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.