i´ve left the rim, so the fatou thing doesn´t really apply anymore. i´m also fed up with livejournal. if, for whatever reason, you would like to keep tabs on what i´m doing post- peace corps, here´s my new one:   http://nilcia.blogspot.com

aaaaywa-

It’s 7:30 in the morning and I’m knocking on my neighbor’s door, getting ready to have the same conversation I’ve already had five times this week.
“There’s no water.”
The girl’s head is poking over the door, all chubby face and vacant eyes.
“Yes. There’s no water.”
She looks back over her shoulder.
“Is the pump on?” I push. The day before yesterday she ( Read more... )

Many ministries in the Mauritanian government have an open-door policy. The door is literally open. Last Wednesday I was in a meeting with a director of programs at the women’s ministry when an old man in a dirty boubou walked into the small office and held out his hand, mumbling. Rooting through my purse for change, I took a cue from the other ( Read more... )

Seven hours north of the capital, our car had slowed and stopped when a woman carrying a plate of snails walked past the window. Black and slimy and as big as my fist, they were for sale, of course. So was everything in the parade going past our car: steamed meat dumplings wrapped in leaves, meat pies, bananas and peeled oranges cut at the top ( Read more... )

Today is Election Day, and from where I am sitting, the streets look empty. Even the headquarters of RFD, the party of one of the frontrunners, looks deserted. Coming from America, where every vote is considered up for grabs until it is cast, this isn’t what I expected. Campaigning officially ended a day or two ago, and all that’s left of the last ( Read more... )

Arranging buses to ferry 80 something people to Dakar was meant to ease travel frustrations. Generally it works well because we can put all of our passport info together ahead of time to cut down on the time at the border crossing, plus time haggling over taxi prices, etc. This year we had a giant bus and a smaller, 30-seat one. Everything started ( Read more... )

In a small, barely furnished first-floor apartment in southern Pennsylvania, my aunt is watching daytime television with her neighbor down the hall. They are friends, but they’ve never spoken to each other in a language both understand ( Read more... )

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Ten minutes after the conclusion of Sunday’s World Cup final, Mauritanians piled into cars could be seen speeding down Nouakchott streets, mulafas in the wind, celebrating the fact that someone had won. Sort of like a contingent of homescoolers getting excited about a homecoming football game in a neighboring state. Where is the connection ? At ( Read more... )

My shoe broke this afternoon and I’m considering giving it a Mauritanian farewell by taking it out and leaving it in the street. That is where broken shoes go. Snapped heels and ripped soles, bleached by sun and half-eaten by a goat. For all the single shoes I see I would expect to see more single-shoed people, hopping around, asking for help or ( Read more... )