Montezuma's Revenge Is For Wimps

One of my fellw trainees commented that one of the hardest parts of
training is adjusting to the fact that nothing, absolutely nothing, is
done in a similar way to how it is done in the states.

Sleeping? No, beds are a distant memory, as are sheets and soft
pillows (I brought a pillow from home, but I'm saving it in my stored
luggage as a present for getting through staage.

Eating? Nope, we use our hands. In fact, our first meal back at the
lycee when we all came in for 2 days of training was actually served
with forks. None of us was sure what to do with them, I used my
hands.

Recreation? My younger brothers amuse themselves by taunting the cow
and rolling tires. Today the youngest one came home with a shaved
head and part of me wonders if he did it just because the cow was
missing and there was nothing else to do. Then he tried to ride a
donkey, which provided entertainment for the whole family.

Using the bathroom? Hell no! I dream of porcelin bowls, especially
last tuesday night when I was sick and didn't sleep. Of course, since
I was at the lycee I was able to go into teh air conditioned infirmiry
and drink cold Gatorade. NOTE To anyone who loves me, send packets of
powdered Gatorade. It tasted like heaven and prevents dehydration,
bonus. Orange was really good.

I was well enough to leave in the afternoon, although I was loathe to
leave my cot, sleeping above ground is so luxurious, but there were
people far worse off than me. Poor Leah had to go to Nouokchott to
get better, and a few people were in and out all week. You need a
strong stomach and stronger intestinal tract to make it in West
Africa.

On a more positive note, during our luxurious stay at the lycee, the
current volunteers challenged our trainee group to a game of softball.
This is the same group that won WAIST, the West African Invitational
Softball Tournement, last February, so we thought it would be tough.

We slaughtered them.

Well, actually, I should say THEY slaughtered them, they being the
trainees that played while I cheered and heckled.

The important point is that I contributed to the victory.

Despite the cocky volunteers cheating at every turn. If that is what
2 years in the desert does to you than we should all be afraid, very
afraid.

Before I forget I should add that at center the mail came, and the
cell phone I purchased. My number is 695-8527, and from the states
you would dial 011-222 before that. So if you really love me and want
to call, go ahead ,but I don't really expect anyone to call except my
parents. But I will add that it is cheaper for you to call me than
the other way around.

And send mail, I had a pathetic showing, and resorted to delivering
other people's mail because it made me feel loved (we live for mail,
telling Mike T. that he had a big stack of letters from his girlfriend
earned me a hug, scandalous in the RIM, and made me feel like Santa
Clause.)

My address, again; Amy Conley PCT, Corps de la Paix BP 222,
Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa.

That's it, complete. Zip code systems are for nancy westerners.

If you send goodies, god bless you and send them in padded envelopes,
since due to a tax on boxes ,envelopes go through like letters, and
boxes sit in the post offive in Nouakchott for months until someone
from the bureau goes and pays for them and picks them up.

Gotta love them government institutions.

Anyway, we are all back at homestay now, and in 2 weeks we return to
the lycee, find out our sites, and go visit for a week. Inshallah.

And, for the record, it's really hot.
amy

The Rain Comes Down In Africa

Ahh the rainy season. I guess since we brought it with us we have no
reason to complain.

But I'm going to anyway.

I love rain storms, I really do, I always have.

And our first night in Kaedi, when we were sleeping in the dorms and
ran wild in the rain like children was a whole lot of fun.

But I sleep outside now, and getting up and moving everything into the
house 20 seconds before the storm hits, and yes, my family cuts it
that close every time, is seriously cutting into my sleep time, and
anyone who knows me can understand how much I value that part of my
day.

So yes, the rainy season means water, and mosquitos any day now, and
humidity, and it means that the path to my garden is flooded and
becomes the river schisto (ahhh, schistomiasis, which we are all
deadly afraid of, but that my training coordinator says everyone ends
up with anyway, apparantly you jump up and down before they test you
for it, to release the eggs. Such is the glamorous life I lead)

So I am torn today between not wanting to have to flee inside from the
rain; and at the same time really wanting a storm to cool it off,
since right now anything seems better than drowning in my own sweat in
the stillness of the past two nights.

And that's the weather report from Kaedi.

In happier news, 6 of we city folk took a walk out to the suburbs
yesterday, to visit our friends in Billinabe.

Billinabe shall from henceforth until forever be known as Malibu,
those three are living the high life in new houses with two floors and
private latrines. And doors.

Not that I don't like living in the South Central Los Angeles of
Mauritania, but I definitely had no idea of what I was missing.

I shouldn't complain; since on the walk to neighboring town Rindiao
with the Malibu three we met the poor unfortunate souls who live in
Mbedia. Only 2 of the 3 are left; and James and Greg live in mud
houses that fall apart when it rains; and they eat gruel and no
vegetables. We will imagine Mbedia to be the Tiajuana of Mauritania,
only without the alcohol. What, you ask, is TJ without cheap Mexican
beer? Exactly.

For those Rice people out there I will try and put this in terms you
can understand. The Billanabe people are living in great digs with
great people, so basically Sid. The people in Rindiao don't have it
quite as nice, but still pretty good, so we will say they are in New
Weiss.

Us in Kaedi are living with a lot of people in somewhat similar
surroundings, so we would be Brown; or Jones. Some of us are in the
old part, and some, namley Tyler, are living in the new section.

The people out in Joel, a town 15 km out, live in beautiful
surroundings, lush and green, so they are the Martelians, especially
since people have been moved there from their original sites.

The guys in Mbedia, they're living in Will Rice.
(Crap food, crappy college that's falling down.)
Pray for them, they are really very nice guys.

The field trip was fun; although it gave me a wicked headache, but
that was an excuse that meant they only told me to ewkli twice at
dinner, than left me alone in my pain. I really like my family, even
scowling Mustafa, but they're persistance in seeing me stuffed like a
Thanksgiving Turkey is starting to grow wearisome.

But at least my Hassaniya is getting better. The only positive note I
can add to Veronica's sudden departure from PC RIM due to a emergency
back home is that I was able to explain the situation and where I was
going and why to my mother in her Arabic dialect. She was so
surprised she almost forgot to ask me what I wanted to do about
dinner.

Almost.

We will miss you Veronica. Come back with Tommy and be the Mary and
Derrick of another group of stagierres.

But tonight we are having maceroni and chicken, so I have something to
look forward to.

Unless it rains.

Take Me To Your White People

That was pretty much the situation three days ago when Amanda, a PCT
living nearby, and I ventured into a new neighborhood to try and track
down fellow trainees at their homestays. Since our combined French
and Hassaniya couldn't navigate us out of a cardboard box, we brought
her homestay brother Musa. We didn't know the house, so he basically
started asking children if they had seen any Toubabs, and where were
they living?

We did find the eventually.

Other newsworthy events incude Musa's attempting to teach us the
Mauritanian way to make tea and my attempts at gardening. The tea
episode ended in a mess, I'm actually not that bad, but Amanda is
hopeless. It sucks to be a south paw here.

As for the garden, it is important that it be level, or all the water
runs out of your plot. I learned this the hard way, and so was
already aggrevated when I went to fix it in the afternoon. The
children of the neighborhood are really amused by us, and press their
faces against the fence and shout at us in French while we work. That
day it was just me, so I had their undivided attention, and the whole
pack would follow me from the well to my plot and back, like puppies
in a pet store window. Finally, I got frustrated, at about the same
time I realize I need more dirt. So I toss down the watering can and
snatch the shovel in both hands, holding it like the swor of a samari
warrior.

And fifteen children run screaming into the street.

Sometimes it's good to be me.

Some days are fine, some are a little harder, and sometimes at 3
o'clock on Fridays, the holy day of Islam, I am still seriously
tempted to shanghai the loudspeakers at the Kaedi mosque and blast
Back In Black.

But I don't think that fits the Peace Corps definition of culturally
appropriate.

Nothing to do but sip mint tea until the impulse passes.

Aane esmi, aane esmi, aane esmi naaza-naaza-nazaaraani...

Ok, so maybe "My name is, my name is, my name is Slicka-Slicka-Slim
Shady" sounds a lot catchier, but Eminem didn't have to speak
Hassaniya. Aane esmi Naazaaraani means "My name is Naazaaraani" in
the dialect of Arabic I am learning here in Kaedi. Naazaaraani isn't
my name, actually, my host family calls me Amy most of the time, it's
easy for them to say and not as confusing as calling me "Mah", which
is my Hassaniya name, which they gave me despite the fact that it is
also their eldest daughter's name. Naazaaraani is the Hassaniya term
for "white girl". Literally translated it means Nazereene, as in, you
know, Jesus.

I'm not sure I'm comfortable with the comparison.

Nazaaraani is what is sometimes shouted at us as we walk down the
street. It doesn't bother me, and it is a nicer sounding word than
"Toubab", which is what they shout at the trainees in the Pulaar
speaking neighborhoods.

We are all split up now, and living with families, so aside from the
PCTs in our language class, the trainees don't see each other much.
Gossip, however, travels at the speed of light. Whoever said that you
can't keep secret in the desert sure wasn't kidding.

To recap the past 10 days:
Number of PCTs remaining after 5 days of homestay (of original 45): 43
# goats at my house: 6
days it took our bags to come: 6
sandstorms since we arrived: 2 large ones, assorted minor ones NOTE:
for the past 3 years, the first rains of the season have come on the
night the PCTs arrive in Kaedi, and we were no exception. The
Mauritanian staff was saying that we brought the rain. Combined with
the meaning of Naazaaraani this makes me very uncomfortable. If there
is a drought am I going to be blamed?
local languages I can greet people in: 4
local languages I can count to ten in: 1 (waahid)
local languages I can carry on a one minute conversation in: 0
camels sighted: hundreds
glasses of mint tea consumed: oh, thousands (it comes in shot glasses)

I am in the city till September, inshallah (God willing), so I will
try and take advantage of the internet access as I will surely not
have it in the village that will be my permanent site.
love
amy

Camels, and Beetles, and Donkeys, Oh My!

Arrived in Nouakchott yesterday afternoon after flying from New York
to Paris and then on to this, the capital of Mauritania. My seat
buddy and I were looking out the window as we descended (you know you
arew going to be in trouble when it is 73 degrees outside at 6000 feet
up!) and we thought we were in a cloud.

Silly Peace Corps newbies.

It was the sun reflecting off the desert.

We were all still wondering how it was possible that we were there
when we hit the tarmac, looked to the left, and saw the sand dunes.

Definitely NOT in Kansas (or Connecticut, or Texas) anymore.

We were met by many sage and seasoned current volunteers. Including a
married couple that were leaving that night. The husband was updating
his name tag with an hourly countdown to his return.

The general attitude seems to be: glad I did this, glad I'm leaving.

We've had "sessions" since we arrived. Most of them are pretty basic,
and last night we were all so tired we basically slept through one.

We leave for Kaedi this afternoon, where we will have PST- Pre Service Training.

As any government institution, Peace Corps is acronym happy. It's
become a joke.

We live together for a week at the center, and then we are sent out to
host families.

So, to recap:

Hours in Africa: 18
Bags recieved from Air France: 0
Camels sighted: 1
Donkeys sighted: 4
Number of times the power went out at the hotel: 2
Cups of mint tea: 5
Numer of white moors who slowed their cars and honked at the group as
we walked to the hotel: 6
Times I forgot shoe etiquette and either wore them on the rug under
the tent or wore them in the house: 4
New friends made during staging: 45
Times called home since I left CT: 5

I'll update from Kaedi, where e-mail is neither free nor reliable, but
I'll make do.
love
~amy
PS: I'm sending this to everyone whose email I have. Send me love
back if you want to keep hearing by mail. Otherwise, if you go to
http://6000km.blogspot.com, I'll post this to my blog.