A go waani Zarma cine!

A couple of words about living in a paper-poor world:

Some obstacles posed by this situation are so apparent they need not be said: School began a week late this year as students waited for their notebooks to be delivered. Books, the sweet rotten-smelling pages of infinitely valuable books, are desperately scarce. Children here cannot draw. I've spotted only one Nigerien newspaper since moving to Ville, and I live just outside the capital. I received coloring books from my (endleslly generous) aunt and have since given them to my two favorite teachers for their students. Both asked specifically for them when the rumor arrived that I had coloring books, and after I handed them over, both flipped through and gazed at every page. Fifteen million lifetimes without a single journal. This nation suffers a shortage of crossword puzzles, cookbooks, dictionaries, magazines and the simply delightful transfer of letters. Oh, and I don't know about you, but my memory has become quite reliant on the sticky note.

Okay, I can wrap my mind around--and adjust my habits to--the lack of napkins and papertowels, but I honestly miss toilet paper. And tissues. It's cold season, afterall, and everyone is sick. What else is there to do but blast snot rockets? In public? No problem! (There is at least some chance I will be regarded as a heathen when I return.)

Still, I draw the line at shootin' shit ou'cha nose on bush taxis. C'mon man, there are five of us on this bench made for there, and the windows of this van are cracked and jammed shut. Oh, that little girl lacks health, you say? Oh yes, there she goes, puking into the same sort of thin, plastic bag that I purchase my eggplant in. At least her mother managed to catch it, I suppose. Both of my feet are asleep, and the shrill speakers of that guy's cell phone can't mask her heaving with their atrociousity of Nigerien popular music. There is a bowl of millet spewing across my numb toes with every leap and jump we traverse and another spilling into my lap, where it pools in the dip of my zarra. Now you're going to act disgusted by the vomit odor trapped in here, Mr. Booger? The more force you use to push yourself as far away as possible, the further I am shoved on top of the hot, swollen body of the sparkly woman next to me, whose baby, drawn on eyebrows smeared in a comic arch, is now playing in my crotch's sandbox of millet grain. Yes, perhaps now is the perfect time to answer your phone, sir. Assalum Aleikum, indeed.

There is a reason that 45-minute ride barely costs more than one USD.

Two months ago I saw a camel in one such vehicle, and I thought, "wow, that's absurd." Now the memory only makes me wonder how much money the camel's keeper must have been receiving to justify purchasing so many seats on the taxi.

And to address the question on everyone's minds: no, I have not yet ridden a camel. Rest assured that when that happens, there will be pictures.

Because I do have a camera in country, now. After the unfortunate death of my Nikon during Ramadan, I was left with no choice but to attempt to describe this crazy world in print, a frankly impossible feat. Even photos, of course, fail. Still, they help, and I promise they are coming. In Sha'allah. And I promise to make a genuine effort to resist posting the beaucoup of pictures I take everyday of my dog.

I will be returning soon to Hamdy for IST (In-Service Training) where I will spend the better part of a month in the happy company of the other members of my training class, the vast majority of whom I have not seen since Steph's memorial. I'm dreading her absense, and that of the couple of others who have returned to the States, but I'm more than a little psyched to go. After, I am permitted to begin funded projects, so watch out Ville-I-cannot-here-name. Djamila will be comin' back with force.

In light of this long-awaited work, I would like to report what we're grappling with here, just to get everybody up to speed.

Some facts about Niger:

Land size:489,678 sq mi with the majority of the population concentrated in sourthern portions that lie within the Sahel, an arid region of Africa to the immediate south of the Sahara Desert, which covers 80% of Niger.
Population: roughly 15 million

Let's begin with the most dire statistics:
Average children per woman: 8 (highest in the world)
Population growth rate: 3.6% (highest in the world)
Population below the age of 15: 49.9% (US: 21.7%)

As an education volunteer, the following statistics must also be noted:
Adult literacy: 16.5% (take note that this is literacy, not illiteracy)
Children in primary education: 30%
Children in secondary education: 5%

And, well, these are just sad:
Children malnurished: 40%
Population living on less than 1 USD/day: 61.4%
Population living on less than 2 USD/day: 85.3%
Per capital GDP: $175
Doctors per 100,000 people: 4 (US: 276)
Life expectancy: 45.6

(CIA WorldFactbook, Niger; UN Report)

The next time you see one of those Sponsor-a-Child commercials on late night television, look a bit closer. Chi'kin Niger.
So yeah, to, kala tonton.

Mate ni go?

I just simply cannot sit through this much television anymore. I used to be able to, I admit, with the recollection of Big Bang Theory hangovers and Always Sunny Sunday afternoons fresh in my mind. I can't anymore; my head spins too quickly. I've grown unused to the habit, to the unblinking gaze at a television screen.

And we watch old television and movies constantly in Niamey -- constantly.

In one of the back rooms in which I tuck myself during these marathons on the couches, I sat grumpy and frustrated that our time together is dominated by such mediocrity. We have such limited time together outside of our solitary lives in our villages, and I would really prefer to rally the troops for a treck out for an afternoon beer or to wander around and rifle through the stacks of fabric at the Grande Marche. I'm sure I'll eventually find allies in this, but for now at least the hostel has a coffee maker.

In Ville, I've recently rid coffee from my list of habits as well, which might just blow the minds of my friends from Ball State and Louisville. It's been at least six years since I've been without a regular coffee shop to haunt. Now I'm in Africa and I have less access to the rich coffees of this land than I did when I lived on the other side of the planet. It's a lesson in world trade, if you'll give it some thought.

But my extraordinary parents recently sent me a porceilen mug from Heine Brothers and a pack of Starbucks instant coffees, which surpass other brands because they actually smell like coffee. And as I wrapped my chilled fingers around my first steaming cup this morning (cold season is wonderful!), and pressed the ceramic to my lips, I realized I'd missed the feeling without even knowing it.

In five months I haven't once drunk from anything besides tiny tea-filled shot glasses, metal community water containers or, most often, brightly-dyed plastic cups. The weight and smoothness of that Heine Bros mug filled me up, and I revelled in it. Being so far away isn't describable. Being in such a foreign place can't be captured in words, no matter how many nights I spend spilling out over pages. So the best way I can find to explain it to you is to say that nothing feels more like home, more beautifully reminiscent of my life Before, more overwhelmingly comforting and reassuring, than a simple coffee mug.

The good news is that I'm finding things like these to reinforce my sanity here, a tricky balancing act. Julia loves my shortwave radio, the new-to-me bicycle we bought off the side of the road, a puppy I've named Charlie (my kitten is named The Waitress), a stack of out-of-date New Yorkers I swiped from the hostel, nine different types of American flower seeds I'm attempting to nurse into life in the sand (thanks to a bucket of shit I spent the better part of an hour collecting yesterday afternoon from the paths around my house), a Rastafarian Ghanian tailor in the capital currently custom making my first American dress, a cheap gold Christmas wreath I bought in a ex-pat grocery store in Niamey, embarassingly cheap boxed wine, my iTunes library five months out of date, and, most spectacularly, a growing box of letters and cards I've receieved over my time here. I am so blessed to receive so much support.

Djamila, however, knows nothing of these things. Djamila is an American, that's undeniable in light of my white skin and unwed status and education level, but she lives out in the ville, drinking tea, speaking French and Zarma, Frarma, and being greeted by name (and bowed to) by students around town. She wears Nigerien clothing, she covers her hair, she's mastered eating Cous Cous one handed, she wears Fleece and socks in 70 degree weather. She spends huge portions of her time worrying over the failing education system and cholera. She has never drunk alcohol or held hands with a man. She laughs at all the simple humor of Nigerien women. She delights in the days she can find potatos in market and the afternoons she splurges on ice. She is responsible for voting against toilet paper in the hostel (it was our biggest expense!). She can type on French keyboards. She leads a primary school P.E. class on Tuesday and Thursday shoeless. She is Google-less (Google-less!). She's also incredibly desensitized.

Cassie and I were standing in a village along our road on Sunday, outside a house being readied for one of the new volunteers who will be sworn in on December 30th. As usual, children were everywhere, and we noticed one, a baby with wobbly legs, teetering around. Bored as Moussa publically shamed the men who had failed to build the house's shade hanger on time, we watched this baby, commenting on her uncommonly chubby legs, which were naked beneathe a winter coat. We laughed a bit about her clothes, although mostly because all Nigerien children are dressed so irrationally during cold season. We pointed out the difference between her fat butt and the skinny baby next to her. We stood and stared. And it took Djamila and Malika a relative eternity, by the standards of Julia, and I'm assuming Cassie, to notice that she was playing with scissors, broken scissors. Oh you know, just a regular day for Djamila.

They told us during training that we would develop these split personalities, so I hope you won't judge my callousness. I guess its a survival technique. I've now lived in two countries: the most wealthy and the least. My perceptions and thought processes and imagination are confusing and warped. Obviously, I am both Djamila and Julia, but the two aren't really on speaking terms as they lack a lot of common ground. Julia, admittedly, isn't even really the same person who existed in America, who passed hours outside the MT Cup pounding on my Mac and guzzling dollar coffee refills between text messages before hopping on my Schwinn and taking off to my tutoring shift at the Writing Center. In retrospect, the scale of Braken Library or any given Wednesday night's list of possiblilities would likely overwhelm present-Julia.

That's okay too. She couldn't sanely handle standing in line either or sitting in traffic on 465.

Peace Corps is, foremost, a cultural exchange. So I guess I've traded coffee and Google for patience and stamina. And I hated grocery stores anyhow.

a backdated post....

Folks, we live in a miniscule world.

I know, I know; when I first arrived on African soil, I too would have argued with this. Few if any aspects of my life are as they were six months ago, or as they might be if I were still in the States. Even now, there are moments in which I become overwhelmed by how foreign this new land, this new culture, these new people are. But, as I build my new home base in a Nigerien town (within the Tillaberi region--I can't provide the name of my town for security reasons; if you're curious, feel free to contact me or my parents directly), I'm reminded that we're all just spinning together on a minute rock.

Here's how I know:
I spent this morning at the Inspection. A former French colony, Niger still possess an education system French in structure, curriculum and official language. This creates a vast set of challenges both for for the country and for education volunteers. As is common in Africa, there are numerous ethnicities that make up Niger, and each group retains its own language. In Tillaberi, the primary ethnic group and spoken language is Zarma with French functioning as a second (or often third or fourth) language of the educated . As such, French exists as an obvious difference between the educated and uneducated, which of course creates a transparent class system between the two groups and further limits the latter's already scarce job opportunities.

But I'm getting beyond of myself; because my target language during training was French, I took advantage of this morning's cooler hours to study and practice Zarma with the Francophone men and women who work in my office. As the temperature rose to less bearable heights, I trecked home down the single paved road in my village daydreaming about the day I receive my Peace Corps issued bicycle. I wasn't home long before hunger drove me out of my tin concession door once again to peak in on a Touareg family who lives nearby and has been endlessly welcoming. I spent the next couple hours with a smattering of their relatives, eating, relaxing and struggling through pronunciations that I'm assured will come with time. Have patience, I was reminded for the millionth time since my arrival in Niger, Kala surru. After a brief pause for tea and a bit of spider-and-praying-mantis chasing around my house, I set off towards the market as has become my routine. I didn't actually have anything I needed to buy, but I hate to miss the opportunity to see and be seen, and yogurt-in-a-bag is an irresistable and inexpensive treat.

Before dinner but after the afternoon prayer there is a rush on the market, and unsurprisingly I was convinced to buy more than I had intended. With my sack heavy with hot peppers, peanut butter, sugar, soap and yogurt, I wandered around down sandy roads I hadn't yet ventured in the hopes of gaining my somewhat hopeless bearings in my new town, Fofo-ed a whole new set of people, and turned to head home. On my way, I ran into a couple of people who I knew, including a few of the Touareg children, who came in to continue work on a 550-piece Far Side puzzle that we've been tackling the last several evenings.

Uncharacteristically, I found myself not in the mood to puzzle, so as they worked diligently and chattered in Zarma, French and Tamachek, I dug out my shortwave radio, a wonderful gift from my parents before I left, for the first time. Not to be a brat, but I've become well-trained in the use of my Macbook, Blackberry and iPod, and the heavy, staticy radio felt like a joke. As it turns out, I have no concept of the "entenna" or how shortwave radios work, although I'm absolutely certain my dad explained every detail before I left (Sorry, Pop). After a noisy stetch of time (longer than I'm willing to admit) during which I fiddled knobs, flipped switches and recieved nothing but blank air or static, I dug out the papers Dad printed off for me for this very occassion with the frequencies on which I might catch shortwave programs such as "Voices of America" or the BBC. Naturally, neither of these are broadcast directly to places as BFE as Niger, so I continued to twiddle away through the possibilities with only slightly better success.

Then, finally, the tiny, precious yellow light flickered on, signalling that I'd found reception. Sure enough, under the fuzz I could hear English! The rush of pleasure I received from this tiny success might be demonstrative of how simple my life has become (my primary accomplishment yesterday was finding peanut butter in my market), but nonetheless, I was newly determined. I drug the box with its weird stringy "entenna" thing around my house and fiddled different knobs, finally resigning myself to just go outside, which felt a bit silly, like raising a receptionless cell phone above your head as if the extra three feet might make a difference to a satellite. But all the sudden, there it was: the BBC (and with only minor static and volume fluxuations).

As I gingerly set my radio down on some rocks, concentrating on not loosing the "sweet spot," it dawned on me what I was hearing:
"...famous as the home of Mohammed Ali..."

In something resembling panic, I shushed the children inside my house before remembering that they have no concept of our Western non-verbal communication, and was rewarded for my forgetfulness with a loud "Ah?"
But then, sure enough, the British woman said "we're broadcasting from the Green Room in Louisville, Kentucky."

Sitting beneathe the African stars, drinking cheap tea from a platic cup, I joyously listened to every word of a fuzzy, irrelevant discussion about mid-life crises, grinning like an idiot. A BBC broadcast from Louisville!

We live in a very small world.

If you'll bear with me a moment or two longer, I'd like to explain why this matters. Often in Niger, I've felt as if I live on an island. After years of living an entirely "plugged in" lifestyle, with fingertip access to the 24-hour news cycle and the far reaches of my social circle, the transition into the dramatically less-informed Niger hasn't been simple or, I admit, condusive to my sanity. Missing out on world events, as well as those in the lives of my friends and family, can quickly inspire feelings of isolation and loneliness. However, with time I've grown to enjoy the peace of mind that accompanies such a life, and have found my worries have shrunk to a much more tangible, tactile and solveable scale (see: peanut butter).

Even so, the United States plays a mighty role in the world, and while some of our actions might at times feel domestic, they are never quite so. Imagine my horror, for example, when my host family during training approached me questioning why I was against the not-at-Ground-Zero mosque in New York City. Koran burnings? For heaven's sake, people.

I am living in a Muslim country. The people who care for me, my new friends, my trainers and bosses, neighbors, taxi drivers, laundry men, yogurt vendors are Muslim. My existence depends on them. Explaining to these new, invaluable people why Americans do what we do is part of my role as a PCV, but explaining this bigotry truly stretches my already limited French and, frankly, ashames me.

You see, I believe living in the United States has granted us a perceived priveledge to live on an island as well. However, as Americans we have a grand responsibility to resist the temptation. Our world is very small, and the scale, foreign policy and might of the U.S. demand that our actions never go unnoticed, even by the peoples in corners of the world whose lives can feel completely apart from our own. In no way do I endorse that everyone feel, think and act the way I do, particularly because if they did the world would come to a screaching hault as everyone searched for things they had in their hands just moments ago, but before chiming in on such issues, I urge you to think beyond our borders to consider the not-so-far-away lands and voiceless people who will be affected.

Afterall, that now includes me.

But really, a BBC broadcast from Louisville? Hot diggity damn.

I was made for sunny days

As quoted by Paul Krassner (2005) in One Hand Jerking, "The area of life in which ridicule is permissible is steady shrinking, and a dangerous tendency is becoming manifest to take ourselves with undue seriousness. The enemy of humor is fear and this, alas, is an age of fear. As I see it, the only pleasure of living is that every joke should be made, every thought expressed, every line of investigation, irrespective of its direction, pursued to the uttermost limit that human ingenuity, courage and understanding can take it...By its nature, humor is anarchistic, and it may well be that those who seek to supress or limit laughter are more dangerous than all the subversive conspiracies which the FBI every has or ever will uncover. Laughter, in fact, is the most efective of all subversive conspiracies, and it operates on our side." - Malcolm Muggeridge, former editor of Punch magazine(31).

And so, it seems that in times like these, we must laugh, not just because it is the only means of slaughtering the demonic goats and Satanic roosters that plague our dreams, but out of responsiblity. Our obligation is to respect the specific humorous legacy of those whom we have lost, but also to respect the masses, the public, society and the collective humanity. Perhaps it is only now, through this experience, becoming clear that there is no other way, that laughter is the height of our soul's progression and that the funniest of people are truly the godliest. And as our routes have turned to sandpaper, hot coals and broken glass, we've built up callouses on our feet thick with the laughter. This month, my work in the Peace Corps, the direction of my efforts and energies, has been thrown into trying, for the love of God, to keep laughing.

A process aided by the sheer absurdity that is my life here. I know you read this blog for those stories, the ones that demonstrate just how far from "life as normal" my normal life now is, and in the next month I will make a genuine effort to record some of these funny stories for you. However, as this first month has stetched my coping skills, my independence, my emotional maturity and honestly, every other aspect of my personal human experience beyond a level I could have ever imagined, I am right now at a loss for silly anecdotes and the paragraphs upon paragraphs of backstory necessary to relate them to you. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you.

But, for now I hope it is sufficient for you to hear that I am very happy here. My new life in Niger is simultaneously the most challenging experience of my life thus far, a personal struggle each new day, and the simplest life I have ever had the pleasure of leading. And does it get much better than that? I busy myself here with living and allow things to come my way as they see fit with as little opposition as I can manage. (Of course I never imagined the things coming my way would be shaped like herds of bony cows and millet-laden donkey carts, but shit, why not.)

As we put a good friend on a plane last night, as we sat together and remembered the tragic passing of another, as we bid goodbye the day of swear-in to a third, I have been reminded that loss and laughter should never be seperated, and that our survival and development depend on both. And I think those who are no longer with us would want us to be laughing.

So, I'm laughing a lot.

the sound of sunshine

It’s hot here.

Sweat-dripping-down-your-back hot; well-over-100-in-the-shade hot; rubber-band-melting hot.

And it stays hot.

It seems we’ve crept across the threshold of October’s mini-hot season at the same moment we all entered our New Lives as PCVs. After a long, busy week of wrapping-up training and prepping for our futures as Volunteers (and saying one disatisfying, heartbreaking goodbye), our awesome efforts were rewarded with a day to relax before shipping out to our regions. (Once there, we will each spend our first month exclusively in our village, and the following two within only our region.) As a member of the smallest region, I find myself facing Kala Ton Ton’s to 25 of my stage-mates, an overwhelming circumstance after an infinite 11 weeks together, literally until January 2011. So, I was grateful for a day to savor what we’d made of ourselves together.

But it was hot: gruesomely hot, oppressively hot, three-showers-in-the-day hot; stop-wearing-underwear hot.

And it stuck around.

Since it was my day to enjoy, I woke up early and accomplished all of my goals in the morning, the largest of which was packing everything I own back into bags and boxes to take with me to Ville. The plan was to finish early and have some time to waste.

But then it got hot, excruciatingly hot, constant-dehydration hot, turn-water-to-tea hot.

Naturally in such circumstances, I stayed in the shade, rotating throughout the afternoon and evening between a low-slung metal chair and a heaven-sent hammock generously hung by a fellow volunteer, trying not to die. Occasionally, someone would trek up through the sand, past the volleyball courts, past the infirmary, past the sleeping huts to where we sat, and sometimes we’d brave the Satanic sun to reverse the journey down to the water coolers in the Réfectoire. But it was vastly hotter outside our square of shade, the sun noticeably burning every bit of skin exposed to it, so mostly I just sat or swung.

It was in such a situation when, late in the afternoon, a heavy cloud swept across the sky and settled to the west, dark and thick and thundering. At first, its breeze felt refreshingly cool, but then it began to grow and gather sand. Within moments we were surrounded by sand and debris blown up and around the way Midwest wind forms snow drifts on freezing winter days. Wrapped in the hammock, I was protected from its sting, but the long minutes inside the storm were another world.

The sand storm ushered in slightly more reasonable temperatures for a while, which I celebrated with a pre-dinner nap, but after the sun called it a day, I was back to marathon sweating until after I'd tucked myself in too.

The storm also served as a brief reminder of the speed with which life changes. I’m in Africa; training is over; I’m a Peace Corps Volunteer.

Little ol’ me in the Sahel of Africa with 30 sundry, effervescent and frankly brilliant characters, the kinds of people who burst from their skins and echo from the walls, together just chillin’ in a sandstorm? Who would’ve predicted?

Life in Niger is beyond comprehension in a lot of ways; poverty of this magnitude is ripe with contradiction and unpredictability; Nigerien culture is still hugely foreign and abstract; the problems are both dense and deep, spiraling out from every direction.

And its hot.

And it'll continue to be hot.

But I guess it’s time to start doing something.

La Vie Niger

A quick update:

I PASSED MY FRENCH EXAM!

and tomorrow morning, I will swear-in as an official Peace Corps Volunteer.

finally an update

“GOOOOOOOOOOO, MASON!” and I woke with a start. My sheets were damp and cool, but the hair stuck to the rim of my face lay in testament to a sweaty, fitful outdoor sleep. I had dreamt of a friend back home; I sighed regretfully as the blessedly clear vision of her face drifted away with the slumber that bore it. Dizzyingly, the reality of my whereabouts struck me anew, for the 40th day in a row, and I rolled over in protest. Through my eyelids I could tell I’d slept late, it might even be 8:00 by now, but I rapidly decided not to care and squeezed my eyes tighter. This was day two of Standfast, after all, and a long day of idleness stretched out before me.

“WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! You got it, girl!”

A list of pointless profanities paraded across my mind like a news ticker. Why is everyone here always screaming? Giving up, I groped around the edges of my mattress for my glasses and blinked a sleepy blur from my vision. The wooden beds next to mine were already empty, mosquito nets draped up above thin mattresses and knotted sheets like putrid yellow canopies. Apparently I was among only a handful of trainees determined to embrace the lack of daytime structure. For the rest, sunup on Peace Corps island meant time for Mason’s Boot Camp workout. The clapping and cheering continued as I clambered gracelessly from my net into the grey morning. I stood and stretched, and the nearby gym class roared. By the time I shoved filthy feet into flip flops, pulled a slightly-fresher-than-the-other t-shirt over my head and located my Nalgene of filtered water to brush my teeth, it had become fairly obvious that an applause soundtrack would be necessary for all future daily activities.

“WOOHOO! C’mon! You can do it!” With gusto, I spat toothpaste directly at a fly alit on the mud wall of the toilet stall. Ker-SPLAT! Clapping filled the air.
With purpose, I drug my feet all the way to the Refetoire, leaving a trail of laziness in the orange sand. A breakfast of bread, yogurt and, most importantly, instant coffee greeted me inside the dim room. The air was cooled by a number of small fans, and their whirr joined the chatter of the energetic in an assault on my freshly opened auditory canals. I plopped into an empty seat and feigned an obsessive interest in my meal to deter any small talk before I reached the morning’s critical-coffee-point. For a moment, I reflected on the usefulness of crossword puzzles for this purpose but immediately regretted the thought as it made me desperately miss my old routine. I listened politely to various conversations and smugly enjoyed a second cup of coffee before returning to my bed at the top of the site out of habit. The hike was a bit like strolling through the Niger episode of FitTV, not if FitTV did a Niger episode, but rather like a Nigerien version of the station itself, filmed in the ‘90s with a camcorder and edited into a full-length segment using PowerPoint.

Under the woven shade hanger near the cluster of beds, a few people sat in rusty chairs in a languid circle. For the next while, conversation bounced and meandered through a series of topics including, but not limited to, flatulence, the current position of one particularly large and felonious bug, which seemed to have survived the night’s flip-flop and rock attack, Colin Ferrell’s sexy accent, beer, heat and/or sweat, dirt, eyebrow plucking, the stunning similarity between this terrorist-instigated security lockdown preciously coined “Standfast” and summer camp, food, the dampness of the previous night, frogs, bats and insects, the height and relative degree of badass of Sean Connery, beetle blisters, the immanency of site visits and capture the flag, “Saveus,” belly button rings, candy, bug bites, the talent show and crappy comedy movies.

Most significantly, this conversation was, from the beginning to end, held in English. After nearly six weeks of the nearly constant strain of nearly learning new languages, the opportunity to speak in the language in which we all think was a welcomed one. In general, the break was received enthusiastically. We were all looking forward to visiting our future villages for a few days of independent exploration and control over our diet, but the opportunity to eat meat, fruit and vegetables, to sleep far away from the noise of livestock, to be apart from our host families, to be free from the stares and shouts of children and to enjoy one another’s company outside the pressure of class was a successful remedy for what I assume is an inevitable mid-training weariness.

Also, I hadn’t stepped in any sort of poop for two days.

The reality of Peace Corps service in many countries might surprise you. In their downtime, fellow PCVs around the world sip beer on the beach, nap in breezy hammocks, live in air conditioned apartments or snack on fresh tropical fruit. They surf the internet. They g-chat. Because the Peace Corps operates within countries of ranging stages of development, each volunteer faces an unique set of challenges, a set of obstacles too diverse for me to grasp. I would never disvalue the work of other volunteers. But theoretically, if one were to rank programs in terms of, for example, ease of living, I believe the program in Niger would be tucked down at the bottom. At very least, I would like the judges to acknowledge the number of times I’ve shit in a hole over the past six weeks in relation to the amount of access I’ve had to water at a lower temperature than tea. I’d also be willing to email them a copy of Walter’s presentation on skin maladies for consideration. Posh Corps, my ass.

The harshness of Niger has not escaped the minds of my fellow trainees, either. Rather than with jealousy or resentment, the difficulty of our program is most often regarded with calm acceptance, perhaps not for the individual trials – the malaria-carrying mosquitoes, the bland, snotty food or the bones and rotten flesh littered along the streets – but the two-year commitment in the Third World isn’t often itself a subject of complaint. “This is what I imagined when I thought of the Peace Corps.” She folds sandy, bug-bitten legs beneath herself in a chair and with a flick in the dark, lights another two-cent cigarette. Everyone in the group around us agrees. Perhaps it is too large to fathom, or too far beyond what most of us have experienced, but a couple of years in Niger? Psh, we’ve got this. If anything, we’re a tiny bit proud and excited for the chance to prove ourselves.

When we received news that vague terrorist threats would keep us trapped for at least the next three days, and again three days later when the news came that we’d be missing site visits all together, disappointment never slipped into full-blown indignation, at least to my knowledge. Volleyball tournaments abounded with the sunshine and free time. A tiny Gibson backpacker’s guitar came out. We bused to the capital and spent a few hours swimming in the Rec Center of the American Embassy and polishing off their meager stock of Bièrre Niger. There was a rather impressive talent show.

Of course, there are a few among the group who are often less than positive, but I prefer to regard this as affirmation that people are people everywhere. Negativity is alluring. It’s easy , especially in such an environment, to default to criticism or self-pity. In particular, amoebas and bacteria can quickly drive a perfectly bouncy person to surrender to the temptation of pessimism when sprawled across the wet floor of the infirmary bathroom. With support systems far, far away and at times silent, gloom sometimes threatens.

Like in the States, however, there is precious little strife that an afternoon bike ride, a tasty lunch and some enthusiastic, smiling company can’t resolve.

Also, there are remarkably few moments in this country when the sky isn’t just frankly stunning. I’ve found that simply looking up almost always elevates my mood. It isn’t a guaranteed system; when a downpour blew in not ten minutes after I’d left all of my luggage outside my hut and returned to site, the sky seemed distinctly less than magnificent. But in the end, rain is a blessing and after adopting into our common vocabulary such loaded expressions as “food security,” that fact is difficult to forget.

The overall supportiveness and enthusiasm of this training group is also a grand blessing, although 4 a.m. is never a happy hour to cheer loudly within the confines of a bus, and I’m grateful for it. Perhaps because of my own temperament, or because of the aforementioned bleakness of Niger, my spirits have faltered at times. But, in the company of so much zeal, the melancholy has dissipated every time.

I arrived in Africa two months ago today. Since, my life has changed in myriad ways and, I suspect, myself as well. During a two-week stay in the future home of a new friend for the purpose of French immersion, I stooped over the pump washing our dishes from the previous night; I found myself daydreaming about the most efficient and cost effective design for a chicken coop.

What happens to the other end of the umbilical cord?

When we passed a couple of glorious hours on the internet the last time we made it to Niamey, I stumbled across the devastating fact that Ray Lamontagne’s new album was indeed released without my knowledge. If someone were to approach me on the street this afternoon and ask me to opine about this album, I’d stare as blankly as if they spoke to me in Hausa. (Consider now that the second half of that rhetorical scenario will likely occur before I go to bed this evening, while the first won’t ever again.) This is not the only album I have missed, and it is only beginning a long string. Most significantly, the reality of two years without access to music is forcing me to release the control such things have over my perspective on myself. Without the interests I indentify myself with, without the habits and routines I’ve come to rely on, without any of the trite indulgences I allow myself, without the personalities I surround myself with, life is revealing itself to be another creature altogether.

It sounds pretty when I say it like that, but it’s not a process I’ve fully enjoyed. When was the last time you attempted to make all new friends? And, I haven’t seen my entire face in a mirror in weeks. (Imagine now the state of my hair.) My iPod was recently dead for two solid weeks. I cannot remember what the fifth ring I wore everyday for a year looks like. (How is that possible?) Oh, and have you ever tried to rinse soap out of clothes without running water, or for that matter, off your hands?

On the sunny side of life, I can carry on a conversation in French, albeit a simple and grammatically clumsy one, but it’s a substantial feat all the same. I’ve received the most beautiful letters from family and from friends (close and long lost) that I’ll cherish for a lifetime. I’ve built a solid foundation for a growing relationship with tea. I’ve laughed myself to tears more than once. I’ve found others who are equally in love with Munford & Sons!

I’ve also found a place within myself that is strong enough to dig my toes into the sand in the face of problems massive and seemingly unsolvable. I’ve found a hinge on my mind oiled enough to open wide and allow in overwhelming and frustrating cultural differences that at times seem to touch every part of life. I’ve found a resilience within myself strong enough to beat the bad days back. I’ve rediscovered an idealism that was too easy to ignore in the hustle toward tomorrow’s goal.

I can only describe Niger to you through my own lens. I can only tell you what I’ve experienced myself here. I know other people think and feel differently when they see the swollen bellies of children, their infections and filthy hands. Perhaps with more experience, I’d perceive the plight of women differently or better handle the constant attention from the community and requests for gifts and money. If I was older, I’d likely be more patient with the sluggish pace of labor and the lack of organization or promptness. If I’d spent more time outside of Indiana and Kentucky, I might have more experience balancing fundamental differences in culture and philosophies. If I wasn’t fresh out of college, I’d probably have a deeper understanding of tact when working with figures of authority and a greater ability to assert my autonomy. If only I’d studied more things, I’d know more answers. But I haven’t, I’m not and I didn’t. I can only tell you where I am today, under a thorny tree on the top of a mesa in the Sahel of Africa. And promise that tomorrow I will be different, better.

Asylum Aleichem,

Julia

p.s. not to worry: There is no secret ingredient.

Excerpts from Julia's Second Letter Home July 2010

This afternoon as I walked home for lunch, I somehow got mixed in with a herd of goats in the middle of the street. I had a good laugh with the man tending them.

Yesterday was market day and camels were everywhere, as well as mounds of nuts and spices, bright fabrics and just about anything you can imagine with O’bama’s face on it. They LOVE him here. I’ve already bought 3 head scarves (while I don’t cover my hair here, I likely will at post) and a skirt. We get about $3 a day which sounds INSANE but really is plenty, at least so far.

On Tuesday we met with the US Ambassador, which was just wonderful. He’s a former Peace Corp Volunteer from the Philippines and had a lot to say about the US’s role in Niger.

There’s a funny perception here that anything that doesn’t happen in Africa (and really West or South Africa), happens in the United States. On the (extremely) rare event that a plane flies over from Niamey, the kids all stop and point and shout “America.” It took some time (and a map) to explain that it’s actually “France” that they should be yelling (or possibly “Moroc.”)

Coping with so much different is, I think, the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I still fee like this is where I’m supposed to be. My self confidence waivers moment to moment, but my determination has remained steadfast (your letters help).

The Peace Corps has been in Niger for the longest uninterrupted period of any program in the world (since 1962), and we have an extraordinary reputation here. For me, this means that we’re very well-protected by the important and successful men of this country because most have had influential volunteers in their past.

Tragically, one of my wonderful writing center pens just bit the dust and spewed ink all over my hands. Without running water, this is a bigger accident than it would be in the states. Every little thing is a big deal here, which has turned out to be a bit refreshing, rather than a pain. It’s impossible to spend much time concerned with big abstract worries (the kind so impossible to shake in the states, but also impossible to solve) when you have to worry about treating your water, buying food ingredients, sweeping out the hut, hanging your mosquito net, hand washing your clothes, caring for every scratch and scrape and trying to keep toddlers from eating chalk. It’s stressful, especially while attempting to learn French.

“They” say these two weeks are the longest of the whole service. I completely agree, or at least hope so, as it feels like we’ve been gone for two months.

As of yet, it hasn’t been hotter really than some terribly hot days at home, but here there’s no escape. In week one, we had two people down and puking with dehydration. I drink water like it’s my job here (which it sort of is), so I haven’t had a problem at all, which is amazing I think considering the diet, weather, and overall level of change. It’s also a relief, since the latrine is tricky. Actually, a lot of things are tricky here, like explaining why we don’t have polygamy in the U.S. or attempting to play Frisbee in a skirt down to my ankles.

It’s sometimes hard to remember that being here is work, although it’s hard and definitely not play. Still sometimes, it just feels like a weird camp for adults, especially when we’re at site on Tuesdays and Fridays being fed and given toilet paper

Excerpts from Julia's First Letter Home

We eat mainly millet, which is cooked into a big white lump with a texture not unlike tofu, and equally as tasteless. The lump is then placed into the center of a large serving dish, and sauce is poured over top. The sauce differs depending on the day (and the cook) but it's usually red or green with onions, garlic, spice, oil and some kind of suspicious chunks of meat, likely goat, although my French isn't yet good enough to ask. Then everyone eats with their hand. Hand is singular because it is extremely offensive to eat (or do anything else really) with your left hand, which is considered to be reserved for hygiene.

I am living with a wealthy soldier and his two wives and eight children, although the way kids run wild in the village and in our concession, it took me a couple of days to determine which children actually slept here. My children (7 months - 15 years) are the greatest kids on Earth. They immediately changed my name to Jamila. I have my own hut and fenced in concession within their (comparatively large) concession, which is essentially their yard. I also have my own shower stall and latrine, and both came with complimentary cockroaches.

So my days are spent in class - tons of language (French yippee) classes, as well as cross cultural, technical and medical, and playing with my brothers and sisters.

Nigeriens can't get enough of each other, and hospitality, friendliness, kindness and genuine concern for one another’s' wellbeing is expected.

The clay here is sandy red and every structure is made of it, with millet stalk woven hangers attached to make porches, often held up by bald branches from the poor, gnarly (and, I assume, thirsty) trees. The effect of this style of building is that everything blends together with patches of green that speak to the early season rain. To look out across the horizon, it stretches on forever almost totally unmarred, and when the sun goes down, the stars reach to infinity. I'm writing tonight because the moon is finally visible. I am looking at it now through my mosquito net, in bed-the heat requires me to sleep outside.

I have to say, poverty of this degree looks much different than I expected. The pace of life here is slow and deliberate, and there seems to be much less stress of "have nots." Without things, there is much more people-to-people time, and I'm finding it enlightening but really hard. The language barrier doesn't much help.

We got a God-sent downpour last night that has continued into this morning. Although I can no longer take my usual paths around the village (water here collects; it doesn't seem to be absorbed into the ground at all), I'm so happy to see the rain! It feels a lot more like the planet Earth here, with the rain, and less like Mars. I'm assured that as the rainy season progresses, it'll become fully green.

I cannot overstate the role of the Peace Corp in this country or how highly respected and supported we are by its people. The most successful people, teachers, doctors, politicians, etc., all seem to have fond and grateful stories of a past volunteer from their youth.

I wish I could tape the noises here to send them home, because I'm sure they would emphasize my point of how very different things are. Tuesday evening I was kept awake by a bleating goat (which is suspiciously now tied up behind my hut) and a neighbor forging tools of some sort. Our neighbor also has a camel. I mean, really, where the hell am I!

Finally, We heard from Julia!

Finally, finally, finally, we heard from Julia! Saturday I was contacted by the father of a Peace Corp worker who is in her second year in Niger. Julia was spending time at her home, and we were able to call Julia through her phone.

Julia sounded happy! She said she was feeling fine and could not begin to describe her experience. She promised she has sent some blog information for me to post. She is living with a host family during her training (until sometime in September), a French speaking family of 11, a dad with 2 wives and 8 children. She says it's a little crowded.

She says the training is difficult, but she will succeed! Her French is coming along. Since "everyone has a cell phone," she will be getting one in about 2 weeks, so we'll hear from her more often.

Thank you again for your thoughts and prayers. Hopefully, I'll have more news soon. Julia's proud Mom, Carol

Julia arrived!

All 33 new Peace Corps Volunteer trainees arrived safe and soundly in Niamey, Niger, yesterday afternoon, after their two flights from Philadelphia. Peace Corps Niger training staff met them at the airport and transported them to our wonderful training site. The logistics flowed smoothly, the trainees are well, and we look forward to preparing them for their Peace Corps service in Niger. You'll find your loved one in the attached photograph, just taken.
Thank you very much

All we are, we are. And every day is a start of something beautiful

My alarm is set for 5:00 a.m. Tomorrow I leave for Philadelphia. From there, I fly to Africa.

There seems to be no other way to look at things: I am perched this evening on a precipice.

I've never been anywhere near this nervous. Since Saturday morning I have felt the constant, steady pounding of my heart in my lower throat, deep below the dip between my collarbones. It isn't an entirely unfamiliar sensation, although I admit in the past it has accompanied much more immediately satisfying occasions, but it's not a feeling I imagined could last so long. It is serving as a physical and inescapable reminder of what is to come. And soon.

Life, I read today, begins outside your comfort zone.

It seems tonight I will be sleeping on the border of that area.

I love you, and I simply cannot wait to meet you all again.

think of me

A long time comin' but now the snow is gone

The countdown has officially begun. My flight will take off at 7:22 a.m. on July 6 from the Louisville airport. After a brief stop through LaGuardia, I will fly to Philadelphia for staging, a short, "intense" orientation to the Peace Corps. On July 7 we will receive the necessary shots, etc. before taking off at 6:35 p.m. to Paris, and on to Niamey.

I'll step foot in Africa in the afternoon of July 8, 2010.

I'm in Muncie now, visiting for what is likely to be the final time. In the sunshine in front of my apartment building, it's difficult to imagine that my previous statement is real.

Is this what it feels like when your dreams come true?

I've been so widely embraced in these last few weeks. Support and love have come in too many configurations to explain here, but please know how acutely they have been felt. I wish I could help you to understand how truly extraordinary my family is or how blessed I am to have the friends that I do, to know the people I know.

My Peace Corps adventure has already taught me so much. Today, I have this experience to thank for teaching me a level of gratitude I have never before known, a sweeping thankfulness that washes away all traces of apathy worn into my soul over the rapidly passing years. The depth of my faith in goodness has sunken, too. I simply cannot believe that any aspect of this upcoming experience will be a mistake.

I will, of course, err. But with you all at my back, and sewn into my heart, I know I can achieve all of the goals that I have set for myself, the aspirations that have brought me to this point.

In the next month I plan to tackle a long, silly list of trips to the zoo, star-blanketed sleep, road trips, farmers markets, lunches at my favorite restaurants, and conversations over happy hours and coffee breaks. I hope we can find time to meet, perhaps just to say see you later and share a laugh.

Until then, please know that you deserve a thousand thank yous.

So thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

And Salamu alaikum (peace be with you).

Little darling, it seems like years since its been here

So often lately, I wish I had something to say.

Several times I've awaken staring at a blinking cursor, or at the strange new way my journal lies open since I broke its binding, only to realize minutes have come and gone without my notice. I've sat in my familiar way with my usual tools but somehow haven't marked the page at all. Blankness abounds.

Now, I've grown used to the idea that I don't often know what to do with myself or where to put my hands. I am fairly comfortable with being inelegant, and I'm quite sure no one knows what the hell they're doing most of the time anyway. My pants, it seems, are awkward, but letters, words and sentences have poured smoothly onto paper for as long as I can recall. They're rarely clever or profound, but they're mine and from that I've gained confidence. From assuredness sprouted more words, sentences and paragraphs until I found a rhythm. Enraptured by the tune, I discovered pages and pages. Every so often on a pay stub or in the back pages of class notes, I'll stumble upon something I wrote accidentally, thoughts I cannot recall having scrawled in the blue ink from those Writing Center pens I love so much. I feel a secret affection for strangers who possess a similar habit; I know I am not alone.

But lately the corners and backs of my papers have remained clean.

Over and over I'm asked about my impending service in the Peace Corps, which is appropriate since I can think of little else, but over and over again I have nothing to say. Perhaps it is the enormity of the change or its incomprehensible uncertainty. It might as easily be the extinction of the world I've known or the dismay I've felt from missing friends. It could be simple doubt, but I never once expected to feel the absence of my own handwriting.

None of this is to say that I am anything short of thrilled about my opportunity in Niger; I fail equally to express my elation and my qualms.

I am only asking for your continued patience as I wrestle with this brittle suspense.

And off I go...

Today, I accepted my invitation and dove head first into the rest of my life.

FINALLY!

I am overwhelmed.

I have never felt so much joy or gratitude. (or so many butterflies.)

After an arduous application process that lasted nearly a year, I received an invitation to serve with the Peace Corps this morning. If I accept (baha!), my journey will begin at staging on July 7, 2010 and will last (at least) until 2012.

I have been invited (as you can see below) to serve in Niger, a landlocked country in West Africa, in education.




Thank you to my family and friends for your unconditional support throughout this process. I hope you will continue to follow my progress over the next two years; you are my world.

- Julia