Wake Me Up When September Ends

The first days of September were a whirlwind as I trekked across Mauritania with all my worldly belongings on this continent to Boghe and then quickly turned around, bought a few items that I deemed necessary for “setting up house” in OloOlogo and within 24 hours headed to my new permanent site. A lot has happened within the last three weeks and I have a bunch of things to tell so please bear with me as I try to catch you up on my life, recent realizations and observations as well as a few interesting stories.

The trip from Rosso to Boghe via Nouakchott was a wonderful opportunity to see more of the land I now call home. Although the majority of the country is desert, I was presently surprised by how much variation lies within the landscape. White sand, orange sand, red mud, occasional green grass patches, date groves surrounded by bleak vegetation-less dunes, the countryside is remarkably varied along the single road, “the road of good hope.” The 8 hour trip in the makeshift backseat of a Peugeot station wagon with the trunk tied down to keep our luggage from spilling onto the pavement, was an experience to say the least. Although I have very little faith in taxi brusse drivers and feared for my life, and my luggage, several times I arrived in Boghe in one piece and remained surprisingly healthy after a lunch break in Boutilimits. Pronounced ‘Booty-limits’ this Mauritanian hotspot is known for its Mishuay serving restaurants. Mishuay, a Mauritanian roadside specialty is roasted goat served au jus with bread and tea, but it is important to note that the goat pieces are cut directly from the fly covered carcass hanging beside the wood burning “stove” upon ordering and cooked in your presence. Needless to say, many volunteers have fallen ill after partaking in this traditional Mauritanian meal.

September 2 marked the beginning of Ramadan. As I mentioned in an earlier posting this is a month long Islamic holiday during which everyone fasts during daylight hours and then eats a bunch after sunset to make up for the missed meals throughout the day. I arrived in OloOlogo on August 31 just in time to stop eating and drinking. Luckily, no one seems to expect me to comply with the daytime fasting rules since I have made it clear that I am not Muslim; however, true meals are not being cooked during the day since others are not eating and thus I am surviving on peanut butter (brought from America in my original suitcase) and jelly sandwiches and water, eaten alone in my room. Nonetheless, I have enjoyed the celebratory breaking of fast beginning with specialty drinks – foster’s strawberry or bisap with ice [!!!!] - and breakfast at sunset – coffee and bread – and followed by bottari [lunch] around 1030. Some families also eat dinner around midnight or 1am but luckily my family has decided one large meal is sufficient for a 3 hour period. Typical lunch in Mauritania is rice and fish, with a few slight variations on the preparation. I have become very fond of a leafy paste called folleta that is served with the typical marro e liddi [rice and fish] in OloOlogo and which gives a slightly different flavor to an otherwise tiresome dish.

I was glad to be accompanied by an English, French and Pulaar speaking Peace Corps representative when I returned to OloOlogo. Thanks to Aw, a native Mauritanian who attended University in the states at Northern Arizona State in Flagstaff, I am not sharing a 10 foot square room with my counterpart as I wait for my house to be built after the rainy season. It seems that there was some miscommunication regarding my potential living arrangements initially, but luckily he talked my host family into giving me a private room within the compound that I happily accepted. Another living situation roadblock was encountered minutes later. It seems that the citizens of OloOlogo are eager to build me a suitable house; however, the roofing material is apparently extremely expensive so they are unsure when they will be able to afford the entire building. Although they promise to begin the construction of the mud building with bedroom(s) and salon after the rainy season they were unsure of a completion date. The Peace Corps will provide some money out of a “safety and security” budget to ensure doors and windows are properly secured so Aw thinks that I may be able to request some money from Nouakchott to ensure I am properly housed within a reasonable amount of time. Fingers crossed that all works out and I will be moving into my new house by the first of the year.

Four shots of Lidocaine, 3 cuts with a razor blade and 6 stitches and a 9 year old boy is circumcised without a scream. Although I have only been in OloOlogo for three weeks I have already seen and learned a lot from my professional counterpart, Binta, the nurse and midwife at the dispensaire or local health post. Additionally, I have witnessed several wound cleanings and the treatment of minor skin infections, the treatment of Paludisme Grave or severe Malaria, pre and post natal visits, vaccinations and a variety of medical consultations. Blood pressure is taken maybe once a day although often 20-30 patients walked through her door by the time I left by 2. I have learned to measure “baby bumps” during prenatal exams to ensure that the fetus is growing appropriately and to determine an approximate date of confinement. Additionally I can already determine by feel the fetal position, whether the fetal head is mobile or fixed, and locate the fetal heartbeat. Although I have yet to observe a delivery at the health post I am sure it is only a matter of time. The majority of maladies are treated in the office with some combination of acetylsalicyclic acid (aspirin), chloroquine, ciplin (antibiotic), ferrous sulphate/folic acid (anti-anaemic), amoxicillin and paracip-500 or possibly a prescription to be filled in Boghe. In severe dehydration or extreme blood loss IV solution is available as is quinine for severe malaria but it is used very sparingly.

It is interesting to note that throughout the culture men and women are expected to endure pain fairly silently. When a girl no older than 8 had staples taken out of her leg with a pair of pliers, no painkiller or sedative, and attempted to withdraw her leg out of pain she was slapped repeatedly by her mother and when she began to whimper the slapping intensified. The 9 year old boy was allowed to breathe heavily but was slapped the one time a small scream of pain escaped his clinched teeth. Each woman I have seen at the beginning stages of labor are quiet except a few deep breaths during intense contractions in comparison to the few women I have witnessed in the US who scream bloody murder at the slightest tinge of birth pains. Not to say one way or the other is better but I continue to be surprised by their ability to manage pain without drugs.

Every Wednesday is vaccination day at the health post and each week we have vaccinated between 20 and 30 infants as well as a large number of their mothers, in addition to regular medical consultations. In Mauritania, infants are vaccinated at birth, six weeks, ten weeks, 15 weeks and 9 months against polio, HB, yellow fever as well as throughout childhood with 4 rounds of VAT. Since most Mauritanian women give birth to their first child around age 15-17 they often begin or finish the VAT series during their pre and post natal visits. Before vaccinations begin for the day the nurse tries to give a weekly sensibilization or short health lesson. Beginning in December I will be aiding with the identification and research on sensibilization topics as well as the writing in French (and possibly Pulaar) and delivering the animations each Wednesday.

I started teaching English classes to local teenagers every Friday and Saturday mornings two weeks ago and am so far optimistic about the number of participants and the progress. Ranging between 15 and 30 students, as of the day before yesterday my students seemed to be finally grasping the English subjects (I, you, he/she, we, you (plural) and they), numbers 1-20 as well as the 5 Ws for asking a question(who, what, where, when and why). Although I had to alter my initial teaching lessons after I realized the majority of my students have not attended school past a 3^rd or 4^th grade level and can thus barely read and write in a local language let alone understand parts of speech. Additionally, Pulaar is an unwritten language with no spelling consistency; although I am teaching Pulaar to English with some explanations in French I have run into a number of blocks when the students do not fully comprehend my spelling of Pulaar words in regards to vocabulary lists.

After dinner around the first of the month, I inquired about some drums I could hear echoing throughout the village and the sound of children singing. I was led behind the health post to a roaring bonfire where approximately 75 village children, ages 6-15 were gathered in celebration of Ramadan. Standing in a 3 person deep circle with girls on one side and boys on the other and the bonfire glowing behind them it was an impressive site and reminded me initially of a middle school dance. I watched for an hour or so as two older teenage boys organized the circle as 4 other boys continuously played the drums. I had expected dancing, but after everyone was organized sufficiently, the older boys began pairing up younger boys by size in the center of the circle where one pair at a time began wrestling. Although they each lasted a few short minutes I saw multiple children thrown to the ground on their backs with impressive moves similar to those I was taught in high school. I only watched a dozen or so matches but it was fascinating to watch as their shadows danced across the bonfire backdrop to the beat of African drums. Hawa tells them that last year the festivities continued until 5am, since it was already 11 and I was by far the oldest person present I took my leave but every night since I have heard the beat of the drums and the children singing as I ate dinner and headed off to bed.

We remain in the rainy season until approximately mid-October and throughout the last few weeks I have witnessed a number of torrential downpours and sandstorms. I was in the middle of laundry (all clothes are washed by hand in three buckets of water and a week’s worth of clothing takes me – with the help of my counterpart – about two hours) and had just walked out to hang up a wudere [wrap skirt] on the clothes line when a neighbor suddenly yelled “Coumba Demba, henndu [wind]” and began pointing towards the river. I am sure it looked like a scene out of Twister as I turned, saw the dark wall of sand moving rapidly in my direction and began frantically grabbing my clean but wet clothes off the line before darting for the house as the storm hit. Although I ended up having to rewash 4 items, I was able to set up a clothes line in my room with some rope I had brought from the states [thanks Mom and Dad!] and successfully dry the rest of my clothing over night. Otherwise, several rainstorms have led to some interrupted sleep what with a leaking roof one night that led to me rearranging my room at 3am to avoid puddles or waking up to rain pouring through my solitary 2 foot rectangle window that I leave open night and day in hopes of circulating a little air in my sweltering room.

During Ramadan I had a lot of extra time on my hands, never truly realized how much time each day is filled by eating, so I did a lot of reading and I highly suggest Three Cups of Tea, by Greg Mortenson and The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver if you are looking for some inspiring literature, or merely want a better understanding of my experiences in Africa so far. Although one is set in Afghanistan and the other in Congo, both contain a number of passages that perfectly sum up my dreams, thoughts, feelings and experiences towards my assignment in OloOlogo, Mauritania and Africa in general.

I am still struggling to find my place in African society; I am too old and too educated to be considered a child but because I am not married Because of my age I should be considered an adult but because I am not married and nursing a child or two (and I cannot successfully prepare an African style meal or do many of the labor intensive tasks) I do not have the experience that is respected of women between the ages of 15-50. Thus I daily find that I am fielding questions regarding my marriage and family status as well as turning down marriage proposals (or children begetting proposals) in an attempt to gain respect in the village. As an outsider and American I am respected for my knowledge and am constantly accosted for medicine because all white people are thought to be doctors but I have discovered the respect is different than that given a female adult in African society. Overall, my lack of a true place has left me feeling very alone, which is ironic since I am rarely actually alone.

Attended baptismal, or in Pulaar and Muslim society the innde [naming ceremony], festivities a few days ago. Apparently a child is named seven days after birth in a ceremony during which the father and other male village members gather in the early morning and kill a male goat in honor of the newborn child and give them a name. Although I did not witness the actual goat killing, I happened to see the mother and child afterwards and I find it interesting that the mother had no say in the naming of the child and apparently in this case she was actually slightly upset by the name choice. After the slaughtering of the goat a huge dinner is cooked with the meat and offered throughout the village.

As my life on animal planet continues, I watched the birth of a donkey from our covered patio– it was the village entertainment for approximately 5 minutes and is a perfect example of life in OloOlogo. Without much other entertainment, everyone stopped to watch the birth. Barbara Kingsolver described it best in her book, The Poisonwood Bible, “No one here stays under a roof. It is in the front yards – all the world’s a stage of hard red dirt under foot – where tired thin women in every thinkable state of dress and disrepair poke sticks into their little fires and cook. Clumps of children stonethrowing, outflowing rush upon terrified small goats, scattering them across the road so that the goats may tiptoe back and be chased again. Men sit on buckets and stare at whatsoever passes by. The usual bypasser is a woman sauntering slowly down the road with bundles upon bundles balanced on her head. These women are pillars of wonder, defying gravity while wearing the hohum aspect of perfect tedium. They can sit, stand, talk, shake a stick at a drunk man, reach around their backs to fetch forth a baby to nurse, all without dropping their piled-high bundles upon bundles. They are like ballet dancers entirely unaware they are on stage. I cannot take my eyes from them.”(pg 31)

And that brings me to today and my trip to Boghe. I was told the auto leaves the OloOlogo garage at 7am but everything here is approximate. At 715 after the tires were rotated and all 8 passengers climbed inside the Mercedes-Benz utility truck converted into a passenger van by placing two metal benches down each side of the back we set off East towards our next stop, a small village approximately 20 minutes away. Along the way we picked up a few other passengers, dropped three off and collected multiple containers of milk or other small commerce items to be sold in the market. At the first village we stopped, we collected 4 rice sacks full of charcoal in addition to several other passengers and a variety of other small commerce items. Next, we stopped at Silbe – the village of my closest other volunteer. Here we stopped for approximately 20 minutes in order to put 3 full sacks of rice and another 6 people in the back in addition to 6 other people on top and 7 live goats tied to the top. By the time we had started towards Boghe all we needed was granny tied to her rocking chair on top because we resembled a modern day African Beverly Hillbillies or possibly less clothing and we could have been a flock of freshman girls headed to an off-campus party at UR. The rice sacks of charcoal and rice were stacked under everyone’s feet and we were forced to sit as close together as humanly possible with four people sitting on the rice sacks on the floor. For two hours, while traveling over unfinished dirt roads, up and down embankments I tried to keep myself from falling over without being able to anchor with my feet and without anything to hold onto – it was a fabulous ab workout.

So here I sit after a two hour crazy bus ride and a 30 minute walk in the Mauritanian heat to the regional house. Enjoying a little Sex in the City and eating Peanut M&Ms…because here comes the rain again.