Well, shave about 15 lbs off of my picture. Adjustment sickness will do that to you. But seriously, send me food. Ha ha ha... seriously.
I'm writing a quick note to you now from Kaedi, regional capital of Gorgol. My future village is also in the Gorgol region, although somewhat smaller (in theory around 400 people). We have 8 wells, although there are rumors of a robinet being put in (that's basically a faucet) so cross your fingers for me. I was ill for most of my site visit, but I did see that the village has many beautiful neem trees (including one with an enormous canopy in my front yard) and I have a small private courtyard off of my room. That's all I have time for, so for now I'll leave you with:
TODAY'S MAURITANIAN DIFFERENCE: In the market, to catch your attention, shopkeepers will hiss and snap at you. And they're not trying to be mean, but it's pretty distracting. It's also fairly impossible to browse, especially for fabric. "This is pretty, soooo pretty!" they say in French, Pulaar, etc, pulling out fabric after fabric and literally draping them on you.
27 July 2008
19 July 2008
Suli Key @ CBT
Hello to the States and all friends therein!
So: Mauritania. It is hot. Very hot and very sandy. And the sand lives in the air and on everyone and everything. Yesterday I spent a half hour hiding from a sandstorm in a bathroom. By bathroom I definitely mean concrete box with a hole in the floor. It wasn't airtight, so I came out coated with a very fine layer of grit. It's like a daily exfoliation, whether I want one or not.
Goats are very gutsy. They will climb the grass huts and come into houses and eat out of the communal bowl if they are allowed. I was lounging with my host family in the salon a few weeks ago and a goat basically climbed my host mother. Everyone laughed and one of the kids chased it out—it climbed back over her and everyone laughed again. Every animal must be shooed with a different noise (goats are "Gis") or the locals laugh at you.
Actually, they laugh when I do or say things correctly too. I'm studying Pulaar, which is a dialect of Fula (a widely-spoken language). The HaalPulaar laugh often and long: at me, at one another, at animals, and whenever we can't communicate. So we spend a lot of time laughing.
Right now we are in the middle of Community-Based Training (CBT), and I am living with four other Trainees in a small village several kilometers outside of Rosso. We spend our weekdays (Sunday-Thursday) studying language and culture in class and with our family. They call me Danja So (that is an approximation as I cannot actually pronounce it!) after my host mother. My American name they pronounce Sooley Kay (in Pulaar phonetic spelling, it's Suli Key), which I think is adorable.
Tea is a big deal here. It is made with black tea, mint, and a lot of sugar. It is served in shot glasses and there are three rounds. The first round is a strong and a little bitter, the second sweeter, and the third is basically syrup. They use the same tea leaves for all three rounds and keep adding sugar. I think it is delicious, which is good because it is served often. By my host family, by other families when I visit, and so on, etc.
Alone time is pretty much nil, as this is very much a "we" society and quite different from the "me" society of America. No one hangs out or naps alone—we just roll over and go to sleep in front of everyone, and naps are the order of the day when it's hottest. It's also very difficult to read or write in public. People definitely want to be included in everything I'm doing, or they want to talk. And talk they do. Apparently if my stomach is running, it is everyone's business and merits constant discussion. They still ask me "Is your stomach running? Does your stomach hurt?" And I answer, because that's just how things go here.
There's so much to say, but I have to go eat now, and it will probably be some variation of meat and rice. I do miss American food very much when I think about it, especially the variety. I like the food, but every meal I apparently need to be told to eat, even when I have food in my mouth and in my hand. It is eaten out of a communal bowl, without utensils. I'm learning to ball rice, but it isn't easy!
I miss you all, write me letters, and enjoy your conveniences!
So: Mauritania. It is hot. Very hot and very sandy. And the sand lives in the air and on everyone and everything. Yesterday I spent a half hour hiding from a sandstorm in a bathroom. By bathroom I definitely mean concrete box with a hole in the floor. It wasn't airtight, so I came out coated with a very fine layer of grit. It's like a daily exfoliation, whether I want one or not.
Goats are very gutsy. They will climb the grass huts and come into houses and eat out of the communal bowl if they are allowed. I was lounging with my host family in the salon a few weeks ago and a goat basically climbed my host mother. Everyone laughed and one of the kids chased it out—it climbed back over her and everyone laughed again. Every animal must be shooed with a different noise (goats are "Gis") or the locals laugh at you.
Actually, they laugh when I do or say things correctly too. I'm studying Pulaar, which is a dialect of Fula (a widely-spoken language). The HaalPulaar laugh often and long: at me, at one another, at animals, and whenever we can't communicate. So we spend a lot of time laughing.
Right now we are in the middle of Community-Based Training (CBT), and I am living with four other Trainees in a small village several kilometers outside of Rosso. We spend our weekdays (Sunday-Thursday) studying language and culture in class and with our family. They call me Danja So (that is an approximation as I cannot actually pronounce it!) after my host mother. My American name they pronounce Sooley Kay (in Pulaar phonetic spelling, it's Suli Key), which I think is adorable.
Tea is a big deal here. It is made with black tea, mint, and a lot of sugar. It is served in shot glasses and there are three rounds. The first round is a strong and a little bitter, the second sweeter, and the third is basically syrup. They use the same tea leaves for all three rounds and keep adding sugar. I think it is delicious, which is good because it is served often. By my host family, by other families when I visit, and so on, etc.
Alone time is pretty much nil, as this is very much a "we" society and quite different from the "me" society of America. No one hangs out or naps alone—we just roll over and go to sleep in front of everyone, and naps are the order of the day when it's hottest. It's also very difficult to read or write in public. People definitely want to be included in everything I'm doing, or they want to talk. And talk they do. Apparently if my stomach is running, it is everyone's business and merits constant discussion. They still ask me "Is your stomach running? Does your stomach hurt?" And I answer, because that's just how things go here.
There's so much to say, but I have to go eat now, and it will probably be some variation of meat and rice. I do miss American food very much when I think about it, especially the variety. I like the food, but every meal I apparently need to be told to eat, even when I have food in my mouth and in my hand. It is eaten out of a communal bowl, without utensils. I'm learning to ball rice, but it isn't easy!
I miss you all, write me letters, and enjoy your conveniences!
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