Computers invade Chinguetti

This past month I began teaching computer classes in Chinguetti. We only just got 24/7 power, but computers are quickly appearing throughout the city. Rumor has it we will soon get an internet cafe in Chinguetti as well, at which point I hope to recruit the individuals I'm currently teaching to train other people in the community.

The mayor asked me to teach his secretaries the basics of typing, Word, and Excel. The secretaries are all quite motivated and bright, and they come to class excited every day. It makes teaching easy. And they're slowly getting comfortable with exploring the computers on their own and figuring out how to do their own projects. It's really fun to see. However, I must add that the first couple classes were... well, interesting. I blame myself for approaching the classes assuming they would have a general concept of what computers are and what they do. Chinguetti only recently got power; how could I expect them to understand some of the concepts we learned long ago? They never had entertainment or gaming systems. Using a mouse or keyboard and expecting the computer to respond to your instructions are all new concepts. Moreover, they speak very little French, so my limited Hassaniye and their limited French makes some of our encounters quite entertaining. That's why I've decided to share some highlights from the first couple lessons. Enjoy!

I entered the mayor's compound the first day with a typing program on my flash drive and several pre-made images painted in Paint for them to copy. The secretaries had assured me they “knew” computers, so I hoped the simple exercises in Paint wouldn't be too easy. My fears were assuaged when they didn't know how to turn the computer on. We went step-by-step through computer start-up and began with a simple exercise: doodling in Paint with the mouse. After a few minutes I asked them to try and write their names. That went alright, but it was difficult to convince them that the mouse needed to remain pointed forward instead of pivoting and rotating on the desk. After a half-hour lesson on single vs. double clicking, we explored some of the other shapes and colors Paint can make. Finally, after a few hours, I decided we were ready to try to copy pre-drawn pictures. We opened a file that contained a copy of the Human Rights Campaign logo. I figured this would be a simple place to start: the HRC logo is a blue square with two yellow rectangles inside.

We opened a blank Paint document and I waited to see how they would do. The first girl turned and looked at me. “What do I do?”

We re-opened the file containing the HRC logo, re-looked at the picture, I reiterated that she should copy the picture using the shape and color tools we had been working with, and after she reassured me she understood we returned to the blank document.

She turned and stared blankly at me again. “What do I do?” I began wondering if my limited Hassaniye was the problem. Perhaps she was just being polite and telling me she understood the task. I asked her what the first step would be. “What first step?” To re-draw that picture. “What picture?” So we re-opened the other document and looked at the picture. This time I had her do all of the mouse-moving and clicking.

“Go to Fichier” [French for 'file'] I said as I pointed at the upper-left hand corner of the screen. “And now Ouvrir” [Open]. Except she hit “Nouveau”[New] instead.

“No problem, just hit 'Annuler' [Cancel], Back up to Fichier and Ouvrir.” Except she hit “Nouveau” again. “No problem, just hit 'Annuler' again.” Then we reviewed that we wanted the second option under “Fichier” to be highlighted blue.

She hit “Nouveau” again.

I was trying really hard not to laugh outloud... or shriek. We then had to go over an important concept: The TIP of the mouse's arrow is the important part. We want the TIP of the arrow to be over the second option. Clearly she would have no reason to know this. But as soon as we had gone over that, she understood. We opened the other document, re-examined the HRC logo, and returned to our blank Paint page, again. Then she turned and asked what to do.

Well, what are we trying to do? “Draw that picture.” She re-opened the picture on her own. Yes, that's what we want to do. How would we start? She clicked on the blank screen and drew a black line. “Like that?” ...ummm...does that look like the original picture? “No.” Remember when we made shapes a half hour ago? How did we do that? “These things over here [she pointed at the left side of the screen].” Exactly! And do you remember how to pick a new color? “Down here?” There you go! So she clicked on the circle icon, clicked on the color brown, and she drew a hollow brown circle. “Is this what we want?” Does that look like the original picture? “...No.”

We continued like that for the next hour, and finally the first day was over. She had drawn a blue box and a white rectangle... By the end that seemed like a good compromise.

The first day of typing was similarly entertaining. Remember, their French is not strong, so typing on a French keyboard when one girl doesn't even know the French alphabet very well is difficult.

We loaded a typing program onto the computer (after they had started the computer themselves!) It was a simple typing program that started by teaching the keys 'd', 'f', 'j', and 'k'. After each secretary completed the first level, we re-started it and I held a piece of paper over their fingers to make sure they weren't looking at their fingers.

The first girl started well enough. This specific typing program waits for you to type the correct letter before moving on to the next letter. It beeps when you press the wrong key. But pretty soon the computer was beeping after every single letter. I lifted the sheet of paper to see what her fingers were doing.

She was pressing all five keys we were working on ('d', 'f', 'j', 'k', and 'space bar') at the same time. In fact, she was pounding on the keyboard. So at each letter she was TECHNICALLY hitting the correct key, meaning the program was moving on to the next letter, but she was also hitting all the incorrect letters, meaning the computer was beeping after each letter as well.

I decided we had moved too quickly. We needed to make sure we knew the alphabet WELL before I expected anyone to type. Except the second girl was a natural. She understood the concept of typing, and she accepted that she shouldn't look at her fingers. So then we switched back to the first girl.

We repeated the first level again. This time she navigated the keys better. It was obvious that the letters were starting to make more sense. But halfway into the program I started hearing the error beep after every letter again. This time she was hitting 'space bar' after every single letter. I explained that we only wanted 'space bar' every time there was a gap between two strings of letters. “Okay. What do I press now?” Which letter is highlighted on the screen? “Space?” Is that a space? “No, it's a J” Okay then press J.

“Space now?” Is that a space highlighted on the screen? “No, it's a D.” ...Okay... hit D.

“Space now?” Is that a space highlighted on the screen?

...you get the idea. I am pleased to report that since the first week we have made considerable progress. They can now start the computer and get into the typing program by themselves. The two secretaries also started each holding a piece of paper over the other's fingers. Once I arrived to the evening lesson and they proudly reported that they had practiced by themselves all morning. I'm excited to return to site and see what they have tried on the computer. I'm also excited for them to teach computers to others, partially because I hope they get a taste of how frustrating it can be. :)

Camel Trekking

Just after Thanksgiving three PCVs and I went on a camel trek in the dunes outside Chinguetti. It was absolutely incredible. It made me fall in love with my site all over again. We headed out early in the morning, trekked for three hours, spent the afternoon at an oasis, slept overnight on the dunes, and returned the second morning.

The camel saddles themselves are horribly uncomfortable. We all bruised our inner thighs. The temperature overnight dropped into the high 30s – who knew the desert got so cold? – but despite the discomforts it was a blast.

After three hours of trekking we arrived at the oasis, where we unloaded a snowboard and some ski boots donated to us by tourists who passed through Chinguetti. We planned to board down the dunes. I have never snowboarded so I was a little nervous, but thankfully sand produces a lot more friction than snow, meaning we didn't go very fast.

A dozen children spied on us as we first mounted the dune. As soon as they saw us board down the dune though, they ran at us shrieking and giggling. Our resident expert snowboarder had gone first, and just as soon as he removed the board the kids grabbed it from his hands and started carrying it up the mountain of sand. When they arrived at the top they deferentially handed the board to the two of us waiting at the top.

From then on, each time one of us darted down the sand the kids ran and rolled after us, snatching the board from our hands and bolting up the hill again.

After a half hour we started chatting with the kids, excited to show off our basic Hassaniye skills. We also decided we would turn the snowboard into a sled and we asked if they wanted to join us. However, when they responded we realized their dialect of Hassaniye was distinct than anything we knew. This oasis in the middle of the desert, and the four families who lived there, was so removed from the rest of Mauritania that their language had evolved on its own.

Perhaps it was because the kids didn't understand our words, or maybe they were just nervous about these white people and their weird toys, but none of the kids joined me on the first sled ride. But as soon as they realized what I was doing they scrambled after me and jumped on the makeshift sled en route. I suddenly had twelve kids lunging at me, each trying to secure a place to sit, until we all fell off the the board and watched it continue down the hill without us. Now I joined the chase, and for the first time I ran down the dune's steep slope. My feet sunk further into the sand with each step; the sand was soon swallowing half my lower leg each step until, unable to budge, I fell. I became a jungle gym instantly.

From that point on the kids joined us on every trip down the hill, dutifully carting the board back up for us. The kids even argued over who would carry the board each time, each trying to prove his or her physical strength to us and to the other kids. We didn't mind. Walking up the dune was tough enough without carrying the board.

That night we returned to the desert to sleep. We exchanged treats with our camel guides: we made mochas (Nesquik and Nescafe) and they made bread by burying dough in a pit of coals. We then bundled up – I wore a fleece, a wool sweatshirt, two pairs of pants and two pairs of socks, and I was huddled inside a large blanket and a sleeping bag – and went to sleep. There was no moon, but the sky looked almost grey because there were so many stars littering the black backdrop.

In the morning we returned to Chinguetti via camel, though three of us walked because we were still sore from the previous day's trek, and that same afternoon my friends returned to their respective sites.

If I weren't so scared I'd get lost in the dunes (a death sentence) I'd try to return to the oasis on my own. I guess I'll just have to wait until the next time I have visitors who want to go on a camel trek. Any takers?

News on Mauritania

Here are a couple articles on Mauritania's current political situation. Peace Corps is by nature apolitical, so while I have no stance on these issues whatsoever, I wanted to share these bits of info with others who may find them interesting:

http://www.google.com/hostednews/afp/article/ALeqM5h0kiCBydiq2FIX51yYcp9gLXSBsQ

http://www.themedialine.org/news/news_detail.asp?NewsID=23751

http://africa.reuters.com/wire/news/usnN19471436.html

Digging a Garden

Two days after the computer fiasco I felt I needed some manual labor to take my mind off the computer's uncertain fate. Our country cottage on Dodson Hollow must have been calling to me because I decided to dig a garden. Peace Corps encourages us to dig gardens. It saves us money on vegetables, and sharing extras with neighbors is a great way to make friends. However, as you may remember, I live on a sand dune. The soil has few nutrients to speak of. Water soaks into the sand immediately. Gardens are tricky business in the Sahara. Some PCVs in my region had been trained to dig gardens though, so after consulting them I set off on my mission. I needed to dig a large rectangular pit, remove the largest rocks, and use goat manure from neighbors as fertilizer. Other PCVs assured me that if I showed up at neighbors with a shovel, explained that I was building a garden and that I needed manure, and asked where their goat pens were, my neighbors would gladly oblige. They clearly have never tried this in Chinguetti: my neighbors were wholly confused.

My first problem was that I didn't have a wheelbarrow. A bucket would have worked alright, but it would have required too many trips. Let's be serious, it's hot here and I'm lazy. Nevertheless, I figured it wouldn't be to difficult to find a wheelbarrow. I showed up at my host family's (I had conveniently given them a goat earlier that month, so I didn't feel bad asking for a little manure), shovel in hand, and explained my objective to the servant, Aziza, in tentative Hassaniye.

“I'm going to make a garden. I need fertilizer. Can I have some goat manure?”

“Yes of course!”

She then led me to her own garden and stared at me expectantly.

“...uhhhh... the goat pen?” I asked.

“Why do you need the goats?”

“For fertilizer...” I was beginning to question my accent, and I had looked up the word for fertilizer in our Peace Corps Hassaniye dictionary, but I wondered if the word had been wrong. That happened a lot.

“I don't understand. You should wait until Aishitou [host mother] returns.”

“Okay, thank you.” While leaving I realized I still needed a wheelbarrow. Except I didn't know the word for wheelbarrow. “Do you have a wheel...” [Insert “pushing wheelbarrow” motion.]

“Yes!” She led me over to the wall, where sure enough, instead of a wheelbarrow there was a large old wheel resting against the building.

“Alright, nevermind, thank you.”

Thinking perhaps I might have more luck with another neighbor, I headed down the street. After trying to explain what I was after, I was shown another garden. Something wasn't clicking.

Finally, I asked my site mate to help me. She gave me a different word for fertilizer and a “more used” word for “goat manure.”

I headed back to the first family. This time I was much more successful, and they gave me a old rice sack to carry the manure. I loaded the sack to the brim and began to head to my house.

“What are you doing?!” Aziza screamed at me.

“Uhhh... making a garden. I needed fertilizer... you said I could have this.”

“But what are you doing with the manure?”

“I'm using it as fertilizer.”

I started to leave again, but she continued to scream at me:

“What's wrong with you? What are you doing with the manure?”

Something still wasn't clicking. So I called my wonderful site mate Jessica (who has been here a year already and whose Hassaniye is much better than mine) and asked her to explain the situation over the phone. Two seconds later Aziza said, “Okay.” And handed me my phone back. “What did Jessica say?”

“She said you were making a garden and needed the manure for fertilizer.”

...I'm still not sure where my accent got in the way of the communication, but I'm pleased to say the garden is now done and packed full of goat manure. This is just a small example of the communication fiascoes that can occur even when I think I have the vocabulary to explain myself. Oh Hassaniye.

A near death experience... (the computer, not me)

The day after I was introduced to my new office, Chinguetti received some more wonderful news: we were finally going to get electricity, 24 hours/day, 7 days/week. I went to the office that morning, excited to plan new computer classes for the mayor. However, when I first arrived at the Tourism Bureau, the electricity was out. Turns out there had just been some kinks in the new system, but the mayor assured me the power would be up and running that morning. Sure enough, an hour later, the lights flickered on. I was apprehensive about plugging in the computer – there would likely be surges when new houses were “turned on” to the system throughout the day. However, the mayor assured me the power worked wonderfully, and I proceeded to plug my computer in.

As soon as the cord was plugged into the wall, the cord erupted in smoke. I immediately unplugged the computer again, packed everything up, and left for the day. I was terrified the computer was fried. That would make teaching computer classes much more difficult. It would also put an end to my computer-based Arabic studying. I was hopeful though that my Dell cord with a built in surge protector had saved my computer.

That night I found out that the power company had “accidentally” sent 380V electricity through Chinguetti the first day of the new power system. The mayor's computer was completely fried – the monitor erupted in smoke – and many families lost their cell phones. After I heard this, I was less optimistic about the fate of my own machine.

The next day, as I was volunteering at a French-run elementary school feeding center, I mentioned the story to a French friend of mine. The most frustrating part about all of this is that my house was not scheduled to be hooked up to the new power system for several days, so I would have no way to test the computer. “You should just come by our compound and try it there,” he suggested. So, that afternoon, I popped by with my fingers crossed and with the computer in tote.

I plugged in the computer, though I assumed at least the cord was fried. To my surprise, the small light on the computer flickered: the computer was charging. I quickly turned on the computer, ecstatic it still worked. However, as the computer was loading, it turned off again. The “charging” light was no longer on. Then, a second later, the light turned on again. I tried turning on the computer again: this time I was greeted by something a friend calls “the blue screen of death.”

“Windows has been shut off to protect your computer. Please bring your computer to your local Dell service agent.”

Shit. Nothing about this can be good. The description of the problem implied something was wrong with the battery.

I then shut down my computer, packed it up for two weeks, and waited until I came to Atar to test it with a friend's Dell power cord. I hoped – though I was not optimistic – that the blue screen of death had appeared just because the battery was completely dead and I repeatedly tried turning on the computer while the cord was shorting out. Worst-case scenario: the computer's battery was in fact fried. That would have made my job more difficult over the next 20 months, but not impossible. The mayor had one other computer that had not been plugged in so I could teach computer classes on that computer, and in my travels to Atar each month I could type up anything that was absolutely necessary.

With great pleasure, however, I can now say that the computer works fine. As soon as I get a new power cord in the mail (thanks mom and dad) I will be able to study Arabic again and I twice as many people will be able to sit in on the computer class. I'll also be able to make advertisements for the English, computer, and accounting classes that will be starting up in the next month – Alhamdulilah! (Arabic: Thank God)

New Office

A couple weeks ago I received a wonderful surprise. I was sitting in my compound, just starting some laundry, when I heard a loud, persistant knocking. I went to the door where a man told me that the “mere” (French for “mother”, pronounced like the English word “mare”) was waiting for me. “Who?” The “mere”, over there on the other side of town. Neither of my host mothers lives on the other side of town, but I thought perhaps I had misunderstood, so I asked him to wait for one second while I put on more appropriate clothing. He said, “No problem.” But he walked away. I called after him to wait, but he did not. So I quickly dressed and left. I walked around my section of town thinking perhaps someone was looking for me. But nobody was out. Then, for some reason, I wondered if maybe he meant the “maire” (French for “mayor”, pronounced the same), who was on the other side of the town. I had been trying to meet the mayor since I came to Chinguetti. In Mauritania it is very important to meet with all local officials frequently to show the proper respect and to keep them informed about your projects. It helps ensure they don't feel like we are working behind their backs – a common fear. However, the mayor of Chinguetti was never around. Two months into my stay and I had not yet met they mayor because he was always either in Nouakchott or “attending meetings.” So, that day, I figured I would swing by again. Perhaps the mayor was waiting for me, but if he wasn't it would be a good idea to try to meet him anyway – I hadn't stopped by in a couple weeks.

I arrived at the mayor's office and was greeted by the man who had come to my door. Sure enough, the mayor had been waiting for me, and he quickly informed me he was looking forward to my work in the tourism industry and he said he wanted to show me my office.

My office? “Offices” aren't common for Peace Corps Volunteers, so I wasn't expecting too much. He then led me to the “Tourism Bureau” located within the same compound as the mayor's office, handed me the keys, and said I was to report to work at 8:30, Sunday through Thursday. He handed me all the keys for the office, and I asked if anyone else would need these keys. “No, just you work here.”

The tourism bureau has a television, a DVD player, 24/7 power (Chinguetti only has power three hours per day, if that). None of it has been used since the bureau was built. Besides the fancy equipment, the office was full of random postcards. “You will sell those for 200 um [about $0.90] each,” the mayor said. He also asked if I could teach computer classes or English classes. “Both.” I'll be starting in with those classes, as well as accounting classes, in the next month.

Turns out the television and DVD player were not able to reach the single outlet in the room, so they have likely never been used. Sorting through old papers there, I discovered the tourism bureau (and the entire mayor's compound) had been built by the European Union, which explains why the building has such fancy equipment that is completely unused: nobody knows how to use the equipment. Furthermore, DVDs are not even available in Chinguetti. In any case it will be nice to have a working space so close to the mayor, though I must admit I hope he doesn't expect me to sit and sell postcards all day. If anything this new space will give me a place to organize other projects, and it will provide a place for these classes.

Man vs. Wild

I killed my first scorpion two weeks ago. It had been terrorizing my house and yard by night for weeks. Now that the weather is cooling these nocturnal creatures are becoming more active. Talk about motivation to keep your room clean: lifting a dirty article of clothing to find a scorpion underneath is enough to make a 21 year-old man jump and scream like a school girl. Believe me, it happened. Several times. You may know of my irrational fear of spiders. Well, scorpions are like spiders - except they've got a stinger. And huge pincers. And they move crazy fast. They should probably go extinct ASAP.

I had seen this specific scorpion a few times in the prior couple weeks. At first I responded by avoiding the situation entirely: I slept outside on a raised platform where I hoped the scorpion could not get me. Unfortuantely it has since grown too cold to sleep outside. (Oh what I would give for the good ol' days of 100 degree nights!) One night it dropped into the upper 50s, which those of you have read The Tomato Paste Incident (September 2008 entry) will know is far too cold for a body grown accustomed to 120 degree scorchers that has lost 30 pounds of insulation.

I began sleeping inside the night before the night I rid myself of this nasty specimen. That first night posed no problems. I neither saw the beast nor heard it scuttling about my one-room house. Somehow I fell asleep, and did not think about it at all the next day.

However, that night, just as dusk was settling, I was sitting on my matela (a piece of cloth-covered foam used for sleeping by night and lounging by day) and writing in my journal when I heard a familiar faint scratching not far from me. I looked down and saw the gigantic heinous creature 18 inches from my hand, crawling between the wall and my matela. Its sickly brown, pointed legs were touching my matela... I sleep on that matela... Nasty. After shrieking, flailing, and fleeing the room, I regained my senses. Kind of. The creature had to die. I grabbed a big rock and re-entered the battleground. At first I didn't see it, which left me especially terrified: it could be anywhere, and it was about to become too dark to see properly. My room at this time was rife with objects under which the nasty bugger could hide (read: my room was a mess, as usual) and I began carefully picking up miscellaneous items. Then, I caught a glimpse of it in the distance. It hid behind my row of books in the corner. The rock would not fit between the books and the wall so I agitated the books and scared it out into the open. In the center of my room I carefully danced around it with the grace of an elephant avoiding a mouse. It successfully avoided several rounds of real-life Whack-A-Mole before disappearing once again.

I was reasonably convinced for a brief moment that this was in fact a magic scorpion that could make itself invisible because I have NO idea where it went. One second it was in the middle of the room running toward a corner, and the next, it was gone. I scoured the room in vain, carefully lifting each article of clothing and every book strewn about. At this point I was already half an hour late for dinner, so I decided to leave and to resume the hunt later, in the dark.

During dinner my host family could tell I was gloomy, as could my sitemate, Jessica, and I relayed the story to all of them. My host mom became very solemn and serious – she obviously understood how terrifying magical scorpions can be. Jessica resolved to help me hunt after dinner. She had killed two scorpions during the year she already spent in Chinguetti, and she even sounded chipper when she added, “I like killing scorpions.” We returned to my house and re-searched the entire room. No scorpion. I would have just given up if I hadn't been so scared that this fiend would re-appear after I fell asleep and that it would snuggle up next to me in bed.

I left the room to look again outside, and thank Allah, it appeared immediately. It was on a rocky bit of ground next to the kitchen. I wailed for Jessica to bring her scorpion-hunting prowess and, more importantly, the giant rock she was holding.

“Holy cow, it's a huge one!”

“Uh, yeah, I know. That's what I've been telling you all along.”

She then dropped the rock on top of the scorpion, but the crafty little bugger had nuzzled up next to a rock on the ground and was safe in the small triangle between the rock Jessica threw, the rock on the ground, and the ground itself. That was when the scorpion made its fatal assumption. Over the course of the previous weeks I had whined and run away every time I saw the thing, and it had become arrogant. It thought it could scare me again. It also probably assumed we didn't have another rock. Actually, it probably just wanted to make a mad dash for its home, which involved running directly at Jessica and me. Jessica, who had been standing in front of me and who was now sans weapon, shrieked and backed into my chest. I grabbed another rock, and with a light in one hand and a rock in the other, I awkwardly ambled around my sitemate and came face-to-face with the beast. It continued to run directly at us. It chased us out of the rocky area and onto the smooth, sandy part of the yard. With a soft thud, the rock from my hand ended the monster's reign.

I wish that were the end of the scorpion saga at chez-Carl.

I naively assumed my scorpion days were over that night. If Jess had only killed two during a whole year, certainly I would not see too many more, right?

One week ago I found another. It was stealthfully scrambling over the same rocky area where the first took refuge moments before its demise. The new one was much more moderate in size. It, however, ran the other way and scuttled into a crack the moment my light discovered it. I haven't seen it since. Hopefully it doesn't use its magical scorpion powers to snuggle with me at night.

On Logical Reasoning

Hypothetical situation: If someone decided to send me something via snail-mail, and that person asked me for mailing instructions, I'd first give them a address. I'd then tag on a request to write my address in red ink and draw Islamic religious symbols on the envelope or package. The new Peace Corps Mauritania Volunteers were told by former PCVs that Mauritanians are quite superstitious and that the mail service will not dare mess with any package that has been addressed as such. Nobody really knows if this is true anymore; it's just something that keeps getting passed down, and everyone keeps passing on those instructions to friends and family assuming that someone who knew this fact started the rumor, while of course acknowledging that there's a decent chance it doesn't make any difference at all.

Here in Mauritania one encounters several habits and customs like this – customs that have been handed down for generations that nobody questions. That explains why my host mother, a traditional doctor, poured goat's milk into my host sister's eyes when my host sister complained of her eyes hurting. Her eyes have since digressed considerably (though doubtfully due to the milk), and she's going to Nouakchott, the country's capital, to see a regular doctor. She's lucky she has the means to do so.

This same host mother once boasted of how “healthy” her diet was while she was pregnant with her youngest child. She ate plain couscous, and ONLY plain couscous, for the last seven months of the pregnancy.

This may also explain why I listened to a mother scold her daughter, telling her not to use soap to wash her hands before eating because... the daughter was sick. I briefly asked for a clarification – surely I misunderstood something in my limited Hassaniye – only to have the mother repeat that she did not want her ill daughter to wash her hands with soap. Before I could ask any follow-up questions the mother left the room to bring in the meal. The encounter was especially alarming since we then all ate from a communal bowl with our hands, and this daughter sat immediately to my right. I carefully avoided making any facial expressions, but I also carefully avoided any bits of rice she may have touched.

In Mauritania this type of logical reasoning, this trust in someone who hopefully knows better, is especially apparent to individuals who have been inundated with scientific studies on nutrition and health. But these studies are not readily available here. Chinguetti has not even had electricity for the past month, how could one expect people to be up-to-date on the most current trends in diets and hygiene? After all, aren't those “theories” about “germs” and “vitamins” just western trends anyway?

Furthermore, changes in patterns can be especially unnerving. If my “red ink” theory is accurate, and if someone sent a letter addressed in black or blue ink that did not come through, I would be heartbroken (if I ever find out about it). Changes in patterns can be risky. My host family in Rosso certainly agreed. They became uneasy one night during a lunar eclipse. Back in August we had a total lunar eclipse during a full moon. I watched it and kept expressing how cool and beautiful I thought it was. My host mother was horrified. In her limited French and my limited Hassaniye we had a very basic conversation:

Host mother: Look at the moon. It's bad.

Carl: Why is it bad?

HM: Because, look at it. It's bad.

C: But what's bad about it?

HM: Because Allah did that. He's punishing us. We must pray now.

It turns out that many PCVs had similar conversations with their host families that evening. And, sure enough, near the time they started praying, the eclipse began to recede. This only cemented the notion in their minds: Allah had been punishing them, and their praying helped solve the problem. Similarly, my belief in the mail superstition was only reinforced when I received a package from my parents that had been addressed in red ink and had an Islamic star and crescent on the top flap. I received the package just fine, so clearly my theory had worked, right?

I should qualify this entire entry by stating that I am not trying to make Mauritanians out to be uneducated or uninformed peoples. Furthermore, I have since encountered many Mauritanians who understand perfectly the nature of “eclipses.”

I will say though that it has made for some interesting encounters. After the eclipse, for example, I tried offering that “lunar eclipses” were natural phenomena that occurred when the Earth's shadow landed on the moon. Nope. That was clearly wrong. What a stupid American.

Returning to the “red ink” theory: I have no idea if addressing packages in red or adorning them with Islamic symbols actually helps or not, but on the off-chance that it does, I wouldn't want to risk not getting a care package. I've only ever heard of one PCV not receiving a care package, and sure enough, this package had not been addressed in red ink. Again, this is far from any sort of empirical proof. But when accurate information is not cheaply and readily available, superstitions will take hold. Some are even accurate. My host mother told an extremely overweight woman who appeared to be suffering from diabetes that she should be more active and walk more often. Other times it results in goat's milk being poured into eyes. I have no idea if the “red ink” theory is one that happens to be true or not, but I'll continue endorsing it religiously.

On Transport

If you are at all concerned about my safety here in Mauritania, perhaps you should skip this entry :)

Traveling is always an experience in country, and it looks like I'll be doing my fair share of it over the next two years. Every three or four weeks I travel into Atar, my regional capital, to check e-mail, get mail, post on my blog, and re-stock foodstuffs not available in Chinguetti. This trip is marked by gorgeous scenery (see pictures above), but it still makes me a little nervous every time I hop into the back of a pickup truck (called a “taxi brousse” or “bush taxi”) already crammed full to begin the two-hour ride. Yes, I could sit in the cab, but I save $3 each way by sitting in the back. Totally worth it. Plus, there's more head room.

The first and last thirds of the journey we travel at full speed through sandy Saharan plains. I'm sure I've ingested gallons of sand already, but as a friend said, “At least [my] skin gets exfoliated.” The middle third of the journey though is my favorite. Chinguetti is on a huge plateau, so to go from Atar to Chinguetti I travel up the side of some gorgeous mountains. Precariously perched in the back of the truck, which slows down to about 10 mph for this leg of the trek, I sit and soak up the beautiful scenery. This is another reason I love sitting in the back of the truck: the rock ledges feel close enough to reach out and touch (sometimes they are), the steep cliff to my right gives me a slight sense of vertigo, and the multi-colored rocks are different than anything I've ever seen before.

Mauritanians look at me a little weird when I hop in the truck's bed. That's the budget way of traveling; as an American they tell me I surely have tons of money. It provides a good chance to explain Peace Corps and dispel rumors about Americans all driving around in Hummers and owning mansions. Even after explaining Peace Corps I still receive many confused glances. “Who is this kid?” They seem to be wondering. Sometimes they follow with questions that circumnavigate the question, “Are you a spy?” (“The United Stated government pays for you to come and live here, they purchase all your food, they pay for your language instruction, and you really expect to be called a 'volunteer'?” [Touché.] )

At the end of the day I arrive at my destination safe and sound, though typically quite dirty. It's fun! C'est la vie dans la Mauritanie... especially when all you've got is “bush taxi.”

Fasting/Ramadan

I've received several questions about “Ramadan” and “fasting” and what that entails for me since I am not a Muslim, so I'm briefly going to explain the situation here.

The holy month of Ramadan just ended, and during this month Muslims were fasting all day, every day. Fasting, though, doesn't just mean “not eating.” It means not drinking any liquids – yes, in the Sahara – and according to my host family not using sunscreen, chapstick, lotion or shampoo. You cannot use anything but regular unscented soap and water to wash your skin before you pray. It's intense. Then, at sundown, the call to prayer sounds, and my family breaks fast by eating fresh dates and drinking zrig (a combo of sugar, water, and milk), inshe (basically gravy, though not meat-based; in my opinion it's a little heavy after a whole day of not eating or drinking anything, but it contrasts the sweetness of the dates nicely), and bissap juice (basically kool-aid, but a little less artificial tasting. It kind of tastes like slightly fruity sugar cane juice). Then they pray for 40 minutes. This is followed by “snack”, which consists of some sort of starch and a little meat, and if you're lucky some veggies. Then they pray again. Finally they socialize for a few hours until “dinner”, which is almost always just plain coucous, though sometimes it has goat intestines on top. After dinner they sleep for a few hours and wake up either once or twice during the night to eat more. Often these meals involve zrig, rice, or more couscous.

I originally planned to fast. I thought it would be a good way to show my “cultural solidarity”or something like that, as well as a general respect for Islam. I also figured that it the evening festivities would be a good chance to connect with families and to practice French and Hassaniye during my first month at site. However, I planned to drink water during the day. I knew it that meant I wasn't technically fasting, but I couldn't imagine not doing so. My body's already adjusting enough in this new environment, and I didn't want to cause it any unnecessary stress by dehydrating myself. I also didn't know at the beginning that one who is fasting isn't allowed to use sunscreen – and my fair-skinned self certainly uses sunscreen. So when I got to Chinguetti and told my family my plan, they basically said, “But that's not fasting.” It wasn't like, “Oh, you're trying to get to know our culture. Thanks for 'kind-of' fasting.” It makes sense, really. I mean, if you can't drink water all day in the Sahara, and some new American kid comes along and is like, “I'm going to fast too – except I'm not going to do the hardest part,” I could see getting a little irked. I proceeded anyway with my original plan, clandestinely consuming water in the privacy of my own compound. Then after a few days I got really sick, and my body wasn't really liking waking up every couple hours all night, and I was running every other morning meaning I was in need of even more calories, so I said, “Screw 'kind-of' fasting.”

I still didn't eat or drink at all in public, obviously (except for the minor incident of the tomato paste incident as detailed below), but since then I've enjoyed figuring out the market and discovering the limits of my simple kitchen. I now make a mean Brazilian rice and beans, and a pretty decent mac and cheese - an impressive feat without cheese or refrigeration. Who knew that if you heated condensed milk and added a splash of vinegar, the result would rival Kraft?

The Tomato Paste Incident

Before I get too far into this story, I want to share that the other morning I woke up at 5 am FREEZING cold. Later that day I found out another friend of mine had also awaken at that hour, and she had checked her thermometer. It was 78 degrees Fahrenheit. Some days the human body and its ability to adjust fascinate me.

Unfortunately my integration has not progressed quite as quickly as my body has adapted. This story is proof:

I moved to Chinguetti a few weeks ago, and thus far all has gone quite well. I found a place to live, met some neighbors, and still feel royally lost with Hassaniye. However, after being in Chinguetti for two days, my site mate told me she was leaving for two weeks. My site mate Jessica is the only other person here who speaks English. Most don't really speak French, either. The first morning after she left I worked up my courage and headed to the market. I was going to try to cook a simple bean, tomato, and onion mixture, and I just needed some tomato paste to hold it all together. The main three ingredients were going to be easy, and Jessica has assured me that tomato paste was easy to come by, so I headed for the nearest boutique. Unfortunately nobody was there. I called and greeted in the customary manner, and when no one answered I decided to wait it out until the shop owner came back. I saw the tomato paste sitting on a nearby shelf, picked up a small can, and kept waiting. Shortly thereafter a woman entered the store and she greeted me and asked what I wanted. I remembered Jessica telling me that this boutique was run by a brother and sister, so I thought perhaps this was the sister. I said I wanted the tomato paste, and that I was also wondering if there were any can openers. She gave me a funny look and asked what I meant. I motioned that I needed the can to be open, and asked how to do that. She left the store laughing.

Confused, I decided I would wait a few more minutes before finding another boutique. Within less than a minute the woman came back holding a knife and a rock. She took the paste from me, held the knife on one edge of the can, made a motion with the rock as if she were going to wail on the knife and said, “Like this?” I asked her if she could do it. I had never done opened a can with a rock and knife before.

Five seconds later I was covered in tomato paste. [There is a picture to prove it, but I'm still trying to figure out how to upload the picture. If there is a picture in this post, it worked. Otherwise, you'll have to believe me.]

Apparently tomato paste is canned under very high pressure, so whenever you open a can a fair amount squirts out the top. The woman was not fazed at all by this. So there I stood in the middle of the boutique without the shop owner (this woman had in the meantime told me she didn't own the boutique) covered in juices from an unpurchased can of tomato paste. I asked the woman if there was any water, to which she just said, “I don't know,” and she walked away. I started wiping the sticky substance off my face and licking my fingers, but then the woman came back over to me screaming. “Not good! Not good!” Was the tomato paste expired? “Eating is bad. It's Ramadan.” In trying to clean up I had committed a major faux pas: eating in public during Ramadan. So, I trekked back across town, taking mostly back allies and sidestreets so people would not see my tomato paste covered face. Many people stopped me and asked if I was hurt. “No, it's just tomato paste.” Finally, back at my compound I took this picture, cleaned up a bit and made my afternoon meal in the privacy of my home. I'm pleased to report that since then most daily activities have been far less eventful.

I got kicked out of my host family's, the President and Prime Minister got kicked out of office

Well, as some of you may have heard on the news, Mauritania recently had a coup d'etat. It was bloodless, so us PCVs are fine, and the general Mauritanian attitude is something between moderately excited (the old administration wasn't too well liked), moderately annoyed ("This is not democracy," said my language instructor), and lethargic (three years ago there was a similar coup which was dubbed "The worst coup ever" because nobody really cared after it happened).

That same week I also got kicked out of my old host family's house. This was pretty unfortunate because I got along very well with my host mother and host siblings, and the conditions were comparatively pretty nice. Apparently my host father has been popping into Peace Corps and requesting more money each week -- which, by the way, is ridiculous considering how much they get paid. This is the first time that training has been held in this city, so these families have never worked with Peace Corps before. Apparently several families have been requesting more money. They see an organization affiliated with the US Dept of State and try to see if they can get more money because they don't realize that Peace Corps 1-isn't rolling in dough and 2-has a policy of not paying bribes. It all makes sense, I suppose. But then, when we all went on site visit, my host father showed up at Peace Corps irate that he was not getting as much money for hosting me during the week when I was not even there. He said that if Peace Corps was not going to pay him more I had to go. He then up and left for Nouakchott, the capital city, with his other wife. Peace Corps tried calling his bluff a few times -- after all, they are paying him quite well -- but he never answered his phone. So, when I got back from site visit, I had to leave. I never did see my host father again. Saying goodbye to my host-mother was difficult. Her two year old daughter grabbed my legs and squealed a bit, and my mother told me she was going to learn how to write so that she could write me letters.

Fortunately my new host mother is also very sweet. She is a nurse, and she has been feeding me quite well. After losing 25 pounds in the first month, I have now regained three of those pounds in the second! And she gives me salad often, while salad is typically a rare treat for PCVs here. Vegetables are expensive and Mauritanians don't eat many fresh foods. While I was perhaps a little spoiled by physical living conditions in the first household, the lack of electricity or water in the second will prepare me well for life in Chinguetti.

In any case things are going well, despite changes in host families and in national governments. Also, I was able to start Hassaniye class two weeks ago, so hopefully my limited skills in French and this dialect of Arabic together will be enough to get me through the first bit of service. I'll try to write at least once more before the end of training, which is only two short weeks away, and I'll also try to upload some pictures. Until then, ma asalaam (with peace).

Site Changes and Sand Dunes

After a month of learning French, living with a wonderful host family, and getting used to the humidity in Rosso, I am pleased to report that I know know where I will be stationed in country for the next two years: Chinguetti, an ancient holy city of Islam where I will work with tourism. However, that was not the original plan...

Last Monday we were told our site placements, and then Tuesday morning we were scheduled to take off and visit our sites for a week. I was told I would head to Aioun to work with the mayor on waste management. Aioun is a remote site with gorgeous scenery. I was a bit nervous about the fact that it would take two days to get anywhere else in country, but I was really excited about the work assignment, possible secondary projects, and the rocky cliffs surrounding the area that are ideal for hiking. Even though it is remote, it is a regional capital so it has water, electricity, and internet – all pluses.

However, Monday night/Tuesday morning I was awaken from my mosquito net and told my coordinator had to speak with me. Standing in my boxers I was told that my site had been changed. I was now going to Chinguetti. They always told us we would need to be flexible... I guess this is just proof.

Chinguetti is a pretty city surrounded by picturesque sand dunes and the Sahara. It is farther north, meaning it's hotter but much less humid. Plus, since it is situated on a plateau, there is a cool season when ostensibly it drops below freezing at night. It is arguably the premier tourist destination in Mauritania, but it still very much has a small-town feeling to it. The city that currently stands was founded in 1066 AD, but there are older parts to this city that have been covered in sand over the years.

This should be a great site, but there is no internet access, meaning I will check only check e-mail each time I hope a ride to Atar, the local regional capital. I assume this will be AT LEAST once or twice a month, but we'll see how things work out.

Well, that's it for now. Check back soon for pictures. Drop me an e-mail if you get a chance to let me know how you're doing.

I'm here!

I'm pleased to say I arrived in Mauritania nearly 24 hours ago. The other 76 Peace Corps Mauritania Trainees and I (we're technically "Trainees" until we swear in as full-fledged "Volunteers" on August 28) have braved one night out on the sand -- though we were still within the walls of our compound so the verb 'brave' might be a bit strong -- we enjoyed three rather tasty meals, and we spent most of our time hiding from the ubiquitous sun. At first I had hoped to be placed in a region further south because I was under the impression that the north was desert and, as a fair-skinned individual, I figured it would be a good idea to avoid that if possible. A Volunteer who has been here a year corrected me shortly after I arrived: "It's all desert here, friend." He's right. We're in Rosso, which is on the southern border with Senegal, but it's certainly desert here. I guess I'm glad I have so much SPF 80 sunscreen!

This morning we learned greetings in four local languages: Hassaniya, Pulaar, Wolof, and Soninke. Hassaniya is the local dialect of Arabic, spoken mostly by the more historically nomadic, conservative Moors who reside primarily in the northern part of the country. It is the national language, too. The other three are tribal languages. Pulaar is a variation of Fula, which is spoken all throughout West Africa, while Wolof and Soninke are primarily spoken in Mauritania, Senegal, and The Gambia. I'm not sure which language I'll be assigned to yet (after improving my French a bit), but I'll certainly keep you posted -- unless I end up in a rural region without much access to internet, which is of course a possibility.

Perhaps one unfortunate bit of news is that our subscriptions to Rosetta Stone French were discontinued when we arrived. Good thing I put in the hours when I did, I suppose; honestly I really enjoyed the program and anticipated using it as a study tool whenever I had free time and internet access. A friend of mine has the program for Arabic, so I may tap into that resource if I end up learning Hassaniya. I still haven't figured out how similar Arabic and Hassaniya are. The alphabets are the same, the greetings are identical, and they are certainly related languages, but it sounds like there might be some significant differences, too.

If you have any questions about anything, feel free to shoot me an e-mail. I should have semi-consistent internet access through at least Thursday. We'll see where I end up at that point.

One Week Left!

There's about one week left until I take off. The past week afforded me several opportunities to visit friends and family, which was wonderful. I even made it down to Luther over the weekend. My bags are now packed. I have a few final errands to run and a bit of paperwork to accomplish, but all in all I'd say I'm nearly ready to go.

Feel free to shoot me an e-mail to update me about your life whenever you get the chance. I should acquire a cell phone and a mailing address once on-site, so hopefully staying in contact will not be as daunting an obstacle as it once was for Peace Corps Volunteers (that's my passive way of reiterating that you should keep in touch). Thanks again for all your thoughts, prayers and support. Wish me luck with French, Arabic, and whichever local languages I get to learn. I tried to learn a few basic phrases in Arabic this week. It's hard! For now I should probably focus on French anyway since the State Department subscribed us to the fantastic Rosetta Stone program and I haven't studied French much before now. Let's hope the learning curve is steep.

Bonne chance a tous mes amis qui cherchent au travail ou qui commencent de nouveaux emplois! (Good luck to all my friends who are looking for work or who are starting new jobs!)