7 Juilliet 2006
HI PALS
Good morning! Here I am at my homestay family's, after having just
woken from my first night in the village. We're all lying on a mat on
the ground (ubiquitous here), me on my side writing, with about 7
filthy children all staring and smiling at me, a few feet away. Nobody
understands a word I say, everyone speaks Hassaniya, except for the
few I've found who speak even worse French than I do. Everyone who
speaks Hassaniya sounds like they're working so hard, and when I try
to replicate the sounds, they get stuck in my throat.
Anyway, we arrived yesterday and after meeting our mothers at Haddous
'house' (mud hut) we three set off in separate directions for our
respective homes, trailed by literally tons and tons of filthy,
crowding children, grabbing at my pants, touching my arms and legs,
holding my hands, and giggling at the strange nasrani (white person)
with all the kooky gear. On the way, I taught them "Hello" and "How
are you?" and they repeated it back in robotic fashion, not
comprehending.
When we got home, they ambushed me again, and I sat on the porch
surrounded by a thousand pressing bodies, as I pointed to my shirt, my
eyes, my toes, my watch, and anything else I could possibly touch/see,
and scribbled down their en masse responses as best as I could notate.
I'm so tired now. I slept fairly well, but this whole experience has
been so incredibly draining.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Homestay
Firstly, I got a cell phone and this is my number 011 222 774 7039 (or
possibly a 1 at the end) If it doesn't go through don't be surprised-
cell phones are horrid here. Just thought I would post it if anyone
wants to try. Also, remember I'm four hours ahead.
Some more old journal entries:
5 Juilliet 2006
HOMESTAY
Homestay sites were announced tonite, and I'll be living in a village
called M'Bedia (about 500 people) I'll learn Hassaniya with my
sitemates Crystal and Sarah, and though many things could change, it
makes it more likely that my permanent site will be in the north I'm
not sure how I feel about this. I don't know enough to know how I
should feel, except to say that I'm a little disappointed I won't be
learning Soninke, but that's only because of the gigantically tall
Soninke teacher, Biri, who I think is neato, and because of the
dancers. So boo hoo.
Anyway, before the announcement, we had our short sessions with our
APCD Aw (pronounced like the thing you do when you stub your toe)
whom I love due to his absolute cuteness, and good little nature. And
after the session we met with our language facilitator Haddou, who
doesn't speak English, and our evaluator Bolol, to exchange names and
get faces, so we would know who we were when we all ride together to
our village tomorrow. In his capacity as translator tonite, Bolol
translated a short speech from Haddou (French to English) in little bits, as
we all leaned in to hear this soft voiced black African in his red
glasses tell us about the people of M'Beidia- how the people are 'very
serious, but generous' how this will be very hard work, but he will do
his best for us, and how he knows Americans are a hardworking people
who never give up. I hope that last part is true.
Then we had a little skit about what to expect tomorrow (lots of skits
here : all the Africans are total hams ) and then a short speech from
our fast talking, tiny little gray haired homestay coordinator Faal,
who apologized for his absolutely just fine English. That's sort of a
thing here: most of the staff speaks English fairly well, but
sometimes they get tired of it, and launch into French, at which point
someone else translates, whether PCV or staff. It's really quite
wonderful. I love just hearing them speak, like the other day at the
market where all I could do was stare at two young men telling me
something unintelligible about soccer, thinking 'please don't stop
talking, please don't stop talking' It just makes me so happy. Also,
African French (when not crappy, which is often) is pretty much clear
as a bell, being mostly free from all the back-of-the-throat goings
ons which tend to stop up French-French.
Also, Macire, our adorable Moor security Coordinator, gave us a
presentation today about security methods, in his fatherly-over
protective way. He's marvelous and chestnut skinned with great
eyebrows, and when he gets tired of speaking his curiously and
inconsistently accented English, or when he gets the English word for
'things' par example, his purple clad assistant takes over. He also
assists him in demonstrations about how to poke an assailant in the
eyes, or kick him in the balls. It's wild.
Then there's Cynthia, our blond and sassy PCMO with here sage and
beautiful Indian-ish sidekick Amel, to give us shots, medkits and
powerpoint presentations on diseases ( worms, bacteria, pooping,
everything) Cynthia is very no nonsense and extremely direct, and her
response to complaints about our finger-pricking lancet demonstration
was (Allegedly....) "Tough shit, you're in Africa" I can't believe
this is all true. Bye now.
possibly a 1 at the end) If it doesn't go through don't be surprised-
cell phones are horrid here. Just thought I would post it if anyone
wants to try. Also, remember I'm four hours ahead.
Some more old journal entries:
5 Juilliet 2006
HOMESTAY
Homestay sites were announced tonite, and I'll be living in a village
called M'Bedia (about 500 people) I'll learn Hassaniya with my
sitemates Crystal and Sarah, and though many things could change, it
makes it more likely that my permanent site will be in the north I'm
not sure how I feel about this. I don't know enough to know how I
should feel, except to say that I'm a little disappointed I won't be
learning Soninke, but that's only because of the gigantically tall
Soninke teacher, Biri, who I think is neato, and because of the
dancers. So boo hoo.
Anyway, before the announcement, we had our short sessions with our
APCD Aw (pronounced like the thing you do when you stub your toe)
whom I love due to his absolute cuteness, and good little nature. And
after the session we met with our language facilitator Haddou, who
doesn't speak English, and our evaluator Bolol, to exchange names and
get faces, so we would know who we were when we all ride together to
our village tomorrow. In his capacity as translator tonite, Bolol
translated a short speech from Haddou (French to English) in little bits, as
we all leaned in to hear this soft voiced black African in his red
glasses tell us about the people of M'Beidia- how the people are 'very
serious, but generous' how this will be very hard work, but he will do
his best for us, and how he knows Americans are a hardworking people
who never give up. I hope that last part is true.
Then we had a little skit about what to expect tomorrow (lots of skits
here : all the Africans are total hams ) and then a short speech from
our fast talking, tiny little gray haired homestay coordinator Faal,
who apologized for his absolutely just fine English. That's sort of a
thing here: most of the staff speaks English fairly well, but
sometimes they get tired of it, and launch into French, at which point
someone else translates, whether PCV or staff. It's really quite
wonderful. I love just hearing them speak, like the other day at the
market where all I could do was stare at two young men telling me
something unintelligible about soccer, thinking 'please don't stop
talking, please don't stop talking' It just makes me so happy. Also,
African French (when not crappy, which is often) is pretty much clear
as a bell, being mostly free from all the back-of-the-throat goings
ons which tend to stop up French-French.
Also, Macire, our adorable Moor security Coordinator, gave us a
presentation today about security methods, in his fatherly-over
protective way. He's marvelous and chestnut skinned with great
eyebrows, and when he gets tired of speaking his curiously and
inconsistently accented English, or when he gets the English word for
'things' par example, his purple clad assistant takes over. He also
assists him in demonstrations about how to poke an assailant in the
eyes, or kick him in the balls. It's wild.
Then there's Cynthia, our blond and sassy PCMO with here sage and
beautiful Indian-ish sidekick Amel, to give us shots, medkits and
powerpoint presentations on diseases ( worms, bacteria, pooping,
everything) Cynthia is very no nonsense and extremely direct, and her
response to complaints about our finger-pricking lancet demonstration
was (Allegedly....) "Tough shit, you're in Africa" I can't believe
this is all true. Bye now.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Baby Steps
5 Juillet 2006
Last night for the fourth of July fete, we were treated to plates! forks! and American-esque food. Personally, I thought the plates and forks were sufficiently decadent. Nevertheless, the cooks made us corn and creamed-corn, pasta salad, cucumbers and tomatoes, a cole-slaw like thing, and a ball of beef, like a cross between a hamburger and a meat-ball. Some of the dishes were even served with spoons. Everyone was very appreciative, so much so that we freaked out a bit, and had trouble forming lines.
Before that, I had gone out into town for the first time, something I had been consciously and unconsciously avoiding somewhat. Every step of the way, since getting on the plane in New York, has found me out of my comfort, having to force myself to go forward every step of the way. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I've given in to the momentum of my life now, every event leading naturally to another and another.
Regardless, everyday I am at least a little afraid, I take a step, I feel a bit better, and so on and so on. This is the way we form our lives; this is the way we become stronger and truer and finer and more lovely creatures than we ever could have if we had only done the things we knew already. I want to be strong and true, and lovely too, so we went to the market.
The Lycee is, in fact, a compound, and outside of its walls is something not to be feared, yet something so fascinating in its detail as to be overwhelming.
The structure of the city seems without much design. I can't picture it clearly in my head, yet there was a giant hill of sand, worn semi-mineral with fleets of feet, with trash all strewn everywhere. It's everywhere. I'm not sure I even have a handle on how to describe this: the market is incredible, but not in-credible. It's just so alien in its color; it bleeds it. Lots of fabric and rugs and flip flops, and crappy looking vegetables, and meat with flies on it, and awful fish out in the sun, and sunglasses, and cigarettes, junky knick-knacks, little plastic mirrors with Chinese women on the back, little tart cookies in wrappers, cokes, bootlegged Sony boom-boxes, suitcases - who knows? Everything, probably, if you looked long enough. I got my first "toubab" (white-person) though, which was exciting, from four little girls who called Laura "Madame" and waved out their arms to brandish a rainbow of tie-dyed fabrics.
Then Ginger and I set out to buy cigarettes. I was her 'bait', and she, my 'translator'. The cigarettes were supposed to be for me, because women who smoke here are whores, basically. So we strolled around looking for Marlboro lights (only American Legends were in evidence) with me mumbling morosely at the store owner, and she 'translating' in her marginally better French, until we finally found some which I stuck in my pocket for safe keeping. Everyone was so friendly though, smiling a lot, and a few hundred greetings go a long way. All the beautiful little children (hundreds and hundreds) and youths with their huge white smiles and giant teeth, and casual French. I got to use a few of my greetings, in Pulaar and Soninke, at which they laughed and smiled, and said "Hi, how are you? How old are you?" in turn.
It was lovely, lovely. But not sad, because no one seems sad here despite the poverty. And truly, the issues are so much more complex than simple things like poverty. I mean, yesterday on our walk, Ginger and I were talking about how much nicer this place could look if they would just pick up the (fucking) trash, and how it would be (relatively) easy to come up with a system, and an infrastructure. So therefore, the real issue becomes, not that they haven't done it, but why they haven't done it, which is something that I suspect involves a complex interaction between HEAT, poor climate, the legacy of patronage and handouts, bizarre veins of westernization, fatalism, Islam and basic human flaws too numerous to mention. Still, it bears mentioning that I find this place, trash and all, strangely beautiful.
Last night for the fourth of July fete, we were treated to plates! forks! and American-esque food. Personally, I thought the plates and forks were sufficiently decadent. Nevertheless, the cooks made us corn and creamed-corn, pasta salad, cucumbers and tomatoes, a cole-slaw like thing, and a ball of beef, like a cross between a hamburger and a meat-ball. Some of the dishes were even served with spoons. Everyone was very appreciative, so much so that we freaked out a bit, and had trouble forming lines.
Before that, I had gone out into town for the first time, something I had been consciously and unconsciously avoiding somewhat. Every step of the way, since getting on the plane in New York, has found me out of my comfort, having to force myself to go forward every step of the way. Maybe it's more accurate to say that I've given in to the momentum of my life now, every event leading naturally to another and another.
Regardless, everyday I am at least a little afraid, I take a step, I feel a bit better, and so on and so on. This is the way we form our lives; this is the way we become stronger and truer and finer and more lovely creatures than we ever could have if we had only done the things we knew already. I want to be strong and true, and lovely too, so we went to the market.
The Lycee is, in fact, a compound, and outside of its walls is something not to be feared, yet something so fascinating in its detail as to be overwhelming.
The structure of the city seems without much design. I can't picture it clearly in my head, yet there was a giant hill of sand, worn semi-mineral with fleets of feet, with trash all strewn everywhere. It's everywhere. I'm not sure I even have a handle on how to describe this: the market is incredible, but not in-credible. It's just so alien in its color; it bleeds it. Lots of fabric and rugs and flip flops, and crappy looking vegetables, and meat with flies on it, and awful fish out in the sun, and sunglasses, and cigarettes, junky knick-knacks, little plastic mirrors with Chinese women on the back, little tart cookies in wrappers, cokes, bootlegged Sony boom-boxes, suitcases - who knows? Everything, probably, if you looked long enough. I got my first "toubab" (white-person) though, which was exciting, from four little girls who called Laura "Madame" and waved out their arms to brandish a rainbow of tie-dyed fabrics.
Then Ginger and I set out to buy cigarettes. I was her 'bait', and she, my 'translator'. The cigarettes were supposed to be for me, because women who smoke here are whores, basically. So we strolled around looking for Marlboro lights (only American Legends were in evidence) with me mumbling morosely at the store owner, and she 'translating' in her marginally better French, until we finally found some which I stuck in my pocket for safe keeping. Everyone was so friendly though, smiling a lot, and a few hundred greetings go a long way. All the beautiful little children (hundreds and hundreds) and youths with their huge white smiles and giant teeth, and casual French. I got to use a few of my greetings, in Pulaar and Soninke, at which they laughed and smiled, and said "Hi, how are you? How old are you?" in turn.
It was lovely, lovely. But not sad, because no one seems sad here despite the poverty. And truly, the issues are so much more complex than simple things like poverty. I mean, yesterday on our walk, Ginger and I were talking about how much nicer this place could look if they would just pick up the (fucking) trash, and how it would be (relatively) easy to come up with a system, and an infrastructure. So therefore, the real issue becomes, not that they haven't done it, but why they haven't done it, which is something that I suspect involves a complex interaction between HEAT, poor climate, the legacy of patronage and handouts, bizarre veins of westernization, fatalism, Islam and basic human flaws too numerous to mention. Still, it bears mentioning that I find this place, trash and all, strangely beautiful.
July 4th!
4 Juilliet 2006
My feet are blistered. It makes everything feel hot. Today we had goat again (maybe) with rice. I've gotten tolerably skilled at making the rice balls. It takes practice, but it's not brain surgery, after all. The food is still good, but its getting progressively worse. I think they're preparing us for homestay. Hunger, we've been talking, is very different from malnutrition. There is very little hunger here, but malnutrition is rampant:The children have skin which stretches like old peoples'. So I stuff down the food, even after I'm sated (everyone's appetite is lessened in the heat) I gnaw at the bones to get every piece. It's sort of thrilling to act this way. We eat out of things, and drink out of things, and touch things we may not have before. There is simply no choice now.
Yesterday, we had Culture Fair, which was 2/5ths lame, and 3/5ths very excellent. I sat and watched Ellie play a sort of sand-mankala with Le Generale (Bidi), one of our teachers. She speaks excellent French, and just watching them mumble a few things here and there was very enjoyable. Then she translated what I couldn't get, and her and I played a game- what a graceful series of pick-move-drops that is, especially with the sand sifting through one's fingers.
When the Soninke girls started dancing, they grabbed us up one at a time. (The music and dancing) is just as thrilling, and wonderful and earthy as you think it is and more. I had a feeling I was next, and sure enough a beautiful, bespectacled Soninke young man pulled me up. Everyone was cheering and laughing, and I felt my face burning, (and I probably looked like an ungainly fool), but it was so electrifying (it's soo hard!) There was lots of stamping and arm waving, and as I face him (silver rimmed glassed, and regal) I mimicked his motions. First arms shakes, wild and jabbing with stamping feet, then he grabbed his pants (short, ballooning trousers called sirwal) and said "Comme ca" (like this). He pulled and shook and jerked and grabbed, and I did the same, hiking up my pants as we spun round in circles. Then we were back to back, bumping asses, 'competing', it was incredible.
After the dancing we had snacks (sugared peanuts, roasted peanuts, hibiscus and baobob juice) Moor dancing (much more subtle, sensuous and arabic sounding). This time, we all went onto the sand together, and I faced off with two 9 or 10 year old boys (skinny little things) but they ran circles around me.
Then some Egyptian Ratscrew (the best card game ever!) with a few pals, dinner, a shit, a shower, a shave and then bed. Phew.
My feet are blistered. It makes everything feel hot. Today we had goat again (maybe) with rice. I've gotten tolerably skilled at making the rice balls. It takes practice, but it's not brain surgery, after all. The food is still good, but its getting progressively worse. I think they're preparing us for homestay. Hunger, we've been talking, is very different from malnutrition. There is very little hunger here, but malnutrition is rampant:The children have skin which stretches like old peoples'. So I stuff down the food, even after I'm sated (everyone's appetite is lessened in the heat) I gnaw at the bones to get every piece. It's sort of thrilling to act this way. We eat out of things, and drink out of things, and touch things we may not have before. There is simply no choice now.
Yesterday, we had Culture Fair, which was 2/5ths lame, and 3/5ths very excellent. I sat and watched Ellie play a sort of sand-mankala with Le Generale (Bidi), one of our teachers. She speaks excellent French, and just watching them mumble a few things here and there was very enjoyable. Then she translated what I couldn't get, and her and I played a game- what a graceful series of pick-move-drops that is, especially with the sand sifting through one's fingers.
When the Soninke girls started dancing, they grabbed us up one at a time. (The music and dancing) is just as thrilling, and wonderful and earthy as you think it is and more. I had a feeling I was next, and sure enough a beautiful, bespectacled Soninke young man pulled me up. Everyone was cheering and laughing, and I felt my face burning, (and I probably looked like an ungainly fool), but it was so electrifying (it's soo hard!) There was lots of stamping and arm waving, and as I face him (silver rimmed glassed, and regal) I mimicked his motions. First arms shakes, wild and jabbing with stamping feet, then he grabbed his pants (short, ballooning trousers called sirwal) and said "Comme ca" (like this). He pulled and shook and jerked and grabbed, and I did the same, hiking up my pants as we spun round in circles. Then we were back to back, bumping asses, 'competing', it was incredible.
After the dancing we had snacks (sugared peanuts, roasted peanuts, hibiscus and baobob juice) Moor dancing (much more subtle, sensuous and arabic sounding). This time, we all went onto the sand together, and I faced off with two 9 or 10 year old boys (skinny little things) but they ran circles around me.
Then some Egyptian Ratscrew (the best card game ever!) with a few pals, dinner, a shit, a shower, a shave and then bed. Phew.
Chairs
3 Juilliet 2006
There are no chairs anywhere. I just want to sit in a goddamned chair. The closest I've come in weeks is sitting on the steps or the crook of a tree. I've tried infinite variations of cross-legged, cross-ankled, elbow-leaning, Indian style supine positions. My cocyxx hurts. My spine is tired from holding itself straight; leaning against a wall is heaven.
We all sit on mattelas (thin foam mats) but lying in public is strictly organized. Men may only lie on their backs, and women only on their stomachs. To do otherwise would be seen as odd and provacative. Either sex may lie on their side, but I personally think it is the most 'come hither' of the three.
This morning we went out to the garden again, in the cool and the breeze; it rained a little bit. We passed through the beat-up turquoise door in the wall and played a game on the mattelas about which vegetable we would be, if we were consigned to that fate. I would be a carrot.
We learned about pick axing, double-digging the soul, enriching with manure, and then we dug out our 1 by 3 meter beds with loving (and firm) care, manured them, watered them, and now we wait.
The animals here make the worst noises. Donkeys and goats mostly, their calls sound like a murder.
Speaking of death, last night we watched the cook slaughter a few goats for our dinner. Five total, I think. He skinned them by shoving his hand underneath the skin to separate it from the muscle, the way one might season a chicken.
I should say how fond I feel of many of the people here. It's strange, but good. Also, the flies here are everywhere, yet not aggravating like they are in America. Bye for now.
There are no chairs anywhere. I just want to sit in a goddamned chair. The closest I've come in weeks is sitting on the steps or the crook of a tree. I've tried infinite variations of cross-legged, cross-ankled, elbow-leaning, Indian style supine positions. My cocyxx hurts. My spine is tired from holding itself straight; leaning against a wall is heaven.
We all sit on mattelas (thin foam mats) but lying in public is strictly organized. Men may only lie on their backs, and women only on their stomachs. To do otherwise would be seen as odd and provacative. Either sex may lie on their side, but I personally think it is the most 'come hither' of the three.
This morning we went out to the garden again, in the cool and the breeze; it rained a little bit. We passed through the beat-up turquoise door in the wall and played a game on the mattelas about which vegetable we would be, if we were consigned to that fate. I would be a carrot.
We learned about pick axing, double-digging the soul, enriching with manure, and then we dug out our 1 by 3 meter beds with loving (and firm) care, manured them, watered them, and now we wait.
The animals here make the worst noises. Donkeys and goats mostly, their calls sound like a murder.
Speaking of death, last night we watched the cook slaughter a few goats for our dinner. Five total, I think. He skinned them by shoving his hand underneath the skin to separate it from the muscle, the way one might season a chicken.
I should say how fond I feel of many of the people here. It's strange, but good. Also, the flies here are everywhere, yet not aggravating like they are in America. Bye for now.
A bit about eating
2 Juilliet 2006
Communal eating, which is not every meal, is incredibly satisfying and strange in an ancient sort of familial way. It fufills some sort of need in us. It's also extremely uncomfortable and awkward. Eating with the right hand requires that to tear meat, which is piled in chunks near the center of the dish, requires that you ask another person for help. "Hold this" you say, and each of you pulls hard at the (mostly) fat and gristley goat meat, trying not to slip. We tear at it like animals. See what I mean? How crazy is that? I sit on my left sometimes, so as not to be tempted to use it. After washing before meals, with peanut soap and the water filled teapot called the makarresh, on holds one right hand in the air, away from any potential soiling entities. After eating, one licks one's hand clean (it's polite) before washing again. Don't mistake this for the common American practice of finger sucking. It's way more obscene. It makes me uncomfortable.
Communal eating, which is not every meal, is incredibly satisfying and strange in an ancient sort of familial way. It fufills some sort of need in us. It's also extremely uncomfortable and awkward. Eating with the right hand requires that to tear meat, which is piled in chunks near the center of the dish, requires that you ask another person for help. "Hold this" you say, and each of you pulls hard at the (mostly) fat and gristley goat meat, trying not to slip. We tear at it like animals. See what I mean? How crazy is that? I sit on my left sometimes, so as not to be tempted to use it. After washing before meals, with peanut soap and the water filled teapot called the makarresh, on holds one right hand in the air, away from any potential soiling entities. After eating, one licks one's hand clean (it's polite) before washing again. Don't mistake this for the common American practice of finger sucking. It's way more obscene. It makes me uncomfortable.
A bit of news
(while the internet holds, I'm typing past entries I've written but not posted)
1 Juilliet 2006
This morning we arrived at 2 O clock from Nouakchott, in our white land cruiser caravan tumbling over the ruleless roads at 60 mpg through the desert and desolation, and trash and villages. Ten men were packed into my gender segregated car, stuffed tightly like sardines in the desert heat, sitting face to face along the sides, paratrooper style. They/we waxed by turns philosophical and crude, each like an embodiment of some distinct demographic: wise, worldly and Yogic D, sweet blond Preston from Salt Lake, avuncular Nick and others.
I saw sand dunes! I saw camels! I saw riding donkeys. And at 2 oclock I saw Kaedi and the Lycee, and the whole of our sundry welcome party (there were a lot of them) We were let in through the gates and piled out of the cars. Several million handshakes, Bonjours, Aselemu Aluykums and Ca Va?s ensued.
The lycee is set up like a big compound. In through the gates is a huge courtyard area but without landscaping, stones or grass. Its all sand of course, with a few big trees for shade (you wouldn't believe the diff in temperature between sun and shade) Around the perimeter are many rectangular white or tan colored buildings of unequal size. They are all trimmed with turquoise- green, the doors and windows, which open like wings in mid-flap.
1 Juilliet 2006
This morning we arrived at 2 O clock from Nouakchott, in our white land cruiser caravan tumbling over the ruleless roads at 60 mpg through the desert and desolation, and trash and villages. Ten men were packed into my gender segregated car, stuffed tightly like sardines in the desert heat, sitting face to face along the sides, paratrooper style. They/we waxed by turns philosophical and crude, each like an embodiment of some distinct demographic: wise, worldly and Yogic D, sweet blond Preston from Salt Lake, avuncular Nick and others.
I saw sand dunes! I saw camels! I saw riding donkeys. And at 2 oclock I saw Kaedi and the Lycee, and the whole of our sundry welcome party (there were a lot of them) We were let in through the gates and piled out of the cars. Several million handshakes, Bonjours, Aselemu Aluykums and Ca Va?s ensued.
The lycee is set up like a big compound. In through the gates is a huge courtyard area but without landscaping, stones or grass. Its all sand of course, with a few big trees for shade (you wouldn't believe the diff in temperature between sun and shade) Around the perimeter are many rectangular white or tan colored buildings of unequal size. They are all trimmed with turquoise- green, the doors and windows, which open like wings in mid-flap.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Planes, trains and .....
Hello all,
Well, I've made it safe and sound to Nouakchott (Mauritania's capital for those of you who don't know). This post will have to be short, as there are about ten other volunteers waiting to use the internet, but I'll try to tell you something about the blur my life has become.
Last night we flew into the Nouakchott at three in the morning, all dark flat plains, and dust and nothing. Off the plane, (which, far from being a puddle jumper, was HUGE) right onto the tarmac, we fell into the hands of the PC Maur. staff, who collected our passports, sorted out our green-stringed (green strings means Peace Corps), shuffled through the crowd and shoved us into 8 white SUVs (love the symbolism), where we sat along the sides, military style, and drove off to our hotel- men with men, women with women. We plopped down on our mattellas (sleeping mats) and crashed.
Up this morning with the light, breakfast of croissants and a tomato-tasting orange juice, off the the PC bureau, a white, dusty building of stones, and courtyards and sunlight, and rugs. More shots, more shots, paperwork, photos, welcome speeches, and lunch (lamb with yogurt(?), pickles, and onions).
Now here I am in the cooled computer room, but I've got to run. More soon, and I love you.
-Colton
PS Mom and Dad, everything is scary and great. I'm fine.
PSS More next time about Casablanca, and pictures.
Well, I've made it safe and sound to Nouakchott (Mauritania's capital for those of you who don't know). This post will have to be short, as there are about ten other volunteers waiting to use the internet, but I'll try to tell you something about the blur my life has become.
Last night we flew into the Nouakchott at three in the morning, all dark flat plains, and dust and nothing. Off the plane, (which, far from being a puddle jumper, was HUGE) right onto the tarmac, we fell into the hands of the PC Maur. staff, who collected our passports, sorted out our green-stringed (green strings means Peace Corps), shuffled through the crowd and shoved us into 8 white SUVs (love the symbolism), where we sat along the sides, military style, and drove off to our hotel- men with men, women with women. We plopped down on our mattellas (sleeping mats) and crashed.
Up this morning with the light, breakfast of croissants and a tomato-tasting orange juice, off the the PC bureau, a white, dusty building of stones, and courtyards and sunlight, and rugs. More shots, more shots, paperwork, photos, welcome speeches, and lunch (lamb with yogurt(?), pickles, and onions).
Now here I am in the cooled computer room, but I've got to run. More soon, and I love you.
-Colton
PS Mom and Dad, everything is scary and great. I'm fine.
PSS More next time about Casablanca, and pictures.
Monday, June 26, 2006
Bonjour, Bonjour
Good evening!
This post is to let all of you know a little information on how to contact me, while I am away in Africa, serving in the Peace Corps. (Some of you know this, some of you had NO idea)
Anyway, my address info is as follows for the moment:
Colton Hubbard
Corps de la Paix Americain
B.P 222 Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa
A few notes:
PLEASE send many letters.
DON’T send boxes
If you were, in fact, planning on sending me material support, padded envelopes are much better for things more substantial than paper.
But the aforementioned padded envelopes, you must tape these like they are going into a war zone (customs officials frequently tamper with the mail there, and so let us do all we can do to thwart them). It would also be smart to include a note detailing what is actually supposed to be inside.
It might be helpful to number, or at least date your letters, as they can frequently take several weeks to arrive, and not necessarily in chronological order when they do.
I’m writing this from a Kinkos in Philadelphia, (not my original, organized and highly idealized plan) so I’m trying to think of what you all should know. The trouble is, I’m still in the dark about many, many things myself, and will be (at least) until I get in the country this weekend.
For those of you who have my old address please start using my new one, coltonmackenzie@gmail.com, as I am phasing out the old in favor of the faster and more spam-less new. I will be able to check email while in country, at least for a little while, and at least once a month, but I may not be able to respond immediately, due to the absolute crappiness of Mauritanian internet connections (allegedly, allegedly)
Anyway, I’ve got to run and eat and sleep, and do the same thing over again tomorrow. BTW, Philly is nice, Market St. is cute and gorgeous, the plane was a propeller, (I could actually see them) and I’ve survived today based merely on a bit of luck, and the extreme kindness of no less than three strangers. Thank you, thank you, whoever you were. I’ve brought enough shit to break two camels’ backs, the volunteers seem nice so far, but very varied. I’ve met more people today than in the last three years. Much more soon. I love you all.
-Colton
This post is to let all of you know a little information on how to contact me, while I am away in Africa, serving in the Peace Corps. (Some of you know this, some of you had NO idea)
Anyway, my address info is as follows for the moment:
Colton Hubbard
Corps de la Paix Americain
B.P 222 Nouakchott, Mauritania, West Africa
A few notes:
PLEASE send many letters.
DON’T send boxes
If you were, in fact, planning on sending me material support, padded envelopes are much better for things more substantial than paper.
But the aforementioned padded envelopes, you must tape these like they are going into a war zone (customs officials frequently tamper with the mail there, and so let us do all we can do to thwart them). It would also be smart to include a note detailing what is actually supposed to be inside.
It might be helpful to number, or at least date your letters, as they can frequently take several weeks to arrive, and not necessarily in chronological order when they do.
I’m writing this from a Kinkos in Philadelphia, (not my original, organized and highly idealized plan) so I’m trying to think of what you all should know. The trouble is, I’m still in the dark about many, many things myself, and will be (at least) until I get in the country this weekend.
For those of you who have my old address please start using my new one, coltonmackenzie@gmail.com, as I am phasing out the old in favor of the faster and more spam-less new. I will be able to check email while in country, at least for a little while, and at least once a month, but I may not be able to respond immediately, due to the absolute crappiness of Mauritanian internet connections (allegedly, allegedly)
Anyway, I’ve got to run and eat and sleep, and do the same thing over again tomorrow. BTW, Philly is nice, Market St. is cute and gorgeous, the plane was a propeller, (I could actually see them) and I’ve survived today based merely on a bit of luck, and the extreme kindness of no less than three strangers. Thank you, thank you, whoever you were. I’ve brought enough shit to break two camels’ backs, the volunteers seem nice so far, but very varied. I’ve met more people today than in the last three years. Much more soon. I love you all.
-Colton
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