It’s been a long wait for this blog entry that I hope has been eagerly awaited. I’ve been running around quite a bit recently, reflecting on my trip, allowing the images and the feelings to ferment and gather strength without, hopefully, losing any potency with my lack of immediacy in recording them. Here it is then: reflections on my return to Niger.

Let me start by saying that this wasn’t an individual accomplishment. I was accompanied on my trip by my friend Jane, a Nigerian with a rugged sense of independence that surpasses that of nearly every other woman I know. She had to be tough: overall, I think we totaled 50 hours of travel time from Jos to Sokoto, Niamey, Tanka Lokoto and back in only eight days. Along the way, we were helped out by Ms. Lindsay Goldberg and her boyfriend Nasser who gave us succor in Niamey to break up the travel days. Lindsay is a former Volunteer who stayed behind in Niger after the Peace Corps evacuated, braving the capital even without a half-dozen, Mefloquine-crazed Volunteers lighting up the town and breaking the monotony of quiet, rice and bean flavored nights.

But that isn’t why you came to this blog today. In my last entry, I expressed real fear at the possibility that, upon returning to my village, the realization that one can never go back would tear through my gut like some hateful combination of barbed wire and amoebic dysentery. In my mind, any number of tragedies could have befallen my community in the two years since I left. Most involved the famine that affected the country in 2010, but in my wildest imaginings, which tend to run like an out of control train, certain individuals were vulnerable to anything from malaria to hyena attacks, complications in childbirth to that scene in Alien where the little baby creeper bursts out of the guy’s chest. These things happen in my mind even without government mandated anti-malarials.

So it was as I stepped out of the bush taxi, just pitching up in the village without any prior warning or word that I’d be returning. I’m a terrible guest; really, I am. Unloading from a bush taxi to the sand, sounds, and heat of a two year time capsule was a surreal experience. The men at the mosque seemed to take it in stride: “Hey, Mubarak, ni ka? Fonda kayan!” (Hey, Mubarak, you’ve come? Welcome back!) The children alternately mobbed me and went tearing off through the neighborhood screaming to everyone who could hear, “Mubarak ka! Mubarak ka!” (Mubarak came! Mubarak came!) My friends from all over the village came streaming out of the woodwork, their faces shifting from disbelief and confusion to smiles and laughter seconds after setting eyes on me. All day as they slowly made their way back from the fields, dirty and tired, neighbors and friends greeted me, none of whom I had seen or spoken to since I left. They’d heard news that I was in town and had dropped everything to come see me. And all day, I worried over this person or that until they visited and I saw him or her with my own eyes.

And you know, everyone was fine. Everyone is alive and well in Tanka Lokoto. The village was remarkably the same. They’d built a new mosque, bright, white, and shining even from the dunes north of town. All the children were present and accounted for, all a couple inches taller, their faces slowly smoothing away baby fat as they get older. And everyone had a new baby. I leave for a couple years and suddenly every single family has a brand new baby, most only a few weeks old. It’s something I should have expected in a country with such a high birth rate, but it’s one of those things you just don’t think about when you’ve been gone for so long.

I’m happy to report that my favorite kid, my attakurmizo, Razak, who grew from this kid at the beginning of my service:

To this kid by the end of my service:

And is now this kid:

And if that picture were expanded just a little bit, you’d see him with his little arms around a cute little girl. So maybe he learned a thing or two from hanging around me for two years.

Also, my friend Sekou, who I still maintain is one of the most clever, most amazing people I’ve ever met, is still doing great things for his community. In many ways, he’s still this guy:

He's the one in the blue-grey suit, speaking while everyone else just listens. A man so well respected that he commands attention just by the nature of who he is: a hardworking man diligently working to better himself and his community. He’s still kicking it, same as always, a little pensive in this shot from the top of the dune at sunset:

And in one off the cuff comment, he amazed me with his humility and his dedication to his home and his people. Though it had taken him five solid years, he told me, he had finally managed to acquire a car to act as an ambulance for the local medical center. If ever anyone is in dire need, they can be at the hospital in Niamey in a just a couple hours. Already, the ambulance has saved lives. And he mentioned this just as casually as he would a prediction of afternoon rain.

So, despite two years away, the village is still there. It hasn’t changed much. And in the few days since I’ve been home, I realize how similar my Nigerien village is to my American village. Nothing much changes. There’s a new building here or there, the kids grow a bit taller, the seasons change, but life keeps on going. I’ll tell people where I’ve traveled and they’ll be amazed without any real idea what those places are like, the people who live there, the cultures slowly changing just as cultures always do despite calls to nostalgia and “the way things were.”

I know now that things in Tanka Lokoto will continue without me, just as things in Flora, Indiana continue without me. I can leave these places behind and they’ll be secure in my heart. They don’t change. Or rather, they change with me. They’ll age alongside me, they’ll change as I change, but I don’t have to fear returning to a place I don’t recognize. As I grow older, these places seem smaller, like my childhood bed. I can still sleep there, but my feet hang over the edge. I haven’t outgrown it, but I’m just used to bigger things. I’ve never gotten used to being a big fish in a small pond. I don’t like it. There isn’t enough room to swim. And even if I feel a little lost sometimes, I like the freedom to explore that comes with being a little fish in the big, wide ocean. In the end, I feel a bit like Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha. I’ve learned and grown, but I need to keep moving, to keep discovering, to know that I’ve left people behind that I care about but who I still carry with me in everything I do. These places and these people will always be there, but I’ve got to keep moving. So was it worth traveling over 1200km to learn such a simple lesson? I’ll leave it with a lesson from Hesse’s Siddhartha:

“Certainly I traveled for my own pleasure. Why else do it? I got to know people and places, I enjoyed amiability and confidences, I made friends…I have had good days, I learned, I enjoyed myself, I harmed neither myself nor others through vexation or excessive haste. And if ever I go back that way again, perhaps to purchase a subsequent harvest, or for any purpose whatsoever, friendly people will receive me amiably and cheerfully, and I will have myself to commend for that.” I will always have a bed to rest my head; I will always have friends and neighbors, whether I’m living in a place or not. And I have only myself to commend for taking the time to build those relationships, for revisiting my past and realizing that I continue to carry a living memory wherever I go.

I've been struggling with this decision for most of my time in Jos, but by nature of the fact that I just got the visa, I think I've resolved it: I'm going back to Niger.

I figure, why not? It's only a two-day trip on tortuous roads through the heat and dust of Northern Nigeria and that half-remembered road from Niamey to Zinder. After all, when will I honestly next get the chance to be a mere 1,271km road trip from the home that built me up, pulled me down, and, every day for two solid years, fundamentally changed the person I was and the person I was to be.

It's impossible to describe the emotion that goes into this decision. It's something I've been grappling seriously with for the last two weeks now. As this idea took shape and began to materialize, I realized that it isn't all Tuareg tea and starry nights. If I'm expecting life to have frozen there in my time away, I'll be sorely disappointed. The children will have grown, there will have been births, deaths, marriages, all the events of life that ground us and give us structure. And I'll have missed many of those.

In fact, I have no idea what has happened in the village in the nearly two years I've been away. I lost my Nigerien SIM card while I was traveling in West Africa. With that small piece of plastic and electronics, I lost my only living connection to my village. Every phone number I collected in Niger is now lost in some forgotten corner of Africa.

I remember meeting a young woman in Sierra Leone. She was set to leave the country and was a bit heartbroken by that fact. We commiserated over leaving a place that felt like home, and I mentioned how much I wanted to return to Niger. "Don't," she said, "I know how much you want something like that right now, but you can't ever go back. What is there for you? Things change."

In every way, she's right, and that's the biggest fear I hold. Two years is a long time in a country where the average life expectancy is 53, where 16% of children don't make to to the age of 5, where, as a woman, you have a 1 in 16 chance of dying during childbirth over the course of a lifetime that averages 7.6 children per woman. In my mind, I imagine this place held in time, where I'll step out of a bush taxi and have a horde of screaming children welcoming me back to village. In reality, there's every possibility that a few of those children will no longer be there to greet me. There's every possibility that the old men who spent their days napping in the shade of the neem trees will be fewer in number. There's every possibility that sometime during one of those hot, black nights of the past two years, someone I cared about has slipped into a malarial fever from which they couldn't recover.

And what can I do about that? Can I mourn time lost in a place I once called home? Or can I return and find a place that has continued on without me and be thankful that I was allowed such a profound experience? One that can never be shared, no matter how many words are spoken or how many photos were taken. Can I grow and plant this piece of myself, permanently locate it within my heart, and continue on, carrying this shard of experience with me, knowing that there is a piece of myself somewhere that continues to live, to grow, to flourish in the harsh, near-desert of the Sahel?

That is ultimately what has brought me to undertake this journey back to Niger. I don't know if I'd ever get the chance to do it again. Despite all the promises and assurances, I've met too many people who never got around to that great passion, experience, or dream that slowly faded into the soft pain of regret and a wistful nostalgia of a previous life.

If for no other reason, I want to go back in the hopes of seeing this kid again:

That's my attakurmizo, my little trickster, the kid who saw me through the trauma of leaving, who taught me more about love and friendship than I ever could have imagined, who did that all without being able to even properly say my name. That picture is the perfect representation of him. Whenever I think about him, that's how I see him, arms wrapped around my leg, wide-eyed affection without a trace of guile. I could keep him like this forever, like a glass ornament, precious and beautiful. But I want to see what he's become. As much as possible, I yearn for the living memory of this place, even if it has a few cracks and scratches. That's what this ultimately is about: the search for that living memory, even if it's painful or broken in some way. Tomorrow, I'll start that search, unsure of what I'll find but longing for it nevertheless.

I've been out of touch for a couple weeks now, traveling around Plateau State and conducting interviews with key stakeholders throughout seven of the seventeen local governments. One of the most enlightening aspects of the interviews came with the question: Who is most responsible for promoting peace in your local government.

In many of the local governments deemed "high conflict," the respondents had an immediate answer. Religious leaders, they'd say, or traditional leaders. One man confidently asserted that women were the most responsible for promoting peace. These answers, in and of themselves, gave us an idea of who was working in troubled communities and which groups needed support.

However, arguably more interesting were the answers from communities that have known little to no conflict. When asked who was working the most toward the peace, nearly every respondent had to pause to think about it. When pressed with suggested peace actors from other communities, respondents said that they couldn't measurably say who was working the most toward peace because nearly everyone was involved. Political leaders brought together religious and traditional leaders as well as women, youth, civil societies and NGOs. Each group has its own constituencies, and by bringing them together to work toward peace, these low-conflict LGAs were reaching every member of their community.

This seems like a straight-forward answer, but it inevitably is not. Every single Local Government Council praised the efforts of their chairmen calling together all actors for meetings and discussions. But there were subtle differences between those who have successfully resisted violence and those where violence has torn at the very fabric of the community.

It came from the interviews with non-governmental traditional, religious, women, and youth leaders. In conflict communities, many complained that when the government held meetings, they were just talking sessions. They met, they aired grievances, and they left. Nothing filtered down to the actors committing violence. Nothing was asked of the participants, and no practical action plans ever emerged from these monthly meetings.

The peace communities carried a different tone.

The insurgency continues in Maiduguri and though conversations aren't solely centered around the violence there, Boko Haram maintains its grip on the go-to subject in Nigeria. However, instead of looking at the issue in its current, bloody incarnation, I'd prefer to use it as a model for conflict in general, especially here in Nigeria.

I'll refer to a model from the Conflict Research Consortium, more essays and diagrams can be found here:

Ah, the majestic bell curve. The simple beauty of statistics, literary arcs, and bellmakers. The Boko Haram latent conflict can be traced back to the vestiges of colonialism and the divide and rule tactics of the British. In Nigeria, the British allowed for indirect rule of the northern states, which, from the time of the Fulani jihads, had a feudal system based on the religious power of the Sokoto caliphate. As part of this system, the British did not allow missionaries to evangelize in the North, nor did they spread the Western system of education in the Northern states.

Boko Haram, as previously mentioned, is Hausa for "Western education is forbidden." The group is extremist to say the least, but if one were to take them at their name, the foundation of their grievances is the challenge that they perceive Western education systems present to their way of life. So let's just call that the latent conflict in this scenario.

The conflict emerged through the creation of this organization and their call for an Islamic state in Northern Nigeria. Now at this point, the curve can diverge: conflict can escalate or a peace may be negotiated. It was obviously not in the Nigerian state's interest to negotiate the secession of a significant chunk of the country.

Here's where the conflict escalates: Boko Haram is a militant organization, but there are rumors that several politicians used the group for electioneering purposes. Hired thugs are unfortunately all too common in a country where 46% of the youth are unemployed. The justice system is egregiously broken in much of Nigeria as well, so the few arrests that have been made target only the foot soldiers, not the "big men" pulling the strings.

Two years ago, however, the military got involved and captured the group's leader, Muhammed Yusuf. They turned him over, and it looked like the conflict would enter a period of de-escalation and the group might fade back into obscurity. However, after the military turned Yusuf over to the police, years of impunity were transformed with a little street justice, and Yusuf was dead before he ever reached a court for trial. Since his arrest and extrajudicial execution, Boko Haram has experienced a resurgence, freeing 300 of its members from a prison in Bauchi last year and virtually taking over the city of Maiduguri.

Now the state and Boko Haram have entered the stalemate. The military operation in Maiduguri is ongoing, but the organization, like all asymmetric powers, has gone underground and rumors persist that there are cells like it all over the north. The army has been accused of human rights abuses in Maiduguri in part because they cannot differentiate civilian from combatant and are under constant pressure from improvised explosives that kill soldiers daily. Boko Haram itself says that it refuses to negotiate with a government trying to kill its members. That's not exactly crazy, as the last time one of them pitched up at the police station, he wound up dead.

So as the violence continues to unfold in Maiduguri, it will remain to be seen whether the conflict will rise, fall, or remain in its current stasis. As long as the military crackdown continues, I'm sure it will remain the topic of conversation.

If anyone has been following news in Nigeria recently, it has most likely been focused on the Islamic militant group Boko Haram and their recent attacks on the northeastern city of Maiduguri. The news is no different in Nigeria, either. Every day, front-page headlines are dedicated to updates on the continuing violence in the north of the country. Whenever there's a lull in local conversation, it is inevitably filled with some new comment about Boko Haram.

The group's official name is Jama'atu Ahlis Sunna Lidda'awati wal-Jihad, which in Arabic means "People Committed to the Propagation of the Prophet's Teachings and Jihad," but locals in the north dubbed the group Boko Haram, a Hausa phrase which means "Western Education is Forbidden" due to the group's opposition to western education.

I could give the group's history and a little bit of background, but honestly, there's too much intrigue to cover properly in one blog post. Suffice it to say, things have gotten bad. Last month, the group targeted the police headquarters in Abuja with a car bomb that killed two, shattered windows around the city, and destroyed over 70 nearby vehicles. Since then, the Nigerian government has gone on the offensive, and the entire situation is close to turning into a full-blown insurgency. Thousands of people have fled Maiduguri, including the 35,000 students at the university there, after Boko Haram threatened it with an attack. The timing could not be worse, as most of these students were about to sit for end-of-year exams.

Here in Jos, the conversation stems around the flood of what can only be called refugees or internally displaced people. Everyone I speak to has seen these people fleeing the violence in overloaded cars and trucks. Basically anything with wheels is trucking people out of the city. There are rumors that drivers are charging upwards of 5 - 6000 Naira ($30 - $40) for the journey, a crazy sum for that distance, but one which people are paying due to the military crackdown and increasing reports of extrajudicial killings and severe human rights abuses.

But we can joke about it can't we? Honestly, Nigerians have the greatest capacity for joking about anything, but underlying the laughter is often an ounce of worry. I recently went out with some friends to get some fish and have a beer at one of the open-air bars that are ubiquitous in Africa. However, this time around it took some serious deliberation to choose one that was properly secluded. It was determined after much discussion to avoid the popular ones near West of Mines (a central, typically busy Jos Haunt). When we sat down, one of the guys joked, "Okay, no Boko Haram here." Laughing, we didn't want to believe that he was afraid of bombings. Realistically though, I think it weighs on everyone's mind. Bombs killed 80 people in Jos on Christmas Eve 2010, and reports from the north detailing the violence have continued to set people on edge. Only a few weeks ago, Boko Haram militants on motorcycles lobbed bombs into a popular nightspot in Maiduguri, killing 25 and injuring dozens more. Indeed, for a few weeks it was almost impossible to open the newspaper in the morning without coming across news of another bombing, leading many to think, "If it can happen there..."

The government has responded in its typically heavy-handed way, deploying the military to Maiduguri and watching the fallout. Traditional leaders in the city have criticized the military task force for its human rights abuses, which the state governor only recently admitted were guilty of "excesses."

But as I mentioned, these issues are too much for one post. In the next few days, I'll try to look at the government response to Boko Haram and how a conflict so local has exploded into widespread violence amounting to near-insurrection. The hard-line government stance has done little for the country in fighting the wave of terror engulfing Maiduguri and may have only worsened the situation. Stay tuned for the next post.

“We proclaim God’s favour, blessings and protection on all facilities here and upon anyone who comes here to use them for good.” – Placard outside Jos Business School

A few weeks ago, I had to register my phone. This is a common practice introduced last year by the government as a means to combat the infamous 419 fraud scams and the rash of kidnappings in the Niger Delta. New SIM cards must be registered with fingerprints and a litany of the usual information: occupation, address, mother’s maiden name, etc.

However, there are a few questions that threw me off a little bit: “Mother’s maiden name? Yada yada...Okay...Hobby?”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Hobby?”

“Like what do I do for fun?” This is perhaps the strangest question I’ve ever been asked during a routine registration procedure. I mean, what does the government actually expect from this question? “I like to kidnap Chinese oil workers...Damn! WRONG ANSWER!” “Oh, I’m actually the wife of former president Sani Abacha, and I need some help getting some money out of the country. If you could just give me your bank details...oh man, TRICKED AGAIN!” In the end, I declined my usual answers (puppy bowling, internationally renowned gentleman gambler, ruling several small fiefdoms in Central Asia) to give a rather blasé response: “reading.” I think I was a little flustered.

However, if hobby took me by surprise, the next question left me without any answer at all: “Religion?” In the United States, this is a distinctly no-go area. Religion is considered private, personal, but in Nigeria, most job applicants list their religious affiliation on the first page of their CV/resume.

Religion dominates life in Nigeria. It seems like every building, hair salon, bush taxi and motorbike has some motto or religious slogan begging God or Allah’s protection, blessings, a fabulous haircut or finely pressed pants. Sundays are devoted to worship, and every shop, restaurant, and bar seems to close for the Sabbath. This mirrors the specific times that the Muslim traders close shop to pray. Billboard advertisements from the recent elections tout specific candidates with slogans such as “With God, Change is Possible.”

Many politicians in the States cloak themselves in religious conservatism, but I am glad we haven’t progressed far enough down this path to directly invoke God in our political campaigns. For one, it seems facile, without substance (though admittedly, few campaign slogans actually contain much substance), as if inserting God can replace any real dialogue on the economy, education, health care or foreign policy. More importantly, linking religion to a political candidate carries with it the danger that any opposition to the politician may be construed as an opposition to religion. In Nigeria, the confluence of religion, politics, and ethnicity has done wonders in tearing apart communities and inciting bloodshed.

So, back to that crowded street corner and the booth where I registered my phone: “Religion?”

I paused, “None.”

He looked at me, confused, as if one of us hadn’t heard the other correctly. “None?” he asked.

“None,” I repeated. I think it’s the first time in my life that I’ve ever denied a religion. I come from a very conservative community in the States. I could rattle off fifteen different Christian denominations that are present in my small town alone. However, I couldn’t have told you anything about Sufi Islam before living in Niger. (Sufi Islam? Ya, he used to be Cat Stevens, right? Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon, when you coming home Dad...That’s Harry Chapin, idiot. Sufi Islam sang Peace Train. Oh...my bad.)

Fact: Most Nigeriens have never heard of this sexy man.

Because of my past, I always defaulted into Christianity, but for personal reasons, I don’t think I can do that in Nigeria. Here, faith is a very public marker for an identity that is, to me, intensely private. In addition, my work here is to help bring together Christians and Muslims for a sustainable peace in Plateau State. Professionally, I don’t think I should claim one religion or another in my daily interactions.

I don’t write this as an attack upon any type of religion (or on Cat Stevens/Yusuf). Every person is spiritual in some way, and I am no different. One of my favorite writers, David Foster Wallace, spoke at Kenyon College’s commencement ceremony in 2005 and said, “here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship.” I’m compelled by Kierkegaard and some of the other existentialists to constantly reexamine what it is that I worship. And even if that means I have to explain myself constantly to those who ask, I’m assured that in that process of explaining myself, I’ll find the right answers.

On Tuesday, I wrote about how Search for Common Ground organized a meeting between community leaders and journalists with the goal of better utilizing media to attain peace in Plateau State. On Wednesday, Search for Common Ground brought together 35 women community leaders and women journalists to discuss how we can increase women’s voices in the media. The goal: to give voice to those typically marginalized by conflict in order to attain a sustainable peace.

The two meetings raised similar issues. However, the character of the two groups could not have been more different. The men spoke of their exhaustion: ten years of conflict, neighborhoods and communities torn apart by violence, children raised on hatred and mistrust challenging their leaders, becoming more extreme, calling for more violence. The emotion was raw and powerful and helped more than anything to put a human face on this conflict.

I expected similar emotion from the women, and I had steeled myself for our meeting the next day. Indeed, one of the first women spoke about her role as a teacher, how she worked with children from some of the worst affected areas and their reactions to growing up in such violent circumstances. Many of the children, during an art therapy session, depicted houses on fire, knives, guns, a bomb. When she asked the child about the bomb, the simple response was, “That is what I will use to take revenge on the people that killed my uncle.” The impact on children was something the men had brought up the day before, but to hear mothers speak about their children gave the issue shape and clarity. There is a whole generation positioned on the razor’s edge of violence, and at times it seems like the slightest breeze could reignite the embers that are smoldering in Plateau State.

What surprised me, then, was the women’s reaction to the violence. Much more so than the men, the women dredged up the past and viewed it with an ugly, black hurt that colored the entire conversation. Rumors of “no go zones” and silent killings abounded, with women from indicted communities countering with their own horror stories about the opposing side. It was honestly shocking to hear women, so often considered the peace makers, speak with such anger and pain. In their voices I could hear the specter of the violence that has consumed these communities for so long and the danger that, in their anger, they may be the ones shaping their children’s views of the conflict.

During the break, I asked one of the journalists, a friend of mine who works for the government-owned television station, why the women spoke about peace with so much vengeance in their voices. She told me that for many of these women, this is the first forum they’ve been given to express their anger, their hurt, the trauma they’ve seen and experienced. The “white papers,” investigations conducted by state and federal government into the Jos violence, have often ignored women’s voices. The various peace committees that have been formed have never included women in positions of authority or opened the door for women to express their hurt. For many, this was the first chance to express that pain, even as it divided them into various accusatory camps.

One common refrain among the women was that the violence was the fault of men, that men committed the violence, men lead the violence. “Women we must tell our men to stop this violence.” In the past, I’ve agreed with this opinion, that war is men’s creation and men’s crime. However, juxtaposed with the hurt of these women, I can only recognize that we are all culpable in violent communal conflict such as this. Young men may commit the violence, but they are often under the exhortations of others. Violent conflict such as this is driven by fear, mistrust, and insecurity. Young men are often expected to take up the mantle of warrior, protector. Even if there are no direct calls for conflict, the pressure in most patriarchal societies is too great to ignore.

So I think we must throw away these gendered opinions of conflict and realize that we all have a stake in our communities. We shouldn’t assume that women are inherently always the victims in conflict, though women and children often suffer more than men. However, denying that women play a role in conflict, both as actors and as victims, denies them the anger and trauma inculcated by extreme violence. Denying them a voice in the peace process, a chance to work through that pain, can rob a community of a chance at sustainable peace. By recognizing our shared guilt, we recognize our shared humanity. Humans are fallible. We are imperfect creatures, and, recognizing that, we can begin to work together to pick up the pieces and rebuild.

“We don’t have any other country than Nigeria. Nigeria is our father, is our mother. We must embrace Nigeria.” The old man spoke with a tear in his eyes, which soon led to several, an outpouring of emotion for his home and the changes that have torn at his community over the past ten years.

I’m spending the next three months in Jos, Plateau State, Nigeria, interning with Search for Common Ground (SFCG), an international NGO that focuses on addressing and transforming conflict in some of the world’s most dangerous places. In the past ten years, Jos has been rocked by ethno-religious violence pitting Christians against Muslims, engulfing whole communities in an area known as “The Home of Peace and Tourism.”

This is the first major activity that we’ve undertaken in my time here. The goal: unite religious and community leaders with media partners to promote peace in the region. To this end, today we brought together forty journalists and community leaders to discuss issues they’ve faced over the course of nearly a decade of violence. The man who spoke the above words captured everything at stake in this conflict and, for me, drove home the emotional, human side of violence.

He was a community leader, a Hausa, a Muslim. He had grown up with Christians and Muslims sharing the same space, going to the same schools, working alongside one another as neighbors and friends. From his childhood, he remembered his Christian playmates, and his community has successfully avoided violence in part because community leaders from both sides, Christian and Muslim, have remembered their common humanity and come together to protect one another in times of crisis.

But the strain on these men and women was palpable in his voice, and he perfectly articulated how he and other leaders were “tired.” Tired of the violence, but also exhausted from their attempts to hold back forces that are often outside of their control. The sad truth is that Nigeria suffers from horrible infrastructure, a failing health and education sector, an economy entirely reliant upon oil revenues, and corruption that is endemic to nearly every part of life. Youth unemployment is impossibly high, and it is often young, unemployed men who are the main protagonists in the violence. “It’s people instigating this issue. It’s a government effort, all the industries. No one is working a job. How many industries do we have in Jos, in Kaduna, in Bauchi? How many industries do we have that are working? Most of our children are graduates; when it comes to employment, sorry if you don’t know anybody. You don’t know how, where you will find employment.”1 This man articulated all of these issues in one fell swoop, painting a picture of a conflict far more complex than the simple Muslim/Christian dynamics represented in far too many media depictions of the Jos violence.

But even when these problems are all stacked up, one on top of another, in seemingly insurmountable opposition to any solution, these community leaders are still committed to peace. The stakes are too high to do anything but to continue to strive toward a solution. Thousands have died in Plateau State in the past decade. The violence has displaced hundreds of thousands and caused billions of naira in property damages. Many adolescents cannot remember a time in their lives in which Christians and Muslims trusted one another, let alone lived amongst one another as neighbors and friends. Many worry that these children, knowing nothing but trauma and fear, would carry hatred with them into their adult lives, further alienating any chance of a future peace.

The old man finished his speech in a voice fiery and defiant, his tears giving him the strength to remember a past in which Christians and Muslims were not separated by violence: “We’ve grown up together. We’ve schooled together. We’ve worked together…I was born in Bauchi, but I settled in Jos. They will bury me here. This is my home. Let us go back and tell our people, ‘We will defend our lives and everything for them.’”

For many, it is the loss of this past, a history of tolerance and mutual respect, which gives them reason to continue the struggle for a solution to the violence. Jos was once known as a cosmopolitan city that married various and diverse cultures from all over the country. Now it is known mostly as the front for a battle that could tear apart not only Plateau State, but all of Nigeria. However, with these dialogues, perhaps there is hope for a unified state and a sustainable peace. For the future of Jos, and for its past, I certainly hope so.

I’m standing in a dimly lit hallway, big, blue plastic bucket in hand, staring at a heating element, which looks as if it’s been ripped from an electric kettle and jammed into a giant metal bowl full of boiling water.

This is how I’m going to die: not with a bang, but with ten thousand volts running through my body as I flop around on the floor, upset about thirty gallons of scalding death, and soil myself all in one swift motion.

That’s the image that’s just flashed through my mind. Now what was it that John, the night manager, had told me? “Oh, you want hot water? Okay, first you must take de bohket, go to the end of de hall. There’s a bowl of water. Off de switch,” he turns to the light switch, “You understand? Off de switch,” turning the light off, “off de switch, take water, fill de bowl again, and on de switch.” He turns the light back on. “Don’t forget to off de switch.”

Off de switch. I’m a little reluctant to do even that. Will I flip the breaker when I electrocute myself? Or is this an old-school system where they’ve just saved money on fuses by jamming pennies into a fuse box instead? The difference is crucial: I’ll either lie dead in my own filth until the cleaning lady comes by in the morning, or I’ll flop around like a fish until the penny jammed in the fuse box shoots out and implants itself in some innocent nun’s head. THESE ARE THE THOUGHTS THAT ARE RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD. Maybe I just shouldn’t bathe.

One of the things I like most about Nigeria is that I’ve lost the sense of security that seems to pervade all of life in the United States. It really makes you appreciate life when you’re constantly sure you might die at any given moment. Even Niger felt different. At least there I couldn’t see the billions of parasites that were going to slowly eat me from the inside out.

Another example: I tried to walk to work exactly one time in the two weeks I’ve lived here. It’s a straight path along a major highway filled with crazy amounts of traffic and smog, and it takes about half an hour. One attempt left me with lungs blacker than a Chinese coal miner’s. Can’t believe I used to enjoy the smell of car exhaust as a kid.

Don’t focus on that last sentence too hard.

So now I take an okada (motorcycle taxi) to and from work every day. I first thought the guys who wear helmets are probably the safest drivers. After several trips, I’m pretty sure they’re just thinking, “Well if we crash, at least I don’t have to worry about my head caving in. Hold on white man!” Okada drivers fall into three types: the crazy, the suicidal, and the “hey, let’s slalom through oncoming traffic!” Ironically, I’ve found that the bikes that are most beat to hell are usually the safest. They can’t really go much faster than a golf cart, and I’m fine with that as long as we’re not rammed by a petrol truck out on a little romp.

So although the probability of certain death reaches 1 the longer I take the okadas or pull hot water to bathe, I’ll keep doing it. In part because of necessity, but also, I think I’ve learned that the continual fear of death really makes you appreciate all that life has to offer even if that means a high likelihood that someone will eventually peel your face off the tarmac with a spatula.

Jos, Nigeria. Capital of Plateau State in Nigeria’s Middle Belt, the geographic region that unites/divides the Christian South from the Muslim North. Over the past decade, Jos has seen interreligious/interethnic violence that has claimed over 3000 lives and displaced hundreds of thousands more. Most recently, a series of bombings on Christmas Eve killed 80 and set off a cycle of violence which spread to neighboring states and throughout the country. Plateau State, in many ways, has come to represent the volatile relationship between Nigeria’s diverse ethnic and religious groups that threatens peace throughout the country.

It is in this turbulent landscape that I will be working for the next ten weeks. I will be conducting an assessment on the violence in Jos to advise the local government on policy considerations and to inform Search for Common Ground’s upcoming project linking religious leaders, civil society activists, and journalists for a series of radio roundtables and media projects aimed at building peace within local communities.

Now that I’ve given a short overview, I have to admit: I have no idea what I’m doing here. Let me rephrase that: when I get right down to it, a significant part of me believes that I shouldn’t be here. I came from small-town, rural Indiana. I got lucky with Peace Corps. Farm kids aren’t supposed to get the chance to do some of the things that I was able to do, and if by some chance they do, it’s more than likely a one-off opportunity that won’t happen again.

Maybe I got lucky. I feel a bit like a fraud, or that I’m faking my way through things because I don’t know anyone else with my background who’s gotten the same opportunities that I have. Some people would probably call it hard work, but I don’t think I work any harder or am any more talented than a lot of other people I know. In fact, most of the time, I think I’m pretty lazy.

But that doesn’t stop me from feeling blessed by coming back to this part of the world. There’s just something about the red clay, the open-air bars, the heat of a raw, tropical sun, the dirt, the smoke, the chaos, all of it that takes something away from me. I don’t know if being here lifts some type of burden from my shoulders or if it simply gives me some internal buoyancy, but I feel lighter nonetheless. Everything is new and familiar at the same time. I feel closer to some sort of raw energy, some basic core of humanity that I don’t feel as strongly in the States. My home is a place that’s much more insulated and safe. It’s comforting and stifling at the same time, like a blanket wrapped too tight. Don’t get me wrong: I love my hometown. It will always be a part of me, but for now, I feel, perhaps like some prodigal son, the need to leave and return.

With Peace Corps, I always felt that I would one day return to Indiana. My life in Niger always seemed very ephemeral. I would not be living in a village for the rest of my life. I would have to leave it and return home. Now, however, I feel as if I’m on a path that will take me far from the place where I was born. I don’t know where this path leads, if or when it will return. But I haven’t forgotten my home. I’m sure I will continue to be filled with a sense of wonder. How did I get here? Who am I fooling, and why haven’t they seen through me yet? It’s a sense of not belonging to this world of international travel and new experiences solely because of my background, not that I’m disadvantaged or hindered in any way, but because I am so thoroughly average. It may be difficult to understand, but I think it stems from a feeling that when there are literally millions of others like you, you’re forced to confront and build who you are and what you want in life, and that is a very scary proposition. Not only are you responsible for your own success but also for your own failure, an insecurity bred from not knowing how much it will hurt when you inevitably fall.

So for me, I am left with only one choice. I will keep moving forward, because even if I sometimes feel like a fraud, there are moments where I can’t help but feel the purest beauty of life, a seeming unity with everything around me, when gravity and time stop and some unknown energy seems to flow through every part of my body. It’s difficult for me to put into words, and it sounds admittedly overly emotional or melodramatic. But really, there’s nothing like sitting under the open sky, a full moon, a stereo system crashing music from Nigerian pop to high life to local Berom hip hop, a fish caught, killed, and grilled all within the last few hours, melting into the background while those around you joke, laugh, and each in their own way celebrate existence. Despite any doubts I may carry with me, I can’t stop smiling. I just can’t stop smiling.

I'm quickly approaching two months since I came home from my various travels. In that time, I've been applying to grad schools (a slow and arduous process), freaking out on a regular schedule of give or take once a week, and taking a few classes at my old alma mater, Wabash College.

I've been auditing two classes that I hope will help me get into grad school, but that isn't the sole reason that I'm here. I'm taking Microeconomics because just about every graduate school seems to require it in order to even be considered for a Master's in International Affairs. That was the primary reason I joined the class, but as the semester has gone on, I find myself more and more interested by what I'm learning. It's not so much the graphs and the technical aspects of excel, those I actually barely understand at all. (That's what happens when you take two or three years away from a computer. Things like Excel begin to look even more foreign than when you left.) Instead, I'm more interested in the analytic aspects of economics. I love the calculus behind it. I love the attempt to understand people through their subconscious, everyday habits. My old days as a math team member are coming back to me in the calculus part of it. Back in the day, we went four years without a loss; we pretty much dominated. But economics is more than simply math. Sure it's a social science, but it's also a guide to philosophy and life. Why do people make the decisions that they make? Why does history show us some civilizations succeeding and taking on new technologies while others lag behind? A lot of the time it comes down to an economic argument. Individuals know where their best interests lie, and it helps to explain why the question I saw in development, "Why aren't you doing it our way?" is better asked, "Why do you do it your way?" It's a subtle distinction, but one that's important for understanding different cultures and realizing the adaptability and ingenuity that make humanity amazing. It's a way of looking at the world not through our own personal egoism, but of honestly questioning another person's beliefs to reinforce or change your own.

It's maybe a bit of a deep thought for a basic economics course, but I've found that now that I've been away from academia for a bit, I'm more interested in why we study what we study. I'm taking another class about ethnic conflict and genocide, and because of my intense interest, I just pour myself into the readings. I've noticed though that other students don't. In both classes I'm taking, students fall asleep, don't do the reading, or don't try to fully understand why we're studying what we're studying.

I wonder if I was like this as a student. When I attended Wabash, I occasionally skipped readings, and I'm sure I fell asleep in a class or two. I didn't know how any of this knowledge was going to affect me outside of my own personal growth, and let's face it, personal growth can sometimes take a back seat during a reading of Aristotle. I had no clue what I wanted to do after I finished my undergraduate degree. I was there because it was expected of me. It's nearly impossible to find a job without a degree anymore, and in this increased demand for a degree of any kind, undergraduate education has become sort of like a continuation of secondary school. Sure you're a little more specialized, but you don't have any real idea why you're there other than to keep your "future" on track.

Now that I have a very clear idea of what I want to do, I am so much more focused in class than I have ever been at any other time of my life. I came into the semester four weeks behind the other students. In that time I had a lot of catching up to do, and I did it. It took me a solid week to get through all the readings in Ethnic Conflict, which is taught as a high-level political science course. In those first few weeks, I was basically teaching myself Microeconomics from a book, but I'm pretty sure I got most of it down. But what surprises me is that hardly any of the other students seem to have the same focus. I've been quite confused at times when a class suddenly seems to double in the few days running up to a major test. Where were all these other people, and why haven't they been coming to class?

I don't mean to make Wabash sound like the students are just completely uninvolved or lazy. They aren't. Wabash men make some of the most insightful points and ask some of the best questions I've ever heard from a kid born after 1990 (which is still kind of freaking me out, thinking about that age gap). But like students everywhere, they beg for extra credit, complain that something "wasn't on the study guide for the test," or whine that "there's too much work." I find myself on the side of the professor in all of these complaints. The reading is right there, you have it in your hands. The test isn't trying to trick you, it's just there to assess how much you've been paying attention. If you've read the articles and are interested in the material, your only complaint should be that you had so much more to say in a limited amount of time.

I guess I've got it pretty easy though as an older student. Now that I know what I want to do, what I want to study, and most importantly, why I want to learn what I want to learn, it makes it much easier to buckle down and get to it. I'm interested in what I'm learning. Even if a class is boring, I know that I'll need that information to make some other bigger step in the future. But so many of these students aren't like that. I know I wasn't back then. Maybe part of the reason that young adults seem to need a new age category, something between adolescence and adulthood, is that continued education has become almost a requirement at this stage of American development. A student is often shuttled from high school directly to undergraduate without any real-life experience. Uplifted from his/her parent's house to a dorm, a student doesn't have any better idea of how the world works or what they want their place to be within it. I guess I'm now a proponent of taking a gap year like so many Europeans do, taking time off to gain some experience or travel a bit, see and do new things. I wish I had taken one, but in retrospect, attending a liberal arts college like Wabash didn't hurt too much. I had no idea what I wanted to do, so why not get a little taste of everything? But I was a kid. I'd never even held a real job. It doesn't seem like we really enter adulthood until we start to have real responsibilities, and we don't get those until we finish undergrad, and by then, we're saddled with thousands of dollars of debt and little idea of what happens next. We've been taken care of and sheltered by institutions for our entire lives. Maybe it's time to stop asking young adults to act like their parents if we aren't ever going to expose them to the realities and responsibilities the world asks of it's citizens.

I substitute taught today at my former high school. It’s a little extra cash while I’m at home, and the work isn’t too bad. But wow, can it take you back. I’m beginning to feel a distinct gulf between my 18 years growing up in rural Indiana and the seven years I’ve been away at college and in the Peace Corps. This is how my Dad must feel when my brother and I can’t remember watching Soupy Sales as kids. The kids in these high school classes were all born after 1990. In fact, they were all born after 1992, and it’s so difficult for me to conceive of that. I was already in second grade when these kids were born. I remember when the first Toy Story came out. It was in 1995. Think about how long ago that was.

It’s funny to observe these students and compare them to representative television high school dramas. Maybe it’s just the ratings, or maybe it’s the fact that I grew up in some patch of corn in the middle of nowhere, but high school kids aren’t that exciting. Instead, to my outside eyes, they all seem so innocent and naïve. Maybe I’m just projecting my own reality on them, the person I was a decade ago.

Wow, a kid just asked another, “Did you ever see the movie Space Jam?” I think, “Like that’s a movie you have to ask about?” I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t seen Space Jam when I was a kid. Hasn’t everyone seen Space Jam? Evidently, Space Jam has gone the way of Soupy Sales.

Whoa. Stop. Things haven’t got that bad yet.

Going back to school has definitely played into the time warp head trauma of living at home. High school is one of those places you shouldn’t ever have to step foot in again once you’ve left. I wasn’t one of those who were desperately in love with high school. I was quite willing to leave it all behind, the sooner the better.

I think one of the reasons is because I never really fit in to the machismo that’s inherent in high school boys. It’s funny to see it here from a position of authority. There’s an easily identifiable jockeying for position among these guys. It’s an opportunity to be stupid, challenge for position, question authority, and maybe get the attention of one of the cuter girls. It’s kind of like watching the chimps at the zoo.

It actually reminds me a lot of Niger. The one group that I didn’t really spend a lot of time with was the teenage boys. They were the biggest pain in the ass in the entire village. It was the same kind of stuff too. They hung out in groups, cocksure but really not all that confident, the act of immaturity and bravado without that much power. Teenage girls didn’t fall into the typical categories. The typical girl in Niger is married by fourteen and pregnant by sixteen. They’re forced into maturity rather quickly. The guys, on the other hand, usually have to make something of their futures before they can marry. They need to have property of their own to afford a wife, so they’ll usually keep farming the fields or go off to the coast to look for work.

It was always marriage that put the clamps down on these young guys. As soon as they found a wife, they settled down and became respectable members of society. You could hang out with them, play cards, talk about the weather just like the old men, but until they hit that age, they were the most infuriating trial of the day.

It’s amazing to watch the transformation. I feel like it must be something to do with the relationship with elders in a community. In Niger, a man isn’t a man until he’s married. Believe me, I heard this a lot. “You’re not married? But you’re 25? You must not have a penis.” Unmarried men were not yet adults, but they obviously weren’t still children. The gap of adolescence is much smaller in Niger, so men above the age of sixteen fall into this strange gap where they have no real identity in society. They’re no longer dependent, but they’re not really a productive, contributing individual. Men, I wouldn’t say regress, but I can’t think of too many other terms for it. It becomes their own little social circle, subject to its own power struggles but still subservient to the elders in society.

Is it like that with American boys? I remember high school as kind of a, well I shouldn’t write it, but it involves a bunch of guys and a circle. Among the guys (and I’m sure among the girls as well, I don’t know, I wasn’t part of that circle) there was more posturing than personality, more stupidity than substance. I never fit into that, and I still don’t when there are guys of that age about. I don’t think I ever grew into or out of it. I found my own group of friends and tried to ignore the stupidity at large. Of course, we as high school boys still did stupid things, but we kept it in check and didn’t try to dominate others. Must be something with the hormones; whatever we did, we needed an outlet for idiocy.

I might write more about this later, but honestly, I’m not that in to reliving my past, as least not the parts that I’ve tried to leave behind. Just another reason to break out of this box…

It's been nearly two months since I came back from my various travels and my time in Africa. The cultural readjustment hasn't been as bad as I thought it would be mostly, I think, due to my long, winding road home. However, now I'm faced with the difficulties of living in a place so closely associated with my past and a person with whom I no longer identify.

That person is the old me, and I guess I shouldn't say that I no longer identify with him. It's very difficult for me to be sedentary. Before I left for Africa, I used to get restless, but I could usually distract myself in some way through television or video games, etc. Now, I can't bring myself to take hold of these former distractions. Living without them for nearly three years, I've forgotten how to live with them. As a result, my days have opened up considerably. Filling all those extra hours is the new challenge.

One would think that this is a good thing, and in many ways, it is. I can focus on really grinding through work for the classes I'm taking, buckle down on grad school applications, and get a little light reading and writing done in the spare time in between. However, the reality is that too much free time allows my brain to run wild.

I've had a lot of experience being completely overwhelmed by external forces. My senior year in undergrad, I applied for dean's permission to take six classes, two of which were senior capstone courses, one was a directing class that took up all my time both spare and the time I should have used for basic necessities like bathing, sleeping, and eating. I developed an eye twitch for the month we were in production, but I still somehow managed to walk away from that semester intact. I believed if I could survive that, I could survive anything. The momentum from that semester carried me through comprehensive exams and a double distinction. In Niger, I faced evacuations, dysentery, culture shock, corruption, and any number of other x factors with quite a bit of stress but no lasting side effects (caused by stress anyway, I'm sure the parasites left their mark). Again, if I could survive that, I could survive anything.

The point is that I can handle pressure very well. In fact, I thrive under pressure. It forces me to allocate my resources and really push myself to succeed. What I'm beginning to learn at home, however, is that I cannot handle the feeling of being surrounded by options but without any clear goal of how to take advantage of them. I feel like I'm completely underwhelmed at home, like I've just done all these things, reached the end of the road, and now I'm faced with a variety of paths but no clear idea of where any of them lead. It's frustrating, but worse, it throws my brain into overdrive trying to work out all the details of my options. My mind thrives on possibilities, gorging itself on them like a kid with too many sweets, and as one would expect, consuming too many sweets will eventually make one sick.

I've always overanalyzed, but usually the crazy part of me is held in check by the need to make a decision in some manageable time frame. Now, without any set schedule or itinerary, and stuck at home where I don't have to worry too much about material matters, I feel like I'm just drifting. Time is passing by, I can feel it, but I don't feel like I'm getting any closer to anything I want to do. I feel trapped by an imagined cycle of "If I want this job, I need to do grad school, but in order to get into grad school, I need more experience in the field that I can't get into because I don't have the degree." My brain kicks in and I start thinking about things that have no bearing on my present (like whether I want to study in New York or London, living opportunities, how I'll afford either, what the volunteer opportunities are there, etc.). All of these are future hurdles that I'll have to jump when the time comes, but I can't seem to differentiate present concerns with future. As a result, everything seems more pressing than it is. I get into these moods where my brain just starts grinding and grinding like a computer processor running too many programs at once. It's so busy with all these other things that it can't run even the simplest of tasks without crashing horrifically. Eventually, it's going to burn out.

All this wouldn't be too awful if I had people, events, exciting things to distract me. I love my parents, but I can't get too excited by hanging out with them. I need some peers as well as parents, people who I can relate to, people who share my interests. Unfortunately, there aren't any around. It's part of the fact that rural America has had huge problems with brain drain for years now. There are no jobs, no opportunities for students who've really pushed and excelled throughout high school and college. The only young people that I know in my community are the burnouts, those who've gotten married young, those who are already through a kid or two. I don't mean to sound elitist in any way, but how can I identify with someone with whom I share almost nothing? Just because we went the the same high school, grew up in the same small town, it doesn't mean much. We were already moving apart from one another when they separated the accelerated math and english classes back in junior high. The only thing we share is a background, and that background is only shared by someone looking from the outside. Within the community you have all those stereotypical high school roles. I was a nerd. All the other nerds are gone; they're doing things with their lives outside of rural Indiana. A lot of the burnouts, the ones who used to give me hell because my mother was a teacher, are still here. But we took our separate paths long ago.

I start to go crazy when there aren't people around. I'm like a puppy. I need lots of attention, or at the very least, I need someone around who I can chat with almost non-stop. If I don't speak my mind, speak it out loud, the words get trapped inside my head, and coherent ideas become jumbled as they whirl around in such a tight space. If I'm not writing or speaking constantly when my brain shifts into these high energy periods, I'm paralyzed by hours and hours of confused thought. It's not quite an anxiety attack, but I guess that's about as close as you can get. I've figured that I'm not writing nearly enough these days, so this entry is an attempt to fix that and give anyone who's interested an idea into what the readjustment process has been like for me: namely, I've been overwhelmed by underwhelming circumstances.

What did you expect? I already had a post titled, "Changes," so I just needed to go along with the next part of the famous line by Bowie. Turning and facing the strange may be more of a commentary on America after three years gone, but in this case, the "Changes" will refer to me. It's interesting to see how other people look at you after such a long time away. When I returned home, I hadn't seen my parents in over two and a half years. When I left, I had just turned 23 and was setting off for something completely unknown. Until a few weeks earlier, I hadn't even heard of Niger. Now, at 25, having lived in this previously unknown country for two years, and traveling all of West Africa in the meantime, I'd returned to my home town, to my old house, to my old room, to my old bed.

The bed still squeaks. The house looks exactly the same. The room still has posters up from when I was in high school, and the town, well, there isn't much that can change on you in rural Indiana. But had I changed? Everyone said I looked taller. Did you grow? How tall are you now? Boy, they must have been feeding you good in Africa.

I don't really think they were. Was I taller? I still haven't measured myself properly since I've come home. Personally, I don't think I'm any taller. Don't we stop growing after a certain age? Hadn't I passed that age? Who would have been able to really tell me? My friends in Niger had never met me before January 2008, and we'd all grown together. Any obvious change in personality could be chalked up to Mefloquine, and any physical change, well, that could probably be attributed to any number of intestinal parasites or the recovery from said parasites:

"Wow, you look like hell."

"I have giardia and three types of intestinal worms previously unknown to science."

"Nice job, biological pioneer! You want a beer?"

"I'm not supposed to drink on these meds, but yes, yes I would love one."

"Hey! You look great!"

"I know! I just got rid of my tapeworm last week!"

I don't think I'm any taller. However, I think that once you've completed something arduous and personally challenging like the Peace Corps or any kind of voluntary service, you come back projecting a bit more confidence. As humble as I've tried to be, playing down living in another country, dealing with scorpions, snakes, heat, sandstorms, bush taxis, angry market mamas, internal parasites, mosquitoes, Mefloquine, corruption, disruption, terrorists, corruption, poverty, hunger, feeling blessed by smiles, song, children, tea, tradition, Tabaski, teaching, learning, sharing, speaking, and ten thousand other things that are impossible to relate to someone who's never experienced it, you project all these things and more. You've pushed through the bad, held onto the good, and it raises you up in some small way. My friends in London didn't notice a difference, but that's because they only knew me for a short amount of time, and that had been nearly four years ago. But my family, the people who had been with me from birth to toddling, running cross-country to running off and joining the Peace Corps, could tell that something was different. Something had grown, and the easiest way to chart that growth was through a possible increase in height.

It's hard for me to chart the changes myself. Leaving Niger, I left behind a whole group of people, less than 100, who know anything about my time in Africa. Now they're spread out all over the place, and I feel as if I'm a bit spread out with them. It's hard to go home, that's for sure, and I feel as if home is this disconnected place that doesn't even really apply to me anymore. Home will always be home, but I feel as if I've been transplanted here, and, like any other transplant, I feel a bit weak after being uprooted from my life as a traveler.

There are few in Carroll County, Indiana who have ever left the country. There are even fewer who have lived abroad for a significant amount of time in a developing country. I don't fault them that in any way, but it's difficult to connect with people. There are the rare ones who just have so many questions that the day becomes a blur as stories buzz through the air, but even with those who are most interested, I feel like I'm holding back. It's hard to know if telling the dysentery story is going too far. It's impossible to try to recreate a culture totally foreign to the listener without getting bogged down in ethnicity, history, and language, things that took me months to learn and be able to differentiate. Things that become common knowledge, words like "Maigari," "dala gu," and "solani," suddenly get blank stares. It's incredibly isolating, being unable to get into the heart of an experience. I often feel like I'm only skimming the surface of all that I would like or could say. But then I run up against a personal boundary of not wanting to be "that guy," the one who's always trying to dominate conversation with his experiences in Africa, the insufferable friend who keeps talking about poverty and hunger when all you want to do is order a pizza.

I guess what I have to learn, and what I've actually learned quite well as I moved through West Africa into Europe and back home, is that the experiences that I have will never leave me. They'll always be there, and every once in a while, I may be able to talk with a friend from Peace Corps and relive some of our shared experiences. Skype is great for that. But now that I'm away from Niger, it's kind of like that moment when you're a teenager, and it's time to put your old toys away. You keep them around for old time's sake, but you always kind of hope that you'll be able to bring them back out again. For now, I'm content cataloging my memories through my journals and blogs and hoping that I'll be able to relive them in the future and make new memories if I ever become a field worker for an international organization. It's not the exact same experience, but you need to mix it up every once in a while, right?

Alright, so I neglected this blog a bit when I went from Africa into Europe. I completely abandoned it when I returned to America, and that's probably the biggest shame of all. Because I've basically finished a story without an ending, and the thing I've realized being home is that this story probably doesn't have any kind of ending. The narrative arc tends to wind around on itself, and I don't know if it will ever come back to connect with the person I was when I left for Africa nearly three years ago now. I don't know if anyone will be interested, so I'll kind of be keeping this blog for myself now and for anyone else who is interested in how I've readjusted and recovered, with particular insight into how I've changed in my time away, how America has changed, and every once in a while, I'll try to recount a crazy story or two that I might have missed in my time without internet.

But for right now, a short update. I've been home since August 24th. I'm currently living at home (slowly losing the battle every day not to jump off the roof), auditing a couple classes at my alma mater, Wabash College. I'm applying for graduate school, limiting my choices to New York and London, because the path I've found for myself involves international human rights advocacy, and, let's face it, all the organizations I would want to work with (Human Rights Watch, Amnesty International, Global Witness, etc.) are all based out of these two cities. So I'm hoping I'll be able to intern/volunteer at one of these organizations while I'm studying. I'm applying for a master's program in human rights, and I hope to focus on human rights, international advocacy, corruption, gender, and post-conflict societies. It's a little broad at the moment, but that's the issue you face when you have too many interests. Really it's a human rights program, and within that I hope to focus primarily on corruption and post-conflict issues. But if there's one thing I've learned through my travels and the readings I've done since, it's that everything is tied up in everything else, so that liberal arts education really pays off when you start looking to connect the dots.

I'm also currently applying for a few jobs and looking to get away from home by the new year. I'm thinking of going international now, for all of several reasons that I may list in this blog at a later point. In the most concise terms, I've found it very difficult to be in America again after being away for so long. Plus, I want to travel more. I don't think anyone could have pegged me for wanderlust when I was a kid (I remember very definable boundaries that we never crossed, afraid that if we got too far from home we wouldn't be able to find our way back), but I've since been infected by the need to keep exploring and pushing my comfort zone, and I intend to follow that urge.

So that's all for now. Watch this space for updates from America and hopefully some insightful writing. It's one of the many things I'll be doing to keep some modicum of sanity while I'm living in a place I left so long ago.

I've been away too long, and in three days, I'll leave again.

In this case, I'm not talking about America. While it is true that I've been away from my childhood home for over two and a half years, I've been away from my second home, London, much longer. I left this city over four years ago, after studying abroad and working here for the summer. It was a special time for me: my first time living and working abroad, thousands of miles from the place I'd grown up, the people I knew, and the person I was. I loved London, and, at the time, I could imagine myself spending quite a long time here.

But four years later, and how things change. It's part of growing up, I guess, but no one ever tells you how difficult it can be to go back to a place. Now that I've lived and worked in Niger, completely on my own in a completely foreign place, can I really still call London my second home? After all, I only spent about six months across the pond, whereas I spent two years in Tanka Lokoto, my Nigerien home. Does London get priority because it was my "first" second home? Or does Niger win out because it's so much closer to my heart and so much more immediate in my thoughts? When does the idea of place and home dissolve? After your third, fourth, fifth home? I'm closer to Niger than I am to my original home in America at this point and seriously terrified to return to a place I feel will have changed in all the subtle ways places change when you're away for so long.

I've been in London for about three weeks now. Everything is the same, and everything is different. London, as a city, seems to have changed very little. In all my time here, I've taken more evening walks through darkened streets than I can remember. It's a very walkable city, and the cool air always helps to clear my mind and work out any number of things I may or may not be pondering. One would think that in such a dynamic city, that I'd be lost after four years away, but as much as things change, I find the streets are still there for long walks with confused thoughts.

Most of these thoughts have reflected change. When I was here four years ago, none of my friends were married, most were still students, we all had too much time on our hands and not enough money in our pockets. But that's changed. Several of my friends, after four years, have serious relationships, one's gotten married (though I still haven't met Becky, and I'm not quite sure if it's all just an elaborate hoax). There aren't many students left (except for one who went for a PhD and got it, only to realize that that wasn't the kind of doctor she wanted to be. She'll start med school in September), and those who were students with no money but all the time in the world are now working, have money, but don't have the time to properly spend it. The ironies of adult life astound me.

And this "adult life" is what really gets me. It's assaulted me since I've come back to London and seen the first big group of people from my past life. I went away four years ago and they were all like me. I come back, and I'm still like me but everyone else has moved on with new responsibilities, a career, a relationship, a life. And here I am, broke, unemployed, without a girlfriend or any responsibilities, and I'm looking to go back to graduate school. Another two years of student life. Many might paint me as trying to avoid all pretenses of adulthood for another two years, but I am quickly approaching 26 and those appearances are actually just a clever deception, at least that's what I hope. Suddenly it becomes easier to understand the long walks through quiet city streets.

If I have to be honest, it's hard not to feel a bit lost, psychologically speaking, after so long away. It's too true that life goes on without you, and despite all my egotistical cravings, there's no changing that. People have to live their own lives, with hundreds of others coming and going throughout the years. Old friends reminisce of years gone by, and a fleeting image appears before the next round of beers. I've realized that the further I've gone away, the harder it is to come back, and as the years go by, in this age of globalization and worldwide opportunity, the farther and farther my friends drift to different corners of the globe, and the more I move around, the harder it is to find my way back to them. Already, it's been nine months since I've seen any of my fellow Volunteers from Niger. The people I meet along the road are all temporary souls who move where they wish, and eventhough I can identify and instantly cling to these vagabonds, pour out everything that needs to be said, I know that the relationship will end, and I'll have a pin in the map representing someone else that I may or may never see again.

It's spoken of a lot in literature regarding cultural readjustment, but I've found that these vagabonds, the ones who take in couchsurfers or who band together for a few days at a time in small traveling groups are more inherently interested in who I am, what I've been doing than those who stay put. Most of that is due to time constraints. We travel together, spend hours with one another, cook meals together, live intimately in such short bursts that we never leave the honeymoon phase of burgeoning friendship. My friends here, as amazing as they are (and I do love every one of them), don't have the time or the opportunity to get into where we've been, what we've been doing over a beer or a meal. I don't find I have the time either. Where do you start? Four years away, and who knows where we'll be next time we meet? Everyone honestly tries, and the greatest thing about my friends is that I can usually just pick right up where we left off. You have to, because four years of life compacted into about two hours just can't do justice to all that either has experienced. It also means that I end up feeling as if I haven't done anything, or nothing significant anyway, and overcoming that feeling may be one of the markers of growing older.

Because if there's one thing I've come to realize over such a long trip, it's the importance of independence, of self-actualization of all you may or may not have done. I have to take advantage of the places I'm in, attempt to have an experience with each new moment, mine my fellow vagabonds for every ounce of the beauty that is in every person who counts themselves truly alive, and generally live without any regrets as to opportunities lost, words unsaid, or moments unrealized. Living like this, one creates moments to which only a few people are privileged. They're stories that are within you that you can't properly convey because true beauty, a unique moment, is the hardest thing to convey, and even in my best moments, I still feel like I'm falling short, even if I've left the other person spellbound. They are moments that stand with me, and even if no one can fully understand how unique an experience it may have been, I'll know that I've felt something special, and I have to be thankful that I can relive it in memory, even if I can never share it fully. For my friends here, and I'm sure for my friends back in the States, there's a lot that they cannot know about what I've done, and even with weeks and weeks of constant story-telling, I'd still not be able to create my world for them. And it's the same for their lives as well. I by no means think that staying in one place, connecting with one person, working on a career is any more or less significant than any of the things that I have done. So even these moments of quotidian life, the ones I've missed out on, can't be expressed any better than some of the magical experiences I've had. And that's the story of four years away. Where do you start? Can you start? And if you can, is it possible to ever finish? I don't think so. Our stories are how we define our lives, and our perceptions of ourselves change with each year gone by. It's why I believe, after my three weeks here, that if I were to move back to London, say for graduate school or just for fun, I know the city will be the same city I left, but I will not be the same person. And eventhough the city is so familiar, I will be experiencing it all over again as if for the first time. I'll be meeting people I know but who I really will be rediscovering all over again. I'll remember my past, and be content to remake my present in whatever way the current of time takes me.

Maybe it's just an illusion, but I have this image in my head of America before the turn of the 20th Century as a place that people traveled by horse and by ox-cart, a countryside where distances were so great that an hour on today's highway was equal to at least a full day's journey, where, if your neighbor visited and stayed late, they were welcome, nay required, to spend the night, and where strangers who knocked at the door were afforded a meal and at the very least a place to sleep out in the barn. There was an expectation then to treat everyone with generosity and hospitality, if, for no other reason, than because you one day might need the favor returned. That's just the image I have. I don't know how accurate it is, but it may inform this entry.

This is the positive story, as promised. It's an example of the best humanity has to offer and one of many reasons why I love people of all creeds, colors, and cultures.

I had a few days to kill before meeting up with a friend in Chefchaouan, so I decided I needed to spend some time away from the cities. I headed up to Al Hoceima National Park, which is situated in the north of Morocco and occupies about fifty square kilometers of protected Mediterranean coast, limestone mountains and cliffs, thuya forest, and an azure-blue sea. It's a beautiful place to visit, but is particularly rewarding if you have no time constraints and are entirely self-sufficient.

Unfortunately, the park hasn't yet been very well developed to take advantage of all the natural beauty that it offers. Most people in the city of Al Hoceima actually didn't seem to know that they lived less than five kilometers from this protected area. A typical conversation went something like this:

- I'm looking for the National Park.

- Park? Oh yeah, it's three blocks that way, you can't miss it.

- No, the National Park.

- What now?

- The National Park of Al Hoceima?

- I don't know what you're talking about.

You can imagine my frustration. So, after about four hours of asking around, I just took off into the park with one pathetic map and food enough for about two days. It wasn't quite like living in a bus in Alaska, but I'm pretty confident I was the only traveler hiking around the trails and villages of this beautiful, secluded reserve.

I decided to camp that night on the beach outside a small village, the name of which I can't now remember. Just to make sure it was cool, I wandered around until I found the café. You're guaranteed to find a large percentage of any village at the local café at any time of the day. There I met Mohammed, an old fisherman with an uncanny knack for throwing his voice, which I was both too tired and too gullible to uncover his trick for about ten minutes, despite the fact that we were sitting about three feet from one another. His friend, much younger, a teacher at the village primary school, told me it was fine to sleep on the beach, but that I should come sleep at his house, eat dinner with his family, take a shower, and drink tea. I told him his offer was far too generous, and I couldn't possibly accept it. We kept talking, and after about ten minutes, he again made the offer, and again I declined. I didn't want to impose. After a bit more conversation, he insisted that I come spend the night and meet his family, and I insisted just as firmly that I wanted to sleep outside so that I could see the stars and hear the sea. This is how Moroccans function: they will always ask three times and are incredibly generous in all they offer. As I had turned down his home, he then insisted that I at least eat dinner with his family. Knowing that Moroccans typically eat around 11 pm or later, I declined. Again he insisted. Again I declined; I was too tired, eventhough I knew I was being rude by declining his hospitality. After his third offer, I pointed to the bread I'd brought along, insisting that I would not go hungry.

And what do you think happened? Around midnight, I woke up to move my tent, afraid of the tide during a particularly strong wind storm, and who do I see walking the beach toward my campsite? My friend the teacher, carrying with him a can of tuna salad, a roll of cookies, an apple, six wedges of Laughing Cow cheese, and a carton of juice. Since I'd refused to eat with him, he'd brought dinner to me, special delivery nearly half a kilometer from his house, through the cold, nasty weather, to me, a guy he barely knew, who he will, in all likelihood, never see again.

That's not the end of the story though. A few days later after a trip all the way to Tangier, I met two sisters, Emily and Cecilia, Americans who were traveling together through Morocco. Emily was in the process of finishing up her time in the country studying Arabic, and Cecilia was visiting from America. Instantly recognizing two very interesting people, I agreed to meet up with them in Chefchaouan (which was about two hours back the way I'd come, my ability to change plans based on the cool people I meet again taking me away from my goal of Europe to a place I'd already been). But I wouldn't have taken back all the extra time I spent with them even if you paid me (well, maybe if you paid me a lot, I'm getting rather poor these days). We went hiking around the area, met two more travelers, Simon and his mom Katerina, and the five of us took off together, back to Al Hoceima. Check it out on a map, that's like six hours in the direction I'd come from.

But this was one of the best memories I have of Morocco, and it was great to end my time there with such amazing people and such positive experiences. Remember in my last post that I mentioned that I sometimes gain a new perspective on my time in Africa through the pointed, insightful questions of other travelers? (You'd better not have skipped that one, or so help me...) Ya, they were some of these types. I literally made the decision to backtrack six hours along the coast with them, by flipping a coin. Honestly though, I probably would have gone anyway.

We had a few troubles, mainly fighting tooth and claw for every dirham we could save on taxis, but in the end, our drivers turned out to be great guys and really friendly once money matters disappeared. We lucked out finding the most amazing guesthouse in Northern Morocco. Let's just put it this way, when you and four friends have an entire house, including kitchen and bathrooms, to yourself on a hill overlooking a Berber village, limestone mountains, and the Mediterranean, it's good. When said house is surrounded by pomegranates, apricots, plums, almonds, and figs, all ripe for the picking, it's great. And when you get it all for just five euros a night, you start to think, "Maybe I could just stay here for the next month or so..." That was the situation we found ourselves in, and I'll keep the village name to myself, to keep it from being overrun by too many people (and because I can't remember it anyway).

And, best of all, we were welcomed by some of the nicest people I've ever met. We went looking for the trail to the village beach. Instead of just indicating the path, we got a ready-made guide in the form of Abdullah, who not only took off the entire afternoon to show us around, but also gave us insight into traditional Berber medicine, finding us some herbs for Cecilia, who was too sick to function. As we returned to the village, we realized we hadn't enough bread to last through the next day. We ran into our old man landlord, who was walking with a younger guy in a pink shirt. We asked where we could buy bread, not knowing that everyone in these tiny villages makes their own. No worries though, as old man Mohammed took us back to his house, introduced us to his family and gave us a loaf of bread about the size of a truck tire. As we were walking back, amazed at our luck, the younger guy in the pink shirt, who hadn't even spoken to us for more than thirty seconds, ran up to us and delivered us a second loaf, the same size as the first, just to make sure we had enough. He didn't say much, just smiled and offered us bread, almost shy at the gift he'd given. Food from their own tables to five people they barely knew. Pretty amazing.

And I have to wonder if this kind of generosity may be seen anymore in the developed world. In an age of personal transport, interstate hotels, and alarmist media, who trusts a stranger anymore, let alone goes so far out of their way to help one? I don't know if this giving spirit is particularly Moroccan, or if those in the countryside just look out for everyone equally. But this charitable energy is the image I have of all rural Americans living before the age of interstate highways and Best Westerns. Like I said, I don't know if it's an accurate image or just a fantasy, but I'd like to believe that it's something the developed world has lost and is slowly getting back. Communities like couchsurfing and facebook allow us to invite those we know and those we don't into our homes, show them around our communities, and share in a better, more positive world, where we learn from one another directly and don't rely on xenophobia or mistrust to tear us down. I like the changes I'm seeing, and I'm glad to have hospitality where I can find it.

As promised, I continue my week of productivity with some thoughts and stories that I've accumulated over the past month. Typically, I like to pair these in positive and negative experiences, the positive usually following the negative to avoid any lingering distaste with humanity. This is no different, despite the fact that the following negative experience occurred a few weeks after what I will relate in the next post. The chronological continuity thus gets a bit confused, but hey, it's my narrative art, and I'll manipulate it as I see fit! Anyway, onwards and downwards. I promise a more heart-warming tale in the next few days.

My stay in Valencia wasn't ruined by the American at the bar, though I must say she represented a jarring example of what I fear may be all too commonplace when I return to the USA (or, more specifically, to rural Indiana). Now that I've left Africa, I'm diligently working towards Peace Corps' third goal: Helping promote a better understanding of other peoples on the part of Americans. I extend this goal to include a better understanding of other people by all people. The conversations I have whilst traveling are all pretty similar, as everyone I meet on the road tends to be of a certain mentality and tend to be interested in my travels, my work, Niger, Africa, and the sense of community and service that leads so many people to attempt to make the world just a little bit better. At the best of times, I meet other travelers who as such pointed, complex, and interesting questions that I get a chance to step back and reinterpret my service, always gaining a new appreciation for what a life-changing, unique experience it was. At the worst of times, and this has been rare so far, I run into someone like her...

It was the night of the Holland/Uruguay World Cup semi-final match. With the Dutch win, I found myself winding down over a beer with two Americans beside whom I'd found myself standing during the match. With one, a friendly university student taking a bit of vacation in Spain after a semester spent abroad in England, I found myself reminiscing over my time there and recounting some of my lighter stories about Africa. With the other, an expressionless, overtan girl on her first ever trip overseas, I encountered new territory, territory I wasn't prepared to navigate whilst a bit tipsy.

To me, these two girls represented the perfect distinction between the traveler and the tourist. The first was a budding young traveler, living abroad for the first time in her life and ready to go after every new cultural experience with a relish that will drive her friends up the wall when she gets back stateside (I should know, I was the same way). Her friend, however, was the type of conservative, stubborn, uninformed American the likes of which I haven't seen in a long time. (A somewhat delayed preliminary note: this is in no way an attack on Americans. Every country has people like this, people who never leave home but think, despite this, that they know how other people live.) We got off on the wrong foot almost immediately after a conversation about religion (she believed in "the devil" as a personified entity taking an active role in the temptaions of daily life), and though I disagreed with her on many issues, I relish a good conversation with anyone who has an open mind and an ability to listen.

Oh, an open mind! What a wonderful thing indeed! Here was the main sticking point separating the two into their respective tourist/traveler camps, because while the traveler accepted the differences around her as cultural learning opportunities, her friend the tourist questioned everything, compared these differences to American norms, and more often than not found the differences wildly inferior to what she was accustomed.

Thus it was one innocent comment, one phrase I've uttered many times before without any incident, sparked one of my worst conversations in recent memory with one of my fellow countrymen. It was this, which I still hold to be true: I believe, despite all the hardship and poverty, that my friends in Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger, were actually happier in many ways than many of us in the developed world. Nigeriens don't suffer from depression, suicide; they don't need a new drug for every perceived problem because they live with such basic concerns such as food and clean water. They appreciate what they have around them and the relationships they build and maintain to help them through life.

Well this touched a nerve, in no small part because this tourist took "the developed world" to mean "America" (she refused to drink the tap water, in Spain, a country that ranks in the top 15 of the most developed countries in the world!). This tourist took my comment as a slight against her country (which is also my country), and decided that any such insult to her country must be countered, vigorously. I honestly wish I could remember how much of this conversation went, but I'll boil it down to it's salient points.

1. America is the greatest country in the world. If this African country you lived in or whatever has been independent for what? fifty years? why isn't it a world power? Why can't it get it's shit together?

Well it's more complicated than that. There are several different ethnic groups, and you have to remember that America wasn't a true superpower until about 1948.

What are you talking about? America beat Britain. Britain was the superpower, America beat it and then became a superpower.

Tenuous grip on American history eh? (I didn't actually say this, I was very polite throughout.)

2. I can't believe you hate America so much. I'm ashamed to call you an American. You're what's wrong with America's reputation abroad.

What? What are you talking about? Peace Corps is what's wrong with America?

You're what's wrong with America. You hate America. You know, I'm going to kiss the ground when I get back to America. I'm going to kiss the ground every single day that I'm home.

I'd really like to see that. Could you send me a picture every single day you're in America. (I actually did say this, little more tipsy at this point.)

3. America is the greatest country in the world. I don't know how you don't see this. It's the greatest country in the world, and will continue to be the greatest country in the world. Forever. I don't know how you don't see it.

(This is where I got myself in trouble.) I'm pretty sure that's what the Brits said in about 1890. or the Romans said in 470. Or the French in 1812. The Spanish in 1570. The Germans in 1943. (Her friend is just shouting STOP at this point...) Or what about the Songhai in 1550? The Ottomans in 1810? I could go ON AND ON!

So you can make your own judgement. I would nicely call her a bit ignorant, but this wouldn't be an issue if she were actually trying to understand the world. So ya, a bit ignorant. A few more of my creative friends would call her a dipshit. I'll let you draw your own conclusions. Until next time.

I'll begin my week of productivity with a word on travel in the developed world. I officially crossed over to this forgotten place (Europe) nearly one month ago when I crossed the Strait of Gibralter on the 35-minute ferry ride from Tangier, Morocco to Tarifa, Spain. In the ensuing weeks, I visited four of Spain's World Heritage Sites, including the Alhambra, Generalife, and Albayzin in Granada, the Llotja de la Seda in Valencia, and the historic cities of Córdoba and Toledo. I met up with a couchsurfer for an awesome Celtic festival on the northern coast before returning to Madrid to see Spain win the World Cup for the first time. Then it was off to Paris for Bastille Day celebrations of all sorts.

So you'd think with everything I've seen and done in the past month that I'd have heaps to write and update. Well I don't, and here's my explanation: I'm just not good enough to do it justice. Cities like Toledo, Valencia, and Córdoba have been written about before and will be written of again by writers who are much more elegant and productive than I. Sites like the Mezquita in Córdoba or the Alhambra in Granada are almost too much for a single blog entry. Washington Irving wrote an entire book devoted to stories inspired by the Alhambra, and I'm not going toe to toe with that giant of early American letters. With news coverage and internet video, the only thing I could add to the parties in Madrid and Paris would be my own politicized commentaries, but this isn't the place to run away with criticisms of France's link to long-serving dictators like Paul Biya (Cameroon, 27 years strong!) or Blaise Compaoré (Burkina Faso, 23 years in October, where does the time go?)who were given honorary seats in the July 14th celebrations. And if you saw videos from Spain's World Cup fiesta, you know that words cannot describe the crazy times in the streets of Madrid.

And, let's face it, most people reading this blog probably aren't that interested in Europe's great cities and landmarks, not for any negative reasons, but simply because the Eiffel Tower or the Museo del Prado are so easily visited these days. Get a cheap flight and see them yourself. Don't rely on me to give you any beautiful descriptions. West Africa, on the other hand, is a place which few people know anything about and even fewer visit. It's easy to understand why: with all the places in the world, there are few who would choose an undeveloped country to spend their vacation money. Especially considering that you go to West Africa, not for sightseeing, but to meet the people, which is hard to do if you can't speak French (or Songhai, Hausa, Bambara, Wolof, Fula, etc.) I feel confident that my descriptions of West Africa and my experiences there are somewhat interesting, if only because it's such an unknown part of the world.

So instead of describing Europe, I'm scaling back to focus on my experiences with other people and my interpretations of a world from which I've been away for over two years. This week's blogs will be a lot more personal for sure, but my personal writing has always been, in my view, my strongest suit. And hey, this is an individual blog after all, not a travel website. For me, it's always been a lot more entertaining to write about the horrorshow old lady vomit on the bus through Western Sahara that it is to actually write about Western Sahara (which was eye-gougingly dull). I prefer to tell stories, stories like the one of my bus ride from Madrid to Valencia. I sat next to a Guinean and in front of two Nigerians. Of course, I love talking to any African I can at this point, so I take every opportunity I can get, and we were in the midst of a conversation when KATHUNK!, something broke off from underneath the bus and started it shaking:

Me: I think the wheels are about to fall off this bus.

John (Nigerian man): This can't be right, it sounds like a train!

Tobin (Nigerian woman): It sounds like an African bus.

John: Ya, but African buses can't go this fast. (everyone laughing)

A little while later another KATHUNK, this one from right under my seat. The Guinean gets up and runs to another seat.

Me: What is this , we're not in Africa!

Guinean: Spain is the capital of Africa, they're just like Africans.

John: He's right, see, the driver just keeps on driving like nothing's wrong.

KATHUNK, BOOM!

Tobin: Oh my God, he's going to kill us all.

The bus eventually broke down with a "flat tire," and now we're stuck on the side of the road for 45 mins waiting for another bus to come get us.

Me: You know, if this WERE Africa, we'd have this thing fixed in twenty minutes.

Tobin: Twenty?! Try ten!

John: And we could eat some foufou while we wait!

This is just one of the more recent adventures. In the next few days, I have two more posts, one positive and one negative. For those of you who know my blog well, I like to pair the two so that they can balance and inform one another. They both deal with people and provide a clear distinction between "traveler" and "tourist," and the amazing and not so amazing interpersonal experiences I've had with people on the move and people at rest. Until tomorrow then,

Tschüß!

Hello all,

Quick update from Germany as I haven't written anything in a long while. First of all, let me apologize for that as there's been almost too much to write. I officially crossed over into Europe almost a month ago now, and there've been plenty of stories. However, the Spanish don't sleep and I didn't either for the three weeks I was there. The past week has seen me in Madrid for the World Cup Final (CRAZY!), then on to Paris for Bastille Day, and now I've landed at my aunt's house outside Marburg, Germany. I'll be here for about a week, which means for all you lucky readers (the few of you who may be left), I have time on my hands to actually get some writing done. So I'm hereby declaring this week "Sterling's Week of Productivity," and I will here commit to writing at least four entries over the next seven days. This one may or may not count, I'm not sure yet.

But watch this space! I've had some time to do some serious thinking, so I should have some good stuff in the works. Hope you all agree and are waiting in anticipation for the words to flow like water.

Cheers!

Sterling

Where did all this NOISE come from? I've been traveling through Morocco for six freakin' weeks, and it's only now, as I've reached the end of my African road and I can literally see Spain from my hotel room, that I notice the symphonic crush of the developed world. And I have to ask myself, "When did it get so fuckin' loud around here?!"

I don't think I'd really thought about this constant aural assault until yesterday, when I was sitting at a café overlooking Tangier's Petite Socco. This was actually the same café that William S. Burroughs used to visit during his Moroccan sojourn to pick up prostitutes. Male prostitutes. I'm sure he did some writing here as well but probably only while waiting for a good time.

Today though, at the same café, it's almost impossible to muster any kind of creative impulse without something crashing through and upending even the shortest train of thought (I don't know what it's like for picking up male prostitutes). The roar of a passing motorcycle, a power saw grinding away at a nearby construction site, and those fucking HORNS! I don't mean car horns either. I mean the f***ing horns blaring away every second at the World Cup tournament. The matches are on all day at every café and bar in most of the world, Morocco included, and you can unfailingly hunt down a match wherever it's playing by following the sound of those stupid plastic horns. I'm really digging the World Cup, but I'm starting to prefer watching it without sound.

But I'm getting away from myself. I'm writing this sitting in the Café de Paris, the famous literary salon that attracted the likes of Burroughs, Bowles, and Truman Capote. (The cultural history of this city just seems to ooze out of every alleyway and windowpane. Tangier hosted the Beats as well as the Beatles and artists such as Matisse and Delacroix to boot.) But I find it hard enough to think, let alone speak, with the noise from passing cars, the traffic cop's whistle, some crappy electronica being blasted from God knows where, and those damn, blasted HORNS!

When did we in the developed world lose our appreciation for peace, for serenity? Think about the last time you felt truly calm. I bet it didn't include a nearby traffic circle. Now think of yourself alone in the forest. Imagine it snowing. Remember the words of Robert Frost. His horse

"Gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound's the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake."

You know why this is peaceful? Because there weren't any snowmobiles back then! Frost's narrator wasn't in a car buzzing down the highway, he was driving a sleigh. He didn't have iPod earbuds in or the radio going. Maybe he was humming quietly to himself; at most, he was singing lustily. The point is that there was nothing to keep him from hearing the silence.

Living in a rural African village for two years, the loudest sound I was regularly exposed to was the occasional braying donkey (I'm purposefully ignoring the eight-hour period in which my village hooked up a loudspeaker to the mosque next to my house). In that two years, I had a lot of time to think. Now that I've returned from the desert, I fin all this sound, the noise of machinery and modernity, has disrupted my ability to reflect on life and on myself. And I can't help thinking that I can't be the only one. This aural/psychological assault robs us of our existential potential, and that's exactly the root of my gripe: most people would prefer not to think existentially for fear of what they may uncover. In their case, noise is salvation.

Maybe I'm becoming a bit too didactic. I apologize. This whole line of thought began as a diatribe against motorized traffic in the medina, the old walled part of most Moroccan cities. I greatly prefer Fes's medina over any of the others because its streets are too narrow, too winding, and too steep for anything other than foot and mule traffic. And I'm fine with that. I'm convinced the Moroccan Tourist Board's next move to maximize tourist revenue is to make the city medinas open only to pedestrian traffic from 6 am to midnight. That would take care of my greatest complaint. But for the rest, help me out by turning down your music, taking it easy on the old klaxon, or, better yet, walk or bike instead of driving, oh, and most important: turn down the World Cup coverage so I don't have to listen to those @#%$&^ HORNS!

Whenever I meet new people on the road, I try not to mention the fact that I've been traveling by myself for over six months, if only to avoid the inevitable ten-minute repetition of my past two years. (I continually mention my two years in West Africa here both because anyone who reads this can look back and get the whole story in one long afternoon and because you can't ask any follow-up questions!) But for those who are really curious, those whose eyes widen a little bit whenever I mention Mali, Ghana, or Sierra Leone, the inevitable question is usually, "What was your favorite place?"

And my usual gut reaction is "Are you kidding me?" Ask a student of literature for her favorite book. Ask a film historian to name his favorite flick. Ask my friend Patrick for his favorite paranoid, evil personality from 1928 - 1957. Maybe you could help him out by asking him only to focus on Europe, but really, there are just too many from which to choose. Asking me to choose my favorite place in West Africa is about like asking me to choose my favorite digit. My first inclination, I think I'd have to go with right-hand thumb, but that doesn't mean I'd be fine losing any of the rest.

Instead of launching into this diatribe, however, I usually cock my head and ask, "Of which country?" The truth is, I've seen and done a lot in my two and a half years in West Africa. I can't really give a definitive answer, but I can give you my list of my top travel descriptions. Apologies for continuing to neglect Morocco, but hopefully this Cliff's notes version of my trip can help guide any future questions for whenever I return home. Thus, in chronological order, I give you Sterling's Personal Guide to West Africa.

Abomey, Benin - the old seat of the Dahomey Empire, Abomey is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, but its red-earth palaces, symbols of a kingdom built on slavery, is slowly crumbling back unto whence they. This is one of the best places, though, to look onto the sadistic side of the African slave trade and examine how this bloody, black institution set tribe against tribe to tear one another apart.

Boukoumbé, Benin - a hike deep into the hills reveals the land of the Betammaribé tribe, who resisted slavery by living independently as family units protected by their small, fortress-like houses. Spend a night with a family in a tata house surrounded by rolling green hills and towering baobob trees and you'll feel like you're in the Shire. Just try not to hit any old hobbit women with your slingshot (or blame it on a kid if you do).

Klouto, Togo - deep in the hills and jungle of southern Togo, Klouto is filled with coffee plantations that you can hike through while on the search for beautiful butterflies. If you don't have an inner lepidopterist, you can always check out the abandoned European castle hidden in the trees...

Green Turtle Lodge, Ghana - an ecolodge working on community development along one of the most beautiful stretches of beach in West Africa. A sure place to meet Peace Corps types and to get crunched by some seriously awesome waves.

Kumasi, Ghana - home of the Ashanti, one of the most well-known West African ethnies, famous for their colorful and highly-prized kente and adinkra cloth.

N'guigmi, Niger - not much there but pure white sand. Too bad the nearest ocean is thousands of kilometers away. Go and you'll feel like you're at the end of the earth, or at least the end of your travels. With genocide to the east, a batshit crazy dictator to the north, religo-ethnic conflict to the south, and general famine all around, you'll definitely start to rethink your privileged status as a developed country national.

Banfora to Sindou Peaks, Burkina Faso - I rented a motorbike and took it the 100km there and back all in one day, and what a day it was. The dirt piste is lined with trees the entire way, and hiking around the peaks is a bit like stepping into the scenery from Fraggle Rock. Those who remember that reference get bonus points for having a great childhood.

Dogon Country, Mali - take the road up from Ouaghiya to the Falaise de Bandiagara and get into some real hiking. This is one of the most unique cultural areas in all of Africa, but due to its location in rural West Africa has remained relatively untouched by mass tourism. And the stars...if only you knew.

Sunset Beers on the Niger - whether it's in Niamey, Mopti, Gao, or Gaya, a cold Flag on a hot desert night is pretty unbeatable with those beautiful African sunsets. And with fresh fish brought in that hour by colorful characters in even more colorful pirogues, you're sure of a good meal to go with your beer.

Festival du Desert, Mali - one of the greatest concerts I've ever been to, bar none. A celebration of Tuareg culture, and a great revenue resourse for a severely impoverished people, the Festival du Desert brings together some of the greatest acts in West African music alongside musicians from all over the world. But the focus is definitely the desert, and you won't ever forget that when you're freezing your ass off on your third night in the Saharan winter.

Yamoussoukro, Côté d'Ivoire - check out the previous post on this one from sometime in January. The city was built to glorify former president Houphouet-Boigny's ancestors, but from the looks of it, the only thing the city glorifies is how much money one man can dump into a swamp.

Monrovia, Liberia - maybe less of a tourist hotspot than a fascinating look into a community still trying to rebuild itself after nearly two decades of civil war. Let's examine the amenities: no electricity, no running water, unsafe tap water, and streets that most embassies have put off limits after 9 pm. But if you dare to brave them (carrying no more than $20 at any time) you can have a great night drinking with awesome people on the streets of this awesome town.

Tiwai Island, Sierra Leone - home to eleven different species of primate, including the rare Diana monkey, all on one easy-to-trek island in the middle of the Moa River. Go looking for rare pygmy hippos (good luck), walk through dense jungle, take a river swim (just watch out for the oyster shells), and finish it all up with a fresh-grilled fish caught that morning by your boat guide.

Freetown Beaches, Sierra Leone - by far the best beaches in all of West Africa, and there's something for everyone. Choose any color of powdery sand from pure white to yellow ochre, even sand that turns your feet black. Your food choices may be limited to lobster, oysters, barracuda, and mango, but who needs anything else? And while all the beaches may be beautiful, only a few have phosphorescent water...

Kamakwie, Sierra Leone - So why does Sierra Leone rank so highly? Well, when you have savannah, mountains, beaches, and jungle, it's kind of hard to choose just one place. Kamakwie wins out because it's close to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, but it's really only a good place to sleep if you've got awesome friends who work for a local NGO. Try camping in the park instead.

Doucki, Guinea - it's more than just a great name. Doucki is a village perched on the edge of a cliff in the Fouta Djalon region of Guinea, the ancestral home of the Fula people. This would only be mildly interesting without the incomparable Hassan Ba, who leads some of the most fun trekking I've ever done in this part of the world. Gorges, waterfalls, and more animals hiding in the rocks than you could ever imagine. What more could you want?

Kedougou, Senegal - I have to admit, some of these are brilliant only because of the people I met there. I spent a week laid up in Kedougou after I hurt my foot. It's a laid-back, chill town: the perfect place to see Senegalese/Fula culture on the everyday level. But there's enough nature about (including the nearby national park) to keep you busy even if you don't have the Peace Corps connections.

Bijagos Archipelago, Guinea-Bissau - a unique culture hidden amongst the dangerous currents of the turquoise seas surrounding the islands. White powdery beaches and a Portugese influence makes this country unlike any other in West Africa.

Chinguetti, Mauritania - stuck right in the middle of the desert, and one of the holiest cities in all of Islam, Chinguetti is a great place to start your camel trek, be it two days, four, or fifty (if you're keen to take it all the way to Timbuktu). If nothing else, a trek into the desert will provide one of the most beautiful sleeping experiences you'll ever have, especially with a full moon.

Chôum to Nouadhibou Express - the ultimate travel experience. Sixteen hours on top of an iron ore hopper through the desert. It doesn't get much hardcore than that. If you're brave, you can hop off for bathroom breaks whenever the train stops, but make them quick, because this train don't wait!

So there you have it. It may be a bit cheap to do a "best of" list, but the well of ideas was pretty dry there for a while. I think the rains may have come, however, with my first full day in Tangier. I'll have a really good post again soon. I promise.

An inexcusable lack of updates from Morocco. If you follow this blog at all, you may have wondered, "Did he fall off the continent? Kidnapped by Berbers? Lost in some haze of a hash dream?"

No. The real answer to "Where have you been?" is probably just "Around." I don't know how to describe my lack of any creativity in the six weeks I've been in Morocco. I've had unprecedented access to the Internet (well, unprecedented for someone who's spent the last two years in rural, sub-Saharan Africa.) Perhaps one of the best explanations is my inability to find the time to write is this: for the previous six months, I've traveled in places where bedtime is around 8:30 pm. If you have a headlamp, that can get extended to about 9:30 or whenever you feel like you can't function solely by the light of an LED anymore. In Morocco, I've regularly been up until midnight or later. The biggest difference is Daylight Savings Time, which Moroccans hate and which, frankly, makes little sense in a Muslim country dominated by prayer calls attuned to the sun. Well, that and I've noticed that Moroccans don't really get going until about 9 in the morning. For someone who's used to getting up at 7, this leaves me with about two hours of boredom and wandering around deserted streets. (It just occurred to me that maybe I should use that time to write, and this thought has now destroyed my attempted apology regarding a lack of communication. Well...damn.)

I think I'll use the time I have today on the train to Tangier to pound out a couple of blog posts that I can hopefully post in the next few days. For those of you who know your geography, you know Tangier as the "Gateway to Africa." It sits just right across the Strait of Gibralter from Spain and has been known as a seedy, character-filled transit town for generations. Think of the cantina scene in Star Wars. Now replace Obi-Wan with a grizzled, heroine-addicted William S. Burroughs, Greedo with Paul Bowles, and the alien band with the Rolling Stones. Oh, and while we're at it, the bartender is Truman Capote. Why not. I haven't been there yet, but that just sounds fun.

And it's only by writing some of this out that memories come back to me from some of the other famous Moroccan cities I've visited already: Fes, Meknes, Rabat, and, of course, Marrakesh. I've been running around so much lately, as well as looking to a return to America in the next few months, that I haven't seen the places I've been. I don't mean I've been sleepwalking through these places. That's almost impossible to do when you're traveling by yourself and you have to manage all of your own meals and accomodation. But, the time has come for some serious reflection, which means finding a low-impact city and taking some time for myself in a cafe. Not sure if I'll be able to find that in Tangier. My bet is no. However, for now, I have a train to catch and pages and pages to write. Watch this space: there will be new mind-expanding entries here shortly. 'Til then.

Writing about Rabat. What can I say? I spent nearly a week in Morocco's capital city, and I've seen just about all that it could offer someone who doesn't live there. But I spent most of my day preparing for the night, as the 9th Annual Mawazine Festival of World Music was on for my week there. F***ing fantastic.

This was one of those moments where luck and good timing led me to the right place. I'd heard of the Mawazine Festival as I passed cafés and restaurants with television usually tuned to football or National Geographic Abu Dhabi (they really watch a lot of National Geo here, I don't know why). But I had no idea who was playing, where the concert was, how much it cost. Then, walking the streets of Marrakesh, I saw an enormous billboard featuring a man in a fedora and black jacket, head bowed to the camera: Carlos Santana at Mawazine. Tickets on sale for 600 dirham (about $70). I froze. Immediately thoughts of "If only" and "Can I afford that?" began to sweep through my head. I knew some other Volunteers would be in Rabat for their mid-service medical appointments around that time, so I thought, "Why not join them and see how the spirit moves me."

As the week of the festival drew closer, I saw more and more coverage on the national channel: Julio Iglesias, Sting, Carlos Santana, BB KING?! BB King is 84 years old these days. I decided then and there that even if it meant dropping $70, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.

I met up with a Volunteer who'd been evacuated way back in the day from Madagascar, a friend of a friend kind of thing, for a beer. He was off to see Seun Kuti that night. It was a free show, I was welcome, why the hell not? I'd never heard of him, but boy, do I know him now. Seun Kuti's father is Fela Kuti, the Nigerian musician who pioneered Afrobeat, a mixture of African rhythms, highlife, jazz, and funk. The show rocked. It reminded me of everything I love about Africa. At one point Seun said something along the lines of "I want you to shout out as loud as you can, because in Africa, we don't talk small. We shout out with every part of our soul!" I'd never thought about it before, but he was right, and it's what I love about the continent. Africans tend to make everything big. Anyone who's ever been in a group of Africans know how loud and boisterous they can get, throwing around jokes and stories like no others. And as I look to some of my favorite artists: Howlin' Wolf, Etta James, Muddy Waters, I think that tendency to pour your soul out in one loud cry crossed the Atlantic and defined American music of all stripes.

Okay, so now I'm hooked. Free shows and some amazing new music on my first night in Rabat. Next up: Cheikh Tidiane Seck. I'd seen this guy at the Festival in the Desert in Timbuktu. Crazy to think that that was over five months ago, and here he is again in Morocco. He took me back to my Sahelian roots with his rockin' take on traditional griot music and some of those lovely, full-bodied Malian women, who probably shook it a little too much for a Moroccan audience. That's fine. Let's let the Malians shake things up a bit.

So two shows down, I start to look for who I want to see, who I can see for free. This can't be right. Elton John is playing for free to those who don't mind standing a football pitch away from the stage. I am THERE! Evidently, this show almost didn't happen, as some conservative imams in Morocco cast Elton John as a menace to good Islamic values. But the show went on as planned, rightfully, as the concert organizers noted, as it's a festival to bring people and cultures together for a proper, respectful cultural exchange. As I walked up to the jangling piano of Tiny Dancer, I knew I'd made the right decision to stay in Rabat for the duration of the festival. I have to say though, after the African bands, that I was a bit disappointed by Elton John as musician. The technicality isn't as high quality as those others. And the lyrics aren't all that great, in the end. I mean, are there any other lyrics to Bennie and the Jets other than "Buh Bennie and the Jetssssssssssssssssssss?" But damn. You do have to hand it to the man. He knows how to put on a spectacle. Eventhough he sings everything down an octave these days (I should never be able to sing along with Tiny Dancer in anything but a falsetto), you gotta hand it to him: the songs are catchy, and he knows how to catch your eye.

Elton John turned 63 this year. That's almost as old as my Dad, and I don't think I could see him putting on a show like that. Though strangely enough, I can imagine him in purple sunglasses and a coat and tails, the sleeves embroidered with a rainbow-colored shooting star. That weird? Didn't think so. BB King, however, will be 85 this year, and that just blows my mind. 84 years old and still touring? Not just touring, but touring internationally and taking on a gig in Morocco? I had to see it. I'd heard rumors he was playing from a wheelchair these days. I'd seen Maynard Ferguson, right at the end of his life, and while the old boy could still blow, he usually needed about ten minutes to rest from the minor heart attack suffered after each solo. It's just not the same with a guitarist. Old BB King took the stage and man, could he riff. And his band, a bunch of crusty old guys just like him, well, they didn't miss a beat either. In fact, I think they've all gotten better with age. Of course, they can ham it up with the best of them now. Going into the show thinking that these old guys probably don't have the pads or the chops to rock just lets them blow you even further out of the water. I only hope they come through Indiana while I'm at home, so I can get another chance to see them shine. Damn. I can't write about music and give you the visceral response of being there, but I was dancing the whole night and longing to see him up close.

Last night: Carlos Santana. I've been listening to Santana since 8th grade. Twelve freakin' years! Ya, remember Supernatural? The album that exploded with collaborators like Eric Clapton, Dave Matthews, Wyclef Jean, Lauren Hill, and who could forget Rob Thomas's work on Smooth, that song you couldn't escape for an entire summer. Santana, like Sir Elton, is 63 this year, but I'd like to say, this is one of the best shows I've ever seen. I would have dropped the 600 dirhams on the spot to have the chance to party up near the stage. But...I'm poor. As it was, I crammed in between a bunch of Moroccans who could appreciate the music, but only as a show, not as an experience. There was one other guy, very close by, who, like me, knew all the lyrics, and we were having a time trying to get the others moving. But wow, that cat has only gotten better as the years have gone by. Never have I felt music approach the level of frenetic ecstasy as I had that night.

The continuing theme with these three big acts were these guys who are up there and have been up there now for decades. With all the support I can give to Sir Elton and his band, they're all pretty old dudes who nevertheless have never slowed down. And while they may not have cut their hair since they started touring in the 70s, you gotta hand it to them: when you're that good, you don't have to. Watching BB King was like hanging out with the old guys at the mosque in Niger: they don't need to say much, because whatever comes out of their mouth will have you rolling in the aisles. And it's obvious they just love it. It's a great thing to see guys up there just having fun. Santana brought in some young guys, but when you have to play that hard for that long, you need stamina. I don't know how he does it, but I only hope that I have that kind of strength when I hit 63. These are old musicians who won't fade away, and with this much life, I don't think I'll have to worry about catching the next show.

Hard to believe it's been over a week since my last post. I haven't been plugged into the Internet despite it's pretty universal access in Morocco. But more than just technological laziness, I've found it very difficult to write since I've been here. I'm not sure how to describe this issue. Perhaps, like Hemingway, if I may be able to use a pretty weak comparison, I find it difficult to write of a place I know while I'm in said place. Only upon reflection can I find my voice, and indeed, with increasingly fragile memory, I do find myself looking back to West Africa. And how could I not? For me, it was home. After two years, I felt as if I knew the people and knew myself within that culture.

But in Morocco, in North Africa, I am a stranger, and though I may hate to admit it, I am, in many ways, just another tourist. I never felt this unique difference in West Africa, despite being typically the only Westerner around. Cultural currents run deep in in the former French Afrique Occidental, so I felt that from Diffa to Dakar, Timbuktu to Tubmanburg as if I belonged, knowing as I did my own persona within an African context. Thus I was traveler, even sometimes resident, not tourist. Tourist, to me, implies a certain naïvety, often seen as a walking bag of money who may know a bit about a place's people or culture, but often not much more than the superficial. More important than experiencing the place, tourists tend to shuttle from sight to sight, with limited time to check as many "must-sees" off their list as possible.

I wasn't a tourist in West Africa, partially because there are so few people who travel there who fit this description. This Sahelian zone is the poorest, least developed part of the world. Despite hosting some of the richest empires in sub-Saharan Africa, the land left little behind as a testament to African wealth and power. So West Africa remains little visited, and you'd be hard-pressed to find many who know where Mali is, let alone someone who knows it hosted two of the European Middle Ages' wealthiest civilizations.

Tourism, at its best, can change this. Fifteen years ago, who would have known the architectural wonders of Fez, the seedy reputation of Tangiers, or the human pageantry of Marrakesh? Maybe those who read some of the beat poets who took advantage of the anything goes attitude of post-independence Morocco. But others had to wait for cheap flights from Europe. Now it's easy to take a weekend trip to see transvestite belly dancers in the Jma el-Fna or to enjoy hand-rolled cous cous with a view of the snow-capped High Atlas mountains.

Tourism, at it's best, opens up cultures in ways impossible to other experiences. It's one thing to read about slavery in history books or personal narratives; it's quite something else to see the slave castles in Cape Coast, Ghana. Seeing Islam represented as only a hostile antagonism belies the gentle nature of a Moroccan man with his children. Hearing only about repressed, burka-clad women banned from public places in France ignores an upwardly mobile generation of working women who have money and know how to look good. One of the most interesting things I've noticed as someone interested in gender is the quiet women's revolution ongoing in Morocco. Women in the cities are finding many more opportunities in education and the workplace and are beginning to make their voices heard. Of course, the examples I've cited exist in the West, but as the quiet majority, one all too easy to overlook in a culture obsessed with political theatre and posturing instead of news, interested only in entertainment, conflict, and "talking points." At it's best, tourism opens the tourist to a culture and ideals he/she may not understand at home. It's far easier to see the forest when you're surrounded by the trees.

Of course, tourism, at it's best, is usually simply called travel. At my university, we tried our best to instill the ideal of experiential learning in our travels. But in the end, we were still tourists. I look back now on those days as a learning experience for my present travels, so I guess in that regard, the whole experiential learning thing worked out. I didn't realize how much I'd subconsciously picked up until I came to Morocco and saw the throngs of tourists who've just discovered this land thanks to Ryan Air. They provide a case study of what NOT to do if you want to really experience a place. Read ahead and hope you're not here described.

What are you wearing?! This applies especially to Morocco, but I saw a lot of it in West Africa now. In Muslim cultures, modesty is paramount, especially for women. Like it or not, you stand out and are borderline offensive when you bare shoulders, legs, and chest. Look around you. If the locals aren't wearing it, neither should you. How can you stand to stand out so? Don't you feel naked? Oh and one more thing: shorts were made for sport and the beach. There is really no other time when they are needed. You look stupid. Especially jean shorts. What is this? Did I miss the memo on reliving 1995? But it's hot... Pants are no hotter than shorts. Get yourself a nice pair of linen slacks, and guess what, they're even cooler, as they block the radiant heat from the pavement, ground etc.

Put away the guide book. Lonely Planet. Yes, it's a great resource. I myself have one, and it was indispensible to my travels around West Africa. However, there is never any need to have it out while you're walking. The Lonely Planet: Morocco book has a distinct cover of the Fez palace gates which you can spot a mile away. It just screams "TOURIST!" And while that may not bother you, just think of for whom the next carpet seller is searching...you may just be that sucker.

What are you taking a picture of? My favorite tourists are the ones who have the guide book in one hand and a digital camera in the other. One of the blessings of the digital age is a nearly limitless capacity to get the perfect shot. One of the tragedies is that most people now spend all their time getting any shot. I sometimes miss the days of film, where you couldn't afford to take thousands of pictures. You had 32 shots, and every one had to count. Now I see tourists just walking and snapping as they go. I don't even think they look at what they're photographing. Forget form and composition, I'm wondering what the subject is even supposed to be. No, you can't take a good picture of the bright crescent moon. And no, that little Nikon will not be able to pick up the subtle lighting in an underground mausoleum. And for the love of God, stop taking pictures of artwork. Buy the f***in' post card! This goes to all of you who crowd around the Mona Lisa. Can we just take some time to f***in' appreciate the things in life that cannot be captured by technology?! What do you do with the literally thousands of photos you snap when you get home? Do you print them all out and bind them in an album? There's a good rule: snap only what you would pay to print.

There are more. This might become a recurring theme as I find more and more things that irritate the ever-loving sh** out of me. One thing that I do appreciate, after a long time on the road with French people are Americans. This sounds kind of cheesy, but the child-like simplicity of most Americans is refreshing after so long on the road. I'm used to Europeans who have the tendency to take their service for granted. But after meeting Norman and Jeanne in Essaouira, who introduced themselves and had a big, happy greeting for the receptionist at the hotel, I had to remember that that's not something I'm used to seeing. It's nice. It humanizes both the tourist and the local. And that's where true experience rests.

I tend to fall asleep in public transport. Any kind. From iron ore train to crowded bush taxi, bus to boat. It's become quite a talent of mine, and I have to admit, it is kind of nice to wake up from a peaceful nap, look out the window, and see some beautiful new part of Afric... OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!

Okay, so only sometimes does it happen like that. Today was one of those days. After hiking down out of the mountains, I took a grand taxi back up said mountains from Ouled Brahil to Marrakesh. First of all, there's so much to say about Marrakesh in the few hours I've been here that it will take a completely different entry. This is about something else. The road to Marrakesh weaves through the High Atlas mountains through the Tizi n'Test. This pass is the only way through the mountains without resorting to hours of detours through Ouarzazate to the east or Agadir to the west.

Okay, so now that I have some background out of the way, where was I? Oh yes, death and destruction. It's difficult not to panic a bit when you wake up to the screech of tires and nothing but sky in front of the car. Then it turns, and you realize you've only almost driven over the edge of a cliff at 40k an hour. And then you realize that you still have 140km to go with a Michael Schumacher wannabe in a crappy Mercedes Berliner on a twisty, one-lane mountain road filled with blind turns. It's like the best rollercoaster ever. You know, the one at the county fair that's been shut down across the state for maiming too many carnies? Ya, that one. Anyway, I found myself praying to whoever would listen that we'd make it out alive as we burned up the mountain road, oblivious to any sense of danger or stomach-churning G's. Go ahead, lady in the front seat, throw up; in this case, it's warranted. I'd join you, except I have about a liter of orange Fanta sitting in my stomach, so anything that comes out my nose is going to end up looking like a Nickelodeon advertisement. It's Slime Time!!! Gross. There have been many times in Africa that I've been glad of a broken speedometer. In cases like these, ignorance is bliss.

As any of you who have followed this blog for a while know, every once in a while I like to throw my professional demeanor away and engage in some humor. This usually comes in the form of a rant against a traumatic event I've recently experienced. These are always drawn from real occurences, just a bit exaggerated. This one may be the first to be completely true and unaltered. I'll start at the beginning...

Another 16 hours through the desert and along the wild Atlantic coast. This time it was on a bus from Dakhla to Guelmim, and when I think back to those long rides from Niamey to Zinder (here I start the comparisons between North and West Africa), I have to marvel at the decent amount of sleep I managed on this luxury overnighter. I also have to give credit where it's due to Nigerien women, as not once in all my horrific, hair-pulling, death-defying, vomit-inducing bush taxi rides did I ever have a woman get sick on me.

I wish I could say the same about my very first bus ride in Morocco.

Oh sure, it started innocently enough. My seat mate for the next 16 hours was a little, old Moroccan lady, a bit fat, with crinkles about her eyes, and a wart on her big, hooked nose. She actually looked not a bit unlike Yubaba, the witch from Miyazaki's Spirited Away. "Okay, good," I thought as she spread out her blanket for the journey ahead, "at least I'm not sitting next to a small child, wailing his head off for hours upon hours, like the one sitting right behind me, who won't stop kicking my chair... For the love of God, would you QUIT KICKING THE BACK OF MY CHAIR?!"

He stopped kicking the back of my chair...eventually, and slowly, I drifted off to sleep with the rocking of the bus and the barren, rocky desert flying by outside my window. In the morning, I awoke peacefully to the first rays of a soft, desert sunrise, the crash of Atlantic breakers, and the gentle retching of my venerable neighbor. A lovely way to start any day, and, even better, it continued for two hours, until we stopped for morning prayer and coffee. Though I don't pray and I wasn't much up for coffee, I jumped at the chance to extricate myself from my portly, puking companion.

What happened next can only be described as nightmarish. If you're at all squeamish, please turn away as we go into my mind, a pretty scary alternate reality in its own right.

Alright, back on the bus. Let's hope she's got everything out of her system. "Oh, Alhamdulilai, I don't want any bread, thank you." Wait. You're eating bread? You just spent the last two hours vomiting into a plastic jar. Most people choose not to eat if they're liable to get motionsick. You don't need to eat, you're just refueling! What's tha...is that yogurt? Tell me that isn't yogurt. Oh, come on! Haven't you ever thrown up dairy before? No, don't give her a spoon! Well...great. Smile away granny, I have a feeling we're both going to regret this...

(30 minutes later)

Yep, there you go again. Oh, that's disgusting. Yep, goes down yogurt, comes up cottage cheese doesn't it? You done now? Learned your lesson? Ohp, nope, there's an orange. Who gave you an orange? No worries, there's an apple as well. Can't have an orange without an apple chaser, can you? Mmm...vomiting a bit whilst eating eh? Didn't know that was possible. What is wrong with you?! STOP INGESTING FOOD!!!

(30 minutes later)

Is that ANOTHER yogurt container?! Okay, it's empty. I see. Need something else to yak into? Filled up your jar? Wait...the lid of that jar says it holds 425 grams. Oh Sweet Lord in Heaven. There's nearly half a kilo of old lady chunks precariously perched only two feet away. All it would take is one big pothole and it's all over. I think I'm going to chunder. But wait, into what would I toss cookies ? She's used every available container on the bus. Filled the yogurt cup... You need another?! Wait...that one's not open yet. NO! WHY ARE YOU EATING AGAIN?! Only 400km left...

At the end of this roller-coaster, I could conceive of only two possibilities for this woman's behavior: Either A) She really had taken quite a dislike to me and had set it her goal to make me hurl, or B) She just really loved the feeling of a good heave. Either way, I think I think I'd take the slow-moving iron ore train over the vomit express.

So, now it's time for the great transport blog, or at least the first leg of it. Two trucks, a train, a car, a bus, and I've covered something like 2500km of desert in under five days. I think I've had more travel time than sleep this month, but now that I'm in Morocco, I hope to make up for it in one long, marathon nap.

But first, let's recount this trip. I awoke in the dunes of Chinguetti with the prayer call at 5:30 am on May 1st. Tromping a couple kilometers through the desert's sands, I was met by a pickup truck, the ever-present Toyota Hilux, on it's way to Atâr. Growing up in the Midwest, I'm pretty used to crazily careening down gravel roads in the back of a pickup, so this was actually a bit of a treat, taking me back to my youth and adding a bit of excitement: Indiana doesn't have roads winding around desert gorges, only inches from free-fall cliff edges. Made it to Atâr in about an hour and a half and had a couple hours to wait to catch the next pickup to Choûm. Four hours through the desert, with the sun beating down and the sand in my face, I still somehow managed to fall asleep. I don't know when narcolepsy became part and parcel of all my public transport ventures, but it does help to make the trip that much shorter.

All this discomfort was rather easy to take, as I was to meet my real goal in Choûm: the iron-ore train from the mining town of Zouérat to the port city of Nouadhibou. It's one of the longest trains in the world, sometimes stretching to over two kilometers and, fully loaded, weighing several thousand tons. Though it's not even offically meant for passengers, but dozens jump the train every day for the 24-hour trip between the two cities. It's really the only means of transport in this stretch of desert, but for me, and for the few other travelers who've done it, it's an adventure impossible to forgo.

I arrived in Choûm around two in the afternoon, hot, dusty, and in need of food. Unfortunately, Choûm turned out to be little more than a train platform in the middle of the desert. "Dix heures, onze heures," the train would arrive, according to some local kids. However, in Africa, I knew this wait would be a bit longer, and unfortunately, Choûm had little to offer other than shade and a woman selling tea. It was the perfect picture of a town at the end of the earth: dusty, wind-swept, barren, with nothing but a few crows croaking from atop the telegraph wires (I don't actually know what these poles were, but I'd just like to take the time to reimagine Choûm as a lawless, Western boom town.)

So, I settled down beside the tracks to wait for the train. And sleep a bit. Wait a bit more. Wander around the six or eight houses in town. Visit the boutique. Can't buy anything because the shopkeeper's passed out on the concrete floor. Sleep a bit more. Five more hours of this? I'd throw myself in front of the train if one ever went by. Around ten at night, I heard the rumblings in the distance, but my neighbors said only, "Nope, not until 2am." And indeed, this train, loaded full of ore and roaring by for what seemed hours passed us without even slowing. Four hours later though, with a screech and a hiss, a train stretching into the darkened horizon pulled in at our lonely little outpost and, not wanting to pay for a seat on the floor in the one passenger cabin, I climbed into an open iron-ore hopper with Moussa and Mohammed, two kids on their way to Nouadhibou to sell African toothbrushes (those of you who've spent time in Africa know these are sticks).

I expected the iron ore to be bound up in rocks, the hoppers full of uncomfortable stone that I would have to, in some way, tolerate for sixteen hours through the burning desert sun. So I was quite surprised, upon landing in the hopper to find myself sinking slightly in heavy, black sand, the iron ore filings which are processed in Zouérat and shipped in Nouadhibou. However, unlike sand, the iron ore stuck to everything. The first thing Moussa did was to put down a tarp, which we shared for the trip, and wrap himself up in a heavy blanket, something I mimicked immediately as the train took off, the wind catching the lighter particles of iron and sending them flying in clouds of black soot.

For all the romanticism of this trip, which so few in the world have ever heard of, let alone taken, the train was pretty unromantically dull. I spent the night getting the best sleep I've had on public transport. Despite the cold and the wind, the iron ore was quite soft and comfortable, and I, cocooned in my sleep sack, had little trouble with the heat come daytime. Sheer boredom was the primary drawback. The desert was beautiful by moonlight, but in the day, the sun baked the iron ore and just made for a generally dirty, uncomfortable afternoon. But, by the time Nouadhibou peeked over the horizon, I knew I'd done something special and, coated in black dust, tired, half-starved, I knew that this would be a memory I'd carry with me for a while: one of those true "African experiences," i.e. one you're glad you've had, but not necessarily ready to ever repeat.

Through La Porte du Desert and on to Morocco. Well...almost. I have over 1000km of desert to cross, and cross in fashion! I'm in Dakhla, Western Sahara now, and I'm not even halfway home. While I could use this time to write about similarities, difference, and inevitable comparisons with West Africa, I think I'll save those for a later date, especially as even remote outpost Dakhla seems, in many ways, more developed than Dakar. I don't want to make any more comparisons though until I'm well into Morocco and I realize there's little to compare.

For now though, I'll turn back to Mauritania and the wonders of the desert.

I don't know exactly when I fell in love with the desert. It may be as early as the first time I climbed the dune north of my village in Niger. Or it might be as recently as the drive through the smooth, serpentine folds of windswept ochre sand and past desolate, rust-colored, rocky plains from Nouakchott to Atâr in Mauritania. There's something about the desert, its isolation, its indifferent, ever-changing yet immutable character that has evoked retrospection for generations. It's no question that Jesus retired to the desert in search of clarity, and Mohammed, of course, brought his new faith out of Arabia's sands. There's a reason for this: the sense of the infinite, and our place in it, is palpable in great, open spaces such as the desert.

Nowhere is this more evident than in Chinguetti, the seventh holiest city in Islam. Chinguetti was once an important caravan stop, linking West African gold, ivory, salt, and slaves to North African and European markets. In its heyday, the city was a center of great learning, with a population of over 30,000, mostly Islamic scholars and merchants. I doubt that Chinguetti has even a tenth of that number now, but like other scholarly cities, Timbuktu and Djenné, it is still crammed full of ancient Islamic manuscripts, many of them still held by local families in their own homes.

However, with the desert caravan days long gone, I think most of Chinguetti's spiritual energy these days comes from the majestic dunes that encircle the old, stone town. It's easy to walk only a few kilometers outside the city and be amongst the heaped masses of sand, the wind quickly obliterating any footprints and any sign of a world outside the desert's horizon. It's possible, from Chinguetti, to walk over 350km east and see nothing but classic Lawrence of Arabia-style dunes. While this would lead to certain death, it's hard to argue the appeal of a night spent amongst the dunes, under the cool light of a brilliant full moon, with no noise other than the sound of your own heart beat.

It's a wonder then, with my love for the desert and after sweating it out through two hot seasons in Niger that I never fully appreciated the phrase "like an oasis in the desert" until I visited an actual oasis in the desert. God is big. Part of the Sahara's spiritual appeal lies in its extremes, from scalding day-time temperatures to freezing nights. After a few days in Atâr's stifling heat (42C in the shade most of the day), I marveled at the green paradise of the Terjit oasis, the perfect stereotype of all you've seen in Hollywood films: a bubbling spring cutting its way through a desert gorge, watering a vast, shady date palmerie. For all the desert's hardships, the oasis is that much sweeter a reward at the end of a long stay.

But that wasn't quite the end of my time in the desert. I'll have more in another post. Coming soon: Sterling's epic 500km free ride on top of the world's longest train.

So, I fully admit: that last post was a bit crap. I apologize for the confusing, piecemeal nature of it. What I should have written is as follows, and I hope it can help explain the confusion and general anxious strain I've been feeling for the past few days in Senegal.

Today is my last day in Senegal, and looking at it more and more, my last day in West Africa. Mauritania marks my transition from the African world I've known so long to the Arab world I'll be discovering soon enough. Technically, it's still West Africa, but from everything I've heard, Mauritania is really a mix of Arab, Berber, and African all in one enormous expanse of desert. Leaving this places is kind of a hard transition. For almost two and a half years, I haven't known anything other than West Africa, one of the poorest, hardest, grittiest places on earth. And it's difficult to put this leaving into words: what it represents, how it feels, who I'm leaving behind, and when I'll be back.

First, what does leaving Africa represent for me? In that regard, what does West Africa, my Peace Corps experience, and my travels represent? Many things, I guess. I feel as if I'm closing an amazing chapter of my life. I thought I was closing that chapter when I left Niger, and in many ways I was. However, in just a few ways, I think this trip has added a few footnotes to my time there. Peace Corps was a unique experience that I don't think I would have otherwise had. I've grown so much in the past two and a half years that I don't even recognize the person I once was. I joined Peace Corps less than a year after graduating college, which is pretty overwhelmingly true for many other Volunteers in West Africa. At that time, I was lost. I didn't know what I was doing with my life, so hell, why not join Peace Corps? This, I've found, is a common thought amongst those of us who have no idea where life is taking them but who want to do some bit of good in this world.

I think most people end important chapters of their life with a "Now what?" mentality. It's far too easy to encounter the first thing that comes drifting along, attach yourself to it, and hold on tight. It's a way of sleeping through life, and it's a pretty awful way to waste precious time on this earth. But I can't judge. This is exactly how I wound up in Peace Corps. But the difference is that Peace Corps has an expiration date. Two years and you know things are going to end. You'll say goodbye and move on, with clearly-defined memories of challenges and triumphs, failures and rewards. Some people spend their entire lives attached to the first thing that drifted along after college and never experience anything else.

And the key memories in my and several other peoples' service are those challenges. Whether projects, people, or day-to-day life in another culture, we need those challenges to reaffirm our place in the world or to knock us on our ass so we can have the chance to get back up again. We succeed or fail, but I think we often learn more in our failures, and they often make success that much sweeter. I'm thankful that I've had this opportunity to challenge myself so thoroughly. Like iron after it's been through the forge I think I'm stronger, more resilient, and ready to take on more weight, more responsibilities. More importantly, I feel as if the time for drift is over. I may not have a much better idea of what I want to do, but I have to strike out on a path. I can't abide staying in one place, growing old, and losing that edge. Along the way, I've met several others, in all walks of life, who are in the same category, and it feels nice to know that you're not alone. The road is full of those looking for some kind of existential sign.

So how does it feel? Leaving again? Well, after all that I've just written, better, but still kind of horrible. It's hard to transition any chapter of life, and being young, an experience like this takes up a greater proportion of my life. I'll apologize now if this gets overly romantic or dreamy. Just bear with me. I've given myself to this place for a long time, and it's returned my investment tenfold. But, there's no denying that there are some things you can't get back. I once wrote about taking a hammer to my sanity, throwing the pieces to the wind, and collecting them at a later date. Those pieces that I found were all I needed in life, and the important ones would, obviously, be the easiest ones to pick back up. It was a pretty mentally challenging part of my service, which may go a way to explaining the violence of the imagery. Well, I did that. Metaphorically. I did not take a hammer to my head; I just smacked it a few thousand times because I never quite realized the extent of my own height. I went a little crazy, learned what was important, and have pieced myself back together pretty thoroughly. However, now I feel as if I've left a piece behind in Africa, and it's important. It feels as if this is an integral piece. And it's not coming back. It's taken up residence here, and I can't lay hands on it to collect it again. The problem seems to stem from the realization that this piece is everywhere and nowhere all at once. I can't relive my life and pinpoint the place where I left that small piece of myself, but I can catch glimpses of it: in the photos I've taken, the lines I've written, and the people I've met. It's there in every memory, like the creepy guy at a bar.

But it's not as if I have some hole within myself where this piece is missing. Instead, I have an assorted conglomeration of friends and images that have taken its place. That's why that piece of me is so impossible to reclaim. It's because it has also been smashed into ever smaller pieces which are now distributed all throughout this chunk of the continent: in my fields, my house, my favorite overlook on the mesa, in Dogon Country, in Monrovia, in the Fouta Djalon, in all the PCV friends I've made in Niger, Burkina, Mali, and Senegal, in Emilie and Charles, Knut and Bianca, John and Karen, Sangeetha and Becca, the Inter-Aide crew, in Annarita, in all my village friends, and even in Pip, who should have worked his way up to King of the Bush Cats by now, Insha'Allah. Hats off to one of the cutest cats ever. He probably won them over with his charm.

And when will I be back? That really depends on when God wills it, but I know that one day I will return to West Africa. And I will probably realize that I never really left. Because until then, there are pieces of me bouncing all around this part of the world, and I'll always be able to catch a bit of Africa's sun whenever I see old friends from these two years. Part of me will never leave. I'll always feel the absence of a place I love, but this loss will hopefully be tempered by new places to love, new adventures that await. It won't be too long before that happens either, because as soon as I've left West Africa, I have Morocco and North Africa, a whole new world of which I know nothing. After that, who knows? I will eventually go home (much to the relief of my aggrieved parents), but I doubt I'll be there long (sorry Mom and Dad). There's just too much of the world that I want to see. Too many people to meet and an infinite amount of adventures just waiting outside the door. Life's too short to experience them all, so we might as well try to find as many as we can.

And that's exactly what I do tomorrow, when I cross the border to Mauritania, en route to Morocco and another stretch of road. Until next time, kala han fo West Africa. I will miss you terribly.

I've left West Africa. I took the boat up from Ziguinchor, and it was supposed to dock in Dakar, which I'd heard was the cultural capital of West Africa. Where I am now is a cosmopolitan city the likes of which I haven't seen in over two years. Not even Abijan can compare to the wealth of this place. Downtown Dakar feels positively European, and it doesn't hurt that the peninsular city's sea breezes have made the weather not only tolerable, but actually beautiful. It's spring in Europe and America and in Dakar as well, with temperatures holding steady in the mid-70s and a chilly breeze at night. I'm not used to a place that combines mild weather, tropical sun, and virtually no humidity. Where am I?

The answer, for me, is that I'm slowly making my way north, away from sub-Saharan West Africa and the home I've known for so long. I guess, in a way, that this was the goal of the whole odyssey. I've been on the road over four months now, and I've traveled the length and breadth of West Africa. The places I've seen, the people I've met, the things I've done, they all fade into a past that is difficult to remember without the aid of my journal. At the beginning, my primary goal was one of slow readjustment to the Western world. Most immediate at the time was to avoid winter in the States. After two years in one of the world's hottest countries, I didn't think I could handle anything below 60 degrees. Here in Dakar, that's been confirmed and refined: I now can't handle anything below 70 degrees. Seriously.

More importantly, I've been hiding from the frightening readjustment to a life I've forgotten. Time is a commodity in the West. In West Africa, it's a quaint idea, kind of like treasuring silence in the vacuum of space. I've been hiding from the stress of a recovering economy, a career, grad school, and any number of responsibilities that one loses on the road. I'm slowly starting to pick up those pieces of life again. Sounds scary, but they've finally found me after two years in Africa. Responsibilities are a bit like the mafia, they'll always find you.

And it's actually a bit alright. They haven't broken my kneecaps yet, and, with luck, I'll be able to pay off that two-year debt I've accumulated in my absence from the West. After four months on the road, I'm starting to get a bit tired. Maybe it's just Senegal. After backpacking through Côté d'Ivoire, Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea, this place just seems too easy. Easy but expensive. There's quite a bit to see and do, but I just feel like a tourist now. If I have to pay $15 for a hotel room, I appreciate that I have hot water, electricity, clean sheets, and a pillow, but more and more I'm realizing that I don't actually need any of that. I slept on concrete floors in Liberia! And it was free. And I'm fine with that. I used candles to illuminate my room in Guinea, and, eventhough the risk of an open flame in a thatch-roofed hut is very real, it's also very soothing and atmospheric. Much better that than some impersonal flourescent light.

Senegal's saving grace for me has been the Volunteers that I've met along the way. And, for me, this has marked an important turning point on this journey. The trip has become less about the sights (although the gargantuan Soviet-era, Social-Realist statue adorning Dakar's Mamelle district is lovely) and more about the experience. I don't feel as if there's been much news-worthy for the past couple weeks, as most of my time has been spent with other Volunteers doing very little other than experiencing Wolof, Serer, or Fula culture, meeting local families, and trying my best to relive parts of my own service. My camera is almost devoid of pictures from this country, my journal absent of my adventures, but I feel as if I'm experiencing more things that are difficult to put in to words. (Which is actually kind of embarrassing, as isn't that the point of a blog?) As the journey has continued to unfold, I find that the stories and experiences I've had just begin to pile up, and when people ask me, "What's been your favorite place?", I'm crushed under the weight of all the places I've liked. There's something in every country to appreciate, but I think what I'm realizing more and more is that it isn't about the place you're visiting, but the experience you have there. I, for example, loved Monrovia. Many have told me that I'm the only person they've ever met who has said that. I think Kedougou, Senegal, might be one of my favorite towns so far, but that is due entirely to the people I met there. I mean, I hurt my foot and was laid up for about a week, and it's not like the town of 30,000 is a cultural hotspot.

I think what I've found over the past four months is that I'm enjoying being a cultural gyspy. And in the process, I've become something for the people that I meet. I don't like to be seen as any one thing, but when people ask you about travels and adventure, it's easy to get caught up in stories and advice. I'm starting to have ideas about what I want to do and how I want to live my life. As much as I've taken from this trip, it's really starting to give back, as I look to transitioning to a different life, not my old one, but a new chapter of the same life. I can already tell that this is starting to go down a slippery slope that is best confined to other forums, so I'll wrap this up. Apologies because I can feel this post is quite scattered and covers many things. I tend not to write much when I'm surrounded by people, and I've been hanging out with Volunteers for the better part of a month now. I'm off to Mauritania at the end of the week (for the love of God, I won't get kidnapped), so I'll have some time again to write and organize thoughts. I promise the next entry will be clear, concise, witty, and whatever else you appreciate about this blog. Til then.

I just returned from a week in the Bijagos Archipelago in Guinea-Bissau. Ever heard of it? Haha, that sounds cocky, but honestly, before I came to Africa, I don't know if I could have told you where to find Guinea-Bissau. Is it Guinea, Equatorial Guinea, Guinea-Bissau, French Guyana, or Papua New Guinea? They're spread out from South America to the Pacific Islands, and no one knows anyone who's been to any of these places.

Well, now you do.

But, after a week away with a friend who I've met on the road, I almost feel as if it never happened. As if the whole thing was a dream, and if I look back at my camera or my journals, I'll find them blank, the memories existing only in my mind.

It isn't so much that the place is so extraordinarily beautiful, which it is, or that it's so little-known and visited that it's difficult to find anyone else who's even heard of this dreamscape, which is also true. No, this particular dream seems unreal because of all the events that seemed to come together from outside our ken to give us an unbelievable experience. Everyone, I hope, has had a moment like this, where forces just seem to align in all the right ways to give you personally, you and only you, one week of true happiness. I fear even mentioning any specifics of this trip as it might mar or change the dream in some irreparable way. There are some things that we have to hold within ourselves to preserve them and keep them pure. If I were to write down all the complexities and adventures, I fear that they would leave me and never return. I can, however, say that the islands are a totally unique, amazing destination: white powder beaches washed by an azure sea, the people of the islands a community isolated by shallow waters littered with rocks and sandbars, dangerous currents, and extreme tides. A place where it's quite easy to spend the entire day on a completely isolated beach with nothing but your thoughts and a bottle of cana, a sweet, spiced liqueur reminiscent of a light Irish Cream. It's also possible to strike inland, as we did, and explore the villages, pick cashew apples under the watchful gaze of women roasting the nuts and making cashew wine, and meet people who are so unused to tourists that they never think of calling you toubab, obroni, annasara, opporto, yovo, or any other of the dozens of names for white people in West Africa.

I can't say enough about this place, but again, I'm conflicted because I feel by speaking it aloud, this gem might lose some of its luster. I can condense it though. We avoided a coup the day we arrived, found a boat that had already boarded all its passengers and took us along anyway, heard about a festival on a nearby island for the Easter weekend, and met the organizers and several of the musicians, one of whom is even a prince whose kingdom extends over 90 villages in eastern Guinea-Bissau. First prince I'd ever met, and truly, a fascinating guy. And perhaps the best thing about the entire trip is that now I share memories with someone who I barely knew before we traveled together. It may seem paradoxical, but I've found traveling with someone you barely know to be the best experience. After one week together,we have a bond that will forever link us in friendship, and a dream that we may never be sure actually occurred.

I bought a pith helmet.

Does that statement need explanation? Is it a little too colonial? A little too Heart of Darkness for our modern sensibilities? Well, like everything, there's a story behind it, and here it is.

After two weeks scrambling around the canyons, waterfalls, and plateaux of Doucki, I was exhausted. However, I still had one major challenge before me. In order to meet up with friends in Kedougou, Senegal, I had to take the mountain road down from Mali-ville in northern Guinea. All the guide books said that it was only 50km from Mali to the border post at Segou, and Kedougou was 12k farther along the road. It's possible to hike in 6 to 12 hours, say the guidebooks. All downhill, with shortcuts through the bush and amazing scenery, as if any of these writers had done such a thing. But, exhausted by two weeks of hiking, I got it into my head that this would be a good idea.

I was wrong.

I stopped off in Labé, Guinea to get some supplies and have a rest before I attempted an all-day hike in the middle of hot season. (See any problems with this idea yet?) It was here that I bought the pith helmet, but the shape of the hat, which I found in both Guinea and Guinea-Bissau, didn't really sink in until I was well on my way into Senegal.

The story is this. I hiked about 30k down from Mali through some amazing scenery. The weather wasn't bad, rather cool because of the elevation, and at the end of the dry season, the trees had lost their foliage, making the trip a bit eerie in the ashey haze from the harmattan winds. The beginning of the hike was like a nice, autumn day. But after 30k, things began to unravel. I came off the mountain onto a middle plateau, and the heat and the sun really started to pick up. I'd seen no one for a few hours of this trip, and around about 1:30 in the afternoon, a guy on a motorbike drove by and stopped. "Where ya goin?" Senegal! "Oh, you've missed your road. You can still get there on this road, but it's another 30k." Well...damn. "Jump on, I'll give you a lift...idiot (which is what he must have been thinking at the time)."

It was a good thing I got a ride, because another 30k of hard hiking lay ahead of me, and I did not have the resources to complete the hike. When we got to Loungha, the Guinean border post, he said that he had some stuff coming along in a camion (a huge truck) and that I could catch a ride all the way to Kedougou with them when they came through. Now to explain things a bit, the road from Mali to Kedougou is barely even a road. It comes off the highest part of the Fouta Djalon plateau and is a twisted mess of unpaved, rocky, on-in-four grade track. This guy had done it on a motorcycle, and the 50k had taken him about 5 hours. It was even worse in a truck.

So I waited around this border town until 4:30 in the afternoon. Just when I thought I'd had enough and it was better to spend a little money on a moto into Senegal, I heard the roar of a big truck. Here was my camion. After about two hours in customs (i.e. bribe negotiation) we were on our way. Since I didn't have any money to pay these guys, I was in the back of the camion, which is kind of like a dump-truck when you get right down to it. There was a car seat back there crunched in between two enormous truck axles. Looking at these, I could only help thinking, "If this truck flips...I really have no escape plan," but, I settled in, my head and shoulders just peeking out from the lip of the truck bed and off we went. As we drove away from the border post, waving to the customs officials, I realized what a sight I must have looked. Here I am, dirty, sweat-streaked, in torn clothes (all my clothes are torn now, the shirt and pants I was wearing have each been patched about six times), sitting in the back of a camion like I'm Teddy Roosevelt on my way to the inaugural ball. But, like any good fool, I was smiling, ragged, and looked a mockery of any kind of civility. At that moment, I felt as if the only thing I needed was for Jambe to bring my hammock and my pink gin sundowner. My pith helmet is made of grass. My clothes, patched with bright African pagne fabric are a laughable embarrassment that will be completely replaced when I reach Dakar. My hair has gotten long after four months traveling, and like my first year in Niger, it's become rather sun-bleached. Charlie Chaplin could not have conceived a more ridiculous scene. Arriving in Kedougou, tired, hungry, dehydrated, beat up, and sore, I couldn't help thinking how appropriate it was that I entered Senegal, the last leg of my trip in sub-Saharan Africa, totally wrecked by four months on the road, but grinning like a happy fool nonetheless.

Okay, now for a funny one.

I visited Dalaba, Guinea last week, one of the smaller cities in the Fouta Djalon region. The Fouta is an area in West Africa unique to Guinea. The high plateau is called Le Chateau de l'Afrique Occidental because most of the area's major river systems (including the Senegal, the Gambia, and some tributaries of the Niger) are sourced in these highlands. It's an area that can boast some of the best hiking in West Africa plus the unique culture of the Fulan people, who dominate this area and are almost single-handedly responsible for the Islamic faith in the region. It's become sort of a recipe for my favorite places to travel: combine awesome scenery with a unique culture and I'm there. So far I've found it in Boukoumbé, Benin with the Somba people and in Dogon Country, Mali. Now I have the Fouta Djalon in Guinea to add to that list. Next up? I could only hope for Niger's Aïr Mountains or the Andes' Incan ruins.

But for now I'll focus on the Fouta. I went to Dalaba for the hiking, but also for the climate and the colonial architecture. Dalaba sits high up on the plateau, making the days hot, but dry and the nights cool, even bordering on cold, a rarity here outside the desert regions. As a result, Dalaba became a sort of rejuvenation center for the French colonials during their time here. Unfortunately, the only colonial architecture left behind is the old governor's mansion, the Sili Villa. Luckily for me (and you), I got a guided tour of the colonial mansion and can share that experience here.

I'd had this kind of thing happen before, in Sassandra, Côté d'Ivoire, and, more memorably, in Klouto, Benin. You wander up a disused paved road (the only one nearby) to discover a mansion, completely uninhabited, with one old man sitting outside as guard or caretaker. For a small "fee" (negotiable, but usually around a couple bucks) he'll give you the history of the house and a grand tour around the interior. The history usually goes something like this: The house was built around the turn of the century by the French governor (or bought by said governor from some citizen who decided he'd had enough and was returning to France). After independence, the state took over the mansion from an indifferent civil servant ("Fine, go. We never wanted you as a colony anyway."), and turned it into a retreat for a corrupt president and his cronies (or in Guinea's case, a corrupt, paranoid president and his equally corrupt, terrified cronies). The house gets used for various autocratic excesses and bacchanals until the people decide they've had enough and there's a coup.

By now, the new corrupt government wishes to distance itself from the past corrupt government and it rightfully distances itself from Presidential playhouses. At least in one's own country. It's the 80s now, and wireless transfers make it so much easier to funnel money out of the country and into a Swiss bank account. So the state-owned villa is allowed to go to seed. Anyway, why would you want a villa in your own country when, with all that stolen money, you can have several in France?

So now the house sits abandoned by all save one guard (I think to be conidered a caretaker the property must have some kind of value of which to take care) in the employ of, presumably, the state. He sits, day in, day out with not much to do except stare at the marble statue of a horse. So when a white guy with a couple bucks comes along, he jumps at the chance to play tour guide.

"This is a colonial bedroom, where the governor had his bed. Take a picture."

Where's the bed now?

"Oh, someone probably used it for firewood. Take a picture of where it used to be. For a souvenir."

This guy was particularly enthusiastic that I take pictures of everything. "This is a colonial bathtub."

It's made of cement.

"I know. That's colonial cement. This is a lightbulb. A colonial lightbulb. Take a picture. And over here is the colonial sink. And here, the colonial toilet."

And is that a colonial turd floating in the bowl?

"Yes... Take a picture!"

Overall the houses are delapidated shells just waiting for some enterprising individual to rehabilitate them as a hotel or private residence. But for now, they'll just continue to sit in their decay, year after year, with a little old man watching over as it slowly crumbles into dust.

"But colonial dust."

Take a picture.

It's been about one week since I left Sierra Leone. More than any other country so far, I've gotta say, that place has everything. It's the only country I've been to that combines jungle, beaches, mountains, and savannah in equally beautiful measures. Hell, even the mountains combine jungle and savannah, and Freetown Peninsula has lush green hills for hiking if you want to escape from the beach for a while. The country's a tourist gold mine just waiting for people to come back and discover it. Sierra Leone is safe now. The war is over. Valentine Strasser spends most of his time in the Stop Press cafe, sitting in a corner by himself, remembering his former glory as the youngest world leader of his generation. (Look him up; it's good for you.)

However, even with all that the country has to offer, I ended three weeks with the uncontrollable urge to get out. Why? Chalk it up to some pretty minor setbacks worsened by an existential mid-trip crisis. I tried to hike Mount Bintumani, one of West Africa's highest mountains, and failed for reasons so stupid I won't bother to mention them here. Nevertheless, the failure was palpable, and I've now sworn to return to Sierra Leone some day and rectify my mistake. Vengeance will be mine (channeling Skeletor there).

Failure's always a bit of a bitch, but it has the uncanny ability to teach you things about yourself. For me, the failure of Bintumani was aggravated by an inability to cross into Guinea. For three days I tried to arrange something, but all my attempts kept falling through from Kabala, Sierra Leone to Faranah, Guinea. Eventually, I went back to Kamakwie, where I'd met some awesome French NGO workers who put me up for the night and sent me on my way the next morning. But I couldn't shake this sense of defeat. That is, until I got to Guinea, found a night bush taxi (which I ordinarily avoid like the speed-freak death-traps they are), which raced through the darkness from Kindia to Mamou at about 100 km/hr on the roller coaster roads of the Fouta Djalon. Sometimes you just need to run, and this was one of those times. It didn't hurt that I had Rage Against the Machine blasting in my ears, steadily by my side the whole way.

But back to this malaisem, this existential crisis. What caused it? I think I have to blame the amount of amazing people I met in Sierra Leone and Liberia. That sounds absurd, but hear me out. After 12 weeks on the road, and more than two years in Africa, I felt like I'd lost all sense of self. I have not been home since I left Indiana on January 7, 2008. In my time in Niger, I had no neighbors, which allowed me to really claim my village and my region as my own. However, I left that on September 7, 2009 and only had one week back to say goodbye. That was a pretty traumatic experience already well documented on this blog, so I'll save you any further trauma reliving it.

In Burkina and Mali, where there's a strong Peace Corps presence, I couldn't feel this loss as acutely as I did later, specifically in the last few weeks. In Liberia, I began to meet and spend long periods of time with new and interesting people. NGO workers, ex-pats, Peace Corps Response Volunteers. After being solitary for so long (throughout most of Côté d'Ivoire), it was nice to be able to share stories and build new relationships. However, the life of a traveler is transitory, and after a few days, I move on, unsure if I will ever see this or that person ever again. Of course, you exchange email addresses and hopes, but the reality is you never know.

So it was with Liberia, so it was with Sierra Leone, so it will be with everywhere I go. I met some awesome people, but slowly, they had to leave, and I had to move on. I think all of this meeting and parting came to a head my final week in Sierra Leone, when fatigue and several setbacks all seemed to jump me at once. I realized that I've been away from home a very long time. I haven't seen anyone from my past life in America in over two years. That was alright as long as I could build a new life in Niger, find new supports. However, I left that behind over three months ago, and now, now I'm doubly removed from any kind of past life. It's difficult to determine where you are without anyone who knows you. And when all your new relationships have to, by nature, end, it's difficult to find continuity.

Sometimes though, all you need is a light heart and some Rage (Against the Machine). I threw off my doubts and my losses with the realization that I'm doing something amazing. That's not to boast or appear proud. I'm just continually confronted by new cultures, new landscapes, awesome people, and challenging situations. And I realized I was complaining about that! It's difficult to continually meet and leave people and places that you're falling in love with, but we always carry these experiences with us, and if we leave parts of ourselves with others, it only means we have more reason to carry us back.

I don't really know the point of this blog. Only that it needed to be written to demonstrate that it's not all candy and rainbows on the road in West Africa. I've been very lucky so far (Ivory Coast excluded), and running through the cool, Guinean night with the Bulls on Parade, I realized how amazing life is, and how much living there is left to do.

This entry will have almost nothing to do with Freetown, but I liked the title. Deal with it. While I haven't been rockin' the city, I have had an amazing time traveling around provincial Sierra Leone and visiting the variety of landscapes it offers.

I started down south near Sulima, on the coast, about as Liberian a city as you can get in Sierra Leone. It's one of those places I went to because it was out of the way, only to discover that there was very little I could actually do there. I wanted to sleep on the beach and just enjoy the ocean. The village chief didn't have any problems with it. Neither did the police or a village council. However, once the Navy got involved, my plans were quickly derailed. I ended up hanging out with Staff Sergeant Davis for the night and left early the next morning. No worries, for those who fear my current legal status after Côté d'Ivoire, they just told me it was too dangerous to sleep on the beach, and I ended up just hanging out with the Navy guys, listening to stories about the war. Not exactly a cheery subject, but of all the ways to understand a country, war stories are the some of the most interesting in a country like Sierra Leone.

The next morning, I jetted out of Sulima on a motorbike early enough to get the first bush taxi to Poturu, the jumping off point for Tiwai Island. Tiwai Island is a 12 square kilometer island in the middle of the Moa River, which flows through the Gola National Wildlife Reserve. The area is some of the most pristine in the Lower Guinea Rainforest, which stretches through Sierra Leone, Liberia, Côté d'Ivoire, and Ghana. Here, however, is one of the densest concentrations of primates in the entire region, eleven different species including the endangered diana monkey and red colobus. The island also hosts the very rare pygmy hippo, of which there are less than 2000 left in the wild. However, they're very shy, so our chances of seeing them were slim. But then we did! Ha, nope, they were just rocks. They didn't even look all that much like hippos.

I spent a bit more time than I'd originally planned in Tiwai in part because the jungle is just so beautiful: towering cotton trees with buttress roots you literally have to climb over, the gentle night noises which lull you to sleep, and some great swimming in the river (if the oyster shells imbedded in the rock don't tear you to shreds). But I also met some other white people! This was a real shock, as I hadn't really seen all that many who were traveling since I was in Mali, over a month ago. I stayed an extra night to hang out with my new friends and before I knew it I was pulled along for the beaches on Freetown Peninsula.

Now, if you've been a longtime reader (and why would you be, this is a pretty shoddy operation I'm running here), you may remember me gushing about the beaches of Busua/Dixcove. The best beaches I'd ever been to. Well no more. I've found a beach which knocks any Ghanaian beach out of the water. Freetown Peninsula has 40km of pristine beaches. Pristine mostly because of a war, but who's keeping score there? The beaches stretch the entire length of the peninsula, which is itself dominated by a mountainous green landscape. Because there are so few tourists in Sierra Leone (the war's over, I swear!), it's easy to have a beach entirely to yourself, which is exactly what we had at Bureh Beach. I could go on and on describing this paradise to those of you who are suffering in winter right now, but I'll break it down like this: fine ochre sand backed by green mountains, falling into a beautiful turquoise sea. Maroon Island, which is just a tiny little thing, is a fifteen minute swim from shore and seems to perfectly complete the image of an island paradise as an aesthetic point to the curve of the bay.

Did I mention that the only food you can get on the beaches is lobster and barracuda? Often I've faced the dilemma: Do I really want to have sweet, succulent lobster for the third time in two days? Wait, being from Indiana, I've never faced that dilemma. But I had no problem answering with an ecstatic YES.

See, now the problem with this description is that I keep wanting to say, "But the best thing was..." as if there is any one thing that could be described as "the best" in Paradise. Like there's one thing better than all the rest. However, my favorite thing I feel as if I have to describe in detail here. At night, after the moon had set, which was around midnight this night, if you braved the cold air and swam out past the breakers, you were rewarded not only by the warm water but by thousands of tiny lights which sparked with every movement you made. The scientific explanation came from one of my fellow travelers, Dave. The spot is a breeding ground for a specific species of zooplankton, which lights up as a defense mechanism when it senses another body in the water. Whatever. The explanation is fascinating, but only secondary to the wonder of thousands of tiny blue-green lights, like the stars reflected in the ocean, swarming over your entire body. Whenever we thrashed, it sparked a reaction among the plankon like a pale green aura that encompassed you like a sea spirit. As we marveled at the sight, one of the guys shouted over the roar of the surf, "I'm 30, and I feel like a kid! This is amazing!" It really was, like nothing I'd ever seen before. Exhausted after 30 minutes of swimming and trying to take in this unique experience, we returned to the shore and curled up on blankets around the fire, only a thin layer of cloth between us and the sand, nothing between us and the stars.

I'll leave it at that. My love song for Sierra Leone beaches. Tomorrow I head up to Outamba-Kilimi National Park, hopefully for some close encounters with the animal kind: hippos, elephants, leopards, etc. Don't know what we'll find, but I'll definitely write more soon.

frI'm a week deep in Sierra Leone, so this should probably be the last post I make about Liberia. I can't help that the country has a bit of a hold on me, and eventhough I am loving Sierra Leone, I have to give a farewell entry to Liberia after nearly two weeks away from the Internet.

Liberia made its impression on me in a number of ways. It's essentially a land defined by destructions. Liberians are rebuilding everywhere, so you could say it's also a place defined by reconstruction, but signs of the war are everywhere. There are a few, new cement houses, but the majority of people in Tubmanburg and Robertsport, towns very close to Monrovia, are still living in shacks pieced together from corrugated zinc, iron sand tracks, and palm leaf. Those without that, and there are many, just squat in ruined, pre-war skeleton houses. Those ruined shells without squatters are overrun with vegetation. The jungle is slowly retaking what it lost when civilization conquered nature.

In some of these places, the land has grown up too thick for much exploration, all but obscuring concrete walls and twisted rebar. Other places, however, for one reason or another stand out as broken shells, ghosts of a fabled past. I've explored a variety of these, mostly small churches and one-story houses, but perhaps one of the best I've found is in Robertsport: St. Bethany's Girls' School, the jewel of ruined beauty in provincial Liberia.

The school is a massive boarding house set on a steep hill overlooking all of Robertsport and Lake Piso. For those of you who are curious, Robertsport was once a gem of West African beach life, boasting some of the best surfing and the most pristine beaches in the area. I was awestruck by the school when I saw it from the town's mayor's office and knew I had to explore. The staircase up the hill is cracked and missing completely. I had to scramble over the broken masonry to get up to the main building, only to realize the grand hall's floorboards were pulled up long ago, leaving only the supporting beams. These were still solid enough to provide access to the rest of the classrooms, cafeteria, and dorm rooms. I spent a good hour up there photographing the building and longing for a camera with a better lens and more shooting options, but as it was, my time spent in this ruin really brought home how much Liberia (at least the Americo-Liberians) had before civil war tore the country apart.

The people of Liberia are defined in large part by this war, and how could they not be when they're still surrounded by its aftermath? Many people's lives were completely disrupted for years at a time as they moved from place to place without a home, escaping the destruction. I think of my own life: twenty-three years living in a developed country where the worst violence I ever experienced was the occasional beating in junior high. How would I have survived fighting which started when I was six years old and lasted until I was twenty? All those years, I was at school in Carroll County, Indiana. One school, one home, and the occasional spring break trip to Georgia. What would I have had after fourteen years knowing nothing other than violence and fear?

The short answer is that I would have had nothing. No education, no health care, certainly very little food and even less by the way of a normal life. But if living and working in Niger for two years has taught me anything, it's how remarkably resistent people are. This isn't to say that there's nothing wrong with being exposed to the occasional horror like that of Liberia's civil war; no one should have to experience something like that. But we do have to admire and respect those who have come through such an evil time and not let it destroy their future. Because above all, Liberians seem to be defined by their resiliency and their hope/faith in the face of the great challenges they've been through.

This hope is, in the end, what defines Liberia for me. There are probably some who live or work there who may disagree, but this is what I've taken away from that country. I guess if you can survive something so terrible, you can survive nearly anything. Entire communities were thrown like chaff to the wind, displaced by violence and a fight that wasn't theirs. They ended up as refugees in Sierra Leone, Guinea, Ivory Coast, even as far as Ghana and the United States. Slowly, they've made their way back and are looking for those places torn from them by war.

On my last night in Liberia, in Robertsport, I met one of these amazing young people who will be the standard bearers for the future. I wish I could remember her name, because I was so taken by her drive and determination. She was one of those who at 17 has already done more and been through more than I may ever do. At 25, I felt a bit like I'd wasted most of my life. She was taken out of a refugee camp in Ghana at the age of four, and now, at 17, she seems to have all the resources and the will to do great things. She wants to be a fashion designer, to start the first teen magazine for girls in Liberia as a way to promote women's empowerment. Most young girls don't have access to any kind of magazine meant specifically for them. One may ask, "How does this help a young girl who may worry about ten thousand other issues the average Liberian confronts everyday?" Well, I think that anything that can lift up a young girl and make her feel pride in her people and herself can't be all bad. It sounds like an interesting project, one among many ideas this girl wants to put into practice.She, and others like her, are the future of Liberia, of Africa, and, quite possibly, of the world.

I've been in Monrovia, Liberia for about a week now, and I've done almost nothing. Oh true, I did spend four days milling about the Sierra Leone embassy trying to get a visa (it's amazing how quickly they'll process the paperwork after you fall asleep on the consul's couch waiting for a freakin' signature) and wrestling with ATMs (when only one bank controls all the cash machines in the city, the inefficiencies of West Africa become very apparent). I probably walked five miles a day trying to find a working machine while on a treasure hunt for the legendary Leonean visa.

Basically, Monrovia has been one big pit stop after eight weeks on the road. Now most would stop here and say, "Really Sterling? You chose a city that less than a decade ago was only somewhat controlled by Charles Taylor and a cavalcade of competing warlords?" Well, it's true. Monrovia has seen better days. At one point in time, Liberia was one of Africa's brightest stars. It was stable, with a strong, commodities-based economy, and an educated elite. However, that educated elite, almost all descended from American slaves repatriated to Africa, controlled all facets of life in the country. The great majority of indigenous people lived in grinding poverty. However, that all changed when one plucky young army officer named Samuel Doe decided to speak up for indigenous rights...by slaughtering most of the landed elites in government and installing himself as President. Gotta love the underdog.

The only problem with getting rid of everyone who knows how to run a country is...well...there's no one left to run the country! Doe tried to steer the ship of state for a while, not too effectively, and, before long, the country descended into a brutal 14-year civil war. Talk about landing on the rocks. And thus, Liberia became known to the rest of the world as "that jungle place in Africa where they're all killing eachother." Congo? "No, not that one." Angola? "No..." Libya? "Ya, something like that."

But the civil war ended over five years ago. Charles Taylor is being tried for war crimes in the Hague. One of the largest UN contingents ever deployed still has boots on the ground; the country's safe, secure, full of happy smiling people! Actually, dark humor aside, Liberia is probably one of the most refreshing countries I've visited in West Africa. Sure, Monrovia is in ruins, but they're rebuilding. There's a massive UN presence all throughout the country. There are more Bangladeshis and Nigerians here than in some parts of Nigeria and Bangladesh (especially in the unpopulated parts of those countries). Every car on the street seems to be driven by an aid or development organization. The major influx of capital in the form of volunteers, development workers, drivers, cars, and money has pushed prices sky-high for foreigners, as most of the secure hotels and restaurants cater exclusively to outsiders and wealthy Liberians. Americo-Liberians who fled during the conflict, however, are returning and bringing a lot of their own wealth back with them.

One can only hope that with the influx of services catering to a wealthier clientele (you wouldn't think development and UN personnel would rank among the wealthiest people in a country would you? Try coming to Africa sometime) that basic services will return to average Liberians. The money doesn't look like it stands much chance of trickling down, but promising signs can be seen in new roads and renovations to buildings that are nothing more than a burnt out shell after 14 years of fighting.

Walking through Monrovia, it's impossible not to notice these hulking monstrosities all over the city: collapsed cement housing, broken high-rises, and once elegant, beach-side homes torn by bullet-holes and neglect. The most impressive of these former glories is the old Ducor Hotel. At it's height in the 70s, it was a five-star hotel, catering to dignitaries both famous and infamous, including Sekou Toure and Idi Amin. From it's perch on Mamba Point, it overlooks the Atlantic on three sides with a view encompassing all of Monrovia on the fourth. It was, in its hey-day, the shining achievement of unadulterated excess and one of Africa's best hotels. But then the war came. So it goes. When it ended and the new owners (a Libyan conglomerate which has bought up and renovated some of the best hotels in West Africa) cleared the building, they threw out over 350 families who were squatting in the ravaged wreck. I don't know where those families went, but it's most likely they took up residence in some other abandoned building in Monrovia (there are plenty to choose from) or moved down into the slums along the beach. As opposed to the rest of the world, beach front property in Monrovia is a poor man's domain. The wealthy tend to stay at home behind their ten foot-high concrete walls and concertina wire.

One would think that the poverty, inequalities, and wreckage would overwhelm the population, but I've found Liberians to be the most hopeful people I've yet encountered in West Africa. They elected Africa's first woman president four years ago, and most still stand behind her. The legacy of corruption and graft in the country is hard to overcome, but she's trying. The refrain among all the people I've met is that they were just tired of fighting. After 14 years, there were many who knew nothing other than violence. They just wanted it to end. Even now, with all the problems, the average Liberian seems reticent to complain, the ghosts of the past still too near. As a result, they're remarkably hopeful. Whereas many in Niger didn't have much faith in the democratic process, here they're looking to America and putting their faith in the ability to overcome their own history.

One of the other remarks I've heard again and again is that I'm the only independent traveler anyone has met in Liberia. Everyone asks what my "mission" here is. Am I a Volunteer? Aid worker? Development professional? UN worker? Liberians and expats, the Lebanese community and every other white person I've met: all are amazed that I decided to come here and see this country. Why do you travel? To see new places, meet new people, and then take back those experiences to the US. And then, when you get back, you'll write a book about our country. Well maybe, but that's too far in the future to tell. For right now, I'm just keeping a blog.

And then the most important, most vital thought I've heard from more than one Liberian on more than one occasion: And you'll be able to tell people that they should come back to Liberia. That we need them. We're a safe country now. We're stable. We're trying to recover and we need people to visit. We need people to see us as more than a war, as more than refugees and amputees. We need people to see us as human again.

I only hope this helps.

This is taken directly from my journal 30 January 2010. My exit from Côté d'Ivoire turned out to be even more interesting than my near arrest in Bouaké. For those of you who think I'm an idiot for even considering traveling in countries who've all been through major conflict in the past decade, I'd advise continuing no further.

Last night, I totally got hooked up while at dinner in Man. I'd finished writing for the day, had finished eating, was exhausted beyond all belief from an all-day hike and was waiting for my check when in walk two Germans, a married couple, who spoke good English but barely any French. What shock! The first tourists I'd seen in over a week. So I introduced myself, blah blah, from America, blah blah, first travelers I've seen since I left Yamoussoukro, blah blah, so where are you going? Well my husband here is working with the embassy in Monrovia, so we decided to fly to Accra, rent a car, and drive overland to Liberia. Have you been in Man long? Oh no, we're leaving tomorrow, just here for the night. Ya, I'm going to Liberia tomorrow as well, but I'll probably be jumping bush taxis with a prayer in my heart for easy transport. Well there's room in our car if you'd like to go along. I couldn't believe my luck.

Knut and Bianka have lived the past ten years in Kenya. She's a doctor; he's an electrical engineer. They never planned to end up in Kenya, but on a trans-African road trip, they just fell in love with it and never left. They regaled me with stories of sailing around the world (Knut had his own boat and took tourists to all ports of call in all the far-flung seas and oceans.) It's actually where they met and fell in love. Knut now tends to travel on land, working with German embassy projects all over Africa, and Bianka's work takes her to the refugee camps and the like all over Kenya. Needless to say, I was fascinated with these tales of adventure from seasoned travelers and felt amazed that they'd be at all curious about my adventure. I guess hoofing it around West Africa by oneself can seem pretty interesting to other wanderers as well.

Taking a ride from Knut and Bianka would turn out to be one of the best decisions I have yet made on this trip. The road from Man to Danané is paved the entire way and really rather nice. We left around 8 am and were at the gendarme's post by ten. They told us in town that we had to get our passports stamped in Danané because there was no passport control at the border. It quickly became apparent that the commandant had never done this kind of thing before as he had to be instructed by a junior officer. After he had stamped two of the passports, Knut's and mine, he said that we had to pay a little something. I objected saying it was "obligatoire," at which he took some offense, refusing to stamp the final passport. I suggested to Knut and Bianka that we just leave, as there had to be something near the border if he didn't know the procedure for exiting the country. As I got up to leave, he lectured me on how he was doing us a favor (instead of his actual job), and called me a "bad boy" for leaving Bianka behind without a stamp. He took care of her passport, and continued to call me a "bad boy." I couldn't tell if he was joking.

If I hadn't gotten a ride with Bianka and Knut, I don't know if I'd be in Liberia today. I think it would have been nearly impossible to get a car in Danané, where the road basically ends. Despite this being the main road from Côté d'Ivoire into Liberia, these border posts only see a few people a year and probably no Westerners for months at a time. The entry book was pitifully empty at the first control point, which we thought was the border, where we were asked to pay 5000 cfa (about $10). I don't know why I thought this was legit, but I did it, assured that we would have to pay nothing else the rest of the way to the border. At the second stop, a mere 12km down the road, we were told we had to pay again. "Because this is a different post. You paid at that post, but that isn't this post, and you have to pay to cross." We didn't pay that time through, as we'd forgotten the car papers, and had to return to Danané, a full hour's lost time on the shoddy, unpaved road. We picked up the papers from the commandant (who pointed at me from across the yard and shouted "BAD BOY!") and again started for the border, bouncing over crater-like potholes, fording giant puddles, and teetering along crevices carved by the rain. I don't know how I fell asleep on the way back to the border, but I somehow slept through about three more border posts, where uniformed men demanded 5000 cfa at each site. Knut and Bianka, though, are old hands at handling African corruption, and we didn't pay a dime. After another 45 minutes, I awoke just in time for the complete clusterf*** at the bridge.

The bridge spanned a small creek separating Côté d'Ivoire from Liberia. It was the final Ivorian checkpoint and probably the only official one of the whole 30km to the border. Knut went through the whole rigamarole of passing the barrier while Bianka and I waited. Of course they wanted more money, but back we went to the car. There was only one soldier at the control, only one man in any kind of uniform, and when he called to the guy Knut had been talking to, "Is everything okay? No, they didn't pay, it's not okay." I just figured we'd play the waiting game or at least negotiate the price somewhat. I was wrong.

As soon as we were in the car, Knut blasted through an opening in the peage. Some of the guys who would come to cause the greatest problems tried to stop him by running in front of the car. I'm not entirely sure he wouldn't have run them down if they hadn't gotten out of the way. The soldier, shouldering his kalishnikov, tried to block the car with a bench, which Knut quickly drove around. This was kind of funny, but I could never shake the thought that there was one guy with a gun involved, and I made sure I never took my eyes off him. Knut, meanwhile, ignoring shouts for us to stop, blasted it for the frontier. We made it as far as the bridge across the creek. So close to our goal, but we were blocked by a big truck and a tire blockade.

That's when all hell broke loose. Knut got out of the car to move the tire as I looked back to see about half a dozen guys, including the soldier, still with the kalishnikov, running after us. They caught up while we were at the blockade. Shouting ensued. One guy stood on top of the tire Knut was moving, and Knut, being a 6'5", heavily-built German, continued to move the tire with the other guy on it. He took a swing at Knut and I thought shit was really going to go down, but Knut didn't retaliate. He just moved the tire and drove on to the bridge, where we were stopped by the soldier and his friends, who were in the process of barricading this plank bridge, no wider than the car, with branches and a log stuck upright between the slats like a pylon. This started another fight about the bridge toll, etc when I noticed a guy letting the air out of the back left tire. I moved toward him, he ran around the back of the car, and I grabbed him on the other side. I wasn't afraid he would take a swing at me, I was more afraid of what would happen if he tried.

All this time, the soldier is looking more and more nervous, like he's gotten himself in over his head. And that's something you never want: a nervous guy holding an automatic rifle. Let me just repeat that for emphasis: YOU NEVER WANT A TWITCHY GUY HOLDING THE ONLY KALISHNIKOV. I got into an argument with a guy who was claiming racism, that we thought we didn't have to respect the law because we were white thought of them as stupid, black men. If there's one thing I hate, it's this argument: that because I'm white and he's black, I'm trying to get one over on him, when the reality is this: he and his friends are assholes, and we were tired of all the graft. More yelling. They've now changed tack from bridge toll to requiring a laissez-passez from the rebel commander. It's starting to sound desperate as none of these guys are in uniform, and the only one who is has disappeared. I walked back to the passport control to hash things out as the yelling has started to calm down. The bridge is broken, the commandant is on his way, you have to go around, the bridge has a toll that we have to pay, the story just keeps changing. I don't believe the commandant is on his way from Danané, as there's no one that would willingly make that trip for a reason as stupid as this. I walk back to the bridge and test it out with Knut. Looks safe to both of us. I walk up the bank to the Liberian side and ask a bystander if the bridge is safe. It is, we should just wait a bit until the truck blocking the bridge is fully loaded and out of the way. By the time I found my way back to the car, there was a woman mercilessly berating the punks who've blocked the bridge. If there's one thing I've learned in West Africa it's this: Fear the angry African woman. The "rebels" sheepishly take down the barrier under her watchful eyes and try to lecture Knut on respect, but he isn't listening. We cross the bridge into Liberia without paying a dime, glad to be out of Côté d'Ivoire and the worst border crossing ever.

I think there were two main reasons we were finally able to cross. The first was the involvement of a woman who obviously had a lot of influence in the community taking our case against some younger guys who make a lot of money exploiting those who move through this basically lawless land. The other factor? After over 30 minutes of arguing and near violence, I think these same punks realized that they might have pushed a little too hard against people who weren't going to be pushed around. When I walked over to the Liberian side, I didn't realize that I was steps away from a UN border post, with Bangladeshi blue helmets looking on from behind their razor-wired compound walls. I think they realized that if I took the time to strike up a conversation with any of the UN peacekeepers, the "rebels" would have had bigger problems to deal with. Once we got to the Liberian side, it was all smiles and sunshine. Though we still had a good ten hours to Monrovia, we were all glad to be out of rebel-held Côté d'Ivoire.

My final stop in Côté d'Ivoire, after the beautiful beaches near the Western city of San Pedro, was Man, once a tourist Mecca in Northern Côté d'Ivoire, now completely vacant except for the occasional adventurer like me. Man is the launching point for the fascinating villages in Yacouba (Dan) territory, an area known for it's masks, child juggling, and stilt dancing as well as beautiful mountain scenery and a climate quite a bit cooler than the rest of the country. However, during the crisis, Northern Côté d'Ivoire, especially around Man, suffered like nowhere else in the country. The guide books describe Man as one of the most beautiful inland Ivorian towns, and it would be if one were to look at it only in geographic terms. The city is known as The City of the Eighteen Mountains, and I'm sure that one hundred years ago, when Man was little more than a village surrounded by impressive forest-covered hills, it was one of the most beautiful places in this part of the world. However, illegal logging has devastated the surrounding hills, and the crisis has done much worse to the city of Man.

Man is, quite frankly, one of the dirtiest, most filthy, unattractive cities I've seen in West Africa. And that's saying a lot. I've traveled through cities in Niger, Burkina Faso, and Mali, Sahelian countries all with less money and resources for community clean-up and beautification than Man. At one point, tourist money poured in to this area. Now only ruins remain of the many banks, hotels, and restaurants that made Man a target for wealthy Europeans. The main market burned down before the crisis and wasn't ever rebuilt because of the fighting. Fabulous hotels like La Cascade are now dirty shells with a haunted feel, like a broken boom town remembering it's former inhabitants. The largest building in town, a former bank, has been stripped down to the foundations. The streets that are paved are cracked and broken. Those that aren't cover everything in town with a fine, red dust whenever a car passes. Unlike the rest of Côté d'Ivoire, including the northern, rebel-held city of Bouaké, Man has no one to clean the streets or muck out the sewer drains. Trash is everywhere, the sewage just sits in open-air troughs. The UN presence, visible everywhere in Côté d'Ivoire, is especially felt in the roaming Land Cruisers that seem to outnumber taxis.

But perhaps the worst hit are Man's residents. They seem in stasis. By now, I've become used to tourists cities like Djenné and Timbuktu, where children cry for pens and any guy on the street is a potential guide. These problems exist in Man as well, but they're further exasperated by the fact that you're the only target in town. I saw no other travelers in my three days there. The tour guides and hotels are desperate for any kind of business. It's definitely a buyer's market for the intrepid types who make it up that far. My guide, who wanted to take me to many places I couldn't afford told me that before the crisis, he used to be able to combine poor travelers like me with wealthier groups for trips to outlying villages to see mask ceremonies, ritual dances, and natural wonders like Mt. Tonkoui, the country's second highest mountain. With me, we walked out the five kilometers to the cascades, flowing lively with an out-of-season rain the night before and stopped on the way back by the sacred forest, where monkeys very accustomed to Europeans seem to melt out of the forest looking for food from excited tourists.

At the end of the short tour, we sat in the shade and he gave me the long and the short of Man's troubles. At the cascades, he'd pointed out the ruined buvette, looted during the war. The gazebos and picnic areas, popular with locals for a weekend getaway are rotting away after almost five years of neglect. The tourists haven't come back. The local people haven't had a reason to reinvest in their natural wonders. La Dent de Man, the sacred mountain, which was once a popular day hike is now so overgrown that the trail has closed in on itself. Nearby Danané's vine bridge is no longer there. I was one of only a handful of tourists he'd worked with in the past year. I decided to hike La Dent de Man the next day with some local kids. It was supposed to be a four-hour hike. It turned in to six hours of the hardest hiking I think I've ever done. The trail is now nothing more than a hunting path, and not even a very clear one at that. Two kids went with me because they needed one another to find the path. Along the way, I quizzed them about the amount of business they'd had recently. It used to be there'd be dozens and dozens of hikers in the high season because of it's close proximity to town. There were fifteen total this month (I didn't ask if that included me), which would have been a slow afternoon during this time of year before the fighting broke out.

Perhaps most interesting, and horrifying, for me were the stories of local people. Man experienced three major attacks during the crisis. The rebels attacked first. The local people, unsupportive of both government and rebels, fought back somewhat, but really stood little chance. When the government counterattacked a few months later, they took all the men who understood Mandé to a field for questioning. The Mandinka were supposed to be the leaders of the rebellion. This was told to me by my tour guide, Touré, who is a Dan but knows some Mandé. He came back. Others didn't. By the time the rebels attacked the city again, all utilities had been cut. I heard from more than one person how they hid under the beds at night and tried to fall asleep to the sounds of gunfire, mortars, and rocket attack.

My time in Man was spent with a Volunteer named Martin working with the UN mission for the upcoming elections, if they ever indeed come. He and his girlfriend Sarah gave me a lot of insight into the violence and its causes. It's the same as many other conflicts in Africa: populist leaders stirring up inter-ethnic disputes both among native Ivorians but especially focused on immigrants from neighboring Burkina Faso, Mali, and Guinea. Ancient land disputes never resolved. Neighboring political issues spilling over the border. Rebel militias never demobilized. Colonial ambitions that remain in place fifty years after independence. Unscrupulous Western gun-merchants quick to cash in on conflict. The list could go on and on.

But despite all the problems, it does appear that there's hope for Man. The UN has moved out of the local hotels and there are no longer blue helmets on the ground. While I was there, I noticed a new hotel going up, and one lone bank has a small office and ATM in town. The post office has been rebuilt, and with any luck, the villagers will start to rehabilitate their "traditional" villages. Man is showing signs of life, but, as with everywhere else in Côté d'Ivoire, it's waiting tentatively for new elections to bring a stable peace to the country. Much like other popular tourists destinations, Agadez in Niger or Timbuktu in Mali, the rebellion hasn't been good for the city. But, with any luck, peace will come soon and restore hope to Man.

Near arrests aside, Côté d'Ivoire has been a pretty crazy experience after traveling through the Sahel region for six weeks. Even more so than Benin, Togo, and Ghana, which if you've been following this blog for a while (and if you have, barka!), Côté d'Ivoire seems to be the promised land. Any kind of fruit you want, you can find it here, being sold on the street by crinkly old Ivorian ladies. The streets are paved and generally goat-free. And then there's Abidjan. If I thought Yamoussoukro was a beacon of development, I can only say that Abidjan put it to shame.

I originally had very little desire to visit Côté d'Ivoire. The country went through a political crisis only a few years ago and seems on the verge of another if elections don't work out. The northern half of the country was reportedly off-limits and, like Niger, the north is where all the cool stuff seemed to be. But I was drawn to the country by Ms. Emilie Ross, the Volunteer who opened Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger. I'd heard so much about her from my villagers that I felt I knew before I even met her. She's working in Abidjan for the moment, so it seemed pretty convenient to rendre a visit to see her and trade stories.

I wasn't ready for Abidjan. I can just say that outright. As I pulled into the Adjamé district, I thought it looked like every other capital city I'd been to in West Africa. That's because in Adjamé you can feel the crush of every other part of West Africa surging around you. It's where most of the immigrants live. People packed shoulder to shoulder, pressing through thronging masses swirling through the streets among animals, street vendors, and motos. The guy that picked me up, Charles, said that there were no Ivorians living in Adjamé. I don't know about that, but Adjamé is kind of unique in Abidjan, a little piece of Niamey, Bamako, or Ouagadougou thrown into the middle of a developed, cosmopolitan city.

After traveling throughout the Sahel, you can't help but be wowed by Abidjan. Coming across the lagoon, you get a look at Plateau, the business district, and you'd be forgiven if you thought you'd jumped through time and space to arrive in Miami in the late 70s. It seems seconds away from taking off and becoming a major player in the region. But then you realize that it already is a major player and has been for decades. Abidjan's high rises are unlike anything I've seen in the rest of Africa. The amount of money here from the port, the cocoa, the palm oil, lumber, rubber, etc probably surpasses all of Niger's GDP. This is definitely a city that, if I had the money, I could spend some time in. So many restaurants, hotels, clubs, shops. It's been called the Paris of West Africa, and I think this is appropriate. There's little African about large sections of the city. I felt my traveling wear and tear seeing men in tailored suits and women in nice Western-style outfits, hair in weaves or under stylish wigs, and "designer" handbags (most in West Africa are fake, but I'm sure there are plenty here that are real). Class is defined by whether you wear pagne fabric in the African style or if you ape Western culture and dress. I will be the first to admit that I looked lower class, but how else could I look after six weeks on the road?

But I didn't come to Abidjan to feel bad about my rugged, weathered exterior. I came to trade Tanka stories and that's what I did. Besides, my budget didn't work for a city like Abidjan. The cheapest, seediest hotels were outside my price range, and luckily I had a place to stay. Emilie was very open and friendly, but what struck me most about our time together was how unique our experiences were. Despite living in the same village for two years, we had different friends, different work, different lives. We served only a year apart from one another, but in that year, kids grew older, families moved in or out, children were born, older people died. My favorite kid in village, my little attakurmizo, was born while she served. His older brother Zedu was his carbon copy for her service. Children that she saw all the time weren't around much because they are now in school. And, of course, the biggest difference in predominately-Muslim Niger is our gender. Emilie spent most of her time with the women. I spent hardly any time with the women as it's just not done, and whereas a Western woman can break into men's circles, it's very very difficult for a man to do the same with women. If for no other reason than because they are always working. But despite our different experiences, we did have a mini-reunion with a villager who now lives in Côté d'Ivoire, bringing the experience full circle and reminding both of us of how great an impact Peace Corps has had on our lives.

This is taken directly from my journal, written 17 January 2010 at 6:40 pm. I'm going to rate this one PG-13 for most readers and for those of you in my immediate family...maybe it's just better not to read this one. You'll sleep better at night.

I've been in Côté d'Ivoire less than twelve hours, and I've already been threatened with jail time. Scariest fucking experience of the trip so far, although I was surprisingly calm throughout the whole thing. Nervous for sure, but not outright afraid that I would wind up in the military barracks being questioned in a language I don't have enough faculty in to make my case against espionage. Honestly, I was more worried about losing my camera for the rest of this trip.

So what did I do? I admit I stupidly took a picture of something I shouldn't have. It's too stupid to even mention what the object in question was. However, I'll put it out there anyway for entertainment's sake. As I was walking back from town (this is Bouaké, Côté d'Ivoire), the setting sun formed a perfect red orb just hanging low in the sky. A perfect picture for my first night in Côté d'Ivoire...a tranquil end to a tranquil day, this setting sun...right over the headquarters of the New Forces, the rebel army that controls all of Northern Côté d'Ivoire. Their capital is Bouaké. Fucking idiot. (The completely oblivious as to the GIANT F***ING SIGN type of idiot.) As I walked away, a civilian on a bike rode up and said, "The soldiers want to talk to you." I turned to see a heavily armed and armored man running toward me, and he was soon joined by two more, all equally pissed off. I, of course, immediately erased the pictures, but it didn't help my case that my dumb ass French kept telling these armed men, "I tried, I tried (essayer)," instead of "I erased, I erased (effacer)." Again...fucking idiot. We walked for about a block, them all the while yelling at me. We would stop, a civilian was trying to help my case by explaining that I had, indeed, erased the pictures. Walk another block...more yelling. It's not a film camera, it's digital. Walk another block...more yelling, it seems that it's really only one guy who's still pissed off. One seems on my side now, and the third's just indifferent. "If you want, I'll try the whole thing!" (Again, despite the fact that the civilian keeps saying effacer, I keep using essayer. At one point, I'm pretty sure the soldier who was on my side said that this proves I was just a dumbass.)

But, here I am now, none the worse for wear and a healthy lesson behind me for the rest of my time here. So much for Peace Corps no longer helping me out though. I'm convinced my crappy French and my Peace Corps-issued passport saved my ass. It's what convinced them that I was just a stupid tourist (which I am) instead of some savvy French intelligence worker. The entire day, I'd been thinking how lucky I was not to have had any major problems on the road. I only paid 600 cfa in "tolls" at the border and at the checkpoints near Bouaké. There was an attempted 1000 cfa charge at the border, but, in the end, it was actually kind of sad. The rebel troops, most didn't have boots or guns. Their camoflage looked like it had been bought in the local market. The kid, and I say kid because he was probably younger than me, originally told me to pay 2000 cfa (around $5). I told him I wouldn't pay it. His next offer was 1000 cfa. I again said I wouldn't pay it. My papers were in order, and there was no reason for me to pay any more than I'd already paid to get in to a country no one wants to go to. The passports were within reach of the window, and the kid didn't seem very sure of himself in the extortion department, so when he turned away, I just grabbed my passport and walked back to the bus. No problems. Maybe that was stupid, but it worked, and it got me away without having to participate in any kind of corruption.

I'm in Yamoussoukro now, and looking back, I can only think of Bouaké as a time bomb. If elections don't go through freely and fairly in the next couple months (they've already been pushed back twice), there's going to be all sorts of hell break loose. In Bouaké, it seemed as if there were soldiers everywhere. A lot of people near the New Forces barracks seemed on edge. It's easy to see why with so many guns all over the place. I met an Ivorian woman on the bus named Natalie. She is from Bouaké but studies in Ouagadougou. She said she loved to dance and go to the clubs (which always surprises me after two years in conservative Niger), and when I asked her about the clubs in Bouaké, she said she never goes. Not anymore. Not since the crisis; there are too many soldiers. And that's how they refer to the fighting that occurred a few years ago: as "the crisis."

Yamoussoukro feels as if it's a world away. Whereas Bouaké was marked by tension, I feel as if this city, the nation's political capital, is marked by absurdity. The streets are all about six lanes wide, with plenty of orange light bathing the pavement at night. This is one of the first African cities in which I've felt truly safe walking alone after dark. That's because it's actually a bit brighter than it is in the day. You can see down the street to the horizon in any direction. We may take street lighting for granted in America, but it's definitely not the same in Africa. This is one of the few cities I've been in with street lighting of any kind, and it's everywhere! But the funniest thing is, despite their absurd dimensions and development, no one's walking or driving these streets! It's as if you put Atlanta's interstate system smack dab in the middle of Flora, IN. (And if you're reading this and don't know where that is...that's kind of the point.)

That's the most obvious characteristic of this city actually: a complete disregard for sensible civic planning. The city's four major monuments: the Basilique de Notre Dame de la Paix, the Hotel President, the Maison de President, and the Fondation Houphouët-Boigny are, like the streets, absurdly immense with little to no human activity warranting their proportion. All four tower over the city. In fact, I've been using them as landmarks in my jaunts around town as they're so absurdly prominent on the skyline. The Basilica is a leviathan. It's the first thing you see upon entering the city from the North. I walked there (as I walk everywhere, in this case a big mistake as the buildings' immensity makes them look deceptively closer than they are) and chose the wrong gate. Instead of letting me cross the basilica grounds, I had to leave and walk around. A walk which took me 15 minutes!

The basilica is basically a carbon copy of St. Peter's in Rome, but built slightly lower at the Pope's request. However, the massive golden cross which tops the basilica, if added to the height, makes it the tallest church in Christendom. It seats 7000 people inside, with standing room for 11,000 and a courtyard that can hold 300,000. All in a country with a little over a million Catholics. But perhaps the most ridiculous aspect of the entire thing is that there is absolutely nothing African about it. It looks like something ripped from an Italian holy city and deposited in the middle of an Ivorian bog. Gorgeous marble though, and the most beautiful stained glass I've ever seen, which is saying something considering I've been through almost every Notre Dame in France. The guidebook says there are over 7400 square meters of stained glass in 5000 different shades of color. I don't even know how that is possible, but at sunset, with the colors spilling across the sanctuary floor like melted candy, I'd believe it.

I could go on with descriptions of the Presidential Hotel and the Fondation, but I think you get my point. In the end, Yamoussoukro's streets and monolithic buildings seem to stand for what a leader can do with nearly unlimited power and resources. Before 1950, Yamoussoukro was just a village, and in the course of his presidency, Felix Houphouët-Boigny built it into a marvel of Africa to glorify himself and his ancestors. It is, I assume, a source of great national pride, but I found myself asking, "How many Ivorians have actually seen the capital's splendor?" But I feel as if I can't be critical, because after two years in Africa (celebrated that anniversary just last week), I also have to ask, "Would the money have actually been better spent if it hadn't gone to buid this city that is basically a monument to one man?" At least Côté d'Ivoire has Yamoussoukro as a source of national pride. I doubt the same could be said for many other countries whose national wealth went right into their big bosses' bank accounts.

I've had some time on my hands in Ouagadougou (Burkina Faso), and I've spent most of it sleeping. I probably should be updating, telling stories of adventure in the desert, etc. But honestly, I've had to spend the last few days recuperating from all my adventures, and it's only now that I've gotten up the energy to write anything at all. You may think a Festival in the Desert is all fun and games, but it's seriously tiring. The artists played every night until about 4 in the morning. It'd be a stamina contest even without the freezing desert nights and days which felt as if you'd taken up residence in a brick oven. Unless you had a hotel room somewhere in the city (which I didn't), it was pretty difficult to get more than two or three hours sleep a night.

I'll take this as a side note: Timbuktu proved to me that I'm still not ready to return to America until they've officially outlawed winter. I kept trying to see my breath, swearing up and down in the sleep-deprived 3am jam sessions that it had to be below freezing. It wasn't. At the worst of my cold-addled dementia, I called my dad and said, "It's SO cold here!" "...We're getting six to eight inches of snow tonight." "Fine, you win. I'm never coming home."

I've gotten only jealousy from fellow Volunteers after telling them I just came back from the Festival. As Peace Corps Volunteers, we're treated the same as embassy workers, which means if they State Department puts out an alert or a warning, as in the case of Timbuktu and specifically the Festival, we're not allowed to go. However, thanks to the terrorists (jerks) I ended my service early and didn't have any restrictions. Hell, I could've even driven a moto up there (we're not allowed on motos in Peace Corps). So...sometimes every bastard terrorist provides a silver lining, which he then promptly kidnaps and holds for ransom (jerk).

The questions I've been getting? "Was it expensive?" So expensive...but so worth it. No more expensive than a festival in the U.S. or Europe, but such a unique experience. "Who was your favorite?" That's an impossible question to answer, if in part just because there was no schedule for who was playing when, and it was kind of hard to know who was who unless you had a real background in West African music. Which I don't. In fact, I would have to admit that I could never work for Rolling Stone. I don't pretend to know a lot about music. I get most of my music through word of mouth and Internet radio stations, so I can't really speak to melodies, harmonies, movements, modes, etc. I didn't even know who Tinariwin was before I went to this concert (I do now, and they're awesome!). But that's why you go to something like this right? If I weren't already in West Africa at the right time and within spitting distance of the right place, I probably wouldn't have gone, but things just worked out right. And it's an experience, am I right? Very few other people in the world can say they've been to a desert music festival and seen some of the greatest musicians of one of the most vibrant music scenes in all of Africa all in one place.

So who did I like? Who should you check out? Well the aforementioned Tinariwin was a treat. They're kind of the reason the whole festival actually exists. Their music was the voice of an entire people. Resistance music the likes of which the 60s couldn't have imagined. They were actually banned at one time by the Malian government, but their sound still traveled the country on bootleg cassettes. They played the first night of the concert, when it seemed like the entire city of Timbuktu had snuck in to the concert. That was the best part about that first night. The music, no matter how good it was, took a backseat to watching Tuareg and Songhaï, Fula and Bella rock out to an iconic national group. Vieux Farka Touré was particularly great in a tribute to his father, the late Ali Farka Touré, who died back in 2006. Amadou and Mariam, who began to hit it big on the hipster scene in America a few years ago, rocked out in the final jam session of the third night to wild applause. But perhaps my favorite, a Niger staple, was Mamar Kassey, a jazz/pop group whose music I'd always heard in Niger and never liked. It's because, like Tinariwin, all the cassettes I'd ever heard were on their fourth trip through the piracy chain and usually played full blast through crappy Chinese speakers that had survived God only knows what natural disaster to end up in the desert, filled with sand and shattered dreams (or something like that). I had to give props to Mamer Kassey, if for no other reason than because they're from Niger, but also because they rocked it out. It's hard to jam on a flute! It also helped a bit that they were the only band that played anything I'd ever heard before that night. Are you looking these people up? Seriously now, why are you even reading this if you aren't interested in seeing what I've seen? Go find some youtube videos! I'm not saying I'm fully converted to high-pitched, nasal singing, which is kind of standard in griot music, but I do have to say that the experience, like so much else in this world, is radically transformed by the performance, something unique in every time and place in which it takes place. It's the same difference between film and theatre, a vibrancy that is diminished when a living, breathing human being exudes a palpable presence from a few feet away. It's a feeling of being alive and totally within a moment, and technology has yet to take that desire for contact and immediacy away from us.

Well, to sum things up, I'm fully rested and recovered now, as I hope this post shows. It's a good thing too, since I'm on my way down to Côté d'Ivoire tonight to continue my journey across West Africa. I'll be in Bouaké, capital of the rebel New Forces, by tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully well on my way into the less civil war-prone south the day after. If you're reading this as I'm posting it, wish me luck, because I'm sure I'll need it, if nothing else than to deal with the graft. I've met a lot of people who are interested in this section of my trip: no Peace Corps to fall back on in a country not known for stability since a civil war a few years ago. I'll keep everyone posted and hope to have only good things to say in my next post.

Totally exhausted, but, in this case, it's the best feeling in the world. I've averaged less than four hours of sleep for three days straight. I've suffered through freezing desert nights to see some of the best in West African music, and I loved every minute of it. Okay, that's an exaggeration, but it was an awesome, possibly once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everything just seemed to come together for an amazing start to the new year.

Well...let's back up a little bit. Actually, the new year didn't have such an auspicious start. I spent the first three days down with bacillary dysentary and felt like hell. Happy New Year. However, after two years in Niger, a little dysentary isn't the end of the world.

After I recovered, I took a trip up to Hombori, one of West Africa's premiere climbing destinations, and eventhough I don't climb, it did provide some great hiking opportunities. I didn't stay too long though as I didn't have a set ride up to Timbuktu, the Mysterious City, and the setting for the Festival in the Desert.

Hombori to Douentza. The dustiest bus ride I've ever taken, but within minutes of arriving in Douentza, I found a Land Cruiser filled with white people going up to the Festival. Four Australians, two Poles, a Dutch man, a British girl, two Malians, and me. None of us had reservations at any hotel or tickets, but things just worked out. The festival grounds were only a fifteen minute walk from our campement.

I wish I could describe this experience better. Let's put it this way: I was in Timbuktu, which I think we all feel must be the end of the earth after all the mythos of our childhood. I've got to say, as a tourist destination, Timbuktu seems to be relying on faded glory. It'd be a great archaeological site if people weren't still living there. Our campement was run by a Songhaï guy who was just freakin' stoked to learn that I spoke his language. Who ever said Peace Corps couldn't grease the wheels?

Like I said, the concert venue was a fifteen-minute hike from our campsite into the desert. I wish I could describe how amazing the whole experience was. One guy I talked to said it reminded him of an African Woodstock, which is pretty good considering the guy had actually attended the original. I wish I could say more about it at the moment, but I'm completely wrecked: exhaustion and three days of overstimulation. For right now, I'll just post the link. I'll try for something more later. Until then, enjoy this and look up some of the artists, though I'll tell you now, seeing them live was an unforgettable experience.

http://www.festival-au-desert.org/schedule-artistlist.html

It seems that I just can't post any pictures from any of the computers I've been at recently. Everyone got a small taste of some of the stuff I've been seeing, and now there's nothing. Apologies for that. I have been seeing amazing things, I swear, but I'd like to post some pictures to really drive the point home.

Well, what can I say instead? I was in Mopti for my birthday, in Djenné, a city of faded glory from the days of Islamic empire, for Christmas, and now I'm in Mali's capital, Bamako, for New Year's Eve. It seems I've been running into Mali Volunteers all over the place lately, as everyone is moving around for the holidays. It's been great for me, as Volunteers tend to know the cheap/interesting places to eat, sleep, and see.

But this post is about something different. I could write about the old city in Mopti, or the massive mud mosque in Djenné, about the first's surge as Mali's major river port at the expense of the second, about Djenné's once glorious past as a center of Islamic learning and one of the major trading cities on the trans-Saharan routes, rivaling even Timbuktu and Agadez. But I'm not going to do any of that. Instead, I'm going to throw out some of the challenges the traveler faces in West Africa, which just reaffirm that you haven't left this part of the world, that though places like Mopti, Djenné, and Segou all have Internet access (even wireless in some places), the difficulty of moving around is still the biggest pain of West Africa.

I was told by the Volunteer in Djenné, which is a city more or less on an island, requiring a ferry service to access, that if I wanted to get out of Djenné, I'd have to get to the loading point (gare) by 7:00 am, or else it'd be really difficult to get anywhere before nightfall. So I woke up early and was there before 7. This is how the next three hours played out.

Me: Hi, I'd like to go to Segou today, so I want to buy a ticket to the carrefour (the main stop on the road outside Djenné where everyone gets buses, cars, etc.)

Ticket Guy: Why go to the carrefour? We have a bus that's leaving this morning for Bamako. It can drop you off in Segou, and it goes direct. You'll have no problems.

And it's leaving this morning?

Yes, this morning.

So I take the ticket and I sit down to wait. I've probably been waiting about half an hour when a woman getting in a car to the carrefour looks at me and says, "You need to go to the carrefour. If you're waiting for that bus, wallahi, you'll be waiting here still by tonight. Just you see, you'll still be here tonight." Well...that was ominous.

Excuse me, sir? That lady who just left said that this bus isn't going anywhere today and that I should go to the carrefour.

No, no, no, it is going today, trust me. (We walk over to the bus) See? Everything is already packed on top. We'll leave in twenty minutes. 8:00 at the latest.

By 7:40, they're taking everything off the bus.

Why are they taking everything off the bus? (Search for the ticket agent again after 20 mins of waiting.) They're taking everything off the bus. It's obviously not leaving today.

No, it will leave. They're taking everything off the bus and sweeping it. It will leave after.

You said before they loaded everything on it last night so it could leave early.

Look, I'll ask the driver. (To some random guy) Is this bus leaving today? Yes, it's leaving today. See? Just sit here and wait.

More waiting. It becomes more and more obvious that this bus is not leaving. Find the ticket seller.

Okay, give me my money back, I'm walking. (It's 30k to the carrefour and 2k to the ferry)

No! It's leaving, I swear. You just be patient.

But not now! It's not leaving this morning, and I want to leave.

It is leaving now. Not at noon, not even at ten. In a few minutes.

Bullshit! (Is what I was thinking and trying to communicate, but I don't know how to say that in French) Give me my money.

Look, I'll ask the driver again. (Some other random guy, not even the same one as before.) Oh, he said tomorrow morning.

F*** you, give me my money!

Patience, patience, we'll get a car for all of you waiting for the bus and it'll leave toute suite.

Fifteen minutes more. I talk to a French couple traveling overland through West Africa. Back to the ticket guy.

Let's go. You said toute suite.

Patience, we need five more people to fill the car.

I might actually kill you! Give me my expletive-inducing money!

The car will leave soon.

I don't want soon! I've been waiting over two hours for transport that barely exists anyway! GIVE ME MY F***ING MONEY, I'M F***ING WALKING!

It's too far!

I DON'T GIVE A GOOD GOD D***! I'M WHITE! I'LL HITCHHIKE! TOURISTS WILL PICK ME UP! ANYTHING TO GET AWAY FROM YOU!

The guy basically lied to me the entire time because he wanted more money. He knows the bus schedule and knows that every week for, I'm sure, years that the bus stays overnight on a Sunday to take people home after Monday's market. In this case, patience was not a virtue. If I'd waited, I would still be in Djenné or God only knows where. As it was, I started walking, got picked up by a really, really crappy bush taxi that was carrying goods only, not people, as I'm sure this thing would be unsafe under any conditions. There were no interior panels, the doors had to be jammed shut, they didn't close fully without a good kick, there was no starter, the guy just had to literally hot wire it everytime he wanted to start it. It had a max speed of about 10 mph, and the popping I kept hearing, I found out after about 30 mins, was the metal of the door grinding against the metal of the frame everytime we hit a bump.

But overall, none of this mattered. The car managed to get me to the carrefour, where I immediately got a bus. Though cramped in the back seat, breathing in the heat and exhaust from the engine, it got me to Segou about two hours slower than a regular bus would. However, I did meet some Volunteers on the bus, and they showed me around Segou and have helped me out a lot in Bamako. Overall, there wasn't a lot to Segou, but after a full day of travel hell, the simplicity and laid-back atmosphere of the city seemed like a god send.

So for now, that's all I want to spend on a computer. I'm off to somewhere else in Mali for a couple weeks until I'm in Ivory Coast to meet up with Emilie Ross, who was the first Volunteer in Tanka Lokoto, my village in Niger. We'll have a lot of stories to trade I'm sure, but until then, I'll see what other adventures I can have.

No pictures this time around because I forgot my camera cord in my backpack. It's a shame, because as beautiful and interesting as the area around Banfora was, I think Dogon Country just blows it away. In fact, it probably eliminates the competition in all the rest of West Africa, but I can't make that claim until I visit the rest of West Africa. Dege dege as the Dogon say. That's moso moso to all you Zarma speakers or slowly slowly for everyone else.

To get to the Bandiagara Escarpment (where I hiked with Eli and Lauren for four days and nights), we had to start at 4:45 am to catch a bus from Ouagadougou to Ouahigouya. From there, we waited around a few hours for a bush taxi to Koro, and a few hours later, we grabbed another bush taxi for Bankass, our starting point for Dogon Country. Overall, it was a full day of traveling or waiting, but it was all worth it when we caught a view of the Bandiagara Escarpment while on the road to Bankass. Traveling through the Malian countryside, you're surrounded by plains, grasses, and trees of the Sahelian variety. In short, it looks exactly like Niger. Then, suddenly, your gaze moves to the west, and a 500m cliff face just seems to appear out of the middle of these vast, unbroken plains and stretch to the horizon. It's a 150km-long cliff that looks like someone just gashed the ground and pulled up solid rock.

The hiking is amazing. Let me say this now: I had giardia for the entire trip, and I still thought it was amazing. The trip. Not the giardia. I've had worse giardia, but anytime you think you're going to pass out while climbing onto the roof where you're sleeping in the pitch black...ya, not a great feeling. This echoes a friend who went to Dogon Country and realized he had malaria. Despite the horrible symptoms, they could not overpower the magic of Dogon Country. By the way, I don't mention it like I should, but we slept on the roof of the Dogon houses. An amazing view of every star in an ink-black sky, and mornings at sunrise? I don't think you can feel anything other than peace as you watch color slowly bleed into a brightening sky.

The Dogon are an amazing people. There's been a lot of research done on the Dogons in anthropological and archaeological sources, so I'll leave the heavy work to anyone really interested. The Dogon people came to the Escarpment around the 15th Century, where they met the Tellem people, who were already living there. The Tellem allowed them to settle but said the Dogon were not allowed to cut the trees or eat the fruit. The Tellem were a very small people, only about three or four feet, but they possessed powerful black magic which allowed them to fly. This explains the vaults, small houses in the rock which are completely inaccessible today but which the Tellem used to store their most prized possessions. An explanation more likely than flight (or very advanced climbing gear) is that this area was at one time much rainier, which allowed vines and other plants to climb the cliff face, allowing climbing access for some pretty scrappy people. Whatever the explanation is, it still takes a pretty brave little guy to climb up the 300m to where some of these vaults have been secured into the cliff face.

I'll skip ahead a little now. The Dogon eventually broke their word and began cutting the trees, so the Tellem left the Escarpment, never to return. The Dogon, holding tight to their animist beliefs in the face of repeated aggression from Islamic empires such as the Malian and Songhai, built their houses at the very base of the cliff, making them nigh-impregnable. Thus they maintained their distinct culture down to the present day. In the past fifty years or so, most of the Dogon have moved down to the plain, and many have taken up Islam or Catholicism. The only thing assaulting the Dogon these days are hordes of tourists, which has actually helped the Dogon in that they haven't suffered the loss of their younger generations to better opportunities in the big cities or elsewhere in Africa, America, or Europe. They no longer live at the base of the cliff, but all the old houses and granaries are still there, and their culture, strangly, has been somewhat preserved by the tourism industry. There's actually a reason for the Dogon to continue speaking their language, performing their ritual dances, and remembering their past, and that reason is because they've found a market among Westerners.

I could go on and on about the people we met, some of the breathtaking scenery we saw, and the even more breathtaking cliffs of which we peered over the edge. However, all of it is just words, and pictures paint a thousand words or more, so I'll try to post some in the near-ish future. I'll also try to post more about this amazing place, but honestly, I'm having such a hard time keeping up with the places I'm going that it's going to be very difficult to go back and rehash the places I've been.

For example, right now, I'm in Mopti, the Venice of West Africa. It's spread out over three islands at the confluence of the Niger and Bani rivers and is probably the biggest river port on the Niger. Everyone and everything on the river seems to move through Mopti, and as a result it's very hectic and colorful. However, hectic is not what I wanted for my birthday yesterday, so Eli, Lauren, and I chose a nice bar down by the water at sunset to while away the time and watch other people be hectic. After, we met up with our Dogon guide, Moumouni, for another beer, and I began to hatch some plans about possibly trying to get to the Festival in the Desert in a couple weeks. We'll see how that goes. Overall, it wasn't much activity by way of birthdays, but zipping through the streets at the end of the night on the back of a motorcycle, I could only think of how happy I was. I'd hiked out of Dogon Country in the morning, made it to Mopti by the early afternoon, and was drinking beers by the river in the Venice of West Africa by sunset. All with two great friends alongside me. Of course there are more people I wish could have been there, and they know who they are, but I couldn't ask for a better end to a great day.

Not a very imaginative title, I know, but guess what? I just found out that you can add pictures on this website. So now you can all stop going to my facebook page to check stuff out, and I can make my posts a lot more pertinent to my travels. I'll warn you right now: this is all going to seem very cool and exotic. I have to admit, it kind of is. I'm in Burkina Faso's capital Ouagadougou right now, and eventhough it's kind of a calm, slightly boring capital, just the name alone I think wins it points for originality. I've officially been out of Niger for about a week now, and I've been hopping from city to city, visiting Volunteers, and helping with any Agriculture related projects that I might have any experience with.

Ouagadougou and Bobo Dioulasso are the two biggest cities in Burkina Faso, and while I've met a lot of really cool Volunteers, there wasn't really much to distinguish them from Niamey. I'd spent over two months stuck in Niger's capital, so I needed a break from cities. I found it in Banfora.

Banfora is Burkina's tourist Mecca. To be honest, there isn't a lot to see in Burkina according to the guide books, but Peace Corps Volunteers are always a good bet to see the really cool stuff. In Banfora, I stayed with a Volunteer named Brad and got to visit two of the coolest geographical sites in the area. I'll get the names later when I update this post, but the Domes are about 15km from Banfora, which I managed to get to with a rented bike. Evidently, they are only one of two sites in the world where the erosive forces have worked to create these entirely unique rock formations. From the nearby waterfalls, you can hike along Banfora's main water supply to the Domes, and you have a great view of the local sugar cane fields.

Now that I'm no longer a Peace Corps Volunteer, I have no restrictions on any kind of stupid thing I want to go off and do in the African countryside. So what did I do? I rented a moped and took it 50km into the bush to see the Sindou Peaks.

Let's just put it out there: I've never driven a moped before. I've always wanted a motorcycle, but I've also harbored a secret fear of them. No more. It was so much fun. Granted, I did almost crash it into a fruit stand, but once I got away from town, away from the goats, children, and fruit stands, I really had the laterite road all to myself. It meant that I was coated with fine red dust by the end of my trip, but what a feeling.

The Sindou Peaks are a chain of rocky spires that extend from the city of Sindou. There's really no other way to describe them other than fantastic, as in, I thought I was on the set of some Hollywood fantasy film. I honestly expected a Muppet to jump out from behind the rocks. Maybe Hoggle would lead me to the castle of the Goblin King. If you understand that reference, then more power to you. But seriously, doesn't this look like a place where you'd find faeries?

Unfortunately, that's all I have time for right now. I'm heading up to Mali and Dogon Country bright and early tomorrow morning, so I'll be out of any contact for quite a while. Hope everyone's safe and enjoying the holiday season. I'll be spending it in Mali, where there's no snow, but at least I don't have to deal with the cold. I'm sure I'll have some amazing pictures in the next post, but until then, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. - Sterling

This one is hard to write, but it's been a long time coming. How do you sum up two years living in the bush in Africa? How do I even sum up the last month, when those of us Northern Tillaberi refugees became grouped with a whole new set of refugees from an expanded terror threat. In case you haven't been diligently following Nigerien news. Here's the official word on what's been going on lately:

https://www.osac.gov/Reports/report.cfm?contentID=110469

To see how this plays into the larger picture of AQIM and all the fun they've been having across the Sahel, focusing on events that have occurred during my service, go to these places:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7798571.stm

http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSLP155404

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/8080447.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8373821.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8381200.stm

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8385559.stm

Wow. I didn't realize how frightening a picture that paints until I put them all together. My village was about 100km give or take from the border with Mali where the French national and the European tourists were kidnapped. However, throughout my entire service, I never once felt as if I were in danger. Someone with an outside perspective could call me naive or worse, but I think it says more about my community and the place I live. I firmly believe my villagers would have done anything to shelter and protect me had the occasion ever arisen.

Looking back, the week I had at my post seems like a positive, real risk. Would I do it again? Definitely. I hold no regrets. At least I was allowed to say goodbye. After the attempted kidnapping of embassy staff in Tahoua, a capital city much farther from the border than my village, the entire region was evacuated of all Volunteers. Many of them had no idea they would never be allowed back to their villages when they got the call to consolidate in Konni. As dangerous as it was, I know that I needed to see my villagers again, and sometimes, when something is that important, you just have to take a few chances.

I'll leave that. There's too much involved in the decisions made by individuals in any given circumstance to really examine them closely. Especially in a situation as extraordinary as this. Overall, I think Peace Corps' response was well managed and assessed all risks responsibly. I won't say anymore in part because of those who've decided to leave due to the security reasons and for those who will be staying on in very trying circumstances. The worst part of my entire second year living under travel restrictions was the uncertainty of the situation on a day-to-day basis. I was sure after the British tourist was executed that I would be evacuated from my site. I was allowed to stay, but it did underline how quickly things could change. That uncertainty will inform their entire service, but I'm confident those who have stayed will weather through it.

And now I'm leaving Niger. I have my visas for Mali (the non-dangerous part) and Burkina Faso ready and I'm heading out the door. This blog has been a pretty good representation of my service, but it can't cover even one percent of the emotions I've felt, the trials I've been through, the friendships I've made, and the rewards I've been given. If none of these kidnappings had happened, I can confidently say I would be staying another year. However, I can't really complain about that. One of my best friends in country (who also spent a full year under travel restrictions in Northern Tillaberi) said to me once that living alone in the bush, over a hundred kilometers from any other American, working with limited resources within our communities was closer to the "romantic" idea everyone has of Peace Corps, which is pretty cool. And throughout all of this, I've learned that Allah provides. I'm not saying things aren't meant to happen for one reason or another, or that things always turn out okay. However, when those two paths diverge in the wood, they lead to endless other possibilities and endless other divergences. That's just the route life takes, and it's better to appreciate what's on your own path, rather than wonder at what you'd missed.

I'll be keeping this blog going throughout the remainder of my time in West Africa, so keep checking for my whereabouts and to see what adventures I've had. Much love to everyone at home. I know there are some worried about me, but I hope that worry is tempered with excitement for all that I hope to experience in the coming months.

Irkoy m'ir cabe cere!

I’ve been in Niamey for a while now, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to write an entry. It’s mostly due to laziness, but I also find at the end of my two years in Africa that my attention span for the Internet is about ten minutes max. Add to that the stresses of the last few weeks and the result is a lack of entries despite easy access. (That will be, I hope, the last Freudian slip of the day.) As anyone can see from my past blog entries, I took some vacation a couple months ago to go out east, almost all the way to Chad. On my way back, my boss called me and told me that I would be held in Niamey for at least a week. I wasn’t allowed to return to my village. She couldn’t tell me why, and even to this day, I still don’t know what actually happened. I have some theories of my own. Niger’s harvest this year was particularly bad. In the Ouallam department, which is just west of my village, there wasn’t really ANY harvest, let alone a bad one. As a result, the Fulan herders came back from the pasturelands earlier and fed their cattle on the little vegetation in the Zarma farmers’ fields. There’s farmer/pastoralist violence every year, but this year included a few particularly bad incidents that had the potential to spread throughout the region. In addition, the embassy revised its warden status because the North African branch of Al Qaeda began targeting Westerners. And if the threat of terrorism wasn’t bad enough, the Filingue department, my sub-region of the wider Tillaberi region, evidently began devoting all their gendarmes to the Malian frontier, which left the bandits already within the region plenty of time to do their bandit things. So there were plenty of reasons not to go back to village. In addition to the external threats, I also had some work of my own to do. I waited three weeks in Niamey, and in that time, I had to study for the GRE, train to become a Volunteer Assistant Trainer (VAT) for the newest stage that is currently in country, and attend the Close of Service (COS) conference. But being out of village, for lack of a better term, sucks. It’s difficult to emphasize this point enough, and I don’t expect anyone who hasn’t lived the life to understand what it feels like. I was forced to leave my small community without any chance to say goodbye or to close the work I had been doing. I felt like a refugee. Living in Niamey, out of my backpack, constantly answering questions that I didn’t actually know the answer to as to why I wasn’t in my village. After two months out of my village, I’d hit a breaking point. The country director and our program training officer had urged patience, and patient I was, but it only goes so far, even after two years in a country like Niger. I had to go back. The embassy wasn’t happy. I’d pushed and pushed to go back to my village, and after a month, I think I’d created such a headache that everyone was just tired of me. They gave me one week. It was more than I’d expected, but there were a few stipulations. I could tell no one I was leaving for my village or that I would be living there at all. That included Peace Corps staff, Volunteers, and even my own villagers. The only people that knew I was on this “secret mission” were the acting country director, the Peace Corps security officer, and the embassy’s Regional Security Officer. I had to check in via text twice a day, morning and evening, to confirm that I hadn’t been kidnapped. Finally, I couldn’t tell anyone in my village what day I would be leaving them forever. And so I left for village November 3rd. This entry could be much longer than it actually will be. I’ll try to be concise and cut out all the personal, sentimental things and get right to the heart of the matter. My villagers were amazing for the week I was at home. Though my house was dirty and dilapidated, my hanger had nearly collapsed, my garden had died, and my cat ran away, I didn’t care. I was just so happy to be back. But it was a stressful week. I spent most of my afternoons (when I usually napped during my service) packing up my house. My mornings and evenings I spent on specific missions to spend as much time as possible with everyone I knew and loved in village. At night, my favorite little kid, a four-year old named Razak (who I call attakurmizo, Zarma for a sprite or faerie) would come over, refuse to leave my side, and eventually fall asleep at my house. I’d carry him home and we’d repeat the same pattern the next day. I know I said I wouldn’t get sentimental, but he was a rock star the whole week. I’m so glad the embassy allowed me to return for even just a week. I was afraid I wouldn’t have even an afternoon. The first night I was back in village, bandits killed a soldier and a merchant in Baleyara, the major market town about 22km from my village. It was the second such robbery in two months. The first had been a carjacking in which two merchants were robbed and murdered. It didn’t really worry me, but I’m sure it drove the embassy up the wall. I’m pretty sure my villagers would do everything they could to protect me and knowing that, I never doubted my safety in village for the one week I had. I’ll be here in Niamey for the next month until I close my service in mid-December, so I’ll skip some of the details, but just say that my leaving party was great. I bought a sack of rice, a carton of pasta, and a goat, and we feasted. All my friends in my village and the surrounding villages stopped by to say goodbye. They knew I was leaving, but I couldn’t tell them that I would be leaving the very next day. Nigeriens hate to say goodbye, so it was probably better that way. Monday morning, I finished the last of my packing and made the rounds of my neighbors to tell them I was going out to the road to catch a car. Irkoy m’ir cabe cere (May God show us one another). Kala han fo (Until one day). Irkoy m’aran halessi (May God protect you). By the time I had finished the small loop at my maigari’s house, there wasn’t a dry eye anywhere. The women covered themselves with their shawls and refused to make eye contact while I said goodbye. My best friends, both men and women, couldn’t bring themselves to walk out to the road with me. That was okay. I heard them crying; I understood. Even my village chief, a man who’s seen a lot and had to say a lot of goodbyes to loved ones in his 65 years, had that husky voice that usually means tears are close. It’s always hard to see an old man cry. So much for not getting sentimental. Now I’m back in Niamey, working on a few institutional projects until I’m finished in Niger. I hope to use the next month to post a little bit more about my life here and the land that I’m leaving. I promise future entries won’t be as long as this one.

The trip out to Diffa required a stop in Zinder. From Dosso, Zinder is typically a 12-hour bus ride. From Zinder, it's seven more hours on broken tarmac to Diffa. There aren't any bus companies that will ply the route from Niamey to Diffa direct. I didn't mind the stop though. It gave me some time to see friends I hadn't seen in months, and Zinder is just a great city to kill a few days. It has some beautiful architecture in the old quarter, and, if you ever need a diversion, you can visit the cookie factory. Thirty or so women making honey and shortbread cookies everyday. It's awesome, but that's beside the point. I stopped off in Zinder and caught a bus out to Diffa at the "what am I doing up this early?" crack of dawn.

As a result, I missed the first half of the trip out to Diffa. It was still early, and I wasn't really concious. The road changed that. It's an old highway, and, while I hear they're going to repair it soon, it's in a pretty dire state. I was fortunate to get such a rude awakening though, as the ride out to Diffa was beautiful. The desert encroaches a bit further south than the rest of the country, which means that instead of subsistence agriculture, you're dealing with subsistence pastureland. Plains stretch to the horizon and are dotted with acacia trees that have all been grazed up above the level of hungry camels. It reminded me a lot of how I feel Kenya or Ethiopia must look: dry savannah interspersed with short, scrubby acacias. If you've ever been to Montana or maybe the Dakotas, they might look pretty similar. And the horses. These were the first horses I'd seen in country that actually looked healthy and well-fed. And why not? You could conceivably ride a horse for days in that landscape, camp under the stars, and never have to worry about food or anything else really. I don't deny I was dreaming of such things, despite the fact that I've never ridden a horse, nor do I have the money to buy one.

We reached Diffa a little after noon, and while I didn't take a long time to explore, I did get to see some beautiful marshlands. Diffa used to be close to Lake Chad, but environmental degradation, repeated drought, and climate change have all had noticable differences on the size of the lake. Diffa though, is an important wetlands for migratory birds, and the flood plains around the city teem with life during the rainy season. I, however, was anxious to get on to N'guigmi, so I hopped a Land Cruiser bush taxi that afternoon, and, after six excruciating hours in cramped quarters, I arrived at night in the desert.

Six hours and N'guigmi is only 120km from Diffa. I'll let you imagine what the "road" was like. It's been a long time without any repairs, and with big trucks hauling from Nigeria to Libya, it's taking quite a beating. My bush taxi didn't even use the road for the majority, and after we passed Kabelawa, we left the road all together, shooting through the desert on roads only the driver knew. This of course takes a dramatic environmental toll on the desert, as eventhough it is a vast sea of sand, it's held in place by short grasses. When the trucks and Land Cruisers tear through the desert (as they have to in deep sand), they rip up the grasses and churn the earth into vast washes of deep sand. Desertification at its finest. We got stuck in one of these churned up chunks of "road," around 8:00 at night. I was not looking forward to spending the night in the desert, but I must say, the moonlight reflected from the pure, white sands reminded me a lot of a quiet winter night at home and looked quite comfortable. We managed to dig ourselves out, which was probably a bit better, as I'd completely forgotten the danger from snakes and scorpions in the desert.

We finally made it to N'guigmi around 9:00 at night, and I somehow managed to wrangle a place to stay. I still have no idea how I managed this. One minute I was talking to a shop owner and the next I was installed in a project rest house with air conditioning and a shower. Not too shabby for the first fifteen minutes in town.

N'guigmi feels like the city at the end of the earth. There's one main paved road through a provincial town that gleams white from the desert sands. I'd like to say I did more than just take a few bush walks in the desert. I'd like to say I hooked up with a camel caravan and got to see the Grande Tal, an enormous sand dune that stretches over 30km from end to end and 2km across. In reality, however, these things cost money, money I didn't have. The bush walks were beautiful though. The white sand is as fine as powdered sugar and is peaceful and calm at night and deadly during the day. The temperature was well over 120F (48C) during most of the day, and this is during the rainy season. I could not imagine living there during the hot season.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about the city though is the diversity. N'guigmi is forty-odd kilometers from the Chadian border, and they deal with Nigerian currency so much that within minutes I was carrying the Nigerian naira, the West African cfa, and the Central African cfa. The people were also a mix: Zarma gendarmes, Arab traders, Toubou herders, Kanouri farmers, and Hausa merchants. And one white guy. The most common question I got from all groups?

"What are you doing here?"

I'm seeing the desert!

"...Why?"

Seems the thing that can best unify Africa is the realization that white folks are just plain crazy.

Anyway, this has turned into a long post, and I didn't mean it to be. I had an amazing time out in the Diffa region, and I definitely plan to go back, despite the pain of travel and the stresses of being in such a remote location. It's beautiful, and I can't stress that enough. This trip was my practice backpacking trip, and I loved it. I think I'm finally ready to get started on the serious stuff come December.