None Of Your Business... Or Is It?

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.

The First Fistful of Rice

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.

Shwey Min Validation

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.

Can't Wait Till I Know What I'm Doing!

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.

First Harvest

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!

The End of Ramadan

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.

What I Learned While Waiting for the Sunrise

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.

Worse than your average pothole

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!!

I hope this post goes up!

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) <1%

Camel Spiders <1%

Scorpions <1%

Fleas <1%>

Total pounds lost since leaving US: 20

Number mosquito bites (despite netting AND repellant, they still find me): roughly 24 active, many more deactivated

Number of local marriage proposals: none, surprisingly. One of my CBT sitemates accidentally told her family I was engaged and word travels fast in a village where we are the only news.

Well, I have to go back to my training sessions. Email me! Even though I can't check it very often it's still nice to find a message waiting for me when I do. Send me letters! I haven't gotten any of the ones you've sent yet, but they say it's usually like this during training.

I hope you all are doing well! Maa salaam!

It Takes Children To Raise A Village

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!

Hello from Atlanta!

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

How am I feeling?

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

Packing, packing, packing

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

Thanks For All The Seeds!!!

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.