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.