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.