It is me speaking, the person who published most of these posts, sent to us via mail, and put online to share with a few friends and relatives who cared. It never dawned on me that others might read this blog, which unfolded like a story.

Over the past few years when I have followed Peace Corps volunteers' blogs I began to care about them and always wondered what became of them after they came back to the US. Somebody, somewhere, might like to know what has happened since Jessica returned to the US 10 months ago. I will be brief, and I hope she doesn't mind.

She took a long time to "re-adjust." Readjustment will probably never completely happen, and I think that is a good thing, because this was a transformative experience and it will be part of her for the rest of her life. That is at it should be.

Jessica is in contact with her village on a weekly basis, through the magic of Skype and cell phones. The grain bank has managed its first year without her. The school is thriving, but the doors need to be fixed, and she is able to call the contractor in Konni and a go-between in Niamey. Her village has just survived a very difficult hunger season, and is looking forward to an improved harvest in 2010. She plans to return to Niger within the next year.

Jessica is in graduate school in upstate New York, being challenged in the area of International Nutrition at Cornell University.

If you are reading this, welcome, and thank you for checking in!

Kerry

On my last day in Niger, I:

Woke up nervous

Ran along a sandy road (quiet on the way out, traffic on the way back)

Visited the hospital and bid farewell to the women who are still awaiting fistula surgery

Had a close-of-service interview and only cried during it once

Avoided saying goodbye, as a mutual agreement, with my friends on staff at headquarters (we did a lot of: "see you later, maybe even today!" )

Made and ate lunch with a fellow volunteer from my hometown (sifted bugs out of the pasta and could only barely taste them)

Packed a Going-To-Morocco-In-Sun-Faded-Clothes themed wardrobe

Gave three watermelons to the staff at Air Maroc for helping arrange my flight

Washed my grimey blue sweatshirt so whoever sits next to me on the plane isn't uncomfortable

Spoke to my two homes: parents in Oregon, and parents in...am I allowed to say the name of my village now? Maybe not, since I'm officially still a volunteer, until midnight...Anyway, I spoke with Narba, Mariama, Zuera, Suleil, and a few others.

And that brings us, generally, to Now. I have a few more hours before lift off. Thank you for reading, and I'll see some of you soon. Allah shi kiyaye, Allah shi gumma mu da alheri, Allah shi bada hankuri.

It's been comforting to look back at pictures from my village while I'm preparing to leave Niger. Here are a few recent ones; for old time's sake I think I'll put up some of my all-time-favorites later this week, even if they're repeats.

This is Miniya, Zuera's youngest baby and Rahman's little sister. She and Rahman spent mornings with me while Zuera was out in the fields. Tying a baby on your back is called "goyo", and it is more secure than you might imagine. Plus it gives you full use of both arms.

Here is Ibrahima and his camel. He's in his work clothes here, but I'll try to dig up a shot of him on a day that "ya sha gayye"- got dressed up (Ibrahima is normally very well dressed). He knew that I wanted a picture of him with his camel so one morning he stopped by my house on his way back from the fields. The stuff tied on the camel's back is "harawar wake"- bean vines, which he'll feed to his family's sheep, goats, and cattle.

Camels have such big heads! The woven cover on his face is to prevent him from munching on millet in peoples' fields during the walk out and back from Ibrahima's field. The Badagishiri bush taxi. This car comes through on Thursdays to take people and their goods to market; I caught it here early one morning as men were loading it with sacks of dried beans. This year was a better year for beans than it was for millet; many families hurried to harvest all of their dried ones to sell right away. They will use the money to buy bags of millet.

The road west to my village at sunset.

Thank you to everyone who's written to make sure I'm okay- I am okay, really. I will be in Niger for one more week before flying to Morocco and, eventually, to Oregon. It's an earlier take-off than I'd had in mind, but given everything that's gone on here recently it is an acceptable compromise. I'll take two weeks in Morocco, why not?

And, because I promised to include more information about "the situation", here goes. To the best of my knowledge: two weeks ago there was an attempted kidnapping of Americans in Tahoua, which is the capital of my region and a few hours north of my home. There have been a series of attempted and/or successful kidnappings of Europeans in and around Niger/Mali over the last year; most (if not all) of these are presumed to be the acts of an Al Quaeda group based in Mali. Because of the proximity and boldness of the Tahoua attempt, and because it appeared to target Americans, Peace Corps withdrew immediately from the region. And that's why I had to leave my village early. I've spent the last two weeks trying to be useful (or, alternately, sitting in an absolute daze) in Konni, Niamey, and the training site at Hamdallaye, and will tackle my end-of-service paperwork next week before embarking on my last-minute trip to Morocco.

I have managed to talk with my family and friends in my village every day; we all appear to be (mostly) over the huge bummer of my sudden departure and are just happy to be able to hear each other's voices. They're wrapping up the harvest and preparing for the biggest holiday of the year-- Tabaski, which will happen tomorrow. Obviously I won't be able to partake in the festivities with them this time, but I will celebrate here in Niamey with city-Nigerien friends. What will we do? Be thankful for each other, dress up, visit and greet many people, slaughter a sheep, and eat lots and lots of meat for two days. Barka da Salla!

Below are a few pictures from my last days in the village.

Above are Rahido, Alkasum, Idi, and Wan Mano filling a granary with newly-harvested bundles of millet. The average family will eat approximately one bundle's worth of millet a day. This year, in our area, a family is lucky to get 150 bundles out of their fields. After the bundles run out, they will rely on money sent home from sons and husbands on work exodus to purchase bags of millet from the market.

Two days before I left, a truck pulled up at 7:30 in the morning with our twenty-five gorgeous new school desks!! That was so exciting. In this picture you can see Chaibou, the school director, and Isseuf, the man who arranged the construction and delivery of the desks.

Here is the inside of the new classroom, with new desks in place. In this picture are Narba, Balkissa, Rabi, Malim, Chaibou, and Isseuf. Balkissa, Rabi, and Malim are teachers for the youngest students; Chaibou will teach the two oldest grades in this new building.

There are so many more pictures that I wanted to take before leaving. I guess those will have to wait.

Due to sudden security issues, all Peace Corps Volunteers in the Tahoua-Konni region and many Volunteers country-wide were permanently removed from their villages earlier this week. I will post more detailed information about this when I can.

For now: we are all safe, together, and increasingly able to address the imposing number of emotional and logistical adjustments that we'll have to make eventually.

I feel fortunate that I was near the end of my service here, and therefore had already started the Goodbye conversation with many friends. I was lucky, as well, to have almost 3 hours advance warning that a car was coming to get me; I got to pack some things and say goodbye to the hundred or so people who waited with me. Rahman almost made it into my backpack undetected.

Again, I will write more about this when I can. It's a little to soon to try to process it now, especially with an audience. But thanks for checking in.

11/05/09

I went all the way to Tahoua and back. That is a lot of busing around, but it was worth it because I met Isseuf, who is coordinating the manufacture and delivery of twenty five brand new desks for the school!!! A very generous Nigerien-American family in the states, which supports girls' education and women's issues in Niger with great passion and empathy, made a private donation to fund this purchase. You know who you are- THANK YOU.

Tomorrow I'll truck and walk my way back to Foloa, for what may be the last time. I'm not sure if another volunteer will follow me, in which case there'll be more back-and-forth in December, or if I'll have other business that pulls me into the city between now and then. But- I am prepared to go in, be in for a month, and then leave, also for the last time. I've got plenty of work to do while I'm in- finishing the painting of a world map, re-filling of the grain bank, planting a garden with the school kids, and about 2,000 goodbyes... you may hear from me before then, but you might not.

Narba painting the world map with Kathleen

Lots of unknowns right now... One simple sure thing is: I am grateful for the support, curiosity, compassion, and understanding that so many of you have communicated to me through this blog. My experience here has been richer because it is shared, in many ways, with you. Thank you for caring about me, about my friends and family here, and about Niger. I will see many of you soon-- one wonderful thing to look forward to in the midst of so many upcoming goodbyes.

Forever in my heart...

Our end-of-service conference is over, and now we're heading back for one last month in our villages. I thought now would be a good time to show you some of the American faces that I've come to love while living here. All of these folks came to Niger together in January 2008, and will be heading home next month. Impossible, but true.

With Krista, a fellow fistula translator who's hoping to extend her service in Kenya, and Jen, who built a giant garden and taught people how to golf. She also made the difficult 2 day trek/walk out to my village TWICE.

This is Laura, a fellow volunteer-trainer who cracks me up and kicks my butt with her "dance workouts". Laura built a well in her village and organized a camp for young girls.

The one and only John, my closest Peace Corps friend and neighbor. John made being here easy. His work included the creation of a grain/fertilizer bank, a goat project, and the maintenance of an enormous tree plantation. He also made me the world's sweetest birthday presents (have you heard of "Backpack Boyfriend"? Yeah, that's right, he made a boyfriend doll for me to carry around in my backpack.)

Kathleen and Justin- two kindred spirits who did some really amazing work up north. They started a farmer's co-op , created a school garden, did a goat project, and made waves in challenging traditional gender roles in Niger. There is nothing these two people can't do. And they're MARRIED! Watch out world.

Meet Alex, a fellow Oregonian who got more work done in compromised circumstances than any of the rest of us who had it easy. A sample of his work: gardens, maps, health care for a girl with polio, tree planting, and just generally being resilient and creative. We went to high school AND college together but didn't know it. Alex also made it out to visit and wowed us all with his already-advanced Hausa (he learned Zarma in training). With Kathleen and Laura. Don't we look clean?

I'm in Niamey to start the bureaucratic crunch that signifies the imminent end of my Peace Corps service in December, and I've been thinking about the work I've done here. We're supposed to find ways to "quantify our experience" that will help us "sell ourselves" to the work force in the US. I will do it, for the sake of my supervisors here who need the numbers, but dammit, I am resisting in my heart.

I do like to share with YOU guys what I do, because you don't ask for Anticipated Outcomes and Number of Participants and Percentage of Participants Who Benefitted and blahhhhhhhhh. Since it has been awhile since I filled you in---

The classroom! Green doors! I'll get more pictures on here, with kids, because the kids are the whole point, asap.

School has started, at last, even though a lot of the kids are still spending their days in the fields to bring in the last of the harvest. We haven't opened the new classroom yet, for two reasons- one is that the headmaster is insisting that he arrange a ceremony to appreciate all of the donors (that's YOU!), and he hasn't been able to find a date that all of the officials in the region can attend. (And I really hope that he never does, because I don't want a ceremony. But I'll do it, for him, because he says it's important. "This is Niger," he said, "and in Niger we have ceremonies".) So, okay. The second reason is that I've asked the contractor to return and do some more work on the doors, which were installed funkily and need some work. That should be cleared up by the time I get back next week!

Here are Habi, holding her daughter Samsiya, on the day they were released from the hospital in Illela. Habi's husband Shaibou is sitting on the left.

You know how it can be hard to write about something that you really care about? I feel that way right now but I'm still gonna get this out-- Word has been out for a long time in my village that I am available to connect mothers of severely malnourished babies with treatment centers in our region. You guys have heard about that work from the blog- you know about Habi and Samsiya, and the others. In the last couple of months, mothers started to bring their babies to me, just to look and see if I could tell if they were okay. Other mothers who I'd visit and advise to seek help were likewise much quicker to go get it- just a couple of weeks ago I ran into one such woman, Jemila, on her way to a feeding center south of us Tajae- she told me she'd been going weekly ever since I encouraged her to take her son there. I didn't even know she'd started going, and when I saw her son I didn't recognize the kid! That was really cool.

I started to realize that maybe, somehow, the stigma about severe, life-threatening malnutrition ("tamowa" in Hausa) is starting to change in my village. Instead of feeling intense shame and staying home, mothers seem to be taking action and getting themselves and their babies to the clinics. And it seems to help if someone is there to give them an extra push, encouragement, and basic information about what they can expect. I have filled that role for some women, and it's been, I think I can say, the most important thing I have done in my time in Niger.

Last month I talked with several women's leaders in the village to figure out a way to transfer the responsibilities that I've taken on to others, so that there is always someone to provide that supportive role to mothers. Narba and Ana, the main women's leaders, presented a plan to the larger community- about 200 women- and picked four women from the village (two from the east side and two from the west- they're so on it) to act as what I refer to in my head as The Baby Patrol.

The women- A'I Mano, Haja Kalau, Rabi Masali, and Salamu Anza- have the following responsibilities: to know what severe malnutrition looks like, to be on the lookout for it in their neighborhoods, to be available to mothers who want to show their babies to someone in private, to provide accurate information about the local services available for tamowa, and to accompany women to local clinics to get services and/or referrals from the nurses there. I met with the Baby Patrollers last week to go over some basic information, and arranged for a nurse from a neighboring village to come down and give them a training about how to recognize severe malnutrition. I think he'll come in November...

Shaibou and Habi, each with Samsiya

So, that's what I've been up to. That and trying to get ready to come home to my other home, in Oregon. It's going to happen soon, and as much as I love home, leaving Niger is going to SUCK. But this post is long enough already, so I'll save that conversation for later. Or for never, or for Just in My Head.

The dancers: Sadiya is in the orange shirt, Saratou the red scarf, Oweli in yellow, Mumuna, Tahirou, Rifaidi, Alhassan, Sofiani, Kadir, and Rabiatou are all in the background. Dela's sitting up front with Miniah on her lap. When the camera swings around, you see Mariama, Amu, and Salmata, and then Lahadi, sifting through some leaves that she'll use to make sauce.

Lahadi's son, Issa, came home in September from work exodus in Nigeria and brought a STEREO. We listened to tapes and watched the kids dance until the batteries ran out. Lahadi is the woman in the green shirt; I took a bunch of videos here and managed to post the one that doesn't have much dancing but does have a kid crying. Go figure! I'll try to get another one up later!

Here are some photos of the people I see the most, mothers and children.

Below is a video taken while walking into Narba's compound one morning. It shows a typical scene of kids hanging out and women working.

Jen is a licensed veterinarian working in eastern Niger. She has multiple serious projects going on, including a community garden. Midway through her Peace Corps service she inherited her grandpa's golf clubs and recently, just for fun, she introduced golf to her tiny village. Everyone seems to be in on it: little kids retrieve the balls, the guys work on their swing (below), and even the women are beginning to participate (above). Amazing!

Millet growing in my concession

Part of the winnowing process

The millet, stored on its stalks. This is in Narba's concession, with millet from the family's fields.

Other news that isn't related to hospitals! Let's see. Harvest is in full swing. Beans beans beans, everywhere. And millet. Yesterday a woman gave me an entire bucket of green beans which were sooo good and fresh. It's hot again, and we have fewer rains to cool us off, so I spend a lot of time looking for shade.

Malaria season is upon us--started a few weeks ago and will continue for several more. Malaria season sucks, and if I could think of a more powerful word than "sucks" I would use it. Every home I visit has someone down with malaria. Lots of kids have it; in my close family circle, which includes 12 kids under the age of 12, 4 have malaria this week. Two of them got meds from the clinic a couple miles away; the other two haven't gone yet. I realize that all of my messages to you guys for the last month have been semi-bummers. It is a fitting tale...this time of year is tough, and there's no way around it. Sick people, hot weather, mosquitoes.

But we're all hanging in there, treasuring the lighter moments--such as:

Two days ago I walked around (verrrry slowly) with Abarta, an old lady and former women's leader. She's awesome--even-tempered, candid, and logical, a good leveler for my sustained mild sense of panic of the last few weeks. She also doesn't see well, but she knows my voice, and we've become friends. Anyway, we shuffled around Foloa, and she told me why she chews tobacco. She made a convincing argument and I did not counter it. Her gums hurt from where her teeth fell out, and tobacco is the only thing that soothes them. So there.

Updates on the ladies and co. Habi and Samsiye are home and doing well; they visited the Concern-run feeding center on Monday and got a week's supply of special baby power-food. It's called Plumpy Nut, and it's basically peanut butter.) Salamu and Abu Zaidi are still in Illela along with Hawali and Abu Lawa'asu, and all of them were in high spirits, really happy to see me this morning. They have changed so much--even in the last two weeks--the mothers look more confident, the kids are smiling and showing off their newly-acquired cheeks, and I feel proud being a part of their progress. I sent another woman up yesterday: Saddi and her son Abu Lawani. They were settled in this morning; nurse Hajara was just about to look them over and see where the best place for them is. I suspect that Abu Lawani has something else going on besides malnutrition, but I don't know for sure. Hajara will figure it out.

I want to add that of the four women who have come to Illela this year from Foloa, three of them are visited regularly by their husbands. Only Hawali's husband hasn't come; he is on work exode in Cotonou, Benin. Last week when Habi was released, her husband Shaibu bought three eggs for Hajara as a thank-you gift. That was pretty cool...

My parents and my Peace Corps friends have asked me if I think these women with malnourished babies would be going to the hospital if I weren't going with them. There are a few answers to that question, depending on the woman and her circumstances. One answer is no, or not until it's too late. We lost two babies, that I know of, last year because of this. I can't claim to explain it or understand it- it is an unfathomable mix of shame, pride, negligence, and ignorance.

Another answer is yes- Salamu, for example, was already on her way to get help. The other answer, which I think is more common, is an in-between-yes-and-no. Women recognize that their child is suffering, and do what they can (in the middle of the Sahel, how easy do you think this is?)- and depending on what they feel they can or cannot do (given the restraints of their marriage, their other children, their responsibilities at home) they may or may not consider going to the hospital as an option.

In Hawali's case, Gwallo had seen the baby, suspected severe malnourishment, and came to find me because she knows that I've been helping some mothers out. Hawali wanted to come, right away, and is prepared to stay at the hospital as long as she needs to, no questions asked. I don't know why she didn't/couldn't go earlier- surely her son has been looking this bad for weeks. But. She's here now, and that's what counts.

PS: A weird thing happened yesterday- after seeing Hawali and her son. In the village I saw a tiny, tiny, tiny baby goat laying in the sand on its side-- I honestly thought it was a cat, it was that size--, panting, with its eyes closed. People were walking all around it like it was nothing. I just stopped in my tracks. Karima was there, and I asked her if we could help the goat- you know, either feed it somehow or kill it, because it was clearly born way too early (last night, and its twin was born dead). She laughed at me, and lord knows how I managed not to burst into tears right there. I was able to cough out "I guess we deal with these things differently where I'm from" before stumbling away. All I wanted to do was scoop up that little goat and run for it, but I didn't, because that's not how they do things here. I hate it when "how we do things here" is so hard for me to accept. Karima said that they'll leave it alone until it dies. Sweet, wee little cat-goat, alone in the sun. I feel a little better about it now that I've told you. Why did I cry for a goat and not the sick baby? I don't understand.

And here I am...again! Probably would've come to Illela anyway to see Habi and Salamu and their babes, and then ended up bringing another woman and her baby this morning too. Enter Hawali and her son, Abdu Lawa'asu. But first- the really good news- Habi and Samsiya get to go home! Samsiya is now bright eyed and has a round face, and Habi is radiant and relieved. The two of them will come home with us in the truck this afternoon. So that leaves Salamu and her son Abdu Zaidi, who is also looking great. I never knew you could get chubby cheeks in 6 days; apparently, with Hajara's attentive help, you can. I wouldn't be surprised if Salamu gets to come home next week.

Hawali, the new arrival, is a gorgeous young mother. A few days ago, Gwallo came over and said she wanted me to visit her that afternoon (you may remember Gwallo- she's a firecracker on the grain bank committee and I've mentioned her here before). My first thought was 'aw shit, what have I done now?' I thought I was in trouble...I almost didn't go to her house. But I did, and she sent for Hawali, who brought her son, who is very sick. He's 9 months old, and has the familiar signs and history of malnutrition/dehydration/illness that ruin little kids here: diarrhea that started 2 months ago, causing severe weight and water loss. To try to speak objectively- these babies come to resemble insects more than they resemble babies. Fragile little limbs, ribs, no butt, thin skin hanging off of their stick legs, hollowed eyes, skull...I will not take pictures of the sick babies, but I'll send some of the recovered ones. Deal?

So- you know the drill now, if you've been reading these entries for the last few weeks. Pack everybody up and head to what I am fondly referring to in my head as Hajara's Haven. Hajara, nurse of nurses, who knows when to yell at you and when to praise you. I think this woman may be an angel. Scratch that, she is. Hawali and her son are settled in the infant malnutrition ward, and I'll swing by to see them again before leaving Illela. Hajara warned them that they will be there for awhile; Abdu Lawa'asu weighs 4.4 kg and should weigh 6, so he's got a ways to go.

9/17/09

So. This morning was the longest time I've spent at the infant malnutrition ward. There are five women staying there right now: Habi (in her 3rd week!) with daughter Samsiya, Salamu with son Abu Zaidi, and three women with their babies from other bush villages. One of the women has eight month old twins; one is a normal weight and well developed. The other, a little boy, has bright eyes and seems alert but weighs less that 2 kilograms. While these women stay at the hospital, they are under the stern but compassionate eye of Nurse Hajara. Hajara administers medicines, weighs the babies every day, tells the mothers when and what to feed them. Depending on the age and ability of the babes, they are fed fortified milk, or a peanut-butter like paste, or a combination of the two. Babies who won't drink are force fed; babies who will eat eventually get fed bits of fish and egg. When they reach a weight and health that Hajara approves, they are allowed to go home. Everything is paid for by the government.

When Habi came with 5-month old Samsiya 2 weeks ago, the top of Samsiya's skull was so sunken in you could have filled it with a half cup of water. She weighed 3.8 kilograms (sorry guys, how much is that in pounds? 8?). Today I got to watch Hajara weigh her again- she is now a whopping 4.0 kilos and will be released when she makes it to 4.3. Hajara said that Habi is the best of all of the mothers at making sure Samsiya is getting better. I was really, really happy to hear that. Salamu was smiling this morning; Abu Zaidi already looks better. She told me today that he had passed out three times yesterday, and she thought he had died. But now he's drinking canned milk and getting a whole smorgasbord of medicines and vitamins. It is too soon so guess at how he will do, but I sure do trust Hajara, and I think she'll know what to do for this babe. Habi and Samsiya will probably be home within the week, and hopefully Salamu and Abu Zaidi won't be far behind.

Some of you who read this blog last year may remember that September, October, and November were hard months for mothers and babies. One difference this year is that women seem more aware of where they can get help. It could be my imagination, but I think that perhaps some of the negative stigma- associated with revealing that your child is malnourished- is fading in my village. I hope so. I'll probably write about this again; I sure think about it a lot.

I wasn't planning on coming to Illela today, although I did want to

come up here sometime soon to visit Habi and Samsiya at the hospital.

What happened was: yesterday evening at about 6, an older lady found

me at Narba's and asked me if I'd take another woman and her son to

the hospital.

I got up to go see what was going on; it turned out the woman and her

baby were already sitting in a truck on the road. The woman, whom I

recognized but didn't know that well, had tears all down her face and

was holding her son, a tiny bundle on her lap. Someone handed me a

note from the nearbly clinic; it had "severe malnutrition, admit to

hospital immediately" written on it in French. People were all around

us, staring at her and watching me to see what I'd do, shouting advice

like "Throw your bike in the back, you can come back in the morning!

You're in charge of things like this, you should go!"

I didn't feel like I could just jump in and go. Maybe if I had had

even 10 minutes to get ready, I could've. But the driver was revving

his engine, impatient. What I decided to do was run back to my house,

grab some money for the woman, Salamu, wrap it in paper, run to the

truck and give instructions on where to go when she got to Illela. We

got Hajiya, the older lady who came to find me, to go with Salamu.

They sped off.

I joined them this morning, via my bicyle. When I got to the hospital

I found a whole crowd of people from our village: Salamu and her son,

Abu Zaidi, plus Hajiya, and Salamu's husband Sa'idou and one of his

friends, all together with Habi and little Samsiya. My village is

filling the infant malnutrition ward! Not exactly something you want

to feel good about.

But.

If it's the truth that there is infant malnutrition,

which it is, then it IS good that the women are getting help.

Green: Generally Food Secure

Yellow: Moderately Food Insecure

Orange Highly Food Insecure

Red: Extremely Food Insecure

Black: Famine

Gray: No Data

Here is the FEWS map for the way things stand in Niger now. Compare it to the map from July and you can see the difference. Foloa is in the yellow zone. Although harvest season is beginning, we now face the most difficult season for infant malnutrition.

The village mosque

Ramadan is almost over. I tried fasting for one day, don't have the willpower or stamina for it, and gave up by noon. But I love cooking up nice meals every night to share with people- the most popular treats so far have been popcorn and boxes of raisin (courtesy of my grandpa!).

Do you like how I call popcorn and raisins 'meals'?

With Narba

Narba (who is over 70 years old!!!!) climbed over my 7 foot-tall mud wall last night at 10:45 pm because some of my neighborhood guys (Ayouba, Shaibou, Suleil, and Mustapha) thought they heard someone banging on my door. They wanted to make sure I was okay, but they didn't want to freak me out, so they woke up Narba to come check on me. I was fast asleep, oblivious to the world, until I awoke to Narba calmly asking me:

"Did some guys bang on your door?"

"Nooo-- wait, what is going on? How did you get in here? Are you OKAY???"

"I'm fine; I just climbed your wall is all. Now let me out and go back to sleep."

Turns out whoever it was didn't knock on my door at all, it just sounded like it. In case any of you ever still worry about me-- really, you don't have to.

I added a video to this post, from July, about planting. It gives you some idea of the size of the fields hand-planted in millet, and shows Mariama in action. The video was shot in June; some of this millet will hopefully be harvested soon.

Today I am in Illela, site of a new internet cafe. I came to accompany a woman from my village whose 5 month old daughter is severely malnourished. They'll stay at the hospital here until, well, until the girl is better, hopefully.

My friend is Habi; her daughter is named Samsiya, after me.

The classroom is FINISHED and it is realllly nice- shiny green doors, smooth cement steps, a roof and walls... I will send pictures asap! THANK YOU EVERYBODY!!! Letters from the kids of the village soon to follow-- if you donated to the project via check and would like a card, please send me your address! Otherwise, if you donated online, I think I have it.

Meanwhile, here are some pictures taken by my dad in early August:

This is the old classroom; the roof is made of millet stalks.

Inside the old classroom.

Bricks, handmade, and drying in the sun. They had to be sprinkled with water as they cured.

Plastering the wall

Workers

It was a lot of heavy work

Me with part of the crew in front of the new blackboard

Putting in the ceiling. This is so much better than millet stalks.

See? It looks so nice.

Working on the door frame

The building, not yet plastered or painted, from a distance.

With the crew

They came and now they are gone!?! What the? My Mom and Dad were here for three weeks. Maybe I will write about that, but I may not. In any case, you can read about it and see my Dad's beautiful pictures at www.eddyandreuben.blogspot.com

Ramadan, the month of fasting, has begun, so here is a picture of the top of the village mosque. There are minarets sculpted from mud on the corners of the building.

This is the oldest person in the village. Her name is Tunno, and she walks around every morning before the sun heats everything up. I didn't see her once for my first year, and only heard stories about "Tunno, the 130 year-old dawn-walking woman". Finally I met her- Ayuba, pictured here with her, ran to get me one morning when she made it to our side of town.

She told me that she doesn't see very well, and that it's because of all of the tears she has cried for all of her friends and her family who have died.

That made me sad and heavy, but then Ayuba promised to buy her some sandals, so she wouldn't have to be barefoot anymore, and that cheered both her and me up.

Insanely beautiful horsemen who showed up for a wake, and then left:

Stormy sky

Seasonal lake

Seasonal lake

Seasonal lake

Peace Corps bikes, and rain on its way

English class happens 5 days a week with 20-27 men in my courtyard. I started with teaching greetings, and are moving on to basic questions, names of places, actions etc. This is one of my favorite parts of the day.

While learning the names of places, I had the guys draw a bunch of pictures on the board. I think these are so great; I didn't want to erase them! Here we have: a mosque, the marker, home, the clinic, the road, the well, school, and the fields.

The story behind this photo is what I like. This is a Tuareg man from a nearby village, who brought his dog to the site where dozens of guys were hacking at the solid ground in another land reclamation project. The man is pouring water into his dog's mouth, a generous gesture in this parched place where most people don't like to be anywhere near dogs.

July 14, 2009

Yesterday I walked out with Mariama to take hura and beans to the guys in the fields- I think you can see them at the top of the field, weeding away.

Nationwide, almost one million people in Niger were considered to be living in “severe food insecurity” with another 1.9 million in “moderate food insecurity”, based on the government’s 2008-2009 assistance plan... In 2008, 39.3 percent of the population was estimated to be chronically malnourished, according to the government. (Source: IRIN News)

It's that time again: hunger season in the Sahel. The maps below indicate food security for the second quarter of 2009, in countries monitored by the USAID/USGS FEWS NETprogram. The Famine Early Warning Systems Network, set up in response to the starvation of close to 1 million Africans in 1985, attempts to analyze and predict climate conditions and food security in 17 sub-Saharan countries, as well as Afghanistan and a handful of countries in central America.

The most vulnerable time will appear on their next set of maps, due soon. "Hunger season" is that time when food supplies have run out and the new season's crops are not ready to harvest, and it can represent the slow onset of famine.

Green: Generally Food Secure

Yellow: Moderately Food Insecure

Orange Highly Food Insecure

Red: Extremely Food Insecure

Black: Famine

Gray: No Data

Faloa lies on the edge between green and yellow. As we approach August, the yellow and orange areas are likely to expand; green areas will shrink.

I left Foloa on Thursday to start the trek to Niamey to meet --gasp!!-- my PARENTS, and took a picture on the way out. I think by the time we get back, there may even be a roof.

First of all, your daughters/sons/friends are fine, albeit probably exhausted by everything that's happened in the weeks since training started. Right now, they are busybusybusy in their 2nd week of learning how to live and work in Niger. They probably miss home, but are so distracted by the difference of Here from There that they don't have any brain space to worry about it as much as you might think. Instead, they're wishing they could tell you all about it, and are writing letters to you by lamplight, letters that probably won't get to you for awhile... I'll try to fill that gap, the month-long gap between when they left home and when you'll hear from them again, by telling you about what they're doing. I hope it helps to put your minds at ease! Training takes place for ten weeks in and around the town of Hamdallaye, which is about an hour's drive north of Niamey, Niger's capital city. All of the trainees-- they're not considered volunteers until they complete all of their training-- spent their first 2 nights in Niger at the central training center in Hamdallaye, a comfortable hilltop compound equipped with electricity, running water, and a whole staff of cooks, laundry men, gardeners, and official trainers. The entire staff is marvelously competent-- energetic, understanding, patient, and eager to help Americans find they way in Niger. I have never worked with such a compassionate and effective leader as Tondi, who manages all of the training activities. On their 3rd day here, each of the trainees went home with a host family, where they will live for the next two months. You'll hear a lot about this from the trainees themselves, so I won't insert too much of my own picture in this, aside from saying that this was a good, strong shock to my system. During the day, trainees attend language, cross-culture, health, and technical training sessions. In the evening they are home, playing with kids, practicing their French/Hausa/Zarma, and eating whatever it is that their host mothers have cooked up that day. At some point in the next month, the trainees will be able to call home (yay!!), an event that everyone here looks forward to SO much. You'll get an email from the PC office in Niamey giving you more details on this! By the time of the phone call, your trainee should know where in Niger she'll be posted, and she'll be close to starting her service as a volunteer. I'm sure it's hard for you all at home, being out of the loop and not knowing what the heck happened to your people. But rest assured, they're in great hands. There's no place most of us would rather be right now than Niger.

July 14, 2009

I left for Tahoua on my bike today, and snapped this picture on my way out. In the background you can see the cement bricks that were made by a crew last week. We have been sprinkling them with water ever since, while they cure in the hot sun.

Here is the headmaster, Shaibou, giving a lecture on dental hygiene to a primary school class. We handed out toothbrushes, courtesy of my generous dentist in Corvallis, to over 200 village students.

Shaibou insisted that the students raise their new brushes into the air for the photo-hence the salute. We salute you, Dr. Kendall Wood! Thank you!

June 20, 2009

Well, the work is starting!

This young man and his donkey just brought a load of sand to the construction site. The new classroom will be in the space you see to the left. Next step: we will mix cement and create bricks.

Now that planting is mostly over, we are moving on to weeding. In some ways I think this work, while back-breaking, is also a blessing. It means that the rain was enough to get the millet to grow, and likewise the weeds are popping up. It's not like weeding at home, where you sit or crouch and pull on stems (which is also hard work, absolutely!) It's done with another hoe-like tool, which has a more curved end. You tackle the rows head on, and hack and chop madly through the dirt, uncovering everything except what you planted, which gets to stand proudly, all tufty and green. It's quite a show- muscular, sweaty, full-of-motion men and women bent over and pushing their way through the greengreengreen.

Salla and Shaibou on the first day of weeding; Narba is going out to greet them

It will take a month to weed one of Narba's fields- maybe that gives you an idea of how big the fields are, and how slow the work goes. We'll be more split up for this work- we may be at different fields, or in far apart sections of the same ones. But some days we'll be together. Salla, Shaibou, and Badaru will head out before sunrise, and Mariama, Rasida, Sadiya and I will follow with food mid-morning. Zuera will stay at home with her new baby, Minaya. The little kids- Kadir, Oweli, Rahman, and Rabi- will chase each other around in the shade and step on thorns, then holler for one of us to come pick them out. Narba will go where she pleases, and when she comes near me she will insist that I rest, which I will refuse to do.

Working with everyone in the fields has been a strong reminder of how much I have learned in the last year. To understand how and when and why people do the work that they do- I am getting there! I am learning what is necessary, what is extra, what isn't quite enough to live.

Last year, I couldn't quite follow the beat- I felt like a pale little rock in a dark stream of very busy, beautiful, moving people. This year, I have a family and a place. Now, I guess you could say that the current has lifted me up. Sometimes I fight it, but I live for the moments when I realize I'm moving with it.

Rain6/30/09

We got our first big rains two weeks ago, signifying a sudden shift in the daily rhythm that had been more or less constant since last fall. Everything changes with the rain. Once a big enough storm has passed- meaning the ground is soaked enough that a hole dug with your foot is damp at the bottom- men, women, kids, everybody, vacate the village for the fields. The strongest ones have the job of "sari": walking out ahead with a long, heavy hoe-type tool that they strike into the ground with every step, creating holes with small mounds of dug-out sand next to them. They make row upon row of these holes, which from a distance look like expansive, linear colonies of molehills.

Following behind the Mai saris (those who do the "sari" job) come the Masu taki (those who plant). These guys- usually women and kids- hold a bowl or calabash of millet seeds in the crook of their left arm, and walk along the rows, using their right hand to drop seeds into the holes, and their right foot to push sand back over the seeds. The best, quickest planters move so smoothly that you don't even notice they are planting; they simply look like they are strolling through the field, waving their hand over the dips in the earth. It looks and feels like dancing.

There is a rush to do as much planting as possible before the soil dries out, so families spend all day every day out in the fields, working hard to get all of their millet, sorghum, beans, sesame, and peanuts in the ground. Millet is the priority; once an entire field is planted in millet, people will go back and plant the other crops in the spaces between.

We got in four full days of planting after our last good rain, enough to plant all of Narba's family's fields with millet and one of them with beans and sorghum as well. When it rains again, we'll plant the rest. It's hard work, but I really like it. I like how it brings women and men together, and how it gives everyone a common purpose in a common space. There's an etiquette to it, too- you plant in pairs if you can, so you always have a companion planting the row next to yours. Even though I was slower at first, Mariama and Rasida always, always waited for me. They'd either slow down, or double back and plant the rest of my row for me, meeting me in the middle. We talked and sang songs, and time was irrelevant.

A word about our chief:

Every village has a traditional chief, and the larger villages have multiple ones for their different neighborhoods. Being chief ("Hakimi" or "Maigari" in Hausa), is a responsibility usually passed down between men in a family- from father to son, or brother to brother. I think that the job of the Hakimi may vary to some degree depending on the village, but in general he serves as an important representative of the village to local and regional government officials, settles village disputes, and is almost always around for people to ask questions and get advice. Our Hakimi's name is Mohammed, but we all call him Hakimi. He's a quiet, friendly, soft-spoken older man who really doesn't stick his nose in any body's business but always seems to be in the know. He doesn't talk alot, but he's always sitting out in the shade near our mosque in his white boubou. Often there's a little girl playing on the mat next to him- I think she's his granddaughter, but could possibly be his daughter. When I first got here that's how I know who he was- by the little girl hiding behind his knees- because I couldn't keep track of everybody by face yet.

I visit the Hakimi every day and exchange greetings, and I keep him informed of any work that I have going on. It would be considered unacceptable to do anything- a meeting, a project- without his knowing. He's been helpful to me in planning village meetings by telling me when and where I'll get the most people, who I should tell, what I should make sure to say. I also give him a few days of heads up before I travel or have visitors, so he always knows where I am. When I do get visitors, one of the first things I do is take them to the Hakimi so he can meet them; such visitors unfailingly comment on how twinkly his eyes are. It's true!

The Hakimi farms just like everybody else, despite his age and relative frailty. People are constantly bugging him during farming season to 'go home and rest!!' but he doesn't really listen. He and his wife live in a small hut and as far as I know don't receive any special privileges for his position. After the yearly harvest, you can find the Hakimi weaving large, thick mats out of straw, which are used for making walls and roofs for shade. He is the only one in our village who knows how to do this work. It's beautiful to watch.

Detail of Sandro Botticelli's "Madonna of the Pomegranate" (circa 1487)

It's been a year and a half and I still have days when I speak like a 3-year old, make the mistakes of a stranger, and have to ask how to do the simplest of things. But sometimes I do things right. And, rare as it is, sometimes I do things spectacularly well. Two weeks ago I went to Tahoua, and came back with a pomegranate. I gave the pomegranate to Narba. At that moment, I was called away-- a crying child, a passing camel, someone at my door-- I don't recall what it was that interrupted the pomegranate exchange. But later that night, after the last prayer call, Narba came over to ask me a question. "What is this thing, and can we eat it?" Aha- I immediately swelled with the knowledge that I alone possessed the information and experience needed to share a pomegranate. I joined her, eight of her grandkids, and two of her grown children on the mat in her courtyard, and proceeded to deftly and gracefully open the beautiful fruit. My audience was overcome.

Thank you very much, blessed moment of competence, for saving my self confidence.

These boys have just had a successful hunt for a hedgehog and a rat.

While the vast majority of food consumed in the village is millet, people supplement their diets with other things as often as possible. "Often" isn't as often as anyone would like, but they make do with what they can, when they can. Some common diversions to the regular millet routine include sweet potatoes (purchased at markets in the city) from December-March, mangoes from April-June, ansa berries (green bean-like things that grow in the bush) in June-July, locusts (caught in the fields) and wild greens from July-September, and anything else that can be caught, hunted, or picked year-round.

So what do people hunt and catch around here? I see a lot of young guys, around age 15, heading out in the evenings to hunt rabbits, rats, mice, hedgehogs, lizards, and birds. They use slingshots to hit and stun all and any of the above, and finish the job with a rock or a stick. I've seen Fachi's son, Amadou, spend hours meticulously rigging up a trap to catch birds; he used rubber bands, cardboard, and string to fashion a sort of trapdoor/headbanger thing. It took me awhile to get used to seeing boys carrying home hedgehogs and rats to cook up, but I'm used to it now. The boys are invariably cheered by their bounty, so it's hard not to share in their excitement.

Ibrahim spent a morning last week installing a screen door on my mud hut- a Peace Corps mandate, this screen door thing. Last year I coveted the screen doors of all my PCV neighbors (helps keep out flies and rats and such beasties), so when mine was dropped off I was pumped. But then I decided not to put it up, and it's been sitting inside my hut for a year. Occassionally I'd prop it up against the doorway and use it to keep dust and wind out during storms, and with the onset of the new rainy season I decided that a more permanent situation was in order. So, while Ibrahim mixed the cement and mud bricks to hold the door in place, I sat nearby and played music for him off of my Ipod.

I tried to pick music that he'd like and recognize. Ali Farka Toure- a Tuareg musician, was a big hit. Bob Marley- Ibrahim knows reggae from his days on work exxode. Sideways Portal- he hadn't heard this before, but got a kick out of knowing it's my Dad's group.

Then Narba joined me, and the two of us resumed watching Ibrahim work. I looked over my music, thinking of songs that Narba would relate to and enjoy. Right away I thought of a song by the Duhks that I like- 'Ol Cookpot- and I put it on and translated the lyrics to Hausa. 'Ol Cookpot is a rocking folksy soul song about a woman with five mouths to feed, no husband to help out, and a big empty cookpot that she's got to bargain with to provide just a little more food. Narba, if you can guess, now loves this song as much as I do. It totally translates- the words, the idea, the shittiness of the whole situation. Narba shook her head in sympathy for the lady and sang along with me. Later, I caught her explaining the song to her daughters-in-law and her nephew-- "This poor woman, she has nothing to put in the sauce, and she has five kids and her husband is off in prison or working or somewhere, and can you imagine? What is she supposed to do?" There aren't a lot of things that translate so easily from English/the United States to Hausa/Niger. But some things, like working to feed your family, need no explanation.

Narba at the door of the grain bank

For those of you who know me, you know that I'm too sensitive for my own good, and that the sight of so many apparently furious women would really rock my boat. The first several such meetings (i.e. all of 2008), I would leave close to tears, convinced that everyone was pissed off, and that the project would never work, and that no one cared about it, and that I was a stupid, foolish, hypersensitive nincompoop. That still happens, actually, but it has gotten a little better. A little bit. What I learned is, there happen to be a lot of different ways of doing things. My friends- Gwallo, Narba, Lahadi, Fachi- have taken the time over the months to explain to me that, for better or worse, the women here have their way of making decisions. They laugh at themselves- "Muna kama tsuntsaye cikin itatua"-- "We are like a thousand birds in the trees"- and insist that no one is angry, even if they sound that way to me. Everyone, men and women alike, nods in agreement that "Samsiya, bata so yaya"- "Samsiya really doesn't like it when everyone talks at once." A few times, the ladies have done their best to restrain themselves, and have managed to put off the chaos for a few additional seconds. But it doesn't last. It's okay, I guess, as long as things work out in the end. Which is where this story is going--

Collectively (read between the lines and know that we had a half dozen squalls/meetings), the women decided that each bag of millet (100kg), would be sold to groups of four women- that is, four women per bag- for the small price of 2,000 CFA. At harvest time, each group will have to bring an additional 15,000 CFA worth of grain to restock the bank. So, each bag assumes 17,000 CFA. I purchased the grain at 14,000 CFA per bag last year, so we're making 3,000 CFA profit per bag (1,000 CFA in grain, 2,000 CFA in cash).

The day the committee opened the bank was, in my experience, a complete and total disaster. What I saw was: Some women came in groups, some came alone, some came with money and some without, and no one stood in line. Women were thrusting cash at each other and yelling names to be written down, and their sons were carrying precious of sacks of grain off before accounts could be settled. The women in the committee were all over the place- Huri and Habsatou were alternately scribbling down names and stubbornly refusing to write a word, Karima was taking money and making me sit on the cash box, Salamu was barking orders at the boys carrying grain, Lahadi was standing there with an amused look on her face...On my precarious perch on the cash box, I was squashed by woman after woman, who would lunge forward to force coins into Karima's hands. Meanwhile Ana, Aisha, and Yashe repeatedly used my shoulders as a stool when the crowd of women would start to fall onto us.

I was saved from calamity by a phone call from my mother, and was able to extract myself from the pandemonium for the haven of her support and patience. I didn't return to the grain bank; even if I hadn't been talking with her I don't think I would've made it back there. But about a half hour into our conversation, here comes Narba, beckoning me over. And this is where this whole mess started to make a little more sense. The women had all gone home, except for the committee, who were now all sitting on mats in my own courtyard. "We've been waiting for you!!", they said. They wanted to count all of the money, and I needed to be present. So that's what we did, and instead of finding that they were missing a zillion dollars and that they'd only managed to write down ten names, we found that all but an inconsequential amount of money was there and that all the names were recorded. They even knew exactly who hadn't paid, and how much she owed, and had a plan for collecting the missing money.

So, count me utterly bamboozled. I don't understand their system, and I don't like being caught up in its volume and tussle, but I can now attest that it does, in fact, work. A part of me is nearly indignant, that such turmoil cuts it. But that's the American part of me, which admires order and calm. But I am in Niger, after all, and I suppose I'm learning a little humility at last.

The time came to open the grain bank, an event that I had been anxious about from the beginning. There's just so much to keep track of, and so many different ways to do things, and then for the committee to be new at it all...it's a big responsibility, and I wasn't sure of the best way to run it. Which is fine, since I'm not supposed to run it anyway, but I couldn't help stressing about it. It was hard for me to figure out a respectful balance between giving constructive advice and sticking my nose into their business. It is theirs, after all. And, as they kept telling me, the women'll run it the way they want to, when it comes down to it. So I kept my mouth shut most of the time, opening it only to say:

1. The grain is for selling, not for giving away.

2. The bank had better be full with grain again after the harvest.

Another reason that I was anxious about the grain bank opening was because I have come to dread, and indeed avoid, womens' meetings that involve more than 20 people. The way womens' business is carried out here- loudly, chaotically, everyone-shouting-at-each-other-at-the-same-time- makes me want to disappear. I won't pretend that I like it. I despise it. I think my difficultly with it is born out of major culture differences in the way groups of people make decisions. In the States, I was taught to present articulate, well-prepared arguments in as calm and dignified way as possible. I was taught that one person speaks at a time, and that other people listen, and that if someone gets loud and agitated it means that they feel very strongly about something, and that probably they're angry or disagree with what that was said. Groups of loud people means that people are fighting, and that something bad is happening, etc etc etc.

Here, though, it's different. Things happen like this: two hundred women sit under a tree, one woman starts talking, then another woman stands up and starts yelling, and within 15 seconds (I timed it), every woman is standing, half of them are yelling, and no one is listening because you can't hear anything except noise. It's hard to imagine, I think, because it's unusual at home. But try: you're in this crowd, fists are in the air, voices are raised, people are up in your face and shouting things that you can't understand, and this goes on and on beyond the point where you think that people should really chill out.

At home, I believe the word for this is Riot.

Let me make sure this is clear: I hate riding in bush taxis. They are dangerous and they are uncomfortable. However, we don't have other choices, most of the time. So here's a video from the back of one. Don't be misled by the seeming lack of people in the back of this truck- I have never, ever seen such an empty truck here! Chalk it up to the early hour and the direction we were going-- away from a market town. The road was pretty clear, and we felt relatively safe, so I relaxed and enjoyed the wind. And so did Meaghan.

OK, this is a more sedate ride; actually we're still loading up:

Traditional fencing is made of thorny brush that is gathered and piled in a row. It can be effective, but needs a lot of rebuilding.

The fencing that we got from a previous volunteer's village has a new future: instead of going up around our gum arabic plantation, we're going to use it for the school gardens and community tree nursery. I talked about it with the school director and the Tree Guys, as I think of them, and we decided more people would benefit by using the fencing this way. We still haven't put it up, but it'll happen. Probably soon!

Measuring for a new fence

So happy!

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!

The Community Classroom Project was fully funded as of today, June 4. As work progresses on this project I will give you updates!

The men are all back from exode (months away from Niger, working to bring home cash), and waiting for planting season (i.e. RAIN). The village is full of life and activity. When I returned from my weeks away, I saw that they had brought in a pile of gravel for the community classroom; remember, they agreed to provide 33% of the cost and that's part of it. But it was a tiny pile of gravel! I worried that once the rains start we wouldn't get the gravel and sand, but they assured me "No, no, Samsiye, we know how much is needed!" And sure enough, the very next day I saw donkey cart after donkey cart bringing in loads of gravel and sand; they're getting this stuff from way out in the bush somewhere.

So the men have some time on their hands right now, and have asked for English lessons. Why not? There is a group of 25 or so who come to my compound every evening for a 45 minute English class, hoping to pick up some English for when they next go on exode to Nigeria. It's fun, and they are good students.