My New Site

December 22, 2009

I’ve only been in my new site for a week, but it’s everything I could have ever wanted from a rural, African village and more. It comes fully stocked with an array of poultry and livestock. The inhabitants are welcoming and excited to host. I have wonderful neighbors who have all but adopted me. The village chief comes and greets me every morning. I’ve been offered more food than I could ever eat. Not to mention, the kids are even generally well behaved. (A herd of at least twenty children follow my every step, but when I turn around and stare them down with my “crazy anasara eye,” they disburse. I made on little girl cry, just by looking at her.)

This new post, to be sure, is far more “bush” than my old one. Gotheye (my old post) had more than 7,000 people living, while my new village barely reaches 1,000. With the larger population came a number of luxuries I never fully appreciated before. First, electricity. Electricity vastly improves one’s quality of life. Consider the following: electric fans, cell phone charging, lights (being able to see which bugs are in your house at night), refrigeration, cold water, dairy products, cold soda, unlimited laptop time (including my weekly movie night).

Second, commerce… In Gotheye I could get just about anything I need any day of the week. There was always some kind of produce for sale, and I could buy dinner from street vendors every night. Gotheye’s weekly market was huge, taking up an area of roughly four football fields. My new town…has a market…at which…things are sold…but beyond fried dough and old nails, there isn’t much there. The whole affair could easily fit inside my father’s living room—which I admit is a big living room, but the comparison holds. When it’s not market day, there is essentially nothing for sale. I couldn’t even buy phone credit until I walked the four kilometers to the neighboring town’s market. Some women sell things (like fried dough) out of the houses, but this new post has only two real shops—which are usually closed.

Third, transportation. I now have a bike! But my regional capital is 37 kilometers away, so I’m not bold enough to try and bike there yet. Cars do go from my town into the big city, but they only leave on certain days, early in the morning. Otherwise, only motorcycles are available, which I’m not allowed to ride. (After seeing some accidents here, I think that’s a good rule. Thank you Peace Corps.)

Forth…a functioning mayors office? Similar to Gotheye, at my new post I am supposed to work with the mayor’s to develop the municipality. However, after my first visit to the mayor’s office here, I can see there is going to be very little similar about my work. Yes, it’s true the staff at the Gotheye office spent a great deal of time making coffee and playing solitaire. But they came to work! There were (two) computers and a broken photocopier and functional chairs and desks and a filing cabinet and tables and electricity and people. My new mayor’s office has a much more…abandon feel to it. Now, this is no one’s fault. The new commune I am working for just doesn’t have the money to pay office staff—so many positions are unfilled and the work goes undone. Needless to say, however, the kinds of projects I was envisioning have changed a great deal.

Fifth, a large social scene—not that I expect to go out dancing a lot, but in a month or so, I expect I will know everyone in my village. They all already know me. The tricky part about living in a small village is collectively they all vividly remember the past volunteers. Really, they just remember one volunteer, Nadia. Nadia was an agriculture volunteer who was here years and years ago, but my villagers still confuse me with her. Even after establishing the fact I am in fact a different person, everyone gets really confused when I deviate from the path Nadia beat. They want to know if I’m going to plant peanuts and a garden. They want to know why I don’t go running every morning, why I don’t wear pants, why my boyfriend hasn’t come to visit, why I don’t have a cat, why I don’t ride my bike to Dosso, why I don’t know how to make the millet porridge they eat every night—all because Nadia knew it or did it or said it. Of course the next volunteer will have to deal with an endless stream of questions about Hamsatou (me). It’s just the nature of the beast.

But, even without all the luxury (as I said before) I couldn’t be happier with my new post. My days are always busy and filled with laughter. My days in Gotheye were always busy, but with such a big town, there was no way I would ever get to know everyone. Here, I feel like I am really becoming a part of something. Here are some of my favorite things about my new post:

1. The little neighbor kid who does a face plant before eating a mouthful of dirt.
2. The chorus of donkeys that howl like dogs every morning.
3. They mayor’s eight-year-old kid who has taken it upon himself to be my personal tour guide.
4. My huge, super fancy shade hanger.
5. The fact that I am always invited to someone’s house for dinner.
6. The fact that my villagers love my guitar, and love to hear me play it.
7. The old woman who scares the children away from my concession every time they try and spy on me.
8. The water pump less than 100 yards from my house (I get to carry my own water now).
9. The plethora of shrubbery and trees.
10. The ten old women who insist I call them, “Mom.”

Even better, my villagers give me all sorts of treats as I wander from house to house to chat.

The extra three months of language practice I got while in Gotheye have made it noticeable easier to communicate. I have only been accused of not speaking Zarma once or twice and am able to understand what’s going on around me. One thing I have discovered in my discussions is that most people have no idea why I am here. They remember Nadia vividly, but when I ask if they remember the work she did…things get foggy. “Oh yes, she planted a garden,” is a response I get a lot. Consequently, I’ve devoted a lot of conversation to self-promotion. I make lots of awkward, long-winded speeches try to emphasize I have come to work for the village, but I will need their help to accomplish anything. People nod faithfully and tell me they understand, but the next day I will hear them tell their friends I’ve come to learn Zarma or plant a garden.

At the very least, the next two years will be interesting.

Right now I am sitting in the Dosso hostel, listening to Christmas music and eating cookie for lunch. Considering it’s about 100 degrees out, it doesn’t really feel like Christmas. Nevertheless, it seems some holiday spirit has even managed to reach the desert. After leaving my phone in a cab, the driver brought it back to me rather than selling it. It sounds small, but for Niger it was pretty remarkable. So…I wish you all a happy Soliti-Christma-Hana-Kwanzaka. May your days be as jolly as a well fed eight-year-old and as bright as the African sun.

Pictures of Gotheye

If you didn't already know:

On Saturday, November 14, heavily armed individuals attempted to kidnap American Embassy employees in Tahoua. The Embassy once again strongly urges U.S. citizens to exercise caution and remain vigilant. The Embassy restrictions on the travel of U.S. Government employees and official visitors have been amended to prohibit official travel outside of Niamey until further notice.

So it figures that as I got around to posting pictures of my house, I would be asked to move sites for security reasons. I thought I would put these up anyway.

And these are some shots of millet for sale at the market/ the boats people take to market.

November 14, 2009


Ramatou’s Baby

So, it’s been a while since I’ve taken the time to sit down and write—more than a month, but wow, it seems like that poop shower was just yesterday…time is really flying. I posted my last blog entry the end of October, when I was in Niamey for my first team meeting. During this visit, I also had the chance to gorge myself on pizza, milkshakes, and Internet time. For those who don’t already know, the American Recreation Center just got wireless, which (when it’s working) is fast enough to allow me to Skype people and EVEN video chat. I swam, I napped, I snacked, I did laundry. There was also a Halloween party for volunteers. I was really excited at the prospect of costumes, but, in true Katie form, I ended up going to bed early and slept through it. Then, before I knew it, I was back in village.

A few days before my trip to Niamey, my neighbor, Ramatou, gave birth to her first child. Ramatou works at the local school with her husband, and is one of my favorite people in the village. She’s a very pretty, petite, seemingly quiet woman, but underneath all that class she is wonderfully sassy. Like most schoolteachers in Niger, she and her husband were forced to move to find work, so they live away from the rest of their family. Like me, they are renting a mud house from my new adoptive father, Cemogo.

Ramatou is unlike a lot of Nigeriens in that she is very educated, speaks perfect French and a little English. I’m not clear about what her father does for work, but I know he went to school in Germany. As a consequence of this privileged upbringing, Ramatou developed a unique perspective on life in Niger. For example, she told me that she does not support polygamy and that she would never let her husband become her boss. (Did I ever mention that men are legally able to have up to four wives in Niger?) Ramatou was also the first person in my concession to invite me to dinner and really make an effort to make me feel welcome. She’s absolutely fantastic. Her only flaw is—for some unknown reason—she likes to inform me when I am perspiring. I’m not sure why she feels compelled to report this fact to me, but sure enough, every time she sees me it’s: “Greetings Hamsatou, how was your sleep? (pause) You are sweating.” But, Ramatou wins back all lost “cool points” for putting up with being two-and-a-half-weeks overdue during a month of 110-degree heat in a land where there is no AC.

Watching Ramatou haul her big pregnant belly around made me realize giving birth in a rural, third-world village is not something I ever want to do. While there is a maternity ward at the loktoro kwaara (doctor’s hut), my village does not have a lot of emergency care available should something go wrong. Really, Ramatou was lucky even to have the maternity ward available considering more than 70% of Nigerien women give birth at home. I was impressed to learn most women here continue to pound millet, scrub pots, sweep, etc. through the early stages of labor. Not only does this distract the women from the discomfort, but they claim it also helps the labor progress. In the final stages of delivery, a woman will go into her hut and give birth while squatting or standing up. This position actually makes for an easier delivery considering a woman’s anatomy. And, to top it all off, Nigerien women make every effort not to cry out or show the pain she is feeling during delivery. No one cries here, except children and anasara volunteers.

Ramatou ended up going into labor in the middle of the night, so I missed all the action. Thanks be to Allah, there were no difficulties with her pregnancy and a healthy baby boy was brought into the world. I went to visit her at the maternity ward the next day. The room where she had given birth had a floor, a window and two beds, but was really not much more than the mud house I live in. Ramatou looked worn out, but relieved not to be pregnant anymore. The baby, who would receive his name five days later during a “showing ceremony,” was in the arms of another older woman who was spooning broth into his mouth. I learned during PST feeding a baby anything but breast milk during the first months (or something) of life is bad, so red flags shot up the minute I saw the baby eating broth.

Misinformation, superstition, and unhealthy traditions are an unfortunate part of pregnancy and childcare in Niger. For example, many women believe that breast milk isn’t as good for their babies as formula or regular food. As a consequence, mothers sometimes give their children water instead of milk, which—of course—is rarely clean. Many Nigeriens also believe that the first breast milk a woman produces after giving birth contains bad juju, so often a mother won’t feed her baby the colostrum—breast milk that contains vital antibodies. Then, remember one in four Nigerien children die before they turn five.

I wanted to ask Ramatou why she wasn’t nursing the baby, but something stopped me. I think I didn’t want to seem like a know-it-all anasara—especially because I know so little about pregnancy. Peace Corps staff emphasized many times during our training that we, as Americans, have a large body of knowledge in so many subjects where we do not consider ourselves to be informed. In other words, a lot of the time, we don’t recognize the basic knowledge we hold as valuable because everyone we know, knows it too. For example, unless I got an MBA, I would not feel competent enough to educate people about business strategy. But, after going to public high school and even just having a job in the U.S. I really do have more business knowledge than a lot of business owners here. Now, I’m not saying that I could do a better job selling camels than a Tuareg camel herder; but I do understand the concepts of supply and demand, cost, markup, revenue, and profit whereas they may not. (Less than 20% of Nigeriens are even literate.) The same goes for basic healthcare. I’m not a doctor, but I do know it is not a good idea to let a newborn baby drink Niger River water. Unfortunately, many mothers here do not know that. Ramatou, because of her economic means, represents a special case…and I think that may be why I hesitated to correct her childcare practices. I figured she knows what she was doing. Perhaps I should have said something, but either way, her child is still in good health.

I was in Niamey when Ramatou and her husband hosted the baby-naming/showing ceremony, but since women give birth rather often here, I have already been to quite a few. Here’s how it happens. The family slaughters either a goat or a sheep to make a fancy stew. Everyone shows up in the morning and give their congratulations to the parents. Most people bring soap or money as a gift. All the men sit outside, drink tea, and eat dates. All the women sit inside with the baby and gossip, while preparing biblical amounts of rice for lunch (or koranical amounts, I guess). At some point the maribou, a Muslim holy man, arrives to bless and name the baby. In the old days, the maribou would actually pick the name, but nowadays the father usually makes a “suggestion.” Then everyone eats lunch. In my personal experience lunch is usually a big shitshow. Either there isn’t enough, or people fight over the leftovers. All the women bicker about the cooking of the rice and the most strategic way to serve it. In my opinion, these ceremonies are actually kind of intense. The women are always fired up and yelling over one another. And, when it comes to the cooking, I have seen women get violent with each other more than once. Before the party is over, everyone gets a plastic bag of punch to take home (WARNING: THIS PUNCH IS MADE WITH RIVER WATER). All in all—it’s a fun day.

I was really sad to have missed Ramatou’s baby’s ceremony, especially since it was her first child, but Allah did not will me to be there. When I got back, she (among others) was upset with me, but I won her back over with some fancy soap and a bib I bought for Ousman—her baby had a name now. She’s doing great as a new mom too. Granted, she does have a hired nurse to help her out, but I wouldn’t feel ready to raise a child even with an army of Mary Poppinses.


My Own, Personal Magic Potion

The first week I was back from Niamey, I was very busy with visiting all my friends, etc. It was also that week another volunteer’s parents came to visit, so the entire cluster of volunteers got together at the hostel in my village to cook dinner. Her parents were having a surprisingly pleasant visit, in spite of the 110-degree heat and squat toilets. To celebrate their arrival, the volunteer’s village had a big party and killed a sheep. Her father’s short stay in my town (they just spent one night at the hostel) caused quite a stir. For at least three days afterwards, my villagers kept asking me who the anasara bambata (enormous white person) was. Keeping in mind Nigeriens equate largeness with both wealth and importance, it’s no wonder everyone was so excited by the visit of this obviously very important gentleman.

After her parents left, I began to get back into my routine; I was tragically behind on visiting people, so that was my first priority. One of the people I was most eager to see was my new friend, Haoua (How-wa). (I realize that I’ve mentioned many Haouas and Ramatous before. I will do my best to make it clear whom I am referring to, but Nigeriens generally recycle the same 30 names[1] for boys and 30 more for girls[2].) Anyway, this particular Haoua is the younger sister of my adoptive father. She lives in another house, not far from mine, with her husband, Hassan. When I first wandered in to her concession (yard), I actually had no idea she was “related” to me. I was just exploring a new part of town and saw friendly-looking group of people. Haoua, however, recognized me immediately and was disappointed I didn’t know who she was. I launched into my usual routine about how I have a terrible memory and have trouble remembering peoples’ names, especially Nigerien names—because they are so strange. I then asked if I could sit and chat. At this, Haoua forgave me, and set about the business of trying to get me to eat something.

Haoua’s husband Hassan was also delighted by my visit and started chatting me up. As a young solider, Hassan had traveled all over Niger. He knew all about the rebels up north, and the bandits out west. He had also spent time in Nigeria and Ghana, and so spoke some (very broken) English.

There was another gentleman, Moussa, sitting with the group who was excited I had come to chat. I had seen him around town and got the sense from the way Haoua and Hassan talked to him, he was the annoying friend, who isn’t actually your friend, always talks, and never leaves. True to his nature, Moussa cut off my conversation with Hassan to inform me he had an anasara friend. I must not have given him enough of a reaction, because he immediately got up to retrieve photographic evidence of this friendship. When he came back he handed two or three pictures to me to inspect. I was surprised to see the photos were of a Christian priest baptizing Moussa in the Niger River—especially considering that Niger is 99% Muslim. I asked Moussa how long he had been a Christian, but he didn’t answer in apparent confusion. I explained to him the priest had baptized him to wash away all his sins, something most devout Christians do as a kind of rite of passage. Moussa shook his head and said that the priest in the photo had just wanted to give him a bath (as a gesture of friendship?). I didn’t see the need to clarify the matter as I’m sure both the priest and Moussa were perfectly happy believing their version of what happened. I, however, took a moment to appreciate how this incident contributed to the bizarreness of anasaras in the eyes of my villagers.

Haoua, who was obviously irritated Moussa was hogging the anasara’s attention, started telling me about Hassan’s work. I was little skeptical when she told me he worked as a doctor, since I hadn’t seen him around the loktoro kwaara. I asked where he studied medicine, and it became obvious I was missing some key point in the conversation. To help me understand, Hassan said he would show me, then led me into the extra house next door to their house. Inside it was dark and the air was thick with incense, but I could still see there were two rooms. The first was empty except for a couple mats on the dirt floor. The back room, however, was overwhelmed with a collection of bottles and strange skins, hats, and robes hanging on the walls. Seeing this, I understood—Hassan was a traditional healer, or “black doctor” in Zarma.

Hassan started unwrapping various pouches and showing me what was inside. Each powder he showed me was completely undistinguishable from the next in my eyes, but he assured me they all had different purposes. This one is for a headache, the next for stomach issues, the next to aid conception, or to help a person who had be possessed by a ganji (evil spirit). I was mesmerized by the scene in front of me, but Hassan drew my attention seven cockleshells in his hand. He told me, with these shells, he could read Allah’s will. He then began to demonstrate for me by tossing the shells into the sand and interpreting their placement. After a few throws, he asked his wife, Haoua, to take over.

I was a little skeptical of my future, according to Hassan and Haoua. During Hassan’s first throw he had predicted things that were not exactly radical. For example, he told me I would get a call from America and that one of my Peace Corps friends would get sick—both of which happen fairly often for a PCV. Hassan also predicted I would teach him English, which seemed an interesting thing for Allah to will.

Haoua’s spent more time with me, but her predictions were much more vague. She told me I should sacrifice sugar and dates by giving them to children around town. If I did this, she told me, I would ma kaani gumo gumo, which literally translates as “feel happy a lot.” In the midst of many other predictions, the shells also revealed to Haoua that Allah willed me to participate in another ceremony in order to feel even happier. She explained the ceremony to me and asked if I would be willing come back the next day to do it.

As I mentioned mere paragraphs ago, Niger is officially 99% Muslim. There are, however, certain areas of the country where some continue to practice the same animist ceremonies as their ancestors. My village is in one of these areas. Of course, all remnants of traditional culture exist only under the guise of having a Koranic origin. Since more than 80% of Nigeriens are illiterate, very few people have ever actually read the Koran. Consequently a great deal of “Muslimism” in this country isn’t actually Muslim, but rather tradition, superstition, or rumor. Some do recognize animist traditions as blasphemy, creating tension between various members of the community. For this reason, I was a little apprehensive to participate in the ceremony. I didn’t want to align myself with a controversial group or have my villagers label me as anti-Muslim. I was even more apprehensive when Haoua instructed me not to tell anyone about the ceremony. It is your secret, she told me. (She didn’t say anything about blog posts.)

But how could I pass up such an experience? How many times in my life was I going to have the chance to participate in a traditional African ceremony? After hearing what the ceremony entailed, I decided it seemed private enough and I agreed. Not to mention Haoua promised participating would endow me with strength, make everyone like me, and make all my dreams come true. How can you turn down an offer like that?

An afternoon later that week, I walked back to Haoua’s with a bucket with a lid and small coins as an offering—things she had told me I would need. When I arrived only Hassan and Haoua were home. They brought me into the hut where Hassan works and told me to sit with my bucket in front of me. Hassan and Haoua sat too, so that the three of us formed a triangle. Hassan began by pouring a few liters of river water into my bucket while chanting “in the name of Allah” in Arabic, bismilla. He then added pinches and dashes of four or five different colored powders, while chanting something in Songhai. He finished the potion by spraying a generous amount of cheap perfume.

When the potion was ready, both Hassan and Haoua chanted for two or three minutes while making several synchronized gestures. I tried to follow along, but really had no idea what was happening. Haoua, then, instructed me to place the pointer finger of my right hand on the rim of the bucket, and they both did the same. There was more chanting, then Hassan turned to me and told me to tell the bucket what I wanted. I was so flustered, I couldn’t thing of anything to say. I hadn’t understood I was actually going to have to do something for the ceremony. Plus, I had no idea how to explain all my hopes and dreams in Zarma.

Luckily, Hassan gave me the okay to do this step in English—so I wasn’t limited by my Zarma vocabulary and didn’t have to censor myself . I leaned forward and told my magic potion exactly what I wanted out of life. And what did I ask for? I guess that’s between me and Allah. When I was done, Hassan said a few more words conclude the ceremony, then put the lid on my bucket. He and Haoua were both beaming at me. I got the sense they were both excited I had agree to participate, actually shown up, and that the ceremony had been such a success. I gave Hassan a 500 CFA as a gift, while thanking him profusely for taking the time to make all my dreams come true. Then, Haoua led me outside and instructed me to go home and bathe in the potion.

And I did.

The experience was totally unreal to me. The whole time I kept thinking, I chose such a strange life, how lucky am I? I found out later that I was suppose to repeat the process four times, but I only managed to go back once more before all parties forgot the undertaking. So my dreams will at least half come true.


The Rest of My Life in Village

Besides going to naming ceremonies and brewing magic potions, I have been continuing with my little routine.

Work at the mayor’s office is still not really work at all. I am teaching the Etat-Civil how to use Excel and learning an impressive vocabulary of swear words thanks to Ramatou the secretary at the mayor’s (not the same Ramatou as my neighbor who gave birth or my homestay mother). One morning at the mayor’s, I had a young, educated gentleman approach me and asked me all about Peace Corps and what I wanted to do for the next two years. After I got done explaining why I had been sent to work her, he asked if I would want to help create a library in my village. I love the idea of acting as a support to project villagers already want, rather than coming up with projects and trying to get them involved. Thus, I was really excited this man had sought me out to tell me about this idea. I wanted to help and perhaps I will have the chance. However I still won’t begin doing projects until February. And even when I do start, building a library would be an enormous undertaking. This thought made me hesitant to commit to anything. I told him I would help him as much as I could, if Allah agreed. A few days later, I found out this guy was wrong when he told me there was no library nearby. My village already has a library—so my work here is done.

This same gentleman—a schoolteacher—also asked me to teach him and some of his colleagues English (as so many Nigeriens do). This guy was different though; he was clearly very educated and spoke pretty good English already. So, I told him that if he got a group together, and picked a meeting time, I would come and facilitate a conversation. Nothing has started yet, but I think an English club would be a great non-project to occupy me until February. My new friend (who’s name I can’t remember) also promised to help me with my Zarma, so all in all, I was very glad to have met him.

I’ve actually met a lot of interesting, helpful people while just sitting around the mayor’s. There are tons of NGO workers, village chiefs, businessmen, commune council members, farmers, travelers, and just straight up big shots rolling through. I even met a reporter for the UN, but he disappeared before we got the chance to talk. Another morning, mid-nose pick, a young blonde woman came in the door of my “office.”

Like all Nigeriens, I am now a shameless nose-picker. Even though I do it in front of my villagers without restraint, I was rather embarrassed to have this stylish young woman see me with my finger up my nose. Also, after I spend more a week in my village, I am no longer able to interact normally with non-villagers—I find it overwhelming. City folk/my American peers do not tolerate certain behaviors that are normal in the bush, nose-picking being one of them, not washing my hair or blaming my flakiness on Allah’s will are others. ANYWAY, in light of all this, I was very flustered at the arrival of this new visitor and was unable to interact normally. I hid in my book. In spite of my awkwardness, my supervisor insisted I accompany Claude (from Lichtenstein, but working for German aid) as she visited one of the women’s groups the German government was funding.

Claude’s chauffer drove the two of use, plus Claude’s translator, to a field outside of town. As we approached, I recognized several of the women waiting as members of the main women’s group in town, and was delighted they remembered me. There were only four of five members there. Claude seemed disappointed by the turn out, but her translator assured her more people would show up. She was also a bit disheartened that there didn’t seem to be much growing in the fields, but her translator explained to her we were in between growing seasons. This was all an overly optimistic translation of the situation. One of the women had told me there were actually sweet potatoes growing in the field in front of us, but no one was working because it was too hot. Even so, I didn’t correct the translator.

Claude sat down to ask the women’s group some questions about their work, while her translator relayed everything back and forth between Zarma and French. I could understand most of the Zarma, but only a little of the French, so I asked Claude (who speaks English) for the Reader’s Digest version after everything was done. She told me she was just trying to see if the group had adopted any of the innovative farming practices the German funding had paid to teach these women—of course they hadn’t. I’m not sure why third-world farmers are so unwilling to change habits, but during the meeting I did hear a woman say they didn’t make compost as they had been taught because it was too hard. While walking back to the car, Claude told me the German government had done the math and (even excluding the funding the group was given as an expense) the women lose money every year on their cold season garden. It is a negative investment. Considering that all ten of the women’s group in my village plant a cold season garden and that it is their principal motivation for them to form a group, this was a little upsetting. I wonder if all of the groups are losing money…or if they even know it.

Claude and her driver took me back to the mayor’s office, but before she continued on her way to the next big town she asked for my phone number. I think she had picked up on the optimism of her translator, because she told me that she would be working in the area for a while and would love the help of someone who spoke the local language. I also think she might just be looking for a friend nearby. I haven’t heard anything yet, but of course would love to have the ear of a major aid source.

Other than that, I really have not done much besides sit around and chat with people. After two months in my village I have a whole laundry list of things I would like to do, but for some reason, nothing gets done in this country. I would like to: build a Dutch oven, plant a garden, visit all ten of the women’s groups, teach other members of the mayor’s staff to use Excel, get to know the people at the local NGO/help out with some of their projects, visit the schools, learn where on the river women go to wash clothes, buy a clay jug, and find someone to be my counterpart for the next two years. Unfortunately, I need someone’s help to do a lot of these things, so (as I said) nothing gets done. Surprisingly, I also feel like there just aren’t enough hours in the day. I seem to have made too many friends and am constantly apologizing for not visiting so-and-so often enough. I have also adopted a pretty intense regiment of hot yoga and arts and crafts…


Buying bananas is the most exciting part of my week...


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[1] Hassan, Hama, Jzbrilla, Moussa, Mahamadou, Neuhou, Hamani, Issa, Ousman, Amadou, Abdoulay, Moustafa, Adrisa, Moktar, Salisoum, Shaibou, Harou, Kabiro, Hadaire, Abdou + Something else, Sofiani, Rafidi, Jafar, Kassam, Rolli, Souleman, Seydou, Boubacar, Aysaka, Abraham, Mahman, Mumadi
[2] Hamsatou, Ramatou, Haoua, Jamilla, Mariama, Zuera, Oumu, Hasia, Raikia, Zainabou, Fatouma, Biba, Saharatou, Sadie, Amina, Halima, Shaima, Haijeria, Samseyia, Salamatou, Rashida, Maimouna, Adama, Kalima, Fouzia, Aishatou, Sameria, Nafisa, Wasia, Sharifia, Huhray

First Month at Post

September 22, 2009

Sunday was the end of Ramadan, thank hallelujah. So far Ramadan is my one of my least favorite parts of Niger, second only to when flies fly up my skirt and I have to fish them out.
It’s not that I’m not super interested in learning about Islam or scared religious traditions that challenge people to contemplate their relationship with the Divine. That’s all great; just don’t come between me and my food. Those of you who know me, know well that when I’m hungry I am no longer capable of acting like a real person, but rather turn into a kind of volcano person, one which might erupt at any moment. Now imagine that person in a new culture, learning a new language, under the African sun, and lots of sand…

Let me be clear I didn’t actually fast during Ramadan—not even once. What did happen was, all of a sudden I was unable to buy food until after the evening prayer call at 7:10 pm. More annoying was that I couldn’t eat or drink in public. If I did ingest even my own saliva during daylight hours, I was immediately harangued by a flock of Nigeriens wanting to know why I wasn’t fasting, why I didn’t care about Allah, and why did not want to go to heaven. This invariably led to a long explanation about the fact that I am not a Muslim (or a Christian), and that if I went all day without drinking water I would turn into a human raisin. In addition to my crankiness, everyone else was cranky too. They also stayed in their houses all day and slept. Anyway, that’s all over for at least a year. We’ve returned to the usual routine of overly cheerful Nigeriens always trying to get me to eat everything all the time.

I must say, however, my villagers sent Ramadan out in style, but before I can tell you about the shitshow that was two days ago, I have to tell you about my first days at post.

So I arrived on Tuesday, and was “installed” (Peace Corps lingo) by a Nigerien PC staff member (Haoua), an American PC staff member (Janelle), and a veteran volunteer (Mary). Installation consisted of these three ladies taking me around to all the local authorities and introducing me. I also had meetings with the staff at the Mayor’s office and with the families in my concession. (I don’t know if I ever told you this, but a concession is just a house or group of houses that are walled in and share a common area.) During these meetings Haoua (How-wa) did her best to explain the depth of my ignorance, the gaps between our two cultures, and the things I might do that Nigeriens will find rude, or just bizarre. For example, she explained that I am under a bit of stress in this new place, and that someday I might spontaneously burst into tears—something that an adult would never do here, it’s too shameful. Or, I might make friends with a drug dealer, prostitute, or drunk—not because I am any of those things, but rather because I have no idea who is who. (I would like to take a moment to add that Haoua speaks English very well and has developed an extensive vocabulary of English swear words, which she would casually drop in as she translated for me.)

Haoua also explained to the mayor’s staff that joking too much about marrying me could constitute a kind of harassment in my home country. Then she asked everyone to have patience with me and help out whenever they could (it was at this moment that the mayor announced that he would be my adoptive father here, and the S.G. (my supervisor) would be my new mom.)

The meeting with the family was equally successful, and as a result I have enjoyed quite a bit of privacy. However, as I make friends outside of my concession that is slowly changing. These days I’ve been getting a visitor each hour that wants to sit and chat and see my house and eat my food. I would love to show everyone the same degree of hospitality the Nigeriens have shown me, but if I let one person in my house, give them anything but warm water, or let them stay for too long, I feel I will be soon hosting the entire community of 7,000 people.

It was strange to watch the installation car leave that morning. I was relatively calm, but was still staring down 31 days of forced integration and isolation. I’m not allowed to leave my village for one month, and not allowed to leave my region for three. It is rough, but necessary. The success of all my work as a volunteer depends on my ability to get to know and generate social capital within this community. As such, our training staff rightly emphasized the need for us to leave our houses as much as possible and I-N-T-E-G-R-A-T-E.

That first day, I gave myself permission to stay inside my house and get set up, but starting the next day I have tried to stay out of my house for at least eight hours a day. Here’s a rough sketch of what I do with my life: I get up at six-thirty, eat breakfast etc. Then at eight I go and sit with the ladies in my concession for an hour to chat. By nine I am at the mayor’s office, where I stay until one in the afternoon. I then go home, eat lunch, and wait out the afternoon heat. I try to go back out by three, but if it’s too hot I’ll stay in until four or four-thirty. I then go out and chat with anyone-and-everyone until sunset, when I go home, eat, bathe, and go to bed. This, my original schedule, has turned out to be perhaps more than I can handle, so I’ve decided to make Saturday a half day and do whatever I want on Sundays.

Work at the mayor’s office isn’t…work. I don’t know how to do anything and I can’t start any of my own projects for another three months, so as a result I pretty much just sit around, and greet people who come by, and chat with the office staff. I also offered to redraw a map of the town for the S.G., which was in near shreds. Somehow I managed to make that mini-project last two mornings. Various people in the office have promised to show me how to collect market taxes and write marriage, death, and birth certificates. The S.G. is my supervisor, but clearly has no idea what to do with me. I spend a lot of time sitting in his office, trying to understand his mixed Zarma/French, while he chats with each passersby and shamelessly picks his nose.

My afternoons have been much more interesting. The Zarma word for walking around without destination is “windi-windi”—pronounced, as you would imagine, windy-windy. Fakaray, means have a long chat, but in my case includes staring off into space awkwardly, while trying to make conversation. And this is what I do every afternoon. I go windi-windi and fakaray. It was difficult for me, at first, to just walk into people’s concessions and ask to sit down, but I quickly resigned myself to being completely awkward for the next two years. (As one volunteer put it, “Even if you adhere to every social norm and courtesy there is, your villagers will still think you are weird as shit, so you might as well be bold.”) The chats have been going well, and I can feel myself making progress with my language. Here is a list of things I have been trying to talk about:
1. Why I am here in Niger, in this concession harassing you to converse with me. Or, in other words, my work.
2. What kind of work the people here do/ how they earn income.
3. What people feel their biggest needs are, in terms of infrastructure, etc.
4. How I should dress/ what I should say for the various ceremonies and traditions.
5. Life as a woman in Niger, including polygamy and spousal abuse.

Here is a list of things my villagers like to talk to me about:
1. Where my husband and children are.
2. Where my boyfriend is.
3. Why I’m not married.
4. Why I don’t have a boyfriend.
5. Why I don’t want to marry various villagers’ brothers, sons, and husbands. (There is no such thing as an unavailable man in Niger.)
6. When I will get married.
7. If they can come to my wedding in America.
8. When/how I will gain enough weight to get a husband.
9. Which of their children I will take to America with me.
10. How ugly their kids are (I’m not making this up).

They also like asking me for things—everything from candy to medicine to feminine hygiene products to good old money. This is always a little frustrating, as I am not a vending machine, and dispensing consumer goods is not my goal in life. However, I am an anasara, and therefore assumed to have a great deal of money. And, comparatively, I do have boatloads of money. Also consider all the other anasaras who have come before me (NGO workers and such), many of which have acted very much like free vending machines, handing out money, mosquito nets, medicine, etc. In a lot of ways, the anasara image has been built up to be a less-fun Santa Clause. You might sense my vague disapproval here…but now is not the moment to delve into my thoughts on aid policy… Let’s save that for later.

Really, I would very much like to help meet these people’s basic needs—especially when a mother shows me her sick child and asks for medicine. These situations feel both unfair and urgent to me. But, given that neither I, nor Peace Corps, is in the position to start footing the bill for all of Niger’s basic needs, it would be unwise to help even one person in such a direct way as handing over money or medicine. If I gave anything of the kind, word would get out and there would soon be a line at my front door… How exactly do I plan on helping these people? This is another big topic we might want to save for later.

Anyway, I’m getting better at holding a conversation. Though at times I do feel a bit like a circus attraction. For example, I feel very much like a freak show when mothers insist that I wait while they go get their children so the kids can see a white person. I also feel this way when people tell children that if they touch me they will die, inevitably leading to a great deal of shrieking and tears. Also, from time to time, even without help from others, children spontaneously burst into tears upon my arrival; or when people refer to me not as their new friend (the Anasara) but as “their Anasara;” or anytime, when talking with someone, I attract an audience of children that would do the cast of High School Musical proud…

In spite of the difficulties, I’ve met some really good people while walking around, which brings me to the last day of Ramadan. A few days before, I had made friends with an ice saleswoman and her younger brother, Adama and Saydou. The day before the big party Adama, who I should add is an extremely large and animated woman, insisted that I come to her house the next morning to partake in the “fete.” When I showed up, dressed head to toe in my Nigerien party gear, I was immediately shuffled into a room and given a pot of rice, a whole roast pigeon, fish, punch, and a bowl of water. Adama hovered over me, while chanting the too familiar mantra that my homestay mom in Bartcawal first introduced me to: “nwa, nwa, nwa!” (eat, eat, eat!).

Then Saydou showed up and announced that I had to come to see his house and meet his mother. This invitation concerned me somewhat as most young men here are all too eager to become engaged, especially to rich anasara ladies. My hosts did not even register my hesitation as I whisked away to Saydou’s mother’s house. (Yes, like all unmarried, Nigerien men, Saydou lives with his mother.) At his house, I saw a repeat performance of the scene at Adama’s, and was given a doggy bag for my leftovers…another whole pigeon.

Next began what I can only conceptualize as Saydou’s Ramadan, party gauntlet. Saydou took me from friend to friend, house to house, from roasted pigeon to roasted pigeon without pause (save one half hour break where he went to pray) for the next five hours. At first I was very eager to meet all these new people, and having Saydou with me took the awkward edge off. He even introduced me to the Chef de Canton’s representative (I’m not really sure what that means, but he had a couch, watched soap operas in Zarma, and his wife gave me actual fruit juice, so I wasn’t going to complain.) At another house, one of Saydou’s friend’s wives took my hand and would not let go until she introduced me to every woman in a 100-yard radius. (Another circus animal moment.) And at every house, Saydou coached me through every one of the 15 New Year’s greetings. It was exhausting, but all PCVs must sacrifice in the name of Integration.

Three and half hours in, it was hot and I was ready to wrap things up. I felt bad for taking up so much of Saydou’s day. Certainly this young man would rather be sitting in the shade, drinking tea with his friends than showing a culturally illiterate stranger around. I had a few more friends that I wanted to say hello to before going home to wait out the heat, but I gave Saydou an out, and said if he wanted to go, I could get home. But Saydou said (from what I could gather) since his house was in the same direction I was going he would come with me. So I dropped in on my two friends and then walked with Saydou toward his house (and mine).

At this point I was really ready to peel off my sweaty clothes and fan myself for the rest of the afternoon, but along the way he kept asking to stop in to drink just one glass of tea, or eat just one pigeon. As this continued, I tried to be more and more assertive about the fact that I was tired and just wanted to go home. Saydou’s coaching was becoming patronizing and annoying… but he had spent the whole day with me, so I thought the least I could do is meet a couple more of his friends. An hour later, my volcanic side was starting to bubble up—I was losing my patience. So I resolved the minute Saydou led me to a part of town I recognized, I would throw social courtesy into the wind and take my leave. At one point I thought Saydou was showing me the way back to the main road, but it was actually just the way into another friend’s concession. I think he could tell I was getting frustrated because each visit became more and more rushed. Around 5 p.m., still in uncharted territory, I flat out refused to go into another concession. Saydou didn’t seem offended by the resolved it had taken me quite some time to muster and took me to the road with remarkable speed.

Then the most remarkable thing happened. Saydou asked me what time tomorrow he should come by. I get claustrophobic pretty easily in relationships, so I immediately decided I didn’t want to see him the next day. I can’t even remember the vague, exhausted half-answer I gave him, but he showed up the next day around ten a.m. Turns out a young, Nigerien guy doesn’t have anything better to do than show a culturally illiterate stranger around.

Since then, Saydou has turned into a kind of barnacle friend, and even tried to come with me to a women’s group meeting. When I asked him why he would want to come to a women’s group meeting he told me to have patience, which I don’t understand, but know is a Nigerien’s response to almost everything. I admit I have avoiding Saydou like a clingy boyfriend for the past few days…but he seems to have calmed down.

All in all the end of Ramadan was a good day, and I am very grateful to Saydou for taking me around. That evening I even got to see some traditional dancing and made friends with a young schoolteacher who told me in broken English, “I want to make friends with you, but only slow, slow,” which sounded great after my day with Saydou. This schoolteacher (who turned out to be my neighbor) also told me, in adorably rusty English, that he had seen me around and could see the effort I was making to get to know people. He gave me a number of other, very sincere compliments regarding my cultural I-N-T-E-G-R-A-T-I-O-N, which made the whole day—the whole week, in spite of it’s frustrations, completely worth it.


September 24, 2009

I would like to take a moment to describe to you all how I look these days, and how I smell:

They call late-September to October mini-hot season. But since rainy season isn’t over, it’s still pretty humid. As a result, I am sweating ALL THE TIME. Thank Allah this is a Muslim country, and thus it is accepted (or expected) that I cover my hair, which I feel obligated to wash it at most once every two weeks (Author’s note: the rate of hair washing has decreased significantly since this was written). Surprisingly, clean hair is much harder to deal with here. At least when it’s plastered with sweat and sand, it stays in place. Regardless, I have only the vaguest idea of what my hair looks like these days, as I decided a mirror would do me more harm than good.

Now, combined with the dust, these extreme environmental conditions have caused my face to put on a display of pimples that outshine even the worst cases of junior-high acne. Not to mention that all of my clothes (my bras especially) never seem to dry out and have developed a strange, barnyard musk that follows me everywhere. I wash everything as often as I can, but keep in mind that I am using water from the river—a river that animals and people do use for every purpose under the sun. My sheets are the worst, because I spend all night sweating on them, and then have to bring them inside during the day…right now, though, they are be sanitized by the afternoon sun. I wish I could do the same with my bras, but public displays of undergarments are not tolerated.

In contrast to my clothes, my feet are chronically dry. Trying to keep my feet from cracking has become one of my favorite pastimes. When I bathe, I scrub, scrub, scrub until they feel clean. Most of the time, when I make it back to my house and look at them under a light, they are still almost black from the day’s wanderings, but they FEEL clean. On nights when it’s not absurdly hot, I douse my feet in lotion, then put socks on to keep the moisture in. (I feel very fancy whenever I do this.) All of this work has been only marginally helpful. My toes and heels are now peeling and as rough as a foreign affairs interview for Sarah Palin.

My skin in general has begun to do other strange things. I have bites and bumps and bruises, which I have no idea about their origin. I also have enough mosquito bites on my legs and feet that it now resembles a rash. I am thrilled to make it to nine a.m. without breaking a sweat. Deodorant seems to have lost all its power. And as a special treat, the other day I looked in my belly button for the first time since I got here—inside, was enough dirt to grow something (plus a mosquito bite).

When I was in America, I used to have dreams about winning a lifetime’s supply of candy or Brad Pitt showing up at my door and confessing his undying love. Lately I’ve been dreaming that I am clean (like showered AND wearing clean clothes) or I dream that I am in a Safeway and am allowed to buy WHATEVER I want.

Of course there are other bodily quirks and habits that have developed since coming here—quirks that I would be much too embarrassed to tell toilet-paper-toting, first world inhabitants about.

I’m not complaining—or, I am. I’m not sure. More like, I’m just marveling at how my standards of hygiene (which were questionable even before I joined the Peace Corps) are slowing melting away entirely.


October 7, 2009

The savvy observer might note that it’s been a while since my last entry…almost two full weeks. Please attribute this lapse in documentation to the severe case of what I self-diagnosed as MRD, Mystery River Disease, which I contracted during my second week at post. This mysterious fever led me to spend 11 days lying on a mat on my floor sweating. Now, I wasn’t really that sick—that’s where the mystery of Mystery River Disease comes in. Every evening I would get a mild to moderate fever, but by morning it would be gone, and gone all day. Sometimes I would get a headache or feel a little woozy, but I was not suffering from any other severe or alarming symptoms.

Well—that’s not true. I was very alarmed on day two of the fever to notice I had developed a full-body rash. This discovery spurred me to spend the afternoon reading about Dengue Fever, which is transported by mosquitoes and distinguished by the rash it causes. As perfect as it would be for the same fate to befall me that may-or-may-not have overtaken my best friend Emily (she’s a PCV in Belize and was awaiting the official Dengue blood test when I last checked my email), I decided that Dengue Fever was unlikely and that I probably just had a heat rash. Have a heat rash—I still have it…all over my arms, legs, neck, face, stomach, and back—I assume since I haven’t actually seem my back for three months.

Anyway, back to the MRD. As I said, I didn’t really feel THAT sick; but, if I tried to go on with business as usual, my fever that evening would get noticeably higher. So, after trying to ignore the MRD (curse my American upbringing and the Protestant Work Ethic it has endowed me with!), I spent the next days trying to rest. For more than a week I did nothing but lay on my mat sweating for eight hours a day, not from fever, but because I’m in Africa. There were some other PCVs in town who did a remarkable job taking care of me, and even made me a big, fancy birthday dinner (pizza, chocolate cake, and ranch dressing—my three favorite foods). Luckily, MRD does not affect one’s appetite.

I’m not going to lie—I was really frustrated to tears with the situation. I wasn’t well enough to go out, but didn’t feel sick enough to stay in. I felt like I was cheating at my first month at post. I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE INTEGRATING, DAMMIT! More frustrating was that the MRD wouldn’t go away. Eleven days is a long time to have a fever. Of course, I called the Peace Corps doctor who agreed that my symptoms were not severe enough to merit a trip to Niamey, but he did put me on Cipro. Either from the Cipro, or just time passing, I am now happily fever-free.

Now, I’ve explained the mystery of MRD, and the disease part is more or less obvious. “R” is for the river water I accidentally drank at a baby-naming ceremony, as it was disguised as punch. I find the fact that I ingested the murky sludge that fills the Niger River horrifying. Frankly, I feel I got everything I deserved for drinking some of the Niger River—in fact, I probably got off easy. I haven’t started growing another limb nor has all my hair fallen out. Also, I managed to escape the incident without hosting Guardia, amoebas, or bacteria in my digestive track (all of which cause explosive diarrhea and other fun symptoms like sulfur burps).

But, I’m better now. Fully recovered. And, the good news is that, amidst all the doctoring I was doing to myself, I discovered I can almost always take the temperature of my house with my medical thermometer. Right now at 8:30 PM, for example, it is a brisk 94.5 ºF. My bout with MRD also afforded me the opportunity to pop all those pimples I was telling you about before. The whole experience was nearly as exciting as the 45 minutes I spent last night chasing a two-and-a-half-inch scorpion around my house with a big stick. (More on that later.) Anyway, I’m back in business now, ready for my final week at post before I make my voyage to Niamey to refill my dwindling stocks of oatmeal and mayonnaise.


October 9, 2009

Walking home from the post office today, it occurred to me I’ve done a rather poor job of conveying the texture and content my life here. You know my schedule and that it’s hot, but I haven’t even begun to recant for you, what my life here is really like, how I feel, and how I feel myself changing. The problem is that what makes life here so remarkable is a long tally of little things, which alone are unremarkable. Together, though, these things create a whole other world—the third word, I guess.

An example of Niger’s eccentricity: There is a model of chair here that is very popular. Perhaps its popularity arises from the simplicity of its design: string wound around a mental frame from front to back. The problem is this very popular model of chair makes absolutely no allowance for the geography of the human backside and the strings run parallel with a very a tender longitude of human anatomy. The fact that people are still making and buying this kind of chair after having sat in it is baffling to me. Yet, every time I show up for a chat, I am faithfully ushered to the family’s one chair—anasara privilege—and made to sit. It’s still a novelty to be shown such respect, but every time I recline in one of the chairs I described above, I smile to myself at the hilarity of the chair’s design—smile and try to sit sideways.

Another example: trash. First of all let me say that there is a lot of it here—everywhere. There are acres of plastic bags on the outskirts of Niamey, and the same covers the streets of my village. From what I can tell, besides gravity, there is no formal trash collection system here. (Appreciate your local government/private trash collection company here.) When I got to Niger, the endless mountains of rouge waste were a pretty chocking landscape for a lady, such as myself, who digs through trash in America to pull out the recyclables.

I once had a global environmental politics professor lecture on what she termed the “Flush Phenomenon.” She told us that (many) Americans suffer from the misconception that our toilets are magical entities, with the power to whisk their cargo off to other worlds, very different from our own and never to return. We think the same thing about our trash. When we are done with it, it goes in the garbage, we take it to the curb, and then those sanitation workers—magicians really—make it disappear forever.

I was 19 when I took this class (SO long ago), but I remember thinking, yes, there are fools out there who think that way, aren’t there…shame on them. I, on the other hand, was no Flush Phenomenon fool. I knew our world was overrun with trash; it was in our landfills, our forests, our oceans, etc. Sometimes, I even saw it on the street, escaping from an overused dumpster. In spite of all this awareness, I was still surprised, even embarrassed, when I came home the other afternoon to find the neighborhood children playing with bits of things that I had thrown away. Of course, by thrown away, I mean I had put a bag of trash on the big pile outside our concession. (I’m still deciding whether it’s worse to burn it or toss it. Your thoughts/insights are welcome.) Anyway, it was an entirely foreign experience to see my trash again. It was awkward—kind of like bumping into an old boyfriend you thought had decided to move to Siberia. “Oh, I didn’t think I would see you here…” I had THROWN IT AWAY, put it in the bag, taken it to the curb. But here it was, my trash, staring me in the face. It had refused to be vanquished to the world of trash-gone-by, in fact it all hung around all week until someone burned the whole pile last night. So, I guess I too am a sufferer of the Flush Phenomenon…

One more example—it’s about the heat again, apologies—I can’t remember what it was like for the sun to be a pleasant sensation. When the sun comes out in Seattle, everyone sets their work aside, joins hands, and dances together in the sunshine. Maybe not, but we certainly do covet its sporadic visits to our city. Here, from the moment the sun crawls over the horizon, it is causing me pain. Sometimes, if I stay too late at the mayor’s office, I will debate if lunch and a nap is worth the 200 yard walk home. I make wild detours just to walk in the shade. I swear, even the sunlight shooting through space and then reflecting off the moon makes me sweat. I am completely mystified to recall the mornings in Seattle that I would wait for the bus to class and stand 15 yards away from the bus stop just to be in the sun.

And we eat with our hands, and I learned to shoo chickens, and everyone says “hi” to me, and some kid called me the “big anasara,” and every third person is wearing a Barack Obama t-shirt, and I get to see all the dirt that comes out of my clothes when I do laundry, and the sunrise prayer call always wakes me up, and they sell everything (including peanut butter) in small plastic bags, and there are little lizards all over my house, and I get excited about ice—clearly, I’m not in Seattle anymore.

In truth, I’m not even sure I’ve taken notice of all this world’s little quirks and marvels, let alone found the time and talent to articulate them. Luckily, I am going to be here a while.


October 11, 2009

So…one of my biggest preoccupations here at post is pinpointing the moment that I become a real PCV. By Real PCV I mean a woman of the villagers—a lady who not only talks the talk, but also understands village life and is a part of it. I want to appreciate their jokes, and be able to joke back. I want to show them the depth of my commitment and gratitude. I want to sweat and bleed along side the people in my town. (I would say I want to cry with them also, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only person over the age of 10 who cries here.) Most of all, I want to cast off the role of an outsider and become a villager myself. I want them to see me as one of them. This is what a Real PCV looks like to me: sweating, bleeding, and crying, but surrounded by a village of support—a new home. This is what integrating is all about.

Of course there will always be some distance between a PCV and her community. For example, no matter how hard I try I may never master Zarma and, contrary to what a neighbor told me, no amount of kopto (Niger’s version of salad) will turn my skin black. Yet, our inability as volunteers to shed our American heritage and transform ourselves into natives is another part of our charge as PCVs—we are out in the heat and sand to help, but also to show the world a little bit of America.

The trouble with this balancing act (blending in and staying American) is that it makes it somewhat difficult to know when a volunteer has reached his or her fullest integration potential. I, myself, have witnessed a great deal of discussion in the Peace Corps community, both in America and in Niger, regarding what constitutes a Real PCV. Many subscribe to the idea that contracting a severe illness and surviving is enough to don the title. Still, others believe the illness must be of a digestive nature, and severe enough to cause a premature deposit of you-know-what in your pants, or skirt as it were. (I’m not making this up; most Peace Corps countries have at least some chapter, formal or otherwise, of the Shit Your Pants Club.)

I am lucky enough to have survived both these delightful experiences, but still feel that I have not attained true PCV-hood. Wandering around my village over the past several weeks there have been moments when I thought I might have finally come into my own. The MRD was one of those moments, getting frustrated to tears over language was another, my epic battle with the scorpion yet another. Also, last week, much to the amusement of the ladies I was chatting with, I had a baby pee all over my lap. In the moment was a little put off, but as I scrubbed the urine from my skirt, I couldn’t help but re-imagine the whole scene as a kind of baptism and I reborn a Real PCV. I thought that that was my moment of crossing over…that was until yesterday.

As I mentioned, in my village wanderings, I am always looking for chances to prove that I am not just another anasara—this is why I hold babies and make jokes and eat whatever is offered (unless of course I think it will make me sick, Dad.) As an upshot of this search, last Saturday I was overjoyed to accept an invitation from a large, old lady (my favorite demographic here) to come and see her fields out in the bush. I was elated. They will see me in action out in those fields and then they’ll KNOW I’m for real…she thought to herself.

The sun’s rays of death oblige people leave for the fields pretty early—the time that I usually go to work (“work”) in the mayor’s office. Thus, it wasn’t until yesterday, filled with exuberance, I got up at an especially early hour to go out to the fields. I ate a hearty breakfast, put on my grubbiest clothes and lots of sunscreen, filled my water bottle to the brim. When I got to my friend’s house, she had other work to do, so she said that I should go out the fields with her younger relations and she would come later.

What came next was what I had been looking forward to most, all week—the trip out to the bush…on a donkey cart. When my ride pulled up, I was a little disappointed to see it was pulled by two calves and not a donkey, but I will take what I can get in terms of integration opportunities. And what an opportunity it was! They will see me on this donkey—cow cart, riding through the village out to the fields, and then they’ll KNOW I’m for real.

As we got ready to depart, three young people started loading the cart with field tools: the driver, a twenty-something guy; another boy of about ten years; and a young woman a few years younger than me. Unfortunately, hers was the only name that I understood, Aishatou. So the two gentlemen shall remain anonymous for the rest of this tale.

When they were ready, I was direct by the driver to get on the cart. Anasara privilege dictated that I have the best seat, in front, right next to the driver. I could hardly contain my jubilance as we departed. I was seriously grinning like a kid next in line for a ride on the Matterhorn at Disneyland.

It wasn’t twenty seconds into the ride that the cow I was sitting behind pooped. The combination of the volume of poop, the length and swing of the cow’s tail, the cart velocity, and the headwind made me a little concerned. Surprisingly, I really didn’t want to get cow poop on me. But, after a moment, it became clear the cow had finished, leading me to think, Oh, that’s good we got that out of the way. At least I know that it probably won’t do that again for a while. I then settled into the ride and began trying to advertise my village-life adventure by waving at everyone we passed.

Maybe two minutes later I realized this cow, which I sat mere feet behind, had a rather severe case of diarrhea. Again, given the above variables of speed and cow tail, I was pretty concerned about the probability of a poop shower. Luckily, poop shower conditions never seemed to fully coalesce, and I survived the trip unscathed.

When we arrived at the fields, I was eager to prove myself as a volunteer via bean harvest. I grabbed my bucket and immediately set about the business of making it look like I was working as hard as everyone else. I harvested enthusiastically, thinking of all those good years of training I had undergone in Montana, picking huckleberries. I thought of how hard it would be to do this everyday, and how much harder it would be to depend on this kind of work for survival. I thought about all the beans I was going to pick and how great it would be when my bucket was full. Then I thought about orange juice for a while. Once I started to run out of steam, I let myself look at my watch to see if it was time for a break. Apparently my enthusiasm had lasted me about twenty minutes. I had no idea how long they expected me to work out there, but the whole hunching-over-while-picking-beans-in-the-burning-sun was already old.

An hour in, I took a break to drink water and reapply sunscreen. Aishatou, who didn’t seem the least bit worn out, asked me how much I had picked and was incredulous that my bucket was still not full. The thing was, I wasn’t sure how long they were going to keep me out there. I had brought snacks and was prepared to stay as long as they did. But really, there was no way I could have found my way through the millet fields, back to town on my own. Thus, I was really trying to pace myself.

In the end, I managed to pick one AND A QUARTER buckets of beans in two hours, at which time Aishatou, somewhat alarmed at my fatigue, told the driver they should probably take me back. I was still committed to the bean picking effort, not wanting to come back without a good harvest. (Damn that Protestant Work Ethic.) But Aishatou assured me that we had more than enough beans and that she was also tired.

I would like to take a moment to note Aishatou and the ten-year-old boy had spend the whole morning laboring alongside me, while the driver had devoted this time to napping in the shade. I know that beans are a women/children crop here, but this still seemed a little unfair to me. When I asked him why he wasn’t working he told me he was taking care of the animals. I couldn’t actually understand most of his answer, but was frustrated by it all the same.

Anyway, we assumed the same seating arrangement for the journey home, but now Aishatou and the younger boy were sitting on top of two huge bags of green beans. About two minutes into the ride home, it occurred to me I should have moved seats, so as to avoid fecal assault. Unfortunately, it was about two minutes and three seconds into the ride that the afore mentioned poop shower conditions (headwind, volume of discharge, length AND swoosh of cow tail, etc.) converged, and I was…you know there isn’t really a verb for what happened...I guess maybe spattered... from head to toe. Now, not to worry, the scene was certainly nothing worthy of an Austin Powers movie. Nonetheless, after this experience, I would contend any amount of cow diarrhea is too much, with which to be spattered.

The driver saw what was happening, stopped, and suggested I move seats. Aishatou, without missing a beat, grabbed the ten-year-old’s hat off his head, and began wiping the poop off my face. The kid didn’t really like that… At first, they just frowned in shock. I think they were afraid of the castigation that would ensue if they brought the anasara back, covered in poop. But as I smiled and assured them it was no problem, they began to chuckle until they were overtaken with fits of laughter—a big boost to my self-esteem.

When I got back to my friend’s house, she surprised to see me back so soon, but didn’t seem to notice my change in appearance. I, who was acutely aware of what I was wearing, excused myself as soon as possible, but not before she could give me an entire ten-gallon bucket of green beans. I tried to explain that I was just one person, and there was no way I could eat so many beans on my own. My friend, however, was insistent, and I—eager to bathe—did not fight her for long.

I then marched home (doling out handfuls of green beans along the way), showered, did laundry, and gave the rest of the beans to the family in my concession for everyone to share. All in all, it was a good day. I was glad to get out of town for a little while, and my family really seemed to appreciate the beans.

But, I still wonder to myself, am I Real PCV now? Did this cow’s digestive issues somehow bring me closer to my fullest integration potential? I really don’t know. BUT, one clear perk to all this is that, now, I can counter any conversational point with “I was sprayed with diarrhea by a cow in Africa.” I feel that this fully compensates the emotional distress I suffered as a consequence of the poop shower.

Last Days of Training

September 13, 2009

About a week ago I said good-bye to my homestay family in Bartcawal and moved up to the training site in Hamdallaye. I was surprised at how difficult it was to say good-bye to them. The morning I left, they all helped me carry my things to the road and waited for the Peace Corps car with me. My homestay mom even came out to wait. My language skills are still too limited to express the depth of my gratitude, so we all just stood there saying, “I am thankful for everything,” back and forth. Also, people don't really hug here, so all I could do was wave vigorously.

The hardest person for me to say good-bye to was Abdoulai. Over the past nine weeks he went from being utterly terrified to me, to throwing his arms around my knees and grinning, every time I came home. He would always try and climb on my lap, or get a piece of whatever I was eating. He also came to standing outside my hut and yelling his version of my name, “Atou,” to try and get me to play with him. The moment that I knew I was totally done for came one night when I was holding him on my lap, wearing a new, traditional head wrap. Abdoulai leaned back into my chest and looked up, then pointed at my headscarf and said, “a boori,” which translates as “it’s good.” His mom and sister freaked out when it happened, because this was Abdoulai's first time using the most common phrase in the Zarma language. My heart melted right then and there.

I will get to visit my family again when I go back to Hamdallaye in three months for more training, but I can’t imagine how much bigger Abdoulai will be by then. Even after returning from my week at site live-in, he seemed to have gotten bigger. No matter how bad of a day I may have had, getting a hug from him always made me feel better. And, to be honest, the kids in my new concession just aren’t as cute. That’s how it goes I guess; everything is always changing. With that in mind, don’t be surprised if I show up to America in two years with a newly adopted son.

The week after I left Bartcawal was outrageously busy (which is why we stayed at site and not in village). Monday we had regular classes. Tuesday we drove into Niamey for administrative sessions and a special you’re-actually-real-volunteers-now BBQ. Wednesday we went back to Niamey mid-day for an all-evening fund-raising event for Gender and Development (GAD). GAD is actually a pretty special thing, specific to Peace Corps Niger. Some volunteers have taken it upon themselves to help raise money for certain Peace Corps projects—the ones supporting Gender and Development… Anyway, every year they host an auction, talent show, and dinner to earn money and invite a huge portion of the NGO/Volunteer community in Niger.

At the auction I may or may not have spent the equivalent of $20 to win a bag of peanut M&Ms, jelly bellys, and pudding. They were all delicious. My training class also made quite a splash during the talent show. We actually dominated the bill with award-winning performances, including: a Frank Sinatra acoustic solo, a rap about Niger, an series of animal impressions, and an interpretive dance of our nine weeks of training to the Lion King Theme. I laughed so hard my checks were streamed with tears and began to ache. The best part was that the whole thing took place at the American Recreation Center, which has a pool. So for a few hours, I actually felt completely clean. It was a strange sensation.

The next day, Thursday, was our big day: Swear-In. We got up early and did a run through of the ceremony logistics—officially our last session of Pre-Service Training. After breakfast, we were taken to Niamey once more. We were allowed to run wild until 3 PM, at which point we donned our traditional Nigerien outfits, and were driven to the America Ambassador’s residence for the ceremony. I must say, she has some nice digs. Showing up at the gate of her house you might not guess it, but a paradise lies just beyond the metal detectors. She (or whoever is willing to take the job) is given a huge house with a pool, an amazing garden, a view of the Niger River, tennis courts, and a horse that wanders around the yard.

For those who don’t know, I was elected by my peers to give a speech in Zarma. I practiced quite a bit beforehand, and felt ready when the time came. Luckily too, there weren’t as many attendees as I imagined. As I walked to the podium, I took a deep breath. But, before I could begin I was swarmed by four or five Nigeriens setting up TV cameras and a guy sticking a tape recorder in my face. Yikes!

Even after all the tour guiding, project presenting, and interviewing I’ve done, giving this speech was hard for me. But, as I said in the speech (the full transcript is below), the hardest things are what make you grow the most. It was over before I knew it. Everyone seemed to think it went well, but I didn’t believe them until today, when I watched the video. I don’t seem even a fraction as nervous as I was. I actually seem somewhat composed… And the best part is that you all have no idea if I made any mistakes…because it’s in Zarma! The video is (probably) available on facebook. I say probably because there are still 43 minutes left of upload time, and I'm hungry.

After my speech, Shuruq delivered an excellent addressed in Hausa, and Alice did the same in French. Then the Peace Corps Country Director’s turn came. She alternated between French and English so that everyone could understand. The U.S. Ambassador did the same in her speech. Then finally the Nigerien Foreign Minister spoke, which was all French, but I could pick up her references to JFK's vision of Peace Corps. All three of the speakers reminded us of the courage and character a person must have to undertake such an adventure as Peace Corps Niger. Of course, like all weddings, human-interest stories, and insurance commercials—the speeches made me cry. To conclude the ceremony we took the official Peace Corps oath in French and English.



So now, I am an O-F-F-I-C-I-A-L PCV! I was surprised by the amount of relief I felt driving back to Hamdallaye for our last meal together, like maybe the hardest part is over? But then remembering the trials the next few months will hold, I think that can’t possibly be true.


Friday was a recovery day, during which we all accessed our PC bank accounts for the first time. I'm rich! To support our cushy lives as volunteers, we get paid about $2/day. I was thinking about it though, and I really think I could get by on a dollar a day, 450 CFA.

Saturday morning there were some tears as everyone departed for their respective regions. Since I am in the Tilliberri region, I am spared the grueling 11-hour trip out east, stuffed in a land cruiser with ten other volunteers and all their belongings. I slept in, had a leisurely breakfast, and then was driven the 35 km to Niamey. As a special Tilliberri-region perk we were able to attend a potluck at the Ambassador’s house, in commemoration of the end of her three-year service in Niger. All I have to say is: free food, drinks, access to her pool, Oreos, and ice cream. Ice cream. OREOS! My body went into a state of self-defense and convinced my mind it was necessary to take in as many calories as possible to save up for later. I didn’t know I could eat two helpings of lunch, four helpings of dessert, two sodas, and an ice cream cone, in a three-hour period.

So far today I have eaten breakfast, checked my email, watched TV, eaten lunch, watched TV, and written this. It’s now almost 5:30 PM. This is the first time I’ve been able to be lazy since before I left the States. It feels amazing. Also, I have to tell you that both the cab driver who took me to breakfast this morning and my waiter at the restaurant recognized my from my televised Zarma-address.

Tomorrow I will make one last shopping trip for house-wares before I leave for my post. I pretty much just get dropped off and am left to my own devices for three months. I plan on writing out a schedule so that I don’t drive myself insane with constant activity. After the first month, I am allow to travel and after three months, it’s back to Hamdallaye for In-Service Training and a reunion with my training class. BUT, no matter how you look at it, describe it, fill it, or rationalize it, the first three months at post are almost always the hardest. Guh! I will report back mid-October when I get to come in to Niamey, and let you all know how it’s going.

Zarma Speech

Here is a copy of the speech I made for swear in. There are a few phrases that didn’t translate into English well, so parts may seem a bit awkward. Also, Zarma doesn’t have complicated sentence structure, as a result the translation isn’t 100% faithful…because I love clause-heavy writing.




Zarma Version

Peace Corps ma ga, ay go ga aran kulu. Fonda kayan. Ay go ga saabu aran se nda suro kan aran go ga dan ga iri hangan.

Ay hamburu kayna kan Peace Corps ne ay se kan ay go ga ka Niger ga te jiri hinka, zama ay si Niger bey gumo gumo. Cimi-cimi ay si bey nankan hare Niger go Africa ra kala kan ay na ndyunya karto gune. Amma, ba kan ay na karto gune ay man ma kaani. Ay di kan Niger ga moru Amerik gumo-gumo. Woodin banda mo, Niger ga fayanka nda Amerik gumo-gumo. Kan ay go ga sola ga ka, ay sobay ga foongu sandey kan go ga ay batu Niger ra jiri hinka wo kan ay ga ba ga te.

Amma za kan iri ka Niger, iri di kan sandey din manti sandeyan no koyne. Kayna-kanya Niger nwarey sintin ga kanu iri se. Iri ga hin ga dan Niger bankarey. Iri stagere jerey sintin ga waani Niger nwarey hinayan. Yadinga stagairey kan si waani Niger nwarey hineyan hima ga mey haw.

Habu yegga wo kan iri te Niger ra, boorey kulu na iri kubayni gumo-gumo. Iri coro taagey Bartcawal nda Hamdalley ra na iri ga gumo-gumo ga iri sandey bonza. i ga ba iri ma zada. Woodin se iri go ga Niger boorey kulu saabu gumo-gumo. Ay go ga ay Bartcawal almeyalo saabu gumo gumo kan i n’ay gaayi nda bine fo, i n’ay sambu sanda ingey ize. Bine kaani bambata no iri se hunkuna kan iri go ga sintin ga goy aran Niger laabo ra. Iri Niger laabu ra, zama hunkuna iri kulu wone ne.

Hunkuna iri na cere margu neyo ga iri stajo banyanno buco te, nda iri jiri hinka kan iri ga te Niger ra koyne. Ay go ga ci ay caley se i ma fongu kan handey kan go ga ka ga taabandi gumo-gumo, zama i ra no iri ga sintin ga te goyteri cim-cimyan. Si ka Kulsi. Yardin no ndunya.

Amerik ra iri ga ne nda boro man taabi a si du. No pain, no gain. Amma, nda boro ga ba cabeyan hanno ni ma du ga goro Niger ra boro ma koy Niger booreydo. Wa foongu kan nda boro si ga ma kaani, Niger boorey caabeyan hinza go no kan iri si dirgan a bada, kala suru, kala suuru, kala suuru.

English Version

I am here today, speaking on behalf of Peace Corps, blessings on your arrival. Thank you all for your patience during our ceremony.

When Peace Corps first told me that I was to serve two years in Niger, in truth, I was a little scared. I didn’t know very much about Niger. To be completely honest, I wasn’t exactly sure where Niger was in Africa. But after I looked at a map, I was still uneasy. I saw that Niger was very far from America, isolated, and difficult to travel to. What’s more, I knew that Niger would be very different from my home. As I prepared to come, the thought most prominent in my mind was that the next two years would be hard for me—it would be a challenge.

But, upon our arrival we discovered that many of the challenges we feared were not so large. We have learned to love the food, and how to wear Nigerien clothing. Some of us have even learned how to prepare Nigerien food. Those of us who don’t learn how to cook will have to learn how to fast.

The nine weeks we have spent in Niger, everyone has shown us an incredible amount of hospitality. Our new friends in Bartcawal and Hamdallaye have helped us overcome many of the challenges we faced. They wanted us to succeed, and for that we are deeply thankful. I want to add that I am especially grateful to my family in Bartcawal for loving me with one heart, and taking me in as their own daughter. Today, we our hearts feel huge as we begin our work in your country—our country—because today we are also Nigerien.

We have come here today to celebrate the end of our training, and the beginning of our two years of service. I want to warn my colleagues that in the months that come, we will all suffer a great deal as we begin to build a life for ourselves in Niger. There is no doubt. This is how the world is.

In America we say that if a person doesn’t suffer, he or she doesn’t get it. No pain, no gain. But, as one might expect, the best advice for living in Niger comes from the Nigeriens. Therefore, if you are struggling, remember the Nigerien's three favorite pieces of advice: Have patience, have patience, and have patience.

August 31st, 2009


Here are a few pictures from a "fashion show that our training class did. Our homestay families lent us all their formal garb so that we could learn about appropriate dress...and look silly.



Below: The Bartcawal crew. We like to joke that we are all unoffically Chad's (a.k.a. Hassane Ide) four wives, and as you can see from the picture, we are a very becoming family.



I'm the one in the yellow.

Site Live-In

August 29, 2009

This morning I am in Niamey before returning to Hamdalleye for my last two weeks of training. I came in last night after staying four days at “site,” the place where I will be living for the next two years! In all honesty I couldn’t be more pleased with my placement. The town is very nice, clean, (for now) very green, full of interesting people, and host to several NGOs. It’s big enough that I can buy whatever I might need, especially on market days. In fact, my new home boasts a population that is significantly larger than my hometown, Plains, Montana. I am still debating which is more developed. Also, the people at the mayor’s office where I will be working are incredible nice. I am really looking forward to getting to know them and working with them.

The mayor himself already asked me to be his computer and English tutor, and the Secretariet General (my direct supervisor) is fun in a slightly eccentric way. He talks to himself a lot. One of the big events of my live-in was when the mayor and the S.G. took me to a commune counsel meeting. (A commune in Niger is basically the equivalent of a county in the U.S.) Starting at eight in the morning they loaded me up into a pickup and then drove me (and five other counsel members) out to a nearby town. At the meeting the mayor introduced me as the commune’s new Peace Corps volunteer. The meeting was conducted in French and Zarma, so I had a hard time understanding it—all six hours… That’s right ladies and gentlemen, I sat in an unlit, breeze-less classroom, full of flies and listened to 30 people animatedly debate various subject in two languages that I can barely understand for six hours. My personal goal for myself was to not fall asleep in front of my new colleagues, and you will be proud to know I was at least 87 % successful in fulfilling this goal. Six hours. No breaks. No lunch (because it’s Ramadan and everyone is fasting anyway). At one point the S.G. tried to get me to go buy some water for myself, but I just sat out under a tree and napped. One of the other volunteers had warned me beforehand that, “Nigerien meetings are crazy,” but I had no idea. There was also a lot of yelling… A lot.

On my way to site we had to drop off several other volunteers, so unfortunately by the time I made it to my town it was already dark. The volunteer who was supposed to stay with me my first night in village thought it would be better to wait until it was light to move it, so I spent the first night at a Peace Corps hostel. I was so tired, I was glad to be able to just make a bed up for myself and sleep without worrying about getting settled.

I moved in the next morning and I LOVE MY HOUSE!! It’s tiny, but still much larger than I need. The front room is smaller, but big enough for me to fit a table with a stove and my water filter, a trunk with my food and a mat for me to sit on. (I would like to take a moment to note that as I am writing this I am deliriously tired and just tried to spell mat, m-a-t-t. I apologize for any other strange errors or typos that might be in this post.) The back room of my house is huge—but very much like a cave. I don’t have electricity, so the its almost always dark and mysterious. I think that (in spite of its size) it will just be an oversized closet.

Then there is the magic of my tanda. A tanda is a shade hanger in front of a house and is key to both privacy and comfort. If a person doesn’t have a shade hanger you are forced to nap inside you sweltering house, and everyone can see in your door, or just walk into your house. We were all warned before live-in that all things in Niger move slower than one would think humanly possible, and we should be prepared to show up to tanda-less houses. Sure enough, when I came my house was sans tanda. I was a little disappointed, but accepted that I may be just a little uncomfortable for the next four days.

Later in the morning, after I had moved in, my host PCV took me to the mayor’s office to introduce me to my new boss and co-workers. The mayor and S.G. were surprised and upset to learn that I had already moved into my house and had not waited for them to install me there. “That is just like Americans. They always just go, and never ask,” the S.G. remarked in French to the mayor. I felt bad. I didn’t know that they had wanted to be there when I moved in, but it ended up working out in my favor because it became the mayor and S.G.’s mission to build me a tanda.

I spent the rest of the day speeding around the market in the commune’s pickup, buying tanda supplies. Then the next day, IN ONE DAY, my tanda was built. Amazing. As it was happening, I kept trying to talk my expectations down, not allowing myself to believe the thing would actually get built. And its Ramadan! During Ramadan, everyone is usually so wiped from not eating or drinking that things move even slower than slower-than-humanly-possible. Also, everyone is 74% crankier. I wanted to buy a cold water guy who spent the whole day laboring to build me my tanda, but he wouldn’t have accepted it. So now I have a magical, build-in-one-day-which-says-something-about-the-productivity-of-the-mayor’s-office tanda.

I took pictures of my house for you all to see, but I left them back at the hostel. So, I can’t upload them…maybe in another six weeks.

I spend the rest of the four days setting up my house, sweeping, figuring out how to get water, and getting to know the ladies in my concession. I REALLY like my neighbors. I haven’t figured out who is who yet, but let me tell you I am living with some sassy ladies. One of them is super intense and would burst into my house unannounced, but I think we’re going to be good friends. She brought me dinner one night, gave me eggs, and even brought me a block of ice. She was taken aback to learn that I didn’t have electricity, and insisted that before I return to my house I buy a cooler so that I can keep ice.

The water situation is something else in my town. There are more than 7,000 people and one pump. One pump, no wells. There is also the river right nearby, but it’s not exactly clean. I think that water is going to end up being one of my biggest expenses and already find myself recycling my water in ways that I would never dream of in the States. Water to boil pasta turns into tea water. Rinse water turns into dishwater, etc, etc. Since I don’t have running water, the water that I buy sits in big jug in my house, and let me tell you I have never been more aware of how much I was drinking or washing with.

I told my APCD (the guy in the Peace Corps who is in charge of me) that I was interested in water projects, and I think that that may have had something to do with my placement here. The good news is that when I get set up I can buy river water for washing and showering, but until then I am paying warnaka for one bido—which is outrageous!!

So what’s the plan for the rest of my two years? I can tell you how the next two months will go. I am returning to Hamdalleye for two and a half weeks of training. Allah willing, September 10th I will swear in as a real volunteer and then be “installed” at my site. The first month in village I have to stay at my site—I’m not allowed to travel. Luckily I am the center of a cluster of volunteers, so I still may get visitors from time to time. After the first month, I am allowed to travel, but I can’t start “work” for another two months. Basically I have three months to get a handle on the language and get to know my village. Then I will return to Hamdalleye for three weeks in In-Service Training.

I find “getting to know everyone in my village” pretty intimidating considering its size. My new town is very different from where I’m living now. Instead of open concessions, with low walls and people everywhere, the concessions at my site have high walls and have huge metal doors. As I mentioned, with the fast, most people spend the day sleeping, so it’s hard to find energetic playmates. Though, I’ve been told that it’s perfectly acceptable for me to just knock on any door and say, “Hey, I’m a Peace Corps volunteer. Let’s talk, and you can feed me.” Things will also get easier when Ramadan ends and people aren’t sleeping all day long. Either way, I’m definitely not in Bartcawal any more.

As for Internets, it appears to be working. I am actually using wireless right now at the one café in Niamey where all foreigners and ex-pats get their ice cream, pizza, and air conditioning. I’m going to try and upload some photos too. Hopefully, I will be able to come back here next Sunday, but, as magically as it appeared, the Internet may die again…and it could be another six weeks before I post.

I love you all! And hope that things are going well state-side!