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.