Let the Rain Come Down...

The deluge continues here.  Being in the city is an entirely different experience from being in the village, better, and at the same time, much, much worse.  On the upside, our family here lodges on the second floor, so I feel much more secure and safe during the storms (I actually stay dry!) and rely less on the comfort of show tunes.  On the downside, Rosso turns into one gigantic open sewer, and pretty much stays that way all during the 3-6 days between rain.  Navigating Rosso is accomplished by means of strategically placed bricks, tires, cement and tomato paste cans.  What I forsee is "puddle jumping" becoming the next major Olympic sport.  Demanding speed, agility, balance, and quick thinking, this just might be Mauritania's ticket to that elusive gold medal.  All this hopping makes getting to the bank and back while still keeping your toes clean an achievement one can comfortably bask in for the next few hours.

On rainy days, we are seldom so lucky.  I was working late at our office last week, printing out certificates for the participants in our 11 day potter training.  Nicole had left before me, and as I was about to leave, she called me (on the phone I no longer have) to warn me to wear the boots home.  It had been raining earlier in the evening, but it was fine now.  The boots in question were a pair of heavy rubber things that had given me blisters the day before because I had no socks to wear with them.  They were still at the office because I couldn't bear the thought of wearing them home that morning.  So I pull on the boots and venture out into the night.  I actually make it from one paved road to another before the rain starts.  And then the floodgates opened.  It came down so fast that the sunscreen was running into my eyes and my glasses were completely useless- my own myopic vision was actually better on its own.  By this point I was soaked to the skin and rain was filling up the boots- most of the "bridges" (ie that trail of cement bricks) were under water, and in the dark it was hard to find my way along the "good" path back to the  house.  The "good" path from the paved road to our family normally consists of : hopping across the stones that span the perpetual puddle in front of the mosque.  Then you hop from a bit of cement to a tomato paste can to a brick to a rock to high ground while leaning against the side of the building.  High ground ends and you hop onto a tire, a brick, high ground again.  This takes you to a path that weaves into the intersection and back out again, the rest is puddles, then carefully crossing on top of the cement bunker that covers a septic tank, then a bit of high ground, cross the street on a string of about 6 bricks, then follow a narrow strip of high ground along the wall of a compound, carefully walk around the cement outcropping, hanging onto the wooden fence, cross through the boutique, and carefully slide on the mud to your door.  Is it any wonder I botched this during the storm?  Missing the stepping stones wasn't such a big deal, but when I lost the path where it veers out and inward, I landed in a lake that poured up to my knees and into the boots- this also being in the selfsame block where I had seen a man emptying his toilet into the street with a tomato paste can the night before.  I arrive at the door only to find that the water pouring off the roof creates a charming Victoria Falls-effect, so by the time the door is opened and I make my way up the stairs- which bear a striking resemblence to the Colorado river, complete with rapids- I am well and truly drenched.  But I like to think that that last bit, with the waterfalls and rivers, washed away a good part of the filth that I had been slogging through for the past twelve blocks.

Nicole put it nicely when she commented "You realise that we are playing in cholera."

 

Water sports aside, it has been an interesting few weeks.  We had a conference in a village outside of Rosso to train local potters in how to build a big kiln, which will eventually be used to fire bricks for our improved stoves.  There was an expert from the states to teach the actual technical details, I was logistics.  And by "logistics" I mean a combination of camp counseler, translator,babysitter, and prison guard.  It was all kinds of fun.  And when Nicole, who was gone on vacation in the states for the first week, called and told me her baggage was late and she would be waiting another day in Nouakchott- I cried.  The kiln expert- Manny, and his assistant Nathan were really nice guys, but didn't speak French.  This made persuading them to do things like go buy water at the store next to the hotel, difficult.  As a result, it was kind of like having pets- I had to remember to feed and water them.  One night I went home and fell asleep, only to pass out completely and discover the next morning that the guys had not eaten, despite the two restaurants on either side of the hotel.  Apparantly they do not subscribe to the point and grunt school of cultural exchange.

After ten days, two lost to rain, the kiln was built, although never fired.  But I did learn how to make a clay whistle and didn't kill anyone, so I consider the whole a affair a rousing success.  I dropped Manny and Nathan off at the Nouakchott airport, mindful of the men with guns not to step onto the curb, since I did not have a ticket, and fairly tap danced back to my hotel- where I had the whole room to myself- because it was finally over.  I danced all over the suite and fell asleep contentedly under a blanket with the air conditioning on full blast.  I had a pillow too.

Yesterday my training class had our "Mid Tour Recconnect" or MTR.  Normally this one day event is held in Nouakchott- ours was held in Kaedi, because, well, the Nouakchott office is moving (in about three months) and because apparantly our country director hates us. Back at the same local high school we had trained at last year, it was like stage all over again.  But we did learn that the irritability and hostility we feel toward Mauritanians is all a part of the process of culture shock, and is perfectly normal.  Good to know.  Of course, when the presentation described the duration of this part of the phase as "a couple of weeks", people started to shift a little uncomfortably.  I think this process takes some of us longer.  Amel, one of the nurses, who is from Tunisia, says she is still in culture shock, and she has lived here 14 years.

Oh, and I got a letter last week.  This letter is special for a variety of reasons.  First, it is from Mrs. Audie Lawley, my best friend's mom, so it is automatically cool.  Second, it contained both news AND Kool Aid, a lovely combination. Third, it had been sent in March, damaged at JFK and then sent  on to the Republic of Mauritius.  For those of you unfamiliar with Mauritius, it is an island in the Indian Ocean off the coast of South Africa.  It is tiny.  It gets many more tourists than Mauritania.  And a healthy chunk of our mail as well, it seems,  But it did get here, becoming the most well traveled piece of mail to reach Rosso.  Congrats.  And Fourth, because Mrs. Lawley's letter was the first piece of mail I have recieved since May.  Nicole knew I had been haunting the post office for months, so when I came back from dropping off Manny she said, "You got a letter!"  Which totally made the fact that I had to run through a sand storm to get home all the more worth  it.

Time to get a car back to Rosso.

love

amy