On with the show. "Brousse" is a French word for the bush (the Mauritanian outback where I live). And getting brousse-y is the PCV terminology for what happens to those of us posted alone in bush villages. Like me! Does it happen? What are the symptoms? It does happen, and the symptoms seem to be most in exhibition on return to English-speaking society. The first sign is a non-stop verbal diarrhea that can go on for hours. The second sign is subtler, a desperate need to communicate how unfair it is that we make so much effort to understand and involve ourselves in the culture of host country nationals while they seem to basically write off this effort (the thinking must be along the lines of: "it's just daily life, talking in Pulaar is a natural state, and I am so awesome it is a gift to this American to spend time with me and in fact they should give me some money"). Luckily a few days in the city rubs away some of the cynicism and bitterness, at least enough to make me look forward to getting back home. NOT the actual travel. That is hell. But the being home.
I do, in fact, look upon my house in my little village as home, and my host family as actual family. I'm not sure whether or not I'm joined in this affection by anyone other than my two-year-old nephew Ibra, but kid love is more sincere anyway. Okay, I am going to have to wrap this up, because I have to pee and the fact that I am seriously tempted to squat outside is vaguely horrifying me. I have a vague plan to write soon and describe more exactly the terrors of traveling in Mauritania. Mashalla!
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