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.

Urban Sprawl

March 26, 2011

Yesterday was Friday. I was walking home from work and afternoon errands, and a mere two blocks from my house I was so overcome by hunger, exhaustion, frustration, anxiety, and nostalgia that I seriously felt I could not take another step. My first impulse was to just sit down on the sidewalk, and, in a moment of deep self-indulgence, I really considered doing it. The concrete seemed so sunny and friendly. Why not just sit there and wait for some kind of solution to find me?

I didn’t sit. I kept walking, mostly because I knew that sitting on a sidewalk would in no way make me less hungry. Nevertheless, I am still a bit awestruck by such an intense feeling of I-can’t-go-on. Part of the problem is that I have started running again, and—out of shape as I am, all the exercise makes my legs feel like they are made of jelly. It was also a Friday, after a week of work at the Talibe center, where I split my time between tedious data entry and feeling deeply inadequate, mostly because of my lack of language. I am throwing myself into learning French and Wolof as best I can, but learning a language takes time and communication is difficult. That morning had been especially frustrating, as I had spent at least an hour watching my boss edit my beautiful, equation-driven Excel spreadsheets with hunt-and-peck typing and a hand calculator. Explaining Excel is hard in French.

The nostalgia is easy enough to understand. I miss Niger, and my friends. (I think about you all the time.) I miss being the pro, the old blood, the wizened sage.

The anxiety stems from a combination of boy-troubles and the fact that, with regular Internet access, I am able to spend several hours a day reading the news. Though there is a great deal of unrest in Northern Africa, things are stable in Senegal, minus a few some anti-government protests. I can’t pinpoint the one crisis that is making me so uneasy, but I’ve realized the single greatest psychological impact the Peace Corps has had on me is that I am constantly anticipating the next disaster: site closure, coup d’état, faulty latrine, crazy landlord, friends dying, evacuation. Things never stay settled for long. We live in a constant state of flux.

Here’s the thing, though: Really, my time in St. Louis is going very well. I don’t LOVE my life here, but, walking around the cute colonial streets, I feel like I really COULD. It’s beautiful, comfortable, and I feel like my work at the talibe center will eventually be very fulfilling. The fact is I’ve been flung back in time to September 2009, when I was first adjusting to my site in Niger. I barely spoke Zarma and really had no idea what I was doing. I constantly questioned my decision to join the Peace Corps, was agonized by the fact my days weren’t caulked full of clearly meaningful, gratifying, baby-saving work.

I’ve forgotten how my first months in Niger were peppered with debilitating frustration and doubt, as well as glorious little triumphs that filled me with such a light of joy and clarity. And now here I am, the new kid again, suffering the same extremes: landlady scolds me + so-and-so doesn’t understand what I’m saying = I have a bad morning and question why I’m even here; later, a cute, so-shy-he-can-barely-look-at me talibe does a Winnie the Pooh puzzle with me + I say something sassy in French = I feel like a million bucks and daydream about living in Africa for the rest of my life.

You’d think that things would be easier the second time around. I think that too, and I think that thinking is making it harder. In other words, as a Peace Corps savant, master-integrater and language learner I wonder: I’ve been here three whole weeks, why are things easy yet? Also, I need to remember I don’t even have the strong support network of volunteers I developed in Niger. I’m sure I will find good friends here too, but I’m just getting started. And until I get to a point where I am comfortable with the language and established in my post, I need to resist all urges to sprawl on the sidewalk and wait for the end to come.

Training, WAIST, Toilet Issues and My New Post (not in that order)

March 5, 2011

Right now I am sitting in a third-floor, sunny apartment overlooking the Atlantic. It’s warm, but not hot; and while the apartment isn’t exactly clean, the view more than makes up for it. I’m in St. Louis (San Louie, in French) Senegal—not to be confused with St. Louis (Saint Louis, in English), MO. Even though I’m sure St. Louis, MO is very nice, I am more excited about things happening here in Senegal—this is my new post.

(It's ok if you're jealous)

First, let me tell you a little about the city I will be living in. St. Louis was the colonial capital until Senegal gained independence in 1960. It is located in Northwest Senegal, where the mouth of the Senegal River meets the ocean. The city itself splits its 200,000 residents between the mainland and an island, reachable by bridge. Several bird reserves and a bunch of postcard-worthy beaches also surround the city.

As for weather, St. Louis only has two seasons, the rainy season from June to October, characterized by heat, humidity and storms, and the dry season from November to May, characterized by cool ocean breeze and dust from the Harmatten winds. Basically, it’s great weather year-round, never experiencing the stifling heat of the Sahel.

I look out the window and I can see palm trees, in front of turquoise water and a beautiful sunset.

Also St. Louis

What about my job? I’m going to be working on the island with a Senegalese NGO called Enfance Claire. Enfance Claire’s mission is to provide services to “Talibes" (pronounced tal-EE-bays) Koranic students sent from the bush to study with a marabout (a Koranic authority). As part of their studies, the children are sent to the streets everyday to beg for food in order to learn humility. Unfortunately, often times the marabouts do not have enough money to feed their students at all and the children end up spending all their time on the street begging. In these cases, the children may stay with the teacher for years only learning to recite several Koranic verses, without understanding their meaning. The children rarely learn to actually read and write Arabic and, since they are not home helping their families farm, do not learn any practical skills. After three or four years of studying the Koran, the student may return home to attend public school, but more often they end up as adults without any skills or knowledge to maintain a livelihood.

In other cases, if the marabout is corrupt, he will send his students to beg, and then collect their earnings at the end of the day. Many students are beaten or punished for not bringing back a large enough sum, and so eventually run away. The Human Rights Watch estimated 90% of the homeless children in Dakar are former Talibes.

Talibe in Dakar

It is important to point out that not all marabouts are corrupt. What’s more, in recent years parents have started sending their children to Koranic school only on the weekends or holidays. This modernized system allows children to gain both a formal and religious education. Also, it ends the tradition of sending a child away from his or her family to study the Koran; this way a student still has the support and care of his or her family.

I think this is a very positive change. My language trainer, Sakhir, was former talibe and while he openly condemn the old practices and corrupt marabouts, he is sending is daughter to Koranic school everyday after school. (Girls enrolling in Koranic school is also a recent phenomenon.)

Nevertheless, the problem of marabouts abusing, exploiting and neglecting their students remains. In St. Louis (remember SAN Lou-EE, not SAINT Lou-IS), there are an estimated 30,000 homeless/begging children. So, as I said before, Enfance Claire works to provide these children with basic services. For example, their office doubles as a drop in center where the children can shower and play, but the organization also offers programs to provide counseling, enroll kids in public school, and to provide them with vocational and life skills training.

I’m not sure what my job will be exactly, but I have a meeting with the organization and my Peace Corps supervisor on Monday to figure that out. My best guess is that I will work to improve certain programs, while at the same time trying to provide some over all managerial support.

Housing is still up in the air too, but it’s look like I will have my own apartment. (This is very exciting news.)

In other news, the rest of training went well, largely because Hailey and I discovered a hotel with wireless and a pool mere minutes from our houses. I fell into a comfortable routine with my homestay family: breakfast, class, lunch, class, afternoon walk/run/internet time, dinner, bed. The cement-block house was very comfortable, even if the neighborhood—full or partially constructed homes—gave off a wild-west, ghost-town vibe. We chatted and joked a fair amount, but whenever the power was on, the mother (a widow and her four kids) were always squatted in front of their TV. Also, after having lived with five different families/neighborhoods in Niger, I just don’t have the let’s-be-really-good-friends energy I used to.

I must say, I’ve developed a much stronger dislike of MTV since coming to Senegal. Why does that have to be the one channel broadcasted around the world to represent America? It’s pretty embarrassing to be sitting with a conservative Muslim family while they watch a 17-year-old girl talk about her sex addiction. Granted, this is what the family chose to watch thereby sort of excusing the programming, but I was still embarrassed—especially since the family kept asking if I knew the people on the screen.

Besides MTV, the family’s familiarity with western culture made the homestay easier. In the evenings, I would sit around with the four kids and we would all do our homework together. My host mom was completely understood why I would want to spend entire afternoons swimming and using the Internet. And, I swear to Allah, the family slept in on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Funny how I never noticed my families not sleeping in in Niger, but such a small detail so Senegal makes it seem infinitely more like America. Also, unlike my families in Niger, this family was less timid about interacting with me, while at the same time still very respectful of my privacy. The mother would ask me questions about my life in America and Niger. The kids would correct my French grammar and play catch with me. (The kids here wear clothes and have toys!)

The food was amazing too! Sorry Niger, Senegal’s got you beat. Rather than just millet pate and sauce every night, the Senegalese eat a lot of fresh fish and vegetables on rice or couscous. They also make an amazing lemon, onion sauce with chicken and an equally amazing peanut sauce on rice. For breakfast, I would just eat a piece of a baguette with Nescafe, but would supplement that with a mid-morning snack of yogurt mixed with grain, which you could buy on the side of the road.

All in all this was one of the best homestays I’ve ever had. The only fly in the ointment was the minor difficult I had with the family’s toilet. Now…after having spent nearly two years in Africa, I can poop just about anywhere, which is to say, I have low toilet standards. So, as I expected, I was perfectly comfortable with the family’s Turkish toilet (see image). That wasn’t the problem. The problem was I kept accidentally dropping things in the toilet, and then being forced to fish them out.

Turkish Toilet
Photo courtesy of Linda Huff Taylor

The first time it happened, I dropped a bar of soap in. I was trying to wash my hands and have the water go down the drain, but this is trickier than it sounds since there is no faucet. So, I had to pour the cup of water with one hand, while clutching the large bar of soap in the other. And, you know, soap is slippery.

I know what you’re thinking: what was so special about this bar of soap that I felt the need to rescue it from the six inches of poop water it rested in. The answer is: nothing. But…if I left it there, my family would surely discover the soap in short order. And I don’t think I would have survived the why-is-there-soap-down-the-toilet conversation. So, I stood there for a moment, gave a grim nod to the toilet and did what had to be done. I laughed about it later with Hailey, but mostly because I told her the story after she used the soap in question to wash her hands.

Funny as this incident is by itself, another bar of soap was down the toilet within a week. And then the cap to my water bottle… But the real winner was dropping my cell phone down the toilet. It fell out of my jeans pocket when I was taking a shower in the next stall over. This was much more traumatic than any of the previous incidents as there was clearly a turd (not mine) floating next to the phone (mine). But that phone cost me money, dammit! So I DID WHAT HAD TO BE DONE. After this, phone went through a very stringent decontamination regiment, involving water, q-tips and a lot of bleach…but I still hold the thing and inch or two away from my mouth when I talk.

Is this all an over-share? This is my life. Plus, Hailey and Sakhir thought it was hilarious.

Other than that, the only really exciting thing I’ve done is to participate in the West African Intramural Softball Tournament (WAIST). This is not just a Peace Corps thing, but rather a three-day event that brings expats, NGO workers, embassy staff, and PCVs from all over west Africa together.

Peace Corps volunteers seem to have a different idea of what the tournament should entail than the other participants…as in they play in costumes and not by the rules, so the tournament is organized to insolate the rest of the participates from Peace Corps as long as possible. Thus, in the beginning PCVs only playing other PCVs.

Since there were only eight of us, Niger Refugee couldn’t be it’s own team. This turned out to be a good thing in the end, because we were grouped with other volunteers from Cape Verde. The Capeverdians were all super cool (they brought capes). Together…we developed an unbeatable team chemistry that allowed us to win our division! Though, as I suggested above, the games weren’t really softball games at all. In our first match, we played a Peace Corps Senegal team dressed up as “Hot Cops.” There was a lot of thrusting. Also, they had at least 20 outfielders, and the hambugler kept stealing second base—I mean, actually picking up the base and running a way with it. Our team was accused of being too competitive, because for our first game we were all sober (at 8:30 am) and actually tried to win with the same effort you might see in a high school P.E. class. Though we did play one or two “too competitive” Peace Corps teams as well.

Note the "Hot Cop" on first

I scored two runs.

Unfortunately, the Niger group couldn’t stay for the last day of games, because we had to return for language classes. This was also a blessing in disguise, as the rest of our team reported to use they were destroyed 31 to three by a bunch of really competitive high school students. Also…our team tried to play the game on three hours of sleep. No problem.

WAIST sounds like a big shitshow…and in a lot of ways it was. But it was also really amazing to see how much creativity PCVs put into their costumes, how much fun PCVs can have together, and to have the opportunity to get to know volunteers from other countries. For all the shenanigans, I had a lot of amazing conversations with other volunteers about the work they were doing, what life is like in their country, and the commonalities of our experience. All in all, it was a good time.