AIDS in the RIM

Sporting a gauzy melafa, spectacles and carrying a notebook and pen, Fatimata Ball sat among the other health professionals, ostensibly blending into the group. It was an intimate group of 20 – doctors, nurses, sage-femmes, and birth attendants - many of whom already knew each other. But I doubt any questioned her presence. “Probably, a newly assigned nurse or sage-femme,” they thought. That is until the introductions began, and she acknowledged the real reason she was here. In lilting, but calm and confident French, Fatimata introduced herself as both a fellow health professional and nurse as well as “une seropositif” (HIV-positive).

The reaction was muted, a few loaded glances and some shifting in seats. I was worried there would be an audible gasp or someone would walk out of the room, but this was an AIDS Conference, and they were trained health professionals, after all. Though silent at the start, Fatimata's presence was profoundly felt for the remainder of the two-day conference, and, I hope, is still felt by many attendees today. Her story is a powerful one, of conflicting identities and emotions. It is unfortunate, but I know she wouldn’t call her situation a tragedy. Instead, she would embrace her life as a story of trial and triumph, of rebirth and recognition of further purpose. Only she can do her story justice – her strong voice and warm, confidential manner - but in order to understand her impact, one must know her story. I hope you’ll click on the following link to learn more about Fatimata's story.

"Fighting AIDS in Mauritania"

But why was Fatimata's presence necessary in the first place? Plenty of individuals in Africa and, indeed, worldwide can grasp the tragedy of the AIDS epidemic without listening to the personal stories of those affected. A quick examination of the 2007 USAID report reveals more than enough to produce alarm:

- Number of people living with HIV in 2007: 33.2 million
- People newly infected with HIV: 2.5 million
- AIDS deaths in 2007: 2.1 million

These statistics are so horrifying that they almost defy imagination. It’s kind of like looking at the number of deaths that resulted from the Holocaust and the American Civil War; the numbers are so gross that they almost overshadow the events and stories couched within them. Which is precisely the problem. It is dangerous to reduce this disease (and others) to just statistics. To do so blinds us to the shifting realities and social trends that perpetuate diseases’ spread.

In the months leading up to the conference, I discovered through various conversations and observations that this was sadly the case among most of the health professionals and community members in my region of Mauritania. Ignorance, racism, misinterpretation of statistics, and a host of other factors had blinded the very individuals entrusted with the health of the community, to the reality right before their eyes. The epidemic just didn’t seem real. In their minds, AIDS was something that occurred in the rest of the world and among the black African population, not in their belani (white moor) subset. Furthermore, some individuals refused to believe that “good Muslims” could contract HIV. Needless to say, the implications of such a mentality are disastrous; it disarms the proverbial firewall and reduces health workers’ ability to effectively educate, motivate, and counsel the community.

And yet, to some degree, I can understand their conscious and unconscious reticence to acknowledge AIDS presence in their lives. Not only is it terrifying to accept AIDS as a legitimate threat, but the Tagant is a seemingly low-risk region. Centrally located in Mauritania and at the end of one of its primary highways, Tidjikja remains one of the more isolated cities in the country. Unlike higher risk environs, Tidjikja and the other cities of the Tagant region do not share an international border nor are its cities highly trafficked on the Road of Hope. Honestly, I do not doubt that the number of HIV-positive individuals in the Tagant is lower than in other regions; the last study was done in 2001. However, the number of individuals who have contracted the virus since then has undoubtedly grown. Travel in and out of the Tagant region has increased; divorce and remarriage are still common practices; and condoms are under-utilized as a means of birth control and protection. The dearth of HIV/AIDS educational activities and discussion in the community and a lack of motivation among community members to get tested merely compound the problem.

In discussing these factors with Ghallet, a local sage-femme, and with Dr. Moustapha ould El Moctar, the regional chief of health services, we came to the conclusion that the best way to effect the most change was with a conference. While any of us could venture into the community and do an AIDS sensibilization, we understood that those individuals closer to the community, the perceived authorities on health-related issues, would have greater success and exponentially increase our outreach. The primary challenge for us then was to shock these professionals out of their comfort zone and force them to confront this new reality. Enter: Fatimata Ball.

And Fatimata did exactly that. She hammered at their misconceptions and previously constructed walls and conventions. She said, “Look at me. I’m a good Muslim woman. I am a trained health professional. I am a Mauritanian. I am infected. And I’m not the only one!” On the last day of the conference, I sat, watching Fatimata share laughs and trade stories with some of the assembled nurses and birth attendants… Tirelessly working to tear down any remaining mistaken beliefs. As proud as I was and as hopeful as I wanted to be in that moment, I couldn’t help but question whether the attending health worker’s would actually take Fatimata's story to heart and implement the lessons of the conference? I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. The next day, my friend, Selem, called, asking me to accompany her to a brousse town to do an AIDS sensibilization. A week later, Hamoud, a math teacher in Gnimlane, requested AIDS materials and help in planning his village’s own AIDS conference.

I am immeasurably proud of these individuals and the others who have so wholly embraced the message of the conference, but my favorite moment was perhaps this past Saturday during my weekly Club Santé meeting. I was discussing HIV/AIDS and STI’s – still touchy subjects for Muslim students even though they are exposed to them beginning in primary school. Suddenly, in the midst of answering questions on protection and prevention, one student raised his hand and asked, “Teacher, est-ce que nous pouvons faire le depistage?” (Can we take an HIV test?). I was completely blown away. While testing remains free and confidential to all Mauritanians at the regional hospital, few individuals, much less students, know of this service and even fewer take advantage of it because of the stigma attached to it. Instead, the entire class jumped at the proposition! It may sound a bit morbid, but I'm honestly looking forward to next week when I will escort them to the hospital for their first test. Inshallah, all the results will be negative, and the students will feel empowered to encourage others to faire le depistage (get tested).

Two lessons that continue to resonate with me in the wake of these two seminars:
1. We must never become immune to the individual lives caught in the crossfire of disease, violence, and/or other tragedy… even if it does make it easier to digest and cope.
2. Nor must we let these tragedies rule our perspective, forever dampening our outlook. Never lose faith in the ability of individuals to adapt, to change, and to grow.

Title IX in the RIM: Women and Physical Activity

It would be the first volleyball game in the history of Gnimlane. The net was up and boundaries measured and marked to a tee in the sand; the invitations had been sent to village bigwigs; and the “toubab circus” had arrived in town to show off some mean skills on the court. Diego, another Tagant PCV, had organized the event with the help of the local PE teacher and had invited myself and the other volunteers to demonstrate the game. It didn’t matter that few of us had ever played volleyball outside of high school gym class. It’s an American sport, we thought. How can we lose against Mauritanians? Little did we realize what lay in store for us during our two-day tourney.

To kick-off the event, we decided to run a few practice sets and give the growing crowd an introduction to the game. But, before we even stepped onto the court, the two other female volunteers and myself had another challenge to face. Turning my back to the horde of onlookers and kicking off my sandals, I gingerly began to untie my wrap skirt. I honestly felt like I was doing a striptease even though I was wearing a pair of pants underneath and had my hair conservatively covered. The crowd of Mauritanians round us feigned interest in the warm-up, but the circle they maintained around our female subset betrayed the true objects of their attention. Wide-eyed, some blatantly gawked at us and exchanged looks with friends. “Women? Wearing pants! How scandalous?!”

We had decided collectively to wear pants, as opposed to skirts, for the event. Add a bit of female empowerment to cultural and athletic objectives of the match. After all, we would be judged bizarre regardless because we were females playing a sport. Why not enjoy greater mobility if we’re already going to hell in a hand basket? Once we were skirt-less and prepped for the match, we weaved our way through the crowd and joined the others on the court. We began to practice setting up and serving the ball while simultaneously trying to retrieve the rules of the game from the recesses of our brains. By the end of our 30-minute warm-up, pip-squeak children, wearing broken sandals and confused grins, were beating balls with their fists and watching them sail over their heads, into stray camels and patches of date trees. I had to laugh whenever they got really frustrated because they would resort to soccer moves, juggling and kicking the ball around the court.

We played a few initial matches in which the toubabs were divided evenly between the two teams. We performed decently enough, or so we thought, and the Mauritanians culled from the crowd seemed to get a knack for the game as well. Then our friend, Dehan, grinning mischievously, threw down the proverbial gauntlet and announced that we would now have a Mauritania versus Toubab match. The crowd sent up a whoop, and children scattered in search of absent friends and siblings who might miss the spectacle. And what a spectacle it was! We began the match just as the sun began to dip in the sky and continued to dig, serve, set, and spike until the sun was a slit on the horizon.

Without going into too much detail, suffice to say, that while we were able to take one set of the three we played, the Toubabs suffered a pretty humiliating defeat at the hands of the Mauritanian team. Yup, we actually lost at our own game. Granted, their team was lead by two very athletic men, and I was a better cheerleader than player, but these are just excuses for the real reason we lost... I think my sister-in-law hit the nail on the head when she joked that our loss was Allah’s revenge for wearing pants in front of good Muslims. Tsk, tsk, hobaras (sluts).

In all honesty though, aside from the initial gawk session, the Mauritanians didn’t seem care that much about the pants. As toubabs, we often get a free pass to do things Mauritanians consider inappropriate. We, of course, earned a few snickers from the teenage boys, but we were never at risk for a public stoning. If anything, they were more shocked that we were using our muscles and playing the game at all! Given my experience there a few months ago, their shock at our athleticism wasn’t really a surprise. While visiting Gnimlane in November, I was asked by the Math teacher there quite literally if I could walk 1km to the school (<1mile).> He was one of the more progressive members of the community, well educated, and a big joker, so I immediately dismissed his comment with a laugh. Just a bit of routine female ribbing, I thought. However, after a minute of him looking at me expectantly, I realized he was serious. “Of course, I can walk there!” I cried. In the moment, it was easy to laugh off the experience and chalk it up to ignorance, but in retrospect, Hamoud’s question strikes at a larger issue. Mauritania is an incredibly gender-stratified country and, as such, men and women harbor deeply ingrained doubts as to women’s capabilities.

As you might have gathered from my previous entry on body image or from Oprah’s recent interview with a Mauritanian woman, the concept of women being active, much less playing sports, is a kind of anathema to this culture. Ideal women are immobile masses and good Muslims focused on the hearth and home. A few months ago, I read a book called Feeding Desire about a group of Moors in Niger. In it, Rebecca Popenoe, an anthropologist and former Peace Corps volunteer, creates a window into this culture in which largess is beauty incarnate. Contradicting the western mentality that places obesity and laziness in direct correlation, she notes that, “women’s work is the work of the stomach.” By increasing their body mass, women increase their families’ social and physical capital and thus contribute to their own welfare and that of their families’. This type of social arithmetic understandably seems very foreign to our western mindset besieged by skinny models and diet fads. Indeed, it may be hard to believe women can increase their sex appeal by eating more, but it’s true. In the land of the Moors, cankles are cool, asses attractive, grossesse gorgeous, and fat is oh so fine.

Given how closely this society clings to traditional mores and perceptions of beauty, I have not yet confronted the issue outright. Between lectures on the beauty of stretch marks and having balls of cous-cous shoved in my mouth, there just never seems to be an appropriate time to discuss the health risks associated with obesity. Instead, I have to tackle the subject in a more indirect manner, namely through the promotion of exercise. With both men and women, I talk about ways to faire le sport - walking instead of taking a taxi, gardening, stretching, etc. I then go on to explain what it does for your heart and rave about how good I feel after I exercise. My audiences usually smile and nod. Surely, some dismiss my rants as Western mumbo jumbo, but, more often than not, the individuals with whom I’m speaking already know that exercise is good. Sometimes, they’ll even boast to me how far they walked that day and nudge doubtful onlookers, emphasizing, riadh zeyn is-siha! (sports are great for the health!). Yet, as with most every other issue here, the real obstacle remains converting knowledge into action, especially among women for whom playing sports necessitates a revolutionary spirit and much more planning.

Before exercising, women must think about several factors which could influence their activity. Specifically, they must consider what they can wear to allow for both mobility and cultural sensitivity (pants under a melafa?), where they can exercise out of sight of men, when they can find the time to do so, and what exercises they can actually do in the middle the desert, sans equipment. In light of these obstacles, it is no wonder so few women choose to exercise. Thus, in addition to informal conversations about the benefits of exercise, I also try to demonstrate feasible activities for women – walking or running at the airport in the morning, dancing, and gardening.

For example, at 6am each morning, my alarm goes off, mingling with the static-filled prayer calls from the nearby mosques. As much as I want to hit Snooze, I always groggily pull myself out of “bed” (i.e. get up off the ground) and prepare for my morning run. I’m not going to cloak my runs at dawn in altruism; I run for my own sanity and so that I can feel somewhat accomplished even if I drink tea for 6-hours a day. That said, I like to think my runs have a dual purpose – maintaining my own health and illustrating women’s capacity to exercise and push themselves. The men walking home from the mosque have grown accustomed to my shadowed figure jogging past. They no longer point their flashlight at me and query, dhaak shinhu? (what the hell is that?). Based on the comments I receive from women in the market, I also know that those men go home and talk to their families about the strange female toubab they saw running that morning.

More exciting than my morning runs though is the weekly ballet class I just started to teach at the Girls Mentoring Center. I’ll admit the classes are a little unorthodox. We often mélange traditional Moor dance with ballet’s plies and ronde de jambes, and we do warm-up to Estelle feat. Kanye West and floor exercises to Chris Brown. It’s more than a little odd, but I’m so ecstatic to see these young girls embrace activity and exercise that I just kind of go with the flow. We’ve only had two sessions thus far, but the girls really seem to enjoy the classes. They pull me aside afterwards to show me their perfected chainé turns and petition me to bring back my own dance videos from the States. Based on my interactions with this younger generation, I know that a progressive perspective will guide their response to issues like obesity, nutrition, and exercise. There is hope on the horizon, but in the meantime, another generation of women remains handicapped in their levels of activity.

Recipe for an Amazing Trip to Senegal

Ingredients:

- ¾ cup beautiful seaside vistas and scenery
- ¼ cup horse cart rides in the Senegal brousse
- ½ cup expats shocking me out of my RIM isolation
(substitution: foreign PCVs)
- 1 cup random realizations of global interconnectedness
(You went to UVa? You have a brother in VA and want to pay for my hotel room?)
- 2 gallons cheap Senegalese wine
- 5 doggie bags cheese and chocolate in varied forms…pizza, ice cream, pastries
- 2 tbsp Akon blaring from taxis
- 1 tsp clothing liberty – short skirts, bathing suits…FREE AT LAST!
- 1 pinch bemused annoyance while haggling at the market
(Really? You’re going to call me a racist for not buying your Hello Kitty backpack?)

Preparation:

- 3-hour ride by horse cart and pirogue, preferably with “Roll Out” and/or collection of Disney songs blaring from portable iPod speakers
- Add in shock and awe when confronted with Dakar’s beauty, BMWs, diversity, and good food. Stir ingredients until you become sufficiently awkward as a result of previous isolation
- Simmer Senegalese wine until 4am or till it a dreadful hangover residue appears. This will curdle the aforementioned shock and awe so that you can mix in new friends and the shared amazement that, “Yes, we do live in Africa.”


I’ve come to love Mauritania, to embrace its “quirks” and even call it home. And yet Senegal is a definite welcome respite from the desert, camels, and conservative Moor culture. In my several months of blogging delinquency, I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to the Promised Land two times – once during New Years and then again last weekend - and each time I cross over to the other shore, I am immediately stunned by the difference.

The land is verdant; dazzling birds and wax print flash and snap before the eye; men actually speak to women, shaking their hands congenially; some people even parlent le français. Oh, the novelty! At no time was this disparity more apparent than when I sat at a small resort on the Senegalese River, next to a sparkling pool, sipping wine, and watching trash burn on the opposite shore. Here I was, surrounded by blossoming beauty, wearing a bathing suit, trying to discern the natural elements in my rosé, and across the waters, Mauritania was literally burning to the ground. I had to chuckle at that moment and raise my glass in a silent toast to my dry host country. Salut mes amis!

I must note though that before we arrived poolside at our “plush” resort in Richard Toll, we experienced 3 intense hours of bumping and bouncing over an island in the Senegal River in our less than trusty horse cart. Gripping the edges for dear life and sorely feeling every miniscule anthill, we simultaneously battled passing Ballonites trees and jammed to tunes on our boombox. A cloud of copper dust announced our approach, and herders and small children often stopped to stare at the misplaced toubabs belting out “A Whole New World” from Aladdin. Their faces in those moments were nearly priceless. Of course, save for stopping our Disney sing-a-long, we were always thankful to descend from our horse drawn chariots, that is, until we saw the next mode of transport. Enter: the pirogue - a rickety wooden canoe unsafe for crossing by any reasonable person’s approximations. Yet, time and again, we loaded not only 10-14 toubabs with copious amounts of baggage on to this contraption, but also the aforementioned horse cart. We were accompanied on each watery voyage by a struggling horse that seemed to snort in panic and fury at its lot in life. As sorry as I was for those poor beasts, I was grateful for their company; watching them traverse the schistosomiasis-infested waters distracted me from my own precarious situation. Alas, even after our last pirogue kissed the shore, we had to pack in for another 2 hours of travel by taxi brousse. Suffice to say, we certainly earned our drinks poolside by the end of the voyage.

If Richard Toll (named for a former French Governor) was my first taste of the land of milk and honey, then Dakar was the Elysium Fields and Eden rolled into one. Site of the annual 4-day West African Invitation Softball Tournament (W.A.I.S.T), Dakar has the fortunate responsibility of playing host to a vast influx of Peace Corps volunteers and expats from neighboring countries including Mali, the Gambia, Guinea, Senegal, and, of course, Mauritania. Over the course of the 4-day frenzy of Americana, teams of oddly-outfitted and sometimes sober PCVs battle each other and expat teams to prove that malnutrition has not completely denuded our muscles of tone and ability. Yes, we can take a shot and then hit a ground rule double; yes, we can field hoppers and line drives in underwear; yes, we can coach and slosh white wine from the sidelines; in short, YES, WE CAN!

In past years, our rough and tumble crew of Mauritanian PCVs has earned a reputation for working and playing hard during the tournament. And, rightfully so. The intoxicated antics and pantsless playing of our “C” Team, the Scallywags, tend to draw both scowls and howls of laughter from dedicated parents and competitors while our “A” and “B” teams, the Pirates and Buccanneers, stun competitors with our ability to swig beer while rounding bases. We are further buffeted by our amazing fan base, the Seamen, who rake the ground with plastic hooks, run caped in pirate flags, and scream “YAARRR!” and “We’ll capture your booty” from the sidelines. This year, yours truly, was El Capitan of Team B, the Buccaneers. Sadly our team faired poorly, matched against the champions of the previous year and several other powerhouse teams, including a group of missionary children (ages 10-15). That was a low point, needless to say, and we definitely felt a bit judged. Fortunately, the Pirates, our “A” Team, avenged our honor, rallying to win the W.A.I.S.T Social League Championship by 11-5 against a local team of Senegalese sluggers. I wish you all could have seen some of the amazing plays turned by the Pirates over that weekend; their intensity and skill combined for an amazing chemistry on and off the field.

When not partaking in the gush of Americana which consumed the W.A.I.S.T tournament and its outliers, my friends and I tried to explore and savor the city of Dakar. We stuffed ourselves silly at countless patisseries, ice cream parlors, and pizza meccas while traversing the city’s exploding boundaries by foot. One such expedition led us to Sandafa Market, located in the heart of the downtown area. In retrospect, I can’t really recall what objective brought us to this notorious haven of fiercely persistent hawkers and pickpocket bandits - cheap wax print? knock-off designer sunglasses? lingerie which would make Fredericks blush? I forget, but I do remember the very real need for a massage and ice cream which followed our mad progression through the crowded streets. At one stand where, my friend, Julie, was bargaining assiduously for soccer jerseys, Yates and I had to simultaneously swat away the searching hands of peddlers and decry charges that we were racist because we did not want them to touch us and/or did not want to buy a Sanrio hatbox. Needless to say, we were happy to escape that area, relatively unscathed, no wallets lost.

Among the city’s other gems, one of my favorites was the Isle de Gorée. This deceptive island is located just off the southern tip of the peninsula and, despite its beauty, is the site of one of the world’s notorious breaches of humanity. Riots of flowers explode from the walls of tiny passages creating a chaotic harmony with the island’s buttery yellow, rose, and red colonial houses. Meanwhile, Senegalese continue to live and flourish on the island that had previously bred such vice. School children play soccer, their blue UNICEF backpacks jouncing as they juggle the ball; artists and boutique owners hawk wares on uneven cobbled streets; and brisk businessmen walk off the ferry to meet their families for dinner. Honestly, at first glance, it all just seems so quaint that it’s hard to believe the island was one of the most notorious slave debarkation points in West Africa.

Here, individuals were de-individualized - herded, discarded, raped, dehumanized. Like its sister spots in Guinea-Bissau, the Gambia, and Ghana, the Isle de Gorée’s Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves) has an eerie emptiness to it. One touches the black stonewalls, looks out the narrow windows at the roiling sea, and feels, more than hears, echoes of past horrors…. Women, men, and children packed like sardines into small, humid cells; looking out upon the ocean which will either be your death bed or your carriage to another kind of death; wondering whether your weight will earn you passage to new horrors or a place upon the jagged rocks. I had the opportunity to visit Elmira – another slave debarkation point - in Cape Coast, Ghana a few years back, and I remember walking away with the same feeling of sad, quiet wonder at our capacity for evil. And, also, our ability to survive. It’s hard to describe, but, in my experience, the best comparison stateside is the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C.

Ferrying back, the sun’s orange globe began to set over Dakar’s well-developed skyline, and I knew that while justice had begun its revolution, turning the fortunes of many in this city, it was not nearly complete. And so I began my voyage home to Mauritania, where the simple needs of many go unfulfilled daily …

The Il Hamdulilah/Gasar Amar-ak List

November has definitely arrived in Mauritania. The weather is slowly creeping southward on the thermometer, and, though lacking the turkeys, tinsel, and general hustle and bustle of the holiday season in the States, I have found comfort in a different kind of plenty and excess here. For the first time since my arrival, vegetables and fruit are abundant and cheap thanks to a plentiful harvest during the cold season. This may seem negligible to many of you; however, the added benefits of these nutrients are of paramount importance to my malnourished body and those of Mauritanians. Rule of thumb: a hearty, nutritious meal means a happier Colleen. Now if I could only find a glass of wine to accompany my delicious repasts…: p

Moreover, the hospitality of my Mauritanian friends is more forthcoming now that I have made salient strides with Hassiniya and further integrated into the community. I no longer squirm with impatience as I sit hour after hour, drinking kasse after kasse of tea and discussing religion, marriage, gender relations, and a host of other topics, important and unimportant alike. Even work is beginning to pick up! This past weekend, I ventured en brousse with three other volunteers. Together, with the aid of several women’s cooperatives, we planted 150 trees aimed at delaying desertification and distributed vegetable seeds to 7 cooperatives. My interest has also been piqued by several health and community issues, and more and more projects appear on the horizon every day. Specifically, I hope to begin a Health Club at the local lycée (high school) and, subsequently, hand-washing and dental hygiene campaigns in the primary schools. Of course, this is all assuming I receive approval and first finish my wall mural. Big “if’s.”

In any case, given the good fortune I have experienced of late and the impending Thanksgiving holiday, I thought it appropriate and in good tradition to share a list of those things for which I thank God each day (Il Hambulilah). They are big and small and might otherwise be inconsequential was I not in Mauritania. However, they have made me smile on days when all seemed hopeless and have seen me through the rough patches I have encountered thus far. In the spirit of good humor and all things ying-and-yang, I am also including a companion Gasar Amar-ak List. In Hassiniya, Gasar Amar-ak translates as “May God shorten your life,” and, as harsh as this may seem, it is a phrase used without reservation by many a frustrated Mauritanian and Peace Corps volunteer. In this list, you will find those things which have dampened my spirit at times and might just give me a few wrinkles before I leave. So, without further ado, I present my first annual Thanksgiving Il Hambulilah / Gasar Amar-ak list. Enjoy!

Il Hamdulilah:

- Kiddy –It’s our version of Nutela and is thus equivalent of crack for us, chocolate-starved volunteers.
- Prayer call – Good for laughs when garbled and can also be incredibly beautiful at times
- Tea time! – Always laden with sugar and served up with a good dose of culture, the Mauritanian ritual definitely rivals its counterpart in the UK. It’s going to be a hard habit to break back in the States.
- My Northface sleeping bag
- Iste, the cold season
- BBC radio
- Early morning runs, watching the desert sun rise over the dunes
- Motivated, intelligent, hospitable, and open Mauritanians
- A sense of humor – Not only has it helped me to put many an experience in perspective, but it has also been a wonderful tool, effectively deflecting any unsavory offer whether be it tea with the local construction workers or slaying a goat for an upcoming festival.
- Well-stocked Peace Corps libraries – I will never want for books to read.
- Emails, calls, letters, and photos from home
- Care packages – Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Haha.
- President-elect Barack Obama
- My Mauritanian friends and counterparts, Tagant site mates, PCV friends, and the RIM Peace Corps Staff
- Family, Friends, and Relatives Stateside - I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I couldn’t do
this without your support!

Gasar Amar-ak:

- Ants, Scorpions, Blister Beetles…really, anything that wakes me up or hurts me
- Goats
- Mulafas
- Sand, sand everywhere
- Demands of “Cadeau, Madame” from ½ a mile away
- Marriage proposals – See November 13th Blog Entry
- Taxi Brousse rides – See October 15th Blog Entry
- Prayer call at 4, 5, and 6 am, respectively. Make up your minds people!
- Intestinal parasites
- The economic crisis
- Coup d’Etats

83 Proposals: Marriage in the RIM

“So have you met that chief who you're going to have your 20 kids with?”

This question was sent to me by one of my best friends not too long ago. Indeed, it is one I have received many times over from friends and family members over the past few months. Obviously, this question and its cousins are flip in nature and are posed in jest. But inquiring minds want to know, and I am not one to withhold information from my adoring fan base. So, to all those desirous to know about my new hubby and how many babies I’ve popped out since my arrival, I am happy to report that I am still batting zero on the marriage and baby front. [Cue Mom/Dad: sigh of relief]. However, that is not to say I haven’t had the opportunity to change that reality. In fact, I have had at least 83 chances, approximately, to jump on the nuptial bandwagon (4 proposals/wk x 20.5 wks). Eat your heart out Jane Austen.

“Why,” you might ask, “have I received so many offers?” This is an excellent question which I ask myself every time I am faced with a fresh proposal. Of course, it has a very simple answer that is neither my Helen of Troy beauty nor my baffling intelligence and wit; p Quite simply, I’m an American; I have fair skin; I’m the walking, talking, breathing image of Beverly Hills compared to most Mauritanians; and, at 23 years of age, I am past due for marriage by most Mauritanian standards. Indeed, many women shake their heads in disbelief and pity upon discovering that I am still single at 23. “What? You’re 23, and you have no husband or children? Here, take my son.” I kindly deflect these offers and typically conjure up an imaginary financé working in the States. Usually, this satisfies the female interrogators though some will persist and urge me to take a Mauritanian husband in addition to my American beau. The men, however, are a bit more persistent. They adjust their starchy boubous, strike enigmatic poses, and try to woo me with proposals like the following:

“Fair Colleen, I beg your hand in marriage so that I can spirit you away to my wonderful desert palace. There, you will feel no want for anything that is in my
power to give you and we can raise our family and grow old together in peace.”

[Reality: Toubab, I want you marry me. I have big house with parents. You live us there. Boutique close to house. There you buy everything. I also want many children for to build first Mauritanian national soccer team. You like this, yes?]

Take note all you single men out there: this is no way to woo a lady.

Fortunately, it is more than acceptable to reject these “grandiose” offers with a simple, “No, you’re ugly” or “Psh, you’re way too old for me!” Though seemingly blunt and harsh to us, they seem to do the trick every time, humorously turning down the offer while producing a few chuckles among the surrounding Mauritanians. In any case, as an ambitious woman with only 23 years of age to her credit, I am not seeking marriage at this point in my life and have grown a bit tired of the constant inquiries and proposals. That said, it has been very interesting to learn about the Mauritanian rituals of courtship firsthand, turning down offers and attending the weddings of friends. From these experiences, I have been able to piece together a rough understanding of the marital norms and practices in this country. This is where the Women’s Studies major in me comes to the forefront.

It goes without saying that marriage occupies a predominant position in Mauritanian society. Basically, the family supersedes the atom as the basic building block of life here. As such, the connections formed to create a family assume the utmost importance. Depending on ethnic background and location, the practices and standards which surround marriage vary. For example, some ethnic groups practice polygamy; others do not. Some localities are more accepting of romantic notions of love; others resist its impending tide. In general though, marriage is not about love or romance, but about practicality and function. For this reason, some marriages are still arranged, matching extended family members and/or first or second cousins together. Though marriage between family members is universally disagreeable to us, Mauritanians reason that marriage between cousins ensures the background and moral character of the parties while keeping wealth within the family and continuing family lines.

As you can well imagine, there are times when such antiquated practices conflict with modern mentalities and the appeal of romantic love. One of my roommates, Aisha Ba, is a victim of this clash, having recently married one of her cousins. According to her family, it was a good match, but, to her mind, it was a decision which forced her to abandon the man she truly loves, Oumar. Oumar lives and works in Tidjikja, and he and Aisha Ba had been together for roughly four years before her marriage. She is the only individual I know of who has had such an experience. No doubt, there are others who share her fate, but I take heart in that, with the urbanization of society and greater exposure to media, a growing number of Mauritanians are making their own choices with regard to marriage partners. Ali, my facilitator during training, ended up marrying his wife after a bitter struggle with her family because they objected to his ethnicity. He is a black moor, and she is a white moor. They disregarded the family’s protestations, married, and, though they fell out of grace with her family for some time, they have now reunited and rekindled the relationship. Happy endings are possible, but, as with everything here, you have to fight for them.

I also see hope in the rising age of marriage for women. Previously, it would not be uncommon for a young Mauritanian girl to marry by the age of 15 or 16. Now, there is a greater variance in the age of marriage for young women. Indeed, I have some friends who are 25 or 26 and are content to still be single. “Raajel ijiib mushkila,” [men bring problems] they tell me as they crook their heads and give me knowing nods. “Haani schwey,” [wait a little] they advise me. I tell them they don’t have to worry about me; I’m not jumping off that cliff anytime soon. But they just pat my leg and repeat their advice. I guess it’s worth noting that most of these women work, many as teachers, and have thus benefited from more education than others. Though they are presently unmarried and happy to be so, I have faith that they will all eventually marry. It’s a stepping-stone of life here, whether you like it or not.

Unfortunately, there are some girls who discover this reality far too early. Unlike my Mauritanian spinster friends, young girls en brousse are not exposed to as much alternative culture and education as women in urban centers and still marry as young as 13 or 14. The mantle of wife and mother is foisted upon these young girls as soon as they are of child-bearing age, and their health definitely suffers as a result. For example, I have met several girls at Tidjikja’s maternal health center who came from the brousse for treatment. They looked like they were in their mid-30’s when, in actuality, they were only 17, 19, 22. They had already bore several children, many before their bodies were developed enough for that experience. They came from areas which would really benefit from outside influence; however, those areas are so geographically isolated that I wonder if, when, and how this will ever come to pass. I have hope, but I am also realistic. Ethnicity, location, economic status, and education will continue to function as critical factors in determining marital norms, and, for the time being, young girls en brousse will suffer as a result.

Those Darn Proverbial Rocks

The rock hit me squarely on my right ankle. The shock at impact was quickly replaced by a bubble of humiliation and fury as I heard the peal of laughter over my shoulder. I swung around angrily and swiftly singled out the culprit - a young white Moor, about 8 or 9 years of age, noticeable for his smirk and his rapid backtracking into the pool of children. Rarely have I ever wanted to physically hurt someone, so badly.

"IJI!" I commanded. The children slowly gathered, surprised by my forceful tone and eager for the ensuing showdown. At that moment, I had no idea what I was going to do, but I remember feeling a tinge of shock and pride at my ability to recall the imperative in Hassiniya. Sadly, that is where my linguistic adeptness left me. After demanding where his mother and father were (in Nouakchott where he lived) and then chastising him with a few "Maa Zeyn’s" (not good), I was spent. He said, "Pardon Madame," but I knew it wasn’t sincere. I wanted to tell him about the destructiveness of violence and respect for authority, but how do you do so in broken Hassiniya to a child who should already understand that?

His compatriots held him fast and called on me to hit him. Tempted though I was, I frowned and refused. Ah ha! My Achilles heal was revealed; the restraint which I viewed as a strength merely denoted weakness to the children. As I began to walk away, the children took up my chant of "Maa zeyn," not to reprimand their friend, but to mock the retreating toubab. I couldn’t stand it, but all I could do at this point was shoot dirty looks at them. Anything more would have been fuel for their fire. I resolved to tell my counterpart, whom I was going to visit, and have her take care of any further discipline. She later did and, upon asking him why he threw the rock at me, he responded, "Hiye nasaranyi. Hiya jaay min Amerik." (She’s a foreigner. She comes from America). Enter: discrimination and racism [stage right]

In theory, this experience shouldn’t have happened. I was in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Tidjikja, walking to an evening English lesson with my counterpart’s daughter. I was wearing a mulafa - which normally commands greater respect for the modesty and cultural integration it connotes. I had also greeted the children gathered around the soccer field in Hassiniya and humbly explained to them that I couldn’t play soccer as well as them. Passing the edge of the field, I thought our interaction had come to an end and was about to chalk it up to one of those pleasant memories I would recall right before bed. That’s when the rock was thrown. I don’t want to over dramatize the event. After all, the rock’s physical impact left little more than a bruised knot and the two scabs I now see. That said, it shook me up that day, throwing me off balance. "We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto. Welcome to the new Oz - Tidjikja, Mauritania. The flying monkeys here are kids with stones, and even ruby red mulafas won’t save you."

In reality, several proverbial rocks have been thrown at me in my short time here, and I expect many more. Not all are bad, and many, indeed, have been wonderful revelations and experiences. Actually, I think it’s good to be knocked off balance every now and then; it forces you out of your comfort zone, forces you to readjust. However good or bad, those proverbial rocks universally seem to strike just when you’re getting comfortable, nestling into the proverbial Lazy-boy. Such is life in a different country and interaction with a different culture. Sadly, the rocks of late have been of the same make and mold as the one hurled at me by the young boy - laced with prejudice, veiled in racism. As I will soon relate, sometimes these negative sentiments have been directed at me, and sometimes, they have been directed at other ethnic groups in the country. Regardless, they have all been eye-opening.

I have been very fortunate of late to make several new friends in the community. My two "housemates" - Jenniba Sou and Aishaba - are affectated to teach primary school in Tidjikja and arrived a few weeks ago. It’s nice to finally have some company in the compound and, as French teachers, they always challenge me linguistically when I roll out of bed at 6am. But when I want to gossip or learn some new risqué dance moves, I head over to Coumbise and Coumba’s house. Unfortunately, these two fabulous ladies will be returning to Nouakchott within a week’s time, but I have enjoyed their spark and colorful perspective on life in the past month. I have also befriended several individuals working in the health sector and with community improvement. Ali is an anesthetist at the hospital; Jum is the manager of World Vision’s Tidjikja branch; and Hajetou is a sage femme at the hospital. In addition to being warm, welcoming, and extremely intelligent, each of these new friends shares one other thing in common. They are all Pulaar.

Briefly, being of any descent other than White Moor in Tidjikja automatically singles you out for attention. The community is composed almost entirely of White Moors, and they make sure that you know it, especially if you are of African, rather than Arab, descent. Pulaars hail from the Fula African group and their population extends across all of West Africa. In Mauritania, Pulaars maintain many governmental administrative positions and are known widely as the intellectuals in the government. According to the Cross-Cultural Manual provided us during training:

Though there are, of course, friendships between people of the various racial groups, there is also considerable wide scale mistrust between White Moors and Pulaars. Pulaars perceive the White Moors as being racist, powerful, and nepotistic people who use their political influence unduly to gain control over the other residents of the country. In return, the White Moors are typically distrustful of Pulaars. Much of the conflict of 1989 was centered between the White Moors and Pulaars. (Peace Corps Mauritania. Cross-Cultural Manual. 2008.)

I want to say at the start that neither group is without fault or responsibility for the poor relations which exist at present. Over the past few weeks, I have heard individuals from both groups make snide comments about the other; I have also heard them make positively glowing statements. These are the proverbial rocks of which I spoke earlier. They came from the mouths of friends - White Moor, Pulaar, and Wolof, friendly, intelligent, generally progressive - and it was thus all the more surprising when their comments were negative in orientation. One of the most well-educated men I have met in Mauritania basically said intermarriage between the ethnic groups was abhorrent. He also said, "Cheating on your fiancé with another woman is like deciding to eat couscous instead of rice for lunch. It’s really not a big deal." As you can well imagine, I have since decided to take most of his comments with a grain of salt J On the flip side, my Pulaar friends routinely joke about the sedentary lifestyle of Moors and their bland diet of couscous, meat, and water. They also voice resentment routinely for the Moor’s treatment of them as second class citizens. To the Pulaar’s credit, most Moors usually dismiss such commentary as the disgruntled grumbling of the minority and tell them, in not so many words, to get over it.

As an intermediary with friends on both sides of the divide, I wince a little each time I here these comments. Sometimes, I correct them; sometimes, I’m ashamed to say, I let them slide. Those who make the comments never seem willing to change their mind, but I try every now and then. I sit in the open air market with my Pulaar friends each day, smiling and inviting the frowns of the White Moors walking by. Similarly, last night, a man bluntly told my counterpart’s daughter, whose father is a Black Moor and whose mother is a White Moor, that her darker complexion wasn’t very desirable. She nervously laughed it off, partly because she had already internalized this mentality. I wanted to say, "Lay off, buddy! She’s only 14 years old!" Unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, my narrow Hassiniya limited the diatribe I had in store. I couldn’t say much more than, "In my opinion, she is very beautiful, and men will have to fight for her in a few years time." It’s the truth; they will.

Last night, she also confided in me that she dreams of being a doctor and holding a cabinet-level post in the Mauritanian government. This confession was another sort of rock, but it did not sting me the way the others had. It was a welcome rock that definitely threw me for a loop. Rarely do I hear young girls voice such ambitious aspirations in this country, and in the wake of her announcement, I wanted to hug her and shout, "Il hamdulillah!" (thanks be to God!).

…Upon second thought, I think some of the rocks hurled at us are actually gems in disguise. We just have to dust them off a bit to find their true nature, their real purpose.

The Real World: Taxi Brousse

"This is the true story...of 9 strangers (and sometimes a goat)... crammed into one broke ass sedan...forced to ride together under the hot desert sun...to find out what happens...when people stop being polite...and start getting real. The Real World: Taxi Brousse."

Anyone who has traveled abroad can attest that foreign transportation is a veritable goldmine of adventure. The eccentric characters, the nearly-missed connections, the baffling maze of airport gates, and the multitude of other factors all combine to create anecdotes which are forever cemented in one’s memory. When I visited Ghana three summers ago, its system of mass transport via trotro certainly proved true to form. Indeed, I can still recall the absolute shock I felt upon discovering that it was a goat I felt under my seat and not the excessively hairy leg of my friend. Similarly, though my father did his best to pilot our manual diesel rental car in Spain, we did not escape unscathed. I wonder how many heart attacks we caused Spaniards with our herky jerky navigation of Seville’s narrow allies and steep garage ramps. Alas, though lacking many of the elements present in Ghana and Spain, my travels in Mauritania have confirmed this general trend. Interesting tales of transport, both good and bad, are in abundance after only 4 months in country as I will soon relate.

Mauritania is a fairly large country and is, therefore, already difficult to traverse. However, when busted Mercedes and Peugot rejects from the 80s are forced into battle with a 100+ heat index and veritable mountains of sand which stir with each breeze, the already long journey becomes that much more "interesting." As you can well imagine, I have heard countless horror stories of taxi brousse from former and current volunteers. Fortunately, I have been spared many of the unbearable elements of such travel thus far. For example, never have I had a screaming baby hoisted upon me nor have I had to endure any conversion attempts or slandering of all things American. That does not mean that I am without any notches on my proverbial belt though. Actually, I have acquired quite a few in the past two weeks when I decided to venture beyond the bounds of my beloved Tidjikja.

As the end of Ramadan neared and the society of Tidjikja became increasingly anxious to finish their difficult rite of penance, I decided a change of scenery was in order. After nearly a month at site, it was time to tour some of the other jewels in the Tagant region. My first stop: Gnimlane, a brousse site about 26km outside of Tidjikja and home to one of closest friends. The 40-minute journey to this site was relatively uneventful aside from the 3 hour wait which preceded it. Though I had been warned repeatedly about Mauritanian’s lax conception of time and even appreciate it at times, I couldn’t help but become frustrated by its interference with my plans. I had wanted to leave at 2 and instead left at 5. No matter. Once we were en route, I did a mental shrug and was soon taken in conversation with a Senegalese Rastafarian who was working in Tidjikja. It was my first opportunity to really speak French after one month at site, and I was grateful even if I had to wait 3 hours for it. Plus I exited the taxi with an invite to sample some Senegalese cuisine once he returns from Nouakchott :)

After a short respite in Gnimlane during which we celebrated Ead (the end of Ramadan) and entertained the community with our American antics, we were ready to taxi again. But not before I fended off several marriage proposals and received a plate with meat and potatoes immediately after explaining that I was a vegetarian. (Haha, they just don’t seem to get it). Two days after arriving, we hitched another ride and high-tailed it to Nbeika, an oasis at the edge of the region’s border.

Again, this taxi brousse ride was not without incident. At first, everything seemed to progress smoothly. Our driver was traveling to Nouakchott and offered to cart us along in return for gas money. Though this would constitute carpooling in the States and would generally be smiled upon, it is considered an illegal activity in Mauritania for anyone who is not an official taxi driver. Subsequently, at every gendarme stop en route to Nbeika, we were given the evil eye and a severe chastising. Yet we drove away each time without having to pay a charge, so all seemed well until the last 5km of our journey. At that point, the car began to jerk and sputter and finally came to a stop but a few miles away from our destination. Ahh, such is life en taxi brousse… With the late morning sun beating down on us, the six of us heave ho’ed and pushed our chariot back into life. Yes! Victory! We hopped back in the car, cruised for another kilometer and then came to a halt again. To complete the story, reread the above four more times.

Fortunately, our trip out to MocMata the next morning proved far less eventful and much smoother despite the considerably rougher terrain. Regardless the prize at the end of the journey would have been worth the worst taxi brousse ride. Mocmata is a hidden gem in the Tagant. Its burgundy, rust, and gold painted walls tower over a canyon bed strewn with tiny pools and lazy crocodiles which snap and sun alternately. While we only spent two days enjoying MocMata’s splendor, it was a welcome respite. I even got to go swimming - an activity which is nearly impossible in any Islamic country. Of course, as chance would have it, a sandstorm flooded the canyon and kept us wading in our pool till the storm’s energy was spent…or so we thought. While hiking up the canyon walls after our dip, the sandstorm reared its ugly head yet again. We eventually made it back to our campsite looking like a pack of antique Roman statues. I have since concluded that sandstorms are more formidable opponents than crocodiles.

Though our trip to MocMata was relatively uneventful, I cannot conclude this entry on travel and transportation in Mauritania without relating what happened no more than a week later. I was crammed into the middle seat of a Peugot with two large Moor women whose starchy mulafas knew no boundaries. Despite the lack of space and suffocating fabric, it had been a pretty good journey. We had just passed the halfway point, making good time, and were careening down the mountainside. That’s when it happened. The car door closest to me sprung open leaving me exposed to the craggy depths below. Shock was quickly replaced by fear and then by a fervent desire to save my life. Somehow, I was able to hold on to the door while yelling at the driver to stop in a series of different languages and expletives. Naturally, he didn’t stop till we came to the bottom, several minutes later. Perhaps he didn’t hear me or perhaps he thought I was strong enough to survive the gaping precipice below. Regardless, I viewed him in a little darker a light for the rest of the journey, and I now perceive the expression, "precious cargo" in a whole new way.

I have no doubt that other adventures en taxi brousse will arise over the course of the next two years. After all, each ride is like an episode of The Real World, always crammed full of drama. However ridiculous my future exploits en taxi brousse, inshallah, they will all conclude with me arriving safely at my destination. In any case, you can be sure that I will keep you all posted on any other interesting moments which warrant attention.

Aside from my adventures en route, life here has begun to assume some semblance of a routine though still with a touch of the bizarre. I run alongside a pack of camels a few mornings each week and then trip over to the hospital for a few hours. Most people there believe me to be a doctor, and so I spend a good 15% of my time explaining that, indeed, I do not have my medical degree. As if I wasn’t already thinking about a 180 career change, the disbelief and disappointment on the faces of patients when I tell them that I am neither a doctor nor a sage femme is impetus enough to compel anyone into the profession. The other 85% of my time there has been divided between computer and typing lessons with my counterpart, Ghallet, general observation, and reorganizing the dust-choked library. In general, work and community integration is progressing much more quickly now, and I am trying to observe as much as possible in anticipation of future health education projects. For my next entry, I’ll be able to elaborate a little more in those respects. Till then, maa selaam!