One day in September 1980, my mother suffered a terrible headache (akin to a malarial symptom.) My father hoisted her upon his manly shoulders and carried her to the nearest oasis. There, the delightful sight of camels and the taste of mostly-potable water (no guinea worms, but a smattering of schisto) gave my mother but brief reprieve from the pain, as I soon sprang forth from her cranium, fully clothed and scintillating in my beauty. Upon beholding my glorious figure, my father let out a horrid, cacophonous whine of jealousy, which is even today echoed by Moor "music." Now, I undergo my 39 Labors (each Labor constituting one month in Peace Corps), at the end of which I shall have proven myself as both a Woman and a Demi-God and be fit to live in the ambrosia-soaked fields of the US! That is, unless I am again called to Save Mankind through the Butchering of Local Language and Customs and the Self-Righteousness of Americans. (For highlights of my Labors, see below.)