First Month at Post

September 22, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


September 24, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


October 7, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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


October 9, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


October 11, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last Days of Training

September 13, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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


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

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

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

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

Zarma Speech

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




Zarma Version

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

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

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

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

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

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

English Version

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

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

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

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

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

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

August 31st, 2009


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



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



I'm the one in the yellow.

Site Live-In

August 29, 2009

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Victory is Mine!

July 29th, 2009

Ladies and gentlemen,

Welcome to my first official blog post! As of today I have officially been in Niger for three weeks. I am writing now from the Peace Corps training site in Hamdalleye, a small village about 30 km outside of Niamey. I won’t actually be able to post this for another two weeks, so reading it now, you may be a bit behind the times…or, I am behind the times…either way, more has happened since I wrote this. (Author’s note: it’s now August 12 and I still haven’t had the chance to post this. I’m going to Niamey this Sunday and if God wills it I will get the chance to use the Internets. I apologize for the untimely delivery of all this blogging. Read it slowly. It might be a while before I can post more.)

My Arrival

So, from the beginning… Philadelphia was uneventful. I met my training class and had a very brief training on safety. We also went over our itinerary, and the “how to”/ “in case of” of getting to Africa. I ate nothing but pizza and ice cream for three days…

I arrived in Niger without any trouble. The flight from Philadelphia to Paris was really long, and I couldn’t sleep; so by the time we were flying from Paris to Niamey I was delirious with exhaustion and too tired to get nervous. I must admit though, I was a bit worried/skeptical to see how the landscape changed as we approached our destination. For the last half hour of our flight, I couldn’t pick out a single sign of human life in the orange sea of sand below.

The heavy afternoon heat immediately overwhelmed me as we deplaned, and since it’s rainy season, it very was also very humid. My first experience in Niger was being driven the 50 yards from the plane to the airport in an air-conditioned bus. I’m not sure why this was necessary since ours was the only plane at the airport and there was only one gate... Anyway, collecting baggage was no trouble (except for those whose luggage had been misplaced by Air France), and we were met by a mob of current Peace Corps Volunteers and staff, who cheered for us as we exited the airport.

From the airport we were driven to the Peace Corps training site (called Tondibon) in Hamdalleye (Hahm-duh-lie), or as many have come to call it, “mini-America,” complete with flush toilets and a volleyball court. We were all so drained from the trip that they pretty much let us go straight to bed, but the around midnight I awoke to howling winds, announcing the arrival of a storm. After fumbling to shove my mattress and mosquito net inside, I became aware of the fact that my teeth crunched with sand and my hair was plastered with grit to the point that I could make it stand on end. Welcome to Niger.


The Weather



Since that first night there have at least a few more that have been interrupted by rain. The first time it rained after I moved into Bartcawal (Bar-cha-wall), my homestay dad was kind enough to wake me up before I got drenched. Now, every night before I go to bed I assess the humidity, cloud cover, and wind to guess if I’ll make it through the night without making the mad dash inside. No matter how bad it looks I always end up staying outside until it actually starts raining. It’s a real tragedy to miscalculate and spend a sweaty night inside your hut for no reason.

There are many theories aiming to predict the weather patterns here. For example, if the wind comes from the Northeast it will rain, or if you can see the stars as you go to sleep it won’t. I’ve also been told to listen to the animals, which are supposed to get especially restless before a storm. All of these theories, however, haven’t proven themselves; the wind blows from all directions before a storm, which can cloud the sky over in minutes, and the animals make noise all the time. The other night I was staring down a 180-degree panorama of lightning, but still made my bed outside. (That time I made it through the whole night without a drop, another similar night I made it until around 11:45 before waking up to a sand blizzard.) My family hasn’t been much help in getting a feel for weather patterns either. Whenever I ask any of them if they think it will rain I get one of two responses: “I really don’t know” and “if Allah wills it.” Really, I’m thrilled to have such an exciting sleeping routine. When hot season comes around in February I am going to be sorely missing the desert thunderstorms.


My Homestay Family



Throughout the day I read, study, converse, etc. on a small woven mat in my host family’s concession. The concession is very nice, shady, and far enough out of town to afford me a great deal of privacy. One of my fellow Bartcawal volunteers has his hut right in the middle of the bush taxi stand. He told me it’s rare if ten minutes pass without someone poking their head over his wall and to check on him, or invite him to come and work in the fields. My family only shares a concession with one other family, who is very nice. The mother is a schoolteacher. I was surprised to learn that she and I not only shared a name, Hamsatou (my Nigerien nickname), but are also the same age. Needless to say she and I have experienced a very different 22 years.

My homestay family is great. The father, Jzbrilla, is the local authority on the Koran (a marabou). He is basically a mullah who teaches Koranic studies, but he isn’t officially ordained. After farming all day, my father oversees the eldest two boys’ (Soumalia who is 18 and Yoga who is 12) practice of Arabic. I was impressed to find out that the boys could read and write in Arabic, but thus far, know no French. (I should mention that since it’s rainy season right now so the whole family is very busy keeping their millet fields in good order. During the rest of the year men hold the same rigorous schedule, but replace farming with drinking tea.)

The most I’ve interacted with my father is when my class did a cross-cultural session on Islam. Since he is a marabou, I thought it would be good to ask him about Islam and how to pray, etc. He got so excited at my question that he did a full demo for me. He got half way through and then decided I should be taking notes, so he sat me down and explained it all again, but this time he paused every other sentence to be sure I was writing. Of course everything he was saying was in either Zarma or Arabic, so I could barely understand, let alone take notes. Nevertheless, he and Soumalia insisted I write everything down and became exasperated with me when I would stop. I was glad to have a real conversation with my homestay dad. As a consequence, however, I have a whole page of absolutely incomprehensible (even to the most adept linguists) phonetic renditions of Arabic and Zarma.

Yoga and Soumalia are brothers, but could not be more different. Even though he’s younger Yoga is a lot more confident in himself and didn’t even skip a beat when I asked him (as a joke) if he had a girlfriend. Soumaila, on the other hand got really embarrassed when I asked him the same question. Yoga is almost entirely preoccupied with asserting his masculinity, and is always trying to act tough. Soumaila is much more relaxed, plays with the younger children, and even helps carry water from the well—a task that is usually reserved for women. Every night for the first two weeks, these two boys would drag themselves back from the fields and ask to look at the photo album Karin gave me as a departure gift. I thought they would get bored with it, but they and all the neighborhood kids seem to be endlessly entertained by it. Their favorite game is to flip through the book and point me out in each picture (even the ones I’m not in).

I had a really hard time explaining hang gliding, rock climbing, and snow. But as my language skills improved I think they finally got the generally idea. They love the picture of me holding the chainsaw, and everyone asks if my senior prom date is my husband. My two brothers were also very excited to hear that my father was a farmer like them. Soumaila always stares at the picture of Dad and Nicholas in the field, but is baffled by the fact that we choose to grow trees, which you can’t eat and are dirt-cheap here.

My homestay mom, Ramatou, has her own plot of peanuts, which I believe she is planning to sell after the harvest? Ramatou is really in charge of the whole circus, and runs a tight ship. She’s a great mother, as shown by how much her children seem to love her. I tell Ramatou where I am going everyday, and if I deviate from my plan by the time I get home, she already knows where I’ve been and asks me about my detour. She is a woman in constant motion. If she isn’t pulling water from the well, she’s sweeping, or bathing Abdoulai (the baby), or working in the fields, or pounding millet, or sifting millet, or cooking millet, or scrubbing something. I told her yesterday that she was always working, and she just smiled then shrugged…

Most of our interactions consist of Ramatou telling me that, even though I’ve eaten four cups of rice, I am in fact not full. Moreover, she tells me I had better eat more so that I can gain weight and get a husband. (The whole village was shocked to find out that at the ripe old age of 22 I was not thinking of getting married or having children. They are kind enough, however, to constantly suggesting possible husbands.)

Then there is my name-twin sister, Hamsatou. She holds more responsibility than the average ten-year-old as she is in charge of the goats and takes them out to graze everyday. Hamsa is a complete sweetheart, and patiently listens to me as I attempt to talk in Zarma, then faithfully replies “Ay man faham”—I don’t understand. Finally, there is Abdoulai—the baby (he’s two and chubby). Once I asked each of my siblings what they had done that day, after listing their chores, the kids reported that Abdoulai’s job is to stay home and eat. This is true. They kid is always eating something, weather it is leftovers, lutu (kind of like cake), a grasshopper, his shoes, his shirt, or anything he can find on the ground. Most everything in our concession, at one time or another, has been in Abdoulai’s mouth.

The kid used to burst into tears whenever I would get to close to him, but I’m winning him over slowly. Lately he’s been especially friendly, but I think that may have something to do with the fact that I brought him candy back from Niamey. His favorite toys include a plastic bag tied to a string, which he drags around everywhere and a shard of mirror, which he chews on, then bursts into a fit of laughter upon seeing his own reflection.

The family has more, older children who live and work in Niamey, but I’m not sure how many or what their names are.

Life with my homestay family is pretty relaxed. I see them mostly in the evenings after a day full of language, medical, and technical training. I get home between 4 and 6 pm and will sit out on my mat until dinner at 8, receiving more language training from my homestay siblings. As I mentioned above I am not yet learning French. I will later, but for now I am learning Zarma. It’s a pretty fun language that is related to Arabic and has less than 1,000 words. I thought at first that this would make things easier on me, but with so few relations, each word takes on double and even triple meanings. For example, “haw” means wind, cow, or to tie, depending on how you say it. “Bi” means black, shade and yesterday. And there are other words, with less harmless homophones…


My Living Situation

So, where am I living exactly? I live in a 10-foot-in-diameter mud hut with a six by ten concession around the front door. The concession is small enough that I don’t do too much in there, except sleep and hide from children. The town I live in is 11 km from the Peace Corps training site, so twice a week, four other volunteers and I bike in to Hamdalleye. At first, I was nervous about biking on such deteriorated roads. I remember having a conversation with Sara C. (there are three “Sara”s and three “Katie”s in my training class so I have to be specific) debating which side of the road would be the best to ride on. She thought with traffic, as we do in the USA. I was arguing to ride against traffic, since most cars have to drive slowly over the crater-sized potholes and this way we could see them coming. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter which side you ride on because cars, truck, buses, and bush taxis all drive on whichever side of the road seems to have the fewest obstructions. Some of the time they just drive down the middle of the road for no apparent reason. Anyway, I think I’ve got it down now. The first days I was wobbly, nervous and slow, now I can ride my bike at top speed while gawking at camels, waving at everyone I pass, shouting greetings, and navigating the lunar-like terrain. As a special bonus, most mornings we get to watch the sunrise over the desert.



Hamdalleye is the big city compared to Bartcawal. Not only do they have electricity, but some of my fellow volunteers are living it up with spoons, actual dinner tables, and television. In Bartcawal, the people not as accustom to hosting PCV (Peace Corps Volunteers) as in Hamdy, which has been home to something like 40 training classes over the past 20 years. In fact, we are only the second group of PCT (Peace Corps Trainees) to live here in Batcawal. As a result, everyone is eager to interact with us and help us practice our language. After a villager greets me, I am routinely quizzed on my vocabulary as I walk to and from school. It was really exhausting at first, but I’m glad to be in Bartcawal, even without electricity and running water.
As a side note, I find it funny that I took so many hot showers in the days before I left America. It was my way of saying good-bye to my old life. I remember staring up into the steam and thinking, say good-bye to such luxury as heated showers. After coming to Africa, I have discovered there is an abundance of everything hot. Now I long for just one cold shower.

What is it like in Bartcawal? Sweaty, but really very nice. Everywhere we go, we are greeted profusely. I can’t walk more than ten feet outside of my concession without someone calling my name and waving me to come over and chat. The children are in total awe of us, and for the first few weeks would actively tried to herd all the Anasaras together (literally Anasara means something like “colonizer,” but it’s what the Nigeriens call anyone who is not Nigerien). Thus, any time I went anywhere in Bartcawal, fifteen kids would jump up and down and get really excited and start pointing me around corners until finally we would come to another group of fifteen kids and an another Anasara. The now 30 children would then jump up and down and marvel at their handy work. Two Ansaras in one place! It was great, however, if I was lost and looking for another trainee. Also, when going home I just ask a kid to take me to my house.

Anasara. This is my second new name. Not really, but everyone yells it at me all the time. Or at least they do before they learn my real name. Everywhere I go…Anasara! Anasara! Anasara! I always know when one of the other volunteers is coming to visit before they even get close, because off in the distance…ANASARA! I have come to conceptualize this phenomenon as something like a motion-detection alarm system that detects the movement non-Nigeriens. I was annoyed and even a little offended by this in the beginning, but now have come to just shake it off. I remind people that my name is Hamsatou, not Anasara, and most are happy to adjust. Or, sometimes, when people are talking about me in front of me like I’m not there, I will add in something like, “Yeah, the Anasara doesn’t understand anything.” This is usually hilarious to them.

Class in Bartcawal is the following: four metal chairs under a tree in the middle of town, with a chalkboard leaning against the tree, and a goat off to the side announcing every twenty seconds that he does in fact exist and would like some recognition. There is usually a herd of cattle meandering through, a woman yelling to another woman about everything she did that day, some other women pounding millet, and about 30 children staring at the Anasaras in not-so-silent awe. (I’m not sure why, but the children really find us unendingly entertaining. They are happy to sit and stare at us for hours while we do absolutely nothing. There is one little girl who sat and watched me clean my whole hut and sweep my concession without seeming the slightest bit bored.) My fellow volunteers and I are usually slumped over in the metal chairs, fanning ourselves, and complaining about the flies. And, whenever possible in our study of Zarma, we make references to all the things we would eat if we could. (Interestingly, hamburger in Zarma means “maybe,” though it’s really pronounced hambagar) This is what I spend 15 hours each week doing.



My language trainer is a Nigerien named Abass. During class he is pretty good at ignoring the scene around us, but is also very good at making children be quiet. He is pretty quiet himself, young, not married, and speaks excellent English. Abass is very interested to learn about life in America, and is always asking us questions. He thought it was really strange that my family all live in the same town, but in different houses…Also three weeks into PST it came out that his favorite musician is Michael Bolton.

How I am in general.

In general, I am very well. I surprised myself at how easily I made the transition into this lifestyle. It helps that Nigeriens are the nicest, most helpful, and generous people in the world. Moreover, I have already survived my first bout of violent and quick-onset diarrhea. (It was nothing fancy like amoebas, just some good old-fashioned bacteria.) I am enjoying getting to know my training class, and am progressing slowly, but surely with my language.

In week (or actually when I post this) I will have a cell phone. I’m not going to post my number for obvious reasons, but email me if you would like it. (I would love to hear about life on the home front!) I’ve heard that the best way to get a hold of me is with Skype (a computer program you can download and makes calls with) BUT if you have slow Internets then you may want to invest in a calling card (Mom). That’s really all I got for now, I will post more when I get the chance!! I LOVE YOU ALL!

-Katie


August 7, 2009

Looking back over the weeks, I see that we’ve done a lot since our arrival. The second weekend here we were given a break from classes to go on a demystification field trip and see life as a real PCV. My team also lost by a mere half point in the Gender and Development Olympics, which consisted of a water-on-head-with-fake-baby-on-back relay, a peanut butter making competition (we hand-pounded the peanuts), and a tea-making competition. There have also been countless games of cards, catch phrase, and volleyball. Tomorrow, we will go on our first official tour of Niamey, after which, we will be allowed to go to Niamey any Sunday.

As I mentioned before, Tuesdays and Fridays are core days when we have all our classes at the Peace Corps training site and usually get some kind of injection. So far I’ve learned how to make a malaria slide, how to cook for myself in the bush, which modes of transportation I can trust, and how decipher the many kinds of diarrhea. (Side note: Niger boasts more cases of severe diarrhea per year than any other Peace Corps country. In 2008, there were 175 cases per each 100 volunteers, making Niger by far the most-you-know-what country in the Peace Corps.)

On core days, we all become worshippers of a thing called “Pause.” Pause is a half hour break between session, which is nice, but the really amazing thing is the snack we get every Pause: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, candied peanuts, cookies hot chocolate, tea, coffee, popcorn, and honest-to-God slushies; and by honest-to-God slushies, I mean semi-frozen hibiscus juice, which tastes remarkably like bubblegum. If a session goes over its allotted time, everyone begins to shifting uneasily in their seats, craning their necks to see if the Pause snack has already been set out. If we actually witness the container of juice go by (which I have to mention is dripping with condensation because it’s so amazingly cold) we erupt into storm of physical and verbal protests, begging to be let free to partake in the very short lifespan of frozen liquid.

If a session finishes before Pause is served, all the trainees start to hover by the door to the dining hall. Everyone tries to act like it’s no big thing, but once it’s clear that Pause it on its way, we all half-run like kindergarteners to line up first. Lunch is equally delicious. Sometimes we even get pizza, which isn’t actually pizza, but is still the most amazing thing I’ve tasted. (Recall what the Cervantes once wrote: “Hunger is the best sauce.”) It’s on core days that I’ve discovered how much I can actually fit in my stomach. I am usually stuffed on the bike ride home and can barely peddle myself the 11 km home.

It’s not that I don’t love the food that my homestay mom fixes for me. I actually have discovered that I enjoy an especially fancy and diverse menu compared to many of my friends who eat millet and okra sauce (we have another name for it) twice a day, everyday. For lunch and dinner I have usually eat one of the following dishes: rice and sauce, rice and beans, spaghetti, rice and spaghetti, rice and onions, rice with tonka (a pepper topping), or rice. It’s always delicious, but honestly I would do terrible things for a hamburger or ice cream. I also plowed through my stash of candy and drink mix like there was no tomorrow. And, I’m not the only one. I’ve noticed that recently almost all of trainee conversations center on food…either coming in or going out.

Many people asked me prior to my departure what kind of work I would be doing in Niger, and I told them all I had no idea. This is still true, since so much of what I will be doing depends on my site placement; however, I do have a clearer picture than I did before, so I will elaborate as much as I can…

I am here with a group of 32 trainees. Sixteen of us are MCDs (Municipal and Community Developers) and the other 16 are CYE (Community and Youth Education). As an MCD I will be placed in a medium-sized village, and as a Zarmaphone I will be placed in either the Tillaberri or Douso regions. Zarmaland (these two regions) is much more liberal than the Hausa-speaking eastern communities. Nevertheless, I plan on wearing full-length skirts and covering my head until I am settled enough in my village to know what’s what. I’m no floozy. I will get my site announcement in about one week, and shortly after that will go and stay at my site for five or six days by myself to get a feel for everything.

Where I am placed will greatly dictate the kind of work I will be doing. For example, if I am placed closer to Niamey, I may work with International NGOs on various projects. The second weekend here I got to go and visit a real, live PCV (you might as well get used to the acronyms now). This endeavor is known in PC lingo as Demystification, or Demyst. Anyway, my Demyster, Mary, introduced me to another veteran MCD about to COS (Close of Service). This MCD and other MCDs I’ve met have done a lot of work with their local mayors office, have mapped their communes, filled out birth certificates, helped train auxiliary municipal agents, helped fund computer labs, libraries, and sewing trainings centers, AND ran student government programs. For the first three months at site, I am not allowed (nor would I want to) plan projects, but what I do plan will depends entirely on where I am and what is needed.

The whole idea of a decentralized government is very new to Niger. In fact, the first municipal elections were held in 2004. The next set of elections were scheduled for this year, but have been postponed. As part of the decentralization, each commune (a commune is essentially the equivalent of an American county) elected their own government, which consists of a mayor, vice-mayor, tax officer, general secretary, and commune counsel. At least ten percent of the counsel members are supposed to be women. Each commune had to write a PDC (stands for something in French), which lays out a five-year plan of development for each commune. This document will be useful for any MCD PCV, since it contains a needs assessment and goals for development.

Of course, this is all, “en principe” as they say in French; which is to say theory and reality sometimes have nothing to do with each other. While in theory each commune would have all of these municipal agents and planning, reality presents quiet a few challenges. For example, many of the municipal agents are not literate; other communes cannot fill every position. Since few of the positions are paid well, many agents spend the majority of their time looking for paid trainings. The list goes on… Regardless, I am very excited to get to post and get to know my community.

Things I’ve Learned in Niger:

1. You can get sunburned in the shade.
2. You can get sunburned if you wear anything less than SPF 50.
3. You can get sunburned if you don’t reapply sunscreen every 20 minutes.
4. Bedbugs are real and they will eat you alive if you aren’t careful.
5. Most cars can carry twice their mass in passengers and three times their mass in cargo piled on top of the vehicle.
6. Five cows on top of a VW van is too many.
7. Refrigeration is the most amazing thing ever invented, after flypaper.
8. Nigerian women give birth while squatting and often continue working until the contractions are unbearable. Nevertheless, women rarely cry out during delivery, as it is a sign of weakness.
9. The rice here provides you will your daily value of iron (as it contains a reasonable portion of sand and small rocks).
10. How to aim when pooping.
11. It costs a man three camels to get married.
12. While polygamy is permitted, a Muslim man can only wed as many wives as he can love and provide for equally.
13. Mohammed says you can only provide for and love four wives equally.
14. One out of four Nigerien children will die before the age of five, most frequently due to diarrheal disease.
15. You can’t take things too seriously here. If you do you are done. Laugh at yourself or be laughed at.


August 12, 2009

Today I am wearing wool socks and a sweater. This new attire is my response to the sub-arctic front that swept into Niger this morning, bringing with it a truly impressive amount of precipitation. Only a few days ago, as I was sweating into my pot of rice, I scolded myself for being so foolish as to pack wool socks when going to Africa. Today, however, I scolded myself for only brining one pair. It’s chilly.

I admit that my sense of temperature may be skewed, considering—as I was shivering the other morning—someone told me it was 80 degrees out. Nevertheless, I am surprised and somewhat mystified by this sudden, new sensation that has over taken me today. As a personal record, it’s noon and I haven’t yet broken a sweat.

I realize, reading over what I have written, that I may seem mildly obsessed with the weather here; but for this, I am unapologetic. A storm is often the most exciting point in my day, and not just because I am sans TV and starved for stimulation. I find Niger’s weather unendingly entertaining and remarkable because it is.

Each storm is preceded by several, suspenseful days of growing heat and humidity. Every day, as we sit in class fanning ourselves, someone will inevitably remark about the heat. We will then evaluate that day’s temperature, humidity, and cloud cover in comparison to the days before, and then with the weather back home. The “heat” conversation will eventually end with one of us announcing, “I hope it rains tonight, or even better, this afternoon.” We all nod in agreement and then go back to fanning. This some form of the conversation manifests approximately every 20 minutes.

A storm brings more than reprieve from the sun. If it rains during the day, class is canceled, abridged, or not taken seriously. Also, sometimes it’s nice to have the excuse to sit in your hut and do nothing. If it rains at night, we often witness a spectacular show of lightning; matched by thunder so loud it makes the earth grumble with vibrations. I also have come to love the adrenaline rush that comes when I awake to find a storm only minutes away, and thus have to go to the bathroom, take down my mosquito net, move my bed in, seal my hut before getting soaked or unintentionally exfoliated. Since the horizon lays flat and unobstructed, a person can watch a storm grow from a cloud on the horizon to an overwhelming velvet curtain that can hide the African sun from the desert.

What’s more, each storm that comes has its own, distinct personality. The storm this morning, for example, seemed no-nonsense and rushed. It was a wall charging toward us, not even bothering with the usual prelude of distant lightning. There was barely 10 minutes from the time I realized it was going to rain until I was sprinting for cover with a curtain of water on my heels. Other storms are more aloof. They spend hours flirting, but never actually materialize. Some storms come steadily and without wind. Others move painfully slowly.

I must say, though, two nights ago marked the scariest storm I have experienced thus far. Here’s what happened: I was uncomfortably warm and humid, even at 10:30 pm. Though there were heavy clouds on the horizon, it had rained the night before and so I was convinced it would not rain again tonight. I lay in my bed hot and miserable, as I realized I was sweating enough to turn my dusty sheets into muddy sheet… I woke up two hours later to gusty winds. Determined not to spend another night sleeping inside if it was not absolutely necessary, I pledged to stay outside until I felt actual raindrops. As the wind got progressively more aggressive I started lying sideways on my bed with my feet hanging outside the mosquito net. This way I could have my shoes on and therefore spend every possible second outside, where it had actually begun to cool down. When the wind grew strong enough to untie my mosquito net, I conceded defeat and moved inside, but left the door open slightly so that at least I would get some adequate ventilation. I tried to go back to sleep, but the wind and thunder were so loud, I only catnapped for another hour. Around two a.m. the wind got bad enough that I realized I was going to have to close my door. Right as I was pulling it closed the wind reached a ferocious strength, and when I lay back down I sincerely wondered what I would do if my thatched roof were to blow off my hut. That’s when things got bad.

So, take a moment to recall the demonic “wall of sand” you always see during desert-adventure and other planet Si-Fi films. In these movies, it’s always extremely tense as the protagonist rushes toward shelter—her only chance of survival. Your stomach tightens. Your fingers grip a pillow in sympathetic stress. You think, she must make or she will die and the movie will end unfairly and evil will prevail. Well, in my little hut the night of that storm, I’m pretty sure I experienced the equivalent of stopping in font of the W.O.S., sitting down, and then holding up an umbrella to protect you.

Sand exploded into my hut, which I discovered at certain wind speeds is more than adequately ventilated. Furious, I jumped up to throw a piece of cloth over all my clothes, books, etc, then began madly brushing my sheets clean. I finished just in time for another assault from the desert, spraying sand all over my bed again. This time I covered my work with my top sheet as I brushed, to protect it. I lay down, and then came yet another shower of sand. At this point I just pulled the sheet over my head to keep the sand out of my eyes, and waited. Soon enough, the clouds burst and rain started pounding on my walls, settling the dust outside, thereby giving me a chance to settle myself. I cleared my bed one last time and lay down to sleep. At this point it was around four in the morning and I had only really slept for about two hours.

Just as I was dozing off, I felt a drop of water fall squarely between my eyes. My roof was leaking. Great. Rather than trying to move my mattress out of harm’s way, I just flipped around and let my feet get wet instead. Near 4:30 a.m. I finally fell back asleep in my still-sandy sheets.

Through that night was reminiscent of various “harsh interrogation techniques,” I survived the next day, but I was cranky. Several houses, walls, and trees throughout town did not fare well either, but there was no serious damage.

The moral of all this weather talk is: I like the rain. I’m from Seattle, after all. Yet, in the wake all this excitement, I am continually reminding myself of greater purpose of all this rain. For many, a year’s sustenance depends on the amount of rain that falls from June to September Remember, it does not rain outside of rainy season, and so if enough rain doesn’t come during this small three- to four-month window, there is no second chance or back up irrigation. The harvest may be inadequate. Wells and rivers may go dry. It is a critical time in the cycle of the seasons. I’m sorry to report that, in spite of the numerous storms I have experienced, the rainfall has been very modest this year. Many people have expressed concern about the size of this year’s harvest. So, please think wet thoughts for Niger.


August 16, 2009

After that last post, Niger seems to be trying to prove a point to me. Currently I am pinned into my hut, unable to go to Niamey to post this, because it’s raining SO hard. I still have an hour before the bus is supposed to come, so maybe it will work out…maybe not.

So here’s the news that is the news: (1) I found out where I’m going to live for the next two years; (2) I talked to my dad on the phone last night and he gave me the answer to “15 down” on the crossword I’ve been working on for two weeks (Russian Auto = Lida). Thanks Pops. If any one know the “Black like me actor, James ____” or “Don of Cocoon” that would be very helpful. My friend Susannah sent me this crossword as a way to pass the time; little did she know it is ungodly hard. I’m coming down the homestretch though.

Yes and SITE ANNOUNCEMENTS! I KNOW WHERE I AM GOING TO LIVE FOR THE NEXT TWO YEARS! But for reasons of national security I cannot reveal the name of the town on this website. (I’m not making this up). Instead I will give you the unspecific specifics.

First, I am in the Tillaberi region, about 85 from Niamey, which is equal to two or three hours of travel. I will be living in a mud house, with two whole rooms (such luxury I am not sure what do with). I will have my own smaller, concession, but I will also be situated inside another family’s larger concession. I will not have electricity or running water, or access to the Internet. I will be by the river, and have to take a ferry to get to Niamey. I know it sounds cool, but judging how the infrastructure in this country normally functions, I have a feeling the boat crossing may become the bane of my existence. The area is supposedly pretty liberal, and there are even small clusters of animists in the area, which means I might get the chance to watch drumming ceremonies, etc.

What will I be doing? I still don’t really know much, except that I am suppose to help the mayor’s office. Do I have neighbors? Yes, I am the center of a cluster of volunteers. Am I happy? I couldn’t be happier. Everything is wonderful.

For those of you who want to know the name of the town, ask my sister. She knows. But, it is simply unwise for me to post where I will be living on the World Wide Web… Please note that this means I will have a new mailing address, available for my friends to see on facebook and available for my family via my mother and sister.

Tomorrow I will meet the mayor I will be working with, and the week after that I will go and live at my site by myself for a whole week. I will move in for good after I swear in as a volunteer, mid-September.

Allah willing, I will be able to post these 11 pages of text to my blog today and you will know everything I am doing and how happy I am. Then you will have lots more questions, which I didn’t answer. And you should send them to me! Because I am not sure what I have said thus far, or what you all will want to know.

ALSO HERE’S THE DEAL WITH MY PHONE. I can’t ever call you ever. Well I can, but for one minute of talking time, it costs me about two U.S. dollars—this is equivalent to an entire day’s living allowance. I can text the U.S. for only slightly less money. I would, however, love to chat with all of you, so call me if you can.

If you do call and I don’t answer it may seem as though it didn’t go through because I am too lazy to set up my voicemail. Also, if I don’t answer, please try again in 5 or 10 minutes, as probably just missed the call.


August 22, 2009

So Allah was not willing and has not been willing to let me use the Internets since I got here. Please note that this lapse in connection is the longest I have ever, ever gone with out checking my email and I am starting to manifest physical signs of agony.

Tomorrow I will stop off in Niamey to shop for my weeklong trial run at site, “Site Live In.” After shopping I will be taken to my site to live for one week. Basically I am going to be dropped off and given the chance to scope out the town and see what is what. It’s a big step in this whole process and I am very excited to finally see the place where I will be for the next two years!