So, as some of you know, I've decided to accept the offer of interrupted service. I'm not sure yet when I'll be coming home, nut I'm already starting to wrap things up around here. I've been going through my stuff, deciding what will go to whom, cleaning and organizing like mad, preparing to battle my landlord this morning. My housing contract states that we agreed upon a rent price for 2 years, but that if I decide to leave the house I must give 30 days notice. So, I'm going to end up paying through August 4th, but that's fine. My landlord just requested that we go to the police together at 11 today so they can mediate. They witnessed the original signing of the contract and I really hope all goes smoothly so I can leave here on good terms.

Anyway, I'm pretty frazzled at the moment, so I'm not feeling so creative. I did happen to find an unfinished blog draft from a while ago, so I'll share it now:

"Walking around in sandals, covered by yards of fabric, I sometimes feel like one of the felt board Bible characters from Sunday school when I was a kid. Times like today when the rest of my service here stretches out ahead of me like an endless walk to town on trash-filled streets. The hot wind kicks up, bringing the smell of rotting carcass to my nose. I do the one-finger-bookshelf-dust-check in my ear and find a layer of grit so tangible that it rolls into a thin brown wad on my finger. I don't even want to think about the lines on my neck (or what my ankles look like, for that matter). I wonder what it was like for Jesus, wandering around the desert as a human. Could he really have known everything and still have been human? Isn't part of being human dealing with disappointments, surprises and unexpected changes of plan? Did he ever have a sick day where he just couldn't make it out of bed to do the miracle he'd planned? Or an off-day where he got ripped off at the market, and then no one would listen to his speech. Or maybe they listened but didn't pay attention. Maybe some guy in the front row stood up and left half-way through to see about a new camel saddle. Did he ever go home after a hard day and close himself up in a room to cry and pull out his hair? Did he ever trip on a rock and break his sandal, forcing him to walk the rest of the way with one bare foot on scorching sand? Or step on a thorn so big it punctured all the way through and made his foot bleed? What word escaped his lips at the sudden pain?"

I think what I was trying to get at is that I have a very different perspective of Biblical times, having lived in a harsh climate so similar to what it may have been like. With this new understanding I've been re-reading the stories of my childhood and really putting myself in their places. It's fascinating. Ironically enough, as I read Exodus, the story of Israel's escape from slavery in Egypt, the plagues (8 of the 10 can be found here from time to time) and Pharaoh's final release... I find myself once again living a somewhat parallel story. Okay, so not that grandiose or miracle-filled, but think about it--I've at last been given a pardon of sorts that lets me escape a land of oppression and plagues to a homeland filled with milk and honey.

Now all I've gotta do is cross the Red Sea.

Lily and I have super powers. Well, I guess, to be honest, they’re not so much “super” as just slightly-better-than-normal powers. Lily can predict storms. It’s got something to do with the drop in barometric pressure and she’s usually about 20 minutes ahead of the giant orange sand cloud. Her power really comes in handy here—especially at night, when you can’t see the storm building on the Northeastern horizon. Usually an extremely sound sleeper (I once watched her dog run across her face without budging her), Lily will sit up out of a dead sleep and say, “It’s coming.” This usually gives us plenty of time to pack up our sleeping gear, bolt all the windows closed and get inside as opposed to waking up as the wall of sand begins to pelt you, threatening to destroy anything that isn’t cemented down. My power is a little different. If you’ve seen the first season of Heroes then you know about the artist who paints scenes of the future. A while ago I thought it would be fun to draw my own comic strip—a little tongue-in-cheek homage to my time here as a volunteer. It was called “The Horrors and Harrows of Life in Mulafa Land” and featured little blobular people accidentally lighting themselves on fire, getting run over by donkey carts, chased by animals, etc. When the story lines started coming true I decided it was time to put away the colored pencils. What fun is a flaming mulafa when a 12-year-old girl suffers third degree burns? My power can’t be stopped that easily though. Even though I’ve resigned myself to drawing about only minor annoyances (cockroaches, sandstorms, God’s judgement in Deuteronomy 28:19-24), it’s found a way to manifest itself in my dreams. For a while now, since before we had any idea of the trouble the new PC invitees would have getting visas, I’ve been having dreams about the end of Peace Corps Mauritania. At first I chalked it up to Mefloquine side effects, but the situation here continues to spiral downwards and now those dreams seem more and more likely. I can’t have an opinion on the political situation here, but I can say that a lot rests in the balance in these coming months. The election, which has been pushed back to mid-July, will determine how other countries see Mauritania, and the person who is elected will decide how Mauritania views the rest of the world, including the US. And then there’s the visa situation. Will we get new volunteers to work alongside, to whom we can pass along our projects? No one is sure. All we know is that the storm is on its way, but there is no way to predict its intensity or its after-effects. Will we have to pack our things and run for cover or will it be light shower we can sit through before normalcy returns? All we can do at this point is wait and hope for the best.

So I'm back in Mauritania after a whirlwind trip to DR (Congratulations Todd and Rachel! Your wedding was beautiful and the lightning only made it that much more exciting!). Despite an excess baggage fee of 450 Euros (Lindsey is going head to head with Air France for me), and nearly getting deported (for real!), I am here. And sort of glad to be. Really, I'm finding small things to be happy about. Like the way the Neem trees in Nouakchott are all blooming right now and so for once the city smells something you could describe as lovely! The tiny, delicate, white blossoms look like baby daffodils and smell like lilacs (my favorite!). Aleg doesn't have enough Neem trees to smell as fragrant, but there was a clean/smoky type smell in the air today that suggested something like wood was being burnt rather than charcoal or dead animals. What's making me most happy though, is having my little Brookstone travel clock/calendar/thermometer. I can know what the temperature is any time I want now!

When I got home on Thursday evening I was greeted by Lily and so-happy-to-see-me-she-piddled Soeur (Lily's puppy). Almost everyone else in in St. Louis for Jazz Fest right now. Lily informed me that the water had been off for 2 days at that point (it has yet to come on) and that the power has, of course, been off and on as well. But we both rejoiced that it was cool out, eating dinner outside and noting that Brookstone said it was 90 degrees. The next morning I woke up cold around 5:30am and saw that it had dipped below 90 during the night and was inching its way past 88 as the sun came up. Around 11:30am I wimped out at 118 degrees and crawled into my tent with the fan on to read. I passed out and woke up at 3:30pm to find that it was 131 degrees (probably the peak for the day).

All these temperatures may not fascinate you as they do me, and despite the warning many of you gave me that I wouldn't want to know, don't be surprised if every future blog enty I make comes with a weather report. I'm not sorry. You have movie theaters, libraries, art galleries, BARS, public parks, TV, etc. to entertain you. I have a stack of books (courtesy of the Grace cousins and my sister) AND my thermometer. It is enough to keep me content for the next 14 months and 18 days... I hope.

Current weather: 96.5 degrees inside, not a cloud in sight

45 minutes: The amount of time I spent waiting for Telba in his air-conditioned office, after 4 phone calls to arrange a meeting with him, and a final promise of "I'll be there in 3 minutes". Although my water bottle was empty, I was more than glad to be out of the 130 degree sun for a while.

45 minutes: The amount of time it took me to fill all the buckets last night, when the water came on at midnight.

45 seconds: The amount of time it took the water I splashed on my face, neck, chest and back to dry after I'd finished filling the buckets

45 minutes: The amount of time it took me to calm down and get back to sleep after a 2-inch shadow, terrifyingly reminiscent of my recurring Mefloquine nightmare, ran across the roof of my mosquito net and down the side. It turned out to be a cockroach--thankfully on the outside of the tent this time.

4.5 hours: The amount of useless down time during the hottest part of the day, where I can't even nap because of the sweat puddle created when my head touches the pillow.

Why am I awake writing this? It’s been one of those nights—thankfully they aren’t too frequent—where at some point I realize there is no way I’m getting any sleep. Sometimes it’s due to vivid Mefloquine nightmares involving things crawling on my mosquito net or dropping onto my face. Tonight it was reality. I recently lost a cat that had been an excellent hunter, both of mice and large insects. Over the past week I’ve come to see just how much he did to keep the cockroach population under control in the douche (latrine). Their numbers have increased exponentially, ballooning in an outpouring of unbelievable numbers during the last day. With the help of Lily, and for a while Dave, we battled in that douche with cans of Yotox, a foul-smelling, surely carcinogenic spray, bleach, a strange chalk they sell here that promises to poison roaches that walk through it “in one to two hours”, flip flops and a shovel. An hour’s time made it clear that we were losing the battle, despite the 100+ bodies in and around the douche. I’d already resigned to using the yard as my toilet some days ago, but now the awful bugs were making an endless exodus into the shower, the yard and the house. Tomorrow, we said, tomorrow we’ll try this icky black grease that Peace Corps gave us during training called Gresil Noir. But for tonight, I set my tent up around the corner of the house, in the farthest point from the douche. After carrying my net outside I saw a sizable roach on the outside and killed it, hoping to myself that none of its siblings made it through the not-so-challenging entrance. My zipper is broken, and I’ve been trying to order a replacement tent from REI’s website, but it turns out the model I have has been discontinued. So for now I either clip the opening shut with clothespins (takes a long time and lets lots of bugs in), or drape an ill-fitting PC issue hanging-style net over the opening. I could just use the hanging net, but it’s getting much too hot to sleep inside. Anyway, I settled in with a book, headlamp and iPod, as usual, and started to drool my way to sleep. I awoke to a sharp poke on my left arm and reaching across with my right arm, felt the unmistakable texture of a large, round form with stiff, brush-like legs. I screamed, and in under a second had found my light and began slamming the bug with my book. In order to kill it I had to mash its body into my bedding using Three Cups of Tea, which, if you read my last blog, still has dried dog vomit on it. I didn’t cry right away. I tried to calm myself by putting on my iPod but the battery was almost dead. I hung my headlamp from the top of my net, hoping to discourage any other roaches that might be hiding in my bed from making an appearance. I tried to read on in my book, but the scene kept replaying in my mind and I thought about how I was probably touching the place on the book where its guts squished out. “That was one,” I thought, recalling a deal I made with myself several months ago. I’d spent another sleepless night after seeing a snake in the douche and then a scorpion in the yard that literally scared me sh**less. I decided back then that I should give myself a limit, since daytime challenges seem to be surmountable and it’s the nighttime ones that threaten my sanity. Three things in one night—that would be my limit. The snake and scorpion were two, if that prowler had chosen the same night rather than a different one to invade my yard… I’d have been done. So tonight was one, and even though I’m now inside, resigned to spending the rest of the dark hours awake, the thought that brought tears to my eyes was, “is this really worth it? Is anything I’m doing making enough of a difference for me to be here, teetering on the edge of my sanity?” Times like this I don’t know. I pray that I am. I pray and cry and grit my teeth, pulling my new kitten close, hoping that I will find some way to make it through all the nights it will take to grow her into something that can protect me. Hell, if I make it through this night alone, that will be a miracle.

I’ve been dog-sitting this week while Lily is in Morocco. Soeur is a generally adorable and well-behaved puppy, although she’s still quite young and doesn’t like to be left alone. I’d been planning a weekend trip to Nouakchott for a while, hoping to stock up on supplies and go to Easter mass at the Catholic church. Lily and I agreed that I would take Soeur with me for the weekend and she left me some cash so I could buy her a seat in the taxi. This meant that rather than an obese Moor woman, I’d have a smallish 30 lb puppy on my lap during the three-hour trip to the capital—maavi mushkile (no problem)! She happily enjoyed the view out the window for a while and every now and then did her best to come between me and Three Cups of Tea, my current read. About an hour into the trip she started making a noise I thought was the hiccups, which she usually gets once a day, but these were a bit more violent than normal. All of a sudden she opened her mouth wide and out came what looked like an entire can of wet dog food… right onto my lap. Stunned, I turned to Melissa, who was heading to Nouakchott as well, and said, “Soeur just puked on me,” as if it were another camel crossing the road. She came to her senses more quickly and told the driver to stop. He didn’t listen at first, and then the two men sharing the front passenger seat turned and saw what must be the most unclean substance known to Muslims and forced the driver to pull over. Luckily it wasn’t very moist and it didn’t get on the seat (which could have gotten us booted from the car). I was able to shake it off and then rinsed the front of my grand boubou with water from my bottle. Melissa asked me if I wanted to change, but I said no, we’d better get going. We’d already left town an hour and a half later than planned. I figured her little stomach was empty at this point—how much food can a puppy hold? Apparently more than that. Another half hour or so later she started making that same sound again. I quickly picked her up and aimed her face out the window and then in a split second envisioned vomit all over the side of the car, vomit flying back in through the open window, and I knew I had to take one for the team. I pulled her close to my chest, leaned over, and weathered the storm. It was worse the second time. I had to change my clothes on the side of the road while Mauritanians stood by and muttered about the Nasraniye and her dog. Once we were going again the driver cracked his window open a bit so he could spit out splinters of the toothbrush stick he was chewing on. He missed. A wad of saliva, plaque and splinters hit my cheek. I started to laugh. “Need to blow your nose? ‘Cause I’m here,” I joked to Melissa. “At least it didn’t go in my mouth… I do have some standards left.” If you’re wondering about the title, I tried to send out a text about what had happened, but my phone didn’t recognize “Soeur” or “puke” – it came out “Poets just ruled on me!”

Somewhere across town the first prayer call breaks the dark silence around 4:30am and is soon interrupted and overlapped by mosques scattered in every direction. Each one seems to have their clock set to a different time, so the calls stretch on for several minutes. I am half-conscious. I know that the mosque next door has yet to sound, and that the caller seems to have a cold these days. As he coughs and rasps “Allah ekbar…” stopping to clear his throat, I take comfort in the fact that I have an hour until my alarm will go off, and roll over, pulling my fuzzy blanket around my shoulders. I run before dawn for two reasons: to beat the heat and to avoid being seen in pants. Some of the other female volunteers have been called “Hobara” for being out after sunset, so I do whatever I can to maintain what’s left of my reputation. During the day I often wear mulafas, which are floor-length veils that leave only your face, hands and feet uncovered. Lately I’ve been experimenting with more Western (yet still appropriate) clothes to see how I’m treated. So far it’s been alright, but I do get more attention, more calls of “Nasraniya, ha!” (Hey, white girl!), and I get ripped off more often at the market. Being seen running… and in pants… that wouldn’t be so good. Even though I try to get out and back early I’ve still startled the occasional man on his way to the mosque. For this reason I wear a short sarong to cover my hips, and, more importantly, the place where my legs meet (gasp!). Amanda and Ashley run a little later than I do, but they bring mulafas with them to put on over their running clothes on the way back.

To get to the raised gravel road that runs a horseshoe around the edge of town I take a 7 minute walk, winding between houses, past the high school and Ministry of Education. I pass the slaughtering field where goats and the occasional cow or camel are cut open, drained, skinned and put into the trunks of old Mercedes to be sent to the market and mishui stands where swarms of flies wait to land. Remarkably, it doesn't smell bad there. It's a little farther down the trail where some unseen carcass is left rotting, the smell threatening to turn my stomach inside out (good thing I haven't eaten breakfast yet).

This raised path is the only suitable place to run--not too public, and not scattered with the softball-sized rocks that sit on the parched desert pavement around the high school and Ministry of Education. Trying to run before you reach the path can be treacherous. Especially when you are wearing cheaply made, oversized sneakers that have "A B C Zidane 2007" written on them.

I found these shoes, awful in so many ways, among the faux leather men's sandals sold in town, and paid about $4 for them... it was probably too much. The selection of women's shoes is reflective of the local female culture. You have two choices: the pastel foam-plastic half-moccasin that seems to have been formed in a mold, and the open-toed mule with a spectrum of gaudy embellishments. The first would seem to be comfortable yet frumpy (in a Crocs kind of way), yet I've been told that they are surprisingly painful to wear, and a preferred hideout for scorpions (you always see the women who wear them kicking them a few times before slipping them on). And if those are uncomfortable, I can only imagine trying to wear heeled mules in sand. No wonder women have to waddle so slowly down the street.

With all these obstacles holding me back, I find it even easier to give in to that voice telling me to sleep in... "you can run tomorrow!" But on days like today, when I've made it out and back, and done sit-ups and pilates, I feel like I've already accomplished something before the sun was even up. That is what gives me the energy to face the rest of my day.

It's long overdue, I know, but here are some pictures of one of my recent projects--a tree nursery seminar in a village called Lekraa about an hour from Aleg. The women of this co-operative are especially welcoming and always send me home with bags of their monstrous produce. Sadly the last three volunteers sent to this site terminated their service early for one reason or another, so this deserving community must rely on visiting volunteers for help. To see the rest of the photos from my presentation click here.

That's what I've been up to lately. The last time Mike was here he pointed out a vacant lot that is a goldmine of cow poop, so I've been taking rice bags I find on the ground and filling them there to bring home as fertilizer for tree planting. I try to go at dusk or early morning because it does look a little weird (even though there's nothing I can do to not look weird in general). A couple days ago I was walking through town to go to the office and I noticed a huge pile of freshly cut Neem branches. Neem is known locally as "Kinin" which derives from the French name, "Quinine" -- you may recognize the name as a Malaria remedy, and this tree is where the medicine is derived. As an EE volunteer, I was taught to boil the leaves to make mosquito repellent cream and soap. I couldn't just let all those useful leaves and wood (it's extremely hard to find good wood here) go to waste... so I did what only a crazy Nasrani would do, and hefted a small tree's worth onto my shoulder and continued down the road. Doing odd things turns out to be a good teaching tool. My walk home took about three times as long as it normally would have because I had to stop at every open doorway to respond to "dhlaak shinhu?" (what is that?), "shi tadel-ik?" (what are you doing?) and some inquisitive stares. Women don't carry heavy or cumbersome things here, they hire donkey carts. Also, only children drag sticks around, what would an adult want with a bunch of them? Each time I explained that I had found these branches on the road and planned to use them to make mosquito repellent, I got choruses of relieved "Ohhhhhs," and tongue clicks of agreement -- yes, it's good to keep mosquitoes away. On the second trip I let a kid talk me into using his donkey cart, but then got ripped off on the price. Oh well. At least I got the branches for free. I plan on cutting up the wood to make frames for window screens to keep bugs out of the house. Trash into treasure, my friends.

So. Some of you have asked, some of you know, many of you would rather not know, but since you're all curious I'm just going to tell you how it works. This is what we call the "douche" in Mauritania, which is actually French for "shower," but that's done elsewhere. Notice the lack of toilet paper, white tile, Ajax and general charm. This place is for business. And when I say business, I mean the most serious, heavy duty, strangely-colored business known to mankind. Those plastic teapots you see are makareshes, and leaving them empty for the next person is a crime much worse than leaving the seat up or half a square on the roll.

You've all heard the phrase "when Nature calls..." Well, here there's no time for the "..." When Africa calls, you GO. What I'm about to say is not for the squeamish, so if that's you, stop here.

Oh good, you're one of the tough ones. You'd do well here. Now I always knew this journey would, in part, be one of self-discovery, I just didn't know how much I would discover about myself by living with a left hand for toilet paper. For example, here are some actual thoughts that have passed through my head while spending time in the douche:

"Wow, there really was a lot of sand in that couscous!"

"Umm, that looks like pale green house paint. Should I be worried?"

And most recently, and coincidentally holiday appropriate:

"That smells like pumpkin. Exactly like pumpkin. That's just eery. Who was in here before me?"

Well, I hope that answers some of your questions, while still leaving you wondering. Let me know what other topics you'd like me to write about or post photos of.

They're watching, but not really watching. But really, they are watching, to see how you take your first fistful of rice. Will you ball it up gracefully as they do with no stray grains and pop it into your mouth, or will the rice grains repel each other in your hand leaving an oily lump the shape of a small ginger root in a messy, defiant pile? This was me a few days ago, when I was invited to eat with Mariam, the tailor, and all her beautiful sisters. To be fair, the first ball is the hardest, because you're supposed to take only rice, with nothing but the oil it was cooked in. I did my best. I dove in fist first and scooped out what I hoped would be the exact amount necessary to make a mouth-sized ball. I'm out of practice. I haven't eaten maaru we khut (rice and fish) in a month, strangely. I did so badly they sent a small child out to find me a spoon. I told them I needed to practice without a spoon, which they found hilarious and then immediately turned back to their food, missing my second, nearly-perfect ball, formed with potato as the bonding agent. The funny thing is, I don't even know how I would eat maaru we khut with a spoon. It's a meal created with fingers in mind. How would I tear up the cabbage, or pull bits of carrot and potato off? How would I select a good chunk of fish and then daintily remove the bones, if not with my hand? Ironic. I feel like I'm making first impressions left and right all with similar results. People love to tell me how good the previous volunteers were with Hassaniya. I explain that they were here for two years, and after two years, I too, Inshallah, will speak it that well, but none of them seem to remember the awkward beginning phase that those volunteers must have had. Maybe that means they will forget all my mistakes as well someday... I can only hope.

I was in one of the farher-out boutiques, near the taxi garage, looking for harder to find items (you can get Sprite, Mountain Dew, coconut yoghurt, Quaker oats and Pringles). I greeted the shopkeeper as I came in, which is customary here. He was helping someone else, so when he finished I asked him how he was doing with the heat, a phrase I'd already used successfully 20 times that day. He stared at me like he didn't know what I was talking about. So I said it again; still the blank stare. "The heat... you know, it's hot out?" I said, and noticed a little boy had come in behind me. "It's okay. Um, how are you?" I tried. "Fine," he replied. Then the little boy, who'd heard the whole conversation said to him "You don't know Hassaniya!" and laughed. It felt like being on the Simpsons when that kid walks up and says "Haw haaw!" Except for once it wasn't about me. Glorious.

Sand in my teeth. Which means manure in my mouth, but I try not to think of that as I pull my sunglasses down and the font of my mulafa up over my mouth and nose. Mauritania meets America in the middle of my face. On days like these when the hot wind throws dust on everything it's good to be a part of a culture where wearing more is more. I've just come from the primary schools where I sat and showed my face and lack of language skills. The men in the director's office at school 2 (who weren't teachers, I asked) actually sat and laughed at me for several minutes. "She said she speaks a little Hassaniya and a lot of French, but she doesn't speak either one. She knows nothing!" Hearing and fully unerstanding what they were saying about me could have frustrated me more, but I sat and smiled serenely... people say these things to me every day, and although it is annoying, I tell myself that at some point I will have aquired enough skills to forget interactions like these ever took place. I seem to be doing alright at the other parts of my job, though, thankfully. After leaving the schools I bought a kilo of chicken and stopped at a phamarcy where a friend works. It's been a while since any of us have seen Tutu, so she was exited to welcome me in. She asked about Amanda and Ashley and I told her they were working. I told her Ashley was sick and pointed to my thoat."She can't talk, which isn't good if you are a teacher." I asked her if she had anything for that and she made me a bag of vinegar for her to gargle and tea to drink, no charge. So if nothing else, I can shop for food and successfully feed myself and make friends. The rest will come in time, I hope.

Our accidental garden turned out to be the first to come to harvest. Next to the faucet in my yard there is a tangle of bean plants and corn stalks probably from popcorn kernels and beans dropped by one of the former volunteers. These beans are actually Cowpeas or Blackeyed Peas. They grow locally and despite being an excellent source of protein, are not well-loved by Mauritanians. During training my host family would sometimes buy 10um bags (about 5 cents worth) and toss them in with dinner. 10 Ouguyia buys a slim handful... maybe about what I've got in my hand in the photo. I always made sure to eat the beans (and any other vegetable) when they were included, as I was grateful for any added nutrition. The corn didn't fare as well, as soon as the locust swarm moved in they mowed it down pretty well. I really hope the locusts are gone by the time my school garden is growing!

As things came to a close for the holiday season, here in Aleg, we were filled with relief and anticipation. Relief that we can now walk around town and drink water in the open when we are thirsty (rather than hiding in alleys and abandoned houses to steal elicit sips and eat cookies). Relief that when we are welcomed and force-fed by strangers it won't be endless courses of food in the dark, but single plates of rice and fish in the daylight. Anticipation to start work and find housing when the other half of Aleg's population returns from their months of camping in the bediye or countryside... which is mostly desert.

Yesterday Lily and I decided to explore a part of town we hadn't yet seen--the name of the neighborhood ended up being Jdide, which, fittingly, means New. We were bismillah'ed into a couple homes, given large bowls of Zrig (sour milk watered down and sweetened with sugar), which you can't sip--gulping is the only polite way to drink here--cups of tea, and even bread and begnets (little donut balls). I felt like I was going to explode... I wonder what we'll be given when they aren't fasting anymore!

On the way back we hitched a ride on a donkey cart driven by a little boy wearing a Saddam Hussein T-shirt. Apparently giving rides to strangers is okay these days. Our last stop was at Rubiya's house. She's getting married tomorrow and after that will be living across the street from me. I'm not sure how I feel about that yet. Some friends in life you seek out and get to know gradually, and others find you and claim you as their own... you can probably guess which type Rubiya is. She's great, really. She helps us with our Hassaniya and her khayme is always open to us. Sometimes we take alternate routes through town when we have things to get done so that she won't bismillah us and derail our plans. I laugh to think that after two years here the most efficient way from point A to point B won't be a straight line, but a circuitous trek around the town through thorny fields to avoid having to talk to everyone between here and there.

So, about that Hassaniya help. Lily and I thought Rubiya might enjoy hearing how the other night someone threw a cat in a plastic bag over the wall into Lily's courtyard. After slowly piecing together the story in Hassaniya, French and Charades, Rubiya looked astounded (animals are rarely treated like pets here, so she shouldn't have been too shocked). "Who did that... and why?!" she asked. We told here we didn't know. Now that we had her engaged in the story I thought it would be funny to wrap it up by telling her we'd named the cat Zazu, which means plastic bag, but as I heard myself saying it I realized that instead of saying "mush," or cat, I'd been saying "mus," which means knife. No wonder she was horrified--I'd told her someone threw a knife in a bag at Lily's house. Par for the course, as far as my Hassaniya's been going lately! The day before I was at the market and spotted some of the season's last melons. Knowing I'll soon be missing fruit I decided to test their ripeness in the usual way. By the third melon I looked up to realize I was actually being very unusual. "Allo?" said the vendor, indicating that I was playing telephone with her produce. We laughed. I thought I should explain my behavior, but I think what came out just made it worse: "I--I heard... sugar. This is delicious?"

I pledge here and now to never make fun of a foreigner's English in America. I will only laugh with them, and remember when I was in their place.

I hiked out of town to a hill overlooking the city a few mornings ago with a friend. We left the house at 4am to be sure we wouldn't miss it, and the walk took us about an hour. We got there with plenty of time to spare, so for a while I just sat in the dark and thought to myself. I listened as things woke up. The donkeys never really go to sleep. They bray all night long, which can be especially creepy if you happen to unknowingly walk past one in the dark. Next a few roosters initiated a city-wide crowing contest. As more time went by my eyes got accustomed to the darkness and I could pick out roof tops. The beetles started landing on and around me, and next a swarm of flies began to buzz under a tree behind me. Next were the chirping birds (Mauritania is actually well-known for bird-watching), a baby crying, a goat and then a cow in quick succession. Lastly were the doves cooing. The locals had been up since we left in order to break fast before dawn.

Sitting there in the dark, enjoying the sounds of a city waking up, I thought about how many dawns go by without my notice. I'm inspired to be more deliberate about mornings; appreciate them rather than revile them. I think in order to do this I need to live somewhere beautiful, or maybe just appreciate the beauty wherever I am. I ache to remember the cool, fresh, cobblestone mornings in Alsace when I would wake up to the sound of church bells ringing... can I ever get back to that place?

Somehow in the black, waiting for the sun to burst forth and impress us, I let go of some fears and rewrote some resolutions. I'm going to keep on walking away from parts of myself that have held me back--shed them like clinging onion skins--and step forward into the warm glow ahead of me.

The day after the first big rainstorm the streets of Rosso looked like they’d been used for a monster truck rally. It was hard for me to imagine how a team of Peugeots, Mercedes and donkey carts came together and made the mess of canyons and hills of muck that were suddenly present that day. I could have stood in one of the valleys (if I had wanted to contract schisto, hook worms and any number of other nasty maladies found in such cesspools) and the accompanying hills would have reached chest height. The landscape looked deceptively like a geological formation you’d travel miles to visit and then I remembered its composition: not only mud, but at least three types of manure, animal parts tossed out by butchers and fish mongers, and the oddest assortment of trash I’ve ever come to know. By know, I mean that I am intimately acquainted with the vacuum of waste management that is most of Mauritania. Not only have I attended Environmental Education tech sessions devoted to the subject, but I’d say that there is only a small part of my day that doesn’t revolve around waste in some way. Where do I even begin when it comes to trash? I did a quick survey as I was walking through the market today, as I often do unconsciously, of what types of trash I could see on the ground just within a ten foot radius of where I stood in a well-traversed alleyway. I catalogued one dirty diaper, a bottle cap, a goat jaw and several other unidentifiable bone fragments, plastic bags (which are so prevalent I almost don’t notice them anymore), and a couple tiny candy wrappers. I also commonly spot discarded razor blades, batteries and the occasional syringe. I’ve only seen the syringes in proximity to a health clinic or hospital, which would indicate that they were likely used in a legal manner. Mauritanians aren’t big into substance abuse. Trash is very telling about a society—what it values, what is doesn’t—and Mauritania wears this information on its sleeve. In America we like to throw things away, and by doing so hope that we never have to face our refuse again. Here we strategize as to how to best dispose of each tiny pile of waste (during CBT I only saved up about two grocery sacks worth, which was over the course of 10 weeks) without it being dug through by our neighbors’ children. Fact: Mauritanian children play with trash and little else. Sometimes they build little cars with tall steering wheels out of bottles and cans, but usually they just play with the trash in the state that they found it. My two-year-old host brother was a prime example. I got used to seeing him with blades, batteries, large sticks… basically anything an American parent would say “NO” to made up the entirety of his playthings, aside from one broken plastic lion toy and a deflated soccer ball he shared with all the cousins. My first day back in Aleg, a giant breath of relief after two months of training, culture shock and general drama, my region mates and I sat on the patio of my new house and enjoyed the remaining crumbs of two tubes of Pringles—you drink the crumbs here, and crumbs usually make up at least half the can, when you can find Pringles, that is. We then disposed of the cans in the popular manner: chucking them over the wall of the compound into the “trash depot” (which is an area unofficially designated by the neighborhood to dump trash until someone, someday, comes to get it… with a truck our town doesn’t have, and brings it to a landfill that doesn’t exist). The next day I heard a rustling as I walked past the empty lot on my way to meet the Peace Corps vehicle that was waiting to take us for a day of Aleg protocol. I figured it was a goat, but was surprised to see a girl in a malafa going through the latest tossings. She jumped up with her prize: the two Pringles cans, now rain-soaked, a drink mix packet and a strip of film. As we got into the car and waited we watched her join her posse of friends, open the containers and wipe out whatever moist potato chip dust remained and eat it. Next she licked the drink mix packet while stretching out the filmstrip and, along with the other children, tried to discern what was on each of the cells. In the car we sat, horrified, and somewhat violated. I can speak for myself and maybe some of the others when I say that at that moment I became acutely aware of my own undying privilege—that even on a Peace Corps stipend I can afford to occasionally eat potato chips or mix myself a fruit flavored beverage. Even here, as I complain to myself about the towel and toiletries bag I lost in transit and may never get back… it’s not to the point where I have to lick someone else’s garbage to experience a flavor representative of a life I have little to no chance of ever replicating. I find that each day, to some degree, I thank God for what I was undeservedly born with, and curse the “patrone” image I try so hard to hide from the locals around me.

I hope this little taste is sufficient to make up for the months of neglect when I had extremely limited internet access. My situation now is improved, but still a bit of a challenge. We have internet access through the Aleg PC beaureau, but it is not Mac compatible. So if you are reading this, I found a creative way to transfer the text from my computer to another. Eventually I’ll need to get my own USB jump drive so I can make the switch more efficiently. Until then, I wish you all well! Enjoy the changing of the seasons and step in some dry leaves for me!!

Where do I start? This seems to be the first time I've had reliable internet access (inshallah) since getting here and it is on a borrowed computer. I'm not sure if I explained to everyone, but we could only take one bag to CBT site (Community Based Training) and they advised us not to bring anything too flashy... thus solar chargers, iPods, laptops, etc. ended up in storage for the time being.

I live with a host family 10km up the road from Rosso with no electricity or running water. There are a couple boutigs (tiny stores which are made of corrugated tin) in our village where you can usually find onions, canned condensed milk, packets of laundry detergent and camel biscuits. Camel biscuits are hard, dry, nearly flavorless cookies which have become quite addictive and I usually eat them at least once a day as a snack in class or with my family. They suck the moisture out of your mouth as you eat them so they end up forcing you to drink lots of water. Sometimes we eat them with little bitter peanuts.

I won't try and put down every detail of my fun-filled days here, but please ask me questions... I'm starting to forget what's normal about what I do and how I live. And I can't form sentences properly in English--my brain is trying to make room for more French and Hassaniya.

Here are some fun stats for you:

Breakdown of bugs seen in percentage:Ants 41%Flies 39%Dung Beetles 11%Rain Cows (Giant neon red mite that comes out after the rain) 7%Mosquitoes 1% (they usually see me, not vice versa)Hab Haabes (a crustacean-esque arachnid with lightning speed and hand-sized diameter)

In my village, PK-10 (the mile-marker that acts as it's name), the children are what make the world go around. While parents and other adults like myself are too fatigued by the heat to do anything more than lounge in our own sweat, the kids run errands and do chores. If my host mom is sitting on one side of our tent and my host dad is sitting on the other side, she will yell for a kid to come from several houses down to bring a cup of tea from her to my host dad.

I've made it my goal to learn Hassaniya at least well enought to get the kids to help me with the garden. I can currently say "I want lots of poop/butter (the words are very similar) in garden. Children come! Take (as I hand them a bucket)! Poop/butter!" Most of the time they just laugh at me but I think I'm starting to make progress with them.

I'm on a borrowed computer in Rosso, so I can't write much for the time being. My computer and solar charger are in storage as I was only allowed to take one bag to my PST site. For the next few days if anyone wants to call me you can get my phone number & country code from Lindsey and I'll turn my phone on for a few minutes at 10pm my time, 3pm Pacific. If my battery runs out it should go right to my voicemail... Hope all is well, I miss you guys!

Staging has been a whirlwind of activities, lost bags and unwanted room charges! Everyone is so nice and I feel at home with the other 80 or so volunteers, despite the fact that I am now homeless! I did finally get my bags and the charges removed from my room, so the next step is to make it through the airport check-in without being over on my baggage weight. I was under by .7 lbs on the way here and then realized I had not packed shampoo.... we'll see how that goes.

I miss you all, write to you soon!

Janna

I didn't have any pictures up yet, so hopefully this will give you something fun to look at.

I'm going through all my stuff and sorting it into categories. There are the obvious ones: Give Away, Throw Away, and Pack... but then there are so many items that fall into grey areas. Like CDs that I will never listen to again. No bookstore will buy them back because they are crappy CDs I liked when I was in high school, and I just can't feel good about throwing them away when I think about all the junk sitting in landfills that will never break down... we are such materialistic people.

If it could all just accidentally burn up and be gone I would be so relieved. Seriously, though, those CDs. Giving them to Good Will is an option, but I know that's the easy way out for greedy consumers like me. I can just dump all my half-used junk somewhere and never have to think about it again, assuming that not only will some deprived person be delighted to find it at a reasonable price and take it home and treasure it, but the proceeds will go to benefit more deprived people. Wow, I am such a good person for getting rid of my stuff!

I wish I could go back and rethink things, even small purchases, and be more deliberate about what I choose to have and carry with me and look after. Sometimes I wish that I lived in a time when plastic didn't exist and lives were fueled on muscle and grain and sunshine rather than petroleum. What's ironic is that I'm about to live in a pace that's fueled by muscle and grain and a LOT of sunshine... we'll see how that goes for me. I may have to eat my words.

What I find simultaneously interesting and depressing as I go through my stuff is that I have to come to terms with so many "I'll never..."s. Like this nearly finished scarf I found. I guess I'll never be into knitting. No one at Good Will is going to want to wear this lopsided crazy thing, so what do I do with it? I guess I'll never make another stained-glass window. I have a box full of nice glass, in lovely colors, that CANNOT go into a recycle bin (that would be evil!)... Catherine suggested I put it on Craigslist, and I like that idea.

I've also dug up a lot of old photos and notes and letters, which I'm glad I saved. Even if the only time I look at them and reminisce is when I'm transitioning and putting them into new boxes.

Anyway, if you are reading this you can pat yourself on the back for being a truly supportive friend. I'm not even gone yet, so I don't really have anything valid to tell you, but I still feel like I should document this odd phase I'm in. Even if I'm the only one who will go back and read it, someday, when I'm transitioning elsewhere.

I'll miss you soon if I don't already,

Janna

Hey everyone, and welcome to the new blog! I'm still working out the kinks and toying with the HTML, so bear with me while I get it together.

Thanks for ordering seeds! I should have plenty at this point, but I'll take a look at the orders as they come in and remove things from the wish list. I am SO excited about growing and cooking with my own food as well as starting a community garden with the kids I'll be working with! Right now the only thing I know how to make with the veggies on the list is fresh salsa. Does anyone have a good soup recipe they can share that uses acorn or butternut squash? Without a fridge I will have no access to butter or other fresh dairy products, but I will have powdered milk, oils, dried herbs and spices and hopefully fresh herbs as well.

Soon I'll be posting some informational links about Mauritania, so check back in at some point.