Thanks to a slew of incidents and probably a massive flood of parental concern hitting the levy of Washington that separates us from the States we have been offered IS here in Mauritania. For those of you not in the Peace Corps vernacular that means Interrupted Service. What this really means is the option to just go home and receive at least half the credit of a completed service. Through many miles of deliberation, my mind wandered and I could not justify taking the offer to return home. Although I have a number of problems here in Mauritania, I don't feel as though I am finished with this place or this place is finished with me. I believe that I could still leave a lasting impact here. I want to be here and that's actually a change I did not see coming. The feeling of ownership has finally hit me here and I can't leave all the good relationships I've built among Mauritanians and American volunteers. In total we lost 21 volunteers and without the incoming class--a whole different blog--we are reduced to only 47 volunteers at present. It will be a long kinda lonely year, but we have the resolve and fortitude to stick it out.

Well the vacation in Mali was absolutely incredible! What an amazing country with development in mind and the improvement of it's peoples' lives at the heart of their purpose. The contrast between Mauritania and Mali is so amazing that it blows the mind. Mark McMurray, a region mate of mine, and I left Mauritania on May 21 and arrived in Dogon shortly after the 30th of May became the 31st of May. Dogon is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, been in, be blessed to walk through. If you happen to find yourself in West Africa at anytime in your life it is an absolute must that you explore this ancient and incredible region of the world. The people of this region live almost as they did 500 years ago. Mark and I ventured our way back to Bamako where we had tickets waiting to see my first professional soccer match. A world cup qualifier between Mali and Ghana filled its billing as an intense spectacle of sport. 65,000 crazed soccer fans made the concrete of the stadium pulsate with their own anxieties. Although Ghana won, 2-0, the experience was an amazing one indeed! As for the partying aspect, Bamako proved to be all it has been hyped to be, I was in no way disappointed with the options available for food or drink; a kick ass town!

 It's all my fault to be honest, leaving site for such a stretch. Whenever I do come into town, the kids like to play 'what can we throw in the Nassaranis' window?' Usually it's just a bunch of random trash, maybe a used battery or two. This past period away brought a new step in their determination to make me miserable in the clean up phase. This time around the little bastard boys decided to leave me a dead cat in my room. I'm not sure how long it had been there, but I would venture to say over a week. In spirits of comedy I gathered the dead cat with a shovel, walked out into the sand dune and flung the decomposing body.  Since I haven't had a tolerable toilet since December I have been using the sands as my own liter box. Each night I wander out, dig a little hole, do the deed and bury it. On this particular moment of need I ventured to my usual spot, undid my chiyas and began to rid my body of the rice and beans we had for lunch that day. With the gentle night breeze came a horrific smell. I looked around trying to locate where it might be coming from. I looked behind my squatting legs and noticed that I had just pooped on the dead cat I had flung earlier that afternoon. Just makes me love Africa that much more. Ha. 

So I must apologize to everyone for being such a lax writer.

Things have been going along as well as can be expected, the village life is just a little tougher than I had originally thought it ever would be. I'm just breathing and that's the best form of success. As for my projects, well they are planned and now I'm starting to beg for money. It would be so much easier if we could tap into the developmental money set aside from our own government, but alas we in the PC have to beg instead our family and friends, dah well.

I really wish I had more to say, but at present I'm just drained. I promise to get a few more typed out asap.

Here in Mauritania you hear it in every boutique, on every market street, each corner where dirt paths converge; today is election day in the U.S. If you're living there you know how important this election is for the American public, economy and status in the world. I'm in one of the poorest most remote locations in the world and even here they know how important this election is. A large majority of the world's financial and humanitarian aide comes in the form of U.S dollars. Although the European Community is beginning to contribute more and more and bringing the variance within reach, America is still the most generous nation in the world. The people here who are receiving these funds know how valuable the American contribution is. I hope you all considered how important international assistance is and how it is truly the cornerstone of diplomacy. Making this as one of your important issues to think about when voting is an investment in the peace and security of our collective future.

Just a little update on what I've actually accomplished...

Well to be honest, not a whole hell of a lot. The first month was spent just trying to figure out how to live. The rhythms of life, the functions of the people, the responsibilities of each family and the members within it. Language is still a very sturdy barrier, that received much attention in the early goings as it will continue to receive such attentions.

I've made some good relations in the villages so far, not as many as I'd like, but I'm the first white person to live there, so it will take a little longer to move past the novelty of my presence. I've finally gotten most of the kids to stop being afraid of me. Since I'm the tallest person in the village by nearly a head have a heavy tendency to gawk and the giant white thing. I know that it will all come in time-pray for some patience to come my way.

My first project will be to establish a tree nursery. As far as I can tell, the biggest problem is the lack of tree coverage. Minimal shade, lets the sun bake the soils of their gardens into useless dust. Also with a lack of trees the winds have the few vegetables at their mercy and are bringing the sand dunes down from the north. I hope to have a significant number of trees growing successfully for the next volunteer to instruct the people in their various uses.

Hopefully a well project will follow the nursery. With the rapid growth of the 4 neighborhoods that comprise my little slice of the world, the water supply will be outpaced relatively soon. By getting a well constructed in the next year, hopefully we can buy some time for villages to address this problem themselves without the twinge of resource competition challenging their judgments.

Whatever come after that is yet to be thought of and seen, but I'm sure I'll get bored enough and think of some other cool, back braking activities to throw myself into.

October 2nd

This admission enters only because it is the type of thing I will laugh at later and you will hopefully laugh at now.

Last night a major wind and lighting storm descended on us, not by any means out of the ordinary. As usual it drove the animals into close proximity to my part of the village. My house and sleeping hangar, being the first ring of structures as you enter into the village, is one of the most assaulted by the scratching donkeys.

The donkeys love rubbing against the corners of my hangars low tin roof, both damaging it and making a God awful racket. After about the 6th ass took choice in scratching itself at my displeasure I got up to shew away the ones that I could see near. They all scattered when the unintentioned rock was thrown near them, but one. That One had the audacity to stand there waiting for me to leave. I strolled over to it, thing it would run, it didn't. The Ass just stared at me; saying to me, "What are you gonna do about it, biped?"

A flash of memory from Blazing Saddles struck me and I pulled a Mongol. Throwing a right-cross into the left side of the donkeys' face. God it felt good! It stumbled and back tracked away.

--That's right donkey, that's right! I think I'm crackin'.

Truly one of the greatest experiences of my life has come to an end. I came to my little village of PK10 a complete stranger and I'm leaving as a genuine family and community member. The kindness and joy we have share is incredible. i couldn't even begin to express my appreciation and love for my host family. For them to be willing to move out of their small home and live under the hangar--the local name for the relatively large communal tent--for two months, giving a total stranger their one solid structure to hide and rest in is an incredible act of generosity that I believe you'd be hard pressed to find anyone in the states willing to do that; truly immeasurable. There was a tear as I got in the taxi to return to Rosso for the completion of the training phase. The laughs we have made together--mostly at my expense as a result of not having solid language skills--will resonate in my mind through the toughest days here in Mauritania. As I left my host mom, Mbarka, I called to her, "Ma-isselam Daedda." (Peace be with you mom.) She smiled and called me her son through the heaviest of sobs. If there is anything I can do to ever repay Mbark, Alione (my host father) and Mighin (my host brother), it will be to work as hard as I can for the people of Jeddah and at least begin the process of development there. I have never known such genuine hospitality and warmth, so much welcome here that it embarrasses southern hospitality's claim as the best. The day before I left, the youngest of the children in my host family--oddly enough, named Mama, 3 years old--had been saying all afternoon, "Ibrahim, ma masshi." (Ibrahim, don't go._ After lunch I lay down for the usual afternoon nap, with the wonderful sense of familial love wrapping me. I'm not sure how long I had been asleep before I woke to an odd tickling at the bottom of my right foot. I had half-woken and begun to watch Mama's diligent work. The little 3 year old had gotten the rope used to tie our family's donkey at night and retied it to the center post of the hangar. She had then turned her attention to my foot. As best as a little girl could tie a rope, my foot was attached to the family tent. When Mama had finished, she ran to Mbarka and proudly announced that I wouldn't be able to leave. Mbarka and I shared a warm smile of understanding over Mama's hugging shoulders. I could have never imagined that I would have touched them as deeply as they have touched me. There was some part of me that wanted that rope to stay attached, but in all honesty there will always be a cord back to that home, running straight from the deepest part of my heart.

My name is Ibrahim and it's an honor. Here in the little town of PK10, Mauritania--named for the number of kilometers along the main southern highway, moving from Rosso to Nouakchott--I have been blessed to live with an incredible family. My host country mother, Mbarka is a wonderful and warm woman, who has shared her family and life with me. She is the language teacher at the one room school that this little community is so proud to have. My host father, Alioune is a farmer, working the extensive rice paddies that consume the back country of this little village. In the periods when the sun and soil is functioning as God intended, he spends he days bringing in the catch from the Senegal River. I have eight siblings, the oldest, Mighin-19-is a student at the university in Rosso and an incredibly intelligent young man. Each day I wake to the enthusiasm of my youngest brother, Ahmed-5-bringing me my morning breakfast of peanuts and the Mauritanian specialty, tea. After our breakfast together, Ahmed and I walk the kilometer or so to class, hand in hand. I spend the next seven hours in a very intense language study; Hassaniya is an offshoot of classic Arabic that developed as the Moors moved west across northern Africa. Hassaniya presents a tremendous amount of difficulty for an anglophone; the formation of the sounds necessary in the language are certainly sounds I've never before imagined I'd be uttering. By the end of each session my brains is swimming in a flood of new knowledge and my tongue cramped as if it had just lapped a marathon. It is a true mental workout to learn a new language through the use of my second language, French. Frustration is constantly my afternoon companion as inevitably there are sections of each language session that I struggle greatly with. As I return home; like the perfect silver Maple it its fall dress at home in Ft. Thomas, I'm welcomed home with calm and comfort. My family here understands my struggle and wants nothing more than for my fellow trainees and I to succeed. I've been privileged to share this training site with eight others; Ava Lambrecht of Delano, MN, Marta Grabowski of Chicago, IL, Tim Meadors of Cumberland MD, Katherine Monser of Missoula, MT, Mike Kelley of Stonboro, PA, Seth Luxenberg of New City, NY, Jessica Farley and Janna Sargent, both of Seattle, WA. Together we have made friends of each other and friends in our community. There is much to understand and learn, but one thing I've not had to question or worry about is the strength of family. Love and compassion is the same, regardless of language, location or culture.

Toto, wasn't lying! I have never in all my 24 years of life seen anything like the rains here in Africa. My fellow trainees and I finished our daily work in the garden around 8:30 pm; as we were all circled discussing the days accomplishments and the plans for the next days work, I noticed a large cloud mass coming from the eastern horizon. The clouds were black, but not the typical dark clouds of home that signify a major rainstorm approaching. This mass of ominous coloration stretched from ground to sky, pieces of tan and topee began whizzing by our collective heads at an incredible rate. When we arrived in Mauritania we were informed of the approaching rainy season and the dangers of the weather. We had been taught that major sandstorms typically preceded major rains and to be very weary of the sandstorms. The were described to us as a "20 story wall of sand." Since I had heard such a description, I had tried to envision what this might look like; I didn't need to imagine anymore. One of my site mates had left her water bottle at the garden, and since my house was the closest to hers out of the rest, I was honored with the responsibility of returning it to her. As I approached her residence I could see the moving wall a few kilometers outside of town. Believing that I had enough time to make it the 100 meters from her house to mine and back again. I decided to hustle over and return the bottle--very stupid decision. As I made it to her front door, the sand began to fly in perfect streak formation. She opened up the door; I tossed the bottle in and turned around to return home. My host mom's voice could be heard against the strong wind, screaming at me to get inside my house and shut the windows. Even though I've lost 25 lbs thus far, I still hold a significant mass and thought that I could manage the short distance back. As I crested the little hill that separated our houses a gust of wind came from behind me with such force that I was pressed to the ground. I couldn't even begin to guesstimate the strength of that blast of wind, but I am certain of the amount of pain the accompanying sand caused to my skin. As if every inch of exposed skin was at the mercy of a sand belt, I crawled toward the heap of timber that was stacked near the little mud-oven bakery so I could have a chance at least to stand up and make it the last 20 meters to my door. Fight as I could against the sand coming now at me horizontally, I was able to lean into the wind to avoid being pushed back down and awkwardly 'walk' to my front door. The wind slamming it behind me was a reminder of the infantic existence we have with Mother Nature. No sooner than I cleaned layers of sand batter from my sweat soaked face and neck did the rain begin. The most beautifully intense pounding of sweet cold water turned the sand surrounding my house into a moat of slushy mud. Our entire village became a flooded sandbox in a matter of five minutes. Torrents of rain beat down upon everything with hammerous sounds. As the sheets began to subside into a manageable deluge, I ventured outside to marvel and pay my my respects to the awesome power that are "the rains down in Africa!"

When your house falls down, it's a bit hard to cope easily. I've taken a little break from the rigors of being a PCV. My vacation in Boghe has not gone without work however. Teresa Winland and I have built a flower garden as well as a substantial vegetable garden. Thank god, for christmas we may have some corn ready for harvest and can enjoy the fruits of our labors. Also down here we have Mark McMurray, a lively spirited young fella from Virginia. I'm truly blessed and fortunate to have a great crew of PCV's 2008 to spend the next two years with, working through language barriers, frustrations and sharing joys with.