Saturday, September 20, 2008

Leaving the Dix




Truly one of the greatest experiences of my life has come to an end. I came to my little village of PK10 a complete stranger and I'm leaving as a genuine family and community member. The kindness and joy we have share is incredible. i couldn't even begin to express my appreciation and love for my host family. For them to be willing to move out of their small home and live under the hangar--the local name for the relatively large communal tent--for two months, giving a total stranger their one solid structure to hide and rest in is an incredible act of generosity that I believe you'd be hard pressed to find anyone in the states willing to do that; truly immeasurable. There was a tear as I got in the taxi to return to Rosso for the completion of the training phase. The laughs we have made together--mostly at my expense as a result of not having solid language skills--will resonate in my mind through the toughest days here in Mauritania. As I left my host mom, Mbarka, I called to her, "Ma-isselam Daedda." (Peace be with you mom.) She smiled and called me her son through the heaviest of sobs. If there is anything I can do to ever repay Mbark, Alione (my host father) and Mighin (my host brother), it will be to work as hard as I can for the people of Jeddah and at least begin the process of development there. I have never known such genuine hospitality and warmth, so much welcome here that it embarrasses southern hospitality's claim as the best.
The day before I left, the youngest of the children in my host family--oddly enough, named Mama, 3 years old--had been saying all afternoon, "Ibrahim, ma masshi." (Ibrahim, don't go._ After lunch I lay down for the usual afternoon nap, with the wonderful sense of familial love wrapping me. I'm not sure how long I had been asleep before I woke to an odd tickling at the bottom of my right foot. I had half-woken and begun to watch Mama's diligent work. The little 3 year old had gotten the rope used to tie our family's donkey at night and retied it to the center post of the hangar. She had then turned her attention to my foot. As best as a little girl could tie a rope, my foot was attached to the family tent. When Mama had finished, she ran to Mbarka and proudly announced that I wouldn't be able to leave. Mbarka and I shared a warm smile of understanding over Mama's hugging shoulders. I could have never imagined that I would have touched them as deeply as they have touched me. There was some part of me that wanted that rope to stay attached, but in all honesty there will always be a cord back to that home, running straight from the deepest part of my heart.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

The Rain's Are No Joke


Toto, wasn't lying! I have never in all my 24 years of life seen anything like the rains here in Africa. My fellow trainees and I finished our daily work in the garden around 8:30 pm; as we were all circled discussing the days accomplishments and the plans for the next days work, I noticed a large cloud mass coming from the eastern horizon. The clouds were black, but not the typical dark clouds of home that signify a major rainstorm approaching. This mass of ominous coloration stretched from ground to sky, pieces of tan and topee began whizzing by our collective heads at an incredible rate.
When we arrived in Mauritania we were informed of the approaching rainy season and the dangers of the weather. We had been taught that major sandstorms typically preceded major rains and to be very weary of the sandstorms. The were described to us as a "20 story wall of sand." Since I had heard such a description, I had tried to envision what this might look like; I didn't need to imagine anymore. One of my site mates had left her water bottle at the garden, and since my house was the closest to hers out of the rest, I was honored with the responsibility of returning it to her. As I approached her residence I could see the moving wall a few kilometers outside of town. Believing that I had enough time to make it the 100 meters from her house to mine and back again. I decided to hustle over and return the bottle--very stupid decision.
As I made it to her front door, the sand began to fly in perfect streak formation. She opened up the door; I tossed the bottle in and turned around to return home. My host mom's voice could be heard against the strong wind, screaming at me to get inside my house and shut the windows. Even though I've lost 25 lbs thus far, I still hold a significant mass and thought that I could manage the short distance back. As I crested the little hill that separated our houses a gust of wind came from behind me with such force that I was pressed to the ground. I couldn't even begin to guesstimate the strength of that blast of wind, but I am certain of the amount of pain the accompanying sand caused to my skin. As if every inch of exposed skin was at the mercy of a sand belt, I crawled toward the heap of timber that was stacked near the little mud-oven bakery so I could have a chance at least to stand up and make it the last 20 meters to my door. Fight as I could against the sand coming now at me horizontally, I was able to lean into the wind to avoid being pushed back down and awkwardly 'walk' to my front door. The wind slamming it behind me was a reminder of the infantic existence we have with Mother Nature.
No sooner than I cleaned layers of sand batter from my sweat soaked face and neck did the rain begin. The most beautifully intense pounding of sweet cold water turned the sand surrounding my house into a moat of slushy mud. Our entire village became a flooded sandbox in a matter of five minutes. Torrents of rain beat down upon everything with hammerous sounds. As the sheets began to subside into a manageable deluge, I ventured outside to marvel and pay my my respects to the awesome power that are "the rains down in Africa!"

Training Site, PK10

My name is Ibrahim and it's an honor. Here in the little town of PK10, Mauritania--named for the number of kilometers along the main southern highway, moving from Rosso to Nouakchott--I have been blessed to live with an incredible family. My host country mother, Mbarka is a wonderful and warm woman, who has shared her family and life with me. She is the language teacher at the one room school that this little community is so proud to have. My host father, Alioune is a farmer, working the extensive rice paddies that consume the back country of this little village. In the periods when the sun and soil is functioning as God intended, he spends he days bringing in the catch from the Senegal River. I have eight siblings, the oldest, Mighin-19-is a student at the university in Rosso and an incredibly intelligent young man.
Each day I wake to the enthusiasm of my youngest brother, Ahmed-5-bringing me my morning breakfast of peanuts and the Mauritanian specialty, tea. After our breakfast together, Ahmed and I walk the kilometer or so to class, hand in hand. I spend the next seven hours in a very intense language study; Hassaniya is an offshoot of classic Arabic that developed as the Moors moved west across northern Africa. Hassaniya presents a tremendous amount of difficulty for an anglophone; the formation of the sounds necessary in the language are certainly sounds I've never before imagined I'd be uttering. By the end of each session my brains is swimming in a flood of new knowledge and my tongue cramped as if it had just lapped a marathon. It is a true mental workout to learn a new language through the use of my second language, French.
Frustration is constantly my afternoon companion as inevitably there are sections of each language session that I struggle greatly with. As I return home; like the perfect silver Maple it its fall dress at home in Ft. Thomas, I'm welcomed home with calm and comfort. My family here understands my struggle and wants nothing more than for my fellow trainees and I to succeed.
I've been privileged to share this training site with eight others; Ava Lambrecht of Delano, MN, Marta Grabowski of Chicago, IL, Tim Meadors of Cumberland MD, Katherine Monser of Missoula, MT, Mike Kelley of Stonboro, PA, Seth Luxenberg of New City, NY, Jessica Farley and Janna Sargent, both of Seattle, WA. Together we have made friends of each other and friends in our community.
There is much to understand and learn, but one thing I've not had to question or worry about is the strength of family. Love and compassion is the same, regardless of language, location or culture.

When Your House Falls Down

When your house falls down, it's a bit hard to cope easily. I've taken a little break from the rigors of being a PCV. My vacation in Boghe has not gone without work however. Teresa Winland and I have built a flower garden as well as a substantial vegetable garden. Thank god, for christmas we may have some corn ready for harvest and can enjoy the fruits of our labors. Also down here we have Mark McMurray, a lively spirited young fella from Virginia. I'm truly blessed and fortunate to have a great crew of PCV's 2008 to spend the next two years with, working through language barriers, frustrations and sharing joys with.