45

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.

1:17 am

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.

When Poets Ruled On Me

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!”

The Real Challenge to Staying Fit

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.