Home economics

21 Aout 2006

Yesterday, I learned how to make tea. Or rather, at Sahaba's urging
(but gladly) I watched Fatimatou closely as she made it in a
demonstrative way, and helped a bit with the pouring. I think that's
the hardest part, it being necessary to mix, cool, and make-foamy the
tea, and to dignify its ceremonial aspect. Otherwise you're just
making tea all the damn time.

Sahaba is right though, I do need to learn how to make it for when I
go off on my own (what weird parallels are forming) so that I can have
guests and visitors, and all that good stuff. Tea drinking/making is
like THE lubricant of social intercourse in this country. It is
simultaneously the dinner by candlelight and the power lunch.

This being the case, it's a good thing I don't hate it, as do some of
my unfortunate counterparts, and in fact I've become slightly
addicted. The only bad thing about this is that tea has a way of never
being around when you want it, and then coming into existence when you
least expect it. As I'm walking out the door tea is being served. Tea
is being served at ten o clock at night. Tea by starlight.

At least 45 minutes is needed for all three rounds (usually much longer) and if you drink one, you may refuse the rest, but if you drink 2 you must have all 3 to avoid being rude. I say 'must' like I know, though I don't, because these are customs, and in the fashion of customs they fluctuate with circumstance and by region. And I say 'rude' by what is 'rude' when you, as a foreigner are running around being inadvertently rude all over the place. Let my respect for you shine through in other places. I am not going to miss class for your damn tea. I have it the same time every day - buy a watch bitches!

The newest amusement adopted by the kids on the path outside our hut
is the act of pushing giant, plastic yellow water jugs called bdewns
across the dirt. There was a whole line of them yesterday, first going
one way and then the other. At least one of the kids had no clothes
on. It makes a terrible racket. I think they're supposed to be cars.
Other things they play with include, but are not limited to: dirt,
dung, trash of various kinds, scrap metal, cans rolled on the ground
with a stick, dental floss, metal hoops, and live birds, swung by a
string tied at their leg (this last one, though incredible, is not
made up)

Halima came back from Kaedi with a bag full of goodies including
squeaky sandals and fried bread. The bread we chowed down on, in no
time it was gone, but the sandals started a bit of a circus. Joka
pranced around with them for a while, each step making a noise like a
dog toy, yet inevitably there ensued a circuit of fighting over the
sandals, throwing the sandals, beating others with the sandals, and
generally contributing to their immediate demise.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get Abu to buy me some chewing gum from the
boutique, but accidentally confused it with the adjacent word in our
make-shift, badly printed dictionary. There I was, saying " I want a
gun, do you understand? Here's 20 ougiyas, go buy me a gun! (Idiot)"

In other news, when the gum was finally, and without violence
attained, Abu wanted me to teach him how to blow bubbles. On his first
attempt, he ended up forcefully spitting his gum on the ground.

No worries baby, just brush it off and try again.

El Qidiya

16 Aout 2006

Much to tell, much to tell.

Today is the first day back at center, after we journeyed wide and far over the country-side for a site visit. My village is called El Qidiya (the 'Q' is actually a sound that doesn't exist in English, and only ever appears when one is swallowing or gagging). It's very secluded - 58K off the gudrone (paved road), over terrain both rocky and barren, and it's an oasis in the desert, nestled at the foot of a mountainous ridge, lush and green with date palms, a seasonal lake and waterfalls. Wow. It takes forever to get to, even the place where one turns off the gudrone is a barren wasteland. One would never imagine that people could live that far out, but that's just one of the many things people do in this country which make them seem like Aliens.

We got stuck in the mud, about 3 or 4 times in fact, the first time going in as the sun was setting, the other times trying to get the hell out. Another thing Mauritanians (our driver) don't do well is get unstuck from the mud, and so we ended up staying the first night with some man, randomly found as we wandered around from place to place in the dark. He gave us mattelas and tea, noodles, and water to drink. This is not in fact uncommon: hospitality is (supposed to be) a thing around here.

In the morning, he gave us porridge and tea, we bought bread, cobbled together a meeting with the mayor (don't let that word fool you) and toured the town a bit, mostly by car - it's strange how and why they drive these enormous landrovers through even tiny village walkways.

Then we were put up by the president of the "PTO" (I couldn't get a more accurate translation of his position from anyone), who fed us zriig (fermented, sweetened milk), and more zriig, and milk, and dates with butter, and tea, a sheep (not the good parts) and rice.

One thing though: this man has 3 black moors in his household, about my age, though he is white-moor (Arabic-looking), and thinking about their actual status in the family makes me queasy. Maybe they are paid laborers, and maybe I'm just jumpy, but they could be slaves. Slavery exists here, and though it's been officially illegal for many years, it still happens. It doesn't look like what we think slavery looks like, hence my hesitancy to identify it. It's social and mental, it's societal slavery, and therefore much harder to stop. So I'm really hoping that this isn't the case, and that slavery in general doesn't exist in my village.

The next day, after we had seen all the boutiques, the lake, the waterfalls, climbed the mountains, and seen the cave paintings (for real!), we tried to leave and spent another 5 hours getting unstuck from the muddy river dividing the two sections of town. Then, having run out of options, we decided to follow some other intrepid travellers (The chief of some village - a hideous, fat white moor with walrus teeth and an almost comically villainous look, his short little director of schools, and their beautiful young black-moor driver) who knew another way out of town. We dodged a few puddles and mudtraps, and after 40K (2hrs) over the rocks, we ran into a gigantic dam that had flooded all over the adjoining planes, and which they had somehow forgotten to mention. Mauritanians don't think ahead, ever. Since the sun was setting fast, and we were running out of options, we all piled into our white chariot, me squished in the rear (a night-mare) and headed for a (mythical) village 20K back, which the cheif knew of, allegedly. The paths, which are never more than simple tracks in the dirt, wind and twist and run together with others, and generally tend to get lost, especially at night. Inevitably of course, we ended up driving around in circles at night, through mud-fields and turga scrub-forests, in a vehicle now somewhat commandeered by the pushy village chief (even minor authority figures get big egos). Eventually we found the village of '5 Baobobs', (whether through skill or providence I'm not sure), a windy little collection of houses in the middle of nowhere. We didn't know the people, they didn't know us, but we slept and ate with them, because that's what you do. Part of the thing about living here is getting used to almost never knowing what's going on.

Anyway, the next day we made it back to El Qidiya, then left it again by our original route (it was now dry enough to pass) and made good time to the gudrone. I will never look at a paved road the same way again. As a bonus when we were approaching the road, I saw a man riding a galloping black horse over the desert, with his blue bou-bou billowing out behind him. It was epic.

This post brings me up to date, I suppose, but I go back to M'Beidia tomorrow which means no updates for a few more weeks, After that comes Swear In! where I officially become a Peace Corps volunteer, we have a big party to celebrate (alcohol has been rumored to make an appearance) and I start doubting my effectiveness as a human-being again. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

I hope you all write me soon. I love you. Be good.

Ma'selaam.

Noble Savagery

5 Aout 2006

Yesterday we went to visit some more old folks, in order that we might practice our language and sample some of their tea - it all tastes pretty much the same to me, and even the differences between rounds (more bitter, more minty and sweeter) usually go over my head. Nevertheless, we stopped under the tent of a nice old couple, along with various other neighbors, relatives and such characters as that. I think the old man and woman are the parents of my maternal aunt's daughter's husband, but I could be wrong - familial attachments around here are about as entangled as my little niece Amtee's hair. And that stuff's a bitch.

Anyway we sat and talked as well as we could, we answered questions, laughed at Haddou and told stories. I told the one about when Meghann and I were little and Bud Trumble chased us with a snapping turtle (slightly embellished for dramatic effect of course). They seemed to like it, and were the friendly sort to meet us halfway when our language failed. I guess also that the experience of having the nasrani say the words for head, ear, house, tent and big stick never gets old. In fact, the first few days here, and now whenever I meet someone new, I feel like the best toy ever. Although, this has its merits.

I don't know how to explain the old couple (Khadaisia and Abdelai). They're just like everyone else here, so strange and foreign, yet so familiar, well worn and comforting, kind, earthbound, wise (or unwise) and so colorful that I'm continually wondering why it doesn't feel stranger to be here. I suppose such is our ability to adapt.

Khadaisia had the largest, most pendulous breast I had ever seen (a glimpse of). Some women don't wear anything under their mullefas, which are nebulous, breezy and open articles of clothing. Still, breasts aren't scandalous here; they're seen as about as sexually charged as a couple half-gallons of 2%. An ankle though, a calf or god forbid a thigh, could send someone over the edge. Go figure.

Anyway, she was a large woman with old and strong hands, dyed with henna, an active face and voice (when she sung it was like a woman half her age), she danced a little from her seat and used her mulaffa like a tool, or an appendage as she told stories about animals who used to live here, like lions.

Abdelai wore a wrinkled black gendura with white sirwaal. He had out-of-control cheekbones - the key to looking youthful forever. He had fuzzy white close-cut scrub on his head, and a tiny white patch of hair jutting out from his chin. He had most of his teeth, but those that were absent were conspicuously so.

{By the by, I'm actually surprised that anyone around here has any teeth at all. No one brushes them, except with their finger and water, or with the twigs of a tooth-brush tree, which they chew on and scrape against. On top of that, they drink sugary tea all day long and eat white rice with everything. Plus no dentistry (or medical care for that matter). But considering everything, they have amazingly in-tact teeth, and many might even have nice ones, if I could only hold them down long enough to scrape that brown shit off the surface.}

Anyway, back to Abdelai: He said his father once rode a lion into town, and steered it by the ear from his perch on its back. He couldn't hear very well, and told me the names for local trees twice. Everyone was lovely, and we had a nice, if mutually unintelligible time until Ismaila's father broke up the party by beating him and chasing him into our midst with a knotted rope. Oh well. Time to go folks.

I've been watching the ballon team practice each night in the field outside the garden after I've finished watering, and the air is cool. It's strictly a male arena - the girls can't even come to watch, lest scandal ensue, so I'm trying to take advantage of my position in this society as, unquestionably, a man. During practice, the younger boys sit in front on the sand; the babies and the brothers. Last night one of them got hit in the face with the ball, and cried to the amusement of all. Many of the young ones tend to watch me, instead of the game, or only watch the game until I've looked away, and they can resume staring. This behavior usually decreases with age, as the older ones of certain years are often too cool to pay me much attention at all. It's fine though, it really only ever takes one clever remark from the soft-voiced nasrani, and they're laughing too, repeating it to everyone. In short, I don't feel unwelcome - just largely, as of yet, unknown. And that's 100% true.

I don't know too much about soccer, but the players seem pretty good - at least they're organized and there's a man with a whistle, so that's got to count for something. They play shirts and skins, old-school style, and true to form they're all tightly muscled despite the lack of good protein here, and thin with broad shoulders. It's hard not to feel my own inferior make while watching them, so thank god for the lack of mirrors, and that the only reflection I ever see is in the dull, rippled tin of my latrine door.

It's tempting too, to let one's mind follow the psychology of 'noble savagery', and to assume that because some people are poor or disadvantaged, they are somehow better, by default, than those of us who take privilege and riches for granted. It's not true of course, people are the same everywhere, regardless of economics, but when you watch these tall, skinny young men playing soccer in their makeshift shoes, the socks with strappy sandals, maybe taped together or paired with ratty cleats on one foot, and showing their painfully clear earnestness; their regal chins, their brotherhood - it's tempting to feel ashamed of one's birth, in a way. They've had to earn everything they've gotten, much more than me. Still, cynicism, hopelessness and self-pity are all indulgences, and therefore a complete waste of time. Mashallah.

Iyaak Il-Khayr

2 Aout 2006

Lots of interesting things have been happening in the past few days:
for starters - yesterday the ballon (ballon meaning 'ball' and
therefore soccer) team left for Kaedi to play in a tournament there,
what exactly is meant by the word tournament in this case is, as of
yet, unclear to me and my fellow nasrani. In fact, until yesterday we
didn't even know that they had a team in the normal sense of the word,
rather than that of a random sometimes conglomeration of disaffected
youth (I kid). Nevertheless, yesterday two vans pulled out of M'Beidia
(one filled with the team, clad in actual numbered uniforms, and
topped by an assortment of teenaged supporting stars - water-boy types
and the like - and one packed full of fans going to cheer on the good
fellows. At around 3 pm we went to see what all the commotion was
about, and with practically the remaining populace of M'Beidia, saw
off the team with clapping and singing and that weird trilling call
they make with their tongues (I did not partake of this).

In class, for the second day in a row, we went to see and interview
some of the most elderly inhabitants of the village, to get a history
of M'Beidia. Part of the difficulty in speaking neither the language
of the interviewee, nor the language of your TRANSLATOR (thanks
Haddou), is that responses tend to be boiled down to an
un-illuminating few. In general, "life used to be better", "the young
don't respect the elderly" and "we never used to have the problems with soil/water/rain/crops that we have now" came back again
and again. No kidding folks. I could have gotten that response with a
few substitutions, from any crotchety old person on any street in
America. Nevertheless, we did get a few intriguing facts about a
long-ago drought, deforestation, the killing-off of animal species,
and horse-racing (for real).

Later in the evening, after tea at Maimouna's and my mini-makaresh
bath (it was lovely), a growing ruckus of a crowd signaled the return
of the team. Did they win? Did they not? Well, I would later find out
that it was only the fan-van come-back so far, and not the footballers
proper. Regardless, still wet from my shower, I followed the children
(it was twilight) and a wildly galloping loosed horse (this happens
strangely often) to the place where the action was.

After a few minutes of crowd wandering and clapping and hand-holding,
a man took my hand and led me back to his porch in a very 'you
shouldn't be standing amongst the children' sort of way, and we spread
out a hsera on his porch and sat in the (now) moonlight. His is one of
the nicer houses in town; we walk by it everyday on our way to water
the garden. His name is Mohamed I-can't-remember (last names are
tricky here) He's thirty, lives with his family, owns a shop in
Senegal and likes soccer. Big surprise there. He's very stern looking,
like many of the men here, but he was very nice and we had a good
little chat, such as my language would provide.

It's strange that I'm almost never afraid of anyone here, (meaning
afraid of talking-to) like I was in America. I thought that the
foreignness, and the language barrier would make it worse, but so far
it's only made it better. Maybe it's just that everything is so new
and different here that I can't afford to be afraid.

After our chat, Abu came and got me and we ate dinner (couscous and
cow-peas) with Habiba, and when I was finished, all the kids pounced
on the bowl to eat before the (now) gathering sandstorm. You can see
it on the horizon; it blocks out the stars like a dark gas. After we
put away everything inside, we sat out in the wind and dust. Habiba
and crazy-eyed, afro-ed Joka were still eating couscous from the bowl
by the glow of a flashlight, even with the sand flying everywhere. How
fucked-up is that?

Anyway, when the dirt and wind got too bad, I hid Abu's and Habiba's
faces in my chest, protecting them from the sand with my shirt. When
we finally went inside and Sahaba put me in my little house, and
stuffed up the windows, the last thing she said was "Rgid Mohamed"
(sleep Mohamed), "Iyaak il-khayr" (I hope there is peace) That last
one they use to meaningless extinction in their greetings 500 times a
day, but this time it actually seemed to fit.

Of course, it turns out that the rain totaled 6 drops and all the
soccer rowdiness was for a tie score (1 to 1). But oh well. Let the
people have there fun. Mashallah.

Dear Santa

29 Juilliet 2006

I want a bou-bou like its my job.

I want a flowing white chunk of fabric to wear and wrap around me, to
fidget with and constantly adjust, and to make me look like something
out of ancient history, as so happens when they're worn by the native
people here. I want a bou-bou. I want a man-dress (a gendura). The
trouble is, somewhere in the garbled, tangled puzzle that is the
genetic line of us white-European descended peoples there is a nasty
little stowaway whose ultimate effect is this: we cannot wear these
clothes. We cannot wear them. We look comical at best, and more often
than not, totally grotesque. Such is one of the great sadnesses of my
life now. I want one so badly! Consider this: with a bou-bou, shirt
and pants are optional (you must wear a knickers-like garment called
sirwaal lest your bare-ass be exposed through the wide-open sides)
With a gendura, all other garments appear to be optional! Including
underwear! Do you know how much easier it is to do one's business in a
hole when you're not wearing underwear? Pray you never find out. (Just
kidding, just kidding)
For real though: I'm asking Santa for the ability to passably wear a
man-dress, 'cause I'm totally getting one.

Sometimes I have a few young pals who come to visit me at night,
practice English, and speak at me in their (exceedingly) bad French.

The other night, in an attempt to keep the conversation going, I,
needful of verbs, pointed out qmaar (moon) and dilegaan (cowpeas) in
English. My friend Moussa leaned back on the mat, looked up at the
sky, and tried to memorize: "Cowpeas-moon, cowpeas-moon" he repeated.
Also in his and his sidekick Hassan's repertoire are 'stomach, chest,
cheek, nose and mouth' in addition to most of the numbers from 1 to
20, excepting 12, which is perpetually pronounced 'twelven'. You're
ready for America buddy!

Last night, the subject in which they seemed most interested was what
went on when I went to Kaedi for Center Days.

-'Did you listen to music?'

Yes

-'Was any of it Michael Jackson, and/or Fifty-Cent and/or Ja-Rule?'

(Well...no. But) sure, why not.

-'Did you dance while there?'

(Again, no. But) sure, why not.

-'Boys and girls?'

Mmmhmm.

-Together?

(sensing their interest) Yes.

- Let me get this straight, les garcons AVEC les filles??!

Of course!

Therein ensued the equivalent of 'wow', and a long low whistle. Yes, I
have officially become cool in the eyes of the teenage boys of
M'Beidia.

Today, after the rain, I took advantage of the coolness to take a nap
inside (for once), and listen to my iPod a bit. When Habiba came to
investigate with her quizzical look, we dance a little together - me
lying on my mattella, she looking puzzled in the doorway. Good times.

Scoot-Butt

27 Juilliet 2006

Right next to the shady chi-lih (porch) outside my house, a group of
older ladies regularly gather on a mat under a Neem Tree to discuss
god knows what. They're chatty and loud, they make tea, and an
indeterminate number of them may or may not be fictionally related to
me. The one that permanently resides next door we call
'scoot-butt': I've seen her scoot slowly across the ground with her hands
rather than getting up (though I know she can walk). Once, I took a
picture of them all sitting there with my digicam and they got a good
twenty minutes of fun out of pointing out each other on the tiny
screen. -Yes that IS Minetou on the camera, and here she is in real
life! (It's a miracle!) I know I'm purely stroking my own western ego
with delighting my family and friends with American wonders like (no
joke) duct tape, and clip on metal beaners, but I do it anyway. It has
no positive effect whatsoever other than a few minutes of comedy, but
sometimes when you're sitting there being stared at for hours on end,
you can begin to feel a need to entertain.

Today is pretty haami hatte (very hot), and a good majority of last
night's clouds have burned off already. This (only barely) sub-Saharan
sun is a wicked bitch.
Strangely enough, I've barely gotten a tan, excepting my spectacularly
farmer-tanned arms, because only fools and those who have no choice
spend time in the mid-day sun.

Last night, as I was getting ready for bed and brushing my teeth in
the dark street, I walked over to the troupe of young men who were
gathered around a thumping, Usher-pumping boombox 10 meters away. We
were talking, dancing a little and laughing for no more than two
minutes, when Sahab walked over to collect me, and pointed to my
mosquito net as if to say "Go to bed, young man." Well, nevermind that
I'm twenty four and American: "Yes ma'am"

My Finest Hour

26 Juilliet 2006

I want guacamole with chips and Mexican beer.

I want seven kinds of pie with French vanilla ice cream.

I want anything that is not rice, cous cous, fish or meat.

I want fat sandwiches of lunchmeat with good bread and cheese. I want
soup.

I want candy.

Last night my toothless Abu took a bath for the first time since I've
been in the village. At least he pranced around naked in the dark, was
led away by his mother, and then returned 3 minutes later, wet. You do
the math.

Speaking of children, the babies here are all tied with a scarf to
their mothers' backs, poking out bobble-headed like tiny monkeys from
atop their mothers' huge rumps. Its sort of amazing that they never
topple out, but they're perfectly content, and never cry.

We've been bringing out my wind-up shortwave radio at night and
listening to local stations, or the BBC or some Reggae on its tinny
speakers under the stars. It makes me miss all my geeky NPR
programming which I love so much.

Yesterday afternoon I came home from class to find that my mother
Sahaba had locked a chicken in my house.

I haven't been locking my door, except that Sahaba told me to give her
a key so that she could lock it whenever necessary. Giving someone
else a key sort of defeats the purpose of having a key, but she seemed
to think it was a grand idea, so no biggee. Anyway, as soon as she
unlocked the door, out comes the squawking chicken, which upon further
inspection of my room, had shat in it several times (of course).
Luckily, as of now, I have yet to come upon any other specimens
unexpectedly. Inshallah.

All the women in the garden seem to get a kick out of me hauling
water - I think its probably considered women's work. At least in the
garden it is, where I am the only man who's ever there. That's
excepting my 18 year old friend Amida who's only ever there
specifically to see me and hang out a little, while trying to look
cool in the decidedly un-cool garden.

And lastly, because the bread that Caleb brought us from Kaedi seemed
about to expire, leaving its canned-tuna partner without a mate, and
because sharing is all but mandatory here, and because I didn't want to
share, yesterday night found me huddled in a dark corner of my room,
flashlight in armpit, shoving bread-scooped tuna into my mouth as fast
as I could chew. Needless to say, it wasn't my finest hour, but such
is life here in the RIM.

Beaner Clips N' Telly

My cell phone number is actually 011 222 458 7862 (don't call the one
I previously posted or you'll get my friend Preston. Or hell, give him
a call if you want)

Anyway, since my permanent site, (where I'll be for two years starting
three weeks from now) has no Reso (cellphone coverage) you won't be
able to call me on it except when I'm travelling periodically. So,
there's that.

Also, an addition to my wish list: little beaner clips. They're really
cheap at sporting goods stores.

Kulturschock

25 Juilliet 2006

NOTES

A few cultural notes today.

--The mosque is the most hooked-up place in town, in every town in
fact, and has battery powered electricity at night, large gatherings
of men at varying hours, and is ten times more beautiful than any
other 'building' in town. In fact, it is beautiful.

--Everyone drinks everything out of little plastic bags, which are
tied at the top and bitten at one corner to suck out of. They are the
equivalent of plastic or paper cups in the US. They sell oil in them.
They sell water in them. They sell juice, and at the lycee, one of the
cooks sold frozen peach yogurts out of a bucket- 1 plastic bag of
goodness for 100 ougiyas.

All the children here have rhythm that American Symphonic
percussionists would kill for. An overturned plastic drum and their
hands and feet are enough to create impromptu concerts, yet they're
unable to master a simple patty-cake. What gives?

They have different words to mean 'shoo' depending on the animal being
'shooed'. Chickens are 'kss, kss', goats are 'tkk,tkk', and donkeys
are 'errr! errr!'. It's unreal.

Everyone here does a back-of-the-throat tounge click to signify an
affirmative answer (yes, right, okay, etc), and its counterpart, the
tooth-sucking 'No' sound. I love them, and because I think they are
slightly stigmatized as 'provincial', hearing some of the more
educated people (our teachers) slip them in once in a while is
adorable. These aren't the clicks like the language of the Bushmen,
nor is it part of their language in this way. It's like a head nod.
I've been practicing.

Everyone has to take their shoes off to walk on the mats which they
place on the ground for eating and sleeping. However, if you haven't
been wearing shoes and the bottoms of your feet have trodden all over
the shit filled ground, you're golden; you can go from one to the
other with no trouble.

Everyone EVERYWHERE drinks tea all the time. My family, at least, buys
it daily in little tiny packets from the boutique, and though larger
amounts would obviously be more economical, it isn't available. It is
made in little tiny pots and poured in little tiny glasses, from which
it is poured, one to the other from great heights, to cool it and make
foam.

There is sand in all the food.

All the food, besides bread and peanuts, is fried to within an inch of
its life.

Mauritanians go crazy for having their picture taken, and don't smile.
They make stupid poses. It is impossible to get candid shots.

They don't understand the concept of personal property, and will
borrow your things without asking.

Men hold hands with men and women with women. They lie on mattelas
together, and sit very close and stroke each others' hands and arms. It
has no sexual connotation and signifies close friendship and
brotherhood.

They talk very very fast all day long. My family repeats a lot of
things in the course of one sentence.

No one saves anything. My family can fit their belongings in a net
attached below the roof of their house. One does not acquire money
with age, and the only social insurance is an abundance of children.
Even the rich can be poor if their families are big enough to suck
them dry.

They are sufficiently content to pass the time staring at me, no
matter what I'm doing.

Shopping List

Everyone who wants to send me things, here are ideas:

Double A batteries

Ziploc bags (good ones, don't cheap out. There are sandstorms here)

Beef or other Jerkies. Protein intake is low here.

Individual dose KoolAide, Gatoraide or crystal light packets (to put
in my 1 liter nalgenes)

Excedrin

LETTERS

Neat paper games, or things I can teach my kids (cats cradle, magic
tricks, card games, other fun diversions)

Pens (the pilot G-2 is my absolute fave)

Mix tapes, and or CD's (CD's can go in my walkman, tapes I can share
with others on boomboxes)

That's all for now. Love you.

(and remember, no boxes, only padded envelopes. The address from the first post is:
Colton Hubbard
Corps de la Paix Americain
B.P 222 Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa)