2005-09-28 - 4:08 p.m.

A monkey tied to a tree, sounds crazy no? But here, in our little village of Gouraye, you might say that each one of us is like a monkey tied to a tree. Trying to scratch out a simple fissure in the line that holds us to captivity. You may ask how did we get tied to the tree in the first place. I can tell you…I don’t know. But I can assure you there is a purpose for the rope. It keeps us from stealing food from neighboring compounds. You may ask how do we keep our sanity. That I can tell you in one word, destruction!

So to make a long story short, I’m in Selibaby right now for a training on Céréamine with Brock. I can’t remember if I’ve written about it yet (probably not since I haven’t written in almost two months), but if it is a success in the Adrar you will all be hearing much more about it in the future. Anyway, the actual training isn’t for a few days. In the mean time I’ve been hanging out with the Selibaby crew. I just got back from a three day trip to Gouraye. I should actually correct that right now before I get going on the long drawn out story, I only actually spent a day and a half in Gouraye. Gouraye is a town 45km to the South on the Senegal border. Brock suggested we go there for a soccer tournament organized by Suzanne’s host dad. I agreed, and Brock, Suzanne and I headed out around four O’clock in the afternoon. Brock’s host dad had warned him that because of the storms the previous two nights we might have trouble getting to our destination. He laughed it off, and I, with some hesitation, loaded into the back of our pick-up.

The road on the way down was beautiful. This was the Africa I had longed for, green as far as the eye could see, thousands of birds chirping away, Baobab trees speckled across the landscape. Suzanne got the privilege of riding up front, and Brock and I stood up in back, bending our knees as we careened and turned over the myriad of slumps, puddles, bends and fallen tree branches. We took several wrong turns that ended in ephemeral streams (heretofore called marigots). We then had to back track, or simply off road to an adjacent path that would lead to a more shallow part of the marigot. We passed through several small villages which were the quintessential national geographic small African cow herding towns. Brock told me along the way that there were three main marigots that we had to worry about crossing. The first of which we passed about 20 minutes into the trip. Upon arrival the car driver sent one of the other men in the truck out as a human dip stick. Initially moving in with his pant legs rolled up, he had to return once and plunge in with only his skimpies. After thorough inspection he gave us the ok to go forward. The water was almost as high as the truck bed, but nothing leaked in. The second big marigot we reached after an hour of route. The area around us was over grown with trees, giving a sense of dense jungle like forest. The entire path in front of us was flooded with water. We sent our dipstick in for closer inspection. This time he immediately took off his pants. Not 15 paces in he took his shirt off. Fifteen more and he was in up to his head. No go ahead this time, we had to head back. I was a bit disappointed, but oh well, at least we would be sure to make it to the Céréamine training on time.
“We’re going to stop for the night in that village we just passed.” I looked at Suzanne’s dad in disbelief.
“Which one? That one we passed 20 minutes back?”
“No, the one we just went through.” I was a bit confused. I hadn’t remembered passing through any village in quite some time, but was sure I must have missed something. We turned the truck around and not 5 minutes away was our village. That is, if three mud huts can be called a village. As is the Mauritanian style, we showed up with some 10+ people and made ourselves at home as if we had known the residents all our lives. They quickly offered us water from their cannerie. I stood in line with the others. I knew the water would be below standard sanitary levels, but I was willing to risk it. Between us we had two half empty Nalgene’s (about a liter). I had to get water where it was available if we weren’t going anywhere till morning. Suzanne’s host brother stopped me as I took the water cup to my lips.
“You can’t drink that, it is from the Marigot.” I looked down at what I was about to drink and realized he was right. This wasn’t well water. It was straight from the flooded stream, swimming with untold numbers of bacteria amoebas and parasites. I put the cup down dejectedly and sat under the sun shade with Brock and Suzanne. They let me have a sip of their water, reminding me we had to conserve.
“How about Hearts,” Suzanne asked. Both avid card players, Brock and I consented. Now, I like to think of myself as being a better than average hearts player. Brock likes to boast about his playing, but until that point I had never seen him as a rival. My downfall was the consistent match play in the days leading up to our trip. They had both discovered my strategy and were reacting accordingly. I lost almost every game that night. Once the sun went down, there was nothing left to do, but set up for bed. We put up two mosquito nets for the three of us, and offered up the third to the rest of our group. Initially we had only a plastic mat to keep us off the hard ground, but before bed the family we were staying with gave us a thick blanket to use as a cushion. Initially we refused, but they insisted, saying they wouldn’t be able to sleep if we didn’t use it. We were woken up around 10 to eat dinner, a plate of sheep with crushed up animal crackers spread over it. Not the most appetizing meal I’ve had here, but I swallowed down a few bites, knowing we had been fit into the budget when the sheep was purchased.

I slept surprisingly well that night on the hard ground. In the morning we weren’t up more than 30 minutes when Suzanne asked if we wanted to play hearts. Again, Brock and I agreed. What followed was a Hearts Tournament to top all others. From 6 a.m. till 5 p.m. we played on, only pausing to eat lunch and drink the milk that was brought to us every 30 minutes or so. Not having come from a contaminated stream, I drank the milk since water had been depleted the previous evening. I changed my strategy more times than I thought possible that day. I passed every suit and even shot the moon 4 times. By the time we finally loaded into the truck, we were all drained. The tournament had taken it out of us, and we were ready to ride the rest of the way to Gouraye in peace. We had waited almost 24 hours for the marigot to go down. Now, surely, we could cross.

Maybe, not so surely. Upon arriving at the marigot, the water had only gone down about a foot. Still, as far as we could see there was water. Now, I had already made it clear to Brock and Suzanne that if it came down to crossing the stream on foot I was not interested. Many of you may not be familiar with Schistosomiasis, but in brief it comes from swimming in stagnant waters and results in you peeing blood for the rest of your life. Of course Brock, being the health volunteer, was the first to jump in. Not for any true purpose mind you other than to cool off. He, along with our human dip stick, trudged forward while the rest of us waited behind. Some 30 minutes later they all returned. The driver refused to go forward. I had an initial sigh of relief, thinking this meant a trip back to Selibaby. I was wrong. The group would continue on crossing the water on foot. The truck would return to the nearby “village” for another evening and cross in the morning. My options were to get in the water or go back and drink it. I chose the former.

One thing I can say, it was refreshing. I carried my bag on my head as the waters got up to chin level. We marched on for some 30 minutes. In the end Brock and I, now thoroughly contaminated with whatever enumerable parasites lived in the water, jumped back in for a recreational swim. After, we marched over hill and dale. The landscape was like something out of a Peace Corps brochure, rolling savanna with spotted trees, and a lone dirt path to guide our way. It took us 2 hours of marching to reach the nearest village with cell phone reception. They also had well water which we all drank greedily. Night fell soon after and the three of us passed out within 20 minutes of arrival. They woke us up around ten O’clock to eat dinner (again meat and crackers). After we had to march on further to meat the truck waiting for us on the opposite side of town. We stumbled through puddles and weaved a labyrinth of mud brick buildings.

At the end of our trip we loaded into the back of a standard 4 wheel drive pick up, and were thrashed around for 20 more minutes until we finally reached our destination. The next few days we spent with Mike T, the new volunteer in Gouraye. He is living at his the house of the previous volunteer who left him not only a monkey tied to a tree, but a sick horse that weighs less than I do. Since I am running out of steam and internet time, I will suffice it to say we were present for the soccer tournament, I got sick and returned the day after without any notable problems.

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