacy of my home. I'm pleased to report that since then most daily activities have been far less eventful.

Well, as some of you may have heard on the news, Mauritania recently had a coup d'etat. It was bloodless, so us PCVs are fine, and the general Mauritanian attitude is something between moderately excited (the old administration wasn't too well liked), moderately annoyed ("This is not democracy," said my language instructor), and lethargic (three years ago there was a similar coup which was dubbed "The worst coup ever" because nobody really cared after it happened).

That same week I also got kicked out of my old host family's house. This was pretty unfortunate because I got along very well with my host mother and host siblings, and the conditions were comparatively pretty nice. Apparently my host father has been popping into Peace Corps and requesting more money each week -- which, by the way, is ridiculous considering how much they get paid. This is the first time that training has been held in this city, so these families have never worked with Peace Corps before. Apparently several families have been requesting more money. They see an organization affiliated with the US Dept of State and try to see if they can get more money because they don't realize that Peace Corps 1-isn't rolling in dough and 2-has a policy of not paying bribes. It all makes sense, I suppose. But then, when we all went on site visit, my host father showed up at Peace Corps irate that he was not getting as much money for hosting me during the week when I was not even there. He said that if Peace Corps was not going to pay him more I had to go. He then up and left for Nouakchott, the capital city, with his other wife. Peace Corps tried calling his bluff a few times -- after all, they are paying him quite well -- but he never answered his phone. So, when I got back from site visit, I had to leave. I never did see my host father again. Saying goodbye to my host-mother was difficult. Her two year old daughter grabbed my legs and squealed a bit, and my mother told me she was going to learn how to write so that she could write me letters.

Fortunately my new host mother is also very sweet. She is a nurse, and she has been feeding me quite well. After losing 25 pounds in the first month, I have now regained three of those pounds in the second! And she gives me salad often, while salad is typically a rare treat for PCVs here. Vegetables are expensive and Mauritanians don't eat many fresh foods. While I was perhaps a little spoiled by physical living conditions in the first household, the lack of electricity or water in the second will prepare me well for life in Chinguetti.

In any case things are going well, despite changes in host families and in national governments. Also, I was able to start Hassaniye class two weeks ago, so hopefully my limited skills in French and this dialect of Arabic together will be enough to get me through the first bit of service. I'll try to write at least once more before the end of training, which is only two short weeks away, and I'll also try to upload some pictures. Until then, ma asalaam (with peace).

After a month of learning French, living with a wonderful host family, and getting used to the humidity in Rosso, I am pleased to report that I know know where I will be stationed in country for the next two years: Chinguetti, an ancient holy city of Islam where I will work with tourism. However, that was not the original plan...

Last Monday we were told our site placements, and then Tuesday morning we were scheduled to take off and visit our sites for a week. I was told I would head to Aioun to work with the mayor on waste management. Aioun is a remote site with gorgeous scenery. I was a bit nervous about the fact that it would take two days to get anywhere else in country, but I was really excited about the work assignment, possible secondary projects, and the rocky cliffs surrounding the area that are ideal for hiking. Even though it is remote, it is a regional capital so it has water, electricity, and internet – all pluses.

However, Monday night/Tuesday morning I was awaken from my mosquito net and told my coordinator had to speak with me. Standing in my boxers I was told that my site had been changed. I was now going to Chinguetti. They always told us we would need to be flexible... I guess this is just proof.

Chinguetti is a pretty city surrounded by picturesque sand dunes and the Sahara. It is farther north, meaning it's hotter but much less humid. Plus, since it is situated on a plateau, there is a cool season when ostensibly it drops below freezing at night. It is arguably the premier tourist destination in Mauritania, but it still very much has a small-town feeling to it. The city that currently stands was founded in 1066 AD, but there are older parts to this city that have been covered in sand over the years.

This should be a great site, but there is no internet access, meaning I will check only check e-mail each time I hope a ride to Atar, the local regional capital. I assume this will be AT LEAST once or twice a month, but we'll see how things work out.

Well, that's it for now. Check back soon for pictures. Drop me an e-mail if you get a chance to let me know how you're doing.

I'm pleased to say I arrived in Mauritania nearly 24 hours ago. The other 76 Peace Corps Mauritania Trainees and I (we're technically "Trainees" until we swear in as full-fledged "Volunteers" on August 28) have braved one night out on the sand -- though we were still within the walls of our compound so the verb 'brave' might be a bit strong -- we enjoyed three rather tasty meals, and we spent most of our time hiding from the ubiquitous sun. At first I had hoped to be placed in a region further south because I was under the impression that the north was desert and, as a fair-skinned individual, I figured it would be a good idea to avoid that if possible. A Volunteer who has been here a year corrected me shortly after I arrived: "It's all desert here, friend." He's right. We're in Rosso, which is on the southern border with Senegal, but it's certainly desert here. I guess I'm glad I have so much SPF 80 sunscreen!

This morning we learned greetings in four local languages: Hassaniya, Pulaar, Wolof, and Soninke. Hassaniya is the local dialect of Arabic, spoken mostly by the more historically nomadic, conservative Moors who reside primarily in the northern part of the country. It is the national language, too. The other three are tribal languages. Pulaar is a variation of Fula, which is spoken all throughout West Africa, while Wolof and Soninke are primarily spoken in Mauritania, Senegal, and The Gambia. I'm not sure which language I'll be assigned to yet (after improving my French a bit), but I'll certainly keep you posted -- unless I end up in a rural region without much access to internet, which is of course a possibility.

Perhaps one unfortunate bit of news is that our subscriptions to Rosetta Stone French were discontinued when we arrived. Good thing I put in the hours when I did, I suppose; honestly I really enjoyed the program and anticipated using it as a study tool whenever I had free time and internet access. A friend of mine has the program for Arabic, so I may tap into that resource if I end up learning Hassaniya. I still haven't figured out how similar Arabic and Hassaniya are. The alphabets are the same, the greetings are identical, and they are certainly related languages, but it sounds like there might be some significant differences, too.

If you have any questions about anything, feel free to shoot me an e-mail. I should have semi-consistent internet access through at least Thursday. We'll see where I end up at that point.

There's about one week left until I take off. The past week afforded me several opportunities to visit friends and family, which was wonderful. I even made it down to Luther over the weekend. My bags are now packed. I have a few final errands to run and a bit of paperwork to accomplish, but all in all I'd say I'm nearly ready to go.

Feel free to shoot me an e-mail to update me about your life whenever you get the chance. I should acquire a cell phone and a mailing address once on-site, so hopefully staying in contact will not be as daunting an obstacle as it once was for Peace Corps Volunteers (that's my passive way of reiterating that you should keep in touch). Thanks again for all your thoughts, prayers and support. Wish me luck with French, Arabic, and whichever local languages I get to learn. I tried to learn a few basic phrases in Arabic this week. It's hard! For now I should probably focus on French anyway since the State Department subscribed us to the fantastic Rosetta Stone program and I haven't studied French much before now. Let's hope the learning curve is steep.

Bonne chance a tous mes amis qui cherchent au travail ou qui commencent de nouveaux emplois! (Good luck to all my friends who are looking for work or who are starting new jobs!)