RIP PC RIM

Due to security issues, Peace Corps Mauritania has been suspended for a bit. I'd like to pretend it was a huge surprise... but that wouldn't be entirely accurate. I'm now in the hustle and bustle of looking for a job state-side while keeping options open for another Peace Corps service somewhere else, though likely not for another entire 27 months. Chinguetti, I'll miss you. Thanks to all who read this blog over the past year. Peace out.

Is this heaven? ...no, it's Saint Louis.

First, I must apologize for the dearth of blog entries. I aim to ameliorate that situation pronto.

One might assume that, therefore, I will talk about projects at site, offer pretentious cultural insights, or reflect on my year since starting service with Peace Corps.

One might be dead wrong. I don't feel like talking about Mauritania. It's hot here. My teeth are rotting thanks to the copious amounts of sugar I consume, and my family thinks vegetables are "bad health". I suppose that my next couple entries will likely reference Mauritania because, you know, that's where I live and spend 99% of my time. But for now, I'm going to share stories from my wonderful week south of the border in Saint Louis, Senegal (henceforth referred to as "heaven").

Heaven is a beautiful little town that occupies both sides of a small bay, as well as a large island in between. The middle island is the touristy part. Walking around the island, one's senses are bombarded by hundreds of stands selling spicy sandwiches and fruits of all varieties, booths blasting vibrant music, and, most importantly, no sand dunes or sandy couscous.

Each spring heaven hosts Jazz Fest, a four-day funfest offering excellent music, food, beaches and company. Peace Corps Mauritania generally invades heaven twice each year: New Year's and Jazz Fest. This year I decided to skip New Year's, so my first trip to heaven was aided by friends who already knew the best restaurants, the boutiques with the cheapest, coldest beers, and the best places for evening festivities.

Weather-wise, heaven was perfect. Mornings were cool, comfy. Afternoons were warm but not uncomfortably so. Evening breezes made me want to sit outside at every restaurant.

Food was cheap, filling, and everywhere.

Waves on the beach were so large that they knocked you on your butt.

My legs are still peeling after long afternoons spent next to pools and the ocean (curse you, fair skin of mine!) but let me assure you that I relish each fleck of dead skin I peel away - souvenirs from a better place. I'll miss you heaven. Until I return, it's back to couscous.

Flexibility Training

A few changes from the past couple months, just to keep everyone on their toes:

- The Mauritanian election, originally set for June 6, was postponed a month. All opposition parties (I believe) have agreed to this new timetable. This should make for a smoother transition.

- Our new Peace Corps Volunteers were set to arrive next week. However, due to some visa issues, they will (hopefully) come in August. Keep your fingers crossed here. We (Peace Corps Mauritania Volunteers) are anxiously awaiting this new class.

- We were supposed to travel to Mali for a soccer game vs. Peace Corps Mali. Yesterday I arrived in Aioun - a city near the border of Mali where, coincidentally, I was supposed to work until my site was switched at the last second to Chinguetti - to discover that the soccer game was canceled and that the border with Mali is now closed to US citizens (there's a rumor that the latter statement is just a rumor).

SOOOOO, I will likely be returning to site a little earlier than expected. I'm still very excited to catch up on stories (and food!) while I'm in the States during August. And as always, in the meantime shoot me an e-mail update whenever. It's a blast to hear from people back home.

Me = homeless

Top 10 reasons being in Peace Corps Mauritania is like being homeless in America:

10. The world is our toilet.
9. We sleep outside on the ground.
8. We bum meals most days.
7. We pick our noses, hawk loogies, and discuss diarrhea in public, unabashedly.
6. We don't eat fruits or vegetables for days at a time.
5. Our clothes are all tattered (I have no hole-less pants left, and I wear pants everyday).
4. We go for weeks without showering, and we don't wear deodorant.
3. We have few definite life goals or plans.
2. We survive on a generous $200/month from Uncle Sam; and:
1. Nevertheless, we still find money for alcohol (only while in Senegal, of course.)

I'm Coming Home!

I recently purchased a plane ticket to return to the States for most of August. I'll be making a mad-dash between Chicago and Minneapolis during the first three weeks, and between DC and Boston during the fourth. Let me know if you'll be in either of those regions so we can meet up.

On Transport, Part Deux

For the first time in my life, I hate traveling. It's awful. Several months ago I wrote about traveling to and from Atar each month in the back of a pickup. That was bad enough. Traveling to Nouakchott – the capital city where one finds cold beer and cheese – is sheer torture.

The first time I watched people climbing into a bush taxi, the typical mode of transportation, I thought back to late-night Wal-Mart runs during college where perhaps ONE extra person was squeezed onto a lap or into a truck. However, the first time I watched four grown adults climb into the back seat of a standard car, I thought there must be some mistake. They were going on a seven-hour journey. No, it wasn't a mistake. That's how people travel in Mauritania. Then I watched two people cram themselves into the front seat. This wasn't one of those cars with extra seating space between the passenger and the driver. It was a bucket seat. The poor souls cradled each other, praying the rickety doors didn't pop open.

In winter, layers of clothing take up precious breathing room. But those layers of clothing also provide some cushion between bony hips. During summer there is little padding. Each time your neighbor moves a leg, you feel the muscles contract and relax. Hip bones remind you that at a certain point it's impossible to squish yourself any narrower: four adult pelvises simply take up a certain amount of space.

Summer's an extra treat: 130 degree temperatures ensure that you sweat all over everyone until you no longer know whose juices are whose. If you are lucky enough to travel in a vehicle with functioning windows, and if the other passengers in the car are nice enough to roll down their windows to let in a breeze, then you are guaranteed to be covered in a thick layer of sand by the end of the day, which coagulates with your group-sweat until you are swimming in a small pool of mud. Nevertheless, that's still preferable to an airtight car [read: oven]. For some reason many Mauritanians insist it's hotter with the windows rolled down. The only possible explanation is that they are so dehydrated that they don't sweat, and they therefore don't realize how good the breeze feels.

I feel bad for my companions: my 6'5” frame is no nimble figure with which to coexist. But, they grin and bear it with no complaints, at least not to my face. I'm also thankful for my physical health. A good friend of mine has a bad knee and has to stretch every couple hours. I'm amazed he goes anywhere in bush taxi.

If we fill a car with six Americans the drive is more tolerable. Moors are not great about using soap. This makes their juices less enjoyable.

I'm thankful I'm not a girl. Since this is an Islamic Republic and people are so conservative, most Mauritanians refuse to sit by anyone of the opposite sex. This works out well for small-statured males. Females, though, are notoriously large (the bigger the better, right?). I can't imagine sitting between three grown Moor women in the back of a compact. My female friends do it all the time. Again, in the winter it's not so bad. I've been told the cushioning is preferable to bony hips. Summertime is quite a different story. Extra layers of skin mean extra heat, sweat and smell.

Every time I cram myself into a back seat I think, “Oh, this isn't as bad as last time.” I plug in headphones hoping to drown out the noise that is “Moor music”, pretending to be in my own little world, even though my body knows otherwise. My knees begin to hurt. My buttcheeks fall asleep. One time the entire lower half of my body fell asleep. If I move, I must check with my neighbor to make sure his or her ribs can still expand sufficiently to breathe. My neck begins to ache from being hunched over. And then I remember why I hate traveling so much.

Nevertheless, after a certain number of hours you develop an unspoken understanding with your neighbors. You've each moved a little, much to the others' chagrin. You've all got each others' sweat smeared across your faces, arms, thighs and legs, so there's no point in apologizing anymore. You know each other's contours as well as their most intimate partners. And when you finally peel away from each other at the end of a voyage, you taste freedom together. You leave with the sense of having endured some great hardship, and you're pretty sure that the only reason you survived is because your neighbor wasn't a total inconsiderate ass along the way. You still dread the next trek, but that won't stop you from going. Cold beers and cheese are calling.