The Harmattan

November 12, 2011

There was a day two weeks ago when the wind in Saint-Louis switched directions mid-step. In a matter of hours, the Atlantic breeze was overcome by a barrage of red dust and purple clouds rushing from the east. When winter comes to the northern hemisphere, this easterly wind barrels across the north of the African continent, whipping the dunes skyward until large swaths of the Sahara are airborne and the desert covers the sun as it covers the earth. Swells of this great shadow are carried hundreds of miles out to sea and can be seen from space. This is the Harmattan.

When the Harmattan arrived in Saint-Louis two weeks ago, the clammy, oppressive heat that follows the rainy season evaporated and the weather turned cool with speed normally only afforded by climate control. This abrupt shift in the weather signaled the arrival of cold season in Senegal and, for me, carried with it a quiet but firm reminder my time in the Peace Corps is rapidly coming to a close.

When I sat down to count the weeks I have left, I was genuinely surprised by the little time I had left. It’s not that I had been so consumed with surviving the heat, I hadn’t bothered to examine a calendar—I knew what day it was—but I hadn’t really been looking ahead. So long as the days were muggy and slow, I was able to skate through the haze of an Indian summer pretending it was still July.

To be totally honest, even before this first cold day in November, the reality of leaving had crept into my mind from time to time, always sending me cartwheeling in gusts of panic. Should I leave as planned in February or should I extend my stay six more months? I thought so seriously about staying I started writing the email to change the official date of my close of service. I thought so seriously about leaving I started applying for jobs and emailed a couple people in Seattle about renting a room. In trying to force a decision, every other day I would reach a new altitude of certainty in my choice between these two alternating futures: to go or not to go.

In the end, I’ve decided to leave in February as planned. There are lots of reasons why this is the logical choice, but more important than logic I can feel it’s time to go.

Paradoxically, all this mental turbulence carried me backwards too, to my first weeks of training in Niger. I was so overwhelmed by the journey ahead that a single day seemed to last years; I thought the close of my service would never come and remember feeling absolutely overcome with envy upon meeting volunteers who were only weeks away from finishing their service. I ached to be them. It wasn’t that I wanted to quit (though I did think seriously about going home several times over the past thirty months), but I was sure finishing two years as a Peace Corps volunteer would be a moment so saturated with a deep sense of joy and accomplishment, I couldn’t help but salivate over it.

But as my departure approaches I find I don’t feel that way at all now. Once again, (as with departing for the Peace Corps and during the evacuation from Niger) I feel like I’m losing all the relationships and landscape that underpin my life. And my triumphant finish? Any triumph I feel is too heavily diluted with anxiety and nostalgia[1] to notice. Though I was warned many times returning to the States can be the most challenging part of a volunteer’s service, I was still surprised at my feelings, especially when lain along side my expectations from training.

So I thought about it, and here’s what I think happened: The moment I got off that plane in Niamey, I was swept all across the Sahel like a grain of sand at the mercy of the Harmattan. While I was consumed with the agony and ecstasy of this adventure, a subtle truth took root in my life: At some point, I stopped climbing the metaphorical mountain of my Peace Corps service and started living on it. West Africa stopped being the thing I was doing and became what I am. I live here. West Africa feels like my home, yet I still feel the pull of my family and life in Seattle. So it is from this seed of truth that my confusion now blooms. I belong in two places, and a thousand places; or (perhaps) we, the voyagers, belong no place and are left suspended like bridges between the islands of human existence that we once called our homes.

---

[1] I learned recently the Greek roots of the word nostalgia can be translated as “pain from an old wound. I think that’s lovely.

The Time I Got Caught in a Riot

October 14, 2011

The past few times I’ve sat down to write a post, I’ve struggled to find topics I feel are interesting. I’ve often reflected how, during my first year of service, everything that happened to me was an epic tale—everything was worth reporting. Lately, however, I am short on anecdotes or cultural observations (which I think always make the best blog entries.) So, I’ve often wondered if interesting things have actually just stopped happening to me or if I am now so accustomed to life here I don’t see the things I used to.

I was ruminating over this exact question on a car ride from Dakar back to Saint-Louis a couple weeks ago. One thought in particular kept resurfacing: I don’t even see transport in West Africa as the adventure I used to; it was now just routine. Just last month, my sister and father had visited me in Senegal, and on the same trip I was now making (from Dakar to Saint-Louis) we’d gotten in a minor car accident. Maybe I was just too busy or distracted at the time, but I didn’t take any of the mental notes needed to transform the collision into a story. I just got back in the car and didn’t give the situation a second thought.

I guess West Africa just doesn’t shock or awe me anymore, I thought while drifting to sleep in the back of the car, squeezed between a large Senegalese woman, the car window, some suitcases, and a live chicken. (Imagine a series foreshadowing minor chords.) I awoke as the car slowed. The drivers will pull over a lot or run errands, but never stop in the middle of the road like we were. It was then I saw a plume of thick black smoke billowing from the middle of the road.

There was a large garbage truck in front of us, so I couldn’t see the source of the smoke, but I was immediately certain there had been some terrible accident. The people of this small, roadside town were going crazy. Everyone was running in all different directions and yelling. Only…they didn’t seem upset. They were fired-up to be sure, but no one was crying or looking shocked. Also, the driver of the truck in front of us seemed more angry than concerned.

It was then that the large truck pulled off to the side of the road, making room for us to see what was happening. There was no car accident or mangled bodies on the road, but rather an enormous pile of flaming tires, bordered by strategically place bricks, which combined with a mob of townspeople, effectively blocked any forward progress. Oh, I thought, I get it. This is a protest.

For those of you haven’t been following Senegalese politics, here’s what you need to know: Throughout the past year there have been increasingly violent protest in Senegal over the long-incumbent, 80-plus president’s decision to run for another term. It’s all vaguely legal, though apparently less-than-palatable to many Senegalese citizens. In addition, Senegal is suffering through an energy crisis. As the government connects more and more villages to the power grid, they have failed to create any new sources of power. Thus, the six (coal-fired?) power plants in Senegal are failing to fulfill power demands. As a result, the major cities suffer almost daily blackouts and/or water cuts that can last days. The Senegalese, perhaps inspired by the Arab Spring, have started protesting.

As far as I know, there haven’t been any deaths or violent retaliations, like in Syria, but there have been numerous causalities and many Dakar-based mobs were so bold as to burn government buildings. (Imagine my friend Phil’s surprise and disappointment when, after trekking to his daily lunch spot, he discovered it had been burned down the night before. That’s what you get for having a government bureaucracy as your neighbor.)

This is what is running through my mind as I looked at the scene unfolding in front of me. My driver called someone over to the car to ask what was happening, and though I don’t speak a lot of Wolof, I understood the village hadn’t had water in more than a week. Yeah, I thought, I’d be pissed too. The driver yells at the villager pointing out he had no control over the water and was just trying to get to Saint-Louis. Out of the corner of my eye, I see another car trying to circumvent the blockade, only to be swarmed by the mob. Whether or not we could bring the village water, we were stuck here.

At this point, my car was the closest to the flaming roadblock, only about ten yards away. My driver, clearly angry, got out of the car and started pacing. He opened the trunk and pulled out a large water jug, like he was going to put out the fire. I, meanwhile, am cowering (cowering) in the back of the car, trying to seem inconspicuous and silently begging my driver not to get involved as it might somehow draw more attention to me.

Blending it is a key survival skill in many circumstances, like, for example, when a clown asks for a volunteer from the audience or if you are a zebra. Unfortunately, being a tall white girl in West Africa, I never blend in. I am constantly the recipient of all kinds of unwanted attention. Besides frequently being seen as a kind of living ATM, potential second-wife, and/or omniscient, I have in different moments been blamed for calamities that were laughably beyond my control, like the socio-economic fallout from imperialism, gun-deaths in Africa, and Sarah Palin. So, sitting in the back of that car, I was thinking, please don’t let this be on of those moments. Let me be one with the upholstery.

Meanwhile, the scene was escalating. A police car arrived, but as the two rather slight officers stepped out of their car, they were immediately overwhelmed by the mob.

I had my phone in my hand wondering if I should call the Peace Corps security officer, but I stopped myself, knowing there wasn’t anything he’d be able to do besides tell me to stay in the car, which I was already doing an exemplary job of. Self-doubting to the end, I did call my friend Hailey to ask if she thought I should call the security officer. It was then I discovered I didn’t have adequate cell coverage, so the call she received must have sounded something like this: “Heeeeey Hailey, I think I’m in trouble. (Static)…flaming tires and a mob… (static) …can’t move and there’s… (static)…call for help? (Static)…zebras.”

It was then another truck, carrying a squad of riot police, showed up. They lined themselves up along the right side of the road, the mob on the left side. As the police loaded their guns, the villagers starting throwing rocks. Shit’s getting real here. I didn’t see if the police were shooting into the air and I don’t know if they were using rubber bullets or something, but I definitely heard gunfire.

A lot of shit has gone down during my Peace Corps service, but this was the first time I was genuinely concerned for my safety. I had the same thought I always do when in legitimately dangerous situations such as the one unfolding before me: When is this going to escalate to a point that I won’t be able to control or escape from.

But in a flash my driver dove back into his seat, slammed the car in drive and sped through the hole created by the advancing police and the retreating mob. Then we were on our way. Within minutes we’d arrived in Saint-Louis and I was standing the sun and chaos of any other ordinary afternoon. The whole thing hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes.

I called Hailey back to tell her I was ok, and called the security guy to report the event. Then promptly forgot about the whole thing…but not before making a mental note not to tempt the wrath of West Africa with further delusions of my immunity to its capriciousness.

Some Recent Photos

From Cape Verde:

Magical bar on a beach.

Shipwreck on Boa Vista.

The most beautiful beaches I have ever seen.

Me, with some new PCV friends/gracious hosts.

I went scuba diving...in a pool...

Senegal:

Me at work, drawing with the talibe.

The kids with their drawings.

Me with my fruit seller.

My sister and me kayaking on the Senegal River.

The kids at the center.

Peace Corps Ego

September 18, 2011

It’s been too long since I have written. SORRY MOM! But you know how it goes…first I was on vacation in Cape Verde, then I had a busy couple of weeks at work, and most recently, my sister and father were visiting.

I’ve also had a rather difficult time deciding what to write about. Normally my entries just roll out in front of me. Several equally pleasing topics will wrestle each other back and forth until one, fortified by spontaneous narrations that spring up in my mind, will evolve into entire passages floating around my head. Then, all I have to do is run home and transmute the thing into paper. The past few months, however, I keep doubting the appeal of my ideas and so haven’t gotten anywhere[1].

I’ve realized, though, I need to stop waiting for things to be just right and just write. So, I took an idea and went with it. I’m sorry to say the following contains no amusing anecdotes, but rather a commentary on Peace Corps life. Specifically I want to talk about an alarming illness that befalls many volunteers during their service. Something I call, PCE.

You may already be aware how, in the bacterium/virus/fungi-rich setting of developing West Africa, volunteers frequently fall ill, develop strange medical conditions, contract exotic skin disorders…and/or sometimes…mutate. However, the wider world may not realize how frequently volunteers actually grow an additional appendage, most often sprouting from the torso.

This affliction takes form differently in every volunteer—some are less affected than others—but more often these excrescences grow to be large, cumbersome, and disruptive. The ballooning limb is extremely sensitive, leaving a volunteer in a state of constant agitation. These “arms” obstruct volunteers’ vision. Worse still, they frequently injure unsuspecting bystanders. It’s the PCE of the PCV. I’m speaking of course, of Peace Corps Ego.

Enough of the clever metaphor! Let’s be real here. Peace Corps volunteers have huge I-am-super-hardcore-and-know-way-more-about-development-slash-what-is-acutually-happening-in-the-world egos. Of course, there are exceptions, but I am not one of them. I burn with irritation when someone talks about how his two-week trip to Ghana changed his whole life or when someone makes a broad, sweeping commentary regarding Islam. Oh lord, and if a volunteer who left a couple months after installation claims to be a RPCV…my fingers sweat; my face turns red; and an onslaught of angry protests lodge in my throat in their eagerness to make themselves known. I think to myself, these idiots have no idea. It’s obnoxious. I know it, but I can hardly help myself.

In my experience the PCE manifests in two ways:

1. PCV v. non-PCV. These attacks could be spurred by anything remotely related to the PCV’s work, site, region, host country, host continent, or anything regarding the world. THE WORLD!

2. PCV v. PCV. In this case the discussion is almost certainly limited to whose site was more hardcore/who suffered more during his or her service.

I’m going to address the second item first: PCV v. PCV.

I don’t know if a non-PCV would pick up on all the subtle way volunteers size each other up in their first few minutes of acquaintance, but no matter how friendly the conversation, it happens. Where did you serve? What was your site like? What was your sector? All of these questions just to ascertain whom you’re dealing with. Did she have running water? Electricity? What was his house made out of? How isolated was this person? And of course, the kicker, how hot was it?

Peace Corps volunteers in West Africa are obsessed with proving they suffered through hotter weather than anyone else, as if our value as a volunteer could be measured out in drops of sweat. If not hotter, volunteers are constantly insisting their host country was poorer, more corrupt, less developed, but the people were friendlier and it’s still the best place you could hope to serve—everywhere else dubbed the Beach Corps or Posh Corps.

As I am writing this I worry I have been too sensitive to the idle comments of others, but I swear this war is real. Even in Niger there was a palpable tension between the bush (volunteers in the countryside) and the city volunteers. Bush volunteers were always commenting on how easy the city folk had it (with their fancy cement houses and electricity), and in return the urban volunteers would constantly extol the merits of a bush post (friendlier people, more willing to help.) And, when volunteers from different countries try to out-hardcore each other, the entire conversations pivots around subtle, but constant one-uping.

I find the PCV v. PCV thing frustrating because there is no one thing that makes one Peace Corps service harder than another. It depends on you, how you mesh with the culture, how easily you can learn a language, etc, and (most importantly) how well you can fence with your personal demons. Having electricity is definitely nice, but it won’t make you less frustrated with your neighbors.

Comparing Cape Verde to Niger makes this point nicely. By the PCV PCE standards, Niger is clearly the harder post—it’s hotter and less developed. In fact, we are comparing (according to the UN development index) the most developed country in West Africa with the least developed country in the world. Niger is clearly the harder post, right? I certainly would have agreed with that earlier in my service, but now I see it’s not that simple.

Capeverdians are surprisingly apathetic to the presences of PCVs whereas Nigeriens would literally trip all over themselves to make you feel welcome. Nigeriens were ever eager to collaborate, while Capeverdians (I’m told) don’t want your help, so much as a check. Also, most sites in Niger had countless projects waiting to happen, all within the volunteer’s ability to complete. Cape Verde, in contrast is developed enough that volunteers are often left scratching the back of their necks wondering if they can help at all. And if you want to talk about physical discomfort, fresh water shortages in Cape Verde forced the volunteers I stayed with to recycle their water in ways so creative it made me cringe. (Imagine four adults sharing one toilet, which they were only able to flush once a week.)

Now that I live in Saint Louis, I often get comments from other volunteers about how “easy” I have it or how “lucky” I am. Sometimes I just nod, not mentioning how urban posts have their own unique challenges. Other times, I am less patient and show off my “Niger credentials[2].” This always changes the way volunteers interact with me. They visibly retreat, then say something like, “Oh, so you know what West Africa is really like.” First of all, I don’t like the suggestion urban centers are less a part of West Africa than the bush; and secondly, just like Cape Verde, living in a place like Saint Louis presents its own set of challenges for PCVs. (Just one example: The harassment I get from men in Saint Louis is by far the most grating and sapping thing I’ve had to deal with in any site.)

My point: it is impossible to say which post is harder, but when a volunteer tries to assert that her post was harder and therefore somehow her experience more valuable, it demeans the experiences of fellow volunteers. Peace Corps is hard. Everyone struggles. After having seen and lived in so many different Peace Corps sites, I have concluded the only thing that really makes a volunteer’s site easier is the quality of her work partner—how motivated the partner is/if there is work to do. A good work situation is the best a volunteer can hope for, and that is almost completely independent of UN development index.

With non-PCVs, the PCE outbursts more often take the form of telling the ignorant masses about what the world is really like. I wasn’t surprised to learn recently RPCVs have a reputation in the development world for being irritating know-it-alls. I don’t excuse myself from this at all. When I was visiting the States last October, I had to consciously stop myself from starting every sentence with, “Did you know in Niger…”

I also spend a great deal of time hinting to others how difficult my Peace Corps service was, without ever saying the words. Just last week I spent a good five minutes reveling in the way the Italian intern at my office’s jaw dropped when I told him I lived without electricity or running water for 18 months. I shrugged casually at his disbelief, then reassured him it was the most amazing time in my life. This is the basic message we PCVs always want to convey: it was unbelievably difficult, but I still loved it.

The veracity of that last sentence makes this whole critique more complicated. After all, “it was unbelievably hard, but I still loved it” is probably the most accurate way one could describe Peace Corps—the hardest job you’ll ever love. Living for two years in a developing country, speaking their language, eating their food is really hard. Honestly, it is something to pat yourself on the back for completing, but I find it very interesting how often our self-congratulations slide into elitist bragging. I especially notice this sense of superiority when volunteers compare themselves to missionaries, tourists, and volunteers who left early. (And once again, I am just as guilty as any for adopting this attitude.) I see volunteers make painstaking effort to distinguish us from them, and I think this condescension is all too apparent in our interactions with these groups.

Missionaries honestly still make me uncomfortable, but I can’t deny they do some valuable work. As for the tourists/PCVs who leave early, here is what I tell myself now: These people could have gone on vacation to the south of France, an all-inclusive resort in Hawaii, or just stayed home, but instead they chose to explore West Africa—even if it is just for a short time, that is better than a great many others who never make it off their couches.

The most ironic thing about all of this PCE business is volunteers begin their service from a place of absolute humility. When trainees first arrive in country, they repeat again and again how little they know and how eager they are to learn. As a new volunteer, you are constantly butting up against your own ignorance, inflexibility and shortcomings. In this new, strange land you must learn to talk, eat, poop, and interact in a whole new way. You are lost in this unfamiliar landscape. You become completely dependent on your host family and village. You get sick in ways you didn’t know you could. Basically, you become an infant again—naïve and vulnerable.

If we begin our service in such humility, how is it we end up hauling around elephant-sized egos? Why can’t we cultivate the same thoughtfulness we demonstrate in our work, in our interactions with others? When did our service become about bolstering our own self-image?

---

[1] I’ve discovered a cultural quirk that I LOVE but can’t quite turn into a whole story: at nightclubs, Senegalese people dance almost exclusively with their reflections on the mirror-lined walls, rather than with each other. As a result, when you enter a club, almost everyone on the dance floor is lined-up behind each other, facing the same direction, checking themselves out.

[2] Credit to Nick Potter for this phrasing.

Ryzard Kapuscinski Excerpt

Blog post to come, but in the meantime I am going to entertain you with this really wonderful quote about humans and travel. I wanted to edit it to make it more gender-inclusive, but it got too complicated. Just keep in mind women do all these things too. The author Ryzard Kapuscinski, is talking about why Herodotus (a Greek born in 485 B.C.) was motivated to travel as he did throughout the Asia, Africa, and Europe (the entire known world), and report on it endlessly until finally writing his work, "Histories."

"What set man into motion? Made him act? Compelled him to undertake the hardships of travel, to subject himself to the hazards of one expedition after another? I think it was simply a curiosity about the world. The desire to be there, to see it at any cost, to experience it no matter what.

It is actually a seldom encountered passion. Man is by nature a sedentary creature from the moment he began cultivating the land and left behind the perilous and uncertain existence of a hunter or gatherer, he settled down happily, naturally, on his particular patch of earth and fenced himself off from others with a wall or a ditch, prepared to shed blood, even give his life to defend what was his. If he moved, it was only under duress, or war, or by the search for better work, or for professional reasons--because he was a sailor, an itinerant, merchant, leader of a caravan. But to traverse the world for years on end of his own free will, in order to know it, to plumb it, to understand it? And then, later, to put all his findings into words? Such people have always been uncommon.

Where did this passion of Herodotus's come from? perhaps from the question that arose in a child's mind, the one about where ships come from. Children playing in the sand at the edge of a bay can see a ship suddenly appear far way on the horizon line and grow larger and large as it sails toward them Where did it originate? Most children do not ask themselves this question. But one, making castles out of sand, suddenly might. Where did this ship come from? The line between the sky and sea, very, very far away, had always seemed the end of the world; could it be that there is another world beyond that line? and then another one beyond that? what kind of world might it be? the child starts to seek answers. Later, when she grows up, she may have the freedom to seek even more persistently.

The road itself offers some relief. Motion. Travel. Herodotus's book arose from travel; it is world literature's first great work of reportage. Its author has reportorial instincts , a journalistic eye and ear. He is indefatigable; he sails over the sea, traverses the steppe, ventures deep into the desert--we have his accounts of all this. He astonishes us with his relentlessness, never complains of exhaustion. Nothing discourages him, and not once does he say that he is afraid.

What propelled him, fearless and tireless as he was, to throw himself into this great adventure? I think that it was an optimistic faith, one that we people lost long ago; faith in the possibility and value of truly describing the world."

Nibbling Habits

A friend of mine, Hailey, was editing a translation of a study conducted on consumption habits. In the section about snacking, she found the following gem:

"The Senegalese people are nibbling followers specially in the end of
the afternoon (37%). Men nibble such like women. Nibbling is
significantly more important in urban zone (47%) compared to semi
urban zone (38%) or rural zone (34%)."

My Weekly Broken Heart

July 9, 2011

There was a week in April when the majority of the staff at my organization left town for a two-day training. The evening before they departed, one of my co-workers, Adjia, asked me to take on some new duties in their absence. Specifically, she asked me to “écrire,” to write. The center logs every child who comes in the door of the center and what activities they do—both for themselves and for funders. So, someone has to sit at the door with a notebook and pen and “write.” The job also requires supervising the tiled courtyard where the kids play, shower, and do laundry. I had done it before, though never by myself. Nevertheless, I am ever eager to do anything that makes my job seem more like a job, so I cheerfully accepted.

I arrived at the center extra early the next morning to get set up. I found the notebook, a pen, a chair to sit in, positioned the table so I was right by the door, and waited… The best way I can describe what happened next is this: it was like watching a bomb explode—for four hours.

I’m sure you can easily imagine me flustered, hair askew, several children tucked under each arm while I tried to gain control of the situation; but, as a means of survival, my brain flooded itself with a hefty dosage of endorphins[1], leading me to sit demurely on my little blue chair, staring blankly into the chaos. I think the best thing I can say about that morning is no one was mortally injured, though few kids definitely cried. I almost cried, but I survived AND I learned something: there are essentially infinite ways 100+ young, parent-less boys can make trouble when sharing a small space.

Against my better judgment I’ve allowed myself to get roped into "writing" again and again. (It’s kind of everyone’s least favorite job.) I’m sure I am only able to cognize a fraction of what goes on in the courtyard; also I’m trying to make my blog entries shorter, so I’m only going to share my favorite memories from “writing.”

That fateful morning in April began like any other morning I am on writing duty: me sitting by the doorway with a notebook and pen. The center is calm, quiet—even tranquil. As the first children arrive, I begin writing down the name, age, Koranic school of each talibe, as well as what they want to do at the center: take a bath, do laundry, see the nurse, or play. It sounds easy enough, but, given that this notebook is clearly a spiny appendage of the evil Organization Monster, little boys want nothing to do with it. Thus, I often have to resort to (gently) grabbing the shoulders or shirts of talibes who try to breeze by me, unnoticed. I can do the whole, “come here” routine, but the boys usually meet to this sort of beckoning by doing the chicken dance from across the courtyard—literally sticking their thumbs in their armpits and resolutely flapping their elbows against their sides. (The gesture means, “I refuse” in Senegalese.)

Other times, swarms of talibes will come at once, encircling me and yelling their names/ages/schools over one another making it impossible to decipher anything. The come up on all sides, including mounting and hiding underneath the large table I am writing on, to make sure I have no escape. I should also mention these kids only shower once a week (every eight-year-old’s dream), so are absolutely filthy. Besides the dirt, they are usually covered in puss-filled cuts, boils, chicken pox, scabies, whitlow, and/or dried blood and are dripping mucus from their noses or eyes (due to conjunctivitis.) Given the proximity they feel is necessary, the talibes frequently do things like cough directly into my open mouth or sneeze into my hair.

Meanwhile, as I flail wildly trying to write down all information of the new arrivals before they disappear into the courtyard, the talibes inevitably get bored and start entertaining themselves by: reciting the Koran loudly; trying to ask me my name/age/etc.; trying to use the pen I am writing with to draw on any available surface (including, once, my cellphone); hitting each other; climbing under the table to pull on my skirt and/or leg hair; pinching me; grabbing me; slapping me (gently); or yelling loudly and indiscriminately. Perhaps the most frustrating thing in these swarm situations is, after I do write down the information of a talibe, he often refuses to go play in the courtyard but lingers at the table. When one does it, they all do it, creating an impenetrable talibe-wall between me and the doorway, making it that much harder to see kids as they come in or keep track of who I’ve already written down.

Once I manage to get (what I feel) is a reasonable percentage of the children logged in, I will stand up and shoo them into other activities. The courtyard is small, but somehow manages to contain a foosball table, a TV (usually blaring Senegalese music videos), a perpetually deflated soccer ball, puzzles and other games for the kids. If kids don’t have a game, they resort to wrestling with each other or yelling loudly into the open air. They can do their laundry, but this never takes long, given they have only one or two sets of clothes (though they still manage to spill enough water to turn the whole courtyard into a marsh.) When they only have one set of clothes, they wear their birthday suits while their clothes drip dry. Yes, there is a lot of nudity. There is also a shower, a toilet and an infirmary for the kids.

One of my favorite recurring scenes happens whenever an older boy (maybe 15) brings in a flock of five- to eight-year-olds for their weekly shower. I once worked at a summer camp where I observed little boys are happy to go four weeks or more without bathing (if it had been permitted.) The little boys in Senegal are no different, thus the older ones are forced wrangle them into the shower six or seven at a time (it’s a big shower). Much like how I used to stuff all my filthiest clothes into a washing machine, close the door and hope for the best, the older talibe will fill the shower with children, throw in some soap, turn the water on, hold the door closed. Moments later the bathroom door will explode open and the newly showered kids will scatter, still dripping, as if they were escaping from a burning house.

Now add up everything I just described (the swarming, grabbing, coughing, wrestling, playing, loud music, yelling, impromptu soccer games, wet clothes on low-hanging lines, flocks of dripping-wet kids) and then multiply it by 100. This is what that first morning in April was like. There is also the whole issue of rationing soap to the kids, which I won’t get into except to say it leaves pretty much everyone (including me) dissatisfied.

In spite of how it sounds, I wouldn’t necessarily call the mornings I spend in the courtyard with the talibes bad—though I wouldn’t say they’re good either. It’s usually overwhelming and always exhausting, but it also feels like the most sincere/needed aid I’ve given in my Peace Corps service. I never experience the all-too-familiar, what’s-the-point despair too many PCVs have to battle on a monthly if not weekly basis; because the point of my work is right there, coughing in my mouth, exploding from the shower, dripping snot as he waits to see the nurse.

As my language has improved, I’ve gotten to know the talibes as individuals (and as they’ve gotten to know me). They now know I won’t let them get away with the pinches, slaps, or the pulling of leg hair and for the most part have stopped trying. I’ve identified a couple of the older, more helpful talibes who I can always call on to aid me ration soap or make sure I’ve recorded every name. The kids have started to recognize me outside the center too, which I love. Now, instead of rushing up to me to demand money, they rush up to me to shake my hand and ask where I’m going.

The talibe may seem tough as nails on the street, sticking their chin up as they demand “100 francs,” but in this tiled courtyard it is painfully clear they are just children. They squeal with delight over a game. They cry when they are left out. They climb into my lap or put their arm around me before offering me some of the bread they are chewing on.

Sometimes I take it upon myself to organize a drawing activity for them, which is basically as chaotic as the courtyard scene, just add colored pencils into the mix and replace “rationing soap” with “rationing paper.” Some kids just scribble wildly, in what seems like an attempt to use as much paper as quickly as possible. Others will work quietly and thoughtfully all morning to complete self-portraits, pictures unidentifiable animals, or boats. But no matter what they draw, they double over in smiling embarrassment when I “ooh” or “ahh” at their work. One little boy just sits at the table, watching and insisting in a mouse-sized voice he can’t draw. Another will wait for other kids to abandon their work before presenting the drawing to me as his own. I suspect he is just hungry for any kind of praise.

Other favorite memories:

A few weeks ago, as I was leaving the center, I felt one of the kids tugging on the back of my bag. I whipped around in annoyance, thinking he was trying to open the pocket. “Hamsatou!” he said, “You can’t go out on the street with your bag like this.” He was closing it for me. My heart melted.

Another time, as I was sitting by the door, recording names, and old woman came to the door begging for money. I tried to dismiss her with the usual may-Allah-pay-you handclasp, thinking to myself, “Lady, you came to the wrong place.” But before she could leave, one of the talibes gave me an I-would-expect-more-from-you, parental nod as he handed her 25 francs from a small pouch tied around his stomach. These kids are teaching me so much.

Like I said, this is the most rewarding work I’ve done in the Peace Corps, possibly in my life. I rarely feel a day at work is wasted, and if I ever do, the feeling vanishes when I think of those boys. I can’t say with any conviction I’m making their lives better, and certainly not in the way you could film or put on a resume, but if I’m changing their worlds at all—it’s worth it to me; because these boys certainly changing mine.

Also (knock on wood) I haven’t gotten conjunctivitis, yet.

---

[1] According to Wikipedia: endorphins are released to prevent nerve cells from releasing more pain signals, allowing animals to feel a sense of power and control over themselves and to persist with activity for an extended time, like writing down the names of talibes—I was that animal.

Sneaky Joy

June 1, 2011

I feel strongly evening is my favorite time of day. I’ve always felt this way, even as a kid.

When I was little I remember waiting until the sun began to set to escape to the woods and fields that surrounded my childhood house. I would sprint across the grass with my conspicuously large yellow walkman hooked to my hip, buzzing between “I Can See Clearly Now” and “Dancing Outside the Fire,” (both which are the acme of inspirational ballads for a small child.) Sock-footed, I would dance around our front yard with my arms up in the air, as if to hurry the night in coming.

It was here I discovered sometimes, as the sun retreats from the sky, the day is reborn for a few brief moments. First the heat of the day softens, then the air cools and slows. But even as the breeze sharpens, the earth continues to radiate the day’s heat, upward, like a sigh—warm and fragrant. The sky floods with every possible shade of blue, then green, then gold, then purple. Light shines more tenderly, illuminating a richness in everything it touches, until the world becomes entirely saturated in twilight. The day shakes off its afternoon dust and is invigorated. Dusk becomes another dawn fresh with fresh possibility and magic. As a kid, it was evenings like these I experience with absolute confidence the knowledge that world is a good and happy place.

Not my back yard, but still a cute picture of my sister and me when we were little.

One such evening descended upon me a week or so ago, when I found myself in the high-walled garden of Zumba, a Saint-Louisian actor and musician famous around town. Zumba, himself was absent, but his shaded patio is always host to his band’s practice sessions, and thus the de facto meeting spot for the group of musicians I was sitting with. I had been invited to his house by Christina, a German volunteer I’d met at the NGO where I work. In spite of our short acquaintance, she’d asked me to come help write and perform a song for an independent film she is making about women in Senegal. I’ve been nursing my creative side recently, I happily accepted.

As evening broke, practice digressed into an impromptu recital of every Norah Jones song known to Ngam, the guitarist. The group hummed and clapped along, but, being the only one who really spoke English, the job of singing fell to me—something I don’t do especially well, but something I really enjoy doing. I was relaxed and the audience was so friendly I overcame any self-consciousness, and was able to really enjoy myself. In fact, you might even say I was belting…as much as one can belt Norah Jones.

The heat of the day was giving way to a cool, salty breeze, which made the fuchsia bogenvelia tremble against the garden wall and the air come alive with the scent of soft earth and citrus trees. I looked out into the ebbing light, and was overcome with a sense of wonder—not only at the beauty around me but also the beautiful, unexpected way my life keeps unfolding. What a beautiful life I seem to have stumbled into…

The thing that most impressed me was how entirely unplanned that evening was. Unlike so many other chapters in my life, I had very little part in constructing this life in St. Louis. It grew up around me. Yes, I joined the Peace Corps expecting adventure, but I never set out with the slightest inclination I would move three times, be evacuated from my first post, move somewhere new, meet a bohemian German independent film maker and help her write a song at her friend’s house. The evacuation had all the agony of an end, none of the excitement of a beginning. Our forced departure seemed to violently truncate so many wonderful possibilities of adventures friendships that it felt like death—the death of the life I had lived for nearly two years. And recently, I’ve spent so much time sorting through that wreckage and lamenting the possibilities I’d left behind, imagine my surprise when I looked up to find a new life growing around me. But there I was, watching as the seams of reality quiver under the enormous joy I felt. Even if prompted, two years ago, I could never have imagined the scene before me.

But here I am, with my unexpected German filmmaker friend, and I’m so happy. My initial, rather uncomfortable adjustment to Senegal has passed. My days have fallen into an easy routine of work and leisurely spontaneity. In the mornings, I go to work. In the afternoons, I go to the beach, go to a friend’s house for lunch and conversation. I get ice cream and sit on a bench that overlooks the river. I go for long runs. I get artisanal cocktails and pizza with other volunteers at this cute French-run bar. I feel free and full enough that I don’t mind staying out late on weeknights, I don’t worry about money, and am able to laugh off the cultural differences that once might have ruined my day. Of course, I still have bad days. I am not immune to crankiness or fatigue. Worst of all, I am plagued with the very serious task of figuring out how best to spend my last 24 vacation days. But…I’m very happy and I didn’t even have to plan it.

All of you very sane, well-adjusted, Zen people out there are thinking, “Of course you can’t plan happiness, silly Bruce.” But I’m here to tell you my insane, mal-adjusted id/false self/mind (whatever you want to call it) will argue to the bitter end that all good things are planned. I know; it’s stupid. I get it (Bruce says placing especial, exasperated stress on the “I.”) In fact, I’m constantly espousing little tidbits about how unhealthy/impossible it is to try and control everything. BUT, the subconscious programming constantly running in background of my life says, “You can’t trust the world. Nothing good will happen unless you make it happen.”

I didn’t even notice this thought in my head until a book brought it to my attention. (Actually, there are lots of these really crazy little thoughts we don’t even know we are thinking, but still act on. For example, we might think, I don’t want to share the cake I’m going to eat the WHOLE THING or I want to be the only one who can make so-and-so happy.) But these faults in our programming are eventually brought to our attention and after hearing something we know to be true, our hearts won’t let us forget it.

So, I admit it. I am a control freak, constantly trying to bully joy into my life, to come when I say and to STAND STILL. But no matter how much energy I exert, the things that I imagine will make me happy never seem to line up. So I spend my time trying to will things into being, chasing hopeless dead ends, or lamenting what seem like lost chances at happiness.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t work for the things we want, I’m still pursuing a certain kind of career, lifestyle and relationships. But looking at all the unexpected turns my life has taken recently, I see that joy sneaks up on you when you least expect it, though it may be disguised in unfamiliar clothes. So, considering all the unexpected people/places/opportunities that are currently pouring joy into my life, I get the sense that perhaps it’s wiser to keep putting one foot in front of the other and just let things happen…because…let’s face it things happen anyway.

What the Tarot Card Reader Said

May 3, 2011

(I know I posted this briefly for a couple days last week and then took it down...so it's not really a new post. What happened was, I heard about Seyni's death the day after I posted this and didn't want people to miss either post, so I took it down to space things out a bit.)

Dear Friends,

I don’t know why I’ve waited so long to tell you this story. I think part of me felt silly for even believing it or acknowledging what was happening. Now, I almost wish this had been my very first blog post, so that you all could have experience the awe I have felt in watching everything fall into place as it has.

Hearing stories like this one after the fact make them somehow less magical. You might think, when telling this I’ve re-imagined the past to make it conform more neatly to what I was told would happen. Perhaps I stretched a few details or omitted a few inconvenient facts. Especially since, those of you who know me know I am quite the spiritual junky. I believe in fate, clairvoyance, and the like—actually no…I’m always trying to believe in fate, clairvoyance and the like, but I can never quite get there, because even more than I am a spiritual junky, I am a skeptic. As many wonderful stories as I’ve heard about magic in everyday life, I still question them. As many otherworldly things that have happened to me, I still feel like a crazy person for acknowledging them.

So, I’m going to tell you what happened. I’m going to be as truthful as is possible. And, I’m going to let you judge for yourselves.

Here’s what happened:

In April of 2009, a dear friend of mine went to a tarot card reader in Seattle. I’m not sure why she went, but when I saw her next, she was raving about him. Apparently, everything he had told her had been pretty spot-on. He’d even given her a whole play-by-play of what was happening in the next couple years. “You should go see him before you leave for Peace Corps!” she suggested. I always loved stuff like this, especially after such a glowing recommendation, so I decided the next time I was wandering around the Ave. I would go see him.

The “Ave.” is short for University Avenue, and is the main drag of UW’s college town. The whole ten-block stretch is pretty much brick-to-brick coffee shops, restaurants, and trendy boutiques. In spite of the sizable student population and all their parent’s money, a lot of these businesses have a hard time staying afloat. Shops are always coming and going, leaving the place in a constant state of evolution. Unbelievably, one of the few shops that stayed put during my entire tenure at the University of Washington is a store called “Gargoyles.” They sell (almost exclusively) gargoyle statuettes. As you might imagine, in spite of the ridiculous amount of time I’d spent on the Ave. I’d never gone in this particular store. Though, I’d taken every opportunity I could to comment about burgeoning, yet clandestine gargoyle statuette market. Naturally, this is where the tarot card reader worked.

So some bright afternoon I wandered in there and asked to have my tarot cards read. The woman behind the counter disappeared into the back of the shop, saying she’d have to see if “he felt like doing a reading.” No, he did not. “Come back tomorrow,” she said. Well, he’s certainly playing the part, I thought.

Not the next day, but soon after I returned to the shop and asked, again, for a card reading. This time I was shown to a private corner of the store, amidst many a statuette, where a thin, middle-aged guy was type, type, typing away on his laptop. I guess you can’t expect mystics to always be mystical.

Anyway, we began the reading with a short interview. Many a skeptic have accused these “seers” of being nothing more than very observant fakes, deriving what seem like divine conclusions from minute details of a person’s appearance, conduct and speech. So I tried to hold the same posture and give the guy as little detail about my life as possible. I did tell him I was a student and that I was joining the Peace Corps. At that point I didn’t know where I was going yet, but I didn’t tell him I had requested Africa.

I can’t remember too clearly what he said about my past and present, but I do remember thinking it was right on. He said that the academic program I was in suited me and I was doing very well. He said I was happy and that life was going well, except for one dysfunctional relationship. (It was true, I was mid-falling out with a friend.) I asked him how to repair the relationship and he told me to just let it go.

After the past and present, he moved on to the future. This should be easy enough, I thought. He’ll tell me that Peace Corps will be hard at first, but I’ll get used to it, succeed, finish my two years and come back to the States and land my dream job. Nope. Here’s what he said: You will go to a very difficult country like Burkina Faso. He used the words impoverished and worn-torn. At first, you will really like it and do well, but after four months you will lose your footing and never really get it back. You will struggle a great deal with questions of inequity and suffer a lot. Finally, after a year and a half you will leave the first place and go to someplace new where you will find the work you will do for the rest of your life.

This shocked me—mostly because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear, that Peace Corps would be the adventure of my life. So, let’s break it all down: I wouldn’t use the word “war-torn” to describe Niger, but it is impoverished and very similar to Burkina Faso. As for having a hard time, when I first got to Peace Corps, I was just as happy and at ease as ever. During my first few months in Gotheye, I would walk around the village with this amazing sense of “how lucky am I?” I was having such an amazing time, I decided a thousand times the tarot card reader must have been full of shit. What struggles? I thought. Sure I was adjusting and had bad days, but overall was very happy.

When we were consolidated in November 2009 and I was evacuated from Gotheye I reread the entry I made in my journal after visiting the tarot card reader. (I wrote it all down as a way to verify I didn’t change the details around in my head to make his prophecy seem truer.) I had forgotten he’d said I would like it at first and start to struggle only after the first few months, so I about lost it when I read the words (there in my own hand writing) “you will like it for the first four months, and then in NOVEMBER you will lose your footing and never get it back.”

At this point, I started telling more people about what was happening. And, those I told wisely counseled not to let his words become a self-fulfilling prophecy in which I was told I would be miserable, and so let myself be miserable. I was also determined to be happy and successful, so for my part, I did everything I could to make life in my second village work. I certainly did struggle with questions of inequality, but not in the oh-my-gosh-everyone-here-had-nothing-and-I-have-so-much way. I mean, that did cross my mind, but what I was essentially obsessed with during my time in Golle were two things: why did I get such a bad site; and how come everyone is doing better work than me? Whenever a friend did a successful project, it made me feel so inadequate. When I visited other friends’ sites, I would spend the entire visit silently tallying up the things they had that made their life easier than mine. This is not a new thing for me…in fact, I would say it is one of my fundamental character flaws. But before Niger, I had never had to face (with such the stabbing frequency and proximity) my inability to always be the best. So, yes I suffered and struggled with questions of inequity.

At the point in my service when I took the PCVL position and moved to Dosso, I wondered a couple of things. First, if this was my big move, how come the tarot card reader hadn’t told me I would move from my first village too? He’d only mentioned one move. Second, what life work would I find as the PCVL?

The same week I had been in country a year and a half, we were evacuated. Let me say that again, the SAME week I'd been in country a year and a half, we were evacuated. I was one of thirty or so who were lucky enough to continue our service and not return to the states.

This just blows my mind. This isn't like predicting "the Peace Corps will be hard," which is like saying "it will rain this winter in Seattle" or "Lindsay Lohan will return to rehab." It's not like leaving after a year and half is a common thing for a PCV. In fact, I would say it's extremely rare. My best guess is that more than 90% of volunteers who make it through their first year stay for the entire second year. No one leaves after a year and half, just six months before his COS date.

Just...consider it...

No, I haven’t found my life’s work in Senegal. And the other thing he told me, which apparently had not come true is that I would meet the love of my life here in Africa…but he said “in the next one to three years,” so I’ve still got until April of 2012…

That’s the story. Even after everything, I, myself, am still not sure what to make of it. Amidst the evacuation I was convinced that tarot card reader must have a direct line with fate, but now I've started doubting it again. I mean, yes, everything he said came true, but now I’ve been in Senegal TWO WHOLE MONTHS and STILL haven’t found my life’s work...but such is the human mind that it always tries to rationalize the unexplainable and remain in control.

Seyni

April 26, 2011

Today I am writing to say good-bye to a dear friend who has passed away. Seyni Soumana, the program assistant/driver for the Dosso region died due to high blood pressure. I had mentioned him a many times before in this blog, but never felt like I did him justice. So I'll try to say more now. He was my best Nigerien friend, one of the biggest supports in my Peace Corps service, and the heart and soul of Team Dosso. Though he was a dear friend, I really don’t feel like I know him well enough to claim I am writing about his WHOLE life, so I will just tell you about the parts of Seyni I knew.

Seyni was really tall. He always wore a pair of Nike sunglasses that make him look like Shaft. He had a huge scar up the side of his cheek to mark him as a member of the Songhai ethnic group. Basically, he would have looked like a total badass if it weren’t for the permanent smile stuck across his face. He’d worked for Peace Corps for more than 25 years when I was moved to the Dosso region, and when I was installed in Golle, he told me a million times “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.” And he did. More than anyone else on the Peace Corps Niger staff, I felt like Seyni was there to support me. He would come at any hour of the night to retrieve a sick volunteer. He spent countless days and weeks sorting through “village drama,” like what happened with my drug-abusing landlord, just to allow volunteers to do their work. I can’t even begin to explain the relief a volunteer feels for knowing that just one person is really on her side and is really there to help her. No matter what happened, what trouble I got into, I knew Seyni was only a phone call away.

Seyni was motivated in a way that few other Peace Corps staff members are, and that was that he truly believed in the mission of Peace Corps volunteers. “You guys is doing a really good thing for Niger,” he told me constantly. He also understood why we wanted to be Peace Corps volunteers—something most Nigeriens just didn’t get. After all why would anyone want to leave the comfort and abundance of America to live in a mud hut? “I used to think you guys is crazy for coming to live in the bush with nothing, but one time in America I did camping and I see being away from cities is really doing a good thing for you,” he said. Perhaps most importantly, he loved the volunteers like his own children. And I think for most of us, he definitely became a father figure.

He wasn’t well educated, but he was smart. This was evident to anyone who talked with him and after all self-learned English during his time with Peace Corps. He told me once, “If I finished high school, I’d be the president of Niger.” And, I don’t doubt it, because besides being absolutely adored by essentially everyone he encountered, Seyni knew how to get shit done.

“What the fuck you still sleeping for?” he yelled at me as he was backing his jeep out of the Dosso hostel compound. This is how Seyni let’s you know he’s ready to start work and wants you to come with him. When I took the job as the PCVL/RR in Dosso, I remarked many times how I felt like I’d become his assistant. I did a lot of other stuff, but most of the time I was with Seyni. He would give me a scrap of paper with some phone number on it and say, “Give this back to me on Thursday.” Or he would say, “Call so-and-so and let him know we’re coming to see him.” Other times he would rush me through to get in the car and do errands, only to discover he didn’t actually need my help, he only wanted company.

Once, after a long day on the road, we were driving back to Dosso together, only to get stuck behind the victory procession of Nigerien wrestlers. The crowd took over the road and stopped for several minutes in every village between Birni and Dosso, thereby taking forever and making it impossible to pass. Seyni’s solution was to (at one of the villages) veer off the road and rip through several millet fields, cutting around behind the village, back toward the main road, then racing the procession down the side of the road until he could cut ahead of them. He never actually slowed down for any of this, but when we made it back to the pavement he looked over at me with wild eyes and said something like, “That’s why they call me crazy driver.” I realized quickly after I started working with him it was better to just not look out the window when we were going somewhere.

Another time, we had gone to Kiota together to drop of supplies for a new latrine and had visited the Cheikh there. The Kiota Cheikh is a religious figure, one of the most important in West Africa. People travel from all around to see him, so I was just a little intimidated as I went to meet him. The meeting was short, but Seyni spent quite a bit of time whispering up at the Cheikh, who was seated on a plush sofa, while the rest of us sat on the ground. “What did you talk to the Cheikh about?” I asked Seyni on the drive home. “I asked him to pray for you guys,” he said. “Whenever I see him, I always ask him to pray for you, because you know, he is really powerful guy, the Cheikh. If he prays for you, it works. Unless…sometimes he forgets, but if he does it, it really works.”

I loved the way he would fall over laughing at my friend Katy and me when he came into the hostel to find us with green cosmetic facemasks on. I love the way he loved American food, and the sound he made when I fed him raw cookie dough for the first time. I love that, after picking up a volunteer with a severe malaria and sitting with him all night while the volunteer hallucinated, the next morning he told the volunteer, “Man, I think this guy really going to die.”

When we were evacuated, I watched Seyni’s heart break when I told him we were leaving. In the 72 hours following, before we left, he continued to give his job everything he had and more, though it was plain to everyone how upset he was. Peace Corps was his life and without it, not only was he without money, but seemingly without a purpose. Where else was he going to get a job where he would need to know slangy English, all the roads in Dosso, and how to drive like a madman?

Leaving Dosso for the last time, all the volunteers piled on to the short white bus we always called the magic bus, but Seyni stopped me and said, “You come ride with me. I don’t want to be alone.” I was expecting the usually gabby Seyni or even complainy Seyni, but mostly we just rode in comfortable silence. At one point Seyni, without taking his eyes off the road, said, “Hamsatou, I don’t know what I will do without you guys. I think I will die.” I was horrified to hear him talking like this, so I did my best to reassure him. The only thing that I could think of was the over-used, somewhat cheesy Zarma quip, Irkoy ga ni bana, God will pay you. And even though I felt like an idiot for using such basic words, Seyni relaxed in his seat and said, “You know, there is a God. That I know. I know it. Allah will provide.”

I don’t think Seyni was forecasting anything when he said he thought he would die without us, but I don’t think anyone was surprised to hear he’d died of high-blood pressure. The man took everything on himself tried to be everything to everybody, and I’m sure the task of providing for his family without the Peace

Corps paycheck was overwhelmingly stressful.

The thing that makes me the saddest is that we can’t be together today to remember Seyni. I'm sure there are generations of Peace Corps Volunteers--we don't even know each other. I imagine if we could gather all the PCVs who knew and loved Seyni, we would cause quite a sceen. I wish more than anything we could all curl up in the Dosso hostel tonight and tell stories about Seyni, share memories, laugh and cry. But the volunteers who knew and loved him are spread all over the world right now. So I invite you to join this group of facebook: Remembering Seyni, and we’ll do the best we can with what we’ve got.

Seyni, Irkoy ma cabe cere.

What Niger Was.

April 11th, 2011

So, before I begin this entry, let me just say that I am definitely more upbeat than the last time I wrote. I’ve had a really positive couple of weeks and am significantly less inclined to lie down on random sidewalks. Don’t worry.

Also, I know you’re all probably very interested in what I’m doing now, in Senegal. (I promise to write one of those entries soon) but lately I’ve felt compelled to write once more about Niger. As I’m sure I will for a long time, I’m still reflecting on my time there and how it changed me and I’ve reached some conclusions I want to share. Quick note: I talk about Niger in this entry as basically being empty and horrible…and I feel weird about that because the place is so full of wonderful, loving people, rich culture/traditions, and interesting places. But, in this instance when I say, “Niger” I am referring more to my 18 months there, my work, and the actual landscape, than the country as a whole/its people.

But let me first say:

St. Louis is simply irresistible. It’s comfortable year round; the streets are significantly cleaner than any others I’ve seen in Africa. The island on which I live thrives with cutesy restaurants, charming hotels, historical landmarks, and handicraft shops. Fresh produce is everywhere. There is a grocery store mere blocks from my house and a café with wireless and creampuffs. The beach is just a short stroll away. I mean, there are actual, goddamned horse-drawn buggies that haul tourists from one end of the island to the other. St. Louis is no South of France, but it is definitely easy to like.

Niger wasn’t. Niger was blistering hot, without apparent charm, dusty, dirty, and largely empty. The first year I was there, I spent as much time hating that country as I did loving it. The Sahel took on the persona of a difficult, quirky relative: often infuriating, sometimes disarming, but always someone you love to hate. During that first year, my calls home were infused with an it’s-so-horrible-it’s-funny sarcasm. I remember thinking too often, why would anyone ever come here? –a thought made more pronounced by sparse offers of loved ones to visit.

As much as I joked about it, a lot of the time I spent in Golle felt vaguely like serving a prison sentence. In spite of my adventures in my village, it was strangely painful to stay in there. I was always counting the days until I got to leave my site for the regional capital, cold soda, and other volunteers. Besides the lack of amenities in Golle, it became clear I would not be able to establish any meaningful collaboration with the mayor’s office. Other projects were slow to follow, and believe me, not having work is impossibly difficult for Americans—most of all me.

Of course, the painful stagnation that enveloped my first year of service disappeared when I took the new position in Dosso, but I was there for such a short time, living in Dosso is not what I will remember when I think back to Niger. I will remember myself, alone—lost in a flat, endless landscape.

When I left for Niger, I remember the excitement I felt at the prospect of spending two years in the desert—an intensely spiritual place (according to many important books I had read). So imagine my grave disappointment when I deplaned to discover the desert was nothing more than a red line butting up against a grey sky. I stuck up my nose at the stark horizon and spent my time day dreaming about the fullness of the Seattle skyline. I thought Niger was ugly and uninspiring. But, what slowly I realized over eighteen months was that one of Niger’s greatest treasures is its unapologetic sparseness. There is no luxury of abundance to soften the edge of reality, no noise to drown out a spiritual warzone: me.

Before Niger, I had always imagined personal transformation to be a fun, inspiring process…like stretching muscles. It’s slightly uncomfortable, but invigorating, gratifying and most of all, easy. What I got in Niger was no pleasant, bendy, oh-I-get-it-now experience. It was more like a deafening, terrorizing dissection of my life that I couldn’t stop any more than I could hold back the dust storms or the downpours: “Why am I not more productive? Why aren’t I better at this? Why aren’t I better at everything? Why can’t I change everything? Why did I make so many mistakes? I wasn’t I kinder, better, smarter, stronger? What am I doing wrong? Why isn’t everything easier? Why isn’t anything easy? How will I ever get through this?” And, many of the most painful questions I can’t even begin to articulate.

But, here’s the question: how did so much pain and apparent emptiness leave me so happy and full?

All of this to get you to read following quote, which (for me) best describes what Niger was. It comes from “The Prophet” a small book written by Kahlil Gibrin, given to me by my dear friend Nick.

“Joy is your sorrow unmasked. And how else can it be? The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain… When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. When you are sorrowful look again into your heart and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you they are inseparable. Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep on your bed.”

The desert carved a hole in me that the love of my villagers, Peace Corps friends, and land rushed in and filled. The pain of Niger’s emptiness, the heat and the sand, polished me—made me better. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I would do over in a heartbeat.