The Minority Report

I love Christmas. Always have. In my family, the traditions make the changing of the guard seem like a habit. And every year, I look forward to every one of those traditions. The manic shopping, trying to find a gift that each person will enjoy, spending Christmas day opening packages with the family and leaving the wrapping paper wherever it fell, to be dealt with the next day. Hearing Christmas music in every store, wreaths on every light pole. It is possibly my favorite time of year.

Christmas is somewhat different here in Mauritania. For some reason, this Islamic nation doesn't view the holiday season in quite the same way that we do in America. I noticed remarkably few wreaths, and I don't recall a single boutique that played Christmas music (though a lot of people programmed Jingle Bells as their phone ringtone). A few people remarked to me that it must be interesting, seeing Christmas through an African lens. But that isn't really what happened. Instead, I saw Christmas through the lens of people who don't see Christmas at all.

That's not to say that there wasn't a holiday season at all. This year, Christmas fell only five days after Tabaski, the Islamic New Year*, so I was able to see an Islamic holiday season celebrated. Everyone told me that they would celebrate in the same way- kill a goat and eat it, while dressed in beautiful new clothes and in the company of friends and family** (I assume that the killing itself was done prior to the wearing of the beautiful new clothes and the coming of the friends and family).

When people asked me what my holiday would be like, they understood certain parts. Wearing nice clothes and spending the day with other Americans simply makes sense in this culture. Other features are a bit more dissimilar, and just seem bizarre. Putting a tree in the middle of the living room and hanging things on it, spending a fortune on gifts (I think that has more to do with the scarcity of spare money), enjoying the cold season. It all sounds like madness to my local friends.

Here in Nouakchott, where we celebrated the holiday, we created a little America. Everyone congregated at the house of Obie, the country director. We ate Christmas cookies, sucked on candy canes, watched Christmas movies, and had a White Elephant gift exchange. We talked with our families, and we pretended that we were in Florida (though if I were in Florida, I might want to pretend I was in Mauritania).

Christmas is such a special day for me, and for most of the people here in the Peace Corps with me, that it seemed that any normalcy was an intrusion on our celebration. But here in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania, Christmas is the intrusion, and not a particularly significant one. So how did I celebrate? By hiding in a place where the Islamic Republic became the intrusion, and a more American Christmas could be had.

* For the uninitiated, the Islamic calendar is lunar, so on the Gregorian Calendar, every year the Islamic holidays fall a little bit earlier.
**Also for the uninitiated, the celebration of the celebration following Ramadan was identical

The Road Of (I) Hope (I Get There)

The road that crosses the south of Mauritania is called the Road of Hope. It ends in Nema, an irony that has not been lost on me (I might get T-shirts that advertise that fact). So for the holiday season, it is the Road of Hope that I've traversed to return to Nouakchott, where there's a big Christmas celebration for the Peace Corps volunteers.

There are a few points that any traveler should know about the Road of Hope before trying to tackle it. First, don't. It's not a very good idea. There are occasional mini-dunes, just a drift of sand, that cover a side of the road. It's just part of living in the Sahara, but it also makes driving interesting. The road itself isn't very wide to begin with, just broad enough for two cars, or perhaps two very enthusiastic truck drivers (big ones, used to transport every single commodity that Nema uses). Those drivers aren't squeamish about much of anything. They will pass on a curve, while capping a hill, when the road is particularly narrow. Those are not three options, those are a set of circumstances in which one of my cabs passed. But it isn't as dangerous as it sounds. With two grown men in the front seat and four in the back, it is actually impossible for any of us to move, so no matter how destructive a car crash might be, the passengers will not be propelled from their seats.

Honestly, though, it was a blast. I traveled with Sarah, who is as flexible as I am about travel plans. If you've ever traveled with me, you might be thinking "travel plans? You don't plan." Which is not quite true, but close enough to the mark, and is a shared trait between myself and Sarah. So we never really knew too far in advance where we'd stop next, who we'd stop with, when we'd arrive. But it worked. Very well, in fact. I had a wonderful birthday in Kiffa, where I enjoyed pancakes, chai tea, and Indian curry. I spent two days laying in a hammock and reading. And I arrived safely in Nouakchott in plenty of time for lunch.

So here I am for a week, for the holiday, and for a break. I hope to find the time to write something more than news; there's a lot to say.

The Long Awaited Update

My apologies for the long delay. My sources for the internet have left town. But great news, we now have a Peace Corps bureau in Nema, so I finally have regular internet access! Hopefully, this means more posts, so you'll have an added distraction from more tedious chores at work, like the things on your job description.

The second half of my trip en brousse was as good as, if not better than, the first. I'd established a better sense of what I was doing, both for the mission and for myself, and so I used my time a bit more effectively. For instance, instead of spending the nights hanging out and talking, I hung out and talked to doctors. The difference is subtle, but now I know a bit more about the health needs of the region. And if you like subtle differences, you'll probably also enjoy the other difference. If you figure out what it is, please tell me. Other than talking with medical staff, I pretty much just hung out, helped out, and had a blast.

Oulata was one of the most beautiful places I've seen in Mauritania. It's very old, and the ruins of the long past residences sit just above the rest of the town. On the other side of the village is a massive seasonal watering hole. Hundreds of camels stood in it, inclining their tremendous necks to drink, calling out to one another. From a distance, it looks like what Steven Spielberg was aiming for in Jurassic Park. And above the town, just beyond the ruins, are massive boulders. They provide the perfect vantage point for the panorama of Oulata at night. I sat with Laurence, counting the lights of the town. It only took one hand.

My plan had been to split off from the group, catch a taxi, and go to Aioun to celebrate Thanksgiving with other Peace Corps volunteers. That didn't happen. Instead, I spent Thanksgiving with my friends from Sante Sud. We enjoyed a traditional Thanksgiving chicken, with the traditional Thanksgiving peas and carrots. The group was like a bad ethnic joke. "One year, an American man, a French woman, a Belgian woman, and a Mauritanian man celebrated Thanksgiving in a remote African country." A little too wordy, I think. But if you can think of a good joke to attach to that opener, I'll post it. Probably.

When the entire campaign was done, and when I had spent my final night en brousse showing how strong and fierce Americans are by forgoing a shirt as I slept (the others used sleeping bags more suited to the Himalayas), I found myself back in Nema, richer by three very close friends. Laurence, Auror, and Ismael not only welcomed me for the campaign, they opened their house up to me entirely. I spent a great week with the three of them, hanging out, cooking, and just enjoying the evenings. And then, when Auror and Ismael returned to Nouakchott, I spent the next week or so with Laurence, attending health lessons that she offered (and learning a lot about maternal and child health), and hanging out at Sante Sud, where she was staying. Good times. Sad to say, she left this morning. Back to Montpellier, France, where she's a pediatric nurse when she isn't using her holiday time to save the world. How does that compare to living in a stone house with mud mortar in the far reaches of the Southern Sahara? It doesn't, I should say.

The holidays are coming (my birthday, most importantly), and I'm planning to spend most of them in Nouakchott and St. Louis, Senegal. Hopefully, I can post again before I skip town.