After a teary goodbye with Mike, I joined my father, Tom, and his friend Jack Ford for a week long safari into some of Tanzania and the world's most famous game parks. Our guide, Frank, was an extremely kind and knowledgeable companion. He had been leading safaris ( safari = "journey" in Swahili) since 1969 and took a keen interest in the behavior and habitat of the animals.

Within minutes of entering Lake Manyara NP, there were baboons walking around our Land Rover and a herd of elephants munching trees a few hundred yards away. We saw herd after herd of gazelle, a warthog take a dip in a stream, the vervet monkey with testicles as bright as blue gumballs, and a lionness eyeing the plains. In the distance the lake looked pink with flamingos, and giraffes crossed in front of our path. As the afternoon wound to a close, we wound our way up the cliff to our lodge perched on its edge. The evening's buffet started a week of decadent and abundant food that seemed to get better with each new hotel.

The next two days we spent traveling through the Serengheti. I was surprised by how flat and barren it was in some areas. It recalled places in Wyoming or Texas with the flat, far reach of the horizon and lack of trees or water. It was here where we saw the largest groups of migrating wildebeest leading the march for the buffalo and zebras that accompanied them. Later in the afternoon we saw a leopard asleep on a tree limb and the rare spotting of FOUR cheetahs laying low in the grasses.

I think the coolest experience of the safari happened on our second day in the Serengheti. In a park that can sometimes be crowded with 4x4s, we were the only vehicle on the road as we pulled up alongside a lionness crouched next to the gravel. We watched for an hour as she stalked some topis in the distance. Three hyenas caught onto her plan and started circling the larger territory, as if licking their lips. The gazelles across the road stood at attention, able to smell her scent upwind. Further down the road eight giraffes crossed, oblivious to her presence and in the distance a herd of about twenty elephants loped about. The lionness slowly creeped towards the topis, alternating between crouching and a low walk. Then at once she took off! Her bulging muscles carried her into a sprint, but, tough luck, the topis darted off to safety. That night as we reached the new hotel, monkey's ran down the outdoor hallways and signs warned us not to walk around the property at night. With good reason! As I turned out the light for bed I heard two lions roaring in the vicinity of our hotel. Awesome!

The next day we visited a Masaai village to observe some of the traditions of this warrior people. They showed us how they built their small huts out of animals skins and dung and explained how they drink a mixture of the milk and blood of their animals as a typical staple. When I asked if they caught the blood in a bowl after slitting its throat, the village chief's son immediately put his finger to his mouth to signal the taboo I made. Dad and Jack got their first taste of life in an African village and saw how debilitating the simple hardships such as fetching water can be, a rare and expensive commodity in the plains.

We then went on to the Ngorongoro Crater via the Olduvai Gorge. Literally a crater from a fallen volcano, the animals are essentially corraled into this huge expanse. Occasionally the elephants and buffalo will venture to the top of the rim, but otherwise it is easy to spot many animals on any given day. You think National Geographic has some special access, but really it's just special cameras! Even from the deck of our hotel perched on the crater rim, we were able to see three engangered black rhinos through binoculars. When we entered the crater, Frank was able to track a rhino at a close distance. We also saw a male lion strut slowly across the road in front of us after making a kill and a cheetah gaurd her fresh prey. The safari ended when we returned to our hotel for another delicious meal and a lively musical performance by a Maconde dance tribe, known for their colorful costumes and use of masks. With that, a long but amazing vacation came to an end and I started the transition back to my "bush" life in Niger.

(photo index: elephant in Lake Manyara NP, Dad (L) and Jack, the Masaai, the lionness stalker)

After seven days of hiking, we decided to treat our sore feet to a soak in the Indian Ocean. The promise of exotic beauty lured us to Zanzibar. Passing a night in Dar Es Salaam, a fine, clean city, we took the early morning ferry to Stone Town on Zanzibar, the blending of cultures apparent from the boat deck.

An important trading port and once the seat of the Sultan of Oman, Zanzibar is one of the original spice islands. One can envision pirates clashing with trading vessels off the island's shores. Fields of clove are still grown in the island's interior and it remains one of Zanzibar's largest income generators.

Indian merchants mix with African islanders and the influence of Arab traders is seen in the Islamic architecture, the women cloaked head to toe and the call to mosque echoing throughout the city.

The island only began heavily hosting tourism in the early '90s. The clear, clean purple and teal water lapping calmly on white sand beaches offers a calm and relaxing vacation, while the offshore coral reefs host some of the world's best diving. Getting around the island is easily done in a morning, so after spending a day wandering the narrow streets of Stone Town, admiring the famous doors of Zanzibar - relics of trading times, eating grilled tuna and lobster from street sellers and visiting Mercury's, a bar erected in honor of Zanzibar native, Freddie Mercury of Queen, we made our way north.

Kendwa Rocks was our resort destination, a beach on the west coast popular with globetrotting backpackers for its full moon parties and beach front cabanas. I'm already a beach lover, but after roughing it in Niger for over a year and living a life without luxury, I felt like I had arrived in Paradise!! Mike and I took long swims in the perfect water of the Indian Ocean, swang in the hammock on the front porch of our cabana and sank our toes into the soft sand. The euphoria of love and the sensations of beautiful scenery, delicious food and a slight rum buzz transported me to a different world. One I hope to return to someday! Ah, Zanzibar...

(photo index: Mike and I on the steps of our cabana, a dowh sailing at sunset, me loving life!)

Kilimanjaro, Serengheti, Zanzibar...Tanzania has so many exotic sounding places that roll off the tongue with an air of romanticism and adventure that is still well deserved. The inland is lush and wild with new growth and fertility, a stark contrast to the desert landscape I came from. Arriving in Moshi at the foothills of Kilimanjaro, I felt the movement of development in progress as I passed coffee plantations and entered the thriving downtown with hoards of uniformed children on their way to school, suggesting at least a tentative hold on prosperity.

My boyfriend, Michael Brennan, joined me several days later and we embarked on our journey to the top of Africa's highest mountain, a glacier near the equator. We chose to take the Machame, or Whiskey Route to the top as the trail allows for better acclimatization and the largest number of hikers who reach the summit. At 19,340 feet, we spent seven days winding our way up through the rainforest canopy, the heather and moorland, into the alpine forest and finally to the top of the glacier. Most of the trails are not technical and we met many people who do not regularly hike in their home countries. The mountain is definitely a bit of a tourist trap, with the trails lacking the solitude and desolation I typically seek when hiking at home. Nonetheless, it has been a dream of mine to see this magical mountain and look over its green hills from the top.

On the morning of the summit they woke us before midnight to begin our ascent. The sky was moonless and absolutely black with the small dots of flashlights slowly marching their way up the trail ahead of us. We bundled up in our warmest winter clothes, grabbed our hiking poles and followed our guide James up the rocky shale. The pace of ascent is incredibly slow, with each step the deliberate placement of one foot in front of the other. Mike had no problems with the altitude, having become accustomed to Colorado's thin mountain air. But for me, I definitely struggled at about 17,000 feet. It was three in the morning, we hadn't eaten since four the previous afternoon, and all I wanted to do was crawl into the snow for a short nap. This onset of fatigue and a slight headache were classic signs of altitude sickness setting in. We took 15 minutes to rest, I ate one of Mike's Clif Bars and a few aspirin and then felt infinitely better.

We continued the steep climb straight up to Stella Point which ended the toughest part of the hike. The approach to the summit, Uhuru Peak, was a gradual walk up with the face of the glacier wall to our left, a view of the volcanic crater to our right and the sunrise coming up over the clouds.

Feeling both euphoric and exhausted, we still had to make the descent, arguably more difficult and harder on the body than the upward climb. Six hours and one less toe nail later, Mike and I were able to pull off our boots, pop some aspirin and crack open a bottle of cold Kilimanjaro lager, sold at the low altitude mountain huts. Our final hike out the next day wound us back through the rainforest where we strolled under 20 foot high giant ferns, watched black and white colubus monkeys swing through the trees and shared our experience with other hikers signing out at the gate.

(photo index: our guides James, Christian, Mike and I at the summit, Uhuru Peak from our base camp, Mike and James in the moorland)

And I'm off!!! After a year of growing into my African alter ego, living through an unbelievable hot season, and being able to make jokes in Hausa, I headed out of Niger for a month of vacation. My first stop was my next door neighbor, Mali. Despite the similarity in landscape and climate, the cultural differences were enough to transform me to a different world!

I strapped on my back pack and passed through Burkina Faso to enter Mali from the southeast corner. To cross the border into Mali, I waited for a bush taxi to carry me down the 120km dirt road. The golden rule of bush taxis is that you can ALWAYS fit one more, so after smushing yet another person in, we were ready to depart at about 5:00pm. I knew this would have me traveling at night, but didn't want to waste my night in Ouahigouya (try saying it, it's fun!) We stopped at several fireside customs and border crossing huts and finally arrived at Koro, Mali at 3:00 in the morning after the customs agent detained us for two hours to search everything on top of and inside the van.

My luck turned a bit better the next morning as I was able to hitch a ride with an NGO vehicle to the next big town, Bankass. This would be the launching point for my hike into Dogon country so I stocked up on bread, threw chlorine tablets into my well water, and waved off offers for a guide. Then I found another bush taxi to take me to the dirt road that serves as the Dogon "trail head". Most people will try to tell you that a guide is compulsory, but I thought I'd try my luck and ignore them. Traveling solo has its benefits! It took a while to explain that I've hiked infinitely harder trails than the flat road winding along the escarpment and that living in Niger had me accustomed to the heat. It's amazing how much they think white people can't do! Probably rightfully so as I saw groups of tourists touting bottled water and whizzing by me in 4x4s.

With Bob Dylan in my ears, I starting walking to Teli, a beautiful village that would be my first stop. I met a young guy who took me up into the cliffs where the Dogon built their villages. It is believed that the area used to be very wet and lush, so the Dogon kept their villages in the cliffs and reached them through vines that hung off the 300 foot cliffs. They were a pygmie people with a very rich animist tradition. They worshipped the crocodile for its ability to move through water and reach land and incorporated masks into many of their celebrations. Before traveling, the Dogon of Teli would visit a pool of water in the cliffs that still drips today, in order to give alms and wash themselves in preparation.

I moved on from Teli after paying 1,000 cfa (about $2US) to the village chief for the privilege of stopping by. Along my walk, I was offered a ride by some Flag beer distributors. I accepted the lift for a few kilometers and made some plans to meet up for beers in one of the upcoming villages. After reaching my destination for the night, Yaba Talu, I tossed back some Flags, had an incredibly delicious dish of chicken and sauce, and settled down in my sleeping bag on top of a mud hut for a good night sleep under a sky of stars.

I made my way out of Dogon country by hitch hiking with a madman dump truck driver who laughed each time he ran a donkey cart off the narrow road. I was relieved to arrive at the next main town and jump off his truck with my life still in tact!

The next leg of my journey went much more smoothly as I entered to calm river side city of Mopti. A major trading port on the bend of the Niger River, large boats still carry salt slabs that were hauled across the Sahara by camel caravans. A nice man gave me a tour of the city and invited me to have lunch with his family. This took me into the Old City of Mopti, a place where tourists rarely venture. Family life and structure is not much different from Niger and I felt at home with my new friends.

The next day took me to Bamako, the capital, for a few days of bar hopping and incredible live music before I flew out to Tanzania where I would spend the bulk of my vacation.

(photo index: Me in Mopti, My guide in the Teli cliffs, the Teli cliffs, the trailhead)

What a spectacle! Thirty Peace Corps volunteers on bikes, lead by armed gendarmes, a motorcade of condom distributors in red vests on motorcydles and an SUV carrying a super speaker blaring American rock tunes.

This follows a long tradition of Peace Corps work in Niger where a volunteer serving as the AIDS coordinator organizes the bike ride in a different region each year, ending on December 1st, World AIDS Day. This year, World Bank and other funds allowed us to hire trained animators and actors for a week, and to travel from the cities of Gaya to Dosso, stopping in 22 villages over 140 kilometers.

Our entrance into a village was an extraordinary break from their day to day routine. Children came running, and men and women took a break from their work to form a circle around us as we danced, distributed condoms and played with the kids. Once a critical mass was achieved, the animators would take the stage by doing skits, condom demonstrations, games with T-shirts and hats as prizes, or small group discussions with men talking to men, women to women.

The message of AIDS transmission, prevention, treatment and testing options was weaved into the presentations along with promotions of girls education and compassion for AIDS victims.

Our roving camp was awoken each morning to the blaring acapella of Queens "Bicycle Race" a song that never grew old and brought us cheerfully out of our short slumber. We went to major truck stops, brothels, tiny villages, large villages and handed condoms to passing drivers on the road. Laughter, exhaustion and lots of dust accompanied us as we danced, sang and pedaled our message to over 5,000 Nigeriens.

Hey friends! You guys have been awesome at sending some lovely and welcome comforts from home. I am totally stocked up on creamy body butter and face wash and have been able to ration my dried fruit over a few months now! I can't thank you enough for the thoughtfulness. Such simple things mean so much now, and can help put a smile on my face if my day seems unbearable and rough.

For those of you who miss me enough to share your first world wealth, the following stuff never goes to waste!

tape cassettes - all your old mixes and albums now gathering dust

velveeta (it doesn't melt!)

wasabi

dried fruit

nuts: pistacios, pine nuts, walnuts, almonds

Clif bars

sauce packets - pesto/ranch/taco

falafel/pancake/brownie/lemon bar mixes

Peanut M&Ms & Reese's Pieces (they don't melt!)

new release or movie classics burnt onto DVD

chicken in a retort pouch

beef jerky

Gatorade/EmergenC/iced tea/apple cider

rag mags - US Weekly/OK/People

news mags

maple syrup

sushi seaweed

pictures of family & friends

wife beater tank tops - all colors!

frosting in a tub

It is recommended (but not necessary) that packages be sent in Priority Mail (ground takes 6 months by boat) padded envelopes and when marking the customs declaration, don't write anything expensive in order to alleviate thievery. The USPS has stopped insuring packages to Niger because of so much tampering. Your best bet is to write "books and candy".

Kelly McNicholas

B.P. 132

Tahoua, Niger

West Africa

Peace Corps Niger has the honorable distinction of running for 45 years without disruption. Accordingly, we duly celebrated this occasion in September with a visit from Director Ron Tschetter from Washington and an open house at the Niamey Bureau.

Much work was exectuted to present the history and successes of the five current program sectors, Natural Resource Management, Agriculture, Community Health, Education, and Municipal and Community Development. Many volunteers came in from their posts to prepare for the event with their best foot forward. For me and my fellow NRM volunteers, that meant making a life sized paper mache giraffe (or giraffasauras as our Program Director likes to call her!) Buying supplies in the market was a memorable trip and several eyebrows were raised as my friend Barbara and I tried to draw and explain our construction diagram to the perplexed woodcutters. One of the coolest parts of this anniversay was meeting returned Peace Corps volunteers who served in the sixties and seventies and decided to come back to visit their villagers. Hearing their stories made me feel like kind of a wimp for all the conveniences I can access now! Some of them had to travel for several weeks to get to their post from the capital Niamey, and many spent 6 months or more at a time out in the bush. Listening to them reminded me of what I hoped to find when I got here, and gave me resolve to head back to the bush for a good chunk of time. I've had enough of the "big city" life.......see you at Christmas!!

(photo index: Ambassador Bernadette Allen, Peace Corps Director Tschetter, Country Director Mary Abrams; building Girtie the Giraffe; Jamie and I with Girtie)

The nightime sounds of the rainy season are a caucaphonic symphony. Just after dusk a cicada will pop out of its deep burrow that I envision to be a city of square tunnels under my concession. He warms up with a first few notes, a warning to me of what's to come. With the high rapid pitch of a piccolo, he starts the concerto with a series of fast notes, almost beeps that do more than make noise, but move the air around in waves. So as I come ever closer to scare it back into its hole, the loud deafening sounds seem to reverbrate my eardrums and threaten to pierce their sensitve membranes. Perhaps this is how Beethoven learned to compose his symphonies, by being with nature and matching the vibrations to each instrument.

Here at night it is as if each of the noises come alive and not only the thing that produces them, but the music itself moves throughout the air. The crickets with their constant rhythms, both high and only slightly lower are like violins and violas sending light vibrations all around. Then suddenly a bat will move large swaths of air with its wings, flitting in and out of the hut with rising and circling crescendo of a faintly echoing bass drum. The wind outside is a low hollow flute as the slow creak of the open window has the subtle grace of a grand bass. The air is alive and the threat of the storm further rises as the snare drums tease with a short quick spattering of rain on the metal door. Faintly, in the background, as if you were on stage or in the pit, the scratching of a dung beetle sounds of a turning page of sheet music. The stretching of air on the wings of a clumsily falling blister beetle are playfully blown on the reeds of a trombone. The frequent nasal honking of a guinea hen, impashioned plea of a donkey, and occasional frustrated ney of a distant horse round out the wind instruments.

Like the suspense of a symphony reaching its climax, a pause will settle over the air as if everything, including me, is holding its breath until the skies open and the torrents pour down, compelling silence and instilling quiet with reverence for the storms power.

(photo index: hedgehog; chameleon; some kind of cool insect)

I have a love/hate relationship with the rainy season. On one hand, the country has never looked so beautiful. There is green ground cover and wildflowers are growing all over. The tall stalks of millet rise up with bursts of dark green beans between them, waiting to be harvested in October. The rain itself drops the temperature down to the seventies, often a forty degree difference from the hot midday heat. And the lake has grown enormously, looking so beautiful as it reflects the fields of millet, different types of tress now in full bloom and the bright colors that reflect off the clouds at sunset, as well as the occasional full rainbows that arch across the whole sky.

Sometimes the lake looks like glass and the picture of two men gently paddling their boat across the water brings me peace. I have also found catharsis in rising early to join my neighbors at their fields, working my body into a sweat as we hand plow the millet sprouts. But many of my most pleasant mornings have been sitting with a cup of coffee and my journal, the BBC tuned in on my short wave radio to the background of a gently falling rain outside.

But then the other side of this season weighs down with each drop. The nights when I am awoken to lightning overhead, unannounced and many hours after I've fallen asleep gently under a clear star filled sky. Abruptly racing to bring my flashlight, pillow, blanket, book, chair, table and water bottle inside. I return to snap down the lines of my mosquito net and bundle it up shut, mattress and all, to the dry shelter of my mud hut, hoping the net doesn't rip any big holes as it snags on my millet stalk bed frame.

As the rainy season progresses, the weaknesses in my mud roof become more apparent. Just as I climb into my mosquito net inside and grow used to the sound of the indoor crickets, I am forced to rise to follow the slap slapping of water on my concrete floor or metal trunk and put a cup or bucket safely underneath to catch the drip. It is not uncommon for mud walls and homes to become saturated and collapse, as was the case for several people in my village and for me. I stood in my latrine one September morning and heard the hollow crashing of a twenty foot wall of my concession come down in one piece on top of my outdoor bed, my trees and my small vegetable garden. It is all a part of this African experience I told myself as my neighbors and I carried away the mud bricks to try and save some of the squashed tree seedlings underneath.

(photo index: looking into my concession where the wall once stood, a day in the millet fields with my friend Kevin, Lake Tabalak at sunset)

As one of the poorest countries in the world with a literacy rate that is estimated to be only 15% of the population, Niger offers very little with regard to modern income opportunities. Furthermore, women have one of the highest birth averages in the world at 10 children each leaving little time, energy and income to start their own small business enterprises. Accordingly, it is one of my personal goals as well as a Peace Corps program objective to develop sustainable income generating activities for women and girls. Many women in Niger, as well as the women of Kehehe, have formed cooperatives that are legally recognized NGOs who can apply for small microloan credit. Most of them operate a bit more informally by running a caisse system where each woman makes a weekly donation to the caisse that can then be loaned out to a number of women in need for things such as medical expenses or a son's dowry. They also use this money to help get projects started.

Such was the case in our Kehehe Women's Garden project. Informal conversations with many of the village women and the three leaders of the women's cooperatives revealed a great interest in obtaining a plot of land and materials to specifically start a women's garden. With some hemming and hawwing, the village chief finally agreed to loan us a plot of land and maybe, in the future, if the women raise the money, they can buy it off of him. Well, this promise turned out to be empty and I quickly learned that my chief is not always honest, nor supportive of the women in the village. The land he promised was claimed by a Tuareg man who said he earned it in some sort of dispute settlement. Oops! The chief forgot this minor point so we sought out other landowners in the village and with the help of an incredibly generous elder, were given a plot that the women can use in perpetuity.

Working closely with the village women's leader who is now one of my closest friends and a person I have grown to admire for her humor and grace, we held several meetings where 75 women attended to express their interest and sign up for work. In the following weeks we prepared the garden beds, obtained new varieties of seeds to introduce to the region and after the second big rain, gathered at the field to plant our starter beds of lettuce, tomato, okra, watermelon, hibiscus and moringa, a fast growing tree rich in vitamin A.

The project has not been without several bumps, however. After preparing the second plot of land we were given and getting ready to plant the seeds, the women informed me that the lake could possibly rise up to the level of the garden, flooding out part of our work. We took steps to mitigate this along the way, having to move our plot altogether, transplant tomatoes and trees and come up with a quick fix so the crickets wouldn't eat everything, but in the end, we had so much rain this year, that the lake flooded out our entire garden as well as several villagers millet fields.

And while this project sounds like a failure, so much grew out of it! The village women were consistently enthusiastic and gracious. While they were disappointed that their work was lost, they still remain eager to start up again in the cold season when the lake recedes. At moments when I was on the brink of tears for not being able to explain myself clearly, for being angry at the chief for his lack of support and for not having any more ideas to save our plants, I would look around at the resilience and perserverance of these fantastic women and know that their patience would carry us forward.

(photo index: my women's leader, Shouda and her friend standing in our flooded garden. See the water to their left?! women taking a rest as we prepared garden beds in June)

With Niger being on the UN Development Index as the poorest country in the world, known by Peace Corps Washington as the "shittiest" country because of the frequency of intestinal distress experienced by volunteers, and normal daily temperatures in the 120s, sometimes volunteers just want a cold beer!

Many of us came here expecting to explore our Puritan roots and try our hand at born again virginity only to find out that even the poorest countries in the world serve up a Jack Daniels, brew their own beer and offer a classy disco once in a while. Several times a year volunteers will descend upon the capital city Niamey or the regional hostels for a training session, a swearing in ceremony or any superfluous holiday like Summer Solstice, giving friends from all parts of the country a chance to catch up and toast to surviving the bush. Its a nice break to be able to strip down to a bikini or dress up in heels and revive that party girl, lets-dance-til-dawn person I didn't completely leave behind!

(photo index:Natalie, Brooke and I at the after party for our Gender & Development Fundraiser; me and the girls dancing at Club Krystal; my staging mates enjoying their first Biere Nigers)

After an early summer shake up in the Nigerien government, the parliament gave a vote of no confidence to Prime Minister Hama Amadou and his cabinet, effectively recalling their appointments. This government shut down came on the heels of news that $9m of European Aid for education programs was mishandled. The replacement selected is Seyni Oumarou who reinstated half of those ministers dismissed and began a junket around the different regions of the country.

One of his stops was in my village, Kehehe, to observe the ribbon cutting of a large scale aqueduct project to pump water from the lake and provide year round opportunities for gardening. All the elected counselors in the commune, the mayor and his assistants, many of the traditional village chiefs and village elders came to the outskirts of town to applaud the Prime Minister's arrival.

With an entourage of approximately 25 SUVs, the PM shook everyone's hands, let me snap some photos and gave a short speech followed by a tour. The event concluded rather quickly and then two months later it was announced that the government did not have enough money to proceed with the project. So in pure African fashion, the meters and meters of PVC were left in a pile, the cleared land went without millet for a season and the local officials held their breath that an NGO would come up with the necessary funds.

(photo index: Prime Minister Omarou; me with Mayor Maraba decked out in full Tuareg garb, sword and all!)

It is the quintessential photo of a Peace Corps volunteer, holding a bucket of water on her head as she is dressed in clothing similar to the natives. My experience is no different as I make the trek once or more daily and share in this Peace Corps rite of passage. A quarter of a mile away, the round trip walk can take anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes depending on who I run into on the way or at the well. Occassional sand and tree dirt makes its way into the water, but for the most part it's clear and clean enough to swim in. On days when the heat is unbearable, I've daydreamed of rappelling the 30 feet for a cool dip!

Slowly I've worked my way up to carrying a full 20 liter bucket on my head. Unlike the women and girls who have been carrying water everyday for their whole lives, I have to employ the use of al least one hand to keep the bucket steady. Over long distances, it truly is easier to balance heavy materials on one's head and I am amazed at the ease with which the Nigerien's do it. Sometimes they use a padding of cloth between their head and the bucket, but oftentimes they won't. I've seen women make quick 180 degree turns without spilling a drop, and trot past me at a speed short of a jog. All the while holding their water pulling bag in one hand with a baby tied onto their backs. The chore for me definitely does not come with such ease, but I've learned to navigate sharing the path with a herd of a hundred horned cattle, stopping to have conversations along the way and reluctantly offering a hand to the dirty children who come running up to greet me.

The main paved road runs between my hut and the well, so I frequently receive cheers and jeers from people in the cabs of passing semi-trucks, passengers of bush taxis and the occassional driver who pulls on to the shoulder to share a laugh with the "anasara" (white person) carrying water on her head. The regional finance minister even turned his Mercedes aroudn to find out where I was carrying my water to.

As with all chores, though, sometimes you just don't want to do it. Of course at these times when I'm forced to go because my water filter is empty or the gunk at the bottom of my water pot is dirtier than the arms I want to wash, the elements of frustration seem elevated. I'll arrive at the well to find a gaggle of three young teenage girls who will each in turn grab at my bracelets or earrings, reach to take my water pulling bag for themselves, or try to rewrap my sarong, telling me I've done it wrong. All the while shouting in my face, thinking the louder they are the better I'll understand them. If it were a movie, they'd have their own creepy theme song everytime they entered the scene! Cursing them out calmly with my favorite English swear words makes it a little more enjoyable.

The strong harmattan winds have also tested my patience by blowing my cloth padding both into the well and into the black mucky water around the well before I could get the heavy bucket securely rested on my head. Whatever the direction the winds seem to be coming from, they always manage to blow my sarong open, leaving me to alternate balancing the bucket with one hand while keeping my knees from showing with the other. Just when you think your patience has depleted, you take a deep breath and dig deeper for more!

On the days when the peak temperature hits 120, I can return home to dip my sarong in the cool water, wrap it around my body and take a nice long nap in the shade. The steady breeze kisses my shoulders and the clear blue sky disappears under my eyelids, leaving me to dream that instead of being in one of Africa's sandboxes, I'm somewhere in the Caribbean, soon to wake to a cabana bar and cool turquoise sea. Who says you can't live off daydreams?!!

I am awoken each day by the rhythmic vibration and hollow sound of my neighbor pounding her wooden mortar into a large pestle, the weight of her body turning millet into flour. Some days it seems that I can feel the ground shake first, rather than hear the deep beats over the wall. But as I slowly rise out of my slumber, echoes of the same sound drift in from concessions all over the village. This is typically how each women's day starts, with her husband rationing out millet or sorghum grain to the household to be turned into a thick porridge called tuwo or mixed as flour into goat or sheep milk making a milkshake type drink called hura.

Oftentimes, if there are multiple wives in a household (the Quran allows up to 4), the younger wives will do the pounding while older wives may help with the wash, sweeping or cooking, or leave the concession to forage for firewood or food for their sheep and goats. In many households, girls are kept home from school in order to help with the burden of the chores. Their schedules reflect the rising heat of the day, with the most strenuous chores done earliest and the mid-afternoons saved for rest and conversation under the largest shade tree.

It is during these rest times that many of my friendships have taken hold. As it is paramount in Nigerien culture to greet people, I have made it my habit to go around and sit with groups of women during these rest times. Unfortunately, many women have been cloistered by their husbands which restricts them to their concessions unless their chores require them to leave to fetch water or collect firewood. It is no surprise then, why women often linger at the well or plan long walks into the bush with other wives.

Nonetheless, however, it is true that firewood is very difficult to find freely and too expensive to be purchased regularly (50 cents $US for a daily supply). Many of the desirable fuel or home construction trees are protected in Niger, necessitating frequent full day hikes to collect the essential supplies. Reducing wood fuel usage is a project goal for Peace Corps Natural Resource Management volunteers for several reasons. Restoration of the land requires the planting and care of trees as opposed to stripping them from the already poor soils. Also, the less time women and children need to spend foraging for wood, the more time they have for income generating activities or attending school.

Accordingly, one project for moving toward this goal is teaching women to build improved cookstoves that use less firewood and burn more safely. I implemented this project during my first few months when a high level of Hausa language ability was not neccessary and mud was readily available as people repaired their homes before rainy season. Many women had already heard of improved cookstoves and a few had built them in their concessions. The way they work is to build a traditional three rock stove with the pot on it, wrap the whole thing in about six inches of mud mixed with manure, ash and millet shaff, and cut a door to set the wood in. All the villagers know how to make the mud and many have stories about how their children tipped over pots or their sarongs got burnt in the flame.

With the help of two women who have incredible effort and previous knowledge of building cookstoves, we taught thirteen women how to build and care for them. The success and sustainability of this project is evident in the number of requests we received from other women to train them and now we have plans to hold a competition with one trained woman paired with one untrained woman to demonstrate both their teaching and construction abilities. A new set of pots or a sarong will be the prize to the winning pair!

(photo index: Abu, her baby Rahila tied to her back and me making mud bricks for our cookstove; looking over my neighbors wall to friends pounding and cooking; Abu and Fatima with their finished cookstove)

After waiting with much speculation and excitement, March brought me to my new post and new home for the next two years. As the northern-most volunteer in Niger, I have opened up this region to the Peace Corps program and a region of the country that has been closed since 2001. Kehehe (ke-hay-hay) is a village of about 1500 on the main road to the ancient caravan city, Agadez. It rests in the basin of a watershed and has an enormous lake. Surrounding the lakeside villages, the terrain rises into rolling sand dunes, making it something of an oasis in the desert.

Kehehe is a comparatively diverse village of Hausa, Tuareg and Fulani ethnic groups. The three groups are marked by very different traditions and occupations. Hausas are found in the eastern half of Niger and share a common language with Nigeria. Families typically have multiple wives with an average of 10 children each, and are sedentary farmers trying to eke a successful harvest from poor soils. Fulanis are found all across the Sahel as they are nomadic herders and frequently hired to take peoples' goats, sheep and camels out to graze. The Tuareg have traditionally inhabited the northern part of Niger and are an ancient culture that spans the Sahara desert of present day Algeria, Libya and Mali. They speak an old and guttural language, Tamachek, and there is an active artisans workshop in my village where they make silver jewelry and swords as well as leather purses, books and boxes.

Large Lake Tabalak grows to be six miles long during the July to September rainy season and offers many work opportunties for the village. Because there is no dearth of water, most people hand dig thousands of acres of gardens in the fertile lake bed as the water recedes. There is also an active fishing industry on the lake that serves up fish in the likes of guppies and catfish which taste great fried up and powdered with red pepper, bones and all!

Proximity to the main road means the villagers are pretty current with news of the outside world, have greater access to business opportunities, and are very accepting of a single white woman living and working with them for two years as part of a project. It also means I get abruptly woken by the "POW" of a flat tire on a passing semi-truck, but I am absolutely thrilled to be living in such a beautiful and interesting place for the next two years and have loved being there so far!

(photo index: Lake Tabalak during rainy season, a Tuareg and his camel winning the race, me in my hut, my women's leader and family in the cold season gardens)

After nine, fun yet sometimes anxious weeks of training, all 36 trainees in the 2007 Ag-NRM stage (french for staging group), swore in as official Peace Corps volunteers after passing the minimum language proficiency requirements to go to our assigned posts. At a ceremony at the U.S. Ambassador, Bernadette Allen's residence, many of us were dressed in traditional garb and were treated to a party with many of Niger's dignataries and their accompanying words of welcome. (Photo index: Training Manager Yves giving our welcome speech; some friends looking fabulous; full length and head shots of my friend Kelly Pohl and I; all the volunteers in my regional group, Team Konni; Program Director Chris Burns, my friend Heidi, Program Assistant Haoua, and I;

After nine weeks of culture, language and medical training, I, along with my 35 colleagues are on our way to our new villages and homes where we'll spend the first few months utlizing and learning even more Hausa and French, and getting to know our posts. The goal for these next nine weeks is to become more integrated into the culture and to gain some mastery of the languages in order to lay the ground work for our project work to come.

I am definitely a bit nervous about moving into my post, but also very excited and somewhat sad to leave the trainers, my friends going to other parts of the country, and my host family in Hamdallaye that I have come to really like and care about.

I felt very lucky for my roommate Claudia and I to move in with the Sarah family as part of our first introduction to Niger. Issaca, the father, is an administrator at the local secondary school and is serious about his children's education. Unlike many of the other village children who don't go to school, or spend their nights playing ball in the streets, Abdul Keder (15), Rahina (14), and Ibrahim spend their evenings studying, even after we have gone to bed. Issaca and Mariama have opened their home to a nephew, Abdul Razak (16) and family friend, Jemilla (14) so they can both attend school. Everyone is so polite and respectful to us and any small problem causes them worry for our happiness and health here.

Mariama is a fantastic cook and as the cultural traditions dictate that the children eat separately and the men and women eat separately, we were able to spend the evenings chatting with Mariama as we dove into the delicious Nigerien food with our hands (well, only the right hand!) I was very sad to say goodbye to them, but look forward to visiting later on when my language skills are much better and I can have a more in depth conversation beyond "how's the weather, how's the heat, how's the tiredness, how's the family, what did you do today,"...etc.

(Photo index: Ibrahim on the right, and his friend; Mariama, Claudia (Binta), and I (Sahiya) inside their house; Issaka coming home from evening prayer; family picture Jemilla, Rahina, Keder and Razak; the older kids on their way to school)

Because our trainers do such a good job trying to spice things up and keep us engaged, they organized a very fun fashion show where we modeled the styles of the country's different ethnic groups. Distinct styles as well as subtle differences help to distinguish Niger's ethnic groups. Dressed as Zarma, Hausa, Songhai, Tuareg, Bela Bela, Woodabe and Fulani, we strutted our stuff on the cat walk. The teachers in turn tried out the cross cultural exchange in our jeans and backpacks, carrying the ever essential accessory - a Nalgene bottle. Check out our language trainer, Oussmane, with a mohawk!(Photo index: representing the ethnic groups, I'm in the front wearing traditional Tuareg dress; Oussmane; Haoua & Rakia looking gorgeous; my friend Paige dressed as a Woodabe; me in the yellow as a Hausa)

Well it's been two full months now and while I'm in love with my life here, there is without doubt a new recognition of my fondness for things at home. A few of these include:

* body butter and salon conditioner * a bathroom without cockroaches * a bathroom with a toilet - pit latrine is about as glamorous as it sounds! * any coffee but instant * making snow angels * cuddling with my puppy, Seamus * wearing tank tops in 100 degree heat * news of the world * ice cubes * hugs from my boyfriend, Mike * good beer * pretty clothes * rag magazines and gossip of Bradgelina * pedicures *

Ideal Care Package

body butter

Biolage conditioner

spices - cinnamon, Bells, Zatarans

maple syrup

brown sugar

pie tins w/ graham cracker crust

pictures of family & friends

stationery

oil of olay face lotion

wife beater tank tops - all colors!

good paperbacks

frosting in a tub

meat!! any kind in a retort pouch

dried fruit

beef jerky

maple extract

velveeta

kool aid

markers

embroidery thread

Waking up after a welcome sleep for my tired dancing feet, I choked down a few bites of fried fari masa (lit. white corn) that squirted straight oil into my mouth and headed with the others for the short walk to see the village women's large garden. Haoua praised the women as having lots of "Kokari" (effort) as we observed their 800 garden plots, multiple wells with pumps and then later on that day their literacy class.

After leaving the garden we climbed into our vehicles and bounced over the soft sandy roads between villages. One thing the Peace Corps loves to do is to build drama into our programming, keeping us constantly in the dark about things to come. This was no different that morning as we had been told there would be a "Petite Surprise". When suddenly our vehicles stopped and Haoua started cheering and clapping wildly, we looked out and in the near distance saw 7 giraffes grazing on the grass and trees. Letting out girlish yelps, we all grabbed our cameras and scampered out of the Land Crusiers to take photos. The giraffes are not easily scared and let us within 100 yards.

While there are not many giraffes in Niger, they are protected and do not tend to migrate far. Still we were quite lucky to find them so easily. They are slender graceful creatures who move peacefully and quitely through the savannah. Each have unique spots and travel within regions that have available surface water. Being so fortunate to have come upon these beautiful African animals, I felt a swell of Nirvana rush over me and the dream of Africa come true before my eyes.

After our departure from Sarafone, we headed east to the town of Kiota, home to West Africa's most popular Sheikh. People from all over the continent travel to this village to celebrate the birthday of Mohammed in the Sheikh's presence. Equally as popular is "Maman", the wife of the Sheikh's now deceased father and a woman of great generosity to young and orphaned girls. Nigerien's and other devout Muslims are constantly making pilgrammages here to ask the Sheikh and Maman to pray for them. Many often wait many days or weeks to see the Sheikh, so it was quite an honor for our entourage to be invited into their separate palaces, served a delicious meal and given the opportunity to shake their hands, ask questions and have a prayer said for us. I continue to be so amazed at the welcomes and access our mere presence as Peace Corps volutneers has solicited.

Our celebration of Islam continued at the next village where we would be sleeping for the night. This village was almost exclusively women as many of the young men were on exode. Here we were able to relax and chat a bit before the evening prayer ended and the ziphyr chanting started. On our briefing we were told that because it was Friday, the Islamic Holy Day, the chanting would be subdued. However, what was to come ended up being the most fun night I've had in Niger!

In a circle of about 60 people, mostly women and girls, we joined in on call and response songs, took turns dancing into the center of the circle, and clapped our hands together and against our bodies to create rhythm. All of the songs seemed to praise Allah and the energy grew and grew as the dancing went on. I had the best time learning from the young teenage girls and letting the village women pull me into the dancing over and over again. Kentucky Kate, my friend and fellow volunteer hailed the circle as "some serious down home worshipin'!"

Our entrance into the village of Sarafone was an epic one. As we came bouncing over the dried out bed of the seasonal river, crowds of villagers dressed in their best clothing and jewelry came pouring out of their huts and concessions to greet us. As the evening light grew lower, throngs of children chased after us as the car wound through the narrow mud wall alleys. Some hung onto the back of our Land Rover, some beat on the windows and all cheered wildly as we came driving past. Our exit from the car found us surrounded by the kicked up dust from the drive in and the stampede behind. Looking over the walls to the surrounding alleys, we could see the clouds of dust moving our way even before we saw the young African faces round the corner.

The village pulled out all the stops for us. Skits and dancing were attended by hundreds of people where traditional Nigerien music was played and a trio of women entered into an animist possession dance, kicking up dust all around them and building increasingly with the music. The sounds of drumming and clapping could be heard from our camp late into the night.

The morning met us with 50 eager children wanting to learn how to plant live fencing right along side us so they could hopefully grow successful trees to mark the boundaries of their school yard. Our attention was quickly diverted however upon first sight of the camels and decorated Songhai horses. Demounting the camel was the scariest part of riding it, as the camels have a deep bellowing whine that sounds somewhat prehistoric which they cry out while bending down from their great height to laying flat on the ground. Clinging tightly to the harness, my body was pushed almost parallel to the sand as I looked straight down the camel's neck, like coming over the hill of a roller coaster.

A trio of drummers played for us all morning and the entire crowd of children, horses, camels and elders followeds us back to our vehicles to send us off.

Peace Corps Niger has had the incredibly unique experience of operating nonstop for 45 years without having to evacuate volunters or temporarily close the program for safety reasons. The Natural Resource Management sector has benefited from this consistency and helped contribute to Niger's success in combatting desertification and growing every more trees over the past 30 years. (See Feb 11 NYTimes article:)

Haoua Petite, our incredible Program Training Assistant, has boundless energy and a tough, hands-on, get dirty attitude. She constantly tells us with her thick almost rastafarian accent; "NRMs, mon, we're hardcore!" She put together an incredible 3 day training trip where we learned applicable technical skills such as dune stabilization, tree plantations, invasive species removal, and live fencing, among others. As the circus master of our hardcore NRM group, she showed us the most backwoods parts of the bush, introduced us to some of the most connected people in the country and imparted her wisdom and experience through projects that kept us moving and inspired.

Early on the first day our caravan of Land Rovers - fondly called ambulances - had to shovel out or Japanese counterparts, the JIKA volunteers, from sand dunes and cheer wildly - Tahi, Tahi!!! Allez Allez!!!!- to inspire our driver and vehicle up and over the steep rocky ravine to see the rock lines and banquettes serving to catch water for plant reclamation. Later, the feathery switches of the Moringa made for a peaceful afternoon stop and our constant drive by the Niger River gave me a sense of comfort with its lushness and calm. The afternoon continued with an inspiring visit to a grade school class where despite our tiredness and the pressing afternoon heat, I was awed by the energy of the class and their pure gratefulness for the lesson and our presence. The students were dressed in their best clothing and looked anxiously for our reactions.

(Photo index: Off roading in the bush. Me, Jamie and Haoua in our ambulance. Planting live fencing.)

(Index of photos: Current PCV's greeting us on arrival from Paris at the Niamey airport. NRM program director Chris Burns and Country Director, Mary Abrams. Our mosquito nets! The training compound in Hamdallaye (bisa dutsi). Ag/NRM Stage 2007!)

The most apparent indication of Nigerien friendliness and humility is their propensity to make repeated long greetings that are always answered positively and with thankfulness to Allah.

Barka da zowa! (Blessings on your coming!)Barka kaddai! (Blessings to you!)Ina Gida? (How's the family?)Gida duka lahiya lau. (The family is in health.)Ina aiki? (How's the work?)

Aiki da godiya. (I am thankful for the work.)Ina gajiya? (How's the tiredness?)Babu gajiya! (There is no tiredness!)

Any similar series of greetings is done whether you've seen the same person in the morning and return only and hour later. They are exchanged with strangers in the street and in the market. Any truthfulness about whether you are tired or someone is ill is offered only after your blessings and thankfulness are given.

The length of the greeting is matched only by the length of the day, and the gratefulness for each moment became clear to me on one occassion when I was walking with my host mother, Mariama, and sharing these greetings. I knew she had much work to do - hauling water from the well, pounding millet into flour and prearing dinner for her family. As we walked slowly together towards home I thought, "My god, is it possible to walk any slower", and as the African sun began to rest hazily upon the horizon, I discovered that indeed, it was.