2005-07-30 - 7:51 p.m.

Third entry today

Within a week of being home my feet had already started to heal. The cracks and blisters closed up and recessed. My calluses, which had accounted for 50 % of my foot mass, fell off like the sores on a leper touched by the hand of Christ. By the end of my visit home I could easily have found employment as a foot model for JC Penny’s catalogue, or some other classy publication of the like. I’ve been back a month now and I’m paying for the brief tenderness my tootsies were given. Blisters cover my feet where calluses would have formerly protected. At night my feet throb from the constant drying of this vacuum sealed environment in which I am living. I’ve tried soaking them and covering them in moisturizer, but both only provide temporary relief. It’s a paradox. If I cut off the calluses I get blisters. If I leave them my feet throb when they dry up. Help me Dr. Scholl!!

Thankfully enough, I’d have to say my feet are far and away the hardest hit by the return to Mauritania. As I predicted I had to go through a brief projectile vomiting episode as my body readjusted to the increase in bacterial content of my meals. Other than that it feels like home. I have to admit I had my doubts on the plane ride over. On the flight from Paris I glanced out the window several times after we passed the Morrocan border. Looking at the vast wasteland below I said to myself “Holy crap, I’ve actually been living there.” Fear mounted as I exited the cool air-conditioned cabin to face the harsh desert winds of Nouakchott. As the sweat began to pour down my body I smiled. “This isn’t so bad.” In the terminal I was prepared for the onslaught of Mauritanians trying to “help” me with my baggage. You may remember my incident with these people my first day in country. They take your bags offering to help you get them to your car, posing as airport staff. Once in hand they hold them for ransom until you fork over enough Ougiyas to get them to let go of your suitcase. I had an overabundance of luggage coming into country this time. Loaded down like a pack mule, I was still able to plow through the line of bandits, brandishing my Hassanya for “Out of my way, may God shorten your life!” I had to walk 6 blocks with my bags bearing down on me to avoid the scandalous taxi men that charge 30 times the normal fare (No exaggeration, actually 30 times).

The next day I travelled down to Boghe for the girls camp (a story I will write about in another entry). It was a great trip. I am very glad to have done it before returning to site. It allowed me to gradually readjust to the country instead of taking a sudden plunge. It also kept me busy during the process, so by the end it didn’t sting so badly. I’m back in Atar now, getting over a cold Alison passed on to me (we eat at the same families and therefore eat from the same bowl). I’m trying to stay busy and find work while most of the town is out on brousse (in the small isolated desert towns) celebrating the Getna (the date harvest). I’ve started an enormous Moringa plantation at the hospital. I am really excited because the director said I can plant as many trees as I want, and they are sure of getting watered by the full time gardener who is very enthusiastic about helping me. I have to dig all of the holes myself, so I’m back at grass roots manual labour. My hands are starting to look as bad as my feet, but I love the work. It’s going to be great to use this as a reference next year. Whenever I do presentations on Moringa I can just tell people to go look at the ones I planted at the hospital.

So I’ve been here for a year now. What do I have to show for it? Well I already talked about my feet. I can also assume I probably have a couple of hitchhikers taking residence in my lower colon. Besides that? Well I’ve become disillusioned, less idealistic and more cynical. I think I may have been on that path before I got here though, so I can only credit Mauritania with speeding up the process. My French is better and I’ve learned a new language that is only useful in this small isolated corner of the world (I guess it will be fun to break out at cocktail parties). I know a hell of a lot about Islam. Whether at times I wanted to or not, there is no escaping it here. It should come in handy on returning to the post 9/11 blow all the towlheads up US of A(I told you I was cynical). I have learned a lot about people. Money doesn’t create happiness. I have lived with some of the happiest people in the world, who earn as much in one month as we do in one day. No matter what color your skin is or who you do or do not call God, we are pretty much all the same. We just want to eat 3 meals a day, be with people we love and who love us and have some sort of assurance that everything’s going to be ok. It is when we get into stupid arguments over differences in opinion that the proverbial poo hits the fan. Whether God had a son named Jesus, God didn’t have a son named Jesus, or God had a prophet named Jesus, I would think in all cases he wouldn’t want us to start killing each other to find out which one was right. I think he stated pretty early on that killing really wasn’t his bag. Oh, I forgot to mention, I can also correctly wipe my butt with my hand.

So what words of wisdom do I have to pass on? One very important thing: whenever you are house hunting and you think you’ve found that oh so perfect domicile, always always ALWAYS check to make sure there are no goats living next door. I mean REALLY check. Just because they aren’t there when you move in, doesn’t mean they won’t be come October. So ask, “Is that empty lot next door used for storage, or do the neighbours sometimes keep goats?” They are filthy stinky animals that have no sense but to make as much noise as possible at the most inopportune times and to destroy every thing within their power. I hate goats. Didn’t see that one coming a year ago.

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