Oh the cleverness of me...

It is actually incredibly difficult to concentrate on writing at the moment, I am constantly distracted.  By the lack of sand, by the smell of furniture polish, the shiny glass windows, and the lack of dirt under my fingernails.  For, you see, when I was trying to think of what to give my parents for Christmas this year, I decided that, really, there was no better present than me.

So I left my village on Sunday, and arrived in Rosso on top of the milk truck after my car broke down.  I reached Nouakchott on Tuesday, and at1am Wednesday I arrived at the Nouakchott airport.  Airports are stressfull places in developed countries.  In Mauritania, it is a ballet of confusion and inefficiency.  Especially since this is not a nation that has embraced the advanced concept that is the line.  So they all kind of mob the door of the toilet-stall-sized office where a man sits and stamps passports.  However, there are seperate mobs/lines for men and women.  One woman goes, then two men, then a women, and so forth.  There were very few women travelling, so when I arrived I was sent to the head of the mob and only had to wait about ten minutes.  Bonus.  Another unique aspect of this establishment that, apart from the ubiquitous miliatary presence, thanks to the military council for justice and democracy, the other employees have no uniforms.  So when I was told to show my passport to a woman in a mulafa, I was somewhat suprised until she looked at it, and my ticket, and motioned me through the curtains into the waiting area.  Nouakchott does possess what I consider a revolutionary baggage control method.  You never have to worry about if your bags are going on the plane or not, because here in the RIM, when you walk out onto the tarmac- there they are!  All lined up in the dirt, and you yourself put them on the cart to be put on the plane. 

Getting seated is definitely a new experience, and makes me glad I got on early.  You see, Mauritanians do not feel restricted to chose their seat from the one assigned them.  They will just sit in the seat that they prefer.  Old men will make younger men move to the center seat so they can sit on the aisle.  If you confront them that they are sitting in you seat, they wil just tell you to go find another one.  No wonder the nice Morroccan flight attendents looked grim.  But finally everyone had a seat, and with many "Bismillah rachmana rachhims" we were away to Casablanca.  I had a 30 hour layover there since Royal Air Maroc does not run daily flights from Nouakchott, so I went to visit a very large mosque and at the hotel had my first elevator ride in 18 months.  As it happens, the airport's transit hotel was right across the street from the beach, and a McDonalds.  I'm not sure which was a more beautiful sight.  Got into New York around 3:30 on Thursday afternoon, and you could tell we were back in New York by the way no one was helping anyone else at the baggage claim.  When I helped Aicha, a Morroccan lady travelling alone with her two year old, get a cart and load her bags on it, she was so happy she asked me my name and said, "It's 436 Mill Street, Apartment 208, Flushing.  Come any time!" In Maurtania, any man would have helped her, and if she had been a Mauiritanian woman she would have expected no less and not said thank you.   As it was we had a long wait in the Delta terminal  until our flight attendent showed up, despite the fact that passengers were volunteering to give the oxygen mask demo, but we were airborne about 11 pm.

Dan picked me up at the airport around midnight and about a half an hour later I was in my home sweet home.  That I had never really seen before.

When mom woke up and found me in the living room I think she screamed for about 2 solid minutes, but she didn't cry.

Did I mention that my parents and sisters didn't know I was coming home?

Pops didn't recognize me at first.

So now after five days of travelling I get to enjoy Oreos and peanut butter and potato chips and hot running water and toilet paper and toilets.  Mom took me along to the supermarket yesterday, I couldn't stop staring at the produce section.  I was completely disoriented until I found bananas and potatos, ahh something familiar.  The disorientation was complete when Pops took  me along to the mall and I realized that in less than 2 years in exile I don't understand any of the technology anymore.  Oh well, I have 12 more days to catch up before returning to my sandbox.

And now I am going to go make a sandwich, on sliced bread.

Merry Christmas

love

amy